Grit: Breather 1

Grit smiled. A fucking rest – just what he needed after all this time spent chasing numb nuts around and putting bullets in the back of their heads. He had the easel set up and he had some jazz playing – Mingus, he felt, was perfect for the painting of watercolours. This landscape was something that he had loved since his childhood and he had been trying to capture its essence since those first times when he had picked up a pencil and sketched the grass and the trees, drawn out the cloud formations.

He wished that it were possible for him to consider retiring but it wasn’t. When you got into a profession like this one you went out of it in the same way that you entered it: through violence. There were no hitmen living comfortable lives; well, ok, there weren’t many. His downtime was sorted out pretty well but that was primarily because the people that wanted to kill him were still scared of him: that wouldn’t always be the case. At some point he was just going to be a old dog that needed putting down.

Did he regret what he had done in his life? No. Did it bother him the number of people that he had sent to early graves? Not in the least. If you let one of those fuckers bother you then you were going to be haunted day and night by the ghosts of your victims. Business was business and everyone that he had ever killed knew exactly what they were letting themselves in for. When you entered this world the signs on the door were plain enough – you had to make a conscious decision to ignore them.

Ah, sweep this shit out of his head – he was here to relax. No need to concentrate on the bullshit day-job. He took a lungful of the fresh country air. Smiled again.

Grit: Standover 1

Standover men were muscle-driven machines on the whole – people that had just enough grey matter to know that they were not bright enough to hatch master plans that were going to bring them riches beyond compare, but just enough cunning to know how to trap those who could. Occasionally you would get one that had enough brains to be able to run their own operation but who chose not to; who chose to cut down the amount of work they had to do by just stealing off of those men who could work the system and generate capital. Standover men were often scarily capable, totally insane and blessed with the luck a lot of madmen find in attendance, or an even more worrying combination of the two.

No one was sure about McGovern. What did he represent except a threat to the livelihood of several men? They came to Grit with their tails between their legs and their wallets in their hands. Ready to pay Grit whatever he asked. He didn’t want to be greedy. He was thinking that if he gave them a good deal and got rid of this guy the they were going to owe him big time. That one guy could turn this many career criminals into scared little girls didn’t bode that well for it being a cakewalk. The only thing was that these guys were soft like most people in management positions were; they had grown fat and comfortable – they had younger men doing the running about. He didn’t bother to ask them why their foot soldiers couldn’t deal with this guy because he knew – they were only used to dealing with the scared and the stoned.

He would have to check out McGovern’s routine and be careful in how he approached this one. It wasn’t like the schmucks who he could just walk up to and plug in the back of the skull. This would take some planning.

Grit: Vacuum 1

Grimoire was gone and Grit knew that this would result in a rush to assume alpha dog status amongst the heretofore small fish of the pond. It was a great business opportunity to play all ends off against the middle. None of these jokers would be a big enough threat to him even combined if they cottoned on to what he was doing so he didn’t feel compelled to tie up any loose ends at all. Some people might compare this bullshit to playing chess but no way was this as mentally demanding as that. He often watched Scarface and he sometimes recommended it to these people to see if a single one of them might learn the lesson about not getting high on their own supply but they never did.

You earned the money, you had the coke, and you could afford the whores – why not experiment a little bit? You were a drug dealer and you knew that someone would be snapping at your heels all the time. Enjoy it while you could.

Grit had seen so many of them lose their edge to the white powder and not be aware of it in the least. They failed to see that they were starting to make bad decisions and that the only reason that someone was able to infiltrate their territory was that they couldn’t think straight. He swam like a shark through their masses picking them off as was necessary. He knew that there would always be more. Scumbags were a self-replenishing resource.