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.

One Response

  1. Yeah man. And here i go off to my “bullshit day-job.” Sounds good. keep’em coming.


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