Grit: Mockney 1

It meant something once – but, like everything, popular culture had taken a big long piss over all of it and watered it down to shit. Within the sound of the Bow Bells – that’s what it took to make you a Cockney, not knowing a bit of rhyming slang and having a sloppy London or Essex accent. This bunch of cunts that were coming up nowadays didn’t only not have any respect for tradition, they just didn’t know anything about it.
They were all flash and nothing else – style over substance. Sure, there had been some of that early on, but those guys had been weeded out pretty sharpish. They’d come in being all mouthy and they would get on the wrong side of someone that was a real hard man, not just someone who had watched a few good gangster movies, and then they’d be on the floor scrabbling about trying to pick up the mouthful of teeth they’d just lost.
If Grit had a problem with an organisation it was generally with one these dumb fucks. Barry Mitchell was just one in a long line – he had taken it upon himself to decide what was what and if he saw you and he thought you needed educating he would try and go about it. Barry had beaten badly on more than one occassion and Grit couldn’t work out for the life of him why anyone would want such a liability kicking about. Barry wasn’t good for business. Barry either had something on Hutchinson or there was some kind of undisclosed family connection.
‘Hey, shithead, what’re you looking at?’
Grit looked up from his pint.
‘Yeah, you – what’s your name? Gripe? Who the fuck do you think you are? You walk around here like you own the place, acting likee you’re hot shit or something; well, I don’t think you’re anything special.’
‘Fair enough. Now if you don’t mind, Mr Mitchell, I am trying to have a quiet drink.’
‘Mr Mitchell, I am trying to have a quiet drink. Well, what if I say you’re not allowed to have a quiet drink, Grope?’
One of Mitchell’s companions came up and put his hand on his arm.
‘Barry, come and sit down – leave him alone.’
‘You’d be wise to do what your friend is telling you to do.’
‘Be wise, would I? I want you to step outside,’ he said and then spat in Grit’s face.
Grit took out his handkerchief and wiped away the spit. He finished his drink and then in a move that surprised Barry and those stood around with its speed, he broke the neck off the bottle, and he stabbed it into the obnoxious prick’s throat. Mitchell fell to the floor clutching his neck, curses trying to bubble out of his blood filled mouth. Grit stepped over him and walked out.
This wasn’t good – even if he did have good reason to do what he’d done, he had just killed his present employer’s pet and in front of people, and without getting paid for it. Not good at all.

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