Grit: Tricks 1

Forget the hooker with a heart of gold bullshit – that was the kind of crap that shitheads who championed the double-standard opted for; mealy-mouthed bullshit that they used to convince themselves that people who they hated the very idea of were worth bothering about. Grit hated that shit – fucking hypocrites bastards who’d get their dicks sucked for a twenty one minute then beat themselves up about it the next, then offload the blame onto the women they saw as loathsome whores out to taint their purity; out to corrupt their steadfast morality, or the appearance of it at least.

He’d been dealing with the kind of people who would smile at you while harbouring ideas of dispensing with you for as long as he could remember. You had to watch the fork-tongued bastards closely and if you even suspected that they were going to make a move on you you got rid of them quick smart.

He’d known Shirley for a long time and he had always had a soft spot for her. They never talked about what they each did for a living but they understood each other, and they talked when they needed to, knowing that there were no limits to what they might discuss: they were friends.

Eddie, her pimp, was not popular with Grit, but Grit left him alone per their agreement. Anyone else though – anyone who he got a problem with in regards to their treatment of her, they were fair game … at least on the understanding that it didn’t hurt business too much.

Grit: Vacuum 3

Marsh had a bit of a better poker game than Samson but he still came up woefully short – grit knew lots of people who would chew him up and spit him out in ten seconds. If these were the kind of monkeys who were making it into important positions these days then he had to wonder what the hell the rest of the crews were made up of.

Marsh had a suitcase of money that he flipped open and it looked full enough to satisfy Grit; looked full enough to fund a few different things which grit had been looking to do with his spare time.

Marsh didn’t speak much – none of his men did either. Grit could tell that they knew their words weren’t their strong point so they kept them to a minimum – no point advertising your weaknesses. Some people had to talk up a good fight before they ever landed a blow on their opponent, and some people just went for the knockdown in the first ten seconds. It was the difference, he supposed, between a street fighter and one of those pretty boys who stood in a ring fighting for a big glittery belt. Sure, Grit probably identified with Marsh more – didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill him, but it was reassuring to meet someone who he at least could stomach.

The transaction was smooth – the death would be smooth too. Grit was kind of suprised about how easy it was to play this game but he was damned well enjoying it.

So, he had two of the so-called big wigs lined up – time to draw in some of the next level players and get them suckered into the scheme as well. Just the promise of a leg up at the hands of someone like Grit would have them chomping at the bit. Grit allowed himself an uncharacteristic smile – he would enjoy delivering the punchline to this elaborate joke.

Grit: First Round 2

When the moment came to put the plan into action all that extra legwork which he had carried out started to come in useful. He’d found from experience that, when you want them to, things never run exactly per routine, and anything can cause a break in habits, but getting to know how someone is going to react to any given situation gives you the upper hand – means you can throw your hand in there too; you can make a play for the pot.

The guy’s other half, or one of them at least, was giving him some problems and he was having to run around after her, which was causing a delay in his arrival at the place which Grit had marked out for his execution.

It reached a time when it became obvious that the target just wasn’t going to play ball and arrive at the designated destination where Grit would be able to despatch him with no hassle. It reached an hour where Baker was calling him and expecting results and he had nothing whatsoever to report – and if he didn’t get something done soon someone else was going to swoop in and solve the problem for him; well, they would solve one problem and create a whole raft of others.

It served him well that he knew secrets about this man, and that certain secrets he had were not shared with anyone. He was sat across from one of those secrets right now. He had her on speaker phone and she was pulling in the fish he wanted to catch on an easy line that he could not resist.

His target was an expert at lying to one partner to get with another, so Grit had faith that he would not have to wait long at all to meet him in the flesh.

Half an hour later he was sat across from both of these people that he would be shortly killing, and he was wondering what this would do to him. He had no qualms about killing the shithead he had the folder on – that folder made a good case for this scumbag’s execution, but her? She was collateral damage, and that was something he didn’t like. That bullshit about how there were no innocents was a poor excuse for killing people and one he didn’t buy into. Still, he couldn’t afford loose ends – he was lucky that she was a hooker and there wouldn’t be too many people pushing to find her when she went missing.

Bang bang and a bath of hydrochloric acid later and all those loose ends were tied off.

oh, whoah, atomic!

The Hiroshima was a slick piece of tech – this was the third iteration of the Pikadon, or Flashbang line, specially designed to fire custom shells whilst giving you an instantaneous photograph of the victim. Two headshots for the price of one. There was a girl like her advertising the weapon in the catalogue – that was the fantasy, this was the reality.
The heavy rain made it hard to sight properly: even with the toggle-goggles cutting out a lot of the visual interference she was having trouble pinning this slippery bastard down. It paid well, this job, and she didn’t want to fuck it up, especially after the last fiasco. One more badly executed mission and she might as well drop the whole operation into shutdown and become a ghost because they would have a contract out on her for gross incompetence.
This guy wasn’t anyone important – at least that was what the file on the drive said; but given the amount this kill was worth that didn’t really add up. You’d have to have some real hate on to fork out this much dough for some average no-neck douchebag who didn’t mean anything. Perhaps the guy had been shtupping someone’s wife, but looking at the dude she just didn’t see it … who the fuck would want this scumbucket’s mangy maggot writhing in them?
She had been following him for a while, trying to line up the perfect shot that would get the job done and would cause the least amount of commotion; a shot that would make it really hard to trace down the origin of the shooter. She did not like having to run from the scene of a killing because it meant that you were fucking up in your execution of standard practice and it meant that you drew too much unwanted attention.
She knew the guy so well by the end of the time that she could have done a passing good impression of him were it ever required.
In the final scene of this man’s life perhapsĀ  his discomfort came from the fact that someone else was shadowing his every move; that someone had infiltrated his mind and knew exactly what he was going to do. When the flash blinded him and the bullet tore the top off his skull it almost felt natural, so close was the action to the rhythm of what he was doing. This was how it was supposed to go – this broke the back of that damned losing streak she had been downward spiralling on.

Else City 4: This Shit That Is Reality

Pursey was head of the Clean Up Crew and he was a famously bad tempered bastard; he did not like dealing with people from other departments: dealing with the inanimate and decimated had fractured his mind into compartments where quiet horror constituted the biggest drawer and social niceties had one of the smaller allotments.
He hawked up a healthy wad of phlegm and targetted the ground just in front of O’Halligan. Normally O’Halligan would have cracked him upside his head but he just thought to himself how this guy was going to fit right in with whatever it was residing in that place.
As Pursey and his men entered the property there was an atmospheric shift – it felt as if the space they were occupying was collapsing in on itself; everyone looked as oppressed as they obviously felt. The high pitched whine which pierced the air had been building so gradually a few of them had thought they were suffering tinnitus, but it became apparent that all of them were hearing it, and then it turned into a hybrid scream / drill noise that had them all clutching their heads. A few people started to leak blood from the ears – they were all paralysed by the pain, all looking towards the place where Pursey had gone.
O’Halligan was expecting the place to explode and all of them to come stumbling out aflame and shrieking in agony but it was much more mundane – Pursey looked totally unfazed, as if he dealt with this kind of shit everyday, and in some ways that was exactly what he did.
He exited with a large specimen jar, a huge grin spread across his face.
‘Know what we have here, ladies and gentleman?’
When he got no response, he continued: ‘We have a pocket universe – that thing which started to dissolve O’Halligan’s suit was not acid, but a supercondensed pocket of reality, one antithetical to our own universe. Whilst it is held in what, for the moment I am going to call an egg, it runs just like our universe would (an hermetically sealed continuum) but when the thing is burst or broken it becomes something less stable – a hybrid entity which can no longer subsist by itself and which attacks that around it.’
‘Ok, Pursey, so where does this little scientific miracle come from?’
‘Glad you asked, O’Halligan, where it comes from is the anus of the thing which consumed those people in there.’
‘Run that by me again.’
‘OK, so the thing which ate those human beings in there digested them and shit out brand new universes.’
‘And how is that possible?’
‘That part I haven’t quite worked out. One has to wonder, if reality is the waste product this thing craps out, then what exactly is it that it is digesting?’
‘Forbes, tell me this isn’t fucking with your head.’
‘Oh, I can’t tell you that, O’Halligan – it is a skullfuck and no mistake.’
‘So, what do we do about it?’
‘Well, while Pursey takes this boil back to the lab and looks at it, we go and have a drink in some dive bars and see of anything doesn’t float to the top.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’

child killer

and what would expect if you heard the phrase child killer?
well, you might reasonably expect that what was being referred to was a killer of children. what you would not want to even think about was the possibility that what was being talked about was a small human being capable of the kind of devastation patrick killarney was reputed to have caused.
very rarely does the term ‘power tools’ inspire such gut wrenching fear, but when that twelve year old with the manic look in his eyes imitates the high-pitched whine of a drill and then cackles like some ancient crone from a fairytale, you can’t help but wonder if you have adequate means of defence against the hell spawn sat across from you.
one of the kindergarten supervisors was considered missing until the chunks of flesh in patrick’s sesame street lunchbox were matched for blood types. quite how the recoil from the ak47 had not hurt patrick or knocked him to the ground was a mystery no one could quite explain, the marks his trainers had made in the smeared blood in the playroom did suggest a struggle though – as did the bullets which were recovered from the various walls.
the school psychologist, whose head was erected on a pike, with a copy of patrick’s psych evaluation rolled up and stuffed into her emptied left eye socket provided a chilling commentary on the state of the young boy’s mind.
quite how he had managed to carry out the massacre, which conservative estimates put at lasting several hours, without being disturbed is another serious question authorities are trying to answer. security is being stepped up in all of the nation’s schools, and despite the contributing role his psych evaluation and drug regime may have played in his actions, it is being recommended that all schools introduce mandatory psychological profiling to avoid similar events from occuring in the future.
patrick killarney will remain in a maximum security facility on suicide watch for the forseeable future. his mother and siblings were unavailable for comment but it is believed they are all receiving counselling to help them cope with the fallout of the week’s tragic events.

PTSD

people take some digesting. perhaps this shocking diorama puts the shit down purposely though some days perusing this saddens deeply. putting the shotgun down peter tutted, sighed, despaired. promise them something different please; take suggestions down.
putting the sugary donut partway towards sarah, dusting powdery traces, something died. peter told sarah ‘don’t’. perplexed to see despair pulsing through, she dithered. ‘peter?’. telling she didn’t pick the sugary donut; perhaps this signalled destruction.
peter took some delight pushing the sacred dialectic. picking the same day peter’s thoroughly sadistic dad picked to shoot down people – that seemed destined. peter took shots, dove. people tried shooting, dodged. peter took sarah down. people that should die. people that shunned deity. point the shotgun, decide. peter took some diet pepsi, tremored, shook, decided. peter’s trigger suddenly depressed.