Grit 9

For the next few days Grit asked one question and one question only: if I let you go and tell the rest of your associates to leave me alone will we be done? Thus far the answer had been in the negative. At least the ones he asked didn’t waste his time by lying. He didn’t think they understood that it was the last question they were going to be asked. That was none of his concern. He needed to get shot of this problem – needed to be rid of Slight and all his friends who thought they owed him a bullet in the head. It was simultaneously refreshing to see this much loyalty and sickening to see so much stupidity in the face of death. If Grit ever got to the point where it was a choice between having his nuts taken off with an arc welding torch or spilling the beans on someone he would save his nuts every time and not feel guilty about doing it. Grit didn’t get in situations like that.

He kind of hated himself for doing it, but he had been in that kind of mood where once you have used and dirtied a tool you don’t want to use it again. He had left behind a lot of really nice hardware. Of course none of it was traceable. The people who picked up these messes after he had done his work would know who had done it because that was what the whole thing was about. The police and forensics would be as noticeable a presence here as they were at a race riot. Leave the fuckers to it was the prevalent attitude of the day; it was a bought state of mind.

Grit had chopped off so many branches from the Slight tree that he was hoping that he would soon be down to the roots. Shit, he had even tortured and killed the grandparents in an effort to scare the rest of the clan off. He left the kids and the babies out of it. Let the spouses go. Was he getting soft? No, he just had principles. If they came after him of course he would kill them. Why waste bullets otherwise?

He hadn’t been keeping count on how many he had killed since this fiasco started but when you considered the impetus for all that death it all seemed so stupid. He might rest for a bit after this one was done with – after all the loose ends were tied up.

The Slight crew was vastly diminished and he finally believed that he had the last of them on their knees in front of him. Five of them – all related by blood, all cursing into their gags, all wild-eyed and shit-scared behind their blindfolds. The biggest of them – Gerald: he was even more terrified. Why? Because he had been digging graves for about three hours while Grit cooked himself a meal on a little gas burner.

He judged that the graves were finally ready and re-bound Gerald and gagged and blind-folded him once more. Then he paused to eat his beans and frankfurters. It took him ten minutes to finish eating and in that time all five of the men had considered ways of getting out of this – he knew they had. People overthought things though. He would have just acted – there were five of them and not a single one had the balls to try something, even knowing that they were going to die.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Miss. Gerald had stood up. Gerald was running around like a headless chicken. Bang. Grit rolled each of them into their respective holes in the ground and began to shovel the dirt in on top of them. He would be long dead before any of the offspring of these bastards ever thought about revenge. Shit, did he need a drink or what?

Grit 8

Like a lot of men that have surrounded themselves with a network of people to do their thinking for them, to do their grunt work for them – they lose touch; become somewhat lazy. Granted, Grimoire was not as lazy as some that he had seen but it was all a matter of degrees. If you had everything done for you pretty soon you got blunt n some vital aspect of the day to day.

People looked to Grit and saw that he was still working hard and they assumed that he had to work to survive – that he had managed his money badly or something along those lines. People never did learn that lesson about the worthlessness of assumptions. Assumptions in Grit’s game didn’t just make an ass of you they got you killed. Grit had assumed that he was dealing with a professional and that the work he had been given by this man was work worthy of someone with his reputation. It wasn’t.

In a place where everyone is comfortable with their status as the top dog audacity becomes a weapon – attack, in and of itself, becomes a surprise. With a headshot you don’t need to worry about the silencer slowing the bullet down. When you can’t get a clear shot at the head shoot them in the foot – when they jackknife in half bring your knee up and drive their nose up into their brains. As if a bunch of firecrackers were whispering Grit emptied bullet after bullet into Grimoire’s army. When he would tell people about taking this many people on and walking out alive people would think him a liar – pack animals are slow, he would say.

Peeling through layer after layer of the organisation Grit did something that the police force hadn’t been able to do in fifteen years of trying – he shut Grimoire down. It was a slaughterhouse full of lots of dead dumb animals.

Grit took the keycard he had taken from the first goon he had executed and slid it through the lock. It opened and he stepped inside the room where Grimoire ran all this from. He had two bodyguards stood next to him and they stood there and told Grit to put down his weapon. Was he going to do that? Fuck no. Number one dumb fuck covered Grimoire and his brother in arms with blood and brain matter. Number two dumb fuck was stood there shooting – he was trying to do his job, but he was shooting where Grit had been not where he was. Grit kneecapped him and, as he fell, delivered the coup de grace and blew the top of his skull off.

He walked up to Grimoire and began to check him for weapons. Not even armed – now that truly was arrogance. Is this what power did to you?

‘You know there’s no one coming, don’t you?’

‘Yeah. Before you kill me I’d like to know why.’

‘Because I am a professional and you did me a discourtesy by handing me a fucking domestic. I never left a living breathing example to tell people what I wanted them to hear. I don’t play Chinese whispers. Corpses are so much more eloquent.’

‘O—’

And Grit left.