What could I expect? Contract killings cost. My two grand – all up front - bought a fat prick on a clapped-out motorbike.
Most likely, he’d ride into town with a second-hand revolver stuck in his belt.
All the spare bucks I had until the next delivery. Next friggin’ delivery. Then, if any other bog-dweller messed with me, street deals would bankroll a black hearse, and two heavies wearing black suits and top hats.
And - surprise, surprise, motherfucker – Glock pistols.
The Irishman had stepped into my patch, and when I tried a “softly-softly” approach, he gave a finger salute and told me to feck off or else.
I slaughtered two strays on the way back to my bed-sit – bloody vermin polluting my neighbourhood. He’d be next. Cocksucker would pay. Big time.
That was then, several days ago. Now it’s now, instructions had been given and understood - and I waited for the action to begin. I licked my lips. Spat saliva out. My vantage point in St Mary’s secluded carpark was a slatted bench, the stained wooden seat covered in bird-shit. Close enough to see his head explode, but far enough for me to opt out unnoticed.
Nice day for a funeral.
The Irishman would be there, along with his close family, cousins, and so called friends more attracted by the wake after the main event.
I heard the bloody motor bike two blocks away. Too friggin’ soon, moron.
No worries, man. Two limos arrived together, pulled in to the carpark and the Irishman exited one. Behind him was the hearse, decked with flowers. Two men in black suits and top hats joined him.
They glanced over to where I sat – surely my hired outfit, polished shoes, and neat hairstyle disguised my intent – and nodded. The motorbike pulled up alongside me. Obstructing my soddin’ view, for god’s sake. The fat man leered.
‘Ape-shit, you’re fucked.’ He smirked through rotten teeth. ‘Fucking arsehole.’ He kicked the bike’s gear change, revved up, and was off.
Hey! What the f…? Behind me, I felt my arms clamped by iron fists, their breaths stinking of stale tobacco and friggin’ after-shave. Shit, man. I twisted round to see the Irishman fondling a Glock. He closed in, sneered, and dug the barrel into my gob. No, man, no, please, don’t do it, man… His lips parted.
‘Welcome to your fecking funeral, you black bastard.’