___________________Teafo________________________
Stepping in from the chill October breeze, The Winchester arms is a welcome reprieve from the cold of the British autumn weather and the prospect of a job is a welcome reprieve for your bank account.
An open fire crackles in the corner under the big screen, showing a re-run of yesterdays Manx TT trials and there are a few patrons sat around varying tables, giving the room a low background murmur.
You spot Herb sat at one of the tables nearest the bar supping on a pint of his usual stout, he motions for you to join him. The Barmaid recognises your face, catches your attention and gestures at your usual ale in way of a question as you sit down at Herb's table. He greets you with a warm handshake "How've you been Collin? I got a job for someone with your kind of talents if you're interested?"
___________________Lumen_______________________
The warehouse has an odd stench to it, kind of like fish mixed with diesel oil and far too many years of dis-use to make out which is the stronger.
The cold night air has permeated the building and your breath hangs in front of your pace in regular puffs of cloud.
You've barely been in the room 30 seconds and the poor bastard strapped to the chair had already suffered one hell of a beating, the only light in the room hovering over his bound body and casting a sinister light on his wounds and his tormentor; Your boss.
"WHO THE FUCK IS HE?" Micky bellowed, repeatedly kicking into the blokes stomach. Nothing but groans escaped the captive and he began to bleed profusely from his mouth, his eyes fixating on you after the tenth blow and glassing over.
Fuck!!!!
Micky span around, clearly fuming, cursing the now dead captive for his refusal to talk. Micky storms straight past you, motioning with his head for you to follow him back out into the cold of the night. One of Micky's Lads walks over to the corpse and pushes him over onto his side, starting to undo the restraints.
The small inner door of the warehouse requires you to duck your head under, and the cold of the night time hits your lungs, eliciting a cough. Micky looks out over the Thames, his gaze hanging on tower bridge for a moment, before offering you a cigarette.
Pretty Facking City this is mate. Proud I am to be a Landaner. Thing is, there are too many Fackwits kicking about this end of the facking shithole that think they're better than us. that don't facking realise who's in facking charge. Know what I mean? We been running this part of the East End since before they started building that facking bridge mate, and they still think they can con us out of a quick quid or two.
Micky continues his monologue in his ridiculously thick cockney accent and you begin to lose interest, taking a large drag on the very expensive cigarette you were offered.
The main warehouse door groaned under the strain of the ancient motors, the metalwork clanging and crashing as the door rose up to meet the roof. The dim internal light cast a dirty square of yellow on the weed-ridden concrete of the industrial complex that the Warehouse occupies. The beaten body you saw just minutes ago re-appears, now with it's beaten head bagged and towing several bricks tied around its ankles. Two of Micky's Lads dragged it along the jetty and slung it into the Thames with a heavy splash.
The angry tone of Micky's voice brought you back to the previous conversation
You gone facking deaf or what? Hop to it, Johnny will give you the address... and don't forget, get the facker to pay up.