-Morrison- took a sip of his beer as he looked around at a now empty house, he looked around for the memories, good and bad memories that he could never forget. He was feeling good until he looked up. The loft. He dreaded the day he cleared it out but he wanted to get on with it as quickly as possible. He dragged his body and soul up the ladder to the loft and saw that it was tidier than he remembered. Still a lot of work to be done though. 

He had been clearing out old comic books and old paintings when he came across a book. He moved over to pick it up and opened it with a confused look on his face. He opened the cover and it read:

"To my dearest wife and son, I can never repay you for the live I gave you both, I am ashamed at my actions and I will never forgive myself." 

It was rounded off with a signature that he made out to read "W.J Grimes"

-Morrison- never remembered his Father to be a bad man, just a businessman with a gun. At least, that's what he was always told. He opened the book up to the first page and sat back on an old deck chair and took a drink off his beer.

The Hit.

As you stand there, pointing your .357 Magnum at the young man facing you who is strapped to a chair with a black bag over his head, you feel a distinct lump in your throat, you feel a horrible feeling rolling about in your stomach. As the young man wails, you begin to experience a sense of pins and needles in your legs, which spreads down to your feet. You decide to put it down to nerves.

"Hurry up, we haven't got all day, cop!" says the RH of the Godfather as the other, highly valued and highly trusted, member chuckle along.

You look around at the room for something that will encourage you to shoot the poor, defenseless young man. You look at your feet as you hear a sigh from the Godfather who nods his head at his RH which triggers him to pull his gun from the inside of his suit jacket. He points it at your head.

"You got ten seconds asshole, or I blow both of your heads off. Ten..."

You begin to sweat, you wipe your forehead with the handkerchief your son gave you before you went undercover to exploit The Mob. 

"Nine..."

You refocus yourself, you line up your gun at the young mans head, you look at him with pity, but you don't have the space for these feelings, you can't afford to fail on what you have worked so hard to achieve.

"Eight..."

You close your left eye as you look down the sights of your gun.

"Seven..."

Your worst thoughts and questions begin to flood your mind, what about the kids' family? How would you explain your actions to them when it was all over? Could you look them in the eye again?

"Six..."

                                                                                                         ~

                                                                                               14 days earlier...

                                                                                                         ~

You are woken up by your wife who gives you a kiss on the cheek while wishing you a good morning, you turn around and watch her open the curtains, revealing a bright, summers day.

"I think I'm gonna take a jog to the store, you want anything?" She says while putting a pair of Nike running trainers on.

You take a few seconds to think to yourself.

"Get me some beers for the football tonight will you? I'm going round to Barry's to watch Scotland versus England, should be a good game seeing how they are always at each others throats."

She smiles as she sits down on the bed.

"See I would get you beers, if you weren't going to your sons' football game tonight"

Your face drops as you realise you have to stand in a cold, smelly and damp section of a so called "stadium" while watching your lazy winger of a teenage son "running" up and down a muddy and flooded pitch.

"You mean I have to go to that shit?!" You protest.

"You told him yourself last Friday that you would, so don't even think about letting him down!" She says strictly.

You sink back into your pillow in a bad mood, you think to yourself "I get one day a week off and I need to spend it with my shitty son, playing shitty football, at a shitty stadium, with shitty halftime pies!" You finally rack up the courage to get out of your bed as you stumble across your hallway, passing your sons room.

"Hey Dad, remember you have to go to my football match tonight!" He says mockingly.

"Yeah yeah, your Mum reminded me this morning, are you on the bench tonight?" You say lazily.

"Well..er..yeah but Coach said he is gonna give me the second half to play!" He slurs.

You sigh deeply as you walk down the stairs for breakfast...

                                                                                                          ~

                                                                                                  3 days later.

                                                                                                          ~

"Yeah buddy, I know, I never thought Scotland would beat them 4-0 either! Ol' man Murphy had that bet and he ended up winning $752,983 from the bookmakers...Yeah I know haha, maybe we should ask him for advice next time if he hasn't moved to Spain or something haha...Oh shit the wife is coming..I'll talk soon...Bye."

You hang up and quickly put the phone in your pocket. Your wife walks through the door as you get up and offer to help her with the groceries as she gives you a rough scowl. Your son walks past you and mumbles to himself about how much he hates you. He plants a handkerchief into your pocket as he walks away, you look at it then at your son.

"Clean up your attitude Dad."

"Look son, I want you to have this, it was my Dad's he gave it to me before he died. It was mine and his lucky coin."

He puts it in his pocket without looking at it. As he walks upstairs your wife looks at you.

"I can't believe you actually faked that someone had been stabbed just so you could miss your sons football and meet with your friends and watch some stupid football match, I mean can't you see that you've completely broken his heart?"

"Listen it seemed like a good idea at the time, I completely regret what I done and I've apologised to him umpteen times and he just ignores me."

"Well can you blame him? You completely disrespected and embarrassed him, did you even know that he played the match from the beginning and set up the winning goal?"

"Yes, you've told me twenty times before."

"Well I am just trying to get it stuck into that thick fucking skull of yours!" She says as she begin to cry.

You attempt to give her a hug but she pushes you away.

"OK if you want me to do something with my son then I will, let me..."

No, you aren't taking him to your friends' to watch the football, that's absolutely pathetic that you would even chance your arm by saying that, I want you to leave the hou..."

Your phone rings. As you look to your wife for her consent to look at it, she nods, you look at your phone as it reads "The Boss", your eyes widen as you answer immediately.

"Hey Morrison, listen, I..er..I've got some bad news..."

                                                                                                          ~

                                                                                                  4 days later.

                                                                                                          ~

As you hit the real world from your day dream, you find yourself in a black suit and tie, white shirt, newly polished black loafers and with a weight on your shoulder. You look up and wonder who could be in a light brown, polished wooden box. You are told that he was undercover trying to find out about The Mob and their plans. Until he was snitched out by a former associate. He was then shot point blank between the eyes. He was your idol, he was your hero. He was your older Brother. Later, you see your Boss, you walk up to him and tell him.

"I'll finish the job my brother started..."

                                                                                                         ~

                                                                                                The next day.

                                                                                                         ~

"So you are sure you are up to date with the briefing?...And you are absolutely sure you want to do this, you don't have to you know, don't feel as though you are being forced to do anything."

"I know what I have to do" You say with a weak smile.

                                                                                                         ~

                                                                                                 2 days later. 

                                                                                                         ~

Two days seemed like two weeks with the work you had done, after being vouched for by a fellow "crew member" (aka D.I Michaels) you had been told to WACK three members of rival crews and four of the Godfather of Chicago's best bodyguards. You managed to do it better than the Godfather expected. There is a knock at your apartment door. You get out of your bed and as you are about to look through the peephole the door is kicked open as you are struck by it, as you are in a daze three men pin you done and another puts a bag over your head. You are dragged outside and thrown into a car. You are in the car for the best part of about three quarters of an hour, and all you can think about is "is this it? Have they found out who attacked their men and bodyguards? Has someone snitched me out? The car finally comes to a halt. The doors open simultaneously as you are pulled out and dragged by your shoulders into what smells like a sewer. You are sat onto a chair and tied by the hands to the back of it. A light is shone in your face as you notice a dark shadow walking towards you, pulling up a chair in front of you.

"Hello there buddy, we have reason to believe that it was one of your gang of mutts that shot at our boys these past two days, you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you? 

"Fuck you, I ain't telling you nothin!" You reply, you begin to think you were a bit harsh until a the man punches you in the face.

"Now listen here mister, we haven't got much time here, now you'd better tell us what the fuck is going on and you'd better tell me now!"

You begin to laugh at the man, you aren't fully confident on your actions but they seem right. Another punch is thrown, this time right into your gut. You consider telling him, but you stick to your loyalty to the men who shot your brother. Crazy right?

"Look at me...LOOK AT ME!" The man says as you look up in his general direction, still dazed from the first punch. He removes the bag from your head as you are greeted by the RHM of the Godfather, and the Godfather himself. He stands up, throws you a beer and comes closer to your head. He lifts you up and shakes your hand.

"Congratulations kid, You've proven to me that I can trust you not to say a word, even in the worst situations. Here, drink up, we have a surprise for you, seeing how you are a master of the art of killing. Bring him out!"

The RHM looks at you as he is untying you, then whispers into your ear.

"I know who you are, cop!"

You stand up and look at him and you want to say something, but before you get the chance, The Godfather takes you arm and places a .357 Magnum in your hand.

"A gift from The Mob, for your loyalty. Now this is where you really put it to good use."

A young man is brought into the room and placed on a chair opposite from you, he has a bag over his head and a gag in his mouth. The Godfather looks at you.

"This is your final test to prove your place in our family, the rules are simple, all you have to do is shoot this piece of dirt, to help you with this game, he came to us and asked us to place a hit on you, he was willing to pay ten grand, he obviously doesn't know his stuff if he asks us to kill one of our own."

As you stand there, pointing your .357 Magnum at the young man facing you who is strapped to a chair with a black bag over his head, you feel a distinct lump in your throat, you feel a horrible feeling rolling about in your stomach. As the young man wails, you begin to experience a sense of pins and needles in your legs, which spreads down to your feet. You decide to put it down to nerves.

"Hurry up, we haven't got all day, cop!" says the RH of the Godfather as the other, highly valued and highly trusted, member chuckle along.

You look around at the room for something that will encourage you to shoot the poor, defenceless young man. You look at your feet as you hear a sigh from the Godfather who nods his head at his RH which triggers him to pull his gun from the inside of his suit jacket. He points it at your head.

"You got ten seconds asshole, or I blow both of your heads off. Ten..."

You begin to sweat, you wipe your forehead with the handkerchief your son gave you before you went undercover to exploit The Mob. 

"Nine..."

You refocus yourself, you line up your gun at the young mans head, you look at him with pity, but you don't have the space for these feelings, you can't afford to fail on what you have worked so hard to achieve.

"Eight..."

You close your left eye as you look down the sights of your gun.

"Seven..."

Your worst thoughts and questions begin to flood your mind, what about the kids' family? How would you explain your actions to them when it was all over? Could you look them in the eye again?

"Six..."

You feel a heavy weight coming down on your shoulders but you look behind you and there is no one there.

"Five..."

You once again refocus on the young man, you try to think of a way to enrage yourself.

"Four..."

You remember that this asshole placed a hit on you.

"Three..."

You grind your teeth.

"TWO..."

You scream as you take the shot, you flinch before shooting so you shoot him in the chest. The force of the shot made the young man swing back on his chair. As he hits the floor you take a sigh of relief, but it is short lived until you notice a coin rolling out of the young mans pocket, you panic and immediately run up to the corpse and take the bag off his head...The Mob knew who you were all along. Before you can grieve you feel a cold sensation at the back of your head, you turn around to see the Godfather with a grin on his face and the .357 to your head...bang.