Working Man's Club

I get up when most of you have already gone to bed. That’s fine, I don’t mind. Lots of people do it. I’m part of the night shift.

I pack my tools in my bag, put on my work clothes and head out. It’s peaceful this time of night, it’s amazing what you can get done, really. I head into the financial district to find my colleague for tonight. I have a new one every few days, which is a bit strange, but hey, at least I get to meet lots of new people. This one’s a CFO for a large multinational bank. I don’t really like the rich ones, it’s probably just me, but I always feel they look down on working class stiffs like me.

My colleague is surprised by my arrival, they usually are, but we’ve got work to do, so it’s straight down to business. I get my favourite tool out of the bag. It’s a police-issue nightstick, and it gets the job done just great. I wonder if this one will co-operate. They usually don’t. I call them my colleagues because it’s a shared labour – 50-50 – I do all the killing and they do all the dying.

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