He'd had to start somewhere.
It wasn't that bad, really; as far as scut work went, collecting protection money wasn't too bad. The familiar actions of it took Tim back over a decade, back to when he'd been a knobby-kneed teen. Back then he'd been a wild, bare-toothed thing, all too eager to visit violence upon those who dared try deny Greenstreet their dues.
He was taller now, at least, if not by much.
The company back then had been better, too. He didn't know McDaniels well, but as far as he was concerned that was a good thing. The physical assault that the East End was upon the senses was at least something one could become accustomed to. There was no such possibility for the overwhelming stench that rolled off of Eoin with his every movement. In a way it was fascinating: A study in just how vile one man could be.
Mostly, though, it made Tim's skin crawl, and not just for the surety of all sort of nasty things that made McDaniels' body their home. What kind of man was comfortable living in such a skin? It was, by far, one of the most horrifying things that he had been subjected to in recent times. (Given the things he had seen, though, there was a safe bet to be made that Tim's sense of what was horrifying was just a bit skewed.)
Smoking his third cigarette of the morning (a poor attempt to keep the sourness of stale body odor and worse from his nose), Tim watched the passers-by on the street. They still had most of this street, and then one more, and could call it a day. Annoyingly, while they were out shaking down shopkeepers, Tim was certain a new shipment was arriving today, and this was a convenient way to keep the newcomers out of the way. There wasn't anything for it, really, but to do the job and keep his head down – for now. Then again, if they sped up just a bit, perhaps they could make it back in time to catch sight of something.
"If we hurry up a wee bit, we could be done an' have lunch back at the Block." It was said in a speculative tone, in Tim's pure Belfast accent. A bit of ash was tapped from his cigarette as he raised thick eyebrows at the other man in question. The Block & Tackle was the pub just down the street from the gang's headquarters. It was cheap, it would be warm, and it seemed an excellent lure for McDaniels to agree to Tim's little scheme.
It wasn't that bad, really; as far as scut work went, collecting protection money wasn't too bad. The familiar actions of it took Tim back over a decade, back to when he'd been a knobby-kneed teen. Back then he'd been a wild, bare-toothed thing, all too eager to visit violence upon those who dared try deny Greenstreet their dues.
He was taller now, at least, if not by much.
The company back then had been better, too. He didn't know McDaniels well, but as far as he was concerned that was a good thing. The physical assault that the East End was upon the senses was at least something one could become accustomed to. There was no such possibility for the overwhelming stench that rolled off of Eoin with his every movement. In a way it was fascinating: A study in just how vile one man could be.
Mostly, though, it made Tim's skin crawl, and not just for the surety of all sort of nasty things that made McDaniels' body their home. What kind of man was comfortable living in such a skin? It was, by far, one of the most horrifying things that he had been subjected to in recent times. (Given the things he had seen, though, there was a safe bet to be made that Tim's sense of what was horrifying was just a bit skewed.)
Smoking his third cigarette of the morning (a poor attempt to keep the sourness of stale body odor and worse from his nose), Tim watched the passers-by on the street. They still had most of this street, and then one more, and could call it a day. Annoyingly, while they were out shaking down shopkeepers, Tim was certain a new shipment was arriving today, and this was a convenient way to keep the newcomers out of the way. There wasn't anything for it, really, but to do the job and keep his head down – for now. Then again, if they sped up just a bit, perhaps they could make it back in time to catch sight of something.
"If we hurry up a wee bit, we could be done an' have lunch back at the Block." It was said in a speculative tone, in Tim's pure Belfast accent. A bit of ash was tapped from his cigarette as he raised thick eyebrows at the other man in question. The Block & Tackle was the pub just down the street from the gang's headquarters. It was cheap, it would be warm, and it seemed an excellent lure for McDaniels to agree to Tim's little scheme.
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