Ever been in a drug deal? Shuffling the cash between your fingers and handing out the ganja as fast as your hands can bloody take in the money?

Nah. Probably not, but nevertheless, there is this...'allure' to the business. Quite a profitable one, actually.

Call me filthy; call me a creature that doesn't deserve to walk the earth...I've heard it all before. All by people who really had no bloody room to talk. None at all.

But what about me, eh? Why am I in such a horrible, dishonest business?

Again: the profit. It's all about the money. I've never really HAD the urge to do what I sell–because in all honesty that is nasty shit you never want to get into your system–but there's a lot of money in it.

And thus your question arises: Am I living with my mum? That is what it's supposed to be like, right? The disgusting vagrant who crouches low in their mother's attic in the daytime and at nightfall–after her mother offers some biscuits and sets out a nice mug of tea–she'll creep down and commence in the selling of illegal substances.

Ha-ha. Sounds like a twisted version of Batman.

Well, let me tell you the truth:

I don't live with me mum. That's a load of bollocks. To put simply, she got shot to in a bizarre hit-and-run type of deal at an intersection, her piece-of-shit Renault idling and coughing up exhaust.

She never had a chance to knew what hit her...I believe the words of the coroner was, "Your mother was a fish-in-a-barrel."

Funny enough: When I had heard those words, I had been disgusted. Both by the blunt behavior of a strange man who fondled the innards of dead people for a living, and the fact that my mother hadn't had a chance.

It took a while for me to suddenly line up that statement with Mum's real life.

She was a fish in a barrel.

She really was.

Stuck in a dead end job, three bloody children from hell and a piss-head husband...That was a trapped position. My mum had no where to go. And the only thing she had to her name was one girl–her daughter–who clawed her way out of that cesspool and eventually rose to become one of the top prosecuting lawyers in all of London.

That was me.



I was an attorney, working for the system and using my intelligence and vast amounts of evidence to put bastards and stupid pricks of the like behind bars.

I was a bitch with bite, and I loved it.

Challenging filth of society...cleaning up the streets...I felt like I was doing good. I felt like I was helping the world.

....Oh, yeah, but then my mum died.

And now, I'm selling drugs on the street.

This is your cue, audience: gasp in disbelief and ask me, "WAH!?!?"

Now lean down, my lovely listeners. I can tell you're intrigued, so let's get in on a little secret.

I'm selling drugs. Yes, I am.

But here's the tidbit: All this chaos, all me fueling addictions and the loss of human life... it's going to find me someone.

A very important, sadistic someone.

If you are an intelligent human being, you'll narrow your eyes and gently ask me if I've been snorting crack.

The definitive answer: No.

...The logic makes sense in a few seconds, I promise.

Eventually the man who killed my mother is going to hire me. He's going to notice my skills, my somewhat curious ability to slip past the law and–the biggest thing of all–my gender.

He will be come curious.

He will call me–like all my clients–and ask me to work for him.

What will I do?

I will act calm. I will bare my teeth, and I will say.

"Of course."

And there you have it.

I've found him.

And from there?

I kill him.