Breaking Even (200 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 1 on 2 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by FuckTheArmy (View user info) at 2005-07-18 19:23:57 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
Mark doesn't have any friends left, at least not any real friends. Business associates aren't in short supply, and they seem to be okay at standing in from time to time, so as long as he gets paid properly he can cover rent and food. Most of the time it's not too bad.
At the moment though, he's scrounging through the few scavenge-able items in the fridge and cupboards to come up with a half decent meal.
The light from the kitchen drifts dimly through the doorway and into the telly room.
The TV gives a slight numbing background noise; a weedy American proclaims he always ends up 'even Stevens', and a laugh track plays over it at predictable intervals on another boring flavour of "entertainment" known as the sitcom.
No-one ever throws money out the window in real life; at least not anyone he knows. Nowhere near enough to spare around here. It's been a tough year... tougher than most, and lately they haven't been too good.
Spam in a fucking can. For dinner.
Shit, he thought there was money in this job, when he took it. Sometimes there is, too. If you can scare the tripe out of someone, they keep on the level and you get what you came for. It's not too hard, but even with all six foot seven of muscles some likely lad has a go at you and there's not a fucking thing you can do past getting out of there alive when they pull out a kitchen knife.
As for problems, some people would think of gambling debts.
Mark wishes he had anything as simple as that; his whole life going under. Once upon a time, nobody asked questions, because you had a business, people would pay you because it was above board, and that was it.
Now it's 'rules' this, 'rights' that, and god forbid if you ever try and push the boundaries. What's worse, his former friends are watching him sink slowly and they won't do a sodding thing about it.
He wished he could be somewhere else. On a beach somewhere, with a nice girl and a bit of cash to throw around. Nobody ever does that in real life, either. Makes it lucky without screwing someone over for it... No shit Sherlock, fucking telly reckons the odds aren't good to win the bloody lottery.
Time to get a ticket anyway. He pushes open the door, locks it behind him, and plods to the lift. Walking through the cold, frost on the pavement, in a hooded jumper and thin track pants. He pulls out a cheap cigarette, a real strong one, and lights up. He marches quickly towards the store, treading carefully down a back alley.
"Look here, it's Markey Mark. What you up to, fucker?" He hears the man's voice without bothering to look for him; it could be one of a dozen hostiles. He runs; away, down, first down the alley, the street, then down into the tube. His heart races and he breathes quickly. Two, three steps at a time, lucky not to lose his footing, icy and slippery from the cold sleet. He takes a dive, and shoves through the doors as they slam shut behind him.
He looks around carefully, anxious not to run into any more business associates.
Some silly bugger on the tube is wearing a Rolex. He looks again. Not some cheap fake, either. Imagine that, a fucking Rolex on public transport, like he ain't gonna get it nicked. Take your pick, mugging, pick-pocketing, as you like it! Mark was about to have a right go himself, but the Bill turns up just in time to save some bacon.
If you're not a rich prick, you can't fucking break even without being corrupt. Bloody coppers. The show's shit too. Telly never gives anything straight.
Mark moves off at the next station, leaving the 'suit' to his own good fortune. He figures, since he's in the area, he may as well see about a certain transaction. On the edge of the patch, as it were. He takes the lift; he's still a little puffed.
It's a hard enough job at the best of times, because while it's cheap enough to get 'em, you can't always get rid of 'em. It's a bit like gambling, in that sense. Some of the people he deals with daily are gamblers, some are hard on their luck, and some are just silly rich twats who don't know how to handle themselves.
It's cold, so he jogs up the street to his next victim's address, being careful to stay well clear of dark corners. Move those plates, he thinks, or you'll seize up and die in this weather. It's just starting to rain, and each drop is like a sharp point, a thousand needles falling on his bare face, and while he ain't got any breath left, he keeps moving quickly.
He stops outside a greasy spoon place just across the street from the target and half walks, half stumbles through the door. He checks his pockets to see if he can make the price of a cup of tea, to sit in the warm for a bit without any questions, and finds fifty quid.
Fifty fucking quid and he were eating spam for dinner just a half hour ago. He's still got this week's rounds to do.
He gets a full plate, English breakfast served all day here. Fucking marvellous, and for once he means it, even just to think it.
Mark chews slowly, actually enjoying the greasy substitute for food. He sips his tea in large draughts, with milk and sugar, none of that artificial shit. He cleans off the plate with the last of the toast and gives the waiter a ten, keep the change.
Feeling warm and fresh, he marches steadily to the intended door and knocks heavily. The lights are on, so he knows the man's home. He isn't actually surprised to get an answer, through the mail slot in the door. This one's pretty clean, at least on the public surface.
Mark raises his voice a little and proclaims, "DEBT COLLECTOR". What he doesn't realise is that the victim saw him coming. One fist, two fist, red fist, blue fist, and it's all fucking over before you can say "pay up you stinking sod".
So much for getting your money back.
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Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-02-01 18:09:16 EST (#)
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