Ones and Nothings

You're not buying what?

The part about the hand; this hand?

And what, exactly, don't you "buy"?  What is it that you think I'm selling that you are not prepared to purchase?

Oh.  Really.

Well, take a look at that. There.  

What do you mean, "where?"  Right there; right fucking there.  That, sure as shit, ain't no beauty mark.

"Pass out?"  What the fuck are you talking about?  I've never....  In my whole life, never once.  I don't know about you, but I was trained.  I'm a professional.  I'm a trained fucking professional.

I have no idea where you got your wings, but I'm talking about real fucking field work, not the shit they do know with their ones and nothings.  That is not how business was done.

Business was personal.  

Everyday, every single day, you suited up to play and not just sit on the bench.

A good day was when you made it back to the locker room, period.  Heads and shoulders, knees and toes were all bonus and never taken for granted.

Turning the ship of any state is hard work and, in those days, we were the power steering.  Skin was a lot thicker then, you couldn't change policy with a mean Tweet on SnapBook, or whatever the fuck it is they do now.

They fucking broke my hand with a hammer, that's how I know.

I got a whole game's worth of dirty laundry and bad judgment that they could have used, but they didn't.  They dropped a bag on me and took me to an out-of-the-way and they broke my fucking hand.  One phone call to some Adderall-fueled joy-sticker and they could have had me droned-out, just like that:  no runs, no drips, no errors.

But they didn't do that.

For some reason, they thought I was worth the business.

How the fuck would I know.

Somebody told me once that you want to make a point, you look the mark in the eyes....  They put a face to a voice, a smell to an idea and they can feel the warmth of your presence in a way that never leaves them.  

And you give the mark something they can get over; something to survive and they will NEVER forget what it is you want them to know.

Christ, where did you go to school?  I bet you trained with the Limeys, didn't you.

We're all of us hunters:  that's the first thing.  Some better than others, but it's all in there; just a matter of tapping into it, letting it out.  You can put in all the layers and embroidery that you want, but, at the end of the day, we are all wiping away the same shit.

We know hunting.  Most of us have taken the easy way out, but we know chasing and being chased, we know scents and their short trip to memory.  

Why do you think it is that you can tell when an animal, or another person is afraid?  I'll tell you why, it's because your survival depends on it.  Dogs and people are most likely going to attack out of fear.  You bring another human person right to the point where they are about to do something stupid and desperate and then let them go, you own their ass.

They see you can do that and they know they are no longer in control.

You can actually see the moment when they go from being afraid because they're desperate to being afraid because they know they are no longer in control:  the eyes stop moving.  It's like they don't need to know where the door is, because they know it won't help.

That's how I knew.

What do you mean, "knew what"?

These guys were day players:  hired to look the part, but they didn't know what else to do other than follow the recipe.  

They were supposed to put the spook on me, but they really didn't want anything.

Pissed me off, that's what.  After all, that's what they thought of me?  Discount spook show?  Christ, I was mad.

It's what happens when you fight with proxies, or at arm's length, you forget that it's a people business.  

You get in a room with a person and it's your job to make something happen:  hearts and minds.

Of course, it fucking hurt, but I got over it because of the whole disrespect thing.  There's a world of difference between appearing to do a thing and really doing it.  There's no form, no flow chart for the work I did.  They sent us to do a thing and we did it; no projections, or evaluations, or estimate, we did it.

You fix the problem, or you don't.  Getting close is the same as not leaving the bench.

A generation ago, I probably could have still taken them out, but, you know, time and tide and all that shit.

I took the hit and they dropped me off.

Back to the locker room.

I wrapped up and that was that.