There was always a middle man. If you wanted something that you couldn’t pop down to a small shop to get, you had to find the right conditions. Dealing directly with the makers always popped in as a dangerous past time, and that fella in between helped keep heads off the street.
I’d been trailing this one middle man, fella by the name of Sloan for a few days. Fucker thought they could deal to one of my girls on the down low, and whatever the ditz took left her foamin on the floor. So I looked through her stuff, found the name, and began to trail him around.
Turned out that this bozo was more demented than I had thought. Instead of getting anything from a single source, he was carefree. Determined to run things how he wanted, and deal as he pleased. Poisoned smack, rusted guns, fake money, you name it he’d deal it and fuck with it.
All for his own sick twists and sense of independence.
In some cases, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if this Hatchet ran in the same sort of a vein. Being a middle man, taking what he wants on for pay and kicking all the puppies his heart desire. Takin a group of thugs around, beating down punk kids and broken men all because the pay was good enough and the deed violent enough.
But here’s the thing with that kind of a mentality of “Fuck the world, I call the shots!” from the shoes of a middle man: There’s always someone you gotta answer to. And when you don’t, there’s always a price to pay.
For Sloan, it was just a matter of time. See, when I followed him around, I found out who he was dealin with. I knew the cops wouldn’t care about some two bit dealer like Sloan, and sometimes you gotta level the ledgers with some folks to keep the sheets clean. It takes a certain kind of a grit to talk to the folks that make it, but all it took was one little word to his dealer.
And they didn’t take kindly to their little middle man fucking up like he did. Not sure what really happened to him, but he isn’t around anymore.
Like Sloan, you’ve done one major fuckup Hatchet. You weren’t able to take out the two you were hired to. Can’t imagine that the fella that paid you is going to be happy about that, assuming your new crusader friend doesn’t beat the living tar out of you first. That clock is ticking, and it’s only a matter of time.
For a middle man that fucks up is a middle man that earns his concrete shoes.
But at the end of the day, it’s never about the middle man.
You’ll give me the lead I need to get my answers.
When they get done with you, all they’ll have to do is bury what’s left of poor ol lil Hatchet.