Going to that weird place early on in the game, his father said to him, “Son, don’t jerk off when you’re angry or when you just need to relax. Believe me.” And, then, five minutes later, “Believe me.”
This was the best piece of advice he had ever received from his old man. The second best piece of advice was to keep his hair cropped close to the skin so the coppers wouldn’t be able to detect the presence of drugs hidden there in the follicles. Fuck knows if this was true, but it had been confirmed to him by various shows in the CSI franchise, and, frankly, that was enough.
This had two notable effects on his criminal career. The first was that people learned to recognise and fear seeing his skinned head as he stalked the neighbourhood leaning on the local shopkeepers whilst enacting the most incoherent protection racket ever devised.
The reason he was so feared was that, in absence of any release, he was, at the best of times, incensed, and any infractions, real or imagined, were dealt with utter brutality. This was the second notable effect his father’s advice had on his life as a criminal.
That said, he was an elegant man, certainly in the sartorial sense. He would fop around in a three-piece suit, and even after he beat the shit out of you he still looked pretty good. In this sense, there was something of Gary Oldman’s Stansfield about him... but he wasn’t such a terrible actor.
His end was violent as the deaths of these sorts of men must be. The cops, tired of his bullshit, bailed him up in a cell one night. Whilst he slept, they, invoking resistentialism as a defence, proceeded to kick the ever-loving piss out of him.
Because he was white it even made the newspapers.
Written on Saturday, 8 February 2014