The Crimson Fucker spat. The wound in his chest bled quite heavily. It had been a while since he’d got shot – he remembered it hurting more than this.
The heist was not going quite as he had intended, because nothing could ever be fucking easy, could it. First the sodding barber had gotten captured, and then, as they were about to start loading the cargo, he had shown up with armed escorts.
And now… Now the Crimson Fucker had a bullet-wound in his chest, and through it he was losing a lot of blood and the last of his patience.
The diversion at the front gates wouldn’t hold for long. They needed to finish this, and quickly. He glanced around the corner. The Black Barber had sprung to action, distracting the man with the gun. Perfect. Now it’s your turn to bleed, you son of a bitch.
He watched from the cart as the last of the mob broke and fled. Many of them – probably most of them – had died. No matter, they had served their purpose.
All in all, it could have gone a lot better. Although they had gotten away with the cargo in the end, and they were all still alive, so it was technically a success, things should have gone a lot smoother. The Crimson Fucker wanted to blame someone, to make an example, discourage these kind of failures in the future, but when he cast blame he tended to do so violently, and as he reminded himself, this was not his operation, but The Knife’s. It was her call, and she would probably want full manpower for the big showdown.
Now, that was something The ’Fucker looked forward to – big payday, and pretty fireworks to go with it.