You don't meet many hit-men called Duncan. At least you didn't when I got out of the contract killing game ten - no, eleven - years ago. But I'm back for one final shot; vengeance, you might call it.
My so called friend, sleeping with my so-called wife. Cunts, both of them.
Well they'll get theirs.
I can see him now, sat in the beer garden of the Cow & Shotgun, nursing a pint. I centre the cross-hairs on him.
Pull the trigger. My aim is off. His pint glass shatters. People scream. I should have practiced.