Jake Duval: Chatting Shit, just to show I can.
I'm drunk, fuck it. It's allowed. Today has been a good day and I'm celebrating. I just pulled off a very big job. Well, I say big, it was nothing really, it was the pay off that was big. Six grand. Now that may seem very little in such a money hungry luxurious life of the rich and the famous, but I'm from Hackney - and for half an hour's graft five grand is fucking superb mate. Cause for celebration I reckon. Five grand should keep my bookie of my back for a couple of weeks, get my rent back on track and I may even splash out and go to the Ivy, see if I can further exploit the moronic world of celebrity for my own financial gain.
I fucking love London, you know. There's no city like it, a huge multi cultural metropolitan city and ever single one of them a fantastic mark. Every one is so involved in there own little world that they don't see a sleazy, grimey fucker like me coming. I take a ride on the tube, some soppy cunt is too busy texting his bird than keeping an eye on his bag and that's when I make my move. I grab his bag and get off the next stop, by the time the stupid fucker notices, I'm selling his shit for the highest price.
One Hundred percent profit margin, and they say crime doesn't pay. ..
"Stupid fucking cunt's."
My simple, but on the money description of upper class London, those soho square, up there own arse fucking idiots. I love then and loathe them all in one go. The only street smarts they have is where to get the flashiest designer clothes on Oxford Street. Those are the easiest targets, and the biggest scores. the ones in the over priced Armani suit, they sit in there huge office making reservations for the grand opening of the next Gordon Ramsey restaurant. They're untouchable. Or so they think. They don't see it coming.
"I'm a pro."
in no way am I modest, I've lived this life since I was 10, my skill's are honed like Simon Cowells ability to exploit television to get record sales. I hate that fucking prick. But I can see what he's doing, and I want to get my finger in that pie. So prepare yourself for the grimiest bastard to ever be picking up an SFT signed paycheck. But don't get it twisted that that's all I'm there for.
"Although it is the main reason."I'm all about repping east london hard. I'm coming to kick some fucking arse. And show ignorant cunt's what it's like living in the east end of london is really about. A side of London Jude Law, Clive Owen and Daniel Craig don't want to show in their movies. I have a story to tell. This isn't even a preview, it's barely an introduction, it's me - chatting shit, just to show I can.
"I don't like putting all my card's on the table"
Incase you need more content....
Leaving London: Chapter I
"Wake up, Jakey Boy.."
It was at that moment when I knew -- I was fucked. Last night was a heavy alcohol fueled night, although still intoxicated I recognized the voice immediately. I opened my eyes, and there he was with a pistol aimed at my face and the biggest grimace on his face. Not the best thing to wake up to in the morning, even more so when you've got a head ache the size of the London Eye.
"Mr. Crawford."
The most chilling name in East London. This is one man you don't want to fuck with. He is one mean bastard. It's known that he broke both of his brothers legs simply because he disagreed with his options about West Ham's chances in the English Premier League one season. Now, take in mind that I had been scamming money out of this fucking nut case for the past four months, and I'm not talking about Fifty quid here, a tenner there, I am talking serious cash. I'm talking thousands. Now before I can continue I suppose I better let you know what kind of person I am. I'm the lowest of the low. I will steal my Grandmothers last Fiver out of her purse, I don't give a fuck. I'm a conman. A Grifter. The shadiest fucker you're ever going to meet in your life. Don't like me? Join the fucking queue, mate.
So there I was, a big fucking hang over and in serious need of clean pair of boxers, and there he was Eighty Grand short, pissed off and pointing a fucking gun at my head. And it was supposed to be my Wedding Day.
"Listen to me, you fucking cunt -- where's my fucking cash?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Johnny."
"You making a fucking mug out of me, Jake?"
"No, never."
"Then stop fucking lying then! How long have you been on my books, eh Jake?"
"Since I was Fifteen.."
I know what you're thinking why didn't I go to school and get a proper education like normal kids. Well, i didn't have no normal childhood. My old dear was a prostitute, and my Dad was in and out of jail for all sorts of fucking shit. Assault and Battery, Theft, Armed Robbery... Ha, Like Father like Son I guess. I never had any other choice. It ain't all tea and fucking crumpets in London, the street's of Hackney ain't the safest place to be.
"That's right, when you were fifteen, so you of all people should know that I don't like it when people lie to me. So I'm only going to say this one more time... where's my fucking money?"
"I swear, I don't know."
At this point he proceeded smash the front of the gun over the top of my skull. Again, not great when you've got a banging head ache. He pressed the barrel of the gun harder into the side of my head and cocked his gun.
"Okay, I okay, for fuck sakes.. It's gone."
I closed my eyes and watched my life flash before my eyes expecting for Johnny to pull the trigger and cover my bedroom wall with the inside of my head. But it didn't happen. Instead he calmly took the gun away from my head and took in a deep breath. I didn't know what was going on, usually when Johnny had a gun to your head he doesn't hesitate to pull the trigger.
"Well you need to fucking get it back then, don't you?"
"What?"
"You deaf or something? Because you're like a son to me, Jake -- I'm going to give you a chance get to it all back, plus a fifty percent I didn't blow your fucking brains out interest fee."
"Hundred and Twenty Grand?"
"Thats right Jakey Boy, and I'm giving you until the end of the Month."
"The end of the month? That's just two weeks. Two weeks to get over a hundred grand?"
"You're the best grifter in town Jakey boy. Two weeks is more than enough time."
"Not when I've got the fucking old bill doing surveillance it's not. I can't make any moves."
"Would you rather be dead?"
"Well I'm half way there already."
Me and my big fucking mouth, the man had a gun to my head and I was making jokes. Not the wisest fucking move I could have made.
"Want me to finish the job?"
"No, sorry. Look, two weeks.. I'll have your money."
"Good."
So I got off very lightly. What can I say? Lady luck must have caught a glimpse of my morning glory and thought she'd like a taste. What ever if was I'm thankful because I live another day. My cornflakes tasted so much better than they usually did, and my daily glass of Tropicana tasted as if the Oranges were picked from the garden of Eden. The sun shined bright though my apartment window, but I couldn't help but see clouds. The big fat hundred and twenty grand I owed to the most dangerous geezer in London.
...or my blazing hang over. Either way, it wasn't good.