I used to be needed; I used to feel important, part of a unit, something more than the mere sum of my parts. But that was before I bit the bullet so to speak. Not literally which is possibly one of only two things I've had to feel positive about in around 2 years. The other I had seen on the internet in the library, a hint or electronic whisper if you will leading to my current situation. I'd received an E-mail, no address; I'd have thought it odd if I hadn't seen this type of thing hundreds of times before. It was about my targets, I got one of the fuckers but 9 more still had to die. These men, no animals that took me, ruined me just to set an example to the village we were protecting and all in the name of profit. It was the motivation I needed to pull my finger out and get my arse into gear.
I'd been discharged from my unit, hired mercs were expendable and I'd been expended, used up and thrown the hell outta there. I held no grudges on that front though, what else was I to expect this wasn't exactly military stuff, no pensions or compo. Just money for people that are good at the fighting but not so good at the drilling, polishing boots and the formality of it all. My name was Stuart (crowbar) Tailor. I'd been given the nickname crowbar after I'd walked in on a fifty year old man trying to force himself on a fourteen year old girl in south Sudan and grabbed the closest thing to hand. I got the sick bastard and got him good. You'd think that'd be the reason for my release but again not exactly military stuff with all their beurocratic bullshit. Since the true reason for my departure from the backyard battlegrounds and one sided conflicts though I'd gone way downhill, drinking, fighting and taking drugs. The only thing left I had to pride myself on was the fact I never went near meth, crack or smack. I mean come on I'm not a fucking imbecile I have a job to do