The Gentleman's Club' - a film about a group of friends, each of whom just so happens to be a killer …
FASSBENDER: The 'Hannibal Lecter' type, he kills because it's in good taste.
CUMBERBATCH: The 'Leon the Professional' type, he kills because he's paid to.
HIDDLESTON: The 'Joker' type, he kills because it's fucking fun.
MACAVOY: The 'Norman Bates' type, he kills because he can't control himself.
John smiled to himself as the last of four gentlemen who frequented his upper class restaurant walked in, late, as usual. He was the only member of their group who never turned up at the same time every week. He was always late, but never later than 8. The first to turn up was always the tall, eloquent one. He didn't smile much, and when he did, his mouth always twisted up mischievously. Next to arrive was always dressed in sharp suits, and smiled only slightly more than the first, then was the man full of charisma, although John was still uncertain as to his sanity. Usually he was fine, but there were these odd lapses sometimes… Finally, the one who was always late. He dressed in smart suits, too. Well, they all did.
"Tom. You're late, as usual. Is it too much to ask for you to be on time, like the rest of us?" Michael sighed.
"Well, what about Ben?"
"It's Benedict."
"Whatever, Ben. He always gets here early. He never gets here on time." Tom grinned.
"That's not the point, Tom. "
"I killed someone today.." James smiled brightly.
"So did I." Benedict put forward, as blunt as usual.
"Ben, it's your job."
Benedict frowned. "So?"
Tom opened his mouth to retort, but Michael got there first. "Never mind, Ben. So- how have things come along for you guys since last week?"
"Well, my business is positively thriving, thanks!" Tom grinned, allowing himself a laugh, too.
Benedict shrugged "same as always."
"well, I've been promoted in my division. " James smiled, and took a sip from his beer.
"But what about you, Michael?" Tom smiled, leaning his elbow on the table.
Michael rolled his eyes "I keep telling you, I don't mix my business with my leisure."
"Oh, you're no fun." Tom took a sip of his tea.
John looked once more at the group of men at the table in the corner. He never heard what they said, but he knew that they were all a perfect group of friends; there was a leader: Michael, and deadpan and down-to-earth character: Benedict, a slightly out of it and more or less quiet guy: James, and the joker of the group, if you will: Tom. He liked them. He didn't know what they did for a living, or for fun, but they left good tips.
Michael
Michael didn't particularly like killing, per se, but it always seemed like the thing to do. He never killed anyone of his own standard, obviously. He preferred to prey upon those below his standing in society. Or, in other words: nobodies.
There had been one just last night. He had been walking back from their 'Gentleman's club' meeting, and had taken a different route. Instead of walking along one of the main streets in London, he'd decided to go down a dark alley, against his better judgement, obviously. However, that's not important. What is important, however, is the low life that had attempted to 'mug' him- isn't that what those common people call it these days?
The man-thug- had stood in front of him holding a knife. And had then told him to hand over his money. Stupid man. But, that's what happens these days. Give an idiot a weapon and he thinks he's impenetrable. He doubts they'll ever find the body, Michael smiles grimly to himself. He could be an assassin, just like Benedict, he thinks to himself. But that man was a poor example. He doesn't usually kill just because they've done something to him. He often kills because it would make the world better, to be rid of the peasants that seem to be everywhere these days. Just like cockroaches, the only difference being cockroaches are much harder to kill.
A man in jeans crashes into his shoulder as he walks past. Michael turns his head to see where he went. Michael smiles.
Perfect.
Benedict
He wasn't sure why people were so against murder. No-one had decided that you would have to rot in a jail cell for killing an insect, or even anything bigger. Why was killing humans any different? It was probably the opposable thumbs, Benedict thought wryly. That was the only way humans differed from animals, after all. Well. It was one of the few reasons why humans were in charge, after all. Benedict often had time to think about matters such as this. Benedict had a lot of time to think about lots of things. He'd heard about assassins who took pleasure in being constantly in motion, in having all the limelight, but he much preferred the shadows. Recently he'd heard news of an assassin in South America who had taken his client to court because they had ordered him to shoot someone in the head, and when the victim hadn't died, they'd refused to pay him. So he had decided to tell everyone that he was an assassin, all in the name of a few more dollars, or whatever currency they used down there.
It was stories like these that Benedict enjoyed, of human stupidity because of their greed, and their attention seeking ways. Benedict didn't enjoy killing, exactly, he wasn't sadistic, or insane. It was a job, as simple as that. He had been trained to do it- and he was well known in the business, too. Benedict saw it as a job, plain and simple. He saw himself as the vet who had to put down the animals because the owner had a good enough reason. And they had enough money. He had standards, obviously. He wouldn't kill anyone for the sake of killing. There had to be a reason, and he didn't kill women, except under exceptional circumstances. But children was a big no. The people who asked him to weren't worth his time, if they didn't know him by reputation alone. That's how he'd met Tom, actually. He'd meant to kill him. Usually, Benedict would use something like a sniper, or an 'accident' at work, so he wouldn't have to get his hands dirty, so to speak, but he'd been drawn to Tom, for some reason. When he had faced Tom, it had been with a silenced pistol pointing at his face. Instead of getting flustered, or teary eyed, or stated to beg for his life, Tom had spread his arms wide and had told him to take the shot. That confused Benedict. He was good at reading people, he knew this. His childhood nickname had been Sherlock. He could read emotions, that was his speciality. He knew what fear was, and even the people who had put on a fake bravado had never been so utterly….fearless, as the man that had stood before him had been. Tom had fascinated Benedict, and he was the only real friend that he had, sort of. So, the only survivor had been a fearless murderer himself, Benedict thought again, how fitting.
Pulling himself out of reverie, Benedict waited for his target to be between the cross hairs of his sniper before pulling the trigger. As he was disassembling his gun, he realised just how much he liked his job.
There was always so much time to think.
James
I don't mean to kill those people. Not really, anyway. I'm not like Michael or Benedict or Tom. I-I just need to. It's like I have OCD's evil twin. But the worst thing, is that I like it when I'm killing someone- I like it when I see the light fade from their eyes, knowing that I did that. It makes me feel so…powerful, so in control of everything. It doesn't really change much, though. Sometimes it's ok, sometimes I can ignore the urge- the voice that tells me to do it. I know it's wrong, you see, and no matter how many times I do it, and feel so good, I still know that I killed a human, like me. The others, they don't really understand, but when I see a certain person, I have to kill them, other wise it's like it hurts my brain. It's like when you have to do something really important, and you know that the longer you put it off, the more you're going to be nagged by the part of your brain that makes you remember stuff. But that part of my brain, it's like it has its own brain, that it decides what it wants to do. I do try to stop it, but it's no good. I-I'm not going to lie. It's like there are two parts of me, sometimes, all I want to do is kill, and other times, all I want to do is curl up and cry. I know I'm insane, but I can't help it, and I don't want help, either. I like how I feel when I kill someone, when I make them cry out in pain. It makes me sick later, after I've done it, but when I'm caught up in all the adrenaline, it's like I'm taking heroine again. Sometimes, when I'm remembering, I feel the high again, too, and I forget that I feel bad about it, and all I want to do is go out and do it again. And again. And again.
But like I've said. I don't mean to kill people, it's like I have OCD's evil twin up here, in my brain.
Tom
Tom grinned down at the man who was currently begging for his life. Tom liked chaos. Well, organised chaos, at least. Tom was also a man who liked to treat himself, to let himself enjoy things, and there was nothing that Tom liked more than to cause chaos, and there was no better way of causing chaos than to kill, and murder. But that wasn't why he did it. Tom liked killing. He found it fun. He knew the others had their reasons, he knew that James had a problem, that Michael found it in good taste, and that for Ben, it was simply a job.
None of that mattered to Tom, though. He knew that Michael liked their little 'club', that it made him feel important. He also knew why he didn't talk about his job. But no matter, Tom always thought Michael to be the odd one out. He was far more pompous than the rest of them, and while Tom liked Michael, he knew from experience that he could change his mind about who he liked. he'd done it before.
Tom killed for fun. He knew that he was insane, too. Not the same insanity that plagued James, but he was insane never the less. He knew he didn't much like people, he called people his friends, of course he did- who doesn't? Everyone lies, do they not? Tom liked James, his mind was complete chaos, and so that drew him in. But Tom wasn't a savage, and he knew that James was vunerable, and didn't particularly enjoy killing, so in that sense, Tom's friendship wouldn't really work with him. Tom was a wild, out of control madman, and if he and James teamed up, there would be too much chaos for even him to handle. Michael, he was too much of a control freak. He didn't like chaos. That was why they didn't socialise out of the 'genlteman's club' he would try to reel in Tom thirst for blood, for murder and death and chaos. Ben, however, he liked Ben. Ben was very grounded, but he never tried to stop or reprimand Tom for his..tastes, shall we say. Tom had always felt honoured that a) someone had wanted him dead and b) that Ben had decided to let him live. Tom liked to socialise with Ben. He was slightly less quiet when it was just him and Tom, and he smiled more. Laughed occasionally, too.
Tom looked back down at the man whose life he had control over. Ben liked to think too, Tom thought with a smile, before breaking the man's neck with a sickening crack, and for the first time that evening, Tom felt the adrenaline that came with chaos surge through his veins.
That's where he felt most comfortable- most at home; in the carefully controlled chaos he wrought to unsuspecting people of the United Kingdom.