Vincent Fairweather Pettigrew the Third prides himself on the quality of his labour. Every morning he rises at exactly five-oh-three and performs twenty six push-ups, forty sit-ups, and sixty three pulls ups using the properly reinforced bar in his bathroom entryway. He showers with Irish Spring soap and trims the edges of his moustache with silver scissors, which he sharpens with a whetstone every Friday morning. After showering and hanging his towel behind the door, he proceeds to the closet, where he chooses a black suit from a long line of black suits, each identical, free from bloodstains or tears, pressed and immaculately clean. He removes a pressed shirt from the dry-cleaning bag and affixes his clip-on tie (the clip-on is a regrettable necessity in his line of work, function over style).
After a healthy breakfast of oatmeal and orange juice, he fetches the paper and takes his black car to work. The nature of his work is such that every day the assignment is slightly different, but he tackles each with his customary poise and diligence, whether he is breaking the kneecaps of a client who refuses to pay, or forcing a man to dig his own grave in the nearby desert.
Vincent Fairweather Pettigrew the Third doesn’t like to make decisions. He prefers his orders straightforward, his assignments clear cut, and, thus, his results above reproach. When his employer requests that he ‘deal with a problem’, he inquires about more detailed instruction. Would sir like the kneecaps broken, or only one arm? Should he lean on the offending party emotionally as well as physically, or should the vague threat of retribution be enough in this case? There is no such thing as too much specificity.
Vincent Fairweather Pettigrew the Third loathes thrill-seekers. He is not in this business for the visceral thrill of adrenaline which lesser beings might experience upon entering a pitched gun battle. No, he considers this crass, rude. He enjoys the visceral thrill of a job well done, a mess disappeared. His favourite assignments are the cleaning jobs. The way bleach can eat away even the smallest trace of blood. How plastic bags disappear grisly evidence. Yes, this is a satisfying moment for Vincent Fairweather Pettigrew the Third.
He is not a social climber. He has no desire to be the man in charge, for on that man decisions must fall, and decisions inevitably lead to complications, which lead to blame, which in this business, most often lead to gruesome murder. Vincent Fairweather Pettigrew the Third should know, after all – he’s usually the one sent to kill the offending party.
Life is simple for Vincent Fairweather Pettigrew the Third. He wakes up, he does his job with satisfaction, and he retires to bed. If only life could be so simple for us all.
Image by April Milne.