to set up trailers around the perimeter of his three acres to be well-guarded and to intimidate anyone wishing to visit without going through the proper channels. Apparently, even that didn't guarantee security.
His profession, if one could call it that, had no sense of legality. He oversaw any drug and firearm deals made between the areas of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex and Shreveport, and most of the area north and south of that. He also ensured that any trafficking on Interstate 20 was clean and smooth. The life as a powerful supervisor was pretty easy. He reminded himself every day that he earned this life of relative ease and comfort. Of course, he earned his position because of his intimidating demeanor, strong appearance, hard work and the will to do anything to further the goals of the Roaring 20's criminal outfit. But there was one honest truth of why he lived in comfort and barely had to do anything.
No one fucked with Scar Grayson.
When the time came to display strength for the gang, he showed it with ruthlessness and effectiveness. Due to his overall dependency and qualities of a great leader, he climbed the ranks of the Roaring 20's hastily. According to his calculations, he placed himself about fifth or sixth on the totem pole of ranking members. Attributing to his rise was his overcautious demeanor. He never carried more money than he needed, his home was modest, his vehicle wasn't flashy and he never did anything that drew attention to himself. He kept himself out of the day-to-day affairs of his trade, and only involved himself when something was wrong or needed his direct attention. He showed his value and understanding when he would correct any mistakes his underlings had made. Though, he presumed what endeared him to the higher-ups was his willingness to get his hands dirty. He had a body count, but all he remembered was that the amount of dead by his hands were more than the fingers on those hands. Ambitious to the core, Scar had every intention of continuing his climb up the ladder and hopefully wearing the crown of the gang one day. Being the top dog has always been Scar's aim, no matter the profession.
Placing his cigarette carefully on his bland black ashtray, he grabbed his .38 Special from the stained wooden coffee table. His daddy always told him that a loaded and ready firearm was the pinnacle of safety, and no matter where he was, he should always be equipped. With the drink still firmly grasped in his left hand, he lightly walked to the front door. Instead of attempting to see who it was through the peephole, he stood to the side and patiently waited. He was taught at a young age by his older brother to never stand in front of a door, just in case someone holding a powerful shotgun lay in wait. It was unlikely that an assassin was on the other side of the door, but he made a fair share of enemies on his way to the top. Without his father and older brother's guidance, as well as the arrival of a new member of the family years back to give him newfound motivation, he doubted he would even be in such a prestigious position in the criminal organization. Dolefully staring at his revolver, he silently wished those two members of his family were alive to see where he was today. Nothing was ever handed to him. He reached out and took it the only way he knew how: The Grayson way.
As he briefly reminisced about the past, another knock sounded, though this one was quieter, to the point of being barely audible if he weren't so close to the door. Scar perceived the knock as insecure and shy. There was very likely a female on the other side of that door. He knew this because every female that came to his place usually knocked with that same lack of intensity. His house was a normal three bedroom and two bathroom plan, but the aura the house put off from the man that lived there seethed intimidation. Even if that were the case, he still practiced caution. Someone had taken a shot at him at his place of
His profession, if one could call it that, had no sense of legality. He oversaw any drug and firearm deals made between the areas of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex and Shreveport, and most of the area north and south of that. He also ensured that any trafficking on Interstate 20 was clean and smooth. The life as a powerful supervisor was pretty easy. He reminded himself every day that he earned this life of relative ease and comfort. Of course, he earned his position because of his intimidating demeanor, strong appearance, hard work and the will to do anything to further the goals of the Roaring 20's criminal outfit. But there was one honest truth of why he lived in comfort and barely had to do anything.
No one fucked with Scar Grayson.
When the time came to display strength for the gang, he showed it with ruthlessness and effectiveness. Due to his overall dependency and qualities of a great leader, he climbed the ranks of the Roaring 20's hastily. According to his calculations, he placed himself about fifth or sixth on the totem pole of ranking members. Attributing to his rise was his overcautious demeanor. He never carried more money than he needed, his home was modest, his vehicle wasn't flashy and he never did anything that drew attention to himself. He kept himself out of the day-to-day affairs of his trade, and only involved himself when something was wrong or needed his direct attention. He showed his value and understanding when he would correct any mistakes his underlings had made. Though, he presumed what endeared him to the higher-ups was his willingness to get his hands dirty. He had a body count, but all he remembered was that the amount of dead by his hands were more than the fingers on those hands. Ambitious to the core, Scar had every intention of continuing his climb up the ladder and hopefully wearing the crown of the gang one day. Being the top dog has always been Scar's aim, no matter the profession.
Placing his cigarette carefully on his bland black ashtray, he grabbed his .38 Special from the stained wooden coffee table. His daddy always told him that a loaded and ready firearm was the pinnacle of safety, and no matter where he was, he should always be equipped. With the drink still firmly grasped in his left hand, he lightly walked to the front door. Instead of attempting to see who it was through the peephole, he stood to the side and patiently waited. He was taught at a young age by his older brother to never stand in front of a door, just in case someone holding a powerful shotgun lay in wait. It was unlikely that an assassin was on the other side of the door, but he made a fair share of enemies on his way to the top. Without his father and older brother's guidance, as well as the arrival of a new member of the family years back to give him newfound motivation, he doubted he would even be in such a prestigious position in the criminal organization. Dolefully staring at his revolver, he silently wished those two members of his family were alive to see where he was today. Nothing was ever handed to him. He reached out and took it the only way he knew how: The Grayson way.
As he briefly reminisced about the past, another knock sounded, though this one was quieter, to the point of being barely audible if he weren't so close to the door. Scar perceived the knock as insecure and shy. There was very likely a female on the other side of that door. He knew this because every female that came to his place usually knocked with that same lack of intensity. His house was a normal three bedroom and two bathroom plan, but the aura the house put off from the man that lived there seethed intimidation. Even if that were the case, he still practiced caution. Someone had taken a shot at him at his place of
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