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He's late.

That's a bit disrespectful, if you ask me.

A man should never be late...

...for his own death.

But better late than never, I suppose.

A Hoptroff No.9, nonetheless.

Eleven-millimeter climbing rope.

One thousand, one hundred pound
breaking strain.

No room for mistakes in my business.

Not unless you intend on doing a stretch.

That's why when I hit,
I make it look like something it's not.

An accident, or in this case...

- Wait, wait.
- ...suicide.

Don't do this.

Do you know who I am?

Yeah, I know who you are, mate.

You're 25 grand.

That's it. Let it out.

I don't see him as a person.

I see him as a brand-new bike.

After a hit, I'm really psyched up.

Getting rid of all that tension
can be a problem.

Some blokes have breakdowns.

- I break people.
- Mr. Fallon.

- Oh, God, I hope you're not here...
- Afraid so, Spence. Here's 50 sheets.

Why don't you and your mate take a break?

Good lad.

This is the Royal.

A detestable den of absolute filth.

This is where the dregs and lowlifes
come to drown their sorrows.

- Hey, you all right, love?
- Get off me.

Oh, look at these scumbags.

There's only one thing
these lot are good for.

And that's a good old-fashioned beating.

- Come on, don't be shy, love. Come on.
- Oi, fat boy.

That some sort of accent?

Or is your mouth just full of spunk?

You fucking what? Knock him out, Bazzer.

Come on, then, you cunt.

This gaggle of scum are nothing
but a pack of street fighters.

No technique.

And I don't just fight people anymore.

I fucking destroy them.

Cheers, love.

Helped me through my PMT.

Here you go, mate.

PMT:

Post-murder tension.

It can be a right bitch.

Now, there are pubs for musicians,
lawyers, bankers, and builders.

This door,
although it doesn't look like much...

...is the entrance to my local:

the Oasis.

This is a pub for hit men,
a watering hole for predators.

How's it going, Colin? All right?

We're in the business of taking lives,
and business is booming.

And like all the locals...

...we have the regulars.

This is Carnage Cliff.

He's also a killer,
but opts for the more brutal...

...butchering-them-with-an-ax style.

Cliff's been driving Scotland Yard crazy
for years.

There's a fine line between a hired
psycho assassin and a serial killer.

Not much call for his style these days...

...except for the odd example killing.

But he's still one of the lads.

Evening, Cliff.

Meet Poison Pete.

He's a filthy, little runt who takes...

...keeping himself to himself
to new heights. Yeah, you guessed it.

He poisons people.

Nobody really likes Pete because he's
got a vocabulary of about 12 words.

And, well, look at him.

Can't say I'm a fan of his style.

It's simple, effective, yeah,
but fucking spineless.

Apparently, even his parents hated him,
so much so...

...that his only bath-time toy was a toaster.

But for our clients,
it's the effective part they're after.

All right, boys?

- Mick and Mac.
- Man, you tripping. What up, Mike?

Ex-Special Forces.

Mac is British SAS.

Mick is a frogman
from the other side of the pond.

These guys are the best of the best.

As highly trained
as any soldiers in the world.

They classed Iraq, Afghanistan and
Syria as being on their holibobs.

They are bona fide war heroes.

Turbocharged soldiers of fortune.

Well, when they're not bickering
over whose nation...

...has the greatest Special Forces, that is.

We've toppled down more dictators
than you've had hot dinners.

What? Nigga, we took out bin Laden, Saddam.

And don't get me started on Hitler.

Their tradecraft is second to none.

Mick and Mac's specialty is
making high-profile hits...

...look like regular street crimes.

The kind the police can't
really be bothered with.

The Special Forces bond is a unique one.

Something us normal folk
can't really appreciate.

And, yeah, their views may be
on other sides of the Atlantic...

...but they are opposite sides
of the same coin.

And as a team,
they are borderline unstoppable.

The Murdering Mercenaries.

Well, if my aunt had bollocks,
she'd be my uncle.

Fuck does that mean?

Michael.

Meet Jane the Ripper.

Now, her tale is as old as time.

She was an American Army brat,
raised in Japan...

...hated her stepdad, loathed authority...

...and ran away from home at 16.

She spent the next decade
under the tutelage of a disgraced ronin.

But that's a story for another time.

Jane lures in her marks
in the most old-fashioned of ways.

She gets them all hot under the collar...

...and when they least expect it...

...she unleashes the fury
like a woman scorned.

She's an expert swordswoman
and a right nasty bitch.

The Honey Trap Killing Machine.

There's a rumor going round she keeps
her male victims' nether regions...

...in a trophy case at home.
If that's true...

...then that is a shitload of cocks
in a cabinet.

All the lads would love to shag her...

...but we're all too scared
we'd never live to tell the tale.

Here we have Finicky Fred.

Nicknamed after his scrupulous
attention to detail...

...his fussy way of life,
his fear of social media...

...and a tendency to only eat beige food.

He picks his targets at random
from the telephone directory.

He's what we call a test pilot.

Trying out new and inventive methods
of killing people.

Most of Fred's inventions are complete shite.

But in the late '90s, to hide
a league-match fixing scandal...

...he came up with an ingenious way
to take out an entire football team.

He's been dining on the success ever since.

Nearly poked me eye out there.

Who's up for it this weekend, then, Fred?

Looks like it's a Mr. Dorset.

15 Rogers Avenue in Tooting.

Lucky man.

That a slick new bike, Mike?

This is the landlord,
our minder, the boss, Big Ray.

He's a retired death merchant.

He used to be a right vicious bastard.

But he's happier behind the bar these days.

I'm glad to see that you've ditched
that foreign shite.

Come back to British.

Mike's old motor was a fine piece
of Italian engineering, Ray.

Fuck Europe. Up the Brexit.

Best of British, mate.

A Triumph. In every sense of the word.

So, what you working on at the moment?

Did you know that the anaphylactic shock...

...is becoming more common every day?

- Not really, Fred. No.
- Well, I've been doing some research.

I've found you can be completely...

...non-allergic to something one moment...

...and only a fraction of a second later,
you can be severely allergic to it.

That's a bit like you, Pete.

As in gravely allergic.
Like, you will die from it.

Yes, I think we all know
what "gravely" means, Fred.

Well, one common trigger for this
is a mere sticky plaster.

It can be as quick as changing
a plaster on a cut...

- ...and a new one will kill you.
- Hang on.

So you're telling me that you're gonna
kill people by putting plasters on them.

Exactly. I've just got to do one more
field test to make absolutely sure.

That's where Mr. Dorset comes in.

You do know you're probably
the last person on earth...

...that actually uses a phone book, Fred?

I've never trusted the Internet, Ray.
You know that.

So, basically, you've gone
and weaponized bandages.

Yeah. The irony of it all.

Bollocks. It'll never work.

- How much you want to bet?
- Hundred notes, mate.

You're on.

Hey, Big Ray.

What's the name of the hotel where
the first Singapore Sling was poured?

- How many letters?
- Seven.

Fuck off.

Yeah, that's seven letters.

Come on, man. Help me out with this.
You love your Kindle more than your wife.

That's why I strangled the bitch, isn't it?

Charming, Ray.

Maybe you can put your misogynistic
tendencies aside for one minute...

...and pour me my drink?

Mate, is it wrong of me
to wanna get stuck into Jane?

It's not worth it, bro.
Plus, you'd never make it out alive.

Don't know.
I think it might be worth the crack.

Hey, Jane. How much you charging these days?

Offering any friends-and-family discount?

Are you insinuating
that I'm some kind of a skanky hooker?

Or worse, that we're friends?

All right. Back down, lads.

We all know that Jane is a lady.

Well, as stimulating as this is, boys,
I'm out of here.

Got a 10:00 bang-and-shank.

Y'all misbehave.

See you later, Jane.

Bitches, man.

So, Mike, are you still dating
that model chick?

On and off, mate. You know me.

She's all right, though. Twenty-six, body
of an 18-year-old, brain of a 12-year-old.

- Right up my street.
- Yeah, well...

...a little different than the last one.

Didn't she turn out to be a dyke?

"Dyke" is a bit harsh, Mac.

We live in a tolerant society.

All right, then.

A lesbian, then.

- I'd fuck it.
- Well, you'd fuck anything.

The other one she left you for, mate.

Was she the bloke in the relationship,
or was it Beth?

- One of them always is.
- It was the other one.

What was her name again?
Bob? Something like that?

- Charlie.
- Charlie. There you go.

- Even sounds like a bloke.
- Damn.

You must have really pissed her off.
She switched teams.

Yeah. Weren't you giving her
what she wanted, mate?

Yeah, all right, lads. Give it a rest.

Well, like I've always said:

"Women make you soft."

Always remember the three golden rules:

Never get angry.

Never get involved.

And most importantly...

Never get caught.

Well, I'll drink to that.

Cheers, Ray.

Mikey, my boy.

And this is Milton.

The most important cog in the machine.

Milton's a born-and-bred New Yorker.

But after seeing one too many
Hugh Grant films, moved to London.

And he's trying his best to be
a foppish member of the Mayfair gentry.

He's the firm's front man.

He meets the clients and assigns one of us...

...depending on the style of kill required.

All the information we need
is delivered to us in a KBD.

Kill Brief Dossier.

The kill briefs are delivered to us
on an unfixed negative.

Very Mission: Impossible, I know.

But before Milton came along, we had
a manila envelope full of paperwork.

Too easy to leave lying around for those
less-precise members of the crew.

Not naming any names.

What?

We never know the client.
They don't know who we are.

Keeps everybody sleeping better at night.

And for all that,
cheeky bastard takes 15 percent.

Mind you, Ray takes 25.

And nobody says shit about that.

Everybody secretly wishes
they could kill Milton.

He's a little weasel.

But house rules dictate that no one
can touch him. It's a shame.

So the yuppie job went down well?

Turned out he was suicidal.

Mixing it up a little bit, aren't we?

Yeah, something like that.

And I had another job
that just came in this morning.

The Satanic Mechanics?

- Have you ever heard of them?
- No.

They're a heavy-metal band.

They're gonna be playing
the next four nights at the Mosh Pit.

And, well, they all need to die.

- You think you can handle it?
- I don't see why not.

And what about the accountant job?

It seems like you're falling
a little behind on that one.

All good comes to those who wait.

Yes, but we don't want
to keep them waiting too long.

After all, we have our reputation to uphold.

And these people can be a whale of a client.

If they want it quick,
have Cliff take his head off.

If they want it done legit,
like an accident...

- ...they just have to wait.
- That's exactly what I told them.

But as a little incentive...

...if you can get this job done
by the end of play tomorrow...

...they're willing to double the fee.

- Double the fee?
- Yeah.

- All right, I'll see what I can do.
- Marvelous.

- That's why you're the best.
- Yeah, whatever, Milton.

Probably say that to all the killers.

There was a guy on TV the other night.

Had a theory that nearly a quarter
of all so-called fatal accidents...

...were actually murders.

That's ridiculous.

It's only about 10 percent.

For this hit, I'm using
a CO2 gas-powered rifle.

Plastic tube, 2 inches in diameter.

Poly-carbon plunger filled
with shards of glass.

Pinpoint accurate at 500 yards.

I've been here every morning
for the past five days...

...waiting for the right car
at the right speed and the right angle.

Oh, here we go.

Looks like I'll get
my double-price incentive after all.

Oh, my God. I've killed him.

It only takes a metric ton of steel
to sure ruin everyone's day.

When the police investigate, they'll
presume the burst tire was responsible...

...because of the broken glass in the road.

And Bob's your uncle.

Another accident.

I've killed him!

PMT time again.

It's not a good idea to make a habit
of smashing up strangers in bars.

So tonight, this'll have to do.

Why can't I stop thinking about her?

Get it together, son.

Big Ray was right.

I should've never gotten involved.

She used to drive me crazy
with all that eco, save-the-planet rubbish.

"Melting ice caps" this,
"dolphin massacres" that.

One minute we'd be yelling at each other...

...and the next, we'd be all over each other.

I can't believe she left me
for Charlie Adams and a minge.

One new message.

Mikey, Milton here.

Listen, I'm afraid
we've got a bit of a hiccup.

I'm swamped. So I need you to pick up
the payment for the accountant job.

Drop-off will be at the back
of the Odeon Cinema in Chinatown...

...tomorrow night at 9 p.m.

I'll see you at the Oasis, old matey.

Dickhead.

The Satanic Mechanics
are a bit of an acquired taste.

Like someone else's vomit in your mouth.

They can't afford the power breakers
and have been stacking amps...

...and drop the earth wire to kill the hum...

...increasing the risk of fatal accident.

I don't know why the Mechanics had to die.

Could have been a bad debt.
Copyright disputes.

Or maybe someone just hated
their god-awful music.

After listening to three of their tracks,
I'd have fucking done them for free.

As shit as their music is, for some
reason, this reminded me of Beth.

Funny how seemingly everything
can remind you of an ex.

Milton must be letting his standards slip.

A hired gun making his own collection
isn't exactly protocol with our firm.

But as long as I get paid,
I couldn't give a shit.

Guessing you've come here
to snuff me out, then, right?

Tie up some loose ends.

You see, every day's a school day.

And I'm always intrigued by what hurts...

Painful?

...and what really fucking hurts.

How about that?

Painful?

I don't think you really thought this
through, did you, mate?

You could have easily perched on top
of that building there with an M82.50 cal.

Good line of sight, easy exit points.

Or you could have rigged
this whole place with C-4.

Got the job done shock-and-awe style.

But no. You decided to "surprise me"...

...on a not-so-silent motorbike...

...shooting a close-range weapon
in every direction but the right one.

You didn't hit shit, did you?

You're a disgrace to my profession.

What is that, anyway? Southern style?

Come on, then, you little fuck.

Listen, mate. I'm all for the extra training.

I don't think it's gonna do much for you.

That ain't gonna help you much either.

Now, that looked very painful.

Fuck you, gweilo.

I tell you nothing.

Don't worry, mate.

I don't want to know anything.

- Hello?
- The fuck are you playing at, Milton?

- Mikey, is that you?
- Yeah, it's me. Guess what.

Your double-price incentive
turned out to be a fucking setup.

- What are you talking about?
- You heard me.

Knew something wasn't right.
Who's the client?

I can't say, but my apologies.

It seemed like a straightforward request.

Not from where I'm fucking standing.

I'm sorry, Mike. I'll speak to Big Ray.
We'll look into it.

Yeah, but you tell him
the price just quadrupled.

Well, I might not be able to stretch to that.

You better fucking stretch it,
or I'll stretch you.

Now, now, now. Don't be like that.

I'll speak to you tomorrow
when you've calmed down a bit.

Milton. Milt... Oh, you fucking little shit.

I guess this guy shouldn't have
entered the alley so fast.

He lost control of his bike...

...and broke his little neck.

Pretty common accident
with the youth of today.

And as for that car with all the holes
in it, well, what do you expect?

I'm an executioner, not a fucking evangelist.

One new message.

Mike, it's Charlie.

Something happened to Beth.

A couple nights ago,
our flat was broken into.

She must have walked in and surprised them.

Mike...

...Beth's dead.

You probably don't give a shit...

...but the funeral is this Sunday
at West Ham Cemetery.

She would have wanted you to know.

Press two to repeat.

Three to delete.

Five-five to call back.

I know you wouldn't have wanted me
to bring flowers, Beth.

One flower out of the ground
is one less battling...

...against greenhouse gases, right?

I figured.

Screw it.

You're Mike.

Guess you're Charlie.

I didn't think you'd come.

Thought I'd better pay my respects.

Well, from what I've heard, you never
had any respect for anything.

And you certainly never had any for Beth.

Oh, come on, that's not true.

Well, apparently, you weren't
really big on honesty either.

So, what are the police saying?

They been anything other than useless?

Yeah, they found them. Dead.

Couple of junkies.

DNA was splattered all over our apartment.

I guess the money they stole helped pay
for their drug overdose.

Look, there's something that you should know.

She was pregnant.

What are you talking about, pregnant?

- Who?
- It was yours.

- We were gonna raise it as our own.
- Oh, right.

Why's that? So you could have
your little perfect lesbian life together?

And what would be wrong with that?

Nothing, if one of you wasn't my girlfriend.

Ex-girlfriend.

And what would you have done, anyways?

I would have done the right thing.

The right thing would've been
to leave us alone.

There you go, I would have done
the right thing after all.

Who's this? New girlfriend, is it?

Didn't waste much time.

I'm her sister, you dick.

You are exactly how Beth described you.

Clean up your fucking mess.

The prime suspects in the
Beth Carpenter murder investigation...

...have been found dead of a drug overdose.

Brothers Craig and Hayden Sutton
from North Acton...

...both had a history of drug problems
and long criminal records.

They were found dead on Tuesday morning.

Couple of smackheads rape
and murder a young woman.

Then turn up dead of an overdose.

Very fucking convenient.

A police spokesperson said
that Ms. Carpenter...

...had arrived home and disturbed
a burglary in progress.

Beth Carpenter,
a well-known environmental activist...

...was the driving force behind...

...the closure of the Bimeadow
nuclear power facility.

She was a force to be reckoned with
when she wanted to be.

Maybe she pushed too hard this time.

Yeah, it's me.

I need to cash in that favor.

The police dossier says the burglars...

...free-climbed up the wall
to Beth's apartment.

No mean feat.

Then at the window,
they crowbar their way in.

Not impossible...

...but not easy.

Once inside, these two scumbags...

...thought it'd be a good idea to spark up
and smoke some more crack.

And then Beth comes home and disturbs them.

Look how beautiful she is.

Then these burglars decided
to have their fun.

So they rob her,
rape her, knock her unconscious.

And then for good measure,
repeatedly stab her with a bread knife.

So these two drug addicts did all this
for a few household goods...

...and what little money
Beth had in her purse.

Granted, this thing happens a lot.

But something doesn't sit right with me.

Traces of sodium thiopental found
in her postmortem blood work.

Says it was prescribed by a psychiatrist...

...to treat the patient's
pteromerhanophobia...

...the chronic anxiety of flying.

Fear of flying.

Since when?

This must have been a pro outfit.

Sodium thiopental might be used
to treat phobias...

...but in my line of work, it's more
commonly known as truth serum.

These guys made her sing like a canary.

Then they slashed her up indiscriminately...

...to hide the needle marks...

...and littered the scene
with hair and skin samples...

...from a couple of recently OD'd smackheads.

This hit's got
Mick and Mac written all over it.

You fucking bastards.

Hey, Mikey.

- What you doing here, man?
- Heavy night last night, was it?

Look at the state of him.

You don't look too happy, Mike. What's up?

Why don't you take a wild guess?

Beth Carpenter found dead.

Raped. Mutilated.

Ring any bells?

- Sorry for your loss, man.
- Yeah.

Sorry, man.

Toxicology report shows traces
of sodium thiopental in her bloodstream...

...prescribed by some quack she never
mentioned for a phobia she never had.

But I happen to know for a fact
that you two swear by thiopental.

Yeah, so? What are you trying to say, Mike?

So seeing as Beth was pregnant,
there's no way on earth...

...she'd risk endangering that baby
by taking thiopental willingly.

It was you two, wasn't it?

- I don't know what you're talking about.
- Hey.

It's all right, Mac.

He ain't stupid.

Okay, you got us.

But, Mike, it was just business.

- Business.
- Come on, man. What's the big deal?

- She wasn't your girl anymore.
- You said you were over that dyke.

You call her a dyke one more fucking time...

Mike. Mike.

Now, you need to step the fuck off.

We don't want to hurt you.

We were doing our jobs, just like
you done a hundred times before.

So stop acting like a little bitch
and go home...

- ...and watch some goddamn cartoons.
- Yeah.

I don't think the odds are
in your favor anyway.

Just like they weren't for that dyke.

Shit, these boys are good.

Best-trained soldiers in the world, bar none.

But I'm not an army man.

And to me, these moves are predictable.

Fuck.

Okay, okay, okay, Mike.

What's the big deal?
Why do you care so goddamn much?

She was pregnant, Mick!

All right?

We didn't know that shit.

Okay, all right.

If it means anything to you,
she didn't feel anything.

That wasn't even our sperm.
We found two crackheads.

We made them jerk off into a turkey
baster. We took that turkey baster...

Shut the fuck up.

Mike, Mike, listen.

If it makes you feel any better,
you can kill my wife.

She's been doing
my fucking head in for years.

Mike, was that shit necessary?

- Can you just try to be professional?
- Who's the client?

- You know we never know that shit.
- Who gave you the brief? Milton?

Of course it was Milton.

Mike, it was a standard kill brief.

This was just business.

And besides, you was already done
with the bitch...

You were already done with the young lady.

Mike.

You lucky I like you, man.

Do yourselves a favor, right?

Stay the fuck away from me.

The both of you.

Mick and Mac are right.

They may have been the triggers,
but they didn't point the gun.

I need to find out
who ordered Beth's hit and why.

And only that little runt Milton
can tell me that.

Not here, Mike.

You're in danger of fucking up, my boy.

How's that?

Read the sign.

Take a seat.

Where is that little fucking weasel?

Never you mind about Milton.

I've just had a phone call.

From Mick.

He's at the doc's.
Mac's getting his jaw wired.

Feel free to jump in at any time
and explain yourself.

You seem pretty unscathed.

Well, I don't bruise easy.

You never did.

It's never personal. You know that.

Mick and Mac had a job to do,
and they fucking did it.

All right? No questions asked.

Milton hired them to take out Beth.
Why did no one consult me about this?

- Did you know?
- No.

I'm just finding out about this
10 minutes ago.

I'm far from happy about it.

But if you've got a problem with this firm,
you come and talk to me first.

How many times have I told you
not to get involved?

She was pregnant, Ray.

The kid was mine.

Well...

...there's a word for that.

"Bollocks."

It's not as if you two were playing
happy families, now, was it?

You stop this right now.

What about Milton?

Two days ago, he sends me
on some dodgy back-alley money drop.

Turned out to be a fucking setup.
Do you know about that?

- No.
- He's up to something, Ray.

He's working an angle way below your radar.

You're too fucking trusting to see it.

Who's the client?

Look, I'm gonna find out.
You might as well tell...

You listen to me.

There are certain things
about this business...

...that we must always respect...

...whether we like it or not.

We do not ask questions about the client.

Never.

It's about time things changed around here.

Don't you disrespect me, boy!

Now, you and I go back a long way, Mike.

I know you're hurting.

But you get your shit together...

...and you get back onboard.

Are we cool?

Not a lot of people know about...

...Big Ray's secret boom stick
beneath the bar.

He wouldn't hesitate to blow me in two...

...should I decide
to take this to the next level.

Yeah, we're cool.

Now, I normally wouldn't
take shit from anyone.

But I can't risk being barred from the Oasis.

In my line of work, that'd be tantamount
to a death sentence.

And like Ray said, we go back a long way.

When I was 15 years old, life was shit.

I had the loneliest, most underpaid,
thankless job on the planet.

The paperboy.

People call it bullying.

I call it getting the shit kicked out of you
by a gang of little wankers.

Their leader, Romeo,
the biggest bully of them all.

- Give us a quid.
- I haven't got any money.

Give us a quid!

- Hurry up!
- Come on, Fallon.

These beatings turned
into a daily occurrence.

I found myself running
the gauntlet of chavs...

...instead of doing my paper round.

We're gonna get you, Fallon!

I know where he's going. Hurry.

Go, go, go.

Nothing like some premium
hedge-hopping to escape a beating.

What was this guy doing?

From his entrance strategy, I was
pretty sure he wasn't the gas man.

- Right, there he is.
- Oh, look who it is.

Are you going to fucking run again?

Come on.

Come on!

Come on!

All right, mate?

Now, I don't know what I was thinking,
but I followed him.

Who was this guy?

Was he responsible for that explosion?

For killing someone?

I stalked him for weeks...

...in which time,
he killed three more people.

One day, I plucked up the courage
to knock on his door.

Excuse me, sir.

I've seen what you do, and I need your help.

Oh, no.

This a windup, yeah?

All right, then.

What exactly you seen me do?

Well, you kill people, don't you?

"Mike Fallon."

Who sent you?

No one.

"No one."

Where'd you get this footage?

I filmed it.
I've been following you for weeks.

Following me?

Weeks? Why?

What is it that you want?

I need your help. I'm getting the crap...

...kicked out of me every day
by a gang of chavs.

You kill people for a living.

If anyone can help me, it's gotta be you.

- Are you taking the piss?
- No, I'm not, sir.

Sir.

I think you're amazing. A genuine craftsman.

Might wanna work on
your surveillance-detection skills.

Does anyone know you're here?

No. I swear.

No one, you swear?

You got a set of balls on you, don't you?

Come here.

I can't have people knowing
about my business, now, can I?

Jesus!

Come here!

Stay there.

If I'm not home by 6 p.m. tonight...

...my foster parents will find
a copy of that footage...

...with this address and a note
telling them to call the police...

- ...because I've been murdered.
- Bollocks. You're bluffing.

Maybe I am, but do you really
wanna take that chance?

Resourceful little bastard, ain't you?

And a fucking good kick. Come on, sit down.

So let me get this straight.
You want me to teach you...

...how to defend yourself
against these bullies?

- No, sir.
- "Sir." See, I like that.

- Shows respect. Brownie points there.
- I want you to teach me how to kill them.

Kill them?

- All of them?
- All of them.

But Romeo first.

- He's their leader.
- That's it. That's smart.

You take out the boss first,
the minions just seem to flutter away.

I suppose this is where I get to tell you...

...that you remind me of me
when I was your age.

But you don't.

You're short, you're ugly
and you can't fight for shit.

But there's something about you.
Don't know what it is.

Fuck it. You got yourself a deal.

Have a look at this.

Do you know the meaning of "defenestration"?

No.

Defenestration:

The act of throwing someone out of a window.

It's that one up there.

Now, I couldn't believe
there was an actual word for it.

Look it up in the Oxford English
Dictionary if you don't believe me.

Remember what I told you.

Try and remember not to bottle it.

I knew that dirty little chav
would take the bait.

It was now or never.

They say the first kill's always
the hardest, emotionally.

But the truth is...

...I didn't really feel anything.

- How'd you get on?
- Defenestrated.

Defenestrated. That's great.
But defenestration is the act of...

...shoving somebody out a window,
not tipping them off a balcony.

Didn't do your fucking homework, did you?

You bring me back me tenner?

Oh, dear.

Don't worry. You can
bring me back 12 quid later...

...or 15 quid tomorrow.
Do you get it? Do you understand?

Good boy. Take a seat.

What goes around comes around.

You think about any funny business with me...

...I'll make sure the right people get
those pics and I will fucking kill you.

Got it?

Good.

What do you think about learning a trade?

Becoming a hit man?

No, none of that Yank bollocks.
We're British here.

You see, what I am...

...is an assassin.

And I'm offering you an apprenticeship.

Only if you think you're up for it.

Turns out I didn't wanna be
an astronaut after all.

Fuck, yeah.

Look at this one...
Look at his supporters right there.

He's gonna suffocate
in his own fucking underpants.

Over the next few years,
Big Ray taught me everything...

...I needed to know about the dark arts
of his murder methods.

- Gets that anywhere near them...
- Toxicology.

- Shine the light like that? Okay.
- Right in there.

I'm only fucking kidding you, mate.

Long-range weapons, short-range weapons...

...all sorts of weapons.

Using an odorless accelerant
to catch out those careless smokers.

And he trained me in martial arts...

...taekwondo, karate,
kung fu, Eskrima, Muay Thai.

You name it, we practiced it.

Big Ray was tough on me,
yeah, that's for sure.

But iron sharpens iron,
and now I'm as tough as nails.

Always remember the three golden rules:

Never get angry...

...never get involved...

...most important of all, never get caught.

I've already broken two of them.

And now I'm in danger of breaking a third.

- What do you want?
- We need to talk.

I have nothing to say to you, so get lost.

I need to know what Beth was
working on before she died, okay?

We were working on our future together.

- A future that didn't include you.
- I know.

But what kind of environmental bollocks
was she working on?

God, and you wonder why she left you.

That environmental bollocks
was the most important thing...

- ...in Beth's life.
- Till you came along?

Fuck you.

All right, I'm sorry, okay?

Will you just let me in for one minute?

Charlie.

It's about Beth's death.
I think there's more to it...

...than the police understand.
Just let me in, please.

You got one minute.

Your hair's different.

Yeah. It changes with the weather.

Maybe that's why Beth left me.
I've had the same hairstyle...

- ...since I was 12.
- Oh, yeah, maybe that's it.

Or the fact that you have a dick.

So, what about Beth's death?

All right, I'll get to the point.

It wasn't just a burglary gone wrong.
She was taken out.

What the hell does "taken out" mean?

You know, professionally, she was taken out.

What, like, you mean, the game show?

No. She was assassinated.

Why would you think that?

I know about this sort of thing.

Okay, if you know something
the rest of us don't...

...maybe you should go to the police
and let them deal with it.

The police won't do anything about it.

- We're better off keeping them out of it.
- We? No, there is no we.

Because according to Beth...

...you're just some city boy
in the middle of a midlife crisis.

She never knew what I actually did.

Oh, okay. What is it you really do?

I'm a loss adjuster.

Great. Good for you.

- Why do I care?
- I specialize in accidents, okay?

So you have single-handedly
deduced that Beth...

...was assassinated when all
of Scotland Yard thinks different.

- Pretty much.
- Get the fuck out.

I don't give a shit
if you believe me or not...

...but Beth was taken out by professionals.

That is a fucking fact.

She was probably sticking
her nose in somewhere...

...it didn't belong again,
and this time, they've hit back.

- You're serious about this.
- Like a midget in a nudist colony.

Okay, now you're just freaking me out, Mike.

Yeah, that's how I felt
when you told me Beth was pregnant.

Okay, I'm sorry that you had
to find out that way...

...but I didn't want you having anything
to do with our child.

- It wasn't your child, was it?
- Okay, look...

...you were a shit boyfriend,
and you would've been...

- ...an even shittier father.
- How do you know?

- Because you're a selfish asshole.
- Oh, here we go.

You can't deal with the fact
that Beth left you for another woman...

...because you're a homophobic prick.

Hang on a minute. I haven't got a problem...

- ...with lesbians and gays.
- Well, lesbians are gays.

Whatever. I haven't got
a problem with it, okay?

- Then what is your problem?
- You wanna know?

Yes, I wanna know what your problem is.

All right. Beth's the only girl
I ever really cared about.

Christ, she's the only girl
I never cheated on, for God's sakes.

Good for you.

Do you want a medal? Because
that's all she ever was to you...

...was some trophy to add to your collection.

Oh, like you can talk. You're no better
than me, you home-wrecker.

Get out.

That was a pretty good punch.

I said, get out.

Cliff, what the fuck?!

Jesus Christ, Cliff.
Who sent you to take me out?

- Was it Milton?
- Mike?

Is that you?

- Hello, mate.
- Yeah, it's me, you crazy bastard.

You almost took my fucking head off.

Sorry about that, mate.

You know how it is.

Once I've flipped that switch...

Who sent you to take me out?

I didn't even know you was here, mate.

Cliff.

Cliff. Cliff, you fucking crazy bastard.

Who is that?

A friend from the office.

Another loss adjuster?

Yeah, kind of.

He's an assassin, all right? Like me.

What is going on?

Mike, what the hell is going on?

I fucking kill people for a living,
all right?

It's not glamorous, it doesn't go
down well at cocktail parties...

...but I like the hours,
and it pays the bills.

You listen to me. I need to know what Beth...

...got herself into, and I need to know now.

Charlie, look at me.

Whatever Beth knew,
they think you know as well.

You understand me?
This guy came here for you, not me.

Okay.

She was looking into this...
This oil company...

...where they wanted to drill
in the North Sea.

Go on.

I don't know anything else.

And I...

God, her parents. Beth always used to...

...back up her computer
on her dad's hard drive.

There's gotta be some information there.

All right, good, good. Okay,
you get a taxi to Beth's parents.

You stay there. If you hear anything,
you let me know, okay?

I can't believe this is happening.

Yeah, me neither.

I just killed one of my mates.
How the bloody hell do I make this...

- ...look like an accident?
- What?

Never mind. Go on. Get out of here.

Charlie, don't talk to the police.

Screw it.

Sorry, mate.

This is private club.

- What do you want?
- It's all right. He's with us.

Not your usual hangout, is it, Fred?

There's a lot
you don't know about me, Mike...

...my friend with the bike.

- Where is he?
- Who?

Don't make me do something I'll regret, Fred.

You want me to get rid of him?

Yeah, I think so.

He's in the back.

Oh, yeah. I tell you, my job is so stressful.

The people I have to work with.

You've been ducking me, Milton.

See, that's the thing about
imported Russian muscle.

If you wanna knock them out,
you gotta hit them fucking hard.

Preferably with something metal and heavy.

Mike, you don't wanna do this.

- You know the rules.
- Rules?

- Yeah.
- No, no, no.

You don't get to talk to me about rules.

Anyway, don't know what you're talking about.

Haven't laid a finger on you. Yet.

You're jeopardizing your own position.

Don't be a fool.

Oh, dear.
I've only gone and done it, haven't I?

You know what? It was a mistake,
and no one has to know.

Just between you and me. Just...

- Jesus Christ, Mikey, stop it!
- Now, I can live with the fact...

...that you still haven't paid me
for two jobs.

I can even live with the fact you sent me...

...on some bullshit money drop turned
into my own assassination attempt.

But the fact that you knew
a hit had been put out...

...on my Beth and went ahead
without consulting me first...

Oh, Milton.

I'm fucking struggling with that one.

Look, these claims, they're preposterous.

I mean, I had no idea
that the drop was rigged.

- It was a legitimate request.
- Oh, just a coincidence, was it?

Since when have you ever sent
one of us to pick up the money?

- It was a fucking setup.
- Oh, poppycock!

What happened? Where am I?

Oh, Jesus. It's you.

Why don't you just tell me
what you actually want?

I wanna know who paid
for the hit on my Beth...

...and why you took
the fucking job in the first place.

If I had to discuss every job
that came across my desk...

...with the hired help,
do you think we'd actually...

...get around to killing anyone?
Oh, Jesus Christ!

Ever heard of the term "bastinado," Milton?

What?

It's a type of torture, derived
from the Italian noun bastonata.

It means to stroke,
with the use of a stick...

...usually the soles of the victim's feet.

- Who's the client?
- I can't really say.

The next one'll break bone and
you'll never walk the same again.

The one after that, you'll probably
not be able to walk at all.

Okay. Wait, wait, wait.

It was another accountant.

He was a... He was a city boy.
You know the type.

His name?

I don't know.

It was... It was Kent.

Leonard Kent.

- Who does he work for?
- I don't know.

I swear, I really don't know.

We used encrypted e-mails.

Are you holding out on me, Milton?

No, no. No, I swear I'm not.

In the immortal words
of the late Winston Churchill...

...this is a riddle wrapped in
a mystery inside of an enigma.

Well, riddle me this, then, you little twat.

How important is it to you
to be able to walk again?

Well, then... Well, then go
and do it. All right?

But you will never work in this city again.

Big Ray will hunt you down,
and he will kill you...

Fuck it.

What you done, Mike?

Nothing for you to worry about, Fred.

I've been on the phone to Ray.
He wants you to come with me.

Oh, what you gonna do?
Cut me and stick a plaster on it?

If I have to.

- We both know that won't happen, Fred.
- This is tried and tested.

Tell you what. You like a gamble, don't you?

- Yeah.
- All right.

I'll flick to a page in your phone book.

If the name in the top left-hand corner
has five or more letters...

...you can take me to Big Ray.
If it has less than five...

...you let me go.

As long as you don't tell him.

All right.

Night-night, Fred.

- Hello?
- Mike, it's Charlie.

I've got Beth's hard drive.

It's loaded with stuff.
You really need to see this.

- Where are you?
- I just left Beth's parents.

Can you meet me at the bus stop
at the entrance at Wanstead Park?

All right. I'll be there.

I don't give a shit. This firm's on
its last legs because of you.

It was a high-six-figure deal, Ray.

I had no idea they would change the terms.

You do not get to make decisions
without talking to me first.

Do you understand that?!

Look at the state of you two.
You can take down legions...

...of Iraqi soldiers
and fucking Taliban ragheads.

But one bloke
from the wrong side of the river...

...gives you a right royal dusting.

What kind of Special Forces are you?

Well, you trained him, Ray.

True.

Look, Fallon's gone berserk.

He's a loose cannon,
and he needs to be shackled.

Shut it!

You've run off your mouth far too much today.

Right.

We've just had word.

Now, the police have recovered Cliff's body.

Impaled on his own ax.

I...

...think it's clear to all of us
who's to blame.

All drink to Cliff.

I have made
a very difficult decision tonight.

You all have a new mark.

Mike Fallon.

He's crossed too many lines.

He's proven to be catastrophic for business.

But more than that,
he's gone and killed one of us.

One of you.

So you'll be doing this one for free.

- Do we have to?
- Yes, you fucking have to!

Will you be joining us, boss?

Don't be stupid. I ain't killed anybody
since the Olympics...

...but if any of you fuckers let me down...

...I might have to rethink my retirement.

- So it'll be just us five.
- Fuck me, it speaks.

Actually, it'll be the four of you.

Jane, I need you to go to Twickenham...

No, that's bullshit. I want in on Fallon...

You do as you're told.

The safety of the client is your priority.

- What?
- He said:

"Is there a kill brief on him, boss?"

No, mate, there is not
a fucking kill brief on him.

But if you need one...

...it's Fallon. Go fucking kill him.
End of brief.

Write it down if you need to.

If he gets to the client,
this firm is fucked.

We are all fucked.

So we end this
before he can do any more damage.

Understood?

I suppose so.

I haven't been on a bus since I was about 16.

So, what did you find out?

Well, Beth was investigating
this Indian energy company.

Pancock Petroleum.

Ever since the BP disaster
in the Gulf of Mexico...

...oil companies haven't been in favor
by many governments.

Hang on. Since when did the government...

...care more about the environment
than making millions?

Since an environmentalist
became prime minister.

I take it that current events
are not the top of your reading list.

Not really, no.

Okay, well, anyways,
in the last six months...

...something changed.

Out of nowhere,
Pancock got drilling rights...

...to the coast outside of Northumberland.

Beth got all this information
from an inside source.

This accountant named Archie Rudd.

Rudd was feeding her all kinds
of information, including e-mails...

...from the corporation to the
prime minister himself, threatening him.

Right before they were
gonna go public with it...

- ...Archie just stopped responding to her.
- Still waiting for the money on that one.

Archie Rudd. My double-price incentive.

Wait, that was you?

No.

Okay, well, seems like he has
a partner in the firm.

- Leonard Kent.
- Yeah, how do you know that?

I have my ways.

Okay, well...

...it's all here.

This is good work, Charlie.

So, what are you gonna do?

Looks like I'm gonna pay
Leonard Kent a little visit.

You're gonna find out who killed Beth, right?

Oh, yeah.

You know, I can't remember Beth
ever saying one good thing about you.

She loved you and she cared about you...

...and you were too self-absorbed
to even notice.

But she was still so happy to have
your baby growing inside of her.

I mean, she adored every second of it.

I'm sorry that I took that from you.

Now, you go out there,
and you find out who did this to Beth.

And you make them fucking pay.

Look after yourself, Charlie.

What are you doing, you people?

No, no. You don't understand.

We have an arrangement
that you have failed to realize.

And we do not pay
for any of the work to date...

...until this thing with the girl is...

Is sorted out.

Am I absolutely clear?

Well, good.

Who are you?

- What do you want?
- I want a few simple answers...

...to some very straightforward questions.

Who ordered the assassination
of Beth Carpenter?

I've no idea what you're talking about.

You ever heard of defenestration, mate?

Yes. Defenestration is the act
of throwing something...

...or somebody out of a window.

Aren't we the smarty-pants, Leonard?

How did you know my name?

I know a lot about you, Leonard Kent.

Husband to Lauren.
Father to little Elle and little Joseph.

Corporation accounts specialist.

Who ordered the hit, Lenny?

I can't tell you that.

- They'll kill me.
- What do you think plummeting...

...four floors down
to the pavement's gonna do?

Well, it's only four floors.
No guarantee that'll kill me.

Yeah, well, I can guarantee this.
It's gonna fucking hurt.

I'm sure the old "crooked, suicidal
accountant takes a swan dive" act...

...will be enough to explain
that bruise on your face.

What bruise on my face?

- Ready for your flight, Mr. Kent?
- No!

Zim. Zim! Zim!

Atal Zim. He's a senior executive at the...

At the Pancock Corporation!
I'll tell you everything!

No, no, no!

Talk.

You're gonna kill me
whether I talk or not, aren't you?

After the week I've had,
I'm not even sure about that anymore.

Call it a crisis of conscience if you like.

Why don't you start fucking talking,
and I'll keep you posted...

...on how the self-reflection thing
plays out?

Okay.

Okay.

Zim's here, currently. He's in London.

He's in Twickenham.

His father,
one of the wealthiest men in Asia...

...is also the chief shareholder
of the corporation.

But Zim Junior stands to inherit
the whole company...

...when the old man passes on,
which will be in...

Well, any day.

- Inoperable brain tumor.
- Very touching.

Yeah.

- Tell me about Archie Rudd.
- Archie...

Oh, my loose-lipped
"Save the Whale" former partner.

He was slipping information
to a politically active outsider.

Beth Carpenter.

Cared more about saving the world
than he did about making money.

It's not very good for an accountant, is it?

Zim had me contact someone...

...to shut him up.

Beth Carpenter, well, we thought
we'd just put the frighteners on her.

She was a cunning little fox.

She contacted Zim...

...and the members of Parliament...

...and threatened to expose the whole bribes.

You don't blackmail these people.

She gave us no choice, really.

We even put a hit out on a contractor.

Just to tidy up all the ends.

- Yeah, it didn't go to plan, did it, Lenny?
- No, it didn't...

How do you know that?

It was me, dummy.

Not as smart as you think you are, are you?

Charlie Adams, why her?

Because her involvement with Beth.
We didn't know what she knew.

- What about the other assassins?
- What other assassins?

- The men hired to take out Beth.
- There are no other assassins!

It was a specific in the contract.

One person carried out all the hits.

Who organized the hits?

Well, he didn't give me his name.

Some American prick.

Sounded like he was auditioning
for a knighthood.

But...

...I recorded all the conversations,
just for insurance.

Now, you're not going to kill me.

Are you?

Give me the fucking thing.

It's payback time, Fallon.
Don't make this harder than it has to be.

Hey, Mac. You're not so homophobic now...

- ...with your jaw wired shut, are you?
- Fuck you.

- He said, "Fuck you!"
- Yeah, fuck you.

Grenade that motherfucker.

Fuck!

Mick, you fucking prick.

You made me kill my friend, motherfucker.

That's your motherfucking ass!

Jesus.

Jesus Christ, Pete.
You dirty, little rat fuck.

What was that? Chloroform?

Good job, I can hold my breath
like a deep-throating whore.

You're my dream assignment, Fallon.

Let's be having you.

Come on, then.

Never did like
that greasy, little twat anyway.

You fucking little runt.

Oh, for fuck sakes, Fred!

I'm very sorry it's come to this, Mike.

- To what?!
- I'm here to kill you.

- What, with your little bag of tricks?
- I know.

But what am I supposed to do?
I'm a finesse killer.

- Fuck.
- This fighting game, it's not my style.

Look. I've got a little bit
of an idea, all right?

I'm open to suggestions.

Never know. Might come in handy.

Try them again.

There's no point.
They'll call when they're done.

- Call them.
- Reception is always terrible...

...down by the river.
I'm sure that everything is fine.

Your assurances don't mean shit
to me right now, Milton.

Call Jane.

Make sure everything's
locked up tight down her end.

I've been assured that this mess
will be resolved this evening.

But just in case
your firm fails me yet again...

...do we have enough men?

We have more than enough men, Mr. Zim.

You don't need to worry.

I'll gauge whether I need to worry or not.

Forgive me if my confidence in you
and your colleagues has waned.

I told you we needed more men.

Mr. Zim, one woman is all you need
to put an end to this.

It's been a long time coming, Michael.

Funny, I was thinking the same thing.

But in my head, it was gonna be me
on your back instead of that katana.

Lock yourself in the other room.

This won't take long.

You know we don't have to do this, Jane.

Oh, yes, we do, Michael.

Let's see what you've got.

Bitch!

Fucking...

It's time to butter the toast, Michael.

And if you're lucky,
I'll let you lick the knife.

You always thought
I was flirting with you, didn't you?

Yeah, pretty sure you wanted to fuck me.

I did.

I always wanted to fucking kill you.

Just so you know,
I begged Milton to let me go...

...and kill that bitch
of an ex-girlfriend of yours.

Still reckon you wanted to fuck me.

You know who I am, Mr. Zim?

I'm the bloke your guy hires
to remedy those problems...

...only money can fix.

You know the type, right?

Need someone to disappear.

No police interference.
I'm the man for the job.

Make it look like an ordinary accident.

No trail, no fuss.

No questions asked.

I have money. Millions.

Name your price.

How long would it take
to scrape together 100 million quid?

Give me 24 hours.

Yeah? Too long.

See, you fucked up, Zim.

Not only did you try
to have me snuffed out...

...after performing
an exemplary job for you...

...at the highest level...

...you gave the order to have
my pregnant ex-girlfriend...

...Beth Carpenter, murdered.

What you got to say for yourself?

My deepest condolences.

It was just business, I can assure you.

See, I had a rather innovative piece
of theatrics conjured up for you.

But the more I think about it,
and knowing what you did to my Beth...

...you don't fucking deserve it.

- I'm gonna straight-up murder you.
- No, wait. Wait! Wait!

I've been given the green light
for new drilling rights...

...worth a billion pounds sterling.

I'll happily cut you in.

You'll be rich beyond your wildest dreams.

No, thanks.

Bad for the environment.

Don't worry, our lads are the best.

Fuck you.

You're only calm because you cower
behind me all your miserable little life.

Erroneous, Ray.

Erroneous.

I am never wrong, Milton.

And don't you be bringing Latin into my pub.

We speak the Queen's English here.
All right, you cunt?!

Mind your language, Ray.

Oh, I'd stay away from the boom stick
beneath the bar for now.

I'm pretty quick with this.

Well, look at us.

As the saying goes...

...if a man's home is his castle,
then his pub is the battlements.

What?

No drink?

Well, I think we're past that by now,
don't you?

Ray, why don't...
Why don't you call the team...

- ...and get them back here?
- The team are no longer available.

What have you done?

Fred will be fine.

Mac was a case of friendly fire.
Mick will have to live with that.

Pete's dead.

I fucking hated him anyway.

As for Cliff...

Yeah, that was unfortunate.

Jane?

It's not all her blood.

Well, then whose is the rest?

Some bloke named Atal Zim.

Your client.

You fucking idiot.

Do you realize what you've gone and done?

Milton set us up, Ray.

He hired some rookie assassin to take me out.

That is absolute poppycock.

Ray, I'm insulted
that you would even humor him on this.

I am a professional, and I...

...triple the price of all jobs
if we can ensure...

...that the trail is wiped clean.

We need your man disposed of
following the jobs...

...or I'm afraid we'll have to go elsewhere.

No problem whatsoever.

Hey, throw in a ticket or two
to the opera and you have a deal.

And I've got just the man for the job.

Fucker. Dirty, little fuck.

- I tried to tell you from the start, Ray.
- Hold on. Hold on.

Let me get me breath back.

Fucking hell.

Thought you might break
two of the rules for a minute there.

Fuck.

I'm sorry.

It was... It was greed.

Good old-fashioned greed. Honest to God.

Mikey, I regretted it
the moment that I did it.

But they would've pulled the job.

And it... It was a fortune for all of us.

Well, guess we all make mistakes, don't we?

Here you go, mate.

Oh, Mikey.

Oh, you're a darling.

That's so sweet of you.

You told them there was only one hit man
because you needed me...

...to take out the accountant, didn't you?

Because you knew
I would've never took out Beth.

That's why you let them think
I took out all the marks.

Easier to clean.

I'm sorry. I really am.

- Is this... Is this right, Ray?
- Hold on, Milton.

- Thank you.
- There it is.

Thank you.

Earl Grey, is it, Milton?

Yes.

Nothing but the best, old bean.

Well, fuck me.

Looks like I owe Fred 100 notes.

Looks like you do.

Who the fuck do you think you are?!

I spent a lifetime
getting this firm to the top...

...and you flush it down the pan
without a second's thought.

Bet you think you're Mr. Clever.
Mr. Wise, Mr. Intelligent.

I should slay you where you sit
right now for what you've done.

Yeah, but you won't, will you, Ray?

Oh, don't you be so smug.

Oh, well, all right.

I brought you up as my own son.

Well, what do you think this is?

Fucking Waltons?

We're killers.

This is the only way
tonight could have played out.

All this because of a fucking bird.

I knew you'd gone soft.

- Yeah, maybe I have.
- Oh, too fucking right you have.

You know, maybe you're not cut out
for this business anymore.

We're done.

I'm sorry, Ray.

Yeah, well...

...it's a bit late for sorry.

Now, if you don't mind...

...get the fuck out of my pub.

And watch your back, Mike.

Always do, Ray.

Maybe Ray's right. Maybe I have gone soft.

Couple of days ago,
there wasn't a doubt in my mind...

...that I was carved out to end lives,
not to start them.

But all this business
with Beth and the baby...

...well, maybe I need
to reassess my priorities.

I could put this killing life behind me
if only I had a nice pension plan.

But let's face it, this game
is the only one I know how to play.

It's a safe bet that
every city needs someone like me...

...keeping order from the shadows.

But had my unborn baby
got the chance to know me...

...would he or she have
been proud of the old man?

No, probably not.

But my advice to him or her,
and to all of you out there, is simple.

Never forget your past, don't worry
too much about your present...

...and live life like there's no tomorrow.
Because you never know.

An accident might be just around the corner.

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