Rain, rain, go away.
Come again some other day.

Rain, rain, go away.
Come again some other day. 

Well, it didn’t work when I was a kid. I’d be surprised if it did now.

My name is Dexter Kincaid. Dex to some, DK to others. I even knew a guy that used to call me Deke for some odd reason, but he always was a strange one. You’re welcomed to call me whatever you’d like, though I can’t guarantee that I’ll actually answer you. When in doubt, though, just Dexter is fine.

Times are good, or times are bad, depending on which economic tier one happens to be standing upon at the moment. It’s all a matter of perspective, I’ve learned. Bad times don’t last forever (though it may seem that way on occasion), and one would be wise to use the good times to prepare for the times of wanting. I guess you could say I’m in a bit of a downward trend at the moment; life can be odd like that. One moment you’re on top of the world, and the next, your mug is being displayed to any thug with underworld connections, and looking to make a quick buck. Well, maybe a bit more than a quick buck, since that little figure on my head seems to go up more often than I consider healthy, but I digress. Where to begin, where to begin?

My life is a little complicated, for lack of a better adjective or cliché. I’m not exactly a 9 to 5 sort of guy, so I’ve been known to take an odd job or two here and there to make ends meet. I’m sure that there is a politically correct term to describe my line of work; how did my boy Juste put it that time? Ah yes… we are, as he so eloquently put it, specialists in regards to removing unsavory individuals from the gene pool. I, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, am not exactly the most politically correct guy in the world, and am more apt to tell it like it is. I’m a problem solver. An assassin, if you will. I wouldn’t quite limit myself to just that description, however. I’ve been a number of things, depending on the nature of services required. I’ve smuggled, been a body guard… I am whatever those paying me require.

Mercy. I sound like such a whore right now.

Worse than that, I’m what we call an Indie in this line of work. I owe allegiance to no one but myself. I figure that there’s enough of the pie out there to go around, but some of the larger, shall I say, governing bodies in the industry don’t seem to think so. The Troika has never been fond of Indies; big business hates competition, I suppose. Many clients like dealing with Indies, I’ve learned. There’s significantly less red tape to deal with, for one. We also tend to undercut the hell out of what the Troika wants for a job. Hey, we’re not trying to support an entire organization, bosses, or boss’s bosses. We’re just trying to make a living for our own damned selves. Indies are nothing to a massive syndicate like the Troika. An occasional annoyance, yes, but nothing to empty a bank account over. On the other hand, they’re pretty big on that whole respect thing. You cross one of them, then suddenly there’re all kinds of hell to pay. I’ve had my run-ins from time to time, and some of those times could even be described as cordial. This was, however, before a little episode a few weeks back in Red City. Accidentally killing one of their nameless thugs is bad, but it’s what we like to call an occupational hazard; these guys knew the risks involved. On the other hand, once you plug the son of a high-ranking boss, no matter how accidental the circumstances, that sort of puts a damper on one’s existence. Never mind the fact that this guy was a king-prick, or that he was probably plotting his own father’s demise in that dark bar that I so recklessly entered that night. He wasn’t my target; hell, he wasn’t even supposed to be there. But once everything was said and done, I had done a very bad thing, and the Troika has seen fit to make me pay. With that disgustingly huge bounty placed on my head, I decided that it would be best if I kept moving; someone may catch me eventually, but they’re going to have to earn this money. I’ll be good and damned if I make this easy on anybody.

Rain, rain, go away.
Come again some other day. 

I’m an optimist, what can I say? A man’s luck has got to change sometime.