Just when you think you have it all scoped out and youre riding high, old Fate will stampede right over you and not even stop to say Im sorry. Happens every time if your name is Garrett. You can make book on it.
Im Garrett. Sitting pretty in my early thirties, over six feet, brown hair, two hundred pounds plusmaybe threatening to shoot up because my favorite food is beer. I have a disposition variously described as sulky, sour, sarky, or cynical. Anything with a sibilant. Sneaky and snaky, my enemies claim. But, hell, Im a sweetheart. Really. Just a big, old, cuddly bear with a nice smile and soulful eyes.
Dont believe everything you hear. Im just a realist who suffers from a recurrent tumor of romantic pragmatism. Once upon a time I was a lot more romantic. Then I did my five in the Fleet Marines. That almost snuffed the spark.
Keep that in mind, that time in the Corps. If I hadnt been there, none of this would have happened.
Bone-lazy, Morley would call me, but thats a base canard from a character without the moral fiber to sit still more than five minutes. Im not lazy; Id just rather not work if I dont need money. When I do, I operate as a confidential agent. Which means I spend a lot of time in the middle, between people you wouldnt invite to dinner. Kidnappers. Blackmailers. Thugs and thieves and killers.
