Emperors of Discretion: Casual Violence

Hitmen, it would appear, do not favour indie cafes and trendy bars as interview locations. The underpass walls are covered in hastily-scrawled graffiti in vicious green and crusty red, most of it swearing allegiance to, or vengeance against, the deadly Nostril family: the most villainous bloodline in human history. By the time twins Bartleby and Luther slide round the corner, I’ve studied every pledge.

“We were here the whole time,” insists Luther, slightly taller than his brother, and twice as menacing. “Incognito. That’s the first thing you gotta know about the trade: you gotta blend in. We’re masters of disguise. Kings of subtlety. Emperors of discretion.”

I was expecting something more, well – subtle. The twins are anything but. Two arms, two legs, two heads. Twins: joined at the hip, reminiscent of a bad Jekyll and Hyde drawing. Luther’s eyes swivel with a caged bloodlust, Bartleby stares down in ecstasy at a chocolate éclair grasped between his fingers, insisting they can use their stature to their advantage – “You know the phrase: two’s company, three’s a crowd? We’re literally two thirds of a crowd.”

Luther nods, “One minute, we’re the two blokes in the phone booth. Next minute, we're the two blokes driving a bus.”

“The two blokes baking a cake.”

“The two blokes serving you cocktails.”

“The two blokes putting candles on the cake and making it look... perfect.”

Luther knocks the pastry out of his brother’s hands. “The two blokes stamping on the cake and setting the target alight with the candles.”

Bartleby sighs at the mess of chocolate and cream on the ground. “The two blokes having a terrible birthday – ”

“Point is –” Luther interrupts his brother with a glare – “We blend in. Next minute: BAM! We dead 'em.”

My gaze drops to the rejected éclair, oozing into paving stone cracks, mixing with what I know isn't red paint. “A glamorous life, is it, being a hitman?”

Luther beams; his brother looks morose.

“It’s all perks, isn't it Bartleby? Travelling across the globe...”

“The food's not as good abroad.” Bartleby’s face brightens, his soft voice picking up pace. “Oh – apart from France. God, we found the most incredible baguette boutique –”

“Oh yeah! I remember those baguettes! The ones we used to batter that nightclub owner to death.” Luther, quite unnecessarily, mimes it, wrenching his brother from his reverie.

“I wanted to use poison; the ground almonds really mask the taste of –”

“Course, killing’s been a real life-long ambition, right B?”

Bartleby nods, wiping the remaining chocolate smears onto his side of their poorly-fitting suit. “He's always wanted to do it.”

“It's like all the best jobs, really.” The violence now gone, the invisible drum-kit apparently packed away for the moment, Luther takes on the air of an oft-ignored intellectual. “When you're at school, people don't tell you you can make a career out of it. But I've always said you've got to do what brings you joy, haven't I B?”

Bartleby shrugs. Which is difficult, considering. “We've been doing what brings him joy for about nine years now...”

Luther nods with pride, “We're the biggest hitmen in the country, technically.”

Bartleby snorts. “Only 'cause there's two of us.”

Rage blossoming, Luther turns on his brother, while Bartleby steps to move away, swiveling them in circles. “Who asked you?!”

“She did!” Bartleby screeches in reply, and each waves an arm in protest as they turn angrily on the spot.

Once a kind of truce has been called, Luther continues: “In our business, it pays to be discreet. But we're well-known in the right circles.”

“Google Plus circles, maybe.”

“That's what's so great about Google Plus. Nobody uses it, which means it's perfect for low profile networking.”

As it transpires, both the Nostril family and the now-notorious Make-A-Wish Foundation have made their way onto the same social networking site. The twins didn’t hesitate to take full advantage of the charity’s new dark turn, and Bartleby nods with glee as he talks about their arrangement: “We're on a job for them tonight, as it happens. And if we get it right, we get to make a wish of our own!”

“Shut it! We're not supposed to talk about it.” Luther attempts to be mysterious. “All I will say... is that the man we may or may not be looking after tonight rhymes with – " He leans in with a rancid stage-whisper: “‘head of the Dostril family’.”

As the only two-man-one-man-killing-machine on the circuit, the twins are at least 50% sure they want to sell their story of globe-trotting, knife-wielding and patisserie-sampling. They've recently partnered with multi-award-winning comedy group Casual Violence – partially for the name, of which Luther whole-heartedly approves, and partially for their touching brand of tragicomedy storytelling, which Bartleby finds “just delightful”. Initially, their Behind the Killing exposé was intended for posthumous release.

“About that..." Luther grins with frantic excitement “I was thinking of maybe doing an early release. Maybe for the Fringe.”

“We'll get thrown in jail!”

“Not if they blur our faces!” Luther soothes, placing his huge hand on his brother’s face. “Anyway, I come up with great one-liners all the time, don't I? They're comedians, they'll appreciate it.” He shrugs dramatically “I'm just naturally very witty.”

Bartleby coughs. “One time we pushed someone off a train, and he said ‘Come back when you've had more training’.”

“That's not what I said! I said ‘Looks like you've been trained badly, which is why I was able to push you off this train.’”

Bartleby’s eyes fill with grief, Luther’s with pride.

“See. Don't know where I picked it up.”

“I don’t think he heard you.”

“You did.”

A sigh, and Bartleby looks down one last time at the crushed éclair. “Yeah.”