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The watchman slumped against the mossy pillar; it was cold but less so than the iron gate. His eyes followed the puffs of his breath as they rose and dissipated into the night sky. Many years ago, on that very spot, he had been hired by the gentleman who lived in the manor and not once had he laid eyes on him since. Cars with blackened windows approached with drivers he knew, no new guys unless he received a full file on them. So when the car approached with a new face in the windshield his heart rate soared to a sickening rhythm and bile washed up his nicotine layered throat. This is what he collected the generous cheques for. Years of boredom possibly leading to a sticky end. He raised his AK47 and stood central to the gate, barrel raised.