You gotta love 'em & you gotta hate 'em. Our readers pretty much don't want blase'-cliche' or perfect.
Here are two hitmen from Deetroit I learned to love.
Fisher answered the first knock. Two men stood there as different as night and day. The one doing the rapping stood at least six foot one, and about two hundred and fifty pounds of hard fat. He held a permanent sneer and a cold stogie on his lips. He chewed at the layers of brown tobacco and looked into the vacuum of Fisher's vacant eyes. He spit out the pieces, unimpressed with his new boss's attempt at intimidation.
The other was even bigger. The door jamb was only slightly taller than the brick colored giant. That put him at six foot seven. An ugly red scar that started at his coal black hairline ran down between his eyes and then across the left side of his mouth before ending under his chin, zippered his face together. His brown eyes were two big for that face and looked like mice running around when he moved them.
Fisher decided then and there that the monster Indian was the ugliest man he had ever seen.
These guys got so entertaining, I hated to kill them.