I am Greg. My name is Greg. My mother named me Greg. I moved to Southwark, now I am called Fluffy. That name should scare you. It should scare you the same way it scares the entirety of Southwark. I am a foot and a half tall, I have white curly hair, and I am dangerous. Southwark is MY city, and all the mutts around here know it. While I may be dangerous, I’m not unfair. I protect what is mine and I do what needs doing for the family.
Southwark is a big town for me to run, big enough for me to have a network of good boys to keep business running smoothly. Business has been good, my boys have been doing the work. Just last Tuesday, Cookie (birth name Fredrick), smuggled 30 pounds worth of bacon in the hood of his winter coat. Yes that coat happens to match perfectly to that of his imbecilic handler, but that’s an off topic on going battle. Cookie is my number four. He follows orders, but he has a weakness for the bitches. Had one bitch walked by during the Peckham heist Tuesday morning, that 30 pounds of bacon would be zero, and Cookie would be in the river in a garbage bag.
Next in line is, Cheddar (formally Leonard), my number three. Cheddar is three feet tall, all muscles, and one scary motherfucker, almost as scary as his boss, me. When an individual needs to learn respect I send Cheddar and that individual either learns it or dies trying. While Cheddar can follow an order like no other, he is dumb as a doornail, therefor incapable of being my number two.
That leaves Oreo (formally Bill), my number two, my right hand man, my most loyal friend, and reason I am the head honcho of the Good boys. Bill and I grew up in the countryside together, him in block three, me in block eight. When the time came to be taken by handlers, we didn’t know if we would ever see each other again. Then one day the cretins took me on a walk through Newington Gardens, and who do I run do I run into? I wonder how it could be true. Bill in the flesh, standing in front of me. I don’t know if what happened next was luck or a plan from above, but our cretins let us off leash for ‘playtime’. Over the next hour of playtime, Bill and I swapped stories of life in Southwark. I was living in Bermondsey, while Bill was on the chaotic streets of Borough. It was this moment when Bill told me about the Good Boys. Back in the day the Good Boys were being run by Peanut. Don’t let the name fool you, Peanut was not someone you wanted to mess with. After that day in the park, I officially joined the Good boys. Bill was the only good boy who knew me as Greg. Bill and I came up through the ranks together, often partners on assignments. Back then we were just pups doing petty gigs. As the years went on Peanut got older and I got tougher. In 2015 I became Peanut’s number two and Bill was right behind me at three. On July 6th 2015, a tragedy struck the Good Boys. Peanut was crossing the street in Dulwich and was struck. Was it a hit or was it an accident? Who was to lead the Good Boys? It was at this moment that I took power.