As it goes, it's not that bad a profession. Particularly not as bad as people may be lead to believe. Sure, the law was pretty damn strict on it, and he faced many a machine gun on a nightly business, and so had to live with slim-to-none on the regularity side of life; sleeping in dumpsters, never eating at the same diner or drinking at the same bar two nights running, but that was something that he revelled in. In a world where everyone's the same; looks the same, sounds the same, and even fucks the same, it gave him an outlet, and allowed him a little flicker of a hope of having the whole life part of living that everyone he met seemed to miss the point of.
And seriously, he wasn't exactly going to name himself after it if he didn't enjoy it.
He delighted in the thrill of danger, the absolute wrongness of what he did, night after night. The adrenalin of running from the Gencops, the feeling of being wanted when the addicts gather, it was all like a drug to him, certainly more than the stuff he delivered to his baying hounds.
But still, there was something else that he loved about this.
It was the silence.
The only place in the entire city where any semblance of quiet came in those cemeteries far enough away from the centre of the island to get away from the floating boards. Where the only sound was his own quiet singing, the crack of metal through skull, and the suck of the plunger dragging out that precious glow. It wasn't often that he came to these far away plots, but every once in a while, when he really pissed off the head honchos and he needed to hide out, it was here that he came. Not many 'cops were stationed in these places. No point, since no-one living existed for miles, and it was out of most 'robber's territories. Plus, it wasn't often that there were new dead to be thrown here, so most of the glow'd already been taken away.
Even still, it was somewhere for Graverobber to escape to, every now and then.
Away from the stench of "life".