He was a calm one, the cool, creepy kind of calm that makes a serial killer out o’ men. Psychotic calm. The former owner of my uncomfortable ass tux...do wanted to off some dame because she was a smoker. I clubbed her with the grip o’ my pistol, but I let her live. The unlucky recipient of my brand o’ subterfuge however, wasn’t so lucky. He was a little thick, and a little short, short and stocky some would say. I left him resting in his eternal sleep, sittin’ high up in the branches o’ some ol’. "Fuck!" I thought, and with a dogged determination to uphold the honour of the English race I legged it as fast as my superb physique honed by hours watching daytime TV and drinking Stella Artois would allow, fast enough as it happened.I slowed from a fast trot to a slow one and made my way from the market trying to work out whether my jaw was broken in two places or just the one, neither as it happened thank god and half a bottle of paracetamol later it was nearly bearable.Work occupied most. More

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