Breakfast

Ron walks through the door. Pining for the days when the sweet aroma of burnt tobacco mingled with the cheap coffee – they made a fine pair. He wishes Ducky would just pay the fines but what small coffee house could afford a six-thousand-dollar fine per infringement?
Damn nanny state he thought.
Ron isn’t much of a reader. With all of his liberties slowly being taken from him, one by one, he had heard of a book from his mate Tony, an avid reader, whom was sick of hearing rant about the subject, so he suggested he read 1984, George Orwell. A bit of a leap from reading about his hero Les Norton. He’d enjoyed the book though, but it had too much of an affect on him, now he looked for signs of the book becoming a reality in everything, everywhere.
Ron likes a good conspiracy.
He glances at his favourite booth. Empty. He struts over and takes a seat. He looks at his watch. Digital, he doesn’t care for analog.


‘I don’t have the money!’  The liar pleads.
Ron despises him, a man that has gone back on his word. He thinks about killing him, he really wants to. Or should he just dislocate his shoulder? All he has to do is twist down to the left away from his body.
‘Please!’ The guy coughs up some dirt.
‘Shut up! You filthy pig.’ Ron could easily just break his neck, his foot already in place, just lean down and pop it. Where would he hide the body?
‘Just two weeks, please! You’ll get it. You’ll get your money.’
‘Oh, I know I will,’ Ron twists, feels the pop, ‘Get,’ he wrenches back to the right, an agonizing scream bounces from wall to wall, ‘My,’ he feigns another twist as the liar shudders on the floor, expecting another hot flash through his arm, up his shoulder and to spike his brain, ‘Money!’ Ron rips his arm to the left as hard as he can; the guy lets out a high-pitched shrill of agony as the spike finally hits, his whole arm now limp. Ron takes his foot of the back of his neck, and smirks as the liar rolls into the fetal position, rocking back and forth.
Ron leans down towards him and grabs his arm, takes his watch and puts it on his wrist. He takes the liar’s chin in his calloused hand, ‘You have two weeks,’ he says.


‘Can I help you?’ she asks. Still stroking his watch, Ron orders a latte and a stack of pancakes with syrup. He still doesn’t really know why he took the watch, now it had become a sort of trademark, he took a trophy from his jobs. The heavy reputation pleased him, he had gotten plenty of work, through perception alone. ‘People are so easily influenced by what they see and hear’, Ron thinks, ‘People are idiots.’
The waitress arrives at his table and puts his coffee down. He takes another glance at his watch.
‘You expecting someone hon?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, his late … I dislike tardiness.’
She scoffs and lets out a brief snort that she quickly tries to block with her hand, ‘You sound like my father.’ She moves towards the next booth.
‘Is that good or bad?’ He calls after her.
‘Bad.’ She calls over her shoulder heading to the kitchen.


Jimmy is finishing his fourth cigarette, staring across the busy road and into the café, his eyes fixed on Ron.
Smug bastard.
He’d arrived early; he wanted to make sure that Ron hadn’t set him up; he had a reputation, not just for violence, but unpredictability. Jimmy also knows that Ron isn’t totally on his game when he’s irritated. He checks the time on his dashboard, only two minutes late; he takes a smoke from his pocket and rolls it between his fingers. The prick can wait.


Ron is just about to start his last pancake, as Jimmy slides into the booth and sits directly opposite. He immediately loses his appetite.
‘Hey Ron.’
He wipes the corners of his mouth, ‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry about that mate.’ Jimmy says.
Who was he kidding? He wasn’t Ron’s mate. ‘Why?
‘Why what?
‘Excuse me? What the fuck do you mean why what?’ He is incredulous.
‘I mean why, am I sorry or why am I …’
‘Late, you fuckwit, late. Why are you late?’ He can’t wait to kill this idiot.
Jimmy starts, ‘Traffic mate, I also had to drop Marco off at the track to go see big …’ Ron shakes his head and signals him to stop, he’s heard enough from this weasel. Jimmy obeys, sits with his mouth open, eyes wide taking short, sharp breaths.
‘First of all, Jimmy, I ‘ain’t your mate. Secondly, I don’t have the time to listen to your bullshit. You’re a liar and a sheep. You follow.’
Jimmy isn’t sure what to do.
Ron continues, ‘You wouldn’t even know when to take a shit if Marco wasn’t their watching over you and waiting to wipe your arse.’
‘What? Where’s all this… What’s the problem, Ron?’
‘You. You’re the fucking problem. You lying cunt.’
‘Liar? I, I, I’m not a liar-’ Jimmy has a terrified look plastered across his ugly face, he’s a shade lighter too, his body reacting to the adrenalin.
‘Shut up your stammering,’ Ron inhales and gains some composure, ‘you’re a liar. I hate liar’s Jimmy, you know this and yet you have no idea why I would call you a liar. How would you react if I told you I fucked you’re wife?’

Jimmy’s gone pale, ugly and confused.

‘Good, before you looked like a man that had his dick in his zipper. I want these folks here to think we’re having a nice friendly chat.’ He glances around the shop and is reminded that he is being watched.
In every corner of the room he is being watched.
He takes his gun from the small of his back and jams the nozzle into the inside of Jimmy’s thigh. Jimmy doesn’t understand the implications of his actions.
‘Lies, dishonesty, idiocy, I hate it. I despise people who propagate, what I hate.’ Damn that sounded cool. ‘One, you lied to me about when I would get my cut,’ Jimmy tries to speak; Ron cocks the hammer on the gun. Jimmy keeps quiet, ‘Two, you lied to me about why you were late. Why give me some bullshit story about Marco and the track when all you had to do is tell me that you were sitting in your car smoking, waiting, to give me the shits? Which by the way has been very successful. A first for you no doubt Jimmy, now, where is my fucking cut? It has been two weeks past.’

Jimmy starts to explain what’s happened to Ron’s cut and why he hasn’t received it. Ron isn’t paying attention, although he gives Jimmy signs of interest with his timely nods and grunts, Jimmy just keeps doing what Jimmy does best, running his mouth, no wonder his breath stinks, the amount of shit that comes from his lips, is repugnant.
Ron keeps staring at Jimmy’s nice gold chain. It isn’t chunky or ‘bling’ as it is known, calling attention to itself like a rap star. It’s refined, delicate, has a touch of class to it.
‘I can give you half right now Ron…’
‘And the necklace.’
‘What? No way! My mother gave this to me on her …’
‘The necklace or I will put a bullet in your nut-sac.’ He grabs Jimmy’s knee, yanks him forward, his left leg snakes Jimmy’s as it curls into a lock, and he jams the nozzle up into Jimmy’s boys.
Jimmy rips off the necklace and slams it down in front of him squirming, trying to push away into the back of the booth. Ron picks up the necklace and puts it in his pocket.
He moves the gun back to the thigh of Jimmy and pulls the trigger. It makes no sound; the modified Berretta shooting a tiny needle full of deadly poison into Jimmy’s leg.
‘Argh! What the fuck?’ Jimmy grabs at his leg, ‘what the hell was that?’

Ron leans over the table and grabs Jimmy by the collar, pulls his ear to his lips, ‘You’re dead. Fuckwit.’ He reaches into Jimmy’s pocket and grabs his keys, and gives him a shove into the corner of the booth.
Ron leaves his money on the table and walks towards the door, he knows the watchers will have seen him, but they won’t be able to prove anything, potassium chloride. Jimmy tries to go after him but he cannot stand up, his body has no strength. Jimmy has just had a heart attack, poor Jimmy. He gives two of the watches a taunting look.

Ron puts on his new trophy as he gets into Jimmy’s ride, he is off to see Marco, he wants the rest of his cut.