Saturday, August 27, 2011

A New Republic

On March 27, 2027, presidential candidate Doctor Philip Spencer Dawson had this to say to the Australian people…

            Ladies and Gentlemen,
                                                We are a nation of fighters. A nation full of pride, passion and power. A nation that now proudly stands on its own, and answers to no-one. Since emancipating ourselves from the Commonwealth, we have signalled to the world that we are ready, willing and able to prosper as we see fit.

            This new found independence could not have come at a more trying time. As we, and the rest of the Pacific Rim, lick our wounds from the Great War. A war, so catastrophic, so horrifying, years from now future generations will look back and wonder, ‘Why so much hate?’ 
Not in World War One, Two or Three was the bloodshed so brutal, so relentless or so pointless.
In this, the aftermath, we can hold our heads up high as a nation and be proud of our efforts. We deterred the Indonesians, with the help of our Kiwi friends and our Turkish brothers, who once we used to slay, now together we break bread, drink tea and pray. And for their efforts and yours, I thank you.

            Now, as we breathe a collective sigh of relief with the demise of capitalism, and as every society on Earth searches for a new way, a way that works, a way that is equal for all, a way to live freely, a way to live democratically that cannot be corrupted by those who obtain power, and cannot take away freedoms from its citizens to impose their will upon the masses under the guise of ‘freedom through democracy’.
Fresh food, water and shelter will no longer be enough, to fool the masses; the last Great War will make sure those lessons are not easily nor quickly forgotten. Fresh food, water and shelter will no longer be enough to allow man to be trapped into thinking they’re better off than starving children in the African desert.
            As one, we will build a better future, that has the interests of all at heart not just the few, not just the privileged, or the so-called elite. But every single man, woman and child whose mind is functional, whose lungs expand and whose heart beats just the same as you and just the same as me. I will lead a nation that knows no man is better than another, we may be superficially different, but we are all fundamentally the same.

            Without reliance upon oil and coal, we can become a self-sufficient nation that lives with and embraces nature. Although we have been told it could take many years for the radiation and acid rain to completely dissipate from the atmosphere, we can carry on with our lives in a relatively normal way, wearing a mask outside is a small price to pay for new found freedom. And let these masks be a reminder to us all of what is at stake for humanity in every hand we lend upon on our road to recovery.

This is indeed a time for man, to learn from his mistakes and start again. No matter what a man’s colour, creed, race or religion, it matters not, for they are still man, and all men are brothers and all women sisters of equal value and worth.
Religion may be freely expressed and practised, but it will no longer be imposed upon anyone outside a building of worship. It may not walk the street, accosting citizens, or knock upon their doors. If an individual seeks out Religion, they will know where to find it.

            As a nation, we will not be returning to the evils of greed and money. Hence, Capitalism will be outlawed; it has almost destroyed humanity once, so it will not be allowed to establish a foothold in this country ever again.
We will be setting up a nationally recognised bartering system. Every single one of you, who listen to this, has a set of unique skills that you posses that will enable to you to build, cook, create, grow, or offer to another in return for something you need from your fellow man. Bartering plants the foundation of respect throughout society. It forces man to be humble and accept that there are things that he cannot do, but his neighbour can do. Allowing mutual respect to grow and prosper.

            Communities will govern themselves. They will elect a community leader, vote upon their own laws and their elected leader will report to me quarterly at a conference in the capital. All communities will be sovereign in their laws and land rights. But all communities must pledge allegiance to Australia in a time of crisis.

            Under my leadership, we will live peacefully and harmoniously with each other and those around us. Meaning government and bureaucracy will be virtually non-existent and ideally not needed as communities govern themselves.

            Now… People have been asking about technology. And to them I say, our ancestors lived before us with only the most primitive means of technology, so I ask do we really need to go back to the age of bad reality television, formulaic movie plots and bland generic music made by computers? I believe we can and should live without these things, I encourage music, played by you all, with the instruments that you build, as I believe, music is the language of the soul.
Now, we will still have radio, bringing you music, news and entertainment. But as for television, the Internet, and Hollywood movies, these will not be brought back, if you require entertainment, read a book, speak with family and friends, tell a story or you could even write your own.

            In closing, I would like to say, that I love this country and I see nothing but a prosperous future ahead. I see a peaceful, happy nation. One that helps each other respects each other and loves each other, just like our ancestors. Before Capitalism, greed, narcissism, apathy, selfishness, moral bankruptcy and opportunism took over our society and almost wiped us from the face of the Earth.

            We are the lucky survivors of the Great War. We owe it not just to ourselves but to the slain, fallen and maimed to learn from our mistakes and to take a different path from that of our ancestors.

            I, Philip Spencer Dawson, having learned from mans past mistakes, put my hand up to lead, as President, this great nation of Australia.

            Thank you.

...Words that never passed his lips.       


We should have a group that is endorsed by the community but free of government and independently operated, so it cannot be corrupted by liars, cheats and scoundrels who have agendas to push and revenge to seek.

This group of individuals, lets call them the ‘Removal of Idiotic Dickheads’ agency – or RID for short. Once appointed, they will only have the one purpose throughout their day – to stop idiocy.

How will they do this?

In many ways, but the main way will be by being militant observers of the human race. And at anytime, at any moment, whenever they see an act of idiocy, they are expected to stop that individual, and point out their idiotic behaviour.

Repeat idiots will be given a limit… Five idiotic acts a month and they’re not allowed to leave their house for thirty days and they may only leave after that if you pass a test of common sense and decency.

If an idiot continues unabated after many, many times, he/she will be given the option of permanent house arrest or lethal injection. It will be explained to the idiot, that their death is preferred as the Earth is becoming over populated and we need all the food, water and oxygen we can get.

If, since idiots, are, well, idiots and too many of them, do continue with their behaviour unabated – the choice of permanent arrest and death will be rectified to simply – execute on site.

Businesses with idiotic policy will also be fined, named and shamed. ‘RID’ Agents will have the right to pose as a customer, challenge a policy and then vanquish it upon confirmation of said ‘policy’ – not making any sense, being redundant and in the sole interests of the business and not the consumer. All legitimate policies that stand up to scrutiny will of course, be allowed to stand.

Idiots who have had 5 or more infringements will be removed from the electoral roll for the next 3 elections. The removal from the electoral roll increases in correspondence to the number of idiotic offences. This in many cases will effectively be a permanent ban from voting in any democratic election.  

‘RID’ Agents will be highly trained to tell the difference between idiocy and mistake, idiocy and accident (unless of course an act of idiocy leads to an accident, which is nearly always the case), idiocy and chance, meaning the risk for mistakes in charging idiots is at a calculated 0.00001 percent, the likes of which have never been seen before.

Idiotic behaviour when drinking can be excused at the discretion of the attending agent(s).

Idiotic behaviour when on drugs can be excused at the discretion of the attending agent(s).

Idiotic behaviour when not on any mind-altering substance will never be excused and may result in severe beatings that are also at the discretion of the attending agent(s)

Idiots will be made to attach bumper stickers on their cars/motorbikes/trucks/mode of transport that read – ‘Beware! I am an idiot. And I do stupid things, quickly, erratically and unexpectedly. I apologise in advance.’

Repeat idiots may cause their parents to be submitted to involuntary sterilisation. (Depending on age, nature may have thankfully already done the job for us)

Repeat offenders will be barred from procreating with other repeat idiotic offenders, halting the idiotic gene in its inbred tracks.

If you cannot read and write, you will not necessarily be assumed an idiot, but your parents will be sterilised or shot, whichever is cheaper. Then you will be offered to learn how to read and write, if you decline, you will be sterilised or shot, whichever is cheaper. If you accept and still cannot learn how to read and write after the intense tutelage of trained professionals, you will be released. Because clearly, your mental retardation is a more pressing issue that needs to be addressed.

‘RID’ Agents will blend into society. 

They can and will be anywhere, at anytime.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010


I drive my shoulder into the wardrobe and march forward. All four corners scraping along the floor boards, luckily I haven’t lacquered them up.
If I‘d listened to my wife, I’d be scraping back inches of thick, perfectly coated floor varnish into candy canes.
            With one final shove, I throw my weight forward, stand up, take a deep breath and see some spots… I feel light headed.
I prop myself against the dresser for a moment, inspecting the damage to the floor boards.
            Great, more work for the slave driver to dictate, ‘Sand it back! Now lacquer it!’
Fun times…
I follow the tracks along the ground like a giant looking down on some miniscule highway, until they’re blurred by reflecting light.
I look up and around, do a pirouette, and land, gob-smacked.
            In front of me stands a green door, straight out of Pride and Prejudice with its old ornamental handle and big empty keyhole.
            ‘A door to nowhere?’ I ask…Nobody.
            I lunge at the door and grab the handle; I try to turn it, no luck.
I grab hold of the knob with both hands; twisting and shaking it violently, it stands firm.
Exerted, I let the handle go and drop to my knees, peering through the keyhole… I see snooty people laughing, drinking and having the time of their lives, and the women… Are beautiful!
The slave driver’s not interested or interesting.
            I grab a metal coat hanger from the dresser, uncurl it and start to fish around the lock, hoping I latch a lever to pry open this mystery.
I kick the door, yank out the hanger and throw it across the room.
            I look through the keyhole… The scene remains, with even more laughter than before.
I’m being mocked!
            I back up; and charge at the door with my sturdy shoulder leading the way.
            I collide, catapulting back to my point of origin, wincing in pain.
What about the slave driver?
Do I tell her when she gets back?
No, she doesn’t deserve to be happy, and whoever’s in there doesn’t deserve to be that miserable.
I need re-enforcements…

When I re-enter the room, I half expect the door to be gone, and then to promptly ring a therapist.
            It remains, mocking me, but I’m certain to have the last laugh. A brand new Chainsaw! Two stroke, one hundred and fifty horsepower… I’m certain of victory and, then surely, some happiness.
            I yank on the cord. The chainsaw shutters violently, vibrations engulf my body, itching my ears.
            I pull again, this time; I put the chainsaw down and rub my ears.
            Should I of gotten ear protection?
            I grab the chainsaw, willing the engine to kick over and fire up. I grip the leaver and yank the cord with my biceps maximum force.            
            The cord snaps, I fly across the room falling backwards. The chainsaw’s weight throws me off balance; I panic and drop the chainsaw on the floor.
            Not the floor!
My lower back takes the brunt of the impact, the inertia sends my head into the wooden skirting board that I am again, yet to ‘get around to.’
            I lie on the floor dejected, wincing in pain.
Every physical object in the room mocks me.
            My eyes water, blurring my vision, I feel disorientated.
This is what it must be like to be a new born – pain, tears and confusion!
             ‘I’m back!’ the sound of her voice jolts through my body.
            ‘Yay.’ I mutter, jump up and throw a rug over the chainsaw, and wipe my eyes clear. I push against the dresser, thrusting with all my might, willing my discovery to remain secret.
            ‘What’s that noise?’
            I have the dresser in place as Marie opens the door, and looks at me with that, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Face of disapproval.
‘I thought we said you’d work on the nursery first, and then, we’d get to your study!’ she says.
            I simply nod; it’s all I can be bothered to do now.
            ‘Come on; help me get some bags out of the car!’ She turns and waddles out, I gingerly stride across the room, rubbing the back of my head, turning to close the door,
I stare at the dresser and smile.
I have something that is mine now, not hers.           

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Happy Birthday

I am Dimitri Verbakohf.
Today I am sixteen.
Today my father says I will become man.
The only thing… I am not sure I want to be.
No fanfare, no party, no presents, no mother, and no siblings.
No week goes by when I don’t say we go back to Sydney. That is where all of our friends are. We are all immigrants. We stick together. But he does not like that idea, he loves the life here, it is made for a washed up fatty, with money. The women on the Gold Coast really are loose and easy when you have money.
It is dark in here. I shiver. I feel like I am in refrigerator, he always has air-conditioner running. He likes cold, sometimes I think he wish he was still in Russia.
Outside it is hot and sunny. I see steam from the road.
Is light like this on purpose? Casting many shadows, has he set up some sort of symbol? He’s waiting for this sixteen years, salivating, anticipating, all my life he says to me, ‘you don’t know what it is to be a man. Your sixteenth birthday, you will be a man.’
He always tell me of how good it felt the day he became man, he tells me how scared he was. How much he hated his Pappy. But after it was over, he knew what it was to be man. Not scared of anything or anyone. He likes to tell me how grateful he is for what his Pappy did. How he can’t wait to do it for me. Then he would ruffle my hair he always did that.

His tongue is dancing around his lips.
I turn on the camcorder, getting the frame perfect.
I press record.
‘Ready?’ I ask.
‘No.’ He shakes his head, ‘I don’t even know what I have to do.’
‘Okay. Eyes closed, put your hands out in front of you, palms up.’
‘What? What for?’
‘Don’t argue, just do it.’
‘No, not unless you tell…’
‘Just do it! Today you’re a man, and you are not going to fuck this up!’

I have seen him this angry twice before; the night Ma-ma left, and the day he lost his career.
Both times he hit things. Both times bruises.
My heart beats full throttle, I hear blood surging through my ears. I close my eyes and take deep breath.
‘Hurry up.’
The sound of his voice forces my arms out, palms up. Self-preservation can make you do anything.
I feel something cold stick to my hand, my instinct is to take back, I try, but he grabs my wrist and pulls towards him.
It rests, stuck to my palm, whatever it is, isn’t cold anymore.
‘Close your hand. Feel it Dimitri. Feel it.’
I refuse.
I don’t want to move.
Why is he filming?
‘Close it!’ He grab my hand in his and forces it to close.
I know exactly what it is; I open my eyes, his snub-nose .38 sits in my hand. My heart tries to break from cage, my blood so loud it hurts my eardrums, I want to drop the gun, but he wont let me.
‘Pappy! Please!’ My voice quivers, like girl. All I think of is Ma-ma and how safe she feels, I picture her smiling, comforting face.

‘This gun holds six bullets, Dimitri. This means three goes each. You open cylinder, spin it, close it, pass it over. Got it?’
The colour has drained from his face. He looks just like I did.
‘You got it, or what?’
He nods.
‘Can I go first?’ I ask.

The room is cold, metallic, like morgue. Blood and adrenaline floods my face.
I pull out cylinder and see the bullet; it mocks me with its size. I spin cylinder, let it run as I count three and snap it shut. I slide across the table.

It hits my palm; I have it in my mouth and pull the trigger.
The hammer clicks…
Empty chamber.
I open cylinder, spin and snap shut, ‘you’ve just got to do it. Don’t think about it.’
The adrenalin feels like it’s pumping straight into my cock. I slide gun back to Dimitri.

The gun makes way towards me in slow time; I want to slow it more. Finally it hits the palm of my hand; I clench the piece, pick it up and stop. I stare at the .38.
‘What stops me shooting you?’
I never thought to kill him. Not seriously, just thoughts of revenge, after his outbursts. Violence breeds violence.
I open cylinder, line the bullet up with the chamber and snap it shut. I point the gun at Pappy.

The prick is going to shoot me! I see his eyes. I never look like that when I did.
‘Or should you live with it?’ Dimitri says as he shoves the gun up under his chin.
Or was that the look in his eye?

‘But you haven’t spun cylinder Dimitri.’

‘No shit Pappy, what is more manly than that?’


He used to touch me constantly.
He made me feel like I was here for a purpose, the way he would caress me, with such care, such love, every breath he took was wet with admiration and desire. We’d sing together in harmony; warmth would spread through my body, across every fibre, firing every receptor, travelling out into the world.
Our energy was so strong the room would literally get warmer, he would start to sweat within minutes, it would take me a little longer to warm up but I don’t think he minded, or even noticed, he was lost in his own pleasure, the same way I would get lost in mine.
When we first started, the way he held me, made my existence worthwhile. I was at peace, I felt loved, needed. I never knew I could be the source of so much happiness.

Sometimes you have to do what it takes to make peace, make living more pleasant.
When she first suggested I go to see someone, I felt trapped, got hot, felt like that old witch that Gretel kicks into the oven, roasting alive. I was basting in my own anger, choking on a lump in my throat. I snapped and released the energy into a wall, and a small smear of blood from my middle knuckle.
I feel violated after my first session, all those personal questions. I wanted to lie, but I guess I was curious to know why I feel the way I did, the way I do, or the way…
Whatever, I feel fucking trapped and lost.
And the bitch didn’t help, ‘How often do you think about it?’
‘How often do you do it?’
‘Do you put it before your family, your job?’ I answered as truthfully as my tongue allowed. She was a nosy bitch who asked too many questions.

Now I sit cold and alone.
When he does touch me it is brief and without love, lust or lingering desire. His touch makes me colder still, his passion, eroded.
Before there was a ‘them’ it was just he, and he was so much happier. We would go out, spend the day together by the beach, out in the world, where everyone could see how happy we were, we would make them jealous, envious of our bond.
I now spend my time dreaming of the day that he lets me go. Let’s me find someone new, someone who can make me feel that way once again, someone who can make the room grow warmer as we harmonize together and use each other mutually to fulfil our needs, to indulge in unbridled passion.

Sitting in the study ignoring both of them. She yells at me for cancelling the sessions.
‘I don’t need them anymore!’ I yell at her.
But she doesn’t buy it, she never does. I am not sure she ever will, maybe she can’t embrace who I am.
She says it has gotten worse and worse over the years. I feel I have compromised more and more, all to appease her and it has done nothing; only hurt my one true love.
My passion, my desire has taken a back seat to what the counsellor deems, ‘Social Convention’ and apparently I cannot deal with my desires appropriately.
I see nothing wrong, but instead of feeling elated, excited, alive! I feel guilty and ashamed; I cannot move on, fighting who I am, for a woman I thought I loved. How can you possibly love another, who is not willing to understand?
I though, am beginning to understand.
What started as lust, and desire for something new, soon turned to love, passion, a craving, an obsession a need to indulge…
Then the pleasure subsided, compulsion moved in and took its place. But when something consumes you, consumes your life and you allow it, you want it, is there really a problem?
Or is it those around you who don’t understand that level of devotion, commitment, that they are not the ones with the problem?

She is gone; I haven’t seen her for a long time.
Which is good, but I feel guilty, although I know it’s not my fault, you cant help how you feel.
He occasionally sees me more and more and I am no longer left alone in a cold room for days or even weeks on end. I am usually at arms reach and I like that, he shows he loves me more and more everyday.
After she left, our time together was brief and awkward, but it soon began to feel comfortable and secure, if somewhat mechanical.
But the underlying passion remains; it is permeable between our souls.
Our love is stronger than I could of dared to ponder when cold and alone, in a weird way I guess I have to thank her for denying us for so long.
His hand reaches across my body.
I resonate to his touch.


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.