Wednesday, 4 April 2012

The Great Escape

The man opposite me is an international hit man.

There is no obvious sign to indicate that he has plied his trade across global boundaries. No tan. No evident passport. No sombrero or wicker donkey.

The man opposite me is a national hit man.

He has a combover. Which is sun-bleached. A ha.

The man opposite me is an international hit man after all. He's good. His shoes need a clean. With deliberate attention to detail, he has purposefully applied grub to his brogues to evade attention. His trousers are non-descript and acutely pressed. His armoured briefcase is topped by a financial report which he is studiously studying. To all intents and purposes, he is a financier heading for the city.

His tie is so blue it's purple and slowly he inhales on a Vicks. Presumably, it is laced with confidence-giving and hand-steadying smack cocaine.

He's good.

It's all in the detail. He affects the city banker, replete with chewed biro, pensively sucking as he contemplates his next get away. The hit is the easy part. It's the getting away which must be minutely

The man opposite me has started looking at me.

The man opposite me continues to suck on his biro. As he looks at me. The man opposite me has a bulge in his slacks. I hope it's a huge Glock.

The man opposite me sits stunned as I make a dash for the closing tube door.

The man opposite me looks dumbfounded as I begin my long walk to work.

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