Tim Lankour cried after I handed him the note. He became unhinged. "God, you bloody bastard," this, and "You blokes should have stopped her," that. If madness is that which is against the norm of the community, this community had found its loon. The thugs' eyes were starring at their fearless leader, their Duke of Marlbourugh became more of a Marlboro smoking bingo player right before them. To say they approved of the change is to be stretching the truth. To say they had a reason to rethink their employment options was undeniable.
As the Limmey screamed into the barren earth of this old farm, a soft swish, like a small steam engine engaging was heard. Tim went limp doll on the grass in front of the house where his love had died. Perhaps a poet could create a more beautiful scene. From here, it just looked pathetic, no pathos included.
"Hey, Mick... here's a grand. Put his body in the house. Work it up so that the locals don't trace nothing to any of the four of us... That prick had it coming for too damn long... Another grand comes your way when we feel you've kept your mouth shut." That was an amalgam of words from all 3 thugs. I had no idea they had the brain cells to shoot the Limmey, let alone come up with such an impressive plan. It just goes to show you, never underestimate the powers of a brit. Something tells me some future prime minister has new plans for a return of the empire in the next decade.
I assured the trio I'd take care of their problem, and thanked them for the cash. That's when they took my ride home. This private dick was left to float in the wind.