“Harper, you bastard!” That bastard Harper’s been at it again. Give me strength. Listen to him, scurrying about like some sort of teenager whose furious masturbation session has been abruptly cut short by a grandparental intrusion. To be honest, that’s not too far from the truth. Swap the ages round and it fits well enough I suppose.
The door to his ‘study’ opens.
“Alright?” he asks. I glare. Christ, he stinks. He knows what he’s doing alright.
“What’s up with you anyway? Sand in the vagina again? Neeeeer.” He saunters into the kitchen. I’d love to go to town on that little pock-marked excuse for a face one of these days, perhaps with a claw hammer and a soldering iron… Sadly, this isn’t one of those days. I must endure.
As I’ve said before, he really is one of the best in the business; I just wish he wouldn’t make such an exhibition of himself. Fucker takes the discretion right out of indiscretion, if you get my meaning.
“Have you finished yet? Lomez wants proof before he makes the transfer, and if our guest is all trussed up like a fucking Christmas dinner, then he’s gonna want answers. Answers which, whilst I’m sure you’d be more than forthcoming with, none of us will want to hear.”
“Nearly. I’ve got some o’ them Fridge Raiders need using up. You can do what you want after that.”
I need to go to bed. This can’t be right.