THE FOOT TUNNEL (CIRCA 1902)

GREENWICH,  LONDON

JUNE 12 2008

The world slips effortlessly into black and white as, every nerve and fibre rises to the task in hand of dispatching my marks with expediency. As though in slow motion, images of an escape route envelope my mind. There, one hundred yards to the South, dark and tranquil, the foot tunnel, vivid yellow steps leading to the cover of darkness and sanctuary from the gaze of kebab wielding club goers or would be have a go heroes on their journey's home.

The contemplation of sweet justice is let down by the brevity of the violent act.

Pulling my hand swiftly from my jacket inner pocket, with magician like dexterity,  metal meets cold night time air for a split second, as though completing an illicit rendezvous.

The steel grey form glistens momentarily under the cool glare of the flickering streetlight. Pupils dilate and shock registers on dark eyes too slow to react. The big guy falls heavily, existence snuffed out before the muscle hits the cold grey floor. Disbelief in that pained expression as hot metal crushes splintered and fragmenting bone.

Between the eyes, dead centre, way to go fella.

Ah, The glorious sound of my good friend Mister silencer, I'll never tire of the purity, the clarity, the simplicity of aural delight. The way in which the gun rises and falls in my hand as the hammer blow ignites the inner ball of fury, propelled with venomous intent and engaging ferrocity and anger.

A second bullet speeds expiditiously from the smoking barrel, a twisting, spinning mass of fatal beauty destined for the second fool.

I could almost feel sorry for them, if I posessed anything remotely resembling a heart.

My second round powers through the momentarily stunned victim's right eye socket, exiting via the wall and reverberating in the night air, as cement and metal dance a flawless tango in the night. A mosaic of blood,  far more adventurous than any of these spray can wannabee's will ever create in a lifetime of vandalism, decorates the scenery.

A brief splatter of eye and brain matter free falls as the carcass drops like a sack of potatoes from a second floor window. The warm, pulsating mass of goo skims the surface of my shoes and comes to rest on the pavement beside me.

Now I'm riled, though.  That seriously crosses a line!

Wait a moment, was that a groan, a twitch perhaps?

Better safe than sorry, as I empty two more rounds into his worthless heart, his body rising and falling under impact with delicious finality and a last thwarted gasp greeting my ears.    I have departed the scene before his body settles, ghost like,  a spectre.

I was never here.