A duo of two more or less idiots get a job to kill someone who owes money (in quantity) to some self-styled badass in those geographical low parts known mainly as Endland (sic). When people say that guys name outloud (ie name of the Badass) they take their eye’s down to the dirty ground where all the chewing gum and other stuff is stuck on it or else look off into the distance out of camera shot, well away to the place where the various bridges, schools, hospitals and other organs of the state are being knocked down.

Anyway. Those hired men put on the black clothes they believe suitable for murder and also gloves that absolve them of fingerprints plus scarves/balaclavas so no one will recognise them. They pick up a heavily discounted axe at a hardware store and pay for it, then pick up a large length of wood that is leaning against the wall of a nearby building that they think they will use as a partially improvised club. Then they go round to the guy’s house and knock on the door and/or ring the bell repeatedly but all the same; no answer. Shit, observes one of them – murder is easy enough, that is the easy part, any idiot can do it, but you cannot kill someone if you cannot locate them. Yes, says the other; that is the problem of our chosen job, the best most professional assassin anywhere on earth must first track down or otherwise locate their victim . . . and a self-styled duo act like us must also do the same.

Waiting, they sit in their car opposite (a red Peugeot Anodyne) and smoke some spliff trying to get calm and listening radio. One of them is one kind of character and the other is another kind of character, at least that is how they play it. One pretending to be quiet and silent strong type and the other pretending to be friendly rapscallion and spilling over in full-tilt joy of life, full of weakling talk and anecdote. The time he went to Marbella and got paid to get laid, the time he got trapped in a toilet cubicle that turned out to be a difficult one to get out of, the time he stole a grandfather clock by hiding it in a coffin, the time he squandered his brother’s winnings on a misplaced lottery ticket but bought him a pair of unwanted cuff-links in a gesture of unexpected compensation, the time he volunteered for a medical test and was given a bogus placebo and so on ad infinitum. It would have been tedious even if they weren’t stoned, it was above, said his more silent-like superior sidekick, it was above and fucking beyond.