When they guy came home the 2 killers clubbed him from behind on the driveway, cut him down to the gravel like some dead tree or like sack of frozen potatoes, then used the axe to hack him up into smaller size, just small enough pieces to fit in the boot of the car without having to fold him.

*

They drove their car to find the badass boss guy who for reasons no one really understood still worked as a nightsecurity guard at a deep-freeze food warehouse called Tundra. There he was, dozing in front of his many screens, watching channels of nothingness, zoned out, the Facebook opened on his laptop computer, the TV on in his background playing One Million Mega Babes or the re-runs of Laughable Planet.

One of the assassins rapped his knuckles on the window and the Badass gestured irritably to the door. Then in a exaggerated slowmotional pantomime of human communication the two guys gestured with their eyes, hands and opposable thumbs that Badass should come outside cos they had got something to show him and then Badass motioned in response with his fingers and eyebrows to say ‘bring it here if you got something to show me’.

There was a pause and an amount of exasperated eye contact between all parties involved. Then the chief idiot called the badass on his mobile and said ‘Mate please come look outside. You do not want us to bring this THING, that we have out here, into your place of workship’.

‘Place of work’ the badass said. ‘It is not a place of workship – you are thinking of a place of worship’.

‘That is what I am saying’ replied the hired assasin, ‘I do not want to bring it in your place of Workship – you have to come outside’.

The whole conversation was just proof of how complicated things were in Endland before the days of the complete and Absolut Computerisation of everything. And it was slow too as was so often the way of such things back then. Up on the dirty wall the clock switched to slow time, the seconds inching by at a decelerated pace that would have certainly raised an eyebrow at CERN, the minute hands hesitating lagging and dragging as though made of reluctance and lead.

Once they got Badass out in the car park the Idiots proudly popped the car boot open to show off the corpse chopped down and bundled inside there.

‘Jesus Christ. On a Motorbike’ said Badass, staring into fetid darkness. ‘I can’t make head nor tail of this. Where is his face?’

‘There’ said one of the Idiots with a confidence rapidly contradictated by his colleague saying ‘No. That's his foot’.

‘This is not the right bloke anyway’ said the Badass after pause of several human seconds. ‘This is not Gilligan. Not the fool that owes me money’.