Action (Jackson)

I am getting thoroughly pissed off with this whole "wait and see what Jonny does" approach that Those In Charge keep foisting on me. I could be here for years. I don't want to be here for years, I want to be back in the big time, back in the City, back in amongst the murder and drugs and prostitution and vice and dirt and grime and I want to FINISH this crappy assignment in the backend of nowhere and get back to the real job of fighting crime like they do on The Bill.

Positive action is what is required.

I concoct a honey-trap. A sting. A foolproof way of getting Jonny to reveal his criminal leanings.

Unfortunately my plan involves offing an old man, but we must regard this as collateral damage. After I have horribly slaughtered an old chap I follow home from the Post Office, I employ my skills for disguise to rustle up a convincing replica of his face. I take his cash card and withdraw the paltry sum he has saved, drive his Nissan Micra to Jonny's house and settle down to wait. Not long has passed before Jonny departs, scratching his private parts like a common baboon. I follow him into town, stay at a safe distance until he enters the chemist, and then I'm out and into the street, sporting a limp and a bent back in what is a downright brilliant Kaiser Soze impression.

Jonny is at the counter, dribbling over a semi-attractive checkout girl. I prod him with my walking stick, loudly mention the old fart's PIN code, then pull him close and say, "it's a beautiful day today, sonny. Such a beautiful day. You look after yourself now. I fought during the war for you." But my ruse fails. I fumble the cash card just as I'm about to tuck it in his back pocket. It lays on the chemist floor, staring up at me, mocking me, just sitting there with my hopes and dreams of getting out of here all wrapped up in it.

I shuffle out. I do not need to put on the hobble this time, I feel like a broken man.

Wibble

I fear that Jonny has finally lost it.

For two days I've been watching him. Most of that time he has been sitting on the toilet, dressed in only his pants, with a loaded rifle by his side. He looks increasingly gaunt, he's grown a small beard, and he seems to be mumbling about killer rabbits.

One thing is for sure, that gun will be either turned on himself, or the next person to turn up at his house. There is only one thing to do.

I send Mrs Short Tony around for a cup of sugar.