You … Well, here, have a cigarette first, son. It’ll help with the nerves
Why? What’s wrong?
Sit down, it’s better this way.
I’d rather stand, fuck you very much.
Then so be it. Listen, we’re here to give you a warning. The first and final. Look at us, look at us proper. These are guns in our belts, and look at us again, proper; look at our coats black and our hats blacker, and our eyes masked by glasses blackest.
Look at me. Please, search my face, for any semblance of a fuck you might find that I may give, which I don’t and won’t. So, nice bluff, or even if you’re the real thing, nice show. Circus went outta town a month ago. Who left you jeepers behind?
You’ve been reported by your neighbors, screaming profanities in the night; the blogosphere is sick of your rancid writing; your peers at work and school and your friends elsewhere, and not to mention your family, are also tired of your petulant behavior, and your lack of manners—not the basic wipe your mouth after dinner ones but the ones where you’re supposed to keep your opinions to yourself—are making those who are trying to be righteous and politically correct unnerved.
Is there a law against it?
…. Not as such, but that’s where we come in. The ManneRepo men, the ones who set the rules where rules haven’t been set, the workers in the grey area. And we’re to warn you, as requested to us by all the aforementioned people in the form of a collective petition, that if you don’t give up this shenaniganry, we’re going to have to take other measures … harsher ones.
Say, what’s that over there? Is that the car you two came in? Looks like a piece of shit, that Merc does.
They both turned around for a second, but only a second, and it was good enough a time window for me to snatch the nearer one’s gun from off his belt. I did that and when the second ended, and their heads turned back to me; they stared at the hollow of the pistol, pointing from one to the other pendulumlike.
Fuck you, motherfuckers. ManneRest in peace.