The Brexit Hitman
I am sitting down reading the Daily Mail in my Fred Perry jumper and my tracksuit bottoms, sipping tea with my feet up on the table.
“NEIN, NEIN, NEIN! NO, NO, NO!”
I put down the Daily Mail and turn my head to see where the commotion is coming from. Two Germans are arguing with the Cockney waitress cause’ she got them the wrong beer.
“Nein, Nein, Nein! Dast ist schizer!”
The bastards don’t speak a word of English. How dare they. When I go to Benidorm on my annual holiday, I at least attempt to learn a bit of Italian.
My contact enters through the door. His head scans around the room then his black sunglasses lock in on me. He sits down in the next seat.
The two Germans are still jabbering away. “Danke! Dast ist woonderbar!” Fuck, I need to make Britain great again.
“Is that them?” I ask.
The guy has a sharp black suit, nice shoes. I think he is one of us. A real British person. I can’t tell if he is looking at me from behind those glasses.
He casually nods his head, but doesn’t reply. He doesn’t move. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a brown envelope which he slides across the table. I pick it up, flip it open and glance inside. It seems to be all there.
“You seem pretty blasé about this” he finally speaks, in a fucking posh toffy voice.
“Fucking blasé, you cunt. Say something else, nonchalant- no not that! Indifferent, that’ll do.”
He grins and displays perfect white teeth. Oh yeah, he’s a money man all right.
“So you hate the French then? And the Germans? This is nothing to you.”
“Germans. Romany-yens, them fucking other cunts taking our jobs. Yeah, it’s nothing at all.”
“You would have done it for less.”
“Much less. Tough shit now though mate.” I tell him.
His head turns down to his feet and he chuckles, and for a second looks like one of those bad geezers out of the Matrix movie. Then he gets up, turns around without saying a word, and walks right out the door.
I watch him till he’s gone out of sight, then tilt my head back and pour down the last few sweet mouthfuls of tea. Easy money.
I look back round. The Germans now have their beer. The toys are back in the pram. The waitress is behind the bar scrubbing the cash drawer with a cloth. I consider the drawer too, it is too easy.
But no, this is a moral cull.
I lift myself out of my seat.
They are whispering to each other and glancing at me uneasily, like maybe they have seen me before.
I glide my hand into my pocket. Charlie feels so smooth and soft.
I pull him out and point it at them.
“NO! NO!” they squeal. “WAIT! WAIT!”
I am aware everything else has fallen silent. I know the other customers are watching me timidly, like the good British people they are.
“Yeah, yeah, now the fucking English comes out.” I tell these plonkers. “Now we will see who has balls.” I point the gun at one of them, and then slowly back to the other.
“Mate?! We are English!” the older-looking one says.
Hm. You can’t trust any of them. They’ll claim your benefits. Take your job. Use the NHS. They’ll fuck you right over, whichever way they can.
“I just fucking heard you. Speaking German. Don’t lie to me now, cunt.” I say.
“Wait!” the younger-looking one shouts. “NO, WAIT! DON'T CLICK THAT GUN. Listen, we were just having a laugh, you know, pretending. I’m from London, he’s from Bath.”
To be fair, the Southern accent is spot on. Its amazing what the brain can do when its scared.
“NO! STOP. WAIT!-
I take a step closer and press the firing end right into the cunts head. “You think Brexit is a joke, do you? We’re taking the fucking country back.” I tell him. “Brexit means Brexit!”
“I like Brexit. I voted Brexit. I’m an Englishman!” He whimpers. “My grandad fought against them in the war, and now they are trying to fuck us over again.”
I take a step back and look at the both of them. Mid to late 20’s. Stupid-looking faces. But I realise they don’t actually look that German.
But fuck it, don’t think twice, make the country great again. I caress the trigger with my finger, take aim at one of their knees and pull.
“AAAAH! OOH! FUCK!”
The guy is lying on the ground, clutching his knee and wailing like a banshee.
His mate is off. Leaping and galloping over the tables. He is almost at the door.
BOOM!
That was a nice one. I chuckle and give myself an imaginary pat on the back. The blood has sprayed all over the glass door and is trickling down to the floor. I hope they didn’t just clean that. Oh well. They have a job. I have a job.
I look at his sprawled-out body lying face down in the blue carpet. The hole in his head is oozing deep red.
A scream goes out from the bar. I slumber round. It’s the bar lady. She is standing with her hands over her open mouth, frozen in motion. Must be a newbie to town.
Everyone else is carrying on with their business. The few tea-sipping punks that looked at me, are now resuming their chatter and reading their papers and eating their cakes.
I look down at the other guy writhing around on the carpet, still clutching his knee. He glares at me then looks at his buddy, then glares at me again.
“DICKHEAD!”
Yes, I am. I certainly am. “Brexit means Brexit.” I say. I point him right in the forehead and fire.
The clump as his body drops to the ground is sweet. I eye up the barlady. She’s still gaping in horror, frozen to the spot.
Poor girl.
I step over the body and make my way over to her. She is only young, 20, 21 maybe.
I put Charlie away, back into my pocket, and pull out the envelope.
“I’m sorry, Hun.”
She meets me in the eye. She understands. Her naiveté- I mean innocence- retreats behind her. She gives me a smile.
I hand her a few bills from the envelope. “For the cleanup.” I say.
And I turn from her and make my way back through the tables. Nobody looks. Good people. Good English citizens. They eat and chat and sip tea and coffee as I walk around the two bodies and out the door.