14th June 2017
“Come outta there, ya egg-sucking clam!” Bugsy ‘Shrubs’ Hooper shouted a moment before an arseload of bullets tore through the ground-floor windows of my house. “We got the place surrounded!”
        Now I knew Bugsy was no dandy morlock, no way no how, this was the guy who iced Floyd ‘Handsome Ski Lift’ Marlowe and stole the legs right out from under Ray ‘Woah Mama’ Pavement, so I knew if I was gonna survive this assault from him and his gang of no-good thugs and gun-plumbers, I was gonna have to fight fire with fire before they plugged me as a lesson to anyone else who had the stones to speak out against the extortionate price Bugsy charged for a perm at his barber’s.
        So I opened my washing machine, took out my freshly cleaned Tommy guns and strode out through my front door, ready to blast God’s beard off his chin if he got in my way.
        “Here you go, Bugsy, you wrong man!” I yelled cleverly as I pulled my triggers and spewed hot lead every which way but loose, like that Clint Eastwood film, The Bridges of Madison County.
        Bugsy and his boys, frozen in terrified awe by the sight of me, no doubt partially due to my saucily arresting boots, seven-foot-tall helmet and Bauhaus T-shirt signed by Frankenstein, stood no chance as I gunned them all down like the crime-bags they were.
        They would all be back to try their luck again tomorrow, of course. They were zombies. But for now, I went back inside and finished my cryptic gyrations.