My asshole puckered like a whistling sailor's lips. Still, I tried to play it cool.

"Hey, Book, long time, no see."

It was Timothy Tomes, AKA, The Bookie. Whilst he wasn't technically the man in charge, he oversaw day-to-day operations.

Not normally keen to leave the comfort of his air-conditioned office, so if he did, you know he meant business.

"Yes," he said, "it's almost as if you've been avoiding us."

He laughed, then I laughed and we were both laughing like we having a jolly good time. Only I was tied to a chair, which I could now see was surrounded by a sea of plastic sheeting.

"You could have just called", I said, and the laughing intensified.

"I find the telephone to be rather impersonal, and you know how much I like the personal... touch."

Like a switch was flipped, he stopped laughing.

"As you are probably aware, there has been a change of management, somewhat of a hostile takeover."

That's putting it mildly. The book running in this city had been somewhat of a family affair. They'd been at it for thirty years but were content to be the big fish in a little pond until they were all slaughtered by representatives of The Company.

But that was hardly news, it was happening everywhere. The Company weren't content to be the biggest fish in their pond, they wanted the whole damn sea, and they would use any means necessary to make that happen.

"And, as part of this reorganisation, they have been looking rather closely at our records. The records which say that you owed my former employees, and therefore my current employees, a not inconsiderable sum."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"I'm working on it", I said, which wasn't a complete lie. But truth be told I was so in the hole that the only way I was getting out was by digging through to Australia. And I was fresh outta shovels. "I got a case right now, and it pays. Big."

The corners of The Bookies' mouth raised, almost as if he was smiling, but not quite.

"I know it shoulds like baloney", I continued, "but it's true. Some loaded dame is looking for her brother and has the cash to make it happen."

"I'm aware of your little rendezvous this morning, Mr Jerk, but I'm afraid we have gone beyond the mere payment of expenses."

He slipped on a pair of leather gloves, Italian made in all likelihood, and from the back of his waistband pulled out a revolver.

My internal organs tried to eascape my body like rats trying to desert a sinking ship.

"Look Timmy, surely we can work something out?"

"Oh, it's far too late for that", he said as he raised the gun, pointing it directly at me.

I looked him dead in the eye, determined to go out with a bit of dignity, even if my next stop was the municipal dump.

Then in one smooth motion he flipped the gun over in his hand, and held the handle towards me.

Without another word, the goons moved in, undid the ropes tying me to the chair, and stood back.

He nodded to the gun, but I didn't move.

"No thanks, not interested."

He had me over a barrel, but I knew how this dance went. Just do one little job for us, and we'll wipe the slate clean. Only it was never just one job and nothing was ever cleaned.

"If you want to shoot me, go ahead, but I'm not becoming one of your goons."

Book and the goons laughed.

"I'm afraid there has been a misunderstanding", he said. "This isn't for a job."

"Oh no?"

"No," he looked a moment as if surprised he had to actually say it, "it's for your own protection."

I tried to stand, but my legs felt as if they'd melted in the summer sun.

"No thanks", I said as I took an unsteady step toward him. "I can look after myself."

"I have no doubt", he said and began to walk away. "But these are dangerous times, Mr Jerk. The old rules of civility no longer apply."

"Is that a threat?"

"More a... message from an old friend. Goodbye, Mr Jerk. He stopped, turned. "Oh, and one last thing..."

"I'm all ears."

"Mind you don't hit your head on the way down."

"Down whe--?"

A blinding white pain shot through the back of my skull as the billy club made contact. I dropped to my knees faster than a whore at Easter, then toppled helplessly face first into the concrete.

Once again, out like a light.