Phone Call, cont.

    'When you get asked to do a fucking job, you fucking do it properly. Did you forget the fucking rules? You do not make a mess. You do not leave any trace of yourself. And you definitely do not leave any fucking survivors!'
    Ramirez waited for Jack to answer. Jack didn't. As has already been established, Jack was the master of loaded silences.
    'I was reassured that you were the best of the best, that you've never done a half-assed job.' Ramirez said. 'Why the fuck would you start now?'
    'Well, pardner,' Jack began in his thick Texan drawl, 'I see that you're awfully upset, and for that I apologize.' He knew how Ramirez would react.
    'Apologize? You apologize? I'll f-'
    'But we both know apologies don't make no difference in the unique branch of the global business that we are part of. So consider the following: Perhaps I left a survivor for a reason. Perhaps I made him watch the hell-fire I wrought on them other goons. Perhaps I made him listen to their screams. Perhaps he'll bring those screams to his superiors. And won't you know it, perhaps I just handed the entirety of the eastern baronies to you on a shining silver platter.
    Silence.
    'You have a good day now.'
    Jack hung up.

Zeke and Ugly Jack

"So Lucy got me this book, right?" Zeke said.

"Right," Ugly Jack said.

"An' it's about this French bloke called 'Sarder' or summin'."

"Sartre."

"Sure, yeah. Now, I read meself a couple o' pages, right?"

"Right."

"An' this geezer's got 'is knickers all in a twist about wot defines summin', and like, 'ow if it ain't in the plan, it ain't real, right?"

"Right."

"An' 'e keeps goin' on an' on about existentianism an-"

"Lism."

"Wha'?"

"Existentialism."


"Right, just that."

Ugly Jack 

"About bloody time," Zeke said. "You drive like me mum, swear to God."

He stepped out of the car and stretched. It was almost noon, and the sun shone brightly on the old, red farmhouse. He took a deep breath and abruptly started coughing.

"Whew! Wot a bloody stench!" he said. He waved a hand in front of his face, and made a face that left no secret as to what he though of the odour that wafted over them.

Ugly Jack pulled on a pair of heavy, black gloves and popped open the trunk.

"Here," he said, and threw a similar pair of gloves to Zeke.

"So anyway," Zeke said, as he and Ugly Jack gazed down at the body in the trunk. "This Sawder bloke was awarded the Nobel Prize fer something or other, but - you grab 'im by the legs, I'll take the arms - 'e flat out refused it! Bloody frenchies, I tells ya."

They started across the yard, hauling the body between them.

"An' this bloke got so obsessed with all this thinkin' and philosophasin' that 'e ended up getting all smacked out on drugs, jus' so 'e could keep thinkin' and philosophasin' 24 hours a day! I tells ya, Jackie-boy, those frenchies are bonkers."

"Right bonkers," Ugly Jack said.

They rounded a corner and the pigsty came into view, a dousin pigs snorting or sleeping in the muddy pen. With a heave, they threw the body over the fence and next to pigs. Zeke pulled off his gloves and threw them next to the body.

"So these pigs'll eat anything, right?" said Zeke, walking back towards the car.

"Right."

"I'm driving back," Zeke said as Ugly Jack closed the trunk. "Maybe we'll be back in time for tea."