Dave brushed down his coat one handed. Tap, tap on his pockets, a weighty SPAS-12 shotgun stretching his other hand way down. He coughed, spat phlegm into the blossoming carnations, snapping one of them at the neck.

He snorted, suppressing giddy laughter. It wasn't all that funny – nerves fuck with you that way. Look up – extra slow – a big Tudor house, two floors, sickening yellow paint peeling from the front, a big red door. Bloody crimson red.

He shook a punk down earlier, maybe an hour or two ago. An oil stained dishrag gagged the fucker tied to a chair – yeah, 42 Maple Grove, I fuckin' swear – muffled but coherent reply. No lies.

Thanks, punk. Why don't I let you die quicker?

Diesel ignites real fast. Eyeballs and tongues melt just as speedy.

42 Maple Grove was about forty minutes drive away. Sounds nice – does it fuck. He cruised over gently. Blues on the radio, the car shuffled its way over all mellow and smooth.

42 Maple Grove was nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine in a million.

Dig the window, a crack in the curtain oughtta reveal the motherload he wanted. Big steps across the garden, sinking into piles of peat. Who the fuck cares – he was getting such a kick out of trampling the helpless little daisies anyway.

The windows were whitewashed – no chance of a sneak preview then. He walked a few feet to the door, a welcome mat caressed the bottoms of his feet and said “we are pleased to meet you!”. He rubbed his feet in extra hard – please your fucking self.

Anyone home? He knocked the tune from the car ride into the fraying wooden door and started picking at it absent mindedly as he waited for a reply.

Nix. Either the occupants are out, or – even better – they're asleep/dead/passed out/stoned. Either way he'd be leaving with the money.

Knock again – you can never be too sure. . . Count it – one, two, ten. He picked the lock with a paper clip, fidgety but safe, silent but potentially deadly. Patience was not his strong suit. One more second and the whole fucking door's gonna – click.

The door swung open, stale cigarette smoke hit him like fog, stung at his eyes.

He adjusted. He started breathing pure tar. Vic number one adorned a couch in front of him. He stirred, rolled, rubbed his eyes.

Well hello! Dave blew a hole in him, Vic one bounced like a rag doll from the impact and hit the floor oozing blood through his cheap, grey shirt.

Ch-chik, a shell casing hit the floor with a clatter.

One down, fuck knows how many bastards to go.

A skinny, sweaty guy sidestepped out from the kitchen, pistol in one hand, sandwich in the other.

Skinny faltered, pointed the gun as best he could – going chalky white and shaking.

A quick blast took out his sandwich hand. Bread and three fingers dropped to the carpet dressed in blood.

Skinny screamed, dropped the gun like a pussy and ran for the back exit. The gun went off when it hit the ground. Dave almost shit himself, then chased him down, ditching the weighty shotgun for Skinny's compact number.

He found Skinny in the kitchen, fumbling with the lock on the back door. He walked up to him, poked him in the ribs just for effect. Skinny didn't disappoint – he hit the fucking roof. Dave took Skinny by the hand, brushed his hair with the other – console him, calm him. He inspected Skinny's wound. Aw, that's pretty bad. Uncle Dave can fix it. Skinny sobbed, breathless and tearless, Dave led him by the hand, thrust the thing down the garbage disposal. Skinny was screaming hard – his neck veins looked ready to pop. Bits of flesh stuck to Dave's good jacket.

He pulled Skinny's arm out as a stump, motioned – want me to put the other one in? Skinny shook violently. Who needs words when these guys understand perfect? He took out a penknife, jammed Skinny's remaining hand through the solid oak table and left him to bleed.

Dave lit up a smoke. His silver plated lighter was a little scorched from this morning.

He left the six-shooter on the couch by his shotty and climbed the stairs. He was cocky, but these guys were fucking amateurs.

He broke down the doors on both bedrooms. They were empty. He tore the place apart and found no sign of the payoff he was tipped on.

Music seeped through the bathroom door – more melancholy Blues. Dave cracked the door open a little. The listener was asleep in the tub. He sat on the unit next to the radio, turned the volume way up. Tub Guy woke with a start. Dave winked, slipped the radio into the bath with him and sat back to watch the fireworks. The guy convulsed, jolted around, croaked mercy, slid under the water and lay there til way after the bubbles stopped. Dave lit another cigarette to cover the stench of charred flesh, gazed in awe at the blackened corpse. Now he knew what he was capable of.

He left the bathroom, now as smoky as the rest of the house. The landing window gave a view to the front garden. A car pulled up. A black guy in distressed blue jeans and a black tank top climbed out and walked up the drive.

Dave got the jitters – he was unarmed.

He half ran, half tumbled down the flight of stairs, grabbed the six-shooter, didn't stop running til he hit the gap behind the door, sweating and gasping for breath.

The guy walked in, Dave spun out, pinned him to the wall.

“Russian Roulette, motherfucker,” he said as he dumped all but one bullet from the gun. “Each wrong answer wins you another chance at death.” He spun the chamber. “Let's start with. . .what's your name?”

“Fuck you!”

“Wrong!”

Click. Empty chamber.

“Lucky boy. Now, that's one outta five gone. Fancy your chances?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

Click.

“Didn't I say I would ask the questions? Didn't I say I would ask the fucking questions? Shut the fuck up!”

Dave hooked him in the jaw, Russian Roulette contestant spat teeth and bridgework.

“Where the fuck is my money?”

“What fuckin' money?”

“Wrong a-fucking-gain!”

Click.

Click.

“Fifty-fifty you fuckin' cocksucker! My – Fucking – Money! Where is my fucking money?”

“I tell ya man, I don't know!” He pissed himself, tears streamed in his eyes. One thought flashed in Dave's mind.

I was set up. I was fucking set up.

Sirens wailed outside in a crescendo.

Across the room, Skinny lay motionless, pools of blood seeping from both hands, the wall-mounted phone dangling at head height. Skinny immortalized in a triumphant shit eating grin.

Dave went pale.

He discharged the last round in the gun, let the last vic drop with a hole in his head and his brains painting the wall behind him.

Dave slumped down with him. All he could do was wait.