“Yes Mr Scumnuts, you will be helping me fill in these forms, isn’t it?”
Nudscomb looked across the room to his colleagues who sat huddled together giggling, then looked back at the Indian migrant.
“My name is ‘Nudscomb’, not ‘Scumnuts’. They’ve played a trick on you.”
“Tricking me is it then?” The Indian glanced at the others, who became instantly straight-faced. “Joking, Mr Scumnuts.”
“Look, I don’t normally do this sort of thing. You’ll have to go downstairs and ask for—”
The Indian stood there nodding and smiling, a total lack of comprehension.
“Oh, all right. Give me your forms.”
After the Indian had gone, Nudscomb listened to them giggle for a moment longer, then decided that it was finally time. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the machete and blood-red bandana he kept in there.
He tied the bandana around his head, to the obvious enjoyment of his bastard colleagues, who found everything so funny.
Since Nudscomb had walked away from the Columbian drug running and gang warfare days—with no profit and minus one testicle and one little finger—he thought he’d never have to kill another man again. But it seemed there were just too many arseholes in the world.
When he hefted the machete, the jaws of his colleagues dropped to their arses.
“C’mon Nudsy,” Jimmy Green, a skinny little pissant, said. “We was just fooling around.”
Nudscomb didn’t reply. It never did any good talking to them.
He cued Starship’s Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now on the portable CD player on his desk, and turned the volume way up.