gangster

Charlie’s mobile rang.

Shit. The phone vibrated in his pocket and the tin notes of The A-Team theme tune got louder as the group conversation tailed off.

Jackson looked unsettled, “ We said no phones”

All eyes descended on Charlie.

A mad rabid butterfly rose in his stomach diving into his intestine causing his sphincter to loosen before he willed it to stay firmly shut.

It was a stupid mistake.

Jackson walked forward like an agitated bulldog, his pistol retrieved from his inside jacket and held stern at his side.

“Maybe we found the old bills inside man after all”

Six kilos of uncut coke and three dead bodies. Today was a good day apart from one slight problem.

Max listened to the unanswered ring; the mobile phone was on the verge of bouncing off the floor in frustration.

Time was of the essence.

Pity Mickey had a hole in his head, he always answered his fucking phone unlike Reggie the prick.

Roughly ten minutes before the armed response unit arrive. Max glanced down at makeshift tourniquet around his calf. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, Max pointed his gun at the door. They were getting closer.

Sometimes ideas enter you head; there is no timescale, no prepaid plan or even a quiet moment wondering what you are going to write. It just happens.

This is true of Point Blank. I was on holiday in Kalamata back in 2005 when I had an idea for a performance piece, a gangster theme, something different from what I saw myself writing previously.

I let the idea compost while on holiday and once back home, I decided to write it. It is a piece I would like to record and maybe one day I will.

Point Blank contains strong language. If you are offended by such language, please use your common sense and do not read it.