Murder looked down from his trophy atop the shelf, watching Dasher and Prancer sit around a table, bickering about what to call each other. Maybe Dumb and Dumber, thought Murder. Or if they knew what was coming, Dead and Deader.

  “I like our names too, honey, but if we want to be taken more seriously, maybe we do need to change. We’ve been in this game for a few years now and we haven’t even got a motorbike.”

  “I’m sick and tired of being told what to do. That’s the whole reason I joined a gang. Now our so-called leader, who I’ve only met once in three years mind you, wants us to change our nicknames? Screw that.”

  “Look, you’ll always be my Prancer. But maybe when we’re working we can be something more… more threatening. We can still choose something that matches, like Knees and Elbows.”

  “Jesus Christ, we’re not using that. For starters, we already have a Hands in the group; if we keep using body parts, we’re going to sound more like the Hokey Pokey than an outlaw gang. You know what else bugs me? In any given week we do, what, thirty minutes of organized crime? Which mind you is a total misnomer. I don’t see why they want us in the clubhouse five days a week. It’s not like any of us know how to work on bikes. We would be just as effective working from home, and only coming in for the odd drug deal or extortion attempt.”

  The unmistakable sound of an old bike wheel falling onto concrete and dancing on its rim rang out from somewhere in the backyard.

  “Shh,” hushed Dasher, standing up to peer out the back window. “I think there’s someone skulking around back there.”

  A knock came from the front door.

  Dasher and Prancer exchanged a worried glance.

  “You get the front, I’ll check out the back,” whispered Dasher.

  Dasher positioned himself by the back door while Prancer slowly opened the rusted, clutter-filled drawer of a steel cabinet that squeaked more loudly the slower it opened. Eventually Prancer retrieved an old revolver that she tucked into the back of her pants. Then she walked into the smaller front room of the clubhouse and peered cautiously through the peephole to see a woman’s face just a few inches from her own, staring back at her. Her proportions were hideously distorted, in part by her proximity to the fish-eye lens of the peephole, and in part by the surgeon who had mixed up deciliters with centiliters when injecting the unfortunate woman’s filler.

  The woman, with what could only be described as geological features, knocked on the door again, this time using the brass knocker in the shape of a dragon that adorned the door. A loud thud, thud, thud echoed around the building.

  Prancer heaved the heavy door open with one hand, keeping the other on the grip of the pistol behind her back.

  At the same time, a short, fat, profusely sweating policeman opened the back door, his stumpy erection sticking out the front of his pants, on full display like the bulbous bow of an unladen ship riding high in the water.

  “Allison, are you home? I have a special package for you,” called the indecent policeman from the back door of the building.

  Dasher sprung into action, hurling himself bodily against the open door. The stumpy peacocking policeman was knocked to the floor, with Dasher landing on top of him.

  “Fernando, is that you?” Mrs Allister called out, hearing the commotion from the front of the workshop.

  Prancer drew the gun and pointed it at Mrs Allister.

  “Inside. Now!” commanded Prancer. “If you’re here to sell Avon, today’s not your lucky day.”

  “I’m here to meet Fernando,” replied Mrs Allister as she followed Prancer, who led her into the main room at gunpoint. “Jeremy! Is that you? What are you doing here?”

  “Mom, help!” called Jeremy, struggling with Dasher on the floor.

  They rolled around like oiled-up Greco-Roman wrestlers. Dasher tried to grab an arm but it was slippery with sweat; he lost his grip. Jeremy rolled and Dasher fumbled another hold as the larger man stood to his feet.

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  *BANG*

  A bullet ripped through the tin roof just beside Murder’s cup. The concussion of an unexpected gunshot in an enclosed space acted like a reset switch. Everyone froze and briefly looked down to see if they had been shot, then looked towards the source of the gunfire.

  Prancer brought the gun to her lips and blew where there would have been smoke, if smokeless black powder hadn’t been in common use for more than a century. Then she lowered the gun’s aim towards Jeremy. “Don’t fucking mo—”

  Mrs Allister shoved her before she could finish.

  “Don’t you point that gun at my son!” screamed Mrs Allister as she gripped hold of the older woman’s arm and struggled for the pistol. Another shot echoed through the room.

  The bullet hit Jeremy’s manhood, causing it to split and unfold on itself like a fleshy umbrella on a windy day before the bullet came to rest in his pelvic bone. The newest member of the eunuch club hit the ground screaming before taking one look at the damage and passing out with shock, taking him out of the fight.

  The front door slammed open. Three young gopniks ran through the vestibule and entered the main room. They wore matching blue tracksuits, opting for comfort over fashion, or survivability. The oldest of the three carried a pistol; Murder guessed that he was no more than twenty-five. He was flanked by two comrades armed only with baseball bats, who looked like they still belonged in high school – the comrades, that is, not the bats, which were presumably ineligible for higher education.

  “Put the gun down! Now!” said the older gopnik in a thick Eastern European accent, hesitantly pointing his gun at the women who were still struggling with each other over a pistol that waved about in the air like a loose fire hose. The young comrade to his left took one look at the blood gushing out from the violently butterflied sausage then went limp and folded up on the floor for a quick involuntary nap.

  What is this, bring your children to work day? thought Murder.

  Dasher stood in an alert crouch by the unconscious policeman while Mrs Allister was so hyperfocused on her struggle with the old biker who threatened her son that she entirely failed to notice the fact that her son had been shot or that three more men had just entered the room.

  The front door slammed open again and more men appeared in the doorway. Prancer sidestepped, wrenched the gun to the side and pulled the trigger four times just as the two gopniks still standing turned their heads.

  The fiesta has started now, thought Murder.

  Five shotgun-wielding members of the Mexican cartel rushed in and were met with two very-surprised-looking Kazakhs standing at the other end of the small vestibule and four rounds from a .45 Smith & Wesson, fired at head height.

  The pistol-wielding Kazakh fell to the ground, followed by two members of the Mexican cartel and the back of his skull. The deafening sound of shotgun blasts exploded through the workshop, tearing Prancer and Mrs Allister apart. Dasher dove out the back door and started crawling, trying to keep the table with the engine between him and anyone with a gun.

  The first Cartel member to take a step into the main room was brained by a baseball bat from the side. The front door creaked again.

  Skinheads, right on time, thought Murder. Time to message the cops.

  Way ahead of you, thought Death.

  More shooting erupted. Bullets punched through flesh and walls, and pellets ricocheted off workbenches, turning the whole room into a deadly pinball machine.

  Murder let go of his hold on the rim of the cup and hid as near to the base of the trophy as he could. The trophy didn’t look like it could stop a bullet, but it was better than nothing. He heard what sounded like an aluminum baseball bat clank against the concrete floor and felt the room shudder as the back door slammed open then closed again. A stray bullet, or maybe one aimed at someone already on the ground, hit the bat, sending it flying around the room and bouncing off walls, ceiling and tool benches. After what seemed like hours, the bat rolled to a stop and Murder propped himself back on the side of the cup to see a gaunt-looking skinhead wearing double denim slowly entering the room, walking with exaggerated care as he stepped between bodies and tried not to slip on the floor that had suddenly become covered in blood.

  He peeked his head into the main room and did a perfunctory search before giving the all-clear to two fellow gang members who were waiting outside. The denimed skinhead noticed the young tracksuited Kazakh, unconscious but apparently unharmed, next to his dead comrade. He slowly raised his pistol, in line with the sleeping man’s head.

  A police siren started wailing; it sounded close. Without a word, all three of the skinheads ran for the front door. The first two Nazis used the bodies in the vestibule as stepping stones to avoid the bloodied and slippery floor. Each footfall of their rubber-soled boots landed like a mallet, producing guttural death rattles like some kind of morbid glockenspiel. Horrified by the grunting corpses, the last of the skinheads trod more carefully, hopscotching from puddle to puddle in the spaces between the bodies. The skinhead slipped. A gun fired. The pile of corpses grew.

  The bullet passed clean through the Nazi’s head, meeting little resistance between skull walls, and continued onwards and upwards, towards Murder. The bullet hit the base of the trophy, imparting enough momentum to cause an off-kilter wobble. The trophy toppled from the top of the cabinet, hitting the ground with a thud, breaking in two and violently ejecting its contents onto the floor.

  Murder flew across the room and landed with a wet slap in the blood-soaked viscera that slopped out of the warm corpses.