The mini cab service he worked for

"Work. Sometimes you wish you could just pack up, win the lottery, and never have to work again. Not that you can plan winning the lottery. Jeez, life can be a bitch at times. " Mark reflected on some thoughts commonly shared by his work colleagues. He was on his way to pick someone up, someone who wasn't a regular customer at the mini cab service he worked for. The place was in a seedy part of town, he knew most of it well, but he was even lost when trying to find the place. The whole area had reeked of a mixture of: urine, excrement, vomit, and another indistinguishable-but unpleasant-scent.

The pavement had been piled high with an array of rubbish: nappies, food tins, paper, tin foil, needles, and pill bottles. The buildings were in a severe state of disrepair with either boarded up windows or no windows at all. Marks hand instinctively reached down for his Walther PPK handgun, he felt small and insignificant as the gangs wandered past, glaring at passers by, but the feel of his gun comforted him (although he had never fired any weapon in anger before). The pub to which he was directed, The Hammer & Anvil, seemed to be playing cat and mouse with him, every time he turned a corner he expected it to be there.

Yet every time, instead of the pub, there was a brothel or "corner shops" that most probably were the source of the pill bottles and needles scattered across the road. Mark went on, driving, looking, checking with "base", and cursing the customer whom he was searching for. After a while he found himself in a different looking street. There weren't the gangs, wasn't any rubbish, wasn't the smell, wasn't the state of general disrepair. His hands wrapped round the handgun, his finger round the trigger. He made a conscious effort to release the trigger before he led a round loose.

There was evil round here and he knew it. A shot rang out in the silence. Mark checked his gun... it wasn't him who had fired. Instincts kicked in and he planted his foot onto the accelerator. The car leaped forward throwing Mark back into his seat. Several more shots rang out, and Marks heart was pounding in his chest. A black sedan appeared behind him, a hooded man rose through its sunroof, some kind of sub-machine gun in his hands, firing incessantly after Marks mini cab. Mark swung left... then right... right again... left... right, the sedan never falling more than twenty meters or so behind him.

Mark fumbled with his mobile trying to dial 9... 9... 9. He got as far as 9... 9... when the phone disintegrated in his hand. "Dammit, what have I done to get killed? " Mark yelled at the useless phone "What have I bloody well done now? " He knew that if he didn't find a way out of this predicament he would soon be knocking on the gates of either heaven or hell. A loud squeal pierced the air, with near fatal consequences. The squeal had come from the car behind Mark. Mark checked behind him to see if the problem gave him a chance to escape.

A horn sounded, and Mark instantly brought his attention to the road ahead. He then did the last thing he had wanted to do through out the entire saga... he stamped down on the break pedal. It took Mark a couple of seconds to regain clear sense of thought, what with the horns, sirens, gun shots, and the single explosion as the chasing car had collided with a Tesco's delivery lorry behind him. Mark Breathed a sigh of relief, and began to pull away again before he was questioned when the police arrived. A cold, round, metal, object was placed at Marks temple ... and he knew this was the end.