Author: leeharding

The final four kept one eye on their chips and the other on the nimble fingers of the dealer as he dealt each of us two cards. The stacks were almost even.

To my left, crouching low over the lip of the table, Silent Joe focused on the same spot he had been staring at for nearly two hours. Unlike the others, he did not check his cards until the betting arrived at his doorstep. His drab, vacant expression revealed nothing. Even during the previous hand when he knocked out Billy Boy Boyd with triple Kings and was awarded two-hundred thousand he did not tweak an eyebrow or curl the corner of a lip. Joe was not a gambler. He waited to pounce like a Venus flytrap when the deck went his way but if it did not he folded. A simple game plan to be sure, some would say foolhardy, but Silent Joe was amongst the best.

The Joker flipped a chip over each of his knuckles, eager to begin. He sat directly opposite me and had tried his usual shtick to harass and harangue. Pretty Polly had become so disgusted at one of his filthy jokes that she saw his all-in just for the chance of ridding her of his presence. With his broad grin and a mouthful of narrow teeth, he flipped an Ace to beat her King and had laughed her all the way out of the room. It was all an act, of course, designed to jolt your nerves but it worked only on a certain type of player. Instead of letting the howls exasperate me I often butted in to ruin his punch lines. It was an effective backfire, denting his ego while simultaneously piercing his masquerade. He laughed it off but only after I’d taken several thousand chips from his stash. His Small Blind bet of twenty thousand swayed by his palms.

The third of our quartet was the Queen of the Heartbreakers, Suzie Lous. Doe-eyed, with long lashes and pink cheeks, Suzie gave the impression that she had just disembarked from a ship as a Poker virgin. The innocent charade baited many a sailor to his doom by the blonde siren as she scrubbed the deck of the unworthy. Her stack was slightly smaller than my own having lost a war with Silent Joe on the previous hand. I could sense retribution in the air. She had drawn the Big Blind bet – forty thousand was needed to bet against her.

And then there was me. Ace. Number One. I was the champion of champions, the king of the hill, and blessed with luck most lottery pundits would kill for. They called me the Final Bullet because I’d drawn a winning Bullet – an Ace – on the final upturned card more times in one game than there seemed Aces. For show, I routinely rested my wrists on the table to turn up my shirt cuffs proving I had no hidden cards there. What can I say? I’m blessed. Now I had a tournament to win.

“Bullet, the betting is on you. Forty thousand to call.”

I carefully folded the edge of my cards up a fraction: Ace of Clubs, 8 of Hearts. Two sets of eyes scrutinized my every facial muscle; Silent Joe’s neck did not budge. I moved my hand to my stack.

“Forty-thousand,” I said. I counted off the chips and pushed them out.

“Forty-thousand to call,” the dealer said pointing to the man on my left.

Silent Joe paused before glancing down at his cards. His dead stare revealed he had a pair of Aces; or a pair of Threes; or a Seven and a Two. I knew more about brain surgery than I did Joe’s hand. He threw his chips in to call and turned the play over to the Joker.

“I once met a girl who loved to gamble,” he began. “Being a bit of betting man myself I asked her what her biggest loss was. ‘Forty G,’ she replied. I said, ‘That’s not too bad. I’ve had worse.’ She shook her head. ‘Not when your cup size is that big and they’ve taken your blouse already!’.”

He roared at his own joke as Suzie chuckled into her hand. The Joker called the bet and Suzie Lous bit her lip. She lifted a fistful of chips and I sensed a raise. It was a feint, a clever ploy to ensnare the undisciplined into revealing the strength of their hand. Joe, Joker and I were far from foolhardy to be caught in her trap. Instead, she checked to finish the round.

The dealer put the top card from the deck onto the table to burn it then placed the next three face-up. The reveal of the first three cards called the Flop showed the Ace of Spades, Ten of Clubs and Nine of Spades. With my Ace of Clubs buried under my palm, I had a Pair. From the corner of my eye, Suzie Lous wiggled her finger around her hair. It was a tell that I had played on in the past until she realized her mistake and had dropped it. The deliberate sign made me nervous. Had she two Tens in her custody already? With two Spades showing she might be aiming for the Flush – having five cards with the same Suit – which gave her nothing at present. The Joker’s smile had dimmed. The Flop had not been generous. Silent Joe did not quiver an inch.

It fell to the Joker to check or bet. He chose to check, passing the betting on to Suzie Lous. The Queen of Heartbreakers wet her lips and tapped the table twice. Perhaps she had nothing after all. Texas Hold-Em is the most psychologically dextrous form of Poker in my opinion. A player could be sitting on a monster of a hand and still decide not to bet. Then on the final River card BAM! See you, wouldn’t want to be you. I’ve had the pleasure of doing just that to the grinning idiot sitting opposite and it couldn’t happen to a nicer person.

 The play was now with me. I decided to get things moving. “Bet forty thousand,” I said.

It was a clear sign that I had an Ace or better and would hopefully weed out the chaff. Joe seemed to ponder the bet. With a Nine and Ten on the board, there was a possible High Straight where five of the cards would run in sequence. In characteristic fashion, he called without moving his lips. It was on to the Joker.

“I’ll be honest, I’m holding a Pair of Tens,” he said with a grin. “So I will see your forty and raise you double.”

The bet was one-hundred and twenty thousand. The Joker’s eyes danced to each player as if daring us to fold. The Queen of Heartbreakers fluttered her golden lashes at him.

“Honey, that’s no match for my hand,” she said and called the bet.

The play had returned to me. To continue I would have to pay an extra eighty thousand. That Suzie had called the Joker’s bet with such ease gave me cause for concern but with an Ace in my pocket and a prayer in my soul, I pushed in my chips to call. Silent Joe followed.

The dealer burnt the next card called the Turn and I saw my prayer being answered. An Eight of Spades descended from the heavens to garner me with two Pair: Aces and Eights. I am not a superstitious person and was thrilled with the arrival of the Dead Man’s Hand. Wild Bill Hickok met his end with exactly this hand in the Wild West when he was shot in the back, but hey, I’m the Final Bullet, not the Blindsided Bullet. The Turn made little impact on Silent Joe’s temperament but the Joker was bouncing.

“I’ve got three Eights!”

“Honey, a minute ago you had three Tens,” Suzie said.

“You must have misheard me,” the Joker replied. “Nobody hates Trip Eights.”

Suzie Lous shook her head then returned to twiddling with her hair.

I had a tough decision to make. With three Spades on the board for a possible Flush and a Straight available, my two Pair was weak. Weakness never wins in Poker.

“I’m all-in.”

My announcement was met by a snort of derision and a gasp of disbelief. Even Silent Joe took a glimpse at me. The dealer counted my remaining chips. “That’s one-hundred thousand to call,” he said.

Silent Joe nodded his consent. He slid his remaining stack forwards without a whisper.

“Money is about even. Joker to call.”

The Joker smiled at the dealer then to me. “You got big balls, Bullet, I’ll give you that.”

“Still have three Eights?” I asked.

“Eights? I meant Aces,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “And I can smell a bluff. Phew.” He wafted his hand over his nose.

“Show me you have a pair,” I said.

He smirked but did not speak. I began to drum my fingers. Then checked my watch. Then yawned.

“Any time this year,” I said.

“Call.”

The Joker toppled his chips. He was in. That left the only female in our little ensemble.

“Suzie, will you call?” said the dealer.

Suzie Lous’s fingers had trapped in the wound curls of her hair. She bit her lip. To most, it would indicate indecision but immediately I knew I was in trouble.

“I’m not sure,” she said.

It was the best bluff of the tournament.

“Oh well, why not?” she said.

The pot was one million, chips stacked to the ceiling. This was it.

“Turn them over,” said the dealer.

I flipped my cards all the while staring at the table. Silent Joe threw a Seven of Diamonds and a Jack of Hearts: a Straight Run! Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten and a Jack; but it could be beaten by a Jack and Queen. The Joker was limping with a King of Spades and Eight of Clubs: a small Pair but with the chance of a high Flush. Suzie Lous was in front. She had collected a Flush with her Ten and Three of Spades.

“Oh, I seem to have five cards of the same Suit,” she said.

“Looks like the lady’s a winner,” the Joker said and laughed.

I needed a miracle. Silent Joe was out. If another Spade appeared the Joker would walk as the victor. Suzie Lous fanned her blushing cheeks. The dealer readied the final card: the River.

“Ace of Diamonds.”

“Of all the luck …” The Joker’s smile had vanished. Suzie Lous’s mouth was agape. Silent Joe gave me a nod.

“Full House. Bullet wins,” said the dealer.

Three Aces, two Eights. I shrugged, trying to restrain my jubilation. I had won the million on the final Bullet – my namesake.

“Officer Johnston!”

My name being bellowed brought me to an immediate standing attention. The others followed suit as the Senior Officer marched in.

“What have I told you about gambling during your lunch break?” the S.O. barked. “If the prisoners are not permitted to gamble then neither are you. Clear up these matchsticks and begin the unlock.”

Meekly I slid the matchstick chips into my bag and pocketed my winnings – ten half-ounces of tobacco – and returned to my station.

The moon is waning, the waxen crescent slipping behind the dunes. Waves lap in gentle rolls. Stars above become eclipsed with the promise of a new tomorrow. They say the night is darkest just before dawn but what do they know of darkness?

I was borne in shadow, conceived in gloom. Forever imposed into a prison of night, my chains have held me fast for centuries, it seems. I have kept to the back alleys out of sight for fear that someone would point and call me hideous, monster, a villainous scourge of evil. They treat me like a plague with no cure. Like an animal, they hunt me when all I desire is nourishment and to live in peace. Yet they do not deter so the beast becomes unleashed. Torn remains always reveal my true nature but try as I might the tears cannot flow. So I return home, back to the mountains where none dare venture.

Even amongst the slabs of hewn rock, I keep to the dank crevices. Solitude is my soul mate. We have travelled countless weary years together, blind bats leading the blind. Long have I desired the touch of another. Soft skin, gentle caresses, the breath of life against the nape of my neck. Can an abomination such as I be capable of love? I desire it with all my heart but the beast will always devour. I have tried to cage it but no cell can detain its thirst. Its growls echo through my throat until love dies. That is why they hunt me. A father’s cry, a mother’s wail, the rage of a brother hell-bent on revenge. I imagine their pain, bring it into my being to flow like blood but it as alien to me as the light of life.

Even in my haven, they try to torment me. Rearing spears and blazing torches, they sweep like a serpent up through the forest. I watch their approach from the cleft of the cliff, sniffing the scent of mingled fear and fury. Their roars ring through the night waking my brothers. The rabble halts as the howls of the pack pierce their souls. Panic seizes some sending them sprawling back to their little village but the brother is not deterred. My head rolling by his feet is his only desire. As he passes my hiding spot, I see the soulless stare which mirrors my own. No hint of humanity, only tooth, and claw.

I spot the straggler at the rear. He twists this way and that, pride and fear of rejection the chain to his group. I sweep down and strike. His gurgles are masked by the hammering of hearts and the howls in the night. Three remain. Dancing between the shadows cast by the torches’ glare, I tear, felling one then two. The brother spins. He calls out their names. His voice is a tremor of more than just vengeance now. I wait for him to turn. My hand shoots out around his throat.

“I am sorry.”

My words surprise me as they do him. Never have I uttered such sentiment before. His feeble swipe is easily parried and as I choke I see my plight for what it is. Forever imprisoned in this existence, I desire to be set free. Not free to love or live like this dying man struggling to draw one last breath but free of this beast within. Silence returns with a snap. Instead of casting another body aside I place it on the ground. I study what lies below me and see myself: dead flesh with no soul.

Determined, I make my way south towards the shore. Time is short. The whistle of the birds rings out to greet me. I embrace them even when they flee in terror. The damp moss and feral ferocity are left behind as I slide down the hills. The years of waging war against my nature are finally coming to an end. Tonight will be the last.

I think back to my oldest adversary and wonder will she save at the twelfth hour? The words of her Holy book fill my mind as I reach the dunes:

‘The people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned.’

As my feet sink into the sand I stop to stare at the stars. I am tired, tired of the hunt, tired of being hunted, tired of endless nights and sleepless days. No longer will I be tied to the beast within. If it is to be freed then let be into a furnace.

The first rays peek over the horizon. My instinct is to fly but I hold fast. Long have I yearned to see it, much like an old man waits to greet Death. And then I am bathed. The burning glow bursts upon my face. I will my eyes open and I see the radiance of life for the first time. Glorious light, all enrapturing. Shadows flee at its awakening. Mankind was right to abhor the dark.

As my body bursts into flames I, Count Dracula, see my first sunrise and I am free. For it is my last.

Drifting along for years, it seems. Cracked lips chapped beyond repair, all hope of rescue lost at sea. Too weak to shield eyes from the sun’s final stare. Night now stalks and eardrums echo as the waves lap. Fingers melt to salt, skin drags the depths. Fading rays of hope eclipse. No moon to guide safe passage. Tonight will drown all sorrow.

All are gone, claimed by the sea of time or rage of windswept fury. Fretful furious faces forced away forever. Sea swirls to sweep swimmers of soulful grief. Swept into oblivion, never more to be seen.

A final prayer is whispered into the wind: “Tried but failed.” Eyelids flutter, strength falls, body flops. As the horizon suffocates, a glimpse of the next life blinks on. A light more precious than gold radiates above the surface. Its glow empowers, breaching the divide, pulling at death’s firm grasp. Yanked up to life, the ray of hope shines bright. It is a lifebuoy, a white ring of vigor, pulling to safety all those who see and believe.

Then it is gone and night returns. Cast into the shadow of death again. A cruel twist to a sorry tale. Anger flares like a firework. Why give a glimpse of salvation only to pluck out an eye? Cut off the hand too and be done with it.

Determined now, body sinks and no final breath is taken. As the murky depths invade the mocking light returns. It transforms the darkness to day and with it a vision of heaven once held dear. Streets of gold wide enough for two, pearly mansions fit for four. A radiance only a polished smile could extol. This house of lights rises into the sky alive with beings oh so precious. Angels hold hand-in-hand the promise of eternal bliss. Their voices ring a sweet song to feed the spirits within.

One spies a lost soul in desperation. She leaves the sacred sanctuary to offer salvation. Wings pierce the watery tomb and gently scoop the corpse within, drawing it back to life and light. The warm embrace evaporates night’s chill and loving eyes look down in peace.

Enraptured to be redeemed again. Mind, body, soul unite. A living being once more ready to return to the house of lights. But the beam twists like a knife and shines on another place. The angel vanishes, the house moves on, and gravity jerks. Crashing back to death, a body slaps against the cruel wet tombstone. It breaks, this time for good.

The house of lights has sailed and now only the abyss remains.

Bloody airport lounge. Hate the sight of them. Hate the smell too, especially this time of year. With the snow came the inevitable delays so everyone’s jammed in her like an open tin of sardines that’s three months off its sell-by date. Stale sweat, barfing coughs, that repressed fart smell, and the same bloody question I overhear every day: what time will we get home?

“How the hell should I know?” I bark making the little old lady step back in surprise. I shoo her away and slide further into my seat. I suppose I’m lucky not to be on the floor with the other losers. Families have made forts out of their hand luggage to claim their territory while the wind blows a bloody gale outside.

Christmas Eve. I shouldn’t be here. Promised Samantha I’d definitely be home this year. Said if I wasn’t I’d sign those blood papers she’s been threatening me with. The kids are at that age that they’ve stopped asking where Dad is. Travelling across the globe never did sit well with fatherhood but it’s part of the job. Actually one of them was conceived during a bout of lust thirty-thousand feet up. Samantha was plastered at the time. I walked to the loo and nodded to her to meet me. The lights were low, red-eye flight. I loosened my tie, unbuttoned my shirt at the top, but you couldn’t see if you weren’t looking. Even in a drunken haze Samantha only had eyes for me. Stumbled towards me with those high heels and click went the lock. Wham, bam, thank you Sam. I was already a member of the Mile High club but this was her first ticket. Found out she was up the duff a month later and all hell broke loose. Finally convinced her she was the only one for me. She stayed at home popping out the kids while I remained on board to pay the bills.

The man beside me shifts on his seat to face the other way. I snort and in doing so catch a sniff of my breath. God, no wonder people are staring. I rummage in my jacket for a mint but my finger slides against a bottle. One of the mini-bar offerings from whatever town I was in yesterday. I’ve probably had too much to drink hence the toxic cloud hovering by my face but dammit I want to wet my tongue. Alcohol’s forbidden in the main lounge. Normally I’d be holed up at the bar pretending to down mineral water while the Smirnoff slides down my gullet but that didn’t end well. It wasn’t my fault the waitress wasn’t wearing a bra. If you don’t want people to comment then dress appropriately, is what I say. I grabbed my cap and briefcase before security came and bolted for the benches. So here I am, gum stuck to my navy trousers, bottle pressed to my lips, trying to avoid the stares while the bloody snow batters the window.

I strain to see the monitor. Delayed, delayed, delayed. I slump back and push my cap down to cover my face. May as well get some shut-eye before the next leg of the journey. As I nestle down and my mind starts to drift the tannoy cranks to full volume:

“Captain Runnels to the desk, please. This is a call for Captain Runnels.”

I swear out loud at being woken up making a married couple sitting opposite to tut in disgust. I gave them a lopsided grin until they look away. Bloody tourists. Think they own the place when they come here. They haven’t the miles behind them as I have. I used to keep track of all that stuff. Had a little book too. But when you’ve been at this game for as long as I have you soon learn not to take it all so seriously. I close my eyes again and try to settle. As my body droops, I feel a tug at my leg and my lids snap open.

“What time will we get home?”

She looks about six or seven. A bogey hangs from her nostrils. She wipes it away with her sleeve. I look around but don’t see who’s supposed to be in charge of the little brat. I squeeze my eyes shut again hoping she’ll take the hint but no, there’s a bloody tug on my jacket sleeve.

“Does Santa fly a plane?”

I deliberately squeeze my eyes tighter blocking out the brat and all the other muppets as they chatter on and on and on about the bloody weather and if they’ll make it home in time. A tug on my tie. I open one eye. She’s snorting a snot bubble six inches from my face. It pops to cover her lip.

“Kid, what’s your name?”

“Vicky.”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to bother strangers, Vicky?”

She sniffs the snot back up her nose leaving a snail trail. I sigh.

“Don’t worry about Santa, kid. He’s used to all this snow. You’ll make it home to your nice warm bed and wake up tomorrow to open all your presents.”

“Promise?”

I cross my heart. She smiles and skips away. The tannoy rings again. This time it’s a worried parent looking for their lost child. It could be her but it’s none of my business. I sneer at the couple opposite again making them look to the ceiling and take a swig from my bottle. Ahh. Much better. All I need now is a hot body to neck. I laugh, thinking back to that sexy little number from last week. Tore the hotel room up all night long, hmm mm. She liked a man in uniform, what can I say?

From up ahead, I see two security guards approach. I quickly screw the cap back on and stuff it into my pocket. Leading them is Joey, one of the attendants. I recognize him from one of the flights but these days it’s hard to keep track. He tries to keep his back straight as his hips sway down the hall. Don’t get me wrong, to each his own, but why try and hide it? He steps over protruding legs, and screaming kids until he reaches my row. I turn to face the window. The snow seems to have stopped.

His high-pitched voice calls to me but I ignore him, pretending to be asleep again. Bodies move aside as the three make their way towards me.

“Captain Runnels,” Joey says. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Didn’t you hear the call? The runway’s clear and we’re ready to board.”

I straighten my tie, tip up my cap, and reach to grab my briefcase. Joey has to help me stand. I give a little wave to my neighbours opposite and as I’m led away say:

“See you on Flight 101.”

“I’m Jacob McClavish and I’ve been sent by God to help.”

Some of the group took their hands off their faces long enough to look up at me. I gave my best smile; a mix of hope, empathy, and concern. I could hear Mervyn and Roger whispering behind me as I addressed the rest of the group. The cast from a Hollywood film was somehow jailed with our little trio and looked petrified.

“I believe we’ve been put in this prison for a reason. God works in mysterious ways.”

One of the men appeared more agitated than the others. He was bouncing up and down on the bench and held that wide-eyed stare I’d seen with the junkies back in Glasgow. His bleached-blonde hair bobbed as he waved at me.

“Hey, padre. You think you can chain the great Rodriguez? No god can keep me locked up.”

The accent was a ridiculous attempt to capture the gravelly dialect of a Colombian warlord. The man’s face was familiar. Something about his chiselled jaw which was beginning to sag twigged a memory. It was Roger who got it first.

“You’re Jack Stiller Junior. Cyber Cop 1, 2 and 4. You’re a movie star. What are you doing here?”

The actor looked around as if a secret had slipped. He nodded to the security camera over the door.

“We’re still rolling,” he hissed.

Roger didn’t seem to notice the odd behaviour. He was star struck.

“I always wanted to know about Cyber Cop 3. Was it a scheduling conflict? Pay not high enough?”

One of Jack’s crew members pushed his finger to his nose and snorted.

“Too fond of the old coke, eh? Weren’t you going through your fourth divorce then?”

My friend’s questions were inappropriate. Jack Stiller blinked in five long flashes. I could see he was close to the edge. Whatever method acting he was into couldn’t quite connect with reality. The thought of someone having a psychological breakdown in this confined space of twenty bodies was not appealing. So I did the only thing I could.

“This isn’t Jack Stiller. This is the drug baron Rodriguez, feared by all the cartels in Bogota.”

Roger gave me a look but it was the cue Jack was waiting for.

“Gringo, you can pray to your God for help but I’m the only god in this country.”

He struggled to stand. There was dried blood on the side of his cheek. The Jack Stiller of Cyber Cop fame was lost within this shell of a bedraggled man. Everyone stared at him.

“You work in this pigsty, padre?”

“I’m just visiting.”

“Then you’re going to get us out.”

I saw a blur as Jack struck. He grabbed my arm and spun me around, pushing his forearm into my throat. My friends ran forward to help.

“Don’t come any closer or I break his neck.”

“Jack, that’s just in the movies. Let him go, man.”

One of the crew stood to face us, preventing Roger and Mervyn from knocking Jack’s head off. Jack was more solid than I assumed. Years of training meant the muscles were real, unlike the place his mind was in.

“Rodriguez says knock on the door. When they see the padre needs out we jump the guards.”

“You’re losing it, man. This guy’s gonna pass out.”

Although the grip was strong, I could still breathe. I could have stamped his foot or clocked him with an elbow but I had to see this through.

“Knock the door or I swear I’ll twist his head off.”

The crew member stepped alongside us, wary not to get too close. Jack dragged me back on my heels which scraped away some grime from the floor. The door was hammered with the ball of a fist.

It took a minute but we all heard the sound of jangling keys approach. Jack relaxed his grip and pushed his mouth to my ear.

“Tell them you want to leave. No funny business, comprende?”

I tried to nod but he gripped my hair. The panel on the door slid aside and a pair of unflinching brown eyes peered in.

“I’d like to leave now,” I said, knowing full well what the answer would be.

The guard laughed and threw back the hatch. Jack seemed confused. He reached out himself and banged hard. The hatch jerked open.

“The padre says he needs to go so open up before I kill him.”

The hatch slammed shut. Jack’s breath steamed the hairs on my neck. He threw out a kick that rocked the doorframe.

“I’m going to twist his head off and use it as a football,” he yelled.

The noise reverberated around the room and into the core of my skull. Through the ringing, I could still hear the rattle of keys. The door pushed outwards to be replaced by a black baton.

“Put him down.”

The guard stepped into our movie. He had to duck to get under the door. His beard ran thick and travelled down his body to sprout out of his uniform. Jack made sure the camera on the ceiling could capture the action by drawing him inside. His arm was wrapped around my throat again.

“Why don’t you make me, grande oso?”

The insult made the guard pause. My Spanish wasn’t great but did he just call him a big bear? The guard pointed his baton at Jack’s face. The dents on all sides testified to its past abuses.

“Put him down.”

I wasn’t sure where this would go. Was Jack so into character he would try to fight this giant of a man? Where did that leave me? My thoughts turned to my own plight. Stuck in a Colombian prison, not for my faith but something I wasn’t guilty of? If this was jail I dreaded to think what prison was like. It was then I noticed the open door. The gap was only a few inches but could easily be forced open. All the others were glued to the scene of guard versus con but I visualized something else.

“Take that big stick and shove it up your bungholio.”

Jack was really into his part, not realizing his teeth would soon be knocked down his throat. The guard had enough. As he stepped forwards to end the siege, I decided to act. No matter the size of the man a swift kick to the gonads always has the same effect. The guard collapsed with a groan. His hands were squeezed between his legs as he curled into the foetal position. The goolie shot also made Jack drop his grip in surprise. I used the distraction to enact my plan.

“Men, God has spoken, and he says we need to get the hell out of here.”

I took the guard’s keys and tossed them to Roger then lifted the baton and stood to face Jack.

“Rodriguez, the Columbian Liberation Army salutes you. We need you to take us to your base in the jungle. You think you can fight through the rest of the guards?”

I bit my tongue hoping he would take the bait. Ever the professional, Jack saw the next imaginary scene unfold in his mind. He stood straight and saluted.

“Lead the way, Padre.”

Not wanting to stay and rot here any longer, I waved at the others to follow me. They stepped over the fallen body writhing on the floor to aide me in our search for the exit. Rodriguez would come in useful, if he made it out alive, but I was the Padre and not even God could stop me now.

“So, Rodriguez. You think you can waltz into my neighbourhood with your fancy guns and armoured trucks and take over?”

Rodriguez chewed on his toothpick, flipping it around with the tip of his tongue.

“No one can take my spot, you conejillo de indias. I own this territory. I own these men. The policía follow my command.”

The heat of the sun bore down through the Columbian rain forest. Sweat ran as rivulets from their foreheads to their soaking vests. Two small armies faced each other in a line, waiting for their commanders to give the word. Del Blanco grimaced through his beard. His beady eyes narrowed as the toothpick was tossed to the sides of his enemy’s mouth with the skill of a juggler. The silence reached even to the animals who incessant squawking and screeching vanished in the midday light.

Rodriguez reached up to extract the toothpick.

“You’re an old man, amigo. Why don’t you retire gracefully? Jump into that white limo you love and drive off into the sunset. It’s time to let the new sangre take control.”

Del Blanco drew in some phlegm to the back of his throat and spat. The mucus flew to land beside Rodriguez’s polished shoes.

“I will spit on your grave,” he screamed.

“And I will dance on yours.”

Rodriguez pushed the toothpick between thumb and forefinger and flicked. It hurled into the air and both sides watched as it speared Del Blanco’s eye. His howl sounded the battle cry.

Bullets ripped from sub-machine guns as both sides pulled their triggers. Bodies slumped to the earth as the rounds found their marks. Rodriguez took out his pistol and charged. The tackle caught Del Blanco off guard and both men fell to the ground.

“You think you can kill me? I am Del Blanco. I am immortal.”

A fist shot out to catch Rodriguez on the chin. He held the pain in check and rained down a blow of his own. It caught a golden molar that flew out of Del Blanco’s mouth with a thick mix of spit and blood. But the old hand wasn’t finished yet. He replied with a knee to the gut causing Rodriguez to lose his grip. He reached up to claw at his face but was countered by a headbutt. Both men rolled along the forest floor, each determined to destroy the other and claim the prize.

An explosion broke the ranks of the armies as a grenade fired. Others stepped forwards to take the spots of the fallen. The Columbian sky became ablaze in orange with the screams of the injured drowned out by the hail of bullets. Del Blanco had his hands wrapped around the usurper’s throat. He had managed to gain control and now straddled the younger man’s chest.

“Pathetic rana. No one comes into my patch to take what’s mine.”

Rodriguez was fading. The grip was getting tighter. He had one chance to reply.

“You’ll…never…”

Del Blanco paused as if waiting for his enemy to speak.

“You’ll…never…”

Rodriguez was turning scarlet. He tried to mouth something.

“Never…Oh shit. Line.”

The director drew a line under his throat. “Cut,” he yelled. The film crew stopped the cameras and the bell sounded to end the scene. Del Blanco stood up and shook his head.

“Damn you, Jack. We almost had that one in the can.”

Rodriguez sat up and ripped off his wig. The dark locks dropped to unveil a mass of blonde hair. He was gritting his teeth. The director stomped over to his two leads.

“What the hell was that? You know how much this shoot is costing me? That’s fifteen takes of one bloody scene. That’s it. I’m calling it a day. I need a shot of tequila.”

He threw the script up to catch the breeze. The page floated down on the C-lister’s face. Jack Stiller Junior pushed himself to his feet while Del Blanco stomped off to join the rest of the cast.

“Hey, guys. You should have kept rolling. Haven’t you heard of post-production editing?”

The cameraman wiped down the lens as Jerry gave him a hopeful look. With no reply, he snorted and made his way to the trailers.

“How many times do I have to tell them to keep rolling. All these ridiculous lines. They just don’t get it. The audience knows when we’re faking and when it’s real.”

His minder José turned the page of his newspaper and folded his legs. Jerry rubbed at the fake blood on his nose with a wipe.

“I mean I know it’s acting but come on. This isn’t the eighties anymore. People want real. They don’t want stunts or phony accents.”

José scanned the sports page as Jerry ripped out another wipe.

“What that lot don’t realize is I have a pedigree career. Jerry Stiller Junior is more than just a two-bit Hollywood hack. Method acting is in my blood, man. I was up for that Oscar until Eastwood stole the spot. God damn westerns. I’m trying to make a southern, José. José? You listening?”

José ruffled down the sheets of the tabloid to read the headlines. Jerry flung another wipe onto the pile in the bin.

“If it were me I would redo this whole shoot. Go guerillastyle. Down in the trenches, dirty and mean, you know? I wouldn’t tell the cast too. I’d just light the place up one day and throw them in the middle of it. Just imagine. Toss in a grenade and see what they’ve got. BOOM.”

As Jerry closed his mouth the earth shook.