THE APPLESHADE FILES

File One

We set the scene: a darkened alleyway in a nameless city, at the Unholiest hour. Faded neon signs spark and die in the reflection of the numerous dank puddles. The distant noise of 24-hour traffic almost drowns out the whispering voices of two salubrious-looking fellows, bent conspiratorially beneath a metal fire escape. They utter words of harsh importance; discuss prices and markets and quality of "shit" in secret tones. What's this? A pair of drug dealers, discussing a dreadful deal? Somebody stop them and their evil trade! And as if by magic...

"Bang."

"Do what?" Says a grammatically challenged Dealer, spinning around.

"I said..." A figure emerges from another corner of the alleyway: "Bang. As in," he reaches within his double-breasted Armani suit, removing a suitably large handgun: "Bang."

The gun says bang as well. Liking it so much, the gun reiterates the "bang" word again and again.

Silence skulks back into the alley (eventually).

"The problem with these dealer types, Mr Frog," says the figure to his newly arrived companion, as he absently reloads the pistol; "they just don't know when to lie down and die."

"With you there, Mr Appleshade." Comes the throaty reply. "Just can't get the staff, really."

Appleshade (for it is he!) turns over one of the bodies; inspecting each gunshot wound in turn. "Oooo...." he says eventually: "Suits you, sir."

They leave via public transport.

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