My long time associate and more recently, hired mercenary, Mad Mike, is back in town after a mission to Dallas and then Byzantium. He likes to rest up in London, under his old identity as a lazy, good for nothing roofer. All the neighbors think he lives here, shuffling off to the store, when he is really based in New Zealand, along with his brigade of mercenaries.
When in London, Mike usually has lunch with friends. Unfortunately, lazy and over paid unionized municipal workers are disturbing the peacefulness of his host's house. They are building a sewer, and they stir up dust and make the earth tremble. They disturb the peace of the household gods.
Mad Mike, the mercenary, has a spiritual side. The beautiful landscapes and terrain of New Zealand have brought out the Buddhist warrior monk in him. To obtain privilege tokens from Set, the Snake God, Mike proceeded to dispatch the foreman with a crossbow bolt to the throat. The flag man by a lasso garrote of Mike's design. The silenced pistol finished the last three taxspenders. Five down, twenty tax payers free from taxation for the rest of their lives.
Quiet, no'snitch'n London. Nobody noticed the Apache work. The neighbor lady just yelled at her poodle when she let it out to piddle. Silence has now returned, and the angry spirits who reside in this ancient suburb return to their contemplations. Far away, down Colborne, where it crosses Horton in the slum quarter, is where the dead foreman ended up driving his truck. He drove dead, down the street, till his wheels lost alignment on the railway tracks, and then lurched into the parking lot of an abandoned business. There his body sprawled for the rest of the hot afternoon, in the sun. Nobody noticed. The birds fell upon his warming flesh, starting with the eyes.