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mittens and a bobble hat. A dangerous mind needs a lot of mundane activity to start feeling normal. A normal mind, preoccupied with greed, engaged in evil acts to feed greed, merely becomes an addict, an adrenaline junkie to risk, effort and reward. A dangerous mind is not necessarily evil. The motivation and acts are what determines a person as evil. A dangerous mind with no desire to be evil is just a burden, a mental illness, like being a prison officer to your own brain, hearing it ranting late at night. Or worrying what it's going to say about the next person passing. An imagination gone wrong, with no way of determining the difference between fiction and reality.
    I notice I've become introspective as opposed to observational. I suppose in a way I'm lucky. I'm not in the psychological position of being able to feel any sympathy for a contract killer. For one thing, they're taking money for it, and buffing up their image and ego in the process.
    I'm just thinking, Stupid wankers .
    I am aware that head office recruit - or to give it the more accurately questionable term, sub-contract - people like me, in a position weak enough to work for nothing more than a bit of Finders Keepers , and early birthday presents. Their reasons for doing so range from the logical, being that it's more cost-effective and efficient than paying more armed undercover police, to the slightly shady, being that should we cock up ever, we're just escaped mental patients on the run with a stolen weapon or two, which always passes scrutiny in the Press. We are basically just a step up from Joe 'The Grass' Public, Police Informer.
    I imagine police informers also lost quite a few favours, once people started bragging about themselves on Facebuddy, making a few people redundant. Most likely they got promoted as well, I think to myself. Got put in an I.T. room, browsing Facebuddy and Twaddle to keep up with the million or so blogging criminals on the net. For some reason I picture Bob and Jay, and smile to myself. Yeah. I can imagine those two as former snitches, trying to avoid a police record for dealing chocolate chip hash brownies.
    I've scored over 300 lines on Tetris before there's any sign of activity, in Terry's leafy suburban street. I stop the game in time for head office to ring.
    "Little red Vespa approaching you now," they say. " Pizza Heaven on the top-box."
    "Nice wordplay," I remark. "Crappiest getaway vehicle I've ever seen, though."
    "Ah, first impressions - and all that," they say knowingly. "He's got a Mercedes van waiting in the wings to pick him up. Two drivers, unarmed, faking local commission roadside assistance."
    "Oh, I see. Scheduled breakdown recovery," I reply. "Want me to give it a proper breakdown?"
    "We think Special Unit have got their sights set on the Merc. About time they upgraded from that ex- Dyno-Rod Transit. Because the drivers are unarmed, we're just sending in the wheel-clampers to impound it. You may or may not have noticed the gloriously fresh double yellow lines painted all around this block. The woman with the home dog-grooming business next door to Terry's totally lost her cool over that this morning. Screaming that there's nowhere for her customers to park."
    "What did you say?" I chuckle.
    "They're bloody dog owners, fucking let them walk, they're used to it - or should be," head office reply mildly. "Anyway, they'll all be gone when the Council get enough complaints letters and snotty emails. It'll be a good excuse to make it a parking meter zone instead."
    "Bastards," I chuckle. "Any idea what Pizza Boy is armed with?"
    "Biohazard," they report. "Bit of a Salmonella Streptococcus Special, with deep-fried Botulism Sticks, a side order of Crispy Garlic Fly Agaric, Angel Dusted Doughnuts, and a large Ketamine Cola, so to speak. But most food delivery boys carry CS gas now. Except for Scamways supermarket delivery drivers. They carry Tasers. You'd love to know how many people wouldn't mind getting their