John leant again the tree and watched the sunset with a nonchalant air about him. Dismissing a beautiful sight with the casual air of youth, his eyes closed briefly and another gust of wind tickled the grass and whistled in his ears. He sighed, not really appreciating the metaphorical lengths to which Mother Nature was going to mark the coming conflict, before words snapped him out of his reverie. His eyes flashed open and he pushed himself from the trunk as Rin made his presence known.

“Nine thousan’ pounds? You avin’ a fuckin’ giraffe ma’e?” He laughed at the enforcement agent’s ‘deal’ and stood watching him for a moment. “You’re Rin righ? Din’t thing’k you’d be’a Chinaman.” He shrugged. “Still, nuttin else for’it, we’re gunna ‘ave a fite me an you. I ain’ doin’ bird, you wanna chuck me in the shovel you go’ah ca’ch me Bluebo’al.”

With that somewhat confusing introduction, John stood resolute just a few feet from the base of the tree and watched his enemy closely, his left hand delving into the pouch at his side and slowly lifting up the lid. He felt for the rocks lining the bottom of the bag and balled his hand into a fist, drawing out a handful of the sharp stones. 

“So was’ I’ gunna be?”