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“I’m telling you, man, it's all just a ruse made up by the chinese.” Kyle McGraith explained, shoveling prawn crackers into his mouth, as he and three others sat idly about a cramped little shack, which was no more than a few miles from the outskirts of Geurchville, surrounded by a particularly overgrown spot of swamp. 

It was a rather bleak little shack, stripped of most furniture, and any kind of decoration, which existed mostly to hide the basement below. The basement in question contained a ceiling lined with garish UV lights, and the rows of cannabis plants, packed together to make use of as much space as was possible. 

A few vagrants had been dragged in to tend to the plants, and stop the UV lights from overloading, whilst McGraith, David Shohola, Adam Morin, and Patrick Phan were being employed to protect the Laurent families property. 

“No one wants to hear your tinfoil hat bullshit, Kyle,” David sighed, picking away at the plate of fried prawns in front of him “keep your fucking trap closed.” 

“Hey, I wanna hear the fella out,” Patrick spoke up, taking a sip from his can of Bud Light “could be some wisdom buried in that brain of his.” 

“If there ever was any wisdom in that shriveled old walnut, it died many, many hits ago.” David assured his colleague, frowning. 

“Up yours, Shohola,” Kyle flipped David off triumphantly, before turning to focus on Patrick “basically, global warming is all this big lie constructed by governments who want to start taking away our freedoms and liberties. The same suits and ties who let fucking swarms of immigrants into our country.” 

“Isn’t McGraith an Irish surname?” Adam spoke up, over his bowl of egg-fried rice. 

“Yeah, what’s that got to do with anything?” 

“Save your breath, Morin,” David laughed dryly “common sense is lost on this one; I wouldn’t expect him to understand irony.” 

“You know, you act pretty -fucking- high and mighty for someone who spends half his free time shoving sawbucks into Bambi’s G-String.” 

“Ah, fuck off, you miserable little cu-” 

Just as the tension seemed about ready to boil over, a deep knock rumbled through the room. 

“One of the kids from the day shift must’ve left their keys, or something,” Adam reasoned, rising to his feet, and pushing his bowl of rice away from him “I’ll take care of this.” 

The lithe man wandered over to the motley wooden door, yanking it open with one hand. 

“Yeah, wadday wan-” 

The buckshot of a Remington 870 took Adam’s head clean off, blowing his upper torso into messy pulp, and sending his blotchy carcass flying back into the floor, splattering bright red blood across the wooden floorboards. 

“Motherfucker!” Kyle let out a startled cry, and each man lunged for his gun, but within an instant a pair of giant men in biker leathers slipped into the room, spewing fire and shotgun shells down on the helpless thugs. 

David’s hand wrapped around the handle of his Tarus 9mm, whilst his comrades were blown into sickly red kingdom come.

The hired gun managed to fire off a shot which clipped one of the attackers in the side of the head, knocking him back into the wall, with blood leaking from the hole where his eye used to be, but mere seconds later the boom of a shotgun blew a gaping crater into his chest. 

David fell to the floor, blood pumping out of his mouth with each staggered breath, writhing in pain. Everything hurt, and black spots were starting to cloud his vision. 

He heard another pair of boots enter the room, and watched the outline of a figure step over him, just as the last few whispers of life started to slip out of his body.

“Hello from the Bloody Moons, you meth-smoking cousin-fucker.” 

And then the world went black for the last time.