Seconds turned into minutes, hours, days and weeks as George felt the power of gravity work against his enourmous will to stay afloat in the air. Shards of glass flew past him at a breath taking speed, as well as pieces of concrete, wood and splinters. A few grazed the sides of his suit, while a couple dug themelves into his arm and back. Pain shot from the impact wounds and across his body, though that pain would be short-lived. 

George landed hard on the ground just beside the two bodies Thom had dispatched. As Thom ran up to help him, he too heard the voice over the comms. Great, no rest for the wicked. Or for honourable gentlemen in now ruined suits. "Just...just give me a minute, Thom." 

[b]Snap[/b]

Through gritted teeth, George did his outmost to not cry out in pain as he forcefully pulled his right shoulder with his left hand. A loud and painful sound came from his shoulder, sure to send shivers down your spine if you stood around. In the fall George had, of course, managed to land on his shoulder and dislocate it. He hated it, and it hurt him just as much every time he had to force it back into place. But with the snap, it was back in action, and so was George. He took hold of Thom's arm and got up on his feet again. 

"For a cripple, I'm still quite good. Now get in, we've got no time to lose."

George slid across the hood of the car, getting in the driver-seat and starting it with ease. The Aston Martin roared to life and reversed back onto the road of Brixton, before George hit the pedal, forcing his beloved car to its (official) limits of power and speed. Avoiding jay-walkers and slow-ass-drivers, George massaged his shoulder. He really needed a good bottle of scotch, a massage by a beautiful lady and a record playing Tchaikovsky. 

"So what's the situation down at the docks? Polish workers gone on strike again, Romanians sneaking into the country or Algerians smuggling Libyans?"