Always a pleasure

When they left the shop Mizer and Burns revelled in a sense of shared purpose.

"Next we'll need—" Mr Mizer started to say.

"A van," Burns interrupted him. "I know a place."

"Then lead on, Mr Burns."

The two men walked, leaving their car illegally parked. Nobody would give it a ticket, not when they saw the handwritten note in the window.

Mizer followed Burns as he walked a meandering route through the city, taking alleyways, small back streets. Avoiding anywhere that might have a camera. Mr Burns had a knack for this sort of thing, a nose for it.

With every step the big man's mood grew lighter. Eventually he even stopped trying to crush the newborn greenery. Few people saw them pass and those who did moved aside or simply turned tail and went another way. 

It wasn't just that Burns reeked of budding violence. There was something about the two of them that normal people could sense. Some air or odour, an ominous cloud that followed them. 

Those who saw them tried hard to forget their passing and hoped never to see them again.

Eventually Mr Burns led his friend to a small warehouse in a run down part of the city. A faded sign outside the building claimed it to be 'Keppler Logistics'. It looked empty, disused. A chain-link fence ran around the outside of the building.

"Almost there," Mr Burns muttered. "Perhaps a badge might be in order?"

"Ooh," Mr Mizer grinned at the back of his companions head. "I like your thinking."

Mizer pushed his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a tattered pad and a pencil. With his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and with one eye on the road ahead, he hurriedly scribbled the word 'Police' on a piece of paper.

He looked at his childish handwriting as though examining a masterpiece. Thought about it for a second and paused in his stride, quickly drew a star beneath it. "Perfect," he said. "What do you think, Mr Burns?" He held up the pad.

Mr Burns turned and looked at it. Nodded once and resumed his pace. Mr Mizer tore the piece of paper from the pad, stuffed it all back in his pocket and ran to catch up with his companion.

"So, what's it to be? Inspection?" he said conversationally.

Burns gave the matter the thought it deserved. You could practically see the cogs turning in his head. "No," he said definitively. "Simple stop and search."

Mizer nodded. "Very well."

They walked around the fence until they came to a gate. An old, tired wooden shed of a gatehouse sat outside it. Nobody was home. Burns walked up to it as though he owned it. The door was locked but one shove was all it took to break the feeble padlock that held it closed.

"We wait," he muttered, settling down into one corner of it. 

The wooden planks creaked and buckled beneath his weight. Mr Mizer leaned against the doorjamb, reached into his pocket and removed a horrid looking leather pouch. It was one of his most prized possessions. 

Genuine human leather. A reminder of past victories and the rewards of power.

He opened the pouch and removed a lighter, straight into his pocket, and some papers. When his cigarette was rolled, he lit it and carefully folded the bundle back up and tucked it safely in his pocket again.

As he smoked, he looked around the area. Three men came into view from an alley, peeking out like mice in a hole. 

"Got company," he said. "Three little mice."

Mr Burns pushed himself up and Mizer allowed him to pass.

"Play nice, Mr Burns," he said to the passing giant.

Burns reached into his pocket and removed a pair of brown leather gloves, pulled them on. Specially made for him, he delighted in the feel of them against his skin. Soft, supple. He remembered every blow he'd ever struck in them, every kill.

He stomped off towards the men, pulling himself up to his full height. The entire alley was blocked by his bulky frame. 

"What do you think you're doing here?" he growled, his voice authoritative.

The men faltered, looked at each other in wide eyed innocence. 

"Uh, we were just passing?" One of them said uncertainly.

Burns stooped down to eye the man, the muscles in his jaw twitching, working overtime. "Pass elsewhere," he said. "Unless you want to pass over."

The men were suddenly overcome with a desire to be anywhere but in that alley. They muttered apologies and fled as quickly as they could. Burns walked back to the gatehouse, a pleased grin on his face. 

Once more Mizer stood aside to let him into the shed. "Well played, my friend. Well played. Bloody miscreants. Probably looking for someone to rob."

Burns eased himself back down onto the floor. "Not on my watch," he said.

They resumed waiting. Neither spoke, nor did they check watches or show any outward signs of agitation. Still as statues, they watched, waited and listened. Eventually a low, rumbling sound came to Mizer's ears. 

"The game begins," he said, rubbing his hands together.

He pulled the gatehouse door half closed so that Burns was hidden from view, heard the creaking groans of the wall as his companion levered himself into a standing position. A van appeared, trundling towards the gate.

Mizer took the piece of paper from his pocket and stepped out in front of it, holding up the paper. "STOP!" He shouted. "Police."

The van screeched to a halt and the van driver, a young man in his twenties, watched wide eyed.

"Engine off," Mizer called out.

The rumbling of the engine died and Mizer stepped to the drivers door, walked slightly past it and turned so he was facing the gatehouse. 

"Step out the van please, Sir. This won't take long." He said, his tone officious and bored.

The man craned his neck to look at Mizer, possibly he sensed no threat from the man so he opened the door and exited his van. 

"Is something the matter, officer?" he said, trying to sound conversational.

"No, just a routine stop," Mizer said. His eyes did not flick to the door of the gatehouse which was swinging open. Nor did he look at Mr Burns at all as he stepped out of the shed. "Licence please, then you're free to go."

The driver dug around in his inside pocket, removed a black wallet. He was removing his drivers license as Mr Burns crept steadily nearer. 

For such a big man, Burns could move silently when he wanted to. A thrill of excitement ran through him as he moved closer and closer to the van driver. Burns loved his work. He was a master of it. An artist. 

As the man handed the license to Mr Mizer, he reached out long, muscled arms and enveloped the drivers face with his hands. The man tried to struggle, to call out, but his shrieks were muffled by Burns' hands. 

As though he weighed nothing, Mr Burns picked the man up off the ground by his head, began to slowly add pressure. As he felt the man kicking, his hands tearing at Burns' own, he smiled. Grip strength exercises had never felt so worth it.

A terrible cracking sound echoed around the empty street as he jerked his hands quickly to the side. The man's legs jerked spasmodically for a few seconds before Burns dropped him to smash into the ground. 

Burns took a deep breath, relished the shiver of joy that flooded down his spine. 

Mr Mizer watched him with a smirk. "Always a pleasure watching you work, my friend. Always a pleasure."