The bar was full of men looking bewildered.  Looking like they'd just had a shock.  A real shock.  The kind of shock that follows shooting a man dead and, then, finding out he was an allied pro-wacker.  But even more shocking than the accidental murder of an allied pro-wacker, is accidently wacking the person you've been selected to provide close quarters personal protection for. 

Amongst the lower ranks of this thing of ours, there's a caste of fellows who protect the more senior, more lethal fellows.  They do this by firing low calibre ammunition at the guy they're protecting.  It's known as "pro-ing" and most people say there's only a one in one hundred chance of wacking the guy you're protecting.

Well, knock me down with the stiff riger-mortis corpse of Weezer, ain't the current leaders a gaggle of fucking nincompoops?  Just when I thought this crowd of shit-for-brains, charmless losers couldn't get any stupider, they start taking out their best men.  By themselves.  Literally killing their own senior ranks.  

It seems like more than a couple of top leaders have been sent to the Big Burgerhouse in the Sky.

The metaphorical folding chair has swiped these dickheads into poorly attended funerals with not a single witticism uttered at the barely noticed passing of a leader in name only.

More of it, I say.  Let Darwin rule and let this mute morons clip themselves like a barber in solitary confinement.

Rest in Burgerhoused Pieces.