Sunday. The one day where GoldenGun could happily set about polishing his piece undisturbed...most of the time. Today, he had decided to work on some silverware too and had just whipped out his best sock to get the job done. He fumbled in his trouser pocket until he found it; his favourite old rag, worn to within an inch of it's life and the one thing that had served him well throughout many a boring journey between cities (with the help of occasional choice reading material).

Time for a good old spit rub, friends he said aloud to the slightly dusty candleholders on his mantlepiece. With one in each hand and his trusty sock in his mouth, he casually sauntered over to his leather sofa and plopped himself down, giving a good wriggle to get comfy. He let out a little squeal of joy as he set about his work, alternating between spits and rubs, spits and rubs and more spits and rubs. Every few moments he'd pause, grin at himself in the gleaming silver, blow himself a kiss and then continue.

He was just about to finish one job and start on something more adventurous - his mother's silver fruit bowl - when his phone screamed at him from across the room, disturbing the shiny tranquility of his Sunday morning glory.

What? What is it? I'm very, very busy...make this good, GoldenGun answers abruptly, giving his silver stick a furious final scrub due to his annoyance.

Oh...Oh, I see. I was just, uhm...tending to something. Or about to. Anyway, give me the details and I'll get right on it. You know me. I got the skills.

He listens, nods, grunts and then hangs up, sighing as he places his silverware back and gives them a little pat. He lifts his notebook and pen and scribbles a quick note:

Monkeys
Donkeys
Hares
Junkies

West Chicago, above the Blue Angels Brothel. Keep head down in case they recognise me. Spank the monkeys, ride the donkeys, race the hares and get the fuck back to my polishing.

GoldenGun pulls on his overcoat, only to find a sticky tissue attached to his sleeve. Fuck sake, he thinks, damn stuff gets everywhere.
He yanks the thing off, scrunches it in a ball and chucks it towards the trash on his way out the door. He misses.

Arriving outside the Blue Angels brothel, GoldenGun pulls the collar of his overcoat up, not realising that another offending sticky tissue is clinging for it's life to the wool. A scantily clad woman passes and laughs herself into a stupor. Drunk bitch, he thinks. Shrugging it off, he makes his way to the apartment floor above the knocking shop, reflecting on the fact that despite his many visits, he never once wondered about the occupants of the upper floor. Now he was here to claim back what was rightfully Chicago's and not for a few jumped up fucks in fancy suits.

As he reaches the top of the staircase, he hears raised voices. Someone in distress, someone threatening a shot. Balls, he thinks, my polishing will have to wait a little while by the sounds of this. He decides against knocking, instead opting to make a violent burst through the door. He braces himself then lunges forward, only to crack his skull off the cheap plastic doorframe. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck, he grunts. So, he turns the handle instead, rubbing at his head with the other hand. The door opens to reveal two men armed with guns and pointing them at helpless (and wasted) men and women on the floor. The atmosphere remains as tense as it had sounded from the stairway, yet the room is now completely silent as everyone stares at GoldenGun. The two men turn and point their guns directly at his head without a word. GoldenGun raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth to speak, holding up one hand to signal for the men to give him a moment.

Wait...I think I'm in the wrong place. I'm looking for Harry 'Hare' Eballs and Derek Donkey?

One of the men frowns and looks at his partner. He turns back to GoldenGun with a menacing look and says, I think you'll find it's Don K. And I think you'll find you won't be going anywhere else, son. Derek cocks his gun and holds it steady.

GoldenGun shakes his head, smiling. No, sir - I have a package for you.

Derek backs down, signalling to his partner to do the same. Make it quick son, we're a little tied up.

Goldengun reaches into his coat, nodding humbly. Of course, of course...here we go.

He opens fire on the two mobsters, killing them both instantly to a soundtrack of screams from the junkies on the floor.

Fucking relax, will you? I'm here to sort this out. Now shut the fuck up and let me deal with this. The name's Gun...GoldenGun. Just play along, and you'll be fine - got it?

He quickly shifts the two corpses and lays them near to the junkies, buttoning their jackets and coats to conceal the shotwounds and blood. He rolls up a sleeve on each of them and kicks a few used needles at their feet. Then, he takes a spot on the floor, removing his jacket and rolling up his own sleeve before tying a tourniquet to his arm.

What we having? he asks, pulling a silver spoon from his pocket and taking just a moment to smile at his own reflection. You pretty, pretty thing, he thinks. And give me the lowdown on the other guy - I know we still have ourselves a little bit of a problem.

He listens as one of the women explains the situation, telling him how Micky 'Monkeythumb' Fratelli had been extorting their supply for months and taking it out of the city for his own profits, as well as running a prostitution ring from the brothel below.

I see. Well, you'll find we don't take kindly to strangers pissing on our turf. That's why I'm here. So as I said, this chump will be along soon and you gotta play along and keep the fuck calm. Take a hit, cop out, I'm taking care of it.

He watches as she obeys, shooting up with a shaking hand. Peace out, he smiles.

Some time passes, during which GoldenGun gives a little thought to the work he left behind at home. He frowns at his spoon, then realises he can give it a good spitshine later on.

Eventually, footsteps sound on the stairway and GoldenGun slips his spoon to safety, positioning himself so that he can strike at the right moment. Micky enters the room with two bodyguards, swinging a cane and whistling 'Little Green Bag' to himself. GoldenGun overheard him speaking to his bodyguards - It's quite the little ditty, just makes me want to shake it all about. Infectious, really.

As he looked up, feigning his finest drug-induced foggy gaze, he couldn't help but stare in horror at the man's hands. He had the largest fucking thumbs he had ever seen; they were like chicken thighs, ripe bananas ready for the picking. Enormous. Jesus fucking Christ, he thought, they'd work wonders with a bit of polish on my candlesticks. Strong fingers. Meaty. Workman's hands. He shook himself out of his stupor and put his mind to the task at hand.

Meanwhile, Micky had turned his attention to his two finest men laying on the floor at the back of the room, several feet behind GoldenGun.

What the fuck are you doing? he bellowed, his massive thumbs flapping around with his furious hand gestures. You got fucking work to be doing, fucking junkies! Get your asses up! Paddy, Doyle - get those guys on their feet by whatever means necessary.

As the two bodyguards set about their business, GoldenGun rises to his feet and marches up directly behind Micky, forcing the barrel of his gun into the nape of Micky's neck.

Order your men to sit down and shoot up. Now. You could turn them on me, blow my fucking brains out, sure. I'm nobody. I'm a gimp, just like them, doing what I'm told. But I promise you two things. A) I'll be using you as a full fucking body shield. And B) if I die, there'll only be more right behind me to finish this job. So give your little bitches their instructions and you and I are gonna have ourselves a little chat.

Micky remains statue still except for his mouth as he orders his men accordingly. GoldenGun can't resist a quick glance at his thumbs again, exhaling slowly as he takes in their mammoth girth at close proximity. With the bodyguards taken care of, he shoves the gun harder into Micky's neck, slides his gun out of his holster to de-arm him and motions for him to sit.

Alright. We've got ourselves a little problem here. GoldenGun lights a smoke, takes a long draw and blows in Micky's face. You seem to be lost. Boys, do me a favour and tie this guy up so we can talk like reasonable men. He looks sharply at two of the junkies as he makes his demands. Micky winces in degradation as the junkies pull his arms tightly behind him, leaving him defenseless. Meanwhile, his clearly overworked bodyguards seemed to be enjoying a bit of down time.

Seems to me you must shit on those bodyguards just like you're shitting on my city. Doesn't feel so good, does it? Having your arms tied behind your back? Well, here in Chicago we have this little thing we call retribution. It's what happens to fucks like you who think they can swing by, sodomise what's ours and then piss off back home with full pockets. The mobster with no concept of respect loses all power in this town. Even a little guy like me knows that. It's guys like me who clean up shit like you. Got something to say? Well I don't wanna listen. Ain't got the time. I'm busting for a crap and I prefer to use my own bathroom. Plus, I got some spoons to polish.

Say a prayer, fucker.

To be continued....