Via Paradise by John Blake

They hadn’t gone far from the shopping complex and were walking down a lime-tree-lined mock-Tudor-housed street, when Rising Star saw an old woman getting out of a car and moving towards the front door of one of the houses, shopping bag in hand.

“Possibility of a lift, Prime Minister,” he said, keen to ingratiate himself, striding towards the woman and leaving the others to follow on. He thought vaguely that he had forgotten to pick up his phone.

I must remember it when we get back to the spa.

“Excuse me!” Rising Star raised his voice to attract the woman’s attention. “Excuse me!”

Behind him, Sercuro Man offered a plastic bottle. “Prime Minister?”

With a nod of thirsty thanks, the PM took the bottle. Wiping at the neck with his sleeve and hoping it contained alcohol, he gulped down the warm, slightly fizzy juice – a mixture of what, exactly?

“Added some fruit juice. You’re best off drinking your own urine, though.”

Urine? Was the man …?

“Urine’s got nutrients in it, I saw it somewhere on Facebook.”

The PM gingerly handed the bottle back.

“Though it’s about time I got a fresh container.” Sercuro Man lifted the lid of a rubbish bin to deposit the bottle within.

“Think she’s a bit deaf, won’t hand over her keys. Says the car won’t start anyway. I think she thinks I’m a car thief.” Rising Star shrugged off his unsuccessful negotiation as the others caught up with him.

“What nice flowers,” June observed, stooping to catch more of the scent of the flora on the woman’s front verge.

“Move aside!” the PM snapped, pushing Rising Star out of the way and standing in front of the old lady. He was about to request water, mouthwash, anything to flush out his polluted system, swill away whatever lay …

“PM, your tadger,” Rising Star warned.

As the old woman backed away from the man in the dressing gown with his member protruding, a swift flash of a punch hurled her over the small hedge demarking the boundary to her property. There came a crack of skull against stone as her head hit the corner edge of the doorstep.

“Christ!” the PM spluttered, pulling his robe to.

“Always wanted to do that,” Sercuro Man confided as he brushed past the PM to bend over the prostrate woman. “There appears to be no weapon on her person, Prime Minister. These people are trained to kill with their bare hands, I saw it on some internet site. I’ve got the car key,” he said as he took it from the dropped handbag. Stepping over his kill, he added, “Shall I drive?”

“Is she …?” June croaked from her kneeling position, then vomited.

“Christ!” repeated the PM.

Rising Star stood as if paralysed.

“We off or what?” Sercuro Man got into the vehicle, indicating to them to follow.

“I’m not getting in that car with him,” June stated as she wiped her mouth.

“Neither am I.” Rising Star was resolute.

“I’ve drunk that man’s piss!”

“She was right, you know, it doesn’t start,” admitted Sercuro Man, stepping out of the vehicle and slamming the door in disgust. “Pile of shite.” He cast the keys upon the woman’s inert body, “I’ll find another one. Here, cop hold of this,” he said as he handed Rising Star the old woman’s shopping bag. “Some sundries in there, we might be hungry later. Wait here while I find us some transport.”

They waited until the blue-black uniform disappeared around the corner, then scuttled off in the opposite direction.

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