Hit ParadeDancer is strutting down Main Street, he’s thinking Ramones but his body language is shouting Tony Manero, Bee-Gees, Staying Alive, the mirrored aviators and wavy shoulder length black hair making him look like a ‘70’s throwback.

He’s in a groove, on top of a mountain, he’s a tiger, tooth and claw, he’s fucking King Kong, man, don’t cross him.

Spotting her a hundred yards ahead he crosses the road, speeding up a little, getting closer without getting close, steering through the pedestrian traffic like sidewalk slalom is an Olympic event. He gains ground, slipping through the throng like an errant shadow.

Phone rings; Dancer flips it open and holds it to his ear. “Yeah?… I’m on it… No worries… Five minutes max.” Phone flipped shut.

She turns into a quieter side street and he accelerates as they get closer to her apartment block, getting closer, closer, until he’s right behind her, until he’s invading her personal space and, right outside the building, right in front of the waiting doorman, she turns to see who the jerk is marching just a pace behind her.

Her mouth opens but before she can speak her tongue is pushed aside by the snub gun barrel grasped in latex surgical glove that has appeared from his right hip jacket pocket.

The doorman steps towards them, sees the gun, steps back.

Dancer looks into her eyes and sees himself reflected in her super-dilated pupils, bizarrely sees the reflection of her image as reflected in the aviators. Time stretches to an eternity as he wonders whether a person stood between them would get the elevator-mirror infinity effect, reflection bouncing off reflection bouncing off reflection…

He senses her mouth tensing around the barrel – just a second has passed – she’s going to scream. He pulls the trigger. As she lies prone at his feet he calmly fires two more bullets into her head. A passer-by is stood staring at him, and a cab has screeched to a halt, but no heroes. He holds the gun straight down by his side and walks briskly away, pockets the gun as he rounds the corner, into the burger joint, straight through to the washroom, gun in the cistern, flush the glove, flush the wig in the next cubicle, reverse the jacket (turning it from black to gaudy mint green) out through the fire exit, aviators crushed under heel in the alley.

He gets back to the scene of the crime before the first squad car, before the crowd gets too big, pushes through the few rubberneckers to where passer-by and cabbie are telling everyone who’ll listen how they saw it all. The doorman has reappeared, his faux-military overcoat draped over her shattered head, blood already congealing on its journey across sidewalk to gutter.

As the squad cars converge on the sidewalk and the ambulance wails into view he flips the phone and hits redial.

“Yeah, it’s me… yeah, she’s gone… No, no problems, it was sweet… Sweet enough to give me a hard-on… OK, later.” Flip shut, move on, job done.

Dancer is strutting down the street, he’s thinking Velvet Underground but his body language is shouting Bee-Gees, Staying Alive.