Skunk wasn't looking forward to his meeting with Slammer, the Chapter leader of the Chicago branch of the Hell's Angels.

'He's going to kill me!' he moaned to his brother Waxy.  'He'll blame me for not spotting those nasty  policemen staking out the meeting place.  Now I'm up in blinking  court, and he's out the six grand that I was supposed to get for the drugs.'

Waxy patted his shoulder. ' Look, I'll be behind you, bro.  I can help you convince Slammer that it would have been impossible for anybody to realise that our pesky  contact was an undercover cop.  We were told to expect someone with wild red hair and mega body odour, and that's what we got.  He's bound to see it's not your fault.'

Skunk wasn't convinced.  He knew how the booze and the drugs had ravaged what was left of Slammer's already limited intellect.  He'd seen Slammer laying into Pig when he ran out of petrol and was half an hour late in delivering Slammer's whisky.  Pig had been in hospital for five days with suspected concussion.

'I'm scared,' he admitted to Waxy.  'Slammer's a real scamp, and he's capable of anything.'

'Tut tut,  you worry too much.  It'll be fine.'

*****

Skunk remembered Waxy's misplaced optimism when he stood on the dusty red carpet later that night, watching Slammer gently bouncing a truncheon off the palm of his hand, and treating Skunk to a hail of abuse.  He knew that as soon as Slammer stopped shouting, he'd probably start bouncing that truncheon off bits of Skunk, breakable bits!

'Oh dear, you silly man,' screamed Slammer.  'You rascal!  You cost me six dratted  grand, and landed us in trouble.  The darn  police know where our chapter house is, because you had to tell them our darned  address.  Oh dear, I don't know how we can run our business from here.  Shucks, we're going to have to spend thousands on relocating interstate just to survive.

'I'm not happy with you, Skunk.  In fact, Brutus and Masher here are going to see that you don't leave this house alive.  A silly so and so  like you has to be taught a lesson, and show the rest of the chapter that incompetence makes me cross.'  His face went from red to purple with rage as he yelled, 'Go on chaps, break his legs first so he can't get away, then have a bit of fun with the little twit.  Don't spend too long though, as we have to be out of here and his nasty little  body hidden before the silly police realise he's gone missing.  Dump him in the usual place.  We still have a few of those concrete blocks left.  Get the little rascal  the heck  out of here!'