Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Copyright Albert Vines 2009.  All rights reserved.  This story may be
copied or posted, without changes or omissions, for non-commercial purposes
only.  Please keep the author tag attached along with this notice, and let
me know where you've sent it or if you like it: albert.vines@yahoo.com

   Warning - This story contains explicit and graphic depictions of sexual
activity, including the humiliation and mistreatment of women.  If this
kind of thing doesn't appeal to you then please read no further.  If you do
read further, bear in mind that this is a work of fiction and any
similarity with people living or dead is entirely coincidental.  The author
does not condone the behaviours depicted here, it is a fiction, a fantasy.



   Removals by Perriman and Fosdyke - Contractors
================================================



   On the door it says Perriman and Fosdyke - Contractors.  Needless to
say, there's never been anyone called Perriman employed behind that door,
and likewise Fosdyke, who's never drawn breath beyond it.  It's a name on a
door, that's all, a front for such activities that I don't care to
advertise.  I had the door sign-written when I took over the building from
its previous owner.  I like to have somewhere to meet my employers, away
from home and hearth.  Don't get confused, if I say I'll meet you back at
the office, I really mean Romanski's.  But Perriman & Fosdyke are
Contractors and that's what this story's all about.

   I deal in removals.  Have done ever since I joined the army as a kid. 
Removing people who really shouldn't be just where they are at that precise
moment in time.  You might think that's what all soldiers do, but you'd be
wrong.  Nearly all soldiers I ever knew just fired guns.  They didn't
deliberately kill people, whatever you might think.  The opposition start
firing bullets at you, you fire back.  The good-old Red mist descends and
you fire bullets at people out of anger and self-preservation.  End up
killing a few.  Hopefully.

   With me it was different.  When I joined up they found I had an uncanny
ability with a rifle.  It's a combination of perfect eyesight, relaxation
and breathing so slowly they think you're holding it.  So they made me a
specialist and a specialist I stayed, even after they invalided me out with
a slipped disc.  Of course, they insisted on holding onto the rifle, so I
had to retrain.  Knives are messy, handguns leave residue and, contrary to
what you read in popular fiction, causing cars to crash reliably is near
impossible.  So I learned to throttle people.  Incidentally, also contrary
to what you might read in popular fiction, there is no death rattle. 
People I deal with in my line of business expire quietly and with good
grace.  That's quite important if you want the opportunity to repeat the
process.

   Now the thing you have to remember while I'm telling you this is that
Charlie Spangles is completely off his trolley.  He always was, even as a
kid.  He got his name from the sweets that was around at the time.  Every
morning he'd be sent by his Dad to the local newsagent to pick up his fags.
His dad's that is, not Charlie's.  And every morning he'd nick the sweets.
An hour or so later he'd be back in the shop with his mates on their way to
school and that's when the shopkeeper thought his spangles got nicked.  He
never figured it out.  Anyway, Charlie's a nutter.

   I lost touch with him when I went into the army but by the time I came
out he was quite well known to the local community, particularly the
guardians of that community.  He'd established himself in business quite
early on.  Other peoples businesses, mostly.  For not very much per week
he'd look after them and make sure nothing untoward happened.  Which it
wouldn't, even if he hadn't been around.  But it did, if they felt no need
of him, once he was around.  If you see what I mean.  They didn't know, at
the outset, that he was off his trolley, but they soon found out. 
Generally everyone wanted to keep on the right side of him.

   The first exception was Ronald Coleman.  Not the film star from the
thirties or whenever, but Ron Coleman to his mates.  He fancied Charlie
Spangles girlfriend and wasn't about to be frightened off.  I'd just been
discharged and was sitting around minding my own business when Charlie
'discovered' me as he put it.  You'd think I was a Pop act.  In fact we
just fell to talking in Romanski's and he asked me what sort of thing I'd
got up to in the army, so I told him.  He immediately had me in line for a
bit of removal work; Ron Coleman's removal.  I'd been retraining myself, in
theory that is, so I took the opportunity to put this theory into practice.
Worked like a charm.  Piece of wire, two bits of wood, Charlie Spangles off
at the dogs, Ron one jar too many, deceased of South Woodford a couple of
minutes later.

   It was Charlie who then coined the term 'spangled to death', to describe
what happened to someone who had once been, but was no longer, an
obstruction in his path.  Several others were spangled, over the years, and
Perriman & Fosdyke prospered.  My customers come to me through personal
recommendation and I endeavour always to meet their wishes, usually simple,
but occasionally an added complication arises.  A pet, or worse a child,
that has to be worked around, a family member who has to be included to
keep things tidy, once even an Au Pair had to be relocated.

   It was also Charlie that led to the Mrs Robinson Affair.


   /to be continued