The Perfect Crime
Sitting utterly wankered in the Duke of York, myself and several other co-conspirators who wish to remain anonymous (but are, in fact, Misty and Nigle) hatched a plan to commit the perfect crime.
As alcohol was involved, we had unfortunately reached the stage where we were unable to work out exactly what we were going to do, to whom and how many ways we were going to split the money. This is not a good start to any project, let alone one that could end with my arse like a wizard's sleeve in some dreadful Siberian prison.
In a moment of clarity, Misty suggested that we might like to swap crimes in a Strangers On A Train style, but I rather pissed on her fireworks by pointing out that we were neither strangers, nor on a train, although she does reside within spitting distance of a railway.
"What about Throw Momma From The Train then?"
As we are both mother-less, this is a rather moot point, but we agreed that we should, at least throw some mother from a metaphorical train, preferably a very rich mother with plenty of ready cash stuffed in her mattress, or better still, up a billowing cleavage. Sadly, none of us wanted to be Danny De Vito, but top secret plans were hatched.
So, I'm going to sort out her shyster lawyers in a caper which will almost certainly involve the doneing of a highly explosive poo in a filing cabinet and the pressing of severed horses' genitals to unsuspecting faces. I'm after a getaway driver, a lookout and a reader who has access to spare horse willies. Any volunteers?
In return, my current Workshy Cunt of a Builder problems would be more than adequately terminated with a very large axe, looting and a bit of pillage thrown in. What could possibly go wrong?
Nobody else in the whole world knows about our plans, so don't go telling anybody, OK? Especially not PC Copperfield and Magistrate blogger Bystander, unless they're shonky enough to give us a hand, right?