Going to The Dogs.


Next time he would do it.
Next time he wouldn’t stand before his barrel of a Security Manager a silent, sorrowful inadequate. Next time he would pull out his Magnum torch, bludgeon the fatty fool to a pulp and resign.
It was with these dark thoughts of natural justice that Saul Blanchette squelched his way around Rubbley Greyhound Stadium’s parameter towards the isolated ‘B’ Car Park. What little he could see of the sky through the horizontal sheet rain sagged with the prospect of even more rain, and the hard northeast wind that whipped up both trouser legs to freeze dry Saul’s entire groin only added to his misery. Saul consoled himself with the thought that it couldn’t get any worse.
Then his walkie-talkie crackled into life on his sodden hip.
‘Delta Base to Handset 9, are you receiving over?’
Saul looked down at the antique handset in horror.
‘Base to Handset 9, please respond over.’
Betrayal. He decided to ignore it. His handset never worked, he’d deny it worked tonight. No one would ever know.
‘Base to Handset 9, your handset was repaired and tested this afternoon…over.’
Prove it. The chubby little git could find someone else to do his dirty work.
‘Base to Handset 9, you’re in frame, over.’
Saul’s eyes ignored his brains urgent instruction not to look up and looked up. The camera’s tiny dot of red light bore down on him and appeared to wink.
‘H9 to Base.’
‘H9, H5 requires your assistance at the Main Bar.’
‘Received, Base. What’s happening there?’
‘That’s all. Base out.’

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