NOTHING PERSONAL

Gary Duncan

They send a car to pick him up. Big bloke up front: all neck and shoulders.

They have a place out in the sticks, an old workshop, where no-one can hear you scream. Dentist's chair, restraining straps, plastic sheets on the floor and walls. They call Stan when guys refuse to talk. Stan's not subtle, but he knows how to use a monkey wrench. Soon enough, guys always talk to Stan.

Nothing personal, he says, getting to work. It doesn't bother him. Guy ends up in Stan's chair, he's probably had it coming. Probably said something he shouldn't have said. Took something he shouldn't have taken.

The big guy at the wheel is new. Doesn't say much, or anything. Just sits there, squeezed into the front seat, like they've built the car around him.

Stan looks out the window, at the bright yellow fields. Oilseed. Field after field of it: pretty as a picture, till you have to breathe the stuff in, the air thick with it.

Stan reaches for his inhaler. Takes a couple of puffs. The guy upfront looks at him through the rear-view mirror, the eyes giving nothing away.

Something is off.

Not just the new guy. The call, too. Same guy who always calls him, but something in his voice.

Stan wishes he had his monkey wrench.

Doesn't take long to get there. Couple of miles out of the village, the big guy driving a steady fifty. Not long. But just enough for Stan to know.

He sees the welcome party when the car swings round the back of the workshop. Five guys: more neck, more shoulders. Five guys who make the driver look like he's been skimping on his protein shakes.

Stan gets out. The five guys and the driver escort him from the car to the side door of the workshop. Fanning out, keeping a good distance: not a guy there who doesn't know what Stan is capable of.

But Stan goes easy enough. Not their fault. Just guys doing their jobs.

They stop at the door. One of the guys motions for Stan to go in. Stan slides the big metal door open. Sees the dentist's chair and the plastic sheets on the floor and walls. Next to the chair, a little table. On the table, his monkey wrench. Some other stuff, like they're going to make a night of it. A cattle prod. Pliers. Acetylene torch.

Stan looks at the empty chair.

Smiles and turns back to no-one in particular and says, "Nothing personal, right?"

Gary Duncan is a freelance writer and editor based in Northumberland, England. His short stories have appeared in Shotgun Honey, Alliterati, and Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine.