Rhinoplastic Vengance

He sat down and grasped one of the many contracts - focusing on the name printed in neat writing at the bottom. He was certain it was the right man. Had he not seen the worried look on the man's face when he looked him in the eye? Certainly. It had to be him.

'That motherfucker', Chris grimaced into the mirror across the room. 'MOTHERFUCKER!'

He began peeling a banana, his eyebrows clenched. The healthy tip he had made was forgotten. If he had known the man's name in the first place he would have done this job for free - plus a little extra. Glancing at the forged certificates alongside the door, he gave a smile that would have chilled the blood of Hannibal Lector.

'Guy wants a nose job . . . ? No problemo.'

When he stepped through the door for the second time, the young man was greeted with a reassuring smile and friendly handshake.

'Nice to see you again Mr Clarke. If you'd like to step through there, I'll answer any last minute questions you have.'

Deckard ushered him through into the operating theatre, which was more like a dingy dentist's office with a faint aroma of fried fat. He slammed shut the door, and before Mr Clarke could protest, turned a key in the lock, and dropped it to the floor, kicking it under the door. The teethy smile never left his face.

'Then again, Mr Clarke, I may just have some questions to ask you.'

If anything, the smile was even bigger.

'But let's not worry over trivial problems. Sit, please.'

Clarke's eyes were noticeably darting around the room. The lack of a window was a very discouraging thing. He tugged at his shirt collar, giving his sweaty throat room to breathe. 'Wh - what um . . . why . . . I think I need some air. Can I please step out. Outside. Please?'

Deckard gripped his hands on the man's shoulders and forced him into the chair.

'Do you know this woman?', Chris pointed to a small photograph nailed to the wall. Clarke shook his head wildly, gritting his teeth.

'We were lovers. Married for 13 years. I thought we had everything worked out, until the day she told me she was fucking some lad - a kid! A fucking kid! Do you know what the age difference was? You frigging should. 23 years.'

Deckard placed the syringe on the table, and began applying white rubber gloves. 'You may be wondering about the substance I just pumped into your arm. It's my own tried and true recipe. A morphine cocktail', he added with an amused smile.

'Yes, she was a gorgeous woman', he sighed. 'I can see just why any man would be tempted You know the funny thing? I wasn't even surprised when she packed her bags for someone else. I've never forgotten his name mind. Shit what am I gabbing for? Time is money.'

Clarke's head continuously lolled from side to side, which made life a little difficult. Sometimes Deckard had to work with one hand in order to keep his head still. The packaging tape around his mouth also had to be replaced half an hour into the surgery because all of the man's sweat and drool had made it slide off.