The clothes job

Janice worked in the clothes industry. Not in the sewing or the cutting of cloth, but on the sales front. The clothes shop she worked for was situated on the Brixton Rd, right by the railway bridge in Brixton, London. She was black. Whe wasn’t merely a sales assistant, but knew the stock. In fact, she knew the entire shop like the back of her hand.

She had close friends and a lover that suited her. On occasion, she went to Brixton Leisure Centre for a swim or to the sauna.

She was good-looking, and kept her hair short. She was popular, and knew that she looked the deal.

She lived in a flat in Spencer Rd and cycled into work every day.

It was raining, when two guys with pistols made their entrance. The looked like shit. One of them was wearing a jeans-jacket, one a leather jacket. They shouted: “All the cash, and hurry, we don’t have all day.”

Jannice opened the till with the left, grabbed her revolver from beneath the counter with the right, aimed, and shot the first one in the shoulder. “Holy shit!”, the not-quite-so-ugly shouted, and left. The other one lay on the floor across the shop floor.

Janice closed the till, came out from beneath the counter, put her foot on the chest of the wanker and shot again. This time she shot him in the left shoulder.

Police arrived. Later on she thought that she would have finished him off, if they hadn’t.

Having spent the afternoon at police headquarters, she cycled home. Her lover had brought her some roses, so they snuggled up in front of the telly and watched Cilla Black and ate cookey-chip-ice cream.

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