Danny saw an ad for the very car he’d been praying would arrive on the second hand market. Good nick, and the price looked like a bargain. Too good to be true. Indeed, it was.

Danny arrived at the house of the seller. He knocked once. Impatient for his dream car, he knocked again. Nothing. Then, a noise from above. Sounded like a window opening. He looked up and saw a man pointing a shotgun down at him. He wasn’t used to this. He’d been to university and studied social sciences, so his experience of the ‘real world’ was limited. 

Surprised by the harsh reality of looking up at a shotgun, he took a step back. It’s strange, but his first instinct was to apologise to the man aiming the gun at him. This said a lot about Danny. It said even more about the man holding the gun. He was wearing a tiara and had a cigarette hanging out of his lips. The tiara didn’t suit him, the cigarette did. Worse though, he wasn’t wearing any underpants and, viewed from the lower angle (the angle from which Danny was forced to observe the reality unfolding before him), it was what one might call an unpleasant sight. Others would call it the vision of a cock and balls from the least flattering angle. 

“Tell me you love me, or I’ll be the last thing you ever see,” said the man leaning out of the window. 

Danny looked up at him with a sense of bafflement and shuffled awkwardly in place. He wasn’t streetwise, so this situation was difficult to gauge. He felt sorry for himself. All he wanted was to buy a beautiful car and now he was staring up at a ghastly, threatening sight. Always with the self-pity was Danny. It was part of the reason he liked cars so much – they didn’t have the capacity to tell him to stop fucking whinging. 

“Tell me you love me or I’ll shoot you like a fucking duck,” said the man in the window. Danny looked around, nervous, weak, and fearing for his life.

“I love you…” he said timidly. He almost sounded as if he was asking a question. 

“Quite fucking right you do,” said the man in the window. This was a man who had seen things and done things. This was a lunatic who, you would have to say, had lived. Had Danny lived? Not unless you count writing essays about Hegel as living. The man in the window didn’t know who Hegel was and, more importantly, didn’t give a flying fuck who Hegel was. He was the sort of man who made you realise the irrelevance of Hegel, wine tasting, and the French New Wave movement. 

“I’m sorry,” said Danny, panicky. “I’m just here to buy the car.” He was edging back towards the pavement. 

“Car? What fucking car?”

“Your car, sir,” said Danny. It’s strange. When a lunatic points a gun at you, there’s a sudden urge to call them ‘sir’. Power dynamics. Foucault. 

The man stared at Danny. He was thinking. His finger was hovering over the trigger. Something clicked. Fortunately, it wasn’t the trigger.

“Ah. Right you fucking are. The car. The fucking car. I forgot about the car,” said the nutcase.

“Yes, the car sir. Just the car. It’s a lovely car.”

“Quite fucking right it’s a lovely car, son. Let me put some pants on and I’ll be right down.

The man arrived, fully panted, at the front door. He was still in the tiara. He reached out to shake Danny’s hand. Danny hesitated. It’s possible he was having a mild heart attack, but he had no way of knowing for sure. He shook the man’s hand. A soft hand. Moisturised. Life is surprising. Two minutes later, they were stood beside a Subaru. Blue. Lovely. 

“It’s a beauty,” said Danny. He was scared to say ‘beauty’ in front of this man, but he couldn’t help it, for he loved the car. 

“Beauty?” The man looked at Danny. He looked at the car. He stroked the bonnet with the back of his hand. “Quite fucking right.”

They both stood there, admiring the car. Two more different people in the world you would struggle to find yet, the Subaru… It brought them together. For a moment, they were just two honest human beings, admiring a great car. 

“Happy with four fucking grand?” Said the madman.

“Absolutely,” said Danny.

“Right fucking answer.” 

“It’s a wonderful thing,” said Danny. “I’ll just pop to my car to get the money.”

“You take your fucking time, son,” said the madman. “I’ll be sad to see the blue beast depart but I’ve had my fair share of tits in there and it’s time to let another cunt have a little fucking ride in the blue beast of Beverley Bastard. Fuck me. What a car.” 

“Quite fucking right,” said Danny. It was as if Danny was evolving into a completely different person. Uncivilised. He was energised. He was encouraged. He felt proud to have dealt with a common man. It felt good to say “fuck” in front of a normal, common man. Made him feel less snobbish. Made him feel better than people he went to university with. He was, all of sudden, rounded. Pleased with himself, he popped to get the money and promptly returned.

“Your fucking money, sir” said Danny, handing an envelope to the man who only moments before had been naked and pointing a shogun at his head. The man counted it. Slowly. Oh, so slowly. The man looked up at Danny. He smacked his lips. 

“Let me ask you one little fucking thing, son. Before I let this great blue bastard depart from my life and on to greater fucking pastures.” 

“Sure,” said Danny. 

He looked Danny right in the eyes. 

“Do you like The Beatles, son?”

Danny shrugged. “Not really.”

Two days later, they pulled Danny out of the river. He’d been shot eighty-five times with a shotgun. According to police, it was a crime of passion.