Have you ever killed a man? We have. Me and Roger, that is. I met Roger in school. Roger met me in school. We bonded over a distrust of authority. Inspired by Foucault. Everything is power. So, we felt no guilt when we dangled our maths teacher by his ankles out of the third floor window. Who’s he to say that five times seven doesn’t equal two hundred and seventy three?

Another time, we threw a nerd into the lagoon and pelted his head with Haribos as he flailed to stay afloat. Why was there a lagoon in the school? Who knows? Maverick architect. Taking the piss.

Roger and I went through life together. Well, we’ve been going through like together. Like Bowie and Iggy. Last week, we killed a man. It was no small feat. But, before I go any further, let me put your mind at ease. This fella had it coming.

We met the fella at spin class. Roger and I were fast. Hell of a clip. The instructor admired us. Said, “Hey boys, you’re making us all look silly here.” Roger said, “Wanna know the trick? Weetabix.” After spin class ended, Roger and I were exalting in the fact we’d made the rest of the spinners look like cunts. “Wait til Loz sees these abs,” I said. “She’ll marry me then.” That’s when we encountered the man who was soon to meet his end.

“Good class fellas. Helluva clip,” he said. He was wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt. As Roger and I will tell you, Iron Maiden are not a good band.

“Good class? No. Great class.” Roger said. He did the death stare.

“What’s with the t-shirt, son?” I enquired, with regular calmness. Good cop, bad cop. I was known for my clarity of mind and composure. My mum said so.

“Sorry?” he said. Typical response. I had him on the back foot.

“What’s with the t-shirt, pal?” I repeated. Did this man not have a brain? “I shouldn’t have to ask twice, pal.” It’s worth pointing out that Roger had him in a headlock by this point.

“What are your favourite bands?” I asked, politely. Roger gave him a little slap on the face to hasten a reply. The rest of the class was making tracks to the lockers. They wanted no part of this conversation.

“Can you let me go?” He said.

“What are your favourite bands, sir?” I said. My manners could not be called into question. Roger was choking him a little but nothing out of the ordinary.

“Rush. Iron Maiden. Steely Dan…” He said, desperate for oxygen.

These were all wrong answers.

“What about The Beatles?” I said.

“I’m not a fan of The Beatles. I strongly believe that Mr Moonlight is the only good song they ever released and they didn’t even write it. Moreover, Ringo had the truest voice of the band and they reduced him to the role of drummer. Even then, they made him put towels on his drums,” the Iron Maiden man said.

Roger was seething. He threw this man to the floor and crumbled a Weetabix over his face.

“You don’t like The Beatles?” Said Roger, standing over him.

“No,” said the man, gasping for air and choking on flakes of glorified refined carbs. It’s an extraordinarily dry cereal. Sticks in the throat.

“You’ll be seeing more of us,” I said. We left the gym and got a coffee. Cappuccino for me. Cappuccino for Roger. Peas in a pod. Platonic love. That’s when we planned it.

“Right,” said Roger, hacking into the gym’s computer system as he nibbled on a pan au chocolat. “He lives just round the corner.” Roger sipped at his Cinno and let out a yelp of unbridled joy. “Hoo-hah! What a time to be alive!” He shouted. The patrons of the coffee shop didn’t dare look.

Two nights later Roger and I were climbing the drain pipe of the Iron Maiden man’s home. Sturdy guttering, perfect for climbing in the dead of night. Advice I often give; if you want to keep your home safe, weaken the guttering. It’s the Achilles heel of the masses.

I crawled through an open window and found myself in the bathroom. Roger followed. He took a leak in the bath. Risky, given the dark. There was some splash-back.

“Fucks sake Rog,” I said, averting my face.

Whence Roger was relieved, we tiptoed across the hallway and found the Iron Maiden man. He was handcuffed to his bed and bleeding from the lip, unconscious. Clearly, a demented sex game gone awry. That’s when the gimp appeared, emerging stealthily from the wardrobe. It had a whip and it was ready to use it. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but that did scare the shit out of me. Once you’ve seen a gimp emerge from a wardrobe in the dead of night you can never un-see it. Fortunately, Roger had his wits about him and swung the 32kg kettlebell he’d brought with him at the gimp. Caught him nice and clean. Dead gimp.

I poured petrol around the room. Unleaded. We sang Rocky Racoon. We left via the front door, brazen and proud. Roger lit and threw a match in his wake. The house went up in flames. Ironically, it looked like an Iron Maiden album cover. We absconded into the night. Next week, we were back nailing the spin class. Hell of a clip.

Some may ask, did he really have to die? I say, why does anyone have to die? But if they must, what better reason than for not liking The Beatles?