As you approach the master chamber, escorted by a towering thug in stale smelling street clothes, you wonder if this is about the money you owe or the mounting profits you've gained from it. The massive calloused fingers around your neck make it hard to swallow.

A solid "Ca-CLICK" seems to echo eternally through the cloth draped room you just entered, the feel of cold steel against your temple makes your blood rush and your muscles loose.

You know what's coming next. You stare wide eyed at the hare gazing coolly into your diminishing soul. He raises his glass as if to toast your inevitable demise.

"Let's save the small talk," he says resting his elbow onto the gold and crimson sofa, "I have a proposition for you."

You dry-heave as nauseating relief courses from your feet to your head. You're in the clear. The thug lets you go and you drop to you knees.

The hare looks up to his henchman, ""Feed this cretan to the fish and you can have the rest of the week off."

BANG!

"Feed this cretan to the fish and you can have the rest of the week off."