Martin Henson paused for a moment to nervously sip his cup of tea.

'...no course of action.'

He found himself flinching in advance, and rightly so.

'YOU FUCKING WHAT!?' Borst snapped as he snatched Martin's notes away from him 'No course of
action? Is this what I'm paying you for you ginger pleb? This sort of advice?'

'Well you are paying me for advice of sorts I suppose.'

SMACK.

Borst's hand clattered into the side of Martin's head.

'Good advice Martin, you spastic, not shit advice!' Borst raged 'Where did you find your law degree
again, in a fucking Kinder egg? Div head... you should've stuck to managing fighters... or being a shit
waffling human shield as I like to refer to it.'

'I'm trying my best Pete!' Martin pleaded as he straightened his tie 'The unfortunate scenario is this
gypsy chap has you by the short and curlies. He's claiming squatters rights and so far you've assaulted
him and... one second... can I have that back?'

Borst reluctantly handed back the notes as Martin began to read from a list.

'It says here you have outstanding payments for labour work and produce you've consumed from his
farm.'

'Oh labour work? I suppose that refers to that scattering of tarmac on my drive so fucking meagerly
spread that it looks like someone has dropped a jar of marmite out there and made a piss poor attempt of
cleaning it up. Or perhaps he's on about the new bricks for my chimney that were actually patterned
wallpaper? Oh yeah and produce... I suppose by that he means the milk... that he strained out of a
fucking dog!' Borst seethed.

'Well there's that...' Martin nodded nervously '...there's also this court case he's determined to go ahead
with.'

'Court case?' Borst scratched his head 'What court case?'

'He's suing you with a personal injury claim.' Martin informed 'Says you're liable for gross neglect.'

'WHAT?' Pete thumped his fists down on the desk.

'It says here that he sustained an injury due to falling down an unmarked ditch that you were responsible
for creating.' Martin confirmed 'Apparently he's broken his leg.'

'Whoa whoa whoa...' Borst shook his head '...is this about the toilet thing?'

Martin flipped through his notes 'Erm, yes.'

'So you're telling me...' Borst continued in disbelief '...that because I got some workers in to build some
communal toilets to stop the pikeys SHITTING on MY GRASS, workers who returned after the first
weekend to find that all of their tools had been stolen, workers who returned to find that all their building
materials had been used to make fucking chicken coups, workers who were chased off my property for
refusing to buy fifty feet of their own copper wire back.'

Borst stopped for a second to compose himself.

'You're telling me that he's suing me...' Borst enquired calmly '...because he fell down one of the holes
they dug?'

Martin braced himself.

'Yes.'

'RIGHT THAT'S IT...' Borst raged, snatching a pen from Martin's desk and brandishing it with some
menace 'I'm GONNA FUCKING KILL HIM... I'M GONNA TAKE THIS BIRO... AND FUCKING KILL HIM.'

'Steady on...' Martin tried his best to calm Borst down 'You're going about this the wrong way Pete... this
is what he wants you to do... why don't you try and appeal to his nature a bit more?'

'Appeal to his nature?' Borst continued to rant and rave 'You mean give him a flower wrapped in tinfoil
then ask him for a quid?'

'Not quite...' Martin continued '...but these traveller types are all creatures of habit. At the end of the day
they all want something for nothing. All you have to do is figure out what he wants most and use it against
him.'

Borst contemplated Martin's proposal for a moment.

'I think I've got it.'

Thirty minutes later...

'So yer sayin fella...' McCabe scratched his matted hair and flashed a disgusting rotten smile
'...whichever one of us wins the race, and gets to that there keg o' Guinness in the back o' that there
horse box, gets ta drink the lot?'

'Yep.' Borst nodded 'The winner takes it all.'

'Heheh...' McCabe chortled to himself '...gonna be a thirsty weekend fer ye fella cos' they don't call me
Jack Shergar McCabe for nothin.'

'Yeah.' Borst nodded before muttering to himself 'I'm only a mask and a shotgun away from making that
nickname permanent.'

'Ye wha?' McCabe scoffed slightly.

'I said on your marks...' Borst piped up as McCabe, despite his broken leg, prepared himself for the race
'...get set.'

The suspense was unbearable.

'GO!!!'

And so the race began with McCabe hobbling... to the surprise of nobody... into an early lead. Borst
jogged along nonchalantly behind as McCabe staggered desperately towards the horse box and the Irish
cream prize within. For a moment it appeared as though Borst would make up the ground only for him to
suddenly hit the deck.

'BOLLOCKS!' Borst cried out rather elaborately 'I APPEAR TO HAVE SLIPPED ON THIS RICH
ABUNDANT TARMAC THAT SOME PLEASANT IRISH FOLK HAVE BEEN SO KIND AS TO PLACE ON
MY DRIVE.'

'AHEHEHEHEHEH!' McCabe delighted as he leapt into the back of the horse box to grab the keg of
Guinness 'I WIN!'

SLAM.

The door of the horse box slammed shut courtesy of Borst who proceeded to thump three times on the
side of the vehicle.

'Alaska please!' Borst rejoiced as the horse box proceeded to drive away with the sound of a muffled
Irish rendition of Queen's 'We Are The Champions' coming from the back.

'I can't believe he fell for it.' Martin concluded as he and Borst watched the horse transportation
disappear into the distance 'All it took was a keg of Guinness.'

'Not just any keg...' Borst smirked in a rather smug fashion '...an empty one.'

'Ha!' Martin chuckled 'So what now then?'

Borst narrowed his eyes slightly.

'I'm off to Los Angeles.'

• View Pete Borst's Biography