Clock tolls; Gordon jolts.  So soon?   Bolts down chow; grooms brow; 
dons socks, boots.  Zooms off.  Cold frost, low moon glows, Yoko Ono 
croons on CD.  Crowds downtown.  To, fro.  Stop, go.  Bollocks!  No 
good, too slow.  Honks horn.  Go now!  Brown Volvo follows...

North London, school front.  Slows to smooth stop.  Yoof looms, blocks 
door; downs grog, drowns sorrows.  Tom: common, crook, goon.
"Got dosh?"
Gordon frowns.
"Tomorrow."
Dog growls.
"No...now.  Two ton."
Bold words from Gordon:
"Sod off."
Shots.  World rocks, stops.  Gordon looks down, swoons.  Blood 
pools, clogs.  Shock.
"Oh, god."

"Good Lord."
Doctor loops cord, knots.  Blood slops on gown.  Lots of blood.  Soon 
stops work.
"Mown down?"
PC nods.
"Torn colon.  No donors.  Too old."
PC's boss broods.  Whoops.
"So long."
Doctor clocks off.  Good old boy; now for golf.

Cool morn, soon noon.  Own room (postcode lotto).  Rom com on TV.  
Gordon's son sobs, drools whorls of snot.
"Shhh, now..."
"Pop!"
John bops Gordon on foot.
"Ow!"
Food shows.  Gordon rolls.  Spoons hot broth, forks pork chop.
"OK?"
"No probs, John."
"Poor now?"
"Hmm.  Got bob or two."

Storm blows, drops snow.  Fog blooms, blots gloom.  Gordon stows loot on 
roof; good job.  Now plots.  Logs onto Opodo.com.  Month from now: 
Tokyo, Hong Kong?  Lots of world to rob.