Forget owning a house, Billy Boy.  Forget being able to take a date out, be lucky Nicki’s calling you; at least you got one gal interested.

He drops the ax.  Covered in the grapefruit-like spattered red ink of blood type O, O negative, AB, AB negative, no one from this place is gonna call him anymore.  That’s gash in the side of the dead Indian hanging over a laptop isn’t gonna hassle you, that bitch with her operator headset dangling in front of severed mutilated breasts isn’t going to be the next “unknown caller” to pop up on your cellphone asking you to pay for late fees on a payment you don’t have, and that fat guy that died so instantly when the ax jammed into his mouth isn’t going to be jerking off in his office while he supervises and monitors calls made to you on the hour.  Nope, nobody is going to bother you from here.  What’s your plan now?  One collector down, everyone saw you, but maybe you’ll walk from this one.  You’ll walk right out that door before the sirens stop and the brakes halt right outside.  You can’t take them all on, you’ll have to pay one way or another.  Go to prison, be dead, and Billy won’t have to pay anymore.  They won’t ask him for anymore.  That’s fine by him.  That’s fine by you, isn’t it, Billy?  What’s the difference really? Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh; there must be enough here to take care of all.