<<I do believe you're a little bit scared>> the dwarf said.

He's either a great actor Croon thought or just a natural asshole. <<Oh, that's great psychology, why don't you say something bad about my mother?>>

<<Your mother>> the dwarf said <<is so ugly...>>

<<Look, look>> the big guy (hint: his real name was Gunther Gross) said: <<you make this run for me, we'll give you two million Euros. That comes to about E10,000 an hour if you're fast enough. How's that for a challenge?>>

<<Daddy, I don't think that's necessary....>>

<<Wait a minute, wait a minute>> Croon said. <<Why do you want that guy so much?>>

<<He likes it rough, dummy>> Little Enis said.

Big Enis took a puff of his cigar, said: <<I'm a contractor for the British government, yeah, and we're putting a team together for the Antarctic Olympics. As you may be aware, total fighting's being introduced to the Games next year, for the first time ever. Unfortunately, you Brits aren't much chop when it comes to total fighting. You're too civilised for it or something.>>

<<This guy's tough then, yeah?>> Croon contemplating the consequences.

<<He'd sooner tear your arm off than shake your hand. That's why I want you to sweet-talk him into coming here. I hear you're pretty good at it.>>

Croon paused, confounded. This mission sounded like pure trouble, and there was every chance he'd spend two months locked up in an American hell-hole, bruised and refused by some guy who sounded like a refugee from the second-last Ice Age. The logical step was to decline. But the big Texan had intrigued him with that Dianagate comment, and Croon was beginning to suspect that Frieda was more than just a failed romance. Suddenly he got the feeling that he was being used for a mission of such enormous magnitude he couldn't even intuit its size, let alone its intent. I'm a pawn, he thought, but even a pawn can kill a king.

<<Well, let me see your cash.>>