‘You can’t kill me,’ he says, with a swagger.

A flourish wave of hand.

‘I have a top hat.

Which means —

usually —

that I have schemes,

and back up plans.

And also back up plans

to my back up plans.

Which are —

naturally —

foolproof.

Brilliant.

Bloody wonderful and amazing.

But one can never be sure.

Well, I always am but—

you know what I mean.’

A harlequin grin stares out at you.

And you nod. Of course.

Of course.

He turns and makes his way to the front door.

The fucker.

There’s a hop in his step.

It’s almost a dance.

He twirls his hat in his hands.

Puts it on and he’s gone.

Enveloped by the rain, outside.

He’s gone.

Writing | top hat: a braggadocio.