I went to a pub, as some guy I knew from a long time ago had organised a reunion. There was a girl there with a leopard-print hat. I woke up the next morning, still sitting in a booth in the bar. Everyone else had gone. I looked under piles of jackets for my phone. There were loads of house phones but I couldn’t find my mobile. I went to the bathroom for a shave while wearing an afro wig. Outside the window there was a bridge, and runners in the New York Marathon were crossing it. I was in New York you see. One ran right into the pub, which had become a house. There was no front door. Then I realised why I was there. I was a retired assassin. In an old Hollywoodian cliché, I was being forced out of retirement to do one last job. Which turned out to be at least two. The party organiser had brought me here as he had captured some dodgy looking, Eastern European types. He needed them shot, and wasn’t willing to do so himself. I knew that something bad might happen to my family if I didn’t commit the murders, though what it would be was never explained. Ultimately I just really wanted my phone back. I shot the first fella, and was about to cap the second when…I don’t know, either the dream ended or I woke up.