paul bohill? yeah i know him by that name. hell, i worked with him in small-claims. back then we called him 'paki pulveriser' bohill because he never came out of a property without a scalp, an ear, or covered with blood. most would call him insane, but that is why the high court trained him. they saw potential. it wasn't until they learned his methods that they truly realised what a monster they created. you see, most enforcement agents try to reason with the defendent. not paul. no, he used knives, clubs, pliers, you name it. after a few jobs i got a chance to talk to him one to one. he was wearing his blood stained hard hat, sunglasses, and stab vest, smoking a cigarette and drinking johnny walker black label. it was only 7am, but you never told paul what he could and couldn't do. i asked him why he used such violent tactics. he lowered his head and took a long slow draw from his hand rolled cig, pulled off his sunglasses and looked me right in the eyes, piercing my soul. "i do it out of respect. respect for the white race. these goat fucker scum bags don't deserve the mercy of a british council flat, but a slow torturous death at the hands of a british man!" in a flash he pulled out his weathered, but razor sharp knife and stopped just short of sticking my gut. "the look in their eyes when i slip this baby into their swollen, curry filled bellies is reason enough. to see the last lights flick off in their heads as they see a real high court enforcement agent at work."
United Kingdom