It’s time to show them who’s boss, she says to herself, and takes a bead on the lead palooka’s head with her rifle. She shouts, “Welcome to hell, boys!” and drops three of them quick as thinking. Pow. “When they ask you who sent you, you tell ’em Tits Akimbo!”

“Tits, we didn’t know it was your boat, honest we didn’t,” one of them screams from behind a panel truck. “We’ll put it all back! We’ll do it right now!”

“Sure thing, son. All nice and friendly, yeah? Bygones are bygones. You just move out where I can see you. Nice and slow.”

Six of ’em stand up, hands raised and stupidly hopeful. She had a dog once with the same dumb look whenever she opened the fridge. She pretends not to see little number seven, shaking down next to a pile of pallets. “Thanks, Tits, really,” says the loudmouth, fat sweaty hog that he is with a face like a pile of puke. “We’ll let everyone know this is your operation, all the right guys, I mean, not to mess with it. You won’t have any more problems with us, I swear to you!”

“Damn right,” she growls, and drops them one by one, right through the melons, bam bam pow. The loudmouth jerks away and she pegs him through the thigh. She pulls the Webley out as she stalks through the carnage. He’s trying to crawl away, so she puts her foot on his neck and grinds his face into a puddle of brains.

“When you get to hell,” she says, playing it up for the lump pissing himself next to the pallets, “you tell ’em Tits Akimbo sent you.” Pow.