Scarfo was driving down a country road headed back to town, happy with the flashy ride he'd nicked.
Scarfo flat-out ignored the dark sedan that kept appearing in the rear view mirror, instead ogling the fine marquetry and pearl-inlaid dashboard.
Nearing the city, Scarfo turned the last corner to find a roadblock waiting. He tried to swerve past it and stacked the wheels, rolling into a ditch.
Scarfo climbed out of the burning wreck as bullets danced in the dusty ground around him.
Grabbing his Tommy gun he sprayed a few back wildly into the sky. It was all he could do.
Suddenly the dark sedan that had been tailing him rammed full speed into Scarfo's burning car.
There was an explosion and then there was nothing, only the eternal peace of oblivion.
That was not how the council-workmen saw it. All they found was a pasty mess of skin and bones, crusted to the ground under a burnt-out vehicle.
That was Scarfo. If he'd just kept an eye on his rear-view mirror!
In Memoriam: RIP: Scarfo