Eugene put his mobile on the coffee table.

‘Shit.'

He'd always been careful to withhold his number when using the landline, but when that Jewish bastard Banks blocked his number, he'd used his mobile. Whether it was because the routine was different or not he couldn't say, but this time, he'd forgotten.

‘Fuckin' shit!'

The mobile started to vibrate. Eugene picked it up and looked at the display - Number withheld. He answered the call.

‘Got you now, you fuck. I'm coming after you.'

No time for a reply, just a simple statement and then the line went dead.

Eugene sat back, sweat breaking out on his forehead. But why should he worry? That Jewish cunt still didn't know who he was. All he had was his mobile number. No problem, first thing in the morning he'd buy a new SIM card.

--X--

Ed sat at the computer tapping in his credit card number. Reverse directories might be illegal in this country, but thanks to the internet, that wasn't relevant. In three minutes he'd got a name and address for the account holder of the mobile number he'd written down. A quick look in the phone book confirmed the same name at the same address. Just three miles down the road was Hatred Central. Eugene, even now Ed still thought of his tormentor as Eugene, was probably still in bed - only a five minute drive away.

‘Just popping out for a paper, Kath,' shouted Ed.

Good as his word, Ed picked up a paper, then drove on to park opposite Eugene's house. The brick built, ordinary looking semi sat there innocently enough: well maintained, neat front garden.

Ed opened the paper and started to read. With any luck, Eugene might make an appearance. Hatred was one thing, but it gave rise to many other feelings, a need to know more about him was one.

Finishing the sport's pages, Ed looked up to see a middle aged man open the front door and set off up the path and then down the street. His average height, build and ordinary clothes disappeared around the corner. Not giving himself time to think, Ed got out of the car and knocked on the front door. No answer.

--X--

New SIM card purchased and inserted, Eugene strolled back home. Those Paki bastards sold everything now: newspapers, booze, even SIM cards. The dirty bastards would be taking over soon. Not that he wanted to spend too much time worrying about that just yet. He had other things to do.

He put the kettle on and picked up his mobile phone. Carefully making sure he‘d withheld his own number he dialled in those familiar digits.

‘Ya fuckin' dirty bitch. Wash yer' twat after that Jewish wanker's been up yer.

‘Fuck.'

He dialled again.

‘Don't fuckin' hang up on me bitch. Tomorrow it's yer daughter. I'm gonna have the slag.'

--X--

The sound of Eugene threatening his daughter again exploded in Ed's mind.

‘Bastard,' he screamed and rushed at Eugene.

Hands straight to his neck, Ed's momentum carried Eugene backwards and crashed him head first into the tiled wall. There was no resistance and Ed let go. Eugene slumped to the floor leaving blood smeared on the tiles.

Eugene wasn't dead. Even through his rage, Ed knew that from the rise and fall of his chest. His phone lay on the floor next to him. Eugene, phone, Alexander Graham Bell. Unbidden, neural pathways fired in Ed's brain. He opened the nearest draw and took out a cheap serrated knife.

--X--     --X--

Bruce William Charters, aka Eugene, lays in a spreading pool of blood - the result of his own emasculation. He chokes, then coughs out his own testicles. He reaches for his phone, sees it's smashed and slumps back.

The front door closes as the kettle boils.