Okey, dokey. Name's Parkinson, Jack Parkinson. I've heard a little bit about you. Apparently you're a bit of a guy, as they say stateside. Something of a player, you might say. Well, this godforsaken garbage heap, this trash can, this pair of laddered tights on the legs of some poxy slag called earth, is waitin' for someone like me to take it over, and I ain't dumb enough to think I can do it without back up. Sure, I get on alright with the Crisp Twins, keep 'em sweet. Send Albert a couple of boys and a bag of stardust and that shuts him up, and old Archie ain't spoken a word in god knows how many years. But there history. It's all about your manor and looking out for your mother with them old timers. The future's about America, and Europe. It's about business. Plain and bloody simple. And if someone gets in me way of running a smooth business, then they ain't going to last too long. 'Cause if you've got business, then you've got coin, and it ain't no great leap of faith to believe that bread equals birds. And of it all, I like birds best. But just for the moment, I'm goin' to keep the Crisp boys sweet as the proverbial. Soon or later, Albert's various, er, personal problems will get the better of him, or Archie will kill a copper. And when the balls it up, I'm taking it all over. The whole bloody bunfight.