A Newsagents. A man/wman enters and walks to the till, where a shop assistant stands, beaming.
MAN/WOMAN: Twenty Lambert and Butlers, please.
ASSISTANT: Certainly Sir/Madam, just hang on a sec.
The assistant bangs thrice on the wall, and a huge, burly man enters, glaring at the man/woman.
MUSCLES: YOU'RE GOING TO DIE, DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU WILL DIE, YOU WILL DIE AND WE WILL LAUGH OVER YOUR GRAVE AS YOUR RELATIVES WEEP. YOU WILL ENDURE AGONISING PAIN AND THEN FINALLY DIE, TO MASS REJOICING. YOU WILL DIE!
Muscles nods to the shop assistant and exits.
ASSISTANT: That'll be four seventy-five, please.
MAN/WOMAN: Maybe just ten.