Author's Note: What the hell is that? Zero reviews for chapter 3? Fucking tossers, I know these chapters aren't as good as the first chapter, but they can't be so bad that all my readers are scared off. I'm still laughing at the new chapters, and so should you be.
Anyway, just to guarantee that I lose all my readers, I'm taking this chapter from a slightly different tack. I'm temporarily doing away with the constant self-criticising, as you may have noticed, and this one chapter will be entirely from Ron's point of view during the shady and perilous drug deal that I mentioned last chapter. Just for one chapter I wanted to write Ron as a total badass, because when I compare the ruthless, unstoppable killer in this chapter with the ginger fuckwit on the big screen I laugh so loudly that people in my vicinity give me weird looks.

. Ron sat at the top of the Astronomy Tower, bitterly cold yet alert. Twelve hours ago he had set the plans in motion to purify and pack fifty kilos of coke, leaving his underlings to sort out the nearly impossible task. Then he and his bodyguard had discussed every possible eventuality and prepared for them all, SAS-style. The two agreed that the buyers were likely to be American Muggles and/or Squibs, because of the U.S. dollar payment, so Ron had planted very sensitive Muggle detectors all around the school grounds. He also borrowed four of Harry's best lieutenants as security for the deal, and already had his bodyguard and himself; since Ron was no virgin at combat, this meant that he would have six competent men on the case. Ron was also arming them all with things far more dangerous than wands, things that could kill dozens of people at a time, so these competent men were also heavily armed. If things turned into a gangfuck, they would probably win. And even if it turned into the mother of all gangfucks, they would certainly take a lot of the enemy with them.
Seemingly as a show of trust, Ron was not wearing billowing wizard's robes in which one could hide any number of weapons, but was in fact wearing bright trousers and a dark, thick jumper, making him look unprepared for fighting. In fact, this jumper was hiding his wand, a Browning High-Power pistol, two shuriken and a Muggle-targeting Evil Sphere (TM) behind his back, and the bright trousers were simply Velcro pull-aparts on top of black trousers, so if he ripped off the bright trousers he'd be hard to see in the darkness; thus, Ron was just putting a calm look on a murderous mood ratcheted as taut as piano wire. His security, however, had no such illusions in their appearances, they all looked ready for genocide.
Ron was sat beside his bodyguard on the stone ledge. He shivered almost imperceptibly in the November frost. He glanced at his watch, a G-Shock. It said 23:47. He looked back at his bodyguard. He mimed slicing his guts out and asked, "Tell me what it's called again, Sergei."
Sergei smiled. "Viking's Revenge."
Viking's Revenge is a hideous form of lethal torture, generally inflicted by gangsters upon rival gangsters in countries of Nordic descent. It involves cutting open the bowels, pulling out the entrails, and watching the victim die in consuming agony over the next forty minutes. He was asking because Sergei had recently finished telling a true story of how he captured his lifelong archnemesis in Finland, and just for fun finished him off using the the local Viking's Revenge.
The cube in Ron's pocket vibrated violently. Ron took it into his hand. He was looking through the face into another cube's face, currently in the pocket of one of Ron's security men. Ron turned it over until it came to the right face. He found himself looking at the security man in a lower window of the Astronomy tower assigned as watchman, named Slack Pat. Without formality he began talking as soon as he saw Ron's face. "Sir, I've just pinged a Muggle sniper in a tall tree of the Forbidden Forest, so far back he hasn't even set off the Muggle detectors. What should I do?"
Sergei glanced at Ron, his eyes giving Ron his opinion on the matter before he opened his mouth; he wanted to break it off now, to be on the safe side.
"He might just be one of their security." Ron said, more to Sergei than the watchman. "See if you can set up a discrete Light Bend in front of the sniper so he can't shoot straight. If he shoots for any reason, I want you to take him out."
"Sir yes sir." the watchman replied and crammed the cube back into his pocket, turning Ron's cube face nearly black from the shadow. Ron replaced his cube and continued waiting. But not for long.
Eight Hippogriffs suddenly swooped in from nowhere. They hovered magnanimously or else flew in dizzying circles around the top of the tower. Then one landed in the centre. The two riders dismounted. One, the pilot, was a wizard, wearing a mask. The other, the passenger, was a Muggle. The Muggle had an assault rifle over his back, an M16A2.
"Damn, it sucks riding around on those guys." he muttered. "Give me a 'Nam chopper instead any day."
Ron recognised the face and struggled to attach a name to it. At last he came up with it. "John Kerry, Democratic presidential candidate?"
"Obviously." he spat. "But just so you know, I'm not the buyer, I'm just the negotiator. But I served in 'Nam, so I'm no idiot, either. You try anything, you die, we'll make sure of that. So, to business. You don't seem to have the drugs."
"Oh, they're here." Ron smiled conspiratorially. "But just beyond vision. Now, where's the money?"
Kerry reached into his jacket, extracted $50k in hundred dollar bills wrapped in an elastic band, and threw it to Ron.
"That's some of it." he said as Ron pocketed it. "Now where's the cola?"
Ron reached behind the bench and took out two kilos of pure, uncut cocaine in a couple of bags. He tossed them to the mage in the mask, who packed them into saddlebags on his Hippogriff. "Now where's the rest of the money?"
Kerry grinned wryly. "No sir. According to proper drug-selling etiquette, the home team - that is, the team who have spent the most time at the location - are most likely to initiate an ambush, because they are more likely to have prepared the ground beforehand for such an attack. Therefore, it is customary for them to reveal what they have first, to inspire trust. So you show me the rest of the drugs, and I show you the rest of the money."
Ron and Kerry stared each other out. Neither won. But at last Ron decided to take the risk. "All right." he allowed. He calmly took out his wand, waved it carelessly, and returned it. At first it seemed he had accomplished nothing. Then Kerry suddenly realised that there was forty-eight kilos of cocaine two metres away from him. In waving the wand, Ron had removed the Camouflage from it.
"Very clever, you wizards have all the tricks." he said, impressed. He signalled with his hands, and all but two of the Hippogriffs glided in and landed on the rooftop. Kerry returned to his Hippogriff, removed a huge suitcase, and walked over to Ron. Several wizards came forwards and started to load up the cocaine. Kerry grinned. "This is my trick."
At these words Ron hurled himself at a sprint for the balcony of the tower, and Sergei and the three security men began drawing. Kerry opened the suitcase. A crystal disc the size of a bicycle wheel dropped out onto the ground and shattered, rippling a wave of purpleness throughout everyone present. Ron recognised the effects instantly, not least because he and Sergei had ascertained it to be the most likely method of attack; it dispelled all temporary magic in the vicinity and would impede the casting of spells here for several days. If it was a really good Dispelling Disc, it might even impede the wizards within the blast radius from casting spells for a period of time after leaving. Ron almost casually flicked both shuriken from the holder behind his back into Kerry's upper torso. "That's unfair!" Kerry whined, collapsing into a dead heap. Ron knew that the Muggle guns would be firing in less than a second, and as the high-profile character he would be the prime target for the Americans, so it was time to fuck off expeditiously. Ron was grimly satisfied that he'd also issued his men with Muggle guns, so they wouldn't be helpless like the Americans probably thought they were.
Ron reached the edge of the tower and vaulted over the side without hesitation. Lying on the lee outside here was a Model V-43 Low-Altitude Parachute, with a customised H&K USP pistol, two spare mags, and a torch duct-taped to the side. Ron had personally packed and prepared it all in his room, later placed it here and casted a Camouflage on it, which had been Dispelled by the disc so it was in plain view. Ron reached desperately - if he missed he would have a long fall to reflect on how retarded his death would appear - time seemed to slow down - he streched his arm further - he was going to miss - he snagged one of the straps between two fingernails! He just about managed to drag the parachute off the ledge as he fell.
Ron was totally unaware of the carnage now being wrought on the roof of the Astronomy Tower. He deigned to yank the parachute closer, got it around his back, with one hand ripped off his pull-apart trousers and then dropped them, and pulled the ripcord with the other. The chute opened in under a second (much like an airbag, it used explosives to open the chute faster). Unfortunately the ropes were substandard quality, they snapped and the chute floated away uselessly, black nylon nearly invisible against the midnight sky. Ron prayed and pulled the reserve chute, which was also black. The explosives opened this chute properly, the ropes held, and he began floating. Jesus, what the fuck is happening with the wind? Ron thought. All of a sudden it's picked up really strongly. Ron floated further sideways than downwards, and suddenly the probable landing zone wasn't the middle of the Hogwarts courtyard, it was the bleeding lake. Ron tugged at parachute straps to steer away from it.
Half a minute passed, and Ron was aiming to land nicely on the far side of a gentle hill. He was glad that the Americans didn't try and chase him - mind you, once Ron's men started firing their MAC-10 submachineguns the wankers probably started worrying about their own survival, let alone cleaning up after the job efficiently.
But then Ron noticed the deluxe limousine directly next to the landing zone. It was too late to try and turn, he was committed to that hill. He also noticed the two tuxedo-clad security personnel mucking around outside the limo, and judging by how their heads looked elongated from this range, they were probably wearing PNGs (Passive Night Goggles). It was a wonder they hadn't seem him yet, but any second now. Ron had only a couple of seconds to kill the two, if he failed he'd hit the ground as a sack of dead meat. This left him one option to survive, eliminate them both while in midair.
Instinctively he broke down the contact into lightning-quick phases. Phase 1 was keeping his eyes on the security detail. Phase 2 was reaching up and grabbing the pistol grip of the customised USP with his right hand while reaching across himself with his left hand and snatching up a handful of the duct tape. Phase 3 was ripping off the duct tape, a noise that would be sure to catch the attention of the gunmen. Phase 4 was getting the weapon into the aim with both hands. The way the USP was customised was that it had a laser sight attached under the barrel, which Ron now flicked on, and it had a x5 scope between the normal sights, attached to the barrel (not the slidebar, so it wouldn't move back and forth with every round fired, and far enough forward so the ejected casings wouldn't strike it on the way out), which Ron now looked through. The two men came into sharp relief, mere silhouettes in the reflection of the moonlight, both looking his way, one with a red laser splash dancing around his chest. Phase 5 was slotting the fuckers. Ron fired twice, then shifted to the other boy and fired twice at centre mass. He noticed neither one fell down, though they jerked when the rounds hit. He correctly surmised they were wearing covert body armour, and aimed a little higher, for the head. He fired at the second boy's head four times to make sure of at least one hit, then reverted to the original target and fired three rounds for the head. Both went down without firing a shot themselves.
Ron hit the ground running downhill, and dropped the parachute pack. He immediately moved to one side before the wind blew the parachute over his head, which would possibly entangle him in the ropes. He got behind a boulder, pocketed the USP (turning off the laser sight first), drew his other weapon, the Browning High Power, and waited for the boys in the limo to come out with weapons drawn.
Though the limo was rocking, nobody came out. He waited patiently. The limo was still rocking. Ron's mouth fell open in wonder. Were the people in the limo so gormless and/or preoccupied that they didn't hear eleven gunshots? For fuck's sake, they were that retarded. He'd assumed they were connected with the Americans massacring his boys up the tower, and assumed that by association they must be Premier League players in the world of mercenaries. But despite their having PNGs, tuxedos and a limo, they were as skilled and clued-in as Mr. Bean.
Ron reloaded the thirteen-round magazine of the USP, keeping the two-round mag in a pocket only so as to not leave traces, and took out his wand. He muttered, "Lumos." This had no effect, he remained in the dark. Obviously the Dispelling Disc was of excellent quality, and he could currently cast no more spells than Filch the slave-boy. Ron drew his Browning as well as the USP for extra firepower as he approached the vehicle in case the bastards were lulling him into a false sense of security. He silently got to the two bodies and looked them over. Each one had taken two rounds in the head, one of which was through the PNGs in both cases. Shame, they were cute toys to play with. Ron looked through their pockets. He came up with two authentic-looking Secret Service badges. He froze in horror. Fuck, he was in big-boy shit now.
Well, if the bastards still hadn't come out, they genuinely hadn't noticed the gunshots. The limo was still rocking, but seemed to be soundproof, as Ron couldn't hear anything from within the limo. Ron sighed. Well then, as long as he did it right and there weren't too many guns in there, taking over this limo would be as easy as breathing.
Ron shut one eye, turned on the laser sight of the USP, and waved it over his other eye to destroy its night-vision. He turned off the laser sight and approached the back right door of the target. He reached for the handle and tentatively lifted it with the bottom three fingers of his right hand. He felt soft resistance (i.e. he sensed that he could pull it further with more effort), which meant that the door was unlocked, whereas hard resistance (i.e. sensing that it can't be pulled further) would mean it was locked. He took a deep breath, kept his night-vision eye closed, yanked open the door and pointed both weapons into it, not having a clue what he'd find. What he saw was jaw-dropping.
The inside of the limo was like smokehouse from the eddying blue whirls of cigar smoke. The people inside the limo were seven naked, smoking-hot babes, four of which were tanned European girls and the other three of Arabic lineage, one Donald Rumsfeld, wearing only socks, one George Bush, wearing only the top half of a flight suit and flight helmet, and one Osama bin Laden, wearing only a turban.
"What. The. Bloody. Fucking. Hell." Ron announced.
"Hmmm, guy with gun is here. You got my cocaine or am I gonna have to bop ya in the eye again?" Bush asked in a hillbilly voice.
"Sir, that's not Tray, that's some redhead kid. And I think he's that Weasley dealer we - you - came here to knock off today. And I think he's pissed off." Rummy informed his boss.
"What the shite is bin Laden doing sharing your limo?!" Ron hollered.
"Well, 'Sama's always been my friend and business partner." Bush smiled benignly. "Our families have a lot of strong business ties. Didn't you see Fahrenheit 9/11?"
"When Bushie mentioned he was going to get together a fuck load of blow today, I couldn't resist the invitation, and neither could Rummy." bin Laden explained. "This is just the preliminary party right here before we cart this stuff back to the White House."
"IS IT A REQUIREMENT ON YOUR RESUMÉ THAT YOU HAVE TO BE A CORRUPT MOTHERFUCKER TO BECOME PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES?" Ron roared, eyes popping.
"Well, yeah, but -" Donny began, but was cut short when Ron shot him in the groin with the Browning. He administered this to all three men, let them scream for a while, then shot them each in the head. He reloaded the Browning, leaving the prostitutes where they were and started the long run back to the castle.