"Gimme the f***ing money"

Bang bang he's dead

Oh I do like this. Dirty Harry lives.

Punk points gun. Taken out by police sniper.

Accomplice picks up gun. Another shot drops him.

Third shot rings out. Clinches it.

Cluck cluck: In the late '70s I lived in Tours and spent vacations with a healthy country girl in her rural family home in Châteauroux.

The grandpa was famous for having been plagued by robberies by local youths, sat up one night with his crossbow and caused the death of the ringleader.

He missed the boy who bolted the bolt causing it to travel into the next property and into a neighbour's coop and the proud breast of a prize bantam cock. Muchas litigation.

The agile thief vaulted a hedge, impaling himself on the prongs of some heavy-duty thresher.

Edwige was not given to exaggeration which lent a certain dry drama to her account of how gramps and the cock's owner argued the toss in the moonlight as the thug choked loudly to death, two prongs piercing his lungs to protrude from his back.

I must have looked shocked because the old man interrupted her with a toothless chuckle to add that at one point he'd had to ask the chicken owner to speak up because he was a little deaf and couldn't hear over the mec's gurgling and kicking and general clamour.