They said the man's name was Gold. I don't know if this was in any way connected to his real name, or whether it was some sort of nickname. He came in a poorly maintained yellow Toyota Hilux of indiscernible vintage. He travelled alone and I was surprised to see that he was not flaunting a large automatic weapon as appears to be the fashion in these parts. He was slimmer than I expected, better dressed than I expected, and on the whole failed to live up to my mental image of what a man named Gold ought to look like.
He asked me if I had my papers, and I pulled them out of my folder to hand them to him. He gestured with his left hand to keep them with me. He asked me to get in the van. I got in on the passenger side, and sat gingerly on the grimy rexine seat, which had clearly seen better days. I reached for the seatbelt to discover there wasn't one.
I was surprised to see he made no motion to start the vehicle. Instead he reached under his seat, pulled out a handgun and pointed it at me.
I realised I was fucked. If this were a movie, he'd have hammed a bit and delivered a few lines of dialogue, which would help you understand why exactly it is that I am in this mess. But this is real life, and I'm about to die. Fuck.