[ WP ] Write the third episode of non-existant series . Make us curious about what happened before episode 3 , and what happens after .

Liverpool, Morning. The sun rises over the city, bright light doing its best to pierce the foggy haze that lies like a shroud over the chilly autumn day. Sean Conlan, a stoic, brown haired man, inconspicuous in almost every aspect, leans against the side of a derelict brown brick building on a streeet corner, holding a mobile phone to his ear. We hear a different voice coming over the phone. The deep, slightly panicked voice of Sean's boss. 
 
 Paddy Rafferty: Fuck's sake, they specifically asked for the painting? 
 
 Sean Conlan: Yep, and I had n't even been in the city a day, so even if I had told anyone, it's pretty unlikely that word could have spread that fast. 
 
 Paddy: Shite, well... it would seem the problem's as much on my end as it is yours. I'd heard rumours, but nothing had been substantiated. I need to fix this before it properly becomes a feckin' coup. Fuck me, I should never have put you on that feckin' boat. 
 
 Sean: No, we needed that hardware, you made the right call. The problem is, we still need that hardware, and now there's issues on both sides of the water complicating the transaction. Look, I can sort this out on my end, these cunts seem like a pretty low-end operation, I can take care of them in a couple of days. 
 
 Paddy: Good, good. I want those feckin' rodents wiped off the face of the earth. They're workin' with a traitor, which means they know exactly who they fucked with. The gobshites need to be told. If you need anything else to eliminate them, tell The Sheikh I'll cover it. 
 
 Sean: Right, that's appreciated. I'll try to be as subtle as I can, but in all honesty, in the emotional state I'm presently in, it's likely to be a scorched earth sort of affair. What about things on your end? 
 
 Paddy: Oh I'll get it sorted, do n't you worry about that. I'm putting the Hanratty's on it. 
 
 Sean ( Chuckling heartily ): I'm sure that'll handle things with their usual tact and grace. Well, I'll stay in touch. Look after yourself. 
 
 Sean hangs up, puts his phone in his pocket, and walks off down the street.
