Ich heiße John Harris

Listen, daddy-o, I'm just gonna lay this one ya straight. This flick involves a cat who rubs out gangsters for the dough, but he's hip enough to twig that it aint no long term gig and figures on beating the gravel and splitting the scene, dig? He really knows his groceries.

His boss offers him fifty yards to polish some creep with a new face but the hitman don't think that's chilli. Once his brother takes a few bullets to the chest he noodles it out and reckons he'll take the bread. His boss however teams him up with some guy who might be everything plus (Franco Nero), but also might be looking to become a bit of a big wheel. They two of them cop a breeze and head to Europe to cast an eyeball on their victim.

Problem is, this square has had facial surgery so they don't know what he looks like! While our hitman is out quail hunting, two guys fall on Nero and give him a beating. Things get goopy when one thing leads to another and they rub out the wrong Murgatroid. Aint that a party pooper? Maybe they should haul ass back to the US and forget the whole thing?

Our hitman reckons someone's been singing to The Man and that there's a stoolie around, which gets him frosted. What he's facing might be tough tonails but he ain't gonna be the one left holding the bag. He's got x-ray eyes, man. He's with it. So out come the guns which is always a zonk on the head...

Turn up the stereo: This film razzed my berries. Nero plays a Mazda with peepers who speaks the lingo. The hitman guy is Madison Avenue who gets his kicks. It never does go ape like those seventies crime movie, but is never Dullsville either. There's plenty of hot iron action.

Now put an egg in your shoe and beat it