Before Gammon can grab a hold of the cunt, I’ve cracked Tommy square in the mouth; he's on the
ground on his hands an’ knees, spitting blood onto those lime green floor tiles.
“Easy meathead!” He’s mumblin’. “Save it for the Bob Marley imposters over there!”
Robbie's like a man possessed:
“YA’ KILLED MA’ BRUDDAS! NOW I KILL ALL OF YOOOOUUU! YA’ DEAD MEN WALKIN’!
One of these security goons is gobbin’ off at Gammon, tellin’ him he has to get rid of the whiskey bottle. There's only two fingers left in the fuckin’ thing. Gammon just smiles; he tosses it up in the air; it smashes against the flickering destination sign an’ showers the Rasta wankers with broken glass. Beautiful.
The refs countin’ us in:
“ONE!”
Stephens on a roll today:
“Somebody needs to rip out some dreads as a trophy! Last time Wideboy got a shirt, someone needs to pull some dreads outta their scalps! Don't matter who does it, but we gotta do it! We gotta make this happen for Robbie!”
Stephens right. If it's personal, its personal. The challenge has been set.
“TWO!”
Robbie's eyes look demonic; he looks like he's been possessed! Cunts chanting away to himself. It's fuckin’ unnerving. The cunts scaring me.
“THREE”
BOOM! SHOWTIME!
Stephens first outta the box; he's grabbed the geriatric fucker with the white dreadlocks; he's shark-boxing the cunt, hittin’ the fucker with fifty/fifties; it's beautiful to watch; the old boy is wheezin’
and beggin’; he's regretting the day he agreed to help the grandkids in this endeavour. Gammon's got a hold of the geezer with the all the gold teeth; Gammon’s doin’ his usual routine; he's squeezing and squeezing and squeezing and squeezing, not lettin’ go the fucker. It's boring and not particularly pretty to watch, but its effective; it gets the job done.
Robbie and the ringleader with the purple dreads are going hammer and tongs; pair a cunts are tearing fuckin’ clumps outta each other; I've never seen Robbie so wound up. He's yellin’ away like a lunatic:
“YA’ NAH BRING OLD COUNTRY BEEF ‘EAR! PUSSY ‘OLE! YA’ ‘ERE ME?! PUSSY ‘OLE!!”
So that only leaves me, an’ I've ended up with the one cunt who ain't got no dreadlocks; his head looks like a fuckin’ eight-ball. This cunts swaggerin’ down the platform towards me; cunts got a belly hangin’ off of him which is weird, ‘cause usually these Rasta's weigh about as much as a rolling paper!
“Come on soppy bollocks!” I’m callin’ over to him. “We ain't got all fuckin’ day!”
Now this cunt thinks he's clever; he's tryin’ the oldest trick in the book. He thinks by walkin’ slowly he's gonna intimidate me; he thinks I’m gonna bottle it because he looks so calm an’ relaxed, like he's a fuckin’ hard-case or something. Does this cunt I’m an amateur? He’s already gettin’ lemon:
“HA! Ya’ ready to get waxed peel ‘ead?! Ya’ ready to get boxed?! Ya’ ready to get schooled?! Ya’
wan’ me to slap da’ taste outta ya’ mouth?!”
Now I must have watched every fight Wolf Freihen ever had in OxBlood Gloves. I still remember
OxBlood Gloves 15, when Bobo Neckbones tried the same trick this cunt is trying with me now. Wolf just ran at the cunt an’ grabbed a hold of his right arm; he started swinging him around and around and around in circles. And that’s how Neckbones got his name, ‘cause by the time Wolf had finished crashing the cunts nut into the fuckin’ cage, there weren’t much left for the surgeons to work with.
He spent the rest of his fighting days with a load of bolts and screws holding his head in place. Old Bobo's neck got squashed like a concertina that night. This cunts gettin’ the fuckin’ same. Make no mistake.
So ol’ Eight-ball’s thrown a sloppy right-hook; I've grabbed a hold of the cunts flabby arm; I’m moving quickly, pullin’ his arm with me.
“WHA’ THE FUCK YA’ DOIN’?!” He’s yellin’. “LET GO A’ ME AN’ FIGHT ME PROPER!”
So we’re going around and around and around and around. I’m squatting down, stickin’ me arse out an’ spreadin’ my leg apart; now the cunts head is droppin’ lower and lower; I got him where I want him; around and around and around.
There's this metal sign stickin’ outta the wall that says: BURNT ASH HILL. It's twenty inches thick, hollow in the middle, and was made back in the days when train signs were made out of steel. That's the Eight-ball’s target; he’s goin’ flyin’ into that, mark my words. Cunts still gobbin’ off:
“THIS AIN’T NOH GAME! FIGHT LIKE A MAN BENCHBWOY! WA’S WRONG?! YA’ NA’ GOT THE
CONFIDENCE?!”
Now while the cunts gobbin’ off an’ actin’ the tough guy, he's starting to get very dizzy an’ he ain't even aware how close he is to his destination; we’re still going around and around and around; his head misses the sign so we go around again; he still gobbin’ off, spoutin’ that Rasta bollocks no cunt can understand.
CLANK!
Bingo! Ol’ Eight-ball’s head cracks off the fuckin’ sign! We have a connection; he ain't happy:
No time for whingin’; we’re goin’ ‘round again. FIVE-FOUR-THREE-TWO-ONE.
CLANK!
Now ol’ Eight-ball’s gettin’ vey dizzy indeed; his eyes are rollin’ around inside that big bald head of his. Here we go again:
CLANK!
Now we’re building some real momentum; he's swingin’ ‘round with real force ‘cause he ain't in
control of himself anymore; I'm diggin’ deep an’ givin’ it both barrels. He were go:
BANG!
Fuckin’ hell!! That even made me wince for a second. He’s got claret spillin’ outta those big fat lips; ol’ Eight-ball’s mumblin’ away to himself:
“Stop man! Stop! Ya’ can’t do ‘dis! Ya’ fightin’ like a pussy ‘ole!”
And the words are barely outta ol’ Eight-ball’s mouth when:
BOOOOOOMM!!
Tweakin’ Tommy's behind me screamin’ into the cameras:
“JESUS CHRIST ON A FUCKING BIKE! THEY MUST HAVE FELT THAT IN CHINA! I'VE HEARD TERM ‘USE
YOUR HEAD’ BEFORE, BUT THAT'S RIDICULOUS!! SOMEBODY CHECK HIM FOR A PULSE!!”
That's my work done. Jobs a good ‘un an’ all. Just another day at the office...
Gammons already finished up with his victim; he's come poundin’ down the platform to check up on my progress.
“WAKE UP! YA’ LAZY CUNT!” Gammon's laughin’, dribbling some gutter butter of his own onto ol’
Eight-ball from above. “THIS AIN’T A TIME TO BE SLEEPIN’! YOUR BOYS NEED YA’ RIGHT NOW!!!
HAHAHAAAH!”
Gammons right.
Stephens on form; he’s down on the train tracks, poundin’ away on the old boy; cunts wilting like a cock an’ balls that's shot it's load up a dirt-bags pussy; he looks fucked!”
“PLEEEEASE REDBWOY!” The old cunts beggin’, claret spillin’ down those fancy white jeans. “SHOW
SOME MERCY! ME NAH MEAN YOU NO ‘ARM!! S’NAH PERSONAL!! S’NAH PERSONAL!!”
And I can see its gettin’ to Stephen ‘cause the cunt has a kind heart; it's his weakness; he’s tellin’ the old boy:
“STAY DOWN!! FOR FUCK SAKE STAY DOWN!! IF YOU STAY DOWN, I DONT HAVE TO KEEP STOMPIN’
YA’! STAY DOWN! FOR FUCK SAKE, STAY DOOOWWN!”
“WHATCHA’ DOING STEPHEN?!” Gammons shoutin’ down the platform. “ THIS AIN’T A KISSIN’
CONTEST! FUCKING BANG HIM OUT YA’ CUNT!”
Stephen's mercy will be the death of him. Gammons just lost it an’ gone runnin’ down the platform; he's slammed his steel-toecap into the old boys skull like it was a fuckin’ football or something:
“YOU DIRTY BASTARD!! OLD CUNT! RASTA WANKER! GO TO SLEEP!”
So now Tweakin’ Tommy's got his megaphone out an’ the cunts yellin’ his catchphrase again:
“BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!!
BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! “BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!!
BLITZKRIEG!!”
And the security goons are pushin’ us down the platform, away from Robbie an’ his girlfriend;
Robbie's got a hold of his lead pipe; Purple-dreads has this skull attached to a chain on the end of this long wooden handle. The dopey fuckers only gone an’ dropped it!
BOSH!
Robbie's cracked the cunt across chops with the lead pipe; I just seen two teeth go flyin’ into the wall.
BOSH!
Robbie's cracked the bastard again; Purple-dreads on the ground in a world of trouble now; Robbie’s dropped his pipe an’ picked up the skull an’ chain; he's standin’ over him, eyes blazin’ in his head:
“YA’ WANNAAH BRING OL’ COUNTRY BEEF ‘ERE?! IS THAT WHA’ YA’ WANT TO DO?! YA’ WANNAAH
BRING TROUBLE ‘ERE RUDEBWOY?! HUH?! ANSWER ME!! ANSWER ME!! ANSWER ME NOW BLUD!!”
And Robbie just uncorks on him; he’s bringin’ the skull down on top of the cunt; head to head
contact.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Robbie looks some sort of fuckin’ monster; the cunts makin’ me nervous.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
Purple-dreads ain't movin’ anymore. I’m takin’ a look back over me shoulder at ol’ Eight-ball; he ain’t movin’ either.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
SMASH!
Robbie's belting the cunt so hard the fuckin’ skulls smashed on impact! It looks like a broken Easter egg! All the security goons are tryin’ their best to drag Robbie off the geezer, but their strugglin’ with him. Purple-dreads looks like he's been in a fuckin’ car accident; there's blood an’ teeth all over the gaff; his feet are kickin’ an’ jumpin’ about; he looks like he's dancin’ lying down.
Tommy's makin’ a right old song an’ dance for the cameras:
“WELL THAT ABOUT RAPS IT UP FOR TONIGHT FOLKS! MORELAND COURT RANGERS GO THROUGH
TO THE QUARTER FINALS! IT’S A LONG JOURNEY HOME TO BABYLON TONIGHT!”
It’s amazin’ how quickly-
CRACK!
That dirty...
Fuckin’......
What the fuck?! Dirty bastard......
I’m on my arse now! Someone's lobbed a fuckin’ brick at me from the train tracks! It' cracked me square in the nut! That geriatric Rasta wanker....... Fuckin’ Stephen.....
I’m ok; I’m just dizzy; I’m on me arse on this on the dirty fuckin’ platform....
Can't feel no blood or nothing. My fuckin’ head is killing’ me... Jesus!
Fuck.... Now I’m lying’ on me back on the dirty old platform.....
One of the production goons is stickin’ the camera in me face.... I'm tellin’ him:
“Fuck off out of it cunt! The fights over.....”
So the geezer spins his camera ‘round; Gammons jumped on the old cunt; he knockin’ seven bells outta the bastard:
“YOU FILTHY, DIRTY BLACK CUNT! YOU DIRTY FUCKING BASTARD!! I’M GONNA RIP YA’ COCK AN’
BALLS OFF YA’!”
And I’m just watching all the lights runnin’ down that dark tunnel; I’m strugglin’ to get up; I can’t seem to get my fuckin’ balance back; I can't stop the fuckin’ gaff from spinnin’ around; my arms are all wobbly an’ my fuckin’ face has gone numb.
Fuck it.... Time to go......
Stephens pickin’ me up, stickin’ his head under my arm:
“I fucked up badly Jim! I'm so fuckin’ sorry mate! It's ‘cos of me you got smacked in the canister with the brick! Wideboy, I’m so fuckin’ sorry mate....”
“Leave it out!” I'm telling the soppy cunt. “You did me proud tonight! Feels like I've the old Stephen back!”
And the cunt looks gutted; I'm squeezin’ his shoulder; I'm letting him know its okay. Grown up with this cunt. I'd take a fuckin’ bullet for the geezer. I love him.
“Get me up those stairs Stevie boy,” I'm telling him. “Let's leave this dump before it collapses an’
we’re trapped under the rubble.....”
My heads fuckin’ killin’ me.....
It’s a good thing we’re getting out of here; looks like the lights are gettin’ dimmer an’ its getting darker. Hard to tell if it's me seeing things or the generators wearing out. Don't fuckin’ matter, it's all over now. We’re through to the quarter finals.
Me an’ Stephen are startin’ up those long stairs; we both spot an old advert for OxBlood Gloves 50
on one of the flickering screens at the top; we’re both sayin’ Jimmy Strangelove's infamous victory quote:
“THIS FEELS BETTER THAN A MOUNTAIN OF COCAINE! THIS FEELS BETTER THAN SEX WITHOUT A
RUBBER J! I GOT THE WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP BELT IN MY HANDS..... AND I'M NEVER
LETTING GO YA’ FUCKERS!”
And just seein’ Stephen laughin’ again feels great. My head feels like shit but I my got boy back. If there's one geezer who knows OxBlood Gloves better than me, it's Stephen. I love the cunt.
Tweakin’ Tommy's got the cameras facing up at us from the bottom of the stairs; the cunts signin’
off:
“WELL THERE YOU HAVE IT!! MORELAND COURT RANGERS GO THROUGH TO THE QUARTER FINALS,
BUT THE BABYLON MOVEMENT DIDN’T GO QUIETLY! STICKS AND STONES MY BREAK MY BONES,
BUT BRICKS WILL ALWAYS HARM ME!! HHAAHAAAAHHHAA!!”
It hurts to turn my head around, but Gammons just slapped Tweakin’ Tommy’s glasses off his face; now he’s punchin’ the livin’ daylights outta the gobby bastard:
“CHEEKY CUNT! YOU FUCKING CHEEKY CUNT! YOU GETTIN’ FUCKING LEMON WITH ME BOY! YOU
FORGOTTON WHO CONTROLS THE POWDER ‘ROUND THESE PARTS?!”
All the security goons have got their hands tied trying to calm Robbie down. Two of ‘em have come runnin’ over, tryin’ to push Gammon towards the stairs; Tommy's shoutin’:
“CAREFUL LADS! DON'T STEP ON MY GLASSES! DON'T STEP ON MY FUCKING GLASSES!!! PLEASE
WATCH MY FUCKING GLASSES! CAREFUL! THEY’RE JUST THERE! FOR FUCK SAKE! GET THIS CUNT UP
THE STAIRS! DON'T STEP ON MY FUCKING GLASSES! PLEASE WATCH MY FUCKING GLASSES!”
But Gammon's slugged one of the security goons; he gets the other cunt in a headlock an’ flings him back against the wall. Gammons takes one look down at the floor and:
SMASH!
He’s crushin’ the bastards funky eye-goggles under that big old boot; Gammon's givin’ the junkie cunt a final warning:
“THIS TIME IT'S YA’ STUPID FUCKING GLASSES!! NEXT TIME I'M GONNA BREAK YA’ FUCKING NECK
AND YOU WON'T WALK AWAY!! YOU BETTER BE CHECKIN’ EVERY BAG YOU BUY TOMMY BOY!! I'M
GONNA SPIKE YOU SON!! YOU DIRTY FUCKING JUNKIE CUNT!! KEEP YA’ FUCKING GOB SHUT ABOUT
US! SHOW SOME RESPECT YA’ TOOF’LESS WANKER!!”
“GAMMON YOU FAT CUNT!” Stephens yellin’ down. “LET’S GO BEFORE THE OLD BILL TURN UP!
GIMMIE A HAND WITH JIM!!
Robbie’s being forced up the stairs now; he's still screamin’ an’ yellin’ his fuckin’ head off like a madman:
“I BURY MY BRUDDAH!! NOW I BURY YOOOOUUUU!! I BURY YOOOOUUUU! I BURY YOU ALL!! I BURY
YOU ALL!! YA’ DEAD MEN WALKIN’!! YER’ ‘EAR ME?! DEAD MEN WALKIN’!!”
“Look at what I've got here Stephen!” Gammon says, comin’ up behind me putting his head under
my left arm. “I got a mad Rasta and a hurt wideboy! Let's get the fuck of here, head over to the Manhattan Steakhouse. I think we could all use a good fill up.”
And I don’t care what anyone says, guys like Gammon are worth their weight in gold. Cunts done me proud tonight. It's at times like these you need people like Gammon, especially in a situation like this.
The neon sign for The Birdcage glowed eerily against the night sky – Starlight Gully, WestPoint.....
The heavy-set security stared ahead impassively, as the congregated group of four headed through the narrow doorway, and into the venue........
WestPoint Televisions newly appointed program director, Bill Elliot, couldn’t quite believe where they were:
“Fucking hell Jezza! Is this the venue?! You’ve reserved a table here? At a fucking strip club?!”
“Pipe down ya’ bastard!” Retorted Jeremy Winston, pulling out a chair for Margret Hopkins. “You’ll love it! You’ve spent most of your adult life wanking your bollocks bone dry thinking about naked girls! You’ll thank me later Billy Elliot....”
Mirelle was lost somewhat – She still hadn’t quite figured out her new colleagues: WestPoint
Television CEO, Jeremy Winston, was a jovial man who could be direct, supportive and inspiring; WestPoint Televisions veteran news anchor, Margret Hopkins, was an outspoken and highly
sensitive old soul..... And of course, there was the annoying, but harmless, ‘Billy Elliot’......
An uncomfortable silence followed as they removed their jackets, attempting to settle in........
“Who on Earth could eat in a place like this?!” Asked Bill Elliot – Rhetorically. “All the bleach in WestPoint couldn’t wash away the abortions and sexually transmitted diseases this place has
caused....”
Margret simply shook her head, giving Mirelle a look she’d given her a hundred times already in the space of only a week.
Jeremy took the opportunity to warn his esteemed colleague – Mockingly:
“Best behaviour tonight Mr Elliot! Or you will be dealt punishment!”
WestPoint Televisions new inner circle was comprised almost entirely of men; Margret had clung
tightly to Mirelle upon her arrival, warning her about the ‘juvenile sausage-fest’ that awaited her in the offices on the fourth floor – A tad dramatic, but quite accurate. An hour in, and Mirelle had already begun to resent the Pacific Valley jokes......
“Classy place this,” Bill wryly noted. “I bet your bedroom at home looks like this Jezza!”
Mirelle was ignoring the banal banter; she was taking in the finer details of the venue; it wasn’t what you would exactly call ‘classy’ – Although it certainly aspired to be. Something made her feel slightly uneasy: It wasn’t the mirrored walls at odds with the dim lighting; it wasn’t the gouache, oversized chandelier hanging awkwardly from the low ceiling; it wasn’t the venues raised flooring, each level connected by blocks of small, stout stairs. Mirelle had visited plenty of lap-dancing establishments on numerous hen nights back in the Netherlands – Those venues were clean and well run. This venues interior was masking something murky, although she couldn’t quite be sure what exactly.....
“We need drinks for fuck sake!” Whinged Bill Elliot, staring longingly towards the bar. “Margret!
Jezza! Mirelle! What's it to be?!”
Billy Elliot’s question fell on deaf ears; some sort of commotion was occurring at the bar; Mirelle’s attention was firmly focused on two new arrivals; to say these young knives were being obnoxious was an understatement:
“OI! YOU FUCKIN’ DYKE! I SAID ‘OI’! NEXT TIME MOVE A BIT SHARPISH WHEN WE’RE ORDERING
FUCKIN’ DRINKS! STOP DAYDREAMING ‘BOUT FANNIES AND THE SORT....”
Mirelle could only observe; she watched the bastards in silk suits snatch a magnum sized bottle of champagne from the bartender's hands, giving the poor girl a parting shot in the process:
“DIRTY BITCH! MAKES YER’ SICK.... FILTHY CARPER MUNCHER'S! WORKING IN A GAFF LIKE THIS!
WHEN JASON TAKES OVER, YOU’RE FIRST CUNT GONE! STAY ON POINT YA’ FUCKIN’ DYKE! PAY
ATTENTION YA’ CUNT!”
A thunderbolt of anxiety hit Mirelle as the two creeps turned away from the bar; they were now
advancing in her general direction, marching up the block stairs, taking one of the two vacant tables directly behind the WestPoint Television party....
Something about the two young men looked odd – They stuck out: The tall fellow looked artistic, with a ponytail and goatee hanging from his long face; the second chap had a mop of blonde curls, matched with bright blue eyes – The boy was angelic looking to say the least! The fact that they both carried an air of menace seemed at odds with their appearance – A paradox of sorts.....
Margret hissed – Unimpressed with the new arrivals:
“Disgusting! Disgusting! Vile boys! Animals.....”
Bill Elliot however, seemed rather oblivious to it all – He rose to his feet theatrically, shouting over the music, clicking his fingers towards the bar:
“GARCON! GARCON! CAN WE PLEASE CAN WE GET SOME TABLE SERVICE?! GARCON! GARCON!!”
Margret was twitching now, drawing in sharp gulps of air as she struggled to control the anger and embarrassment boiling up inside her. Mirelle squeezed her hand supportively, allowing Margret to release the tension and smile back as a sign of gratitude. Once again, it dawned on Mirelle that Margret really did need some female company within the work environment – The group had shared
a couple of bottles of wine back at the office; Jeremy and Bill had become quite animated after just a couple of glasses. Mirelle wondered if their trips to the toilet were for more than the purpose of urination...
Jeremy grabbed an ashtray from the table, handing it to Bill:
“And the award for biggest coked up wanker goes to-”
Bill snatched the glass cylinder from Jeremy hands, jumping up on his chair:
“I’D LIKE TO THANK THE SHITTY BAR SERVICE..... AND THE COLOMBIAN MARCHING POWDER.... I’D
LIKE TO THANK MY WESTPOINT TELEVISION INVESTORS FOR BRINGING ME TO THIS GODAWFUL
SEASIDE TOWN-”
“SIT DOWN YA’ POSH CUNT! SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU BALD WANKER!”
The outburst had come from behind them – The Artistic Creep. Poor Billy Elliot stepped down,
slumping back into his chair sheepishly:
“Well, you can’t please everybody......”
Instinctively, Mirelle turned around, inspecting the new arrivals: The Artistic Creep, pleased at humbling Bill Elliot, was leaning back in his chair, raising his champagne glass; the Angelic Cherub was busy chopping lines of cocaine on a pocket mirror. The latter had a proposition:
“You alright sexy? Why don’t you come an’ sit on my lap? I’d pay top dollar to stick my tongue up your brown eye! How about it?!”
Mirelle was in shock, taken aback by this rather crude invitation – It certainly didn’t suit the mouth it had come out of. The Angelic Cherub snorted the two lines through a long, thin gold cylinder; he propositioned her once again:
“You wanna line babe? Keep watching blondie.... At 2am, I’ll be snorting this gear off your wet fanny.....”
And now Mirelle felt self aware – The table whole table felt self aware! She found herself watching somebody – Or rather, somebody was watching Mirelle. He didn’t look like a patron of the
establishment; he didn’t look like bar staff either – Security maybe?
Bill Elliot, once again, attempted to break the tension:
“Where are the bloody girls you promised Jezza? All I can see is an empty stage!”
Not an unreasonable question, they were in a strip club after all.....
“Eleven pm you horrible little oaf,” retorted Jeremy. “That's when the entertainment resumes...
You’ve got another twenty minutes to go. Think you can keep it in your pants until then?”
Margret was rolling her eyes again; Mirelle turned her attention back to the boy in the corner – He was motioning to the bartender, pointing to the table, pressing the girl for urgency – She was
working as fast she could! She was clearly under pressure and he was pilling more on her! Mirelle felt sorry for the poor cow – She seemed anxious, frantically wiping away the dyed blue fringe from her eyes, attempting to multitask with little support from her colleagues.
The venue was filling rapidly; Mirelle noticed the patrons seemed drunk, not to mention hostile –
Was this typical of a place like this? Was this typical of WestPoint? She hoped not...
A young couple had now joined the table adjacent to the going knives behind them. The new arrivals had caused a quite stir – The boys were animated, showing their appreciation for the young lady –
The Artistic Creep in particular:
“Dear Santa Claus.....I want a delicious Arab girl in a leather cat-suit and snakeskin boots.... The cowboy hat is optional....”
Mirelle had tried her best not to turn around – She’d failed. It was impossible to ignore the chaos.
Regardless of polite public conduct, she had to take a butchers; she’d have to turn around sooner or later; why stand on ceremony? It was obvious why the girl was attracting so much attention – She looked sluttish; she reeked of a girl attempting to mix class with sexuality, and failing miserably.
Mirelle lamented that men were rarely able to make the distinction, so it mattered not. The girls boyfriend was a different matter – He seemed to possess something the other men in the vicinity did not: Grace.....
Mirelle found herself gawking – She met the girls gaze and broke eye contact immediately – Why be rude?! Now she was scouring the bar area looking for a distraction – What had happened to the boy in the corner?
“Mind if I take a seat?”
The question had been addressed to Mirelle, but she hadn’t quite taken it in; her eyes were scanning the room for the boy in the pinstripe suit – The boy with the bruise under his eye....
The boy in the corner....... He was sat next to her now.
“Since you didn’t answer, I took it you don’t mind me sitting down..... I’m Jimmy – Security. But most people call me ‘Wideboy’.....”
Mirelle was slightly overpowered, giving a garbled response:
“Wideboy..... Errr, yes...... Wideboy... What is a ‘Wideboy’? Is that a stupid question?”
Jimmy ignored the question; the bartender had finally arrived at the table, still wiping the long blue fringe away from her eyes:
“Hi! Sorry! Sorry for the wait! What can I get for you all?”
Mirelle turned her attention back to Jimmy; Jimmy’s steely gaze was still on the bartender.
“I’m guessing you’re not from around here,” he said, addressing Mirelle, but averting his steely gaze towards the young knives. “You seem a bit outta ya’ depth if I’m honest..... Not that it’s not nice to have new comers an’ all....”
“Yes... We’ve just-”
Mirelle had been cut off; the Angelic Cherub was hollering over the music, critical of the hospitality being offered:
“OI! I SAID OI! YA’ FUCKIN’ DYKE BITCH! WE’RE NEXT! HOW LONG WE GOTTA WAIT?! WE WANT
ANOTHER BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE! WE WAN’ IT NOW AN’ ALL! FUCKIN’ SHARPISH!”
Danni placed her right palm in the air to signal that she’d heard; Margaret pursed her lips, shaking her head; Jeremy continued giving his order in a rambling, self-indulgent manner:
“Two bottles of house red.... And a shandy for Billy Elliot here.... He’s no good to man or beast after he’s ingested whatever....... Hard to tell what he’s ingested tonight; hard to tell what he’s ingested most nights if I’m honest! Ha!”
“Fuck off Jezza! Ya’ great fat bastard!” said Bill, flinging the ashtray