4 Aug


Frank stamped his feet on the pavement. It was starting to get bloody cold, either that or he was getting too old for this game. He’d worn a vest underneath his dress shirt to keep out the damp – his cough had started to get worse. It was probably all the bleeding cig-smoke he inhaled every night in the pub. Never smoked a fag in his life and yet he’d probably die of fuckin lung cancer. How’s that for bleeding irony, he thought. Hours spent in the gym to perfect a body that was slowly going to seed, only to be struck down by some invisible black shit creeping through his lungs. He coughed again, spittle rattled in his throat. The radio clipped to his lapel came to life.

“Hey Frank this is Billy did you hear anything from Mike? It’s fricking packed in here?”

There were only three of them of them on duty tonight. The menace of tuxedos, black ties, and shiny patent leather shoes, the uniform of authority, was supposed to keep the drunken masses under control. Mike had called in sick and he had a brown sticky feeling that Tony had found work elsewhere. He’d told John a million bloody times to raise the wages or he’d be losing the boys. The tight fisted bugger was more interested in lining his own pockets and fucking as many of the tarts that came into the place than looking after the staff.

He’d known  John for years and despite his protestations his marriage and his kids hadn’t changed him a bit. Still the same randy old sod he ever was. The younger the snatch the better he liked it. He talked a good line but preferred to put his silver tongue to other uses. How many times had he walked into the office only to find some young girl on her knees or bent over the table with Frank thrusting into them or with his trousers around his ankles staring into space. Frank had a lot to thank him for. He’d been loyal and stood by him, besides it was him who was supplying him with the little blue pills that enabled his extracurricular activities. If John’s wife ever found out what was going on she’d kill the both of them.

Standing by the front door of The Slug and Cabbage he kept his eye on the  crowd that was lining up to get into the pub. The band had brought them in. There must have been at least fifty people trying to sweet talk and bribe there way inside. Two young girls had already flashed their tits and one lad had forked over a tenner all three of whom were now probably fighting for space at the bar and gagging on cigarette smoke inside. Divine Justice he mused.

He pushed the button and spoke into the radio. “No nothing. Looks like it’s just us. Keep your eyes open. Any sign of trouble call for help. Don’t be a bleeding hero you get me.” The radio hissed and he heard a muffled affirmative. Kids!  All they wanted to do was bloody fight. Get some ale into them and they were all bloody heroes.

“Hiya, stud,” said a woman in her thirties -dyed red hair, covered in make-up, looking for a shag no doubt. Part of a hen-party – bunch of young girls dressed like sluts with angels wings pinned to their backs offering to suck lollipops for fifty pence a go. Bloody brazen is what it was. When had underwear become outerwear? The stockings and suspenders on the plump thighs of the bride-to-be left nothing to the imagination.

Music started to play and he popped his head through the door. The band was back on the stage. A sea of heaving bodies jumping up and down and swaying to the music. It was a madhouse. Thank god there was only a couple of hours left of this, then they could leave. He’d a lot on his plate and he needed to get home as quickly as possible. He saw John wave from behind the bar and he waved back. Dirty bastard had two girls at the bar hanging onto his every word. Dressed in summer dresses in November, the no- knickers variety that he’d probably have squealing in the bathroom before the night was over. If his wife caught him she’d chop his bloody dick off.

“Come on babe. Let us in and I’ll show you me tits,” said the red-head.

He ignored her and reached into his pocket. The plastic bag was still there, filled with the pills he was supposed to give to Izzy the guitar player. Only problem was the silly bastard was back on stage pretending he was Jon- Bon-bloody- Jovi. He’d known Izzy for ever, since school and it was Frank who’d given the idea of band-night to John. Izzy and the boys put on a good show and weren’t expensive. In fact they were bloody desperate for the work. Given that the last record they’d made was ten years ago they weren’t quite the success the posters claimed they were.

He hadn’t seen the tart behind the bar before, she must be new. Good looking girl but looked a bit of a handful in more ways than one. Thought he recognized her from somewhere else but probably didn’t. They were all clones anyway – big tits, blonde hair, short skirts, and no fucking brains. He pushed the bag back into his pocket. He’d see Izzy later and give him the pills.

More money in pills these days than there was in bouncing and since he’d been laid off from the garage it had become a necessity. He’d still to pay child support and couldn’t rely on that wanker his ex had hooked up with to take care of his kiddies could he? When he thought about it, it made him fucking mad but what could he do about it now? He’d had a quiet word with the fucker, given him a slap, but that had just gotten him into trouble with the law and lost him his job. Stupid bugger, what had been thinking? He should have done it on the sly. Got somebody else to do it for him. He wasn’t thinking, must be all those steroids he’d done back in the day that were slowing down his brain.

The radio crackled. “Bloody hell Frank there getting frigging naked in here. It’s going to turn into a riot.”

“Stand back and don’t intervene The bloody band will be finished soon and they’ll go back to drinking. Whatever you do, don’t dive in. There’s not enough of us and they’ll frigging kill you. Enjoy the show.”

“Aye I will bloody that – perks off the job ,eh!” The radio went silent.

Frank could envision it. Girls with too much drink inside throwing their knickers at the band and flashing their tits for drinks. Same old same old, just another regular night at the Slug and fucking Cabbage. It’d had been a lot of fun was he younger – free booze, all the totty you could handle, and cash in your pocket to boot. Now though he was starting to stiffen up, wasn’t as quick as he used to be and didn’t recover quite as fast from the scrapes he got into. Luckily he was still built like a brick shit house and so intimidation was his weapon of choice.

 The red head at the door had her hand on his crotch and had started to massage his balls. “Alright alright,” – he unclipped the rope and ushered the winged angels of the wedding party into the pub.

The red head grabbed his cheeks and planted a chapped-lipped kiss on his face. “Thanks darling. See you later?”

“Not if I bloody see you first,” said Frank. The crowd outside were getting rowdy.

“Hey, that’s not fuckin fair.”

“Quiten down or you’ll never get in.” the rabble settled.

He looked  at his watch, it was ten o’clock. The music came to a sudden stop to be replaced by applause and shouted screams for more.

He spoke into the radio. “Billy get your arse to the door, there’s something I have to take care off.”

“Will do boss. Be there in a jiffy.”

It was time to do the deal with Izzy. Drop the pills and hopefully get the bloody coppers of his back. He needed this job and he couldn’t afford to lose it. Sod it. In for a penny…


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