A provocative first-person-shooter account of a heinous crime. The personalities, the causes and effects, analysed in a microcosm of a twenty four hour period.
The heroes and villains , the victims and the perpertrators. Lined up one by one, and subjugated to literary scrutiny.
The whys and wherefores. The shoulds and shouldn’ts. The what ifs, and if onlys.
PUB LIFE IS AN EXPERIMENTAL BOOK PROJECT. NOT SURE WHERE IT’S GOING BUT I’M EXCITED ABOUT GOING THERE.
BRENDA AND THE ANGELS
George glanced into the rear view mirror. He’d been driving limousines for the past ten years and what he hadn’t seen happen in the back of the luxury vehicle would stretch his own imagination. From rock stars and groupies, reality-wannabes and footballers with too much money in their bloody pockets, to out-of-control housewives on the razz, he’d seen it all. He could write a book; a kiss and tell first-person exclusive. Only problem was nobody would believe a word of it. From the bare arses pushed up against the glass partition that separated him from the clientele to the forgotten pills, bras, and panties stuffed between the seats, he could start his own lingerie store and drug distribution centre. Instead he sold the pills and powders to the kids at the pub he went to on a Friday night with the missus. Money was money and he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. His wife enjoyed the naughty additions to her own underwear collection Once they were washed and ironed you’d never know the difference.
This was his fourth fare of the evening. A bunch of girls – a hen-party dressed as angels. Amateur weekend pole-dancers, who in reality were daytime pot-washers and kid-catchers. The middle aged still deluding themselves they were eighteen and hot-to-trot – the eighteen year old pretending they were oh-so sophisticated with their dark eye liner and too short skirts.
He had to laugh, stupid beggars. Course he was always polite, “Yes madam. No madam. Can I do anything for you ladies?” Just another bunch of slappers looking for trouble and who’d probably find it as well. Earlier in the evening he’d had a boat load of airhostesses followed by a car full of naughty school girls, now it was winged angels dressed in stockings and pink body tops. Amazing what a pair of stripper heels and a set of fishnets could do for a bunch of chubby housewives. Unleashed, the old dogs had left husbands glued to couches, watching videotaped soccer games. Left to fend for themselves with a couple of cans of lager and take-away curries. Yeah, they were well out of it. Best place for them and probably the safest on a night like this.
The redhead looked like she was a handful. She’d grabbed his dick getting into the car and had already stuck her lipsticked face all over the bloody windows. He’d have to wipe that up before he picked up the next lot of scantily clad soon to be happily-ever-aftered. So long as they tipped well he didn’t much care. Looking in the mirror again, he was just in time to see a set of boobs being arranged inside a push-up bra. Nothing he hadn’t seen before and went back to concentrating on his driving.
Mothers of York lock up your sons and husbands. The angels were on the prowl and judging by the size of the lasses in the back they were hungry.
“This is a bit posh in- it?” squealed Brenda, the red-head, at no one in particular. The leather upholstery was beautiful. Her bare arse cheeks stuck to its smooth surface and it was cold to the touch. There were drinks in the cabinet and George, the driver, had told them to help themselves. He’d also offered a little extra if they were interested. All they had to do was pick up the telephone in the back of the car, speak to him on the intercom and he’d sort them out. Big man was George, probably a bit of a looker in his day. Had a nice package on him too, she thought remembering the cheeky squeeze shed given him when they’d climbed into the sleek, stretched, limousine
The inside was thickly carpeted, beautifully upholstered, mirrored and tinted. They couldn’t see the driver but George could see them. Unbeknownst to the passengers the interior was more utilitarian than it was luxurious. The leather was easy to wipe down and the scotch- guarded synthetic carper was faster to clean. Given the seminal fluids and excess alcohol that was sprayed around its interior it was a wonder anybody wanted to ride around in mobile cess-pool. What George didn’t see in his mirror the camera in the corner recorded for posterity. A side line in porn that the owner was selling to some internet savvy kids. Limousine debauchery – Housewives gone wild or some such?
It was Sarah’s hen party; she was the one who was getting married the following week to a nice-enough lad, and the father of the three month old she was carrying. Although her boobs had started to swell she hadn’t started to show, and so with a bit of luck and some help with the zipper should fit snuggly into her wedding dress.
The Angels all worked at the plastic factory in Stanton Bridge and had known each other for years. Friends of friends, mothers of friends, friends of mothers. When there was trouble at mill it was usually one, or all of them, who were at the centre of it. One of the girls fired off some indoor fireworks, the angels screamed at the noise, the colored streamers spreading like multi-colored tendrils throughout the back of the car. The girls squealed, clinked their glasses of complimentary champagne and chatted incessantly about the night ahead. There were ten of them in total all dressed identically. Sweet but slutty is what they were going for and much to Brenda’s approval their look was a triumph. White basques accented with arm length gloves, short skirts, and stockings. The skirts just brushed the bottom of their arse cheeks and so they were bound to get the attention they deserved.
Sarah, the wife-to-be, had a large red learner-sign pinned to her back and a plastic board hung around her neck that said kiss me quick, fuck me slow. They’d taken all the photographs back at the house, adopted page-three poses, lifted skirts, and flashed stocking tops. Like proud graduates from the Mrs. Simpsons school for angelic strippers they’d smiled their crooked teeth for the camera and preserved their proudest moments.
“Last night of freedom lass. Better grab you some dick ‘cos the only one you’re ever going to see again will be you hubbies.”
The girls screeched in delight. Brenda picked up the phone. “Ay, George. Have you got that little extra you was talking about?”
“Certainly madam,” came the cool, calm, voice from behind mirrored glass. The limo coasted to a halt – the sound of the electric motor as the partition slid down and revealed the driver. George passed a small plastic bag back to the ladies.
“Remember just one. You don’t want to be to wasted and get yourselves into trouble.” He said with fatherly concern.
“Thanks George. You’re a lovey” cooed Brenda. The glass slid back into place.
“Alright then, who wants one?” screamed Brenda. The bag was filled with small blue pills stamped with smiley faces and passed around the car. Each of the girls took one and held it in their hands.
“Alright then,” said Brenda, “after three!” The pills were thrown back and chased down with cans of extra strength lager. “Here we go girls, a night to remember. Whatever happens we stick together. What happens in York stays in York.”
George turned up the music in the front of the car. There was only so much screaming he could take, the shrill cries from the back of vehicle grating on his nerves. Worse than lads they were once they got going.
Brenda swallowed the pill and flushed her mouth with the last of her champagne. There was still one pill left in the bag. She grabbed it greedily and swallowed it down. It had been a while since she’d been on the town. Ever since her husband had left her for some slag down at the railway museum she’d been by herself. Well if that’s what he wanted, some fuddy-duddy troll to walk around and look at steam engines with, he could bloody well have her. Good bye and good bloody riddance.
She was determined she was going to have some fun and tonight was as much hers as any bodies. You only lived once so you might as well enjoy it, she justified. Pulling the lip stick out of bag she peered into the mirrored glass and reapplied the previous application now plastered to the champagne glass. As she stared at her own reflection she thought she could make out the imprint of a bum in the mirrored glass.
The angels were singing at the top of their voices, a couple of them with their heads out of the window waving to anything in trousers that had the misfortune to walk by. “Get your kit off. Show us your willy. Give us a shag!” Good girls gone bad. If only their bloody mothers could see them now. Brenda knew some of their mothers and the apple, so to speak, hadn’t fallen too far from the tree.
A voice came over the intercom. “Here we are angels. The Slug and Cabbage. Thanks for flying with Minster Limos and we look forward to seeing you again. Have a great night and remember be safe. Oh, and good luck to the bride”
“Thanks George, ta George, see you later lover.” They chorused.
The girls climbed out of the limousine and onto the pavement. Long legs hemmed in by fish netting, the click-clack of high heels on cold stone.
“Aye up lads, look what we’ve got here. Look at the tits on that.”
“Fuck off you dirty bastards.” bantered the angels with lads who were already in line to get in the bar. The slug was always busy and they could hear the music inside throbbing through the windows.
“ We’ll never get in,” complained Sarah.
“ Hold on a mo,”said Brenda. “I’ll have a word with the bouncer.” Brenda pulled up her top, licked her teeth, pulled the wedgy out from between her cheeks and tottered over to where a big man in a tuxedo stood at the front of the line. She’d use a bit of the charm she was famous for. She’d get the angels into the pub.
George pushed the button and looked back into the rear of the limo, the seats awash in glitter, confetti, and streamers. Empty plastic champagne glasses rolled on the carpet and lipstick smeared the windows. He reached down for the tip jar at the back of the seat. There was a fifty quid and a pair of knickers stuffed into the container. Good girls, he thought, they’d done him right. He sighed at the state of the inside of the vehicle. He’ better get a wiggle on as he’d another pick up in an hour. Best be ready if he wanted a decent tip.