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JackInThebox
Guttersnipe
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It's 4am here, and I have Prodigy thundering out of my speakers, so I thought I'd write a little piece of SD-related scribbling. If it breaks the IC/OOC board rules, then one of the admins please nuke it by all means. If not, heres something to add a little flavour to yer evenings.
Heckling welcome. 
__________
Fucking Bethnal Green. The tenements are crumbling and the whores on the corner have broken teeth that’ll rip your cock to shit. A couple fuck against the jewellers armour-plated shop-front, the light from the security system’s targeting lasers flickering over their spastic grimaces of ecstasy. The searchlights from the Met. AV’s flit across a sky rendered smoky by smog and the fumes from the burning cars some sensible people have set alight to keep warm.
Once in a blue moon, you’ll hear a dull crump as a fuel-tank explodes somewhere else in the city, making those clustered around it into living torches that scream and rail against the injustice of it all before flesh crackles and fat runs in the flame.
Always puts me in the mood for pork scratchings that does.
The filth are out in force tonight. Maybe there’s a big rumble on the way that I haven’t heard about – I’ve been out of commission for a bit. The stitches Old Frank used to put me back together after that Fuzzball fuck slit my gut open keep puling on the skin. It hurts like bloody buggery.
I see a couple of them on the street in their armour and mirrored visors. Seems like the riot shields are being brought out too. As always, there are the shock-batons too, sparkling and crackling, ready to stun you so much you cry like a baby. It’s either that or choke on your own vomit as you arsehole loosens and your abdomen twitches so much you lose your lunch and fall to the ground having a bloody fit.
Shit. I don’t like the way this smells. Something’s in the wind, and it aint just your usual nastiness. I pull back into the shadows, lighting a fag and watching, brushing the hair out of my eyes while my other hand finds the flick knife in my jacket pocket.
I wonder if Mack and the rest of the lads know about this. Not likely. They were too pissed on that whisky we got from the supermarket we knocked over last week. Trust me to want a clear head. I watch the cigarette glow in the dimness, drawing the harsh acrid stuff into my lungs.
The first inkling of how bad this is comes when the filth start marching up the road, spotlights ahead of them, lighting the way. That’s when I notice the bloke in the suit on the other side of the street. He’s smoking too, built like a brick shithouse. The suit’s so tight it’s a second skin around his muscles. Boosted to buggery this one, I reckon. Doesn’t look like corpse-meat, but hell, you don’t get many of those maggots round here, so I could be wrong.
Then he’s on his phone, smoking, watching the backs of the filth as they advance down the street. I can hear the ugly noises now, the loudmouths without the brains to run away. They’re always the first to go, skulls cracked open and laying a pool of their own piss and shit as their brain cooks slowly from the shock-baton blows. So far so good, just a regular street sweep, I think.
Boy, when I get things wrong, I go to fucking town, don’t I?
T here’s a crackle suddenly. I aint no combat vet, but I’ve been about. I know automatic weapons fire when I hear it. Safest thing to do in these situations is to keep your head down, hold onto your balls and hope for the best. Live. Grow stronger. Fight another day.
Some fuck must have retaliated. Idly, I wonder which of the Meanies’ rivals it is and whether this will mean we get a bigger share of the turf when the filth have finished with them.
Idly, my eye wanders back to the gorilla on the phone. He’s smiling. When I was little, I saw a documentary on the Tri-D in the children’s home. It was about monkeys, chimps and all that shit. Apparently right, when one of those furry fucks smiles at you it aint being nice. It’s a warning. A warning that says ‘You keep doing what you’re doing, sunshine, and I will rip your fucking arms off, use them to beat your balls to mush, and then I’ll twist your head off just for a laugh.’
Well, you get the idea, right?
The maggot-boy is smiling into his phone looking almost exactly like that. It's right about now that I start to get the Fear. The Fear’s saved my tight little London arse more times than I can count, so I’m always inclined to listen to it.
The Fear is telling me that the fan was going to be hit with some pretty stinky shit any moment now. When the explosion happens, I suspect a stray round has just hit a fuel tank. But when the filth start screaming and being blown apart by more of ‘em, I know I'm as good as dead. Some arse has tooled up a crew of London gangbangers with mortars.
Several things go through my head then. Most of them involve the varied and inventive application of the word ‘fuck’. Because the only ones I know with that kind of pull think winter in London is like the bloody Mediterranean and drink vodka like water.
Jack, mate, I tell myself, the times they are a-changing. A flick of the wrist gets rid of my half smoked fag and I press tighter against the wall. The gorilla must have spotted me then, because he looks straight at where I'm hiding and grins wider.
There’s one phrase that fits this situation well folks:
Oh bugger…
_____________
Craig
(Edited by JackInThebox at 8:28 pm on Oct. 7, 2002)
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Total Posts: 8 | Joined Aug. 2002 | Posted on: 10:23 pm on Oct. 7, 2002 | IP
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Bias
Not-A-Twink
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hah. right on!.. er.. write on as well... :P i don't think you could have fit anymore mood into that.
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"But ye gotta know where ye're just gonna rush in. Ye cannae just rush in anywhere. It looks bad, havin' to rush oout again straight awa'."
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Total Posts: 570 | Joined Jan. 2002 | Posted on: 11:23 pm on Oct. 7, 2002 | IP
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