The café is mostly empty as I make my way to my usual seat at the back. I sit down and face the door, my broad back against the grease mottled wall. I open up the newspaper and flick through the sporting pages. ‘West Ham Lose Again’ the headlines scream out at me in bold black letters. I shake my head in disgust.
A pretty waitress comes up to me to take my order. I don’t need to look at the menu, I know what I want. I order a full English with extra chips and a mug of tea. The waitress nods nervously and scurries off. She promptly returns with my cuppa. I slurp my cup of Rosie and flick over to the front page. More bad news, Russia is continuing to misbehave and threatening the rest of the world with war if they don’t get their own way. I don’t know much about politics but I do know that Russian president is a cunt.
My breakfast comes and I tuck in. I attack the fried egg first, sticking my fork into the greasy yolk and slashing it with my knife. The wife keeps telling me to cut out all this shit food or have an early death. I tell her that I’d rather die early and enjoy myself than eat porridge and prunes all day- fuck that.
I’ve got a busy day today so need my strength. Can’t smash heads and break bones on a diet of fucking muesli. I’m on the wrong side of fifty but I’ve still got it. Six foot four and well-built thanks to my younger days being a boxer and night club bouncer, fed on a diet of meat and steroids. A bit more fat these days and a lot less hair but plenty of muscle there too. I can still have a good tear up with the best of them. For the past eight years I’ve worked for ‘Big Tel’ Sullivan a local crime boss who has his fingers in a lot of pies in the area. I’m his enforcer and if I turn up on your doorstep then something has seriously gone fucking wrong. I’m the last resort. Break fucking glass in an emergency. The big bad fucking wolf.
I finish my breakfast and walk out. I don’t have to pay as they know who I am.
The sun is trying to break through the dark clouds but is failing miserably. Right, now off to my first job of the day.
***
The first job is a local betting shop in Dagenham. The owner a right weasel has borrowed forty grand off of Mr Sullivan and is struggling to pay the loan back, the mug. I’m here to persuade him to cough up last week’s and this week’s money or he’s going to be eating hospital food for the next six months.
I look up at the shop, a right shit hole in an even bigger shit hole. Presently I live in a two bed flat on the Thames view Estate. I want to better myself but life seems to not offer me any breaks. Don’t get me wrong I’m not like these poor twats; I’m the lion in this jungle, the apex fucking predator but I’d like to be more like Mr Sullivan and have a big fuck off house in Emerson Park, rather than a poky flat in Barking. I suppose my coke habit isn’t helping but you need something to give you a boost from time to time don’t you?
I stroll into the shop and fix eyes on my prey. A short, fat man with shifty eyes stares back at me as if I’m the devil himself.
I suppose to him I am.
‘Good morning Sid,’ I say as I slowly turn the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed,’ before crossing the threadbare carpet, stained with years of sweat, tears and fag ash. A few punters at the slot machines or poring over the ‘Racing Post’ see me and suddenly remember they have more pressing business elsewhere and fuck off.
Sid doesn’t say anything but stiffly nods his head in the direction of his back office, his triple chins wobbling with the exertion.
***
We’re in his office, a poor excuse for one, more like a broom cupboard. I stand menacing in the small room, the interior as depressing as the shop floor.
‘Listen, I haven’t got all the money yet,’ he says, putting his hands out as if this will stop me thumping the cunt.
I take two steps forward.
‘Wait. I have a great tip on a horse that’s running today at Epsom at 3 o’ clock. I know the owner.’
I take another step towards him, my face a fucking nightmare.
‘It’s a fucking dead cert.’
‘Mr Sullivan needs all what’s owed right now or I’ve been told to break your legs.’
I remove my trusty claw hammer, ‘Mike’ from the inside pocket of my leather jacket for emphasis and wave it slowly before Sid’s shocked face.
I was a huge fan of Mike Hammer, that old T.V show about a private detective when I was a teenager. Loved that shit. He always solved the case and got the girl. I always wanted to be like him.
‘I’ve got half the money now,’ Sid said, his voice going up an octave.
‘Well in that case then I’ll break only one of your legs,’ I say before getting down to business.
***
I get back in my black Ford Mondeo and bung the brown envelope stuffed with cash into the glove box with ‘Mike.’ I take out a pair of knuckle dusters and slip them into my jacket pocket. Now off to Tilbury Docks for the next job.
I drive into an industrial estate that houses hundreds of shipping containers. I park up and I’m met by two guys from the firm. They’re not that bright but can handle themselves if needed.
‘Where’s the little cunt?’ I ask the bigger of the two.
‘He’s in here Tommy,’ he says pointing to one of the containers.
Without another word I stroll towards the red coloured metal container, the other two following in my wake.
I enter the container and the stink hits me like a heavy weight’s upper cut. It smells of sweat, shit and fear. As my eyes adjust to the gloom of the interior I see another member of the firm near the back, standing by a wooden chair with a man tied to it. His head rises from a bloody vest that was once white. A spot light, powered by a generator hangs above the chair, offering a harsh glow. I guess he’s in his mid-twenties but it’s hard to tell as his features are bloated with the beating that he’s already received by the warm up act. Now I was here, the main fucking event. The man’s crying a long line of snot hangs from one flared nostril.
‘Please,’ he begs. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard Kenny,’ I say, slowly slipping my brass knuckle dusters onto my large hands, the metal gleaming in the light. I ignore his pleading.
‘You’ve been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. Mr Sullivan doesn’t like members of his own firm ripping him off.’
‘I’m innocent.’
‘Shut it. If we let you off what kind of message would that send to the rest of the firm or our rivals?’
I stroll over to the poor excuse of a man and go to work on him.
Afterwards when he’s gurgling on his own blood and teeth I take a Stanley knife from my black jeans pocket and run the razor blade smoothly across Kenny’s skinny throat. His puffy eyes widens as a crimson line appears across the white skin. Then the wound yawns and blood jets out of the cut like a geezer. Luckily I’d side stepped before making the cut, this isn’t my first fucking rodeo you know. So the gush of blood misses me but finds the shorter of the two guys who’d met me outside earlier.
I laugh wiping the blood from my blade against Kenny’s shaking legs as the last of his life leaves his broken body for good. I turn to the three guys in the room, ‘Now clean this shit up.’
Without a backwards glance I’m off to my next job.
***
That work out has made me hungry so I get a quarter pounder with extra cheese from a nearby burger van and eat it in the car, listening to an 80’s radio station. The song ‘99 Red Balloons’ starts playing. I used to fancy that singer until I saw her hairy arm pits on ‘Top of the Pops’ – yuck. I put a ‘monkey’ on the horse, ‘Crimson Glory’ that Sid tipped to win as I munch on me burger. The odds are 50-1, so a great result if it comes romping in.
The early summer sun has at last broken through the clouds and a beam of light shines down as I drive over to Brentwood for my penultimate job.
***
This job’s at a strip club. The owner is complaining about paying over the odds for our security and allowing us to peddle our drugs to his punters. I slip through the back door; I’ll give him a nice surprise, trusty ‘Mike’ back in my pocket.
Darren Goldhart owner of ‘Golden Hearts-Gentlemen’s Club,’ sits in his plush office behind a massive oak desk. Loud rock music pounds out of hidden speakers as he snorts up a thick line of coke. One of his strippers performs a private dance for him. He’s got a fucking pole and little stage in here and the tight little blonde with small waist and big tits is working her little arse off for him and the fucker isn’t even paying her the attention she fucking deserves. The girl stops and Goldhart senses a change in the room. Looking up he turns off the music with a little remote.
Goldhart waves the girl away with a limp hand and she rushes off, picking up her skimpy clothes from the floor as she goes. I take a long lingering look at her shapely behind as she runs out the door. I turn back and fix my dark eyes on Goldhart.
‘I understand that you dislike Mr Sullivan’s security arrangements,’ I say walking past a huge tropical fish tank that takes up half the wall. Loads of fish of many different colours swim in its blue waters looking out at me with wide eyes as I approach the desk.
‘Well yeah. Big Tel’s killing me with the increases he keeps demanding.’
‘Cost of living mate but I see you can still afford blow though.’
Goldhart looks a bit embarrassed as he sniffs, wiping his big nose with a shaky hand.
‘Well you need some perks in life,’ he says quietly.
‘Indeed you do,’ I say reaching his desk. ‘So have we got a problem?’
‘I think we have. We need to renegotiate our terms.’
‘Renegotiate?’ I reply through gritted teeth. ‘Fucking renegotiate this.’
I grab the cunt with both hands and pull him over the table. He screams as I drag him over to the giant fish tank and lift the lid. I shove his head into the warm, blue water, fish dart away as he opens his mouth in a silent scream. I count to ten and lift his head back up. He splatters; trying to take big lungful’s of sweet air before submerging him again. I hold him down for twenty seconds this time.
‘Do you still wish to renegotiate Mr Goldhart?’
‘No,’ he manages to shout back before I shove his head under once more for luck.
I drag his head out after thirty seconds this time and leave him coughing on the lush shag pile carpet.
As he’s trying to recover I slide ‘Mike’ out of my pocket and swing it in a wide arc. The metal head strikes the glass of the fish tank and hundreds of litres of water floods out along with the fish.
‘That will be your head next time if you complain again,’ I tell him.
I leave Goldhart trying desperately to save his fish that are flapping on the soaked floor and close the door behind me.
I pass the stripper in the corridor as I walk to the main bar. She’s fully dressed now, if you can call a skimpy dress with high heels fully dressed.
She winks at me and smiles.
‘Hi, I’m Randy,’ she says in her sing-song voice.
‘I bet you are,’ I reply.
‘Here’s my number,’ she says handing me a piece of paper. ‘He’s such a pig. About time someone brought him down a peg or two.’
I smile as I pocket the number.
The bar is pretty full with the late lunch time crowd. Men of all ages buying overpriced beer so they can get an eye full of pussy.
I head for the main entrance where one of the bouncers is standing by the bar. I bung him a few quid and get a small baggie of coke from the next bouncer who is standing in the foyer.
‘I don’t think you’ll get anymore grief from Mr Goldhart,’ I tell him as I leave. He nods, grinning.
I get into the Mondeo and head back to Dagenham for the last job of the day.
***
The last job takes me to Sullivan’s Supreme Pie factory, which lies off of New Rainham Road. I did say my boss has a lot of fingers in many pies and he literally does. He bought the factory outright. I say bought but the previous owner got into debt with Mr Sullivan so in payment he took it off his hands. It’s a good way of laundering dosh and there’s other perks too. I park up and take out my baggy of coke. I tap out a small amount on the back of my fist and take a snort with my left nostril. I shake out some more for the right. Lovely. Now I’m ready.
I bowl into the main building I’ve still got ‘Mike’ in my pocket as I step onto the factory floor. All the staff have been given the day off- no witnesses. There’s a small group of men in the centre of the huge room. Giant machinery all around stands silently watching. The small group part like the Red fucking Sea to reveal a terrified looking man tied to a chair, naked.
‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t old Timmy Tomlin. A little birdie tells me you’ve been talking to the filth?’ I say as I approach.
‘No, no Tommy it wasn’t me.’
I loom over Timmy and smile wickedly.
In the background the news is on the radio talking about how Russian mobile nuclear missiles have been seen moving towards NATO’s borders.
‘Turn that shit off,’ I tell one of the lackeys. I then turn back to Timmy.
‘We know it was you. You were fucking seen. It’s just a question of what you’ve told them about our operations. That’s where I come in, damage control.’ I take out ‘Mike’ and show it to Timmy who literally starts to piss himself, the dirty little fucker.
I work on Timmy with ‘Mike’ for nearly three hours, coaxing every ounce of information from the fucking little grass. By the time I’m finished with him; his own fucking mother wouldn’t recognise him and he was begging for death.
Well I consider myself a fairly reasonable man. I order the men that have been standing there watching the show, some look a little green around the gills I might add, to untie him and bind his wrists with a long metal link chain. They attach the chain to a hook that hangs nearby. I watch as the broken, bleeding man is then hoisted up into the air and hung above a huge machine that had sat behind Timmy like a sleeping metal giant.
The machine has a funnel with a wide opening at the top which tapers down to a narrower end in its base. A couple of feet from the base a wide metal pipe with many holes at the end juts out. This was the end game all along. Hence Timmy being naked, me pulling out all his fucking teeth, finger and toe nails during the main event. I watch Timmy dangling over the funnel like some hellish string puppet before I’m handed the remote control for the winch.
‘Gentlemen start your engines,’ I say before a low rumble deep within the metal funnel sounds, quickly turning into a growl that echoes around the cavernous factory.
I ignore Timmy’s pleas for mercy as I push the red button and he descends slowly into the funnel. This is one of the other perks of owning a pie factory. Killing someone is easy. Bang and it’s over. The real hard part is getting rid of the body.
Well problem fucking solved.
We all look on in fascination as Timmy is lowered into the giant meat grinder. His pleas turn to hysterical cries and then to agonised screams as his naked feet reach the powerful stainless steel cutters. Blood coats the interior of the funnel and Timmy’s twisted face as the cutters and grinders go to work. Timmy’s screams reach new heights as his body is slowly devoured by the machine. At the pipe end Timmy starts to be ejected from the machine and plops into a waiting stainless steel tray below.
By the time the cutters and grinding wheels have reached Timmy’s chest his screams fall silent as he finally gets his wish and death falls upon him like a cold, wet blanket. I watch in silence as the rest of Timmy is spat out. ‘Sullivan’s Supreme Pies’ are popular all over the East of London and Kent, must be the secret ingredient that sets it apart from their competitors.
It’s just gone half five and I’m clocking off. I give Mr Sullivan the update on the blower when I’m back in the car. After I hang up I remember the race horse and check out the results on my phone. I smile broadly as ‘Crimson Glory’ has won. I drive off and head to the ‘Barking Dog’ for a celebrational pint.
I sit in the corner of the pub my back against the wood panelled walls, a pint of John Smiths Extra Smooth in one hand. Taking out Randy’s number from my pocket I decide to give her a bell and see if she wants to meet up tonight. As I’m punching in the numbers on my phone the mobile springs to life and emits a powerful siren. A message with a black and yellow striped border flashes. I look around and everyone’s phone is going fucking mental as well.
‘What the fuck,’ I mumble as I look at the flashing message.
‘Emergency, seek shelter immediately. Await further instructions.’
People start talking amongst themselves, wondering what’s happening. The Landlord switches on the telly that sits above the bar. Images of submarines, battle ships and tanks cover the screen. Writing on the ticker-tape at the bottom of the screen says that Russia and China have launched an attack on Europe and the first wave of nuclear fucking missiles was heading our way.
Fuck.
Stepping outside on wobbling legs, people all around me screaming, shouting and running around like headless fucking chickens. Not me I’m facing it head on. There’s no hiding from this. I stand on the high street watching cars and a bus smash into panic stricken pedestrians as they try to escape - the fucking muppets.
I look up towards the early summer sky and see several black dots against the blue, raising my glass to them as they speed towards London before taking a hefty swig of my bitter.
I close my eyes and wait for the end.
© Jason Duck