necklace. Just two-bob bling. But to the impetuous Spermy, though, it was a dazzling piece of jewellery, and it would be used as an excuse for violent mayhem and impulsive revenge.
“You fucking lost the plot or what?”
He switched on me, sneering, curling the corner of his upper lip. “You shitting it or something? Thought you had a bit more bottle than that!”
“The pigs will come down on us like a ton of bricks.”
“Fuck the bizzies!”
He was being a right wrong un, a proper psycho bastard, turning on me and giving me a slagging like that. It was the first time I’d really wanted to top Spermy. I felt like grabbing the AK-47 from the back bedroom and filling the cunt in. Do him some real harm. But he had his mind made up; he had his finger stuck firmly on the self-destruct button and no one could persuade him otherwise. I knew deep down it would cause murders and we were going to have to keep our heads down after, lay low because the Matrix units would be all over the estate. The streets would be hotter than a Vindaloo. All of it over that snide bling.
But we were going to have to play along with it because the Mug Fam were out to get us; retaliation was now a matter of life or death. Before it was time to blow there was a relay to the toilet. When I took my turn the bog stunk of shit but I had to drop my guts because my arsehole was rumbling like a volcano. The shits is a standard nightmare before all outlaw stunts like this, and we were no different. There were a lot of good reasons for dropping out of a gang-related shoot-out but bad bowels was not one of them.
We took the batteries out of our mobies, then chucked the clobber on: Boiler suits over bulletproof vests and latex gloves for fingerprints. We grabbed the bangers, stuffed them into a kit bag and piled into a nicked car with snide plates, a Toyota Corrolla. “For fuck’s sake,” Spermy moaned, as we were stampeding out the door. “Don’t forget the ski masks.”
The job was a disaster from the moment we set out. Dome, Melt and Trim were wankered on spliffs and Special K, crashed their vehicle into a parked car almost immediately, cracking their radiator in the four-wheel fuck up. Shit happens but they were definitely off the job and stumbled back to the house in a right state while we set off.
Caspar was up front on his own because I had to chew the fat with my main man Spermy in the back. He was acting like he was ten men; he’d been making a bit of a pig of himself on the crackpipe and was ready to execute every fucking last one of the Mug Fam. He was crack raging and had the biggest pair of fuck-off maniac, staring peepers. He was going bananas, foaming at the mouth and talking kill-hate. Revenge and crack had definitely rattled his cage. “Put your seat belts on,” Caspar said. “There’s a pig car parked up the road.”
“Well, do a u-ey then, you stupid cunt,” Spermy barked. “Them bastards curb us and we’re down the fucking road.”
Caspar was keeping a pistol between his thighs while he was driving. A replica BBM 9mm Olympic revolver converted to fire live ammo. It was the best place for it. You couldn’t put it on the dashboard because it would be seen. If it was stashed in the glove compartment, you’d lose too much time reaching for it. The only problem: It was a bit dodgy if he hit a sleeping policeman or a pothole in the road. He might blow his balls off.
We drove round the ring road that circled the estate. We were headed to the Bricklayer’s pub. It was a stone’s throw away on the north end of the estate. We were on a countdown to murder and mayhem now, the vibe in the motor was heavy and edgy. Anxiety was coming out of my earholes, but my adrenaline gland kicked in.
Caspar parked up a couple of doors down because the battle cruiser had a CCTV camera fitted on the wall outside. Caspar stayed put with the motor, keeping it turning over. We ballied-up, took the tools and did a sneaky creep along the pavement
“You fucking lost the plot or what?”
He switched on me, sneering, curling the corner of his upper lip. “You shitting it or something? Thought you had a bit more bottle than that!”
“The pigs will come down on us like a ton of bricks.”
“Fuck the bizzies!”
He was being a right wrong un, a proper psycho bastard, turning on me and giving me a slagging like that. It was the first time I’d really wanted to top Spermy. I felt like grabbing the AK-47 from the back bedroom and filling the cunt in. Do him some real harm. But he had his mind made up; he had his finger stuck firmly on the self-destruct button and no one could persuade him otherwise. I knew deep down it would cause murders and we were going to have to keep our heads down after, lay low because the Matrix units would be all over the estate. The streets would be hotter than a Vindaloo. All of it over that snide bling.
But we were going to have to play along with it because the Mug Fam were out to get us; retaliation was now a matter of life or death. Before it was time to blow there was a relay to the toilet. When I took my turn the bog stunk of shit but I had to drop my guts because my arsehole was rumbling like a volcano. The shits is a standard nightmare before all outlaw stunts like this, and we were no different. There were a lot of good reasons for dropping out of a gang-related shoot-out but bad bowels was not one of them.
We took the batteries out of our mobies, then chucked the clobber on: Boiler suits over bulletproof vests and latex gloves for fingerprints. We grabbed the bangers, stuffed them into a kit bag and piled into a nicked car with snide plates, a Toyota Corrolla. “For fuck’s sake,” Spermy moaned, as we were stampeding out the door. “Don’t forget the ski masks.”
The job was a disaster from the moment we set out. Dome, Melt and Trim were wankered on spliffs and Special K, crashed their vehicle into a parked car almost immediately, cracking their radiator in the four-wheel fuck up. Shit happens but they were definitely off the job and stumbled back to the house in a right state while we set off.
Caspar was up front on his own because I had to chew the fat with my main man Spermy in the back. He was acting like he was ten men; he’d been making a bit of a pig of himself on the crackpipe and was ready to execute every fucking last one of the Mug Fam. He was crack raging and had the biggest pair of fuck-off maniac, staring peepers. He was going bananas, foaming at the mouth and talking kill-hate. Revenge and crack had definitely rattled his cage. “Put your seat belts on,” Caspar said. “There’s a pig car parked up the road.”
“Well, do a u-ey then, you stupid cunt,” Spermy barked. “Them bastards curb us and we’re down the fucking road.”
Caspar was keeping a pistol between his thighs while he was driving. A replica BBM 9mm Olympic revolver converted to fire live ammo. It was the best place for it. You couldn’t put it on the dashboard because it would be seen. If it was stashed in the glove compartment, you’d lose too much time reaching for it. The only problem: It was a bit dodgy if he hit a sleeping policeman or a pothole in the road. He might blow his balls off.
We drove round the ring road that circled the estate. We were headed to the Bricklayer’s pub. It was a stone’s throw away on the north end of the estate. We were on a countdown to murder and mayhem now, the vibe in the motor was heavy and edgy. Anxiety was coming out of my earholes, but my adrenaline gland kicked in.
Caspar parked up a couple of doors down because the battle cruiser had a CCTV camera fitted on the wall outside. Caspar stayed put with the motor, keeping it turning over. We ballied-up, took the tools and did a sneaky creep along the pavement
Similar Books
