to the pub. We were in position, outside the front doors. It was last shout Friday night and the place would be packed to the rafters.
Spermy gave me that scary cunt look. He had wound himself up so much that his eyeballs were bulging. There was dangerous chemistry in the air because he was full of bad intentions. “Let’s mash these fuckers!” he snarled.
It was a mad situation and we were putting ourselves up on offer. I had a bad feeling about the whole thing and alarm bells were going off in my head. I was double cacking my pants, but it was too late in the day to back down now. “Go on, then,” I said. “Fucking get in there. Get on it!”
We burst in. There were punters everywhere, about fifty of them. Most of them on a raised section of the lounge bar at the back, having a slurp. We spotted Bola at the bar with a couple of his opos, chatting up some fanny. We didn’t have a problem with the birds but, if anybody got in our way, we’d fuck them over too. Because Spermy was a bit of a short arse, he stood on a seat so he could take level aim. “You’re fucking dead!” he shouted, and let rip with the AK-47.
It was like an action fillum. The high-decibel blasts ricocheted through the boozer and sent the punters into a panic-striken, screaming dash for cover, and as they ran, crying out in confusion, the bullets sprayed everywhere. The whole clip, thirty bullets, crackled out in three seconds, demolishing glasses, bar pumps and optics. A fruit machine exploded like a glass handgrenade and ricochets went through the giant TV screen. It all went fucking mental: People were scrambling, hysterical. There was pure fucking mayhem going on all around. Punters were legging it as fast as you fucking like. It was a mad free-for-all, as people dived for cover under tables and chairs. Others tried to make it to the back of the pub in a vain attempt to escape through the emergency exit which was double padlocked. Bar staff and regulars were showered with shards of glass and metal fragments, splintering them. The spraying bullets were buzzing around like blue-arsed flies and smacking into walls, making big, fuck-off holes. Three people dropped to the floor like puppets with their strings slashed. At least one of them was Mug Fam, Bola. He collapsed in a squirming, bloody heap.
Fucking hell, Spermy and his big gob. Because he had shouted before pulling the trigger, Bola had just enough time to grab one of the protesting birds by the shoulders and held her in front of him as a human shield, ducking behind her. A bullet struck the girl in the upper thigh, smashing her bone to smithereens before exiting the other side. She buckled and collapsed and pissed herself, as Bola bolted, galloping for safety. He was running like a racehorse when he took one in the shoulder. It knocked him off his feet, but he managed to crawl under a table. If he hadn’t, he would have been dead. It was a miracle he only got hit the once. Spermy thought he was going to spray the room and they were all going to drop dead like in an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. But he only hit Bola once because he was firing from the hip and moving targets are hard to hit.
And then it all went tits up. Someone fired back and a bullet flew past my ear, missing me by inches. Spermy spun off the chair and hit the deck. Another bullet had tore through his left leg and it had exited out of his arse cheek. I fired back, hit the shooter in the thumb and his hand turned oxide red. His thumb had been blown off and he collapsed on the floor, screaming in agony and disabled.
The old adrenalin gland was spewing out survival serum; I scooped Spermy up and made for the street. I was half-carrying, half-dragging him. His arm was draped around my shoulder, hanging onto me for dear life. The other kept hold of the ugly, black assault rifle. My arm was around his waist and I gripped the baby Glock in the other hand. He was dragging his mangled leg behind him, dribbling a red trail of
Spermy gave me that scary cunt look. He had wound himself up so much that his eyeballs were bulging. There was dangerous chemistry in the air because he was full of bad intentions. “Let’s mash these fuckers!” he snarled.
It was a mad situation and we were putting ourselves up on offer. I had a bad feeling about the whole thing and alarm bells were going off in my head. I was double cacking my pants, but it was too late in the day to back down now. “Go on, then,” I said. “Fucking get in there. Get on it!”
We burst in. There were punters everywhere, about fifty of them. Most of them on a raised section of the lounge bar at the back, having a slurp. We spotted Bola at the bar with a couple of his opos, chatting up some fanny. We didn’t have a problem with the birds but, if anybody got in our way, we’d fuck them over too. Because Spermy was a bit of a short arse, he stood on a seat so he could take level aim. “You’re fucking dead!” he shouted, and let rip with the AK-47.
It was like an action fillum. The high-decibel blasts ricocheted through the boozer and sent the punters into a panic-striken, screaming dash for cover, and as they ran, crying out in confusion, the bullets sprayed everywhere. The whole clip, thirty bullets, crackled out in three seconds, demolishing glasses, bar pumps and optics. A fruit machine exploded like a glass handgrenade and ricochets went through the giant TV screen. It all went fucking mental: People were scrambling, hysterical. There was pure fucking mayhem going on all around. Punters were legging it as fast as you fucking like. It was a mad free-for-all, as people dived for cover under tables and chairs. Others tried to make it to the back of the pub in a vain attempt to escape through the emergency exit which was double padlocked. Bar staff and regulars were showered with shards of glass and metal fragments, splintering them. The spraying bullets were buzzing around like blue-arsed flies and smacking into walls, making big, fuck-off holes. Three people dropped to the floor like puppets with their strings slashed. At least one of them was Mug Fam, Bola. He collapsed in a squirming, bloody heap.
Fucking hell, Spermy and his big gob. Because he had shouted before pulling the trigger, Bola had just enough time to grab one of the protesting birds by the shoulders and held her in front of him as a human shield, ducking behind her. A bullet struck the girl in the upper thigh, smashing her bone to smithereens before exiting the other side. She buckled and collapsed and pissed herself, as Bola bolted, galloping for safety. He was running like a racehorse when he took one in the shoulder. It knocked him off his feet, but he managed to crawl under a table. If he hadn’t, he would have been dead. It was a miracle he only got hit the once. Spermy thought he was going to spray the room and they were all going to drop dead like in an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. But he only hit Bola once because he was firing from the hip and moving targets are hard to hit.
And then it all went tits up. Someone fired back and a bullet flew past my ear, missing me by inches. Spermy spun off the chair and hit the deck. Another bullet had tore through his left leg and it had exited out of his arse cheek. I fired back, hit the shooter in the thumb and his hand turned oxide red. His thumb had been blown off and he collapsed on the floor, screaming in agony and disabled.
The old adrenalin gland was spewing out survival serum; I scooped Spermy up and made for the street. I was half-carrying, half-dragging him. His arm was draped around my shoulder, hanging onto me for dear life. The other kept hold of the ugly, black assault rifle. My arm was around his waist and I gripped the baby Glock in the other hand. He was dragging his mangled leg behind him, dribbling a red trail of
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