blood on the ground. We stumbled into the road. There was a screech of tires and the motor pulled up in front of us. I pushed and shoved Spunky into the backseat, then jumped into the passenger seat and we were offski.
My ticker was racing, my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. Spermy was writhing about, blood pissing out of him. Caspar asked where to go.
“Just fucking drive!” I shouted. “Get out of here!”
I turned round to see how Spermy was getting on. He was still twisting around in pure agony, moaning. He was in a bad way and needed medical attention. It was proper on us now. I told Caspar to drive to the A&E at the Royal Liverpool Hospital. “No!” Spermy was yellen from the backseat.
“What do I do?” Caspar said, confused.
“Do what I tell you! Go to the fucking hospital!” I shouted.
“Don’t take me to the ozzie, Ow-wee. Please, man,” Spermy was pleading.
The blood just kept seeping out of the wound. There was nothing else to do with him. “You’ve got to go, Sperm. You’re pissing blood, lar. You need the ozzie bad style.”
He was in bulk, twisting about like a wounded animal, making stuck pig, snared bellows. A bullet had ripped through his thigh and he was clutching his leg in proper excruciating pain. The blood was pouring out and soaking the backseat. He’d torn off his balaclava and was trying to plug the big, fuck-off hole in his leg with it. “Calm down, lad. You’re going to ozzie,” I told him.
“Ahhhh, fuck! … Ahhhh!” Wailing from the back.
“Listen, Spermy, lad: We’re five minutes from the ozzie,” I said.
“Don’t want to go, Ow-wee. Pleeeease don’t! Don’t fucking do it to me, man. They’ll nick me. Ahhhh!” He was shouting and sobbing. “I don’t want to go! I don’t wanna go! Ahhhh! …”
“You need help, Sperm, mate. You could die here in this car. I can’t help you, mate.”
He was losing it, thrashing about, frustrated and shouting through gritted teeth now. “I don’t want nobody involved … Ahhhh, ahhhh! Get me fucking home! Ahhhh! …”
“What are we going to do, Ow-wee?” Caspar was panicking, the head was rotating.
“Put your fucking foot down and get to the ozzie,” I said, putting MY FUCKING FOOT DOWN.
It felt like a lifetime had passed since we’d crashed through the door of the alehouse, but the carnage had taken a vicious half a minute and we were two miles away from the squalid scene another 60-seconds later. I was trying to compose myself, but the adrenaline rush was still full on because it was on top. I knew we had to dump Spermy at the hospital and get rid of the car, fast, before we got pulled over by the bizzies.
Spermy was losing blood fast. He looked like the living dead, a fucking zombie. His eyes were glazed over, the face had gone a sickly shade of grey and he was drenched in sweat. The energy was draining from his body which was giving in to the pain. He’d had a fucking good spanking and, next thing, shock would be setting in.
We dropped him off in a dark, secluded part of the car park, away from street lighting because it was equipped with CCTV. I bundled him off the backseat and onto the tarmac, stripped off all his get-up because forensics would have had a field day with all that scientific evidence.
He howled like a wolf when I pulled his trainers off. His hands clawed up, trying to protect his throbbing leg. He was in a right state, eyes rolling round in their sockets, frothing at the mouth. I tossed all the gear into the boot of the motor along with the AK. He was still wailing, but starting to shake uncontrollably now. Body shock was kicking in bad-style and he probably had internal bleeding too. The situation was getting critical. I popped the battery back into my mobie and put an anonymous phone call in to the emergency services. Caspar booted the accelerator, the back tires spun and whistled as we wheel spinned out of there, quick style.
I called Dog Sick next. He
My ticker was racing, my heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. Spermy was writhing about, blood pissing out of him. Caspar asked where to go.
“Just fucking drive!” I shouted. “Get out of here!”
I turned round to see how Spermy was getting on. He was still twisting around in pure agony, moaning. He was in a bad way and needed medical attention. It was proper on us now. I told Caspar to drive to the A&E at the Royal Liverpool Hospital. “No!” Spermy was yellen from the backseat.
“What do I do?” Caspar said, confused.
“Do what I tell you! Go to the fucking hospital!” I shouted.
“Don’t take me to the ozzie, Ow-wee. Please, man,” Spermy was pleading.
The blood just kept seeping out of the wound. There was nothing else to do with him. “You’ve got to go, Sperm. You’re pissing blood, lar. You need the ozzie bad style.”
He was in bulk, twisting about like a wounded animal, making stuck pig, snared bellows. A bullet had ripped through his thigh and he was clutching his leg in proper excruciating pain. The blood was pouring out and soaking the backseat. He’d torn off his balaclava and was trying to plug the big, fuck-off hole in his leg with it. “Calm down, lad. You’re going to ozzie,” I told him.
“Ahhhh, fuck! … Ahhhh!” Wailing from the back.
“Listen, Spermy, lad: We’re five minutes from the ozzie,” I said.
“Don’t want to go, Ow-wee. Pleeeease don’t! Don’t fucking do it to me, man. They’ll nick me. Ahhhh!” He was shouting and sobbing. “I don’t want to go! I don’t wanna go! Ahhhh! …”
“You need help, Sperm, mate. You could die here in this car. I can’t help you, mate.”
He was losing it, thrashing about, frustrated and shouting through gritted teeth now. “I don’t want nobody involved … Ahhhh, ahhhh! Get me fucking home! Ahhhh! …”
“What are we going to do, Ow-wee?” Caspar was panicking, the head was rotating.
“Put your fucking foot down and get to the ozzie,” I said, putting MY FUCKING FOOT DOWN.
It felt like a lifetime had passed since we’d crashed through the door of the alehouse, but the carnage had taken a vicious half a minute and we were two miles away from the squalid scene another 60-seconds later. I was trying to compose myself, but the adrenaline rush was still full on because it was on top. I knew we had to dump Spermy at the hospital and get rid of the car, fast, before we got pulled over by the bizzies.
Spermy was losing blood fast. He looked like the living dead, a fucking zombie. His eyes were glazed over, the face had gone a sickly shade of grey and he was drenched in sweat. The energy was draining from his body which was giving in to the pain. He’d had a fucking good spanking and, next thing, shock would be setting in.
We dropped him off in a dark, secluded part of the car park, away from street lighting because it was equipped with CCTV. I bundled him off the backseat and onto the tarmac, stripped off all his get-up because forensics would have had a field day with all that scientific evidence.
He howled like a wolf when I pulled his trainers off. His hands clawed up, trying to protect his throbbing leg. He was in a right state, eyes rolling round in their sockets, frothing at the mouth. I tossed all the gear into the boot of the motor along with the AK. He was still wailing, but starting to shake uncontrollably now. Body shock was kicking in bad-style and he probably had internal bleeding too. The situation was getting critical. I popped the battery back into my mobie and put an anonymous phone call in to the emergency services. Caspar booted the accelerator, the back tires spun and whistled as we wheel spinned out of there, quick style.
I called Dog Sick next. He
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