wur an odd mix, The Stalker admitted tae himsel. None ae them seemed tae hiv picked up a bad reputation fur liberty-taking, although everywan who knew them, knew fine well that they’d dished oot a fair bit ae violence in the course ae their travels, especially a few years back when Gucci, McManus and Taylor wur busy robbing Provi-cheque men, or if some poor eejit tried tae put up resistance in their criminal endeavours. It wis also well-known that making money wis their main goal and that they stuck tae each other like shite in the neck ae a bottle. While everywan else in the lounge went silent when he’d stepped through the door, The Mankys, who’d aw clocked him straight away, continued talking amongst themsels as if he wis jist another punter arriving fur a pint. When ye looked them straight in their eyes, they didnae gie ye that frightened look ae ‘Whit hiv Ah done?’ or the pathetic defiant stance that some ae the wee neds gied ye when they wur staunin wae their pals. They always seemed tae hiv an amused, kind ae friendly look aboot them that gied ye, if ye didnae know them, the impression that they’d dae anything fur ye, bit it wis, in actual fact, a look that said ‘Fuck you.’ At least that’s the impression he goat and he despised them fur it…the cocky basturts that they wur.
Frisky Frank’s radar obviously picked up that there wis a bad smell in the bar. Fae slouching, looking intae his drink, he sat up straight oan the bar stool and slowly turned towards the door. The Stalker hid awready decided he wisnae gaun tae mess aboot. It wid be an in and oot job.
“Right, Frank, oot ye come.”
“Whit dae ye mean?”
“Ye heard me, ye’re banned. Ah know it…you know it…even Santa fucking Claus knows it, so let’s hiv ye.”
“Banned? Fae where? Ah’m no banned fae here. Alex hisnae banned me, at least no that Ah’m aware ae,” Frisky snarled, as the barmaid disappeared fae behind the bar tae be replaced two seconds later by Alex The Manager.
“Look, Ah’m no gonnae ask ye again. Ye kin leave oan yer ain two feet, or ye’ll get dragged oot, feet first. You choose,” The Stalker informed him.
“Whit the fuck hiv Ah done, eh? Ah’m jist hivving a wee swally oan the way up the road. Ah’m no daeing anywan any herm.”
“Ye’re wanted ootside.”
“By who?”
“Ye know who, so get they feet moving towards the door,” The Stalker said as calmly as he could, slowly wrapping the leather thong attached tae the haundle ae his baton that sat comfortably in his trooser pocket, roond his thumb, like some gunslinger.
“Well, it better be a fucking square-go this time, insteid ae the liberty that wis taken before,” Frisky snarled, throwing his nip glass at the gantry behind the bar and jist missing Alex, who ducked in the nick ae time, like the true professional that he wis.
It aw happened in a flash. As soon as Frisky walked through the door oot oan tae busy Springburn Road, Froggie whacked him o’er the side ae the napper wae his baton. Before he hit the deck, Bumper and Biscuit grabbed him under his erms and dragged him roond tae Flemington Street and slung him in tae the back ae the squad car. Biscuit and Froggie wur awready sitting oan tap ae him by the time The Stalker goat intae the driver’s seat.
“Where tae noo?” he asked Bumper.
“Ah think Frankie boy here needs a wee bit ae religious instruction. Let’s take him doon tae St Teresa’s so he kin get closer tae God,” Bumper said wae a smile, as Frisky Frank groaned fae under the two arses that wur sitting oan tap ae him.
“Ah bloody-well knew there wis something no right gaun oan,” The Stalker growled, as he turned the key in the ignition.
“Like whit?” Froggie asked.
“Since when hiv any ae The Simpsons and their hatchet men started drinking o’er here in sunny Springburn? Ah’ve jist clocked that psycho Toby
Frisky Frank’s radar obviously picked up that there wis a bad smell in the bar. Fae slouching, looking intae his drink, he sat up straight oan the bar stool and slowly turned towards the door. The Stalker hid awready decided he wisnae gaun tae mess aboot. It wid be an in and oot job.
“Right, Frank, oot ye come.”
“Whit dae ye mean?”
“Ye heard me, ye’re banned. Ah know it…you know it…even Santa fucking Claus knows it, so let’s hiv ye.”
“Banned? Fae where? Ah’m no banned fae here. Alex hisnae banned me, at least no that Ah’m aware ae,” Frisky snarled, as the barmaid disappeared fae behind the bar tae be replaced two seconds later by Alex The Manager.
“Look, Ah’m no gonnae ask ye again. Ye kin leave oan yer ain two feet, or ye’ll get dragged oot, feet first. You choose,” The Stalker informed him.
“Whit the fuck hiv Ah done, eh? Ah’m jist hivving a wee swally oan the way up the road. Ah’m no daeing anywan any herm.”
“Ye’re wanted ootside.”
“By who?”
“Ye know who, so get they feet moving towards the door,” The Stalker said as calmly as he could, slowly wrapping the leather thong attached tae the haundle ae his baton that sat comfortably in his trooser pocket, roond his thumb, like some gunslinger.
“Well, it better be a fucking square-go this time, insteid ae the liberty that wis taken before,” Frisky snarled, throwing his nip glass at the gantry behind the bar and jist missing Alex, who ducked in the nick ae time, like the true professional that he wis.
It aw happened in a flash. As soon as Frisky walked through the door oot oan tae busy Springburn Road, Froggie whacked him o’er the side ae the napper wae his baton. Before he hit the deck, Bumper and Biscuit grabbed him under his erms and dragged him roond tae Flemington Street and slung him in tae the back ae the squad car. Biscuit and Froggie wur awready sitting oan tap ae him by the time The Stalker goat intae the driver’s seat.
“Where tae noo?” he asked Bumper.
“Ah think Frankie boy here needs a wee bit ae religious instruction. Let’s take him doon tae St Teresa’s so he kin get closer tae God,” Bumper said wae a smile, as Frisky Frank groaned fae under the two arses that wur sitting oan tap ae him.
“Ah bloody-well knew there wis something no right gaun oan,” The Stalker growled, as he turned the key in the ignition.
“Like whit?” Froggie asked.
“Since when hiv any ae The Simpsons and their hatchet men started drinking o’er here in sunny Springburn? Ah’ve jist clocked that psycho Toby
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