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Showing posts from July, 2016

Legend Tripping

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  1. Most of the children of Carlin High School were engaged in the usual playground activities, girl gossiped rapidly sounding like a thousand busy typewriters; youthful first years laughed and chas ed each other around the yard, burning off energy; older kids from the rough end of town hid behi nd the toilets, smoking weed. Steven was sitting alone, perched on the fence like a hawk, watching all the normal mayhem when he spotted Simon Anderson take a nosedive onto the concrete. The boy just went white and dropped, and even though the other kids were making a godawful din, Steven definitely heard Simon’s skull crack like a heavy egg as it smashed onto the ground. The noise was a sickening, hollow sound that made his heart jump in his chest. He immediately jumped off the fence and rushed to see if the older boy was alright. In the seconds it took him to move to where Simon was, there was a large crowd around Simon, some girls were screaming, an older boy was shouting, “Get a tea
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Left fur deid.

The place was called Bam, if you could believe that. A small area in the Nimruz region of Afghanistan where, in 2007, a massacre of the local populace by U.S. contracted mercenaries was covered up, literally. 621 men women and children were executed and then buried in the ground by bulldozers, also contracted by the U.S. Military, who must have known they'd be needed. The people of Bam were killed after they were given an experimental drug disguised as antibiotics. This was given because of a supposed outbreak of cholera. In fact it was an engineered influenza strain deliberately introduced to the people of the area by corporate interests with the sole reason of testing the experimental drug. What the drug was supposed to do was so classified that not even the Haz-Mat suited goons who injected the citizens of Bam knew what it did. Well, until they had administered the doses to the control group. What it did was cause a massive neurological shut-down in 100% of those injected.
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Swally

Thanks for the pint. So, you asked me how it was I ended up a drunk. You know the Black Lamb pub? No? Well, just outside Bishopbriggs, off the Straughan Road, near the roundabout with that weird iron sculpture of a crow, the one the papers said was scaring kids and causing drivers to crash into each other, is Lambie Drive. Lambie Drive is known for two things, Hector Wishart the smack dealer and the Black Lamb pub. Wishart is a dodgy prick not worth wasting the energy to type about, so as you can probably guess, this is about the Black Lamb. Indirectly, really, if anything this is about Gregor McLeish an old pal of mine who was originally from Dormanside Road over in Pollok. He was a tim, like myself, went to Lourdes I think, father worked in Howdens, died in an industrial accident. His mother got a nice fat cheque for that and they moved out from the south-side when Greg was about 17. I met Gregor through Gordon Harper, who was, in those days, still a dangerous and u
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Insecurity

Calum could not wait. It had taken Laura and him the best part of a decade to save up enough money to get out of the filthy and neglected tenement flat in the heart of darkest Govan. Despite it's notorious history, Govan was just a rotting shithole, no amount of community revitalisation money could fix it because there was no real community. That wasn't to say there were not good people in the undead borough but even they fell to the grey miasma of defeat that had haunted the place since before there were people to settle the riverbank. It didn't matter, he was out. They both were, time to stop living like kids and move into the world of mortgages, debt, kids and debt. The 3-up 4- down detached house was on Cruickshill Road, which overlooked the entire scheme of post-war concrete and Victorian tenements below. As you may or may not know, those houses, were built atop Glasgow's tallest hill and at night Calum knew you could look down and across the entire city. It
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Blood Jobs: The Home Help.

The worst job I ever had? I'd been a nun for fifteen or so years and I came to the point that I no longer believed. No that's not the job, obviously.  The worst job was after I left.  I became a home help. Now don't think evil of me, almost everyone I dealt with was a pleasant person thankful for the help and most days I'd go home happy. That all ended when they added Mr Dreshcu to my list. To be fair to my management I was warned that he could be a bit of a handful but I had in mind that he might be a bit crude or racist. As it turned out he was both those things but much much worse. I can still remember the first visit I had to his home. It was as unkempt and filthy as he was which given I had just replaced another home help meant someone wasn't doing their job. The place reeked of cat urine, yet he had no cats. As for him, well, imagine a grumpy old man who has a scowl so broad and deep that he looks more like some wizened goblin than a real human.
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Blood Jobs: Tech Support.

The worst job I've ever had? Tricky. Depends what you mean by worst really, doesn't it? I've had some shit jobs, some annoying jobs, boring jobs, jobs too complex and stressful for the money. I thought hard about it and well I have two answers. The first is the simple one. Never try and fix someone's computer over the phone if you want to stay sane. Customer tech support is one of the most demoralising and infuriating jobs in existence. Even the wages can't redeem it and they're often crap as well. The second was the worst because it's the weirdest. I've never told another soul about this, I had to sign all sorts of documents which legally prevent me from speaking about it but I guess that doesn't really matter much now. I mean I killed my ex-boyfriend Gary and am in prison right? What else can they do to me now? So, m y company were contracted to maintain server banks in a Military research facility called Abdon Scarpe, about five miles n
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Blood Jobs: The Janitor

The worst job I ever had? Is this some kind of joke? I think its pretty obvious, but since this is for the record I guess I'll do my part, again. First of all, before I tell you, let me reiterate that I am not mad. I know the old saying that mad people never think they're mad and are the first to defend their sanity when questioned. I on the other hand know how totally insane what I'm about to write is, but nevertheless, what I tell you is the truth. I was a Janitor at Goyrside High from August 1976 until the place closed in 1994. I recently heard they planned to build some luxury apartments on the land before the government interfered. I heard it was because of pressure from various antiquary and archaeology societies after they found that the hill the school had been o n covered a very old burial cairn. Some kind of protected heritage site. I bet the landowners were pissed. Still no one cared about any of that back in 1976. It was an ugly year
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Ring Bang Skoosh

So what you do is get a 60a bus over to Duke Street from the City Centre. Keep going right along Duke Street until you get past the remaining houses and the industrial park. The bus will eventually take a second right at a large roundabout. You'll not be able to miss it. It's beside another industrial park. You'll want to get off the bus at the next stop and then wait for the 257A. They're not common, one every half an hour (if you're lucky) and only between 8 A.M. and 5.30 P.M. If you've missed it and have to wait you could do worse than Babs Café across the road. Go get something delicious to eat. Don't get me wrong her cuisine is part of the cultural dietary pandemic that's reduced life expectancy in the areas of the east end to that of cavemen, but her deep fried pizza slice on a roll with chips is well worth the fucking risk. Anyway, once you're on the 257A you'll head south east along an empty area for about three quarters of a mil
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Gross Domestic Product: 8

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Chapter Eight. It took the taxi almost half an hour to get through the West-End and up through the north of the city out into Milngavie. Some roadworks at the switchback had left the entire end of the town in one long traffic jam, according to the driver anyway. Pete was not impressed, not one bit. By the time he stepped out he’d stumped up twelve quid and his skin felt like it needed massaged by a crazed acupuncturist. The cold hurt was becoming too real for him to bear but he knew he’d just have to tough it out. He’d con Baird, or failing that, rob the place, get that stupid lamp and then he could relax, shoot up and have a nice long gouch. After that he’d go to Allerdyce and before long have another five grand in his pocket. That would give him nearly ten grand, enough to solve his problems. Enough to propel him out of Glasgow’s moribund gravitational pull once and for all. He just needed to keep it together for another hour or two. The house he stood outside looked
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The Scheme

Nineteen eighty nine, a number, another summer; sound of the funky drummer ubiquitous on the radio. Gordon Harper drummed his fingers against the wheel in time to the tune. It was a nervous staccato, no doubt about that. As he sat parked on Casgairt Road he wondered if he should just bolt. He'd a couple of grand left in his savings, and could be on the next flight to Chilé or Singapore, could be anywhere but here. He threw his cigarette butt out the window and immediately lit another. This was going to be a bad job, that became apparent as soon as Skinny's name was mentioned. When Dunkie mentioned that nutter he should have said “I'm out.” He didn't. No, he didn't want to look like a shitebag in front of the big boys. If he had any real stones he would have told Dunkie to take a fuck to himself. Instead he was sitting with a fucking shotgun under his seat waiting for that nutjob Willie Barr. Total... Fucking... Nightmare! Once more he sucked on th
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