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Showing posts from February, 2019

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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Gross Domestic Product: 24

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Chapter 24. There was a storm inside the body of Tommy Bryce, a raging force it could hardly contain. Buer was, once more, becoming frustrated by the limitations of the animal it found itself in. Aside from the deranged babbling of what remained of Bryce’s mind, the body had become fatigued during it’s revelry. He found himself unable to indulge in some of his more excessive imaginings and so, he returned to the car, and made for London, already sensing that he was now being hunted. That bothered him less than the struggle to remain aware as he drove towards The Ca pital. Tiredness, exhaustion it was called. It was the one sensation that it did not enjoy, limitation. He sped down the motorway, his vast consciousness shrinking to a small point, avoiding smears of colour and light in the darkness in front of him. Time became a meaningless blur and it was not until the sun began to rise that he understood he was actually driving through the narrow, busy, filthy streets of Lon
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Gross Domestic Product: 23

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Chapter 23 Although the Morton Crew’s reach was international and they had offices in Hong Kong, London, Amsterdam and many other places, their headquarters was a dilapidated pub, next to Grimy North Train Station which had been out of use since the early 1980’s. The p ub, named The White Feathers but known locally as The Red Feathers because of it’s bloody history, had been their first purchase when they rose from being straightforward street thugs to men of means. It was an ugly place that looked shut down, but for Morton and his boys it had always been the heart of their organisation and they met their most nights. On that particular February night of 1990 it was business as usual. “ So how much did we make from the clubs last month?” Alec asked. “ About sixty grand, give or take.” Donny shrugged. “ Sixty?” Alec said incredulously. “The fuckin’ places are heavin’. Somethin’s no’ right there. Some cunt’s screwin’ us.” “ Naw.” Donny said. “See whit yer no’ t
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Gross Domestic Product:22

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Chapter Twenty Two. Daft Pete had struggled all day with what would be his next move. He knew he had to get out of Glasgow and knew that Portugal was his final destination but between those two points were a lot of “hows”. How was he going to get out of Glasgow was the least of his problems. All he had to do was get on a train. Somehow he landed in the Bonaparte’s bar in Central Station and sat deliberating as he watched the people below mill about to and fro. He knew some people in London, not well and they weren’t going to be pleased to see if he could find them, but they’d be able to set him up with some false documents. He could afford it. Thinking about that he once more looked into the bag with all the money and smiled. He could afford a lot of things and inevitably his mind turned to the thought of heroin, which meant his nerves prickled, his veins itchy, hungry for junk. There would be time for that later, now he had to decide on his next move. His own indeci
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Popular posts from this blog

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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