I pushed open the door, kept my hands in my pockets, and elbowed through to the bar.
The dive was like a ram's nightmare. I winked over the barman and pulled out a fiver.
"Drinks all round!" he yelled "On this twat!"
I grabbed two optics, smashed them and pinned his hands to the bar. Then I sucked the air out of two jars of cockles and slammed them over his eye-sockets. I chugged a quart of Bells down his cropped throat, pierced his adam's apple with my school compass and jammed in an Embassy Regal.
"Sure I gots a light," were the last words he heard. Now he sleeps with the sputniks.
The door marked 'Private' fell inwards and a man in a supermarket trolley rolled through. He looked me up and down from under his baseball cap as the dust and derma settled.
"Fux a monk, boys," he whistled, "Fux a monk on me. Iago Cocwyllt's back".
2 comments:
I dare say the bartender got what he deserved, but whoever smashed up the bog has got something to answer for.
Just you wait for Chapter III, boi bach. It's not beer in that bottle, you know.
Post a Comment