Cracking Up

by Harry Crooks

  “Fuck that!” Cas said. “He’s a fucking liability, Ow-wee! Best fuck him right off, lad. Never going get off the nasty, him. Got one foot in the graveyard, he has. A dead man walking. They just ain’t thrown the dirt over him yet.”

  Fucking good job that I passed on accompanying him back, but maybe I should have armed him with the shooter, because he was ambushed and set upon by a big bunch of fucking thug Mug Fam hyenas. The aggressive pack trapped him like an animal in the stairwell of his block of flats, where he endured a violent and painful death.

  There was a mob of about five or six of them, all tooled up to the eyeballs, dangerous psychos vexed and their black hearts filled with murderous intentions at the sight of Bangerz, as he shuffled up the concrete steps in his flats. They surrounded him in seconds, forming a circle, flanking him on all sides, pulling out machetes. The first blow, a samurai-style swing, ripped a deep gash into his left shoulder and nearly took his arm off. Bangerz put up his right arm to defend against the follow-up strike. A second swing arced in and nearly cut his hand off, exposing tendons. “Fucking dead meat, YOU lad!” One of them growled, wild on adrenalin and kill-hate.

  Bangerz turned on his heels and tried to make a run for it, bolting from the stairwell and racing outside the flats. He only got about ten feet out of the building when they caught up with him. There was a high-pitched squealing in animal panic, as the topping team butchered him with a blade to his neck, near the jugular vein. Bright red oxide blood spurted out of the wound and he collapsed on the floor, screaming and howling in agony, as he curled up into a ball and another chopping blow cut into his shin bone. It was like a nightmare in a butcher’s shop, but the mass of psycho-killers carried on regardless, hacking away at him in a shimmering rage with machetes until a few brave residents actually hung their heads out their windows, informing the hit squad that the police had been called into the proceedings.

  It was all over for Bangerz, though. He had been chopped up like a chicken and bled to death on the street. Blood flowed like a river and, by the time the paramedics arrived on the grisly scene, he had breathed in the last oxygen of his misery and slipped away like a turd round a u-bend.

  14.

  Next day, Lee called. Her voice was ragged and choked, because great sobbing tears were rolling down her cheeks. “While Ryan’s been in ozzie, some fellers have been round here and something bad’s happened,” she said. “They barged their way into the flat, smacked us around and took me iPhone. They said he owes them money and, coz he ripped them off they’re going to take it out on me.”

  It turned out that they were just a couple of wannabes that Spermy had ripped off in a drug deal. They were part of the ever-present drug buying convention at the marketplace serving the local and wider community. They had been copping their drugs off the Mug Fam, but after a let-down they had set off round the corner to find another source. Spermy had been approached at the playground by this pair of stupidly naive bastard pricks, desperately scouting about on the night-time estate, eager to score some of the naughty stuff. Spermy offered them the sneaky fake coke he sold to foolish dickheads and being stupidly cheap it was an offer that they couldn’t refuse. The twats handed over the cash, grabbed the goodies and hightailed it out of the Shooting Range, aware that it was a pretty wild place with all sorts of dangers and nasty goings on at every turn.

  Spermy had thought it was a right laugh, but the dickheads had suffered a major humiliating rip-off at his hands and the incident had been made ten times worse by having Spermy brag to everyone who’d listen that he had pulled their pants down and given them a good spanking. They were fuming for payback, raging over the incident and weren’t about to let it lie. But the spineless bastards had waited until Spermy had been carted off to hospital and was facing a custodial sentence before they took their revenge. As soon as they’d heard about the situation they’d shot up to Lee’s flat to GIVE IT THE BIGGUN.

  With a couple of good shoves they’d managed to force an entry and she’d screamed. One of them body barrelled into her, tripping her backward and sending them both crashing through the glass coffee table in the front room. The big bastard rolled on top of her, spreading open her thighs and ripping her knickers off. The other lad was kneeling on her shoulders, his hands pinning down her arms. Sharp shards of glass dug into her arse cheeks and back. The lad kneeling on her clamped his hand over her mouth and she bit on it and the hand became a fist that punched her in the face. They pissed themselves laughing at her as they took turns ripping into her, egging each other on and giving a verbal commentary of the goings on. The grinding and the pounding and the pain seemed to go on for ages. They were boozed up and stunk of skunk, one of them went limp dick fifteen minutes into it and ended up shoving his beer bottle inside her fanny until the shit fell out of her arse.

  “They’re fucking animals,” Lee sounded hysterical and panicky. “They said they’d be back and, if I didn’t get their money, they were going bring some mates with them and do it all over again. I just want it to stop. I want them out me life.”

  I advised her to get herself to the doctors to have the injuries she’d sustained treated and also to be tested for STDs. There was no mention of informing the police because roadside justice would prevail in this case. “Fucking dirty bastards! Best to get off to your mams,” I counseled. “Get away from round here for a bit. I fucking swear: I’m going take care of those cunts. No worries about that. Just got to find the skanky shower of shite first.”

  15.

  Being grafters by trade, we were always on the lookout for stunts and rip-offs. Intel about a weed farm being cultivated in a house in a nearby residential area had gotten back to us via the urban jungle drums. The hippie householder was fed-up being ripped-off by street dealers just like ourselves and had concluded a better option would be to set up his own Dro: A hydroponic cannabis grow room.

  We’d decided it was ripe for a turnover and was bound to be a guaranteed scoop if we could pull it off. We drove over there in a nicked Honda Integra with windows tinted smokey black late on the chosen night.

  We parked up and staked the place out. There was a skunky-sweet stench in the air. Caspar grabbed hold of the Mac-10 and I took the Glock. We crossed the road, crept into the garden and crouched in the shadows. Our game plan was simply to force an entry and take on anyone that was in there guarding the crop. We were expecting an icy reception, but felt we could storm the weed faction in a no-holds-barred, hood rat fashion.

  We hid in the bushes for a bit, sussing the situation. I could hardly breathe, my chest was so tight with anxiety; it felt like I was having an asthma attack. The silence was deafening and I could hear my heart beating loudly. I gave Caspar the signal, we pulled the ballies down and jumped to our feet, advancing towards the house with stealth, whispering covertly, observing every shadow for signs of prying eyes. I was using a crowbar on the front door to gain entry when, all of a sudden, the lights came on and the door flew open. We were confronted by the Alan Titchmarsh-like occupant, brandishing a rounders bat. He’d obviously heard the shitty goings on and had tip-toed to the door to defend his cannabis-propagating castle. Big mistake. “What the fuck do you cheeky cunts want?”

  We’d startled him, but we thought it was pretty obvious what we wanted. “You two better fuck-off! I’ve phoned the bizzies.”

  I almost burst out laughing. As if a cannabis cultivator was going to dial 999. There was no fucking chance of him getting the police to come to his rescue and save his bacon. The place stunk of skunk and he’d be facing a long custodial sentence if the bizzies clamped their eyes on his dro factory.

  This dick-splash was a fucking comedian, but I couldn’t see the humour in it at the time. I suppose he had one of those faces that begged to be laughed at, or smacked. Being the ruthless ruffian that I was, I chose the latter option and bashed him on the side of the head with the crowbar. It split his scalp wide open, the blood streaming down his face in rivers. His legs buckled and I charged hi
m with my shoulder, sending him backwards onto the hallway floor.

  After a bit of a scramble, we had him tied up and gagged, then proceeded to loot the rows of towering fuck-off skunk plants, laden with pungent sticky buds and growing under the hydroponic lights in the upstairs bedroom. What a fucking fantastic sight! There were thirty-odd crops inside a silver-foil lined tent, there was a heater and oxygen cylinder, air conditioner and duct system to get rid of the sweet and intoxicating smell but the aroma was still over-powering.

  Our hands worked like twelve bastards, as we stuffed the plants into the thick, black bin liners we had brought with us. There was more greenery in another room, harvested and stuffed into plastic carrier bags, a fair few grands worth we reckoned. We grabbed it all and humped the gear to the motor outside.

  We greedily jammed what crop we could into the boot, but had to toss the rest on to the backseat. With that bit of business wrapped up, we headed off to Caspar’s kennel. It had been piss-easy and we were well pleased with the booty we’d managed to rip-off. It was a top night’s graft: We’d done all right and now all we had to do was get rid of the stolen goods. Easily done in a city like Liverpool, where a bit of Bob Marley is like a breath of fresh air.

  16.

  We were coming back from THE STUNT. It had been a nice little earner as it goes, entailing little effort and a decent return with no chance of the bizzies turning up and sticking their big noses in. Caspar was driving the ride and I was in the passenger seat, sliding a CD into the stereo, Devlin’s Life’s Fucked Up playing. There were sticky buds all over our clothes and the sweet, intoxicating aroma of ganja was wafting up my nostrils.

  Caspar’s mobile went off. It was some fancy bit he was having a fling with. She was at a house party and she’d text him to tell him that there was a couple of lads from the Mug Fam at the do. The ones that had helped butcher Bangerz and they were boasting about it.

  That meant they were fair game and putting themselves up on offer. We were on the war-path, pumped up anyway, after the raid on the weed factory, and ready for revenge. We decided to swerve by the house and pay them our maximum respect: Fill the bastards in!

  We could hear the party about two streets away, so we homed in on the music and Caspar turned the headlights off before he parked the ride at the top of the close, keeping the engine turning over for a quick getaway.

  I masked up and slipped the gloves on, then eased out the motor with the gun in hand. I moved with stealth, sneaking down the cul-de-sac, staggering my approach, taking cover behind garden bushes and parked cars. My eyes were scoping and my ears were alert for the slightest sound of approaching feet.

  Finally, I was crouching in the darkness opposite the house down the bottom. In the front garden, there was a young couple canoodling, he was sucking on her face and pulling her micro-mini up. She was only about fourteen, a sexy bit of jailbait and she had his cock in her hand, wanking him off. Another lad was stood in the open doorway, shouting encouragement to the kisser-locked couple and mimicking what he would do to her if given half the chance.

  The gaff was crammed with a crowd of people and the party was purely raging. A top sound system was blaring thudding beats and I could see loose tarts everywhere, off their fucking heads dancing all hot and horny to the music, lads drooling all over them and gagging for a shag. My game plan for this one was to wait until one of the known fuckers came out and inflict as much damage to the cunt as possible.

  As I hid in the darkness there was a commotion. Kylie, the little bit of fluff that had text Caspar, had come out of the house, quickly followed by a top fucking sex pest, Dee-Ko: One of my targets. He was staggering about, stoned on coke, crack, booze or some combination of all that and more. I might have reeked of robbed weed, but my head was straight and my mood was ugly.

  Kylie was a tasty little number with long sexy legs, cute face and tight in the waist. It looked like he’d been attempting to cop off with her, but she’d blown him out. She had hold of her fake fur coat and was hobbling down the path in too-high heels, off home for the head down.

  Booze-fuelled super stud had other ideas and I watched carefully as he caught up with her and tried to coax her into a bit of slap and tickle, pestering her like a horny dog after a bitch on heat. She was having none of it and shouted at him to FUCK OFF, leave her A-FUCKIN-LONE.

  He grabbed her from behind and ripped her top open, exposing a lovely pert set of tits. She staggered backward, went ballistic, screaming “DIRTY BASTARD!”

  “Fucking slag!” he shouted. He lunged toward her and she lashed out in a losing battle. She raked open one side of his face with her nails, blood was running down his cheek.

  A few of his mates had spilled out of the house and were hovering nearby like sly fuck-vultures waiting for the kill and their share of the pickings. For certain lads around these streets an enforced gang-bang was viewed as a normal night’s entertainment. I was about to spoil the sex show for these low-life animals.

  I went in for the kill. As I walked quietly from my hiding place I was just in time to see Dee-Ko punch Kylie flush in the face. That one punch bust her eye socket and she fell backwards over the knee-high retaining wall and slammed the back of her head on the pavement, knocking her out cold. Her head made a sickening cracking noise as it hit, fracturing her skull and a pool of blood ponded straight away. The boys were on her in a flash, ripping her knickers off like the sicko rapists that they were. “Oi, you dirty little fuckers,” I shouted.

  Dicks went limp, as all eyes turned in my direction. I moved confidently forward, assumed the position, standing legs apart, the nine milli clenched in two hands at arms length, pointed straight at Dee-Ko’s head. Everybody just stood there for a frozen moment until they realized my bodily mannerisms screamed DANGER. I squeezed the trigger and let one off with a loud crack, the bullet went through his cheek, blew a ragged hole through the Mug Fam tattoo on his face and smashed out his teeth, spinning him around and dumping him on the ground. His white hoodie had exploded with red as he groaned, scrambling on his hands and knees back towards the house.

  The others bolted for it, jumping into a car to make a quick exit while they still had the chance. But one of their troops stood his ground, pulled a burner from his waistband and aimed at my chest. He squeezed the trigger, but the gun jammed. Quickly, he turned on his heels and ran after his mates in the motor. He wasn’t quick enough: I tracked him with the shooter and started firing. CRACK! A bullet knocked him off his feet, slamming into his back and exiting through his belly. Blood spewed out of him, all over the pavement. CRACK! Another shot rang out. Just as the car full of sworn enemies was about to start up and go, the bullet whizzed down the street, smashing straight through the back window. Broken glass shattered and sprayed the inside of the car, the bullet went through all the seats and hit one of the bastards in the arse.

  Lights were flicked on and the curtains up and down the close began to twitch with all the commotion and a few brave party goers actually came out into the street, claiming to have called the bizzies into the drama. I pointed the burner at them and shouted that no fucker move, but I backed the fuck off. At this point, I’d done enough damage and had no further interest in ruining their party, especially as events were fast approaching a police intervention. I was beginning to get a little nervous about the inevitable arrival of a Matrix unit. Armed bizzies are no laughing matter, they’re trained killer crackshots and it was time to do a runner.

  I sprinted back to the motor at the top of the close. Caspar saw me coming and started to pull out onto the main road with a long screech of rubber. “Serves them fucking right. That’s what you get when you go gangster on us and they won’t be fucking with the Ju$tu$ Crew anytime soon,” I said. Mission accomplished, we headed back to our end of the estate. It had been a highly-strung and blood-spattered night. We needed to turn it in and give it a rest, have a good few fat spliffs and the pussy plants were piled high in the back of the motor. We were buzzing our tits off again, t
he pure adrenaline rush was addictive and the anxiety levels had lowered. We couldn’t get enough of it, the stunts and the action, but needed to come back down to planet earth and calm the fuck down a bit.

  17.

  We’d started cracking up again, the drug dealing venture was back on with a vengeance. The days followed the same pattern of rising early in the afternoon, having a cup of brew and a weed. Then out the door and off to work in the crack close, which was virtually within spitting distance of the home.

  Dog Sick had organized a stash house, which suited us lot down to the ground because we were sick to our back teeth braving the elements, flogging gear out on the streets in the cold and wet. He had secured a house in Gravesend Close on our end of the estate. The property was ideal for our criminally bent purposes, Dog Sick reckoned. Most of the tenants had moved out of the Godforsaken hole, which meant no nosey twats to notify the bizzies of the goings on.

  He had a quiet word with Leslie, the occupant of the house and a deal was struck and the next day we installed ourselves double quick in to her gaff.

  Lez was a big-boned bitch, six-feet tall in her clown’s feet, which happened to be a whopping size twelve. Big fuck-off hands like toilet seats, she was no damsel in distress, let’s put it that way; she could hold her own. She’d gone clubbing one night, got shit-faced and pissed herself on the dancefloor. When security dragged her arse off, she’d punched one of the bouncers in the face, broke his tooth and got barred. Even though she was a bit past it at thirty, she would take some fucking, that much was for sure: A horny, willing lass all right but, I mean, a fat cow and a visit to Weight Watchers wouldn’t have hurt. She was always flirting, making overt sexual suggestions because I suppose big, ugly girls like a bit of cock too. That’s what beer’s for - innit? But I weren’t no chubby chaser, wished she’d keep her sweaty mitts off my arse cheeks and let me study how she cooked the rocks up, the BIG FAT FREAK!