Music by Steve Kane

Doing It

by Chris Morrow


This is the type of job that pisses me right off. I’m above this shit now but I still got to do it. We get the muppet and start in, digs and clumps. Orders are break bones and a full on hospital job. The wallies I am with have no idea, bitch slapping and hurting their own knuckles more than the punter. I pull them off.

“No you prats. Like this.”

I push his head up against the wall, solid buffer behind him, can’t move, all the force is absorbed. Duster ka-blams into his nose, smashed it. Skin’s ripped, bone now poking out into the moonlight. He’s out.

“And then this.”

I uppercut to the point of the chin. Jaw splits on that silly joint at the base.

“And one for luck.”

I smear the knuckle duster down the side of his head, glancing. It rips his left ear off, big splurty blood gusher. I tread on the ear as it lays on the floor, grinding it into mush. Orders is orders and if I didn’t squish it some do-gooding doughnut will probably find it, stick it into a packet of frozen peas and rush it to the Hospital and this wingnut will get his left lughole back, which would defeat the point of the lesson me and these idiots are trying to teach him and his.

“Right, now take them hammers and break his legs, only below the knee though.”

I’m not going to bother to explain why they shouldn’t break thigh bones, red blood cell producers and the surest way to accidentally kill someone whilst just trying to break legs.

I leave them smacking away, very keen, if very stupid. They won’t be able to pin them legs back together again, splintered porcelain.

Why am I still doing this crap?

In the car I take it slow. All right, I just earnt a few quid but I am sick of this low level monkey nonsense. It’s boring now. I’m worth more than this. I break my own rules on car behaviour and fire up a joint, need to chill out. Press the buttons and let the CD player randomly pick one for me. Fun Loving Criminals sing to me, Scoobie Snacks. Yeah, that’s more like it.

I don’t want to go home, so I don’t. The smothering of the marital bed 'aint doing it tonight, need vicious and spiteful.

I find one in a club run by some of the chaps. Feral looking, skinny and pointy faced. I give her some gear and we spend the next three hours fighting around the hotel room bed. I don’t touch the coke myself, don’t need it. Just need her, glittery animal, coked up she rages back at me. I soar and lose myself.

I talk too much bollocks to her, let things slip I shouldn’t have, it happens. I get on the mobile, call the rapers. I get her arse moving and check out. Meet the rapers down the road. Turks, always Turks. Slip them the price and hand her over to them.

“Do what you want, don’t care, but it disappears forever, got me?”

“Yes, of course, my friend.”

Cheeky little git. I pull and stick it up his nose.

“You do know who I am don’t you? Fucking listen to me. Fuck up and your brains will be all over your kitchen ceiling tomorrow you cunt. Is this clear?”

It’s clear. They take her off.

It’s dawn, sun rises above the river. I stand on the Embankment. Big Ben (that’s the name of the bell by the way, weighted by pennies to keep the time right) bongs at me. Six o’clock. I grab a bacon sandwich at one of the cab drivers all nighter shacks. Bloody lovely, grease and brown sauce drip down my chin . I’m starving, get two more and talk about the footy to the cabbies. I used to go to the footy, used to take my boy. Sixteen year old prick that he now is. Aint spoken to him for weeks. Maybe I should take him again.

I drive to work. What the fuck am I supposed to be doing this morning? Oh bollocks, I remember. I go in and hit the toilets. Empty. I have a long shuddery piss and press my cheek against the white tiles as I hold my back, kidneys are killing me.

Into the briefing room. All there. Some uniformed prick I don’t know introduces me.

“This is Detective Sergeant Daniel Wilson who will be briefing you and leading this mornings Operation.”

Oh Danny boy, the pipes the pipes are calling.

Flick that switch on in my head and I’m doing it.

Nut-Head Productions