This featured in the ‘600 to 700 (word) challange’ over at A Twist Of Noir in October 2010.
Some people are just born lucky…
When I felt pigeon shit splatter my shoulder as I simultaneously slipped in a doggy dump, you could say that was unlucky, but it changed my life no end.
Now, I’m not superstitious – couldn’t give a toss about all that lark really. But I read the signs, clean myself up and go to pick up my dole. I neck the compulsory couple of cans of Special Brew, go to the bookies and pop a score on the old fixed odds. Now, I’m pretty damn good at picking the footy results, and with the double-dose-of-shit-thing happening, I think, Fuck it – why not make it fifty? After all, it’s those taxpaying suckers’ cash, innit?
Anyway, my ten results come in and I roll like a pig in shit. Five fuckin grand! Well £5,122.36 to be precise. A couple of ecstatic calls later and me ‘n’ the boys are cruising around town, all fuckin steaming, since we drop two E’s apiece and have a constant joint on the go between bars.
I was driving as usual, simply because I was always the driver on jobs we’d done and, anyway, I’d nicked the Vauxhall. Keys in the ignition, on the driveway, engine running, piece of piss. The look on the owner’s face, as he came round the corner of his house clutching a pissin hose pipe, was a picture, I’ll tell yer.
Next stop…Long Legs!
“My Chrimbo treat, boys,” I say, wiping stray remnants of coke from my nostrils, tossing each lad a crispy fifty.
“Aw, look at the tits on that,” said Gimp, just a little too loud.
To be honest, they are crackin Babylons, but I tell him to cool it as the management are a bit keen. We all take a seat, watch and wait, trying not to dribble.
This stunning blonde in black sussies and high heels makes a beeline for me. I glance heavenwards when she sits on my lap, the boys’ mouths gaping.
“Hey, Big Boy, fancy a private dance?” Her accent’s Czech as well!
My dick answers for me and she grins, leading me by the hand, the boys gaping some more.
Five minutes later, the sleazy music stops and beneath my jeans a manic Boa is trapped in a sack. She clocks my raging cock, her tongue sliding across a dirty smile.
“Do you do extras? I’ve won dosh…” I show her the roll of fifties.
Next thing, the Boa escapes and, in a pulse, is skilfully covered in latex.
“Mister Lucky gets fucky-fucky!’ Leering, she climbs on board, rides me bucking bronco style. My musical taste changes forever, as we sweat and thrust to Duran Duran’s Wild Boys. Such is my euphoria, I’m fuckin singing along!
A few high-fives later, and I lead the lads to the Vauxhall, me almost floating there, thinking, ain’t life grand… five fuckin grand! We hit a few more bars, beat some prick up who gave us the eye – he’ll live… just. Gimp always takes exception to eye contact, and he’s me mate, innit? We have more beers, weed and sniff, then about 10.15 P.M. we head for a club. I drive, of course, like I always do.
Now, let me ask you a question… I know it’s Christmas ‘n’ all, but what responsible fuckin parent would take their seven year old daughter shopping up town at 10.17 at night?
My ‘lifer’ cellmate Jerome gives me the eye when I tell him about the kid I killed. The news is received like I’ve called Mike Tyson a willy-wufter. Beginning to regret my blabbing, I back off into the corner of the cell.