"Hugs, I've found one for you... it's going cheap... absolute bargain... almost mint... no time to lose... let's go."
"Go where, what for"?
"What have we been talking about these past few month's", came the exasperated reply, "Here's a clue, it's German, it's sleek, it's fast and it's yellow".
'Speed Yellow' it is, thought Huggy, now very excited.
"Meet you at the club, and... small catch... they want cash... cheers".
"Where am I going to get that sort of money in cash...?", Huggy blurted out, but it was too late - the line went dead, and the number remained unobtainable on redial.
*******
A tall man, and a very short one, got out of their imported black Oldsmobile Sedan, and, with shifty glances all about them went round back. They had a faintly ridiculous air about them with their black suits, white shirts, black ties and black sunglasses; a Quentin Tarentino parody. They opened the boot, took out a pair of hand guns, and extravagantly checked they were loaded. Rolling the chambers, peering down the barrel's, that sort of thing.
Tall one: We should have shotguns for this kind of deal, my little one.
Short one: How many will there be?
Tall one: Three or four.
Short one: We should have brought f****** shotguns.
*******
Emil was 80, 2 metres tall, thick set bald on top, but very hairy elsewhere. He wore a Rab C Nesbitt vest, combat trousers and army boots. His sons, Wolfgang and Karl-Heinz, were just younger versions of their father, if a bit fatter. Alarmly for this day and age, they all wore packed shoulder holsters, and an assortment of weapons about their bodies which could keep Al Queda in business for the next 6 months.
"Jetz, mein liebschen. Gut. Ja. Ausgezeichnet", Emil fussed over his boys, as they prepared their next delivery. Used to all sorts of difficult dealings with Eastern Europeans, he had no concerns with this next shipment to the 'verdammt tommies', and so he happily hummed a tuneless lyric as they got into their Army Surplus Hummer...
..." uber alles in der Welt"...
*******
Huggy gunned his wheezing Mondeo into the club, and somehow thought nothing of Henry tying a roof rack on top of the car as he dreamt of the pleasure of illegally powersliding his nearly new, yellow Boxster round the lanes of Kent. Henry eventually got in beside him, and as Huggy started the ignition, he heard the rear doors open and shut. Surprised, he looked round and saw two comically suited gentlemen sitting uncomfortably in the back.
"What are you two doing here"?
"Don't worry old chap", interrupted Henry, "the seller of our new little beauty can be eccentric, I just thought we could do with a bit of back up".
"'Our'?, gasped Huggy, totally befuddled, "What do you mean by 'our'"?
"That's what a partnership is all about, me old mucker", smarmed Henry, "What's yours is mine, and what's mine is mine. Come on, we're late, the drop is at Clacket Lane Service Station".
*******
The tall one dragged Wolfgang's bloodied unconscious hulk, with surprising strength and dexterity into the huge, empty warehouse. The tall one tutted. Blood was every where, over his suit and his shirt. Well, it couldn't be helped. He filled a bucket with water, and poured it over the prone, fat skinhead, who woke at first with a shock, and then grimaced with the pain in his stomach.
The tall one, ignored him, took a flick knife from his cowboy boots, switched on a CD player and started dancing towards a very scared Wolfgang to the strains of Johnny Cash...
*******
Shell shocked, Huggy got out of the Mondeo and inspected the damage. As he stuck a finger into a bullet hole, he just shook his head and wondered how and why? Death and mayhem. All that for a bloody boat.
"What a lark", cried out a jubilant Henry. "From now on, Hugs old boy, we've got no excuses".
"Smile" said the short one.
1 comment:
nice one huggy
chuck
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