“Diesel makes it through to round two,” Porky said. “Roadblock, would you be so kind as to exit through that door to your left and wait in the room beyond? I’d be most grateful, thank you. The bar in there is open, which is being operated by myself. I’ll be along shortly,” he said, as he watched the mountain of a man use the door and disappear through it. He was rather shocked and surprised the huge biker went without a fuss. “Great. One down,” he whispered under his breath, while fighting to keep a smile off his face. “Baby’ll take care of him. No matter how big he is. Or how tough he may think he is.”
“Nice one,” Slicks told Diesel, as he low-fived him. “You smoked him, man. Easy as pie.”
“Yeah. But what the fuck does it matter?” he asked Slicks, getting closer to the man’s ear. “We’re walking out of here with that cash win, lose or draw,” he said. “That fat fuck won’t stop us. Or the rest of these fucking retards!”
Slicks snorted a laugh. “You got that right, brother.”
“Next two players: Tommy and Iain. Would both men please come forward and take respected turns in flipping a coin for the chance to break.”
“The best of luck, mate,” Iain told Tommy, thrusting his hand out in offer to shake. The man gave Iain a contemptuous look. “I’m not a piece of shit, you know? Just because my hands and clothes are filthy, doesn’t mean I’m a bad person, man.”
The man scoffed, as he turned his back on the offered hand. He began rubbing his cue vigorously. “Peasant,” the man muttered under his breath.
“Is this a Welsh thing?” Iain wanted to know. “Get off your fucking high-horse, before I knock you off it, boy!”
“Now, now!” Porky said. “Do your fighting on the table.”
Tommy outsized Iain in height and weight, but definitely not in brawn. “Lucky, buddy. Next time, I’ll break your fucking jaw,” Iain told the man, the booze starting to work its way through his system. The fun-loving, banter-wielding trucker was slowly fading away. Time to stop his ale. If not, then the slightest of things could derail him, which wouldn’t be a pretty sight. The run-in with the biker earlier was still clearly pissing him off, his temper building under his skin.
Tommy looked stunned, the threat making him shy away and revert.
“No. I…I didn’t. I’m…”
“Keep your trap shut. Save your sorries, or I’m likely to ram this white ball down your throat!”
Tommy’s face turned ashen.
“Come on, you fucking shirt-lifters!” Slicks yelled. “Either belt the fuck out of one another or get playing!”
Iain turned, ready to unleash, but Porky intervened. “Yes, the man is right. Either forfeit and take it outside or get playing. This is your final warning. Now, shake the man’s hand, Tommy. Show sportsmanship.”
Stepping around the table, Tommy offered his hand gingerly, which was met by a vice-like grip from Iain. Bones clicked. “The best of luck,” Iain said, finding it hard to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
“Yes, you too,” Tommy offered weakly, colour draining from his chops.
Porky tossed the coin.
“Call,” he told Tommy.
“Heads,” the man said.
“Tails it is,” Porky said. “What will it be?” he asked Iain.
“You can break,” he told his opponent, who nodded.
The brightly-coloured pyramid was smashed apart by Tommy, who watched in amazement. The balls were sent hurtling towards the cushions and each other. Most of them made a complete circuit of the table, without a single one of them finding a pocket. After the storm, calm ensued, leaving an open playing field for Iain.
“Nice break,” Iain said. The comment may have sounded sarcastic, but he hadn’t meant it that way. Iain truly was happy with the way the pack of balls had split. Five out of the seven stripes hung over pockets, whereas only two spots did. The rest of them were hard against the cushions. “Stripes,” Iain said, looking over at Tommy, who had one hand over his face. As he bent down to take his shot, Iain’s eyes fell on Rigs, who was engrossed in chatting with Grace. Smiling, he took his first shot.
The stripped ball hanging over the bag dropped home with ease. Two, three and four also found their way into pockets. After the fifth was slotted in, Iain stopped to chalk his cue. One out of the two which were left was an easy shot, which, if done correctly, would leave him with an easy-to-medium shot on the last ball.
Ball six found its way into the pocket but was burped back out with vehemence. This caused it to roll back up the table and nestle against the cushion.
“Tommy’s shot,” Porky announced.
Iain looked on in dismay. It should have been an 8-balling for sure. He’d let the man off the hook, and he knew Tommy knew that, because the man let out a huge sigh of relief on seeing Iain’s ball thunder back out of the bag.
“Hard luck,” Tommy said scornfully, before bending down to take his first shot. Whether it was pressure, relief, or something in between, Iain was not sure. What should have been an easy opening pot for Tommy, turned into a waking nightmare. Not only did he miss the pot completely, but he sent the dotted ball spinning around the table like a tornado. It slammed both of Iain’s remaining balls over open goals along with the black ball, before coming to a stop in the centre of the baize.
“Oh, dear,” Iain said, which sounded caring, and not as sarcastic
as it should have been. Grinning, Iain cleared what he had left to win the match, and then watched in amusement as Tommy broke his own cue over his knee. Storming off, he used the same exit as Roadblock. “Whoops!” Iain said, addressing the crowd. His comment was met by a roar of titters, as Iain stumbled drunkenly about the place. “Stop his drink!” Iain bellowed, much to the crowd’s pleasure, as he continued to make them laugh with his half-cut wit.
Even Porky had a hard time keeping it together over Iain’s antics. “Winner – Iain!” he declared. “Now, can we have the next two to the table, please?” he pleaded, as he watched Iain hang his cue back in the rack and stumble over to Rigs and Grace.
“Nice one, mate,” Rigs told Iain. “Let’s hope I can join you in the next round.
“You’ll be fine, man. Take it to the fucker. I think I need to sit down and come around a bit. I was seeing thirty balls on that table!”
“Ha-ha,” Rigs chuckled, clapping a hand to his friend’s back. “Rest, dude. I’ll be back in a jiffy!”
Chapter 13
After storming out of the pool room in a blazing mood, Tommy suddenly found he was lost, as he stood in a new corridor. He’d thought by going through the door he’d used, just like the biker had, he’d be back in the bar where he had been earlier.
“Where the bloody hell am I?!” his anger still at peak. “Where on earth…”
The corridor which Tommy stood in was cast in shadow. A swinging bare bulb hung from the ceiling, which was more than halfway down the passageway. “I don’t remember passing through here,” Tommy muttered to himself, his anger finally losing some of its warmth.
Turning, he pushed on the door he’d walked through, thinking he’d go back and ask the tubby landlord which way he was supposed to go. But, to his bemusement, the door wouldn’t open. As much pushing, shoving and pulling as he tried, the door would not budge an inch.
“For fuck sake!” he yelled. “Hey! Your door is jammed! Fucking retards,” he mumbled. Continuing to hammer, Tommy noticed something about his blows. They weren’t sounding hollow or strong. They sounded muffled; as though the door was padded… Pooooorky!” he shouted at the top of his voice. But nobody came to his rescue. “This is taking the piss.”
Faced with no other option, Tommy was forced to walk the long path in front of him. “It must lead to a different room. A different bar. Porky definitely mentioned something about a bar being open for us.”
Before moving, he listened for any noise. From all the sound which had been going on in the pool room, Tommy could hear nothing from that side. It led him to think more and more that the
whole room, including the door, had been soundproofed. “Probably so the players don’t get disturbed as they play. What a fucking laugh that is. Can’t believe I was beaten by a sheep shagging trucker. I’ll kick his fucking arse if I see him outside,” Tommy said aloud, the sound of his voice keeping the fear at bay.
Passing under the bulb he saw a door at the end of the walkway. “That must be the room Porky was telling us about,” Tommy said, the bravado now returning to his swagger. On getting closer to the door, he noticed that the floor was wet, but couldn’t make out what it was due to the poor lighting. A muffled, tedious and continuous drone could be heard coming from the room, as Tommy put his ear to the cool wood and listened. It sounded like a laden bomber flying low.
“What in God’s name is that sound?” Tommy said, puzzled, as he continued to keep his ear pressed to the entrance. “Only one way to find out, I guess!”
Putting his hand to the door handle, Tommy found it to be tacky. Pulling his hand back, he noticed strings of goo came with it – as though the handle had been drooling.
He backed away as slowly and as quietly as he could. Something didn’t feel right. Something was very wrong. Where was the biker? Then, it dawned on Tommy. Was that blood all over the floor and door? His guts dropped. What was going on here? His mind raced. It bellowed at him – “Get the fuck gone. Now!”
The whirring, buzzing sound stopped. A thud, thud, thud, replaced it, which grew closer and louder by the second, until it sounded as though it was right behind the door. “Oh, fuck…” Tommy gasped. His bladder puckered. “What the fuck is that?!” he whispered.
He wanted to turn and run. To scream the fucking place down – maybe it would warn others. But that was silly. Childish. He didn’t even know what the noise was. It was more than likely innocent. After all, they were in a pub; an establishment built on good working ethics, family tradition and values; a place which had been handed down through the generations to be preserved and prospered from…
A place which no longer had regular passing trade.
A place which had seen its best years come and go.
A washed up place.
A place no longer able to survive.
A place whose owners’ would do anything to see the business fight on to the last.
The door flung open and slammed against the wall, knocking chunks of brick and plaster free as it did. Tommy recoiled. Jumping back, he lost his footing, causing a stray arm of to hit the bulb above him. It was sent into a frenzied swinging-whirling motion, as he hit the floor arse first.
A huge figure stood in the doorway – a meat-pulverizing-hammer in its left hand, which hung at the masked-figure’s side.
“No! Heeeeeeeeeeeeelp!” he screamed. “Heeeeeeeeeellllllllllppppp… meeeee!” Tommy pleaded, his eyes welling as he shuffled backwards on his arse. The skin of his palms tore and peeled as he used them to scuttle out of harm’s way.
The figure emerged.
The hammer now held high.
The blunt head dripped blood and gore. Remnants of hair clung to the robust weapon.
“Oh, Jesus! I have children, for the love of God. Please!” Tommy squealed like a pig with a cut throat.
The tool was brought down so hard and fast, that Tommy didn’t see it through his teary eyes. The bulky metal head was on target. It shattered his left knee in devastating fashion, blowing it apart with callous effort.
“Aaarrrgghhhh!” Tommy half screamed, half cried, as he clutched his destroyed joint, his bladder finally releasing. Before he could pass out from the agonising pain which tore up his leg, his other knee was hammered to splintered dust. “Arrrggghhhhhhh!” he yelled. “Heeeeellllpppppp! For pity sake,” he blubbered, his bottom lip trembling like a toddler’s. Strings of drool hung from his chin, while beads of it dripped and formed a pool on his chest.
The third blow crushed his privates, causing darkness to descend on Tommy. He collapsed backwards and almost choked to death on his own vomit. He was saved by his attacker, who rolled him onto his side. Had he not been in so much agony, he’d have thanked them. His mind cracked. It giggled. Hysteria set in.
Tommy was not allowed to slip totally into unconsciousness. He was kept awake, as a gloved hand grabbed a tuft of his hair and started to drag his crumpled body backwards – back towards the door from where the huge figure had appeared. Once inside the room, the door was slammed shut.
“Where…where…where…” Tommy garbled, and then began crying again. The pain racking his body was beyond comprehension. Three swift, but powerful blows to his jaw shut him up, as a few teeth came flying loose. “Agh, you… bastard!” Tommy shouted. “I’ll fucking kill you. Cunt!”
A boot to the ribs hushed him.
Then there was another voice.
“They’re coming through to us too fast!” Doc whined. “I haven’t finished cutting up that fat islander yet!”
Managing to tilt his head back, Tommy caught sight of the big biker. The first of the losers. The man’s legs had been sawn off and cut into quarters. It reminded Tommy of tree stumps, ready to be halved by an axe. “Oh, God,” he muttered, as he tried to push the hurt from his mind. “They’ll kill you for that,” he gasped. “The rest of those bikers will rip your fucking hick arses to shreds when they find out what you’ve done to their…”
Patience was lost. Baby turned and looked down on Tommy. She raised her right booted foot and began stamping on his face, breaking more teeth along with his nose, jaw and left cheekbone. His right eye swelled instantly under the attack. Grabbing a roll of duct tape from close by, she proceeded to wrap it around his head – tapping his mouth shut, before binding his wrists and ankles.
She patted the top of his head when she was finished, then followed Doc over to the dead biker. A screwdriver was poking out of his mouth. It had pierced the back of his throat, killing the man instantly. He’d fallen like a tree, Baby thought, letting a giggle escape her.
“Baby, this is no time for laughing, girl! We need to get this one chopped up. There’s no time for fun and games with them this evening. Not at this rate,” Doc said, as he picked up a 10” knife, designed for making cuts in flesh. He stabbed it into the dead biker’s bare chest and ripped it all the way down to his abdomen.
Seeing this, Tommy struggled, kicked and wriggled to be free of his restrains, but to no avail. Baby clamped a hand to his head, and forced him to watch, as Doc dug all the organs out of their cavities. Blood popped and squirted up his already blood-drenched scrubs. The once green mask was also gore-soaked.
Every organ from the front of the man was put into steel containers until empty. Doc then proceeded to saw off the man’s arms and head, before turning him over and ripping the back open. It was poetry in motion, the way in which he stripped, hacked and emptied the body. He was skilled at it. Knew what he was doing. He’d sacked a load of carcasses over the years. The look on his face told a million stories, but not a story truer than that of how much he enjoyed it.
Tommy threw up in his mouth, which was a mistake he could not avoid. He started to gag, to choke on his own stomach waste, as he witnessed the event. He then frantically shook his head back and forth as Baby watched him becoming redder and redder in the face by the passing second. The veins in his neck stood out, as he struggled to swallow the sick. But it wasn’t working. As soon as it was going down, he was heaving it back up again. His yells and grunts were muffled under the tape, which was so tight, that not a speck of fluid found its way around the fringes to leak out.
Baby began to laugh, as she watched him helplessly fight on and cling to life. The commotion disturbed Doc, who was in the middle of cutting off Roadblock’s fingers and toes. “Baby! For God’s sake, what’s all the bloody noise, girl?” slamming down his snips, he turned to see a hysterical Baby and a pained Tommy.
On seeing the sight, the makeshift doctor could barely contain his laughter, as he blurted out a few harsh sniggers. “Oh, yes, I see what’s so funny now,” he said, trying to br
ing himself back under control. “Do you think we should allow this pig to breathe?” Baby shook her head. Slowly. “Very well, death by asphyxiation it is…” Doc said, as he watched Tommy drop dead in front of him. His system gargled and bubbled as he lay still. “What perfect timing!” Doc mused. “How thoughtful of the dear fellow. Get him up here, Baby,” Doc barked, as he watched the woman start to fondle the man’s busted privates.
Rolling him over, she unsheathed her Hitler youth knife. Gently, she placed the tip of the well-looked-after steel to Tommy’s voice box, which protruded from his throat. He didn’t waver, bringing Baby to the assumption that the man was indeed dead, and not just fucking with them.
As she was about to drive the knife downward, his eyes flickered and focused on her. A barely audible ‘No’ was yelled from Tommy, forcing a smile from Baby, as she pressed the blade down into the man’s flesh. His legs and body bucked wildly, as she delicately drained the life from him.
Tommy was long dead by the time the shaft of the knife was pressed to his Adam’s apple. Content, Baby scooped him off the floor, and threw him onto the same table the biker had been on. His dissected body had now been moved out of the way.
“Lovely,” Doc said, as he set about his work. “Get back out into the corridor, girl. There should be another along in a minute!”
Chapter 14
Rigs couldn’t stop sweating. He wished he could, because it was getting into his eyes and causing them to sting. The match was well into its twentieth minute, and looking to go a lot longer. He’d never been engaged in such a match before. Not that he could remember, anyway.
Rigs had started well, considering he’d had the break. Chris had potted, resulting in him then being hampered behind the black, forcing him to take a hard safety shot after that. One which hadn’t gone to plan. He’d left Rigs with a shot to nothing, which he’d taken well. Having potted himself out of trouble, he’d gone on to miss the next, putting Chris back in for another punt.
The Rack & Cue Page 13