by Harry Crooks
Cracking Up: War Stories Of A Drug Thug
Harry Crooks
Copyright 2015 Harry Crooks
Kindle Edition
This is presented as a work of fiction.
“The weasel and his cousins, the mink, the fisher, and the marten, are lithe, fast, savage creatures. They are meat eaters, and are in continuous, bloodthirsty competition …” Charles Bukowski, A .45 To Pay The Rent, Tales Of Ordinary Madness.
1.
The primary school was the marketplace: The frontline. The mums and kids had to walk through it to get to the school. Our crew had infiltrated the kids playground over the road from the school, bringing a menacing presence to the daily school run. It must have been fucking horrible for them, but we didn’t think about it much then. The vibe was heavy as we stood around in balaclavas and bulletproof vests, selling smack and crack. It was a no good, low-life existence but, at least, we were making some readies. It was better than the jobseekers allowance or slaving in Mackey Dees for minimum wage.
We were serving up to the bagheads and the party funners like Rafael Nadal. We were making a mint, raking it in. The punters were coming from all over and we gave them the proper gear and no hassle. They were grabbing it off us like bag snatchers.
Everything was ticking along nicely. Then the Mug Fam set up shop on the other side of the school by a parade of shops. They were on the paper chase same as our crew. We didn’t want them on our patch, but there was about thirty of them, all tooled up to the eyeballs. We didn’t need the aggro, but then there were reports of rapes and of punters being taxed, along with brutal street robberies and mindless violence.
The police were less than impressed and there was a noticeable increase in their presence in the area with hit squads in Taskforce vans. They were cruising the streets, on the lookout for charge sheet material and dishing out merciless thrashings to the lads on the frontline. They were having a clampdown on the marketplace and it was getting on top. The Mug Fam were becoming a top fucking nuisance. We were pissed off with them, acting like top pricks all the time. Trying to muscle in on our patch and ruining the trade. They were getting on our tits; it was time to have it out and reaffirm the pecking order.
There was a quick nosey around for patrolling police vans, then our lot of hardcore swaggered smartly around the corner to the shopping parade: Spermy, Bully, Kushie, Endz, Caspar, Zerk, Tickle, Melt, Dome, Bonus, Trim, Chocko and me - Dirty Ow-wee. The Mug Fam were strutting their stuff on the parade, trying to wangle the wedge off some poor, snivelling smackhead. No way did the kid want to part with his hard-thieved readies but, under extreme duress, he was about to give in to the Mug Fam’s not so gentle persuasion. They spotted us coming round the corner and backed off, much to the kid’s relief. He had been saved by the bell as it were and scuttled off down the road.
Their troops were full strength, we were well out-numbered and in for some serious damage. But we must have looked loco because, all of a sudden, they stiffened up and put on their screwfaces. One of them had a pitbull on a chain and wound the beast up, making him snarl and show fangs. Looking back: It was an impossible, no-win situation but on point of principle we couldn’t back off and bottle it. We’d had e-fucking-nuff of them and were about to settle the aggro.
Spermy was our top lad and did the fronting for us. He was no bigger than a two-bob fart but he did cage fighting and could handle himself. Anyway, he let them know, told them straight up: “This is our fucking patch! The school belongs to us. Now fuck off out of it.”
He was like a two-ton Gorilla beating on his own chest, but they must not have know what Spermy was like because they just laughed at him. “Oooh! We’re dead scared like. Cacking it.”
Then Bola, their top lad, came out of the betting shop and saw something was up. He called himself that because he reckoned he was deadly just like Ebola. Puffing his chest out and screwing Spermy out. He was hard as fuck and no front teeth. About six-foot-two and sixteen stone; a pure psycho who dreamed of raping schoolies and battling nightclub bouncers. A scary bastard who could punch the fuck out of grown men.
“What the fuck’s going on here, then?” he said, scowling.
Spermy clued him up. “Fuck off out of it!”
“You what!”
“You heard, you toothless cunt!”
Bola just laughed in his face. “You lot can fuck right off,” he said. “We do what we want to fucking do. Now piss off out of it.”
Then he coughed up a big greenie and spat it right in Spermy’s face. His mouth was open and he must have tasted the sticky phlegm.
That was it; it all went off. Spermy had a head like a ball-peen hammer and jumped in with a butt, right on target, and quickly got the upper hand in the skirmish, blood squirting out of Bola’s flattened nose. They both started swinging like wife swappers, but Spermy was a sheer force of nature and got in a few good brain-shaking digs while Bola was off-balance and put the big lad on his arse. As he went down he snatched at Spermy’s neck and snapped off his gold chain.
It was supposed to be a straightener, a fair goer with no tools. But Bola must have thought he was Rambo because he scrambled back to his feet and pulled out a big fuck off, serrated hunting knife about twelve inches long. Waving it about like a ninja and shouting. “Come on, you bastard. I’ll carve you up.”
“I’ll bury it in you, you fucking cunt!” Spermy was yellen back.
Bola was slashing away like Jack The Ripper and had Spermy backing off. Spermy’s hands were nicked from cuts and blood was dripping from them. I was having none of it. The adrenaline rushed through my veins, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I felt a sudden stab of intense anger in my gut. In a flash, I was behind Bola and gave him a top smack on the skull with a tire iron. Blood pissed out of his head, but he just spun round and snarled in my face. I hit him again, this time across the collar bone and he dropped to the ground with a satisfying thud, wailing in pain.
All around me it was kicking off royal. I was in the middle of a pitched street battle where everyone was jumping in and a full-on rampage commenced splendidly. Shitloads of testosterone-filled young lads buzzing on pure adrenaline were running wild as the battle went on. I caught sight of Caspar screaming his head off and swinging a machete about like a madman.
A ball hammer crashed down on Spermy’s nut and instantly raised a big fuck off lump the size of a Cadbury’s Cream Egg. He just laughed maniacally, pulled out a butterfly knife and rammed the offender in the chest. Blood gushed out of the wound like a burst pipe. His claret spewed on to the road, as the lad took a few steps back, gurgled and moaned, then staggered and collapsed in a heap. It was like watching a fillum in slow motion. Spermy was a fucking monster and totally mental: Great assets in a gang-related kick off. He mercilessly went in for the kill, booting the stuffing out of the fucker. The lad was rushed to hospital and almost kicked the bucket - the blade had pierced the cartilage between his ribs, slicing his left lung and just missed his heart by a blue-bottles cock. He survived and would be questioned by the police who would come up against a brick wall, of course, since the victim and participants wouldn’t say as much as fuck off to them, because talking to the bizzies at all was taboo.
The pitbull was going mental and barking, growling and foaming at the mouth. The cunt let it off the leash and the snarling muscle-bound mutt came rushing at us; it’s jaws fastened tight around Chocko’s calf and ragged him. He was trying to boot out with his other foot, but the pittie was thirsty for blood and carried on mauling him. His legs gave way and he hit the ground. He was screeching and howling like a wounded animal, but the more he lashed out and wriggled about, the more the monster chewed him up. It tugged, twisted and bit into him while he screamed for the lads to GET IT OF US. I ran
to the rescue and lashed out with fury, belting the maniac mutt over the head with the tire iron repeatedly, trying with all my might to force it to loosen its hold enough for Chocko to free his savaged leg. But when it let go, it had ripped out a chunk of his calf and then immediately tore into the other one.
One of their lot took a swipe at me on my blindside. A punch exploded on the side of my jaw and a gut-curdling crack sent me reeling sideways. My jaw was bust; after that, my face clicked and the bones made a loud crunching sound when I was chewing my scran. Then the twat lashed out with a headbutt and followed it up with a few good digs while I was off-balance. I went down on all fours on the gritty tarmac, wobbly like a shitting dog. I lifted my head and saw a savage boot coming flush to my face just as I was trying to get back to my feet. I turned my head away at the last second, it caught me on the ear and caused it to turn a strange purple colour and swell up like a souffle. I felt the PAIN - PAIN in my face, my head. Fucking bastard! The kick was followed by another, but I caught hold of his leg in mid-kick and he came crashing down on top of me. We were wrestling on the ground, pounding and swiping at each other. I sunk my teeth into his nose and snarled like a rabid pitbull. The kid was howling and began to panic, scratching at my face and fish-hooking a finger in my mouth. I bit down on it until my teeth grazed the bone. Blood was everywhere and his finger was dangling by the skin, barely attached to the joint. It was ferocious stuff and he was pleading with me to stop.
The rest of the boys were going at it; it was kicking off good style. All the lads were growling and pulling war faces, all out scrapping on the pavement and in the road, blocking traffic. Bodies slammed against cars and into metal barriers. A lollypop lady on the pedestrian crossing got bundled over and kicked in the head. Mums taking their kids home from school were screaming and making a run for it, jumping into closes and gardens to get away from the pitched battle. All kinds of weapons were being found and used. Dome was swinging a four-foot piece of scaffolding tube around, hitting a fucker on the back of the head as the sneaky arsehole was going for someone from behind. It was lights out as soon as it connected, his skull smacked hard against the road and his legs jerked with the creepy involuntariness of a hanged man. The rest of the angry mob were knocking seven shades of shite out of each other with fists and boots, punching and stomping. There was blood and snot everywhere. It was lunatic chaos going off all over the place and the lads were enjoying every fucking glorious minute of it. It wasn’t long before we all heard the sirens blaring blue murder and someone screamed. “PIGS! FUCKING GO!”
There was the screech of tires and we smelled burning rubber as a couple of police vans flew around the corner and accelerated towards the feuding mob. The idiot at the wheel of one of the vans slammed on the anchors and skidded the meat wagon into the hostile crowd. A couple of the lads were too close and too slow to get out of the way. They were hit square on and sent flying through the air before landing in a crunch of bones. Next thing, a load of knuckle draggers jumped out the vans and steamed into the full-blown battle. They got stuck in with batons, sticking it to us good and hard, swinging indiscrimantely. A big fat bully of a bizzie came bounding over out the van and swung his club, smashing one of the Mug Fam over the head and cracking his skull open. His nut was smashed to fuck and drenched in blood. He was out of it, but another copper ran up to him and sprayed him in the face with a can of CS gas, then finished him off with a size thirteen boot to the gut. The lad spewed all over himself and the blood went runny in the puke.
This was just standard practice for the bizzies: Acting like top pricks all the time. Their policing was about as subtle as a happy slapping. They were always on our case, dead rough and drastic. They treated us like a bunch of fucking naughty puppies. Smacked us about every chance they got and wondered why we acted up. The problem was: When you give a puppy a spanking, you either make or break them. Well, we weren’t about to break. They just made us meaner and madder.
These bizzies were all big, beefy bastards and they were battering us like cod fillets. It was coming on top and it was time to get on our toes. There was a whole mass of lads trying to starburst and scatter themselves in all directions to avoid being arrested. The vicious cunts were coming down hard on us all, resulting in raw scenes of intense combat. One of our lads, Zerk, was on his back on the tarmac, curled up in a ball, trying to protect his head with his hands as kicks rained into his ribs, legs and belly, until finally the sole of a heavy police-issue boot stomped down on his head. A copper rushed up and made a fumbled grab for me but I managed to body swerve him and did the offski, rapido style.
Fuck this for a game of soldiers, I thought, and flew off the mark, running down the road like I was Usain Bolt, heading back down on to our end of the estate. He was hot on my heels, hungry for charge sheet material but he was a hefty lad, thick boned with a fat arse. I was lean and fast as the Road Runner and speeded up, bolting for it down the road like a lunatic with a rocket up my arse. I was top sprinting, out-running the uniformed Wiley Coyote easily. I ducked down the side streets and was flying through the estate, hurdling fences and leaping gates, jumping over walls. I was on top form and he had more chance of catching an STI. I heard him way behind me, radio-ing for back-up and gasping for air. It sounded like he was about to puke his ring up.
I lost him in the maze of walkways and alleyways on the estate, legging it deep in to the heart of the birds nest. I was heading to the relative sanctuary of The Kennels: A really run-down, rat-infested concrete council block adorned with choice graffiti such as: FUCK THE PIGS, and WELCOME TO MINI-IRAQ.
I’d decided to take refuge in my mates flat. There was no need to phone him because the chances of him being anywhere but his kennel were slim, unless of course he was running out of heroin, in which case he would have been down the frontline.
2.
I rounded a corner, looking over my shoulder down the street for the copper and then slid into the block of flats. There was a lift but it was usually piss-puddled and out of order; so I took the stairwell with its iron handrail and the first thing that hit me was the stench. Fucking hell, the air was rotten, diseased. It knocked me fucking sick, the foul-smelling excrement of various types of mammals.
The ever-present paint sniffers convention squatted on the first landing, their noses buried in the crisp bags full of spray paint. I barged my way past the fucking motley crew of scumbags and shot up the stairwell double pronto. When they saw me coming, they parted the waves and made a space because they could see I wasn’t in the mood.
I was sweating like a bastard rapist after all the action but a big chilly shudder took me by suprise as I continued to shoot up the stairwell. Paranoia kicked in big-style; there was an eerie feeling of doom like someone was walking over my grave and my skin prickled involuntarily. The stairwell was badly lit and I carried on legging it at great speed up the steps and on to the balcony where I could see daylight.
It was about four o’clock now and a pair of single mums with greasy hair and still wearing pee-jays and slippers were outside their front doors, leaning on the balcony rail. They were tranked up and smoking rollies, gossiping as their kids played on the burnt-out remains of a joy riders car in the street below.
I couldn’t suss what had temporarily freaked me out in the stairwell but I pulled myself together and moved confidently forward down the balcony. Dogs were barking behind closed doors; the kind of dogs you don’t stroke. Every door had a deadbolt and spyhole because it was the kind of place where you never knew who would come crashing through the door at any time, the burglars or the bizzies. One of the birds saw me coming and gave me a big smile. “Hiya, Ow-wee! You all right, babe?”
She saw my cauliflower ear and threw her hands up to her face. “Oh my God! What happened to you? You look like you’ve been in with Mike Tyson.”
Her name was Tiffany and she was on to me in a big way, offering an icy compress if I’d come sit on her sofa and keep her company. She was a loose woman with a rep
utation for accosting men on the estate. She had a fit body, big tits but a face like a potato with the mangies. “Nice one, T,” I said.
I followed her into the flat and sat down on her couch. She went into the kitchen and put a little twist in her hips because she knew I was looking. When she came back, she slumped down besides me, doing the necessaries with the icy compress and flirting with me big-style, coming on all fresh and fruity completely distracting me from my aching wingnut.
She was like a bitch on heat, engaging me in a bit of saucy chat and projecting the come on vibe. She leaned forward exposing her cleavage, started to neck me in a dead passionate way and I could feel a stiffie coming on. She was rubbing my crotch and declaring she was going to rattle my cage. There was nothing for it; I didn’t want her to think I was bent, did I?
I followed her into the bedroom, feeling mad horny and we both stripped off. We began a rampant mess about, getting to grips with a session of heavy petting, fumbling and tweaking under the covers. I sucked her nipples and they were so hard I could’ve dialled a phone with them. Not only were her nipples rock hard but my cock was too; I slipped a rubber johnny on the end of it and got on top. She spread her legs and opened her gash, guiding my tool into her damp patch. I started off with a slow gentle grind because I didn’t want to blow my beans too soon. She was panting porno-style and scratching my back with her cat claws. I sucked her nipples, they were stuck up like two babies bottle teats. She told me to fuck her harder, then came and wriggled like she’d had an electric shock, as I shifted up a gear or two and finished off with a frenzy of groaning and slapping, thrusting and grunting until I reached the vinegar stroke.
I thought she’d actually fancied me and my ego smarted when she demanded money. I hadn’t fully realized that the dirty slag was a working brass and expected her to turn nasty when I explained that I was brassic. Luckily, she had a big cheesy grin on her kipper when I offered a rock of the crack as payment instead. Oh well, it had been a good screw!