JUDAS PIG

by Horace Silver

  ‘Fucking right.’

  ‘Do they do cocktails here?’

  ‘Course they fucking do, Billy. What do you want? Speedball? Or the big thing at the moment is a waggon-wheel. It’s a combination of—’

  ‘No, you fucking doughnut, I got me own drugs, you know that. I wanna drink. Long Island iced tea. Killer zombie. Car bomb, something like that.’

  ‘See what I can do.’

  And with that Delroy disappears, leaving me rocking to the killer riddim of Sir Coxone’s sound system, whilst checking out some of the fine brown frames getting down with the groove.

  ‘Babycham or Special Brew?’ says Delroy, returning and holding out two drinks in front of him.

  ‘Oh, very salubrious. Gnat’s piss or elephant’s piss. I’ll take the elephant’s piss,’ I say, snatching the Special Brew from him before clanking back the ring pull and taking a few loud glugs. ‘And by the way, what d’ya need to speak to me about?’

  ‘The Spud Murphy load is on its way right now,’ he tells me. ‘Right this very moment it’s coming through Amster—’

  ‘Schtummo, you fucking loppo!’ I growl at him angrily. ‘We’ll talk later, in case these walls have got ears as well as rising fucking damp.’

  ‘Sweet,’ he says, as the pair of us then consequently spend the next few hours getting absolutely hammered, in fact, getting fucked up beyond all recognition. And at this very moment I’m hanging for dear life onto a cubicle wall in the toilet, after having just cut up a couple of lines. Only trouble being, I’m shaking so much I can’t even steady my hand to sniff up the goods.

  ‘Woah, slow down,’ I say to myself. ‘You’re sweating like a donkey and your head’s spinning like a top. You’ll end up bringing on a fucking embolism. Do you really need to take anymore fucking drugs?’

  To which there’s only one reply: ‘Course I fucking do!’

  But I do need to take five first, and so I flop down to recuperate and ponder the meaning of life on the toilet seat, only to find my introspection interrupted by a strange slurping noise coming from the cubicle next door. By sheer good fortune there’s a small round hole, the circumference of a small coin, at my eye level. So naturally I can’t resist a peek. And the sight that confronts me is a thousand times better than what the butler saw. For there’s this sharp-looking black dude sitting on top of the toilet cistern lovingly smoking a joint, while at the same time having got this ream white chick sitting on the toilet seat below him, lovingly smoking his cigar. And I don’t care what those hairy-legged feminists say, a women getting down on her knees or whatever to suck a man’s cock is living proof of the supreme dominance of the male member over the female of the species. But now the only trouble is that, what with this impromptu live porno show, I’m sitting here on the khazi stroking a stonking boner through my strides. And as a stiff prick waits for no man, I just have to pull down my trousers and whip it out.

  So now picture this! Yours truly with his strides round his ankles and his left eye bang up against the spyhole, watching the brother getting blown, whilst simultaneously bashing the granny out of Mr Sloppy-head like a right fucking nonce case. In the event I get so fired up at the free show I end up shooting my bolt all over the floor in less than a minute. And as is the want with men when they’ve come their load, reality kicks in and I quickly stand up and pull up my strides before attempting to wipe my gooey ejaculation into the floor with the sole of my shoe, but succeeding in only spreading it into a scruffy, snotty pool across the tiled floor. Terrified of being caught noncing by the next person to walk in as I walk out, and who’s bound to see the floor covered in fresh Harry Monk, I grab a couple of handfuls of toilet tissue from the roll on the wall and stoop down to mop up the mess, before tossing the gummed-up paper into the toilet bowl and pulling the chain.

  While watching the paper being sucked away into the cistern along with my guilt, I alternately check the front of my strides in case of any stray stains. Happy to find myself clean I dress myself to the left, sniff up the two big fat hairy ones I’d previously carved up and then bowl out of the khazi like butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth, to make my way back into the blues. However, that sweet little version excursion has convinced me it’s time to do the Dustin. And so, after grabbing hold of Delroy and bidding farewell to the Brothers Grim, the pair of us stumble out into the horror of an early London morning, with me clutching a Special Brew and Delroy sipping like a tart on a bottle of Babycham. And as we emerge blinking into the grey, drizzly morning’s light to pick our way through the litter-strewn pavement, I’m nonetheless pleased to see it’s still way too early for the morning traffic to have started, and the whole street’s as empty as a pisshead’s pockets. But the drabness of the surroundings saddles me with an instant onset of depression and gets me to wishing I was back basking in the sun and splendour of Miami. But that’s by the by, because even this cold, slate-grey morning is way too bright for my tired, drug-addled eyes, and so to ease the ache and throw a favourable tint on the proceedings I slap on a pair of wrap-around Armani shades, and things look a whole heap better straight away.

  The pair of us then makes our way back to my motor, passing the wacky baccy back and forth like a pair of penniless hippies on the trail to Kathmandu.

  ‘So like I was going to say earlier,’ Delroy says to me, taking in a large toke then passing the joint over to me, ‘the Spud Murphy load’s on its way through Amsterdam now.’

  ‘Sweet,’ I say, sucking down a large lungful of Sensi. ‘And you’re keeping on top of it?’

  ‘Fuck, yeah. I’m in contact with Mutton-eye every day.’

  ‘Good. And what you’ve got to do, and I can’t stress this enough, is that when me and my firm moves in to take the load, both you and Mutton-eye have got to lay low for the few days after, ‘cos if any shit’s going to hit the fan, it’ll happen then. You got that?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem, Billy. You still thinking of pinging?’

  ‘Nah, gonna stay around. Just for the gold watch.’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t go.’

  ‘Never mind about me. Just fucking remember what I’m telling you, OK?’ At which Delroy nods, and I really hope for his sake that he understands the importance of laying doggo, because if things go boss-eyed and our firm has to go to work wicked, ten to a dozen it’ll be the piggies in the middle, Delroy and Mutton-eye, that will be the first casualties of war.

  After a short walk, interspersed by deep druggy reflection and more toking, we reach my car where we stop to clink what’s left of our drinks in a toast to the Spud Murphy coup, after which I turn to have a much needed piss against the rear tyre of my motor. When a hushed tutting and clucking, emanating from the near distance causes us both to look up to see a gaggle of early morning workers waiting at a bus stop across the way, and goggling us while making disapproving noises in our direction.

  ‘Who the fuck are they tutting?’ I say to Delroy in a low growl.

  ‘Fuck ‘em, they’re only mugs,’ he says, finishing his Babycham and tossing the bottle over a nearby wall, where it can be heard shattering into tiny pieces.

  ‘All the more reason they wanna learn to keep their fucking mouths shut,’ I say, only now I’m starting to walk over in their direction, ‘cos one thing I fucking hate is straight-goers that think they can stick their hairy hooters into my business. And as I make my way across the road, somewhere deep inside my head I can hear Delroy calling me back, but it ain’t registering, because all that’s embedded in my thought process is the tut-tut-tutting.

  But it’s funny, because as I’m getting nearer to the mugs, the disapproval miraculously dries up into a deafening silence. So now I’m standing five feet in front of these cunts, spliff smouldering in one hand and a can of Special Brew in the other, and the extreme vexation in my eyes masked only by my Armani wrap-arounds.

  ‘So who’s the mackerel with the big mouth?’ I shout, tilting back my sunglasses so that they’re now resting on the top of my head, just so as
I can see the bottle going in their eyes, and they can see the anger brewing in mine. It’s then that I get my first good look at them.

  Five handed they are, made up out of a motley crew of a couple of cor-blimey builders nursing hangovers, a pair of premium doughnuts in scruffy suits who’ve done fuck all with their lives, and a rank bit of old scrag-end mutton dressed as lamb, with cocksucker lipstick smudged skew-whiff all over her too-thin lips. At the posing of my question all remains silent and still, apart from some very uneasy shuffling of badly shod feet, some twitching of arsehole, and a serious avoiding of any eye contact.

  ‘All gone fucking quiet now, ain’t it?’ I shout once more, as the veins on my neck begin to bulge, my mouth starts to foam and my shouting morphs into a screaming rant.

  ‘Look at yers, you sorry fucking excuses for human beings. Don’t any of you ever, ever think you’ve got the fucking right to tut me. Do you know who I am? I’m Billy Abrahams. That’s right, you’ve all fucking heard of me, but I ain’t fucking heard of any of you. Me and my firm runs this fucking town, but by the looks of you lot, you ain’t even capable of running a fucking bath. Look over there, that’s my motor parked up. Gave fifty grand for it, readies. Twenty-eight years old and already a millionaire, while you lot, the mediocracy in all its morning fucking glory are still skivvying on your knees for fucking shirt buttons. Take a good look at me you fucking mugs, I’m a working class revolutionary. What have any of you lot ever revolutionised against? Fuck all! ‘Cos you’re the little people. Don’t do nothing except gripe about the weather or your poxy bus running five minutes fucking late. I’ve crossed the fucking Rubicon to the dark side. And you lot? You lot shit yourselves just crossing the fucking road. Now say something. Please, step forward, the bravest out the bunch and I’ll fucking ruin him. I’ll fucking ruin the lot of you.’

  ‘Billy!’ shouts out Delroy from across the road, but still his voice ain’t registering. ‘Billy!’ he shouts again. ‘There’s a fucking bus coming, you’re gonna get run down!’

  With Delroy’s warning finally sinking in, but with me still staring straight ahead, I start to walk slowly backwards with both my arms raised in a crucifix position, while taking alternate swigs of booze and sucks of spliff. But ain’t no one at the bus stop got the bollocks to look at me. As I reach my car the bus pulls into the stop and the tutterers scamper on board defeated, but I ain’t finished with them yet.

  ‘I fucking hate you people!’ I scream after them. ‘Go on, get on your poxy bus and save up for your two week package tours, you fucking lemmings. Holidays, what do you lot know about holidays? Every day of my life is a fucking holiday.’ But still the anger inside me ain’t been sated. I need to hurt flesh, pound skin and bone till it’s bruised and bloodied, only now there ain’t none going spare. So instead I run after the bus and throw my can of Special Brew at it as hard as I can. It strikes a back window spraying booze everywhere.

  ‘Fuck me, Billy,’ shouts Delroy, panicking and looking round like we’ve just robbed a bank or something. ‘What the fuck’s got into you, man?’

  ‘What’s got into me?’ I scream, walking back over to Delroy and getting right in his face. ‘I’ll tell you what’s got into me. Danny thinks he’s the Pope but I know he’s the Antichrist. Me mum and dad hate me guts and Jesus wants me for a fucking sunbeam. And if you, or any other cunt walking the planet ever calls me a nancy boy, I’ll put a fucking bullet hole right through the middle of your hearts!’

  TEN DAYS LATER and I’m seated round an eighteenth century baroque dining table in the kitchen of Danny’s new home, but it feels very disturbing to be ensconced in the luxury and opulence of a million-pound pile with its owner still stinking of the streets of Canning Town. On the plus side, I’ve calmed down somewhat regarding my shameful performance outside of Bugsy’s Blues. Shouting and screaming in the street like that was totally out of character for me, and I’m still trying to work out what happened. I think I might have slipped myself a Mickey Finn! But all things being equal I’ve smoothed it over with Delroy and he’s sweet. I’ve also come to the conclusion that I don’t much care anymore about Danny stepping into Perry Pomfritter’s shoes.

  Give a greedy cunt enough rope and he’ll hang himself. But that ain’t stopped it being a dog’s stroke, because Danny’s the one out of our firm always banging on about not bringing it on top with Old Bill by being too lairy and ostentatious. Well how does he think Old Bill’s going to react when they find out he’s living it large in a rock star’s country mansion and ain’t never filed a tax return in his life?

  It’s not like they ain’t already got the raving hump with our little firm over what we’ve been up to these last few years anyway. But what kills them the most is they know how Danny keeps on taking the piss out of the cozzer he burnt with acid. Not only did the pig have to retire from the force, but year by year the acid is slowly melting the man away, and eventually it’ll kill him. It’s my belief anyway that Perry Pomfritter’s pulled a blinder by passing Danny a poisoned chalice before slipping right of the back door without even stopping to turn the lights off. Look at it this way. Pomfritter’s got untold grief with the taxman. He’s copping cash for the deal and has fled to Spain. And who pops up in his place? Danny fucking Large Spuds! New lord of the manor. Talk about out of the frying pan into the fryer. And here’s the rub. Danny’s council house material, always has been always will be. Silk dress, no drawers. After all, this is a man that thought Art Deco was an American actor. And with a gaff like this, it’s not just paying for it, it’s the upkeep. And Danny hates paying bills. He’s already had a Canning Town sparky over to hot-wire the electricity so he don’t have to pay for heating up the indoor swimming pool. Tina’s been crying non-stop because she’s left all her friends behind in Canning Town. But does Danny care? Nope, he couldn’t give a flying fuck.

  And not only is it a bastard to get to, but it’s a deathtrap for a man with as many enemies as Danny. He road-runs twice a week and all around here it’s just country lanes. He ain’t stupid and I’ve already told him myself it would take nothing to plot him up in a car and run him down. Or even to just plot him up and blow him away. But what do I get for my trouble? Ridicule.

  ‘No-one’s got the fucking arsehole to try and top me, Billy.’ Well suit yourself Danny-boy, because from now on I ain’t saying a dicky bird. But I tell you this for nothing. If he does cop for one in the nut, this here’s one man that won’t be whooping a war dance on his behalf.

  With her eyes still blood-red from an earlier bout of sobbing, Tina nonetheless has served up dinner with a smile and graciousness born out of fear and constant humiliation. She can’t cook to save her life, bless her. But it don’t matter, because tonight’s repast has been delivered from the nearest kebab shop, five miles away. And I’m currently tucking into a lamb shish with a double helping of fries, lovingly presented on an original, nineteenth century bone china plate boasting a beautifully crafted and hand-painted oriental garden scene, that compliments beautifully the whalebone handled, solid silver cutlery, circa the same era. Alas, the wine is a disappointment. For although it’s French and of a fine vintage with a slightly heady bouquet, and has been served up in the finest Waterford crystal, it’s been left standing at room temperature all afternoon and has tiny particles of cork floating in it. Someone really should have should have pulled Tina to one side and shown her how to open a bottle of premium white wine and then gone on to whisper that it’s supposed to be served chilled. But I always feel ignorance can be forgiven when its intentions are well meaning, and besides, even the tiniest spark of a complaint from me would result in the poor woman getting a severe bollocking from Danny.

  ‘My boy’s coming on at football, Billy,’ says Danny to me, after calling both his chavvies to the table. ‘Got high hopes of him turning pro. Son, tell Billy why daddy don’t go to see West Ham play no more.’

  ‘Too many fucking niggers in the team,’ says Danny Junior, smiling through a gap in the front of
his milk teeth. The statement of which causes Danny to laugh heartily and bang his fists down hard on the dinner table.

  But while Danny’s busy filling his boy’s nut full of poison, what he ain’t told him is that three months ago the coach in the youth system of the local football academy dropped him from the first team for not being good enough. So me and Stevie had to sit the man in the back of a motor and explain to him all the reasons why Danny Junior had to be reinstated. Actually what we did is give him the choice of what I call the bag or the bullet. It’s simple, you get a choice. A bag of dough in the hand or a bullet in the head. So far we’ve never had anybody choose the bullet in the head.

  ‘Yeah,’ says Danny, continuing. ‘My boy’s gonna put some white blood back into the Hammers. And tell Billy, son. If a nigger turned up at the door and asked to take your sister out, what would daddy do?’

  ‘Fucking life,’ says Danny Junior with a twisted smile, which tells me he already understands the implications of his words. And Danny’s sitting there with a smile across his face as if to say, ‘That’s my boy.’ Like they say, give me the boy at seven and I’ll give you the man. So what chance has the kid got in this day and age, if he’s being pumped full of that kind of filth and bile. After what in the event turns out to be a most unsatisfactory meal, all of us decamp from the kitchen to the mansion’s main drawing room, whose décor is a disconcerting mix of opium den opulence and funeral parlour chintz. After flopping down in one of the oversized, salmon pink leather sofas, Danny orders Tina to stick on his favourite film, the Walt Disney classic Bambi. A film I personally find a tad twee, being much more of a Jungle Book and Aristocats man. I mean where else but in those two masterpieces would you get forties scat cats like Satchmo, Louis Prima and Phil Harris putting down tracks that can make a grown gangster like yours truly sing along to like a love struck schoolboy.

  Immediately on lighting up my customary after dinner cigar, Danny remonstrates loudly for me to put it out, telling me that his million pound mansion ain’t insured. Like I just said, silk dress, no drawers!