Introduction 4
It was while weaving unsteadily backwards from the off license, clutching his bounty of alcohol, that he saw the police cars outside the pub. Several officers were filing in.
There's some justice in the world - now the little wasters will get their just deserts.
Skittering over the road, he crouched against the door with his eye pressed up against the window, straining to hear what was going on.
A hulking brute of an officer spoke first. He had a nose that had clearly been broken several times sppearing over the top of a thick, bushy beard. He looked, Handysides thought to himself, like your archetypal sailor on shore leave, certainly not like a member of Her Majesty's constabulary.
"Here you had a bit of trouble tonight." He said. Undercutting his fierce appearance, his voice had a distinct West Country twang.
"Nothing we couldn't handle officer." said Dylan, the barman.
On one of the stools, Harry, who had been responsible for at least three of the broken ribs Handysides had, muttered something that he couldn't quite make out. Knowing Harry however, Handysides was fairly certain it had been "Yeah, fuck off, pig."
The bang made Handysides throw himself instinctively back from the window. Unable to quite believe what he'd just seen, he scrambled back to the window and pressed his eye up against it.
On the floor at the base of the stool on which, just moments before he'd been sitting, Harry Leather's lifeless, and mostly headless body was lying in an ever-expanding pool of blood. Sailor's colleague, a rat-faced individual whose hat looked propped on by his massive, protuding ears, was leaning against a wall, his right arm dangling lazily by his side. In the hand of his arm there was a gun.
"What the...you can't do that!!!!" spluttered an outraged Dylan.
"Can't I?" said Sailor, dead pan. Drawing his own gun with a speed which belied the apparent effortless movement, he fired it straight into Dylan's chest.
Suddenly a face appeared in the doorway. Another of Sailor's colleagues was bolting the door. Handyside's reeled away from it, but as he staggered backwards, he slipped on something (probably his own blood) and crashed to the ground. The officer looked out as he drew the curtains and saw the movement. Even over the continuing sound of gun fire that ahd erupted in the pub, Handysides heard the officer shout "there's one out here!"
Without waiting to think, in a blind panic, Handysides ran off down the alley.
There's some justice in the world - now the little wasters will get their just deserts.
Skittering over the road, he crouched against the door with his eye pressed up against the window, straining to hear what was going on.
A hulking brute of an officer spoke first. He had a nose that had clearly been broken several times sppearing over the top of a thick, bushy beard. He looked, Handysides thought to himself, like your archetypal sailor on shore leave, certainly not like a member of Her Majesty's constabulary.
"Here you had a bit of trouble tonight." He said. Undercutting his fierce appearance, his voice had a distinct West Country twang.
"Nothing we couldn't handle officer." said Dylan, the barman.
On one of the stools, Harry, who had been responsible for at least three of the broken ribs Handysides had, muttered something that he couldn't quite make out. Knowing Harry however, Handysides was fairly certain it had been "Yeah, fuck off, pig."
The bang made Handysides throw himself instinctively back from the window. Unable to quite believe what he'd just seen, he scrambled back to the window and pressed his eye up against it.
On the floor at the base of the stool on which, just moments before he'd been sitting, Harry Leather's lifeless, and mostly headless body was lying in an ever-expanding pool of blood. Sailor's colleague, a rat-faced individual whose hat looked propped on by his massive, protuding ears, was leaning against a wall, his right arm dangling lazily by his side. In the hand of his arm there was a gun.
"What the...you can't do that!!!!" spluttered an outraged Dylan.
"Can't I?" said Sailor, dead pan. Drawing his own gun with a speed which belied the apparent effortless movement, he fired it straight into Dylan's chest.
Suddenly a face appeared in the doorway. Another of Sailor's colleagues was bolting the door. Handyside's reeled away from it, but as he staggered backwards, he slipped on something (probably his own blood) and crashed to the ground. The officer looked out as he drew the curtains and saw the movement. Even over the continuing sound of gun fire that ahd erupted in the pub, Handysides heard the officer shout "there's one out here!"
Without waiting to think, in a blind panic, Handysides ran off down the alley.
posted by U-B | 3:37 pm
1 Comments:
Nice, I like the sinsiter turm. Not so enamoured by the phrase 'in the hand of his arm...' tho :o)
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