Mark Dark: Bad Boy Lost

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Bad Boy Lost

preparing to write the next short story in my Bad Boy Lost collection called Cocaine Chain, about a Gangster's bar in London which supplies cocaine to London's summer students. Everything goes well for the gangsters until Brizzer gets involved, when... of course... everything starts to go wrong.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.

Man or Mouse - award winner - Writer's Forum short fiction prize

As I enters The Griffin two medics barges past me carrying a stretcher. It’s hard to see who’s on it, he’s so cut-up and bloody. Bits of glass stuck in his face blinks blue in the siren’s light.

It’s empty inside and brighter than usual. Debs is mopping up bits of glass and blood and lager. Dogface and Trippy are fixing a broken table. SKY News is on with the sound off - Saddam Hussein being hung.‘Execution of a lawless tyrant’ the words says.

Big Jim’s on me, eyes blazing. “Oi, Bristol!”

“Alright, Jim,” I says. “What happened here?”

“Never fuckin’ mind what happened here,” he growls, licking his wounded hand like a bear with a sore paw. “I’m a man down for tonight...are you in?”

“Who, me?” I says.

“No, Bill n' Ben the fuckin’ flowerpot men, of course fuckin’ you.”

He leans his ogrish head towards me. His stubbly lips brushes the inside of me ear. I feels his hot breath as he whispers, “Gotta serve someone up.”

He offers me his giant, bleeding hand. I takes it. Jim’s a face. It’s like shaking hands with The Krays or someone. His grip’s firm, not like me dad’s. I looks into his eyes, they’re like dark caves, you dunno what’s lurking inside but you knows it’s dangerous. I looks at the thick, pink ‘chelsea smile’ carving a path through his greying stubble. Reminds me of Scarface.

“Wicked,” I says.

He lets me go, swirls his long black coat and swishes out the pub like Al Capone. I’ve got his blood on me hands. I wipes it on me jeans.

“Made a pact with the devil, have you?” jokes Debs.

(download the full story on Ether Books i-phone app - see link below)

Teething Pain

I’m clucking for a line so I squeezes me way through the pissed queers, shouting ‘scuse me over thumping techno, and elbows me way out the bar. Crashes through the door marked men.

Oi squeals a blonde tranny, lifting his mouth off a saliva-shiny cock. Is nowt fucking sacred? Shut fucking door.

I bangs down the stairs and leaves the club, stepping into the darkness of early morning Soho, gripping me newly scored wrap of charlie tight in me bin.

Cold air claws me coke-carved nostrils. Techno’s echo beats me brain. Me hot breath steams upwards. I scans about. The street’s empty. Soho’s sleepy silence seems surreal.

I zips up me bomber, puts me hood up and walks down Old Compton street. Bill the Binman turns in driving his dustcart hoovering up last night’s shite with a bored same shit, different day groan.

I knows how it feels.

I checks the empty beer bottles left in the doorways. Someone’s only gone and left a full one. I picks it up, clamps the round metal top between me teeth and yanks it ope...ow! Fuck! I think I broke me tooth. Feels around with me tongue. It’s me front one. I must admit they’ve been rotting for a while. It’s the speed. Runs me tongue over again. Jagged like a shark’s.

I spits blood and swigs from the bottle. Crappy cheap lager. Chinese. Tastes like shite. But better than nothing. I swills me mouth out and gobs again. Me spit freezes mid-air it’s so fucking cold.

Walks down Wardour street. Stops in a doorway for a pee. Don’t hear him behind me which is weird. But I hears this voice, really close, over me shoulder.

Put that away, or I’ll put you away.

(contact me on Facebook or Twitter for the full version)