Fifty Bare Knuckle Fights in the Shade

So I’m down at the local night club, yeah? You know, that really seedy one that doesn’t give a fuck who they let in. Used to be an old church or something? Anyway, I’m checking out the studs lined up along the bar thinking which one’s most likely to buy me a drink.

Most of them are fat bastards in their thirties with beer guts flopping down like an old woman’s tits, but there’s this one cutie who catches my eye. I say cutie, he’s actually pretty fucking dog-rough in the face department. He’s got short-cropped hair and a borstal spot on his cheek, a ring of barbed wire tattooed on his neck that seems to go all the way around. There’s more tattoos on his arms, naked women and bulldogs, that kind of thing. He’s wearing faded jeans, a white Fred Perry T-shirt, and red braces. Like some sort of fucking 1980s throwback or something. But he’s got this massive bulge in his pants, yeah? I think that was what attracted me to him really, if I’m honest.

So I sidle up to him, all casual like, and start to finger his crotch. It’s all soft and spongy, feels like a rolled up sock, so I give it a bit of a squeeze between my fingers to see if he’ll squeal like a stabbed pig. He doesn’t. He grins at me, and I see he’s got a lot of missing teeth. Not that I’m bothered, mind. It’s not as if I’ve got a full set myself.

“Hey baby,” he says. “Fancy a shag in the bogs?”

Now I’m no prude, but what the fuck? Don’t I get a drink first? Call me old fashioned if you like, but whatever the fuck happened to romance?

“Yeah, go on then,” I say, and flounce off to the ladies. No fucking way am I doing it in the gents again, those cunts are just fucking animals the way they piss all over the floor. Not that I’ve got any intention of letting him fuck me, of course. I put my hand in my pocket and finger my favourite duster, smiling to myself. This cunt’s in for a surprise.

He’s caught me up and draped an arm around my shoulder. The stink of sweat from his hairy armpits is a bit of a turn on, so I switch my thoughts to what I’ve got planned for him and slide the duster over my knuckles.

I push through the pink door and head straight for one of the cubicles, he’s already unhooking his braces and fumbling with the buttons on his jeans. He follows me into the cubicle and I turn and let him have it, right in the middle of his nose with my dusters. His eyes bulge and he’s staring at me with that ‘what the fuck’ expression on his face that always makes me laugh while the blood gushes down his face.

He raises a fist so I boot him in the bollocks with my steelies and he drops to his knees groaning. Funny as fuck. I bring my knee up and smack him on the underside of his chin, clashing his remaining teeth together. He must’ve got his tongue in the way or something, because when he falls backwards through the cubicle door there’s another spray of blood and I have to dart backwards to avoid it.

“That’s for not buying me a fucking drink, you cheap bastard,” I say, stepping over him. He sort of gurgles, like a baby, and stares up at me with these dopey-looking blue eyes and I start to feel a bit sorry for him. I smile. “Next time I’ll expect a pint of Guinness and a whisky chaser.”

That was how I first met Dave, my bare knuckle manager and live-in fuck-buddy. My name is Abigail Greenwood, known professionally as Stabby Abby, and this is my full and frank confession. Yeah, I did it, okay? And a fuck of a lot else too. So fucking what? We all know the worst that’ll happen is I’ll get a slapped arse from the magistrates and some piddly fucking fine to pay on the drip. So let’s get this over with, yeah?



About Marcus Blakeston

Ex-shouting poet, ex-fanzine writer, ex-angry young man (now growing old disgracefully). Living in sunny Yorkshire with his wife, children and motorcycle, Marcus still has a healthy distrust of all forms of authority.
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