Mr Cleansheets. Adrian Deans

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СКАЧАТЬ to make him laugh, the cunts. Fortunately, the Beast had no sense of fahkin’ humour.

      They were waiting for Vinnie, who was just back from Australia, of all fahkin’ places! Why’d anyone wanna go to fahkin’ Australia, wondered the Beast, irritable with pain and waiting.

      An’ what made it worse, seemed like he was the only one among the top boys who hadn’t known about Vin’s trip Down Under. Seemed like even some of the young lads knew before him! Fahkin’ Finnsy was in the know - young twat ‘d only been in the Fury six months an’ already top boy. Didn’t fahkin’ add up.

      The Beast gritted his teeth as another flash of pain shot through his right side when he tried to take more than just a shallow breath and pump some oxygenated fahkin’ blood around his large body.

      Somethin’ was up. And some cunt was gunna fahkin’ pay.

      * * *

      Vinnie the Shiv strode along the beer-sodden corridor, wishing that someone would play the Darth Vader theme to announce his presence. Just behind him, Barry heard Vin start breathing heavily… horrrrr… horrrrr… and wondered whether he was coming down with something. Bones was fingering his broken nose and wondering whether to get it straightened. There’s good broken nose and bad broken nose - need to get it right, mate.

      This was the first time since they got back to London that Vinnie had fronted all the boys, but now the worst of the bruising had faded, it was time to resume the whip hand. He swept into the main lounge, already thick with the BF youngsters, saw the looks on their faces and knew the swelling hadn’t quite gone down enough.

      Still, there was lots of noise to greet him, and he started to relax and enjoy himself. And there was news - Chelsea were doing well and the boys had caused plenty of mayhem away to Portsmouth, which they filled him in on, pissing him off that ‘e’d missed it, coz he loved beating fuck out of some cunt at the seaside.

      “‘Ow’d yer go in Oz, Vin?” called out Westie, a tall, vicious fucker from Fulham who worshipped the ground Vinnie walked on.

      “All in good time, lads,” grinned Vinnie, as he opened the door to the inner sanctum.

      * * *

      The top boys looked up as Vinnie, Barry and Bones entered the room.

      Besides the Beast, there was Georgie Boy (fat cunt), Finnsy (hard, young up-and-comer) and Maxwell (sick bastard).

      The Beast was shocked to see that Vinnie and his co-travellers were clearly bearing the marks of a thorough slapping, but the others seemed to be au fait already.

      “‘Ow’s the invalids?” asked Georgie Boy, getting a weak grin from Vin.

      What the fahk’s this? wondered the Beast. There’s been some fahkin’ talk behind my back an’ no mistake.

      “What was that?” asked Vinnie sharply, and the Beast realised, to his embarrassment, that he’d spoken his thoughts out loud.

      “Erm … nuffin’ Vin. I was just, like, wonderin’ ‘ow yer got the love bites.”

      Vinnie didn’t like the Beast - a fat cunt just like him, but detestable in the same way that Georgie Boy was a top fella. Useful cunt in a fight ‘owever, and looking closer, Vin could see that the Beast was also tryin’ to hide some recent damage.

      Immediately, he snapped into mad-eyed combat mode - always his forte. He pointed to his bruised face and said, “‘Ow’d I get this? ‘Ow’d you get yours ya fahkin’ nob end?”

      Despite the sudden chill in the room, one of the top boys laughed at the Beast’s discomfit. Fahkin’ Finnsy. Yeah, laugh cunt, thought the Beast. You’ll get fahkin’ yours.

      Rather unwisely perhaps, the Beast was not scared of Vinnie the Shiv, but he decided to back down for the moment. He had no desire to describe the incident at The Rose.

      “Vicissitudes o’ life mate,” said the Beast, in reference to his injuries. Vinnie just stared at him, suspecting a piss-take, and said, “Vicissi-fahkin’ what?”

      The Beast had always known that one day it would come down to a square go - him an’ Vinnie. But with two broken ribs, that day would not be today.

      “Just means I ‘ad a run in wiv some men abaht town, Vin. Won second prize,” he grinned, trying to lighten the mood.

      Vinnie continued to give the Beast the stare. In the old days he just would’ve launched at the cunt - no fahkin’ about - that was the best way to show the boys who was boss. But modern times needed modern methods. And the Beast had his uses.

      Vinnie nodded at Bones, who stood up and dumped a sack of five-and ten-pound notes onto the table: all bundled up in great big blocks, like on The Bill or something.

      “Farrr-kinell!” swore Finnsy. “What’s this?”

      “Wages of sin,” chuckled Vinnie, enjoying the looks on their faces as they stared at the pile and then at him - the provider.

      “Lovely place, Australia,” continued Vin as his senior colleagues licked their lips and glanced sidelong at each other, and him, and the pile. “Beautiful beaches, friendly natives, tasty seafood—”

      “Crap beer,” added Bones.

      “Fahkin’ dreadful beer,” agreed Vinnie with some feeling, “but a land of opportunity nonetheless. We was sent by Herr McNowt to pursue a business opportunity, an’ while we was there we did a little business of our own. There is now a Sydney chapter of the Blue Fury.”

      Barry (who had far too much education for his own good) grinned at the incredulity - the incomprehension. It must’ve been the same way for Darwin, he thought, addressing the Royal Society on the Origin of Species.

      “‘Ow can there be a Sydney chapter?” asked Georgie Boy. “They don’t live in West London. ‘Ow can they follow Chelsea?”

      “‘Ow indeed?” replied Vin. “But they fahkin’ do. An’ jus’ fink abaht it: ‘ow long ‘ave they been importin’ players over ‘ere? Craig Johnston back in the 70s, he’s opened the door an’ now it’s floodgates, mate. If we can have Aussie footballers, why not Aussie football ‘ooligans? Stands ter fahkin’ reason, mate.”

      “An’ we get paid,” said Barry.

      Vinnie flashed him a look, but nodded.

      “We get paid an’ all. Every new chapter we set up, reportin’ in to London, we get another spotter’s fee plus a cut of any business they do. Sky’s the fahkin’ limit.”

      Maxwell voiced the thought in all of their heads: “‘Ow much do we get?” he asked, nodding at the pile.

      Maxwell was a fair bit older than the other top boys. Must be over forty, thought Vinnie, which was considerably older than most of those who fell by the wayside due to the hazards of gaol, death or a matur-ing sense of social responsibility. Maxwell was a survivor, and a man of unspeakable tastes if the rumours were correct.

      Vinnie looked about the room, doing a quick head count. “Two fousand pounds each for all top СКАЧАТЬ