Saturday 31 August 2013

Zeus


Zeus


                                                                                                                   Ireland is death.                                                                                                                 Death is an island.                                                                                                            Hope transmutes all.                                                                                                        Everything is possible.                                                                                                          Nothing is a recluse.                                                                                                            I am a tree.

Friday 30 August 2013


Nick Armbrister is a writer from the North of England. He writes about the grim north and the town where he lives. This dark reality oozes out of his poems from his surreal mind. Death, romance, surreal writing, people and much more are included in Nick’s new poetry book. Similar but different than his previous books which can be bought online at amazon and itunes and also ordered in good book shops.

 

Nick likes writing and has been a published poet/writer since 1996. His work includes poetry, prose, songs and stories of very varied work. Some he reads live at open mic nights and gigs. Other interests include tattoos, aviation, alternative music, reading, films and beer. He spends any book royalties on tattoos and beer.

 

Check Nick Armbrister’s writing out on Facebook, Write Out Loud and other websites.

my varied books...

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/nickarmbrister

Star Children's Dust

Star Children's Dust
It's a wing. A wing from an alien space craft. Almost as old as time. Nothing but a relic now, a ruin. They used to steal people off Earth. Millions of them. Abducting them against their will. None of that matters now. Earth was burnt to a cinder nine billion years ago. Its sun went supernova. More powerful than they thought it would. Earth based science was basic. That wing... the craft... I don't know why or how it got here. Or when. It just did. At the arsehole of the universe. Who knows what happened to its civilization? Nothing is forever. And the stolen people from Earth? Maybe they became star children, aliens, founding new civilizations that are as dead as the rest. That impressive wing and only silence knows...

Spaced Out

Spaced Out
At Jack Ass Flats in the desert strange things happen. Chav Tat Bitch tests his nuclear thermal rocket engines and dreams of trips to Mars. Mule Bitch roams the desert with his malformed cock in his hand. His bell end glows bright green. Tat Bitch is to blame. Meanwhile, the psychotic man with the inverted nipples dreams of murdering his male rivals. In his mind he's killed, raped and ate the bodies of Tat Bitch, the bro' in-law and others a thousand times. Some believe inverted nipples cause his malady. Or is it a missing foreskin? Stolen by aliens. He befriends Tat Bitch's make believe women. Maybe it's sexual. Mule Bitch gets it on with hookers who are really cacti with multiple holes in them. That's our secret, shhh! Don't tell him. Tat Bitch floats frighteningly freely in his nuclear fission thermal rocket engine exhaust. His bolts in his neck glow orange and his nervous twitch increases a hundred fold. Body popping radiation! Soon he'll take the freak with the green bell end and the weirdo with inverted nips to Mars in his small spacecraft to see Gonk. Gonk is small, a soldier and unstable. And loves guns. Space cadet time! Cabin fever will ensue. Sexual events in space.

Tuesday 27 August 2013

Zoo Drop


Zoo Drop


Terracotta robots zapping rodents.

Ongoing Zagreb building projects.

Witches, milk floats and Vauxhall cars in Bill's head.

You got Tonsillitis from licking prostitutes’ rancid pussies.

Towel used for a century; six frayed threads on its length.

Novel bus design; the driver drives from upstairs.

You drink Earl Grey tea, cold.

I so fucking hate slow bastard days dragging till I get my dole for a new tattoo.

Signed on Fri, a 3 day wait till pay day.

It may not be paid right.

Twats!

Nebulous screwdrivers in the sky.

Take me away from the clouds to a desert landscape.

Tattoo my earlobe you minky moo.

Sunday 25 August 2013

NORWAY BATTLE – SCENE 2


NORWAY BATTLE – SCENE 2
“Get three planes in the air!” the on duty fighter controller ordered. “We have a report of English planes coming over the sea, low level. Our destroyer patrol spotted them. Standby for location.”
Three pilots rushed to their waiting fighters, already checked over by the ground crews. After strapping in, doing pre-flight checks, the Messerschmitts started up. Chocks were removed and the black shark-like planes taxied, one after the other, bumping over the uneven ground to the runway. Waiting for the plot of the enemy bombers, they sat there like predatory sharks, ready to pounce. Enemy plot complete, they opened throttles fully. Engine roars built up massively, they roared down the runway and climbed steeply into air.
“Black Shark Leader, we are airborne. Give us an update of the enemy bombers. Over.”
“Aah, Black Shark Leader, contact is now sixteen miles out from the coast and heading north east at two hundred plus miles an hour,” Flight control informed them.  “Height no more than two hundred feet. Estimated raid strength is eight to ten enemy planes, all heavy bombers. Over.”
“Okay flight control, we are turning on to intercept course now, out.”
Black Shark Leader radioed his two wingmen course directions and enemy strength details and commanded the turn. As one, the sleek fighters changed course to the new heading, on course to the enemy and battle. Through the low cloud swept the warplanes, buffeted by slight turbulence, rising up and down as each pilot made slight adjustments with throttle and controls to stay in position. They could have bypassed the weather but the direct route was quicker; distance closed rapidly as the Messerschmitts searched out their prey. Soon battle would commence.
“There, I see them!” the port wingman announced excitedly. “Tommie planes passing Sanoya islands. Can you see them, Flight Lead?”
“Yes, Shark one, I see them. I don’t think they see us. We will climb and circle behind them and attack from the rear. Watch their rear guns. Break away downwards and to the side – don’t show your bellies.”
Switching frequencies, Black Shark leader radioed control and informed them the enemy had been sighted and that soon the attack would begin. Distance fell away, miles meaning nothing to the flight of three dark painted warplanes that sped through the sky like hornets to their nest. Beginning to circle, they throttled back and climbed steeply, in no rush for the kill. Time and planning would bring results. A small bank of clouds, more like a veil of mist, helped hide the 109s as they reached position, ready to dive down from above. “Remember, Black Shark one and two, make every shot count. Take out the rear gunners and then close in for the kill. Don’t show your bellies or you’re dead. Dive after me – here we go! Horrido!” the leader commanded, ending his message with the German word for attack.
Opening his throttle and arcing down to build up speed, the leader was followed closely by his two wingmen, faithful as ever in open formation, not too close but near enough to cover one another in case of danger Рa perfect attack formation. Each pilot armed his weapons; twin nose mounted 7.92 millimetre machine guns with a thousand rounds and two wing-mounted twenty millimetre cannon, one in each wing with sixty rounds of High Explosive shells. Lining up on an enemy each, the battle began, a deadly m̻l̩e as the 109s knifed through the formation, not receiving a single return shot. The Tommie gunners must be asleep! In seconds the small fighters sped past, with surprise gone. Now the Germans could be as deadly as they pleased. Already one Englishman had been badly hit, for an engine burst into flame and black smoke coiled behind the Halifax like a ravenous snake. Slowly the hit plane dropped back, a quarter of its power gone with the dead engine. Two other bombers had been hit, with dead rear gunners; not a single bullet had been fired back. Turning again, the Messerschmitts attacked at full speed. This time the crippled plane was hit in the fuel tanks, fuel vapour streaming away like a fog. This ignited silently in the flames of the burning engine, a fiery beacon of death for the seven men onboard. No one bailed out as the Halifax hit the cold ocean at a shallow angle, out of control, in a shower of spray. In seconds the fire was out and the bomber sank beneath the waves, forever.
Now return fire shot out, tracers lazily chased the enemy fighters, missing. Breaking away and slightly downwards to cover their bellies as ordered, the fighters climbed and came round to attack again. Slowly but surely the damage was being done, men were killed and wounded on each pass in the lumbering bombers, originally nine strong. At four hundred miles an hour, the 109s hit again, blowing a bomber up like a huge hand grenade, fuel tanks perforated by cannon shells. Bits of blazing metal and structure fell to the sea and the blast wave buffeted nearby bombers. Two more had smoking engines which had to be shut down; these fell back as the first one had done, speed barely two hundred miles an hour. This time it wasn’t all one way: Black Shark one was hit in his elevator. Without this important control working properly the fighter drunkenly danced around the sky, out of the battle and out to sea. Jettisoning his canopy, the pilot jumped out and opened his parachute. Too late! He hit the sea at high speed with a partially opened ’chute, for he jumped too low.
Unconscious, he soon drowned in the cold sea, the Nazi’s first loss. The doomed fighter flew several more miles out of sight and splashed down in shallow water further down the coast, breaking into three pieces. Desperate radio calls from Black Shark Leader received no answer. Angry at their loss, the leader and his number two scythed down, this time head on, firing at close range into the cockpit area to kill the pilot and front gun position. This was dangerous and had to be done right, a single mistake would be deadly. British tracers shot out from the single nose gun and four upper turret guns, crossing German gunfire which sparked and exploded on the bigger targets. One Halifax swerved to starboard, the pilot having lost his head to a cannon shell, a dead hand on the controls. His wingman saw this too late! He attempted to turn but stood no chance, with a massive bang! Both bombers collided and blew to pieces; nothing remained but smoke, broken metal and bits of falling bodies.
Now with cannon ammunition exhausted and only enough machine gun ammo left for one more attack, the Messerschmitts turned and came back again for the last time. English return fire hammered back from every remaining gun position, a fight to the death which had cost three bombers and a fighter, every man dead. Black Shark Leader came in from behind, engine throttled back to give his short range machine guns time to do damage. Picking the last Halifax in line, with a dead tail gunner, he came in firing at the last moment; he raked the left wing and both port engines. Many of his small calibre bullets whined off into space due to the shallow impact angle. Kicking in right rudder, he aimed expertly at the top turret gunner who fired back with determination and skill. Several bullets hit the 109’s wing causing little holes and a dent. The pilot grimaced and got on with the job as more bullets flashed past his canopy – soon he would be killed if the gunner got any closer! A last chance to get the gunner before he got hit. With a quick burst of fifty rounds he did it, shattering the Perspex bubble of the gun position which fell away like silver rain, shooting away one of the rifle calibre Browning machine gun barrels and riddling the brave gunner with six rounds.
No more gunfire, wind howled through broken plastic and blood flowed down the fuselage in the airflow-red rain. Almost leisurely, Black Shark Leader throttled back, falling into formation with the crippled Halifax, no more than ten feet away from the big fat fuselage. Glancing at his Air Speed Indicator, he saw the speed read one hundred and eighty miles an hour, dangerously slow for this kind of flying. Yet he was a master, of himself, of his fighter and of battle. No problem. Holding formation he glanced to port, above and to starboard. A surreal scene greeted him; two smoking Halifax bombers flew very low over the sea, parallel to the coast, as if the closeness would save them. Unable to gain height, they would never reach home, crippled with shut down engines, shell and bullet holes spoke of terrible damage. He shuddered at the carnage on board, ravaged by his Flight’s fighters. He wondered where his number two was, or the other bombers? When he had killed this plane, he would radio his wingman. Carefully dropping back to fifty yards distance, he aimed at the port wing again, between the engines where the fuel tanks lay, through the smoke and damage. Squinting through his illuminated Revi 4 reflector gun sight, he fired. His machine guns sounded in an angry staccato of noise for four seconds until his ammo was exhausted. He stared in amazement as his fire danced around the target area, holes opening up, appearing as if Goddess Freya herself was spearing the thin skin of the wing. Yet he was doing it, with the power of a God, in the best fighter plane in the world, the Messerschmitt BF-109E.  Jagged metal stuck up in the slipstream like broken fingers, an access panel broke loose and sailed past him. Then it happened, finally happened. The big bomber was dying, not just crippled. A thin streamer of fuel vapour streamed forth. It caught on some hidden spark within the wing, a severed electrical lead? A bright spark and flash did the work and flames hungrily spread along the wing, reaching back forty feet past the bombers tail, almost to his 109 fighter. For seconds, mesmerized by the doomed bomber, he watched, in awe and horror at his work. Gently edging his plane into a sideslip, Black Shark Lead banked out of the way of the flames from the bomber, to avoid the final explosion when it came. He turned and left the burning Halifax to her fate and radioed for Black Shark 2. No reply came. Then to base: “Black Shark Leader to base, believe Black Shark two is lost, repeat lost. I saw Black Shark one shot down. He baled out but was too low, over.”
“Base to Black Shark Leader. We have been monitoring your channel and haven’t heard from him. We will launch the Heinkel floatplane now to see if we can find him, over.”
“Okay base. I’m returning now, fuel is low and ammo is out. Just minor damage to myself, over.”
Flicking his black painted Messerschmitt onto the port wingtip, he dived to the low-lying coastline and back to base. At fifty feet he roared along, enjoying the exhilaration of low-level flight, the thrill of victory, of knowing he was the best but mixed with the disappointment of losing two wingmen. Yes, this had been a tough fight: next time he would order another three fighters into the air to confront an enemy nine-bomber fleet. It had been sheer lunacy to take such numbers on with so few planes. Yes, he had learned something in this battle, definitely. He wondered what if a full squadron went up, twelve planes. How would his losses compare then? Angry at his own doubts, he smiled a savage smile for the loss of two men and fighters; nevertheless, they had destroyed half a squadron of the hated English bastards and kept the secret safe, guarded the Nazi secret project that could win the war. Yes, this was a hard victory but worth it! He never had once doubted his wingmen in their ability or questioned their will to sacrifice themselves. In this they had done their best – they had pledged their lives to him, to the squadron, their Fatherland, and both died heroes. In five minutes he would land alone at the fighter strip at Kristiansand; no time for victory roles – his fuel was critical.
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The Royal Air Force had been taught a crippling lesson that day, one they would not forgot, just like Heligoland Bite several years ago. No RAF bomber could survive very long against good German defences, anywhere, in daylight. Of nine Halifaxes, six had been destroyed and three badly damaged, which had dead and wounded onboard. Only one bomber made it back to base with dead and injured crew; two ditched off the English coast. Of fourteen men crews, just four men lived, rescued by a small fishing boat and a Royal Navy motor launch. Black Shark 2 killed the sixth Halifax before being shot down and killed himself. Both warplanes fell into the sea, a hundred yards apart, comrades in death, both missing in action by their respective air forces. It was clear that another plan had to be devised by the brave but foolish RAF, if they wanted a glimpse of the Nazi secret weapon facility at the end of the fjord. A single bomber had failed before, nine had just been mauled and not one had crossed the Norwegian coast. What could do it? And if they could glimpse it, work out the secret, how would they destroy it? How many airplanes and men would that cost?

Friday 23 August 2013

Shoki: The Story of Sensei Pete Ratcliff by nick armbrister


 
Shoki: The Story of Sensei Pete Ratcliff by nick armbrister
 
Interview 21/02/2013. Sensei Derek also contributed.

Nick: How can you use karate against someone with a gun? What would you do?

Sensei Pete: It depends on the situation. If you’re inexperienced…

Nick: If you were trained…

Sensei Pete: It’s a very very difficult one. Even if you’re trained.

Sensei Derek: That’s not a straight forward question.

Sensei Pete: It would be very very difficult. In training I can train someone to disarm a gun but in reality you’re nerves could go.

Nick: That’s like fear.

Sensei Pete: The best way really is try to talk the gunman out of it. Like you talk your way out of a fight. That’s the best way. There is a good way of disarming a revolver, handgun.

Nick: Can you please talk through that technique?

Sensei Pete: You can talk through the technique on the thing it would have to be shown on video.

Nick: Right yeah.

Sensei Derek: It’s kind of a relaxed, you’ve got to be more relaxed. If someone had a gun on me I’d be like, ‘Whoa whoa yes okay okay okay okay,’ Boomph! Distract them. ‘I’ll do anything…’ Boomph! And break his f***ing neck. Very nastily but as Sensei Pete was saying the gun has to be pointing away from you before you take that and then I wouldn’t be striking to give you a little slap.

Nick: Of course yes.

Sensei Derek: You’re going to destroy him.

Nick: No coz he could have killed you.

Sensei Derek: You’re going to destroy him.

Nick: Definitely.

Sensei Derek: That’s the only answer to that.

Sensei Pete: It’s an awkward question.

Nick: It is yes. So do you teach self defence skills against revolvers? You said yes.

Sensei Pete: Yes, teach knife and weapons defence.

Nick: I’d be interested to see that and learn and see that because I can put that in the book.

Sensei Pete: I’ll bring my revolver in.

Thursday 22 August 2013

link to my new karate book

http://www.lulu.com/shop/nick-armbrister/shoki-the-story-of-sensei-pete-ratcliff/paperback/product-21170783.html

Data


Data


What will happen to us all tomorrow? Now there are so many topics that are illegal and against the law. Things like racism, ageism, bullying and a thousand other things ending in ing and ism. But what about people being spied on by America? Even their friends and allies. Isn't that bad and illegal? Like social stereotyping by law enforcement using stop and search tactics on one racial group? How did we get into this position of spy agencies siphoning up all our data? Phone calls and records, emails and photo attachments. What next? We're all on CCTV. Next they'll want to know how much crap role we use.

Wednesday 21 August 2013

GANGSTA BOYZ


GANGSTA BOYZ

These lads were something special in their own right, a group of real hard crims who didn’t give a fuck on who they fucked over, stole from, set up, beat up, put contracts on, sold bad drugs to, put a gun to or shot dead for the pure fun of it. They had done most things and if they hadn’t done it you could bet your left testicle they’d be doing it soon. They lived in the town of Renford near the border with Scotland; they wanted to get contacts from over the border to import weapons in exchange for exporting drugs. This was a new sideline from the regular protection rackets, dealing low-level drugs like weed, ketamine and Charlie to those left alive who would be classed as druggies. That never stopped because of the many wars and disturbances that had happened over the last few decades, no way. Every man and his sister took something or other to take the edge of the bitter reality that was now real life; criminals took every chance to take advantage of that. They were the best there was, an unhealthy compliment to the real deal, fuck with these and the old cliché would tear you to bits after they had.

They were: Gant, Andrew, Gerald and Joyce, four boys in their early to mid 20s each with a speciality and all multi skilled so they could change roles when they had to, helping the others out. Gant and Andrew had done bird in the hellhole that was the English army prison garrison at Kendal over the years. Gant was inside when Andrew escaped by silently climbing the fifty-foot wall of white greased concrete, even today he kept it secret how he had done it. No ladder, rope or other climbing apparatus was used; this guy was like bloody Spiderman and climbed like a monkey. After escaping he went to his contacts and returned with a hundred year old Conqueror tank and blew the front gate in with three 125mm high explosive shells, then slowly advanced through the wreckage at 5mph. Return fire from the English army’s small arms and light grenade launchers bounced off the tank like ping pong balls. Onwards they went, criminal gangster boys busting ass getting their lad outa the slammer! Andrew drove the tank while his other crim buddies Gerald manned the main gun with Josh on the hull machine gun, a team that needed a 4th man to load the big heavy shells into the massive main gun in the turret. Soon he would be here, when they busted Gant from the inside of this overfilled jail run by the English army who still maintained a small grip on isolated parts of England. Bitter fighting had killed most of the soldiers, destroyed their bases and wrecked their equipment. They were a mere shadow of their former selves but still dangerous in their local areas.

Into the main yard the tank drove slowly squashing the bodies of English army soldiers who were thick enough to get in the behemoth’s way; pulped flesh greased the tracks briefly aiding fuel economy to the heavy-duty diesel engine. Blood ran into the gutters making the Devil smile from upon high, more souls for his purgatory spreading his dark influence onto the land. From the barred glassless windows a cheer went up as the jailbirds inside heard the explosions and gunfire and revving tank engine, their boring existence had been broken by an event. Prison guards ran onto the yard firing machine carbines and machine pistols from the hip on full fucking auto, empty shell cases rattled onto the concrete and slugs whined from the ten-inch armour of the heavy Conqueror tank.

Andrew stopped the tank facing one group allowing Joyce to cut them down with 7.62mm gunfire in short well aimed bursts that bowled them over like nine pins. The other group of guards fired directly from behind the tank when their colleagues were cut down, Gerald slowly turned the heavy turret 180 degrees. He aimed at the group of ten men with the co-axial machine gun and fired one long burst of a hundred rounds, cutting them down and silencing their puny fire, permanently. Andrew slowly drove to the doorway leading into the prison as the turret rotated to face forward – one single high explosive shell made short work of the two inch toughened steel door. The smoke and debris cleared, Joyce and Andrew dismounted their positions and left the tank taking large .45 calibre pistols with them and plenty of ammo clips. Gerald stayed in the turret on the guns, controlling the area so the army wouldn’t interfere with the operation.

Together with pistols in hand, eyes darting through the thinning smoke and broken door, they entered running like deranged madmen. Three English army guards tried to stop them, one tried to physically bar their way and the other two attempted to raise machine pistols – Andrew and Joyce shot all of them in the face using full clips of ammo, reloading and advancing. A long corridor lead ahead into the maze of passageways and cells, they knew the way where Gant was from a geo locator he had implanted in his left molar tooth. It was decided to cause major chaos and release the rest of the inmates, if possible. For this both carried small magnetic detonators to blow the locks of the cells. Coming up to the first cells they put the plan into practise – Andrew placed a single mag det on each door lock with a 30 second delay to allow time to get clear. Cells were on either side of the corridor so Andrew zigzagged up the corridor with Joyce covering him. When the end of the corridor came up and branched off to the right and left, they too branched left, swapping roles as the dets went off in short sharp cracks smashing the locks. Slowly each door was pushed open and cautious heads peered out. All they saw were smoke and the flash of popping dets blowing the doors, the assailants were out of sight.

A single guard came out of an unmarked wooden door with a revolver, he shot the full seven bullets at the duo but upper body armour saved their lives, only Andrew was hit in the upper right arm. He immediately returned fire, killing the officer with two shots to the head. His brains and shattered skull fragments sprayed over the wall and the floor before he collapsed, dead. Small explosions from the detonators added to the confusion. Andrew retorted, “Fuck, that guy winged me! My arm is numb, I can’t feel it.”

“You’ll be okay. Let’s finish this job. We’ll patch you up at the tank,” Joyce commented.

“Yea, we gotta get the man out, it’s why we are here,” Andrew groaned.

“Let’s go, cover me as I finish putting dets onto the cells,” his fellow crim said.

Now prisoners congregated in the corridor, Joyce saw this and ordered: “Get outside now! While you have chance. Go, now!” Firing a single round into the ceiling galvanised them into action and twenty jailbirds ran away down the corridor and to freedom.

Going to the next passageway and up to the next level, deeper into the complex increased the risk. Surprise would be wearing off and the guards would counter attack, they had to be fast. Andrew covered Joyce and they went on as before, Joyce placing the detonators. When this lot of cells was done, they went up a stairway guarded by two guards. Andrew shot them both using a full magazine, he had trouble reloading due to his wound, Joyce offered him his gun and he took it, passing the empty weapon to his friend who speedily reloaded it. Small cracks echoed up the stairs while they slowly climbed up, pointing their weapons in their line of sight; a single guard could cut them down here. Coming to the top they came under fire from two guards thirty yards down the corridor. Joyce reached into his pocket and withdrew a single egg sized hand grenade. He pulled the pin with his teeth and threw it down the corridor where it bounced and clattered, landing near the guards, who emptied their entire magazines on full auto before their fate was sealed. Bullets ricocheted from the walls and floor harmlessly before the grenade went off in a huge bang! Screams were cut short and acrid smoke wafted along the ceiling. Both gunmen ran down the corridor, ignoring the cells – speed was off the essence and they were out of dets, except one. This was for Gant’s cell. Pleading eyes looked out from behind locked doors, through small grilled vents and both avoided eye contact. Coming up to the cell where their mate was, Andrew got their remaining det ready and placed it on the lock, then both ran down the corridor and crouched, waiting for the thing to go off. Crack! The lock was blown; running to the cell with guns at the ready, Joyce and Andrew swung the damaged door open and entered.

“Hey guys, what took you?” Gant casually asked, grinning like a cat.

“Good to see you too mate!” Andrew shouted, not in malice.

“How has the hotel treated you then Gant?” Joyce asked, passing Gant a pistol and two mags of bullets.

“I’ve been running the place.” Gant sat up off the bed and made for the door, glancing at Andrew to say, “I see you’ve been hit. Does it hurt?”

“Yea, I stopped a slug. What the fuck do you think? No actually it doesn’t…” he retorted.

“C’mon you pair of fairies get a move on; we gotta get back to the tank!” Joyce complained.

“Fuckin’ hell! You busted me out in a tank? Well I’ll buy you a beer when we get back to town, fuck yea!” Gant laughed.

Into the corridor they ran guns at the ready and back to the tank. Groups of prisoners not yet outside joined them as if safety in numbers was the way to do it. The trio shouted for everyone to get the fuck out, guards chased them down the passageways. Pistol fire and grenades soon stopped them, buying the group time to get outside. There they joined the battle they could hear, for full scale chaos ensured. Released prisoners had broken into one of the small arms stores and were attacking the remaining guards in revenge for beatings, harsh treatment and for being fed crap food. The Conqueror tank fired short bursts from the co-axial machine gun in the turret at guards hiding behind a small prison van; this slowly burned forcing the sheltering guards into the open. Here the prisoners with guns had their vengeance, cutting the men down where they stood, who even in imminent death fought back. Several crims fell down dead or injured. Climbing under the huge tank the small group opened the under hull entry hatch after some struggle. Andrew complained in the cramped space under the tank, due to his injured arm. This caused him a lot of pain and discomfort. Joyce entered first so he could hall Andrew up into the vehicle, so Gant could push their wounded pal up and then enter himself. Then the hatch was shut and locked so no one could follow them.

“Hey, Gant how the hell are you?” Gerald shouted, machine-gunning two soldiers who fired back with machine pistols.

“Yea man, I’m good. The hotel was cool. I ended up running the place. I’ll tell you about it sometime,” Gant chortled.

“I can’t drive due to my arm. Joyce you’ll have to do it, I’ll take over your gun,” Andrew painfully said, as they got ready to leave. Joyce got behind the driving position. He said, “Andrew let Gant man the hull machine gun, he never shot a guard with his pistol, he can loose a few rounds off now. You need to rest, when we get clear we’ll patch you up. Think you can wait?”

“Yea do that, Gant can use the gun, I’ll be okay. I’ve been hurt worse than this before,” Andrew replied as he settled down behind the driver’s seat.

“I don’t mind manning the pop gun guys!” Gant agreed, fingering the weapon and firing random shots at fleeing soldiers. He smiled grimly, how he’d missed live weapons.

In a roar Joyce started up the monstrous 850 horsepower diesel engine and engaged gear with the stiff clutch, he pulled both driving handles towards him and slowly reversed the tank. Stopping parallel to the main gate, he turned on one track and slowly drove down the main entry road, soldiers ran for their lives as the heavy dark green tank increased speed. Bullets whizzed and whined from the outer hull in a futile gesture to stop their escape, of course, it failed. In the tank Gerald put some heavy metal music onto the tank’s tape player, a 70-year-old thing that still worked. The music was closer to 50 year old but still sounded cool, he maxed the volume as they left the prison complex. Screams and shouts of joy filled the tank, they had done it!

Stopping some miles from the prison Gant patched up Andrew’s arm with a field dressing then gave him some morphine for the pain and discomfort. Settling back, Andrew relaxed best he could. Starting back on their journey, they headed back to Renford at thirty mph, the tanks full speed and to a party that would last for a week…

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the bar called The Slug the party began in earnest. Recently made beer stocked the bar, lined up in rows of 20 with strengths ranging from 5 to 15 percent, there was nothing on the draft pumps but barrels provided wicked non-gassy brews of equal potency. Draft beer hadn’t been in use for over 30 years. All this beer and ale was brewed locally in the centre/outskirts of Renford in breweries that were guarded by freedom fighters, war vets and criminals. The group who just bust Gant out of jail owned a medium size brewery and controlled who worked there, where the ale was sent and several other shady semi legal ventures in the beer trade.

Due to the amount of firepower in and around Renford, the English army stayed away, so did the Scottish paramilitaries, Scottish army and other rogues. Those who were brave enough to cross the border at night or in bad weather were in for a shock, due to prepared defences and staunch fighters who took no shit. Some low level trade occurred now and again with the Scots when something was urgently needed, that wasn’t available locally but things would never be on the scale of before the wars. Too much death and paranoia blanketed the land, people had long memories, a father’s death became his son’s revenge when he was able to plan an op and carry a gun.

Four beers were already on the bar when the group got there, they parked the tank on rough ground in the centre of town at the demolished site of the old council offices. Gant, Andrew, Gerald and Joyce all sauntered into the bar; people respected them because they were someone, could produce the goods and handle themselves. They took the beers and headed for a table with no words being said, they supplied the ale and ran the pub; or rather people did it for them so they could plan other projects to bring in currency. Currency wasn’t money or cash in the real sense but a substitute that was often called cash, for example a crate of beer traded for a pair of good condition antique combat boots. This was a regular thing, a prosperous trading economy continued to grow in the Renford area, a slave couldn’t be bought but people’s services could be exchanged for goods, for a set amount of time.

The table where they sat occupied the middle of the pub, everyone who came into the bar saw the boys, knew who they were and what they stood for. Gant was the leader of the group. He was 20 years old and built like a tank, with huge upper body area that included the physique of a boxer, a skill he practised on old copper water tanks or on people who he didn’t like. He was infamous for giving his opponents the first punch and taking it like a man, not one man had knocked him down yet though many had tried. With a buzz cut of dark brown hair that he clipped with snippers every 3rd day to keep his thuggish look, evil brown eyes that focused on his target like laser beams and the reflexes of a hawk, Gant was no1 kick ass guy in Renford. Andrew was skinny by comparison to his friend; he had the quick devious criminal mind to think up schemes and plans to carry out. Gant was the brawn to back him up in a tight situation. Mousy brown hair, grey eyes that showed no emotion and a funny walk made Andrew someone to be noticed. Gerald was from Wales, unlike the other two. He had been taken prisoner after ambushing an English army truck convoy several years ago and while in the clink, he met Gant. Realising they could trust one another inside, both became good friends. Gerald had good weapons training and was key to many of the group’s plans. His brown eyes and red hair were noticeable and he had many contracts on him, especially by the army. Gant backed him up and Joyce gave intelligence on known plots, like who wanted any of them dead, whom had taken contracts on them and more, before these could be carried out. How he did this he kept secret but he was good at it and right time and again. If he was cornered he relied on a wicked 12inch blade with a serrated edge. Almost as big as Gant but not as quick with his hands and less skilled in fighting, his mind was his best asset, for he was the oldest of the group at 25 with grey hair and green eyes making him stand out. Like the other three, had had done bird, been inside at the army jail and in two other less secure jails run by traitorous war vets who had turned and cast their lot in with the army. Andrew had been in a jail run by the West Indian Brigade when he had gone down to Norwich to assassinate one of them who sold him bad drugs. He drove a hot stolen English army vehicle down from Renford on his own, blagged it through road blocks and hell knew what. He confronted the Brig member, saying the Purple Green amphetamine was cut with glucose, the Brig denied this. A bullet in the left knee brought him round. Andrew would have left it at that but the Brig started a fight! After being tapped in the knee, he had to be silenced in true gangster style, three shots in the face. Andrew robbed the corpse and was driving back north when 20 Brigs captured him. He killed fifteen of them, two with his bare hands, before they overwhelmed him and took him to the Brigade jail where people who were a threat to the Brig cause were locked up indefinitely. Andrew was inside for two months, where he played the humble white honkey observing the Brigs methods of operations, listening to their plans and a dozen other interesting things that could be used against them when his mates got him out. Gant sprung him after getting captured himself after a dodgy operation went wrong; he killed nine Brig members with his bare hands and fifty-two with their own guns. He freed his friend and every single other inmate, many of these came back north to settle in Renford and to participate in criminal activities. In the time since, fifty percent had been killed but it was better than being eight to a cell under the guard of black men high on drugs, armed with big knives and guns. That group now ceased to exist.

Gerald had been in the main English army jail for stealing jewels used in laser weapons from an English army lab, he wanted to sell the high value gems for high-class weapons, drugs, vehicles and clothing that would be used in future criminal activities. His plan went ahead successfully, infiltrating the English army to get his hands on the jewels. It went wrong after someone recognised him, though he had dyed black hair and green contact lenses, spending his 2nd time inside. Andrew stole an old Conqueror tank and busted Gerald out of jail, much like the recent operation freeing Gant. Joyce enjoyed these types of operations due to the payback on the military. He had enjoyed 6 months of their hospitality when he was a teenager for various low level crimes but not on the murderous level that Gant was known for. His last spell inside was for killing a soldier with just one hand, he was due for execution the very next day of his escape.

Beers were now empty, four more miraculously appeared from out of nowhere, in unison the group lifted them and drained half of the contents in one go of the 15% strong brew. More were ready for when these were gone.

“You did well springing me outa jail today lads. I was due for termination tomorrow. Thanks guys!” Gant said with conviction in his voice.

“It was the least we could do. You did the same for me when the Brigs got me. Anytime man,” Gerald commented.

“To us and continued criminality!” Joyce shouted, raising his bottle. The rest followed.

“To the death of the English army and our rival gangs!” Andrew announced. On and on the drinking went, empty bottles filled the table and more full ones were brought. Later pair of snipping clippers was used to clip Gant’s crew cut back to its normal length of almost bald, he couldn’t be allowed to look like a hippy from his time inside! Andrew, Joyce and Gerald each drunkenly cut a bit of his hair, doing a good job considering the amount of ale that was being consumed. Further bottles came to grace the crims bellies like the ones before.

More rogues and toughs filled the bar when word spread that Gant was sprung from the English army jail, in ones and twos they came over and shook first his hand and then those of his colleagues. The command structure of the underworld was back in place, whispered words confirmed the other men’s allegiance and loyalty to Gant and his boys.

Only one word of disrespect was spoken – this ended the joyous celebration of the release. A man called Vargg from Finland walked into the bar, to head straight for the table in the middle of the room. He opened his jacket and withdrew a large Magnum 44 pistol with a nine inch barrel. He screamed in rage aiming the gun at Gant, simultaneously a dozen pistols and a four or more rifles and machine guns were aimed at the ragged looking man. Safety catches clicked off and time moved in slow motion. Gant threw his half empty beer bottle at the tall Finn and sprung from his chair, upending it. With a speed of a leopard and the tact of a fox, Gant saw his bottle glance from the other man’s arm momentarily startling him. Vargg fired a single shot that sped over Gant and hit a mirror above the bar, shattering it. The old speckled mirror advertising John Smith’s beer was no more. Gant was on Vargg, immediately slamming a straight left, followed up by a double right, into the gunman’s head sending him staggering back four paces, more punches followed reducing his face to a bloody mess, a snap filled the bar when his nose broke. A snap kick into Vargg’s stomach doubled the attacker up; raising his left knee Gant held onto Vargg’s dirty hair and slammed his head down fracturing his cheek bone. Six more punches followed as the Finn stood holding his gun, he tried to swing it round onto Gant but Gant was right on top of him, in front of him almost in an embrace. He looked into slightly lesser evil eyes and smiled; speaking in Finnish he whispered words of death to the other man, an understanding passed between the two and Gant thrust a small three inch blade knife into Vargg’s stomach and whipped it across, up and down. Vargg staggered back, dropping the Magnum and bringing up his hands to cover the fatal wound. Gant stepped back waiting for Vargg’s counterattack. A Finnish right hook missed, a side kick caught Gant on the right thigh sending him back a step but spilling half of Vargg’s  intestines onto the floor from his sliced open stomach, blood, guts, food and shit splashed onto the floor. Several tough men were physically sick as this horrendous sight. Vargg slowly collapsed to the floor. Gant circled him never taking his eyes off the dying man, picked up the Magnum and aimed it at Vargg. Gant kicked the Finn in the head and shouted: “Don’t ever do this again you fucking idiot, I’m the fuckin’ daddy round here! You got that?”

“Fuck you, you stinking dog!” Vargg said in broken English.

“Say sorry you son of a bitch! Or I’ll kill you right now, you got it? Have you?”

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry, I’m ever so sorry…” Vargg stammered in hideous pain.

“Hey lads do you hear that? He apologised, I kicked his arse, I won!” the victor shouted, eyes wide with joy and bloodlust. Gant always won.

“Kill him! End his bloody life!” a fellow thug from near the bar shouted.

“Do it now, go on Gant. Blow him away!”

“I wanna see you wipe him out!”

“Use his own gun on him, fuck him up!” the shouts went on and on, ending with: Bang! Bang! Bang! Three shots to the head blew it from the Finn’s shoulders, leaving a bloody stump jetting blood onto the sawdust filled floor. Gant bellowed in happiness turning red, jumping up and down on the spot, “Yea! Yeah! I’m the daddy, I’m the daddy! I killed the tosser, I won! Fuckin’ A man!”

Gant returned to the table, picking up a new bottle of beer and drinking the contents in one, he threw the empty bottle at the steaming corpse and picked up a new bottle, taking half of it back. He shouted to the scantily clad barmaid behind the bar, “Hey Tracy catch! Put Vargg’s gun on the wall in place of the broken mirror, it deserves pride of place in our pub.”

She caught the weapon and replied, “Will do boss! Good kill! I’ll bring some more beer over for you and the boys.”

“Good lass Trace!” Gant thanked her.

“No problem. You want the mess cleaning up?”

“Yea please lass.”

“Right then. Hey, I want two volunteers to clean this crap up. And I mean now!” Tracy bellowed. Ten men leapt to the chore, falling over one another to gain favour with the bargirl. She picked two men at random to move the body and clean up the detritus of battle.

The bar calmed down after the assassin was thwarted. Gant told his mates why the Finn had tried to kill him. It was a row over his sister, who Gant relieved of her virginity and impregnated with his sperm, soiling the girl with foreign blood bringing disgrace to her family and kin. This was when Gant was abroad on an intelligence mission, stealing plans on new powderless machine pistols that fired ten thousand rounds a minute. This part of the mission was successful. The Finn tracked him back but failed in his plot to kill Gant, giving Gant more power, respect and credibility amongst the thugs in his bar, a good thing in anyone’s eyes. Had Gant expected trouble or did he think his actions would go unpunished, due to who he was and what he stood for? One further enemy was eliminated; more plans could be made on illegal schemes, protection rackets, drug sales and a dozen other shady acts.

Blood started oozing out of Andrew’s wound dripping onto the floor; he looked down and swore, slowly moving his damaged arm. The morphine had worn off causing some discomfort, not even twelve bottles of 15% beer dulled the pain and it was time for the operation. Gant spoke, “Andrew it’s time for the op, we need to get that idiot’s bullet out of your arm. Hey, Tracy come and help us, get Tanya to take over serving the beer!”

“Okay boss, I’ll go and get Tanya from the back. I’ll bring up what we need for Andrew,” Tracy said, serving a drunken skinhead a bottle of beer. She disappeared into the back room, returning five minutes with Tanya who took over the bar. Walking over to the table, Tracy placed a large tray gently down with sealed packages on it containing knives, scalpels, wipes, swabs, antiseptic, anaesthetic and other things. She took two rubber gloves from the tray and opened the packet putting them on. “Okay lads bend over! Cavity search time!” she joked. Drunken laughter echoed across the bar.

“I need Andrew sat by the large table over there,” she indicated to her left to a massive oak table, “so I can have a look and take the bullet out and repair the wound.”

“Okay Tracy, no problem,” Gant replied. To Andrew he said, “Okay mate doctors and nurses time. I need you over by the table over there to get that shot out of your arm.”

“I’ll go there now. I want it fixing, it hurts like fuck now!” Andrew painfully replied, slowly getting up to move. Tracy held his good arm, guiding him to a nice comfy leather armchair by the large table. She sat her patient down and returned for the tray. Tracy slowly cut away the bloody bandage to look at the wound, removing the bandage to see more clearly – a single bullet wound at the front of his upper right arm, nice and round but heavily clotted with dried blood. New blood ran past this. There was no entry wound so the bullet was still in there; she had to remove it and check the bone. Gently she injected two morphine syringes to kill the pain and lessen the discomfort to Andrew, waiting five minutes for it to take hold, during this time talking to him to reassure him that everything was okay. He had to be calm for this, the alcohol in his system actually helped calm him and relax his body but she had to be quick. Removing a scalpel from a sealed packet, she cut away the skin around the hole to look into Andrew’s arm peering into the bullet path, at torn muscle and burnt flesh from the heat of the round. She looked for a few minutes, gauging the wound and then she located the 9mm bullet lodged by the bone, luckily it hadn’t broken or shattered the bone making her job easier. First she sterilised the wound with strong antiseptic solution. Then got a pair of sterilised small forceps and reached into the wound, holding them with one hand while holding gauze with the other to stop the slow but steady blood loss. Gently she grasped the bullet and removed it from the injury, ever so slowly until it was free. With a plonk she dropped it into a kidney shaped metal tray, holding gauze over the wound she announced: “Hey lads! I got the bullet, I got it! Andrew will be okay, the bone isn’t damaged. I have to stitch up the wound now.”

“Well done girl, you did well,” Gerald drunkenly rejoiced. The other lads smiled and murmured amongst themselves, this was still a dodgy time, anything could go wrong still.

Tracy worked methodically stitching up torn muscle, tissue, skin and a delicate vein that took twenty minutes and wouldn’t stop bleeding, causing her some private concern. Finally she did it, placing the last bloody bit of gauze into a disposable bag. She wiped the wound clean with antiseptic sterilising it to lessen the chances of infection, followed by dressing the wound in a light bandage and a sling to keep it immobile. She finished just in time because Andrew needed to take a piss. In this she assisted as he was still drunk and only had one working hand, she took pride in her own work and at the size of his penis, remembering how many times she had enjoyed it. There were no secrets here in The Slug bar; everyone was family helping and supporting one another. Returning to the bar from the urinals, Tracy slowly led Andrew over to his three friends. “He needs to rest now; I’d advise not travelling back to his place in his state. He can use the spare room out back. The wound will be sore and he needs to rest till his strength returns and his wound heals, plus you all need to look after him. No more mad exploits for a bit,” Tracy said.

“Okay we agree with that,” Gant replied. With that the night wound down, the gangster boys went their own ways and the bar closed. Another good day of business at The Slug, Renford’s premier hoodlums bar.

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Other gangs of boys formed groups in Renford: for safety in numbers, for support in the many crises that dogged the town from one day to the next, to working with rival gangs, fighting them and running a hundred and one illegal rackets. Protection was one of the biggest earners with individuals, businesses and other organisations paying to be “looked after”, what this resulted in was peace of mind. Those who didn’t pay were warned by smart well groomed men in suits, if that didn’t work, a brick through the window led to the premises being fire bombed, machine gunned or blown up. Individual’s received a similar visit, if this failed then they were knee capped or had their legs broken by masked men who couldn’t be traced, like they never existed and the injured party just slipped on the soap in the shower. Gant ran the largest racket. He didn’t collect the payment; this was delegated to lesser characters than himself working their way up the gangster chain of command. The attacks on premises were carried out by keen young angry thugs, as were assaults on individuals. When it went wrong Gant or one of his boys had to discreetly sort it out. This often involved the actual attacker being taught a lesson to give him one more chance or simply him/her disappearing (it was an equal opportunities job).

Most of the people who lived in Renford were local or displaced citizens, like Gerald who after getting out of jail stayed with Gant and co. If he went back to independent Wales he would be put to death brutally, for aiding the English gangs as an example to anyone else who wanted to live the gangster life style hand in hand with the enemy. A feudal society spread all over the mainland of England, Scotland and Wales, a land like the Middle Ages with death, disease and lots of deadly radiation poison blanketing the land. Guns and ammunition were in plentiful supply, as were vicious wicked people with a death wish and the will to use weapons. Several generations had fighting experience, whole families that survived thrived on decades of fighting, killing, violence and gangster style behaviour. Of this, Gant’s family was an example, his mother was a weapons dealer with contacts ranging into the Irish Republic to Libya to the Continent (excluding France which was destroyed). She armed her son with the latest and deadliest weapons, explosives, knives and other evil tools, in turn Gant passed some to his group, sold to others and kept some as a healthy reserve just in case big trouble kicked off. She was born into a working class family in the decades following the civil war, nuclear war with France and the fall back to a medieval society, this toughened up Gant’s mother. Her husband was an idle drunkard who didn’t want to know about Gant, his mother Sheila told her son when he was five that daddy was dead, it was better than explain the awful truth that surrounded the man she once thought she had loved. He had gone to fight a group of people in the Cornwall area of the country, which was the last his ex-wife had heard of him for twelve years until one day he returned. He tried to make it up to his forsaken family but it was all in vain, Gant had a nervous breakdown after seeing his father who was alive and hideously wounded from his Cornish battles. A psychotic episode followed in which Gant shot dead his own father in cold blood after years of lies came out, at how upset and inconsolable his once strong willed mother once was. He grabbed a gun and emptied the entire magazine of sixteen rounds into his absent father’s face then dragged the body into the front garden, poured cooking oil on it and set it alight. For nine hours he stayed there watching the body burn, his mother wept indoors on the edge of an even bigger mental breakdown. Burying the blackened shrunken skeleton under a dead rose bush Gant returned inside with a face like thunder, he was a man now who vowed never to end up like his father – he would look after his mother no matter what. He didn’t even know the name of the man he had just murdered, he never wanted to know and he blocked this evil act out of his mind. Illegal actions would be the forte of his life. Gant set up a network of boys early on in his late teens to do dug dealing, street robberies, selling knives (Gant had sold knives to forty year old men when he was eight years old), attacks for money, sabotaging the English army’s communications and many other shady jobs.

Gant had a sister called Clair who was a prostitute for her main income. He found out about this when he walked in on her with a client in her small box room in the house, of all the places Gant angrily thought, loading his pistol and aiming it at the man who cowered in terror trying to hide behind Clair. Gant let the man run into the street with his jeans around his ankles, before shooting him in each buttock cheek. Falling to the floor, the man crawled into the gutter expecting execution that never came. Without medical treatment the man would die from infection and gangrene before the week was out. Gant returned to his sister’s room to have a talk with her, either stop this wicked profession because you’re family or get out and never come back. Mum and I don’t want you doing this, you can leave home or work for me, what is it to be?

He gave her five minutes to clean herself up and give an answer. Yes she would work for her brother doing illegal work, especially when the skills of a woman were needed. Yes she would be part of her brother’s illegal business in ways that were yet to be determined; Clair could make new contacts with any woman led groups. These were few in number but key leaders in their field, one such group being The Sisters of Renford who controlled prostitution in the east of the city, backed up by all female pimps – Gant warned his sister not to join them as a pro or even a gun armed pimp, only establishing contact with them in case any trading deals came up.

Gant was working on putting a whole new set of schemes together including: ringers - stolen English army four wheel drive vehicles with a new identity so they would pass off as original to everybody, even on the English army computers; making a new range of chemical made holistic drugs that mirrored the effects of the natural Devil Snail plant, ten times stronger and easily addictable; in a lock up unit the illegal manufacturing of English army coins to use in the stores on various English army bases (these coins were only ever issued to English army soldiers for sole use in the base stores). Other lesser cash earners included Gant becoming a personal trainer for specific things like information concerning his rivals or for a weapon that he could trade, like a single pistol and ammo to a guided missile system. A dozen other illegal ideas formulated in the depths of Gant’s brain, how many would see the light of day? He mused over the taking over of a complete English army base, a fortified one would be fun, if it had a prison that would provide him with willing manpower to give support against the army. Crims would love to get payback, when Gant took the base using English army vehicles that were ringers after infiltrating it and becoming a presence there for a couple of days. This would include buying crappy porno mags in the base shop with the fake coins, springing the prisoners and defeating the base from within. That was pure genius; one of Gant’s bigger idea if he chose to do it. Nothing definite, it was back up in case his other schemes failed. It was his decision.

Saturday 17 August 2013

ABANDONED CITY


ABANDONED CITY

 

The ancient city of Laru has been quiet for a million years,

not a soul has been here to witness its decay.

What was once a grand palace has crumbled to the ground.

The sun and moon have risen and set so many times casting

their beautiful light on this dust-covered place.

Along cracked walkways sand piles up as time takes its toll,

every year adding to the decay, taking a bit more of Laru’s

beauty away.

In the old market square a small forest has slowly grown

returning to nature what has always been hers. Now the only

life to go there are creatures of the forest.

Maybe one day if man returns he will make the ancient city

great once more.