Cracking Up (20 page)
After the pair of raving things approached us and rubbed us up, fondling our bollocks in an over familiar way, we decided to do the vice and negotiated a price. We weren’t put off by the seventy euro price tag for each of the come bags and they happily agreed to the sexual suggestions in hand. We vanished up the stairway to heaven, hard, foaming at the mouth because they’d told us they had a bottle of baby oil on the go, as well. We sleazily slipped into one of the private rooms and began a rampant mess about.
Half-an-hour of pre-paid fun passed quickly, as we sweated and panted, switching positions: First, missionary, then doggy-style. My slut got on top, bouncing up and down, lustily faking an orgasm. Her high-pitched groans making no secret of the fact that we were fucking each other’s brains out. Then I got on top, kept going at it like a horny, out-of-breath stray dog and blew a torrent of goo into the rubber johnny on the end of my cock, while Caspar back-scuttled his piece of pussy over the sink where they’d insisted we washed our dicks before stripping off and engaging in the full-on orgy of pleasure seeking.
Dirty deeds done, we bailed out the room, buttoning our flies and scooting downstairs. We were on our way towards the front door, intent on swerving another rip-off round at the bar because the brass’ had left us virtually potless. We spotted a line of bouncers wielding baseball bats, all of them heading past us and in the direction of the Essex boys. They were eagerly steaming in and beating the living shit out of them.
Turned out that the plastic cockneys had copped the hump at the tricky antics of some of the snide prozzies, up to no good and, literally, pulling their pants down left, right and centre. The green gravy eaters had turned really nasty, calling them all sorts of absolute dirty pieces of shit cunts. One of them had even grabbed a tarts belly button ring and ripped it right out, which, if you ask me, was a bit over the top. Now the lads were getting some serious stick for it, as the bouncers swung the baseball bats hell bent on inflicting serious harm and injuries. The lads thought they were going to get their heads caved-in and were battling back, launching chairs over heads. It was a scene of pure havoc and bedlam; it was going off like the WWF. There were come bags screaming the place down all over the gaff; fuck this, I told Caspar, we’re leaving before the bizzies get here. We’d seen enough, things were getting well out of hand and fast approaching a police intervention and hospital situation. We were getting a little nervous about getting roped in and it becoming a stretch in a Dutch police cell. We didn’t want to miss our flight back on Sunday morning; so we quickly scurried off down the fucking road, stopping at a coffee bar to settle down and indulge in the novelty of being able to buy the sweetest top-class Dutch weed with a couple of frothy cappuccinos, before retreating to the relatively safe confines of our skanky, two-star doss house with some space cakes.
It wasn’t The Ritz, but we’d booked the Cozy Inn because it was cheap as chips and within walking distance of the red-light district. The place was mostly full of sex tourist but it was forbidden to bring sex workers back to the crummy, cramped rooms; so the front-of-house receptionist acted more like a frigging bouncer, treating guests like the naughty perverts and degenerate druggies that they were, trying to sneak in prozzies and illegal substances. Fucking cheek or what?
Caspar was complaining that there was nothing on the tiny flat-screen telly, which was on top of a low dresser at the end of two single beds. I stood on my bed, reached up and pulled the battery out of the smoke alarm; then rolled a spliff perched on the edge of the bed while he channel hopped with the remote control until he finally found something decent to watch: HEAT. Fucking gleaming! One of my favourite fillums because the life of a real criminal is pretty fucking crap and you’d be a top twat for thinking otherwise, but we all had plans for doing bigger and better crimes. Being the big man doing the big job for big money just like De Niro. Okay, so you’d always be looking over your shoulder for a Pacino type of character to quash the caper, but that was all a part of it; it was a game of cat and mouse, after all.
We watched the fillum in a large, billowing cloud of the strong Dutch smoke. The movie inspired us to plan another bling-sting the following day because we’d tipped our pockets onto the bedside table and counted a paltry twenty-odd euros in our possession. Fuck it! We’ll pull a stunt. If it came on top the worst that could happen would be a stretch in a farting Dutch nick, a fucking doddle for the likes of us, then deportation back home afterwards. Worth the risk then because nothing ventured, nothing gained. A smash and grab was amazingly easy to do: We had the know how, the bottle to get in there and get out in one minute tops. It sounded like a pretty fucking good idea at the time.
We were settled down with another heavily loaded spliff and taking in the flick, getting excited over the shoot-out at the end, when there was a knock on the door at about three in the early morning hours. It was a hairy moment because we were expecting to be confronted by irate hotel management, complaining about the noxious smoke coming from the room. But when I got the door, there were two fit birds staring at me with batting eye-lashes, waiting to be invited in. They were smiling impishly and asked if they could join us for a bedtime spliff. They’d been returning to their room on the opposite side of the corridor, after a night out on the town. They had acquired Donner Kebab takeaways on their way back and we had the munchies. Come-ed in! I invited them. We passed the hefty draw, smoking Bio Highrise to our hearts content, munching on the condemned meat wraps, then polishing it off with a nibble of space cake; it did the trick. We were all chummy and warm like Thailand. A bottle of Jagermeister was retrieved from the girl’s room and we shotted on top of everything else, guzzling it straight from the bottle, babbling a load of shite until the girls got their dainty knickers off and we went at it like porn stars. Caspar was giving his fancy bit a really good dicking, loud and leery like. “Love this wet pussy! You love this big dick in you, dontcha?”
“Oh yeh, babe!” She said. “I can feel it all the way up in my fucking throat.”
He was getting well into the mucky chit-chat, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to shag in front of your mate while he’s nuts deep in a frantic damp patch himself in the next bed. I went at it for half-an-hour, back-scuttling and playing with her clit ring, crotch pumping and loins burning until we both hit the target and fuck this piss-taking world that treats you like a stupid cunt.
29.
We kicked the birds to the kerb after the communal bunk up, despite enjoying a good seeing-to and we weren’t so callous as to let them go empty handed. There was plenty of Bio Highrise left after all. We’d bought far more than we actually needed at the Smoke Circle coffee shop, underestimating the potency of the smelly green stuff and didn’t fancy our chances of trying to smuggle the stinky stuff onto an Easyjet flight. When Caspar eventually managed to drag himself out of his pit, his brains were fried through substance and alcohol abuse. He was grinding his teeth, pacing and twitching, muttering and the only sense he was making was nonsense, before pulling himself together and informing me that he had a bad feeling about THE BLAG and was sure we were going to screw it up. But I wasn’t about to let him bottle out of it. A fucking bastard of a dilemma was glaring at us full on and there was no escaping from the stark emptiness of our pockets. We had to do something to remedy the situation, fast. We couldn’t ignore our crippling cash shortage following the weekend binge of sex, drink, drugs and tattoos. We were skint as fuck and, I thought: Fuck that! I ain’t having it! In my devious little brain, the blag was the quick-fix solution to our severe lack of money and no means of making any without resorting to crime.
“Cas, if you don’t get on with this stunt, you’re a fucking soft twat!”
“Nah, man! I don’t want to do it, I’ve got bad vibes about this one, Ow-wee.”
“You soft cunt!”
“I’m not a soft cunt, man! You know I ain’t no shithouse.”
“Just do it, then. We’ll be in and out in two minutes flat and, ermmm, we’ll be brewstered. HAPPY DAYS!”
“NO WAY! I’m not doing it.”
I was having none of it and wasn’t about to back off. “Bollocks, just fucking do it will you and stop mincing about like a fucking fanny.”
Caspar, browbeaten and under pressure to prove himself, finally agreed to do the dare because, at the end of the day, he didn’t want to look like a fucking fart and realised that if we didn’t blag it we wouldn’t have it - the money, I mean!
He was hopping about on pins, scared shitless that the caper was going to go tits up and there seemed little harm in him doing one last bump of Special K before we Scouse swagged it out the hotel and, for fuck’s sake, lifting two motorcycle helmets carelessly left in reception and winking at us. Spotting a scooter parked up outside in the road, we pushed it around the corner, busted the ignition and steering lock with a screwdriver, and ripped away at a relatively legal speed so as not to attract the unwanted attention of the local filth. My focus was set dead ahead on a jewellery store we’d sussed out previous, as we zipped along a metropolitan stretch of busy tarmac, choking out stuck behind an exhaust-farting diesel bus then, overtaking blindly into oncoming cars as the possibility of sudden, stomach-churning road carnage loomed larger than life and twice as deadly. Caspar’s arms were gripped tight around my waist, hanging on for dear life and I could feel him shaking like a shitting dog. What seemed like a lifetime later, it was with a huge sigh of relief that we plunged out of the manic traffic flow and parked the machine in a secluded alleyway round the corner from the shop where we ended up seriously putting our necks on the line.
I quickly surveyed the street, scanning for the presence of bizzies then, in a ball-aching moment of adrenalin and fear in a potent mixture, darted into the shop with a claw hammer firmly in my sweating palm. I began to shout like a man possessed by the devil, waving the hammer in the face of the shop assistant and bellowing at him to GET ON THE FUCKING FLOOR! NOW!
Caspar was shitting bricks but had entered the shop behind me and with no time to waste proceeded to smash the fuck out of the display cases. Fucking hell, what a commotion. His fingers worked like fury, as he grabbed the most desirable rings and necklaces and stuffed them into a rucksack that we could easily carry back on the bike. The few female customers in the shop were screaming because the sound of smashing glass was splitting the air, jarring and startling everyone, inciting the heroic assistant to have a go at me. He got in a few good shots, nearly knocking my headgear off but I managed to stay on my feet and carelessly swung the hammer full force at his shoulder because there was definitely no time to waste now - it had to be a case of exerting extreme force for the quickest possible exit. I was in some sort of trance, reacting on animal instinct and there really was no thinking about it, as I crashed the hammer into the side of his head, splitting his skull wide open and knocking him clean off his feet. It was a proper brutal moment of beserk action and, I swear, his head hit the floor before his arse did. I looked over the counter and he was collapsed in a pool of blood as big as a dinner plate, eyes rolling about in his skull, twitching and completely fucking out of it. Near his temple was a ragged hole the size of a fifty pence piece. I noticed his wallet sticking out of his back pocket and went around to dip him. “What the fuck are you doing?” Caspar shouted. “Let’s get out of here.”
I snapped out of it; it was time to scatter and we tore out of there, dashing around the corner to the scooter. We ripped the bike out the alleyway and onto the main street, giving it full throttle and really playing the road for all to see. We were completely super-charged with adrenaline and the flight factor had well and truly kicked in. Whooo hooo! I thought. We’ve done it all right, and now all we have to do is get the fuck out of here. We were ripping it down the road like we were on some top superbike. How the fuck were we to know that some stupid old cunt in a Volvo would pull out in front of us, totally mis-judging the speed we were flying at and then, fucking nightmare of nightmares, stalling his motor. There was the piercing squeal of tires, as we braked hard and got the wobbles, started skidding like Celebrities On Ice and ended up smacking head first right up the fucking arse end of the motor, full-on. The front of the moped disintegrated, as Caspar fucking took off, flying through the air like a crash test dummy and landing in the middle of the road, in a crunch of bones. I did a somersault over the handle bars, skidded over the roof of the Volvo and landed on the bonnet. At first I just lay there on the warm bonnet for a split-second; it was a birdies tweeting around the head moment, then I was thinking: Fucking Hell, I can’t believe I dodged that one! I’d taken a big bump and needed to pick my arse up and get out of there double quick.
I looked around me and saw the battered body of Caspar, arse well and truly on the ground, hammered to fuck in the middle of the road. He was in bulk, writhing like a wounded animal, screaming out in intense agony. Pain seared through every nerve ending in his knees because he had hit the ground hard and landed awkward-like, instantly shattering a knee-cap and dislocating the other badly enough so that he was completely knackered and in no fit state to escape. An ambulance would be called for and he would be whisked off to hospital to be operated on and stitched up, kept under observation and nursed back to health before being sent to a detention centre to await trial.
A big bastard bully of a copper came bounding out of nowhere, his big fuck-off hands snatching hold of my collar and ragging me off the bonnet, the fucking prick, then body slammed me onto the road, pushing me helmet first into the tarmac. That was all I could see through the clear acrylic visor and my mind went blank. I could hear myself breathing. My heart was beating so loudly I could hear it in the helmet, overlaid with the sound of passing traffic; they sounded so close they could have run over my head. The bizzie issued the warning that if I attempted to resist, he’d bust a cap in my arse using his Walther P5. A quick thrust and my arm was twisted halfway up my back; I was being jerked to my feet with brute force and frog-marched towards the pavement, bent over double to keep my wrist from being broken. I was pinned up against a wall and he shifted his grip on my arm while trying to slap the handcuffs on me, letting go for a fraction of a second and I automatically spun free and a sudden flash of panic energized my legs into a top sprint as I made one last dash for freedom. I was flying through the air; my feet didn’t touch the ground, I felt like Ben Johnson in the dirtiest race of all time and soon gained the upper hand, out-running the fat fucker with ease. He was obviously incensed that I’d had the gall to casually break the laws of his land, then attempt to bolt for it, wound up because he had the feeling that I was taking liberties and was well fucked-off. The pig-dog nearly burst a blood vessel in his indignant rage as he barked at me: “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
