Gammal novell
Jag tvingar dig inte att tycka om det. Men skriv gärna något litet om du gör det. Om du inte tycker om den så kan du gärna skriva varför du itne tyckte om den. Fast det är klart... jag tvingar dig inte till något.
Jag kan dock tyvärr inte glädja er med en titel.
We sat in the small room, around the old pool table that was lit up by the old lights in the ceiling. The stench of death was all around. The clock was now officially five past nine, and we were now officially fucked!
It all started earlier this evening when I was walking with Jimmy “Jolly” Jones to some guy that hadn’t paid off his debts. I know what you think, and no, we did not kill him. Let’s just say that we tied him up, beat him unconscious and an “unfortunate accident” set fire to his house.
Anyway… as we were walking away, Jimmy’s phone rang. At the moment, we did not know how much that particular phone call would make our bright futures bend over and fuck ‘em up like there’s no tomorrow, so he gladly answered ad he always did. A cheerful “Helloo?” sounded, as if there was nothing wrong in the world and everybody happy with fucking pixies dancing around your ankles. His ridiculous smile faded, and he hung up.
“Change of plans, we’re going back to base”, he said. Short and precise in a way that wipes away all happiness and set a lot of worries into your life. It could only be about one guy.
I’ve said it before and I’d gladly say it again; I hate being right all the time! There we stood, with nervous faces and sweaty palms in front of Big Al. By the way, he had never been big, bad or like the real Big Al in any way. In the old days, everybody kept joking about him and his size and didn’t really take him seriously in any way. But since the big boss did, he had now a powerful position and we really had no choice! The slightest comment or wink could piss him off, and we knew it. I mean, he was short but his fuse was even shorter! Therefore you pictured a big, scary face instead of his so that you wouldn’t laugh your ass of at his mere presence.
He said something about his nephew, coming to town. Wait, I’d heard of him! He was some wannabe from Chicago-or-wherever, with as much temper as his uncle but not half the respect. Some guy had hit him in the mouth and later got whacked, so I prayed that we were just going to watch his cat or something. But no, “Big Al” had bigger plans for us. This nephew of his, (who’s name was Joey, by the way), had asked his beloved uncle where the most fun places were in town. Big Al gave him some pointers, Joey went there and got beaten ‘til he couldn’t stand properly.
Therefore, Big Al gathered some guys, who he would take downtown to finish the bastard who did it. In the mean time, (here comes the death sentence), Jimmy, Roscoe, Willis, (who had just entered the room), and I had to guard him.
Great, so we had to spend all Saturday night, watching some barking lunatic eating a ham sandwich and guard him while he’s jerking off. Sometimes I really wish that I’d become a dentist as my mother always told me.
We all stood outside the bar of which we were going to spend the evening. It was a small, crummy little place owned by the management. Soon, the car would come and drop him off. Then we were going to walk in to the bar and the manager would close for the night, leaving us completely alone with all the booze we could handle, just as long as we paid for it all. There we would sit and shut the fuck up so that he wouldn’t get pissed and beaten so that we would have to do this all over again.
After the first 15 minutes that felt like an eternity of this long night had passed, the black Rolls Royse that we’d been waiting for finally came. The back door was opened and Louis Big Nose came out to see that the coast was clear. After that he was led up to us. They treated him like the bloody president of the USA!
Then we just sat there by the bar. Apparently, this was a rather important mission, so if we drank a single drop of booze, we would be fed to Big Al’s Rottweiler before we could say “they drank too!”
Of course, Joey – y’know, the shit-sandwich we were guarding – found this highly entertaining. He ordered more and more beer which he put on our tabs. Since we would get whacked if we argued, we let him do it, hold our fists I our pockets and drank some of the Coke that we were allowed to have.
Not to be mean, but he was a weak fuck! So with every beer he had, he got more wasted. And when he was at the – very - impressive amount of five small beers, he puked all over Roscoe’s jacket. Roscoe “Railways” Johnson had got his nickname from the simple reason that when he got pissed, he ran over people like a train! And as we expected, his face got red and he grabbed Joey with one hand by his throat and one in his crouch and threw him across the bar onto a table, smashing some chairs at its side.
The rest of us later held Roscoe and took him down to the ground, where we held him until he was calm again. It took a while, and I don’t think that Joey had been so close to shitting his pants in his entire life.
After about fifteen minutes, Roscoe was calm, and we slowly let him up and took of his jacket. Roscoe knew that if he didn’t become friends with the poor bastard that was now hiding behind a table, he was a dead man. So he did, nicely and polite! Then he sat in a corner by the door, so that the brat wouldn’t puke on his shirt as well.
In spite of this pleasant interruption, Joey got back to the bar desk and kept on drinking and smoking. He made some crappy jokes of which he laughed at the most while no other bothered to listen to. Until he said one thing…
I don’t remember what he said, but Willis didn’t like it. Willis had some Polish ancestors, something he was extremely proud of, and Joey now sat and joked about Poland. Fortunately, Willis was calmer that Roscoe, so he didn’t beat the crap out of him. But he kindly asked what the fuck was so wrong about the Polish?
“Well, at first… they suck!” Joey answered laughing. And when Willis asked for a reason of why they sucked he went on.
“For example, Hitler kicked their asses in WW2! When he had warned them about coming over, not one of the Polish bastards believed it. So when the big ass tanks came, Poland answered with their fucking horses and swords! Underequipped and fucked, they got blown to pieces! They might as well have hung a sign on their asses saying fuck me here!”
No one was really impressed of his knowledge on 20th century history, but Willis was now even more pissed. So Willis, who had a habit of overusing the word “shit” when he got angry, stood up and shouted angrily:
“Now you better shut the fuck up before I rip your head of and shit down your throat! Then, I will put your head behind your ass, so when the shit comes out as the same shit it was when it came in, you’ll be shitting in your mouth! Then I’ll put the head on your throat again so the shit pours back into the system! I call it, the circle of SHIT!” Silence came, and Willis’s head became less red. He excused himself like a nice boy and drank some more soda.
After that Joey was quiet, for a while. As he started with the jokes again, I went to the can so that I wouldn’t have to restrain myself from hitting him as he attacked my Irish heritage. Oh, how I wish that nothing would happen.
As I was washing my hands for the eighth time, I heard three shots, a large thud and a lot of curse words! I ran out of there to discover Joey, lying on the floor with three holes in his chest and blood all over him, Roscoe and Willis standing there and screaming thing like; “What the fuck!?” or “Why the hell did you do that for?” Jimmy wasn’t answering. He still had his cannon for a handgun pointing at Joey’s now lifeless body and a weird face expression. It was mixed with anger, insecurity and him, realizing what he had done.
Joey had been moved to an old pool table, where we checked if he was dead. We all knew that he was, but we all hoped that Jimmy had somehow managed to shoot through mysterious holes in Joey’s lungs, leaving him completely unharmed. I lost temper a bit and yelled at Jimmy, repeating the question of why he did it. When I started to shut up, sat down and tried to figure out how we were going to get away with shooting Big Al’s nephew, no one spoke.
Jimmy was usually a happy son of a bitch, but when people spoke mean about his mother, he tended to get angry. It then occurred to me that apparently everyone in the crown had a more or less short fuse.
The clock stroke eight and my phone rang. On the other end of the line, Big Nose Louis told us that they were done, but were doing some business on the way back so they’d be back about five past nine. Great, I thought as I hung up. We had about an hour to fix this mess and it wasn’t going to be easy. Someone, I can’t remember who, suggested that we burned the body and claimed that he went back to Chicago. The rest of us disagreed and suggested him to think harder.
I guess we weren’t really thinking that hard, though. We mostly thought of the different ways that Big Al could to execute us. We just sat there a long time, imagining.
So there we sat in the small room, around the old pool table that was lit up by the old lights in the ceiling. The stench of death was all around. The clock was now officially five past nine, and we were now officially fucked!
Thank God, they were late! Then Willis had an idea that wasn’t completely as fucked up as we were. He reminded us on how much we hated our supervisor, and how we’ve been speaking of breaking free. Well, it didn’t seem as we had much choice at the moment. It was really now or never.
We heard the car come, and gave a final thought of the plan. The door was opened and three people came in. Three, why three? They were four the last time I heard of them. Anyway, as we expected, Big Al’s scream of horror sounded, and everyone ran to the pool table, and therefore the door was slammed shut. My fingers stroke the back of on of the machine guns that we had found in a cupboard. Then all of us stood up and fed the three, surprised mobsters in front of us with lead!
As they were dead, and sounds were becoming to sound from the street, we all ran into the car that had dropped them of. The fourth guy wasn’t there either! Then I remembered. When Big Al was nervous, he always placed a guy with a rocket launcher on a nice located spot. His orders were always to shoot anyone going over the speed limit by his post in a suspicious car without calling him first. A nice trap, which we wouldn’t want to get trapped in! So we didn’t break the speed limits.
As we didn’t find Big Nose’s body, he was probably the one with the rocket launcher. But there, my thoughts were interrupted by the horrible cry of sirens, closing up on us.
“Shit!” As we were four, highly armed guys from the mob, we didn’t want to get pulled over even for something as innocent as a busted tail-light, so Roscoe put the pedal to the metal and we flew away along the dark roads.
So, here I am, hugging my machine gun, hoping that we will outrun the coppers soon and adapt to some sort of life on the run from both mobsters and the police. So, I guess that all we can do now is… wait… is that Louis Big Nose over there by the bridge?
Tack för din tid och godnatt.
