This one, as with the last, has had the names and places witheld due to request.
In the world I frequent there are lines. They are a strange mix of cheques and balances. In normal society certain people would be viewed with distaste or even hatred (myself normally falling in the latter catagory). People are taken on who they are, not what they do. For example when I'm on the street I work in or the surrounding streets I say hi to all the tramps, they are a great source of information, you learn who's new on the scene and what they are up to. Also they are human-fucking-beings who deserve the same respect as anyone who walks this hallowed ground we all home.
Now I don't judge people on what they do for money. When it is all boiled down I could be accused of performing violence for cash, the moral ambiguety of it all is not as black and white as that, as you are no doubt learning dear reader. I know prostitutes, both those who charge £20 for services and those who charge £200 per hour (from what I've learnt it all falls down to class of hotel, a better dress and laughing at the John's jokes or even pretending to be genuinely interested in the conversation), I know Romanian pick pockets and of course that scourge of society.
Drug dealers.
The thing with drugs is they are easy to sell, there is no such thing as a drugs 'pusher'. You don't have to push drugs. Drugs fly of the shelves by themselves, everyone wants them. True drug dealers don't walk around in obvious clothing, music screaming out of the Audi's speakers whilst shouting 'get em whilst their hot'. They are mostly subtle, quiet people who are desperately trying not to get caught.
They are also smart, I refer you to the previous comment about thugs. They are intelligent on a survival level. They really don't want to have their collar felt by the lads in funny hats. No, for the most drug dealers are intelligent, subtle and quiet.
Except for Johnny.
Johnny was an utter tool. A complete tit of the highest nature. I'm amazed he had not been nicked before tonights little tale. His mouth knew no bounds, he's the only person goonish enough to actually walk up to cops and ask where the best streets for 'selling' are. Absolute ham fisted, no brained smeg monkey.
Because we all live in each others pockets and interact with each other on a daily basis we have a respectful agreement. They (the life ruining scum) don't piss about in our clubs and we (in the absence of those lads and lasses in blue) don't smash their teeth in and dump them in a back ally despite what they may deserve. Simple equation, don't sell in our clubs and we wont hurt you. The reason we don't involve the law is because they can't be there 24/7 to help out. As much as we all would love to have a cop on the corner every hour of every day it just isn't possible. The thin blue line has been hacked at again and again to the exstent that even after a massive brawl we sometimes won't get a cop. Another reason is that these people are not exactly law abiding folk to begin with, nail one of their's to the wall and they will reciprocate in kind. Hence the truce. A truce that Johnny broke.
One sunny Saturday evening things were going great, we had started at around 1 in the afternoon and were still rolling at 1 in the morning, only three more hours to go. There had been the usual problems that summer brings out, all the midday sunshine drinkers were either at home in an alcoholic stupor or staggering down the street in a crab like fashion, all wobberly limbs and besmirched facades. The queue stretched down the side of the canal and the going was good, that was until Johnny turned up.
"Sniffy coming to the front mate" said the head lad at the end of the main queue over the radio.
Great. Just when things were going so well.
"Roger that, why don't we just fuck him off?" Why do we entertain him, little twattock.. He's the same size as my next door neighbours dog!
"Cos the little pleb has a cousin we don't want mither with" spoil sport.
"Sound. If I catch him though he's fair game" let me play, let me play..
"Absolutely" bingo!
Music to my ears. Don't rock the boat but if we can catch him breaking the agreement then it's toodlepip and don't come back. There are ways around having to deal with these lot.
The obnoxious little toe rag swaggers up, all hand shakes and smiles. See who he shakes hands with in the queue, go on twat, show me who your customers are. Without a hint of shame he slimes up to me and with a big smile shakes me by the hand.
"Good to see you friend"
"Yes mate, you too, staying long?" I reeeally want to fuck you off..
"Haha as long as it takes" wink.
What a nugget. I cannot wait for this prat to fuck up. Be seeing you soon pal.
And with that he oozes into the thrumming club and starts to look around. So, as far as myself and a good friend of mine (for this tale we shall change his name to Simon) are concerned we have been given the all clear to hunt this lad like any other. Catch him in the act and toss his out into the humid night. Here's how you hunt someone in a nightclub. First problem is that as soon as any bouncer walks in, most of the club becomes alert to them. We stick out like a sore thumb. Folks don't want us near them incase we suddenly go stark raving frothing at the chops mad, bone their girl friend and turn their face into a Picasso for no other reason apart from asda being out of tuna.
The way we used to work it was like this, get a large or noticeable lad (Simon) to be obvious and just walk round whilst myself and another actually make an attempt to blend in. This way the lad your hunting will be concerned with the big lummox and not the see the two coming from his left and right. Problem was we kind of fucked it up. Happens. You go in with the intention of being Mr Smooth and end up looking like Mr Bean. I knocked the table over, that I'm sure of. My oppo fell down the stairs (yup. Not kidding) and Simon just kind of disappeared. Shall we prepare the spare room for Mr Cockup?
Whilst I was disentangling myself from the table and my oppo (with obvious concussion) attempted to take his shoes off we got a radio call from Simon.
Amber man. Goody goody gumdrops.
When we finally got to the male toilets we found Simon and Johnny. Simon had three bags of charlie in his hand and Johnny had a face like a smacked arse. Well well well, what do we have here?
Johnny was making all sorts of demands, he wanted his drugs back, he wanted to be able to sell in the club and most of all he wanted us to fuck off.
Not very likely pal.
Simon wasn't impressed. He had searched him and was only able to find three suicide bags, he was pretty sure that he had more on him but without the aid of a torch, some latex gloves and a crowbar we were not likely to find them.
"Where's the rest of it?.." Says Simon.
"Fuck off.."
"Look, stop fucking about you spunk trumpet..." Says myself.
"Fuck off"
"No one wants this to get out of hand pal, lets have the rest.."
"Fuck off"
Man of many words this lad.
And with that shakespearean dialogue complete it's decided that the best course of action would be to remove El Gobshite and feed it up the chain of command that he wasn't welcome anymore. As we are getting to the door of the toilets Johnny starts complaining
"Are you lot gonna fuck off then or what?"
"Eh? Why would we fuck of mate?" Says our oppo.
"I don't want to be seen being walked out by you lot, it makes me look dodgy"
.....?
"YOUR A FUCKING DRUG DEALER JOHNNY!?!" You really are not all there are you pal?
With that I take one arm and my oppo takes the other, scoop up Johnny and begin to walk out, this is when Simon decides to make the walk of shame a moment to remember and pulls down Johnnys pants, puts his hand in the air to show alll around the drugs and shouts COCAINE at the top of his voice. Not quite as smooth as I'd like but gets the job done. At the door things take a turn for the surreal. Johnny demands his bags back. He gets angry, real angry. I honestly found myself wishing he would have an embolism. I imagined him going cross eyed, letting out a long and high pitched fart before shouting about volvo's and falling to ground dead as a dodo. No such luck. The grave subject of impending mortis was on the cards though. Johnny said something very silly indeed. He said he was going to have us killed.
"Say that again.." Asks Simon.
"You heard you prick, your're dead! Am gonna call the lads and have you fucking shot..!" Replies Johnny the Kid.
"Really?.." Enquires us as one mind.
"Your're . All. Dead"
I could see something turning over in Simons mind. Could see the cogs moving behinds those keen eyes of his.
"So you've got your phone on you then yeah?" He enquires.
"Course I fucking have dickhead"
"And at least another five baggies" all innocent and smiles.
"Fuck off" will take that as a yes then.
It's at this point Simon picks up Johnny and throws him into the canal. It truely was a monumental 'flying argh' he hung in air a'la 1980's action show stunt, man and water slowly drifting towards each other in a sublime and aquatic embrace. I have not laughed so hard in such a long time. The noise he made alone was priceless, it was a high pitched squeal. Almost like an angry guinea pig. As if sound alone would stop in inevitable rendering of man and drugs. We later found out that he had three phones, eight bags of coke and some 35 pills on him.
Maybe he should'nt have been rude?
Hope you enjoyed.
Stay safe, speak soon.
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