By Warrigal

Brickwork cratering, exploding. Shit!! my face, then hear shot!

(Shotty?)

Face stinging, shit, left eye, swallow hard, GOGO GO! Low fool!! Twoshot! Fuck! Torn carpetlefthand and I lit outa there as fast as I could.

“I only came for a fuckin’ beer and some of them wedges.! What’s with this? Myall Creek again?”

Toohard shout and run, BLAMthreeshot TOOclose whizzzzzfzzfzzfzz by my ear and blew a wad outa the dart board as I flew by. If I can just make it into the lounge I stand a chance,  almost there, crashthrough swingingdoors, ??occurring to me?? Is this sport??. Shit! He couldn’t miss me from across the bar, FUUUCK!overbarstool, drinkers look notfussed. “Fuck me!” Who is this guy? What’s with the cannon? Why me?

My mind begins to race. I knew this pub was weird when I saw that bearded guy tie that alpaca up outside. What was that about? And the collection of oil dropping British marques in the car park; and that Black Series III Zephyr 6, (?) Chief Inspector Barlow must be about.

I go down, I hurt bad, in places. I’m goin’ nowhere!! justGOprone…. Armsoutspreadeagle….

“Get up ya bastard!” He kicks my ankle.

Keeping my hands out all the time I roll around, I’m staying on the floor. My ribs hurt where I crashed over the stool. I mean they really hurt, crackedbroken? I can’t see properly outa my left eye and the back of my left hand has a spray of pellet wounds. Shit!!

I go for comedy.

“Ya got me….,” big smile and a happy shrug but he’s not buying any of it.

“Get up ya bastard, I said!”, and not to leave it out, to finish his routine, kicks me again and I get another sharp pain to worry about.

Gingerly, ??noticing?? several aches sprainpains!! Left hand throbbing, slowly stand uuupp…

(You should see this. I mean really; I may be battered and broken but this guy is seriously fucked up. Stick with me right, because this is how it looked as I slowly lifted my head……,

The mad cannoneer has grubbywhite socks under cheapplastic sandals, cheap polycotton pants, beige; white belt. Knitted??, NO! Crocheted!! yellow polo shirt with a “Jaguar Drivers Club” cloth patch over the left tit! Sorry,  saggy tit. Seriously! Who is this guy? Why does no-one but me see this whole thing as seriously twilight zone.

“I really did only come in for one beer and some wedges. Honest mate, I seriously dunno what’s going on here. You coulda killed me!” a little too hysterically, but you’ll forgive me I’m sure.

“If I’d wanted ya dead, y’d be dead already. Quit whining!”

Then I see it! Casually but firmly held, as though it’s just part of his arm, is a hand tooled Purdey, Side by Side, All the Gods of Gunpowder! it’s a beautiful thing, perfectly balanced in his grip, both sinister blue steel gleaming barrels pointed at my guts. He had my full attention.

(No, fuck, there it goes…, )

What’s with that screamin’ pink drink and all the umbrellas in his left hand? I’m mad, must be! No, I’m dead! This is some outer circle of hell. I look him in the eyes.

Whatever…….

He fixes me with those rheumy gimlet eyes, the Purdey doesn’t waver, “Wha’did ya say to that bloke?” the “Best‘n’Less” spectacle indicates the punter I was talking to before the wall exploded.

“All I aid was, “Owning a collectable Jag is like standing up ta ya hips in a bath of used sump oil burning $100 bills one at a time”, it was a simple enough proposition and all too true, “I should know. I’ve had a few in my time.” I tried to extend my left hand, morepain!!! I pick out a pellet and flick it on the floor.

The Purdey wavered, did it droop? YESssjustslightly!!

“What have ya had?” his head drops on one side and he gives a dog like look

“Well over the years, many; but just at the moment I’ve got a 1987 Series III 5.3litre Sovereign, white with red; and a 1976 Series II 4.2L Coupe, red softtop with velour. Though I covered the velour with custom sheepskin.”

“The coup; carbs or injected?”

“Injected”

“That Sov.’s a beautiful thing to drive, (A deep sigh), lovely balance.” suddenly all the bluster’s gone from him. He slumps and breaks the Purdey, takes out the still smoking spent shells. “I’m sorry mate, really I am.” He’s trembling, lookin’ at the floor, “I just get so sick’a people taking the piss all time. I really do! I love me Jag, I love m’ Purdey. So I got this thing for British shit…, so what?”

He lifts his head and is just stood there, sobbing silently, shaking a bit. The old woman from behind the food bar comes out and puts an arm over his shoulder. Taking the empty, broken gun she hands it to this other dude who’s been standing around like some kinda factotem. First I’ve really noticed him.

The old woman turns to me and says, like this whole thing, it’s my fault!?!, “Merve didn’t mean no harm. Why’d ya gotta go and say them things in ‘ere? That’s just spiteful that is.” She takes “Merve”, apparently, out through the doors that say “Staff Only”

And I’m thinkin, I’m lucky to be alive, and lookin’ around the bar I see that all these other people are just lookin’ at me, like they think it’s my fault too. Well fuck that for a game of fuckin’ soldiers, “That bastard just shot at me!” I shout at no-one in particular, “Three fucking times for chrisake!”, I’m really mad now.

This grey haired guy stands and says, in a very final tone too, “Sit the fuck down you whining nonce, finish ya wedges and beer,. He didn’t hit ya did ‘e? (show him left hand), “Naaarh, that’s nothin’. Fuckin’ scratches” and he gives me his hankie to wrap round my wounded hand. My blood redly oozes through the pressed white linen, obscuring the monogrammed MJ in the corner. (So he’s MJ) “Thanks MJ” I say without really enough thanks. I go and sit down.

I need to put my poo in a pile. I take a long pull on my beer. Relaxing, my heart rate dropping as the adrenalin washes away, I look around. There’s a guy at the end of the bar reading Sophocles while he’s fillin’ ‘is face w’ wedges. So I stuff a few wedges in me gob for good measure.

“The’ wezzes are goo, weawy goo.” I say, mostly to myself through a mouthful of half chewed wedges,. More beer and wedges. “These wedges are fanfuckingtastic!” I spray at the same guy I’d warned about Jag’s. “I mean, they’re really great!” He smiles slowly and nods like the penny shoulda dropped by now, but I’m too busy yaffling more wedges.

I swallow my last wedge and go over to the food bar. The old woman’s there and I say, “Can ya tell, Merve, is it?, yeah? Merve, that I’m really sorry. It was all my fault. I was a fool. Will he ever forgive me? Will ya tell him that?” (She smiles knowingly. She’s obviously played this scene before.)

“And can I have another plate of them wedges?”

“Of course you can dear, and I’m sure Merve won’t hold it against you.” She smiles that winner’s smile, hands me my wedges, “You can call me Granny when you come again.” She winked at me, the old biddy winked at me.

But she’s right, Granny is. I’ll be back and probably soon too. Merve could ride a warthog round the lounge in the nude singing “Friday on My Mind” shooting every second drinker in the place so long as none of ‘em was me and Granny kept makin’ those wedges.

(I swear, seriously, she winked at me.)

Now I gotta go and find outa ‘bout that Alpaca.