(no subject)
[Since no one really reads, uses, entertains themselves with livejournal anymore, I decided to just start posting serialized short stories. This being the first part of the first story. Yep.]
The Rude Boy. (Part 1)
The Rude Boy lit his cigarette and took a long, satisfying drag. The cherry burned bright red and then settled to a dull glow as he exhaled. He dragged his feet across the pavement, like a bull preparing for the charge. His hair felt sticky underneath his dusty old pork-pie hat, his armpits and thighs damp and oily, his black pants dirty, his Soviet sickle shirt ripped and stained. He had draped his blazer over his shoulders, and hung his tie low around his neck. He had been standing outside the White Chapel Food and Drug for the last twelve hours, just smoking cigarettes, waiting, and keeping his palm closed tight.
Every hour or so, some stranger would come and talk to him. They would attempt small talk with the Rude Boy, mentioning their Sex Pistols and Clash collections- as if that would make any difference. Eventually, if the fuckers kept on talking, Kip would cut them off and "Get to the point, Mate."
They'd get the point and throw him acouple pounds. Or a watch. Or something nice they nipped from their mothers.
The Rude Boy would then give them whatever they wanted.
Hash usually. Some real sticky ganja. A snowflake or two if the fucker was shaky enough.
It made no difference to the Rude Boy how these fellows wanted to do themselves in.
He'd hum Desmond Dekker songs, and wait for the 48 Trollie back to The East End. With the Jews and Pakistanis and Indians, the fucking East End shit-pit of London. He retired to a small studio above a market owned by a Jamaican man who went by Gringy. He was an alright bloak, The Rude Boy thought. They listened to jazz occasionally, and sometimes he'd toss him a carton for a dime bag. And ask him when he was going to bring his man around.
Gringy didn't know that the Rude Boy's man lived in the East End with a shit load of dogs and guns. He was a skinhead with a smack problem and a piss poor temper. When he was sober enough, the Rude Boy would go to business, but wouldn't stay long enough for any drama. He'd just pack up and get the fuck out of the East End before tea time came around.
The Rude Boy spent as much time as he could in the Docklands or South London.
He hated going home. He hated the East End. And like any good Rude Boy, he never got caught in one place longer than he had to be. He was a pretty succesful pusher with that mentality.
He kept his earnings in a jar above his matress, on a shelf he made himself. He had a gun, which he never loaded but still kept in his blazer when he worked the Docklands. Things had been getting particuarliy dangerous recently, some black boys had moved in and stared moving packs of snow out.
The Rude Boy knew to stay away.
The black boys however, wanted to talk to the Rude Boy...
(Continuar!)
The Rude Boy. (Part 1)
The Rude Boy lit his cigarette and took a long, satisfying drag. The cherry burned bright red and then settled to a dull glow as he exhaled. He dragged his feet across the pavement, like a bull preparing for the charge. His hair felt sticky underneath his dusty old pork-pie hat, his armpits and thighs damp and oily, his black pants dirty, his Soviet sickle shirt ripped and stained. He had draped his blazer over his shoulders, and hung his tie low around his neck. He had been standing outside the White Chapel Food and Drug for the last twelve hours, just smoking cigarettes, waiting, and keeping his palm closed tight.
Every hour or so, some stranger would come and talk to him. They would attempt small talk with the Rude Boy, mentioning their Sex Pistols and Clash collections- as if that would make any difference. Eventually, if the fuckers kept on talking, Kip would cut them off and "Get to the point, Mate."
They'd get the point and throw him acouple pounds. Or a watch. Or something nice they nipped from their mothers.
The Rude Boy would then give them whatever they wanted.
Hash usually. Some real sticky ganja. A snowflake or two if the fucker was shaky enough.
It made no difference to the Rude Boy how these fellows wanted to do themselves in.
He'd hum Desmond Dekker songs, and wait for the 48 Trollie back to The East End. With the Jews and Pakistanis and Indians, the fucking East End shit-pit of London. He retired to a small studio above a market owned by a Jamaican man who went by Gringy. He was an alright bloak, The Rude Boy thought. They listened to jazz occasionally, and sometimes he'd toss him a carton for a dime bag. And ask him when he was going to bring his man around.
Gringy didn't know that the Rude Boy's man lived in the East End with a shit load of dogs and guns. He was a skinhead with a smack problem and a piss poor temper. When he was sober enough, the Rude Boy would go to business, but wouldn't stay long enough for any drama. He'd just pack up and get the fuck out of the East End before tea time came around.
The Rude Boy spent as much time as he could in the Docklands or South London.
He hated going home. He hated the East End. And like any good Rude Boy, he never got caught in one place longer than he had to be. He was a pretty succesful pusher with that mentality.
He kept his earnings in a jar above his matress, on a shelf he made himself. He had a gun, which he never loaded but still kept in his blazer when he worked the Docklands. Things had been getting particuarliy dangerous recently, some black boys had moved in and stared moving packs of snow out.
The Rude Boy knew to stay away.
The black boys however, wanted to talk to the Rude Boy...
(Continuar!)