Friday Night.

[woops]

It was another 6pm as I entered the Robinson. To the east, darkness. To the west one of those fag-stained sunsets London does so well. Standing at the bar I was reminded of my strong belief that smoking dope is bad for you. If I was a dope smoker I'd be at home smoking dope instead of ordering a drink in this bastion of Essex. I was pondering this wisdom when she walked in.

"She", of course, was a strange woman with a man and a pram. None of them paid me any attention. I went back to my wordsearch. There were a lot of TV programmes hidden there, like a subscription channel. I found "Columbo" and ringed it like a marriage proposal. In my profession we send a lot of things off the grid.

I'd just blown the cash from the last job on a new pair of trainers. In my line of work you need to tread more softly than a fluffy tyre. As I contemplated this purchase I asked myself how much longer I could really cling to the cliff face. Without knocking Mr. Pistols walked in to the boozer.

 

[woops]

He's gone by that name ever since he saw fit to play a three hour set of reggae tracks on a firearm theme downstairs at Patrick's some years ago. I'd been stood in a corner like a forgotten umbrella, meditating on the feeling you get when a tube train goes under the bench you're sitting on. Tonight he ordered his customary half and told me he'd been looking for someone like me.

I told him he should just have phoned me, but he said that phones belong in boxes. I was reflecting on this cryptic remark when he challenged me to a game of pool - like water polo. I accepted at once, as though it had been a marriage proposal.

He racked the balls as if they'd been keeping a secret in the Middle Ages. Playing pool makes you drink slower, same as talking too much. I was all set to break like a suspect under questioning when Mr. Pistols screamed at me to stop.

 

[woops]

The silence that followed was as oppressive as the next government. With eyes alone - like the slot on a holding cell - I enquired as to the reason for the sudden outburst. Instead of answering Mr. Pistols dropped to one knee as though he were proposing marriage.

He beckoned for me to join him in this position. Maybe he thought I was some kind of potential vice-president. He pointed out that pram and told me it was full not of infant but of weapons-grade Gianluca Vialli.

That, he told me, will have a new pair of loving parents by the end of the night. As I turned this newsflash over in my mind it occurred to me that in that sense the pram had much in common with a goldfish at a shooting gallery. The pool game was in effect postponed as Mr. Pistols unfolded his plan like an architectural drawing he'd been keeping in a breast pocket.

 

[william_kent]

these posts have had me desperately looking for new product on https://wordtrade.co.uk

where is the new merch!

but buy while you can, guaranteed collectors items, will yield better returns than crypto

 

[woops]

The setup was as simple as I am. We'd buy the cowboy couple so many drinks they'd be as easy to rob as office supplies. Then we would make ourselves scarcer than Force of Circumstance, never to set foot in the Robinson again.

It reminded me of an ex of mine: almost too easy. The pair of dupes welcomed our ersatz hospitality with such enthusiasm we might have been angling for a tip. After a couple of looseners the pool game was back on - doubles, like the brandies and their eventual perception of us.

By nine they were as hammered as an auction lot. Pistols tipped me the wink: the only problem was that we had more eyes on us than a marriage proposal in a public place. My now accomplice muttered in my ear that I should cause a diversion, perhaps imagining I was some kind of obstruction on a bus route. I was primed to spill an entire fresh pint when I heard a sudden scream.

 

[woops]

tbc

 

[william_kent]

on tenterhooks

 

[william_kent]

noir for the 21st century

 

[woops]

It was emerging from the pram, as we all must in time. The progenitors were as prepared for a parental emergency as a billionaire addled on special k. In a flash it dawned on me and Pistols how much we'd spanked, like the aftermath of an all-night s&m session.

It was time for a sharp exit, and I don't mean chucking a syringe out of a window. There was a woman wondering where I was, as I often am at 3am. I'd upset the other half even as I'd meant to spill a pint. I needed to think of something to make her happy, like a marriage proposal.

Whatever it was it wouldn't work and I've never been able to do that either. I'd be in the bad books, like Jack Reacher. The evening would end with the full fury of a woman scorned. I've had a lifetime of that - just another Friday night.