Battery Acid: A Fear Of The Dutch Razor by John Cullen - HTML preview

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Killer Dykes.

Billy Wirral’s flashin’ all six of those teeth again; there's spit drippin’ outta his rot:

“I’ve just seen the fuckers you boys are swedgin’ with! They’re these wee little chinky cunts!”

Ghosts Breath; Billy’s talkin’ about these gooks called ‘Ghosts Breath’. That means we’ve got either The Nazi Freeworld or The Gypsie Overlords in the final. If push comes to shove, I’d rather rumble with the pikey bastards. The Nazi Freeworld are a bit fuckin’ tasty, although they ain't as good as us.

Still, they’re dangerous cunts, an’ they’ve been gobbin’ off on camera about tearing Robbie's dreads out. I’d like to see ‘em fuckin’ try! Lousy skinhead cunts....

Before I've even stepped foot in the fuckin’ van I got a load of problems to deal with. The main problem I've got is Gammon. He’s been on the sauce for a couple of days an’ he looks like death warmed up. After we dealt with Mason, El Diablo made Gammon an’ Max dispose of The Mad

Hatter. They hacked the fucker up at Max’s gaff. They wrapped all the parts in black plastic and tossed him into that horrible fuckin’ river that runs outside my window. The cunts head drifted into the waste gully an’ got trapped underneath an iron drain grid. Gammon says it was stuck like glue.

Max gave the fat cunt a crowbar an’ told him to get on with it; they didn't have no tools to unscrew the grid. He had to smash the thing to bits so he could lodge it out. Gammon said the plastic tore away an’ he could see Masons face as he bashed the fuckin’ thing to a pulp! He said all that was left at the end was a pile of skin an’ teeth an’ blood....

Gammons got pocket mirror out again, snorting up another couple a lines of bugal:

“I ain't been right for days! I ain't right Jim! I'm fucking telling ya’! That stuff will stay with me for the rest of me fucking life! What a mess! That old cunt has had the last laugh on me!”

Whatever.

Billy Wirral stops outside the multi-storey carpark; the one next to where the old shopping centre used to be:

“I cannae take the van in! Nae cunt is allowed tae! The Brawlers Cup fellas are really on edge

tonight! I think it might be something to tae de’ with that Tweaking Tommy laddy...”

Now usually, The Brawlers Cup security goons would be escortin’ us soon as we jump outta the

motor, but there’s no cunt here; just Billy Wirral givin’ us directions from the fuckin’ van!

“Keep on goin’ lads, follow the road doon tae the basement level...”

And all you can see is them dim yellow lights above they’ve turned on; lights that ain't been turned on for fuckin’ years. It gives everything this dirty, murky glow....

Ghosts Breath are already waiting behind they’re line, dressed in black kung-fu pants an’ fuck all else...

Chinky cunts....

The word on the street is that Tweakin’ Tommy Rotten has turned informant. He’s in a rehab spot somewhere lying low. So this security goon has his sunglasses on an’ his hat pulled down low:

“Okay kids! This is what you’ve all been waiting for! The first semi final of this seasons Brawlers Cup!

This will be good ‘un! The Moreland Court Rangers vs Ghosts Breath! Let the games begin!”

It’s safe to say he don’t really have the charm or the same knack that Tweakin’ Tommy has, but else can these goons do? They have to improvise. We’ve had to fuckin’ improvise an’ all! They told us we had to get another member or we was gonna get booted out! The gave me notice four hours before

the fight. Four hours!

So I’ve had Danni’s nut over the bathroom sink an’ I’m shaving that stupid lookin’ blue fringe off. The Ham-Beast was fuckin' livid:

“You don’t have to do this Danni! Jimmy’s taking advantage of ya’!”

I told the fat cunt to mind her own fuckin’ business. What's it got to do with her? I told the glutton to keep lickin’ her digits an’ stick her head back in that bucket of chicken.

Anyways, it don’t matter now, does it. She’s here, in her Stephens boiler suit, ready to rumble. Let the games begin...

“Stay close to me,” Robbie tells Danni. “I’ll look after you little sister. Remember what I told you.”

She looks so much like a boy it ain't even funny. I'm a fuckin’ genius! No cunt can even tell it's a bird dressed up like a geezer!

Wonderful.

The ref is some cunt I've never seen before; he's a bag of nerves, countin’ us down with his fuckin’

hands shakin’. I ain’t takin’ my eyes of the chinks with their faces painted. They look like clowns; they look like proper fuckin’ lemons if you ask me.

Gammons wound up tighter than a spring:

“KEEP STARING YOU SLANTY-EYED CUNTS! I’M GONNA RIP YA’ FUCKIN’ HEADS OFF!!”

The fat bastards shoutin’ so loud the gooks don't hear the ref finish counting! Gammons gone

storming over the line an’ grabbed two of the chinks in a double headlock; he’s got the figure-eight hold locked in perfectly!

And I’m trying my fuckin’ best not to laugh, aren't I. Robbie’s grabbed another by the hair; he swingin’ him around I'm circles, screaming all that Rasta gibberish:

“BLUD-CLART CHINA BWOY!! Y’NA FOOLIN’ NOBODY LICKLE MAN!! STICK TO FRYIN’ RICE AN’ A

BEANSHOOTS!! SMALL DICK CHINA BWOY!!”

And I’m fuckin’ howlin’! A black man being racist! Who’d have thought!

Gammons on the ground now, lockin’ that figure-eight tighter an’ tighter an’ tighter; one of the cunts is underneath him passed out, the other cunt just keeps kickin’ and trying to elbow Gammon, but It ain't workin’. That's the best thing about the figure-eight choke, you can't break the lock until both cunts go to sleep. This chink could potentially kill his own pal ‘cause he won't go down without a fight. Cunt.

Gammons got his teeth gritted:

“GO TO SLEEP YOU DIRTY FUCKING JAP!! GO SLEEP GOOK!! GO TO SLEEP YOU FUCKING CLOWN!!”

All you can see is rage in the fat bastards face now; he ain't enjoying himself anymore. The reality of what he's done has shaken the cunt up. It's funny to me, he was able to poison cunts with rigged powder an’ rape that bird that back at The Birdcage, but as soon as he had to deal with the mess, he’s crumbled like a fuckin’ biscuit.

“FUCK YERS’!!” He’s yelling. “FUCK YERS!! DIRTY, NASTY GOOK CUNTS!!”

Now while this is all transpirin’, I’m havin’ too much fun; I don't see Danni with her hands up over her head like Robbie taught her; this little Jap cunt is raining blows.

BOOOOMM!!

I’ve run over; I’ve slung my steel-toecap between his legs, hitting his tiny bollocks. This cunts on the ground, rollin’ around like a pig in shit.

I'm in a position to have some fun here! Now I’m pointing to my chin:

“OI! GHOBBEDLY GOOK!! COME ON THEN!! SHOW ME THAT MAGIC!”

I’m stood next to this busted old motor with this shattered side window.

SMASH!

I’ve side stepped the fucker; the cunts arm has gone straight through the glass! There's fuckin’ claret all over the gaff! And just as the dopey slope is gazin’ at down his busted mitt in horror, I’ve swept his legs out from under him. He hits the ground like a ton of rice. I've got my left boot on his forearm, and I’m bringing my right boot down on his good hand:

BAM!! BAMM!! BAM!! BAMM!! BAM!! BAMM!! BAM!! BAMM!! BAM!! BAMM!! BAM!! BAMM!!

And the chinks howlin’ away to the heavens:

“AHHHHHH-YAAAAH-YAAAHH! AHHHHHH-YAAAAH-YAAAHH! AHHHHHH-YAAAAH-YAAAHH!

AHHHHHH-YAAAAH-YAAAHH! AHHHHHHHHH-AHHHHHHHH!”

I fuckin’ hate gooks: I hate their greasy food; I hate their slanty eyes; I hate their stupid kung-fu bollocks; I hate their flat-chested, skinny-arsed slutty birds; I hate their stupid fuckin’ squigly writing’; I hate their buck teeth; I hate their stinkin’ cigarettes; I hate their politics; I hate their video games; I hate stupid fuckin' dragons an’ star signs mumbo-jumbo. They’re creepy bastards. I’m just smashin’

his fuckin’ hand to moosh:

BAM!! BAMM!! BAM!! BAMM!! BAM!! BAMM!! BAM!! BAMM!! BAM!! BAMM!! BAM!! BAMM!!

And the security goons have only gone an’ whipped out the megaphone:

“BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!!

BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!!

BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!! BLITZKRIEG!!”

What are these cunts doing? The fuckin’ fight is over! I’m just stood there lookin’ at these bastards!

“WHAT’S YOUR GAME?!” I’m telling them. “GEEZERS FUCKED!! IT’S OVER YOU FUCKIN’ SPASTICS!!”

But are these cunts listening’? Are they fuck! They’ve got the bag out, and of course dopey bollocks can’t catch his nunchucks. I just bat the Dutch slag away like a fly. I turn around to see the gook back on his feet.

“Whatcha doin’?!” I’m askin’ the cunt. “You want more?!”

So what else can I do here? I’m putting on a show on for the cameras:

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

I’m hitting the cunt with a beautiful combo; all he can do is absorb it all like a fuckin’ sponge: BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

It’s like I’m back at home, swedging it out with Pussyboy Bob:

BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!

Time to put the cunt to bed; I’ve blasted him with a beautiful uppercut:

BANG!!

He’s lying in the broken glass by the motor, blood spillin’ outta his rot. I'm clownin’ for the camera, pullin’ my eyes at the sides to look like a Jap:

“AH-SAWWW!! IF YOU FRINK YOU CAN COME TO WESTPOINT AN’ FRIGHT LIKE A MAN YOU WRONG

BUDDY!! AH-SAWWW!!”

“WIDEBOY!” Gammons shoutin’! “MAN ON SON!!”

Some cunts don’t know when the games up; some cunts put the stick in your hand; some cunts beg

to made an example of. The fuckers back on his feet. I’ve got the cunt around the throat and I'm squeezin’ the life outta him:

“C’mon cunt! You wanna keep going son?! Huh! Do ya’?!”

I’m shakin’ his head like a fuckin’ coconut; I'm just squeezin’, tighter an’ tighter an’ tighter..

But from outta nowhere......

BOOOOFFF!!

The dirty cunts gone an’ spat at me; he’s blown a ton of this red powder into my face..

And I’m just staggering backwards, seein’ stars an’ trying to keep my balance; but I cant keep my balance. I’ve hit the fuckin’ deck; I’m rolling around on the dirty ground; my face is stinging an’ I’ve got this acid taste in me mouth....

I can hear Gammon shoutin’:

“LET ME THROUGH YA’ CUNTS!! LET ME THROUGH!! THAT CUNT JUST CHEATED!! LET ME

THROUGH!! LET ME THROUGH!! JIM!! JIM! JIM!! WIDEBOY!!”

All I can see is those big yellow lights on the ceiling....

The Jap cunt has pulled out this huge fuckin’ knife from his kung-fu pants.....

Security....

The security goons never searched us.... They always search us before a fight.....

The Jap is stood over me, raisin’ the knife above his head. This cunt is gonna kill me..

I batted the razor away when it was thrown to me.......

Some cunts picked it up.....

..... Not the Jap.

Danni....

Danni has the Dutch slag. She’s grabbed the fucker by his hair an’ pulled his head back. She pulls the blade across his throat an’ let's out a scream. My legs are numb; my arms are numb. I can’t get up; I'm fucked! I can see all the yellow lights above me, swimming around, dancin’ an’ moving. I can see devil faces in the lights. I can hear Gammon still shoutin’ his fuckin' head off:

“GO ON GIRL!!! YOU FUCKING BEAUT!!! AHHHHH-HAAAAAAA!!! TAKE THAT YA’ DIRTY GOOK!!! THAT

THAT YOU SUSHI EATIN’ CUNT!!!”

And I know I’m startin’ to hallucinate, seeing stuff that ain't there: I’m back in my room with Pussyboy Bob; he has a big black gapping mouth but no eyes; he’s singing this song from the

nineteen-thirties that I saw in a documentary at school years ago:

“TELL MEEE MY DEAR, DO YOU DREAM IN YOUR SLEEP?

DOES YOUR HEART YERN FOR MORE? DOES YOUR HEART YERN FOR MEEE?”

He’s swinging an’ rocking wildly on his axis, moving from side to side an’ front to back..

“I HAVE THE KEEEEY... THE KEY TOOO YOUR HEART...

KISS MEEE MY DEEEAR... WON’T YOU DRIVE ME INSANE....”

I’m stark-bollock naked, bent over my bed, arse high up in the air, handcuffed. Pussyboy’s givin’ it both barrels:

“I HAVE A DREAM, WITH A VIEW ON THE HILL..

PLEASE BE MY WIFE, LET ME DRIVE YOU INSANE....”

Now I’m back at that horrible fuckin’ hospital; the doctors tellin’ me mum an’ The Ham-Beast my dads dead. The fuckin’ Ham-Beast won’t stop wailin’:

“WAAAAHHH-WAAAAHHH-WAAAHH-WAAAHHH-WAAAAHH!!! DADDY I LOVE YOU!!”

Now I’m seeing Mason’s head trapped under that fuckin’ drain grid. He’s shoutin’ up at me:

“YOU’LL BE COMING WITH ME BOY!! YOU’LL BE COMING WITH MEEEEE!!! I’LL BE DRAGGING YOU TO

HELL BOY!! I’LL BE DRAGGING YOU STRAIGHT DOWN TO HELL!!!”

And Pussyboy’s still croonin’ ‘Do You Dream Of The Moonlight’:

“I’LL STROKE YOUR HAAAAIR, WHEN YOU SIGH, IN YOUR SLEEEEEEEP....”

I’m seeing mum, puking up blood from the alcoholism; all her teeth are gone an’ The Ham-Beast won’t stop fuckin’ wailin’:

“MUM! PLEEEASE STOP! PLEEEASE STOP DRINKING!!!! WAAAAHHH-WAAAAHHH-WAAAHH -

WAAAHHH-WAAAAHH!!!

Pussyboy Bob is stood right behind me now:

“BUT PLEEEASE TELL ME MY DARLING: DO-YOU-DREAM-OF-THE-SUNLIGHT? DO YOU DREEAM OF MY

LOVE? DO YOU DREEAM OF THE MOONLIGHT....”

Mason’s head is still staring up at me from that rotten old drain grid; he’s exposin’ them horrible yellow knashers:

“IT’S SOOO NICE DOWN HERE BOY!! NICE AND WARM; NICE AND WARM!!”

I know I’m hallucinating....

I can feel myself coming back to the surface....

I can see those yellow lights on the ceiling; I can hear people yellin’ an’ panickin’; I can hear Danni screamin’:

“OH MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?! OH MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?! OH MY GOD!”

Robbie's holding me but I can’t feel him.

“HOLD ON WIDEBWOY!! WE GONNA GET’CHA OUTTA ‘ERE!! HOLD TIGHT BRUDDAH! ‘OLD ON!!” He

says. “WE GONNA MAKE IT BREDRIN’!”

And all I can do now is prey that god comes down from the sky an’ saves me. Pray that he saves me from hell. Prey that he don’t let me die a confused miserable death, lying on the ground in some filthy fuckin’ car park basement....

18: The Rebirth Of Nation.

Phillip Rijkaard was being eyeballed by the devil himself – WestPoint Police Headquarters, The

Precinct.....

Thick black paint had been splashed across the car’s windows – An artistic soul, had sketched the face of Satan into the windshield with a finger..

The vehicle had been abandoned, and rolled down the hill, crashing headfirst into a row of bins and communal benches...

Rijkaard had been liaising with Anderson, making plans to intercept the impending robbery over in Limestone....

They'd heard the impact – Who hadn’t?! They’d headed straight to the foyer – Like everybody else in the entire building....

One of the many uniformed officers had spotted the envelope trapped under the windshield wiper;

‘RIJKAARD’ had been scrawled on the package.....

Samson..

Samson had gone for lunch earlier in the day. He hadn't returned. Rijkaard had noticed. So had

Anderson. Nobody else gave a shit...

The sheaf of photographs were almost identical to the ones that had been sent before –

Anonymously.

This time however, Mirelle’s face had been crossed out with a red marker pen – Death threats

scrawled on the photos were directed to her via an array of crudely drawn arrows. Rijkaard strangely wasn’t bothered – Due to work commitments, Mirelle was overseas....

The pictures had already been sent. What purpose did it serve to send them again? Phillip already understood the previous gesture as the threat it was intended to be....

The light shower was becoming heavy rain now.....

Another uniformed officer had spotted the trunk of the vehicle unsecured; Rijkaard had been busy checking the doors – Locked. He’d eventually found his grip, loosening the electrical tape holding the boot half open.

For some strange reason, the bonnet remained static in Phillip’s grasp.....

“WELL?” Asked Anderson, calling from The Precinct’s steps. “RIJKAARD?”

So Phillip let go.

Samson. It was Samson...

The used electrical tape hanging limply in Phillip’s hand, was the very same used to bind the victims wrists...

Rijkaard was trying to get the words out:

“Anderson... Paul.... Anderson.... Anderson.. Shit....”

A sign had been stapled to the victim’s shirt:

‘GLUTTON’.

Paul Anderson called from the steps again:

“PHILLIP BUDDY.... EVERYTHING OKAY PAL?”

A lethal cocktail, consisting of industrial chemicals and fire, had destroyed the outta shell of the corpse. Samson hadn’t been tortured in his suit – No. The victim had been re-dressed afterwards –

Ultimately, the suit that Samson hated so much, turned out to be the vital key to identifying him...

Anderson and Rijkaard were now side by side. Paul Anderson was rambling, attempting to make

some sort of sense of it all:

“Oh my beautiful man... Why, oh why? Such a sweet man.... He didn't deserve this...”

Phillip walked to the other end of the vehicle. The devil’s face continued to mock him from the windshield...

“This is..... Un-fucking, believable,” said Anderson, turning away from wreckage in the boot.

“Somebody grab Sevver... NOW!!”

The rain was only getting heavier; another uniformed officer spoke up, responding to Anderson’s request:

“Sevver’s in an important meeting; he doesn't want to be disturbed....”

Phillip remained in a horrified daze; Paul Anderson was quickly losing his cool:

“WE HAVE AN OFFICER DOWN HERE!! GO AND FUCKING GET THE MAN!! FUCK HIS MEETING! THIS IS

A DEAD POLICE OFFICER – A COLLEAGUE!! GO AND FUCKING GET THE FUCKING PRAT OUT OF HIS

FUCKING MEETING!! NOW!!”

And still, Phillip remained lost in his own world; he was stuck firm to the spot, watching the rain wash the paint from the windows. The devil’s face was now fading, slumping and sliding down the vehicles body, escaping like a thief on the night....

An absence of paint brought clarity – Rijkaard saw something else: Faces; other faces...

“Paul... Paul... Paul... Paul...”

There were four faces in total inside the vehicle – Three of them clearly dead. Not the fourth. The fourth was sat upright in the drivers seat, eyes blinking. Suddenly, Phillip was wide awake, firing on all cylinders:

“Paul! There’s people inside the car! Paul! The car! We have a survivor!”

Rijkaard saw the face blink again; Anderson was attempting to prise the door open:

“We have a survivor!! Get me a baton!!”

Anderson made space; Rijkaard swung with full force:

SMASH! SMASH!

The glass yielded easily; Rijkaard instinctively put his head and shoulders through the open space, grabbing the mans hand:

“Hello there! I’m detective Phillip Rijkaard; we’re going to get you medical attention. What is your name brother?”

The Afro-Caribbean gentlemen blinked again, continuing to stare straight ahead:

“Robbie... Robbie..... I need to speak with Paul... Paul Anderson...”

Anderson took one look through the windshield, and commiserated:

“My stool pigeons... All four of them... Gone...”

Phillip took a moment to correct, and remind his colleague:

“We still have one. He’s holding on.”

Rijkaard watched Anderson run to the foyer, to chase the whereabouts of an ambulance. Robbie

offered Phillip a stark warning:

“Dah Genesis... He has forsaken you. He’s chosen ‘im... Dah Genesis has chosen ‘im...”

Rijkaard could make little sense of what was being said. He attempted to get some clarification:

“My friend, please don’t take this personally, but I don’t understand. Can you explain? Only if you can. It might be better that you rest until we get medical assistance....”

Robbie continued on, between shallow gasps:

“Dah Genesis... The dark angel that floats in the sky... He has forsaken you... He will save the other man... Satan is sending this message to you.... He has sent us here to you brother! To you...”

Rijkaard nodded, taking in the finer details of the man he was now talking too: A Moreland Court Rangers logo, stamped proudly of the breast pocket of Robbie’s black boiler suit; that horrendous electrical tape, securing Robbie’s torso to the car seat; multiple stab wounds, leaking onto a pile of freshly shorn dreadlocks laying in a plastic bag in Robbie’s lap.....

The drivers door was now a barrier between the two; Phillip broke Robbie's grip:

“Just hold on for a moment brother; I’m going to open the door; I’ll make you more comfortable...”

With the doors release, the sound system suddenly sprung into life: