New Crimelord Journal 1

by brightonsauce

FRONT PAGE FOR TIME BEING, tch…should get ‘one away’ for Feb, update possibly or great sulk.

update – for criminal and criminal sympathiser eyes only.  Update as suggested by regular reader and accomplice and driver Buggybite

Fray_Bentos_pie_tins_2015

By DeCausa – PhotographPreviously published: Not previously published, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=48739138

 

A shit on Sunday.  [SCENE 1, a man on the telephone, TOP NEEDS FIX.  YOU KEEP ON READING!]

‘Take my money…’

‘But father-in-law, I cannot…’

‘Take it and go.  Visit your Sainsburys every day…

‘I am sorry,’ I said.

‘… and the next time the one pound offer Fray Bentos pies become available, purchase them all, or one hundred pies over the one hundred days should get you both to the midsummer.’

‘Thank you, thank you God…’ I muttered and threw the telephone to the bed. I swept the baubles of sweat from my brow, and as every day collapsed in my gown in my despair upon my stool here in the high cupboard overlooking the sea. My wife wandered into our room with a pile of gowns in her arms.

‘How was your telephone call?’ she said, and ‘I have pressed your dressing gowns,’ she said in her loyalty.

‘Thank you, lovely,’ I responded.

Who would have thought?  [F-in-law] My greatest enemy of the Twentieth century had saved us both from starvation.  His on-line deposit of the one hundred pounds ensured our survival beyond the March 29th  deadline.  That day the nation would unhook from the mainland to be cast adrift like a green land on high seas.

Yet I thought little of politics.  My tongue projected only to long flavours of the mince and onion, and how I [had] promised to forage through July and August for the wild garlic, the daffodil bulbs to sustain this man’s daughter, my only chosen and true and handsome wife.

But as to my own children?  Ronalda sat safely on the south coast.  Surely a discarded dinghy and an outboard motor might be salvaged, she might propel herself with a billy-can of fuel to our people in Calais?

But Whopper’s arrival from the Leeds fun bus was now imminent.  I knew well of his hunger madness, and how as a boy I had trained him myself on the crossbow and Nerf gun.  Sure, we might feed upon cat on Christmas day, and why abuse the tradition?  But beyond solstice, and beyond a solstice beyond I needed a strategic facility, a plan to salvage the genetic blueprint.

‘Son, take a seat.’  I motioned toward the solitary seat in our living room.  ‘And wife, sit aside our Whopper, ‘I have a speech to make.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ said Whopper.

‘It won’t take long.  Drink your white lightening my laddie.’

Side by side they suckled on their straws, and as twins of the condition they exhaled and wiped their lips.

‘Ahhh,’ said Whopper.

‘Mmmm,’ said wife.

‘As you both know,’ I said and strided with my hands clasped at my back.  I paced before our mirror, paused only briefly in the pout. ‘As you both know, poverty is upon our step.  In the last months I have remained quite unemployable, and my wife, your mother, son, she has failed…’  I paused in the dramatic narration for the point to linger.  ‘She has failed to secure the fortune in IT sales solutions that was so very crucial to my plans as a world author.

‘What with government plans, and our own dwindling overdrafts, I say to you there is but one solution.’

My eyes blazed in genius.

‘Son, and wife.  We shall found this day our very own crime syndicate.  I shall commit great crimes to secure feed, and fortune’s a fodda [literary], so help me God.  So, whaddya think?’

‘Have you got a shooter, Daddy?’

‘Not yet,’ I said.  ‘Only the samurai miniature.’

My crew shook their heads in a great dismissal.

‘My fellows,’ I said, ‘I have these,’ and I showed them, showed them my big hands.

‘Look at my big hands.’

Our first crime

Since my eviction from the fraternity I have always considered how pleasurable it might be to rob surfers, or rob their vehicles specifically whilst the fools were splashing in their pursuit, or hobby.  I knew where surfers hid their keys and knew if nothing else I could at least steal their [garish] clothes.

However it was an entirely different racket or scheme that eventually led to foundation of the firm and reputation as a powerhouse of world evil.

At Christmas lunch-time the bottles of breakfast brandy were spread empty, and the neighbour’s gnome roasted in the kitchen.

‘Got a thirst?’ I said to my boy.

‘Of course, Pops,’ he said.

‘Brick and bin bag,’ I said.

He grinned like a bad baby tiger, and that was the inspiration,  200 yards away waited the window displays of the beach novelty stores, the baby tigers, the gorillas, china dogs, toby jugs, lady and her parasol, key-rings, and tiny battleships, even golden zippo lighters on a mounted display.

‘Smash it up!’ I cried and our brick blasted through the window.  Fragments sparkled like diamonds.  Meanwhile loot tumbled into our bag and away the sirens rang, and we ran too – home – up the steps and around the corner.  Piglet and spitfire were now in a marvellous diorama atop the fireplace.

I gripped the spitfire in my fingers.

‘Die you pig,’ I dribbled in such majesty.

Onwards, to phase two, a fence, e-bay and further crimes in chapter 2 only available via subscription services.  Sponsor the lineage, purchase key-rings and ornamental dogs and beer mats marked Scarborough Harbour.  All the best [my] coven, my thieves and my bitches.  Love from the master and his mind.

 

 

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