Read Online I Love My Smith and Wesson by David Bowker - Free Book Online Page A

sleep in a dustbin?”
    â€œYou fucking what?”
    â€œI never said anything about you eating cockroaches off the floor.”
    The Scouser drew back his arm to launch a long-distance idiot swipe. While his arm was fully extended, Brando hit him. It didn’t look like an especially hard blow, but the effect was impressive. The stricken man froze; his eyes rolled; he opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, then tottered around in concentric circles until he fell over.
    His friend helped him up, spitting threats: “Youse bastards are gonna regret this. We’ve got mates in high places.”
    â€œYeah. High-rise tower blocks with shit down the walls.”
    When things were quiet again, Rawhead asked Brando where he’d learned to fight.
    â€œI got corrupted by television.”
    â€œMe, too.”
    â€œTV is destroying our culture. It always has done. All those medieval torturers that caused unspeakable agony to millions—do you think they were self-taught? No way. They got all their ideas off the TV. Same with Hitler, same with Genghis Khan. None of these guys would have hurt a living soul if it weren’t for television.”
    â€œI agree. So why are you working as a doorman?”
    â€œI’m a complete fuckup,” said Brando. He unwrapped a stick of gum and chewed it thoughtfully. “What’s your excuse?”
    Rawhead just looked at him.
    â€œActually,” said Brando, “I just got out of the sadhouse. Six months for burglary. Can you believe that?”
    â€œEasily.”
    â€œBut don’t tell Malc. He doesn’t employ criminals.”
    â€œYou don’t find him a little, well, simple?”
    â€œListen. Where I’ve been, someone like Malc would be classed as a fucking genius. You ever been inside?”
    â€œOnce.”
    â€œThere are guys in there who could have been great world leaders if they’d only had a stable home life.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œNo. But there are guys in there who could definitely open a can of beans after seven months’ intensive training.”
    â€œYou haven’t got much heart,” observed Rawhead. “I like that.”
    Brando looked Rawhead up and down as if he’d made up his mind to like him. “Abraham. That’s your name, right?”
    Rawhead nodded. “But you can call me Stoker.”
    â€œAbraham was a prophet. You believe in God?”
    â€œYeah. I believe in God,” said Rawhead. “What about you?”
    Brando shrugged. “Man, I sleep in a fucking car. I’ve got no money, no woman. I’m near rock bottom. But I’m not so far down that I’ll start praying to a fucking pancake in the sky.”
    â€œHave you considered going back to burglary?”
    â€œI can’t pretend it hasn’t crossed my mind.”
    â€œWould you like to work for me?”
    â€œWhat as? Your butler?”
    A great roar of laughter rose up behind them. Koo La Grace had just told a joke about asylum seekers.
    Rawhead never got round to answering Brando’s question. A taxi pulled up outside the club. Two drunken men staggered out, accompanied by two giggling women. On closer inspection the two drunks turned out to be weasel-faced bruisers in their thirties. They had similar red faces, nasty little eyes, and worryingly low foreheads. “Evening gentlemen,” said Brando, waving them through.
    â€œWhat a polite little nigger,” said the leading weasel. His brother guffawed. One of the women laughed. The other was embarrassed, but not embarrassed enough to walk away.
    â€œWhy’d you let them in?” said Rawhead, watching the party laughing and farting their way through the entrance hall.
    â€œThe Medina brothers. Friends of Chef’s,” said Brando.
    â€œDid you hear what he said to you?”
    â€œDon’t act so surprised, man. That’s nothing. Try six months in Strangeways. In there, even the prison