Read Online Rant by Alfie Crow - Free Book Online Page A

often. The traffic is appalling, as usual, and I can feel a creeping road rage wafting in through the windows and infecting me. I feel like putting my foot down and smashing everything else off the road. I could do it too, as the off-road tank that we’ve stolen probably wouldn’t suffer any more damage than a high-speed train hitting an ASBO kid. It would probably be about as morally questionable, too. I don’t mention any of this to my passengers though, as I don’t want to give them any more ammunition for hating me. Especially now that one of them has a gun pointed at my head.
    We’re driving through a rather upmarket area of the city and I begin to relax a little. Hopefully this “friend” of my “friend” is a fairly civilized chap, whatever his murky background.
    Then, surprise, surprise, everything begins to change. The shops become seedier, the houses more run down, and every corner seems to harbour a young man in a hoodie, twitching and shuffling and generally being furtive.
    Once civilisation has completely disappeared over the murky green horizon, I’m instructed to turn off the main road and up a side street that looks like something out of Oliver Twist. A group of white Rastafarians with a combined hairdo resembling a dried-out cornfield glare at us lazily as we park.
    â€˜Go and knock on the door,’ says Uncle Sam from the back seat.
    I start to protest but he jabs the gun into the back of my head and rasps, ‘Just do it.’
    I get out of the car.
    As I cross to the pavement one of the scarecrows wanders over. He is short and fat and has bare feet. He looks like Frodo Baggins might have looked if the forces of good hadn’t prevailed.
    â€˜Black, E’s, H, acid?’ he asks, in a bored Somersetshire voice.
    â€˜What?’ I ask.
    â€˜Coke?’ he says, ‘Whizz?’
    â€˜What do you take me for?’ I ask
    He looks me up and down.
    â€˜How about some nail polish remover?’ he asks. ‘You can take it home an’ have a good sniff, innit like. Loser.’
    I lean into his face. ‘Take a good look in the car behind me, Drug Lord of the Rings. The fat guy with the pissed-off face and the bandage around his head is an undercover government agent with a very big gun. Now, if you don’t disappear in the next five seconds he may well shoot you. If he doesn’t, he’ll definitely shoot me, and I’m not making any promises that you won’t get caught in the crossfire. Now, piss off.’
    He stares at me for a second. ‘You need some valium,’ he says quietly. ‘I can do you a good price.’
    I have to admit I’m sorely tempted, but there is a sharp clacking noise and we both look around to see Sam tapping the car window with the barrel of the gun and smiling cheerfully. When I look around Worzel Gummidge and his scarefriends are hoofing it up the road.
    I walk up to the front door of the flat like John Wayne with nappy rash. I don’t know what to expect. Some old guys like Sam, maybe. Some geriatric spy who might be able to help us track down who these madmen are, before they kill us/kill my wife/have us kill someone/kill my chances of ever appearing on Coronation Street .
    So imagine my surprise when the door opens to reveal a stunningly beautiful blonde Bond-girl type and the biggest, muscliest, most Nazi-esque human being I have ever laid eyes on. He looks like a fridge-freezer with arms. Both of them are holding very large automatic weapons, pointed at me. And neither one of them is smiling.
    â€˜Hello,’ I squeak.
    I think about pretending to be a Jehovah’s Witness, but on balance I figure it would only increase my chances of being shot.
    â€˜I’m with Sam,’ I say. No response. I jerk my head backwards and their guns flick up a couple of inches. Needless to say, this does little to calm me down. ‘Sam Smith. Sam’s in the car,’ I croak.