PULL IN ‘ERE
A shot so up-and-down it may as well be taken on a cruise ship during a thunderstorm. Johnny Brown is shouting orders from the back while holding his screwed up t-shirt onto a pile of blood and flesh in the back seat. The shot swings around to the rat-faced driver as he gives it all he can to swerve right, drawing loud blasts of horn from angry drivers who are forced to slam on their breaks as they are cut up. I-Phone meets floor thanks to gravity and a div in the car’s passenger seat not being ready for a sharp turn onto a petrol forecourt. Several fumbles and a few intelligible curse words later the smart phone is recovered, just in time to see Johnny Brown diving out of the car. He runs into the station shop with his hand out-stretched. The fact he is half covered in blood doesn’t sit well with the attendant who clams up quicker than a virgin at a prom.
JB: Give me the effin’ bog NOW!
With the key in hand Johnny dashes back, nuts an angry driver who was stupid enough to try and give Brown ‘a piece of his mind’ for his friends dangerous driving. The aforementioned dangerous driver leaps out to put the boots, or rather his gaudy trainers to the fallen road rager. True Brit opens the driver side rear door to grab his bloodied ‘Bruvver from another mother’ and drag him towards the toilet. He unlocks the door and drags his friend inside. The toilet clearly hasn’t been cleaned in the past hour despite the sign.
JB: Stu! Stu! Stay with me man. I’ll get you all the claret of ya and check the damage. You wait 'til I get me hands on the foreign ba$tard I’ll---
I-phone guy: Why didn’t ya fight him then John? I don’t get it? He called ya out an; ya let Stu take the hit?
Torn between dropping Stu on the pi$$-covered floor and smacking I-phone guy, as hit guilt is set to maximum he holds on to Stu.
JB: You don’t get it do ya? I aint gonna fight fer nowt! Long gone are the days when I’ll fight fer pride when I get cold hard cash fer it. That turnip eating gypo may have ta do that shit in the motherland but her in the civilised west we don’t. I’ll fight him in the ring, if he makes it. That shot I gave him dropped him.
I-phone guy: Dat was a wicked blindside bruv ya messed him up good. And he probably busted his ‘and on Stu’s bonehead, there’s no way he’ll beat ya now.
JB: Yer a c**t Darren, who said he was gonna beat me before? An’ why are ya filming this, turn that f**king phone off.
I-phone guy: You told me to get a vid of Stu kicking the ruskies arse.
JB: He’s Romanian ya tw*t an’ does Stu look like he’s kicked someone arse. I SAID TURN IT THA F**K OFF
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Wounds are covered, blood is cleaned up. Stu Smith has finally regained full consciousness. Johnny has his hands on ice. Sat in a white vest, joggers and day-glo white trainers Johnny is staring into nothing. Darren (I-phone guy) has his camera in hand zooming in and out on the True Brit’s scowl.
IPG: Talk ta me geezer, ya look pi$$ed? Stu’s ok Ivan the Terrible is probs in hospital, everything’s gravy.
JB: Dazza yer a bloody tool. Do ya think I’m worried about Stu? He knows his place, I’m the star on the rise; he’s had his chance an’ he stuffed it. Do yerself a favour if ya want to ride the Brown Train shut yer mouth an’ point the camera.
The sneer; accented with a raised fist, firmly puts a period at the end of the statement. Johnny snatches up his aviators, slaps his own face to get into game mode. Like someone had flicked a switch the ‘GB wrestling machine’ whole body and look changes.
JB: Alek…. Ya have balls, they may be deformed due to Chernobyl swelling them to nuclear nutz but ya defiantly got ‘em.
We both love ta drink an’ fight, we are both bad asses in our own worlds, but the difference is I’m a bad ass in any world. Ya may not have realised it yet but your out of ya depth. Earlier I gave ya a taste of what ya have to come.
Ya challenged me to step inta your turf and not only did I walk inta the lions den I stuck a thorn in ya paw just to pi$$ ya off.
At London’s Brawling yer gonna be in my world, before a True Brit crowd. The fact that you signed on the dotted line for this match; should earn ya respect.
Yet I do not respect you… hanging around with marks, playing with dolls? Drinking vodka?
Do yerself a favour son, take me seriously. The office clearly don’t see my greatness, one week after being in the quarter finals of the SCW title shot tourney I’m jerking the curtain.
Lucky fer them they don’t have ta step inta the ring wiv me, you do. Look past me Union Jacks, ignore the accent keep yer eye on me!
Me boots are gonna stomp ya, me fists are gonna pound ya, I’ll tie ya up in knots.
I’ll spilt that Roman nose across ya face, I’ll hit ya so hard ya left eye’ll be ‘roaming’ on way an the right eye’ll go the other.
The few people that can understand yer pigeon English will be lost when I break yer jaw, ya better eat all the swan ya can now cos when I knock out everyone of yer stinkin’ teeth out you hafta suck down Ciorba fer the rest of yer life, which if ya don’t learn ya place wont be very long.
That’s what you want tho isn’t it Koji? You want us to make a mark on Sin-C-Dub.
What was it you said “Violence on this level gets carved into your mind and you can’t shake it.”; will our match be stuff nightmares are made of.? The bloody gladiatorial games of ancient Rome will pale in comparison. Blood will be spilt, sinew ripped from bone.
We won’t need tridents, swords or nets, we can battle with what the good lord gave us. This is assuming you believe in God, you foreign gypo’s are a strange bunch.
IPG: Not cool man, ya know me and Stu are travellers too, you pretty much the closest thing there is an’ all bruv.
JB: I have never had a house that was on wheels Daz, but you’re right I respect the culture of you and your brethren, it’s the foreign ones that come hear to eat road kill, carp and swans; f**king savages, they give ya a bad name. How do they earn their cash? You lot tarmac drives, sell scrap metal or trim trees back, honest work. Sure ya don’t bother asking if old folk want their drives done or their trees cut but so what! They cant take their money with ‘em. As fer all the metal you steal… its like Robin Hood you steal from the fat cat insurance companies and spend the cash on cider. If it was a few hundred years ago bards would sing about it.
Alek and his ilk may lay claim ta being true Romani and its your lot that have marred their image but I say you’ve taken it to a new level, ya don’t eat wild life and sell clothes peg, yer mum never read tea leaves. They’re savages look what they did ta Stu, we live by a code; 'The Travellers Code'.
We fight for honour and money, but mainly honour, they fight cos they’re idiots. Drinking voddy and talking weird.
Go get a hair cut, have a shave and learn ta speak proper f’kin’ English like what I does.
This place is only big enough fer one tough European Bastard who lives his life on tha open road, an’ that’s me. While you hang around mark fans in crappy RV’s I hit the road on my Triumph.
We’re night. an’ day, opposite end of the same scale. You are a scummy rough edged brawler, I’m a highly skilled, highly trained fighter.
I didn’t train in the Snakepit to fight in car parks with dirty immigrants, you may have reached your peak when you name was linked to mine, but fer me you’ve dragged me down to the gutter.
I was battling fer a shot at the big gold belt an’ now cos of you I’m virtually jerking the curtain. In you little “promo” you asked for to bring my rage.
As the saying goes be careful what you wish for, cos not only am I going to bring my rage, I’m going to bring the rage of a nation that is sick and tired of you and yer kind coming to our nation and taking our jobs, homes and women.
People like you that step to the front of the line and take opportunities that we were destined for. For every disgruntled factory worker… for every unemployed builder or nurse that has been under-cut by cheap foreign labour I’m gonna crush you.
This nation… my nation is behind me, normally I would reject their help but sometimes you hate someone so much; enemies become united.
So take this as my call to arms!
Chavs, Goths, single mums, middle class tw*ts, stuck-up rich d*ckheads… even students come to London’s Brawling buy me merch to show your support. Scream abuse at Alek let all of your hatred and bigotry out at him. Allow all of your pent up anger to flow. Then when I have beaten him buy some more merch then go back to yer hovels to celebrate my victory!
But don’t speak to me or try and touch me… I don’t like that, my point is Alek I have a nation of millions to watch my back.
Who do you have? A few stinkin’ Romani? You don’t have a chance. The gulf between your punching cows as training and me fighting the best in the world is astounding.
Its like… well its like the difference between Britain and Romania; a great nation that has shaped the world against a backward buncha farmers. I will here and now categorically state…
YOU WILL NOT BEAT ME!
When I am finished with you at London’s Brawling you will look back at our little clash at the barn and wished it went differently.
Instead of you getting yer arse kicked we can go behind the barn, I could nip back to Dazza’s ride get me shotgun. You can stand at the barn flicking yer hair and showing off yer 80’s patch work jacket… I’ll load one barrel… you can crack you knuckles and make garbled threats… I’ll load the second barrel… then ill snap the chambers in place, look ya in yer cross eyes an’ blow yer chuffin’ brains out!
As gruesome at that may sound; after the pain and humiliating defeat I give ta ya you will wish I put you out of yer misery behind that barn; just think in an instant yer pain will be over.
Now that moment has gone you are left with no choice but ta step inta the 6-sided ring with me.
Afta our match I kick yer arse so bad ya gonna crawl back home with yer tail between the legs. That’s a victory fer me cos not only do I move up the ladder back towards Nick Jones and I get rid of another immigrant scrounger.
It’s a win win!
Aloud knock at the caravan door stops the Johnny in his tracks. A loud Irish accent bellows through the wall
Open this feckin’ door, I know that ba$tard Johnny Brown is in there!
Darren jumps up and opens the door, his camera still filming. He is greeted by a bald fat man wearing a stained white vest. He barges in shoving Dazza backwards over a chair. Darren stays quiet on his arse on the kitchenette floor.
JB: Good evening Billy, always a pleasure. What’s brings you here this fine day? I don’t think the SCW fans would understand your Irish brawl.
Billy: Don’t ya get smart with me ya ba$tard. I heard what ya did! Ya broke The Travellers Code. You allowed someone else ta take a challenged made ta ya then ya suckered punched him an’ beat him up.
Johnny stands up, he swaggers over to Billy then pats his Billy’s ample gut.
JB: Pure relaxed muscle eh Bill? By the start of ya I guess your one pulse away from a heart attack, so I’ll make this easy for ya. Get out of my face and watch yer tone.
Sensing the storm coming Darren slips out of the door, or rather tried to but cant as he is met by a wall of tattooed travellers. There is so much cheap gold Elizabeth Duke would ne jealous. Bill stands to one side and lets Johnny see the mass of humanity outside.
Billy: You’ve pushed ya luck this time Johnny. Now get out and don’t grace any of our doors again. Yer expelled from our society.
JB: Yer picking a stinkin’ foreigner over me, well f*ck you very much. I’ll show everyone on ya interbred gypo’s that I don’t need any of ya.. Alek is going home in a body bag. Then p’haps I’ll come back and take Billy’s position as King of the Gypsies.
Go on, one of ya make a move…. I’m not picky… Billy, Dazza, Alek or any of ya…
The first ta step up is gonna get their effin head kicked in.
