Resurrection

Chapter 21 : The Compassionate Friend

Timing was precious. Each moment was another chance to reassess, draw another breath and calculate the beautiful precision. At this second, I was watching the fearless leader (let's call him Jizzy for now) getting wailed on by a wolfpack. The battleground was merely a cobblestone alleyway tucked behind another pub: not exactly sacred ground. They ambushed him, cutting off all escape routes, leaving only a maze of cobblestones and old brick laneway, combined with a stoic wall of soldiers eager for some payback. A king-hit from behind caught the side of his head and sent him tumbling down, smacking his neck against the ground, catching a dollop of pigeon shit on his ear lobe. The boy desperately scrambled to rise back up again, only to be met with more blows delivered by multiple opponents.

Each of the pack could only be described as a male, mid thirties of Indian appearance and they were taking their time on the lad. This was the moment of revelation, the chance for Mister Miyagi to reveal the karate keys to the kingdom. To give the lad his dues, Jizzy McSkinhead was getting a few of his own in, but once the first lot of ribs cracked, he was sinking fast. It was during this particular point in time that I decided to inflict some anarchy- the first opponent went down quicker than a two dollar hooker. Cartilage ruptured from his nose as he felt an upwards open palm slamming into his face. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and the sweaty tower of meat whacked into the cement, but despite an anticipated gawking by anybody, everyone else was too busy to notice. I refused to hesitate and resisted the chance to act noble. Instead I seized the day and started laying into the back of another opponent. A quick slash with the shiv left a gaping hole in his torso, allowing him to gasp a brief moment of everything before my next cut. There was no time for delicacy, only a raw ripping of throat tissue to silence another quarry. The subcontinental wolfpack descended into darkness, leaving the two remaining counterparts to dart off into another lane. Young Jizzy pulled his arms over his head, wheezing out a mumbled cacophony of bleated gratitude through the shortness of breaths.

"Oi, thanks bruva, them curry munchers were fuckin' gunnin' for me." He graciously mumbled out between gasps.

"For starters I am not your 'bruva' but the gratitude is not necessary. I just accepted the fact that you were in trouble without my intervention. Plus do not worry, you will have a chance to make it up." I explained.

"Ay, I'm not into dat queer shit, aight?" he insisted.

"I wouldn't bother with all that African style talk. It's not becoming of you. Besides, if you look like a skinhead, perhaps you should start talking like one. Become your stereotype. Play the role the way it was meant to be." I commented.

"What the fuck are you saying?" he asked.

"Stop pretending to be stupid. Drop the act and I can help you. I'll train you up so you can really wreak some havoc."

"whatever." He murmured.

"Don't worry. You'll be hearing from me either way."

Patterns were forming, locks were tumbling and the tide of destiny was beginning to turn.

***

Darkness spread over Reading quicker than the jilted apathetic crowds of the music festival as another plan, rough and abrasive, was being contemplated.

It wasn't exactly a stalker's path which eventually led me to the hideout of Jizzy's 'gang', though the dim-witted cretin never looked around once to see me following him after his next ill-fated attempt to shoplift. I found an open window and crawled along the rooftop of an old run-down warehouse. The metal railings provided some cover as I tracked the source of raised voices. Our main pupil was attended by the most sensitive of the group- who managed to throw a rag over the top of his wounds before Jizzy slapped him away. Each one of the young skinheads used every racist slur they could muster and each vowed their revenge. It was all sadly predictable and I could imagine without intervention, these Neanderthals would slip down a dark slope into the usual outcome that awaits young men with violent tendencies with no great war to cleanse them all.

Finally, I heard a man by the name of Gary say " Izzy, seriously? What the fuck are we going to do?"

God,... Izzy. Fuck I was close.

So... Izzy was left wondering, trying not to lick his next set of wounds and tinker with a plan of action before I jumped down from the parapet and addressed the group. Just over a dozen adolescents reacted to my sudden appearance in an unfavourable manner. Gawking mouths, searing eyeballs and hands in pockets fidgeted for a sharp object while I raised my hand up and pointed at Izzy, who returned my stare with quiet gratitude more than a look of anxiety.

At least someone was happy to see me.

"Just take a look at him. It would be different if I helped him again." I interjected.

"Just who the fuck is you, geezer?" the 2IC asked.

"If you try to dance with the Devil, you'd better know how to cha-cha." I quipped.

Mister 2IC looked unamused and more than confused.

"Da fuck does that mean?"

"It means you need an education."

With nothing else to turn to, Mister 2IC merely mimicked my sentence. I don't wait for first moves. I grabbed him by the throat and started to choke the life out of the young man. To emphasise the point further, I lifted him up with one arm, letting his legs flail underneath this flapping excuse of calisthenics. Two young punks scrambled to come after me: with the remaining hand, I brandished my metallic friend, letting the Shiv cut a quick arc mid-air to hammer home the point. They faltered, long enough for Izzy to intervene.

"Oi, lads, I wouldn't bother. There was a certain currymuncher that tried that fucking trick and now he's dead by this fucking bloke's craft. Understand?"

They backed away and I let my grip go and let number Two drop to the ground like a sack of spuds.

"He's a mad fucking geezer ain't he? Look I don't think he's a Pedo, just a smegging Yoda. Let's just hear him out, ay?

Now was not the time for grandiose speeches. Though I could practically hear the musings of Tyler Durden screaming within, instead a simple gesture was needed.

"I can't say anything till we've all had a drink. My shout?"

This they were not expecting, but in a blur of activity, we shared war stories and made all the primitive bonding rituals we could over many shots. The lightweights vomited a few times when they tried the Irish car bombs- a curious mix of Guinness, Kilkenny cream and Jameson's whisky- and I gleefully gained all manner of confessions from these neo-punk rubes. The cathartic response to drinking worked twofold- my new friends were enjoying some free drinks and I was playing my best game of poker, studying each mark for all their weaknesses. Pint after pint of amber liquid poured down our gullets yet I was truly the inebriated one. Sobriety was a screaming bitch none of us wanted to wake up next to.

****

Unlike my peers, I came back quicker from a night dancing with the drink than anybody. Demonic qualities are normally associated with otherworldly powers, yet it was perfectly amusing to me that holding my liquor was a superpower within itself. When I came to, I was greeted by a flock of pigeons loitering outside the window, pecking over scraps of fried food dropped by numerous guffawing teen customers.

I left them all to nurse their hangovers while I got to work.