A Bad Case of Barnes

Prologue: Beer, Barnes and bad news

Jason chugged his beer as he silently listened to the other two guys he was drinking with. He was new to being a London taxi driver, and he wanted to get to know every little cabbie tip to help him. The problem was that the only experienced taxi drivers he knew were Phil - a short, fat 54 year old  grump with a white moustache and a jockey cap to hide his bald head, who knew everything about the city streets but nothing about the modern world, and Peter - a middle aged, bespectacled, lean chap with terribly dyed hair who would endlessly rant about anything and everything. But eccentric as they both were, Jason put up with their whims, as their stories were very entertaining and almost always helpful.

So, as it always was on every Saturday night, they were at the "Drunken Pelican" pub of Hampstead for a chilled pint and some chitchat. Of course, the two older ones always did most of the talking - Jason just listened and soaked in their "knowledge".

"So basically, if the bloke's drunk and comin' out of a night club, don't ever take him in, or he'll puke his guts out on your seats. Ain't that right, Phil?" Peter was chattering.

"That's bloody right," Phil growled in agreement.

Jason nodded unenthusiastically, bored by the pointless discussion. Well, you learn something new every day, he thought.

"Now, if it's a girl, you can't be too sure. She might doze off, or start weepin', right? Or," he added with a wink, "she might even get a bit naughty with you," he smirked.

Phil chortled with laughter, sounding like an alcoholic dog.

"Yeah..." Peter said with dreamy eyes, "There was this one time...this drunk chick hops in, all dressed up, right? And after three blocks, she..."

Jason groaned silently, drifting away from the conversation. This was one of those boring evenings, where both of them would yap about any damn thing in the world.

Jason was only 26 - his taxi earned him a decent amount, and he loved the job - the variety of passengers, the crazy rush, and no controlling, dominating authority - it was perfect for him. By the time he got old, he would have plenty of stories to tell his grandchildren.

He would have sailed away in his thoughts, but was snapped back to the present when he heard Peter blabbing about someone punching someone.

"...the smart arse tells him he'll give him fifty quid if he brags to his girlfriend about him, fake stuff, like how cool he is and crap like that. But you know what Alf does? He says, 'If you were man enough, you wouldn't lie to your gal, you two-faced wimp.'. Now the young man doesn't like that, does he? So he says some codswallop to Alf, right? So old Alf gets out, pulls the whelp from behind and BAM! Whacks him right across the face with his fist!"

Phil shook his head. "Shouldn'ta done that."

"Can't expect more from old Alf. Coulda earned fifty pounds for nothin'...but no...the old fart wants ta piss the guy off, doesn't he?"

"Barmy old twatt, if you ask me. But he got away with it," Phil said.

Jason was feeling lost. "Who're we talking about?"

Peter looked at him blankly, as if it was the most stupid question ever asked. "You lost it, mate? I'm talkin' about Alfie!"

Jason was nonplussed. Nor had he heard of any "Alfie", neither did he understand why the both of them were looking at him like he'd lost his marbles.

He asked in the most polite manner he could, "Ummm...Who's Alfie?"

Peter looked like someone had burnt his house down.

"Who's Alfie? Who's Alfie? He's a legend, he is. The toughest cabbie ever. No one crosses paths with old Alfred Barnes."

Jason raised his eyebrows in amused disbelief. Phil, however, grunted and shook his head in disagreement.