Weird Reads

Henry Pinchgut

Henry Pinchgut was raised in the Dublin slums. Around the corner from Henrietta Street, Europes biggest slum, was the Italian quarter of Smithfield.

He knew every stone and alley, every hawker and scumbag, every dark street in the North side of the fair city.

A tall, good looking man with a penchant for riding street horses late at night. Many the harmless vagrant were run over and trampled to death as Henry  galloped his piebald down North King street into the early hours. He could turn that horse on a sixpence, with the deft assurance one would normally expect to see in an Apache or Commanche warrior from North America.

North America would beckon one day but for now it was the mean streets of Dublin that tried to contain him.

Everyone knew he had a brain and could recite his Shakespeare as well as the Bard himself. In his own mind he was a MacDuff ready to take on the Macbeths and weird sisters of life.

An incident in secondary school which he evaded suspicion of set him on the road to criminality.

Brother Lugnaciois was patrolling the school corridors that fateful day. 'The Lug' as the schoolboys called him behind his back was a vicious bastard. A Christian Brother with a passion for violence and intimidation. His leather strap hung from his swaggering hips like a gunslinger from the Old West and many's the hand he welted with pure savagery. Lug's favourite torment though was to pull a young school lads ear and lift them up off the ground in one horror filled moment.

Henry had the misfortune to be returning from the school toilets and was confronted by Lug. For no reason other than the infliction of base terror Lug grabbed him by his sideburns and twisted his ears for good measure.

It was expected from Lug and retaliation meant sustained torment.

Henry pulled a flickknife from his waistband and slashed Lug under his left eye. It took a moment for Lug to realise what had happened.

Stunned at the emerging pain and gush of blood from his face, Lug went into a rage.

That was when Henry's father's tutelage came to his mind.

'Always remember, Son, a swift kick to the lower nether regions will stop a racehorse'

And Lug became that racehorse in that very instance of thought.

He reared up to grab Henry by the throat when the kick landed to his nether regions.

First he went purple then green then a fury arouse on his countenance. With what must have been a testimony to the power to retain control in extreme pain Lug lunged at him for revenge.

Henry  knew it was a life or death moment. He deliberately and calmly drew the knife across Lugs throat. Even that was not enough.

From his pocket he took out his pistol. A silencer had been fitted.

The horror with which Lug's eyes met Henry's was one of disbelief.

'You dirty toe rag!' Henry uttered and pulled the trigger.

Lug's head exploded in a spray of red death.

At all times Henry had retained his composure. He had opened the door to the underworld and eagerly walked through.

In time the world would come to know of the foul exploits of Henry Pinchgut. Only a few close friends would ever know who murdered the bastard Lugs.

He would lie low for a while and it would be some time before Dublin was shook by another murder. This murder would be the one that placed Henry firmly in the gaze of the police.

For now he smoked a cigar of Cuban origin and felt proud of his efforts. He allowed himself a smile as he recalled Lug's terrified and confused countenance.

'You had it coming you bastard' he thought as he held his war trophy.

The leather strap which would never again inflict pain on a schoolboys hand.