RE: Any creative writers around here?
24 January 2010 16:14
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A GOOD NIGHT IN THE CELLS
The pills weren’t mine, I was only holding them for Floater, he had taken half the bag and headed to flog them at The Clock. I said I would stay put drinking round the back of the Grange and hold onto the rest until he came back, he said I could take one so I took one, I was just supposed to hold onto the rest until Floater came back in a couple of hours or so. I continued smoking and drinking and began to feel the buzz, good pills, blue Ferraris, made your blood pump as fast as the actual car. Everything was going ok until someone yelled that the bears were coming, this threw the whole Grange Park into chaos, people were stashing beer under bushes, tossing drugs as far as possible, the underage were running to hide and some people just ran and never came back. I optioned to toss my lump of hash into a distinctive bush, which I would easily remember later, the pills were a different story. If the bag was tossed without any specific planning then it could easily be spotted by a cunt cop or there was a chance it would be completely lost, since I was buzzing, the latter sounded much worse. I figured that if the pills get lost, destroyed or confiscated I was going to hold the blame and Floater would want money from me, I decided to eat the whole bag, six in total, not counting the one that was currently bubbling in my brain. I was in the process of washing them down with a gulp of Dutch Gold lager when some fuzz shone a torch in my face, blinding me.
‘Stop! Halt! What are you doing?’ Barked the harsh voice of authority. I knew they didn’t see me swallowing the pills so my only offence was drinking a beer.
‘I'm only drinking a beer, man, what’s your problem?’ I responded. The R.U.C did not like to be called ‘man’ or asked what their problem was; these bastards had a lot of problems.
‘Is that you, Anthony?’ Came a familiar voice from behind the torch. He stepped forward; it was Burns, ‘Saggy Balls’ Burns, the head constable of the Omagh drug squad. This guy had known me since I was thirteen, he was always trying to catch me with something incriminating, he knew who my friends were so he thought I was either a possible dealer or a possible snitch, I knew I was neither and today I was clean and cocky.
‘Well, Burns? How’s the wife?’ I said this as I took a swig of my beer. I knew this question would piss him off as, rumour had it, his wife had left him when it was discovered he had been receiving blow-jobs from numerous gays in the infamous toilets beside the Dozy-Chain bar, they say that he was there so often that the gays had sucked his balls dry, hence the name ‘Saggy Balls’. He got right in my face.
‘Don’t talk about my wife ye wee fuck-stick! There’s no cameras’ watching us right now. What the fuck are ye doin’ out here?’
‘I’m only drinkin’ a beer, chill out.’ I regretted saying this as soon as I said it, I was spangled, and I was getting more spangled on the idea that I had six times more spangled-ness coming my way. I drank from my beer, I noticed that a little crowd had gathered, only the curious youngsters, the older boys had the sense to stay away, they were all holding. A crowd was bad for me; the R.U.C did not like to be made fools of in public. Burns got agitated and slapped the beer can out of my hand, causing me to spill its contents on my favourite black hoodie.
‘What the fuck, man? You can’t do that!’ I protested. Burns stepped up and violently turned me around, he took my blue bag of Dutch Gold and tossed it to the ground before slapping on the handcuffs.
‘Drinking in a public area, drunk and disorderly, loitering.’ Then he pointed to my busted beers on the ground. ‘And littering. I think a night in the cells will suffice.’
Fucker. There was no point in arguing; it would only give him more reason to give me a hard time. A night in the cells is suffice considering I have a bag of pills stashed in my stomach and if found out, could result in a lot more, harsher punishment. The youngsters watched in awe as I was taken away in shackles, I knew some of them had seen me swallow the pills, I was now a god to these kids, I was bad-ass, they’ll never fuck with me, which is good because there’s nothing more embarrassing than getting beat up by your friend’s little brother’s friend. The older boys could breath a little easier now.
As soon as I was put in the paddy-wagon I felt a cold chill go right down my spine, a beautiful tingling sensation rippled through my whole body, my right leg began to bounce rapidly and I was getting dry, we took off for the cop-shop. I managed to keep it cool and luckily for me it was only a short drive to the station, it wasn’t until after I signed all the paperwork, handed over my pockets and confessed to all my crimes was I left in the cell and fell slumped in a heap on the floor, smacking out badly. I was jacksoned, out of it, off my rocker, I was gurning, sweating, chewing my face and spazzing out on the cell floor, the smooth cell floor, I was rubbing myself against it and enjoying it, I was in ecstasy.
‘Are ye alright there, chief?’ Came a husky voice from the cell next to me, I knew this voice too. It was Arty G, the towns only celebrity, a washed up rock star from the sixties now a brain dead busker still high from a trip he took over thirty years ago. There were thousands of legends surrounding Arty, no one seems to know exactly what he did in his past, according to the rumours he had played with Deep Purple in Japan, opened for The Beatles in Germany, knocked out Jim Morrison in Hollywood, gave Ozzy his first acid in Cornwall, wrote ‘Tangled Up In Blue’ for Bob Dylan, broke in Janice Joplin, refused to play at Woodstock, served time in San Quentin, died at least eight times and consumed every known type of drug under the sun, there is no actual proof of any of this but the guy is still a legend, I’d rather not find out the truth. I got up quickly. I noticed that Arty still had his guitar, he was banged up every weekend and the police had stopped searching him and confiscating his belongings, even the filth had respect for Sir Arthur Mc Gonnigle.
‘Arty, man, sing me a song, quick!’ Without any thought what so ever Arty began to sing in his husky, abused voice what sounded like ‘Smoke On The Water’ but I wasn’t sure, my ears were just as wasted as my brain. I was digging it big time, I began dancing and so did Arty, I began beat-boxing along to the music, occasionally throwing in a ‘That’s fuckin’ lethal, man!’ or ‘Fuckin’ quality, man!’ When Arty had finished the first number I begged him for more.
‘I need a wee bit of inspiration first, young squire.’ Said Arty as he produced a half eaten sheet of acid from the inside of his guitar, he took a bite out of the sheet and handed it to me, I took my bite and gave it back, then I nestled down into drug comfort to enjoy the rest of my own personal concert from Arty G. Arty and I were left to it for the rest of the night and he went through numerous hits including ‘Arty G Shot The Sheriff’, ‘Sympathy For The G’ and ‘Arty Stardust’, I was in drug heaven, I wore myself out from dancing to the rhythm of my heartbeat, which was quite hectic. We must have jammed for the good period of six hours, finishing on a few barbershop acappellas, then I guess we both fell asleep, don’t ask me how.
We were both rudely awakened at the crack of dawn and for more that a second I had forgotten I was in a police cell, I thought the young officer of the law was my father waking me up for school. It took a while but eventually Arty and myself were chucked out of the joint. I lead Arty back to the Grange Park and it wasn’t long before I recovered my rain soaked lump of hash, it was still smokeable, so as Arty played I skinned up a fat doobie foe the swinging sixties, we dropped more acid and got stoned well into the evening....
(This is not written by me, my mates brother wote it. Just wanted to see what you all thought of it?)
