Whatever Happened to Lucky Eric

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WHATEVER HAPPENED TO LUCKY ERIC Luke James I once played Lucky Eric in John Godber’s Bouncers in San Francisco. Recently, I found myself wondering, whatever happened to Lucky Eric? Pull up a beer keg, make yourself comfortable, have a wee nip of this, and I’ll tell you.  Lucky Eric is sitting at a booth in the back of the empty club nursing an after hours scotch. Jimmy The Con slides onto the seat next to him and sets down his orange juice. He looks at Lucky Eric and notices Eric’s also nursing a black eye along with his scotch. “Stone me, what happened to you?” Jimmy is doing a bad job of not grinning. Lucky Eric is not amused. “Some punk. Lucky punch.” “Yeah? Not for you.” “Yeah. Showing off to his chick. I wasn’t letting the little sod in. Never saw it coming. Popped me right in the eye. And ran off like a fuckin’ rabbit.” “Well … “ Jimmy is still smiling. Lucky Eric turns to him. “It’s not funny.” “No. Course not. Hey, it happens.” “Time was I’d have grabbed that fist and crushed every bone in his hand before he got within six inches of my face.” “Yeah, well you had an off night. That’s all.” “No. It’s not just that.” He turns to Jimmy. “You know how old I am?” “No.”

“Forty eight. You think this is any kind of life for a middle aged man? Working the door. Lousy pay, tired all the time, idiots taking shots at you?” “C’mon, it’ll be okay. Have another.” Lucky Eric stares into his glass. “Little shit got to corner, dropped his trousers, and mooned me.” “Jesus.” says Jimmy under his breath.  As the punter steps toward the door, a figure flies straight out, horizontal, right past the side of his head and smashes face first into the frozen ground. Jimmy The Con looms through the doorway like Satan’s fungus. “And fuckin’ stay out!” he yells at the crumpled figure, who is now moaning, blood pooling around his head on the icy sidewalk. Jimmy The Con turns and stalks back into the club, headed for the dressing room. “Alright, men?” The band look up at the mass of muscle that is Jimmy The Con as he squeezes himself in through the dressing room door. “Hi Jimmy!” they chorus with an enthusiasm sadly lacking in their music. “Now, listen lads, I’ll take good care of you. Nobody messes with one of my bands.” Jimmy perches himself on the edge of a rickety table. “I ever tell you one of the best ways to handle someone?” Jimmy asks them. He holds up a muscle-bound index finger. “You take this and shove it up the fucker’s nose.” Jimmy chuckles.

“As far as it’ll go.” he says, as if suggesting a new arrangement for their opening number. Four sets of bloodshot eyes are focused on his raised digit. “Believe me, he’s gonna follow you wherever you go. So, you lead him around for a while and then steer him into this.” He smacks his index finger up against a fist the size of small table. “There’ll be no trouble after that.” He says and grins. So, anyone gives you any shit before, during, or after the set, don’t worry. I’ll be there. Ain’t no one fucks with my bands.”  “So I said to Sting, I saw her first you peroxide ponce!” Lobster Ron says. The girl yawns and opens her purse. “Who?” she asks. They’re sitting at a table at the back of the club. It is after hours. “So then Andy comes into the dressing room and - what do you mean who?’ She squints at her phone and starts thumbing the keypad. She looks up at Ron, still working on her message. “Stink.” She says, “what was he? A punk rocker?” “Not exactly.” Ron mutters. “How old did you say you were?” “Hmmm?” she’s back to staring at her phone, “I didn’t.” Ron takes pull on his beer and stares into the darkened club. “Oh Sting?” the girl asks. Ron’s face lights up. “Yes! So anyway I says to him-” “I think my Mom listens to him. Or my gran.” Ron slowly lowers his head into his hands. 

Lucky Eric is sitting cross-legged at the foot of a peeling eucalyptus tree, in a grove of trees up in the Lickey Hills. He is dressed in a black Samurai robe, a long scabbard lies in his lap. His eyes are closed, he is breathing deeply, sunlight glints on the sweat of his brow and shaved head. His eyes spring open and he flows to his feet, fixing the scabbard to his belt as he moves. He stares across the clearing at a shop window dummy about twenty yards away. He draws a breath and starts to move across the clearing, the ankle-length robe making him appear to float, he accelerates toward the mannequin. A few feet from his target, he draws the sword with a fluid motion and sweeps it in a sideways arc from his shoulder, pirouetting as he passes the dummy. The dummy’s head topples and rolls across the ground. Before it has stopped moving Lucky Eric has sheathed the sword. He bows to the headless dummy, A flock of ravens burst startled from the trees, cawing in imitation of a passing siren. Eric’s eyes spring open, he doesn’t know where he is, something about a sword and a dummy. Outside a siren doplers away into the mornings despair. Eric rolls out of bed and shivers along the lino to the bathroom. As he pees, he stares at the haggard, wreckage of his reflection in the mirror and swears, tonight no drinking after work. Maybe he’ll go to the gym instead. Yeah, and maybe St. Peter needs help on the Pearly Gates.  Lucky Eric and Lobster Ron are seated at the bar hunched over drinks, exhausted. It’s 2.30AM on Christmas Day. Behind them the glass and bottle collectors crash and rattle their trays as they clear the tables of empties. AC/DC are on the highway to hell and the bar staff are at the registers cashing out and bickering over the tips. “Rough night.” Eric tells his drink. Ron offers Eric a cigarette.

“Yeah it was a long one Eric. Bit like that gig we did in-“ “Please Ron.” Eric interrupts, “Not now, mate. Alright?” One of the cleaners, a beanpole kid with jug handle ears and a painful pizza complexion pushes a broom past them. “Could be worse, I suppose.” Ron says, “Look at that poor sod.” At the far end of the bar two drunken girls are balanced precariously on their bar stools, propped against each other. They suddenly erupt into cackling laughter. “What a filthy laugh.” Ron says. Lucky Eric casts a jaundiced glance in their direction. “Tommy and Billy’ll be alright later, then.” he says, “As usual.” “Right. If they ever stop arguing over their tips.” “Dunno, Ron. Them slappers look a bit the worse for drink to me. Like they could pass out any minute. Or throw up. Not that Tommy or Billy would be fussed either way.” “How come we don’t get tips?” Ron asks “Not fair that.” “Don’t fry bacon in the nude.” Lucky Eric says. “You what?’ “There’s a pretty good tip for you.” “Or stick your willy in a blender.” Ron says. “No Ron, that’s more what I’d call just plain common sense. You dim cunt.” “Here, I found this at the back of the dance floor.” One of the glass collectors is standing at the bar waving something at the bar staff. “What should I do with it?” It looks for all the world like a prosthetic leg. Billy looks over at her. “Hop it!” he yells. Everybody groans loudly and Billy grins like a Cheshire cat on e. Suddenly a manic voice singing “Love in an elevator ...” horribly flat and screechy, cuts over AC/DC’s Big Balls. Eric and Ron don’t even turn from contemplating their drinks.

“Here’s Jimmy then. Back from the back room.” Lucky Eric says. “Alright Jimmy?” “Going dowwwwwwwn.” Jimmy finishes. “Alright indeed men!” He stands beside them supporting a girl so drunk she has one eye closed, squinting furiously through the other. Every now and then she licks her lips. Jimmy flies are open. “Your mouth’s open Jimmy,” Lucky Eric says, “careful your brains don’t catch cold.” “This is ... er,” “Kazza,” the girl slurs, and hiccups. “Right.” Jimmy says. “Carol. She just gave me my present.” “Lovely.” Ron says miserably. “A Christmas Carol then.” Lucky Eric says. “Ho ... ho ... ho.” Carol says. She leans forward slightly and, with considerable accuracy, throws up all down Jimmy’s leg.  “Feels like I only went for a slash and now here we are again.” Lobster Ron complains. “Yeah.” Lucky Eric says, “Didn’t sleep much either last night.” “I was up all night and all.” Jimmy The Con says. He winks and grins. They stare at him. “Getting the lumps out of your turn-ups were you?” Lucky Eric asks. “Don’t know why they have to open Christmas night, anyway.” Ron says. “Everyone at home stuffed full of turkey and mince pies watching The Great Escape.” “Greedy fuckers, the owners..” Jimmy says, “Probably Yids.”

“Thanks for that insight, Jimmy,” Lucky Eric says, with an obvious look of distaste, that Jimmy ignores or more likely misses. “Besides, you’d be surprised. There’s still plenty of young idiots think they’re more likely to get their ends away at Christmas than any other time of the year.” “What?” Ron says, “Like a special prezzie from Santa?” “Oh aye, there’ll be more than enough pissed heifers to go round.” Jimmy says. He rubs his hands, only partly in order warm them. “Then we’ll have to look out for the fuckin’ IRA. They might be round.” he adds. “What?” Luck Eric asks “the fuck are you talking about.” “A pissed duck egg is always trouble. Then there’s the fuckin’ Paki mafia, the nig nogs, the chinks. You have to watch them on account of they all know that king fu. Knife the fuckers first, ask questions later. And as for pouffs, well don’t get me started. Half of them are tooled up theses days. Don’t even act like nancies any more. Macho shite stabbers. Ought to be in camps. Mind you, they’d probably like that, eh Eric?” “Is there anyone you don’t hate Jimmy?” Ron asks Jimmy thinks. “Lezzers.” he says at length, “I do like a nice couple of lezzers.” Eric covers his face with a calloused paw and shakes his head as if trying to erase what he’s just heard. “Anyway,” Jimmy says, “since when did you become Mr. bleedin’ sensitive?” “He’s been doing them night school classes.” Ron says. “Ron!” “Night school? When?” Jimmy is confused “We’re always here at night.” “Three in the afternoon till five” Eric says, “Sociology. At the tech.” “What the fuck for?”

“I dunno Jimmy. Maybe I’d like to get away from this job. Cunts like you. Maybe I’d like something better in my old age.” “Sorry I spoke.” Jimmy says.  It should have been easy. There are three drunks, veering out of the freezing night, and three bouncers to meet them; three out of control arseholes versus three experienced doormen. “C’mon lads,” Lucky Eric says, “Not tonight, eh.” Ron glances at Jimmy The Con, who’s standing at his side, like a pit bull straining at the leash. Ron steps between Jimmy and the nearest drunk, intent on heading off any trouble. The drunk shoves Ron, puts his hand against Ron’s stomach and pushes. It isn’t until he feels his shirt fill with blood that Ron realizes he’s been stabbed.  Lucky Eric and Jimmy The Con finally find a parking space about a mile from Selly Oak hospital. As they crunch across the last frozen twenty yards to the admissions doors, Eric sees some heartless bastard pull out of a space just a spit away from the doors. They push through the doors, which are heavy, wire-reinforced glass and wood buggers, fitted with springs strong enough to repel all but the fittest of patients. “I fucking hate hospitals.” Jimmy The Con says as they enter the pea green reception. Boiled cabbage, disinfectant, fear, and despair invade their nostrils. “Really, Jimmy?” Lucky Eric says, “How unusual. Every other bugger I know loves them!” “Sarky bastard.” Jimmy The Con mutters as they approach the duty nurse’s desk.

She looks up at them, her expression fierce enough to empty beds. “Yes?” she says. The woman is a genius. With that single word, she manages to convey her opinion that anyone having the gall to turn up at her hospital is nothing but a malingering hypochondriac whose sole purpose in life is to waste her time. “Come to get a second dick grafted on.” Jimmy The Con says, and Lucky Eric elbows him. “Well, have you now?” the duty nurse says in a smooth Irish brogue, dripping mock concern, “Well why don’t we start you off with just the one. See how you get along with that.” “Ron Dogberry, please.” Lucky Eric says. She looks down at the watch pinned to her iron-clad bosom. “It’s not visiting time for another ... seventeen minutes.” she says. Lucky Eric and Jimmy The Con go and seat themselves on molded plastic chairs that have been carefully designed to deform spines. “How did they say he was doing?” Jimmy The Con asks. “They didn’t. Wouldn’t tell me over the phone. Well as can be expected. Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.” Eric says. “Yeah. Given some tosser just rammed eight inches of Sheffield into his guts.” They sit in silence as the minutes drag legless torsos around the clock. “Still,” Jimmy says cheerfully, “At least they didn’t send us down the morgue.” “Yeah.” Eric says, “At least.” The ward where Ron is, for all they know, fighting for his life, turns out to be in another building. A temporary, pre-fab annex, about a mile away. Right next to where they’re parked. It’s snowing heavily by the time they reach the annex. As they approach the bed Lucky Eric and Jimmy The Con see the usual drip in the arm, but there are also a couple of tubes up Ron’s nose, and a

sinister thing that looks like a vacuum cleaner hose that snakes up under the covers near his stomach. “How come they haven’t got his leg up?” Jimmy The Con asks “What?” “His leg. It ain’t up.” Then to Ron, who’s dozing, “Shouldn’t they have your leg up, mate?” Ron’s eyes flutter and open, he obviously doesn’t quite know where he is. Then realization and pain cloud his features. “What the hell are you on about Jimmy? Alright Ron?” Lucky Eric asks. “I’m just saying that in all the films I’ve seen, whenever someone’s in hospital they always have his leg up.” “He was stabbed in the fucking stomach Jimmy, not the sodding leg. Haven’t you ever actually visited anyone in hospital.” Jimmy the Con sniffs. “No. Well, it don’t do to mix business with pleasure.” he says. “How you feeling, old son?” Lucky Eric asks Ron “They treating you alright?” “What about that hospital grub, eh Ron. Phwaaaah, ‘orrible or what?” Lucky Eric turns to Jimmy The Con. “Seeing as he’s been knifed in the guts I somehow doubt they’re shoveling in the mince beef and carrots Jimmy.” His patience verges on exasperation. “No. No, I s’pose not.” Jimmy The Con says, “I mean, it’d all just leak out, wouldn’t it.” “Hurts like buggery.” Ron says. His eyes are glazed, pupils the size of mouse turds. “Wouldn’t know about that.” Jimmy The Con says.

Ron fumbles a hand out from under the blanket and grips the vacuum cleaner- sized tube. “Why don’t you ... come and …. bend over here, Jimmy. And I’ll show you.” He laughs a spasm, gurgles alarmingly and grimaces. “Nurse. Nurse.” Lucky Eric yells, alarmed. They wait a minute or two and when no one comes Lucky Eric gets up and goes in search of a nurse. Jimmy The Con starts checking Ron’s bedside table for medication, although it’s not clear who for. A few minutes later Lucky Eric is back. “Not a sight. No docs, no nurses. Found a cleaner, though.” he says. “Well that’s not much use, is it?” Jimmy The Con says. “Dunno. He sold me these.” Five large tablets sit on Lucky Eric’s palm. “Said they were codeine. Cost me a fiver.” “How’s he gonna take ‘em though?” Jimmy The Con asks. “Remember, the old mince and carrots.” “Oh, right” Lucky Eric says, “Well, waste not want not, eh.” He hands Jimmy The Con two of the pills and dry swallows the other three. Half an hour later, Ron has recovered enough to croak out the odd scrap of semi-coherent chat. “How are things? At the club?” he asks. “Don’t ask.” Lucky Eric says. “Fuckin’ useless little twat.” Jimmy The Con adds. “Who?” “The sod they sent over to replace you.” Jimmy The Con says. Ron looks alarmed. “Only a temp.” Lucky Eric reassures him, “And as Jimmy so eloquently stated, not much cop. So don’t worry. You just concentrate on getting well.”

“Who started an elephant?” Jimmy The Con asks, his brow furrowed. “What? No – eloquently stated. That’s what I said. You dim sod.” “Well I wish you’d stop using them words you’re learning down the poly. Why can’t you talk proper? So’s a bloke can understand you. You cunt.” Jimmy The Con says. “What I mean, Ron, is that the kid they sent over thinks he’s Steven Segal or Steve McQueen.” “Steve Davis more like.” Jimmy The Con says. “I dunno. Kids today, Ron. There’s nobody to show them what’s what, is there.” Lucky Eric says “Well nobody showed us. We had to just ... pick it up.” Ron manages. He closes his eyes and seems to drift off. Lucky Eric watches him and, as if in sympathy, feels the codeine start to kick in. Empty stomach, no Christmas dinner for Lucky Eric. In fact he can’t really remember what he’s eaten since Ron was stabbed four days ago. Couple of sausage rolls, perhaps, the odd packet of crisps. “That’s it.” Eric suddenly sees it with codeine-fogged clarity. A way forward, a way out of the middle-aged bouncer trap, out of standing night after night feeling his bones and wounds on the door, away from slowing down, getting bored and complacent enough so some drunken bastard could eventually slip a shiv between his ribs. “That’s what we’ll do, we’ll start a school.” Lucky Eric says, “A school for bouncers. Train the fuckers proper.” “What like them night classes of yours down the poly?” Jimmy The Con asks, snide as you like. “Naw.” Eric says, “Better than that. This will be real stuff. Stuff even you could understand.”

“What, like how to hurt people?” Jimmy The Con asks. “Well, a bit. P’raps. But mostly security. How to handle things so there’s less chance of ending up like poor old Ron.” “Sounds boring.” Jimmy The Con says. “Not to me it fuckin’ don’t.” Ron says.  Spring comes to Birmingham. Birmingham decides to take no notice. At least in that part of Brum where lurks the club know Bonny Rockers it does. Lucky Eric, Jimmy The Con, and Lobster Ron are on the door. The neon of the club sign above their heads is on the blink again, so that tonight Bonny Rockers reads Bon*** **kers. “That Bono,” Ron is saying, “he was a smashing bloke. One time we were playing this club down the Smoke with ‘em and the Sex Pistols suddenly barge into the dressing room. Well Cook and Jones anyway. So Bono says to me –” “Give it a break, Ron. For fucks sakes.” Jimmy The Con says. “ – give it a break Ro – no, look...” Ron says and then sighs heavily. “Pity the next punter gives old Ron any lip.” Lucky Eric says. They stand and smoke watching the traffic play pedestrian roulette. “Any news about your training scheme idea?” Ron asks “Got all the paperwork in last month.” Lucky Eric says. “Management are keen. Well, once I pointed out they’d be getting a government subsidy, they were.” “Yids.” Jimmy The Con says and spits at and misses a pigeon. “Will you give it a rest Jimmy. Besides, they’re Indian now, the new owners. Or Arabs. Something like that.” “Same thing.” Jimmy The Con says

 “It’s the bleedin’ state nanny gone beserk.” Jimmy The Con says. “You mean, the nanny state.” Lobster Ron corrects. “Whatever it is, whatever you want to call it, it’s full of shit.” “Oh,” Lobster Ron says, “You’re on about them people the job center sent us.” “Could not believe what I was seeing.” Jimmy The Con says. “Well yes, Jimmy,” Lucky Eric says, “I can see the girl in the wheelchair might have had a bit of a harder time of it. On a busy Friday night. Even so-“ “Even so nothing.” Jimmy The Con sulks. “Things will get better.” Lucky Eric says with irritating calm. “Will they?” Jimmy The Con asks. He looks at Lucky Eric. “You know what Eric? You know the only time I ever used to hear you use that tone of voice?” “When?” Eric smiles. “When you were explaining to some punter just exactly what you were going to do to him if he didn’t fuck right off in the next ten seconds.” “It’s the night classes.” Lobster Ron says. “What? Sociology makes you like that?” “No,” Lucky Eric says, “That was last term. I’ve switched. To yoga. I’ve been meditating and everything.” “You’ll go deaf.” Jimmy The Con says. “Anyway, the wheelchair pilot. Did you forget that as well as not being able to walk she was a single-parent, Marxist lesbian?” “Thought as how you liked carpet munchers.” Lobster Ron says. “Shut it! She was a fuckin’ nutter.” Jimmy The Con snaps. “She was unique.” Lucky Eric agrees.

“Talkin’ about u-fuckin-nique, what about that other one?” Jimmy The Con ploughs on. He has a good head of steam up now. “He was blind! He was actually blind.” Jimmy The Con’s voice is filled with wonder. “Well... it’s not my fault, is it.” Lucky Eric’s voice suddenly has an edge, as if his calm mood is starting to slip away. “I mean, I can’t help who they send, can I.” “Blind and weighed about seven stone. Soaking wet!” “He was a bit on the thin side Eric. You have to admit.” Lobster Ron says. “And more than a little on the blind fuckin’ side.” Jimmy The Con rants. “He was wearing an anorak. He had a seeing-eye pot-bellied pig! “It was on the telly. There’s a dog shortage. Besides, he would probably have been very good at body searches.” Lobster Ron says. “Y’know, on account of the braille and that.” “Or the pig.” Jimmy The Con says, “We could have used him to find the punters stash. You know ... a sniffer pig.” “Enough!” Lucky Eric explodes and punches his fist through the glass what’s-on display case. His arm buried in the shattered case, blood flowing freely down over the glossy black and white photos of failed drag artists and unknown rappers, he says through clenched teeth. “Ron. Get the car. Hospital. Now.”  “How’s the hand Eric?” Lucky Eric scowls at Lobster Ron. “Stitches come out tomorrow.” Jimmy The Con says. “Are you my sodding doctor all of a sudden then Jimmy?” “No, Eric. Course not.”

“Then shut it.” Lucky Eric leans over toward Jimmy The Con, “Or they’ll fuckin’ come out tonight.” “Don’t threaten me, Eric.” Jimmy The Con says, starting to bristle, “Not wise.” “Lads, lads.” Lobster Ron says. “Here, what you think of last night’s video then, eh? Phwaaaaw!” “Squashed cat in the middle of the road.” Jimmy The Con says, “And no mistake.” Recently, the club owners have taken to throwing the occasional after hours party, to which Lucky Eric and the other bouncers are “invited”. On special occasions, such as a visiting celeb’s birthday, or to celebrate a dirty deal done anything but cheap, or the right kind of funeral, that sort of thing, they might have a live girl or boy or two, but most nights it’s champagne, cognac, white lines, poker, and porno videos. “Gave me an idea, did that video.” Lucky Eric says. “Gave me a few and all.” Jimmy The Con laughs. “I mean, it gave me an idea for what we need. We need a training video.” Lucky Eric says. “I don’t need no training video for that.” Lobster Ron says. “No you dim sod. Not for that. For the job training scheme. Something we could show the trainees. Club security training.” They pause to pat down a gaggle of office girls, who are on the town for a leaving party and already three sheets to the wind. “Bit early.” Lucky Eric says, looking at his watch and finding only bandages. “To be that far gone.” “Copped a nice handful of arse.” Jimmy The Con grins, “She didn’t even notice.” “You have such a way with the ladies, Jimmy. You know that.” Eric says. “Thanks.” Jimmy The Con says, completely missing lucky Eric’s sarcasm.

Lobster Ron holds up a scrap of paper. “Yeah? Well I got a phone number.” “Sure it’s not the number for the special clinic?” Jimmy The Con snorts. “Your cousin,” Lucky Eric asks Jimmy The Con, “He still making them pornos over the council flats? “Oh yeah. Last I heard he’d give up the building trade altogether. Said it was too much like hard work.” “So he’s got all the cameras and lights and microphones and that?” “Too right. It’s a nice little earner. And a right doddle. On account of that viagra stuff. “That’s nice.” Lucky Eric says, “Give him a call would you. Tell him I’d like to have a chat. Buy him for a drink. Some lunch time next week.” “Alright.” “Here, you gonna be in a porno then Eric?” Lobster Ron asks. Lucky Eric looks from Lobster Ron to Jimmy the Con then back at Lobster Ron. He drops his head and sighs heavily. “Sometimes,” he says, “I’m at a loss to decide which of these two tossers is the stupidest.” Lobster Ron nudges Jimmy The Con. “Here, why’s Eric calling his feet stupid?” he asks.  “Have you seen the outside of the club?” Lobster Ron asks Lucky Eric. They’re sitting in traffic on the Queensway in Lobster Ron’s rust orange Ford Fiesta. Lucky Eric lowers his chin to his knees and peers through the cracked windshield at the back of the bus in front of them.

“Be alright.” he says, “I cleared it with the owners. Anyway, club’s shut ‘till tonight. “Two hours kip’s all I’ve had. Been working on me new demo-” “Please, Ron. Not now, eh.” “It’s still not right, Eric. It’s bleedin’ lunchtime, I ought to be asleep.” They pull up outside the club and park behind a whitish van bearing the legend “Honest Teds Builders”. The word “Builders” has been crudely crossed out and the words “Porno Prods.” painted after it. The club entrance is flanked by a mish-mash of dodgy-looking lights. Occasional wisps of smoke pop and coil up into the still, grey air from a snakes nest of cables. Two blokes dressed like out of work plumbers are standing either side of the door, each has a bulky Bulgarian video camera circa 1975 on his shoulder. The cameras are pointed at Jimmy The Con who stands grinning, a peroxide blonde slapper on each arm, a noticeable bulge in the front of his strides. “What the ... Jimmy?” Lucky Eric asks. “Wotcha lads,” Jimmy The Con says, “Viagra.” He nods in the direction of his crotch. “How many times have I told you. This is a security training video. Not a sodding porno.” Then to the two women, “Sorry ladies. I don’t know what he’s told you but whatever it is, is a load of old nonsense.” “What about me fifty quid?” one of the blondes asks. “Jimmy. Take them away. Sort this out. I need to talk to Ted.” As Jimmy and the bickering women leave, Lucky Eric yells after Jimmy The Con, “And get some ice on that swelling.” Then to Lobster Ron,

“I mean, how’s that going to look? Him explaining politely to a drunken punter that it’s in his best interest to go elsewhere. Standing there with a stonking great boner?” Lucky Eric notices Lobster Ron is staring mesmerized at one of the video cameras. “I want my ... I want my MTV ... ” Lobster Ron sings softly under his breath. Lucky Eric stalks into the club shaking his head.  The three skinheads in the Duke of Marlborough are giving it large. “We’re gonna be big stars. Big.” “Yeah. Shtarsh. Big.” “Get Bazza up off the floor and get another round in. We have to be at the club in a bit.” “Right you are Gazza. What club?” “I told you, you toe rag. Bonny Rockers. That Lucky Eric is making a video and we’re in it. Big stars. He said to get tanked up before we came.” “Right.” “Well, go on then. Three pints. Get some shorts in an’ all. Whiskies.”

 “What time are the punters gonna be here Eric?” Lobster Ron asks. The stitches are out, the bandages gone, so Lucky Eric can look at his watch again.

“Any minute now. I’m more worried about that tosser, Jimmy. Where is he?” “Still in the bogs. Last time I saw him he had his tackle in a sink full of ice.” “Lovely picture, that is.” Lucky Eric says. “Didn’t seem to be working.” “Alright, alright. That’s enough.” “Sorry Eric.” A siren trails into the distance and on its coat tails, riding round the corner come voices, raucously singing, “... we go, here we go, here we gooooo.” Three skinheads hove into sight, two of them dragging the third between them. “Ah,” Lucky Eric says, “And about time.” “You what, Eric? You don’t mean ..? What ...?” “Ted, Ted, get the cameras out here.” Lucky Eric yells, “We’re on.” “But they’re rat-arsed, Eric.” Lobster Ron says. “Yeah. Well, that’ll make it more real won’t it. Now remember, no rough stuff. Take control. Think, prevention. Think, security.” “If you say so Eric.” Lobster Ron sounds a little uncertain. “What about Jimmy? Shall I go and get him?” “No. No time. Better off without the fucker anyway. Here we go. Ted! Ted! Action mate, action!” Lucky Eric steps in front of the three skinheads. “Evening lads.” he says holding up a hand palm out. The skinheads sway like badly-handled puppets. “Lerrus in mate.” the ugly one on the right demands “Yeah. In.” the ugly one on the left agrees. The ugly one in the middle hangs unconscious between his mates, snoring and dribbling down his Ben Sherman.

“Now then lads,” Lucky Eric says as if reading a cue card, “I think as how you have had enough to drink. Please move along. Thank you.” Lobster Ron is looking confused. He can’t work out why Lucky Eric is talking so funny and being, well, polite – there’s no other word for it. “Is that right monkey man?” Ugly Right sneers Ugly Left twists his head and issues a sharp whistle. Round the corner there suddenly hares a huge pit bull, claws clacking on the icy pavement, teeth the size of daggers bared, jet engine growls deep in the back of its throat. It slavers trails of venomous doggy drool behind it as it closes on the tableau posed in front of the club entrance. Lobster Ron’s eyes bulge and he finds his voice, “Jimmy! Jimmy!” he howls. The dog hits the group just as Jimmy, only half buttoned into his keks and still sporting a boner, bursts out of the club. There’s a collision worthy of a Tom and Jerry cartoon, one of those where Butch the dog has got Tom in a whirling cyclone of teeth, jaws, tongue, fur, eyeballs, fists, feet, and anguished howling. Lucky Eric and Lobster Ron forget all about the niceties of the video shoot, and expertly stomp and punch the three drunken skinheads into a single, quivering, bloody pile. Jimmy The Con is not so lucky. He falls backwards into the club, flailing and pummeling at the dog’s head, which is firmly clamped onto his groin. The screaming, growling, and smashing of scattered tables and chairs inside the club is suddenly punctuated by two gun shots. Then silence.  Lucky Eric and Lobster Ron stand at the graveside, shivering in the bitter wind. They are the only mourners. Lobster Ron leans forward and tosses a vial of pills into the grave. It bounces on top of the coffin, popping the lid and spilling small blue pills across the polished wood. Lucky Eric

nods at the priest, who in turn signals the gravedigger. Earth thuds down onto Jimmy The Con’s coffin. “Probably for the best Ron.” Lucky Eric says. “His life wouldn’t have been worth living.” “Give a dog a bone, eh Eric?” Lobster Ron says.  Lucky Eric sits slumped in a booth at the back of the darkened club. A half empty bottle of Johnny Walker and a shot glass sit before him on the table. Ghost revelers drift past the periphery of his vision, like mosquitoes he can’t be bothered to swat. The rest of his life stretches before him, he can see it clearly, a steady decline through more and more aches and pains, slower reaction time dragging him into the quicksand of paralysis, until he’s sitting in a wheelchair lost and forgotten in some desolate NHS hospital corridor, dribbling into his lap about the old days. “Eric, Eric!” Lobster Ron bursts into the back of the club yammering like a kid, “There’s a bloke. A bloke outside. Wants to, wants to talk to you. Says he’s from the BB fuckin’ C. Says it’s about a film, Eric, Eric ... he says the BBC wanna make a film about you!’ “A film? Someone wants to talk to me about a sodding film?” Eric stares at the table between his fists. “Well, Ron, you tell him,” Eric says with slow menace, “You tell him to fuck off and leave me alone. No, tell you what,” Eric says getting unsteadily to his feet. “Better yet. I’ll tell the fucker myself.” 

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