bacon legs

Chapter One

"And here are your keys Sir - with the all important soft leather M5 fob. He took a step back and held the keys high and out of his customers reach like he was teasing a little Brother, "the sight of which will get the tarts in the office wetter than an otters pocket. Gary didn't reach up, but stared straight and laughed in unison with Josh, top salesman for M25 BMW, they'd both heard the 'otter's pocket' line before, but the laughter shared by Josh and Gary had nothing to do with fun. It was all part of the big, male, pissing contest they entered into every time they put on the salesman's uniform of white shirt and wacky tie. It was what salesmen did, irrespective of what they sold. For Gary and Josh lived in Sales World where two things mattered sales targets and image.
Granted these two where at the top of the food chain but it was still for the majority, a world punctuated by cheap beige hotel rooms, furnished with a bed, a chair and a black TV manufactured obscurely in Scandinavia. And on this TV, after a daspent behind the wheel thinking about fucking anyone but their wives, girlfriends or lovers, Sales World provided dull pay channel TV porn that gave these white-shirted ugly blokes silicone-titted dream blondes in denim shorts. The girls as thoughtfully chosen, as the bedside tissues left for the gentleman wanker's convenience. Candy Apples or Suzy Creamcheese would happily spend a Wednesday night in with Steve or Brian . In salesworld you could settle for your sins in the morning and as the bill again thoughtfully itemised nothing more descriptive than 'movie' Mal, Brian, Trev or Mark could recommend Forest Gump to the foreign girl on reception,

However, targets aside, image mattered in Sales World, but way above the designer label on the suit, way above the wackiness of the tie and way above managing once a year to persuade recently divorced and vulnerable women to suck them off in a Beefeater car parks in return for a cheap food and wine. What really mattered was the car you sat your sweaty arse in, and Gary's car was as serious bit
of kit

He waited for Josh to hand the keys over in a proper manner and they parted with a strong shake. 'Keep In touch Butch' Gary said in a half laugh ' this was Gary's way of declaring he'd pissed the highest, as it was him Gary Bragg, that had won this one as he would soon driving away in the 65 thousand pound BMW M5. He over strolled
to his new motor soaking up the moment. The sound of his Churches' brogues clicking with a certain swagger on the showroom marble sounded almost military.
"Hi Gary, a voice echoed across the floor. Gary threw a wink in the direction of the blonde with the young hair and old face. "All your wishes come true I see, she said walking as sexily as she could for fifty two. She stopped a couple of inches inside Gary's personal space.
"All except one sweetheart."
"Really and what one is that? She bit her lip and picked a piece of lint off his shoulder. Gary bent forward and whispered into her ear . "I wish¦I wish."Yes. She prompted. Gary pulled back and spoke loudly. "I wish my dick was as big as my turds. He laughed as her face crumpled into a frown. "Keep in touch Butch." He turned and pointed the fob and pushed a button, the lights flashed once and a click smoother than a blended whisper opened all the doors. Settling in he adjusted the anti-glare mirror and pushed the arse of the Hong Kong Hugo Boss suit he'd got from the deep into the beige nappa. On the half turn of the key the eight speaker sound system kicked in. On the full turn the engine rumbled darkly into life. As Gary pushed it into first, he looked to his left to see 'young hair old face' smile at him from behind her sales desk, he checked right to see Josh raise a hand, he was the wrong side of the tinted showroom doors which he had slid open ready for Gary's departure. As Gary rolled past their eyes met and they recognised and loathed each other with equal venom.

Gary savoured the rush, he felt the dogs bollocks, it had taken him fifteen years to get to here, hard years, four of which were spent behind the wheel of Fords. He fuckin' hated Fords ' Now Mondeo man could suck his big German M5 cock. The lights flicked onto red and the ventilated discs pulled him up sharp. A boy racer rolled up along side, his car looked like a white trash carnival. The pimple in a mock Burberry baseball cap who was driving fancied a dual. Red light flicked through to green and pimple chops screamed away. Gary sat tight and tapped his finger on the thick leather wheel to David Gray and laughed. "One two three four." The speed camera three hundred yards up the road flashed and confirmed six points for the pimple. Gary was King of Sales and knew every speed camera for miles. "If you want it come and get it for crying out loud" Gary's voice was pure karaoke. A Fiat Punto behind tooted impatiently, he raised his hand in a glorious apology and growled off.

The trees were still there, six in a row, so many years had passed and they were still the same. In fact the only thing different about the whole road was a drive through McDonalds which stuck out like a fat holiday arse. He slowed down and peered in. Outside a girl with a figure the victim of the free quarter ponder stopped picking McLitter in her yellow McVest to admire the handsome flash bastard in the posh motor. Gary pushed the window button and the light tinted glass slid down. Gary winked, it worked a lot "the wink especially on the office temps who he'd targeted with his three F's rule of 'Find 'em Fuck 'em and Forget 'em.' She smiled back, Gary pushed the button and the window slid up. He'd promised himself 'no fat chicks in his beamer' especially
not today, not during his victory drive salute.

The orphanage was now a college of further education ' teaching skint housewives CSE maths so they could work out how much they didn't have and pensioners IT so they could plan their funerals on line and e-mail long lost sisters in Australia. A board spouted some old bollocks about working with the community for the community. It covered the Borewood Children's Home sign. To Gary it was never a home, just six years more agony after the fire and for the sort of people it let loose on the world it should have been called the monster factory. he turned in and drove the short distance to the entrance. A security guard older than God's Donkey held up a warning hand. "Sorry Sir, he smiled, you can't come this far, Teachers and support staff only.
Students and visitors need to go back out and take the first left to the public car parkGary didn't smile. " Piss off out of the way you old cunt, or you'll have one of these 17 inch low profile tyres over your fucking head."
The guard was stunned. "Didn't you hear me you smelly old fucker move." Gary revved the engine hard and the vibration shook the ground. The guard stepped back dazed. Gary edged forward. "Don't mess with me you miserable fucker, else you'll be eating your Netto soup through fucking tubes." Gary sucked back hard, puffed his cheeks and delivered a ball of steaming phlegm in the Guards face."Now fuck off back to your hut and your £3.50 an hour before I snap your neck." He stared into old timers face, he could see the fear. It gave him a tingle in his bollocks,"You do right to look scared, didn't you hear me, move!
The old man shuffled backwards. Gary drove on up to the entrance to the house. He pulled up got out of the car and skipped up nine stone steps to the entrance doors. His breathing hard and fast, the smell of the wild garlic triggered all the memories he could handle. Zip down, cock out and grinning he began to piss like a police horse. "Have a taste of this you fuckers."
He stood back. "See? See? Not bad for me is it? Gary held out his hand and gestured towards his new motor, he was distracted by the sound of a car approaching behind him. Without being obvious Gary slipped himself back in his Calvin's and zipped up. He turned to see the car pull up a few feet behind him, the headlights went out and a woman in her mid thirties and looking a bit too hippy for Gary's taste got out clutching a blue file. "We're not open yet", she said not looking up, but rummaging in her bag
" No worries, I didn't want to go in."
She was about to tell Gary he couldn't leave his car parked outside when she stopped in her tracks on sight of the stream of piss trickling down the steps. She looked at Gary, the two didn't fit, a handsome young man, the flash car. Gary was quick off the mark. "You want to do something about the old geezer."
 The woman was puzzled "Old Geezer?"
"The security guard, Gary nodded toward the old blokes hut, I came up here and there he was pissing, in full view with his old crinkly tadger out. I put a flea in his ear but sometimes that's not enough is it?""Albert did this? Gary nodded, "is he a bit senile? The woman was clearly upset. "No I
don't think so."
"You wanna report him next thing you know he could do something far worse."
"Worse, like what?
"Dunno, Gary shrugged, but you read about it all the time in the News Of The World."
"Little things build up to bigger things and then Bingo ugly front page headlines. I'd hate to see what magazines he keeps in that Kwik Save bag under his stool."
The woman stepped over the stream of piss and made her way to the door. "I'll have to have a word with the agency."
"Ah Agency Gary gave a knowing sigh, that explains it, a magnet for losers and weirdo's those places attract all sorts. Rapist's Murders, Paedophiles and pissers like him, dirty old cock out for the world to see pissers."The woman felt uneasy, she sensed something about Gary she didn't like, it wasn't the words so much as how he said them, there was something in his voice, a single-minded hatred that put a chill up her spine.
"Did you want to enrol, she asked?"
Gary shook his head . "Nah, I've spent much too much time in this place. Gary turned and walked down the steps. The woman deliberately didn't follow him with her gaze, she chose to unlock the doors, clearly upset by the brief encounter. Gary jumped back in the car, turned the key and rolled away. As he got to the Security Guard's hut he rolled down his window.
"Oi pisser, he shouted, the old man came out, he was without his jacket and the shirt, which was at least three sizes too big, made him look like a turtle out of its shell. He had been crying it was obvious, "Ahh! Gary spoke in a mock baby voice, to most people the sight of an old man weeping is quite powerful and upsetting, but d'you know what
Granddad not to me, to me you're just a siwwy old cunt."
Gary spat again this time it hit the old mans shoulder like a ball hits the net at Wimbledon. The old man stumbled back. Gary swept out of the gates and shouted "Keep In Touch Butch" pressing his thumb on the volume button on the steering wheel David Gray shouted again "Saturday night I'm running wild all the lights are turning green to red" He swept down the A412. Life was good.

Gary's comedy ring tone, was predictably 'Little Britains Andy ' It made Gary reach for his shirt pocket, the caller I.D. said Withheld. "Hi, Gary Bragg."
"Hello, Mr Bragg I'm calling from African aid, I was given you're number by one of your colleagues who said you might be willing to donate a couple of pounds a month to help the starving people of Africa."
Gary thought the girl sounded young, petty and posh. "I could be
"That's great, the young girl was enthused, cold calling was hard and she'd have much rather have been travelling the world for a year with her Tanya, Poppy and Tiggy.
"How old are you Gary barked slipping in bully mode. The girl was thrown.
"Old?"
"Yeah, how old are you?"
"19."
"19, and your name?"
"I'm sorry sir¦ we're not¦"
"Never mind fucking sorry, you rang me didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Well what's your name?"
"Jenni with an I."
"Jenni with an I" Gary mocked
"Yes."
"Well Jenni with an I, what's a pretty little posh tart year like you doing sat in a call centre begging for money off complete strangers? "
There was a long pause." You still there then Jenni with an I?"
"Yes "obviously Jenni had never encountered a Gary Bragg before.
"Well, answer the fucking question dumb ass!" Gary was brutal.
"I just want to help."
"Well Jenni with an I that's all very good you volunteering your help to all those starving people in Africa - But?"
"But, Jenni repeated."Just shut the fuck up, a fucking parrot as well a posh tart are we?"
Jenni stammered ' "N¦No."
"Well Jenni with an I how much do you want to help?"
"Enough to take this fucking bullshit from you " Jenni summoned up the courage to mumble back.
"Well Jenni let's see shall we how much you really want to help"
"What do you mean?"
"I've got a platinum Amex card here, and I'll give you a grand, that's one thousand pounds for those little black kiddies with the big bellies. That'll buy fucking thousands of 'em a McDonalds each. But you've got to do something for me."
"Like what?"
"We'll start with the colour of your knickers?"
"No fucking way yar!"
"Don't hang up now darling, remember all those little gobs you could feed. Well.. Colour?"
"White."
" And no bra right?"
There was a silence and Gary was in bullish mood.
"I said no bra, right?"
"No Bra."
"Thong?"
"Yes."
Gary pulled into a lay-by he was enjoying this.
"Have you got a boyfriend?"
"Yes."
"Does he fuck you?
Silence.
"Listen Jenni with an I, Gary changed his voice he now sounded reasonable - can you afford not to answer? You've already told me the colour of your thong now just lets get this over with and you'll have your grand for the little black kids. Now ..Does he fuck you?"
"Yes."
"Hard?"
"Yes."
"Have you got big tits?"
"No."
"Wrong answer Jenni with an I."
"Have you got big tits?"
"Yes."
"I'm wanking Jen, I can call you Jen can't I ?
"No."
"Wrong answer babe."
Do you know what I'm doing, Jen?
"Yes."
Gary wasn't.
"Do you want my cum?
He could hear Jenni starting to sob he knew he'd pushed her as far as he could so hegave her some mock dirty moans and pulled at his cheek to give a plausible wanking soundtrack before finishing with three quick grunts and a 'Je-ni ba-by."
"Oh Jen you filthy little slut."
There was a pause, Gary thought he'd lost her but no.
"Can I have your card number now ?" Jenni sobbed.
"Wouldn't that make you a prostitute Jen?"
There was silence again
"What's up Jen want to phone a friend, pony tail too tight?"
"No, it doesn't."
"Money for phone sex. Think about it, come on put that private school to good use."
"No, you said."
"Jen."
"Yes."
"Bye."
Gary shook his head turned off his phone and threw it on the seat next to him. "Fuckin do-gooders."

Chapter Two

It was a TGI Fridays, still it was better than a burger form a Service Station. Gary parked and got out of the car. A couple of teenagers immediately approached. The tallest who looked long enough to be continued stared at Gary from under a greasy burberry baseball cap and wrongly identified Gary Bragg as an easy touch.

"Mind yer car mate?"

Gary stopped dead in his tracks. He knew the score, give them a few quid or when you

came out it'll have been keyed.

"Certainly boys. Gary dug into his pocket. "Here's all the change I've got right now -

three quid. But if you make sure she's safe when I come out I'll drop you another seven.

The second lad stuck out his hand and Gary pressed the coins into the grubby palm.

"Thanks Mister.

"My pleasure, Gary replied. I admire your enterprise. The Scallies ,well pleased stood

at either end of Gary's car. "Keep in touch Butch Gary winked and walked into the

restaurant. He was greeted by the usual student in red and white stripes, with trademark

braces covered in badges.

"Table for one sir? Gary nodded.

"Smoking or non smoking?

"Smoking.

"This way sir, he showed Gary to table in the window.

"Is this OK for you Sir?

"No It's fucking not, do I look like a goldfish?

The greeter was a little stunned. He showed Gary to a table a bit further in.

" How's this Sir?

Gary said nothing and sat down. "Your server today is Clive and he'll be with you in a

moment. Gary said nothing and the greeter handed over the menu and walked away.

Gary looked around and took in the dÈcor. Odd shite, and American odd shite at that

nailed to the walls in an attempt to be 'crazy'.

Clive, his server waddled over.

"Hi my names Clive and I'll be your server today, can I get you a drink to start?

Gary looked him up and down.

"Fuck Me Clive, how did you get that belt on every morning, with a fucking

boomerang?

Clive had to do a double take.

"I'm sorry?

"You're a fat fucker for your mum you aren't you? Arse got It's own MP?

"What?

"Never mind, I'll have a Vodka, coke. no ice. Give me five minutes on the food.

"Vodka, Coke, No ice. Clive waddled away.

At the bar Clive seethed.

"See that flash fucker over there? The Barman tip-toed to see Gary sparking up a

Marlborough light.

"What about him?

"He just called me a fat fucker.

"Well you are.

"I know but there's no need to remind me?

Clive was rummaging through the pocket of his coat and pulled out his wallet, out of

which he pulled out a small bag of white powder.

"You'll get caught one day doin' that. The Barman tutted.

Clive emptied half a gram of pure speed into the vodka. "Fuck it ' maybe the flash cunt

something to think about when he's up all night grinding his teeth.

"And it'll give him the shits with all that crap it's cut with. The barman added.

"Too right he won't need toilet paper, he'll need fucking scissors.

The Barman poured the coke popped in a straw and gave it to Clive who waddled back

out. Gary was looking around, drawing heavily on his cigarette, a young girl about three

was toddling about with a balloon tied to her wrist. Gary watched her parents, they

seemed oblivious to the wanderings of their child as they argued over bathroom colours.

"Your drink sir. Clive broke his stare.

"And what would you like to order?

"Pork Steak with the Jack Daniels sauce, fries and a Caesar salad.

"Any extras vegetables or side orders?

Gary gave him a look What do you think Chubs?

"No Sir, thank you Sir. Enjoy your drink Sir.

Clive scribbled the order as he wandered off. Gary swirled the ice in his vodka with the

red plastic straw then raised the glass and took a long drink. Putting it down he felt a

presence and looked down to his right to see the small wandering girl stood still and

staring at him. He looked up, her parents were still arguing. Gary bent over, level to her

ear "FUCK OFF he whispered. The girl smiled Gary again whispered and gave her a

little push" FUCK OFF. The girl smiled and wandered off. He was hungry now, he

hadn't eaten since his Meusli that morning , he hated museli reminded him of the

scrapings from the bottom of a parrot cage. But he eat because it was good for him, it was

certainly a world away from cornflakes with water, which was his staple breakfast for his

years at the orphanage. The lights in his seating area and at the table opposite dimmed

and as red and white puss ball carried a cake with a fizzing sparkler to a group wearing

party hats. The other staff members including Clive clustered around the table then one of

them burst into song. "Happy Birthday to you, happy Birthday to you happy birthday

dear Stanley, happy birthday to you They all clapped enthusiastically then dispersed.

Clive came past Gary. "Oi Lard Lad, I'll be celebrating my fucking birthday here if my

dinner doesn't come soon.

"I'll be onto it now Sir. Clive spun around and walked straight into the kitchen.

"Where's the pork steak and fries for table 23?

The chef nodded to a waiting plate. Clive took the plate and turned towards the door.

With one hand he lifted the pork and spat underneath it. Clive burst through the

wooden double doors like the ghost train and 'cheery as fuck' glided to Gary's table

"There you go sir Pork Steak with the Jack Daniels sauce, fries and a Caesar salad. Enjoy

your meal. " I apologise for the wait.

"It's OK, with some exercise and a healthy diet it should come off.

Clive had heard it before, so he ignored it and went to walk away. "Oi Balloon boy,

what's this? He turned to see Gary holding up a knife.

"It's a knife Sir.

"No, correction, It's a fucking dirty knife. Now you might be so busy shoving

food into that lardy gob of yours to notice, but when I eat I prefer clean eating irons

"Yes Sir apologies sir. I'll get you a clean one.

Clive went away and returned with a clean knife. Gary took it without looking and tucked

in. 'Fuckin' hell' he spluttered to himself as a chip burnt his lip. He took the small

ceramic pot of Jack Sauce and poured it over the pork. Again he felt a stare and once

more the little girl was stood smiling. Gary annoyed, looked across at her parents who

still argued. He checked around and seeing all was clear and took a chip off his plate. He

smiled at the kid and opened his mouth in a gesture for her to do the same. She did and he

popped the scalding chip onto her tongue. The kid screamed loudly and turned towards

mummy. The parents looked up and annoyed at the kid the mother shouted "Ellen-

Louise what the bloody hell are you up to now she grabbed Ellen's arm viciously,

swinging her around and gave her a belt across the back of her legs. Gary didn't bother

looking up, he just smirked to himself at a job well done. Gary decided to skip dessert

telling Clive he didn't want to end up like him and have to iron his underpants on the

front lawn. Clive was gracious as ever and wished Gary a pleasant evening and took

payment without a tip. Gary walked out toward the door the greeter had changed shifts

and was now a pretty young thing in red and white stripes. She smiled at Gary and held

the door open for him. He stopped winked raised his right leg and let rip a long whining

fart. "Pick the bones out of that one. Gary said as he walked through the door.

The two lads who were supposed to be minding his car were

putting the frighteners on an old woman with a Mini Metro. Gary heard her protest. "I

don't need it minding It's got Elliot my Labrador in it. The long enough to be continued

lad smirked. "That may well be darlin' , but can Elliot put fires out? They heard Gary's

footsteps and immediately left the old dear. After all, here was an easier seven quid.

"Lads Gary greeted them like old friends as he got to his car. He walked around it

slowly. "Good Job, good Job. Gary put his hand in his pocket "What did we say, another

seven was it? The smaller Lad gave an enthusiastic "yeah ' and It's a good job too

mister, two blokes were sniffing around with screwdrivers whilst you were in there but

me and Matt scared them off. Matt agreed "that's right gave them a slap and sent them

packing.

"Nice work lads. Now give us back the three quid and I'll give you a tenner. A dirty

hand gave Gary his money back. Gary slipped it into his pocket. Gary slapped his pockets,

just a minute I'll get you a note out of the car. Gary got in the car and slipped the ignition

keys in and slid down the window. He gestured to Matt, "Hey tall guy here you go.

Matt walked to the window. Gary conjured up a ball of Jack Daniels flavoured phlegm

and let him have it in the face. The BMW sparked into life. "Keep in touch Butch Gary

laughed and took off. Matt tried to chase, but sallies legs were a pitiful match. Gary was

back on the A-road. He felt surprisingly alert, his heart raced.

Gary turned sharply into Bell Air Avenue, the houses were

upmarket posh. Detached manicured Gardens a his and hers Mercedes, mum truck four

by fours and brand new VW Golf's for the kids. He'd promised big man Jack he's come

and show him his new motor, seeing as the old fucker had paid for it, he was more than

obliged. Still even a top Salesman has got to kiss some arse now and again and having

just taken possession of his premium motor, showing the BMJ it was no great hardship.

He just hoped that his creepy slut of a decrepit wife wasn't there. He could do without

her glad eye and her stupid faces when Big Man Jack wasn't looking. He'd fucked her

once or twice but out of necessity, a top sales job has its sacrifices and none had been as

unpleasant as fucking a woman who smelt like she'd just been dug up. "Fuck, he sighed,

she was in, the 320 CLK Merc with the private plate was parked behind 1BMJ.

Gary rang the bell and she came to the door. "Ah Gary, she stared straight at his crotch

then slowly let her eyes rise to his. "Brian's in the shower do come in. Gary turned it on

Deborah "how are you he leant forward and kissed her on both cheeks, she stunk of De

Maurier cigarettes, old ladies foundation and gin. "Brian told me you were coming over.

She pulled her head back and pushed her lips onto his, Gary did his best to pull away

without looking repulsed. He gave her a smile and she turned and tried to wiggle up

the hall.

"You'd better come in. Gary followed and wiped his mouth trying to rub away the taste

of old woman. He sat down in the study where pictures of WW2 Spitfires jostled for

position with those of Thatcher , Churchill and Powell. "Drink? Deborah had already

poured herself one. "Just a soft one for me 'I'm driving Deborah didn't get it.

"So what you been up to today Deborah anything nice, been bashing the plastic down

town? Deborah smiled, she liked the barrow boy chatter.

"Yes Gary I bought these. Gary looked over to see Deborah with her skirt hitched up,

show a pair of magician's assistant knickers fighting with a pouch of fat.

"Like them Gaz are they your colour.

Gary nervous at his Boss's immediate descent gave a quick nod.

"Very nice. Deborah dropped her skirt. "I do like behaving like a naughty girl, you bring

her out in me Gaz, naughty Deborah.

Gary was hating every minute of this freak show and prayed for BMJ to finish soaping

his bollocks and come down.

"Of Course you wont be interested in me now will you Gaz, I hear you're in love with

Sharon from H.R. she tells me you're not interested in anyone else. Didn't think love was

your style, thought you enjoyed feasting on the office juniors. But that's not true is it Gaz

you're still my bit of rough.

Gary babbled You know me, work too hard to have a steady woman, BMJ sees to

that.

"Too bloody right I do a voice came from down the hall. Gary was relieved and stood

up. Brian strode in wearing a ludicrous Versace robe coupled with ridiculous matching

slippers

"How else would the company be able to afford super cars for little nig nogs like our

Gary . BMJ walked straight to Gary and gave him a hug.

"Nice robe, Gary nodded.

"Is it Bollocks, makes me look like a fat puff. Deborah tried to stifle a laugh and failed.

Brian looked up, "Oi cow hips haven't you got something pointless to do, go and wank

off that yapping little fucker of a dog or something. Deborah was long past being hurt.

She raised her glass in a mock toast, gave a gin and tonic smile and left the boys together.

Brian watched her leave "thousands a year on cosmetics and she still looks like Doctor

Phibes in his house of designer labels, still at least I don't have to fuck her anymore He

looked at Gary.

Gary said nothing. Brian smiled at Gary's awkwardness "So got the Car then?

"Yeah ' it's amazing Boss, an amazing machine. Gary felt himself going into motor

mouth mode. "You should feel the kick when you put her into first it's like being on a 750

kwacker.

Brian looked sideways. "Kwacker?

"Kawasaki. Gary explained.

"Didn't know you were the sort of prick who'd risk his neck on a rice rocket Gary.

"It was a long time ago, Gary back tracked, and I never owned one just belonged to

some idiot I knew.

"Good, Brian mumbled, for a moment there I thought I'd misjudged you completely.

Gary shook his head and tried to go on but Brian was already on his way out.

"Well let's have a look at the beast. Gary followed Brian, and tried not to think of his

boss as a fat puff. It wasn't warm but Gary sweated like a bastard. When he caught up

Brian was stood stooping low in front of the car. "For all the lines it's still got a bit of

Krupps about it.

"Krupps? Gary knew they made coffee machines and nothing else. "What do you

mean?

"Krupps made tanks for Hitler, still a bit of a tank about the thing. Square, like their

heads.

"But well made, solid, they might have box heads Brian and be first on the sun beds in

Tenerife, but they know how to engineer a motor car.'

Brian squinted "You don't seem he sort of mindless 'lads holiday wanker' who goes to

Tenerife. I have mis-judged? Gary hated all this 'have I misjudged bollocks, it was the

boss mans little power game, Gary played and shook his head . "Tenerife, me big man?
Huh, no chance of that. Just read about in¦. Gary stopped and thinking on his feet

changed the intended Sun to "Times Literary Supplement.

The boss man smiled, "Good to see you're reading a quality broadsheet Gary. I can see

why I made you sales director, you know we're alike me and you, very alike. Single

minded, ambitious and adaptable.

"It's an honour to be mentioned in the same breath as you BMJ an honour.

"Apart from you're a terrible arse licker sometimes, I can't lick arse Gary, don't like the

taste of shit. BMJ looked to see Gary's reaction, there was a moment's silence and then

with Sales World timing, they both laughed together. Only again Gary wasn't really

laughing, he was making a well practised noise whilst wanting to punch the patronising

fat puff, but in this pissing contest BMJ would always piss higher, hotter and twice as far.

" Very nice, Deborah suddenly appeared up from behind the back of the car with her

stupid dog on a lead.

"Don't let that shit on the lawn. Brian poked his cigar in the dog's direction.

"Why not, it's good fertiliser.?

"Don't talk fuckin' stupid woman if it's up for a shit drag it over to gay boys garden, they

like that sort of thing by all accounts.

She ignored her husbands instructions and joined them at the drivers door of the car

fumbling with a lip liner, she dropped it and it rolled to Gary's feet, Gary started

to swoop to retrieve and Jack barked "leave it. Jack opened the driver's door of the

BMW, a draft, heavy with the scent of freshly tanned hide swept up and out. Brian

popped his head in and Deborah looked in resting her head on his shoulder. Freaked by

this closeness Brian pulled his head out and took a few steps back from the car to admire

the coachwork side on the line of it. Deborah turned to Gary and spoke quickly in a

whisper, "Enjoy it while you can Gary he's putting the whole sales department out to

outside tender, announcing it after the bank holiday, so sorry, suppose it serves you right

for letting me down with vinegar tits in H.R. Deborah pulled back with a smirk. Gary

whose heart already raced felt panicked, and tried to reassure himself that she was just

doing this to wind him up. 'Of course she was he reasoned, after all last she'd told Jimmy

French that he was to get head sales job,' Deborah strolled back into the house. Brian

opened the passenger door and sat in, Gary made himself comfortable behind the wheel..

"Well then once around the block boy, come on what are you waiting for ' the sack.

The dial on Gary's paranoia level edged into red. He pulled off slowly then hit the pedal

hard. The car reached 60 in 4.7 seconds. "Sweet Jesus, she can move, she make you

happy then Gary

"Yeah, she's brill, are you happy Brian?

"Happy, I'm never happy what's there to be happy about. eh?

"Business is going well, sales are up 23% on last year.

"It's not about sales Gary, as you well know it's about margin and you know what's

happening to margins now the Koreans have cloned our manufacturing process.

"But still we're in good shape, as a business.

"Shut up Gary it's the bank holiday Friday let's save all the work talk for Tuesday

mornings meeting shall we?

"Meeting, I didn't know there was a meeting?

"It'll be on your e-mail.

"What's the meeting about?

"Really Gary I do wish you'd shut the fuck up about work, lighten up and stop being a

prick.

Gary pulled up outside Brian's house.

"Very Nice Gary now go and enjoy her over the long weekend and I'll see you Tuesday.

Brian tightened the belt on his robe and got out of the car.

"Give my goodbyes to Deborah.

Brian didn't acknowledge, he slammed the door shut and like Tony Sopprano walked

self-important and fat back to his front door. Gary was breathing heavy and a bead of

sweat trickled from his forehead. He watched Brian close the wide mahogany door,

smiled and gave an unacknowledged wave, grinning and waving and snubbed he felt a bit

of a twat. He twisted the keys again and pulled away and at the bottom of Bell Air he

pulled over. He banged his head hard on the steering wheel, "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

He took his phone and spoke into it " Jake. Eight seconds later Jake was on the line.

"Gary, how the fuck are you?

"Alright, Jake alright, listen you've heard no whispers have you ?

"Whispers, what about?

"About Brian and the sales division?

"No what you heard?

"Nothin' it don't matter?

"Did you get your new motor?

"Did I ever, I just, I'm in her now.

"Well enjoy her while you can.

"What's that supposed to mean?

"It means enjoy her while you can, you stupid fuck, it's a Chinese weekend, Sat, Sun,

Mon, -bank holiday remember, three days off and all that? Get out and do a bit of posing

before¦

"Before what.?

"Before it's over¦are you alright Gaz you sound a bit manic.

"No, no I'm fine just a bit stressed that's all.

"Well calm down, chill. Any plans?

"Not really you?

"I've got Trish the Tits from I.T. coming over tonight.

"Are you sure Jake?

"Course I'm sure, she's being dropping the hint for an invite to my place for months.

"No, not about that I mean about hearing any whispers.

"What? Listen Gaz just go home grab a vodka and red bull and go a pull some honey's in

your motor. Relax and enjoy yeah?

"Yeah - keep in touch Butch

"Laters.

Gary threw the phone down he was now in the grip of the speed. The amphetamine

courtesy of Fat Clive had sent his heart on a four mile sprint, sweat soaked his shirt and

the door to his demons and paranoia creaked open. Gary pulled down the sun visor and

slid back the panel. The light was harsh and grabbed at his eyeballs. He looked pale his

pupils were pinned. Gary slapped his own face, bared his teeth and spoke out loud to

himself "That fucker Jake knows something, I'm sure of it, enjoy it while you can, what

was that all about then, bet he's already got his eye on my motor, the bastard.' He flipped

the visor back up with dark thoughts bouncing around like a pinball. The signs for the

M25 orbital told him 2 miles which took him a couple of minutes, he swept along the

road in second then third and onto the slip road where a convertible Jag XKR driven by

an old lady kept him back. 'Fucking typical, thought Gary, stuck behind a blue silver

head in a supercharged Jag.' He flashed his xenon headlights at the gruffit who was doing

a steady 26 on a road with a sixty limit. She had only ever used her mirror to check if her

mole hairs needed a trim so was oblivious of Gary 'up her arse and flashing'. The road

split into two lanes and Gary seized the chance to open up theV8 and flew past her, he

then cut in sharply. The 'nearlydead' sat at the wheel shat her kidney-warmers and pulled

up on the hard shoulder. Gary flashed a check in the mirror and seeing the result of his

suicide driving technique hissed through veneered teeth "Keep in touch Butch.

TP was a great invention Gary thought as David Gray mid

blast into 'Sail Away With Me Honey' was interrupted by local traffic news. He was

doing a steady ninety, in second gear. The announcer, obviously trying to carve out a

showbiz career, dished out the news in a jokey manner, hoping desperately a TV

producer would recognise her talent and whisk her away to a cheap hotel in Bath, fuck

her with her shoes on and give her a break in daytime television. It ain't, blackberry, it

ain't strawberry, it ain't raspberry, it's Traffic jam for all you lovely people on the anti-

clockwise M25. Gary huffed, he could see the long arc of brake lights ahead of him.

"There's been a humpty Dumpty Bumpity Bumpity at junction fourteen, nothing hurt but

a truckers pride according the boys in blue but long delays expected. That's all for now

but if you spot a jam, and I'm not talking if you're in Sainsbogs now you cheeky lot, if

you spot a jam, then call me Sam the Jam on 0870 567999. As Gary was down to 5mph

all he wanted to do to Sam the Jam was dip her microphone in chilli powder and shove it

up her arse. The cars air-con was whisper perfect, it circulated the smell of the leather and

that mysterious new car stink of factory plastic. Gary loosened his tie slid into the middle

lane and finally stopped. He raised his leg and let rip, farting in such first class

surroundings was pleasure in a moment the stink was filtered and fresh air wafted back

into the cabin. He looked in his mirror and cut sharply into the next lane to his left. A rep

on the first rung of the Sales World ladder in a Mondeo or a Dagenham donkey as Gary

called them nearly lost his front bumper. The driver who was misery with a moustache

banged on his horn and shook his head. Gary didn't respond and kept an eye on the driver

via his right hand mirror. Gary could see he was jealous as he watched him eye the M5.

Gary had a time limit in traffic jams, more than eight minutes and

he'd turn the engine off, it was a sort of unwritten rule in Sales World. These rules

included showing respect to the drivers of top motors, as these drivers by the fact they

were pushing Supercars could do what they wanted on the road. Astons, Lambo's,

Ferrari's and M Beamers just like the motor he was now pushing were king ' so being

cut up shouldn't have bothered Misery if he knew the rules. He counted down the last

thirty seconds and twisted the keys anti-clockwise. It seemed to give the others cars

around him permission to do the same. The bloke to his right in a Land Rover looked

across then shut down his, followed by most of the other cars surrounding. Gary looked

in his mirror again, if there was a chance of misery taking it further then the time was

now. Gary could see he wasn't getting out, he seemed to be talking to himself and staring

at Gary's boot. Gary's heart thumped harder, he needed this jam like Iggy Pop needed

more leather trousers. He wanted to feel the G-Force of his motor, he wanted to throw his

Key Fob on the bar in Harry's and watch the chicks cream their La Senza G's. He wanted

a blue eyed cutie with long blonde hair and even longer legs sat next to him. Something

on the back of the Land Rover caught his eye. Next to one of those Christian fish an oval

sticker read 'God made Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve.' Adam and Steve, he'd

pushed those two names back deep into his subconscious, the sticker unlocked the door.

He thought back to how Adam Hislop and Steve Doyle had

persecuted him day after day. Night after night, at the orphanage. Adam and Steve's faces

forced their way into his minds eye. As he remembered some of the horror.

"Come on you bacon boy open wide Gary shook his head, tears streaming, he tried hard

not to cry but the rope holding his together hands and his arms back cut deep into his

wrists. Adam held the dog shit on a plastic spade, there was more in the bucket, of all

age and colours, the lump on the spade was of the white crumbly variety. Steve jabbed

him in the ribs with a stick that had a used condom on the end. "It's either the shit or the

bush wankers rubber. They'd got the Johnny from the edge of the grounds, where the

trees marked the border to the open common, there was all sorts of deviant debris in the

bushes, it's where the older men hung out, walking their dogs and wanking themselves

into a black gloved frenzy looking at the dirty books they hid in the trees. Sometimes it

was where young kids would fuck being too poor for a car and too old for fire watching

in a parents back room.

"For the last time bacon boy open wide. Gary shook his head again so Adam rubbed the

shit on his lips. Gary spat furiously, the smell making him retch. Adam and Steve

laughed. Steve pulled Gary's pants down to his ankles. Gary's legs heavily skin-grafted

from the fire looked their usual mess. "Look at those disgusting things Steve pulled a

face and began flicking at Gary's thigh with the Johnny, the wet angry discharge splashed

out the rubber. They both began to chant, and were joined then by five or six other

wretches who appeared out of the trees to amplify the wailing Gary's misery.

"Sizzle sizzle bacon legs

"Sizzle sizzle bacon legs

The sharp toot of the horn shook Gary out of his trance, he checked in his mirror and

Misery in the Mondeo was looking straight at him. Gary looked forward, the traffic was

moving and there was a clear three hundred yards ahead of him He fumbled for the

ignition. Misery cut inside Gary and as he rolled forward he mouthed something, Gary

wasn't sure what it was but it lip read like he was mouthing 'Bacon Legs.' Gary rolled his

memory back ten seconds and convinced himself it was. Incensed he went after him,

however, he was soon frustrated as the Mondeo floated down the inside lane and Gary

had to stop. 'I'm mistaken, Gary tried to reassure himself, why would he say that to me?'

But again as vivid as Adam and Steve had re-visted him, he pictured misery saying the

two words that brought the red mist down. He pulled off his tie and undid two buttons on

his shirt. David Gray was now onto the Soft Cell number, Gary turned the volume up to

drown out the hot coals dancing the pit of his stomach. 'Why was it all coming back?'

He'd tried look to up Adam and Steve on the great bully finder Friends Reunited but with

no joy. Where were they now, the two bastards who put him through years of hell, where

they hiding themselves behind Pringle jumpers and golf bags in some leafy suburb, he'd

love to find out .He'd love have to have a straightener with those two.

Gary had put his details up, to show all the fuckers in the home how well 'Bacon Legs'

had done for himself, he'd added an extra fifty grand to his salary and lied about have a

holiday home in the Florida. No one had ever been in touch and he'd never seen or heard

of anyone from that place since the day he ran out the gates at 16 to fend for himself. Just

as Mr. Gray lamented about cocktail dresses the TP kicked in again.

'Sizzle Sizzle Sizzle, that's the sound of all your engines frying in the evening heat on the

M25 and bad news motor lads and motor lasses, seems as soon as they dragged the red-

faced trucker off onto the hard shoulder, some rubber-neckers piled into each other

poking their snozzles in other peoples misery, expect an hours delay at least from

Junction 14 ' That's all from Sam the Jam the TP cut out and the CD burst back on.

Gary smacked the wheel with both hands. Despite the climate control keeping the cabin

to a chilled 17 degrees he was starting to look like he'd been in a water balloon fight.

Sam the Jams Sizzle Sizzle Sizzle looped like some bad dance music lyric in his head.

Gary rolled slowly forward and could see the blue Mondeo had stopped on the inside.

Gary wanted to pull along side, he was going to front the miserable bastard. The queue

was not being kind, just as Gary got him in his sights, the Mondeo rolled on ahead in the

inside lane. Then to his horror at the very last possible moment to get off the motorway

and onto the services Misery didn't indicate and rattled up the slip road. Gary was boxed

in and in the wrong lane he had ten yards to switch lanes and follow, he indicated and

looked around pleadingly for someone to let him in, a woman in Renault looked straight

through him, embarrassed as Gary for a split second Gary made a pleading eye contact,

she convinced herself she hadn't seen him ,looked straight forward as she edged half a

car in front of him. Gary mouthed 'You fucking cow' She stared ahead and went all

beacon cheeks. The Mondeo, was now out of sight and into the service area, Luckily a

camper van with a couple of Ben and Jerry hippies let him through He gave the woman in

the Renault the evil eyeball before charging up the slip road in pursuit of his tormentor.

The services mixed the smell of KFC, Mchamburgers and those

scented pineapple chunks they threw in the men's piss pots. It flew up his nostrils as the

dull aluminium sliding doors opened up. The place was packed, unlucky for Gary a coach

party of Scousers en route to a cheap holiday had got there just before him, he pushed

through a crowd of them in Liverpool shirts and track suit bottoms. He reassured himself

he still had his keys with a tap on his pocket. Gary remembered his first half board

holiday to Tenerife in a hotel with it's share of Scousers, after a day he could spot them a

mile away as they were the ones leaving breakfast with bananas and Danish pastries

stuffed in their socks and sports bags loaded with yoghurts and drinks. They were

good blaggers and fair play to them, he thought , as he scanned over the heads which had

changed from curly perms to dirty tennis balls, since Harry Enfield was last on TV. After

a quick check around the fast food counters and the slot machines. Gary headed for the

pisser, most people called at the services when their bladders reached space hopper

proportions and had to piss, more likely than not Misery would be straining his onions, an

ideal place thought Gary to front the bastard and have a straightener. He reached the

toilets in a matter of seconds.

'Someone had made an effort in this shithouse,' he thought, a board let everyone know

when they were to be cleaned next and there were some flowers crammed in a half pint

glass. Gary walked in slowly, looking straight into the eyes of the people leaving, they

stared back and looked away, they new from the wild look in Gary's eyes he was out for

trouble. One bloke caught his eye and nervously said "It wasn't me, before getting

quickly out of the danger zone Gary looked around the wall mounted piss pots, there was

no sign of the miserable fucker, he walked down the row of six blue cubicle doors, his

heart leaping as he gave each one a gentle push, the first four doors edged open the fifth

was firmly shut as was the sixth, Gary reached into the deep pocket of his suit trousers

and fished out five pound coins, packed them together in a line and clenched the fingers

in his hand making a solid fist, and waited for Misery to drop his ashes. The third door

opened and Gary stood back raising a ready right hand, it was a false alarm a pizza faced

teenager gawped at Gary "What mate?' he said putting his hands up to protect his face.

Gary grabbed his Liverpool Shirt and pulled him close "Fuck off' bollock chops' Gary

pushed him towards the exit, the kid obeyed, as Gary turned he was face to face with his

prey. There eyes met and Misery went the colour of boiled shite. A split second later

Gary connected with a sharp right knocking him back into the cubicle. Misery's nose

split and he convulsed two halves of a top denture onto the pissy floor. Gary got to work

with more blows. "Bacon Legs, Gary said, I'll give you've fucking bacon Legs, Gary

rained blows down onto face and head . "You, think, third, degree, burns, are, funny, do,

you? Gary punctuated each word with a blow. Misery said nothing just made the noise

of an animal in mortal distress.

"Who are you? Gary shouted, how did you know to call me that? Who put you up to it?

Gary smashed his fist repeatedly at Misery's head the sickening smell of warm blood

mingled with the stink of piss. Gary swung back to deliver a final blow that caught Misery

on the temple that sent him to a painless world of black. Misery lay limp on the cubicle

floor, one hand clutching over the rim of the toilet bowl. Gary spat on him, then stamped

the steel tipped heel of his brogues on his clutching fingers, with a sickening crack

Misery's wedding band cut through his finger which dropped into the bowl. Gary looked

into the bowl and shook his head is disbelief.

He composed himself and flushed before backing out of the cubicle snorting like a Bull.

A man in his thirties was standing watching, he caught Gary's eye. Gary almost went for

him. "Nothing to do with me mate, none of my business, he said, I'm on off on my

holidays, holding his hands up in surrender he walked down to the bottom cubicle. Gary

went to the sinks washed his hands and dabbed the streams of sweat off his face with a

series of paper towels .

"Keep in touch Butch, he shouted back down to the stalls then walked out cool as you

like. His heart was bursting his chest walls as he swept back towards the glass doors.

"RSPCA card sir? Gary was stopped by a girl who was holding a clipboard and wearing

too much make-up . She stood in his way and they collided. It was a trick that worked

most of the time.

"RSPCA card Sir? One percent cash back of all purchases goes to help animals

"What makes you think I'd want to help animals Gary said still breathless.

"Well sir you look like a man who's compassionate she said unknowingly to someone

who'd just beaten a man unconscious and left him in a pool of snot and blood.

The girl flirted with Gary like she had with every other rep she's signed up for the

RSPCA card. At thirty quid a time commission she loved her job. She didn't even like

animals, she'd blagged her way through the interview saying she'd had a pony and kept

rabbits and ducks, truth was she only ever had a hamster and had flushed it down the

toilet after three months when she'd got bored and it began to smell. Still showing

pictures of 'poor' animals that had been mis-treated worked on the girls, but the blokes

liked a bit of a flirt, some days towards the end of the month when her target was way off

she go without a bra and eave some buttons undone. This evening she was batting her

eyelids and bumping into the sharply dressed guy in the sweaty shirt hoping to sign up

another dumb rep.

"Go on then, said Gary carry on.

"What card do you have at the moment?

"Amex platinum.

The girl feigned being impressed, she that knew someone with a platinum Amex had to

have a credit history better than the Pope and would sail through an application.

"Well, sir that's quite impressive, can I persuade you to have one these in your wallet?

She waved the application form proactively.

"You can, said Gary¦ if?

"If,? said the girl flicking her floppy fringe.

"If you show me your cunt. Gary said matter of fact.

Gary delighted in her face change, not surprisingly coy and giggly had vanished.

The girl heard Gary but said "What?

"Your cunt, well, yes or no?

This was all going a bit too fast for her

"What's up Gary fired quickly, question too difficult, pony tail too fucking tight?

"Sex fiend She shouted and immediately regretted it as it sounded such a weak response

and what she needed were some stronger words.

"Me smirked Gary you're the one pushing your tits out and biting your fucking lip, so

put up or shut up Barbie, what's it to be

"Fuck Off.

"Suit yourself you've probably had one of those rescue donkeys up it anyway, Keep in

Touch Butch, Gary walk to the automatic doors that hesitated slightly, then let him out

to the car park. Gary made his way sharpish to his motor as a Police Range Rover pulled

up to his left and as he crossed the road and two coppers kitted up with batons and cuffs

jumped out brushing past him as they headed for the trouble that had been reported

inside. He was not sure whether they were there for the Scousers who had almost stripped

the Moto shop bare or whether they were there to apprehend the maniac who had just put

a motorist into a coma in the toilets

It was now dark and the dashboard on the BMW threw so many

lights from its clocks and dials it resembled a Boeing 747 . He pulled out of the service

area and towards the exit just as a couple of Scousers were being searched next to their

coach. Gary smiled as he passed the Range Rover and saw two more opportunist

Liverpudlians looking through the glove box, one trying to figure out what each item

was, then upon deciding it's pub re-sale worth, passing them to his mate who was

stuffing them into a plastic Aldi bag.

The day Adam Hislop left the home, he had tried to take his

bullying ways with him. But he soon discovered the big wide world wasn't full of fragile

orphans. He'd tried to stake a claim as 'a hard man in town' when he settled in

Hereford. On his second night there he'd got pissed at The Crystal rooms and picked a

fight on a what he thought was a 'skinny bloke' a skinny bloke who happened to be out

for a quiet drink in between missions from The SAS base nearby. Adam Hislop took

more than a hiding, the blood clot from the fractured skull had left him not only

unconscious but after three months in hospital, with a slight limp. The soldier who had a

proper posh soldiers name got a dressing down and shipped out to a jungle somewhere

for a month. The disability had worked slightly in Adam's favour, every big company

needed to employ a certain quota of 'veg' as he was called by his boss, and Adam was

the 'veg' quota on the driving force of Panic Parcels 'Delivery guaranteed within eight

hours any destination in a sixty mile radius of the M25.' They'd even adapted the

controls on his truck to help his slightly weaker side cope with the hairy- backed world of

the delivery driver. Adam pulled up the lever that hissed the air brakes on. He was going

nowhere and was in danger of breaking Panic Parcel's promise for the third time that

week, it was another of those bastard jams. He looked on the dashboard and three kids

grinned at him in green jumpers from a school photo, for most fathers these pictures were

a reason to go to work, to provide for, to treat to McDonalds and the cinema on a

weekend, for Adam they were a reason not to go home. Putting it straight 'they drove him

fucking mental,' stepchildren however, were part of the package and Adam semi-veg

couldn't be too picky.

His new wife had made him stick the picture on the dashboard just like she'd made him

carry the picture in his wallet of her with both fat wrists cuffed to the bed, her size 22

body squeezed into the finest size 14 cheap underwear the naughty nightie party could

muster. It was the sort of picture that made Readers Wives magazines more funny

than erotic. Adam met her at the local divorced separated and single night, the club bar

resembled the one in Star Wars, she was the best of a bad bunch, but still, she had a house

of her own and her ex old man who'd been wiped out on a b-road by a drunk driver had

provided enough cash for the kids to be taken on holiday twice a year. Adam considered

himself not that bad a catch, despite a minor disability, in a good light and in a clean shirt

he thought he looked not unlike a ginger George Clooney. But a nasty little fucker as

a boy meant a nasty little fucker as a man. Adam could be particularly vicious to Tom the

eldest of the three kids, Tom had been informed more than once that his dad had

deliberately drove into the path of the other car to rid himself of the shame of having a

son with a stutter and a lisp. 'Bullet Boy' Adam taunted him at almost every opportunity.

"Come on B..B.. B.. Bullet boy spit it out - say seven silly sausages sizzling a saucepan.

When Tom finally got it out Adam would brand him 'a pathetic little freak' and give him

a kick. The other two had different buttons Adam could push, Simon was eight and still

wet the bed, he'd visibly taken his dad's death the hardest and was a sensitive little soul.

When his mum was on a late shift at the taxi rank Adam would make him go to bed in

armbands and a swimming costume, he'd also sniff up and say 'Can I smell

piss?' every time the poor kid was in earshot. However, the most torment was saved for

Jim, a five year old with real problems thanks to Adam Hislop a step dad who'd take

every opportunity to scare the shit out of the little chap with a variety of masks, noises

and tricks, the poor boy was a bag of nerves he didn't sleep and if he did he would often

be awoken to 'daddy' at the end of the bed in his little cramped room calling his name in

a monster mask. Adam was a the sort of step dad you read about in best selling books of

their surviving children. And like those books, the mother who was too frightened of

losing their good catch, put all the blame down to something else, losing their dad,

bullying at school anywhere else than at the limping feet of her new hubby. After all big

girls, especially big girls with three kids ' well they need love to.

Adam took bag of duty free baccy from the passenger seat and

rolled a prison thin fag, all the drivers got the duty free baccy, he coughed his way

through two half ounce pouches a week, most of it sat at the wheel browning his teeth

and blackening his lungs stuck in traffic around London. He looked up and gave his green

magic tree a flick, it would need to perform real magic to have any effect on his stinking

world on wheels, his truck cab smelt like a tobacco flavoured pastie in piss and shit

gravy. Once again he was stuck like a council tart on the Sun crossword. The M25 was

performing it's other job as Britain's biggest car park. He jostled in his seat from side to

side and with his good hand, undid the button on his Asda jeans, his bladder felt like a hot

water bottle straining to burst and the Fanta bottle he used to piss into even when the

roads were clear was full. He was fucked off, he could see the services, teasing him half

a mile down the asphalt, he toyed with the idea of using the hard shoulder but he was on

nine points already, six of them for whizzing up hard shoulders in traffic jams, so he

decided to wait it out, 'good job too' he thought as a police Range Rover whizzed past on

his inside and up the slip road into the services, something had obviously gone off.

'Probably involving the Scousers he mused. They'd tormented him out of the back

window of their coach earlier on, showing their white arses and LFC tattoo's - and that

was just the women. So he sat and thought as usual about fucking the woman across the

road and siphoning company diesel from his truck to snide into his Peugeot. He never

thought about the home where he and Steve had tormented every fucker unlucky enough

to share a dorm, especially the little half caste kid three years his junior, he never thought

about why he never got picked by the childless couples who came and gave so many of

the others a new home with bedrooms of their own and brand new Raleigh choppers.

Why? Because thinking about all that turned him into as nasty bastard and as a lot of

people had already told him he was nasty enough as it was. As another Police car

escorting an ambulance shot past on his inside and he decided to swig the last of his tea

that looked like coffee and tasted faintly of soup from a flask stolen from one of the other

drivers.

Gary was stuck now in a queue to get back onto the

motorway, he'd have hung around to see more of the grief the filth were getting off the

marauding northerners, but seeing as he had just half killed another rep with a moustache

he thought he'd better do a sharp one. He checked his jacket was still on the back seat, as

there was a chance a Scouser would be wearing it on holiday. He looked down onto his

shirt and trousers, they were miraculously free of blood a miracle he thought as there had

been plenty of it about. He sat for a couple on minutes, and as most of the people

queuing had turned their engines off and were out of their cars it gave it gave him

permission to do the same, what's more he felt chatty up and buzzing and relished the

chance to boast about his new motor to anyone who would listen. The summer night air

hung around like a first date fart, the lorry fumes rode on a light breeze that pushed the

sulphur stink gently up everyone's nose. He shut the driver's door and decided to give his

car an all round once over before joining the crowd on the hill. She looked good, mean

and low. As took in the back view it didn't register at first, he couldn't quite believe it,

written in three inch letters in bright lip liner, the words that had gotten misery a hiding

'Bacon Legs.' Gary stepped forward close to the boot, he placed a his finger on the B, it

slid as the lip liner smeared. He held it to his nose and smelt it, he got Deborah's gobby

stink up both nostrils, He took the folded Hermes hanky from the top pocket of his shirt

and wiped away at it, it was just as hard to get off the polished boot lid of his car than it

had been to get off his Nicole Fahri shirt, but finally, after a bit of elbow grease, it was

gone. Then it hit him, all misery had done was read the words aloud, the poor fucker.

Deborah was one of the few people who Gary had told about his time in the home, he'd

laid the poor kid routine on her when he was up for his first promotion, before she'd

made him fuck her on the stairs and had shoved a string of pearls up his arse. He'd

clinched it with the bit about where his wet nappy was being the only place on his

lower half that wasn't burnt. First, he thought that bullshit about closing him down and

now this, he'd have to front the Bitch without Jack getting to know. He got back in the

car, he was in no mood for chatting now, Gar mused, it seemed Deborah was a woman

spurned. Sharon the stupid cow who Gary had been fucking for over a month had told

Deborah they were in love, Sharon knew he's shagged Deborah, he'd told her after four

bottles of Rose Lanson the weekend they fucked each other sore at the Hastings

conference. Women drove him mad with their fucking stupid petty games of jealousy. 'In

love' she'd told Deborah and it looked like Deborah had believed her. His pocket tingled

as his phone vibrated before ringing, Gary took it out and looked at the screen which read

WITHELD.

The priest in the middle lane of the jam 300 yards

past the service station looked across to the old lady in the little Citroen, who was trying to

catch his attention. She waved and blessed herself, he smiled a priestly 'God Bless You'

smile and turned up the Steely Dan that was already snaking out of the speakers 'every

patron saint hung on the wall shared the room with twenty sinners.' Damn that Fagan and

Becker, he mused, they should have been preachers. He reached and undid his seatbelt

then stretched over to the gap under his passenger seat, the tips of his fingers touching the

edge of a magazine, he slid it out and placed it on his knee. Looking at the front cover his

spirits were lifted from the gloom that had descended when the traffic had come to a halt.

He stared a moment at the cover 'Shaven Sluts' it screamed out in unashamedly large

letters. A girl in 'fuck me father for I have sinned' lipstick just out of bunking school, sat

legs akimbo, a silver star strategically preventing everyone seeing her kidneys. The priest

wet his thumb and flicked the page "Lord save this poor girl he muttered, but send her to

me first so I can give the little tart some penance and a thick splash of DNA'

The zip on his priestly charcoal black nylon trousers strained, he shut the mag and pushed

it back under the seat. Sitting up the old lady caught his eye again, he gave her another

saintly smile and put the music back on.

"God bless us and save us poor Mrs Davis didn't know herrings were fish he sighed

tapping the wheel in time with the jazz funk. The Dan had seen him through many a

boring day, especially when he was supposed to be emerged in theological study at the

training college with the other young trainee men of God, they'd read the bible and be

looking up selected texts, he'd be reading Viz and looking up the skirts on the web cam

sights that provided live action. He'd cram of course, making sure he knew his Epistles

from his apostles. He sailed through all his exams, Father Duggan the Irish priest who

looked like he was leaning backwards when he walked, was proud, he was the one

who'd taken a chance on 'the poor boy from the home' becoming a man of God, he had

the deciding vote on the committee, and put his trust in the lad who'd never been given a

chance, a lad whose parents had killed themselves drinking industrial alcohol labelled

vodka they'd bought out of the back of a Morris marina at a car boot sale. Boys from

homes made good vessels for God's work, they knew about loneliness and pain, and they

could see the light without designer sunglasses. Father Steve Doyle like a million priests

before him had a name with a good Irish ring to it, "One day, Father Duggan used to

shout when he'd got wankered on the altar wine, one day there'll be an Irish Pope. All

the young trainees used to smile and secretly hope it'd be them, even Steve 'it was the top

job, he thought and you got to live in Rome and wear some pretty crazy hats, you could

do worse.'

Steve Doyle was never going to make it to bishop, he wasn't in it for the career

advancement, he was in it form the totty, and there was plenty to be had by a young

priest, The Thornbirds TV series had seen to that, before that roll in the sand with the fit

bird, Steve got the occasional bit of fanny, but afterwards in fact almost the day after, he

got the glad eye at every cake stall, every community prayer group and every summer

jamboree. It was brilliant, shagging the priest was the thing to do, safe, allowed it'd been

on prime time telly and had got every catholic woman's bunny jumping in the parish.

'God bless the Thornbirds' thought Steve 'it was a present from the lord, a true gift.' His

zip strained again and after a quick glance left and right he thought 'Fuck It' and got his

mag out again. He flicked through for a picture where the dirty devil's whore was looking

into his eyes, slid down his zip and began boxing with Kojak. It had been that sort of day.

"Gary Bragg He barked into the mobile, he always did that when the caller withheld

their number. It put him in control of the situation.

"Hi Gaz it's me, purred a voice, where are ya?

"Sharon. Gary said not too cold as he wanted to prise information. "Stuck in some

traffic babe, he said smoothly back on auto pilot.

"I thought you were going to call me you naughty boy?

"I was just about to, you beat me to it by minutes. Gary spoke fast a bit manic.

"Bollocks you blagger, you never where, are you alone, you sound different.

"Course I'm alone. Listen, Deborah tells me you've been talking.

Sharon put her motor mouth into gear, she was a pretty girl, went in and out in all the

right places and had an arse like a peach, her only problem was she was a gobby cow,

thought Gary, sometimes she'd talk for minutes without taking a breath, Gary liked to

shut her up by putting his cock in her mouth and sometimes, as bizarre as it sounds he

did it purely for a bit of peace and quiet. Sharon began.

"I bet she did, the stuck up cow, she still fancies you Gaz, you know that don't you,

fancies you rotten? But I put her straight, told her we were in love. Told her anyone with

an eye for Gaz Bragg had better forget it, no matter how important they thought they

were. That shut her up Gaz, it was brilliant. Anyway when do you pick up your car..

Gary cut in mid sentence. "You fucking stupid gobby bitch!

"What?

"It's over Shaz ' you're dumped.

"Stop playing Gaz ' Sharon laughed nervously.

"You've fucked me over you stupid cow, Deborah's on a mission to spoil everything, and

why, I'll tell you why, because you and your fucking gob have wound her up about me.

"I'm sorry Gaz I just told her we were in love, like you said, you're a one woman man

from now on.

Gary mocked "I'll never be a one woman man, you believe that bollocks, ask the new girl

in your department, ask your mate Chloe, want me to carry on?

"But you said you love me.

"Of course I did.

"What?

"Of course I said I love you, but it's just blagg you know that. Now get off the line you

gobby tart, and let me think how to dig myself out of the pile of shit you've just dropped

me in.

"You said Chloe, what did you mean Chloe. Ask Chloe?

"Off the line, it's over deal with it.

"Fuck you BACON LEGS.

The line went dead and Gary's chest swelled with anger. Word was obviously out.

Father Doyle finished wiping the mess off his hands on the moist

baby wipes and popped them back into the glove box. He was cheered when he

remembered it was school confessional in the morning. St. Mary's girls where in his little

box to confess all their sins. That reminded him to reach down into his bag and grab one

of the cassettes. He slotted it into the player. A muffled noise of a door closing with

echoing acoustics, hissed out of the speakers, then a young girl's voice.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned, he reached over and fast-forwarded the boring bit on

how Sammy Jo had 'missed church and given cheek to her parents,' he pulled his finger

of the button.

"What thoughts are these? his own voice sounding sincere and solemn

"Thoughts about Laura father.

"Laura who's Laura ?he heard himself ask in a concerned matter of fact tone.

"Laura's my best friend, she's just come back from three weeks in Spain.'

"Yes and?

"Well father I have these thoughts about¦

"About?

"When I look at her long brown legs, the back of he neck, the arch of her back, she's so

pretty so beautiful, her mouth well, and she's dead clever

"Yes child back to the thoughts, thoughts about what?

"About ¦you know¦ touching her.

"Touching her and kissing her mouth child?

"Yes kissing her mouth father and touching between her¦ are you alright Father you

sound out of breath?

"Yes child carry on, I'm just shocked at your detour from the path of God.

Father Doyle's in car entertainment was interrupted by a huge wagon horn blasting out.

Listening to one of his confessional greatest hits had him drifting away imagining the

gorgeous and lithe Sammy Jo getting it on with the equally delightful Laura and he had

let his car creep right across the lane, annoying the hairy arsed trucker who he'd cut

straight across. He turned around and waved an apology, the trucker realising he had just

put the frighteners on a man of God acknowledged and waved back his forgiveness. He

always taped confessions, not just of the young girls, he had enough information on all

the Catholics of his parish to guarantee a nice comfortable life, if it all went tits up with

the priest job. Oh yes he knew everyone's dirty little secrets, happily married bankers

who fucked rent boys, housewives who fucked Alsatians and cleaners who stole

jewellery from rich employees, all on tape, all filed and ready, plus of course lots of

young girls confessing to a bit of lesbian pubescent fantasy, 'shame on them, shame on

them all he thought and thank the Lord they had come to Father Doyle to unburden their

sins through the little square of red velvet in the four foot square oak confessional.'

'Please leave a message after the tone.' "Listen Bitch

where did that come from Bacon Legs, get that from Deborah did you. You'd better

switch that phone on or I'll be around to your place to give you a fucking slap He threw

his phone back down. She'd turned it off straight after she shouted Bacon Legs. She'd

obviously spoken about him at length to Deborah but when Gary thought, was it during

discussing his redundancy why would Deborah be talking to the H.R. chief, was it on

how best to give him the chop, the push, the bullet, the elbow the big don't come

Monday?' He tried Sharon again 'This is the O2 voice messaging service for 0778.' He

chucked it back down. Panic crept in ' without a job he'd be fucked, he reasoned, he was

no good at anything else, he was a sales blagger, the best sales blagger, that's why he had

been rewarded with the M5. He'd tried other things, he'd tried being a pipe fitter, but a

year into his training the instructor told him he couldn't fit a pipe in a snowman's mouth

and threw him off the course, he'd tried being a joiner but everything he joined together

fell apart, at using his hands he was useless, he couldn't pull a cat off a glass table, selling

however was different, he could sell all day he could sell anything to anyone. He began

his career selling windows, white plastic windows by the estate load. Council right to

buy was a blessing for Gary, out with the old and in with the new white plastic, no

painting, no fuss, no credit, no problem. He shifted thousands of them, and he didn't need

the 'I'm not leaving until you sign up routine either, he just blagged them, pushed all the

right buttons, played all the right cards. If it was a nice white couple he mention 'friends

of his who'd be in those old windows in 10 seconds with their dirty black hands through

all the drawers in their daughter's bedroom. If it was a black or mixed race household

he'd play the I'm getting sacked at the end of the week because I'm half black and no

one wants to buy off a black man, he had it all ways. The commission flowed in and then

he moved on to office supplies, he sold a Norwegian forests worth of A4 copier paper,

the normally middle-aged women stationary buyers in the big offices where a push over,

that's where he found out that a fuck worked wonders and not a long fuck, a quick knee

trembler would suffice, contracts for Gary weren't won on the golf course they were won

on Novotel beds where the bobbled bed sheets covered the heavy duty mattress cover.

Beasting fat women in their forties with their cow hips and gin breath, fat women whose

husbands fucked office juniors and forty quid whores between the very same sheets.

"Bless me father for I have sinned, it has been six days since

my last confession, and since then I have broken the most serious of the commandments.

" You have my son?

"Yes Father I have killed.

The tape recording wasn't brilliant but the sound of sobbing rose just enough above the

hiss to be audible. "

"And what did you kill my son, I'm sure that there's no need to get quite this upset, not

all of God's creatures deserve to live, I myself have slaughtered my fair share of the big

mice and cockroaches, I've always thought the Lord had made a mistake with those

sneaky buggers. Father Doyle heard himself give a little priest like chuckle.

A short silenced followed and after a couple of sniffs

"My girlfriend, I've killed my girlfriend, the barmaid that's been on the news, the girl

that's disappeared, the girl whose photo they keep flashing on the television, all smiling

and full of life, that girl, I've killed that girl.

The tape picked up the sound of the curtain being pulled back, then Father Steve's voice.

"May God forgive you Stanley Spencer.

"I'm so sorry Father, it was an accident, I just meant to show her I wasn't some prick she

could mess about, not like one of the army lads from the barracks, I just wanted to teach

her a bit of a lesson, the voice broke into an animal like squeal and broke down sobbing

hysterically.

"It's alright, Stanley, it's alright, with God's help we can work this through, with the

Lord on our side, it's a situation we can manage together.

"Stay in the confessional and we'll talk it through.

"Yes father, thank you father. Steve and Stanley Spencer, local Mercedes dealer and Mr

Round Table did work it out, they had worked it out well. The tape stopped and the TP

kicked in, 'that was the beauty of these big Mercs every gadget imaginable and a joy to

drive,' Steve thought to himself as he tapped the leather rimmed wheel. The Catholic

businessmen in his parish where good to him. They where all one big Catholic family and

like all good families in the Mike Leigh tradition, full of secrets and Lies. Secrets and

Lies shared with good old Father Steve Doyle. In his car he never carried any more than

three tapes a Sammy Jo wank special a Stanley Spencer psycho killer, this was a copy of a

copy, just in case. They were real entertainment for Father Steve, he especially liked the

way Stanley described the point at which he decided to strangle her, you couldn't get

more stereotypical than Stanley Spencer, as soon as he hit forty he go into a pair of

leather trousers. Leather trousers and hair scraped back into a pony 'tail, and of course the

young bird, the young barmaid, the trouble with the young ones Father Steve wisely told

Stanley was that they fuck you for your money and then go and spend it with boys there

own age, boys full of spunk and hormones who want to shag all night. It was the

barmaids moment of honesty that had caused Stanley to flip. "Of course I see other

blokes', she answered his off the cuff question, "Blokes' which meant more than one left

Stanley gutted, when she replied eight, to his question of 'Exactly how many?' he'd lost

it, realising what an old fool he really was. She found it funny assuring him she only

shagged six of them and never more than two on the same day and never like he liked it

'up the arse'. The third tape was of Trisha, the cleaner who regularly stole cash and

valuables from two coke head bankers who lived on the new estate. Father Steve had

sanctioned it as long as a percentage of the cash went into the collection box, which Steve

used seventy per cent of to fund his extra Catholic activities. These include prostitutes,

William Hills and the odd drop of single malt. Life was good and he felt he deserved it.

What he didn't deserve was the huge signal on the flashing board that said. Queue ahead.

The M25 was at it again.