Two men in a car, it was an old escort or something.

He leant forward and turned to the passenger in the stationery car, it was an old Escort or something. “What’s she doing?”
The other man didn’t respond. Both were dressed in old tracksuits, worn out about the knees so that their pasty skin shone through the faded black. He didn’t respond.
“What’s she doing man?” He asked again, arching his back over the steering wheel to gain his passengers attention. He rapped his knuckles on the steering wheel as his passenger moved the binoculars back forth before his eyes in an effort to compensate for his poor vision.
“What’s she f…”
“These binoculars are shit.” His passenger interrupted, “You try.” He handed the binoculars to the driver.
The driver zoomed in on the target. He sat for a few moments slowly lowering himself behind the wheel so as not to be seen leering at women in public through binoculars. People don’t like that sort of shit anymore.
“Who is that?” The driver exclaimed.
“Who the fuck is that?!” He said, rocking back and forward in his seat.
“What does he look like?”
“Suit, sunglasses, shiny shoes.” The two sat in silence for a moment before the driver began muttering something incomprehensible about “this guy not knowing who the fuck he’s…”
He sprang from the car door moving with surprising agility for a man in his state. “Where the fuck are you going?”
“I’m going to sort this son of a bitch out!” He said slamming the door on his passenger. The other man shot across the car and wound down the window.
“Wait! Wait!”
“What?” He said stopping in the middle of the road.
“Do you know who this guy is?”
“No, why?”
“Well… What’s he wearing?”
The passenger turned to face his victim-to-be. “Suit, sunglasses… Shiny shoes.”
“Suit, sunglasses, shiny shoes? This guy could be a fucking mafia don for all you know!” The driver faltered in the road, he began walking back towards the car.
“That guy is not fucking mafia don.”
The two men sat in silence as the driver pulled the binoculars out from under the seat and resumed watching the two people talking on the street. Some time passed, the radio was out of tune and the scrambled message was all but lost by the time it escaped the burnt out speakers.
“You know… The club… Control…”
“What is this shit?” The passenger asked fiddling with the dash controls. “Where’s the brandy?” He didn’t respond.
“Where’s the fucking brandy?!” He asked again to no avail. He searched under the seat and forced his hand through the carpet of empties that littered the floor. Finally, opening the glove box, only to have more empties fall out onto his lap leaving the stale beer to soak into his filthy trousers, he found it lodged out of sight down the back of the glove box. He began to pour it on his trousers and the sleeves of his tattered jumper.
The driver put down his binoculars and watched in disbelief, “What the fuck are you doing?” He asked with complete composure. The passenger continued to pour. “What the fuck are you d..?”
“Listen!” The passenger cut in. “If you walk around stinking of booze twenty four seven then nobody’s going to try to fuck with you.” The driver shook his head in disbelief. “It’s sound logic man!” He continued, “Nobody wants to fuck with an alcoholic.”
“People love to fuck with alcoholics! It’s speaking to them they hate, it’s being around them.”
“Fucking eh man.” The passenger said in agreement, raising his bottle of brandy, it sounded strange in his Dorset accent. The two sat in silence for a moment.
“Fucking eh?”
“My Granddad’s Canadian.”
The driver nodded.
“I’m going to live with him in Toronto over the summer.” He took a swig on the whiskey. “If I can get the money together.”
“Bullshit.” The two men sat in silence.
“Why you always got to do that man? Why you always got to piss me off?”
“Shut up.”
“No I won’t fucking shut up!” the passenger said pushing his driver.
“What the fuck was that?” He asked, pushing him back so hard the passenger’s head hit the windscreen. The passenger swung for him and narrowly missing connected with the driver side window, blood trickled from his knuckles onto the dash. The driver then slammed his head into the window only to be caught off guard with a beer can to the face; the warped metal cut open his cheek. As the passenger clutched his bleeding hand the recoiling driver sprung forward smashing the passenger’s head into the window three times before grabbing the seat belt and wrapping it around his neck. He squeezed tighter, tighter, tighter. The barely conscious passenger gasped for air before slumping into his seat. The driver leant over, opened the door and jettisoned him from the car into the middle of the road.
Mark had sat on a bench across the road; he’d watched the entire thing go down from start to finish. He’d watched as the driver had started the engine, and sped the battered car; it was an escort or something, away from the scene. He and his girlfriend even watched as the oncoming 4x4 rolled over the seriously wounded, unconscious man now spread across the road.
He turned to his beautiful girlfriend, “I fucking hate alcoholics.” She nodded in agreement.
It’s true man, everybody hates a fucking alcoholic.