Man's Worst Enemy is Man

It's 2020 in London, UK. Crime levels are at record highs, jobs are non-existent and benefits are a distant memory. The working classes are rebelling and something has got to give. This tale chronicles the struggles of a mentally disturbed boy trapped in a twisted city as world war 3 swiftly approaches....


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3. A Nice Bit of Conflict

 

I continued to walk on with no idea of where I was going. My mind spun over and over, replaying Joey’s murder silently like a very gruesome Chaplin film. Then on the mental cinema screen, was my mother’s last breath as she fell to the floor. This was followed by two images shown side by side; on the right was a picture of my mum about five years prior to her dying day, sprightly with a smile. On the left side was the version of my mother Joey had created, the yellow skin, her tiny eyes sinking deeper and deeper into her ever-widening eye sockets. No matter what I thought of, the multitude of demented images reappeared again and again. I wanted to feel guilt, I wanted to be sorry. I desperately desired to act my age and be a frightened little boy unaware of the consequences of killing. I wasn’t – although my actions were spur of the moment, every bit of pain I caused Joey was calculated and enjoyable. For years my instincts and actions were equal to somebody many years my senior. I was blessed with healthy commonsense, I’d never been taught anything by a school. The little intellect I had was learned from the people around me who were wily and unorthodox. I owed my commonsense purely to life experience.


****

 

 


I eventually fell asleep around three in the morning, my legs were weary and I passed out in an alley from exhaustion; a kerb playing the part of my mattress.
I was awoken early the next day by a kick to the ribs. When I didn’t budge, another came harder. My eyes snapped open, vision blurry.  Above me stood a tall lanky male, he looked about eighteen.
“Shift, you skinny rat-bag! These are my roads, you’re not welcome!” he said, his halitosis beating down on my face.
I stood, still half asleep and too exhausted to move. He grew angrier and barked:
“I won’t tell you again – move on!!” He glared and spat in my face.
The globule of slimy mucus hitting my cheek was quite the wake-up call. Anger boiled up inside me but I kept my composure and observed my new friend. As I looked at him I noticed his fuzzy excuse for a moustache, the scruffy hoodie and yellowing teeth. As he continued to shout and swear at me, I muttered a false apology and pretended to scurry off. As I did so, he turned to the three youths who were standing at the mouth of the alley, smirking as he bullied me. It was plain to see that all three thought they were gangsters; it obviously boosted their egos to run around with Mr Mouthpiece. The skinny boy with the slug lookalike on his lip barked at his followers seeking praise for the mockery just made of the poor malnourished boy. As he continued to bask in his own vulgar glory, I turned back swiftly. I kicked him in his left hamstring which forced him to his knees. I yanked his left arm upward and twisted, he screamed as it broke and he rolled away from me. One of his gang immediately ran forward to strike me; I ducked under his right fist and rammed my elbow into his protruding ribs. He doubled over as all his breath escaped him; I then proceeded to kick him in the side of the head like a professional footballer scoring a goal, and he rolled onto his back.
A third youth snuck behind me and pushed me onto my face; I immediately sprung back to a vertical base, adrenalin shielding me from the pain. I faced him, evaded his wild punch and forcefully kicked him in the tenders; before he could fall I grabbed his head and slammed it into the wall before me. He staggered back, his face awash with crimson, spitting out blood and teeth before he comically hit the ground. I raised my fists protecting my face like a boxer, and waited for the next assailant. As I did, the adrenalin wore off slightly and my final opponent played his hand. He was fat, his hoodie clung to his girth like a second skin, he got me in a headlock and for the first time I felt the cold steel of a blade pressing against my flesh. The obese teen began to taunt me:
“This is what happens when you mess with us! This is our manor and skinny little scumbags like you can’t get away with challenging us...”
He continued to spout his gangster clichés for about another minute before I bit down into the hairy flesh of his arm which constricted my neck. My teeth sunk deeply in and the warm metallic taste of his blood flooded my mouth. Eventually he was forced to relent, because I definitely wasn’t going to!
He staggered backwards yelling in pain, he still held the knife in his right hand, flailing it as he walked towards me. I went for another good old-fashioned blow to stop him temporarily; I followed it with a harsh uppercut which broke his nose. He fell onto his backside, dropped the knife and propped himself against the wall. Screaming, I grabbed his pumpkin-shaped head and psychotically twisted again and again desperately trying to break his neck.
Oh, how I wanted to kill him!
The skinny ringleader then pushed me to the ground. I looked up at him and his arm was dangling lifelessly (good job done I say).
He picked up the knife and took it over to his fat associate.
“Quick Nut, get up – put the shank in him!”
The fat boy, whose name was apparently Nut, hoisted me up – now it was my turn to go against the wall. My death was imminent; there was only one way out now –mind games!
Just as Nut was about to kill me, my voice cold and calm:
“That’s it, force it through,” I said looking him dead in the eye, daring him to murder me.
“..Come on, a hard man like you should be use to this, stab me quick,” I pressed myself against the blade and smiled showing him a mouthful of teeth stained red by his blood. Then I whispered darkly
“Don’t forget to twist...!”
I spotted the look in his eye and the slight quiver of his hand. He lowered the blade, and shouted “You’re a nutter!” and forced it into the soft flesh of my thigh. All four then retreated, battered and unnerved. Although my leg was stinging and pouring with blood, my face housed a demonic smile. I, an eleven year old boy, had outsmarted a gang, all of its members at least six years older than me.
I’d be doing a lot of that in time to come!     
   
 

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