49 LONDON
Butter.
It’s so versatile—you melt it down, you chill it.
Or you can use it to fix things.
Nan spread it on my burns, and on my toast.
Yep, it’s the most multifunctional dairy product in the land, if you don’t count yogurt, which I never do.
Now I’m smearing it thickly on slices of toast. Once that’s done, I cut them into long strips until they look like little golden bars.
Soldiers.
The perfect toast companion for dipping into a runny yellow yolk.
Dippy eggs.
Unfortunately, there are no eggcups in the trailer, so I’m having to make do with an assortment of shot glasses. I put Skylight’s egg in one which has a cute picture of a slot machine with a row of three cheery cherries.
With the eggs safely nestled, I pick up the butter knife, tapping away until the top of the shell cracks. Then, with one quick swipe of the blade, I take the head right off it.
Off with his head.
The yellow yolk oozes out, spilling down the side of the glass, and it’s like it puts me under a spell. I could chop off the top of Coco and Bozo’s heads and let their brains ooze out just like that.
The red tattooed numbers branded into my skin seem to sizzle in excitement.
Tap. Tap. Chop. Another egg head drops onto the counter.
I carry the plates over and place the food on the table for Rory and the two kids.
Ha, kids. And I’m a goat!
Taliesin steps inside. He looks at us, but me especially, the burliest frown ever on his face. “It's time.”
“Killing time?” I ask, just to be sure.
“Yeah.” I turn to Fuckwad and put out my hand. “Shall we go duppy a puppy, BF?”
He nods, pushing away his dippy egg. “Yeah. Fuck them.”
Fuckwad reaches behind him to bring out his trusty tire iron.
“You don’t have to do this,” Kitten tells him.
“I know,” he grumps, taking three fast strides to the door. But then he freezes, like someone pressed pause on his life. I step closer, peer down, then wave a hand in front of his face. “Fuckwad?”
His expression changes. My little bruiser seems to shrink, his pet-lip wobbling as the weapon in his mitts clatters to the floor.
Methinks the young Wad is having second thoughts. No shame in that.
Some of my second thoughts are the best thoughts I’ve ever had.
“Tell you what, let's make a deal,” I tell him. “How about you lend me old basher there, and I take it and beat some brains with it. Your tool, my swing.” I do a little miming to illustrate the plan.
He looks up at me, nods, slowly bending down to retrieve old iron-y. His small fingers are shaking as he stands straight and hands it over to me like a runner passing the Olympic torch.
The longest torch-run was in 2008. The Beijing Olympics. Eighty-five thousand miles.
“Thanks, London,” Fuckwad says in a tone that sounds like it would be made much happier by eating some dippy egg.
I point at his plate. “Go eat your soldiers, I’ll report back the details soon.” Then I step out into the freezing air to collect some vengeance and mete out some dues.
Lulu is already waiting, and though it’s probably hard for some people to tell, I know he’s as pumped as I am.
“Ready?” Kitten’s posh brother asks.
“Ready as Eddie, with just the same glow.”
Beside me, Lulu nods.
Posh-bro raises his hand and does a wiggle. “I’m making a sound bubble. The kids in the trailer don’t need to hear their screams.”
Thinking of Fuckwad’s bleak little face, I nod. “That’s a good idea because they’ll scream quite a bit when we saw off their willies,” I say happily.
Posh-bro raises an eyebrow. “You do you, goat.”
Looking down at the two monster-men, a wave of pukiness hits my stomach—like butter gone rancid. I do want to wallop their wangs, but should I?
Slice and dice, or put that thought on ice?
“What do you think, mates? I'm beginning to talk myself out of it," I sigh, shaking my head. “If I can’t perform a penectomy, what does it say about me?”
As I begin to hum the tune to, ‘'Tain't What You Do (It's the Way That You Do It)’, Lulu muscles past me. He places a hand on my shoulder for a brief moment, then the next second is smashing a heavy, steel-toed boot down on the crotch of Bozo. Lulu grinds his massive foot back and forth like he’s stomping out a giant pile of cigarette butts.
The sound that Bozo makes will live happily in my dreams forever more.
Same goes for Coco’s wailing when it’s his time for the dick-destroying.
I’m almost giddy with glee. “Alright, maties, this one is for Fuckwad.” I lift the special little bar and whack it across Bozo’s face.
At least a couple of teeth fly out. As Lulu uses his fists to pound on Coco, I surreptitiously slip the teeth in my pocket.
I’ll turn them into earrings and gift them to my boy later.
After several more hearty thwacks, it’s obvious that me and Lu’s job is done.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, children of all ages…the show is over.”