Jesu-Vape by Robin Dennis

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So I’m yankin’ this thing out the drainpipe, getting’ blood up me cuffs, while those little twats are creasin’ up in the car park. They’ve proper mashed it up, n’all: it’s comin’ out in handfuls; I can feel its guts through me rubber gloves.

I’m tryin’ me level best not to go mental, like—kneelin’ there with the guttering runnin’ over onto me back—just tryin’ to keep em’ there so’s I can grab one. I shout you’re wrong in the head, you lot and you owe me a new Ben Sherman and you ought ter give this thing a proper burial and they’re just stood there pissin’ ’emselves.

Then one of them pulls out a Jesu-Vape—the shop on Eastgate run by that absolute fucking pillock Trev Blardy, yeah—and I blow me cool an’ fuckin’ rush ’em: cob the mangled fox head at one of ’em, and they scatter and I’m like soz lads, come on, just lost me temper there, yeah—takin’ it down, like—and I’m like come on, you got me, yeah: fair play; who wants a fag?

They’re edging towards us all shifty, and I’m like come on, all square, lads: even stevens, yeah? but this Jesu-Vape prick don’t even want a fag, says it’s bad for yer, and I’m like what’s bad fer yer, mate, is hanging around wi’ that twat Trev: he just wants to brainwash yer and then they’re up in arms, sayin’ he’s cool an’ that, and I’m like what the fuck has Jesus even got to do with vapin’ anyway and they start in wi’ the scripture and I’m like spare me the fuckin’ sermon lads: just smoke real fags and bollocks to all that Jesus shit and they start flickin’ their tabs and getting’ their vapes out, yeah, and I’m well pissed off now, so I says says oi, they cost money they did: if you dint wann’em, lads, you shouldnt’a took ’em and they’re all vapin’ and prayin’—fuckin’ mumbling all this shit, stinkin’ of myrrh—an’ I just lose it, yeah: grab one of ’em and lamp him and the others fucking leg it.

So I’m draggin’ this lad across the car park and the rest of them are over the road and I’m like you’re wank, lads—you’re like fucking Peter, you lot are, you vaping little bastards. I couldn’t believe it: proper shocking.I says you want to go in the Marines, you lot do: you’d get shot dead if you did that there.

When I boot the showroom door open, Kev’s all like what the fuck, Mr. Shandy? ’an I’m like hold the fort, Kev, there’s a good lad, and I get the kid in the office and lock the door and bounce him off the floor a couple of times. I get him over the desk and he’s all like ‘I’m sorry’ but I’m like it’s too late for that now, mate: that was a beautiful animal what you cut up—I don’t even mention the gutters, yeah: don’t even mention ’em—and he’s struggling so I have to bash him with the paperweight, and I start to lose me rag a bit cos I realise why they done the fox, yeah, so I’m like you think I’m posh, mate? You think I’m posh cos I like Princess Anne?—and I bash him another couple of times, not for any real reason but just because he’d pissed me right off—and I says where’s yer respect mate? If not for Anne ’ersen then for the fuckin’ institution, cos these pricks shit in one of me bidets when Anne was in town, like, and I’ll be fucked if I’m havin’ Princess Anne come in me showroom to find me bidets all full of shit, know what I mean?

So I’m grinding his face into the desk and he’s wetting me invoices, but I don’t give a fuck cos this lad needs learning, and he in’t gonna get it anywhere else, is he? I’m like you lot don’t know the meanin’ o’ fuckin’ privilege, you don’t—think I’m posh cos I’ve got a tie on and I respect the royal fuckin’ family? I’ve literally pulled people’s tongues out of their heads, I have—fuckin’ seen me mates get their faces blown off, so don’t call me posh, you soft twat and I hear the window smash: bastards have cobbed a rock through it, and they’re vapin’ and screamin’ and I try to grab ’em through the bars, and they’re calling us nonce an’ Plato an’ all that, an’ I slam the lad up against the bars an’ I’m like you fucking twats need learning, you do—cause you can’t go round shitting in people’s bidets and stuffing fucking foxes up their drains, can you?—and then I clock the lad’s weaselly little tache and I shout stay the fuck away from Jesu-Vape, you cunts and they say they’re gonna tell Trev and get the church round, and I’m like fuckin’ bring it on cause I’d like nowt more than to rip Trev’s head off, and I says he wants to turn you into his trannies, he does and I give the lad a few quick pumps from behind—just to show ’em what I mean, like: just dry humping, yeah, trousers up—then they go apeshit, and the lad starts tryin’ to get away, so I slam his head against the bars and there’s blood on his face, blood in his little shit tache, and he looks like me wife—like me wife after Trev Blardy had his way with her, made her grow her tache, like—and it isn’t even that she’s gone that bothers me, it’s the tache: a woman with a tache, it’s just wrong, it’s a humiliation—and it wasn’t even like it were a good tache, y’know, it was shit; so just why, y’know what I mean, why?—and I’m like Trev Blardy is a fucking con man, lads and they’re howling, trying to grab their mate through the bars, and I’m like it can’t go on like this, boys; we can’t go on like this, can we?

Then Kev starts banging on the door an’ screamin’ about the cops, and I’m like if you call the cops, Kev, your work experience is fuckin’ over! and the bastard’s shoulder-barging the door and the lad’s screamin’ and the other pricks are tryin’ to drag him through the bars and I just think fuck it, and I get me coat and unlock the door and tell Kev to piss off, and I just fuck off home. I think bollocks to turning meself in or whatever: if them turds have the brass to take it further let ’em fuckin’ try it. Let ’em get the fuckin’ church round and I’ll take ’em all. Cause who’s done wrong at the end of the day, yeah—who’s done wrong? It’s that geezer wi’ Jesus on his vape you should have in ’ere, not me.

Robin Dennis

Image by haiberliu from Pixabay a row of colourful vape pens, red,white, blue, and green.