Point Blank

Sometimes ideas enter you head; there is no timescale, no prepaid plan or even a quiet moment wondering what you are going to write. It just happens.

This is true of Point Blank. I was on holiday in Kalamata back in 2005 when I had an idea for a performance piece, a gangster theme, something different from what I saw myself writing previously.

I let the idea compost while on holiday and once back home, I decided to write it. It is a piece I would like to record and maybe one day I will.

Point Blank contains strong language. If you are offended by such language, please use your common sense and do not read it.

Point Blank


Billy never saw it coming. His head got too big. He got careless. The biggest fucking distributor of coke and pills in the Birmingham and he thought he was Al Capone. Mr Untouchable. A top man villain.

Billy had tried to partner himself with a Merseyside crew. The Scousers had the ability to import drugs directly, bypassing the Turkish gangs in London thanks to their nice little run to Amsterdam. They were looking to branch out their distribution and Birmingham was positioned perfectly. `Best transport links in the country’ the local authority bragged. No shit. We used every one of them to distribute our gear. Billy had more money than he knew what to do with. He made a mint. Problem was; you have a good thing, someone else wants a slice of the pie and there’s a fucking long list of people with their forks ready.

Billy owned a nightclub on Broad Street called `The Six Pennies’. It was his little indulgence. He loved to watch the young birds with their skirts up to their knickers and tiny tops. The lads nicknamed it `The Meat Shop’ - plenty of fanny on display and Billy wasn’t a vegetarian, if you get my drift. Like a fucking kid in the sweetshop he was.

Anyway, one night he comes out of The Six Pennies, bird on each arm, coked to the eyeballs. He’s in `King of the World’ mode. I am the man. Ten seconds later the girls are screaming and Billy was lying on the pavement with half of his head splattered on the concrete like a dropped kebab.

Big Joe, Billy’s minder, stood there like a fucking stunned squirrel wondering what the fuck was going on. Another crack! Big Joe went down like a sack of spuds. I'm was on my own.

The girls were still screaming. Chaos kicked off. Everyone in the street was screaming and running like the fucking Martians have landed.

There was no sign of Lenny, Billy’s driver. He should have been parked up waiting, but there was just a nice empty space with a pool of vomit in it. Had to get the fuck out either before I got whacked or the cops turned up with their pretty blue lights.

I ran for it. Caps were going off all over the place. Then Lenny, bless him, came screeching round the corner on two wheels. The door flew open, I jumped in the passenger side almost sticking my head in Lenny’s crotch. Lenny floored it.

“Jesus Christ Lenny what kept you!” I shouted at him
“Fucking traffic” he muttered.
“Never mind the fucking traffic! Drive!” I yelled.
“What about Billy?” he asked.
“Well if he’s not dead he’s going to have one hell of a headache in the morning”.
“Aspirin should sort him out.”

Not the shiniest penny in the box old Lenny, but shit hot behind the wheel.

Weeks later it’s all forgotten. No more “Birmingham business man” shot outside city nightclub plastered in the papers. Back to politicians and pervs. Affairs and coke snorting TV presenters with kinky habits.

Which is good.

Good for business.

Billy used to say, `everyone is a chicken and I’m the bastard that holds the power over the slaughter man's knife’. I click my fingers, they cop it, and they get served with chips at my table.

Idiot was always coming out with shit.

Now Billy liked his girls, but every so often when they didn’t want to play, that little switch in his head used to flick over. Real fucking ball-ache making sure no bird went to the cops, I can tell you.

One night I had a call from Big Joe and headed to the private suite at The Six Pennies. When I got there Big Joe is standing outside as normal making sure no one interrupted the proceedings or anyone got out would shouldn't.

Big Joe nodded at me and plodded off like a gorilla with a cork up its arse.

I had worked for Billy for five years, seen a lot of things and cleaned up his mess. His little indiscretions, that was my job: `sweep and clean’. Sort the shit out and make sure there was no comeback from anybody. It could get a little messy at times, I can tell you.

I opened the door.

She was a fucking mess. Face like mash potato; eyes swollen, blood seeping from her cheeks where the skin had split. He'd done a real good job on her. She looked like she had done ten rounds with Tyson.

“Fucking bastard”, she screamed. Started going off, swearing like a right fucking trooper. No point shouting over the noise was there? So I made myself a drink.

She settled down, probably wondering what happened next, I think.

Instead…

“Jackson is going to hear about this you fucking bastards!”

I stopped drinking. This would be good.

“Oh yeah? Jackson fucking who?” I said, figuring it’s a boyfriend, brother, pet pit bull with no knackers.

“Jackson Harris. You heard of him?”

Now you can’t take everything you hear from a bird seriously, that’s how you end up getting married.

“And what the fuck to do know about Jackson Harris?” I asked her.

She has tears still rolling down her face and she says point blank – dead fucking straight:

“He’s my uncle, you stupid fuck.”

She scrambled across the floor, but she couldn’t see too good as her face was swelling by the minute. Obviously didn't get to where she wanted to because she gave up and came to a halt before saying:

“Look in my purse”

Well fuck me, there it is. A picture of Hacksaw and little Miss Busted on the floor.

I went cold, I can tell you.

Hacksaw fucking Harris laundered dirty money. Didn't matter how dirty. You gave it Harris, in a couple of weeks it came back cleaner than the day it was printed and Harris, of course, got his percentage for his services. He also ran a rather ruthless loan sharking operation and it wasn't small time. Harry lent money to people who couldn't go to the banks – yeah, other gangsters and to other firms if times where hard or they needed money quick to make a buy. And you don't lend money to other outfits if you haven't got any welly behind you to get it back it up if they decide to fuck you over.

Hacksaw’s got all the money you need. He lends it, you pay it back with interest. Simple. If you don’t make the payments you loose a toe, finger, a foot, a hand until there is nothing left to saw. Word is that if you piss him off, Hacksaw likes to do it himself wearing a butcher’s apron over his suit. Get blood on his suit, he saws slower. Much slower. Twisted bastard. Every so often he’ll arrange for a head or torso to be dropped in the canal rather than use more subtle methods It’s his way of making sure every one knows – you fucking pay.

And Billy, Billy had re-arranged his niece’s face, and that’s how Billy copped it. He picked the wrong chicken to take a bite out of and became the chicken. Takes one thing and whack – your fucked.

As for me?

I've still got all fingers and head. In fact, I'm doing rather well for myself, on the up and up as they might say.

Sweep and clean. It's what I do best.

You have no idea do you? Nor did Billy when I put the nine millimeter in the back of his head. Point Blank range. Boom.

I shouldered the Spider in a tick and turned to see Big Joe's fat stunned face get put down by the sniper’s silenced bullet. Crack! Bye bye Big Joe.

With prefect timing, one of Hacksaw’s foot soldiers started to fire from across the road. The risky part. I've survived the sniper, and if Hacksaw was pissed with me I was going to find out since this guy wasn't firing blanks. It had to look the business.

Chaos kicked off as he racked off caps across the road and, of course, the girls are screaming. Oh, and you’re wondering about the birds on Billy's arms? Plants. Take the money, give them a story, they keep their trap shut. Cops saw them as collateral damage. Wrong place, wrong time. They know the score and help add to the confusion of witnesses.

Lenny was dependably late. You can set your watch by him, and he didn't let me down. He was my feeder to the rest of the firm that someone had decided to take Billy out and I had been lucky to get out. Scousers would be prime suspects, but no one would do anything. There was no money in a war, besides they would be out-gunned, out-manned and wiped out.

So now you’re asking - why ?

Never underestimate the need for revenge. Especially a woman's.

Sally had been treated like a dog and she was fucking crazy. Crazy at Billy. Crazy at the type of bloke he was and crazy that the fucker hadn’t cared who she was when he pummelled her face in.

Hell has no fury for a woman's scorn or one that's been beaten around the room. Sally didn’t give a fuck how – she wanted the cunt dead.

She was on the floor bleeding, raging that she was going to have us all chopped into cans of dog meat and be served to every pet around the country. Crunch time. Now if you’re going to put your ass on the line, try and make the most of it. Walk away with something more than your life, make a little money, clean up if you can and that notch of respect goes that little higher. It was easy. I made a trade – she could arrange it with Harris and...Bingo! If the gods are smiling and the plan comes off, you’re a made man.

Christ! Is that the time? You'll have to excuse me, got to be at The Six Pennies for eleven. It’s being refurbished. Make it more to my taste...

Oh and in case you’re wondering about the limp. The refurbishment cost more than expected. Had to borrow a few bob…..