“Mr Blonde., Mr. White, Mr Pink, Mr Brown.....”
Here I am organising a heist with a bunch of no neck fuckers from north of the Watford gap and all they can argue about is what they are going to be called. Any minute now you know that one of the knob-jockeys is going to make the classic snooker joke “Shall I take the easy pink or the difficult brown”? Jesus fucking Christ I wish I was back in Canning Town. Firmed up with people I can trust rather than these chumps. We’re standing in the yard trying to look inconspicuous practicing our prison 1000 yard stares.
“Shall I take the easy Pink.........” one of them starts. “Shut the fuck up” I say cutting him off quickly. He’s a big fucker this one so best set the tone straight away. I’m small in stature but big in heart. If it comes on top then I’m all business and I’m sure he could easily get on top of me and pin me down but if that happens all I’m going to do is bite off his nose and run like fuck.
“I’ll allocate the pseudonyms” I tell them. “The what?” says another lairy looking one.
He’s got some kind of speech impediment to go along with his lack of brains. Apparently a real nasty fucker if it comes down to a straightner but I’m convinced his tongue is too fucking short leaving him sounding like Joey Deacon on acid.
“Nicknames cover names not our real fucking names” I tell him. “That way if we get sprung and have it on our toes you don’t know who the fuck I am. Or any of the rest of this....... I want to say shower of shit but manage to stop myself in time. “Or any of the rest of this crew” I finally blurt out after what seems like an age but they don’t seem to notice.
“Right, here we go” I tell them, names and roles coming up. Pay a-fucking attention:
“1, You big cunt” – pointing at the snooker joker. “You’re Saracen and you are the main muscle. I’ll tell you who and or what to hit and when. No more no less. You can do that right?
“Or the difficult brown” he mumbles to himself. Holy fucking Jesus. Still he’s built like an armoured car so he’s going to prove useful.
“2 and 3 – You are crowd control. This is to mumble mouth and his weird mate who looks like he could take off running at any minute. He’s a pent up piss flap of adrenaline whose face quite frankly needs punching in. “You Mumble Mouth – You’re Zamire and you, Duracell bunny you’re Kalim.
It’s exhausting coming up with nicknames never used before. Every fucking firm or crew in the country is suffering from the same problem. No self respecting face can be seen to be taking a shit cover name. It’s just not on. Problem is for every fucker wants to be the “Iceman” or the “Godfather”. No battle scarred Glaswegian or Geordie wants to be “Captain Twinkle Toes” which makes my life doubly difficult.
“4 and 5- You are the grabbers. Get your shit together and make sure that when I give you the nod you fill the bags to the brim. You – moody fucker, you’re Ribero. You Blondie – You’re Cindy.
“Cindy, fucking Cindy? That’s a girl’s name you little cockney twat.” Says the pale one with an extremely nasty look in my direction
“It surely is, I reply but since you were once a woman and had a dick constructed in a Thai clinic it not only confuses Saracen over there but the authorities will be chasing a Minge not a man, ok?”
“For the minute” says Cindy all team work and effusiveness with a look that says I’ll be lucky not to be meeting Dr Dick’s work firsthand with a blade at my throat when all this is over.
“Sthoo Wot’s yer name” asks Zamire.
“Me, I’m Flash” I tell them.
“Like the floor polish?” says Cindy with a mean look.
Without pause I lash out and catch Cindy right in the knee with a beauty of a kick. Lightning quick, it’s snapped out and back before he knows what’s happening.
“Shiiiit” he slumps against Ribero who just glowers and holds him up.
“It’s Flash ‘cause I’m fucking quick, fucking clever and I’ve got great fucking hair ” I stare at them all, one by one, straight into their eyes. Each one looks away first. That’s the key to this business, being able to go from idle to full throttle in the blink of an eye.
“So now we know who we are and our roles we can get on with the final planning” I tell them and they all nod their agreement.
“We are going to take the stash down this afternoon. We know that there’s been a re-supply as we’ve got two on the inside keeping eyes on and they’ve given us the nod.”
Laura and Rosie the insiders had done their job to perfection. I’d not even had to talk to them, all it had taken as a judicious nod on their way past that morning and I knew the job was on.
I’m giving the final briefing when my hair starts to stand up on the back of my neck. Everyone knows that feeling, the feeling of being watched. It’s a throwback form our ancient history buried deep in our DNA. Modern folk ignore it – me, I trust my instincts every time.
“Scatter” I tell the crew who recognise the urgency in my voice. They nonchalantly wander off either singly or in pairs at most.
The itch is still there on the back of my neck making my mane stand on end. I turn a casual 360 degrees and clock the farmer watching me. His eyes boring into me.
Fuck him I think and chomp on some grass whilst casually making my way towards a juicy patch of nettles I’ve spotted.
“I just don’t trust him” the farmer says to his wife over lunch. “He’s been trouble since we let his owner bring him onto the yard”.
“Exactly what can you not trust about a Shetland Pony” she replied. They are just too cute. I love him and he’s got a great mane.
“I know it’s mad but I think him and the rest of the horses are up to something, they keep eyeing up the new hay in the side barn..........................
Brian Tuck
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