Gerard McKeown

Stroked on Dope

Gerard McKeown

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Soupy had been stroked on dope. That pure wanker Flimbo handed him two joints worth as a five deal, saying it was small but it was good gear, even though he’d been slagging off Tam Snowball that morning for only selling gack. Flimbo had nipped the deal; that always happens when someone goes up for you, but three joints worth? Soupy should have croaked the bastard, but who’d go up for him then?

          Soupy smoked a joint with Flimbo, because that’s how you had to do things, even though Flimbo stroked him. Soupy smoked the last bit of dope by himself under Stick Bridge. It did fuck all to him. He got more stoned the time Bungle sold him catnip as grass. Bungle said it wasn’t catnip, but Soupy’s cat tried to scran the dope.

           Flimbo was a bastard. Soupy wished he could go up for his own dope. No fair him getting stroked like that. The peelers busted Soupy coming out of Turk’s flat last summer. The judge said he’d send him to borstal if he was back up in front of him again. Soupy’s da said he’d beat the shite clean out of him if that happened.

          A tear rolled down Soupy’s cheek. He’d just clocked some graffiti – Karen Lvs James. James was Soupy’s real name. He hated it, but Karen never used nicknames because she was proper. She’d liked him because he was a reely cove. That’s why she let him finger her. Took pure ages before she finally agreed. Karen was now Flimbo’s donor. Maybe that was why Flimbo stroked Soupy on dope. Flimbo always got on like he was great mates with Soupy, but stealing his donor and stroking him on dope meant he was a bastard. Soupy had an idea though. He would wait until Flimbo was in bed, then smash his windows. That would tighten him.

          That night Soupy drank all the milk in the house. His ma was well pissed off because his da would lose the bap if he had to drink black coffee in the morning. Soupy offered to go to the twenty-four-hour garage for some, even though it was nearly midnight. His ma gave him a quid for a two-litre jar. Soupy had hoped she’d give him a bit more for a bar of chocolate, so he could have a wee treat to himself, but no.

          Flimbo’s house was in darkness when Soupy reached it. The half brick felt pure reely bouncing away in his hand. He wasn’t known round the estate for doing reely things like this, so he wouldn’t be suspected. But after everything calmed down, he’d boast about it.

          Soupy knew which window to aim at. He felt the momentum of the brick as he sent it sailing through the air, crashing into Flimbo’s bedroom window, which it bounced off. The bastards must have double glazing.

          Soupy wasn’t sure if he saw the light come on in Flimbo’s bedroom first, or if he heard the screech of tyres as the peeler car stopped beside him. But Soupy took to his heels, ignoring the shouts for him to stop. One of the peelers jumped him with a rugby tackle. Soupy got back to his feet, but knew he couldn’t outrun him. The peeler tried some fancy kung-fu arm-lock pish, but Soupy punched the peeler to the ground and started jumping on his head, shouting, ‘I’m pure reely.’

          A second peeler hit Soupy a rattle with his truncheon, sending him on his hoop.

          ‘Fuck yis bastards,’ Soupy shouted, curling into a ball as the peelers laid into him. He could see people had come out of their houses to watch. Among them, Flimbo and his family. Flimbo’s folks looked pure shocked, but Flimbo was laughing his head off.

          ‘Dunno what you’re laughing at,’ Soupy shouted when the peelers dragged him into their peeler mobile. ‘I fingered your donor.’

          He wanted to shout that he’d bucked her too, and he’d buck Flimbo’s ma, but the peelers told him to shut his bake.

          Soupy’s da was pure raging, and did kick the shite clean out of Soupy a time or two, but the worst was yet to come. Soupy had to go to court the week after. He got the same judge who’d seen him when he got busted with dope. The judge looked well pissed off as he listened to how Soupy had battered the peeler, even though the peelers got more digs in on him than he got on them. The judge didn’t care about that. Sure he was the wanker who started all this. When he asked Soupy how he pleaded, Soupy stated defiantly.

          ‘I’m guilty, but if you send me down I’ll bust your face.’

          With that, the judge sent Soupy to borstal.



Gerard McKeown

Gerard McKeown is an Irish Writer Living in London. His work has been featured in The Moth, 3:AM, and Litro, among others. In 2017 he was shortlisted for The Bridport Prize.