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CALLASSA
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MAD JACK BAILEY PRESENTS
EXTRACT No. I
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Note : This is an extract from which a whole lot goes before and after. But dive straight in, why not? The location is an upstairs room at the Old Lantern pub, Little Hampton, and where there is taking place a series of tell-alls, featuring the local mob boss Jack Bailey. Lots are wondering why he would be doing this but get ready, it’s an over full house and a power packed and revealing series (understatement). Callassa will include more and bear in mind that Mad Jack has a seductive air about him, so if you are under ten then perhaps the violence is unsuitable.
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MAD JACK BAILEY PRESENTS
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It was the day after I’d gotten the boot from the slammer. There was a party bein ranged here at the Lantern. There was gonner be Jenny Winters and Jack ‘the wobbly legs’ Shaw on the stage. They was gonna offer a welcome to me by singin songs real personal like, proper songs, 1960s, yer knows. I was lookin forward to it, until Cyril brings me upstairs and we sits down. We was in a room near the attic no one ever used. It was full of dust and stank fuckin awful. I was concerned cos it spelled trouble. We was in here because it was likely there was a beedy (surveillance) takin place. I mean ones we couldn’t detect.
Cyril keeps a hold of my mitten (hand) and starts off into this riff of summink that had been goin on. It had started when this geezer had been hangin bout, introducin himself like. This geezer was out of place and out of style. He was goin tellin wise guys bout havin dough to shift in the form of fenced jewellery. He was askin questions too, bout the gamin, sayin he had tipsters and scammers with inside info bout teams. This geezer was tryin to worm his way the fuck in. He had referred to Cyril as the Don. No one ever had, only the inner circle. So who the fuck was he? The Filth? Obviously, or what? But even though he’d been given the North Pole he was still sniffin bout. Luckily we’d made most of the operations legit cos of what I said fore bout not bein able to control everybody’s flapper (mouth). It was easier to be legit than be underground. Fuckin right, the fuck, believe it. But there was certain high stakes operations that weren’t and these was pullin in really big dough. Was the geezer workin blind, tryin to find summink whatever, that would lead to the sticky pie? None of the boots on our roll knows anyfink at all. Fuckin useless cunts. But that didn’t mean jack shit. What bothered me most was Cyril tellin me this geezer had gotten in with Mary (Jack’s wife). She’d started hangin bout at the track and takin the geezer to dinner and all. This, while I was in the slammer walkin backwards and fuckin forwards. I knew there was stuff Cyril was holdin back on account of being sensitive to my feelings, like he knows me.
It took me bout two weeks and close to a half million real ones (pounds) in bribes seem like, fore I found out the geezer was Special Filth (MI5). What had made me determined, apart from him crawlin into Mary’s pants, a MILVA licky loo (MILVA meaning; oral sex – mufti, inner labia, vulva and you can guess the other) in the car, my fuckin car, or so it seemed. Oh, it was that he’d been high rollin this dope on us, s’posedly finkin we had it ready set up. Like I said, there was no one in the Bond involved with dope. Not now, not ever. I disliked the geezer more than ever for this, a simple-minded idea bout us if I ever sees one. Him blabberin bout the Sports Book (gaming) and havin inside tipsters made more sense, but we already had those. It weren’t nuttin fuckin new.
So there was yours truly, eyeballin this Fed (British govt. employee without a suit) with the gear (surveillance wire) walkin bout as though he was Lefty Rosenthall. I got the sensation that he’d been kept on a string for me to deal with cos of this sensitive issue concerning Mary. I had to play this right cos if summink went wrong, she might run to the Filth. I was wonderin how well I knew her to be honest. It turns out that I had nuttin to worry about with Mary, though she had made mistakes. She’d blabbed to the geezer what she shouldn’t have, but like I said, only the inner circle of the Bond had their fingers on the button and the trigger.
It turns out that this geezer wasn’t only wired there was fuckin beed (surveillance) devices every fuckin where. We got these boffs with big lobes (experts with big ears) up from the bad Apple (London) with sophisticated gear. I knew and the Fed knew that it was common knowledge we was onto him and he’d be pulled out, which he was. But I wanted him to go back to wherever the fuck he’d come from with a story to yap. To go back with some bad shit he’d never forget.
So what did I do? Well, it was one Saturday night, upstairs, here at the Lantern. We invites the geezer, who by the way, called himself Joe friggin di Milano. I mean, are we in the fuckin British Isles, or fuckin what? It was an insult sendin in a geezer with a stupid fuckin spag smear (name) like that. Not that I aint got nuttin against Romans. I’d have been one if I’d been around, but anyways and like I said, this silly fuck starts into a high tale about havin this big dough, bout being able to do real good for us. Said that Cyril trusted him now he‘d been deliverin the goods. He wanted in on the Bond, La Cosa Nostra. Fuck me.
I’m sat there not believin my fuckin flaps (ears). Whoever had briefed this geezer had not only gotten the geography wrong but the fuckin road was so off beat that I was wonderin if I was watchin the telly? I mean one of those dumb fuck gangster shit programmes spit over here from Old Sparky? More importantly, had he fucked Mary? I was wondering while watchin the geezer. I was tryin my best not to get too irate, otherwise I’d have chopped the bastard there and then. I was also wonderin who the fuck we were dealin with? What fancy Filth? Because if the boots I was payin were anyfink like accurate with the information they‘d given me, not made the fucker up, this lot had more dough to invest in beed (surveillance) and high powered spookery than we had. Or had they? They didn’t have Harry Mulett or Bazzer, or Cyril, or me for that matter. I was also told there was geeks down Fawcet Street here, capable of hackin into the Pentagon bathrooms and the fuckin NASA, see the fuckin moon up close cos they had and I aint doin no kiddin, but havin said that bollocks it aint necessary to believe it. (laughter) I had to fink bout how best to utilise their talent is all, to the betterment of Hamp society. That sounds not like me, I know. Well, as it turns out, I didn’t need to cos I fuckin set the geezer up. Here’s how.
We was always careful not to blab bout nuttin we weren’t s’pposed to be blabbin bout. Our geeks were casin the rooms here at the Lantern twice a day with this special shit that cost Cyril a mint. Like I said we shouted for some outside help and paid good dough for these London weirdos if they ever was any, to come and offer some knowledge on how to counter bugs and cameras we didn’t know was there. These was Old Harry’s colleagues from the old days who’d gotten into security. It was all they did, so Harry thought they might have an edge on casin the Lantern. We didn’t mind. The more ponds (eyes) and lobes (brains) the better.
So we gets into our car with this geezer in the back seat next to Cyril. Then this Volkswagen rolls up at the side and we gets out and into that. The car was straight from the scrap yard and no geezer had ever seen it. It was a real useless hunk of shit.
We was drivin to Manchester, via the Penines. There was no one tailin us, only Ivan and Seth, who we knew bout. Not that it mattered. I tells the geezer from Special Filth (police/MI5, got ‘O’ levels) that in order to be livin in our world there was summink simple he would have to fuckin do. He would have to prove to us he was legit, a pipe (fearless). He would have to do a battered eye (a killing). We’d go back and induct him after. Next to me was Bazzer. Behind, Cyril takes out this .45 stupid bastard thing as big as Rennerd’s cock on a Saturday night and releases the safety catch, then hands it the geezer. Cyril says to blow Bazzer in the head. Do it. Do it. He tells him. So we all started shoutin: DO IT! DO IT, YOU BASTARD. BLOW HIS FUCKIN HEAD OFF. DO IT FUCKIN NOW. NOW CUNT. NOW. FINISH THE GEEZER. It was a good atmosphere. Only fing gone was Diana Dors watchin and provin. Of course he couldn’t do it, nor could he have done it anyways, cos the gun wasn’t loaded. It just looked to be. I s’pose we was just lucky he didn’t pull out his own piece from somewhere we hadn’t frisked, like from out of his arse and send Bazzer all the way to the tits and crotchless knickers (heaven).
Cyril opens the door and boots the cunt out. We never sees him gain but it taught us a lesson. What lesson? We also had to start finkin bout what we’d done in the past. Likely anyfink that could have been found out and tied to us would’ve gotten us sent down or into a fight with a hail of bullets. I was under no illusion that we were dealin with amateurs cos we weren‘t, even though the geezer with the silly fuckin name seemed like one. It was an act that was all. He should’ev taken some lessons from what’s em, that threesome of plastics (same-sex lovers), Lizzie Starks, Mazzie (Mina Mazzini), an Urs’la ‘hacksaw maiden’ Lawrence. Fuckin Hell on second foughts. I’ve nuttin at all gainst plastics, but it’s summink else….continued.
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MAD JACK BAILEY PRESENTS
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CALLASSA
Resta qui con lei
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