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CALLASSA
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MAD JACK BAILEY PRESENTS
EXTRACT No. IV
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MARIA ILVA
AND
THE TEXAS TEA INVESTMENT
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So, what then, yer can tell me? OK’s, I didn’t feel too hot for about a monf. After I’d gotten out of the hospital I decided I felt better while I was fuckin there, an yer know why. It didn’t take long to come round though, good an proper and I hadn’t lost contact wiv the red fuckin beacon shinin her hot sauce out from the Holy Slit in the Sky. I was to do her a few small favors, like I says, an me workin out the nuts an bolts made me fink of er even more, er an the Sicilians who, according to the shit pie, was keen on my crane (brain). An when I gets my arse to Spaggy (Italy, more specifically Milan) it would be one long fuck an talkin bout fuck, I needed exercise. Exercise. Exercise. Familiar dials (faces). Hefty chestin (wife Mary).
One fink I can say is vat there’s no point makin dough if yer gonna snuff it fore there’s any time to do any fink wiv it and this also means bein in the slammer. There’s ways of keeping the fuck out, but sawin frew bars aint so easy. Gettin sprung aint easy eever, sept in films. Fink about it. Just fought I’d mention it in relation to us dealin wiv the business.
So what appened to the Mad Axe Man fuck pig dead meat walking? Well, it comes down the shit pipe that he was livin in Edinburgh. The Jock safe house issue wasn’t as apparent now cos we was exonerated (likes that word, huh?) and vis meant his blabbin bout the operation wouldn’t hold much water. We ad briefs tellin us we was legit and there was no way vey could get us on tax evasion eever. I’d always paid tax on the rent from Marianna Bentley’s house and some on wat I took from the pawnshop, so there was a legit element. I aint sayin there was a lot. But doin vat ad been good advice and from seasoned pros who knew what vey was mouthin bout. We all knows it was impossible to make a case for livin like Lord Jim Shit Fingers, gin an tonic dopey twat, on no income. Sense. As far as the Axe Man doin the blabbin, well, we never kept records to do with anyfink serious. He was the one goin roun threatenin to cut off dawks and doin it and worse. We finds some he’d done it to. Dawk-less, wiv chips outer vere craniums. Couldn’t wank properly wiv dawks missin an was all wat these geezers did. Our brief made a case for it lookin worse for the cunt and the Filth who were onto us. There was a crazy fuckin psychopod (psychopath) on the loose wiv no provable connection to us. I mean, here was the true fuckin hack me to death treat. We was friends. Of course, it was just an accident, when he appened to get caught on the back of a car bumper and im get dragged two miles out by St Andrews Golfy, fore gettin run over again, leavin his neck and head still wonky (alive?). I sees the bastard just fore he expired proper, while goin in the mincer, member I tells yer bout the mincer. He wouldn’t get the fuck in it cos he was too big and I ad ter find a long stick out of a grass (field) an push im in, an me gettin splattered. I wanted to say good fuckin bye. To look into his fuckin beads (eyes) so he’d take my name down the chute, straight to the burning forks and the tits doin the stickin. I’m talkin bout me, Jack Bailey who no one crosses an if they does they suffer. Maybe not straight way, but they does. He’d more than crossed the line. He’d more than suffered as a result, but even that weren’t nuf for me. I had to mince the bastard. He was in the tainer drum (container) longing (belonging) to Funt Sausage Company. I just wished I could ave….done it more than once, but he was for the toffs in Bredon who like sausages, while sparkin bout how vere is thugs on the ball (in the world) an eatin one. When the curtains closed I tried to fuckin open them. I’ve always wondered wevver he was fightin me up till vat last second. Fightin….All the way down the chute and…ven the forks an tits ad him.
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(Despite Jack being in mid-sentence, his legal advisor has walked on to the stage and called a temporary halt to the proceedings, including Volley of Shots Productions who are recording).
(Consequently the audience has become noisy. There has been a signal from Harry Bottomley to turn up the lights and begin playing music from the jukebox).
(Jack begins, smiling)
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What I can mit (admit) to is missin Red Locks, an I ave to mit (admit) she’d done sumfink to me no ovver broad ever ad. I was finkin bout er all the time, tastin er, that special fuckin taste, an even durin the heavy chestin (sex with Mary, Jack’s wife) she was fuckin there, that fuckin motion of ers and that special movin, twistin on my cock. That perfume made inside er, hot on the rocks. Red Locks.
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(It is worth noting that Jack’s wife Mary has not returned and rumour has it she won’t)
(Following a brief silence, Jack has moved off into a world of his own, hopefully a temporary condition)
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Where was I? Yeah, I ad her (Maria ilva) real, real bad an even the disposal of the Mad Axe shit bag sausages on a plate hadn’t ad much effect. It did a bit while I woz doin the mincin an all. Watchin im rattle (die).
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(Jack has faded into an unfamiliar topic)
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… if yer gose askin me, vat there aint fuckin nuttin holdin geezers gether. It’s always been a fuckin chaos, caused by the evvy hitters. How much has been spent on makin fuckin splatter? The hot spit (bullets)? The air outter ver three witches arses (it is asumed Jack is referring to poison gas expelled by certain residents of Little Hampton)? The fences to keep the ovver colours out? What does it fuckin say? I’m tellin yer it says; forget bout wrappin in cotton fuckin wool and finkin life is like the garden in Summer and laid cross the hot fan (divine vagina?), cos it fuckin aint. Never as been for no fucker eever. There’s been aircraft droppin heat onter broads and kids. Geezers, cunts wiv fuck all better to do, wiv noculars (binoculars) safe and sound watchin heads splatter. Laughin, finkin they’ve achieved summink. Garden sheddin (stockpiling?) of fuck knows wot. Shit made and only fuck knows wat the fuck else. Where does it leave a geezer like me whose bought the tag, ‘Psycho Killer’? A good question I fink. It’s what I’m called, psycho-killer as if yer dint know. If I’m a bleedin psycho, a man who won’t allow dope in Hamp, who won’t let shooters in Hamp, who won’t let no woppy shag arse fuck land one on broads and dogs? Where do it leave me? I’ve only ever ad one dream an vat was to be like my old man, like Big Basil, Cyril King an the rest, Marianna Bentley, member (remember) wiv the Fred Astaire dancin ard up her arse (apparently she was a ballroom dancer of note) and now anovver, like the broad vat spawned me red. Like the dame that gave me the start in life. To ave what the rest of the fuckin mayhem makin shit bags an cunts only knows. Power. Power. Power to stand up to vem. Power to take vem out if necessary. To go to Spaggy (Italy) and bury all ve overtimers who woudn’t be gettin no more Speggy (spaghetti). I am lightin on Maria ilva an wot I was gonner do for er an do it real, real good an shaggin her even more van I already ad, shaggin, fuckin, fuckin an shaggin her blind. The crossers of the Red Vagina woz gonna know Jack Bailey real good soon . . .The Sicilians (Italian Mafia) was gonna love me. Well, vat woz wot I fought an I can tell yer, part from her, it didn’t fruition as I pected (expected). Not one fuckin bit. I got the ‘get the fuck out’ (VAI A CASA PRIMA DI MORIRE) written in no uncertain terms wiv spit across my dial (face). S’OK, I didn’t care a cunt. I did wot was asked of me. I wanner tell yer bout Milan. You fink? Not vat I sees much of it. Of course, you never knows what can blow from an oil mine til it fuckin does. Same fing bein as I woz a holidayin an gettin oats like even . . .
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(Cecil Jammons Esq., Jack’s solicitor, has leapt onto the stage, frantically waving his arms in the air and calling another halt to the proceedings). This is because Jack is revealing far too much and if he keeps on he would very effectively be incriminating not just himself, but Maria ilva too).
(Jack has returned to the stage following a tete-a-tete with Cecil Jammons)
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Ha. Ha. Ha. You knows what I am gonner tell.
I woz listenin to her music, mean when Mary wasn’t round, in the car an ere at the Lantern during the fuckin meetins. I gets the Don to order a shit load of records an she’d given me some to listen to. VHS? Fuck off cunt, who let that geezer in. I knows … I knows what a fuckin CD is. Continuous Dilation (?), easy see, brought on by a mobster heavin the hole tween Red Locks (Maria ilva’s) legs where’s we struck the Texas Tea (oil?) (the reference is to anal sex). It woz portant (important) bein as we ad shares in BP gevver (together). It woz comfortin to me vat we ad shared financial assets. What you fuckin laughin at, I’m serious eer. It was a show, me listenin to a voice longin (belonging) to who’d fucked me silly and like I said we ad a relationship in the regions of the Texas Tea Mine and floodin the place viv that priceless sticky explosive. They (the British government?) is wantin sum on account of a space rocket bein sent to the Moon an needin a real fuckin sendin blower. Texas Tea blowin like it was, a fuckin spray, out of Maria ilva (Milva’s) rectal (rear part of her anatomy – rectum, not usually used for sex?).
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Continued of course
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A few photographs from Jack’s Album
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Extracts
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CALLASSA
.
MAD JACK BAILEY PRESENTS
EXTRACT No. IV
.
.
MARIA ILVA
AND
THE TEXAS TEA INVESTMENT
.
.