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Charlie
Skinner
short
story writer
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AmsterDAMAGED
by
Charlie Skinner
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short
story
AmsterDAMAGED
When I awoke around
dusk I sleepily wandered through to the
bar where I was confronted by two dodgy,
wide-boy bastards; Spanish I would guess
but…ach fuck let’s just say they
were Dago chancers, ‘do you have a
cigarette?’ asked the brazen one. I
took off my shades and stared the fucker
right in the eye and stared and then some,
’till I got what I was looking for
– the flicker of fear, I pointed to
the machine, ‘there’s plenty
over there pal,’ I informed with just
enough menace to get the cadging bastard
fumbling in his pockets for change. So,
‘no worries’ as the Aussies say,
I ordered coffee, sat down and rolled a
spliff. I remember thinking that those
guys weren’t going to last long in
this town but what did I care, I was off
to the A.V.C.
When I got there around midnight the place
had accumulated far more customers than on
my last visit; a mad looking German giant
holding court with a group of
disinterested looking friends, four or
five Dutch skinheads shooting pool, two
tired looking prostitutes sitting down
ignoring each other, a Hell’s Angel
on his own looking about as scary as any
I’d ever seen, a bunch of
back-packers discussing the course the
evening would take, two Arabs deep in
thought about who they were going to mug
later on, a loud mouthed Yank homosexual
with his boy lover, a transvestite who
still looked like a man, the obligatory
drunken Aussie lout with what looked like
a rabid Alsation dog, an emaciated albino
with a white pet rat in his top pocket,
three punketts sporting the latest
shaved/dyed hairstyles, a mean bastard
don’t fucking mess barman and
contentedly ensconced in the corner –
Donny.
He recognised me straight away and
bellowed over a greeting so loud I could
here him over the blaring music, ‘HEY
SIMON THE PIEMAN GET YER ARSE OVER
HERE,’ not so much an invitation as
an order I grant you but what the hell at
least it was company, the sort of company
in which you are unlikely to be struck
down with boredom. His grip, as I
expected, was like iron but so was mine
and he grinned as his attempt to crush my
hand failed miserably. ‘What ye havin
Simon me ol son,’ he asked in a
mixture of Glaswegian and Cockney.
‘Just a beer.’
‘Bob get ma pal here a pint and none
o that froth-top Dutch pish, a decent
pint, he’s a Brit they dinnae sell
half pints in pint tumblers
there.’
Bob looked as if he hadn’t heard or
was ignoring the order, maybe Donny had
had enough and was getting refused but no
the beer appeared and so did his hand,
iron again but this time my own hand was
duly crushed, ‘Bob,’ I was
informed and that was that.
‘Haha, dinnae heed yon grumpy bastard
he’s always like that.’
Not that I needed the advice, it
wasn’t as if I was going to start
complaining about the service or anything,
I had every intention of living until
twenty six! Of course there was no point
or indeed desire on my part in telling
anyone my real name so Simon it was,
I’ve been called worse. Besides I was
pretty damn sure that every other
bastard’s real name would remain a
mystery. Donny was quaffing down jeneva,
which is a type of Dutch gin, like they
were going out of fashion but, although
wild eyed, remained sober[ish] the
reason for this became apparent when he
produced a wrap of white powder I
[correctly] presumed to be
cocaine. He tapped out a small pile in the
pit of the back of his hand between thumb
and forefinger and snorted it like some
kind of Victorian gent whose regular
social habits included the partaking of
snuff. He offered me some but I refused,
which caused little more reaction than a
Roger Moore style lift of an eyebrow.
Besides I still had some grass left, the
whole place was reeking of the stuff but
it didn’t seem to be slowing anyone
down when it came to throwing the drink
back, it was like a modern version of a
wild west saloon and as if on cue with my
thoughts Donny bawled out, ‘bring on
the dancing girls.’
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