FLY BOMB
There was a bully in the street where I grew up named Lawrence. Nasty piece of work. Seventeen year old smoker with a tattoo of a nudie lady on his arm; ok, it wasn't such a great ink job - she looked a bit down syndrome and appeared to have three tits, but he had a tattoo all the same. This made Lawrence hard. Also, the fact that he'd quite happily mash the shit out of any kid who strayed onto his driveway helped this image along nicely.

Lawrence also had a car - a mustard yellow Ford Capri. It was his pride and joy. When he wasn't beating the shit out of the local kids for 'looking at him funny', or trying his damndest to sexually harrass any teenage girl in a two mile radius, he'd be out front of his house waxing his motor, the windows down, blaring out hardman music like The Clash, or on occasion, Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

Lawrence even gave the car a name - he called it The Thunderdome (in homage to favorite film; or possibly because he loved Tina Turner and wanted to marry her; fuck knows). But The Thunderdome became famous in our street. It had the same affect as looking directly at The Arc of the Covenant in that Indiana Jones film - if you dared look at The Thunderdome for any length of time, you could expect a swift thump from Lawrence and a barrage of death threats. Apparently looking at this motor wore out the paint, according to Lawrence.

Then, one fateful August day twatting about in the street with my mate Greg on our choppers, I inadvertently swerved, clipped the pavement, and went into the side of the poorly parked Thunderdome. Greg, being a true mate, legged it, leaving me sprawled on the street, badly brusied, grazed and bleeding, with the:

Whooooop!!! - Whooooop!!! - Whooooop!!!

of the Thunderdome's car alarm rattling in my ears. I got on my bike and fucked off sharpish. And within minutes Lawrence was stalking up and down the street asking the kids which fucker had just scratched his motor. He never really bothered with me as such before and not really that much after. I had no interest in cars, he had no interest in me - the arrangement worked just fine.

But having to spend a nice sunny afternoon trapped in the house playing Mouse Trap with Greg (took ages to set that fucker up just for ten seconds of excitement; a bit like my sex life now, come to think of it), anyway, I decided enough was enough. It was time to bring this cunt down a peg or two. For the sake of all the kids in the street. And anyway - I was bored.

I went and found my mums purse and 'borrowed' a quid. Then I sneaked out the back door, Greg trailing behind, and we went to the fishing tackle shop a few streets down.

"What are we doing here?" Greg asked.

And I explained how my Uncle George had told me about something that happened to him once when he went on holiday and forgot he had a jar of maggots he'd bought as bait in his shed. I remember sitting, mouth agape, as my Uncle George relayed the tale. I imagine he was trying to warn me off, but all I could think was: Shit, I've gotta try that one day.

"Half a pound of maggots, please," I asked. Mr Maggot-Seller weighed out the booty and passed it over.

We went home, put the fuckers in a big glass jar with some old bacon, screwed on the lid, knocked in a few airholes, and hid the fucker in the shed.

Fastforward a week or so...

Lawrence is still stalking round, enjoying the fact its school holidays and he has a shitload of local kids to terrorise. He's busy shouting at someone or other with some shit 80's hair rock ballad blaring on his motors radio. Greg and I, holding the now buzzing, angrily vibrating jar of angry-as-fuck flies, old bits of rotting bacon, and loads of broken open pupae cases, sneak over to The Thunderdome, SWAT-team style, loosen the lid on the jar, and slide it down onto the passanger seat through the open window.

Then we leg it and find a nice place to watch proceedings.

Lawrence finishes hitting the kid. Stalks back towards the Capri, he sees something on the passanger seat-

- opens the door -

and disappears in a violent cloud of pissed off blue bottles, falling backwards and screaming like the evil little nonce he was.

"Arggggghhhh!!!! Gettum off!!!! Gettum off!!!!" he squealed. But no one helped the fucker.

And in moments the flies had dispersed. Lawrence gathered himself, went into his house, picking dead flies out of his gelled hair and from between his teeth as he went.

Although Lawrence continued his chosen calling as a bullying, now at least he had to put up with everyone - even some of the adults - making a strange, droning, barely audible 'buzzing' noise as he stalked past.

Fly bombs - cool as fuck.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 14 May 2009, 14:17, 2 replies)

*clicks*
A rare moment of joy this week.

Exactly the type of thing I'm looking to read. Well done Spanky!
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Thu 14 May 2009, 14:33, closed)

Outstanding work
I got bullied by a lad on our estate. He had a Capri too, with a horn that played tunes. I never got any revenge though. Just mummy cuddles. I'm as soft as a premiership footballer.

A *click* for all the victims of Capri driving suburban housing estate bullies. (Together we can stop CDSHEB.)
( Scrumper, Thu 14 May 2009, 15:34, closed)