Brexit Pulp
As the last traces of sunlight slipped away and the smoke hung in the air, like ghosts patiently waiting to crossover, Jack wondered if he’d ever get the chance at a second referendum. He was a man of principles, even if a lot of them involved fast women and slow horses, but they were principles nonetheless, and he believed in justice for the common man.
Ever since May’s hoods had conned the city out of a fair deal, Jack had been on a one-man mission to hold the perps to account. And honestly he liked the idea of beating the words “The bus was a lie!” out of a bloody-nosed Tory peer. He chuckled as the thought did its regular circuit round his mind, before he pulled himself out of his scotch-infused slump and slid into his Rover 200. The old bastard came to life on the first attempt, which is more than he could say for himself most mornings, but maybe that was a sign that this day was finally going to come good. As the car pulled away from the curb he thought he saw a scarlet faced white man watching him from outside the members club opposite, but that was the same sort of troubled vision he kept on having ever since he got himself into this mess. Don’t eat pork, the old boys at the barber shop used to tell him to no avail, but now these sentient gammons seemed to be a real threat to his health — albeit in a mental capacity.
The Rover slowed as he neared the gates to №10. The last remaining street vendors were being moved along by the police and replaced with the no doubt government sanctioned hookers, who were paraded about for the Whitehall fat cats to dig their claws into when the thought of returning to their own hideous wives proved too much. As Jack moved through the shadows he felt a sense of overwhelming hope wash over him — “Was this sobriety?” he joked out loud and laughed, before hearing the all too familiar swish of a cosh cutting through the air. Then just like the movies: fade to black.
When he finally came round he assumed he was still lost in dreamland. He’d heard stories of the putrid air that seemed to carry her, but he thought they were just that, stories. But now seeing May in the flesh, he realised that the putrescent aroma was in fact very real and it was made altogether worse by the greying, almost translucent skin that feebly clung to her decrepit, eerily angular skeleton. When she spoke it came in a whisper that pierced his eardrum like a hot needle being plunged into the cavity. It was as if he couldn’t quite hear the words, but he still knew exactly what she said. The warning was clear: back off, or everything you ever cared about will be ripped apart.
As May and her goons blended into the blackened alleyway, the cosh came again and the next time he came round he was back in his office. It was still night and Gus, the building’s janitor, was there with a flannel and quart of Jameson’s. He tried to stand, muttering angrily about revenge and retribution, but a hand steadied him and as he slipped back into his slumber, all he was left with were Gus’s words swirling like some sort of twisted lullaby — “Forget it, Jack, it’s Brexit Britain”
