Cracking Up Read Online Free PDF Page B

fillets, fake titties. She was getting closer and smiled at me, showing chipped, mankie teeth and dead fish eyes. Fuck me, I thought, a baghead whore! The prozzie’s hair was fashioned in a mullet style, dyed purple and she had thick cherry red lipstick smeared all over her face. Rotten-looking and, to top it off, all the charm of a sledgehammer. “Fancy a gobble?” she said.
    As she got in my face I noticed the fucking hands and checked out the Adam’s apple. The penny dropped, this cunt had bigger balls than Lilly Savage. She was a fucking geezer-bird, a raving transvestite, touting for a bit of business. It minced past me on the stairs, the arse was cut out of its jeans and it had no knickers on. A butt-plug stuck out of its arsehole. I shuddered and nearly puked. Fucking sick trannie pleb, strutting round the flats in six-inch heels with the arse hanging out of the back of its kecks. Coming on to punters and sucking them off in the seedy stairwells of a dread council housing building. Not a class act, I reckoned.
    It loomed right in my face and I felt as though a cross-dressing geek had escaped from a carnival freak show.
    “Remove yourself from me fucking sight,” I barked with venom, pulled out the handgun and pointed the thing at its crotch. “Or I’ll blow your fucking balls off!”
    The trannie’s face dropped because it recognized the angry, screwfaced smirk of a gang banging hood rat ready to pounce and I knew it was shitting itself. I actually thought the butt-plug was going to come rocketing out at any second. It was snivelling, begging for mercy, steaming piss staining its jeans, dribbling down and ponding around its ankles. I shook my head in disgust and shot out of there double pronto because I was on a mission, meeting Spermy for a war council. I didn’t have time for HIV-infected trannie, baghead slags.
    So off I traipsed to see Spermy. I had to go past the parade of shops by the primary school. There was a chip shop there and I fancied something like a bag of batter bits. I was nearing the chippy when I saw the brightest yellow Golf GTi parked up outside. It was plotted up in a no-parking zone, looking like a fucking canary with the engine running. The back windows were tinted and the front ones were rolled down and the tracks blaring out at full volume. I recognized the tune as Tinchy Stryder’s Game Over. In the driver’s seat sat someone with his head just popping up over the steering wheel. A bobble hat pulled down over his eyebrows and wearing a hoodie over the top. He looked about thirteen and his feet must’ve just about reached the pedals. Next to him sat a similar-looking kid with the same hood rat look. This one was hanging out the passenger window, a king-size spliff dangling from his kipper, shouting invites and making lewd gestures to a bunch of giggling young girls clustered around the entrance of the offie next to the chippy.
    The girls were about fifteen but were tarted up to look eighteen and over. Fit and they knew it, very sexy-looking. They weren’t dressed for the cold January weather in their micro-minis and low cut tops. They were dolled up for a night on the town, stocking up on cheap vodka to stuff in their handbags and smuggle into the boozers where they’d be topping their bar bought orange juices up. They called out to me as I was walking past, urging me to get my cock out of my pants so they could take pictures on their mobile phones. They were shouting over, messing around, having a laugh because there was a load of them. Taking the piss out of the lone bloke for the crack. “What’s innit for me?” I joked back.
    “A WANK!” came the cheeky reply. “If I can find me tweezers.”
    I’d unintentionally played slap, bang, wallop into her hands: They all burst out laughing hysterically and I felt like a right twat.
    A paranoid shudder jerked me out my red-faced embarrassment when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a scallie coming out of the chip shop,