Cracking Up by Harry Crooks Page A

felt like a nookie-loving criminal. She had an eyebrow piercing and a little devil tattoo on the side of her neck. I dragged her into the ladies bogs and whacked a line of gear up her nose. This bitch was gagging for it and we were soon doing the dirty deed in a cubicle. She was size zero with shoulder blades and hip bones that would make Victoria Beckham look obese. She had pointy little tits like knuckles and a tight, tiny arse that my one hand almost covered. We were snogging the faces off each other and having a serious knee-trembler when the bouncers burst in. Her boob tube was pulled down over her tiny tits and skinny legs wide apart, a micro-mini dangling around one ankle and cheese string around the other.
    The bouncers were big, fuck-off steroid freaks and tossed me all around the show, bouncing me off walls and doors. Slapping me around the head, calling me a dirty cunt as they attempted to dragged me outside the bar to do me in. Rez had my back and launched a beer bottle at one of the heavy-handed bastards who copped a gash in the head. Other members of the security team got involved and it was turning nasty. It was getting on top and it was time to do one. Some of the other punters were coming to our aid and arguing the toss with the bouncers, shouting at them to leave it out. They created enough of a diversion for us to escape and vanish into the night by the skin of our teeth. Looking back: It was a close shave and we were fucking dead lucky. A short while later I wasn’t feeling so lucky when I found out that the skinny bird had given me an unhealthy dose of some sort or another.
    Next day it was time to get off back home. I was gutted at the prospect because it had been a fucking belter of a holiday and I didn’t want it to end. Unfortunately, Rez informed me, Dog Sick had requested I perform him another service. “What’s he want now?” I asked.
    “He wants you to sneak some coke back,” he said, matter of fact.
    “I can’t chance carrying coke through Customs,” I said.
    He nodded thoughtfully: “Well, what about swallowing them.”
    “Fuck’s sake?”
    “Yeh, why not? Even if they x-ray you, the coke won’t show up. It’s the same density as shit.”
    “What if they burst inside me?”
    “They won’t! They’re sealed in rubber latex. Just don’t eat or drink anything on the plane. You’ll be sound.”
    “One thing I’ve never done with drugs: Swallow them and take them through Customs. It’s fucking risky!” I said.
    He sat down on his couch, saying sweet FA, just staring at me. “Alls that I’m saying is: This is Dog Sick’s coke, lad. If you don’t take it back, he’s going be fucked off.”
    I thought for a moment. “Would you do it?”
    “If I was potless I would.”
    I won’t deny that I was a bit worried about Dog Sick’s reaction if I refused, but it all boiled down to a question of finances, or lack of them. I had that skint feeling again, digging around for loose change in empty pockets. Maybe it was time to give in to criminal tendencies and do a bit of grafting because it was fucking bollocks being brassic. I was confident of being able to blag it through Customs. “How much?”
    “A monkey.”
    “Fucking hell! Getting raped here, innit?.”
    “Come on, Ow-wee lad. Fuck all to it, mate. Easy money, lad.”
    “Fuck it! I’ll fucking do it.”
    We were in his front room and he emptied a plastic carrier bag out onto the coffee table. It contained twenty-five thumb-sized pellets. Well, I thought, if Paul Newman could swallow all those hardboiled eggs in Cool Hand Luke, I should be able to neck these little buggers. After I had downed about half of them, the rest started to look as big as footballs and Rez had to pass us another bottle of water.
    It had taken over an hour to consume the contraband. I hastily packed my bag, stuffing it with dirty, unwashed holiday gear. I almost missed the flight home trying to sort my shit out and I shot up to the airport just