Taming the Alien

Go figure.

Brant was to find Pat a mix of pig ignorance, slyness and humour. If he’d been English, he’d be credited with irony. Apart from sporadic Christmas cards, they were strangers but neither seemed uncomfortable. Course, being half-pissed helped. Brant took out his Weights and offered. It was taken and the bar woman said, ‘I could do with a fag myself.’

They ignored her. As Pat blew out his first smoke, he coughed and said, ‘Jaysus … coffin nails.’

‘Like ’em?’

‘I do.’

‘Good.’

Envious glances from the woman. But she didn’t mind. Men and manners rarely met.

Brant said, ‘I better get a move on.’

Pat was truly surprised, asked, ‘What’s your hurry, where are you going?’

‘Well … America … but I better check into a hotel.’

Pat got red in the face … or redder; near shouted, ‘There’ll be no hotels for the de Bruns! The missus is in Dublin for a few days so you’ll be stoppin’ with me.’

Brant was tempted, answered, ‘If it’s no trouble.’

‘But of course it’s trouble, what’s that ever had to do with anything?’

A point Brant felt couldn’t be bettered. When the bar woman put them out, she pocketed the cigarettes.

Felicitations

Falls held her breath as the Doctor began to speak. ‘Well, Miz … or Miss — I never know the PC term.’ And he looked at her. The expression of the misunderstood male run ragged by women’s demands.

She wanted to shout, ‘Get on with it you moron,’ but said tightly, ‘Miz is fine.’

‘All right, Miz … And he looked at his notes.

She supplied: ‘Falls.’

‘Quite so. Well, Miz Falls, you are pregnant. Three months, in fact.’

She was speechless. Now that it was confirmed she felt a burst of happiness and finally said, ‘Good!’

If the doctor was expecting this response, he hid it well. ‘Ah … when there’s, ahm … no Mr Falls, one isn’t always … pleased.’

‘I’m delighted.’

‘So I see. Of course, there are alternatives, once the initial euphoria has abated, one might wish for … other options.’

She wanted to smack him in the mouth but said, ‘I’m keeping my baby. I am not euphoric, I am, as I said, delighted.’

He waved his hand dismissively like he’d heard this nonsense a hundred times, and said, ‘My secretary will advise you of all the details. Good day Miz Falls.’ As she was leaving, he said, ‘I suppose one ought to say felicitations!’

‘You what?’

‘It’s French for congratulations.’

‘Oh, I know what it means, doctor, but I doubt that you do … in any language.’

The secretary typed out all the data and as she handed it over, said, ‘Pay no heed to him, he’s a toss- pot.’

‘Aren’t they all?’

A mugging we will go

‘Wild, wild angels’ by Smoky was pouring from a gay bar in the lower reaches of the East Village. A near perfect pop song, it contains all the torch a fading queen could ask for.

The Band-Aiders wanted out of New York and they wanted out now. Josie and Sean O’ Brien were the names they were currently using. Their brains were so fucked from chemicals, they weren’t sure of anything save their Irish nationality, but years of squatting in south-east London had added a Brixton patois to their accents. Their one surety was they wanted to hit California, and hopefully hit it fucking hard. Sunshine and cults — what could be better?

And wow, had their luck ever held out? First, they broke into Brant’s flat and though he’d found and threatened them, they got him first. Next, they murdered a young cop named Tone for his new pants — a pair of smart Farahs. Beaten him to death with a nine wood, not that they were golfers. Golf clubs had replaced baseball bats as the weapon of choice for a brief time in Brixton. Things had returned to normal, though, and bats had now reemerged for walloping the bejaysus outta punters.

That Brant would come a-hunting never occurred to them.

Josie had once been pretty, a colleen near most, blue eyes, pert nose and dirty blonde hair.

But that was well fucked now.

Brixton

squats

sheer viciousness

and of course, every chemical known to boogie had wrought havoc.

Her hair was now a peroxided yellow, as once touted by Robbie Williams. Her skin was a riot of spots and sores. Crack cocaine had given her the perpetual sniffles.

And if she was rough, Sean was gone entirely like Sid Vicious … two years after his death.

They’d got into America as part of a punk band entourage. They’d then ripped off the band and pawned the instruments. Now broke, they resorted to what they were — urban predators. Prey was best from gay bars.

But their amazing run of luck was about to dive.

From the shadows, they watched a group of men on the sidewalk. Obviously stewed, they were saying goodbyes with laughter and hugs.

Sean said, ‘I’d kill for a cuppa tea.’

‘Yeah, gis two sugars wif mine, yah cunt!’

They giggled.

Sean watched as one man broke away, and muttered, ‘I’ll give him a good kickin’, I will.’

‘Yeah, we’ll do the bollocks!’ Josie felt the rush of adrenalin, the juice kicking into override. She gasped, ‘Crank it up muttah-fuckah!’ Even the boys in the hood would have admired her accent, not to mention her sentiments.

As the man moved off alone, Sean said, ‘Show-time!’

Julian Asche was thirty-five years old. A successful architect, it had taken him a long time to accept his homosexuality. But New York is a good place to come out. To hear the women tell it, try finding a guy who wasn’t:

gay

married

lying

OR

all three.

As a seasoned Manhattanite, he’d paid his city dues. Found a way to cohabit with cockroaches, ignore the homeless and be mugged twice. He’d declared, ‘Enough already!’ and, ‘This shit ain’t happening to me again!’

Thus, he was left with two choices:

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