Lucky Eric steps in front of the three skinheads.
“Evening lads.” he says holding up a hand palm out.
The skinheads sway like badly-handled puppets.
“Lerrus in mate.” the ugly one on the right demands.
“Yeah. In.” the ugly one on the left agrees.
The ugly one in the middle hangs unconscious between his mates,
snoring and dribbling down his Ben Sherman.
“Now then lads,” Lucky Eric says as if reading a cue card, “I think
as how you have had enough to drink. Please move along. Thank you.”
Lobster Ron is looking confused. He can’t work out why Lucky Eric is talking so funny and being, well, polite – there’s no other word for it.
“Is that right monkey man?” Ugly Right sneers.
Ugly Left twists his head and issues a sharp whistle. Round the corner there suddenly hares a huge pit bull, claws clacking on the icy pavement, teeth the size of daggers bared, jet engine growls deep in the back of its throat. It slavers trails of venomous doggy drool behind it as it closes on the tableau posed in front of the club entrance.
Lobster Ron’s eyes bulge and he finds his voice,
“Jimmy! Jimmy!” he howls.
The dog hits the group just as Jimmy, only half buttoned into his keks and still sporting a boner, bursts out of the club. There’s a collision worthy of a Tom and Jerry cartoon, one of those where Butch the dog has got Tom in a whirling cyclone of teeth, jaws, tongue, fur, eyeballs, fists, feet, and anguished howling. Lucky Eric and Lobster Ron forget all about the niceties of the video shoot, and expertly stomp and punch the three drunken skinheads into a single, quivering, bloody pile.
Jimmy The Con is not so lucky. He falls backwards into the club, flailing and pummeling at the dog’s head, which is firmly clamped onto his groin. The screaming, growling, and smashing of scattered tables and chairs inside the club is suddenly punctuated by two gun shots. Then silence.
Causes Luke James Supports
Doctors Without Borders