Writing for Fun
September 2021
Recipe For Disaster - Pete Norman
♫ . . . Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling . . . ♫
Danny hated that song – he hated it with a passion.
He supposed that it might have been sort of alright when he was small, when his mum used to sing it to him every night to get him off to sleep but as he had grown older its magic very quickly wore off.
His mum always used to cry as she sang it – she said it was such a lovely song that even the most hardy of Scots could not fail to shed a tear – but Danny thought it was old fashioned, boring and (if he could spell it – which he couldn’t) demeaning.
His mum cried when he left home. He could still hear her crying from the other side of the closed door. He could also hear the sound of the bolt being slid into place to prevent him from ever coming back in again.
He had promised her that she would get it back. He had told her that at this precise moment his need was desperate. He had told her that she had no idea how much the price of skunk had gone up . . . but she simply would not listen. He did understand that the money was important to her – he knew that she called it her ‘little nest egg’ and that it was her ‘only way out away from that abusive bastard’ – but surely she could understand that if he didn’t pay the money to Big Shaun before Friday then some ‘serious bits’ of him were going to be ‘seriously broken’.
He was in desperate need and isn’t it every mother’s duty to support and protect her child? . . . but she weren’t having none of that and he now found himself standing outside the front door, on the street with a couple of big heavy bags.
If it hadn’t have been for Swampy he would have been completely homeless. He was lucky to have a mate like Swampy who knew everybody and could get important things sorted and so it was that he found himself in a cold, grey, miserable squat in a cold, grey, miserable part of town. However, the lights were on – Swampy knew a bloke who could somehow mackle up the electric – so at least he would have somewhere to charge up his mobile phone.
Nobody knew Swampy’s real name – he refused to share it with anyone. Apparently, once, while he was handcuffed to one of the highest branches of one of the biggest trees he could find on the proposed motorway route, the pig who cut the branch and dragged him down said he looked like ‘something that had crawled out of a swamp’ and from that day on the name had just stuck – it was Swampy’s way of showing that the pigs had no sense of humour.
Swampy knew everybody and one of his mates was a DJ and he said there was a rave coming up on Saturday, out in the wilds of Barling somewhere, in an abandoned barn but they had to keep it quiet because the pigs would like nothing more than to bust it.
Bloody kill joys! Bozo’s bulldogs they were. They blindly went along with everything the government said. If the government said ‘jump’ they’d ask, ‘how high?’ If the government said there was a virus going round that’s killing loads of people then they would believe it without question . . . but of course, everyone knew there is no bloody virus – there never has been – and everyone knew that people weren’t dying in their thousands because Swampy’s mate had sneaked into the hospital and taken loads of photos of all the empty wards so everyone knew it was all lies. But the pigs, the pigs believed everything – anything just to spoil their fun and make people miserable – and they would most definitely stop a rave if they ever found out about it so they had to keep their heads well down.
So he was really lucky that he’d come round here when he had. Swampy had managed to get hold of a few ‘essentials’ and on Saturday night they found themselves in the middle of a dark, muddy field with their pockets full of delight – a bottle of vodka and some blow and a rather large packet of skunk should just about see them through the night.
The rave was in full swing and the music was pumping out with ear-numbing ferocity and Danny was away with the fairies – he hadn’t felt so brilliant for a long time . . . but then, suddenly . . . suddenly the music stopped. The generator had stopped whining. Everyone started shouting at the DJ but it weren’t his fault ‘cause just then the pigs come swarming into the barn and everyone scattered. Danny tried to run out the back but he was too far gone and he tripped over Swampy and they were both still on the ground when the pig grabbed hold of him.
It might have gone better for Danny if he hadn’t hit him but he was so far gone he didn’t know what he was doing . . . and so it was that he found himself sitting in a cold, grey, miserable cell staring at cold, grey, miserable walls waiting for what he knew was going to be a cold, grey, miserable breakfast.
It was late afternoon when he finally emerged into the daylight again, with a sore head and a copy of his charge sheet in his pocket: being at an illegal rave, drunk and disorderly, possession of class A drugs and assault on a pig.
That evening Danny Boy found that he knew an incredible number of . . . well, he would have said ‘expletives’ if he could spell it – but he couldn’t. He was madder than he had ever been in his life before and someone was going to suffer for this.
Oink. Oink.
Swampy knew everybody and one of his mates could do things on the ‘Dark Web’ that other people couldn’t. There was loads of stuff on there that you couldn’t buy on eBay. You could even get hold of a surplus Russian nuclear warhead if you had enough cash – which he didn’t – but they did find a bloke who could supply a much more modest do-it-yourself kit with no questions asked.
A few days later a car pulled up and, with the engine still running, this gorilla took the money, counted it, counted it again and then dumped a big heavy box on the doorstep. It was like Christmas come early. They fell on the box and ripped it open. There was a bit of computer circuitry, a big box with two knobs on top and three large bags of stuff. There was also a sheet of paper to say how to mix it up and what to do, which Swampy called a ‘Recipe For Disaster’. Danny tried to read it but there were a lot of big words in it that he couldn’t spell so he left Swampy to work it all out . . .
. . . and so it was that he found himself sitting in a cold, grey, miserable stolen Fiesta on the very top of the car park, which gave them a perfect view. The big white cars were all coming back in through the security gate so it had to be shift changeover time. That meant that the pig sty would be full . . . and that would make it all the more fun!
Swampy said it was easy, all he had to do was to park the car alongside the pig sty wall and then prime the box by pushing the black button and then Swampy would pick him in a battered old Fiat and when they were far enough away to be safe but still close enough to hear the delightful sound he would press the app on his phone and KAPOW! – just like when the hero in the Marvel comics thumps the bad guy and there’s a huge yellow star with KAPOW! across it in huge letters to show just how loud it was. That would teach them pigs not to mess with him!
Swampy was watching closely as Danny stopped the car alongside the wall; as he leaned across into the back seat and lifted the lid to prime the box. He had known Danny a long time and he knew him only too well. He crossed his fingers and said, ‘Don’t hit the RED bu-t-t---o----n!’
And so it was that a cold, grey, miserable old mother stood alone on a cold, grey, miserable morning and sang the song and shed a tear for Danny Boy for the very last time.