Comp

by Paul Kavanagh

You’ve got to be careful not to tell lies but now and again you can’t help but tell lies. Lies are like chocolate cookies you have one and you tell yourself that one is enough but suddenly you find your hand in the cookie jar. Anyway Louie Bellows was running from the police. I don’t know why they are chasing him all I know is that he’s blindly running and the lights are flashing and the beepers are bleeping. Now we’ve got to remember that Louie Bellows is not a runner, he’s not a sportsman and he’s not a chickenshit. Louis Bellow is the hardest man in the town and the ugliest. So I’m hurrying home because I’m sleepy and cold. I sees Louie Bellows huffing and puffing and running like a madman and next I sees the police with dogs barking cussing and yelling to Louie Bellows to stop. But he wont stop I could tell them that. He’ll keep running all night he will. Even if they caught him and threw him in back of the van he’d still be running. In front of the judge he’d still be running and he’d run all the way to prison. I once did two weeks in Liverpool and there’s Louis Bellow’s running up and down the stairs shitroll in one hand a book in the other. It was all about which didn’t lacerate his arse. So off they run into the night and even though I can’t see them I can hear them. But their cusses and warnings are falling of deaf ears. Anyway I get home and tell the wife that I’ve just witnessed her cousin legging it down the street with the bill giving chase. She laughs. He’s been doing this since he was old enough to walk. The first thing they chased him down the street for was for stealing apples and tossing them through the church window. His father was to blame, he hated the Catholics with a passion. Next it was for stealing washing lines. Some people went shopping, some people dreamed of designer clothing, Louie Bellows climbed over garden fences and plucked the latest gear like he had with an apple. Anyway, I tells the wife and she laughs and says me tea is in the microwave. Sausage mashspuds and peas, I bet Louie Bellows would rather be eating sausage mashspuds and peas instead of running as fast as his legs will take him away from the following police. Anyway I tuck in with me knife and fork, switch on the television and forget all about Louie Bellows. I tells me wife she makes a lovely meal and if she’s not too busy could she do me a brew.

Sometimes you can’t help telling lies. I know this girl that tells the people at the dole that her back is bad and so she tells a lie but the lie leads to her getting fifty more quid in the check that comes on Friday. She tells them that she’s on her back every night, in fact she’s on her back everyday as well. And indeed she is because she’s on the game. She’s a pro. Now that is neither here nor there, but still she is on her back. So it’s only half a lie, I think. She tells me that she would love to pay tax, but not being clever I don’t understand all that self employment business.

Hey bollocks, yells Louie Bellows hobbling. He’s across the street. He motions for me to join him, which I do. It’s not raining and the wind has died down. Hey watch you don’t get run over. A car just misses me. I never saw it. I gasp for air. I could be dead. I never even heard it. Even now I can’t remember the make, the color, who was driving the bugger. That’s what it is like I bet when they in fact hit you. I was lucky. Just think of the comp you could have claimed. Louie Bellows always looks on the bright side of things. It’s always money. He’d kill a man for a pound, and that is no lie. Let’s go for a drink he says. You look like a wet piss blanket. I feel like puking, I know that. But no matter how much I’m in need of a drink the idea of having a beer with Louie Bellows is not one that crosses my mind. I know that if I have a beer with him I’ll end up with a gash running from my eyes to the back of my neck. So I says no, I’ve got to go home. now a flood comes of putdowns and about me being under the bitch’s thumb. She was always like that, the posh bitch, thinks she’s better than everybody. Her shit still smells just the same as mine, he reminds me. Anyway, I foolish ask him what’s with the limp and he tells me. But I’ll omit the fucks and cunts. Anyway, he’s running from the police, he’d just stolen a charity box from a Chinese and he’s hasn’t a clue where he’s running to, but one thing he knows is that he’s not going to prison for stealing a charity box. So what’s he doing stealing a charity box. He hasn’t a clue. Just got the urge. Fuckit he says real loud, the old dears cross the street and nearly get killed. Anyway he jumps this wall, but the otherside of the wall is a twelve-foot drop and down he goes like a sack of spuds and behind him are the police dogs. One of the dogs gets his dodgy leg and sinks its teeth deep but Louie Bellows grabs the dog’s cock, the dog having no balls, and squeezes with all of his might. Obviously the dog releases him. Now the police ain’t stupid they’re not going to leap the wall like Louie Bellows so Louie escapes. So next morning Louie wakes up battered, bruised and with one leg so off he stumbles to the doctor, but he can’t make the ten minute walk so he jumps on a bus and guess what the bus crashes into this car. This old dears was driving the car, seems her glasses fell off, so she slams the breaks and the bus goes right into the back. Well Louie fells screaming, crying bloody murder, and complaining that he’s crushed his leg. And it’s here that the thing gets strange Louie Bellows holds up a newspaper and there he is with a check (cheque) and his dodgy leg in plaster. He’s got a grin on him as though some bastards been at his mug with a stanley knife. I claims comp straight away, no messing around, I know me bloody rights. It’s a free country. Anyway do you want a drink or not?

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~ This piece was posted on Monday, March 13th, 2006 and was filed under Writing, Short Story. You can make comments on it below. ~