SOON Online Magazine

Stories

Runner

by ALI PIG

We're moving again. We're like a shoal of Pirannah that change direction all at once, no words spoken, no orders given but each of us knows, feels it instinctively, and we all move together. We must be six streets away from it by now but even on this moonless night there's something lighting up the sky. For a moment I am reminded of Pirannah again as the night's breeze swirls the light rain, changing it's direction at will, hypnotically caught in that cold, hazy, white glare of the floodlights making it look like snow flurries. The sound of twenty thousand pairs of feet marching away breaks my momentary trance and I'm back again. Moving. The pavement beneath my feet is slippery wet and coldly black. Down here there is no light. Just flashes and reflections from windows and puddles. The fear inside me is rising. But it's a fear I crave just like the fear you crave when you're sitting at the top of the rollercoaster, waitng for the ride to begin and you ask yourself why am I up here, why did I do this and you know the answer even before you ask the question because you can feel the answer coarsing through your veins. The rush. That's what it's all about. The rush. And I can feel it. We stop. We know not to make a sound but thirty grown men excitedly whispering, the steam from their mouths rising up in the darkness, the sound of shuffling feet, the sound of pockets being patted making sure the tool is still there all adds to the rush and it feeds itself. The more the rush takes over the more excited we get and so the rush grows. But there always comes a point. A critical mass is reached and if there is no release then there is no control over what might happen. As mad as it all seems there is a method. A command comes up. FAN OUT. It's coming from the front. Being at the back I can't see who said it but I follow the order anyway. Now the rush really comes on. This usually sorts out the men from the boys, the fighters from the runners. WE are confident, eager, up for it when WE are a tightly grouped unit, when WE are all moving together because it's WE. But now WE have got to FAN OUT and now WE becomes I. And I is not so comforting as WE. Not so strong as WE. And even though WE is only six feet away, the vulnerability of I hits home. More shuffling of feet as we move away. Voices break from whispers into shouts, more orders, threats, goading. The other lot are here. Did we find them or did they find us? Does it really matter? We cover the width of the street now. The tools are out. Bats, bars, knuckle dusters, knives, being shown to the enemy but they're not scared. They're here for the same reasons we're here. Another command. This one's for me.

-HOLD THE BACK-

-NO RUNNERS-.

-NO F***IN' RUNNERS-.

-EVERYONE STANDS FIRM-

That's my job, my role in all this. To make sure none of our mob run. Not that we expect anyone to run because tonight is for top boys only.

Faces only. No passengers, no baggage. Just the hardcore. I shout my warnings to everyone: -YOU HEAR THAT. -NO ONE F***IN' RUNS. -NO ONE. FACE THESE TOSSERS, THEY'RE SH*T -. -PRIDE TONIGHT, WE RUN FROM NO ONE. STAND FIRM. BE CONTROLLED. Fisting my chest where my heart sits pounding I scream PICK ONE OF 'EM AND GO FOR HIM. NO F***IN' ABOUT. From the front we all hear it, the war cry: COME ON THEN, COME ON THEN YOU MUGSY WANKERS, LETS HAVE IT, COME ON. And we're off. A bottle flies through the air, smashing right in the middle of our mob but no one's hurt, hit even. That's because we fan out. Another bottle, followed by a brick. Then a hail of stones and coins and nuts and bolts and now they charge and the cheer goes up and that sound always makes me laugh because it should be a happy sound, a sound to celebrate a joyous event like baby being born or a goal being scored but no, not this time because this is the sound of a hundred thugs getting their release just before that critical mass is reached. Except this time I don't laugh. I don't know why but I don't feel right. The need to fight is no longer driving me. What's happening? I'm no bottler, I'm no runner but right now I don't want to be here, don't want to be doing this. I'm not even scared. The thought of getting turned over never has and never will scare me but even so I've got no will to do this. They're into us. Blokes are going at it toe to toe. Heads are popping, jaws are breaking, fists and boots are flying and we're on the back foot. Some of our top boys are down and getting hurt, badly, but still they lash out with fists and feet trying to connect with anything. Right now I should drive our back line forward, jumping over the bodies on the floor, bats and clubs breaking faces, no mercy, forcing them back, away from us but all I can do is watch. I'm frozen to the spot just watching it happen. And through the mass of fighting nutters and flying bricks I connect with one of them. Our eyes meet and I know he's mine and that he thinks likewise and even though he's fifty feet away for the first time in my life I know I'm done. I've never felt this before in my life but right now I know that the man coming at me, bumping his way through the ruck with broken pool cue will do me. I look around, we're gaining some ground. Some of them are lying on the ground with some of us jumping all over them. Our top boys are back up and it looks like we could do them all and I feel that rush come on again but the moment I look at him it goes. He's closer now. Got to decide. Do I stay? I'm running and even though I hear my name being called, screamed, I can't stop myself. I've broken the golden rule. And now I hear us all running. It's true what they say that if one runs everyone runs and now we're legging it, sh***ing it, bottling it. RUNNING. But you see, I'm not that fast. I'm Mr Beer Belly. Eighteen stone of fat covered in tattoos ready to rip your head off if you spill my pint or look at me funny and I can't run. Never needed to before, never been an issue. Always stood firm. Not anymore. Some of us are going by me, calling me a cunt, a shitter, a bottler and they can do that because they weren't the first to run. I look behind me. They're closing. I'm at the back again only this time I'm at the back of a mob running away and I know what's coming. I can sense someone right behind me and I know he won't hit me, he'll try to trip me up, leave me for the rest of them, they'll take care of me. I feel my feet being taken from under me. REF-ER-F***IN'-REE I think and it makes me laugh as I go down and I land on my back. For the third time I'm reminded of Pirannah as a group of ten blokes all stop at once If you have any sort of concern or worry, please look at our Problem Page. or If you want more information on the answers to life - please look at the following pages The Short Story Library Contents Page SOON Online Magazine homepage The international Ezine with a difference. Problem page, true stories, interviews, "life and how to survive it" section, religion, science, news, ­ your language and country pages, and much more. Other real stories of people who found true happiness. VISITOR PAGE Back to previous page ©copyright SOON Ministries Contact us