Hooligan

Eddy Brimson

Description

The highly acclaimed author of Everywhere We Go makes his fiction debut with this hard-hitting, no-holds-barred account of football violence. Hooligan shoots down the myths behind those involved and exposes the lengths they will go to to achieve their ambition . . .Steven Morris and his firm of football thugs are the most feared in the country. For them the days of fighting on the terrace are long gone, a mugs game for the juniors and wannabes, a place where innocent people can get hurt, and that's not what Mozzer's firm are about. They only want to take on those who wish to take their 'title' away and somehow Mozzer always knows who, where and when to hit and hit hard. Up until now his network of 'scouts' and 'spotters' have always kept the firm one step ahead of the opposition, but is there someone trying to set them up for a bloody ending, and are the police finally closing in?

Informations

• Publié par: Category C Publishing
• Date de parution: 18 juin 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781908886866
• Langue: English

Extrait

HOOLIGAN
By Eddy Brimson
First published by Mainstream publishing 1998
Also Eddy Brimson
The Hooligan Series (with Dougie Brimson)
Book One: Everywhere We Go
Book Two: England, My England
Book Three: Capital Punishment
Book Four: Derby Days
Available from all major eBook retailers
. 1 .
Mozzer stood with his knob in his hand and sighed with relief as the golden liquid flowed out. As usual the drinking had started early, it was only 11 o clock but already the lager had taken effect. God knows he needed this piss badly and to him the service station was the most welcome place on Earth. He couldn t hold out until they reached the pub and so reluctantly, the lads had agreed to pull in so that the light-weight could relieve himself while they waited in the van in order to hurry him up. As far as they were concerned Mozzer was wasting valuable drinking time.
As Mozzer stared at the blue and white tiles in front of him he suddenly felt uneasy. Someone was watching him. Behind him at first, then at his side. He looked to his left and eyeballed a young lad, about 24 years old. He was white with black hair cut in that shite northern style, and he was dressed in expensive designer clothes. Over his shoulder he could see another lad, younger still but the same model, a casual. Both were staring straight at him, their eyes burning into his skin. Mozzer tried to focus back at the tiles in front of him as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening but inside his stomach was churning and his legs felt had begun to turn to jelly. His mind was racing
.. Who the fuck? .. I don t believe this, I can t get turned over with my dick hanging out .. maybe I can stall them until .. if only one of the fucking lads would turn up? .. maybe shit .. SHIT! .
The older lad piped up.
Where you from then pal? He was a Scouser. Mozzer hated Scouser s. He said nothing. Holding his penis in his left hand he stared straight ahead as he gently slipped the right into his jacket pocket. The feel of the cold steel on his finger tips breathed hope back into his body. The Scouse was becoming agitated.
I asked you a fucking question twat. You re fucking London ain t ya? A Cockney fucking wanker! Mozzer s fingers tips worked their way through the holes and gripped the weapon. Relief. The Scouser had missed his chance, taken far to long and now the knuckle-duster was loaded and ready. Mozzer pushed his penis back into his Armani Boxers and turned to face the enemy. Both the Scouser s took a small step back as a smile crept crossed Mozzer s face. His right arm shot out like a bullet, the cold steel smashing against the temple, ripping skin, cracking bone and sending blood splattering across the mirrors opposite as the Scouse fell to the floor, out cold. Mozzer then buried a size nine into the stomach of his victim just to make sure before turning on the younger lad. He had shit himself and backed off into the corner. Mozzer laughed as he closed in on his pray. He was in control now and was moving in for the kill.
Yeah I m Fucking London . An insane grin spread across Mozzer s face as the lad fell to the floor and curled up in a ball waiting for the leather to hit home. Mozzer stood above the shaking youth. He reached in his pocket to search out two small business cards. First Mozzer studied the print as if to make sure, then flicked one of the cards at the shitter beneath him. On the white thick board, printed in bold blue letters were the words:
CONGRATULATIONS YOU HAVE JUST MET THE CITY BLUE ARMY . (THE CBA.) . NOW FUCK OFF.
Mozzer mocked the youth below him and began to laugh. You wanker. You re not worth the polish off my fuckin boot. As he turned to leave Mozzer dropped the other card on the motionless body of the other youth that lay across the floor. Here have one for your mate as well. Get him to give us a call when he s feeling a little better. It landed in the pool of blood that was still working it s way out of the open wound on the side of the Scouser s head. Stepping over the body Mozzer slowly made his way to the exit. He checked himself in the mirror before offering a final message to the startled on lookers. Safe journey every one.
. 2 .
Mozzer explained the incident away as the Transit continued up the M1. Clarkie had wanted to go back and really finish the job. Every one hated Scouser s but Clarkie had more reason than most. The eight inch scar across his left shoulder provided a constant reminder of a previous encounter a few years back when he had walked into the wrong pub and taken a good hiding. Some bastard had tried to slash his face with a Stanley Knife but Clarkie had spotted it just in time and the thrust had caught his shoulder instead. The knife had been primed with two blades fixed either side of a match stick in order to leave the nastiest scar possible. Clarkie had a habit of bringing his right arm up across his chest and rubbing the scar whenever the Scouser s were mentioned and his voice would take on a more menacing tone.
Fuck knows why the Scouser s were there anyway, they didn t have a game today. They must have been a couple of chancers who recognised the Londoner from a previous meeting . Today however their luck had run out. One thing was for sure the place would be crawling with Old Bill and this particular little mob didn t want a tug whilst on their way to a meaningless pre-season fixture against Mickey Mouse opposition. Mozzer had done a good enough job for the chancer to go back and inform his mates that the CBA were up for the coming season, while Clarkie was assured that he would get a pop at the Scoucers at some other time during the coming months. Clarkie grumbled then finally stopped rubbing his scar.
Eighteen bodies in the back of the Transit, along with the empty cans and food packets made for an uncomfortable journey. Today they weren t looking for trouble, this was a piss heads day out not a firms outing . And anyway most of Mozzer s top boys were still on holiday in Tenerife drinking and shagging in the sun. He knew only to well that there would always be a few of the locals up for a bit of bovver, and that the CBA were expected to show. It was also possible that some of the larger clubs such as Forest, Leeds or Birmingham would turn up to do a bit of scouting and if that was the case then things could turn out a little different. But unless it was right in their faces Mozzer s firm would leave it up to the Juniors or the Under 5 s mob to sort out.
Mozzer took a good look around the contents of the van. Despite the lure of the sun, cheap beer and the birds of Tenerife he still had a few of the main troops on board. Clarkie was a top bloke, 37 years old and still in there when it counted. Two kids hadn t halted his activities and so his wife had left him. Nowadays he would take the girls on for the summer to give his ex a break, then during the season when he would have them on the weekends the blues were at home, dropping them of at their Granny s for Saturday afternoon. The perfect football family minus the wife and the kids! He was a well built bloke with close cut hair to hide the receding hairline, and he would fight like a madman.
Chris and Shep were along for the ride as well as Ossie, Tony and Danny, five real diamonds. This lot had known each other since infants school and stuck together no matter what. They all attended the same boxing club when they were kids and Shep and Danny had gone on to box in the ABA Championships. They were always up for the crack, forever happy, but never mouthy. Every one was as hard as fuck. If you took one of this lot on then you had to take on all five. Mozzer loved to watch them in action and he was well chuffed that they were part of his firm.
The rest of the van was made up of lads from some of the other smaller mobs that followed the club. They came from towns such as Woking, Hemel Hempstead and Bromley. Most of the time these lads did their own business, building their own reputations. But for the big games they all came together under the banner that was City F.C. Today they came together for the usual pre-season shant. For games like these Mozzer would also invite a few of the Juniors along. He knew that within their ranks lay the future reputation of the club and it was important that they felt wanted by the older lads, just as Mozzer had been made to feel wanted when he was much younger. Some had already proved their worth at various rows from the previous season and were nearly ready to make the step up from the younger mobs and join the CBA. Camden was one such lad. At just 19 he was not much to look at. A slim, almost skinny lad, he stood at just five foot seven but had one redeeming feature, bottle. Mozzer had seen him in action many time, and knew that he would also use any weapon he could get his hands on. That combination made him dangerous, just what Mozzer required. His Dad, Frank, was also in the van and was proud that his lad was keeping up the family tradition for terrace warfare. Mozzer loved the old man but by now Frank was well past his sell by date as far as fighting was concerned, these days he just lived for the piss up and the odd day out with the lads.
Mozzer s mobile phone rang. Hello.
Mozzer? The voice was northern, Yorkshire.
Yeah, Who s that?
It s Terry mate, Sheffield Utd. How s it going? Mozzer s reply sounded full of surprise.
Hello my son. Yeah everything s lovely mate. Mozzer had first met Terry during an arranged off at a service station involving the CBA and Newcastle s firm two seasons back. Terry was United s main man and had done to see how both firms handled themselves after being tipped off about the row by another City mate of his that lived in the Steel City. Terry was impressed by what he had seen as both mobs defended their side of the service station. The bridge across the motorway was all that separated them and the place had become a real battle ground. To the passing m