jilty
08-01-2011, 12:42 PM
[Okay so I wanted to write a scene from a wacky, OTT action book, so I tried with this. I know it's stupid but I tried to make it entertaining; something for teenage boys].
Mickey McCallum in Berlin
In Mickey McCallum’s experience, the German people were a very punctual race. Almost every German he had ever seen went about their work with the precision of a modern machine. He had seen it across the whole country: from the industry workers of Munich to the businessmen of Frankfurt, stretching all the way to the staff at the Berlin Express Youth Hostel. Even the women ****ed like machines. Oh yes. He had a lot of experience of that.
This made it odd, therefore, when his train came speeding into Berlin Hauptbahnhof station approximately nine-and-a-half minutes late. Mickey did not mind much, however, considering the fact that he was standing next to a tall blonde whose rating he judged lay somewhere between nine-and-a-half to ten. With her eyes concentrated on the brand new IPhone balanced in her smooth hands, Mickey took the opportunity to examine her, and reflect on his final score. So thanks to the rare unpunctuality of the German rail network, he was able to evaluate that a nine-point-five was more suitable. It was a close one, though.
As the train slowed to a stop, he savoured the last of his currywurst, binned the napkin he had been using as a plate, and moved towards one of the automatic doors. He kept his right eye squarely on the blonde, just to see whether she would also make a move. Perhaps he could sit next to her and they could get talking? Left disappointed by her lack of motion, Mickey dismissed whatever silly ideas he had forming in his mind, and boarded.
It was a typical European train, with a mixture of four-seat and two-seat sets on either side of an aisle. Mickey found an empty four-chair area and took a seat, throwing his over-the-shoulder leather bag onto the bag-rack above. He rummaged around in his jean pocket and removed his iPod touch and headphones. He switched it on, picked Bruce Springsteen, and after some deliberation, opted for ‘Atlantic City’. Mickey smiled. Closed his eyes. Drifted into a deep and happy sleep; dreaming dreams about that blonde strutting her stuff to some good old classic Bruce.
When he awoke, the train had gained a steady pace. They had left the modern, metallic Hauptbahnhof and were somewhere now amongst greenery and fields. A man sat opposite him: a short, bald man with glasses that screamed to Mickey – teacher…or paedophile…or possibly both.
“Where are we?” Mickey asked, in English.
“Not far out of Berlin,” the man replied in a German accent.
“Thanks.”
They sat in silence for a bit.
“Your first time in Germany, is it?” the man enquired.
“Yeah,” Mickey replied, rubbing his eyes.
“I hope you are enjoying it here. We love tourists in this country?”
The Scotsman grinned. He decided this man was probably a teacher. Best to give people the benefit of the doubt.
“Are you from England?”
Mickey stopped smiling.
“Scotland. I’m from Scotland.”
And immediately Mickey felt like branding him a paedophile again.
“Oh, I see. Scotland. A beautiful, beautiful country. Edinburgh, are you from?”
“Glasgow.”
“Ah, Glasgow, yes. Good, good.”
Silence again, before the German continued.
“I couldn’t help but notice your tattoo. It is very beautiful.”
Mickey nodded, lifting his right wrist closer to his face, examining it himself. The black paint of the snake slithered around his whole wrist, culminating in a fearsome face, baring its fangs in defense.
“It’s a King Cobra,” he explained, “my whole unit had them.”
“I understand, yes. What does it mean?”
Mickey stared at him for a second.
“Well I’ll tell you,” he said, grinning, “but I’ll have to whisper.”
So both men leant forward, and Mickey held a hand in front of his mouth as he spoke, like children do in classrooms when they think the teacher might hear.
“It’s my special license,” Mickey whispered, “my license to kick ***.”
He sat back in his chair with a big smile on his face. The other man stayed where he was, in the leaning position, his two wide eyes staring at Mickey through the glasses, his bottom lip quivering slightly.
“Not you…” Mickey added to appease the man’s fear, at which point the German sat back and sighed with relief.
“Only *******s,” the Scotsman went on, “it’s a license to kick the *** of *******s.”
“That is a mouthful,” the German smirked.
Both men laughed.
Eventually the German spoke again, but quieter now.
“*******s like them?” and he motioned over to an area behind Mickey.
The Scotsman turned and immediately saw what the German was motioning to: three teenage boys, laughing and shouting at a younger woman. They were three sets of seats away from he and the German man, but were clearly audible due to their booming voices. The obvious leader, a tall kid with a thick goatee, was goading the woman in a loud German voice as the other two giggled in the background. One of the background boys had a scar down his left cheek while the other – who had made a circle with his right thumb and index finger, and was pushing his left index finger through that circle – was wearing a set of aviator glasses, even though it was a distinctly overcast day.
Mickey turned back.
“My God, they look like extras from Mad Max.”
The German nodded.
“What are they saying to her?”
“I’m not sure of the translation, but it has something to do with her breasts, her pussy, what they would push inside…”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
Mickey stood up.
“Wait! What are you going to do?” the other man asked.
He turned to his German companion and grinned.
“I’m going to teach them some ****ing manners.”
Michael ‘Mickey’ McCallum strode down the aisle of the train, past various onlookers, some of which turned their heads to watch, and stopped at the three teenage boys and the pretty blonde woman they were shouting at.
At first they took no notice of him, as they were turned in the opposite direction, boxing in the seated girl.
“Excuse me guys,” Mickey announced with a clearing of his throat.
Goatee – the name Michael had decided to give the leader – turned first, a smug grin across his face. He moved closely to the Scotsman, squaring up to him, trying to intimidate his competitor. Michael had seen a million Glaswegians in his face like this, but admittably, this was the first German that had been stupid enough to challenge him to a fight.
Goatee muttered something in German. The goons – Scar and Glasses – laughed.
“I’m sure that was a funny joke,” Mickey said, “but I don’t speak German, so, I’ll have to ask my translator.”
He turned up the carriage to his German friend and shouted, “What’d he say?”
The man looked sheepishly up at Mickey and the teenagers, deliberating for a second, as if he was not sure whether he should say anything. Eventually, he did.
“I think he said, ‘What do you want, you ****ing *******?”
“Oh,” Mickey said, turning back to the youths, “well that wasn’t very funny. It’s no wonder this woman has had enough of you. Woman like humour in a man, you see. They also like manners, and from some of the words I’ve heard you using, it doesn’t seem that that’s a talent of yours either, now is it?”
“Wie wäre es stanzen wir dein Gesicht in dir alte ficken?”
Mickey shrugged and looked to his friend up the carriage.
“How about we punch your face in you old ****…” he translated from afar.
Mickey shook his head.
“Now that…” he said, “and I’m referring to the ‘punch’ part there…is one of my best talents. So honestly, I’d advise against that.”
And then it was like a duel from the Wild West - two men, facing one another, staring straight into the impassive glare of the opponent, daring one other to draw, to kick-off, to begin the war and fight till the bloody, brutal end.
Goatee threw his right fist at Mickey’s face. It was a good swing. The response was immediate. The Scotsman shifted his weight to his right foot. Dropped his upper body just low enough to dodge the strike. Goatee’s balled fist missed him entirely. An air-shot. Mickey responded. Used the whole right side of his body to get power behind his punch; lifted his right fist as fast as he could and connected with Goatee’s face, his knuckles smashing against his cheek. The loud crack indicated a broken cheek bone. At least. Goatee went down so fast he did not even have time to clutch his wounded face.
Glasses and Scar were next. They attacked together – a bizarre kind of dual rugby-tackle, as both men tried to take Mickey down simultaneously. The Scotsman sidestepped Glasses, kicking him backwards as he went past, taking advantage of the other man's momentum to thrash him into the side of the carriage. Moments later he was caught as Scar crashed into him, his gangly German arms wrapped around Mickey’s waist. It reminded him of his rugby days - opponents ramming him backwards, desperate for the ball. This wasn’t rugby, though. This was a train just outside of Berlin, with three *******s and no ball. There was no rulebook here. That allowed him to be creative. As he was pushed backwards, Mickey crashed his elbow down onto the tackler’s head. It caused what he needed. A sufficient loose in grip that he was able to heave the attacker off him, and throw him into the now up-again Glasses, and the two men fell over together in the corner.
They stayed down.
Mickey dusted himself off, and went back to the fallen, groaning Goatee.
“Alright mate,” he said, hauling him off the floor, “can you saw sorry to this nice lady?”
“Sorry,” he whimpered.
Mickey let him fall back to the floor and looked to the woman, who, in reality, was more shocked than happy.
“Well wasn’t that nice? He apologised," the Scotsman grinned.
The woman got up and smiled warily.
“Thanks, I think," she said, and scuttled out of the carriage.
Mickey smiled.
“I saw that going a different way,” he muttered to himself solemnly.
He rejoined his German friend, whose jaw may well have been on the floor.
Mickey cracked his knuckles, slightly surprised with himself. In truth, he had expected Goatee to stand down initially. It was not as if he went round beating people up in public places all the time.
“That’s impressive,” the German said finally.
Mickey nodded in response.
“Where did…”
Before the sentence was complete, the ticket man had entered the carriage, the woman at his side. She pointed to the teenagers and then to Mickey. The ticket man stormed forwards.
“Wer ist verantwortlich für diese?” he shouted up to Mickey.
The Scotsman did not need a translation to know that the ticket man was angry, and since he did not want to spend a night in a jail cell, he decided to make his exit. He stood up and prepared to rush off in the opposite direction. The German looked to him, a slightly apologetic look on his face.
The Scotsman shrugged.
“I should go. Don’t want to get my license revoked. But it was nice meeting you...”
And he dashed off up the aisle, not looking back.
Mickey McCallum in Berlin
In Mickey McCallum’s experience, the German people were a very punctual race. Almost every German he had ever seen went about their work with the precision of a modern machine. He had seen it across the whole country: from the industry workers of Munich to the businessmen of Frankfurt, stretching all the way to the staff at the Berlin Express Youth Hostel. Even the women ****ed like machines. Oh yes. He had a lot of experience of that.
This made it odd, therefore, when his train came speeding into Berlin Hauptbahnhof station approximately nine-and-a-half minutes late. Mickey did not mind much, however, considering the fact that he was standing next to a tall blonde whose rating he judged lay somewhere between nine-and-a-half to ten. With her eyes concentrated on the brand new IPhone balanced in her smooth hands, Mickey took the opportunity to examine her, and reflect on his final score. So thanks to the rare unpunctuality of the German rail network, he was able to evaluate that a nine-point-five was more suitable. It was a close one, though.
As the train slowed to a stop, he savoured the last of his currywurst, binned the napkin he had been using as a plate, and moved towards one of the automatic doors. He kept his right eye squarely on the blonde, just to see whether she would also make a move. Perhaps he could sit next to her and they could get talking? Left disappointed by her lack of motion, Mickey dismissed whatever silly ideas he had forming in his mind, and boarded.
It was a typical European train, with a mixture of four-seat and two-seat sets on either side of an aisle. Mickey found an empty four-chair area and took a seat, throwing his over-the-shoulder leather bag onto the bag-rack above. He rummaged around in his jean pocket and removed his iPod touch and headphones. He switched it on, picked Bruce Springsteen, and after some deliberation, opted for ‘Atlantic City’. Mickey smiled. Closed his eyes. Drifted into a deep and happy sleep; dreaming dreams about that blonde strutting her stuff to some good old classic Bruce.
When he awoke, the train had gained a steady pace. They had left the modern, metallic Hauptbahnhof and were somewhere now amongst greenery and fields. A man sat opposite him: a short, bald man with glasses that screamed to Mickey – teacher…or paedophile…or possibly both.
“Where are we?” Mickey asked, in English.
“Not far out of Berlin,” the man replied in a German accent.
“Thanks.”
They sat in silence for a bit.
“Your first time in Germany, is it?” the man enquired.
“Yeah,” Mickey replied, rubbing his eyes.
“I hope you are enjoying it here. We love tourists in this country?”
The Scotsman grinned. He decided this man was probably a teacher. Best to give people the benefit of the doubt.
“Are you from England?”
Mickey stopped smiling.
“Scotland. I’m from Scotland.”
And immediately Mickey felt like branding him a paedophile again.
“Oh, I see. Scotland. A beautiful, beautiful country. Edinburgh, are you from?”
“Glasgow.”
“Ah, Glasgow, yes. Good, good.”
Silence again, before the German continued.
“I couldn’t help but notice your tattoo. It is very beautiful.”
Mickey nodded, lifting his right wrist closer to his face, examining it himself. The black paint of the snake slithered around his whole wrist, culminating in a fearsome face, baring its fangs in defense.
“It’s a King Cobra,” he explained, “my whole unit had them.”
“I understand, yes. What does it mean?”
Mickey stared at him for a second.
“Well I’ll tell you,” he said, grinning, “but I’ll have to whisper.”
So both men leant forward, and Mickey held a hand in front of his mouth as he spoke, like children do in classrooms when they think the teacher might hear.
“It’s my special license,” Mickey whispered, “my license to kick ***.”
He sat back in his chair with a big smile on his face. The other man stayed where he was, in the leaning position, his two wide eyes staring at Mickey through the glasses, his bottom lip quivering slightly.
“Not you…” Mickey added to appease the man’s fear, at which point the German sat back and sighed with relief.
“Only *******s,” the Scotsman went on, “it’s a license to kick the *** of *******s.”
“That is a mouthful,” the German smirked.
Both men laughed.
Eventually the German spoke again, but quieter now.
“*******s like them?” and he motioned over to an area behind Mickey.
The Scotsman turned and immediately saw what the German was motioning to: three teenage boys, laughing and shouting at a younger woman. They were three sets of seats away from he and the German man, but were clearly audible due to their booming voices. The obvious leader, a tall kid with a thick goatee, was goading the woman in a loud German voice as the other two giggled in the background. One of the background boys had a scar down his left cheek while the other – who had made a circle with his right thumb and index finger, and was pushing his left index finger through that circle – was wearing a set of aviator glasses, even though it was a distinctly overcast day.
Mickey turned back.
“My God, they look like extras from Mad Max.”
The German nodded.
“What are they saying to her?”
“I’m not sure of the translation, but it has something to do with her breasts, her pussy, what they would push inside…”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
Mickey stood up.
“Wait! What are you going to do?” the other man asked.
He turned to his German companion and grinned.
“I’m going to teach them some ****ing manners.”
Michael ‘Mickey’ McCallum strode down the aisle of the train, past various onlookers, some of which turned their heads to watch, and stopped at the three teenage boys and the pretty blonde woman they were shouting at.
At first they took no notice of him, as they were turned in the opposite direction, boxing in the seated girl.
“Excuse me guys,” Mickey announced with a clearing of his throat.
Goatee – the name Michael had decided to give the leader – turned first, a smug grin across his face. He moved closely to the Scotsman, squaring up to him, trying to intimidate his competitor. Michael had seen a million Glaswegians in his face like this, but admittably, this was the first German that had been stupid enough to challenge him to a fight.
Goatee muttered something in German. The goons – Scar and Glasses – laughed.
“I’m sure that was a funny joke,” Mickey said, “but I don’t speak German, so, I’ll have to ask my translator.”
He turned up the carriage to his German friend and shouted, “What’d he say?”
The man looked sheepishly up at Mickey and the teenagers, deliberating for a second, as if he was not sure whether he should say anything. Eventually, he did.
“I think he said, ‘What do you want, you ****ing *******?”
“Oh,” Mickey said, turning back to the youths, “well that wasn’t very funny. It’s no wonder this woman has had enough of you. Woman like humour in a man, you see. They also like manners, and from some of the words I’ve heard you using, it doesn’t seem that that’s a talent of yours either, now is it?”
“Wie wäre es stanzen wir dein Gesicht in dir alte ficken?”
Mickey shrugged and looked to his friend up the carriage.
“How about we punch your face in you old ****…” he translated from afar.
Mickey shook his head.
“Now that…” he said, “and I’m referring to the ‘punch’ part there…is one of my best talents. So honestly, I’d advise against that.”
And then it was like a duel from the Wild West - two men, facing one another, staring straight into the impassive glare of the opponent, daring one other to draw, to kick-off, to begin the war and fight till the bloody, brutal end.
Goatee threw his right fist at Mickey’s face. It was a good swing. The response was immediate. The Scotsman shifted his weight to his right foot. Dropped his upper body just low enough to dodge the strike. Goatee’s balled fist missed him entirely. An air-shot. Mickey responded. Used the whole right side of his body to get power behind his punch; lifted his right fist as fast as he could and connected with Goatee’s face, his knuckles smashing against his cheek. The loud crack indicated a broken cheek bone. At least. Goatee went down so fast he did not even have time to clutch his wounded face.
Glasses and Scar were next. They attacked together – a bizarre kind of dual rugby-tackle, as both men tried to take Mickey down simultaneously. The Scotsman sidestepped Glasses, kicking him backwards as he went past, taking advantage of the other man's momentum to thrash him into the side of the carriage. Moments later he was caught as Scar crashed into him, his gangly German arms wrapped around Mickey’s waist. It reminded him of his rugby days - opponents ramming him backwards, desperate for the ball. This wasn’t rugby, though. This was a train just outside of Berlin, with three *******s and no ball. There was no rulebook here. That allowed him to be creative. As he was pushed backwards, Mickey crashed his elbow down onto the tackler’s head. It caused what he needed. A sufficient loose in grip that he was able to heave the attacker off him, and throw him into the now up-again Glasses, and the two men fell over together in the corner.
They stayed down.
Mickey dusted himself off, and went back to the fallen, groaning Goatee.
“Alright mate,” he said, hauling him off the floor, “can you saw sorry to this nice lady?”
“Sorry,” he whimpered.
Mickey let him fall back to the floor and looked to the woman, who, in reality, was more shocked than happy.
“Well wasn’t that nice? He apologised," the Scotsman grinned.
The woman got up and smiled warily.
“Thanks, I think," she said, and scuttled out of the carriage.
Mickey smiled.
“I saw that going a different way,” he muttered to himself solemnly.
He rejoined his German friend, whose jaw may well have been on the floor.
Mickey cracked his knuckles, slightly surprised with himself. In truth, he had expected Goatee to stand down initially. It was not as if he went round beating people up in public places all the time.
“That’s impressive,” the German said finally.
Mickey nodded in response.
“Where did…”
Before the sentence was complete, the ticket man had entered the carriage, the woman at his side. She pointed to the teenagers and then to Mickey. The ticket man stormed forwards.
“Wer ist verantwortlich für diese?” he shouted up to Mickey.
The Scotsman did not need a translation to know that the ticket man was angry, and since he did not want to spend a night in a jail cell, he decided to make his exit. He stood up and prepared to rush off in the opposite direction. The German looked to him, a slightly apologetic look on his face.
The Scotsman shrugged.
“I should go. Don’t want to get my license revoked. But it was nice meeting you...”
And he dashed off up the aisle, not looking back.