Author(s): 'The Driver'
Copyright holder(s): Name withheld
This document contains strong or offensive language
An eerie spray of drizzle darkened the streets as I made my way down to the relief point to pick up this evening's bus. On arrival, I noticed a whole masquerade of black-clad goths cavorting near the bus stop. Strange how the gloopiest gloom summons the undead from their crypt.
The palest pair of zombific revelers, little Lurch and tubby Morticia, were engaged in expressing their mutual affections by pummeling each other with slaps, drop kicks and full force punches. No one ever said the path to love was painless but this couple merely added to their bruises by getting their hair snagged in each other's piercing's. Ouch! Well, what did they expect? Each could have hosted an entire series of Scrap Heap Challenge with the amount of garbage they carried about in their face.
However, as my chariot chundered in to view, Morticia, who sought to travel on this bus, realized her opportunity for violent affection with Lurch was coming to an end. So she set about him with renewed vigour - a real monster mash; BIFF! - she landed a goth-punch to the side of his head, nearly ripping the ring-pulls and ball-bearings from his brow. Lurch rounded on her smartly with a franken-boot to the ass and a munster-punch to the neck. There was a delightful 'clack' as Morticia accidentally bit into her own tongue stud. Ahhh, parting is such sweet sorrow.
The bus pulled in and Driver Lip Quiff stepped out. "Foot to the floor and don't spare the horses!" he said with his customary wriggle of lip and quiver of quiff. But before I could even take to the saddle and giddy up, tubby 'Tish who was now in a strop and holding her jaw, marched right past me, plopped some change into the slot and stormed up the bus.
"Ma fuckin' toof!" wailed the grumpy goth at Lurch through the glass window. An impassive Lurch just stood there with his pale porcelain face expressionless as toilet enamel. He was no doubt going to be on the receiving end of her sulky texts, and no one sulks quite like a goth.
I set off, but only got half way along Alderman Road when I heard a disturbance at the back of the bus. A man wearing a grubby baseball cap was on his feet and wrestling a white polythene bag away from a bespectacled lad who was seated.
"That's ma fuckin' bag!" said Mr Baseball Cap.
"Noe it's noe! It's fuckin' mine! Check inside it!" added Speccy.
"I don't need tae check inside it! It's ma fuckin' bag! I know it is, right?" bellowed Mr Baseball Cap. "I'm goannie take ma fuckin' belt tae yoo, ya mad cunt!"
"You're the mad cunt!" shouted Speccy.
With this, a teenage girl who was traveling with an even younger girl erupted in a display of screaming teeth, "Want tae mind yer fuckin' language?! I'm sitting here wi' ma fuckin' wee sister!"
She wasn't being hypocritical because swearing in front of family doesn't count. "And no one but Daddy is allowed to thrash anyone with a belt!" the wee sister should have said in agreement; because bruises from family don't count even more.
A couple of minutes later, at the shopping centre of that wretched bomb crater, 'Drumchapel', Mr Baseball Cap stuck his face right up to Speccy and mumbled something that I couldn't quite hear. But there was no mistaking his gritted teeth and menacing tone. His expression was twisted and grimacing - the kind of despairing scowl that can only be perfected using the pain that comes with smack induced constipation. Yes, the more resourceful junkies of Drumchapel use the side effects of heroin addiction to hone their best mugging face.
I pulled the bus into the bus stop and unloaded most passengers, including the teenager, her wee sister, tubby 'Tish and Mr Baseball Cap - who was now one white polythene bag richer. His junkie shuffle had a definite swagger to it. This guy was a pro.
Speccy, on the other hand, looked like he had just crapped himself and was squirming in his seat, talking quickly and nervously with his frizzy haired friend at the back of the bus. A few stops later on Kinfauns Avenue, Speccy and Mr Frizz came down the bus to get off.
"That freak took ma mate's shoes, Driver!" said Mr Frizz pointing to Speccy.
"Shut it! Noe he never!" returned Speccy who was pushing past Mr Frizz to get off the bus.
"Did that guy in the baseball cap steal your shoes?" I called after Speccy.
"Noe! Never mind aboot it!" shouted Speccy.
"He fuckin' did! He stole his shoes! They were in that white poly bag!" said Mr Frizz.
"Noe he fuckin' never! Just fuck up! Right?" And with that, Speccy was gone. Mr Frizz shook his head and followed him out into the night.
Mr Baseball Cap must have gone several weeks without a bowel movement to conjure up the kind of tortuous mugging face that elicited such fear in his victim. But if Speccy had indeed been raped of his shoes then there's nothing much I could do about it if he did not want to pursue the matter. There were no cameras on the bus and the vehicle was now empty so no chance of getting any witnesses. Just another unreported bus crime that no one will ever know about. Poor Speccy.
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Cite this Document
Thievery. 2021. In The Scottish Corpus of Texts & Speech. Glasgow: University of Glasgow. Retrieved January 2021, from http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/document/?documentid=1652.
"Thievery." The Scottish Corpus of Texts & Speech. Glasgow: University of Glasgow, 2021. Web. January 2021. http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/document/?documentid=1652.
The Scottish Corpus of Texts & Speech, s.v., "Thievery," accessed January 2021, http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/document/?documentid=1652.
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The Scottish Corpus of Texts & Speech. 2021. Glasgow: University of Glasgow. http://www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk.