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A Tiger And A Mouse
January 17, 2013
By Stephen Cooper
Another day behind the bar in Highlands Golf Club. Only the rich and the influential come here to play and network. I’ve served them all: Nicklaus, Ballesteros, Palmer, all the legends.
Today there is a match play classic and one of the major banks is sponsoring it with a ‘winner takes all’ purse of a cool one million dollars. Rory McIlroy is up against Tiger Woods, and the place will be packed. Rory is huge favourite to scoop the prize as Tiger has been out of sorts lately, to put it politely.
It’s only just after ten a.m. and we’re already half full, with the media in doing interviews and sneaking the odd hot toddy on the sly with a wink to me. I know how to be discreet. Just as well; there’s a mouse who keeps poking his head out of a little hole under the sink and every time I go to catch him he disappears fast as lightning.
The players are warming up on the driving range and most of the spectators and TV crews clear off out to watch them and fawn over their swings and sensationalise the upcoming match. I am washing glasses when I hear something.
“PSSSST!”
I look around and there he is, the wee mouse looking up at me. I take a step towards him and as I raise my foot he cowers in fear.
“No, wait, wait! I’ll make it worth your while.”
I stop mid-stamp and consider.
“What do you mean?”
Mr Mouse leans against the pipe, all cocky now.
“I can guarantee Tiger will beat Rory today. One hundred percent.”
I laugh out loud.
“No chance, he’s playing worse than me!”
Mr Mouse straightens up.
“Tell you what, we’ll each put an equal amount in, and if we lose I’ll give you your stake back.”
I consider for a moment, and to even my own surprise, I stupidly believe him. Something about the little fellow just looks so confident now.
“OK then, I’m in.”
“Righto,” he says.
Mr Mouse scurries into his hole and emerges pulling a large wad of cash, then climbs and sits atop it, smiling up at me.
“Holy shit! How much is that?” I ask.
“Five grand,” he says proudly.
Five grand! Where am I going to get five grand?
“Stay here and keep an eye on the place, but don’t let anyone see you or health and safety will be down here all over us.”
Mr Mouse pouts in response.
“Alright,” he says, looking offended, “keep your hair on.”
I lift the keys and head into the back room, where the manager’s office is. If this goes wrong I am never working in a golf club again. I crouch down to the safe and, after a series of twists and turns, I open it and reach in to the neatly stacked wads of notes.
Just to be sure, I count out the five thousand on the bar.
“Right, ready.”
“OK, stick it all on Tiger, you’ll get three to one,” says Mr Mouse, hopping off his money mountain.
I am watching the match on TV with my heart pumping in my ears. The bet is on. I have had two large whiskies to steady my nerves already. The bookmaker’s clerk even tried to talk me out of the bet earlier and ended up shaking his head at me, and out of sympathy gave me four to one.
The match ebbs and flows a bit like a boxing match; each player winning and losing erratically. Its all square coming up the eighteenth fairway and Rory hits a peach of a shot about two feet from the hole.
My heart sinks.
Tiger pitches onto the dance floor, but around twelve feet away. He steps up and he’d better hole the putt, otherwise Rory will tap in and lift the prize money and, unless Mr Mouse sticks to his word, I’ll have to explain why we’re five thousand down.
Tiger stands over the ball, focused, in the ‘zone’ he swings his putter. The small white ball rolls just as planned, and I let out a shriek as it drops into the hole, which thankfully is not heard because the crowd are roaring their approval, transfixed by the proceedings.
The noise dies down and you can hear a pin drop. Rory strides over confidently and addresses his ball. It’s a simple putt, he just needs to knock it in and then a play-off will ensue. At least I still have a chance.
If I see that mouse though, I’ll squash the little squirt. I glance down at his hole and there’s not a trace.
Typical.
Rory’s up. He gently eases his club against the ball and it trickles dead centre to the hole, then as it is about to drop, it stops in its tracks. I do a double take as the crowd gasp.
Tiger takes off his cap and walks over to offer his commiserations to Rory, who is still staring at the hole in disbelief. Mr Mouse makes good his escape out of the hole and across the green unnoticed, as the Americans go crazy, whoopin’ and a cheerin’ and waving their flags. He arrives out of breath, bent over double.
“See,” he pants, “told you. I’ll be having a large Bourbon then, please.”
I am shocked.
I never knew mice drank Bourbon.
*
You can find plenty more of Stephen’s work here at strange bOUnce, but if that’s not enough for you pop over to his own site, Reflective darkness, according to Stephen Cooper.
Hurling Match
November 21, 2012
By D. S. Maolalaí
One of the more magical things that I have seen
as I’ve walked this spittle and ashen landscape
was a couple of years ago
when there was a hurling match between
two teams,
I don’t remember which,
although one of them may have been
Cork
or somewhere,
but during one of the clashes
as you see men and sticks collide
in the real momentum of the sport
and you cannot see the ball
but they sure can, ‘cos they certainly swing for it,
there was this one guy
who caught his hurley high up on someone else’s
and it splintered
around where the grip starts
knocked itself v-shaped
with a blade side on the end,
no lift in it,
not even able to catch the air,
and I think if it had been me, I would have dropped it
(not a criticism of myself, you understand, I imagine most people would have done the same)
but this guy refused to give his up
kept swinging
kept whirling
trying to catch the ball on the
split end of his stick
up there
close to his hands.
I was watching on the television
and the camera moved onwards
but you saw his eyes
just for a second
and he didn’t know or care
that the stick was broken
maybe he was a dumb piece of shit
or maybe he was above man
fingernails, ash trees, fire in the knuckle
he kept swinging
to take that ball
with his mouth absurdly open.
I think about that now,
and I think of the people I grew up with
splintering like that hurley
into Galway and Argentina and Valencia
and there’s a girl that I used to know
and she’s gone to Switzerland, too.
People flying all over the damn place
without any sort of concern for me.
I say that guy was probably a dumb shit
but he knew,
in those seconds
he knew what it was to lose what you thought
you needed
and not to care.
Sometimes I get a feeling like that,
but it’s a difficult one to maintain
and of course,
you get a new hurl
when it occurs to you to ask for one.
Like I say, I don’t really remember whose side he was on
or which teams were playing,
though one might have been Cork,
but I think that expression will stay with me a while longer
then again, I can’t really be sure
of that either now,
can I?
*
D. S. Maolalai studies English at Trinity College. He has been trying to be a writer for years, with little success until very recently. He currently lives in Dublin, but plans to leave as soon as possible.
Exercise
November 9, 2012
By D. S. Maolalaí
Well there’s bones and there’s muscle
and a hard white soul that
neither of them connect to.
And you can exercise or you
can go fat
but if you do both
or try one then the other
you end up aching
and not able to move.
Two days ago we made the mistake -
me and my buddy Noony
neither of us looking so good
we decided to lift things
and make ourselves into
better people.
So we pulled weights and ran
and sweated,
twisted our skinny arms
into brittle knotting
while we watched
the strange, de-sexed sight
of women
gripped in tight clothes.
Well, like I say
it’s been two days.
I still can’t fully extend my arms
or walk straight
and I havta go to work soon and move boxes of wine.
I can’t avoid it ‘cos
one of the guys is a prize fighter,
16th or 17th best in Europe
he says
and he moves things with
his face broken so I can move them with
sore arms.
I’m not sure what I’m trying to say
I guess don’t exercise
go fat.
*
D. S. Maolalai studies English at Trinity College. He has been trying to be a writer for years, with little success until very recently. He currently lives in Dublin, but plans to leave as soon as possible.
Demons At The Trough
October 30, 2012
By Stephen Cooper
This is the first in a series of Hallowe’en specials here on strange bOUnce. The brief was simple: all stories must begin with the same opening line, and revolve around a poker game played by demons. Writers were encouraged to then let their imagination decide the rest, imprinting their own unique style on their version of this seasonal short story.
*
They sat around the poker table.
Smoke hung heavy in the air, but it failed to mask the grotesque features of the five demons. They held their cards with gnarled hands, warts and blemishes visible and unashamedly exposed in the light. Two of them held the majority of the chips; the other three were in the last chance saloon. All of them were disfigured with nasty scars, missing teeth, and had stares that would reduce most to quivering wrecks.
This gathering happened once a week, but tonight was special, tonight was the biggest night of the year. Tonight was Hallowe’en.
The game ebbed and flowed, and was now reaching its zenith. All three of the short-stacks had committed their small piles into the middle of the table for this hand, and one of the leading players followed suit to go ‘all in’ himself.
The fattest of them all was last to play. Leering, he shoved his chips forward, then reached into his pocket to produce a small bag.
“I raise you two eyeballs,” he said, with a triumphant gleam of his own.
The others gasped in admiration as the two small orbs rolled into the mountain of chips and wobbled to a standstill. A couple of the demons wiped saliva from their watering mouths as they sat transfixed on their favourite delicacy. Eyeballs were what every demon craved; they searched far and wide for opportunities to gouge them out of victims, both alive and dead.
The short-stacked demons cowered, unable to match the bet, but the aggressor’s direct opponent, tall and thin to the point of being his complete antithesis, seemed willing. He slipped his bony hand into a pocket and felt around for something, all the while staring at the two eyeballs on the table. One of them was looking at him. They were both brown; not his favourites, but still enough to temp him.
His hand emerged to lob two of his own supply onto the green felt. Before they could settle he reached for two more.
“I’ll see your two… and I’ll raise you another two.”
Three of this batch were brown — common as muck — but one was green. Everyone was unable to move or speak, such was the unusual and rare occasion when a green eyeball was sourced. They were by far the most valuable and tastiest.
Now it was the fat demon’s turn to respond, but he had no green eyes left. He’d eaten them all; he found them irresistible. He fumbled in his pockets then held his bag upside down to empty four more eyeballs: three brown, one blue.
‘I haven’t any greens left, but this one’s blue, nearly green.’
He blinked back.
Challenging.
There was a pause as the opponent weighed up the deal. Then: “OK. Let’s see them.”
One by one the hands were laid face up on the table. Ten eyeballs sat eerily watching the drama unfold, impassive and unblinking.
Two of the short-stacks had nothing more than King-high. Another had a pair of eights. They were all gone then when the tall, bullying demon revealed a King high flush on Hearts and reached as if to claim his spoils.
His grin was swiftly wiped from his face though, when the fat demon laid down his winning four nines, immediately snatching up the green eyeball and biting into it. The others could hear squelching as he chewed hungrily, and juice ran down his chin. He savoured the taste of the blood vessels and swallowed everything except the tough lens, which he spat out.
“A perfect evening I think you’ll all agree,” he gloated to his colleagues around the table. It was hard to tell if the others were grinning or grimacing. The victor went on: “Since it is our night, I think it only proper I share my spoils with you.”
He picked up the remaining balls and passed one each to each demon, returning the rest back to his pocket. He kept out the blue one to nibble away at, as the rest of the five demons gorged themselves on their treats, each one of them eating slowly and taking their time to enjoy their delicious morsels.
When they had finished, the chief demon, the tall, thin one who had finished runner-up, attracted their attention. “Tonight we go hunting for some more of these. I want at least ten green eyeballs before tomorrow for the feast. Let’s visit a few morgues and maybe we can hit lucky!’
The others were in rapid agreement, especially the fat demon, the winner of the cards who was the most enthusiastic.
“Yes, I love the green ones.”
He let rip with a large belch and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
*
They descended down through the lower dimension and onto earth, and mingled with the unsuspecting humans, oblivious to the fact that their ‘Hallowe’en disguises’ were in fact their real entities.
Four of the five couldn’t wait around for long, and headed to the local morgue. They donned their cloaks of invisibility and set about opening drawers.
With a quick flick of their spoons, they collected all the green eyes they could find on the cadavers, ignoring the others who had the ordinary brown or grey ones. It was going to be some feast later.
They didn’t worry about the thefts being discovered, as all the bodies were buried or identified with their eyelids closed, and the stupid humans wouldn’t notice. The only downside to these eyeballs was they were a bit tough, due to the effects of death.
The fattest demon was a greedy one. He decided against the dead; he wanted to find himself some fresh samples. Swooping down on the hospital, he visited a ward he knew from before, but had kept a secret from the others. Ten minutes later he’d had taken fresh eyeballs from five different patients, all in comas and unable to cry out, or be noticed by visiting relatives.
He returned back to their own dimension and presented his haul to the others, who were waiting for him, sitting in a circle with bags at their feet upturned, and a heap of eyes looking up at all of them from various angles.
“FANTASTIC!” they exclaimed, spittle flying from their gobs. “Fresh meat.”
“Two each for everyone, but we’ll keep them for our main course, eh?”
They all agreed, and organised themselves into a work group. One trimmed the veins and sinewy attachments off the eyes, the next one washed them in hot water, the next one dipped them in vinegar, the next one pushed a skewer through each one, and the last one added a little salt and pepper.
They were all set.
They left their stations and sat down at the dining table. A large jug was sat before each demon. It was full of a mixture of human blood, excrement and urine, stirred with a discarded collar bone which was left over from the previous month’s collection of bodies they had eaten, served in stew made from the organs and meaty flesh of six unfortunate humans. These individuals had been acquired by the circle for no other reason than it was September and the demons were feeling peckish.
They slurped their putrid concoction and began on their starters, which was toenails and fingernails, salted and roasted in the oven, with sliced skin from the feet of farmers wrapped around them, like a spring roll.
All throughout, the demons grunted and farted and burped, like pigs at the trough, greedily devouring their fare. They didn’t stop to wipe the blood and salty waste from themselves, it dripped onto their rotten clothes, adding to the stench and the disgusting spectacle.
They were enjoying themselves tremendously.
When they had finished, they waited until the empty buckets were fetched. Once everyone was ready, they all threw up their starters into each pail, and with a swift movement, whipped out their spoons and began eating it again. The grunts grew in intensity and the moans of pleasure soared and reverberated throughout the room and off the domed ceiling.
They finished with a flourish, looking expectantly at the skewered eyeballs, all green as well. Before the main course though, as was tradition, each demon had to pick out someone from the lower dimension on earth and take him for the circle. They peered down onto the human plane to find some easy pickings.
The first demon picked a paper boy doing his rounds, and got him attacked by a dog, mysteriously let loose from his very secure chain. He was torn to shreds to the amusement of the wicked demons.
The second picked on a large man operating a saw in a paper mill, and sent him through a large circular rotating serrated blade until he was left in strips. The head was left intact, as he had green eyes, which was pointed out by one of the demonic circle. He would be visited by one of them later for collection.
The third picked a politician, who had lied and stolen billions from his people in some country where the selling of drugs had made him a fortune, but he wouldn’t be enjoying any of that, instead an instant snap off the fingers and he dropped to the floor, stone dead in his parliament, mid-speech.
The fourth picked a beautiful famous singer who enraged his jealous streak. He planted depression and negativity into her subconscious and watched her take her own life, with a sickening feeling of elation and sexual arousal.
The last decided to finish with a climax and randomly chose a flight over the Atlantic, and with a click of his fingers, ignited the aviation fuel and watched with the others as it blazed into a fireball, leaving no trace of man nor plane.
After they had ceased laughing and rubbing themselves, they started their Halloween yearly ritual.
Each demon reached over to their right and began to pleasure the demon next to them. The wails were ear-piercing and their collective orgasm rocked the building. The earth suffered typhoons, hurricanes and earthquakes to devastating effect.
The demons gobbled up the semen from their hands and licked their buckets clean of any stray shots. Then they sat back and waited for the main course.
It duly arrived and there was an eerie silence as tentative bites developed naturally into the moist consumption of the eyeballs, and the demons defecated and urinated as they sat with wanton abandon and with no reaction to the increasing stench that would leave mere mortals with watering eyes.
Puddles had formed at their feet, but they ignored them and continued stuffing themselves with two or three eyeballs at a time, cheeks bulging and faces reddening.
The fat demon had already finished, but he was still hungry. He snatched an eyeball off the plate of the tall demon beside him and quickly gobbled it into his mouth.
The others were outraged. He saw the dark looks and immediately regretted his transgression. “I can’t help it,” he stammered, with a mouthful of goo. “I can’t resist the green ones, I told you!”
The other four jumped on him, holding him down for the aggrieved demon who had lost the eyeball off his plate to scoop out his transgressor’s own eyeballs with his trusty, rusty spoon. Then they all took turns stripping parts of his body for eating.
At the conclusion of the butchery, they swept up the entrails, along with the blood and offal into their buckets, to have for dessert. They lay back in their seats, full and content, and licking their lips with satisfaction.
Each was watching the other, and soon the urge was too much to resist. They degenerated into a mass ball of torn skin, dripping blood and foaming mouths, hungry for more flesh and putrid organs. They had all naturally gone for the eyeballs first, but the frenzied fighting continued thereafter, biting blindly like rabid dogs.
They thrashed out wildly at everything and anything until after they had eaten most of each other’s body parts, they collapsed on the floor. All that was left was a seething quivering mess, twitching and convulsing with the insatiable urge for more blood.
Even if it was only until next year.
*
His contributions here are verging on regular, but you can read more of Stephen’s work at Reflective darkness, according to Stephen Cooper.
The Bastard In The Black
September 26, 2012
By Stephen Cooper
Another day on my bus, I watch them all: commuters in their monotonous existence, school kids playing truant, pensioners whiling away a day in town, and inevitably, the obligatory shoppers struggling on board with a huge haul of gear from their recent spree.
I have been driving buses for fifteen years now, I’ve done this route for the past seven so I recognize lots of regulars. You should see the hack of some of them. Look at this one: hair like a busted sofa, face like Aunt Sally, minging perfume that catches my throat every morning and makes my eyes water. Luckily I know where she gets on and have the window open well beforehand.
By the way, what the fuck is she wearing today? Looks like a pair of curtains badly sown together, should be illegal.
Some of them say hello, others can hardly snap the ticket out your hand quick enough to get past you and grab a seat. Today I feel appreciated, which makes a change from Saturdays. On Saturdays, I am the “bastard in the black”, according to the few hundred lost souls who turn up to watch amateur league football.
Becoming a part-time referee sort of happened by accident. It was a few years back and I got coerced into officiating in a match due to nobody else being able to; most of the supporters were too pissed, though in their defence it was Boxing Day.
I ended up surprising myself by enjoying it. The satisfaction of being in control, communicating with the players and making decisions give me a real buzz. In fact, come to think of it, maybe the control element is why I enjoy driving a bus load of people every day.
Tomorrow I have a local derby to take charge of.
Last time the Star played the Old Boys, there was a mass brawl and I had to abandon the game as the corner flags were broken in the ensuing mêlée (as well as numerous bones from each team). What makes it worse tomorrow is that I have an assessor coming to view my performance.
If I put in a decent shift and nobody gets knocked out, I may get promoted up a level, and away from these bar teams and the violence and threats. Yes, it’s high time I got my chance at taking my shot at the semi-pros and cup finals, then who knows where I might end up?
Anyway, I’m clocking off in around twenty minutes, traffic allowing of course, and will go for a curry and relax tonight and run through my preparations for tomorrow’s big match.
Up early today, enjoyed the curry last night, although my hole feels like its shitting battery acid this morning. Hope it settles down for the match, don’t want to be running around with ring sting, it’ll put me off my performance. I have decided today I will give both teams a stern talking to beforehand in the dressing rooms, and appeal to their sense of fairness.
I run through everything before leaving, check it’s all there, spreading my gear out on the living room floor. My checklist is thorough and I have extra pencils, a spare whistle, and of course, spare red and yellow cards. One time I sent off a player and he grabbed the card from me, then proceeded to eat it right in front of my face, his eyes closed in exaggerated enjoyment, like a connoisseur gorging on something delicious.
I thought that was uncalled for, and said so in my match report to the league secretary. Nothing happened to the player though, turns out he collects knives under his bed in his ma’s house and the secretary didn’t want to upset him.
One other time, I had to make off in the boot of someone’s car, as the losing team wanted to shoot me. They certainly take it seriously these pub teams.
In the car I rehearse to myself my pre-match speech. Most of them know me by now and it shouldn’t be too much of a problem.
After I get changed into my nice uniform, all neatly ironed with seams down the shorts and sleeves, I enter the first changing room to the Old Boys. The first thing I encounter is their number ten doing a line of coke on the sink; I clear my throat and he quickly shuffles into the dressing room. I follow, after checking the showers are working. They’re not.
Tattoos everywhere in here, it seems everyone has one, plus a lot of piercings; they must hurt a lot, those things. A hazy smoke swirls around, reducing visibility, a bit like when a miracle occurs and the showers have steamed the place up after a game.
“Right lads, where’s the manager?”
Faces look up at me from tying laces and velcro-ing shin pads, cigarettes dangling from their lips as they squint through the stinging smoke.
“Over there, ref,” one says with a nonchalant wave of his arm.
I follow his directive and there in the corner is big Davy Burns, notorious criminal and hard nut, sitting resplendent in his track suit, blinged up with rings and bracelets and smoking quite a large spliff, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire Cat.
Davy, the Old Boys manager, owns a lot of businesses. Casinos and bookmakers, to be precise.
“Alright Terry?”
Looks like Jimmy Saville sitting there, the fat prick.
“Not bad, Davy. Got the team sheet?”
He inhales some more, his eyes turning in whilst rummaging in his pockets for the required sheet, but instead he produces a small bag of white powder, a bundle of notes complete with clip, and a hip flask. Eventually, from the other pocket, he hands me the team sheet.
What Davy doesn’t know is I’ve been around every one of his branches, as well as all the other bookmakers in town this morning, with my redundancy money I received yesterday. The bastards gave me a measly seven grand after fifteen years driving their hunks of metal around this shitty town.
To be honest, I volunteered for it; I thought Walter, my Human Resources manager, could be trusted. Not only is he a fellow referee in his spare time, and on the board of the local Football Association, but it was he who told me — with a wink — a month or so ago that I would get a decent lump sum.
“Enough to pay off the mortgage, and a bit more for a wee holiday,” was what he’d said. It seems I was a bit naïve to say the least.
Anyway, I have managed to get my bet on with every penny of my hard earned seven grand: a correct score of two goals each, at odds of fourteen to one. Just as well this is a cup game, otherwise the local bookies wouldn’t be laying any odds at all. I travelled far and wide all morning with a few hundred here and there in each unsuspecting betting shop.
A cursory glance around this dressing room makes me feel as if I have walked onto a prison ward, they all look like criminals. Actually, they are all criminals; well most of them, those few lucky lads without records just haven’t been caught yet.
Time for my speech. I’ll make sure they get the message, no time for a shrinking violet in this company.
“OK, lads, you know the drill here, no fuckin’ about, no slabberin’ back to me, and all my decisions are final. Any brawling, I’ll abandon the match like last time, and you can all go to fuck.”
Silence.
“OK?”
Everyone looks at each other, a mixture of incredulity and bemusement.
“I said, OK?”
Some stifled giggles. Eventually I hear a murmur of consent.
“Right then, have a good game, and may the best team win!”
Big Davey farts a ripper, and the room explodes with loud guffaws. I turn to walk out, and bump straight into Walter, my former HR manager, who is rather uncomfortably going to be my FA assessor today.
“Great speech, Terry, they certainly know who’s in charge today, eh?”
Sarcastic wanker.
I brush by and ignore the Judas bastard, and head into the other dressing room. Most of these lads know me as I drink occasionally in the Star, and I know most of their families.
“Alright lads?” I breeze into the room confidently.
“Ah fuck, don’t tell me you’re doing ref?”
I clock the wee runt, sitting playing with his balls with his hand down his shorts, fiddling away, oblivious to his actions.
“Didn’t know I turned you on so much, Snake.”
Cue laughter, and he blushes and quickly removes his hand from his shorts, scowling. I give them the spiel and check their earrings are removed, or taped up, the same for rings, and then it’s time for my speech again.
I check behind me and Walter is there, with his wee notebook and pencil ready to take more notes on my pre-match performance. Bollocks, I’ll have to really come over all stern here to impress him, and get marks like a schoolboy trying to impress his teacher. Pathetic.
“Right lads, it’s the same as usual, no fuckin’ about, no slabberin’ back, and all my decisions are final. We all want to enjoy ourselves today, so if you want to finish the match, unlike last time, you wind the necks in and behave, otherwise, ah, otherwise…”
“You’ll spank us?”
It’s Snake again, the smartarse. I point the finger at him silently. Just wait until he gets on the pitch, he’s well fucked.
With laughter ringing in my reddening ears I stride out to the pitch to check the nets and flags. Good turnout here, must be a good four hundred, each touchline three or four deep, local press and local wine team in attendance, plus of course the town’s dignitaries, posing for a photo beside me before kick-off.
The Old Boys win the toss and change ends. The Star are to kick off.
“Right lads let’s get fuckin’ stuck in!” shouts Snake, clapping his hands and looking around aggressively on the edge of the centre circle.
I blow my whistle. “Number eight, come here.”
He swaggers over, all attitude, chewing gum.
“I’ll be watching you today.” I point my finger at his chest and continue. ‘If I hear any more foul language from you, you’re in the fuckin’ book.”
He is about to speak, but thinks better of it as I raise my eyebrows in warning.
Eventually, the match kicks off and away we go, and after the first hectic five minutes, I have booked one, and given a final warning to another as a marker early doors. Stamp your authority, that’s always key in the first ten minutes or so.
We get to five minutes till half time, and nobody has came close to throwing a punch yet, to my relief.
A corner to the Star, and poor defending results in a tap-in on the line for the Star centre forward.
Half time: one nil.
All throughout this first half, I have been keeping a peripheral eye on Walter to see his reaction when I stop play or interject verbally as I admonish and impose my rule on this lot. The supporters haven’t been too bad yet, I got a couple of groans and a couple of “come on Ref”s, but nothing harsher than that.
We arrive out for the second half, both teams unchanged. The crowd are getting restless, no doubt wanting to see another goal, or at the very least, a fight. They’re all mugs if you ask me. I get paid for doing this, they have to pay to watch this shit.
Ten minutes into the half I can see Snake’s mates looking at me and laughing to each other, they’re up to something for sure. And then it starts.
“Who’s the bastard in the black? Who’s – the – bastard – in – the – blaaacccckkk?”
I ignore them, chasing the play as the Old Boys build up a decent move. Their striker holds up the ball well, shields it and lays it off to the attacking midfielder who unleashes a fantastic low drive into the bottom right corner. Their supporters go crazy, wine bottles thrown up into the air, and bedlam on the touch line.
One each.
The game is now delicately poised, the next goal will be crucial. Sure enough, the Star come back strongly and I award a genuinely deserved indirect free kick on the edge of the box. I push back the wall, and amidst the pushing and shoving, I warn the defending Old Boys about pulling shirts.
Conveniently enough, as the free kick is struck, ironically miles over the crossbar, one of the Old Boys is observed pulling a Star shirt.
“Penalty!”
Eventually, after booking the defender and his team captain for a tirade of abuse, the penalty is dispatched to the roof of the net, and I nearly clap in relief. Thankfully I resist.
After this the Star can scent victory, but I’m fucked if I will let them score again. I run to keep up with the latest move as they break down the right wing, the spectators urging them on, the noise level rises, expectations heighten, and as the ball is played through to none other than wee Snake, out comes the goalkeeper, lunging at him above the waist with both feet, sending him into mid air and unceremoniously dumping him, winded, on his back.
“PENALTY REF!”
“FUCK’S SAKE, REF!”
The insults dissipate into the sudden cacophony of arguments between each team, a bit of handbags, pushing and shoving, but I move swiftly in between them and restore order. Eventually I am ready.
“Well, what is, Ref?”
I’m surrounded by five or six players, all demanding to know my decision. Even if I said to each of them that they will receive several hundred pounds each and free drink later, I know they are going to start screaming at me, venting their frustration and anger, no matter what. I look at their faces, contorted in rage and pent up aggression, and I know exactly what course of action is necessary.
I take out my book, and I call Snake to me.
Howls of derision from his team, the crowd are giving me dog’s abuse, which makes me even more determined.
“What the fuck?” starts Snake, hands in the air, in an attempt to influence me, or play to the crowd. “I was clean through, it must be a penalty and that wanker has to go,” he wails, gesticulating at the opposing goalkeeper.
“‘Fraid not, lad, you’re in the book for diving, and…”
“WHAT? HOW THE FUCK CAN THAT BE A DIVE?” he interrupts, rather rudely.
He’s fallen into my nicely laid trap, the little gobshite. I am going to enjoy this.
“Ah, and now you have a second yellow for swearing, so you can take your attitude and go and get an early shower, and get the fuck off my pitch.”
Boos ring out and his team mates restrain him and lead him off the pitch as I stand defiant, with the red card held aloft like a medieval shield to protect me from the increasing abuse I am receiving from the watching hundreds.
Play restarts with a free kick to the Old Boys, and with a large clearance up the field, the ball is arriving in the Star’s penalty area, accompanied by a mass of players all clumped together like primary school kids, chasing that little piece of leather as if their lives depended on it. I have seen packs of hounds chasing a fox with less ferocity than this.
I watch as, chaotically, the ball ricochets off a player from the Star for a corner to the Old Boys, who are chasing that all important equaliser. Three minutes left, three minutes to save my bet. How can I do it in front of Walter, the assessor, without making it too bloody obvious?
The ball comes whipping over from the Old Boys winger, clearing them all, and I find myself watching in slow motion, gazing at the perfectly weighted cross, perfect for a header.
My header.
I rise like a salmon and plant the ball firmly in the back of the net, then fall backwards holding my head, trying my best not to laugh.
Two each.
To their credit, the Old Boys defend me and as I pretend to recover, holding my head in feigned bemusement. Watching the assessor through my fingers I gingerly make my way up to the centre spot.
The Star kick off with an air of despondency, and I blow my whistle for full time and a replay. I walk towards Walter, the assessor, and his face is like thunder.
“I’ll be sending a report about this, Terry, a bloody DISGRACE!” he roars, veins bulging in his neck, spittle forming on his lips.
“Actually, Walter, if you knew anything about the game, you would know that a deflection off the referee counts as a goal, as we are counted as part of the field of play. Or maybe you don’t understand the rules that you are meant to be assessing?”
“You’ll never referee in this league again!” he thunders.
Actually, come to think of it, I neither need nor want to. Not after today’s result.
“Well, since you seem so sure, you can take my whistle and my book.” I offer both to him, and I add, as I turn away nonchalantly, “Stick them up your fat hole, along with your league and your assessment. I quit.”
I imagine Walter has never been spoken to like this, and with his face becoming ever redder, he just about manages to splutter, stammering with fury, “Collect your belongings and leave.”
I walk off to do exactly that; I have just a bit of collecting to do this early evening.
*
Stephen Cooper provides writing which is different from the rest, something dark, reflective, and sometimes amusing, to leave the reader with a unique memory to savour. Read more of his work at Reflective darkness, according to Stephen Cooper.
Big Shot
September 16, 2012
By Stephen Cooper
After the match, he’s prancing around the dance floor like John fuckin’ Travolta, untouchable, or so he thinks, on top of the world.
Smug bastard.
A couple of moves later and he’s on the coke in the toilets with the latest young star-stricken blonde, then fucks her whilst she’s semi conscious.
He’s even taken photos on his phone.
Stupid.
Worse still, he’s sent the photos to his agent.
#
I am admiring the view from this nice railway bridge.
Always liked railways, I have to admit.
He doesn’t like it up here, no sense of occasion these footballers nowadays, no culture you see.
I have already injected him with sodium thiopental and he can’t move, but I have rammed three grams of pure, uncut coke down his throat.
His eyes are like saucers and he has already pissed himself.
If his adoring fans could see him now, they would see a different man to the one they cheer on in their colours.
He looks a bit emotional tonight.
It is rare indeed that my job gives me an opportunity to really enjoy myself, but as the soft breeze gently lifts the ash from my cigarette, I can’t help but reflect that this is an opportunity to savour.
It’s the equivalent of an open goal for someone like me, but unlike the waste of space beside me, there is no chance of me missing, no defenders to intervene, and no keeper to deny the inevitable.
He looked invincible earlier today; he sickened us when he scored the winner and taunted us by kissing the badge on his shirt, running through a shower of spit and furious abuse from our crew.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, he plays for our most hated rivals, and it looks like we might get relegated now, depending on next week’s result.
Tonight’s result will be dedicated to all of our long-suffering, faithful support.
#
He got off once before on a rape charge, a few hundred grand soon took care of that, his advisors had too much to lose.
However, he won’t be getting off this time.
His agent’s niece was recognizable at first glance.
I’m following precise instructions tonight.
He won’t play football again, and he won’t have much of a sex life either.
I take a hammer to his knees, reduce them to a bloodied pulp, and throw him unceremoniously over the bridge with the hope he breaks his back and ends up confined to a wheelchair.
I watch the freefall and as he lies motionless, I reckon his disco dancing days are probably over too.
John Travolta can sleep easy.
*
This is Stephen Cooper’s second piece for strange bOUnce, his first being Dark Horses. Read more of his work at Reflective darkness, according to Stephen Cooper.
Clean Getaway
September 9, 2012
By Steve Dodd
Anyone who’s been on a school trip will tell you that you can’t predict where the trouble will come from. When it’s a girls’ football team, you can multiply this by ten. The kids who are hell on wheels in the classroom suddenly blossom into helpful, responsible little adults who keep telling you how everything is just awesome, while the quiet, studious, butter-wouldn’t-melt types morph into spoiled, irresponsible little monsters who don’t want to be tied to the same itinerary as everyone else and don’t see why they should.
I was trip leader for the Under 15s team’s visit to New York; the English Schools Football Association had organised a mini tour for us after we won the national championship. Girls’ football, or soccer as they call it over there, is a big deal. Well organised and popular. It was hoped the publicity would encourage more of our lot to get involved. Problem was they didn’t know our girls. Inner cities often breed talented footballers, but they have reputations for other things too. Of course it was such a wonderful opportunity for them and as their PE teacher and coach I had no choice but to sign up. I have to admit, at Heathrow, seeing all the kids lined up wearing new tracksuits with their nicknames stencilled in white on the back, it did make me feel proud, just for a second. I was wearing mine too. In an uninspired moment it had seemed a good idea to have just the word ‘Miss’ emblazoned on it.
Walking back from our evening excursion to the Empire State, already giddy with jet lag and conscious of managing a crocodile of over-excited young adults across Manhattan’s busy streets, we passed vendors selling giant pretzels and hot dogs. Some people will tell you street food is an essential part of the New York experience, but our head is a big Jamie Oliver fan and encouraging the consumption of such junk is just an anathema to her. So I ignored the pleas for a stop and pressed on for the sanctity of the hotel.
When we were crossing Broadway to reach our hotel, two stragglers turned and ran back across the road as the rest of us had reached the other side and the ‘Dont Walk’ light came back on. I could just see their heads beyond a never-ending stream of yellow cabs.
By the time I got back across Broadway, they had disappeared. The street vendor was less than helpful. Accused me in a thick middle eastern accent of “cutting in line,” whatever that means. Then some busker drumming on plastic buckets started beating a rhythm and shouting “no cuts!” over and over. I thought my head would explode. The pavements were teeming with people and there was a continuous blaring from passing motorists. When a large black woman barged me aside as if I were made of cardboard, I dashed for the safety of the corner drug store. Perhaps the girls would be inside, shopping for candy. No luck. I swallowed my panic and returned outside. That’s when two hooded youths pointed and glared at me. I’d seen them standing in front of the same ATM ever since we first passed this way. Probably dealers. Now they were mouthing obscenities at me, the taller one making shooting gestures with his hands. I felt so mixed up with anger at the girls for bunking off and fear that it was all going to end horribly, that I didn’t know what else to do. I limped back to the hotel, soaked in cold sweat.
Imagine my relief when my colleague told me that I must have just missed them because they had returned. One of them had already rejoined the group and was trying to avoid my eyes by looking at her shoes, but the other one was Emily, the team captain, someone I’d felt I could trust to help keep order on the trip. Apparently, when she saw the others gathered in the lobby, she had run straight into the cloakroom. Her friend tried to say that she’d put too much hot sauce on their snacks, but I wasn’t going to listen to that old flannel. I was overcome with fury at Emily’s irresponsible behaviour.
When I broke into the bathroom I smelled the rancid stench of vomit. She was bent over the sink, her trackie top in her hands, running water over its soiled front. On the floor lay her open handbag, its contents strewn across the tiles. But it was what was on the back of the sink, sitting between the taps, that made my heart stop. A plastic ziplock bag of white powder.
“Emily, step away from the sink.”
“But Miss…”
“Now, Emily.”
She stepped backwards, still grasping the sodden team jacket.
“Miss, I’m sorry Miss. It must have been the hotdog Miss.”
I picked up the ziplock bag and stared at the unexploded bomb inside.
“Where did you get this? Oh my god, Emily. Have you used any of this evil stuff?”
“No Miss, I was just about to when you burst in…”
“Are you sure, because this is really important.”
“Course Miss, my mum told me to soak the stain first then…”
“What are you talking about, child?”
“Persil, Miss, for washin’ stuff. I didn’t want to ruin me tracksuit.”
*
This is Steve Dodd’s second piece for us — his first was Heavy Manners. Let him know what you think of his work on twitter @StevenMDodd.
