AS 128 - PC Stevie Broon vs Titus (Special Ref. Constantine)
RP deadline is Wednesday May 23 at 11:59pm PST
Extensions available upon request
WZCW creative member as well as the
PC Stevie Broon
You Can't Spell 'Gouging' Without 'Gig'
Scotty: Just come to the gig, Stevie. You never know, it might do you a world of good, ye know?
Fuck off, ya wee dick, ah thought to maself – trying to burn a hole through Scotty with my beadies fixed right into the middle of his stupid lookin' wee face. Ah could say a lot ae things about Scotty Costello in the couple of weeks ah had got to know him but it couldn't be said that he was anythin' other than determined. Mary fae the front desk had told me all about wee Scotty's band. Ah'd rather listen tae my own mother gettin' a seeing to than listen tae that shite, was her actual words – a glowin' recommendation, ah think you'll agree.
This wasn't the first time that Scotty had tried to rope me into going to one of his gigs in all truth. You could imagine the look ae surprise on mah face, when ah walked into the male locker room and seen a flier wi' the name of his band on it tucked into mah locker. A bigger waste ae paper than the one Tony Mancini's WZCW contract was drafted on. Ah just about had a stroke when ah turned it over to reveal the name of his band was 'Perpetual Stauner' – A Glaswegian term for a boner that just wouldn't go away.
Right now, Scotty was livin' up to that name without an insrument. All ah wanted in this whole world was to enjoy mah Greggs sausage roll in peace. Yet, this wee tadger is further up mah arse than a doctor perfecting his prostate exam technique. Ah was in no mood for a night out, obviously. The broken window was now a thing of the past in the minds of many in ShopSmart uniforms. Boaby had managed to get the insurance money early and had put a lovely new window in it's place. In the hearts and minds of many, the incident had come and gone – just another slamming indictment of Glesga and the criminal justice system. More useless than a fuckin' chocolate teapot, it seemed.
But to me, Stevie Broon, it was still fresher than the sausage roll ah feasted upon. It had been 16 days, 4 hours and 31 minutes exactly since the name Johnny Mayfair was given to me by Lauren Kelly. 16 days of trying, in vain, to find the wee cunt. 16 days of limited sleep and rougher interrogations than would happen at Guantanamo Bay. But nothin' was comin' up. For 16 days, ah had wondered whether it was all worthwhile. Everyone else had moved on... Maybe it was time for Stevie Broon to move on too...
Me: See if ah say that I'll come tae this gig? Will you piss off so that ah can finish this succulent piece ae pastry in peace?
Scotty: Eh... Aye...
Me: Then we've got a deal. Now, do one before ah fold you up like a fuckin' campin' chair!
Scotty was a decent kid just trying to make his way in the world of music, Stevie Broon appreciated that. But it takes a very unstable person to get between a lion and it's prey and that's the predicament Scotty found himself in. He slinked away across the canteen as my eyes followed him like 2 follows 1 – soon out of sight and out of mind.
The Next Friday Night
Click for Spoiler:
It was gig night and rather strangely, ah was oot on the toon. It seemed as though Scotty had been quite successful in arranging a work's night out, as more than few of ShopSmart's finest turned out to support the determined wee trolley boy. Pedro had come dressed to head-to-toe in his Dad's tuxedo and Mary fae the front desk had done herself up to the 9's. Regretfully, ah had left the chair next to me empty when we turned up at the pub – an establishment known as the Mop 'n' Bucket – a chair that she had quickly filled and was now rubbing against ma arm like a cat on heat.
The venue for the gig was nothin' more than a classic pub. Ironically named the Mop 'n' Bucket of course, since it must have been years since one had been fuckin' used in the place. Pedro offered me a drink as we stepped in but ah knew ah had to keep ma wits about me. Safe to say, 3 drinks in for everyone else, the night was not going ma way.
The night was filled with, what could only be called, shite patter. Mary had told everyone about the piles in her arse to great length – putting everyone off ever sittin' on a chair after her. Ryan fae the dairy team then regaled the table with his anecdotes about his gap year in Vietnam – a conversation that only made me wish ah'd been blown up in the battle of Kne Sahn. Truth be told, as ah sat there in complete silence observing the behaviours of mah co-workers, ah felt normal for the first time in weeks. No thoughts about a broken window or a broken career path. As the warm-up act just about finished their set-list, a soothing calm fell like The Berlin Wall, circa 1989.
The band finished their rendition of Piano Man, the jewel in their set-list, it seemed. The lead singer had a talent, that much was evident – perhaps even the reason that a sweeping calm fell over me. A warm applause greeted them as the they thanked the audience. Their time was over and now it was the chance young Scotty had been waiting for. One ae the barmen from the establishment calmly walked on stage and grabbed the microphone from the stand, addressing the score – yes, score – of people who had bothered their arse to make an appearance.
Barman: Ladies and gents, put your hands together once more for your warm up act... Johnny Mayfair and 5 Car Pile Up!
The name sent a shiver doon ma spine and ma brain into overdrive – ah felt sick to mah stomach as the lead singer held up his hand to thank the fans for their warm applause and headed off stage. Surely, it couldn't be the same Johnny Mayfair as mah lead, could it? Could the world be this small and this ironic, ah thought? It didn't matter tae Stevie Broon! Ah was up and oot mah chair quicker than Tony Mancini's Mayhem Championship Reign was over.
Me: IT'S GO TIME!
Ah balled up mah fists and made mah way across the dance floor – where no dancin' had ever taken place that night. Mah colleagues were left in the dark and in mah dust as a paced across the floor and through the stage door in search of answer and street justice. No more vape gangs, no more shop-keepers – this was the real thing, ah could feel it like a knot in mah stomach.
Through the door ah went, lookin' for Johnny – the hairs on mah neck standing to attention like a drill sergeant of danger had just walked in the barracks. Ah could feel the adrenaline fire in mah body like bullets oot a fuckin' gun as ah slowly walked up the corridors. Suddenly, ah could hear voices, the same voices ah had just heard sing me into a trance-like calm. But that was then and this was now.
Johnny: I think that went okay, lads. Poor turn-out but decent all the same.
Ah burst through the door and ran towards Johnny Mayfair, letting out a barbaric scream as ah did. Ah grabbed the wee tadger by the throat and pushed him against the nearby wall – liftin' him right off his feet and into the air. The drummer in the band made a dash for me with a symbol in hand. But a precise kick tae his ankle sent that cunt to his knees quicker than a Glaswegian prostitute that's just been handed a £20 note.
Me: Steady, lads! Steady now...
Mah voice roared around the room like a lion in the savannah – oozing confidence and calmness like never before.
Me: There's no need for anyone else to pick up a beatin' from Stevei Broon tonight! But me and this wee bawbag will be havin' an exchange of words, whether you like it or not!
Johnny: Who are you!? I don't even know who you are!
Johnny's faint words means nothing to me as ah pressed on his throat and looked deep into his eyes like an archaeologist searching for remains. Ah could feel the blood coursing around my body again- a feelin' that ah hadn't felt in ages. This is what it felt like to be makin' a difference on the streets. Oh, how Ah'd missed this feelin'.
Me: Mah name is Stevie Broon, ya wee dobber. Ah'm the man who wants to know what happened tae the ShopSmart window! Ah'm the man who shoves his foot so far up wee jakey's arses, that everyone thinks Adidas have started makin' hats! Most importantly, however, ah'm the man that gonna rip your heed off if ah don't get answers very fuckin' quickly!
Johnny: The window? The ShopSmart window? It wasn't-
Ah gripped even tighter on the wee bastard's throat – maybe even crossing the line between a classy beatin' and something else altogether.
Me: LIES, JOHNNY BOY! THE TRUTH!
Johnny squirmed in mah arms as his wee fuckin' legs kicked across the wall helplessly.
Johnny: AYE! IT WAS ME! JUST LET ME GO!
Ah closed mah eyes as the confession rolled out this wee bastard's gub like water bursting' through a dam. Nearly a month ae mah life wasted on this wee spotty cunt and his transgressions. The hurt, the anguish, the self-doubt – in that moment they all slipped away like a tide leaving the harbour. The euphoria that rushed through mah body was like the good old days – a feeling that reminded me of an almost-forgotten time. Ah dropped Johnny to the floor and fixed the lapels on his jacket. Just one question remained... Why?
Johnny: I was raging with Scotty Costello, that's why I did it. He gave me a hard time about being the headline act tonight and I couldn't stand it. I thought that if I did what I did, they'd shut the shop and he's not have the money to keep the music going, ye know. It was daft but my jealousy got the better of me. I'm sorry!
Me: You might look at that place, Johnny boy, and think that we're all dafties and lowlifes. But beneath the surface, there's more to everyone in that place. People just takin' part in the rat race ae life – tryin' their best to make ends meet and get what enjoyment they can. You put that in danger wi' your actions and ah can't let that stand... You're comin' in!
A Few Hours Later
It had been a long night, that much was abundantly true. But, at the very least, justice had been served. Johnny walked wi' me to the Polis' station and handed himself in for his crime – a crime that no one really seemed to understand the gravity of. As ah tucked maself into bed that night, ah could feel the weight starting to fall from mah shoulders. The tiredness that ah hadn't felt for weeks was slowly creepin' back in.
Ah was right about ShopSmart and in the heat ae the moment, ah didn't realise it. The people that ah called colleagues were all roasters, that much was obvious – not the typical bunch of people that you would consider friends by any means. But they all made me feel welcome in their own way, comfortable in mah new role. Their jobs and their safety was put on the line recently and maybe that's why it had meant so much to me. People just tryin' to make their way in life without harassment or trouble. For now at least, they could do that.
And for now, mah job was done...
Reinstate The Fox!
Newcastle upon Tyne is based in the North East of England, very close to the Scottish borders. Famed for its picturesque location with English countryside and the beach but a short distance away. It's also the birth place of Titus Avison.
The scene shows Newcastle International Airport and Titus is standing waiting for his assistant Rosie to appear from customs. He's approached by a man wearing a WZCW cap.
Fan: Oh it's you! I'm a huge WZCW fan.
Titus: I gathered by your cap.
Fan: Yup I've been to Italy, Paris and now back home for me. You're from here aren't you? I always forget due to your American accent.
Titus: That I am.
Fan: Oh great, I have a favour to ask you.
Titus: Only because I'm waiting for my assistant, you can have an autograph.
Fan: I was going to ask if Mikey Stormrage was on your flight, I'm a huge fan of his.
Titus just shakes his head and walks away from the fan. Rosie appears now with her luggage in hand.
Rosie: That was a nightmare.
Titus: You think that was bad? Wait until we step out of the arrivals lounge and we get mobbed.
Titus and Rosie step out of the arrival lounge through the doors to reveal. No one really. A couple of people dotted around but that's it.
Titus: Oh that is a surprise.
Rosie: If you were facing Mancini I'd say “No prophet is accepted in his own hometown.”
Titus: No one gives a crap about Prophets anymore.
What happened next was a shame as the cameraman took ill and we couldn't get much footage. He's been ill a few months now. Sources tell us the following happened:
Titus and Rosie went to St. James' Park where Rosie commented on PC Stevie Broons accent. She then discovers that Geordie, the local dialect in Newcastle, is also a hard accent to follow.
Titus then takes a trip to the supermarket chain that Stevie Broon works in (ShopSmart), shenanigans ensue.
Titus then heads to his hotel as Rosie finds out she has an Air BnB instead. Titus does a monologue on Flex/Constantine and the people of Newcastle (he's not nice about them of course, remember he's heel.)
The scene ends with Rosie going to the Air BnB. The person knows who she is (broad Geordie accent too) and introduces himself as the first member of the TMZ. It's Titus' Dad. Rosie ends up staying in Titus' childhood bedroom and learns more about her boss.
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