|Posted by ryanbracha on February 21, 2015 at 10:20 AM|
The following is the first draft of the first chapter of the forthcoming novel-of-stories, Twelve Nights at Table Six. To give you a feel for the seedy atmosphere of the high class Little King's restaurant.
I breeze past Rupert at the front of the restaurant at a quarter to seven. He doesn’t acknowledge me, and neither do I him. Mr Maître D. The cunt thinks he owns the place but the truth of it is that he’s fucking the owner. Oh yeah. They think we don’t know but you can see it in their eyes when they spot one another across the restaurant. Julian will flash just a sparkle of sleaze towards the front of house postman who makes special deliveries every fucking night into Julian’s tight little post box. Rupert’s mouth will curl up a fraction, a filthy sneer of satisfaction, before he blinks away the slime so that he can greet and seat another of the restaurant’s clientele. Then Julian will glide on out of the place, upstairs to his luxury, open plan flat. The minimalist space he calls home. To wait for his dominant and arrogant fuckwit of a lover to come show him who the real boss is. Ella told me that Julian never gives head though. Just prefers a good old jack-hammering in the poop chute. Rupert acts like he’s got ten inches of dangling death, but with that gut he’s cultivating there he’d be lucky if he could coax three out from under that flab. Yeah, they think we don’t know. We know. All of us. Fuck, even Danny and David know, and they’re borderline retarded.
Danny and David. The hunchbacked twins. They’re Julian’s nephews. They rhythmically lope around the place, pulling grease-stained plates and cutlery away from the fronts of the gluttonous wankers who choose to make Little King’s their eatery of choice for the evening. The only way you can tell the difference between the spazzy fuckers is that Danny is trying to grow a moustache. Trying, being the operative word here. It’s a fine fuzz that you can really only see in the pale blue glow of the tasteless water feature that trickles pathetically down the back of the bar. Otherwise, they’re identical. The way they canter toward you, with the hunch peering over the backs of their heads, it’s like a Mexican wave. That kind of mesmerising perpetual rolling motion. When they aren’t limping around collecting crockery they’ll sit opposite one another at the end of Ella’s bar frantically masturbating the knives with a polishing towel, in that kind of symmetry that you’ll only ever get from twins. You’d feel sorry for them if only they weren’t so fucking stupid.
Ella. Sweet, sexy Ella. The true definition of unattainable. Not that you’d think that with the way she talks to you. That slow lick of the full lips. The wink. You’d swear that she was giving you the come on, but it’s all for show. To part the tourists that frequent this part of town of their freshly bureau de change’d cash. They go nuts for her too. Queuing up to flirt with the owner of the long brown hair that cascades down her back, the buttons on her white blouse struggling to keep her massive tits from breaking free. The flutter of the tiny fake eyelashes around the sparkling brown eyes. It’s all for show. I’ll never get into her pants, nor will the plethora of potential suitors, and neither will you. Her girlfriend is more of a man than I could ever hope to be. She’d rip off your hand if you ever thought to help yourself to a portion of Ella’s goodies.
The restaurant is Little King’s. It’s the kind of place that bellows from the roof tops that you can’t afford to eat there. You basically need a credit check to get your call answered by Rupert. What’s that? You plug yourself in at the cigarette kiosk at your local supermarket? No, we aren’t for you. Try somewhere else. You don’t work, but you volunteer at the homeless shelter, feeding the poor wretches that life threw a shit hand? No, we don’t accept karmic satisfaction. We take cash, card, and direct fucking debit. Get out of our sight. Yeah, that’s the kind of place it is. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes the shit manages to breach Rupert’s usually meticulous defences, and those people find out very quickly that they’re not somewhere they belong. I’ll maybe tell you about one of those types later. We’ve only just met, cool your jets there captain. Do you try to get knuckle deep into the object of your desire on the first date? I bet you do. You strike me as that sort. You’ll fit right in here.
I creep through to the back of the restaurant and almost slam face first into Freddy, one of the chefs.
“Oi, watch out fuckfingers!” he says. Freddy likes to be imaginative with his cursing. He’s not bad, but he can get a bit much if you have to spend any length of time with him. Once, I got stuck talking to him at a party I was at. It wasn’t a work thing or anything. He just knows some people that I know. Anyway. He bored the shit out of me. It’s like he doesn’t know how to make conversation, so he just hammers you with shitty gag after shitty gag. The cunt takes nothing seriously.
“Alright Fred?” I mutter, my hands held in a surrendering gesture as I sidle past him in the narrow corridor.
“Yeah, you?” he says.
“Yeah, not bad.”
I leave it at that and climb the stairs to the staff room two at a time. There’s some heated muttering going on inside there. I consider hanging back and letting whoever it is do their thing, but I only have ten minutes until the start of my shift, so I swing the door open hard. I wish I’d not. In the staff room there’s this pungent wall of stink that hits the back of my throat hard. The source of such stink is obviously Samantha’s fanny, which is filled from wall to wall with Dwayne’s cock. Dwayne glances at me over his shoulder as he thrusts into the chubby waitress.
“Hiya mate,” he grins, “won’t be too much longer.”
Samantha winks at me as I lean past her to grab the black tie from my locker, which is situated directly next to Samantha’s sweating face, before jamming her fat arse further back onto Dwayne’s cock and calls him a cunt.
Dwayne likes to think he’s master swordsman. A lothario. He’s not. I mean, he’s not bad looking, but he’s not the legend that he thinks he is. When he was off his tits on coke at work a few months back, he was yammering on, and told me his secret was to hunt down the girls who’d be grateful of it. He plays the field on social networking sites, starts a little flirt, likes a few pictures, tells them they’re beautiful and what have you. A week later he’s balls deep (his words, not mine) and deleting their presence from his list of friends. And to think that some people think chivalry is dead. He’s younger than I am by about ten years, but he looks twenty years younger. He often flits in and out of some sort of clichéd gritty urban speak that you see in the films, even though his mum is quite a well-regarded head teacher, and they shop at Waitrose. He’s alright, I actually don’t mind Dwayne. He amuses me.
Samantha is a needy girl. I wouldn’t tell Dwayne at this point in time, because it might throw him off his rhythm, but I’ve also sampled the goodies that he’s currently enjoying. Afterwards she tried to buy me a telly. I refused the kind offer. She buys me a telly and then what? She’ll be after staying over the next time we get a little carnal? No, just the once was enough for me. It took an age to clean the stink off my sheets. Seriously, it’s not pleasant.
“You’ve only got five more minutes,” I tell the pair of them as Dwayne fires his muck up inside Samantha with a sleazy groan of joy that drips from his nostrils like the sweat that’s dripping down her doughy white back.
“No danger, my man, no danger at all. I could probably go again. Unless?”
He’s pointing at Samantha with a look that questions whether it would be impolite not to offer me a turn. I shake my head.
“No, no you’re alright, thanks though.”
He shrugs, and pulls himself out of her with a disgusting slap, before pulling up his trousers and buttoning himself up. Samantha yanks down her skirt, and without any kind of cleaning, she tugs up her big knickers and straightens her clothing. She goes to kiss Dwayne but he’s already turning to me and the look of hurt in her face might break another man’s heart. For me, however, it’s one I’ve seen before. It rarely hits home. Maybe I’m just as big a cunt as Dwayne here. Maybe.
“Got some really nice coke, pal, you want a little tickle?” Dwayne asks, pulling quite a large bag of powder from his pocket and holding it my way. I shouldn’t, but since I’m on the first of twelve shifts on the spin, I feel inclined to take him up on the offer. Coke, however, makes me really horny, and I fear I might be tempted by the stinking delights that Samantha has to offer later on. Fuck it. I take the bag and tap a few spots out onto the back of a laminated menu, before scooping it up into a nice fat line, and I send the lovely crystals up into my nose and they crackle into my throat. I look to Dwayne as I make to set myself another one up.
“Do you mind?” I ask, and he’s shaking his head and waving his hand dismissively.
“Nah, man. Got myself loads at home, fill your boots. What’s mine is yours.”
I don’t need to be told twice, and another generous ridge is inhaled before he’s even finished talking.
“Can I?” Samantha asks, and is rewarded with an impatient sigh from Dwayne as he kisses his teeth, and shakes his head, unimpressed. He mutters something about being cheap, but his face breaks into a grin and he gives her the go ahead. By seven o’clock we’re all fizzing, and our shift can begin.
There are twenty four regular tables at Little King’s. These twenty four are divvied up between four of us. There’s me, Dwayne, Samantha, and then there’s a weird French bloke called Jacques, that nobody really talks to. He ghosts in, does his thing, then he’s away at bang on midnight. No time for after work drinks in the bar while we compare tips or anything. We call him Cinderella. I heard he lives in a basement flat and all of the money he earns goes onto paying for an estranged Thai wife who ran away with a black man. Seriously. He works his arse off to pay for her to come and live over here, he marries her, then she runs away with a black man. He’s still paying for their kids to go through school. Not even his own kids. The kids of the wife and the black fella. He doesn’t talk much to us, but the customers love the accent. They think they’re getting some French cuisine just because the froggy cunt is serving them.
Anyway. These twenty four tables. We have six each. On those six we might see three sittings in five hours, people like to know they’ve been to Little King’s, they like to stay and they like to drink. Who are we to kick them out? They’re paying silly money. Anyway, each of those three sittings will throw an average of about two hundred into Julian’s pocket, and, if you work at the standard ten per cent, twenty into mine. All those sittings over six tables should give me a nice little earner, right? Not really, because of table fucking six. I always get lumbered with table six, and nobody ever tips. They seriously never tip. It doesn’t matter whether it’s royalty, or some local footballer schmoozing the next girl he’s likely to rape. They never tip. I hate table six.
“Alright, Ella?” I ask, barely interested, but we’re all going to be together for a very long time, it pays to be civil.
“You been doing coke?” she asks with a raise of the chin. I nod with a cool smile. She raises her chin again as her eyes go narrow.
“Dwayne?” she asks.
I nod again.
“Mind the bar,” she commands, and I do as I am bidden as I watch her criminally great arse wiggle across to Dwayne, punching him hard on the arm. She’s looking animated, but he passes her exactly what everybody can see it is, and she disappears into the back. Dwayne looks over at me with an annoyed grimace as he rubs at his sore arm. I shrug. You don’t turn Ella down for anything, you can’t. Those eyes. That punch. Killer combination, you might say. Two minutes later she returns, completely bypassing Dwayne with a cheeky smile that immediately puts all things right again, including the fact that she’s either snorted the lot or is keeping hold of it for later. She edges past me, her backside just an inch from my cock, so slowly. She turns as looks to smile at me as my breathing stops of its own accord.
“Thanks,” she whispers, and gets past me onto the bar, turning to scowl at me, “now fuck off, Rupert’s dropped Bertha and Don on Table Six,” she barks, “unlucky.”