The Navy Diary - 1st Edit

Chapter one

Cigarette 15 or maybe 17? Regardless of the count my lungs were repelling the smoke. My body began its simple anti tobacco mechanism; the cough. Once the cough started, fuck knows when it would end. The cough cared not for time or location, its sole focus was to create space in my lungs. I never thanked the cough for the relief it would eventually deliver. I simply went red attempting to suck in air; no gasp for air, the tiniest morsel of oxygen. I will never smoke again if I get through this. Deep intakes producing harrowing wheezing sounds happened time and time again as I wished I was free from this curse.

Never again I thought, fuck this habit. I did not believe this statement of course. And to be honest I was simply waiting for the agonizing pain that was crushing my chest and tightening my throat to pass. A celebratory hocking of black tar was the signal it had ended. My freedom to smoke returned.

“Ooh you fucker” I said aloud in a comedy voice to no one, but for everyone who witnessed the coughing. My right hand now instinctively in the pocket the Marlborough lights were located; regardless of my previous promises. Swoop, click, click, “Fucking lighter” I groaned. Wondering not for the first time, why I had not paid the extra for a clipper. Jackpot. Oh yes, here we go. My smoke was alight and burning with the intensity and relentlessness of a bush fire, administering a long deep pull, smoke began gushing into the small pin hole left in my throat beginning the journey to my charred lungs. This along with the fact my smokes where being illegally landed from the coxswain office onboard HMS Sceptic; tax and duty free, made me smile.

“Big man, give us a pull on that” roared Pat “Bring em” Young.
The fucker! Bring em had been squeezing smokes out my packet since the first pint. “Fuck you” I replied with a simple arrogance. “Fuck you six” Bring em spat back. “Buy some, you jock cunt.” I yelled with sincere venom, slowing the word cunt, to emphasize my annoyance. Now Bring em the smoke grabbing bastard was not what I would lovingly call a slack jawed faggot - a name won by anyone I felt I could fuck up with a single haymaker. This guy was different. A man to be feared purely because of his lack of IQ. Put this man to work cleaning two deck passage way on a submarine and he would scrub out all night, put him in a spelling test and he would sweat like a pig. Pat was a sonar operator; though I think they kept him to boost moral more so than his ability to spot another vessel.

Standing just shy of six feet, probably 16 stone - 10 of which I reckon was his gut alone, this boy could deliver the goods if pushed. Pushing is good though, pushing takes an easily remedied situation to the next level quickly; if you push hard enough. The fight.

Blood has a weird and wonderful taste and the thirteen pints inside Bring em’s belly were in the mood to extract mine so he simply administered the famous “Glasgow kiss.” Head butts give real pleasure to those who execute them and often stun the recipient long enough so a killer blow can be dealt. No killer blow came; stupid. Two old bill witnessed this perfect kiss and sped over, well sped over in the waddling way old bill do, due to carrying so much crime fighting gear on their belts. One of them was simply a fat cunt who wheezed his way over behind his more professional partner. I explained to the sweaty, wheezy one it was my fault, we were friends, had too much to drink and now needed only to catch the train home. I gave my friend a hug to hammer the point home. No further action would be taken as long as we caught our train. We boarded.

When your nose is flat and you have dried blood over your face and shirt, seats on trains are generally easier to come by. This short ride home though I was in no mood for a seat. “Not fair really” I said in a rhetorical fashion. “Had no chance to get you back because of those fucking pigs coming over.”
“Ok big man” Bring em replied in a soft voice that was really saying, “I am sorry and want no more trouble.” Too late you fat sack of shit, I thought. I am going to fuck you up. I enjoy the hate building up in me, it powers me, gives me the ability to destroy without question, the way Special Forces would go about a mission. Bring em knew this and could see I was going to get my revenge.

“You seen fight club?” I asked
“Yeah” Bring em grunted
“We do this correct then”
“Do what correct?
“Even this shit up Bring em, you aren’t getting away with this”
“Don’t you think its unfair love?” I said turning my head to well dressed plump black lady sat on the train, quietly, minding her own. No answer came back, but why should it? She was on her way back from the office and here was me with my nose smashed and blood stains, fresh and crusted over the front of my black Ralph Lauren polo shirt. She was still a fucking bitch though for not agreeing with me.

“We get off at our stop and duck into the small car park at the back, away from the taxis” I spoke instructionally. I knew there was no CCTV in this car park; or at least, I had taken a piss and snorted from my percy bullet almost every time I got off the train and so far had never been reprimanded. Anyway I was not about to kill the guy. “Teach him a lesson, your honour” I would say in court. The judge would agree with me. I always get my own way.

Bring em looked sad and nervous when the doors to the train opened. He knew he could hold his own and he also new he was a fat unfit cunt, who might do well in a wrestling match against a smaller guy, but verses someone his own size, who’s nasty streak was curtailed only by his fitness level, mine surprisingly above average judged on running a mile and a half in 9 minuets 18 seconds just last week for the Navy running test; he knew pain was coming his way.

“Do we really need to do this” was Bring em’s final plea
“Don’t embarrass yourself mate” I replied.

Bring em was a willing drone and I knew he would obey. We staggered the few hundred yards to the back car park in silence. I walked ahead in the most trusting and dangerous manner you can pre-fight, in front of my opponent. You question a mans honour when you walk to a fight with your back turned to him. It had cost me several unseen blows in fights past. Keeping the nerve the other fighter will not pussy out and attack you from behind gave me a feeling like a spy who is trained mentally to not turn around in the street when walking away from a daring espionage raid, so as to give themselves up, whilst aware, a knife, gun or needle may strike them down. Was I a spy? What the fuck was I? Did not know, did not care. STOP THINKING!

“Right shit lips” I was cranking up the verbals
“No kicking in the nuts, no more Glasgow kisses, no kicks to the head and we stop and start again when someone goes down” I instructed
“Agreed” Bring em said quite enthusiastically.

Double dropping ecstasy at the rave scene was the only synthetic drug I could remember giving me a buzz similar to adrenaline. Not the same; similar. I was pumped and ready to wreck getting myself into position. Any on-lookers this night would have simply spotted two over weight, larger louts, stumbling around each other in a dirty, half lit car park that night. What they would not, could not of seen was inside my head now the adrenaline was arriving. It always starts in the tips of my toes. A tingle, slight at first then gradually faster becoming a twinge before blossoming into a full shake of the legs. The leg shake, kicked the juice into my belly, breathing life into the killer in me. In all of us. A deep breathe was needed, the same type of breath you need when enjoying a particularly good hit of fat joint. The oxygen was not for me it was for the killer. Once the oxygen was in the fist was out. No grace, no poise and certainly no Queensbury rules. My right hand was locked together; white knuckles so pumped up no pain would be felt regardless of what they hit. Powered by, hate and anger I had thrown the first blow.

First blows against a drunk opponent are usually easy to connect; as long as you are not to far gone yourself. Getting the first blow in you can go one of two ways: pause to savor the moment and watch the inflicted make their decision to retaliate or have no choice as to their move. Secondly you can wade in with a second blow with the left fist, then the right and then the left and then the right, windmill the fucker in front of you until they stop moving. Dig your feet into the ground, balance out the bulky frame and pummel the cunt until blows stop coming your way. Bring em was down. I wanted to kick him in his face, put my Ben Sherman boot heel square in his face or grid as the sweaty socks say. Of course I did not as we had agreed no kicking. I allowed, no, in fact helped the wounded back on his feet, asked him if he could continue and on receiving a yes, planted a plum head butt which simply obliterated his nose, dropping him to the cold car park floor. Fuck rules.

Bring em lay on the floor squealing, hands clasped around his broken nose. Money was coming out of his pockets as he rolled over. I was up at least £30 up as I stole this money but more than money, any money, I wanted to watch him in pain. I was victorious, the last gladiator standing and I my wanted to watch what the price of defeat looked like, and Bring em was illustrating a reminder to me; fuck up or get fucked up.

I took the cocaine bullet out my pocket. It was medicine time. I never charge myself up with extra Percy prior to a fight as the face stomping could easily become reality, swiftly afterwards I would indulge though. Have to get through all the cocaine on the Friday night as it takes 48hrs to clear your system. Any later than the Friday and you ran the risk of the CDT - compulsory drugs testing team - turning up for a sample of your piss on the Monday. The bullet twists both left and right. Left is a small portion, right a greedy boy’s. The bullet only twists right after a fight. I rolled a decent enough spliff for the occasion in my usual military fashion and began to blaze and watch my prize writhe in pain.