Saturday, 10 November 2012


‘You know how I know you’re American?’

The boy asked the grumpy, sweating mess sat at the bar. His backpack tucked nervously between his legs, he turned to the teen. Eyebrow arched.

‘Is this a line’ he said with a slow drawl, ‘you want change or something, go try your luck with the deadbeats outside.’ He turned back to his half pint of beer in a half-hearted nonchalance, head still cocked to one side, eyes as far to the right as they could go, pickling out the scruffy boy. Jeans and a beer stained t shirt with faded lettering. His hair was flat, his face filthy.

‘You know how I know you’re American?’

‘Fuck off kid.’ The man shuffled on his stool.

‘Because you look Dutch, but you have that retard thing going on’ The kid took a step back, the man turned on his bar stool, his raincoat rustled.


‘You look Dutch, but go back two generations and brother and sister are at it like rabbits’ he stepped back again. The man left his perch.

‘I mean look at you.’ The boy circled towards the door of the dimly lit bar. The other patrons were paying close attention now.  A couple seemed amused.

‘You fuck’ the man straightened himself, ‘you have any idea…’

‘Who I’m dealing with?’ the boy mimicked his accent. ‘Not a fucking clue.’ He spat on the floor. ‘There you go, that’s your gene pool there.’ He scoffed and stepped back. Alert, he knew where the door was.

‘You’re a shitty inbred nation of incestuous fucktards’ he grinned at his own inventiveness.

‘You fucker’ the American howled, ‘you little English fag.’ His voice slowly rising, ‘I will fuck you up, you little ass hair, I’m going to fuck you up.’ He took a step and then another. The boy waited a moment then turned and bolted, slamming through the swinging wood and glass Victorian doors a second before the lumbering man, volume high, screaming now unintelligible obscenities as he crashed after the guttersnipe. 

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