-You’re a big spazz.
-I’m not a spazz!
-You’re definitely a spazz.
-How do you know that I’m a spazz?
-Uh, by the clothes that you’re wearing? Look at you, you’re all spazzy.
-What, you don’t like my purple jumpsuit?

—————————————

Gangster Bob was happy with himself. He stretched his fingers out in front of him a la piano maestro and prepared to eat a greasy fuckin’ burger.

They called him Gangster Bob because it had been rumoured that he’d killed five men out the back of a pub with a hatchet, after they’d knocked the glasses off his face, and insulted his friend ‘Little Jimmy.’

He was forever walking his dirty blonde Labrador, at least three times a day. A few of the neighbours remarked that three times a day was ‘a bit excessive,’ but many felt safe knowing that Bob was out there, patrolling.

To say that Bob was a physically intimidating man would be simply untrue, he had let himself go many years ago, but there was something in the way that he carried himself that belied a certain deadliness. Nobody messed with Gangster Bob.

The ladies at the counter chatted amongst themselves: the banter was good, but Bob didn’t have to listen too close to know this. He was going to busy himself with the task at hand. He was going to enjoy his burger.

He lifted the juicy, dripping hunk of meat towards his gaping mouth, the near-bliss of pre-mastication numbing his fat red head, beads of sweat now forming at his brow when-

‘Come on ta fuck, ya fuckin’ bastards! I’ll have yis all, yis packa bastards! Yis fruits.’

Bob let the meaty sandwich drop from his hands and turned his head to the window swiftly.

’Yis’ll fuckin’ do nahin. I’ll knock the spare helmet off yer da’s dick.’

Collette the chipper, seized with fear, looked across to Bob.

’Bobby! I think there’s trouble startin’ out there!’

A meatwagon had pulled up. It seemed a lad from round the corner had had a few too many and had lost the run of himself.
Bob stood up slowly, almost mechanically, and dusted himself down.

Out on the street three or four rozzers surrounded the man, one apiece grabbed his arms whilst the other two stood by on their walkin-talkies looking concerned, bewildered.
Bob stepped out onto the street and towards the man, the crowd of onlookers parted.

’I’ll take it from here, boys.’ Said Bob. The cops nodded, standing back from the offender, who was by now kicking out lamely with his chin to his chest.

Big Bob grabbed the drunkard by the front of his shirt and pulled him in close.

’I was really,’ he spat on the ground and snorted, ‘really, going to enjoy that burger.’

’Ye were goin’ to enjoy fuck all, ye fat bastard.’

Gangster Bob butted the numpty deftly. The crowd ‘ooh-ed.’ 
‘Fuckin’ do him, Bob!’ Shouted someone from near the back.

The gabshite scrambled like mad, but couldn’t escape Bob’s expert grip.

’Am sorry, mate, am fuckin sorry!’

Bob headbutted the poor fella again, this time opening a gash on his forehead. The blood began to spill down his face.

’Aw, mate. Ma grannies fuckin’ weddin’.! Av ta go ma grannie’s fuckin’ weddin’ nai!’

’There’s only one place you’re goin’, son.’ Bob was having none of it.

He trailed the spazzy fucker behind him, back into the chippy, going straight up to the counter where he whipped up the hatch with one chubby hand.
Bob had never worked a chippy before, but he’d been there as a customer more than enough times to know how things operated. Still gripping the unruly spazz by his collar, he used his free hand to clatter the time-worn frying baskets out of the way exposing the deep baths of boiling hot vegetable oil.
Bob looked down at his latest victim.

’I think that you, son, have been long overdue...a good batterin’.’

Bob thrusted the lad’s head deep into the oily death mixture, again and again, partially submerging his hand in the process.

’Are ye sorry nai?!’

’Ah am, Bob! Ah am! Please let me be...’

Another dunk.

’Are ye sorry nai?!’

’Please, Bob, anything!’

’I don’t think you understand...’

One last plunge. The lad cried out vainly from beneath the surface. Thick bubbles rose and popped.
Bob ripped the craytur out and flung him to the floor, he writhed, squealing and moaning, the skin on his face melted, red, yellow, purple, and the bone from his nose was beginning to show.

GB looked out into the street, placed his fingers in his mouth and issued a piercing whistle in the direction of the boys in blue, that same signature whistle he used to call his dirty bastard Labrador every single night. The coppers nodded in recognition and made their way in to clear out the remnants of a job well done, a job they couldn’t have possibly done without the intervention of Gangster Bob.

Bob went back to his window seat and settled. In a matter of minutes the whole scene had dispersed. He was picking at his nails, about to tuck in when the soft tap of plimsoles caused him to look up, Collette was coming smiling towards him. She removed the old, cold beef burger and replaced it with an ornate oval piece of crockery, laden with greasy treats.

’Here you are, Bob. Your beef burger, an extra-special wee chicken fillet burger, aannnd, a gravy chip.

Bob was lost for words. He could only stare blankly. Collette passed away on soft soles so delicate, then turned at the last-

‘And ,Bob?’

Bob looked down in a daze.

’This one’s on the house.’