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Blather #1

7 May 18 words: Adrian Reynolds
illustrations: Corrina Rothwell

We've let our Adrian Reynolds loose, to bring you some proper off-the-wall brain splodges of brilliance...


Connor’s a bit dodgy, like. Sold me acid, Predator tabs, turn you invisible. Who could resist a sales pitch like that? He was beefy, blond, said if whales couldn’t adapt to pollution they’d be extinct like dinosaurs. He was sly, always had an eye out, got hold of this baked potato wagon he sent this other guy to a jazz and blues festival in Wales to make money with. Only, Spud came back skint like he always did when he did things for Connor. So Spud’s suspicious when Connor comes in and crashes the cigs round to him and Westie, all bleddy jolly like. Tins, too. They knew summat was up but Connor wins them over with this all for one, one for all bollocks about how he’s going to sort them out with this thing that’s coming up. Only first, he needs a hand with this other thing. Connor’s been seeing this woman, works at a bar, on the sly. And her fella’s found out. He’s talking aggro, how he’s going to do Connor over, and it’s not all mouth – bloke’s got form. All this time he’s pally with Westie and Spud, keeps handing them smokes, nice as pie. And Connor’s big in the game, so it’s flattering he’s asking them to help out. What it is, he wants to surprise the guy with a gun. Not shoot him like, but Connor knows he’ll be at this hotel Sunday morning, and the car park’s quiet, and they can wait for him there and give him the fear with the shooter. And Spud’s mate Mike, his dad’s got this shotgun, so he wants Spud to get it off him. Only, Mike tells him there’s no way he could get hold of his old man’s gun, and that’s the end of it.

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