Bubba MacKenzie

Bubba sat down at the large oak table, gnarled hands spread eagled towards the edges, several empty beer cans with the town’s logo dotted the surface. Have to get rid of him was the order of the day, furrowed brows met solid glances as they sombrely thought of more radiant times. Things were tough in the big smoke and the usurpers to the throne had made their move, they had lashed out at the populace and raised the ire of many a well heeled, gentrified friend. So you may be wondering why, at this point is anyone’s guess.

Bubba looked around the room, the ancient fan whirled overhead and the solitary sound of a wailing cricket echoed across the walls, Lanza Garrigan tried to laugh but he knew the seriousness of the situation, rumours had swirled around the town, 112 was the number of the beast and soon they said, 113 was up for grabs.

He was the runt of the pack, but he was their valiant leader, but little did he know that numbers had been whittled down to a tiny fraction of their former glory, a mere shadow of a former shadow of itself. Always business with him, so they said but they knew nothing, nothing of their fate that lay awaiting for them, in those long corridors of power where shadowy gowned figures, resplendent in their coiffured wigs, gave judgement to the vain few who sought to desecrate the bastions of civility.

Straw loafers stared up at Bubba, he had said once that all things pass, but he knew there would be trouble, they would talk, blab their oaths off as soon as the gear wore off and they started climbing the walls. No methodone in stir, just had to grin and bear it, thoughts flew around his head, they had interests in a chop shop, and he knew they would talk, just for the thought of having a taste, years on the gear then full stop, dear God, they’d be mince meat after a few hours.

The boys decided that it was time to pull up stumps , so the shop disappeared, nothing left and there went Bubba’s best source of income, revenge would be sweet he thought, when they got out.