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May 2019
Cecil the skinhead put his false teeth in.
A new red shirt, cotton lined, showed off his physique.
The boots he wore were a beautiful wine colour.
Blue jeans took the shape of his ancient legs.
Today was his eightieth birthday and he had no cake to celebrate.

Never mind, his council flat still had the feel of a batchelor pad.
There on the wall, next to his samurai sword, hung his chain.
Many a head was cracked open with that weapon.
Swinging it over his head a few times brought it all back to him.
The streetlights in London, broken noses, disgorged eyes, screams from pansies caught off guard by a kick up the ****.

Cecil chuckled to himself and prepared to swallow back a
can of cider and light a cigar for the occasion.

Suddenly, a knock came on the door. Instinctively, Cecil reached for his chain and let the door open slightly just off the chain guard.

Chaos broke out as a boot kicked in the door with the ferocity of a Gestapo officer looking for a head to kick in.

There he stood, **** the Mod, that mad Irish ******* who Cecil had left for dead five decades ago. All his height was gone with time but his knuckles still had a raw edge. With all the force of a decrepit nanogenarian he proceeded to take Cecil on.

Bad mistake. Cecil was always ready for combat. Always had been ever since his dad knocked the crap out of him for practise.

Ironically, the Who was playing on Cecil's old transistor radio.
'You better you bet' became the soundtrack to the next fifteen minutes of mayhem. The Mod was a sly ******* and his hair was slicked with grease; which he used to smear Cecil's eyes.

The chain needs no eyes and it cut a deadly swathe through Micks brylcreem. Once again Cecil put his Doc Martens to good use and **** crumpled beneath a well placed boot to the proverbials.

Cecil did the decent thing and called an ambulance. Said **** was his mate; they had been celebrating his birthday when a gang burst in and gave them a going over. A nice cover story.

That night Cecil hit the town, got drunk, and reflected on his day.

He was eighty, still alive, and still had it in spades.

Then he passed out and never regained consciousness.

No one missed him but I often think of him still.
Harriet Cleve
Written by
Harriet Cleve
494
   BR Dragos and Wk kortas
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