Munich. Munich. Munich. Isn’t that how Adolf Hitler started one of his chapters in Mein Kamp? Absolute fucking shite. I started reading that in Secondary school and it got banned, so I brought it into school just to spite the tekkers. I was called a Nazi and given detention for a week. Sorted me right out. Me and Squidgy were the National Front crew and we had these 40 holer boots and jeans. We used to kick the fuck out of the Pakis in the Station estate and batter the wogs in the Station estate. Mind you I’ve been battered by some of them fuckers. Cunts put me in hospital once. That was then, this is now and I’m just coming to. The inky blue night sky is flashing orange lights from the motorway. I’ve got a can of Oranjeboom on me fucking…. Ah for fuck’s sake! I must have passed out! Fucking Dutch beer. There’s a mixture as potent as dynamite. Squidgy’s up front with Bob and he’s got his head out of the sun roof.
“Come on you fucking Naaazi Cuuuuunts!!!” Bob’s got his hand on the van horn and they’re causing a right racket. Waking up the fucking dead. I sit up and peer out the window and we’re in a suburban town. There’s people staggering around the streets like a scene out of a Zombie movie. The entire town is fucking smashed out of their faces. There’s one bloke tied to a lamp post, naked with something marked on his chest and arrows pointing to his withered cock. Poor fucker. Looks like somebody drugged this town and fucked it over, nicked all their wallets and looted their shops.
“Keep driving Bob. This is a fucking ghost town.” I say and bob keeps on driving.
“Nazi Jew Gassing Cunts!!!” Squidgy’s got half his body out the van and he’s waving a british flag. It’s a cross between a BNP rally and Mad Max. “Gerrus a fucking beer, man! This is fucking brilliant!!” I can see my dad doing what Squidgy is doing now. The conservative supporter who regularly takes his turnips to the village Turnip annual competition and beams with pride as the local twat of a journalist takes a photo for another scoop of Dad’s ginormous fucking roots. He must have fucked, drunk, drugged and smoked all the coolness out of him in the 1970s.
I pass him a dodgy cheap dutch beer and watch the Munich suburbs roll by in shades of dying blue light accentuated by bodies on the floor.
“Did we miss something? Has there been a fucking epidemic or some germ warfare. Have the Chinese dropped something on the krauts and are about to parachute in and make us all eat Chow Mein and use fucking chop sticks.”
Squidgy ducks down into the cabin, “There certainly has. Too much booze – these cunts can’t handle it,” he chuckles and puts his t-shirt back on.
Bob slows the van down to a crawl and flips open the mobile phone. He stares at the road ahead and the emerging massacre on either side of it. He then stares at the phone.
“What the fuck?”
“What? Gies a look.” I say and take the phone from him. It’s a voice message and there’s the unmistakable voice of Van Hoot on the other line. He sounds angry. He sounds really fucking angry, and it was all Squidy’s fault.
“What?” Squidgy asks. Me and Bob are giving him dirty looks.
“It’s your fucking fault,” Bob goes. “You had to burn the faggot’s house down, didn’t you?”
“The dirty fucking bot prodder deserved it. He’s lucky the cunt didn’t get burnt himself. I’ll do the cunt again. I will. I fuckin’ will!” He chimes like an alarm clock and I believe him – he’s as crazy as they come.
I put the phone to my ear again and have another listen. The dutch guy at the other end, takes his time, breathing between each word as if to expel the smoke from his lungs.
“I know where… you go. Munich, you go to munich. You think you can take your Nazi cunting selves down there and do what you want. Well guess what, Chums?” Chums? Didn’t sound right. Chums. “I come down. I follow you. I burn you down. You killed my life, now I kill you. For sure. You can be sure of it. I kill you all!”
I flip the mobile shut. “Fuck. Well done, Squidgy. Now we’ve got the entire gay dutch community on our case. There’ll be an armada of Boy George lookalikes listening to the fucking communards on the way towards us.” It made no sense to have a go at him, but it felt good to get it out. “We’ll get arse raped for fucking sure.”
“Not if I have my way,” Squidgy says, then crushes a can and throws it at a prostate figure in a bus stop. The missile turns over on its axis and strikes the bystander squarely on the forehead. Squidgy laughs and winds the window back up.