Miserable Bastards (Part 4)
You can read part one here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/12/wake-up-juice/
And Part Two here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/23/the-price-of-books/
And Part Three here: https://paulandrewsneddon.com/2025/07/24/the-bar-is-sinking/
Mikey arrives a wee while later, looking like he had walked through a hedgerow and had a fight with a rampant badger.
Frank's eyebrow goes up as he looks from me to Mikey and back again. Mikey is wiping down his old suit jacket like it’s got a couple of crumbs on it and not three tears and a couple of highly questionable stains. I’m sure that’s the suit he bought for a funeral five years ago. He’s still a skinny bastard, but it looks like the suit has shrunk a bit, giving him a 1980s drainpipe effect.
He’s standing there with the confidence of Messi on the World Cup stage.
“Pint please, boss. The usual.”
Nothing beats the power of misplaced confidence. “On yourself, pal. How the fuck are you? Did you get into a spot of trouble?”
He looks briefly broken, punctured.
“Nothing I can’t handle, big man.” he says, putting his fists up like a super-mega-lightweight boxer.
"Frank, can you put this behind the bar for me, man, please?" he asks, pleading a little.
“What the fuck’s this, wee man?”
“Just my stuff, nothing dodgy, I promise.” he says, avoiding eye contact.
“I’ll need to have a look.”
“No, no, it’s alright, mate. I’ll just hang on to it.” he’s turning red.
Frank looks in the bag. Looks up. Looks back again.
“What the fuck…”
Mikey goes to talk but doesn’t say anything.
“Why in the fuck are you walking about with a dead hedgehog in a carrier bag?”
“It’s, er, dead.” he mutters sheepishly.
“Aye, I can see that…”
“I saw it on the street. You can’t leave it out there; the seagulls were pecking out its eyes. I’m going to give it a proper burial up by the cathedral later on.”
“Up by the fucking cathedral, up by the cathedral…. Mikey, are you alright? Have you had a bump on the fucking head?”
“I’m… I’m fine.”
I’m sitting watching this unfold, like what the fuck is going on here.
Frank’s warmed up to it though.
“So you were going to just deposit Sonic here, were you, behind the bar, a dead hedgehog, while you had a few pints… stinking out the bar and then you’re going to make it through the tourists and the workies on the way to the cathedral?”
Mikey's face is turning redder and redder. “Well… aye.”
Frank throws the bag at him. “Go and leave it outside…” he says before shaking his head “or put it in the fucking bin.”
Mikey catches it.
“Should I flush it down the toilet?”
“What, like a goldfish? You are really ripping the piss today, pal.”
Mikey’s out the door, and Frank’s away to the other side of the bar to get Pat a drink.
I sink my drink; the whisky sours, making me wince a little.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 