The tumble-weed tumbled and weed over the dust bedevilled dirt track that once went by the name of Kerrydale Street. The sounds of singing, laughter, cheering applause and the big bass drum getting right on my tits from the far corner of the people’s answer to the coliseum, had now faded into a mere shadow of an echo.
The once proud Peter’s Gate ( named after the Blessed you-know-who, BY you-know-who as he awaited canonisation) had long since lost their bright green lustre and golden shimmer of bonhomie and welcome to the greatest football team on earth playing at the greatest football ground on earth.
A horny backed lizard scuttled sideways as the banjo player sitting outside the newly renovated saloon aimed a baccy laced spit in its direction; the musician settled, plucked at his strings and quietly began his afternoon’s entertainment for the queue of leftover board members who spent their days talking of old times and clinking their glasses in memory of Henrik, Chris, Jinky and a hundred others, while they waited on their transport to a new world.
Still they would be all right. Even as global warming had wreaked havoc with mother earth and left it no more than a desiccated charnel house, THEY would be fine – they were part of the select few after all. The last shuttle would be leaving soon. It was a pity that those who had given all that money, all that time, all that devotion and all that hope would have to stay behind. But someone had to give the big silver Tennents’ sponsored steel bird a shove. The commoners were good at that sort of thing and now that the new ground had been built on that satellite moon of K345gx in the constellation STM5111887, all it required was a quick stop off to pick up their mates in Govan and off they would go.
The banjo player stopped. The beer pumps went silent. The only sound was a sudden ‘plop’ as the Lizard managed to extricate its head from the globule of brown tarry sputum.
And then the voice called…. “Lawwell. Lawwell….I’m waiting,”
The banjo player looked at the dirt ingrained windows as twenty hooped tammy bedecked heads pressed their noses to see who was doing the calling out.
Fear appeared in their eyes like a sudden attack of corneal diarrhoea.
The room emptied.
Lawwell was left on his own. The sun hit its highest and hottest point turning the banjo player’s spit to glass, mummifying for ever the Lizard’s tail for posterity.
In the distance past Bridgeton at the cross, the Vultures recently brought in as a natural prey on the ubiquitous Glasgow Wildebeest, took to the air as the clock announced noon, as it did every hour, not having worked properly since the great schism of 2012.
They circled once, their eyes immediately sussing out just what was happening at the Celtic Park Saloon and Nature Reserve bar, and then swooped in salivating expectation for their next meal.
Desmond and Reilly pushed him towards the swing doors “It’s you he wants Peter” they said with a devil like prod as they urged the sharp suited sweating sacrifice to his potential doom.
The Banjo player, popped another quarter ounce of Virginia block in his gob, knotted his green and white bandanna around his head, and softly began his song…
“Do not forget me oh my darling…..”
Lawwell shot through the doors…stumbled down the stairs…..and landed face first in the dirt beside the impaled Lizard.
He squinted his eyes against the blinding reflection from the bleached white surrounds, and then a welcome shadow brought a moment’s cool respite. He looked up at the stranger who pushed his sombrero back in his head. Lawwell recognised him.
It was KevJungle.
He tried to spit but his mouth was lined with terror now. He tried to cry but only fear furrowed his cheeks; even his sweat swathed his skin in panic.
“I have no weapon” he stuttered.
A six pack deadly holster wrapped automatic laser landed with a thump in the dirt by him just missing the lizard, who breathed a sigh of relief as he contemplated chewing through his own tail to escape.
“I don’t know how to use one of them” Peter pleaded
A 200 page Casio instruction booklet landed beside him. He read the cover.
‘An idiot’s guide to the Casio self-recharging laser photon assault weapon and its use in high noon shoot-outs – do not leave within the reach of children under the age of two or psychopaths ’.
“Read that” Kevin Jungle sneered, immediately followed by “Reading over! It’s payback time.”
PL had no option. He rose to his feet; buckled his weapon to his sharply suited trouser waist and finally faced the error his ways in his life’s latent last moments.
“For I must face the man who hates me….or die a coward….. a craven coward…….”…the banjo player continued.
The sun reflected off a bit of silver metal on the roof of the once booming Celtic Shop now converted to Ian Livingstone Crocodillo Kebab Shop.
Lawwell glanced at it, for a brief moment regretting that he had already paid for his interstellar flight.
His opponent drew his weapon, Lawwell unsheathed his, they both aimed, PL closed his eyes and in synchronisation the triggeres were pulled.
Like lasers (well not like lasers since they were lasers) the beams passed each other both targeted on the other combatant’s heart……their eyes met.
PL looked down as in slow motion the deadly photon reached his heart pocket! And then he smiled, perhaps his wallet would save him.
Kev Jungle realised the danger, turned up the intensity and the world held its breath. The Lizard keeked itself, the vultures swooped and only one of the laser slingers was left standing.
“…..or die a coward in my grave..”
The questions hung in the air. Just who was Will Kane? Who was Frank Miller? ….even more who would be Amy rushing to her man’s side.
All we knew was at the moment is that the Banjo player changed his g-string…….and started a new tune…..The Good, the bad and the ugly……..Lee Van Cleef and his sidekick The Singing Detective stubbed their cigars out on the Lizards back!
“we’re here for Lawwell and Kevjungle”
Everyone ran for cover…..well nearly everyone.
A huddle formed, a cry of revenge rang out and the group broke to reveal a twitching familiar form lying in the dust, his hand holding vicelike onto his Celtic branded Mastercard.
They turned to face the two interlopers.
Celtic’s future lay in the hands, hearts and soul of Floridaghirl, Sparkleghirl, Minx1888 and Phylvis.
The Lizard keeked itself again!
To be continued!