Chapter 10 of "The Knock 'em Down Boys" - springing the trap at Southend.
Acting as bait, Rat, Sparky and the boys spring their trap before realising that El Pigface has been dangerously separated from the group.
Chapter 10
“The Car Park Trap”
We waited until they were upon us, took a slight side-step to the right and almost like a machine each of our right arms came swinging around and down connecting hard with chins.
We knocked the first rank of their boys to the side and then down onto their knees with the follow through force of our downward blows.
Sparky brought his knee into the nose of the bloke in front of him and I swung my trainer hard into the temple area of the lad who had gone down under my right hand swing.
We stepped over their first rank of lads who were already finished and on the floor.
They were lucky really. The last place you want to be in a scrap is helpless on the floor, but we left them because we had business to attend to as the rest of their mob started to lay into us.
Our small group was outnumbered and near enough surrounded by them.
Except for El Pigface who had somehow managed to get himself separated from the rest of us.
He must have known he was out on a limb because he was holding his ground like his life depended on it.
Pigface’s arms were flailing about like windmills. There wasn’t much skill on show, just brute force. He was whirling around, just laying into anything that came near him. His massive fists were like medieval maces and he swung them right up above his head before bringing them down with devastating force onto whichever of their boys were unlucky enough to locate themselves underneath them.
There were a few of their lads trying to take El Pigface out at the same time, sensing a victim separated from his group.
I saw one of their lads running at him from behind. After putting my elbow firmly into the eye socket of some scrawny mouth who was just realising the error he’d made today taking us on, I warned Pigface.
Turning slightly to look over his shoulder, Pigface could see his attacker almost upon him.
He made a quarter turn to redistribute some of his weight and reposition himself at an angle suitable to see his attacker coming from behind, and anticipate any others coming at him from the front. He planted his feet firmly on the ground and waited. The lad from behind took a poorly executed swing at Pigface. He missed his target. Pigface swerved his body slightly and the lad’s momentum kept him moving forwards – straight onto Pigface’s waiting fists.
As he’d swerved, Pigface had gripped both fists together and using his waist, chest and shoulders to add extra power, he swung around like an American baseball batsman and connected firmly with the softball of the lad’s face.
When El Pigface’s double handed smash caught the lad’s chin, both jaw bones felt the combined forced of the blow, sending the lad’s head whipping backwards and wrapping what had been his well connected chin right around the side of his face.
When the lad fell backwards onto the ground, his mouth flapped open in some kind of silent scream without the elastic of the jaw to skull connection needed to snap it shut.
There were tears and blood on one side of his face where his teeth must have torn through the tautly stretched skin.
His eyes had widened so much it was like his eyeballs might just drop out of their sockets. Perhaps it was pain? Perhaps it was shock? Perhaps it was the realisation, without needing to see himself reflected in a mirror, that the symmetry of his face had probably been permanently disrupted.
El Pigface used the moments of shock to make his way quickly back to us.
We were conditioned to the violence and the consequences of the violence.
Our boys were breathing regularly, not panicking. And any fighter will tell you that regular breathing helps to keep a person calm. And when a person is calm, then things seem to happen more slowly, giving you time to anticipate and react.
But, regardless of the fact that we had been holding our own, our group was beginning to fracture under the weight of their numbers alone.
A couple of us were looking a bit worse for wear, having hit the ground and just about managed to avoid the trainers only too willing to boot our faces in and make sure we didn’t get back up.
It was then that we sprung the trap – just when they felt they might be about to get the upper hand.
Scratch came bombing through the entrance of the car park in reverse, stopping just as the front of the van cleared the car park’s entrance.
When the van doors opened, out came the surprise.
The Southend lads’ heads all turned around and then turned back to face us.
In an moment, all of their courage was gone, and apart from one or two of them, all that was left were the pale young faces of some boys who already had, or were just about to, piss themselves.
They were the ones who were trapped now, and they knew it. Most of them lost their dignity, regardless of their Top Boys screaming at them to stand.
They were trying to scatter, but there was nowhere to go.
Some of them put their heads down and ran at our lads just out of the van in kind of rugby league style tackles. They hit a wall of elbows and fists and were down almost as quickly as they had started running. One or two of them managed to sacrifice shirts and jackets to just about squeeze through our second rank and try to scale the van blocking their exit and climb to safety.
It was a pathetic sight to see our lads pulling their lads from the van doors and roof.
One of their idiots even tried to defend himself by jumping into the back of the van and shutting the doors.
It didn’t take long for us to get the doors open.
As we yanked the doors, their lad obviously had his fists wrapped around the internal handles. The result was comical.
As we pulled back, their lad flew out, landing on top of us. For a second or so, it looked like their lad was in control, digging his elbows and knees into our lads underneath him. Soon enough though, when we dragged him off, he was dealt with quickly like the rest of them.
We finished them off efficiently.
The more of them that went down, and stayed down, the easier it was for us to swarm over their diminishing numbers.
Since Scratch reversed the van into the parking area, probably only two or three minutes had passed. A few of us had cuts and grazes, scraped fists, swollen eye sockets or bleeding noses. But for the most part, once our shirts were tucked back in and our jackets reorganised, we were in good shape.
Much better shape than the Southend lads.
None of them were left standing as we recorded our victory on a mobile phone.
Scratch added a simple voiceover as Ghandi took a panoramic view of our victory. By evening, anyone who looked on youtube would be able to see how good we were and how easily we had disposed of the Southend lads.
Piling into the van, I took a last look at the scene.
It looked like a warzone after a battle. Their boys were strewn around the place in various pitiful poses: some lying face down on the ground clutching stomachs and faces; others propped up against walls and cradling arms and jaws in defeat.
They didn’t seem to quite fill the tarnished and scuffed leather of their designer white trainers, or the smart, tight-fitting jackets from “Weekend Offender” and “Ben Sherman” anymore. The clothes sort of hung around them, pulled out of shape as if they didn’t fit. They were like young lads trying to fit into their Dads’ gear or something, tailoring not quite matching up to the job description.
Some of their faces were like meat – raw and red. The skin punched and kicked all out of shape.
Like I said before, the last place you want to be in a ruck is on the floor. And if you are, make sure that you cover your head.
For a few seconds more I looked at them nursing their wounds, and their pride, as our lads cheered and slapped each other’s backs. And for a few seconds I felt something like sympathy for them – but only for a few seconds.
Perhaps I saw a version of myself?
What might happen if I ever got lazy.
If I ever let another lad get the better of me.
If I ever lost.
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