He rolled out of his pit, landed on the floor, scrabbled around for his underwear, vaguely noticing that his socks and cacks stank - a result of being worn all week under leathers during the hottest summer for 20 years. But 69 was nothing if not tough, lazy and a complete slob, so he donned them regardless.
His leathers, veterans of more than a few unfortunate incidents, had a nice battered look. 69 always wore them because they made him look hard since he only weighed eight and a half stone, he needed all the help he could get. He finally managed to get them on, then his boots. He was ready for his breakfast until he saw the remnants of the previous evening's Indian Takeaway, then the full violence of his hangover made itself really felt. With a churning stomach he managed to fumble for his helmet and gloves, get his handheld radio off the charger into its holster and over his shoulder. Then he was outside taking deep breaths of the relatively fresh air.
He thought he was going to make it, until he saw his bike, a Suzuki GS850GT that had once been a bright red but now was coated in a layer of matt black. The bike had been completely sprayed from a distance and 69 had spent quite a time scraping the matt black off the clocks and lights. The seat was covered with a sheepskin held in place with a couple of bungees. Both the mirrors were broken, as were all the indicators. Anything that wasn’t broken or matt black was rusty. But visually revolting as this was, 69 would’ve been able to handle it had not next doors cat been seated on the bike. 69 hated cats almost as much as he hated the taste of the yellow vileness that splashed onto the pavement from his mouth.
Dragging himself upright and taking little heed of the twitching curtains, he threw a stone at the cat. When it had vacated the seat, he put his key in the ignition, turned on and thumbed the starter. The bloody thing started as usual. While he was waiting for it to warm up, he called in, keying his transmit button he shouted, ‘69, 69 mobile in Streatham.’
‘Ohmygod, 69 is up and about, and it’s only 9 o’clock. Come on in boy, call me closer’ came back the voice of Mike, the controller, who managed to be both revoltingly cheerful and viciously sarcastic at the same time. 69 got the choke off and proceeded to join the traffic as the several million lemmings attempted to get their Ford Jelly Moulds to the one remaining parking place. The rush hour was at its height, all four wheelers down to walking pace if they were lucky. The bus drivers had become really mad, just throwing their huge vehicles at cars in order to get back into the flow.
69 viewed the activities of the car drivers with a kind of aloof disdain that is usually reserved for lower life forms (as indeed they are) and carried on down the outside as is a motorcyclist’s god given right. But sometimes the fact that bikes can move when cars driven by older, saner and richer people attracts a certain envy. Maybe it was just pure jealousy that motivated the driver of the R-reg Granada who was coming in the opposite direction to swerve towards 69, put his lights on full beam and sound his horn. Just before he hit 69’s leg he swerved back again.
As soon as 69 saw the bright red Granada he knew what it would do. The driver had done the same trick several times to him over the past year - from the way he was always roaring with laughter along with his mate, the game still held some amusement for them. From the way 69 had to tighten his sphincter to prevent an embarrassing incident, the game still held a certain amount of raw terror for him. He vowed his revenge, but knew that to chase them would do no good as they would probably just give him a good kicking if it came to a fight.
Just as he was contemplating how to get even, his radio crackled into life and he was sent to collect a package from a PC Kerr at Kennington cop shop. The police station was not very far away and he was soon there. Out of respect for the law, he parked his out of tax and MOT, and dodgy-tyred heap around the corner.
He strode purposefully in and gave the enquiries bell a long hard push. A cop came and opened the sliding window. He took a good long look at 69, he was particularly taken by his long greasy hair and pasty complexion. ‘Yes, he asked, omitting the Sir. ‘I've come to collect something from a PC Kerr, said 69. The cop got a whiff of 69’s breath and wondered if he could get him on a D&D, but gave up the idea ‘cos it meant getting closer to him. Best to get him out as quick as possible, he thought, ‘Well, you're out of luck son, ‘cos we don’t have a PC Kerr.’ he said.
69 went outside to radio in and complain of the non-existence of PC Kerr. They told him to go back in and added that his first name was Wayne. The controller sounded a bit peeved so he didn’t argue, he just went back in. He gave the bell a nice long press. In fact, his finger was still on the button when the window banged open. ‘What do you want now, said the cop, obviously annoyed.
‘My controller says there is a PC Kerr, and he is here, his first name is Wayne, Wayne Kerr.’ The cop looked at him for a couple of seconds, then he called out over his shoulder, ‘Hey, any of you want to breathalyse a little twat who's come in here asking after a PC Wanker?’ When he turned back, 69 was no longer in sight, as soon as he had muttered the name in full, he realised the trick, and when the cop turned he went into sprint mode and dashed out.
Once on the bike and rolling there was little chance of getting caught, no-one would get his number, the plate had been treated to a squirt of matt black and was a tad difficult to read. Once clear he keyed his radio, ‘I suppose you think that’s funny, he said. The base control button was pressed in reply but no words came out, just the sound of riotous laughter. Friday progressed and got a bit better.
69's hangover gradually faded, he did a few jobs and even managed to eat something. He was just about to return to the office to collect his pay, following a big Merc, when inspiration struck him. Actually, it was a lot of cold, soapy water that hit him in the face. The driver of the Merc had decided to wash his windscreen, and because the nozzles were not quite adjusted correctly, most of the water went over the roof and into 69's face. At first he was annoyed until he realised how he could get his revenge on the Granada.
The next day he rose early unheard of for him on a Saturday, he hacked off to the nearest breakers yard, found a donor Merc and ripped out the pump, pipes, nozzles and reservoir. After blowing the fuses a couple of times he finally got it to work. The two nozzles he attached to the right-hand upper fairing, the pipes led from them to the pump, that fitted nicely into a fairing side pocket. The reservoir was positioned on the other side. An on-off switch was fitted close to his left hand, so all he had to do was was throw it and a continuous stream of water would blast out of the two nozzles. 69 was very happy with the fruits of his labour and could hardly wait for Monday.
His enthusiasm meant that not only did the milkman almost drop his bottles, he’d got up so early that he missed the Granada. At base he showed his creation to Mike and the rest of the lads. ‘How come you only have water in it’ Mike wanted to know. 69 hadn't thought of putting anything else in and said as much. ‘You could use some ammonia, suggested Ted, one of the other riders. ‘No, what you should use is piss. After all, the guy’s taking the piss, it’s only right he should get it back,' declared Mike. So 69 went off to the toilet with the reservoir but he could only manage to fill part of it. It took the combined force of the whole administration staff to fully fill it. This took a fair bit of time and while it was going on, no-one saw what Mike was up to.
The next day he forced himself to take things easy, dressed, ate a hearty breakfast, took his time getting ready and called in. ‘69, be sure to keep us informed, replied Mike. It was just after clearing Brixton that 69 spotted his prey. The Granada was coming toward him, unable to travel too fast because it was stuck behind a lorry. When the driver saw 69 he pulled over on a collision course despite there being plenty of space. He put his headlights and horn on full. As the car closed in, 69 called into his radio, ‘car approaching,' then flicked the switch on.
Instead of spraying the driver, twin fountains of stale urine commenced to drench 69. He tried to switch it off, but the switch broke as soon as he touched it. There was no way of stopping it! By the time he had come to a halt and flicked down the side stand it had run out of piss. 69 was wearing all of it! ‘You bastards,’ he screamed into his radio but the only reply was loud, riotous laughter.
Max Liberson