Marty- Chapter 1

Marty hobbled into the poorly lit restroom buried at the back of his local bar, Ownies. He was stumbling, hurt. His left foot was stomping clumsily on the dirty white tiles whilst his right was trailed miserably behind, acting more like an anchor than a means of transport. When he reached the sink he spat a large coagulated globule of blood and saliva with great force into the basin in front of him.

“That’s fuckin’ wicked, that is,” he ejaculated in a less than friendly tone to no-one in particular. “What fuckin’ low-life bastard would do a thing like that?”

A man of small stature and puny build cautiously unbolted his cubicle, unsure of the nature of the question, or the mindset of the person asking it. The manner in which the question was put forward leant more towards the rhetorical. However, the length of the pause partnered with the savage glare of his quizmaster in the bathroom mirror suggested otherwise. In compromise, the man uttered an almost inaudible “I dunno” before taking shaky, Bambi-like steps towards the door, and back to civilisation.

“Not gonna wash your hands, you dirty son-of-a-bitch? You can use this sink right here,” bellowed Marty, forcing his oversized palm onto the basin next to his with a deafening thump. “Don’t bother going near mine. It’s a bloody mess!”

He erupted into a bout of raucous laughter, coughed, spat, and continued laughing. The best the short man could offer was a tentative giggle and a stretched smile. He then proceeded with considerable doubt to a wash-basin two down from the one in which Marty was now dipping his battered face, having half-filled his basin with boiling. Marty’s face swelled up and reddened behind the steam stretching out from the sink.

“You know, I ain’t gonna bite or anythin’, mate.” Marty said, placing his hands firmly on the side of his basin. “Jesus!”

The scrawny man, however, continued to stare at his basin, focusing on the icy water that engulfed his delicate hands.

“You certainly ain’t givin’ up much, are you buddy?” Marty asked with heightened scorn. “Fuck me! I have had enough of this shit! Are you with then or what?”

Marty removed his hands from the sides of his basin and turned to face his companion with forcefully quisitive eyes. It was the first time the small man had gotten a proper look at his sizeable master. Blood-tinged water dripped from Marty’s saturated face. The face itself led one to believe he had suffered a thousand fights, despite proving, beyond doubt, that this unfortunate man was in his early twenties. Large ears protruded in a ghastly fashion from behind stubborn sideburns that fed down his face to join with the rest of his bushy, black facial hair. A small chunk was missing from the top of his right ear, and a small gold hoop clipped to the bottom of his left. A bulbous nose was pushed up against his face. One confirmed it had been broken one too many times. The hedgerow on his broad, chiselled jaw left little room for a mouth. Apart from a swollen bottom lip, it could have been supposed that he had no mouth at all. His large punching-bag of a head bore down on a broad neck that disappeared under the sheer bulk of an incredibly muscular physique. He was only marginally taller than average height, about 5 feet 11 inches, but this he more than made up for with his massive shoulder breadth and arm circumference. His arms resembled two large sacks, packed full of anything you could imagine, full to bursting, before being topped off with one large melon apiece. Although his right leg was clearly in pain, the muscles in each of his legs were practically tearing through the skin-tight jeans he believed could contain these fierce beasts.

After a lengthy silence, the man spoke;

“W-W-Well…” the small man muttered, stumbling over his words, “I definitely hope not.”

The man, hoping this would bring the desired reaction, moved slowly over to the hand-dryer inviting, with trembling pleasure, the fire it breathed.

But Marty, much to his co-occupant’s surprise, began to chuckle, spacing coughs of laughter out with gasps of enjoyment. Before he spoke again, he rolled up his right trouser leg with immense difficulty and proceeded to cup lake-fulls of boiling water onto a terrific gash at the side of a grossly swollen ankle. It was clear to why he had been limping so horrendously as the mark had been made, not by a knife or a gun, but by the forceful impact of some blunt object. A baseball bat or steel bar. During the process, which brought a grimace to the small fellow’s face, Marty never once showed any signs of pain or distress.

“I like you mate.” Marty bellowed. “What’s your name?”

With a hint of uncertainty, the man replied, “James. James Cropton.”

“Well, hello there ‘James’, he said, extending his hand. “My name’s Marty, just Marty.” James accepted his hand out of common courtesy rather than any real desire on his part.

“Tell you what,” Marty continued, “seeing you ain’t helping out any of them bastards out there, you could maybe be of some use to me. You see, I’m in a bit of trouble. Gimme five minutes and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“I…” James hesitated once more. What was he supposed to say?

“Tell you what,” interjected Marty, sensing his partner’s anxiety, “I’ll buy you a drink, we’ll head out back, and I’ll tell you the whole fuckin’ miserable story before you’ve finished your pint. Waddya say? I’m dyin’ for a fag.”

How could anyone refuse that invitation? Upon fear of death, or worse, James accepted, and they both left the toilets in a hurry. Marty marched purposefully over to the bar and prepared to tell his story.