I nick a fag off Dave and go outside to smoke it.
Its drizzling with rain.
I get under the Tesco doorway to keep dry.
Scrounge a light off another smoker.
Look across The Strand to Coutts and Banksy.
I think about Razor.
Wonder what shes doing now.
If shes safe from kuntface.
The man who threatened to kill his own 2 year old daughter.
That’s why I went to the old bill.
I’m not a grass under normal circumstances.
But this was to protect a 2 year old girl.
A 2 year old girl who loved me.
I would do anything to protect her.
I dont care if you think I’m a grass.
I don’t give a fuk.
Fukin shoot me, then.
See if I care.
Where you been?
It’s only Welsh Roger.
Alright, mate, I goes.
Fancy a cuppa tea?
Alright, he goes in his mellifluous Welsh twang.
Sometimes I wonder how I got so deep in gangland Cambodia.
Running around Phnom Penh at 3am, tooled up with a flick knife, ready to jak my nemesis…
How did I go from Christian missionary to street gangster?
How was I not caged in Prey Sar prison?
Somebody up there must like me…
Eh, Mr. Fox!?