Family. Say the word to yourself. Fa-mi-lee. Now say it really slowly and say it with your front teeth bared liked a pissed off dog. This is the way that Billy, the eldest of the Morgan boys referred to his kindred. I watched him across Clive's Gym as he explained to a freshly colour drained customer of his standing in the local community and that the man should really yield to his vast physical presence and his request that he vacate the rowing machine. The man turns on his heel immediately and just leaves. Billy spends the next thirty seconds on the rowing machine before getting up, stretching his back and reaching for some ridiculously sized dumbbells in the corner. The gym itself is primarily a boxing gym and boys club, two features it proudly displays on its meagre hoardings outside. Just inside, Clive’s biggest boys are generally displayed and directed by Clive himself in the gloriously cheap wooden paneled surroundings. Clive installed the decor just after it was fashionable and is oblivious to all the sweat and pheromones that have soaked into the fabric of the building and himself. If any building had claim to be a living person, it would be Clive's Gym. I fully expect it in time to sprout huge muscular legs, march up to the bank and punch it in the face. Out the back is the full boxing gym experience. I have never been allowed more than a flashing glance through the closely monitored crack in the door. I am either not deemed fit enough or worthy of Clive's trust.
Billy Morgan is by any country's standards colossal as is his stupidity. I should know, he is the real and frightening embodiment of my school days. Fortunately his stupidity prevents him recognizing the boy he used to dangle from a second story window of Underbelly High with one hand whilst he used to eat my sandwiches with the other. Most muscular and well toned men, take care to preen and take a generally narcissistic approach to their grooming. Billy is quite the exception and it is almost as if he takes pride in his repellence. Clive describes Billy as "Fucking hard and even more fucking poisonous." Billy has ubiquitous ginger wire wool hair and smells like he's been having sex whilst working out, only to shower in silage I have this idea that he uses Swarfega instead of shaving gel, oh and did I mention that there are four more like him back home and three with dugs.
The Morgan’s, despite their apparent thug-headedness are exceptionally wealthy. Much of it comes from the land they sold to property developers in the rush to extend the outskirts of the Underbelly after much of it was destroyed when we were children. Much of their other wealth, I can only think comes from much darker exploits.
I pounded the treadmill in the corner of the gym, trying not to retch. The smell in this particular corner of Clive’s gym can only be described as a cross between a dirty protest and snooker club. There is some commotion behind me. The twin bouncers from the Club arrived, barring the door behind them. Their club hands were reinforced with clubs. Billy is the first to react and throws the dumbbells in the direction of the twins heads. Both narrowly avoid a serious death. Briefly see Clive’s head pop round the door and assess the situation. He makes eye contact with me momentarily and his eyes say, “Why are you still in the same room as these people?” Clive perceptibly shrugs and disappears into the back room patently unconcerned for the front room of his gym, Billy’s welfare or mine. As the first twin crashes over the front desk I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s wise to be in a small room with three exceptionally angry and well built small family cars. I was about to slip off the back of the treadmill and quietly out the door. Billy had the second twin in a head lock that would have killed any normal man in seconds. He looked up presumably for a sign of the other twin and spotted me in the corner.
“Oi, you. Didn’t I used to beat you up in school?”
“Good of you to remember Billy.” The first twin rose and emerged from the behind the front desk. He rubbed the back of his pate but nonetheless looked all the more determined.
“You couldn’t help us out could you?” Even Billy’s stupidity could interpret my expression.
“Just open the door.” I removed the chromium weight lifting bar that wedged the door shut and was knocked flat against the wall as a small battalion of boxers and local hardmen went steroid crazy on the twins. All I could hear was Clive’s sleazy voice above the landing of forearm smashes and headbutts.
“Don’t kill ‘em, don’t kill ‘em.”
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