Manasfolk-blog - Cheers!

Chris Phillips

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Trevor's London Detour

With the sharp angles of calculated risks and unrelenting ambition, Trevor, a man in his mid-forties, had carved out a successful career for himself and would take on anyone who stood in his way as he ascended the corporate ladder. He found himself in London, a city that usually gave him energy, but today the never-ending meetings, the never-ending negotiations, and the stuffy politeness of corporate meetings had left him exhausted and in need of a break, a breath of fresh air, a brief respite from the unrelenting demands he has put on himself.

Trevor, made the decision to walk instead of taking a cab after an especially exhausting day. He left the well-lit, safety of his hotel, in a bussling part of London, without thinking, took a detour along progressively narrower and less forgiving streets. He desired anonymity, to be a face in the crowd, to be absorbed by the shadowy side of the city. He yearned for the genuineness he believed was frequently absent from his busy life.

He stumbled upon "The Serpent's Kiss," a pub tucked away on a side street that seemed forgotten by time. Its dimly lit windows and slightly peeling paint hinted at a story untold, a history etched into its very bricks. Drawn in by an inexplicable curiosity, Trevor pushed open the heavy wooden door.

The air inside was thick with the aroma of stale beer, tobacco smoke, and something indefinably… else. The lighting was even dimmer than he expected, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. A handful of patrons occupied the worn leather benches, their faces illuminated by the low lighting and the bright glow of their cigarettes. He approached the bar, the only sound the rhythmic clinking of glasses and the low rumble of conversation.

"Pint of bitter, please," Trevor requested, his voice sounding strangely foreign in the unfamiliar atmosphere.

The bartender, a man with a face that looked like it had weathered a thousand storms, simply nodded, expertly pulling a pint and sliding it across the sticky countertop. The barman then nodded his head towards a group of four men huddled in a darkened corner. They were unmistakable: skinheads, their bald heads gleaming under the dim light, clad in tight jeans, heavy boots, and an undeniable air of menace.

Trevor took a sip of his beer, the bitter liquid a surprisingly welcome contrast to the sweet corporate smiles he'd endured all day. He tried to ignore the group in the corner, focusing on the quiet hum of the pub, the unfamiliar faces, the comforting anonymity he had sought.

Suddenly, one of the skinheads approached him from the group towards Trevor's spot at the bar. He stopped directly in front of him, his presence radiating an unsettling intensity.

"Bad day, mate?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble of an East End, Cockney accent that sent a shiver down Trevor's spine.

Caught off guard and perhaps emboldened by the beer, Trevor found himself unburdening himself to this complete stranger. (knowing he was never going to see his sorts again) He spoke of demanding clients, impossible deadlines, and the suffocating pressure to always be "on." He heard the weariness in his own voice, the vulnerability he usually kept carefully hidden.

The skinhead listened, expression unreadable, his eyes never leaving Trevor's face. When Trevor finally trailed off, the skinhead simply said, "Come join us, relax a bit."

Before Trevor could respond, the skinhead nodded to the bartender. "Pint of the Special," he barked, his voice carrying a distinct edge of authority.

The bartender, without a word, began pouring another pint. Trevor hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his mind. But the allure of camaraderie, the promise of escape, was too strong to resist.he followed the skinhead to the corner table.

The barman brought over the new pint, and Trevor took a tentative sip of the "Special," the taste unfamiliar and strangely potent. He felt a warmth spread through him, a loosening of the tension that had been gripping him all day. He began to relax, to laugh at the skinhead's crude jokes, to feel a sense of belonging he hadn't realized he craved.

That was the last thing Trevor remembered.

The next sensation was one of disoriented confusion. He was lying on a cold, hard surface, his head throbbing, his vision blurry. He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt heavy and unresponsive, he was strapped down and his head was fastened. Where was he? What had happened?

He tried to look around, his eyes slowly adjusting to the low light. He was in a basement, a damp, claustrophobic space filled with strange machinery and tangled wires. A complex device, humming with an unsettling energy, it was connected to his head. he started to Panic, trying to move his body and shake the device off his head, but it held fast.

Then the first shock happened; the pain was so intense, then another, the shocks came frequently, he felt as if his head was on fire.  

He tried to remember the previous day, but he could no longer remember. Then came another shock, his body spasmed. At some point, the shocks paused. He tried to think, he could no longer recall his wife's face and his family. Then the shocks started again. He lost track of time, had he been in the machine for an hour or was it longer? At some point the machine had switched off. He lay still, his mind was a blank slate, a void where memories should have been. He couldn't recall his name, his job, his family… anything. He was a ghost trapped in his own body.

Hours blurred into an eternity of confusion and fear. He felt like a puppet, thoughts and actions controlled by an invisible force. He was vaguely aware of his head being shaved,

The machine started up again, He had grown up in the East End, not a sterile corporate landscape. He learned to speak with a rough cockney streetwise accent (an echo of a life he never lived).  He remembered the first time he wagged school, the time he met a gang of skinheads who took him under their wing, his first cigarette and the time he got drunk, his first fight standing by his new skinhead mates, he learned to hate and despise the "suits," the "toffs," (the people he used to be). He was Trev, not Trevor.  

After what felt like a lifetime, the machine was disconnected. Trev, or what was left of Trevor, started to come round, feeling a newfound sense of purpose. He was no longer a hollow echo; he was a fully formed, albeit manufactured, skinhead.

Standing by the machine, the skinhead who had invited him over to join and his mates was standing next to the machine.

“How you feeling mate” the skinhead asked “I'm feelin' proper good, Boss” Trev said, instantly recognising the skinhead as his skinhead Boss. “Good,” was the skinhead Boss reply. “Right, get yer togs on. The boys are up the apples waitin' for ya”.

Trev was handed a dirty white jock, that has seen better days, with yellow stains and crusty residue, he pulled it on fitting snug against his cock and balls. Next came the bleachers, as he pulled them up he felt the material snug against his legs, his arse as he looked down he noticed that his bulge in the jock caused the front of the bleachers to be pronounced. The next item was a black polo shirt with a white stripe around the collar. On the right side of the polo shirt was an emblem of a Serpent, with a laurel leaf surrounding it.

The Boss then handed him a pair of 20-hole black rangers. The first few eyelets had already been started, the white laces standing stark against the shiny black leather of the boots, Trev bent down and started to lace the boots up “laddered style”. It was like second nature to him, as if he had been doing it his whole life. Once he had finished lacing up his boots, he stood up next to the Skin Boss. The Skin Boss helped him with a set of half-inch white braces.  

They stood next to each other facing a full-length mirror, Trev could see a sneer spread across his face. The Skin Boss turned to him and said “You’re lookin’ sharp, Trev. Oi, welcome to the bleedin family. “Ta, Boss” was Trev’s reply.

He led Trev back, to the familiar haze of "The Serpent's Kiss." The bleachers hugging him like a second skin, which made his bulge more ever more pronounced, he could feel the bleachers tight against his arse.

The other three skinheads cheered. They were sitting at their usual table as he emerged from the stairs with the skin Boss by his side.

Trev surveyed them with a newfound sense of brotherhood. He nodded, a  smile spreading across his face. "Alright, you fuckers," he said, his voice rough with a deep cockney accent.

The Skin Boss shouted over to the barman, “Five pints, make it snappy. The barman's answer was “Yes Boss”.

The barman soon delivered the pints to the table.

The other Skinheads cheered and welcomed him to the family and raised glasses. Trev sat down, grabbed his pint, and lit a cigarette, feeling more at home than he ever had before.

As they were drinking, the door to the pub opened and a man in a business suit walked in, looking lost and out of place. Trev looked up from his pint, the cigarette dangling from his lips. He turned to the skinhead boss, his eyes filled with contempt.

"Have a butchers at that miserable git over there." He sneered, the venom in his voice noticeable above the other skinheads. I bleedin' 'ate 'is lot, Load of bleedin’ wankers thinkin' they're the dog’s bollocks and comin' inter our manor."

Late night walks

外國帥弟的屌又粗又粉嫩, 蛋蛋又大大粒, 好美味耶