CHOP SHOP By Ash Scott-Lockyer

Chop Shop

When two goons grabbed me as I smoked a consolation cigarette by the Lamborghini, I knew this wasn’t going to be my day. The hustle had gone belly up from the start, even the hired Lambo hadn’t convinced the mark I was on the up and up. So I made my excuses and left ... I’m a con man, but not a stupid one.

Now a gorilla held me from behind while I looked into his mate’s big, gormless face.

‘Dis ain’t your motor, is it chum?’

‘No’ I said as patiently as I could manage, trying to explain I had legit hire documents in my briefcase. It cut no ice. They bundled me, hooded, into their waiting four by four.

The drive was uncomfortable, breathing was difficult through the heavy material and I was cramped, laid on the back seat of their Chelsea tractor. These fellahs weren’t mucking about, they were obviously not the Bill ... so who else had I pissed off? I decided the list was too long to go through.

When their motor eventually stopped, I was hauled out and the bag on my head removed. I stood in a large, grubby, but well equipped auto workshop.  Everywhere there were high priced supercars and luxury saloons, more than I could count; here a Bentley Flying Spur, there a Ferrari 360.  Most appeared to be in a state of disassembly, with half a dozen mechanics swarming around, removing parts and carefully labelling them.

‘Very nice,’ I breathed, one professional admiring the work of others.

 ‘It is, isn’t it?’ I turned to face the speaker, trying to ignore the ape still holding the back of my jacket. He was a tall, slightly stooped, balding man in his fifties. I noted his expensive suit, watch and neatly manicured hands.

‘So it was the Lambo,’ I said. ‘You put the grab on me for my poxy car ... why didn’t you just pop me one and take the motor ... eh?’ I mustered all the bravado I could – I wanted them to think they’d caught a live one and chuck me back in a hurry.

‘We’re not thugs,’ the tall bloke said smiling, ‘we run a peaceful, tidy operation ... besides you’re worth easily as much to me as your car.’

‘You what?’ I said confused. ‘You’ve got another think coming if you think any bleeder’s going to ransom me pal,’ I thought.

‘Bring him along,’ the tall geezer said turning on his heel and leading the way towards what looked like a back office.

My tame gorilla pushed me forward, still gripping the back of my jacket. I hoped the creases would come out. As we neared the plain, grimy painted door it opened, and a bloke in a helmet and motorcycle leathers emerged, carrying a box.  As I read the legend on the white fibreglass sides of the container and took in the scene through the half opened door, I nearly filled my pants. Caution live human organ in transit ... through the door was a green tiled room with a blood stained operating table at its centre. Fuck me ... they didn’t just nick cars, they nicked drivers too ... and sold them for scrap. Oh bollocks, I was really in the deep, brown and smelly now.

‘Now listen ‘ere,’ I said, ‘I’m going to be missed and a world of hurt’ll come your way. Let’s be reasonable, I can walk away – I ain’t seen nothing.’  My heels skidded on the oil – and, now I came to notice – blood contaminated concrete as I was pushed towards the doorway.

‘He’ll do fine, prep him,’ tall man said, addressing a gowned and masked figure in the room beyond.

Then I snapped. I mean, my liver’s filtered too many pints and whiskey chasers to be in top nick, but I’m attached to it, and I’m damned if I’ll let it be hawked off to the highest bidder.

I kicked back hard into the bloke behind’s shin. I always liked expensive shoes and looked after my investment with steel heel protectors. He released my jacket at once. I like to think I screamed my defiance like a banshee, but it probably sounded pretty girly.

Hurling myself to the right of the doorway I shouldered the glass front of the cabinet mounted on the wall. And by the time the muscle brothers, the tall bloke and two or three of the mechanics had rallied and started to converge on me, I had my hands on the fire axe it contained.

‘Right ... fuckers ... ’

Twenty minutes later I drove the Porsche out through the roller door of the garage. I was lucky, the keys were in it and there was even paperwork on the passenger seat I could use – with a bit of doctoring – to register it in my name.  Not a bad haul when I thought the whole day had gone tits up – course – it wasn’t such a good day for tall bloke. I never realised how hard it would be to get an axe blade out of a convulsing man’s noddle. I’d only just managed to wiggle it clear in time to hack the arm of my former jacket abuser – served him bleeding well right an’ all. After that they all seemed more intent on getting out of my way rather than having a go. Trouble for them was some prat had locked up the gaff tight as a fishes’ arsehole behind the bike courier.

It took a bit of time, made my arms ache like a bastard, soaked me best suit in claret ... But I did ‘em all ... even one who tried to crawl under a  car ... hacked the tires and dropped a ton of Lexus on him, dopey twat. Course, I left gown and mask geezer alone ... well, all those bodies about – stands to reason – he paid me what they were worth in parts out the till and I buggered off. Job done!

THE END

BIO:

Ash Scott-Lockyer writes horror and dark fantasy with a particularly English flavor. He lives on the outskirts of London and rides horses in the Essex countryside. His short stories can be found on several webzines and he has a tale soon to be published in the April edition of Necrotic Tissue. His website is http://www.shadowtales.co.uk