Joe supped his pint gently. The pub was almost empty and he only had Simon to talk to. Joe didn’t like Simon. Simon was a Tory, a rare breed in Liverpool.
Simon was sounding off about the homeless. There were more than ever inside tents in the town centre.
‘It’s a lifestyle choice,’ Simon groaned. ‘That’s up to them, but they should clear out of town.’
Joe was a mild man but he had a dilemma. Should he punch Simon in the gob? That might shut him up.
‘Look,’ Joe tried to reason. ‘It’s not a lifestyle choice; some are mentally ill.’
‘Bollocks!’ Simon bellowed. He was one of those Red Wall Tories who thought swearing made them sound working class. ‘They’re just lazy. They can’t be arsed to get a job.’
Joe sipped his pint. A punch in the mouth was seeming like a good option.
Simon continued, ‘They’re not poor. They have phones. They have dogs. If they were really hungry, they’d eat the dog.’
Simon drank half his glass in a single swallow. He was just getting going. ‘They’re begging cheats. They work in gangs intimidating women. It’s organised crime, like the mafia. I’d lock them up if we had space in prisons.’
Joe sighed, ‘Where’s your Christian charity?’
‘What!’ Simon exploded. ‘If Jesus was alive today he’d be first in line with the hosepipes clearing them off streets.’
Joe no longer had a dilemma. He put down his glass and balled his hand into a fist.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 