Kung Fu Hoody
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Crime/Mystery
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: A game of darts, anyone?
_____________________________________________________________________
It would be nice and dark at eight o’clock but Hoody was getting impatient. He had enjoyed hiding in the bushes and casing the joint over the last couple of weeks, and now it was almost time to act upon what he had learned. Briefing his Hoody mates proved to be the most difficult part of the operation this far, not the brightest buttons in the box.
The dartboard was taking a peppering, all he could think of to help the time pass. It had come with the flat along with three new sets of darts, all left by the previous tenant. One of his Hoody mates had laid claim to it but, when taken down, it was found to be covering a sizeable hole in the plasterboard wall. Hoody decided the dartboard would be staying.
He found he had a real aptitude for the sport, having listened to some advice given by one of the top professionals, who revealed his practice methods. Hoody adopted those same methods and found his game came on a bundle. Shanghai finishes. Single, treble and double on the same number. Best way to practice according to whatsisname, the world number five, Hoody caught the tail end of the interview but not the man’s name.
Despite the darts, the clock appeared to be almost in reverse mode. The time was dragging, to say the least. He had started at number one, throwing until he hit Shanghai on that, before progressing to number two and so on. When he reached four, he pinged it straight away and told himself to concentrate hard, he could do the same with five.
His first dart hit the single five just below the treble, the perfect marker. Arrow number two hit the wire of the treble but managed to stay in, somehow, precariously resting on his first effort. The third hit the wire of the double right in the corner and Hoody punched the air in delight.
Someone pipped a car horn and he went to the window to have a look. It was no one he knew.
When he turned back to the dartboard the double five dart fell to the floor. As he bent to pick it up, the treble dart fell too and struck the back of his neck but it didn’t feel like it had pierced his Hoody, no harm done.
Twenty minutes later he was on eleven and could feel the sweat running down his back. He knew the heating wasn’t on but felt at the radiator to double check. It was stone cold.
Then, the room was spinning, he couldn’t focus. The first dart didn’t even reach the board and his legs were wet, cold wet, his feet too, strange. He looked on helplessly as the floor rushed up to meet his face.
Hoody’s Hoody mates gathered at the appointed time. Huddling silently in the bushes, they watched as the old man left the building. Putting the bag he carried on the pavement, he reached for the shutter just as the Hoodies approached.
Sensing there was someone behind him, the old man turned to find five faceless Hoodies all but surrounding him. His brave attempt to punch the head of the biggest of them met with nothing but fresh air and the beating he took for his audacity left him lying in a bloody heap.
A passing dog walker called for an ambulance but couldn’t help the cops shed any light on what had happened. The old man died without regaining consciousness.
Deciding Hoody didn’t deserve a share of the spoils since he hadn’t shown up, the other Hoodies split the large sum of money between them and partied on into the night. They scored some choice drugs and all but cleared the corner shop shelves of alcohol. One even offered up a toast to Hoody but it was only a token gesture, a brief interruption to the high time being had.
Hoody’s best Hoody mate hadn’t a clue as to what time it was when he went to investigate Hoody’s absence. The door was open and the flat was in darkness but for the light above the dartboard and he all but tripped over the prone figure on the floor.
He soon came to realize Hoody was dead. That sobered him up a bit and brought him down from the high the drugs had provided. Deciding Hoody would have no further need for the new boots he had been swanking about all week, his Hoody friend set about relieving him of them. Someone moving in the flat upstairs panicked him into vacating the premises sharpish and he made his way home through the early morning shadows.
Hoody’s sister found him and called the cops. She had been secretly seeing Hoody’s best mate so, immediately the police were done with her, she called round to his house to break the news. The first thing she saw was Hoody’s new boots by the side of the bed and what appeared to be congealed blood encrusted around the upper lace holes. She put two and two together in a flash.
“BASTARD”, she yelled, before he was properly awake. “YOU’VE KILLED MY FUCKIN’ BROTHER.”
The heavy ashtray was brought into service repeatedly, the first thing she found to use as a weapon and it was having the desired effect while Hoody’s best mate struggled to come to terms with what was happening. His father stepped in to defuse the situation and got in the way of a couple of blows himself before Hoody’s sister collapsed in complete exhaustion, the broken and bloodied ashtray strewn about the room.
The ambulance rushed Hoody’s best mate to hospital. The cops listened to his assailant’s theory about the boots, searched the room and soon came up with a substantial amount of money and what was left of the drugs.
It didn’t take a genius to piece the clues together. Several sets of footprints, similar to those of the boots by the bedside, were found in the bushes where the Hoodies had hidden. The specific uniform of the Hoody gang dictated they should wear the same clothes and footwear in order to avoid individual detection in times of conflict. Added to the cash and the drugs, it was easy to solve the mysterious death of the old man. Hoody’s demise, however, was a different kettle of fish altogether.
The medical examiner scratched his head, puzzled at the amount of blood and the apparent absence of a wound.
A more detailed inspection of Hoody’s body at the mortuary wasn’t very forthcoming until the youngest member of the medical team found a tiny puncture wound and suggested it might well be a Kung Fu pressure point. The Chinese acupuncturist was sent for and another mystery was solved.
There are six less Hoodies roaming the streets. One is dead. Another is due to be released from hospital to the care of the prison hospital. The other four are still in uniform, albeit without hoods, they barely recognize each other.
Hoody’s sister has already let on she will wait for her ex-boyfriend. She’s bought a new ashtray and will be waiting for his release, no matter how long it takes.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: A game of darts, anyone?
_____________________________________________________________________
It would be nice and dark at eight o’clock but Hoody was getting impatient. He had enjoyed hiding in the bushes and casing the joint over the last couple of weeks, and now it was almost time to act upon what he had learned. Briefing his Hoody mates proved to be the most difficult part of the operation this far, not the brightest buttons in the box.
The dartboard was taking a peppering, all he could think of to help the time pass. It had come with the flat along with three new sets of darts, all left by the previous tenant. One of his Hoody mates had laid claim to it but, when taken down, it was found to be covering a sizeable hole in the plasterboard wall. Hoody decided the dartboard would be staying.
He found he had a real aptitude for the sport, having listened to some advice given by one of the top professionals, who revealed his practice methods. Hoody adopted those same methods and found his game came on a bundle. Shanghai finishes. Single, treble and double on the same number. Best way to practice according to whatsisname, the world number five, Hoody caught the tail end of the interview but not the man’s name.
Despite the darts, the clock appeared to be almost in reverse mode. The time was dragging, to say the least. He had started at number one, throwing until he hit Shanghai on that, before progressing to number two and so on. When he reached four, he pinged it straight away and told himself to concentrate hard, he could do the same with five.
His first dart hit the single five just below the treble, the perfect marker. Arrow number two hit the wire of the treble but managed to stay in, somehow, precariously resting on his first effort. The third hit the wire of the double right in the corner and Hoody punched the air in delight.
Someone pipped a car horn and he went to the window to have a look. It was no one he knew.
When he turned back to the dartboard the double five dart fell to the floor. As he bent to pick it up, the treble dart fell too and struck the back of his neck but it didn’t feel like it had pierced his Hoody, no harm done.
Twenty minutes later he was on eleven and could feel the sweat running down his back. He knew the heating wasn’t on but felt at the radiator to double check. It was stone cold.
Then, the room was spinning, he couldn’t focus. The first dart didn’t even reach the board and his legs were wet, cold wet, his feet too, strange. He looked on helplessly as the floor rushed up to meet his face.
Hoody’s Hoody mates gathered at the appointed time. Huddling silently in the bushes, they watched as the old man left the building. Putting the bag he carried on the pavement, he reached for the shutter just as the Hoodies approached.
Sensing there was someone behind him, the old man turned to find five faceless Hoodies all but surrounding him. His brave attempt to punch the head of the biggest of them met with nothing but fresh air and the beating he took for his audacity left him lying in a bloody heap.
A passing dog walker called for an ambulance but couldn’t help the cops shed any light on what had happened. The old man died without regaining consciousness.
Deciding Hoody didn’t deserve a share of the spoils since he hadn’t shown up, the other Hoodies split the large sum of money between them and partied on into the night. They scored some choice drugs and all but cleared the corner shop shelves of alcohol. One even offered up a toast to Hoody but it was only a token gesture, a brief interruption to the high time being had.
Hoody’s best Hoody mate hadn’t a clue as to what time it was when he went to investigate Hoody’s absence. The door was open and the flat was in darkness but for the light above the dartboard and he all but tripped over the prone figure on the floor.
He soon came to realize Hoody was dead. That sobered him up a bit and brought him down from the high the drugs had provided. Deciding Hoody would have no further need for the new boots he had been swanking about all week, his Hoody friend set about relieving him of them. Someone moving in the flat upstairs panicked him into vacating the premises sharpish and he made his way home through the early morning shadows.
Hoody’s sister found him and called the cops. She had been secretly seeing Hoody’s best mate so, immediately the police were done with her, she called round to his house to break the news. The first thing she saw was Hoody’s new boots by the side of the bed and what appeared to be congealed blood encrusted around the upper lace holes. She put two and two together in a flash.
“BASTARD”, she yelled, before he was properly awake. “YOU’VE KILLED MY FUCKIN’ BROTHER.”
The heavy ashtray was brought into service repeatedly, the first thing she found to use as a weapon and it was having the desired effect while Hoody’s best mate struggled to come to terms with what was happening. His father stepped in to defuse the situation and got in the way of a couple of blows himself before Hoody’s sister collapsed in complete exhaustion, the broken and bloodied ashtray strewn about the room.
The ambulance rushed Hoody’s best mate to hospital. The cops listened to his assailant’s theory about the boots, searched the room and soon came up with a substantial amount of money and what was left of the drugs.
It didn’t take a genius to piece the clues together. Several sets of footprints, similar to those of the boots by the bedside, were found in the bushes where the Hoodies had hidden. The specific uniform of the Hoody gang dictated they should wear the same clothes and footwear in order to avoid individual detection in times of conflict. Added to the cash and the drugs, it was easy to solve the mysterious death of the old man. Hoody’s demise, however, was a different kettle of fish altogether.
The medical examiner scratched his head, puzzled at the amount of blood and the apparent absence of a wound.
A more detailed inspection of Hoody’s body at the mortuary wasn’t very forthcoming until the youngest member of the medical team found a tiny puncture wound and suggested it might well be a Kung Fu pressure point. The Chinese acupuncturist was sent for and another mystery was solved.
There are six less Hoodies roaming the streets. One is dead. Another is due to be released from hospital to the care of the prison hospital. The other four are still in uniform, albeit without hoods, they barely recognize each other.
Hoody’s sister has already let on she will wait for her ex-boyfriend. She’s bought a new ashtray and will be waiting for his release, no matter how long it takes.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in his 50s, an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in sunny Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing. He is inspired by the Ayrshire coast and likes what he calls "real music". He also enjoys pool, snooker and is a big fan of rugby league side, Wigan Warriors. He has written several novels and one poetry collection and says that writing gives him "endless pleasure". His two ebooks can be viewed by clicking on the images below.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.
Angus tells us that all his stories on McStorytellers have been inspired by the titles of songs written by Paul Kelly, who is often described as the poet laureate of Australia.