Brompton Square Gardens

Some people like do not use their minds when it comes to thinking of war. They follow along with whatever the sophistos of the media tell them. Always talk and talk and more talk of hundreds of thousands or millions of sorry sods marching off to victory only to die on the mud because some uptight shyte filled general told them to do so. Bloody hell. What these poor fools fail to realise is that the real wars happen each and every day right under their noses and before their blind eyes. Those little wars fought by groups of four or five, a nice comfortable number to fit inside an auto. More than likely one that they have stolen.   These little packs of youths tend to wear made up uniforms. Some kind of jacket, boots, a certain style shirt or trousers. They mark themselves with clothing as they mark their territory with graffiti and other sorts of tags. Being on the youthful side, these teen thugs almost never have firearms. Rather they go out with clubs, chains, knives and razors.   Now last summer two groups of these little feral savages decided to fight it out over which of their little groups would have control over the Brompton Square Gardens. It only came to blows due to Her idiot Majesty's moronic government deciding to make all parks and gardens public, ending the system of private parks and gardens that residents used to have for their own personal enjoyment. Of course not a single resident received reimbursement for all the communal fees the paid over the years or the increased crime and deliquency caused by the youths who should have been in school but were not.   It started out with one side throwing a length of pipe into the tire spokes of the other. The poor rider went down hard, head over heels, splitting his brain box open and leaving half his face rubbed across the pavement. At that everyone ran in at each other, all vying to out do the other to give the worst physical beatings possible. Of course though it had to be done with style and panache. No one wanted to look like a drop dead common ork.   The police were called, but par the course they took half the night to arrive. They brought a meat wagon with them and carried off the poor sods who were left laying about in the gutter off to the public hospital generously funded by the glorious National Health Service of her idiot Majesty's government. The aftermath such as it was, allowed one group of indigent teens to take a bit of protection money from the residents as they began to keep the riff raff and other scum out of the area. On the side they made a deal with a street chemical engineer to sell her concoctions and now the residients have top choice of recreational items, be they liquid, solid, gas or others.