TGI Chronicles Pt. 2 Ch. 08

"But you've got to get some help. You've got to learn to control this temper of yours. You can't run a pub if you're going to take a broken bottle to people who disagree with you about football. Hasn't anyone suggested some anger management counselling?"

"Me? Fucking counselling? You must be fucking joking. I've had my bellyful of fucking social workers that used to come and tell my Mum how to bring me up, or how I should spend my fucking time so as I wouldn't go out and nick cars for a bit of fun. No fucking way am I going to no fucking counselling."

"You should. You really should."

He suddenly stood up, but didn't move towards me, "Listen, you jumped up little fucker. I've done alright without no fucking counselling. I got myself a fucking beauty of a wife, one that fuckers like you want, don't you? And I've got two fucking gorgeous kids, and I've paid my fucking way for all of them. We got a decent house, and we'll get a fucking pub. And no fucking social worker got any of that for me, I did it all on me own."

I thought he was beginning to get a little too animated for my peace of mind, and anyway, I realised that I was getting nowhere, "You've done well, Pete, but you can't go round beating up every guy who you think had eyes on Lucy."

He took a step towards me, but somehow he didn't seem threatening at that moment, "No? But that's it, this is about you and me. It ain't about no fucking counselling. It ain't about my kids. It ain't even about Lucy. It's about you and me. You were fucking my wife, and I got you for it. Now, are you going to report me to the fucking Police for it or not?"

"I don't know. I'll be seeing the Police in the morning. I'm tired now. Go and find Lucy and go home."

"What? That's it?"

"Yes. Go home, Pete."

And he left, thank Goodness, and I fell asleep.