Souness: Revenge of the Ranger Part Four

I hooked the pulley over the zip slide, jumped from the roof of the hotel opposite Pacific Quay and in seconds I was careering towards the headquarters of the greatest enemy of Rangers outside of Celtic, BBC Scotland. The BBC in Glasgow is just an extension of Celtic these days, much like the SFA. My job tonight was to do something about that. Celtic had been found guilty by UEFA of sectarian singing by their fans but the media in Scotland, under orders from Lawwell were playing it down. The BBC more than most. Word had reached me that they intended to give it ten seconds, buried at the back of the programme in the sport section. The memory of the headlines attacking Rangers when they were in a similar position a few years back made it more clear than ever that the Pacific Quay CSC had an agenda, I couldn’t contain my rage and set off for a little revenge, Souness style. Findlay didn’t know of my work tonight and wouldn’t have sanctioned it had he known. Something about this made my zip slide across the Clyde more invigorating. I was back in the shadows, working for no one but myself.

I hit the roof and rolled and coming to, spotted a dark figure approaching me. Recognising it immediately as Stuart Cosgrove dressed as a bat, I fired three shots into his chest anyway and he staggered backwards and fell off the side of the building. A stupid way to die. The grappling hook appeared as expected and Cosgrove was back on the roof.
‘Souness, you maniac – you knew it was me, lucky my Kevlar breast plate saved me but then you knew I was wearing it, didn’t you? What were you trying to do, put me in my place?’
I grinned and said nothing. Didn’t have to. He had me sussed.

I asked him what he was doing on the roof. ‘I work here, where else am I going to begin my nightly patrols?’ he complained.
Nightly patrols. I have so much in common with this man and yet so little. I’ve never understood him and for that I detest him. I put this to the back of my mind and smiled as I remembered his expression when I shot him over the edge of the roof.
‘Are you here to gather information on the BBC’s burying of Celtic’s UEFA fine?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m here to shoot the people responsible for it,’ I replied. No point in gathering information. We know the BBC is culturally and institutionally biased against Rangers. Nothing will change that. Shooting a few of them will make me feel better though and that’s all that matters just now.'
‘Well I wouldn’t hang around here too long if I were you,’ said Cosgrove. ‘It’s dark, and they mostly come at night. Mostly,’ and then he shot his grappling hook skywards and took off towards the Science Centre.

I wondered what he meant but before I had time to ponder his words too much, I heard a noise from behind me and there was Chris McLaughlin crouched by a door, hissing at me. My Walther was out of its holster in a second and I fired two silenced shots into his chest. He kept coming. I put another two through him but he only halted briefly before coming on again. One right in the forehead snapped his head back but he straightened it and snarled at me, fangs glinting in the moonlight. One each to the knees and I was off back across the Clyde on the zip slide.

Back in my car, burning rubber as I tore through the streets I thought about Neil Lennon and Scott Brown, spewing filth across Scottish football. I thought about Chris McLaughlin sucking the life out of it. Zombies and vampires. This is a new world and I don’t like it. I don’t like anything that won’t stay dead when I shoot it.