Evenin' all,

	Well, this one started out life as part of the Sandman/Vertigo
series I`m currently working on, but halfway through turned into a 
Common People piece and refused to change back, so I left it as it
was. Besides, it's been a while since I've written one of these pieces...
As usual, comments welcome. Feel free to archive if you wish, but unless
you're Laersyn and you run the Common People homepage, let me know first,
eh? 

Disclaimer - not really necessary since all the characters in this story
belong to me. The Common People concept was created by myself, Kielle and
David Warner, so again no need to say anything. The Druid's Head pub,        
however, does not belong to me. Much as I wish otherwise. It's a place in
Brighton that has been a public house/tavern/inn for over four hundred
years, and I've heard some very good tales told there. Cheers.

	*	*	*

	WARNING!!! This piece contains strong language! If the heavy use 
of swear words offends you then DON'T READ THIS. You have been warned.
	It also contains minor violence - considerably less than you see
in your average X-men issue but a lot more realistic. It's not strong enough
to really deserve a warning but I thought I'd mention it just in case.

	*	*	*

    	The Common People: Stories You Hear Down the Pub

        By Phil Foster
        5 Jan 97

    The Druid's Head pub, Saturday afternoon an' I feel like shit.

    'Course considering the amount of booze I went through last night that's
hardly a surprise. An' it's not as if I'm not used to these sorts of
afternoons - sitting at a table with half a pint of Guiness infront of me,
trying to remember what the fuck I was doin' last night an' why the hell I
agreed to share that last spliff with Chas at four thirty in the morning...

    Just thinkin' about it brings back a fresh wave of sickness an' I down
my pint to steady my system a bit, counteracting one drug with another an'
dreadin' the time tomorrow mornin' when I'm gonna have to let my system
deal with it. I finish off the pint just in time since Chas is bringing over
a fresh round. He grins as he looks at me.

    "You look like shit, mate."

    "Yeah, an' you're ugly. At least the hangover wears off."

    "Christ, even yer jokes are crap..." He sets the pints down on the table
an' starts working on his one. I've known him for long enough now to know
he's feelin' as bad as me, or at least he will do sometime soon, an' so I 
join him in the third hair of the dog that day, an' we get back to tryin' to
remember half of what we did at the party last night.

    "So anyway, that young lass last night. Who was she, eh?" he asks,
leering like a fifty-year-old man watching girls in the park.

    "Who was that, then?" Chas an' me go back a long way - he's been me best
mate for years. But sometimes I still can't tell if he's bullshitting or
not.

    "You remember. Short, black hair, tight dress. An' all over you last
night."

    "Aw bollocks..." A flash of memory hits me from the party. He's not
bullshitting. "Believe me, mate, she was all over everyone last night. A
little bit too desperate for me."

    He grins again. "So, anythin' happen?"

    "Wot? With a slapper like that? Gimme some credit."

    He's about to reply when I grab a chance to change the conversation.
"Oy! Keith!" I yell, spotting another mate of mine who was at the party. 
A tall, thin bloke with short black hair and clothing that looks like it's 
been slept in for three days turns round an' staggers over to us, slumping
down in a chair as soon as he reaches it. "How're you feelin' this mornin', 
then?"

    Keith looks up, grunts a couple of times an' crashes out on the table.
Chas an' me share a look before cracking up with laughter. At least
someone's feelin' worse than we are...

    He gets up after a few moments an' stumbles over to the bar, mumbling
about gettin' a drink. Chas decides to follow him to make sure he stays
upright, an' I'm left on me own for a moment, beginning to feel a bit of the
post-party blues comin' on. I look around the pub that's startin' to be a
second home to me - I know all the barstaff by name, and all the 'witty' 
quotations plastered around the walls an' the same old pictures in the same 
old places. It suddenly strikes me that I can't remember the first time I 
came in here.

    It's got to be a habit - if we go an' get plastered on a Friday night
we usually end up here for Saturday afternoon, sittin' round to let the
hangover wear down an' often as not gettin' pissed again before movin' off
somewhere else to be loud an' drunk for the rest of the night. I watch an
old bloke by the bar quietly nursing his pint, an' suddenly wonder what the
fuck I'm doin' with my life. Just livin' weekend to weekend, earnin' money
just so's I can go out an' get pissed for two days in a row. Fuckin' waste
really.

    Then Keith wanders back over an' I shake my head to clear it. Not the
best of things to be thinkin' about on a Saturday afternoon. If we're
lucky they'll stick the rugby on later an' we won't have to think about
anythin' for a couple of hours. But for now we just sit down an' chat,
rememberin' bits from the party an' remindin' each other of the stupid
things we did last night. An' gradually the beers an' the afternoon work
their magic an' the hangovers wear off.

    An' as the fourth an' fifth pints slide down more easily an' Chas is
telling us about his first time gettin' pissed on cocktails for what could
be the hundredth time this month, I find meself thinkin' about the sort of
stuff we're sayin'. About how much of our conversation is about the past - 
things we've done together an' good times we've had, telling each other 
stories we've all heard Christ knows how many times before. As if we've 
gotta keep reminding ourselves of the good memories. As if we've gotta take
care of them, 'cause if we don't then we'll lose them forever.

    An' that's when I hear some shouting goin' on over a nearby table. Chas
an' Keith've both heard it as well an' we all turn round to see a couple of
blokes standing up an' yelling at each other a couple of tables away. Great.
Another couple of stupid wankers tryin' to act hard in front of their
girlfriends on a Saturday night.

    We turn back to our drinks an' try to ignore the yellin', until it gets
louder an' we realise more twats've joined in. I turn round just in time to
see the first punch thrown an' one of the guys go flat on his back - an'
then watch in amazement as the other guy tries to climb across the table to
get to him. Glass an' beer goes everywhere, an' by now the whole table's up
an' watching, ready to join in the fight.

    I share a look with Chas an' we both get up, ready to clear out of there
if trouble comes our way. In that short time things have turned to mayhem -
one bloke's on the floor with another smacking his face in an' both their
girlfriends screaming at them to stop. Not a chance, luv. They're both
pissed an' they've got their mates around them. Speakin' of which...

    "Oy! That's my mate yer fuckin' wiv!"

    Yep. The battle cry of the Saturday night Townie. Knew it wouldn't be 
long before another wanker joined in. Glass is still flyin' everywhere an' 
it's getting ugly. Where the fuck are the bouncers? We've still got a 
clear path to the door without getting involved and Keith gets up to take 
it, Chas an' me ready to follow.

    "Oy! Leave 'im alone or I'll fuckin' deck ya!"

    Then things get nasty. The crowd are startin' to move back, givin' room
to the three or four guys wrestlin' on the floor of the pub - it's amazin'
how much room a fight like this takes up - an' then there's a scream from
one of the women an' the sound of one hell of a lot of broken glass.

    I don't see much 'cause there's people in the way, but I see one bloke
go flyin' across the room with glass all around him, an' by the way the
crowd move back I know it's bad.

    Shit.

    I scramble over the chairs to get out, barely noticing the fresh pint of
Guiness spilling over my jeans as I clamber over the last chair an' start to
push people out of the way. Even from here I can tell that bloke's been hurt
bad.

    I was right. Shoving another gawping drinker out of the way I get near
to the guy lyin' on the floor. His girlfriend's yelling at the barman. "Of
course he needs a fucking ambulance!" She's screaming, crying more in
frustration and anger than anything else. Looking down at her boyfriend I
can see why.

    I'm vaguely aware of the fight still going as I stumble over to him -
where the *fuck* are the bouncers? - an' as I kneel down by the bloke I can
still hear shouted threats behind me, echoed by falling tables and the
squeak of chairs as people move out of the way.

    "Look what you did to me fuckin' mate! I'm gonna fuckin' kill ya!"

    'If yer so bothered about yer mate, why ain't you over here doin'
somethin' to help?' The thought runs through my mind an' then I block it out
as I focus on the guy lyin' beneath me. At first glance it looks pretty bad
- the back of his head hit something hard on the way down an' he's not
movin'. The front of his face is pretty fucked up as well, so I move in
closer to get a better look.

    'Course then his girlfriend gets in the way, grabbing hold of me an'
shoving her face into mine, all lipstick and streaming mascara. "Can you
help him?" she almost screams at me. "For God's sake DO something! Are you a
doctor?"

    I push her away, barely giving her a cursory response. "Nah, luv. I'm a
mutant." I reach down towards his head - gotta get skin contact to do any
real good - an' lean closer to him.

    "A mutant...? Oh God! Get away from him!" Aw Christ... She grabs my
shoulder and tries to pull me away - 'course she's a lot smaller'n me an' 
there's no way she can move me, but this is something I *really* don't 
need right now. I turn an' yell at her.

    "Shut up woman, and *fuck* off! I'm tryin' to save his life here!" I
don't know whether the words get through or she's just stunned by the
sound of my voice, but she falls back to sit against the wall. Good.

    Placing my hands either side of his head I try and block out the noises
around me and concentrate. The guy's a mess. I feel my way into his cranium,
extending senses and touch round the back of his head to where the greatest
damage is. 

    Shit.

    The back of his head's been fractured, and parts of the bone have
scraped away at the brain. This guy's in a seriously bad way - even if he
got to hospital now he'd end up with brain damage of some sort. I can feel
his body underneath my hands, screaming out in its attempt to heal itself,
flooding itself wildly with adrenaline and morphine as it draws all available
energy to reform back to its proper shape.

    It can't be done. This amount of damage is way beyond the body's natural
ability to heal. In healing, the body remembers its shape and tries to reform 
it; cells multiplying in patterns echoed down through the generations. This 
much damage throws it into overdrive and the body can nearly tear itself 
apart tryin' to patch up the vital parts.

    I concentrate and let energy flow through my hands. I direct it straight
to the brain as there's no time to waste on other parts of the body. I can 
feel the cells regenerating in my hands, growing and bursting out at an 
incredible rate to heal over the damage. His bone begins to knit back 
together and his brain attempts to reform its shape.

    I realise I'm in no state to do this properly. I haven't eaten all day,
I'm exhausted from the party last night and I've got way too many beers
inside me already. I dunno how far I can go with this, but hopefully I can
keep him alive long enough for...

    "Oy!" There's a hand on my shoulder pulling me away. I stagger upwards
as the contact is broken, the sudden wrenching from one view to another
shocking my brain for a moment. "You ain't helpin' 'im," says a figure
infront of me. I can't concentrate properly. "He gets wot's comin' to 'im,
an' if you help 'im then I'll do you as well, mate."

    Stupid fuckin' wanker. "You've done enough already, mate," I reply,
still not focusing properly. "Now fuck off!" I turn to go an' his fist
barrels towards me. No way can I block it, an' the state I'm in I'll
probably go down on the first punch - an' I *really* ain't got time for
that.

    That's where I'm glad I came with me mates. Chas grabs his arm an' steps
infront of him, blocking me off from the wanker, an' Keith grabs my shoulder
an' tells me to get back to the other bloke. Now Chas is a big lad, an' not
many people'd argue with him. With Keith there as well I know I can trust
them to watch my back.

    Staggering back to the guy on the floor - with half his blood lyin' in a
pool around him - I try to regain the contact an' carry the process on. I've
lost valuable time. His morphic field is weaker, losin' the memory of the
body's shape so I force my way into his field again an' start to flood his
system with energy.

    It takes forever. Growin' the brain connections back again and sealin' 
the bone over it, then tryin' to make up for lost blood while tryin'
to calm down the inflamed membranes in his cranium. I get lost in the flow
of energy an' the movement of cells, dividin' and recreatin', patchin' up
the damaged tissue an' strengthenin' the body's morphic field. I lose track
of anythin' goin' on outside us, trustin' Chas an' Keith to cover me.

    An' then I hit rock bottom, the limit of how much I can help him. My own
energy reserves are gone an' there's nothin' left for me to give him. From
here on it's up to the ambulance crew; assumin' of course that they ever
get here. I let go an' lean back, breakin' the contact an' becoming aware 
of the rest of the pub again. The bouncers've finally got here an' are 
holdin' the two guys back from each other, ignorin' their threats an' the 
yellin' from their girlfriends while draggin' them out the door.

    I look back at the bloke on the floor. His girlfriend's leanin' over
him an' keepin' her back to me. Fine by me. I try an' stand up an' look for
Chas or Keith only to find me legs givin' out on me, an' only a nearby chair
stops me from hitting the floor. Then Chas has got hold of me an' he
sticks my arm round his shoulder for support. "Come on, mate," he says,
half dragging me towards the door. "Let's get you out of here before they
start asking questions." Which is fine by me as I'm realisin' just how much
that stunt took out of me.

    An' so we stagger out of the pub like the drunken bastards we are,
headin' off to grab a curry an' then carry on drinkin', wanderin' from pub
to pub to meet people an' drink ourselves stupid. An' of course we're all
gonna tell everyone the story of the fight, addin' little bits in an'
forgettin' others. An' I can just see us all now, sittin' in the same pub
next week tellin' some other mate of ours about it, even though he's heard
it anyway. Another story to add to the list, I think, laughin' to myself.
Another memory we're gonna keep alive for as long as we can. Another one of
them drunken stories you just hear when you're down the pub.

-- 

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           Phil Foster | ian@wire.co.uk
            "Moines a pint a scrumpy!"
        http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/7746
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