Thursday, 27 July 2017

White Mosques of Dover

[Media prompt] A British truck driver was attacked and left for dead in Calais, northern France, when migrants hijacked his vehicle in a bid to enter the UK.
White Mosques of Dover

Mick Jones knew there’d be trouble. He’d heard from other drivers that the Black Moses was back, or whatever the ragheads called him, promising his squalid flock that, rapists and paedophiles the lot of them, they’d soon be over in the white mosques of Dover, arses in the air, ‘just you wait and see’. Organ grinder accessories is what they were, and they’d have had Vera Lynn wrapped in a burqa before she could sing “bluebirds”.

It was early morning, barely two o’clock. He hardly noticed passing under a green sign announcing the Tunnel sous la Manche, or that he veered onto the long right-hander for trucks more out of habit more than conscious driving. A mile or two on, looming out of the darkness, the razor wire began, curling over fence posts as high as his cab, funnelling traffic like sheep down a drafting race towards the tunnel and home. A special forces van was pulled off the road at one of the gates into la jungle de Calais, hard against the fence, and even in the washed out light he could tell the half-dozen guys in blue, sleeves rolled up, heavily armed, had never tested high on sensitivity assessments. No wonder the fauna couldn’t wait to get to England, where transgender coppers with nose rings marched with the rainbow alliance.

Four hundred metres to border control. Two hundred. Mick started to shift down through the gears, the engine note rising and falling. He could smell the sea. At one hundred metres they came, a black swarm pouring over the embankment, its spearhead breaking right and left, one tip to overrun his cab, hurling bricks at the windows, the other to break into the trailer with bolt cutters.

And the black coward himself? The Mohammedan Moses? The great man was leading his allahuh Akbar screamers and dreamers, the scum of the earth, from the rear. Mick wound down his window, spraying those closest to the truck with a dozen bullets from an FN P90, an effective little Belgian-made thug dropper. He couldn’t complain. One of the invaders lay immobile, by virtue of death or fear. Two moved, but barely and with howls of pain. The remainder were scattered far and wide. From the rear of the trailer came the sound of more shooting, a symphony of staccato bursts and the wailing wounded. Mick opened the door, climbing down into the cool night air, the smell of salt and blood in his nostrils, firing shots at the dearly departing. He put a bullet point blank into the head of a guy scuttling under the truck, then walked to the back doors.

One of the three armed men who greeted Mick’s appearance with bare nods of their heads lay on his stomach, sighting through a scope mounted on an old ArmaLite. He squeezed off a round, which took out jihadi general cleanly.

“Onto England, then” said Mick, ushering the men back inside and shutting the doors.
He climbed back into his seat, only the idling engine breaking the silence. One of the Africans lying doggo on the embankment tried to raise himself up, but fell back to earth. At border control, there was a cursory check for immigrants hiding under the truck. They didn’t even bother with the dog or the carbon dioxide meters.

In the Chunnel, he fiddled with the music until the opening strains of the orchestra filled his ears and then the words he always loved listening to as he left Calais: “There’ll be bluebirds over…”

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