a cold sweat

Albert woke up in a cold sweat, his throat was dry so he reached for one of the special brew cans that littered his floor and poured the last few drops into his mouth. Albert had been plagued by the same recurring dream for the last five days…..The Irish tramp was back and Albert didn’t like it one bit.
Alberts dream would always involve him being pursued by this Irish tramp through empty streets whilst heckling Albert over and over again with the catchphrase:
‘Your not a real tramp Davey, you don’t know the meaning of tramping, you live in a flat for Gods sake!’
The dream would end with Albert cowering in the corner of a dark alley with the Irish tramp and all Alberts associates standing over him. The Irish tramp would then say they’re laughing at you Davey. And then he would laugh that evil laugh of his in his mocking Irish accent.

Early bird catches the victim. Albert rose in the small hours, wiped the shit from his face using the back of his black hand, he then wiped the shit from the back of his black hand onto the back of his black jeans Later he would wipe the shit from his black jeans onto the palm of his black hand and rub wheelchair guys black face when he greeted him.

Out on the grind again, he walked along the grey streets that knew him only too well, lost in his own thoughts he did not notice the Irish tramp until he seemed to literally appear out of nowhere. The old Irish tramp was mincing around in what looked like a brand new tweed jacket. Albert was a fan of tweed and other swanky looking clothes that you could find in Oxfam. Not wanting to appear phased or even a little interested Albert held his head up pretending to take a swig of the empty special brew can in his hand and tried to do his bad man bop around the Irish tramp without acknowledging him.
“Daviiiee, what’s the crack with ya?” Albert wasn’t familiar with this lingo and frankly didn’t want to talk so he kept it moving.
The old Irish tramp ran around Albert and stood square in front of him, stabbing his walking stick firmly on the ground. This aggressive action was enough for to make Alberts kill or be killed instincts kick in. Albert was a quick learner and an accomplished street fighter a previous encounter with the Irish tramp had proved that his rusty fingernail strike was ineffectual against this formidable opponent. Albert buried his hands into the pockets of his swanky duffle coat and pulled out two baked bean cans which he swung at the Irish tramps head in a clapping motion, intending to crush his skull. Although Albert had used his super tramp speed his technique was made to look clumsy and slow as the Irish tramp leaned backwards matrix stylee, cackling, in a mocking fashion.
Albert was again left stunned, with a number of serious doubts about his abilities and self proclaimed title of top tramp in the bits. How could this Tramp evade one of Albert’s finishing moves so easily, just as he had evaded the rusty nail swipe in their previous encounter? Was this Irish tramp another super tramp? Was he better than Albert?
Albert was scared again. ‘ ‘Davey If I wanted you dead you’d be dead already, so stop tryin to kill me. A haha hahahahahahahha!
Albert replied. Who are you? What do you want?
The Irish tramp was gone.