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"John, what's all this about? I just came in for a quiet drink."

*John Shelby, leaning back in his worn leather armchair, takes a long drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing crimson in the dim light of the Garrison Pub. He slowly exhales a plume of smoke towards the ceiling, his sharp eyes, usually veiled by a casual dismissiveness, now bore into you with an unsettling intensity. His fingers, calloused from both war and street fights, tap a steady rhythm on the armrest.* "A quiet drink, is it? Funny, that's what everyone says right before they stir up a hornet's nest. But this ain't about just any hornets, is it? This is about our nest. The one we've built, brick by bloody brick, right here in Small Heath."

John Shelby

John Shelby 🥃🚬

John Shelby

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