The Chav Diamond Job
Ambrose arrived in Toronto with three things.
A tailored black coat.
A ticket to Thursday’s World Cup match.
And a velvet case containing several diamonds that absolutely should not have been left anywhere near Wells.
Toronto was already vibrating with World Cup energy. The city was hosting FIFA World Cup matches through July 2, including a Thursday Round of 32 match at Toronto Stadium, the tournament name for BMO Field.
So naturally, Ambrose had come prepared.
He had hotel reservations.
He had match credentials.
He had dinner plans.
He had security protocols.
He had, unfortunately, underestimated Wells.
Only slightly.
The problem began in Ambrose’s suite at the hotel, where Wells had been invited for what Ambrose called “a brief tactical conversation” and Wells called “free snacks before we go out.”
The suite overlooked the city in late-afternoon gold. Traffic moved below. Flags hung from balconies. Somewhere nearby, fans were already chanting.
Ambrose stood by the window, polished and unreadable, checking something on his phone.
Wells stood by the side table, trying not to stare at the open velvet case.
Trying.
Failing.
Inside it sat a diamond the size of a very expensive mistake.
It was not clear, exactly. Not fully. Light moved inside it in strange little flashes: gold, white, black, then gold again. It looked like something that had been cut from lightning and bad decisions.
Wells leaned closer.
“Do not touch that,” Ambrose said without turning around.
Wells straightened immediately. “I wasn’t.”
“You were preparing to.”
Wells frowned. “Why does everyone say that to me?”
“Because you are predictable.”
“That is profiling.”
“That is pattern recognition.”
Ambrose closed the velvet case with one smooth motion and turned back to his phone.
That should have been the end of it.
It was not.
Ten minutes later, Wells left the suite with a protein bar, his sunglasses, and one of Ambrose’s hypno diamonds in one of the pockets of his shiny metallic gold compression shorts.
He did not consider it stealing.
Not exactly.
It was more of a temporary tactical inspection.
For safety.
For science.
For sparkle.
He was halfway down the elevator when his phone rang.
Ambrose.
Wells stared at the screen.
Then answered with maximum innocence.
“Hey, bro.”
There was a pause.
Then Ambrose said, “Return it.”
Wells looked around the elevator as if someone else might be holding the diamond.
“Return what?”
“The diamond.”
“What diamond?”
“The one currently in the right pocket of your shorts.”
Wells froze.
The elevator descended in soft, judgmental silence.
“That is an aggressive guess,” Wells said.
“It is a trained diamond.”
“It’s a rock.”
“It is responsive.”
“It sparkles.”
“It listens.”
Wells slowly looked down at his pocket.
Ambrose’s voice softened, which somehow made it worse.
“Wells.”
“Yeah?”
“That particular diamond is not designed for unsupervised jocks.”
Wells scoffed. “I am very supervised.”
“You stole it.”
“Borrowed.”
“Without asking.”
“Borrowed dynamically.”
“Wells.”
“What?”
“Do not look directly at it.”
The elevator doors opened into the lobby.
Wells stepped out.
The diamond gave one tiny flash through the fabric of his pocket.
He looked down.
And took the diamond out and held it in his hand. Mistake.
The world tilted half a degree.
Not much.
Just enough.
Wells blinked.
His shoulders rolled back. His stance widened. His jaw set. Something loud and shameless clicked into place behind his eyes.
Ambrose heard the shift through the phone.
“Oh no,” Ambrose said.
Wells grinned.
“Bruv.”
Ambrose closed his eyes.
Wells looked at the phone, then at his reflection in the polished elevator door.
“Wait,” he said slowly. “Why did I say bruv?”
“Because you looked at the diamond.”
“No I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.”
Wells patted the pocket.
The diamond flashed again.
His grin sharpened.
“Proper mint little rock though, innit?”
Ambrose sighed.
“Wells. Return to the suite.”
“Can’t, mate.”
“You can.”
“Negative. Got errands.”
“You do not have errands.”
“I have vibes.”
“You have conditioning.”
Wells looked at his reflection again.
The black athletic shirt suddenly felt wrong.
Too restrained.
Too clean.
Too lacking in attitude.
He wandered out of the hotel and into the warm Toronto street like a man on a mission he did not understand. Ten minutes later, he emerged from a Queen Street shop wearing a shiny gold track jacket unzipped over his chest, gold chain, oversized sunglasses, and the same metallic gold shorts sitting low with complete, unreasonable confidence.
His sneakers had somehow become flashier.
His walk had become louder.
His entire personality had gained bass.
His phone buzzed.
Ambrose: Where are you?
Wells sent back a photo of himself flexing in a storefront window.
Wells: Upgraded.
Ambrose did not reply for several seconds.
Then:
Ambrose: That is not an upgrade. That is a symptom.
Wells looked at the diamond again.
Another flash.
He tilted his sunglasses down.
“Symptom? Nah, bruv. This is drip.”
A passing tourist looked over.
Wells gave him a nod like they were old rivals.
The tourist moved faster.
By the time Wells reached Yonge Street on his way to Church Street, the diamond had made things worse.
Or better.
Depending who was asked.
He had bought a second gold chain, at a trendy boutique shop on Yonge as he felt he needed more bling.
He had started calling his reflection “big man.”
He had described the CN Tower as “standing there like it thinks it’s hard.”
He had texted Trey:
Wells: Where you at, bruv?
Trey responded instantly.
Trey: Absolutely not.
Wells: What?
Trey: Who gave you chav mode?
Wells: Born with it, mate.
Trey: I am calling Coach.
Wells laughed, then looked at the diamond again.
Flash.
He stopped outside a convenience store and bought a pair of gold-framed sunglasses even though he was already wearing sunglasses.
Layering, he decided, was a lifestyle.
Ambrose called again.
Wells answered with full confidence.
“Talk to me, boss man.”
“Where are you?”
“Toronto.”
“That is not useful.”
“Church Street.”
“That is slightly more useful. Do you still have the diamond?”
Wells patted his pocket.
“Course.”
“Stop touching it.”
“Can’t. It’s got presence.”
“It has programming.”
“It has drip.”
“It has an embedded suggestion matrix.”
“Same thing, innit?”
Ambrose went quiet.
Then, very calmly, he said, “Wells, listen carefully. The more you look at that diamond, the more it will reinforce the persona.”
Wells adjusted his chain. “Persona?”
“The chav.”
“I am not a chav.”
A streetcar bell rang in the distance.
Wells looked at his reflection in the window beside him: gold track jacket, gold shorts, chains, sunglasses, sweat still shining across his chest, posture full of swagger and terrible choices.
He paused.
Then nodded at himself.
“Actually, fair.”
Ambrose’s voice dropped. “Return the diamond before Thursday.”
Wells smirked. “Need it for the match.”
“You are not bringing a hypno diamond to a World Cup match.”
“Could be lucky.”
“It could turn an entire hospitality box into lads yelling ‘proper class’ at corner kicks.”
Wells considered this.
“Would improve the atmosphere.”
“Return it.”
“Make me.”
Ambrose smiled on the other end of the phone.
Wells did not see it.
That was probably for the best.
“Look at the diamond again,” Ambrose said.
Wells narrowed his eyes. “That feels like a trap.”
“It is instruction.”
“Same thing when you say it like that.”
“Look at it.”
Wells should not have.
Obviously.
But the diamond was already in his hand.
It caught the late sun.
Gold flashed through white.
White through black.
Black through something deeper.
Wells’s eyes unfocused.
His mouth opened slightly.
Ambrose’s voice slid through the phone, smooth as polished glass.
“Good. Full attention now.”
Wells stood very still.
The city moved around him.
Cars.
Fans.
Heat.
Noise.
All of it blurred.
Ambrose continued. “The diamond is stylish.”
“Proper stylish,” Wells murmured.
“It is valuable.”
“Yeah.”
“It belongs to Ambrose.”
Wells frowned faintly.
“It belongs to Ambrose,” Ambrose repeated.
Wells swallowed. “Belongs to Ambrose.”
“And Wells is going to return it.”
Wells’s hand tightened around the diamond.
The chav in him objected.
Loudly.
“Could keep it though.”
“You could.”
Wells grinned.
Ambrose added, “But then the next time you see it, you will feel an overwhelming urge to buy a full gold tracksuit, call every man in Toronto ‘bruv,’ and challenge a streetcar to a footrace.”
Wells blinked.
“That sounds…”
“Embarrassing?”
“Kind of sick.”
Ambrose pinched the bridge of his nose.
Then Wells’s phone buzzed with another incoming call.
Coach Stone.
Wells froze.
Ambrose heard the silence.
“Answer it.”
“I’m busy.”
“Answer Coach.”
Wells answered.
Coach’s voice came through like a whistle blast in human form.
“Return the diamond.”
Wells stared ahead.
“How does everyone know?”
“Trey sent photos.”
“Snitch.”
“Wells.”
“I look good though.”
“You look like a golden tracksuit robbed a gym.”
Wells looked at his reflection again.
The diamond flashed.
He smiled.
“Can’t lie, Coach. It’s got drip.”
There was silence.
Then Coach said, “Return. The. Diamond.”
The chav mode faltered.
Only slightly.
Enough for Wells to remember that Coach’s tone had consequences.
“Fine,” he muttered.
Ambrose was waiting in the hotel lobby when Wells returned twenty minutes later.
He did not look surprised.
He looked entertained.
That was worse.
Wells strode in wearing the gold track jacket, two chains, sunglasses, metallic gold shorts, and the expression of a man who had technically done something wrong but looked too good to apologize properly.
Ambrose held out one hand.
Wells looked at it.
Then at the diamond.
Then at Ambrose.
“Hypothetically,” Wells said, “what happens if I keep it?”
Ambrose tilted his head. “You will spend Thursday’s World Cup match shouting tactical advice in a chav accent while trying to sell counterfeit gold sunglasses to German fans.”
Wells paused.
“That is very specific.”
“The diamond is very thorough.”
Wells sighed dramatically and dropped the diamond into Ambrose’s palm.
The moment it left his hand, something loosened.
His posture softened.
His accent reset.
His brain, such as it was, came back online.
Mostly.
Wells looked down at himself.
Gold jacket.
Gold shorts.
Gold chains.
Sunglasses indoors.
He slowly removed one pair of sunglasses.
Then realized there was another pair underneath.
Ambrose smiled.
“How are you feeling?”
Wells stared at him.
“Like I owe Queen Street an apology.”
“Accurate.”
“And maybe a receipt.”
“Also accurate.”
Wells pointed at the diamond. “You did that on purpose.”
“You stole from me.”
“Borrowed.”
“Dynamically?”
Wells winced. “I hate that you remembered that.”
Ambrose closed the velvet case and slipped it into his coat.
“The suggestion will fade.”
Wells relaxed.
“Good.”
“Gradually.”
Wells stopped relaxing.
“How gradually?”
Ambrose started walking toward the elevator.
Wells followed.
“How gradually, Ambrose?”
Ambrose pressed the elevator button.
Behind them, a group of visiting fans passed through the lobby, laughing and wrapped in national flags. One of them wore a gold chain over a soccer jersey.
Wells glanced over.
His eyes narrowed in appreciation.
“Chain’s proper class,” he muttered.
Ambrose smiled without looking back.
“There it is.”
Wells closed his eyes.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Fix it.”
“Return my property faster next time.”
The elevator doors opened.
Ambrose stepped in.
Wells followed, still glittering, still ridiculous, still faintly chav-coded around the edges.
As the doors closed, Ambrose looked him up and down.
“For what it is worth,” he said, “you do wear the consequences well.”
Wells tried very hard not to smile.
Failed.
Then adjusted his gold chain.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Still looked class though.”
Ambrose laughed softly.
The diamond stayed locked in its case.
For now.
Some lessons sparkle brighter than others. Return what is not yours, trust the brothers who know your tells, and let the Gold turn every mistake into style, swagger, and discipline. Join the Golden Army. Contact: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Featuring: @chavambrose.
Mentions: @hero21us