Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [44]
— Whair ur ye gaun? Whair!
— Ah telt ye, ah’ve goat tae fuckin nash. Me n Lexo pulled a bit ay business oaf. Ah’m sayin nae mair oan the fuckin subject, but it’s best ah disappear fir a couple ay weeks. Any polis cunts come tae the door, yuv no seen us fir yonks. Ye think ah’m oan the fuckin rigs, right. Yuv no seen us, mind.
— But whair ur ye gaun Frank? Whair ur ye fuckin well gaun?
— That’s fir me tae ken n you tae find oot. What ye dinnae fuckin well ken they cannae fuckin well beat oot ay ye, ah sais.
Then the fuckin boot gits up n starts fuckin screamin it us, saying thit ah cannae jist fuckin go like that. Ah punches it in the fuckin mooth, n boots it in the fuckin fanny, n the cunt faws tae the flair, moanin away. It’s her fuckin fault, ah’ve telt the cunt thit that’s what happens when any cunt talks tae us like that. That’s the fuckin rules ay the game, take it or fuckin leave it.
— THE BAIRN! THE BAIRN! . . . she screams.
Ah jist goes: — THE BAIRN! THE BAIRN! back at her, likes. — Shut yir fuckin mooth aboot the fuckin bairn! She’s jist lyin thair, screamin like some fuckin tube.
It’s probably no even ma fuckin bairn anywey. Besides, ah’ve hud bairns before, wi other lassies. Ah ken whit it’s aw aboot. She thinks it’s aw gaunnae be fuckin great whin the bairn comes, but she’s, in fir a fuckin shock. Ah kin tell ye aw aboot fuckin bairns. Pain in the fuckin erse.
Shavin gear. That’s what ah fuckin need. Kent thir wis somethin.
She’s still gaun oan aboot how she’s aw sair n tae git the fuckin doaktir n aw that. Ah’ve nae fuckin time fir that shite but, ah’m fuckin late is it is thanks tae that cunt. Goat tae fuckin nash.
— FRRRAAAANNNK! she shouts as ah git ootay the fuckin door. Ah wis thinkin tae masel, it’s like the fuckin advert fir Harp lager: ‘Time fir a sharp exit’; that wis me awright.
It wis fuckin stowed oot doon the pub, early fuckin doors n aw. Renton, the rid-heided cunt, pots the fuckin black baw tae take the game fi Matty.
— Rab! Pit ma fuckin name up fir the pool then. Whit’s every cunt fuckin wantin? Ah git up tae the bar.
Rab, the Second Prize, as we caw the cunt, he’s goat a fuckin stoatir ay an eye. Some fuckin liberty-taker’s been oan the cunt’s case.
— Rab. Whae the fuck did this tae ye?
— Aw, a couple ay guys up Lochend, ken. Ah wis bevvied. The cunt looks at us, aw fuckin sheepish like.
— Goat names?
— Naw, but dinnae worry, ah’ll git the cunts man, it’s aw sorted oot.
— Be sure ye fuckin dae. D’ye ken the cunts?
— Naw, by sight, like.
— Whin me n Rents git back fae fuckin London, we’ll go up tae fuckin Lochend. Dawsy goat filled in up thair a wee bit back. Thir’s some questions need fuckin answering, sure n thir fuckin is.
Ah turns tae Rents: — Aw set ma man?
— Rarin tae go, Franco.
Ah racks up n slaughters the cunt, leavin the fucker two baws oaf bein grannied. — Ye might be able tae fuckin handle the likes ay Matty n Seeks, bit whin Hurricane Franco gits oan the fuckin table, ye kin firget it, ya rid-heided cunt, ah tells um.
— Pool’s fir arseholes man, he sais. Humpty cunt. Everything that rid-heided cunt’s shite at’s fir arseholes, accordin tae that cunt.
Wuv goat tae be movin, so thirs nae sense in playing any mair. Ah looks ower tae Matty n pills oot a wad. — Hi Matty! Ken whit this is? Ah waves the notes it the cunt.
— Eh . . . aye . . . he sais.
Ah points tae the bar: — Ken whit that is?
— Eh . . . aye . . . the bar. The cunt’s slow. Too fuckin slow. N ah ken how.
— Ken whit this is? ah points tae ma pint.
— Eh . . . aye . . .
— Well dinnae make us fuckin spell it oot fir ye then, ya cunt. Pint ay fuckin Special n a Jack Daniels n coke then, cunt!
He comes ower, n sais tae us: — Eh Frank, ah’m a wee bit short, ken . . .
Ah ken how, awright. — Mibbe ye’ll fuckin grow, ah sais. The cunt takes the hint, n hits the bar. He’s fuckin usin again, that’s if the cunt ivir really stoaped in