Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [64]
— Ah’m no gaun tae any fuckin rave clubs. You sais yirsel thit thir fir fuckin bairns.
— Aye, but that wis before ah went tae yin.
— Well ah’m no fuckin gaun tae yin. So let’s fuckin pub crawl well, n git some cunt in the fuckin bogs.
— Nah. Ah cannae be ersed.
— Fuckin shitein cunt! Yir still fuckin shitein yir keks aboot the other weekend in the Bull and Bush.
— Naw ah’m no. It wis jist unnecessary, that’s aw. The whole fuckin thing.
Begbie looked at Rents, and likes, really tensed up in his seat. He’s straining forward, n ah thoat the dude wis gaunnae gub the Rent Boy, likesay, ken.
— Eh? Eh! Ah’ll fuckin unnecessary ye, ya radge cunt!
— C’moan Franco. Take it easy man, Sick Boy says.
Begbie seems tae realise that he’s ower the top, likesay, even fir him. Keep these claws in catboy. Show the world some soft pads. This is a bad cat, a big, bad panther.
— We fill in some fuckin Sherman Tank. Whaes he tae you? The smart cunt deserved ivraything he goat! Besides, ah didnae see you fucking lookin the other wey whin we wir in the fuckin snug at the Barley divvyin up the fuckin loot.
— The guy ended up unconscious in the hoespital, he loast a loat ay fuckin blood. It wis in the News . . .
— The cunt’s awright now though! It fuckin sais! Nae fuckin herm done tae nae cunt. N even if thir wis, so fuck? Some fuckin rich American cunt whae shouldnae even fuckin be here in the first place. Whae gies a fuck aboot that cunt? N you ya cunt, you’ve chibbed some cunt before; Eck Wilson, at the school, so dinnae you fuckin start gaun aw fuckin squeamish.
That sortay shuts Rents up cause he likesay hates talkin aboot that, but it sortay happened, ken? That wis jist lashin oot at some cat that wis scratchin ye like, no likesay plannin tae dae some radge ower. Beggars likesay cannae see the difference but. It wis bad though, really sick likesay . . . the Yank, the boy likes, jist wouldnae hand ower the wallet, even when Begbie pulled the chib, likesay . . . the last words ah heard the dude say wis: You won’t use that.
Begbie went fucking crazy, goat that carried away likesay, wi the bladework, ken, we nearly forgoat the wallet likes. Ah goat intae the guy’s poakits and fished it oot while Begbie wis bootin um in the face. Blood wis flowin intae the latrine, mixin wi the pish, Ugly, ugly, ugly man, likesay, ken? Ah still shake thinkin aboot it. Ah lie in bed n likes, shudder. Everytime ah see a punter, likesay, whae looks like our catboy, Richard Hauser of Des Moines, Iowa, USA, ah freeze. Whenever ah hear a Yank voice in the toon, ah jump. Violence is fuckin ugly man. The Beggar, dear old Franco, he raped us likesay, raped us aw that night, sort ay shafted us up oor erses n peyed us oaf, like we wir hoors man, ken likes? Bad cat Beggar. A wild, wild cat.
— Whae’s comin? Spud? Begbie’s talkin tae us. He’s bitin his bottom lip.
— Eh, likesay . . . eh . . . violence n that . . . isnae really ma sortay gig . . . ah’ll jist stey n git bombed . . . likesay, ken?
— Another shitein cunt, he turns away fae me . . . no disappointed, like he sort ay expects nothin fae us in this kinday gig likesay . . . which is mibbe good n mibbe no sae good, but who really kens the score aboot anything these days, likesay?
Sick Boy says somethin aboot bein a lover, no a fighter, and Begbie’s aboot tae say somethin, whin Matty goes: — Ah’m game.
This diverts Begbie’s attention fae Sick Boy. The Beggar Boy then starts tae praise Matty, likes, n calls us aw the shitein cunts under the sun; but it’s like tae me thit Matty’s the shitein cunt, likesay, because he’s the groover that goes along wi everything Franco sais . . . ah’ve never really liked Matty . . . one fucked up punter. Mates take the pish oot ay each other