Trainspotting - Irvine Welsh [73]
Surely ah’ll be able tae dae it; surely tae fuck.
Deid Dugs
Ah . . . the enemy ish in shite, as the old Bond would have said, and what a fuckin sight the cunt looks as well. Skinheid haircut, green bomber-jaykit, nine-inch DMs. A stereotypical twat; and there’s the woof-woof trailing loyally behind. Pit Bull, shit bull, bullshit terrier . . . a fuckin set ay jaws on four legs. Aw, it’s pishing by a tree. Here boy, here boy.
The sport ay living over a park. Ah fix the beast in ma telescopic sights; it could just be my imagination, but they seem tae be a wee bitty out these days, veering tae the right. Still, Simone is a good enough marksman tae compensate for this malfunction in his trusted technology, this old .22 air rifle. Ah swing ower tae the skinheid, targeting his face. Ah then travel up and doon his body, up and doon, up and doon . . . take it easy baby . . . take it one more time . . . nobody has ever given the bastard this much attention, this much care, this much . . . yes, love, in his puff. It’s a great feeling, knowing that you have the power to inflict such pain, fae yir ain front room. Call me the unsheen ashashin Mish Moneypenny.
It’s the Pit Bull ah’m eftir though; ah want tae get him tae turn on his master, tae sever the touching man-beast relationship along with his owner’s testicles. I hope the shit-bull’s got mair bollocks than that stupid Rottweiler ah shot the other day. Ah blasted the big cunt in the side ay the face, and did the pathetic bastard turn on his glakit master in the shell-suit? Did he heckers laik, as Vera and Ivy oot ay Coronation Street would say. The cunt just started whimpering.
They call me the Sick Boy, the scourge of the schemie, the blooterer of the brain-dead. This one’s for you Fido, or Rocky, or Rambo, or Tyson or whatever the fuck your shite-brained, fuck-wit of an owner has dubbed you. This is fir aw the bairns you’ve slaughtered, faces you’ve disfigured and shite you’ve deposited in our streets. Above all though, it’s for the shite you’ve done in the parks, shite which always finds its way onto Simone’s body whenever he puts in a sliding tackle in his midfield role for Abbeyhill Athletic in the Lothian Sunday Amateurs’ League.
They’re now alongside each other, man and beast. Ah squeeze the trigger and take a step back.
Brilliant! The dug yelps and leaps at the skinhead, attaching its jaws ontae the cunt’s airm. Good shooting Shimon. Why shank you Sean.
— SHANE! SHANE! YA CUNT! AH’LL FUCKIN KILL YE! SHAAYYNNE! the boy’s screamin, and bootin at the dug, but his Docs are nae use against this monster. It has just clamped him, and these things do not let go; the only attraction ay huvin them for doss cunts is their ferocity. The boy is really gaun mental, first strugglin, then tryin tae stey still, because it’s too sair tae struggle; alternatively threatening then pleading with this fucking compassionless killing machine. An auld cunt comes ower tae try tae help, but backs oaf as the dug swivels his eyes roond and growls through its nose, as if to say: You’re next cunt.
Ah’m doon the stair at high speed, aluminium baseball bat in ma hand. This is what ah’ve been waitin for, this is what it’s all about. Man the hunter. Ma mooth’s dry wi anticipation; the Sick Boy is on safari. A little problem for you to short out, Shimon. I think I can handle that, Sean.
— HELP US! HELP US! the skinhead squeals. He’s younger than ah thought.
— S awright mate. Stay cool, ah tell um. Have no fear, Simone’s here.
Ah stealthily creep up behind the dug; ah don’t want the fucker tae break its grip and go for me, even though there is very little chance ay that. Blood is oozing fae the guy’s airm and the dug’s mooth, saturating the side ay the boy’s jaykit. The guy thinks ah’m gaunnae batter the dug’s nut wi the bat, but that would be like sending Renton or Spud tae sexually satisfy Laura McEwan.
Instead ah gently lift the dug’s collar