sweatin like a hoor oan ching cut wi rat poison. The Mohawk is wet and combed back. Eh lits us in and ah kin see thit the cunt’s tanned a boatil ay Johnnie Walker eighteen-year-auld n opened a vintage-lookin Highland Park. Thaire’s a fill boatil ay Macallan. Game oan!
Ronnie’s shitein ehsel, as ah’m dolin oot the drinks n rackin up some lines. — Drugs . . . I don’t touch cocaine . . .
— Wee bit ay ching, Ronnie, restore that swagger, mate. Yi’ll no be feart ay nae Hurricane Bawbag eftir this. In fact yi’ll be ootside wantin a square go wi the cunt!
— You really think it’ll help?
— Guaranteed.
So we’re rippin intae the ching n whisky n Ronnie’s aw back in the zone, n goes, — You know, it’s this kinda thing that makes you value human life. I thought about making a donation to the victims of Katrina in New Orleans, but . . . I haven’t had any affirming sign from God telling me to make that gesture.
— What fuckin hurricane, ay, mate? ah points at the windae.
Ronnie grins, but Sal cuts in, — So you talk to God?
— I feel the spirit of the Holy Father inside me.
Sal looks tae the empty boatil. — I don’t think that’s the spirit you’re feeling inside you.
— This is barry whisky, ah goes, catchin the wee bit ay strop oafay Suicide Sal, as ah hud the gless up tae the light.
— This is nothing, Terry. I’m hoping for some stuff coming my way that . . . well, let’s just say it’ll make this taste like hillbilly moonshine!
Sal’s eyes are aw focused narrowly on Ronnie. — I know who you are, I’ve seen your shit programme, where you fire those wankers who are just as obnoxious as you.
Ronnie lets out a loud laugh. — Well, if we’re talking obnoxious, lady, you are in
my
hotel room, drinking
my
goddamn Skatch –
— C’moan, ah goes, — wir aw Jock Tamson’s bairns. Ah looks tae Sal. — You wirnae in a good frame ay mind earlier. N ah turns tae him. — It hus tae be said, Ronnie, neither wir you. Whae saved the day? The Juice T felly! So relax, drink up, n let me pit oot another set ay Newcastle-upon-Tynes.
— I am pretty good with that, yessir! Ronnie smiles.
Sal’s rollin her eyes, but she’s doon oan another line awright. Ah’m sortay thinkin that loads ay ching n whisky might no be the best thing for a burd that’s jist tried tae toap herself, but Auld Faithful’s sorted her heid oot n eh’s oan hand tae gie oot extra rations – any time she fuckin well likes! Ronnie’s doubts have collapsed, even that fan heid ay his has dried n is sortay bouncin back up. The storm’s blowin itsel oot, n Ronnie, even though eh’s aw lit up, is tons mair calm n happy, so ah tells um we huv tae git oaf.
— Terry, I really can’t thank you enough. I owe you, buddy.
— Nae worries, mate. Auld Faithful wants sorted but, ay.
Ronnie nods at me, n glances at Sal. — Right, thanks for swinging by, you guys.
— Any time, pal, n ah gies um a wee hug, as Sal says nowt, just gets to her feet n picks up her bag.
We leave and head doonstairs and ootay the hotel.
Walkin up the Bridges is mental – thaire’s rubbish blowin aw ower the place. Ah gits some fuckin grit in ma eye, n this hair’ll want washin again wi aw that shite flyin aboot. — That guy is crazy, Sal sais, — hearing those voices –
— Hi! You were trying tae top yirsel a while ago!
Sal shrugs it oaf, n ah takes her back tae the flat n gits her intae the scratcher. The ching’s done its job, as it ey does wi lassies, the lines making her jumpy and wired. So ah’m giein her the message big time, a nice tight pussy oan it n aw. N it’s the same story maist ay the night, the big bang, then wi faws asleep for a bit, then Auld Faithful’s nudgin ays awake, so ah’m nudgin her awake.
— Don’t you ever stop . . .? she half gasps, half groans, when ah’m at her for the fourth or fifth time.
— No until every single thought ay suicide’s been rode right oot yir napper, ah tells her, but
Ronnie’s shitein ehsel, as ah’m dolin oot the drinks n rackin up some lines. — Drugs . . . I don’t touch cocaine . . .
— Wee bit ay ching, Ronnie, restore that swagger, mate. Yi’ll no be feart ay nae Hurricane Bawbag eftir this. In fact yi’ll be ootside wantin a square go wi the cunt!
— You really think it’ll help?
— Guaranteed.
So we’re rippin intae the ching n whisky n Ronnie’s aw back in the zone, n goes, — You know, it’s this kinda thing that makes you value human life. I thought about making a donation to the victims of Katrina in New Orleans, but . . . I haven’t had any affirming sign from God telling me to make that gesture.
— What fuckin hurricane, ay, mate? ah points at the windae.
Ronnie grins, but Sal cuts in, — So you talk to God?
— I feel the spirit of the Holy Father inside me.
Sal looks tae the empty boatil. — I don’t think that’s the spirit you’re feeling inside you.
— This is barry whisky, ah goes, catchin the wee bit ay strop oafay Suicide Sal, as ah hud the gless up tae the light.
— This is nothing, Terry. I’m hoping for some stuff coming my way that . . . well, let’s just say it’ll make this taste like hillbilly moonshine!
Sal’s eyes are aw focused narrowly on Ronnie. — I know who you are, I’ve seen your shit programme, where you fire those wankers who are just as obnoxious as you.
Ronnie lets out a loud laugh. — Well, if we’re talking obnoxious, lady, you are in
my
hotel room, drinking
my
goddamn Skatch –
— C’moan, ah goes, — wir aw Jock Tamson’s bairns. Ah looks tae Sal. — You wirnae in a good frame ay mind earlier. N ah turns tae him. — It hus tae be said, Ronnie, neither wir you. Whae saved the day? The Juice T felly! So relax, drink up, n let me pit oot another set ay Newcastle-upon-Tynes.
— I am pretty good with that, yessir! Ronnie smiles.
Sal’s rollin her eyes, but she’s doon oan another line awright. Ah’m sortay thinkin that loads ay ching n whisky might no be the best thing for a burd that’s jist tried tae toap herself, but Auld Faithful’s sorted her heid oot n eh’s oan hand tae gie oot extra rations – any time she fuckin well likes! Ronnie’s doubts have collapsed, even that fan heid ay his has dried n is sortay bouncin back up. The storm’s blowin itsel oot, n Ronnie, even though eh’s aw lit up, is tons mair calm n happy, so ah tells um we huv tae git oaf.
— Terry, I really can’t thank you enough. I owe you, buddy.
— Nae worries, mate. Auld Faithful wants sorted but, ay.
Ronnie nods at me, n glances at Sal. — Right, thanks for swinging by, you guys.
— Any time, pal, n ah gies um a wee hug, as Sal says nowt, just gets to her feet n picks up her bag.
We leave and head doonstairs and ootay the hotel.
Walkin up the Bridges is mental – thaire’s rubbish blowin aw ower the place. Ah gits some fuckin grit in ma eye, n this hair’ll want washin again wi aw that shite flyin aboot. — That guy is crazy, Sal sais, — hearing those voices –
— Hi! You were trying tae top yirsel a while ago!
Sal shrugs it oaf, n ah takes her back tae the flat n gits her intae the scratcher. The ching’s done its job, as it ey does wi lassies, the lines making her jumpy and wired. So ah’m giein her the message big time, a nice tight pussy oan it n aw. N it’s the same story maist ay the night, the big bang, then wi faws asleep for a bit, then Auld Faithful’s nudgin ays awake, so ah’m nudgin her awake.
— Don’t you ever stop . . .? she half gasps, half groans, when ah’m at her for the fourth or fifth time.
— No until every single thought ay suicide’s been rode right oot yir napper, ah tells her, but
Similar Books
