lovely furs?
I
didn’t want to sell them.’
‘You’ll pay for this!’ roars Wolf, aiming his Mpi at Porta. Raging, he kicks one of his Chinese.
‘Relax, relax,’ Porta reproves him in a fatherly way, ‘People can die of high blood pressure!’
‘Let’s have my goods again,’ shouts Wolf, beside himself with rage. ‘You’ve got your bloody fleabags back!’
‘Think you’re talking to an idiot?’ laughs Porta, shaking his head. ‘If you return the furs that’s your business, but repayment for them! Not here, my old son! Didn’t you know we’re in Greece now?’
‘You
knew
there was fleas in those furs!’ rages Wolf, scratching himself desperately.
‘True,’ admits Porta nonchalantly.
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ snuffles Wolf.
‘Didn’t ask, did you?’ smiles Porta. Wolf explodes in a long animal howl, and throws out bloody threats of strange and unusual revenges.
‘You make a bad impression soon as you open your mouth,’ says Porta. ‘Even a starving Italian would be scared of accepting a free box of spaghetti from you!’
‘I’ll pull your bloody arsehole up over your ears,’ promises Wolf, gnashing his teeth.
‘We’ll spit on your grave,’ promises Tiny, from the darkness of the hut.
‘You’re a cheap skate, Wolf,’ sneers Porta, ’and cheap skates get caught.’
‘Quiet boys,’ says Wolf, patting his slavering wolfhounds. ‘You two are gonna get a nice little present. You’re gonna get a wicked bastard’s head in a nice pink box all tied up with a pretty blue ribbon.’
‘You wouldn’t believe what
were
goin’ to think up for bleedin’
you
,’ shouts Tiny from the window of the hut.
‘Think of that, now!’ Wolf laughs jeeringly, and spits in Tiny’s direction. ‘
You? Think?
I’ve seen your fuckin’ papers, son. You had 39 at trainin’ school for intelligence and to get even that they had to knock that headful of shit you’ve got upagainst a concrete wall for ten days. Since then your IQ’s been
dropping
slow but sure. You’re the boy they have to write his boot-size on his forehead for, when he’s pickin’ up new ’uns at the stores. Adolf’s soddin’ scientists at Buchenwald are beginnin’ to wonder. If they can teach a nuthead like you to shoot off a gun, maybe they ought to be gettin’ started on the apes!’
‘Talk, talk, talk! You spew shit like a underground paper spews bleedin’ lies,’ shouts Tiny from the hut. ‘I’m a bleedin’ sight better off’n you are, Wolf! I got papers say I’m
barmy
, but I ain’t bleedin’
silly
, me old son, an’ don’t you forget it. I’m
crafty
, I am, an’ it’s the crafty bleeders like me as’ll come out of this war alive. The clever bleeders gets an ’ero’s bleedin’ death, am I right?’
‘Chief Mechanic Wolf, you are the long-lost son of a five mark whore, and as such we’ll push your nipples out through your back with bullets first chance we get,’ promises Porta, solemnly.
There’ll be one for your bleedin’ ’ead, too, you dirty dog,’ echoes Tiny, happily.
‘We’ll upt a charge from a sawn-off shotgun straight up your arse, Wolf,’ howls Gregor, excitedly.
‘
All right
you shiteatin’ shower! The real war starts
now
for you lot,’ roars Wolf, slapping his Mpi. ‘I’m gonna take you one by one!’
‘If your mother was an invalid then you’re a motherfucker, Wolf!’ shouts Porta, spitting out of the window.
‘Everybody knows why you never get leave,’ shouts Gregor triumphantly. ‘You’ve worn your five sisters’ cunts out!’
Wolf’s threats begin to take form the very same day.
It is sheer luck that Porta does not die of poisoning. He picks up two black puddings from the cook-waggon and is persuaded to give one of them to an importunate dog. Two seconds later the dog falls dead. Pale and shaking he throws the rest of the food to a pig which goes off to eternity as quickly as the dog.
The next day they find scorpions in their boots, and in
I
didn’t want to sell them.’
‘You’ll pay for this!’ roars Wolf, aiming his Mpi at Porta. Raging, he kicks one of his Chinese.
‘Relax, relax,’ Porta reproves him in a fatherly way, ‘People can die of high blood pressure!’
‘Let’s have my goods again,’ shouts Wolf, beside himself with rage. ‘You’ve got your bloody fleabags back!’
‘Think you’re talking to an idiot?’ laughs Porta, shaking his head. ‘If you return the furs that’s your business, but repayment for them! Not here, my old son! Didn’t you know we’re in Greece now?’
‘You
knew
there was fleas in those furs!’ rages Wolf, scratching himself desperately.
‘True,’ admits Porta nonchalantly.
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ snuffles Wolf.
‘Didn’t ask, did you?’ smiles Porta. Wolf explodes in a long animal howl, and throws out bloody threats of strange and unusual revenges.
‘You make a bad impression soon as you open your mouth,’ says Porta. ‘Even a starving Italian would be scared of accepting a free box of spaghetti from you!’
‘I’ll pull your bloody arsehole up over your ears,’ promises Wolf, gnashing his teeth.
‘We’ll spit on your grave,’ promises Tiny, from the darkness of the hut.
‘You’re a cheap skate, Wolf,’ sneers Porta, ’and cheap skates get caught.’
‘Quiet boys,’ says Wolf, patting his slavering wolfhounds. ‘You two are gonna get a nice little present. You’re gonna get a wicked bastard’s head in a nice pink box all tied up with a pretty blue ribbon.’
‘You wouldn’t believe what
were
goin’ to think up for bleedin’
you
,’ shouts Tiny from the window of the hut.
‘Think of that, now!’ Wolf laughs jeeringly, and spits in Tiny’s direction. ‘
You? Think?
I’ve seen your fuckin’ papers, son. You had 39 at trainin’ school for intelligence and to get even that they had to knock that headful of shit you’ve got upagainst a concrete wall for ten days. Since then your IQ’s been
dropping
slow but sure. You’re the boy they have to write his boot-size on his forehead for, when he’s pickin’ up new ’uns at the stores. Adolf’s soddin’ scientists at Buchenwald are beginnin’ to wonder. If they can teach a nuthead like you to shoot off a gun, maybe they ought to be gettin’ started on the apes!’
‘Talk, talk, talk! You spew shit like a underground paper spews bleedin’ lies,’ shouts Tiny from the hut. ‘I’m a bleedin’ sight better off’n you are, Wolf! I got papers say I’m
barmy
, but I ain’t bleedin’
silly
, me old son, an’ don’t you forget it. I’m
crafty
, I am, an’ it’s the crafty bleeders like me as’ll come out of this war alive. The clever bleeders gets an ’ero’s bleedin’ death, am I right?’
‘Chief Mechanic Wolf, you are the long-lost son of a five mark whore, and as such we’ll push your nipples out through your back with bullets first chance we get,’ promises Porta, solemnly.
There’ll be one for your bleedin’ ’ead, too, you dirty dog,’ echoes Tiny, happily.
‘We’ll upt a charge from a sawn-off shotgun straight up your arse, Wolf,’ howls Gregor, excitedly.
‘
All right
you shiteatin’ shower! The real war starts
now
for you lot,’ roars Wolf, slapping his Mpi. ‘I’m gonna take you one by one!’
‘If your mother was an invalid then you’re a motherfucker, Wolf!’ shouts Porta, spitting out of the window.
‘Everybody knows why you never get leave,’ shouts Gregor triumphantly. ‘You’ve worn your five sisters’ cunts out!’
Wolf’s threats begin to take form the very same day.
It is sheer luck that Porta does not die of poisoning. He picks up two black puddings from the cook-waggon and is persuaded to give one of them to an importunate dog. Two seconds later the dog falls dead. Pale and shaking he throws the rest of the food to a pig which goes off to eternity as quickly as the dog.
The next day they find scorpions in their boots, and in
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