“Whaire is it yir gaun,” asks Terry the Juice Lawson to that cunt oaffay the telly in the back of is cab. Nae point lettin him ken who the fooker wuz.
Ronnie Checker can’t believe this guy with the luxuriant corkscrew curls hasn’t recognised him as a caricature of Donald Trump. “I’ll pay you £10,000 just to drive me round for the week.”
“Nae cannae do, pal,” says Terry. “Aive got to look afta the sauna for the Poof – not that I shag them prozzies mesen cos I naiver pay for it as ma noab is so huge – n thun I goat tae make sum scud fillums, bitta erse action know wha aye mean, and theun I goat tae fuck loads of burds.”
“£20,000 then.”
“Aye, ul see wha aye can dae.”
Terry us feelun taired. Used. He’s turned up in several of that cunt Irvine’s books before and now he’s just going through the motions. If anywun is gaen tae take the puss it’s him, not Irv. But Irv is pulllen his fuckin strings again.
“Jaysus, Irvine,” he says. “Ahve alreedy shagged three-quarters of the burds in Embra, buggered sum lassies for scud fillums and sold loadsae ching to low laife and nae ya wan me to do even more gross stuff. For foaks sake mon, aive moved un. We ull huv. Yer even livin maist the fookin year in Chicago.”
“Chill, pal,” Irvine replies. “The readers fuckin love it. They all cunts like you and they’ll read any old shite I write. So just show everyone the pictures you took of Alec dying in the freezer, shag that lassie seven times in an hour at the wake, then fuck that whore Jinty in the back of yer cab on the way home and leave the rest of the gross-out shite to me.”
Wee Jonty was worried about Jinty. He didnae laike her workin so late n takin ching n she hadnae moved from tha sofa for three days. Tell the truth, she wur a but wiffy. Mebbe a shag would help. He undid his troosers and pulled oot his massive coak. He wairnt tae pleased when a maggoit fell out her pussy, but it were still fun. Only later dud he ken she waire deid so he threw hair bodae into the tram wairks.
Juice had just dun twelve burds in thurty minuts, including one who had been aboot to top hersen, when he had a heart attack. “I’m afraid you will never be able to have sex again in your life,” said the doctor.
“But woots the paint of livin?” sus Juice.
“Cheer up,” says Ronnie. “I want you to play golf with me to win the three rarest bottles of whisky in the world.”
“Aye cannae play goaf,” sus Terry, before suddenly finding he was a total natural who could play off scratch. “Uh git it, Irvine,” he yulls. “It’s a metaphor. Can’t get ma noab intae one hole but cangit mae balls intae others.”
“Spot on,” says Irvine, grinning.
“How are yer doan, son,” sais Maurice to Jonty. “Nae so well, Da. Jinty has gun.” “Well let me just booger you oop the erse and yull feel betta.” To hus surpise Jonty felt so much betta, he fire-bombed a pub.
“You’re a natural, Terry,” said Ronnie. “We won the whisky. Shame we can’t find one of the bottles, though.”
Juice didnae thunk it was the raight taime to tell Ronnie he had just dug up Alec to see if he had a huge coak and was his actual Da after all, and hud hid the boatal ae scotch in tha coffin. Instead he went roon to the hospital to visit Henry he had thaught whaire his da. “Yoose alwas wa a cunt,” Juice says, before pissing intae his drip.
“There’s nae point to all this shite, Irvine,” Terry moans. “There’s noothin lift to live fer an uhve dun almost evra transgressive act ya can think of. Wha’s left?”
“The readers will love it,” says Irvine. “They’ll think you’re a comic anti hero. A cock with a heart of gold. Especially if you get Jonty work making porno for Sick Boy as that leaves me scope for another book.”
“Aye thunk yer mad, Irvine,” Terry sais. “But whas unnit fur me?”
“I can make it that the doctor fucked up and you can go back to shagging burds.”
“Deal. Uz long as ah can stull do 37 pussy a day.”
Digested read, digested: Indecent overexposure.
