Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

— Yes. .

— So if you’re no giein them the occasional bit ay shite, n jist puttin poofy stuff through them, thir no gittin tested. So they never build up tae the level ay resistance they need tae be at. Think Scottish teams in Europe. Then some real disease hits ye, like Real Madrid style, n they’re useless, cause they’ve never hud serious game time. It’s science, mate, it’s how aw they tribes’ auld-school medicine men would go n take aw sorts ay poisons n walk intae the forest or desert. They’d trip, then spew, n then shite like a squaddie, and come back aw purged. N they cunts lived donkey’s years. Ah hud the wrap. — Gie the cunts a wee test. A rigorous trainin stint, ah call it. No gaun ower the score, but a wee workoot, likes.

Ronnie’s defo thinkin aboot this; eh starts teasin up that Mohawk. — You really believe that? That the occassional test is the best way of keeping your vital organs ticking over?

— Of course! Everything has a function! Lit thum git oan wi thair fuckin joab! Ah’m no sayin go ower the score, but the odd wee toot isnae gaunny dae ye any herm!

— Dammit, Terry, I hadn’t touched drugs since freshman year, before that Ballbag came along. . and now. . you are a bad influence, eh goes, lookin at ays aw pretend hurt, but the cunt takes the wrap n sticks a bit oan ehs key n snorts it.

Ya cunt, ah’m sure that fuckin Mohawk stiffened up at that toot!

— Listen, you’ve taken me into your confidence regarding your activities. Could I presume to do the same?

— Of course, Ronnie, wir muckers, ah tells the cunt, which is obviously shite. This is business n thaire’s nae sympathy in business: that cunt should ken that mair thin maist. It’s gittin tae be quite a barry drive now, as we’re hittin the banks ay Loch Leven.

— The land thing is important, but it’s just another development deal. It’s all about legacy, that’s what guys like Mortimer don’t get. I’m here to get something that only one other man on this planet has, because there are only three of them in existence. I already have one, and I want the other two. Both of them are here in Skatlin, and I’m closing in on them. He taps his beak. — This is all hush-hush, you understand. I have rivals.

The cunt’s talkin aboot they Bowcullen Distillery boatils ay whisky, but ah’m obviously no littin him ken that ah ken what ehs eftir, n how much eh wants tae pey. They sais oan that distillery website that the third boatil wisnae fir sale, bit that’s probably jist shite, tae drive the bids up. Everything’s fir sale if the fuckin price is right.

We goes through this toon n stoaps at the lights as Ronnie takes a huge hit up his hooter. But ah looks roond n realise that we’re right alongside this fuckin polis car!

FUCK SAKE.

The cops have clocked this n thuv telt us tae pill up, which ah dae acroass the street. They dae the same a few yards back n come right oot.

— Fuck. . it’s the polis. . ah goes, as Ronnie slips the wrap intae his poakit. — Dinnae grass ays up, ah’ll lose ma licence.

— I ain’t no goddamn snitch, Ronnie shouts. — Lemme handle this, eh shouts, as the cop taps oan the windae. Ronnie rolls it doon n thaire’s a load ay ching on his beak and he’s fuckin wired. — Is there a problem, officer?

The cop looks at Ronnie, then at me. — Where are you taking this man?

— Up tae the Bowcullen Distillery. He’s got a meeting –

— Why are you asking my goddamn driver?! Ronnie shouts.

— Sir, I’d ask you to be calm. . you’re obviously intoxicated.

— What?! Do you know who I am?

— I’m going to have to ask you to accompany me down to the station, sir, we can get those details en route. .

— No way! I have an important business meeting! There is something on the line here! Something that you will never get in a million years on your Skatch cop salary, you goddamn loser!

— You are coming with me, the cop snaps and starts shoutin intae his radio.

— You goddamn maggot! Do you know who I am? I could crush you and your entire two-bit Lothian Police Squad with one single phone call!

— Which you will be able to do down the station, sir. Now if you would please accompany me? The cop reaches in and opens the door.

Ronnie gets oot and the cop grabs him under the airmpit. Ronnie pushes the cop, who tumbles backwards on his erse. — Fuck you, assholes! I’m Ronald Checker!

A second cop comes oot the car and blasts Ronnie wi the Taser gun. Ronnie’s Mohawk seems tae stand oan end for a second, then eh faws doon, pish spreadin across ehs light canvas golf trews.

The Taserin polisman’s lookin worried, n sayin, — He assaulted a police officer, I had no option, as they load Ronnie, whae’s semi-conscious, intae the back ay the car.

— You will follow us, please, sir, the other cop snaps.

So ah follow the polis car doon tae the station in fuckin Kinross. It’s a shitey two-storey building like a couple ay council hooses knocked thegither. While they’re chargin the cunt ah clocks ehs laptop n grabs a hud ay it. Ah goes intae the email windae, which is still open. Ah trawl through the usual shite, but thaire’s yin that’s interesting.

To: rchecker@getrealestates.com

From: lsimonsen@mollersimonsen.com

Dear Ronald,

I trust you are well.

As you may or may not know, I have also bid for the rare Bowcullen whisky, one of the ‘Trinity collection’. You, of course, already have one of the bottles.

I’ll come to the point: I feel that the distillery is playing us off against each other in order to up the bid. The gentlemanly and sporting thing to do would be for us to jointly purchase the whisky, and then settle its ownership by playing a game of golf.

What do you say?

Kind regards,

Lars Simonsen

To: lsimonsen@mollersimonsen.com

From: rchecker@getrealestates.com

Dear Lars,

Bring it the fuck on!

Checker

So ah fuckin goes n spondoogles this Lars Simonsen cunt, but oan the cheeky phone. This gadge is fuckin minted! Well, ah’m thinkin that anybody that’s got something these bams want hus goat tae be in a strong position! Guaranteed!

Ah goes intae toon n picks up a pair ay keks, estimatin that Ronnie’s about a 34-inch waist. Ah hand them intae the polis oan the desk. He gits discharged about an hour later, lookin a bit frazzled, as eh talks tae a lawyer, whae seems tae have smoothed things ower wi the cops.

Eh comes oot n the troosers seem tae fit okay.

— How did it go?

— Assholes! I got to make a phone call and they crumbled. He looks ower tae the lawyer. — I’ve a good mind to sue their asses!

— Thanks for no lettin oan that the ching was mine. .

— For sure. But I would ask for your complete discretion regarding this episode.

— Course, mate. Ye cannae fuckin well bedroom-hop like the Juice T n no ken a wee bit aboot discretion. Ah wrote the manual, ah tell um. — How’s they strides? Ah nods tae his pins. Aw good?

— They’re okay, Terry, but I feel a little rough. Those fucking Tasers, man. . assholes! he shouts back.

— Easy, mate, ah goes, — discretion, mind, steerin um tae the door. Best tae git the fuck oot ay here.

It’s no a bad drive up tae Inverness. Ronnie’s a bit nauseous, so we have tae stoap the car a couple ay times. The first time, outside Perth, eh’s a bit rough, but the next time, though, he’s quite chatty, and even the wee bit ay puke eh brings up disnae bother um. Ah ken what’s exciting him, awright.

We get oaf the motorway n oantae a B-road just north ay Inverness. There’s a sign for Bowcullen Distillery, but if ye didnae ken where the slip road was, ye could easy drive past it. We go intae this spooky wooded area, the road jist a singletrack. Ah huv tae pull in as some cunt wi a Land Rover is comin the other wey. The distillery’s oan the right, a great auld red sandstone villa, wi a modern building set oantae the back ay it. If it wis spring and the leaves were oot, the trees wid conceal it fae the road. We crunch up the gravel driveway, and open the car doors to meet the crisp, cauld air.