Irvine Welsh - A Decent Ride

The broker Milroy sure ain’t too bad, playing off a 10 handicap, but there’s a couple of assholes behind us, and at every tee they’re making comments about us being too slow. One guy has dark, greasy hair and a pinched face and he’s constantly blinking, like some subterranean creature unaccustomed to even this meagre light. The other asshole, chunkier, brown hair, is almost immobile, but his eyes move slyly in his head. They both stink of lowlife and trouble. Then at the ninth hole, a narrow fairway, surrounded by thick trees, just as I’m about to tee off, the gaunt-faced prick shouts to me that they wanna go first!

— What? I can’t believe my ears.

— You have to wait your turn in line, Mortimer says.

The cretin ignores Mortimer and stares at me. — Youse boys are too fuckin slow. Ridic.

— You’ll wait your goddamn turn! Who the hell do you assholes think you are?

— Fuck you, ya Yank cunt, greasy locks says, and he jumps forward and pushes his face into mine! He made minimal contact, but it was contact, so, thinking litigation, I stagger back, bending and holding my nose, like I see those faggot soccer players do on TV.

— Asshole! You see what he did? You all see that?

— You are in serious legal trouble, Mortimer barks, coming to my aid, helping me straighten up. So does Milroy, who asks if my nose is broken.

— I hardly touched him, the perpetrator shouts. — No contact!

Then Terry springs forward. — Ah’ll show ye fuckin contact, ya cunt, and he grabs the putting iron and drives it right into the greasy-headed perpetrator’s shin!

The jerk-off screams out and falls to the ground. — Ya bastirt. . yuv broke ma fuckin leg, he screams, looking up at us.

— Brek yir skull next time, ya fuckin wide cunt, Terry glares down at him. The perp’s better-built buddy is standing there, balling and unballing his hands. — You wantin this wrapped roond yir fuckin puss? Terry says.

— Nup, the brown-haired asshole says and starts backing the fuck off!

I’m shaking off Mortimer’s attentions, and pointing at the perp, whose friend is helping him away. — You attacked us, and I am gonna sue your asses!

— He hit ma mate! The perp’s buddy points at Terry.

— This was self-defence, you goddamn motherfucking white-trash assholes!

— Aye, git tae fuck, ya muppets, goan! Terry shouts, wielding the putter. So the guys take their stuff and head off, the limping asshole supported by his buddy.

— Thanks, Terry. I nod to Mortimer. — We gotta call the police –

— Naw, leave it, Terry says. — Remember, ye keep the polis oot ay everything. Fuck sakes, Ronnie, yir meant tae be a rebel, a fuckin outlaw, no some privileged Ivy League cunt, and he looks at Mortimer, who has to eat that one up!

Terry’s got me kinda thinking there. — I guess, but he –

— You’re okay, the boy wis jist showin oaf and tryin tae intimidate ye. If eh’d wanted tae really nut ye eh could’ve. He’s in a far worse state thin you.

— I’m loath to admit it, but he’s right, Mortimer says. — You’ve had some bad publicity with the police here, Ron. We don’t want anything else that might compromise the East Lothian deal.

I’m looking at the asshole limping away with his buddy. Then I fix Terry in a big grin. — You sure fucked up those assholes! Dammit, Terry, you’re a pretty wild fellah!

— Mair ay a lover than a fighter, Ronnie, or at least ah wis. But ah’ve eywis believed in the one decisive blow. Ask thum a wee question: lit thum fuck off or git serious.

— Wow. . I track those no-good project-bums heading behind the trees, making for the clubhouse and parking lot. — What if they got serious?

— Then it’s ambulance time, Terry laughs, — usually for me, likes. Hud a bit ay a rep as a hard cunt, back in the day, likes. Ken how ah got it?

— I guess through taking no shit?

— Nup. A myth.

— By having bad-ass associates?

— Now we’re getting somewhere. That was a big part ay it: knowing whae tae befriend. But most of all, it was by pickin ma opponents carefully. Terry glances up towards the clubhouse. The assholes are now outta sight. — These boys were gaunny dae nowt: could tell by lookin at them.

— Picking your battles is always good advice, and I look witheringly at Mortimer as Lars and his buddy, who witnessed the commotion from way over on the eleventh, are heading towards us.

Lars is pretty excited. — What was happening? Was there a fight? Jens could –

— Terry fixed everything, and fixed it good , I tell them.

— Where is the whisky? Lars asks.

— It’s here. Milroy looks at Mortimer, who picks up the duffel bag and opens it.

I can instantly tell by Mortimer’s face that something is horrendously, fatally wrong. It’s like a wrenching hand, inside my fucking guts. I’m looking to the skies, sucking in air, trying to get some divine inspiration.

Please God. .

— It’s gone! Mortimer squeals. — It can’t have, it’s been by my side all the time. .

PLEASE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY, INFINITE MASTER OF ALL, DO NOT LET THIS BE HAPPENING TO ME!!

— Did you. .? I look to the clubhouse. .

Please God. .

There’s no sign of those assholes. .

— When ah whacked that guy, or before, did youse see one ay them lift that bottle oot that bag? Terry asks, looking urgently at me, then Mortimer.

— I don’t — I don’t think so. Mortimer’s squealing like some leather-clad faggot cruising New York City’s Meatpacking District!

— I. . I dunno. . I can’t goddamn think straight, I’m telling him, — I had my face covered when he hit me, I didn’t –

— What is this?! Lars booms out.

— I’m sure they had a bag. . it was similar. . they might have picked up the wrong one. Mortimer’s throat bobs.

— Listen, Terry shouts, looking at me, — I dinnae agree wi gettin the polis involved in anything, ever. But I’m kind ay thinkin now might be the time tae eat humble pie. .

— I’ll call them! Milroy the broker screeches.

— You have. . you lost our whisky! Lars gasps right in my face.

But I’m looking at Mortimer. — You bastard. . you inadequate, incompetent asshole! You and me, we are fucking finished! You are so yesterday’s news! Consider your ass fired!

Mortimer looks at Milroy, then me. — But I didn’t. . I couldn’t. . what about the East Lothian deal?

— FUCK THAT BULLSHIT!!! THOSE ASSHOLES HAVE MY WHISKY! DON’T YOU GET IT!? I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK ABOUT ANY LAND OR DEVELOPMENT DEALS! I DO NOT CARE ABOUT ANYTHING OTHER THAN MY SKATCH!!! FIRED! FIRED! FIRED! GET OUT OFF MY SIGHT!

Mortimer takes a few paces back, blinking and swallowing, but he doesn’t go. Lars steps right in front of me. — It is our whisky, and if it is gone you have to put up your own bottle, he moans, — because half of that is now mine!

— If you’ve. . I spit out, looking him in the eye.

He gives me a gunfighter stare back. — I have done nothing! This is your folly, or your games!

— There are no games, I shout back at him, as I see Mortimer tremble, and Milroy is on the line to the cops, frantically giving them the details of the robbery.

— Look, the polis’ll pill them up, Terry says. — Somebody might huv a description ay the car. Let’s go up tae the bar and wait to see what they say.

Good thinking. I turn to Mortimer. — MORTIMER! FIND THAT GODDAMN SKATCH!

— But. . but you said I was fired –

— You will be, I scowl at him, — but when you are I will be cold, concise and cruel; forensically cruel as in an exit interview. I shall gut you, splaying your myriad failings and flaws all over the room for you to examine as you simultaneously try to reorder the debris of your life. It’ll look like a psychic crime scene! But until I’ve composed myself enough to do this, you are still on the payroll, I explain. — Now find my Skatch!