Irvine Welsh - If You Liked School, You'll Love Work

But the daft cunt stands ehs groond. — Ah’m jist sayin thit this is a good friend ay mines. I think we all need to calm doon here, eh sais, straight oot that ScotRail staff trainin manual, the chapter oan diffusin violence, written by so-called behavioural experts whae’ve never faced a radge doon in thir puff.

Of course, it disnae impress the Klepto fellay. — What…? eh gasps in outrage, like Richey hud accused um ay shaggin ehs kid brother.

Daft hoor thit Richey is, eh’s still puffed up, rooted tae the spot. — Look, mate—

— Ah’ll fuckin mate ye! Klepto roars, n eh rams ehs nut intae that ginger puss. N as Richey faws tae the groond ah’m sure thir’s a big smile playin acroas ehs lips.

— Whae’s next? Klepto says in excited satisfaction, lookin right at me. — You want some then, ya cunt? Eh?

Ah glances roond at Big Monty, almost in appeal, then at perr Richey, lying spreadeagled. — Nup, ah goes.

This sort ay stops Klepto in ehs tracks. Eh disnae really ken what tae say fir a bit, so eh opts fir, — Shitein cunt!

— Sorry, mate, ah’m no much ay a fighter, ah explain, stickin ma mitts intae ma jaykit poakit, soas eh kin see ah’m no aboot tae swing. Ah feels something blunt and metallic in thaire. It’s yon fork. Ah dinnae even mind ay slippin it in thaire. Probably no very sherp, but.

— Whaire’s yir posh wee burd then? She no here tae look eftir ye? eh goes, pushin ays in the chest. — Wee hing-oot wis—

Blunt or no, eh shouldnae be giein it loads tae a tooled man, n ah whip the fork oot n ram intae ehs puss. N fuck me, it’s no that blunt, like a silver bullet oan a vampire, ya hoor! It’s stickin oot the side ay ehs face, embedded in ehs imitation Fife cheek. Ah backs away, but ehs paralysed wi the shock. Whin the hoor finds ehs tongue, it’s like a bairn greetin, — Eh chibbed ays! Eh fahkin chibbed ays!

— It wis jist a fork, ah protest, stepping back. Ah looks at Monty whae’s jist standin thaire. — Ah telt um that ah cannae fight. What else am ah meant tae dae? ah appeal again.

Monty’s aboot tae drop-kick ays when thir’s a cry fae across the road n a healthy mob ay the local Young Team led by yon big Craig, wi some lassies in tow, aw come chargin ower. — That’s the big cunt, Soakin Wi Rain points at Monty. — Gied ays a bairn n did a runner! The CSA’s gittin tae ken you’re in Dunfermline, son! she screeches.

Monty snarls something n slaps Soakin, whae owerdramatically faws tae the groond bawlin hur eyes oot. Craig fae the Young Team shouts, — That’s ma fuckin bairn she’s cairryin! n leathers Monty, whae gits intae him, but the Young Team swarm in, n the Dunfy boys are drowning in a sea ay Burberry. Ambrose steps oot the doors ay the Welfare wi Jenni, n ehs goat that ‘dinnae look at me, ah might be maistly pit bull, but ma soul’s pure retriever’ expression. Ah’m wonderin if thir’s some sort ay command wi kin use tae activate the boy, but the Young Team huv goat it aw in hand n Dunfy take a bit ay a splatterin, or the stragglers dae, cause the rest ay the cunts ur oan thir toes, heading back at speed taewards thir scabby toon. The Young Team gie chase but let it go, preferin tae panel the slowcoaches and the wounded. A mature mob thuv bested, quite a result fir thum, n fir me n aw! Monty’s got away, but yon Klepto’s taken a bad yin n ehs left groanin at the boatum ay the Welfare steps.

Jenni’s now flanked by the Neebour n the Duke, whae fair fly oot the doors ay the Welfare. — What’s going on? she asks, then she sees Klepto takin a fair skelpin fae two young boys at the boatum ay the steps. Ah catch something skite through the air and ah realise that the fork’s been punched ootay ehs puss! She’s right doon, n she pushes past the boys n fair boots the buck-toothed cunt right in the chops! Ya cunt, muh erse fair tightens, nivir mind his. Mental note made: no tae mess. Standin ower um, she shouts, — Ma dad’s Tam Cahill. We know where you live and you are fucking dead!

The boot goes in again. Ah gits doon n pills her oaf um. — Steady, Jen, ah goes, pickin up the bloodied fork fae the groond. Eh looks up at us, as if beggin fir mercy. The Young Team boys stand ower um, open-moothed, waitin fir the signal tae indulge in mair pavement opera. — Ye’d better git doon the fuckin road, pal, ah tells um, mercy bein an underrated quality in this world.

The cunt staggers tae ehs feet, wobbling doon the street like a new-born calf, tae the laughter n cheers ay every cunt. The mobile-phone cameras uv been trained oan um fir some time, documentin the proceedins wi cauld insect eyes; a global media democracy where nae cunt hus a private life n nae cunt escapes humiliation. The only bone ay contention is the size ay the audience tae witness it.

Big Craig shouts in triumph, — The Cowdenbeath Casual Firm came ay age the night! Dunfy pricks! Let’s git this posted up for they Methil wankers tae think aboot next Saturday!

As they congratulate each other, Craig goes, — Kent you wir the man, Jase! eh sais, giein ays a big hug. — Stuck the cunt wi a fork! Right in ehs Dunfy chops!

— I saw the blood, it was spurting from his face like a fountain, Jenni says admiringly, n ah feel like the fuckin King ay Fife awright. Whaever said that violence was shite has never been in that satisfyin position ay vanquishin a bad cunt ay an adversary.

— This is the fuckin man! Craig shouts again, n some wee jailbait neds gie ays pats oan the back.

— Thanks, boys, ah say. — Aye, ah think ye cawed it right, big man, ah tells Craig. — Wi fair witnessed the birth ay a formidable wee mob the night.

— Whaire wir the auld team? Inside wi thir beer n sannies! Craig laughs, lookin at Neebour n the Duke, whae’ve goat the guid sense tae smile n take it aw in jest.

Aye, thir’s cackles aw roond, so ah decide tae chance ma luck. — A wee question, ah whispers tae the wee big cunt. — Did youse buckle thon sign at the Perth Road? That ‘REDUCE SPEED NOW’ hoor?

Craig looks at ays wi ehs mooth open, thinking fir a bit, then ehs eyes come intae slow focus. — Aye. That wis us. How?

— Jist wondered, bro, ah say, slappin the big wee cunt oan the back. — Thanks again fir the backup, likes.

— Nae problem. We Beath boys huv tae stick thegither, Craig says, in a passionate address tae the rest ay the Young Team, then adds, — CCF!

— Fife Central, ya hoor, ah nods.

— That’s right… Ah hear a semi-breathless groan n turn tae see thit perr Richey’s goat tae ehs feet.

A fist tae the side ay ays coupon followed by a boot in the kidneys shuts him up. — Git fucked, ya tube, a hard-faced wee Young Team boy says.

Richey staggers oaf doon the road, groaning in agonised ecstasy. — See ye later… Jason… eh gasps.

— Is that your mate? Craig nods. — Cunt’s eywis gittin wide wi us oan the fuckin train… Anyway, see ye, Jase, Craig says, gesturin tae ehs posse tae head oaf. We see a stunned Klepto still haudin ehs face as eh staggers doon the road. Ehs powerless as a wide wee cunt ay aboot twelve runs eftir um n boots um up the erse, tae the laughter ay the mob, whaire still filmin proceedins wi thir phones.

— Whaire ye gaun! Soakin Wi Rain shouts eftir the departin Craig.

— Ah’ll phone ye! eh sais, hudin up ays mobile, then laughin as eh retreats, exchanging play kung fu kicks n a big laugh wi one ay ehs mates whae made some comment. Soakin Wi Rain turns tae these other two lassies, urgin thum tae follay the Young Team. Thir fair takin thir time respondin tae the lassie’s request, but.

Ah well, that’s young cunts fir ye. They dae what they dae; 80 per cent ay thum’ll grow oot it, the other 20, well, that’s why yuv goat prisons n cemeteries n drug overdoses. Ah wis thinking, anwey, thit Kravy wid huv bit the dust if eh’d hit the unbent sign, perhaps no quite as spectacularly, mind you.