Irvine Welsh - Filth

Tough Scottish cop Bruce Rabertson could hear the footsteps of the broad behind him as her heels clicked the tarmac. He thought of the legs attached to those heels and that Mecca they led to. No matter how many times he made that particular pilgrimage, Rabertson always reckoned that another visit was in order. He could hear her breathing heavily, her pursuit of him causing her heavy breasts to rise and fall, those warm and inviting mammaries that Rabertson knew so well . . . there ye go Toal, ya cunt that ye are! That’s fuckin screenwritin! Any cunt can fuckin well dae that shite!

That’s the right idea though that Toal’s got. Get as many voices in your head as you can and hide in the crowd. We’ve got loads of them. Probably as many as there are worms eating away inside us. There’s some billboards telling us to drink Tennents Lager: we can do that! None for the purple tin but: they know it’s not a recreational drug, any more than smack or crack is. There’s another one telling us to test drive a new Fiat Uno. We can do that; at the same time as the Tennents if ye want!

Ha!

Gotcha!

Wrong!

Come taste the bacon baby, come taste that muthafuckin bacon!

We go into the bar of the Rag Doll and get up some drinks. We are thinking that we should perhaps be more annoyed at this stupid cow than we actually are. Actually.

Actually!

Shirley is a funny bitch; fucking desperate for it. Everything’s fake about her, but with her skill at applying the make-up she can approximate how she used to look, or at any rate her make-up colludes with our hormones into making us believe she approximates it. After we’ve blown our muck, all we can see is her as a caricature of a former self.

Muthafuckin ho, that’s all she is. Dat ho is desprit to taste di bay-con.

This gets us thinking of all the times we’ve, I’ve fucked her over the years. Loads n loads n loads n loads n loads. – We should be able to do things for each other, we, I once told her. – The laddies are at school, so’s wee Stacey. You’re fed up, ah’m fed up. We should be able to have a wee bit of harmless fun. Only get one life, eh.

All those years of deceit. We turn round and see her. She reminds us more of Carole now that she’s getting older. She was always heavier built than Carole.

Come taste that bacon baby . . .

She opens her mouth and there is a noise in our head, and we, I, we see her mouth going oval-shaped and pleading and in our head we hear the message: Broooosssss

She’s getting it. They’re all fucking well getting it.

She is telling us something as we sit at the table in the pub. The bar is almost empty. The sun streams in across the lino. We see a report of a game on the back page of the Evening News . I wonder if Stronach was playing. We nod over to a uniformed spastic who comes in and says something to the publican. A uniformed spastic with a loose mouth in the canteen and the malevolent ears of the vicious gossiping faggot Inglis tuned in to every salacious tit-bit spewed from those embittered lips. Time to go.

– We can’t talk here, I say, and we call for a taxi. Thankfully it takes no time to arrive and we get in it with her. The engine and the heat and her perfume make my flannels start to rise and my mouth is on hers silencing that whingeing racket as I force my tongue as far into her gob as I can, poking it into every crevice. The taxi shudders to a halt and we are back at our place.

Gotcha!

I, we . . . I take her to our unmade and smelly bed, full of stale spunk and crumbs. I’m straight down on her cunt with my mouth, slurping, devouring. It tastes of strawberries. The soap. She’s loving it but will not take my stiff cock in her mouth, my scaly, flaking, stinking cock, and she’s pushing it away from her face and pulling at it and we are about to come so I pull away and go around and stick our cock up her, and she is disappointed as she doesn’t want the rancid prick that Rossie has been unable to cure inside her but she wants to come and we’re fucking hard and we come and she does too, and it’s the same rules.

The same rules. She’s lying chuffed and dreamy, she’s had her dose of cock. Her sister’s man. She’s fucking well won; she’s debased us again. We are empty.

Brooossss

We’re in bed, sitting up in bed, and I’m lighting a fag and saying: – Mind the first time ah rode you?

– That’s a horrible way of putting it! she pouts obstinately.

– What the fuck dae ye want us tae say? Remember the first time we made love darling? Ha ha ha. Eighty-five? Eighty-six? Over ten years ago now anyway. Carole . . . we were no long married. You were at ours and the pair of you were quite pished. Drove you hame. Mind that?

– I remember, her face twists in recall at this shared but unacknowledged history.

– Rode you in the back of the car. Portobello, we smile. – Mind what you said then? Naw? Never tell Carole. That was what you said. Ten years on and off and you’ve been getting rode by your sister’s man. Mind the time you came ower tae Australia? You n me n that Abo bird I used tae shag. Madeline. We had that threesome. She licked you oot. You couldnae wait for it. As soon as Carole’s back was turned. Mind?

– You can be so cruel, she’s shaking her head. – What do you get out of being like that? Eh?

– Just stating a fact. Ten years it’s been gaun oan. Kicked off again as soon as I got back fae Oz. Hudnae even unpacked the suitcase before ah wis pokin you, fir fuck sakes! That’s a cow in any book, I shake my head, watching her simmer in rage. – Once, even twice maybe, an indiscretion, but ten years? That spells cow. C. O. W. Cow. I tell her.

– Yeah? Well have you ever thought what that makes you son? She coughs out.

We, I, we, ignore her. – Mind when you got thegither wi Danny. The first time you brought us round tae yours was when he was on the rigs. Funny, mind a while back, ah brought Ray roond, you mind ay ma mate Ray? He was a D.C. at the time. D.S. now. The pair ay us rode ye. A right motley ménage à trois that yin. That’s you goat the set now, a threesome wi an extra bird and an extra guy.

– That was . . . we were all drunk . . . you . . .

– Perr Danny. Two weeks on, two weeks oaf. Know just how the cunt feels!

She looks at us, in a bitter, focused way. – I don’t know why I waste my fuckin time oan you! You’re not that fucking good, she sneers.

– There’s three reasons: one, Danny’s in the UAE, two, I have a cock and three, I am discreet, we smile at her.

– Nae wonder Carole’s away! She did right tae get shot ay you! She’s up, getting dressed in haste. There’s nothing that excites the morbid fascination more than watching an old boiler you’ve just fucked struggling into her clothes without dignity.

But we are injured by what she has said and want to shout, She’ll be back, but we say nothing on the subject. – Just go, I command.

– Don’t you fuckin well worry, she spits back, and departs.

After a while we, I, we find that we have become aroused again. We, I, we could have done with another go at it. Still, she’ll be back. Nothing surer than that. We put on our Frank Sidebottom Timperley EP. Then we, I, we put on a video in which this big blonde hoor takes on a couple of lumberjacks in an Alaskan forest. Now we are most definitely aroused and decide to call Bunty.

– Hello Boontay!

– Frank. If that’s your real name . . .

– Course it’s me real name! You don’t know what you’re talking about you fooking stupid big-titted whore.

There’s a bit of silence. No so sharp now Bunty. I have got this fuckin cow on the run. My breathing is getting out of control.

– How do you know what size my breasts are? She eventually says, tentatively.