Irvine Welsh - Filth

She is now following the advice given to her by Detective Sergeant Brooossss Robertson. Detective Inspector Elect Brooosss Robertson. We find that our cock is really stiffening now and we are required to unbutton our trousers.

– I know everything. Now tell me your sexual fantasies Boontay.

– Shut up! You disgusting little creep! Leave me alone will you? She slams the phone down. This cunt’s riled.

We wind on the video to the place where a tired-looking, greasy continental stud is fucking a stretch-marked boiler up the arse. Worn goods, but some excellent close-up shots. The pole must be well-greased to get that kind of motion. We discharge over the axminster.

Later on we decide to telephone Bro. Clifford Blades.

He’s a bit upset. – Sorry Bruce, can’t make the club tonight. Actually, Bunty’s in a state. The pervert called again.

– Oh God, Bladesey. It never rains, eh. Look, you console her, and I’ll be right over.

– Thanks Bruce, I really appreciate it. She’s beside herself.

We go to the bog and give our arse, thighs and genitals a good clawing, then we cut up a line of coke. This is washed down with a Glenmorangie to get the taste of diseased druggy scum out of our tonsils.

Then we realise that our car has been left in the works car park, due to the self-centredness of the hoor Shirley. We get a taxi out to Corstorphine, the meter running to the price of a gam from a half-decent hoor, just to be with our friends Cliff and Bunty Blades.

Carole Remembers Australia

The things my Bruce has seen, the things that have hurt him. They don’t know. They would never know. But he shared them with me. Always.

He explained to me why he went with that prostitute back in Australia. He needed to be with someone. It meant nothing. I failed Bruce by not being there for him. I was with my mum.

Bruce had been working all the hours God sends. He had been operating undercover in the Kings Cross district, on the trail of these gangsters.

He told me about that terrible day. There he was, trying to open the huge, swinging doors of the garage. He couldn’t get them open properly, only just enough for him to squeeze through. He looked into the darkness, venturing right into its black heart. Looking back, behind him, he could see a ray of sunlight across the garage forecourt. The odd car drove by, perhaps the odd working girl swinging along in her short skirt and high heels.

Inside, at the dark end of the garage, Bruce heard the low groans. He told me that it was the worst sound that he had ever heard in his life. They were scarcely human groans. Something was in the office at the back of the garage. He moved towards it.

Bruce opened the door and switched on the lights.

There he was. Costas. Or what was left of him.

His torture had been systematic. He was lying across the table, face down on his belly. His chin is on the table, his head tilted up, facing Bruce. His jaw has been broken and his teeth have been pulled out. They lie next to his amputated fingers. His eyes witness this. The eyelids have been cut away and the eyeballs have been carefully removed from the head without severing the optic nerves. These had somehow been stretched like a cartoon character’s and the eyes lie, each one on a pile of books, each one facing some of the fingers and teeth and eyelids and ears, which have also been removed and cut off with surgical scissors. The scissors lie with the pliers, and the nail gun which has secured Costas to the bench by his hands and clothing. The genitals have not been severed, possibly to avoid him bleeding to death. His tongue has been cut out.

They wanted to keep him alive as a message to his associates.

Bruce stood there, facing him, thinking how could anybody do this to another human being. But all he said to Costas was, You’ve been keeping bad company mate.

He puts the gun in the man’s mouth and fires. He cannot look but the groans are no more. Bruce shakes and moves out of the office across the forecourt. The door is stiff, and it is a tight squeeze to get into the Sydney sunshine. He panics, trembling with anxiety. He tries to phone me but I’m at my mum’s. If only I’d been home for him.

Bruce walks for a little bit, then runs into a prostitute, a half-Aboriginal girl called Madeline. He takes her to a hotel and pays her five hundred dollars, just to talk to her.

Just to talk. She sits warily as he speaks in measured tones, telling her about Costas and about the war he is having with the others and the consequences for him.

It should have been me that was there, not that whore.

I think that for Bruce that image of Costas became a symbol for extreme possibilities of evil. That’s why Bruce is how he is.

Worms And Promotions

I’m driving out to see Rossi, but Carole’s on my mind. I used to tell her a pile of shite when I was knocking off Madeline, this half-Abo bird I used to leg out there. I made up a lot of bullshit about working undercover down Kings Cross to put

Madeline was putting pressure on me to leave Carole. She was very headstrong and less easily controlled than Carole. The old country called.

Carole always believed every word I told her. She was happy in her own world with the kid. Always a domestic type, old Carole. Dirty cow in bed mind you. Give her the meat and the dosh, and she’d accept anything. It was all the dyke politics that fucked up her heid, when I slapped her after she’d overstepped the mark and she freaked and went to that refuge. I apologised for that, but she overreacted. She’ll come to her senses soon though, nothing surer.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I miss the turning for Rossi’s. I stop off at a newsagent for Playboy, Penthouse and Mayfair , before pulling up outside his surgery.

This Dr Rossi cunt fancies himself. Swarthy eyetie bastard. Dresses well does Rossi. Nice suit, shirt, shoes. Bet he makes a bundle on private consultations.

– Yes, we’ve got the test results. As I suspected, you’ve definitely got worms. We’ll have to carry on with this treatment.

– Eh!

I can’t believe it. This is another price I have to pay for hanging around with schemies and criminals.

– It’s only tapeworms, nothing for you to worry about. They’re very common, but not at all dangerous.

– Something’s growing inside me and you say it isnae dangerous!

– It’s not. What you have to do is take this solution and it’ll help you move your bowels more frequently.

– No, that seems to be a persistent nervous condition. You don’t have anything on your mind, anything you haven’t told me about?

Rossi’s just an exploitative quack, but that’s GPs for you. Fancy themselves as something else. Some want to be surgeons, Rossi evidently wants to be a psychologist. We ken you Rossi.

– Nothing on my mind at all, I say stiffly.

Dae yir fuckin job ya cunt.

I’m glad to get away from Rossi and back to the station.

I’m back just in time for lunch so I hit the cannie. Ina’s haggis is on the day. Lennox and the closet-faggot Peter Inglis are sitting together. I join them. Drummond and Fulton were behind me in the queue and they come and sit with us.

Karen Fulton, Drummond’s new best pal. Was not always thus. I’m sitting opposite them looking at the haggis and I feel like shouting at Fulton: Mind the time I fucked you Karen? After Princess Di’s funeral? I’ve never seen such a big, thick, black minge in my puff. C’mon everybody, let’s take a look at former W.P.C. Fulton’s hairy pie! It’s a fuckin jungle: curly hairs right up to and around the arsehole.