Fuck it. When in Rome, eat lions … ‘Zero back n sides, mate.’

Ma motor is parked doon behind Farmfoods, just off the main street. A’m walkin doon the steps n through the alley. It’s stinkin n junky types hide doon it n shoot up. Yi huv tae dodge needles n tin-can sin bins lyin aboot on the steps. There’s a wee crowd ae junkies tucked intae a corner over the far side, behind the eld snooker hall that wis closed years back. They’re usually harmless n tend tae be wee frail cunts or pure snaggles that wouldnae gee yi any grief. A see them splittin up n sayin their mumbled cheerios, Big Issue style catcalls n yelled junky wisdoms.

A walk past the cunts. Ma motor is tucked behind the buildin in a private parkin space. A’m avoidin the dug shite n the broken wine bottles n beepin the motor open. A hear cunts behind me n A kin see reflections in the glass. Two ae they cunts ir tryin tae bounce up n sneaky me. The motor key goes back in ma pocket n A fish fur ma Clipper fur ma fist. A feel a hand on ma shoulder n A spin roon, too quick fur these cunts. BANG. A hit the cunt a fuckin daddy-ho ae a right in the stomach n he folds in two, then falls straight tae the ground. The other wan is a burd n she’s squeckin undistinguishable words at me. The cunt is on the deck. ‘Wit yees fuckin wantin?’

‘Azzy … aww … fuck … yi nearly … knocked … me … oot … ya cunt.’

It’s Finnegan n Toni. A help him aff the deck n dust the cunt aff. A try no tae stare as A recognise an eld Adidas tracky he used tae wear aboot five year ago, full ae wee bomber holes fae smokin joints then. Finnegan started as an apprentice mechanic. A heard he hud been paid aff in his second year n hud started down this road tae nowhere. Toni-Marie never worked. Her face is aw sucked in n she’s wearin a tracky top tae, n scruffy jeggins. The lassie’s hair looks like yi could fry chips in it n is pulled back in a rough ponytail. ‘Fuck sake, man … A didnae realise it wis yooz. Fuck ir yi dain wae aw they fuckin junky cunts?’

‘Eh … A sell them blues …’

The two ae them look at each other. Ma face must show wit A’m thinkin. ‘Aye, man … sound.’ He’s still lookin shakey fae me hittin him. A feel bad n try no tae keep starin at them both. ‘Ir yi awright? A’m sorry fur whackin yi, fuck sake. A didnae realise it wis yooz.’

‘Aye it’s awright … A’m awright … When did yi git back?’

There’s a wee slur tae his speech n he seems dazed, like he hud been takin blues himself the day before n they’re still hangin on him. He’s git the wee white dried flecks ae saliva at the corners ae his lips, just like Danny. A doubt he wis sellin anyhin tae they cunts. If anyhin, they wid be down scorin aff they elder cunts in the denim jakits n caps.