Trafficking Jams

Me n Broonie wait in the car park fur them tae show. They turn up in a Focus RS. A recognise the cunt next tae Marcus right away. Wullie McLean is quite a solid cunt, even though he’s wee. There’s a growl permanently welded tae his face n he’s git bad skin – sausage supper fur breakfast kind ae pores. ‘Awrighty, boays! It’s the fuckin young team, eh Marcus!’ Wullie says, lightin a joint. The McIntires ir heavies, but Wullie looked more like a rough junky. He’s still mad but n worth watchin. Broonie looks nervous n it’s catchin.

‘Aye the fuckin YT boys right enough, Wullie!’ McIntire says.

‘Happnin,’ we reply.

‘Wit’s happnin, lads?’ Marcus asks, pullin a face so that Wullie cannae see.

‘Nuhin, mate.’

Marcus clears his throat so yi know suhin is comin. Wullie’s sittin smokin his joint oblivious. ‘Right, here’s the sketch. There’s nae point beatin aboot the bush, wee man. The Maynards say they’re finished wae yi, Broonie. Somecunt hus stuck yi in n telt them that you’re workin fur us n that we’ve teamed up wae the McLeans.’

‘Who the fuck hus done that?’

‘It’s nane ae our families. Neither ae us deal wae them, son. Yi know that fuck. That’s how A’ve went n got Wullie, so yi kin hear it fae the horse’s mouth!’

Wullie seems tae wake up at the mention ae his name. ‘Aye it wisnae us, troops. Fuck sake, A wouldnae waste a bullet on that Jamesy cunt. They Maynards huv been after us fur years but he’ll never catch us, know?’

‘Somecunt’s stuck yi in, Shauny boy,’ Marcus says again, while he lights a joint ae his ain.

‘Who but?! Fuck sake! They’ll fuckin kill me, Marcus.’ The panic is clear on Broonie’s face. We both know Jamesy Maynard isnae a dafty. He’s the bogeyman fae the stories aw they years ago. None ae them ir dafties.

‘Naw they’ll no fuck, calm doon. Jamesy knows wit happens when he messes wae us.’

‘Aye that’s yooz but. No me, fuck. Wullie took the gear n A’ve tae pay the fuckin debt?’ Marcus gees Broonie a look tae remind him ae his place. A kin see ma mate’s frustration. It’s obvious noo. He’s been played by them aw.

‘A cannae gee yi any coin or gear back fur Maynard, Broonie wee pal. Sorry, no can do. It’s a family business matter, yi understond?’

Broonie wis bumped, plain n simple. Marcus sits n smokes his joint n doesnae look at him as he speaks. ‘A telt yi no tae worry. Jamesy Maynard isnae gonnae touch yi, wee man.’

‘Sound then.’

‘Just deny it if yi need tae. Pay yir bill n settle up. That’s aw yi kin dae.’

‘Or dodge him like fuck, wee guy,’ Wullie says.

‘A’m no dodgin no cunt. A’ll tell him the sketch n pay ma bill n that’s it.’

‘Don’t tell him nuhin. Just wanted tae let yi know tae watch … just in case. This is the game, son!’ The RS flies aff doon the street. Broonie turns tae me shakin his heed. There’s nae help fur yi in deep holes like this. The only law applicable is the law ae the jungle, street survival n natural selection. Pawns like Broonie ir readily sacrificed in defence ae these miserable kings n main pieces.