‘Don’t fuckin start, Azzy.’

‘A didnae say nuhin, did A?’

‘Aye well yi didnae need tae, ya big cunt. A know they’ve drapped me right fuckin in it.’

‘So, wit yi gonnae dae?’

‘Well, Jamesy is defo after us noo, fuck. A’ve no even heard fae him, mate. That’s worse. No even chasin me fur the bill. Marcus n that huv fucked me. Mon, man, take us up the road.’

We pull intae Broonie’s street n sit n smoke a fag before an Audi S4 flies roon the corner. Jamesy Maynard n another big cunt start pointin at us oot the front windscreen. Fuckin flee, Azzy! That’s Maynard! Broonie’s shoutin, panicked. A’m pushin the gear stick doon intae reverse n flyin backwards, A floor the accelerator n J turn wae a screech. There’s a learner behind me in a Corsa n she stalls hur motor, tryin tae dae a three-point turn. There’s naewhere left tae run. Jamesy n the big cunt ir bouncin up tae the motor noo. A kin see Broonie lookin aboot fur an escape, like a trapped rat. They’re at the windae n Jamesy just chaps it casually, laughin. Broonie lets it doon just an inch.

‘Broonie son, wit the fuck yi tryin tae run fur?’

‘Cos they’ve telt me you’re gonnae fuckin dae me in.’

‘Wit, cos you’ve been fuckin set up a peach?’

Broonie pauses a minute, unsettled by the calmness ae the cunt. ‘Aye.’

‘Did A no fuckin tell yi wit they wur like? Noo you’ve done their fuckin dirty work n helped them bump ma gear.’

‘A’ll pay yi every penny back that they’ve took.’

‘A fuckin know yi wull.’

‘A didnae tell them the gear wis yours. They worked it oot n took it.’

‘Obviously, they’re no as daft as you, wee man. Did yi think yi could run aboot sellin ma pure n they wouldnae find oot?’

‘Listen, Jamesy, aw A want tae dae is pay ma fuckin debt n stop aw this pish. A’m no wantin tae run aboot n be a fuckin gangster. It’s aw gawn too far noo!’

Jamesy n his big thug ae a pal laugh tae wan another. Once yir in wae these dodgy cunts shiftin weights, yi couldnae just say, Aw a don’t feel like playin drug dealer this week. Yi huv yir regular order tae fulfil. They cannae force yi tae sell the drugs, but they kin expect yi tae collect yir bit on a Friday n pay yir existin n future debt. There’s nae peaceful resolution – nae easy way oot once yir in wae them. It’s quicksand. The more yi struggle tae make money n free yirself, the deeper yi sink until yi git grassed on, caught or done in.

‘You’ve git wan fuckin week fur that ounce money they taxed, son. A want the full bhuna. A’ll even let yi aff wae half yir usual bill this week tae make back the money. Don’t say A’m no good tae yi, Broonie wee man.’