‘Awk same, ya dofty.’

A wait till Stacey is doon the stair n oot the door before A take another long tan ae ma bottle n light a fag. Tupac’s noddin tae us again, salutin us in ma quest fur street fame, the bold yin. Secretz of war, Outlawz. Thug 4 life. He understood the troubles ae a west-coast weekend warrior like Azzy W n we’re brethren ae our individual struggles fur fortune, social justice n redemption. ‘Tupac, ma man! Wit’s happnin, captain? Lanarkshire boys fuckin runnin it, coozan!’ No doubt, lil playa! Stay up! West coast! ‘Wit will A dae, Tupac?’ A ask him, but he’s just a poster again n he doesnae huv an answer fur me. Ma phone buzzes wae another withheld number. It’s they fuckin Toi dafties. It’s happnin noo, the Friday Feelin almost hus me. Wee Toffey is on ma mind. It isnae anyhin as noble as revenge, cos it’s a mortal sin tae use his death tae justify more violence. They tanned ma maw’s windae but she doesnae care cos it’s only broken glass n metal venetian blinds. The phone is still ringin, piercin intae ma brain n makin us feel worse. A know if A answer, it’s happnin. There’s nuhin tae hold us back noo cos A’m fuckin mad-wae-it n aff ma fuckin heed. Jekyll n fuckin Hyde? Azzy fuckin Williams, ya dafty. Young Team fur life, kick tae kill n stab fur fun. Hit the green button n here we fuckin go.

‘Is that Azzy?’ Matty asks us.

‘Yi know who it is, ya fuckin goon.’

‘The infamous Toi’s at yir shop waitin fur yi! Runnin yir fuckin scheme as always, wee man!’

‘Only runnin you cunts dae is away, ya fuckin gypsy!’

‘Come take us a square-go then – or dae you only hit burds?’

A lose ma temper n start shoutin doon the phone. ‘Fuck yir fuckin burd! Think yees ir gonnae stab ma fuckin pal n git away wae it? Yir lucky A didnae stab fuck oot both yees!’

‘Aye, aye, Wee Azzy. You’ll be stabbin nae cunt, son. Y T fuckin B.’

A’m fuckin ragin noo. Uncontrollable.

Matty speaks again. ‘So, yi comin doon tae take us a square jigg? Or dae we needty bounce up n through yir maw’s fuckin door?’

‘Come tae ma maw’s fuckin door n yi know wit’s gonnae happen.’

‘How wit’s gonnae happen, like, wee man? Yir a fuckin pussy. You only hit burds, Azzy. No real cunts like us. Young Toi in yir fuckin hoose. Yi better git doon here right noo or A guarantee we’re comin through your maw’s door the night, ya fuckin beasty wee bastard! Maybe A’ll break her beak n see how you like it.’

‘Come tae ma maw’s door n A’ll fuckin kill yi.’

A hang up before A smash ma phone aff the wall. The next tune comes on, ‘Mumbai Traffic’, Ashley Wallbridge, the last wan on the CD. The rain starts pishin doon outside, dark clouds takin the rest ae the sky. A’m in a frenzy noo, huntin fur suhin tae pull on top ae ma long-sleeved Rangers tap. Ma eyes settle on the holy grail ae waterproof fashion. It’s git a few battle scars, just like the wearer, but no matter, cos this jakit is legendary: the Berghaus Mera Peak. A cannae think ae anyhin better tae wear as A stick ma wine bottle in the inside pocket. A fly doon the stair n run oot the door as A make the call. Aw this mad beast patter is designed tae wind us up n push us over the edge. They’re aw at it, tryin tae shame us tae fight. These Toi cunts ir ma particular devil tryin tae ride n fuckin torment me, tryin tae tempt me back tae eld ways ae violence n the never-endin wheel ae life here. In the end, yi huv tae give battle.