Ma thoughts ir broken by shoutin up the street. A’m shootin a stream ae warm boozy breath intae the cold March air n lightin a smoke. Danny seems tae be in a world ae his own anaw. We both return fae our separate daydreams n see Si n Matty O’Connor marchin doon the street towards us. They’re awready shoutin the odds aboot suhin.

‘Look, it’s fuckin Dumb n Dumber! Wit yi wantin, ya fuckin bams?’ Danny shouts.

‘Yees think we’ve forgotten aboot yees stealin our fuckin crop? Nae fuckin chance yees ir gittin away wae it!’

‘Still no sure that wis us, cuz!’ A say wae a laugh.

‘You’ll git smashed again, Azzy, ya wee dick!’ Matty’s shoutin.

‘Yer fuckin maw, ya pair ae gypsy bastards!’

‘Heard McIntire wis fuckin ragin. Yees paid the derry yit oot yir ain pockets, boys?’ Danny says, smiling. Matty goes intae his jakit pocket n whips oot a dumb-bell bar. The things ir some weight – a good whack wae wan ae them wid fuckin kill yi. Danny pulls us back when the cunt swings it, turns, and toe-pokes him straight in the fuckin baws. Matty folds, white as a sheet, n he’s on his knees. A volley him right in the dish n he’s oot the gem. Si’s tryin tae pull him tae his feet but he’s fucked. ‘Wit yi gonnae dae noo? EH? YT FUCKIN P, YA DAFTY!’ Danny shouts. Si’s shat himself. He’s still shoutin at his brur tae git back up but Matty’s bent in pain on the deck n whiteyd. It’s over n done, but Danny bounces forward wae his hand in his ain pocket. It comes oot wae his lock-back, awready flicked oot.

‘NAW, DANNY!’ A shout, but it’s too late. Danny whips it across Si’s cheek rapid. His lower cheek splits in two but doesnae bleed straight away. The cunt doesnae realise he’s been slashed until he feels his cheek. It’s like a leather couch spillin stuffin, a bad wan. A shut ma eyes n turn, walkin away fae it. Danny sprints away the opposite direction. Si’s screamin n his brother is roarin aboot who’s gittin stabbed. A keep walkin, heed doon n hood up.

Any Port in a Storm

A’m woken up in a cold sweat by Toffey standin above us. Ma heart’s thuddin as A see tracky bottoms n a wave ae panic sweeps over us. It’s Friday 13 March. Unlucky fur some. The wee cunt sits across fae us on ma chair. He’s no said fuck aw yit, just plonked himself doon n tossed a pile ae clean ironin ontae the floor tae use as a footstool. He’s lightin two fags in his gub n passin me wan over. ‘Happnin, son?’ A say, takin a drink ae stale tap water fae a pint glass next tae ma bed.

‘Fuck aw, Azzy, big man.’

‘Wit yi dain?’

‘Nuhin, mate. Everycunt’s lyin low. It’s aw over the computer aboot Danny n Si.’

‘It wis fuckin bad, mate.’