Trainspotting Read Online Free Page A

but smiles enigmatically and occasionally rolls his eyes in mock ecstasy. If ye ever saw a predator’s face it wis Saughton’s. The Fat Sow, god she is grotesque, hee-haws and ah force oot the odd sycophantic chuckle at times ah gauge tae be roughly appropriate.
    After listening tae this shite for a while, ma pain and nausea force me tae intervene. My non-verbal signals are contemptuously ignored, so ah steam in.
    — Sorry tae interrupt ye thair mate, but ah need tae be pittin ma skates oan. Ye goat the gear thair?
    The reaction is over the top, even by the standards ay the crappy game Forrester is playing.
    — You shut yir fuckin mouth! Fuckin radge. Ah’ll fuckin tell you whin tae speak. Just shut yir fuckin erse. You dinnae like the company, you kin git tae fuck. End ay fuckin story.
    — Nae offence mate . . . It’s aw tame capitulation oan ma part. After all, this man is a god tae me. Ah’d walk oan ma hands and knees through broken gless fir a thousand miles tae use the cunt’s shite as toothpaste and we baith know it. Ah am but a pawn in a game called ‘The Marketing Of Michael Forrester As A Hard Man’. To all those who know him, it’s a game based on ridiculously flawed concepts. Furthermore, it obviously aw being played fir Johnny Saughton’s benefit, but what the fuck, it’s Mike’s gig, and ah asked tae be dealt a shite hand when ah dialled his number.
    Ah take some more crass humiliation for what seems like an eternity. Ah get through it nae bother though. Ah love nothing (except junk), ah hate nothing (except forces that prevent me getting any) and ah fear nothing (except not scoring). Ah also know that a shitein cunt like Forrester would never pit us through aw this bullshit if he intended holding out on me.
    It gies us some satisfaction remembering why he hates us. Mike was once infatuated wi a woman who despised him. A woman ah subsequently shagged. It hadn’t meant a great deal tae either masel or the woman concerned, but it certainly bugged the fuck oot ay Mike. Now most people would put this doon tae experience, ye always want what ye cannae have and the things that ye dinnae really gie a toss aboot get handed tae ye oan a plate. That’s life, so why should sex be different fae any other part ay it? Ah’ve hud, and brushed oaf, such reverses in the past. Every cunt has. The problem is that this shite’s intent oan hoarding trivial grievances, like the fat-chopped malignant squirrel that he is. But ah still love him. Ah huv tae. He’s the boy holdin.
    Mikey grows bored wi his humiliation game. For a sadist, it must huv aw the interest ay sticking pins intae a plastic doll. Ah’d loved tae have given him some better sport, but ah’m too fucked tae react tae his dull-witted jibes. So he finally sais: — Goat the poppy?
    Ah pull oot some crumpled notes fae ma poakits, and wi touching servility, flatten them oot oan the coffee table. Wi an air ay reverence and all due deference tae Mikey’s status as The Man, ah hand them ower. Ah note for the first time that the Fat Sow has a huge arrow drawn oan her plaster in thick black marker pen, oan the inside ay her thigh, pointing tae her crotch. The letters alongside it spell out in bold capitals: INSERT COCK HERE. Ma guts dae another quick birl, and the urge tae take the gear fae Mikey wi maximum force and get tae fuck oot ay thair is almost overwhelming. Mikey snaffles the notes and tae ma surprise, produces two white capsules, fae his poakit. Ah’d never seen the likes ay them before. They were wee hard bomb-shaped things wi a waxy coat oan them. A powerful rage gripped us, seemingly coming fae nowhere. No, not fae nowhere. Strong emotions ay this type can only be generated by junk or the possibility of its absence. — What the fuck’s this shite?
    — Opium. Opium suppositories, Mikey’s tone has changed. It’s cagey, almost apologetic. Ma outburst has shattered our sick symbiosis.
    — What the fuck dae ah dae wi these? ah sais,