Irvine Welsh
-Angus, c’moan! Maggie is sayin, tryin tae shake her boyfriend oot ay his skag-induced stupor. -We’ve won the fuckin Lotto!
Angus opens his eyes. Pish holes in the snow.
Maggie gestures awa tae the black an white TV balanced on toap of a deid baby in the corner ay the room. Their numbers are oan the screen. -We’re in the fuckin poppy! D'ye hae the wee ticket?
Angus feels aboot under the sleepin bag.
-Aye, but it’s goat a bit ay shite oan it. An puke. An pish.
-Kin ye still see the numbers?
-Ah cannae see fuck. Yir pimp detached ma retinas last night wi that fuckin crowbar, remember?
Maggie taiks the ticket oaf ay him. -Aye, ye kin.
-Whae d’ye soond sae fuckin miserable aboot it? Angus sais, tryin tae stab a passin rat wi a hypodermic.
-Jus proamise me we won’t let the money change us.
Last edited by Rob Stuart; 07-14-2013 at 11:14 AM.
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