"Brookmyre, Christopher - Bampot Central" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brookmyre Christopher)

It was too simplistic to lay the blame at the feet of the Tories' Care in the Community policy. There had to be something deeper, to do with tides, ley-lines
and lunar cycles, that explained why every large Post Office functioned as an urban bampot magnet, to which the deranged couldn't help but gravitate. From
the merely befuddled to the malevolently sociopathic, they journeyed entranced each day, as though hypnotically drawn by the digitised queuing system.
Parlabane remembered those Les Dawson ads a few years back: "It's amazing what you can pick up at the Post Office." Yeah. Like rabies. Or maybe anthrax.

He bought a self-assembly packing box at the stationery counter, then after ten minutes of being humiliated by an inert piece of cardboard, returned to
purchase a roll of sellotape and wrapped it noisily around the whole arrangement until Paranoid Tim was securely imprisoned. It looked bugger-all like
a box, but the wee plastic bastard wasn't going to fall out, which was the main thing.

Then he joined the queue.

There were three English crusties immediately ahead of him, each boasting an ecologically diverse range of flora and fauna in their tangled dreads. They
were accompanied by the statutory skinny dog on a string, and were sharing round a jumbo plastic bottle of Tesco own-brand cider and a damp-looking dowt.
The dog wasn't offered a drag, but it looked like it had smoked a few in its time, and probably preferred untipped anyway.

Behind him there was a heavily pregnant young woman, looking tired and fanning herself with the brown envelope she was planning to post. And behind her
were a couple of Morningside Ladies muttering about whichever Fringe show had been singled out for moral opprobrium (and a resultant box-office boost)
this year by Conservative Councilor Moira Knox. He'd got off lightly, in other words, and the queue wasn't even very long. The ordeal was almost over.

Except that at the post office, it's never over till it's over.

He caught a glimpse of a figure passing by on his right-hand side, skipping the queue and making directly for the counter. Parlabane was following the golden
rule of PO survival - never look anyone in the face - but was nonetheless able to make out that the person was wearing a balaclava. His heart sank. It
was the number one fashion accessory of the top-level numpties, especially in the height of summer, and this one looked hell-bent on maximum disruption.

Then from a few feet behind him he heard an explosion, and turned around to see fragments of ceiling tiles rain down upon the betweeded Morningsiders. Behind
them was a man in a ski-mask holding a shotgun.

"RIGHT, NAE CUNT MOVE - THIS IS A ROBBERY!"
Parlabane turned again and saw that the balaclavaed figure at the counter was also holding a weapon.

Screams erupted as the people milling around the greetings cards and stationery section at the back animatedly ignored the gunman's entreaty and began pouring
out through the swing-doors.

"I SAYS NAE CUNT MOVE!" he insisted, discharging another shot into the tiles, this time covering himself in polystyrene and plaster-dust. He wiped at his
eyes with one hand and waved the shotgun with the other, running to the door to finally cut off the stream of evacuees.

"Lock the fuckin' door Tommy, for fuck's sake," ordered the balaclava at the front counter.

"I'm daein' it, I'm daein' it," he screeched back. "An' dinnae use ma fuckin' name, Jyzer, ya fuckin' tube, ye."

"Well whit ye cawin' me mine for ya stupit cunt?"

Jesus Christ, thought Parlabane, watching the gunman on door-duty usher his captives back into the body of the kirk. It was true after all: the spirit of
the Fringe affects the whole city. The worthy ethos of amateurism and improvisation had extended to armed robbery. Must have been Open Mic Night down at
the local Nutters & Cutters, and first prize was lead role in a new performance-art version of Dog Day Afternoon.
From the voices he could tell they were young; but even if they had remained silent it still wouldn't have stretched his journalistic interpretative powers
to deduce that they were pitifully inexperienced.