"Brookmyre, Christopher - Boiling A Frog" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brookmyre Christopher)

'Sorry, I don't smoke.'
'Fuck's sake. Aye right. Naw, ne'er ye dae. Fuckinun.
Altiyeman, it's amazin'. Nae cunt smokes in this place, no
when ye fuckin' tap them anyway. Fuckinn. Come oan, ya
cunt. Just gie's a fag. Just wan. Fuck's sake.'
Parlabane felt an amplified throb in his head as Fooaltiye
raised his voice. Despite the distraction of pain, his detective skills
had successfully decoded the human skelf's
eponymous, punctuatory ejaculation. He had achieved this
through the cryptographic technique of comparing its constituent variants:
Fooaltiyeman, Fooaltiye, Altiyeman and
just plain Altiye. Translated from the primitive and obscure
'Prick' dialect, it meant 'Phew, I'll tell you, man . . .' and
heralded an observation of deepest wisdom.
'I don't smoke,' Parlabane repeated, slowly, quietly, every
word's resonation giving his napper another twinge.
Awww, fuck's sake, man. Fuckinnn, come on, man. If
I had some I'd gie you wan, 'mon tae fuck. Just fuckin'
cough, man, just wan, 'mon.'
Parlabane cradled his head again as the throbbing threatened to resume its
previous intensity.
'I don't smoke. I never have.'
'Right.'
There was a flurry of dark and light greys as the bottom
bunk's blanket billowed angrily and Fooaltiye emerged
from beneath it. He hopped down to the floor and squatted
in front of Parlabane, scrawny, pale and sweatily greasy:
Smeagol with a habit.
'Fuckin' stop an' search time, ya cunt. An' altiye, if I
fuckin' fin' any fags, you're gettin' a fuckin' skelp, man.
Alfuckintiye.'
Fooaltiye was in his face, his emaciated and pock-marked
limbs seeming to enclose Parlabane. Hands patted him
down, a bony knee pressed into his ribs, and from his dental
write-off of a mouth there wafted vapours internationally
outlawed since the First World War.
Parlabane just sat there, motionless, unresisting, head-
bowed, feeling the utter humiliation of his vulnerability.
This was what he had brought himself to: being menaced
by some junky scrote practically half his age, and being too
fucking scared to do anything about it but close his eyes
and wait for it to be over.
what the hell could he do? On the outside he'd once been a
man of boundless (and, when necessary, lawless) resources,
all of which could be put to use in compensating for the fact



'Prick' dialect, it meant 'Phew, I'll tell you, man . . .' and
heralded an observation of deepest wisdom.