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

Parlabane's head was borne out when he
stretched himself upon the mattress, itself possibly the only
thing in the building skinnier than his cell-mate. Rest was
to be found only in the strict, physically immobile sense, as
Fooaltiye's garrulousness was not impeded by Parlabane's
retreat to bed anymore than it had been by his serial refusal
to in any way engage him. Fooaltiye, he gathered, was just
a trifle anxious about a certain chemical imbalance which
he wished to remedy at the earliest possible juncture, and
his forced abstention from even so much as a skinny roll-up
was somewhat limiting the scope of his conversational
motifs.
Aww, fuck, man, altiye, I'm fuckin' sufferin' here, man,
so I am. Fuckrnnn.'
Good, Parlabane thought, before calculating the greater
ramifications, principally those affecting the likelihood of
the bugger shutting up about it. He wasn't worried about
anything more dramatic, having benefited from the dual
perspectives on overnight smackhead behaviour offered by
Sarah, as an anaesthetist, and their friend Jenny Daiziel,
as a cop. In hospital, incapacitated and cut off from their
supply, Sarah said they invariably went totally candy-
floss, trying to convince the heartless bastard staff that
the very demons of hell had been unleashed upon them
by their excruciating withdrawal. The goal of these scenery-
chewing performances was to elicit any pharmaceuticals
the docs might be willing to part with for the sake of a
quiet night.
Down at the cells, however, Jenny insisted it was a very
different story. They knew they were in for the night, knew
there was absolutely no chance of getting anything more
exhilarating than a good kick in the balls for their troubles,
so they were good as gold, co-operating in any way that
would more quickly expedite getting back on the street.
French Connection 2 reconstructions were very few and far
between. They just sat tight, sniffed and sweated, waited
for their statutory roll and sausage in the morning, then
fucked off as soon as the polis let them.
Fooaltiye wouldn't go nuts, Parlabane knew, but more
worryingly, he had a literally captive audience, and very
little sensitivity to how his material was going down. He
tried holding the pillow to his ears, but it was too flimsy
to do more than slightly muffle the interminable soliloquy,
and given that Fooaltiye's vocabulary was barely into three
figures, nor was there any danger of losing the import
through missing some subtle nuance.
The defining aspect of this latterday epic - The Sweariad,
as Parlabane had begun thinking of it after the first hour
or so - was not Fooaltiye's anally detailed odyssey through
the Fabled Realms of Skag; nor even his evocative descriptions of tonight's