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

anguished deprivation; but his exemplary
employment of Junkie Logic. This was a phenomenon of
which he had often heard both Sarah and Jenny talk, in
terms of awe and wonder. (The awe was as in 'awe fuck,
here he goes again'; the wonder as in 'I wonder if this
arsehole really thinks anybody is so fucking stupid as to
believe that?')
Junkie logic was tortuously complicated, fashioning elaborately structured
equations that required exhausting powers
of imagination to construct, and complementarily vast
faculties of comprehension to follow. Hawking, it was
rumoured, had considered a book on the subject, but shat
it when he decided he wasn't sure he could pull it off.
However, if like him you found it all too intimidatingly
complex, there was always a simple primer, which is that
it all ultimately adds up to an exercise in demonstrating
how everything that has ever gone wrong in the life of
the said junkie was entirely the fault and responsibility of
someone else.
'Thae Tamazepams, man,' said Fooaltiye, for instance,
'fuckin' doctors shouldnae be allowed tae gie them oot.
Altiyeman, fuckin' mate o' mine losf a fuckin' leg 'cause o'
thae fuckin' things, man. Fuckin' lost a leg. Fuckin' injectin'
thae jellies, fuckin' clogged up his veins, man. An' fuckin'
doctors are giein them oot? Fuckin' disgrace, altiye. Shoulda
been fuckin' banned yonks ago, man, if you cannae fuckin'
inject the fuckin' things withoot them gummin' up your
fuckin' veins. What fuckin' good are they then, man? I
mean, whit stupit cunt thought that up - puttin' the stuff
in fuckin' jellies? Know fuckin' nothin' these doctor cunts,
altiye.'
Parlabane stifled an anguished moan. He remembered
the old joke about a new arrival in hell. The bloke gets
shown a door and told, 'You're in there,' by his accompanying imp. when he
gets inside, he finds a bunch of men
sitting up to their necks in shit, drinking cups of tea. 'This
isn't so bad,' he tells himself. 'Get used to the smell and it
might even seem quite civilised.' At which point another
imp sticks his head round the door and says: 'Right lads,
tea-break's over. Back on your heids.'
The difference in Parlabane's case was that right then
he'd prefer to be on his head. Just as long as the keech
completely insulated his ears.
Aw here, wait a minute. Wait. A. Wee. Minute. Here.
Yessss!'
He couldn't help looking over the side to investigate the
creature's sudden discovery, his curiosity engaged by the
sheer unlikelihood of anything in any way consumable
lying unused and undiscovered in a tiny prison cell. The
concept of a stray fag lying unclaimed under the table was