Christopher Brookmyre, Boiling a Frog
still seeping, the reverberations continuing to shudder through his head in time with his pulse. He had a look at the ascent required to reach the top bunk and opted to stay crumpled on the floor for a few more minutes’ convalescence.

“Fooaltiyeman, that looked ****in’ sair. Hahahahahaha. ****in’ daft woman's genitals.”

The sliver adjusted his reclining posture, shuffling forwards from the wall, presumably to afford himself a better view of the ongoing daft-woman's genitalsery.

“Serve ye ****in’ right, sittin’ there when it’s ma ****in’ bed.”

With his sleeve having fallen away from it a couple of inches, Parlabane could now more clearly see the grey twiglet of arm that was implausibly supporting Sliver’s head. It looked as though all it would take to snap the thing would be for a fly to alight on his nose, but Parlabane knew better than to bumume his appearance was any reflection on his ability to look after himself. He certainly wasn’t about to put it to the test by telling him to shut the **** up. Nonetheless, Parlabane felt sure, if Sliver had been in Belsen, his nickname would have been ‘Slim’.

“Sorry,” he managed quietly. “I’ll take the top one, shall I?”

“****in’ right ye will. Go up there an’ greet.”

“In a minute.”

“****in’ first time, innit, eh? ****in’ never been in the jile afore, huv ye? Ahhh, ****in’ ****in’ it I bet, ****innn. Ahh-haa. ****in’ – Fooaltiyeman, I don’t ****in’ like the look o’ your ****in’ chances man, ne’er I don’t. ****in’ sideyways for you, pal, mark my ****in’ words. ****in’ daft woman's genitals. Fooaltiye, I’ve been inside a few times, man, ****in’ seen it aw afore, man, ****in’ awyit, an’ ****in’ – ****in’ woman's genitalss like you, naw, man, hahaha, don’t ****in’ fancy ye, altiye. Haha. ****in’ sideyways. ****in’ twirly sheets job, man, altiye. Ahh-haaaah. ****in’ waaank.”

Parlabane, even in his embattled, embittered and em, just-hit-his-head-off-an-iron-bedframe state, retained sufficient presence of mind to appreciate the significance of the moment. As a man who scornfully disapproved of inappropriate superlatives, he could honestly say he was now in the presence of the least charming person he had ever met. Given that he worked in the journalism trade, and that through his wife he had unavoidably met a number of surgeons, this was saying something.

“Fooaltiyeman, I’ve seen your type afore, many a time. Many. A. Fu. Kin. Time. Fooaltiye, ****in’ easy meat, man, that’s you, ****innnn ah-haa.”

Parlabane felt an enormous temptation to point at him, narrow his eyes and say: “Gordonstoun? No, no, no, that’s right. Fettes, Fettes.” Resisting was