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But Franco just lies there, his twisted, hateful simpleton’s mouth clamped tight.

— It was all going so fuckin well, Frank. Have you ever felt that, Franco? That you were on your game, that you were rocking, and then some cunt cheats you oot ay the fuckin lot? Cause there’s got tae be some fuckin rules, Franco. Even you wouldnae dae that tae one of your own. I know I wouldnae. If you’re running a proper business, a real operation, ye need trust. I play games, Frank; you’ll never understand this, but I’m more of a warrior than you’ll ever be. I believe in the class war. I believe in the battle of the sexes. I believe in my tribe. I believe in the righteous, intelligent clued-up section of the working classes against the brain-dead moronic masses as well as the mediocre, soulless bourgeoisie. I believe in punk rock. In Northern Soul. In acid house. In mod. In rock n roll. I also believe in pre-commercial righteous, rap and hip hop. That’s been my manifesto, Franco. You’ve seldom, if ever, fitted into that manifesto. Yes, I admire your outlaw instincts but the bruiser-psycho thing just leaves me cold. Its crass banalities offend my sense of good taste. Renton though, I thought Renton shared my vision, my punk vision. But what is he? Scruffy Murphy with a brain and even fewer morals.

I’m wondering if this cunt can hear me. No way, he’s never fucking waking up again, or if he does it’s as a total veg. — I’m very disappointed, Frank. You know what that cunt took from me? I’ll tell you in your simple terms: sixty-odd fuckin grand. Yes, it makes your three grand seem the small fuckin beer it is. But the money means nothing. He took my dreams, Frank. Do you understand that? Do you get it? Hu-low? Any cunt home? No. Thought not.

Alex McLeish?

I’m sure that all right-thinking people would endorse those wise comments, Alex, and to be quite frank, I’d go further: I would charge Francis Begbie with bringing the game into disrepute. And on the subject of being Frank, let’s hear from another well-known Frank who also plies his trade in Leith. Franck Sauzee?

I’m still idly doodling on Franco’s plaster cast with my Magic Marker as I pass the day with him.
I LOVE
2
SUCK COCK
.

— But I helped that Renton bastard. I kept him out of your fuckin clutches. Why? Maybe because of that time back in London when you freaked out and accused me of being in it with him. You punched me and broke my tooth. Disfigured me. I had to get it capped. Not even a fucking apology. But I was fucking well wrong to keep him from you. Never again. I shall find him, Frank, and I vow that should you manage to come out of that coma and repair your broken body, you will be the first, the absolute first, to know of his whereabouts.

I bend right over the fucking drooling vegetable stooge. — Get well soon . . . Beggar Boy. I’ve always wanted to call you that to your fa . . . and my heart leaps out of my chest as something fucking grabs my wrist. I look down and his hand is like a vice around it. And when I look up, his eyes have opened and those blazing coals of enmity are staring right into my lacerated, penitent inner self . . .