Charlie

A wee homage tae Irvine Welsh - radge wee scunner that he is

         See, now whit wis ah sayin? Made me lose mah fuckin thread, ya fuckin eejit.
         Oh aye, that wis it. The dug.
         So Maw wis feelin aw lanely n’that efter Faither died, n ah wisnae livin at hame so she’d ay be on the phone tae me, gripin oan n oan n’that near enough constant, ken? Dinnae get me wrang, ah fuckin love mah Mither an ah’ll fuckin flatten the man wha caws me a poof fir sayin so, but she wis jist greetin on doon tha phone day efter day, so I sez to her, “Ma, why d’ye no goan get yirsel a wee dug tae keep ye company? Take yir mind affay things.”
         N she says aye, it wid be jist the fuckin ticket tae huv anither heartbeat roond the hoose, so she goes tae the pound or the kennel or wheriver the fuck ye go tae find a dug - ah dinnae fuckin know - n she finds this wee flea bag, a westie or some shite cawed Charlie. Fuck me, yis should huv seen the puir wee fucker. Owners afore Maw wid fuckin thrash the thing tae within an inchay its puff so it’s aw that this wee mite can dae just tae sit still. Most ay the time it wid shake like a fuckin paint mixer, pishin n shitein fuckin ivrywhere.
         But Maw loves the wee cunt, n that’s whit’s important, so whit d’ye dae?
         Turns oot - nae fuckin surprise - that the thing wisnae built tae last. It wis a weak-hearted wee soul n it popped its clogs oan her a month or so efter she gets it. Still, cuz of its history n’that, she wants tay gie it a proper send off, ken? Gie it in death whit it couldnae huv in life, n’aw that shite.
         So she goes n buys this ceremonial urn thing tae pit its fuckin greasy auld ashes into efter she gets it fuckin flamed at the crem, n get this. The fuckin thing - this urn - is fuckin inscribed wi the wee cunt’s name. Fuckin inscribed! Y’ever hear a thing like it? Inscribed fir fuck’s sake!
         The dug gets burned, Maw collects the ashes n then aw the pictures ay us get fuckin sidelined aff ay the mantlepiece tae make way fir this fuckin inscribed urn - n thair it sits, fuckin priday place in tha livin room, fir aw tae see.
         Anyway, ah wis roond thair the ither day n some fuckin wee brats come a-knockin fir oor Jamie. Ah telt thum he wisnae in n these wee dossers start lookin at thair fuckin sneakers, like ah wis a disapprovin faither. Ah asked if ah could help thum at aw, n then wanay the aulder wans mumbles “He wis supposed tae be sortin us oot wi a wee bitay gear, ken?” So I seys tae the wee radges, “Come awa in lads. Ah’ve goat just the stuff fir yis.”
         Ah walk thum through intae the livin room an ye should huv heard the gasps when they saw wee Charlie’s urn. This scrawny lad, fuckin’ face like the pavement ootside the Rat N Fuckin Parrot oan a Satday night, peeps up n seys “Fuck me! Is that the stash?”
         Ah says, “Fuckin right it is. How much can ah pit yis aw doon fir?”
         Anither wan, the fuckin treasurer, seys “Wir wantin twenty quid’s worth”
         Ah roll mah eyes, gettin into mah part, ken, n sey “Goat a fuckin calculator on ye then, prick? Ah sell by weight, no by net fuckin price.” Glaikit wee fucker’s huvin trouble wi it, so ah explain tae him “Ye dinnae ask a greengrocer for twenty quid’s worthay tatties, ye ask him for a poond an a half. But seein as yer green tae the gemme I’ll tell ye what. Twenty quid works oot about fower grams.”
         So ah goan fetch a sandwich bag ootay the kitchen drawer n start spoonin the ashes oot intay it.
         Wanay thum - some wee bawheid - starts tryin tae be fuckin Scarface n’that seyin “Thon disnae look much like cocaine tae me” so ah fuckin steps ower tae the wee shite n sey “Whit are ye? Fuckin elevin? Twelve? C’moan pal, dinnae waste mah time. This is what gear looks like afore it gets bleached, ken? Ah cannae be ersed wi’ daein aw that shite masel - ah’ve goat owerheads tae consider - but if yis want tae go elsewhere n pay extra to get yersels some snow white Hollywood gear, by aw means boys, yir more than welcome. But fower grams for a fuckin purple? You willnae get a better price than that wi’oot packin a fuckin pistol, believe you me pal”
         “Awright, awright,” he’s goin. “Nae need tae be like that. Ah wis only sayin.”
         Aye, fuckin right ye wis only saying, ya radge wee bastard. Ah pit a knot in the bag n chuck it at the treasurer seyin, “Right, noo awa wi yis afore yir ma sees yir no in yir cots,” n the wee fuckers scarper.
         Whit did I dae wi the cash? Ah’m gettin tae that part! Fuck’s sake, haud oan!
         Then, see, ah’m oan the sofa, this twenty burnin a hole in mah poakit, feelin a wee bit bad fir sellin Ma’s dug’s remains tae kids n’that n ah’m startin tae feel that mebbe mah karma’ll be a bit ootay kilter so I decide tae caw on mah mate Duncan.
         Dunc’s burd has this golden lab that went n goat itself knocked up by some fuckin randy auld mutt n had jist recently pished a loaday puppies ontay his kitchen flair. He’s been pullin his hair oot tryin tay offload them ontay some puir fucker ever since they saw the dug’s belly swell - in fact, Dunc wis aw up fir sackin it up n slingin it intay the river, but his missis widnae huv it.
         So ah goes ower n thair’s this wee yin sitting therr that aw the ithers keep oan bitin n’that, really fuckin layin intay it, so ah pick it up by the scruffay its neck, bung Dunc a tenner fir his troubles n take it hame fir Maw.
         Yir fuckin right it wis a nice thing tae dae, but that’s jist me thru n thru - aw fuckin heart.
         Whit did she caw it?
         She didnae caw it anythin. Ah named him.
         Whit d’ye reckon I cawed it?
         Ah cawed it Charlie as weel.
         Ah’m no fuckin stupit.