what are you talking about? i am bloody skinny, pal.
please, both join me in my orifice.
you know how much it is, nick.
you know it doesn't include the amp.
what have you come as?
if you will order stuff that comes from kat-man-fucking-du don't be surprised if your fruit picks up a few tourists en route. ~ never mind that, what about the money?
soap is called soap because he likes to keep his hands clean of any unlawful behaviour. he is proud of his job, and even more proud that it's legal.
who's this fat man, then?
you see it's not easy to take a seat at this table; the money involved has to be a hundred grand upwards and there is no shortage of punters.
but he needs him, because he is good at making sure debts get settled and jobs get done.
so, a reasonable return should be in the region of one hundred and twenty, for twenty-five grand invested. that's going on previous experiences.
whatever it's going on, it's still enough to send you on a cooking course.
fat? who are you calling fat? what are all these fat jokes about?
what do you mean?
what you telling us for? the only thing i care about is whether you get your rest in.
listen cooky, you want to make sure that man rests before he plays; it's in all our interests.
what the hell are you doing here?
er, let me guess, my foot in your arse? a game of cards and hatchet harry. you're supposed to be getting some rest, boy!
i heard this place was rough.
i'll kill him!
listen to this one then; you open a company called the arse tickler's faggot fan club. you take an advert in the back page of some gay mag, advertising the latest in arse-intruding dildos, sell it a bit with, er . . . i dunno, `does what no other dildo can do until now', latest and greatest in sexual technology. guaranteed results or money back, all that bollocks. these dills cost twenty-five each; a snip for all the pleasure they are going to give the recipients. they send a cheque to the company name, nothing offensive, er, bobbie's bits or something, for twenty-five. you put these in the bank for two weeks and let them clear. now this is the clever bit. then you send back the cheques for twenty-five pounds from the real company name, arse tickler's faggot fan club, saying sorry, we couldn't get the supply from america, they have sold out. now you see how many of the people cash those cheques; not a single soul, because who wants his bank manager to know he tickles arses when he is not paying in cheques!
probably no longer than four weeks.
well, it's still a good idea.
i have heard some fucking stupid ideas in my time but yours makes bacon's sound inspired.
what's the flapping about? you told the old man yet? eddy
how heavy are the fellas anyway?
me too.
it's the mother of fuck-ups, stupid!
not normal weed. this is some fucked-up skunk class a. i can't think let alone move shit.
neither me, but it depends on what flicks your switch, and the light's on and burning bright for the masses.
no can do.
listen, it's all completely chicken soup.
kosher as christmas
never mind that now. i also need some artillery, you know, a couple of sawn-off shotguns.
i think you're nick the greek.
jesus, if i pick them up, will they stay in one piece? where did you get them from?
they look nice, i agree . . . but lacking in criminal credibility, aren't they? i might get laughed at. how much do you want for these muskets?
what's that, a pound for every year they have been around? i know they're antiques, but i ain't paying antique prices. pause.
range? i don't want to blow the arse out of this country, granted, but i don't want anybody blowing a raspberry at me either. i want to look fucking mean.
all right, let's forget about them for the time being. what about your weed man?
nick the greek.
seven hundred for the pair.
i dunno, but they look nice. i rather like ' em.
is there something we should know about you, soap?
well, not exactly like that.
right as rain.
they're here.
well jesus, that wasn't so bad, was it?
a what?
shit ed, we've got a traffic warden.
hold on, give us half a chance to count it.
rory breaker?
this guy rory breaker can afford to do the deal at the price we are selling. it's not worth him giving us trouble; he knows we would be a pain in the arse, and who wants a pain in the arse?
you would take a pain ? the arse full stop.
there's six black cocks sitting on the side of the road. how many beaks have they got between them?
how many wings have they got between them?
how many feet?
that's right. so how many whiskers has the little white kitten got?
how come you know so much about black cocks and so little about white pussy?]
that's fucked it. what do we do now? no money, no weed; it's all been swapped for a pile of corpses.
well, what did he say?
what do you mean, me?
that's it, i am off.
 . . what?
i'll meet you in the car. i am taking these guns.
i'11 meet you in the car.
i'll only be a minute.
i wanted to talk to you about that.
well not exactly, no; i got 'em sitting in the car, actually; i thought we might sell them back to the greek, but i am having a bit of a problem getting hold of him.
we paid seven hundred quid for those guns. they could hardly trace them to you, could they?