Twin Town Page #6

- Morocco.

- Morocco?

- What else do they do in Morocco?

- Carpets.

- Carpets?

- Aye.

Do you know what happens if they

catch you smoking dope in Morocco?

- What?

- They hand you over to...

- the f***ing rug squad.

- F*** off.

F***ing had you!

Right then! You got to a

double hot dog...

with a quarter of Moroccan

sprinkled on top...

25 f***ing magic mushrooms, and

you'll be dead in three mouth fulls.

Morning boys.

Double cheeseburger, large portion

of fries please, and a diet Coke.

- Thanks.

- We've only hot dogs, no butter.

Only f***ing hot dogs it is!

- Anything on it?

- Anything you like, snappy now.

Quiet little spot you got here boys.

Aye...

You want to get yourselves

in the thick of it.

A bit more bloody action.

Down there, you should be now.

Aye, down there.

Down there...

- by the church.

- Aye.

- 90p.

- Aye.

Gonna be a big one,

down there today.

Lot of people coming from the town.

Fire palaver.

From the caravans. Someone

Should be f***ing strung up for it.

- I know.

- Aye.

Down there you want to be boys.

After the service...

gonna be a lot of starving people

coming out of that church.

You could make a f***ing killing.

F***ing hell,

plenty of through on these.

Very, very unusual.

Come on boy.

See you tomorrow with any luck.

If I was those twins I'd have had...

my family f***ing cremated,

not buried.

The twins have disappeared,

haven't been consulted on the matter.

All I'm saying if you're torched

in a fire accident...

may as well be burned again

in the crematorium.

- It wasn't an accident.

- Whatever.

F***ing manslaughter then.

The twins Bryn's poodle's head off.

- You are joking.

- So...

Who was behind the fire, Terry?

The twins. The f***ing twins!

Is that why they disappeared?

No, Terry.

For fucks sake.

Cartwright was striking back

at the twins for...

what they did to his f***ing poodle.

He probably got some other twat

to do the dirty work.

Like a revenge kind of thing?

- I thought the dog was dead.

- It must have got out.

What was Fergie's collar doing

on that mongrel's neck?

- I thought you had the collar.

- I know. I did.

So how the f*** did it end up

on that animal's f***ing neck?

I slipped the collar around its neck

before torching the kennel.

What the f*** for?

It was a f***ing symbolic thing.

So they knew you meant business.

A sort of Italian touch.

Classy.

Classy?

You're a f***ing moron.

- What about Greyo?

- He's gonna have a pop.

At me?

Have a pop at me?

- It's a murder, Bryn. He knows.

- Don't worry about Greyo.

He knows f*** all.

I'll deal with Greyo.

We both will.

- Hugh.

- Hello, Bryn.

Calm down.

Why don't they put them

all in one grave, Dai?

What?

One on top of the other.

Like a triple decker.

A triple f***ing decker?

They were all related.

They could crunch up.

Crunch up?

What do you mean crunch up?

Crunch up.

They could keep each other company.

- Crunch up, the three of them.

- Chip they are f***ing dead!

- Yeah, I know that.

- Then shut up then!

- Jesus!

- What's going on?

Come back here!

Come back here!

You only meant to f*** up the dog!

It was a dog job gone wrong.

But you f***ed up!

Greyo, you are the one

who is f***ed up!

It doesn't have to be murder.

Manslaughter.

That's all it was, really.

You got clear form,

good lawyer, iffy judge.

We'll sort out four years and you'll

end up with weaving baskets...

for a two years stretch

in a f***ing Butlins camp.

You got a deal.

You better have a line of Charlie.

Give hi a line, Terry.

I've got f*** all on me, Bryn.

- Greyo?

- No!

Twp bent coppers and not a line

of Charlie between the pair of you?

Jesus Christ.

Allow me.

Match ball.

Wales vs. Scotland,

Murriyfield 1977.

The Scots have got control, been

running us ragged for 15 minutes...

But we receive

the ball for Andy Irvine...

in our own 25.

JB passes the ball to Fenwick.

Fenwick punts the ball

out of Gerald Davies.

Who side steps twice,

palms off a man before...

passing the ball to

Phil Bennett on the outside.

Bennett, out again to Belcher.

Belcher back inside to Fenwick.

Fenwick slips the ball through

the eye of the needle...

to Bennett on the inside.

Two Jocks close in.

What happened then, Greyo?

Bennett side steps, leaves

them both in the f***ing dirt...

and plops the ball down.

Right between the f***ing posts.

We won 18 to 9.

That's right, Lucy.

One minute we're in the sh*t.

Next minute we got a result.

Tell him, Terry.

Terry, tell him.

- Tell me what?

- Lucy, you tell him.

Can't fit him up, Greyo.

Now we're f***ing talking.

I got the ball now, Greyo.

Me 18 points, you 9.

I've got the f***ing result.

- I'm putting you away, Bryn.

- I can't see it myself, Greyo.

There's another four pounds of that

sh*t tucked away in a safe place...

and they've all got Terry's

little paw marks on them.

And yours.

I've been helping your pal

do a bit of business.

I never touch the stuff myself.

It'd make me aggressive

and unreasonable.

Now, work it out, Greyo.

I go down, Terry goes down.

Terry goes down,

you go down with him.

Hey Greyo!

Fit someone else up.

Good boy.

- Make up your mind time, Greyo.

- What?

- Who do you fancy?

- What do you mean, who do I fancy?

The fit-up.

Who do you fancy for the fit-up?

I don't fancy anybody

for the f***ing fit-up.

Eat your custard tart.

- Here we go.

- What the f*** are you doing now?

I've written down seven f***ers

who we could fit-up for the fire.

- It's time for the tombola.

- Tombola?

- A lucky f***ing dip?

- An unlucky for some one dip.

- Terry, you're a f***ing animal.

- Remember, Greyo...

Bryn Cartwright 18 points,

us 9 points.

We're in this together sunshine and

someone's going down for the fire.

- Now just f***ing pick on.

- You f***ing pick one.

Does PC Plod have a f***ing problem?

Yeah, you.

You f***ing crazy bastard.

I want f*** all to do with this fit up.

- You can count me out.

- Count you out?

You're right f***ing in, Greyo.

Right up to your

hairy arsehole, Greyo.

Three people, and a f***ing

poodle are dead, Terry.

Two pensioners and

a f***ing hooker, big deal.

I f***ing liked her, Terry.

I really f***ing liked her.

She's f***ing dead.

What a f***ing shame.

I'm really f***ing sorry.

But we're in a f***ing mess.

And we got a f***ing job to do.

Clear up the f***ing thing.

And when we've done the job...

I'm getting the f*** out of here.

Soon as this sh*t's wrapped up,

I am out of this sh*t hole.

Do you no where you're going?

Nowhere.

Nowhere. You're staying right

where you f***ing well are.

Talking boring bollocks with

boring f*** heads...

about the f***ing future

of Welsh f***ing rugby...

and how Welsh f***ing crap team

that can't even beat Canada...

or Romania or Samoa...

I mean Western f***ing Samoa!

You mucky f***ing tosspot wanker!

F*** off.

Yeah.

F***ing yeah.

You're an iffy copper, who does

a bit of this and a bit of that...

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