the good

Malcolm, Chieftain of Drunks, a ruined, powerful man, a man whose barrel chest and protruding eyes make him look like a boiler about to blow, a man on first name terms with every agency you can think of, ex-para, ex-con, ex-IVDU, a brutal and brutalised man with a curiously feminine haircut, is sitting on the concrete steps outside the block of flats with his hands cuffed behind his back, surrounded by police. It’s like an extemporary street party, with Malcolm the Master of Ceremonies, presiding over the whole thing with a booming tirade that no-one minds at all:

‘Ah’m not taking another step without a smoke of my fag. But how’m ah s’posed to smoke it all troosed up like a Christmas turkeh, yah feckin’ wally, yous? Come on. You’ll just hev to hold it to mah mooth so ah’s can take a wee puff. Don’ look so scared, man. It’s not like ah’m askin’ you to tug mah willy, s’at? Come on, now. There you go. Now maybe I’ll think about answering yah feckin’ schoolboy questions. (...) I’ve told yez all wha’ happen. Ah wus only wadin’ in like to help mah fren. Anybody would! Scept maybe this one, yah lunkin’ great shite. I cannae think of you doin much more than tha’ washin’ up. Yah! You know it! Look at him, laughin’ away up there. Aye! Laugh it up, big man. You’re the one who’s sittin’ up all night wi’ the paperwork, yah buzzy big shite, yous. Yah dizzy wee Columbo. (...) Anyways. Ah’ve told yous. You’ve got the wrong man, son. I don’ understand why yah restin’ me fer, when I was only doin’ wha’ you should’ve been doin’. I was the one stoppin’ a man fram gettin’ killed tonight why yous was all tucked up in bed playin’ wi’ yerseln. (...) I told you. They come out of nowhere. Out of the air fer all I know. They were all over me, man. Like feckin’ foxes or something. With their shiting little razors. They don’ fight fair, y’ah nae. Not at all. But they don’ know me, I can tell you that. They don’t know I fight army style. I get in there – bam! – wi’ a chop to the adam’s apple and a thumb in the eye. Don’ look so scared, matey, yah big wee fairy. Although I could still take you with my hands behind mah back.  I could kill yous with a fart. Come on, now. Jes’ glue my cuts, you useless cunts, and I’ll be on mah way. I did a bit of gluin’ myseln’, as you can see. Wha’ d’you think of mah handiwork? (...) All I want is to go back home and finish mah film. (...) Wha? (...) The good, the bad, the ugly. Why? Have you seen it? You’ll know wha’ ahm talkin’ about, then. That’s me, all right. The good. The good. Why? What’re tryin’ to say? I don’ like what your incineratin’, pal.’