behalf of the embassy of the Independent Republic of Issyk-Kulistan to the EU in Brussels; and a corporate credit card. Yes, you’ve come up in the world. But as you feel the warm weight of the Gnome’s hand on your thigh, you can’t shift the feeling that there’s more to this than him doing one of his on/off boy-friends a favour. You try again. “What’s your angle?”
The Gnome sighs. “I wish you wouldn’t ask awkward questions,” he says, a trifle querulously. “But if you must know, I’ll tell you.” He leans across the table, and you instinctively lean towards him, until his lips brush your ear. “The angle, dear boy, is money —and how you, and I, and a couple of friends, are going to make a great steaming pile of it. Legally come by, no more and no less—and there’ll be nobody to say otherwise.” You can feel the heat of his Cheshire-cat grin on your cheek: You can smell his yeasty breath. You lean a bit closer, tensing expectantly. “The pen-pushers in Przewalsk want you for a sparkly consular unicorn. I think that’s a grand idea. And I think it would be especially grand if you’d keep me informed of developments, as and when they happen . . .”
TOYMAKER: The Leith Police Dismisseth Us
It’s four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon: Have you got somewhere safe to hide?
You’re in the shed, guts churning and palms sweating as you set up the run that Gav’s put on you for tomorrow.
It’s a’ the fault of that fucking cunt down at the Cash-For-No-Questions shop on Leith Walk. He wouldn’t offer you more than fifty euros for the telly even though you could show him a receipt all legallike to prove it wisnae hot. And he wouldna even look at your mobie. Or your bike. And the thing is, unless you get your hands on three large by Tuesday, you’re getting malkied.
You owe the Operation’s tax farmer three hundred euros for Services Rendered: and the Operation disnae take “Noo, ye ken I got knocked back by thi’ bastid wot bought it” for an answer. Nor does the Operation play well with “A big boy did it an’ ran away,” “The dug ate ma hamewurk,” or “Pay you next Tuesday?” The Operation’s approach to dealing with Intellectual Property Violations is drastic and memorable—you’ve seen the vid of that yin from Birmingham what crossed them, even signed a fucking contract on paper to say ye kenn’t what ye was getting intae. Fact is, you’re their fabber franchisee for Pilrig, and if ye couldna keep a float to cover your credit, you shouldna have fucking signed the piece of paper, ye ken?
It’s nae your fault you’re hard up. There’s a recession on, you’re long on feedstock, and your car got crushed cos ye couldna afford the insurance after that eppy bastid Tony and his fucking jakey friend ripped off your stash reet after you paid the overdue council tax (it was that or they were gonnae send the sheriff’s court officers round; that would never do if them cunts keeked whit you’d hid in the shed). And then fucking Big Malc gouged you for three days’ fab time an’ gave you a gubbing when you asked to be paid—
None of which matters, likesay? The Operation’s gonnae have their half kilo of flesh.
The shed at the back of your mum’s hoose is cramped, dark, and dingy, surrounded by thigh-high grass and weeds land-mined with cat shit from the feral tom what lives next door. You took it over after your old man died, chucked the rusting lawn-mower and ran a mains extension oot the kitchen window—that, an’ drilled through the brickwork under the sink and plumbed in a water hose. The fab needs water and power and special feedstock, and lots of ’em; like an old-time cannabis farm, back before they decriminalized it. You tiled the shed roof with stolen polymer PV slates (not that they’re good for much this far north of Moscow) and installed shelves to hold your feedstock supplies and spares. It took you a year to scrimp and cadge and steal the parts you
The Gnome sighs. “I wish you wouldn’t ask awkward questions,” he says, a trifle querulously. “But if you must know, I’ll tell you.” He leans across the table, and you instinctively lean towards him, until his lips brush your ear. “The angle, dear boy, is money —and how you, and I, and a couple of friends, are going to make a great steaming pile of it. Legally come by, no more and no less—and there’ll be nobody to say otherwise.” You can feel the heat of his Cheshire-cat grin on your cheek: You can smell his yeasty breath. You lean a bit closer, tensing expectantly. “The pen-pushers in Przewalsk want you for a sparkly consular unicorn. I think that’s a grand idea. And I think it would be especially grand if you’d keep me informed of developments, as and when they happen . . .”
TOYMAKER: The Leith Police Dismisseth Us
It’s four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon: Have you got somewhere safe to hide?
You’re in the shed, guts churning and palms sweating as you set up the run that Gav’s put on you for tomorrow.
It’s a’ the fault of that fucking cunt down at the Cash-For-No-Questions shop on Leith Walk. He wouldn’t offer you more than fifty euros for the telly even though you could show him a receipt all legallike to prove it wisnae hot. And he wouldna even look at your mobie. Or your bike. And the thing is, unless you get your hands on three large by Tuesday, you’re getting malkied.
You owe the Operation’s tax farmer three hundred euros for Services Rendered: and the Operation disnae take “Noo, ye ken I got knocked back by thi’ bastid wot bought it” for an answer. Nor does the Operation play well with “A big boy did it an’ ran away,” “The dug ate ma hamewurk,” or “Pay you next Tuesday?” The Operation’s approach to dealing with Intellectual Property Violations is drastic and memorable—you’ve seen the vid of that yin from Birmingham what crossed them, even signed a fucking contract on paper to say ye kenn’t what ye was getting intae. Fact is, you’re their fabber franchisee for Pilrig, and if ye couldna keep a float to cover your credit, you shouldna have fucking signed the piece of paper, ye ken?
It’s nae your fault you’re hard up. There’s a recession on, you’re long on feedstock, and your car got crushed cos ye couldna afford the insurance after that eppy bastid Tony and his fucking jakey friend ripped off your stash reet after you paid the overdue council tax (it was that or they were gonnae send the sheriff’s court officers round; that would never do if them cunts keeked whit you’d hid in the shed). And then fucking Big Malc gouged you for three days’ fab time an’ gave you a gubbing when you asked to be paid—
None of which matters, likesay? The Operation’s gonnae have their half kilo of flesh.
The shed at the back of your mum’s hoose is cramped, dark, and dingy, surrounded by thigh-high grass and weeds land-mined with cat shit from the feral tom what lives next door. You took it over after your old man died, chucked the rusting lawn-mower and ran a mains extension oot the kitchen window—that, an’ drilled through the brickwork under the sink and plumbed in a water hose. The fab needs water and power and special feedstock, and lots of ’em; like an old-time cannabis farm, back before they decriminalized it. You tiled the shed roof with stolen polymer PV slates (not that they’re good for much this far north of Moscow) and installed shelves to hold your feedstock supplies and spares. It took you a year to scrimp and cadge and steal the parts you
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