Three Cunts on a boat. Part I

“Why Robert, Why? I can’t do this- it’s not polite”

Elise pleaded, her face twisted with grief and hostility. The management structure had survived the trio’s journey to this strange place. Robert “Rabbit” Leverit wore his seniority well, fat,bald and pedantic. A nit-picking twit with a lower than average IQ, but a higher than average sense of entitlement. He had fought hard to become senior Cultural bandwidth overlord of the North East. His allocations were widely regarded as unfair, unreasonable, corrupt and spiteful. He scratched his sweaty crotch….

“Elise, try to understand we have no choice- given our predic, produck, erm, situation- I’m with you really you daft cow- I would prefer not to dump my manure out-with the home but needs must… Now TAKE A SHITE YOU STUPID CUNT!”

As far as Rabbit was concerned Elise and her pal Ollie were classic intellectuals- a complete waste of time. This bitch was so useless she couldn’t even take a shit off the side of the boat. Throughout his career he had faced their sneering snobbery, demeaning his lack of a classical education, demeaning his physical appearance, demeaning his speech. But, he was the man- he was their line manager and by fuck they would show him the correct level of respect.
Ollie fiddled with his word-pallet, a pained look on his face.

“But, Rabbit- I mean Mr Leverit- she’s simply dehydrated- we cannot continue to subsist on saltwater. We shall surely perish within days…erm- aye- atsfit a said loon”

Rabbit’s eyes darkened. Like currants on a doughball. The silly little prick pronged his fingers as he added the final pretend dorick slew to his sentence.

“You just belt up. Whateveryerfucking name is.”

He despised Ollie. For a start he was English. Usually that was enough, but Ollie had sheer gall by the tonne. He hoovered up grants, bursaries and one-off awards like a giant leech. In return for this he produced reams of unreadable prose- he specialised in the long dead Scottish art of the bothy ballad among other outrages. His appropriation of Scottish dialect and culture was unprecedented. Although in reality he spoke with an effete lisping voice- sentences rising to a climax like his horror of a nose, his written work was steeped in mock-scotch as authentic as a Japanese Whisky.
For his sin’s Rabbit had rescued Ollie from a likely assault during the Doric Writing festival in Aberdeen near the beginning of his current position three years ago. Ollie had been reciting one of his cringe inducing odes- the name exactly escaped him- but it’s content was burned into his mind.
Ollie was waxing lyrical on “The quine ah seen on yon union street, ye ken- she wis a total shag. I would ride that quine nae fuckin’ bother, I wid burst her erse we ma dinger, bit she wis wee some loon and his mates” which for obvious reasons upset a crowd of drinkers in the bar. Ollie was a sex pest really- both a bit rapey and a bit gropey. Let’s just call him Grapey.
Rabbit’s train of thought was rapidly de-railed by Elise’s shrieking. She’d finally emptied her dozy bowels. She’d failed to fire her refuse overboard though. A brown slug slowly crawled it’s way down her sexless bandy legs.
She had scraped and grazed knees, like a school kid. Angry and red.

“oooooooooooooooooh goooooooooooooood god! It’s all over my pee-pee”

She howled. Hands fluttering. She was rocking the boat the stupid sow. Her face was beetroot red, tears streaming down her cheeks from her crinkled eye-holes. Ollie gawped, switching his attention between Ellie and his word pallet.
The boat was very small. Rabbit hunched at the Prow, as was correct. The other two balanced out his humongous weight towards the stern. The wee boat rocked now, splashes of dark, peaty sediment thick Loch water splashed up and into the boat gently.
Rabbit stole a glance down into the water, nae sign of the big fish- and he was running low on booze and fags. He squinted, deep into the dirty water he fancied he saw the outline of a Ford Cortina, yellowy and rusted. Then it was gone. A brackish mirage.
The water was salty, but this looked like a Loch. He didn’t ponder these things. He didn’t ponder how the mist that locked visibility down to 20 metres never left either. The lack of the familiar transition between day and night was dismissed likewise.
The big fish however, he did wonder about.