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Sure would you not have a small bit?

 

Rottweiler Soup: When Darkness Falls

3
Posted March 13, 2013 by McManus in Ramp Archives

Nobody Expects the Spanish Disquisition!

 

Well, this, I think, is what you Irish refer to as a turnip for the books. That is what you say, right? It is not a phrase that I can pretend to understand, but then you Irish are not a particularly easy-to-understand people. You know, the famous Jew Sigmund Freud once said that there are two types of people who cannot be psychoanalysed: the Irish and people in a coma. People in a coma cannot be analysed because they do not have any dreams and also because you cannot ask them anything even if they did have dreams, because they are in a coma. The Irish cannot be psychoanalysed because they do not have a superego. They do not repress anything and therefore everything in their unconscious is already on the surface. They are nothing but Id. Their dreams and their reality are the same thing for them. Television is truth, Travellers are food, books want turnips. This is how it is.

When ‘Dilara’ phoned me to say that Joe McManus was wanting to meet up with her with a stack of files from the CIA detailing its involvement in torture, human rights abuses, murder, drug smuggling, xenotransplantation, and corruption, my first response was, ‘Tell me something we don’t know!’ Am I right? But then when she is telling me that McManus says he has killed Frank Langford, my radars prick up, like, ‘Hello!’ and ‘Fuck what?!’ He has killed Frank Langford?! This? After we have spent six months training Dilara to get close to Frank Langford in order to extract information from him using her pussy and also her mouth, we get this? All that dressing up in a niqab, all that pretending to be Iranian—which was just, you understand, for the benefit of the girls back in the whorehouse, to keep them of the scent—and then all that effort of faking Dilara’s identity as a UN Human Rights investigator (which doesn’t come cheap, I will have you know), only for her target to get coshed on a beach by a stone and left for the waves, and meanwhile his killer is coming to Spanish intelligence with all the fucking information we were after in the first place! I tell you, I did cackle. I cackled like a little Spanish fascist.

You see where this leaves me, don’t you? For six months I have had Dilara passing on names to Frank Langford, names that she, the UN Human Rights investigator (jajajajaja, as we say in Madrid), had concerns about, and Frank, the stupid prick, there was he thinking to himself, ‘This is the great. The idiot woman is giving me names of people she’s worried might be targets of intimidation, and for me this is half the work done. Now I can just pick them up and kill them’. But of course, they were not subversives or enemies of the regime at all. No, wait. I take that back. Everyone’s an enemy of this regime. But what they really were was enemies of me. Rivals in the drug trade. As I’m sure you are aware just from trying to buy drugs yourself, the market in this country has been getting very tight. It isn’t like the boom days, when every TD in the country was injecting heroin into his eyeballs and there were enough customers to go round for everyone. Not at all. No, señor. The market, he is shaking out. And in this game, it isn’t about who provides the better product, or the cheaper product. It’s last man who is standing who gets the monopoly. Gets to name his price.

What better way to clear the field of my rivals than have the army and police to do it for me? I give Frank Langford all the names via Dilara, he rounds them up as enemies of the state, kills them, I clean up. And Joe McManus? Well, wasn’t that just the bonus ball? Who could have anticipated that? I have been after his supply network for such a long time, but he was protected. Protected by his friendship with Frank. But let me tell you, the quality of the coke that he supplied to me was better than anything I could source via my contacts

in Morocco. Moron that he was, I don’t want to denigrate the man. His stuff was great crack altogether. As the Irish also say. I think.

So now I get McManus’s source, Delia, I get Langford to kill off my rivals and then get killed himself, I get all the evidence presented to me on a plate by McManus, including this ridiculous diary, I get McManus himself. What else? Oh yes, I find out from Dilara that McManus has given copies of all his documents to a journalist, Schwarzkopf or something, so before he can get his piece written I arrange for a welcoming party in his house; just a couple of select guests with silencers. Then all I have to do now is decide how to handle McManus. I’m thinking himself and Dilara in a carbomb. Maybe at Heuston station this time. It’ll tie up all the loose ends nicely, won’t it? Mind you, they still haven’t got round to executing those dwarves who were framed for the Connolly Station job. Their legs don’t reach the electrodes or something. Fucking incompetents. You have do everything yourself in this country.

Right this minute, McManus is downstairs. In the ‘dungeon’. The girls think he’s a paying guest.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, would it?


About the Author

McManus

Philosopher. Bon Viveur. Trying to Get Divorced. Living in a Shithole.

  • http://www.ramp.ie/ Lisa McInerney

    Well, at least McManus didn’t live out the rest of his days like a schnook.

    Or did he? Maybe Senor Estimulo had him relocated to a south sea mission.

  • http://twitter.com/Fearganainim Fearganainim

    Nooooooooooooooo!!

  • John Green

    Who knows what he’s up to in the dungeon. Maybe it’s a JobBridge scheme.

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