Pisspot To Pimlico

SCENE: COMPLETE AND UTTER DARKNESS

MIKE: (softly) Raymond.

RAY: (softly) Yes Michael.

MIKE: I’d like to ask you in as simple terms as I possibly can how much trouble you think we are in right now. Now don’t hold back, don’t give me any of that, maaaaaate, it’s gonna be fiiiiiinnneee. You say that one more fucking time and I’ll stamp on what’s left of your fucking hand.

RAY: You know for a dope-smoking postman, you worry an awful lot.

MIKE: And you don’t worry enough for a…what the fuck do you do anyway Raymond? What exactly does it say on your passport under occupation? When people ask you what you do for a living whaddya say Ray?

RAY: Electrician, of sorts.

MIKE: Stealing other people’s electricity doesn’t make you a sparky any more than growing dope makes me a horticulturist.

RAY: Do you want me to fix yours by the way? Besides I ‘aven’t actually got me own passport.

MIKE: (screeches)Eeeuuuuuuuuuuuuuwwwwwwwww what? Do you think that’s why we could be being held under Section 14 of the Terrorist Act? Whose passport have you got?

RAY: Erm, I dunno, some bloke.

MIKE: His name wasn’t Abdul Abdullah Bin Laden was it?

RAY: Let it go will ya?

MIKE: But why haven’t you got your own Ray? Why didn’t you buy one like everyone else Ray? Why do you always have to climb in the toilet window round the back and get covered in piss rather than pay the three quid on the door. Why Ray why?

RAY: It was only ninety quid.

MIKE: (screeches) Eeeuuuuuuuuuuuuuwwwwwwwww what? (sound of controlled breathing) Have a guess Ray, have a little guess, how much do you think a real one costs? Take a little stab at it.

RAY: Oh I dunno Mike, how would I know that?

MIKE: Can I just point out that if you’d have taken the time to go through the proper channels, like we should of done earlier, your brand new passport with Raymond stamped all over it would have cost you eighty pounds.

RAY: Fuck, you’re joking?

MIKE: No Ray, I’m not joking. Who sold it to you anyway?

RAY: You did.

THE SOUND OF FLESH SLAPPING FOREHEAD

MIKE: (screeches)Eeeuuuuuuuuuuuuuwwwwwwwww what?

RAY: You’re the fucking postman Michael; you’re the man who always delivers. So whose was it?

MIKE: Detective Chief Inspector Cutler’s if you really must know how much trouble we’re in.