𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗲 ▸ 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴

𝗳𝗶𝘃𝗲. redemption of the junk

~𝗮𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘂𝗽𝗼𝗻 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝗶𝗿, 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗮𝗯𝗹𝘆 𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗲𝗱, 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗼 𝘀𝗵𝗲'𝘀 𝗹𝗲𝗳𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗴𝘂𝗶𝗹𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲~

Spud, Tommy, and Sick Boy were waiting for them at the station, each one of them paying Lana and Renton inquisitive looks upon their approach. Spud didn't realise she was wearing his shirt as the others did, as he'd always been the more emotionally observant of the group. He'd simply landed his gaze on their faces, equally flustered, and began irresistibly grinning. The other two didn't seem nearly as pleased.

'Where the fuck are we off ta, Tommy?' Mark walked off with them to collect tickets, leaving Lana staring through the lenses of a pair of angular sunglasses.

'You clean?' she asked.

'Certainly,' he replied in his best Sean Connery impression.

'You look like two bairns pretending to be an adult in that coat.'

'You look like you've just had the worst cunninglingus history has to date with that face.'

Tommy didn't tell them where the group were headed even once they'd boarded the train. In fact, the only interaction she had with him was at the ticket office when they were buying return journeys and she'd opened her mouth hesitantly. Tommy lowered the hand that had been raised in inquisition, remarking, 'I've got yours.'

The journey was torturous. Her head pounded with nowhere to rest it other than the violently vibrating headrests and windows, her bones grew heavier with each shuffled movement, and the material of her dress was gradually becoming more irritating as it crawled up her thighs, exposing unidentified drinking injuries and smears of an undetermined origin. All the while, Sick Boy rambled on about his impenetrable theory regarding the meaning of existence.

'It's certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life,' he commented.

'What do you mean?' Renton asked him.

'Well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's gone forever. All walks of life: George Best, for example, had it and lost it, or David Bowie, or Lou Reed-'

'Some of his solo stuff's not bad,' he pointed out.

'No, it's not bad, but it's not great either, is it? And in your heart you kind of know that although it sounds alright, it's actually just shite.'

Defeated with the rarity of truth, Renton inquired, 'So who else?'

'Charlie Nicholas, David Niven, Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley-'

'Okay, okay, what's the point you're trying to make?'

'All I'm trying to do is help you understand that The Name of The Rose is merely a blip on an otherwise uninterrupted downward trajectory.'

'What about The Untouchables?'

Sick Boy pulled a face. 'I don't rate that at all!'

'Despite the Academy Award?'

'That means fuck all. The sympathy vote.'

'Right, so we all get old and then we can't hack it anymore. Is that it?'

'Yeah.'

'That's your theory?'

'Yes. Beautifully fucking illustrated.'

Lana heard Spud enter the conversation over the rattling of bottles on the folding trays and the crinkle of painkillers in her left hand. 'I don't buy that, catboy. I like to believe people can find a passion again, ya ken? Loads of the best paintings were done by mad, old radges.'