Sick Boy was one slick motherfucker. It had been agreed upon, by both myself and Simon, that since it was his idea to go to the park, and his idea to engage in a little target practice, that he, not I, would carry the pellet gun. However, as I said earlier, Sick Boy is one slick motherfucker. Somehow, in the short distance from the grassy knoll to here, I ended up with the gun in my hands. I don't remember it happening. Walking through town, I remember. Arguing over Sick's theory on life and its inevitable downward trajectory, I remember. But, as I stood outside the liquor store, staring at the rifle in my hands, I couldn't for the life of me remember. In the grand scheme of things, it meant fuck all that I was carrying the gun. Any other time I wouldn't have cared less, really, but for some reason it pissed me off to no end. Sick Boy emerged from the dingy little shop, bottle wrapped in the obligatory brown paper bag, smug as fuck grin on his face.
"You were supposed to carry this? How the fuck did I end up with it?" I waved the gun about, but Sick Boy just smiled and walked on. I had no choice but to follow.
"Do you hear me ya blond motherfucker?" Sick Boy didn't answer. He just opened the bottle as we walked, took a large gulp, and recapped it without offering me any. This did not help my mood.
"You selfish little bastard, why the fuck..." but before I could finish my sentence, I was moving, and not on my own accord. Sick Boy, without even missing a beat, turned, pushed me up against the cool brick of a nearby wall. My first thought was that I was in for a beatin'. Sick Boy was one crazy motherfucker when it came right down to it. But instead of the familiar feeling of fists against my body, I felt the sensation of palms running down my arms, followed by Sick Boy's too warm body sliding against mine, finally ending with a slightly sloppy, whiskey flavored kiss that sent shock waves of pleasure straight through my body. Hell, it'd been a long time since anyone's kissed me, even longer since I'd done it without heroin flying through my veins.
As quickly as it began, Sick Boy pulled away but he didn't back away. He just looked at me, stared right into my eyes, before he finally stepped back, that shit-eatin' grin firmly planted back on his face.
"Because you're my mate, Rents. You'd do anything for me." Sick Boy didn't even wait for a response before he continued on down the sidewalk. I followed him, anger forgotten, the gun still clutched in my hands, mouth tasting of cheap whiskey and Simon, knowing full well that what he'd said wasn't just arrogance, far from it actually, because Sick Boy was my mate and I would do anything for him. I knew this. Begbie knew this. Hell oblivious Spud probably knew this. I just had no idea Sick Boy knew this.
I fell into step next to him and he passed me the bottle of whiskey, giving me an almost imperceptible wink coupled with that familiar smirk. I couldn't stop the grin from forming on my lips as I lifted the bottle to drink.
Damn, Sick Boy was one slick motherfucker.