Free Naw Much of a Talker by Pedro Lenz Page B

stupit fuckin cunt that ah am. A Frenchman or Arab or summit. Hippie type. Naw a real hippie but. Awkward, it wis, right fae the start. So ah met him in Pontarlier.
Only spoke French, the guy did. How wis Uli. An’ how wis wee Stofer. How wis Pesche.
    Did he know wee Stofer? Did he know Pesche?
    Only through Uli.
    An’ as we talk, ah kin see he knows hawf the Fog. An artist, he wis, a painter. Then he spun me some kinda yarn. His wallet hid been nicked, his ID an’ cash, an’ as he totally
needed tae get tae the Fog, he’d phoned Uli. It wis really crucial he got tae the Fog. An’ it wis fantastic ahd come fur him. His story mibbe seemed totally logical tae him, tae me it
wisnae at aw. Ahv been hingin roon faur too lang wi folk that ur constantly tellin ye that kinda story tae believe them. It’s naw that ah dont want tae hear them any mair. Ah like tae hear
folk reinventin their lives. The wan thing that bothers me is when some cunt also wants me tae believe it aw.
    Why’d he sae many bags, ah asked the Frenchman. Wid it naw be easier tae take fewer – bigger – bags? It aw depended on whit ye wur usin them fur, he laughed. Fur him, it made
mair sense jist tae transport his various diffrint things in various diffrint bags.
    Ah pit aw his bags in the boot an’ we drove via Les Verrières, Neuchâtel an’ Berne tae the Fog. Ah wisnae in the mood fur talkin. He didnae seem tae be eether so we jist
sat there, sayin nuthin. Ah pit a bit ae Dylan oan. We’d hardly reached the Fog when he wis thankin me an’ sayin ah kid drop him aff noo.
    Where’d he want tae get tae exactly? It didnae matter, ah kid jist drop him aff at the station. He took his bags, left wan lyin in the boot but. Mustnt hiv seen it. Slipped unner summit,
it hid.
    When ah seen the next day he’d naw taken aw his belongins wi him, ah took the bag up tae ma flat. Still livin in Aarwangenstrasse, ah wis at the time. Anither day later,
the Frenchman dropped by: he’d left wan ae his bags in the boot. New tae me, ah went, ah didnae notice nuthin. A spontaneous impulse, it wis. Ah kid jist as well hiv said tae come up wi me,
the bag wis up in the flat an’ jist tae come an’ get it. Fur some reason but that hid fuck-aw tae dae wi ma heid an’ a loat tae dae wi ma stomach, ah wantit tae lie tae the
cunt.
    We went tae the car tae see. Nae bag. The French guy went aw serious, threatened me: if the stuff didnae turn up, ahd hiv an even worse problem oan ma hauns. Ah remained totally cool but, didnae
bat an eyelash, gave it: ahd nae idea whit he wis oan aboot an’ wis that the fuckin thanks ah got fur pickin him up in Pontarlier. Ahm shite at lyin normally. Ahd started but, so ah finished.
Lyin’s summit that sometimes works an’ sometimes disnae. Oan that occasion, it wis goin really well. Naw that it helped me any. The French guy gave it: ahd be seein a lot mair ae him,
an’ ahd live tae regret it.
Regretter
wis the word he used an’ ah hiv tae say: in his ain language, it sounded fuckin dangerous. As bad as in the Edith Piaf song, nearly.
    That same evenin, the drug squad turned up. Gross wis the ainly wan ah knew. The ithers wurnae fae the Fog, wur fae elsewhere, Berne probably, wans ahd nivver seen afore anyhoo. They came wi a
dug. A beautiful dug, it wis, a Labrador, ah liked it so ah did even if ah dont normally like dugs. They wur hardly in the door hardly when the dug went wild. Wis that ma bag? Naw, it wisnae,
actually, it belonged tae a guy ah gave a lift tae recently. When he realised he’d forgot it, he’d be back fur it, nae doot. Who wis he? Name? Address? Ahd nae idea, like ah said but,
he’ll be back lookin fur it, nae doot. It went back an’ forth like that fur ages. Me gi’in nuthin away that wid land some cunt in the shit.
    The French guy didnae come back but an’ his bag wis full ae sugar. As fur me, ah wis noo in deep shit. Nae cunt’s goney believe such an idiotic fuckin story. Least of aw, a
judge.
    So