"He looked down at me in the passenger seat, then looked back at the road and spoke over the open windows.
“If we had wings, the car would take off about now.”
“How fast are we going?”
“Ninety miles per hour.”
I looked up to the sky and could have sworn the clouds got a little closer."
On speeding in cars.
There’s like a million different ways to say “I love you”
“put your seat belt on”
“watch your step”
“get some rest”
..you just gotta listen"
- Rory? You don't know Rory. He's not to be underestimated. He's a funny-looking fucker, I know, but you've got to look past the hair and the cute, cuddly thing – it's all a deceptive facade. A few nights ago Rory's Roger iron's busted, so he's gone down the battlecruiser to watch the end of the football game. No one's watching the custard, so he switches the channel over. A fat geezer's north opens, and he wanders up and turns the Liza over. "Now fuck off and watch it somewhere else!" Rory knows claret is imminent, but he doesn't want to miss the end of the game. So, calm as a coma, he picks up a fire extinguisher, walks straight past the jam rolls who are ready for action, and plonks it outside the entrance. He then orders an Aristotle of the most ping-pong tiddly in the nuclear sub and switches back to his footer. "That's fucking it," says the geezer. "That's fucking what?" says Rory. And he gobs out a mouthful of booze covering fatty. He flicks a flaming match into his bird's nest and the geezer's lit up like a leaking gas pipe. Rory, unfazed, turns back to his game. His team's won, too: four–nil.