"Robert Rankin - Sex, Drugs & Sausage Rolls" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robert Rankin)

Because he would thank them for it later.

And everything.

Which he didn't. Of course.

Small Dave seemed anythingbut grateful. He awoke all spluttering and demanded to be told why he was
being ducked in a water butt. He fussed and he bothered and he cursed and he swore and then he asked
about the trowels.

`Trowels?' said Omally. `What trowels?'

`Those trowels.' Small Dave pointed. `Those trowels you're both wearing, strung round your waists and
hanging down your fronts like sporrans.

`Oh,these trowels, they're just--'

`A wise precaution,' said Soap. `In case--'

`A fashion thing,' said Omally. `They're all the rage up West. The Kensington Set are rarely to be seen
nowadays without a trowel about their persons.'

`Especially at the Chelsea Flower Show,' said Soap.

`Especially there,' said Omally.

`You're bloody mad, the pair of you,' said Small Dave. `And what happened to my gun?'

`Got lost,' said Omally. `The fairies took it,' said Soap. `The fairies?'

`No, not the fairies. Did I say fairies? What I must have meant was--`

`I'm leaving now,' said Small Dave.

`Oh, must you?' said Soap. `Yes, I must.'

The sound of police car sirens swelled in the distance.

`Yes, I definitely must.'

And with that said, he definitely did. Without a by-your-leave, or kiss-my-elbow. No thank yous, no
fond farewells.
Just off

As fast as his little legs could carry him.



The two men watched him until he was gone. Then Soap raised a cup of Omally's spud gin.