It was Johnny Rahuti, the big black Maori cunt from across the road. ‘What the fuck, can’t you knock on the door like a proper cunt?’ I yelled a... him. You had to yell ’cause he used to be a Roadie for a thrash band and his hearin’s shit. ‘I did knock, how the fuck did I know that the fucking door would fall off?’ ‘Bazza, youse was s’posed to fix that fuckin’ door, wot ‘appened?’ I asked him. ‘I was rootin’ Shazza.’ He seemed to think that was an okay excuse. ‘What the fuck you want now?’ I. She started with their drinks: a Bronx for the Colonel, martinis for the Admiral and Lieutenant Carruthers, and an appletini mocktail for the only member of the party too young for alcohol during working hours. They made polite "how-was-your-trip" type conversation with the Admiral as the drinks were served, and for a few minutes while everyone tucked into replicator-style steak Diane, duchess potatoes and glazed carrots, conversation was sparse and concentrated mostly on the Admiral's. More

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