Airport bars, thinks Roy, must be among the most depressing and soulless places on earth. The only reason he’s sitting in this one sipping on a ridiculously over-priced beer is that his brother Douglas is running late to pick him up, so he thought that while he was waiting he may as well do some work on his laptop. Bunty could not have picked a worse time to have her health crisis; Roy signed three highly sought-after young talents last week, including hot new 6′ 8″ basketballer Otieno Henare, and he should be spending his week brokering multi-million dollar sponsorship deals with high-powered execs instead of being stuck out here in the middle of nowhere surrounded by dribbling glassy-eyed yokels. But when he opens his laptop the first thing that greets him in his newsfeed is a smirking picture of Alex Deadshit Dunlop, with his greasy helmet of dyed-black hair and sallow skin, under a headline proclaiming him to be the new chairman of some wanky arts board which apparently is some big fucking deal because he’s responsible for a budget of over §500 million, §20 million of which he wants to immediately flush down the toilet under the guise of ‘fostering the talents of exciting new artists.’
Roy: Motherfucker. Fuckwitted, queef-eating cockhead-
Cowboy: The fuck did you just say?
Roy: Calm your tits, John Wayne. I wasn’t talking to you.
Cowboy: You better watch your language, son.
Douglas: Roy? What the hell?