That Darcy bloke won’t give me a fag. Crusty polite little bugger. Hangs out with Bingley sometimes, but the man needs a drink. Several, in fact. I’d like to see Darcy loosen up a bit, maybe light under the foil and inhale Great God’s fine smoke.
The odd thing is that Darcy’s so polite. He should be some cunt hosting a late night teevee show or cringing at the thought of using a public restroom. I’d like to see that uptight bugger fetch for his suppository.
What kills me is that one of Bingley’s sisters actually fancies him. Wouldn’t stop going on about his penmanship. The prim cunt ignored her.
– You fuckin shite, I said, – how many fuckin birds care enough to fuckin pay attention to your fuckin handwriting? For fuck sake, she gets enough fuckin hell from Elizabeth. Are you fuckin listening?
Darcy said nothing, though he took a liking to Elizabeth. The poor fuck was badly in need of a shagging and could only do so through legitimate marriage.
See, that’s the kind of sad case Darcy was. I’d hoped he’d piss off and find a proper place in the suburbs where he wouldn’t plug a finger up our miserable Scottish arseholes.