Ruby, who in a former life was Rudy, running around with his Chelsea hooligan mates kicking nine bells out of anyone and everyone, is telling us about her latest trade. Ruby has yet to have the chop the op and finds plenty of men who want to suck on a cock in a frock. She is regaling us as we stand by the moonblue trees, having a break from the relentless hunt for satiety, performing for us the monologue with which she accompanied her last conquest. She is dressed to depress, in a black strappy number that shows off the scars where the British Bulldog and Union Jack tattoos have been removed; she stands there, cross-eyed with drink in a cross-eyed wig, yelling: ‘Oh, yeah, go on, baby, suck on my gonorrhoea, suck on my AIDS, suck on my herpes, yeah, suck it, suck my syphilis, go on, suck my AIDS, go on, suck it, suck my gonorrhoea, suck my herpes, suck my fucking AIDS.’ She waits for the laughter to die down before adding, ‘And you know what, the bastard wouldn’t even swallow.’ Now and again Rudy makes an appearance, and Ruby’s feminine demeanour disappears in a vapour of violence.
