Paul McBride's Back Passage

'There have been rumours Spiers, that you are not now the man you once were,' said Phil McGillivan in a gutteral Glaswegian accent - not quite the lilting Irish brogue I was expecting.
'So I have set myself the task of checking you out before we continue.'
'Continue what?' I shrieked as he pulled out a carving knife and drew it across my right arm.
'So you bleed, ' he said, sounding almost disappointed. 'For a while there I thought I'd cut you and find stainless steel and oil under there and at last have access to one of Walter Smith's androids to dissect and investigate. We really could be doing with one of those you know - oh it's all very well having a plentiful supply of Hugh Keevins to die for the cause on a regular basis but an army of Irish Republican robots made in Scotland, now that would really be something.
'What on earth are you prattling on about man?' I whimpered, watching the blood run dripping from my elbow and onto the pebbles at my feet which I noticed with a start were already caked in gore.
'Surely you're not going to try and tell me you've never encountered Walter Smith's Android Army? Please Spiers, give me some credit, what do you take me for, some tattie howkin' bog trotter from Donegal?'
'You wish...'
'Silence!' he screamed and slapped me across the cheek, turning to a pile of limbs in a corner of that cave of horrors and calling out, 'Joe, you can come out now, it's definitely Spiers. See, he bleeds.'
And the mound moved, dismembered arms and legs tumbling to the side to reveal a man who had been buried, hiding beneath the bloody stumps. It was Mad Joe O'Rourke.
'Iggle piggle,' said O'Rourke.
'I agree Joe, I was just about to let our friend into our secret but first I had to check that he was indeed who he claimed to be.'
'Upsy daisy.' replied Mad Joe.
'So you see Spiers, the secret you have to know if you are to be of any help to the Organisation is this, I wrote the Famine Song.'
I was just goggling at the whole idiocy of this claim when a stone skipped towards us from the shadows at the back of the cave. Someone else was in there and from the shock in McGillivan's face and the speed with which Mad Joe buried himself in body parts, they obviously weren't expecting anyone to be lurking in there.
'Who's there? Come out, whoever you are and I warn you, we are armed,' shouted McGillivan and a dark shape stepped out of the blackness and there stood Paul McBride QC, taking a pull at a cigarette and blowing the smoke towards me.
'Hello, I'm Paul McBride QC,' said McBride.
'We know who you are, McBride but how came you here?' asked McGillivan, still holding , I noted, the carving knife.
'Oh it was simple really, I came down the back passage,' replied McBride with a smirk which got me wondering if it had been the first time.
'You can come out now O'Rourke, I know you're under there,' said McBride, regarding the trembling pile of amputations. 'Quite a little butchers' yard you have in here McGillivan, been setting upon lonely travellers as they pass your cave again? I thought we told you when we spirited you out of Glasgow after your last misdemeanour that we'd have no more deaths, it brings unwelcome attention upon the Organisation.'
As I wondered about this Organisation which had just been mentioned twice in as many minutes, O'Rourke reappeared from his hiding place and mumbled, 'Tumbly boo,' and cowered against the wall opposite me while McBride and McGillivan continued to regard each other with suspicion - it's true, they really are a paranoid lot.
'Ahem, ' said I, to get everyone's attention. 'Am I to stay chained to this cave all night or can you at least do me the courtesy of allowing me some comfort before you begin your lengthy exposition?'

And that's when McGillivan unlocked my chains and told me the reasoning behind a Rangers hating, Irish wannabe, Celtic supporting, IRA sympathising thug writing a song such as the Famine Song.