“But where exactly do you think they’re taking you?” the old man asks, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t seriously think we haven’t noticed.” Then he looks down to the other end of the ward, where the others are nodding in agreement. So I told him, to travel through the spatio-temporal expanses like in the adventures of Dan Dare, that’s where they’re taking me, and he looks at me, puzzled. “Where?” he says. So I start explaining the whole thing to him all over again, and he doesn’t like it one bit. He grabs me by the sweater and says: “I knew it. I knew you were one of those fucking Cavans from the very first moment I saw you. But don’t you think you’re going to make a fool of me, you know. Come on, you mangy cur!” he starts shouting. “I’ve taken on people stronger than you!”
The one with arms like tree trunks had to pull him off me. I dusted myself off and complained to them. “It’s a disgrace, though,” I said. “A man can’t even take two steps without being attacked.”

Another day the guy comes back to me. “Ah, so it’s a disgrace, is it? Being assaul-fingered is a disgrace.”

“Assaul-fingered! Assaul-fingered!”

“Well, I get it,” he says. “Now they’ll give you the treatment.” “You’ll see, you won’t be such a smart-arse when they get hold of you and drill holes in your head. You know what they do after that? They take your brain out. I know! I’ve been in here a long time. I saw him before you, you know. He used to sit at the window all day eating bits of paper. Do you like paper? Well, you’d better start learning to like it. He won’t be so smart then!” he starts shouting towards Branch-Head at the other end of the ward. Then he rubs his hands together, delighted with himself.

Now that was a good one. They take your brain out, give me a break! That was before one day I woke up and saw Walter at the foot of the bed, talking quietly about me with the others, and I heard him say: “After all, it’s the best thing for him!” I knew there was no point talking to him. I rushed out of the ward and went straight to the office. They were having a meeting, but I didn’t give a damn. I told them plainly: “Don’t you dare touch me! Not even with one finger! I want to get out of here!” I tried to escape, but there was no point. “Come on, come on, Francie,” and another injection in the arse. This time it must have been a strong one, because all I could say was “mmm, mmm” as they carried me down the stairs. “Now we can proceed,” says the doctor [...]
The Butcher Boy, Patrick McCabe, Picador, 1992