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Legend Tripping

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  1. Most of the children of Carlin High School were engaged in the usual playground activities, girl gossiped rapidly sounding like a thousand busy typewriters; youthful first years laughed and chas ed each other around the yard, burning off energy; older kids from the rough end of town hid behi nd the toilets, smoking weed. Steven was sitting alone, perched on the fence like a hawk, watching all the normal mayhem when he spotted Simon Anderson take a nosedive onto the concrete. The boy just went white and dropped, and even though the other kids were making a godawful din, Steven definitely heard Simon’s skull crack like a heavy egg as it smashed onto the ground. The noise was a sickening, hollow sound that made his heart jump in his chest. He immediately jumped off the fence and rushed to see if the older boy was alright. In the seconds it took him to move to where Simon was, there was a large crowd around Simon, some girls were screaming, an older boy was shouting, “Get a tea
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Gross Domestic Product: 18

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Chapter Eighteen Morton was out of his depth and he knew it, the creature wearing Tommy Bryce’s flesh was not some mere bogle that haunted the closes of tenements, giving fright to pensioners, not was it even one of the Fae folk. This was something of a different magnitude. It exuded power, it was a kind of a dreadful but alluring stench. He felt like prey caught downwind of a lion. It was, as far as he could tell, given the evidence, the manifestation of cruelty, an independent, terrifyingly perceptive and intelligent thing. He knew he would have to be very, very cautious. He also realised he needed to show confidence, balls, in front of this entity. He went to speak but was cut off. “ You are about to ask me what it is I want, why I came here, who I am and a hundred other questions that are of no importance. The only question, the one all of you truly seek an answer to is how I can give you more power.” Buer stated. He had not moved from the position he had taken w
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Gross Domestic Product: 17

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Chapter Seventeen After checking in, Connor spent the morning in his functional but nondescript hotel room, catching up with some paperwork, making calls to both the Department and The O.A. He went out for lunch to a small Italian restaurant in the city centre. The meal was average but it helped kill a couple of hours. Connor hated waiting around. So, back to the hotel he went, deciding to take a short nap, since he’d been up so early. Unfortunately he returned to find a message waiting for him from the Department. There was little of substance to the note, which once decrypted revealed there had been some murders at a bookmakers which were tangentially related to one of the occult gangland groups that had been, years earlier, caught up in the Drumchapel possession case. The name Alec Morton rang a vague bell but Connor could not recall much about the man. The message was nothing important, just a note to keep a heads-up while he was in town, even though the Departmen
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Gross Domestic Product:16

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Chapter Sixteen. Buer could sense the sun going down. He had waited in the lock-up for hours, going over what his actions would be over the following few hours, a plan was put in place. Bryce’s mind had spilled out all sorts of useful information as i t fell apart. By now Alec Morton would be looking for him. It was time to put his plan into action. He stretched out of the sitting position he was in, and in one movement was up on his feet. The night was cold outside, he could feel it before he exited the railway arch. He locked the door, got in the car, and drove out from the city towards one of the southern suburbs. He knew exactly where he was going. The journey wasn’t far and so Buer amused himself by turning on the radio, listening to the mindless chatter from the humans on it. Their child-like music, so simple and repetitive, amused him greatly. The news came on. Germany was to be re-unified. When he had last been here it hadn’t even been torn apart by the events
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Gross Domestic Product: 15

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Chapter Fifteen. The single tarot card lay face up on the table. It had a grey border with some Egyptian motif and in the centre, there was the picture, a painting of nine blood red swords. At the top of the card was the number 9 and at the bottom the word “Swords”. Atop this, the word “Cruelty” had been superimposed. Morton’s finger tapped on the card again. “I’m no’ happy.” He stated. Both Willie and Skinner had already predicted that much. Skinner didn’t really care about Morton’s emotional well-being. “That’s neither here nor there Alec. The fact remains, we’ve got a problem.” Morton stared at Skinner, his hatred of him written across every line in his face. Skinner notic ed quite a few more lines seemed to have been added in the intervening hour or so. “ Shut the fuck up, you,” He hissed at Skinner. The words were spat out with such venom that Skinner decided shutting the fuck up was probably his best option of staying alive. Morton’s eyes were glar
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The Vessel of Iniquity

Author's note. I gave up on investigating the paranormal back in 2006, between all the diehards retreading the same old crap over and over again, the camp television shows that made a mockery of those who frankly deserved to be mocked, the credulous fools who would believe “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?” was a documentary if you added some arrows and an authoritative voice-over and slapped it up on Y ou-tube. Mostly though, I gave up investigating the paranormal because despite twenty years of uncovering all sorts of things, I never once, not once, experienced anything that could have been remotely considered paranormal. I heard plenty of tales, perhaps discovered that dangerous witch-cults still existed in my country and was not limited to goths, hippies and the 1973 movie “The Wicker Man.” Still given the market was over-saturated with all types of cranks, I abandoned it. Those who've followed my career since will know me more as a writer of Scottish History, which has bee
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Ring Bang Skoosh

So what you do is get a 60a bus over to Duke Street from the City Centre. Keep going right along Duke Street until you get past the remaining houses and the industrial park. The bus will eventually take a second right at a large roundabout. You'll not be able to miss it. It's beside another industrial park. You'll want to get off the bus at the next stop and then wait for the 257A. They're not common, one every half an hour (if you're lucky) and only between 8 A.M. and 5.30 P.M. If you've missed it and have to wait you could do worse than Babs Café across the road. Go get something delicious to eat. Don't get me wrong her cuisine is part of the cultural dietary pandemic that's reduced life expectancy in the areas of the east end to that of cavemen, but her deep fried pizza slice on a roll with chips is well worth the fucking risk. Anyway, once you're on the 257A you'll head south east along an empty area for about three quarters of a mil
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Gross Domestic Product: 8

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Chapter Eight. It took the taxi almost half an hour to get through the West-End and up through the north of the city out into Milngavie. Some roadworks at the switchback had left the entire end of the town in one long traffic jam, according to the driver anyway. Pete was not impressed, not one bit. By the time he stepped out he’d stumped up twelve quid and his skin felt like it needed massaged by a crazed acupuncturist. The cold hurt was becoming too real for him to bear but he knew he’d just have to tough it out. He’d con Baird, or failing that, rob the place, get that stupid lamp and then he could relax, shoot up and have a nice long gouch. After that he’d go to Allerdyce and before long have another five grand in his pocket. That would give him nearly ten grand, enough to solve his problems. Enough to propel him out of Glasgow’s moribund gravitational pull once and for all. He just needed to keep it together for another hour or two. The house he stood outside looked
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The Scheme

Nineteen eighty nine, a number, another summer; sound of the funky drummer ubiquitous on the radio. Gordon Harper drummed his fingers against the wheel in time to the tune. It was a nervous staccato, no doubt about that. As he sat parked on Casgairt Road he wondered if he should just bolt. He'd a couple of grand left in his savings, and could be on the next flight to Chilé or Singapore, could be anywhere but here. He threw his cigarette butt out the window and immediately lit another. This was going to be a bad job, that became apparent as soon as Skinny's name was mentioned. When Dunkie mentioned that nutter he should have said “I'm out.” He didn't. No, he didn't want to look like a shitebag in front of the big boys. If he had any real stones he would have told Dunkie to take a fuck to himself. Instead he was sitting with a fucking shotgun under his seat waiting for that nutjob Willie Barr. Total... Fucking... Nightmare! Once more he sucked on th
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