Ross Douglas

Edinburgh never knew what it was about to spawn.



Short; Edinburgh Detective.

John MacDonald awoke face down on his desk. He took a deep breath in through his nose and immediately regretted the decision. He smelled of cheap scotch and body odour from sleeping fully clothed in his chair.

Being a private investigator hadn’t turned out quite like he had expected it. He thought he would spend his days chasing absconders from justice and his nights drinking 1963 Glenmorangie in the stylish bars of the capital. As it was he spend his days posting flyers on lampposts of missing cats and his nights drinking the cheapest whisky he could find in the bottle shop.

The last case had been a particularly annoying one. A missing persian cat in the area of Morningside had pushed him over the edge. The owner had promised him a considerable reward for the safe return of her precious pet but his idea of a considerable reward and hers were two vastly different things. He had hoped for a flat fee for every hour worked and a per diem but his hopes were left for dead when the owner pushed a ten pound note into his hand as though it was a king’s ransom.

The money had bought him a litre of cheap vodka. There was a small amount of it left in the bottom of the bottle. He fished out a pack of paracetamol from his pocket and washed it down with what was left of the vodka. The taste was foul but at least it and the pills would take the edge off the thumping headache that was beginning to form in his skull.



I’ve been writing some short paragraphs to get me back into the habit of writing. Nothing spectacular but I thought I’d share it with you anyway. Maybe you’ll find inspiration and run with it. Feel free.

The Shooter.

The pain was intense. It burned like nothing he’d ever experienced before. The bullet had hit him in his rear end and for once he was glad he’d ate as many sugar donuts.

“Fucking hell man, you shot me in the ass!”

“That’s what you get for being such a lardy cunt. If you’d stopped when I shouted to stop I wouldn’t have shot you.” The shooter, reaching down and taking a pack of cigarettes from the victims shirt pocket.

“You didn’t say a fucking word man, you walked in with a drawn gun, I took off and you shot me in the ass!” He spat.

“I thought about saying stop, I thought about it. And it’s the thought that counts huh?” Said the shooter as he lit a cigarette from the purloined pack. He pocketed the rest of the pack and scratched idly at his head with the barrel of the gun in his hand. “Besides, have you ever seen what it looks like when you run? It’s fucking hilarious… I could barely aim straight for laughing…”

“Fuck you man! It’s glandular.”

“No it’s not, it’s granular. It’s all that sugar that you throw down your neck. You must drink 20 pints of soda a day and eat about a dozen fucking donuts. For the last three months I’ve watched you filling your fat fuckin face and today was the day I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“What the fuck? You been watching me man? What the fuck for? What the fuck did I do to you man?”

“You sold drugs to someone I know. Sorry; Knew. Past tense. She’s dead now. And guess what? You’re about to be dead too.”

The pleading was cut short by the sharp retort of the gun firing.

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