Daft Wee Stories

by Limmy

  They told him it was an advert for a travel company, a cheesy and unintentionally funny promotional video that they all thought he’d like. He’d heard about it but never seen it, so he clicked on the link. But what he got was something else. Before he knew it, screams were blasting from his laptop speakers, as he watched a man go from being alive to being dead.

  It was horrific. Pete felt his face go pale. His hands felt cold and sweaty. He felt spaced out. When it was finished, he stood up and looked out the window, at nothing. He chewed the fingernail on his thumb. He put on the kettle to try and carry on as normal, but it was no use. He couldn’t get it out of his mind. It was there at the forefront, no matter what he did. It would maybe leave his thoughts for five seconds or so, then it would be back. He went for a walk, he stared at some ducks, he went to the shops and bought a new top, his mum phoned and they talked about how she was getting rid of her microwave because the light inside didn’t work any more. And all the time, there was that guy, in Pete’s head, getting done in.

  So Pete tried something to get that video out of his mind, he decided to do something that maybe went against common sense.

  He decided to watch it again.

  He thought it would be best to go back and watch it again until it became normal. Maybe the problem was that he was too sensitive. Maybe he needed to watch it over and over until he toughened up. So he did. He watched it over and over, over and over. Ten times, forty times, countless times, until he wasn’t that bothered, until he couldn’t care less, until he actually started to see the funny side. He went back to one of the old links he’d been sent by his mates, one he’d never clicked. He read the description and remembered his distress at reading it the first time around, but this time he felt nothing. And when he watched the video, he discovered he was all right with that as well.

  He liked his new thick skin. He didn’t realise how much of a scaredy cat he was before, hiding away, shutting his eyes, not prepared to fully accept what was really going on out there. Living life by half. Half a person. Now he felt complete. He felt strong. The video had helped him cope better with day-to-day life, in a way, with stuff on the news, with family tragedies, terrible stuff, stuff he used to care about, stuff that used to break his heart, and now it didn’t. He wasn’t a religious man, but there was something almost spiritual about it.

  He began watching more, more of that stuff; there were whole sites dedicated to it. It had a profound effect: it brought about a kind of awakening. It reminded him of when he was told Santa didn’t exist; it was upsetting, but there was something empowering about knowing the truth. You could almost feel it in your lungs, you could feel it in your mind, that stretch, as you realised that what you thought was real was nothing but a fairy tale. And there it was with each new video, each new horror, that painful but rewarding feeling of being warped.

  But eventually the videos weren’t enough. They weren’t real. They were recordings of something real in the past, but they weren’t real, they were rectangular and flat, they weren’t here and now and all around. That stretching feeling became more and more rare, it was hard to get. It looked like he’d reached a dead end, and it made him a bit glum. Then one day he saw something that cheered him right up. He saw a guy getting hit by the side mirror of a bus. Pete saw it coming, he could have shouted over to tell the guy to look out, but he chose to just watch instead. An ambulance was called, and Pete looked on, feeling that stretch he hadn’t felt in quite some time, as he thought, I did that.

  Well, what came next was only a matter of time.

  ‘Barbaric!’ said the judge.

  Pete had sent his mates a video. It was a good video, it didn’t just have one thing in it, it had lots of things, like a compilation album. There was an old man at the top of a flight of concrete steps; just as he was about hold on to the handle and take his first step, a foot came out from behind the camera and kicked him flying. There was a steaming guy sleeping in a doorway, a smart/casual type in his twenties at the end of a night out; a hand came out from behind the camera and pushed a nail into his neck. Then there was this silver-haired businessman with his head in a vice, getting his balls taken off with a can opener. Pete ended it by turning the camera on himself and giving a big thumbs-up and a smile and wave to his mates, which was a mistake, looking back. You would have thought they’d have been all right with it with all the shite they were into. Grassing bastards.

  ‘Barbaric!’ said the judge.

  Haha. Fuck off, ya prick. Man up.

  TOMATO SOUP

  Iain held the spoon of tomato soup an inch from his mouth, motionless, as he stared out the cafe window with his jaw on the deck.

  Outside, at the other side of the road, was his mum. There she was. They weren’t due to meet for lunch or anything; she had no idea he was in there staring out at her. If she did, he was quite sure she wouldn’t be doing what she was doing.

  She was kissing a guy.

  Some of the soup on the spoon dripped down into the bowl below, splashing one or two drops onto Iain’s T-shirt. He didn’t notice. His mum was kissing some guy.

  He felt like chapping the window to get her to stop, the way a primary school teacher might chap on a window with keys to stop one of the children flashing their genitals. But he didn’t. As much as he didn’t want to see his mum like that, he didn’t want to see his mum seeing him seeing her like that. But she’d find out eventually. She’d find out that he’d found out, because he’d have to tell his dad. He’d have to. ‘Dad,’ he’d say. ‘Know how you and Mum stopped shagging years ago? She’s still at it, mate. She’s still at it.’

  She squeezed the guy’s arse. Iain lowered his spoon into the bowl and pushed it away.

  They stopped kissing for a moment, only to adjust their heads and get fired right back into each other once again. Iain could almost see the guy’s face now, but not quite, he couldn’t get a good, clear look. However, he did get a good, clear look at the semi that was bulging through the guy’s middle-age trousers. He saw that all right. He was surprised at how little he was shocked by it. Surprised and concerned. Concerned at what it meant for his mental health, as he had clearly become warped. He looked away. He reckoned that when he got round to telling his dad, he’d maybe leave this bit out. Dad needed to know the truth, but he didn’t need to be tortured with it.

  Iain looked back at the pair of them. They’d turned slightly, and now Iain could get a good, clear look at the guy’s face.

  His heart sank.

  No. No, it can’t be.

  Iain leaned his elbows against the table, closed his eyes and gently put his palms against his face. He wouldn’t be telling his dad after all. Not now. If the guy had been a stranger, aye, but not now.

  It was bad. Pretty bad.

  It was Dad.

  Mum was with Dad.

  The cafe owner walked over to Iain, the guy at the window, the one who’d been staring into his soup for the last fifteen minutes. ‘Is everything OK?’ she asked, looking at the soup. She’d made it herself.

  ‘It’s revolting,’ he whispered. ‘Revolting.’

  Suit yourself.

  CRAP FILMS

  I’ve got a mate, he’s a bit of a film buff. He’s got it in his Twitter bio: ‘Film buff’. He’s the sort of guy that refers to films like Rear Window simply as Window. I remember asking him why he did that, and he said that if you’re into films as much as he is and discuss them as much as he does, then it just makes more sense, it saves a lot of time. I told him that I understood why he sometimes shortened One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest to One Flew, even though it’s not something I’d do myself, but shortening Rear Window to Window? You’re only losing a syllable. I remember saying that to him online one night, I said, ‘Are you sure you don’t just do it to sound clever?’ but he never replied. Have a sense of humour, mate, fuck’s sake.

  Anyway, I recommended a film to him, because I’m a bit of a film buff myself. Not enough to stick ‘Film buff’ in my bio, mind
you, I don’t take myself that seriously, but I know a good film when I see one. And this one I recommended was good. It was Danish. I told him about it, and a few days later I asked him what he thought. He said he thought it was crap.

  That was the word he used: ‘Crap’.

  I told him I thought that was quite blunt, telling me one of my favourite films was crap, and I laughed. I laughed to pretend that it didn’t bother me, but it did. I think what he said was actually out of order, it was just fucking rude. He said he didn’t mean to offend me; I told him that I wasn’t offended, it was only a film, haha. He said that it’s not as if I made it or anything; I told him I knew I never made it, I wasn’t claiming I made it, just drop it, it isn’t a big deal. But I did say to him that to tell me one of my favourite films is crap, all matter-of-fact like that, some people would find that offensive. He said he didn’t say it was crap, he said he just thought it was crap, on a subjective and personal level. He said it wasn’t like he was saying I liked crap things. I said that’s exactly what he was saying. He said it wasn’t, it was just that he thought it was crap himself, that’s all. I personally don’t see the difference, but I told him again to just drop it, it isn’t a big deal. Haha.

  So he dropped it. But then I told him to recommend a film to me. ‘On you go.’ He said he didn’t want to. I said, ‘No, go on, recommend your favourite film to me. Go.’ So he did. He recommended a few, and I told him no, I wanted his favourite favourite. Step into the spotlight, mate, and recommend your all-time favourite. He said it was really hard to pick an all-time favourite, and I laughed. Calls himself a film buff yet he struggles to pick his favourite film. But eventually he picked one. Eventually we got one out of him. Hallelujah.

  So I watched it, and it was good. I liked it. I really liked it. I’d say it’s one of my top ten films, in fact. The sort of film you like even more as time goes on, long after you’ve watched it. It just keeps popping into your head now and again. Brilliant film. Anyway, after I watched it, I sent him a message, and told him it was crap.

  He said, well, that’s my opinion and that I’m entitled to my opinion, just like he was entitled to his. I said no, it wasn’t my opinion, it was a fact, his film was crap – ‘Sorry to break it to you, mate, but it was.’ He told me again that I was entitled to my opinion, but that a lot of people disagreed with that opinion. I told him that they were wrong as well then. He said, ‘Wrong?’ and asked me if I was saying he was wrong to like that film, if having that film as his favourite was, in the eyes of the universe, wrong. I said, ‘Maybe.’

  He said he needed to go, but I told him to wait because it was my turn to recommend a film. He told me he didn’t want to get into all this any more. I asked him what he meant, get into what? I was only wanting to recommend a fucking film, he needed to seriously lighten up. He said all right and that I was to message him when I thought of one, but I already had one in mind. I told him what the film was, and he said he’d watch it but I wasn’t to get offended if he thought it was crap. I told him that I’m not that easily offended, mate, I’m a big boy. And anyway, I won’t mind if he thinks it’s crap, because I think it’s crap as well.

  He asked me to repeat what I said. Did I just recommend a film to him that I thought was crap? I said, ‘That’s right.’ He asked me why. I told him that although I thought it was crap, I reckoned it would be right up his street. Because that’s the sort of thing he likes: crap. He told me he wasn’t going to watch it, and he didn’t like the way this whole film thing had ‘soured’ things between us. I laughed it off and told him that I didn’t sense any sourness, if there was any then it was coming from his end, and that I was sorry to hear that. I told him to just watch the film. He said, ‘No,’ then went offline.

  But I know that he will. And I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to say that he liked it, and that I only think it’s crap because I don’t get it. But then I’ll have him, because then I’ll tell him the truth. And the truth is that I don’t think it’s crap. It’s actually one of my favourite films. The look on his face when I tell him that, when he realises what he’s done, when he realises that he’s effectively admitted that I do know my stuff, despite me not having ‘Film buff’ in my bio, despite me not having studied films in college when I was too busy working, mate, despite me not being one of his new intellectual crowd that he’s so fond of tweeting pictures of these days.

  I cannot fucking wait to see the look on his face. I haven’t seen him in a while, though. A good few months. He said he’s snowed under with work.

  ‘Work’, haha.

  What does he know about work?

  THE WALLET

  There once was a man who found a wallet. He found a wallet on a train, a wallet that wasn’t his, and he kept it. What a dick.

  This wallet was made of black leather with a light grey elasticated band, and on the band was a wee red label that was half hanging off due to wear and tear. In fact, it was a bit like my own wallet. The one that I lost. But this isn’t about my wallet, this is another wallet. This is just a story.

  Now, the wallet itself was worthless. Like I said, it had suffered from a good bit of wear and tear over the years, it was even a bit stinking. It was what was inside the wallet that was the most costly. It wasn’t losing the cash that was costly, I don’t think there was that much cash in it. It was the cards, the bank cards. Losing the cards was costly, in terms of time. The poor guy who lost the wallet had to phone up and get all the fucking cards cancelled, and you know what that can be like, those call centres. The waiting. Having to prove that you are who you say you are, then getting put through to somebody else, then having to explain everything again to them, then getting cut off, then having to start from the beginning with somebody else. Then eventually you have to actually just go into the branch in person, like it’s the fucking Seventies.

  Sorry, did I say that the poor guy ‘lost’ the wallet? That’s not quite right, is it? It was stolen, because to take a lost wallet and then not hand it in, that’s theft. Look it up. You can’t just pick things up that don’t belong to you just because the person that owns it isn’t there at that time. That’s theft. You may as well have took it right out of my fucking pocket, mate.

  Sorry, not ‘my’ pocket, I mean the poor bastard who lost the wallet. Because, remember, this isn’t about my wallet, this is another wallet, this is just a story. Any similarities between anybody in this story and any real person living or dead are purely coincidental, etc., etc. You’ve got to say that in case you get sued. But I don’t need to say it anyway, because it’s just a story. The guy who took the wallet, he’s not real, completely fictitious. And now that I’ve said that, let me say this …

  I want this guy dead.

  Or woman. Could be a woman. But probably a guy. And I want him dead.

  In the story, I mean. It’s important for me to say again, for legal reasons, that this is just a story, in case I get done for encouraging somebody to do me a big, big favour and kill this guy for me.

  Now, back to the story. Will anybody bring this chap to justice? Who will be my hero?

  Maybe somebody in the story finds out that a guy they know had recently come by a wallet. Maybe the guy they know is a colleague or a friend or a family member, boasting about finding a wallet on a train, a black leather wallet with a light grey elasticated band with a wee red label on it that’s half hanging off. Maybe the guy mentioned something about trying to guess the PIN at cash machines in the Finnieston, Partick and Hyndland areas of Glasgow, according to what the banks said. The banks in the story.

  And maybe that person in the story, the one who discovers the villain, our hero, is a decent person and they feel outraged, and feel angry, and want to do something to redress the balance. So maybe they do something to bring harm to the thief. Maybe if they work with the thief, they could serve him a cup of tea, with some bleach in it. Or maybe if they live with the thief and the thief is fitting a new light or whatever, our hero could tell him that th
e electricity is safely switched off, when it isn’t. Something like that. It’s really up to them.

  It’s really up to you.

  It’s really up to you, because this is one of those stories that leave the ending up to your imagination. I’m going to leave the ending open. I’m going to leave it up to you.

  I hope you give it the happy ending it deserves.

  THE BLANK BUTTON

  Charlie was about to get the attention of the waitress, before noticing the wee device on the table, the one with the buttons. One button was for the bill, one was for service and one was blank. He pressed the one for service, and sure enough, a minute later, over walked a waitress asking how she could help. Charlie asked for one last cup of tea and that was that. When he was finished, he pressed the button for the bill, and a minute later, over came the waitress with the bill in her hand.

  As he was getting on his jacket, ready to leave, he had a look at the device again. He had a look at the button. You know which one. The one with nothing on it, the blank one. He wondered what it was for. He was going to press it before walking away, but he was forty years old, that would be juvenile. One of the waiters walked by, and Charlie felt like stopping him to ask what the button did, but the guy looked like a bit of a grumpy sort so Charlie didn’t bother.