Daft Wee Stories Read Online Free PDF

first he’ll need to get the ball, won’t he? But you’re not going to let that happen, are you? You try to disappear back into your garden with the evidence, but your neighbour follows you in and grabs at the ball. You push him away, because he shouldn’t be in your garden, that’s private property, that’s trespass. Remember what you’re allowed to do in America.
    You stab him.
    Not much, just a wee bit to get him to fuck off, no more than a scratch on his waist. But it’s enough to make him think his life is in danger, and now he has to make a decision. Fight or flight? Fight or flight?
    It’s fight.
    He goes for you, and what happens next is a mess. A bit of a mess. Hard to know who did what, it happened so quickly. Then it somehow came to an end.
    And now you’re lying out of breath in your garden with a gash on your cheek. As for your neighbour, you can see him through the gaps in the fence, crawling through his back garden to the safety of his house. Crawling like he’s doing the sidestroke, with a pair of scissors in his chest.
    It’s not looking good.
    You turn away and wonder. You wonder how this happened. You wonder how many years you’ll get. And as you turn, you can see behind your garden shed. The space between the shed and the fence. Just a wee space. You didn’t bother looking before. You didn’t think anything would fit there. But there it is.
    Your son’s ball.
    Oh dear.
    Oh dear, look what you’ve done.
    However did it come to this?
    And now you’re looking at me.
    And I can see by the way you’re looking at me that you think I should have known. I should have known the ball was there. Well, I didn’t know. I’ll admit, I thought I saw something when you were first looking, but I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t bother saying.
    Anyway, that doesn’t matter; the bottom line is that you did this. Aye, I might have pushed you a bit, but it was you that did it. If I asked you to jump in the Clyde, would you do it?
    Right, I can see you’re still looking at me that way, I’m sorry to see that. Sorry that you feel I was to blame. But I better go now.
    It’s my dinner.
    My dinner’s in the oven.
    I don’t want it getting burnt.

HATE BEGETS HATE
    Hate begets hate.
    Violence begets violence.
    Chicken nuggets chicken.

FATHER OF THE BRIDE
    The father of the bride stood up and tapped his champagne glass with a knife. Ding ding ding ding, smash.
    He smashed the glass.
    If it were you or I up there smashing that glass, the place would have erupted into laughter. Good-natured laughter. What a classic moment that would have been. But not this time. Nobody laughed. It wasn’t because the father of the bride was a deeply serious man in particular. It wasn’t because he had some kind of condition that led to him having accidents and nobody wanted to laugh at a guy that had something wrong with him, it wasn’t that. The reason why nobody laughed was because the guy was an arsehole. How do I define an arsehole? Well, one example is that earlier that day he’d said something racist. And that’s just one example. An arsehole.
    He went to put the broken glass back down on the table, but it slipped out of his hand. He instinctively reached out to grab it, not thinking of the consequences of shooting your hand out towards a broken glass. He cut his hand open. A big gash down his palm and a few shards between his fingers. It was bad.
    If it were you or I getting our hand slashed open like that, you’d have all these people running over to you, trying to help. You’d have somebody shouting for a bandage or maybe even an ambulance. You’d at least have a crowd around, offering their sympathy, asking if you’re all right. But not this time. Nobody helped, because he was an arsehole. Earlier he’d patted the backside of one of the waitresses, in full view of the reception. There’s