Sniffs McKenzie and the August rain

“It is worthy of sorrow.”

Sniffs looked away from the scene in front of him. “Sorrow, honour, aw they things,” he said. “But ah’ll tell ye this for nothin’. Am no going tae greet again until am ready, and when ah greet again, in ah know ah will, it be tears ay healin’ and nuthin else. She widnae want me tae be mopin’ aboot wonderin’ whit am gone tae dae nixt. Ah might no ken much, but ah ken that.”

The Guardian looked again at the freshly filled graves in front of them. “You are a strange race of people and I don’t understand tears,” he said. “Seen from afar you are all so alike, so small, and so weak; but close up there is a strength I would not have imagined.”

Sniffs looked again at the wooden plank at the head of the nearest grave; the burnt-in letters read ‘Wee Shona’. The August rain started again, biting into the blasted earth with a million hammer blows.

“Aye, she wiz strong a’right,” he said turning around. “Stronger’n me, stronger’n you, an am no goin’ tae forget that.”

Sniffs paused for a second before looking at the Guardian. “Lits git back tae work,” he said. “This wisnae mah fight, but it is now.”

Sniffs McKenzie and the theory of definites.

"I've seen the future y'know," said Sniffs, pulling back slightly as the rank smell of the green fucker, now kneeling in front of him, grew thicker as its fear grew stronger.

"Aye, funny that isn't it? Funny thit you're here in front of me, instead ay skulking aroond wi yer stinkin' mates. Sneaking aroond, killing and daein' whit ye want, 'hinking we're aw too fuckin' scared ay the dark tae stoap ye. Funny thit am the man wi the gun pointed at your fuckin' heid though eh? Or at least your fucking excuse fur a heid."

He shook his own head, still unsure of how this scenario came to be, only sure that it was here and it was now and that there was no one else to do this. No one at all. As fucking usual.

"Ye wid 'uv been better readin' "Trainspottin'" or watchin' "A fucking sense ay freedom" or researching some other piece o' decent contemporary Scottish information, before comin' doon here naw? Comin' here tae bonnie auld Scotland eh?" Sniffs smiled with his lips only. "It might huv gein ye a better idea ay whit we could be like. What did ye expect likes? Feart wee bairns aw shitein' thumsleves cause eh the big bad fuckin' aliens? Ah dinae fuckin' think so."

The green fucker just stayed rock still, facing away from Sniffs. It would have been staring at the floor, if it had eyes.

Sniffs pulled the cocking lever back on the rifle, as the soldier called Whitman had shown him, checked that the safety was off, and aimed it at the ridge on the back of the green fuckers skull.

"Aye. Ah've seen the future yah fuckin' murderin', butcherin', stinkin' piece ay shit. And there is one thing that is definite. In the future we are aw deid."

Sniffs pulled the trigger.

Sniffs McKenzie and the mystery of the quiet lightning

It was dark and cold.

Sniffs wasn’t entirely sure why his feet were bare and covered in mud but he was uncomfortably aware that they were. It wasn’t just his feet that were bare, he realised, he was entirely naked, and the wind blowing over the deserted field in which he stood cut through his skin like a million twisted razor blades.

Panic gripped him, as it does in the worst literary fashion. This sort of thing used to happen when Sniffs was drinking and a return to that particular non-life state of blackness and despair was not something to be considered. Ever.

Where the fuck am I, he thought looking around and trying to piece together the last few hours, what the fuck happened?

The sky above was a twisted maelstrom of greys and blacks, lightning speared between the ribbons of clouds, briefly illuminating the tortured sky and the deserted ground on which Sniffs stood.

Fuck this bollocks, sniff thought, and started to walk forward but could do no more than give out a grunt of effort as he realised his feet were actually not just covered in mud, but were stuck in the mud. More lightning tore overhead as Sniffs, panicked, fell backward and only managed to prevent his spine ripping out of his body by landing on his arse and elbows, his feet still firmly planted in the ground.

It is at times such as this that being a fully paid up member of the human race allows us to let a certain level of cynical cliché into our vocabulary. After groaning for a short while at the agony in his back, legs, and elbows Sniffs decided he had been patient enough and lay back on the ground.

“FUCKING HELL. WHAT THE FUCK IS FUCKING GOING ON FOR FUCKS SAKE.” He screamed at the sky above, “FUUUUUUUUUCK...”

Sucking in a huge breath of air for his next admonishment of the scene overhead it occurred to Sniffs, now looking directly into the weirdness above, that, apart from his recent screaming, there was no other sound.

No thunder, he thought, so that’s not lightning, and then started to think rather than react.

Anyone who met Sniffs casually generally thought some, if not all, of the following descriptions: semi-literate, schemie, big mouth, coward, scum, boozehound and probably laced with violence habits. This was not wholly true. Anyone who got to know Sniffs better found that yes he was a product of Scottish council schemes and yes he did like to smoke weed; but he was definitely not semi-literate and he was neither a coward nor scum, nor did he drink anymore because drinking for Sniffs made more of those description true.

He would put his hands up to the claim of bigmouth though.

Sniffs was an intelligent, well-read schemie. Moreover, looking at the silent non-lightening tearing the sky apart above, he realised that he was scared shitless.