There was this dead pigeon. A good week-dead pigeon if we’re being specific wae details. There were no clues tae how the wee hing died, but its dead body was half chewed up two nights ago by a mad dug that ran out the bowling club a few afternoons ago.
But here’s the hing, instead of just fucking aff like most hings dae when they die, this pigeon didnae. Instead, it stood up on its one and a half legs and pure swaggered aboot. It square go-ed a half-eaten packet of Monster Munch and tore the bastard tae pieces.
Well, Muirhead’s finest polismen were all scratching their heads wondering what to do about this fucking pigeon. It had broken windys, chased weans for lunch money and stolen bags of chips right out of folk’s hands. No even had a bite yet, jist smelled the vinegar, oh ya dancer, and that dead pigeon was away wae them.
Last night, it was singing a song outside one of them manky Muirhead tanning salons.
“And it’s hi, ho, M’burn agro…”
When somebody, and nobody knows who coz it was dark as fuck, just booted the hing tae fuck. It disappeared intae god knows where and was never seen again.