The Bad Man

It was Christmas Eve and there was this scared wean. About tae pish the bed scared.

“Mum, Mum, Mum,” the wee fella shouted.

“Whit?” The maw said, clambering up the stairs tae his bedroom.

“There’s a bad man hiding in the wardrobe.”

“Och yir arse. Don’t you start this shite up again.”

The maw checked the wardrobe, and it was empty.

“See, ya wee bastard, there’s nae cunt there. Go back tae sleep. Ave got ma boyfriend over and he’ll leather ye like the last time if ye don’t zip it.”

“But Mum please–”

“Whit?!”

“Please don’t–”

“Enough! You’ll sleep in the fucking street anymore of yir nonsense. Fucking wee poofter ye. Yir seven no three.”

“Mum,” the wee boy whispered. “He’s behind you now.”

“Who’s–”

And the maw was cut in half by the bad man for being a cunt. He appologised tae the wee laddie and proceded down the stairs tae smash the boyfriend wae an axe an awe.

Who was the bad man? Mibby the wee man’s real da. Mibby it was Santa. Who knows.

Merry Christmas.

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