I want ye. I want ye mare than I’ve ever wanted anyhin. The kinda want that makes ye feel on the edge ah losin yersel. Dive inta the sea an no come back oot kinda want. The kind that has ye screamin at the sky hopin it’ll cave and flatten everyhin if we canny be together. Life may be short and brutal but this could be timeless, ma darlin. I want ye bad. I’d die for ye. I’d kill for ye. I might’ve awready killed for ye…

I’ve been seeing you roond town lately; Belmont Street, George Street, King Street, awways in some waster’s greasy hans under tha moon. Some red-pussed straight trouser fuckwit who doesny deserve the shade o ye. Ya hink I dinny see their ingratitude? Pick ye up, take ye away, enjoy a bit o heat and then fuck ye right off like yer nuhin. Like you arny the soft jewel that ye are. I canny stand it, min. Their manky gob-breathin lust. Fae a distance I’ve watched how it goes and evry time ma blood bubbles battery acid. Ma world turns the colour of poundin rage and I wanna yank somedy’s FUCKIN eye oot. Or hurl masel right at a unsuspectin wean, pure screamin’ like an ambulance just to watch their podgy wee face twist an greet. And aye, I’d probly feel better fur dain it. But no as good as if we were together. Then you’d ken how much I wanted ye. Then you’d ken ma hunger for ye. Ma turbolust. 

Cause ye deserve better, ma wee darlin’. Whit you deserve is somedy like me. A General. These streets are mine, ye see. Me and the lads, we run hings. It’s taken a lang time. A bloody campaign fought aer generations. Our das put doon the sword so we’d pick it up and we picked it up wi some fuckin gusto. An there’s been casualties on both sides, mind. Eyes gouged, legs lost, stomped, run aer, stabbin, stabbin, so much stabbin. Warfare, darlin. But aw worth it to look doon aer the city and go, aye – this is oors. The streets an parks. The shoppin centres. The granite. The potholes. Evry empty plot an’ evry smashed-in windy. Evry vape shop. Evry American candyshop an’ aw the laundered Russian drug money. Every thrown awa Greggs bag blowin on the Western wind. Oors. Everybody kens it and kens no tae mess. A legionnaire. A Spartan. An apex fuckin predator. That’s whit ye deserve and that’s what I’d gi ye. 

All this yearning’s gettin me curdled so I go doon the beach tae clear ma heed. The sea does that, ken. Probly suhin to dae wi the sounds and the bigness o it. Gid fur the mental health they say. Plus, there’s plenty other treats doon here. None such as the likes a’ you, mind. Still, doesny stoap me haein’ a gander. Like I said, I’m a being of deep desire an I never claimed tae be perfect. I might want these other treats but wi you, it’s mare than want – it’s need. Sure, want is there but it’s just buttercream on top of my heavin’ needcake. If I could spell I’d write oot yer name oan top’a it in jam. Or marmalade. Or blood. Whatever I’d find first. Such is ma devotion. I gather wi some o’ the lads by The Bastion which is actually the bins round the side a’ the Inversnecky cafe but I like tae call it The Bastion. Gid boys, like. Evry general needs troops. We acknowledge each aer wi a flash a’ eye-contact and silently spread oot over the esplanade, makin the skirmish line. Organised. Tactical. Military. We take up watch.

Ma eyes are on the esplanade while ma mind is on you. I’m watching’ folk waddlin’ up and doon the beach wi their ice-creams an cheap crisps an coffee cups, their stupit wee dugs oan ropes and their stupit wee bairns also on ropes. The sun’s startin tae dip and the liftin Southwest breeze feels cool against ma face. Sometimes I wish it’d cool me right doon, like oan the inside. But it’s ma nature and I canny change it any mare than one a’ they dugs can make itself less stupit. I burn hot and even if I could apologise – I probly wouldny outta principle. A warnin call rings oot. One o’ ma boys. Perimeter breach. Another squad’s crossed oor lines. I move. 

They come saunterin’ over, chests puffed oot, heeds high. Me an’ the boys squad up, spread oot wide tae form a boundary. We’re starin ‘em doon, eyes like midnight. They’re staring back but they’re nervous, shuffling their feet like fuckin pigeons. They arny gonna make the first move – they know who I am. They’ve got some sense then. Except that one. He joins em from the rear with a fat slice a’ BBQ Meat Feast hangin’ oot his gub. Pizza Hut. You can tell by the puffy crust and the sweet aroma fae the BBQ base. Hubris lappin outta him, he hinks he’s Mister Bigbaws. I dinny even hae tae look at ma boys to tell ‘em what’s happenin next. We rush em. The yellin starts and the glorious melee begins. I barge past the scrappin frontline and I leap intae the air feet-first. I knock that smug fuck on ‘is back and he’s flailin aboot, regrettin ever comin near ma beach. I’ll make a fuckin Meat Feast outta ye, Mister Bigbaws. He scrambles the kinda shitless scramble o’ somedy who hinks they’re aboot tae get kill’t. Appropriate. The remains o’ his slice drop tae the fleir and in a flash I’m scoffin it doon ma gullet, claimin ma spoils. Nae even chewin. Just gettin it doon, toot fuckin sweet. In the blind glee I barely even register the taste until after the slice and the intruders are awa. Then it comes. Fatty low notes fae the meats that pair so beautifly wi the buttery saltiness fae the melted American-style cheese. And then comes the broon sugar tang o’ that BBQ sauce. Lush. 

There’s scran in ma belly now and some o’ ma rage has been dispensed so you’d think I’d be feeling mare level. But nae sooner than I’m sated dae a start feelin’ the need again. Just like that I’m thinkin’ o’ you awready and with a nod tae ma boys I’m followin the pull back intae toon. Maybe I’ll catch sight o’ ye. Maybe tonight we can finally acquaint oursels. 

The sun has dipped below the horizon and the nocturnal revellers are oot noo; high shoes, thighs oot, skin fades and thick necks wi tattoos. Aw shriekin and laughin, hangin aff each other wi smooth floppy limbs. I watch fae above scoutin for opportunities; a few scraps here and there but nuhin major. I’m bidin’ ma time. It’s late noo. Pubs and clubs are emptying an the streets have that cold quietness aboot them that seems tae carry a drunken holler further than it has any right tae. Like a metal bin lid dropped in a kirk. A few screeches stab through the night an echo up Belmont Street. Somedy laughin. Somedy cryin. Somedy fallin doon. 

I’m patrolling when suddenly doon a wee dingey side street I catch a thread o yer scent. It’s unmistakable. Yer nearby. I follow ma nostrils and then, I see ye. Yer lying crumpled on the groond, streetlight yellow drapin aer yer edges, half leanin against a bin. Yer soaked through wi puddle but still the most gorgeous hing I’ve seen. My sweet darlin, what are ye daen here like this? Ma wee heart thumps. I slowly approach ye, takin pure careful baby steps so as no tae frighten ye or draw attention. I hear metallic bangin fae a nearby street and it sets me on edge but I keep goin. I feel the need like a tornado inside ma chest. I’m leanin’ doon, finally aboot tae taste ye and suddenly I’m bein shooed awa! Fuckin high-vis Galahad stompin his big cooncil boot at me an backs me up! Well no withoot a fight, bigman. I spread ma wings oot as big as they go, make masel like a pterodactyl, scream the need oot ma lungs and I taste blood. It’s most likely bbq sauce but I pretend it’s blood. His blood. I flap intae the air and start comin at him, bellowin ma rage and ma lust. Big wingy-flaps right in his puss to disorient so I can sweep in and get ye. I’m peckin at him like fuck. I can see you in his grip, so close tae me but he keeps battin me awa with his free han! I’m fightin’ fur ye, geein it aw I’ve got, usin aw ma best moves. But it’s nae enough. He’s goat a thick jaeket oan. Before I know it, high-vis fuckwit is slidin ye intae a black bin bag before I even got a taste. I watch him sling the bag intae the back o a bin lorry an I’m left feelin empty an hungry an angry an hungry. 

Wan day, ma darlin. Wan day you’ll be aw mine. An I’ll spread ma beautiful white wings wide and cackle tae the sky – ahhhh ah ah ah ah. Wan day I’ll get ye an’ hae a whole bag a’ chips aw tae masel. 

After looking over my published pieces here I noticed that I was yet to write anything that dealt with feelings of desire or anything remotely romantic. I’d already decided that I wanted my next piece to be another local-to-Aberdeen story with an ambiguous protagonist who would gradually self-reveal. So those two elements came together to make this. Okay, so perhaps this isn’t a romantic piece BUT if you were to isolate the desire, the lust and the rage-inducing need that Aberdeen’s gull population seem to exhibit around food then what you’re left with is the makeup of something that could be called romance. Just walk down the esplanade with an open bag of chips if you want to experience the scary extent of real desire. But be ready to defend yourself.