The Red Cap’s Last Stand: A Battle o’ Ale an’ Wits

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It all began on a typical misty night in Scotland. We, Kevin and Lance had just finished their usual session at the pub, their heads buzzing with ale and their hearts full of mischief. They decided to take a shortcut home through the old castle ruins, a place said to be haunted by the Red Cap, a notorious goblin famed for wearing a cap stained red with the blood of his victims. Now, in recent days, the locals had started calling him the developer because of his tendency to claim territory that wasn't his to take, as they stumbled along, Lance started spouting off about the time that big developer had tried to set up a golf course on their coast, promising jobs and prosperity, but instead stirring up nothing but trouble. You remember how he swanned in, promising the earth and leaving only messes behind? Lance muttered, glancing about as if the spectre of the developer himself might appear. Kevin laughed. Aye, full of hot air and grand schemes. But when it comes to the folks who live here, he couldn't care less. Suddenly, from out of the shadows, there came a low growl and the Red Cap himself stepped forth. His eyes gleamed in the dark like two coins in the bottom of a greedy man's pocket, and his cap, blood-red, seemed almost to drip with menace. Who's this talking in my territory complaining about my work? Kevin, never one to be outdone by bluster, grinned back at the goblin. We're just passing through, mate. Didn't mean to interrupt your little expansion plans. The Red Cap sneered, stepping closer. This is my land and you're wandering without paying me dues. Lance, seeing an opportunity to rile the goblin, said, Dues? Like the time you promised to make this place great again, but ended up trampling over everyone who stood in your way. The Red Cap, nay happy to be compared to anything less than mighty, lunged at them, his intent as clear as a bad business deal. But in their drunken state, the lads were just daft enough to dodge him, sidestepping like two dancers at a ceilidh. Realising they needed to act fast, Kevin waved a piece of paper in the air, claiming it was a petition from the locals. Look here, Red Cap. The people have spoken and they're nae keen on your plans. The goblin paused, uncertain what to make of this tactic. Meanwhile, Lance pulled a sandwich from his pocket and offered it as if it were a peace treaty. Here's a wee snack to keep you going, but it's all you're getting from us. Kevin, eager to make their escape, started singing a song about the rights of the local folk, their tune bouncing off the ruins like a protest chant. You cannae push us around, nae matter how loud you shout. The Red Cap, caught off guard by their cheek and solidarity, hesitated just long enough for the pair to make a break for it, sprinting away from the ruins and down the road. Breathless, they arrived back at the pub, where the regulars were curious to hear what madness had befallen them. What happened to you two? Old Jimmy asked, looking over his pint. We just gave the Red Cap a piece of our minds, Lance declared, still flush with excitement. Kevin nodded. Add an eye and he'll think twice before trying to claim our land again. And so their adventure with the Red Cap was added to the list of tales they'd tell at the bar, a reminder that even when faced with those who'd take advantage of them, there's always a way to stand tall, even if you're two daft lads full of ale. As for the Red Cap, he returned to his lair, contemplating the fact that nae all territory is up for grabs, especially when folks stand together against him. Slanchy, you ballbags. Octubee bastards, if you dinnae want to end up like the old Red Cap, you best be liking and subscribing. Sod off, you bloody Muppets.