Accept No Substitutes
by Scott MacLeod
Gussie was just about done with these dating apps. But finally, she found one who looked like a keeper. Malcolm. An actual Scotsman. Purportedly. Well, descended from Scotties at least. Since she’d left Glasgow, she’d hunted this barren American soil for anyone worthy of a dram and a wee heavy. Mostly a parade of anejo-sipping posers.
Malcolm appeared to be the genuine article. His parents came from Stornoway in Scotland’s northernmost isles. Viking country. They e-chatted amiably on the matchmaker site. Planning a face to face. Then he stepped in it.
“It’s about time, I think. Let’s you and I meet at Flora’s for a nice Scotch. I bet you like whiskey.”
There it was. A Scotch!! Whiskey with an “e”. This was no Scotsman. First, it’s supposed to be spelled “whisky”. No blasted “e”. What part of Scotland was his family from, Louisville? And there was no such thing as Scotch. That is the only kind of whisky there is. It’s redundant. Like saying French champagne. This man was an imposter. A fraud. What was up his sleeve? She had to meet him and straighten him out before he could catfish another unsuspecting lass.
They met as arranged, in front of the bar.
Malcolm approached with a wide smile. He extended a hand and once she clasped it leaned in for a chaste hug of hello.
Gussie tased him and he fell to the pavement with a surprised yelp.
She loomed over him. “Who are you and what are you about?”
She explained her suspicions and how his sacrilegious phrasing cast grave doubts on his legitimacy and intentions.
“What do you mean?” He sputtered lying on his back, stunned. “I’m me. Here’s my ID. I’m just looking for a nice girl, I thought I had found one.”
She picked up and leafed through his wallet. It all checked out. The name and picture on his license. His access card from work matched the job he had described. She sighed, tossing it back to him.
“I guess you’re real.”
“Of course I’m real. What the hell is wrong with you?”
He sat up. With a flash of annoyance. “And if I’m being honest, I prefer a nice Jameson’s Irish Whiskey.”
For that she tased him again and he returned to the horizontal. She addressed him over her shoulder with a shudder as she walked away.
“To that I’d prefer a stalker.”
Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in Punk Noir, Rmag, Micromance, Every Day Fiction, Bristol Noir, Havok, Witcraft, NFFD Write-In, Coffin Bell, 10 By 10 Flash, Frontier Tales, The Yard: Crime Blog, Yellow Mama, Short-story.me and Gumshoe, with more forthcoming. He can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com or on Instagram @scottmacleod478 and at http://www.facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334