Matt had seen some questionable things during his years running The Strays out of Brooklyn, but nothing prepared him for the morning Kristoff burst into his office covered in snow.

“Boss! We’ve got a big problem!” Kristoff panted, dropping a telegram on the desk “the docks are frozen, the shipments are delayed, and our associates in Scotland are demanding we come handle a situation personally. Also Rorschach might have managed to get himself accosted by a local police officer for trying to mug a snowman.”

Matt looked up slowly wondering if he had heard that right “A snowman?”

“In my defence” Rorschach said from behind him, brushing frost off his coat “the snowman started it, it was wearing a scarf nicer than mine, and I made a judgement call.”

Matt blinked “Wait what? Scotland? Why the hell Scotland?”

Kristoff jabbed the telegram “Because apparently, a crate of our goods was accidentally shipped to ‘Glasgow’ not Glasco, New Jersey, and now the Scots won’t release anything until someone shows up in person and signs the paperwork.”

Matt sighed, perfect, just perfect.

But the job had to be handled, The Strays couldn’t have their merchandise stuck halfway around the world. So, naturally, the most rational solution was to put the three of them on a boat across the Atlantic, a miserable, freezing, whisky-soaked boat where even the captain had a permanent scowl.

By the time they stumbled off the boat in Scotland, Matt’s patience with both the ocean and his crew was hanging by a thread.

And that was when Kristoff chose to break the news.

“Boss” he said carefully “while we’re here there’s something I need to check out, a rumour of a creature.”

Matt groaned “If this is about the Loch Ness Monster, I swear to God”

“No” Kristoff whispered, eyes wide with reverence “Something rarer, something mythical, something delicious.”

Rorschach leaned in. “If you say haggis I’m turning around and walking back into the ocean.”

But it was too late. Kristoff started explaining that he had heard some locals rambling on the boat, after six whiskies, about a rare winter variant of the famous highland haggis, a creature said to appear only during storms, sprinting across snowy peaks with the attitude of a drunk Glaswegian.

Matt tried to dismiss it, he really did. But the moment Kristoff described it as tiny, hairy, and so aggressive it makes raccoons look polite, he felt his Scottish blood twitch with curiosity.

And so, somehow, they found themselves in a rickety old sedan which had chains on the tyres, a dented flask of whisky, and Rorschach’s shotgun named Susan for reasons no one wanted to discuss, heading into the highlands driving through snow that looked like it was trying to murder them.

The wind shrieked around the mountains as they finally started their hike upward, Matt trudged confidently through the snow, born for this kind of cold, while Kristoff relied on his expensive fur coat and Rorschach relied entirely on pure spite to stay warm. The deeper they hiked, the stranger it became, at one point Rorschach claimed he heard bagpipes whispering in the wind, Matt dismissed him as delirious and Kristoff said that was normal for Scotland.

“You sure this is the right mountain?” Matt asked.

“Aye” Kristoff said, pointing at a sign with a terrifying warning. DO NOT ENTER. SHEEP ARMED AND DANGEROUS.

That’s when they heard it, a low growl mixed with what sounded suspiciously like drunken wheezing.

Something darted across the ridge so fast none of them fully caught its shape, only that it was round, hairy, and furious.

Kristoff froze “Boss! I think that was it!”

Matt stared into the blizzard “The Winter Haggis?”

Rorschach raised Susan “I’m taking it down!”

“You are absolutely not” Matt snapped “You don’t shoot mythical Scottish wildlife, It’s a rule.”

“Where’s that rule written?” protested Rorschach.

“In my heart” exclaimed Matt.

Before they could argue further, the creature charged. A small, spherical blur of fury and tartan barrelled between their legs with the speed of a gangster fleeing tax collectors.

Matt dove left, Kristoff dove right, Rorschach tried intimidation which did absolutely nothing.

Finally, they cornered the beast at the summit, through the winter wind swirling around them, they could hear the creature’s faint huffing. The haggis was small but mighty, like a hedgehog that had seen some things early in life and decided to take up drinking.

Matt offered the haggis a breadcrumb. Kristoff offered a sausage roll and Rorschach offered a Scotch egg. Then to everyone’s amazement, it pulled a tiny notepad out of nowhere and scribbled something then handed the paper to Matt.

“BRING WHISKY. THEN WE TALK.”

Kristoff gasped “It can write?!”

“It’s Scottish” Matt reminded him “Of course it can write.”

Unfortunately, the only whisky they had brought was currently inside their guts but after a chaotic negotiation involving some shortbread, one of Kristoff’s boots and a sincere apology from Rorschach for previously attempting to mug a snowman, the haggis reluctantly agreed to be seen and admired, it even posed for a photograph, which came out blurry, cursed, and vaguely threatening.

By the time they began descending the mountain, the storm had intensified. Due to only having one boot Kristoff slipped and rolled dramatically into a snowdrift, Rorschach tried to save him, slipped even worse and cursed the entire concept of nature whilst both slid down the mountain, the haggis followed closely behind them like a tiny, judging God, tutting at their incompetence.

When they finally reached the car, Matt was frozen, Kristoff was now missing both his boots, and Rorschach was attempting to argue philosophical points with the haggis “If your no real then explain your handwriting!” The haggis lifted one tiny paw to bid them farewell then flipped them all off with perfect precision before scampering into the snow.

Back in New York weeks later, the docks unfroze, the shipments resumed, and The Strays returned to business. But Matt kept the blurry photo on his desk, a reminder that somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, a furious ball of fur in tartan was telling its friends about the story of the three idiotic gangsters from New York who came looking for paperwork and ended up bartering with a mystical creature using baked goods and a man’s left boot

And though no one would ever believe them, The Strays knew the truth.