Who wants some...
It was a dark and stormy night.
One noteable gentleman was making his way home. Or, trying rather. The man's umbrella was stuck in a half-open position, only allowing it to cover his head and one shoulder as he staggered home through the ankle deep mud.
If it had been a holiday, it certainly hadn't felt like one. Easter Sunday rarely felt like much of anything here. There was certainly no cause for this small town to celebrate. There were no egg hunts, no parties or family reunions, not even Easter masses.
The church did not even open it's doors anymore after Father Jeffrey was found. The man was sitting upright when they discovered him, wide eyed, mouth agape, and quite dead. It was obvious that he'd been strangled.
Last year around that same time,Mrs.Pickens had been discovered in that exact same spot, beaten to death with her own purse where she'd prayed.
Shortly after the incident regarding the lovely, late Mrs. Pickens, whom everyone had adored so well, there was a case involving a young boy by the name of Brian Quinn. An energetic and sometimes bothersome young lad, he was reported missing by his parents at 6 o' clock. He was found at 6:35 face down in a water barrel, to their dismay.
There were scores of murders in this town within the last three years and it's residents believed that it was the same person, a man, whom they'd nicknamed 'The Murderin' Fellow' which properly showcased their lack of imagination.
There had even been a killing today. Miss Claire Eby, a girl of only thirteen years of age. It was a gruesome event. She'd been stuffed into a small well. Her body was literally snapped in half with her hands and feet just barely reaching the top opening. The poor lass was wedged in so tightly that a rescue team had to dig out the side of the structure, and cut it away in order to retrieve her.
It was not any of these events that had settled on the mind of our noteworthy gentleman as weathered the storm. It was late, and he'd been drinking.His wife was sure to kick the stuffing out of him this time. Unless of course, he managed to crawl through the bedroom window while she watched the television, and crawl into bed before she noticed he was home. Maybe she would think he'd been there the whole time? It was certainly worth a try!
Suddenly there was a cry in the distance.
"Mr. Dempsey!"
The gentleman turned to look back in the direction from whence he came. Seeing a lone drenched figure walking along that same path and who had called him by name, he paused to try to determine who it was. Maybe the lad could fix his umbrella and they would share it on the rest of their journey.
"Mr. Dempsey!"
"What? Who's this?"
"Ah Mr. Dempsey! Good to see you!"
As the man approached, Dempsey realized he had no clue whatsoever regarding the other man's identity. He looked alright, he supposed. It was probably someone hed met through his wife or one of her friends. "Hello, sir", Dempsey chimed, "A bit wet aren't you? If we can fix this God foresaken thing, I'll gladly sha..."
"What's the word? You old salad dodger!"
"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Dempsey asked. He was more than a little self conscious about his protruding gut. This turn of events was a little bit flustering.
"How's the wife?"
"She's.. she's fine. Excuse me Mr... I'm sorry, who are you again?"
"Dead heat in a zeppelin race, that one! Whoa! I'd like to see her on my knob-end!"
"WHAT!?"
Our poor Mr. Dempsey was becoming quite preturbed by this young fellow's audacity, and was about to raise his umbrella to strike the lad when a thought occurred to him. Was this Mrs. Ackerman's son George? The idiot? It was well known that he often said things that were foul mouthed and improper. It was also well known that he suffered from serious mental illness but was otherwise harmless.
And so he asked the young man, "Are you George Ackerman?"
"Naw. Bruce is the name. Nice to meet you. Ha! Ya' dangleberry."
So this wasn't George, he thought to himself, but some other daftie. Lovely.
And so our noteable gentleman, Mr. Dempsey, continued walking home and tried to ignore the young man who followed him the entire way. The man's rude commentary worsened as they went on. To add even more pain to the situation, the man apparently had a twin brother who was now following both of them and throwing similar insults in the direction of Mr. Dempsey.
"I stapled my donger to a tree. Ever did that? Nice paps you got there. Can I give 'em a squeeze? You kiddie fiddler! Pansy! Want a sandwich? I bet you do! Dempsey wants a little boy sandwich! While you're busy with that I'll be exploring Mrs. D's salmon canyon! Ohh I'd love to get to sh..."
Dempsey had enough by then. Although he found that he was intimidated by these men, he felt that it was time to stand up for himself. "You're going to get your heads panned in if you don't end this nonsense right this very minute!" he told them.
"Well you don't have to get all angry", the second lad chimed in, "You bollucks. Maybe you need to have it off at the wrist. The Mrs. ain't been taking care of you? You've been slumming it? Looking out the windows at the boys next door, eh?"
Just when he thought that it couldn't get any worse, and that he couldn't be having a more miserable walk home. A third lad appeared. Triplets, identical in every way from their soaking wet hair right down to their clothing. The three young men had surrounded the gentleman, conversely spouting off insults and odd statements about their genitals. And he still had at least a mile more to go before he'd make it home.
"Aye, Dempsey's smashed. Look at him. He's barely walking."
"Nah, that's cause I mistook his arse for a honeypot."
"And I felched."
"See the way he's lookin' at you? He's lookin' to snog your face off."
"Sausage jockey!"
"Hey Dempsey! Ever done the five knuckle shuffle while watching Lassie?"
Eventually this led to our gentleman, Mr. Dempsey, throwing himself into the nearest gorge. Where he would be found picked apart by vultures four days later.
Standing along the ledge where he'd made his leap, the first triplet exclaimed to the others. "There was nothin' we coulda' done. The poor guy was obviously at wit's end. He just couldn't bear the hardships of life anymore."
"He was my bestest friend", cried the third.
"Why do all our new friends keep killin' there-selves?" sobbed the other.
"Hurhur, knob-jockey!"
"Heh yeah. Heheh, you always know what to say."
The End.
(What? You expected something intelligent? Maybe next time.)
It was a dark and stormy night.
One noteable gentleman was making his way home. Or, trying rather. The man's umbrella was stuck in a half-open position, only allowing it to cover his head and one shoulder as he staggered home through the ankle deep mud.
If it had been a holiday, it certainly hadn't felt like one. Easter Sunday rarely felt like much of anything here. There was certainly no cause for this small town to celebrate. There were no egg hunts, no parties or family reunions, not even Easter masses.
The church did not even open it's doors anymore after Father Jeffrey was found. The man was sitting upright when they discovered him, wide eyed, mouth agape, and quite dead. It was obvious that he'd been strangled.
Last year around that same time,Mrs.Pickens had been discovered in that exact same spot, beaten to death with her own purse where she'd prayed.
Shortly after the incident regarding the lovely, late Mrs. Pickens, whom everyone had adored so well, there was a case involving a young boy by the name of Brian Quinn. An energetic and sometimes bothersome young lad, he was reported missing by his parents at 6 o' clock. He was found at 6:35 face down in a water barrel, to their dismay.
There were scores of murders in this town within the last three years and it's residents believed that it was the same person, a man, whom they'd nicknamed 'The Murderin' Fellow' which properly showcased their lack of imagination.
There had even been a killing today. Miss Claire Eby, a girl of only thirteen years of age. It was a gruesome event. She'd been stuffed into a small well. Her body was literally snapped in half with her hands and feet just barely reaching the top opening. The poor lass was wedged in so tightly that a rescue team had to dig out the side of the structure, and cut it away in order to retrieve her.
It was not any of these events that had settled on the mind of our noteworthy gentleman as weathered the storm. It was late, and he'd been drinking.His wife was sure to kick the stuffing out of him this time. Unless of course, he managed to crawl through the bedroom window while she watched the television, and crawl into bed before she noticed he was home. Maybe she would think he'd been there the whole time? It was certainly worth a try!
Suddenly there was a cry in the distance.
"Mr. Dempsey!"
The gentleman turned to look back in the direction from whence he came. Seeing a lone drenched figure walking along that same path and who had called him by name, he paused to try to determine who it was. Maybe the lad could fix his umbrella and they would share it on the rest of their journey.
"Mr. Dempsey!"
"What? Who's this?"
"Ah Mr. Dempsey! Good to see you!"
As the man approached, Dempsey realized he had no clue whatsoever regarding the other man's identity. He looked alright, he supposed. It was probably someone hed met through his wife or one of her friends. "Hello, sir", Dempsey chimed, "A bit wet aren't you? If we can fix this God foresaken thing, I'll gladly sha..."
"What's the word? You old salad dodger!"
"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Dempsey asked. He was more than a little self conscious about his protruding gut. This turn of events was a little bit flustering.
"How's the wife?"
"She's.. she's fine. Excuse me Mr... I'm sorry, who are you again?"
"Dead heat in a zeppelin race, that one! Whoa! I'd like to see her on my knob-end!"
"WHAT!?"
Our poor Mr. Dempsey was becoming quite preturbed by this young fellow's audacity, and was about to raise his umbrella to strike the lad when a thought occurred to him. Was this Mrs. Ackerman's son George? The idiot? It was well known that he often said things that were foul mouthed and improper. It was also well known that he suffered from serious mental illness but was otherwise harmless.
And so he asked the young man, "Are you George Ackerman?"
"Naw. Bruce is the name. Nice to meet you. Ha! Ya' dangleberry."
So this wasn't George, he thought to himself, but some other daftie. Lovely.
And so our noteable gentleman, Mr. Dempsey, continued walking home and tried to ignore the young man who followed him the entire way. The man's rude commentary worsened as they went on. To add even more pain to the situation, the man apparently had a twin brother who was now following both of them and throwing similar insults in the direction of Mr. Dempsey.
"I stapled my donger to a tree. Ever did that? Nice paps you got there. Can I give 'em a squeeze? You kiddie fiddler! Pansy! Want a sandwich? I bet you do! Dempsey wants a little boy sandwich! While you're busy with that I'll be exploring Mrs. D's salmon canyon! Ohh I'd love to get to sh..."
Dempsey had enough by then. Although he found that he was intimidated by these men, he felt that it was time to stand up for himself. "You're going to get your heads panned in if you don't end this nonsense right this very minute!" he told them.
"Well you don't have to get all angry", the second lad chimed in, "You bollucks. Maybe you need to have it off at the wrist. The Mrs. ain't been taking care of you? You've been slumming it? Looking out the windows at the boys next door, eh?"
Just when he thought that it couldn't get any worse, and that he couldn't be having a more miserable walk home. A third lad appeared. Triplets, identical in every way from their soaking wet hair right down to their clothing. The three young men had surrounded the gentleman, conversely spouting off insults and odd statements about their genitals. And he still had at least a mile more to go before he'd make it home.
"Aye, Dempsey's smashed. Look at him. He's barely walking."
"Nah, that's cause I mistook his arse for a honeypot."
"And I felched."
"See the way he's lookin' at you? He's lookin' to snog your face off."
"Sausage jockey!"
"Hey Dempsey! Ever done the five knuckle shuffle while watching Lassie?"
Eventually this led to our gentleman, Mr. Dempsey, throwing himself into the nearest gorge. Where he would be found picked apart by vultures four days later.
Standing along the ledge where he'd made his leap, the first triplet exclaimed to the others. "There was nothin' we coulda' done. The poor guy was obviously at wit's end. He just couldn't bear the hardships of life anymore."
"He was my bestest friend", cried the third.
"Why do all our new friends keep killin' there-selves?" sobbed the other.
"Hurhur, knob-jockey!"
"Heh yeah. Heheh, you always know what to say."
The End.
(What? You expected something intelligent? Maybe next time.)