David Dimbleby and the dog.

Posted on by
Reply

“WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF.” Said the dog.

“WHAT IS IT?!” Said David, panicking, remembering the warning he had got from the cat the day before.

“WOOF WOOF WOOF WOOF!” Said the dog, again.

“I DON’T HAVE ANY FRIED EGGS!” Replied David, urgently scanning his eggless vicinity.

“WOOOOOOOOF WOOOOOOOOFFF WOOOOOOOOFFFF!” Barked the dog, angrily.

“WHY DO I KEEP LETTING STRAY ANIMALS INTO MY HOUSE?!” Shrieked David. Then his baked beans fell off the shelf, crushing his matchbox car.

“WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!” Screamed David, as he fell to his knees.

“WOOF.” Said the dog.

David Dimbleby and the cat.

Posted on by
Reply

“Miaow miaow miaow miaow.” Said the cat.

“I don’t know what you want!” Replied David.

“Miaow miaow miaow miaow.” The cat repeated.

“What do you want?!” Said David. This charade had been dragging on for an hour now, and he was still no closer to working out what the cat wanted.

“MIAOW MIAOW MIAAAAAAAOOOOOOOW!” Shouted the cat, more urgently.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” Shouted David, angrily. Then his fried eggs burst into flames.

“Oh, I see.” Said David, sheepishly.

I am back now.

Posted on by
3

It has been a while since I last blogged. Things I have done since my last blog:

I got a year older.

I am now two hundred and twelve years old. I am sort of like Bill from True Blood, but paler, and with more interest in noodle restaurants.

I saw a pigeon skim off a woman’s head.

This was the other day. The pigeon sort of thought it was landing, but then realised there was no room, so tried to take off again. It used a woman’s head as a sort of trampoline. It was very entertaining, especially as the woman tried to ignore the fact that a pigeon had just bounced off her head. Perhaps it is an everyday occurrence to her.

I got a job.

…

I went to Amsterdam.

I went with my beautiful girlfriend Tasha, who I have not actually mentioned in this blog yet. She is lovely. She brings me glasses of water, buys me films in which cats double as buses, and is just generally excellent. My favourite fact about her though is that when she plays Grand Theft Auto, she likes to pick up prostitutes and just take them out for a lovely day at the mall. This is part of why I was assuming Amsterdam would be so much fun. We’d just spend our entire time sitting around sipping milkshakes and going on bumper cars with prostitutes. Not that that’s my favourite use of my time of course, but, you know, it would be an experience. Not quite the kind of experience that people usually hire prostitutes for, but a less seedy and more innocent, fun experience. The kind of experience that the Happy Days gang might have with a prostitute I guess. It would be that or the Fonz waterskiing over a prostitute. That’s when you know the show has really gone wrong.

Anyway, I appear to have digressed: we went to Amsterdam. It rained lots and we ate pancakes. We also saw a horse who looked quite depressed in the rain. It was sad. He had a 1980s style blonde mullet too. Maybe if a handsome prince came along and kissed his nose he would turn into Pat Sharp. We didn’t have time to wait and see. We also discovered a thing called The House of Bols. It is fair to say that this museum dedicated to drinking was pretty much the best museum either of us has ever been to. I am now thinking about opening my own lucrative alcohol-based educational experience. I call it the ‘Shed of Schnapps’. Everybody comes into my shed. I pour them all some peach schnapps, then we stare at a toolbox, which gets progressively more entertaining the more drunk we get. I see no way this can possibly go wrong.

I sent a script off to the BBC.

It was for a competition. It didn’t win, because it was a bit rubbish and may have been a bit too long, but it was the first time I have actually sent a TV script out, so it felt nice in some way. I hope to send out many more in time.

I probably did some other stuff.

I have forgotten now. I do not have much of a memory.

Anyway, I hope to try and get back to blogging more often now, as it was a way to keep my mind a bit active. I bet that having said that, I’ll now go another 4 months without publishing anything. I will try though. And it will be incredible*.

*Read: Average**.

**At best.

Starburst and Shanghai.

Posted on by
1

Things I have done since my last blog:

- Given up on attempting to write 30 stories in 30 days. It was not as fun as I imagined it might be, and it was leaving me little time to do anything else really. I may just write and release stories when I find the time, rather than setting myself some kind of absurd, almost masochistic challenge that was always going to be kind of tricky.

- Eaten a garibaldi biscuit. That was yesterday. It wasn’t brilliant.

- Had a job interview. I am now fairly certain that I have now been invited back for a second interview, though to be fair, prior to the interview I ate an entire pack of Starburst, then strolled in, talked about how much I’d enjoyed the Olympics this summer (they took place two years ago), and used a moment of silence to excitedly blurt out ‘The Apprentice is on tonight!’. Professional as ever. I would still like to find a home at a company, though at this rate I’m starting to think that perhaps it would be easier to just start my own business. I’m not 100% sure what the process to do this is, but I’m fairly sure it involves stealing a priceless jewel from a heavily guarded museum. Of course, if I could do that, I probably wouldn’t need to flog socks from a shopping trolley in the rain. Maybe I’ll just stick with the jewel idea.

- Thought about going to Tokyo. Or Shanghai. I’m not sure which one I’d rather go to. Not just for a few days. For a few weeks, maybe even a few months. Possibly to try and learn a bit of the language. Apparently they’re pretty much the two hardest languages to learn though, Japanese and Mandarin, requiring around 2200 hours of class tuition to master. This seems kind of intimidating, but nothing is impossible. Apart from me having money it would seem, which makes this purely fantasy, as travelling to learn these languages on an intensive course in either Shanghai or Tokyo requires thousands of pounds. Which I do not have. Until I steal the jewel/sell lots of socks in the rain. They both look like interesting cities though, so I’ll hopefully go in some capacity at some point. Probably just on a holiday for a few days one day. Anyway, this is something I have been considering. I have also, on a slightly lesser note…

- Thought about buying some crumpets. I stared at some crumpets for a bit today. I thought about buying them. They were 89p. I had 67p. I cursed my having not brought my debit card, and swore that one day, I would enjoy some crumpets, sat at an oak table in a meadow, as bees swarmed about me complimenting my frugal butter usage and choice of scarf. That could be how it pans out. Alternatively, I could end up just abandoned in a meadow in the middle of nowhere, fighting off angry bees as I tried in vain to tuck into some overly dry crumpets. That sounds more realistic.

- Considered buying more Studio Ghibli films. ‘My Neighbour Totoro’ apparently has a cat that doubles as a bus. He is called Catbus. How could anybody fail to be entertained by that?

- I watched the X Factor. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about, and see whether it was actually any good. It was not. Indeed, I was surprised by just how poor it was. I didn’t really enjoy it, and for some reason, it seemed like each contestant had been told to dress as a different member of the Jetsons. Maybe it gets better, I don’t know. I’ll probably just stick to watching The Apprentice.

That’s probably about it actually. I should probably do more stuff. Looking at crumpets doesn’t really count as an activity in most people’s book. Today I may do some writing, then tomorrow I have a gig. That’s something I guess.

Story #6 – Pipe Gripes.

Posted on by
Reply

“Ah, that’s some good smoke.” Said Donald Boddington, as he ingested another lungful, “if only all smoke tasted this good then I’d probably eat an exhaust pipe.” Donald’s assembled guests all chuckled to themselves. Nobody had any idea whatsoever what he was talking about, but everybody chuckled as if they were Pavlov’s chuckling dogs. “Why Donald, truly you are a fine wit, and a supreme host!” Remarked Donald’s close friend, the esteemed Dr Perrins, “and verily this collection of pipes is unrivalled throughout the land! Let us raise a toast… to Donald!” The assembled throng of dignitaries raised their glasses.

“Please, there is no need for thanks.” Said Donald. “After all, that is the first rule of Pipe Club.” He was right, that was the first rule of Pipe Club. Unfortunately, it was all downhill from there rules wise. By the time you got to Rule 45 it was mostly a mess of by-laws about the inability to enjoy a meringue in the car park. Still, this had affected relatively few people in the past, and what people had been affected by it wouldn’t be doing any talking now. Donald received a polite round of applause for his humble speech, before people returned to trading anecdotes amongst themselves. Donald felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned around to be greeted again by his good friend Dr Perrins. “Donald you’ve done it again!” He said as he hugged him, nearly setting his blazer alight with his pipe embers as he did.

“Mind your pipe embers.” Said Donald, gruffly.

“I’m sorry.” Replied Dr Perrins, apologetically, “it’s just that this is the best pipe club we’ve had for years, I’m very excited.” Dr Perrins was right, this was the best pipe club they’d had for years. Various disappointments had befallen the group. Only a few weeks earlier Barry Barnados had promised the club the night of their lives with the world’s largest pipe. Such a bold claim was always going to be hard to back up, however nobody was prepared for the level of disappointment that did hit when they arrived at Barry’s to be confronted with what was simply a bucket attached to a bit of guttering. “This isn’t technically a pipe.” They grumbled. And they were right. Many saw this as the final straw for pipe club, especially since it was just weeks after the shameful ‘Bubblegate’ incident. Those who had remained loyal to the cause however had seen their loyalty rewarded in the most spectacular fashion. With an above average selection of pipes. Truly, this was all the world’s best pipes in one room. Or so Donald thought.

“You think you’re the prince of pipes?” Said a shrill voice in Donald’s ear. Donald turned around to meet the source of the voice, however there was nobody there. “Dr Perrins, was that you?” He said.

“Was what me?” Replied Dr Perrins.

“You called me the Prince of Pipes.” Said Donald, accusingly.

“No I didn’t.” Replied Dr Perrins.

“Then who did?” Said Donald, as a chill spread down his spine.

“Come to the study…” hissed the voice. Donald turned again to be confronted by thin air.

“You’ll have to excuse me.” Said Donald, nervously, as he made haste towards the exit.

“But where are you going?” Asked Dr Perrins, however, it was too late. Donald had already left the room, rendering this piece of dialogue entirely pointless.

Donald found himself standing in the corridor. He was sweating now, the cold beads of liquid fear cascading down his body like a buttered jaguar on a log flume. What was this voice? And what did it want with him? He would have to venture to the study to find out. He slowly walked down the hall, the resounding crash of his ill-advised knee cymbals echoing about the empty corridor. As he approached the door he felt a sudden chill wash over his body. He slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open. The room was dark. By the window, Donald thought he saw a shadow. Then it vanished. He heard a scuttling noise, then a faint laugh. Donald slowly found himself drawn into the room. “Is there anybody there?” he asked, nervously. Then, suddenly, the door slammed behind him, throwing him into almost complete darkness. Only the faintest beams of moonlight that had managed to penetrate the Power Rangers curtains now illuminated the room. Donald turned to see, standing against the bookcase, the shadowy figure again. Without warning, it began to lurch menacingly towards him. Donald emitted a blood-curdling scream, and toppled backwards. The figure stopped in its tracks. Donald hastily crawled across to a lamp and flicked the switch. What he saw shook him to his very core. “What are you?” He said.

“Hold on, I’ll be with you in a second.” Replied the figure, “you appear to have curdled my blood.” Donald stared at the figure. It was unlike anything he had seen before. “What is that?” He stammered.

“Oh, you mean my face? Don’t you recognise me Donald? Or is it all the meringue that’s confusing you?” Rasped the figure. He was as tall as a five foot seven house, and with a face that appeared to be crafted entirely of meringue nest. A chill spread across Donald’s body as the realisation hit him.

“Alan? Alan is that you? But… this is impossible?” Said Donald, backing into a corner.

“Is it Donald? Is it really?” Replied the monstrosity known as Alan.

“You have a meringue for a face. I’d say so.”

“Well it’s not.” Replied Alan. “Tell me, do you recall the events of that night Donald?”

Donald did recall the events of that night, all too vividly. He remembered the clock striking eight and heading out into the car park for a cigarette break, with many of the other members of the pipe club. He remembered the scent of whipped egg whites in the air. The way the moon illuminated the figure of Alan hiding behind a bin eating a meringue. He remembered the fury that spread throughout the group at this flagrant disregard for the sacred laws of pipe club. He remembered the mob justice that they had dealt out to Alan for this insult. He remembered the blood on his hands. So much blood. Enough to make even Dracula himself say “no more for me thanks, I’ve had enough blood”.

“You’re probably wondering how this happened.” Said Alan, gesturing towards his sugary head. “As I lay there, dying by the bins, my nostrils full of broken meringue, I tried to pull myself up, but only succeeded in crushing myself with a barrel. A barrel full of radioactive material…”

Donald shuddered. He should have known that his overly-relaxed approach to the disposal of hazardous materials would come back to haunt him. It was almost as if Captain Planet had never happened.

“… the fusion of that radioactive waste and the shards of meringue may have saved me, but at what cost? AT WHAT COST DONALD?” screamed Alan.

“I’m sorry Alan, I never meant for any of this to happen. We only meant to kill you, we never intended to turn you into… this…”

“It’s too late for apologies Donald.” Replied the figure, shaking himself out as his blood became to decurdulise.

“What do you want from me?” Said Donald, nervously.

Alan pulled an object from his pocket, and began to advance towards Donald. “I want you to try this pipe…” he said.

“You want me to smoke a pipe? But I love pipes. Is this meant to be a punishment?”

“Try the pipe…” Snarled the beast, in a manner that did not befit a man named Alan.

“Ok, I’ll try the pipe.” Stammered Donald, as he took the pipe from Alan. It was a pipe unlike any he had seen before. It seemed to almost glow in the relative dark of the corner that was perhaps only 30 percent illuminated by the lamp. Donald could have sworn he heard it whisper to him. He was entranced by its majesty, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He had to take a puff. As he lit the tobacco and slowly inhaled the smoke he suddenly felt himself awash with coldness.

“How’s the pipe?” Sneered Alan menacingly.

Donald felt himself growing weaker and dropped the pipe. His hands seemed to not only be draining of blood, but draining of skin too.

“What have you done?” Screamed Donald, as his wrist was vaporised.

“You always did love pipes.” Laughed Alan. “Tell me, how does it feel to become one?”

Donald crashed to the floor, as his body continued to disintegrate. As he glanced across at the pipe lying next to him, he was stunned by what he saw, as it was no longer just miscellaneous clay, but his own face staring back at him. He screamed, and then he was gone. His own soul inhaled by the very pipe that he had coveted so much.

Story #5 – A Room With A View To A Kill

Posted on by
Reply

“Hey Robert! How do you like soup?” Shouted Johnny as he threw a bowl of soup across to Robert. Robert screamed as his clothes were covered in a chickeny mess. Johnny laughed.

“Johnny! What have you done to Robert! His clothes are covered in a chickeny mess!” Screamed Mrs Porridge as the home economics class fell silent.

“He did it to himself, apparently he really loves soup.” Said Johnny, nonchalantly, as he lit up a cigarette.

“Johnny! How dare you smoke in my class, you’re only 15 years old! Give me that!” Said Mrs Porridge as she swiped his cigarette from his mouth. “Robert, go and get yourself cleaned up. And you, Johnny, get yourself to the headmaster’s office right now!”

Johnny shrugged, and left the class. He wasn’t worried about seeing the headmaster, he saw him all the time. They were practically pen-pals by this point, except without the air of cordiality, or the letters, or indeed, the ink. Basically any of the key characteristics of pen-pals. Besides, he probably wouldn’t go anyway. Johnny lit up a cigar. Perhaps he’d walk to Tesco and buy himself a sausage roll instead, that would be more fun. He checked his watch, there was plenty of time, it was only 2010. The death clock said he wouldn’t die until 2052, which left him plenty of time to get to Tesco and back. Chances are it probably wouldn’t take 42 years, the walk usually only took 15 minutes. Unless he had to walk back and forth exchanging his sausage roll 735840 times, he’d probably be ok. Johnny flicked his cigar into a bin and set off on his journey.

As he reached the entrance to Tesco, he was surprised to see one of his friends there. Donna Marbles. She was hanging out with her crew too, all skiving off school and smoking their pipes. Johnny loved Donna, though he had not told her. He watched as she seductively withdrew her St Bruno tobacco and ignited her pipe. She was looking beautiful today, her flat cap almost gleaming in the sun. She spotted him from a distance. “Johnny!” She shouted, excitedly, as she ran across to hug him, the clip-clop of her workman’s boots echoing about the car park.

“Hi Donna.” Said Johnny, as he hugged Donna. “What are you doing here?”

“Skiving. Same as always.” Shrugged Donna. “How about you?”

“I’m here to buy a sausage roll.” Said Johnny. He mentally slapped his own head. That didn’t sound sexy at all. Come on Johnny, he thought, think of something more seductive, you can do this. “I mean, I’m here to buy a sexy sausage roll.” Said Johnny. He mentally slapped his own head again. If anything, that was worse than before.

“Ok… cool.” Said Donna, slightly confused, as she inhaled another lungful of pipe. “Hey Johnny, what are you doing later?”

“Later?” Replied Johnny.

“Yeah, later.” Said Donna. “I mean after school. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Said Johnny. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”

“Me and the girls were going to head up to the house on Kill Hill. It’s meant to be haunted you know. We thought we’d check it out, why don’t you come with us?”

A cold rush of fear spread across Johnny’s body. The house on Kill Hill was meant to be haunted. There were rumours that those people who had gone to see the house had never been seen again. “The house on Kill Hill? Isn’t that boarded up now?” Said Johnny, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

“Yeah, but we can break in. We skive off school, breaking into an abandoned house is the kind of thing we might do in our leisure time.” Replied Donna.

“It’s a fairly tenuous link isn’t it?” Said Johnny.

“Shut up Johnny.” Replied Donna. “Do you want to come to the house or not?”

Johnny found himself in a tricky situation. This could potentially be the chance to spend some quality time with Donna. Admittedly, in a house that had a reputation for killing people, but still. On the other hand, if he said no, he’d appear to be a coward, and nobody accused Johnny of being a coward. Danger was his middle name. Unfortunately, his surname was Mouse, which somewhat undermined its cool tone by conjuring up images of David Jason, but still. “You know what, yeah, I will come to the house.” He said.

“Great! We’ll meet you at the bottom of Kill Hill at midnight then?” Said Donna, excitedly.

“I guess so.” Murmured Johnny, disappointed that he’d probably have to give Film 2010 a miss. He may have been a bit of a thug and a bully, but he loved that theme tune. Johnny hugged Donna again to say goodbye, and headed off into the supermarket to purchase his sausage roll. Little did he know that soon, he himself would be the metaphorical sausage within a perilous roll.

Johnny found himself stood at the bottom of Kill Hill. He checked his watch again. Five past midnight. Where were they? Perhaps it was all an elaborate joke they had played on him. He was cold, alone, and missing Film 2010. Perhaps singing the theme tune would warm him up. “Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo dooooo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doooooo, doo doo doo doo dooooo doo doo doo, da doo doo doo doo doo doo doo dooooooo.” He sang.

“Johnny! Over here!” Shouted Donna. Johnny turned around and saw Donna and her friends coming towards him, the glow of their pipe embers illuminating their faces as if they were sexy fisherman out on a seductive trawler.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming.” Said Johnny.

“We wouldn’t miss this.” Replied Donna. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so.” Said Johnny, nervously.

The group slowly made their way up towards the house on Kill Hill. It was the only house here. Many constructors had declined to build on Kill Hill, fearing that the general population would probably have an aversion to living at such an address. One developer, however, had built a single house, which had once had a single occupant. Nobody knows exactly what happened to them, only that once they went in, they never came out. The house was earmarked for demolition soon after, but all attempts to destroy it had ended in disaster, and nobody dared try again.

Reaching the door, the group paused for a moment. The house looked a lot scarier up close. There was a warning tape around the perimeter, the windows were boarded up, and the walls were covered in graffiti telling people to stay away. It was almost your stereotypical spooky house.

“Alright, how do we get in then?” Asked Johnny, nervously. As he did, the door slowly creaked open. Now it was the stereotypical spooky house.

“After you Johnny.” Said Donna. Johnny’s heart sank. He could see that he was going to be the sacrificial lamb at this horrific barbecue. He couldn’t show his fear though, he couldn’t be seen to be afraid, and so he strode through the door as machoily as he possibly could, followed by Donna and the rest of the girls.

No sooner had they got inside than the door slammed behind them.

“This really is just one big cliché isn’t it?” Said one of the girls, unwisely choosing to deride the narrative of the story. Suddenly they heard a bang. There it was again, another bang. A constant banging sound, coming from upstairs.

“Do you want to try the door to see if we’re allowed to leave?” Said Johnny.

“There’s no point, it’ll only be mysteriously locked now.” Said one of the girls sarcastically. She was right, it was mysteriously locked. Her sarcasm and know it all attitude would not go unpunished. Then, a whisper from within the house. “Come upstairs” beckoned the voice. The banging continued. Johnny looked towards the rickety stairs that ascended into the darkness. He was afraid now. Everybody was. Donna could barely get her St Bruno tobacco out of her pocket her hands were shaking so much. She ended up spilling it all down the front of her dungarees. Now they would not even have the illumination provided by the pipe. Then, the whisper again. “There’s no way out.” It said. “Come upstairs…” Then more banging.

“What do we do?” Said Donna, nervously as she tried to brush the tobacco off her overalls with her thick hairy hands.

Johnny gulped. “We go upstairs.” He said in a voice that he intended to sound manly, but just came across as Mickey Mouse getting his ear trapped in a door.

The group slowly shuffled towards the stairs, and began to climb. Each floorboard seemed creakier than the last. The banging grew louder as they got closer. Soon they found themselves on the landing, the banging was almost deafening now. It was coming from within the darkness. They slowly crept along the corridor towards the noise, their skin damp with the cold beads of fear. Donna took off her flat cap and wiped her bald head with her handkerchief. Johnny was beginning to wonder what he ever saw in her. Suddenly, the banging stopped. Then, the voice again. “Come inside…” It said. Another door creaked open. The group found itself drawn into the room, entranced. No sooner had they all got into the room than the door, somewhat predictably, slammed behind them. Then, they heard a menacing laugh. “Prepare to meet your death.” Said the voice. They all screamed. Then there was a long pause.

“What’s going on?” Said Donna, confused. Then they heard the voice again.

“You’ll have to come over here to meet your death I’m afraid.” Said the voice, somewhat resignedly.

“What? Where are you? What are you?” Said Johnny. Then he turned around and saw. As he looked back at the entrance to the room, he found himself staring at a door with a face. “What the hell?!” He said, as he leapt backwards, startled.

“That’s right! Tremble in fear!” Laughed the door. “Then come over here so that I can kill you all!”

“Wait, you’re a haunted door. Is that it?” Said Donna, somewhat more relaxed now that she realised what she was dealing with.

“A killer door!” Cackled the door. “There is no escape from this room! Resistance is futile!”

“What about the window?” Said Johnny, pointing to the open window. “Is the window haunted?”

“No.” Replied the door. “No, no, wait, yes. Yes, the window is haunted.” Said the door, quickly correcting himself.

“It’s not is it?” Said Donna.

“It is. The window is more evil than I am, watch out for that evil window. Whooooooo.” Said the door, backtracking quickly.

“Then why isn’t it talking like you are?”

“It’s an introverted evil window.” Said the door. “It only talks when it wants to.”

“Make it say something now then.” Said Donna, growing ever more cynical.

“Ok, but don’t look at me when it talks, that puts it off. You’ll have to turn around.” Said the door, as he cleared his throat.

The group turned around. “This is ridiculous.” Grumbled one of the girls.

“Hey window, it’s ok to talk now, say something evil.” Said the door. “Ooh, I’m such an evil window.” Said a voice that sounded surprisingly like the door trying to put on a Scottish accent.

“Alright, that’s it, we’re leaving.” Said Johnny, fed up now. “Come on guys, let’s go.”

Johnny opened the window and looked down, it was a fairly long drop, but it was into a bush, which would probably break their fall. Even so, it wasn’t particularly convenient.

“Wait!” Screamed the door.

“What is it now?” Sighed Johnny.

“Listen, if you’re going to be leaving anyway, you might as well use the door. The truth is, I’m fed up being evil. I’m a lonely door, I just want a friend. Please, we can be friends, and I don’t want you jumping out and hurting yourselves. Come on, how cool would it be to be friends with a supernatural door? You could make money out of this, just promise me that you’ll come and visit occasionally and I’ll let you leave…” Whined the door.

Johnny looked at Donna. She raised her monobrow quizzically.

“Alright, fine…” Said Johnny resignedly. “Promise you’ll let us leave?”

“I promise.” Said the door with a smile.

“Ok then, let’s go.” Said Johnny, as he led the way. He placed his hand on the door handle and started to turn it. No sooner had he done so than a huge tongue emerged from the door and dragged him into its mouth. Johnny screamed but it was too late. Donna and the rest of the girls watched as he disappeared into the jaws of the door. They screamed and ran for the window. Unfortunately, as Donna began to clamber out of the window, it slammed shut, chopping her in half. A Scottish laugh filled the room “You’ll never get out of here!” Shouted the window. The remaining girls were quickly picked off as a cursed lightbulb descended from the ceiling to behead one of them, whilst the other found herself devoured by some satanic dado-rail. Their truancy had been the death of them. If only they had been at school, they might have attended the special assembly on ‘Malevolent Home Furnishings’. Alas, it was now too late. Johnny had eaten his last sausage roll.

Story #4 – An Unsavoury Nightmare.

Posted on by
Reply

Steve loved cooking. Once he’d cooked himself an omelette so large that it wouldn’t even fit in the garage. “Steve! Get that omelette out of the garage!” his wife would shout. “I can’t see the car.” It had taken them three weeks to get the car out from under the omelette, and when they eventually did, it ended up failing its MOT because the engine was jammed with egg. That wasn’t the first time that Steve’s ambitious cooking had caused trouble. He once made a soufflé that absorbed so much air that seven people nearly suffocated. It was hard to explain that one to the police.

Steve was bored of his usual recipes now though, he’d made pretty much everything from his ‘101 dishes involving ham’ cookbook, and he’d got tired of the ‘larger versions of regular dishes’ book ages ago.

“You know what darling, I’m going to go out and buy myself a new cookbook today!” He said to his wife. She sighed with relief, there were only so many times you could eat a 4 foot lasagne before you never wanted to see any béchamel sauce ever again. Steve grabbed his hat and coat from the coat-hanger and headed off into the world to buy his new cookbook.

Three hours later, Steve was still wandering around town trying to acquire his new cookbook. It hadn’t been as easy as he’d expected. Where once there had been an entire street full of cookbook shops, now the street was deserted, the windows of these shops boarded up with slices of mouldy bread. Steve checked his watch. It was 5:25, and getting dark. He had to find a shop that sold cookbooks within the next 5 minutes, or else he’d be dining on nothing more than disappointment tonight. Suddenly, he heard a voice.

“Are you looking for a new cookbook?” Said the voice. It was harsh and raspy, almost as if its owner had swallowed a tub-load of bees. Steve turned around to be confronted by a man eating a tub-load of bees.

“Who are you? How did you know I was looking for a new cookbook? And why are you eating a tub-load of bees?” Said Steve. The stranger chuckled.

“Those are all very good questions.” He replied. There was a long silence.

“Do you have any answers?” Asked Steve.

“No…” Replied the stranger, disappointedly.

“Listen, I’ve got to go, I’ve got to find a new cookbook in the next 4 minutes, or we’ll all going to be eating comedown casserole tonight.” Said Steve, as he went to leave.

“Wait!” Shouted the stranger, as he rested his tub-load of bees on the floor and reached into his jacket pocket. “I have a cookbook for you if you want it.”

“What kind of cookbook is it? Italian cuisine? Spanish? Chinese?” Said Steve, slightly suspicious.

“Oh, it’s much more unique than that. Recipes from far-flung places you’ve never been before.” Said the stranger, muffling a chuckle in his own shoulder.

“Hmm…” Said Steve. He was now very suspicious, especially after the man had attempted to muffle a chuckle into his shoulder. He thought he’d gotten away with it, but Steve could recognise a shoulder-chuckle from 200 yards. On the other hand, he was desperate for a new cookbook so that he could make a delicious new recipe for dinner, and it didn’t seem like he was going to find one anywhere else. He was going to have to trust this mysterious bee-eater. “Ok, how much do you want for it?” Asked Steve.

“Seven pounds fifty.” Said the stranger. Steve smiled, and only just managed to reverse the polarity of a chuckle at the last second, sending it cascading back down into his lungs. The reason for Steve’s arrogance was that he knew he was phenomenal at bartering. It was his gift, his talent, his Heroes ability. He was Peter Petrelli, and right now he was about to barter this man down to size. Soon seven pounds fifty would seem like a lifetime ago.

“Seven pounds forty five.” Countered Steve.

“Ok, sold.” Replied the stranger. Steve had done it again. They didn’t call him ‘Steve the battery-powered bartering bartender’ for nothing. Well, they did, because he wasn’t a bartender, or powered by batteries. But by jove could he barter. Steve took the book from the stranger. It seemed fairly old, the pages were oxygenated and stained. Still, at least he’d found something. Tonight he was going to cook something truly special. Oh yes, it would be truly special.

“I’m back! And I’ve bought a new cookbook!” Steve said excitedly, as he came in through the door.

“Who the hell are you? And how did you get in?” Said the old man standing in the lobbyway.

“Oh sorry, this is the wrong house.” Said Steve, having completely ruined the general narrative of the story. He excused himself and left.

“I’m back! And I’ve bought a new cookbook!” Said Steve, this time making sure he’d got the right house.

“How wonderful!” Replied his wife. “What are you going to be cooking for us tonight?”

Steve flicked through the pages of the book, then he spotted something particularly tasty.

“Tonight Mary, I’m going to be making toad in the hole!” He exclaimed.

“What size toad in the hole?” Asked his wife, warily.

“Regular size toad in the hole!” Said Steve. “All the recipes in this book are for regular size dishes!”

“Great! Then get cooking!” Said his wife. She slapped him on the back encouragingly, as if she were some kind of football coach from a 1990s American teen movie. Steve skipped away into the kitchen to prepare his meal.

An hour later, and Steve was finding it harder to make this meal than he’d expected. The batter seemed to require a lot of ingredients that he hadn’t expected to put in a toad in the hole. He’d already had to add sulphur, Tabasco sauce and a VHS copy of a Jim Davidson stand-up DVD, what kind of batter was this? Still, he’d come this far, he might as well make it now. He scanned down through the list of instructions. Just one more ingredient to add. Blood. Steve selected an implement from his kitchen drawer and went to cut his finger. Alas, it was nigh on impossible to do this with a whisk. He would have to select something else. A knife would probably suffice, indeed, it would have been the sensible option to go with this from the outset, but it wouldn’t have taken up nearly as much time. Steve gently pricked his index finger with the knife, and watched as a small drop of blood slowly dripped into the batter mix. As it did, there was a rumbling sound. His wife came rushing in.

“What was that?” She exclaimed nervously.

“I don’t know.” Said Steve, confused. He examined the batter mix. It looked fine. Apart from the sulphur, blood and Jim Davidson tape, obviously. Still, perhaps it would taste good. It was certainly a unique recipe, the stranger was right. Steve whisked the batter, added some sausages, and put it in the oven to cook for 30 minutes. He left the kitchen and went to watch CSI on TV.

Steve wasn’t really sure what to make of CSI. He was sure he was probably meant to like it, but for some reason none of it made sense. It was just a lot of close ups of bullets. If Steve wanted to see close ups of bullets, he would go and stick his face in a box full of bullets. Watching CSI seemed easier tonight though. His watching of CSI was disturbed however by a constant humming noise. He wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps the TV was broken. It was fairly old now. He made a mental note to buy a new TV later. Steve checked the clock on the video recorder. Half an hour had passed. It was toad in the hole time.

As Steve approached the kitchen, the humming grew louder. Perhaps it wasn’t the TV after all, but what else could it be? Everything else was turned off wasn’t it? Perhaps Mary was in the zeppelin again. “Mary!” Shouted Steve. “Mary, are you in the zeppelin?”

“Steve, we don’t have a zeppelin.” Replied Mary, as she came down the stairs. A chill spread across his body. She was right, they didn’t have a zeppelin. Then what else could it be? Then he saw. Steve glanced across as the closed kitchen door. A light was shining within, but Steve was sure he’d turned the kitchen lights off when he left. He’d even removed the lightbulb to be sure. He checked his pockets. Yes, there was the lightbulb. Then where was the light coming from? Steve and Mary cautiously approached the door, the humming sound growing louder the closer they got. Steve slowly turned the door-handle, and swung the door open. He was startled by what he saw. The room was strewn with blood. Where once there had been an oven, now there was just a swirling portal. At the back of the kitchen, a large figure stood over the kitchen counter, examining the George Foreman grill. “Who are you?” Stammered Steve. The figure growled fiercely, and slowly began to turn around. Mary shrieked in horror, as the large beastly figure grinned at them with its huge teeth and red eyes.

“What the hell is going on here?” Screamed Steve in panic. The figure tossed him his cookbook. Steve caught it, and looked at the recipe again. As he did, he froze in fear. Beneath a grease stain on the page was a word that he had missed. Whilst he was hoping for a delicious sausage and batter-based delight, he had made a hideous error. He had baked toad in the hell-hole.

“Mary! Run!” Steve screamed, but it was too late. The demon grabbed them with its huge hands and dragged them into the portal. Mary and Steve were never seen again. They had become a senseless sacrifice to a sausagey dream.