"Stay Clear of Fear, Chad Steer"

[Keith Stryton III]

I am back out of hospital and filling my time writing horror stories on the back of beer mats and napkins. Enjoy this one, love Keith.

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STAY CLEAR OF FEAR, CHAD STEER - By Jed Dreadmore (pen name of Keith Stryton III).

Twas a night of cold frosty breaths.These big white puffs of air floated in the sky like ruddy leaves in a strong gust. From beneath the arching creepers that creepy creep creaky Steer emerged, legs like bent bows stretched on a perverse torture rack. He wore spats.

But there was fear in his chops! The chops that connected to a ball-shaped head and the chops that surrounded the grey flint-sized teeth. He was frightened. Like the time his mother beat him with a mike rod after he laughed at her large belly. A belly so large that terrorists would often hide inside and plot plans ... wicked plans. Awful plans!
Anyway, he was frightened. His eyes were wide and his face wore the grim expression of a man who that had spazzed all his money on Russian midget wrestling in Honolulu.

The Yammies were after him.

Running out from the dark tangled vines into the light, he looked like a puppet without strings. He looked around. There was nobody in sight - except a cat who ran away at the ghastly sight of his gormless features.
'I must escape,' he whispered. 'The yammies are coming. I must stay clear of them.'
The road was empty and a row of houses tumbled down the street. There was no lights on. The windows were broken, roofs swished away. Dust bins rattled, sending a slinky shiver of scary shakes shimming and scuttling down Steer's skinny back shaft.
Steer felt the fear.
Something bad had happened here. Maybe the Yammies were responsible. Perhaps they are everywhere, he mused. Soon they will take over the world . Give these sods a chance and they will rip any fragile body to a bloody pulp and gobble up their brains! Devious were the yammies and ruddy nasty to boot! He was guessing this, by the way.

Steer marched on, his feet heavy with fear - that and the fact that his socks were soaked after he foolishly stepped in a brown puddle.
He walked on. Who were the yammies? Where did they come from? Why were they after him! He assumed they were after everyone, but he had never seen them after anyone else. These thoughts raced around his brain like a crazed man in a fast car on a small road hellbent on zoom death!

As the night wore on he approached a small side street and slid down it like a syrup plop down an armitage shanks toilet pan.

'Maybe I have lost them.' A smile formed, a smile like a sucked out orange. I've beaten them. I have succeeded, like the time at Merry Gardens when my blessed knee looped the ball into the net with the upmost skill. Papa was proud. He rubbed oils into my legs that night and blew tenderly into my ear. The fear was leaving his body like the release of trapped wind from a small anus.

But his confidence was missplaced! Immediately he regretted the folly of this topper thoughts! Thoughts that now looked guff and trite. Thoughts that now reconfirmed his glennerness. The daft lanky twat.
He saw the yammies. There were hundreds of them. The yammies swarmed around metal blocks on black rubber circles and held metal/iron long things in their hands.
'There's the monster' shouted one yammy.
'Shoot the cunt,' shouted another.
Steer tried to run but was shot in the chin. Blood whistled out. Lying on the floor as the yammies surrounded, Steer realised the awful truth. The fear and horror made him choke.
'I am the monster...I...monster' he slurred, his long tongue flapping like a toad on speed.
The yammies pointed their iron things at him. Steer, consumed by fear, shut his eyes, just before they shot the bastard.
Hooray! The yammies cheered and went down the pub and got hammered on plum rum and Barry Bethals Burely Man cider.