To Whom It May Concern

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Shaggy the Creep

I wrote this on the 10th of June 2008, some time after going to see Saw IV and finding it horrible.  It reminded me of the worst film I ever paid to see, Scooby Doo 2.  Do yourself a favour and never watch it.


To Whom It May Concern

Dear “Producers”,

Yeah you, I’m talking to you. I feel a strong need to share my over-ripened hatred with your no good, worthless asses. Recently, I had the misfortune of watching Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 at my local cinema. That was a spectacular mistake on my part. Simply put, your movie is a bowl of fuck. My anus weeps runny brown tears at the mere thought of it, yet somehow I will endure this warm fudge puddle as I relate to you my feelings on the tragic rape of my Saturday night.

That mouldy toe-cheese and anal scrapings pie of a movie was so ball-blisteringly atrocious that I had no choice other than to vomit all over the person seated in front of me. Honestly, the sight of those putrid chunks of filth sliding down his sweaty bald melon was a damn sight more entertaining than that colossal asshat of a movie. What I still don’t understand, is just exactly why I felt compelled to purchase a ticket for this abomination on celluloid in the first place. Perhaps it was the advertising I saw on television, maybe that’s what enticed me. Yes, that must be it. I must have liked the TV ads. Well, it was either that or I have some undiagnosed mental condition.

Regardless, I go and watch this miserable pile of bastard with my good friend Tosh. A mere five minutes into the feature he communicates to me through a series of lurid hand gestures that this movie is unadulterated “wank poop”. I had to agree with him wholeheartedly, for wank poop was exactly what it was. I conveyed my agreement by standing up, dropping my trousers, bending over and unleashing a sizeable wave of diarrhoea onto the cinema screen.

It’s around this time that my stomach decides to evacuate its contents via my mouth onto the follicley challenged gentleman sitting in front of me. There was a notable amount of screaming. I did feel somewhat bad for the man, after all he had just witnessed an arc of brown fudge batter narrowly pass overhead, only to be bathed in my warm bile soup afterwards. I had been drinking blueberry Slush Puppy too. Peg me sideways with a pickle, those things are lush.

I suppose that everyone around me in the cinema that day got some degree of satisfaction from their movie-going experience in the end. That is because the sight and smell of a stranger’s ripe bodily fluids participating in an unscheduled redecoration of the cinema was infinitely more thrilling (and engaging) than your utter omelette of a pig manure art project. As I have made quite clear, Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 is a total polyp of a film, it’s actually worse than a bag of fresh dog feces set on fire and left on your doorstep. Just when you think it’s safe to stamp the flames out, you end up with brown anal sludge slopped all over your expensive slippers. Seeing and smelling my steaming diarrhoea and vomit was a much more pleasant experience. In fact, feces is once again running down my leg as I type this at the mere recollection of that forsaken goat teet of a movie.

The rest of the audience equally hated it. I could tell. I was not the only one to throw anal waste at the screen. In fact, after the credits had rolled and I had helped a trio of pensioners disconnect and lob their colostomy bags at the ushers, I made a point of running around outside in the atrium asking each and every one of those poor, shell shocked bastards if they thought Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 was the movie equivalent of a lobotomy and anal probing with a large pencil at the same time. They all agreed with me that it was. One suggested that I take ecstasy and try it again. He’s dead now. That didn’t have anything to do with me though.

Now, I do realise that some people may have actually enjoyed this movie, much in the way that I acknowledge that there are people out there with profound learning disabilities. I met someone out in that atrium who told me that he absolutely loved said dog fart of a film. I was taken aback. Not only had I met someone who deserved to be drowned in the diarrhoea of a thousand cholera-suffering apes, but he was also carrying around a deceased pigeon. It was stuffed behind his ear, in the same manner a builder would with a pencil. Someone, and I’m not saying who, pushed this man in front of a bus that night. Several of us gathered around the splattered puddle and stared at it for 90 minutes. It was more entertaining than your film. Your film was pants.

Now let’s break that analogy down, shall we? We shall. This divine twat of a movie is indeed pants, but it’s not the equivalent of good pants. Nor is it mediocre pants, It’s not even Tesco Value, left out in the rain for seven weeks on the rotting corpse of a homeless man pants. I would rather suck the sweat out of those pants than watch your movie again. So what kind of pants is this film? Well, it’s the kind of pants you would see only Shaggy himself wearing. That is, the very same dirty delinquent bastard from this movie who looks like he’d be too stoned to realise he’d dropped a series of deuces in his trousers a month ago. Those are some pretty bad pants. Be that as it may, you would still rather wear them on your head than behold this festering rectal wart of a movie with your poor accursed eyeballs.

In summation, Scooby God-Damn-Piece-of-Shit Doo 2 was a waste of my Saturday night and I would like to point out to the makers of this atrocity that I will be arriving on their doorsteps in the very near future to slap their smug faces off their worthless skulls and steal all the nice things they happen to own in the apartments they bought off the money they made from my ticket. I’m also seeking compensation for my Slush Puppy. You don’t get to churn out a brown plasticine log like that in Hollywood and get away with it. Why do you even call yourselves producers? As far as I can tell, you took a hangover-grade shit and called it a film and now you’re producers? Well I produced a brown toilet submarine myself while watching your movie and my liquid bowel baby was plastered all over the big screen, does that make me a producer now? No, it makes me a guy who took a shit in a cinema. That’s something I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life, which is exactly what you useless scrotum lesions have to do now as well.

Thank you for your time, screw you for making this movie and I hope you have a terrible life full of skin diseases and brutal accidents. You assholes.

Yours spectacularly,

Ernie Penisdance

Southern Justice

Paul Huet - Landscape in the Forest at Compiègne (1826-28)

Landscape in the Forest at Compiegne” by Paul Huet (1826-28)

This is a remix, reworking, or whatever you want to call it of a short story by Ambrose Bierce entitled “An Arrest”.  Originally written in 1905, it was utterly bastardised by myself on the 7th November 2008.


Southern Justice
(A mutilated bastardisation of “An Arrest” by Ambrose Bierce)

Having murdered his sister’s chicken, Cletus O’Nuggets of deepest southern Kentucky was now a fugitive from justice. After his arrest, he’d managed to escape from the county jail. It was hardy a difficult task, even for the most thoroughly inbred of bumpkins such as he. After all, his containment cell was nothing more than a modified chicken coop with an old fat diabetic bloodhound named Larry sleeping outside to guard the prisoners. Cletus had been confined there with a bucket of chicken for sustenance and forced to await his impending trial, but he’d managed to escape in the most dastardly of ways when he’d lured poor Larry close to the chicken mesh and knocked him out cold with a chicken drumstick. The murderer, incapable of feeling guilt, had also robbed the unconscious dog of his collar, just in case it might come in handy later in his daring escape, though realistically, it probably wouldn’t. The criminal mastermind lubed his feeble body up with the grease from his bucket of prison-issued chicken and somehow managed to squeeze himself through a tiny hole in the chicken wire and slithered free. It appeared that being so horrifically inbred to the point that he was quadruple jointed everywhere on his body was a huge advantage to the now-liberated Cletus O’Nuggets.

Arising from the puddle of greasy lube on the grass, Cletus next encountered the massive tractor tyre which was leaning against and therefore blocking his exit via the farmyard gate. He pushed it slightly and it easily rolled to the side, for no one had bothered to secure the tyre to the gate with the standard police-issued bike chain because the local police force were all stupid hillbillies and hadn’t seen the need. Also, it didn’t help that they didn’t believe in wheels or their devilish ability to roll. Rubbing his greasy hands together like a devious little bastard, Cletus stealthily slinked out into the cool, mosquito-filled Kentucky night.

The jailer dog, having been unarmed on account of being a dog, meant that Cletus had not been able to acquire a weapon to defend himself with, or perhaps go killing some cows and chickens for sport. Unarmed, the liberated heathen had no choice other than to escape as swiftly and as silently (he only let out one fart) as he could into the dense forest. All of this took place many years ago, of course, when that region was wilder than it is now. There were far more trees than illuminated fried chicken outlets.

The night was dark, as it usually tends to be. In fact, it was darker than Cletus’ mother’s famed barbecue sauce. This of course was because there were no neon KFC signs to light up the forest such as there are in modern times. Cletus had never been to a forest before, his mother had kept him in the basement until he was 36 years old and then he spent his next seven years living under a cow in the family owned cornfield. Due to being a stranger in these parts, he quickly found himself quite lost. “Dang it! was all he could mutter as he realised that he had absolutely no idea where he was going. All he knew was that he needed to get as far way from southern Bumblephuck County as possible as he had no doubt there would soon be a posse of greasy, learning disabled citizens with a pack of bloodhounds chasing him down, no doubt wanting revenge for the brutal beating of poor fat Larry, the stupid and utterly under-qualified guard dog.

Soon Cletus emerged from the dim forest and stumbled out onto an old littered road, strewn with the discarded paper wrappers and cardboard buckets of chicken and chicken-related products. Joyous that he was finally on the right track to freedom (knowing that Kentucky only had one road), he was about to take off into the night, when he suddenly noticed an ominous figure. There, indistinctly visible through his catastrophically crossed eyes, was the figure of a bearded old git, standing motionless in the gloom and clouds of mosquitoes. It was too late for Cletus to retreat, for the hillbilly fugitive felt that if he were to turn around and make a run for it, he would probably be chased and stabbed by the ghost of Colonel Sanders who stood before him now. He’d heard stories of the phantom Colonel, running around the woods at night and stabbing chicken abusers and occasionally exposing himself to kids. Cletus did not want to mess with such a ghostly figure. And so, the two chicken slayers stood there like trees. Greasy, inbred trees. Cletus, in his incredible nervousness picked up and suffocated a small shrew. The other man appeared to be stoking his white chin beard in ghostly glee.

A moment later, it may have been an hour, but let’s be honest, it probably wasn’t, the moon sailed into a patch of unclouded sky like a chicken wing being thrown down a turkey’s throat, and the hunted chicken-killing fugitive saw clearly now that the man before him was indeed the ghost of Colonel Sanders. The patron saint of fried poultry lifted a deep-fried arm and pointed significantly beyond him and then inexplicably performed the entire YMCA dance made famous by the Village People. Cletus did not understand. “Whatcha doin’, old man?” shouted the criminal, breaking the silence with an air of genuine stupidity.

“Walk, you dumb redneck!” yelled back Sanders in frustration and anger. Turning his filthy back to his ghostly captor, Cletus, the chicken murdering heathen from north Bumblephuck County walked submissively away in the direction indicated by the spectre, looking like he was about to vomit the day’s fried chicken all over himself. He hardly dared touch himself inappropriately either, as he so desperately wished to. He had an itch on his scrotum, probably caused by the crabs he’d caught from his homeless prostitute aunt who lived in a puddle down by the train tracks.

Cletus was as courageous a chicken slayer as ever lived to be hanged. That was clearly shown by the conditions of awful personal peril in which he had coolly killed his sister’s beloved chicken; Lucille. It is needless to relate them here; mainly because they are not even remotely exciting. Also, they came out at his sham of a country life trial. The revelation of some of these details, such as the post mortem sexual beak abuse, came close to making the judge vomit all over his pearly-white chicken ivory gavel. But Cletus’ adamant claims that he was sorry didn’t mean anything to the jury of local chicken farmers who spat on him as he sat in the dock and one man (the foreman) even tossed a pitchfork which penetrated Cletus’ face, much to the delight of the other jurors.

So the chicken persecutor and the international fried chicken baron pursued their journey back to the feeble chicken coop jail, traversing the old winding paths through the dark forest. Only once did Cletus venture a turn of his lice infested head, just once. When he was in deep shadow and he knew that the other was in moonlight, he glanced backwards. His captor was not in fact the ghost of Colonel Sanders at all, but rather Big Buff McCoy, the owner of fat Larry, the worthless and really quite unprofessional jailer dog. He was as white as a chicken’s egg and bore upon his brow the livid mark of a raspberry lollipop which had stuck to his head and had not yet been removed. Cletus O’Nuggets had no further curiosity, yet the itch in his denim panties persisted.

Eventually, they re-entered the countryside of southern Bumblephuck county. It was all lit up with dazzling neon lights now, as it appeared that ten brand spanking new KFC restaurants had been erected in the hour they had been in the woods. Yet the vicinity was deserted; only the bearded women and malformed children remained. All the menfolk were inside the new expertly cooked chicken vending establishments ordering Zingers and fries. Straight towards the jail the criminal mastermind held his way, no matter how badly he wanted to stop for a two-piece meal with gravy and mashed potatoes. Straight up to the main entrance of the jail he marched, and without command replaced the tractor tyre over the gate and squeezed himself through the tiny hole in the chicken mesh. Once inside his cell again, Cletus the scourge of flightless birds everywhere, found himself in the presence of a half dozen men armed with fresh buckets of the Colonel’s original recipe. Then he turned to face his captor. Nobody else entered the chicken coop. “Where’s Big Buff McCoy?” demanded Cletus, who now took the opportunity to scratch the itch on his warty scrotum, much to the disgust of the six KFC bucket-wielding men in the coop with him.

There, on a rickety old table in the corner of the jail cell lay the dead bodies of Big Buff McCoy, Larry the utterly useless jailer dog and Colonel Sanders. Thus the conclusion to this ghastly tale made absolutely no sense until Cletus, the bane of poultry in the deep south, back flipped into the half dozen KFC munchers and screamed, “I is inbred! I gots rights!”

A judge immediately crawled through a hole in the ceiling and battered Cletus to death with a bible.

The Idiot’s Offspring

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“Shambler’s Gaol”

Originally written on the 9th July 2008, this story is very much true.


The Idiot’s Offspring

Note: The following account was found written in red food colouring in an attempt to make it look like blood and thus more interesting than it really was, on the side of a cave in south west Scotland in 1992. It was addressed to “The Powers that be”, then scored out and written underneath “to anyone”. The writings were scrubbed off shortly thereafter and its discoverer, Ernie Penisdance, copied them down and tried to sell them to The Sun newspaper, who of course did not care and returned them to Mr. Penisdance along with a note advising him against future correspondence lest legal proceedings should begin. The cave later became a Starbucks.

If you have found this hidden message within the confines of this pitiful cave, much congratulations are in order. For I wish it to be known right off the bat that only the absolute best and most dedicated of adventurers will have managed to muster the strength and courage to find this elusive cave and this important historical message. Only the cream of the crop, the elite, the platinum trophy-owning adventurers of premium greatness will have had the skills, determination and sheer luck to make this immeasurably important discovery. Let me be clear, no crapweed, dingleberry or feeblo will have managed to find these words by mere chance alone. No one ever goes in caves, they’re just too scary. So please, give yourself a pat on the back, a thumb up the ass or whatever it is that you do to bestow self appreciation, for you truly are a great adventurer in a world full of pitifully inept peons with masturbatory delusions of grandeur. Sort of like my fat neighbour, with his moustache and his flashy car. Prick.

The following message is to be kept secret and never passed on to anyone ever, unless of course they are about to expire shortly from AIDS or other such exotic diseases, especially if it is in conjunction with advanced cancer of the penis and/or vagina. That would be quite unfortunate indeed, but you see my point is that such a forsaken soul would not be long for this world, and therefore the secret would be safe with him or her. Also, if you do share this tale with anyone unfortunate enough to be circling the drain, so to speak, they must also be incapable of speech. This is important, as the urge to scream this tale from the nearest rooftop will be strong. As a matter of fact, all capabilities to convey messages must be nullified, including writing and communication with clicks and/or hisses/finger tapping. And let’s not forget morse farting. This, my dear adventurer, is a story of true horror. It is one rife with disco enthusiasts, brick jaws and shattered dreams, and I believe there is even a willy mentioned at one point.

In the year of our Lord, 1262, there lived a simple farmer by the name of Mad Sid. He was a distant ancestor of the well-known punk bassist, Sid Vicious, who couldn’t play bass to save his life, which is of particular note since Mad Sid was probably the only farmer in history who didn’t know how to operate a shovel. This rather dense man lived on a pig farm with his four dyslexic wives and eight pigs whom he porked regularly with his laughably malformed sausage. One day, Mad Sid was walking home from a long day hanging around outside a local butcher’s shop licking his lips whilst ogling the bratwurst, when he was attacked by a man clad head to toe in disco stripes and outlandish sequins. Historically speaking, I am well aware that this tale predates the invention of both sequins and disco by several centuries, but being that this is a tale of revelation, where anything can and most assuredly will happen, it hardly matters.

The ill tempered man’s name was Disco Kid and he had come to rock, and also boogie woogie breakdown all over some fool’s God-slapped face for reasons unbeknownst to everyone but himself. Mad Sid took the beating and quietly did the job for Disco Kid. That is to say, he was spectacularly defeated and left quite malnourished and in dire need of a herbal balm with no modern medicinal merit. Afterwards, Disco Kid disco danced off into the brilliant shimmering glow of the sinking Scottish sunset and was never seen again. That is until around 750 years later when he would inexplicably reappear in a Scottish backyard wrestling promotion and make ludicrous claims about being even remotely good at dancing. No explanation was ever given as to why he beat down Mad Sid either. Some scholars speculate that he had anger management issues stemming from his childhood in the great disco drought of the 1620s.

Mad Sid on the other hand was not so lucky as to disco dance off into sweet oblivion. He was so worn out from the squash/absolute beating he had received at the hands, feet and hips of Disco Kid, that he crawled home and died in the loving embrace of one of his pigs later that evening.

Prior to his untimely death however, he did manage to shoot his smelly pink tuna finger one last time into the depths of his wife’s baby-cavity. This disgusting travesty of life grew and mutated into a hideous beast and was born as a brutal depiction of what can go wrong in bio-genetics. This abomination looked, sounded and smelt like a cross between a large hairy turd and a disgruntled manatee with scurvy.

The beast was kicked in the face, spleen, forehead and ass by the horrified townsfolk who obviously feared that which they did not understand. After it became apparent that their brown belt-level tae kwon do wouldn’t be enough to kill the creature, they bricked it up inside a dismal cave in the middle of nowhere and left it to rot.

There it dwelt for the next 500 years, seemingly immortal. It fed upon the lichen which grew on the rocks and it sucked the water out of the sand whenever rainwater would trickle in. After an almost immeasurable time, fate it seemed, came calling for the absolute disaster of biology. A country simpleton known only as Rush was out walking down by the cave, picking daisies to sell to people who felt sorry for him, when he tripped on a rogue tulip and fell off a cliff. Screaming like a girl, he plunged head-first through the cave roof, demolishing it with his shapely brick jaw, and landed with a mighty crash in the smelly lair of the vile monster.

Rush and the hideous entity quickly became good friends when the flower picker discovered that the monster shared his love of cave painting with his own feces. Some time later, the two somehow used their collective wit and manage to escape from the cave by simply walking out the side entrance which the monster had failed to notice thus far in his five centuries of living there.

The two travelled the countryside for many months, paying for bed and board in exchange for sexual favours until they eventually arrived in the small, picturesque settlement of Stranraer. There they met with the owner of a carnival called the Violent Impact Wonder Emporium and were soon hired as superstar action heroes who specialised in being hit in the face with bricks for the amusement of children. There they remained for another two hundred years.

You see, the creature had somehow managed to pass his immortality on to the man who had saved his life, Rush. Some suggested that it was shared telepathically, though most seem to agree that it was probably a sexually transmitted infection. Together, the two of them lived throughout the years, never growing old. They watched as their fellow carnival workers died off and were replaced by new generations of workers. They saw the carnival evolve with the times, eventually becoming a gigolo house, a supermarket and a plumbing centre before settling on becoming a backyard wrestling promotion.

It was while working as a tag team one day that the atrocious offspring of Mad Sid met the very man who had murdered his father, more than 700 years prior. Disco Kid had shown up and joined the promotion, even became romantically involved with the creature and Rush as part of a storyline. However, having absolutely no knowledge of the fact that this man had murdered his father, the creature did absolutely nothing about it and so the tale ends, without a conclusion.

The Spandex Waffle Donkey

the_scary_donkey_by_willie111

Donkey of Questionable Intentions” by Unknown

Originally written on the 15th June 2006, this is the definitive telling of the legend of the fabled beast that once roamed the farmlands of ancient Portugal.


The Spandex Waffle Donkey

The Spandex Waffle Donkey is an ancient myth. Historians have been able to trace its origins back to as far as 600BC, with the earliest references being attributed to unenlightened Europeans with little to no fashion sense and nothing else to do other than farm the land and converse about as-yet-uninvented plough technology. The legend’s genesis may lie in the early Portuguese tales of farmers battling the wild animals that would encroach upon their lands. The earliest known record of this alluring tale comes from the small coastal Portuguese settlement of Wafflê.

The story goes that one day a young shepherd was tending to his sheep’s vaginal cavities with his fleshy staff behind a bush, when suddenly, a large and nasally offensive beast of notably strange appearance attacked him. Before he could react, the shepherd was knocked unconscious but when he awoke several hours later, he found that his sheep had all been fitted with chastity belts and there was a shred of spandex stuck to his face.

Deeply confused, the shepherd took the spandex back to town and told everyone at the local public house about what had happened to him, all the while waving the strange material around like a madman as he related his unbelievable tale. Of course nobody in the establishment believed him, not even the local lunatic, Bartholomew Brainslate, who would later go on to invent modern spandex and make millions before losing it all in a drunken bet with a dead jellyfish. The townsfolk simply laughed the young shepherd out of the bar, with one version of the story even stating that he was bottled by Bartholomew on the way out, although this has never been verified.

Dejected, the embarrassed man went home to his cottage to tell his family about the incident. However, when he stepped into his home, he was presented with a horrific scene indeed. His family’s shredded remains were strewn all over the abode. The walls and ceiling were drenched in blood and in the middle of the hovel he found his wife’s intestines piled beside yet another shred of spandex. “The Beast!” he exclaimed aloud before evacuating both his bowels and tear ducts in sheer terror and woe.

Suddenly, an unholy, eardrum-shattering roar was heard just outside the house, shaking it’s very foundations. The shepherd ran outside to see what had made such a terrible noise. There, looming before him on the doorstep stood the beast. It was the very same horrible tormentor which had attacked him behind the bush earlier that day. Now that he was standing face to face with this horrific creature, the shepherd had plenty of opportunity to observe the foul demon in all it’s otherworldly glory. It was a ten foot tall donkey. It was standing upon it’s muscular hind legs and its red eyes burned with the intensity of a thousand hell fires. The beast’s grinning mouth was stretched grotesquely wide, revealing row upon row of blood and flesh stained teeth. To top off this grim vision, the donkey was clad head to toe in spandex, save for a few torn out patches.

As the frightened shepherd stood quivering with poop dribble running down his shaking legs, the great donkey spoke. “I have annihilated those you love and tarnished your reputation as a shepherd because you have betrayed the trust of your flock”. The shepherd broke down and wept. The donkey snarled and continued, “And now I shall go into town and tell all the other townsfolk that you fuck sheep”.

The broken shepherd screamed in terror. “No!” he wailed, “You cannot do that, for if you tell them that I take advantage of sheep, I shall never herd around these parts again!”

The great donkey did not care. He merely snarled again before announcing, “I am the great and powerful guardian of farm animal’s sexual rights!” In the next moment, he turned hoof, kicking up a cloud of dust into the man’s teary face before galloping off into the night.

The hours passed agonisingly slowly and the terrified shepherd dared not follow the great donkey into town, lest he should end up a pile of soggy remains on the floor like his tragic family had. The next morning, the man was awakened by the sound of an angry mob advancing towards his cottage. It was the villagers and they all had looks upon their faces which deeply suggested that they now knew full well what he did to sheep. The angry mob arrived and burned the shepherd’s cottage down to the ground, and subsequently beat the howling man almost to death with sticks and stones.

The shamed shepherd was forced to move on and leave his old life behind forever. Ever since that fateful day, any man or woman in Portugal who ploughs the sexual depths of his or her sheep’s love canals is said to be subjected to the almighty wrath of the Spandex Waffle Donkey.

Hangman and the Seven Kwangs

Lucha_libre_máscaras

Selection of Luchador Masks

Originally written on the 1st June 2004,  this tale is a warning of what can happen if you lose your way.


Hangman and the Seven Kwangs

One day Hangman, that great and well known gladiator of the Scottish backyard wrestling circuit, was strolling his merry way along to the Violent Impact Wrestling arena (a small unkempt lawn) in the somewhat rundown locale of John Simpson Drive. However, having one’s thoughts filled with reminiscences of past backyard glories and visions of further glories to come is not exactly the best thing to do when walking through seldom travelled streets and very soon Hangman found himself quite lost indeed. He was now deep within a forest. Which really made no sense whatsoever considering that he was just in a metropolitan environment mere seconds ago, complete with winding piss-stained alleyways, mangy cats, toothless housewives dumping wooden buckets of human waste out of upper storey windows and peg-legged winos. Another day in paradise. Hangman had absolutely no idea where he was now.

Our intrepid hero wandered around the forest for around an hour or so getting progressively more tired and bored. He would much rather be powerbombing malnourished jobbers into flaming pits of rusty barbed wire but that wasn’t going to be happening any time soon because he was indeed quite lost, and fantastically so.

Eventually, he happened across a phenomenally rundown old house. It looked like shit. The windows were smashed in, the roof had holes in it and someone had spray painted a huge blue penis on the gable wall. Music blasted out from the house, as a matter of fact it was KC & The Sunshine Band and it was playing at a very loud volume. Hangman, being a connoisseur of disco music decided to investigate further and so he dauntlessly swaggered up to the dilapidated abode and kicked the lichen-clad door off it’s rusted hinges. He had chosen not to knock on account of the door being all rotten and he didn’t feel like touching it.

Inside the disgustingly decrepit house Hangman met seven kwangs. A kwang, for those that do not know, is a humanoid creature that always wears a Mexican luchador mask and says stereotypical Spanish things such as “arriba” and “ándale” a lot. They are usually considered pests. All seven of these loathsome creatures were members of the rare and elusive midget kwang genus, which incidentally is the most amusing species of kwang. They were Mexican but spoke a small degree of broken English so they could understand clearly when Hangman called them all a “bunch of worthless asshole kwangmen”. The Kwangs were none too pleased about this home invasion and subsequent verbal abuse but seeing as they were only three feet tall and Hangman was much bigger and stronger than them, they didn’t do anything about it. Except cry, in abundance.

Hangman quickly thought of an opportunity, for he was well known for being a genius as well as a superstar in the delightful world of Scottish backyard wrestling. He would live in this ramshackle kwang house and make the poor creatures his slaves. The kwangs were ordered to make Hangman a king-sized waterbed to sleep in and decorate both the interior and exterior of the crumbling building. Within a week, Hangman’s new house looked half decent. It certainly wouldn’t be featured in Good Housekeeping magazine any time soon but it was definitely liveable. It even had a fully operational slushie machine in it now and Hangman had no idea how his enslaved kwangs had managed to make that work considering there was no electricity.

To reward them for their hard work, Hangman gave the kwangs an apple each, which he had secretly laced with discarded razorblades he’d found in the forest. Four of the kwangs died soon thereafter, but the other three kwangs survived. So, after Hangman had forced them to stop writhing around on the floor in agony and mop up all the blood and dispose of their brothers lifeless bodies, he used them to practice wrestling moves on. Hangman’s genius knew no bounds, he certainly did not want to get ring rust after being lost in the woods for all that time.

Several more weeks passed and by now the remaining kwangs were half brain dead after receiving numerous piledrivers out of trees and lynch drivers into the near-by ravine. Hangman was completely and utterly fed up with the smelly midgets by now, their hoots and violent exclamations of “arriba” when he punched or kicked them was beginning to get on his nerves. So, utilising his powerful grey matter once more, he ordered them to build him a snowplough.

“What in the wonderful world of kwang do you want a snowplough for? We’re in the middle of a forest, there’s no snow here!” one of the tiny persecuted kwangs had replied at this latest demand. He’d spoken in Spanish of course, but Hangman had found a Spanish to English dictionary in the forest one day, which was incredibly helpful. He’d used it to translate the kwangs babblings and subsequently smack them in the face with it for being insolent. The insubordinate kwang received a devastating thwack to the jaw for questioning his master.

“Because Kwang No.3, who looks and smells like a curled up dog deuce, I don’t know my way out of here, I’m fed up with this boring forest, I’m fed up with looking at your ugly faces and I’m sick fed up with the smell of those dead kwangs you tried to bury in front of the house. But if I have a snowplough, I can drive around knocking over trees and hopefully find a way out of this forsaken place. Now stop crying and get to work!”

The kwangs worked for thirty solid days and nights making the snowplough. When it was finally finished, Hangman drove it over the kwangs instantly killing two of them.

“That was completely uncalled for! Why would you do such a thing? What is wrong with you, oh great stranger from beyond the pines?” the last living kwang screamed.

“Don’t ask stupid questions, you horrible little creep. You’re coming with me!” shot back Hangman and snatched up the terrified creature by the scruff of his neck and stuffed him into the glove box of the snowplough before driving off at full speed, annihilating hundreds of trees and woodland creatures in the process.

It only took around half an hour of mindless sawdust production and habitat destruction until Hangman eventually made it back to town. “Well that was easy,” said Hangman to himself as he brushed a dead owl off the windshield with the window wipers. He drove the near-wrecked vehicle right up to the Violent Impact Wrestling arena in John Simpson Drive and luckily enough for Hangman it was a Sunday afternoon, which meant that the weekly wrestling event was on. Hangman exited his snowplough, pulled the shaking kwang out of the glove box and threw him onto the wrestling mat (a urine soaked mattress of questionable origin).

Taking possession of an unplugged microphone obtained from a pound shop, Hangman addressed the assembled crowd. He first apologised for his severe lateness, then retracted his apology after realising he wasn’t actually sorry at all and finally ordered that a special attraction match take place. The match would be the refugee forest kwang versus Tartarus Maximus, a hulking 600lbs behemoth with violent tendencies and mild learning disabilities. It would be a Squish the Kwang match and it would be taking place right now.

Amazingly, Tartarus won. So did the fans in attendance and so did the seagulls who got a free meal after the scrapings were peeled from the mattress and the bucket was tossed out into the street.

And so our wonderful tale ends. Hangman was responsible for the untimely deaths of seven kwangs, he made it to the wrestling show eight weeks late but got a free snowplough out of it which he later sold on eBay and bought an Xbox with the proceeds.