The Big, Mean, Smelly Giant That Hates Me


“Cormoran” by Arthur Rackham (1918)

Some days you just can’t get rid of a giant.  So what do you do?  Why, write to your local councillor of course!  Here’s a letter from a man with precisely that problem, for your reading pleasure.  Written on the 21st October 2016.

The Big, Mean, Smelly Giant That Hates Me

Dear Councillor Oberick,

As you may know, I live under the beanstalk. Yes, that beanstalk. It’s a god damn disgrace. And since said disgrace lies within the boundaries of your constituency, I feel the need to write you this very sincere and heartfelt letter of frustration.

I hate that big stupid beanstalk. I hate it almost as much as I hate the evil monstrosity that lives at the top of it. You know the one, the large cretin who feels that it’s perfectly acceptable to twat my sheep up like they’re balloons at a birthday party. They both suck gratuitous amounts of buttock, and I vigorously demand (with all of my vigor) that you wipe both of them off the face of the planet post-haste.

It’s been many years since Jack scaled that forsaken thing and taunted the big brute that lives up there. I never liked Jack, he was an inconsiderate prick, to be perfectly honest. He never once considered what would happen to the rest of us if he ever ticked the giant off. Jack’s been dead a while now. I’ll never forget the day I ran outside to bring in my washing because I thought it was raining but it turned out to be his blood splattering my roof and ruining my good long johns. Damn you, Jack. Damn you to Hades.

And that, my dear councillor, is the very day my long string of beanstalk-related problems began. My house lies right under that stupid stalk, and when the giant discovered how Jack got up there and into his cloud kingdom in the first place, he started climbing down it to see what havoc he could wreak. He messes with me all the time now. All the damn time. Last week I couldn’t even get my front door open because he’d shit on the doorstep. How can any living creature drop a deuce that god damn large? I swear I hate the rotten monster. Hate him with every fibre of my being.

The first time I encountered the giant was actually at Jack’s funeral. You remember that, right? The funeral that claimed the lives of seven old biddies and three pallbearers? Of course you do, if I recall correctly you lost an arm. Now like I said, I never liked Jack, but my mother and his mother were old cribbage friends, so I felt somewhat obliged to attend. There was a coffin, which I thought was kind of odd considering the circumstances surrounding his grizzly death. A bucket would have been more appropriate, if you ask me. Regardless, when the pallbearers lifted it, you could hear him sloshing around inside. It was disgusting. It also made his mother cry a lot. Anyway, as we began the second hymn, all of a sudden there came a massive crash and the church door went flying down the aisle, nailing the minister to the organ with a splat. Everyone turned to see the giant squeeze himself into the church and start tearing the place apart. I think he even ate the organist, but I can’t be sure. There were no more sweet organ solos that day though, I can confirm that much.

He likes to pee a lot too, that’s another wonderful habit of his I’ve learned about. It started with my beloved sheep. I used to find them absolutely soaked through, and they’d be dyed a nasty yellow hue. The wool was ruined, nobody wants to buy a scarf that reeks of giant piss. Then he’d start to pee down my chimney at night, putting out the fire. Once, I was even outside walking up the path to my door when he jumped out from behind the house and urinated so hard in my general direction that I was fired back down the road until I crashed upside down into a lemon tree. I reiterate: I hate that big, mean giant.

So I ask you this simple question, Councillor Oberick. What are you going to do about a giant, smelly menace like that? He’s huge and I’m no match for his size or power. I suggest you remove your one remaining hand from your private cavity and sort this mess out. I’ve had it up to here with that beanstalk and the foul thing that lives above it. Get it sorted.

On a side note, I have heard that he likes bread. I’ve also heard that he likes to steal it from the baker each dawn. Maybe you could bake him a loaf of special bread, and fill it with rat poison or dynamite. Whatever, it’s just a suggestion. Just make sure you teach that no good son of a genetic defect a lesson that he’ll never forget.

Anyway, I must dash now, for I have just spotted the hulking brute shimmy down the beanstalk once again. Judging from the expression on his face, he looks about ready to block my front door with copious amounts of steaming feces again. I’ll write to you once more in a week if I have not seen any improvement in the nasty giant situation. In the meantime, I suggest that you get your act together and sort this sorry shambles out. Good people like me are paying the price for Jack’s idiocy and we shouldn’t have to stand for this anymore.

Yours sincerely peeved,

Uchtred Ramherd

Vlad the Impaler’s Rainbow Rampage

Portrait of Vlad III by Annonymous (c. 1560).jpg

Portrait of Vlad III by Anonymous (c. 1560)

Strange tales are what I primarily have to tell, and this one is no exception.  This story was originally written on the 9th September 2016 as part of the New Bizarro Author Series (Eraserhead Press) Evil Rainbow Microfiction Competition.

Vlad the Impaler’s Rainbow Rampage

Vlad Dracula was a Wallachian prince with a problem. He had returned from the grave, and he wasn’t very happy about it. The product of a lightning bolt from a nuclear warhead detonation and a perfectly timed incantation from a now-vaporised cult of wannabe vampire emos, the resurrected corpse now stalked the lands of modern day Europe with nothing but anger coursing through his revived veins.

Why had his ancient slumber been disturbed? Why was the land so different than he remembered it? Where were the Turks? Vlad was confused. And deeply, deeply, pissed. There was only one answer to all of these burning questions: genocide.

Vlad loved genocide. It was his number one thing to do when he’d been alive. So he called upon his own personal demon from beyond the veil to grant him a weapon with which to commence the slaughter. Owing to the fact that he held a lot of sway in the afterworld, he was immediately gifted a hand cannon. It was an ethereal rainbow blaster, the kind that never requires reloading or even a license.

“Sweet tits!” exclaimed Vlad, having taught himself English and vulgarity during his time in Hell, as he started firing the thing indiscriminately at peasants, buildings and cows. The land was soon awash with the fragmented entrails and liquefied soup smears of the dead. Vlad laughed and cheered, danced and pirouetted as he unloaded round after round of nullifying rainbow beam into people’s screaming faces.

But soon, the gays appeared. As did the transgender people, the bisexual otherkins and the ones who refused to be pigeon holed. They arrived with their placards and signs and began cheering the irate slaughterer on. Vlad was unsure what they were doing. He’d never seen so many genders or piercings in one place before. The crowd grew bigger and bigger, swelling with seething diversity until it was soon a massive entity all of its own, screaming and chanting things about sexual liberation and social justice.

“Thanks for standing up to our oppressors!” shouted one man.

“Bless the zombie rainbow dude!” yelled another.

“He’s wiping those privileged bastards off the face of the planet for our cause!”

Then it clicked. Despite his brain being more of a paste than an organ these days, the reanimated prince figured out that social attitudes towards sexuality and gender and their associated arguments had taken over the collective consciousness of the world since his original departure from it. Judging from their loud t-shirts, posters and face paint, it seemed that the rainbow was a symbol of their unity and cause. They thought that Vlad the Impaler was there to bring sexual justice to the world, via his ethereal rainbow blaster.

But it wasn’t true. This wasn’t symbology, it was a genocidal madman doing what he does best. Sure, Vlad didn’t discriminate (unless it was against the Turks), but he also didn’t care about people’s feelings. And so he blasted the cheering mob into a billion pieces of red slop.