The Worlds Worst Murder Story

Once, right, there was guy what was killed to death.

A man, who was another man, killed the first man for reasons.

It was up to a policeman and a lady policeman who was called a police woman to solve the crime by finding clues to who had done it and why.

The policeman, who probably had a name said "I don't know who it was what did the murder, or even how. Do you lady police woman?"

"Yes." She said.

"It was done with a knife what is still sticking out of the dead mans chest." She continued.

"yuk." Said the man policeman.

"But we still don't know who it was that put the knife in there do we?" He asked.

The police woman lady thought for a bit and another man jumped from the curtains.

"Was it you?" She asked the man who had jumped out from behind the curtains.

"Yes!" The murderer said. "But how did you know?"

The police woman lady said "Because you did it."

"Curses!" Cursed the murderer, "I was sure I was going to get away with it."

"But why did you kill a man?" Asked the policeman.

The murderer said "Because I didn't want him to be alive any more. He was not a nice man and had done a bad thing one time."

The policeman said "What you had done was not a nice thing either and now you a criminal FOR LIFE."

The policeman and the policeman lady arrested him and put him in a jail.

And they all lived happily ever after, apart from the dead man and the other man that killed him, because he was in jail for doing a killing.

The End.

The Horrible Future

The future is a disgusting place.

I should know. I have been there.

It all happened (or will happen, depending on your point of view) Next Wednesday.

I was sat in my chair, vacantly staring at the internet, waiting for something amazing to happen, when something amazing happened.

The world around me faded away to nothingness and all that was left was me and my chair. The internet froze (as it wants to do sometimes) and I noticed a small man giggling in the shrouded mist of emptiness.

"Hello Mr Hogart" His voice was twined with fingernails down a chalkboard.

"What the bloody chuff is going on?" I demanded to know.

"I am the time king." said the little man.

"Don't you mean Time King?" I said, being a little pedantic, but I was feeling miffed and wasn't about to apologise.

"Um... yes. I am THE TIME KING!!" replied the Time King.

"What the hell have you done to my living room?" I shouted. "Where has my cup of tea gone?"

The Time King explained that I had been plucked from the time stream and brought into the distant future to witness the ultimate fate of man kind.

"Really?" I asked. "why?"

The Time King stepped forward through the blackness, which wasn't actually black, but was in fact a lack of blackness set against a vacant nothing. He approached me and said "You must write about the fate of humanity so that people may know what is to become of them. They must be made aware of the destiny that so many have tried to comprehend. Only then can mankind reach for greatness!"

His arms flailed and made great gestures as he spoke. At one point I thought he was going to knock my glasses of my nose. I was very quickly becoming frustrated and told him to just get on with it.

"Just get on with it." I said (told you).

The nothingness that surrounded us both dispersed, which is of course impossible, but it did anyway and the Time King waffled on about wars, technological advancements, the expansion of the human race beyond the solar system ans the return of the Shell Suit (because it was the most futuristic material ever).

Images flashed by us as he talked. He wasn't the most interesting of speakers and most of went over my head as all I could think of having a nice cup of tea....

After some uncountable amount of time, everything stopped and The Time King pointed away from us.
"Here..." he said.

I looked out and saw a scene forming from the mists of time. 

It was a bog. A steaming bog full of green and black goo. Some old dead trees lay, half submerged. There was very little light but what there was seemed hesitant to touch the ground. Mist swirled around the stagnant water which rippled slowly from the distance.

"There..." Whispered the Time King.

I squinted, but failed to see anything worth noting. "Where?"

"Come. Come with me Mr Hogart. I show you the fate of mankind."

We floated, somehow, across the top of the bog water and came to an small cove where a huddled figure poked at the scum on top of the water with a stick.

"This is the fate of your kind!"

I stared blankly. "A tramp?" I asked.

"No." Said The Time King. "The last human who will ever live."

The cowering husk of the last man looked up at me and splashed his stick in the water. He made a noise close to growl but more like a choke. The Time King put his bony finger to his lips and we watched in silence as the last ever human, the pinnacle of our race stood up. His knees cracked and he wobbled unsteadily as heaved himself upright.

He pointed toward us and opened his mouth to speak. "Th....." 

But he never had the chance to finish his words as just at that moment the ground around the bog gave away and the last human sank beneath the dark filthy mud....

...But not before taking a selfie on his mobile phone!

The Time King laughed. I frowned.

"What was the point of that?" I asked. 

"Do you not see? Can you tell how futile it is to be human? The years, centuries of development on mankind and it all ends with some idiot falling into the mud!" Ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahhaha"

I thought about this predicament. I pushed my glasses back up my nose, as i do from time to time, and allowed the Time King to send me back home.

"Well Mr Hogart. What do you think of the fate of mankind? Are you scared? do you fret at the pointlessness of it all? Thousands of years in the future and THIS is what becomes of you and your kind." He cackled.

"No." I replied. "I just want my cup of tea."

"I do not understand." He said. " You have just seen the end of you race fail to become anything more than a dumb animal. All of you endeavours, all of your achievements... they mean nothing." He screamed.

I shrugged at him.

"I'm not really bothered. I have very little time for anyone who spends their time taking selfies... they deserve everything they get." I said.

"damn." Said the Time King.

And with that the Time King disappeared. 

"well, that was quite odd." I said to myself as everything wibbled and wobbled and returned to normal. I instinctively reached out and found my cup of tea where I left it.

"Time King...... what a stupid name." I thought to myself as I picked up my phone and took a rubbish selfie.

At least we will perfect the ability of taking photos of ourselves for prosperity.....

No PHOTOS!!!!

50 Lampshades Of Grime - a mucky novel of sorts

It seems that anyone can write a best selling novel these days.

All you need is a boy wizard, a vampire and/or a bit of smut and you have a sure fire hit on your hands.

With that in mind here is part of the first chapter of my half-hearted attempt to join the ranks of people who have done the least amount of work to gain notoriety in their field and free tickets to the latest box office smash.

I expect my invitation to appear on This Morning with Philip Schofield any day now…

50 lampshades of Grime.

Ada had been on her knees for most of the afternoon. Being a scrubber was no laughing matter for her as she was often found pounding away on all fours, working up a sweat and getting all breathy.

Her ample bosom heaved to and fro in an almost hypnotic fashion that stood Mr Chumley-Horton-Weaverly by surprise as he entered the bedroom chambers.

“Good grief!” he exclaimed.

Ada stopped cleaning the carpet and pushed herself up to meet Mr Chumley-Horton-Weaverly’s eyes.

“Cor Mr Chumley-Horton-Weaverley. Oi never not even sawed you comin’ in that there door and no mistake.” Ada was a very badly written cockney.

“Forgive me Ada, I had no idea that this room was currently occupied.” Spoke Mr Chumley-Horton-Weaverley in a manner of somebody who was also very badly written indeed but spoke in a manner more accustomed to that of gentry.

Ada found her eyes wandering from his gaze.

“Ah.” Said Mr Chumley-Horton-Wearverley. “I see you have spotted my massive sausage.”

“It is a huge piece of meat and no mistake sur.” Gasped the innocent yet somehow mucky minded serf.

“It is isn’t it.” Replied the man of the house who was not very good at innuendo or chatting up the ladies.

“yes.”

“hmm. I’m going to ask cook to heat it up for my tea.”

A very large and uncomfortable silence entered the room.

Neither of them could exactly remember what happened next but there was some undressing of clothes followed by fondling, some heavy petting and rather a lot of apologies and uncertainties. At one point Ada lit a woodbine she always kept handy for these situations whilst Mr Chumley-Horton-Weaverley exited himself after a rather clumsy moment of over excitedness followed by a brief and completely unnecessary amount of mashing of flesh.

“My my Ada. That was a thing without a doubt.” He said in place of anything dramatic or romantic.

“Suppose it was sur.” She mumbled. “looks like I’ll have to scrub that bit of the carpet again.”

“yes.” Mr Chumley-Horton-Weaverley blushed. “Sorry about that. It’s never happened to me before.” He quickly added.

Ada shrugged and got back down on her knees and 

continued to clean the floor.

Mr Chumley-Whateverhescalled walked out and was never seen again… because…. Um… he was eaten by a wimpy vampire? Or an evil wizard cast a spell on him or whatever.

I can’t believe you are still reading this rubbish. 

Jeff The Almost Serial Killer

Here is another pointless short story I have thumped out on the keyboard.

Short story:

Jeff had been sat still for quite some time. He had absolutely nothing to do.

The washing up had been washed up and there was nothing much on the television to watch.

The weather outside was wet and grey and the weather inside was comparatively calm and warm.

Jeff had discovered that there was nothing to do.

He had had a bath and felt no need to consume food.

Jeff was bored.

Staring at the walls he decided to become a serial killer.

There was no reason to become a serial killer but at least by working out a design he could fill the void that had become his existence, and it was better than doing nothing and wasting a whole Sunday afternoon.

First of all, he thought, I need reason to kill.

His rummaged through his mind looking for tortured memories of an abused childhood or horrific moment that required avenging, but alas Jeff had lived quite an ordinary life.

He had never been in a fight, nor had he fallen foul to crime. He had never been burgled or robbed. 

To his knowledge, he hadn’t even been short changed at the shops.

Jeff struggled deeply with this fundamental concept of anger.

There was no rage or malice within him to bubble up to the surface and explode in a fit of violence.

Maybe I should adopt a twisted logic to my killing spree, his mind said.

But try as he might he simply could not justify taking another’s life for his own gain.

Jeff looked at the digital clock on his video recorder. 

It read 5:56.

Oh, countryfile is on in a bit!

Jeff made himself a cup of tea and opened a fresh packet of rich tea fingers.

“My favourite!”, said Jeff to nobody in perticular.

Jeff saved many lives that day. By not becoming a mass murderer.

Jeff is a true hero and he will never know it.

We could all learn something from Jeff... I’m just not sure what that lesson would be?

Any thoughts?

Vince the Fish. a horror story.

The weather of late has been a welcome break from the normal doomy, gloomy grey skies and I for one have taken advantage of this by staring at the sun and doing things a bit slower than usual, hence the late arrival of this blog.

But enough of apologies, for they are for the weak minded let’s get on with the show....

This week I bring to you – the ungrateful masses of the internet – a brand new tale of chilling horror.

Enjoy.

The story I want to tell you today is that of a looser named Vince.

Vince the vandal was a petty vandal.

It is quite easy to imagine him. Every town has them. the cap, the jogging pants even though they arnt "sports people" the chewed down finger nails that betray the guilt of furious masterbation whenever and where ever they can.

its all there plain to see. But that was Vince.

Always had been and always would until the day he dies. There was no other life for Vince.

As our story starts Vince was running down the back alley ways back to his home, after scrawling graffiti on the shutters of Mr Patel’s corner shop that read “pakys go home.” Vince was not very good at spelling.
Amongst his many failings, attending school was just another in a long list of wasted opportunities he had embraced.

It’s not as if he had any other options. He neither smart, good looking, charming or lucky.

Vince the Fish was one of life’s real losers.

It is a shame that there has to be losers in life. But for every winner, for every successful person who makes it, there is a Vince.

And so Vince the fish had become the one thing he always would be. A small time hoodlum in the town of Rochdale. Vince was always someone you could count on to mess things up. He was a waste of everybody’s effort and he knew it.
The police knew it. And were always there ready to arrest him whenever he broke into someone’s house or stole a car.

Vince didn’t know what to do. He had been in court more times than he could count. He had been forced to pay fines for property damage and even suffered community service but never was sent to prison.
And that’s all he wanted.

To Vince, doing time was he only goal in life.

He desperately wanted the acceptance of his peers. To rise in the ranks of the underworld of Rochdale and the only he could it was by serving time at her majesties pleasure.

Unfortunately Vince had neither the brains nor inclination to perform an act of violence that warranted him been sent to the clink.

He was very much a small time villain.

As he raced into the block of flats that he called home, Vince dived into the lift and pressed the 14th floor. He struggled to get his breathe back as the lift lurched its way upward to his door.
Once he had finally got inside and closed off the outside world, he started to laugh to himself. He didn’t know why exactly. The act of graffiti wasn’t up there with the most dangerous crime he had ever committed and it wasn’t that he had anything against Mr Patel or his shop. Vince never considered himself a racist. In fact Mr Patel’s shop was the only place he had never stolen from or targeted before.
Vince didn’t know why this was, but Mr Patel had always shown him the same welcome he showed everyone who bought from his shop. To Mr Patel, Vince was just another normal person. And nobody ever treated Vince as normal.

Not long after he had got home Vince rolled himself a joint to celebrate his latest piece of handy work. He smoked another one straight after and found himself staring vacantly out of his filthy window at the top of the shopping centre, mindless thoughts drifting from end of his cranium and floating back the other way unhindered by any real intelligence, when he was thrust back into the here and now by a knocking that came at the door.

Vince jerked himself fully upright and stared at the door, as if he could look straight through it if he gawped hard enough.

The knock happened again.

Vince stood up and walked over to the door like Pavlov’s dog and spoke.

“Who is it?” he growled hoping to sound mean and fierce.

There came no reply.

A shadow hovered through the frosted glass of the door. Vince had no way of telling exactly who the stranger was without opening.

The knock came a third time. Louder and with more intensity.

Vince backed away.

No-one would want to come to see him.

Not unless they wanted to hurt him.

He had done many bad things in his life. And although none of them were enough for the legal system to put him away, Vince knew he had upset many people in his time. The latest being Mr Patel.

Deep down Vince was aware that theft and vandalism was wrong, but they were his only outlets in life.

He didn’t have a job, had little chance in getting an interview and above all else had absolutely no inspiration to be employed.

The few friends he had all gave him chances and offered him part time work in garages or shops. But Vince would always repay their kindles by stealing stock or
simply not turning up after a few days.

There was a fourth knock at the door.

Vince began to panic.

Could Mr Patel have seen him? Did he chase him back to his house to have a go at him?

The copious amounts of dope he had smoked that afternoon were taking their full effect and paranoia had set in.

But either way, Vince was a coward and he knew it.

Backing away from the door, Vince shuffled along the wall back toward the window at the back of his bedsit.

He silently opened the patio door that led to the balcony.

He couldn’t see the shape at his doorway but knew it was there, waiting for him. Wanting to exact some form of retribution upon him.

His breath was shallow now, he could hear his fast beating heart throb within his chest.

“shitshitshit..” he whispered to himself.

There was no way out. He was trapped in his own home.

Desperation made him look for an escape. No chance of climbing up or down. No chance of anything.

His eyes darted back and forth and made him feels dizzy.

He vowed never to smoke weed again. The retching of his stomach gave him cramp and he slumped to the floor.

The rain was falling heavy now and high up in the tower, the wind slapped his face with cold icy fingernails.

“fuckfuckfuck...” he panicked to himself as he arched his head round to see if the figure was still there.

It was.

It just stood there. Motionless. Waiting for him.

Vince stood up and pressed himself further against the balcony wall. He pressed his hands against the top of the wall to steady himself.

A fifth knock at the door.

It seemed louder than the others. As if it was inside his head.

“Oh god oh god...” Vince leaned even further back against the wall and shuffled himself as far as he possibly could away from the murder at the door.

Murderer, yes. That what it was. A hitman.

Someone, no everyone he had ever hurt had got together somehow to pay someone to wipe him out.

It all made sense. He was no good to anyone. Nobody liked him and . . . Christ! Even he didn’t like himself.

The bastards had decided to have him killed.

Vince leaned over again to see the door.

From the corner of his vision he could see the figure still standing there. Vince dare not, could not breathe. But then...

Then the figure moved away.

They had given up.

He was safe. For now.

He had to pack. Had to get of town as fast as he could.

Vince pushed himself up off the ledge and made for the door.

He didn’t make it.

The slippery top of the balcony fell from underneath Vince and he fell backwards and then immediately downwards toward the ground.

It only took a few seconds before he hot ground head first.

In those few seconds he had left, Vince had just enough time to once and finally regret everything he had ever done.

Vince died on impact. His head a bloody pulp, his back broken in four places.
At the moment in impact, on the 14th floor of the tower block Vince’s next door neighbour heard a knock at the door.

Mr Fallow, who lived next door to Vince opened his door and before the visitor could speak said “ah, your here for the Betterware catalogue, here you go.”

And with that Rochdale was a slightly better place to live.

But if course there are plenty more individuals out there who will ensure that Vince’s legacy of petty crime and wasteful lives will be continued.

a short story about life and death

I have written a number of silly short stories as a simple exercise and have decided to put a few of them up on the blog.

Read it, dont read it..... whatever you like, but you are here now, so you might as well give it a bash.

Enjoy.

Number one:

Child birth

Nothing can prepare you for the birth of your first child.

Everything seems to happen at once. First it the counting down of the days to the delivery date, but then OHNO! Her waters break – three days early.

You haven’t packed the overnight bag for hospital.

Is there enough petrol in the car?

What if all the doctors are paedophiles????

Wheres the cat gone??

Wait. Calm down.

Babies are born every day around the world and have been for thousands of years.

This is normal. The screaming is normal.

Just think....

And then it all goes blank. The memory cleans your mind of all thoughts. You suddenly find yourself in the hospital with no idea how you got there. The mother of your child is in the hospital bed and seems fine. Nurses are milling around you and you have a hot cup of coffee in your hand.

The chair you are sat is quite comfy and everything is going to be ok.

A quick look to the woman you love, followed by a small but all telling smile is received and acknowledged with a smile back at you and then it’s gone.

The smile fades slowly. Worry lines appear on her forehead. Sweat beads begin to fall down her face. Her mouth opens as if to scream but no noise comes.

The nurses act fast. The heart monitor beeps louder and with increased tension.
You stand up but don’t know what to do.

As people, many people run around you and push you out of the way; you spill your coffee on the floor.

As the hot liquid splashes on the ground your beloved roars with an unearthly cry of anguish and fear and pain.

Your legs are frozen. The world seems to stop and speed past you at the same time.

It is abundantly clear that something is terribly wrong.

A nurse ushers you out of the room and as the curtains close there’s is more screaming and shouting.

The nurses are now panicking. They too are starting to feel the fear. Like a smell that drifts across a corridor people are now peering out of their own rooms to see what the commotion is all about. But they too know something is terribly wrong.



Then silence.



A long and icy silence.



This is the noise of shock.



This is the sound of horror.

Screams



Louder screams and bangs and crashes.


There must be ten people in that room trying to deliver your baby. Your child.

And all you can do is stand there useless. Hopeless.


As soon as it started the noise has faded.

It takes couple of seconds before you gain the power of your legs again.
You take a few tentative steps toward the delivery room. The door is heavy. Something is blocking it.

You push harder and force your way in.

And there it is in all its glory.

There is blood everywhere. On the bed, on the walls, on your partner.

The woman you chose to help bring a new life into this world with covered in blood, ribcage open. The nurses too are now just pools of blood and ripped apart from themselves in piles all over the room.

But in the middle of this carnage stands a lone figure.

Your son.

And he’s got a knife.

you fucking wierdo!!!!