the continuingrags to shit story of a hapless unlovedgoblin
May 12, 2021 13:27:11 GMT
selfy, nearly, and 3 more like this
Post by wilgutspleens on May 12, 2021 13:27:11 GMT
Barry Scott, Domestic Goddess Goblin DEMON!
A tuneless whistle echoes around the locker room, an irritating flow of non-musicality, devoid of melody or rhythm. Each note frustratingly just too sharp or flat, often more hiss than whistle, a whistle of the kind that skilled artisans use to indicate that an expensive quote is about to be announced, but of concerto length, constantly rising and falling and never a true note. The kind of whistling that raises the hairs on the back of the neck and drives any cognitive thought from the brain
The Whistler pauses often and at erratic, unpredictable moments, but never for long, for this is the whistle of the true sadist or the accidental sociopath
Follow the sound of the whistle, along a dark, dank tunnel and into a dimly lit changing room. Spare kit hangs forlornly from pegs on the walls, an old punctured ball sits in a puddle in the corner, a latrine door stands open and it’s from this cubicle that the oscillating ululation emanates.
Barry Scott, despised goblin and second most hated Blood Bowl player in Fun League, is scrubbing the toilet bowl with a small pink tooth brush. He has a pot of Cilit BANG!(tm*) Gunk n Grime Grout n Clinker Restoration Paste and the vacant smile of a botched lobectomy.
He is completely lost in the moment, he is approaching his own bleach based Nirvana. His cracked red fingers grip the brush firmly, he is working away at the last stubborn clump of festering ordure, his eyes meet on the bridge of his lumpish nose, meet, collide and rebound, his wrinkly, prune like face ,beaming like a chapped toe or a new graze. He is panting with happiness, tumescent with hygienic joy!
From the shadows, two gleaming yellow eyes, mere ambre slits in the gloom, watch him. They narrow, shiftily look both ways, like a pantomime villain, and a cloudy black shape lifts and floats over to the cubicle, it hangs in the air like a redundant towel from an invisible peg. It shakes as with a silent giggle, pauses, for effect, extends one long finger and taps Barry on the shoulder.
The little goblin turns towards the gloomy shade, their eyes meet. Barrys like two fried eggs left out on a plate in the rain, the Shade's like two broken razor blades, jagged like lightning motifs with black slitted pupils.
“Baaaaarrrrrry” a drawn out hoarse whisper dripping with frost. Long, thin smoke like tendrils extend from the dark shape and stretch across the diminutive goblins repulsive visage, they enter his nostrils and his ears, his eyes revolve upwards until only the whites are showing, Barry slumps into a heap, the tooth brush falls from his lifeless fingers.
Time passes. A passing spider walks over to the collapsed goblin, cocks a a leg, delivers a stream of spidery urine, spits and saunters off.
Barry stirs. He rolls onto his back, coughs, slowly his eyes open , bright cadmium yellow eyes with black slitted pupils glare oyut at the world. Barry smiles, it’s not a happy face smile, it’s the smile of the cat with an injured mouse under it’s paw, the demented grin of a villain in a cheap dime-store graphic novel, the sadistic smirk of the psychophage, the cold smile of the serpent. It’s a lot of smile and none of it nice. His shoulders begin to shake, his body shudders, and Barry Scott laughs a long silent snigger like a demented hyena with laryngitis.
“Baaaaaaaang!!!!!” he roars and collapses into the manic paroxysmal chortling rolling gust of evil laught like the twittering of a demented woodpecker rising higher and more shrill until it is lost in the range only heard by dogs, bats and old ladies with ancient hearing aids, until exhausted he falls flat on his back arms extended.