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Hosstory

Here are a few stories from our old trooper Hoss.

Take a Walk On the Wild Side
Alien Invitation (Where is Filey, and why?)
A Grave Situation
Gone Fishin'
Are The Stars Out Tonight ?
A Dark Stormy Night
Egor, A Night to Remember
Yanks Alot

Take a Walk on The Wild Side

Isn't it fascinating to walk in the country and the streets of the town observing and watching the unusual and varied wildlife to be found in and around Filey. The sea and its shores and the fields that surround the outskirts of the town all play host to animal and plant life of species unique to the Filey area. There are many of these inconspicuous creatures and plants that have been known to the locals for hundreds of years, but the existence of such wildlife has been kept secret and cannot be found in any of the British wildlife guides or web sites, for if this information was publically available it could, and probably would mean an irrecoverable change for the whole community and its way of life.

The No Leaf Clover for example. Found quite commonly in the fields and on the cliffs around Filey, this botanic oddity is surely the most distinctive indication of tight-fistedness and parsimony that is well known throughout the people of the town.
  Unlike the four leaf variety, it is not a lucky charm and a bringer of wealth, but instead is a whisperer of poverty and an indication of miserliness and penny-pinching, things well associated with the fishing community of Filey.

Although being common, the plant itself is quite hard to spot amongst its more abundant three leaf relation, only appearing as a single green leafless slender stalk that is hardly visible to a casual glance from head height. It can be found quite easily though if time is spent looking at near ground level. As to what reason or why there cannot be a clearly defined answer, unless you are someone from Filey, and you are as tight and as miserable as everyone else.

Next there is the Paint Scraping Snail. This mollusc though very slow can scrape paint from any surface with its rasping mouth parts faster than any council painter using the standard council issue of blow-torch and knife.

These shell covered abrasives are often found clustered around the base of lam posts, and due to their insatiable lust for paint, their feeding habits cost the council and in turn the tax payer thousands of pounds every year in paint. This is quite openly displayed in the council's annual financial report that can be viewed in the council offices by anyone with the correct security clearance.

Early in the 1960's the snails were farmed for the very reason their name suggests, but it was soon noticed that the council workers responsible for their supervision were unable to catch them once they had begun to move, the snails managing to moving faster than they did. Thus many of the snails outran their captors and escaped, and now their descendants infest Filey, scraping paint from any surface they can find rendering it unprotected against harsh weather and corrosion.

Then there's of course, the Left Handed Crab. This crustacean of Filey Bay is most unusual and its eight legged walking habits perplexed naturalists and marine biologists for centuries. Until in the year 1770 the acclaimed marine biologist David Whittaker after catching crabs while on holiday at Filey noticed something rather odd.

Most crabs, as nearly everyone knows, walk sideways from right to left with respect to the orientation of their body to themselves when facing the observer; but there is the rare species, the left handed crab, that when view from the rear walks left to right. Whittaker found quite by accident that the crabs he was about to have for tea scurried away from the heat of the fire that he was about to cook them on. He then noticed that the crabs facing him always scurried away right to left, whereas those facing away from him went from left to right. He also found that if one of these left to right crabs had its legs removed while the crab was still alive, the legless crab when placed near to the fire did not scurry away. Whittaker deduced from this observation that if a Left Handed Crabs legs were removed it lost all fear of heat and thus of death. Whittaker went on to sign up for military service in the Crimean War but before he left Britain, he had both his legs amputated to quell his immense fear of dying. Unfortunately for him he died six weeks later of gangrene and tetanus blood poisoning, a very slow and painful death indeed.   

These days his experiments with the walking habits of the crabs are re-enacted and taught in the biology lessons at the local school, but due to an advancement in medical science and common sense, no one has to have their legs cut off to prove any of it.

Another creature to be seen quite often in and around Filey is the Squashed.
This often shapeless and rather unrecognizable slow moving creature is sometimes found on the road surfaces of the town and surrounding countryside. Although unrecognizable in shape it can be easily identified by its distinctive texture and deep red colour that makes it stand out from the road itself.

If you do come across one while out on your nature walk, you'll recognize it instantly, and if you have the time, you can observe this road dweller with very little risk of disturbing it, for they are extremely docile and hardly moving a muscle for hours, sometimes days on end. They are perfect for the beginner and will often let you get within millimetres of them, and if you are careful and extremely quiet, you can capture one and take it home with you to be studied at your leisure.
  A word of warning though for anyone wanting to keep one of these animals in captivity. They do not make very good pets, and if one of these shapeless creatures is held captive for any length of time. To protect itself, it will emit an off -putting smell similar to that of rotting meat, and if not released, will attach itself quite securely to the floor of the container it is being held in.

The hardest and undoubtedly the most rare animal to frequent this part of the British coastline is the Way. No one has been able to give even a rough description of it, though it is known that such a thing exists. Several Scots visitors while on holiday in Filey, often while looking for something else in its last known place have claimed to have seen this illusive creature. There they have been heard to quite blatantly pronounce the fact saying 's a Way'.

The final creature in this list, though there are surely many more, is a bird. The Ball Swallow is undoubtedly as rare as the Way and as illusive. Unlike the more common European Swallow that can be seen flying low over the fields and cut grass, this ornithological wonder inhabits one small steep sided ravine near to the holiday village of Primrose Valley. There it is the curse of many a member of the Filey Golf Club while out on a round, for the Ball Swallow, swallows golf balls.

Many a hole and even a game has been and is lost over the years due to this steep sided valley of the 12th, for if a ball ends up in it, it cannot be retrieved. Some members claim that golfers have been lost down the ravine and could not be retrieved either, but that is pure speculation and I'm sure caused by too many at the 19th. The ravine though does and always has posed the worst obstacle of the whole Filey course.
 
Imagine this. The Golfer tees up the ball and aims to hit it across and above the trees of the ravine. There he stands, posture straight, knees slightly bent, looking to the green in the far distance and back to the ball. He swings back and powering the driving club down with all his might, strikes the ball. He watches it as it travels straight, as straight as he has ever played a shot on this hole. It's a perfect shot. Further and further into the distance it glides; there, seeming to clear the trees ahead, but then suddenly it disappears. Not managing to reach the far away green, the ravine and the shot loses him the game.

Most honest players would admit a bad shot and put it down to their own terrible play. But this is Filey, and soon due to a tale told by one nameless player of a ball swallowing bird the size of an eagle that eats golf balls, a long overdue reason for the sudden disappearance of balls at the 12th hole spread around the club.

The existence of such a bird that lives in the ravine of the 12th was soon widely accepted and many Filey members claim to have seen this awesome thing swoop out of the trees and take their ball in mid flight. Others say they have seen it take the ball and swallow it in one gulp from the green beyond the trees, just before the ball was about to drop into the hole for 'a hole in one' shot.  

Due to the existence of this bird that is so well known by the club and its members, no club committee's names appear on the clubs web site. This is in case quite by accident the existence of the Ball Swallow is found out, and their names become associated with the masses of ornithological societies the may at any time invade the course looking for it, and in turn render the course itself a National Heritage Site of Natural Interest. This in itself could and would mean certain closure for the club; allowing no one ever to play golf on its green grass again.

But such a creature as the Ball Swallow no doubt does exist, and any bird watcher reading this story will believe the same as me, that any ball lost on the 12th hole cannot be due to bad play alone. Can it?
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Where is Filey & Why?

Do you think that Filey has been visited by beings from another world in their UFOs? Well, I'm not so sure. Space is very, very big, and life seems to be a very rare commodity in deed anywhere else in it. The relationship between distance, time, and life are all interlinked and the first one as sure as damn it depends on the second. Life itself is the wildcard and seems to be the product of pure chance.

Let me explain:

You think Filey is big?

You've walked from the top end of West Road to school right at the top end of Muston Road??

Or you've staggered from the Foords to the Top House and then maybe on Boxing Day to the Coble Landing Bar, then back???

A long way isn't it????

And isn't Filey old?

Hasn't it been here for a long time??

It's been here longer than you have, and it'll probably be here a lot longer after you've gone. That bunch called the Romans came here about 2000 years ago, just after they'd nailed some guy to a tree for being nice, and there were even people here before that for them to kill. In fact someone has just found some marine reptile that was here about 145 million years ago. Probably came here for its holidays, and died of despair and boredom?

But, a couple of miles and a couple of thousand years are but minuscule twinklings of an eye in the whole mish-mash of it all.
There, in the whole immense and infinitesimal area of the four dimensional universe in which we occupy but the tiniest of vicinity, there lays a small cluster of put together and fashioned rocks beside a enormous amount of the liquid molecule two hydrogen oxide. There it sits in a trillionth billionth of the vastnesses of infinite space that surrounds everything within relation to itself and everything else that exists, and there it has sat since the very births of the creature mans civilised and recorded history, and will probably sit for a bit longer.
The known present universe, into which this space-time occupying collection of shapes is shoved, is but fourteen and a half billion years old, which in itself a mere blink in the length of the whole of time itself. But that starting point out of which the energy that thus became the matter escaped as if water escaping under high pressure from a three dimensionally hole in a multi-dimensional burst pipe, is a good place to start.

Shortly after this intrusion into our side of space time, the 'Big Bang' I think it's called; which is rather an inaccurate name for it because if no one is supposed to be able to hear you scream in the vacuum of space, who the hell would hear a bang?, happened, everything was hot. I mean hot as in the hottest thing you can think of and then some. But as things began to spread out into this vast wide-open void, they began to cool, and as they did, the governing force of the universe, or universes, gravity, began to take hold over small regions. It pulled and tugged at the micro-pockets of stable energy that had been displaced into the masses of atomic nucleuses of hydrogen matter, until they themselves began to collide and under great pressure to fuse. There, switching on in an instant, massive solar fusion reactors, the stars, began to shine and give light to a once black void. Millions upon millions of these stars themselves were held in spiral, globular, and disc congregations, that form the galaxies, each of which moved at near to the speed of light away from its neighbours.

Many of these mighty solar furnaces in these early galaxies gave up the ghost quite shortly after they were born, and in spectacular nuclear explosions, littered space with the heavier elements such as oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon. There through space these elements along with the remainder of the huge volumes of free hydrogen that was still around and that hadn't been crushed into anything in particular at the start of it all, gradually were pulled together under gravities control and condensed into nebular clouds of stupendous proportions. Parts of these nebulas themselves also succumbed to the further quirk of gravities ploy, and soon new stars switched on and there began to shine. Around these new stars at various distances condensed many of these heavier elements into spheres of diverse sizes. And they, as if held by invisible strands to their mother sun raced their circular courses, each its own circle, each its own year, and as they did, they span, there marking out their own days length.

Around one of these small stars, its name Sol, nine proto-planets condensed from the heavier elements created earlier.
The first and closest was akin to an irradiated bowling ball. It had no atmosphere, was very small, and was very, very hot. In fact it was totally inhospitable to anything that wasn't wanting to be baked to dust with an extra strong suntan.

The second, it started off a tropical hot environment to which something called life could have taken an early foothold. It had all the right stuff. An atmosphere, all the right elements, some water, but unfortunately for anything living, rather a large amount of carbon and sulphur dioxide. This very quickly lead to the planet being taken in the claws of a hyper greenhouse effect, and the light to heavy scattered showers heading from the west being that of sulphuric acid.

The fourth was a bit cold but it did have an atmosphere, and it did have water. That went. No one knows where but it definitely was once there, and it just went. No water. No life!

The next four were non runners at all for this life thing. They were just huge balls of gas. Very large, very colourful, and very stormy, with winds of up to four hundred miles an hour that would have blown anything off its feet, had it had anything to stand on.

The ninth planet had no atmosphere and hardly any light. The sun being at that great a distance from it, that it looked like a distant speck of light in its sky. On this heavenly body it was bloody freezing. I mean really cold. Here a litre of petrol would keep you warm for about two minutes and cost you a fortune, the nearest petrol station being over 270 million miles away.

Now , the one of these potential places for this life was at first very hot and lots of things were at first been thrown into its primeval atmosphere by huge and very active volcano's. The third planet had lots of those needed and useful heavier elements to get this life thing going. As this planet cooled, and things began to quieten down a bit on the eruption side, the molecules of two hydrogen oxide, water, began to condense into droplets. These droplets got together and low and behold, it pissed it down. It rained for years and years constantly, a bit like Primrose Valley, until the lower land areas and canyons began to fill forming a huge ocean. In this mighty stretch of water, somewhere in its vast volume, atoms hugged forming protein molecules, which in turn held in double helical chains and the primitive DNA of life itself was formed.

Over the next 4.5 billion years, or for those who not so numerically inclined, a bloody long time, these proteins floated around as if in a vat of DNA soup and didn't do much apart from cling together and reproduce. Then, around 650 million years ago things really got going. Strange animals wriggled their way too and fro along the mud covered bottom, not doing much at all until a change occurred. There a new creature swam its way upwards and spread its way throughout the whole of this vast expanse of water. Fish. Yes fish had arrived, and for the next 550 million years they had it all there way until the one predator that near wiped them out came along. Filey fishermen.
From there the amphibians developed 440 million years ago, then 185 million years ago, the reptiles, including the mightiest of all land animals ever to live here, the dinosaurs, the birds, and the mammals.

Unfortunately for the dinosaurs, 65 million years ago the planet was hit by a massive comet that made short work of the most of them. Some argue that all dinosaurs were wiped out by this catastrophe. Some say one species survived. Look at the wishbone next time you eat a chicken. The Scots say one hangs around in one of their lakes. Who knows?

After this, over the next 65 million years, mammals developed and one species in particular stood out amongst all others. Man had arrived. At least hominid primates were hacking their way through the forests and animals they had just killed.
660,000 Years ago, one species of these hominids made a leap forward and left the others far behind. Homo Sapiens began to catch fish and soon spread over the whole of the land masses that were scattered on the surface of this globe. Modern man was here.
So there it is. The time and the distance of space. The chance of life developing in one island in one microscopic point of the place. And there, due to a multitude of freak accidents in the past, an intelligent animal rising above all other creatures and it in itself taking up something like fishing to survive. Amazing isn't it?

Oh, and as for the visitors from outer space.

Imagine this. There you are. Your civilisation has just discovered interstellar flight and have placed you the captain of a mighty interstellar ship that can travel at near to the speed of light. You set off excitedly on a journey of discovery to a star, your own suns closest relation where you hope to find intelligent life that you may be able to communicate and make friends with.

You travel for 3.4 years, which in distance is 19.9433664 trillion miles give or take a foot or two in real terms, to this nearest star, and there orbiting it at approximately 93 million miles is a beautiful and promising blue planet. Not too hot, not too cold. In fact just right for seeding and sustaining the vary thing you have travelled all this way to find, life; and from what your life-o-matic detectors tell you, you are right, masses upon masses of the stuff.

Under the cover of the darkness of early dawn your ship floats effortlessly and undetected down through the planets atmosphere, and there but a few hundred feet below you lays a small cluster of put together and fashioned rocks beside a enormous amount of the liquid molecule two hydrogen oxide. You look excitedly for the creatures that built these structures and what your dark-o-vision viewers show you is a wall. To the end of this wall unusual narrow shaped craft sit, there, not even an inch above the ground they lay unattended. From this initial observation you assume that the owners of these strange vehicles are a trusting and friendly people, being able to leave them here unattended and in such large numbers.

You land you ship but a few yards from these craft and there cautiously you disembark in fear of disturbing or frightening anyone or anything that may be around. Suddenly a different shaped vehicle stirs into life and quickly trundles down to the side of the liquid mass. Out and on the surface of the liquid, heading towards you at very slow speed, two more of the narrow craft float, and inside you can see creatures, large blubberous things with scowled face parts and stooped backs, tossing other dead silver creatures that they seem to have pulled from the molecule mass, into boxes where they lay.

Without effort and as if pre-controlled the narrow craft is pulled from the liquid and dragged to where the others sit. You stand for some time and watch all that is going on and then with an outstretched hand and your translate-o-com set to full, you make a greeting gesture to the stooped beings and ask them who they are and what they might have caught?

"Who the bloody hell are you? We haven't caught anything." Is their reply. "If you don't want you're arse kicked you'd better clear off."
Well. You've just travelled for a hell of a long time, and you've just travelled a hell of a long way to get here. You've just met the intelligent life of this world and that's how they treat you.
Would you want to visit Filey?

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A Grave Situation

At the side of the grave in the pouring rain the congregated members of the Collins funeral stood. Men, their heads hung low with the sadness and occasion of someone near and respected, newly departed; and women sobbing quite freely with their own grief. All stood there at the graveside watching as the coffin, along with the six feet length of two inch copper pipe protruding from the underside was brought and placed before them above the open grave. The vicar looked around and coughed a false and shallow cough to call attention to all gathered, and to let all know he was about to speak. As the party finally did fall silent, as silent as was allowed, he began in a loud and clear voice to speak the solemn and residing words of the final psalm fifty-seven. As he began, he signaled to the coffin bearers who too had been waiting in the pouring rain for this to be over, to lower the cask into the six-foot deep hole beneath it. The coffin was raised and the two supporting planks were pushed aside leaving it supported in mid air only by the strong ropes across the aft and front of its base. Slowly, steadily, each of the four men lowered it into the hole dug for it in the pouring rain only two days ago, being careful as they did not to bend the pipe. And there in its final resting place at the bottom of the pit, the vicar bent forward and taking a small handful of mud from the pile at the side of the grave, spoke a small prayer and casually tossed it in on top of the now still cask. As if waiting for that final cue, the sides of the grave suddenly began to slip. The earth that had been absorbing the past days rain like a huge sponge began to quickly collapse, sliding inwards to cover the now motionless coffin below. The mourners closest were taken, tumbling, screaming, and shouting as they fell forward into the gaping mouth of the waiting hole before them. Their bodies as they landed making short work of the coffins fragile lid as their weight crashed clumsily through it exposing the smiling corpse of Michael laying quietly there and revealing where the other end of the copper tube was. Lots more wet mud and mourners followed and there in an instant the grave was a mass of mud covered mourners, scrambling, scraping, and clawing their way at the collapsing walls in a frenzied attempt to get out. Women screamed and children cried out and men shouted for help as they frantically tried to escape; but each pathetic grasp at the walls brought down even quicker onto them more mud from the steep sides above. Those that were left above who had managed to avoid being pulled in could only stand and watch, quite helpless in any attempt to try and save the ones below. Panic and confusion soon set in as the ones left at the side of the grave saw their relatives and friends floundering in a sticky brown bath of thick muddy water. Holding out their hands they tried in vane to reach them as they squirming in the vat of goo that now enveloped them and gave their bodies eerie and inhuman forms. In desperate attempts to pull them to safety they held out their hands and called their names hoped that there was some small chance they would be heard. But the thick slimy mud prevented this, clinging to their bodies, plugging the victims ears and covering their eyes making it impossible for them to hear or see.

The vicar now in a total state of despair and confusion watched this from some distance, and looking skyward crossing his chest, and quickly began to pray. He prayed that this was not happening to him at his funeral, and that if it was, he would soon be somewhere else at some other more rejoice full ceremony, a public flogging or an execution perhaps, out of the rain and where no mud filled holes in the ground would consume his congregation. He knew he had to do something and he knew that he had to do it soon or all would be a total and devastating loss. Looking with pure haste to the two gravediggers who had all this time been standing motionless and quiet, he waved his arms high in the air frantically trying to attract their attention. Finally, as they looked towards him he gave them the nod to do their duty. Like pre-programmed obedient zombies, autonomously the two totally expressionless men grabbed their spades and began to fill in the grave in front of them. Shovel by shovel they threw the earth back into the hole from which it had been laboriously dug so perfect and square only a few days before. Shouts of anger erupted from the crowd around as the rescuers realised what was happening and what the men were unbelievably doing. Some, both men and women aborted their rescue attempt and turned their attention towards the two men who were now burying alive the very ones they loved. Wrestling them too the ground they soon became disarmed of their shovels and were now both rapidly becoming the target of the crowds very anger and frustration. Seeing that the mud had become thicker due to the grave diggers actions and that no one was being pulled from the hole, or was every likely to be. Every member of the angry crowd now started to attack with relish the two men, who they saw as responsible for all that happened. Kicking, punching, and even gnawing parts of the digger’s bodies, the mob released their total and pure hatred upon the unfortunate two, who in their pain cried out for the vicar’s to save them. The vicar by this time was long gone, his prayers not being answered he had thrown off his gown and legged it, renouncing his faith, and instantly becoming an atheist. He now was miles away looking for some other pagan ritual to take part in remembering with despair that floggings and executions were no longer allowed on British shores.

The rain finally stopped and in the warm summer sunlight of the afternoon the mud in the hole quickly thickened and set. Solidly encased in the grave below were all that had fallen in on that fateful morning. Questions were asked over the next several months as to who was to bear the responsibility for what had happened? And the buck as usual finally stopped at the council’s door. The council did hold up their hand admitting they were at guilt, proof being placed in front of them and a threat that it would be sent to the press, that it was a council owned cemetery. They said that they would accept all blame, all compensation, and dually the expense of the cleanup the bodies of the lost ones being still in the hole. The council did say that they would meet the remaining mourners half way on one count though. To save council funding, digging the bodies out was seen as an expense that need not be paid. The bodies were already buried in a graveyard, in a grave, so why should they be dug up again only to be buried? The gravestone however could be altered at a fraction of the cost that would on the whole save taxpayers money. Dually it was temporarily removed and altered, having the word plumber chiseled out and a listing of the names of all who had died and were buried there that day added to it. The ground was leveled and a few flowers were placed decoratively around the place.

From then on, in the small graveyard where all this had taken place, the holes that are dug to take the bodies of others are now reinforced with planks of wood up their sides until the coffin is finally laid in them. And if the day before it has been raining heavily, mourners are told to stand well back from the sides of the grave to make sure that a repeat of the event that occurred does not take place.

As for the vicar? Well. He disappeared and from then on has never been seen in the fishing town of Filey since. Some say that he went to fight in the crusades. Some say they are talking crap because the crusades ended hundreds of years ago. Some say that he might never be back. There are those few though who believe if the town of Filey is ever in peril or that it is in threat of total annihilation, he definitely will never be back.

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Gone Fishin'

Out on the waters of Filey Bay a lone boat sailed on. Its crew, oblivious to the goings-on in the town on the far away shore rowed for all they were worth. The boat they sailed on had a perfectly functional and working engine but its owner, too tight to use fuel made his crew row. The boat itself belonged to one captain Pip McNearlane, a tight fisted Filey fisherman who had been passed down to him through the generations the tightfistedness atoned to all fishermen of that seaside town. Now, here out at sea, here in his own boat, here with his own crew, Pip passed on quite freely and without charge his tight fisted meanness. With great zest and without even a hint of a grudge he gave to all around him the malice that he’d had passed down to him over the years. McNearlane had been a fisherman all his life and had become accustomed to all the trimmings that went along with such a title. Miserable, mean, bad tempered, and as tight as a drum when it came to concerns of money. He was born at sea. He lived at sea. And if his latest crew had anything to do with it, the bastard would die at sea. But at present, the only thing his crew knew was that they were out here at sea with him, and no matter what their views, they had to row. To encourage them in their task he kept the head of what he called a mermaid, in a jar at the stern of the boat. He told them that if they did not row hard enough a monster such as this would take them at night while they were sleep and drag them down to the very depths of the ocean. Some members of the crew had got on the wrong side of him in the past and as to his word, the next day they were gone. So those that were left tended to believe the mermaids story and tried not to ruffle McNearlane feathers. The mermaids head he so readily threatened them with was actually that of his first partner who had one night demanded the profits made from their fishing be shared equally between them. This request had been brought about by his partner finding a place that very day where fish were caught in their hundreds. That very night, after several hours of singing and the consumption of several pints of ale, McNearlane had crept quietly up the stares to his partners room and as quietly opening the door let loose into the room a live squid. What had followed no one witnessed, but the next morning there his partner lay dead, his body covered in large circular scares and wounds like that of a parrots beak cut deep into his flesh. All around him and the beds sheets, the masses of black stinking ink stains made macabre patters to mark the two’s final struggle. There by the side of the bed lay also the body of the squid itself now motionless, its own life expired being deprived of the life giving sea water that gave it oxygen. McNearlane’s explanation at the enquiry into his partners death was that he must have taken the squid to his bed for some perverse sexual company and the squid not being that way inclined had tried to defend itself against his advances. The enquiry had closed with a verdict of ‘death by misadventure’ placed on McNearlanes partner. The story had been reported on the pages of local papers the following day and as it spread around Filey, the squid became a terrible sea monster with an immeasurable sexual appetite and unspeakable sexual perversions. From then on, McNearlane swore by the squid as the ultimate deterrent and weapon for carrying out all his dirty work requirements.

Back out on Filey Bay, with blistered hands and aching limbs the crewmen pulled on their oars, and while they rowed they chanted sea shanties loud and sorrowfully to cover the signs of their own and each other’s excruciating pain; but in between the singing they muttered curses upon McNearlane in low and whispered breath. They cursed him to hell or any other place that would inflict eternal pain and torment upon him, and they hoped that if such a place did exist, he would be there soon. McNearlane knew they whispered and if he so much as thought that he heard them muttering he would be down amongst them with a knotted rope, lashing out at them mercilessly and shouting and threatening them with the squid if they did not continue to row and sing. On one occasion a naive crewmember had tried complaining about the amount of rowing he was doing while the boat had an engine that he was sure worked. The next day the crew were a man short. McNearlanes excuse was he’d gone to scrape barnacles from the bottom of the boat and drown. Another knowledgeable and even more naive crewman had pointed out that barnacles could only be scraped when the boat was out of the water and in dry dock. Next morning he was missing. McNearlanes explanation for this was that he must have gone to see if he could find the first crewmember, and drown. After that, no one complained about the rowing or knew anything at all about barnacles.

By the time night fell the crew were always totally knackered and were in need of nourishment. McNearlane had thought of this and he knew that he must take care of their welfare, for a weak crew would not make the boat go very fast or very far. Before setting sail he had stowed enough supplies on board to keep them sustained throughout their present trip. That night each man was issued a large portion of raw salted whelk with a small sprinkling of grated cheese to enhance the taste. If any man wanted more, all he had to do was ask and there was more, but McNearlane found that very few of his crew ever did ask. Perhaps, he thought, they did not like cheese. Fresh water though was always in short supply and was rationed accordingly, but each man was allowed as much urine as he could consume. There he also found that the men preferred water. Again he could not understand this. Maybe it was because they were not true Filey fishermen like him self.

On this particular night as darkness fell, and the moon cast silver shimmering patterns over the rippling water, the men were shackled up and laid to their sleep, the last thing for their comfort a heavy canvas sheet thrown over them to keep them dry should it rain. McNearlane always found that after this they were always soon asleep and now their singing silenced it was a time of peace for McNearlane, a time when he could relax and take stock of all that had been landed that day. Now, while the men were asleep the engine could be put to use and the fuel he had so grudgingly paid for would be put to a profitable and useful purpose.

Starting the engine turning the boat he headed for the shore knowing at this time it would be high tide and would enable him to land as high up the beach as possible. Reaching the beach he threw out the anchor and began to offload the boxes containing the days catch. This was a time he hated. This was a time that he himself had to work, for if his crew knew where the boat was they’d surely find some way to break free and be off.

Dragging the full boxes one by one up the Cobble Landing ramp, he loaded them into his van that he’d parked there earlier. When all were loaded he drove to his baiting hut and put every one to join the others of previous days in the massive freezer he kept there.

At night he found, he was safe. There were no other fishermen to view his catch or to learn how so well he did. Locking the many high security locks and setting the doors alarms he left and returned to his boat. To be sure he still had enough power for the next days fishing, he lifted the canvas and counted the sleeping men before him. If any did stir, he always had at hand a cricket bat to aid them back to their slumber, although he very rarely had to use it as the crew were always totally passed out or made him believe that they were.

Lifting the anchor and starting the engine McNearlane headed back out to sea. The engine now a rhythmic chugging was like quiet music to his ears as it pushed the boat further out into the bay. Three miles off shore and without so much as a smidgen of a warning, the engine shuddered to a stop. McNearlane turning the key attempted to restart the thing but something seemed to be preventing it from turning. Looking over the stern of the boat and shinning his torch beam into the dark water, he tried to see the cause of the problem. The beam of his torch illuminated a shape beneath the surface of the water and the shape seemed to be wrapped around the propeller blades. He shone his light from side to side trying to obtain a better view of what ever it was, but in an instant the thing below had gone, and his light revealed only the brass blades of the propeller reflecting the light back at him.

Returning to the wheel and turning the key, he found the engine started without hesitation. Putting the entanglement down to seaweed, McNearlane carried on his voyage to the fishing grounds that had been and now were so profitable to him.

He would have not dismissed the happenings so lightly had he looked at his watch and noticed the date. But this he had not done nor had he remembered what date it was, so the happenings meant little or nothing to him. It was in fact twelve midnight on a particular nigh that should have rang warning bells in McNearlanes head. The particular night was the very night on which a year ago his partner along with a squid had suddenly and mysteriously departed from his mortal existence.

Reaching the very spot where he knew his catch of the following day would be greatest he turned off the engine. Now here. Here in the pale moonlight, he sat along side the jar and as he always did, thanked his partner for finding that very and so profitable spot.

In an instant and without warning the huge tentacle came up over the side of the boat wrapping itself around McNearlanes waist. Another appeared and entwined itself across his mouth holding him silent and unable to call for help. A third pushed up between his legs, opened his zip, and disappeared through his flies causing McNearlane to squirm frantically. A final coiled round the jar and seconds later both he and the jar were gone.

Two days later the crew, now left alone under the canvas sheet without food and only urine to drink managed by pure luck to escape and sail the boat to shore using its perfectly working engine. There they landed and weeks later at the inquest to the disappearance of McNearlane, all said that he must have gone to scrape barnacles from the bottom of the boat and drown. The verdict on the event of his death was returned as ‘death by misadventure’ to which each looked with relief at one another but each were thinking that wherever McNearlane was, he was in eternal pain and torment.

(top)

Are The Stars Out Tonight?

Colin Smith looked skywards and wondered, as often others had wondered, is there anyone else out there? I there anyone looking back across the vastness of space toward our own star, the sun, and asking the same question? If there was alien life capable of long distance space travel, had they ever visited the Earth before? He had heard and read the stories of alien abduction before but put them aside as rubbish.

Why would aliens travel thousands of light years across millions of miles just to grab some out of the way, out of their minds, unbelievable person to remove their appendix? It was total bilge and besides, it just wasn’t practical. Often he had raised his eighteen-inch mirror telescope to the heavens and gazed in awe at the millions of twinkling points of light there laid out before him, knowing he was seeing them now as they were hundreds, maybe thousands of years ago. At times he had turned his telescope nearer to his home planet and observed the mighty gas giants of the outer solar system. These, though beautiful he knew could not sustain intelligent life. The toxicity and ultimate pressure of their atmosphere would prevent or have prevented life in whatever primitive form from even taking the slightest of a hold. And even their many moons, some of nearly planet size had very little atmospheres of their own. So no, he knew that if there was life out there it would be further a field and not within mans present reach.

It was a cold and clear frosty winters night as Smith walked home from his weekly yoga class at the local community center. As he walked, he often lifted his head towards the night sky to view the many twinkling pinpoints of light that make up the Milky Way galaxy. There they were, laid out in there all too familiar constellation patterns as if old friends guiding him home, and again he asked himself the same questions.

He turned as he always did out of Scarborough Road into Grovehill Road and knew now that he didn’t have far to go and would soon be in his warm and comfortable living room, in front of his nice warm fire, with a large glass of malt whisky in his hand. As he reached his driveway without a sound and without a single warning there was an almighty incandescent white flash above the houses. Momentarily the whole of the street was lit up as though day by the sudden flash. Then as sudden, the whole of the street was plunged into pitch-black darkness as every light in the area was simultaneously quenched.

Ahead something fell from the sky, visible only in the light of the half moon above, and came to an abrupt halt on the roads hard tarmac surface. From where Smith was, and from what he could see in the dull light, it was some shapeless mass wrapped in some sort of coil of wire.

“An alien.” he thought. “And that wrapped round it must be its warp coil.”
There it lay, quivering and shaking with grotesque foam pouring from the corners of its mouth. As he cautiously approached the creature seemed to look up at him and as their eyes met, it spoke. “Glerrrgh” it said.

“What? I don’t understand you” Smith replied. “Where did you come from.” he asked excitedly.

“Glerrrgh” the creature repeated as it pointed with a blackened hand towards the starlit sky above.

Smith looked skywards and realised that the creature must be telling him that it came from the stars. Now his heart was pounding and his thoughts were racing fast through his head. Was he the one? The one to be the first to make contact with a being from another world?? Here in Filey, his quiet seaside fishing town home??? This would make him world famous amongst the astronomical community, plus, he hardly dare think of it, plus get him on the front page of the Scarborough Mercury.

“Wait there.” He said reassuringly as he began to run down his drive to the front door of his house.

Inside he grabbed the phone and with a trembling finger of a trembling hand he dialed 999.

“Emergency. Which service?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Police.” Smith replied in a shaking voice.
“I have a caller. Telephone number 01723 513247.” He heard her say.

Smith then heard the abrupt voice of a police officer on the phone line and before the officer had chance to speak, he was shouting excitedly down the phone.
“There’s an alien. An alien from another world, another galaxy outside my house!” he shouted frantically. “It’s there and it pointed to the stars that it came from and said ‘Glerrrgh’!” He yelled.

“Could I have you name and address?” the officer asked calmly. He’d had ones like this before. Usually late at night when the pubs turned out. This one was a bit early for the pubs though, it was only nine O’clock but it sounded like one and he wasn’t going to be perturbed by it. The last one similar to this that he’d had said someone murdered his girlfriend. His girlfriend had turned out to be a pig.

“Smith. Colin Smith. One hundred and five, Grovehill Road.” Smith panted. “And it has its own warp coil.”

“Yes sir. And where had you been before you saw this alien?” the officer asked.

“What do you mean ‘where had I been’? I’d been to my yoga class.” he replied not quite knowing what point the police officer was trying to make.

“Have you consumed any alcohol recently sir?” the officer asked still perusing the same line.

“NO.” Smith shouted angrily. “Now look. I’m not joking. Do you want me to tell you what happened or not?

“Alright sir. Calm down. Let’s hear it. But may I warn you. It is a serious offence to waste police time.” the officer cautioned.

“The thing that’s on the road outside my house came from the sky above. It pointed. And there was a flash as it landed and it caused all the lights in the street to go out.”   Smith tried to explain in the order they had happened.

The officer half-heartedly listened to what Smith was saying and thought. Come to think of it, he’d had a couple of reports earlier of the Grovehill estate on Scarborough road being without power. Maybe there was some truth in Smiths story?

“I’ll send a patrol car up as soon as one is available to investigate your report sir. In the mean time, keep an eye on this ‘alien’ but don’t go near it. It might have some kind of death ray or something.” He warned Smith mockingly.

Smith slammed down the phone. He knew that the copper was humoring him and he didn’t like it one bit. Now he’d tell the press. Maybe they’d take a much more perspective and positive view on what he’d found. He scrabbled amongst his pile of old newspapers and finding a copy of the Scarborough Mercury dialed the contact number and waited for an answer. One finally came and cautiously he explained about the alien outside his house and what it had said. As he thought, the paper were a little more sympathetic and understanding and said that they’d get someone there straight away.

Smith returned outside and there, as before the alien was on the road where he had left it. Still wrapped around its indistinguishable form was its coil, but this time he remembered the police officers shallow warning of death rays and blasters.

“Glerrrgh.” It was still saying.

“OK. Glerrrgh.” Smith replied. Trying to give the alien some comfort.

A car arrived at the scene and parked several yards away from the stricken creature. Out of the car two men emerged, one holding a notepad and the other brandishing a large camera who immediately began to take photographs of the thing laying in the road. The newspaperman with the notepad approached Smith and asked him to tell his tale.

Smith first of all gave his name and then explained about the flash and the lights extinguishing and the creature landing there moments afterwards and pointing to the sky and saying ‘glerrrgh’.

“Glerrrgh.” The pressman repeated. “Is that all it said?”

“Yes.” said Smith. And that’s all it does say.”

While all this was happening, several curious people had begun to assemble and were watching with interest the photographer and the thing. They themselves had no idea what it was or how it had got there but it had attracted their attention as it had

The confused press reporter was just about to ask Smith what he thought glerrrgh meant when the lights of another two cars shone onto the gathered crowd and the thing in the road. Here now was a police car closely followed by an Electricity Board Landrover. As the two fully uniformed police officers emerged from their car, the alien began to panic, squirming frantically in the middle of the road as if fearing for its life at what it saw. The offices turned to the creature and shining their high powered flashlight beams toward it immediately started to laugh.

“Nessmeadow.” One of them said between his chuckles.

“What?” the confused Smith and pressmen asked together.

“Brian Nessmeadow.” The officer replied.

“Nessmeadow. What do you mean? Its an alien!” Smith said in his astonished surprise and disbeliefe. “It said that it came from the stars and it has a warp coil wrapped around it. And it says glerrrgh.”

“No sir.” the Electricity Board engineer butted in. “That warp coil is the electricity conductive aluminum cable from the overhead pylon. Nessmeadow must have been up there nicking aluminum. He must have touched the wrong wire and got a high voltage shock which threw him into the air and that’s where he landed.”

“But it says glerrrgh.” Smith insisted still disbelieving the engineers explanation.

“That’s all anyone would probably be able to say if they’d just received a 33,000 volt shock.” the engineer explained.

“Yes.” Said the police officer. “That’s probably true. Last week we caught him at Grange Avenue. He was on to of the council house roofs stealing peoples television aerials for the aluminum. Once he got on at one end of the street he went all along the top taking each aerial off each house in turn. He made the fatal mistake though of not cutting the wire that runs down every wall to every TV. People became suspicious and gave us a call when their TV sets suddenly started dancing about and trying to get out of the window. We found him with an enormous bunch of TV aerials in his hands connected to their respective TV sets. He was stood there pulling and tugging on them as if in some weird puppet show. Radio for an ambulance to take him away and when they’ve got him unwound, charge him.” he shouted to his colleague.

(top)

A Dark Stormy Night

It was the dead of night and a winters storm swept across Filey bay causing waves the likes that had not been seen for several years to pound the towns sea wall defences. Above the sound of the storm, the eerie wail of the Moaning Minni buoy could be heard telling all of the restless seas waves around it. For several days and nights now the storm had raged, reeking havoc all along the East Yorkshire coast, but here at Filey it was worse. Through the towns streets the wind howled relentlessly and blew the rain in a near horizontal trend, lashing it remorselessly against anything in its path. Across the footpaths and roads, broken slates and tiles were scattered as if in a random mosaic left by some over zealous Greek party.

Those that had no reason to venture out in this weather did not. In their beds they stayed and through the noise and upheaval gained what sleep they could. The people who always dreaded this weather the most were the crew of the lifeboat for they knew what it meant. They knew that these conditions could mean the lives of seafarers like themselves could be at risk, and in whispered voices each one of them secretly prayed. They prayed that the souls in trouble out there on the storm swept waves, were in trouble somewhere else and that some other lifeboat crew would be called out of their warm beds into the cold night to save them. One who did venture out was Dave Tyson on his way returning from a nights good bar tending and drinking at the Conservative Club. Homeward along West Avenue he fought his way against the howling wind and effects of the drink. As he reached Bellvue Street corner a single slate left its place on a roof above him and hurtled downwards missing his left shoulder by only seven inches. His legs collapsed beneath him, and the darkness of unconsciousness enveloped him. As he fell forward to oblivion a soggy page of the Scarborough Evening News blew and wrapped itself around his head as if some final lamented shroud had been placed upon on him. The blood from the wound caused by the slate embedding itself deeply in the centre of his skull flowed freely and was quickly washed away by the torrential rain. By early morning the storm had broken and the howling winds and the roar of the waves had all but died away. There in the darkness the evidence of the storms devastation littered the streets of the town. Trees, hundreds of years old lay uprooted as if picked and discarded as garden weeds; and across Filey Bay testimony of the marine devastation out to sea covered the sand.

Many strange sea creatures had given up their lives over the past few days and now their bodies lay motionless amongst the knotted masses of brown seaweed on the shore. At one end of the bay a mass of leathery slime quivered and writhed as the force of gravity pulled its body to the sand there being no water to support it. Its jelly-like body pushed feebly outwards touching everything near to it, trying to sense where it was. Several days before it had been in its home several metres on the sea bed, then without warning or reason it had been torn away and abruptly deposited on the sand in an air environment. The only thing that was recognizable to it now was the darkness. Its primitive senses told it that if it was dark, it was safe. There it lay in the cold night air pulsating and quivering as it felt the cold on its wet surface. The sky above the bay began to lighten as out to sea the sun began to slowly rise above the horizon. The thing stopped dead, and there motionless something it had not felt before swept through its whole body. It sensed something. Something threatening. Something dangerous all around it. It lunged to the left and to the right trying to determine the direction from which the threat approached. Finally it felt where the threat was the strongest and with all its might it reared itself up to a full height and threw itself toward the source of this danger. As it fell forward it spread its body trying to envelope and crush the threat. Its attempt was in vain as it crashed with a painful thud onto the wet sand before it. Again it tried only with the same result. This it tried several times more as the light around it got brighter and brighter. Finally with something akin to fear sweeping the whole of its body it slithered swiftly toward the ramp of the Cobble Landing. There it waited and with one final effort pushed its way up the ramp and into the canvas covered Jean Marie cobble.

Throughout the day the thing poked its body parts cautiously from under the canvas to see if the new threat had retreated. Each time the danger was there waiting all around. With each test and with a painful sensation its hatred for the predicament and place it was in grew and grew. Slowly the day came to a close and evening passed into the darkness of another winters night. Now the thing slowly and cautiously emerged from beneath the canvas it sensed that the danger previously threatening it had gone. Its whole body flopped out of the boat and slipped silently away up Church Ravine. As it reached Scarborough Road it realised an all to familiar sensation throughout its primitive body. Now the sensation was one that since birth had constantly driven it. The sensation was that of hunger. It knew only one thing now and that was it had to feed. Up Scarborough Road it slithered until it sensed that it was nearing food. Out that night was Billy Savage taking the one and only love of his life for a walk. The past few days storms had prevented them from going out together but now in the cold crisp night air they could be together. Unseen by gossiping busybodies who made up what they did not know or understand. Billy's piglet Jamima trotted briskly along Scarborough Road her little legs taking her as fast as they could. She knew the route they always took and Billy unable to keep up and now several hundred yards behind her knew that she was safe for she knew the way to go. The pig turned the corner into Rowan Avenue and a muffled sound of a squeal was heard as the thing dropped on her and crushed the last breath of life out of her tiny body. By the time Billy arrived at the scene both the thing and the piglet were gone. The only evidence of what had taken place only moments before was copious amounts of stinking slime on the pavement and surrounding garden fences. Billy called Jamimas name repeatedly from one end of the street to the other as he looked for her. He called and called loudly at the top of his voice waking several sleeping fishermen from their beds. His calls for Jamima were returned by calls from the fishermen with of what he could do with Jamima. Finally he hurried to the nearby phone and in his distress dialled 999.

On the emergency operator answering he asked for police and quickly reported a murder. Within hours the police were on the scene and between his tears and crying Billy was telling the officers all that had happened. Interviewing officer Mappin was taking the details of the incident and he knew how someone who had just lost a loved one in such circumstances could be. He slowly procured from Billy that he and his loved one Jamima were out on an evening stroll together when the girl had decided to run on ahead and was attacked and carried off. By the time Billy had arrived, there was no sine of the girl or the assailant. He then asked Billy to describe Jamima. "About two feet tall. Pink in colour with blue eyes." Billy replied. "And what colour hare does she have?" the officer asked. "Hair? She doesn't have any hair." Billy answered with a puzzled look on his face. "What. She wares a wig?" "A wig. No you copper bastard. What do you think I am? Perverted??" Officer Mappin had come across some strange people that when upset said some strange things, but this was the strangest. "You say she was only two feet tall. Is she a dwarf sir?" the puzzled officer asked. At this Billy became very upset. He lashed out at officer Mappin knocking him to the floor and then proceeded to attack the daised officer. The other officers present assisted the downed officer and restrained Billy and stared to bundle him into a waiting police van. "The slime." Billy shouted "What about the slime?" "Probably snails sir." officer Mappin replied politely as he got back to his feet. "Take him to the bin." He shouted to the driver. Reaching for his radio he called in "Reported murder. It's a malicious false alarm. Taking the person who reported the crime, a Mr William Savage directly to Beverly hospital for restrained observation. Charges. Raising a false alarm. Assaulting a police officer. Wasting police time. Suspect suffering from severe delusions. Over and out." He reported to Scarborough.

In the van Billy was not content. The slime they said was snails. Snails couldn't make that mush slime. He thought to himself. They'd see. He was right. He'd find his loved ones abductor. Back on the streets of Filey the creature had finished its snack and was looking for something to follow. It slithered towards the town centre for it sensed there was more nourishment there. It was right. Clawing his way along the tarmac pavement using its teeth to drag himself along, was Dvvi. Divvi was merry and returning for a hefty nights scrounging amongst the respectable socialites who frequented the Foords Pub. To the creature this was only another meal to be crushed and digested. It didn't care who it was or where it had been. It was food. So nearing the slobbering drunk it raised itself high. As before, it spread itself and descended with a dull thud upon the drunken stupor. As it wrapped itself around the drunks body it pulled itself in covering every part of his body. Contracting and squeezing as tight as it could it tried to crush Divvi flat. From every orifice of his body erupted copious amounts of gas the like of which the creature had never encountered. Every inch of its body burned and pain like it had never felt in its life brfore tore through its body. Its flesh turned to steam it writhed and squirmed trying to escape what was eating into it. Divvi unaware of what was happening and dreaming only of a bunch of beautiful scantily dressed girls were giving him a massage, groaned and rolled with the thing. Finally, after several minutes of both squirming and rolling about, all life from the creature was gone. There lay Divvi covered in a mass of warm fish stinking slime with a smile on his face and a bulge in his trousers to hold up a circus tent. The ambulance crew called to attend to him couldn't understand it. Surely no one could get that excited that much, especially after a nights drinking........Could they?

(top)

Egor, A Night to Remember

It was the night of all hallows and Egor was drunk and taking part in one of his favorite winter pastimes. He was dancing on the graves of the long dead of Filey who now resided in the yard of St Oswalds Church. Above shone a bright full moon that cast the eerie shadows of the old and new gravestones across the graves that they overlooked. By now Egor was dancing for all he was worth and enjoying himself immensely. Through the years at school the saying ‘To dance on someone’s grave’ always had a strange fascination for him. At first it didn’t have much meaning, but as time went on, and he became wiser, it’s exact application became more clear. It became for him the ideal boredom relief for the long winter months in Filey. Most weekends and often weekdays as well were dance time for Egor. Dancing on peoples graves had become like an addiction to a drug. To dance on someone’s grave was to be alive. An aliveness that was more alive than life itself. More alive than the person in the grave was or was ever going to be anyway.

It wasn’t that Egor held any grudge or malice towards the graves occupant; he didn’t even read the name on the gravestone. It was just that a night of listening to the Codgers music and a skin full of beer that would make him so bored that he needed a fix. The only time that Egor could receive this high of highs was at the dead of night. And he knew that the only place he could get it was the churchyard. He knew that a churchyard at this time provided not only the perfect environment, but also the ultimate protection against none sympathetic puritans who would see Egor and his kind banished from Filey for what they craved. These persons and their like had seen many with Egors disposition sent to the ‘hospital’ at Beverly for a long stay. Once they’re never to see the confines of a cemetery again. It’s new and old graves, their new and old rotting flowers and the evergreen ewe trees standing as if guardians to it all. In the past he had visited an uncle at this hell of hells at Beverly and as night had fallen he had heard the screams of those craving the turf of a freshly filled grave. This had made his mind up to put aside the stories of ghosts and demons that were said to haunt churchyards and the like by night and to be brave. He had soon found out that there were no such things and that anyway, after taking plenty of drink he didn’t care. Now, here, he knew that he would not be disturbed as no one, especially on this night, would dare venture near the churchyard after dark.

He was in full jig and the Codgers tune thumping in his head, his feet frantically trying to follow, when suddenly through the music he became aware of a sound. A random tapping as if metal were striking rock. He stopped his dance and stood still. The music slowly died and the graves around him eventually stopped swaying. There he stood still and silent listening to see what the noise was and where it was coming from. To his left the sound seemed loudest. Cautiously he began to walk to the place from where the tapping came. I seemed to be emanating from behind a large newly placed gravestone. As he neared this he also heard the sound of soft humming as if someone was happy in their work. His mind started to race. ‘Who could be here at this time of night?’ he thought. ‘On this night! What could they be doing?’ As he reached the stone he paused. Taking a large gulp of air he looked over the top. Very quickly he changed from a drunken attire to that of a sober stat. There in front of the stone was a small shabbily dressed man. A hammer in one had, a chisel in the other.

The man stopped his tapping and his tune and looked up at Egor. There the two remained speechless until Egor finally spoke out of pure fear. ‘Who…Who are you? And what are you doing??’ he asked. The small man took a look at first the stone, then the tools he held, and then Egor. ‘They spelled my name wrong.’ He said.

(top)

Yanks Alot

You talk of the Americans Steve, and their ‘star wars’ systems of defence. Well the days of reds under the bed and the threat of nuclear attack from the east, I think are long gone. The Americans now have to look more closely to home amongst their own, and those who follow them and work for them for the threat of death and destruction.

These days they have subtler forms of defence that no one, not even those who befriend them could ever know of or imagine, to put a stop to any uprising or anarchy.
Let me explain. Has anyone ever noticed a large white cylindrical tank located close to many of the factories and facilities of works throughout the UK? Works such as McCains for instance that has one of these white metal objects located just at the rear of their main building.

Has anyone ever wondered the purpose of such an object? Or why it is there? Surely it is something to do with the heating, or even air conditioning to keep the workers content as they go about their daily toil? It must be, you may think. A variety of factories and places of work seem to have them these days, and any firm spending money to have one of these surely expensive things must do so for some good or worthwhile reason?

Well, if this is what you thought, then you could not be further from the truth of being right. There is a more sinister reason for these large white tanks, and their seemingly harmless role shadows one of the most hideous and destructive things ever known to mankind.

Now I know you are beginning to think along the lines of such a thing as an atom bomb, or even that they are full of some deadly nerve gas or other. Well, these mere kiddies play toys are as snuff is to a squid, and it is not the tank or what it contains that is so terribly gruesome and destructive.

The tanks are located near to a variety of manufacturing facilities of many different kinds, but all have but one thing in common, they all have American shareholders who from far overseas rake in the comeback of their stock market investment. Any the wiser?

The tanks themselves are innocent and are but stores for many thousands of litres of liquid nitrogen, the coldest substance known.

Some may ask, what would a multi-million pound computer manufacturer in Scotland or even a glass eye manufacturer in Pontefract want with several thousand litres of this freezing cold fluid? If a glass eye, or even a real one were to accidentally fall into the stuff and then be dropped to the ground, it would shatter instantly into a million tiny pieces.

As I mentioned, the tank or what it contains is not what is to be feared. No. The freezing liquid that is so very cold and near absolute zero is that for that very and only reason. It keeps something within a chamber in the factory building very, very cold and in a totally frozen and life suspended state.

This something that must be kept in this solid, and motionless, and in a lifeless condition is a thing called a C.S.Y., a Cryogenically Stored Yank. A Yank. Yes. An American. A real one. All the way from America. Fat, glasses, and with a set of bright red braces over its shoulders to prevent its pants from falling down. Frozen solid and kept in a life suspended state as crisp and as perfect as the day it was manufactured; ready for the time, God forbid, when it should be needed to be defrosted and perform its one and only deadly task.

This genetically and surgically altered abomination was initially designed and developed for use in the Vietnam War of the sixties and seventies. There they were to be dumped in their thousands from the bomb bays of the mighty B52’s bombers, and as the warmth of the tropical sun thawed them out, they would do their stuff.

Unfortunately for the American government the war had ended before they could be used, which had left the Americans with rather a large and expensive problem. Then to make things even worse, the Russians made friends with them and everybody else in the world.

Now they really did have a problem of almighty proportions on their hands. Several thousand of these weapons of total and mass destruction and annihilation, and a cost of several million dollars a year of the American tax payers money to keep the damn things cool. It was working out to be a recipe for total bankruptcy not seen since the twenties.

Thoughts had been given to using them when in the eighties America declared war on Iraq, but due to the heat of the desert sun it was decided not to as the they would defrost far too quickly and be a danger to their own men.

A lifeline had come just in time when their friends and ever-faithful allies, Britain, had bought and installed cable TV throughout its land. Now any American and any American firm could sell on a multitude of channels, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, credit, insurance of all kinds, pensions, and of course, a variety of household products and drugs not legal in America. Due to this the American stock market rocketed to fantastic and unseen heights as firms in Britain were quickly invested in by worldwide American investors and stock brokers.

The problem of the excess of C.S.Y’s was also solved overnight. Firms having large American fiscal aid were contracted into having one installed on their premises to protect the monetary flow in the case of some ‘dire emergency’. Such an emergency included: A factory management hostage situation due to terrorist activity, and even worse, a factory management hostage situation due to worker industrial action; both of which would effect factory production and cause American share holders and investors unease.

The principal of one of these ‘things’ is, as many weapons quite simple and straightforward.

The drop in production below a pre-determined level will automatically close a valve stopping the flow of liquid nitrogen to the Yanks chamber.

Shortly afterwards, the Yank will defrost to room temperature of its own accord and there upon reaching this will awake and be let loose to roam freely within the building or its grounds. As it meanders along it will talk constantly and very loudly, complete and utter crap. The way that it had killed a whole SS battalion of a hundred men, using only its false teeth as a weapon. How in its homeland it carved toothpicks from the Californian giant redwood trees with a disused razor blade. How it had 20 very large cars, one for each day of the week because American weeks are bigger than everyone else’s.

This verbal rubbish will ensue total confusion into anyone within hearing range of it and thus provided the Yank with an easy and near motionless target to hit. Anything living that it does come across will be instantly and without question shot dead.

The Yank itself cannot be killed quickly, as it is of course, a Yank. Certain parts of its' brain ensure this and are diminished in size or are totally missing. The reasoning and logic centers, the pain centers, and of course, the auditory centers between its ears. This means it is no use trying to reason with it, as it is always right. You can't hurt it very easily. It won’t listen to anything anyone says. And if it adds two and two together it comes up with several hundred million dollars that is the best and only currency in the world. The speech center of the brain is also surgically cross-routed to the lower bowel region of the intestine area of the lower abdomen. The reason for this was mentioned and explained previously.

If it itself were to be shot, or stabbed, or injured in any severe way, it will not realise it for several weeks and therefore wont be bothered in the slightest by the fact and go about its business until it drops.

The only defence against this total and utter killing machine is to sing. Sing at the top of your voice the star spangled banner, as quickly and as loudly as you can. This will hold the Yank in a state of patriotic transfixment while the song goes on. Unfortunately the length of the song is how long you have to live, and its no use trying to sing it over again, Yanks are one of the most patriotic beings on the planet, but they cannot count to two.

This was found out quite by accident at one of the C.S.Y. test sites when the scientist Hyram J Hophymar, who’d devoted his life to creating the C.S.Y., at seeing one defrosting before him for the first time began to sing at his triumphant achievement. There the Yank awakened and stood for a whole five minutes and listened as he sang at the top of his voice, and as the man finished the anthem, and the gathered crowd stood there watching began to clap their applause, the Yank put a colt 45 gun to his head and blew out his brains. The others began to sing for all they were worth but the Yank, although still smiling with patriotism, had had its quota of one and began on an all out killing spree.

For the next two weeks a whole regiment of the American Armed Guard battled with the thing as it trundled along killing and talking rubbish and then its death only did come about due to it starving to death.

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