The Bravest Coward Ever to Set Foot in Yardlock

The noon sun towered over the English settlement of Yardlock, in County Rumster. The quaint town bordered the sapphire sea, which was warm at that time of the year. Everything was absolutely fine. Well, except for the bloody corpse lying in the back alley of a street. The first to notice it were the stray dogs which scavenged for food at dawn. They were called the Yardlock Demons, composed of a group of stray dogs who scavenged for food, terrorized small children, and occasionally left a peasant with deadly rabies. The group, as recalled by Abbot Dillinger, had been around since his great-grandfathers time, but the cubs born from the others clang to the group until their deaths, but not before they could produce a successor. Of course, some superstitious Yardlockers believed there were some dogs as old as the beginning of time, still surveying the town for a scrap to eat, like lower-caste vultures. The leader of the pack was named Nero, no matter what dog it was, and it was also said he was the son of a witch who slept with the devil. Nero was already ripping the hands off, while the rest of the pack took out small bites, when little Johnny Hastings saw them, and shooed them away by throwing pebbles at them. When he saw the disfigured body of the man, which had been dragged by the demons to the very middle of the road, he immediately screamed loudly and ran all across Noughtonburry Road until he reached the quaint house in which he lived in. He took his mother in screams and alarming statements, to the corpse on the empty street. The mother immediately went to the sheriffs office and demanded something be done. In the afternoon clouds, the sheriff arrived to inspect the body. Already, a large crowd of by-standers had come to admire the body, curiosity being one of the most basic human instincts. Then, he asked his assistants to drag the body back to the office. Mrs. Hastings tagged along. At a long distance, some of the bystanders also followed casually like lost puppies. The body did not get to the office, however, because the sheriffs assistants became completely burnt out, the corpse being extremely muscular and heavy. So, instead, they dragged him to the side to inspect him. A large piece of his face was missing, so was a finger on his right hand. The sheriff reasoned that this was the work of the Yardlock Devils. However, the large scars which he had on his forehead, legs and arms were uncountable, and even in the back of his neck there was a giant slash buried into his flesh. The peasants, being highly nave, began to think of him as a man which got into a fight. Then a pub fight. A pub fight, for the honor of a woman, for the honor of his country, no, not a bar fight, but a sword duel, and not with just any, no no, with the very same bandits of Peltington, yes, he had fought off all forty, with only a broken sword, no, not even that, with only a sharpened branch, yes, thats more like it, and with this sharpened branch he had inflicted terrible pain into the bandits, who ran away like cowards to the mans braveness, yes, yes, oh and also these bandits were plotting to kill the Lord of Abbeyton, yes yes, those bastards, however the man succumbed to his wounds, yes, in battle, and walked 600 miles, no less than 600, of course, to this very town, simply to die here, because after all, this was his home town, of course it was his hometown, what other town in England could produce such a fine fellow,

none other than Yardlock, of course, but oh, he must have died so melancholically, yes, so nostalgically, reminiscing his childhood in these very paths, oh, what a romantic, what a lovely man he must have been! Then, the crowd insisted the sheriff give this brave man a proper burial. And so, after a small break from the assistants, and with the help of the crowd, they moved him to the church, where Father John was asked unexpectedly to perform a funeral The result was incredible. Women cried for the brave man. Men beat their chests and shed tears, too. The sheriff took of his hat with great sorrow, and kindly gave his respects to the gentle giant, who sat on an open casket. He took the bag which the man had slung over his shoulder, and hung it over his. Then, after the prayers, and some eulogies from strangers, he was taken to the grave, where the gravediggers had dug the most perfect hole, and the peasants had pooled their money for a beautiful stone grave and majestic wooden casket. Then, he was buried, and the crowd solemnly exited the parish. The sheriff, after the funeral, took the bag to his office. He saw only a half-empty flask labeled Cyanide. and a letter to one called George Parnum, which read: My dearest George I will not be arriving on Saturday to Duttonsbury. I have decided to take my life. My dearest wife has left me because of my drinking; Ive killed her and my children in a fit of rage; on top of that, I was accused of thievery and tortured by the sheriffs in Ableton. These pain me too much. So, in this very miserable town, and not in beautiful Duttonsbury, containing the essence of my youth, I will leave to the unknown. Goodbye, And then an ink stain.