MicroHorror

Tis a pleasure t’ make yer acquaintance, squire, be it fer a long time ’r fer short. Me name is Grom, son of many Groms afore me, and if yer dasn’t mind, squire, I’d like t’ take this hopportunity t’ regale ye with some of me stories whilst we walk. I cain’t resist me a captive audience! I meets many interestin’ folks ’n’ such, from near er from far, but on a cause o’ me callin’ I dasn’t git th’ chance to form many lastin’ friendships, if ya knows what I mean. So ever’ new hallo is a new hopportunity, I allays says. Ye agrees wi’ me! I sees ya noddin’ yer ’ead. I likes that in a new friend.

Las’ bloke I ’ad the priv’lege of callin’ me friend, why ’e claimed ’e knew th’ famous Robin ’ood personal-like, says he! Promises me riches galore! ‘Now, what use would a simple bloke like Grom ’ave t’ do wi’ riches ’n’ sich!’ says I to the man. ‘But if yer got ’is ’ood wi’ ye, it’ll do ye right ’andy-like now, it will!’ I goes on t’ say. It was one o’ me humourous stories, I thinks, but the bloke ne’er laughs tho’ I was like to bust a gut.

Another sich claimed t’ve been a ’ighwayman hisself, would ye b’lieve, but stole nary a t’ing hisself but was jailed on mere reputation of ’is ridin’ comrades alone. ‘Ne’er stick yer neck out fer another man,’ says I, but this bloke ne’er laughs neither, nor e’en cracks a smile on ’is face. Now I’m right famous in these parts fer me humorous stories, so it made me none too kindly bent towards these blokes when they di’n’t laugh.

Mind yer ’ead on that overhangin’ branch now as ye treads, squire! Wouldn’t want ye t’ be breakin’ yer neck and missin’ me stories so soon after callin’ each other friend, now would we? Lessee if this ’ere axe’ll take care o’ hit–nope, hain’t sharp enough. Fergot t’ sharpen ’er t’day in all the excitement o’ meetin’ ye!

Ah–’ere we be, squire. Now if ye’ll jest kneel right ’ere afore this ’ere stone, and rest yer ’ead on’t just so. It’ll help if ye turns yer ’ead t’other way, so ye dasn’t haf’t see the axe fall. It can’t be ’elped, sometimes, t’ snap open yer eyes at the very last moment, even if ye tries ’ard t’ keep ’em shut. Why, I seen one bloke’s eyes puff out like a bullfrog wi’ ev’ry blow o’ me axe, so it had t’ be painin’ ’im some. But I hain’t no Madame Guillotine–she hain’t even been born yet! Yer not laughin’ neither, squire. That’s another o’ me stories, fer a later date an’ a later bloke.

I ’ope ye dasn’t ’old me smile agin’ me, squire, but ’tis me one character fault: I likes t’ tell me stories… but I loves t’ slay me audience.