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As I approached I quivered in anticipation. My legs were jelly, my hands and arms were those of an Parkinson’s sufferer. I did not have butterflies in my stomach, I had birds. I could barely walk in a straight line and if the police had saw me they would have thought I had drunk more vodka than Yeltsin. I reached the shed finally and fumbled with the keys at the huge brass padlock. Finally it came off and I pulled open the steel shed doors that slid silently on their well oiled rollers, as if daring me to make a noise. I did, a long whistle of appreciation and awe as I saw the beast in front of me. It was a blood red with four black as night tyres, complete with a halogen light on the front and pipes leading up to a huge black box at the back. I walked towards if slowly, as if expecting it to come alive. It didn’t of course, so I got up and sat on the seat of power. I reached down with the key, put it in the ignition and turned. VROOOM, VROOOOM ( a little throttle here) VROOOOOOOOOOM. I was crazy with the power of the machine, and knew my sanity could only last so long. I let the throttle down, shifted into second gear and brought the hog out gently, careful not to damage anything, even though that was unlikely. I brought it in an about turn, drove up the yard, then down, then reversed, then back again, for a few minutes.
After a few minutes of these manoeuvres designed to get the feel of the killing machine, I approached the area of death, an area where I would be decapitating the entire population. I sniggered shamelessly in glee of what was about to take place. I lowered the blades, added a bit of throttle and shifted into third. The machine gave a gut wrenching jerk and set off in a straight line, wreaking havoc at everything in its path. I was amazed by the agility of the steering and how easy to move my vessel was. I would have been able to turn on a severed head, the steering was so good. I gripped the wheel with a eagerness surpassing an infant who was in a sweet shop. My eagerness was different, they had a lust for candy, I had a lust for speed, power and death. The fatalities and injured piled up in the boxes that were meant to catch them. I could not stop smiling at my progress, and the brazenly way I was going about it. The smells of death and war were rampant - the nauseating yet lovely odour of unleaded fuel, and the whiff of the life blood that seeped from my victims. The noise of the engine filled my ears and my thoughts, and my mind gave way to nothing except the roar of the throttle, the swish of the blades, and the grinding and chop of the victims. I was in my element. Eventually the sacks of dead became full, and I jammed into fourth before I sped up to the fence at the top of my allocated area of cutting and stopped. I hopped off my steed and went to the rear, where I unlatched the top and surveyed the dead. There were thousands of them, piled innumerably on top of each other in various shades of green. I felt no shame as I emptied the sacks and discarded their bodies as if they were nothing but sand, and cast them to the wind. I reconnected the sacks, closed the latch and went on about my business. The cold bit at my fingers and the wind slapped my face, but my mind was preoccupied with the killing, and nothing could change that.
After I had massacred by decapitation thousands upon thousands of the inhabitants, I realized that I had finished, and I could not eke out the task any longer, so, with a heart full of sadness and yet a strange sense of fulfilment, I went to wash my war machine. The bodies had plastered the sides and bottom of the beast, and it was hard work scrubbing it all of. However, I got it finished and I cleaned it up a bit, before gently reversing it back into the shed of containment. I closed the doors with a heavy heart, but with a strong feeling of achievement, and went and surveyed my work. It was a masterpiece.
I loved cutting the grass.
After a few minutes of these manoeuvres designed to get the feel of the killing machine, I approached the area of death, an area where I would be decapitating the entire population. I sniggered shamelessly in glee of what was about to take place. I lowered the blades, added a bit of throttle and shifted into third. The machine gave a gut wrenching jerk and set off in a straight line, wreaking havoc at everything in its path. I was amazed by the agility of the steering and how easy to move my vessel was. I would have been able to turn on a severed head, the steering was so good. I gripped the wheel with a eagerness surpassing an infant who was in a sweet shop. My eagerness was different, they had a lust for candy, I had a lust for speed, power and death. The fatalities and injured piled up in the boxes that were meant to catch them. I could not stop smiling at my progress, and the brazenly way I was going about it. The smells of death and war were rampant - the nauseating yet lovely odour of unleaded fuel, and the whiff of the life blood that seeped from my victims. The noise of the engine filled my ears and my thoughts, and my mind gave way to nothing except the roar of the throttle, the swish of the blades, and the grinding and chop of the victims. I was in my element. Eventually the sacks of dead became full, and I jammed into fourth before I sped up to the fence at the top of my allocated area of cutting and stopped. I hopped off my steed and went to the rear, where I unlatched the top and surveyed the dead. There were thousands of them, piled innumerably on top of each other in various shades of green. I felt no shame as I emptied the sacks and discarded their bodies as if they were nothing but sand, and cast them to the wind. I reconnected the sacks, closed the latch and went on about my business. The cold bit at my fingers and the wind slapped my face, but my mind was preoccupied with the killing, and nothing could change that.
After I had massacred by decapitation thousands upon thousands of the inhabitants, I realized that I had finished, and I could not eke out the task any longer, so, with a heart full of sadness and yet a strange sense of fulfilment, I went to wash my war machine. The bodies had plastered the sides and bottom of the beast, and it was hard work scrubbing it all of. However, I got it finished and I cleaned it up a bit, before gently reversing it back into the shed of containment. I closed the doors with a heavy heart, but with a strong feeling of achievement, and went and surveyed my work. It was a masterpiece.
I loved cutting the grass.
* chuckles *
Such a heartwarming little tale :)
Such a heartwarming little tale :)
My dear, that was highly entertaining. Keep doing the good work.
Needn't worry, I'm never on MSN.
It's evil, brain-sapping Microsoft nasty plotting, I tell thee.
It's evil, brain-sapping Microsoft nasty plotting, I tell thee.
Cheers, people. By the way FFF, I added you the other day to my MSN, my email is [email protected] - just in case you wonder who it is.
*Points*
Look, it's RoJ.
Good sheet.
Look, it's RoJ.
Good sheet.
You crazy lawnmower, you!
;)
;)
Nice.
As I approached I quivered in anticipation. My legs were jelly, my hands and arms were those of an Parkinson’s sufferer. I did not have butterflies in my stomach, I had birds. I could barely walk in a straight line and if the police had saw me they would have thought I had drunk more vodka than Yeltsin. I reached the shed finally and fumbled with the keys at the huge brass padlock. Finally it came off and I pulled open the steel shed doors that slid silently on their well oiled rollers, as if daring me to make a noise. I did, a long whistle of appreciation and awe as I saw the beast in front of me. It was a blood red with four black as night tyres, complete with a halogen light on the front and pipes leading up to a huge black box at the back. I walked towards if slowly, as if expecting it to come alive. It didn’t of course, so I got up and sat on the seat of power. I reached down with the key, put it in the ignition and turned. VROOOM, VROOOOM ( a little throttle here) VROOOOOOOOOOM. I was crazy with the power of the machine, and knew my sanity could only last so long. I let the throttle down, shifted into second gear and brought the hog out gently, careful not to damage anything, even though that was unlikely. I brought it in an about turn, drove up the yard, then down, then reversed, then back again, for a few minutes.
After a few minutes of these manoeuvres designed to get the feel of the killing machine, I approached the area of death, an area where I would be decapitating the entire population. I sniggered shamelessly in glee of what was about to take place. I lowered the blades, added a bit of throttle and shifted into third. The machine gave a gut wrenching jerk and set off in a straight line, wreaking havoc at everything in its path. I was amazed by the agility of the steering and how easy to move my vessel was. I would have been able to turn on a severed head, the steering was so good. I gripped the wheel with a eagerness surpassing an infant who was in a sweet shop. My eagerness was different, they had a lust for candy, I had a lust for speed, power and death. The fatalities and injured piled up in the boxes that were meant to catch them. I could not stop smiling at my progress, and the brazenly way I was going about it. The smells of death and war were rampant - the nauseating yet lovely odour of unleaded fuel, and the whiff of the life blood that seeped from my victims. The noise of the engine filled my ears and my thoughts, and my mind gave way to nothing except the roar of the throttle, the swish of the blades, and the grinding and chop of the victims. I was in my element. Eventually the sacks of dead became full, and I jammed into fourth before I sped up to the fence at the top of my allocated area of cutting and stopped. I hopped off my steed and went to the rear, where I unlatched the top and surveyed the dead. There were thousands of them, piled innumerably on top of each other in various shades of green. I felt no shame as I emptied the sacks and discarded their bodies as if they were nothing but sand, and cast them to the wind. I reconnected the sacks, closed the latch and went on about my business. The cold bit at my fingers and the wind slapped my face, but my mind was preoccupied with the killing, and nothing could change that.
After I had massacred by decapitation thousands upon thousands of the inhabitants, I realized that I had finished, and I could not eke out the task any longer, so, with a heart full of sadness and yet a strange sense of fulfilment, I went to wash my war machine. The bodies had plastered the sides and bottom of the beast, and it was hard work scrubbing it all of. However, I got it finished and I cleaned it up a bit, before gently reversing it back into the shed of containment. I closed the doors with a heavy heart, but with a strong feeling of achievement, and went and surveyed my work. It was a masterpiece.
I loved cutting the grass.
After a few minutes of these manoeuvres designed to get the feel of the killing machine, I approached the area of death, an area where I would be decapitating the entire population. I sniggered shamelessly in glee of what was about to take place. I lowered the blades, added a bit of throttle and shifted into third. The machine gave a gut wrenching jerk and set off in a straight line, wreaking havoc at everything in its path. I was amazed by the agility of the steering and how easy to move my vessel was. I would have been able to turn on a severed head, the steering was so good. I gripped the wheel with a eagerness surpassing an infant who was in a sweet shop. My eagerness was different, they had a lust for candy, I had a lust for speed, power and death. The fatalities and injured piled up in the boxes that were meant to catch them. I could not stop smiling at my progress, and the brazenly way I was going about it. The smells of death and war were rampant - the nauseating yet lovely odour of unleaded fuel, and the whiff of the life blood that seeped from my victims. The noise of the engine filled my ears and my thoughts, and my mind gave way to nothing except the roar of the throttle, the swish of the blades, and the grinding and chop of the victims. I was in my element. Eventually the sacks of dead became full, and I jammed into fourth before I sped up to the fence at the top of my allocated area of cutting and stopped. I hopped off my steed and went to the rear, where I unlatched the top and surveyed the dead. There were thousands of them, piled innumerably on top of each other in various shades of green. I felt no shame as I emptied the sacks and discarded their bodies as if they were nothing but sand, and cast them to the wind. I reconnected the sacks, closed the latch and went on about my business. The cold bit at my fingers and the wind slapped my face, but my mind was preoccupied with the killing, and nothing could change that.
After I had massacred by decapitation thousands upon thousands of the inhabitants, I realized that I had finished, and I could not eke out the task any longer, so, with a heart full of sadness and yet a strange sense of fulfilment, I went to wash my war machine. The bodies had plastered the sides and bottom of the beast, and it was hard work scrubbing it all of. However, I got it finished and I cleaned it up a bit, before gently reversing it back into the shed of containment. I closed the doors with a heavy heart, but with a strong feeling of achievement, and went and surveyed my work. It was a masterpiece.
I loved cutting the grass.