The Bloke

You were down at the pub one night, 'avin' a larf with the boys over a few cold ones. Everything was cheerful and 100% awesome, but then you saw him. At the back of the bar, he stared relentlessly, his atrociously malformed face grotesquely contorted in unbridled rage. He was the bloke, and he FUCKING hates you and your stupid FUCKING friends. And oh yeah, he's mad alright. He's about ready to start something. He stands up suddenly and bellows at you and da posse:

"Get the FUCK outta my house."

The boys laughed and chattered amongst themselves, but then they saw your grave expression. This weren't no jocular moment. The bloke was gonna slit yer gizzard and gut ye like a fish, child. No more smile. No more Funtime. Only Paintime. Only cry.

"Oh piss off will ya? We're tryna have a drink here ya old cunt!" said Georgie, his confidence and resolve quickly evaporating as the bloke began approaching the table, looking positively murderous. He grinned maniacally and stared straight at Georgie.

"Endlife." He murmured, and Georgie boy was on the floor, writhing and convulsing in a state of unparalleled and utterly unimaginable agony. The bloke chuckled with absolutely no discernible happiness, and instantaneously appeared at your side.

"You wanna go out like Georgie there, huh? Do ya? 'Cause I can make that happen, real fuck' fast."

His appalling halitosis nearly made you pass out as he moved his offensive face away from yours, shortly before vomiting profusely over the entire table, inundating every beer in a juicy, viscous layer of human detritus.

"J-j-jus... jus... just leave us alone!" You cried hoarsely, but he only tittered like an excited schoolgirl in response as he impaled "the boys" in quick succession upon an array of piercing implements, which seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Looking around, you notice that nobody else in the pub even gives a fuck. Nobody has their phones out, nobody's calling the cops, you and your friends have been forgotten. It's just you and the bloke now. He sits there smiling placidly at you as you shiver uncontrollably. Then suddenly he pats you on the shoulder and laughs.

"Psych!' As he says this the walls and furnishings of the pub suddenly fall away, revealing a large, grey room where numerous figures in white coats stand around with clipboards. A feeling of sheer, mind-warping terror overwhelming you, you attempt to flee but quickly realise that you're tethered to something.

You look down and see white sheets. You try to lift them off you but nothing happens. Looking to the left, you see... air, where your arm would be. On the right... oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh shit. You try to wrangle your body out of the bed with your legs, but they're gone too. The bloke, on the other hand? Ha. Haha. HAHAHAHA. That's right kids, the bloke's still here, wearing a doctor's coat and literally jumping for joy as he cackled with boundless amusement at your pathetic plight.

"I hope you enjoyed your drink! Haha haha!" He jeers at you, and the assembled medical staff all laugh uproariously at his mockery of you, growing louder and louder until you are utterly overwhelmed by the harsh wall of sound that represents their insane sense of humour. Yes, they're laughing at YOU. Not the generic "you", the EXACT person reading this sentence right now.

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