The Others
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NSFW WARNING
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It was cold and foggy. I had just moved to a new mansion with my sickly 22-year-old son.
My wife, Barbara, had died of a severe paper cut. Because it is the olden days, we have no cure for such things. Oh Barbara, I do miss beating you (more socially acceptable for me because of when I'm alive, with horses instead of cars etc).
Or was it the olden days??
"Rest well, little Timmy." I said as I kissed my son goodnight. "Try not to die before t' morning. I was thinking of having a wank. Digging your grave would put a spanner in those particular works."
"I'll try, Papa. However, I would just say that I saw a ghost not long ago. It was watching me. And I consider it to be a bad omen. An omen of death."
"Shut up, Timmy. I haven't got my end away for several days since your mother died. I don't want to have a struggle tug looking over my shoulder for a fucking ghost."
"Sorry, Papa."
Later that evening, even 'fore the stroke of midnight, Timmy was dead. I had to spend the rest of the morning digging his dumbass grave.
"Finally now I can bust my nut." I said to the empty house once it was all done.
It being the olden days, we didn't have much in the way of pornography and I had to rely on the sexiest piece of coal I could find.
But, as I began to do the deed, what did I see but a group of terrifying apparitions watching me from the shadows?
"And this is the point in the tour when the spirit we like to call 'Masturbating Madman' discharges his ectoplasm all over the room. If you are in the front row, be warned; you will get wet."
Do you see what is happening? I was the ghost. I was the masturbating madman. It wasn't the olden days but the modern days. And the modern days' ghost tour would all gather round and watch me whacking it to my favourite piece of coal. These are the terrifying realities of genre fiction.
Credited to koalazeus
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