StoryTime! Tim Stantion and the Spooky Christmas Ghost, by Tony Went.

14 Dec

An Explainin’ The Cosmos treat for you today, as I give over the blog to 15 year old Tony Went, who is bound to become one of the countries top novellists.

Take it away, Tony!

Tim Stantion and the Spooky Christmas Ghost.

A short story by Tony Went.

For me Mum.

“Rub it!!! Rub it!!! Rub it now! Rub rub rub!”
Tim was always the victim of the practical jokes in his office. From the “kick me” signs on the back of his jacket, to having his hands stapled to the windowsill, wherever there was the opportunity for cheap laughs at someones expense, at Myerson’s International he always seemed to be that someone.
Today, however, was to be the day he was going to
defeat his tormentors. “No!” he said. “I will NOT rub it”.

“Rubbity-wubbity-shiney-shine” came the response. “Stop saying that! It doesn’t even MEAN anything…” the clearly exasperated office clerk blubbed before being cut off with the nonsensical “rub-a-bub-a-dub”. No, for Tim Stantion, there was only one way to stop this childish behaviour in the warehouse of a major shipping firm. He was going to have to punch his boss in the face. “All due respect, Sir, but I will not rub that Palletizer.”. He then took a swing, and Bill Portett, the aging man-child with the ginger curls, went down quicker than a whole shipment of potatoes. Problem was, he didn’t get up.

It wasn’t long before Tim, not the quickest lad in the world, realised that he’d killed his boss. He reasoned that the blood from the nose, where he had so millimetre-perfectly twatted his line manager, was consistent with the injury he had inflicted out of months of torment. The blood from his ears and the corner of his mouth, however, suggested t
hat he was at the very first stage of decomposition.
“For fucks sake, Stantion”, he thought, “why didn’t you just go through the Grievence route with HR???”. Bizarrely, as he was thinking this, Bennett had just turned up at the scene, and said the exact same words at the exact same time. This created a bizarre stereo effect in Tim’s head, just like that mad Flaming Lips album that you need 22 CD players for. “ARGH” he shouted. “I’ve just killed a man, Ollie! A great man!”

Ollie Bennett and Tim both looked
down at the dead fat ginger. What was Tim going to do? The thoughts were racing through his mind so fast that he didn’t know what language he was thinking in. He sat down, took a deep breath, and turned to his buddy. “Ollie, it was the rubbing stuff again. I’ve had two weeks of this. Two weeks of ‘rub it! hahaha ooobiedooobiedubrub!’ and I just couldn’t take another minute! Do you think that I could get manslaughter for this?”
Ollie shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s not a jury in the land who’ll believe you. Bill was a well respected man in the community, and it’s only you who have been making the allegations of bullying, torment, and his alleged mental instability”. Tim knew that Ollie was right. Bill Portett was one sly dog. He would always ensure that the coast was clear before inflicting mental anguish on his subordinate. The way things stood, he could only see two possible outcomes – murder, or if the history of bullying were made clear to a jury, pre-meditated murder.
“Tim, you know I’m going to have to call the police, don’t you?”
Tim nodded, silently.

The call was over in a matter of seconds. Resigned to his fate, Tim went over to the pallet truck, and started swearing at it. “Stoopid cocking cock, this is all your fault. Pallet truck? Twat-Mallet FUCK more like”. Ollie found this a little unsettling, as he had walked in on Tim right as he took the swing, and missed the pre-amble. “H
e wanted me to rub this Palletizer, Ollie. Why would a sane man ask me to do that, Ollie? What would it have achieved, Ollie?”
As the post-bossicide rantings of a killer got more and more frantic, Tim started to rub the truck in the way his late boss encouraged, before turning to the considerably more Smurf-like Mr Portett. “See, I’m fucking rubbing it now! LOOK! RUB-A-DUB-A-FLUB, you dead…” as Ollie physicially restrained his, by now psychotic, colleague and common criminal.
“Don’t stop, I was enjoying that!”

Tim and Ollie froze, then looked at each other, with both their chins hanging loose underneath their teeth. “Did the pallet truck… no, it…”
Now, as common as it is for victims of psychotic episodes to experience hallucinations, it’s also extremely rare for two people, one of whom is ostensibly level headed, to share the same hallucination.
“I’m not sure how you’re doing this, and it’s a very clever trick, but whoever this is, stop it now!” screamed Ollie, fearing for his own sanity. “COME ON, WHO IS THIS???”
Tim, by contrast, was hunched on the floor, tears streaming down his face, nervously rocking back and forth, muttering to himself. Mr Portett was beginning to smell a bit.

“I’m Trucky da Twuck…” said Trucky, the pallet truck, “…how’s it goin’?”. Ollie still could not believe his eyes and ears or nose. Trucky made no sense. Why would a pallet truck, famous for being a way of transporting goods on wooden planks round a warehouse in Grays, Essex, be able to speak? And given where it was, why was it speaking in a decidedly dodgy Brooklyn accent? Most importantly, why did he have a moustache?
“Listen kid, da Feds will be here any minute, I ain’t got time to explain. Get your moping chum up off dat floor and lets hit the road!”
Ollie didn’t need a second invite. He picked up the blubbering wreck of a paperclip counter, slung him over his shoulder, jumped on the legs of the now anthropomorphic piece of warehouse equiptment, and they made good their escape, smashing through the wall of the compound, over a small patch of grass, and onto the road.
“Buhh, ga buh err, ahh, where what are you we going?” mumbled Tim, who found that travelling at 30 miles an hour on a magic industrial skateboard was bringing him back to reality. “Hi, I’m Twucky, and we’re on da run from da fuzz!” came the cheery reply. “I know a good little place we can lay low for a while, till the heats off. Only problem is, it’s the other side of the river. We’re gonna have to navigate the Dartford Bridge. Anybody got any quarters?”

Meanwhile, back in Myerson’s warehouse, the police had arrived. A couple of forensics are at the body, taking DNA swabs and whatnot, whilst PC Terry MacDonald is studying the CCTV with the head janitor. “Unfortunately”, Boris said, “we can’t make heads or tails of this ourselves. As you can see here, Bill… the deceased is knocked on his arse by Tim Stantion, one of his team. Can’t make out what’s being said, you can see here that the gentleman on the floor has completely stopped moving, and then the assailant goes over to the pallet truck. As you can see, the video cuts out then.”
“So,” PC Terry MacDonald interjects, “are you suggesting here that the assailant, filled with rage, picked up the pallet truck and threw it at the video camera, to blank out his escape?”

“No, officer, not at all.” Boris turns off the light, grabs his handy janitorial torch, and points it at his face. “What I am suggesting is that, as soon as Bill took his final breath, his spirit entered the netherworld. He was a bad man, used to put thumbtacks in Tim’s tea.” PC MacDonald scribbles this down on his notepad, and looks at his fresh brew with great suspicion.
“However, due to the spirit world being full to the brim with malevolent demons looking for a way out, and given our prime location by Junction 5 on the M25, it seems that at the very moment his soul left our realm, a gateway was opened and a spirit came over in his place.”
PC MacDonald nods. “I’ll be honest, I’ve worked for the Essex Police for over 20 years, and I’ve never heard such utter…”
“It’s true. The moon is in Atlantis. Everyone knows that this is when the forces of evil are at their strongest.”. PC MacDonald tries to interrupt, but Boris the Janitor is in full flow. “…and besides, we may not have much time!”
“DO YOU NOT SEE? Tim, the accused, and the young chap who witnessed the murder, are in GRAVE DANGER. The process is not yet complete! First, the demon possesses a non-animal being, usually something metallic, like a shelf, or a palletizer. Secondly, the demon needs to stun, but not kill his prey. Thirdly, to transfer his soul from the non-animal to the animal, both need to be in contact with water. Souls work like electricity, see?”
PC MacDonald took off his helmet, and scratched his head. “This is all mumbo-jumbo to me, but it’s a better theory than what we’ve got. How exactly do you know so much about this?”
“I’m a Christian Electrician”, replied Boris.

“Slow down” said Ollie, “you’re gonna get us killed!”
But Trucky wasn’t listening. “We gotta make it to Crayford!” he shouted. The pallet truck was going at over 70 miles an hour, and was attracting the attention of the local traffic officials, not to mention the television cameras and local media. Above them, a London Tonight cameraman hangs out the side of an ITN helicopter, whilst a journalist proclaims that machines are taking over as was predicted by the Mayans.
“Oh my God!” shouted Tim, seemingly recovered from his earlier bad mood, “it’s the Police!”.
Sure enough, the Police had arrived on scene, and had blocked off the Dartford Crossings. Moments earlier, PC MacDonald had radioed for back up and in doing so passed on the information told to him by Boris the janitor. As it turned out, the High Commisioner of the force was an occultist in his spare time, and had confirmed the words of the janitor. Between them, they had figured out that the Dartford Bridge was central to the demon’s plans.
“GET OFF THE MAGIC SKATEBOARD” the policeman blocking the toll-booth shouted. “YOU ARE IN GRAVE DANGER”. Ollie agreed broadly with the sentiments, but Tim did not wish to see his young pink arse abused in Wormwood Scrubs.
“Never! You’ll not take me alive, copper!” said the formerly law-abiding, nominally nice-but-dim-now-criminal-pencil-sharpener-operator. Ollie, sensing that his time had come, elbowed Tim in the face, thus knocking him out. With only seconds to spare before the demon crashed into a line of police cars, Ollie jumped off into the grass verge with Tim safely carried over his shoulder. Their souls were safe.
Trucky went head first into the line of police grade Vauxhall Astras, and sliced them in two. Cockily, he turned his head round in order to “flip ’em off”, however, the unknown demon inside Trucky either forgot that when you turn the head of a pallet truck, you change its direction. Moments after ramping onto the bridge, Trucky crashed through the wall, crashing into the Thames below. The demon soul inhabited a fish, and the pallet truck himself sunk to the bottom. The Ministry of Defence issued a D-Notice, which is why you have not heard this story told… until now!



As much as we all want to kill our boss, it’s a bad idea. It just means more hassle for you in the long run, and that means more paperwork for others. Think of the others.
What Tim Stantion should have done was speak to his bosses boss. That way, he could have nipped this all in the bud a long time ago. Failing that, you can always speak to your lovely Human Resources department – a number should be in your employee handbook. If you work for an agency, you should speak to someone there, even though most of the time this is about as much use as stapling your testicles to a lampshade.

Also, this story took place on Christmas Day. Hence the title. Durr.

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