Alarmingly Strange Stories

Binkle Bunny
Dead People Taste Funny

Andrew R. A.Owen

The sun was setting over the Cummy Todge public house and a gentle wind whistled across the grass plains. Binkle Bunny sat outside on a bench, the fading light glistening off his metal parts and in his one infra-red eye. "What a beautiful, nay what a peaceful night."

What he didn't understand was why it was peaceful. There had in fact been a bomb warning on all the major routes and consequently, not a soul stirred for miles. They had all been hoaxes but the public was doomed not to know this because the only real bomb had ben planted in the bomb co-ordinating office and it had gone off, taking the computer with t. So the police carried on blowing up peoples sandwiches, briefcases, idly parked cars and larm clocks (They knew that was what they were, but they carried on anyway because it as un) and the major routes remained closed.

Presently, Neds Bernneville thundered into the distance and to Binkles amazement, thundered past with no one on board. "Well there's something you don't see every day." he muttered to himself.

Shortly afterwards, a battered and bruised Ned appeared, complete with a few minor bullet holes. "Those bloody army checkpoints really piss me off." he gasped and staggered into the pub. The fact was, the army knew he was legal, they just liked the target practice.

Staggering past the bar, Ned spotted Fauna reading a book. Without looking up, she passed him a first aid kit. "If anyone wants me, I'll be bleeding in the bathroom." Fauna replied somewhat distantly: "Ok dear, but don't mess up the carpet." Ned really hated it when she got her nose into another "Andy the Owen " book. They were so far fetched. What bloody biker in his right mind would own a motorbike and saloon car, yet ride around on a pushbike proudly wearing a plastic bucket on his head shouting "The voices! The voices!?" The things written in those books were just too out of this world.

"OW! Bollocks!" he cried in shock. Looking down to see what it was he had trod on, he saw Cyril, the singing/dancing/cricket playing packet of ham sandwiches that had recently become a tenant. "Watch where you're putting your feet hippy!" it told him and skuttled off carrying a cricket bat. "Thats weird. It isn't cricket season yet." thought Ned out loud. With a shrug, he sauntered off to fix his wounds.


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