Shucks! That's Goreful Beastly - a Fairy Tale Friday SPECIAL, 28th November 2014

The Gorey Beast lounged in his armchair of puppy skins, guzzling a McFlurry, and laughing. After a time he paused, wiped his spittle-caked jaws with a nearby infant, and threw it out of the window.
Rising laboriously to his feet with a swarm of grunts, he made a beeline for his anteroom, where he kept a harem of badgers, ripe for the plundering. Just then however there rang a knock at the doorbell. Mumbling cantankerously, he swung it open to reveal the town's mild-mannered butcher, Graceland.
"Whatchoo want?!" roared the Gorey Beast indignantly.
"Please sir," stammered Graceland, "I've brought you a leg of lamb. The townsfolk thought it might help to appease your wrath."
"Whyyy?" said the Gorey Beast suspiciously, eyeing the bloody slab before him.
"Well, your name implies a predilection for the ... er ... visceral" murmured the butcher.
"It's Gorey! Not Gory, you jillock! As in the part of that sceptered isle of Jersey from whence I hail! Curse your homophonic blunder, curse it well!"
And with that he snatched the oozing meat from Graceland's hands, and clubbed the panic-stricken patsy to death with it.
Tossing his erstwhile peace offering aside, he retired to his acrid homestead, slamming the door behind him.
As he settled back into his macabre throne, a sudden chill came over him, and he looked up to see a spectral figure passing through the wall. Harrumphing loudly, he dismissed the ectoplasmic interloper, and returned to his greasy McMeatfeast.
"Do you know me, Don Penry?" prompted the phantasm.
No response.
"I am the Ghost of-"
"Shut it," growled the Gorey Beast, "you're an hallucination, an undigested Big Mac or Bender in a Bun. There's more GAYBO than grave about you, I'll warrant."
He grinned superciliously at the Ghost, who was clearly wrong-footed.
"I ... uh ... I have come to cure you of your curmudgeonly ways" said the Ghost, evenly.
"What the fuck is this?" belched the Gorey Beast.
"Well," said the Ghost, "we used to call it a visitation, or a Scrooging, but in modern parlance, we usually go with dearseholification."
"Dearseholification?" repeated the Gorey Beast.
"Dearseholification," redoubled the Ghost, "so, are you going to renege on your reprehensible habits?"
The Gorey Beast thought for a moment.
"No!" he bellowed finally, and blew the Ghost a fat raspberry.
"Right," said the Ghost, suddenly cold (well, colder), "we'll play it your way."
And he vanished, as quickly as he had come.
The Gorey Beast felt a sudden tingle in his fundament, and hastily stripped off his trousers (as was his wont) to inspect it. There, where his rectum should have been, there was nothing but a smooth mound, flanked by his now useless buttocks.
His dearseholification, it transpired, had been of a LITERAL genus.
"Fuck," said the Gorey Beast, "that is implicitly incapable of being - yet also completely and utterly - a pain in the arse.
"Well, I suppose I'd better get on and judge those Fairy Tale Friday entries."

HINTITY-HINT-HINT.

The End

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