Every boot camp barracks had at least one guy with a Casanova complex who'd regale the others with his penis travelogues.
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Some say it thirsts for blood; others say it is an innocent implement forced to do the bidding of murderous fiends. A disturbingly recurrent murder weapon, the Travelling Shovel Of Death appears in multiple different mediums (Usually novels), wherin it is featured murdering an innocent victim.
Henry knew his street well, but he didn't like it. The parameters stretched; the shadows hid secrets; the wind, ever restless, tossed the cloaks of strangers who glared from street corners. But he was sure in his safety. He knew the number of steps to his doorway. He knew where to lift his feet a little higher to avoid tripping on sidewalk cracks hidden in the dark. He knew who to avoid - at least he thought he did, in his naiveté.
A cat was waiting on his doorstep, that night. Dark, soft fur, long legs and a thrumming purr, yellow eyes glinting with reflections of far-off streetlights.
It smiled, sharp, glistening teeth ever white against the shadow of its fur.
In 42 years, Henry had never once seen a cat smile. Perhaps a trick of the light, or an illusion, he thought. Or maybe not. He knelt, looking the cat in the eyes.
It smiled at him, wider.
Wider.
A shadow moved; soft leather brushed against carpet, and a coat loosened its folds. "You're drunk again," said the voice. "Do you know, Henry, how much I dislike drunks?"
The cat hadn't moved; Henry glanced to the side, and caught a glance of soft brown shoes.
"Mr Woon," he slurred. "Ian. Mate. I just..."
He stopped.
Mr Woon smiled at him; a slow, langorious smile, not unlike that of his cat.
Then slowly, deliberately, he rested the shovel's tip on Henry's neck.
"I dislike drunks very much, Henry," he whispered.
Then he put his foot on the travelling shovel of death, and pushed down.
A cat was waiting on his doorstep, that night. Dark, soft fur, long legs and a thrumming purr, yellow eyes glinting with reflections of far-off streetlights.
It smiled, sharp, glistening teeth ever white against the shadow of its fur.
In 42 years, Henry had never once seen a cat smile. Perhaps a trick of the light, or an illusion, he thought. Or maybe not. He knelt, looking the cat in the eyes.
It smiled at him, wider.
Wider.
A shadow moved; soft leather brushed against carpet, and a coat loosened its folds. "You're drunk again," said the voice. "Do you know, Henry, how much I dislike drunks?"
The cat hadn't moved; Henry glanced to the side, and caught a glance of soft brown shoes.
"Mr Woon," he slurred. "Ian. Mate. I just..."
He stopped.
Mr Woon smiled at him; a slow, langorious smile, not unlike that of his cat.
Then slowly, deliberately, he rested the shovel's tip on Henry's neck.
"I dislike drunks very much, Henry," he whispered.
Then he put his foot on the travelling shovel of death, and pushed down.
by WillohWisp September 22, 2011
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Get the travolting mug.Did I remember my passport? My phone charger!? Experiencing an extreme case of travelagita right now!
by Rachel712 March 25, 2017
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Get the Travelingus mug.(1) The activity you are doing when you realize that somewhere (away) great music is played and you go there (the one who 'beat travelled' and has found the music will often dance with all his travel gear with him). (2) Looking for the (music) beat. (3) Travel around the country/the world to find the greatest music (beats).
by ThomDidymus December 18, 2011
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