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
Get the Travelling Shovel Of Death mug.Donald trumps mindless followers. They will usually agree with everything he has to say, despite not knowing what it actually means.
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In reference to Ron Paul's first tv ad for the Republican New Hampshire Primaries.
When this comment is spoken/written, it is meant to be funny.
When this comment is spoken/written, it is meant to be funny.
(As seen in online message boards) Did you see that Ron Paul has 60,000 members in meetup groups? He's catching on, I'm telling ya.
by Angel Messenger November 25, 2007
Get the he's catching on, I'm telling ya mug.When a person announces publicly that they have, in fact, begun to or has been partaking within a small amount, large, or little bit of tomfoolery, pranking, joking, or jokingly participating in something offensive.
by AbstractDark July 9, 2021
Get the We do a little trolling mug.Fucking ran out of my Oxys, Xanax AND ADDerall. two weeks early. Looks like I better start Trolling for Pharma
by Clifhanger April 16, 2017
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by Evan_Dayhoff January 17, 2017
Get the trumplingus mug.Tom: Hey Jack, Joe told me he flew his car into a skyscraper the other day!
Jack: Really? I was at his house yesterday, and there wasn't even a scratch on his car.
Tom: Yeah, Joe is pretty good at telling stories. We don't even live close to a city.
Jack: Really? I was at his house yesterday, and there wasn't even a scratch on his car.
Tom: Yeah, Joe is pretty good at telling stories. We don't even live close to a city.
by PsychoticSpirit January 9, 2016
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