Southern Fried Rat and Other Gruesome Tales Read Online Free PDF Page A

pages came to him and offered to go into the Dark Forest and get the marc potion from the old sorceress.
    The king was touched by the boy's foolish bravery, but he said, "Don't you realize that the Dark Forest is the home of the Yellow Fingers, and that many of my bravest knights have perished there?"
    The boy said that he knew all about it, but he was still quite sure that he would be able to accomplish his mission. In the end the king reluctantly agreed to let the page go. He was so desperate that he didn't know what else to do.
    The boy walked off into the Dark Forest, and the king confidently expected never to see him again. Therefore the king was not merely surprised but very nearly hysterical with joy when, two days later, the page came walking out of the Dark Forest clutching the formula for the magic potion that would save the kingdom.
    "How did you do it?" cried the king.
    The page just smiled, and said, "From now on let your pages do the walking through the Yellow Fingers."

A Piece of Wire
    No one could be found to dispute the observation that Buddy Edwards was a bully. Least of all Buddy Edwards. He was quite proud of his notorious reputation. For as long as anyone could remember, he had been a bully. He had always been big for his age, and by the time he was in seventh grade he was almost six feet tall and weighed over 180 pounds.
    In school he was a bully, stealing lunch money from his smaller and weaker schoolmates and making them do his homework. The teachers all knew what was going on, but they were afraid of him too. Even his parents were afraid of him. Buddy Edwards was one mean and nasty kid.
    He never outgrew his role as school bully. At the age of twenty-three he was still pushing around those who were smaller and weaker than he was. That meant he was pushing practically everyone around. Buddy was no mental heavyweight, but he was smart enough to know how to keep out of real trouble. He didn't commit any big crimes, the kind that might get him a couple of years in the slammer. He was afraid of that. Usually he stayed on the right side of the law—barely, but enough to keep him out of jail. He didn't run with any tough gangs either. Down deep he was afraid of them too. Buddy was always scared when he thought he might be put in a position where someone would be able to push him around. He was not really a criminal, he was a bully. He wanted to dominate others, and like most bullies he was basically a coward.
    When he walked, Buddy would somehow take up the whole sidewalk, forcing people into the gutter or up against the buildings. When he came into a restaurant or bar, he took people's favorite booths, blew smoke in their faces, insulted their girlfriends. But his principal instrument of aggression was his motorcycle.
    Buddy owned a huge motorcycle. He had adjusted it so that it made more noise than a jet plane at takeoff. It was the loudest motorcycle anyone had ever heard, and Buddy loved it. He would roar up and down the quiet streets at midnight and lights would go on all over town. The police were often called, but nobody was ever willing to sign a complaint against Buddy. They were all afraid he would "get them" later. So he always went free.
    He was a real menace to bike riders, even little kids on bikes. He would roar past, nearly sideswiping them, causing heaven knows how many scraped knees and bent wheels as bicycles went out of control and crashed to avoid him. He would sometimes challenge cars—if he knew the drivers—by suddenly cutting in front of them. More than one car wound up in a ditch or crumpled a fender around a pole trying to avoid Buddy Edwards and his motorcycle. And Buddy would ride by again, laughing at the unfortunate driver and making obscene gestures. There were some who wished that they hadn't swerved to avoid him. But Buddy knew, instinctively, that they always would. They didn't have the guts to hit him, and he always took advantage of that certain knowledge.
    Charlie