The Lower Strangling Chronicles
When retired hunter Bruce Richardson opened the door of his cottage following a mysterious knock on it, he wasn’t expecting to find nothing but a crate of Throckmorton Ale on his doormat, yet find it he did.
“Eh?” He said, scratching his head as he picked up the beers.
There was a note attached to it, but no label, so he had no idea who it was from.
He glanced around to check if there was anyone there, and took the crate inside once he’d ascertained he was alone.
Bruce eased himself into his Zebra skin armchair, made from the skin of a Zebra he’d personally poached twenty years before, and decided to read the note before making his way through the bottles.
Hi, Bruce, the letter began. Enjoy this gift as a thank you in advance for agreeing to do what I ask of you. I do not want to make myself known so that no one can connect me to this incident in any way, shape, or form.
Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Cheeky buggar,” he thought before reading the rest of the note.
The farmer next door has recently bought a nice, plump Bull, which is currently roaming the farmland next to the village. I want to experiment with serving patrons beef from a bull, rather than a cow, at the Hangman’s Noose. To do this, I need you to kill the bull.
“You could ask nicely, mate,” Bruce said aloud, knowing full well that it was his boss, John Granger, the publican of Lower Strangling’s pub, the Hangman’s Noose, who had anonymously gifted him the multipack.
Having seen the bull, I believe it could have anger issues, and certainly would make light work of a matador in España. I understand that I am putting you at great risk, so I hope the beers will compensate.
“It’s gonna take a lot more than a few beers to make up for putting my bloody life on the line, mate,” Bruce said.
But he glanced at the beers and grinned at them, for he liked having them anyway.
Once you have killed the bull, deliver it discreetly to Hans’ butcher’s shop, and he will prepare the meat for the pub.
Bruce chuckled to himself. “I can certainly try, but I can’t promise anything,” he said to no one in particular.
Thank you so much for doing this. I don’t know as yet how I will ever repay you, but repay you I will, I promise. Sincerely, M.
Bruce scoffed as he folded the note up and placed it to one side.
“You could pay my funeral costs if this all goes tits up, for a start,” Bruce said, groaning as he eased himself out of his chair.
Although he thought John’s assignment was absurd, he did enjoy a challenge, so he hobbled over to his hunting rifle and strapped it to his shoulder.
“Right, let’s get this over and done with,” Bruce said, marching out of the cottage and into the heart of Lower Strangling.
After a brisk stroll through Glevumshire’s green and pleasant land, Bruce arrived at the perimeter fence surrounding the farm next door to Lower Strangling.
On the other side, a large brown hulk stomped through the grass, with two extremely sharp-appearing horns approximately two meters long.
Bruce narrowed his eyes, fixating on the bovine like a Lion on the prowl.
“There you are,” he said, a devious grin on his face.
But then the cow lowed deeply in a way that travelled all the way through Bruce’s soul.
His heart rattled inside his ribcage, but he managed to soothe it before clambering over the fence.
Bruce wobbled as he gingerly placed a leg over the fence.
The hunter had done this many times before, ever since John first brought him out of retirement to give him free meat for the pub, but the extent of what he was about to do finally dawned on him, which did have a physical toll on his body.
Bruce lifted his other leg, ready to fully traverse the fence, when the bullock clocked him.
It bellowed, making Bruce jump and glance to his left.
The bull glared at him and lowered his head.
He scratched his hoof on the grass, as if he was preparing to run at a bullfighter in a ring.
It charged at the hunter, making Bruce’s eyes bulge.
Bruce screamed and leapt over the fence to safety.
The bull ran towards the fence, but slowed down an inch in front of it.
Bruce relaxed as he saw the animal stumble and wander back through the paddock.
He waited for a moment, as his palpitations subsided and his skinny limbs stopped shaking.
Bruce observed the bull, now only a few meters in front of him, and glanced at his rifle.
“I wonder!” he thought, darting between the gun and his target.
“Nah,” he said eventually, shaking his head. It would be best to shoot the Bull from afar, like he usually did with his other kills.
Once the bull was on the other side of the paddock, Bruce climbed over the fence once more and rolled into the neighbouring farm.
He eased himself to his feet and watched his prey.
The bull was nothing more than a dot on the horizon, and yet still imposing.
Bruce glanced at the Sheep peacefully grazing in the field next to him.
He smiled wistfully at them; sheep were much easier to kill, and he often looked forward to poaching them due to the simplicity of the job.
The bull mooing returned his attention to the task in hand.
He crouched down, and he crept towards the bull, hiding behind trees whenever it seemed as though the bull was gazing at him.
When Bruce got halfway between the fence and the Bull, the unmistakable sound of a Land Rover engine set his heart beating and his blood pumping.
He glanced to his right; the farmer had arrived to feed the livestock.
A white sea of sheep glided gracefully over the hills towards their next meal.
The bull stampeded towards the vehicle as well.
“No,” Bruce said, as his target ran away from him.
The hunter sagged towards the ground, his back sliding down the trunk until he landed on the ground with a thump.
He sighed as his head lolled forward.
Bruce’s hearing became heightened as he sat in a depressed stupor.
The breeze gently blew through the trees, creating the illusion of waves crashing on a distant shore.
The birds singing in the trees, not seen but chirping a melody through the air.
A quartet of hooves galloping across the grass, accompanied by an angry moo.
A small smile appeared on Bruce’s face as he lifted his head slightly.
But then he gauged what the thumping sound was, and his eyes bulged.
He shot to his feet and glanced behind the tree.
The brown, horned behemoth was heading directly towards the tree.
Bruce screamed and ran away up the hill, just as the bull headbutted the tree with a thwack.
The bovine stumped backwards, and cantered towards a shady clump of trees.
Bruce glared at the beast and rolled up his sleeves.
“Right, let’s get this over with, so I can get back to my beers,” Bruce said to himself as he marched to a good vantage point.
He crouched down a metre behind the bull, who was now peacefully grazing.
Bruce glanced at the sheep, ensuring the Landrover had driven off.
Confirming that he was the only humanoid in the field, the hunter cocked his gun and put it into position.
Bruce peered through the crosshair, aimed directly at the bull’s brain.
“Right,” he said as he pulled the trigger. “Nighty night.”
He pulled the trigger, and a loud bang reverberated throughout the land.
Birds flew out from the trees, and the sheep ran frantically in all directions.
Bruce removed the gun.
The bull was slumped on its side, lifeless.
Bruce grinned maliciously as he jogged towards the carcass, rubbing his hands.
He crouched down beside the sleeping animal.
“Right, let’s check you’re actually dead, shall we?” Bruce said, placing a pair of shaking hands to the bull’s side.
He pushed it, but the body didn’t budge; it also didn’t stir.
Not particularly confident, Bruce picked up his gun and aimed it at the bull once more.
“Better safe than sorry,” the hunter said as he pulled the trigger.
He used all the remaining bullets on the Bull, as a series of loud bangs echoed across the Cotswolds.
Bruce grinned at his handywork. “There.”
Then it dawned on him; he somehow needed to drag this thing back to the butchers in Lower Strangling, without being noticed.
Bruce rubbed his hands, now wet with sweat.
“Right, now for the hard part.”
Bruce grunted as he picked up the bovine’s horns and dragged it across the field back towards the field.
His heart pounded as he glanced in all directions, making sure the farmer wasn’t around.
They weren’t, and so Bruce pushed on ahead with his prize.
Hans Hoggunhoffer, Lower Strangling’s signature butcher, waited outside his shop like a drug addict on a street corner waiting for his dealer to deliver the goods.
The sight of a panting octogenarian dragging a huge mound of muscle up the street lifted his spirits.
Still, he watched unemotionally as Bruce dragged the loot the last few inches and flopped it on the floor of the butcher’s feet like a cat giving his owner a gift of a dead mouse.
“There it is, mate,” Bruce said, leaning against a wall. “All forty pounds of it.”
“Thank you,” Hans said, as he brought out a hefty wad of cash, about a thousand pounds in total.
“Ah, excellent, mate,” Bruce said. “Nobody told me about being paid, but it’s a nice surprise.”
Hans handed Bruce the money, making sure not to engage eye contact.
“Right,” Bruce said, rubbing his hands. “I’ll leave you to it. I’m gonna go to the church and pray to the big man upstairs for forgiveness, just as an insurance policy, you know?”
“I see,” Hans said, nodding. “I may have to join you.”
“Do you need me to help you bring the meat into the shop?” Bruce said, bending over and smiling at the butcher.
“Ja, that would be good,” Hans said, moving to the front of the bull and holding his head.
Bruce moved to the back of the bull and grabbed the hind legs.
“Ready?” Bruce said.
Hans nodded. “Ja, ready.”
On the count of drei, the hunter and the butcher heaved the beast upwards, and heaved the creature into the shop.
Once they were inside, they dropped the thing on the floor with a thud.
Bruce rubbed his hands. “He’s all yours; I look forward to eating him at the pub somewhere down the line.”
Hans nodded. “Ja, I am also intrigued to discover how delectable the male cow really is.”
“You may find a few bullets hidden amongst the good stuff,” Bruce said, gesturing vaguely at the meat. “But you should be able to fish them out as you go.”
“Understood,” the butcher said, nodding vigorously.
Bruce strided out of the shop, and waved to the butcher. “Best of luck, mate!”
Hans waved to his friend, and once Bruce had gone, reached for his cleaver.
He sharpened the knife, and got to work.
A few hours later, John invited the residents of Lower Strangling to the pub to try out the new meat.
The publican leaned over the bar, observing the patrons eating at their tables.
“I say, this beef has a rather unusual taste to it,” the Reverend Simon Abernathy said as he sliced his portion of meat.
“Yeah, it does, doesn’t it?” John said, glancing at Bruce. “A local supplier has started experimenting with meat made from male cows, as opposed to female cows.”
“Aren’t bulls needed to impregnate heifers to continue the supply of calves?” Eleanor Peterson, a sixteen-year-old wise beyond her years, said as she nibbled on the meat.
“Yeah,” John said. “But this specific farmer has a herd of bulls on hand to send to slaughter.”
Eleanor pursed her lips. “Interesting.”
“How is everyone finding the new Throckmorton Ale multipacks?” Robert Sherman, Lower Strangling’s resident brewer, asked his companions as he held his own bottle of the village’s signature beer aloft.
“It’s alright, mate,” Bruce said, grinning at his glass bottle. “I was gonna have the whole lot to myself, but I was feeling generous and thought I’d share them with my friends.”
Bruce stretched his arms to symbolise bringing everyone in the room into a tight embrace.
“How does it compare to your usual favourite, Fosters?” Simon said, munching on another bit of bull.
Bruce smirked at the vicar. “Not one bit.”
The hunter dug into his prey, but was startled by an older gentleman barging into the pub.
“You bastard!” The man said, pointing a bony finger at John as he lumbered towards him. “You stole my bull.”
Simon’s eyes bulged, and he glanced at John.
John gawped at the visitor and raised his arms. “I’m sorry?”
“I know you’ve been stealing my livestock, Granger,” the farmer said, digging his eyes into the publican’s. “With his help.”
The farmer pointed at the hunter, who merely laughed.
“Don’t be silly,” Bruce said, sipping his ale. “I gave up that life years ago.”
Simon leapt out of his seat and wandered over to the farmer. “I think you must be mistaken. John is an upstanding citizen and buys his meat from local suppliers.”
“Sure, that’s what he’s told you,” the farmer said, grabbing John’s shirt collar. “But I know he’s put that Australian up to poaching my livestock.”
John gulped and frowned at the farmer. “Do you have any proof of this?”
“Yes,” Simon said, nodding. “I would also like to know what evidence your accusations of my friend are founded on.”
The farmer let go of John, and gawped at the vicar. “Nothing concrete, just a hunch.”
“I see,” Simon said. “So there could be any number of reasons why you can’t seem to find your livestock on your farmland.”
The farmer glared at Simon. “It’s got to be you lot, surely? You live next door; he’s a hunter.”
“Ex-hunter, mate,” Bruce said. “I came here to live a quiet life.”
John placed a hand on the visitor, making him flinch. “I’m not your enemy. I wholeheartedly support the plights of local farmers, and buy their meat in the usual way.”
The farmer backed away towards the exit, scowling at the motley crew before him. “You’re not getting away with this, Granger. Mark my words, I will find you out, and you will pay the price.”
John raised his glass. “Very well, good day.”
Simon beamed at his agricultural neighbour. “Thank you for visiting, God bless.”
The farmer growled, and stormed out of the pub, slamming the door behind him.
“Well, that was exciting, wasn’t it?” Simon said as he returned to his seat and sat back down.
“Yeah,” John said, sighing and rubbing the sweat from his forehead.
Simon squinted at the publican. “Although I hope he was actually mistaken, and you sourced the bull we’re eating via legal means from another supplier.”
“Yeah, he was,” John said, nodding. “Everything I told you was true. It’s all above board.”
“No dramas, mate,” Bruce said, munching on his meat. “Relax and eat your bull.”
Simon carefully sliced the slab on his plate. “If it turns out you have been poaching that poor man’s livestock, then there will be serious consequences, on Earth and in heaven.”
“Or even hell,” Bruce said under his breath, finishing the dregs of his beer.
John’s heart rattled inside of him as he gazed at the vicar.
He gulped. “Good thing I’m telling the truth then, isn’t it?”
Simon narrowed his eyes and groaned.
The publican and the vicar maintained eye contact for an uncomfortable long time before Simon’s mood lightened and he focused on enjoying his meal.
John sighed and gazed heavenward, his knees buckling.
He then filled his glass with beer and locked eyes with his hunter.
Bruce grinned at the master schemer and raised him a toast.
John returned the favour, and the two men chugged their drinks to celebrate their successful plan not being foiled.
“Aren’t you going to join us, John?” Simon said, gesturing to the empty chair next to him.
“Of course, yeah,” John said, rushing round the bar and leaping into his chair.
He dug into the meat, savouring the taste of the meat.
The residents of Lower Strangling, and the other patrons of the Hangman’s Noose, joyfully broke bread together for the next hour or so, and nothing else was said about the bull or the farmer’s missing livestock.
Well, for now, at least.
The Robinsonverse 