Like most scary stories, I didn't witness this series of events firsthand. It is regrettable. I am sorry.
Unlike most scary stories, this is 100% true. And you're about to hear it straight from the horse's mouth! Well, straight from the fingers of the girl who heard it straight from the horse's mouth. But . . . that's good enough.
For our purposes here, I'm going to use the first person tense. Simply for effect.
No false pretenses.
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To set the mood . . .
It was a daaark and stormy night. (Well, it was dark. The weather was fairly pleasant actually. Kind of chilly with a slight overcast.) But nevertheleeEEEeess . . .
We had decided to go on a ghost tour through Dublin. OoooooOOOOooooohhh
It was fun. Well, it was fun.
In our group there were these two punks in the back, probably no more than 11 years old, horsing around, with their punky hoods pulled over their punky heads, shoving each other into innocent bystanders. One of the boys pushed his friend into a man, probably 35, who gently brushed the boy off as he was there with his wife and didn't want any trouble. No muss. No fuss.
Eventually the boys left. You could feel the group breathe a heavy sigh of relief.
No one could have predicted what happened next.
As we rounded a corner, children and punks alike started emerging from bushes, climbing over fences, creeping out of alleyways, and I'm pretty sure I saw one crawl out of a trash can. First it was one, and before we knew it we were faced with upwards of thirty pre-pubescent lads and lasses. They were angry . . . comically so, because they were so little and had funny accents.
We had been hunted. Like Velociraptor hunted.
There was silence and shouting all at the same time. We were being taunted by tiny Irish boys, leprechauns if you will. Their girlfriends, a little taller than the boys but you know how that works, were shrieking and doing the z-snap all up in our ghost tour.
Then one kid, who appeared to be their leader, probably 16 years old, but still much smaller than me, burst into our circle and shouted "WHICH ONE O' YERS BEEN' TOOCHIN' ME COOSIN??" He began running around the circle, looking each of us in the eye, as if to intimidate us to the point of sacrificing one of our own to avoid his scrawny wrath. One of the original punks eventually pointed out a man in the back of the group. Now, I couldn't say with certainty whether this was actually the man who "tooched his coosin," but the 16 year old didn't hesitate. He shot over to the man and punched him straight in the jaw.
At this point the police had already shown up. They arrested the 16 year old . . . and NO ONE EVER SAW HIM AGAAAIN oooOOOOOOOooooooohhh
All the other children crept back into the shadows from whence they came.
Our poor little tour guide. She was so scared.
Moral of the story: It's okay to be afraid of children. They are very menacing.
Amitiés :)
It was fun. Well, it was fun.
In our group there were these two punks in the back, probably no more than 11 years old, horsing around, with their punky hoods pulled over their punky heads, shoving each other into innocent bystanders. One of the boys pushed his friend into a man, probably 35, who gently brushed the boy off as he was there with his wife and didn't want any trouble. No muss. No fuss.
Eventually the boys left. You could feel the group breathe a heavy sigh of relief.
No one could have predicted what happened next.
As we rounded a corner, children and punks alike started emerging from bushes, climbing over fences, creeping out of alleyways, and I'm pretty sure I saw one crawl out of a trash can. First it was one, and before we knew it we were faced with upwards of thirty pre-pubescent lads and lasses. They were angry . . . comically so, because they were so little and had funny accents.
We had been hunted. Like Velociraptor hunted.
There was silence and shouting all at the same time. We were being taunted by tiny Irish boys, leprechauns if you will. Their girlfriends, a little taller than the boys but you know how that works, were shrieking and doing the z-snap all up in our ghost tour.
Then one kid, who appeared to be their leader, probably 16 years old, but still much smaller than me, burst into our circle and shouted "WHICH ONE O' YERS BEEN' TOOCHIN' ME COOSIN??" He began running around the circle, looking each of us in the eye, as if to intimidate us to the point of sacrificing one of our own to avoid his scrawny wrath. One of the original punks eventually pointed out a man in the back of the group. Now, I couldn't say with certainty whether this was actually the man who "tooched his coosin," but the 16 year old didn't hesitate. He shot over to the man and punched him straight in the jaw.
At this point the police had already shown up. They arrested the 16 year old . . . and NO ONE EVER SAW HIM AGAAAIN oooOOOOOOOooooooohhh
All the other children crept back into the shadows from whence they came.
Our poor little tour guide. She was so scared.
Moral of the story: It's okay to be afraid of children. They are very menacing.
Amitiés :)
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