All Outta Tea: Part II

To outsiders, the small British village of Glumleigh, West Yorkshire, may seem to be a dank, grey place of mediocrity, where its meagre population survive the way their ancestors had always done, tolling the harsh lands and rearing their livestock. But behind closed doors, when nights draw dark, and storms fill the skies, and winds blow with such a chill that they rattle your very bones, you may perchance hear a couple of old dears tell the tale of the young writer Henry Gelson, and the mysterious circumstances of his disappearance.

In part one of this spine chilling tale Henry Gelson returned from the big city to the Glumleigh cottage he grew up in following the news of his mother’s death. In a vision induced by a strange video cassette, Henry receives an urgent message from his mother to activate the mysterious Mega Genesis Reality Distortion Drive located in the cottage’s loft.

Will Henry act on his vision, or continue to watch ChuckleVision for all eternity? So join us, ye intrepid Sega Addicts, as we present the second part of this spooky story of one man’s struggle to retain his sanity in the fight for Mega Drive. Hit the jump to read on but be warned, to shake these goose pimples from your skin will take ages.

Disclaimer: The following story contains levels of gore some may find offensive. This story is not affiliated with Sega, and for the most part doesn’t have anything to do with Sega.


Henry startled awake and quickly picked himself up off the cottage’s living room floor, dazed and confused. A chill swept around his legs as he realised that the living room window had come unlatched. The midnight winds had thrown them wide open and invited themselves inside along with a fair amount of snow. Henry dashed to the window, slammed them shut, replaced the latch, and closed the curtains. Feeling the adrenaline bubbling through his veins, he closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath.

“Oi! O’er ‘ere!”

Henry spun around just in time to see the wrinkled face of Mrs. Helmford before the rolling pin struck his head. He crumpled to the floor like a sack of potatoes. The force of the blow wasn’t enough to knock him out completely but he was certainly dizzy and unable to focus on anything properly.

He felt the arms of at least three people close around his waist and shoulders, picking him off the floor and holding him upright with his back to the window. Just as soon as he had found his footing, he received a blow to the stomach from the rolling pin again.

“Enough Barbara.” Came a deep voice familiar to Henry. “Let me speak with the boy.”

Henry felt an old, leathery hand grip the point of his chin and pull his face up. The voice, deep but quiet, spoke again.

“It seems your mother wasn’t the demented old bat you thought she was, Gelson. To think that if we hadn’t arrived when we did, she may have succeeded in her task. Blast her infernal meddling!”

The leathery hand left Henry’s face for a moment before slapping him across his left cheek. The shock of the impact brought him fully back to his senses. Rearing his head, he looked straight into the eyes of his attacker, Reverend Dudley Harrison, just as he had suspected. He was the only man he remembered living in Glumleigh who wasn’t cursed with an unintelligible Glumleigh-Yorkshire accent.

“Gelson, Gelson, Gelson.” The Reverend went on, “We were certainly surprised to hear that you had left our little corner of the world. Of course it didn’t concern us too much, considering you’d left your mother behind. Without her help you would be useless to her cause. Still, we wouldn’t want to leave any loose ends now, would we?”

The Reverend was slowly pacing back in forth in front of Henry now, illuminated by what looked like the strong glow of fire from behind where Henry was being held up. He was wearing a dark brown robe with a hood that cast a shadow over his face. Henry thought he looked like a cultist from a cheesy horror film, and knowing Glumleigh, it was probably the most logical conclusion. He tried to look around to see who the rest of his captors were, but the firm arms against his aching body made the struggle to simply turn his head impossible.

“I didn’t really get your biblical spiel back in Sunday school, Rev, but now you’re just chatting shit.” Henry forced a smile. The Reverend snarled back.

“Gelson, do you have any idea, any semblance of the power you posses? Of course not, you were always more concerned about running away from your wholesome life here on the farm to become a successful man of the civilised world. But here you are, back where you belong.”

Henry tried to breathe as steadily as possible, going over his body, making sure he had feeling in all the places he would need it. He twitched his fingers, clenched his toes and cracked his jaw. Slowly he spoke.

“You know what my mum always used to tell me on those rare occasions when I’d have free time to myself? She’d say ‘Henry, why don’t ye put t’pencil down and go out and play wi’t friends like?’. I’d point at whatever the hell it was that I was writing and you know what I’d tell her Rev?”

He paused, waiting for The Reverend to take a few steps closer to him.

“To be this good takes fucking ages!” Henry snorted up a thick wad of bloody phlegm and spat it straight into The Reverend’s eyes with a satisfying splat.

Shocked by what they had just seen, Henry’s captors loosened their grip over his body. Realising his opportunity, he lifted his legs under his body like a pigeon in flight, bringing the people behind him him down to their knees. He struggled free, threw all his weight into his twisting body, and planted his foot right up into The Reverend’s holy ball-sac.

“Jesus Christ! Right in me meat ‘n’ two veg!”

Henry leap-frogged over The Reverend, spun around and shoved him into the three other assailants whom he realised were three old fogies from the Glumleigh highstreet, Mr. Eccles the butcher, Mr. Beccles the baker and Mr. Feccles the candle stick maker. All four of them fell together like a floppy house of cards. Through the window he could see thirty to forty more robed Glumleigh residents, who had literally come with torches and pitchforks. He saw something move out of the corner of his eye and ducked just in time to dodge a kitchen knife tied to a chord fly over his head. To this right, Mrs. Helmford stood in the doorway to the kitchen. She tugged the chord, bringing the knife back into her hand.

“Get o’er ‘ere! Ye bastard, ye!”

Like a whippet in heat, Henry dashed the other way into the hallway. He skidded to a halt at the front door, which was blocked by an old robed man clutching a zimmerframe. Henry contemplated simply pushing the old man over, but he’d had enough of crumbly old folk getting in his way to last him a life time. Instead, he had a much better idea, and practically leapt through a small door under the stairs that led to the basement.


Old Barbara Helmford never liked Henry Gelson much, she thought to herself as she crept through the darkness, down the steps into the Gelson farm’s basement. Even before it became clear that the members of Glumleigh council would have to put him down she had had bad feelings about him. He was a dreamer, was that Henry, always talking about flying to the moon and following his rainbow and other such nonsense. You could always tell he was going to leave. But no one ever left Glumleigh. Ever.

“I bet you’re wearing that fucking apron under that robe.”

Helmford frantically tried to peer through the darkness, unable to pinpoint the direction of Henry’s voice. Suddenly the basement was filled with light and he found herself staring down the barrel of a shotgun. Behind it she saw a twisted smile formed across Henry’s face.

“You little shi-”

With a deafening boom the shotgun fired, sending Helmford’s obliterated skull flying back up the steps and through the basement door, leaving only her jaw behind. Her body slumped down, her false teeth falling off her jaw and clattering down the steps. The stump above her head squirted blood over Henry’s shoes.


The old man with the zimmerframe was greatly relieved to see the door to the basement swung slowly open. Mrs. Helmford had killed the little bugger with plenty of time spare for a cuppa before bed. He squinted through his jam-jar glasses to get a better look, wondering why she hadn’t emerged.

All of a sudden he heard the what sounded like a motor being revved. Like the motor of a motorboat or an outdoor generator. He reached into his robe and pulled out a crossbow, which he lent on the front of his zimmerframe. He was a expert marksman back in his day, if that young Gelson bastard even so much as stepped out of that door he’d shoot a bolt right up his arse.

But before he knew what was happening, Henry had jumped out of the doorway and ran towards him, wielding a petrol powered chainsaw. He shot five bolts in quick succession, but Henry ran up along the wall, dodging them. Henry kicked off the wall into a front flip over the old man’s head. All he felt then was his body vibrating as the chainsaw ripped through his torso from the back. He looked down at the emerging stain, blood filling his mouth and seeping from his eyes. He let out a gurgled scream as the chainsaw ripped through his wrinkled skin. As all went dark he heard a manic laugh from behind.


Henry released the chainsaw trigger and used his foot to push the old man off. He wiped the blood from his face and flicked it across the floor.

All of a sudden the was a huge knock on the door. It shook in its frame, dislodging plaster, which floated to the floor. He peaked through the letter box and saw a group of about six robed assailants with a large wooden battering ram. The door was sturdy, but wouldn’t be able to stand up to such an assault for long.

With a grunt he flipped back the chainsaw to attached it to a strap on his back and brandished his shotgun once more.

The three men that were previously holding Henry, Eccles, Beccles and Feccles were now desperately trying to shove The Reverend out through the open window while other old people tried to haul him through. The Reverend was a well fed man, and this proved to be difficult. Henry frisbeed a nearby coaster at the nearest man ricocheting it off his head. They all turned at once.

“I came here to sip tea and kick ass. And I’m all outta tea.”

He shotgunned Eccles’ mid-section, blowing a nice round hole clean out of his stomach. He flew across the room, his entrails fluttering after him before smashing against the back wall. The impact of him hitting the wall made a painting fall down and tear over his head. Henry stifled a giggle.

The other two men, who must have been in their late fifties, came at him with a speed he wasn’t expecting, knocking him onto his back. He shot one of Beccles’ legs off, sending shards of bone flying across the room.

The legless fellow topped over onto Henry, shoving the shotgun out of his hand and onto the floor. He quickly latched onto Henry’s his throat with one hand, clawing at his face with the other. The overpowering smell of ‘old man’ made Henry gag.

The wretched stench of Old Spice, whiskey and dried urine was the least of Henry’s problems, as a couple of Molotov cocktails came hurtling through the open window, setting the majority of the living room ablaze. The flames quickly caught onto Henry’s clothing, the heat biting at his skin.

The other man, Feccles, had managed to lift the television above his head and was waddling over towards Henry. As he tried to struggle free of the smelly old man, his hand clutched a brass crucifix that must have been been shaken off the wall. He smashed Jesus against Beccles’ head again and again until he went limp and rolled out of the way just as Feccles brought down the telly. It landed on Beccles’ prune-like old man head, which exploded like overly ripe melon. Chunks of brain splattered against the skirting board, their juices soaking into the thick carpet below. Henry grimaced as one of Beccles’ eyeballs slapped against his cheek and landed on his chest. He jumped up and brushed it off himself fervently. Eyeballs are just nasty.

Feccles turned and came for him, arms outstretched like a disgruntled mummy. Henry kicked him the stomach and did a Stone Cold Stunner that sent Feccles flying backwards into the burning television cabinet. In a last ditch attempt, Feccles started throwing flaming video cassettes at Henry.

Henry flipped round his chainsaw as Bridget Jones’s Diary bounced off his body. He smashed his foot through the tape where it lay on the floor before lunging at Feccles, bringing the chainsaw down onto his neck, chopping his head off. Henry let out a sigh of relief as Feccles’ remaining stump spayed gallons of cool, refreshing blood all over his body, putting out the flames.

About the author

Michael Westgarth

Michael Westgarth is a freelance writer and geneticist for hire who has been writing about video games since 2011. Michael enjoys saving the world and building creeper-proof, vertical sheep farms. Follow him on Twitter @MegaWestgarth, Tumblr and Google+.