Gregor Meintz wandered through the woods humming a cheerful tune to himself. He wore a tattered cloak and like most creatives he had unkempt hair and breath smelling of alcohol. Some would call him a screw-up, others a dirty womanizer. Gregor had a much nobler title for himself however. Gregor prefered to be called a writer.

He walked, his heavy footfalls coupled with his large frame made the steps he took loud and obnoxious. Gregor ran a band through his scraggly hair as he reached the crescendo of his song. It was an old Hogenbachian ballad, starting slow and methodical before turning rhythmic and celebratory. Much like the mood he was in.

Indeed several days before when Gregor had first entered the town of Nichtvater his expectations were quite low. How could such a small town contain his greatness? Yet after two nights of performing both music and poetry his spirits had risen. It also helped that he had 'enjoyed' several of the farming folks daughters... And wives. Gregor didn't blame them for adultery, in fact, he pitied them. How could people as sheltered as them, ignorant to the allure of verse resist such a man as Gregor Meintz?! He thought, puffing his chest out proudly as he walked.

Gregor shook his head, alas it was not to be. He had been chased out of the town but a few hours ago after being caught in the hayloft with the village elder's young wife. Nice girl, very dull though.

Gregor shook his head, He supposed it would be an interesting part of the book he was writing. He smiled whilst patting the wedge of paper in his breast pocket. His life's work. Someday those 19 years worth of literature would make him famous.

"Well bugger me blind if that's not Gregor fucking Meintz!" Exclaimed a ragged looking man as he walked out of the tree line and into the middle of the path, blocking Gregor's way.

Gregor lifted his eyes from the floor as he had been watching his feet as he walked. He instantly recognised the man as the village elder's son. Shit.

Gregor turned on his heels and began to hustle back the way he came, he wasn't scared. Gregor Meintz scared?! Never!

He ran a few steps before being roughly grabbed by the arms and punched squarely in the jaw. He blacked out briefly, he had never been hit before. He came back a few seconds later to find himself held upright with his arms behind his back. The appendages in question were currently in the grasp of two muscular farmhands.

Gregor now had blood staining his otherwise white teeth. And his day had started out so well too.

The first boy, the son of the village elder walked up to Gregor, landing a solid punch to his gut before speaking. The boy leant in close until his face was only a few inches away from Gregor's, he could feel the other man's warm breath against his bruised jaw. Gregor regretted the sex, it wasn't worth this shit.

"Where were you last night Gregor. I want to hear you say it." He snarled at him, baring a set of yellowing, crooked teeth to go with the fetid smell of the man's breath. God how Gregor hated the country.

"I was fucking your sister." Gregor than punctuated this sentence by spitting a glob of blood into the boy's face. No one hits Gregor Meintz and gets away with it. When he was famous he was going to burn their dungheap village to the ground.

The boy said nothing, just slowly wiped the blood off his face before yelling incoherently at Gregor and punching him in the mouth several times, knocking out both his front teeth.

"Say it Gregor, no more jokes. Where. Were. You!" He yelled.

"I'm sorry, sorry it was dark and I was drunk I must have gotten things mixed." He slurred moving his tongue to his two missing teeth and grimacing. The farm boy only smiled in victory, he had what he wanted. "So that must have been you fucking your sister? Gross man." Gregor said with a hint of disgust and barely restrained laughter. He may not have been a fighter but when it came to wit he was second to none.

The boy said nothing. His face just dropped and he began to frantically search the inside of his cloak for something. A comeback probably, maybe he keeps it next to bucked teeth, Gregor joked, the boy instead pulled out a large hunting knife.

"We're going to cut your balls of Gregor. Then we're going to leave you to bleed out in the mud right here. On this path." He said viciously wafting the knife around in front of Gregor's face. He paled, was it too late to take his jokes back?

"Now friends lets talk about this," Gregor said hastily, a hint of fear creeping into his voice. He looked at all the boy's faces in turn and saw the same stone-faced masks on each of them. He lost the permanent smile that he had always held. "You're not kidding are you?"

"Nope. Get his pants, boys." He said. His words causing action from the other boys holding Gregor, with one moving to hold both his arms while the other started to remove Gregor's breeches. He thrashed against the vice grip of the first boy. Damn these poets arms! He cursed, raging against the futility of his actions.

His pants were off now and the leader stood face too face with Gregor for the last time before comically waving him good-bye. He then started to fall into a squat, knife at the ready.

Gregor prayed to the gods, prayed to anything that would listen to help him. He had never been a believer in any of the religions of the world. A cynic from birth he had believed that religion was just a necessary tool to control the masses. But, as they say, there are no atheists in a foxhole. So it was much to Gregor's surprise when the village elders son's head exploded outward in a spray of blood and brain, splattering Gregor with gore.

The body fell and Gregor found himself face to face with a being from the pits of hell. It was a roiling mass of callused tentacles, one of which it was extracted with a sickening sucking sound from the back of the lead boy's skull.

Gregor fell to the ground, the boys who had held him up long since run away from the monster that stood before them. Gregor wasn't far behind them, but instead of running away physically he simply fainted. The rigours of today far too much for the young writer. He had one thing to be happy about though. This was going to make one hell of a story.