This is not a very PC story, but that's all the warning you're
going to get. Children in non essential walk on parts only: no
hideous extremes of torture. Non UK readers may miss one or
two of the nuances. Consider yourselves lucky.
Tally Ho! My Beauty
Ron and Harriet Voter started in alarm, Ron choking on his nice cup of lukewarm tea and Harriet knocking the vacuum flask over into the plastic bowl of Cheesy Wotsits. They clutched at each other for support. Surely that could not be the dread sound they thought had been banned these three long years now echoing over the rolling hills.
"Oh, Ron, where's little Tony," whimpered Harriet. She suddenly felt cold, overcome by the alien environment around her. They should have never roamed so far from the car, even if it was their right.
"It's alright, love, he was here playing aliens just a few minutes ago" Ron comforted her. I'll just stand on the picnic chair and I should be able to see him."
It had taken them ages to find a suitably picturesque field for their picnic, the harvest largely being in, but now it was proving counter-productive. However, standing on the chair and, looking along the trail of large circles stamped and rolled in the standing corn he could see his offspring's head bobbing up and down further off in the field. He called as loudly as he dared, fearful of who, or what, might be about, resorting at last to crude threats to bring him to heel.
"Tony, quickly, I think there's a homework inspector coming." The boy dissolved into tears and ran screaming to his mother.
Hastily they started to gather their things together when the sound came again, closer.
Despite crossing her legs tightly, Harriet was unable to stop a dribble of urine breaking out: a dribble that gushed convulsively when the ghastly sight broke into full view cresting the ridge about a mile... sorry about 1.61 kilometres....off. The hunt. Thundering along the ridge, scattering sheep, resplendent in pink and tight britches, fifteen or eighteen couple of hounds in full voice on the scent.
Screaming in horror, Harriet ran for the safety of the car: never had the sight of their little Vauxhall Roundhead xi (xtra inflation - the passenger air bags pre inflated for that extra comforting security, you can never be too careful) been so welcome; never had the 20 yards - damn! 18.3 metres - from their picnic site back to the car seemed so long.
Horror, on horror! As they approached the car a heavy crashing came through the thicket across the road. "Oh, the poor fox, where are the police??" wailed Harriet.
"Bastards, bastards, we should have confiscated everything from them," moaned Ron.
She broke from the thicket in from of them, scratches on her legs weeping little tears of blood, her body streaked with sweat and spattered with mud. Though clearly close to exhaustion she sprang on to the bonnet of the car like a springboard propelling her over the field gate. She passed so close they could see the muscles pumping and taste the pungent reek of her sweat.
The hunt pounded into view above the thicket, jumping the hedges into the adjacent field of stubble, the hounds pouring through gaps. Their quarry was already moving fast across the field but was turned by the approaching pack back towards Ron and Harriet until she disappeared under a boiling wave of hounds.
Ron and Harriet ran screaming towards the baying pack arriving there as the rest of the hunt drew up and the Master was wading into the sea of hounds. They dragged out the naked woman, now covered in a copious layer of hound drool and stretched her out tight over a bale of straw. "First blood to me, I think," cried the Master laying into her with his riding crop.
Harriet screamed hysterically and Ron yelled his protests. The exhausted woman looked up with glazed eyes. "Piss off you killjoy townee creeps!".
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