# The Gruesome Tale Of Boris and Vincent . . .



## jetskijigsaw84 (Feb 1, 2014)

When the wind moans mournfully through the trees, 
And mischievous souls are about their various sprees,
You'll find her in the moonlight, the old Hag with a story to tell.
A frightful woman, handy with book and bell.

If you seek her by the glow of a full moon,
You'll find her, humming a strange and mystical tune.
Just wait patiently, and in her own good time
She will relate this quaint little rhyme:

There were two souls bound by the strings of fate,
Together they would face a most deplorable state.
One was called Boris, the other Vincent,
This is the tale of their unfortunate incident.

Boris was a butcher without peer in his trade.
His meat was well worth the price paid.
He was tremendously proud man.
Quite honestly, he had no greater fan.

Vincent was an inn keeper who cheated and swindled,
Til each tenant's pocket book contents dwindled.
His wealth could never be enough,
And I assure you this is no bluff.

Each man carried with him his own deadly sin,
The very vices that would place them in Satan's den.
But I carelessly stray from the event
That would lead to their horrid decent!

It was on a moonlit night, much like tonight,
That it would begin: their dreadfully frightful plight.
As it would happen, the butcher had been traveling,
And his constitution was finally unraveling.

Weary from business and wandering the road,
He was in need of a place to unload.
At last he came upon an inn where he could lay his head,
Upon the soft, inviting warmth of a comfy bed.

How was he to know what lay beyond on his path?
That greed and pride would lead to infinite wrath?
How could either know the reaper lay in wait?
But again I ramble from their plot's fate. . . 

"I am in need of a room." Boris did retort.
Said the Inn Keeper with a smile, "What sort?"
"Just a place where I can rest my bones," Boris replied,
"Soft and warm, where my dreams can be eyed."

"I got just the room for you, Sir." Vincent said
In his viceroy verse as the butcher's face he read,
"But as you well know, it will come at a price."
Growled Boris "I'll pay what is fair, just keep me from the mice."

A sly grin upon the mouth of Vincent as he did say,
"A room without mice? That's a bit extra you'll have to pay."
(Now dear audience, it here I feel I must point out,
That in this particular Inn there were simply no mice about).

But I stray, I stray from what this tale may relay,
For it is a tale with something to say.
Boris bristled up; for, he knew we was no fool.
He would now set about reforming this tool.

"I'll not pay extra for such a small request!" His speech was grand,
"Don't you know who I am? I'm the best butcher in the land!"
"Never heard of ya, I'm sorry to say." Said the Inn keep,
"It's an extra five shillings if without the mice you wish to sleep."

"Never heard of me? Never heard of me?" Boris declared,
"Why it's the most ridiculous thing you could share!"
Vincent now became annoyed, "It's extra, Sir, for such a pleasure
As to argue with the inn I should warn you and your

Pocketbook, it's an extra ten shillings to rattle my cage!"
At this the butcher could feel a bit of a rage,
Welling up from the depths of his wicked soul.
Then, he reached for something, look, behold!

One of his freshly sharpened blades did gleam,
In the candlelight of this shadowy memory's dream.
"Surely, you are tired, sir." Vincent tried to reason,
"Just pay me what's due, no need to be a heathen."

"A heathen you say? I am no such thing!"
Boris belted out, "I simply wish to be resting
With a reasonable price to be paid,
and to not be charged for each act in which I engage!"

"Do forgive me, Sir, your room it awaits.
Put back your knife, I'll adjust your rates."
Vincent said in what was seemingly defeat.
(No swine can be kept knocked off their feet.)

His pride still in tact, Boris replaced the knife.
He wasn't aware of his self-inflicted strife.
For the inn keep had hidden up his sleeve,
A plan to profit no matter how deviously.

Vincent led his tenant to his room,
Not realizing it would soon be their tomb.
A foolish move to an already insulted man
Would bring them to the land of the damned.

But I race ahead of their horrid story,
Let's go back to the moment when things got gory!
Boris had finally supped and lay down for bed,
Little did he realize there was something to dread.

The inn keep, still bent on his dues,
Kept a trip to the apothecary subdued.
A slow acting poison was added to Boris' stew.
He even took the measure to add it to his brew.

When the butcher lay down in his bed for the night,
He began to notice a strange change in his sight.
I must be fatigued, he finally conceived,
From the travel and the harassment received.

He closed his eyes, and drifted to sleep
Never knowing of Vincent's deceit.
He heard a thump at the edge of his bed.
Twas the inn keep who assumed him dead.

Wide-eyed in horror he gasped,
"I had thought you had passed!"
Boris in a tremendous rage grabbed a knife
And skinned Vincent clean out of his life.

Then, he felt the pain, deep from with in,
Sharp as the sting of one hundred pins.
He writhed and curled like a worm,
Feeling the exit of all that was warm.

He hemorrhaged and fought for his life,
But there was no exit from his terrible strife.
At last the souls left the two wretched bodies,
But they didn't float as most do when disembodied.

Rather they drifted deep to the middle earth's core.
There the landed right there on Satan's door.
"Ah, the two I have long waited for,
I was wondering when I'd find _your_ shadows upon my door.

"What have we done? I don't understand!
I was an honest, pious, churchgoing man!"
They said in perfect unison.
Twas the first time the spoke in harmonious union.

Satan laughed with a jeer, "Greed and pride consumed 
Your souls. These things are what sealed your doom.
Now I must decide how to deliver your eternal blows,
Make you scream and increase your woes."

Boris would be taunted day after day, year after year,
The demons would prod him insult him with jeers.
Tied down and degraded, beaten and hated,
He became Satan's slave, as was fated.

Vincent was depraved and starved, with wealth
Just out of reach, and beaten til no scream could be stealthed.
He would reach for gold, despite all risk,
With each stretch his whipping was brisk.

There in that state they reside there in Hell,
Still living out their gruesome tale.
No two souls could have ever met,
A worse fate than that of Boris and Vincent.

With her tale of old told,
The old hag will disappear into mist,
Until the next set of ears she may hold,
Until next the earth is by the full moon kissed.


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