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A Skull Named Jenkins

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There was once a skull named Jenkins. Jenkins had not always been a skull, no- he, like your father, and your father's father, had once been a man. His story is most peculiar, and to this day we are unsure about the specific details of his life. What we do know, however, is that he was a very unordinary man living under very ordinary circumstances.

Bedford was quite a normal town, not unlike your own. It had normal schools, a normal hospital, a normal movie theatre, and a normal dentist's office where the children dreaded visiting every six months. There was a casino also, where the adults went to have their own fun. Each of the four neighbourhoods had approximately eighty houses. The North side all had pale-yellow houses, the South all had off-white, the West all had powder-blue, and the East was all light-pink. No building was unordinary, save one- Jenkins the Clown's.

Jenkins's house was located on a hill to the Northwest, and if you saw it, young ones, you would be quite afraid. It had large shudders attached to the windows that gazed down from every side of the two-story structure. The lawn was unkempt and weeds had begun springing up in various areas. Ivy climbed halfway up the sides of the house. Despite these flaws, it was a handsome home and Jenkins was rather fond of it. However, he was very alone in his big home and he grew tired of his isolation. One day, he decided to have a bit of fun.


"Tweedle-dee, tweedle dum. What can I do to have some fun?"


He began to dance around his large and empty home to no music, but perhaps there was a symphony of thought echoing in his mind. Violins whined, cymbals clashed and flutes flittered his senses as he came up with ideas.

"Perhaps the children want some candy, "Thank you Jenkins, you are dandy!" Tee hee!"

Jenkins pranced along with his eyes closed, right into his very dirty washroom. He was a most unique sight, my friends, I will assure you of that. The crescendo in his mind hit the highest note before the crash of the final cymbal. He opened his eyes at this note and stared at the mirror. The heavens shook at his frightened scream, mirror-shards flying everywhere as his last punch of fury broke his reflection.

"Silly Jenkins, played with fire, burning all my heart's desire!"

His face was grotesque my friends, O horror! His nose was almost gone, and his flesh was as rough as jagged stone. His cheeks were burned into a terrible smile, O children… t’was the worst sight anyone did see. His rampage took a toll on the rest of his beautiful home as the drums boomed and the woodwinds rested, blind rage taking control of poor Jenkins. If you had seen him, you would have felt rather bad. After one solid hour of mindless destruction, Jenkins thought of a new plan.

"Oh Linda, I have done you wrong, now this town will hear my song!"

The woodwinds resumed and the drums took a breather. Good old Jenkins took on the tone of a happy clown, skipping to his workroom and hatching a sneaky scheme to fulfill his dreams.

These plans were of the ghastliest kind, O children, and it is a thing of deepest sorrow that a man could think up such thoughts. He thought of the most horrendous things possible, and we can only cry for him. Evil laid within his heart and t’was only a matter of time, my friends, before he displayed it. He ran out of his house to the top of the hill. He called out to the heavens, cursing the city below him.

“Like Poor Linda, you will die, I will laugh and you will cry! Tee hee!”


Cymbals crashed and drums boomed as silly Jenkins skipped down the hill to the city surrounding his home. But as he got further and further down the steep hill, his speed gaining with every gallop, he began clicking his heels and sang songs of joy. The woodwinds in his mind tweeted merrily. He began looking around for a silly one who knew not of his strife. He got to the first home, and it had a pale-yellow tinge to it.

"Silly house, you must burn, burning down is what you've earned."

And so with a Molotov cocktail, Jenkins had himself a merry old time burning down the first home, and the next one, and the next one... deaf to the screams of the people inside, the happy orchestra in his mind playing away as he danced through the blazing streets. It was interrupted, however, by the sound of sirens in the distance.

"Here comes the blue and red! Too late laddies, they're all dead! Tee hee!"

And he scampered off to another part of town, without a trace or a clue. The brass started playing his favourite old tune, and he hummed along in his own friendly way. He skipped merrily down the empty streets. He skipped past the movie theatre, remembering of the times when he was a handsome clown with his dearest wife Linda. They would watch the most romantic movies, holding each other in their arms while poor old Linda wept and Jenkins comforted. He stopped and stared at the building, his scarred lip twitching. The orchestra played on, drowning out the sounds of thunder in the distance. As the triangle dinged in his mind, out came a new delusion.


“Linda, Linda, my dearest dear, at this place you shed a tear, and if I had but any boldness, I would send this place to deepest coldness.”


It is most ironic that by sending a building to coldness, silly Jenkins would set it aflame, but alas! That is what he did. I am sure the film burned and the seats burned and the projectors burned and the night-security guard burned, as were Jenkins’s intentions. Could you imagine such a horror, my friends? The symphony in his mind played a tune of errant mystery, and even poor Jenkins was even unsure of its significance. He had no words to match these sounds. Breathing heavily, he carried on through the night.


Like a man who had too much wine, Jenkins stumbled to and fro, eventually finding himself at the casino. The lights flashed and the people inside were buzzing as a new rain came down heavily upon Jenkins. Breathing heavily, Jenkins slowly walked inside, making sure to stay hidden. He hid behind a plant at the entrance of the casino, waiting for an opportunity to strike. He listened to tune in his mind mixed with the nearing thunder. Lighting flashed outside, cutting the power.


“Now t’is time to make my move, Linda Linda! Where are you?”


Jenkins moved through the casino with ease, the crescendo returning once again. In the darkness, he was graceful. It hid him well but the adults who were having their fun knew that there was a thing of most unnatural horror in their midst. The power returned moments later and they all saw silly Jenkins in the centre of the room, holding a lovely blonde by the hair. She was most frightened, as I’m sure you can empathize.




“Linda, Linda! You’ve returned! Even though I thought you burned!”


Gleefully, Jenkins grabbed faux-Linda and ran towards the stairs leading to the roof. Poor Jenkins. Poor, poor Jenkins. This is where the story takes its most tragic turn. This was not Linda. We do not know her actual name, but Linda was buried in Jenkins’s garden… poor deluded clown. He was so desperate to see his love once more that he failed to see that this was not her. T’is most tragic, you must agree.


But he climbed, and climbed, and climbed the stairs; each note becoming higher and higher until he reached the top of the building with cymbals crashing and drums booming louder than ever. The rain poured down on him as he stood on the edge of the building, spectators gaping at this horrible scene as police arrived at the foot of the building. The orchestra stopped, but Jenkins didn’t notice; he was busy staring at his reflection in a puddle.


“I used to be of greatest desire,

before I set my life on fire,

I used to have a normal life

With unscarred skin and loving wife.”


Jenkins then let go of the fake Linda, and he realized that something must be done.

This is the most gruesome part of the tale, young children, and I will not judge you should you wish to stop reading.



He grabbed his knife and O horrors! Plunged it deep into his socket, removing his eyes… He screamed in pain, but to poor old Jenkins, t’was a necessary thing. He stumbled off the roof, falling ten stories below… and the most curious thing of all, my friends has yet to be told.


A body was found, but no head! There was no gore, O children, not a single drop of blood. Perhaps this is a cautionary tale, young ones. Play not with dangerous things, or you may one day meet an end like Jenkins’s. And there is a rumour you know. That whenever the wind blows northwest, so does a skull. A skull named Jenkins.





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