It was a dark and stormy entrance to the small town. The cemetery was foreboding of what lay ahead.
There was something a little different about this particular cemetery - it was sentient. The townspeople were blissfully unaware of this fact, going about their daily lives while the cemetery watched and waited. Then into town came Sentient Cemetery Man, and things were never the same again.
Sentient Cemetery Man was a lot like other Cemetery Men of the time, and yet in many ways - he was different. He walked with a swagger - one that belied his unusually short limbs.
In medieval times, sentient cemetery’s were quite common, then, suddenly, inexplicably, they dropped out of existence, but, due to the recent Pharanx phenomena, were now back, … and raising hell with a vengeance.
The sentient cemetery man wore a long trench coat. Funnily he was neither Marc Hunter or Keanu Reeves. His name was, in fact, Keanu Hunter, and with him he held an enormous secret so big that the sentience of the cemetery would seem trivial by comparison.
A secret so awesomely and ridiculously complicated, yet at the same time so very simple…
He walked slowly in the pouring rain, and then came to a stop. Pulling his hat tighter down onto his head, the water ran down over the brim and over his jacket. “I hate this cold rain,” he muttered to himself, “just as much as I hate this oblivious little town and it’s dull minded people as to the horrors that are contained within their neglected cemetery. I’ll show them” he chuckled to himself.
Continuing his slow trudge in sodden clothes, his shiny leather boots squeaking and squelching, he scanned the main road looking for a quiet pub to dry off and plot his reign of terror.
Finding the only pub in town, he walked in and found the locals discussing the likelihood of a football team called Richmond imploding yet again.
Mr Hunter asked the barman “why the long face?”
The barman turned slowly to face Hunter, a sneer forming on his hideously deformed face as he reached underneath the bar. Groping around under the bar whilst never allowing his eyes to stray from the menacing form of Sentient Cemetery Man, he finally found his lucky signed Rolf Harris photo. Satisfied that his lucky picture was still in it’s place, the barmans sneer turned to a smile. “why the long face? Because I’m feeling a little hoarse” he croaked. Regardless of his answer, after seeing that photo of Rolf Harris, Mr Hunter thought it was important to mention that he is 25 years old.