Urban Legend: The Haired Beast of the Arctic


This is a tale from 1801, when British explorer, and later founder of the Order of the Erect Dawn, Sir Walter Floppersly, embarked on his first expedition across the Arctic belt. Sir Walter was armed with just two dogs, a sled, and a local man whom he had forced to accompany him who he referred to as ‘Dickens’. The account of his travels would not be widely known as a result of not completing his journey. However, his story is particularly important for one detail that occurred throughout the trip. Below is an excerpt of Sir Walter’s diary from that time.

Day 34, my knackers have begun to freeze over and, despite this, Dickens still refuses to use his warm breath to thaw them. Oh, how I long for the warm touch of those rough-handed ladies of the night back in the nearest town. The cold, I fear, is beginning to affect my thought pattern, I am aware of this fact due to Dickens occasionally resembling the particularly plump girl I sank my sausage into two days before embarking. As I think back to her warm and somewhat damp-smelling inner thigh, I can’t help but long for civilization once more.


Day 34 – Evening: It is fairly uncommon for me to make two entries in my journal in one day, however, extenuating circumstances have forced me to do so, despite my pencil being almost down to the nub. Mother, if you are reading this, then yes, you were correct, I should have brought more than one pencil, in the event that I don’t return home, you can take the money that I owe you for losing the bet out of my will (I wish for the rest of my life savings to be given to the aforementioned plump girl that I bedded and quite possibly impregnated just over a month ago). You see, the reason for this journal entry is not to lament my lack of writing instruments, but instead, to inform you, the reader, and indeed the world, that myself and my increasingly-tired Dickens have, much to my amazement, encountered a creature that is undoubtedly a species that the world is wholly unaware of. As such, I would like to stake claim to having discovered the beast and wish for it to be henceforth known as a ‘Floppy’. This name is not particularly suitable for the beast itself as it sounds far gentler than its actual nature, however, as a result of my left knacker now having fallen off, I fear that my lack of being able to produce the full amount of sperm is now affecting my ability to think, and am therefore at a loss for any alternative names.

The encounter occurred at around midday whilst traversing a particularly cavernous region, just north of where we made camp the night before and placed a small but rather fetching flag with the words “Our Fair Queen owns this land now” emblazoned upon it. Dickens informed me that we should take shelter in an ice cave as a result of the impending storm (at least I think that was what he was saying, after 34 days together he still has not been able to master the English language despite having such an eloquent and educated master). Upon whipping the dogs into submission, our sled slid down a slight hill into a small covered area which presumably continued below the ice, however, unfortunately, we were clearly not alone. Upon arriving, one of the dogs instantly darted deeper into the cave where it was later discovered to be licking a particularly large pile of excrement. I informed Dickens to suitably punish the cur for its vile behavior, after which I decided to also inspect the excrement. Its smell reminded me somewhat of my mother’s braised ham dish, a particularly repugnant stench that not even the local paupers would dare to swallow. After some time, a sound in the distance began to echo throughout the ice chamber which was something akin to a badger in heat screaming wildly whilst fornicating a fox, who was in a similar state of heat. The sound was ghastly and rattled me to my very core, I’m not ashamed to admit that my long johns became unfortunately soaked as a result of the experience, but it didn’t stop there. After a few moments a scraping sound began, something was being dragged along the icy floor and it was slowly nearing closer and closer to myself. Fearing the worst, I ordered Dickens to inspect it, who was characteristically resistant. However, after a few lashings with the dog whip, he concurred and slowly began to walk deeper into the cave before returning almost immediately with a face which was now as white as my own.

“Blast you!” I shouted as Dickens ran straight past me and the dogs quickly followed, “Blast your impoverished upbringing!” I shouted again as my fists rapped the ice beneath my feet in frustration. However, my voice quickly disappeared when I saw the horror that awaited our expedition group within the depths of the icy cave. A creature, perhaps almost nine-foot tall with piercing red eyes and white ice-encrusted hair covering every wretched inch of his body, lumbered its way towards me much like a pauper with its filthy hands outstretched in the hopes that it would receive some ‘spare change’. It looked me in the eyes and screeched, causing the ice below my feet to crack, and with it, my bowels loosened, the contents of which spilled out of my trouser legs and careened towards the beast in a foul smell of fear, mushroom stew and the remnants of Dickens’ last pack of provisions cooked by his troll-like mother. As the feces wormed its way towards the creature, it’s nostrils flared and eyes began to water as it quickly turned and retreated back into the depths of the cave. After some time, and wiping the remnants of my lunch from the lining of my trousers, I clambered back out of the cave to find Dickens, and the dogs, huddled together and shivering in fear. A few more lashings of the whip allowed them all to regain their senses and we decided to move on and make camp elsewhere for fear of another meeting with the floppy. The Artic is a harsh and barren wilderness, much like the south of London, and nestled deep within its bosom lies great dangers, frightful monstrosities, and blood-thirsty animals lying in wait to devour those of a higher stature than them, also, much like the south of London.

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