A teasing glimpse of Gammon.

Hello readers. This is an uncorrected draft-version of a children's story written by Simon Marsh & Kyle Bennett, which we are also adapting into a Stop-Motion Film! Since we have a ritual of only writing this after 12 AM, it is full of spelling mistakes and ideas that we thought better of in the cold light of day. The edited version is beautiful. It shall bring a tear to your eye. For now though, read on...

Once there was a boy. A boy, who was also part Gammon. He had pink, meaty appendages, all wet and flaccid. He would seep in the sunlight, all summer long.

No one loved the boy.

 His Mother was a lady of the night, and was host to various microbes and parasites. But she was cheap, so the boy always had pocket money.
His estranged Father, Pedroches was killed in a Meat hunting experiment conducted by the agents of the Government.

 He was called Pinky by his friends. Since he had no friends, he was most often called nothing.

 Gammon Pinkman; this is his story…

 Pinky sat one day, seeping into his “Billy the Squid” comic, ‘til all the pages were as flaccid as his limbs, and he realized that he could use them for his papier-mâché boat. Pinky sighed, gathered up his pulpiness and pulp fiction, and meandered along the river toward home.  The sunlight made him all shimmery, and beat down on his gammony flesh until streams of meat juice puddled on the dirt road.

A strident wail broke his peaceful thoughts;

 “Cometh home boy! Mine Barnacles need a’ scrubbin’!”

 One day, he thought, one day I will sail away along this river in my papier-mâché boat. But that day was not to be today, maybe in the future.

And he would go to a place where people would not prejudge him for what he was. Even his old Mum had considered drowning the lad in his own oil.

 “Nothing!” she screamed again, using the name he hated. “I thought I told you to Gerreer now!”

Pinky sighed and did thus.

 His mother shrieked as Pinky levered up a big barnacle and scraped all the goo from underneath, leaving a red patch. He scraped it into the barnacle pot, it was horrible but Pinky did not complain.

 “Now smother me toes in MAYONAISE!” she belched into his little face. It did Mother the world of good to have cool dip spread on her cankers at night. It kept them cool, and stunted any further barnacle growth for a time.

She was drunk as per usual and was spouting out ridiculous gibberish and asking the world of him.

 She knocked him about a bit, for being insolent, even though the poor lad had done nothing. Then he was told that instead of supper he would dine on her barnacles.

She was a good mother, but when drunk she could get really mean and bizarre, Pinky didn’t blame her however she had been taking the death of his father very badly. Pinky slipped off to the basement with the meagre offering of scraped away gunk, and went to contemplate his own half built papier-mâché boat.

It was a fine sight, all white and pure in the moonlight as there was no roof, and little bits of food sealed the holes in its hull. Pinky cuddled hisself up in the cramped hold, and, screwing his crinkled bits into himself, drifted off into sleep.

 A few restless hours later, he woke up to the pitter-patter of rain falling on the sail of his papier-mâché boat. Rushing to the stern he made best use of his bulk to save it from the wet. He loved his papier-mâché boat project. Being a child of gammon, he sometimes slept for only a few hours, needing less than the average human of slumber. He liked to stay down in his sanctuary for weeks on end. Mother did not mind unless she needed her scrapings done. She always told him it was good for a young boy to have a hobby.

 He knew that today he had to perform his mum’s weekly turning over, and to put ointment on her bed sores. She never left the house and was in constant demand from various sailors from various ports, so her health was of great importance. Pinky shuddered at the thought of what was to come upon him. His little heart quailed and his tiny bird throat tightened and went dry.

Shaking himself from thoughts of rescuing his poor papier-mâché boat, he trudged away from his papery project feeling hopeless and alone, because he was.

 Mother was only a few hours dead, but already decaying in the salty air. It must have happened while he slept. Her death was not a shock; Mother had been heavily diseased, and Pinky had often wondered how long she would last. Crayfish scavenged in her womb. Her feet had decayed and were indistinguishable from the mossy floorboards. Maggots swam in her hollow eye sockets.

Three sailors stood grimly by, and the tallest one, a man with leafy facial hair shoved a ten pound note into Pinkys’ stubby paw. “Get her daffodils” he whispered. “She always loved flowers” And weeping in tandem, the punters departed into the soft-falling rain.

 “Wait” shouted Pinky. He had always dreamed of being a sailor just like Billy the Squid. Things were all adding up. “You nice men should let me be on your crew now my mother is gone”

The three sailors’ turned and shook their heads. “No boy, you are too young, and Meat people are considered unlucky at sea. Besides, your Mother needs your care. Do not be hard hearted. We sailors loved her too” And they were gone.

 Pinky fell to his knees. “It’s not fair!” he cried “Being a sailor is all I’ve ever wanted and now Mother is not even here to crush my dreams. Dreams are all I have, dreams and my papier-mâché boat!”

“Oh” he squeaked from his lipless mouth. “My sail, maybe I can salvage it and prove to those good men that Meat too can be able seamen!”

 And so, with a damp tenner, he got to work rebuilding his papier-mâché dream; His papier-mâché boat that he loved so. He knew there was no place on land for a gammony lad of his calibre and temperament.

 By and by, and so and so, his wet pink body heaved with sobs ‘til all the salty tears were cried out of him. He knew what he must do to achieve his dream, which was to live on the sea in a world unprejudiced toward food based people like hisself.

His father had learnt the hard way the harsh reality of the human race...

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