The Headless Walrusman

Disclaimer: At this point I would like to say that I have nothing to do with Sleepy Hollow. If I did, why would I be writing the dirty work known as "fanfiction"? No, really. I want to know what your reasoning behind this is, damnit.

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Chapter One: The Legend Himself

It was said that the Hessian who came with them was slightly deranged if not wholly bloodthirsty. If the others were here to do their jobs, this entity was out for the pogrom alone.

His hair was a tangled mass of black and his teeth were sharpened to nasty little points. (It would always piss everyone else off whenever he'd win "Bobbing for Apples," for according to them, having filed teeth was cheating.) The Hessian's billowing, formidable cloak made it seem as though Satan himself were riding through the night, and at his trademark growl of a war cry, people fled. With good reason, too, I might add...as he was particularly fond of slicing off the victim's head in one quick, clean thrust. He had to sharpen his blade often to obtain the desired ability to decapitate in a single hack, but as he went through the trouble to file his teeth in order to appear sexier, he didn't mind. Heating the sword with hellfire was even easier.

His great black steed was positively fearsome. Easily the largest walrus around, he was the bull of his herd. The very tusks on the beast were enough to drive even the happiest of children to suicide. His monstrous rolls of blubber thundered with every smack against the ground, and the frightful noises issued from the creature were heard for miles. All the other walruses ridden into battle were plain and decidedly slower than the Hessian's mount.

Yet all good things must come to an end. Having slaughtered his path across the countryside for years, the Hessian was finally cornered on a winter day in the western woods of Sleepy Hollow, a God-fearing New England village. A horde of the king's men, fat and flabby as small walruses themselves, came riding up on midget walruses with too-long tusks that scraped against the ground, leaving long tracks in the snow.

These midget walruses were no match for the Hessian's powerful steed, but as the Hessian had a sword with which he was very skilled, the flabby government nudists had rifles, whose ranges were much greater than a toss of the blade. However, these men lacked intelligence. When they should have been taking aim at the blood-loving murderer clad in black, they were instead prodding each other with their bayonets, giggling seductively.

"Oh, Leonard, you always know the right places," cooed the first idiot.

"The truth is, Gilbert, me love, I know thee very well now," came the reply.

"What about Victor? He needs some good loving, too," insisted Gilbert.

The third bastard called Victor shuddered. It wasn't that he didn't like sexual contact, but he was frightened of the bayonet's sharpness. (He wasn't as fond of pointy things as am I, you understand.) He longed for the days in which they'd just French kiss and call it good.

The Hessian had stopped for a minute, staring at these three sorry excuses for human beings as they commenced with the early stages of their mating rituals. It was one of those dirty situations in which one is disgusted by what one sees, yet is fascinated and unable to stop looking. He raised an eyebrow as if to say this whole thing was pathetic.

In their moronic flirting, Leonard's finger slipped onto the trigger, and as Gilbert nibbled on his earlobe, he became too excited to think straight. His hand tightened in a brief moment of rapture, and a bullet went pelting into the thick rolls of the Hessian's walrus.

The animal groaned and swung its massive head from side to side. One shot was hardly enough, but the Hessian leaned forward and stroked the beast's neck affectionately. "It's okay, Petunia," he whispered.

"Hey!" shouted Victor in sudden comprehension. He pointed a short, scabby finger ahead of them into the clearing. "That's the man we're supposed to be hunting down!"

"Is it?" muttered Gilbert thickly through a mouthful of Leonard's earlobe.

Victor rolled his eyes.

Leonard started in his saddle and jerked on the reins of his walrus, digging his heels into the blubber, urging the creature onward, also having realized that this was indeed their guy. He moved with the speed of an elderly woman on crack doing the worm.

Victor also attempted to get his walrus to move forward. When it didn't budge and instead began ridding itself of a rather large amount of excrement, he muttered, "Oh, screw it," and dismounted, running at the Hessian with his musket at the ready.

Leonard and Gilbert reluctantly followed suit, and the Hessian himself dismounted and ran to the edge of the clearing, unsheathing his deadly sword and preparing himself for a fight, letting his growl of a battle cry be heard.

The three soldiers raced up to him. It seemed a fair fight. Neither side had received any scars, emotional or otherwise. Finally the Hessian flung himself around, hopped a series of fallen, leafless, blackened trees, and stumbled into another reasonably sized clearing. The three fat guys didn't have too much work cut out for them; after all, the ground was covered in snow and the Hessian's tracks were hard to miss. Even so, considering the stupidity level among them, it took a slower time than it would for most.

In the clearing were two identical twin girls. Each was dressed in white, and they seemed not older than eight. In one's arms was a load of firewood; in the other's arms was a single twig. They were staring up innocently. They also happened to be cycloptic.

The Hessian put a finger to his chapped lips. "Shhh...."

"THIS ISN'T FAIR!" shrieked the one holding the load of sticks. "WE HAVE TO LIVE IN THIS BROKEN FOREST AND WE CAN'T EVEN GET NORMAL PEOPLE TO TALK TO EVERY NOW AND THEN! I'M GETTING SO LONELY FOR CIVILIZATION, I TELL YOU! I CAN'T TAKE THIS SHIT ANYMORE!"

The Hessian shook his head. That was sad. So much for running off. He could even hear the voices of his pursuers, not more than a handful of yards away in the fog.

"Hold up a second, Gilbert, me love," said the one called Leonard. "I've got to drain me trouser snake real quick like."

"Bloody hell," sighed Victor.

The air was suddenly thick with the scent of fresh urine.

Bloody hell, thought the Hessian.

The second twin girl snapped the twig she had been holding motionlessly for a few minutes now. The sound echoed through the forest just as the other's angry screams had.

"Hey, that's him!" said Victor, moving ahead, weapon poised.

There was another scuffle. Just as it seemed the Hessian was going to have his way with all three of them, Victor ducked under his arm, drew his own sword, and in an effort to give this "freak" a taste of his own medicine, swung it across the Hessian's neck, decapitating him.

The grave was hastily dug. The girl who had snapped the twig remained behind, watching from a patch of deadly nightshade. Her single eye was closed, and she seemed to be in a state of meditation, muttering abstract phrases under her breath. The body of the fallen legend was thrown unceremoniously into the hole which would be his final resting place, closely followed by his severed head.

Petunia, his faithful walrus, thudded off into the woods on a dirt trail. Petunia would continue to pound the western woods for years after his master's death, until his own came to pass.

None of them were aware of the horrors to come. None, except for the little girl who had lingered briefly.

Heads will roll.