Yallery

He approached the village with slight apprehension. Typically, the inhabitants of small communities noticed an outsider, especially within the Fens of Lincolnshire as all you had to do was count fingers, but there didn't seem to be anyone on the main street. The glow from the undersized windows illuminated the street but highlighted the shadows. The absence of any sound seemed to give the dark abyss the possibility of concealing some unimaginative leviathan. He made his way past insignificant shops and eventually the church that he had spied from the top of the ridge. The warm glow of the local tavern came out of the darkness and the corner of Yallery's mouth turned upwards (along with his pipe). He approached the inn and the silence of the evening was finally pierced by the sounds of laughter and the clinking of bottles. He stood at the foot of the pub, reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his tobacco filled badger scrotum and preceded to load his pipe. The pub sign that hung lifelessly in the cool evening air read `The Violated Shrew'. He thought about this for a while and eventually came to the conclusion that it was probably best not to ask.