The Wormters

By JT Pearson

Jeff was always like a magnet to the people in society living on the fringe. After compiling a collection of acquaintances that not only seemed bizarre but dangerous as well he decided that a move out of town to the peaceful country was just the answer. But Pyle’s Trailer Court proved to be anything but peaceful. To start with, it was located directly across the highway from Les Birds – one of Wisconsin’s most notorious strip clubs – where the action from the stage inside tended to move outside to the parking lot and strippers settled their disagreements with their fists, as patrons cheered them on. His neighbors in the surrounding trailers turned out to be as strange in their own ways as many of the people Jeff had left behind in the city. Jeff’s neighbor Jenny claimed that she had been abducted by aliens that took her up in their spaceship just to fool around a little. He also had a raccoon – Mr. Fats – that had taken a personal dislike to him and had made it an objective to make Jeff’s life miserable. And Jeff was being bullied by a woman that moonlighted as an Elvis impersonator from the taco plant where he worked. But, worst of all, he had incurred the wrath of a notoriously evil family – the Wormters – that were known to be so cruel that they carried around a dog that they had raised in a glass jug, like a pirate ship in a bottle. Can Jeff stand up to all the bullies in his life and live to tell the tale? Read The Wormters by J. T. Pearson and find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JT Pearson
• Release date: Feb 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301206704

JT Pearson

JT Pearson is possibly more myth than reality. It is widely believed that he has been around for thousands of years. Archeological digs have uncovered Grecian artwork that suggests that they prayed to him to cure ailments of the feet. Irish legend insists that JT Pearson is that movement in shadow that you’re not certain that you actually saw, or that image at the edge of your peripheral vision that vanishes when you turn toward it. In the upper Midwest of the United States people had claimed that they had several images of JT Pearson captured on film but they were all poor quality and eventually proven to be hoaxes. It is only recently that an artist rendering was discovered in the attic of an old convent that is believed to be authentic. President Richard Nixon had claimed before his death that JT Pearson was the specter that haunted his boyhood home, and quite possibly the reason that his mother left his father for a short time. Nestled among all of these legends and hearsay is the accusation that he is the author of this sight and responsible for the drivel that has been filling your head. Lawyers for JT Pearson advise that if you read his work you do so at your own peril and no form of compensation either monetary or otherwise will be offered for any injuries permanent or short term which are incurred within the pages of his stories. If you’d like to communicate with JT Pearson either burn a photograph of yourself and sprinkle the ashes into the wind at dusk or you may take the more conventional route at [e-mail] P.S. look for novels coming in the near future. For now, please enjoy the many short stories that he has provided for you to read for free. Feedback is much appreciated.

Book preview

THE WORMTERS

By J T PEARSON

COPYRIGHT 2013 JOSEPH PEARSON

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Mr. Fats – the moniker that the other residents of Pyle’s Trailer Court had given the portly raccoon that had been vandalizing our homes – stood above my last remaining inflatable lawn ornament – the pink flamingo - with his claw raised menacingly in the moonlight, poised to strike. He’d already destroyed the jockey, the farmer’s wife, and the rooster. This was the first time that I’d actually seen him, and pathetic as it was, I found myself paralyzed with fear. Our eyes still locked, Mister Fats plunged his claw into my flamingo and the air hissed from it as it collapsed into the patchy rain-starved grass around it. Next, Mister Fats moved to the basketball that I’d carelessly left near my lawn chair. Again he made certain that I was watching before he punched a set of holes into the basketball, momentarily wearing it on his claw like a bowling ball before flattening it out beneath his substantial weight. He was demonstrating his anger toward me for securing not only my trash can lid with a chain but those of my neighbors as well, a solution that I had offered them to keep Mister Fats from coming back. I had heard about the way Mister Fats had intimidated two little girls a week before. They lived several trailers down, the Jupie girls, just two and four years old, watching from their window, as I was now, how he showed them his claw before deflating their mini-pool, then their beach ball, then took a bite out of their Big Wheel, before hissing at them and leaving, the horrible memory scored into their tiny minds forever. Mister Fats was nothing but a common bully. He stood on his hind legs and scratched at the air like he was shadow boxing. Maybe he was daring me to come out and meet him. I continued to cower and he snorfed menacingly, before receding into the darkness at the edge of the court, and then he was just a