Aye, most people in the village thought it was a little bit odd in this day an’ age for those four ald fellas to be livin’ together at Baxter’s Farm. There’d be the odd joke down the White Horse about them being woofters an’ ‘avin’ dirty orgies an’ stuff, but honestly, we didn’t really give much thought to ’em most of the time. Mike, the farrier, says they’re decent sorts; come in every six weeks, punctual like, to get they horses shod. An’ the bloke who used to be the vet ‘ere – Terry Fisher was his name, good bloke was Terry, God rest his soul – said they kept the stable spick an’ span; not one bit of hay out of place apparently. Anyway, I remember it like it was yesterday. Carol had said the weather looked a bit off while we were eatin’ breakfast, “it’s black over Bill’s mum’s,” she said. I went out to help Jack fit a new carburetor, an’ I sees ’em. Came as a right shock, I can tell you, when they rode into the village on they horses, with their hoods up, like. The Four blinkin’ Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Never expected that. Not in a month of Sundays.
Other little stories like this live in the Gee Willikers section of Flip Flop Flyin’.