[Transcribed from the original document, which had been handwritten in blue ballpoint pen on the back of a paper placemat and slipped through the mail slot of the Daily Telegraph's chief editor's private residence.
Transcriber's note: The blotchy brown stains of unknown source and unknown composition have been omitted for ease of reading, except in such instances where they render the original text illegible. The stains resemble a mixture of HP Sauce and blood, but chemical testing has proved inconclusive.]
It is coming.
They are coming.
[Two or three words of illegible text obscured by mysterious brown stain] is definitely coming!
Introducing The Flies of The Lord, the latest tome of terror from Britain's bestselling master of
terror horror, Garth Marenghi!
Be the first person in your neighborhood to [several words of illegible text obscured by mysterious brown stain] Marenghi!
Be the first [several words of illegible text, or possibly one improbably long word obscured by mysterious brown stain] to go dyspeptic with laser-guided shock and trepidation as a swarm of devil-spawn insects renounce their demonic origins and attend Seminary and team up with a defrocked priest to fight Old Granny Mayfield, the cold-blooded octogenarian who sold her soul to Satan in exchange for the perfect pot-luck potato salad recipe and world domination!!
Be the first person in your social circle to writhe in stomach-turning despair when confronted with The Flies of The Lord!!!
To be continued...
The day dawned hot and sultry over Romford High School, almost as hot and sultry as Tina Sexton's body. The day also dawned over an hour later than hundreds of years of solar observation indicated that it should have done at this time of year, but almost nobody noticed, and the people who did notice were told to shut up and stop being nerds. Ronnie Fitzhugh-Highsmith did not notice anything wrong with the sun, because he was not a nerd. Ronnie was the exact opposite of a nerd. He was a jock, and he was busy noticing everything right about Tina Sexton's body.
Ronnie's eyes followed Tina as she sashayed past him on her way down the hallway. He felt a flutter in his stomach. Where was she going? It didn't matter. What was she thinking about right now? Probably nothing. Tina was not the kind of girl who thought. That wasn't what she had been born for. Coach Hendrix had said so, and he was her uncle, so if anyone would know then it would be him.
He opened his mouth to tell her that she looked like a tart, which would have been a compliment in this case because clearly that was the look she had been going for, but instead of words, flies came boiling out. Flies? Flies! Flies, flies, flies. Hundreds of flies. Thousands of flies. More than a full liter of flies by volume, and that was a liter of flies if they had been packed solid, not just a few flies buzzing around loose in an otherwise empty liter bottle. Where were they all coming from? I mean, obviously they were coming from his stomach, but how had they gotten in there? Ronnie didn't remember eating this many flies. Ronnie didn't remember eating any flies.
[Entire paragraph rendered illegible by heavy scribbles of black marker, most likely a medium point Sharpie. In the margins, written in the same black marker and different handwriting than the rest of the document, are the words, "Did you think I wouldn't notice your little addition? Fuck you, Dean. That wasn't in either draft of FOTL, and you know it. If you think you can do so much better, then write your own damn book. G.M."]
Maggots? No, not maggots either. Nor fly eggs. Ronnie always paid close attention to keep from ever eating maggots or fly eggs. So where had all these flies come from before they began coming out of his stomach by way of his mouth. He couldn't have eaten them in his sleep, could he have? No, he couldn't. He was sure.
Oh bollocks, now there were flies coming out of his arse too.
What happens next? The only way for you to find out is to buy Grath [sic] Marenghi's The Flies of The Lord, coming to a quality bookshop near you, Halloween 1987! Yes, that's just days from now. If your bookshop doesn't carry Learner Publishing Co. brand horror novels and/or Learner Publishing Co. brand skin mags, then your bookshop isn't quality!
(This press release and all derivative works is copyrighted to Dean Learner, ©1987, all rights reserved.)
[End of transcript]