The Hills Have Thighs

I was sitting in a pub by myself, morosely drinking a pint of stagnant local ale. This man approaches me, vigorously rubbing his face. He says that happiness is not far; that tranquillity can be attained atop a heap of rocks on the horizon. He takes me outside and points to a hill called Bell Tor. He forces me up the hill, until we reach the halfway point. He tells me that I must be alone, to banish the sorrow within myself. Until then I hadn't thought in needed guidance, but the peak seemed to exude some evangelical promise. I traversed up, till I had almost reached the peak, then I saw the same man. I was sure he had walked off in the other direction, but something was altered in his appearance. He looked less groomed, and more savage. He had his throat slit. I noticed a pile of dismembered hikers and tourists behind him. He lunged at me, so thoughtlessly I pushed him over. His head bounced off the rocks, while his body rolled lifelessly behind. He landed in a thick patch of heather. Before seeing if he had disappeared, I ran down the hill and back to the pub. I saw the man again, and asked him what he was doing up there. He said that was just his brother. He then asked me if I gave him what he wanted. I looked down at my hands to see all my fingers missing. "That'll do" he said cheerily.