Peat’s Point of View

Page 2: The Grimoire That Shouldn’t Be

Peat shuffled into the kitchen like a man with no plan and even less coordination. The light flickered. The floor felt sticky. The whole room smelled like mildew, beer, and broken dreams.

He finished the last of his can with a loud slurp and reached for another from the crate as he passed the table.

“Don’t mind if I bloody do,” he muttered, cracking it open with one hand.

Then, just past the bin, something caught his eye — wedged under a stack of ancient takeout menus and what might’ve once been a pizza box.

He bent down (grunting like an old man), reached in, and pulled out an old rolling pin.

Wooden. Splintered. One handle barely attached.

Peat grinned. “Now we’re talkin’.”

He stood up straight, beer in one hand, rolling pin in the other like a drunk knight preparing for war.

“Let’s ‘ave it, then.”

He kicked open a cupboard.

CRASH. A mug shattered.

BANG. Another door flung open and rebounded off the wall.

“C’mon! Come out, ya furry little bastards!” he shouted, waving the rolling pin at thin air.

He expected a dead rat. Or a live possum. Or something with too many teeth and the will to bite.

Instead, behind two ancient tins and a box of Weetabix that looked older than his entire relationship history — he spotted it.

A biscuit tin. Dusty. Heavy. Sitting like it hadn’t been touched since the plague.

Peat dragged over a chair, climbed up (almost fell), yanked the tin out with both hands — and dropped back down to the floor with a victorious thud.

He yelled at the top of his lungs:

“I FOUND BISCUITS, YOU BASTARDS!!!”

He laughed to himself and popped the lid — expecting hobnobs, maybe jammy dodgers, definitely disappointment.

Instead: linen.

Old. Yellowed. Stained.

Smelled like wet mould and his own gym socks left in a locker for a week.

“What the f—” He gagged slightly.

Still, he peeled it back. Slowly.

Inside wasn’t biscuits.

It was a book.

If you could call it that.

---

The Grimoire That Shouldn’t Be

Just a cover of bone, wood, metal, and leather strips — woven together like a relic someone tried to forget.

Inside, no stack of pages.
Just two sides:
Left Side – The Warning
Etched into the inside cover:
THE THREE GOLDEN RULES
The words fade. The wish becomes reality.

1. Whatever is written shall come true.
2. It cannot create or destroy love. (Some things go beyond magic.)
3. It cannot kill. It cannot bring back the dead.

Life and **** remain untouched.
Write carefully. Words are sacred.
There are no second chances.
Right Side – The Page
A single page — glowing, shifting, and not made of parchment.
Something ethereal.
Like fog and glass become one.
The page is embedded into the back cover.
Whatever you write disappears.
Whatever you write becomes real.
The Quill
Resting in a carved groove within the cover.
It does not roll.
It does not fall.
Gold tip
Dark wood shaft
Red feather, sharp and vibrant
Despite the materials, it’s light as air — like it wants to float.
It was made only for that one page.
Nothing else will take its ink.
And it never runs dry.

---

Peat tried to read it.

Squinted. Blinked. Tilted the book like it might make more sense sideways.

The letters danced. Shifted. Faded in and out. Most of it looked like Latin had been mugged by a glow stick.

His beer-soaked brain could barely grab hold of anything — except for one word.

Wish.

It shimmered, clear as day, right in the middle of all the blur.

Peat grinned like a man who’d just cracked the code of the universe.

“Ohh… wish book.”

He nodded, wobbling slightly.

“Yeah. That’ll do.”

He hugged the book to his chest like a toddler carrying a bedtime story and stumbled back to the lounge.

He flopped onto the sofa, rolling pin still tucked under one arm, beer in the other, The Grimoire resting in his lap.

He giggled quietly, stroking the weird cover.

“Bet this thing could summon ghosts or blow up the moon.”

Then came the footsteps—

Josh, covered in attic dust, stomping down from above.

He missed the last two steps, landed with a bounce, and raised his beer like a trophy.

“I DIDN’T SPILL A DROP!!”

Connor emerged behind him from the basement, holding a melted candle, eyes wide and shoulders tense.

Peat raised the book proudly, face flushed.

“I found a book!” he announced, slurring it like a toast.

Josh squinted. “What kind of book?”

Connor stepped forward, voice sharper. “Peat, wait—what do you mean ‘found’?”

Peat wobbled upright, still holding the quill.

“Magic book. Swear to God. Makes wishes.”

Connor’s eyes locked on the page. “Wait, don’t—Peat—don’t write anything yet. Just give it here—”

Peat ignored him completely and raised the quill.

“I wanna be hung like a horse!” he shouted.

Josh, already cracking up, raised his can and slurred:

“YES, DO IT! Big enough to rearrange a womb, mate!”

Connor: “Are you two clinically brain-dead?!”

Peat cackled.

“Too lateeeee…” he sang, eyes glassy.

Then, in one long, lurching scribble, he wrote:

“I wish I was hung like a horse.”

Silence.

Josh blinked. Then burst out laughing.

“You didn’t—” he wheezed.

“Oh my God, you absolutely did!”

He raised his can again. “Go on then — get it out, you beautiful bastard!”

Josh, still chuckling: “Do it! Whip out the wonder worm!”

Connor: “Peat. Give me the book. Right now. Before it—”

Peat grinned wider. “Let’s have a peek, shall we?”

He grabbed the waistband of his trousers with both hands.

Peat yanked his pants down with a triumphant “TA-DA!”

His regular junk flopped out.

“See? Horse cock!” he declared, standing proud.

But then—

Right in front of them—

It started to change.

Josh’s jaw dropped mid-laugh.

“Wait—what the f—”

Peat’s smug face twisted into stunned silence.

His shaft thickened, skin darkening, texture shifting.

Veins bulged.

The whole thing lengthened, sagging lower by the second.

His balls ballooned, hanging heavy, swollen like overripe fruit.

Connor backed up.

“NOPE. NOPE. THAT’S NOT—” he flailed his arms. “No no no, I’m seeing things. I’m seeing too many things. Your cock just... grew into a fucking horse cock—”

He pointed, panicking.

“That’s not science! That’s not medically acceptable! I am way too sober for this shit!!”

Peat stared down, blinked...

Then doubled over in laughter.

“I’M EVOLVING!!”

Josh stumbled back a step, laughing and **** on his drink at the same time.

“This is so messed up—AND YET—I can’t stop watching!”

Peat spun once — a wobbling ballerina with a battering ram between his legs.

“BEHOLD!!” he shouted, arms spread wide.

WHUMP.

The full weight of it slapped against his thigh like a rolled-up fire hose.

Josh half-shielded his face, still laughing.

“PUT IT AWAY, MAN!!”

Connor: “I CAN’T UNSEE THAT!!”

*“That’s not a dick, that’s a war crime!!”

Peat collapsed onto the sofa, pants tangled at his ankles, legs wide.

The monstrous cock rested like a summoned beast, thick and veiny, pulsing with cursed glory.

He giggled until he wheezed, red-faced, barely breathing.

Still drunk.

Still proud.

Still not even slightly sorry.