Brandon Fleet, Marketing Executive for a mid-sized toothpaste brand (whitening, extra strength, cruelty-free, vegan-adjacent), was a man on a mission. Not to sell toothpaste, of course—no one in Marketing did that anymore—but to be seen selling it, preferably on LinkedIn, wearing neon trainers and quoting David Goggins.

At thirty-nine, Brandon described himself as “in the best shape of his life,” a phrase he had once heard Joe Wicks say and immediately stolen. He wore running tights that left nothing to the imagination, a smartwatch the size of a dinner plate, and sunglasses even when it rained—which, this being England, was often.

But it wasn’t the running that irritated the residents of Lower Mudbury. Nor was it the way he grunted past them like an injured walrus during his daily 10Ks, arms flailing with all the grace of a drunken semaphore operator. No, it was the talking. Brandon couldn’t run past a single living soul without announcing split times, elevation gain, or that morning’s bowel movement (“you have to be regular if you want to maximise endurance!”).

The final straw came one Tuesday morning, when he stopped outside the gate of Mr. Cyril Scantlebury, a farmer who had been awake since 4am shovelling things that no man should have to shovel before breakfast. Brandon, drenched in sweat and self-satisfaction, leaned on the gate like he was auditioning for a Nike ad.

“Morning Cyril! Smashed a 7:05 pace over the ridge today. Proper anaerobic zone three, but I nailed it. Have you ever considered interval training? Honestly, at your age—”

Cyril, who had long held the belief that men in tights should only be seen on stage or in therapy, nodded silently. Then, later that afternoon, he began to dig.

The plan was simple. There was a natural dip in the trail just past the old stile—a shaded patch where a spring had turned the ground into a sort of glooping, sucking bog that smelled faintly of despair and cow. With a few well-placed branches, Cyril disguised the edges. A little bait—a dropped energy gel packet, some fresh footprints—and it was ready.

By Thursday, word had spread.

At precisely 6:47am, Brandon came bounding along the trail, powered by oat milk and self-belief. He saw the discarded gel packet and let out a laugh. “Littering runners! Give us all a bad name!” he muttered, leaping heroically over the stile like a man who narrates his own life in GoPro footage.

He hit the trap squarely.

For a moment, there was only silence, then a splatter like a waterbed exploding. Birds took flight. Sheep scattered. Brandon disappeared into the ooze up to his armpits, flailing like a man wrestling an invisible eel.

Cyril, leaning on a fence post nearby with a flask of tea and the air of a man who had finally irrigated justice, gave a slow nod. “Interval that, you bloody peacock.”

Brandon emerged half an hour later, dripping in mud and looking like a disgraced statue. He squelched home in silence.

He no longer runs through Lower Mudbury. Rumour has it he’s taken up indoor rowing and moved to LinkedIn full-time.