31 Jul Gargoth the Destructor vs. Gym Class: A New York Nightmare (A Vinny Pastorelli Story)

Posted at 18:44h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on July 31, 2025

“Gargoth the Destructor vs. Gym Class: A New York Nightmare (A Vinny Pastorelli Story)”

Written by Craig Groshek
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 4 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 2 votes.

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So there I am, sittin’ in this greasy spoon off 9th and Flatbush—real classy joint, the kind where the silverware sticks to the table and the coffee’s strong enough to melt paint. I got half a plate of eggs in front of me, cold as my ex-wife’s heart, and I’m nursin’ a cup’a joe like it’s the only thing holdin’ me together. Why? ‘Cause what I seen that day? It scrambled more than just my breakfast.

Lemme ask you somethin’. You ever had a day so nuts, so completely outta left field insane, you hadda sit down with a coffee and a couple Tums just to make sense of it all? Yeah? Well strap in, paisan, ‘cause I’m gonna tell ya about the time I watched a demon—a real one, mind you—come bustin’ through the freakin’ swimmin’ pool at St. Sebastian’s High School… right in the middle of gym class.

Now I know what you’re thinkin’. “Vinny, what were you smokin’? Demons don’t come through no pools.” To which I say: open your ears and shut your yap, ‘cause I ain’t makin’ this up. This ain’t no boogeyman bedtime story you tell your kids to keep ‘em from doin’ meth behind the Arby’s. This happened. I was there.

So picture it: gym class in full swing. You got a bunch of scrawny teenagers in swim caps, floppin’ around like wet linguine noodles. They’re doin’ their laps, splashin’ and bellyfloppin’, while Coach Marcelli—you know the guy, built like a meatball sub with legs—he’s struttin’ around poolside with his whistle, lookin’ like he wants to strangle someone with it. Classic New York gym teacher energy. Zero patience, negative empathy.

Then it happens.

Outta nowhere, the water starts churnin’—I’m talkin’ full-on whirlpool mode, like Nonna’s Sunday sauce boilin’ over. And then—BAM!—a geyser explodes outta the deep end like God himself flushed a toilet in reverse. And what comes crawlin’ up? Ohhh baby. Not a swimmer. Not a lifeguard.

It’s him.

Eight feet of pure, horned, brimstone-scented nightmare. Skin redder than marinara, claws like garden shears, and smoke puffin’ outta his nose like a busted radiator in August. The guy rises outta the deep end like some kinda satanic SeaWorld attraction, water drippin’ off him in slow-mo like he’s auditionin’ for a shampoo commercial from Hell.

And then he roars—real loud, like somebody stepped on a bagpipe filled with rage, ”I AM GARGOTH THE DESTRUCTOR! TREMBLE BEFORE ME, MORTALS!”

Now, lemme tell ya, the kids? Screamin’. One faints right into the shallow end. Another drops to his knees and starts sayin’ Hail Marys like he’s tryin’ to speedrun Catholicism. Coach Marcelli drops his whistle, just stares at the guy like he’s seen worse on a Monday.

This demon—Gargoth—he’s snortin’ smoke and lookin’ around all intense-like, and then he bellows, ”WHERE IS THE SACRIFICE? I DEMAND A BLOOD OFFERING!”

Silence. Dead silence. Even the pool stops bubblin’. Then some kid—probably stoned—points at the lifeguard stand like, “I dunno, maybe try over there?”

But here’s where things get real New York.

See, Coach Marcelli? This guy’s been runnin’ gym class since Reagan was in office. He’s seen every excuse, every injury, every fire drill stunt, and he ain’t impressed by much. So what does he do? He crosses his arms, glares at this eight-foot hellbeast like it just failed the mile run, and growls, “Yeah, yeah, you’re a big scary hell-beast, I get it. Now either put on a swimsuit or get outta my damn pool. We got laps to run.”

I’m watchin’ from the bleachers thinkin’ I’ve entered some kinda alternate reality. But the best part? The demon hesitates. I swear on my mother’s grave, he actually thinks about it. Looks around like, “Huh… do I hafta?” Like he’s considerin’ wearin’ one’a them ugly school-issued mesh trunks.

Then he scoffs—real proud-like—and goes, “I… I am not wearing your flimsy mortal garments!”

To which Coach hits him with, ”Then you’re out.”

Grabs his clipboard, walks away like he’s dealin’ with a freshman who forgot his towel. And Gargoth? He don’t know what to do. He’s standin’ there, claws flexin’, horns twitchin’, and the kids start snickerin’. You ever seen a demon get embarrassed? Buddy, it’s a beautiful thing.

Then comes the real kicker. Little Jimmy DiNunzio, a junior with the IQ of a potato but the courage of a Bronx bodega cat, yells out, ”Hey, buddy, you even know how to swim?”

Ooooooohhh. Instant regret. You don’t question a demon’s cardio in front of his enemies. Gargoth turns, his eyes glowin’ like stove burners, but then… he glances at the pool.

And that’s when it clicked. This guy? The Destroyer of Worlds? Can’t swim. Not a doggy paddle, not a backstroke, nothin’. And he knows it. He starts shoutin’ nonsense about how he “has no need for earthly water sports,” but I seen that look before. It’s the same look I had in fifth grade when I forgot my permission slip for the aquarium trip.

Even Coach Marcelli sees through it. Guy just smirks and says, ”Tell ya what, big guy. You do five laps, I’ll give ya one human sacrifice. Deal?”

Gargoth don’t respond. He just growls, looks like he’s about to cry sulfur tears, then turns and hurls himself back into the pool like a dropped anchor.

One enormous splash. Then… nothin’.

Demon’s gone. Back to whatever hot yoga class in Hell he crawled out of. The water calms down. The kids start cheerin’. One kid throws his goggles in the air like he just graduated. And Coach? Coach just mutters somethin’ like “damn kids and their demons,” shakes his head, and gets back to takin’ attendance like it’s any other Tuesday.

So yeah. That’s the story. A hell-demon showed up, got roasted by a bunch’a swim team rejects, and ran off ‘cause he couldn’t handle a couple laps. Welcome to New York.

Moral of the story? If you’re ever gonna summon a demon, make sure there’s a pool nearby.

Just in case.