The Night at Day's End

Bayliss stewed in the gloom like gristle in gravy. 

It was getting increasingly worse, his guilt. His terrible cloying guilt.

Ever since the expedition to conquer Anakpan's towering summit, the climber felt the black burden of the survivor. Unlike his climbing partner and best friend, Rollo, Bayliss had returned to the safety and fireside of his comfortable period home.

But much more than that, Bayliss was consumed by the remorse - and fear -  of the murderer.

He had killed Rollo. 

He had taken his life at the top of the world, where God was watching and the devil most surely too.

Bayliss had kept his dark deceit for ten long years, guarding it like a stagnant pool in the steep ravines of his hardening soul.

In that decade he had often publicly celebrated his friend's achievements and commiserated with Rollo's newlywed widow, Hester.

More than that, Bayliss had seduced her as he had always intended to, jealous of Rollo's good fortune and his unbearably gorgeous young wife, whom Bayliss insanely desired.

Before they were married, Bayliss had long coveted his best friend's fiancee from afar, a clandestine passion growing ever stronger in the lightless recesses of his mad love.

He had been Rollo and Hester's best man at their beautiful wedding, swearing to protect his greatest friends and their promised children from the travails of the age with his very life. 

He lied.

His lust for Hester burned like the coal seams of purgatory and at length he could no longer stop his thoughts turning to Rollo's sudden demise at his own hand.

His best friend had to die.

It was Pythagorean.

The future was the perfect sum of a Rollo dead and his Hester uprooted for himself.

Then, the opportunity presented it's ugly countenance and Bayliss' hateful geometry was actually drawn out on a map of Ladkam, the tiny Asian enclave pinned to the world by its mightiest peak, Anakpan, the untaken giant at the edge of the Earth.

The massive berg gripped Bayliss like a Gypsy seer. It whispered to him, caressed his mind, conjured alluring visions of Rollo's rent body and Hester's almost unspoiled charms waiting for him to ravish in her London boudoir.

Anakpan spoke of blood and of bone. It spoke of the treachery in men's souls and laughed.

Bayliss listened like a medium and the thought was flesh. Rollo would die at the summit.

Keen climbers since grammar school and all the way though medical college, the two friends, Bayliss and Rollo had tramped the great massifs of Britain, scaled the lofty Alpine fastnesses and proudly taken His Majesty's empire to the crests of the sub-continent's titanic ramparts.

Only Anakpan remained unconquered and the nation's most illustrious climbing pair were chosen by the court to usurp it's might and plant the British flag atop it's cloud-flecked towers.

Preparations for the escapade were afoot and His Majesty's stores were made available to the adventurers. Ropes, boots, crampons, lamps, supplies, maps, guides, board and passage.

The date was fixed and the grim trajectories of Rollo and Bayliss were set therein.

May first.

One month after Rollo and Hester were married in that hopeful Spring of larks and affection.

Goodbye my sweet darling. Come back to me please.

I shall. I shall. Goodbye my love. Upon my return we shall make a child.

These pleas and vows whispered softly on the winds of the Asian range.

Anakpan was reached by the end of May.

The forecast was favourable, a solar eclipse later in the summer an omen of triumph, a herald of the impossible.

With the aid of local indigenous guides, a mid-way camp was eventually established nestling in the icy hide of the grinning behemoth. In the evenings the guides muttered to one another nervously as they stared at the nearing Moon, like the terrifying Sun, positioning itself with the gears of the Gods.

By mid-June the final ascent was in sight and Bayliss and Rollo dismissed the guides, insisting that they stay and make camp and give the final glory solely to the two appointed citizens of the great Empire.

The natives appeared keen to depart from the higher slopes and left willingly for safer, less auspicious geology. The prospect of a dark Sun seemed to make them jittery.

Bayliss and Rollo reached the harsh knoll on the Wednesday, their ice axes blunting from excessive hacks into stubborn pack ice. Even the finest quality Capital ropes were fraying in the frigid air. Rollo was struggling to breath, but Bayliss felt little pity for his dear friend.

Jealousy flared when he saw Hester's image in Rollo's pendant, a so-called kamera photograph from the new toy of the well-to-do. 

Such hubris. Such arrogance. To rub his face in it. Here!

Bayliss fumed and when the predicted eclipse of the great Sun occured that evening he saw his opportunity to rid himself of this entitled rival once and for all.

When it happened, as Moon wedded Sun, the guides at the camp stared in disbelief at the light-starved sky, it's shadowy curtain reaching down to cover their frightened faces as Gods and Demons from a different age flickered before them.

Bayliss embraced the darkness like a madman and as the Sun was cupped black he stared at his adversary.

Can you keep a secret Rollo, old man?

Rollo squinted as the corona burned round the moon like a melting ring.

Of course, what is it Bayliss?

I hate you! I hate you completely and fully! I always have and when you're gone I will take Hester from you!

What?

But the time for secrets was done and Bayliss pushed a dirk deep into Rollo's belly, who, bewildered by his best friend's unfathomable treachery, clasped his arm too late and with a tear in his eye, staggered over the frozen scarp clutching the dagger's hilt and dropped screaming onto the lethal bluffs below, where he broke like his wife's new bone china and perished on the blood-slicked slope.

Bayliss stared at his ragged friend in the solar murk and as the sun sloughed off the pesky moon once more, he could see clearly and gratefully that Rollo was no longer of the living.

He bellowed across the pinnacles with all his murderous glee.

Thank you Great Sun! Thank you!

Planting the British flag at the summit alone and feeling absolutely nothing, Bayliss climbed down to the ensorcelled guides with Rollo's pendant of Hester, supposed proof that his partner, confused by the total eclipse, had slipped from his grasp on the knoll and fallen accidentally to his untimely death as heaven was momentarily extinguished leaving Hell to open its sable doors.

Upon their return to London, Bayliss consoled the grieving wife, utterly bereft at the loss of her beloved man, now lying frozen on the frosted battlements of a distant rock, her lonely husband curled in the cold like an embryo and far from home.

She caressed the pendant she received, the only remnant of her Rollo gone and Bayliss mourned alongside her during those darkest of days that came, the eternal doom of the funeral and beyond, the gradual fading of the sun and Hester's journey into night.

Her dreams were of raw hands crawling across the moon, of lips whispering deep within the Sun and babies growing in frozen chambers at the top of the world. They broke free from their solid membranes and snowballed over jagged lintels, an avalanche of spilt blood flooding the valley below, their heads bobbing in the eddies, their hands waving red-stained Union Jacks.

Hester would scream and it was Bayliss who comforted her in the dead of night, sharing her bed on Rollo's cold half, sharing everything until one day, some two years later, they were married and expecting their first child.

Bayliss had won. He had taken Hester fully and like an avid cuckoo, had replaced his rival and dead best friend, Rollo, the man he put to death on Anakpan.

Life was sweet. 

Bayliss had a successful doctor's surgery, his new wife enjoyed a fresh procession of high teas, sponge cakes, disgorged his children and for years the couple were the toast of the town, the grief of earlier times evaporated and the memory of Rollo largely forgotten, no sign of him ever found on the mountain and his name certainly never spoken of in polite company anymore.

But as the years flew by Bayliss grew uneasy. 

His desire to confess to his best friend's murder bloomed like algae in his festering soul and his moods became tetchy, his former mellowness usurped by a burgeoning gloat. Hester and the children steadily withdrew and left Bayliss to wallow in his secret agony.

And thus, a full ten years staggered by, when the call came to retrieve the Empire's flag from Anakpan, the enclave of Ladkam now fully independent.

Bayliss leapt at the chance to be a member of the expedition and in his madness schemed to retrieve the incriminating dirk under the cover of another forecast solar eclipse. All he had to do was remember where Rollo had fallen and be there at the exact moment when the sky turned black.

The new Anakpan expedition got underway and Bayliss, once the natural leader but now deemed less experienced and older, held the lower position of team surgeon. 

The climbing was arduous and the rigours of the peak proved more than Bayliss had expected. He grew increasingly manic and the team eschewed his company, leaving him last on the ropes to mumble and curse as much as he wished.

Damn you Anakpan! Damn your granite heart! I gave you blood already. You will not have mine!

As the days bled into weeks the local guides grew restless the closer the new solar eclipse drew near. Still superstitious of the coming day's darkness, a few of their company remembered Bayliss from his previous conquest and they had never forgotten the frozen blood on his mittens. They had always suspected foul play, but had kept quiet like good acquiescent citizens of the world-bestraddling British Empire.

When the moment arrived, the eclipse of the sun and the moon, the mountain's late afternoon became night's end as the air was daubed with ink.

Everyone drew in their breath and gawped at the celestial majesty edging towards its zenith.

Only Bayliss did not look. He slipped off and gingerly picked a way down the ravine to where he felt sure his former best friend lay dead and frozen. 

As the two bodies came together and the sky turned early to midnight Bayliss could not believe his eyes.

The ice-dune that would have covered Rollo was there but it was empty and hollow.

Rollo had gone!

As the day retreated behind the moon, breathing heavily in the black ether of the solar event Bayliss frantically searched the nook he stood in for signs of a corpse.

Can you keep a secret?

The voice fluttered like a crow from a crack to the left and as Bayliss spun around, his heart pounding in his chest, a figure stepped from the deeper shadows and stood before him.

Rollo!

Can you keep a secret old man? I believe that was the last thing you asked me.

Rollo! How?

Well, my secret is ..... I'm not dead at all.

What?

Yes, old boy, you did murder me but my spirit lived on, preserved in an icy casket until it was released, just now, by the freeing corona around the sun and the moon. 

That's preposterous!

I am the ghost of your best friend, dispatched in the flaming ring of time and brought back by it, full circle, to exact my revenge.

No Rollo!

Yes, your ten years' warming my side of the bed and seeding my Hester are over my friend. Your time is up and mine is just beginning!

No Roll.........ugh!

The razor-sharp dirk entered Bayliss below his navel and cutting upwards slit easily through canvas, fur, skin and muscle until the hard chin halted the blade's progress.

In the eclipse's dark the thawing twisted phantom, of whom was once Rollo the man but was now something else, prized open the wound and holding it wide apart stepped inside and wriggled into its form until he fitted like a glove.

Bayliss screamed in agony as the entity and it's shadow filled his body. 

It sewed up the incision from the inside. 

As the final stitch was pushed through his dermis Bayliss could take no more and fell to the snowy ground babbling about the sun and the moon and the Hell in between. Then his world turned to black and his eyes closed.

As daylight rekindled itself, the medic of the team found him and, guessing he had slipped on the sharp jags by the knoll, bandaged him up and roped him down the rest of the route to the base camp. Here Bayliss's injured figure was taken by yak for an early return to England and home.

Hester tended to his grisly wound with gentle dabs of disinfectant.

It was an angry red now and dreadfully infected. The family doctor had prescribed complete rest, daily cleaning of the incision and a course of laudanum.

Bayliss mumbled about the devil in his belly who had swallowed the sun and slept fitfully throughout the first week. 

The injury did not get better and seeped increasing flows of putrefaction. 

At the start of the second week it ripped.

Hester stared in abject horror when the tear widened and screamed uncontrollably as a corrupted hand reached out of the wound, quickly followed by a second hand and a malignant pus-smeared head.

When an entire figure pulled itself out of her husband Bayliss's convulsing body and stood before her she screamed and screamed till her lungs burst.

The form of Rollo, wholly repugnant and decayed, shambled towards the shaking woman leaving footprints of blood-soaked frost in its wake. His eyes showed the darkening of a diseased sun and as he spoke his voice cracked like a fracture.

Hester my beloved, it is I, Rollo, your lost true husband, now returned to claim you and take you away to our new home, the glorious frozen prison where I was murdered and died and where we shall live together forever where day meets darkness. Come. Come to me my love.

Hester shrieked and she fainted at the feet of the decomposing figure.

The last anyone saw of her was the family doctor, who felt sure he had glimpsed a silhouette at the end of the street, the outline of a crooked man carrying a woman's body into the deepening darkening void of the night.

If You Meet Him Be Sure To Wear A Glove

Bip Yasser was the foremost palmologist in the Victorian world. 

He had read the palms of the rich and poor alike, always capturing the very essence of their futures in pithy predictions and uncanny forecasts.

His seminars and colloquia carried the alarming but alluring statement,

"If you meet me by accident be sure to wear a glove!"

Besides palmistry, Yasser was also obsessed with collecting.

Collecting his favourite things. 

His bread and butter.

Hands that is.

Left ones.

His secret and grisly collection of left hands was without equal. Thousands kept in cold storage in the cellars beneath his Victorian home, all neatly severed with excellent palms. Beautiful palms, which he'd read.

Unfortunately curiosity was a killer for the left handed when it came to palmology. The more they wanted to know the more it lead them into Yasser's lair to the end of their lifelines .... 

And Chop!

Another severed appendage for the freezer to be poured over again when Yasser felt the urge.

The more his fame grew the more sad, lonely victims sought his counsel and more than anything they desired a happy turnaround in their otherwise derelict and hollow lives. Malcontents for whom no-one cared and would not be missed.

For those he chose to murder that turnaround meant a further but fatal reading. A personal sitting in the comfort of his drawing room, where the gossamers of a violent death were waiting by the gaslights.

In a dark twist of geography his house was built over a pit. It lay dank and black in Yasser's main cellar, a sable void yawning beneath his gothic pile like a hungry mouth.

He fed it too.

He gave the pit the remnants of all his prey, hacked and butchered but largely there except for one hand, the left one, the Sinister, which he fondled and fingered, tracing the blood-flecked creases like a miner of gold.

Once washed and cauterized the sinisters would join their fellow limbs in the rank cold air of the basement's chests.  A thousand frozen handshakes they wished they'd never had.

But there was one left hand Yasser didn't have.

The left hand to end all others.

The Fallen left.

The hand of the Devil.

Satan's very own sinister. 

Legend had it that Lucifer lost it in the Final War of Angels and it's dark digits were hidden forever in the mists of evil and rheumy time.

But Yasser had researched it in a hundred hoary tomes, manifold ancient scriptures and countless forbidden grimoires. He'd read them all or the palms of those that had and it was this mastery of the art that eventually took him to the actual location of the real Fallen Sinister.

He had read the palm of the curator of the Vatican's hidden ossuary, it's secret cache of the bones of the holiest saints, whose sacred relics were piled on top of the most wicked of things that ever existed.

Lucifer's lost hand, the caresser of flies.

Yasser was electrified and immediately readied himself for the illicit plunder of the Holy See's reliquary. 

He coveted that fell appendage above all others. The unholy grail. The very fingers of evil. 

He had to have it and he had to read it's palm. 

The date was set and leaving a guided tour of Victorian guests, the palmologist loped unnoticed through the myriad ancient vestibules of the citadel until at last he indeed reached his goal.

He had realized that it would be dangerous to remove the dreadful hand unprotected. 

A crucifix around his neck, a Bible in his pocket and a prayer on his lips, the apprehensive hand hunter rummaged through the heap of sanctified femurs, skulls and ribs until he unearthed the very bottom of the shrine.

There, in the eerie glow of his flaming torch, astounding as it was, the true left hand of the Devil sat palm down on the divine earth, it's clawed fingers splayed out like a tarantula, it's skin like the black and scarlet hide of the plague.

This was it!

Everything Bip Yasser had dreamt of. 

The severed sinister of sin and malevolence here, before him, and reading it would surely grant him untold power and magnitude. Him alone. 

He would stride across the globe a demi-god and all monarchs would fear his handshake and bend to his baleful will.

The plunderer shook his head, the hot reverie passing and wearing a metallurgist's thick gloves he placed the ancient limb in a corked vessel of rosaries and holy water blessed unwittingly by the Holy Father himself.

The voyage home from Rome was dangerous and breathless.

Yasser stayed in his room on the Channel steamer until he caught the mail train at King's Cross. A midnight horse and cab delivered him safely back.

He was grateful to be home but had aged ten years from his devilish quest.

Placing his loathsome glory in the cellar's hold he collapsed in bed and suffered a fretful slumber ragged with tortuous visions and hateful strangers.

Waking at dawn, Yasser roused himself and with toast, marmalade and china tea bolstering his spirits he ventured into the lowers to savour his leathery prize. 

Staring at it outstretched inside the tank of rosary beads, it was indeed an arcane thing, a talisman of the serpent, monstrous and crimson, a forbidden greeting that drew Yasser in like a spider.

The Devil's Sinister.

He gently turned the horrific hand inside its cell and stared down through the shallow water at its dreadful palm.

He couldn't read it.

A palm that could not be read.

Perhaps if he took it out?

He did.

Free from its cloying bath, Lucifer's lines slowly gave up their grim fortune. 

With his most astute tracery, the nitheful paw gradually surrendered it's secrets to the ecstatic Yasser, which culminated in the foretelling of his rise to power, as he bestraddled the entire World and held it's fragile beauty in the palm of his hand like a snake's skull.

Released from this seductive vision the rapturous man returned the hand to its holy water and began planning his fated dominion over the Earth and it's elites.

He commenced building an empire of vanity.

Readings, divinations and tellings ushered him into the throne rooms of Emperors, Kings and Queens and the clandestine sanctums of the Holy.

Nothing stood in his way as his subjects heard what they wanted, the gears of self- indulgence turning their heads away from his gradual ascent.

It was at one such gathering where the palmologist, now Lord Yasser, was ending his sitting, when a newcomer sat before him wearing gloves.

He shook his hand and bid him read his fortune. 

I prefer the left for a fuller picture Sir.

Alas, that is not feasible my Lord.

The man held up a left gloved hand, clearly stiffened through years of arthritic strictures and malaise.

Ah, then the right it is! Lay your palm before me and close your eyes Sir.

As you wish my Lord.

The stranger removed his glove.

Yasser began to divine the ridges of what was clearly the hand of one who toiled, scolded and reddened as it was.

Then the teller opened his eyes wide! 

An apparition emerged in the ether of his senses, an overwhelming desire to take this strange individual home, bring about his death in a most terrible fashion and relieve him of his left limb regardless of its condition. 

He simply must have it.

I detect great beginnings but they remain muted Sir. A clearer foretelling would be had in my personal quarters if you care to join me?

Indeed I would my Lord.

Safely in his comfortable villa, Lord Yasser bade the somewhat hobbling gentleman, garbed in a long dark coat trailing along the ground, to be seated in front of his palmistry table in the gloomy drawing room, where the butcher's cleaver was hidden by his chair.

Place your right palm here and your gloved left hand beside it if you would.

Of course my Lord.

Once more the palmist faced the leathen appendage of fevered scarlet hues, it's fingernails more akin to talons than anything natural. 

It had the unpleasant feel more than anything of the wing-tipped claw of some enormous beast.

Gathering all his energies, Yasser began.

I see strength in you Sir, an as yet untapped reservoir of fortitude. Swathes of grand tomorrows await after years of imperfection. Yes, a reparation of sorts will occur, a union, but of what? If I follow the line further .....

Yasser's cleaver swung through the air and within a split second he had severed the man's left hand. 

It separated from the wrist with an odd splintering sound, quite unlike the splatter of his beloved skin and bone.

The stranger simply smiled. 

That was mildly irksome my Lord if I may say so, however, it was exact in its execution and I compliment your quick surgery. It needed to come off before we could proceed.

Proceed? What is that amputated hand before me Sir?

It's a wooden prosthetic made from the trees of Golgotha after I lost my original to that scoundrel Gabriel. Lost, yes, that's the operative word. I needed someone to find it for me. Someone like you Bip Yasser, deluded from the beginning. Did you really think you were destined for anything but a fool's errand leading to your ultimate damnation?

But the visions of greatness, my glorious ascent?

My lies you gullible termite. Like all you flesh puppets favoured by Heaven, it is easy to steer you to the quicksand of vanity and pride. Which is where you are now poor fellow. So be a good Victorian chap and bring me my missing hand. I, Satan, the Fallen One, want very much my sinister again!

With both of them descending to the cellars and commanded by hideous unseen forces, Yasser fetched the bath of rosaries and placed it before the Devil.

Now remove it from that accursed soup!

Ah, excellent. And now!

Satan held his severed limb in front of his left wrist stump and laughed with glee as the two heathen surfaces re-joined.

Wonderful! Splendid! I'm whole again! All thanks to you old fellow and your murderous gift. And so, I'd like to do something in return and complete your collection for you.

Satan grasped Yasser's left wrist and wrenched his hand free in a gout of spurting blood.

Yasser screamed at his amputation.

Slurping from his gushing stump, the Devil then placed the torn-away limb in the rosary bath.

Quite appropriate don't you think Yasser. The murderer's own hand loosened too!

Ha ha ha! 

The now undressed devil, his crimson hide smoking in the frigid cellar air, picked up the agonised palmist and carried him across his shoulder down into the pit, in which all the bodies had gone.

Oh, and thank you for the many morsels you threw me. Very tasty old boy.  This is one of my favourite entrances to my beloved home, where you shall live with me forever ...

In Hell! 

Ha ha ha ha ha!

E X T R A C T A

Gimme yer fuckin' water twatface!

Krale stared at the hydro-mugger, known as dro's in the metropole, and shook his head.

Didn't you hear me, fuckface, gimme that water!

Krale continued to sip his bottle and glare at the dro.

You're fuckin' asking for it fucker!

The dro lunged from his bus seat towards Krale, screaming his head off.

You're gonna die fuckmother!

Krale leapt over his rail and got the drop on his would-be mugger, booting him up the arse and sending him head first into the vehicle's side window, where his face met glass and glass won.

The agile Krale got off the bus and made a quick turn into a back alley, where he reached a keypad and touched the screen with his tongue.

He then spoke.

Krale, Officer, Aqua Force 2.

The door opened and the policeman, one of the good ones who never took a dime, entered a corridor leading to a huge operations room. Consoles beeped and maps of the city flickered on vast screens. They were maps of gangs. Drought gangs.

These criminal syndicates extorted the already struggling bottling companies and diverted the city's only water supply, bottled desalinated ocean water, for their own nefarious gains, selling the stocks onto the highest bidders in other stricken states, usually to the mega rich who could afford to pay.

Too many officials and officers turned a blind eye and it made Krale sick to his stomach.

As a result of the corruption the citizens suffered even more in what was already the worst and most prolonged drought in a century. It had lasted twenty years and had ripped civilized society apart. 

Nations warred over scarce water resources and gangs ran lines across territories. There just wasn't enough of it. Anywhere. It never rained. Not any more. 

Get delayed again Krale? 

His dodgy lieutenant was always on his back about something or other.

Some young dro tried it on.

Get the better of you?

What do you think?

Sir!

Sir!

It was a daily panto Krale and his gaffer played out, an irksome but manageable pain in the ass in a world of dwindling resources with big ass problems getting bigger every minute.

You're up on the hill today Krale.

What? oh come on boss, not the Cloisters. They're fuckin animals!

Well, you'll fit right in. Take Birds with you. The new greenhorn and a prick of a goody two-shoes like you!

Oh for fucks sake Lieutenant! Birds! The rookie! You gotta be joshin' me!

Get your weapon. Get your water ration. Take Birds and fuck off up the hill. Report back anything untoward. 

Untoward? Everything about the Cloisters gang is untoward. Fuckin' hillbilly river killers always on the make.

Take the boat up the Hudson.

They own it, the Hudson, they own the fuckin' river or had you forgotten ... Sir?

Take that tone with me Krale, you streak of Bronx piss and I'll bust you back to fuckin' boy scout!

I'm the fine champagne in your otherwise drab life Lieutenant and you know it!

Krale, if you were the last glass of Bolinger on earth I still wouldn't drink you. Now fuck off!

Officer Krale felt nervous about the assignment. The Cloisters gang were nutters. Cops left them alone, so why send him and the risk-drenched Birds. If he didn't know any better he'd think the Lieutenant was trying to get him out the way.

He logged out an ancient Winchester, his weapon of choice and good luck charm. He grabbed a bottle of the good stuff and dragged Birds from the photocopier.

Stop making copies of your lily-white arse Birds and follow me you dumb rookie.

They signed out a patrol boat at the Precinct jetties and boarded.

As Krale pushed the lever he noticed a party of businessmen disembarking nearby at the Mayor's city harbour. The boat was liveried EXTRACTA.

Fuckin' suits! I can't stand em!

Birds agreed because that's what he thought he should do. A beat with the legendary Officer Krale was both a privilege and a nightmare rolled into one. A jam doughnut sprinkled with glass. He was excited and bricking himself at the same time.

C'mon Birds. Ever seen Apocalypse Now? We're going up the Hudson straight to Hell! Mark my words, you're going to shit yourself today. Just follow my lead, keep schtumm and Birds ...

Yes Officer Krale?

... Watch my fuckin back!

The two aqua policemen zoomed up the brown skush of the old river, contaminated to fuck and held onto tight by the crazy Cloisters gang based high up on the famous hill beyond the Big Apple.

They'd be watching. Krale just knew.

It turned out to be an uneventful voyage up the drink, which worried the seasoned cop even more. His spidey senses were tinglin' like herpes.

Mooring up, the partners gingerly stepped behind the hoary walls of the hill citadel.

They could see gang members arguing in the courtyard over some sort of gizmo.

It was then Birds sneezed.

The gang turned.

Oh you fuckin' greenhorn Birds!

Krale tensed and positioned his repeater on the wall.

Drop it Cop! Drop the antique!

Krale swiveled to see a thin, gangly, tattooed creature with black teeth pointing one of two huge Magnums in his face.

The rifle was placed on the ground.

Walk coppers!

The two policemen trudged forwards towards the group who had been arguing.

Well looky here! Two fuckin' five O pigbags! What you doin' this far out you nosey little piggies?

Checkin' if the City's shit floats upstream too.

Ah, a wise ass. Krale isn't it?

Now how the fuck would you know that scumboid?

Krale was unnerved.

You're the golden boy. We all know you. Mister Honesty. And you must be the new recruit eh?

Yes, Sir, I've been fast tracked.

Krale poked his partner in the ribs.

Birds! 

Ah, yes, Birds! The Rookie! How apt! Fast tracked eh! In the right place at the right time and ready for new challenges eh! Well we have one for you Birdbrain. In fact we were just discussing whether you could be our guinea pig. And guess what, it is you!

With a single movement the gang leader pressed what looked like a small rifle with a large canister hard into Birds' waist, where it made a pop sound as if something had been punctured.

Suddenly Birds screamed for his life and turned to his partner.

His face turned blue.

Krale! 

Kraaaaaaaaaaaaaale!

Within a split second Birds was gone. He had been sucked whole into the device held against him.

What the fuck!

Krale staggered.

Jesus H!

The gang leader crowed.

Where the fuck is my partner you scumbag?

Why, he's right here officer!

The hoodlum pointed to the large glass canister on the end of the weapon. It was full of fresh but slightly pink water.

What the fuck are you talking about shit for brains! Where's fuckin Birds?

I told you copper, he's right here. I've extracted all the water from his piggy body and the rest of the shit is on the ground.

Krale stared at the water speckled with red flecks and at the pile of God knows what at the gangster's feet. And then he saw his badge. Viscous and melting.

Birds!

Krale felt sick to his pit but worse was to come.

The gang boss released the big bottle and took a long swig. 

Wow! That's some fuckin tasty fuzz pop right there! 

He wiped his lips with his arm and passed the bottle around.

Yep, the human body's more or less water Copper and you're gormless rookie has just been extracted! It's a whole new fuckin ball game!

The sickened officer was bundled into his boat and tied to the wheel. 

Tell any other upstanding pals in blue like you - a rarity I know - there's a brand spanking new way of drinking now, courtesy of our friends in Extracta, so watch out. We're thirsty as fuck!

Krale's patrol boat limped down river and he managed to nudge the steering enough to dock at the Precinct, where the lieutenant met him.

Where's Birds Krale?

He's croaked. Gone. Liquified. As if you didn't know.

After being debriefed for an hour Krale drank his ration, but spat it out at the thought of his partner. He should never have agreed to take him up river. Never.

And then he remembered.

Extracta.

Those fuckin' suits where on a boat with that written on the side.

Those fuckin' business and science types. I hate those bastards. I'm going to fuckin' find out what they're up to!

Krale grabbed a revolver and crept over to the Mayor's jetty. The boat marked EXTRACTA was still moored. He stowed on board and hid.

Before long the party returned.

The obvious top suit shook the Mayor's hand.

It's a deal Mr. Mayor. We take your street bums and homeless and sell you their extracted water at a fair price. It's a win win and we start tonight. Just pay off the cops.

Krale couldn't believe what he was hearing. Citizens being consigned for water extraction. Like his partner Birds. Jesus H. Christ! It's an abomination! And the Precinct is in on it!

The business boat speeded out to sea, past the last of the desalination plants that was still working. Just. The rest had caked up with salt and petered out. The final shipment of ocean water was in the city now and steadily running out. Rather than invest in the plants' upkeep the Mayor had made a deal with these fuckin devils!

Krale fumed. The 1 per cent every time. Screwing the rest of us. Bleeding us dry. Sucking the life out of us ... Literally! They'll pay, these greedy techno twats.

Docked, Krale saw that they were on an island. Behind was an enormous plant emblazoned with the now gruesomely familiar EXTRACTA name. Beside it were millions of empty canisters stacked up, like the one on the gangster's water gun, only much bigger. 

The top suit spoke into a tannoy.

At your stations! The first cargo of the City's filth is en route! Thus is not a drill! We go live tonight! We start the extractions!

Krale secreted himself inside the plant and desperately tried to figure out how to gather some evidence for the Press or else no one will believe him. It's just too damn far fetched that these dickheads are turning people into water!

At least he could get hold of one of those water guns and a small canister and set out to find one. Some paperwork would be good too. A copy of the deal signed by Mayor Fuckwit would really do the job!

Sneaking through the taps and valves, Krale heard the first screams and felt the liquified destitute pouring through the pipelines at his side. Canisters everywhere began to fill with that same disgusting clotty water. It was like the dairy from Hell and Krale was in the thick of it.

In the distance JCB's were scooping shrieking people from the cargo ships straight into the extractors. They screamed for their lives as their very contents were wrenched out and decanted, their clothes, skins, teeth and guts spewed out into vats, which would eventually harden and be sold to the thousands of fast food joints around the city as a cheap meat extract. Another win win.

Krale struck gold in a side office when he found a water gun and canister all badged up with EXTRACTA. More than that, he found a hold manifest for the first shipment. 

Scum, hobos, tramps and bums. 1,000 pieces. Agreed by the Mayor. 

Bingo! Fuckin' A. This would fry that elected shitstain and bring this whole temple of shite down with it.

Not so fast Officer Krale!

A beretta was pointing straight at him.

Krale couldn't believe his eyes.

You!

Me!

I fuckin knew it! You're bastard bent! 

Yep! 

But, it's mass murder!

'Bout time!

You can't mean that! You're a fuckin cop!

And a damn good one Krale. I know my place and I know when to look away. Unlike you, you inquisitive dickfuck. Those Cloister cretins fucked it up, so now I've got to deal with you or else Extracta will deal with me!

You'll deal with me old man?

Yes.

May I ask how you fuckin' corrupt twat?

Like this!

With lightning speed the Lieutenant jammed a water gun into Krale's midriff and flicked the switch.

You should have kept your nose out Officer!

Noooooooooooooooooo!

But it was too late for Officer Krale.

You were always a pesky fucker Krale. Never on the take and now you've gone the way of the birds! Ha ha! I told you, I wouldn't drink you if you were the last glass of champagne on earth. But a nice fresh bottle of water! Now that's different!

The lieutenant downed Krale's body-water in one huge gleeful glug.

Aaaaghhh! 

My, for a goody two-shoes wanker, you're a real thirst quencher Krale! You really are! 

F R O B I E S

The cesarian went well until they left her wide open. 

The midwife spoke to the orderly.

Here. Take it downstairs. Quickly.

Pat Stran came to and tried to rise. Her stomach was slit from top to bottom, blood welling up and brimming in her belly.

My baby. Where's my baby?

Pat, I'm so sorry to have to  tell you this. Your baby died during the procedure. The umbilical had strangled him and we opened you up too late.

Where is my baby you fucking bitch!

Now, now Pat. I've just explained to you. Your son was dead. Stillborn. You're bound to feel guilty but it's not your fault. Just lie there and a nurse will be along to stitch you up.

The midwife walked out leaving Pat to flail on the gurney like a gutted carp.

The next day Pat was released from hospital back into the sprawling city of Suck.

Her sutures had been roughly done and the infected wound already seeped. The pain was unbearable but she staggered to the AI mine, where Zal her husband worked keeping the towers cool for the rich folks in Cedar City.

Pat shambled into the office and begged the grizzled supervisor to fetch Zal.

Just this once. He's busy! 

Zal rushed from the sweat caves to find his wife gasping in the floor.

Zal, oh Zal! Our son! He's dead! Our baby died! They told me our baby had died!

The man shouted to the supervisor to get a doctor quick, but his slow coasting would ensure none came in time. This was the lot of those unfortunate enough to exist in the vast slums of Suck and Zal felt helpless as he clutched the hand of his dying wife on what should have been the happiest day of their miserable lives. 

No one lived long in Suck. No one lived well. Everyone was starving and precious babies died.

Not like Cedar City across the river, where the parents were fat with excess food and the children's brains were swilling with the latest lessons from super exclusive AI schooling.

Everything was peachy in the Cedars.

Everything sucked elsewhere.

Zal was bereft. His beautiful girl lying cold on the office floor. No room for love, no money for funerals. He knew Pat would be tossed into the river without so much as a thank you for your shit short life.

She's dead. Get back to work Stran. Those data banks won't fan themselves! 

The brutal boss man shoved Zal hard. It knocked him off balance and he fell head first over Pat's setting body.

Why you mean fuc....!

Seeing red, Zal was ready to give the supervisor what he deserved, a damn good hiding, even though he knew it would most certainly end up in his own death sentence. 

But as he rose he saw something on his wife's wristband. 

Something strange. 

One single word. 

FROBY.

He stared at it and for a second wondered if he and Pat had come up with it as a name but he knew they hadn't. There'd been no real time but they'd half-settled on a name for either gender. Apple.

It would have been the apple of their eyes in a world of dire consequences and hopelessness. Life in Suck saw to that, the twin evils of penury and starvation trapping them in Hell on Earth.

You! What does FROBY mean?

The supervisor ignored the flaming anger in the worker's voice.

Get up and get back to work!

Zal lunged upwards and grabbed the middling boss by the scruff of his coat and screamed in his face.

What the fuck does FROBY mean you heartless bastard!

I ... I ... Think it's something to do with Cedar City. 

What! The fuckin Cedars! How?

I dunno. Honest. I dunno! I heard the top gaffer saying he'd be getting a FROBY soon and he lives in the Cedars. He's a real rich guy. 

Zal let go of his collar and threw the man to the ground.

He loomed over him, fists clenched.

What's his fucking name? The big boss?

Tsardom Ro.

Zal stormed out of the building whispering a tearful farewell to his wife.

Goodbye Pat my love. I promise you that I'll find out what happened to our son. I promise you on my life.

The vengeful husband crept gingerly into the execs' car port and avoiding the sleeping guard, he found the vast, pristine and neon- illuminated spot for President Ro.

Zal shook his head. The sheer luxury of the AI-clouded sports car sat there was overwhelming, it's value no doubt more than the whole of Suck's million rickety wrecks put together.

You flash entitled twat Ro!

Used to tight spaces in the AI caves, the embittered man slid under the car and bundled himself in the air cavity below the mainframe.

He didn't need to wait long before Tsardom Ro rushed to his bay and opened the gull-wing. He was chatting excitedly on his comms.

Darling Darling, out wait is over! I'm on my way. Meet me at Frobies at three. 

Zal heard that word again. Froby. This time the plural. What the fuck does it mean? He grasped the suspension and the sportster glided out of the car park and onto the freeway to Cedar City across the river.

The bridge across the waters was made of glass, the super wealthy wishing to see the detritus of the world float by as they entered the salubrious grandeur of their gated existence. 

Zal saw too.

He saw bodies. 

Countless female bodies drifting downstream to the far ocean's empties and among them his own beloved Pat, hurled into the drink like a kitten sack along with all the rest of Suck's dead mothers.

What the fuck is going on?

Zal grimaced. He wretched and knew instinctively that some heinous fuckery was happening in the City of the rich. He just didn't know how, but he'd vowed to find out no matter what.

With the Cedar gates closed again, it was nearly three and Tsardom Ro revved to a standstill in the VIP space outside a huge store. 

His gull-wing door let him out and he greeted his beautiful enhanced girlfriend Zoos. 

This is it Zoosy. This is it! 

Ecstatic for some as yet unknown reason, Zal watched the bouncing couple hop into the enormous shop. 

Unfurling from under the chassis he stood in the shadows and stared at the store's name sign.

F R O B I E S

Entering the building through an unguarded side-door, the man from Suck scurried between empty plastic boxes, which he instantly recognized as incubators. Baby incubators from hospitals stacked like lobster pots in the olden days.

What the .....!

Zal clambered further in and held a door ajar. He could hear voices and recognized his boss Ro's educated speech nearby. He crawled into the main store and hid behind what felt like a freezer. It was long and he could see it was one of many stretching across the vastness of the shop floor. 

Good afternoon Mr. Ro and Miss. Zoos. We have been waiting for you. As you know from our communications this morning, a brand new opportunity has arisen in our mint stock. An opportunity I doubt you will want to miss and hence my enthusiasm in inviting you in.

The shopkeeper rubbed his hands together like a bluebottle. 

It is the unending woe of our safe Cedars life that luxury has brought with it infertility and that our fine residents should endure its barren emptiness. 

But we at Frobies have decreed to reverse that woe and turn it into a lifetime of happiness for our gorgeous elite and a childhood of privilege for those less fortunate, the unwanted newborns of penniless mothers in Suck across the river, who remain forever-grateful to the kindness of Cedar's welcoming couples.

But we also offer a discreet and exclusive service for those greater citizens with, how shall I put it, perhaps more immediate and discerning tastes of a wholly different flavour.

And so, with the latter in mind, it is my great pleasure to offer you both this latest product, a new infant of the subtlest textures, reared by thankful and less-fortunate donors. Here he is, their plump and freshly frozen baby.

Oh my! Oh my!

Zoos swooned into her boyfriend's arms and tearing up, burbled gleefully.

He's lovely, simply delectable! We'll take him! We'll take him home! He'll be perfect! Just perfect! 

Ah, splendid! He is indeed a wonderful Froby!

The storekeeper cooed and held the chunky shrink-wrapped infant aloft. 

Nearby, from his hidden position, Zal could see the contents of all the long chest freezers traversing the store.

Jesus Christ! There's hundreds of them. All babies! All taken from Suck! Those fuckin' rich bastards!

And then in a moment of terrible realization he understood the shop's name. 

Frobies. 

Frozen Babies! 

Bewildered by the sheer scale of the monstrous injustice he was witnessing, Zal looked up and caught sight of the label underneath the baby in the girlfriend's arms.

To his complete horror he read a familiar name

STRAN!

Oh my dear God! Our son! Christ in heaven, it's our son, Pat! 

Fuelled by a burgeoning outpouring of rage, Zal was about to spring from behind the freezer to rescue their child, when a posse of well-armed security guards wearing FROBIES jackets cornered him with a ring of Kalashnikovs. 

What do have we here? An intruder from Suck no less! 

That's my fucking son over there in that woman's arms! 

Be quiet Suck scum! Who the fuck cares about your shitty offspring!

The lead guard radioed the storekeeper.

Where shall we take the intruder?

He received a one word reply.

FRODULTS.

Yes Sir!

Turning to Zal, he hit him squarely in the gut with his rifle butt.

Let's be having you Suck filth! We've a brand new store opening across the road! You'll look superb trussed up in the refrigerated window!

Another brutal rifle blow, Zal groaned in agony, but not before overhearing the salesman's final patter.

Shall I thaw the little tyke out or keep him freshly wrapped?

Then Zal heard the real motivation behind the couple coming to FROBIES.

Tsardom Ro beamed at the shop assistant.

Oh, shrink-wrapped please! Yes, keep him fresh.

Oh Tsardom, what a fabulous dinner we'll put on for our friends. I can't wait to walk out of the kitchen with this prize frozen specimen roasted to total perfection. It's going to be spectacular! The best one yet!

Zal Stran's mind imploded. 

They were going to cook his son for their friends!

Thinking only of his beloved Pat and his earnest vow, as she lay dying, Zal, with a Herculean leap, lurched past the guards towards the drooling couple, shouting out his son's unused name.

APPLE! WE WERE GOING TO CALL HIM APPLE, YOU CANNIBALISTIC FUCKERS!

The pair looked across the store and saw the crazed man bounding towards them. The storekeeper quickly lead them away to his office but not before whispering into his radio.

Kill him!

Several shots rang out and then, total silence.

As the couple took possession of their new purchase in a large FROBIES carrier bag, Zoos looked through the sound-proofed office window.

Who was that?

Oh, just some vagrant from Suck determined to spoil your meal.

Oh, nothing could spoil our annual newborn dinner, could it Zoos!

Tsardom smiled at his girlfriend.

It's a super idea though Zoosy. An apple! We'll stuff a juicy apple in his mouth just before we wheel him out!

The shopkeeper clapped his hands.

Oh yes! How succulent! A wonderfully personal touch I agree!

Deek's got all the Monster Props

It was as dark as the dead of night in the old studio's basement. A thick miasma of dust and dander filled it like a London smog.

How the fuck can anyone work down here!

Boswell the film director stumbled as he attempted to traverse the minefield of plaster heads, rubber arms and grisly masks. He was trying to find Deek the old props guy because he needed something specific for his latest movie, The Parade of Monsters.

Deek, you old bastard! Where are you for fucks sake?

There was no love lost between the new director and the ancient propmaster. It was a tectonic clash between the modern and the hoary what was. Neither one respected the other, but in that twisted reality of reel economics they both needed one another.

Boswell needed monsters. Deek had all the props. Simple. 

Deek Lugos had been in the film industry for over 70 years. Nearly one hundred years old, he had never missed a single day of work, except when his beloved wife Elsa was interred in '45. He was that strange unique bridge across eons of movie making, from the beautiful silents to the gabbling talkies to the big studios and now to the velvet jacketed effete of the trippy decade. It was 1970 and Deek had amassed the biggest storeroom of horror film artefacts, costumes and props in the world. Some where older than him and he loved them all like his children.

His dearest Elsa had loved film too and in her heyday was the most sought-after costumier in horror. Together they'd worked with the greats: Max Shreck, Bela, Karloff, Lanchester and Lorre. Sadly Elsa never got to meet the newcomers like Pitt, Cushing, Price and Lee, who's careers were now burgeoning. Elsa had been distracted by Vulp, Aldo Vulp, the seductively fresh and suave director in '44, an incubus in silk who turned Elsa's head and charmed her into bed, whilst Deek was away searching for props in Romania. Vulp secretly ravaged Elsa like a caustic fox that summer but by the winter he was bored. Discarded and distraught she killed herself on New Year's Day 1945 and with a primordial rage Deek had hated Vulp from that moment on. 

After Elsa's funeral, her secret scorn interred within her, Deek had made a vow. He could forgive his beloved but not Arlo Vulp.

There would be a reckoning. 

His broken darling boxed in the coffin would be avenged.

The Fates did not concur, however, and Arlo Vulp was killed in a motor car accident in St.Tropez, as he drove his Maserati way too fast like the brash poseur that he was. His wife and infant son survived however.

Thwarted but stoical, for a quarter of a century Deek had forgotten that Arlo Vulp had ever existed.

Until today.

Lugos! Where the fuck are you?

I'm right here Sir. How may I be of service?

Deek stepped out from behind the startling costume of a She-Creature, it's whiskered antennae brushing his fantastically wrinkled face, which was illumined by the half-glow of a weak naked bulb.

Ah, there you are! I've been looking for you in all this decrepit shite you've piled up in here!

This, er, pile represents film history Sir. Most of it from before you were born.

History, schmistory! As long as you've got what I need I don't give a flying fuck about the rest of it Lugos!

Deek bristled at this crass young upstart with his filthy tongue and ridiculous paisley neckerchief.

What is it you seek Sir?

Monsters! I need monsters. Classic ones. The old Universal kind. Have you got anything useful like that in this heap of dross?

I do Sir, Indeed I do. I have all the original props. Costumes, make-up, jewellery, the lot. Real treasures saved from the mob. Would you like to see them?

No. Just have it all clean and ready this time next week old man or you'll be out on your ear. Understand!

As he said this the obnoxious director stepped forward into the light and Deek saw his name-badge for the very first time.

Boswell Vulp.

Vulp! That's an unusual surname Sir. Are you related perhaps to the famous Arlo Vulp by any chance?

I am, not that it's any concern of yours. I didn't know my Father long, but in those short five years he taught me to take what I want from whomever I want. And I want my monsters, so you'd better deliver Deek Lugos!

The rude Director left the old propman to brood.

And brood he did.

A Vulp. Here in this building! I can't believe it! The progeny of the snake himself!

It was late one evening the following week when a young girl stumbled into the basement at the top of the stairs. She slammed the door shut and fastened the two great bolts, holding the handle tight and staring at the door, panting, as if someone were chasing her.

Hello.

Deek spoke softly so as not to scare her, as she was clearly distressed. 

Shhhhhh! He'll hear us!

Deek surmised she was about twenty. Wearing a lanyard, he could see she worked here at the studio. 

Suddenly there was a pounding on the other side of the door.

Val! Are you in there! I know you're hiding in there! Lugos, if you can hear me then open this door and I mean fucking pronto! I'll get you Val. I'm bleeding you bitch! 

Recognising the mean-spirited bleating of one Boswell Vulp, Deek looked at the girl and placed his finger over his lips.

Shhhhh.

They remained silent like this for a good ten minutes until they were sure that Vulp had left to look elsewhere.

The young girl descended the stairs quietly.

Thank you.

My pleasure.

I'm Valderia Dracul. I'm working here as an extra in the new movie, The Parade of Monsters. Boswell the Director liked my Eastern European accent so hired me for the night shift. He also likes other things about me. 

That's why you are hiding. You're hiding from the director?

Yes.

Has he hurt you?

Yes, he slapped me hard when I refused to sleep with him. I tried to bite him but scratched his face instead and ran. 

I see. He is a bad one for sure. 

I think he would kill me if he could.

Hmmm. Well, you are welcome to stay here until the coast is clear.

Thank you.

Dracul? That's an unusual name. I've come across it before on a visit to Romania looking for props many years ago.

Yes, I am from Bran the home if the Dracula dynasty in Transylvania. I have come to, how you say, improve my English.

Bran, eh. I went to the castle there. In fact I bought some items and brought them back. 

What kind of items?

Oh, some mouldy old earth and a coffin.

A coffin?

Yes.

What's inside it?

A body.

A body?

Yes.

Who's.

Count Dracula.

The Count? Here?

Yes.

I can't believe it! Count Dracula is my Father! I am one of his many daughters scattered across Europe. None of us knew where he was.

Well, Valderia, your Father is here. He's quite safe and secret. Would you like to see him?

Oh, yes please! 

The pair walked through the long basement to a further wide chamber.

Deek lit a torch with his cigarette lighter. 

Inside the gloom were four objects.

As Valderia approached she could see that one was a sarcophagus, one a metal bed with a body on top, one a hospital bed with another body attached to a drip and lastly, a coffin.

Here is your father Valderia.

Deek opened the lid of the casket to reveal a prone male and emaciated figure sleeping within, his arms folded over his chest.

I give you Count Dracula.

Father! Oh, Father! 

Valderia stooped and kissed Dracula's forehead.

Why does he not wake? 

Your Father requires blood. He has been dormant for so long, we would need to feed him. 

How? 

I have several bags of blood in a small fridge for such an occasion. 

Why not now?

If I could indulge you a little longer Valderia, I assure you we can wake your him and his compatriots to both re-unite you and your father but also  avenge both of us for heinous slights committed by the Vulps.

When?

Tomorrow. Boswell Vulp requires monsters for his film and we shall give him some. Alive and hungry!

The two spent the night preparing the exhibits and early next morning, when it was still dark, Deek phoned the director to please come and inspect the props as instructed.

Flustered but cooperative, Boswell burst into the studio to find Deek standing on the murky set with a flaming torch. 

Ah, Mr. Vulp! Please. This way. Let me present the requested five, er, monsters.

Vulp stepped into the torchlight and gawped at the scene in front of him.

It's fantastic Lugos, you surprising old fart! It's better than I ever imagined! I thought you'd drag out some old rubber rubbish but this is the dog's bollocks!

Indeed, Director, it is in fact the real McCoy!

Yes, these are the best damn props I've ever seen. Where on earth did you get them?

Oh, Wales, Transylvania, the Arctic and the Cairo Museum to be precise.

What?

Yes, over my long life I've travelled the world to locate and preserve the original monsters the old studios threw out.

But why were the props scattered like that?

Because they went back home to sleep and recuperate.

What the fuck are you talking about Lugos! Now you're not making sense. How can props sleep!

Oh, they're not props Boswell. They're the real thing. These are real monsters, which I've just woken up.

What? Rubbish! 

Yes. Let me introduce you. Here sat on his electric chair is the Frankenstein monster. Here stepping out of its sarcophagus is the Mummy. Here standing under the moonlit velux is the Wolfman. And here getting out of his coffin is one Count Dracula.

Je-sus Christ! They're so authentic. We'll make a killing! But you said five. Where's the fifth one?

I'm here Mr. Vulp, Director.

Valderia floated across the gothic set towards the assembly.

May I introduce the fifth monster, Dracula's daughter.

Incredible! Well done Valderia! You look great! I hope there's no hard feelings about our little misunderstanding. You really do look fantastic. What a costume! In fact all of them, such authenticity! 

I'm afraid you still don't quite get it Vulp. You have sorely affronted Valderia and your own vile Father took my beloved Elsa from me. These insults cannot be forgotten and I'm afraid your sentence is death ........ Monsters! 

The five beasts leapt forward and violently assaulted the bewildered man, their claws and teeth puncturing his soft forgiving flesh, his hot grue spurting in every direction.

Oh God! They're real! They're real monsters! Help me Deek, Valderia, help me! 

Oh, we'll help you alright! We'll help you out of your skin! 

The director screamed as the ravenous creatures tore him to shreds, freed his innards and hungrily ate every last bloody morsel. 

Over the next few nights, the movie was filmed with Deek and Valderia at the helm, the monsters happy to oblige as long as they were fed properly in the basement, coming on set each evening, the red gore and entrails still dripping from their fangs, hands and talons. 

Everyone clapped, they looked so damn good! 

A few junior crew short, the picture was wrapped on time and budget and screen tests proved a massive hit with critics and fans alike 

They all agreed that The Parade of Monsters was the most authentic classic monster movie they'd ever seen.

Deek and Valderia just smiled and looked forward to the blood-drenched sequel, the Monsters' Feast!

The Horrorscope

 Vic was a young horror nut.

It was 1965 and whilst other kids were fawning over the Beatles he was fixated with monsters.

Monsters of any kind. 

Dracula, Frankenstein, Wolfman, Mummy. Even Old Nick. He loved them all.

School was a necessary evil, but when the bell went for end of day Vic would pelt home, grab a glass of milk and a couple of jamborees and head into his bedroom to pour over his passions.

The best day by far was the monthly arrival of his subscriptions, Creepy, Eerie and Famous Monsters. When these three comics landed on the mat Vic's heart sang like a siren.

Yes! 

It was the best feeling ever, lying on his stomach on the carpet leafing through the unholy trinity of monster mags. Nothing came near it. It was heaven.

The illustrations were to die for and the storytelling was just smashing. Every single page was a masterpiece but one of Vic's favourites was Loathsome Lore, a panel which always detailed some dreadful myth or hateful legend like human sacrifices or selling souls.

Yet his absolute favourite thing in all three mags weren't the stories, the black and white photos or the movie reviews.

No.

It was the small ads scattered throughout a d culminating in a couple of dedicated pages at the back.

These were the zenith, the summit, the dog's bollocks of monsterdom for Vic. God, how he would have liked everything on offer from the amazing supplier, Cap Company.

But he spent all his pocket money on his magazine subscription. He just couldn't afford anything else and didn't want to pester his parents, who already thought his grisly obsession was a little unhealthy for a boy.

So, he satisfied himself with just imagining what it would be like to own a phial of Dracula's soil or a life-size poster of Frankenstein or a an LP record of The Food of the Gods, never mind the wonders of a Don Post Wolfman mask or a set of Impko horror decals. 

Oh, the beautiful gruesomeness of it all. How he longed to be part of it and not just read about it, the Universal monsters, the Black Zoo and the House of Hammer.

He woke up thinking about it and we t to bed the same. Everything else was a mundane distraction from the serious business of werewolves, vampires and ghouls.

Vic surely was mad about monsters.

And then he saw it.

It was advertised at the back of a Famous Monsters special, as if had been shoved in just for him. 

The Horrorscope DIY Movie Making Set. 

Vic couldn't believe his eyes. You could actually make your own stop-motion film and view it in the Horrorscope, along with proper movies like The Wolfman and Mighty Joe Young.

£4 and £1 shipping from the States.

£5.

A small fortune. 

It would take a month of Sundays to copper up a sum like that. He could wash all the cars in Ashton and he still wouldn't make enough.

No.

He needed a get rich quick scheme.

Brooding over this conundrum in Geography the next day, he saw a classified pinned up on the senior students' notice board. 

Aurora Monster Models,

Built or Boxed

Serious Cash Waiting!

Ask for Hilarium, Set 2.

Blimey! Aurora! I know where some are! 

Vic's synapses went into overdrive as a complex ruse formed in his feverish brain.

He rubbed his hands together like a mad scientist and smiled.

By gum! It might just work.

First up, nick a nudey mag from his older brother's bottom drawer. Best get two to be on the safe side. Old copies of Juggs.

Successful!

Next, talk to his mate Vincent.

Vinnie, you fancy a sneak peek at a couple of tasty nudey mags from my big brother?

Sure!

Here. 

Vic showed Vinnie a couple of pages then pulled it away.

You fancy owning them mate?

You're damn right!

Would you swap summat?

What?

You know that old box of Aurora models your brother has stashed away in the shed?

Yeah?

Would you swap 'em for Juggs?

They're my brothers!

I know mate but they're stuffed in the shed just gathering cobwebs. C'mon, these pair of Juggs could be yours!

Oh, OK then Vic. You're on!

The trade completed, each party very satisfied, Vic trotted off with his rickety box of monster models to find Hilarium in Set 2.

What have we got here then you little scrote?

A box full you big bastard! 

The senior boy glared at the first year and began rummaging.

Fuck me! You've got the lot! The Witch, The Mummy! Jeez, you've even got the Forgotten Prisoner of Castlemare! 

I know. How much?

Four squid. Tops.

Six! It's a bargain Hilarium, you know it is...

I'll tell you what you pushy little fucker, I'll give you five pounds for the lot and not a soddin' penny more.

Done! 

Five one pound notes were handed over as was the box of monsters.

Vic stared at the money. A fortune.

He was so close to owning a Horrorscope.

He shivered with excitement and ran home to write the letter. 

Dear Sir/Madame,

Please rush me one Horrorscope,

£5 enclosed herewith.

Yours,

Vic Timm

The letter was stamped and addressed to:

F. Allenone,

666 Death Valley,

Nr. Sin City.

USA.

It was three weeks later when the package arrived.

On Halloween of all days.

Vic told his parents it was a gift from a pen pal and quickly bolted upstairs to unwrap his treasure. 

The Horrorscope DIY Movie Set.

There it was.

In all its fiendish glory!

Vic couldn't believe his eyes.

He unboxed the fantastic contraption and eagerly read the instructions, twice.

Following them closely, Vic began to make his movie using the small dark camera provided. 

He wore his best cheapo Lon Chaney mask and took twenty snaps of his own growling face.

The negatives were then plunged into the changing agent and the fuzzy images began to take shape in the tray.

Immediately Vic started to feel funny. 

As his portraits for the movie emerged one by one he began to get weaker by the minute.

Collecting his finished prints, Vic slowly put them in order and just about managed to slot them into the horrorscope viewer. 

Vic then realized he felt dreadful. Really dreadful. As if something had been taken out.

He went to the mirror on the wall and to his absolute horror he was fading away.

What! No!

He fingered his misty features as they dissolved before his very eyes.

Oh My Go..

No. Not him. I'm the other one my boy! 

It's me. Old Nick, the Fallen One. You wrote to me. Remember!

Vic turned round, half gone and stared in disbelief at the figure sat on his bed in front of the scope.

He had bright red smoking leather hide, two sharp horns, cloven feet and a large crimson fork in flames, just like it said in Loathsome Lore.  

Come, sit next to me Vic. My friends will be here any minute!

There was a knock at the bedroom door.

Ah. Here they are.

The Devil opened the door and in walked an entourage of hideous classic monsters. 

Frankenstein, Dracula, Phantom of the Opera, Mummy and the Wolfman.

They all sat on the bed and watched Vic's stop motion short.

Look Wolfy, he's got your face! 

The monsters howled and turned to see the bewildered boy completely fade away as he screamed one final plea.

Nooooooooooo!

Bingo, another young soul in the bag! 

The Devil stared into the viewer one last time to see a terrified Vic, now mask-free, trying desperately to get out of the film, frantically clutching the sides of the frames.

Tut tut! When will these young monster nuts ever learn not to sell their soul so easily!

One Horrorscope. That's all it took!

The gang of beasts stood up shaking their heads and walked out of the house into Halloween night.

Young Vic the monster kid was never seen again.

Cecile

 I'm afraid your time is at hand.

This is what Cecile said to her cruel foster parents.

She was three years old.

Minutes later they were dead.

The girl was alone, but not for long.

Raven-haired Cecile went to live with her kind Aunt Bee, her only living relative.

From the off Bee knew she was a strange and distracted child. 

She would find the infant throwing the chicken bones to see how they landed or fiddling with the tea mash with her finger. One Sunday whilst preparing a goose the Aunt watched Cecile arrange the bird's giblets on a plate, staring in rapt fascination at the position of the wet entrails.

Why have you done that little girl?

To see what I can see.

And what can you see Cecile?

I can see that you're frightened of me. Don't be.

She was right of course. Bee was fearful of Cecile, now four years old and becoming odder every passing day.

Children in the neighborhood thought she was a weirdo and concerned parents told them to stay away from the dark-haired girl.

Aunt Bee suffered. 

Her neighbours shunned her and one by one her friends stopped coming for tea. 

They were alone in a world of strangers.

But they were blood.

Cecile turned five and stared at the moulded cream jelly Bee had made her. 

She watched as raspberry sauce was poured over the top.

It looked like a bleeding half-head.

Something terrible is coming Aunty.

What?

If you do not build a shelter we will die.

How?

Our faces will explode.

Cecile and Bee busied themselves preparing the cellar as per her intuitions. Tinned food and water were stocked and bedding laid out. Bee also reinforced the floor above with large boards, rugs and carpets.

It is time.

They entered the cellar and waited.

A series of deafening booms were heard and the whole house shook. A deep and dreadful rumble filled the air and sounds of countless structures collapsing resonated around the underground room. Thick plaster powdered the pair's hair and water could be heard gushing above, where a pipe had burst.

Staying in the sanctuary of their shelter two more days, eating canned beans and sipping bottled Sarsaparilla, they awoke to the sound of a robin gurgling above.

It is time to leave Aunty.

Bee and Cecile stepped from the cellar into a world of carnage and chaos.

There were no buildings remaining in the street. They had all been flattened to dust and the only sounds were flowing water pipes, gas explosions and dying birds.

Cecile bent down and nudged some bits of crockery.

I see nothing.

I feel nothing.

No-one is going to die Bee.

But why Cecile? Is the war over?

It was never a war Aunty.

It was the Apocalypse.

Everyone is dead.

Except us.

We are truly alone.

The adult and child wandered into the empty street and stared beyond the broken horizon at the thousands of ballooning mushrooms of nuclear smoke rising into the heavens like life-giving rain clouds on any other winter's day but this.

The Window in the Hedge

 The hole in the hedge appeared one night. I noticed it as I was taking the kitchen compost to the garden heap.

It was a rough hole, about the size of a LP.

The next day I inspected the hole and found that it been worked on further.

It was now a perfectly square-shaped gap near the top of the privet, excellently formed and precisely cut. 

Literally, a window in the hedge.

At head height.

It was even more peculiar as no-one lived next door. The property had been empty for years. Even so, I went there to see if I could find any clues as to who the secret topiarist was.

There was nothing. 

The following day, watering our herbaceous borders, I let out a loud shriek.

There, in the hole was a man's face! 

He was standing in the garden next door staring through the the hedge directly at me.

I was so startled I dropped the hose, the nozzle twisting and spraying a little water on the stranger's forehead. 

He blinked as the drips ran into his eyes. 

Other than that he made no sound whatsoever.

His face was almost uncharacteristically plain. 

A bland countenance of indiscriminate features, as if they were still forming.

Hello!

I spoke but was uncertain that I should have done. 

I was also uncertain that I was facing an actual person, rather, some apparition from the derelict garden itself or a figment of my own imagination.

The man mouthed a reply, but omitted to produce a sound.

In silence he lipped

Hello.

I swiveled and waved to get my wife's attention at the kitchen window, but when I returned my gaze to the stranger he was gone.

My wife found the story hard to believe, so marching her outside I said

Look! 

Yes, I see a hole, I grant you dear, but no-one behind it. And besides, it's in the middle of the hedge, not near the top like you said.

What?

I was gobsmacked.

The square had moved straight down to the middle of the hedge, now about half way-up.

I couldn't believe it.

It was as if someone had dragged the gap straight downwards, whilst perfectly re-instating the missing hedge above.

It was both miraculous and frightening.

I couldn't sleep that night.

I got up around 3 am and walked out to the hedge with a torch.

I screamed again.

To my horror the man was back, this time sitting down on a chair in the dark, his face now more pronounced, his features becoming clearer.

As I shone my torch in his eyes I again attempted contact.

Hello!

This time the response had sound. 

Maybe half-sound but I could discern the word

Hello.

The whisper sounded somehow vaguely familiar.

Suddenly my torch went momentarily dead and when the beam returned the man had once again disappeared. 

I woke my wife and frantically explained what I'd seen.

Darling, it's 3.30am in the morning. You're simply overtired. We'll discuss it in the morning!

When we woke I asked my wife to join me in the garden.

Darling, is this a joke? Are you pulling my leg, because it's not funny!

No, no, I'm not. You have to believe me. The hole was in the middle last night. Not where it is now!

The square gap had once again migrated downwards leaving no trace of it's former location.

It was now positioned at the base of the privet. A perfectly cut square hole at the bottom of the hedge.

I went inside with my wife, who phoned the doctor for an appointment for me.

You're better off phoning the police. Or maybe even a priest!

I laughed nervously when I said this.

I felt odd. Woozy. Weakened. 

You're so pale Darling. Sit down and I'll make you a nice cup of sweet tea.

I couldn't get my mind off the hole and when my wife left the house to buy some Lucozade for me, I tip-toed back into the garden.

Fatigue robbing me of my normal stamina, I crouched down on my stomach and peered through the gap into next door's garden.

Once again I yelped with fear.

Staring back at me was the man.

His face was fully formed. 

To my absolute terror I realised that I was looking at ....

myself!

Hello!

It was the stranger who spoke first this time.

He spoke using my voice!

I wailed,

My God, what is happening?

Without warning the man who looked like me now quickly crawled through the gap onto my side.

He stood up and I could see that he was a perfect facsimile of myself.

What the ...!

As I shouted I found myself also scrabbling through the hole into the other side. It was impossible to stop myself and before I knew it I was standing in next door's garden.

Somehow the square hole had returned to its original head-height and I found myself staring through it at the stranger who looked exactly like me.

 Tears formed in my eyes, as somehow I knew I would not be returning home and my worst fears were realised when I asked,

Who are you?

The stranger, now me, replied, smiling.

I. Am. You!

Darcy's Conch

Darcy had found the shell a year earlier on the shore of her home, The Calico, a windswept, salt-washed fisher cottage emerging from the dune edge, as if it had been released by the sea itself

The woman lived alone now, the conch a treasured reminder of those she still loved. 

Her Mother had passed. She'd walked out into the unforgiving bay, an escape from the cloying penury of depression and never returned. 

The maternal echo in the shell kept her Mother's presence in her memories now. 

However, it was her father's death that had crushed her completely, the conch a bitter-sweet connection to its horrors and her ultimate salvation.

Having raised a young and bereft Darcy on his own, he had guided her through her life with the true compass of a seasoned fisherman, until she was an integral half of the family fishing boat business confidently at his side.

Bounty has been plentiful for a decade and the skilled father and daughter had made a very good living, selling lucrative fresh mackerel, lobster and shellfish to the finest restaurants in the South. Occasionally they dined on their wares too, dressed crab, bread and butter Darcy's favourite, always prepared fresh by her doting Dad on special occasions.

For once in their family's life, money poured into the once-hollow briny coffers.

The Calico had been upgraded and refurbished and the two lived a decent life with all the comforts of home. There had even been enough to invest into stocks, making them a small fortune to boot.

Always humble throughout and never forgetting her roots, Darcy, now a catch in her own right, had been swept off her feet by the handsome son of the neighbouring city's oldest funeral director, Randalls. 

His name was Reed.

Reed had been the perfect romantic and had wined and dined Darcy in his home city's finest eateries and swish hotels. She had been smitten and despite her fisher-folk roots she found herself flattered by Reed's sumptuous attention and luxuriant wooing.

It worked and Darcy informed her Dad that she was madly in love with this gorgeous man.

Her Father was not so sure about any of it and especially not of Reed Randall. There was something fishy about him and fish he knew something about. Wily, secretive, always salting things away. 

He made discreet enquiries without Darcy finding out and was not impressed at all with what he discovered. Randalls was broke. More than that, they were badly in debt and owed money to the local criminal underworld, for whom they were now the newly appointed funeral director, a particularly unsavoury partnership which made the wealthy fisherman feel sick.

If Darcy married Reed then the Randall's debts to the Mob would be his debts and he simply couldn't let that happen to either Darcy or himself.

Wanting to draw a line in the suddenly blackening sand and talk man to man with Reed, he invited him on a fishing trip, whilst Darcy was away with a friend. 

The plan was to have it out with Reed, scare him off his daughter and if all else failed get his chequebook out as a final solution. 

Unbeknownst to the father though, Darcy and Reed had been secretly engaged to be married at the funeral home, where Randall Snr had presided over the short ceremony among oak caskets containing dead gangsters. The secrets piled on top of each other and the salting of their life had begun.

He backed her into the funeral home's office and immediately Reed changed. On the night before the proposed fishing trip and Darcy's visit to her best friends, the new fiancee beat her up terribly, punching her softest parts repeatedly, saving the face till after they were married.

Do you really think I could fall for a sack of mackerel like you Darcy? You stink of gills and guts. I wouldn't touch you with a barge pole now we're engaged. I want your money and I'm going to get it. It's very handy running a funeral parlour. No-one need see the mess I make of you and especially of that damn pompous, loaded twat of a Dad of yours. We're going fishing tomorrow. It'll be perfect. But first ...

Reed hit Darcy so hard that she fell unconscious. He bound her and his Father stuffed her in a coffin for the night.

The next day Darcy's dad readied himself at the Calico and assuming his daughter had already left for her pals he went to meet Reed at the boat.

A pelagic intuition told the old fisherman that something had shifted. The young Reed seemed cockier, brasher than before and was handling himself with a new found swagger onboard the boat. 

Good year so far then? Lots of money coming in? You must be providing for Darcy really well in your will old man.

My will has got fuck all to do with you, you dead-loving streak of piss!

Dead-loving? Oh my, that's below the belt. Mind you, I wouldn't mind giving your daughter one when she's on the slab this time next month after we're married.

Married? Darcy won't be marrying a cretinous gangster's moll like you that's for certain!

Gangsters-moll eh! You have been doing your homework you nosey old bastard, but there's one secret you don't know. And your beloved daughter's kept it even from you.

What?

We're engaged to be married. All official and above board. It happened yesterday, whilst you were no doubt fondling a squid like all you fish-fuckers do!

It's a lie!

'Fraid not you old giffer. Yep, What's yours is hers and what's hers is mine. It's the law don't you know and I'm going to get my grubby little hands on every fishy fuckin thing you own!

Aggggggh!

The fisherman ran at Reed with a gaff-hook but the younger man was too quick and with incredible speed lunged forward with a pitch fork at the old man's weathered face sending the two long prongs deep into his eye-sockets. 

The fisher screamed in agony and clutched the pole.

Now do you see?

Pulling the fork violently backwards the two metal prongs shot out, each with a punctured eyeball impaled on the end.

Oh, no, you don't see do you old man. And you never will again!

My eyes, my eyes, Reed I'm blind, for God's sake help me!

Of course, step this way!

The helpless fisherman fell overboard clutching his face, blood pouring in gouts from his open sockets, as he hit the freezing waters of the cruel ocean and was gone.

Reed had it all figured out. Exactly what he'd say when he steered the boat back to port. A terrible and sudden storm had swept the boat owner over. An awful tragedy but there it was. Accidental death. It was official.

Darcy knew different. Reed even organized a funeral for her Dad. Randall Snr lead the event and the whole village turned out for an empty coffin. Despite the heartfelt eulogies from her Dad's many friends and family, the Randall's involvement felt cynical and hollow.

The violence started up again on the night of the burial. Reed knocked Darcy clean out with the house phone, when he caught her phoning the Coast Guard. A single dreadful blow to the temple and she was gone. A huge bruise grew near her ear and even with thick make-up, which Reed had insisted on, village folk knew what was going on at The Calico and the regular screams confirmed it.

Reed Randall was an evil thug and one day he would murder sweet Darcy.

It was the night of their marriage a year later that he very nearly did it.

Controlled by fear, the pitiful woman was forced into wedlock and signed everything over to her psychotic husband.  As soon as Darcy put down her pen a deranged Reed had pounded her to a pulp with a fresh lobster, the pincers swiping across her face leaving an agonising criss-cross of rising welts. 

Her brutal husband left her bleeding and near to death, slumped against the back door, whilst he phoned his family's Funeral home.

It's time. Tonight we get everything. We'll be rich Father. Bring a coffin. Hurry!

Hearing her death sentence, Darcy half-roused with ballooned eyes and swollen fingers, contorted on the threshold and quietly exited.

In excruciating pain she crawled on all fours to the shoreline through the dunes leaving a trail of bubbling scarlet. In the moonlight she looked like a broken turtle returning to the succour of the sea.

With the soft lap of the surf washing her bloody features she noticed a conch shell on the sand. Picking it up she pressed it gingerly to her cauliflower ear and listened.

She could hear deep within it's smooth chamber the ebb and flow of the ocean, it's eternal churn and yearned for its gentle release. 

Darcy.

There was a voice behind the conch's whisper.

Darcy, daughter. It's me, your Dad.

Dad?

Yes. 

Oh, Dad! My gorgeous Dad! I know Reed murdered you!

He did my sweetest. He did.

Dad!

Yes?

He is coming to murder me. Now!

Do not fear him Darcy. 

Why?

I am coming. 

The familiar voice of her father trailed away and she let he conch fall beside her as the saline eddies caressed her face once more.

Did you bring the coffin?

Yes, give me a hand.

The thugs, father and son Randall, carried the casket onto the beach.

What's inside it? 

A rigor hammer, some embalming fluid and mortician's thread. 

Ah, yes, good thinking.

In the light of the moon the two brutes could see Darcy's prone form on the water's edge.

As they approached Reed became aware of a large shape emerging from the misty tide behind his wife.

It was huge, shell-like and crawling towards them, it's long antennae twitching in the air, large pupils wobbling on stalks . 

Quick Reed. There's something coming in the mist.

They dropped the coffin beside the woman and Reed, bone hammer in hand, took hold of her matted hair to strike the killing blow. 

As his arm descended his Father screamed.

Oh my God!

The sea thing broke from the fret and reared up before them, an enormous deep-ocean lobster easily ten feet tall.

Do it, Son, hurry! 

But it was too late.

The lobster's colossal claw clasped the bewildered Reed's arm and snipped it clean off at the shoulder. Still holding the hammer it fell into the beasts mouth and was eaten.

Fresh hot gore spurted into the waves as the agonised husband spun along the surf like a blood hydrant.

Randall Snr stood transfixed as the atrocity unfolded. Coming to his senses he began to strangle Darcy in a vain attempt to finish her murder. 

Both of his hands were severed at the wrists. The villain stared at his gushing stumps and then at the gigantic creature rearing up.

It smiled and took his throat in one pincer and with the other gradually reduced the size of his head in layers, the brain in the middle like a sliced boiled egg. Once headless, the beast drank greedily from the spouting neck.

The leviathan then returned to Reed, who was running away down the beach.

With unfathomable speed it was on top of Randall jnr and gawping into his face, it dribbled his Father's own blood into his mouth, before pinching off his lips, nose, ears, hand, arm, feet legs, penis, testicles and buttocks.

With the destruction of Reed the lobster looked down on his pitiful torso. With a lipless mouth the conscious remains gargled one final insult.

Fuck you and your frigid daughter!

The lobster father blinked and placing one tip of his pincer in Reeds anus, it commenced a careful snip along his back and head, opening up the half-body like a letter. Taking each flap the creature pulled the man's skin clean off revealing his muscles and fats glistening in the moonlight. Licking his claw the crustacean began nipping and scissoring until it was satisfied with it's work. 

Returning to Darcy, who was only just rousing from her throttling, the lobster thing did the same to Randall Snr's corpse, trimming, chopping and preparing.

When Darcy woke fully and sat up in the blood-souped breakers, she looked at the giant lobster and a tear formed in her eye.

Dad!

Yes, Darcy.

You heard me in the shell!

I did.

You have saved my life.

It's all any Dad would do.

And where are the terrible Randalls, my would-be killers?

Here my sweet. As it's your wedding day I've readied them for the occasion.

On the upturned coffin stood two bloody rib cages. Each of them was stuffed with fresh wet flesh. One one side of each cage was white meat, on the other dark and on top a pair of eyeballs.

Two dressed crabs! You remembered! My favourite! Oh, Thank you Dad!

As they both ate, thick hideous gore spattered on the conch was washed away by the cleansing tide and within it's airy sanctuary the ocean could be heard, by those who might listen, to whisper of the wrath and release found in its deepest depths.