Monsters Brawl

There were strict rules around monster brawls.

No mixed monsters.

Stick to your own.

Go up the table.

Everyone knew it.

Everyone stuck to it.

Everyone except Hearse.

Hearse was the killer king werewolf, the best of his beastly kind. The Topper most dog.

He was bored with moon-kind and thirsty for blood that wasn't wolf. 

What he craved was vintage vampire.

Victorian kingpin vampire blood.

God how he dreamt of it's iron theft, the vineyard of its myriad victims. It must taste like layer cake. A tart of bites. Oh God, Yes!

Hearse was obsessed but the monster code was clear. No mixed monster fights. No exceptions. 

Well fuck the rulebook! Gentlemen be damned!

He'd get some top vamp blood no matter what. He had to. Or he'd go insane with vein lust.

As luck would have it however, he overheard something that very night.

Something interesting. Something seductively juicy.

It was in the tavern, the Old Neck, where he was unknown to the mirror-shy clientele.

Dressed in a disguise of cloak and wide hat, Hearse sat by himself in the corner guarding his stout. It was a non-moon night so he could concentrate and enjoy himself.

His lupine ears pricked up.

"You 'eared about King Roma? He's been stood up again. No brawl means he loses pints.  It's that old fucker Globin who bailed. Roma's livid. He's ready to take on any other sucker to keep the crown. The gauntlet's been thrown! They've just to leave word with the landlady."

"There'll be bloody hell to pay for anyone who takes Roma on!"

"You're not fuckin' kiddin' mate!"

At this the two rickety old vamps finished their 'tomato juice' and sidled off into the depths of London's teeming night.

Hearse had heard everything. 

His sensitive features twitched with excitement and a nasty ruse formed in his furred brain.

Tightening up his black cloak and tipping his hat, Hearse went to the bar and taking a quill, he hurriedly scribbled a note.

It said:

Butchers Wharf.

Midnight tomorrow.

A contender.

Grunting, his face shadowed, he whispered.

Give this to Roma.

With a flourish Hearse left the Old Neck and threw the hated garb in the brazier outside the door, the burning wooden crucifixes the sign this was vampire turf.

Fuckin' suckers! Can't fuckin' stand 'em, but by God do I wanna drink their guts! And Roma, old King Brawler himself will do very nicely thank you!"

Hearse chuckled like a big dog and sloped off to his quarters behind the Elephant graveyard on the edge of town, where he lived with a girl ghoul called Carrion, who kept the place clean. She was company too on moonless days. Werewolves had a hard time making friends. He'd never eat Carrion either. She'd taste like shite.

But Hearse hadn't been alone in his curiosity in the Old Neck that night.

Another stranger was watching at the bar, minding his own business in the gloom of a broken gaslamp.

He'd seen Hearse writing his note. He'd read it's contents. He'd memorised them.

He would be there too. Butcher's Wharfe. 

Kronack. The Beast Hunter. The Monster Killer. Doing God's work and ridding the world of heathen devils for good.

Yes, he'd be there and kill two birds with one stone!

The following evening was a miserable slur of rain and smog from the Capital's chimneys. 

If monsters don't kill Londoners, the factories will, mused Hearse as he quickly made his way to the station, where the milk train would deliver him onto Butcher's Wharfe by the sickly Thames.

He had to hurry to board before the moon was full to its brim. He mustn't turn yet. 

He took a cheap seat and drew the window blind. Hunkering down, Hearse focused on saving his change until the last crucial minute on the Wharfe.

A carriage in front sat King Roma, intrigued by the challenge left at the bar and savouring the rising tide of fury swirling round his stolen blood. His finger bones cracked like pottery as his reverie crescendoed in a dream of welling gore.

In the car behind sat Kronack, his felt hat low over his scarred face, the gas declined to shadow. On his lap lay the weapons of his trade, his blessed spear and blade, the arsenal with which he would smite the two fell kings and deny them their spattered crowns.

As the Milk train rattled like a crate of blood, the enormous smoking temples of industry towered by the river's banks, their incessant spew of sulphurous plumes a vision of man's own monstrousness. From the innards of these factories puked soups of wastes and arsenics straight into the bubbling Thames, now but a thick slow eddy of death, as it crawled to the desperate sea.

As if being shuttled through Hades itself, the trio of strangers peeked behind the blinds to glimpse this stygian stream, oblivious to the fate that awaited them on the abandoned Butcher's Wharfe.

As the locomotive slowed it's steaming heart to stop, the conductor roared down the mostly empty string of carriages,

Butchers! Next stop Butchers!

The three disembarked into the Wharf's insipid darkness, each disappearing behind stacks of mouldy crates and rusting derricks.

From the farthest carriage a fourth alighted too, a tall, hooded and veiled woman wrapped in a long sable velvet cloak. 

She too slid into the blackness of the jetty and as she moved her hood writhed.

As midnight approached, Roma flexed his pallid digits and ran his ancient acrid tongue across his fangs.

He hissed in anticipation of a skirmish with his kind, a ruckus to keep his bloody crown, King Roma, Vampire Brawler. 

The pounding of twelve strikes echoed along the dying Thames from Big Ben up river and reverberated round the derelict docks like a death-knell.

It was time.

Time to step out onto the cobbled Wharf.

Roma strode into the moonlight, his terrible pulse beating deliciously quick.

He heard the loud growl first and then, as his challenger emerged, his dessicated heart sank. 

Snarling viciously at the bright moon, a hateful creature of legend crawled onto the stonework.  

Not a vampire at all but a werewolf. 

A wolfman of enormous proportions.

Hearse. The King Wolf warrior himself!

A mixed monster brawl!

Vampire verses Werewolf!

Sacrilegious!

Mutinous!

Roma was appalled, but quickly realized he had to fight in order to save face. And to survive!

Baring his terrifying canines, Roma took off his cape and shirt, hunched and readied for the blooding.

As the grimacing Kings circled each other, sizing strength and power, a third figure entered the glowing stage.

Greetings Creatures of the Night!

It is I, the Monster Killer, here to vanquish you both to Hell once and for all!

Roma purred. Another one!

Kronach! You human scum! It is you who will perish this night and join my legion of the vampiric dead!

Hearse roared too.

Kronack! Roma! It matters not how many there are! You shall all end up between my jaws and believe me when I say, I'm hungry!

The three mortal enemies faced each other.

An iota of time to bolster themselves before striking.

It would be the mother of brawls.

Roma lunged first, his long craven fingernails scraping Kronach's forehead, dark hot blood flinging across the flaking capstans.

The Killer winced, then pounced, his sabre slicing off the dark King's pointed ear and quivering cheek. It all fell into Hearse's open palm, who devoured it ravenously, sputum drooling as he smiled, before leaping into the fray, furiously raking the vampire's leathery back with massive razor-sharp talons. 

The blood King wailed and unleashed himself fully, hurtling through the gore-fogged air, landing on Hearse's shoulders, where he bit deep and hard into the werewolf's pulsing neck. 

The warrior wolf howled as the tensile fangs entered its flesh and began to feed. Hearse reached back and grabbed onto Roma's oily head with his gargantuan paws. Both tensed in a rictus of power.

Kronach seized the moment and expanding his telescoping spear of silver, ran full pelt at both beasts and pushed it's brutal tip first through Hearse and then through Roma, the long sharp shaft impaling both and exiting out of the other side.

The fiends reeled and shrieked in agony as they writhed on the blessed lance pinning them together, it's caustic sacristy dissolving their demonic flesh.

Kronach bellowed in triumph as his quarry visibly wilted upon his sacred weapon and he flicked bottled holy water across their hissing forms.

It was at this moment that the fourth passenger from the train glided past the dreadful fray, the mysterious hidden woman.

Who goes there! 

Kronach brandished his fearful sword.

Show yourself!

.... Now!

The being halted and exiting the wharfe's shadows, seemingly floated into the moonlit ring, where she stopped dead.

Reveal yourself woman! Believe me, you are in the wrong place! 

Kronach barked as the two flailing monsters, gnashing and spitting behind his back, began to free themselves from the cursed pole.

The secretive lady slowly pulled down her undulating hood and gently removed her veil.

It was then that the Monster Killer regretted ever speaking to her, for he at once recognized her vile and fatal countenance that instant. 

Holy Mother of God! 

Medusa! 

But how? You were imprisoned in the British Victorian Museum's store of ancient myths.

The question froze on Kronach's lips, his last ever, as his body petrified on the spot completely. 

Hearse and Roma, gnashing their hideous teeth, leapt loping madly towards the woman creature, hell-bent on the interloper's cruel demise. 

As quickly as they crept they both choked. Their gutteral snarls stuck fast in their throats like the rest of their stiffening frames.

They turned entirely to stone at Medusa's feet, the monsters' drool setting solid as it fell.

The Gorgon looked upon her impromptu work dispassionately and pulling up her hood and veil returned on her passage of escape across the dark wharves towards the steamer, moored in the far distance, bound for her ancient homeland of Greece.

In the morning the few sleepy vagrants who frequented the old Butcher's dockland were amazed and frightened in equal measure by the sight of the new statue stood on the cobbled yard by the river.

A hateful but clever statue, apparently hewn overnight in moonlight from solid stone, depicting a terrible and hellish battle between a vampire, a werewolf and their hunter. 

A monsters brawl.

The Graveyard of the Rabbits

Breda had always been attuned to the land. 

It felt safe, the vigour of the loam, the crops' regiment, the hedgerow theatre.  It all made sense to her, a salve in the strictures of a limited life.

Breda was the only daughter of the minister. Her days were the calculus of mass and mission, assisting her father and mother in their service to the Lord. They were important people in the tight congregation of Hamfleet, a rural parish on the edge of the marshes.

Her own calling was to nature, to the natural world, the churn of the seasons and the energy stored like blood in the ancient soils around her.

Breda, when excused, would wander the holloways and hundreds outside their Hamfleet, exploring the fauna and wildlife she encountered, marking their identities in her notebook with pen and pencil, pondering the sorcery of science.

She would gain their measure, fathom their habits and record her rendezvous's meticulously on paper. 

It was on such a day that Breda came across an abandoned church on a well-hidden hill and certainly not one she had visited before.

It was derelict, a broken ruin of the divine, no longer serving it's followers, whoever they were. 

No discernible trace of the face of its religion could be found and Breda, taking notes and sketches, promised to ask her parents of this lonely chapel on the mound.

Even the gravestones were weathered and withered away, their incumbents remaining as invisible as the thoughts they were buried with, the clandestine boxed voices in the tilth of the hillside.

Yet, activity there was among these remains.

Small bones, and some larger, erupted from the yard, resting atop fine mounds of earth dug up by unseen hands.

Mixed within the humanity were animal skulls and fur, natural clues as to the new parishioners, the resident warren of grave rabbits, unearthing the interred bit by skeletal bit.

Knuckles, tarsels, eardrums and femur heads were scattered around the disturbed skirt of the chapel like the grim residue of some great battle in the hoary past.

These were the rudiments of the church- goers, dead and rising by the labours of springtails, their beliefs a mystery but death came regardless.

The rabbits were bring them forth to the fallow surface to see in a new day.

Breda was mesmerised by the chiaroscuro of rodents burrowing among the wrecks of the faithful like clergy tending it's flock.

Here was a bone-strewn interface, a bleached pane through which the murk of human existence could be peeked, the very gyroscope of creed and damnation before her.

She sat on an outcrop of freshly dug silt and skeletal remains. The mound sank ever so slightly and she felt oddly comfortable in it. 

Sunning her face she placed her palms on the old grass and felt something hard and brittle.

It was a rabbit's skull, perfectly intact and bleached china-white by the rays of the ever-watchful orb.

She held the skull in front of her face. 

It's deep sockets enthralled her, it's porcelain precision a wonder to behold. 

Somewhere in that hidden bowl behind had nestled a wild brain, which knew only the faith of the field, the credo of the graves.

She envied the rabbit's earthed conviction and imagined life in the communal warren, those furred souls romping among the human dead. Psychopomps in the burrows.

Breda lay back fully, sensed Hamfleet and her parents misting over and felt the soft till shifting beneath her. The friable grains of sacred soil rose and she slept contentedly in the warmth of the waning afternoon.

As the day fogged into evening the denizens of the graveyard gathered around the sleeping girl and watched as her form fell deeper into the ground like an egg cracked into flour.

They were excited, the rabbits. 

They burrowed and tunnelled and by nightfall Breda was gone, lost in the shallows among the old faithful ones.

Nothing remained of the girl.

Nothing at all until by turns, the busy husbandry of tooth and claw ejected the first of her bones from the secret ossuary beneath the church.

Her pallid skull, clean as alabaster in the moon's ancient glow, licked and caressed by the yard's residents, now sat around it in a circle chattering amongst themselves.

Next came her notebook, with sketches of death, which they stared at with great interest.

They waited and waited patiently for the rest to rise and join them.

Salt Petr

Petr was the newbie at the One Hole potash factory.

From the very outset he didn't fit in. 

A square peg in one round hole, Petr was unpopular with his workmates and a real pain in the ass for management.

His problem was the environment.

Petr was greener than most and certainly greener than anyone else at the factory.

The trouble was that One Hole generated tonnes of waste. 

Sodium Chloride. 

Masses of it.

Table salt.

There was so much salt that it had formed an enormous mountain beside the factory, a white hill that could be seen for miles on the flat European plain.

One Hole Hill.

The thing was at least 300 metres high and 400 metres in length. 

It was poisoning everything around it like a tumour.

The River, the fields, the water table, the animal life. 

Everything was saturated in salt and Petr saw it straight away.

He moaned to his colleagues on day one and complained to Grader, his gaffer and the big big boss from the off.

What were they going to do about it? It's a disaster already and if the hill slips it'll be an atrocity!

He threatened to go the the national press and that might spark a big enough scandal where everyone lost their jobs. 

It was true that the salt hill was getting ever closer to the small town of Dess. It's crystal flanks were fanning out under the sheer weight of the mineral mountain. Like a toxic skirt it threatened the outer restraining walls.

But half of Dess worked at the factory. Potash was in their blood. The other half looked after them. Dess was a One Hill town.

Petr was the proverbial in the town's butt.

And yet the customary rituals for newcomers had to be adhered to, even for him.

In the supervisor's big office, in front of his huge saltwater aquarium, Grader insisted the new starter come to the local bar for a round of welcome beers that night. 

Grader slapped Petr on the shoulder and agreed that yes, the salt hill was indeed an eyesore but, hey, what the hell could they do about it. It employed the whole of Dess.

Petr went along to the bar with his boss.

Nervous at first, the frothy saline beers kept coming and he got merrier and merrier.

Sufficiently inebriated, Grader, having drunk only lemonade, picked up the semi-comatose newbie and told him not to fret. He would take him home to bed.

He lied.

Under the cover of darkness Grader led a drunken Petr to the summit of One Hole Hill and having dug a shallow grave already, undressed him and threw the hapless rookie into the depression, where he rolled over and simply slept like a naked baby.

Grader retreated back to the pub and explained he'd tucked Petr in. He'd be as good as new in the morning and hopefully see some sense.

On the peak of the white mound Petr, sound asleep and unaware of where he was, began to sink lower into the soft powder.

He sank so low that salt began to cover his body like a sand dune. 

Due to his weight and warmth, he slowly descended into the very heart of the mountain and was entirely encased in pearly salt like a curing meat.

He woke.

His mind reeled as he tried to work out where he was.

As he opened his mouth, bitter crystals filled his cavity and he gagged violently.

He parted his eyes and the same dreadful mineral worked it's way into his burning vision. 

What on earth had happened?

And then it dawned on him.

The welcome drinks had really been a ruse to get him drunk and allow his so-called Supervisor to bury him alive in the salt stack.

Yes, that was it. The terrible reality. To keep him schtumm.

Retribution for gobbing off.

The whole town of Dess was in on it. Had to be. You can't just dump someone up here on the hill and get away with it.

Or can you?

As he fathomed it all out, the salt became increasingly difficult to deal with. It pressed down on his slight frame, but even worse were the painful burns as it navigated all his orifices: his moist pupils, his wet lips, his damp nostrils, his sticky ears, his penis pipe and worst of all, his arsehole.

The terrible crystals found their way in every which way and by turns each of Petr's bodily fissures took in masses of salt and the fluids in his body began to seep out.

His eyeballs were the first to wither and shrivel as the stuff brutally dessicated anything soft.

They shrank like raisins and Petr screamed as caustic pulver was free to cascade into his sinuses and his inner skull.

The agony was beyond excruciating and inevitably, as the pitiful rookie roared in pain, the endless screes of white fell into his mouth and slid down his throat, taking final refuge in his stomach and lungs, where they began their unstoppable duty of drying him out from the inside.

Slowly, Petr dessicated.

His organs creased and crumpled into leathern parcels. His skin pocked and puckered, turning into a parchment bag holding his bleached bones and plaster veins. 

But it was only his brain that retained some humanity. 

The very worst of it.

Hate.

Cured, parched and salted hate.

In the withered shrump of his mad mind's eye, his hatred coalesced around one single name.

Grader.

The man who had buried him on One Hole and taken away his future and his life.

He would pay.

Oh how he would pay.

The once Petr rose from his crystal grave.

His form was encrusted like a galleon's hull and the final stages of his wet decay oozed from his orifices, the deepest morsels of his innards turning to brine.

He staggered down the snowy slopes, crows eyeing him from up high as they sensed the presence of death and dereliction in the dusk.

The salted mummy trudged towards the Potash factory, a slug trail of tiny jewels in his wake.

It was dark outside as he entered the plant and traipsed up the steps to Grader's large office, where the light was still on. 

He often worked late, creaming off profits from the company accounts and fattening his own growing bank balance. 

Salting the profits away like a crab.

The greedy gaffer was far too busy cooking the books to notice a figure stood in the shadows.

As Grader wrote another cheque to himself a crystalline hand took it from him.

He turned to see a monstrous form, part man, part mineral, glistening in the office light, as if it had been salvaged from an ancient wreck. 

The figure put the cheque in its mouth and ate it.

It smiled and spoke in a voice like crushing glass.

Hello Grader! Remember me?

The supervisor shook with fear.

Wha, wha, who? Who are you?

It's me, Petr. The man you buried alive on the hill.

Wha, how? How are you still alive?

The salt Petr realized his boss was reaching for his revolver in a drawer.

Brandishing it and trembling, Grader pointed it at the creature of crystals before him.

Don't take another step you hideous bastard or I'll shoot!

Petr stepped forward and Grader emptied his gun in a flurry of shots.

The bullets entered the figure and dropped out of the other side enveloped in a white mineral crust, falling to the floor with a crunch.

Hard cheese Grader!

Petr laughed with a lipless mouth and grasped the helpless boss tightly.

Grader screamed.

Dragging him onto the table next to the huge office seawater aquarium, Petr smiled in his shrieking gaffer's face.

Time to meet your maker Grader!

The encrusted form hurled his victim into the tank and crawled in after him.

They both sank to the bottom of the vast pool, where it's top residents now took a keen interest in these visitors.

Piranha.

Grader stared in horror at the schoal of ravenous fish heading straight for him.

He thrashed the water in a vain attempt to escape, but another hungry sharpened mouth took the first bite.

The gaffer screamed, his throat immediately taking in water with several piranha. 

Gagging, he stared in disbelief at the salted man eating his hand, chewing off his fingers one by one. 

Inside his gut the voracious fish got to work and began to devour him inside out.

As organs fell to their insatiable appetite, Petr continued to gorge on the outer body. He latched onto Grader's mouth like a giant white leech and sucked off his lips, cheeks, nose and gradually his entire facial skin.

The gaffer's muscled skull gawped at his ex-employee, but just for just a split second before two piranha mined there way along his optic nerve and slurping up his juicy eyeballs, popped out of his sockets like fleeing inmates.

The feeding frenzy continued until there was nothing left of Grader, except his pale gnawed skeleton lying on the gravel floor of the tank. 

Satisfied and disliking the taste of the now dissolving salted Petr, the engorged fish again rested in their deep hollow once more.

In the morning the Gaffer's secretary walked into the office with his coffee.

She shuffled some papers and saw the new additions to the aquarium.

Wow! How impressive! They must have cost the old thief a fortune! 

There on the tank's stony bottom were two totally realistic human skeletons, intertwined with one another.

Twitchy little crabs and shrimps hopped across their picked-clean skulls in the curiously crimson brine and a piranha sat in Grader's socket tugging a stubborn nerve.

Rock and Roll Animals

The Children of the Grave blurted out of the stereogram through the family lounge.

Not too loud, Sabbath's dirge swept over the boy like an avalanche of glee and he was transfixed.

His black hair, long and a piece of carpet sewed into his flared Wranglers, the 13 year old was keen as mustard, but still a simple novice in the world of heavy metal.

He had no idea how to play his Telecaster copy his Mum had bought him cheap from Grattan's catalogue.

Even the ubiquitous riff of Smoke on the Water proved tricky for his soft fleshy fingertips.

But his beating heart was in the right place and his albums were proof if anyone doubted it.

All of Budgie's stuff right up until Waive the Rules, including the first rare eponymous LP with Guts, the heaviest track ever put on vinyl. 

There was all of Rush's stuff too, up until Farewell to Kings and their descent into commercial shite.

Skynyrd, Montrose, Humble Pie, Free,  Cream, Purple, Zep and of course Sabbath.

Some Prog had crept in too. Yes mainly. His older Sister had played him the Yes Album, Yours is no Disgrace the boy's favourite

But he still couldn't play his damn guitar.

Not like Ziggy, his earliest rock hero. 

No Weird and Gilley for him.

He needed some stringing along. Some guiding hands. Some fretting over his pick-ups or else he would stay forever Fumbles, the fuckin nickname he'd got at school when he'd took his guitar in. 

Such a huge bastard mistake.

All those morons had laughed.

They chastised him in the hall.

Stick to Bowie you big cream puff!

What did they know. 

He had all the albums. What the fuck did they have? Elton fuckin John!

Only one boy hadn't laughed. 

Schmeck.

A Czech.

From Czechoslovakia or somewhere east.

Two years older, he approached the boy, who's head was sunk low beside his FAL amp.

Hey, What's up Man?

The boy looked up.

Not much. 'Cept that amp should say FAIL, not fuckin FAL.

Schmeck sat on the amp. He spoke with a Eastern European accent, which made him sound exotic in an otherwise monotone and tedious Lancastrian school.

Fuck em! Fuck em all! Fuck Fumbles!

The boy stared at him. 

He'd never really noticed this fourth year before. But why would he, just a pipsqueak in the second.

'Ere, give me your guitar mate.

Schmeck got hold of the cheap Telecaster and began to play.

And Jeez, could he play! 

Holy shit! You're fuckin brilliant mate! 

Not really, I just learnt the basics and took it from there.

What did you start off with? Smoke on the Water?

Fuck that mate! No, I began with Quo. Anything off Dog of Two Head. My older bro showed me.

Never heard Dog.

It's fuckin mighty man. We love Dog. Listen, here's Something Going on my Head.

Schmeck smacked out this superb tune with finesse and verve. The boy was stunned.

Wow! I mean just soft mate! You really can strum!

Tell you what, I'll bring Quo's album in tomorrow. You can borrow it.

Thanks mate.

The boy played Dog till the grooves ran hot. He couldn't get enough of Quo's catchy riffing and commenced in earnest to learn the chords. 

A week later he had given it his all and returned the LP.

Cheers Schmeck, that's the dog's bollocks that!

The two new friends, separated by age and geography, sat and talked heavy rock every break and dinner from that day on. 

The boy even spoke of his love of Bowie and Lou Reed and the brill guitarin' on some LP's like David Live and Rock 'n' Roll Animal.

Schmeck had never heard of them and was genuinely impressed with the younger boy's breadth of knowledge and even more with his big album collection.

He grunted his admiration. 

The boy explained that his folks had a few bob and he got records for his birthday and Christmas and went up town every fortnight to get another.

Schmeck stared at this young acolyte.

Tell you what matey, why don't I bring my older brother Gorgo and his mates Bertalan and Lupe round to yours for a jam. You've learnt a few licks. We can teach you some more. They're nice fellas and can't half play. Fifth years. Leaving in Summer. If you're parents don't mind then waddaya reckon?

Yeah sure, I'll ask my Mum and Dad mate.

As long they stay in the lounge and it's not too loud for the neighbours son, it's not a problem. Oh and obviously they can use the loo. I'll pop in a couple of times though and check you're OK with these older boys. 

Oh Mum!

That's the way it is son. OK?

Yep, sure, whatever man!

Hey, save your rocker lip for your friends you little rascal! 

No probs Mum!

They both laughed and the date was set for the following Saturday after the cartoons on the telly. The boy adored them, especially Shazzan, the Arabian Knights and Danger Island, after which he'd always shout Ah Oh Chongo throughout the house.

Saturday came and the gang arrived with their guitars and amps.

They looked like a bunch of hairy vikings as they trudged into the big lounge holding chunky cases and little Marshalls.

The boy was nervous as fuck and could hardly speak.

Hey fella!

Yeah, hey man.

What's goin' on matey. 

The boy stared at them, covered from head to toe in denims, and decided they were Gods there and then. This was Mount Olympus for guitars and he was lucky enough to be just passing through.

In a cracked voice he managed to squeak.

How's tricks guys? 

All good brother. Good to get some new blood.

Gorgo smiled and nodded.

Schmeck winked at the boy and they began to jam some Dog of Two Head.

Gerdundula, Umleitung, Somethings Going on, the lot.

It was absolutely fuckin ace.

With their long finger nails, they showed him some new riffs and techniques, handy chord changes and a bit of picking too.

The boy's Mum knocked and walked in with a tray of glasses filled with Pepsi and a plate of arrowroots.

Hey thanks Missus!

They sort of gurgled. In unison.

She looked them over and gave them a nod.

No worries boys. Help yourselves.

The Mum backed out and Dad collared her.

How do they look then these fifth years?

Well, they've got an accent like Bela Lugosi, but they seem harmless enough. Quite sweet really in a sweaty grizzly kind of way. They're a bit thin I must say. Hungry looking.  I might make them some beef paste butties. Our boy looks happy though.

Ah, that's good. It's great to see him making new pals.

The jamming continued and they all tried Anthem by Rush, which proved to be way too hard for the youngster but not them. 

By Tor and the Snow Dog came on and the visitors sat back with their pepsis and listened intently, as if they revered it like a hymn.

You guys OK?

Just fuckin listen man. We fuckin adore that snow dog, OK!

Yeah, sure thing mate.

The boy thought they all looked a bit strange after that. 

Different somehow. 

The Schmeckster tells us you've got some heavy stuff on a couple of Bowie and Lou Reed records?

Yeah, I have.

Stick it on then bro. We love fresh meat.

The boy first played Big Brother on David Live, which they practised riffin' to and then he put Intro on at the start of Reed's Rock 'n' Roll animal.

They just stared at each other and then at the boy.

For fucks sake this is so fuckin' good man! We've never heard it before. Fuckin' mighty!

The boy hoped his Mum wouldn't walk in and hear them effin and jeffin. A good Catholic, she'd stop them coming again for sure.

The riff of Sweet Jane seemed to send them into convulsions, as they played along to the driving electric groove.

As it reached it's explosive climax the older boys seemed hairier. 

They were grunting too as they strummed wildly to the licks.

Schmeck looked up and his face was covered in fur.

He snarled at the boy.

Hey, fuckin' Fumbles!

The boy flinched and shrieked.

What the fuck Schmeck! You're a fuckin werewolf! Mu.......

Before he could shout for his Mum the boys were on him.

Ten minutes later, as she approached the lounge with another tray of Pepsis and a round of meat paste butties, she felt sure she could here munching and gnashing behind the door.

She knocked and walked in.

She dropped the tray as she took in the scene of utter devastation unfolding before her.

Her boy was now a mere wet carcass on the carpet, his ribs stripped of all their flesh and his sweet face chewed completely away.

Two of the older boys, now entirely swathed in thick hair and growling like rabid dogs, were eating her son's tender calf muscles, whilst the younger Schmeck, completely unrecognisable under his hide, was noisily sucking the marrow from the boy's finger-bones, as if he were a mere KFC.

As the mother stared at the atrocity before her, the creatures, now fully fed, leapt up and brushed past her legs, howling as they loped.

She screamed and screamed, as the pack of enormous wolves, their jaws dripping red with her baby boy's blood, bounded through the back door and out into the feeding grounds of an unwitting suburban Preston stuffed with fumbling innocents like him.

She gripped the frame and yelled.

You fucking animals! I hope you burn in Hell!

The Apple Head Man

Sat in the autumn wreckage, his twelve-bore lay across his lap like a child.

He stared at the apple head man his daughter had made. Browning now, it turned on hazel spindles.

It's creaky twig arms wove as it spoke.

Yes. 

Leave it to me.

The music was on a loop in her empty bedroom. Sailing by Christopher Cross. How she'd left it during summer.

Well, it's not too far to Paradise, just you wait and see.

Leaving all the doors and windows open, he got in his car and cruised the dead ink of the Godless night where ferals teemed in slicks of evil.

Driving along the fateful route a couple of dusk crets tailgated, their pick up bouncing his bumper.

The howled like mandrils rattling in their seats.

At the lights he got out, left his door wide, walked round his engine and took aim.

At point blank range he blew their heads clean off.

His twelve bore rang.

Both barrels. Two heads.

No more howling.

He left them on red and gunned his way down the streets, the jet rift between his lobes.

Parking up to take a pee, listening to a magpie juggle pool balls, a trio of night yobs appeared from nowhere. 

Like escaped chimps they shoved him round. 

You old cunt, give us yer dough fucker!

He pissed his boots.

Staring at them, the mites of delirium crawling cross his eyes, they'd a sense that something wasn't right but carried on the moron coda.

They pinned him down, lowered his pants. Took his wallet. No ID. Tons of cash. The wallet flew like a hungry bat.

Grinning like the children they once were they made their way to the offy. 

Cheap cider. Fuck yeah. Give it some.

He approached slowly. Parked without lights. 

It's not that far to innocence, just you wait to see.

The twin-bore tore through the leader's neck. The jaw flew. His balaclava'd skull teetered and fell.

It lay by the offy window like a bag of muscles spurting fluids. 

The second shot took the other two turning. The blast removed their backs. Ribs powdered. Revealing Midnight on the other side. Straight through their corrupted shells, windowed like tabernacles of blood.

He left the wrecks, casualties of the calamity and motored down the main, elbow out.

Radio rock replays thumping the dash.

Pinbrains on motos whirred around him like mozzy larvae in a pool of slurry. 

What ya listening to you old bastard? Turn on some proppa choons or we'll do it for ya!

He stopped the car as the devil looked in.

This is where it happened. 

They'd been harangued by local scrotes. Urchins on trails bikes. They'd left the road under the streetlamp, it's sacred glow lighting up their crushed faces like beams from Heaven taking them up.

His beloved wife died in the deep sodden ditch, her head severed by the collapsing metal round the windscreen. 

His beautiful daughter passed in the ambulance, her hands in his. 

They were once children Dad. They wore masks. Gorilla masks. Behind are just boys.

Her final words of forgiveness tore at him like mad angels eating his heart.

Those angels can feast later but not now.

Not now.

He thought of the apple stick man she'd made in his reverting garden, it's slow entropy to pure oblivion his map to the sugar-lumped clouds, where his smiling daughter waited, her cherubs and pucci fluffing his pillow beside his wife's.

It's not that far from sanity, just you come and see.

Getting out of his car, his engine still running and Bad Motor Scooter turned up to full, the only song he heard was his daughter's gentle favourite.

Just you wait and see Daddy.

He stared at the gorillas circling him like something out of Planet of the Apes. He smiled at the memory of his own youth watching Galen help the lost astronauts. 

He was a lost astronaut. Alone in a world of ugly orphans parented by the Fallen. Somehow the canvas of childhood had been oiled by hyenas as they slashed on the corpse of his family. They dabbed their brushes into its dripping soul and nuzzled for that true scarlet grue in the heart. 

Beneath the masks were demons. Pentiments. Ghouls in blood.

He raised his rifle from beneath his overcoat. 

The cartridges in his pockets jostled like gravediggers.

The first gorilla's face exploded in a fog of red, the plastic and the flesh a confetti of death.

The second ape roared towards him whirling a machete. The twelve-bore removed his arm, the long knife still flailing like a propeller. The next barrel took away all of his head except the skull facade, which looked on like a derelict church. Gore broke through its door.

The third, the Silverback, got of his bike and removed his mask.

He was face to face with the apple stick man decaying in the autumn pall.

It's not that far to emptiness.

It spoke to him as the blade slivvered his liver. 

He fell on top of the apple head. His bore in its core, he pulled the trigger and said goodbye to his shrivelling friend.

He rolled over and basked in the streetlamp where it had happened. 

The radio's blare morphed into the glissando of Sailing and pulling the lever of his salvation he closed his eyes.

The apple head smiled and mouthed one final phrase before imploding.

It's really not that far now Daddy.

Soon you will be free.

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!