The Hunting of the Wahlberg
The Longstone on Townsend street, a bar. The Gurrier, Kesey, Heinous and The Gin Lady arrived and surveyed the environs. “Goths!” spat Kesey, “I hate those guys.” “Remember we’re here for Wahlberg. Don’t get distracted” said The Gurrier. He scanned the pasty faced, kohl eyed crowd for the telltale signs of Wahlbergs passing. The place was crammed with unhealthy looking fuckers moping into their pints and staring blankly into space, wearing t-shirts with illustrations from Neil Gaiman stories and rubbish looking bands. Heinous’ t-shirt said KILL WHORES in large letters. His eyes were roving the ranks of black seeking them out, hands grasping unconsciously.
It was the Gin Lady who saw him first. “Over there” she whispered in her soft voice. “He’s done something to his hair…Jesus he looks like an eejit!” It was true Wahlberg had indeed ‘done something to his hair’ perhaps in an attempt to disguise himself after his escape from Kesey’s Bag of Deadly Things or perhaps in a misguided endeavour to endear himself to the Goths in whom he vested so much interest. The swathe of white through his hair was concieveably an attempt to mark the passing of time and ensconce himself as an ‘Elder Goth’ wise in the ways of cruddy jewellery and indolence. In practice he looked like a startled penguin. “Holy God” said Kesey “I’m getting a drink.” Kesey was on the drink again. A terrible thing. Kesey without drink was a dangerous menace, Kesey with drink on him, with Goths around and the faint rusty tang of Industrial music in the air… The Gurrier tried not to think about this. The plan was to get close to Wahlberg, distract his coterie of lank, hairy whingers and bundle him back into the bag of deadly things which was even now stashed safely within the confines of Keseys overcoat. With Wahlberg back in the bag they could relax knowing ‘The Gollum of Goatstown’ was no longer loose in the city destabilising the Karmic balance of it denizens and life could return to normal….
…..The industrial goth music was pouring out of the speakers drowning all conversation in a wall of sound, the sound of hammers beating metal pipes, chainsaws, bells, nails, screeching tortured metal and concrete drums and there in the middle of it all stripped to the waist, sweating and screaming like a madman was Kesey. He was thrusting about doing a horrible wrong dance, wailing unintelligible machinespeak “ARRRCHEEKARR1011001-/WS/-STREAAAAANNNGHH^MEEE” The Gurrier felt his ears begin to bleed, Lady Gin was onto her third bottle of Mothers Ruin but even she aghast at this new development. “For Gods sake stop him before he kills one of them”. Kesey had grasped two passing Goths in his meaty hands and was screaming full into their terrified faces. “KEEEESEY IS THE MANMACHINE. I NEED YOUR BRAINMEEAT!”.
Far above on the DJ podium Wahlberg’s hands were a blur on the industrial DJ-box. He grasped the handcrank and cackled with glee as the hammer volume rose into the redzone. The Ãœbergoths who ran the place were hammering on the door and roaring curses at him but Wahlberg was too far gone into the music. “Manmachine synergy, the fusion is complete. Let them eat KRAFTWERK!” He threw a switch and the German proto-industrialist machine music fused with the Neo-Scandinavian post punk soundscape already spilling out of the overworked sound system. The effect was deafening. The Gurrier fell to his knees clutching his ears as around him Goths weakened by years of lurking in their bedsits, subsisting on diets of tinned tuna and cigarettes suffered complete renal failure. They fell to the ground gasping as their kidneys exploded. A bald punk goth in leather trousers and thigh length white PVC boots screamed in agony as eardrums burst and brains dribbled down the front of his S&M bib.
Through the confusion Wahlberg’s reedy voice sounded suddenly over the straining speakers. “DANCE, DANCE, DANCE LIKE A GERMAN. DANCE FOR WAHLBERG!” The Gurrier glanced up hoping that Kesey or Heinous could put a stop to this madness but it was not to be. Kesey’s head was on fire now, a huge pillar of flame was shooting out of the top of his skull and he was still dancing about gibbering in machinespeak. Heinous was ignorant to all of it trying to explain his t-shirt to a terrified group of lady goths he had corralled behind the bar. Steam rose off him gently but apart from this he seemed unaffected by the carnage. The Gurrier began to cry softly to himself. Why did every evening always end up like this? Why? Then he heard a sound behind him.
“For the love of God will someone turn off that awful bloody noise!” It was The Gin Lady. She had reached the end of the third bottle of Mothers Ruin, it was midnight…magic hour. The Gurrier breathed a huge sigh of relief and crawled under the table. One of the Ãœbergoths was crouched there whimpering to himself. “Cheer up lad” said the Gurrier. “It’ll all be over in a few minutes. Here you might want to move further back, it’ll be messy.” The Ãœbergoth goggled at him uncomprehendingly. “Who’s that little lady with the broken bottle?” “That’s The Gin Lady, my friend we’re saved, have a Murray Mint”.