Shotguns & Quicklime
Grey morning crept over the Clondalkin valley like dirty dishwater from a greasy privy outflow. Clondalkin’s cannibal knackers were safely tucked up in the bowels of their hovels. The destruction and violence of the night before now the problem of the Gards and Tallaght hospital accident and emergency ward.
As the weak sun struggled to warm the damp Spring air the builder scum began to gather. They crept from the darkened corners of the building site like liver fluke into the light. Grinning to themselves they surveyed their ‘work’. “Grand, tis grand lads” said the Foreman massaging the life back in to his hairy backside. “Sure we’ve overdone ourselves this week so we have. I think a little rest is in order for the Friday, being the day thats in it and all” The other builder scum roared with laughter and farts at this, and divesting themselves of their tools they settled in for a day of tea and bollock scratching.
The Foreman smiled benignly at his indolent charges and headed off into the rear of the current poor schmucks apartment they had decamped to. A grand wee nest they had fashioned for themselves with comfy cement bags, loft insulation and lashings of tea. They could hold out here for another few months without doing a tap. They only slight problem was a lack of facilities. Never men to stand on ceremony the lads would generally just whip it out and hose down the nearest wall but the Foreman had a need for a more substantial delivery. One of the more enterprising lads had shoved a few cement bags in the corner and they had all been relieving themselves behind them for a week now. The stench was something rotten but sure he didn’t give a shite. ‘A shite! Ahaha that’s a good one to be sure.’ Chuckling to himself the Foreman lowered his impressive builders bum over the ordure pile and began his delivery.
In the fetid darkness beneath a low growl emerged. The foreman leapt up shrieking, his jocks tripping him as he fell forward into the fibreglass insulation. ‘Jaysus me mickey!’ he roared scrabbing over the rubble towards the doorway. It was then he noticed the figure in the far corner. The shadows in the corner of the room’s shell detached themselves and began to advance on the prostrate builder. The bulk of a man appeared, a man whose physiognomy bespoke a character wreathed in rage and violence and an intellect as cold and sharp as knife in your throat. The Foreman knew what this man was. He knew what he could only be, a bastard, The Bastard. And then the bastard spoke. “Meet my little friend did you? He’s a new fella so he is, very vicious. His mother was a feral mink and his father was a well I’m not sure really. The fella I bought him off said a mutant pitbull but I think he might have been a stoat mixed with a Cavan man. Anyway that little fella ate both his Ma and Da after he met them. Vicious little bastard so he is, I like him.” The foreman goggled at him, whimpering and crawling backwards over the bare concrete. The Bastard Kesey, (for it was he) sighed heavily and opened the bag of Deadly Things. “So ye thought that ye’d come in here and take a shite over me new house did ye. Yeh poor bollix, yeh weren’t to know I suppose. Still can’t be helped now.”
“Help, help me” croaked the foreman scrabbling away, but from behind him where his mates lay idle, roars and screaming could be heard. Kesey grinned “Ah there they are. That’ll be the Gurrier and Heinous with the quicklime. They love that stuff so they do. I’m more fond of this fella meself.” From the depths of the Bag of Deadly things he withdrew the Bad Gun. Two long barrels of shiny death topped off with barbed wire and broken glass. A custom job as all the Bastards weapons were this one was unusual in that it lacked the finesse of his regular arms. This one didn’t fill you full of puffer fish venom, or blast with enough napalm to burn you but keep you alive, it didn’t even cause damage on the genetic level resulting in a slow spiral into madness and the depletion of the body’s corporeal form until you resembled a small puddle of genetic goop. No this thing just blew your fucking head off, real quick. The Bastard breached the weapon and filled it with his custom cartridges, filled with nails, nettles and broken glass…well he did have a rep to keep up. Then with slow malice he snapped it shut and drew down on the gibbering cretin at his feet.
“Death to the dumb!” screamed Kesey cocking the trigger. Then he paused and looked at the figure before him. His dark brow furrowed and he lowered the weapon. “No damn it, must keep some alive to finish the job” “Oh thank God, thank, thank you” gibbered the foreman weeping and prostrating himself. Kesey looked at him with his pitiless eyes, black like a sharks, no whites just black doom. He began to laugh, deeply, unpleasantly, heartily. Striding past the foreman he cast a glance over his shoulder to the dark ordure in the corner. “I said alive my friend, just alive. By the way the little fella in the corner wants to be friendly with you. Play nice.” The Foreman goggled in terror at the corner “Wha, what is it, what is is it, tell me!” Kesey paused scratching his head “Well The Gurrier took one look at them and puked and Heinous suggested Bum Ferrets but you can call him your new best friend. Call me when the you’re ready to do the snag list then.”
The screaming went on for a long time.