Kesey’s Revenge
The wretched scabrous figure lay sprawled where he had collapsed, down amongst the debris and detritus of his labours. His ravaged form twitching spasmodically. From time to time a low moaning sound would utter from his cracked lips; unearthly and guttural. The darkness of the hovel formed a cocoon around the slumbering figure. The air was heavy, dank with moisture. It clung to the bare furnishings; pungent, lardy, fatty. Droplets glistened on the surface of the walls. It clung to his nostrils, congealing like gobbets of fat in his nasal passages. It dripped from the light fixture soiling the torn shreds of manuscript littering the floorboards. It slithered slug-like down the filthy panes, viscous blobs gathering like droolly spittle in the dark corners. It smelled like bad things.
Outside, deep in the slums the darkness made way for a silent padding figure. His large frame outlined for a moment in a splash of sodium illumination. Though he moved through the deserted streets with a silent murderous intensity his passage had an awkward gait. The figure moved as if favouring a leg and he walked slightly hunched as the waist. On closer inspection his right arm could be seen strapped to his chest by a vicious looking contraption of definite medieval origin. Straps and buckles festooned the length of the limb, binding it to his torso. Large rods and clamps held nasty looking cogs and hinges in place.
The figure came to halt in a festering garbage strewn alleyway opposite a dilapidated Georgian tenement. Between them lay the torpid depths of the river Liffey. Far above a light burned in the slumhouse. The figure smiled to himself and began his preparations. With a deft movement of his good hand he made a series of imperceptible adjustments to the contraption supporting his limb. His right arm slid noiselessly to his side. The figure clenched his teeth and stifled a grunt of pain. A look of intense concentration clouded his features as the arm began to twitch violently. First small jerky movements passed through its length. Then a sweat broke out on his brow as violent frenzied spasms wracked his frame and the arm flailed about uncontrollably, seeming to reach out and grasp frantically toward the lighted room above. Gripping the rogue limb firmly between his knees he administered a savage beating with his good fist. “Soon, soon” he hissed through clenched teeth. The spasms gradually subsided to a manageable level and he got to work.
Reaching behind him he unslung an oblong carrying case from his shoulder. Placing it gently on the filthy cobbles he dialled a combination. There was a satisfying click and the lid sprang open. With a gentle malevolence a slow smile of immense evil spread across his face. The moonlight struck the barrel of the gun, illuminating its fine craftsmanship and utter nastiness. This gun was the bad things that happen to good people. This gun was the bowel clenching realisation that you are not wearing your seatbelt, this gun was the headlights on your face down a long dark tunnel, it was the vice like pain in your chest at 4am. This gun was the Voodoo Cannon Mark II.
Similar its smaller cousin the Mark I the cannon was designed to kill, maim, mutilate and terminally inconvenience its victims in innumerable ways. This one had been modified to his own distinct specifications. Lifting the large brooding weapon from the case he inspected the launcher. Fitting snugly beneath the barrel of the gun its cunning design meant none of the sleek lines of the weapon were disturbed. He hefted it for balance, sighted and smiled with satisfaction. “The Japanese have done well” he thought, “they will be rewarded.” The right hand twitched again, spasming at the trigger. He hushed it gently “not yet my pretty, not yet.” Reaching into his cavernous overcoat he removed a small box, placed it on a nearby ledge and gingerly flipped it open. In the of the hush of the alleyway a deeper silence still descended. There it was, pulsating and glowing gently in the darkness, throwing mad dancing shadows onto his demented features. “Oh they will all pay now my little one, all of them. But that foul wretched creature, damn his eyes. That fucking animal will pay the highest price of all, oh yes”. Once more reaching into his marvellous pockets he produced a pair of large metal tongs and slowly, gently, ever so carefully he slid the throbbing slug into the launcher.
Raising the gun to his shoulder he inspected the augmented controls. His fingers lovingly traced over the settings; Zombie mode, Meatdozer, Karmageddon, Ultra-Violence, ah such fond memories. But there it was the last setting, his setting,..Hatebomb. “Now my little friend, if Wahlberg’s midgets have done their job then everything will be in place. Time to begin. Let’s announce our presence shall we?” He chambered a round into the Voodoo Cannon with a satisfyingly menacing sound.
The Gurrier awoke.
His paranoia attuned ‘Bad Shit’ sense told him something was wrong, very, very wrong. In a blur of frenzied movement he was on his feet in the centre of the room crouched in the classic Gonzo fighting stance; a can of mace held out to fend off any would be attacker, the other hand held protectively above the head, clawlike and grasping. The posture did not indicate a knowledge of arcane and horribly brutalising martial arts, rather it was suggestive of a rabid Hyena who might best be left alone lest he suddenly feel the need to unleash some bugfuck mental violence on any vulnerable innocent to hand. It need not be pointed out that only the incredibly brave or incredibly foolish ventured within grappling distance of The Gurrier when he was forced into a cornered position like this. But there was nobody there. Staring wildly about he searched for an opponent, someone to focus his nuclear rage on, but there was nothing but that godawful stench. He cast about taking in the oily, heavy atmosphere, the gobbets of lardy substance dripping down the walls. His heart sank. He knew that smell only too well, the smell of human fatty tissue. Human lard. Arsefat. His mind raced forward, liquefied human bumfat melted down, pumped into his flat for the purposes of what? To asphyxiate him in his sleep, drown him in a morass human avarice and greed. He shuddered, shaking off the image of being smothered by jiggling fat arsed rich ladies liposucted by product.
His reverie was cut short by the reply of heavy weaponry from the street below. A filth covered window pane blew inwards showering him with broken glass. Muttering an oath he was about to approach the shattered window and wreak unholy vengeance upon the little knacker who had dared to commit this act when he saw it. He froze, there in the middle of his floor it stood, jammed between the wormridden boards, smoking gently…The Hatebomb. “Oh bollix” he breathed.
The force of the explosion hit him square in the chest like a million pound jackhammer. Shooting out of the blossoming fireball, a greased monkey he shot backward smashing through the through the rotting hulk of the kitchen, splintering plywood shelves and formica in a holocaust of flailing limbs and bone jarring impact. The fireball mushroomed outward a savage eye of destruction. Consuming the fetid arena it devoured its surrounds burning, looting and pillaging the dark fruits of The Gurrier’s labours and generally roasting the shit out of everything else.
Then with a sudden inrushing of air it was gone, burnt out and collapsing in its own frenzy of devastation. In the aftermath the air was hot, it smelled of burnt hair, it smelled of hatred. It smelled, of revenge.
Silence descended. The remaining motes of destruction made lazily spirals as they floated gently to the floor, settling on the inert figure twisted in the smashed wreckage of the kitchen. A bloodshot eye flickered, a spasming twitching shook the shattered body, cracked and bloody lips peeled back to reveal a familiar snarl. The barely human sound that emerged from the scorched larynx struggled to form tortured syllables.
‘Bastard! You dirty bastard Kesey!’
Kesey, it had to be that criminal pervert who had perpetrated this heinous crime on his person and property. It bore all the hallmarks of his work. A cruelly devious set-up involving complicated calculations and preparation, a horrific concept and the pinpoint execution of said atrocity. Except for one minor point. He lived.
Rising unsteadily to his feet and surveying the damage The Gurrier surmised that this was Kesey’s most audacious and daring play to date. Outdoing the vicious Naildog attacks of ‘96 and even the cunning genius of the Leper Bombings of the late nineties. It was a brilliantly planned set-up, carried out with frightening efficiency. He should be a horrifically mutilated corpse right now or a hideously maimed burns victim weeping and sobbing away his last minutes on this mortal coil trying hopelessly to stuff his guts back up his own arse. ‘Not dead. Why, why, why?’ Racking his dazed and throbbing brain he tried desperately to find a suitable answer.
He stopped frozen in a moment of bowel splintering realisation. Kesey never missed, he never erred, he never ever faltered in his mission, he was an inhuman sociopath incapable of an error so juvenile as the inadequate quantity of explosive force times burning debris needed to bring about termination of life. ‘Shit, shit, shit! Decoy, it’s a fucking decoy!’ The Gurrier began tearing frantically at his clothing, ripping at them like a wildman. but it was too late. Smoke began billowing from his sleeves and back and the apartment was again filled with the stench of burning hair and skin. ‘Jesus, Jesus you utter bastard Kesey!’ he screamed tearing the through the rooms like a bag of scalded cats ripping and smashing at his clothing in an attempt to douse the flames. His mind a boiling mass of pain and blind panic still managed to marvel at Kesey’s capacity for pure evil. “Clever, clever bastard” he mused even as he sprinted down the hallway. Some sort of unstable compound no doubt. Similar to a home made napalm substitute but reaching critical mass at a much lower temperature. A temperature achieved using The Gurrier’s own body heat and friction as a trigger. The Hate Bomb just a decoy to throw him off balance before delivering this evil package of hellfire. Looming through the smoke and flames he saw a glimmer of hope. Snarling an obscenity he accelerated and sprang.
Far below deep in the shadows a silent figure watched as an upper window of the Georgian slumhouse opposite exploded outward followed by the frantically gesticulating form of a flaming man. Screaming at the top of his lungs the human fireball plunged downwards. The figure chuckled softly to himself and reached for a cigar.
The Gurrier appeared seventy feet above the ground a screaming, wheeling dervish of blood, glass, flames and smoke. He described a perfect arc from the window out over the sluggish Liffey below. Hurtling towards the river he smiled to himself. ‘Got you now Kesey, got you now you bast..’ he stopped a half remembered piece of advice Heinous had once imparted to him during one of their many routine weapons tests shot through his memory banks -Napalm burns underwater-. ‘Kesey you BASTAR-OOF!’ Hitting the water with a tremendous smack he disappeared silently beneath the boiling snotty depths.
For a while there was darkness, sweet blessed darkness and peace. The Gurrier felt himself floating, floating upward to oblivion, finally at peace. A light lifting him up towards,but wait he was being lifted, strong hands gripped him, he heard voices, blurred indistinct, a babble of noise and light. He emerged choking and puking into consciousness a scorched shell in which the fires of life burned with a sustaining hatred. Vomiting up a stream of stinking black Liffey water he rose slowly to his feet to thank his rescuers. The babble of noise resolved itself into distinct voices. Foreign voices. The Gurrier cast about and with a slow and sinking feeling in his bowels he realised he was not on the safety of dry land, he was in fact on a ship, a boat to be exact. A boat that resembled a small trawler. He lost control of his bladder.
The sailors were gathered in huddle about a large lobster pot engaged in some sport they were having on deck. With a sinking heart he recognised the wheezing pleas of the one known as Dirty John begging for his mother. “Oh please Mammy, oh Mammy help me, help me!” The sailors burst into shouts of raucous laughter and poured another barrel of live eels into the pot. “La cucaracha, la cucaracha!” Jibed one gesturing obscenely and they laughed again booting the cage visciously to stir up the sluggish eels. John began to scream again, this time simple unintelligible whoops of pure, primal terror.
The Gurrier dumbstruck with fear was roused by a distinctive cackling from the shore. There he was, Kesey. Whooping and leaping in the air. Shaking his fist in triumph, his right arm strapped to his chest, he looked as insanely evil as ever. ” Do you see Gurrier you sybaritic, arseplundering catamite! Do you see what happens to those who dare to fuck with I, Kesey! You empty-scrotumed dilettante! You dismissed my work out of hand, sipping tea and munching biscuits while you dismissed my skills. I truly hope you enjoyed those biscuits, fuckhead; there’s no biscuits where you’re going. Your room in the Panamanian peg-house has already been booked, you’re leaving this island by eel-trawler tonight. Manuel, my poor insane peg-house carpenter chum is already whittling the dimensions of your peg to ensure a perfect fit.They’re lathing up the pegs as we speak!” The Gurrier gazed on in horror as Kesey motioned with his good arm and two burly midgets appeared and tossed Heinous’ inert body into the gelatinous depths of the river. “See you have no friends left to help you Gurrier, if the filthy peg-house doesn’t kill you the Vatican surely will!” As they faded out of earshot The Gurrier could still see Kesey ranting and raving in the distance cursing his name and dancing a mad jig of insane glee.
Strong hands gripped him, dragging him towards the eel pit in the belly of the ship. Instinctively he reached for his mace but it was gone. Claimed by the murderous carnage of the hate bomb or the sticky clutches of Anna Livia it mattered not. Evil piggy eyes stared at him with uncomprehending malice. “No es bueno gringo, mucho arsefucho Panama ahahaha” With that they tossed his struggling figure into the eel vat. “You fucking animals!” he raged as the eels closed around him. He could feel their nauseating slimy coldness against his skin. But now his rage closed around him a cold hard shell of protection, he clenched his teeth and snarled an oath to the darkening skies
“I kill you Kesey. I kill you filthy.”*
*With apologies to Alfred Bester.