The instructions were simple.

Get up. Stagger. Fall down. Die.

The Turnip Babies arrived on clear spring morning in the the third year after the accident. Piotr had been digging in the turnip field, turning over the brown earth with the rusted metal tongue of his spade. He worked methodically, attacking the sods of frozen earth until they broke and crumbled into a clumpy loam. The downstroke of his spade connected with something hard and fibrous. Piotr cursed, the turnips were not due for another two months. He tugged the spade free and gaped with horror as the disturbed earth pulsed with a spasmic rhythm. The Turnip baby crawled from it’s dirtwomb and climbed to it’s feet on yellowed stumps of legs. It stood around one foot in height, a horrid, lumpy, purple torso with long fibrous limbs tapering into hairy roots. It had no neck and the head was an uneven tumourous globule from which various stray roots clung like lank hair from the lumpy dome of it’s skull and vestigial limbs and nodules sprouted at random. But it was the eyes that made Piotr scream; milk white, blank, pupil-less orbs bulged from it’s wizened yellow face. Piotr’s spade had sheared thorugh the top of it’s skull and a greenish fluid, stinking of turnip blight, dribbled down the blank face and into the black hole of it’s mouth. “Ke, ke, ke, ke.” it called, in a thin, coughing voice.

Piotr screamed and brought the spade down on the hideous thing again and again until there was nothing left but a mess of turnip guts steaming gently in the morning air. Piotr never returned to the top field and he swore to never again grow root vegetables. The land here was poisonous and treacherous. He would grow corn, only corn. Healthy corn, which thrived and grew in the light of day.

—–

Granny Yakovleva sat on the porch in her rocking chair watching the night slip over the hills. She took a long draw from her clay pipe and adjusted the Kalashnikov resting across her knees. Her good eye, bright as a wet stone, scoured the lengthening shadows of the twilight. The other was blind and milky with cataracts, yet beneath the white film the blind eye roved ceaselessly, like it’s healthy twin. She took a handful of black tobacco from a pouch around her neck and curled a finger into the densely packed weed. Curling it between thumb and forefinger she tucked the baccy into the hollow her cheek. It was a special blend of her own devising, a mix of Oblast black and the stringy Greenplant that grew along the banks of the Yaga where the Toadfish mate in Spring. It was dark and bitter and the juices burned her tongue, but Granny Yakovleva grinned to herself as the smoky taste of the Oblast gave way to the acrid fluids of the Greenplant. She felt a mild itch at the base of her skull, like spiders feet and the milky cataracts of her blind eye began to glow softly in the half light. She sluiced the bitter juice and spat. The shadows she saw in her left eye, the remnants of her vision, sharpened and cohered into a photo-negative world of black and white. She spat again and grinned, her blind eye now glowing with infra-red vision.

She patted the baccy pouch with a wizened hand and chuckled.

“Would that I had some of this in the war, eh Boney.”

The ancient hound by her side raised his shaggy head at the sound of his name. Granny Yakovleva reached out to scratch the brown fur of his head.

“I could have done with it back then, eh. Some of this and one of these,” she patted the Kalashnikov, “Yes, a fuck sight better than the shit they gave us to kill the Germans with.”

From the forest a long mournful howl drifted above the trees.

Granny Yakovleva scanned the edges of the forest, her not-blind eye a winking glow-worm of light. She wiped the brown tobacco juice from her mouth with a ragged sleeve and raised the machine gun to her shoulder. The hound by her side whimpered.

“You old coward Boney. Afraid of a few Wolves.”

From the edges of the forest Granny Yakovleva spotted a flash of movement. A hot, grey furred body, melting through the dim shadows and then swallowed up by the cold night.

The hound looked at his mistress and whimpered again. Granny Yakovleva sighed, “You are right little puppy. Would that it was a wolf, a whole pack of them. What fun we would have. Poor bastard wolves. Come, Piotr is still in the fields, the foolish boy. We must warn him.”

++++++++++BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

Report 14-DVA-ED-000971
Soviet Research Station G72, Ploshadka Region, Kazahkstahn.
Commandant Capt. Golubev

Subject fed quantity of serum XNA-12 mixed with grade B rum and placed in capsule. Cpl. Volkov reported subject’s vital signs as normal. Cpl. Volkov and Pvt. Zugarin instructed to secure subject in acceleration couch. Subject reported as docile and obedient. Professor Zipsin on hand to oversee launch. Thrusters 1 and 2 report complete success on test firing. Professor Zipsin ordered launch at 1400 hours.

END TRANSCRIPT+++++++++

I remember the day we sent the pig into space. Captain Golubev gathered us on the parade ground to make the announcement. It would, he said, ‘be a glorious day for the Soviet Union’. Today we would strike a blow against the Western, Imperialist Capitalist fools that would ring out across the globe. Today, we would send a pig into space.

Kraptchin laughed into his beard when he heard this. ‘Fucking pigs are fed better than us,’ he spat a long gob of phlegm onto the frozen earth. ‘Fucking look at this little porker, he’s fatter than Fat Polotov and happier too I’ll wager.’

I looked at the pig hanging in the slatted wooden cage suspended between our shoulders.

‘Yes, but Fat Polatov isn’t being shot into space’

Kraptchin shrugged and spat again, ‘If they fed me as good as they feed that pig they could shoot me into space bollock naked for all I care. See here,’ he said, waving a bottle in my face, ‘Rum! Rum for the fucking pig! When was the last time you had rum?’

I had to admit, he was right, the last rum ration had been distributed in December. A thin, sorry mixture of rum and distilled potato juice Fat Polatov made with his illegal still behind the motor pool. It smelled strongly of diesel and I wondered aloud if Fat Polatov had been adding more than potatoes to the mixture. Everybody had laughed except Fat Polatov. Then everybody stopped laughing and threw their cups at him. Nobody spoke to Fat Polatov anymore and he sat alone in his bunk most nights, crying himself to sleep.

‘Here, taste some pigrum.’ said Kraptchin, working loose the cork with his yellowed teeth.

‘No, I hear they add things to it, stuff for the pigs.’

Kraptchin grimaced and spat the cork  onto the ground. ‘You worry too much Piotr. If it doesn’t kill the pigs, it won’t kill us. Besides, look at this little fellow, he’s in fine health,’ he rattled the bottle against the cage and the pig began to squeal loudly.

‘Looking for your pigrum are you?’ and he took a slug from the black bottle. Smacking his lips he gazed at it in wonder. ‘Lenin’s balls! That’s damn fine rum. They really do keep the good stuff for the pigs.’ He took another long swig, and a dark brown rill of liquid dribbled from his bearded chin to stain his uniform.

‘Stop Kraptchin, you’ll get us into trouble! Leave some for the pig.’

‘Listen to yourself Piotr, you sound like one of those mewling party crawlers. ‘Leave some for the pig! Leave some for the pig!’

Kraptchin tossed the bottle aside and unshouldered the long poles suspending the cage. He gave me an evil look and stalked away in disgust.

Retrieving the discarded bottle I sat in the snow beside the cage. The pig gazed out with it’s strange liquid eyes and poked a pink snout through the bars. I reached out and fed it the remaining drops from the bottle. This seemed to cheer it up, and it made little grunts of joy as it sucked down the brown liquid. I wondered what else they added to the rum.

—————————————–

(This piece is a misplaced fragment of Flicker Fiction from sometime in 2008)

‘Get me a drink Paddy. I need a fucking drink just to look at you’.

It was too much. I had to get out of there. Shut her up with cheap gin and cooking sherry. It meant a trip to the shopping centre but there was no getting around it. It was gin or violence and today I had the stomach for neither.

The shopping centre. What circle of hell is reserved for the makers of shopping centres. Slumped against the M50 like concrete roadkill, a massive manmade turd steaming in the bright sunlight. Filled to bursting with terrifying heaps of mangled humanity, gurning freaks gobbling septic chicklegs, pigeon chested gurriers in ridiculous pants and neon painted Toyota Sparrowfarts, hatchet face young wans with jam and snot encrusted childspawn. Acres of sunburned flesh wobbling in the artificial light. Blanchardstown shopping centre, mall of the damned. People get stabbed here, people get murdered here, people buy crap here. Lots and lots of crap.

As I pulled into the carpark child midgets on bikes circled the cars looking for an easy mark. I parked and counted out my greasy tenners. The rent would have to wait, gin was needed. It was time to enter the fleshpits of Blanchardstown and purchase some booze.

Inside the heat was worse. A suffocating, clammy humidity pressing against my face. The place was rancid with sweaty teenagers and bored looking pramfaces. Just let me get to the Boozepile and it will all be ok. Five minutes and I’ll be in and out. Head down I pushed my way through the crowds. I could see the entrance now just a few feet away. I could see my goal, row after row of tramp label gin waiting inside the door in the bargain bins of Boozepile. It was then, mere inches from safety that my luck ran out.

“Are you the fugitive!”
The woman had a face like a butcher’s elbow and a mad glint in her rheumy eyes.
‘Oh Jesus they’ve found me,’ I thought. ‘They know what I’ve done! Act natural you fool, feign ignorance’

“What?”

Her grip on my arm tightened. She looked insane, glancing around I saw she had allies in the crowd. Huge bulbous women slathered in orange make up pressed in closer to hear my answer. Christ how did they know?Who told them?

“Are you the 98FM fugitive?”

“Jesus no.”

“You have to tell me if you are. Have you envelopes?”

She made a grab at my envelope of greasy tenners. She wanted the booze money! The landlord I could deal with but The Gin Lady would murder me if I lost the cash supply for the booze.

“No!” I shouted. “Get away, I’m not the fugitive, I haven’t done anything.”

I pulled away from the mad woman, frantically stuffing the tenners into my pants.

“Is he the fugitive?’ an ancient blubbery crone wheezed from a bench.

‘He says he not,’ said the madwoman eyeing me with suspicion and naked aggression.

I staggered away the mission for booze now forgotten. Something was wrong here. Very wrong. The atmosphere was violent and murderous. Bad things were brewing. A place like this could go up at any moment. Behind me I heard a voice shouting.

“ARE YOU THE 98FM FUGITIVE!”

“No, for the love of Jesus, no.”

“You have to tell me if you’re him. Have you envelopes?”

This woman was enormous. She looked like a shaved gorilla. Huge sausage fingers grasped at my shirt.

“Are you sure you’re not the fugitive?”

Crumbs of chicken burger were stuck to my chest.

“Madam please I beg you. I’m not well, can’t you see. I need my envelopes for booze. Have mercy on a broken man please. I need these envelopes.”

“The envelopes have the prizes,” she muttered to herself releasing me from the sausage grip.

This was too much. The place had gone hysterical. Everywhere deranged women were accosting single men. ‘Are you the fugitive, are you the fugitive,’ they wailed. I had to get out of here. These women were desperate. Horny for criminals with cash stuffed envelopes. I had no chance here amongst these people, they would have me stripped naked and dead in a flash.

Then I saw it, my redemption. A bookshop. I’d be safe there. Safe from the crazy harridans. A bookshop would give me respite from these people. I stumbled in and then the screaming began. The shop was filled with them.

“Look its him. ITS HIM!”

“Go on get ‘im, get ‘im!”

I grabbed a book and pretended to ignore them.

“Are you the fugitive?” the familiar refrain came.

Maybe if I ignore them they will go away.

“IF THE FUGITIVE IS IN THE STORE WILL HE PLEASE OUT UP HIS HAND”

Oh God this was it they had me cornered. Behind me a gaggle of book assistants approached blocking off the aisles. I turned to flee but two women with buggies ran into the shop. They glowed with oranginess.

“I don’t fucking care I’m going to ask him,” said one who resembled a leathery tangerine.

“Are you the 98FM fugitive?”

“Please, for the love of God ladies I am not he. I am not the one you seek.”

I felt a tugging at my trouser leg. Looking down I found myself staring into the jam coated face of an urchin who had escaped from his mobile prison. The urchin looked up at me plaintively and said.

“Are you my daddy?”

I fell back mouthing oaths, that was it, I was doomed. Doomed to die here in this place of evil.

There was a scream from outside the shop and the harridans turned as one.

“I FOUND HIM. I FOUND THE FUGITIVE!”

There was more screaming and a frenzy of scuffling.

“He’s not the fucking fugitive,” said one of the orange goblins shoving me aside and racing out into the scrum of women. Their attention elsewhere I made good my escape.

Outside the shop a mob had gathered whooping and hollering. Nothing was visible, if that poor bastard was in there, there was no hope for him. I saw the gorilla lady wading into the centre of the fray, sausage fists a blur of motion as she pounded anorexic stick ladies into ground beef. The madwoman was there too clutching a blood stained envelope and grinning triumphantly. I caught a glimpse of the urchin gnawing on a string of lumpy intestines as the leather tangerine stuffed a pair of bloody trousers into her handbag.

The Gin Lady would have to make do with lighter fluid cocktails today it was time to leave booze or no.

The Pitch:
Richard Dawkins is presented with a cricket bat hewn from the mast timbers of the H.M.S. Beagle. He then roams the earth with a camera crew pounding creationists in the face.

Sample:
Picture the scene, a high-school somewhere in the bible belt. The science teacher turns to the class, asks them to open their textbooks and launches into an examination of Intelligent Design versus Evolution. Using his opposable thumb as a makeshift gripping device the teacher scrawls an essay title across the blackboard ‘Who’s trying to make a monkey out of me?’

There is a peal of thunder, outside the sky turns a leaden grey. The classroom is filled with an eerie half light, somewhere a monkey cackles. The students pause looking up fearfully from their textbooks, was that a furtive simian paw just there at the windowpane? Surely not, a monkey, here, in Alabama?

The teacher calms the nervous class and assures them that nothing could be further from the truth. Monkeys are outlawed here in Alabama of course, they carry bad genes filled with stem cells. It was just a tree branch brushing against the window nothing more. He strides to the window to show them there is nothing to fear. Thunder rolls, lightning flashes and silhouetted against the window is a terrible figure of scientific vengeance. Eyes mad with rage, hair flying in all directions, swinging a bloodstained cricket bat the glass explodes inward over the hapless teacher.

“Welcome to the cluebat manifesto!” screams Richard Dawkins leaping atop the shoulders of the creationist. ‘You have been Unnaturally Selected! The time for reasoned debate is at an end fool! Now comes the time of the Cluebat!” Dawkins grips the fear-gobbling teacher by the top of the head and pounds him mercilessly with the club of strong English oak. “Scientific method you cretin” smack! “Fossil record,” smack! “Religious gibberish” smack! The teacher goes down in a sprawl of limbs and brain fluid. Dawkins stands over his fallen adversary for a moment and then turns to the class cowering in their seats. “Fear not Alabamians I come to bring you knowledge. Look here are my little friends.” He points to the window where the simians now sit watching them, their dark eyes full of sadness.

“Look monkeys” a shrill voice from the back of the class proclaims, the class giggle in fear. Dawkins’ face darkens and he grips the cluebat with renewed intensity. “NOT MONKEYS! CHIMPS, CHIMPANFUCKINGZEES!” he roars smashing splinters out of the desk. “Show them my pretties show them. The first Chimpanzee bares its yellow teeth and the screaming begins in earnest.

Dawkins rides off into the sunset on the back of a giant silverback gorilla.

Next week Richard Dawkins has an audience with the Pope.

I have no idea if Richard Dawkins would be open to making such a program but I sure as hell would watch it. Looking at him in his last TV documentary ‘Religion: The Root of all Evil?’ he appeared to be a man for whom given a few more years of the ID vs Darwinism debate the prospect of taking a cricket bat to somebody’s head may become a more and more attractive prospect.

Update: Listening to an interview with Richard Dawkins yesterday he was at pains to point out that he did not want the title ‘Religion: The Root of All Evil’ as it was not the root of all evil just most evil. He wanted to call the program ‘The God Delusion’ which I am going to steal for a story title one day because its just brilliant.

It was much later when The Gurrier awoke. His head was swimming and he felt like someone had put his tongue in backwards and glued it to the roof of his mouth. He’d seen Kesey do that to someone before and was relieved when he felt it move sluggishly in his gob. As far as he could tell everything else was in the right place and he cast his eyes about looking for revenge. It was then he realised that although his tongue was in the right place, he was in the wrong place. Very wrong.

The Black Murphy’s devil music began to pound in his head again as he struggled to sit up. DOOM, DOOM, DOOM, DOOM. The drums reverberated in his skull sending his teeth a chattering. Strong hands gripped him and he was lifted up into a blinding light it. There was an acrid smell of burning and he moaned softly as he saw what awaited him.

The great hall above the Village was filled to bursting with the clan of the Black Murphys. They had come in their droves from all parts of the country, in all manner of shapes and sizes. The moon mad Murphys of Ballyhaunis were there with their blue stained skin and hysterical blindness. There were the Filthy Murphys of Sleam, banished there after the Dirty Rising of ’32. The swarthy Murphys of Spanish Point whose ancient geasa it was to swim naked along the west coast of Clare and ward off sharks and selkies from the local fishermen. The giant tattooed ‘Arse’ Murphy was there with his inbred clan of six limbed mutant offspring. It was said he drank a bathful of Castrol GTX one day and eloped with an unmarried elephant from Duffy’s Circus. The hideous children were the result of this unholy union but he always kept his ‘wife’ in the caravan behind the house so no one knew for sure. The rake thin Bastard Murphys of Bangor were there too eyeing up the others drinks and looking to borrow money, bastards. And finally there was the Black Fiddler himself ‘Pox’ Murphy the dirtiest, filthiest, ugliest bastard of them all. He and his poxy fiddle were there drumming the crowd up into a frenzy.

‘Friends, relations and bollixes!’ said The Pox motioning for silence. ‘My thanks to you all for gathering here tonight to bear witness our most ancient of traditions. A special thanks must also go out to our friend and ally The Bastard Kesey for his invaluable expertise in bringing our quarry here tonight.’ There was a chorus of cheers at this followed by Kesey’s voice piping up from the back of the room ‘When do we burn him?’

‘All in good time friend Kesey,’ said The Pox ‘but first there are certain traditions to be observed.’ The Pox spread his arms to the crowd in supplication, ‘It has been ten long years since we of the Black Council stood before you on this very spot and elected this shameful excuse of a man to the honoured position of ‘Gurrier Murphy’ ‘ he grinned evilly at The Gurrier. ‘What say you, has he done well?’ The crowd roared, there was the sound pint glasses connecting with unprotected foreheads. The Gurrier prayed ferverently to the few Gods he hoped he had not permanently ostracized or offended. ‘Hmmph’ said Pox Murphy, ‘it seems the clan is undecided’. ‘Burn him!’ came a cry, ‘I want me brain soup’ said another. ‘He’s not that bad’ came yet another. They all turned. ‘Put a gag on that bastard he’s not allowed to vote for himself’ said The Pox. ‘But we won’t hear the death screams then.’ said another.

‘Jaysus why do I put up with this,’ said The Pox shaking his head. ‘Just give him a few kicks, we have to get this show on the road. C’mon I only have the room booked until half eleven. Get him up here onto the stage’ A few swift boots were applied to The Gurrier’s kidneys and he was hefted up onto the stage arms and legs bound by ceremonial catgut and brillo pads. Pox Murphy leaned in close to him and The Gurrier smelled the rank stench of Guinness and dog biscuits on his breath. ‘Do ye remember how it goes then eh Murphy? Do ye remember what happens next then?’ The Gurrier cast his fevered mind back to that night ten years ago when he became the Clan Gurrier for the first time. He had been young and strong back then, full of rage and booze. He remembered some of it, but the rest was lost to him. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder doctors had called it. The mind shuts down and locks off memories that are too stressful to deal with. But now those old locks were rusting and something dark and terrible was stirring in the mind of The Gurrier. Shapes and sense memories were leaking through. In his minds eye he saw flames and smelt burning, pain engulfed him and he screamed as Pox Murphy stood back and revealed the thing of his nightmares on the platform.

‘Oh God, Oh Jesus Christ. No! Noooooooo!’ The Gurrier cowered back at the sight of it, Pox Murphy cackled and danced a jig on the platform. ‘That’s right Gurrier, you remember all right. The trial at the heart of The Gurrening. The Dirty Tree.

The Dirty Tree rose before him a black turd from Satan’s arse. A huge blackened stump of prehistoric Blackthorn dragged from the Bog of Allen by the Clan Murphy centuries ago. Fossilised by untold millennia beneath the earth the Black Murphy’s worshipped it as a relic of their dead Gods. It was known as The Wishing Stump by some, The Dagdas Toe by others, The Pookas Currach by still more. All knew it was a thing of dark power that made women weep and grown men faint dead away.

Once every ten years, in the month of Samhain as the year waned and the Gods were deep in their death sleep this sacred object would be hauled from its resting place beneath the Liffey and brought to this spot to play host to The Gurrening. Those foolish men who wished to become known as Gurrier of the Murphys would be immured within it’s dark womb and the mighty stump set ablaze. The Murphy who managed to gnaw his way out of the wooden tomb before he burned to death would be proclaimed the new Gurrier and hold the title for ten years, whereupon he would have the opportunity to be roasted and eaten at the next Gurrening or take his chances in the Black heart of the Bog once more. Curiously almost no one ever chose to undergo the trial again. It seems being eaten alive was preferable to submitting to The Gurrening twice.

‘Well you know the tradition Murphy,’ said The Pox. Is it roasting for eating you are or is it back in the tree with you?’ He eyed the Gurrier closely and licked his lips. ‘I always wondered what your brain pan would taste like.’ The Gurrier looked from the dark stump and back to the crooked yellowing teeth of The Poxy Fiddler. ‘Oh no not the tree again, please not the Dirty Tree, anything but the tree. Gnaw on my gizzards and grind me up for soup but please have mercy don’t send me back to the tree.’ The Pox grinned and turned to the quiet the crowd. ‘He has made his decision. It’s the Dirty Tree for him again.’ There was uproar in the room. Cries of ‘Brain soup, brain soup’ and ‘burn the hairy bastard’ could be heard above the din. The Pox leapt up and grabbed a flaming brand from the torch lit stage. ‘Come on then lets get this eejit burnt then, the van is parked on a double yellow.’

Strong hands gripped The Gurrier and thrust him deep into the heart of the Dirty Tree. Its cold clammy embrace and boggy stench closed around him as he heard the others binding the circumference in catgut and barbed wire. The Pox was busily pouring petrol onto the kindling beneath the stump and whistling a horrible screeching tune.

Finally when he was done he came closer to the stump, leaning in to The Gurrier. ‘So ye bollix any last words then?’ The Gurrier smiled and whispered something. The Pox frowned and leaned in closer. ‘What are yeh smilin’ about. Sure amn’t I about to burn the shite out of you and then later on we’ll dig yeh out of the tree and make your bones into jam.’

The Gurrier was laughing now, tears streaming down his face. ‘Oh, oh Pox, you poor gobshite you weren’t to know I suppose. Heh, heh. Tell me this tree, the stump, the Dagda’s toe. Do ye know what kind of a tree it is then?’ ‘Blackthorn,’ said Pox looking flummoxed.

‘Yes, Blackthorn. Produces a berry called a sloe. We make it into sticks for fighting but over there in the other place they make it into a drink you know. Into a Gin. Sloe Gin.’

The Pox paused scratching his head, a thought or a memory circling him just out of reach. ‘Gin eh, well that won’t help you now. Here what’s that, who let that fecking squirrel in here, get off me torch. Jaysus theres another one. Where did it. OWWW the feckin’ thing bit me. You little bollix I’ll fecking brain you. Ahhh there’s more, AAAAAHH MAMMY THE’RE ALL OVER ME. AAHHHHH JESUS MARY AND SAINT JOSEPH.’ The Black Fiddler of Kilbeggan disappeared beneath a sea blood red eyes and black squirming bodies. The Gin Lady, stepped over the flailing limbs, inspected the Dirty Tree and clapped her hands. ‘Oooh I love it. I’ve spoken to the squirrels and they love it too. It’s just right.’ The Gurrier looked desperately from the quickly disappearing form of the Pox Murphy and the clearly insane Gin Lady his mind racing. ‘Emm. Yes glad they like it. If you’ll just give me a moment to gnaw my way out I think they will find it a most comfortable home.’

Kesey and Red Presley appeared as The Gurrier was picking the last bits of barbed wire from his teeth. The Attack Squirrels had taken up residence in the Dirty Tree and were frolicking happily in the branches tossing the odd eyeball and leg bone playfully to one another. The Gin Lady cooed contentedly at them and picked fossilized sloe berries from the wizened branches. ‘Dirty Gin I’ll call it, in honour of the occasion.’

The Gurrier shook his head and looked sharply at Kesey. ‘So you were in on this all along?’ Kesey opened his arms in a gesture of appeal ensuring The Gurrier could see he was armed. ‘Well you know what they say, you can choose you friends but not your family.’ The Gurrier considered that for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Fair enough,’ he said ‘but next time you go in the tree.’

The Bastard Kesey gazed upwards at the boarded up windows and smiled in happy reverie. ‘Heh,heh great days.’ he thought to himself and cracked his knuckles loudly. Instantly the door of the tenement cracked open an inch and a rheumy, bloodshot eye appeared.

‘Fuck off Kesey. I don’t want any trouble hear. I’m not well,’ said The Gurrier.
‘Now, now Murphy don’t be like that. It’s not my fault that you caught fire.’
‘Caught fire, caught fire! You bastard you set me on fire!’
‘Well I admit, it could have been me yes but if it hadn’t have been you it would have been somebody else. And you do hate explaining these things to the authorities,’ Kesey paused gauging his reaction then added, ‘Besides there is whiskey and celebrations to be had.’
The Gurrier looked up sharply and licked his cracked lips. ‘Hmm whiskey you say, well maybe it was my fault then. No burnings though.’
The Bastard Kesey held up his hands in mock innocence.
‘No burnings I promise’
‘Right, I’ll get my coat’
The Gurrier emerged into the night air and sniffed it apprehensively. It smelled bad, like overcooked meat. That could have been him though, he was still a little singed from the dark dealings of the previous week. As ever undertaking an evening in the company of Kesey was never and occasion to enter into lightly. However he was tired and singed and the offer of whiskey and celebrations was a welcome one.

‘So what are we celebrating then? Poisoning the Pope, political assassination, murder, genocide, regicide?’ he said.
Kesey turned to him and winked ‘You’ll see. It’s a surprise.’
The Gurrier felt ill.

And so it was that Kesey and The Gurrier ventured out that cold November night in search of whiskey and celebrations. What they found was The Gin Lady and Red Presley scaring skangers on Wexford street. As they came upon them Presley had pinned one of the terrified street gurriers up against a wall and The Gin Lady was going through his pockets.
‘No, no, no, this ones got nothing useful either’ she said turning out knives, bits of string, rusty nails, syringes and other detritus onto the ground.
‘Where’s the good stuff, I know you’ve got glue you little bollix. I can smell it off you,’ said Presley turning the terrified street goblin upside down and shaking him by the ankles.
‘Get the attack squirrels,’ she said as the urchin began to wail in panic.
‘Hee hee, they love glue’ said The Gin Lady undoing the straps of the carpet bag she carried. From within the confines of the bag a high-pitched chittering could be heard. There was the sound of tiny claws scratching in anticipation.
‘Oh Mammy, there’s no glue, there’s no glue,’ wailed the wretched creature.

‘I believe the young gentleman may be telling the truth,’ said Kesey.
‘What’s it to you? Have you got his glue?’ The Gin Lady turned, menacing them with the carpet bag.
‘No but I believe I might have gin’ said Kesey unperturbed by the mad red eyes glinting within the bag.
‘Gin you say? I like gin’ said The Gin Lady.
‘Gin, glue it’s all the same to me,’ said Presley releasing the petrified urchin ‘show us it.’
‘Well said’ said Kesey ‘I have access to some of Dublin’s finest horse gin. Brewed just across the street here from horses caught fresh everyday in the fields of Ballymun.’
‘Horse gin, I’ve not tried that’ said The Gin Lady licking her lips. ‘do they allow Squirrels?’
‘I think they will make an exception for you’ said Kesey.
‘Quit flapping your lips and get me to the gin” said Presley shoving her way past them and heading across the street.

The Gurrier paused as his companions entered the purveyors of Dublin’s finest Horse Gin establishment. He looked up at the glass fronted façade and something stirred in the depths of his memory. He knew this place of old. He put his hand to his head and kneaded his brow. Something bad happened here, something wrong. The recollection flitted away from him dancing at the edge of his memory. Kesey grabbed him by the arm and propelled him past the doormen.
‘Wait, no something’s not right about this place Kesey.’
‘Don’t worry about any of that old bean’ said Kesey cheerfully slapping him on the back. ‘Just shut up and get inside.’

Inside it was worse. Fear itched at the inside of his skull. They others were all sat at the table drinking from a huge gin kettle.
‘Christ this tastes like dogsick,’ said Red Presley, ‘like dogsick that’s been flavoured with horses’
‘Delicious,’ said The Gin Lady.
The Gurrier was rubbing his head frantically now, muttering to himself
‘Not right, not right, not right. Shape’s all wrong, something in the walls here Kesey. Gin, gin, gin, horses and gin. I have to leave, got to leave, yes leave.’ He stood up suddenly and lurched towards the exit. But Kesey was blocking his way. ‘You’re not leaving so soon Murphy are you? The party is only getting started. Can’t you hear the music? Listen they’re playing your tune.’

The Gurrier could hear the music now faint and far off but getting stronger by the second. It was horrible music. Not like the industrial holocaust stuff the Bastard and Presley favoured involving pipes and hammers and broken limbs. No this was a rhythmic drumming that reverberated through his skull. It was glum and forboding like the peal of a funereal bell. Laid over the top of the doom laden drumming was the mad skittering of a fiddle being tortured to death by a consummate professional. A cold fear gripped his bowels he knew that sound, that sound no fiddle in its right mind would make, could make, but he heard it before. Only one maniac could make a sound like that, the sound of a violin being played with a hacksaw. The sound of the unique stylings of ‘Pox’ Murphy the Black Fiddler of Kilbeggan. But that could only mean one thing, wherever ‘Pox’ Murphy went the others were soon to follow. Called from across the land by his devil music. That’s what set his head thumping, that’s what the dark fear that clutched at his heart had spoken to him. That was the nameless memory buried deep in his psyche that now came screaming into view. This was it the site where it all began a decade before. No amount of glass and finished wood could disguise it. Home of the Village now but once it had been known as The Mean Fiddler. The last gathering of place of The Black Murphy’s. He looked into Kesey’s soulless eyes and the Bastard was grinning at him with his blackest, most evil grin. And when he spoke he did so with an an evil chuckle.
‘Welcome to your doom Murphy. Can you hear them, your bastard clan they’ve come for you at last. Welcome to The Gurrening’

The Gurrier screamed and leapt to his feet. ‘Get out of my way Kesey, I’ll not let them have me. The Black Murphys won’t have me. I’ve been a good Gurrier. I’ve followed all the rules. I drank whiskey, I skinned donkeys, I was mean spirited and unchristian to all. I punched babies and kicked puppies, I sold drugs to priests and pornography to nuns. I ramraided pharmacies and started ketamine riots. I shat in letterboxes and pissed in pensioners windows. I bit the heads off badgers and abused pigeons. I rode a horse through Clerys Christmas window and fired a cannonball full of bull semen into Buswells hotel. Bertie thought he was dead and shite himself in front of God and everyone. They blamed it on Pat Kenny and strung him up in the Montrose and let Harney at him with a melon and a tub of lard. I burnt down the live crib at the mansion house and got the three wise men drunk on poteen. I filled the cells in the Bridewell up with horse glue and injected cat steroids into the cast of Fair City. I’ll not let them have me! I still have a few good years left in me. Come on and we’ll rob a car and go joyriding down Grafton street like the good old days. Come on Kesey.’

The Gurrier looked desperately into the eyes of his ‘friend’ and knew he was truly doomed.
‘Ah Gurrier me auld segosha they’ve been watching you,’ said Kesey. ‘Your card is marked. Not with an army of feral minkbats could I save you now. I’m just here to deliver a message and this. With that he shot the Gurrier with his taser. The Gurrier went rigid with shock and pain as the 50,000 volts of electricity made their way through his frame. ‘Bastardsssh’ me managed before collapsing in a gently steaming heap.’

‘Jaysus you lot talk a fierce load of bollix half the time. Gettus more of the dogsick’ said Presley indicating the empty Gin Kettle.
‘Yes more Horse gin,’ demanded The Gin Lady upending the last few drops from the kettle into her carpet bag.’
‘All in good time ladies,’ said Kesey beaming at the inert figure on the floor. ‘But first the Gurrier here has an appointment to keep.’
Presley and The Gin Lady exchanged a look.
‘More gin,’ she said quietly tapping the carpet bag.
Kesey considered his options. His taser was currently out of charge, his bag of deadly things was at home hanging up under the stairs and he wasn’t sure if the voodoo cannon would be suitable for the occasion. When the Gin Lady opened the bag an inch or two and he saw the little red eyes within multiplying by the second he recognized that in this case discretion was the better part of valour, he ordered another kettle of horse gin for the table and put it on The Gurrier’s tab.

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.

The Gurrier paused to peruse the acres of newsprint at his feet detailing every mawkish, sanctified moment of the deceased pontiff. It was indeed a bunch of bumfoolery of the highest order. However the country was gripped as in days gone by with a fervent religosity not seen since the days before the great clerical bumsex scandals of the early nineties and the inexorable rise of the Celtic Tiger which replaced spiritual and temporal balance with credit card balances and preapproved home loans apr .05%. These simple pleasures assuaged the people’s need for reassurance. Who needs reassurance when you have NTLDIGIMAXes 900 channels of sexporn and footy in every room. Wayne Rooney’s legs, Becks bumhole and Jordan’s tits beamed into your brainmeat at 15 second intervals. Jesus never got a look in.

So now with the mumbling, crumbling living cadaver JPII gone rotten beyond redemption the media paroxysms of santicmonious religious bunkum had begun. Now as if by some strange racial memory from the rotting hulk of Irish Catholicism ancient decaying nuns and priests were being turfed out of semi-retirement onto our screens. Burbling and dribbling their abject tributes and devotions to this leader of the worlds largest collection of dishonourable, dishonest, immoral, corrupt, unprincipled, dirty, despicable, contemptible assortment of shitmonkeys the world had ever seen. If ever there was a body in need of it constituents to rise up and heave out its crapulent masters it was the Catholic Church. By Christs holy cock, fuck Vatican II it’s time for the 2nd Reformation!

These were the unspoken words that passed between The Gurrier Murphy and The Bastard Kesey that fateful night. They knew what had to be done. They knew what course of action needed to be taken. They needed to take the country by the scruff and shake the Bejesus out of it. They needed to show them something on their tellyboxes they would never forget. They had to act quickly though. Already the nation was falling back into its old ways. In Cork an old lady had seen the face of JP in her lap. It winked at her she said and told her to say two hail Marys and pray for the canonisation of Gaybo. In Ballinspittle a local farmer had claimed the Virgin Mary had appeared to him in a slurry pit and told him Vatican II was the work of Satan. In Glenageary two young girls had ceased menstruating after taking communion and claimed a vision of St Consumptia of the Sacred Hearts had told them to save their eternal souls and go to Rome and drown themselves in the Holy See. On Grafton street (Grafton street for fucks sake) six American Tourists and Portuguese woman were taken to the Mater Hospital after reports the statue of Molly Malone started praying and speaking in tongues.

This was bad very bad. The pyschic backwash of years of repressed spirituality were having an adverse affect on the country’s collective unconsciouness. Weirdness was spilling out everywhere. Uncontained we could have a fullblown Catholic revival on our hands by the end of the Summer. Kesey and the Gurrier had both been through rough times over the years but they’d both be fucked if they’d let those sleebheen bastards back in charge of the country again. They knew what they had to do. Knew the only way to do it was to show them. Show them all the secrets. The Park. The Cross. The sunset mass. It was perfect. Cameras, Bertie, an audience of thousands and the Cross. They’d show them. Show them all the secrets of what really lay beneath the Popes cross in the Phoenix Park.

Kesey looked askance at The Gurrier. They had the Voodoo Cannons, they had the Whoor Traps, Christ they even had the Gonzo Helmet and the Bag of Deadly things. But it wasn’t enough and they both knew it. They needed him. “What are we going to do?” said Kesey “we need him”. “He’s dead” said the Gurrier. “He’s been gone for years.” “We need him back!” “They killed him Kesey. Those bastards up on Kildare street. You saw him go! Heinous is dead. They put him in the chair, Harney and the Bumferrets strapped him to that damn chair and killed him!”*

It was true no one had seen Heinous Ingoldsby since the terrible events of Paddys Day 2001. There were rumours of course, there were always rumours but the man or entity that had been that violent force of nature was gone. The Gurrier and Kesey had moved on. The Gurrier to his fastness in the West City and Kesey to his Clondalkin Estates. Their adventuring days may have been behind them but on the long winter nights the Gurrier still fancied he heard the screams of Heinous’ prey in the wind. Kesey though he would never admit it often went hunting in the estates with his favourite feral mink O’Toole and tried to recapture the glory days of the infamous “Bastards of Ballinteer” when he and Heinous would tool up to 3 Rock and toss napalm bombs down the mountain with homemade mortar cannons. But the denizens of Clondalkin were a wily lot and did not beg for their wretched lives like the soft shites in Dundrum. He missed the southside, life was so much simpler then. He missed trying to think up ways to kill Heinous and The Gurrier before they retired. He wrote all his ideas down now and posted them on the internet but it wasn’t the same. All the young fellas on the internet wanted to know about was how to stick things through their mickeys without making it fall off. The whoor traps on Benburb street all lay empty now and the feckin whoors bred like rabbits in his absence. Sometimes he would don the red cape and walk among them as “Cardinal Sin” to minister to his flock but frankly these days he’d rather be at home in bed. Even the publicans of Dublin we starting to sleep easy in their beds once more. It had been years since The Gurrier and Kesey had descended on a hapless bar owner and destroyed his reputation, establishment and mind as had been their way. The formal complaint was just an urban myth now, used to frighten young publicans into obeying the smoking ban.

In short they had gotten old and lazy and complacent just like their predecessors. Where had the rage gone? The fight was gone from them. Dirty John was long gone, Wahlberg was a joke, Heinous was dead, Quigley the dealer had disappeared years ago. Only The Gurrier and Kesey still remained but they had no taste for it anymore and now this, this threat had materialised and they had nothing to give. Desperation began to set in

“Maybe we could bring him back” said Kesey darkly. “Back? Back from where?” said The Gurrier. There’s nowhere to bring him back from. “Maybe if we got him angry enough we could wake him up again? The Gurrier paused. He spotted a newspaper headline beneath his feet which read “Face of Bono appears in afterbirth. Mother claims her baby is reincarnation of the Pope…” He looked up at Keseys tortured features, bright angry tears of rage stood out on his face. “Get the shovels” he said.

It was well after midnight when they reached Merrion Square. It was cold and damp as the arse of a tramps trousers when the two figures detached themselves from the darkness and picked their way along the north side of the leafy square. The Gurrier and Kesey did not mind the darkness or the cold they were used to such things and the deed ahead was one best attempted under cover of darkness. The Gurrier glanced fearfully about him for the upmteenth time that night. It was not that he feared the ordinary denizens of Dublin who roamed the streets at this hour for his compatriot Kesey was far and away the most dangerous creature abroad on two legs this night. No what he feared were the other things, the things that dwelt just a few hundred yards away in the depths of Dail Eireann. Bowel deep in the black earth of the seat of the nations democracy lay the terrible secrets of what had transpired here just four short years ago. The Gurrier shuddered to think back to that night. The night Heinous murdered the Great Auld Wan Shel’Tiggroth with a lead pipe and was carried off by Harney and her goblins. The blow that had been struck that night reverberated through the country but a terrible price had been paid. Heinous Ingoldsby, Enfant Terrible of the Legion of Gonzo, the Unstoppable Force, The Immovable Object, The Dark Shite himself was dead. His sacrifice had saved them all but his loss weighed heavily upon them. It just wasn’t as much fun without Heinous. Kesey’s rages had lessened, The Gurrier no longer had to carry The Pacifier with him at all times and he couldn’t even remember the last time Kesey had tried to murder him with Dwarves. In fact he was sure he’d seen two of them working as Santa’s Helpers in Clerys’ last Christmas. It was a sorry state of affairs. But this time, this time the fuckers had finally gone too far. The Gurrier gripped the shovel tighter to his chest and whispered to himself, “right you crazy fucker where did we bloody bury you then.”

It would do no good to recount the tale of the Curse of Paddys Day once again. It has been told a thousand times by a thousand storytellers better than I. Suffice to say after the defeat of Dark Bertie, The Harney Gremlin and The Great Auld Wan Shel’ Tiggroth our adventurers had beaten a hasty retreat from the smouldering remains of the Throne room. They didn’t stop running until they reached Merrion square but by then it was clear there was no hope for Ingoldsby. The bumferrets had done their evil work well. They buried him where he fell, in the gutter. A fitting end to a man once described as ‘the most evil shit you will ever meet and no mistake’ The Gurrier chuckled, he was quite fond of that quote even if he did say so himself.

There was a dull thunk of metal hitting metal. The Gurrier looked up from the grim work, Kesey nodded as the familiar shape of one of his Whoortraps emerged from the fetid earth. A six foot box of solid steel lined with vicious metal teeth and coiled springs, oh Kesey had a thing for those whoors alright. A bloody dangerous thing. Still it had done for a coffin in a pinch and Kesey had the unnerving knack of producing one of these hideous contraptions seemingly on a whim. Soon the metal box was fully uncovered and Kesey began his preparations for… actually the Gurrier was quite curious as to what Kesey was going to do. He knew the mad inventor could have anything up his sleeve and often did, anything with tentacles generally. Kesey looked the Gurrier deep in the eye, took a deep breath and reached into the Bag of Deadly Things. What he drew out is lost to posterity as there came a curious noise from the direction of the whoortrap. Kesey looked at the Gurrier, The Gurrier looked at Kesey. A low hissing sound was now definitely emanating from the steel coffin.

Kesey shifted uncomfortably. “He, he was dead when you put him in the coffin right?” said Kesey. “ME! It was your fucking coffin Kesey I assumed you checked he was dead” said The Gurrier. “ME! You told me he was a goner”
“Yeah a goner, not dead, don’t you watch movies? If someones a goner it means they’re nearly fucking dead. Not completely fucking dead. He was still moving!”
“Yeah well I thought those were spasms. Dead bodies have spasms”.
“Spasms, SPASMS! Christ how many people have you actually killed? Can’t you tell spasms from the excruciatingly agonising death throes and writhings of the almost dead?”
“To be honest I never pay that much attention at that point, mostly I just like the expression on their faces when I turn on the machines.”
“Wait does that mean…?”
“Shit did we,?”
The two adventurers paused in their argument as cold fear gripped their loosening bowels. Thought raced across both their frantic minds. If Heinous was not exactly dead when they, buried him he was known to have frightening recuperative powers, in addition it was also well documented that he had survived for extended periods of time living off nothing but pot noodles, twigs and worms. But four years? Could this be possible? These thoughts flashed through both their minds as they turned to face each other. The Gurrier looked at The Bastard, The Bastard looked at The Gurrier one word passed their lips. “Guns!” Get the fucking guns for fucks sake.” The lid of the coffin began to slowly, imperceptibly to ease itself upwards. “For the love of Christ Kesey get the fucking gun loaded! I think he’s waking up”

Kesey fumbled with the catches on the side of the ancient elephant gun. He had brought it along mostly for nostalgia’s rather than practicalities sake. It had been Heinous’s favourite gun, a monster of a thing. Almost six feet long with barrels the width of dinner plates. Crafted in 1868 by the original Heinrich Weishaupt and his infallible manservant Chang (later to found the infamous gentleman rogues outfitters of Saville Row Weishaupt & Chang). Originally designed for the Maharajah of Gujarat who loved to hunt elephants from the deck of his fabulous clockwork harem. The gun was inlaid with mother of pearl, onyx and precious stones and along the barrels were engraved depictions of the Maharajah enjoying the carnal fruits of his fantastic harem. It was rumoured the molds for the barrels were taken from the member of the Maharajah’s favourite bull elephant. It was a shocking sight to behold.

Kesey had come into possession of the weapon from an ancient relative of his who had worked as an interpreter in the court of the Maharajah. Always a family of dissolute thieves the fellow had nicked the Maharajahs prized possession, impregnated one of his clockwork Houris and made off with his favourite elephant. It was said the Bastard Kesey’s family could never return to the sub-continent until the terrible crime had been atoned for. For his part Kesey had used the gun to commit yet more crimes but it was Heinous who had taken a particular shine to it. He loved to take it out to Marley Park on a Sunday afternoon and to blow up trees. He called it King Boner.

Kesey struggled to load the massive shells into King Boner’s chamber, they weighed almost two pounds each and were a special ammunition commissioned from China, filled with nails, broken glass and curare poison. Finally he got the shells loaded and managed to close the breach. He proffered the weapon to The Gurrier. The Gurrier stared at him. “I’m not shooting that thing! You do it. You’re the crazy fucking survivalist living out in the bloody sticks with all your mental inventions and fucking giant cock guns. You buried him alive, you to shoot the bastard.” Kesey shook his head. There was no time left to argue, The Gurrier grabbed the huge shotgun from the inventor and swung it around, bearing down on the coffin. The hissing sound had grown louder and louder now; it sounded like a steam train pulling into a station. The Gurrier had to shout to be heard above it. “I’ll put a couple of rounds through the front as a warning shot”. He pulled the ivory trigger…there was a sound like thunder and the Gurrier disappeared.

Kesey grinned to himself. Four years in the attic and she still fired like a dream. The whoor-trap was a smoking mess of twisted metal, the elephant gun lay on the grass several feet behind where The Gurrier had been standing. Of The Gurrier there was no sign. Like a dream thought Kesey but she still kicked like rabid donkey on PCP. Almost dislocated his shoulder the first time he fired it, Heinous was the only one who could handle the gun without doing himself permanent damage. The Gurrier didn’t know that though, he didn’t like guns much, he preferred his mace and a good taser anyday.

“You utter bastard Kesey! I’ll fuck you to death with a shovel shiteyes!” The Gurrier appeared from the hedge shedding twigs and bits of birds nests as he advanced on Kesey, bleeding hands scrabbling for his trusty mace. A noise from the direction of the coffin stayed their hand. “The warning shot didn’t work, do we have any pipe bombs left?” But Kesey motioned the Gurrier to be quiet. He had an idea.

Epilogue,?

The Ambulance driver reported responding to a 999 call at an uncertain hour that night, what took place between his response and the next morning when he was found naked and weeping in the toilets of a leeson street lap dancing club may never be known. What is known as incontrovertible fact is that a little after 11pm that night as the priests and nuns began to wrap things up at their black mass at the foot of the Popes cross and Bertie readied himself to take the podium and bask in the adoration of his flock a siren was heard wailing over the expanse of the Forty Acres. Garbled unconfirmed reports from unreliable eyewitnesses say a badly damaged eastern healthboard ambulance crashed into the side of the podium and from the wreckage two dishevelled looking tramps emerged grinning from ear to ear. One of them was waving a can of petrol and screaming that St. Patrick was the Anti-Christ. The other appeared to be wielding some kind of giant cannon. It wasn’t until they dragged a huge metal box out of the back of the wrecked ambulance that the eyewitness reports become hazy and unreliable. Some say that a huge gorilla or possibly an enraged polar bear that had previously escaped from the nearby Zoo descended on the chaos and started to maul the crowd. Others say the gorilla had been captured by the tramps and they released it from the box. Still others say they saw the Gorilla try to attack the tramps and then stop when they pointed at Bertie. The gorilla then stopped stared at Bertie for a long time and then took the cannon from the tramp.

To Be Continued

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.

The masses stir from their squalid torpor. ‘No bleedin’ parade! Fook dat’ fooking politicians should do sumthin’ abou’rit.’ ‘Fookin’ culchies, fooooookin’ paraaaade. Fookin’ scyydur down the ‘nal man!’ The politicians sense a disturbance in the farce. They consult the dark tomes of evil lore. They raise demons and discuss the entrails of virgin batchelors from Ballyhaunis.

The lowly catamites wait in the antechambers for the great ones to emerge. The Twelve, the Chosen, the Kabinet. Something stirs in the fetid blackness, the underlings chitter and giggle at its approach. A blast of unholy air, the cold stench of corpse breath, stillborn babies womb cold, brimstone, bulmers and the devils farts. A figure; hunched, flaccid, pig-goblin eyes blazing, anorak hood plastered to his face with gristle and entrails. ‘Heheheheehe de great auld wans have spoken’ He raises his arms, the fallen surge forward gabbling and drooling, slurping at the ordure oozing from the great ones pants. ‘What do they say massster?’ they chant. ‘Dey say..fookin hell no paraaade!’ Roars Bertie, for it is he. ‘Dey say fookin hell no parade and de fookin’ cuntry’ll bleedin’ be atin’ shite off the walls buy Lent’

The minions fall back wailing at this horrifying news, squabbling begins immediately as the bigger bench munchers begin cannibalising their weaker constituency partners. There the mighty Dessie feasts himself on the brains of some poor muck savage TD from Mayo south, behind him the Harney gremlin suffocating great hordes of Finney Gaelers with her distended mammaries. On the floor chattering FF Monkeygoblins begin to circle the witless Independents who goggle and scream in whimpering pant-shitting terror. The hippies are the first to go, bunco booth hypocrites devoured by crack-crazed űber TD’s. Then finally they reach the one they’ve been waiting for, Rae. The vast Kerry madman stands his ground before this raging, squealing horde of goblinmen. He licks his thumbs and hocks great greasy green wads of muck phlegm into his mighty ham hands. ‘C’mon now ye little bollocksavages, now I’ll have ye all’ The hordes scream in delight and descend, twisted fangs dripping poison, mouths issuing cursing hate.

‘Stop dat! Stop dat yis stupid bollixes, stop it!’ The horde pause, Healy Rae half in, half out of several dozen foaming maws. ‘ I wasn’t finished, I also spoke to Him,’ A shocked silence spreads through the hallowed chamber. Then the chanting begins ‘Him, HIM, HIM!’ ‘Yes’ roars Bertie, eyes fevered, bloodshot, ichor streaming from bursted pores. ‘HIM, the Great One, the holy saviour, Shel’ Tig’roth,’ The name like an invocation calms the maddened crowd. Falling to their knees they bleat forgiveness from Bertie and their dark master. ‘Deliver us from this foul pestilence oh great one, once more gift us with the dark spawn of your loins. Fill us with the power of Mammon once again. Banish this plague that stalks our fatted cash cow. Our souls are yours oh great one, hear our prayers, we need the money’ ‘Yessss, yesss’ They chant in unison ‘Weee neeeed the moneeyyy, weeee neeeed the moneeyyy.’

Far to the west of the city Kesey pauses from the administration of ‘justice’ he is delivering to the civil servant in the Hazmet suit who asked him if he would mind using the footbath. He sniffs the air, great nostrils attuned to ‘Bad Shit’ flex and inhale olfactory data. Something was afoot. Menacing vibrations filled the air. They danced just out of reach on the edge of the senses. Releasing the wretched jobsworth who flees in screaming in terror into the grey dawn he gazes out over the city, his city. From this vantage it spread before him, a concrete tumour, belching dark clouds of murky smog over its denizens. Yes something was definitely amiss, he sighed heavily, it may be time to assemble the men. Bad craziness was about to ensue.

But first he must be sure. He glanced up the path ahead of him. It wound upward into the mountain, a mouthful of broken teeth. And there at the summit, squatting ‘pon the hill, a dark, decaying molar of bad wisdom, The Hellfire Club. Kesey hefted his bag of deadly things and continued his ascent. The dawn broke slowly into a grey bruised morning. Thick mottled clouds disgorged a thin gruel of rain onto the unhappy mountain. Down in the hollows where the quiet things sleep old echoes can be heard again. Kesey pauses and listens. He shakes his head, this was bad, very bad. This might take The Gurrier or even, he shuddered, even the other one. Best not to think about it, not until he was sure. Deep within the bag of hate the deadly things stirred. He patted it gently ‘soon my little friend, soon.’

On and on he trudged, the morning collapsing limply into a flaccid noon until finally he rounded the last bend and there it stood. Burned and blasted by the Devil himself the shibboleth of fear to generations, a den of vice and infamy, a portal to places of dark terror and now, well a gaff for knacker drinking mostly. It was not uninhabited. Kesey looked on as the gang of shifty eyed, shell suited mutants sidled from the darkness within and glared at him with the fierce ignorant stares of the closely bred. ‘Wha’ da fook jew wan’ yeh bleedin’ fookbag?’ ‘Yeah fook off yeh shitehole!’ ‘No bleedin’ paraaaade!’ ‘Fookin’ scyydur dewn the ‘nal!’ ‘Nyaaaaah yeh fookin’ fat bastard’ ‘Nyaaaaah roide yer ma so I did, up the gicker!’ ‘Up the gicker, up yer ma’s smelly hole, Up ‘er hole!!’

Kesey smiled, Kesey laughed, Kesey threw back his head and roared great whooping guffaws of scorn. The mutants hesitated, not the usual reaction. He ceased laughing and glared at his opponents, his ‘bad’ hand twitched at the grip of the manwhip on his belt. Deep in the folds of the coat with a barely distinguishable hum of latent violence the Voodoo cannon blinked into steathly life. Pressure sensitive pads in the stock read heart rate, blood pressure and extrapolated potential danger levels. Meatdozer. Kesey toyed briefly with the idea of some ultra-violence but dismissed it. He would need all his strength for the ordeal ahead.

Instead he quickly unslung the bag and beckoned the first scumbag to approach. ‘Come, come, look, look, yes that’s it look, look at the precious.’ The knackers cocked their heads with warped curiosity. Could they ‘fook’ it? Could they sell it, screw it, eat it, break it, it was too much. The alpha male approached with a grinning swagger. That strange pigeon-walk limp they do. Head rocketing back and forth on a scrawny neck as they are propelled forward on chicken stalk legs. ‘Fookin’ mad eejit, he’d fookin’ get dis fookers bag, kick de head off him and den roide Jacinta again. Up de hole, fookin slag’. ‘Gis de bag, wha’s in eh?’ ‘Look, look, closer’ The mutie bent over and grabbed the sack from Kesey, it moved sluggishly. He glared at him for a moment, then peered inside.

Far to the east Heinous hears. He pauses from the good work. Something, thought he heard something out there in the aether. Probably nothing. He spots another one, he guns the engine.

North, in the tenements a dark pile of rags stirs. A rat circles warily around this dishevelled mass of filth. The vermin here are well used to this particular denizen of the night, well used to its particular proclivities and know to steer well clear. Unfortunately for this particular rat it’s not clear enough. A claw-like talon snakes out and the rodent is gone. Only the scrunching, gorging sounds of frantic ingestion break the squalid tranquility.

Kesey’s eyes blazed with malevolent glee as the mutants fled over the horizon. He glanced down at the the remains of the alpha male. It was hard to imagine this twitching, babbling creature was once recognisable as a man, at least under the Geneva convention. Bending low, he whispered into the creature’s ear. ‘Did you see the deadly things? He likes you. Yessss he wants to love you’. The alphajunkie’s eyeballs oscillated, catherine wheels of gobbling fear. Gibbering panic is overcome by primeval survival instincts. Stick legs shoot out, scrabbling for momentum, purchase is acquired and down the hill he explodes, a skinny, screaming human pinball, careening with blind terror into tree stumps, potholes and fenceposts. Kesey stares after him, cackling with insane glee. ‘Run you mutant maggots. The Old Ways are too strong for you here. Weak minded fools! Mind the Pooka doesn’t arsefuck yis to death on your way home! G’wan to fuck with ye yeh little bollixes and STAY OFF MY FUCKING MOUNTAIN!’

Now he thought, now the mountain was his. He glanced at the slow moving sack, he surveyed the bleak, terrible shell before him. Christ but this place gave him the shits. Turning he glanced back down the mountain with something approaching regret. But his junkie friend was long gone. Probably fell down a sumphole or was now terrifying families out for a Sunday drive. Gobbling in panic about ‘The Deadly Things’ and ‘The Badman of the mountain’. He sighed ‘ah well, could have done with the company really.’ This place really gave him the shits. How come The Gurrier always avoided having to do all the dirty work. Lazy bastard just turns up after he’s done everything and steals all the glory. That MTV thing was his idea. Still there was always Panama. A dark chuckle escapes from Kesey’s grim frame. ‘Heh, heh, that showed them alright, that showed them all.’

North. Dust motes float in lazy spirals, a small dark stain drys slowly onto the bare boards. The pile of rags lies; inert, silent, uninhabited. It is gone.

East. The big man pauses again. He listens ‘damn it definitely something in the air. No parade. Got the masses all excitable. Cider down the ‘nal and all that.’ He felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for the old days. Then he remembered the old days. Dimly through the haze of rage and hate he remembered Moylo before the change. Quigley before the crystal rubbers. All of them before the dark came. He snarled, he remembered all right, he remembered too much. Medicine The Gurrier would have his medicine. He gunned the engine.

Dail Eireann, dark Eireann. Bowel deep in the black earth Bertie hunkers on his throne of endless wretchery. Fashioned from the scabrous, demon warped souls of dead farmers, publicans and tribunal lawyers it moans pitifully in eternal agony as Bertie vainly shifts his hairy man buttocks searching for a comfortable arse rut. ‘Christ but Haughey had a skinny arse. Can’t yis do anyting about dis. I’ve bin sitting on dis ting fer nearly foive years and it still feels loike I’m shite’in’ bleedin’ razorblades outta me hole. I’ve got an arse on me like de Japanese flag!’ ‘Soo sorry massster’ replies one lickspittle. ‘But the throne requires the sitter to become inured and impervious to the cries of the damned and thus their discomfort’. ‘Yeah, yeah I know dat, sure Charlie slept like a baby on the bleedin’ ting. Ah jaysus even if I had a nice cushion or sumthin’. Celia made me a nice one fer the chrissy but this feckin’ ting keeps atin’ it. Now she tink’s I’m bleedin’ wipin’ me hole with it! Me hole! Can’t we get sumthin’ nicer in here loike a nice three piece from Bargaintown. I know a fella in dere, he’ll gettus a good deal. Celia’s very good at dat sorta ting, we should get her in here, broighten up de place loike.’

The lickspittle gazed on at the blathering idiot savage before him. ‘Jesus. God be with the old days when the auld fella was still in charge. Bestriding that throne like a man possessed dealing out evil and torture to all and sundry. He remembers the day they brought that journo down here, the one who had accidentally stumbled on the plan. The auld fella, the great showman revealed all of its horrific evil to the poor bleating muckraker. And then, as the last flitters of sanity fled from him in giggling screaming fits, Charlie told him, the secret. Ah great days. They’d been picking bits of the poor fella out of the floorboards for weeks but it was all worth it. But now this, this bloodlust for mammon that infested the new breed. No appreciation of evil for evils sake anymore.

Even Albert appreciated that. He was no Charlo and he did spend most of his day atin’ dogfood from that little bowl, and trying to lick his own bollix but at least he appreciated the value of a good flogging. These new fellas just wanted to rub their mickeys in wads of tenners and chant prayers to their ‘New God’. Fuckin’ disgusting if you asked him and he’d seen some things. Latte slurping, pannini gobbling mickeyriders. Tea and a fuckin’ sambo it what it was.’

On the mountain something awoke. A man screamed and screamed.

The Lickspittle looked up from his console. ‘Sir, masster something is going on in the mountains sir.’ ‘Wha’? Dere closed, haven’t we got people up dere?’ ‘Yes a clean up team reported minor disturbances involving the usual subspecies, and one team member was attacked by something big but we thought it was a bear or some Mayo fella.’ ‘And? It wasn’t a Mayo fella? Den what was it?’ ‘Emm we don’t know sir, reports are hazy and garbled. But we know where he was headed.’ ‘Where? Tell me yeh feckin’ eejit!’ The lickspittle paused and took a deep breath. ‘To the mountain sir. To the Hellfire.’ Bertie blanched, a nervous fart burst from his flabby backside, the throne wailed at these new torments. ‘Bollix.’

When the crack squad of black clad government zombie-ninjas descended on the mountain they found little evidence of Kesey’s brief occupation. The Hell-Fire squatted stoically refusing to give up its secrets. The blackened graffitied walls were maybe just a little more charred, and the blasted shell maybe just a little more blasted but whatever dark misdeeds were performed here of their passing there was little evidence. The zombie-ninjas scoured the surrounding countryside for their quarry stumbling tirelessly through the night, dead fish-eyes glowing like lampreys, decaying mouths drooling ceaselessly hungry for manflesh. They found none, well nearly none. They found something though, a wild and gibbering man-thing, a one time alpha-junkie-knacker who screamed and gibbered about ‘the bag of deadly tings’. Found him sunk to his neck in a sumphole half drowned in the bog water. After dragging him out the zombie-ninjas went to work on him. That’s the problem with zombie-ninjas they’re fine for tracking people down with tireless, unstoppable zeal but they then they tend to rend the flesh from the unfortunates bones and devour them alive. A bit of a bugger if some questioning is called for. The zombie-handler a lickspittle named Gormley came upon them munching away and managed to salvage what he could. It wasn’t much but it could talk, sort of and there may have been some semblance of sentience left in there somewhere. If there was Harney and her bum-ferrets would drag it out of the poor bastard.

——
To Be Continued…someday