In the Town of A Thousand Arseholes
By the Sign of the Swinging Tit

A slightly better first draft that is getting better as I go along
repairing it.

PART ONE – Miracle on Jesse Street

A foul stench filled the air, seeping forth in evil yellow clouds from the
dark and terrible nexus that lay pregnant with malice in the center of the
chemical toilet. The stench progressed slowly, squeezing its way out from
beneath the bathroom door. It passed murderously over the disgusting
carpet, rolling over spilled tobacco and curling the discarded cigarette
papers it left in its wake.

Like a foul ghost it curled and shifted, the main body of the stench
filling the room insidiously. The putrid gas rose higher, the smell
concentrating to asphyxiation levels within the dark claustrophobia of
Lochland’s ancient Winnebago. Small insects dropped dead in mid-flight as
the smell enveloped them, choking the life out of the airborne midges and
casting them down upon the foul carpet from which they had spawned. Onwards
and upwards the stench ascended, passing over the sleeping form of the
Scotsman, who snored on regardless, unaware of the murderous reek that was
soon to threaten his sinuses.

Lochland McGlochland slept the sleep of the good and the just, wrapped in
the warm womb of his stained and malodorous sheets. His red hair hung in
deranged dreadlocks upon the gaudy pillow case, his face was noble yet
blank and his snore could have doubled for a family of chainsaws during
their annual Christmas row.

Lochland snorted and grunted, drawing a mighty lungful in preparation for
another ear-shattering snore. The stench was sucked unresistingly into the
Scotsman’s lungs.

Lochland’s unseeing eyes snapped open, the slumbering Scotsman torn rudely
from the arms of Morpheus by the ungodly reek that was steaming out of his
broken toilet. A look of bafflement crossed his noble brow as his senses
aligned themselves with reality once again.

“Ye Gods!” cried the Scotsman, his face crumpling into a mask of disgusted
horror, his good arm flailing spasmodically against the choking specter
that assaulted him.

And with this daily ritual, Lochland’s daily routine commenced.

He ceased his futile thrashing upon the bed when the realization that half
of his body was numb struck his awaking brain. This in itself was not
unusual; the tiny travel bed was not amenable to a healthy sleep. Pins and
needles were the norm upon awaking for Lochland Tiberius McGlochland. He
lay patiently in his numb paralysis, waiting for his eyesight to adjust to
the light and for life to return to the numb appendage by his side.

Idly, he debated getting up. No doubt there would be some horrible job
needing done, some fool errand for him to run or some demonic hell-spawn
that needed their asses kicked. All that was fine with Lochland. He rather
enjoyed being the patron protector of Blairgowrie, and didn’t mind the
occasional outbreak of radioactive zombies. Or the twenty foot tall Satanic
Overlord that threatened to overrun and destroy the mortal plain once every
two weeks. It sure beat the hell out of working 9 till 5 in the chicken
factory, that’s for sure.

The dark forces that conspired against the town didn’t bother Lochland in
the slightest. He just wished they would do it in the afternoon, that’s
all.

He cast a weary eye over the caravan while he waited for his body to stop
aching. It was still early; the gray light streaming through his single
window was still dim. He lazily looked around the caravan, searching for
his cigarettes. His gaze fell upon the myriad tools of his trade; wooden
stakes and silver crucifixes mingled amongst the discarded pizza boxes and
empty beer bottles. Holy water and ancient tomes of knowledge, currently on
extended loan from the Blairgowrie Public library and overdue by some
magnitude of years.

The fines to pay on those will be a doozy, thought Lochland grimly.

All was not righteous within the caravan of Lochland however. For every
bottle blessed by the Pope there were two filled with hairy mould in need
of exorcism. For every holy word in a book there were ten blasphemous words
written in Lochland’s considerable stash of pornography. Dirty magazines,
dirty plates and dirty clothes covered every square foot of available space
within the tight confines of Lochland’s home.

I should really do some hovering, Lochland thought, with no intention of
doing any such thing.

A light drizzle of rain started outside in the grey dawn, pattering on the
thin tin roof of the caravan and soothing the Scotsman with its gentle
rhythm.

Lochland located his fags, sitting open and waiting aside his favorite
coffee cup on the bedside cabinet. He sighed contentedly and reached for
the first cigarette of the day with his non-numb arm.

He was just halfway through his first heavenly draw when some monstrosity
farted behind him.

Lochland’s heart missed a beat, sending the cigarette spilling from his
lips and his eyes widening in shock. Fully dragged into consciousness now,
previously missed details swam into to focus. He spotted the used condom
that hung limp and flaccid over the rim of his favorite coffee cup. A
hangover exploded in the confines of his brain, sending red hot spurts of
pain through the Scotsman’s lanky frame.

Another round of flatulence erupted like a volcano on Lochland’s numb side,
echoing hollow and bouncing off the walls of the Scotsman’s fragile tin
home. A heavy arm flopped over his chest as the beast beside him slowly
rumbled into life.

Lochland slowly turned his head, his formerly aching brain frozen now with
cold dread. A mountain of pale flesh quivered beside him, spilling over his
numb arm and cutting off the circulation to his hand.

Oh my God, thought Lochland, I’ve bedded a walrus.

Again the gargantuan beast beside him stirred. Lochland hauled at his
trapped appendage in blind panic, sure that if the woman aside him were to
roll over he would be squashed like the proverbial bug. He tore and
wrenched at his pinned arm, panic turning into terror as he realized he was
utterly unable to escape.

Like a coyote with it’s leg in a trap, Lochland debated chewing his arm
off.

It was too late. His frantic efforts had roused the beast, who snorted once
and rose from slumber, towering over the cowering Scotsman like the Great
White Whale itself.

Man the harpoons! cried the brain of Lochland.

Released at last, Lochland’s arm shot out from beneath the shifting folds
of flab like a wounded willie. The blood-starved limb whipped forcefully
back to his side and overbalanced the terrified Scotsman, sending him
tumbling naked from the bed to land sprawling in the terrible debris and
detritus that littered his filthy floor.

Stunned and shocked, Lochland emitted a low and wordless groan from his
quivering vocal cords. The corpse white mountain of naked flesh now raised
over the bed, the ruined sheets slipping from it’s body and presenting
Lochland with the full frontal horror of it’s unabashed nudity.

“Jesus Christ!” said he, pupils dilating and his voice high with terror as
the shadow fell over his prone and trembling form.

“Why, hello there, wee man,” rumbled the fearsome entity that towered above
him, known to the few men that had survived her only as Big Sally.

    - - - - -

Chapter Two

Prot was shopping. As the more domesticated and house-proud member of the
demon hunting duo, such duties fell to him as a matter of course. Prot had
only let Lochland do the shopping once before. And that had been a complete
disaster, with Lochland ignoring every essential item on the list. Except
the vodka. And every carefully saved penny squandered. On vodka.

On the positive side, it had been amusing to have seen the Scotsman’s face
when he realized, halfway through a particularly nasty bout of food
poisoning, that he had neglected to buy toilet roll.

Ever since that fateful day, Lochland had delegated all shopping duties to
the Lochee Park Zombie.

Prot marched purposefully towards Tesco in the dim light of the new day,
the dark thunderclouds above already threatening the town below. He was a
zombie on a mission, make no mistake about it, and Prot had never been a
man to let inclement weather stop him.

Prot took shopping very seriously. Living with Lochland, one could never be
too sure when another dose of food poisoning would strike you down.

Well, not strike Prot down anyway. Being undead had it’s advantages. You
might look like Michael Jackson’s green cousin and you might smell like a
used incontinence pad, but at least you never got ill anymore.

The first spots of rain fell upon his fedora as he mused. A quick check
skywards revealed that the sky was about to open it up and piss it down. He
clutched his trenchcoat tighter to his chest as the slight rain became a
seething downpour.

Prot ambled into Tesco, noticing the morning staff giving him their usual
wide berths. In general, people avoided Prot like the plague. In fact, most
people assumed that Prot actually had the plague, a situation engineered by
the man himself. Prot actively spread rumors to keep the nosey and curious
from looking too closely. He didn’t mind people staring, so long as they
stared from a distance.

If they got to close, the cover story of leprosy might not hold up. Then
again, if people through their lungs were going to explode in a gory shower
of pus and anthrax should they even breathe the same air as him, well… they
tended to keep their distance.

Prot wandered up the isles pushing his trolley, the bright overhead lights
and the sterile white floor causing slight discomfort in his goggled eyes.
A few customers noted his approach and tried unconvincingly to mask their
disgust. They backed up against the nearest wall upon seeing the approach
of the bandaged face, the amber goggles that masked his eyes, the dark
cotton gloves and the occasional flash of corpse-white flesh. Prot passed
by, whistling tunelessly and cheerfully calling greetings. He made a point
of remembering each patron by name.

“Morning Missus Croll!” said he, doffing his hat as he jauntily limped past
the very same.

“Urg!” gasped Missus Croll, hastily making her escape towards the tampon
aisle and abandoning her shopping cart.

Unperturbed and whistling once again, Prot pushed onwards, seemingly
obvious to the people who scattered like cockroaches before him. He stopped
his trolley by the air fresheners and examined a few new brands that had
appeared on the shelves since his last weekly visit.

“Ooo, lavender.”

Prot dumped twelve tins into his trolley and continued on his merry way
towards the appliances section. A pair of young stoners stood around the
massive widescreen television that dominated aisle twelve, staring intently
at the purple dinosaur that danced gaily around in circles for their
amusement and entertainment.

One of the stoners frowned, a charging young bull bedecked in chains and
crowned with hair spiked like a depth charge. He sniffed the air delicately
through his multitude of piercings.

“Dude, did you just fart?” he asked of his anemic companion.

“Morning Derek, morning Barry!” called the voice of Prot as his trolley
with the squeaky wheel hoved into view on the horizon.

“Flee for your life!” cried Barry, dancing dinosaurs forgotten, “It’s the
plague bearer!”

Prot chuckled as Tesco emptied before him, the early morning shoppers
pouring out of the doors like rats from a sinking ship. He slung a
multipack of duct tape into his cart and, after careful consideration,
added a magic tree car freshener to his bizarre pile of shopping.

Next on his list were the most essential items, according to Lochland.
Alcoholic beverages, and plenty of them.

Prot walked by the mixers and coke with an air of scorn and descended upon
the vodka like a thirsty locust. He hummed and haaa’d before the selection,
listening to the assorted shrieks and screams that now filled the air
around him.

Finally he placed three bottles of Mother Russia’s finest inside his
trolley and headed towards the checkouts in a brisk skipping step.

One of the advantages of being a zombie was the fact that he never had to
wait in queues.

By this point the shop was a ghost town of deserted baskets and creaking
special offer signs. Upstairs, in the office marked Robertson, the manager
was staring at the security camera whilst jumping up and down and
attempting to eat his toupee in rage. Tears streamed from his eyes he
watched the weekly display of Prot single-handedly empting his store of
paying customers.

The cashiers all ducked trembling behind their tills as Prot pushed his
cart through.

“No one on duty again?” tutted Prot, looking around the store in mock
surprise before addressing the whirling camera that hung over his head.
“Well, never mind, Mister Robertson. Just add it to my slate and we’ll
settle the tab some other day. Good bye and take care, you hear?”

The video camera deigned to reply.

Prot shrugged and pushed off again, sauntering straight out the door and
into the deserted car park. He walked away with air freshener, vodka,
trolley, the whole damn lot.

    - - - - -

Chapter Three – The Devil’s Garden

Hamish’s mother had just finished watering the plants when the rain began
to pelt from the sky. Sighing slightly at God’s usual ironic sense of
timing, she scuttled past the Anderson shelter and disappeared into the
garden shed to check on her onion collection.

Pinæl was watering the plants also, but in his own special way, which was
to say he wall pissing all over the sprouts.

“How you humans get used to these disgusting bodily functions I’ll never
know.”

He was addressing Hamish, who was slouching on the garage wall having a fly
fag. He was nervous and twitchy, as befit someone in the presence of a
Demon Prince of Lower Hell.

Pinæl shook a few last drops from his tackle and zipped up.

“You know, there is a perfectly good toilet inside of the house. You just
need to ask,” said Hamish carefully, paying fierce attention to the sky on
the off chance that the Demon Prince of Lower Hell accused him of looking
at his nob.

“Yeah, right,” said Pinæl, adjusting the crotch of his neatly pressed
trousers into something resembling comfort.

“I mean, do you have to do it right in front of my mother?”

“She’s blind as a bat anyway,” observed Pinæl, “I could piss on her shoes
and she’d never notice.”

“She’s still my mother.”

“Ask yourself the following question; do you think I care?”

Hamish didn’t need to give that one much consideration. He stared at the
demon thoughtfully. Pinael wore a familiar face with an unfamiliar
expression.

That face had once belonged to one of Hamish’s closest friends. Well,
acquaintances. Hamish didn’t tend to have many friends. What happened to
the poor bugger’s soul the Devil only knew, but Pinæl had settled into his
new home with no problems whatsoever once he had evicted the previous
owner.

“Is there a problem?” the demon asked sweetly, breaking Hamish away from
his thoughts.

“No,” said Hamish quickly, “No problem.”

“Good,” said Pinael, “I’d hate for there to be a problem. You know how I
deal with problems.”

Yes, I do know, you evil shit, thought Hamish, his hatred tinged with
admiration. Out loud he said, “Looks like quite a storm is coming.”

Pinæl shrugged, ignoring the speckles of rain that were already landing on
his skin and boiling dry in seconds. “It matters not,” he said, “It will be
good for the garden, at least.”

“I guess it will be. My mother will be pleased by the rain, I’d imagine,”
said Hamish.

“Wondrous woman, your mother,” laughed Pinæl, “Truly blessed with green
fingers. However does she get her onions so big?”

It was Hamish’s turn to shrug. “She speaks to them nicely, she says it
helps them grow. She read it in one of Prince Charles’ books. Personally, I
think she’s demented, but hey, whatever works.” God, he hated this small
talk. He was sure Pinael just did it to annoy him.

“Correct,” smiled Pinæl dreamily, “Shall we move indoors before the rain
gives your frail mortal body a chill?”

“Might be a plan,” said Hamish uncommittedly, watching as the thunderheads
rolled and swelled above their heads. He followed Pinæl into the garage
just as the rain began in earnest behind them.

It wasn’t really a garage anymore. It had started life as a garage,
certainly. His mother treated it as if the garage was just an extra large
closet. She didn’t drive, so she just stuffed it full of giant root
vegetables and left it at that.

Bags of compost spilled their contents everywhere, and shelf after shelf
was filled with boxes of onions, rosettes from flower shows and the other
accoutrements of gardening. Shovels, hoes and great glass jars of pickled
prize winners.

The entire place gave Hamish the creeps. In the dark it was worse. He
pulled the string that activated the garage’s sole naked light bulb.

Pinæl stood before him, poised with a pitchfork.

“What do you think? Is it me?”

“Very droll,” said Hamish, walking past him and scuffing the chalk
pentagram that was drawn on the floor with his trainers. He kicked a burnt
out black candle that had the audacity to be in his way.

“Personally, I prefer the scythe,” continued Pinæl, examining the pitchfork
with a thumb to see how sharp it was, “A much better image, I think. More
of the grim reaper vibe. I’ve never understood why mortals always picture
the Dark Lord standing there with what is essentially a three pronged
gardening tool. Makes very little sense, from a metaphorical standpoint.”

“You’ve seen him,” said Hamish, sitting down heavily on a ratty old couch
and sending dust everywhere, “You tell me. Why does he carry that pitchfork
around with him?”

“Oh,” laughed Pinæl, “Ol’ Nick hasn’t had a pitchfork for millennia, as far
as I know. These days I believe he prefers a chainsaw. You humans can come
up with the most wonderful toys, when you put your minds to it.”

Hamish chewed on this for a second. “And that makes sense from a
metaphorical standpoint?”

“Not really,” shrugged Pinael, “But it does make the most satisfying mess.”

Hamish could just picture it now. He would probably be seeing Satan’s
upgrade for himself, sooner or later. His afterlife, and where he would be
spending it, had been prying on his mind much of late. It was still,
fingers crossed, a fair few years away yet. But Hamish was not feeling as
immortal as he once did, before this whole mess started.

Then again, if you knew that you were going to Hell no matter what… Well,
you had a fairly good excuse for some seriously bad behavior.

Life, thought Hamish, enjoy it while it lasts.

He wasn’t feeling up to talking with Pinael, as fascinating as the ancient
horror no doubt found the whole thing. Instead Hamish examined the
newspaper by his feet, which had, until recently, contained a portion of
fish and chips. It had been practically shredded, eaten, regurgitated, and
then licked clean.

“Yes,” said Pinæl, noting where Hamish’s gaze was focused, “That would be
prudent. Our guest will be returning shortly. I’d nip out and get some more
food, if I were you.”

“Nip out? In this?” asked Hamish incredulously, staring out the garage door
at the raging storm that was manifesting itself.

“I would, if I were you,” counseled the demon, suddenly by the youngster’s
ear. “Our guest is always… hungry.”

Outside, Hamish’s mother had wandered into view, desperately pouring
Miracle Grow fertilizer upon her crop before the storm blew her away. Her
little shawl flapped desperately in the gale that was picking up, flinging
stinging rain into her eyes despite her thick glasses.

She lashed the foul smelling liquid over her sprouts. She was pleased to
see the size of them already, huge and round like magnificent green tennis
balls.

“That’s right, my boys,” she said soothingly, lashing all the love and
affection she never gave her son upon the vegetables. “You grow nice and
big and round. Grow for mother, there’s a good sprout. We’ll take you to
the country fair and put you on display, yes we will, my good boys. And
we’ll trounce that Mrs. Robertson from across the road once and for all!
You’ll win rosettes and you’ll get your pictures in the paper. That’s
right, my good sprouts. My big green luscious good sprouts.”

Hamish’s mum did not taking coming in second place particularly well.

Garden attended to for the time being, she scuttled back to her house,
empty watering can in hand and mind full of root vegetables.

If she had looked a bit closer, she would have noticed the sprouts glowing
faint green in the dim morning light of day.

    - - - - - - -

The door of the caravan burst open just as Prot was fumbling with his keys.
Slack jawed, the literal Lazarus stood and stared as Big Sally sallied
forth from the portal, her skimpy clothes leaving little to even the most
sadly depraved imagination.

“Cya later, big boy!” she called back to Lochland, who was rocking back and
forth on his bed swathed in his sheets and suffering from what Vietnam
vet’s coequally refer to as ‘flashbacks’.

“Bloody hell,” mumbled Prot, watching an arse that could have served as a
runway for light aircraft disappear down Jesse Street.

“I am unclean!” screamed the Scotsman from inside the caravan, a terrible
wail that would have broken even the stoniest of hearts. Prot ditched the
trolley outside, gathered his shopping to him and entered the house of
Lochland.

It was more of a disaster than usual.

They say that the interior of a home reflects the mind of the occupant.
Lochland’s caravan was chaos manifest. A soggy, rancid hovel that even the
cockroaches were ashamed to call their own. The previously mentioned carpet
was a disgusting collage of spilt drink, ginger pubic hairs and dropped
tobacco. The walls were steadily disintegrating, a situation that would not
be helped by the impending thunderstorm. The sole sink was overflowing with
rank plates and the hideous toilet was an Abomination before our Lord.

Everywhere was evidence of Lochland’s disgusting existence. Empty beer
bottles were clustered in numbers, candles stuffed down their spouts to
provide illumination during the dark hours. A black kettle with the bottom
burnt out sat atop a moldy stove that leaked gas and would blow the whole
unhygienic ensemble into the stratosphere should Lochland neglect to open
the window once a week. Of the smell much has already been written, but no
word could truly describe the ghastly horrors that leaked from the chemical
toilet. It was, as kindly as Prot could put it, “like living in a skunk’s
arsehole.”

It was cramped, dark and dingy.

Prot set about it with the lavender, ignoring his friend’s bubbling on the
bedsheets until the smell had been beaten back into the toilet, making a
prudent retreat in order to gather its forces for a crushing counter
attack.

“I feel sick,” said Lochland as his friend battled the forces of evil.

“I’m not surprised,” muttered Prot, using the air freshener as one might
use a flame thrower.

“Really sick. I am going to vomit. Clear a path!” Lochland said as he
lurched to his feet and began to stagger towards the infamous toilet. At
the last moment he thought better of it.

“Change of plan. I shall be sick outside!” he declared, gathering the
stained sheets to his privy part and making an about turn.

Lochland meandered drunkenly, crashed into the wall before falling
headfirst through the door and out into the park where he had made his
home.

The horrible noise of retching reached Prot, who was just slamming the lid
on the unholy menace that seeped from the black latrine. Trying
unsuccessfully to recapture his former good mood, the man in black closed
the door to the tiny cubicle, making a mental note to nail the bastard shut
in the immediate future and made to join his comrade in the great outdoors,
stepping carefully over the assorted detritus that littered the floor on
his way.

The fresh air was invigorating. Prot stood and surveyed his kingdom of
swings and dog turds. All around him stood Blairgowie in all it’s majestic
glory. From his seat in Lochee Park he looked across the yellowing grass at
the defunct fire station, at the moldering flatblocks and council houses
that flanked him left and right.

A young child wailed somewhere in his room, a young mother called for the
child to “Shut your fucking yap, ya wee bastard!” The first automobile
drove past the caravan, it’s exhaust discharging a cloud of smoke that
wreathed Prot in it’s choking effluence. Rain once again began to fall upon
his fedora, pattering lightly on the brim and soothing away all the cares
that rested upon his shoulders.

Blairgowrie. The sights, the sounds, and the smells of this princely town
assailed Prot’s bandaged senses. The new day was dawning, the people were
awaking and Lochland was once again choking on his own vomit.

Blairgowrie. What a town.

“You ok down there?” asked Prot of his friend, who had finished vomiting
and had regressed back into weeping uncontrollably.

“No,” said Lochland through a mouthful of retch, “I have been raped by a
walrus. My body and soul are forever unclean.”

“Serves you right for getting so stinking drunk last night,” said Prot,
though not unkindly. He helped the stricken man to his feet and offered him
a rancid handkerchief from one of the many pockets in his trenchcoat.
“There,” Prot said, wiping away the tears and sputum, “Now stop blubbering,
there’s a good chap.”

“Blubber!” wailed Lochland, clinging tightly to Prot with madness in his
eyes and neglecting to hold his sheet in place. Another car filled with
young children passed, pointing Lochland’s naked buttocks out to their
unamused parents.

“Jesus Christ man,” cursed Prot, grasping Lochland and throwing him bodily
back into the caravan, “Have a care! The neighbors are watching!”

Overhead, thunder rumbled ominously.

    - - - - - -

Angus Frampton sat in one of the flatblocks, staring out his window on the
second floor. It was really pissing it down out there. Rain thrashed
against his window like the spittle of a roaring dragon.

Angus peered through the window, though it was rendered near opaque by the
torrential rain. Anything was preferable to staring indoors, where his very
own roaring dragon was having one of her little moments, spittle and all.

His wife was, for want of a better term, doing her nut.

This had been the situation for quite some years now. His wife was always
doing her nut in about something or another. It had started at some dim
point in Angus’ poorly recollected past, possibly on their honeymoon, and
had continued unabated for the previous thirty years.

And, judging from today’s performance, would continue for the next thirty
years also.

Angus tuned back into reality when his wife smote him over the head with a
boney fist. The roof, she informed him, was leaking. And she wished to
enquire what Angus was going to do about it.

Angus moved a beer can three inches to catch the downpour that was pissing
in through the light housing. He was rewarded with another smiting.

“Go and fix it!” the harpy shrieked into his hearing aid, pointing skyward
and  smiting him once again, for good measure.

Suitably motivated, Angus retrieved his ladder and mounted the steps
towards the direction of the attic. It was not something he was looking
forward to. The state of the attic was much the same state as Lochland’s
caravan, which was to say a disaster of biblical proportions. Occasionally
he would open the little trap door and peer in, just out of morbid
curiosity.

Armed this time with a purpose, Angus did more than peer in. He swung open
the trap door and hauled himself up, minding only to stand upon the rafters
as he did so. The floor was made of naught but plaster, and if his wife was
doing her nut over a leaky light fitting then God only knew what suffering
she would visit upon Angus’ fragile skull should he accidentally fall
through the ceiling.

Angus was one of those men who refused to throw anything away. His garden
shed was packed to bursting point with old transistor radios and broken
television sets, carefully stored against the day when… well, Angus wasn’t
sure exactly why they were stored. They just were. It was a habit he had
picked up from his father, and his father’s father, and the father before
that. Doubtless the hording instinct was genealogical, Angus decided.

If Angus’ distant ancestors could have seen the attic, they would have been
proud.

No less than three dead Christmas trees greeted Angus upon his accent into
the attic, of a species probably extinct. To his left wobbled a tower of
old S.A.S magazines, reduced into paper Mache by his perpetually inadequate
roof. More transistor radios gathered in a pile to the right, ones that
Angus could genuinely never recall buying nor breaking. Perhaps they bred
up here.

Mice certainly bred up here, a fact that Angus decided to keep secret from
his warmongering wife. The moldering spaces between the rafters were full
of dead rodents.

Angus looked over the trash collected over his lifetime, and at the gaping
hole in the roof that was currently gushing water like a hole in the side
of the Titanic.

Thunder boomed, rattling the wonky slates over his head. Clearly this
called for drastic action.

Carefully Angus made his way over the rafters, looking for some vessel to
contain the water and thus save the day. He was rewarded almost instantly,
spying his old ceramic bathtub and his collection of broken Elvis LPs,
sweetly nestled inside the ancient appliance.

Angus swiftly evicted Elvis, dumping the shattered discs wherever there was
space, and then proceeded to drag the bath across the attic.

Positioned beneath the leak, Angus applied the plug. The rain splattered
and collected inside the tub. And thus, thought Angus in his finest hour,
the problem is solved.

He picked his way carefully over the rafters and made his way back to the
trap door, moustache bristling with pride at his ingenuity. He descended
the steps like a returning hero, and politely asked his spouse for a tin to
celebrate.

“Anus!” she cried, omitting the G from his Christian name and smiting him
about the head once more.

    - - - - -

Big Sally thundered through Rattery, heedless of the rain that was
saturating her clothes (or lack of them). In front of her wobbling warpath
were the legendary duo of Derek and Barry, the formers spiky hair dripping
pig grease down his leather jacket in the torrential storm... They were
engaged in an act of no small enterprise, attempting to ignite a rather
large and soggy joint under the shelter of the bus stop.

“Hello boys!” called Big Sally as she strode past, causing the waterlogged
doobie to fall from Barry’s open jaw.

“The saints preserve us,” muttered Derek, crossing himself in the catholic
fashion.

“I think I’m in love,” breathed Barry, joint forgotten and now sadly
drowned in the rising waters beneath his feet.

“Jesus Christ, you son of a bitch!” screamed Derek, seeing that the object
of his admiration was now floating away towards a storm drain. He rushed to
save the errant joint, plucking it from the stream only to have it
disintegrate in his fingers, “Goddamnit man! That was the last of our
dope!”

Barry never heard him. He was busy goggling after the gargantuan arse that
was thundering up the road like a twin pistons on a steam ship.

Indifferent to the goggling stare of the stoner, Big Sally strode on, her
knee-length high-heels near cracking the pavement beneath her feet. Onwards
she rumbled, passing by the Belmont Arms like a wobbling lycra freight-
train. Barry stared after her long after she had vanished from sight and
was only stirred from his reverie when Derek cracked him a weltering blow
to the skull.

Ducking down an alleyway, Big Sally’s demeanor changed drastically. Gone
were the swinging hips, the bone-crunching step and the steady sway of the
born hooker. She became furtive, straightening her clothes into some
semblance of decency and pulling back her wild hair, knotting it into a
tight bun behind her head.

With unbelievable stealth for one of her size, she sneaked through the dark
and miserable close, her spiked feet clicking lightly on the rough and
uneven concrete. A rat scuttled away, having decided that it had pressing
business elsewhere for the time being.

She emerged from the ally into a reasonably respectable housing estate. A
man leaned in profile against a graffitied and pebble-dashed wall, the
collar of his light jacket upturned and rainwater running in rivulets down
his foppish hair. He smoked a cigarette against the elements with rather
more success than Barry.

His angled his head towards the sky and exhaled smoke before he spoke.

“Is it done?” asked Pinael, matter-of-factly.

“The Scotsman has been taken care of,” said Big Sally, licking her rouged
lips with a long purple tongue and laughing.

    - - - - - - -

(authors note: this chapter is currently just a bridge, banged out very
very quickly. Also, the vagina joke is probably out of order, heh)

“You should have taken care of me,” said the Scotsman, ripping and tearing
at the black toast before him with his teeth.

“If you choose to drink to excess then it is no business of mine what you
get up to afterwards,” said Prot pragmatically, forgoing solid food and
instead settling for a liquid lunch. The vodka sloshed down his windpipe
soothingly.

“Friends don’t let friends sleep with the Kraken,” muttered Lochland
through a mouthful of masticated charcoal, glaring at Prot with
recriminations in his eyes.

“I thought I was doing you a favour,” replied Prot, who had procured a pair
of scissors and was snipping away at the magic tree thoughtfully. “I
believe your exact words were, ‘Bugger off and leave me be.’”

“I was drunk!” exclaimed Lochland, “I had no conscious idea of what I was
dong! Surely that was obvious to you.”

“You’ve dated worse,” said Prot, small fragments of scented cardboard
shooting away from his scissor-work, “You like?” he asked, holding up the
crucifix he had fashioned from the car air freshener.

“I could have done with that last night,” muttered Lochland darkly,
examining his toast for the first time. “The bits that are not black seem
to be green,” he added, changing the subject deftly.

“It’s paracetamol,” said Prot, tying the Magic Cross around his neck before
tucking it into the recesses of his ever-present trenchcoat, “It will ease
the hangover. Eat it, it’s good for you.”

“I may overdose if I consume any more moldy bread,” sniffed Lochland,
pegging the inedible toast into the already overflowing pedal bin by his
side. “Dear God, I feel sick. That woman had her tongue halfway down my
gullet.”

“Where exactly did you pick her up?” asked Prot.

“I have no idea, I am suffering from an alcohol-induced mental blackout.
Long may it continue,” said Lochland, toasting Prot with his coffee cup.
“And besides,” he continued, “I am more worried about that I may have
picked up from her.”

“You suspect the clap?” said Prot, repressing an involuntary shudder.

“I suspect anthrax,” said Lochland darkly. “God only knows where the
infernal woman has been. Everywhere I should imagine.”

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never clapped eyes on her before we met her in the
alehouse,” admitted Prot, “So I assume she is not local. I can only pray
that you used protection.”

“I did,” said Lochland, who was having second thoughts about drinking his
coffee after a mental replay of where his condom had ended up.

“Then you are safe.”

“Safe, hell!” cursed Lochland, “An environment suit and a welder’s helmet
would have proven inadequate against the foul force of that wanton hussy’s
myriad diseases.”

“She has a reputation then?” asked Prot, seizing Lochland’s coffee for
himself and adding a generous splash of vodka.

“If she does then she left it behind her in whatever hellish region she
came from,” admitted Lochland. “She’s a new one to me also. But a man can
tell when his woman has slack morals.”

“From her slack vagina?”

“Thank you for the reminder,” grumbled Lochland. “Enough of that talk,
where the hell did you go last night anyway? It’s not like you to leave
before closing time.”

“You told me to bugger off, remember?” said Prot evasively.

“Ah, but where did you bugger off to, that is the question,” said Lochland.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you sneaking out of the caravan at all hours
in the morning. Don’t tell me it’s business.”

“Of course it’s business. And no business of yours.”

“Ah, Prot,” laughed Lochland. He companion’s cheeks were buried beneath
layers of medical gauze, but Lochland was sure somewhere, deep down, Prot
was blushing.

“You think I have a secret lover?” blustered Prot defensively.

“I have a hunch that it might be so,” replied Lochland.

“Cast aside your suspicions,” said Prot, waving Lochland’s assumptions
away, “There is no lady in my life, nor will there ever be. I am the least
popular thing to happen to women since toxic shock syndrome. None would
have me.”

“They say love is blind,” said Lochland.

“Then let us hope it is also without nose,” muttered Prot, examining his
coffee with suspicion now that he had detected a latex aftertaste.

“So, business,” said Lochland finally, unconvinced but willing to let his
friend’s secrets lie for the time being. “What horror could demand your
attention at three o’clock in the morning?”

“I was investigating the disappearance of your drug dealer, as it happens,”
said Prot, pushing aside the rank coffee and returning to the thrice-
distilled vodka. “Looks like friend McPhee has vanished from the face of
the earth.”

“The police finally caught up with him?” asked Lochland incredulously.

“According to my sources the cells are not graced with his presence.”

“He’s done a runner then,” concluded Lochland, “Not unusual for folks
involved in that line of work. Here one day, gone with the Hyper-
Dimensional Machine Elves the next.”

“Perhaps,” conceded Prot, “But you’d think he’d at least tell his
girlfriend before flying off with his trans-dimensional chums. She is
worried about him.”

“You suspect foul play?” asked Lochland.

“The game is, as they say, afoot. It is a worthwhile cause. Blairgowrie
would be a far duller town without its local celebrities shooting heroin in
the Wellmeddow public toilets.”

“I agree. Breakfast seems to have been a complete failure anyway,” said
Lochland sadly. “Shall we meander down to the Gambit’s Arms and interrogate
the locals?”

“I’ll go get the sword,” said Prot.

    - - - - - - -

Angus’ wife was still doing her nut. Over what Angus could not tell, for he
had the foresight to disable his hearing aid in advance.

His ungrateful spouse was rampaging around the room, pointing at Angus’
lovingly applied décor and voicing some mute protest about something or
another. The man with the moustache wisely ignored her on the basis that
the decibels produced by her vicious mouth might aggravate his concussion.

Angus sat in his lazy-boy armchair, his old fashioned remote control in one
hand and beer in the other. Sky Sports was more entertaining sans-volume he
decided, mentally commentating on the classic football match that was being
beamed into his high tech whatchamacallit box thing.

He did wish the weather would give it a rest though. The picture quality
was suffering in the torrential downpour, the players on the field drowned
out by static every time the lightning flashed outdoors.

And it’s Celtic for the cup! chanted his inner commentator, watching
Hendrik Larson score belt in yet another cracker against the hated Rangers
FC.

God, his wife did go on. Angus briefly wondered what he had done to deserve
such punishment. Surely after thirty years of this crap he was due some
slack from the big man.

God seems to delight in torturing me, thought Angus as he watched his wife
open the window and defenestrate the Sky Box, the cables dragging his
precious VCR out with it.

Lightning flashed again beyond the pane. Thunder rolled and boomed in the
clouds above, penetrating even Angus’ artificial deafness.

Hah! thought Angus, You missed me, you bastard! Try harder next time and
put me out of my fucking misery!

But God seldom misses.

Three seconds later Angus’ ceiling collapsed, sending the bathtub careening
through the plaster, the rotten wooden rafters having finally given way
under the increasing weight of water.

Oooooooohhhhhhhh ssshhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiit, thought Angus, right as the bath
came crashing down on top of him, smacking the abused elder clean between
the eyes and sending his soul squirting out of his body like a wet fart.

Ouch, thought the recently deceased, watching through ethereal eyes at the
scene of his death. His lazy-boy was crushed. His body was in ruins, legs
akimbo and splayed either side of the tub that had been the instrument of
his demise. Rain, plaster and dead mice spilled out from the gaping wound
in his ceiling.

And his wife was doing her nut. Unsurprisingly.

A great sadness overtook Angus as the scene began to dissolve before him.
He was dead. His life was at an end. There would be no more Angus Frampton,
no great legacy, no moments of happiness, none of joy. He was dead. And he
hadn’t really achieved anything.

The light of the world dimmed before his eyes, the shade of Angus faded and
everything turned to darkness.

    - - -- - - -- -

(extend this - mal)

Hamish waded through the storm, his Nike trainers waterlogged and
squelching beneath his feet. Wrapped in plastic Macintosh and bitterly
bewailing his lot in life, Hamish struggled onwards toward the local corner
shop.

“Our guest is always… hungry.”

Damn right she was. The fat fuck was eating Hamish out of house and home.
The only thing the bitch didn’t eat were his mother’s massive vegetables,
which was unsurprising, as no one else on this godforsaken planet wanted to
eat them either. The damn garden shed was packed to bursting point with
humongous onions, sprouts that looked like cabbages and potatoes the size
of his head.

Have some salad, bitch, dreamed Hamish, his imaginary self braining his
guest with a cucumber baseball bat.

What was Pinæl was thinking, inviting that monstrosity into his home?
Hamish could understand the creature’s desire to get that bastard Lochland
out of the way once and for all, but there were ways and methods to achieve
that goal. A fertilizer bomb under the Scotsman’s rancid caravan,
sprinkling anthrax over his ridiculous kilt. Something sensibly fatal and
preferably painful. All this buggering around with the Queen of the Sea
Cows was bound to bring the Scotsman sniffing around.

And the trail would lead directly to Hamish.

Just stab the bastard! Hamish screamed inwardly. Stab him and his stinky
little friend, just do away with them quietly and quickly. Waiting around
for some diabolical scheme to reach fruition was for bad James Bond
villains.

Hamish finally reached his destination and kicked open the shop door, a
little bell jauntily announcing his arrival. The fat shopkeeper eyed the
dripping Hamish distastefully.

“Give me all your goddamn chocolate,” he said darkly, fingering the pistol
in his macintosh pocket.

    - - - - - - - - - - --

The Gambit’s Arms was an exceptional pub.

Take, for instance, the wooden bar as proof of the pub’s quality. Lacquered
and liquored black by the spillage of a thousand drinks, three inches of
solid bog oak that never sagged nor warped. Atop the bar were  mighty
ranges of Ales on tap, hand pumped the full distance from cellar to pint
glass. There was no fancy automatic taps in the Gambit’s Arms, the
barkeeper would not have such abominations in his pub.

And such Ales were pumped. Ale, not beer. True Scottish Ale was to be had
here, dark amber in colour and full-bodied to the palette. And if that was
not your thing then you could have beers imported from Europe, the kegs
ordered and rotated according to season and local tastes.

There was also, much to Prot’s relief, vodka. It was the cheap shit from
Tesco’s, but you couldn’t have everything.

Within these hallowed walls the only sounds were that of quiet philosophy
and the grating whir of the buggered extractor fan in the opaque window.
Here the hardy locals of Blair made their nests, perched upon bar stools
worn shiny by a thousand cheeks and breathing air made foul by the stench
of a thousand arseholes.

Lochland loved it. It was his kind of pub.

Lochland and Prot tramped across the creaking wooden floor, the water
falling in storms from their sodden outfits. Prot wore his trademark black
trenchcoat and fedora, Lochland was clad in the full regimental kilt and
bonnet of the McGlochland clan.

“Bloody hell, it’s cold out there,” said the Scotsman, drafty around the
nether regions.

The clientele swiveled their heads to acknowledge the twosome. They were
more than used to the eccentric fashion tastes of this magnificent duo. No
comments were raised regarding the mothballed tartan that clung damply to
Lochland’s every inch. No complaint was raised by the bar staff about the
large claymore he wore strapped to his back, for ‘religious ceremonial
purposes’. According to the sheet of paper stashed in the front of his
sporran, Lochland was a Seven Day Servant of the Church of Saint Buckfast,
and as such many a police officer had walked away disappointed upon
presentation of this legal and binding document.

Playing the religious discrimination card really annoyed Inspector Knacker,
and annoying Inspector Knacker was one of Lochland’s favorite hobbies.

You might say Lochland perused it religiously.

The dashing duo climbed atop their allocated barstools, second and third
from the right and directly in front of the Guinness tap. There Lochland
removed his tartan bonnet, allowing his wild orange hair it’s freedom once
more. Prot did not remove his fedora.

Prot never removed his fedora.

The regulars paid them scant heed, choosing instead to regard their drinks
with fierce concentration. It was not long past opening time after all, and
the drink had not yet had time to lubricate jaws and voice.

Prot noted that Angus’ stool was sadly vacant. This was unusual, for the
elder was a man not known to lightly miss his daily session in the Gambit’s
Arms, typhoon season or not.

Lochland was not concerned about the AWOL elder. At the moment he was
desperately trying to attract the attention of barmaiden Louise, whom was
currently sitting feet up upon a crate of Frambosenbeer reading the latest
womanly glossy magazine.

While being a fine puller of the pint, Louise was not noted for her
customer relation skills. She was of the opinion that she could run a
perfectly fine and respectable pub if it weren’t for all the goddamn fool
alcoholics that were always hanging around.

“Pint of your finest please,” said Lochland, producing a stale tenner from
his sporran and waving it around enticingly.

Louise sighed and up-righted herself, resigned to the idea that she might
actually have to feign civility towards her paying customers.

“Well, look who has returned,” she said nastily, “I was expecting young
master McGlochland be rather more two dimensional today.”

“You are saying I am a two dimensional character?” asked Lochland,
affecting a wounded look.

“I am saying you should be squashed flat by all rights,” continued Louise.
“I saw the brazen hussy you went home with last night.”

“Ah,” replied Lochland. “A temporary lapse in sanity, that was all. I am
feeling much better today, I assure you.” Lochland lied, feeling his guts
twist within him.

“That is as well, because your mysterious fat slag is banned forever from
these premises,” said Louise with homicide flashing in her eyes. “On that
subject, I have saved a little job, just for you.”

“What?”

“You are going to get that mop and bucket and you are going to clean the
unholy mess that your morbidly obese friend left in my god damn toilets!”

“Erk,” said Lochland, his stomach churning uncontrollably at the mere
thought.

“Until that lavatory is purged of all remnants of whatever horror that
disgusting woman has perpetrated, you shall not be served in this
establishment. Ever again.”

“Have mercy, please,” said the pale Lochland.

“Do it!” Louise roared, sending Lochland spilling from his barstool and
scuttling away into the female water closet, mop and bucket in hand.

“Am I still in your good graces, barmaid?” asked Prot timidly.

“Of course. Forgive me, darling,” apologized Louise, grasping the pump and
summoning forth the amber nectar.

“Thank you kindly,” said Prot, taking receipt of his pint.

“This one is on Lochland,” Louise said, her mouth smiling the sweetest
murder.

“You may return to your magazine if it suits you,” suggested Prot.

“It does,” said Louise, retiring to her crate and putting her feet up once
more, as if daring the clientele to disturb her meditations one more time.

Prot retrieved a straw and pierced the foam of the ale. As satisfying and a
long, healthy draft would feel against his parched lips, he did not want to
stain the bandages that covered his face.

Even Prot had a certain style ethos to adhere to.

Prot turned a goggled eye to his companions by the bar. This was an
information gathering sortie, after all.

“Anyone seen Angus?” he asked aloud, for the empty barstool was praying on
Prot’s mind more than it should. Foreboding thoughts swam in his mind,
though there was no logic to them.

“I have not seen old Angus since his better half dragged him out by the ear
last night,” muttered Denis Buchan, a.k.a. The Lord of the Salmon.

“Poor soul,” added Croll Senior, wife of the compulsive early morning
shopper, who’s own martial status was less than the bed of bliss promised
to him on his wedding day.

“It is a day of missing persons,” mused Prot, “Druggie McPhee has also
strayed from sight.”

“Done away with by rival dealers, I heard,” voiced the Lord, though he had
in truth heard no such thing, and was just starting rumors for the fun of
it.

“Kidnapped by Hyper-Dimensional Machine Elves, I’ll warrant,” suggested
Croll Senior, who had previous experience in the 70’s to back up his claim,
coincidently around the same time he decided to marry his wife.

“Maybe Lochland’s fat bird ate them both,” said Louise from behind her
magazine.

“I have a feeling you are not far off…” said Prot to himself, staring out
the window at the rain and feeling the foreboding rise again in a dark
flood around him

-

Angus opened his eyes.

He really wished he hadn’t.

The mustached elder had entered the afterlife, and so far he wasn’t liking
it one bit. There were no angels with harps, no fluffy clouds and no
heavenly choirs.

The screams of the damned wailed instead, carried on the brimstone fog that
assailed Angus from all sides. The old derelict stood upon the banks of a
great yellow river that stretched as far as the fog let his failing eyes
see. The water was thick, the surface covered with a constantly cracking
layer of sulphur.

Angus hadn’t been… it was hard thinking of himself in part tense, Angus
hadn’t been a bad man. In his own consideration, Angus had been kind to
small animals. Angus hadn’t murdered his wife, though he had been sorely
tempted. Yes, he had sinned, and sinned often, but an eternity in Hell?
That was like sending a man to the electric chair for littering.

It seemed a little harsh, in Angus’ humble opinion.

Angus dithered. He was alone here, no other living (or unliving) soul was
in sight. His only company were the screams that seemed to echo from the
ground beneath his feet.

It was getting unbearably hot.

Angus’ dithering was put to an end when the yellow fog cleared slightly,
revealing a figure drifting slowly across the river. The figure was dressed
in a black robe, rode a black gondola and paddled his way through the
waters with a thick, black oar.

This dude really likes black, thought Angus.

If the thickness of the suphurous waters impeded him, the figure showed no
signs. He rowed with powerful strokes, one side then the other, slowly and
ineroxiably making his way over the river and towards Angus.

He was close enough now for Angus to see the details. His black boat had
myriad sigals and emblems of the dark persasion etched into the wood. His
oar was likewise and blasphemous. The cloaked figure hid his features, but
Angus got a glimpse of two hungry eyes in a face as grey as slate.

Run away! demanded the left hemisphere of the brain of Angus. Where to?
answered the right, Angus desperately searching the barren wasteland around
him for any sort of cover, any means of escape.

The boat bumped against the shore, and it was too late.

Angus stood frozen in terror as the boatman slowly extended an arm, palm
up, as if expecting something from him.

Think Angus, think! What does he want?

Angus rushed through the attic of his brain, which was in much the same
state has his old attic back on earth. He desperately raked through the
piles of unsorted accumulated knowledge, memories and dreams.

Angus returned in time, back to his misspent youth. Sitting in the
classroom with his insane old English teacher who, school yeard legend had
it, had taken a bullet to the brain in Dunkirk and bore a metal plate in
his scarred forehead.

Mr. Duncan shouted his lesson at his class with force, hoping beyond hope
that if he shouted hard enough maybe some of the knowelege would stick to
the little bastards in his charge.

Angus saw himself pick bogies from his nose and flick them at Croll Senior,
then Croll Junior. Mr Duncan screamed his lecture in the background.

God, why couldn’t I have paid attention?

It haddened seemed important at the time, admitidly. What ever the dead
Greeks had believed about the world beyond our own had seemed of little
interest, certainly of less interest than trying to peer down  the buttoned
blouses of the swotty girls who sat opposite.

Angus focused on the background noise of the memory. “The river Styx!”
blasted Mr. Duncan, smacking Angus off the head with a chalkboard ereaser
with his good right arm.

Angus, knocked uncosious by the blow, rushed back to reality in a blur of
memories.

The face before him had not moved, and the palm was still extended.

Yes, yes, very good Angus, you know where you are now, said his brain
sarcastically, but what does this bastard want?

“Two pieces of silver, you blithering inbecile!” screeched his inner
English teacher, twatting the young Angus once more for luck.

Of course, the ferryman needed paid to transport him into the next life!
Suddenly, Angus was relieved. Perhaps things weren’t as grim as they
looked, that Hell was only a brief stopping point on the way to his real
destination.

A sort of metaphysical Scunthrope.

“Oh yeah,” said Angus, raking around in his pockets for loose change, “I
getcha. Tip for the taxi driver, eh what?”

The darkly cowled figure made no comment.

Angus cringed. His wife had taken his silverware from him upon return from
the pub last night, the evil little paragon of viciousness bankrupting him
in life as well as death.

All he had in his tweedy pockets was the ghostly specter of a furry polo
mint and a rather disgusting old hankerchief.

“Oh God,” groaned Angus, “Aha. Erm… Sorry old chap, I appear to be a bit
light in the trouser department today. Temporarily financially embarrassed.
Only temporarily, mind you.” he said, producing the contents of his pockets
for inspection.

The ferryman took the polo and the bogie encrusted-hanky without comment.
He then beckoned for Angus to climb on board.

“Most decent of you,” said Angus, relief oozing from his every pour. The
ferryman cast off, pushing his way back into the waters with strong,
powerful strokes. “I shall endevour to pay you as soon as I can,” promised
the man with the moustache.

“You’ll pay your debt soon enough,” said the voice of the Ferryman, and
that voice was as cold and dead as the void itself.

The blood that no longer flowed through Angus’ veins chilled at the sound
of that voice. Desperately he turned, only to see the shore behind him
vanish into the mist.

The Ferryman laughed and smashed his oar into Angus’ head, sending the
stunned elder toppling overboard and into the turgid waters that flowed
beneath.

Angus cracked through the yellow crust, and then all was darkness once
more.

    - - - -

Angus was not the only person having issues with yellow crusts.

No one could say what it was that Lochland mopped. Only that it was gooey,
and it was copious in quanity.

Lochland was in danger of adding to the mess with some of his own.

He boaked and retched as he worked, the mop-head now nothing but a putrid
mass laden with stringy sputum. The bucket, once full of hot and cleansing
soapy water, now was covered by an inch of repulsive orange scum.

Lochland reached for the bleach and set about the toilet with gusto,
spraying the thick fluid with abandon while trying not to breathe the
fumes.

His life had become disgusting of late.

His guts rumbled and trembled.

“Why me?” asked Lochland to the universe at large. It had not been a
particularly pleasant day for the ernest young demon hunter cum toilet
attendant. It had progressed from one disaster to the next in swift
succession, and frankly he was getting tired of it.

Lochland wanted nothing more than to go back to his caravan, sit back on
his couch and smoke a fat Columbian doobie. His nerves were in sore need of
soothing.

Then he remembered about the missing dealer. Lochland cursed, temper frayed
and feeling very fragile indeed.

Bile rose in the Scotsman’s mouth as he put the finishing touches to the
enamel. The job was complete, at least to the satisfaction of one who lived
in a state of perpetual biological hazard, as Lochland did.

He hoped Big Sally had returned to wence she came. He never wanted to see
the fat horror ever again.

Lochland grasped the edge of the toilet, groaning horribly. The very
thought of her made him ill.

He was going to be sick.

His stomach spasmed, clenching like an asshole one second and collapsing
like a jelly the next. Lochland opened his mouth and retched a long false
note.

God, he just wished he could be sick and be done with it. It was the
waiting that was torture. He debated sticking his fingers down his throat.

Another spasm shook him, causing his mouth to fill with sour saliva.

Lochland tried to hurry things up. An buellemic friend had once told him to
think of eating rotten fried eggs with the consistency of snot. Think of
chowing down something really disgusting, that was the ticket, if being
sick was your thing.

Lochland liked snotty fried eggs. Living in a caravan the way he did,
snotty fried eggs were a luxuary.

Lochland retched a little more. Still nothing other than thin saliva was
forthcoming.

Think of something really disgusting.

Lochland thought of Big Sally, her cold slimey tongue pushing its way past
his tonsils violently, writhing like a wet snake all the way down into his
gullet.

He was sick. Big time.

He was sick. Blood poured out of his mouth.

Lochland tried to scream, but the air was knocked out of him. He tried to
breathe, but he vomited at the same time, choking himself with blood.

He coughed it out violently, spraying the cistern with red and nearly
collapsing into the toilet.

Breathe, don’t panic, don’t let the panic take you. Breathe.
Another wrenching spasm, pain this time, deep inside his guts. Lochland
wasn’t so much sick as he was choking to death. He felt something in his
throat rise up with the blood and bile.

Something that wriggled.

Drooling blood, Lochland attempted to suck air. The thing in his windpipe
was blocking it.

His body reacted, no conscious thought was now in Lochland’s head. His
stomach pumped and clenched, his body  writhed upon the bloody tiles. Every
muscle in Lochland’s body was  stretched taught and screaming with wave
after wave of cramp. He was clutching the toilet rim in a death grip.
Patterns whirled and span before Lochland’s blind eyes in shades of blue
and umber.

Lochland opened his mouth and vomited a blood clot the size of his fist
into the toilet bowl.

The air rushed back into the Scotsman’s lungs, the stink of vomit and the
smell of urinal cake filled his lungs to bursting point.

It was the sweetest breath he had ever taken.

His sight returned to him slowly as he gasped, slumped exhausted by the
toilet bowl.

He wiped the watery blood off his chin with the back of his hand and tried
to pull himself together. His muscles ached and twitched. He didn’t trust
his legs enough to stand.

But first he needed to see what had choked him.

It must have been a man thing. From the first caveman who picked his nose
and examined the yield to the last business man who stood and looked down
only to wonder where the turd had gone.

Lochland pulled himself up and looked down into the toilet bowl.

Rivulets of red dribbled down the enamel bowl, flowing into water that was
nearly black with Lochland’s blood. Floating in that dark pool was a bright
red chunk of meat and transparent blue veined skin, a gorey mess of flesh
and bone that had grown inside Lochland.

A tiny malformed hand rose from the crimson pool and reached for Lochland.
A skull materialized from the bloody mizima and opened it’s mouth.

“DADDY!” the thing in the toilet screeched.

Lochland screamed, all sanity flying from behind his eyes. He tore at the
cistern with a bloody hand and wrenched the flush with such force that the
mechanism broke in his hand.

“DAAAAADDIEEEE!” it shrieked again, swirling in the minature whirlpool,
scrabbling in vain at the slick ceramic before it’s head was sucked under.

Lochland collapsed before he could see the thing vanish, cluching his
stomach and weeping in great, ragged breaths.

    - - - - - - - - - -

(unfinished)

Angus was still drowning. It seemed like he had been drowning forever.

His lungs were filled with foul thick water, his eyes were blind and the
only sounds were the thick gelatinous gloops as he trashed for the surface.
Miraculously, his hearing aid still worked.

Or the ghost of his hearing aid still worked.

Or something anyway. It was all a little bit metaphysical for Angus
Frampton, R.I.P.

He wasn’t sure if he could be killed again. The seering pain in his lungs
was certainly real, the lead weight of his limbs as they desperately clawed
his way to the surface was enough to convince him. If he could suffer,
could he die? Could he die?

Could the dead die again?

Angus never got the chance to find out. Something plucked Angus from his
fate. He felt his body rising, rising up, carried up and out of his watery
grave by something with wings.

He broke the surface and was lifted, soaring into the air.

Angus coughed and choked as his lungs expelled the fluid that still
threatened to drown him. He felt the cold rush of air with every beat of
those great wings. Angus, half blind and more than half dead, turned his
face upwards and beheld the face of an Angel.

“Oops,” gasped the Angel as Angus’ wrist slipped out of his grasp.

“Aaaaargh!” screamed Angus as he tumbled through the yellow fog, arms
flapping, having about as much success with flying as he did with swimming.

The ground swelled beneath him. A septic bog of farting suphur and dead
weeds rose to cushion his fall.

Angus missed it by six feet.

Splattered on the scorched earth, legs and arms splayed unnaturally and
with the worse headache in the history of mankind, Angus wished he was
dead.

Then he remembered he already was.

“Sorry about that,” said the Angel, swooping down gently to the ground
beside him.

“Hmmmmph,” said Angus, who was at this moment disinclined towards movement
of any sort.

“You alright?” asked the Angel, which proved that even God’s blessed and
Holy servants can ask bloody stupid questions at times.

“Hmmmph.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” said the Angel, helping the apparently
indestructible Angus to his ethereal feet and dusting down his metaphysical
tweed jacket. “There,” said the Angel with a crispy white smile, “Good as
new.”

Angus was still shaking and trembling.

“Calm down my man,” said the Angel, reaching for his gold engraved
hipflask, “Have some of this, it will fortify your soul.”

Angus accepted the flask gratefully and drained the contents in one, long
thirty draft. “Thank you,” he said, finally.

“Don’t mention it,” said the Angel, grinning like a gameshow host.

“Tastes like Buckfast,” Angus noted, shaking out the last few dribbles.

“Well spotted that man,” said the Angel.

Angus stared at the empty flask for a while. He had a horrible idea that
some other torture was being devised for him. This was Hell, after all. One
didn’t generally meet Angels in Hell, least not in the official Catholic
litterature.

“Alright,” said the moustached one suspiciously, “What do you want?”

The Angel looked wounded. “Does a Guardian Angel need a reason to help out
his charge?”

“I have a Guardian Angel?” asked Angus, all aspects of his life so far
pointing him towards the negative.

“Well, you do now,” admitted the Angel. “Saint Buckfast’s the name,
pleasure to meet you.”

“Saint. Buckfast.” repeated Angus incredulously.

“Yeah, Patron Saint of Alcoholics, Pissheads and Winos. But you can call me
Buckie.”

(rewrite this chapter, I don’t like the angel thing. Or if I do use the
Angel, make it Mcphee. Either way, one of the two of them delviers Angus
the mission to tell Lochland and Prot the demon Pinael’s scheme.)

    - - - - - - - - -

Derek and Barry were still wandering the streets wet of Blair pointlessly.
It was what they did. It was their reason for existing.

Currently Derek was on the lookout for something smokable. Since the demise
of their last joint, they were getting dangerously close to sobering up.
Derek did not drink beer, reasoning that anything endorsed by the
government must be bad for you. Barry did drink beer, but it was still
thirty seven hours till giro day and as such he was sadly bankrupt.

“Nutmeg,” suggested Barry, “I hear you can smoke that. We can nick some
from the spice rack in Tesco.”

“Urban legend,” said the wet and dispondant Derek, who had tried it before
and encountered disappointing results.

“Banana skins, then” said Barry, “We can build a small fire, dry out the
skins and smoke them.”

“DOesn’t work either,” sighed Derek, who had smoked every plant within arms
reach at one point or another in his life, and had found most lacking.

“Want to just steal some lighter fluid then?” asked Barry.

“I’ve got the cold, my nose is bunged up,” said the sagging Derek, “I’ve
been wandering in the rain for too long.”

“We can get high on Vic’s Vaporub then.”

“Knock it off,” snapped Derek, irritable now that his buzz was dipping, “We
need to find illegal drugs and we need to find them now. Where the hell has
that bastard McPhee gone? He was meant to meet us an hour ago.”

“You have the money to pay him?” asked Barry incrediously.

“No, but since he’s not here I consider that to be a matter for the
academics.”

The two trudged onwards, completing their second circuit of Blair with
scant comment. The town was deserted, everyone having decided to stay
indoors on this most inclement day.

“Poppies?” asked Barry, pointing over into someone’s  garden.

“What?” Derek grunted, not even bothing to look.

“Poppies. I hear people fight wars over them.”

Derek glanced over the privit hedge. Through the blinding sheets of rain he
beheld a small concil house garden repleat with weeds, a broken fridge, two
wheelbarrows and a car with no tires.

And swaying a gentle red in the eye of the storm were a small bed of red
poppies.

“You can smoke poppies, right?” asked Barry, who was now getting desperate.

“Their seeds, maybe. Contains opiates, apparently,” said Derek uncertainly.

“The flowers any good?”

“Worth a try,” said Derek, looking around him suspiciously to check that
the soaking streets were still barren of life.

There were no witnesses. With one smooth movement, Derek vaulted the untidy
hedge.

The clouds flashed overhead. The water that crawled all over Barry began to
tingle. Derek’s hair began to crackle with static electricity.

Barry opened his mouth to form the first sylbals of the words “Oh shit.”

He never got it out.

Lightning decended from the sky in a single white hot bolt, tearing the sky
open with a colossal boom. It truck the house before them, blowing the
slates clean off the roof to send them cascading and smoking down upon the
heads of the interlopers.

“I’m blind!” screamed Derek, hands in his sparking hair and staggering
backwards, falling through the privet hedge and sprawling into the street
beyond.

Inside the house, on the second floor, someone gasped a great, sucking
lungful of air. And then screamed.

    - - - - - - -

The lightning bolt tore straight through Angus’ roof, blowing yet another
gargantuan hole in the already leaky ceiling. Electricity shot through the
house, setting fire to the dead mice in the attic, coursing through the
phonelines and blasting Angus’ wife clean across the living room, who had
been using the phone to book a holiday to the Barbados, intent on spending
her husband’s life insurance as fast as humanly possible.

Lightning arced and crackled from the television set and blasted the
bathtub, sending twelve thousand volts of raw current through the corpse of
Angus and blowing his wig clean off his head. The muscles in his legs
jerked, humping obscenely at the bath that lay on top of his corpse.

Angus’s heart spasmed twice, and began to beat once again. Ozone and air
rushed into the elder’s lungs and was expelled in the great and awful
scream of death and rebirth.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOO FUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!!” howled Angus, returned to the land
of the living once more.

With a roar of preternatural strength, Angus grasped the bathtub and lifted
the infernal appliance from him, casting it aside as if it weighed little
more than air. He rose from the dead, blackened and still smoking, and
towered over the cringing spectacle of his horrible spouse.

“You’re dead!” she shrieked.

“I… LIVE… AGAIN!” Angus cackled, tearing the ruined hearing aid from his
skull and crushing the thing beneath a scorched and slippered foot. The
lightning had melted away twenty years worth of earwax and it ran like hot
treacle from his shell-like ears.

He was alive! He was healed! He felt a hundred years younger!

He was free!

In his rejoicing, he remembered the words of the Arch-Angel Buckfast, and
realized that he had returned for a reason. For a holy reason, at that. The
world was in danger, and it was up to him, Angus P. Frampton, to save it.

He was a hero.

He laughed and breathed the air of the living once again. It was good to be
back.

“It’s a miracle!” wept his wife on the carpet, grasping Angus’s leg and
grovelling “God has seen fit to spare my husband! It’s a miracle! Oh, what
joy on this day!”

“Up yours, bitch!” laughed Angus, breaking her hold on him with one easy
stride, “Consider yourself divorced.”

“You can’t do that!” she howled, watching the paperpack serial and the
newspaper article ‘MIRACLE ON JESEE STREET’ slip from her grasp, “You’re my
husband! You belong to me! The money belongs to me!”

“Till death do us part, I believe. Been there, done that. You can keep the
house, it’s fucked anyway.”

“We could be rich!” she cried, crawling behind him, “Think of it! Book
rights! A movie based on the miracle! Oprah! Richard and Judy!”

“Richard and Judy can kiss my fat resurrected ringpiece,” said Angus,
donning his duffle coat and walking to the door. “And, incidently, so can
you. Adios!”

And with that, Angus slammed the door on his wife’s face, walking out of
his old life and into the shining arms of magnificent destiny.

    - - - - - -

Louise had been kind enough to bring a blanket for Lochland, her initial
wrath at the continued desecration of her toilet facilities tempered by the
look on the pale Scotsman’s face.

He sat now on his favourate barstool, blanket over his shoulders and a
double whiskey clutched in his white hand, untouched. The other patrons of
the bar had the decency not to crowd him with questions.

Prot paced the wooden boards of the pub unrelentingly, pausing only to look
with concerned confusion at his mute friend before starting to pace again.
He had heard the dreadful scream echo from the toilet and had rushed
unthinkingly to Lochland’s aid.

The Scot had been unconcious when they found him. Louise had forgone the
smelling salts and settled for simple assault instead, viciously kicking
the prone body with her sensible shoes before dragging him out of the
latrine by his ginger dreadlocks.

He had awoken just as the vengeful barmaid had been opening the door to
kick him through, and had yelped a plea so wrenching that even the iron
heart of Louise was touched by something tragic.

Since then, Lochland had said nothing.

“Stop pacing Prot, you’ll wear a hole through the floor,” said the barmaid,
who had abandoned her magazine for the personal drama unfolding before her.

Prot stopped pacing and walked back and forth instead. Lochland just sat
and stared into the space before him.

Prot wondered what he saw in that space.

This was so utterly out of character. Together, Prot and Lochland had
laughed in the face of a thousand terrible deaths. Nothing ever phased the
Scotsman. No horror from the grave, no demon spawn from hell had ever wiped
the grim grin from Lochland’s face. Even in school Lochland had stood alone
against the unholy rage of Mr. Duncan, having eaten his homework in front
of the bio-mechanical English teacher himself, just to spite the old loon.

Something truly awful must have happened in that toilet.

Prot stopped walking and began to pace once again, to Louise’s despair.

“She did it,” said Lochland in a dull monotone, finally breaking his
silence.

“She did what? What did she do to you Lochland?” asked Prot, rushing to his
friend’s side.

“She did it. She put her tongue down my throat. She did it,” said the
unblinking Scotsman.

“Who did it?” pleaded Prot, “Come on Lochland, talk to me baby. Give me a
name.”

“THAT GODDAMN FUCKING FAT BITCH FROM HELL!” roared Lochland, lunging to his
feet and smashing the whiskey glass into smithereens off the wall.

“You bloody vandal!” shrieked Louise.

“I’LL TEAR HER FUCKING THROAT OUT!” continued Lochland, unabashed and
raging, grabbing his bonnet from the bar and storming towards the door,
pushing Prot to one side and barging through the multitude of regulars who
had risen to stop him.

“Louise!” shouted Prot desperately as he clung to Lochland. He was being
dragged behind the unstoppable and murderous Scotsman, heels scrapping on
the ground behind him.

Louise stepped forward daintily and smashed Lochland over the head with the
emergancy baseball bat she kept under the bar for unruly customers. The
Scotsman stopped his relentless march and slowly turned to face his
aggressors.

“I’LL KILL THE WHOLE BLOODY LOT OF YOU!” he roared, fists upraised. He then
went slightly cross eyed and toppled over backwards in an amazing display
of slapstick prat-falling and indecent exposure.

“I’ll not have bloody vandals in my pub,” said Louise calmly, polishing the
bat with the cloth she used to clean the pint glasses.

    - - - - - - - -

Angus chapter

    - - - - - - - -

(insert Pinael chapter here)

 - - - - - -

Lochland sat in the corner, sulking but otherwise unharmed. He seemed to
have snapped out of his coma and was suffering no more than an ugly raised
bruise on the back of his head.

Revenge still played on his mind, but in a less genocidal fashion. He was
wringing the life out of a pile of beer mats, their scrunched and destroyed
remains littering the floor beneath his feet.

The rain outside had stopped, a small blessing in an otherwise accursed
day. Prot sat by the bar drinking vodka and listening to the theories of
his peers in alcoholism.

“Sounds like a cyst to me,” offered the Lord of the Salmon.

“A cyst?” asked Prot, disbelievingly.

“Yeah, it’s like a collection of stem cells that goes all wonky,” said the
Lord, who had read it in Cosmopolitan, “They starts making teeth and hair
and bone in a little bubble someplace beneath the skin. I seen a picture of
one a doctor cut open. A little hairy mouth it was, all tiny like.”

Croll Senior snorted into his air. “Balls,” said he.

“It never had balls. Or if it did, they was tiny as well.”

“You theory,” reiterated Croll, “Is balls.”

“It’s not,” huffed the Lord, “’Tis scientific, it is.”

“I don’t hold with this new fangled scientific hoodoo,” stated Croll
knowingly, “And I also know that you are full of shit, my dear friend and
earnest drinking companion. What you’ve got here is a Succubus.”

“I’ll stick with the science, if it’s all the same to you,” muttered the
Lord.

“We had one when I was in the Falklands,” explained Croll, “Prime territory
for Succubuses, on account of all the horny sailors.”

“Succubi,” corrected the Lord, “If you are going to be telling ridiculous
fairy tales then you ought to at least have the decency to get your plurals
right.”

“Succubuses!” growled Croll Senior.

“Succubi!” said the cantankerous (although technically correct) Lord.

Prot left them to it before it turned ugly, as such conversations between
the two elders were wont to more often than not. It was just the way they
were. If one said shite the other would say sugar, an argument would rage,
lines of battle would be formed and then there was nothing for it but the
baseball bat.

Leaving to two warring geriatrics to their conflict, Prot kicked his way
through the sea of crushed beermats and sat beside Lochland.

“What’s the plan now?” Prot asked.

Lochland ground his teeth.

“Something big is going down, I can feel it,” continued Prot, “Croll was
right, I think. Someone, or something, wants you dead.”

(unfinished. Insert discussion about how and where to find Big Sally.)

    - - - - - - - -

PART TWO – The Sprouts of Wrath

Hamish’s mum came out as soon as the storm had abated. It was still
spinkling rain, but her arthritis told her the worst was over.

She bustled between the stalks of gargantuan peas, righting the bamboo
shoots that held them up towards the sun and cooing soothing words to her
little babies.

“Good peas, lovely peas, oh how you’ve grown, look at the size of you…”

She wasn’t exaggerating. The size of her vegetables were truly staggering.
She would be walking away with gold this time, that was for sure.

Her ‘other’ little baby would be lucky to win a pewter medal, she
considered. Weasely little bastard, always hanging around in that garage
looking at pornography. She had a good mind to pull it down. And the
company he kept these days… It was enough to make her old blood boil, it
really was.

The boy was a disgrace. His room was a septic hellhole, he was unemployed,
unemployable. And that woman! Where on earth had he found her? Hamish’s
mother found the woman to obscene in the extreme. A single pair of Ethel’s
knickers contained more fabric than that horredious female’s entire
wardrobe contained combined. She admitted that it was refereshing to see a
woman with some meat on her bones in this sad and skinny modern day, but
did she have to flaunt it so?

If Big Sally had been a vegetable, she would be a prize winning turnip, no
doubts about it.

Now vegetables. Ethel knew where she stood with vegetables. They either
obeyed her commands and grew or they ended up in her stock pot.

Ethel lavished her vegetables with love and affection. That old loon Prince
Charles had been right. They may have mocked her in the beginning when she
started talking to her plants, but the proof was in the (vegetable
flavoured) pudding! No one on the scheme, no one in Blair, perhaps even no
one in the world could come even close to matching sprouts with Ethel.

This year would see her total domination of the Blair in Bloom festival,
have no doubts about it. The evil Ms. Robertson across the road would have
to eat humble (vegetable) pie.

The rain certainly seemed to have done the plants the world of good. The
sprouts were gigantic! Ethel nearly danced in glee when she saw them. They
had swollen up like broken toes poking out of the dirt.

Ethel started humming an old World War II song. Victory in Europe, here we
come!

Fairly skipping up the garden path, Ethel passed the old Anderson Shelter
and made her way to the greenhouse to inspect her ‘other crop’.

The big money crop.

The one that required special lighting.

When young master McPhee had approached her with the suggestion, Ethel had
been open to the idea. After all, a plant was a plant, and what pensioner
didn’t need the extra cash these days? Besides, she ha always liked McPhee.
Such a charming young lad, always happy and cheery, always asking her about
the best fertilizers and expressing interest in her pickled cabbage
collection.

He seemed somewhat different of late, she had to admit. But the boy
probably had a lot on his mind, what with the harvest approaching and all.

Ethel pushed open the door to her green house and nearly swooned with
delight.

The pungent odor wafted out the door the moment she opened it, and it was
like walking into a stoner’s paradise. A litteral jungle of ganja spread in
a great vista before her eyes, the tall, healthy plants pushing at the
windows in the roof like they wanted to escape their glass prison. Two
sunbeds flanked the greenhouse, pouring their ultraviolet light all over
the hungry, hungry leaves.

“Oh my!” Ethel exclaimed, “My big boys! My big, big, boys! Aunty Ethel
loves you, yes she does! You’re going to make Aunty Ethel rich!”

Ethel retried the watering can, filled with McPhee’s own ‘special brand of
fertilizer’. It stank like the devil’s own piss, but that’s exactly what
Ethel looked for in a fertilizer.

“Hungry, boys? I bet you are. Drink up for Aunty Ethel!” she cackled,
getting moderately stoned on the heady fumes that filled the greenhouse top
to bottom.

“Oooo, are you hungry too? I’ll bet you are. Growing boys like you need
their vittles! Drink up, there’s plenty for everyone!”

“And what about you,” she asked of the giant skunk plant in the middle,
“Does my big boy want his lunch?”

Something rustled in the bush.

“What the fuck?” asked Ethel in a very un-aunty like way.

Something lunged from the bushes, dragging Hamish’s mother behind the dark
green screen. She never even had time to scream.

The entire plantation shook and rustled violently.

Presently, something burped.

- - - - - - - -

There were essentially two types of pub in Blairgowrie; the first, your
standard down-at-heel spit and sawdust saloon, with it’s leather seating,
80’s décor and toilet facilities best left undiscribed, lest the casual
reader shoot the messenger in disgusted rage. And the second type of pub,
which encompassed only the Slipstream in all it’s neon glory.

The Slipstream. A poor, unsuspecting pub which was bought by developers
many moons ago and ‘reimagined’. The old regulars of the place were cast
aside and into the scrap pile along with the rugs and tables, steamrolled
into oblivion by the mighty wheels of capitialzation. Out were the oak
tables and musty carpets, in were neon blue paint and yellow skirting
boards. Out went the pool table and in went the jukebox, filled with 1990’s
pop trash and never updated. Away with the pint glasses and in with plastic
one use cups, filled with fizzy pish that the landlord explained away in
slow monosyllabic terms. Apparently it was called ‘lager’.

Lochland, who remembered the glory days of the pub before it’s shameful
prostitution, wept openly when he saw what the evil fiends at the brewery
had done to the old place. They had turned a fine and proud Scottish pub
into something more resembling a poorly decorated cattle market.

For all it’s grevious failings, of which the list is too long to
contemplate, the Slipstream did have a few advantages to it’s name. It’s
geographical position by the banks of the River Ericht was unsurpassed in
all of Blair. It did have a reasonable beer garden to the back with an
excellent view over said body of water. This beer garden had become
exceedingly popular, thanks to the draconian anti-smoking regulations
introduced by the insipid Blairite government.

It was this beer garden that Lochland and Prot were now attempting to enter
by means of stealth. Religious docket or not, Lochland would not be allowed
to take his claymore into the premises, and he didn’t trust the cloakroom
attendants to leave his legendary sword unmolested. Prot was also barred
from approaching within two hundred feet of the pub, the owners considering
Lochland’s zombie compainion to be ‘bad for business’.

It was still early at night, not far past the back of seven. The thronging
crowds of leering men and skimpy young women had still yet to materialize
en masse through the doors. The bouncers were limbering up by the
enterance, cracking knuckles and preparing to unleash some aggression on
the local riff raff that would make their nightly assault upon the
aggravating pub.

Fortunately, no one guarded the beer garden to the rear. The fact that it
had a fifteen foot tall wall to the front and a raging river to the rear
was enough to put off most potential gate crashers.

Lochland and Prot were not your average gate crashers.

There had been some small argument between the conspiritors in regards to
the best method to gain access to the little pub who could. Prot wanted to
chance the river bank, swollen and rapid as it was from the day’s
torrential rain. Lochland had argued in favour of scaling the wall, as it
provided an excellent vantage point of the beer garden from up high. They
could spot the fat succubus from up high and then decide upon the best
course of action.

A plan was formulated. Lochland borrowed a length of thin rope from Louise,
who had been keeping it handy, “Just in case any of my beloved customers
takes a fancy towards hanging themselves.”

Thus, half an hour later, Lochland was to be found stuck three quarters of
the way up a lamppost. He was attempting to scale the tretcherous surface
of the metal and make it from there onto the top of the wall. Prot stood by
the bottom of the wall trying to look nonchelant, on the lookout in case
anyone should chance to see their illegal entry.

“This damn thing is slippy,” cursed Lochland, his naked hands finding
precious little purchase on the wet metal. For every agonising inch he was
climbing upwards he seemed to be sliding an inch backwards.

“You’re nearly there, encouraged Prot, reflecting in the moment that
perhaps a kilt was not the most modest of climbing gear. Slowly Lochland
approached the apex.

“Now what?” asked the zombie from below.

“Watch and learn,” replied Lochland, swaying back and forth from his
precarious pearch. With a single, death defying bound Lochland cast himself
airborn, arms outstretched and kilt streaming in the wind.

His fingers caught the edge of the wall and his body slammed hard into the
ancient brickwork, driving the breath out of him.

“Oof,” gasped the Scotsman, dangling by the tips of his fingers over an
ankle-shattering drop.

“Now what?” called Prot.

“Keep your damn voice down,” hissed Lochland between clenched teeth. He
hauled himself up by brute force, raising his chin to the top and
desperately hauling one of his legs up and over. The top of the wall was
about a foot wide and spinkled liberally with rubble. Lochland suspected
that the beer garden had previously been another building inbetween the pub
and the taxi depot next door, and had fallen into the river at some point
in ancient history.

Lochland idly wondered when the Slipstream would follow it. Soon, if God
had any decency about His person.

The Scotsman uncoiled the rope around his shoulder and tied it to a piece
of scaffolding that protruded from the brickwork. Satisfied that the knot
was secure, he motioned for Prot to climb up.

Prot pulled the rope twice to reassure himself of it’s relative safety,
looked around to make sure no one was watching and then lobbed a half brick
into the air, smashing the orange bulb of the lamppost and plunging the
street into darkness.

Without further ceremony, Prot climbed up.

“Why the hell did you do that?” fumed Lochland, brushing the glass from his
bonnet.

“Stealth,” gasped Prot, pulling himself over the edge, “They won’t see us
up here in the dark, not when the lamps are on down there anyway.”

Lochland grunted, conceding a point. “Keep down low, that noise is bound to
attract someone’s attention.”

“What,” snorted Prot, “The sound of breaking glass? On a Friday night? In
Blairgowrie? The whole damn town could be on fire and no one would bat an
eyelid.”

“Just keep an eye out, will you?” said Lochland, sliding Moichib of of her
sheath, “If she’s in there she’ll be out for a fag sooner or later.”

“I don’t see your reasoning,” said Prot, “I mean, she could quite easily
stay by the dancefloor all evening and we would be none-the-wiser.”

Lochland sighed. “You were never very good on the pull were you?”

“I find that my nature conspires against me during conquests with the
opposite sex,” muttered Prot, slightly hurt by this line of questioning.

“Right, time for a little explaining of the mechanics of getting a shag in
Blairgowrie,” suggested Lochland.

“I know the birds and the bees!” snapped Prot.

“And if we wanted to capture a bird or a bee you would be the first man I
would call,” said Lochland, attempting to soothing his friend’s damaged
ego. “But we are not after birds nor bees. We are after a walrus. Have you
ever tried to pull someone inside that infernal pub?”

“No,” said Prot, sulkily.

“Then you would not know how utterly impossible it is to get a conversation
going when DJ Pizzoferro is attempting to burst your eardrums by playing
his ungodly hard-house hiphop reggae or whatever the hell it is at voulumes
previously unexperenced by man. It’s impossible to even hear yourself think
in there.”

“Ah,” said Prot, catching on, “So people come outside for a fag and a talk
then?”

“Something like that,” said Lochland, hoping he wouldn’t have to go into
the more gorey specifics.

“Fair enough, your logic is sound enough,” said Prot, keeping a goggled eye
ponted at the Slipstream’s upstairs window, just in case.

    - - - - - -

The bouncers on duty were a surly lot, six feet two in their stocking soles
and nearly as wide for the most part. While not being equipped with
anything a human might call a brain, they were subtle in cunning in their
own way; They never punched anyone where it might bruise obviously.

“Here comes trouble,” said one bouncer to the other, nodding down the
street at the rag-tag crowd approaching them. His comrade grinned and
cracked his knuckles.

Pinael lead the small croup, dressed in hawian shirt and baggy denim
dungarees, straps dangling down between his legs. To his side marched
Hamish, who had forgorn his plastic Macintosh and was dressed in a ruffled
shirt and tie. Bring up the rear was Fat Sally, who wore what she always
wore, which was to say nothing like enough.

The diaoblocal threesome strode towards the Slipstream doors, unconcerned
and confident. They were barred from entry by a blacksuited wall of flab
and muscle.

“You’re banned,” growed the head bouncer, nodding at Pinael and daring him
to challenge his pronouncement.

“Am I?” asked Pinael sweetly. “I can’t say I recall.”

“Are you trying to be smart, pal?” asked the second bouncer.

“No, I was trying to be dumb,” sighed the demon, resigned to the idea that
sophisticated banter was not going to work on this occasion. “How much do
you want?”

“What?” asked the head bouncer.

“The bounty on my head,” continued Pinael, “The price I must pay to make
amends for my crimes in a former life. Please don’t make me say ‘bribe’. It
lowers the tone of your fine establishment.”

“There ain’t nothing you have that I want,” said the head bouncer, raising
a fist the size of a canned ham.

“Two hundred do it, you think?” asked Pinael, pulling out his wallet.
Hamish choked in the background.

The bouncer pulled his punch an inch from Pineal’s face. The demon didn’t
even blink.

“Keep it in the background then,” said the bouncer, “You start any shit and
I’ll have you.”

“Shit is not on the menu tonight, my friend,” grinned Pinael, “Come along,
gang.”

The threesome trooped into the pub, the springs on the door clapping it
shut behind them. Hamish was fuming. He would have been shouting even if
the music hadn’t nessecitated it.

“You gave away my last two hundred so we could come into an empty bloody
bar!” he roared in Pinael’s ear. The demon just shrugged.

“It will fill up soon enough,” said the demon, his voice low and moderate.

“Two hundred pounds!” roared Hamish, “That was my fucking rent you prick!”

Pinael sighed briefly, then struck like lightning. He grabbed Hamish by the
throat and lifted him bodily off the ground, carrying the choking boy
across the room and slamming him up against the gaudily painted wall.

“You are beginning to piss me off with your continual questioning of my
will,” the demon growled. Hamish goggled at him, looking straight into the
demon’s eyes and seeing something dark writhe within them. “In a few months
I will have conquered this puny mortal realm. I will have sent your
pathetic conventions and institutions burning into ashes and dust. Your
precious money will just be toilet paper with the Queen’s head printed upon
it. The only currency under my rule will be power, power which I have so
generaously bestowed upon you, and I do so only because you summed me and
for that I owe you a debt. But you piss me off one more time and I’ll see
to it that your life becomes a hundred years of pain and suffering, and
after that you’ll still have hell to look forward to. Do you understand?”

Hamish gasped the ayefirmative. Pinael dropped him.

“Glad to hear it,” the demon beamed, jovial again, “I’d hate for there to
be what the bouncers define as ‘shit’, wouldn’t you?”

    - - - - - - - - -

Derek and Barry sat on the faux leather, alone in the pub cum club. DJ
Pizzoferro never let the lack of an audience get in the way of him however,
and was pumping out the phat beats and ripping vinyl like no one’s business
already.

“My head hurts,” complained Barry loudly, holding his cranium tenderly and
staring hatefully at his plastic pint of fizzy dishwater.

“It’s the damn music,” moaned Derek, “I can feel it liquidizing my guts.”

“This is pathetic,” screamed Barry, just bearly making himself audiable
over the attrocuious noise “How on earth are we going to find a dealer in
this? I’m going through withdrawl man! Look at me! My hands are shaking! My
thumbs have gone weird!”

“I’m going outside,” said Derek defiantly, “I’m not putting up with this
shit!”

Barry followed his companion out into the beer garden, shutting the door on
the dreadful cacophony that tried to follow them out. Wet, dull and
miserable as the garden was, at least it was quiet.

“Oh God,” groaned Derek, “This is it. I am never going to be sober ever
again, for as long as I live. Look at it!” he said, guesturing at the world
in general, “It’s horrible!”

“You should get drunk,” said Barry, attempting to pour the contents of his
plastic receptical down his throat, “It will fix things. Alcohol fixes
everything.”

    - - - - - -

“He has a point you know,” whispered Lochland, watching the two fools down
in the garden with interest. “I could use a beer.”

Prot passed him over his silver hip flask. Louise had filled it with vodka
before the two had set off on their mission.

“I rather think that Louise likes you,” said Lochland, gratefully reciving
the flask and taking a healthy swig, “She’s always doing you little
favours.”

“She doen’t like me,” pointed out Prot, “She just hates me less than the
rest of humanity. It’s all relative.”

“Ey up, here comes someone else,” said Lochland, wiping his mouth and
pointing to the opening door beneath them.

“It’s Hamish,” grinned Prot, watching the surly figure storm through the
door. Prot gave the diminuative figure down below a wave.

“Get down, you fool,” said Lochland, grabbing the zombie, “You never know
who is watching!”

“You’ve been a bad tempered shit today,” said Prot, brushing the Scotsman
off.

“I have not had a good day,” muttered Lochland, “So forgive me if I seem a
little out of sorts. I just want to kill something then go home.”

Hamish carried on below, unaware that he was being watched. He completely
ignored Barry and Derek, who were sitting in the corner and trying to make
a joint out of crumbled pine cones.

Pinael walk out of the door behind him, hands in one of his many pockets
and bobbing his head slightly to the music.

Trust a demon of hell to actually like that shit, thought Hamish to
himself.

Upon Pinael’s entry, Barry looked up and nearly jumped for joy.

“We’re saved!” he giggled, standing up and scattering the carefully
prepared natural high all over the place. Derek screamed inwardly, a sound
like an old fashioned kettle boiling.

Pinael affected a look of surprise, his grin spreading evilily across his
lips. “Hello, boys,” said he.

“Where the fuck have you been, man?” said Barry happily, “We’re totally
dry!”

Derek moved to join them, his previous joint forgotten. “Yeah man, you
shouldn’t run out on your mates. That’s bad crack.”

“Sorry boys,” said Pinael, spreading his arms, “I’ve been busy of late. I’m
back for good this time, though.”

“Where have you been anyway?” asked Barry, sniffing the air around the
demon for the scent of dope, “Holland? Amsterdam?”

“I’ve been to Hell and back,” chuckled Pinael, reaching into one of the
myriad pockets of his dungarees, “But I come back to you bearing gifts.”

“Oh man,” sighed Derek, gazing at the small packet of green Pinael had
pulled from his pocket, “You are a life saver.”

“This one is on the house, boys,” grinned Pinael.

“You have made total amends for yourself, bro,” laughed Derek, taking the
bag and popping the zip-lock seal, “Nice one, McPhee.”

“Think nothing of it,” said the demon in the body of the drug dealer.

    - - - - - - - -


(note: Insert Angus Chapter here. Angus returns to hell.)

- - - - - - - -

“That is not McPhee,” swore Lochland, “There is no way in hell or earth
that the parsimonious little bastard who we know and love would give away a
baggie for free.”

“Maybe his little holiday with the Hyper-Dimensional Machine Elves taught
him something about the joy of generosity?” said Prot doubtfully.

“My arse,” said Lochland, gathering the rope to him and preparing to swing
down.

“Wait!” said Prot, putting his hand over Lochland’s airspace, “Here comes
another one.”

”It’s a regular party of assholes assembling tonight,” growled the
Scotsman, preparing to push past. He stopped when he saw who is was
attempting to cram her bulk through the pub portal.

“The bitch!” hissed the Scotsman.

“The succubus,” groaned Prot, “Well that just tears it all, that does.”

Barry couldn’t decide where to look, his gaze torn between the bag of weed
that his friend was holding like a precious child and the oncoming iceberg
of womanly flesh. He settled for going cross eyed.

“Hoooooo mamma,” crooned the smitten stoner. Pinael eyed him with interest.

“Ah, Big Sally, so pleased that you could join us.”

“I was thirsty,” said the succubus, pouring another pint down her jowls
before crushing the plastic cup into a ball and tossing it into the river.

“Big Sally,” continued Pinael, “Meet the boys. Boys, meet Big Sally.”

“Barry,” whispered Derek, sticking an elbow into his friend’s side, “Don’t
do it man. She’ll crush your pelvis.”

“A better way to die I can’t imagine,” said Pinael.

Barry was groaning and stuttering now. He was bad enough dealing with woman
without the added difficulty of dealing with them sober.

“I’m going to smoke up,” he said desperately, grabbing the bag from Derek
and retreating into the corner.

Hamish, during all this, had just stood around looking confused. He was
backing away now, unsure of where all this was leading, and utterly sure
that he wanted no part in whatever horror was about to transpire.

He felt desperately sorry for Barry, idiot though he might be, he certainly
didn’t deserve whatever fate awaited him. Even that bastard Lochland didn’t
deserve it.

On cue, the sky over his head darkened. “Oh! Shit!” said a voice from
above.

Lochland was lucky. Hamish broke his fall.

The Scotsman staggered back onto his feet, reeling drunkenly, sword
outstretched before him.

“You!” cursed Pinael, staring disbelievingly at the figure before him, “You
are meant to be dead!”

Lochland grinned horribly. “Oh, that? Yeah, I sent your little friend
around the u-bend a few hours ago. Ugly little bastard he was too.”

“Obviously got his looks from his father,” said Big Sally, all hint of
swaying hooker gone now. Even her voice had changed, hanging meance from
every syllable.

“What the fuck is going on, man?” wailed Barry from the corner.

“It’s quite simple,” said Lochland, never taking his eyes of Pinael, “Some
bastard has stolen McPhee’s body, summoned a succubus in order to kill me
and failed, as per usual. And now I’m going to cut the fucker’s head off.”

“Close,” said Pinal, “Sally, tear this prick limb from limb.”

Big Sally lunged with increadable speed, her face folding into a mask of
hate and her painted nails extending like talons from her fingers. A
pointed purple tongue writhed inside her mouth as she screamed hate, hands
extended before her to crush the life out of Lochland.

Even Pinael hardly saw him move.

One moment Sally was inches from this throat, the next he was standing to
one side, sword dripping with black ichor. Big Sally’s head flew spinning
like a football into the night with a look of confusion on her face.

The body blundered on, headless, finally crashing into the wall and
flopping down over Hamish’s inert from.

The boy beneath the corpse screamed, desperately scrambling as the
succubus’ open neck poured dark blood all over him.

Lochland had never taken his eyes off Pinael.

“This,” he announced, lifting the sword in one hand to point at Pinael’s
throat, “Is a Genuine William Wallace Replica Braveheart Claymore,
retailing for one hundred and twenty nine pounds ninety nine pence out of
the Blairgowire tourist shop. You can see one quite like it next to the
little hairy highlander dolls and the See-You-Jimmy tartan bonnets. Unlike
the one in the window, this one has been slightly customised for my own
personal use. The blade has been sharpened with silver for vampires and
wearwolves, the pommel had been engraved with the Mark of Epemitreus for
demons and other hellspawn. For everything else. the fact that it is two
feet of solid Scottish folded steel usually suffices. I call her Moichib.
What do I call you, asshole?”

“He is Pinael!” cried Hamish, muffled beneath twenty stone of rapidly
cooling lard, “Guardian of the seventh seal, Lord of Insanity and Hatred,
Prince of Darkness and Ruler of the Sixth Level of Hell, and he is about to
cut you in half, you lousy Scottish asshole!”

“Silence!” screamed Pinael, his skin writhing and crackling before the
undaunted Scotsman, “It matters not who I am! You will find out in Hell
soon enough, mortal!”

“Hey! Dark Lord of Assholes! Up here!” cried a voice from above.

“Huh?” said Pinael, looking up just in time for the bottle of Holy Water to
smash into his skull.

“Nice one, Prot,” said Lochland calmly, watching with detached interest as
the Demon Prince screeched in rage, clawing at the shards of glass embedded
in his dissolving face. Prot sild down the rope behind him, daintily
stepping on the corpse of the succubus as he landed and sending another
squirt of bile into Hamish’s mouth.

“You want to cut his head off now?” asked Prot.

“Certainly. Hold still, you bastard!” said Lochland, raising Moichib over
his shoulder and waiting for the beast to stick his head up.

“You fools!” shrieked Pinael, his voice slamming into Lochland and Prot
like a wind made of fists. The demon rose up, the right side of his face a
smoking ruin, burned right down to the bone.

“oooo shit,” said Prot, clutching his fedora against the whipping gale of
power that was spreading from the beast like waves in a storm. Lochland
gritted his teeth and rose Moichib for the killing blow.

Orange light powered from the devil’s mouth, his skin was cracking like
baked sand on a river basin. His clothes began to smoke and the soles of
his boots began to melt into rubber pools around his feet.

In Pinael’s forehead a third eye appeared, made entirely of blinding light.
It opened wide and stared at the duo before him, filling the air with a
deep, throbbing bass pulse.

“Run!” cried Lochland, gauging correctly that they did not want to be
around for the next act. Grabbing Prot and pushing him backwards towards
the wall. Prot looked up just in time to see Barry and Derek disappear over
the top wall, taking the rope with them.

“BASTARDS!” screamed Lochland, leaping after the disappearing rope and
missing it by inches. Barry’s apologetic face looked down at them for a
fraxction of a second, then the cowardly stoner vanished from sight.

Pinael laughed, his clothes combusting on his body, the dark energy
coursing through him brigher and more deadly than the sun.

Lochland grabbed Prot by the nape of his jacket and with one mighty throw
cast him over the wooden fence that separated beer garden from swollen
river. Prot was lifted airborne with a surprised squawk and vanished
flailing over the side. Lochland charged after him, vaulting the fence with
one hand, Moichib firmly clentched in the other as the light behind him
flared in unstoppable intensitiy.

Pinael literally blew up.

The billowing clouds of flame smashed into Lochland, driving him through
the air and scorching the underside of his naked scrotum. Kilt aflame, the
Scotsman screamed as he was on the wing of a flaming phoenix.

“SHIT!” he howled, arms flailing wildly, eyes tightly closed against the
blinding light.

The force had carried him halfway across the water. Lochland was dropped,
tumbling smoke and ash. He smashed headfirst into the seething waters of
the River Ericht and was gone.

    - - - - - - -

Hamish awoke to the smell of burning blubber. It reminded him of his
mother’s bacon.

He crawled out from underneath the mangled corpse of the succubus and was
staggered to see the destruction all around him. Finally, Blairgowrie was
living up to it’s nickname of ‘Little Bosnia.’

The beer garden was in tatters, what hadn’t been reduced to splinters had
been blown into the river. The side of the Slipstream was a scorched ruin,
the cloth pavilion reduced to burning ashes. The paving slabs were
blackened glass, the buckets of dog ends were burning brightly and in the
middle of it all stoof Pinael, naked, his skin hanging in bloody tatters
like crazy paving.

He was still laughing.

“Jesus Christ,” gawped Hamish.

“…is no longer open for business,” giggled Pinael, looking at the broken
skin on his hands with interest.

The third eye on his forehead closed, Pinael stood swaying back and forth,
seemingly drunk on the power that the demon had just unleashed.

“These mortal bodies are so fragile,” Pinael sighed, dropping his blunt
hands and turning his attention to the bouncers and the DJ who had just
come running through the door.

“Holy shit!” said DJ Pizzoferro, staring disbelivingly at the ruins of the
beer garden, “What happened man? Do you need a doctor? I can’t believe you
are still standing!”

“Hell!” said Pinael, punching a hole through Pizzoferro’s guts in one
smooth movement. “Hell!” he continued, grabbing one of the bouncers by the
throat and snapping his neck with a single vicious shake. “And Hell!” he
said to the final bouncer, who at least had the decency to try to make a
fight out of it. Pinael simply broke his ribs with an elbow, splintering
the man’s heart.

“You’re all going to Hell,” said Pinael addressing the dead men and
reaching into the dead Bouncer’s pocket, “Try not to look so supprised.”

“Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ…” stuttered Hamish, crawling away from the
approaching Pinael.

“Don’t be so disgusting,” snarled Pinael, grabbing the boy by the tie and
yanking him around to face him. “Don’t be so afraid. Here, here’s your
money back.”

Pinael tossed the two hundred into Hamish’s face in a lazily slap. He
flinched and cowered, which just made Pinael explode into mirth once more.

Hamish watched his money catch in the wind and blow away. A twenty landed
in a flaming puddle before him. He watched in horror as the Queen’s face
wrinkled, turned black and burned.

    - - - - - - -

(authors note: Angus chapter here. Angus wanders in Hell, looking for
answers to it all. The dead forest?)

- - - - - - -

Prot lay on the riverbank, gazing sadly over the treacherous river.
Upstream had been a different story, the river raging white and awful over
rocks and man-made dykes. Prot had been bashed around something terrible,
only his zombie nature had prevented him from drowning. Oh, Prot didn’t
have to breathe, but he did mainly for the look of the whole thing. It was
just another aspect of life that Prot clung on to. It was all a pantomime.
The illusion of life.

It wasn’t an illusion Prot wrought for the convience of others.

Where Lochland was he had no idea. That the Scotsman had entered the raging
river after him, he was fairly certain. No one could swear quite like
Lochland. But after that? Prot had no idea.

He was watching the slow waters before him, waiting for the body of his
friend to pass him by.

Prot remembered days gone old and yellow, like fading photographs or old
home movies. He remembered being alive, journeying across Scotland in a
clapped out old Winnebago, stopping in towns and cities across the country
and occasionally dealing with some terrible horror of the ancient world
that had risen to eat the locals. Demonic hounds, crazed necromancers,
zombie plagues and the occasional psychotic mass murderer. All good fun,
when all was said and done.

And then Prot had died.

It had been so stupid. A stupid mistake. He’d been lucky before, Prot
granted himself, but they had always come out the other end unscathed. Prot
had thought himself invincible. So many times so close to death, and yet
the two of them had triumphed over adversity, laughed together in the pub
afterwards and sat on their bar stools and planned their next adventure.

And where was he now? Where had it all got him? Sitting on the bank of a
septic river next to a sewage outflow, his soul trapped in an empty Jack
Daniel’s bottle sitting on the top self of the bar in the Gambit’s Arms.

He was sitting on the bank, waiting for a dead friend.

Prot would have cried if he was able. His goggles were filled with saline
solution, designed for contact lenses. Prot found that helped stop his eyes
from drying up and rotting. But he couldn’t cry.

Prot lifted the edge of his goggle slightly, and a single wet tear ran down
his cheek into his already soaking bandages.

It was the best he could do.

Prot sighed, staring at the placid waters. It was so still, peaceful even.
A full moon reflected in the surface, weaving and rippling slightly as the
reeds bent in the slight breeze blowing down into the valley. Trees hung
over the Prot’s head, rustling in the wind, falling from the branches to
land on river ands float downstream. He watched them pass, float around the
bend and whither they went then, well, he couldn’t really say.

The zombie near shit himself when the arm burst out of the river, fingers
clutching towards the sky. It was followed by a head crowned with fiery red
hair and a pair of fierce green eyes.

Lochland Tiberius McGlochland waded through the waters, dragging his tartan
bonnet and claymore behind him through the reeds. He was battered, bruised,
burned and bleeding. And he was very, very pissed off.

“Motherfucker!” he screamed, to no one in particular.

    - - - - -

The amazing duo of Scotsman and zombie were traipsing through the woodland,
miles from home. It was night, but the sky seemed to have cleared itself
after the day’s torrential rain so there was enough moonlight to walk in
without tripping over every three minutes.

The ground was a mud pit however. Lochland’s St. Hubbin's brand army boots
could only do so much, and it was still slow going.

What they needed to do was find a road.

“Do you think he’s dead?” asked Prot, scrambling over a rotten trunk and
landing knees-deep in a septic bog. “Eww,” the zombie added to himself.

“If he’s not, then he will be shortly,” growled Lochland. They were, of
course, speaking of Pinael.

“Doesn’t seem sporting to steal another man’s body,” muttered Prot,
dragging himself from the bog while Lochland waiting for him to catch up.
They were making slow progress.

“It’s grim stuff,” said Lochland, “I can’t imagine how it could have
happened. Normally demons have to be summoned.”

“Think Hamish did it?” asked Prot, carefully stepping over a croaking toad.

“That bloody fool? I doubt it. The Hamish I know could barely summon the
will to get out of bed in the morning, let alone get a fucker like Pinael
to do his bidding.”

“I used to like Hamish,” said Prot sadly, “He was a good kid. Used to do
card tricks down the pub. I never could figure out how he did them.”

“He cheated, I imagine,” said Lochland absently.

Something crunched under Prot’s feet. The zombie winced. “Sorry,” he said
to the creature beneath his feet.

“Don’t apologize, it’s Hamish’s fault,” said Lochland, sniffing the air and
looking for a gap in the trees.

“Not sorry about that. I’m apologizing to the snail I just crushed,”
explained Prot, looking guilty beneath his bandages.

“You’re apologizing to a dead gastropod?” asked Lochland, shaking his head.

“I always feel guilty about it,” said Prot morosely, “I hate accidentally
stepping on something and crunching it’s little house at the same time. It
seems extra cruel, somehow.”

“Sayeth the man who just broke a bottle of holy water over someone’s face,”
countered Lochland.

“That was different, that was a demon from the darkest dwelling of hell,”
sniffed Prot. “I could do that all day long. Just leave the snails out of
it.”

“You are a true humanitarian,” smiled Lochland, licking a finger and
holding it to the wind. “This way to Blairgowrie,” he said, marching off
into a copse of trees.

“How can you tell?” asked Prot, following him gingerly lest any more
wildlife fall pray to his shoes.

“Easy,” said Lochland, “Coupar Angus is down that way,” he said, pointing
behind them. “I can smell the goddamn chicken factory five miles distant.
Therefore, if Coupar Angus is that way, Blairgowrie is this way. And the
road should be up here somewhere.”

“We should have just followed the river back up,” said Prot, unconvinced.

“We could have done, but the bastards might be waiting for us up there. It
is best we approach them unseen. From an angle they will never expect!”

“Is this your way of telling me we are lost?” asked Prot.

“It might be,” admitted Lochland, “Keep an ear open for cars, will you?”

“We’re going to starve to death out here,” groaned Prot.

“We? Last I looked, you were already dead,” said Lochland, pushing a patch
of brambles out of the way with his sword lest they tear his naked legs to
pieces.

“I still need food,” said Prot, sliding past the brambles while Lochland
held them at bay.

“Braaaaaaaaainssssss!” groaned Lochland behind him, giggling to himself
afterwards.

“That’s damn racist!” said Prot, “Or undeadist, or something.”

“Pro-Life?” asked Lochland.

“Something like that,” said Prot, “I am an enlightened zombie. I don’t eat
brains. Don’t even like the taste of them, contrary to popular belief.”

“I never understood why zombies are so fixated with eating brains,”
pondered Lochland, “It defies scientific logic.”

“Ever seen a zombie with good teeth?” asked Prot.

“Most of the ones I have met have been in need good dentist,” conceded
Lochland.

“There you have it then,” said Prot, “They lust after the softer meat
because they tend to be a bit gummy.”

“My granny was ‘a bit gummy’; she never used to try to eat my brains.”

“Your granny probably thought it wasn’t worth the effort for such a small
meal,” grinned Prot, “And besides, was your granny a zombie?”

“She never had the chance,” said Lochland, “She was cremated.”

“Sensible lady,” said Prot admiringly, “Cremation is the way to go in this
modern world. Leaving your body lying around in the ground just waiting for
some bugger to dig it up is asking for trouble. I should know.”

“Oh, she never had much choice in the matter,” said Lochland jovially, “She
just fell asleep in her wheelchair. On Guy Fawks night. You can hardly
blame the local kids for getting a bit high spirited.”

“Are you pulling my leg?” asked Prot, eyebrow raised.

“Braaaaaiiiiiinnnnsss!” answered Lochland.

“Bastard,” said Prot, scrambling over a rotten trunk and landing knees-deep
in a septic bog. “Eww,” the zombie added to himself.

“I think we’ve been here before,” groaned Lochland, “This all looks
terribly familiar.”

“I think I see my snail,” said Prot sadly.
“Well, god damnit,” cursed Lochland.

    - - - - - - - -

Pinael had been busy.

Word had gotten around. Dope was once again flooding the streets of
Blairgowrie. A new day had dawned upon the shabby town, the sun rising
weary over the scheme, and this day would bring Pinael’s mad scheme to
fruitation and start the wheels of revelution.

Hamish awoke in his bed with a start. There was a brief moment where he
felt good, the warm sun beaming through the window and warming his face,
it’s gentle caresse causing the young man to shift a little in bed and
smile. The smile failed when he remembered what had happened last night.

Oh God, let that be a nightmare, please.

It was not. Hamish knew it in his heart, and he saw confirmation in the
morning paper. He stood in his dressing gown in the front hall, looking at
the headline incrediously. GAS TANK EXPLOSION KILLS FOUR.

Relief flooded Hamish’s features as he read the side bar. They were blaming
it on the faulty gas heaters. Thank the Lord for Blairgowrie’s utterly
incompetent police force.

He was home free. All he had to do now was kick Satan’s spawn out of his
house, head down to Buckfast Abbey and spend the rest of his life in quiet
comtemplation of his multitude of sins.

Well, first thing was first. Coffee in hand, he headed through to his
Mother’s living room, where he was sure the Beast would be sitting making
charming small talk over a cup of tea with his mother.

His mother was no where in sight.

The room was full of stoners. Full of them. Stoners filled every
conceivable space. They even filled the spaces unconceivable.

“What the fuck is going on?” blustered Hamish, barging his way through the
ramshackle que. In the middle of it all, swathed head to toe in bandages,
was the demon Pinael.

Hamish gawked.

The demon  was sitting sprawed on his mother’s favourate couch, a foot high
pile of ganja to his left, a foot high stack of twenty pound notes to his
right. The demon was smoking a cigar and drinking coffee from his mother’s
mug.

“What is going on?” asked Pinael, cheerfully, “Why, my dear Hamish, I am
making us some money. I thought that would be obvious.”

“There must be twenty grand there,” breathed Hamish, basking in the
presence of more filthy lucre than he had ever dreamed existed.

“Nineteen thousand, one hundred and seventeen pounds, twenty seven pence,”
breezed Pinael, “Oh, and an old Ford Orion that someone swapped me for half
a kilo. It’s sitting out front.”

“Money,” whined Hamish weakly.

“Indeed. Amazing stuff. Next!” shouted Pinael, sending away a young proto-
hippie gripping a small baggie of the Good Stuff.

“Where’s my mother?” asked Hamish, tearing away his eyes from the small
fortune piled carelessly before him, “She wouldn’t hold with all this riff
raff inside her house.”

“Oh, her. I believe she took her share of the cash and buggered off to the
Bahamas for a few weeks,” lied Pinael flawlessly, “She’s going over there
to investigate the local flora and fauna. Something about ‘coconuts the
size of demolishion balls.’ I hope she remembered to pack her swimsuit, she
left in something of a hurry. Next!

“She left you in charge of her house?”  blustered Hamish.

“Well, she would hardly see me dealing from the street corner like a common
criminal now, could she? Wise woman, your mother. Definitely knows her
plants. Biggest damn dope I have ever seen, let me tell you. Next! Oh, do
get a move on, I haven’t got all day.”

Hamish felt faint. It was probably the smell of dope in the air, he
decided. He heard Pinael laughing in the background, heard the pile of
money rustle enticingly as the demon dropped another note into the
monolithic pile.

Fresh air, Hamish decided, that was the ticket. He pushed through the
thronging masses of wasted humanity to little complaint, eblowed himself
some room by the window and opened it wide.

Cool, fresh air flooded his norstrils. Hamish closed his eyes with a
shudder and drew himself together.

“Excuse me sir,” said the policeman outside the window, “Could I have a
word?”

“FEDS!” shrieked Hamish, near slamming the window on the officer’s fingers.
The effect was instantaneous. The room emptied in a finger click. One
moment there were fifty withdrawn junkies inside his living room, the next
the place was empty but for settling dust.

“Oh, how bothersome,” said Pinael, halfway through filling another bag,
“They’ve all run off!”

Windows were flung open from the second floor as Stoners piled out into the
backgarden like badly dressed lemmings. The back door stood ajar, the
addicts rampaging through the garden of magnificent sprouts and cabbage,
vaulting the walls and swinging over fences using the washing line. The pea
patch was trampled into oblivion, the carrots were uprooted and scattered
beneath the fleeing feet of Blairgowire’s less desirables.

Less than fifteen seconds since his ill advised scream, Hamish stood as the
last human being in his house.

“What a damn nuisance,” growled Pinael, “Hamish! You’d best invite the man
in.”

“Are you insane!” whined Hamish, trembling all over, “There are witnesses!
You can’t kill an Officer of the Law, we’ll go to jail! I’ll be raped! My
ass is to fine for jail!”

“Who said anything about killing him?” sighed Pinael, “I was simply going
to bribe him. We are sitting on top of enough money to bribe the half the
police force and enough dope to lobotomize the other half. Killing him was
the furthest thing from my mind,” he lied smoothly.

“It’s PC Cruickshank,” wailed Hamish, wringing his hands and shaking, “I
know the man! I went to school with the fool! He’s as incorruptible as they
come! Oh, Jesus and Buhdda, I bet he knows what happened last night!
They’ll reinstiute the death penalty, just for us!”

Pinael sighed, pulled a robe over his bandaged frame and downed the last of
his cold coffee. “I’ll go deal with him, shall I?”

“Don’t kill him,” begged Hamish, “Please don’t kill him, I’ve seen enough
death, I swear, don’t kill him. Please...”

“Well…” said Pinael thoughfully, stopping by the living room door,
“Normally, I don’t do requests.”

Hamish was groveling and cowering on the floor.

“But hey! Since it’s you doing the asking…”

Pinael smiled horribly upon Hamish, tied his robe and answered the door.

    - - - - - - -

(insert Angus chapter here. Angus talks with McPhee in the village of the
damned. Souls of the living keep flashing into view.)

    - - - - - -

Lochland pushed aside the bushes to see what all the racket was about.

“Finally,” beathed Prot, recognizing the scene, “Nearly home now. Those are
the beech hedges. We can follow them all the way back to Blair.”

Lochland nodded, the hairs on the nape of his neck still bristling.
Something was wrong here.

They were indeed at the Meikleour Beech Hedge*, possibly the one and only
tourist attraction around Blairgorwie. It was as it sounds, which was to
say a bloody great big 40ft high hedge. Hamish’s mother was about the only
one in the world who cared. Lochland certainly didn’t. But a road ran the
entire length of the famous landmark, and that road would lead L&P back to
Blairgowrie for their much delayed reckoning with evil.

(* Incidently, the very same hedge that Tolkien was thinking about when he
was describing the High Hedge that marked the borders of Buckland. So it
really is quite famous. Still just a giant privet hedge though. Tourists
tend to go home quite disappointed.)

The hedge was going orange, dying off as Autum settled into Scotland.
Leaves littered the gray and wet road, making corners a bit dodgy for the
boy racers who used the long stretch of road like a runway.

In a layby close at hand, a blue mini metro was rocking back and forth.
Prot giggled.

“Looks like someone is having fun,” sniggered the zombie.

“Stand aside!” said Lochland, drawing his sword and pushing through the
bushes in two great strides.

“Oh shit,” cursed Prot, trying to pull himself from the bush that had
ensnared his dark trouser legs, “Lochland!” he cried, “That is really not a
good idea!”

Lochland paid him no heed, walking quickly towards the rocking motor. He
stoopped outside, grabbed the door and hauled the rusty hinges open.

A small woman, clothing in torn and in disarray, tumbled from the vehicle,
spilling out nearly in to Lochland’s lap.

“Oh, thank Christ!” she shouted, scrambling away from the open door and
taking refuge behind the Scotsman. “Keep him away from me!”

Lochland growled, sword still lowered. A man with red eyes slavered and
drooled, still clutching the reminant’s of the woman’s shirt in a tightly
balled fist.

The smell of dope issued forth from the car. The man inside growled
bestially.

“Not another one,” Lochland groaned.

The thing in the car leapt for him.

Lochland swung Moichib, aiming for a decapitating blow. The creature came
in low however, and bowled into Lochland underneath his swing. The two went
spinning backwards, Lochland bashing at the thing’ skull with the pommel of
his sword and swearing for assistance.

“Prot! Get this fucking thing off of me!”

Prot had managed to untangle himself and was rushing to his friend’s aid.
The zombie lept, a flying jump kick he had once seen in an old Jackie Chan
movie.

The creature had it’s fangs inches from Lochland’s throat, looking up just
in time to get a solid boot to the face.

It’s nose practuically exploded.

Stunned, the beast relaxed it’s grip on Lochland, who used the moment to
smash Moichib’s hilt into the demonic stoner’s craw. The beast screamed,
sprawing broken teeth all over the Scotsman as he drew his fist back for
another swing.

“Don’t kill him!” the woman screamed, staying Lochland’s hand, “That’s ma
man!”

“What the fuck do you want me to do?” screamed Lochland back, grabbing the
rabid thing by the throat and trying to push it’s bloody mouth away from
his neck, “Let the bastard eat me?”

“That’s ma man!” sobbed the woman as Lochland bashed at the bloody thing
again with the base of his sword.

“Lochland!” said Prot, “Duck!”

Glass and liquid exploded behind the thing’s head, spraying Lochland with a
fair share of both. The beast before his face went crosseyed, mewed a sound
of deep confusion and passed out on top of him.

“Bloody fucking hell!” cursed Lochland, pushing the dead weight away from
him and shakily regaining his feet.

“Ma man, ma man,” the woman sobbed, dropping to her knees beside the
unconscious demon. Prot hauled her off.

“Don’t!” warned Prot, “He’s possessed. He’s still dangerous.”

“Bastard nearly had me,” choked Lochland, wiping his face clean of blood
with his bonnet, “What did you do to him?” he asked Prot breathlessly,
“Holy water?”

“Miller Draft,” appologised Prot, “I didn’t have any Holy Water left.”

“You’ve been holding out on me?” asked Lochland.

“It was for emergencies only,” lied Prot guiltily.

“Have you got any fags stashed away in that coat of yours?” asked Lochland
hungrily.

“They all got soaked in the water, I’m afraid,” said Prot sadly, “It’s a
miracle that bottle survived it, to tell you the truth.”

”I’ll say,” agreed Lochland, still panting heavily. “Prot, tie this bastard
up.”

“With pleasure,” said Prot, producing a roll of duct tape* from one of his
many pockets and getting down to business.

(*Duct tape. It’s like The Force. Has a light side, a dark side and it
holds the universe together. Never leave home without it.)

“What happened?” Lochland asked the sobbing woman, as kindly as he could.

“We were just out here, you know…” she cried, hugging into Lochland, “He
thought it would be romantic. He was always saying thing like that.”

“Ssh, it’s alright,” consoled the Scotsman, “I’ll here to help. Tell me
what happened to him.”

“We had finished, well… you know,” she said, still sniffling, “And I wanted
a smoke. So he brings out his dope, and the next thing I know he’s really
stoned and then he just went for me. I thought he was going to kill me. Ma
poor wee man…”

“Dope?” said Lochland suspiciously, “Oh Christ.”

“He’s never been this way before on it, I swear.”

“Did you inhale?” asked Lochland, backing away from the crying woman,
loosening Moichib by his side.

“Yes, of course I did…” she said, looking deathly afraid, “It was… it was
really good. I felt like I was flying. Are you on the drug squad?”

“You’re half right,” muttered Prot, tearing the duct tape with his teeth.
“Ouch,” he said, tongueing a loose canine with concern.

“This is to do with out little friend Pinael,” hissed Lochland to Prot,
“He’s fucking with the town’s supply and turning happy stoners in raving
madmen.”

“I guessed that,” said Prot, making sure the man on the ground’s feet were
tightly taped together, “Half of Blairgowire are pot smokers. The bastard
is amassing an army.”

“Oh goodie,” said Lochland grimly.

Out loud, Prot said, “We’ve got to get this guy to a priest, find out
what’s going on and how we can stop it.”.

“Take him Father McGregor?” suggested Lochland.

“The best in the business,” agreed Prot, “He’s a dab hand at the old
crucifix and ‘Out Satan!’ routine.”

“Let’s do it.”

    - - - - -

Father McGregor was currently tiding his church.

Timeshare was a terrible thing, the Priest reflected. At the moment he was
sharing the Community center with the Spastics. Mass in the morning.
Spastics in the afternoon.

And the Spastics never cleaned up behind them.
It was getting irritating, grinding away on even the Father’s fast and near-
limitedless reserves of goodwill to all mankind. Wiping away the spit and
vomnit from his ersatz plastic pews every morning, finding that someone had
vandalized half his bible’s will blue crayon. His white robes had been used
for a dressing up game. Judging from the scorch marks around the hem, they
must have been playing Klansman again.

And, to top it all off, they had eaten all the communion wafers. Again.
Christ’s body had once again been cannibalized by the legions of retards
that wrestled with Father McGregor’s soul.

God be praised, thought the father darkly.

And where the hell was his congregation? Late again, as per usual. Ever
since the Gambit Arms had started ignoring the Queen’s opening hours and
just left it’s doors open to all and sundry at any time of the day and
night (a fact attributable to Louise losing the pub keys), his parish had
all but abandoned him. Gone! Up and vanished like a fart in the wind!
Instead of being here, praising the Lord for the good world in which they
lived, they were off in the pub polluting their immortal souls with wicked
ales and alcohol.

“Fuck it!” shouted the Father in most unsanctimonious terms, tearing his
dog collar from his neck and casting it down upon the cheap wooden floor.
Those fuckers wanted to stay in the pub? He’d take the ceremony to them,
the heathen bunch of God-dodging little bastards!

He was halfway into his coat when Lochland burst through the doors, looking
more deranged and ragged than usual. He was scorched around the kilt,
covered in mud and what the father could only pray was his own blood.

“Ah, Lochland, how good of you to come,” said the Father dryly, “Please,
take a pew, we’ll be starting in ten minutes. Just as soon as I can drag
the rest of your friends in away from their pints and back to church for a
little bit of divine vengeance.”

“Sorry Father, no time for mass today,” said Lochland quickly.

“You’re here for the Spastics then,” growled Father McGregor, “You
treacherous little Judas!”

“No Spastics for me today either,” said Lochland, remembering to remove his
bonnet. “We have a slight problem outside, I’d think you’d best come and
take a look,” he added, respectfully holding the door open.

Father McGregor was familiar with Lochland’s ‘little problems’. He paled
slightly, looked up to the Lord who was no doubt watching from somewhere
above and mouthed a silent Why do you choose to punish your servant so?

“It’s fairly urgent, Father,” said Lochland, encourageing the priest out of
the door in the middle of his one way complaint to the Almighty. “He’s
trying to eat Prot,” Lochland added meaningfully.

“Best get to him before he chokes then,” said the Father, striding forth
from the door and out into the carpark. He immediately saw the problem.

The Mini-Metro was rocking back and forth again, Prot desperately
attempting to tape the possessed man back into his chair. Somewhere along
the line, Prot had managed to stick himself to the demon and the two were
now just a thrashing mess of duct tape and screaming.

“Loooooocccchhhhlllaaaaaaannnnd! He’s bitten my bloody ear off!
Heeeeellllppppp!”

“Oh Christ,” said the Priest, head in his hands, “Why me? Every Goddamn
week it’s the same…”

    - - - - - -

(Final Angus chapter)

- - - - -

The man was writhing and thrashing against the wooden PTA table that served
Father McGregor for an altar. An entire roll of duct tape had been employed
to curtail his movement even that much. Lochland stood to his side, sword
resting casualy on the ground before him.

Prot was sadly examining the chewed up ball of year-old flesh that had been
his left ear.

“At least he spat it out,” said Lochland, attempting to console his friend.
“I thought we were going to have to stomach pump him.”

Stomach pumping had indeed proved to be unnessicary in the end. Father
McGregor had just kicked the man very hard in the testicles repeatedly
until the desired result was obtained.

Prot sadly put his ear in his pocket. He would have to go without until
they could get back to the caravan for some superglue.

Father McGregor was in the process of ritual. He had shut all the curtains
bar the one of the west, lit a few dozen sticks on incense and was
currently reading through the big leather bound bible for an appropriate
passage. The communial wine was on standby.

The woman had gone. Legged it, summerised Lochland correctly. Obviously a
sensible lass. She wouldn’t have wanted to be around for the next bit
anyway. It usually got quite messy. Pea soup didn’t even cover it.

“I shall attempt to contact the man’s soul, which still resides in his
body” said Father McGregor, crossing himself and drinking a fair swig of
communal wine. “I shall then empower his soul to conquer the demon that
possesses him, and cast it from his body and back into the void from whence
it came!”

“Have you started yet?” asked Lochland, peering at the man on the table
tnoughtfully, “It doesn’t seem to be working.”

“No,” sighed the Father, “I was just warming up. Getting the old ritual
voice going again.”

“Anything I can do to help?” asked the intreiged Scotsman.

“You can shut up and let me get on with it,” snapped Father McGregor. “Now,
what was the man’s name? I need to contact his soul.”

“No idea, I never asked,” answered Prot, as Lochland was still under Holy
orders to shut up.

“Christ,” intoned the Priest, massaging his temples. “Well, tell me the
demon’s true name is. If I know the name then I can control the Beast, for
they are the children of Lies. The Truth can wield great power over them.”

“Errr… nope. Dunno that one either,” supplied Prot, grinning helplessly.

Father McGregor gazed at Prot icily.

“You mean you brought me this… this thing, knowing nothing about it,
nothing of it’s nature, it’s power, knowing nothing about what it is? How
am I meant to free the poor man’s soul if I know nothing about his captor?”

“I just thought you could kick it in the balls a few more times,” said
Lochland helpfully. “That seemed to work last time.”

Father McGregor moaned despairingly, longing for the days of old when
heroes had actually been competent. Give me Van Helsing! Give me Conan!
Give me Sam Vimes, give me Spiderman! Give me anything, anybody, anyone
other than this pair of feckless idiots!

God declined to answer. Van Helsing was dead and Spiderman was busy. Father
McGregor was on his own.

“Hold this,” he said to Prot, thrusting the heavy leather bible into Prot’s
unprotesting hands. “If he starts to break loose, smack him with it.”

Prot nodded, and the Priest got down to business.

He placed one hand on the demon’s forehead, minding his wrist against the
gnashing and blasphemous mouth of teeth. With the other he produced a
rosary, seemingly out of thin air.

The demon shrieked at the sight of it. Latin began to spill from the
priest’s lips, a low, steady drone.

(insert latin here? – dn)

The demon in the man’s body howled, thrashing it’s head back and forth,
attepting to dislodge the Priest’s hand over it’s third eye. It’s jaw
spasmed, and the creature bit through it’s own tongue, spraying the Priest
with blood.

(More latin. – dn)

Lochland watched as the creature writhed, stretching the duct tape and
snapping it from the table. It was still held down, but one of it’s legs
were free, kicking Lochland square in the sporran. It either fluke or
spitreful revenge.

Prot lunged across the table, grabbing the beast’s free limb and attempting
to hold it down

The Priest’s voice was now a low rumble of thunder, the ancient latin doing
something or other I really can’t be fucking arsed writing a bunch of
moody, suspenseful crap. Needless to say flash bang, thunder and lightning,
big climax.

The Priest was lifted in the air, sent spinning and crashing down into the
stacks of plastic chairs behind him. The demon on the table roared, choking
blood. Lochland raised Moichib against the gale, the demon’s throat
explosed beneath the blade.

A single cut was all I would take.

“No!” screamed Father McGregor, reaching out to lochland from his prone
position on the floor, “Don’t spill blood in the house presence of God!”

“My ass!” screamed Lochland in return, swinging Moichip overhead.

The gale suddenly ceased. The room seemed to lighten. The deep, freezing
cold retreated.

Lochland stood there, Moichib an inch from the creatures neck. His look was
one of murder, just daring the demon to give him an excuse.

“Any more of your shit,” said Lochland calmly, “And I’ll make a doorstop
out of your head. Understand.”

The demon just smiled and exposed it’s neck fully, mocking him.

“Now,” said Lochland, still staring the creature down “My friend here is
going to put some duct tape over your mouth. He looses so much as a finger
while he’s doing it and I’ll cut off your head before that finger is
halfway down your throat. It will making getting it back a lot easier.”

Prot pulled out the duct tape with a satisfying skkkkkrrrrrrrriiiitt noise.
The creature let Prot bind him without further incident.

“He’ll probably choke on his own blood, you know,” said Prot, looking at
the severed tongue that the creature had spat at Father McGregor.

“Like I care,” said Lochland. “You OK Father?”

“I’ll live,” said the shaken Priest.

“I take it our friend is still in there,” said Lochland, tapping the beast
on the skull with the flat of his blade.

“He is. The poor man’s soul is… lost. Where it is, I don’t know. Hell
perhaps,” said the Priest, regrettably. “The demon is now the only soul in
that body. Excorsizing it would just leave us with a corpse.”

“That’s not how it’s meant to work,” said Prot sadly, “I thought possession
was two souls in one body, struggling for control?”

“It is, and this is not. This is just a demon in a prison of flesh. We
don’t dare kill it. Killing it might let the demon within escape.”

Fuck this chapter, I’ll do it later.

    - - - - - - -

Lochland and Prot strode from the church in silence, each thinking about
what the Priest had said.

What had happened to the man’s soul?

Every single case of demonic possession that Lochland had encountered had
involved two souls battling for possession of one body; one soul was the
human, the other was the demon. In some cases it manifested itself as a
split personality, in others one soul totally dominated the other.

How many people in the world walked around with a demon on their back,
egging them on? Lochland wasn’t a guessing man, but he could tell there
were a lot just by looking around him. The place was a hellish state.

Sometimes the fight within became external; violent excorsisms were the
worst. But it was always an internal battle, there were always two souls,
no matter how small and frightened one of them had become.

For Pinael had done here was impossible as Lochland understood it. None of
it made any sense to the Scotsman. Soul’s weren’t lightly taken from their
bodies. Sure, you could kill someone and be fairly sure that the soul would
vacate it’s fleshy abode, but to do it while someone was still alive?

It had happened to Prot, of course, but those were special circumstances.
Unique circumstances, really. And Prot’s still had a soul, sitting in it’s
bottle in the Gambit Arms. It operated his body by some sort of
metaphysical remote control.

The Scotsman didn’t understand it much himself, but the zombie wasn’t
complaining, and that was good enough for Lochland. Bugger metaphysical.

“Any ideas?” the Scotsman asked, fed up of thinking for the time being. He
just wanted to kill something.

“Find Barry and Derek,” said Prot, “They bought some of that dope from
Pinael. I’m sure it’s the key to understanding what’s going on here.”

”And once we understand it, we can cut it’s head off, right?”

“Right.”

“Good plan,” said Lochland, “Where do we start?”

    - - - - - - -

The man from the Spastics was new, his name was Willie and he had a
moustache so thin and fluffy that it crackled static electricity when he
talked. He was the nervous, excitable sort, and he hadn’t really been
trained much. He was just there to drive the bus and make sure that no one
set themselves on fire. He wasn’t trained to handle this.

“I’m deeply sorry Father,” he said, wringing his hands, “I really have no
idea how this could have happened.”

“Do not worry, my son,” said Father McGregor, grinning evilily now that his
time of vengeance was nigh. “No damage done, eh?”

“Yes sir, just as you say, no damage done. But I shall ensure that this
sort of thing never happens again, let me assure you!”

“Bless you son, I know you will. Like I say, mistakes can be made. Lord
knows, I’ve made a few in my time.”

“Thank you, Father,” said Willie, breathing a slight sigh of relief, “I do
hope he hasn’t been to much trouble?”

“None whatsoever,” grinned Father McGregor, “Once we got him tied down and
secured it he was quiet as a little lamb.”

“Tied down?” blanched Willie, “I’m sure that wasn’t nessicary…”

“Oh, very nessicary indeed I’m afaird. He turned violent when I walked into
Mass this morning. I think he was angry at having been left behind. A
danger to himself and others. I’m sure you understand that he had to be
restrained.”

“Well, yes, we have a padded cell at the hospital for just such a reason…”

“Ah, here’s the poor fellow,” said Father McGregor, opening the door to
reveal the Demon Belael, still attached the seat of the Metro and bubbling
blood happily.

“Dear God, what happened to his face!” whispered Willie, recoiling.

The demon grinned at him with the full three teeth remaining.

“He ran into a wall,” lied the Priest, “Looked very painful, I must say.
Not much I could do about it, of course. The responsibility lies solely
with his designated carers.”

“Are you sure he’s one of ours?” asked Willie, jumping back as Belael spat
a mouthful of blood at his feet.

“I’d say, he looks fairly spasticated to me,” said the Priest carefully. “I
assume you fellows must have left him behind yesterday.”

“Well, I… I…” Willie swallowed. The council were going to go bananas about
this.

“Like I say, no damage was done. Mind your fingers now, he’s a feisty
little bugger.”

“Thank you Father,” said Willie. The demon began to strain against his
bonds once again, burbling obcenties quite well considering he had no
tongue.

“Ahk! Ahk! Aaaahhhhk!” cursed Belael, opening his mouth so Willie could get
a good look at the mess inside.

“Urgh!” said willie, looking away. The word ‘bananas’ was spinning around
and around inside his head like a yellow boomerang.

Someone’s head was going to roll.

Probably the one with the trainee moustache.

“I can’t imagine the council will be too chuffed about the state of the
poor lad,” said Father McGregor sadly, as if reading Willie’s mind.

“Oh,” said Willie quickly, “I’m not sure the council has to know. Internal
matter and all that. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to go bothering the council
about something as trivial as this. Ha ha.”

“Well,” said Father McGregor, putting on a show of considering, “There is
the matter of public safety to think about. Can’t have violent spastics
wandering around the streets unattended just because some youngster can’t
do a proper headcount when he gets them back on the bus. That won’t do at
all. It’s almost criminal neglect.”

“Yes, yes, I totally agree,” gasped the desperate Willie.

“Maybe you should… curtail their little excursions here, just for the time
being. Or perhaps send them someplace else. I hear Coupar Angus has a
wonderful community center this time of year.”

“Yes!” agreed Willie, sweat rolling down his back, “Coupar Angus it is!
Much safer!”

“Ah, you are seeped in wisdom, my son,” beamed Father McGregor. “Here, let
me help you carry this poor soul back to the bus. I’m sure his friends have
missed him.”

“Ahk! Ahk! Ahhaaahhaaahhaak!”

    - - - - - -