THE GOBBLING

HORROR THAT MAKES YOU SNORT. ICKY. CUDDLY. EPIC. OUT NOW!

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Hello, I'm J.D. Donne and I wrote this thing

I sometimes think I'm a writer. There was a time when I was a journalist, a really bad one, and don't even ask about my time as a sports reporter. Now though, I'm thinking I might be a horror writer because I do rather like zombies - not that there are any in this book, but there is a sociopathic grandmother, an unpleasant turkey deboner and a pub landlord called Clive.

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THE GOBBLING AS A SIX-WORD NOVEL

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Horror writers may sometimes giggle at inappropriately gory moments, but generally we're quite huggable. That means free stuff. First four chapters of The Gobbling.
Get into it! Oh, and these are from the pre-edited version so you may find some gaffs and slip-ups in these sample chapters.

Prologue. A beginning and a bumpkin

It was the most joyous monstrosity that ever lay without a head. No feathers, no feet, no giblets, no wattles. Yet it was still a bird, and a marvellous one at that. Juices washed around its bony stumps. Greens and steaming vegetables bolstered its girth. Knotted herbs mingled with fat beneath the skin, enticing those within a sniff to drool and dream of sweet mastication.Her bulging fingers, grubby and sullied from a lifetime of giblet extractions rolled over the platter’s lip, assisting her mammoth bosom in the provision of a worthy throne for a bird so grand and tasty.An apple-wax shine adorned her cheeks. Within them an eruption of rosy fulfilment and a motherly smile of the kind that makes you scared to be sad. Probing blood vessels loitered, overflowing onto a nose that signalled a specialty in sherry trifles, beef and ale pies, red wine sauces and brandy-soaked puddings.Without warning, wafts from the giant bird took hold of her senses, sending her into an orgasm of delightful sniffs and smacking lips. She shuddered, swayed a little and felt it necessary to distance herself from the steaming temptress. Carefully, she placed it on the kitchen table, her movements only a nibble away from wildly tearing at the steaming flesh and drowning amid great snorting noises as her nostrils fill with fat and grease.A deep, lung filling breath, and control resumed. She stood, arms crossed, proud as a warrior in front of her beheaded and basted foe. Her smile returned.‘Tuuuuuuuurkey,’ she announced, full of bumpkin delight, ‘mmm mmmmmm.’ And without fair warning, she started to sing.‘Soilent Noight,’ she cawed, ‘Blessed are thee who takes their hand on a journey up a turkey’s bum.’Concentration gathered her brow into a furrowed ball as the roly-poly maiden wrestled with words and melody. The resulting image became that of an ominous jelly spewing festive verse with a level of conviction that went way beyond comfort. Hither and thither she pranced, adding undue pressure to the cardboard kitchen until a door folded and died and the polyester snow drooped from the lintel. Her tartan and holly patterned frock moaned under the strain of her swaying body. The floor rocked. Curls bounced free of her bonnet. And the turkey was grateful for its lifeless state.Taking a drastic swing towards the unbearable, a portly chef with balls of fire entered the scene. The flaming plum puddings roared savagely in front of a face bereft of any foliage, as if it too had been caught in the inferno. A thin membrane of overstretched skin coated his fleshy skull that dripped freely with sweat, hissing in the fire of his puddings. Under the veil of sweat there glowed a set of rosy cheeks to match his pickled princess’, though unlike hers their origin lay in a blood pressure not to be envied.In a moment of utter terror, the observer noticed that not only was the chef providing an accompanying harmony, but also he was shuffling from one end of the kitchen to the other.His groin was gyrating.The slithering movements of his plastic brogues gave hideous birth to pelvic propulsions aimed directly at his cavorting kitten. A twinkle shone from the corner of her eye when she caught sight of the man with flaming balls. She spun backwards on her right heel, forcing her rear quarters to face his buckish advance. Closer they drew, closer until their synchronised midriffs grazed on each other’s sweat. All who gazed did so with ashen faces as if caught in the headlights of a driverless train. Calls came for mercy.Their loins collided like planets. Many closed their eyes. Some never opened them again. And then came silence. The turkey ditty had come to an end, and loins, though still together, ceased their grinding and gyrations.They stood arm in arm, proud as punch and brimming with family values. Had it not been for the unsettling glimpse into what happens behind their closed doors, those who watched may have possibly melted at the cuddly couple standing before them. But it was clear they had a saucy role-playing karaoke thing going on, and for that the scar ran deep.‘Oh moi dears, moi dears,’ she crowed, wiping her brow and armpits with her apron, ‘How loverly it be to ‘ave you wiv us on this roight an’ special day. Moi name, moi loverlies, is Gladys,’ then with a curtsey and a wink, ‘but, oh woi not call me Glaaad.’ She giggled, releasing a bubble of drool onto her lips. ‘And this ‘ere ‘unk of rrripplin muscle,’ even he looked surprised at this, ‘iz me ‘ubby Norrrmaaan.’ She leant close, winking again and licking her lips until drool landed with a splot on her shoe. ‘I calls ‘im Sexay Norrrm, and oi bet you can see woi can’t you gurlz?’ She manhandled his gut, shaking it vigorously until a button popped from his shirt. ‘Oooh and gurlz, not only iz ‘e aaaaaall maan, bud ‘e cooks the foinest pudd’ns in the ‘ole woid world ‘e doos, mmm mmm mmm mmmmmm!’Sexy Norm’s puddings, it appeared, were the dingle in her dangle, for between one ‘mmm’ and the next she inhaled with monstrous grunts, flicking her tongue in all directions and sending a fresh batch of drool to stain the kitchen walls and glaze the unfortunate turkey.Norm reacted positively to this vote of virility. His thoughts drifted to a grubby place where an audience of fillies lusted after his rippling physique while squirming with unbridled glee. He turned to place the puddings on the table with the turkey, winked at nobody in particular, did the groin thing and announced in a husky rumble, ‘How’d you like a mouthful of pudd’n ladies?’Clearly, Norm was working the pistons of lust. In relieving himself of his puddings, he had also relieved many of his shirt buttons of responsibility. It flapped open, hanging lazily from a drenching of sweat. Shimmering beads gathered around his nipples, salt residue around his navel. As a celebration of his musky powers, he drew a slow and slippery tongue over his glistening lips. The corner of his mouth twitched in unison with suggestive eye movements, hinting to his wife very rude things indeed.Gladys moved gently, leaning and slowly crushing Norm’s foot under her size 13 stiletto heels. Her mouth pursed swiftly to one side, keeping all the while a broad smile fixed upon her audience. ‘The food Norm.’ She spoke in firm whispers. ‘Concentrate on the flippin’ food you ‘orny toad.’ An innocent giggle followed, as did a curtsey and some vigorous fanning with a cardboard fish slice.‘Hoo hoo, now where was oi me dears? Oooooooh yes.’ Her back arched, her pelvis shot forward. ‘Well, I be sure we’ll all be wiv me in thinkin’ that it be that time of year again. Tha’s roight me loverliess, it be time to think about Christmas once more. Ches’nuts roastin’, turkeys a sizzlin’, and let’s not forget Norm’s famous puddn’s.’ The drool returned. Norm stood motionless, with a contorted expression across his face, owing no doubt to the large stiletto heel that impaled both his foot and friskiness to the ground. ‘But,’ she gasped, ‘where’s a person to get all this loverly home cooked scrrrrumptious food from? You don’t want to cook it yerself now, doos you? An’ jus’ think about aaall that shoppin’ in them there ‘orrible supermaaarkets. Oooh, it do makes me shudder at the thort of it.’ And shudder she did, much to her husband’s whines of protest. ‘But don’t worry me little loves,’ she said, composing herself, ‘‘cause ‘elp be on the way. Woi not, oi tells you, wooooiiiiiii not…get a bumper flippin’ big ‘amper from me and moi Norm? Mmm? Tha’s roight, when you orrrderrrs an ‘amper from The Bumper Flippin’ Big ‘Amper Company, you gets the ‘ole of Christmas delivered to your door in one heeeeuuuuumongous wicker baaaaasket, you do. We gives you more ‘ome baked goodness than you can eat, more beer, woin and spirits than you can drink,’ she let out a petite hiccup, ‘and we even throw in the pressies too!’ She was getting a little over-excited again. ‘In fact, oi reckons we don’t even need Santa any more.’ She flashed her eyes at her traumatised husband. ‘Especially when we got sexay Norm.’There exists a thin line between a roguish oddball and a marauding danger to the public, and with an effortless glide into the latter, Gladys, of The Bumper Flippin’ Big ‘Amper Company, became a worry to us all. The chant was slow and restrained at first, then built into a riotous spot of hollering, ‘Out with Santa, in with sexay Norm…Out with Santa, in with sexay Norm…Out with Santa, in with sexay Norm…sexay Norm…sexay Norm…sexay Norm.’All who watched grew silent. Parents gathered their children close. Dogs hid under chairs. Unfortunately, sexay Norm had no such luxury. He was impaled next to unhinged danger, his aggressor strengthening her hold as the chant saw her jumping and stamping like a witchdoctor having just swallowed an energising newt.Pain and relief mingled in Norm’s eyes as he heard Gladys drawing the pitch to a close. ‘And’,’ she said, pausing and sensing his desire to be free, ‘All these fresh,’ she sniffed gloriously, ‘goodies won’t cost you the earth. Ain’t that roight, ‘usband of moin?’ He squeaked in reply. ‘All this will cost you is a wee smidge of your annual income,’ and then quietly, ‘per month,’ and then quieter still, ‘for 440 months.’She ranted on, ‘But it don’t stop there.’ Norm wished it did. ‘The very furst ten people to call I on the phone will each receive a special gift of love from me an’ moi Norm. You’ll never believe your luck and you’ll think every Christmas has landed at once. But it be true, and if you iz one of those luckay ten, you will receive…wait for it…are you ready…a limited edition video tape of me an’ moi Norm singin’ all your Christmas classics and dancin’ like the little dainty fairies we be. Now wouldn’t that be special? Oh oi feel for them Norm, oi feel for them oi do.’And at long last she drew it to an end, giving the number to call and brandishing a huge sprig of mistletoe above their heads. She turned to kiss her sweet love, finally removing her heel from his grossly perforated foot. As their lips collided in a squelching mass of slobber, Norm, awash with relief, breathed a long and strident sigh. Gladys unfortunately took this as the return of misplaced lust and drove the bloodstained heel back into the gaping chasm that once housed an entire foot. As the commercial faded from the television, it rewarded the shrewd viewer with a bloodcurdling scream and the sight of Norm reaching for a real, non-cardboard, meat tenderising hammer.

• Next chapter

Chapter 1. Little Medusa’s rumpus

An old lady stood motionless outside the Humbug and Harp. Rain converged along her many wrinkles, running in streams through her sodden clothes. Her feet wallowed in a puddle. Black clouds, low enough to graze the rooftops did nothing for her mood. Her bottom lip quivered. The rain penetrated her underwear, and as the deluge threatened to never cease, she grumbled.Tinkerbell Fanny McWiddle despised duty, or any obligation to further the cause of others. She was her own woman, cantankerous, withered, without standards, and she cared only for her daily pickled egg and sweet sherry while perusing the six o’clock news.But not today.For the pleasure had already been thieved. Daily routine had become poisoned with a request. More a command when considering its magnitude and source. No matter how she viewed it, it was a duty. Inescapable, unavoidable, not worth the rumpus of refusal. And so again, she grumbled.The Humbug and Harp was a pokey old joint. The air hung like blanched spinach mixing with layers of smoke, sweat and ill-tasting ale. Its clientele filled every nook. Outcasts, most of them, familiar and at ease with others of their kind. Loners, losers, lost lovers and drunks. They were safe within its walls.Among them was a man, Old Bill Rodgers. He perched on an old stool and rested his elbows on the bar, both of them soaking up puddles of ale as if assisting his thirsty mouth. His barstool was like a reliable pet, loyal only to his buttocks, forcing any intruder to wriggle and return the perch to its rightful owner. It even had a name, which he had long since forgotten.He didn't know why everyone thought of him old. ‘Old’ was a word he used for buck-kneed artefacts or a lager absent of fizz. His girth had started to spread, and his faded moustache had long since taken the stain of nicotine. He found a liver spot the year before last and recently he asked a bus driver to slow down. But old, he was not. He felt as if he were somewhere close to 42. Yet, sadly, none of this he could prove, for as a child, his parents had banished him from home after an incident where he’d accidentally ate a winning raffle ticket. The highly coveted jumbo jar of pickled onions would forever lay beyond his parent’s reach, and so their son had to go.From there, he ventured into the circus, busked in a swamp, stole socks from the morgue and he even sat on a coal brick for a year, dreaming of diamonds. Time passed, each day heavier than the last until many years later an incident with three bottles of rum helped him reset. He shed his clothes and torched his belongings at night in the local park. The meagre flames tormented him, reminding him of what little he had achieved in life. And so, sobbing, he gingerly laid on the glowing coals, his naked body shivering, and the darkness of his empty soul swallowed him.The next day, only his body stirred from the abyss. He knew his name, he knew pickled onions were significant, but everything else was gone. His past life had vanished.And so started the mystery of Old Bill Rogers.But then there was always the theory held solely by Clive Motherwell, landlord and imperial ruler of the Humbug and Harp.‘He’s called Old Bill ‘cause he stinks of piss!’It’s Clive’s catchphrase, his drawn-out revenge for the time when Old Bill had received a wink across the bar from the landlord’s intended, the delectable Brenda Spencer. Flustered and with no knowledge of the opposite sex, Old Bill had once again stumbled on the ill advice of rum. Womenfolk love the scent of a man, it whispered. Go on, this be your only chance. Invite yourself into her nostrils before she be captivated by another. Relieving his bladder on Clive's carpet seemed the right thing to do given the situation, but the resulting puddle, shriek from Mrs Spencer, and roaring landlord told him that rum was not always to be trusted.No trip to the Humbug and Harp was complete without Clive's explanation of his friend’s ancient prefix. The tale was commonly told in the presence of womenfolk, a precautionary measure offered for the sole benefit of Old Bill's dignity should any female decide to purr again in his ear. Plus, it saved another stain on the carpet. Every night, the landlord howled the same words. Every night he rocked his baritone laughter around the bar, and every night, Old Bill, who now mostly smells of beef and cheap cologne, cried a little into his ale-sodden sleeve.But take it fully to heart he did not. Old Bill’s skin had grown thick from the landlord’s incessant mocking. People like Clive were his only spark, his sole reason for occasionally raising the beginnings of a grin. A tale of unfortunate incontinence it was, but for a creature so dull as Old Bill, it was at least a tale about him, a time and place where no soul would dare, or want, to step into his glory. And so the tears were now married to Clive's riotous jeering, partly through joy and attention, mostly through the recognition of a dull existence.The young lady stood beside Old Bill, her head jerking like a chicken’s upon hearing Clive’s latest tale of incontinence. She glanced from storyteller to victim, sending her frizzy hair into a ruffle of excitement. Her hands were overloaded with vodka and tonics and she pecked at Old Bill with her nose. He sighed at the inevitable approach of pity.‘Gees, you take it on the nose mate.’ She pecked him again, her hair tickling his chin. ‘That fat tosser aught to look at himself. You want me to have a pop at him for you?’ She pursed her lips and dug her eyes into the bellowing landlord. Her voice became shrill and uncomfortably righteous. ‘Rather stink of piss,’ she sniped, pecking the air in Clive's general direction, ‘than smell whatever it is that lives in your mouth.’At the sound of little Medusa’s rumpus there happened a stirring in the Foundation of Fellows—a trio of gentlemen whose age exceeded their ability to count. They sensed trouble brewing and cackled like cauldron-bound witches. Cold, bony hands rubbed in glee amid desperate attempts to stir the incident into a carry-on of flan-flinging proportions.‘Ooooh, goo on Bill, dop the fat bugger on his nose,’ said Bert.‘Wouldn’t take that from a wily young filly if I were you, Clivey boy,’ added Bert’s comrade, Burt.The third fellow, ´Glass eye` Gord, offered his encouragement with a cough and an excited wheeze.Old Bill went to lay a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder, but her pecking made him reconsider. ‘That lummox,’ he said, rolling his eyes at Clive, ‘just happens to be a good friend of mine. Now, if you will be so kind as to excuse me, I have at least another 15 pints to get through before I can even think about gettin’ me shoes wet. Thanks for your heartfelt concern, sweetheart, but I think you best be takin’ them vodkas and…and…uh,’ His eyes swung away from Medusa, a look of torture riddling his features. ‘I don’t soddin’ well believe it,’ he moaned.He was staring in disbelief at a battered television set, balancing precariously on a mighty stack of crisps, cockles and pork scratchings. A slim panatela cigar tumbled from his lip and sizzled on the bar. Medusa was but a distant memory, and Clive could not be heard. For at that moment there was only the galling image of tinsel, turkey and a rotund festive maiden cawing about some sexy pudding called Norm and saving money for next Christmas. Save today and get a free mince pie with special ouzo custard!One after the other, the folk of the pokey pub in Ilkington Yoke began to check and double-check watches, newspapers, diaries, or anything else that bore a date. Holding aloft a calendar in his mammoth hands, Clive was the first to announce his discontent.Staring at the picture of Miss January doing things one wouldn’t normally do with a petrol pump, he roared, ‘It be the second of January! I’ve still got half a soddin’ turkey in the fridge and they want me to start savin’ money for next year?’ Miss January, along with her periodical sisters and guide to doing all things rude with petrol station accessories, was suddenly torn from ear to arse and cast aside as the walrus warlord of the Humbug and Harp stormed into the backroom, leaving in his wake a billowing trail of profanities.The old vultures relished in this unexpected tirade and sniggered to each other in utter delight. As Clive returned, face crimson with rage and clutching a large block of cooking chocolate, he cut the trio a look that served only to remind them of the occasion when he forcibly extracted a nun for refusing a triple vodka and bitters on the house.‘Don’t loik Christmas do ‘e,’ whispered Bert.‘Neither do you, ya daft bugger,’ replied Burt. ‘Now shut them wrinkly lips before ‘e sees to your prostate problem before dat doctor do.’Gord emptied a lung in support.Old Bill muttered some words and counted on his fingers. Maybe it was through the shock of seeing such televised evils, or maybe the rum had spoken again, but a minor consideration of the consequences would have been favourable when uttering his next words. ‘Well actually, Clive, it’s this year,’ he said, correcting the landlord with a nasal tone of superiority. ‘Next Christmas is actually this year, although technically not all of it because, as we all know, Christmas does in fact last for 12 days, meaning that some of it will take place next ye—’‘Keep your brain in your trousers, pissy pants,’ roared Clive, leaning across the bar and bawling into Old Bill's face. ‘And who placed you in charge of Christmas, anyway? Follow your bright flamin’ star to get here tonight, did ya?’ He straightened, rubbed his belly and pondered, before announcing with a clapping boom, ‘Naah, he just sniffed his way to his stinkin’ seat. That’s him, Old Bill. ‘Old’ because he…do…stink…of…piss!’ He brought down a mighty hand on the bar, slapping it with enormous might as he howled with laughter at his cruel redemption. He wanted cheers and applause, but found only silence and a slight wheeze from Gord.Medusa was back, still intent on acting as Old Bill’s salvation. ‘Can’t you just leave the old feller alone? It’s bleedin’ obvious he ain’t got a life worth smilin’ about. And incontinence ain't such a bad—’‘Oh sod off, Angelica,’ Old Bill snapped.‘You heard,’ ranted Clive, ‘sling it, you and your band of vodka suppin’ trollops. You’re makin’ me pub smell worse than Ol’ Bill’s underpants.’‘Ooooh, did eeh just call that there filly a trollop?’ asked Bert with a foreboding croak.‘Don’t do no good callin’ a filly a trollop, Clivey,’ advised Burt. ‘Oi’ve ‘eard they foinds it offensive.’Clive slid his fingers around an over full ashtray and pitched it toward the cackling fellows.‘Ooooooooooooh,’ said the Berts.Gord coughed-up a half-smoked cigarette.‘Right!’ Medusa boiled with rage, her hair shook wildly, and turning to leave, she knocked Bill’s ale into his lap. An uncomfortably reminiscent stain nestled either side of his crotch.‘Thanks a bleedin’ lot, Clive.’ Old Bill had let his steadfast guard drop and was standing there, seething and dripping in unison. ‘Just one little thing on the box and you see fit to rant like it be Arma-flippin’-geddon.’‘Well I hate Christmas, don’t I.’‘And you think we all love it? Do you see one smile in this place? One single, pickled loner who relishes being forgotten for yet another Christmas? Is that Jack over there playin’ cards with his new Action Man? Or maybe Maud over there is sharin’ jam recipes with her new, realistic drinking action dolly? Drink driving? Not us matey, we’re all headin’ home tonight on our pogo sticks and tricycles. Because we got so many presents that we just don’t know what to do with them. It ain't true that I’ve been forgotten by me entire family, if I even have a family. No, Clive, I gets so many gifts that Santa be startin’ to charge me freight. Me, hate Christmas? Never! You think I spend months every year sendin’ Christmas cards to nice-soundin’ folk in the phone book? Don’t be silly. Think I get any replies? Bloody hundreds.’ He felt a tear slither over his cheek and sat with his face in his hands. He peered through his fingers at the landlord, and said, ‘It be Christmas, Clive, time of good bleedin’ will.’Clive slid a pint of ale in front of his nose and said quietly, ‘Merry Christmas, dribble drawers,’ and walked off to serve Jack, who was rather confused and wondering what had happened to his Action Man.Medusa had slipped unseen into the shadows. Her heartbeat thumped hard in her ears. Her skin tingled. Her breathing came sharp and fast. She envisaged the event that she was born to accomplish and imagined herself festooned with medals for doing the deed that none had dared to do. Clive’s sloth-like movements ambled up the bar to shy around an apology to Old Bill. The moment had come. Like a ferret slipping into a sparrow’s nest, she emerged from the shadows. She grasped something, holding it close to her body, and then, with the reflexes only achievable by a frizzy peroxide Medusa intent on revenge, she struck. A jerk of her wrist and the yellow, steaming liquid leapt from her glass. Some of it swirled in Clive's open mouth, the rest scored a direct hit on his crisp, white shirt. The landlord retched, spitting out the liquid only to land with a plop in Old Bill's only Christmas present.She drew her face to Clive's, sniffing in utter disgust, ‘Thought I should let you know that you really do stink of piss. Sorry to be so blunt, but we often skirt around the truth with people of your size. Should do something about it if I were you.’ And with a devilish grin she swirled on her stilettos, composed herself and left at great speed. Clive stood in shock, rooted silently to the spot. Old Bill gazed nonchalantly at his pint, admired the amber glow, and raised it to Clive.‘Merry Christmas,’ he said, and it was down his neck in seconds.Clive was still ranting when, 23 minutes later, a familiar person edged her way into the pub. She stood in the doorway, shaking and slapping her clothes as if borne of the wildest storm. It was 5:45 in the afternoon, her hair stuck to her face, her bifocals fogged, and Tinkerbell Fanny McWiddle was still grumbling.On any normal day, her spirits would lift. The parting doors, warmth and reserved barstool would cause the old dear to sing in merry anticipation. When inside the Humbug and Harp she was free of the evils that linger in the outside world. With its gaggle of degenerates and loners, she was safe. The Humbug had been her local for the past 53 years, and since the invention of the six o’clock news she had rested her weary bones upon her stool, sweet sherry in one hand, pickled egg in the other, watching the world go to seed on the very television that had just ruined Clive’s day.Grumpy she may have been, but her appearance told a more complex story. Wiry curls, ocean blue and stuck to her forehead from the deluge outside. Rosy patches of lumpy rouge failed miserably at keeping the grey skin of age at bay. Pursed, thin lips. Stubble in the oddest of places. Skin that stretched and never returned. A ragged beach towel hung casually from her hips, secured only with a nappy pin that no soul ever dared touch. On this cobbled-together sarong was the faded design of a setting sun, palm trees and a bronzed, naked surfer, which, according to Tinkerbell, was modelled on her late husband, Charlie. But besides this visual banquet, she wore something of great controversy: a Rudolf t-shirt, complete with a battery operated nose that flashed slowly, intentionally. And while everyone knew this was Tinkerbell’s favourite shirt—some thought her only shirt—and while it had not left her skin in at least seven years, this gave little relief for a raging, stinky and wildly unfestive landlord.

The shirt’s tireless rhythm and irrepressibly joyful face stared mockingly at Clive. The jovial expression refused to let him go, following him from one end of the bar to the other. His fingers twitched while sliding her a sherry. He sweated. His link between Medusa’s assault and Christmas and Rudolf was complete. He stopped and stared at Rudolf with intense hatred. The flashing nose. The flashing nose. The flashing nose. It had to die.‘Stop starin’ at me tits ya bleedin’ pervert,’ screeched Tinkerbell, hurling her sherry into the landlord’s eyes. ‘That should cool you down a bit,’ she shrieked, sniffing the air with disgust. ‘What’s happened to you me lad, mmm? You stink like a pensioner’s drawers and you stand there with your tongue on the bar, starin’ at bits that frankly shouldn’t be considered.’‘Love oi reckons,’ said Burt.‘They bees doin’ the camera suture next,’ remarked Bert. Gord looked confused, then went to smile, but coughed instead.‘What the?’ Clive's eyes started doing funny things. ‘Your tits? You think I’m starin’ at your tits? What are you talkin’ about you insane ol’ boot? It be your t-shirt that’s botherin’ me. Let’s just say that I’d rather you weren’t wearin’ the bleedin’ thing.’ He lowered himself to gaze into her misted spectacles. ‘BECAUSE IT’S ONLY NINE DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS!’Tinkerbell screeched in alarm, slapping the furious landlord around the chops. ‘See,’ she squawked, ‘he does wanna see me tits!’ Every bleary eye in the establishment swung in her direction. ‘You heard him, undressin’ me with his dirty mouth. You should be ashamed of yourself, Clive Motherwell.’ She clasped her talons around Old Bill's knee, preventing him from vacating his stool and running for cover. Only once before had he seen Tinkerbell and Clive at loggerheads, a night that ended with a mounted policeman donating his steed to the Humbug’s bar menu. ‘You heard him, didn’t ya Bill?’ Hollering in his ear was not entirely necessary as her fingernails had already sunk into his flesh. ‘That bleedin’ landlord of ours wants me to take me top off so he can see me tits!’‘You won’t find ‘em there mate,’ chirped Burt, ‘Oi’ve ‘eard she tucks them into ‘er socks these days.’‘Nah you silly bugger,’ protested Bert, ‘She do hang them up by the door wiv ‘er walkin’ stick.’Tinkerbell cast the old men a gaze. One of those gazes. They’d seen her in action before. They shivered. Gord coughed. Her knuckles cracked. She toyed with the hairs on her chin. Her dentures ground like mill stones. Silence reigned. Anticipation saw every punter planning their escape.And then she broke.Her cackle split the stillness like an axe to wood. She was a piper leading them astray and not a soul could resist dancing merrily in her footsteps. Old Bill laughed so hard that he submitted to a secret liking of urine in his ale. Bert, Burt and Gord burst into a crow that saw a pair of dentures and a glass eye flying over the bar and into an open jar of pickled walnuts. Jack had forgotten about the enigmatic Action Man, and even Clive, the man giant at the Humbug’s helm, was roaring out of control, laughing so hard that he smiled, teeth and all, at the flashing red-nosed reindeer.Even Trevor roused a diminutive snigger. He wanted to laugh more, as loud as the others who all appeared to know every detail of every life in every corner of the pub. But Trevor had never been part of a crowd; he had spent much of his 26 years being avoided, ignored and forgotten, all for reasons that eluded him as if the truth would be too much to bear. But the truth of the matter was far simpler: Trevor Buggercup was a man abandoned by society because he was a moron, plain and true.But wise he was to the cost of a pint at the Humbug and Harp. At home, in his squalid flat, he had spent all afternoon as he did every afternoon: individually wrapping little parcels of cash, each containing the exact cost of Clive's cheapest brew. Today he had sold his fridge freezer and television, and so was most delighted at stuffing two whole parcels of beer money into the pockets of his skin-tight jeans. His mood was fresh. He skipped to the pub. He congratulated himself at turning down the offer of extra cash, knowing that a single coin more would cause his pockets to over-spill and, worse still, place undue pressure on a photograph of Nelly Cartwright kept always in his left pocket, close to his loin.But now the skip to his step had gone, he sniggered no more. Six o’clock was yet to strike, and he’d spent both his parcels. Into his pockets he delved with bony fingers, desperate to stumble upon hidden treasures. His anxiety accelerated as both hands rummaged together, frantically searching for parcels, nuggets of gold, diamonds, chocolate bars. Anything of value. But there was only the photo of Nelly, and that was priceless.During his manic search, he failed to notice Tinkerbell and her flashing reindeer eyeing him from afar. Her laughing had ceased. Her grumbling returned. Her duty she had remembered. She looked on in misery at the wiry man, hunched in a frantic search for beer money. ‘Why him?’ she mumbled, and with a heavy heart she thrust a hand into her pocket. There was work to be done.She needn’t have looked to see if Trevor was casting her a ferocious gawk. The troublesome skinhead’s eyes, green, with an almost touching exhibition of desire, were bearing down on the old lady. She felt them on her, around her and inside her soul. She chastised herself for being scared, but still the feeling remained. In her withered hand she held the trigger, the catalyst and reason for Trevor’s hungry scowl. A large wad of cash.He was a man pushing himself towards acts of desperation. His thirst grew by the second. Why should she have all that cash? Why do I have nothing? Where’s my fridge freezer? The slavering beast was counting his bounty with increasing fervour, guesstimating the amount, 200, 400, 600? Or are there 50s in there too? His mind frolicked at the thought of lavish delicacies; cigarettes by the carton, beer by the firkin, keg, barrel or truck, enough cheap Scotch to preserve a herd of Aberdeen Angus, a bucket of cherry flavoured tobacco, a pipe and slippers, and a big, fat chocolate cigar. The aristocracy was finally calling.But not just yet. Tinkerbell needed strength, warmth from within, and a feeling of might in the face of peril. A triple sherry would do nicely. She beckoned the strangely festive landlord and with her nails, tapped three times on the bar. Like a waltzing hippo, he twisted, tickled the lid of her favourite bottle and dealt her the medicine she craved. Drawing a grubby note from the bundle, she slapped it in Clive's outstretched palm. ‘Keep the change me ol’ mucker,’ she said, grinning as she caught the skinhead twitching with frustration.The syrupy alcohol was down her neck in a second, sending her frail body into a seizure of pleasure and pain. Clive followed through, sliding under her nostrils a complimentary lick of his most treasured brandy.‘On the house, Twinkle Toes,’ he said, and he flashed her a smile that makes an old dear feel safe.For a while.He waited for the mad old crow to throw in a piece of her finely honed wit, but nothing emerged, only a head bowed in quiet contemplation, and the laboured wheeze of dread.‘You alright me love?’ he asked. ‘Somethin’ botherin’ you is there?’Tinkerbell peered back, staring at Clive through tired and burdened eyes. ‘You know what, Clive Motherwell,’ she croaked, ‘it’s bleedin’ hard work savin’ the world all on your own.’ And with that, she licked her lick of sherry and lifted her old bones from the stool.The doors to a cold night lay ahead.‘You go and bag us a villain, darlin’.’ Clive knew the old dear was prone to bouts of fantasy, and setting the television to the six o’clock news, he wandered off to abuse a random customer.But today the news would go unwatched. Duty beckoned.Trevor’s stool lay empty.Outside, the rain tumbled down like lead. No moon, no stars, only cloud and the perpetual chill of a winter’s eve. She shuddered at the thought of imminent pain. He wouldn’t be long. The doors swung shut, amputating the warmth and cheer from inside. Only the flashing red of Rudolf’s nose remained.She looked down at the dog-eared doormat, and a hand was around her neck, dragging her into the night.

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Chapter 2. Bored on Bubbly Butt

Tinkerbell spent much of her time making pots of tea and macaroons. It was more habit than indulgence; a way of keeping memories and old ways alive. One never knows when them unexpected visitors will disturb ye doin’ illegal things with a lumberjack, Great Granny Fanny McWiddle would always say. But visitors were rare, and those who stopped by blew in and away with little concern for the lonely. Regardless, Tinkerbell’s unremarkable home always leached into the street the sweet smell of coconut fancies and tea. It was her open sign, a way to tell the estate that her door was ajar. And inside she waited most days, alone and peering through the living room window at the world beyond 13 Milkington Gardens.Her gaze would take in streets pleasantly cluttered with small unassuming homes, birdsong and flowers. The long since abandoned lumberjack club was something of an eyesore, but generally, the only criticism one could make of the Milkington Estate was that it was a floral-scented blot on the seedy shores of a most unfortunate nation known as Ilkington Yoke.The great astronomer, Filkrington Elliot Sneed was first to observe that Ilkington Yoke bears a striking resemblance to a continental-sized fried egg. Floating amid the oily southern oceans of the fearfully grim planet, Burley Smutt, the island’s vast salt plains resemble a featureless albumen, while inland, a bubbling sea of sulphur shines as the yolk. Following Mr Sneed’s revelation, the egg-shaped nation became a laughingstock among neighbouring states, which by contrast were shaped like Ferraris, rock stars and cigarettes.Decades of humiliation saw Ilkington Yoke become a place of misery. Ferrari shaped islands only traded with rock star islands, and those who inhabited the rock star only cared for their cigarette-shaped neighbours. Nobody cared for the egg. Moaning filled the air, the Ilkington Yoke government outlawed omelettes, egg mayonnaise and souffles, and explosive experts blasted in vain as they attempted to alter the island’s geography, but the egg would forever be the egg, and the people of the egg would never go beyond being rather eggy. Pride was all but lost.But some saw hope.‘Eggs are a sign of life,’ they sung. ‘We should be proud of our novelty-shaped island.’ And with dreams of brighter, floral futures, they wandered among the albumen plains before setting up camp, forming what would eventually become the Milkington Estate. Happiness and flowers spread their roots. Blossoms sweetened the air, desperately cheerful people forced birds to sing merry tunes, delicious pies took residence on every windowsill, hula dancing was not unusual in supermarkets, and large quantities of fruit decorated a vast array of wide-brimmed hats. Their message to the satellites was simple: possibly the most pleasant middle finger ever extended:It might be an egg, but it’s got flowers on it.Tinkerbell had learned all there was to know about begonias from these early settlers. Her garden was a floral carpet of blooms, and it served as a perfect vista when a neighbour would occasionally wander over for a cuppa.She enjoyed a simple life skipping from one routine to another, sticky sherries and pickled bar snacks down the pub, watching the six o’clock news, tea and macaroons on her best china, long moments gazing out the window, a gossip from time-to-time, and regular dreams of her very own captive sailor wearing nothing but a weathered grin and a lust for adventure.Tinkerbell also dabbled in murder. Mass murder.Her tally currently stands at 1327, most of whom were thoroughly bad people or children playing in her begonias, but perhaps before we amble down the path of bifocal-mounted lightning bolts and other such murderous weaponry, we should first venture back to the days when people lived in holes, ate dirt, and rode ogres across the egg white desert, because hidden there is the explanation of how this curious maid came to be.***Life was simple back then. Most, however, called it boring. The masses were forming, and all around the young and tender planet of Bubbly Butt (as it was then known) people were desperate for something to do. They had built the pyramids, made a splendid hanging basket in Babylon, constructed a really long wall, and stoned to death the man who suggested they all just sit down and chat.They threw themselves at the feet of their king, some looking to his wisdom, others because it beat standing in the sun.‘What shall we do?’ they cried. ‘We are so bored we can barely stand to breathe.’The king could not abide whining, and suggested more pyramids, building a really high wall or going to war. But the peasants looked on in anguish. They needed more. And then, just as the king was about to suggest they all sit down and chat, in ran one of the few people in the whole of Bubbly Butt with something to do.‘Boss,’ he called, ‘Boss! I got to go to me hole. It be urgent!’‘Have you finished building my coffee table?’‘Well, I’ve started makin’ one out of dirt.’‘But I want a wooden coffee table.’‘There ain't no wood.’‘Aren’t you a carpenter?’‘I am, but I be strugglin’ a bit in this desert. There ain't no trees.’The king looked on in disgust. ‘What kind of carpenter are you? How do you plan on supporting your family?’‘Well, that be it, sir. I Just found out that me wife be havin’ a child as I speak.’‘At least she’s not bored.’‘I know, but the thing is, I was just sittin’ down, thinkin’ about how to get me some varnish for this here dirt when it dawned on me that the baby ain't mine. It can’t be. Me wife has said no naughty stuff until I do build her a bed. From wood!’ He looked at the king with pleading eyes. ‘I think me wife be fraternisin’ with some other bloke.’‘So what do you want me to do?’‘Let I go back to me hole. I has to ask her who the father be, and tell her I loves her or she’ll make I move out and dig another hole.’The king looked at the carpenter. And then to the peasants who were listening to the story with great enthusiasm. They weren’t bored, and what’s more, they weren’t whining about it.The king grinned and twiddled his beard.‘Carpenter, you will go home,’ he commanded, ‘and you will tell your wife that the birth of your child is to be celebrated by the entire population of Bubbly Butt.’The carpenter curled his lip in confusion. ‘Why?’‘You will tell her she has borne the child of Christibottlesworth.’‘Christibottlesworth? So he be the father?’‘Um…yes.’‘Well, playin’ second fiddle to a god ain't so bad.’‘I’m sure. Now run off and tell her. The rest of you peasants scatter among the land and tell every soul. Our saviour has come. He…she…is born today. We must celebrate now and on this very day for the rest of time. Tell the kings and wise men. All must bear gifts. The drinks are on me!’The peasants whooped and left with the carpenter. Finally, the king had some peace.And oh for the problems this caused.It took hours of squabbling, and several public executions before the name stuck. But in the end, ‘Christmas’ stood tall above the others. ‘Everybody jump up and down for the baby day’ sounded too much like ‘Everybody jump up and down on the baby day’; ‘That carpenter sure must have good sperm day’ failed to roll off the tongue; and ‘Crinklecrackers’ simply had no meaning. And so the proud mother, Christine, suggested ‘Christmas’. The king approved, as did the carpenter. What better name for a mass held to celebrate the birth of Christibottlesworth’s son? If only they knew the true meaning or the true father, for Christine and her masseur had been terribly, terribly naughty.They adorned holes with trimmings, fires roared, and in the absence of turkeys and firewood, grandparents willingly roasted themselves to a crisp. Children fidgeted ecstatically, waiting for the arrival of the present bearer, a slim young reindeer farmer by the name of Santos Claudios. But off to bed they were sent, full of promises that a chimney and mantle piece would one day be invented. A buzz of excitement filled the night air. People cheered at the demise of boredom.And like a snake occupying an empty hole, something far worse slithered in to stay.Along they came, mumbling about the navigational shortcomings of following an enormous star. Their eyes were heavy, their beards dusty. Their camels looked thoroughly lost. But in front of them lay a baby, suckling on his mother’s breast and staring wondrously at a rippling masseur. The wise men glanced at each other. After a trip like that, a baby donkey would look like a messiah. And so with a jar of rejuvenating fermented dirt in mind, they presented their gifts: gold, frankincense and myrrh.Which left Christmas forever tarnished.‘Myrrh? Frankincense?’ said the guy who had just handed over a large gold nugget. ‘Are you telling me I’ve just lugged half a ton of flippin’ gold across the desert, made me camel ready for the knacker’s yard, and all your whistlin’ sphincters could afford is a pile of stinky old incense sticks?’The following year, as the messiah was approaching his first birthday, the three wise men sat pondering over their invitations for a jelly and ice cream party in the king’s palatial hole of dirt. But their social calendars were full. Office parties, family commitments, charity functions and burning of witches. There was simply no space for a party surrounded by screaming toddlers. Christmas was a busy time. And what would they bring? The wizened chap who last year had allegedly brown-nosed the king with his giant lump of gold was in a right state. No way was he going to push the boat out this year. A book voucher would do just fine. But he knew, he just knew, that if he was to send a mere selection of vanilla and peach incense sticks, his conspiring neighbours would delight in sending a golden obelisk crusted with gems and wrapped in a ribbon.And what of the Christmas post? What a bother. A giant lump of gold would never get there on time. And as for the cost. He shuddered, his hand trembling as he attempted scrawling something inspirational on the holy one’s Christmas card. Not that a one-year-old could read. Oh bugger! He misspelled ‘Messiah’. Frantically, he checked his sundial. Sod it! The shops were shut.Slowly, but ever so surely, with every tantrum and fit of rage, those infamous words of festive enlightenment were bubbling their way to the surface. He sat there, nibbling his fingernails and staring at the card. Christmas day was only three hours away. His 37th wife walked behind him, balancing a steaming platter of dirt on her bosom. She leant over his shoulder, snorted and told him the bleeding obvious.‘You spelt Messiah wrong,’ she said. ‘You’ll never get another one now, you know. The shops are shut. Haven’t you wrapped that book voucher yet? What’d you get pink wrapping paper for? The Messiah be a boy. If we goes to hell for this, you’ll be feelin’ me tongue.’ The freshly baked dirt slid from the platter and landed in a heap on the card. ‘Now look what you made I do. Dirt don’t grow on trees you know. I got’s me mother-in-law staying here tonight, and there be dirt everywhere. She bunched her robe around her knees and made to leave, mumbling about the questionable aptitude of her apparently wise husband. ‘Christmas,’ she said, ‘who’d have it? More bleedin’ bother than men.’He sat there, seething, his hands raking through the roasted dirt. The words spewed out like an involuntary encore of his lunch. Words that within a wisp of an age would translate into every language and broadcast into the atmosphere with ferocious amplification.‘CHRISTMAS,’ he snorted, ‘I…FUCKING…HATE…CHRISTMAS!’And the rebellion had begun.***
Tinkerbell had always loved the festive season. Every year, as the McWiddles descended from the hills, she and her husband, Charley laid on a spread of the finest macaroons. Children from the neighbourhood would queue at their door, hands cupped in anticipation of warming their paws on an oven-fresh coconut fancy. As the Sherries flowed and the night crept in, Charley would always seek new and interesting ways to extend Tinkerbell’s collection of naked sailors. Each year he tried to outdo the last, with the photographs getting larger, moving onto sculptures and finally life-sized mannequins. But hard to top was her favourite Christmas ever. The year when Charley had sprung around the house for the entire day wearing only a sailor’s hat and the whiff of mariner’s rum.‘Come aboard me darlin,Drink ye merry rum.I got a picture of me sweetheart,It be tattooed on me bum.Rest your bones in the cap’n’s cabinIn there you’ll find no clothes.For I be the naked sailorWho shivers when the north wind blows!’Yes, Christmas for Tinkerbell was always a joyous occasion, so merry was it that she killed any sour-faced humbugadeer who dared whinge about it.Her first murder had come as something of a surprise, but upon taking her first victim, she was taken with a pressing urge to invest in this new hobby.‘Goodness gracious,’ remarked Tinkerbell one day as both she and Mrs Biggins shared freshly toasted tea cakes in her living room. A ferocious bolt of lightning had spewed from the flashing nose of Tinkerbell's favourite T-shirt and vaporised Mr Grimes as he stood, waggling his walking stick in the garden next door. Her miserly neighbour, a sour-faced lemon-sucker if ever there was one, was in the process of verbally abusing Christmas carol singers when our hero stood in and nuked him with a fat one. Her new pastime was a delight.From that day on, the decidedly unsound inhabitant of 13 Milkington Gardens found it necessary to become the roving sheriff of Ilkington Yoke.Her quest took her to the ends of the number 48 bus route, ridding the town of Ebenezers, humbugadeers and sour-faced turkey-snatchers. She struck down with terrible brutality. Handbag filchers, cat burglars, gift gobblers and crooks. They all got the nuke. Pickpockets, bogus Santas, old men with hooked noses and dewdrops, and the occasional kitten for target practice. All nuked.The murder rate for the area surrounding the bus route was unlike anything Burley Smutt had ever known. Fear became the topic of conversation. An exodus of Christmas-loathing undesirables scurried from the city, eager to escape the mysterious wave of retribution.The flight had swept with it panic-stricken outlaws of many sorts. Mass murderers queued bumper-to-bumper with tax dodgers; armed robbers fled with underage drinkers; drug runners eloped with used car salesmen, real-estate agents, insurance brokers and media moguls.The city was being cleansed. A time for roasting chestnuts in peace was near.Every day Tinkerbell viewed her work on the six o’clock news. True, things had gotten a little out of control. Fair it is that she shouldered the blame of 1327 executions in only three years. But everyday she managed a smile. Ilkington Yoke was all the better for it.But someone else had been viewing her work. Someone who had landed himself in a spot of hot butter. Oblivious to the raised eyebrows and gasps of horror and delight coming from her secret admirer, Tinkerbell had unwittingly volunteered her services for a rather important job.

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Chapter 3. The great carbuncle

Nelly Cartwright was having problems with her nose. It had grown since the incident this morning, and by god it hurt. Miserable as a kitten in a cannon, she shuffled around her small apartment, looking for anything to take her mind somewhere else.She decided to read, which was quite a feat because the monstrous nasal swelling had swaggered into her vision like an unwelcome screen hog at the picture house, but knowing it would follow her no matter where she gazed, and with grand hopes of a story whisking her away to a fantasy land of pretty little conks, she persisted.Her choice of reading material was limited to a book, her only book, that had lived for as long as she could remember as an anti-wobbling thing wedged under her fridge. Some years ago, Nelly had turned her back on reading after she had sneezed and accidentally broke wind most loudly during the public funeral of the island’s beloved monarch. Naturally, every newshound was there to record the reaction of the poor lady sitting next to her—who turned out to be the monarch’s former Nanny and who also would not survive the incident. This, of course, resulted in Nelly’s name and face being emblazoned across the front pages of Ilkington Yoke’s finest tabloid, Burley Balls, and every newspaper and magazine that appreciated a good fart story. Through revulsion at what she had become in the eyes of others, she promised herself to never read again. And she thought it wise to avoid funerals, too.But now, after so many years, Nelly had grown accustomed to being known as that fart girl. Time had taught her that life brought pain and disappointment, whether through killer flatulence attacks, throbbing noses or just another horror lurking around the corner. There was no escaping it. And so, sitting in the kitchen, staring at the book she had yanked from under the fridge, she thought it high time for other stories to be read. Stories with happy endings of their own.‘Ok Laverne,’ she sighed, slumping on her bed alongside her faithful geriatric Labrador, ‘I need you to help me forget about me nose.’ But Laverne was more interested in the smells emanating from a book that had propped up the fridge for so many years. ‘Right,’ she said, poking Laverne, in need of an audience, ‘this is the tale of Princey the Demon Reindeer: Ungulate Terror of the Festive Season.’ She took a deep breath and started reading.‘There once lived a reindeer who was an evil bugger through and through. A reindeer so foul that he once sold his mother’s own tail to a passing Gypsy as a miracle cure to a stooped back and warty nose. Shame on his trotters.Following a chain of incidents where the ill-disciplined reindeer hooked up Rudolf’s nose to the mains electricity, placed a sticker on the rear of Santa’s sleigh stating “Show us your arse and I’ll fly you to the moon!”, and convinced a pixie to leave spiders, mice and sparrow’s heads in little girls’ presents, Princey was expelled from Rudolf’s School of Reindeer Etiquette.With a sullied reputation, the yobbish reindeer found himself alone without an audience, left to roam the plains where a spear often takes you before the rigours of old age. He would never dance across the skies, never pull a sleigh, and saddest of all his nose would only ever glow with rage. From an aimless wander he slewed into milling boredom, motionless and tortured, chewing. His thoughts grew dark, he became sour, tart and twisted, hellbent on bringing revenge on those who sent him to pasture. He was the vision of angst, a four-legged stand of defiance against the powers that be. The ungulate ambassador of angst. If only he had a middle finger.So, extradited from the Clan of Very Festive Reindeers, he came to despise Christmas with all his furry little might. He sought council in the great reindeer villain, Big Bad Johnny Black Nose, and formed the opposition, ominously known as the Clan of Not Very Festive Reindeers. Together, for they were the only two members, they set about masterminding the eventual downfall of Christmas. They had it all planned. First, on Christmas Eve, they would murder two of Santa’s reindeers. Prancer and Cupid were the unfortunate nominees because Johnny had heard from an old prison friend that they were a little limp in the hoof. And then, as Santa was down a chimney, Princey and Johnny would masquerade themselves as the murdered reindeers and make off with the sleigh, presents, jingle bells and all. Here they would get to work on the utter ruination of Christmas Day by racking up as many speeding fines as they could in Santa’s sleigh, and parking it behind a very large tree in the middle of a field so that no person would ever find another present ever again—unless if someone spotted the sleigh of course, which is likely.How Princey and Johnny would roar in delight when they pictured the world gathering around the Christmas tree with faces of expectant joy, only to discover that Santa had delivered a monstrously large parcel of ‘up your bum Mrs. Jones’. They laughed until their noses glowed orange with glee.Criminally insane reindeers with plots of overthrowing the entire universe, are however, typically devoid of that collection of brain cells required for motions beyond the basics of breathing. Bless the two little urchins, but they had they carried out a little research into the matter of slaying two very athletic reindeers instead of arguing about the use of laser guns versus bazookas versus pointy sticks, they would have discovered some vital information regarding their victims. Cupid and Prancer were indeed quite girly, and because of this they had been subject to decades of morons like Princey and Johnny who saw pedicures and personal grooming as a flowery flag of weediness.As the dastardly duo stood before their would-be victims, large pointy sticks in hoofs, ready to kick some fluffy tail, they became utterly astonished at the eruption of deadly hoofs from the Ninja reindeers. Back they hastened at an astonishing rate, only to find the sharp end of a grazing Rudolf. The shriek of Johnny was enough to shake the snow from the trees as Rudolf, now startled himself, thrust his antlers deeper into the villain’s fuzzy behind.For a terrible, blood curdling moment, poor, poor Johnny was lifted from the ground, hopelessly bayoneted onto Rudolf, who still didn’t quite know what was happening other than there was something screaming above him and his head felt very heavy suddenly. Everybody who looked on in horror knew what would follow. They turned and buried their heads in the snow, anything to avoid witnessing the grisly unavoidable.‘What?’ quizzed Rudolf, jerking his head in puzzlement. And with a rip and a squelch grave enough to make a butcher vomit in his handbag, the master criminal was free. Well, half free actually. For caught up on Rudolf’s bloodied antler, waving around like some nauseating flag of victory was a lost and very lonely combination of fur, sphincter muscle and bowel. Princey tried to run, but fainted on the spot. And as for Johnny, he would never become accustomed to his new name: Big Bad Johnny No Bum. The dastardly plot was foiled, and Princey the Demon Reindeer was bound and assigned to spend the rest of his days as Santa's crude and abusive novelty hat stand.’***Nelly yawned and rubbed her eyes, being careful not to aggravate her nose. ‘Should have given him a medal if you ask me,’ she said. ‘Christmas ain't nothing but an excuse to get miserable, fat and broke.’ She rested her head on Laverne’s ample stomach, kicked off her sandals and the two of them drifted into sleep, one of them dreaming about troubled noses, the other of steaming digestive tracts belonging to a once infamous reindeer villain.Morning came, and Nelly's nasal situation had spiralled from icky to grave. She was face down on the carpet, attempting to breathe amid a soup of blood and snot. Her possessed alarm clock meeped without pity, pretending not to know that its master was most definitely awake.‘When will this stop happening to me?’ she wailed, aware now that Laverne was licking the juices seeping from her nose. The maddening alarm persisted, meep meeping away until her carpet-muffled scream forced a desperate move on the snooze button.Three days this week the possessed alarm clock had rudely shunted Nelly from her from sleep. Up she would spring in startled fright, desperate to silence the meeping mad thing before it took over her soul and forced her to face the waking world. Her movement was full of meaning, channelling every ill thought towards the clock of merciless meeps. But it was during mid-lunge that she discovered all was not well. Where are my arms? Her panic woke her fully as she found herself diving headfirst at the clock on the floor. Instantly, she remembered yesterday, the day before as well. It was happening again. Her arms hung by her side, useless—the fruits of a freakish habit that involved sleeping with all her weight resting on the now dead and much-needed appendages. They broke her fall with the efficiency of uncooked sausages. Her body plummeted. She heard herself scream. She heard meeping. Carpet filled her vision, as did the mug of cold coffee, daring her to plunge her troubled nose onto its rustic earthenware rim. She squeaked, arched her back and kicked with her legs in a last endeavour to avoid the coffee mug. Her body shot sideways, the mug disappeared from view and her nose ploughed hideously into the corner of a low-slung table. The sound of splintering bone hung lazily in her head, and finally she met with the carpet, nose first, arms falling on either side of the clock.The absence of meeping was almost worth the pain. Her slowly waking fingers slid around Beelzebub’s timepiece and without once looking up from the carpet she yanked it from the wall and cast it to its death. It smashed against the wall, showering her bed with splintered pieces of plastic and circuit board. But Nelly didn’t care. The clock was dead, and killing it felt good.‘Right,’ she whimpered with a frightened huff, ‘what next?’ Her eyes focused with concern on Laverne, whose lapping of nasal juices was leading into tentative nibbles of Nelly's enormous nose. ‘Eaten alive by me darling Labrador.’ She tried crying but found there were already tears mingling with the juices. ‘Got to move,’ she mumbled with dread, fearing the pain and more so the image that awaited her in the mirror. She filled her lungs, dug her fingers into the carpet and clamped her jaw shut. The scream started before she had moved and it lasted way beyond tearing her nose away from the acrylic pile. It ebbed into a mournful moan as she shuffled her way to the bathroom, and as she stood in front of the full-length mirror, eyes fixed upon the mighty carbuncle, all she could do was sob.The weeping anomaly had doubled in size. It looked set to erupt, its membranous skin revealing an ocean of puss, desperate to flow freely as a river. Labrador hair, thickets of carpet and a bus ticket embellished the awful blot. Trying to remember what she looked like before somebody had transplanted her nose with a bludgeoned rat, she cupped her left hand over the abomination and dredged a smile from somewhere deep within. With a ponderous lean to her head she concluded that asides from the mammoth protrusion, she wasn’t bad. ‘Twenty-seven years old,’ she said aloud with a nasal hoot of defiance, ‘looking somewhere between twenty-five and a half and twenty-six and three quarters. Delicious chocolate brown skin, and,’ she tilted her head to allow the fluorescent light flood her sleepy eyes, ‘the sparkling brown eyes of a resplendent Queen, glowing in the light of a desert moon, and oh,’ she bowed her head, quickly, grumbling, ‘nostrils that could attract a hibernating bear.’ She moved closer to the mirror and bared her teeth in a worrying grimace, speaking through them in the velvety tones of a fantasy nose doctor, if there was such a thing, a doctor so accustomed to grisly conks that either he was entirely indifferent to the sight of monstrosities, or better still, titillated by the gruesome things. ‘And what splendid white teeth you have my dear Nelly,’ she purred, feeling a clump of matted dog hair drain from her nostril. ‘I must admit you immediately for emergency treatment in Ward 69. Even with the interesting shape of one’s nose and distended tummy from a like of brandy truffles, you, Nelly Cartwright, will dance with the doctor tonight.’ And with that, she slipped out of her Wonder Woman nightshirt and hopped into the shower, completely unaware of how that woeful nose would soon play a part in changing the course of history.The journey to work would have been like any other had it not been for the chain of personal disasters that changed her life forever. In order to disguise her nasal monolith, Nelly had attempted the bandit look, but the scarf draped around her bloated snout served only as an added draw to inquisitive eyes. The wide-eyed child that asked her mummy, ‘Is that where hamsters go when they die?’ was bad enough, but it all became too much when a passing funeral procession stopped mid-dirge to shower her with pity. She cast the scarf into a roadside bin with an angry sweep of her arm and regretted this immediately as the swift manoeuvre took with it a crusted layer of puss that had bonded itself to the surrogate bandage. Her eyes welled, and she found herself rooted to the spot, tapping out a frantic jig and screaming something about noses, ripping off two-inch scabs and how much it REALLY...FUCKING...HURTS! A large whelk of a man stood at the door of a shabby old pub, viewing the rhythmic display of profanity that graced his beer stained patch of pavement. He cocked his head to the side and placed an exploring finger up his nose. ‘You alright me love?’ he asked.‘WHAT?’ was Nelly’s savage yet entirely necessary response. She spun on a button and faced the curious landlord. Her eyes wept. Her nose drizzled the pavement with goo, and she saw the face of curiosity turn to shock and mild nausea.‘What in the name of a Beelzebub’s breakfast is that?’ he bellowed, and scuttled a retreat through the doors of the Humbug and Harp.‘Some flippin’ resplendent Queen,’ she muttered to herself as she bowed her head and fought her way on through the creatures that bustled hither and thither on their way to work. ‘Look more like a pelican caught pecking a rotten turnip, that’s what.’And with her head bowed, she gazed south, grimacing at the sight of what lingered below the neckline. ‘Tits like rotten marrows,’ she grumbled, ‘a belly button that warrants exploration, or explanation, an arse that wants to box itself free of me chunky-knit leggings, which of course goes so well with a puss-stained shirt, and green shoes!’Unnoticed to her, Nelly's voice had built from a grumbling whinge to an all-out rant. Commuters steered around her. Some turned and fled, most merely stopped and stared at her nose. ‘Who?’ she barked, ‘Who would venture out of their house looking like this? People who dream of making small children cry for the womb, that’s who! Oh,’ she grunted, flailing her arms in complete misery, ‘and of course, me! Nelly Cartwright of the floppy belly, fat arse, inbred tits, zero style and the glittering queen of the great oozing, weeping and puss-ridden conk! Shit, shit, shit!’A pair of dirty sneakers belonging to a pair of bony legs in jeans blocked her path, moving in unison with Nelly’s repeated attempts to pass. ‘What now?’ she seethed, looking up to see who she was about to murder. ‘Oh,’ was all she could say as she cried from within, staring and pleading for her day to improve, ‘what a surprise.’

It was him. It grunted. The man with emerald green eyes just a little too close together. A skinhead only by desire, his bony head gave birth to giant chunks of flaky dandruff that floated around a scabby skull like the parting of frozen oceans. His ears were ridiculously large. They gave way to subtle wind-borne movements, hinting at an impending full scale flap had the breeze been any stronger. Hanging from the flaccid lobe of his right ear was a golden hoop that on better days had made Nelly smile. Repeatedly he had bragged of his sturdiness, fortitude and general manly musk, for he, Trevor Buggercup, claimed to possess the branding of supreme virility: a golden ring, shining gloriously from his left ear. Not a soul could convince him of his little inaccuracy, for to do so was to rob a skinhead of his scowl. Golden hoops worn on the right is the adornment of ‘poofs’, everybody knows that.Left from right, arse from elbow, Mr Buggercup was hardly up there with the worldly and informed. Some would say he was considerably below embryonic intellect. All would agree that he was a moron.Nelly found herself giggling at his life of blissful ignorance and found even the need for a toothy grin as she cast a glance over Trevor's costume of the day. It was standard skinhead fare orchestrated by the desperate actions of a wannabe: skintight jeans borrowed from his 12-year-old sister—the kind with seams crusted with plastic gemstones—and a once white T-shirt now a lovely shade of pink from being washed with his faded red braces. But it was the tattered denim jacket that sent Nelly into a belly laugh, for emblazoned on the back in Trevor’s own fair hand was a salute to those of his kind. Those who are born one thing and crave to be another, only to always get it wrong. I iz a skumhed, it said.Alas, Nelly’s belly laugh would be short-lived when she remembered Trevor had recently learned the basics of conversation. ‘I know you,’ he grunted, his face caught somewhere between a sneer and innocence.‘And I know you do, Trevor.’ A familiar knot in her stomach returned, and her nose throbbed. ‘You know me because we live next door to each other. You see me every day. Have done for the past—’ she paused, thinking how long it had been, but only came up with the answer of, ‘too long, too bloody long Trevor.’ She closed her eyes and wished him to be vaporised, squashed, extracted from life, or just not there, but upon a tentative peek she saw his painful features closer than ever. His top lip darted into an emotionless snarl, and those piercing eyes remained veiled by a vacant squint.‘You got your periods, ain't ya?’ His head slowly oscillated into the marked beginnings of a nod, ‘I’ll tell ya how I knows, right.’‘Really, don’t feel obliged Trevor.’ Her voice was flat, fastly losing interest in life itself.‘Na, na right. Listen. Men don’t get the painters in like you girls do. It be funny I knows, because you lot’re on the blob all the time, and us blokes ain't allowed to have it for some reason. That be why I wears this here hoop on me left ear.’ He thrust his chest out and tugged the jewellery adorning his right ear. ‘Because I don’t wanna gets the periods like girls and poofs do.’Nelly resisted the temptation of throwing a punch, for she knew that no harm would come to an organism that lacked the basic ingredients of a central nervous system. ‘Trevor,’ she said with a foreboding hiss, ‘you are truly a hairless bimbo. Now, if you wish to live, let me pass.’‘Oh yeah Nelsie, I like that,’ Trevor was rather pleased with his new name. ‘Sounds kind of muscly I reckons. Bimbo Buggercup! I am the bimbo. The bimbo, that be me. Bimbo boy. Bimbo man. Thanks Nelsie, you be alright for a girl on the blob.’She growled. It was the kind of growl to be heeded, the kind that introduces an encounter with death. But fearing the consequences of touching the half-witted dullard, she chose instead to flee, deep into the ever-growing slick of commuters. Free at last, she thought, guarding her nose from the tide of briefcase bearing zombies, just two more blocks and I can hide myself from morons and every bloody other person at work. But escape was an unrealised dream. The skinhead had found his soapbox, a garbage bin overspilling with grease and half-eaten burgers—the fresh morning air had left him frisky and inspired.‘I reckons you is beautiful, Nelsie,’ he hollered, slowing the commuters until every pair of eyes focused on her quivering body. ‘You’re a stunner, girlie, even with that big ol’ hooter. Be my wife Nelsie. Mr And Misterisses Buggercup. We can have kids and stuff.’ And to her absolute horror she saw his emaciated body and thrusting pelvis caught in the rhythms of an early spring.The words bubbled to her mouth, each one embossed with fire and riddled with rage. Her shoes became projectiles, her handbag a surrogate battleaxe. ‘I will never marry you, Trevor Buggercup.’ She was quite certain. ‘If I’m ever forced to kiss you, I will bite out your tongue and feed it to Laverne. Stare at me one more time and I’ll claw out your eyes, peer inside your head and confirm what everyone knows: that you ain’t got a brain, not even a lone grain of rice working overtime to keep you breathin’! She spun around, wailing at what she saw. Every commuter stood motionless, eyes agog at the spectacle that unravelled before them. Sure, the skinhead continued to make passionate love to the brisk morning air, but far more interesting was the public unravelling of a peculiar woman wearing a decomposing haggis on her nose. All eyes were on her. She whimpered, wanted to die. People pointed, one after the other, hundreds of them repulsed at what they saw.All they could see was her nose.She turned, desperate to escape and painfully aware of the revulsion and mocking in the air. Tears clouded her eyes. Half blind, she fled, and with an interesting and visceral noise only heard by butchers and mass murderers, she ploughed, nose first, into the wing mirror of the number 48 bus.The scream that followed cleared a wide area and kick-starting the rush hour into a spirited charge of escapism in any direction away from the hysterical girl. She lay on the pavement in a pose that would mortify her mother, spread-eagled and bucking amid nasal sorrow. Rivers of blood spewed from behind her fingers as she cradled a nose that frankly wasn’t a nose anymore. Rage and a genuine desire to tear at somebody’s flesh babbled free of her mouth, mingling with rabid foam, blood and hideous nasal juices to give Nelly Cartwright the sound of a deathly fiend.Slowly her eyelids parted to reveal a soupy haze in which she saw three figures hunched in a brood above her head. Distant echoes followed, gradually becoming the calls of concern one would associate with such nasal catastrophes. Lots of oohs, a deary me or two, and a generous supply of shrieks filled her barely conscious mind. One sound however, was different. It appeared to shirk any form of concern, choosing instead to express itself with grunts of fascination, breaking occasionally to poke Nelly's incredible nose.The first of the rescuers, a portly old angel sporting a luxurious perm and a tattoo of a fornicating vicar on her forearm, was in heavy conference with her confidante, ‘Worry yourself not me old pumpkin,’ she bragged, ‘I knows what I be doin’.’The other rescuer exhaled a twee little ooh and nodded distractedly, feigning interest in the words of rescuer one. Instead, her eyes and attention locked on the skinhead. Behind her horn-rimmed spectacles she was sizing him up—victim 1328 perhaps—he was just the sort of morbid soul-sucker fit for vaporisation. Rudolf glowed impatiently.‘No wound be unserviceable,’ continued the frizzy-haired physician, winking at Tinkerbell, ‘so long as you be well versed in slappin’ a nappy on a baby’s arse.’ She leaned closer still, revealing a mouth of brown teeth. ‘And I’ve been and covered many an arse in all me years. Shit, blood, blood, shit, all be the same if you asks I, it all comes from inside and it don’t look too good when you gets it on your pinny. Now,’ she said, giving Nelly a matronly smile, ‘what we got ‘ere then?’ Slowly, she lifted the patient’s hand away from her nose. ‘Oh, by the sweet mother of a clergyman’s kitten, what be that?’ She held Nelly's hand as if she were dying and squatted woozily, staring at the fleshy chasm that spanned the length of Nelly’s nose. It lay a whole four inches long, pumping out blood from a gorge that must have been over an inch deep. ‘We are goin’ to need us some serious nappyin’ here,’ she said as she rummaged feverishly through the contents of her overstuffed handbag.‘Hey Nelsie,’ grunted Trevor, ‘I can see your boogers!’ The skinhead inserted a probing finger into the victim’s nasal canyon, ‘There goes one, look Nelsie, they be runnin’ in all that stuff comin’ from your—eeeeaaaaaaawwwh! What were that?’ Trevor found himself seated on the pavement some distance away from Nelly and the two elderly ladies. He noticed a haze drift in front of his eyes that simply refused to go away, and it was only when he forced himself to go cross-eyed that he noticed the haze was in fact smoke bilging from the tip of his nose.Tinkerbell had fallen silent, her mind paying attention only to her thoughts. She perched by the weeping patient, concealing Rudolf’s smouldering nose under her thick woollen coat. Something troubled her. Trevor had deflected her wrath and was still as alive as his meagre brain would allow. He should have fallen lifeless to the ground, his gormless face nothing more than a steaming pile of ash. In all her homicidal wisdom, she had never seen this. Dread was making its cold advance, seeping into her veins until she shook at the thought of what could be. Were there others like her? Others with powers, but with rotten souls. She feared for herself. She feared for the people of Ilkington Yoke. How long, she thought, until they take their revenge?‘Found it!’ yelled the frizzy physician. ‘Ain’t used one of these for many a year.’ She held in her hand an antique sanitary pad, twelve inches long by four inches deep. ‘Back in the days we used to keep these buggers for years. Stick’em under a tap and Fanny be your aunt until next time you gets the tummy wobbles. Now hold steady me love, I’m just goin’ to soak up some of that there oozy stuff with this here pad, which I’ll tell you all for free that I do not miss at all. Now I’m comin’ in me love, just a quick dab and then I sews it all up with this here sock darnin’ kit. Now that—’‘Would someone please get this mad old woman off of me!’ Nelly suddenly burst into life, sending the frizzy physician rolling backwards like a naked hedgehog retreating from an angry hound. The impromptu sanitary swab spiralled through the air until finally it lay as a grisly blood-ridden corpse on Trevor’s shoes. He picked it up and sniffed quizzically at the bloodstained pad. An inquisitive tongue darted out to taste the sticky liquid.‘Eeeeeeeeuuugh, Nel-sie-smell-sie,’ he said, offering it back to Nelly, ‘so you is on the blob after all.’Somewhere deep inside came the flicking of a switch. The one that transcends a normal brandy truffle nibbling citizen into a slavering beast concerned only with total annihilation, naughty acts of murderous intent and limitless deeds of torture. Even Trevor’s arid comprehension informed him he may have trodden a little too far, and as he lay without a pulse on Nelly’s face, her clenched fist lodged firmly in his broken and bloodied mouth, he may have been aware that his life, or death, would never be the same again.

Likey? The book and ebook at will be available before Christmas 2023 at amazon and the waltz of monsters website.