Here, for your enjoyment, are the first two chapters of A Fistful of Rubbers, the second title in The Sid Tillsley Chronicles. This will give you a good taste of what you’ll find in the trilogy. Don’t worry, this won’t ruin The Great Right Hope for you; it will just make you want to read it!
* * * *
Chapter 1
DUST swirls through the cold winter night making everchanging, almost hypnotic patterns in the yellow light coming from the sodium streetlamps above. However, the intricacies of the shapes were nothing compared to the complexity of the dust’s former state.
Wolfgang Fortzgard had walked the earth for a millennium. He’d influenced many artists during the Renaissance. He’d ensured the apparent suicide of Adolf Hitler and helped bring down the Berlin wall. On the other hand, he’d taken thousands of lives and caused misery to all that fell to his fang. This, however, wasn’t the reason for his quick but nonetheless violent death.
Twenty Embassy Number Ones were the reason for Wolfgang Fortzgard’s death, the number of premium brand cigarettes that Reece Chambers agreed to give Sid Tillsley for every vampire killed on this particular hunt in Leeds.
Sid lit up a John Players Special, a brand he’d earned for a previous excursion, and stained his gnashers a darker shade of yellow.
“Sid, have you made contact?” Reece buzzed through the radio.
Sid hadn’t got to grips with the advanced technological systems Reece had supplied him with since he agreed to join the fight against vampires all those months ago. As was often the case, Sid hadn’t listened to Reece’s detailed instructions at all. He started zipping and unzipping the fly on his skin-tight jeans in an attempt to access the radio microphone hidden in the zip of his leather jacket
A scream filled the night air as a local partygoer left a nightclub to see a middle-aged, obese skinhead flashing his penis at her.
“Sorry, love!” yelled the accidental flasher. Still, he was never a man to turn down an opportunity. “But if you fancy it, I’ll meet you in the Kebabateria in half an hour!” She didn’t hear him, she was too busy running.
“Sid, have you made contact?” Reece buzzed through once more. “It’s your top button on your jacket you…” he tailed off with abuse.
Sid found the microphone. “Reet. Got it. Aye, I twatted one of the bastards. You want me to go in?”
“Do you think you can handle it?”
“As long as you get the beers in for last orders, I can.”
“Kick ass.”
Sid shook his head. Rich turned into a bigger arsehole every time they went out. He was acting like some big Yank general and it was bloody annoying. Rich had been panicking about tonight for weeks as this was their biggest “mission” so far.
Sid knocked three times on the door of the secret nightclub and the security shutter on the door slid open. “Who are you? Where’s Wolfgang?” said a deep, gruff voice, which could only come from a fellow brick shithouse.
“Who? Woolbag? Ya must mean the tall fella,” said Sid, looking back at the pile of ash on the pavement, dispersing in the wind. Sid turned his attention towards getting inside the club. “He said you were a wanker and told me to tell you that you’re a twat!”
Sid had forgotten to turn off his microphone and Reece heard everything. Sid had ignored all the lines Reece had given him! Weeks of planning for nothing! Reece punched the side of the van in which he was sitting. He’d gone through considerable toil to obtain the information about the shipment of human sacrifices.
But Reece, however, was a little naïve about the situation. He’d forgotten that they were in the north of England. It was easier to start a fight in the city of Leeds than it was in Harlem dressed as a Black and White Minstrel.
“Who you calling a twat, you twat!” replied the man behind the door. Sid had finally met his intellectual match.
The door opened and out came a giant. He was bearded and tattooed and dwarfed Sid in both width and height, but all the muscles in the world can’t protect the chin. Sid flashed the right, sending the giant’s jaw in the same direction. The man-mountain hit the deck like all the rest.
Sid opened his trousers a couple of times and announced, “I’m in. He was a normal fella. He didn’t explode or ’owt. Hang on, better make sure.” A run-up followed by a powerful kick to the unconscious man’s crotch confirmed his suspicions. “Aye, a normal fella.”
Reece winced. Sid had been kicking far too many people in the groin of late. He could tell if they were a vampire or not by the way they reacted to his left foot. If they woke up, they were a vampire. If you were a vampire you got your just deserts, if you were a man…
“Reet, I’m going in.” Sid pushed open the door and was greeted with a wall of sound.
“BASS IN THE PLACE, LONDON!”
The music was deafening. Hundreds of partygoers danced manically to the hard beat of the music. Sid looked around and was surprised at how swanky the place was. It looked like a shithole from the outside. These vampires were classy if the truth be told, even if most of them were a little bit too much like them lot. He lit up another tab.
No one had noticed him, yet. Rich said that as soon as he got in, they’d be after him because of his “presents” or some bollocks like that. He really was a poncy git, but he had some good tools for fighting these vampire bastards, and, more importantly, he got the beers in.
Sid made his way to the dance floor and still no one noticed him as he stood admiring the dancers giving it their all. Sid had never been a good mover, and was the first to admit it. It would take several pints to get him on the floor and that would only be at the Miner’s on Ladies’ Night, but now that was shut…He tried to let the pain go.
These were proper dancers, though, and too much for him to cope with even with a few beers inside him, which he hadn’t had. Rich didn’t like him drinking when he was on a job, and he’d only had six or seven before tonight.
He unzipped his jacket as the sights were making him uncomfortably hot. He’d never seen so many women in a club and none of the lasses seemed the shy type, either. There was more flesh than clothing and it was a ratio Sid approved of, especially as some of them had fantastic jubblies. Really fantastic jubblies. How could any red-blooded man not become a little aroused by it all?
And that is when Sid got noticed.
Thinking that the zipper on his trousers was the microphone was a costly mistake. Little Sid popped through to say hello to the large group of vampires that had stopped dancing to the music.
“Ah, fook!” said Sid, struggling to get Little Sid back into his tight jeans. No one likes it when a twat gets his cock out on the dance floor, and vampires hate it more than most. However, when the most dangerous vampire hunter in history turns up with his cock in his hand…
Panic is the best way to describe what happened next. Not all in the crowd were vampires, and a lot of the girls were locals. There were a large number of prostitutes and drug addicts along with a few other waifs and strays, people who wouldn’t be missed but had been encouraged to attend tonight’s party with the promise of free drugs and alcohol. They looked around, bewildered. Half of the crowd fled for the exits while the other half prepared for a fight.
“It’s Tillsley! Tillsley is here!”
“Let’s finish him! We outnumber him!”
Many voices piped up but Sid managed to put his old man away and was ready for battle before they could take advantage of his unfortunate predicament. Twenty vampires, male and female, circled their nemesis, closing in, ready to kill.
“Reet, you bastards are in for it.” Sid took the fight to the vampires. Wading in, he windmilled haymakers with every step. He’d discovered that it was the best course of action when taking on a crowd. His research was mostly carried out when the ’boro were at home to Newcastle and Geordies spilled out to some of his local haunts.
Jab-cross-hook. Every punch he threw brought with it the satisfaction of a dead vampire and twenty premium- brand fags. Dust filled the air as vampires fell to the right hand of Sid Tillsley, Vampire Hunter. Fear of the man was already legendary.
“Get the fuck out of here!” screamed one of the vampires, watching the human demolition derby in mid flight. Many of the vampires, realising the futility of their efforts, turned and fled. But like all demolition derbies, sooner or later they run out of petrol. Sid began to slow down and the dust began to dissipate. As it cleared, he stood wheezing with his hands on his knees.
The remaining vampires regrouped. There were about ten still in the building. Tears streaked some cheeks, whilst some howled in anguish at the loss of their brethren. Seeing their opportunity, they attacked as one. Sid took a deep breath as the mob approached. He wasn’t ready so he played rope-a-dope.
A barrage of kicks and punches rained down upon him. It wasn’t the best of ideas, to take a few punches from ten immortals in order to get your breath back, but then Sid wasn’t like the other boys.
“Use the weapon, Sid!” Reece screamed through the radio into Sid’s ear. They’d gone through this a hundred times since Sid’s last rope-a-dope. He’d insisted that he could take it, but it was a ridiculous strategy. Therefore, Reece had developed a UV lamp capable of burning vampires, allowing Sid to fend them off and catch his breath before smacking them again.
Sid ignored the veteran vampire hunter; he was a Southern fanny who didn’t know how to brawl properly. The vampires continued their onslaught, but it was to no avail; they were Southern pansies too. They needed something more deadly. The sound of a blade being unsheathed told Sid it was time to use the secret weapon. Sid unleashed the UV torch from his coat.
Sid Tillsley is the most powerful and successful vampire hunter in the history of the world. Sid Tillsley is armed with vampire-killing weaponry. Unfortunately, Sid Tillsley is an idiot.
He didn’t really understand how the lamp worked since he hadn’t listened when Reece had explained it to him so he started clubbing the vampires with the lamp, left, right, and centre. With the UV lamp in the left hand and the power of seven pints of ale in the right, he dealt out justice to the vampire race; his right hand finishing off the ones groggy from the pummelling they’d taken with twenty pounds of stainless steel.
Soon, there was nothing left but ash and a mashed-up lamp. After a minute, Sid regained enough breath to light up another cig.
“Sid, where are you?” Reece called desperately through the intercom. “I’m coming in!”
“E-e-easy, m-m-mon,” Sid managed between breaths and puffs. “I’m reet. All the ones that wanted a scrap are dead. Loads legged it with the prossies. They could’ve fookin’ left me one. I’m gonna get meself a beer.”
Reece Chambers charged in, surveyed Sid’s handiwork, and smiled. The nightclub looked like a used barbeque pit. “How many did you kill?”
“I dunno, more than last time, like,” he said, pouring himself a beer from behind the bar. “I needed a bigger half-time rest. Took some good’n’s from some of the bigger bastards.” He rubbed his ribs.
“Are you OK? Do you want me to have a look at them?” said Reece, reaching over to remove Sid’s jacket.
“Get away, lad.” Sid shooed him away. “I don’t want any fussin’ over. I only took a few, and nothing that a few nights off with a few ales won’t fix.” He lit up another cigarette in order to start the healing process.
“We don’t have much time. I must gather everything I can.” Reece ran through the nightclub looking for an office, anywhere where he could go through papers or anything to give him more information on the vampire’s movements. “Help me, Sid.”
“Fook off! I’ve done me bit. I’m gonna enjoy this beer until you’re done.” Sid supped the beer between some tabs. It was pissy lager, but it was free pissy lager. He watched Reece going around like a mad man, dressed like a proper wanker in all black like a shit ninja. His long grey hair tied into a poncy ponytail.
Reece had expected as much from Sid and gathered up anything that might be of use into a briefcase. He looked at his watch. “We have to go! Come on, I’ll buy you a beer.” Sid followed him, picking up as many bottles of spirits as he could carry.
Reece shook his head wearily. The important thing was getting Sid away from the booze in the first place. It could all end badly if the big man put too much away.
He sprinted ahead of Sid who ambled as quickly as he could without officially breaking into a run. It was only the offer of free beer that made him hurry. Reece knew the drill. He ran to his car, and then came back to get Sid who got in the passenger side. They raced away through the night, back to the relative safety of Middlesbrough.
Chapter 2
BRIAN GARFORTH’S “swordy-sense” was spot on again and he couldn’t believe his luck. This lass was as classy as they come. She had the lot: great tits and a great arse.
Yeah, the lot.
She also had her full quota of limbs and didn’t have any scars or mental defects. Brian Garforth was about to bag himself a red-hot stunner.
He never expected to see a lass like this in the snooker hall where he was giving Peter Rathbone a few frames. Rathbone, the lying arsehole, reckoned he once made a break of seventy-two. Now, Brian was a fair player, ten-times better than Rathbone, but his highest break was only forty-nine. Not bad, considering snooker was bloody hard, possibly the hardest of all games. Them professionals thought they were something special with their mineral waters, their deep screw, and intentional positioning.
Bastards.
Even though Brian had drunk enough to take him past the “confidence” phase and into the “pissed” phase, he still managed to rack up a forty-three break and had a length of the table black in front of him. It would’ve been a special moment by itself, having the opportunity to reach this most illustrious sporting achievement, but when the stunner from his dreams walked into Merlin’s Snooker Hall, the night got better, much better.
She was obviously a snooker-slag, the sort that got fired up by a man with straighter-than-straight cueing. He’d banged everything in the centre of the pockets and that was a sure way to get the ladies drooling. On top of that, he was wearing his new suit which Sid and that wanker Rich had bought him for helping Sid give that big, angry, vampire bastard a pasting a few months back.
His new red wool suit was pretty special. It was like the last one except the crotch wasn’t withered and wearing thin at the knees due to all the late night action. He was looking dapper and sinking pot after pot. Still, this lass wasn’t the normal standard of clientele for a snooker hall. Normally it was just scag heads, prostitutes, and rough snooker-slags, slags that loved seeing swordsmen smash in long blacks. He’d have to reach his half century if he was going to bag this slag.
He pretended not to notice as she walked nearer the table and admired how all the colours were on the spots, even though many, many reds were lying deep in their cushiony graves. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him, and Brian knew that she wanted it. She returned to the bar and looked over, watching him chalk his cue and line up the long bomber that tested him. Maybe she was here for the snooker, maybe she wasn’t…either way, she was gonna get nailed.
TH-CLUNK!
The black slams into the back of the pocket with the white ball ricocheting off five cushions before coming to rest in perfect position on a loose red.
“Fifty,” spat Rathbone.
Brian held the cue between his legs and stroked the weapon of the master, the giant cock of a snooker god.
“Howay petal,” he said, dropping the blonde beauty a seductive wink. “I just reached me half century. Get us an ale in and I’ll wrap this frame up.”
Brian saw how she looked at him longingly, wanting him to leave the snooker table and take her aggressively over the one-armed-bandit. That wasn’t going to happen. He’d left himself perfect on the loose red. As a snooker-slag, she’d know with this sort of positional play, he meant business. He slammed the red home with an aggressive thrust of the right hip. It was his patented power-thrust that enabled him to generate tremendous cue speed and pump like a humming bird on ecstasy.
By the time she returned, Brian had racked up an impressive sixty-two and left himself a red that had been carelessly left at balk. She brought with her the most expensive (and only) champagne the club had to offer.
Brian was also the Most Educated Man in Middlesbrough and the only male of the northern subspecies to ever indulge in a glass of vino, but that was saved for private times when he was getting down and dirty, extremely dirty. In a snooker hall like this, a man could get beaten to death if he was seen even thinking about drinking a smidgeon of tart-fuel.
“Do ya think I’m some kinda poof or summat? Get me a pint of ale, woman!” he reprimanded, turning his back on her.
The red at balk and the yellow for position left Brian with another red-black opportunity. This would take him to seventy-three, beating Peter Rathbone’s fictitious highest break. The red went in dead centre, the black was on the spot, and he had a great angle.
He lined himself up, but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the snooker-slag was buying him lager, the Southerner’s drink.
“Bitter! For the love of God, woman, bitter!” He may be risking a shag, but he weren’t drinking any of that fizzy southern shite.
He lined up the pot again and, using his newly-found anger, drove the black with extra venom, jawing it. “FOOK!” he screamed.
“Sixty-six,” called out a very smug Rathbone.
“Stupid cow!” shouted Brian, not able to hide his annoyance at what had transpired.
Chastising her for buying him lager may have ruined his chances, and that would’ve been regrettable, but she’d cocked up the snooker of his life and had to be told. On the shout of “stupid cow,” she paused, mid-stride, but it was a pretty awesome performance in cueing, and she carried on through the insult.
“Hard luck, Brian. You nearly reached my best break,” gloated Peter Rathbone. He spoke louder than normal so the stunner could hear.
“Fook off, ya horrible little twat!” said Brian on impulse.
Rathbone mumbled something inaudible and went off to the fruit machine to punt some more of his hard-earned benefit money.
The beauty gave Brian his pint of ale before resting against the table. Her beautiful, blonde hair spilled down over her low-cut top exposing the ample cleavage of two heavenly twins. Her legs didn’t seem to end as they meandered their way to a non-existing skirt.
“Eh’up lass,” said Brian. “Shall we take a seat?”
She nodded before making her way to Merlin’s shitheap of a bar. Brian watched her hips as she walked, and he felt a stirring. No blue pill would be required on this adventure. They both propped themselves on bar-stools. She was about six inches taller than him, but he didn’t care. He’d nailed bigger lasses than this before, including one who was technically a giant.
“Did you like me snooker? You won’t find much straighter cueing in all of the ’boro,” he boasted.
“It was very impressive. You use your hips very well.”
The compliment had an eastern European tinge to it—Brian wasn’t the Most Intelligent Man on the Smithson Estate for nothing. She was too gorgeous for a snooker-slag. Putting two and two together, Brian came to the conclusion that she must be either a hooker or one of them lasses trying to marry to get into the country. Either way, she was gonna get a damn good shaggin’.
“You into your snooker then, pet?”
“Not really, no. However, I can appreciate any man who is skilled in sport. They say a man’s sporting prowess is linked to his ability to make love to a woman…I have high hopes for you.”
Brian offered his hand. “Brian, Brian Garforth, and you’re right. By the way, I’m also shit-hot at badminton.”
The beauty called over to the barman to refill Brian’s glass. Hookers never bought you drinks, and he doubted whether Russian brides would either, as they were poor as ’owt until they took half your house. She paid the barman and Brian took an opportunity to have a look to see if he could catch a glimpse of her knickers.
Foooooking hell! he thought as he found out she wasn’t wearing any. He looked up when he heard the grinding of teeth. She wasn’t impressed. She’d noticed him perving, an activity that every man does at least four or five times a day.
Fook it! He had another look anyway and a good gander at the cleavage as well. He’d already called her a “stupid cow” and had a go at her for buying him the wrong booze, so if he weren’t on for a jump here, he’d be very surprised. She’d be loving the attention.
Her face told a different story.
Fook. Clearing his throat, he spoke. “You’ve got a lovely set of…” The grimace on her face worsened. “Eyes. You’ve got a lovely set of eyes.”
Her frown softened and gradually a smile reappeared. “You are a beautiful man, Brian Garforth.”
“Aye, I’ve been told that more times than you can possibly imagine. I think it’s time that you got to see a little bit more of this beautiful body back at your place after I get back from the pissers.”
He jumped off the bar-stool and went to shake the snake.
*
HELENA ICHVAMOVICH watched the vile creature walk away to the toilets, the thought of which made her nauseous. She was one of the most beautiful vampires of her generation and a seductress who could tempt the Creator. Since she’d come of age, she’d seduced some of the most powerful politicians and leaders of the world, human and vampire alike. Even the great Michael Vitrago had fallen for her charms.
But the world had changed. With the death of Sparle and the emergence of Sid Tillsley, everything had been turned on its head—and she’d been sent here to sleep with Brian Garforth.
She’d emptied her stomach for days when she first received the details of her assignment. She tried to contact him a week ago, but the sight of him in the flesh had caused her to weep. He was disgusting. Vile. From ten feet away she could smell the venereal diseases festering in and around his genitals and was amazed they hadn’t killed him. How could the Coalition ask her to allow that thing near her…in her?
Helena swallowed down some vomit. She had to do this. It was for the good of the vampire race. She needed to gather more information on Sid Tillsley and Reece Chambers, and Brian Garforth was her way in.
He returned from the toilets. Everything about him was horrible: his pitted, pale skin, the hideous thin moustache and goatee beard. She couldn’t imagine kissing those cracked lips or running her fingers through his greasy, gelled-back hair. Dying it black did not make him look younger.
“Back to your place, then?” he asked. A visible urine stain spread triumphantly across his red-woollen suit. “Hang about. I’ll just tell Rathbone.”
The little man playing the fruit machine was somehow more horrible than Garforth. He was so greasy, there was more grease than man, and even his dirty clothes looked like they were pulled from a deep fat fryer. His hair stuck to his head and was the definition of “lank.” If she had to sleep with him too…
“Rathbone,” Brian yelled, “I’m off shaggin’!”
*
“FOOK ME! This is swanky, darlin’,” said Brian, looking around the lavish hotel suite. “What did you say you did again?”
“I’m a lawyer working out of London, Brian,” said the snooker-slag. “I’m here on business for a couple of weeks. I have meetings with clients all day, every day, but will be free most nights.”
Brian, who wasn’t really into conversing with women, investigated the contents of the mini-bar. “Aye, yep, that’s great, petal.”
“I hope to see you a lot more over the next two weeks,” she said. “I hope we can get to know each other very well.”
He knew there were sexual undertones, but he knew what she really meant. Ladies from all across the ’boro knew what Brian Garforth was and what he did. They all knew that a long-term prospect with one of the Northeast’s finest swordsmen was as unlikely as them not visiting the clap-clinic after the steamy encounter. “As long as you don’t get in the way of me drinking with the lads, then that won’t be a problem. But if you start getting all clingy, then I ain’t having it.”
Brian read the flabbergasted look on her face and rolled his eyes. “That’s the problem with your sort, lass, you’re all so far up your own arses, you can’t understand that sometimes all a bloke wants to do is get pissed up with his mates.”
Brian would normally cut his arm off to get in the knickers of a bird like this one, but when they were up their own arse, he couldn’t be bothered with it, unless he could join them there. Snooker-slags weren’t meant to be like this. A quick jump from a fine straight-cuer was all they normally wanted.
*
HELENA couldn’t believe her ears. This piece of excrement, this disgusting little man wouldn’t give up drinking with his friends in scummy, run-down pubs to spend time with the most beautiful female in the world?
Helena prayed to the Creator that she would be allowed to kill this bastard after this terrible event in vampire history was brushed under the carpet. He opened up a beer and swigged at it nonchalantly, not questioning why she had taken interest in him. Why would someone like her even contemplate spitting on something like him? He hadn’t even asked her name.
They’d walked past numerous people in the streets on the way back to the hotel. Everyone knew this horrid little man and all had shouted lewd comments about what he was going to get up to. Each comment felt like a hammer to her skull, a permanent stain on her soul. It was the most degrading experience, but she had a job to do. It was her duty.
“That’s not a problem with me,” she said. “I’m busy too. Your friends though, will I be able to meet them?”
“Less talk, gorgeous, less talk.” Brian drunkenly stumbled over to where she stood frozen with fury. He grabbed her by the shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. “Tonight was made for something beautiful.” Helen turned away. His breath repulsed her. “Something beautiful between two, oh-so-beautiful people.”
*
BRIAN felt her pull back. Shy one here, Brian, he thought. Will have to take it easy at first before really getting freaky on her. He stayed close to her as she slowly backed away from him. The wall prevented her escape.
Slowly, he ran his hands down her shoulders and round her back to take hold of her tiny top. He pulled it down slowly to reveal the most magnificently pert breasts he’d ever seen, both in real life and in magazines. They weren’t just pert, they were massive as well. He wasn’t really a tit-man but tonight he was. Tonight, he bloody was.
“Howay the lads!”
He yelled the battle cry before driving his head as deep into the cleavage as he could manage and proceeded to wiggle his head around, blowing raspberries whilst bloody well enjoying himself.
*
TRAPPED against the wall, Helena considered two options: kill him, or fulfil her mission. Only her love for her people allowed Brian Garforth to pull down her top without her ripping his throat out.
She looked on in horror as he rammed his greasy little head in between her breasts. She looked down at his little bald spot and the sickness returned. Oil was left on her skin as he squirmed manically from side to side, but worst of all…he wouldn’t stop.
*
BRIAN stood up, confident that this woman would now be suitably primed to accept his sword with the minimum of thrusting. But first, it was his turn to enjoy a little personal pleasure.
He ripped down his trousers and pants in one mighty flourish, rose to his full height, and placed his hands on his hips. There was no mistaking what he wanted. As he suspected, no little blue pill was required. He looked down at his old fella that had reached an angle of almost ninety degrees, a feat not accomplished in the last couple of years, and quickly wiped a little yellow splodge off the end, hoping that she didn’t notice. She didn’t. She had a vacant look on her face and was obviously an inexperienced lass. She was going to learn quickly tonight. He pushed down on her shoulders, and without any force at all, she dropped to her knees. Champion!
*
HELENA looked the devil in the eye and fought the gag reflex with all her might. She couldn’t look at his penis. It was horrible. She dropped her gaze and was forced again to fight the gag reflex from the faeces that lined his Y-fronts. She was a heroine of the vampire race.
In her mind she saw the mountains of her homeland in the distance as she ran like lightning through the streams of the valley. The musical notes of the water brought joy to her heart as did the lone eagle that soared high above, calling to a future mate. She ran with all her speed. She hadn’t seen her beloved in over a decade.
*
BRIAN was cock-on-legs. He was a walking penis. He was Middlesbrough’s Finest Swordsman. He put his hands behind his head and smiled as he admired the act being carried out on his person, even if the lass was a bit shit. The lasses of the ’boro were normally all over his old fella like a dog was all over a week-old donner kebab. This lass couldn’t melt a Cornetto. However, she did have cracking jugs.
*
HELENA rose to her feet and wished for death. Numbly, she let Brian lead her to the bed and lie her down. She was aware things were being done to her, but in this state of detachment from her body, time stood still. This was truly Purgatory. However, she remained in another place in her head. It was the only way that she could get through this night and through the rest of eternity.
*
BRIAN removed his hand from an intimate place of his stationary lover and was enraged at what he found. “Fook me lass, aren’t ya ready yet? I warmed you up with my titty-teasing! Looks like Plan B is in order.”
He rubbed his hands over his greasy hair before rubbing it across his member. A few applications later and he was greasier than a used-car salesman.
“Howay the lads!”
*
HELENA swam through the warm currents of the ocean and the water soothed her body. The distant call of a gull echoed softly against the towering cliffs next to her. It was so tranquil, floating on the Indian Ocean with her beloved Gawain. It wasn’t often she’d experienced such utter peace… And then her world was flipped upside down.
*
“REET, lass, I’m almost done, like,” said Brian, who had built up a mighty sweat in a remarkably short amount of time “Just gonna turn you around for me final flurry, if ya don’t mind?” Brian turned her over and onto all fours. The lass was pretty much pond-life, but because she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, it kind of made up for it.
*
THE birds sang and the wind blew through the trees of the coastline. Helena and Gawain circumnavigated the cliffs until they reached glorious, golden sands, which burned their feet as they emerged from the waves. Suddenly, pain engulfed the world. Fire ripped across the shore and devoured everything with the heat of the sun.
*
“OOOOOOHHHHHHHHHH…YA BASTARDS!” Brian’s knees trembled until he almost fell to the floor. “Eh? What the fook?” Opening his eyes, he saw something completely unexpected: a big pile of ash on the bed with a little pile balancing precariously on the end of his throbbing, yet waning, member.
“Shit.”
* * * *
