Viva La Vampire is a spin-off short from The Sid Tillsley Chronicles. This is the story of Brian Garforth, Middlesbrough’s Finest Swordsman, and his holiday on the Costa Del Sol. When a Northern man nails a vampire’s missus round the back of burger van, there’s gonna be trouble….for the vampire!
* * * * *
It was almost time. The Mediterranean sun had nearly reached the pinnacle of its ascent. In seconds, the star that brought life to the world would only bring death to anything stranded in its wake. “Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun” is not quite right. There is only one type of Englishman that would, that could, brave the heat. Only one type of Englishman was hardy enough, and only one type needed rays of such brutal intensity to turn their skin bronze.
Brian Garforth was one of these men and he made his way to the pool. The concrete burns the soles of his feet, yet he shows no sign of discomfort. The sun burns his skin, assisted by the lard that he’d smeared on himself to aid the tanning of his fair skin, yet he shows no sign of discomfort. His 1992 Speedos cut deep into his skin. Designed to show as much of Brian as possible they often caused the loss of circulation to his extremities, as well as loss of consciousness, but still he showed no sign of discomfort. Why did this man show no pain, no feeling, no emotion? Because Brian Garforth is a Northerner.
Spaniards looked on from the shady safety of their rooms. They had watched this horrible little man, with his potbelly and pointy, oiled goatee beard, sunbathe every day. They had watched as his skin had turned from pasty white, to cancerous red within a matter of minutes. Every day, he returned to burn himself further. Even when in his room, with the curtains shut, he could still be seen glowing through them, which had been unfortunate, for, after sunbathing, the English pig liked to enjoy some alone time with his hand.
Brian Garforth, Swordsman from Middlesbrough, picked a sun lounger and went to war. He coped with the pain by confronting it with ruthless aggression and furious rage. As a Northerner, this was the only way he knew how to deal with anything. “You think you’re fooking hot, sun? You think you’re fooking hot? You ain’t! Come on, ya bastard! What more you got? I’ll be here when you go down, ya fooking nonce!”
Brian was on holiday on the Costa Del Sol. None of his mates had made it with him. His best friend, Sid Tillsley, refused to fly because he was scared of the camp nature of air-stewards. Sid was the most homophobic man in the North, which by default made him the most homophobic man in the universe ones, and parallel, alternative ones (which Sid trusted less). There was no way he was letting one of them lotcheck his seatbelt. The other lads were skint, which wasn’t a surprise as none of them worked. They just scrounged off the dole-office. At least Brian had the decency to work whilst claiming benefits.
He had never been on holiday on his own, before, and had enjoyed the last few days of sun, sea and sex. It had been almost too easy. You didn’t need to be a Level 12 Swordsman when you were on holiday. The women were red hot for a shagging, even before you began your courtship display. It was fooking brilliant.
This was his last day, and he was flying home tonight. His tan was topped, and there was still time to go on one last piss-up before heading back. He’d go through one more lass before saying goodbye to Spain. In fact, he may just make it a local. It had just been Brits he had nailed, so far. Lasses from Scunthorpe, Stoke, Hartlepool, Barnsley, Carlisle and Bury had felt the fury of his Sword. It would be nice to finish off with a Spanish senurit, cenur…. a Spanish slut.
* * * * *
Brian had beaten the sun for the seventh day running. He was in agonising pain, but it mattered not, for he had a tan. After his early-evening ‘gentlemen’s time,’ like all men, he went through the shit, shower and shave routine, before hitting the town. His manicured beard was the pointiest it had been all week, which meant a guaranteed success with the ladies. What about the shave, you ask? Let’s just say the ladies prefer ‘it’ that way.
Brian sat at the bar with a bottle of lager, enjoying the evening. He was looking forward to getting back to real ale. He couldn’t stand this fizzy shite. Unfortunately, good beer meant going home and that meant work on Monday, at Middlesbrough General Hospital. He was in charge of a small team of cleaners. They’d all be wanting a bit of the man with the brightest tan in all the ‘boro. And this was a proper red tan as well, not like what them orange sunbed ponces had, nor the tangarine lasses who worked at Debenhams.
Already, he’d taken in a few bars, but hadn’t seen any local lasses, yet. He should probably avoid pubs with names like “The Red Lion” and “The King’s Head,” but he was on holiday and loved going to British pubs in a foreign country. It was brilliant; it was like being in the UK! He was still confident that he would love a local before he got a taxi to the airport, as there were another seven hours of drinking left, and he could always rely on his sixth sense when it came to women. It was all part of being a Swordsman. He relied on his “Swordy-Sense,” as he called it, when out and about the pubs and clubs of Middlesbrough.
“My Swordy-Sense is tingling.”
Brian left the crowded bar. The drunken hen-party from Doncaster were clouding his judgement. He could deal with them later if his Swordy-Sense didn’t pick him a winner. As soon as he was outside, and the cool evening breeze blew away the dangerous levels of cheap perfume, Brian could pinpoint his next victim with his eyes closed.
“Yes,” he said under hushed breath. Sitting on the kerb was an absolute stunner, and a local one by the looks of it, and better still, she was crying her eyes out. Crying women were number one on a Swordsman’s list. Emotional women were on a hair-trigger when it came to dropping their knickers.
“Eh-up, love, what are ya crying at?”
The Swordsman’s arm was around the girl’s shoulders before she knew what was happening.
“Get away from me?” She tried to shake the arm loose, but Brian had been through this before, many, many times. Rule one: Don’t let go. They’ll tire eventually, and with your arm around them, they can’t reach their rape alarm or pepper spray.
“Why is a beautiful girl like you crying? If I was your man, I’d never let you cry. You’d never feel sorrow, only love. You’d be the world to me and nothing else would matter but your happiness. What’s your name, petal?”
Several minutes later………
Estefania wept into her hands. She’ been knocked from her feet by a giant, and she cowered from his rage. The fear on her face when she saw him… Brian knew it could mean only one thing: She’s a bored and beaten housewife. Ah well, Brian hadn’t had a scrap since being on holiday. It weren’t a proper holiday unless you smacked someone.
“Who the fook are you?” asked the Swordsman to the lass’s fella.
“My name is Toribio.”
“Eh?” said Brian, cocking an ear at the daft name. “What the fook? Terry?” He waved a hand. ”It don’t fooking matter. What the fook d’ya want?”
“You have desecrated my woman.”
“You have defiled Estefania?”
“I nailed her out round back of that burger van, if that’s what you mean?”
Brian clenched his fist. “You fooking try and make me, ya big twat! I’ve kicked seven bells of shit out of bigger bastards than you before.”
Brian was only 5’7’’ but he never shied away from a fight. It helped that his best mate, Sid Tillsley, was the hardest man in all of Teesside, but Brian never backed down, even when big Sid wasn’t there. Still, Brian was picking a fight with a monster.
Before Brian could land his patented kick to the bollocks, Toribio had lifted him from his feet and pinned him to the wall. Brian’s feet dangled twelve inches from the floor, and he still looked up at his burly opponent.
Toribio snarled, and his face transformed into a mass of veins and teeth. His eyes were blood red and he let out a low guttural growl that would make a normal man lose control of their bladder. But this wasn’t a normal man. Brian Garforth was a Northerner.
“What the fook is wrong with your teeth, pal? And your fooking breath stinks!”
“SILENCE, HUMAN! I am the lamia, the vampire, the damned. I am your doom!”
“You’re a fooking twat, is what you are. Your lot have been throwing their weight around back in the ‘boro, and my mate Sid has been knocking the shit out of the lot of ya!”
Toribio was born six-hundred years ago, and had never seen a reaction like this. Most cowered, fainted, or worse. No man had ever touched one of his pets. This man was a hideous little worm, even for a human. The vampire’s heightened sense of smell recognised disease on the wretch, and he was disgusted to realise that the smell came from the man’s nether regions.
“You are going to suffer a painful, agonising torture, human. You are going to scream for death, but it will not come quick. You are going to emanate pain from every pore, nerve, sinew. You are going to…”
Brian landed a swift toepunt to the knackers. Torbio’s grip loosened and Brian sensed his chance. Most people don’t really know how to cause maximum damage with a shot to the stones. Brian Garforth did. It was simple; don’t just land one… Several ball-breaking strikes later, Toribio let go and Brian was away.
* * * * *
An hour later………..
Brian supped a bottle of fizzy, crap lager. He was on the tail of the hen-party from Doncaster, He had their location locked down, but wanted to check out a couple of bars for anything better, first. The hen-party were pretty rough, even for a generous Swordsman like himself.
“Brian, my love, take me with you.”
Brian swivelled on his barstool and his eyes shot north. “Ah, shit, you! How did you find me?”
“I have been looking everywhere for you,” cried Estefania. ”Toribio will kill me if he finds us. After you struck him, I managed to get away. Please, take me with you.”
Brian looked deep into her eyes. She was magnificent. Perfect symmetrical face, big brown eyes, luscious lips, long dark hair. Every man’s dream. On top of that, she had a wazza set of jugs.
She ran her hand down his chest. “Please, Brian, let me come to Middlesbrough with you. I’ll be your sex slave. I’ll be everything you want me to be. You won’t ever lift a finger around the house again. Please, I have money; I have lots of money that Toribio gave me. You’ll never have to work again.”
What man could turn down such beauty, wealth and such a great set of jugs? The answer is no man… except a Swordsman.
“Look, pet, you really do have a cracking set of tats on ya, but I canna be settling down. You see, I am a Swordsman. I have a duty to give my seed to as many women as possible. I can’t start being faithful, love.”
Estefania broke down into tears, “You can treat me like dirt. Cheat on me. Use me. Just take me with you.”
Brian had heard it all before, “You say that now, pet, but when I want to go down the pub with me mates, or go watch the ‘boro play, you’ll start a nagging. You won’t be able to help yourself; it is in the blood of all women-folk.”
“Don’t leave me alone with Toribio!”
“I could tell that lad had a small-one, but it ain’t the end of the world. You’ll find another decent Northern man, who is willing to do you behind a burger van when he’s pissed. We are a kind people.”
“Nah, look, enough’s enough, fook off!”
* * * * *
Brian say on the plane and he was in a very bad mood. He didn’t like legging it away from the big bastard vampire. Yeah, they’re super strong, regenerating, ultra-fast, hard bastards, but if they ain’t from up-North, then they are Southern pansies, and he should’ve beaten the crap out of him. That lass had got all needy, too. They always did. He was right to tell her to fook off. She’ll learn. She’ll probably take a few bats from Terry the vampire, but she’ll learn. Brian’s mood was about to worsen.
“Four-pounds-fooking-fifty? For a fooking cheese fooking sandwich? Ya robbing bastard, fook off!” said Brian to the airhostess who took her business elsewhere.
The elderly woman sitting next to him gave him a look of disgust.
Brian knew what she was thinking, “It’s criminal that the bastards rob you like this, I know, pet.”
“I am more disgusted by your language.”
“I sincerely apologise for my use of profanities, you daft old cun…”
“LOTTERY TICKETS ARE AVAILABLE FOR TWO EUROS PER CARD,” announced another airhostess with impeccable timing.
“Fooking lottery, robbing bastards!” exclaimed Brian. “Out of the way grandma, I’m off for a piss.”
The offended pensioner got up and let Brian out, but not before being told several times to “hurry up, ya old bat.”
Brian made his way to the tiny cubicle. His “Swordy-Sense” wasn’t tingling, and he was disappointed that he wouldn’t be joining the Mile High Club on this particular flight. Hopefully, he would get home in time to have a beer with his mates in The Miner’s Arms. If it was Ladies’ Night then he had a good chance of a jump.
The aisle was busy with passengers. The blue-rinse brigade were obviously on a mass outing and the queue to the toilets was annoyingly long, and growing longer. He managed to overtake most of the coffin-dodgers, but avoiding walking sticks and artificial hips was tough work, and he tripped and hit the deck.
“Fook!” He could’ve sworn someone stuck a foot out. Someone was about to get a big left hook, and he didn’t care it was that twat off “One Foot in The Grave,” either.
Brian got to his feet and clenched his fist, ready to land a big’un.
Terry the vampire! He must have been really pissed off that Brian nailed his bird. Realising that this wasn’t going to be an easy scrap, Brian decided to fight tactically for a change. The only way he was going to survive this was by using some of the old dears as defence shields. Brian, at pace, headed for the cover of the hostess trolley.
Terry was on his heels, in an instant. “Death is coming, human!”
Brian pushed grannies into Terry’s path as he went. It was for the good of women-kind. Yes, come bingo night, they may be short of numbers, but there were women who needed loving and he was what God had given them. Brian would only allow himself to die after his erectile functionality went to the big fanny in the sky.
Toribio carved a hole through the walkway, swatting the elderly like flies. The sound of shattering bones brought a smile to his face. This human was low enough to sacrifice them all to save his worthless skin, but it would all be in vain.
Brian realised Terry the vampire wasn’t slowing down, even with the mass of OAPs being thrown at him. Maybe if one tried to start a conversation about the war, or kids on their lawns, he’d have a chance.
Time to mix it up.
Brian kicked the back of a knee of an elderly gentlemen and he hit the deck fast. Brian grabbed his walking stick as he passed and, turning, threw it like a spear. The decoy worked. Terry knocked aside the stick, but tripped on the prone pensioner.
Brian vaulted the hostess trolley, his chosen vampire’s bane, before grabbing on and charging down the aisle. Brian crashed into Terry with the momentum of scandalously expensive food and beverages. This triggered a rage in the Northern Man, one that could only be stimulated by overpriced cheap, crap food and shit lottery tickets. Toribio was caught between a rock and a hard place. Brian pulled the trolley back and drove it forward again and again. Channelling his rage, he crushed Toribio’s head between the trolley and one of the seats.
“£1.50 FOR A FOOKING MARS BAR! £1.50 FOR A FOOKING MARS BAR! £1.50 FOR A FOOKING MARS BAR!”
Brian collapsed, barely able to breathe. The years of smoking had taken their toll. His mate, Sid, had told him that these vampire bastards regenerate. Brian had to make sure that Terry was finished, otherwise, he’d have to hand him another kickin’ in a bit. He got up to survey the damage, and quickly turned away. He had made a right mess of poor ol’ Terry. Brian felt a bit bad about it all. Yeah, Terry may be one of the undead, but he had shagged his bird. The lad should have left the fight in Spain. It was his own fault. He weren’t getting up again, that was for certain.
An air stewardess tapped him on the shoulder, “Who are you?”
“I am Brian Garforth. I am a Swordsman.”
* * * * *