Please, I Need To Breathe (from Elements of Horror Book Two: Air)

R.C. Rumple

          It happened each time the familiar stench of death met his nostrils. As if by instinct, his head snapped back with such intensity and force his neck popped. There was something putrid about the scent of a rotting corpse that set off this reflex. Even Mother Nature cringed and pinched her nose closed as her gift of fresh air was contaminated with an acrid aroma which labored to spin one’s head and send the stomach into gastric revulsion. 

         It also was an unpleasant reminder he needed to remove the bodies that had gathered in his brother’s basement over the last few weeks.

         Justin would never tackle the task. Left up to him, they would collect indefinitely, or at least until there was no more space for any others to be crammed into. Obviously, he had no sense of smell. Or, was it he enjoyed inhaling the memories of his murderous ways? Jonathan would have to remember to ask, as if it mattered. Chances were his morbid curiosity on the topic would fade after the corpses had been removed and buried in the mountains. The house would fully air out after a day or two and become like any other. In a week or so, he would return and find the stink had returned thanks to Justin’s habits.

         Early on, he had almost threatened to turn Justin in to the authorities. Yet, how could he do that to his own brother? In retrospect, he wished he had. Now, it was too late. He had inadvertently assumed the role of an accomplice by disposing of the evidence. The never-ending cycle of being his brother’s garbage collector had become his cross to bear.

         Yet, it wasn’t Justin’s fault. Jonathan knew it was an affliction—a mental condition of sorts—causing Justin to murder in such quantity. When the killing sprees had begun, Justin had blamed it on the phases of the moon. But that had been a charade, an excuse, a validation. Justin was an addict. As a junkie needed his fix, Justin was addicted to the adrenaline rush of hearing the pleading and screams of mercy from his victims.

         Atrocious as it seemed, Jonathan had developed a sense of empathy derived from his own mental condition. His own experiences had proved one had no control over what the brain demanded.

         During his second U.S. Army tour in the Middle East, he had been wounded by a roadside bomb explosion. He had considered himself lucky to survive as others in his vehicle had been killed. Then, the blackouts started. There were instances where he would be fine—at the top of his game—and his conduct considered normal for one in a war zone. Without warning, he would be overcome by a huge, black tornado and sent into its internal darkness. Somehow, in this oblivious state, he continued to perform his duties. Yet, upon awakening, he would find he’d lost several hours with no recollection of what he’d done during the missing time. Before long, the frequency of these blackouts increased from one a month to a peak of one every two or three days. Worried he might put either himself or his men in danger, he had reported his condition. Subjected to examinations by all types of doctors, he had been temporarily confined for observation in U.S. owned European medical facilities. Even after maintaining an exemplary service record, they had him classified and medically discharged Jonathan as mentally disabled. His life had never been the same.

         Returning to civilian life, employment had been impossible to land. His type of discharge converted the “Thank you for your service” remarks into “Thanks, but no thanks.” Surviving on a tiny government check once a month, he battled depression and a loss of self-worth. At times, he reached out to various helplines and made the necessary calls. Yet, his embarrassment had kept him from attending meetings or making his appointments. In his mind, he was a waste of a human being. Suicide seemed to be the only option available to relieve him of his downward spiral. And then, Justin contacted him.

         Jonathan had avoided his family since returning. He was aware his father’s disgust with his condition, having himself retired from the military with a perfect record. The Major would never understand. Jonathan was a disgrace, a failure, one shamed and not welcome home. His mother had little to offer in the way of understanding, as well. She had been proud and standing tall among the members of her various social clubs while bragging of his fighting overseas. As with his father, she had found it difficult to admit her son wasn’t still the omnipotent hero. No, not a hero … only a zero … a letdown she had to eliminate from conversations before his condition was discovered and someone had dared to think it was genetic.

***

           Justin called one sunny afternoon and gave him the news. Mom and Dad were dead—killed in a car accident. None of the safety devices their big SUV had come with could save them from an eighteen-wheeler crashing through the siderails of an overpass. Justin mocked their final moments before being crushed as the truck smashed on top of them and faked tears. Their bodies had been so mangled the funeral services would have to be completed as closed casket.

          Justin had forced Jonathan to stand alone as he had refused to attend the services. Later, he would laugh about having done so. “You’re a stupid bastard, aren’t you? They never loved us. They were social conscious assholes, both of them, and only used us to elevate their own position among the social elite. I’m glad they’re fucking dead. I wish it would have happened sooner.”

          He hadn’t changed over the passing months.

***

         Pulling open the basement door, the pungency of the air hit Jonathan hard. It had been a smell similar to ten thousand trash dumpsters in the city’s restaurant district raising their lids at once and flooding the city with the odorous remains of last week’s lunch specials. He stood a moment, trying to adjust to the stench, but found it impossible. As he descended the basement steps, he could see Justin had been busy. The layers of protruding legs he had first sighted on his way down had become a stack of bloating, naked bodies.

         Jonathan exhaled the air from upstairs and inhaled a breath of the basement’s sour air, fighting back his gag reflex. It had only been a couple of weeks since he had last cleared the basement of Justin’s indulgences. Today, there were seven more bodies to remove. This was becoming an every-other-day event for Justin. If his twin insisted on this frequency, he would have to start helping with the disposal. Luckily, most of his victims were either young teens or slender twenty-something women, so they weren’t going to be that heavy to carry up the steps. Still, their burying in the rock-filled, mountain soil would take a lot of effort … effort where more than one doing the shoveling would be helpful.

***

         Their parents had been social climbers concerned with their community image. Viewing their reaction to the bodies in front of him that first time could have been entertaining. Still, the one thing their parents had done was to leave the twins substantial insurance money. There had been close to a million dollars to split, plus policies to pay for the two houses and other properties they owned.

          Within a month after the funeral, Jonathan had taken residency in the smaller, second home and Justin had remained in the old homestead he had never left. A few weeks after settling into his new abode, Jonathan’s blackouts returned. No longer existing only hours, there were nights and even full days lost to his memory. He confided this in Justin during a phone conversation in hopes of gaining his understanding but was chided instead. “Hell, I’d love to lose some days. Be good to get rid of the boredom for a change. You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with it like I do. I gotta have my excitement. You know, my rushes. Life is too short to live bored. Just be you when I call. I hate talking to strangers.”

          It was only a few days later Jonathan learned what Justin had been talking about.

          The phone had awakened him on the couch. Not wanting to answer, the call had gone to his voicemail. It had been Justin. “Hey, I need you to help me out. I’ve got some things in the basement I need you get rid of for me. You know, crap that needs to get buried somewhere. If you don’t mind, bring that old van over and load it up. I don’t want anyone to find it, so come alone and keep your mouth shut about it. I won’t be home, but you have a key. Remember, brothers gotta help each other out. Talk to you later!”

          Jonathan remembered when he had entered a smell, like that of today’s, had smacked him in the face. It was the initial time his head had snapped back, and his neck popped. It was then he should have turned and walked away.

***

         His mind continued to wander during the wrapping of the first two bodies in garbage bags. The third body to be enclosed in trash bags shocked him back to the present. Its eyes fixed on him, Jonathan felt as if he was being dissected by the dilated pupils trying to hide the deep blue beneath the heavy haze. For once, Jonathan saw more than just a dead body. This girl was beautiful. Raising up her dangling scalp to its normal position, her red hair added a fullness and familiarity that made Jonathan’s head swim. He had seen this one before—somewhere she had been working behind a counter—and remembered how great she looked while still breathing.

         The other bodies had been unknowns to him, just carcasses needing disposal. Yet, this one was different. Recalling her smiling face and energy, she was more than the others. This one was a person … a person who should still be inhaling the fresh air outside. She should be going to concerts, attending musicals, enjoying all aspects of life. Instead, she was lying here bloating and rotting.

         Justin had shown her no mercy. It was obvious the girl had been scalped alive. There was too much blood to have been done after she had died. Open slits peppered her once rosy cheeks like a multitude of long freckles—all superficial penknife jabs meaning to cause only pain. Deep box cutter slices from her shoulders to her fingers had opened wide with the bloating, exposing the tendons and muscles inside. Jonathan imagined the desperation of her screams of agony as they had been made while feeling the life flow from her wounds. Her supple breasts, once desired by those she brought fantasies, were now missing nipples—savagely torn away by pliers, Jonathan guessed. Even her vagina had been the victim of multiple stabbings. His eyes, running down her body, noticed her feet were missing several toes from each, obviously snipped off by the bloody wire cutters still on the table. One calf had been completely removed from the bone and the other dangled loosely. Without a trace of remorse, a Tic Tac Toe diagram had been sliced into both thighs and imaginary games played.

         Justin had gone too far with this one.

         Jonathan wanted nothing more than to jump in his van and drive away. Running up the stairs and out the back door, he vomited off the porch. Let Justin take care of them. If he’s so demented and cruel as to find excitement in doing this to such a beautiful girl, he deserves to at least clean-up after himself. In fact, he needs to go to jail, to prison for life, or even hang. How could someone so vicious be my brother?

         Yet, instead of departing, he took a seat on the back step and lit a cigarette.

***

          There had been tremendous initial shock at discovering what his brother was asking him to do that first time. Four naked bodies laid before him that day … bodies covered in the wounds made by a deranged attacker. But, when he thought about it, there was little difference between those and the bodies of the bystanders and enemy they’d stacked high overseas. Those rotted quickly while baking in the heat of the afternoon, the buzzing of flies their musical accompaniment. Bullet torn bodies left out for their relatives to take if they wanted and later burned if they didn’t. Even then, he preferred the smell of a pile of burning flesh in the air as to the smell of rotting corpses in the basement. Outside, if one didn’t like the smell of a human barbeque, they could walk into a fresh breeze free of death.

          Ignoring every inkling of common sense telling him to walk away, Jonathan had set to work to help his twin. With the absence of body bags, he had adlibbed and substituted multiple garbage bags to cover them individually. Jonathan wanted no evidence left in his van. Double bagging the top and bottom of each victim would keep his vehicle DNA-evidence free.     

          Loading the last of the bodies in his van that long-ago day, Jonathan had to figure out where he could dispose of them. His parents had owned property bordering a state park in the mountains only an hour’s drive away. Now, it was his and Justin’s. He could drive to the edge of their property and bury them in park land. That way, if they were ever discovered, he could claim their property had only been used as a pass-through to the park’s by the murderer. It would be impossible to prove otherwise.

          Driving home late that afternoon, after each had been buried in their own grave, his muscles ached. Jonathan had learned the hard way. The following trip, he had dug only one large grave and tossed the bodies in atop each other. It had been much less work and taken less time. He had felt better both physically and in knowing the less time he spent there meant the less the chance of someone seeing him there. It was a “Win-Win” situation for him, and the bodies never complained about being stuffed in together.

***

             Finishing his cigarette, Jonathan rose and smiled at his earlier frustrations. So often had he been called upon to clean-up that it was now routine. Plus, a trip to the mountains every two weeks had not only given him exercise, but plenty of fresh air to breathe. After filling his lungs with the air of the dead, it was a relief to fill them with clean mountain air. He felt more alive, more able to handle the pressures of life. He could almost see the trees doing their thing with photosynthesis and shooting out the air’s freshness. He had even contemplated building a home up there but had quickly reconsidered. His presence, so close to all the bodies buried, would make him an immediate suspect should they ever be discovered. He would have to settle for refreshing his lungs every two weeks and be satisfied.

         Shaking his head, he knew he was in too deep to quit and live a halfway normal life. Justin had made sure of that. The next time they got together, though, he would have to have a long talk with his twin brother. The current rate of killing was simply too rapid. Not only was the body burying becoming a burden, but the authorities had to be on high alert. If there wasn’t already, the number of missing people would soon raise suspicions and bring about a major investigation. Sooner or later, Justin would make a mistake, and both would end up in prison. They had to reduce the chances of that happening.

          Okay, relax and take a deep breath. I just need to breathe, to breathe in life, not death. Justin, where the hell are you at? I could use some help. Next time, you either show up or do it all yourself.

         Gulping down one last swallow of fresh air, Jonathan returned to the odorous cloud inside the home and to the basement. Finishing the wrapping, he carried the bodies out one by one and lay them in the back of the van, thankful for his dead mother’s obsession of landscaping. She had demanded seclusion from the neighbors and positioned various trees and bamboo shoots to ensure she would get it. Not only did it keep the neighbor’s wandering eyes from invading her privacy, it hid his body loading process. Now, all that was left was to clean-up the basement.

         Before heading back down the stairs, Jonathan, reminded of the strong breezes outside, opened all the first-floor windows. As overbearing as the smell had been, the fresh air currents sent the curtains dancing and the odors taking flight. It was the first time since he had arrived inside that breathing wasn’t a challenge. If only the basement had windows.

         The hose was still lying in the corner where he’d left it last time around. Spraying the dried blood off the metal restraining table in the center of the room, Jonathan then turned his attention to the bloody instruments and tools his brother had utilized. Dropping them in a bucket of industrial disinfectant to soak, he turned his attention to the floor. His shoes had been sticking to the dried blood spatters and puddles during the body removal, bugging him with each step. Mopping and hosing in rotation several times, he struggled to eliminate the signs of his brother’s handiwork. Floor complete, he washed off and wiped down the instruments before putting them back in their proper places.

         Jonathan had made the cleaning a part of his routine after a few visits and finding Justin had ignored doing so. He had worried about the blood clogging up the center floor drain in the beginning. The picture of plumbers pulling out their metal snake and finding it covered in victims coagulated blood was not one he wanted to experience in real life. He had since made sure to dump several buckets of drain cleaner into it each visit. He hoped that would work in helping the drain from being stopped up by loosening any of the blood from the pipes and washing it into the sewer system.

         Finished, Jonathan stood back and inspected his work before returning to the upstairs and the fresh air. Even with the bodies removed, the basement clung to the odor of rot. He made his way to an open window and relished in the freshness the outside air offered.

         The open windows of his van helped the mountain air keep the smell inside minimal as he later drove up the mountain incline on the two-lane county road. Cherishing the cleanliness of the air, Jonathan was enjoying the ride. Singing along to a classic rock tune on the radio, his journey was almost complete. Soon, he would arrive, bury the bodies, and be done with the dirty work for at least a week, maybe two, depending upon his brother’s needs. He tried to tally up how many trips he had made and how many bodies had been buried. Ten trips, maybe fifteen … three or four bodies a trip to begin with, increasing gradually to the seven he carried today … at least sixty bodies. Too many, way too many.

         Turning onto their property, Jonathan maneuvered his van through the forest path to his burial grounds. It had been raining and the trail was muddy. He had to be careful and not get stuck. If he did make it, burying with a shovel loaded with heavy mud would be a real chore. He jumped, not remembering if he had forgotten to bring the shovel. A quick stop and check in the back proved his worries to be unnecessary. Damn, I’m getting jumpy. I don’t know why. Something’s wrong … just not right. It’s the path. It looks like someone’s been back here. The weeds are not standing tall … almost like they’ve been mashed down.

         Slowing the van, Jonathan continued to seek out signs of trespassers. The land is posted. No one should be here. Unless park employees have some legal right that I didn’t know about, they would be trespassing if accessing the park from this direction. Could it be campers thinking they’re on park land? If so, they’re going to be in for quite a surprise. I won’t stand for trespassers. They’ll either leave or I’ll get my brother up here to take care of them.

         He was almost disappointed as he left his property and entered state park lands without any human contact.

         Arriving close to the burial site, Jonathan delayed the unloading process, instead deciding on taking a look around first. Walking through the final brush and into the clearing, piles of fresh dirt, like giant molehills, dotted the grassland—each standing where Justin’s victims had been buried.

         His burial grounds had been discovered!

         Something stung him in the center of his back and jolted him forward. Stumbling, Jonathan’s forehead hit one of the few scattered saplings as he was slammed to the ground. He felt himself blacking out, exiting the world as he had done so often. No! Not now. I got to get out of here. There are bodies in the van. I must find somewhere new to bury them!

***

         It had been so long ago, so many months, since he had awakened to the bright lights and stale air. Doctors questioned him endlessly, but he had no memories of anything since feeling the sting in his back. But, breathing in the recycled air of the place brought a true desire to inhale fresh mountain air.   

         Jonathan had no knowledge of how he had arrived. Nor, did he stop wondering about how many bodies were stacking up in Justin’s basement.

         Regardless of his responses to all the doctors’ questions, there were no responses to his own. Most in white coats seemed too wrapped up in their own philosophies and opinions and sidestepped his inquiries. None made much sense to him, but he played along.

         In hopes of treating his affliction of blackouts, the doctors had requested the authorities provide anything of personal nature that might help. Their opinions were that the items might spur a response and strike a nerve to bring him around. A single letter was received. It was this letter that had sent Jonathan into a mode of silence, a world existing somewhere between him and his blackouts. One that squeezed the air out of him and kept it out … suffocating his mind and his body. He longed to once again breathe in and feel the wonder of the fresh air of freedom in the mountains. He needed to breathe so desperately but found the air of the asylum not worth consuming. Somehow, he would make it happen. Perhaps, Justin would come to his aid. Like a knight riding a white horse, he would admit his guilt and minimize his brother’s. Until that day, he could only ponder over his parents last written words in a letter never sent.

Dear Jonathan,

     We are so sorry for treating you as we did. Mrs. Johnson’s son was killed in a battle last week, probably one like you had fought many times. We saw her tears and the heartbreak of his loss and realized we weren’t unlucky you came back to us with medical problems, but lucky you came back at all.  

     Please, can you find it in your heart to give us another chance?

     We love you so much and feel so empty with you not being a part of our life. We want you to get better, like you were before you left. We’ll do anything we can to help you get back that way—happy and carefree, and enjoying life.

     Please, don’t ignore this. We want you back in our lives more than anything in the world. Remember, we love you. Please, don’t desert us. You’re our only child.

     Our love always,

     Mom & Dad

Elements of Horror Book Two: Air is available for Kindle, in paperback, and on Audible here.

Today sees the launch of the epic dark fantasy / horror novel Appletown by Antoinette Corvo. Available now in (giant!) paperback and for Kindle here.

October is the month for great new horror reads and next Friday sees the launch of Donovan ‘Monster’ Smith’s debut collection of creature tales, Monsters in the Dark. Kindle is available to pre-order now from Amazon.

To celebrate the launch of K is for Kidnap at the start of this month, B is for Beasts will remain at just 77p/99c on Kindle until the end of October! You can also find Aliens, Cannibals, Demons, Exorcism, Fear, Genies, Hell, Internet, and Jack-o’-Lantern on Amazon and all included in Kindle Unlimited.

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There Is Only A Hole Here Now (from Elements of Horror Book One: Earth)

Zachary Ashford

      A solitary maggot wriggled and stretched its grotesque little body up and out of the girl’s tear duct. Its pearlescent hue glinted in the sun and Jau watched it locomote across the bridge of her nose. Fat and peristaltic in its clumsy side-wind of a gait, it plopped to the ground and disappeared in the wet mud and detritus. The thick and cloying smell misted, musty and redolent like stale piss. Revolting bile flooded into Jau’s gullet with the taste of half-digested chocolate milk and school-canteen meat pie. Hot and acidic in his throat, it lapped somewhere behind his barely formed Adam’s apple, threatening to erupt in a viscous fountain of puke. She had strips of flesh missing. Sinewy strands of muscle dangled like spaghetti. Claw marks like those you’d see on the cover of an old horror movie lacerated her face and arms. There was chewed flesh. Broken bones.

      Ryan pressed the back of his hand against his nose. “That’s Haley,” he said, “That’s Haley from school.”

      “No way dude, how could it be her?” Sandy leaned over the corpse.

Jau waved a fly away from his face.

      “Have you seen her this term? I haven’t.”

    Using a twig, Sandy lifted a shock of mud-stained hair away from her face. “Man, we need to call the cops. No, call my mum. She’ll know what to do.”

     “Don’t be stupid, Sandy. She’s got maggots crawling out of her face. Call my Dad. Tell him to come get us, then call the cops.”

     “What if they think we did it?”

     “Murdered a girl and left her near our treehouse?”

     “I’m going to be sick, man. I’m not even allowed to watch television after six-pm. I shouldn’t be seeing this.”

     “Then go away, Ryan. Go away and be sick or stand here and hold it in like everyone else.” At the thought of vomit, Jau’s stomach went queasy. If Ryan threw up, he’d have trouble holding onto his own guts. They chucked, he chundered. It was a thing.

     “Let’s go. Please,” Ryan said.

***

    Shortly after rollcall, Jau looked up from his worksheet when he heard Mrs Martello speak. “Sandy McAllister,” she said in her no-nonsense voice. “Return to your seat at once, thank you.” She observed Sandy’s actions with a monstrously patient eye, but Sandy turned the computer on without looking at her. “I’ll give you sixty seconds to make the right choice before I issue you with a detention.”

      “What’s going on with him?” Jau asked Ryan. Sandy wrestled a thick green booger from his nose, wiped it on the screen and eyeballed the teacher.

      “I don’t give a shit,” he said. Later, when he came out of the deputy principal’s office and found Jau and Ryan in their spot outside the library, he yanked a sandwich out of his bag and bit into it. “Mum’s marrying that douche-bag, Adam.” He crammed the remaining half bite into his gob. “She’s gonna move us to Perth.”

      “She can’t.”

    “I think Jau’s right; your mum can’t take you away without your dad’s permission.”

     “No shit. That’s why she’s going to court. Adam has money.”

***

   That night at dinner, Dad polished off his beer and immediately opened the next one. Using the handle of his knife, he popped the cap and let it clatter to the floor. When it finally stopped spinning and fell silent, he leaned forward, his shirt pressing into his baked beans.

  “You don’t even have a boyfriend; when the hell do you get pregnant?” Ellin looked down and nibbled her corn. Mum made herself scarce. Dad swigged.

    “You’re not having it.” Ellin stood, sliding her chair back with her legs.

     “D’you hear me?” Dad said. “You’re getting it fucking aborted.”

    “I hate you! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.” Her bedroom door slammed, and Dad turned his gaze to Jau. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

***

    The next day at school, Jau found it almost impossible to phase out the teacher-librarians as they contemplated the ins and outs of Haley’s murder. He scrunched up a ball of paper and tossed it into the bin then leaned across to whisper in Ryan’s ear.

    “They think her Dad did it too.”

   “Are you even listening?” Ryan asked. “We can’t hang out after school because the chess competition’s on.” Jau separated the nib of his biro from the plastic casing and held it up to look through it.

     “Why don’t you blow that chess shit off?”

     “Because I can hang out with you guys the day after tomorrow.”

     “Why not tomorrow?” Sandy asked.

    “Violin.” Ryan’s shit-eating grin stretched from ear to ear. “There’ll be people from the State Youth Orchestra there. I want into that.”

***

      Eventually, Saturday cycled its way around and Jau and Ryan rode to Sandy’s house. His mum sent them into his backyard caravan with a plate full of sandwiches.

     “We should build another treehouse,” Jau said. Sandy scanned across television channels.

      “No way. We can’t even use the one we have.”

     “There are other ways to build treehouses,” Ryan said. “What about a foxhole or shack?”

     “What’s a foxhole?” Sandy plucked one of the sandwiches from the plate.

     “A hole in the ground. You put a roof on it. Build benches and shit into it.”

     “Sounds awesome,” Sandy said.

     “We have to destroy the treehouse first.” Jau grinned at them.

     “I’m sure we can cannibalise a lot of it for use in the foxhole.”

    “And of course,” Jau said, “We’ll also make sure no one else benefits from our hard work. That’s our treehouse.” He picked a poppy seed from his teeth. “No one else gets to have it.”

***

      When Dad hung up the phone, he turned to Jau. “Who else does your sister hang out with?”

      “I don’t know.” Six beers down, he snatched his car keys off the kitchen bench.

      “Bruce, no,” Mum said.

      “If you ever bothered to get your licence I wouldn’t have to.” She stepped in front of the big man.

      “Things are hard enough without you getting a second DUI.” He shoved her out of the way and threw the keys at Jau.

       “You can drive. About time you learned.”

      “I’m thirteen.”

      “What if whoever got that little slut from school gets her?”

      “Okay, okay, just let me check the skate-park.”

     She was sitting on a bench in front of a backdrop of juvenile graffiti with Veronica and a few guys from school. They had cheap cans of pre-mixed vodka and cigarettes in their hands. Her legs were draped over a guy in chinos and a Dickies shirt.

      “Ellin, Dad said you’ve got to come home.”

      “No way. He doesn’t give a shit about me.”

    “He’s already shoved Mum. Thinks whoever got Haley will get you too. Just go to your room or something.” One of the guys stood up.

      “He can’t do that.”   

     “Sit down, Joe.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

***

      “I had a phone call from the State Youth Orchestra. They want me to audition.” Ryan hovered outside the crime-scene tape.

      “That’s awesome, dude. When is it?”

      “A couple of weeks. It’s in the city.”

     “You’ll smash it. You’re a gun.” He stepped closer to the treehouse. “Feel like someone’s been here to you?” Ryan blocked his nose with his hand. “It smells like animal piss.”

     “You think the cops are coming back?”

     “Fuck the cops,” Sandy said as he retrieved a little hatchet from his backpack. Whereas Ryan’s instrument was the violin, Sandy’s was his rage. He threw the sharpened tool and the blade thudded into one of the load-bearing branches used as a beam. It wobbled there, shuddering.

     Jau poured petrol siphoned from his Dad’s car into an empty ice-cream container and pulled a plastic bag full of polystyrene from his backpack. He snapped and crumbled chunks of the polystyrene, dropping it into the container, watching it react and melt into sticky goo. He sat an old trowel and a stolen lighter beside the mixture. Ryan shook his head.

     “You can’t set fire to it. We need the logs.”

     “We’ll chop more trees.”

     “That’s a waste.”

    “Pussy. Sandy is totally up for chopping down trees right now.” Look at his eyes, Jau thought. He wants to watch the whole thing burn every bit as much as I do.

     On the upper levels of the treehouse, Sandy hacked into a branch with his hatchet. He smashed the zip-ties used as hinges for the rusty gate posing as a door and stepped back.

     “Watch out!” He kicked it with pulsating glee, and it crashed into the shrubbery. “Is that napalm?”

     “Do Catholic priests fuck little boys?” Jau asked, scooping up a wad of it with the trowel. Sandy jumped down, clumsily fell over, brushed grit from his knees, and laughed as Jau spun the lighter-wheel and flames engulfed the gunky mixture. Sparks sputtered as the projectile fizzed through the air. It landed with a splat and fire crawled up the dry bark.

     They took turns throwing the burning substance at the treehouse and held a bonfire to celebrate their youthful frustration with their shitty lives. In the middle of preparing a gob of napalm to hurl at the already burning treehouse, Ryan stopped and pointed.

     “What the fuck is that?” There, visible through the shifting flames, staring with malevolent eyes, a hulking thing loomed. Jau shielded his eyes and squinted at the shape beyond the smoke, flames, and burning timber. Every primitive fibre of his body wanted to run. Just run and run and run. His body screamed it at him, but he couldn’t turn; couldn’t pivot. The thing’s head jerked sideways. Then it dropped low, disappearing from sight.

     “What in God’s name are you little bastards doing in here?” The cop strode towards them with a cocksure grin on his face. “This is a crime scene,” he said. “You boys are in shit now.”

    Ryan stammered an answer while Jau tried to relocate the monster. Only a branch swayed back and forth where it had stood.

     “It’s gone.”

    “And so should you be. Grab your bikes and get up to the bloody road before this whole bloody forest catches fire.”

***

     When the news started, Jau’s old man put his belt away. He didn’t even bother with the usual lecture. He grabbed another beer and watched the reporter share the remains of the boys’ handiwork – the blackened husk of a treehouse – on the television. He swigged; wiped his mouth.

     “You little wanker.” All Jau could think of were Haley’s wounds, the maggot crawling out from the corner of her eye and the thing at the treehouse. The next day, when he and Sandy got to Ryan’s place, Jau knocked three times and did a full lap of the front and back doors before giving up. They found him at school, comfortable in the library.

     “What’s the go, dude?” Jau asked. Ryan shifted.

     “My parents are driving me from now on.”

     “Why?”

     “I can’t hang out with you anymore.”

     “That’s bullshit,” Sandy said.

     “I told them that.” He didn’t. He never stands up to his parents.

     “So, we can only see you at school?”

    “Yeah, but Mum asked my teachers not to let me sit next to you in class.”

     Jau groaned. “This sucks a fat one.”

     “Why would they do that?” asked Sandy. Ryan rolled his eyes.

    “The bitching fire we had last night, Sandy. The cops took us home. I’m grounded forever. Hell, I’ll be lucky if I’m even allowed to audition for the orchestra at this point.”

     “What about the treehouse?”

     “There is no treehouse, Sandy. We burned it down.”

    “What about that thing?” Jau asked. He had to keep it fresh in his memory, so he didn’t forget it completely. The general shape and ominous size of it wouldn’t leave his mind, and neither would its eyes. The fine details, though? They were gone.

     “The flames played a trick on us,” Ryan said. “We imagined it.”

   “We didn’t. Not all of us.” The visceral image of Haley’s mutilated body and the smell of stale piss in their newly blackened treehouse hadn’t escaped Jau’s memory yet. 

***

     Back at home in his bedroom, Jau tried to avoid attention while his father tore into Ellin again.

     “You’re nothing but a whore and you won’t be having it under this roof!” Jau looked up from his sketch when she ran past his room.

    “I’ll have to leave,” she said when he knocked on her door. Wet tissues marred by mascara and tears were piled on the bed next to her.

     “He’ll come around,” he said. “Mum won’t let him kick you out – especially with a baby.”

    “Mum said she might get Auntie Kylie to take me. She’s been lonely ever since Uncle Phil died.”

     “Where is Mum? I haven’t seen her all day.” Ellin checked the hallway, and then quietly pressed the door closed.

     “In bed. She doesn’t want you to see what he’s done to her. She thinks it’ll teach you it’s okay.” Jau made a fist and gently pressed it against his own face before opening his palm in a questioning gesture. Ellin nodded and hugged her brother close.

***

     The next few days were quiet. Still grounded, Jau was putting the finishing touches on another drawing – his best yet – of the monster, when he heard screams in his sister’s bedroom. He dropped the red pencil and ran to her. She scrambled against the wall, a wash of blood between her legs, clutching her stomach. “Get mum!” 

    He burst open the door to the master bedroom, something they were never supposed to do. “Mum! Ellin needs you!” He snatched the phone up from beside her bed and called the ambulance. When he went back into his sister’s room, his Mum sent him out.

     “Just grab a bag and pack her toiletries,” she said. “I’ll pack her clothes.”

***

        The day after, Sandy went to the city for the court-case, but Ryan should have been there, fresh from his audition. He’d been told he might still be able to go if he could stay out of trouble.

      Jau got through the day without going completely mental, but after school, he stopped by Ryan’s house to ask how the audition went. Ryan’s older brother Jonathon answered the door.

      “Come in, Jau. Come in.” He led Jau to a seat at an expensive dining table. “Ryan is in hospital. Dad crashed the car on the way back from the audition last night.” He paused when he saw the tears running down Jau’s cheeks. “Ryan’s okay, but Dad’s on life-support. I’m going to meet the rest of the family at the hospital soon.”

***

      On the way home, Jau cycled past the outskirts of the forest. Even from the road, he could see the burnt patch where the treehouse used to stand. The police tape strung across the walking trail flapped lazily in the breeze. Buffeted by the wind, it had stretched and warped. It hung loose. Dirty. He slowed down, and tried to look beyond it, imagining the thing he saw through the flames – fur matted and shaggy, shape hulking and ominous – tearing the tape down, inviting more victims into its territory.

      From the pathway leading to the treehouse, a flock of birds shot skywards. In their wake, the monster, ponderous and massive stepped forward. It cocked its head to the side as if listening and then levelled its baleful eyes on Jau. Bigger, far bigger, than the largest man could ever be, it dwarfed the boy, even from this distance. Pedal. Just fucking pedal. Get out of here. The thing jerked its head towards the intersection a few hundred metres back the way Jau had come, then turned and loped back into the trees. The revving of a car engine cut across the breezy afternoon air. He let it pass then pedalled for home.

***

      When they arrived at the hospital, Sandy and Jau raced ahead of their mothers. Inside the room, Ryan sat motionless on a plastic chair. The curtain drawn, an IV drip bled slowly into his father’s arm. Ryan’s mother and two older sisters stood around the bed as Jau approached. Ryan looked up, eyes red-rimmed and tear-stained. A wave of heavy sobs rolled over him like the tide. His shoulders heaved and dropped, and the salt-wash trickled down his cheeks.

   Sandy and Jau stared at each other; hovered wordlessly. Jau couldn’t bring himself to approach Ryan’s dad. Instead, he rested a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Ryan held him and cried into his shoulder before turning back to his sisters. Jau and Sandy lingered for a few more moments, awkward and unnecessary intruders on what should have been a private occasion, before his Mum wiped a tear and damp foundation from her bruised cheek. Ryan finally spoke.

     “Will you pray for him?” he asked. What could he say? He sure as hell couldn’t announce that every time he closed his eyes, he saw that thing staring back at him. “I will.”

***

     With the air full of burning humidity, Jau constantly wiped sweat from his eyes. When they stopped to drink from their frozen water-bottles, Sandy finally opened up about the court-case.

    “The judge said Mum can only take me if Dad agrees to it.” Unsure how to respond given everything else that had happened over the last few days, Jau opted for a fist-bump.

     “I’m really glad, man. I’d hate to lose you.”

***

     Two days later Ryan returned to school. He found Jau at the library while he waited for Sandy to finish his detention. The big goofball might have had some good news, but his mum hadn’t stopped pressuring him. On seeing Ryan, Jau ran to him and hugged him like an excited puppy. Another kid leaned out of the tuckshop line and cupped his hands to his mouth.

   “Why don’t you pussies save your love-fest for your little cubby houses?”

    “For your information,” Ryan said, “that’s where we trace the lineage of all the students at this school. Apparently, your parents are actually brother and sister.”

     “The fuck?”

    “He said the same thing your fringe has been telling us for years, Mark. You’re an inbred fuckwit.” Mark grabbed Ryan, the smaller of the two boys, and threw him to the ground just as Sandy strolled around the corner with a plastic bag half-full of rubbish in his hands. He dropped the bag and pushed Mark away from Ryan.

     “You want to fight?” Mark raised his fists. A fringed pugilist. Sandy ploughed a big fat fist straight into Mark’s pointy nose. He didn’t stop swinging until the teachers pried him off.

***

     Ryan’s dad died that night. Jau dreamed of the shambling creature. He wondered if Ryan did too.

***

    Sandy returned from suspension and after a few days of grieving, Ryan wanted to ride to school with his friends.

     “I want to dig a foxhole,” he said as they rode. “Take back our treehouse. Now the Haley thing’s over, you know.” Those wounds. That thing.

     “You really think they did it?”

     “Parents murder their kids all the time,” Ryan said. The police tape still dangled there, and the thick smell of musty piss had settled on the area like a fog. Around the blackened frame of the treehouse, a claustrophobic air hung; silent without the usual cacophony of birds. Jau hesitated.

     “We shouldn’t be here.”

    “You still think there’s a monster here?” Ryan asked, stepping off his bike and unslinging his bag from his shoulders.

     “You saw it first, Ryan. Don’t be a dick.”

     “I saw a shadow. A fucking hallucination from the smoke in the air.” He walked into the very centre of the charred copse of trees where the old fortress once stood. “Where are you?” he screamed. The afternoon breeze washed through the canopy.

    “Come on, Ryan. I don’t want to be here either.” Sandy monitored the foliage around them with concern etched onto his face and his arms folded.

     “Then fuck off, Sandy. Go home and leave us alone.”

     “He’s right, Ryan. We shouldn’t be here. Can’t you feel it?” Ryan drove a shovel into the ground, right in the centre of the thicket.

     “We’re digging a foxhole here.” The scratching of the shovel seemed louder than it should in the closeness of the afternoon. Something rustled in the trees ahead of them. Silence dropped, cloak-like, on the gathering and the thick, musty piss-stink grew stronger. The thing exploded out of the foliage, growling and slavering, charging into Sandy, driving him against the trunk of a tree with the rampaging force of a careening vehicle. A splintered and stubby branch punched through the meaty flesh of his lower back and burst out of his belly. Jau saw his friend’s intestines stretch and bulge across the exposed limb.

     The thing, mind-boggling in its aspect, slammed a bear-like paw over Sandy’s wailing mouth. Its stygian black claws raked across Sandy’s throat. Blood spewed. The repetitive thud of Ryan’s shovel grew louder, more rapid. He dug. For some reason he dug while a monster tore his friend limb from limb. The last few years of Sandy’s life, his parents had split him in two and now this thing was literally dismembering him. The creature stretched the boy’s shoulder to breaking point. The sinews snapped, and the ligaments around his exposed socket wriggled in shock like insects under an upturned rock. The smell of piss mingled with the stronger smell of blood and Jau felt a warm wetness run down his leg. Amidst the snarling, the screaming, and the infernal scratching of the shovel striking soil, the monster turned and levelled its gaze on him.

     A gunshot boomed. The monster roared at the sky; an unholy baying, and a second report echoed off the trees. It thundered again, and the creature turned tail and fled. Sandy’s mutilated corpse sagged awkwardly, still propped up by the branch impaling it. His blood coated the charred trees. His arm lay on the ground by his feet.

     The same policeman who’d busted them on the day of the fire wrapped an arm around Jau and held him tight for a moment before checking on Ryan, who stood knee-deep in the hole he’d dug. Jau puked. Ryan kept striking at the soil with the shovel.

    “How did you know?” Jau asked between sobs. Visibly shaken, the cop said something into his walkie-talkie before answering. “A passing car saw you heading in with your tools.” He looked at Sandy’s corpse. “I wish they’d called sooner.”

     Ryan’s shovel struck the ground again. Subtly, the scent of freshly turned earth added to the metallic rancour of Sandy’s blood.

     “You boys need to come with me. You need shock blankets and I can’t leave you here in…”

    “In the treehouse?” Ryan’s shovel finally fell silent. “There is no treehouse.” He sat on the lip of the hole he’d dug. Jau tried not to look at Sandy, putting an arm around Ryan and facing the other way instead. It didn’t hide the smell of blood or musty piss or broken soil, but he couldn’t stare at Sandy’s lifeless eyes any longer. Ryan shrugged Jau off.

     “There is only a hole here now,” he said. Jau shook him, but the boy who played the violin so well didn’t falter. “There is only a hole here now,” he said. “There is only a hole here now. Say it, Jau. Say it. You know it’s true.”

     Jau rested his forehead against his friend’s. He’s right. The treehouse is gone. The earth is broken. There is only a hole here now.

    “There…is only…a hole here now.”It came out like a whisper, but Ryan pressed against him, crying.

     “There is,” he said, louder this time, “Only a hole…”

     “Scream it, Jau. Scream it.” He grabbed Ryan’s shirt, pulled him close, and bellowed so loudly he could feel his vocal cords tearing. “There is…only… a hole…here…now.”

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Elements of Horror Book One: Earth is available for Kindle, in paperback, and on Audible here

Sinners (from Twisted Tales)

D.J. Doyle

On my deathbed, I hear them; waiting. I see them move in the shadows, lurking through the darkness. Etching away at my guilt. They await my soul to hunt and claim as their own, to torment for eternity. To drag my spirit to their furnace, not to the land of the gods nor the pits of the underworld, but to the in-between. To burn eternally with blister upon blister as charred flesh melts away into the abyss. I know why they’re here, why they hunt me, why they wait for the dead. They are known as the Sluagh, collectors of dead sinners. We grew up fearing the tales of these creepers. Some laughed, saying it is just folklore, I was one of those fools. Now, at seventy-nine, I thought I would meet my maker, but that is not the case. I will be hunted by the Sluagh, and all because I am a sinner. 

******

It happened many years ago, I hit him, it was me who took his life. It was me who hid the body. It was me who decided not to call an ambulance. I sped along the country road trying to get home, I’d also had too much to drink. My alcohol level was five times over the legal limit and the tiredness hit me like a ton of bricks. I’d driven this road many times in the same condition. 

It was a Friday, like any other, and my colleagues persuaded me to have a drink after work. 

“C’mon, Jimmy, just come with us for one pint. Just one.”

We sat and talked, mostly about our asshole boss, and ended the night slurring and laughing at someone falling asleep on their stool. Again, a typical Friday. I said my goodbyes and wobbled to the car. If a cop came along, I knew I could walk in a straight line. Well, that’s what I thought at the time. There were no breath-testers back then. My key found the ignition and glided in before the roar of the engine gave me a second wind. With the window down, the cold Autumn breeze circulated in the car, and ruffled through my embarrassing comb-over. 

As the young man walked along the side of the road, in all black, he stumbled a little. Right at that very moment in time, that split second, I looked in my rear-view. If I had checked the mirror a minute before or after, he would still be alive. I saw his head turn as the lights blinded his vision, his eyes widened in shock and glimmered like a cat’s. His body mounted the hood and his head pummelled into the windscreen, smashing a circle-shaped mess right in the middle which extended to every corner like lightning. Blood filled the cracks, seeped through, and dripped on the dash. I put the brake pedal to the floor and the car screeched to a halt. A strong smell of burning rubber filled the car and clogged my nostrils. 

With trembling hands, I wiped my eyes and rubbed my face in disbelieve. A long-sounding creak echoed in the night as I opened the car door and placed my foot on the shower of glass; it scratched against the tar on the road. 

In the dark, the figure of the mass in the middle of the road looked to be moving and groaning. My pace quickened, he was still alive. I knelt beside him and turned him from his side onto his back. Dark blood oozed from his mouth.

“Help me, please!” he begged. 

What could I do? If I had gotten help, they would have known it was me who ran him over. He passed out again. This was my chance. I gripped under his arms and dragged him along the ground over towards the dense trees and bushes. Through the woods I pulled him for two hundred yards, at least. A large hedge with a massive underground was too tempting. I pulled his body alongside it and rolled him under into the thicket, making sure he was faced down into the dirt. I gathered as much loose shrubbery as I could and covered the gap between the leaves and the body. He wasn’t dead yet, but I knew he would be soon enough. Guilt wrapped my soul and smothered it, but I wasn’t going to prison to be somebody’s bitch.

I drove home and parked the car around the back of the house, then removed the windscreen and used the winter cover for the car. Birds chirped in the trees close by, it was time for bed, my body and brain needed sleep.

I woke a few hours later with a sore head, dry mouth, and a crushed soul. A loud bang on the door made me spring from the bed, my heart vibrated against my ribs at the speed of sound. I thought they’d found me. 

My wife was already up and had made breakfast. Like every Saturday morning, the boys were at football practice, so I knew it wasn’t them. 

“Jimmy, dear. Are you up?” 

I answered with a groan. 

“It’s Frank from next door. Their boy, Luke, didn’t come home last night. Did you see him when you were out?”

Yes, that’s right, I had killed my neighbour’s son and covered it up. I’d watched Luke grow up from a quiet boy to a sociable young man. And now they’ll never see him again, not in one piece anyway. If the body was ever discovered, the animals and the elements would have done a good enough job to not tie it back to me or my car. 

“No Tricia, I didn’t see him at all.”

If I was attached to a lie detector, the graph would be fluctuating up and down like it was on speed. Visions of a five-year-old Luke cycling by, a twelve-year-old building a go-cart, and a teenager kissing his girlfriend goodnight, plagued my thoughts. I let my friends believed their son just disappeared, that he might have done himself in or fell and hurt himself somewhere. They did a search of the area, but nothing turned up. A friend of mine brought a windshield over and replaced it within an hour. I cleaned the car and banged out the one big dent on the bonnet. All done.

*****

They never found his body, and, on my deathbed, I feel the need to tell my wife of my crime, my cover up. I ponder on it for many days as the Sluagh stretch their limbs and their shadows grow. Their moans become louder, and fear consumes me. I know I am near death, so I decide not to hurt my wife, I’ll die with a heavy soul. The Sluagh will still come whether I confess or not. 

A change in breath patterns is a clear sign I only had minutes to live as the ebb and flow of air slows like the sea on a calm day. It is then I see their eyes through the slit of my lids, the blackness, the torment, and the longing. They yearn to take me. 

Tricia squeezes my hand, I feel the softness of her skin from her daily routine of rubbing baby oil on her face and hands giving her a youthful look. Hairs on my head are caressed, it is my eldest son. He’d done that since he was two. He’d sit on my shoulder and stroke my head.

A bright light flashes in my vision. I see myself at five-years-old playing ball with my dad…driving my first car…walking down the aisle with Tricia…holding my first born. All significant times in my life. Luke’s face as I was about to hit him. The images froze there, his face imprinted on my vision like the negative of a photograph. Darkness bleeds into the brightness in the shape of hands. It is time. 

I look at my family as they sit around this empty vessel. Shards of black glass shot up from the ground, surrounding me, slicing me. I yell as they rip through me like a hot knife through butter. Excruciating pain envelops me as I ooze a black mass which is wrenched by the Sluagh. They scrape and tug at me, dragging my black soul out. It burns like I’ve been doused in fuel and set alight. They pull it in all directions with a murmur of ecstasy. I committed a terrible crime, and they are here to make sure I pay the price. 

As the blackness diminishes, an inner bright light bursts out, maybe a chance of redemption after all. It feels like an angel within filled with goodness. I want it to go up, up into the bright sky. One of the Sluagh reaches into my chest and snatches the light. It’s held like a crystal ball, twirling it around, blackening the outside. The brightness dims and spreads within the globe until there is no light left. In one final swoop, they rip me from the entity I am which disperses into thin air and heaves my filthy soul into the abyss. They pile on me and tear at the black mass which remains, but I am unable to scream in agony. It is all part of the torment, to sense every infliction yet not be able to scream through it. This is my perpetual torture… and I deserve it. 

Twisted Tales is now available on Amazon for Kindle here.

Sticky Buttons (from Bow-Legged Buccaneers from Outer Space)

David Owain Hughes

The year is 2080—the not-so-distant future—and Chinatown is a prison. One hundred years ago, between 1980 and 1990, hardcore arcade gamers, cinemagoers, TV freaks and comic book nerds took over the large oriental area and turned it into a no-go zone. The streets became violent, corrupt and the powers that be lost control. The innocent were evacuated, a bomb to be dropped, but the plan was seen as too rad, and so a large wall and river were constructed around the city; the waters were filled with sharks and patrolled by the government’s secret police, who had more artillery than Rambo. 

There is no escape from Chinatown—not that the inhabitants want it, as they are content living out their sadistic, perverse fantasies of being their favourite character from their beloved games, movies and shows from a decade long extinct (but not in Chinatown, for it’s always the ‘80s).

The streets are teeming with the likes of Snake Plisskin, Jack Burton, the Mad Gear Gang, Wing Gong hoods, thugs from Class of 1984, men and women who think they’re Axel Foley, Tank Girl, Judge Dredd, Frank Castle, OCP cops, Officer Murphy and cybernetic robots, Rick Deckard, the A-Team, WWF superstars, Lt. Marion “Cobra” Cobretti… The list is inexhaustible. 

Not a day goes by that doesn’t see someone get body-slammed through a table or vaporised by a proton gun, and eruptions of all-out gang warfare are commonplace. Two days ago, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles wannabes were seen doing the knuckle dance with a roving pack of Romero-style zombies (Shuffles, they’re called here).

However, there are those who dedicate their time to keeping the violent ones off the street, the vampires at bay during near-dark and the drugs from children.  

Enter the Sticky Buttons, a trio of friends who fight for truth, justice and the American Chinatown way…     

***

Chang (Hagger) Sing, AKA Martin Sprocket from 36 Hong Kong Avenue, thought he was Chinese and Mike Hagger, the 1989 digital professional wrestler-turned-mayor from the smash-hit arcade beat-‘em-up Final Fight. Chang, the most delusional of Chinatown’s residents, also had it in his head that his daughter, Jessica, was being held captive within the city, and so he spent his time searching for her.  

At current, Chang was on the floor—like the other Sticky Buttons—surrounded by thugs with wild, multi-coloured hair of various styles. The hoods wore neon-coloured shades and nifty pump trainers, knee-length boots and rollerblades. Their ankle-length, graffiti-covered leather jackets matched, and their hole-ridden jeans exposed corresponding tattoos and scars.

They snapped gum as they pummelled Chang and bashed his Buttons with chains, fists, kicks and anything else that came to hand whilst the rest of their mob listened to tunes on tape decks and blasted ace hair metal on boomboxes in the background.

“Get to the chopper!” Chang heard someone scream as they ran past the danger zone. When he looked through his splayed fingers, his large hands covering his head and face to stop the thugs from staving his skull in, he saw an alien whiz by—it was in hot pursuit of a musclebound man with a machine gun.

And then he heard Wang (Cody) Chi, AKA Brit Jennings, his Button brother and Final Fight amigo, cry out as he took a skateboard to the back of his head. Chang saw the multi-coloured wheels that once belonged to the foot vehicle spin off in different directions before crashing down around him. 

Some of Wang’s teeth skipped along the floor, mixing with blood and gravel. He went to ground and got swamped.

“Argh!” Chang roared, grabbing a stomping leg. He twisted it. Bone snapped. The knee burst.

“Holy fuck!” the scumbag cried, hitting the deck. He held his hurt. The skin around the joint was split. Bone jutted and glistened red.  

This left Chang’s ribs exposed, and a flurry of boots blasted into him. He retreated into a ball with his hands over his head and gritted his teeth. “Fuckers!”

“Ugg! Chang, help!” screamed Eddie (Guy) Lee, AKA Simon Clunkworthy, the third and final member of the Buttons and Final Fight fanatic. He’d been set on by a thug with a baseball bat—his flame-orange Ninjutsu suit was soaked red. He held a bloodied hand out towards Chang before taking a broken bottle to the left pectoral muscle.  

Eddie collapsed forward, unmoving.

What the hell was I thinking? We’re not crimefighting heroes! We should have just stuck to dressing up like Mike, Cody and Guy, and not—

A stomp to the head brought him back to his dire situation.

He swallowed his fury.

A fire burned in his belly.

Chang was wrong, and he knew it—he and his Sticky Buttons were totally bitchin’, man. They were hard-arses. And these goons, these Mad Gear thugs mixed with Wing Gong enforcers and Lords of Death hoodlums, were going down once and for all.

It was time to take Chinatown back.

“Rrragh!” Chang roared, pushing himself up to his knees and shoving aside the three thugs surrounding him. One, with a Mohawk, crashed through a load of bins and cracked his chops on the pavement. Teeth and blood poured out of his mouth and into his cupped hand.

Chang did his spinning chariot move, taking out the two thugs who came at him with bats and chains.   

A woman with pink hair jumped on his back, and he grabbed her by the ears, ripping her over his huge shoulder and slamming her against the floor. Her braless tits jiggled, her nipples stiff and poking at the thin fabric covering them.

“Roxie,” he uttered. He stamped his size sixteen foot down on her throat, crushing her windpipe. A puddle of piss spread beneath her.

“It’s cool, dude. It’s cool!” The thugs listening to their gnarly tunes cleared out, taking their wounded with them.

“You fucks are dead!” one goon slurred back, holding his mouth together.

Chang wanted to give chase, but his Buttons needed him. He watched as the thugs tore up the street and disappeared. The fog-filled, neon-drenched streets were alive with house and car alarms, screams of murder and rape, howling dogs, gunshots and general danger.

The rage burned out of Chang. His barrel-like chest, which he’d worked on at the gym for years, heaved. His breaths came in ragged rips.            

“These nightly dust-ups will be the end of me,” he muttered, turning to help Wang up off the floor. “How’s the head, big man?”

“I see birds dancing around it.”

“We need to get you to the hos—”

“Nah, I’ll be fine, Chang. It’s just a scratch.”

They went to Eddie, grabbed an arm each and hauled him off the floor.

Fragments of glass dropped off him, and Chang yanked the bottleneck out of his friend’s chest.

“Shit!” Eddie winced, sucking in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. “Fuckers. We need to get patched up and back on the streets.”

“I don’t think we’re in any fit state to keep going tonight, guys—we’ve taken a lickin’.”

“Yeah, and we’re still tickin’!” Wang interjected.

“Come on, let’s get back to the clubhouse first. Maybe we can gather up Cobra, Rocky and a couple of other hard-arses to help us fight the good fight tonight,” Chang suggested. Eddie and Wang nodded. “I just know we’ll find Jessica soon…”

Bow-Legged Buccaneers from Outer Space is now available for Kindle, in paperback, and on Audible here.