CHARACTER STUDIES FOR A STEAMPUNK STORY.

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THESE ARE CHARACTER STUDIES BY ARTIST SCOTT COOPER FOR A STORY OF MINE THAT WILL APPEAR IN STEAMPUNK ORIGINALS VII.

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A YEAR OFF

A YEAR OFF.

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ARE YOU READY FOR YOUR DEMONIC IRRIGATION?

Originally posted on Pat Mills:

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Doctor Morbus, the PsychoKiller, will see you now.

I’m delighted to announce my first leap into the world of digital comics – courtesy of Comixology Submit – by bringing you PsychoKiller, a black-comedy tale of demonic possession, richly rendered in exquisite, eye-popping lurid colour by the fabulous Dave Kendall.

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Written by myself and Tony Skinner, PsychoKiller first appeared in Toxic! a British weekly comic, in March 1991.  The comic was the brainchild of a group of British creators: myself (Marshal Law), Kevin O’Neill (Marshal Law and League of Extraordinary Gentlemen), John Wagner (Judge Dredd) and Alan Grant (Batman).  It was a brilliant opportunity to try out new concepts and new artists and PsychoKiller was one of the very best stories to feature in it.  Dave Kendall is without doubt one of the finest horror artists in the business…

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A YEAR OFF

I know it’s been more than a year, that’s the name of the new story I’m writing.Here’s the first part of hopefully many that may or may not be appearing in a new digital magazine. I’m so mysterious…

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 Mike could feel something gritty under his hand but it was the something gritty under his eyelids and the fact that some beast seemed to have taken a dump in his mouth and the truth that his head was thundering which was of more immediate concern.

 He groaned and rolled over. Something hard poked him in the back. His foot kicked what appeared to be wood and he sneezed because he’d stirred up some dust. Yes, dust. He was sure of that. It had that dusty smell. He sneezed again because for some moronic reason he’d sniffed up the dust again. He groaned once more with feeling. That seemed to be what was expected on this occasion, he would probably sit up in a while and comically hold his head in his hands whilst muttering, “Never again,” under his breath. Yeah he’d do that because he was that kind of bloke.

 He rolled over again and attempted to open his eyes. He couldn’t do it. It would be too painful and being basically a coward he shied away from too much pain and suffering. Forty bloody years old and still doing this shit! That’s what was going through his head. He remembered that he’d popped into the Crown for a couple of pints after he finished at the office, I mean, it was Friday after all. Then he remembered that the couple of pints had turned into a tandoori and some more lager, then something happened where there were lots of flashing lights and pounding bass beats. Oh shit! He’d gone to a club. Fuck! He hadn’t been to a club in years. He tried to imagine what dickish things he had done at the club at his age. He had probably offended half the female patrons. Did he get kicked out? He didn’t think so. He’d have to check for bruises later.

 What then? What then? Jesus! He remembered years ago he’d been out one night on the lash and woke up two days later on a park bench in St. Helens! Not bad when you think that he’d started the weekend near his north London home.

He sensed rather than heard anything. There were other people near him. They were quiet, certainly, but he could just feel that he wasn’t alone. Then he heard a polite cough and someone shuffling in the dust as if they were shifting their position.

“You can stop pretending that you’re still unconscious Mr. Sparks, “came a laconic voice from somewhere outside his head.

“Yes Mike. Please do get up out of the dust and wood my old son,” came another voice just as laconic as the first but a little lower pitched.

 Ah. So there were two of them. He didn’t like the sound of this situation. He slit his eyes against the dust storm that was inevitable and sat up. Yes he did groan, lifting his head up was really an effort but he managed to restrain himself from reciting the litany of “Never again”.

 

 Through the dust and gloom he could see two gentlemen leaning against, respectively, a wall and what appeared to be a pew. He craned his head painfully around and discovered that he was indeed in what appeared to be an old church. It was daylight because the Sun was sending feeble rays of light through dirty windows. The inside of the church, or maybe chapel would be a better description because it was small, was decidedly not in good shape. Pews were tumbled around and broken, there was no altar cloth on the altar behind him and there was graffiti all over the shop. Dust motes floated heavily in the air and there was a smell of decay and old wax candles lingering in the atmosphere. He knew the smell of wax candles because he had been an altar boy back in the day. He caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a bed made out of old cloth and surrounded by distinctly mouldy jazz mags. He couldn’t imagine what went on in here, or rather, he could. He just didn’t want to.

“Right,” said the man in the black slacks and dark blazer, “Let’s get down to business shall we?” He pushed away from the wall and crouched down next to Mike, his thin yet handsome face close to Mike’s and a curtain of long dark hair fell across half his features. “Hello Mike, I’m a demon and my colleague over there is an angel and you have sold us your soul.”

 

Mike stared into the other man’s face for about ten seconds and then began to laugh, a laugh that began in the pit of his stomach and then settled in somewhere around the area of his diaphragm. He laughed and laughed, then laughed some more. As he took in a breath to continue his laughing he sucked up some more of that dust and began to cough. He was afraid that he might laugh and cough so much that he would; at worst shit himself or at best piss his trousers. He coughed until he got a hold of himself and teary-eyed looked at the two perplexed individuals then he got a fit of the giggles and had to breath hard to get himself under control.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually. “You really expect me to believe that?” “What do you want?” He looked from one to the other, neither was smiling. In fact they looked a bit miffed, ticked off you could say.

“This is not a joke Mr. Sparks,” said White Suit pushing himself away from the pew, brushing away dirt from the backs of his trouser legs. “We assure you that this most definitely is not a joke.”

“Oh fuck off!” Mike said. “This is a wind up. I might be hung over but I’m not stupid,” he was attempting to get up off the floor he was at a tremendous disadvantage if something happened to kick off. He sat back down again hard, his head had done a flip and he was in danger of spewing up everywhere.

“Woah!”

“Right Mike,” said Mr. Dark Suit. Mike realized that the two of them looked like refugees from an old episode of Miami Vice. “What we have here is a perception crisis.”

“What the fuck are you on about?” said Mike. “What the fuck is a perception crisis?” He could almost hear the italics.

Mr. White Suit had come around and crouched on the other side of Mike. He could smell a scent almost like church incense, sandalwood and balsam. A clean smell that took him back to some not very good memories of the vestry, he shuddered a little.

“A perception crisis is where we tell you something and you perceive it to be bullshit,” that was whispered into Mike’s ear, he shuddered again. “When in fact, it isn’t,” continued Mr White Suit, “Bullshit is what you have been doing the last few years of your life…Mike.”

This was not good. Mike had been in some sticky situations before, St. Helens came to mind again, but he had never had his D.T.s speaking to him before let alone speaking to him in a decidedly threatening manner.

“What? What do you want? Are you some kind of weird rape team? You wanted that I wake up before you reamed my arsehole? You gonna torture me a little first then get down to business?” He looked wildly from one to the other.

Both Mr White Suit and Mr Dark looked at each other and smiled, his heart sunk and he let out a small frightened fart.

“Well, no Mike no not at all,”

“Look,” said White suit. “I’m Sanael from the exalted Hordes of Heaven and this is my colleague Arakes of the wild and tempestuous legions of Inferno. We have been watching you for some time…”

“Since St. Helens actually,” said Arakes.

“…yes, exactly,” Said Sanael looking a little testily at Arakes “ We have been tasked with the objective of finding out for the Creator if humankind is, in fact, worth saving.”

“Bloody hell!” said Mike.

“Ah, at last” said Arakes pushing himself away from the wall and folding his arms across his chest. “He gets it.”

“No,” said Mike. “Bloody hell that you’d think that I’d fall for some bullshit like that”

Sanael and Arakes looked at each other, something passed between them but Mike was too hung-over to notice.

“For fuck’s sake, it’s the twenty-first century. You don’t exist. I’m an atheist!”

There was a bang and a flash of light and dark, Mike fell to the floor again, or rather was pushed down by the rush of energy released, he whimpered.

“What is that awful smell?” Asked the angel Sanael, wrinkling his perfect nose as his wings made of light stretched behind him brushing the chapel ceiling lightly.

“It seems the mortal has indeed soiled himself brother angel,” replied the dark mass that could only be Arakes.

“Oh dear Lord,” said Sanael exasperated. He waved his delicate hand and the smell and the shit that had filled Mike’s pants disappeared, angelic toilet paper indeed. “Now listen hear you pathetic worm. We’ve been given this task and we aim to see it carried out come hell or high water.” Angels are wont to use idioms and metaphor a lot.

“Calm down brother Sanael,” said Arakes, he was manifesting a bit more clearly now, Mike could actually make features out. Though he wished he couldn’t.

“Look, I’m sorry, right?” Mike had scuttled back a bit out of the grey area that had been created by the overlapping of the golden and black light. He didn’t like how it felt, kind of alive. Alive and at war with each other, that’s how the two lights felt. It seemed to him to be a good idea not to let that light touch him in any way. However, he was still convinced that he wasn’t in the middle of some fever dream brought on by the excesses of last night. He felt his left nipple vibrate. Shit! It was his phone. He looked at who was calling him. Fuck! It was his boss. He was going to be in big trouble that was for certain.

“Answer the blessed thing then Michael,” said Sanael a little snippily. “Tell your boss that you are sick, he’ll believe you.

“Yes boss. Nope, I’ve got some kind of bug. Yeah it’s echoey here in the bog. Both ends boss wouldn’t like to be meeting clients in this state, eh boss? Yeah, Lucy knows all the details and Graham can give the presentation, the power point is on my hard drive in my office, Lucy can show him. Ha ha, no no porn–at least not on my office computer–ha ha ha.” He hoped that his boss didn’t hear how desperate he was being but he seemed to be swallowing this pile of porkies with no qualms, unusual for a fellow who normally seemed suspicious of an extra order for paper clips. “No? Okay, well as soon as I get better you’ll be seeing my sunshiny smile around the department. Yeah, see you then.”

“Have we finished?” Asked Sanael as Mike put away his phone, making sure he’d switched it off. He nodded the affirmative to the angel. “Right let’s get on then, shall we? Where was I? Ah yes. Now my infernal colleague and I have taken your soul. We did last night between the time you were annoying a very pretty secretary and throwing up in the gents.”

“God, I knew I’d been making a prat of myself,”

“Yes, well. Be that as it may. You sold us your soul. Well not really sold as that involves crossroads and all that malarkey and too be quite honest it generally ends up in a right old kerfuffle.” Sanael seemed to be on a wander through his vocabulary.

“Oh get on with it Sanael. I need to be at a whipping in an hour and you know how Pythius gets when we’re not all there to administer the flogging.”

“Yes. Anyway, we’ve taken your soul and divided it into twelve parts. They are hidden all over the shop. Some may be as close as your neighbour’s cellar. Others may be as far away as Machu Picchu,”

“Oh fuck,” said Mike.

“Yes indeed, “said Arakes. “You should be very worried. Not only does your own fate hinge on your ability to find your soul shards but also that of the whole human race. Just think about that for a bit.”

Mike felt the weight of the world settle on his shoulders. He thought that he was going to cry but that was something he hadn’t done since Father Johnson had buggered him in the vestry of his old church. He’d kicked the shit out of the old bastard years later, left him lying in a pool of blood outside the Catholic Club that was next to his old church.

“Why me?” he cried out to the two figures before him.

“Why not?” they replied in unison, with such force it shook dust from the walls and plaster from the ceiling of the chapel.

“Listen,’ said Arakes. “You’re not going to be completely alone in this. We’re going to be scattering clues around and there will be—erm—people to help you along the way.”

“Whoop-de-fucking-doo,” said Mike with little enthusiasm.

“Now don’t be like that Mike,” said Sanael a little more kindly. “It’s not the end of the World. Well, actually it could be. This is the year of the Blood Moon, a most propitious time. A time when anything can happen and although we can’t get involved directly per se, we each have a quota of three times when you can call on us to help you out. But you must be careful to use those ‘get out of jail free cards’ wisely. Squander them and you may find yourself in a predicament and have no way to extricate yourself.”

Arakes was off into a corner by himself now. He’d also changed back into his human form. He turned suddenly and took Mike by the lapels of his jacket. Mike felt his feet leave the ground. The demon was strong for a skinny bloke.

“Trust not the council of angels friend,” Mike smelt hellfire and sulphur on the demons breathe and he nearly crapped himself looking into the demons red eyes. He was thrown backwards and woofed as the air was pushed out of him as he hit the wall.

 

“Arakes! Control thyself hell spawn” Sanael had moved back into human form to and was kneeling over Mike solicitously. “Come my friend, all will be well. Arakes is jesting. He’s testing your mettle as it were, trying to see if we’ve made the correct choice. I for one have no doubt, but the Fallen are ever at odds with whom they would trust.” Sanael looked angrily at Arakes. Who had the good grace to look abashed and stalk off into the other corner.

“Now your first task is simple and close to home, though not n your neighbour’s cellar. You need to get to a town called Luton, you know it?”

“Yeah I do. Shitty little hole up past St. Albans” replied Mike still looking hurt and mistrustfully at Arakes who had come closer again after mooching about at the other side of the chapel.

“Well, it doesn’t matter what your personal opinion of it is. You need to get up to a housing estate called Marsh Farm. You got that?”

“Yeah, Marsh Farm”

“Good boy. When you get there go to a bar called The Cotter’s and wait for someone to contact you”

“Who?”

“You’ll know them when you see them”

“Right”

“Now this needs to be before midnight tonight. If you don’t find the first shard before midnight then it’s curtains for the human race, do you understand?”

Mike looked up into the angel’s golden eyes. He was miserable, dirty and hung over. His soul had been ripped from him and shattered into twelve shards. Yes, he understood alright. It was these fucking religious fuckers pissing around with him again. He was having most unangelic thoughts about what he wanted to do right now. It involved lumps of wood and rusty barbed wire. Sanael’s eyes widened in shock, he’d obviously seen the thoughts in Mike’s head.

 

“Oh Dear”

 

“Don’t fucking worry. I’ll be there” Mike growled as he heaved himself off the floor and stomped out of the chapel into the cold light of day.

 

Sanael stood up with a worried look on his face and turned to Arakes.

“What the fuck did you expect?” said the demon with a smile.

 

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Gettin’ back on the horse

Bugger me! I’ve reactivated my blog!!!!Image

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A NEW POST AFTER NINE MONTHS TRYING TO WORK

Well, back from one place and soon on to another, though this one is closer to home…well it will be our new home, though we’ve lived there before. This is something that was knocking around in my head, an extremely short horror story with some supertnatural undertones. It’s less than 800 words and I was trying to get a rythm with the dialogue rather than any type of description, don’t know if it worked or not.

SUPRISE PARTY

A chill night breeze came off the lake, bringing with it the musty stench of weed and the smell of stagnant duck shit.
He sat back in the deeper shadows of the trees; a half moon hung in the sky and the stars glittered above the distant glow of the street lamps.

“She’ll come. I called and she’ll come,” he muttered, “I know she’ll come.” He shifted into a slightly more comfortable position on the park bench.
“She’s not coming Bro’.”
“Shut the fuck up!” his hands writhing in his lap violently. “She’ll come because I called, so just shut-fucking-UP!”
“Woah dude! Less of the heavy vibe. You still think this hoodoo shit works? It don’t bro’. You fucked up in the head.”
“SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP! You never shut up, you fuck! You always try and put me down, but not this time. Ohh no! not this time.”

A few leaves pattered down and he closed his jacket against the cold.

“I called and called and I know she’ll come. Not like the last one, where I had to keep going to her place and her work and watch her at the library and the mall. No, not like her; and she was squishy.”
“What kinda word is squishy bro’ ?”

“Shut up.”

“Kinda stupid kinda fucking word.”

“Shut up.”

“Kinda baby kinda fuckin’ word.”

“SHUT UP!”
“Just, you know, sayin’ dude.”
“Cunt! You never back me up. You always find some way to spoil it.”
“Now is that any kinda language bro’?” You think you’re honey’s gonna get down to that kinda language?”

He shifted on the bench again, he could feel the gift he had bought for her, hard in his jacket pocket; and he looked along the gray path that led to the park entrance. He knew she would come this way. She had to it was the most logical route.

He felt another thing getting hard down in his pants. The anticipation was getting to him. He hoped that she wouldn’t feel it when he finally embraced her that would be a little embarrassing. Actually, he half-hoped she would and that it would excite her too.
“Woah! Bro’s got some wood on. A half board in yer tighty-whities there man.”

“Fuck’s sake! Don’t you ever give it a rest? Can’t you let me have one private moment? Something that is mine?”

“I’m never gonna get off your case dude. Not after what you did to me. You deserve worse than I can give you bro’–much worse.”

He hung his head down knowing that his brother was right. He should never have done…he still couldn’t bring himself to face it head on. He should never have put himself and his brother in this position. He was ashamed; his brother had been his first, shown him the way, as it were. Now he was paying the price for that.

“I’m sorry. Yes, you’re right. I deserve this. But don’t tell me you don’t get off on this as well.”

“Beside the point, bro’. The only joy to this existence is ranking you out and seeing you stick it to the hotties. But that ain’t as satisfying dude.”

“Yes, yes. Now shush.”
He had heard the distant grate of metal against metal of the gate and he knew she had arrived. Oh yes. He rose from the bench and stepped into the deeper shadow of the tree that it was under. He would surprise her. God! How he would surprise her.
He could see her coming up the path, he took in the smells of the night, the half-moon and the stars glinting off the surface of the lake, their lights shattered into a million sparks by the ripples. The distant hum of the cars over on the highway and the occasional ‘rumf’ of a dog in the far away.

Her shoes clock-clocked on the asphalt of the path and he could see she was humped down into her coat, her hands thrust deep into her pockets against the chill of the night. No matter, soon he would make her feel all warm and snuggley.

He felt the presence of his brother close behind him as gentle as another night breeze.

“Do her slowly bro’. Make her wiggle. I like it when they wiggle and squirm.”

“Yes,” said his brother. “Yes. I can do that.”

The moon glinted off the flat metal of the gift he had brought for her as he slipped it from his pocket.
He stepped forward poised to spring from his hiding place, a grin on his face at the thought that he had called her and she had come.

“Boy. Is she ever gonna be surprised,” he thought.

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Mary Talbot’s new website.

Mary Talbot, wife of Bryan Talbot and eminent writer in her own right, has a new site designed by my blog buddy Chrissie Harper. It’s in the blog roll and so is Chrissie’s excellent blog…go check them both out.

The new graphic novel from Mary and Bryan Talbot.

 

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