Father's Day

Father’s Day – Franklin Marsh

“Shit! Motherfucker!”

Lorelei hurled the newspaper across the room.

Ghote and Cooke looked uneasily at one another.

“Who publishes this rag?”

“Miguel Loco,” supplied Cooke.

“Get him,” said Lorelei.
She opened the wooden box on her desk and removed a large cigar.
Ghote squirmed as she inserted the end into a miniature guillotine. Bad memories. He suppressed a whimper as the blade descended.

“NOW! I’ll be downstairs.”

It was Cooke’s turn to wince as the match that Lorelei had used to pierce the end of the cigar was scraped on the top of the antique rosewood. A plume of cigar smoke followed the two men as they left the office.

*****************

Miguel Loco locked the bathroom door, dropped his trousers and seated himself comfortably. He leaned forward and picked up the laptop. No sense in wasting any time. He could be here a while. Those fajitas were dancing a fandango in his belly.

He signed on and opened his e-mail. The door crashed open and he found himself looking down the barrel of Cooke’s Colt .45 automatic above the screen.

The bowel movement was lot noisier, less fragrant but easier than he’d expected.

Loco knew who they worked for. He’d taken a chance printing that stuff from the unknown source, but he loathed the woman with a passion. He’d asked to interview her a number of times and always been brushed off. Well, it looked like he was about to meet his nemesis, but on her terms.

The black 4 x 4 hummed quietly through the night. Miguel saw the endless black metal fence, the poles topped with gold fleur-de-lys. Huge gates automatically opened, and the car drove through the beautiful gardens. Despite himself, Miguel gasped. Lush green topiary! On the edge of the desert! The flame of his idealism flared up again. The whole area was suffering from drought. 90% of the local population were on the breadline, working for a pittance in the Van Ness factories, manufacturing weapons of mass destruction. And she lived in…

The chateau came into view. Once again. Miguel Loco’s mouth hung open. He’d moved into a parallel world. Chucha! How could she?

The vehicle halted before the giant studded wooden doors.

“Let’s go,” said Ghote, slipping from the car.

He sounds nervous, thought Miguel. Cooke, impassive, gestured with his pistol.

They walked into the massive hall decorated with immense paintings, objets d’art and antiques. The ostentatious display fuelled Miguel’s anger. He knew he should be scared, but this was too much.

Ghote pressed a switch on the wall, and a panel slid aside. The three stepped into a large elevator, and Ghote pressed another button. Miguel felt his stomach lurch as they descended slowly. Incongruous muzak played. It was worse than silence.

The lift halted and the door opened. Ghote led the way into a passage hewn from rock. Artfully lit with red and green spotlights, Miguel found this artifice amusing. The ‘rock’ looked plastic, like a film set. He looked up, and felt a tremor of fear as the ceiling moved. He squinted, and made out a colony of bats roosting.

Keep your cool, Loco, he thought, it’s going to get worse. The passageway opened into a vast, low-ceilinged room. The floor was taken up with a massive pool, full of gently rippling aquamarine water. Beautiful light patterns played around the walls. A black triangular dorsal fin broke the water’s surface, and glided around the pool. Miguel tore his eyes away. They travelled along a white painted, six-inch wide length of wood that crossed the pool, and he saw her.

Puta! She was dressed in a black basque, tiny black g-string, fishnet stockings and black pointed ankle boots with stiletto heels. She lounged on a golden throne with red velvet seat and back, leg thrown over an arm of the throne, her crotch leering obscenely at him. Stroked the red-legged tarantula that crawled along her thigh. Her black hair was swept up in a beehive, thin white streaks decorating either side. She sucked on a large Cuban, puffing smoke at the spider.

Ghote coughed.

“Ah! Miguel!” she beamed. She placed the spider gently on the arm of the chair, and stood up. Plucking a hunk of raw meat from a metal container beside the throne, she marched across the narrow plank of wood and stood still above the middle of the pool, arm holding the meat loft.

The shark leaped gracefully from the water. Lorelei released the meat. The shark seized it, curved elegantly over the wooden beam, and splashed back into the pool.

Lorelei continued on her way, stepping down from the plank directly in front of Miguel Loco.

Watching the display, Miguel had accepted that he was going to die. He launched himself at the woman, screaming his hatred. She slapped his face hard, and he fell toward the pool, grasping the wet wood at the last minute. From the waist down, he lay at the pool side. His hands grasped the beam as tightly as he could. His body and head trembled above the pool.

“Who told you those lies about me?” she asked softly.

“Not lies. You are a murderer, an exploiter, and a whore. You dance on the dead. You are…aieee!”

A stiletto heel pierced the back of his left hand. Miguel understood that sumo wrestlers had the ability to retract their testicles into their bodies. His cojones were doing their best.

“Ma’am?”

Lorelei looked at Cooke. He proffered the Loco laptop. She looked at the e-mail account. Blood dripped from Miguel’s injured hand into the water. He heard the swirl below him.

“So. Last chance, Miguel. What can you tell me about Doc Dot Dem at Hotmail Dot Com?”

“He knows you, Fulana! He told me about you!”

Lorelei stamped on Miguel’s other hand. He screamed, released his grip and plunged into the pool.

She strode onto the beam, oblivious to the churning foam beneath her, white turning red.

Turning to the green-looking Ghote, and the taciturn Cooke, she snarled “Trace that e-mail, where it was sent from. Get Loco’s ‘phone records. Any unusual calls. We’ll meet tomorrow. In the board room.”

Dismissed, the two men hurried from the room, Ghote risking a quick glance back at those superb exposed buttocks
*****

Ghote groaned silently and crossed his legs as the mini guillotine blade descended on the tip of the cigar.

“News?”

“We got a match,” smirked Cooke. “The e-mail was sent from the same location as two ‘phone calls to Loco.”

“Getting careless, Doc Dot Dem,” said Lorelei, in a peculiar sing-song voice. She frowned.
“Unless….Origin?”

“The Middle East.”

No reaction. Cooke swallowed and spoke again.
“Transmission from near the town of Jezreel.”

Lorelei threw back her head and laughed. Then stopped abruptly.

“The bastard.”

She stood up and walked through the door behind her, into a room filled with glass cases. Ghote and Cooke looked at one another, then followed suit.

The first case contained a block of steel from which grew four enormous blades. Lorelei had opened the next, which contained a stained, ragged cloth bundle. They heard a clanking as she reached inside, withdrawing a slim knife, the handle depicting Christ on the cross. She shook her head and replaced it, closing the case. The next case contained an ancient spear. Lorelei spent a long time gazing at it. Cooke harrumphed, and Ghote shifted uneasily. She shook her head again, and moved into the next ante-room. Ghote looked at the small placard in the case. It merely read ‘Longinus’.

Ghote bumped into the stationary Cooke. He saw that his boss and his co-worker were staring in fascination at the sole glass case in the room.

It contained an enormous , ancient fifty calibre machine gun, the armour plating pockmarked with bullet holes and dyed a rusty colour with what Ghote assumed queasily to be dried blood. Were those bone chips embedded in the metal?

“You gotta be fucking joking.”
He realised with a sinking feeling that he’d spoken aloud.

“She’s loaded for bear!” exulted Cooke.

Lorelei turned, eyes shining. One eyebrow raised, she said to Ghote, “This is no fucking joking matter, Ghote-boy.”

She jerked a thumb at the death machine.

“Get John R here loaded on the jet. We’re going on a Doc hunt, in the desert.”

As Ghote and Cooke prepared to move, Lorelei puffed out cigar smoke and mused, “It’s gonna take a while to get there. Any of our guys in the area?”

Cooke clicked his fingers.

“Arboghast and Battenberg are nearby.”

Lorelei’s fists clenched, elbows touched and jerked down.
“Yes! Get on the horn, Cookey. Send in the clowns.”

*******************************

The camels stirred and grumbled uneasily. Hassan moved out of the shade of the entrance to the underground city and peered toward the horizon. A cloud of dust was visible.

Hassan ran down the worn stone steps. Dashing through the underground streets, he reached the excavation site. Professor Richard Leeky looked up in surprise, then smiled.

“Hassan! What’s up?”

Hassan paused, composed himself and spoke slowly and clearly.

“Professor, a vehicle approaches.”

“Excellent, my boy,” roared the professor. “We’ll have you fluent before long.”
He clapped his hands.

“A vehicle, eh? I’m not expecting anyone. Dev?”

The middle-aged man in the khaki bush jacket and shorts looked up, and brushed the long, white hair from his sweating face.

“Not me, Rich.”

The professor looked at the pale pink albino eyes, and once more wondered how his colleague coped so well with the burning sun.

“Well, well. I hope it’s not the gentlemen, or ladies ,of the press. We could without any more interruptions. Come on, Hassan. Let’s go and see what they want.”

As the professor and the arab boy left the site, the other archaeologist hefted the skull he’d been dusting in one hand.

“Alas, poor ... I knew her, Horatio.”

He smiled and crushed the cranium into fine dust.

Leeky and Hassan walked from the shadows out into the sun, the elder man squinting and trying to adjust his sight to the bright sunlight.

The cloud of dust was much nearer. Hassan giggled. The vehicle and its occupants came into focus. Leeky frowned.

Two large, bizarrely dressed men were squeezed into a tiny yellow car. The doors hung off, the wheels wobbled alarmingly. The man clutching the comically small steering wheel was dressed in a suit of huge black and white checks that was umpteen sizes too big for him, as was his shirt and bow tie. A ridiculously small bowler hat with an absurdly large plastic daisy poked into the hat band perched upon his straight brown hair.
The other man was taller and thinner and dressed in a baggy yellow jump suit. His hair was bright red and tightly curled. Like his companion his face was deathly white, and huge red lips were painted around his mouth, upturned. The drivers downturned. Both had identical round red noses.

The car wheezed to a halt. Leeky and Hassan jumped in fright at an enormous backfire. A cloud of green smoke billowed from the back of the little vehicle. As the passenger attempted to leave, his door fell off. The driver parped the bulb horn a couple of times. It, and the steering wheel came off in his hands. He looked at them quizzically, then flung them behind him. His door also fell to the desert floor. Both men stepped from the car.

Hassan, who had steadily kept chuckling during this display, clapped and hooted in delight at the sight of the mens’ two foot long shoes. They looked down in puzzlement, turned to one another, shrugged , then advanced toward the waiting couple.

Leeky watched them nervously. There was something wrong about them. He wasn't in the least amused.

The clown with the checked suit stopped and raised a hand, looking horrified. He flapped back to the car and pulled out a bucket, then ran towards Hassan. Leeky had trouble following him, as his companion had imitated his actions and also hopped back to the dilapidated vehicle, retrieving what looked suspiciously like a custard pie.

The check-suited clown hurled his bucket at Hassan. If it had contained water, Leeky would have been outraged, but the hundreds of shiny little strips that enveloped Hassan put his mind at rest. Until the arab boy started to scream. Leeky looked on in horror, oblivious to the yellow-suited clown creeping up on him, as the shiny strips of metal sliced Hassan to ribbons. Pouring lifeblood onto the thirsty sand from a thousand cuts, Hassan expired with a groan.

Leeky turned, in time to receive the custard pie in the face. It enveloped his head, burning his eyes, oozing into ears, nostrils and mouth. Unable to breathe, let alone scream, Leeky collapsed to the ground, beside the mutilated Hassan.

The yellow-suited clown screwed his fists into his eyes, in mock misery. The check-suited clown shrugged.

They looked at the entrance.

“We goin' in?” growled Battenburg, in yellow.

“Nah. This is the only way in or out. We wait for her,” replied Arboghast, in check.

The two clowns sat in the shade of the entrance. Their make-up had run in the heat giving their faces a melted look. They watched vultures tear Hassan apart. The birds of prey ignored Leeky, his head shrouded by the alien custard.

“Dust,” said Battenberg, pointing. The sleek, black 4 x 4 appeared, towing a canvas-shrouded fifty calibre.

“Jeez, that’s some artillery, Max. What we got into?”

Arboghast squeezed his hand.

“?It’s OK, Marty. She knows what she’s doin’.”

They stood up as the vehicle slid to a halt.

Lorelei slipped out from the behind the wheel and marched toward them. Ghote marvelled at her high heels refraining from sinking into the loose sand. He and Cooke floundered a little.

“Situation?”

“We took care of these two. No-one out, no-one in since.”

“Thanks, Max. OK, guys, listen up. We’re going into the underground city. We’re looking for a guy six foot plus, long white hair, red eyes. You won’t miss him. He’s unique. But watch your backs. He’s tricky. Let’s go.”

She led the way into the shadows. They descended the stone steps to face the underground town. Five roads led away from the base of the stairwell.

“Nice of him to leave the lights on,” observed Cooke, fingering his pump shotgun. Battenberg twirled a Desert Eagle. Arboghast drew a pair of matched Navy .44 Colts from the voluminous pockets of his jacket. He mimed offering the butts to Battenberg, then the pistols whirled in his hands, thumbs clicking back the hammers.

“The Border Roll!? exclaimed Cooke. “I ain’t seen that in…”

“Enough,” said Lorelei. “One street each. Go.”

The clowns let the others set off, exchanged a quick kiss, then ventured into their own alleys. Despite the artificial lighting, the rock hewn buildings remained in deep shadow.
There was silence except for the occasional scrape of shoe leather on stone, or the drip of water. Each member of the team found that, once inside their street, they could not hear the others.

Ghote wanted to scream, to reassure himself there were others out there. Cooke looked penetratingly around him. One trace of white hair and red eyes and kablooie!

Max Arboghast wished Marty Battenberg was with him. Marty wished the same about Max.

Lorelei walked ahead, in a kind of trance. Once or twice her hand would stray to her hair, now loose around her shoulders, and trace one of the white lines. No. Not now, not ever.

She was the first to reach the end of her street and face the wall. Ghote appeared, sweaty and breathless. Then Cooke, leaping melodramatically from the darkness, shotgun wavering.

“Cool it!” hissed Lorelei.

Max Arboghast sauntered from the end of his street. He looked at his companions. Lorelei shook her head. Deceptively casually, he moved to the end of Battenberg’s pathway and glanced down it. He turned back, face impassive, but Colt drawn.

Lorelei moved to the right. The other three stared at the wall. The archaeologists had worked hard. The painting could now be seen in its entirety. Faded, but still powerful. A woman, naked save for a scarlet robe draped around her nether regions, astride a seven headed beast.

“It’s a version of the Whore Of Babylon,” whispered Cooke. “I’ve never seen this one.”

Ghote waited, but Cooke and Arboghast moved on after Lorelei. Lorelei. Was he the only one who saw the similarity? They must have noticed the black snakes she had for hair, with the two white ones adorning her temples. He gulped and followed the others.

Hurrying to catch up, he once again bumped into Cooke’s broad back, and looked at death via shotgun. Cooke turned back, and Ghote followed his gaze.

Marty Battenberg had been crucified upside down. His yellow jumpsuit shredded, his chest soaked in blood. A sob escaped Arboghast’s throat.

“We’ll get him, Max.”

Ghote looked around wildly at Lorelei’s comment.

“Don’t worry, Ghote-boy. He ain’t here any more. He’s playin’ a game with us.”

“I’ll give him game,” growled Arboghast. “How could he get out? We didn’t see…”
Battenberg’s corpse gave him an answer. White make-up spilled onto his suit.

Lorelei walked to a water bag, doused some archaeological papers and wiped Battenberg’s chest. As the blood came off, a series of cuts were revealed.

“It says something!” gasped Cooke. “But in no language I know.”

“It’s upside-down, like poor Marty.” said Lorelei with a sad resignation. “It says Whitby.”

“Who’s Whitby?” asked Arboghast.

“Not who. Where. It’s a town in the North of England.”
Some steel was creeping back into Lorelei’s voice.

“We going there, Mizz Van Ness?” asked the clown.

“You bet your sweet bippy, Max.”

After the desert, the rain, mist and wind of Yorkshire chilled the four to the bones.

“God-damn that sonofabitch, “ cursed Cooke. “This Limey dump. I hate this country! What language are they speaking? It’s different from London.”

“England isn’t just London, Cookey,” smiled Lorelei. “In many ways it’s as diverse as the States, just on a smaller scale.”

She felt happier. Even Max Arboghast seemed to have put Marty’s death behind him, and was tucking into the English delicacy, fish and chips.

Ghote appeared less nervous.

Thanks to her wealth and power, they had managed to remain armed, although her beloved John R remained in the cargo hold of the jet. England was too small a country for that sort of fire power.

Lorelei pondered the Doctor Dementer problem. He was the man behind this. The man who’d killed her father, and was attempting to put himself in that man’s place. Well, it wasn’t going to work, Doc.

The newspaper stories were annoying. She’d been building up to run for the Presidency, seeing as Hillary had failed. A woman in the White House. An image to conjure with. Her finger on the button. The world would take her seriously then.

The damp quartet ascended the 199 steps. They reached the top and walked on past St. Mary’s church.

“Where we goin’, Mizz Van Ness?” asked Arboghast, putting his chip papers in a nearby litter bin. He’d insisted on retaining his clown outfit, make-up re-done. They’d gotten a few strange glances in the town, but Lorelei wasn’t concerned with what others thought of them. The world would applaud if they successfully removed that murdering bastard.

They approached the ruins of the Abbey. Night was falling fast. The darkness was suddenly illuminated as hidden lights were switched on. The huge stone walls were shown in stark relief. The light didn’t quite reach the top of the huge arched facade.

Lorelei strained her eyes. Is that where he was? Silently waiting? What did he hope to gain? Her ruin? Her death? The death of all around her? Isolating her until she had to accept him? It won’t work, Buster. I’m too much like my real Dad. Independent. Mad, bad and dangerous to know. No half-assed quack will rain on my parade.

They walked through the deserted ruins silently, constantly searching the shadows, dark corners, hidden dips.

Having traversed the entire site, Lorelei stopped with a sigh.

“He ain’t here,” she snapped in frustration.

“Where’s Cooke?” asked Ghote in a small voice.

Lorelei and Arboghast whirled this way and that, guns drawn. They were down to three.

“Ghote-boy, you stupid shit! Why didn’t you…”

“I just realised when you stopped. I…”

“Shut up!”

They’d all been so wrapped up in their own thoughts they hadn’t noticed Cooke’s abduction.

“He IS here,” mused Lorelei, suddenly aware of a strange whistling sound.

“Look out!”

Arboghast dived, pulling her to the ground. The body of Cooke slammed into Ghote, sending him flying.

Arboghast’s pistol roared, a .44 round slamming into the spinning body.

“He’s dead, Max,” said Lorelei wearily, picking herself up and dusting herself down.

Max thumbed down the hammer, and watched Cooke’s slowly twirling body. He was suspended from the highest point of the Abbey, a thick noose around his neck, the familiar features blackened, blood smeared around the mouth where the tip of his tongue had been bitten off.

No tie. White shirt stained red. Here we go, thought Lorelei. She smoothed back the blood stained silk. Arboghast produced a line of flags of all nations from one of his pockets, and wiped the abdomen.

They looked at one another.

“Where to now?” whimpered Ghote.

********************************
“More fucking rain. Why can’t that bastard get back to the States?”

“It’s part of the game, Max. We’re on unfamiliar territory.”

Arboghast smiled.

“You’re just itchin’ to turn that fifty cal loose, aincha?”

Lorelei smiled at the clown.

“You bet, Max. And you know who on?”

“You’d have to get past me first.”

“That a challenge.?”

They laughed.

Ghote, a few yards away, scowled. They were all under sentence of death by a madman, and the clown and the bitch were yakkin’ it up. He sighed. No way out now. He just hoped his boss could cope. He’d been alarmed to see the frightened little girl in her so much lately.

Miguel Loco’s outburst. Marty. Cooke. Behind the slap, the language, and the hauteur was someone’s young daughter, caught with her hand in the cookie jar and unable to cope with the expected punishment. Shit. They were all being punished for her mistakes.

He watched the reflection of Mont Blanc shatter as the ferry ploughed its way across Lake Geneva, the huge fountain hissing in the background. He wished Cookey were around. He’d have known where they were going.

The ferry docked, and the businesswoman, the clown and the administrator walked ashore.

They walked along the lakeside, then headed through quiet streets, before halting outside a black gate built into a solid-looking wall.

Lorelei opened the gate and walked through into a neat, large garden. The rain stopped, and the sun peeked out from behind a cloud.

Ghote stared at what looked like a miniature palace.

“What is this place?”

“The Villa Deodati,” answered Lorelei.

She moved toward the front door. Ghote watched Arboghast draw a pistol and follow her. Him or me? He thought. She’ll be left until last. He looked back longingly at the gate.

“Come on!” hissed a voice from the darkened doorway.

He joined his two companions in the spacious hallway. They were looking up the grand staircase.

“Can we not split up? Please?” wailed Ghote. “That’s how he got Marty. And Cookey. Let’s stick together?”

“Calm down,” advised Lorelei.

“That won’t save you.”

Three faces turned upward in surprise. At the head of the stairs stood a tall man dressed in a black tailcoat, white frilled shirt, bootlace tie with cow-skull clasp, black straight jeans, and black cowboy boots. A black top hat was nestling on his head, long white locks flowing from underneath it. Piercing red eyes stared down at them. A playing card was wedged in his hat band. The nine of diamonds.

“Kill him,” whispered Lorelei.

Max Arboghast ran at the stairs, yelling and firing his pistol. The noise was tremendous after the tense silence following the character’s appearance. Bullets thudded into the wall where the figure had appeared, as it dodged upstairs.

“You killed the only man I ever loved,” bawled Arboghast.

Ghote listened to the thudding feet on the stairs as Max disappeared from sight. He turned to Lorelei. Where was she? A sob made him look down. She was lying on the floor.

He knelt beside her. She flinched at his touch, keeled over on to her side and curled into a foetal ball.

“Run, Ghote-boy, run,” she said tearfully.

Ghote was at a loss. He’d never seen her like this, nor expected to.

“Come on, Honey”, he said. “Let’s get out of here and forget this wild-goose…”

“NO!”

The harsh scream took him by surprise, the tremendous slap around the face even more so.

She uncurled and thrust herself upright. Fumbling in her bag, she produced a tiny Uzi submachine gun.

“Motherfucker!” she screamed, and ran upstairs.

Ghote propped himself up against the wall. Run, you idiot, he thought.

A loud rattle of gunfire from upstairs startled him. Then an ominous silence. Had she got him?

He started to walk slowly up the stairway.

“Lorelei? Miss Van Ness? You OK?”

His voice sotto voce, ears ringing from the earlier racket.

He smelt cordite, and saw smoke drifting into a beam of sunlight from an open door on the landing.

He peered around the edge of the door. Lorelei was sat on a small stool in front of a dressing table with a smashed mirror. She clutched her tiny gun, unconsciously pulling the trigger. Harsh clicks. An empty magazine.

Ghote moved into the room. Arboghast was spreadeagled on a four poster bed. Lorelei’s bullets had ripped up his chest. Had she destroyed the next message?

An odd sound plagued him. He realised that thin white wires were rapped around the dead clowns neck. Two tiny earphones had been placed in his ears, but one had fallen out, presumably as a result of Lorelei’s assault. He advanced gingerly and crouched by the bed, putting the little white piece of plastic near his own ear. Elvis Presley bemoaned the fact that there weren’t more than twenty-four hours in a day.

Ghote looked at Lorelei.

“We’re going to Vegas,” she said ,dully.

***********************************
The 4 x 4 with attached trailer pulled up outside the Circus Circus casino. Jacob Panetta came rushing outside, rubbing his hands together nervously.

“Mizz Van Ness!” he gushed insincerely as Lorelei climbed down from the vehicle, “always a pleasure! Your usual suite?”

“If you still want my business, Jake, and don’t want to end up on a meathook, get that fifty cal set up facing the tradesman’s exit at the back.”

“Fifty cal? Fuck, Lorelei, who you at war with?”

“You, if you don’t help. Come on!”

She waved angrily at Ghote.

Panetta waved at a couple of passing clowns.

“You heard the lady.”

Ghote had trouble keeping up with Lorelei, who was striding through the casino at an incredible rate.

“Miss Van Ness? Miss Van Ness? Where are we…oh, shit. No.”

Lorelei stared with hatred at the cordoned off section at the rear of the enormous circus ring. The Hall Of Freaks. With recession looming, the present Government had all but repealed the old Oddity laws. The people needed someone to look down on in times of crisis and with all the race problems, physical deformity was seen as a useful stop-gap. Just until things got better, you understand.

Lorelei clenched her fists. One of her first acts as Mizz President would have been to reinstate the Oddity laws, but go ten steps further. Drive the bastards underground. Wipe them out if necessary. Wherever they were, he would be. She should have realised earlier. Well, this was a gift.

A shifty little man peaked out of the Hall. Lorelei seized his scaled ear and twisted it pulling him out into the open. Passing showgirls giggled nervously.

“Hi, Wade,” she barked. “Where’s the Doc?”

“Owww! Doc?” queried the little man. “There ain’t no Doc here, Ma’am.”

“Sure there is, you little runt. Well, you tell him, I’m here and I’m ready. Get your guys together, and we’ll see you in the car park.”

She released his ear, and as he turned to flee into the safety of the Hall, she kicked him squarely in the rear. With a shriek, he flew into darkness. She smirked and then scowled as she realised that she’d ruined the pointed toe of her shoe. Scaly little bastard..

**********************

The occupants of the Hall Of Freaks had turned to the white-haired man in the top hat.

“What’s goin’ down, Doc?” asked Leopold, the red-haired Lion Man.

The Doc looked around uneasily. He was about to betray and cause the deaths of the best friends he’d ever had, but he had to get to her. He had to.

“Listen, guys…”

“Fire!”

Yellow flames licked at the entrance to the Hall. Clowns threw buckets of water onto them . It wasn’t water. Gasoline!

The Oddities panicked, and began to flock toward the exit.

“Take your guns!” was all the Doc could shout at their backs, as he leapt through the flames, ran past the clowns and headed upstairs.

***************

Outside in the car park, Lorelei crouched behind the stained armour plating of John R.

“There!”

Ghote finished loading the enormous belt of shells into the chamber.

“That’ll…oh my God!”

The rear door of the casino opened, and smoke poured out. Within the smoke were hordes of misshapen figures, coughing, spluttering.

“Christ, Lorelei! Some of ‘em are armed. What the Hell are they?”

More and more Oddities were fleeing the flames. She couldn’t see him, but she couldn’t wait any longer. Using all her strength, she hauled back the bolt.

*********************

Dementer opened the door, to find Jacob Panetta rifling through his safe.

“Hi Jake! Lost your insurance policy? I just need your car keys.”

He leaned over and grabbed the set from Panetta’s desk.

“Hey, you! Who the f…”

In the time it had taken for Panetta to draw his automatic from the shoulder holster, the top-hatted, white haired figure had disappeared.

Smelling smoke, Jake returned to the safe.

****************

Lorelei depressed the trigger mechanism and hung on for dear life. It was like riding a bucking bronco. She gradually wrestled control as John R spat leaden death into the casino car park. First reward was seeing the Alligator Boy’s head explode. The little scaly body ran on for a few feet before collapsing, red syrup pouring from the neck stump. It took three whole rounds to disintegrate the portly bearded lady. She was aware that some of the targets were attempting to shoot back. Spangs and whings echoed from the armour plating, but she was safe behind it. The incredible juddering of the gun was transmitting itself into every fibre of her body. She was exhilarated. Strapped to the world’s biggest vibrator whilst watching your worst fears turn to jelly, paste, dust before your eyes. She began to scream. Unbelievably, orgasm was approaching. Tears welled in her eyes. Splats of red everywhere. Smoke drifted around her. As her state became a higher one, she became aware of Ghote staggering toward her, no jacket, shirt bloodied. A shell took his legs away in a fountain of crimson. He fell and his torso remained upright, balanced on the car park. Her shaking, tear streaked vision was tested to the limit as he raised himself on his arms, and carried on toward her, walking on his hands.

A huge, black Lincoln Continental crashed through concealed garage doors, and roared toward her.

The fifty calibre clicked empty. No! Not now! When she was so close. The limo careered past. She glimpsed white hair and red eyes.

“Motherfuckerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

She tottered, exhausted from behind John R, the smells of gunsmoke, sex and blood clinging to her.

The half Ghote had given up ten yards away. It was as though he’d been buried in cement in the car park up to his waist.

She knelt before him, and pulled back the stained shirt. Using her powder-burned hands, she smeared the blood on his chest, looking for the clue.

It would be the one word. ‘Salem.’

It wasn’t. It read ‘The Old Franklin Place, Texas.’

You fucking bastard.

She hauled herself over to the 4 x 4, clambered in and drove slowly out of the car park.

*****************************
The journey across country assumed nightmare qualities. She kept going with pills, booze and the occasional injection. Hotels, motels, the Overlook, Bates, Hello (they’d fixed the sign). Half the time she didn’t know where she was. Shocking dreams. Astride John R, raining destruction down on those who’d threaten her. A three-fingered clawed hand resting on her shoulder, a familiar voice whispering in her ear. Congratulations, inducements, sweet nothings. Looking in the rear-view mirror at the white streaks in her hair. No, not him. Never.

She crossed the border into Texas and became more alert, more ready. You’ll never have a better chance, girl, she told herself. It’s just you and him. Once he’s out of the picture, you’re free.

She pulled up beside the wooden shack. It had to be done.

The old man in the checked shirt welcomed her at the door, and led her to the back room. She surveyed the walls, and picked a medium sized model. She wondered what he’d picked. Probably a big one. Guys. Obsessed with size. It didn’t really matter in the end. She walked out back with the oldster and fired it up. It sliced through the logs with ease. It would do. She hoped that it wouldn’t come to that, but…

“Sold many recently?”

“A couple. Business ain’t bad.”

“Any big ones?”

“Nope. Sold one of those yesterday.”

He indicated her model.

“Yeah? To a girl?”

“Nope. A guy. Funny lookin’ feller.”

That was enough for her. She paid and drove on.

The heat was oppressive and her vehicle’s aircon had packed up. She'd turned the radio on and realised that it was a Sunday. The dj's blathered about Dads, Pops, Pappys, and played tunes celebrating them. She enjoyed The Cramps, but when Cliff Richard sang, she switched the radio off. She drove past the dried up waterhole and nosed the car into the field at the rear of the Franklin place. It was still filled with junk cars. Loads of ‘em. She parked at the back of them, picked up her chainsaw, and walked toward the rear of the house.

She stopped. She couldn’t do it. It wasn’t right.

She walked around the side of the house to the front, and positioned herself on the drive, facing the front door. The bench was still there.

The metal door slid open with nerve-jangling screech. He stepped out on to the verandah, and pulled the string. His machine roared into life. Holding it one handed, down by his side he stepped forward.

“Lorelei,” he said.

She pulled her string.

“Let’s get to it,” she shouted, staring him right in those blood-shot red eyes.

She swung the chainsaw out in front of her, reversed it in her grip, and plunged it into her own stomach. The pain was unlike anything she had ever felt. She watched her own torso self-destruct, blood and meat flying out over the parched Texas ground.
She collapsed to her knees, the chainsaw idling within her stomach. She looked over her shoulder and saw the bald man smiling approval.

“Pop,” she said, and lost consciousness, meaning that she didn’t hear the laughter.

Dementer did. He turned off his own chainsaw, and stepped down from the verandah, walking towards the ripped up little rag doll. The laughter rang in his ears. He leaned down and turned off Lorelei’s chainsaw, then examined his red hand. Tears flowed down his cheeks. She’d always been a wilful girl, but…

He’d seen her die before. But knowing what he knew now made it all the more painful. Would she always deny him, no matter how many times they met?

He hadn’t foreseen this outcome. He thought if he could subdue her in battle, she would respect and acknowledge him. He hadn’t expected the man she thought was her father to intervene. More fool him. Sacrificing his friends. For what?

He dropped his chainsaw, and walked down the dusty road.