POPCORN

by Victor Gischler

  No, he ain't gonna drive em spikes through the man's eyes, into his brain. Instead, Joey kneels, a knee each side of the bastard's head, and he reaches an open palm to Squirlet.

  Ain't nobody there knows why's they's leaving it to this fresh-Fixed scofflaw as ain't got none of their history. But it just seems right - like the Waiftaker General fingered him for leader, and here's them showing how's they shares even that. So Squirlet puts the straight razor in his hand without's even a word.

  Joey flicks it open, draws it slow across the Waiftaker General's throat.

  - Let him go, says he as the blood sprays. And they lets him go.

  The Waiftaker General clamps his hands to his throat, tries to stem the blood, but it ain't no good. It squirts, spurts. And with every pulse, life spews out between his fingers.

  And what with his wind kicked out of him by Flashjack, his jaw shattered by Puckerscruff, his shriek raised to a dog-whistle high by Whelp, and his voicebox opened by Joey, he can't say nothing now, just gasps and gawps, just flails and flops, arms weak and limp, a beggar at Death's door.

  And while's the Waiftaker General does this, Joey he's standing, stepping round to straddle him the other way now, and kneel again.

  Down to his knees goes Joey again, and now he slips the straight razor under the white silk cravat this dapper toff wears round his neck, stained scarlet now. Joey slices through it and pulls it off, chucks it away.

  Then he works his way down a shirt what were fresh from the laundry that morning, no doubt, taking his own sweet time to slice the buttons off... one... by one. Finally, he pulls the shirt open.

  Ready.

  6

  They all knows what Joey means by it, but it's a knowing as chills even Flashjack as reckons mayhem merry, even Squirlet as judges sentiment a luxury, even vicious little Vermintrude as fights dirtier than a cornered rat.

  They all looks at them two Scruffian pageboys huddled in a corner, hugging each other, crying over all the horrors they's seen, crying now's their brains is growed back to grasp em. Can any of em do… this?

  It's Yapper who picks up the fallen axle pole, threads it back through the Stamp, heaves it all up with a hand each end.

  That Stamp ain't as heavy as the concrete it looks, but it's still a fair burden for a scamp like Yapper. So he stumbles under the bulk of the thing as he humps it forward.

  He stumbles at it hanging down in front of him, bumping his legs, but Puckerscruff comes darting now to help, to catch an end so's to carry it between em. And at the sight of it angled between a scamp and scrag of different heights - and maybe's at something more - Squirlet steps in, a hand gentle on Yapper's shoulder to take the burden from him.

  Joey steps up from the Waiftaker General now, up and away, so's the two scrags can bring the Stamp into place. He steps back beside Flashjack, who smiles at him, not his usual cocky motherfucker grin, but proper friendly.

  Whelp, he comes up beside Yapper, plonks his arse down and nuzzles him to scratch an ear. Vermintrude stands at the Waiftaker General's head.

  And Puckerscruff and Squirlet moves in and waits, until's the gasping becomes a gargling, a guttering. Then they lowers the Stamp to the Waiftaker's General chest, rolls it upways for the reading, and downways for the writing.

  There weren't no scream left in the Waiftaker General, mates. If there were, no doubt he'd have cried out in the agony as every Scruffian's suffered, as you strays is up for tonight, be warned. Ain't none doesn't scream at it... 'cept him as hadn't the life.

  Instead, the Waiftaker General just lays on the floor, the last blood pumping from him in a weak spurt, pumping out of him again. And again, and again, and again. He lays there, with his last breath gargling, guttering forever, not dead but dying, that fucker, dying forever and ever and ever amen.

  7

  Yer don't needs to know, really, all the gnarlies of em having at the millstone's workings, smashing that monstrous mechanism as Scrubbed Rake Jake Scallion, nor of Flashjack melting the stone itself - not just the metal, but the stone - nor of em opening the Great Doors to face the stickmen beyond.

  All's that really matters is them other doors as was soon flying open, the front doors of the whole Institute itself, flung wide, and all manner of Scruffians and waifs streaming out.

  Such a sight it was, mates! Scores of em, hundreds of em, thousands!

  OK, maybe's not thousands.

  Wish I could say all's Yapper's crib-mates were among em liberated Scruffians - oh, that'd be peachy, wouldn't it? - but it'd be a lie. And a fabbler might fib, but he won't never lie.

  No, since that night, the stickmen'd had plenty time, so all's Yapper's mates was as Scrubbed as Jake, and it wouldn't be right to pretend as they wasn't.

  Still, there was plenty as were only just scrobbled, and out they all streams from the Institute, so many as it seems it won't never end.

  Eventually that stream turns to dribble though. Eventually, out comes the seven.

  With the last of the Scruffians and waifs scarpering out the courtyard gates, back up the front steps of an Institute what's belching black smoke from a shattered glass dome, it's Whelp comes padding out the front door first, sniffing the air and licking his chops.

  And if yer really wants gnarlies of their exit, yer won't go wrong to picture him clearing their path.

  After him then comes Joey with the Stamp, Flashjack at his side, which is how the Stamp has travelled ever since, mate, with a fresh-Fixed scofflaw as courier and a hellion as escort, see?

  And finally here comes the scrags and scamps, carrying the Waiftaker General's limp, mutilated, guttering flesh between em, his arms flopping out to the sides, Squirlet and Puckerscruff at a shoulder each, Yapper and Vermintrude each on a stumpy thigh, walking ahead so's, them being short-arses, the fucker was sorta held up for display, like as kiddiewinks going house-to-house, begging, Penny for the guy! for Bonfire Night.

  What might also, if yer absorlutely needs it, explain as why them stickmen weren't too obstacley on the way out, all of em shitting themselves to see such a fate.

  8

  Them stickmen weren't the only ones as had fear struck in their hearts by that dread spectacle. They weren't the only ones as went whiter than a ripped prossie to see the Waiftaker General himself brung down to such wretchedness - and Fixed in it, by God, Fixed in it! For that Scruffian Seven - what should've been eight, mates, should've been eight - they walked bold as brass up the middle of Broadway, bold as brass in the light of day, and groanhuffs just ran from em, bleating panicky prayers, leaving carts where's they halted em and swooned ladies where's they fell.

  That Scruffian Seven as took the Stamp turned right onto Tothill Street, and as they done so, Yapper he takes a deep breath and starts up the Rhyme.

  “Orphans, foundlings, latchkey kids!”

  Yeah, the Rhyme as they chanted from the cells, mate. What Trude beside him joins in on now.

  “Urchins, changelings, live-by-wits!”

  And Puckerscruff and Vermintrude too.

  “Rascals, scallywags, ruffians, scamps!”

  Flashjack too now, even Whelp barking along.

  “Scoundrels, hellions, Scruffians STAMP!”

  There were only Joey as didn't join in and only cause he didn't know it. He'd learn it though, he would. As you will too.

  Better still, before's long they ain't the only ones as is singing.

  For all's them Scruffians they'd liberated had scarpered every which way, but even as they's legging it, them as hears the Rhyme stops in their tracks, and they turns, comes back.

  So as this magnificent marvelous motherfucking seven strides out in procession toward Westminster Abbey, now's that Rhyme's sounding out this way, that way, the streets all round ringing as every Scruffian in earshot gathers to the chant.

  So now Squirlet takes a breath to bellow another warcry.

  “Bring out yer chains!” she roars. “Bring out yer chains!”

  And as the seven what took the Sta
mp walks death march slow up past the Parliament and Big Ben, death march slow so's to let the chant spread as wildfire through all of Westminster - and beyond even, to Belgravia and Berkeley Square, across the river to Lambeth, through the whole sodding city, even to Foxtrot in Whitechapel - as they carries the Waiftaker General past the Houses of Lords and Commons, from all directions there comes Scruffians with chains, to wrap the broken body of that beak-nosed, beady-eyed blackguard, to wind him as a living mummy in steel bandages.

  9

  He's heavier than any four scamps and scrags can handle by the time they's out onto Westminster Bridge, of course, and one by one, each of our heroes flags, grip slipping, pins wobbling under em. But what's this? One by one, each of em has some other Scruffian hop to it, take the burden from em.

  Didn't I say there weren't no singular hero in this story, strays? That they was all heroes? Well's every Scruffian in London took a turn to bear the weight that day.

  It were every Scruffian who held the Waiftaker General high between em, together.

  And it were every Scruffian's hand on him, from the smallest scamp's paw to the lankiest scofflaw's claw, as raised the Waiftaker General's body high over the balustrade, and sent him over the edge in his chains, dumped him tumbling and splashing down into the filth of the Thames, to sink into the silt and sewage, and lay there till the end of time, Fixed forevers at Death's door, too weak to even struggle, but knowing - oh, yes, knowing, mate - who he were, and where he were, who it were as sent him there, and why for they sent him.

  And he rots there to this day, he does, strays. The last of the Waiftaker Generals rots there to this day, his Institute brung low as him, for the Stamp were ours now, and for all as they might rebuild the machinery to Scrub us - the machinery what was as much the stickmen as the stone and brass - for all as they might still scheme to wipe us out, they couldn't make us any more, to be their slaves.

  So it brung the whole Trade down, it did, the taking of the Stamp. And never again, we says, never again.

  So now it's us as has the Stamp, strays, now's we can offer it to any waif as wants, as we done yerselves. We don't gives it, yer see? From Joey Picaroni on, yer has to takes it.

  And if's we brung yer in from dossing on the streets, told yer the fabbles and offered the choice, it ain't cause we fancies it some wondrous prize for you, savvy?

  It's as Joey says, how he were already Scruffian inside, didn't desire the Stamp as reward.

  No, he knowed it were already his. Just waiting to be taken.

  So...

  You ready?

  THE END

  FIND SKULD!

  Chimaera: Anti Nazi Squad

  by

  Matteo Strukul & Marco Piva Dittrich

  to Silvia and Solveig, our warriors

  GIRLS KICK ASS

  thanks to Dave Watson for his precious advice

  Ishmael

  Call me fuckin’ Ishmael.

  Everyone does, since some eejit found out that it's my middle name. My da saddled me with it. He likes to read. Liked.

  With all the stuff one can do with his life, I don’t know, play rugby, golf, drink your face off, shag my ma. Aye, creepy to think about, but I was born, so they must have. So, fuckin’ Ishmael.

  Bloody Lieutenant Barr, dropping middle names in his roll call. Until then I'd persuaded everyone that my middle initial stood for Innes. My ma’s maiden name, as per tradition.

  Ishmael. A Jewish name I’m told. If I was Jewish I’m sure I’d love it. First name’s Richard by the way.

  I just spent almost a full day lying in the shite and shooting at a wee house on top of a mound in the middle of a swamp.

  I’m told we're close to some big river here. If we manage to push the Nazis back across that river we're as good as home. Anyway, that house was packed with fuckin’ Nazis. And a bunch of Italians.

  There’s more of those on our side though. Garibaldi, those on our side call themselves. Whatever. I’m not sure I know what’s going on there. I mean, here, in Italy.

  I was hiding behind some stones with an Aussie. A Matilda. The Jerrys shot back. Hit the Matilda. He’s fine though. Only dead. Got pieces of his brain on my bonnet.

  That gunk is hard to wash away. Bloody hard. I guess I should've known though. It is April Fool’s day after all.

  Then a plane came by. One of ours. Dropped a bomb. It was fuckin’ close by the way.

  Closer to the house though. It went down. Nazis and all. About half a dozen stood up. I started trying to cut them down one by one. Caught one between the eyes. Payback for having killed the Matilda. As if I cared.

  Two were running straight at me. Too late to shoot both. I hit one in the face. Too close. More brain gunk on my Tam. And on my face. Tastes like shite too. I may need to shave my moustache after this.

  The second Hun looked like a kid. He froze. But his gun was still trained in my general direction. He barked something. In German, I suppose. I understand the language fine, but I wasn't listening. Then he shot. And missed.

  I jumped up yelling like a banshee. A harbinger of death. And the banshees are creepy too. The baby Hun jumped back. I swung my gun, hit his knee with the barrel. A loud crack. He screamed. Folded. Dropped his gun. Started crying. Said something like “mama”.

  I smashed his head with the butt of my weapon. Saving bullets. How good am I? This time the brain gunk only went on my shoes and the bottom of my trousers.

  Better than before. I wiped my shoes on the corpse and sparked a fag. Looked around. Fires here and there. And a bunch of guys like me, sparking their fags and stretching their legs.

  Apparently we had won. Hooray for the good guys. I went back to the small village we were using as headquarters. I hate being sent to support locals (and Matildas) on the sides.

  I’m a Commando, I should have been doing demolition work, direct assault, whatever. Maybe they weren’t happy when I punched Lieutenant – Second Lieutenant – Barr though.

  Since then it was all 'support the Italos' and 'hold the flank'. Fuck the flank. Fuck the Second Commando Brigade. Fuck this place.

  So, I get to my bunk and close my eyes. Can’t be arsed to go celebrate. Can’t be arsed to hear 'we were awesome' and 'you should have seen'. Aye, I fuckin’ should have seen.

  I should have done. And instead I spent the whole fuckin’ day lying in the mud with a Matilda. And then with the corpse of a Matilda. At least the corpse didn’t try to tell me his name.

  I've only slept for some twenty minutes when someone shakes me. I jump up, elbow him in the face. Force of habit. He goes down. One of our runners, a wee boy, can’t be older than eighteen.

  “Fuck that Ishmael, why'd you have to do that?” he slurs holding his nose. “If you've broken my nose I’ll report you!”

  “Aye, report my arse, you piss-stain. And it’s Sergeant Major for your kind. What did you wake me for?”

  “It is the Lieutenant. He wants to talk to you.”

  “Barr?”

  “Aye.”

  Fuckin’ Barr. What next? Does he want to make me a runner? An arsewiper?

  Anyway, I go. Have to. I try to avoid all the celebrating eejits. Shouldn’t have bothered, they are already all drunk. Bloody geniuses. What if the Krauts attack?

  But they don’t, and I get to the ruin where Barr's waiting for me. There is a guy with him. Never seen him before. Nice clean uniform. A driver. Anyway. Barr.

  “Sergeant Major MacLachlan, good evening.”

  Sergeant Major MacLachlan. Not Ishmael. Either he's ready to shaft me, or there's something big going on.

  “Lieutenant.” I'm nearly polite. Don’t look at him in the eye though. Don’t want to run the risk to jump him.

  “Sergeant, this is Private Johnson. He'll drive you to meet the Brigadier. He asked for you.”

  Am I hearing envy in his voice? “The Brigadier, Sir?”

  “Brigadier Tod.”

  Aye, something mighty huge if the big man wants to see me. Maybe
I'm going to be court martialled. “Do you happen to…”

  “No idea why he wants to talk to you.” I can hear the loathing in that you. “Anyway, move. Don’t make him wait.”

  “Yes Sir.” And I follow the boy. Johnson. A quiet fella. We get in the car; he drives in silence as I watch the nothingness. It's dark too. Not that the swamp is much nicer in the daylight.

  Actually, being 'under the cover of darkness', as they say, makes it better. At least I can’t see the bloody place.

  We don’t drive long. Maybe fifteen minutes. Then I see a wee square house. Johnson seems to be going straight for it. I see movement in front of it. Someone's gone in.

  Maybe he was standing guard. Then he comes out. Seconds later the car stops. All the windows are boarded up. A Union Jack is painted on the door.

  The guy standing guard salutes then opens my door and lets me out. As soon as he closes it behind me, Johnson drives away.

  “Please, this way,” he says. And opens the door. As if there was anywhere else to go.

  “Cheers.” And I go in.

  A fire's burning. No smoke outside though. Probably it's all in the upper floor. A man's sitting at a table. Civilian clothes. He's writing. Looks at me for a second as I walk in, then goes back to his papers.

  Another man sits on a chair. He looks old. American uniform. Doesn’t even acknowledge my presence.

  A third man's standing, staring out of a gap between the boards in the window. His back's turned, his hands laced behind him. I'd never seen the man before, but I can tell who he is.

  Brigadier Ronald J.F. Tod. Ronnie. The big man. The man in charge.