Francis of the Filth

by George Miller

  “I hate you, you clod.”

  “You are disgusting.”

  “No, you are disgusting.”

  “Agh, I can still feel it between my teeth!”

  This was followed by incessant spitting, deep and prolonged burping and the odd vomit. Rather suddenly, the blue one turned to Negi Generation 1, who was still lying in mud with his legs over the bare chest of a froggy looking character, and said, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Iha amhi Negihoo Generationhe 1ho.”

  “What?”

  The little white and brown-topped creature repeated his introduction. He stood before Frank with a rather cute and harmless demeanour, a slight lean in his posture and an apparent readiness to bow at any moment before his visitors.

  “I think I understood that,” Frank said, more to himself than to anyone else. You’re Negi Generation 1?”

  “Yesha!” he said with a cautious grin.

  “Any relation to Negi Generation 4?”

  The old negi’s face dropped. “Yeshi.”

  “He was a good negi,” said Frank. “I miss the little fella.”

  “Indeedhoo hehe washo goodha. Hehi hadhoo ahe badho speechha impedimenthi thoughhoo. Madehe himho veryha hardhi tohoo understandhe.”

  “You’re not kidding.”

  “Butho heha washi allhoo hearthe. Aho trueha neggerhi. Youhoo musthe beho Frankha.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Youhi havehoo becomehe knownho acrossha thehi omniverseshoo, Frankhe. Theho powersha arehi shiftinghoo andhe thereho isha muchhi talkhoo concerninghe youho.”

  Frank’s friends were still a writhing, screaming mess on the ground, clawing at and striking one another and calling each other all manner of names and verbs.

  “What’sha wronghi withhoo themhe?”

  “It hasn’t been an easy passage.”

  Indeed it hadn’t. Death by faeces turned out to be the least of their issues. Safari Man’s co-ordinates had taken them to another realm; a dark, hellish corner of the omniverse haunted by fallen mere mortals, those of the very worst ilk who had betrayed their kind and brought unspeakable misery to others. Below that of lawyers and dictators and even internet spammers, this inferno was kept especially for the most vile and depraved of all humankind. Dark, cringy and plaguy, this hell had been reserved exclusively for atheists, feminists and vegans and was infinitely worse than even Hitler’s bastion of hell, which appeared like an uppity girls’ juvenile detention centre by comparison. The torment experienced by Frank and his companions in that place brought personality-changing trauma and they were furious with Safari Man for making such an appalling blunder. Trapped there, their only means of escape turned out to be through a series of murky underground streams which brought them up to where they now lay. Though released from its infernal clutches, the virulence of that place remained within them, eating away at their souls and their solidarity.

  It was Negi Generation 1 who restored their fellowship by assuring them that Safari Man had made no such mistake. The ‘maximumha infernohi’, as he referred to it, was well known (and feared) by those in Negiland. For reasons that none of them knew, both the hell they had passed through and the land they had now arrived in, had shared coordinates despite being completely separate realms. Possibly the interconnecting streams were to blame yet, Negi Generation 1 explained, there was never any interaction between the two realms as the Negis were always too afraid of the maximumha infernohi and the inhabitants there were either unaware of, or disinterested in, any entity belonging to this particular realm.

  Upon hearing this, the other members of the band removed their fists and feet and blades from Safari Man’s face and rib cage and testicles and the whole lot of them stood, a bit sore and sorry, before Frank and Negi Generation 1. “Weha musthi behoo carefulhe,” their new Negi friend told them. “Theho darkha lordhi Chin Chinhoo hashe sentho outha ahi messagehoo thathe aho highha chromosomehi manhoo ishe runningho aroundha withhi hishoo possehe. That’sho youha, Frankhi. Andhoo ahe largeho bountyha hashe beenhoo puthe onho yourha headhi.”

  “How much?” Safari Man asked, his interest piqued.

  “How could you even think of asking that?” Pink Guy put to him. He was fully eloquent in this realm.

  “Nice to have you back, Pink Guy. What happened to you in New York?”

  “I can’t say. But it was awful. Like being a fully functioning person trapped in a wholly retarded shell. Very frustrating.”

  “Wehoo musthe beho quietha,” Negi 1 cautioned. “Lookhi downhoo therehe.” Drone took flight to observe. Below them, spread across the landscape as far as their eyes could see was a field of negis, impossibly large and surprisingly uniform, with their white necks and brown heads protruding from the ground and lolling about as the gentle breezes blew across them. They were all asleep, as though in a trance, yet, warned Negi Generation 1, if awoken, they would turn vicious and without any hesitation rise and attack. The negis spread out before them were not of the Generation clan. The Generations, who made their home in the moist hillsides to the south, were rankenfile-friendly and indebted to Frank for his tutelage of Negi Generation 4 (despite his unfortunate demise). The other negi clans, primarily of the plains, had no such allegiances and with an unparalleled fear of Chin Chin and a handsome bounty dangled in front of them, would think nothing of lopping off the heads of these harvesters.

  Negi Generation 1 gestured for silence before leading them single file along a low mountain ridge which rimmed the field of negis. Their mood was somber. They still carried the trauma of the recent transport and one got the feeling that Safari Man, though excused for any misdirection, had not been wholly forgiven by all in the party. The stench of the sewer, the desiccation of their skin and the flecks of excrement still between their teeth kept them all irritable. Furthermore they were hungry. They traipsed along, occasionally tripping on roots rising above the ground or the uneven surface of the terrain; sometimes giving each other a less-than-friendly poke or shove for good measure.

  Negi Generation 1 picked up on their tetchiness and led them deep into the vegetation on the hilltop. There, he pushed them all under the cover of a thick fern-like plant where they were to hide in silence until he returned. They watched him through the fronds of the plant, this demure little fellow gingerly making his way a short distance through the greenery before stopping at the base of a tall branchless tree. Then in a most practised manner, he hopped onto the trunk and began to climb up to the top where he waited without a hint of motion. Time passed but, in this land also, it was virtually impossible to determine what period of time it might have been. Pink Guy, however, did notice that the clouds above them had almost moved from one side of the horizon to the other before Negi Generation made his move.

  It happened following a soft rustle which came from a shrub just under Negi 1’s tree. A second quiver saw a susquian, a reptilian bird slightly larger than a wild turkey, come strutting out into the open and this set Negi Generation 1 into action. One moment he was a languid little vegetable clinging to the top of a tree, the next he was a demoniac in flight. He dropped from his position and landed right on top of the creature. It never had a chance. Negi was a whirlwind of razor sharp teeth, claws and cacodemonic screaming. The posse sat, still hidden, with their eyes and mouths wide open in shock, each thinking exactly the same thing: if one negi was capable of such savagery, what would become of them if a whole field of negis were activated against them? The job done, Negi bundled up his catch and dragged it over to where his new friends were waiting. He stood before them, now calm, genteel and seemingly half the size he was a moment ago and with a hint of glee said, “Lunchho!” He dug a pit in the ground, threw the bird in along with some coal (which was plentiful in that region), lit it, covered it with leaves and in no time they were eating the most delicious barbecued meat they’d had in a long, long time.

  Negi said, “This is a rare delicacy in my land. However, it’s not as good as faggot.”

  “
What?” said Frank, spitting out his food.

  “Faggot.”

  “Is that a speech impediment thing?”

  “What do you mean speech impediment? You’ve never seen a nice juicy faggot before?”

  Frank refused to comment any further.

  He was keen to take a little nap following the meal, something the others were happy to join him in but Negi Generation 1 assured them that they had to move on and away from the mass of negis littering the landscape below. They followed him back to the ridge, again in single file (and in much better spirits with fuller stomachs and friendlier words) where they proceeded to march in careful silence with the lush vegetation to their left and the enormous expanse of negis below them to their right.

  They hadn’t gone far when Pink Guy let go with a fart that was so loud it sounded like he was starting up a chainsaw. It reverberated across the fields below as though played through a bullhorn. The seven of them stood motionless on that ridge, in a frozen fear, and watched as hundreds of thousands of negis below slowly awakened and came to life. It was a serene scene at first as the negis stretched and turned in their burrows, bending backwards and forwards in a gentle rhythmic fashion. In no time at all though, they turned decidedly hostile. Their faces, just moments earlier calm and sleepy, became agitated and gnashed with a ferocity they had rarely seen. The negis ripped themselves out of their beds, turned and faced the characters on the hill and with a spine-chilling war cry, rushed as one toward them with nothing but leaks in their hands and death and destruction on their negiminds.

  It was the sheer sound of the coming onslaught that instilled a deep fear in Frank and his friends. A hideous, high pitched scream, it filled the skies and penetrated their bones, sending them running in all directions. As their enemies drew nearer, the posse could see in more detail than they cared for, the very face of feral. With shards of glass for teeth and icicles for eyes, the negis advanced at a rapid pace, wielding leaks like mad men and tossing their heads about like laundry in a typhoon. The friends’ flustering about was the very antithesis of any sort of organized response and only spurred the negis on to greater violence. Yet it soon brought out the primal savage in each of them (except for Safari Man who soiled himself).

  Frank scared himself with a newfound aggression and began to punch and kick while producing sounds from his mouth that he had previously only heard from animals in agony. Utilising a good sized branch he found lying nearby, he discovered it worked superbly as a mace and with it he beat the negis black and brown. Wielding it, he found he could wipe out scores of the veggies in a single sweep. He found a new thrill in hearing their war cries turn to screams or, better still, their bodies rip in half as he clubbed right through them. He picked a negi up and snapped his neck before letting out a hideous cackle. It aroused in him an aggression that had been lying dormant for many years. Provocations of the Indonesian military and Sergeant Benson flashed across his mind. He poured out his vengeance, a wrath he never knew he harbored, on the hapless negis and they paid dearly for their assault.

  Finding skills within him he had never previously known, Pink Guy, too, came alive. Drawing on the break dancing he picked up in New York, he proceeded to spin and kick, and thrust and chop all to the accompaniment of haunting Kung Fu howls. Despite the brutality of the battle and the enormous loss of negi life around him, there was a poetry to the way Pink Guy fought and there were moments when he almost succumbed to the attacks of the negis because he was so absorbed in the beauty of his own movements. Furthermore, he found his ukulele to be a most effective weapon, not only in the way it could knock the whole face off a negi, but in the beautiful sounds the strings made when it did so.

  Alpha Centurion was in his element. Not only could he put his finely tuned miniature physique to work, but he could also finally give his unsavory vocabulary a solid work out in an appropriate context. With his natural height restriction he was perfectly placed to strike long and hard directly into the testicles of the negis. This turned out to be a particularly sensitive spot for them and many began to withdraw from the runt when they saw how much agony and damage he was capable of inflicting in such a short space of time.

  Taking his position in the air where the negis had neither the height nor the brains to reach him, Drone was king. He was able to wreak losses upon the negis on a far greater scale than any of the others and with little threat to his own safety. Occasionally one of the negis would try to throw a leak at him. As ferocious as they were, they were hopeless shots and Drone was never in danger. He soon found himself actually enjoying the battle.

  Salamander Man’s tactics were wholly different. A musician at heart, not a fighter, he began to play a soothing lullaby on his recorder. Frank very nearly clubbed him with his mace for this until he saw the effect it had on the negi. All within hearing range would stop running, drop their leaks and become completely docile, swaying gently before falling to their knees and drooling. What followed was the physical result of a spiritual phenomena. The souls of the negis began to leave them. They rose up, a translucent version of their physical frame, into the air before disappearing altogether. Demons then attacked the negi souls and violently raped them mid-air. They begged for help as every one of their orifices was filled with demonic genitalia. What remained on the ground were the soulless shells of what once were negis. They remained motionless husks. Salamander Man leisurely walked through the throngs of negi, playing his tune, leaving a trail of gentle destruction in his wake.

  The big disappointment amongst the posse was Safari Man who turned, ran and hid in a small cave, rolling a large stone up to its mouth. He waited out the battle in a cool darkness. Never having engaged in battle beyond karaoke before, he was thoroughly intimidated by the whole affair and simply fell to pieces. His own cowardice shamed him enormously, yet not quite enough to offer support to his friends whom he knew were engaged in a battle to the death. He sat in the cold black tomb and wailed incessantly.

  Despite the tremendous valour and prowess displayed by Frank and his friends and the enormous damage they inflicted on the negis of the field, the enemy kept coming in ever-greater numbers and with ever-mounting hostility. Frank began to see the futility of this battle and was unable keep his heart from turning. The more he looked about, the more desperate their situation appeared and the more dispirited he became. He looked for his friends to see if there were some way they could regroup and escape. He needn’t have bothered.

  At that moment reinforcements came in their thousands. For his part, Negi Generation 1 was a formidable presence, showing the form against the negis of the field that had so traumatized his friends earlier in the day. Clearly, the Generations from the south were a larger and fiercer breed than their cousins to the north. Yet Negi Generation 1 had withdrawn from battle early on and the posse assumed he had simply deserted them or been killed in action. On the contrary, he had departed to secure a greater force and they arrived with a cry that left the negis of the plain sounding like the air coming out of a balloon. Leading them, Negi Generation 1 came screaming in on the back of a susquian, carrying an enormous clock as their standard. He left it by a clearing before leading his clan into the fray with a rousing battle cry.

  With the arrival of the Generations, the battle took on epic proportions. While the negis of the south were larger and fiercer, the negis of the plain retained formidable numbers and multitudes of them continued to rise and advance, surrounding the Generations as they had Frank and his allies, and inflicted heavy casualties on the Generations. Negis of both clans were being set upon, sliced up and butchered in most unholy manner. In scale and in savagery, it was by far the greatest battle in negi history.

  One of the Generations had the most enormous phallus and with each swing of it he could kill hundreds of negis from the north. This monster was known amongst his own people as a hero and his name was “Negi Negris the Mandingo”. He was worshiped by all the Generations for generations to come.

  Even for Frank,
who didn’t have a merciful bone in his body, the scene was disturbing and it troubled him to see the extent of the death and destruction unfolding all around him. He was still chromosome rich and saw no alternative but to use his genetic muscle to bring an end to the atrocities. Though he lacked teaching and experience in the matter, his innate intuitions took over. He fought his way over to the large clock that Negi Generation 1 had carried into the battle and when it was within reach, he grabbed it and held it high above his head. With an almighty bellow he yelled “It’s time to stop!” and thrust the clock hard into the soil at his feet. His words echoed out across the plains and the valleys, and power emanating through the clock altered the very fabric of time that they were in. A weird atmospheric distortion overwhelmed them and every living creature in the land fell to the ground. For the rankenfiles, it was momentary and they soon roused themselves, though weakened and achy. They observed all the devastation around them. The Generations of the south, slightly more robust than their cousins to the north, survived the ordeal but only just. It took days (even weeks for some) to recover and even then they were not quite as valiant or as resourceful as they had been before the incident. For the negis of the south, chromosome weak and genetically deficient, the impact of the diffusion was permanent. As one, they fell silent, dropped to the ground and ceased to breath. The landscape was littered with them as far as the eye could see.

  The posse slowly regrouped, though there was little said between them for a long time. This had been a baptism for them, one in which they discovered new possibilities within themselves, new strengths and most of all a renewed camaraderie, one in which they now knew implicitly, they had gained the full trust of each other. They were a formidable unit now. Although they remained physically weak at that time, they were spiritually strong and they felt a delight in the bond they now shared. The exception to this, of course, was Safari Man. He remained in his cave unaware of anything that had expired in the course of the battle and indeed unaware that combat had even ceased. The others had no idea what had happened to him but after a cursory search, decided with sad reluctance to press on without him. The decision to do so didn’t go unchallenged.