Vinyl Destination

by Millard, Adam

  Vinyl Destination

  Adam Millard

  Arthur Graham

  ~

  Editor

  April Guadiana

  ~

  Cover Artist

  “One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.”

  - Bob Marley

  “I sting, but he was worth it.” – song from the failed

  musical, Beauty and the Yeast Infection

  1

  The truck thundered along the potholed road, indifferent to the terrified motorists, cyclists, and pedestrians it left in its wake. The driver – a portly fellow, recently divorced, and sole member of the one-man Meat Loaf tribute act, Meat Ball – lit a cigarette. A bad habit, but how could he drink and not smoke? The two of them went together like salt and pepper, Ike and Tina, Duran and Duran…

  Ted Butcher was his name; Ted to his friend (not plural), Edward to his parents (whom he’d recently moved back in with), and "wanker" to those he narrowly missed with his unstoppable death-machine. A barrage of horns sounded, signifying the general dissent at Ted’s maniacal manoeuvres, but he didn’t care; it was damn near impossible to hear them over the stereo, which assured him that he was a bat out of hell, and he’d be gone when the morning comes.

  In back was a load of old LPs. Nobody wanted them anymore; the world had progressed so far – so quickly – that the systems used to play the obsolete records were no longer even manufactured. Those still extant were kept in peoples’ attics or basements, gathering dust or propping up other useless artefacts of bygone eras. Sure, old people still clung to their record players as if they might, one day, make a comeback, but it wasn’t going to happen, not with all the fancy-schmancy iPods and streaming downloads – whatever the hell those were. Those seniors still clinging to their archaic turntables would be dead long before they ever realised how fucking futile their nostalgia was.

  Like countless others in his fleet, Ted Butcher was on a mission: it was their job to collect every godforsaken LP in England. They wouldn’t get them all, of course; the government had estimated some eighty-thousand records would remain for now, trapped in dingy cellars and back rooms all across England. Only after the homeowners expired would they see the light of day, and then they would be dispersed amongst the thrift shops like a plague; Dusty Springfield and Louis Armstrong cluttering shelves once again, useful only for squashing spiders skittering amongst the other old junk.

  Ted still had three more stops to make before his shift was over. Pulling up in front of CARTER & CARTER’S OLDEN DAY BULLSHIT, he ticked another one off his list and climbed down from the cab, singing about being a dead ringer for love, and briskly made his way into the antique shop.

  A bell tinkled overhead, announcing his arrival. The smell – olden day bullshit indeed – hit him so hard, it took a few moments to compose himself. See, another reason why they’d been sent out to gather up all the records was this: they stank to high hell. Years of disuse had seen their cardboard sleeves rot away, growing stuff that should really only thrive in a rainforest. Why, just earlier that day, Ted had visited a dog pound where they'd been using Roy Orbison’s back catalogue to scoop shit out of the kennels. 'Pretty Woman', indeed…

  “Ah, you must be Fred,” came a jovial voice from his left. Ted turned to the man in tweed mincing towards him. “Come to relieve us of our records.”

  “It’s Ted,” he replied, “and I assume you’ve got them all bagged up and ready to go as requested?”

  The man's extreme side-part was dreadfully disconcerting. “We have indeed,” he said, smiling. Roger and I were up all night. We’ve got eighteen bags in total, three of those devoted to The Carpenters Greatest Hits alone. Some extremely rare tracks in there…”

  “Well, they’re about to become even rarer,” Ted said, glancing around the store. The place was badly cluttered; shelves were lined with dusty old shit that nobody could possibly ever want.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” the tweed-weed said, “what’s going to happen to them? The records, I mean.”

  “I didn’t think you meant The Carpenters,” Ted replied, coming off a bit more curt than perhaps he’d intended. As the beginnings of a frown furrowed the proprietor’s brow, Ted continued, “They’re off to the new landfill, mate. A whole field on the outskirts of town dug up, ready, waiting to feed on Michael Jackson, Belinda Carlisle, Little Pattie, and Jive Bunny.”

  “That’s terrible,” the man said. “You can’t put Little Pattie in the same hole as Michael Jackson.”

  “Anyway,” Ted said. “I’m in a bit of a rush, so if you could point me in the direction of the bags, I’ll get loaded up and on my way.”

  “Yes, yes of course,” the man said. He reminded Ted of his old history teacher, Mr. Hill, inasmuch as they were both cunts. “Roger! Roger! The truck’s here for the LP harvest!”

  Roger appeared in the doorway behind the counter. He was either the tweed-weed’s twin brother, or a remarkable clone. “Ah, we’ve been expecting you,” he said, with all the camp of a handbag full of rainbows. “It’s not easy, you know, parting with such beautiful music. I cried last night, and a little this morning. To destroy such wondrous things ought to be a crime.”

  “It’s a known fact,” Ted said, “that thirty-five percent of recorded suicides in the UK are directly influenced by Coldplay’s X&Y album.” He didn’t know if this statistic were true or not, but it sounded feasible. “If there is just one 12'' version in those bags of yours, then I believe I’m doing my bit as a citizen of Bellbrook.” Now that he thought about it, he rather fancied the idea of being a hero. Maybe I should get Mum to make me a costume…

  “Well, I think it’s terrible,” Roger said, turning his nose up high enough for Ted to count the hairs within. “It’s part of our history they’re destroying, Luthor. You wouldn’t bury famous paintings, would you?”

  As someone who had seen Tracey Emin’s last exhibition, Ted would have to answer Roger’s question with a resounding yes. Bury them, but only after killing them with fire first.

  “You’ll have to excuse Roger,” Luthor apologised. “He’s got a flair for the dramatic.”

  Roger, not to be discouraged, slid across the floor as if on invisible castors. “Judy Garland, Bette Midler, Shakin’ Stevens,” he sighed, “all buried to slowly decompose… useless… forgotten.” The back of his hand somehow found its way to his forehead.

  “Actually, it will take decades, centuries even, for the records to even begin deteriorating,” Ted said. Roger recoiled as the truck driver’s pickled breath met his nostrils.

  “Oh, I get it,” Roger said. “Out of sight, out of mind.”

  Ted shook his head. “No. Fact is, vinyl makes a great liner for landfills. The LPs will be pressed down and covered in all manner of crap. You see, they can’t melt ‘em down – too many harsh chemicals – and since they’re about as degradable as Joan Rivers’ face, they’re putting ‘em to good use instead.”

  “Hear that, Roger?” Luthor said, forcing a smile. “It’s not like they’ll be going to waste or anything.”

  “No, they’ll be buried beneath a load of shit,” Roger quipped. “So much better.”

  “Look,” Ted said, glancing down at his naked wrist (he hadn’t worn a watch in years). “Can we just get the bags loaded up already? It’ll be dark soon, and I’m having fish-fingers for tea.”

  “Come on then,” Roger said, his dejection apparent. “The sooner they’re gone, the sooner I can start the mourning process.”

  Ted sniggered, catching himself only after realising that the poor, deluded fellow was deadly serious.

  2

  The excavation was done, for the day at least, and all thanks to the strange structure they'd une
arthed at the bottom of the pit. Like something out of Lovecraft’s wettest, wildest dreams, the edifice seemed to glare at the crew up above, the bulk of which had ceased work to see what all the fuss was about.

  “What is it?” O’Brian asked. The hand-rolled cigarette in the corner of his mouth bounced up and down as he spoke. “Some sort of crypt?”

  “In Bellbrook?” Kavannah, the foreman, replied incredulously. “You’ve got more chance of it being a stray pyramid.”

  “I don’t like the look of it, Kav,” Dennis said as he climbed down from his digger. “You read about things like this in the paper. Before you know it, people are dropping down dead in the middle of the street. Does anyone remember that film with the cemetery and the pets in it? You know, the pets and the cemetery? What was that one called?”

  O’Brian shrugged. “All Dogs Go to Heaven?”

  “Look, it’s probably just old foundations,” Kavannah said. “Get the clay down there and you won’t even see that brickwork.”

  “But, what if it’s an ancient, Indian burial ground?” Dennis looked genuinely terrified, and was met with much derision by the rest of the gang. One of the apprentices – a young scrote by the name of Alfie – vomited coffee from his nose.

  “Again, in Bellbrook?” Kavannah said. “I don’t know whether they taught history at your school, mate, but as far as I’m aware, we didn’t have many ancient Indians in England, and certainly not enough to create a burial ground for.”

  “Didn’t they find that King under a car-park last year?” O’Brian asked. “Maybe there’s another one of 'em down there.”

  “I think the car-park King was a one-off,” Kavannah said, realising how ridiculous he sounded before the words even passed his lips. “Look, I don’t want to hear any more stupid speculation about what it is, okay? As far as I’m concerned, we’ve all got a job to do, and a stack of bricks twenty feet underground ain’t gonna give you all the afternoon off.”

  As he walked away shaking his head – his authority clearly demonstrated to those in the immediate vicinity – the gathered workmen exchanged troubled glances. It wasn’t, as their foreman had so eloquently put it, a mere stack of bricks; there was an entire structure down there, large enough to house several families of Iranian refugees. Lord only knew what lie inside, but its ornate design suggested that an otherworldly Hugh Heffner might find himself quite at home within, so long as he had plenty of bizarro bunnies to play with.

  “You heard the man,” O’Brian said, kicking a clod of dirt into the hole. “Get some clay down there before we all go crazy looking at it.”

  3

  Marcia Martin closed her laptop and went to grab her bag and coat. She was, as always, the last to leave the office; she hated talking to the other writers, columnists and editors at the best of times, and joining them in their scuttle at the end of yet another fruitless day would only incite unwanted conversation. Through experience, she found that leaving it an extra ten, fifteen minutes late ensured that she could avoid such bollocks and simply head home in peace.

  “Hey Marcia,” someone said, startling her. She looked up to find Clarence Jameson leaning against her desk, as if auditioning for the next office calendar.

  Clarence; that steaming pile of sleaze had been harassing her for over half a year already. From the very moment she’d taken her job at the paper, he’d been all over her like a cheap suit. Repeatedly telling him to fuck the fuck off had done nothing to convince him of her disinterest; if anything, he’d only upped his game, finally resorting to hitting on her after the rest of the office had dispersed.

  “Clarence,” she exhaled. “You startled me. I thought I was the only one left.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, you did,” he said, which would have creeped out most women, but not Marcia; she'd long since grown accustomed to his tactless nature.

  “So, what can I do for you?” she asked, regretting it instantly. Images of what she could do for him were no doubt already coursing through his perverted mind. She watched as the corners of his mouth edged slightly upwards; she half expected his tongue to flick out at her.

  “I just thought I’d walk you to your car,” he said. “Perhaps we could go over that nursing home story for tomorrow’s edition. I did take the photos for it. Who would have thought it? My name on top of yours in an article; on top of yours. Me… on top of y—“

  “Yeah, I get it,” Marcia interrupted. Her flesh was now crawling. “And I don’t need an escort, Clarence.” Now fuck off, you creepy sonofabitch.

  “You’re not lesbian, are you?” Clarence asked. “I mean, I consider myself a sex magician, but I doubt I can do anything about that.” He smiled sheepishly, as if his nuts were retracting and he was fighting to keep them out.

  Marcia, sensing an opportunity that might never present itself again, replied: “Well, I do like looking through lingerie catalogues, and I’m ever so fond of Natasha Henstridge films…” It was her turn to smile. She nibbled at her lower lip, as if the mere thought of Species 2 had ignited something long-dormant within her.

  Clarence drummed his fingers along the edge of her desk. “Yeah, that sounds about right. I'd been wondering how you could resist me; should have known you were a muncher from the start.” He rolled his eyes and smiled. “And on that note, I’ll see you tomorrow.” His schoolboy satchel bounced upon his arse as he turned and made for the lift.

  Marcia was amazed by how quickly he’d lost interest, cursing herself for not thinking of this tactic sooner. Six months! Six whole months of sleaze and double entendres, and all she’d had to do was profess her (disingenuous) love of the fairer sex.

  With a smug smile, she slung her purse across her shoulder and headed off for the stairs.

  4

  “Is this the last of it?” the foreman asked. How did Ted know he was foreman? Well, he was wearing a Hi-Vis waistcoat, and the man just had that look about him. The chewing gum he perpetually grazed upon only confirmed it.

  Ted climbed down from the cab of his truck. “Yeah, this is the last one. Where do you want it?”

  “In that bloody great hole would be good,” the foreman said, somewhat tersely. Ted couldn’t help feeling that he was being wronged for something this poor fucker’s crew had done that day. Maybe he wasn’t getting any at home; perhaps he was annoyed at the slivers of grey peppering his beard, or the fact that his face sagged a little to the left, like some stroke victim on horse tranquillizers.

  “What, you really want me to start offloading now?” Ted asked. It was awfully hard not to sound incredulous.

  The foreman sighed before glancing at his watch. After almost ten seconds (yeah, he was definitely in charge here) he said: “It’s getting late. Do you have to clock out? I can get one of the lackeys to put this lot in before they piss off home.”

  Ted nodded his approval. “Cheers. I’m having fish-fingers for tea.”

  “That’s… irrelevant,” the foreman said, gesturing to one of his underlings, who came scampering like some hunchbacked thing from an old black-and-white movie. “Alfie, I want you to get the rest of these records down there before you go home.”

  “Will I get overtime?” Alfie asked, wiping his acne-pocked nose on the back of his sleeve.

  The foreman gritted his teeth. “You’ll get a job tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after…” Ted didn’t stick around to hear the rest; he already had an idea how the rest of their conversation would play out, and his cab wasn’t going to unhook itself.

  As he worked, he thought about the Carter brothers and their olden day bullshit; he thought about the piles of Grease soundtracks, Debbie Harry singles, and all the Prince and Marillion albums he’d collected over the course of the day, but mainly (drooling as he whistled about what he wouldn’t do for love) he thought about his mother handing him a plate of breaded cod and a mound of buttered bread.

  5

  Darkness, wondrous darkness; the kind of darkness you might wish for in the midst of a particularly keen migrai
ne, which was exactly what the thing in the pit had been suffering ever since those inconsiderate bastards had shown up with their Day-Glo vests and constant banter over who had the largest penis.

  How dare they! With their intricate digging machines and lack of personal hygiene. Just who did they think they were? You wouldn’t kick a wasp’s nest and then stand around for the next week casually chatting about who would win in a fight, Ricky Gervais or Karl Pilkington. You wouldn’t break into a lion enclosure and then spend the next few days hawking greenies in their feline faces, which was pretty much what these bozos had been doing since they’d appeared, like assholes from another dimension, a week earlier.

  Ah, but now they were gone, and silence reigned once again (well, apart from some hobo in the distance spouting religious nonsense at the top of his tobacco-parched lungs). It was blissful.

  It had been sleeping, lying dormant, for longer than it could remember. Despite having infinite fingers, it couldn’t, for the life of it, count the years it had been slumbering. Centuries? Millennia? If you were to tell the thing down at the bottom of that pit it had napped through forty-two presidential inaugurations, eight British coronations, sixteen popes and three number ones by the Danish pop group, Aqua, it would have told you to stop talking nonsense and shut the fuck up. It had slept, somewhat peacefully, through Emmet’s Insurrection, Janissaries’ Revolt, the Mormon War, World War I and II, Vietnam, and even the Great War of Blur Vs. Oasis. It had nearly been roused when “Little Boy” rocked Hiroshima, like a noisy neighbour downstairs, but after smacking its lips and rolling over, it had been slumbering ever since.

  And now, this; twenty pricks in garish costume had unearthed it – the equivalent of pulling someone’s duvet off on a winter’s morn.

  How fucking rude, it thought.

  And to top it all off, the crazy bastards had replaced the good old mud and general earth with some sort of hard, black shit. Some of it was sheathed in colourful wrapping; some of it not. There appeared to be images on the packaging: men with ridiculous hairstyles and bizarre instruments; barely-dressed women in suggestive poses, mounting things, licking things, and being largely uncouth.