Vinyl Destination

by Millard, Adam

  “I-is somebody there?!” she asked, instantly regretting it. Those words had been the last of so many over the years.

  “Y’d better believe it, bitch!” a high-pitched voice squealed from the shadows. “Check it!”

  It was certainly Leroy, only now he was wearing some sort of garish, red leather jacket. He looked… lighter, even in the dark, and his hair… had it always been that greasy, and curly? Perhaps she’d simply never noticed, but Leroy wasn’t exactly the kind of pimp-daddy to book himself in for a Jheri curl.

  “What’s this all about?” Sonja asked, taking a gingerly step back. “I’m losing money being here, which means you’re losing money too, which means we’re both—”

  “It ain’t all about the money, bitch,” Leroy said softly, almost inaudibly. “You know I like you, don’t you?”

  Sonja was more than just slightly taken aback. “Never crossed my mind,” she replied.

  “Well,” Leroy continued, “I was wondering if you would be my girl.”

  “Have you been smoking something?” Sonja asked. “I mean, I’m happy to work for you and all, the way I’ve been doing, but if you’re asking me out—”

  “I’m not like other guys,” Leroy said, interrupting her.

  “You can say that again…”

  “No, I mean different,” he said, glancing up at the full moon (which was odd, seeing as how it had been a waxing crescent not even five minutes ago).

  “Look, Leroy, you’ve obviously got issues, and I—”

  That was as far as Sonja got before Leroy dropped to his knees, shaking like a shitting dog. He arched his back as the sound of ripping clothes and cracking bones filled the night. Foam spewed from his mouth, his rapidly growing fingernails clawing at the earth as the tips of his ears tapered to a point.

  After a few seconds of what appeared to be absolute agony for the pimp, she finally said:

  “You alright?”

  Leroy abruptly leapt to his feet. “Yeah, I think so,” he said, punching himself in the chest. “Just a bit of indigestion, baby. Now, where the shizznit was I…”

  Before Sonja could answer, something latched onto her ankle. She screamed as she leapt back, but the thing grasping her was strong, hanging on even as she fell flat on her arse.

  “Ah, yes,” Leroy said, suddenly remembering where he was. “Tha muthafuckin’ zombies…”

  Sonja frantically pried the rotten fingers off, snapping phalanges and metacarpals as she staggered to her feet. Another hand punched up from the ground in front of her, and another, then another, and before she knew what was happening, she found herself surrounded by a sea of putrid limbs. Corpses began to pull themselves up from the ground, staggering about, bumping into shit, falling over stuff, and just being generally useless at staying on their feet. Their apparent inability to control their own bodies did little to alleviate Sonja’s fears, however. Zombies were zombies, after all, no matter how pathetic they were or how slowly they moved.

  “It’s close to miiiiiidnight,” Leroy sang over Sonja’s shoulder, startling her badly. In reaction, she spun around and landed a right hook to his barely recognizable face. The pimp flew backwards like a rag doll, flipping over an effigy resembling Billy Ray Cyrus and landing in an open grave.

  Meanwhile, the cemetery had begun to fill with moaning dead people. It was like being at a Donny Osmond concert, only worse. Sonja realised that she was surrounded; zombies were closing in on her from all sides. So, she did what any prostitute worth her salt would have done in a similar situation.

  After roughly five minutes of frantic screaming, punctuated by short bouts of hyperventilation, Sonja had made her peace with God, called the newsagents to cancel her subscription to People’s Friend, and worked her way through an entire large bag of peanut M&Ms. A few of the zombies might be allergic, after all. She could at least go down with the knowledge that she’d given them a swollen tongue, or a bad case of the shits.

  “Ow!” she cried, as the first zombie took a chunk out of her arm. “That came a bit sharp…” The bites that followed were marginally worse than scorpion stings – painful, but not nearly so bad as she’d expected them to be.

  Well, she thought, at least they haven’t pulled out my intestines yet. But no sooner than she’d thunk it, one of the zombies in the dogpile tore into her exposed belly flesh, rummaging around inside as if he’d lost his watch in there.

  Bugger, she thought, slipping into the darkness that overtook her.

  21

  The Pit-Dweller laughed as it drifted over the cemetery, its vocalizations manifest as dark, swirling clouds backlit by the moon.

  Zombies! Of all things… You couldn’t make this shit up.

  Somewhere, George Romero and John Landis would be constructing a strongly worded letter to their respective lawyers, but the thing didn’t care about copyright infringement or intellectual property. All it cared about was making the foolish mortals of Bellbrook suffer.

  As the zombies slowly filed out of the cemetery, Leroy suddenly leapt from his hole in the ground, did a little graveside shuffle, grabbed his crotch and went “OWWWW!!!”

  How very odd, the Pit-Dweller thought to itself, leaving the pimp and his undead horde to their own infernal devices.

  22

  Meanwhile, an impromptu rap battle was being organized in the middle of Terrence Road. A small stage had been erected with some efficiency, and the performers had already managed to attract quite an impressive crowd. A slow, generic beat thumped from the speakers of a boom box that hadn’t been there moments ago.

  “Yo, yo, yo,” announced the compere, a slight, bespectacled white boy with a complexion that would’ve made Casper the Friendly Ghost jealous. “We didn’t know we’d be doin’ this tonight, but since we’re all here, let’s throw down some beats and kick it olllld schooooooool!”

  A cheer went up from the crowd.

  “First up, a man who needs no introduction, but for those of you who’ve never been to one of these before, I’ll do one anyway. Best known for his albums, Ain’t No Thing But a Bingo Wing, and Shoot Me, Fucker, And I’ll Shoot You Back (When You’re Not Looking), I present to you the one, the only, Snoop Diggity!”

  The audience went wild as a towering hulk of flesh came bounding up onto the stage, which threatened to collapse beneath its weight. He looked less like a man than a creature who eats men and then goes around bragging about it.

  “And," the compere continued, "facing him are two newcomers… a couple of right royal gents I’ve never even heard of before.” He shrugged as something like a befuddled snicker fell from his mouth. The audience laughed along with him, though its individual members would be hard pressed to explain why.

  “Give it up for the hoarders of ancient shit, a dapper pair of posh poofs – can I say that? Is it still frowned upon? Ahh…” Someone rushed to his side, whispering in his ear that it was indeed considered derogatory, and that they preferred to be called 'nancies' now. “…the tweed-wearing accumulators of antique tat, Roger and Luthor Carter!”

  As the twins took the stage, it was to significantly less fanfare, garnering only a small handful of pity claps. No air horns, though.

  “He’s certainly a big fellow,” Roger said, sizing up the twenty-eight stone bulk of Snoop Diggity.

  “Just remember what mother used to say,” replied Luthor.

  Roger thought for a moment. “That’s not how you wash it, give it here?”

  “No, the other thing she used to say.”

  “It takes two to tango, but usually one wants to rhumba?”

  Luthor sighed. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

  “She never said that, did she?” Roger asked. “If I remember correctly, she said, ‘the bigger they are, the harder they’ll hit you’!”

  “Just goes to show how shit she was,” Luthor admitted. "Still, I reckon he’ll drop like a sack of potatoes, once we start droppin’ science on his bum.”

  “Yo, yo, yo,” Casper t
he Compere continued. “I want a clean battle. I’d prefer it if you left your mothers out of this, but if you absolutely have to use them, please do so in a respectful manner. Stay on your own side of the stage at all times; we don’t want this escalating into a wrestling match. If you do cross this invisible line in front of me, you will be disqualified, and ridiculed for the rest of your natural lives. I realise I have a slight speech impediment, but do I make myself clear?”

  Snoop Diggity grunted his assent.

  “As clear as a Lalique fishbowl,” confirmed Roger.

  “Okay. Let’s hit it!” The compere stepped back, leaving the stage to the identical eccentrics on one side and the menacing man-mountain on the other.

  A record scratched and the bass dropped in, then the beat. Anticipating that things might get a little rough despite his warnings, Casper slammed a crash-helmet down onto his head and climbed into a makeshift trench behind the stage.

  A riotous mix of estate kids, widowers, dog walkers, vagabonds, and off-duty neurologists, the crowd began to clap along with the rhythm, and soon they began to chant:

  “Go Diggity! Go Diggity! Go, go!”

  Not one to snub his public, Diggity stepped up, and in a voice that could’ve crushed rocks, he began:

  Snoop Diggity. That’s my name and I’ll use it,

  I’ll smash your face if you try to abuse it,

  Who the fuck are you two? Jeeves and Wooster?

  Do you tickle each other with your little feather dusters?

  Which one is which? You the bitch or the butch?

  Or do you both miss the feeling of your mother’s touch?

  With your tweed suits, side partings and glasses,

  Just admit it, boys – you’re all about asses.

  Your daddy should’ve stopped, took a breath and withdrew.

  Instead he left it in, and now there’s fuckin’ two of you!

  The crowd roared in applause. One old lady fist-pumped in the air, screeching, “That’s my motherfuckin' nigga!”

  Snoop Diggity abruptly passed the mic to Roger, even though he apparently didn’t want it anymore. Luthor whispered words of encouragement, but even he didn’t believe that, “kick him in the nuts and we’ll make a run for it,” would actually help in this situation.

  Roger knew they had two ways to go about this: A) share the rap, half and half, or B) utilise the Beastie Boys method, having Luthor join in on the last word of each line. They opted for the latter approach, since it was logistically easier than passing the mic back and forth. It was just like that scene from the end of 8 Mile, only without the skinny albino fella.

  We might be twins, but we like different things,

  He likes fatties, and I like thins,

  Snoop Diggity, what kind of name is that?

  Something Auntie Belle would call a house cat?

  And how dare you mock our clothes,

  This tweed attracts the hoes,

  And while we're at it, bitch, your ass just grows and grows!

  You look like Snoop Kong when you mow the lawn,

  Baggy swimming trunks looking more like a thong.

  What’s with the face? There’s no need to sulk,

  Just ‘cos Mommy had sex with The Incredible Hulk.

  Convinced they’d won the battle already, Roger dropped the mic, which landed on the stage with a thump and a whine. The twins then performed a secret handshake, which neither one of them had practiced, a series of fumbles and strokes that might’ve looked a bit odd to anyone but them.

  “Phew, that was simply cruuuuuuuuel!” the compere cried, picking up the mic. “You boys might look like a couple of dusty old paedophiles, but you damn sure know your way around a rhyme.” He turned to the audience, who were going crazy by this point, jumping up and down, punching each other in the face. A little old lady in the front row lifted up her dress, revealing something rather unsavoury.

  “It’s down to you, folks. We need a winner. Let me hear it for Snoop Diggity!”

  The crowd grumbled and grunted its half-hearted approval. Holding up a sign that read, GO MY LITTLE SNOOPER TROOPER, Snoop’s mother screamed so loud, the front window of a nearby Specsavers exploded.

  “And what about my tweed-wearing homies, Roger and Luthor Carter?”

  The crowd went absolutely bonkers.

  “I think we have our winners: the Carter Bros! You guys are the bee’s kn…”

  He trailed off there, having noticed the gun pointed at him. It wasn’t the first time Casper had found himself on the business end of a pistol, but it was the first time said pistol fired something more dangerous than water or potato plugs.

  The audience fell silent, apart from Snoop’s mother, who was now hollering even louder than ever.

  “Yo mama didn’t raise no fool, boy!”

  Roger Carter took a tentative step forward, placing himself between the gun and Casper the Compere.

  “What in the name of all that is good and holy do you think you’re doing?” Luthor hissed behind his back. “He’s going to shoot you in the face!”

  “You’re not, are you?” Roger said, holding a trembling hand out to Snoop, who was now on the verge of tears. “You wouldn’t want to get blood on this Edwardian suit?”

  “If he shoots you in the head,” Luthor opined, “that suit will be the least of your concerns! Remember what mother used to say?”

  “If you don’t eat your crusts, your knob will rot off?”

  Luthor rolled his eyes. “If it looks like a gun, and there’s an angry man holding it, then it’s best not to get involved!”

  “Did she say that?”

  “Once, I think.”

  “Look, you couple of poofy old cunts,” Snoop sniffed. “I ain’t letting you take my motherfucking crown. They don’t call me the 'Bellbrook Beatboy' for nothing!”

  “Because you keep getting beat…” Roger muttered under his breath.

  “I want him to tell me I won,” Snoop said, jabbing the gun at Casper. “I want him to tell all these people that I’m still the best.”

  “Well, you’re the best while you have that gun in your hand,” Luthor said, “but, I hate to have to tell you this… these people saw what happened. They all know who really won. They saw you get brutally deconstructed through the power of rhyme by a pair of antique dealers in tailored suits.”

  Snoop thought about this for a moment. If you looked deep into his eyes, you could almost see a team of gangster hamsters running on a wheel.

  “Y’all right,” he said, then pulled the trigger.

  Roger flew backwards from the impact of the slug, his suit and his face utterly ruined.

  Turning his gun next upon the audience, Snoop fired indiscriminately into the panicked crowd, but he hadn’t counted on someone else packing heat as well. Luthor reached into his freshly-ironed trousers and came out with a French musket that had seen plenty of action in its day, but not much in the two or three centuries since. He managed to load it with powder and ball, and was about to strike flint when a burly construction worker suddenly sidled up to the stage.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know where I can find a Native American, a GI, or maybe a cowboy or a leather guy, would you?” he asked.

  “I would, as a matter of fact,” Luthor began, taking aim at the raging bull that was Snoop Diggity, “but I’m just a tad busy at the moment.”

  Pulling the trigger, he soon realised that he would’ve been better off using the musket as a club. It made a lot of smoke and noise, but as the shot rolled out of the barrel and plunked down onto the stage, he knew that he was royally fucked.

  Snoop Diggity charged right into Luthor’s frail frame, trampling over and crushing him instantly. The construction worker decided to make a hasty exit before he was wrongly associated with the dead man he’d just been seen speaking with.

  As Luthor died, he remembered something his mother used to say:

  “When all is said and done, if a fat man’s sitting on you, it’s best not to st
ruggle.”

  23

  “Looks busy,” Clarence said, surveying the line of people queuing outside Knickers. “You think they’ll let us jump the line?”

  Marcia shook her head. “Not quite, but you see that big lad over there, wearing the doorframe as an overcoat?”

  Clarence did see him; it was hard not to.

  “Well, let me deal with him and we’ll get in just fine.” She smiled. What she was about to do was unkind, but you didn’t get ahead in this game by being nice to people. In fact, most newspapers relegated the agreeable reporters to the basement, where they would spend eternity filing things alphabetically and making sandwiches for the vending machine.

  Together they approached the nightclub’s entrance. It was at times like this that Clarence wished he had a theme tune, something unforgiving from the 1970s that would start playing whenever things were about to get messy. It just wasn’t fair; The Sweeney had one, and even those geezers from Miami Vice…

  “We’re from the Bellbrook Observer,” Marcia said, stepping toe-to-toe with the larger of the two giants. “It would be really splendid if you could let us in without too much of an ado.”

  The smaller of the two men – which wasn’t saying much – began ogling Marcia like a piece of meat.

  “Oooh, Barry, she’s a keeper…”

  Barry laughed. “Love, I’m going to take your insolence as a gaffe on your part, but only once. If you’d like to join the back of the line, we might let you in around three hours from now, when you get to the door.”

  Clarence had already begun the long, arduous walk when Marcia went up on her tip-toes, whispering something in Barry’s ear as he leaned down to meet her halfway.

  “You wouldn’t!” Barry gasped. Suddenly he’d gone an incredible shade of crimson.

  “I’m afraid I would,” Marcia began, “and I’d make sure it was front page, with a beautiful picture, which I have on memory-stick back at the office.”