Vinyl Destination

by Millard, Adam

  Don’t come over here, not after that, Marcia thought, but it was too late: Clarence was already making his way back towards her. Amazingly, the dense crowd parted for him voluntarily, as if he were liable to go after their crotches as well.

  “Got it!” he said to Marcia, wiping the blood from his face.

  “Oh my God!” Sharon gasped. “Is that freak with you? Jesus, Marcia, I knew things were bad, but I didn’t realise you were this close to fucking insanity!”

  “He works for the paper,” Marcia replied, coolly. “And I’m not with him.”

  “She’s a lesbian,” Clarence added, “otherwise I’d have been up her like a rat up a drainpipe long ago.”

  Sharon looked fit to burst, and Marcia wondered just how hard she’d have to hit the bitch to make it happen.

  “You’re a lesbian?” Sharon said. “This just keeps getting better and better! What’s the matter? Couldn’t find any men to date you, so you switched sides?”

  “I didn’t realise you were homophobic,” Marcia countered. “I’m sure your viewers, not to mention your producers up at the station, would be thrilled to know about that.”

  “She’s not homophobic,” Clive the cameraman said. To Sharon he added, “Am I supposed to be filming this? I don’t have much battery left, and—”

  “No, Clive, this is also one of those things you don’t really need to film. From now on, only shoot when I say so.”

  “Will there be a word to let me know when you want me to—”

  “Shoot!” she said. “The word will be shoot.” Turning back to Marcia, she continued, “Look, I’m not homophobic, whatever that is, and I really don’t care if you’re gay, lesbian, queer, or a Scout leader. I just want you to know that we’ve got things covered here; you might as well go home, back to bed with your man-woman-hermaphrodite, or whatever it is you sleep with, and wait for all this to blow over.”

  “If it’s all the same with you,” Marcia said, “we’ll stick around. Got an interview with Stephen Hawking; that is, if he’s not too pissed to speak to us.” She realised how silly that sounded almost immediately; would his robotic voice come out all slurred after sixteen shots of Jagermeister?

  “In that case,” Sharon said, poking a heavily-manicured talon in Marcia’s face, “a piece of advice. Stay out of my way. If I so much as smell whatever shit perfume you’re wearing… well, let’s just say it won’t be pretty.” As threats went, it was pretty lame. Marcia didn’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for her.

  “Come on, Clive,” sneered Sharon. “Some of us have got work to do.” Abruptly turning away, she spun on her heel so quickly that her hair took a moment to follow suit.

  Marcia watched the reporter and her lackey walk off. It was one of those moments when you try to harness dormant telekinetic powers, but when Sharon Conker’s head didn’t explode, she realised she was wasting her time.

  “I think I’m gonna be sick…” Clarence groaned. Marcia turned just in time to catch the contents of her photographer’s stomach spewing out onto the dance floor.

  28

  “So you just suddenly got the urge to dress up as a Native American?” Kavannah asked the stranger. He’d stumbled upon the man climbing out through the smashed front window of Felicia’s Fancy Dress.

  “Weird, huh?” the Native American said. “One minute I was sleeping off a bottle of cheap methylated spirits in the alley behind Marks & Spencer, and the next I was dancing around using a discarded shoe as a tomahawk. I have to admit, at first I thought I’d gone over the edge; like I needed to be sectioned, but then I got to thinking. I thought, maybe I’m not mental. Maybe this is just something I need to do in order to take my worthless life back, ya know? That was when I realised I needed the proper get-up; you can’t be a Native American looking like a vagrant with sick down his front.”

  “So you broke into the fancy dress shop and got yourself an outfit,” Kavannah observed. “Of course you did; it would be crazy not to!”

  “Exactly. And then, once I put it on, I knew I needed to find a cowboy, a GI, a leather man, a construction worker…” he paused, gesturing to Kavannah, “…and maybe a motorcycle cop, though I doubt we’ll get one of those around here.”

  “Howdy, fellas!”

  Both men turned to face the cowboy who’d suddenly arrived on the scene, sauntering towards them down the alley. He tipped his hat and swiftly drew his plastic, orange-tipped six-shooters, spinning them on his fingers. “Am I late to the party?”

  “This is getting just ridiculous!” Kavannah sputtered, though he’d been thinking the same exact thing only moments ago, when he’d helped the lanky Native American safely through the shattered frontage of the dress shop.

  “You guys wouldn’t happen to know what’s going on here, would you?” the cowboy asked, his spurs jingling with each step. “Name’s McLoud, by the way, just in case you were thinking I was some random weirdo.”

  Yeah, because your name changes that…

  “Got no idea, mate,” the Native American said. “I’m Sid, and this here is Kavannah. We must look like a right bunch of bananas.”

  They all shared a laugh at this, but quickly fell into an awkward silence. Police sirens could be heard off in the distance.

  “I just can’t get this song out of my head…” McLoud said, removing his hat as if to prove that, yes, he actually did have a head under there. “Do you guys remember that song, about being in the navy? What was it called? The one about being in the navy?”

  “Yeah, about being in the navy,” Kavannah said. “We get it. I think it was called Sailing, wasn’t it? Rod Stewart?”

  “No, that’s not it. Great fucking song, though.” Mcloud sighed. “Oh well. It’ll come to me eventually.” He inspected his toy peacemakers in their holsters. “So, what’s the plan? We just gonna hang out here until we figure out what’s going on, or…”

  “I think we need to keep moving,” Sid suggested, watching one of the feathers from his headdress float down to the pavement. “I’ve got this weird feeling. Like I need to dance, but can’t, not until we find the rest of our posse. Odd, huh?”

  “Very,” Kavannah agreed. “Okay, then. No point hanging around this alley like a trio of kerb-crawling psychopaths. Let’s roll out!”

  “Hey, that’s my line,” McLoud said. “Let’s hit the trail, find ourselves some serving wenches, and a bottle of something milky!”

  “Did cowboys say that?” asked Kavannah.

  “Not sure,” McLoud replied, “but if they did, I’ll bet they were a bunch of dicks.”

  29

  When not-quite-Bill opened his eyes to find himself strapped to a chair in the kitchen, he didn’t look one bit amused. Standing beside the table were both Edith and Ted. His wife looked frightened; his son looked determined. Both of them, not-quite-Bill thought, could go straight to hell.

  “Oh, so this is how we’re going about it, eh?” he said. “Tying me up. Well, let me tell you, ain’t no ropes ever woven strong enough to hold Elvis.” He struggled ineffectually for a moment before settling back down, panting like an overheated cocker-spaniel. “All right. Please, just let me go. I promise I won’t try jiving none. I don’t even feel like dancing anymore, or singing. This whole thing is just plain silly…”

  “Dad, we’ve got the doctor on his way,” Ted said. “Should be here any minute.” He’d called Dr. Cain half an hour earlier, while not-quite-Bill was still knocked out on the bedroom floor.

  “Hang on a minute,” not-quite-Bill said. “You’ve called Lucius? You called him and told him to come over because I’ve turned into Elvis Presley and you don’t know what to do with me?”

  That, Ted thought, was about the gist of it, though he’d left out the bit about Elvis, as he hadn’t wanted to sound like a complete nutter on the phone.

  “Well this is just spiffing,” not-quite-Bill grunted, still wriggling against his bonds. “And what about you, Edith? You can’t say you don’t prefer me like this. I’m a hunk-
a-hunk-a-burning love, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I want my husband back,” Edith said, pouring herself a large glass of something strong. “If I’d wanted to marry Elvis Presley, then I would have gone with Bobby Graceland when I had the chance.”

  Not-quite-Bill rolled his eyes. “Bobby Graceland was a two-bit tribute act from Tipperton. And do you always have to bring him up every time something remotely bad happens to us? Sheesh, I never bring up Elsie-May Tanner, do I?”

  Edith almost choked on her drink. “You just did!” she said. “I can’t believe, after all these years, you’re still thinking about what might’ve been with that little slu—”

  “This is not happening…” Ted said, pinching his nose between thumb and forefinger. His head was pounding; his ears were aching, and his stomach was rumbling from the lack of fish-finger tea. “Now look. The doctor will be here any minute. When he comes, I want you both to be on your best behaviour.”

  Edith nursed her glass, tried her best not to break down, and thought about Bobby Graceland. Is it too late? I’ve still got his number, and there are a few years left in this old body yet…

  After five minutes of unbearable silence – broken only by not-quite-Bill, occasionally humming a few bars from 'Suspicious Minds' – there came a sharp knock at the door. Ted jumped up from his seat at the table and went to answer it. Please, please, PLEASE tell me you can fix my broken dad.

  Immediately upon opening the door, Ted realised that Doctor Cain was in no fit state to perform any miracles tonight. His silver hair –what remained of it – was spiked straight up at the moon, sharp and severe, and something had been stuck through his nose. Upon closer inspection, Ted saw that it was a safety pin. Blood had dried upon the doctor’s cheek and chin, and he was wearing what appeared to be a grimy denim jacket, but the myriad chains, studs, and patches covering it made the exact material hard to tell.

  “What’s the fucking matter?” Doctor Cain asked. “Ain’t you ever seen a punk before, boy?”

  Now, Doctor Cain was a devout Catholic, the kind of man who’d sit your kitten while you went off to Ibiza for some much-needed sex, sea, and sun. His CD collection was comprised mainly of hymns and choir music. If anything, Dr. Lucius Cain was the last person you’d expect to show up at your door sporting a homemade piercing and a Mohican that would’ve made Sid Vicious jealous.

  “Well, let me fucking in, you daft prick,” the doctor said. “I can’t help your dear ol’ daddy standing out here like a tit in the breeze, can I?”

  Ted was about to say that he supposed so, that he was sorry for being so rude, when suddenly he noticed a cowboy, a Native American, and a construction worker ambling down the street together. Now there’s something you don’t see every day, he thought, but then today had hardly been what anyone would call 'everyday'. He had Elvis Presley tied to a chair in his kitchen, and now Johnny Rotten PhD was standing on his doorstep.

  “You’d better come in,” Ted said, stepping aside. “He’s through there. Be careful, though. I don’t think he’s going to be very nice to you.”

  Striding into the kitchen, Dr. Cain harrumphed dismissively, as if he were looking at nothing more than a nasty rash or a particularly weak case of Man Flu. “I see what you fucking mean,” he said, giving not-quite-Bill the once-over. “You know who he looks like? He looks like Elvis Fucking Presley.”

  “That’s what I meant to tell you,” Ted said. “I didn’t want to say anything on the phone, because, well, you know… anyway, he didn’t look like this at tea-time. You know what Dad looks like normally.”

  The doctor nodded. “A heart attack waiting to happen,” he said. “I knew your father when he had his first piles, and he was fucked even then.”

  Not-quite-Bill became flabbergasted. “I’m in the room, ya know,” he sputtered. “Show a little tact, will you?”

  “He even sounds like fucking Elvis,” Dr. Cain laughed. “Repeat after me,” he said to not-quite-Bill, “Well…”

  Confused, yet hesitant to refuse the doctor’s order, not-quite-Bill complied.

  “Well…”

  “It’s one…”

  “It’s one…”

  “For the money…”

  “Look, this is silly!” not-quite-Bill snapped. “And what the hell have you come as, Lucius? You look like you’ve been dragged through the 70s backwards.”

  “What is it with you freaks?” Dr. Cain sneered. “It’s like the punk movement never happened in Bellbrook. Ain’t cha ever heard of Stiff Little Fingers? Black Flag? The fucking Ramones?”

  “Doctor, I hate to say it, but you wouldn’t have heard of them before tonight, either.” Ted didn’t want to be the one, but someone had to call him out. “You’re not a punk. You’ve never been a punk, even when it was popular – which, in Bellbrook, was never – and you’ve basically punctured your face for reasons unknown, your hair looks daft, and… I mean, what have you got in it, even?”

  “I couldn’t find any gel,” Dr. Cain replied, “so I went with the next best thing.”

  “Which was?” asked Ted, genuinely intrigued.

  “I had a fried egg for breakfast this morning,” the doctor said. “I hadn’t washed up yet, so I used the fat from the pan.”

  “See!” Ted cried. “That is not normal behaviour for a doctor. In fact, the men in white coats have a place for people like you, and for my father, who suddenly looks and sounds exactly like a man who’s been dead for nearly forty years.”

  The doctor thought for a moment. It was an extremely surreal moment for Ted, his gaze drifting over a punk who wasn’t a punk, but an old guy with a safety pin in his face and fat in his hair; his mother, still terrified, trembling and doing her very best not to pass out again; and the man tied to the chair – not-quite-Bill – whose testicles had once harboured the seed of his existence.

  “Nah, that’s bollocks,” Dr. Cain finally said. “I am a punk!” As if to prove his devotion to all things anarchic, he leaned across to the countertop and knocked an empty glass down onto the lino, where it shattered. “See?”

  Ted was, for want of a better word, resigned. “Okay, if you say so… Look, Doc, I don’t know what’s going on around here, but I really think we need to get my dad to the hospital. Maybe they can—”

  But the doctor wasn’t listening; he was looking around the kitchen for something. “You don’t have any alcohol going, do you?” he asked. “I swear I’m drier than Ghandi’s fucking flip-flop.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to help us,” Edith muttered, low enough so only Ted could hear. He nodded in response; his mother had a knack for stating the bleeding obvious.

  “Okay, Doc, thanks for coming,” Ted said, ushering him towards the door. “I’m sure you’re very busy. We’ll take care of things here!”

  “When I was on tour with The Clash,” the doctor said, “I once caught the clap so bad that I had to perform surgery on my own—”

  “Like I said, Doc, thanks for coming.” Ted manhandled the maniac back down the front hall, before his nose could drip anymore blood onto the floor. “I’ll be sure to recommend you to nobody, and will be writing a strongly worded letter to the Head of General Practitioners regarding this incident.”

  “You do that,” the doctor spat in response. “You fucking do that! I ain’t a doctor no more. ANARCHY!!!” Thrust out into the night, he promptly took off down the street, overturning rubbish bins and kicking stray cats along the way.

  Ted quickly locked the door behind him, falling against it and taking a deep breath.

  “Oh, what are we going to do?” Edith sobbed. She’d crept up beside Ted like a ninja; a geriatric ninja wearing a flowery muumuu.

  “I… I don’t know just yet,” Ted replied, pulling his mother in for a hug, which was weird as he couldn’t remember the last time he’d done so, and had forgotten how musty she smelled. “But if we don’t do something soon, I think you’ll be back on the market, and I’ll be learning to fish on my own.”

 
And that, Ted thought, as his mother broke down completely, is NOT the way to console the woman responsible for fish-fingers…

  30

  Meanwhile, the Pit-Dweller had begun to consolidate in the sky above Knickers Nightclub, just before midnight.

  Ooh, the witching hour, it thought, wincing at the sheer campness of the voice in its head. It decided to do as little thinking as possible from that point on; the poor thing was already sexually confused enough as it was, lacking a penis, vagina, or any other tangible bits to speak of.

  On its way over, it had transformed three men into the Bee Gees, and a deranged blonde woman was now running the streets with gaudy cones for tits. It made about as much sense to the Pit-Dweller is it did to those affected, but whatever was happening to the wretched residents of Bellbrook, it seemed to be doing the trick. The Pit-Dweller knew that, by the end of the night, easily half of the townsfolk would be dead. Those left living would be driven insane, and those attempting escape would explode in a great conflagration of shitty B-sides and one-hit wonders on the outskirts of town.

  The thing looked down upon the people far below, intent upon destroying each and every one of them before sun-up. It felt good to be back; it owed them that much. This must be how The Spice Girls felt, it thought, when they stopped making dodgy perfume and decided to reform…

  “The who?” the Pit-Dweller said, still just as confused as ever by all the peculiar shit rattling around in its mind. It knew, for some reason, all about Baby Spice, Ginger Spice, Mel B and C, and one that it couldn’t quite put its finger on, although it knew she was famous for something… It also knew that Chris Rea’s husky voice was due to a sword-swallowing accident back in 1969, and that every time Cliff Richard releases a Christmas album, a child in Mozambique dies of dysentery.