Vinyl Destination

by Millard, Adam

  “Sounds like you’ve been through the wringer, too,” Clarence said. “Elvis, you say?”

  Ted thought back to his father sitting on the loo, his old self returning, the quiff shrivelling up and disintegrating like an autumn leaf. “Yeah, which was odd because he was always more of a Beatles fan. Never had much time for Elvis; said he couldn’t be doing with all that groin thrusting and lip twitching.” He sighed. “I figured he’d been possessed at first, but when I started thinking about it, I remembered reading that demons seldom alter their host’s appearance. They creep in, like evil ninjas, and they can do a lot more damage with their host in human form than they can with horns poking out the tops of their heads. Plus, it’s hard being stealthy when you can’t get from one side of the kitchen to the other without clip-clopping. It’s the hooves, you see.”

  Goth Girl shook her head. “This is all very interesting,” she said, “but do you have any idea what’s going on out there? Something must have happened; something must have changed.”

  “Aliens,” Clarence asserted, probably for the twentieth time that night. “I’m sure of it.”

  Across the room, Marcia slid down from the dryer. “He’s so smart,” she said, trying to be seductive and failing miserably. It was like watching Sharon Stone after several shots of Sambuca; you should find it attractive, but for some reason it’s just really embarrassing.

  “Hang on a flipping minute!” Ted said, suddenly forgetting all about the mess of leather he’d become entangled in. “The LP harvest!”

  “You mean the record cull?” Clarence asked.

  “Call it what you want,” Ted said, “but it has to have something to do with what’s happening.” He slapped himself in the forehead. “Gah, I’m so stupid! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?”

  “Because you’re so stupid?” Goth Girl suggested, as she lit up another cigarette.

  “It all makes sense now,” Ted said. “Well, in a fashion. I mean, everything that’s happening out there is somehow related to music, right?”

  “That would explain the Michael Jackson pimp and his stable of Thriller zombies,” Clarence said. “It might also explain why my colleague over there suddenly wants to ride me like Kauto Star, and why you’re suddenly set on slipping into the most ridiculous costume since Halle Berry played Catwoman.”

  Ted looked down at his rotund body and the leather catsuit covering barely half of it. For a split-second he realised how daft he must look. It was a fleeting thought, however, and after it had passed he reapplied himself to making the meagre, slim-fitting garment fit properly (as if this were even possible).

  “I think I know what it is,” Ted said, shoving around his rolls of fat. “I was at the landfill earlier today, dumping off the last of the records. I heard the workers talking about some sort of underground building they’d discovered. When I asked their foreman what was going on, he said it was nothing, just some old foundations that had been unearthed.”

  “Ancient burial ground,” Goth Girl said, exhaling another fantastic plume of smoke. After it had cleared a little, she continued, “Like in that film with the girl that gets sucked into the TV, or the one where they bury their cat and the thing comes back all fucking nasty.”

  “But how could they have not known it was there?” Clarence asked. “I mean, would they actually dig a landfill on something so sacred?”

  “This is the Bellbrook Council we’re talking about,” Ted said. “They’d dig a landfill beneath your grandmother if she stood still long enough. Maybe they did know about it. Maybe they just stumbled upon it by accident, but either way they’ve fucked us good, wouldn’t you say?”

  Marcia, who’d been listening from across the room (when Al Green wasn’t keeping her pacified), suddenly stepped forward. Clarence jumped back, genuinely frightened of her by this point. It was funny, Marcia thought, how the tables had turned. Just earlier that day, she’d been standing at her desk, waiting for the office to clear out so she could leave. He’d popped over to lay on the sleaze, and now look at him. Look at him quiver…

  “Do you think we can stop it?” Marcia asked, rubbing her temples with her fingers; it hurt just to think straight, what with all saccharine love crap and Streisand warbling in the background. Whatever was projecting the music into her mind, it must have set this shit on shuffle. “I mean, how far is this landfill? We could be the four little angels of peace.” She sang this last bit, then slapped herself in the face for surrendering control so easily.

  “It’s about a mile away,” Ted said, “I don’t suppose any of you has a car?”

  “Nope,” Clarence said.

  “I’m a Goth,” Goth Girl said. “We only like hearses and ice-cream trucks.”

  “So we’re walking,” Marcia said.

  Ted shrugged. “We might be the only chance Bellbrook has. Something evil has taken over this town. It’s true what they say: eventually, the rhythm is gonna get you.”

  He’d finally managed to squeeze into the tight leather outfit (most of him,anyway). After giving himself a once-over in the mirror – not bad if you could get past the unsightly bulges – he turned to the rest of the survivors, took up a nearby mop handle, and said, “Let’s take this thing down before it destroys us all.” And then, as they nervously filed out the door and into the street, he added, “If anyone happens to spot a cowboy, a Native American, a GI and a construction worker, let me know.”

  46

  Across the street, in the doorway of a boarded-up shop, four vagrants argued in Scouse accents over which one of them was Ringo. It turned out that none of them wanted to own up to it, and so a quarrel had broken out.

  “We can’t all be John,” one of the men said.

  “Why not?” said another. “It worked for Spartacus.”

  “Look, we all just need to decide,” said a third. “I’m John, Steve’s Paul, Roger’s George, and you, Mike, can be Ringo.”

  Mike wasn’t happy with the nomination one bit. “That’s fucking ridiculous,” he said. “I’d rather be Pete Best than fucking Ringo.”

  “Well you can’t be Pete Best,” the one called Steve said. “You’re Ringo. Nobody even remembers who Pete Best was. Ask anyone. Ask them who’s Pete Best and I’ll bet they tell you he’s an alcoholic footballer.”

  “And Ringo’s only known for his work on Thomas the Tank Engine,” Mike said. “So, no! I’m Pete Best, and that’s that.”

  “Look, this isn’t a debate,” Roger said. “Just accept your places and… oh, shit – hang on gang, here comes trouble.”

  Just then, a second group of men came a’ sauntering down the street. Their leader moved like some sort of simian, pouting his lips and clapping his hands as they went along. His gesticulations came to an abrupt stop, however, when he noticed the four men standing in the doorway. “Well, look at what we have here,” he said, placing his hands on his hips as he leaned to one side. “It’s The Beatles. Pleased to meet you… hope you guess my name.”

  “Jagger,” Ringo sighed. “We don’t want any trouble, so why don’t you lot just jog on, huh?”

  Mick Jagger – he of the bee-stung lips – feigned surprise, turning around to address his gang. “They want us to jog on,” he said, snorting. Turning back to their rivals, he sneered, “What’s the matter, Beatles? Scared we’re going to steal your thunder?”

  “You don’t frighten us, Jagger,” George said. “Coming around here like you own the fucking place. Why don’t you go paint a door black and leave us the fuck alone?”

  Jagger was incensed by the insult, seeming to grow several inches in height; years of strutting around like a Neanderthal had disguised his true stature. “I’m not having any of that,” he said, licking his abnormally large lips. “Here’s one you might appreciate, though, Beatles. We’re all going to come together, right now, over ME!!!”

  Throwing back his head, Jagger roared like something from a Ray Harryhausen film and then inhaled forcefully, sucking in tepid night air. The Beatles became terr
ified as the vortex hit them, and they realised he wasn’t joking around.

  “He… he’s sucking us in!” Ringo screamed.

  “Grab hold of something!” George cried. “His lips will smother us to death!”

  But it was no good. The four vagabonds failed to find their grip, and within seconds they were just a mess of limbs, kicking and flailing between Jagger’s mighty lips. The whole thing lasted no more than twenty seconds, but to a casual observer it would’ve easily been the best show the Stones had put on in quite some time.

  When the limbs stopped moving and the Liverpudlian screams abated, Jagger finally spat them out. The four Beatles landed on the pavement in a twisted heap, broken, sodden, and motionless, and just a wee bit sorrier than Miley Cyrus on a wreckingball.

  “Come on, boys,” Jagger said, wetting his parched lips. “I’ve heard The Bay City Rollers are knocking about…”

  47

  Three cars sat idling at the traffic light on Bellbrook ring road. Engines roared as the drivers pushed down on their respective accelerators, gunning for a quick start. When those red lights turned green, they would be off and away, tearing up the night – and the tarmac – on their way to first-place glory. At least, that was the plan. The only problem was that Marc Bolan, Falco, and Eddie Cochran weren’t exactly known for their driving prowess.

  Bolan stole a quick glance at his competition before steeling his eyes on the road ahead. “Bring it on, you bastards,” he said, casually flicking a cigarette out the window. Or, at least he would have flicked it out the window, if said window had been wound down. Instead, the butt bounced back into his lap, burning a hole in the crotch of his flares. He shrieked in pain – fitting how much he sounded like a wounded T-Rex – as he dug around for the red-hot butt beneath him. By the time he found it, wound down the window, and properly flicked it out, the light had already turned green. He looked up just in time to catch the tail lights of Falco and Cochran, the two of them peeling off into the distance.

  Luckily for Bolan, though, they didn’t keep their lead for long. From out of nowhere, a massive fuel-tanker came barrelling around the corner and careened across the lanes, taking out both racers in an explosion that wouldn’t have looked out of place in one of Michael Bay’s wettest, wildest dreams.

  “Hahaaaargghhh!” Bolan cried, pounding the steering wheel with both hands. “That means I’ve won, doesn’t it? I’m the winner!” He had no idea who he was talking to, not that it mattered. Seconds later, what appeared to be Beth Ditto fell from the sky, crushing both him and his car into something marginally flatter than a postage stamp.

  48

  O’Brian climbed out of the car, breathless and flustered. The playing cards had been fun while they lasted, but he needed something more to get him off. Besides, apart from one Joker and a six of diamonds, the rest of the cards were all soggier than a week-old cornflake. He’d been frantically masturbating for nearly four hours now, to no avail. Every time he came close to finishing, something else popped into his head and ruined it for him. Grandmother’s face, an old INXS tune, that purple fucking dinosaur the kids love so much…

  He squeezed his sore penis, giving it a gentle tug through his trousers. “We’ll find us something,” he said. “Oh, we’ll sort you out yet, little buddy.”

  But how?

  He knew that if he didn’t get it out of his system soon, he’d likely implode. He’d read articles, in those magazines you find in dentist waiting rooms, that claimed leaving one in the pipe was incredibly dangerous. If Men’s Health said it was bad, then who was he to argue?

  Just then, a little voice in the back of his head whispered two magic words:

  Autoerotic asphyxiation…

  “What’s that?” O’Brian asked, scratching his head and also his balls.

  You’ve got to wrap a belt around your neck and wank yourself to death!

  “Oh, that sounds a bit… dangerous,” he said, frowning. “Does it have to be all the way to death, or can I just go until I’m kinda close to death?”

  Nope. Has to be to death, I’m afraid. On the bright side, at least you’ll go out on a high note.

  “Yeah, but on the dark side, some fucker’s gonna find me with my dick in my hand, swinging from a tree.”

  Yeah, I could see why that might be a concern, the voice continued. Well, you could try cutting off just before death, but I’m not promising anything. A lot of people have tried and failed.

  With thoughts of David Carradine and Michael Hutchence in his head, O’Brian bravely undid his belt and pulled it through the loops. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  Wandering of into a nearby park, he chose the closest tree. An owl perched upon a high bough, going hoot, hoooot, which, if O’Brian had understood owl, would’ve translated to, You’re not really going to masturbate yourself to death, are you? You daft prick!

  Luckily, the tree boasted a branch that was low enough for him to reach. O’Brian hadn’t fancied climbing; he wasn’t as young as he used to be, and the last time he’d tried to climb a tree, he’d ended up in A&E with broken ribs and several inches of oak inside him.

  He looped the belt over the branch and tied it. There was just enough slack remaining to wrap around his neck, which he took advantage of while frantically stroking his throbbing shaft. Once he had everything in place, he slowly dropped down from his tip-toes, intensifying all sensations as the belt grew tight around his neck. He saw colours that he’d never seen before, and the only sound he could hear was the steady rush of blood between his ears; that, and the dratted owl overhead, still doing its level best to spoil his epic wank.

  After about thirty seconds of this, O’Brian had to admit that things weren’t going quite as expected. He was still no closer to orgasm, and the belt had dug so deeply into his neck, his airway had been closed almost completely.

  “Caghhhaghh…” he rasped, clawing at his makeshift noose with one hand. It was wound too tight; he couldn’t get his fingers beneath the strap.

  Told you so, the owl said, its voice echoing down from impossibly high above. Not that O’Brian could’ve understood it anyway; owlese hadn’t been a foreign-language option when he’d gone to school, not like now, where you could choose between anything from French to German, Klingon to Meerkat…

  Suddenly, his mind flooded with lewd images; the playing cards, the prostitute who’d deserted him earlier, watching his grandmother in the shower, those damned Pussycat Dolls, three fifths of Take That, Susan Boyle (for some reason), and anyone from ABBA who didn’t have a beard…

  That did it. O’Brian came – and went – at exactly the same moment, gurgling his death rattles as he swung in the breeze, all the while being berated by one very bemused owl.

  49

  On their long trek over to the landfill, the group managed to avoid confrontation for the most part, but none of them had anticipated running into the entire cast of West Side Story about halfway there. There had been stabbings and maulings as Sharks and Jets did battle all along Cooper Street, but as traumatic as the experience had been for Ted, Marcia, Clarence, and even Goth Girl, it was damn near impossible to take knife-fights all that seriously when their participants insisted on singing and dancing the whole bloody time.

  “This the place?” Clarence asked, looking out over the abandoned worksite.

  “Yeah,” Ted replied. “The landfill is over there, just past that digger.” He chafed against the leather bunching up in his hairy ass crack. “I just hope they haven’t started filling it in yet… don’t much fancy the thought of having to unearth the thing all over again.”

  “Whatever we do, we need to make it quick,” Goth Girl said, pointing to Marcia, who was presently trying to lick Clarence’s face.

  “Come on, then,” Ted said, leading the way. “We need to put an end to this before…” He trailed off in mid sentence as the unmistakable horns sounded in his head, tapping his foot to the infectious disco beat that followed.

  “Come on, man!” M
arcia said, dragging him along as she resisted the urge to dry hump his thick, meaty leg.

  Moments later they’d reached the pit, staring down into its dark, ominous depths. The night had grown tempestuous, shreds of tattered paper and polystyrene borne along upon the winds. Somewhere off in the distance, an owl hooted. Ted wasn’t sure, but he could’ve sworn it said: Serves you right, you pervy old bastard! Whatever that might have meant.

  “I’m not going down there,” Goth Girl said, taking a step back from the yawning chasm. “There aren’t many things I’m afraid of, but lowering myself down into a pit of pure evil, to face something we might not be able to beat, just happens to be one of them.”

  Clarence nodded. “I’m with her,” he said. You could practically see the yellow of his skin glowing in the moonlight. “I know I said I’d be glad to help, and I have, really, if you think about it—”

  “How, exactly, have you helped?” Ted asked, resisting his own urge to flee for the nearest YMCA.

  “What about back there,” Ted protested, “when you were about to get battered by those three women dressed as Mexicans squawking 'America' at the tops of their lungs? Did I not pull them off you? Did I not stab one of them in the face with her own stiletto?”

  “Yeah, you leave him alone,” Marcia said, stroking Clarence’s arm. “You’d be dead if it wasn’t for my Clarence. Dead, I tell you.”

  Clarence flinched at her insinuation; he’d never been anyone’s anything before. Under different circumstances, it might have felt nice, but… “Look,” he said, “take Marcia with you. If you need any help, she’s pretty handy. Not afraid to get her hands dirty, that one.”

  Marcia looked shocked. “You’re just trying to get rid of me,” she said. “Don’t throw your love away, Clarence. My heart is broken.”