Larry 2: The Squeequel

by Adam Millard

  “Why didn’t they shoot me?”

  They did shoot you. Multiple times. You’ve never had so much lead in you.

  “And I’m not dead?”

  Does this look like Hell to you? I mean, this is pretty nasty, but Hitler would trade places with you right now, given half a chance. So anyway, after getting yourself shot to smithereens, you decided to take out eight police officers, four firemen, and a woman who just happened to be walking her dog at the time.

  “Did I kill the dog?”

  Of course you killed the dog! You’re a slasher. What kind of slasher doesn’t kill the dog?

  “Good point.”

  Once everything with a heartbeat was dead or dying, you collected your suitcase from the nympho’s car and got the hell out of there.

  Larry relaxed a little, the way any good drunk does upon waking and discovering that nothing crazy happened the night before. “So where are we now?”

  We, said the mask, are in a skip on the edge of Haddon. You decided to have a little lie down, sleep off the pink stuff and let the bullet-holes heal.

  “I’m never drinking something that hasn’t been strained through a dirty sock ever again,” said Larry. “My head is fucking killing me.”

  You did, as the bishop said to the bishop’s wife, take a shot to the face.

  Larry spat out a bullet. It chinked against a tin can before disappearing amongst the rubble. “This is good,” he said. “Not the bit about lying in a skip; the bit about not being dead.”

  Yeah. Luckily for you this is Part Two in what hopefully doesn’t turn into a franchise. If this was Part One, you’d be pushing up daisies by now.

  Larry arched his back. “On the outskirts of Haddon, you say?”

  I did say that, replied the mask.

  “Which means we’re not far from that bitch and her boyfriend.”

  I didn’t say that, but you’re on the right track.

  “So what do we do now, other than kill more people, thusly creating a much bigger body count, as is often the case in unnecessary sequels?”

  Well, you could start by getting us the fuck out of this skip, said the mask.

  “Righty-ho,” said Larry, and out of the skip he got them.

  15

  Haddon General Pharmacy

  “Ah, Sister Geoff,” said the pharmacist – a small stocky man with wayward eyes, a large nose, and thin, almost non-existent, lips. In short, he had a face only a mother could love, and even then only in small doses. “The usual, is it?”

  Sister Geoff sighed. “No, I thought I’d have a change today,” said she. “Let’s skip the methadone. I’ll have a box of Ny-Ny, a litre of Robitussin, and a dozen condoms, preferably ribbed for my pleasure, and…” She trailed off as the pharmacist disappeared into the back, off in search of Sister Geoff’s methadone. To Amanda and Freddy, the nun said, “Don’t you think he’s got a face only a mother could love?”

  “Only in small doses,” said Freddy. “Look is this going to take long?”

  “It’ll take a lot longer if you keep badgering me,” Sister Geoff said. “And besides, do you know how many skips there are in Haddon? Needle in a haystack doesn’t even come close to it. More like atom at a rock concert. Grain of sand in a library—”

  “Piece of real cheese at a fake cheese convention.”

  “Who said you could play?” Sister Geoff turned on Amanda. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that we’ve got to wait for your psychotic slasher to emerge before we go looking for him. I hate to say it, but we need to wait until Little Miss Scary-White-Eyes here has another vision.”

  Freddy shuddered.

  “What happens when we get him?” Amanda said. “You are trained in the art of exorcism, aren’t you?”

  Sister Geoff snorted. “Trained…trained in the art…of exorcism.” She was laughing now, in that unsettling way nuns do when they know something you don’t. “Dear, you can’t be trained in something that the Vatican no longer endorses.”

  “But you are, though, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve got a certificate, yes,” said the nun. “Even got a Blue Peter badge, but that’s neither here nor there. All you need to know is that, when the time comes, I’ll make that sonofabitch wish he’d never been reborn.”

  “One double-dose of methadone for Sister Geoff,” said the facially-retarded pharmacist as he emerged from the back area.

  “Double-dose?” Amanda said. “You’re not going to be smacked off your tits, are you?”

  Sister Geoff twisted the cap off the bottle and necked its contents in one. “I wish,” she said, handing the empty bottle back to the pharmacist.

  “How’s that mistress of yours,” asked the man behind the counter. “Clarice, isn’t it?”

  “Still celibate,” Sister Geoff informed him.

  “Pity. Well, be sure to let me know when it’s a good time to take a run at her.”

  “Will do,” said the nun, turning and making for the door. “Give my love to your mother, Frank.”

  “Would do,” said Frank the Pharmacist. “She’s not talking to me at the moment. Sometimes, I think she only loves me—”

  “In small doses,” Sister Geoff finished for him before marching out onto the street, her new friends in tow.

  16

  Lou’s Bar

  When Lou came downstairs that morning to clean up the mess from the night before, he’d expected to find bits of broken glass everywhere, spilled beer, torn clothes from the seven fights he’d witnessed, a smashed slot-machine, a pool-table with its felt half-off, a pair of broken pool cues, and several rats eating the suicidal nuts from the floor. He wasn’t disappointed, in that sense, however he got quite the shock of his life when, upon entering the ablutions, a man wearing toilet-paper on his forehead and wielding a plunger leapt out from one of the cubicles, screaming at the top of his lungs about opening up a Burger King.

  “Mayor Ketchum!” Lou said. “Put the plunger down! You’re going to unblock somebody, if you’re not careful.”

  The mayor glanced about the place, a look of utter confusion furrowing his brow. “Must…have…asleep…fallen,” he said, which wasn’t exactly right, but it was close enough.

  “You’ve got a turd on your shoulder,” said Lou, pointing toward the offending nugget. Johnnie shook it off before turning to face one of the broken mirrors lining the wall. “Fuck, Lou, look at the state of me. I’ve got places to open, ribbons to cut, people to disappoint.”

  Lou shook his head. “You’ve got bigger problems than opening up some rat-infested eatery today, Johnnie,” he said.

  The mayor peeled the toilet paper from his forehead and said, “Uh?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Lou, I’ve been lying in a cubicle covered in shit for the last eight hours. How could I have heard anything?”

  “Get yourself cleaned up and meet me out in the bar,” said Lou. “You always said nothing exciting never happened in Haddon. I’m pretty sure your wish just came true.” And with that, he turned and left.

  “Bit dramatic,” said the mayor, sniffing his shirt-sleeve.

  *

  “Haddoners are waking up this morning, some in bar toilets, to the terrible news that a massacre has claimed the lives of at least thirty people in a house at the edge of Haddon. Police officers and the fire department were dispatched to the premises at a little after midnight following reports of a loud explosion nearby, and were never heard from again. A second group of officers arrived at the scene shortly after 2am to discover what one officer referred to as ‘an absolute mess’. Another officer backed up his colleague’s summation with the following statement.”

  Cut to a nervous-looking HPD boy-in-blue who, according to the graphic on screen, vomited several times at the scene, rendering any forensic evidence inadmissible in court.

  “We arrived at the house at just after two this morning,” he said, clearly struggling. “I’ve never seen anything like it in my entire life, and I was an al
tar boy. There were body-parts everywhere, some still on fire. I vomited several times, rendering any forensic evidence inadmissible in court, but like I said, we thought this was just a gas explosion. We weren’t prepared to find this…” He held up a severed rabbit’s head, waited a few moments for dramatic effect, and then lowered it again. “We’re warning the people of Haddon to remain vigilant. This is the work of a very sick individual who may or may not already be in the city. Anyone seen carrying an axe in public should be treated with extreme caution. And if you’re watching this, Mr Axe-Man, let it be known that we’re coming for you. We will find you. And we will kill you.”

  “Ah, the old Liam Neeson,” said Lou, turning the volume down on the TV set hanging on the wall. Its screen was smashed in three places, but that was how it was when he’d bought it.

  Johnnie was speechless. “I’m speechless,” he said, though he was clearly lying. “Pour me a drink will you, Lou. I’ve got a feeling today is going to be a bit of a clusterfuck.”

  *

  “Lardies and Gentlemememen,” Johnnie said, for his drink had turned into eight. “I am here…bef…fore you…as your ma…mer…mayo…” He sniggered. “I’m not…your…mayo, and you…you bloody good pe-people, are not…a sandwich.” He sniggered again. The people standing in the church aisles were growing restless. This was demonstrated when a tin of tomatoes clobbered Mayor Ketchum on the side of the head. Luckily he was drunk, and so didn’t feel it, but tomorrow there would be a great big lump. If only someone would throw a bag of frozen peas…

  “What’s going on, Johnnie!” said an irritated voice from the back of the room. “Should we be worries?”

  “Should we be scared for the safety of our children?” added another.

  “No m-more than-n ushual,” said Johnnie. And then, twenty seconds after the fact: “Did shomeone throw a tin of t-tomatoesh at me?”

  The Haddoners began to mutter amongst themselves. Words like ‘madman’ and ‘serial killer’ were banded about willy-nilly. It was chaos, and Mayor Ketchum was running out of ideas.

  Just then, who else should jump up onto the pulpit but Lou, hands held out in a placatory fashion, reminding the crowd that this was a place of God, and it should be treated as such. The vagrant urinating at the side of the room zipped himself up and silently apologised, before making the sign of the cross – spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch.

  “People, people, people,” said Lou, and Johnnie had never been so pleased to see a fella in all his life.

  “I fu…fucking love you, Lou…” said the mayor to the newcomer (not to be confused with the actress and the bishop nor the bishop and the bishop’s wife).

  “What the mayor is trying to say,” said Lou, “is that there is absolutely nothing to worry about. We’ve had serial killers in our midst before, and none of us died then, did we?”

  “But that was just Ed Gein,” said an elderly woman at the front of the crowd. “And he was just passing through, doing a bit of furniture shopping.”

  “And did anyone become a part of his feng shui?” asked Lou. “Did any of your relatives get made into lampshades?” He waited, ignoring the hand that had just been thrust into the air at the back of the room. “So how is this any different?”

  “That’sh what I wassss trying to say,” added the mayor.

  “No you weren’t,” whispered Lou conspiratorially. “For God’s sake, man, pull yourself together. These people rely on you in a crisis.”

  “They…posshibly shouldn’t,” said Johnnie.

  “So what you’re saying,” said one of the orange women from three pews back, “is that we just go about our business as usual and hope this sick fucker—” There were mumbles amongst the crowd, mainly from the devout lot, and the orange woman was quick to apologise. “—sorry, I forgot where I was for a moment there. This sick bleeping bleep of a bleep doesn’t kill us while we bleeping bleep.”

  “Lady, I have no idea what you just said,” said Lou. “But, yes, that’s exactly what we have to do.”

  “And how will we know if we bump into this psycho?” asked the old lady at the front of the crowd.

  The mayor laughed; the question itself wasn’t funny. He just had a thing for old people. It was how they were all wrinkled up, like an old banknote. “I should th-think the axsh would be a d…dead giveaway.”

  “What the mayor is so indelicately trying to say,” Said Lou, casting evils toward Johnnie, “is that you probably won’t even realise you’re looking at a maniac. Hell, he, or even she, could be in this church right now. You might be standing right next to our killer.”

  There were mutterings as those present checked the person next to them.

  “It’s very likely,” Lou went on, “that whoever killed those people last night will ignore Haddon altogether. I mean, nobody likes Haddon, not even the people who live here. The bastard’s probably halfway to Mexico by now, so what we need to do is continue as normal, and if you see anyone strange, contact the HDP.”

  “Couldn’t herve put it m’better myshelf,” the mayor said, waving his hands frantically about the place.

  “What’s he doing?” one of the orange ladies asked.

  “Thinks it’s Part Three,” said another.

  “Go on!” said the mayor. “Shoo. Begone. Getaway.”

  The crowd began to disperse, mumbling anxiously and filing out through the double-doors at the front of the church.

  “That…that went well,” slurred the mayor.

  “You’re an idiot,” said Lou.

  17

  A Road (One of Many Surrounding Haddon)

  Richard Goodnite was driving a stolen car around the edge of the city when he saw the man hobbling along the road, carrying a tattered suitcase which seemed to be held together by sheer willpower alone. Now Richard didn’t normally stop for hitch-hikers, especially when he was driving something hotter than a pair of nuddy women frolicking in a pepper patch, but there was something about this man’s gait that got Richard right in the soft spot.

  “Poor bastard,” Richard said, turning down the stereo which had come free with the car (a bargain in itself). He slowed the car to a crawl, leaned across, and wound down the passenger-side window. “Hey, man, where you going?” said Richard. If he’s going to Haddon, he thought, I’ll drop him just inside the city. If he’s going anywhere else, I’ll bid him good day, throw a couple of coins at him, and be on my joyriding way.

  “Is he talking to us?” said the man beneath the hood.

  “I am,” said Richard. “But who the devil are you talking to?” He’s old, Richard thought. Probably got a headful of dead relatives and war buddies.

  “Should I kill him?” said the man, still walking slowly beside the crawling car. “I am being quiet. Are you going to answer the fucking question, or am I going to have to punch you again?”

  Now Richard, who knew a case of alzheimer’s when he saw it, was really concerned for the man’s safety. What if he was lost? What if the poor sonofabitch had put on his hoodie and packed his suitcase that very morning, left his home with every intention of returning, only to now find himself ambling along a busy road, miles away from home and not a bloody clue how to get back there?

  “Are you lost, sir?” said Richard, for he’d been brought up to respect his elders. Steal their cars, by all means, but address them correctly should the need arise. “Are you a bit gone in the old brain, sir?”

  The man punched himself in the face. There was a meaty crack as his balled fist connected with his snout.

  “Don’t do that, sir,” Richard said, swerving to avoid a pothole. “You’re going to do yourself a mischief. Why don’t you hop in the car and we can figure out where you’re going. The car’s nicked, but you probably won’t remember that long enough to grass me up to the HPD.”

  “The rules state,” mumbled the man, still concealed by his hood, “that the body-count must be significantly higher than that of its predecessor, so why are you trying to talk me…yeah, I
appreciate we’re keeping a low profile, but…you know what? Take that.” And he punched himself in the face again.

  “East 17,” said Richard. “Your go.” It was a silly game, but he was willing to bite, at least until the poor guy regained his senses. Thirty seconds later, when it was clear the confused man had forgotten all about the game, Richard said, “It’s getting warm out there, sir. Why don’t you hop in the car and I’ll take you to wherever it is you want to go.”

  The man stopped walking, so suddenly that Richard had to reverse a little. This’ll be a great story to tell Freddy later on, he thought. Picked up a mental hitcher, dropped him off at the hospital. Oh, how they would laugh.

  “Come on, sir, you know it makes sense.”

  “Makes sense,” mumbled the man. He opened the car door and climbed in, placing his battered suitcase in the foot-well between his legs.

  “Fuck, sir, you smell like someone took a shit on your head,” said Richard, for as respectful as he was to his elders, he was as honest as the next man when it came to funky stenches. “You don’t work at the abattoir, do you?”

  “That’s right,” said the man. “I don’t work at the abattoir.”

  “Then what’s with the bloody apron?” asked Richard. “You a butcher or something?”

  “Squeee,” said the man.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said I am a butcher or something.”

  “Well which is it?”

  “Which is what?”

  “Are you a butcher or something?”

  “I already said I was,” said the man. “Are you going into Haddon?”

  “In this car?” Richard said. “Not bloody likely. I can take you to the outskirts, if you like.”

  “How many outskirts does this city have?” asked the man. “I’ve been on the outskirts since I arrived. Can you drop me at the inskirts?”

  “Haddon doesn’t have any,” said Richard as he pulled the car to the side of the road. “Only outskirts, and here we are.”