Larry 2: The Squeequel

by Adam Millard

  “Where’s Ivana? Ivana?” Harry glanced about the place, searching for his delightful wife, as did everyone else. Eventually, she appeared from one of the adjacent rooms, slightly breathless and with her thong in her pocket (not that pocket). “Ah, beautiful wife of mine,” said Hunter over the raucous applause. “Doesn’t she look beautiful today, people?”

  “As beautiful as anyone who’s had ten mile of cock can look,” muttered someone in the crowd, but fortunately it went mostly unheard. Those in the near vicinity of said line stifled sniggers. It was all in good jest, but then it always was when it wasn’t your own wife on the receiving end. And Ivana Hunter had been on many a receiving end.

  Harry Hunter pulled his wife in beneath his arm and waited until the crowd died down once again before speaking. “Many of you are still in the industry. Some of you have retired from it, slightly diseased but with a decent pension, and, well, some of you are here for the free food and, dare I say, finger buffet taking place right now in the master bedroom.” This got a few laughs, but then it would, wouldn’t it? “But I want you all to know that Ivana and I consider each and every one of you friends.”

  “With benefits,” said Ivana, licking her lips seductively. A woman emerged from the adjacent room – the one Ivana had emerged from only a moment ago – and let herself out the back door. Some people think bisexuals are just greedy, but they’re just jealous only one side of the stamp is sticky for themselves.

  “This party is going to be happening all day and all night, so make sure you pace yourselves.” Hunter motioned to the punch-pond to his right. People were gathered around it, wielding ladles and pint glasses. “Or get shit-faced and have a good time, whatever floats your boat. I’m pleased to announce that the pool is now open for those of you that brought your costumes,” — a huge cheer erupted in the hall — “and if you haven’t brought a costume, don’t let that stop you. We have an excellent pool-cleaner, Jiminéz. He specialises in pubic hairs and—”

  “Darling,” said Ivana. “Let’s not embarrass Jimi.” At the side of the room, a man holding a net and a pair of waders blushed. The crowd erupted with laughter once again, proving that they would laugh at pretty much anything, providing there was free booze at the end of it.

  “Sorry about that,” said Hunter. “Sorry Jiminéz,” he added, drawing attention to the man at the edge of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, that’s Jiminéz right there. If anyone has an accident in the pool, he’ll be there, net ready—”

  “Harry,” whispered Ivana.

  “Yes, indeed, righty-ho! Everyone, please enjoy yourselves, and if you need anything, I’ll be knocking about the place. Mi casa es su casa, and whatnot.” And with that, the crowd went wild. Hunter and Ivana moved through the sea of people, Hunter leading the way, and arrived at Sam Treat, supermodel extraordinaire, and her apparently handicapped assistant.

  “So pleased you could make it, Sam,” Hunter said, leaning in and kissing the supermodel upon at least three of her cheeks. Ivana hissed like an angry cat, but that was just the way she was. “And you are?”

  “I’m Martha,” said Martha.

  Hunter looked taken aback. “Oh!” said he. “It can talk, how wonderful!”

  Martha knocked back her champagne and took herself off to the toilet, where she would cry for a few moments before taking a massive dump in the golden cistern.

  “It’s been too long,” said Hunter. “The last time I saw you, you were down here.” He held his hand about waist height. Ivana hissed again. “I meant she was but a child,” said the former lothario to his wife (not to be confused with the bishop to the clown, nor the hooker to the priest). “How is life in your neck of the woods, Sam?”

  “It’s been something of a nightmare recently,” said Sam, grabbing a full glass from a passing waiter’s tray. “Lost a couple of contracts; Maybelline, Estee Lauder, Scalextric.”

  “I hear Willy Wonka’s hiring,” slurred Ivana.

  “Now, dear,” Hunter said. “Play nice.” To Sam he said, “My apologies, Sam. I haven’t changed her litter tray for a few days, and she’s starting to get a bit testy. Now where were we?”

  Sam didn’t want to dwell on her recent failings, and so changed the subject pretty smartish. “Loving the mansion,” she said. “Everything’s so…white.”

  “Ah,” said Hunter. “That was Ivana’s idea. The stains don’t show up as much on white, but those champagne sofas can be a nightmare to scrub. I told her, I said let’s get white sofas, but too much white can be counterproductive, apparently.”

  “So they say,” said Sam. “You’ll have to excuse the current hue. Bit of a mix-up at the tanning salon. Heads will roll.”

  “I’m sure they already have,” said Hunter, turning to an invisible camera and tapping knowingly at his nose.

  “What was that?” asked Sam. “You playing up to the 3D? I don’t think we’re quite there yet.”

  “It was…just…I was…never mind,” said Hunter. “So, are you here for the duration?”

  “I was going to stick around for a few days,” Sam said, “but that might not be the case anymore, not while there’s a masked maniac on the loose. We all know what happens to the bimbos in such situations.”

  “We do indeed,” said Ivana, surreptitiously grabbing a handful of crotch belonging to a passing waiter. He made a strange noise in his throat, handed Ivana a drink, and limped away, off to the kitchen to…readjust himself.

  “Terrible things happening out there in the real world,” said Hunter, motioning to the huge window to their right. “I remember the days you could leave your front door unlocked. Try doing that in this day and age. You’d be de-pantsed and buggered by a member of ISIS within the hour. And then while you’re lying there, sobbing into your Horlicks, along comes a drone to finish the job the sodomising terrorist started. It really is a terrible state of affairs.”

  “I’m not sure it’s all that bad, dear,” said Ivana.

  “Really? Try telling that to the poor old dear who only popped into town for a pack of beef jerky a few years ago.” Hunter shook his head and clicked his tongue. “Horrible, horrible day that was, especially for the men involved.”

  “Did I miss anything?” said Martha, returning from the bathroom with her slap reapplied and just the right amount of toilet paper protruding from her skirt.

  Ivana Hunter vomited into her glass. Harry Hunter apologised profusely (“She’s never been very good with animals,”) before dragging his wife away to get her cleaned up.

  “Great party,” Martha said as she danced The Running Man, followed quickly by The Panting Man. “Whew. Fancy a swim?”

  23

  An Alleyway (We’ve Been Here Once Before, Remember?)

  Eric Roberts was halfway through arranging his DVD collection (Best of the Best, Best of the Best 2 – it wasn’t much of a collection, but why would it be? He had nothing to play them on) when a woman burst into the alleyway, screaming bloody murder. Actually, what she was screaming was, “Help! Help! There’s a psycho in a pig mask and he’s trying to kill me! Help! Help!” Eric Roberts almost fell out of his tree.

  As the screaming woman passed beneath him – silly heels to be wearing if you’re being pursued by a maniac – Eric leapt down, pulled his gi tight, and did three press-ups, for it was suicide going into battle without a half-decent warm-up. By the time he was back on his feet, the psycho was standing just a few metres away, regarding him warily. And rightly so, thought Eric Roberts. I’m an ass-kicking maniac, liable to go full-on Gary Busey at any moment.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Eric Roberts said to the porcine freak, who wasn’t thinking anything, really, other than the woman who had just got away. “You’re thinking I look a lot like Eric Roberts, aren’t you?”

  “Who?” said Pigface.

  “Eric Roberts. You know? Famous movie star.”

  “I’ve heard of Julia Roberts,” said Pigface. “Never heard of an Eric Roberts.”

  “Well yo
u’re hearing of one now, chump!” said Eric Roberts – the Eric Roberts, from the movies – as he moved into a fighting stance. “And you sure picked the wrong alleyway to chase screaming women through. Prepare to meet thy—”

  “Thy?” said Pigface. “Are you a fucking musketeer or something?”

  “If I was, would you be a little bit more scared of me?”

  “A little.”

  “Then call me Porthos and prepare to have the shit kicked out of you.” And with that, Eric Roberts unleashed a torrent of blows upon the man in the pig mask; some of them even connected.

  Who does this guy think he is? said the mask as a flukey jab clobbered it just below the eyehole. We don’t have time for this nonsense.

  “I don’t have time for this nonsense,” said Eric Roberts, breathless and sweaty and doubled over, gasping for air. “Return from whence you came and we’ll call it quits.”

  Pigface sighed and pulled the axe from the belt of his trousers. “Squeeeeeee!” said he, bringing the axe around in a wide arc. Eric Roberts threw up an arm, and watched, helplessly, as it flew off into the distance.

  “That was my hitting arm!” said Eric Roberts.

  Go for his kicking leg! urged the mask, and Pigface did just that, swinging the axe low and true. As the leg fell away, the man in the Karate gi tottered back and forth, face ashen, boxers full.

  “Okay, we’ll call it a draw,” said Eric Roberts, “but only because you caught me on an off day. Go on. Away with you, before I change my mind!”

  “Squeeeeeeeeee!” squeeed Pigface. So bored had he become of decapitating people that he dropped the axe and lunged for the man in the gi, knocking him backwards. He landed on top of the half-person, growling and snarling, and pushed his thumbs into the man’s eye-sockets. There was an audible pop! and then blood began to seep from the hollows.

  “My seeing eyes!” screamed Eric Roberts. “You absolute bastard!”

  Put him out of his misery, mumbled the mask. It’s something his agent should have done years ago.

  “Run away now, before it’s too late!” said the blind, one-armed, one-legged former movie-star. “I’m warning you, this won’t end well for you!”

  Pigface had had enough. It was bad enough that he’d lost a kill because of this prick; the silly fucker didn’t know when he’d been bested. Best of the Bested?

  That’s a terrible joke, said the mask. Don’t let it happen again.

  Latching on to either side of the man’s head, Pigface twisted as hard as he could. There was an almighty crack, and then Eric Roberts fell very still – apart from the occasional twitch, which was to only be expected.

  Three thousand miles away, on the set of her latest masterpiece, Julia Roberts’ suddenly threw her arms back and dropped to her knees. An ethereal light swirled around her, fizzing magically. “There can be only one!” she cried.

  Hard to believe, but true.

  24

  A Bus

  “What’s wrong with that girl’s eyes?” asked a rotund lady sitting on the seats (I said she was rotund) opposite. “Where have her pupils fucked off to?”

  Sister Geoff, who had taken up position in the middle of the aisle, said, “She’s currently in a trance which gives her access to the mind and vision of a geriatric pig-faced slasher from Camp Diamond Creek.”

  “Oh,” said the talking circle. “She should see a doctor about that.”

  “It’s too late to start a new running joke now,” said the nun. “If you’re interested, we’ve got one about watches. You could always give that a shot.”

  The rotund woman glanced down at her watch, for she always liked to get involved in running jokes. Plus, you had a much better chance of appearing in the final book if you were seen to be interacting with the main lot. It was a pity, then, that she hadn’t seen her watch since 1991. It was there – beneath the layers of arm fat – but it was about as easy to get to as the International Space Station. It was also the reason her left hand was constantly blue.

  Forgetting the watch, she turned her attention back to her book: How to Engage Strangers on a Bus for Idiots.

  “This one’s gone on for a bit,” said Mayor Ketchum. He was sitting to Amanda’s right, in a piece of chewing-gum, in fact, but that’s not important right now. “Should we give her a gentle slap, or something?”

  “I dare you,” said Freddy, who was sitting to Amanda’s left, holding her back by the shoulder so that she didn’t topple forward and face-plant the bus floor. The mayor had already pulled back an open hand when Freddy added, “It was a joke, Mayor. Never wake a sleeping baby. Let sleeping dogs lie. Never slap a trancing woman, and all that.” The mayor retracted his hand, and not a moment too soon as Amanda’s eyes rolled down into the correct position, and she regarded him suspiciously.

  “Were you going to slap me?” she said.

  “Of course not,” said the mayor.

  “Yes you were,” said Sister Geoff. “You said ‘This one’s gone on for a bit. Should we give her a—”

  “Few more minutes to come round,” interrupted the mayor, shooting evils at the nun. Turning back to Amanda, he said, “What did you see?”

  Amanda frowned. “It was really bizarre,” she said. “I saw Julia Roberts in a gi, but she looked…ill.”

  “That’s not Julia Roberts,” said the mayor. “That’s her brother, Eric.”

  “Never heard of him,” said Sister Geoff.

  “He’s a bit of a hobo,” the mayor went on. “We let him sleep in a tree in an alleyway. He keeps himself to himself.”

  “What happened to him?” asked Freddy.

  “Well, after The Dark Knight, he went full-on Gary Busey—”

  “No,” said Freddy. “I meant what happened to him in Amanda’s vision.”

  “Pigface lopped an arm and leg off and gouged his eyes out,” said Amanda.

  “Shit!” said the mayor, and a very apt use of the word it was, too. “That means he’s almost at the Hunter mansion. It’s only a few streets away from Roberts’ alleyway.”

  “Can this thing go any faster?” Sister Geoff bellowed at the driver.

  The driver put his foot down, thusly managing to get 40kph out of the bus.

  “Not really worth it, was it?” said the nun. “Good job Keanu Reeves isn’t on this bus. We’d be fucking incinerated by now.” A child, no older than four, tugged on Sister Geoff’s tunic, revealing the shotgun she had secreted there. “Bang!” said the nun, and the child, rushing back to its mother – who was too busy talking on her phone to notice – began to cry.

  “God help us all,” said the mayor.

  And the bus trickled onward.

  25

  The Hunter Mansion

  Well, this looks like it could be fun, said the mask.

  Larry stood at the end of the driveway, staring up at the house and the people mingling just outside its huge doors, smoking, chatting, and drinking from crystal flutes. “Perfect place for a final showdown,” said Larry. He’d just had a strange vision in which a nun had reduced a child to tears. “This is where we’ll find our final girl.”

  Well, we can’t just rock up at the party looking like this, said the mask, and rightly so.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Larry. “I forgot to pack my tuxedo on account that I don’t fucking own one.”

  Alright, Porky, we’ll just have to improvise.

  “If, by improvise, you mean kill everyone in sight, then I can give it a bloody good go.” He reached for his axe.

  “Excuse me?”

  Larry did an about turn, and then did a squeal. Standing there, in glamorous tuxedos and dresses (not at the same time, of course) were a group of people wearing pig masks. It would have been ridiculous, under any other circumstances…no, it was ridiculous. Just plain ridiculous under these circumstances.

  “You must have missed the memo,” said the one at the front. The one at the front is normally the leader, and that certainly appeared to be the case here. “We agreed to meet at
The Swan with Two Dicks instead of outside the gates.”

  Larry shrugged, for he was completely bereft of words. Unfortunately, his mask wasn’t. What the fuck is going on here? it said. This must be some kind of nightmare. Did you fall asleep again, you daft cu—

  “I hope we’re not late for the pig orgy,” muffled a woman’s voice. “Paul, we’re not going to be late for the pi—”

  “No, Cynthia, we’re not late,” said the leader – Paul, apparently. He glanced down at his watch. It was a cross-dresser’s watch, inasmuch as it wasn’t exactly sure what the time was, but whatever the time was, it just felt right. “Honestly, it’s like she’s never been to a pig orgy before.”

  Larry snorted. “Amateurs,” said he, for it seemed the right kind of thing to say.

  This is perfect, said the mask. Play along. These buffoons are our ticket inside.

  “Do you have your ticket to get inside?” asked Paul.

  Fuck, said the mask.

  Larry patted himself down. “Shit!” he said. “It must have fallen out of my pocket on the way here.”

  “You don’t have any pockets,” said Paul.

  “That’s why I don’t have a ticket then,” said Larry.

  Just then, the one called Cynthia stepped forward, and in her hand were two tickets. “You might as well have Sid’s,” she said, handing Larry one of the tickets. “He chickened out at the last minute.”

  Well, thank you, Sid, said the mask.

  “Thank you Cynthia,” said Larry. He glanced down at the ticket, which was printed on special paper, as most orgy invites are (not that I’d know). “Squeal like a piggy at Harry Hunter’s Pig Orgy!” Larry said, reading the ticket verbatim.

  “It’s a Deliverance reference,” said Paul. “You know, with the banjos and the toothless rednecks?”

  “I once knew a man who broke his banjo during a particularly frantic wank,” said Cynthia.

  The male members of the pig-masked group suddenly crossed their legs and hissed through their teeth. “Thanks for sharing that,” said Paul. “Shall we go inside?”