by Adam Millard
“Sounds good to me.”
“Squeeee!”
“How can you break your banjo?”
And along the never-ending driveway they went, just a band of horny piggies. Nothing to see here, move along. Those standing outside the mansion, just milling around or smoking, watched as the drove of pigs – the collective noun for horny pigs is a fuckit, but in this instance, at least one of the pigs wasn’t horny, just eager to start killing people – made their way toward the manse. One woman, who looked like she had been dragged through a hedge backwards, was doubled over, vomiting over a clematis.
“Aye, aye,” said Paul, who definitely was the leader in this case – and also the one most likely to rabbit punch (piggy pummel?) a fellow orgy-member during coitus. “Looks like Hunter’s spared no expense with security. He motioned toward the two huge men standing between the huge door-frame staring down at a huge clipboard. These were your stereotypical doormen. Black bomber-jackets, Doc Martens, skin-heads, tattoos on their faces.
I don’t like the look of them, said the mask.
“They don’t like the look of us,” said Larry.
“Play it cool, son,” said Paul from the corner of his mouth. “We’ve got our passes, and we’ve adhered to the dress-code.”
“I haven’t,” Larry said. “I’m wearing a white apron with blood down it.”
“Each to their own,” said Paul. “Look, we’ll talk them round. Everyone has their price, especially doormen.”
As they got within spitting distance of the doormen – Larry knew it was spitting distance because something warm and sticky landed on his right hand – the doormen began to mutter to one another. Never a good sign when one wants to gain entrance to somewhere. Even though he had an axe down his trousers, Larry felt more than a little unnerved by these bald gorillas.
“And what do we have here?” said the gorilla on the right. We’ll call him Dum, though not to his face, of course.
“Looks like someone left the sty gate open,” said the other one, Dee, as he gave each of the pigs a once-over. “I’ve seen some shit in my time, but nothing as freaky as this, and I was an altar-boy.”
“Are we late for the pig orgy?” asked Paul, quite confidently, Larry thought, for a man talking to a pair of belt-buckles. He held his ticket out and Dum took it, read it (or at least looked at the picture) and handed it back.
“It ain’t started yet, has it Dee?” said Dum.
“Not that I know of,” said Dum. “There’s a regular orgy on up there at the moment, and they’ll probably have to give everything a good wipe down once they’re finished, so I’d imagine you’ve got time to grab yourself a trough of something nice and sparkly.”
“Ha, I see what you did there,” said Paul. “Trough…very clever…so, if you two strapping gents would like to step aside, we’ll be out of your hai…out of your eyebrows in no time.”
“Not a problem,” said Dum, stepping down off the steps and creating a man-shaped aperture for the drove to make their way through.
“Thanks very much,” said Paul, and he was about to lead the way when—
“Ow!” said Larry. “Take your hairy paws off me!”
Don’t insult the giant, said the mask. Especially when he has his hairy paws on us.
“This one ain’t adhered to the proper dress-code,” said Dum, squeezing Larry’s shoulder harder.
“No, that one definitely can’t come in,” said Dee.
There was a moment of awkward silence, as is to be expected when you’re trying to build an atmosphere, and then Paul said, “Oh, okay. He’s not with us anyway,” before continuing on into the mansion, followed by the majority of his group.
“Whatever happened to honour amongst piggies?” said Cynthia, the only one who remained behind. “Look, boys, what’s it going to take for you to allow my porcine friend here to pass?”
Watch it, Larry, said the mask. I think this one’s got a bit of a soft spot for you.
Judging by the size of her backside, Larry guessed she had a lot of a soft spot, and for anyone brave enough to approach it.
The doormen exchanged a glance. You could hear hamster wheels turning, but only if you listened very carefully. “What do you think, Dee?” said Dum.
“I reckon twenty dollars and a blowy around the back ought to cover it,” said Dee.
“How about thirty dollars and we skip the blowy?” said Cynthia, already rifling through her purse.
“What about thirty-five, and you just appraise our manhoods?” said Dum, hopeful.
“How’s about forty, and I just tell you that they look both look well?” Cynthia held out a pair of notes.
“Deal,” said Dum, snatching the notes and handing one to his partner-in-slime. “And phew. I’ve got this lump that’s really been bothering me, but if you say it’s nothing, then that’s good enough for me.”
“Step aside, boys,” said Cynthia, and she hooked her arm into the crook of Larry’s. “We’ve got some pigs to fuck.”
26
An Alleyway (It’s on Google Maps, if you don’t believe me)
“Jesus Christ!” said Sister Geoff, crossing her heart repeatedly. “Looks like someone shaved Julia Roberts and then gouged her eyes out with a pair of fat thumbs.”
And that was exactly what it looked like. Lying there in the middle of the alleyway, already swamped by opportunistic flies, was Eric Roberts; former movie-star and uncanny lookalike to a current movie starlet.
“I’ve never seen anything so horrible in all my life,” said Mayor Ketchum. “And I was—”
“Let me guess,” said Freddy. “An altar-boy?”
“I was going to say ‘son of a preacher-man’,” said the mayor, “but close enough.”
Sister Geoff prodded the mangled corpse with her foot. “We can’t just leave him out here like this,” she said. “He’s not Gary Busey, you know.”
“We don’t have time to muck about,” said Amanda. “Mayor, can you alert the cops, get them to head over to Harry Hunter’s? Tell them we’ve got a dead nobody in an alleyway that needs picking up, and a star on Hollywood’s Walk of Fame which needs to be scratched off?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the mayor. “I appear to have left my fucking Bat Signal at home.”
“Some mayor,” muttered Sister Geoff.
“Arguing ain’t going to get us anywhere,” said Freddy. He’d gathered a handful of throwing stars which he’d found scattered around the body. He’d never thrown a throwing star before, but how hard could it be?
“Ow, you little prick,” said Sister Geoff as she yanked the throwing star out of her thigh.
Freddy apologised profusely and tucked the remainder of the stars away in his pocket for later.
“Come on,” said Amanda. “Let’s just hope we’re not too late.”
“We’re always too late,” said Sister Geoff.
Which was true.
27
The Hunter Mansion
Sam Treat had spent the last fifteen minutes searching the mansion for Martha, only to find the poor moose upchucking on a clematis out front. The fuckit of pigs she passed on the way outside was a little unsettling, and in pretty poor taste, given the recent murders.
“Are you okay?” Sam said, peeling her assistant’s sick-matted hair away from her face.
“Never better,” said Martha. “Remind me to steer clear of the hors d’oeuvres. I think they’ve been spiked.”
Back in the mansion (it only cost twenty dollars and a blowy out back), Sam cleaned Martha up in the toilets and led her back out into the crowd. “This isn’t the best party we’ve ever been to,” she said. “I think I was expecting more of Harry Hunter.” She had heard all about how Hunter parties were legendary, usually from the point of view of people who’d never been to one. Honestly, she didn’t see what all the fuss was about.
“Worth flying three-thousand-miles for?” said Martha, the colour returning to her cheeks.
Sam plucked a flute of champ
agne from a passing waiter’s tray and downed it in one. The waiter muttered something under his breath – “Thirsty bitch,” it was, not that anyone had heard it – before disappearing into the throng. “In all honesty, I don’t think I’ve ever been so utterly bored in my entire life,” said Sam.
“One more drink and then back to the hotel?” said Martha, optimistically.
“Sounds good to me,” said her beautiful boss as she wiped a hand across her face. “Look at this,” she said, holding said hand out. It was awfully orange. It was so orange that the satsumas sitting in a nearby fruit-bowl got jealous. Sam hadn’t seen anything that orange since David Hasselhoff whipped his dick out at a gig in Germany. It was so orange—
“Can we stop with the orange jokes?” said Martha.
“Sorry, I must have been thinking out loud,” replied Sam. “Okay, one more drink and then we’re offski. Now, where did that waiter get off to?”
‘That waiter’ was getting off to Ivana Hunter’s naked body in the snooker room, and wouldn’t be finished for quite some time.
*
“This is exciting, isn’t it?” said Cynthia. “We’ll be getting off soon.”
“Already?” said Larry. “But we’ve only just arrived.”
“No…I meant…never mind.”
They were standing at the edge of the room, of which there were four. Ten little piggies, all in a row. There was a nursery rhyme in there somewhere, but for the life of him, Larry couldn’t remember it. Something about roast beef and wee-wees…
At the centre of the room stood a hog. A huge, hulking, derobed hog with tusks that looked liable to do some real damage, or cause some real pleasure, depending on which way you looked at it.
Larry looked at it as an obstacle, for when the time came – and it would be very soon, according to his little charred non-penis – the hog would be the first to go.
“Boars and Sows, and if we’re really lucky, gilts,” said the hog.
“What’s a gilt?” asked Larry.
“Virgin pig,” said Cynthia.
“Are you a gilt?” asked Larry.
“Not since I was fourteen,” said Cynthia. “I’ve had more miles of cock than—”
“Can we all pay attention to the hog, please?” said the hog, irritably. Cynthia shut up, for she wanted to be on the right side of those tusks when the time came (“or when she came,” said the parson to the failed actress.) “Thank you. Now, before we start rutting, I want to lay a few ground rules. Some of them are common sense. For example, no chokeholds. We do have a stretcher, and I believe Paul is trained in the art of CPR, but I’d rather not find out just how good he is.”
This was met by snorts and nods of approval. Larry didn’t bother.
“If a sow is not interested in you, do not force yourself upon her. We’re pigs, not Italians. I’m running a three strikes and you’re out policy this afternoon, unless, of course, you’re striking someone for pleasure, in which case, avoid the face. A gentle slap on the ass is worth two in the bush, so to speak.”
A sow at the edge of the room raised her hand.
“Yes?”
“Can we defecate?”
The hog sighed. “I’d rather we didn’t. If you haven’t noticed, everything in this room is white. Everything in the mansion is white, except for those weird champagne sofas. I’m sure the last thing Harry Hunter wants to discover, once we’ve packed up and gone home, is a room full of pig-shit.
The sow nodded solemnly.
“We have…” He looked down at his watch. It was the kind of watch a sexually-confused hog might wear; one of those hulking black things from the 1980s, you know? The ones with a calculator? “Two hours from when I say ‘Soueee’.”
Good job he went for ‘Soueee’, said the mask. We’ve got the trademark on Squeee.
“And finally,” said the hog, “have fun. That’s what we’re here for, after all. Let’s get this party started.”
Nobody moved a muscle.
“I mean ‘Soueee’!”
Everyone rushed for the centre of the room.
Everyone except for Larry, whose limited knowledge of sex and the doing thereof – not to mention the fact his winkle resembled a scorched whelk – would keep him side-lined for the duration.
*
“Wow!” said Freddy, staring up at Hunter’s mansion. “This place is off the hook.”
“Never speak like that again,” said Amanda.
“Fo shizzle,” said Freddy.
The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they approached the manse; four of the most diverse protagonists imaginable, riding into the final battle on invisible horses. As analogies went, it wasn’t much of one, but you get what you pay for.
“Halt!” said one of the giants (Dee) standing outside the mansion’s front door. He was smoking a tailor-made, which was barely visible in his gorilla-sized fist, but the smoke was a dead giveaway.
“Yes! Halt!” said the second giant, Dum, who was smoking a pipe, perhaps to make it easier for the newcomers to differentiate between the two of them. “We’ll have no trouble here today, so go on your merry way and we’ll speak no more about this chance encounter.”
“What the eff are you babbling on about?” said Sister Geoff.
“Ah!” said Dee. “A talking penguin! En-garde!” And with that, he dropped down into a perfect fencer’s stance, if you were happy for your fence to come without trellis.
“Dee?” said Dum. “That is a nun, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Don’t be silly, man!” said the one ready for battle. “Nuns don’t exist in real life. This isn’t fucking Mordor!”
“And talking penguins are ten a penny in Haddon, are they?” said Mayor Ketchum, who had had quite enough of this silliness.
“You,” said Dee, straightening up and taking a pull on his roll-yer-own. “You’re the mayor.”
“I am indeed,” said the mayor.
“Don’t you have any shops you should be opening?” said Dum, snipping at the air with his fingers, of which he only had three, and one of them was a thumb.
“Yes, yes, very funny, ha ha,” said the mayor. “Look, lads, spot of bother. We have reason to believe that there is a killer in there, and he’s about to go full-on Gary Busey on the guests.”
The giants exchanged a dubious glance. Then, they erupted with laughter. Well of course they did. Whoever heard of such nonsense? A killer, indeed.
“We’re telling the truth!” Amanda said, taking a few steps forward. “He’s a real psycho and he’ll stop at nothing to quench his thirst for blood and gore.”
The doormen laughed some more.
“Stop!” said Dum, doubled over and red as an apple (not a green apple, though). “You’re killing me!”
“’He’ll stop at nothing’,” mocked Dee. “For shits and giggles, what does this psycho look like?”
“He wears a pig mask,” said Freddy. “And a white apron, and he likes to say ‘Squeee’ a lot, probably because he has a trademark on it, or something.”
The doormen ceased with their uncontrollable laughter, proving that it wasn’t uncontrollable after all. “A pig mask, you say?” said Dum.
“Yeah,” said Amanda. “You haven’t let anyone in wearing a pig mask, have you?”
“Of course they haven’t,” said Sister Geoff. “That would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it boys?”
The boys nodded in unison, though neither were forthcoming with speech, at least not for thirty seconds or so, by which time Sister Geoff had shimmied halfway up a drainpipe in an attempt to gain entry. One slip later, and she was lying at the giants’ feet, winded, and with a shotgun halfway up her—
“Hunter’s allowing people in as pigs today,” said Dee, scratching his bald phizzog. “There’s an orgy—”
“A pig orgy,” interrupted Dum. “We just let a…what’s the collective noun for horny pigs?”
“A fuckit,” said Freddy.
“We just let a fuckit of pigs into the mansion, an
d they were all wearing pig masks.” Dum pushed his broken nose up so that it resembled a snout.
Amanda couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “How convenient that this pig orgy falls on the same day a maniac in a pig mask comes to town,” said she.
“Synchronicity works in mysterious ways,” said Freddy.
“That’s God,” said Sister Geoff. “And this isn’t synchronicity at work. This is a crazy plot device to get to the end of the…I want to say film, but it feels more like a book.”
“You have to let us in,” Amanda said to the towering doormen.
“No we don’t,” said Dee. “That’s why we’re doormen. We get to pick and choose who gets past us. Sometimes we let a fucking idiot in, but part of the job is knowing that if that happens, we can always throw them back out again later on. Usually by the scruff of their neck, like they used to do in olden days London.”
“He’s in there, and you allowed that to happen,” said the mayor. “Now step aside, before I break out the harsh language and pointy finger.”
“You can go in,” said Dum, “but we’ll have to charge you, the same as we’ve charged everyone else.”
“How much?” said Amanda, checking her purse for change.
“Twenty each and a blowy from the nun,” said Dum. He made a sex face at Sister Geoff. Sister Geoff kicked him in the bollocks.
“That was a bit uncalled for,” said Dee, helping his moaning brethren up from the gravel. “Aren’t nuns supposed to be nice. Gentle and kind?”
“You’re thinking of fairies,” said Sister Geoff. “And I eat fairies for breakfast, so unless you want a hoof to the gonads like your friend here, keep your hands to yourself and step the fuck back.”
Dee did as he was told, and in the process cleared a path to the door.
“Come on,” said the nun, leading the way into the mansion. “I’m drier than a nun’s tasty, if you get my meaning.”
“Gandhi’s flip-flop would have worked better,” said the mayor, following the nun closely.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire, Amanda thought as she crossed the threshold.
*
