Larry 2: The Squeequel

by Adam Millard

  Sister Geoff took a deep breath, then immediately wished she hadn’t for her flatulence was playing merry hell with her today. “What did you just say?” she said.

  “What? Bacon-flavoured bastard?”

  “No, after that,” said Sister Geoff.

  “Wasting it?”

  “After that,” said the nun.

  “Pissing hurry up and…why are you smiling?”

  And the nun was smiling, and it was a good smile, and God saw that it was a good smile and so took a quick picture before the opportunity was lost. “Hold that bastard still,” said the nun. “I’ve drunk a lot of punch and I’ve got an idea.”

  “Well whatever it is,” said Freddy, wrestling the axe away from the lunatic. “I can’t hold him much longer!”

  “Do it!” screeched Amanda.

  And so Sister Geoff did it. And how she did it would go down in history (at least in some parts, where they had nothing better to talk about). She pulled her knickers down, stepped over Pigface, and squatted.

  “Ew, what the fu—” But Freddy didn’t get a chance to finish as Pigface’s fist connected a good one with his jaw, loosening a few teeth and giving him a temporary lisp. “Ith alright!” he said. “I’ve got him!” And he grabbed onto Pigface’s arm once again, this time pinning it with his knee.

  “She’s going to piss on him!” said Mayor Ketchum.

  “Holy water!” said Amanda. “Whatever passes through her comes out as holy water.”

  “Doesn’t someone have to bless it first?” said Freddy.

  “Will you lot be quiet,” said the nun. “And turn your heads away. I’m not proud of this.”

  They did as they were told and, a moment later, a torrent did gush from the nun. Now, they say you can tell a person’s diet from the colour of their urine. If it is clear, you’re drinking just the right amount of water; if it is bright orange, you are at risk and might need to see a doctor; it it’s red, chances are it’s not blood, but last night’s beetroot.

  “Why’s it purple?” said Freddy, sneaking a look.

  “Never mind that,” said the nun, forcing more piss from her system. “Look!”

  And they all looked down at Pigface, who was screeching and writhing like never before. Not only that, but now a thick smoke was rising from the body. “It’s working,” said Amanda. “I don’t believe it. It’s fucking working!”

  Pigface was bucking as hard as he could, and yet he couldn’t shake off those holding him in place. “The power of Christ compels you!” said the nun, more for dramatic effect than anything else. The pig mask, still trying to reform, began to melt. There was a horrible rubbery smell, like burning tyres, and one of Pigface’s feet came loose in the mayor’s hand.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” said the mayor, examining the foot – the left one, made famous by…and so on and so forth – before tossing it down the corridor. “Is he dead yet?”

  Sister Geoff stopped urinating for a moment and wafted the smoke away with her hand, the one with HATE written across the knuckles. “If he’s alive, he’s a bloody good actor.”

  Just then, and all of a sudden, Freddy lost control of Pigface’s right hand – not famous by any stretch of the imagination – and it clamped around Sister Geoff’s throat, squeezing tightly. Luckily, the nun still had some piss left in the pipe, and she forced it out as hard as she could.

  “SQUEEEEEEEEEEEE!” said Pigface as his hand fell away from the nun’s throat. “Squeee-youbastards-eeeeee!” he also said, which was remarkable, really, considering his face looked like something you could order at a Korean takeaway.

  “Go to Hell!” said Amanda.

  “Yeah, what she said,” added Freddy.

  A minute later, all that remained of Pigface was a bloody and piss-soaked apron, a melted and piss-soaked pig-mask, and a rusty and piss-soaked axe.

  “Everybody freeze!” said a voice, and through the smoke came the Wallowiczes, guns drawn, brows furrowed. “I hope you’ve got a license for that urinating nun.”

  “Not like you guys to be late,” said the mayor.

  Bobwallowicz shot him in the leg.

  28

  Outside the Hunter Mansion

  If this were a film – which it isn’t, and probably never will be – soft music would be playing over the top of the heroes as they milled around, being interviewed by the press and authorities. Parked at the end of the driveway was a solitary ambulance. Next to that was a coroner’s van, which was already filled to capacity with mutilated bodies and severed limbs. Harry Hunter was talking to a pretty reporter, no doubt trying to coax her into appearing in a forthcoming production. She was, however, a consummate professional, and only agreed to appear in Cockmunchers III if the price was right.

  Standing just outside the entrance to the mansion are our heroes, and it is here that we join them for a final bit of nonsense before this story draws to a close.

  “I can’t believe it’s over,” said Amanda.

  “I can’t believe I saw a nun take a piss,” said Freddy.

  “Yeah, sorry about that,” said Sister Geoff. She wasn’t, though. Not really.

  “Well, I’m just glad everything worked out in the end,” said the mayor, who was just glad everything worked out in the end. He was sitting on a deckchair while a paramedic saw to his leg wound. “I always knew Haddon would be put on the map. I never imagined it would be because of an undead mass murderer.”

  “Do you think people will believe us?” said Freddy. “About Pigface, I mean?”

  “I don’t think I believe us,” said Amanda. “But you never hear about the aftermath, do you? All that explaining to the police, and whatnot, sort of gets forgotten.”

  “In that case,” said Sister Geoff, “do you think they’d notice if I scarpered? I’m due back at the nunnery. Don’t want to be late for heavy metal night.”

  Amanda searched the vicinity for the Wallowiczes. “I’m sure they’d understand,” she said. “Nuns are very busy people, what with all the praying and not having sex and stuff. If they ask, I’ll let them know where to find you.”

  Sister Geoff turned to Freddy. “You owe me some weed, Escobar.”

  Freddy laughed.

  “I’m not joking, you prick.”

  Freddy stopped laughing and took to farting.

  “Thanks again, Sister Geoff,” said Amanda, and the nun scarpered sharpish.

  “Well, all’s well that ends well,” said Mayor Ketchum.

  “That’s a terrible line to end the story on,” said Amanda.

  “What happened to the secondary characters?” asked Freddy. “That supermodel and her moose friend?”

  A screech of tyres from the road beyond the mansion gates was quickly followed by the squealing of twisting metal and two nasty sounding thuds (one slightly louder than the other), proving once and for all that it didn’t pay to be a minor character in genre fiction.

  29

  “Oh no, you di-n’t”

  The ambulance tore through the streets, its casualty a rather large fellow missing a foot. His left foot, in fact, made famous by—

  “We’re losing him!” said the paramedic, a guy by the name of Hicks.

  The second paramedic, Hudson, began pumping the footless man’s chest. “Damn it, man, not on my watch!” said he. And then in the next breath: “Oh, he’s gone.” He ceased CPR. It was a waste of energy, according to the flat-line running across the screen of the beeping machine to their right. Best to chalk this one up to a bad day at the office. After all, we all have them.

  “Hang on a jiffy,” said Hicks, pointing to the machine, which had ceased its incessant beeping. “I believe we have a live one.”

  And a live one they did have. The bald gorilla with the missing foot had started breathing again. Not only that, but it looked like he was trying to say something through his oxygen mask.

  “Hang on, buddy,” said Hudson, removing the oxygen mask so that he could better hear. “What are you trying to say, mate
?”

  And the footless man said one word and one word only, and that word meant not a jot to the paramedics in the back of that ambulance, who were too busy wondering what they were having for tea to make anything of it.

  “Squeee…” grunted the artist formerly known as Dee.

  Squeee indeed.

  THE END

  (Until next year…)