by Wayne Hill
Splinter is simply standing there sipping from his flask. He had zoned out after the first sentence. He is fully aware of the self-righteous bilge these space-whores peddle. Like most, he had been subjected to it from childhood. Whilst the High Priest was prattling to his minions, Splinter forces his drunken eyes to observe the priests — all of them. They all appeared to be in the final stages of the Dionysius virus. Even allowing for a lack of alcohol, they would not have shown these end-phase symptoms had they caught the virus on Earth. It is obvious to Splinter that these priests had knowingly infected the crew of the Golden Falcon before they reached Earth.
The High Priest is getting increasingly animated and is continually glancing from his men to Splinter and back, steadily building himself into a frenzy. Splinter is just starting to once more pay attention to the High Priest’s words, when the stork of man roars, “Filthy creature!” and back hands Splinter’s flask from his lips.
The flask is attached to a swivelled lanyard and so all that happens is that it briefly orbits Splinter’s body before he dextrously snatches it out of the air on its return pass.
Splinter sips from his flask and his face literally darkens — a roiling black sea of swirls occludes his face. The little fucker! Splinter thinks. The audacity of it! There’s some pantomime villain shit, right there! And he thinks I’m a Demon. He should meet Talon.
He has a mental image of Talon tearing the High Priest in half with his bare hands and laughing.
Splinter smiles. His scarred, blue-stained drooling face hikes itself into a gruesome rictus.
The High Priest is still ranting. Splinter’s silence and inaction is no doubt emboldening the man. He is lost in the moment, lost in his beguiling rhetoric. Entranced by the power of his own words. However, some of the more observant priests have seen Splinter’s insane grin, and the smartest amongst those are sidling away.
Jabbing a long finger into Splinter’s chest, the High Priest says, “Fellow brothers, this is by far the worst soul I have ever encountered. This woe-begotten beast, this malevolent creature, this troubled soul, this scared man is afraid even of his own shadows. He forces his foul, dark path on his rodent brethren, in the squalor of their unclean lives. He is the one that has cursed us! He is the reason why we suffer! He has cursed everyone on this sacred craft with his depravity, his debauchery, and his unrepentant ways! Spawned from the darkness, this creature is darkness itself. He is the son of a demon and his mother is foulness! He is War and Death. He brought forth this— this—”
A persistent tugging on his robe — all his fellow priests had now seen Splinter’s churning face and Death’s head smile — was somewhat distracting the High Priest.
“— filthy creature of the abyss!” the High Priest persisted, wrenching his robe free from the other Believers. He was very close to Splinter now. The spittle that flew from the High Priest’s rabidly ranting mouth was mixing on Splinter’s face with his own blue-tinted saliva. But, despite his proximity, the High Priest barely heard Splinter’s words.
“Take back what you said about my mother.”
The High Priest — clearly learning nothing about Splinter’s aversion to touch from the Believer with the broken wrist, who is still mewling at their feet — imperiously laid a hand on Splinter’s chest. “The only thing I will take back, Demon, is you. I shall take you back to the pit of filth from which you were spawned — the rotten womb your mother nurtured—”
There was a loud crackle as Splinter snapped three of the High Priests’ fingers. He did not just break them, he ripped them off. Blood fountains an impressive distance from the stumps. Throwing the severed digits aside, Splinter stamps on the High Priest’s right shin with his heavy metal blast boots, causing multiple bone shards to protrude through the man’s leg.
These actions were done so rapidly by the deceptively fast drunkard that the High Priest has no time to scream.
The pain starting to filter into his addled brain now, the High Priest’s face distorts, his mouth opens to scream. But before a sound can be uttered — or the tall man can collapse from his shattered leg — Splinter shoves his fist in the priest’s gaping mouth. Grabbing the High Priest’s lower mandible, Splinter wrenches it towards the floor, dislocating it. Arm wrapped around the High Priest’s neck, half cradling, half choking, Splinter force feeds blue space grog into the man’s spluttering mouth, like a demented mother feeding an overgrown baby.
“Mary Salem fed me milk! She fed me milk from a bottle, like this! Have you had enough milk, baby? Is it time for your nap, little one?”
By this time, some of the priests had come to their superior’s aid. They had surrounded Splinter and are raining blows down on him as the pair sink to the ground. Luckily, these were men that got other people to fight for them. They got in each other’s way and their blows were amateurish. But even a little breeze will level a mountain over centuries, and Splinter was soon bleeding in multiple places.
“The kindest woman in the entire universe,” he continues to yell at the High Priest he is waterboarding with booze. “She died and I just have this vague memory of her, but it’s not her. I’ve lost her, now. Banished away from all my family by you. By you and your Believers. Can you imagine the horror? Can you?”
More kicks and punches fly in — some hitting the High Priest, most hitting Splinter — but nothing could avert Splinter from his vengeance, now. The Devil, himself, would bow aside. Splinter burns with the hotness of revenge, retribution his only goal. Punishment and pain, both received and inflicted, is cathartic to Splinter. He needs to do this, experience this.
“I never got to see her!” he screams, his blood dripping from his face to mix with the blue grog flowing down the High Priest’s throat. “She drew her last breath without any of her family around her. Some say she died of a broken heart. My father died first. He died from a heart attack caused by the stress that I put my family through. My mother, having lost all of her family, ebbed away. Some say she spent hours just staring out over the Barrens from the top of the Drumcroon facility. Looking for her son. You filthy little wasp! Does that sound demonic to you? Do you hear me? You were right about one thing, though. My heart died many years ago. Now I’m the thing you see before you. The creature you created. Moulded, nurtured, and fed on your filthy lies. Do you hear me, in there? You made this happen! You created me! And, at the place I’m sending you to, you will soon find out there are always worse places to be. Death is but a brief respite from pain. And you will suffer just as my mother did. I promised her I would do this to you. I’ve been waiting so long for you!”
Under a blizzard of fists and feet, Splinter bites a huge chunk out of the High Priest’s ear. Forces the choking, wild-eyed High Priest to watch, Splinter chews and swallows the cartilaginous flesh, red and blue stains on his chin.
Feeling much better, Splinter drops the gasping high Priest, and blasts away many of his assailants with his arm-cannon. He intercepts a man’s fist and arm with the mouth of his arm-cannon and blasts the man’s hand and forearm bones into another Priest, a haggard looking priest who has just pulled a small laser pistol.
Having cleared a path, Splinter throws the broken High Priest over his shoulder and limps into the nearby transport craft. The priests hurl insults after the stinky harlequin, pick themselves up and, fumbling and falling over themselves, they make chase. One by one, the priests follow Splinter and their superior into the dark shadows of the transport craft. They find their leader curled up in a corner mumbling. One Priest thinks he overhears something along the lines of ‘Fools,’ but this is all but drowned out by the sound of the transport’s door slamming shut behind them.
Splinter had emerged from the transport craft as soon as the last priest had bolted into the dark. As he closes the door, he remotely accesses the transport ship’s autopilot and sends it the coordinates of prison planet Earth. As the ship’s lights flicker on, and the transport rises into the air, he can see angry faces and shiny, bald heads in some of the
port holes.
Enjoy the trip, dickheads! Splinter thinks, shaking his head. His tongue explores his mouth, searching out which teeth are wobbly, and which are missing. Only two missing and three wobbly. Result.
Splinter tries to take a large gulp of space grog from his flask, and then realises that he used it all up half-drowning that arsehole High Priest. Totally worth it, he smiles, shaking sparse droplets from his flask into his ever-thirsty mouth. Still, time to get another drink. Spitting blood from his mouth, he cackles and hobbles off to join the rest the of his lawless, brothers-in-grime.
A thought, a simple mathematical pondering, strays into Splinter's fluffy mind as he limps into an elevator.
“Well, this is going swimmingly,” he chuckles. “Three hundred and thirty-nine down, one thousand six hundred and sixty-one to go. Fuck ‘em all!”
2
On the way back to the control room no one stands in Splinter’s way, no one looks him directly in the eyes.
Strange, thinks Splinter. It’s been a while since I’ve seen so many sober people. Is this how I used to feel? So afraid? So cowed?
Splinter sees a burly man holding two women, both are weeping. The man’s head is bowed over them, as if to shield them from Splinter. He feels nothing towards drunken people or cowards, but this strikes a chord within him. Grimacing a bit, he walks onwards.
The faces of the people he encounters show that they have surrendered to hopelessness. They have accepted their death at the hands of the invisible virus of the god of wine and revelry. He has seen the look thousands of times. They are resigned to a fate they can hardly imagine, at the edge of a void, staring downwards.
He thinks, When the smouldering hits them they might have wished that they had tried harder, but by then it will be far too late. He pictures their fingers shooting off like bullets and them feeling a burning start in their pants. He smirks to himself, but his drunken heart is not in it.
Splinter keeps his head down so as not to make eye contact with anyone else. Their tears, their pain, just hurts his head. He follows the brightly lit corridor. Slowly it curves right, his mission objective — the express elevators to the command deck — not far away.
Something isn’t right. A feeling of intense cold covers him, like a giant snow-clad mitten. Further down the corridor he can make something out. There is a familiar form at the end of the corridor. A girl stands facing the white wall, hands covering her face, sobbing. His icy mantle doubles, trebles, quadruples as he walks towards her — it is like he is pushing through arctic molasses. She has long, red hair flowing down her broad back. She is wearing an off-the-shoulder dress, in the gypsy style. The dress is painfully recognisable. Emerald green, made from old-parachute silk, it was her favourite. She always wore it whenever she sang in The Weeping Willow.
“Marie-Ann!” roars Splinter.
He wants to run to her but is frozen with shock.
“My Ophelia,” he whispers, his eyes filling with tears.
Slowly he staggers towards his long-dead love, calling her. She turns to face Splinter, as if in slow-motion, hands still covering her tear-streaked face. She lets her hands drop from her face and her skin is pale and angelic. There are no black swirls there. The only darkness on her face is from the running of her mascara — a sight he always found strangely appealing. She looks scared, as he approaches her, and slides down the wall into a crouch. Holding her knees, her head resting on her forearms, she weeps. And sings.
As he edges towards Marie-Ann, he can hear her sing Stretched On Your Grave. He can almost touch her now. His hand reaches out ...
...she begins to vanish. Dissolving like early morning mist, like a wraith ... like the ghost she is. As she fades away, her beautiful porcelain skin grows dark, whipping cables. Her face transforms so it more resembles her face as he will always remember it, as she died in his arms, under their willow tree.
He freezes, arms stretched towards her, juggling vapour.
“No! No, no, no. Don’t go, sweetheart. Please. Don’t. I’ve missed you. Marie-Ann!”
“You were never a mean boy, Tommy.” Soft, retreating.
“I’m sorry, my love. I’ll — I’ll be better. I’ll be good again. P-please don’t leave me again. Not again. Please, God! No! Marie-Ann!”
But there is nothing. Just a white, sterile corridor. And the faint hint of her perfume. Soon even this is gone. Tears spill down Splinter’s ruined cheeks. His vision blurs, as fresh tears replace those shed.
His arm-cannon starts to charge, involuntarily, and black lines dart around on his face like negatives of lightning. He screams. Thirty years of pent-up pain erupts from his chest. He places his hand on his head hoping to hold in his brain. There are stabbing pains behind his eyes, like embedded shards of glass sadistically being moved. Heat suddenly radiates from his hand, heating his head, making the pain worse. He removes his hand from his head and looks at it. Steam is fizzing from every pore. It is as if somebody has placed millions of microscopic kettles beneath his skin.
“Shit!”
He puts his arm-cannon over his head and presses a few buttons. Scotch pours into his waiting mouth, but the steam seems to be getting worse. He tries to contact the control room, but he falters, the corridor swimming before his eyes, and collapses in a steaming heap.
Voices swim into his consciousness:
“Is this what is going to happen to us?”
“I fucking hope not! Give me a hand here —”
The voices muffle and depart.
The next sensation is weightlessness.
Then dragging.
A familiar smell electrifies Splinter’s nose. It is the comforting odour of space grog. And wet dog. (Lemon and Pug must be near.) His eyelids slowly begin to winch open. He finds himself surrounded by his piratical comrades ... and three people he does not recognise. Sober people. They soon identify themselves as his rescuers.
“I suppose you’ll be expecting a fucking medal, or something, hey?” Splinter slurs to them, steam still pouring from his boots. His slurred speech not only down to alcohol consumption but partly due to the extreme body temperature generated by the Dionysius virus which has almost fried parts of his brain. Splinter grabs a half-empty bottle of Napoleonic brandy from Lemon’s hand and necks some before belching loudly.
“Well, forget it! I don’t have time for this.” He walks over to Captain Levy. “Walk with me, Levy. And take that stupid fucking Captain Levy look off your face, or I’ll fucking bite it off!”
Splinter feels anger burning inside him just looking back at those scar-free, perfect faces that had saved his life. Perfect faces infuriate him. At least he had punched some character into Levy’s face. His thoughts swirl and are not his own. The Dionysius virus is eating at his brain. Thinking is harder. Everything is harder. Black snakes dance on his skin. He had seen Marie-Ann. It may had been a fever dream, a hallucination, but it seemed real. And she was mad at him. He had to make it up to her. Somehow.
“Come on, Levy,” he says, slamming the brandy bottle into the USA Captain’s chest, “and for fuckssake drink some of this!”
“Er, w-what?” stammers Levy. He does not really like brandy, but seeing just how ill, tired and pissed off Splinter is, he does not want to provoke the irascible man. Glancing at Splinter’s arm-cannon and then back to the bottle, Levy reconsiders his approach. “Oh, what the hell! Can’t live forever, can we?”
Levy wipes some blue gunk off the top of the brandy bottle with a clean part of his sleeve and takes a large swig of brass-coloured liquid. He suddenly feels solids in his mouth and looks down at the bottle in his hand. There are multiple bits floating and swirling in the bottle. Pieces of half-chewed miscellanea. Cheeks bloated with brandy, eyes boggling, Levy vomits. He fountains out the contents of his stomach and the brandy, bits and all. Luckily, it misses Splinter.
“That’s good brandy you are wasting, you dirty little wasp,” says Splinter, his eyes narrowed.
“I’m ...sorry ...
it’s ...too much,” splutters Levy, gasping for air.
Splinter is feeling odd. A normal, more sober person — one with less issues — might call it empathetic.
“I’ll get us a fresh one,” says Splinter, still considering Captain Levy.
“I drink gin, Splinter,” Levy says, recovering some decorum. “I wonder if you might like some of mine. It’s in my quarters.”
Splinter cocks his head. “Sure, yeah, whatever. I’m still bringing two bottles of brandy, though. If that’s ok with you, milady.”
Splinter shouts at the nearest pirate, Enslin, to get him two more bottles of brandy, sans croutons. Some of the bottles lying around look as if pork scratchings had been inserted whole.
Splinter does not like Levy. Just looking at the man makes him angry. Mostly because he cannot identify anything worthy, or laudable, in Levy’s character. In Splinter’s opinion, Levy has no redeeming qualities. If anything, he is just like Splinter’s first impression: a liar and a traitor to his people — a weak man riddled with fear. What mouldy parsnip made this peacock a Captain? Splinter wonders. What special sort of idiot made this Bucky-brained fungus responsible for two thousand lives?
Splinter grimaces at the nervous, twitching, profusely sweating face of Captain Shit, as he waits for Enslin to fetch the bottles. Every molecule of ATP produced in every cell of Splinter’s body is bent to the task of resisting the urge to throw Levy out into space right now. Splinter would love nothing more than to watch Levy’s stupid weasel-like body convulse as his rat eyeballs explode and he spits out his stomach — the fucker turning inside out in the freezing vacuum of space. That would be fun, Splinter thinks. Then it’s game over for that reeking bug fucker!
Splinter rubs his eyes and takes a deep breath. He tries to force away his negative thoughts, his violent impulses. Trying to be a better person. For Marie-Ann. He exhales ... directly into Levy’s oncoming face.
