Harry's Blog

The thin wreck of a young man emerged from The Artillery public house just after midnight. He stumbled down the stone step and turned up the collar on his long overcoat. This achieved little in the face of the torrential downpour that swept in over Morecambe Bay. His faltering inebriated steps were hampered by the guitar case he dragged behind him, as though it contained rocks rather than a guitar. Wandering drunkenly a few steps at a time he made his way towards the bus shelter at the crossroads, hoping to find brief respite from the howling wind and sheets of rain.

Koenig and Thorpe could just make out the figure's drunken quest for shelter through the heavy rain and foaming waves that arced over the breakwater. The two erstwhile freelancers were trying to eke out what little warmth they could from their pathetic brazier. Nominally they were night watchmen, employed to look after the cargo left at each high tide at the end of the breakwater pier. However there was little to guard here other than a few locked containers that looked sturdy and armoured enough to look after themselves. Their primary concern was looking out for representatives of the labour exchange, Koenig and Thorpe's current occupation being somewhat incompatible with their status as unemployed.

   "It's nobody," said Koenig, attempting in vain to light a skinny rollup. "They'll be no Labour Exchange G-men out on the prowl tonight, not with it pissing down like this."
   "Some pisshead, Porcine Dave has allowed a little extra time finishing his pint I expect," offered his colleague. The two men stood under the cover of a small three-sided hut, strategically placed with the back to the prevailing weather, offering some small respite from nature's fury.
   "Aha," said Koenig with relish, his cigarette finally beginning to show signs of activity. He took a long drag and handed it to his friend, who took a long pull on it before handing it back.
"You know," began Thorpe. "I have little regard for this job, a pound a night is all very well, but by the looks of these containers there is a big money contract afoot here, if only we could get a piece of it."
   "We've been through this. I'm not taking a hammer to those locks again; I think they're made of some strange metal not previously seen in these parts." Koenig nursed his bruised knuckles, the reward for the previous evening's vain attempts to take a little compensation from the containers.
   "That'll be the white heat of technology Mr Wilson is so fond of."
   "I expect so."

It had begun to go terribly wrong for Aldebro Twotone eighteen miles above the Azores. The ablative shield had been damaged by the steep re-entry into the atmosphere and the ship was venting coolant and fuel into the moonless night. Control surfaces were sluggish and the pilot was beginning to doubt that the craft could make its planned destination.

   "Piece of shit," said Aldebro, offering the book's first, but probably not the last, profanity. He changed down the gears and kicked the throttle hoping to coax some more power from the straining engine. The ship described a mach ten parabola over the Iberian Peninsula before turning back on coarse, northwards.
   "Well it's not my fault really is it?" chirped the ships computer, now in full excuse mode.
   "You said a manual orbit insertion was a piece of cake," the exasperated pilot fished the user manual from the glove box and flicked through it while gripping the joystick with his knees.
   "I said it was a piece of cake for a trained pilot," the computer replied. "Not a complete twat."
   "Well that's very helpful isn't it? I never said I was a trained pilot and in fact the two-faced charlatan who sold me this piece of crap on Vega neglected to inform me, one, that you are a complete piece of unhelpful junk, and two, that I would need a degree in astro-navigation just to get the coffee maker to work."
   "I cannot help the fact you made a poor purchase."
   "Of course you can you defective heap of scrap," Twotone growled. "You're supposed to be the automatic pilot, yet all you seem to do is bitch and whine. I've had more useful can openers."
   "I was just trying to promote a little self motivation."
   "You are a lazy computer stuck in the worst financial investment I've ever made."
   "What about your wedding ring."
   "So help me if I survive this I promise I'm going to take a hammer to you."
The ship continued to die piece by piece, however it also continued on towards the smudge of lights that marked out Morecambe Bay, the location of Aldebro Twotone's next target for assassination.

Paddy wobbled on the heels of his cowboy boots and fell into the half-lie that was the bus shelter. The thirty yard journey from The Artillery had taken fifteen minutes and he was now soaked to the core. It had been another in a long line of crappy events to blight Paddy's evening.

The Metric Avians had lost their residency at The Artillery tonight, Porcine Dave finally giving up on the drunken antics and terrible performances that the band had delivered recently. It was perhaps the lousiest gig ever played by the Metric Avians, perhaps the lousiest gig played by any band, anywhere.

The band was dying, every night they got worse and Paddy felt his dreams were dying with them. He'd joined the band as a hired hotshot guitarist to fill in when Blue Eric left, but now he was the only one that cared enough. Paddy knew he could be a star, create amazing music, and really make something of himself. If only the others gave a damn, he wished for a miracle.

The singer, Keith, had been so drunk they had to lash him to his mike stand with speaker cable to keep him upright. He’d then proceeded to dribble, ramble, gibber and mumble through a performance of such mediocrity that it made poor Paddy wince to think of it. At least when Keith swallowed his harmonica he was able to make strangled noises in the same key as the rest of the band, for a while anyway.

Chris the drummer had spent much of the gig being fellated by a midget prostitute he’d met under Skerton Bridge, where no doubt she’d been waiting for the Billy goats gruff. This did nothing for the Avians’ sound as the poor lass spent most of the gig in Chris’ bass drum. As every drummer knows, being gobbled off by a midget hooker in one’s kick drum does nothing for solid percussive acoustics. Especially when an excited drummer, in a moment of orgiastic delight, stamps hard on the kick pedal.

Well the ambulance men said the hospital might be able to sew the member back on, once the miniature bint had passed it. Paddy groaned remembering his words to Chris as the ambulance men carried the wounded drummer through the rain to their waiting vehicle, “never mind mate, at least you’ll be the first drummer to say you took a girl down the arse.” That’ll be the source of this shiner then, thought Paddy, wincing as he touched the bruised region of his face.

Chris, understandably surprised by this sudden oral severance screamed into his microphone, blowing up their most expensive speaker cab. The rotating Leslie unit had spun off its axis and tore itself apart, showering the punters in the front row with sharp pieces of plastic and five years of that gunk that builds up in speaker cabs…but we won’t dwell on that. Luckily for the punters, Paul the bassist had taken the full force of the blast in his posterior region. He was so stoned he didn’t notice until he slipped on the pool of blood at his feet and fell. Well not so much fell, more cart wheeled over the bar swinging his bass in a wide, top shelf shattering, and rather expensive, windmill.

It was awful. Every single moment of that gig was mind crushingly bad. Paddy had dreamed the Metric Avians would really go somewhere, be a success. But the band was tired and worn out by the time he had joined. Recruiting a fresh faced young guitarist like Paddy had highlighted just how exhausted and world weary the rest of the Avians were. Two band member hospitalised and a bar bill running to fifty pounds. There was no way the Avians would play together after this. It couldn’t possible get any worse.

The slow motion replay of Paul’s expensive and bloody dive into the optics section of Fat Dave’s bar played again in Paddy’s throbbing skull as he slid down onto his arse in the bus shelter. He remembered the sight that awaited him on the other side of the bar, in the snug. There she was in all her glory. Oh nature and life can be so cruel, so evil. Paddy’s ex-girlfriend Charlie, his golden girl, his one true love, the girl that he always thought he would marry, had her tongue down the throat of Byron Beverly. Byron shitting Beverly, a snivelling eighteen year old mummy’s boy. A trainee fucking lawyer, he was even wearing a fucking tie at the gig. Jesus!

The whole horror of the evening was now laid bare before Paddy as he curled up on the floor of this rain drenched shelter. His dreams of making beautiful music shattered and his one true love, his angel, was shacked up with a poncy bread head ten years her junior. The tears ducts were springing into action. “Oh fucking hell,” Paddy mumbled as what remained of his composure melted into cry-baby wailings, tears mingling with the rain streaming down his face.

The spaceship came in low over Lancaster and nearly crashed straight into the railway bridge, over the river it gained a little height and turned towards Heysham. By the docks there was a massive construction project underway but the little craft managed to thread its way through the large tower cranes, more by luck than cool flying. Alas something had to give; Twotone lost the clutch and third gear disintegrated in a shower of sparks from underneath the ship. There was a lurch and most of the aerodynamic surface departed the fuselage.

   "Dammit why don't you help?" he barked at the computer.
   "I'm doomed anyway, do it yourself," came the terse reply.

The rain was the only thing preventing the ship bursting into flames as it dived towards the hilltop priory of St Patrick's, it took a chunk out of the roof and cart wheeled through the air towards the bay.

Something whipped by overhead putting out the brazier. Koenig dived for cover into the hut while Thorpe sought sanctuary between two of the large shipping containers.

   "Bloody Hellfire," one of them exclaimed.

There was a scream of tearing metal and seconds later, somewhere out over the bay, came an unmistakable large splat. Something had landed in the muddy ooze that passed for seawater and it hadn't landed smoothly.

Paddy crawled to his feet and leant on the guitar case, the rain poured through the shelter as though it wasn't there.    "I'd give anything to make it work."
   "Really? Anything?"
The voice came from everywhere and owhere all at once. Paddy shook his head, must have had a bad pint, though judging by Porcine' Dave's current stock of ales getting a good pint was something akin to a Premium Bond win.
   "No Paddy you're not mental, what would you give to be a star?"
The voice sounded more real this time, deep, with a gravelly after touch not unlike The Artillery's finest brews.
   "Fuck, I am going mental," Paddy slurred to himself.
A figure materialised in front of his yes. At first it just seemed the outline of a man, but it took form quickly and repelled the rain creating a shimmering curtain of water around it. It snapped into focus and there before Paddy was the devil himself, not some amiable gent in a white suit, just the plain old red fella with horns and a tail.
   "Surprise!" said the Devil.
   "That's nice," said Paddy. "You do realise Halloween is next week, do I look like someone carrying sweeties for premature trick or treaters?"
   "I expected more of a reaction to be honest, a lot of people faint you know."
   "I'm pissed," Paddy groaned. "I haven't got the time or the energy for refugees from a fancy dress party, I'd really like to throw up, so you can get out of my way or just cope with having my lunch dumped over you."
   "Belt up Paddy you whining git; I want to make a deal. I'll tune your guitar for you and make you a star…"
   "Don't tell me, I have to sign over my soul. This is nuts."
The devil arched his eyebrows and eant closer to the depressed guitarist, his breath smelt of sulphur and a fish supper. "Come on Paddy, you're a bluesman, you know the deal. Here you are at a crossroads after midnight, guitar in hand. It's the standard deal."
   "It's a flaming cleeeeesh," he passed out for a second. "It's a cliché."
   "It's good business, how about it?" A contract appeared in the dark one's hands. It looked like a hefty chunk of legalese running to a hundred or so pages.
   "I can tune my guitar myself thanks, you know this is all very well talking to the lord of the underworld about diabolical contracts, but if you don't mind I'd really like to pass out." And he did.
   "Well sleep well Patrick, we still have unfinished business from your murderous past." And he was away.

"Paddy wake up," said Blue Eric, the bus conductor.
   "I think he's dead," added Big Bob, the bus driver.
   "No he isn't."
   "What's that smell?"
   "He's shat himself."
   "Oh terrific, well keep him towards the back then."
And with that, the 1B, destination Torrisholme, continued on its merry, if pungent way.