Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter Box Set 1 - Missions 1-3
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Table of Contents
MISSION #1: JUST TRY NOT TO DIE
Foreword:
Chapter One: Ten Out Of Ten
Chapter Two: A Hugh Jackman Movie
Chapter Three: Gangela Lansbury
Chapter Four: SHAZAM!
Chapter Five: Oh.
Chapter Six: The Heimlich Manoeuvre
Chapter Seven: Loins. And The Girding Thereof
Chapter Eight: The Sound Of Being A Colossal Twat
Chapter Nine: Lollipops and Fucking Rainbows
Chapter Ten: Wheels Of Steel
Chapter Eleven: All The Zeroes
Chapter Twelve: Laminated Book of Dreams
Chapter Thirteen: Once More Unto The Breach
Chapter Fourteen: Faces Of The Past
Chapter Fifteen: Blink 182
Chapter Sixteen: Try Not To Die
Chapter Seventeen: Date Night
Chapter Eighteen: Cyrano De Bergertwat
Epilogue: The Chosen One
MISSION #2: SURF’S UP
Foreword:
Chapter One: Quiet Pint
Chapter Two: Coitus Interruptus
Chapter Three: Something Fishy
Chapter Four: Hall Of Horrors
Chapter Five: The Face Is Mightier Than The Sword
Chapter Six: The Windows To The Foal
Chapter Seven: Board To Death
Chapter Eight: Talk Of Spirits
Chapter Nine: On The Pull
Chapter Ten: Threeway To Hell
Chapter Eleven: Better To Have Loved And Lost…
Chapter Twelve: Council House And Violent
Chapter Thirteen: Surf’s Up
Chapter Fourteen: Gone Fishin’
Chapter Fifteen: Sink Or Swim
Chapter Sixteen: Cheeky Nando’s
Chapter Seventeen: Old Faces, New Friends
Chapter Eighteen: Back To Normality (After A Fashion)
Epilogue: Cunting Fuck Nuggets
MISSION #3: HOWLIN’ MAD
Foreword:
Chapter One: No. Just No.
Chapter Two: Times Were A Changing
Chapter Three: A Million Years Later
Chapter Four: Brute Force And Ignorance
Chapter Five: The Truth, The Whole Truth, And Nothing But The Truth
Chapter Six: Seal Of Disapproval
Chapter Seven: Fishy Business
Chapter Eight: In Firepower We Trust
Chapter Nine: Hippy In Wolf’s Clothing
Chapter Ten: Feedin’ Time
Chapter Eleven: Who Let The Dogs Out?
Chapter Twelve: To Kill Or Not To Kill
Chapter Thirteen: MDM Eh?
Chapter Fourteen: Chasing The Dragon, Erm, Wolf
Chapter Fifteen: Bear On A Unicycle
Chapter Sixteen: The Enwolfening
Chapter Seventeen: Carnage
Chapter Eighteen: Helsing
Chapter Nineteen: Brian 2.0
Epilogue: A Thing
MISSION #1: JUST TRY NOT TO DIE
Copyright © 2017 by Gareth K Pengelly.
Writing and illustrations by Gareth K Pengelly.
No part of this book may be taken, sold or reproduced without the express consent of the author. He can usually be plied with beer.
All characters portrayed are clearly fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, and probably downright unfortunate.
Other books by Gareth K Pengelly:
Brian Helsing: The World’s Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter (Comedy Fantasy)
Mission #1: Just Try Not To Die
Mission #2: Surf’s Up
Mission #3: Howlin’ Mad
Mission #4: Land Of The Rising Damp
Mission #5: Wicked Witch Of The North
Mission #6: Where’s My Mummy?
Mission #7: Cirque du Vampire
Mission #8: The Very Scilly Isles
Mission #9: Devil Down Under
Foreword:
What is a hero? Is it the invincible knight-paladin of high fantasy? Is it the rogueish swashbuckler who doesn’t play by the rules, a la Han Solo? What are his defining characteristics? Are they brave? Strong? Do they possess a certain set of skills that make them a nightmare for someone who kidnaps their daughter?
All of these questions I asked myself as I sat down, trying to come up with the idea for a new fantasy series to write. Soon enough, I’d accrued a lengthy list of attributes that had long belonged to heroes of legend. And then, as I regarded my list, a smile began to play on my face. And I screwed the list into a ball, and threw it at the bin.
I missed, but that’s beside the point.
You see, I’d tried my hand at the epic fantasy game, writing larger-than-life heroes, paragons of virtue. And whilst I myself was happy with how they turned out, other people, frankly, didn’t seem that bothered. My story was good, my magic was sound, the good guys good and the bad guys bad. So why hadn’t they set the world alight? As I sat and pondered that over many a pint of Doom Bar of an eve, I thought back to the books that had moved me as a teen. And I came to realise, it wasn’t the epic, sprawling sagas that had sparked my imagination into life.
It was Discworld.
The world that Terry Pratchett (gods rest his soul) created wasn’t about dramatic battles and political intrigue. His stories were slice-of-life, focussing on the little people, with their own problems. Focussing on their fears, and their hopes, making them characters we could relate to. Sure, there was a bit of drama, a bit of sorcery flying around. Big gods, small gods, and everything in between. But all of his stories were focussed around the people, and every fantastic event sprinkled with Pratchett’s inimitable brand of humour and poignant wisdom, to bring it down to Earth. Or Disc, as it were.
And so that is how Brian came into being. I wanted a hero who was relatable. Could any of us honestly say that we’re as brave as we’d like to be? Or as strong? Or able to formulate a plan of strategic genius without making a complete fucking balls-up of it? Of course not. We’re mortal, ordinary, everyday people. And that’s how I tried to write Brian.
Brian is not a warrior. He’s not a genius. He hasn’t a clue how to talk to women, or, well, anyone for that matter. And when cruel destiny thrusts upon him power, and the responsibility of protecting mankind from threats he, until five minutes ago, didn’t even know existed, he reacts precisely the way I’d expect myself to in that situation. And maybe you would too.
I would never hope to emulate the impossible wit and depth of Sir Terry. I don’t think anyone could. But I took inspiration from him, writing a character as down-to-earth and real as I could, and sprinkling the result with a little bit of my own twisted humour.
I dearly enjoyed writing this tale. And I hope you’ll enjoy reading it too.
Gaz Pengelly
Chapter One: Ten Out Of Ten
For fuck’s sake! Brian flailed at the brakes of his clapped out Yamaha moped, the nigh-bald tyres squealing as his bike fish-tailed down the greasy road. Bastard bus drivers, he thought, as the Number 11 from Penzance to Redruth pulled out from the bus stop. The driver reached out, waving a hand in apology, and Brian fumed. Yeah mate, wave your hand. All the good that would have done me had I fallen off and cracked my head open like an eggshell. The amount of times this helmet had been dropped, he thought, might as well just strap a tea towel to his head and call it a day. To add insult to injury, the bus kicked out a plume of choking fumes as it pulled away. Miner’s lung, Brian thought; the way my
granddad went. It seemed every commute entailed being nearly knocked off or choked in other vehicle’s fumes. Mopeds were a mug’s game; all the discomfort of a real motorbike, none of the fire-spitting performance. Plus, he looked like some spotty young oik, especially with his L plates front and rear, albeit a ridiculously tall one. If he could have afforded a car he would have bought one without a moment’s hesitation. He would have had a roof over his head then. A radio too, no tinnitus from the constant windblast. But no car had he.
Brian Trelawney was perhaps the only car salesman in Cornwall without a car of his own.
But then there were many things Brian had to do without. Parents, for one thing. A girlfriend for another. The former wasn’t his fault, of course. They’d had him late. And cancer was a fickle bitch at the best of times. The latter, however, was probably his own fault in all honesty. He wasn’t the brightest of chaps. Wasn’t the most outgoing either. Nor was he a George Clooney in the looks department.
But what he did have was a particular set of skills. A set of skills that made him pretty much useless at anything important in the real world. He could lead a raid in World of Warcraft. He could quote Aliens line for line. Heavy metal music? Oh yeah, he’d been to some gigs. Download, Bloodstock. Maiden, Sabaton, System of a Down. Avoided the mosh pit like the plague, mind. Eleven stone and six foot seven tall did not an imposing physique make. He’d tried lifting weights once. Once. Got hot, flustered, sweaty. Decided he must have been allergic. And so, skinny, tall and frail he remained; less meathead, more breadstick.
The roundabout up ahead, Sainsbury’s on the other side like a blazing orange beacon of salvation in the morning darkness. Usually he’d stop off for a quick bacon butty and a coffee before work, but he was running late enough as it was, thanks to his bike’s refusal to start first, second, even seventh kick that cold, almost-winter morning. Instead, he pulled up at the white line, waiting patiently for his turn to pull out. A car. Another car. A van. Finally, a lorry, a Stobart, all green and white. Was it indicating to turn? He couldn’t tell. No, he thought, and gunned the throttle, only to find the lorry was, indeed, turning, swinging round the roundabout towards him. Fuck’s sake, he cursed for the second time in as many minutes, too late to stop now, pressing on and willing the fifty cc’s of throbbing power below to speed him across. A blaring horn blasted out from the truck and he winced in embarrassment as the hiss of pneumatic brakes cut through the crisp morning air. Why hadn’t he bought a one-two-five cc bike instead of this bloody moped? He was nearly thirty; even on L plates he could legally ride a bigger bike than this arthritic snail. Alas, the job offer had come at an inopportune time, his bank account all-but drained, and this had been the only thing nearby he could both get to view and afford to buy.
Once again he cursed how he’d squandered his inheritance. A gaming PC. An Xbox One. A sixty-inch 4k TV; luxuries that now afforded him only Sainsbury’s eight-pence noodles to eat. At least he’d had a house out of the bargain, even if it did take all of his meagre wage to afford the bills. The mortgage had been paid off, thanks to his mum’s life insurance policy. But gas, electric, council tax, they all added up. Food, too. He liked food. So much so that he tried to eat everyday if he could, though sometimes he failed even in that goal. He grimaced as he rode over a pothole, fillings rattling from his teeth. Really? He paid council tax for this? Roads like Swiss cheese? Christ, councils were about as much use as a chocolate fireguard. They should stick to what they were good at; erecting park benches and changing the bulbs in streetlights.
Another roundabout up ahead, signposts pointing right to Marazion and left to Hayle and St Ives. He tightened his deathgrip about the handlebars and widened his eyes as he approached, keen for no more sudden-death experiences. Two was enough for one commute. Even as he rolled closer to the island, a gap in the traffic and he lunged forward, urging the ped to its derestricted top speed of forty whole English miles per hour. The wind howled about his ears. The engine vibrated as it unleashed its full pent up fury beneath his strangely twitching groin. This, he thought, as an impatient Mondeo behind flashed its lights; this is how it felt to be bottom of the food chain. This is how it felt to be a minnow in a world of sharks.
Villages ground past at glacial pace. Finally, the village he’d been aiming for; Canon’s Town, his car dealership, his place of work, on the right. He slowed down, hoping beyond hope that the Mondeo behind wouldn’t take this opportunity to come flying past and knock him clean off his steed. It didn’t, the businessman in his mirrors merely rolling his eyes as Brian slowly, wobblingly made his way across the other lane and trundled onto the forecourt, his exhaust popping, banging and spitting out a tramp’s cough of two-stroke fumes. Parking the bike on its unnervingly creaky stand, he made his way into the office. He’d barely even removed his helmet by the time his boss’ voice berated him from behind a cluttered desk.
“You’re late, Brian,” Gordon chuntered. “Fifteen minutes. It’s coming out of your paycheque.”
“But… I’m on commission?”
“Yes… well…” The rotund man, all sweaty handkerchief-dabbed forehead and more chins than a Chinese phonebook, seemed flustered by the response. “Well, you could have sold a car in that time. Speaking of selling cars, what’s wrong with that board, hmm? Can you see what I see?”
Brian gulped, regarding the whiteboard haphazardly screwed to the wall. Each of the three salesmen’s names were up there, a tally beside them keeping track of how many cars they’d sold that month. Very few such ticks were next to his own name. Though to be fair, very few were next to the others too.
“It’s October, Gordon. And it’s the fifth.”
“That be it as it may,” the garage owner spat, nodding sagely. “But you should be aiming for the stars, lad. You’re young. I remember myself at your age, full of spunk and energy. You should be brimming with gumption, selling cars left and right.”
Brian stared at him, his eyes dull and dry within black circles that spoke of late nights and energy drinks. Ignoring his stare, his boss continued.
“Lack of spunk, that’s your problem.” He seemed to like the word spunk. Used it several times a day. Was worrying at times. “You see, selling a car is very much like making love to a beautiful woman...”
Brian nodded. True enough, he thought. He was terrible at both, though not through want of trying.
“I’ll do better,” he promised, interrupting the man’s burgeoning soliloquy.
“Well make sure you do,” Gordon told him. “And get the bloody coffee pot on. I’ve a tongue like Ghandi’s flip-flop.”
Brian did as he was bade, discarding his helmet and wandering over to the small toilet-cum-kitchen-cum-generalshitstoragearea they used for making coffees. He’d just filled the filter and pressed the button when Neil rocked up beside him.
“Gordon giving you a hard time again, Bri?” the youth the same age as Brian asked. Neil was shorter than Brian – though that wasn’t hard – but what he lacked in the height department at a mere statuesque six foot, he more than made up for in looks. His neatly-gelled blond hair, firm gym-honed physique and Roman nose made him a hit with any ladies who happened to make the mistake of wandering into the car dealership.
“Yeah,” Brian admitted. “He’s a proper hard ass at times. He has it in for me, I swear.”
“His ass,” Neil told him, regarding the jelly-like form of their boss sauntering across the office, “is anything but hard. Anyway, ignore him; it’s coming into winter and no-one’s buying cars anywhere. He just likes to beat his chest from time to time. Like a fat gorilla.” His blue eyes, so different, so keen, alert and full of energy and promise compared to Brian’s own, glanced out of the window and he grinned. “But if you wanna get into his good books, you can have this one on me.”
Brian followed his gaze; a woman out there, eyeing up a Mini Cooper S on the forecourt. Short skirt despite the Cornish chill, milky skin, full figure and legs that went all the way to the top. He gulped,
before turning back to Neil.
“You sure? That’s more your type, isn’t it? I mean, you’re the ladies’ man, ‘n all. I’m, well… me. I might scare her off.”
Neil shook his head, rolling his eyes.
“You’ll never get anywhere with that attitude, mate. Old Gordo’s right; you need more spunk. Now go out there and show her your… erm… spunk.” He paused, aware of how weird that sounded, before continuing. “You know what I mean.”
Brian nodded, before rolling his shoulders and striding purposefully towards the door. The bell rang as he opened it and he loped out onto the forecourt. This is it, he thought. This is where they always look up and tell me they’re just browsing. Was it his demeanour, he’d often wondered? The foul stench of desperation that had clung to him like a cloud of Lynx Africa? Or was it his height that intimidated them? He hoped the latter, for that at least would have made him feel at least a little manly. The woman looked up at him and he prepared to hear those words, already starting to turn and mouth the words ‘no problem,’ when she spoke.
“Hi,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “I could use some help.”
“Oh,” he replied. “Well… sure. What can I do for you?”
He slowly approached the woman, at once puzzled and not a little bit frightened. She was tall, not as tall as him obviously, but a veritable Amazon all the same, and her face, pale and made-up with dark lipstick and eyeliner about her startling grey eyes, was unbelievably alluring, even in the unflattering glow of the dealership’s floodlights. That such a woman would even speak to such as he beggared belief.
“This Mini,” she said, brushing her long, dark, shimmering hair from her face. “Is it the later one with the turbo? Or is it the earlier one with the supercharger?”
Brian blinked, completely taken-aback by the question. Without sounding sexist, most women who came into his workplace were more concerned with the colour and the number of doors of their prospective purchases.