"No, not like that," she said, sitting on the counter and seductively eating a tandoori chicken mayo baguette. "Like a Cossack dancer."
Frankie gazed even hungrier at me and told me to dance like one of them Greek men who do the plate-smashing thing at the end. I tried my best.
After ten minutes of being subjected to performing various nation’s national dances, she wiped her mayonnaise-stained face and hands on my y-fronts and cape before throwing a scruffy brown tuxedo at me.
The thing was revolting, like it had been found in the bottom of an antique chest.
As Frankie fastened the buttons on the suit jacket she stood up on tiptoes and licked my face like an excited dog. "There, all clean." she slipped a ten pound note in my pocket and sent me on my way.
Next door to the pawnshop was a greasy looking take away with the name of P is For Pizza. I remembered the unusual note on the scary writer dude's piece of paper with Iain's favourite pizza topping.
Without hesitation, I walked into P is For Pizza and ordered the biggest pizza they had, which used all the money I had on me. This bothered me not, for I would sacrifice the twenty mile bus journey to my house for a chance at rectifying this misunderstanding between me and Iain, and for a chance of warning him of the danger he was in.
When I approached the front door of his house, an elaborately ornamental eyesore, a life-sized laminated photograph of Iain striking a manly pose covered it completely. I noticed it was open.
Thinking this was strange, and bearing in mind that in Iain's viewpoint he had merely had an encounter with a nutter, I paused. An ominous looking van sat by the roadside. I could sense Iain was in trouble.
I crept into the house, pizza in hand, and from upstairs I could hear splashing in the bath like someone was either having a bath wank or, as I suspected, being drowned by an insane rival author.
I stepped up the stairs, hearing a ping of some notification on whatever device Iain was using and pretended like I was expected, hoping to scare or surprise the perpetrator. "I bought pizza!" I shouted merrily and walked into the bathroom.
Iain lay headfirst on the floor and I feared the worst. He was disorientated, muttering something about being blessed.
"Hey, Iain?"
He shook his head and made one of those 'ardle ardle ardle' noises like they do in the cartoons when they bang their heads. I half expected stars to swirl round his head.
I crouched down low to see that he was okay but he flinched in anger and stared at me in disbelief and intense, murderous hatred.
"What the fuck are you doing in my house?"
I wanted to say, "Iain, Iain, you great amazing man, I am trying to protect you from a serious psychopath with a devil cock who is desperately trying to erase you from existence and who I suspect has been emailing you via my account he hacked. We've had an unfortunate misunderstanding due to the fact that this nutter dressed me like a retard and I fell in some acid which no doubt made me look a bit mental. I'm trying to save you and your family." I wanted to say that but the satanic look in his eyes frightened me so much I blurted out, "I brought pizza!"
"Fuck your pizza."
I was confused but then something snapped inside of me. All I had been doing was trying to help this man who I was speedily losing my admiration for. If we had have just calmly sat down and discussed this like adults none of this, and what was about to happen, would have happened. An intense anger overwhelmed me and I thought, right if he thinks I'm a nutter, I'll show him a nutter.
I pulled my cock out and buried it into the greasy melted cheese. As the cheese was soft and cooling it soothed my sore penis where the guy at the start of this story kicked me in it; and I'll admit I stiffened a little.
Iain went ballistic, shouting at me, calling me a maniac.
"But you love your fans." I said, trying my best to scare him even more. Let him call the police. I wanted him to call the police. Anything for his safety. "You say so all the time. That's why I'm here, to be with you?"
"To be with me?"
"Yes. You say you love your fans, well here I am - your very biggest. Or is that all bullshit? Do you just pretend to be a nice guy? Is it lies? Please don't tell me it's lies."
He stood for a few seconds before obviously remembering he was in the nip and wrapped a towel around his wet hair like a turban. Personally I would have covered my genitals.
"Of course I don't pretend, but that doesn't mean you can just break into my home. If you wanted to meet me, you should email me like any normal person."
"You don't meet fans, though."
"I do sometimes."
"Not really."
"I have a ten month old son. Meeting people is not something I have a lot of time for. That doesn't mean I don't care though."
"I know," I said, my anger softening. I couldn't stay angry at him, the cute lovable twit. "That's why I came to you. Come here, big fella." I stepped forwards. Feeling that his anger had been dispelled somewhat I opened my arms to hug him, but he shot a leg out his foot connecting with my sore, bruised, cheese encrusted penis.
"What? No, not 'come here, big guy'. More like, 'get out of my house, you goddamn freak'."
I froze on the spot, arms still open, "It's all lies, isn't it? You don't love your fans."
"I do!" He growled at me like an animal. "Just not the ones who stick their dicks in pizzas."
He had a fair point there; it was a bit mental. It was just then, as he turned his back to look for something, that the scary writer guy appeared in the bathroom doorway.
"I'm calling the police," Iain said. "So you'd better-"
The scary writer guy punched him in the back of the head and whilst Iain thrashed about in the water I jumped on the scary writer guy pushing him out of the bathroom and down the stairs.
The next thing I knew, I had lost it again, I thrust a slice of pizza that was still suspended from my penis towards his mouth. "Eat it!" I screamed, "Eat my cock pizza, you liar."
Iain righted himself in the bath and kicked out with his legs like a confused frog. I flew backwards into the wall, cracking my head and one of the numerous IRW personalised bath tiles that decorated the bathroom.
He made a break for it, and I reached out to stop him. He couldn't go running around naked with a towel on his head; people might get the wrong idea. Unfortunately, my fingernails scratched him a bit and he squealed like a pig, a little girl pig.
"Ow!" he cried. "That really hurt."
Realising that my nails probably contained no end of bacteria and that I had broken his skin, I groaned. Infections would be looming. "Not as much as it's going to."
Iain had lost his towel and was naked again, but he didn’t seem to worry about that. As he ran down the stairs, bollocks slapping against his leg, I hurried after him, scared he would bump into Scary Writer Guy. I shrieked at him, tried to make him see sense. "I just want to be friends. You always say how you consider your fans to be your friends, your family. Liar!"
Iain ran across the landing and headed for the next set of steps. I had to stop him, God knew where Scary Writer Guy was hiding. With no regard for my own safety – only Iain’s and his family's – I dove downstairs to tackle him.
We collided in a tumbling mass of writhing man flesh, cheap materials and pizza, down the stairs and into a rather full cat litter tray at the bottom.
Immediately, I saw Scary Writer Guy holding a large knife. I needed to distract Iain, so I grabbed the closest thing. I pushed a chunk of catshit towards his face. "Eat it, you lying son-of-a-bitch. You lying ol' dirty bird!"
Iain punched me in the chin and I fell to the floor.
Scary Writer Guy had done another vanishing act as Iain ran away from me. Noticing he had dropped the knife, I pocketed it and chased after Iain, trying to stop him, "I just wanna hang out," I shouted. "NO BIG DEAL!"
Iain reached the front door, and I noticed it was now closed as opposed to it being opened as I had left it. This could only mean one thing: Scary Writer Guy
was out there.
I slipped on some seepage off of Iain and slid tongue first into him, his left ear filling my mouth.
"Get off me, you freak."
I wiped his ear skut off my mouth. "Urgh, tastes like chicken."
"I just had a bath," he whined, sounding offended.
I slipped again on a greasy lump of cock pizza cheese and my open mouth mashed into his shoulder like a clumsy vampire trying to bite.
Iain shoved me away, thank god, before I had a chance to draw blood.
"You're insane."
I shook my head, "Remember when Shawcross died at the end Of Ravage? This is just like that don't you think?" Again, my tactics of getting him to talk about his work, some scene that was vaguely related to the current happenings, failed miserably.
He shook his head. "Shawcross was the bad guy. Bad guys lose." He aimed a punch at me but I ducked and, angered by being labelled the bad guy, I punched him in the stomach.
He dropped to the floor, wheezing, and I hoped this was the end of it. "Just calm down, Iain. Put the kettle on. We can talk about what book you're going to write next." I couldn't let him leave the house. "Maybe you can put me in it. You do that sometimes for your fans, right? Like you named the boat in Sea Sick after some woman. Well, I can promise you that whoever that woman was she doesn't love you as much as I do.” She would never risk her life and get humiliated to such an extent as I had. "Write a book about me. Make me a dashing hero. I love you, did I tell you that?"
Just then, the black monstrosity that was Scary Writer Guy's devil cock slithered through the letterbox spitting evil venom towards Iain's bare arse crack.
Iain caught his breath, oblivious to the danger behind him. "If you love me... Then leave me... Alone."
I pulled the knife out of my suit pocket and held it up in front of me. "Not until I have something to remember you by."
He groaned. "Won't a simple autograph do?"
I shook my head, one eye on the devil cock, and one on Iain as I tried to distract him from the hissing penis. "Anybody can get your autograph. I want something nobody has."
He yelled in terror as I lunged at him with the knife. He squeezed his eyes shut and I sawed a chunk of his hair off. I never wanted to hurt him. I swiped the knife down in an arc, nicking the devil cock.
Iain opened his eyes and I pretended to smell his hair, distracting him from the retracting penis. "Some of your fans think you're going bald, but I think gives you an air of distinction. What does Sally think?" I was spouting complete shite now. "I can't wait to meet her. Is she really as sweet as she seems? Do you think she would let me be Jack's Godfather?"
He stood up and leant against the wall catching his breath. "Matty-Bob?"
"Yes?"
"You know I grew up on a council estate, right?"
"Yes, you grew up poor and managed to make something of yourself. It's such a wonderful story."
He nodded. "Then allow me to give you something from my past."
Finally he was calming down and willing to talk. I was relieved. I smiled warmly but was greeted with a kick to the balls so hard I'm sure one testicle mashed into my brain. I folded up and crumpled to the floor.
Iain fled out of the front door. I could only watch helplessly as children screamed at his nudity and he ran towards potential danger.
Using my last resources of strength I forced myself up and staggered to warn him of the Scary Writer Guy. "Why won't you just love me?" I pleaded. "All I've done is support you. I have all of your books. Even that shitty one, Thrillobytes, that you took off sale. When I heard Amazon banned D is for Degenerate, I sent them my own shit in the post." I hadn’t, it was my children's. "Everything I do, I do for you, Iain."
He backed off, hurting his poor feet on the gravel. "Just... just wait until the next time I do a convention. We can hang out all day then. You have my hair, what more do you want?"
I just wanted his acceptance. "I want you in me?" Maybe his autograph tattooed on me.
"I don't even know what that means, but it doesn't sound like something I would agree to."
"You're so wonderful, Iain. So much better than that talentless hack, Matt Shaw. You and me should take a trip together. I know it's hard work being a father, so let's go to Vegas!"
Iain kept on backing away. In the distance I noticed the children he had frightened returning with their furious looking parents. They were no doubt looking to lynch a naked pervert, but nothing was as it seemed. No one noticed the evil Scary Writer Guy sitting behind the ominous looking van. Iain was the one who needed help.
"You know," Iain said, obviously trying to stall me. "Disney is really more my thing."
I played along with his distraction tactics beating myself round the head like Dustin Hoffman and the smoke alarm in Rain Man. "Damn it! I knew that, I knew that. So dumb, so dumb."
Iain put a hand out. "It's fine, Matty. Just calm down.
After all the pretentious bullshit about people misspelling his name, he had the audacity to mispronounce mine. I was livid. "My name....is...Matty-Bob!"
The Scary Writer Guy sat behind the wheel of the van and leant out of the window, the barrel of a shotgun aimed at Iain's back. I ran towards the van knife raised and scaring Iain in the process.
Iain darted off, completely ignoring the man in the van with the gun. "Jesus, God of bloody 'ell. Help me, somebody. Oh bloody 'ell."
I ran towards the Scary Writer Guy in the van slashing at his flailing arms with the knife. "You mother-humping ass-butt!"
Scary Writer Guy's van drove off with a screech of tyres as I ran after him, knife raised, snarling like a madman.
From out of nowhere, a dark red car squealed round the corner and ploughed into me. I rapidly lost blood and consciousness.
Epilogue.
I was institutionalised. I couldn't believe it. No one would listen to my side of events. After the two weeks of being in a coma, Iain had told his version of events over and over, even releasing it as letter M in his A-Z of horror. I wasn't taken seriously. The Scary Writer Guy who I seriously suspected to be none other than rival horror writer Matt Shaw had covered up all his tracks leaving no damning evidence against him. They were even being pally-pally on social networks, standing against stalker fans and raising awareness of the dangers they posed.
I was well and truly fucked.
When I received an anonymous letter through the post, I vowed that when I was released I would show them all what I was capable of.
The letter, written in childish crayoned handwriting read:
'NexT uP is Miikael Brae! Mwhahahahaba!!'
The End?
To get in touch with Matty-Bob, his Facebook address, once again, is:
www.facebook.com/saintflacco
About The Author
Iain Rob Wright is one of the UK's most successful horror and suspense writers, with novels including the critically acclaimed, THE FINAL WINTER; the disturbing bestseller, ASBO; and the wicked screamfest, THE HOUSEMATES.
His work is currently being adapted for graphic novels, audio books, and foreign audiences. He is an active member of the Horror Writers Association and a massive animal lover.
Check out Iain's official website or add him on Facebook where he would love to meet you.
www.iainrobwright.com
FEAR ON EVERY PAGE
More Books by Iain Rob Wright
THE FINAL WINTER: UK US
Apocalyptic horror novel where it never stops snowing and something ancient stalks the earth.
ASBO: UK US
Innocent family man is targeted by a gang of sadistic youths.
ANIMAL KINGDOM: UK US
Animals turn on mankind and try to make humanity extinct.
SEA SICK: UK US
A deadly virus is unleashed on board a luxury cruise liner.
SAM: UK US
A young boy seems to be possessed. But is he?
RAVAGE: UK US
Apocalyptic horror that culminates in a f
ight for survival at a hilltop amusement park. Say goodbye to the world.
SAVAGE: UK US
Apocalyptic sequel to Ravage where the stakes are even higher at an abandoned pier. Sometimes being alone is better.
THE HOUSEMATES: UK US
Reality TV turns deadly. 12 competitors but only 1 winner.
SOFT TARGET: UK US
Nonstop Thriller where the future of the United Kingdom is at stake.
HOLES IN THE GROUND: UK US
Collaboration with J A Konrath. Some things should stay buried. And guarded forever.
THE PICTURE FRAME: UK US
A haunted picture frame that curses anybody whose photograph is placed inside it.
2389: UK US
At the world’s biggest amusement park, based on the moon, something has gone very very wrong.
HOT ZONE: UK US
Sequel to Soft Target. This time the terrorists are using mankind’s deadliest diseases.
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M is for Matty-Bob (A-Z of Horror Book 13) Page 3