by Mick Norman
As soon as he heard them coming, he swivelled round on his size twelve heels, mouth open like a striker appealing for a penalty. ‘All right; that’s as far as you two go. This is private. So, bugger off.’
Monk said nothing at first, merely standing still where he was and looking up at the policeman. Then, when the man’s neck had reached an agreeable shade of puce under his stiff blue collar, he finally spoke. ‘My name is Monk and I’m the chief security officer in this theatre for tonight’s show. And, what I say here goes. And I say that you go.’
‘Why, you cheeky young bastard. If you don’t sod off in just three seconds, I’ll really—’
‘You’ll really, what? Listen you fat bastard; if I go down to Israel Penn, your fine Assistant Chief Constable, and tell him that Constable 2875 is proving obstructive, what do you think he’d say? Eh? Or, if I told him that this same man, 2875, had threatened both me and this young lady. I reckon you’d be on permanent patrol in the enticement squad, hanging round public shithouses for the rest of your life.’
The red faded to a lighter shade of pale. ‘Well now, look here! I mean. Blimey! I didn’t know that ... that you were one of them. Is Mr. Penn here?’
‘Very much so. Now why don’t you sod off and let us get on with our job?’
Perspiration now damping his shirt, the constable eased down the narrow passage past them. ‘Is there anything I can do for you, sir? Or for you, madam?’
Modesty smiled gently at his discomfiture, and reached up to straighten his tie for him. Her breasts, unrestricted by a bra, swung against his chest, hardly restrained by the thin denim jacket.
‘Yes, there is one thing.’
‘What’s that, miss?’ His voice had gone up a couple of octaves with the strain.
Modesty softly pinched his ear-lobe between her finger and thumb, and tugged his head down, so that his ear was level with her lips. ‘You could kiss my arse, if you really wanted.’
The colour returned to his face in a rush, and she thought for a moment that he would strike her. ‘You filthy-mouthed little slut! If I had the—’
‘Constable!’ Monk’s voice cracked out. ‘Go and have a drink and snatch a bit of a rest. Off you go. We’ll be all right up here. And we’ll keep an eye on your Royal Box for you.’
Muttering under his breath, the fuzz stamped off, out of sight.
Giggling, Modesty grabbed Monk’s hand and pulled him to the door. A blue velvet rope hung across the sacred portal, which she kicked casually out of the way. The door itself was unlocked. ‘Aren’t you going to carry me across the threshold? Come on.’
Bowing so low that his curly hair pitched about his face, Mick picked up his old lady and pushed sideways through an ante-room, with a door to their right, marked ‘Retiring Room’, in elegant Gothic script. Ahead of them was the shadowy, plush interior of the Royal Box itself.
Still holding her round the waist, Monk let Modesty slide down until her feet sank into the deep pile of the maroon carpet.
‘Neat, lover. Very neat. Almost peachy-keen. This is one hell of a carpet. It’s like walking on a load of dead, skinned cats. Soft and clingy. Hey, what does ‘Retiring Room’ mean?’
‘A right regal shit-house. Here, have a look inside and see how the other half craps.’
A light came on automatically as the door opened, bathing the toilet in a soft, pink glow. Apart from the washbasin and polished mirror, there were the closed doors of two stalls.
‘All mod cons, baby.’
‘I wouldn’t like to use those crappers very much, Monk, you know.’
‘Why not’
‘No sign on the door, to let you know whether they’re vacant or not. Imagine bursting in on Her Royal Majesty, while she was ... well, you know. Very embarrassing.’
Monk laughed at the thought. ‘Suppose you were in there and you were just on the verge of going. And you heard the Queen go into the one next door. I mean, it must be frightfully bad form to crap noisily when she’s around. You’d just have to sit there and hold it, until she’d finished and gone. Hey, look at all this soap and everything. Fantastic.’
Modesty ran her fingers critically through her tangled and not-all-that-clean hair. At the side of the wash-basin were three virginal tablets of toilet soap, each with a different colour and each with a different scent. Modesty picked up each in turn, and sniffed at them. ‘I don’t think I like any of them. Give me a good old Pear’s any time. I like it when it’s gone all transparent near the end.’
Monk was leaning against the door, laughing silently to himself.
‘Hey, what the bloody hell’s the matter with you? What did I say?’
‘Nothing, love. Nothing. It’s just that it always makes me laugh when I see soap on a wash-basin, all laid out like that. Reminds me of Gerry’s story.’
‘Which one?’
‘About the fat old bloke he used to have who taught him all that unarmed combat stuff when Gerry was in the army. You know, the one who had the awful wig they used to call his “Mead rat”.’
Idly turning the gold-plated taps on and off, Modesty smiled. ‘Yeah, I remember about him. Gerry’s got a bag-full of stories about that bloke. I reckon he makes them up.’
‘No, it’s true. Anyway, this Sergeant Newman used to have his bathroom absolutely full of all sorts of medicines and special tooth-pastes for soft gums. All that crap. And, he used to have a big piece of soap. That strong, yellow soap. This Newman was very bald on top, and they used to reckon that his pubes must have been moulting as well. This soap was always covered in masses of pubic hair. One time, his C.O. came round on an inspection and he gave Newman a right rollicking over it. So, next time, the morning of the inspection, he gets the soap, and he shaves it! Honestly.’
Modesty began to giggle. ‘So, what happened?’
‘Well, Gerry had this mate called Gordon Krays, and he managed to get in to the quarters, before the C.O. came round. He had time to get a pair of scissors and cut off handfuls of his own pubic hair and stick it to the soap.’
Modesty had moved closer to Monk and was slowly running her fingers up and down the front of his jeans, feeling the swelling grow. ‘That’s class to do that. What happened?’
Finishing off the story, Monk responded to her touch, by slipping his left hand inside the denim top she wore, and gently caressing her breast, feeling the nipple harden under his fingers.
‘In the end, it was this Newman bloke who had the last laugh. You see, the C.O. was very short-sighted and he’d broken his glasses. So, when he came in the bathroom, he saw this great hairy lump of soap. Of course, Newman couldn’t believe his eyes, ’cos he knew he’d shaved the bloody stuff all clean. The C.O. peers at it, and asks him if he can explain it. Quick as a flash, he looks all upset and says: “That’s Dinsdale.” The C.O. looks at him. “Dinsdale,” he says. “Who’s Dinsdale?” “My pet hedgehog,” says Newman. “He died this morning, and I put him there until I can bury him.” Of course, the officer is a bit dubious about this load of crap, but he can’t see properly, so he has to believe him and Newman gets away with it.’
By now they were in the dim depths of the Royal Box proper. The seats were stacked at the back, and the luxuriously carpeted area stood dark and empty. The two Angels had peered quickly over the padded balcony, making sure that neither the other chapter members nor the prowling police could see them. Then, they had slipped quietly to the floor.
Monk had his hand down the front of Modesty’s unzipped jeans, his finger moving softly in the depths of her body. As he reached the end of his story, he had felt her muscles contract about him as she laughed.
Her jacket was open, and she moaned as he nuzzled on her firm breasts. Her hands sought him, stroking him to a hard readiness. She pulled his face to her, licking his face. Her teeth met on his lips, nipping hard, making him jerk back. But, she still held him, biting harder, until he could taste the salty hotness of his own blood.
Modesty wriggled her hips upwards, so that Monk
could slide her jeans and pants down and out of the way. In his turn, he tugged down his jeans and rolled out of his colours, pitching them to one side. His hand reached up to the top of her thighs, feeling her ready warmth. She lay on her back, feeling the plush of the thick carpet tickling her skin. As he raised himself above her, she opened her legs, and used her hand to guide him into her.
Below them, as they thrust and panted to a mutual climax, Gerry and Penn walked the theatre together. Its modern design made it easier to protect than some older halls. Blocks of seats were cut off from each other by heavy partitions, and the nearest rows were still a good twenty feet from the high stage.
‘I’m putting some of the meanest mothers in a row at the front here. There’ll be four more on the stage itself, and half a dozen in reserve in the wings. Also, there’ll be a few brothers, with most of the old ladies and the mamas mingled in among them.’
Penn nodded at the plan. ‘Sounds fine. What about giving them a warning?’
‘Rupert Colt’s arranged that. There’ll be a message printed on the front of the programme, plus special sheets handed out at the door, plus a fucking great poster that’s going to be hung up there over the stage, before the show starts. And the compere’s going to lay it on the line for them all.’
The policeman sat down with a sigh in one of the stalls seats. ‘Who’s the compere?’
Gerry grinned. ‘Well, they are having what you might call a bit of trouble over their compere. After the Sundance killings, nobody seems that keen to get on stage in front of these little creeps and risk having his cock ripped off in the rush. So, I reckon it’s not absolutely out of the question that it might be yours truly. Unless, of course, you fancy the job yourself.’
A slow shaking of the head was all the answer that question got.
Meanwhile, back in the Royal Box, events had just reached a satisfactory conclusion, though Monk had found it necessary to jam his fist into his old lady’s mouth as her back arched with the strength of her orgasm, otherwise her screams would have brought every copper and Angel in the place running to the Box.
Modesty wiped between her thighs with Monk’s colours, the stains making no noticeable difference to their filthy state. After they were both dressed, she led the way back out towards the main body of the theatre. But, before she closed the door, Monk took her arm.
‘Wait a minute. Bit of unfinished business in there.’
And he walked back into the Royal retiring room, automatically lit by the dim lamp. Both the closet doors were still shut.
He raised his voice. ‘I count three, then I kick these doors in and knock the crap out of anyone I find inside there. One ... Two …’
Before he reached three, first the right-hand door and then the left eased open. Round each door, two faces peered. ‘Out! Come on, out here!’
Four young girls, the oldest who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, walked nervously into the centre of the floor. They wore the traditional teenies’ gear. Skinny, tight jackets of brightly coloured cotton or silk, across their budding breasts, with either jeans or very short skirts. Spike-heeled shoes in shiny leather completed the outfits.
Their faces were thin and pale, almost entirely without makeup. The tallest spoke in a whining, nasal, Black Country accent. ‘We didn’t mean no harm, no road. We just wanted to get a chance to see Central Heating. The tickets went before we had a chance. Here, you’re a Hell’s Angel, aren’t you? You won’t turn us over to the fuzz, will you?’
Monk scratched his nose. ‘I don’t know. We’re supposed to be in charge of security, you know. That means not letting kids like you four into this place.’
‘They wouldn’t know. Come on, be a sport. We all like the Angels, don’t we?’
Three heads nodded in unison.
Monk pretended to be considering their request. ‘Just how much do you like Angels?’
Blank incomprehension. ‘What do you mean, “How much”?’
‘I mean what would you be prepared to do for me, in return for me not ratting on you?’
‘Like sex? Anything you like.’
Monk winked at Modesty. ‘All right, then girls. I want each of you, in turn, to blow me. Come on, plate me; you know what that means? Right then. And, one more thing. After that, you each do the same for my, old lady here. Right?’
The teenies looked horrified. Not at the thought of having it with him, but at the thought of giving head to another woman. But, the threat of police action was pressing, and they did want to see Central Heating. So they performed.
And, Monk kept his word.
He didn’t turn them over to the fuzz.
That wouldn’t have been sporting; especially after the fine job they did.
But, he did tell his president, as all loyal brothers should. And, Gerry was delighted to hear about it.
‘Where have you hidden these little darlings? I reckon we can find a use for them. Where are they?’
It was Modesty who answered, unable to hide her laughter. ‘They can’t come down at the moment. They, well, they’re a bit tied-up at the moment.’
Ten – Get Back, Get Back, Get Back To Where You Once Belonged
WARNING!!!
WARNING!!!
This is a WARNING to all fans of Central Heating and Foolsgold who are attending any of the eight concerts held during March.
Events at recent tours of pop singers have produced more than their fair share of tragedy. Rupert Colt, on behalf of the promoters, announces here and now that every effort will be made to ensure no repercussions of this kind of behaviour.
Therefore, we urge all fans, of whatever age, to read this WARNING, and pay strict attention to it. There are only two words that you need to remember.
COOL IT.
Try and think of that when the time comes for your favourites to appear on the stage in front of you.
COOL IT.
On behalf of the promoters, we wish to make it clear that security is being handled by people who will not react gently to any attempt by ANYBODY to rush the stage or interfere in any way with the performances.
This WARNING also applies before and after shows.
The Hell’s Angels who you will see at the front of each theatre have been given a completely free hand to run the security any way they think fit.
The Hell’s Angels are not gentle people. BUT, they will not initiate any violence. Their job is to protect the show and to keep things moving. NOTHING will stand in their way to achieve this aim.
COOL IT.
Rupert Colt and Albert Donegan Enterprises take no responsibility for any person harmed, wounded, maimed, killed, or for any property damaged as a result of any illegal activity by any member of the audience.
No claim as a result of any such action, especially by the Last Heroes’ chapter of the Hell’s Angels, can be entered into by the promoters.
The show is for you to enjoy. Do that, and nobody will get harmed. Step out of line, and you’ll imagine the WORLD HAS ENDED.
So, just COOL IT.
And, don’t say that you haven’t been WARNED.
This WARNING appears on all authorised publications connected with this tour.
Ignorance of this WARNING will not save you from any action.
Rupert Colt and Albert Donegan Enterprises end this message, by hoping that you all ENJOY yourselves, and have a FUN TIME.
PEACE AND LOVE.
KEEP ON TRUCKING.
Eleven – The Timeless Explosion of Fantasy’s Dream
‘My name’s Gerry Vinson, I’m the leader of the Last Heroes. You’ve heard of me and my brothers. This is the first show of the tour. Two acts. Great acts. Two halves. Foolsgold open in a couple of minutes, and Central Heating come on for the second half. Nobody else. No crap fillers. Just the top. Before we start: one thing. Look at this, and learn from it. Any of you try and cross us up and this is the sort of thing you’ll get. Bring them on, Gwyn. These stupid tarts tried to get in free and fuck up our plans. Lo
ok at them.’
The capacity audience, who’d paid minimum prices of ten pounds to get in, had been screaming and shouting as they waited for the show to start. When the denimed figure of the almost mythical Wolf Vinson came on instead of the expected glam compere, they shut up for a bit. By the end of his brief intro the noise was again building up. When the crowd, mixed between middies and teenies, saw what came on from the side of the stage, the silence became total.
First, stripped to the waist, was the nightmare figure of Gwyn. His body was as white as light, and so thin that the ribs stood out as dark, smudged shadows. A wraith of hair toppled onto his shoulders, framing that face of evil purity. From the centre of the ivory face, twin red lights glowed at the audience. The ruby eyes of Gwyn, the albino. In his black-gloved hand, he held the end of a silver cord. It reached back into the wings of the stage.
Against the heavy blue plush of the front curtain, Gwyn was a creation to stop the heart of the nervous. Grinning wolfishly at the paralysed throng, he tugged at the silver cord. Once, twice, three, four times.
A collective gasp.
WARNING.
KEEP COOL.
Four young girls, though it was difficult to see at first that they were girls, and not some product of a Salvador Dali dream world. The four young girls that Monk had discovered hiding in the Queen’s lavatory. He had promised not to turn them over to the fuzz, and he’d kept his word.
The rope ran to the neck of the first girl, then onto the necks of the others. The spotlights gleamed off their heads. Off their bald heads. Their hair had been brutally shorn by Holly and Lady, and the scalps coated with thick gold paint. Sequins had been scattered on the top to give the glittery effect.
They were totally naked, and even their body hair had been shaved. Hands were bound behind them, and ankles were hobbled so that they could only mince along in steps of not more than eight inches.
Strips of sticking plaster sealed their mouths. Some of the brothers had spent an enjoyable time finger-painting all manner of bright, jolly designs on their bodies, during the afternoon.