Vinyl Destination

by Millard, Adam

  Really? After all these years?

  It was true; everyone knows that Goths don’t scream. If you’re lucky, you might get a disgusted grunt, or a sickened whine, but on the whole it ran against everything they stood for. Goth Girl opted for a pitiless grumble on this occasion. The warm blood dripping down her cheek suggested that she might’ve been just a little callous.

  “Quick, everyone in here!” Clarence said, booting open the door to a nearby laundrette. “Before we all get taken out by giant letters…”

  “Did anyone see where those three lads went?” Marcia asked, glancing over her shoulder. “I could have sworn they were right behind us when we left the club.”

  “I’ll bet they went up with the roof, when the club exploded,” Goth Girl said. “One minute they were there, and the next… well, probably three streets away, at any rate.”

  “Can’t help them now,” Marcia sighed, following Clarence in through the splintered door. For a moment she didn’t realise what she was doing. Then it hit her:

  I was looking at his ass…

  Not looking… really looking, like I wanted to grab it. God I love him. He’s so handsome and perfect and I just want to bite his…

  “Are you okay?”

  Marcia glanced up to find Goth Girl staring at her as if she’d just compared Cradle of Filth to a steaming pile of elephant dung.

  “Yeah, I think…” Marcia lied. If by 'okay' you mean, “were you just dreaming about fucking Clarence, the man whom you loathe more than anyone else at work,” then yes, yes I’m quite okay. I may be sick in the head, apparently, but…

  “We need to call someone,” Clarence said, pulling his mobile from his pocket. He jabbed at the buttons – as if trying to bring the trusty Nokia 3210 to orgasm – before realising it was all a bit pointless. “Doesn’t seem to be a signal. Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  “Never mind, honey,” Marcia said. The words left her mouth before she’d had a chance to filter them. “I mean, never mind… it’s probably just… well, the explosion…” Why did I just call him honey? Why, for the love of God and all that's good and pure, do I just wanna SING to him right now; something by Whitney Houston or, heaven help me, Justin Bieber?

  Confused, Clarence said, “Yeah, it was pretty big, wasn’t it?”

  I’ll bet YOURS is pretty big, you handsome bag of fuckable.

  “I think I need to lie down,” Marcia said. “I’m not thinking straight…”

  “That’s lesbians for you,” Clarence sighed. “If only more of them thought straight!”

  Marcia made her way across the laundrette, swiping an empty box of Ariel™ (because if you want it really clean, you need ground-up mermaid bits) off the top of a machine and clambering up onto it. Her head had been flooded with song lyrics for some reason, each verse sappier than the one before it. It was as if Stevie Wonder, Luther Vandross, and Celine Dion had decided to have a ménage à trois between her ears, and it hurt like a sonofabitch. People say that childbirth is the most painful thing a woman can experience, but they’d never had to listen to the theme from Titanic mashed up with Nat King Cole’s ‘When I Fall in Love’ and several other torch songs all at once. A fusion of such piteous potency, it was almost enough to drive Marcia insane.

  Mercifully, a distant rumble interrupted this swirl of sickening sentimentality she’d been sucked into, shaking the very ground where they stood. Several boxes of Persil went tumbling over the edge of the abandoned machines as Marcia snapped out of it.

  “What the hell is going on out there?” Goth Girl asked. “Is this the apocalypse or what?” Being a Goth, she had to resist getting overly excited at the prospect; it probably wasn’t the End of Days, after all, and Satan probably wasn’t coming with his minions (Hitler, Hussein and Thatcher) to finally destroy the world once and for all.

  Still, something was happening. Bellbrook was clearly going to hell in a hand basket, and as Marcia lay back on the washers with images of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslett swimming through her head, she couldn’t help wondering whether hell might be a preferable alternative.

  38

  “What the fuck is it!?” Lee spat, tugging at the impossibly long hairs now sprouting from his chin. “I’ve never had a beard before in all my life, and now suddenly I’ve got one down past my bollocks!”

  Alfie watched in terror as his own beard continued to grow. “This shit ain’t normal…” he said. “It just keeps getting longer!”

  Poor Calvin, who couldn’t speak clearly at the best of times, thought to add, “I c-c-can’t b-b-believe t-t-this is h-h-happening.” His own beard was down to his ankles already. “I t-think w-we’re z-z-z-z…”

  “Z-z-z-z-what?!” Lee yelled at him. “Just spit it out already!”

  “Z-z-z-ZZ Top!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Alfie said, standing on his beard now, repeatedly throwing his head back in a vain attempt to tear it off.

  “Calvin’s right!” Lee said. “My dad has – had – all their records. I remember the album covers; dudes with silly beards and guitars.” He wound his five-foot beard around his hand. “Ours look exactly like theirs, only longer.”

  “I do feel the sudden urge to find a guitar…” Alfie said. “And a sharp outfit,” he thought to add.

  “Hang on,” Lee said, as if remembering something important. “Only two of the guys in ZZ Top had beards; the other one didn’t.” He turned just in time to witness Calvin’s beard fall out, as if on cue, cast off like a discarded costume piece.

  A look of relief washed over Calvin’s face as his beard piled up at his feet. “W-well, I g-guess I’m the b-baldie t-then,” he said, rubbing his freshly shorn chin in disbelief.

  “We need to find some scissors,” Alfie said, pulling his beard into a long French plait. “These things are gonna keep growing until they bury us completely; we’ll suffocate if we don’t do something about them soon!”

  “Curl up and die!” Lee suddenly blurted out.

  Alfie looked shocked. “That’s not the attitude to have…”

  “No, you dickhead. CURL UP AND DYE. It’s a hairdresser’s just down the street. We’ll be able to lose our beards there for sure! Hopefully they’ll stop growing if we wax them from the roots.”

  “G-good thinking,” Calvin said. “D-do I h-have to come with y-you? I m-mean, I’m the b-baldie ch-chin, remember?”

  “We’re in this together,” Alfie said. “And we don’t know what might happen if we split up. Have ZZ Top ever split up before?”

  “Fuck knows,” Lee said. “Come on, I can hardly breathe as it is.”

  Along the way, they passed a dog groomer's called SHORT BARK AND SIDES, a clothiers for midgets called DO YOU HAVE THIS IN A SMALL?, and a glaziers called A PAIN IN THE GLASS.

  “There it is!” Lee said, pointing down Victoria Street to their destination. “We’ll be rid of these beards in no ti—”

  That was as far as he got before being vaporized. Before his friends knew what happened, they too were overtaken by the the blinding white light. It was as if none of them had ever existed at all. Nothing remained, not even a Croc.

  And it was all the Council’s fault, too, for it was them that approved the grant allowing CURL UP AND DYE to be built in the first place, even though it was essentially on the outskirts of Bellbrook, and not officially part of town. If anything, it belonged to Renford, two miles over, but the mayor was loath to incorporate it due to his brother owning and operating CROPS AND BOBBERS, Renford’s own premier hair salon.

  39

  Sharon Conker screeched, long and shrill upon the night. At her prompt, dogs in the neighbouring villages and towns began howling at the wildly oscillating moon, which was apparently still confused as to whether it should be quarter, half or full thanks to Leroy and his Thriller shenanigans.

  “Calm down,” Clive the Cameraman said. “Screaming isn’t going to help, is it?”

  “Calm fucking down?” she shrieked. “Look at me, Clive. Take a good, hard look a
t me and tell me what you see!”

  The thing was, Clive had been looking at her since they’d escaped the carnage of Knickers Nightclub. If anything, it was impossible not to look. He’d never seen anything like it in his life. On the plus side, his mixed feelings for Sharon had finally been put to bed. I mean, how could he possibly fancy her now? Now that she looked like… “Freddie Mercury,” he said. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to stay that way. You might—”

  “I might what, Clive?” she sobbed. His gaze fell to the ground, like a berated child who’d been caught stealing sweets. “Turn into David Bowie? Do a little duet with myself? Why the fuck have I grown a moustache? What have I done to deserve this? And why in the blazes do I have 'Radio Ga Ga' stuck my head?”

  “Look on the bright side,” Clive consoled her. “Could be stuck with Lady GaGa instead. And anyway, remember that song? All you need is Radio Ga Ga.”

  “Are you trying to wind me up, you little shit?” she said, putting her hands on her hips. With her new moustache and teeth, it was impossible for Clive to take her seriously. “This isn’t normal. Something… attacked me in there. Something I couldn’t see. I feel like I’ve been violated by a poltergeist!”

  Having seen a few of Sharon’s previous boyfriends, Clive had to wonder whether molestation by a supernatural entity would’ve been such a bad thing. “I didn’t see anything,” he mumbled.

  “Of course you didn’t!” Sharon shot back. “If poltergeists were visible, they’d just be people! Angry people throwing things around and raping at will.”

  “Look,” Clive said, “that’s all well and good, but it still doesn’t explain why you’re Freddie Mercury now all of a sudden.” It was dark out there in the street, and all this talk of rape-y ghosts was not helping to alleviate his fears. “Something attacked you – so you say – and now you’re the resurrected frontman of one of the greatest rock bands in the history of mankind. Does that sound like a normal Friday night out to you?”

  Sharon shook her head. Normal Friday nights usually involved copious amounts of vodka, a tumble in the bathroom of some squalid club, and then on to Ken’s Tuck-In Fried Chicken for a three-piece with a side of coleslaw. This whole Freddie Mercury thing was decidedly new territory for her.

  “And what about the zombies and that Michael Jackson pimp?” Sharon said, recalling the horrors they had just witnessed. “If it hadn’t been for those Blues Brother bouncers, we’d be having our innards gnawed out by now.”

  “This makes absolutely no sense,” Clive agreed, “but standing here talking about it isn’t going to help. We need to find someone who actually knows what the bloody hell is going on.”

  On they walked into the night. Arriving at the centre of town, they found the square deader than a eunuch orgy. The wind was kicking up an almighty fuss, but apart from that, all was still amongst the abandoned cars and food stalls.

  “Looks like the whole town’s off,” Clive said, gawping at the deserted street.

  “Only the ones stupid enough to be out this late,” Sharon muttered darkly. “Do you think any of those…” She didn’t want to say it, but needed must. “…Thriller zombies survived the explosion?”

  Clive sighed. “I don’t think anything survived that,” he said. “I wonder what set it off, anyhow?”

  “No matter,” Sharon said, “the show must go on.” She immediately slapped a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that!” Her eyes grew wide with fear. “Holy shit, I think I’m going slightly mad! I go crazy… erm… it’s a kind of magic, or something! Fuck, Clive, don’t just stand ther—”

  His hand connected with her cheek harder than he’d intended, but she was obviously cracking up; that didn’t make him a woman-beater, did it? “Pull yourself together!” he shouted, avoiding eye-contact with her. She looked as though she were about to tear his head clean off and use his spine as a backscratcher.

  “You hit me…” she whispered. “You nearly knocked my bloody moustache off!”

  “Sorry, I didn’t know what else to do; you kept making all these Queen references, and I’m scared shitless that the rapergeist is coming for me next!”

  Just then, a number 15 bus appeared at the end of the street, rolling along as if its driver hadn’t a care in the world.

  “It’s coming this way,” Clive said. “The driver might be able to help us.”

  “Save me… Save me… Saaaaaaaaave meeeeeee,” Sharon sang at the top of her voice, its range and power uncharacteristically impressive. Just that morning in the shower, she’d sounded like two injured cats mating on a mattress of broken springs; now, she sounded like she was ready to hunt down Brian May and have another crack at it…

  The bus pulled up, hissing loudly as its air brakes released pressure. The door rattled open, and out stepped a man dressed as a Native American, followed closely by a cowboy and a construction worker.

  “Thanks, but we’ll wait for the next one,” Clive said, eyeing the three strange men suspiciously.

  “We nicked it,” the cowboy admitted, gesturing to the bus behind them. “Had to; gotta find some people out here tonight.”

  Sharon twiddled her moustache between her thumb and forefinger, in the manner of a Victorian detective considering a particularly tricky case. Realising what she was doing, she quickly dropped her arm. “What’s going on?” she asked the men before her. “Is this the world we created?”

  The cowboy shot her a confused look in reply.

  “It’s okay,” Clive said. “She’s transmogrified into Freddie Mercury and keeps blurting out song titles. I’m assuming that once she’s run out of those we all recognise, she’ll move onto the lesser-known ones.”

  “Wow, Freddie Mercury, huh?” the Native American said. He held up his hand, palm out. “How!”

  “We don’t know,” Clive said. “She just did.”

  “No, he was greeting h…” the construction worker said, trailing off. “Never mind. You wouldn’t happen to be a GI, would you?”

  Clive shook his head. “I’m a cameraman for Channel 5,” he said. “And it’s no good asking her what she does; she’ll most likely tell you she’s a fat-bottomed girl from Barcelona.”

  “Oh well,” the cowboy said, climbing back into the bus. “Hope you figure out what’s happened to your friend, though to be honest, things have been a bit crazy for everyone tonight. I wouldn’t expect any answers. Besides, that moustache is rather fetching. Might want to see a dentist, though.”

  “Hang on,” Sharon said, flabbergasted. Clive was about to interject when she cast him a glance that said, Don’t stop me now! “You can’t leave us out here like this. Have some staying power!”

  “Was that a Queen song?” the Native American asked, following the cowboy onto the bus. “I don’t remember it.”

  “Well, if I knew what a fucking bohemian rhapsody was, I might’ve used that one instead!” Glancing past the Native American, Sharon couldn’t help noticing that the bus looked nice and warm inside, and a hell of a lot safer than where they were presently standing. “Look, we were down the road at Knickers when it was attacked by zombies, of all things, right before the whole place went sky high. You wouldn’t be able to give us a lift back to the studio, would you? Out here we’re in the lap of the gods…”

  “That one I remember,” The Native American said. “I’ve got two questions for you. First of all, where is your studio, and secondly, will there be a GI there, and possibly a guy dressed in leather?”

  Sharon didn’t want to lie, but a little white one couldn’t hurt, would it? “If it’s men dressed in leather you’re after, a TV studio would be the best place to find them.”

  From the driver’s seat, the cowboy shouted, “Yee-haw! All aboard, pardners!”

  “Thank you, you crazy people,” Sharon said. “Come on, Clive. We’ll be safe back at Channel 5.”

  Clive shrugged. At the end of the day, it was him who’d have to explain what Freddie Mercury was doing at the stu
dio. I could say it’s a lookalike, said a sceptical voice inside his head. Just someone I'm dropping off at the Stars in Their Eyes set.

  “What have we got to lose?” he said, following Freddie/Sharon onto the bus.

  40

  I’m a punk! I’m a punk! I’m a… well, I used to be a highly respected general practitioner, but not anymore. Nope. Gone are the days of writing prescriptions and signing notes for indolent wankers who'd rather drink than work all day. Gone are the days of telling little Billy Bloom that the bump on the tip of his penis is really nothing to worry about, but we’ll have to lance it just the same. Gone are the—

  “Wha’choo doing out so late?” came a voice from Lucius Cain’s left, derailing his train of thought. “Y’all shouldn’t be walkin’ the streets. It ain’t safe, motherlicker!”

  Lucius turned to find a massive, bipedal creature standing between two parked cars. He couldn’t tell if the cars were just small – like those ones you can buy nowadays that fit down the side alley – or if the shadowy figure looming over them had been terrorizing villagers while running a side business in beanstalk development.

  Either way, the giant spelled trouble.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Lucius asked, quickly slapping a hand over his mouth. In forty years as a GP, he’d always wanted to tell his patients what he really thought; that it was just a cold, so go home and man the fuck up; that if you didn’t want to be sore in your basement, you should really stop having sex with diseased vermin; that no matter what your mother says, masturbation does not cause blindness and that the poor old dear is just scared of catching you in the act whilst watching some documentary about hillbilly duck-wranglers. Forty years on and he’d never so much as said 'boo' to a goose, and now, here he was, standing before a creature large enough to hammer him into the ground, and his mouth – I trusted you! We’ve been together since the start! – had finally betrayed him.

  “Who the fuck am I?” the giant said, stepping forth from the shadows. Shit, he was a lot bigger than his silhouette gave him credit for. “I’m Snoop fucking Diggity. You wanna go toe-to-toe, bitch?”