by Adam Millard
A minute later, three cowering boys stood up and rushed out through the open doors.
“My job!” one of them said.
“Not on your nelly!” said another.
“—” said the third, for he was far more sensitive to insane amounts of violence than the other two; the previous few minutes had been somewhat traumatising and had rendered the poor bastard dumb.
*
“Well this isn’t a good sign,” said Freddy as they arrived at Armand’s. Police cars were scattered about the place; cops were standing around talking to witnesses and passers-by; a parking attendant was surreptitiously ticketing the cop cars, for he needed the bonus at the end of the month, and, well, as far as he was concerned it should be the same rules for everyone.
The arcade itself was cordoned off due to the horrific scene within, though no-one knew there was a horrific scene within because it was cordoned off. Luckily, the investigating officers had investigated the horrific scene within before they had cordoned the place off, or they too would have been none the wiser as to what was happening, or why they had been called out in the first place.
“Aw, it’s cordoned off,” said Sister Geoff. “I was hoping to have a few goes on Anders Breivik’s Day Off.”
A pair of detectives, whose names both ended in –wallowicz, appeared in front of the mayor.
“What are you doing here, Mister Mayor?” said Detective Bobwallowicz. “Don’t you have premises to open?”
Detective Billwallowicz sniggered. “Yeah, Mister Mayor. Oh, by the way, that over there is crime scene tape, designed to cordon off premises in which horrific scenes have occurred. We’d be really grateful if you didn’t try cutting it.”
Bobwallowicz snorted. “Good one,” he said, patting his partner on the back.
“Are these guys for real?” Freddy said.
“What happened here?” asked the mayor.
“Erm, horrific events,” said Bobwallowicz, sounding more like a petulant child than a detective of the HPD. “Duh.”
Sister Geoff had had enough, and barged the mayor aside. “Listen, you pair of cunts,” she said, poking each of them in the shoulder. “I’ve got a party to be at in four hours’ time and you cockwombles really aren’t helping, so why don’t you just tell Mayor Ketchum what’s happened here, and we’ll be out of your hair.”
The Wallowiczes were flummoxed. Never before had they been reprimanded by a nun, and it didn’t feel nice, no, not at all. Nuns were supposed to be nice, gentle, and good with children – unlike their male counterparts – but this one was crude, rough around the edges, and not even the worst parent in the world would leave her in charge of their kids.
Bobwallowicz cleared his throat. “Apparently, some psycho in a pig mask decided to kill Armand and a bunch of kids.”
“See,” said the nun. “That wasn’t too difficult, now, was it?”
“Not at all,” said Bobwallowicz.
“We were too late,” Amanda said, stifling the tears which threatened to make an appearance any moment. “Those poor children.”
“Poor Armand,” Freddy said. Then he remembered Armand ejecting him and Rich from the arcade the previous day, and thought, Serves him right.
Billwallowicz, now frowning, pulled a notepad from his breast pocket. “Who are you, anyway?” he said. “Do you have any information about what might have happened here?”
“Yeah, I reckon some psycho in a pig mask decided to kill Armand and a bunch of kids,” said the nun, sarcastically. “You can quote me on that, if you like.”
“We might know who is responsible—” the mayor began, but Amanda interrupted.
“For the 9/11 attacks,” she said.
Bobwallowicz and Billwallowicz exchanged a look. The kind of look that suggested they believed they were dealing with a whack-job.
“Al-Qaeda?” said Bobwallowicz, scratching his bald head.
“Oh, you already know,” Amanda said. “Well, in that case our work here is done. Have a pleasant day, detectives, and I’d keep that Al-Qaeda info to yourself. You never know who you can trust.” She walked away from the Wallowiczes; Freddy, Sister Geoff, and Mayor Ketchum quickly followed.
“What was that all about?” said the mayor. “We know who killed those people, and it sure as hell had nothing to do with Al-Qaeda.”
“You want to tell them that Pigface, a reanimated maniac seeking retribution for his own death, is responsible for this?” Amanda whispered, for the Wallowiczes were still lurking in the vicinity. “There’s not a fat lot we can do to stop that bastard from Haddon Asylum, is there?”
“She’s right,” Freddy said. “And there’s no point putting more lives on the line.”
“Pity you weren’t thinking like that when you phoned the shagging nunnery,” Sister Geoff said.
“So what do we do now?” asked the mayor. “Don’t tell me we have to wait for old White Eyes here to have another vision?”
“We have to wait for old White—”
“Thought as much,” said the mayor, glancing at his watch. It was a nice watch. Very gold. Pinched his arm-hairs every now and then, but that was a small price to pay for such a nice, very gold watch.
“That’s a nice watch,” said the nun, wandering whether he would miss it if it wasn’t there.
“Thanks,” said the mayor. “It pinches my arm-hairs every now and then, but that’s a small price to pay for such a nice, very gold watch.”
“Can I have it?”
“No you can’t,” said the mayor.
“Shame,” said the nun. “I don’t have as much arm-hair as you.”
“Look, I’ve got to go and open this RadioShack,” said the mayor. “I’d appreciate it if you tagged along, since you seem to know more about this Pigface character than anyone else.”
“Will there be cake?” asked Sister Geoff.
“No.”
“Drugs?”
“I can have you put in a cell, you know.”
And so Amanda, Freddy, and Sister Geoff followed Mayor Ketchum halfway across town, to where a ribbon, a pair of scissors, and a crowd of twelve anxiously awaited his arrival.
20
Tan Yo Hide
The name of the orange lady in charge was Chrystal (of course it bloody was) and she hadn’t always been orange. As a child she had been a regular porcelain, and as a teenager she was comfortable wearing an off-bisque shade. In fact, it wasn’t until she turned thirty that she opted to go that extra step, thus becoming the walking-talking-crinklier-than-a-leather-handbag-cheesy-poof that she was today. Still, as far as she was concerned, she was absolutely gorgeous, and don’t you try to tell her otherwise.
Today was a very special day for Tan Yo Hide. Only that morning, Chrystal had received a phone-call from a VIP. None other than Same Treat, in fact. The following is a transcription of that particular call.
Chrystal: Hello? Tan Yo Hide, Chrystal speaking, how may I help you?
Sam Treat: I woke up this morning looking like death. I mean, I could make the Queen of England look like Queen Latifah, right now, and I’ve got a very important party to attend this afternoon. Can you make me brown?
Chrystal: I can make you orange.
Sam Treat: What about mocha? Can you do mocha?
Chrystal: I can do orange.
Sam Treat (sighing): Darling, this is Sam Treat, supermodel extraordinaire, legs up to my armpits, one boob marginally larger than the other. Can you do mocha?
Chrystal: OhmyGod! Miss Treat, How wonderful it is to hear from you.
Sam Treat: Of course it is. Now, about my tan.
Chrystal: We can do mocha, we can do walnut, caramel, tawny, off-faeces. We can do honey, marigold, apricot. We can do Kardashian, rust, amber, kidney-stone—
Sam Treat: Mocha is fine.
Chrystal (clearly excited): When can we expect you! The girls won’t believe…hang on a sec…Debbie! Debbie! Guess who I’m talking to right now! Go on, have a guess! Brad Pitt, she says. No, have another gu
ess. Joe Biden? Who the f— have another go.
Sam Treat: Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep
Chrystal: Miss Treat? Are you there? Oh, she’s gone. It was Sam Treat, Debs. You know, the supermodel with the legs up to her armpits and one boob marginally smaller than the other? She’s coming in for a Mocha. Can you believe that? Sam Treat, coming here for a spray? Why am I still holding this phone? Honestly, sometimes I— [Call Terminated]
Needless to say, Chrystal was thrilled at the prospect of a celebrity in her salon. She’d put on a bit of a spread – ham sandwiches, pork scratchings, bacon vol-au-vents, the usual fare – and had given the booth a once over with Lemon Pledge. Her assistant for the day, Debbie Lee-Ray, was equally as excited, and had got herself all dolled up for the occasion. So there they were, a pair of orange ladies wearing shades of bright green and red, waiting for the beautiful Sam Treat to arrive at Tan Yo Hide.
“What if he got her?” said Chrystal, glancing down at her watch. It was a nice watch. Orange, covered in spray-tan, but apart from that it did its job.
“Who?” Debbie said, shoving a bacon vol-au-vent into her mouth and frantically chewing.
“Miss Treat,” said Chrystal.
“I know that,” said Debbie. “I meant who? As in, what if who got Miss Treat?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I was asking you.”
“No…oh, deary, deary me, this is confusing. We both know that we’re talking about Miss Treat, right?”
“Right.”
“So who would refer to the person to which you are eluding, the one who may or may not have got Miss Treat, correct?”
“I don’t know,” said Chrystal. “But what if he has got her? What if he’s killed her or kidnapped her or—”
“Who?”
“Miss Treat! Honestly, sometimes I wonder why I even bother talking to you.”
Just then, the door swung open and in walked Sam Treat, flanked by what appeared to be a moose of some kind, thusly rendering the last few lines of dialogue completely unnecessary.
“Ah, Miss Treat,” Chrystal said, jumping up and down on the spot. “You have no idea how thrilled we are that you chose Tan Yo Hide to turn you a nice shade of mocha.”
“As you can see,” added Debbie, motioning to the fine spread they’d put on for their VIP, “we’ve put on a bit of food for you. Hope you’re not allergic to swine—”
“Actually, I’m vegetarian,” said Sam, removing her shoes.
“Well, that’s knackered that, then,” Chrystal said. “The thought was there, though. Maybe we could rustle you up a quiche? Perhaps an omelette? Debbie works wonders with crepes, don’t you Debs?”
“Actually, I ate three days ago,” said Sam. “Didn’t I, Martha?”
Martha, who wasn’t a moose after all but a very tricky-looking woman, flipped through a notebook. “That’s right,” she said, running her finger down the page. “You had a Caesar salad on Tuesday, followed by three croutons and seventeen glasses of Chardonnay.”
“It was the croutons that did it,” Sam said, patting her tiny tummy. A hollow sound echoed around the tiny salon. “So where do you want us?”
“Us?” said Chrystal. “You’re going to have your pet done as well?”
“Do you mind?” Martha said, exasperated.
“She didn’t mean anything by it,” said Debbie. “Just that the spray doesn’t work well with excess fur.”
“I’ll sit this one out,” said Martha.
“Probably for the best,” concurred Sam. “Remember that time you had your crack waxed?”
Martha nodded, solemnly.
“Three days we were in there,” said Sam. “They had enough hair to stuff a dozen cushions.”
“I really don’t—”
“No of course you don’t,” Sam said. “And why would you? It’s absolutely disgusting.” She turned to the orange ladies. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we? Got a very important party to attend in a couple of hours.”
“Walk this way,” said Chrystal, before waddling into a back room.
Sam and Martha waddled after her, although it felt a little unnatural.
Debbie forced three sausage-rolls into her mouth and rolled her eyes.
*
Fifteen minutes later, they were all standing around the mini-buffet once again, only now Sam Treat was standing in front of a mirror with a towel around her extremities, screaming at the top of her lungs while her assistant frantically fanned her with her notebooks.
“I can assure you, Miss Treat, that it will calm down!” said Chrystal.
“I asked for fucking mocha!” said the supermodel. “This is a tangerine tan, if I ever I saw one!”
“It will be mocha in a few weeks,” said Chrystal. “Oh, deary me, this has gone terribly wrong, hasn’t it?”
“No shit!” gasped Sam. “Now I’ve got to rock up at Harry Hunter’s party looking like a Circus Peanut in a Hazmat suit!”
“I’m sure Mister Hunter won’t notice,” said Chrystal. Debbie had taken to rearranging the food on the table into alphabetic order.
“Won’t notice?” said Sam, exposing herself to her reflection. One boob was certainly smaller than the other, or was that larger than; either way she looked a little skewiff. “I’ll be the only one there glowing in the dark!”
“Colourful is always good,” assured Chrystal. “It won’t look half as bad by the time you get there. You’re just not used to it yet.”
“Oh, I’m used to it,” said Sam, haughtily covering herself over once more. “I’m pretty sure my lawyer will be intrigued about it, too. How long have you been operating for?”
“A day,” said Debbie, through a mouthful of bacon.
“Well, I hope you enjoyed yourselves,” Sam said, dropping the towel and climbing into her clothes. Getting dressed is so much more difficult when you’re angry, which was why Sam Treat found herself with a head in an armhole, a leg in a headhole, and the rest of her all knotted up like a knob of ginger.
Martha, the assistant, assisted, and it wasn’t long before everything was in the correct order.
“Don’t think you’ve heard the end of this,” said Sam, before turning and storming out, her moose in tow.
“There goes another happy customer,” said Debbie.
“Shut up, Debs,” said Chrystal. “Just shut up.”
*
You hear that racket? said the mask. All those sirens and whatnot?
Larry nodded, for he did hear them. There were an awful lot of them, dopplering through the streets. It was as if they had nothing better to do. “Somebody must have done something naughty.”
And do you think that might be you? asked the mask.
“I bloody hope not,” Larry said. “Sounds like they’ve got ever cop in the city out looking for this perp.”
Better find somewhere to lay low for a while, said the mask. And I don’t know about you, but I’m friggin’ starving here…
“You’re a mask,” said Larry. “How is that even possible?”
I’m part of you, you buffoon. If you’re hungry, I’m hungry.
“Now that you mention it,” Larry said, rubbing at his considerable belly, “I could murder some food.”
Let’s just find something that’s already dead, shall we? said the mask. And where the hell are we, anyway?
Larry stopped momentarily, took in his surroundings. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say that we’re by a load of industrial trashcans,” he said, for they were indeed by a load of industrial trashcans. There were doors all along one side of the…well, it wasn’t quite a street. More of a back-passage. The kind of back-passage it was easy to get lost in. As back-passages went, this one was relatively clean. Larry had seen some dirty back-passages in his lifetime, but this one was well looked after.
Just then, and not a moment too soon as far as the anti-back-passage-jokes-brigade were concerned, a figure emerged from one of the backdoors, trash in hand, fag in mouth, and proceeded to dispose of
said trash in its proper receptacle.
Larry froze, watching as the woman – who was incredibly orange, Larry thought – got rid of her rubbish before disappearing in through the backdoor. This backdoor was filthy, and Larry had seen a lot of filthy—
She was a bit orange, wasn’t she? said the mask. And leathery, like one of those cheap handbags you can buy at the airport…
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Larry, and of course he was, even though he wasn’t sure what an airport was. “And the state of that backdoor—”
The approaching sirens drowned out his words, which was just as well. We need to get out of this back-passage, said the mask. This will be the first place the cops think to search for us. They always rummage around in back-passages when they’re looking for someone.
“And go where?” said Larry. “We appear to be trapped in this back-passage. In fact, I can’t remember how we even got here.”
Head for that filthy backdoor, said the mask.
And so Larry did just that.
*
“Can you believe how rude she was?” Chrystal said as she re-entered the salon. Debbie nodded. “Well, I shan’t be buying anything that bitch endorses ever again.” Apart from the double-wear foundation and the eyeliner, she thought. Oh, and the tampons, and maybe the leg-waxing strips… but apart from that…
“Celebrities are all the same,” said Debbie, moving into the kitchen area of the salon. Chrystal was in the next room, cleaning down a massage table. “You remember that time Prince Charles popped by for a colonic irrigation, then spent the entire time complaining about how cold your hands were?”
“That’s royalty for you, though,” Chrystal shouted back. “He was alright after I sat on them for ten minutes.”
“Yeah, but he refused to sign the guestbook,” said Debbie as she put the kettle on. She dropped teabags into cups. “I think it was because you told him he’d never be King.”
“I thought he already knew that,” said Chrystal. “Barring an absolute fucking tragedy, he’s got no chance, and I told him as much.”