1001 Monsters You Must Slay Before You Die

by Miles Hurt

  I didn't want to see that look on her face again. That look of pure disgust. After that choice I'd made, my cowardice laid bare before her courage, I knew she could never love me back.

  Not even after a lifetime.

  TWENTY

  The deer at the far end of the field are startled. They scatter, bounding through the deep grass.

  A flicker of shadow, beneath the pavilion opposite. Something big moving there. Could it be the winged critter from the subway?

  I don't want to know.

  I won't have time to catch up with Travis Burlap, tell him about the impression his work made on me. I need to move.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Where does heroism get you anyway? Mog Jefferies, the activist painter, used to mock me for being a coward. He once told me I had less spine than a magazine. We were at the gallery opening of his exhibition, Paintings I've Changed The World With. I didn't mind the magazine joke, except for the fact that it was part of his welcome speech. Everyone in the art gallery got a good chuckle at that one.

  Mog was right. I am a coward. But I'm still alive at eighty-three, and he's dead. He got his head sliced up by a hit team of assassins. Coincidentally just after he finished his speech.

  That's what heroism gets you. It gets you cut up into hors-d'oeuvres.

  Or like what happened to Thoxx. Reduced to the status of a celebrity, peddling his notoriety on one of those appalling reality TV game shows.

  Annihilation Restoration. What a piece of cultural flotsam.

  The premise was saccharine: the celebrity contestants were given the task of renovating an orphanage in Huxley Rise. The orphanage had fallen into disrepair during the reign of the unspeakable horror Nog Shoth B'Zoth.

  The crumbling, multi-storey building was given a lick of paint and stuffed with all the latest mod cons. The musty dorm rooms and cold eating halls were converted into swanky flats. Stainless steel backsplashes in the kitchens, mosaic tiling in the bathrooms, bespoke bannisters and funky furniture.

  And didn't the celebrities harp on about the poor little kids? The bleeding hearts were always yammering about how great it felt to be helping the orphans. When the flats were finished and auctioned off to the inner urban professionals of Huxley Rise, they sold for a mint. Three percent of the proceeds of the auctions went towards funding a media campaign to raise awareness of orphan issues in Rambunculous.

  I'm sure the orphans would have been ecstatic, had they been allowed to remain in the building.

  The celebrities they scraped together to do the renovating were a sorry lot. A combination of washed-up Rambunculan luminaries and young hopefuls that turned the word 'famous' into a synonym for 'breathing'.

  Finch Blue, the video artist daughter of the old folkie Judy Blue. Finch seemed a little scatty. I wasn't entirely sure she knew she was on a television show.

  The seven-hundred-year-old millionaire Lotis Fang. Or more specifically, his head, which was grafted onto the body of a buff beach volleyball player. Lotis wore out the catchphrase 'an old head on young shoulders' in about three seconds. He also flatly refused to discuss what had happened to the rest of the beach volleyball player.

  Krv!!00!!vrK the 4D Floaty Thing.

  The Dark Lord Vorak. I remember the television promo for the first episode bleating: 'He once presided over hordes of minions; now he battles to match the paint samples with the carpet!'

  A bunch of other twits who I have thankfully forgotten.

  And the Thoxxster.

  So Thoxx went from a hero quest juggernaut to a hardware store sponsor shill. It was sad to see him so faded. Into his fifties by then, his washboard stomach was beginning to sag, his thews to wither. Male pattern baldness was marching through his thick shag of tawny hair. His body was formerly bronzed by the desert sun of Shar-Kahad; now Thoxx sported an orange spray tan that looked like it would be better used on the feature wall in the guest bedroom.

  Like I say, Annihilation Restoration was cheese town. I could have powered a 120 watt espresso machine with the amount of cringing I did while watching that dross. Shameless cross promotions for hardware stores and fast food restaurants, forced banter with the host about painting mishaps, deadlines that existed for no other reason than to create tension. The show had something for everyone, as long as everyone only included slack-jawed plebs.

  Judging by the show's ratings, Rambunculous was not short of these.

  Thoxx was pushed into increasingly ludicrous and stressful situations. In the second episode he couldn't manage to screw a lightbulb in. He went berserk. Not hissy-fit berserk; actual barbarian berserk. The red mist descended, and by the time the crew took him down, he'd snapped the host's arm back ninety degrees behind his shoulder and thrown him off a mezzanine level into a fire pit. Fortunately the fire pit was purely decorative, so the host didn't get burnt. He just had his back broken in six places from the fall.

  If only they'd told Thoxx it was a pop-in lightbulb, not a screw-in.

  But the ratings were incredible.

  Once the producers realised that people tuned in when Thoxx flipped out, they were continually trying to rattle him, to get him to lose it. They cut the power on him at crucial moments, put snakes in his toolbox, covered the doorways in his apartment with clear cling-wrap. In one notable episode the producers swapped Thoxx's knock-off flagon of mead for some paint thinner. Thoxx blamed it on Lotis Fang and put his seven-hundred-year-old head through a stud wall.

  So why did I watch Annihilation Restoration if it was such a steaming pile of duck poop?

  Each week, two celebrity contestants would be voted off the building site by their peers in a tedious ritual that took place before a television audience comprised entirely of morons. Following the voting, one of the cast-offs could be saved, if enough people called the studio. Thoxx was always getting voted off by the other contestants because of his berserk rages. So he needed people to call in to save his bacon. Somehow Thoxx cajoled me into working one of the phones in his makeshift call centre, along with a cadre of his ageing groupies.

  At 7:29 each Sunday night, the phones went into overdrive. Dials whirling, myself and the groupies saying his name over and over again. It was like being in a bizarre cult. One eye on the big television at the end of the room, a close up shot of Thoxx's brooding face as he awaited the verdict.

  We always saved him. It was only the accident that got him.

  Thoxx was winding down after a hard day of renovating by testing out the new stand-alone bath he'd installed in the guest wing of his flat. It was a ploy by the producers to give the ladies of Rambunculous a cheap thrill. Anyway, just as Thoxx was sudsing up his triceps, a toaster fell into the bath.

  To be specific, a giant painting of a toaster fell into the bath. Thoxx had affixed it to the wall above the bathtub that afternoon. In a rush, he'd done a poor job of it. The painting detached, and the corner of it came down like a tonne of bricks on his noggin.

  It turns out that what the hordes of Rath-Manu, what the rogues on the streets of Dankmar couldn't do, a tacky painting of a toaster by my old friend Mog Jefferies could. It put Thoxx's lights out. He went into a coma.

  The well-wishers and hangers-on fell away once it became apparent that Thoxx wasn't going to wake up in time for the season finale. His groupies evaporated, and the other contestants feigned emotion only as long as the cameras were rolling. After Krv!!00!!vrK the 4D Floaty Thing claimed the Grand Prize and the flats were auctioned, the producers installed Thoxx into the St Clare Hospital, and promptly forgot about him. Everyone did.

  It was left to me to be the one to visit him, talk to him. I sat there for long hours, reading him the sports section of the Rambunculan Times. Waiting for the felled giant to reawaken from his slumber.

  That's where heroism gets you. In a coma being tended to by your only friend. A guy who doesn't even like you that much.

  He woke up eventually, his eyes flickering open. I was sitting in the chair next to his bed with a newspaper on my chest,
gazing out of the window.

  'Pops,' he said.

  'Thoxx!' I sat up, the newspaper sliding onto the floor. 'Good to see you awake, buddy.'

  'Tell me,' he said, his throat hoarse. 'Did I win?'

  I didn't know what to say to him. He looked blearily around the hospital room, the single 'get well soon' balloon that I'd bought him deflated on the night stand.

  'No, Thoxx,' I said. 'You didn't win.'

  He sighed.

  'Oh, well,' he said. 'At least I raised awareness about orphan issues.'

  TWENTY-TWO

  Heroism. Maybe eighty-three isn't too old to try it out.

  I'm in a small cluster of little shops. Cobbled streets, stone buildings, colourful awnings. It'd be quaint if it hadn't been charred and blasted in a battle of the rebellion against the Serpent Queen.

  There's not a building left in one piece. I have to pick my way over rubble. The windows of the shop are open like punched-out teeth, doors burned. There must have been quite the ding-dong battle here.

  It'll take some fixing.

  I pause to give my hip a rest, leaning in the doorway of an old bank. Only the facade remains; the inside of the building has collapsed. I allow the afternoon brightness to seep into me, warming me.

  I need to stay sharp. No more daydreaming.

  A shadow flickers across the street, back the way I came. It's the flying thing. I press myself into the shade of the bank's doorway, tucking the box and the gun in as flush as I can.

  This is getting silly. Whatever that thing is, it has it in for me.

  Peering into the blue sky, I see the circling shape that cast the shadow. Ragged and torn wings. The silhouette of a segmented body. It looks damaged as it hangs and circles, like a moth that's battered itself against a huge lightbulb.

  I take a deep breath, trying to melt into the shadows.

  Should I take a potshot at it with the plasma rifle? It's hovering about a hundred yards up, moving lazily. Searching for me. If I take it down the hunt will be over.

  But I have almost no chance of hitting it.

  The thing moves away, floating to another quarter of the city.

  I exhale.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I did see Rowena again, a few years after my bar was obliterated in the meteorite shower. At an underground meeting of the resistance.

  There’s always some kind of resistance.

  This was a long time before the reign of the Serpent Queen, but it was the same kind of crew as the Mongoose rebels. The self-appointed good guys.

  They called themselves the Human League of Rambunculous. Or was it the C-PLOTZ? It doesn't matter. And exactly who or what they were resisting escapes me right now.

  The meeting was held at an old roller derby rink, the windows covered up with sack-cloth. The resistance were a bunch of earnest black-clad revolutionaries showing each other how to clean rifles and make bombs with garden fertilizer. Lean and desperate. Willing to give their lives for the cause.

  I was there for the sandwiches.

  Zero, the leader of the troupe, had this girlfriend who could work miracles with turkey, cranberries and camembert. And where she found the artisan ciabatta in the midst of the rule of an oppressive regime I'll never know.

  I was also there to meet women. If life has taught me one thing, it's that revolutionary cells are absolute babe traps. I don't know why that is. Perhaps it's the para-military fashions. Girls will take any excuse to wear epaulets. Regardless, I was going through a lean patch, and a meeting to lay plans to bomb Party HQ was, for me, a raging swinger.

  Zero was setting up a stool and a microphone in the middle of the rink, and the place had the expectant buzz that my old jazz bar would have just before an anticipated group played. A big crowd circled all around. I'd just gormandised my third sandwich when I spotted Rowena, on the far side of the track.

  She'd changed. The stripey beatnik turtleneck was replaced by a khaki shirt, and she'd grown out her fetching bob into a long, thick braid that snaked over her shoulder. She wore a purple beret and a bandolier lined with shotgun shells.

  I was struck anew by how pretty she was. I fell for her again, even from a distance.

  I had a minute or two before the haranguing began. I sidled over, bumped into her as though I hadn't seen her.

  'Pops!'

  'You remember me,' I said to her.

  'Of course!' She gave me a polite hug. I felt the metal and leather of her bandolier dig into my chest.

  She pulled back, and grabbed a tuft of my hair.

  'Wow, you've gone completely grey!' she said.

  'It's the stress,' I said. 'I'm only getting ten hours of sleep a night.'

  'How old are you now? Forty-five? Forty-eight.'

  'Thirty-seven,' I replied.

  She nodded, not sure how to rescue that little gaffe. I looked down at the smooth wood of the roller rink.

  Zero tapped on his mike to see if it was on. The crowd began to settle.

  'And what are you doing here?' she asked.

  'I'm here for the sandwiches,' I replied. Rowena laughed. The sound of her beautiful laugh made my heart play against my ribcage like it was a marimba.

  'Well, I wouldn't pick you for a revolutionary,' she said.

  'Uh-huh,' I said. 'I'm a big-time revolutionary. Revolution is my bread and butter. I love to see things revolve.'

  'Really?' she said. 'You?'

  It was a bit strange seeing her again, considering how we'd parted. She was still warm towards me, despite how it ended between us.

  'Oh, yes,' I said. 'Of course, I'm more of a behind-the-scenes revolutionary. Not one for the limelight. I provide moral support. Positive vibes. They've been scientifically proven to have an effect, you know.'

  Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

  'That sounds a bit more like the Pops I remember,' she said.

  Zero got the meeting underway. The chatter died off. There was some administrivia to care of: recent car-bombings, assassination tallies, a roll-call of partisans who'd been publicly butchered by the regime. Zero read a few choice passages from a little pink book he called The Little Pink Book. I threw Rowena a wink, and she smiled.

  This is great, I thought. A perfect place for the rekindling of romance. When it winds up I'll ask her if she wants to catch up some more over a weak tea back at my flat. I had a teabag with six or seven squeezings left in it.

  I tuned out for a minute, lost in a pleasant daydream. But I snapped to attention when I heard the word 'volunteers'. Zero was trying to rouse up a crew to plant a bomb under the Eternity Avenue Bridge, timed to take out a convoy of party officials. I can't recall his sales pitch verbatim, but a few key words and phrases come back to me, such as 'gamble,' 'heavily guarded,' and 'sacrifice not in vain'.

  I felt the sudden urge to have a smoke. As far away from the volunteering as I could get. I started to inch backwards, slinking to the top of the derby rink, and slithered over the railing like molasses. From there I found a flight of stairs leading to the roof.

  A close call. You never know when the presence of a pretty girl might give you a rush of blood, make you do something stupid like put your hand up for a suicide mission.

  It was a beautiful night. Rambunculous was lit up like a refracted orange jewel. I lit my pipe, blowing a stream of smoke into the cool air, and looked out over the rooftops of the city.

  I tried to pick out Qwerty Lane downtown, where my record shop used to be.

  The stairwell door cracked open behind me.

  'You like to see things revolve, eh?'

  I plastered on a thin smile. Caught. Rowena approached me, her hands tucked into her pockets.

  'Nicotine habit,' I said, holding up my pipe. 'Sets its own timetable.'

  She came close to me, leaning against the stone balustrade. Her mouth was a tight line. I took a guilty puff, examined the orange glow of my pipe tobacco.

  'Why didn't you volunteer?' she asked. 'You could have done your bit for the cau
se.'

  I breathed out smoke, looked over the slate rooftops of the neighbourhood.

  'Done my bit...' I said, 'for the cause.'

  'What? What's wrong with that?'

  I looked into her dark eyes.

  'I was thinking about Allsop Records,' I said.

  'What about it?'

  'I was happy then,' I said. 'Nobody expected anything of me other than to smile and give correct change.'

  'What's that got to do with anything?'

  'It was peaceful. I was good at peace. My own business, selling vinyl and espresso. It wasn't much in the scheme of things. But I was useful.'

  She nodded.

  'I understand,' she said. 'But don't you see that to get that peace back we need to fight?'

  The sounds of the city rose up from below; the sigh of wheels on streets, someone sitting at a window playing a nylon-string guitar, a group of young people out on the town, laughing and shouting.

  'It's beautiful, isn't it?' I said. 'No matter what happens to it. Rambunculous always bounces back.'

  Rowena smiled at me.

  At that point one of several things happened. In the street below, just outside the roller derby rink, the foot soldiers of the regime arrived.

  The underground gathering down below was attacked. That much is certain. But by whom I'm not sure.

  Either a swat team carrying bullet-proof shields and shock-clubs hustled out of a fleet of vans and into the building, whereupon they proceeded to pummel every last member of Zero's gathering.

  Or a swarm of drone robots poured through the door and smashed through the windows, slicing up the revolutionary cell with lasers.

  Or an enormous beetle lumbered through the wall and filled the place with a quick-set goo from its glands that froze the hapless resistance fighters like mosquitos in amber.

  Depending on who was in charge at that point. Again, it escapes me right now. You'd think that'd be the kind of detail that would stick.

  But I do remember Rowena's reaction. She was hysterical. I had to hold on to her, to block the door with my foot to stop her going down there. I held my hand over her mouth to stifle her cries.