Joe Fury and the Hard Death

by Paul Anthony Long

  ‘We could be stuck here, sister.’ I turn to Sue. ‘No exit.’

  ‘If I know Kieran, there’s an exit,’ says Sue.

  ‘Watch out for the flying sheep, Mr Fury,’ Kieran shrieks. ‘They are coming for you, and you alone.’

  ‘I can’t wait to plug this guy,’ I mutter to Sue. And then we hear the noise. A steam train. Whistle. Engine. Getting closer and closer.

  Sue whips back the cloth hanging over the wall and suddenly the smooth wall is gone and there’s a hole the size of a door with a railway track leading right towards us. And at the end of the railway track an ancient steam locomotive is heading in our direction.

  I pull out the popgun. ‘This could get messy.’

  ‘It’s one of his tricks.’ Sue turns and heads for the wall opposite, then starts tapping on it all over.

  ‘Hurry it up, toots,’ I yell over my shoulder. ‘This could be the end of a beautiful relationship.’

  ‘Stow it, Fury.’ She’s concentrating. ‘I’ve got a job to do.’

  I turn back to the train. No way out of this one. The floor starts to shake. As I turn back Sue knocks the very base of the wall and a door pops open.

  ‘This way.’

  Too late. The train slams into the room, punching me backwards. I fly through the door, grabbing Sue as I pass, and fall into an eternal blackness.

  FIFTY FIVE

  An eternal blackness which lasts about thirty seconds before we hit the ground. It’s daylight. I get up, brush myself down, and help the dame up. Nothing but rocky outcrops around us.

  Then: ‘Halt, stranger!’ I spin around and there’s some dame in a skimpy outfit and knee high boots holding a popgun. ‘What do you know of the evil Count Zarth Arn and his ultimate weapon?’

  ‘Depends on who’s asking,’ I say, brushing myself down.

  ‘I am Stella Star, and I am sent by my people to defeat the Count.’ She stands straight haughtily, flicking her hair back. I could get to like a woman like this.

  ‘That’s just peachy, toots.’ I glance around. Nothing of interest. ‘Which way out of this joint?’

  ‘I know what this is,’ Sue whispers to me. ‘Stella! Where is your robot companion, Elle?’

  ‘He is gathering fuel pods for our fighter,’ says Stella with another haughty flick. Seems to be her stock in trade.

  ‘You won’t get any help from her,’ says Sue. ‘She doesn’t exist.’

  FIFTY SIX

  ‘Okay, sister, mind explaining what the hell that was all about?’ We’re walking away from the woman and out into an endless sea of sand and rocks. It’s like being back home.

  ‘I don’t think I can explain it,’ says Sue. ‘Kieran told me about it. People think things up and they become reality. All the thoughts and ideas laid down crop up somewhere in some alternate universe or something like that. It had a lot to do with quantum physics, but I’m not exactly sure what.’

  ‘Multiple earth theory.’ I fill her in on the details. ‘Thought up by some schmo called William James. It posits that anything and everything can happen, or something like that. We just split off into alternate realities when it does happen.’ I snap a light and spark a cheroot.

  ‘If we’re here then we have to get back,’ says Sue, looking around. ‘Any ideas.’

  ‘Yeah, watch out,’ I push her out of the way as a giant lizard-like creature explodes out of the earth between us, like a huge worm with teeth. It slams down into the ground and twitches around to face us.

  No defence against Joe Fury’s popgun. I put a bullet right in the cortex and it writhes and convulses and undulates and then decides to take a nap.

  ‘Close call, sister.’ But when I get up and look around she’s not there. And I’m in a graveyard.

  FIFTY SEVEN

  And it’s night. And there appears to be a horde of zombies heading in my direction, with my face on the menu.

  ‘Tough call.’ I take a puff on the stoogie and look for an exit. In the distance, a giant shopping mall.

  It takes a good hour to get there, but the living dead are slow and stupid. When I reach it I bang on the door and nothing happens. Behind me the zombies are starting to make their presence known.

  I turn the popgun towards them and aim for the nearest head. ‘Say hello to poppa,’ I mutter, and squeeze off a shot. But the zombie ducks, and then looks up, confused.

  ‘What’s the big idea, mac?’ This is a turn up for the books.

  ‘Take one chunk out of me and you’re history.’ I cock the gun for emphasis.

  ‘We are history, ya moron!’ yells another zombie—a dead cop.

  ‘Can it, flatfoot,’ I yell back. ‘I know your m.o.’

  A tall, astute looking zombie clears a path through the crowd. It’s wearing a cravat and holds a cigarette in a long stemmed filter.

  ‘Why, my dear boy, you have been completely misled by your prejudices,’ says the creature. ‘My name’s Tarquin, and if you’ll come with me I can fill you in on the details.’

  FIFTY EIGHT

  I’ll say this about the living dead—they know how to keep a house in order.

  Tarquin sits opposite me in a leather chair while I nurse a shot of bourbon.

  ‘We have been a much maligned and feared race throughout the centuries,’ says Tarquin. He speaks like an English lord. ‘The legends and superstitions associated with us over the years have led people to believe we are blood-thirsty creatures, whose only compulsion is munching on the living and possibly eating their brains if the feeling takes us. But I say, “a pox on that”.’

  ‘Your ear’s coming off,’ I tell him, and he jams it back into place.

  ‘Thank you.’ Tarquin readjusts himself in the seat. ‘But you do not need to shoot us in the head to get the best out of us. We were once like you. Civilised.’

  ‘Now you’re getting nasty.’ I reach for the popgun under my jacket but Tarquin waves me away.

  ‘You can drop the pretence now, Mr Fury,’ he says. ‘We’re all the same under the skin.’

  ‘The difference is I can see your liver,’ I tell him, and shoot back the bourbon. ‘Hey, I’m all for equal rights, but I’ve got a job to do and I need to do it now. I’ve lost the main squeeze and there’s a rat that needs taking down. I need to get on with the case.’

  ‘You’ll have plenty of time for that, Mr Fury.’ And I don’t like the tone of his voice. I throw down the empty glass and get up, spinning around with the gun out.

  FIFTY NINE

  And find I’m in a land of too many colours. There’s a big, yellow road leading off into the distance and some morons singing and dancing at the end of it.

  I turn to find a whole bunch of pixies stretching their legs and lighting up.

  ‘Jesus, thank god she’s gone,’ says the nearest one. ‘If that bloody woman had opened her mouth one more bloody time, I’d have vomited up my spleen!’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ says some woman dressed like a fairy, but with a voice straight out of Brooklyn. She scratches her rear, then sparks up a cigar bigger than her head and continues necking a litre of whisky. ‘Anything to get rid of the bitch.’

  ‘Heads up, ladies, I need some advice.’ I step into their frame. They spare me a glance and then get back to their bitching.

  ‘If she comes back we’ll stick her in the wicker man,’ says one of the pixies.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing!’ booms a voice behind me.

  I turn to find some guy in a police uniform smoking a joint, two young ladies hanging off his arms and caressing his hairy chest. I’m not on the yellow road any more, but a huge windswept hill surrounded by hippies.

  ‘If there’s any burning to be done around here it’s going to be done by me!’ The flatfoot nods to a small crowd, who pick up a tall guy dressed as a woman and heft him towards a huge wicker man.

  ‘How do you like them apples, you big girl’s blouse!’ booms the flatfoot, and he reduces the joint to ash in one draw. He turns to me. ‘Hello, boyo.’
>
  ‘Who’s the chick?’ I nod to the man-woman as he screams and struggles. His captors throw him into the wicker man and lock the door behind him.

  ‘You’re looking for Kieran, aren’t you now, boy?’ booms the flatfoot, and I’m starting to guess he’s got no other form of communication.

  ‘You could say that.’ I drop the stoogie and crush it out. ‘I’m looking for the hard and fast way, and right now I’m getting sidetracked.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, boyo. Just stick it through, yes? This is a test, you see?’

  ‘I gave up tests when I got kicked out of school,’ I snarl. ‘Any advice?’

  ‘Yes. Watch out!’

  And I turn to see a huge swarm of bees heading straight towards me.

  SIXTY

  The hill’s been replaced by what looks like the centre of a small village. An English drunk in a safari suit grabs me.

  ‘Move yer bladdy self!’ he shouts, and drags me into a store. ‘Jesus, man, don’t you even know when the killer bees are coming? It’s been all over the bladdy news.’

  ‘Now, that’s no way to treat a man, Peachy!’ The voice is Scottish. I turn, and we’re on a windswept mountain. The drunk and the Scotsman are dressed in furs, and both are smiling and smoking.

  ‘This part of the test?’

  ‘Test it may be, but it is of no interest to us,’ says the Scotsman. ‘Me and Peachy are willing to put a wager on with you.’ He holds out his hand. ‘My name’s Danny.’

  ‘Joe Fury.’ I shake his hand. ‘What’s the wager?’

  ‘Well, me and Peachy here are looking to take over Kafiristan, and we need some help. We were wondering if you were up for the adventure. For the sake of a mother’s son.’

  ‘Going to the east, etcetera, etcetera.’ I turn to Peachy. ‘Yeah, I know the drill and I’m not part of the clan, so count me out if that’s a precondition. Kafiristan’s out of my district, and I need to get back on the case, so excuse me if I decline, gentleman. I’ve got a job to do.’

  ‘We all do, Fury,’ says a voice behind me, but I’m not surprised. Kieran’s tactics involve subterfuge.

  I turn, and a guy in a trenchcoat and trilby stands in front of me sparking a cigarette. He shakes the match out and gives me the visual once over with a crooked smile.

  ‘You looking for a way out?’ asks the man.

  ‘Could be,’ I say. ‘Got something I can use?’

  ‘Depends on what you know.’ The figure steps forward, one hand in his pocket. I can tell he’s packing.

  ‘Let’s cut the jousting,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll play it fair and square. I’m looking for—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He waves me away. ‘I know the drill and I’m tired of hearing it. We’re both stuck in the same routine. Chances are you got some info you can give me. I heard a rumour on the docks that you’ve got a watch. A very valuable watch. Something a man like me could use in a tight spot.’

  ‘You hear all kinds of things.’

  ‘I can bargain with you,’ says the man. ‘Give me the watch and I’ll get you a one way ticket out of this joint.’

  ‘I’m not up for bargaining,’ I tell him.

  ‘I like your style.’ He smiles. ‘But the truth is we’re fighting for the same side and only I can help you, so cough it up and we’ll negotiate the terms later.’

  ‘For a small man you’ve got a big mouth.’

  He gets angry in a second and lunges for me. I give him a few quick slaps—left and right—and he’s down on the floor. I snap his wallet out and go through it, pulling out his business card.

  ‘Private eye, eh?’ I throw the card down next to him. ‘Well, Mr Spade, try growing a few inches and we’ll talk about it.’

  ‘Ya goddamn penis loving mutie!’ he shrieks, and the mask falls off. This isn’t Spade, but suddenly I’m not in the room anyway.

  SIXTY ONE

  I’m back in the white room and the guy on the floor is thrashing around like he’s having a fit. There’s a wide open door leading to the road, but the only problem is there’s no sign of Sue.

  ‘We’ll get you, Fury,’ shrieks the pint sized private eye. ‘You’re ours for the taking. Kieran will hunt you down and find you, and then you’ll be nothing but a stain on the footnote of history.’

  ‘Laugh it up, shorty,’ I tell him, and step over the body and out of the building. The road is hot and dry and there’s a butler standing nearby with a cold whisky and a Cuban on a silver tray.

  ‘The master sends his best,’ says the butler.

  ‘Kieran?’

  ‘The very same.’ The butler hands me the whisky and I pick up the Cuban and light it. ‘He wishes you a safe journey, but wonders if you might possibly help him out?’

  ‘After what he’s put me through? Is he crazy?’

  ‘Quite possibly, sir,’ says the butler, and then gestures to the shark nestling at the side of the road. Two life size porcelain figurines sit on the back seat—one black and one white. ‘They’re friends of his. They just need a lift to the nearest petrol station and then you can be on your way.’

  ‘Thanks, Jeeves, but you can tell your master I don’t take hitch-hikers.’

  ‘He said you’d say that.’ Jeeves pulls out one half of a note from his pocket and hands it over. I open it. It reads ‘look.’ ‘He says to inform you that the other half of the note is at the next petrol station along the road. He says to tell you it’s a vital clue to the end of the mystery you have been embroiled in. And, by the way, Preston is waiting for you at the next juncture.’

  SIXTY TWO

  None of this adds up. Now Kieran is helping me and Preston’s waiting. Sue has gone and the nuns are everywhere. Kieran’s obviously got control of the whole state of reality around these parts. Which is probably why Preston wants him put away.

  But none of that matters. I’ve got two hitch-hikers in the back of the car. They sit, staring ahead, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out they’re the physical embodiment of Yin and Yang.

  ‘So who’s who?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m Yin,’ says the black figure.

  ‘Which makes you Yang,’ I say to the white figure, and get no response.

  ‘Have you ever considered the morality of what you’re doing?’ asks Yin.

  ‘Have you ever considered keeping your mouth shut?’ After the last few problems I’m in no mood for cod philosophising.

  ‘The world is encompassed in light and dark,’ says Yin. ‘We live together as one in unity. Without conflict there could be no peace, and without Kieran there could be no quest.’

  ‘Your status in the escapade is nothing but a grain of sand in a desert,’ says Yang. ‘You believe yourself to be on a case, to hold the key in your pocket to the capture of Kieran, and yet you are wholly unaware of your own position within the grand scheme of things.’

  ‘All I know is that I’ve got a job to do, Preachy,’ I tell him over my shoulder. ‘Now can it!’

  ‘You believe yourself to be the centre of the universe—that functionality cannot progress without you,’ says Yang. ‘You understand yourself in your own reality game plan to be the sole progenitor of all your thoughts, ideas, pasts and futures, and yet you are blind to the understanding that reality is crafted from what the majority wish themselves to believe it is.’

  ‘Kieran can offer you an alternative,’ says Yin. ‘Kieran can pull back the veneer which you believe to be what you perceive around you, and teach you how to manipulate what others believe to be their state of mind.’

  ‘For the physical embodiment of the duality of nature and how they’re both intertwined you talk a lot of crap,’ I tell them. ‘I don’t bargain. Kieran comes with me. End of story.’

  ‘We are not your enemy,’ says Yin. ‘We are not your friend. We simply are.’

  ‘You’re Kieran’s stooges.’

  ‘Far from it,’ says Yang. ‘We are yet another facet of this fragile existence which has been chosen for us by extraneous
forces. Yet we see the world around us as an indefinite thing. A brittle framework we wish to coalesce into the information we perceive. It’s something you should contemplate, Mr Fury, lest you cease to exist as a fragment of our imaginings.’

  ‘You guys must be fun at parties.’

  ‘You would do well to remember that you are not the centre of the universe,’ they say in unison. ‘But merely a fragment in the stream of existence.’

  The gas station looms up in the distance and puts an end to the multi-layered levels of bullshit these two are putting me through. We pull up and Yin and Yang are suddenly not in the car any more. As I step out of the shark I spot them in the diner, sitting by the window in a booth, facing each other.

  Preston sits in the shadows. I can tell it’s him by the wig.

  SIXTY THREE

  ‘No nuns?’ I ask, and he shakes his head. I sit down across from him. ‘What do you want?’ I say.

  ‘I want the girl,’ says Preston, and his face is hard and set like stone.

  ‘If I could find the girl I wouldn’t hand her over anyway,’ I tell him. ‘You’ve pushed this out too far, Preston.’

  ‘I can get you into Kieran’s compound,’ says Preston. ‘I can bring you to him.’

  ‘Give me the history,’ I tell him.

  ‘The history always changes,’ says Preston. ‘It depends on who’s telling it. As for me, there is no history, just an endless series of coincidences that somehow wind up in the same order. Before me there were others, and when I’m gone—’

  ‘Cut the crap, Preston,’ I tell him. ‘Just give me the facts. No, forget it, I’ve had enough of the facts. I need to get back on the road.’