Joe Fury and the Hard Death

by Paul Anthony Long

  I start running at the creature because there’s nothing else I can do. It locks in on me and the machine guns and rocket launchers adjust as it screams closer and closer. At the last second I leap high and far into the air as the creature ploughs into the building.

  I manage to catch one of the metal plates on the back of the shuttle as it tears through the building and away, and I yank myself forwards, plate over plate, until I’m staring down at its control room.

  A few close up shots hammer through the material. A hole opens up and I’m inside.

  It’s mechanical, but there’s a pulsing brain stuck all over the vital components. I look up and the sky turns blue and then black and suddenly there’s stars all around me.

  It’s either fight now or fly, so I punch a fist into the nearest brain matter and yank out a handful. The shuttle judders and jerks and I rip out another handful and throw it behind me.

  The shuttle keeps going, though, and as it hits the outer atmosphere a membrane seals over the hole in the shell, but I still keep hammering away at the brain until it’s nothing but pulped, blasted matter at my feet, and the controls are mine. Except we’re high up.

  Ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space.

  NINETY NINE

  And if that isn’t bad enough, there’s a big, mean, ugly looking spaceship heading straight towards me. It’s like a slab of metallic meat with pincers on the end. And they’re coming right for me.

  ‘Hand over your ship to the forces of Imperium,’ a voice booms out over the communications system, ‘or we shall crush you like the fly you are.’

  Good enough reason to fight back.

  I search around the controls and try to find something to blast the ship out of the sky with. Eventually I hook on a red warning button.

  I slam a fist on it and missiles pour out, pummelling a line of small explosions along the front of the spaceship. I grab the controls, hit the boosters and send the shuttle into a barrel roll as a stream of missiles come for me.

  They’re heat seekers and they’re locked on to their mark. Just one thing for it. I kick the shuttle up and take it into a wide curving spin, leading the missiles into a chase, then head straight back towards the spaceship. Straight for the launch bay.

  The ship spews out smaller battle craft. I pull the shuttle up at the last moment and the missiles slam into the launch bay and take out the rest of their fleet in rolling, blooming explosions which tear a big, jagged gash in the side of the craft.

  But the small battle craft are after me. There’s no formation, so I figure there’s nothing but idiots behind the controls.

  I send the shuttle into a sideways spin that brings two of the battle craft slamming together into a pleasant fireball. Another craft hooks on my tail and starts to trace my moves, blasting out shots that rip into one of the wings and stitch a line up the back of the shuttle.

  The giant spaceship looms in front of me, fire still spilling out from the launch bay. Battle craft start to close in on all sides. As far as I can tell there’s no way out, so I crunch down on the speed and boost the thrusters to max, then start hammering the big red button.

  Missiles stream out and tear up what’s left of the launch bay, punching further into the craft, destroying everything in their path and ripping a hole through the spaceship. I reach the first explosion and keep on going.

  The missiles strip a small but straight line through the giant spaceship and blow a hole out the other side. As I emerge from the explosion, I take a glance in the rear monitor and watch as the smaller craft get caught in the giant fireball as the craft goes up. Everything gets torn into next year’s memories.

  I sit back in the chair and light up a cigar, taking my time to savour the taste as the shuttle rattles with the force of the explosions.

  ‘Maybe that’ll teach you not to mess with Joe Fury,’ I say to the monitor. A blinding light hits the shuttle and suddenly I’m not there anymore.

  ONE HUNDRED

  Instead I’m in a white room and there’s a vague indistinct figure at the edge of the light.

  ‘What’s the deal?’ I ask.

  ‘No deal.’ The voice is soft and mellow. ‘Your craft was breaking up. I am merely rescuing you from the destruction.’

  ‘Thanks, Mac,’ I say, puffing on the cigar. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

  ‘I am the one who owes you the honour,’ says the figure. ‘I am Kevin, mind god of the planet you call “Earth” and lead singer of the popular band, “The Scrotal Sacks”.’

  ‘I’m sure you make a great noise,’ I say. ‘You got the power to get me down to the ground?’

  ‘Certainly,’ says Kevin. ‘But first I must question you. It is not so often I get to meet a man such as yourself.’

  I figure I owe him that much for saving my life. ‘Okay, fire away, but make it snappy. I’m on a case.’

  And suddenly we’re sitting down in glowing white chairs while Kevin, albino white and also glowing, slips me a sharp whisky on the rocks. ‘I believe it is to your taste, Mr Fury.’

  I’m getting used to people knowing my name. ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’

  ‘Now, Mr Fury, first I must congratulate you on a marvellous victory over the evil Overlords. The sanctimonious fascists have always been a problem for the rest of the universe.’

  ‘If one ship and a handful of fighters are enough to be a problem for the universe, then the universe is in pretty rough shape.’

  ‘Ha ha ha.’ Kevin pronounces every syllable. He settles back in his chair. ‘So what drove you into being a private detective?’

  ‘The usual,’ I tell him. ‘The whisky’s cheap and the hours are short.’

  ‘What were you before becoming a private eye?’

  ‘A citizen of the world,’ I tell him. ‘And if you don’t like that, a citizen of the local bar. I find I do my best work under a neon beer light.’

  ‘Very witty,’ says Kevin. ‘And what is the toughest case you have ever encountered?’

  ‘They’re all tough.’ I lean back in my chair and take a puff on the cigar. ‘Except the ones that aren’t. But they’re few and far between.’

  ‘And would you say you have an engaging personality?’

  ‘I’ve never been engaged, if that’s what you’re asking,’ I say. ‘If you don’t count my job, that is.’

  ‘Very dry,’ laughs Kevin. ‘But we wish to know more.’

  Something wrong here. ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Kevin, looking sheepish. ‘I appear to have let the warthog out of the splooge.’

  And the light snaps off and Kevin isn’t glowing any more. And neither is anything else.

  ‘Bollocks!’ snaps Kevin. ‘Sorry, mate. Look, can we do that again but without that bloody question? I stuffed it right up the Khyber.’

  ‘Okay, buster, where the hell am I and what’s going on?’

  ‘Right, well, I can see you need an explanation, so hold onto your knackers me old cheese pie. It’s time to take you back into “The Land That Knobends Forgot”.’ And the ground opens up, a light shoots down to the lush green Earth spinning in infinite space, and we’re propelled down the beam into a dark, dingy lab stuffed full of leaking pipes and body parts.

  ‘Sorry about that, mate,’ says Kevin. ‘Mind if we cut all your limbs off, pickle your brains, put yer todger on display and then slap your bum on the evening news? This is showbiz.’

  And that’s when I pull the gun out.

  ONE HUNDRED AND ONE

  ‘Hold up, hold up,’ pleads Kevin, holding his hands out defensively. ‘No need to get your bollocks in a twist. It was only a joke.’

  ‘The mutilation or the showbiz?’

  ‘The mutilation.’

  ‘I outta plug ya right here,’ I snarl, and he backs off some more.

  ‘Hold yer horses, mate,’ he says in a bad cockney accent. ‘We’re just feeding the media machine, alright?’

  ‘You can cut the accent too, Van Dyke,’
I tell him, stepping forward. He backs off and comes up against a wall of machinery. ‘That mockney just makes me see red.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says, dropping the comedy cockney. ‘Sorry about that old chap, but your rep precedes you. When I saw the old bish bosh gun battle up there in the stratos, it was too good an opportunity to miss to nab you for a bit of an old chinwag.’

  ‘I think I preferred the mockney.’ I holster the weapon. ‘What’s this whole get up, anyway.’

  ‘This is where we churn out the old showbiz machine, my good man.’ Kevin starts to walk around the place, which is stuffed with jars of body parts, and what looks like a big sandwich toaster at the far end of the room. ‘We chuck the bits and pieces in one end, program the old personality, and Fanny’s your bellend.’

  He walks over to a board of lights and switches. ‘Look, see here. We can type in a bit of hype.’ He starts bashing away at the keyboard and flipping switches. ‘Chuck in some rags to riches sob stories, some victimisation at school—that kind of thing. The usual “crying myself to sleep” at night, as though the vacuous toads haven’t heard of the real world out there. Maybe a little dab of imperfection on the features—nose too big, neck too thick.’ He pushes a big red button. ‘That’s the old vanity drive. Chuck a steaming great wadge of these babies in, and suddenly the old duffers have more ego than your average soap star convention.’

  Lights start to flash and the toaster whirrs and blows out a hiss of steam. It opens, revealing a bemused looking woman in a silky robe and too much make-up, blinking against the lights.

  ‘It’s all a bit disconcerting at first, but they get used to it.’ Kevin leans towards the new arrival. ‘How are you feeling, Jizzelda?’

  The woman blinks, spots him, and staggers over. She’s already decked out in twelve inch heels.

  ‘Gorsh, it’s simply delightful,’ splutters the woman in an English accent that could cut glass. Then something strange happens. She jerks her head and twitches. ‘Ma daddy used ta beat us with a stick until we criiiiied all night.’ Straight from the boondocks.

  Kevin sighs and pulls out a Desert Eagle. He doesn’t even look when he pops the woman in the forehead. She goes down in a heap and a brace of ducks with feather dusters waddle out from under the machine and clear away the mess.

  ‘Of course sometimes we get it wrong.’

  ‘Okay, Fauntleroy, I’ve heard enough.’ I start looking round for the exit, but there’s nothing but banks of machinery everywhere. ‘How do I get out of this joint?’

  ‘With my help, old bean,’ says Kevin, swivelling around to look at me. ‘I have an option for you.’

  ‘You can option my fist if you like,’ I say, stepping forward.

  Kevin laughs. ‘That’s one of the reasons we love you, old man.’ He pats me on the shoulder, then placates me with a shot of whisky and a fine pack of Havanas. ‘I don’t need anything from you and I don’t want to take anything from you. I just need you to hold something for me. And it’s not even heavy.’

  ‘Fire away.’ The whisky and the cigar taste good.

  Kevin waves away the smoke. ‘The media has always been pushed by events in the news, and contrary to popular belief, always been driven by celebrity shite. Any moron who tells you that in the good old days serious news was King is talking out of their hairy old rectums. People want celebrity shite, and we give the bastards what they want. Now we’ve got all kinds of modern devices to feed this bilge directly into the sub-cortex and get people dribbling their brains straight out of their arseholes. It’s a wizard scam, a cracking wheeze, and an almighty way of feeding acres of plop to the willing public.’

  ‘Nice speech. What’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘Well, funny you should ask, old boy.’ Kevin sits down and tent-poles his fingers. ‘We’ve been hearing about this bally old adventure you’ve been having with Kieran.’

  ‘You know about Kieran?’

  ‘Everyone who should know does know.’

  ‘And what about it?’

  ‘We were wondering if you’d like to wear a camera and broadcast your adventures to the willing public.’

  ‘A twenty four hour Kieran cam.’ I take a deep puff on the cigar.

  ‘It’s small and unobtrusive,’ Kevin tells me. ‘Basically we can plug it into your jacket pocket or something and broadcast whatever you do.’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Fame, fortune, money, success.’ Kevin smiles. ‘The chance to get out there in the public eye and become a celebrity.’

  I blow smoke in his face. ‘No deal.’

  Kevin stares at me, uncomprehending, and then— ‘No, listen, you don’t understand. It’s a chance to become a celebrity.’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Because everyone does, dammit!’ Kevin’s out of his chair and storming towards me. A flick of the popgun stops him in his tracks. ‘It’s the height of achievement for anyone. People like you—they want to be like you, they want to be around you, they want to nosh on your naughty bits and let you do squirmy things to their genitalia. It’s what everyone in this whole damn world should be aiming for, and only a freak or a maladjusted solitaricist would even think of turning down an opportunity to enrich their life like this. It’s the pinnacle of all human ambition, the greatest aim in existence—the wonderful, sugar-coated, sequinned world of celebrity!’

  I stare him clear in the eye. He looks hopeful. There’s a smile on his face. And we stay like that for a while. Then Kevin’s face starts to fall when he realises I’m not hooked to his game.

  ‘Don’t you want that?’

  ‘You’re a viper, Kevin.’ The barrel of the gun wavers towards his forehead. ‘Show me the way out of here, or I’ll ventilate your cranium.’

  Kevin backs up to one of the machines and starts to fumble about. Warning buzzers sound and I figure it’s a good time to get out of here.

  No point plugging the wimp, so I run towards one of the walls and start looking for an exit. But there’s nothing except computers on all sides.

  One of them starts to slide aside and the horrors of Kevin’s celebrity experiments pour out into the room. All the wrong experiments by the look of things. Everything Kevin couldn’t bring himself to put down with a bullet. A mass of limbs and bug eyes and collagened lips and oversized busts and pumped up abs.

  ‘Get him!’ screams Kevin. I spot a security camera and a bullet takes out the clamp holding it to the wall.

  ‘Sweet dreams, Poindexter!’ I catch the camera as it falls and throw it over the mutants’ heads, straight at Kevin. It knocks him on the head and he’s on his knees, bloodied and confused.

  The celebrity freaks break off from chasing me and stream towards the camera; a primping, preening mass. Kevin picks it up and shakes away the cloud from his head, but by then it’s too late. As far as the freaks are concerned, Kevin is the camera. They tear him to pieces trying to get into the limelight.

  I hike through the gap where the mutants emerged, then through corridors lined with a thousand screens, all buzzing a different channel, and blow open the far door. I’m out into the desert again next to the road and breathing in the fresh air.

  Sue comes screeching up in the shark and slides to a halt in front of me.

  ‘What kept you so long?’ I ask.

  ‘We got a problem.’ She nods behind her and I see what she means. It’s a biggie.

  ONE HUNDRED AND TWO

  It’s not just the nuns. It’s not just the ninjas. It’s not even just Molesto the King of the Sheep. Everything we’ve met during the whole damn trip is coming right at us.

  Sue throws me a pair of binoculars. ‘Hop in and take a look. I’ll drive.’

  I don’t argue with her, I just climb into the back seat. She fires up the engine and we fishtail away from the horde and head off down the road.

  I peer through the binocs and scan the crowd. Familiar faces—all the bad guys you could ever want. But no Preston and no Mother Superior.
The giant talking ninja chickens and Chicago and his Hell-spawn friends are missing from the mix as well, but then they were always on our side.

  ‘We’re missing a few bad guys and all of the good ones,’ I say to Sue.

  ‘I noticed. Looks like the hounds have finally come to take a bite out of us.’

  I load ammo into the popgun and aim at the approaching mob. ‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

  But they’re too far away to do any damage. Most of them are coming after us in battered, dilapidated trucks, cars and patchwork vehicles. Everything I didn’t destroy or mutilate has been shaken up and turned into something with wheels.

  ‘Better keep your foot down or we’re somebody’s breakfast.’ I turn back to face the way ahead.

  ‘I think we’ve used up our lucky chips,’ says Sue nodding at the gas gauge. We’re almost out.

  ‘Crap.’ I look up at the way ahead and Kieran’s compound is visible, but a good way off.

  Getting closer on our left is a dilapidated old diner. It looks like it’s open.

  ‘Time to make a last stand.’ I nod towards the diner and Sue flips the wheel into a spin and we slide to a halt by the front door.

  ‘Better lock and load,’ I tell her, but she’s already there.

  ONE HUNDRED AND THREE

  Inside we slam the door and bar it with whatever we can find. The waitress, middle aged and with bad make-up, looks confused as I race through the kitchen, past the startled cook and over to the back door. Solid. I slam it shut and then head for the pots and pans.

  ‘Cook ’em up. Quick.’ I start emptying cooking oil into the pans. ‘We’ve got a major league problem heading this way.’

  The cook nods and then starts filling the pans with anything that burns, including the cigarette in his mouth.

  I dash out into the main area and Sue’s stacking everything she can lay her hands on up against the windows.