Excerpt One



There’s no stopping Lynch Heinouson,
When it comes to killing he is number one,
There’s no one can stop him though many have tried,
But all at the finish have ended up died.



Lynch Heinouson was a bastard and he was born a bastard.

This was because his mother became pregnant and gave birth to him out of wedlock.

He came from a long line of bastards.

Marriage wasn’t a big thing in the Heinouson family. Commitment wasn’t the most popular concept either. Casual flings with little thought to contraception were more the order of the day.

Despite that, reverence of ancestors was one value that was instilled in Lynch at an early age. He was able to recite names and stories about his forefathers from the age of four onwards.

His favourite story was that of Thug Heinouson, his great great grandfather – the American – because that one involved a lot of Red Indians getting the tops of their heads cut off (it just seemed like a funny image). Another classic was Gore Heinouson, Australian sheep shearer and occasional human shearer. And occasional human decapitator.

Lynch also knew the names of many other Heinousons going back almost two hundred years. Not all the stories involved people getting killed in gratuitous ways but many of them did. These were the ones that stuck clearest in his mind because they were told more frequently than the relatively boring ones about financially successful or well-respected Heinousons who spent their time doing community work at the local pet shelter.

Lynch never knew his mother’s real name. He didn’t call her mum or mummy. If he had done she might have pistol-whipped him. He knew her by the name everyone called her round the docks in the late seventies when he was growing up: Hell Hag.

Hell Hag Heinouson wasn’t given that nickname because of her looks. She didn’t have matted hair and warty wrinkled skin. To Lynch she was a vision of beauty that permanently influenced the type of women he was attracted to. She was the defining epitome of style: stiletto heels; long smooth legs; leather mini skirt; midriff showing… boobs bulging out of her V-necked leopard-skin vinyl tank top that were big enough to wrap round both of his ears when she hugged him (which she never did). She had big dark hair and a fag – always a fag – hanging from the side of her mouth, that jigged up and down when she talked and when she smiled.

She was beautiful, and Lynch loved her more than any boy ever loved his mother… perhaps even to a slightly alarming degree.

For her part, Hell Hag loved Lynch too; in her own… special way. Her love was not so exclusive however. Men came through her life and they went out again, generally pretty rapidly.

Hell Hag didn’t go out of her way to shelter Lynch from that part of her activities so he got to meet quite a lot of them. They didn’t tend to stick around long enough for much more than a greeting and a brief introduction but he enjoyed the camaraderie. He had never known his own father so it was a pleasant change to have a man around the house, even if it was a different one each night; sometimes as many as three.

It taught him one of life’s little lessons. As his mother always said: “Shag hard. Shag often. Charge for it when you can.”

Just another gem of wisdom for him to file away in his mind for future reference.

Hell Hag did charge but her rates were quite reasonable. It was all to do with supply and demand. An expensive ornament shop might charge a hundred and fifty pounds for a statue of an eagle. They would have to because they wouldn’t get a lot of business. The discount shop down the road could get away with charging a lot less because the shop was always packed. That was Hell Hag. She was the discount shop of all the local prostitutes.

Quality of service was always a priority though. She was lucky that her job and hobby coincided and she liked to think that she was every bit as enthusiastic as she would be if she were doing it for free.

Business was generally good and met the daily financial demands of living in a slum: fifty pence pieces for the gas and electric meter, two to three packets of bacon, bread from the baker (usually in exchange for a quick blow job) and a couple of bottles of tequila.

The tequila tasted like rat piss – after a particularly memorable punishment, Lynch could personally attest to that – but it was Hell Hag’s favourite beverage à la puke.

And she was strict about it. She drank a lot of it herself but, as a six year old, she never let Lynch have more than a couple of shots. He was allowed more on weekends obviously, but she had her limit. It wouldn’t be responsible to let him drink more than five glasses in a sitting without breaking off to at least get some air.

If the shagging business ever wasn’t so good, Hell Hag did a variety of jobs around the docks to keep the cash trickling. As her high school English teacher would agree (had not the front of his face been caved in), Hell Hag was a whiz with a sledgehammer. She didn’t look anything like demure but she was feminine in a head-butting, groin-kneeing kind of a way. Even so, she was tall and she was strong. In her heels (and she never took them off) she was taller than half the blokes doing loading work.

It was fun, especially when she was involved in demolishing things, and she met up with a lot of big hairy men. She liked to think of it as networking for her other job.

No, Hell Hag didn’t get her nickname from her looks. She got it from her actions. It was never clear whether the name had originally been meant as an insult but she loved it. When she met new faces she’d say, “People call me Hell Hag. This little runt with all the cuts on his head, is me son Lynch.”

It wasn’t one thing that led to the name but a whole series of them. Hard drinking was the first. Having slept with every dock worker, their brothers, their dad’s, some of their sons and a lot of their wives, was also a factor. The biggest contributor though was that Hell Hag Heinouson was known to kill people sometimes.

If they rubbed her up the wrong way.

Or if they looked at her funny.

Or sometimes because they didn’t look at her funny.

And it was because of her passion for that, that she was the most important influence in the young Lynch Heinouson’s life.

Hell Hag Heinouson made Lynch the kind of man he became… as well as the kind of other thing he became later.


The Guttierrez family lived on the opposite side of the city from the docks. They owned a mansion in a quiet suburb full of trees. They were rich and they were free from all worry.
 Jackie Guttierrez was a Nancy boy. It wasn’t his fault, it was his upbringing. He didn’t have a strong male role model in his life.
He hadn’t been brought up exclusively by women (as such) – his father and mother remained together – but the influence his father gave hadn’t perhaps been as constructive as it could have been… because he was a post-op transsexual.
Mr & Mrs Guttierrez (Emma and Sarah) brought Jackie up to value love, life, perfumed bath oil and happiness above all things. There were fresh flowers waiting on the ornate table at the foot of his bed every morning. Television shows were video-taped and carefully vetted before he was allowed to watch them. If they contained violence, sex or negative adverbs then he wasn’t allowed to view them. Scooby Doo, for example, was regarded as gore-infested horror; Blue Peter (which had once had a scene containing a defecating elephant) was viewed as more akin to hard porn.
Jackie was not allowed to play with toy weapons (guns, knives or bazookas). He played with dolls.
Obviously Emma and Sarah didn’t set out to feminize Jackie. His dolls weren’t standard girl dolls. He had one male one and one female. Both had been custom made, on order, to be as inoffensively average as possible. The male doll, Reginald, wore a purple jersey and brown cords. He had a slight pot belly and receding hair but he was very responsible. His wife, Margaret, wore a yellow dress. She had a double chin and saggy boobs but a great personality.
Sometimes Jackie would go to play with his dolls to find the male one, Reginald, wearing the yellow dress, but he never managed to work out who kept switching it over.
Jackie was schooled privately at a handsome institution that was all open lawns and stately buildings. He loved it. He learned to shake hands, speak delicately and to honour his mother and mother. His favourite subjects were poetry (he liked to write about Dazzling Waterfalls of Autumnal Dawn-light) and art (he liked to paint pictures of Dazzling Waterfalls of Autumnal Dawn-light).
He also loved reading, cleaning and cooking (it was generally he who made the evening meal). Everything he made was strictly calorie-controlled and beautifully presented, often in symbolic shapes that represented such ideals as love, charity and perfectly neat bed-making.
Unlike Lynch, Jackie changed clothes regularly. His parents felt it important for a boy to take pride in his appearance, so bought him fresh outfits on a regular basis. His favourite clothes were always similar. He liked shorts (white were best): the kind that didn’t extend down his legs at all, leaving them bare to his mauve sandals. He also liked sweater-vests in pastel colours and matching short-sleeved shirts (or blouses as his dad called them).
Jackie had a thick head of curly blond locks that he tossed when he squealed with laughter, squeezing out his chubby cherub cheeks. He looked and acted like an angel (not so much the dark avenging kind as the silky, slightly camp variety).
He was the pride and joy of both of his mothers and all five of his sisters. They doted on him: doing his hair and his nails, dressing him up, and playing in the Wendy house which Jackie had dubbed My Pretty Parlour. Never had a family life been so idyllic. Never had a boy been more inappropriately raised.
Not one of the Guttierrez family had met Hell Hag Heinouson or her son Lynch and that, for them, was a very good thing.
Because the day that they did meet was the last day of their blissful and particularly camp lives.