Excerpt Three

Here we see the first pages of the second part of the book; Lynch Heinouson: Psycho Human, in which, now adults, Lynch and Jake wake up to face the day and an important new character is introduced.


PART TWO
LYNCH HEINOUSON: PSYCHO HUMAN




CHAPTER 1
A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A PAIR OF BASTARDS

He works through the phonebook beginning to end,
And once he has killed them to Hell they descend,
So many victims to fit in the day,
Just hope that your surname don’t start with an A.

Third verse from the song
LYNCH HEINOUSON:
PROPHET OF DOOM

1

Lynch Heinouson, aged thirty and three quarters, opened his eyes in the bedroom of the same flat he’d grown up in, took a deep breath and smiled.

“Ah! Nothing like the smell of death on a bright Monday morning!”

He sprang off his mum’s old water bed and got dressed. The corpses of the two prostitutes he’d brought home with him the night before bobbed up and down on the rippling sheets. They reminded him of his mother, except without the backhanded love taps.

He felt kind of bad about killing them. Good whores were hard to find. Ask anyone. But he thought they were overcharging and didn’t have enough to pay them off.

Always pay your debts. That was his creed. And if you can’t, then at least kill the people you owe, so that they don’t feel bad about it.

Not the most logical of Lynch’s creeds but quite a serviceable one.

Now that he was a man, Lynch Heinouson cut a fine figure. He was tall. He was broad. He was wiry. He was muscular. He was bald.

“Speaking of which...” Lynch took the bread board down from on top of the wall cupboards. He didn’t need a chair to stand on anymore to reach it. He set it on the kitchenette worktop and opened the cutlery drawer.

The same old reliable meat cleaver was in there waiting. It still weighed twenty five pounds but Lynch whipped it out and span it round his index finger like it was nothing.

He lowered his head onto the slab and raised the cleaver above him, looking at it out of the corner of his eye. Sweat started dribbling. In his bowel, a bucket of dung manoeuvred into position for when he shit himself.

“This was a lot easier when my mum used to do it,” he said.

He whacked the cleaver down over and over again round his head. It took about twenty strikes until he was done but when he checked himself in the mirror there were hardly more than a couple of gashes.

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” He checked his stubble. “Pretty clean shave there too.”

Lynch didn’t bother putting the cleaver and slab away. It would come in useful later with the whores.

For a long time he’d just chucked the bodies out of the window into the harbour but it was starting to become noticeable. When he’d started off, weighing them down, it had worked fine for a good while but eventually the pile on the water’s bottom had grown up to the surface and become visible.

After that he’d lost heart a bit and just chucked them out as they were. Those ones floated, which you’d think was good because the tide would take them away. Turned out they tended to hang about too much. There had to be a couple of hundred corpses out there now floating face up or face down and before long somebody was going to notice.

Lynch shrugged. That was a SWAT team attack and running gun battle for another day.

There were screwed up balls of paper all over the floor. Lynch kicked them back out of his way and reached for the telephone book he’d torn them from.

The front pages were missing and the sheet he was on had names crossed off going two thirds of the way down the first column.

“Right then,” said Lynch. “Where did I get up to?” He tapped the place with his finger. “Here we go! Dardill H J. 41, Hunt Road.”

He tore the page out, folded it and popped it in his pocket, thought better of it, and tore out a second sheet.

“Just in case.”

Then Lynch put his boots on and grabbed his overcoat and went out the door humming the tune to a new song he was working on inspired by some nuns he had met the previous day.

He called it Kill the Bitches.




2


Jake Gutt’s alarm clock started ringing at about the same time as Lynch was leaving his building on the other side of town.

It was one of those particularly irritating ones with the bells on top.

At first there was no movement in the room apart from the steady rise and fall of the blankets over the enormous mound on the bed, then a massive hairy hand came out from under the covers, grabbed the alarm clock and threw it out the window.

It fell three storeys to the street and hit a passing baker, knocking him face down unconscious. The pavement around him was covered in clock parts from hundreds of clocks. There were also numerous blood stains from previous passers-by.

The baker was one of the lucky ones. It had only been a glancing blow. He lay unconscious until the sound of a distant ringing woke him up: Jake Gutt’s back-up alarm clock.

The baker lifted his head with a groan, wondering what had happened, just before the second clock hit his temple and split his skull, putting him out of his misery.

Jake threw off his covers and sat on the edge of the bed rubbing his eyes. He was pissed off because his shotgun had been digging in his side half the night.

Now that he was a man, he certainly cut a figure, it just wasn’t fine. He was tall. He was broad. He was muscular. He had an enormous beer belly. He had thinning hair. He had a particularly grizzled and chubby double chin.

Jake stuck to a rigorous diet of beer, pizza, chips, beer and kebabs. It was tough going and difficult to stick to. During moments of weakness he would find himself craving salad or vegetables but he always made himself keep going. No compromise. That was the key to any successful diet.

He checked his watch.

“Shit. I’m going to be late for work.”

He waded across the floor to the chest of drawers with his shotgun. The pizza boxes, beer cans and chip and kebab wrappers were three feet thick like a garbage snow drift. He knocked a pile of boxes against the wall by accident en route. The top one fell to the floor, spilling out discount alarm clocks.

Jake didn’t need to get washed and dressed. He was already dressed from the day before in combat trousers, army boots and a filthy white vest. He didn’t do washing. Washing was for Nancy boys and he sure as shit wasn’t one of those fuckers.

(Not anymore)

On the drawers lay the items he needed for the day. He strapped two pistol holsters to his belt and three grenades. He put on the back holster for his shotgun and stuck it in there then slung his bullet bandanas, one over each shoulder. Finally he strapped a two foot long machete to the side of his leg.

There were six bottles of beer on there too. The first was already open. He finished it off then looked round for a bottle opener to open the next one. There wasn’t one so he smashed the neck of the bottle on the edge of the drawers and slugged it back. Then he smash/slugged back a third. There were three particularly wide loops on one of his bandannas. He slotted the three remaining beer bottles in there for later. Then he got another out of his underwear drawer and drank that.

There weren’t many pairs of underwear in there. It was mostly beer bottles. What pairs existed were less fabric and more skid mark.

Changing underwear was a habit he’d long since managed to drop. What was the point? If he ever had to (and losing his pants completely was the only excuse), then used were as good as new in his opinion.

Jake finished his fourth beer then grabbed his car keys and police badge and headed out the door.




3


Percy Harrison set the left indicator of his mini flashing approximately half a mile before his turn off and patiently drove past seven other junctions, ignoring the complaining horns of other drivers. The way he reasoned, it paid to be a careful driver. When he got to the multi-storey car park he pulled in slowly and drove round looking for a space.

He was feeling rather irritable today because of the breeze blowing in through where the driver’s side door used to be. He couldn’t afford to get it fixed at the moment as he was still trying to pay off the Stepaciser he’d bought to get fit with and then only used once. He was annoyed with himself for ripping the door off in the first place.

All he’d been trying to do was open it but it had just come off in his hand.

The worst part about the door wasn’t the fact it rained on him whenever it was wet but that it meant he had to cover up substantially more to keep the sun off him.

Sun was a VERY BAD THING and he had to keep out of it completely unless he wanted to go through excruciating agony. Which he didn’t. Want. At all.

Yes, being a vampire could be quite the irritation from time to time. And what were the plus points? There weren’t any.

Superhuman strength? What was the point of that? He just kept ripping doors off their hinges. It was all well and good but you couldn’t actually use it openly without a dreadful investigation being undertaken. Everything was always so complicated.

The ability to heal from almost any wound? Also not that brilliant. Fine: you get shot and can regenerate from the damage. Great! You still got shot and it still fucking hurt! Being able to heal from it didn’t mean you’d run around jumping in front of moving cars or anything. Generally it was better to keep your head down and just go about like a normal person.

Immortality? Also not all it was cracked up to be. As a vampire it hurt like a bastard if he went out in the sun so he couldn’t really do anything nice. He either had to stay in all the time, go out wearing thick clothes, a hat, gloves and sunglasses, or he had to mope about the freezing cold streets at night by himself while everybody else in the world was fast asleep.

That was why he’d chosen to be an accountant. Accountants were well known to be drab shut-ins. Which was another problem in itself. He might be immortal but everyone he met thought he was a tosser.

Honestly, sometimes he rued the day he became a lord of the undead, he really did.

Feeling rather ashamed of his “condition,” Percy had gone to some lengths to disguise it from his colleagues at work and people he met at occasional cocktail parties.

First of all he had visited the orthodontist to get his fangs filed down to a more socially acceptable level. This had improved matters around the office (previously any virgins he ran into had run away screaming – especially the blokes) but hadn’t quite been enough.

So secondly he had visited a cosmetic surgeon, claiming he was afflicted with Stahl’s Ear Deformity (also known as Spock Ears) and had them reshaped into a more... humanlike appearance.

None of these changes however had really helped. Percy was still a blood-sucking fiend and there was no escaping that.

He parked up, walked into the shopping mall and made his way to the butchers.

“Hello Mr Price,” he said.

“Hello Percy. Here for your usual?”

“Yes please. Eight pints of blood.”

Mr Price chuckled. “One of these days you’re going to tell me why you keep buying so much blood.”

“It’s cause I drink it.”

“Ho ho ho! Of course you do! P’raps tomorrow then. I’m going to get it out of you one of these days.”

“No really, I drink it all.”

Mr Price was still chuckling when Percy left.

He went straight next door and bought a powdered health shake to mix in with the blood (his thighs were starting to look a little bloated he thought and his pot belly was getting a little too round).

Percy hated to drink the blood from the living. It was very inconvenient, having to cover up the dead bodies and there was no end to the social stigma that could arise as a result of it. Not to mention how difficult it was to get the stains out of your clothes if the victim struggled.

Finally he popped into the optician’s.

“Hello Percy!” said the optician. “What can I do for you?”

“Hello Mr Porkins. I’ve popped in to ask you about these contact lenses you sold me the other day.” He took them out. “They do make my eyes look mostly normal but the prescriptions wrong and some glowing still comes through.”

Mr Porkins took the contacts. “I still think you don’t need to wear lenses to hide your real eye colour. Glowing red eyes are very in at the moment.”

“I know,” replied Percy, “but I really would prefer to look like a normal human being instead of a creature of the night.”

“Creatures of the night are very in at the moment,” said Mr Porkins. Percy started to sense that maybe he was just trying to avoid giving him a refund and paying for some more contact lenses.

“Look,” he said, “I would really appreciate if you could exchange these for something a little more ordinary. My staff appraisal’s coming up next week and I would prefer not to look like a lord of darkness.”

“I’m just saying—”

“CHANGE THE FUCKING CONTACT LENSES!” roared Percy, grabbing Mr Porkins by the shoulders and tearing his throat out in a fit of blood rage.

After he finished sucking the optician’s body dry he dropped the corpse and came back to his senses.

“Oh damn,” he said. “Not another murder I have to cover up. And this is going to ruin my evening meal too!”