Zombies! Outbreak Huddersfield – Part 1

WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS SWEARING, VIOLENCE AND GORE

Paul stretched out his arm to silence an alarm clock that wasn’t there, and knocked over a glass of water. It was caught neatly by a bucket of sick by Paul’s bed, the culmination of three days of suffering from Norovirus. The gastroenteritis had hit him very hard, leaving him off work and not even able to drink lager.

Opening crusty eyes he groaned at the bright light streaming through the curtains, needling his brain like a monkey knife fight. He felt much better than he had, still tired, but he didn’t feel the need to instantly vomit up his pancreas like yesterday. Still, they could bollocks if they thought he would be going into work today.

After a quick shower in the ludicrously small bathroom of his one bedroom flat, he padded into its equally tiny lounge. It had cost one hundred and forty thousand ponds, but at least he was on the property ladder he told himself, albeit the bottom rung that happened to be on the top floor. Picking up a piece of three day old pizza he flicked on the TV, no pictures just a piercing white noise. He tried a few channels but nothing presented itself.

Swearing he dressed quickly in a pair of old jeans and T shirt, he would knock on Craig’s door across the hall, his only neighbour. The man was an insufferable bore who collected football programmes but didn’t actually like football; he always knew what was going on with the building.

Out in the hall Paul knocked twice on the heavy fireproof door of 60b, there was no answer. Maybe he was out scouring the second hand stalls for programmes down at the Tuesday market. Either that or doing the hideously fat thing that past for his girlfriend, Gloria. Paul shuddered; just the sight of her blubbery form gave him more nausea than Norovirus ever could, poor Craig.

He knocked again and the door nudged open, not quite held on the cheap Yale lock. Bloody builders though Paul, everything was cheap in the building. He had pulled a tap off his sink the day after he had moved in, the construction company had said it was natural wear and tear. He walked into the musty paper Aladdin’s cave that was Craig’s living room.

“Craig? You in?” he called nearly tripping over a pile of HTFC programmes from the 1970’s. “Is your TV alright, cos mines got no picture.”

There was a low moan from the bedroom.

“You alright mate, you haven’t got that Norovirus as well have you? It’s a right bugger, three days I’ve been in bed.”

He opened the door on Craig’s small bedroom; there were more programmes on the floor in here, though they seemed to have been kicked over. A large sleigh style bed dominated the room, its sheets and duvet had been pulled over the far side.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if the damn aerial hasn’t fallen off the roof, probably only stuck on with Pritt Stick.” Carried on Paul, noting the messiness of the room and feeling better about his own scruffy apartment. Another moan came from the other side of the bed, it sounded wet, like someone talking through a flannel. Paul moved round to the other side “Oof you do sound in a bad way, I ….”

He stopped dead at the sight of Craig, quite literally eating out his girlfriend. Craig’s arms were in up to the elbows of her open stomach. The floor was covered in flesh and huge lumps of bloody fat; the bottom of the curtains by the bed had turned scarlet as though dipped in dye. Craig seemed oblivious to his visitor burying his face into the gelatinous depths of his large girlfriend, occasionally making the low moan.

Ice formed around Paul’s stomach leeching into his bones as the fear took hold. Yet for all his fear all he could think was, so that’s why he wanted a fat bird, to eat her!

He began to back away slowly, his foot brushed against something cold and wet and he had to force himself not to look at it, lest he make a noise.

As he reached the end of the bed something hard caught under his foot and he stumbled with a thud, this time he did look down. It was the biggest bright orange dildo he had ever seen in his life, including the internet. Without realising it he said aloud “Ewwwwww!”

Gloria’s eyes flicked open and she let out a rattling wail, her bingo winged arms rising to point at Paul. Craig’s head suddenly snapped round, further than should have been possible, revealing a face stripped of flesh. Letting out an inhuman snarl from his lipless mouth he began to raise himself from his feast.

Paul grabbed the only available weapon, the monster orange cock.

As Craig began to rise Paul brought the ginormous phallus down on his skull, there was a sickening crack as the bone broke, but Craig continued to rise. Gloria was now moving too, trying to sit up despite the fact her stomach muscles had been devoured.

Paul ran from the room in full panic barely remembering to close the doors he passed through, hoping to buy time.

Slamming his own front door he quickly locked it, then grabbed his heavy arm chair and put is against the door. He stood looking at the barricade for a moment, and then reaching over the chair put the security chain on.

Putting the jumbo sex aid on his coffee he started to move away then stopped. He picked up the dildo again and slid a coaster underneath it.

With heart beating in his chest he made his way to the curtains, he had watched enough crap horror films to know what he was likely to see. However nothing can really prepare you for the sight of a group of Zombie Cub Scouts walking down your road. He silently hoped it was not Bob-a-Job week.

There was a bang on the door followed by a dribbled moan.

What he needed now was a plan.

Tom “Indiana” Jones and the Temple of Icke – Season Finale

Tom Jones the mightiest man dragon ever produced by the nation of Cymru, strode away from the alter of Latoya Jackson. In a side room he found the sacred records of the Isle of Wight Festival as well as the curious Tina Turner single “Nut Bush City Limits”. Looking about the room for a carrier bag to put the records in, he opened a battered looking locker. It was stuffed full of Iceland bags but before he took one Wee Jimmy cried out, “wait Dr Jones. In the bottom lookie”.

There at the base was a rather worn MkVII British Gas Mask Bag, obviously a relic of the castles war days. Jones sighed, if he had been seen carrying an Iceland supermarket bag he would have never lived it down, forced to do hideous commercials in an effort to sell frozen death to mothers.

He quickly threw the bag over his muscular shoulder and deposited the precious vinyl inside.

Travelling down a roughly hewn stone corridor they nearly stumbled into the dastardly Mr Alan Titchmarsh. He was too busy whipping a poor hippie into unconsciousness to notice when Jones plucked the long leather whip from his upraised hand.

“Now then Boyo, I think your bulbs need planting” said Jones smiling as Mr Alan Titchmarsh turned to face the welsh legend with a quizzical look on his face. Tom swiftly kicked the green fingered sadist square in the testicles. Titchmarsh’s eyes crossed and he let out a low keening noise, before Tom could pretend to stop him the Hippie was on the gardener like a flash of fury.

“Looks like a private fight to me, lets move on Jimmy,” Tom eyed the whip in his large hands. “Think I’ll keep hold of this though”.

As they moved further into the depths of the castle the smell of wizard’s pipeweed grew stronger, its pungent odour indicating they would soon reach the underground plantation.

A voice could be heard up ahead, it seemed to be someone practising a meeting….”Hello…..Hel-lo” they gave a phlegmy cough “Hello, I’m Allan”

Peering round an opening in the side of the tunnel, the duo looked into what must be private quarters. A man stood in front of a full length mirror, holding out his hand as if offering it to his reflection to shake. He wore a dark suit and his face was obscured by a brown fedora hat. Slowly the figure raised its chin revealing a smooth face; the top lip sported a crudely drawn biro moustache. A malevolent eye shot into a corner as it saw the figures observing from the doorway. The suited figure spun with fists raised to reveal Ellen MacArthur beneath the fedora, her cheeks burning red. “I’ll kill you before you are able to speak of this Jones!” Screamed the sea faring man-she.

The circumnavigating female came at them like a tsunami, arms flailing and foaming at the mouth.

Jones raised an eyebrow, “Normally I would never hit a woman, however I don’t think you count…Allen”. With that the Welsh legend let fly a devastating haymaker punch instantly knocking Ellen MacArthur unconscious. Jones rubbed his knuckles, and noticed the hat at his feet. Placing the dog eared fedora on his head he glanced back at MacArthurs crumpled form. “Thanks for the hat sailor”.

It took twenty minutes to reach the ganja cavern were the hippies were still hard at work under the malevolent gaze of their task master, Mark King of Level 42.

One gentle flower power child had fallen behind in harvesting the green gold. King pounced on the man, savagely beating him with the neck of a bass guitar.

Mark King glanced up from his re-educating of the bearded weirdy, into the smoky light of the tunnel to see the illuminated form of Jones in his fedora hat, whip at hand.

“Who are you?” he gasped.

“I’m Tom Jones, and I’m going to teach you some lessons in Love,” with that Jones flicked his whip knocking the guitar from Kings hand, “Someone should have done that a long time ago” roared Jones moving in for the kill.

Brief moments later the Level 42 front man was making his way through a wood chipper to the tumultuous applause of the joyful hippies.

Tom shook a lock of the pop rockers hair free of his fist and climbed onto a nearby rock. “Hippies, listen to me, you are now free. Take all this weed back to your love camps and be happy. The Latoya Cult is finished.”

The hippies cheered but were soon harvesting the wacky backy faster than they ever had for their oppressive masters. Once they had several kilos each they made for a large mineshaft exit to the left of the cavern.

Jones stood guard until the final child of Aquarius gleefully ran from the plantation. “Ok Jimmy lets get out of here, and if we meet Icke on the way, all the better”.

“Not so fast Jones!” came an almost incoherent call from the stone passageway they had recently come down, there stood the whole tribe of Osbourne.

Jimmy started to square up but Jones placed a warning hand on his shoulder, “It’s no good Jimmy there are too many of them, plus Ozzy is practically indestructible without heavy armament. Quick lets head for the mineshaft.” He turned to the wobbling Rocker, “Hey Ozzy, isn’t that Bob Daisley behind you?”

With the tribe distracted the duo made for the exit the hippies had disappeared down.

After a few wrong turns they found some tracks and a couple of rickety looking carts, the sound of swearing was drawing closer as the Osbournes closed in.

“Quick into the front cart Jimmy, we have to get out of here fast”, said Jones pulling some levers.

Wee Jimmy jumped in as ordered shortly followed by Tom. “Hey Dr Jones, this cart it say ‘Brighton Ghost Train’ on it?” but his voice was drowned out by swearing as the Osborne family arrived just as the crap ghost train judderingly set off.

They flew down the tunnel at slightly faster than walking pace, passing a plastic skeleton and a curtain made of wet woollen strands.

The Osbournes were left to argue amongst themselves as the Welsh legend made good his escape.

After a mere two hours the cart came to a halt, bringing the riders out of their slumber in the bright Isle of Wight sunshine. They had exited just next to a deep ravine on a steep cliff face, the only exit was a tiny rope bridge across to the other side. It had recently been erected to help the Red Squirrel population traverse the gap without resorting to the use of the busy road deep below.

Slapping Wee Jimmy awake Jones then led his diminutive sidekick out across Squirrels doom. Five steps from freedom David Icke stepped out of the rhododendrons “That’s far enough Dr Jones, Ill be taking back the records in your bag now please” drawled Icke brandishing a pearl handled pistol. Tom glanced over his shoulder the Ozzy tribe were approaching from the other side.

Jones backed away back across the rodent rope bridge, unlslinging the bag he held it over the side. “Any closer Boyo and the records fall” threatened Jones.

Icke grinned “Drop them Dr Jones, I have them on cassette” he said moving out onto the bridge.

Jones withdrew a manicure set from the pocket of his skin tight trousers; selecting the nail scissors he held them against the delicate ropes of the bridge. He nodded his head to Jimmy and spoke to him in his own language. “Laddie get a bosey on with that rope, we are gonna put this galoot into the glen”

Jimmy nodded and wrapped his tiny child arms around the rope of the squirrel bridge.

Jones cut the bridge…

The Osbournes were caught totally unaware and tumbled into the ravine with barley a snatched insult as they went. Icke seemed to be heading the same way but as he passed the Welsh legend he grabbed and caught hold again, coming face to face with Tom. He immediately began his evil mantra. “LATOYA…LATOYA…LATOYA” he screamed with a hand over Jones’ chest, his pistol discarded in the fall. Tom fought the demonic forces that ripped at his chest and head butted Icke. Icke screamed as his nose burst like a beetroot, but he just frantically clawed at the bag of records. “Give them to me Jones, give me Tina”.

Tom’s mind reeled as he gasped for breath. Tina, of course that was the power that would link the records, the single that could ignite the magic.

Icke began his chanting again, drawing on the vast well of evil that was Latoya Jackson but Tom now had his answer and began repeating it. “You betrayed Tina, Tum Tina ke vishwaas karte ho!”

Power emanated from the bag of records and it began to smoke, Ickes eyes went wide and he recited his words again, but Jones was ready for him. “You betrayed Tina, Tum Tina ke vishwaas karte ho!”

The bag burst into flames and the records began tumbling out, ready to be smashed to pieces on the traffic below. Icke grabbed the album ‘The Who – Live At The Isle Of Wight Festival’, the last to fall out. As soon as the sacred vinyl touched his hands it burned with the power of Rock, and he dropped it into Tom’s waiting hand. Suddenly off balance Wee Jimmy saw his opportunity and pulled of the evil priest’s pants, the force was enough to dislodge Icke and sent him screaming to his death on the tarmac below. Though surely dead his fate was sealed as an Iceland home delivery van drove over his corpse.

A few hours later and Jones was back at the Hippie village eating a meal of quorn and rocks. The sacred record had been returned and the gentle villagers were getting off their tits on weed.

Jones smiled “Well its all back to normal Jimmy, we best be off”.

Wee Jimmy smiled back “But where are we going now Dr Jones?”

Jones grinned showing his perfect teeth “I still have an important engagement with a certain ladies volley ball team. Those ladies need my love, and God knows after the last couple of days I certainly need theirs”.

FIN

Tom “Indiana” Jones and the Temple of Icke – Part 8

Drums rumble like angry beasts, setting the rhythm for the evil congregations incessant chanting. “LATOYA….LATOYA….LATOYA….”

Wee Jimmy Krankie is shackled to an iron cage at the centre of the dastardly dais; he struggles furiously against his bonds, but to little avail.

David Icke, master of the Latoya Jackson cult and evil mastermind behind the hippie’s herbless enslavement, calls to his followers across the room on the other side of a moat of lava.

“Behold! They came to steal from Latoya, but now they will die for her!” He shouts to the crowd who increase in volume their rabid chanting. Signalling to his lackey, Phil Jupitus, Icke continues to stir the congregation into frenzy.

From a side chamber the pie loving Jupitus leads Dr Tom Jones, last of the Welsh Mohicans and five times winner of Bella magazines arse of the year. The Pop God shuffled out, his upper torso naked and shiny from sanctifying oils. Several ladies have to be removed from the audience due to nymphomatic shock, a startling side effect to Tom’s presence that threatened to break their conditioning.

Jones was not himself, his mind was addled by the sodastream evil he had been force fed hours earlier.

“See the non believer had been awakened to our cause. Now Jones, close the cage and send him into the arms of Latoya!” roared Icke, foam flecking his chin.

Jones moved Zombie like to the cage where Wee Jimmy was shackled; it could be only moments before his tiny midget heart was ripped from his body. In his fogged mental state Jones began checking the shackles and Jimmy tried to reason with the singing legend. “Tommy, please Tommy, snap out of it!”

Jones turned his dead eyes upon his half-pint sidekick and simply muttered “Latoya!”

“Noooooooo, Dr Jones, I gotta snap you out of this, there must be a way” pleaded Jimmy but Jones continued his mantra, reciting the queen of bad music’s name over and over.

Jimmy wracked his brains and tried words almost at random “Wales….Singing….Records……err…..Girls” at the last word Jones’ head twitched, Jimmy pushed home his new found advantage.

“Sex, sexy ladies, err…..” Jimmy not being even half the man in stature or bedroom experience of ‘The Jones’ stumbled to find more power words. Tom was starring at him now an inquisitive look on his broad features.

Jimmy tried one last effort “Err….Big….Big….BIG FAT TITTIES!” He yelled.

Tom’s eyes refocused losing their light glaze and he shook his head. In the background Icke was looking troubled. Jones gave him a quick glance and then recited aloud “LATOYA.”

Jimmy’s hopes crashed at the sound of that terrible name, tears welled in his eyed and he looked into his role models face. Jones winked.

“Now Jones, step aside and I will take his heart for Latoya” cried Icke allowing the Welsh legend to pass behind him.

As soon as he was past, Tom quickly set in with the kidney punches, a special move learnt in the working men’s clubs of Cardiff. Icke went down like a sack of leeks.

Phil Jupitus his face slick with sweat waddled over to come to his master’s aid. With a right hook more powerful than a Shirley Bassey Medley Tom sent the fat comedian tumbling to his doom, down the trap door under Wee Jimmy. The Crowd of Smash Hits readers on the other side of the moat could do nothing but shout and throw arm bands for various charities.

Tom swivelled, ready to finish off Icke only to find the crazy cult leader had vanished. Realising they were now alone on the alter, Jones strode over to free his diminutive sidekick. Jimmy grinned at his boss, relief showing in his eyes “What now Boss?”

Jones smiled “Now were getting out of here, all of us”.

Tom “Indiana” Jones and the Temple of Icke – Part 7

Tom Jones, the man chosen as the image of the perfect human for the Pioneer 10 plaque walked down the dingy stone corridor. He could hear the unmistakeable mumble of hippies on a downer up ahead, a low drone like the air escaping from a broken bong. The air was full of the thick cloyingly sweet smell of marijuana and the heat was even more intense. He noticed a grate set into the floor and hunkered down to take a look. Lifting the cast iron grill out with the ease of a coalminer, he peered into the dazzling light below. The aroma was overpowering, forcing tears into his eyes. Underneath him the floor was completely covered in Cannabis plants interspaced with blindingly bright UV lamps. Every other surface was covered in tinfoil to reflect the heat and amongst it all tramped the forlorn hippies, tending to the plants and checking the lights. It was obvious that these poor wretches hadn’t had so much as a toke in months but were merely slave labour to this ganja producing machine. It was like keeping Tom away from women, too cruel for normal decent people to contemplate. One of the overseers, Vanilla Ice swaggered amongst the almost lifeless flower children, aiming random lyrics. The rage swelled up in Jones’s chest, no one, not even hippies should be reduced to hearing ice ice baby. He grabbed a large rock from nearby and propelled it with all his welsh might into the cave below. It struck Vanilla Ice squarely on the top of his ludicrous haircut with a sickening crunch of gel. Jones smiled at his handiwork, breathing heavily of the intoxicating vapour that rose from below like a teen temptress. He shook his head to bring himself round but his leg slipped on the edge of the hole, with a crack the side of the grating gave way and then he was falling, falling, falling.

He awoke with a start to find Wee Jimmy Krankie tending to his wounds, after a quick comb of his hair he was fine though. They were in a small cage constructed of MTV music awards and a few Grammy’s.

“You must have passed out when you fell Dr Jones” explained Jimmy.

Before Jones could answer however the demonic figure of Icke appeared before them. He was grinning like a Cheshire Chav.

“You tried to take the sacred records Dr Jones, but soon you will worship Latoya like a true believer!” proclaimed Icke.

“Not Bloody likely Boyo, I would rather eat my own testicles”

“You have good spirit but not for long” Icke replied with an inhuman cackle. He began fiddling with apparatus behind him. “You see Dr Jones soon we will distribute our superskunk to the youth of the world to pacify them and make them so caned that they think any old music is worth listening to.” He moved to one side and Jones saw the word “sodastream” on one of the canisters in Ickes hand and a shiver jolted down his spine. “Then we will impregnate the music of the rock gods with our own subliminal messages. By the time our Christmas number one is in the charts we will have achieved total world domination!” He turned round and in his hands held what appeared to be barely fizzy piss.

“You won’t get away with It Icke, the hippies of the earth will rebel, they have built up a tolerance to weed.”

Icke grinned again and motioned to his heavy, Ellen MacArthur who had been lurking in the corner. She loped over, her gorilla like physique rippling and opened the cage easily hefting Jones out as though he was a mainsail.

“Ahh but Dr Jones, all the hippies are here under my control, cut off from their dope they are powerless” he indicated to his moustached hired help MacArthur and she grabbed Jones’s mouth forcing it open in her rough calloused hands.

Icke poured in the beverage favourite of cheapskate parents until not a drop of the laughably carbonated liquid remained. Tom went on a taste sensation voyage to oblivion.

Congratulations you made it!

Welcome to 2008. This year promises to be even better than 1804 when Napoleon was proclaimed Emperor of Guernsey and the famous travelling salesmen Lewis and Clark crossed the genetic wastes of America in search of new starbucks franchises.

Apologies for the Yuletide gap in posts, but I enjoy drinking red wine from a santa hat as much as the next specially adapted primate. So without further ado we return you to our feature length presentation.

Oh and look out for October 32^nd it’s going to be a devil.