(Last time I was in, he was playing the Prodigy’s “Smack My Bitch Up,” with the lyrics changed to “Suck My Kneecaps.” I didn’t ask.)
All the usual unusual suspects were taking their ease at the scattered tables and chairs, while half a dozen members of the SAS circulated among them, soliciting donations with menaces. The Salvation Army Sisterhood was on the prowl again, and if you didn’t cough up fast enough and generously enough, out would come the specially blessed silver knuckle-dusters. The SAS are hard-core Christian terrorists. Save them all, and let God sort them out. No compromise in defence of Mother Church. They burn down Satanist churches, perform exorcisms on politicians, and they once crucified a street mime. Upside down. And then they set fire to him. A lot of people applauded. The Sisterhood wear strict old-fashioned nun’s habits, steel-toed kicking boots, and really powerful hand guns, holstered openly on each hip. They’ve been banned and condemned by every official branch of the Christian Church, but word is they’ve all been known to hire the SAS on occasion, on the quiet, when all other methods have been tried, and failed. The Salvation Army Sisterhood gets results, even if you have to look away and block your ears while they’re doing it.
We sin to put an end to sinning, they say.
One of the Sisterhood recognised me and quickly alerted the others. They gathered together and glared at me as I passed. I smiled politely, and one of them made the sign of the cross. Another made the sign of the seriously pissed off, then they all left. Perhaps to pray for the state of my soul or to see if there was a new bounty on my head.
I finally reached the bar, unbuttoned my trench coat, and sank gratefully down onto the nearest barstool. I nodded to Alex Morrisey, who was already approaching with my usual—a glass of real Coke. He was dressed all in black, right down to the designer shades and the snazzy French beret he wears to hide his spreading bald patch. He slammed my glass down onto a coaster bearing the legend of a local brewery; SHOGGOTH’S OLD AND VERY PECULIAR.
“I’m impressed, Taylor, you actually scared off the SAS, and I once saw them skin and eat a werewolf.”
“It’s a gift,” I said easily.
I rolled the Coke round in my glass to release the bouquet, and savoured it for a moment before looking casually round the bar, checking who was in, and who might be useful. Count Dracula was sitting at the end of the bar, a ratty-faced dry old stick in a grubby tuxedo and an opera cloak that had seen better days. He was drinking his usual Type O Negative and talking aloud to himself, also as usual. After all these years he doesn’t have much of an accent anymore but he puts it on for the personal appearances.
“Stinking agent keeps me so busy these days, I never have any time for myself. It’s all chat shows, and signings, and plug your new book…Posing with up and coming Goth Rock bands, and endorsing a new kind of vacuum cleaner…I have become a joke! I used to have my own Castle, until the Communists took it over…I used to have my vampire brides, but now I only hear from them when the alimony cheque is late. They’re bleeding me dry! You know who my agent booked to support me on my last personal appearance? The Transylvanian Terpsichorean Transvestites! Twenty-two tarted-up nos-feratu tap-dancing along to “I’m Such a Silly When the Moon Comes Out.” The things you see when you haven’t got a stake handy…I could have died! Again. I tell you, some night you just shouldn’t get out of your coffin.”
Not far away, half-spilling out of a private booth and ostentatiously ignoring the old vampire, was The Thing That Walked Like An It. Star of a dozen monster movies back in the fifties, it was now reduced to signing photos of itself at memorabilia conventions. There’d been a whole bunch of them in the week before, reminiscing about all the cities they’d terrorized in their prime. Now, if it wasn’t for nostalgia, no-one would remember them at all.
(The Big Green Lizard was banned from the convention circuit because of his refusal to wear a diaper after the “radioactive dump” incident.)
A couple of Morlocks bellied up to the bar, and made a nuisance of themselves by being very specific about the kind of finger snacks they wanted. Alex yelled for his muscle-bound bouncers, and Betty and Lucy Coltrane stopped flexing at each other long enough to come over and beat the crap out of the Morlocks before throwing them out on their misshapen ears. There’s a limit to what Alex will put up with, even when he’s in the best of moods, which isn’t often. In fact, most days you can get thrown out for politely indicating you haven’t been given the right change. I realised Alex was still hovering, so I looked at him enquiringly.
“I’m offering a special on Angel’s Urine,” he said hopefully. “Demand’s gone right off ever since word got out it wasn’t a trade name after all, but more of a warning…And I’ve got some Pork Scratchings in, freshly grated. Or those Pork Balls you like.”
I shook my head. “I’ve gone off the Pork Balls. They’re nice enough, but you only get two in a packet.”
“Hell,” said Alex, “you only get two on a pig.”
Behind the bar, a statue of Elvis in his white jump-suit was weeping bloody tears. A clock’s hands were going in opposite directions, and a small television set was showing broadcasts from Hell, with the sound turned down. A mangy vulture on a perch was gnawing enthusiastically at something that looked disturbingly fresh. The vulture caught me watching and gave me a long, thoughtful look.
“Behave yourself, Agatha,” said Alex.
“Agatha,” I said thoughtfully. “Isn’t that the name of your ex-wife? How is the old girl these days?”
“She’s very good to me,” said Alex. “She never visits. Though she’s late with the alimony cheque again. Jonathon, leave the duck alone! I won’t tell you again! And no, I don’t want the orange back.”
“Place seems pretty crowded tonight,” I said.
“We’ve got a very popular new cabaret act,” Alex said proudly. “Hang about while I announce him.” He raised his voice. “Listen up, scumbags! It’s cabaret time, presenting once again that exceptional artiste, Mr. Explodo! Your own, your very own, and I wish you’d take him with you because he disturbs the crap out of me, yes; it’s Suicide Jones!”
A very ordinary-looking man stepped bashfully out onto a small spotlit stage, waved cheerfully to the wildly applauding audience, then exploded into bloody gobbets. Messiest thing I’d seen in ages. The crowed roared their approval, clapping and stamping their feet. As cabaret acts went, it was impressive enough if a bit brief. I looked at Alex.
“It’s not the blowing himself up that’s the act,” Alex explained. “It’s the way he pulls all the little bits of himself back together again afterwards.”
“You mean he blows himself up over and over again?” I said.
“Every night, and twice on Saturdays. It’s a living, I suppose.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “why are you still here, Alex? You always said you only stayed because Merlin’s geas bound you and your line to this bar in perpetuity. But now he’s finally dead and gone, thanks to Lilith, what’s holding you here?”