The Knight and the Acolyte Book 8 Chapter 8 Impaled by the Minotaur
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Some Like It, Not! free porn video
SOME LIKE IT, NOT!
by Miss K
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A silly modern day riff on the classic Billy Wilder / Marilyn Monroe /
Tony Curtis / Jack Lemmon movie. Originally written in 2006. --
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The rain had begun in earnest.
Sheeting down, pounding the grey seafront as Vincent trudged up to the
bar where his band Slushpuppy was playing that night. It was May and
typically wet and cold in Southend that time of year.
Joey was waiting at the door, beer in hand.
"What kept you?"
Vincent shrugged. "Train was held up. Someone fighting or something. The
fuck you couldn't swing by and pick me up in the van, I don't know.
Fucking rain." He went in, shivering, unslinging his guitar case from off
of his back. "I reeeally need a beer."
"You were the one said you were happy to get the bloody train out to this
hole," Joey said, passing over the bottle of Amstel. Vincent took a pull
from the neck, sweeping his long, wet hair off his forehead. He glanced
over at the small stage where Adam the "drum monster" was finishing
setting up his kit. He waved and Adam gave him the thumbs up.
Vincent saw the sound guy coming over and sniffed. "Fucking pointless
soundchecking. No one'll be here anyway."
***
Driving back home from the gig in Joey's van, Vincent sat deep in thought
looking out of the window as the lights on the motorway ticked by. The
rain had lifted and the night was now crisp, clear and cold. On the way
back to Barking they'd dropped Adam off at the apartment he shared with
his girlfriend, who to Vincent and Joey's immense jealousy, was a
poledancer in a local "gentlemen's venue".
The gig had been another in a series of pointless, poorly attended wastes
of time. Somehow it hadn't quite materialised for them. Some promising
shows in London had given way to increasingly demoralising dates on the
pub circuit in Essex. Three years on, they were going backwards. Wayne,
their ex-manager, had left them the month before to look after a teenage
girl punk band together all of four months who had already scored a debut
hit via some over-generous Xfm airplay. Now he was taking them on a
nationwide tour, with a major deal mooted. Fucking Jesus!
"I dunno," Vincent muttered, "do you ever get the impression that it's
all passing you by?"
Joey glanced over, running his hand through his spiky black hair. "Hey,
it ain't that bad. One day we'll get our shit... Shit!"
"Our shit shit?" Vince smiled.
"No, I mean, shit. We're out of petrol." As if on cue, the engine
spluttered and died. Joey steered the van over to the shoulder and they
rolled to a halt.
"Poifect," said Vincent under his breath. For a moment, he wanted to just
sit there forever. Become a frozen statue. Instead, he said quietly, "we
passed a 24-hour services before the last junction."
"I'll go," said Joey. "It was my fault. I need to get some cigs anyway.
You look after the gear." He reached into the back, fetched the empty gas
can and got out of the van.
"Don't go away," he said patting Vincent on the shoulder and dropping the
keys into his hand. He slammed the door. Vincent watched him recede into
the distance in the rear view mirror.
He was left to the traffic and the darkness.
***
Forty minutes later, Vincent was getting seriously worried. The services
must have been five minutes walk max. Even given Joey's slow, lanky amble
of a stride, he should have been back at least twenty-five minutes ago.
Vincent got out of the van, breath clouding the cold air. He looked down
the road. The Moto sign was clearly visible, a welcoming light. He looked
down at his watch. 1.20am. He sighed, peering into the darkness, trying
to will Joey's returning figure into existence.
After five more minutes, he came to a decision. He reckoned he could risk
the amps and cabs, but Joey would kill him if anything happened to his
vintage 70's Gibson Grabber. Vincent hauled the bass bag onto his back,
picked up his own guitar case, locked the back of the van and trudged off
up the road.
***
As Vincent approached the fuel stop, he could see immediately that
something was wrong. There was a car stalled half in half out of the
forecourt, bonnet crumpled and door half open. There seemed to be a
bundle of blankets or something spilling out of the open door, which was
on the driver side. The Texaco sign glowed red and white above him.
He narrowed his eyes and looked round, trying to spot any activity. The
pay window was illuminated but there didn't seem to be anyone in there.
Vincent frowned, walking up to the car. As he neared it he thought he
could hear low voices in the crisp air. The voices seemed to be coming
from round the side of the low station building. He was about to yell,
"Oi, Joey!" when something made him look down.
Vincent was standing by the open car door. His foot was in a pool of
something wet and sticky. Something wet and sticky and red. Vincent
pulled his foot out of the pool, irritated, wiping the sole of his canvas
Converse basketball boot on the tarmac. Then Vincent noticed that bundle
of blankets or something.
Then Vincent noticed what that bundle of blankets or something actually
was.
It was a man. He was in his thirties maybe, wearing a long leather coat
and dark jeans. He had a goatee beard and black sideys. He was lying
down. Or rather he was kinda half seated in the driver seat and half
lying down on the forecourt blacktop so that the top of his head was
resting in the pool of red, sticky liquid by Vincent's foot. Except that
the top of his head wasn't...
Oh Jesus. Oh Jesus! Oh God, Oh shit!!!
Vincent actually had to sit down then because he seemed to lose all the
power in his knees. He tried not to look at the dead man. He breathed
heavily through his mouth to stop inhaling the smell of blood, which was
overpowering, mixed with the gas smell as it was.
As Vincent sat there breathing, he began to hear the voices again. Scared
but curious, he edged round the back of the car and peered over his
shoulder in the direction of the voices.
He could make out five figures, huddled in the scrubby grass bit round
the side of the low building. Three of the figures were kneeling down,
with their backs to the other two, who were standing, each pointing
something at the back of the heads of the kneeling figures. With a start,
Vincent realised that the nearest of the kneeling men was Joey. He took a
sharp breath, then another as he realised he might be overheard.
Terrified, he pulled his head back round the hidden side of the car and
closed his eyes, trembling.
The low voices continued and Vincent slowly inched his head round again.
The scene seemed the same. They hadn't noticed. Then he saw Joey
imperceptibly angle his head round. Joey's terrified eyes clamped hard on
Vincent's and he saw Joey's lips moving silently, mouthing the words
"call the police."
Vincent nodded back and pulled his head back round the side of the car.
Trying to keep his breath steady, he gingerly lowered the bass and guitar
cases onto the ground. He looked round feeling his pockets. He'd left his
mobile in the van. He'd have to try and get back there without alerting
the shooters. But he'd got here without doing that and luckily most of
the walk back to the van was hidden by the side of the building behind
which the men were conducting their business...
Vincent took a deep, shuddering breath and peered round the side of the
car again. The voices continued, slightly more animated. One of the
kneeling men seemed to be pleading with the gunman. Joey was looking down
at the floor. His eyes seemingly closed.
Wait a minute. The gunman? Weren't there two gunmen before?
Vincent's blood froze.
He looked round desperately trying to locate the other man. Maybe he'd
gone to take a piss round the back or somethin-
There was a soft sound behind Vincent. A footfall. Then Vincent felt
something hard on the back of his head.
"The fuck is this shit?" said a deep, gruff voice, heavily accented,
behind Vincent.
Vincent thought he was going to pass out. But instead he managed to
whisper, "wh- wh- what... what sh- sh- shi-shit?"
"Guitars? Fucking guitars?" said the voice. "Who the fuck are you? You
fuck!" The hard object was jabbed painfully into the back of Vincent's
head. He began to cry.
Sobbing, he stammered, "Pluh.. pluh..please, sir. Please don't kill me.
Wuh- wuh- wuh- we just needed some petrol. Our van's up on the hard
shoulder. We just ran out of puh puh puh petrol. Oh please, please,
please..." Vincent tailed off, dissolving into wracking sobs.
"We? Oh I see," said the accented voice. "Other kid. He is musician too?"
Vincent nodded.
"Get up," said the voice, "bring instruments and walk in front of me. You
try any shit, you fucking dead like Kurt Cobain. Brains on wall. Ha."
Vincent managed to stand, and pick up the guitars. He walked out in front
of the accented man. Joey looked up as he approached, a sad look in his
eyes. As they passed the pay window, Vincent could see the young Asian
attendant slumped back in the seat, a big hole in the middle of his
forehead. Vincent closed his eyes,
Hands roughly shoved Vincent down next to his friend and bandmate. The
two gunmen talked in low voices behind them, in a language that Vincent
did not understand. Sounded like Russian, he thought. He looked up and
saw that Joey had tears too. They looked at each other's faces for a long
time as the Russians' or whatever started shouting at the two men next to
them, who were weeping and pleading back.
The Russians' shouting match had escalated to deafening proportions. Then
a single shot made Joey flinch and one of the men next to them slumped to
the ground, brains emptied onto the side of the building. It was quickly
followed by a scream from the other kneeling man, a screaming, foreign
curse cut short by the sharp, popping report of another gunshot. Another
body hit the concrete floor.
Vincent closed his eyes. He found Joey's hand and felt his friend's
squeeze back.
For a moment there was silence.
Then the voice of the man who had found Vincent spoke again. He was
breathing heavy, sounded excited. "You," he said, poking Vincent in the
back of his head with the hot muzzle of his just fired gun. "What you
play?"
"Guitar, sir," Vincent whispered.
"And you?"
"I- I play the bass," said Joey.
The man laughed, slowly. "Well, well. Two fucking musicians. Do you
sing?"
"I sing lead voc-" began Joey, but Vincent elbowed him sharply in the
ribs.
"No, sir." Vincent said, trying to steady his voice. "We don't sing at
all. We keep quiet all the time." Vincent looked down and noticed the
gunman's feet. They were clad in bright red snakeskin boots, pointed and
capped with steel. Small spurs stuck out from the heels.
"Don't sing? I wonder if I believe that? Sound to me like you sing
plenty," he said in his thick tones. Vincent heard him turn away,
muttering something to his associate, who grunted back then walked off.
The gunman turned back.
"OK. Thing is this. I don't believe you don't sing. But I am fair man,"
he said lightly. "Neither you two have seen our faces. So is wrong to
kill you as you cannot identify us."
Vincent gripped Joey's hand. Maybe they would be OK...
"Both you turn round and face me."
Maybe not...
Vincent shook his head. Unable to speak.
Vincent heard his gun click behind him. "You fucking turn round or I
shoot bass guitar man in back of trendy cool haircut head now. Stand.
Turn round."
Slowly, they stood, eyes still closed. They turned.
"Open eyes," said the gunman, very, very quietly.
Vincent couldn't do it.
"Open. Eyes." He felt the barrel of his gun on his forehead. Smelt the
cordite on the muzzle.
So slowly, Vincent opened his eyes. When he'd been little and there was
something scary on TV or at the cinema, he'd developed this trick to make
his eyes go out of focus so that he could pretend he was cool and still
watching something that was too scary for him. He did this now, even
though he realised that it would him do no good. The man's face was a
blur in front of him.
"Oh no," said the gunman. "Now you both have seen my face. Now I must ki-
"
Suddenly, nearby a single shot rang out. They all whipped our heads round
at the sound. The gunman took cover behind the corner of the building,
momentarily taking his eyes off of Vincent and Joey. Footsteps
approached, unsteady, stumbling. Then a heavy figure appeared, the other
gunman. He was mouthing something wordlessly, reaching out. Then he
collapsed onto the ground. There was a neat hole in the back of his head.
Blood seeped out onto the ground, pooling in the shadows.
Simultaneously a voice, amplified by a megaphone, rang out.
"THIS IS THE POLICE! YOU ARE SURROUNDED! YOUR ACCOMPLICE IS DEAD! DROP
YOUR WEAPON AND COME OUT OR OUR MARKSMEN WILL TAKE YOU DOWN! THIS IS YOUR
ONLY WARNING!" A harsh light illuminated the gunman, missing Vincent by
inches. He looked round, dazzled, muttering under his breath. Suddenly,
he felt Joey tug at his hand.
Vincent looked up. Joey was looking urgently over at him. Vincent
suddenly knew that Joey was right. The gunman, distracted, had taken his
eyes off them. Vincent nodded, bizarrely stooping to pick up the
instruments, and let Joey lead him off into the undergrowth behind the
gas station.
"The attendant must've rung the police alarm, I guess," muttered Joey as
they scrambled through the brush and away from the scene of the killings.
***
Vincent was woken by a copy of the Informer landing on his head.
"Whuthufuh?" he mumbled.
"Mate, we're fucked," said Joey, who was sitting down on Vincent's bed.
Vincent sat up on his elbows, "Jesus Joey, I told you not to burst in
here without knocking. I mean what if I was in the middle of well,
whatever."
Joey took a breath. "Look at the fucking paper Vincent. I'm not fucking
joking."
Vincent rubbed his eyes.
Two weeks had passed since they'd escaped from the gunman at the service
station. They'd been too afraid to answer the police appeals to come
forward, for fear of reprisals, even though they'd seen on the news that
the gunman was in custody. Now it was just beginning to feel that they
might come through it.
Vincent picked up the paper, looking blearily at the front page. His eyes
widened and he suddenly woke up properly, scanning the main story aloud:
"KILLER ESCAPES JUSTICE!
"The Crown Prosecutor's office was yesterday forced to drop proceedings
against the suspected Russian mob killer Alexander Rodchenko. Rodchenko's
solicitor, Leo Pauline cited obscure precedents to have the murder
charges against him quashed yesterday.
"The charges were brought after last month's quadruple motorway service
station murder in Romford, Essex, which the police described as a
"gangland-style execution". The deceased are believed to have been
members of a rival gang to the Russian crime family who are thought to
have set up a base of operations in Southend. A fifth decedent, shot by
police during the siege, is believed to have been an associate of
Rodchenko.
"Pauline made a statement outside the High Court on the closing of the
case and indicated that his client "had no comment to make on the matter"
and was "looking forward to returning to his peaceful and law-abiding
life as a well-known local businessman." Essex police are now appealing
again for two witnesses, believed to have been hostages of Rodchenko,
whose evidence, or lack thereof, is seen as being vital to the success or
failure of the prosecution of this crime. Chief Superintendent Mary
Donoughue stated yesterday that all efforts would be made under British
law to protect the identities of the witnesses, and she urged them to
make themselves known to the police.
"Rodchenko, known also as 'Cowboy' due to his penchant for Wild West
clothing and his trademark red boots, will be released later today."
Vincent put the paper down. All colour had drained from his face. Joey
was chainsmoking in the corner of his small bedroom. He turned. "We've
gotta get outta this place."
Vincent buried his face in his hands. "Why don't we just come forward?
Let the law protect us?" he asked.
Joey was looking anxiously out of the window. "You've gotta be fucking
joking, we'd be dead before the day's out."
"They can give us new identities," said Vincent. "Relocate us."
"We wouldn't even make the first fucking day, mate. That Russian nutter's
a mentalist!"
Vincent reached over and took the pack of cigarettes from where Joey had
left them. He pulled one out and lit it. He'd somehow managed to start
smoking again in the past two weeks. He looked up at the pictures on his
wall, looking desperately for some sort of help.
Next to his treasured signed photo of Joan Jett, his eyes lit on a shot
of Slushpuppy from a couple years back. They'd supported Belch at The
Astoria (well, opened for them). That was about as big as it had got for
the band. The photo showed them backstage after. Him, with shorter hair,
arm round Joey's neck, both beaming; Adam looking goofy at the back and
Wayne on his mobile probably making deals that ensured they'd stay
strictly smalltime.
Suddenly, Vincent took a deep draw of smoke and exhaled. "Hey, I've got
an idea," he said. Joey turned from his window surveillance to face him.
***
"C'mon Wayne, you owe us one, mate!" shouted Vincent. He had his ear
pressed to the mobile phone. They were sat in a booth at the back of the
cafe below the flat. Joey was finishing the last cigarette of the pack,
looking anxiously at Vincent who was listening to a stream of words from
their former manager.
"Oh yeah?" exclaimed Vincent, "fuck you too! And your fucking so-called
fucking band!" He slammed the phone down on the table.
Joey took the half smoked stub from his mouth and handed it over. "I take
it he said no," he said quietly. "And it's a good thing," he added
looking around the murky walls, "that no one ever comes to this shitty
cafe. We're not supposed to be drawing attention to ourselves, remember?"
He smiled at Dot behind the counter, who grimaced sourly back at him.
Vincent wasn't listening. "Mr Wayne Goodrich," he spat, "said that his
all-girl so-called band already has a guitar tech and is cool for road
crew for the UK tour. So thanks but no thanks." He looked moodily into
his coffee.
"Actually," he went on after a short moment's silence, grinning despite
himself, "it's a bit worse than that. Wayne's tearing his hair out
because they fly in two days and the singer's had s strop and fired a
couple of the band. At the moment it's a two-piece! He says that they
might have to cancel the tour unless they can find a couple
replacements!" Vincent laughed bitterly then glanced up. "What?"
Joey was staring at Vincent.
Slowly, Joey reached out, and not breaking eye contact, picked up the
Vincent's mobile, pressing the last dialled number button. He wrote the
number on his palm and went to the pay phone at the back, putting a
couple of 20p pieces in. Vincent followed him over, puzzled, as Joey
dialled Wayne's number. Joey cleared his throat and raised the phone to
his ear.
When he spoke, Vincent's eyes nearly popped out.
"Oh, is that Mr Goodrich?" said Joey in a breathy falsetto, "I hear
you're looking for a couple of girl musicians? Bass and guitar, yes. Oh,
yes. We'd love to try out! We're both really good. Good girls, y'know!
Tomorrow 11am? Yes that's fine. Pardon? Oh, our names?" Joey looked
momentarily panicked, "uhm.. that is to say, well, I'm Jolene and my
girlfriend's name is... uhh... Veronique. Yeah, she's French. Half
French, on her right side. Mm-hmm. Oh she's tr?s sexy, monsieur! Ow! No,
no she just kicked me, she's sooo excited, the dear... OK, see you
tomorrow. Bye... Bye.... Bye! Bye bye!"
Joey hung up, exhaling deeply. He looked at Vincent.
Vincent looked at Joey.
Joey looked at Vincent.
***
Unlikely to be continued...
***
More from me:
writing: www.thedragnet.org
tumbling: thedragnet.tumblr.com
photos: www.500px.com/draGnet
band: www.deathline.co.uk
Charlize
- 15.04.2022
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