What really stood out about this track, however, was Simon Cowell’s remarkable choice of the song these stars should cover.  Anyone can arrange a charity single these days, but what really makes this one special is the deeply appropriate track selection.  During his intensive search, Cowell cleverly and compassionately noted the song’s original intent of being an adolescent  anti-suicide anthem, and probably even read the linear notes from REMs 2003 Best Of Album, in which Peter Buck talks freely about the song’s deep emotional impact, saying “the reason the lyrics are so atypically straightforward is because it was aimed at teenagers”, and “I’ve never watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but the idea that high school is a portal to hell seems pretty realistic to me.”

Everybody hurts, people of Haiti.  You have your ruined cities and 200,000 casualties; we have our relationship problems and self-esteem issues.  We have our rainy Monday mornings; you have your 7.0Mw earthquakes.  We want you to know we feel for you.

And now, just three scant months later, another quake strikes an impoverished second or third world nation.  Surely a fresh disaster requires a fresh charity single, this one even more lyrically appropriate than the last.  So, in case Simon Cowell is busy washing his t-shirt, the responsible thing to do is help him out with some track ideas.

5ive – When The Lights Go Out.  Proves once and for all that can love can always exist, even when your electricity has been cut off and you’re trapped under a fallen wardrobe.

AC/DC – You Shook Me All Night Long.  Much like the Haiti single, this reminds the Chileans that everybody shakes, sometimes.

Paul McCartney – All You Need Is Love.  A perfect uplifting singalong anthem, and just the tonic for all those looters searching desperately for food and water.  Silly Chileans, you don’t need housing and lighting and other senseless material acquisitions!  All you need is love, and we’ve got two dozen of the finest vocalists this year has to offer to give it to you.

“Mr Johnson?  Mr Cal Johnson?”

Cal looked him up and down.  “Nope.  Allan.  Robert Allan.”

The man’s smile faded.  “Oh.  I was informed that-”

“Moved out a week ago.  Sorry.”  Cal slammed the door and went back to his desk.  Taxmen.  Always trying to collar him, sniffing him out like a weasel, poking and prying with their suits and their umbrellas and their sugar-sweet smiles.  He lit a cigarette, took a sip of whiskey and picked up his pen.

The story was coming like freeze-dried molasses, but he had to keep going.  Cal Johnson wasn’t the kind of man to believe in self-help books and psychiatrists.  No, he believed in a pen and some paper and a gleaming bottle of something strong from the store on the corner.  He believed problems weren’t worth a single damn unless you used them to make something real.

He wrote until the whiskey was gone.  Then he turned out the light and went to bed.

He was woken early the next day by the sunlight – no curtains, no alarm clock, as his father used to say.  He splashed his face with water, put on a shirt, and went to work.

The yard wasn’t far.  Passing a grocer, he plucked an apple from the stall outside for his breakfast.  An old woman testing the watermelons for ripeness stared at him, but said nothing.  He crossed the road, and walked in through the front gates.

“Late again, Cal?” said a man with the sleeves of his denim shirt rolled up to his elbows.

“Ain’t gotta watch, Billy, you know that.”

“I sure do, and so does the gaffer, but doesn’t mean he’s any more pleased about it.  Wants to see you in his office, anyway.  Right now.”

Cal rolled his eyes and changed direction.  Just what his hangover needed, an audience with that half-brained shitsucker.

“Better get your grovelling boots on,” called Billy.

Cal shrugged, flicked his cigarette, and walked into the office.

The boss was there, sitting behind his desk.  “Shit, Johnson, didn’t no one teach you to knock?” he said.

Cal looked at him.  “You wanted to see me?” he said.

“Yeah, yeah I did.  Sit down, Johnson.”  He waved towards the seat in front of him and produced a pack of cigarettes.  “Smoke?”

“Just had one.”

“Suit yourself.”  He lit the cigarette with a Zippo and leaned back.  “Look, Johnson,” he said.  “You know how things have been.”

“Actually, I’ll take that smoke.”

The boss threw one over the desk and began again.  “As I said, Johnson, you know how things have been.  Everyone’s losing money.  People aint buying things no more.  It’s happening all over the country.  Shit, all over the world.”

Cal lit the cigarette.  “You’re letting me go,” he said flatly.

The boss took a long puff.  “Sorry, Johnson” he said.  “But it had to be someone.  And lets face it, you aint the most committed guy I’ve got.  Showing up late, stinking of booze.  You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Cal stood up.  “Are we done here?”

The boss nodded.  “I guess we are, Johnson.  Come in tomorrow to get your severance.”

“Can’t I get it now?”

The boss sighed.  “Yeah, sure, why not.”  He pulled out his wallet and counted out some notes.  Cal picked them up, turned to go.  “Oh, and Johnson?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you’re not a bad guy, deep down.  You just need to pull yourself together.”

Cal stared at him for a long while then walked out into the yard.

“How’d it go, Cal?”

Cal looked at Billy.  “Fired,” he said.

“Shit, man.  Now I’m gonna have to bum smokes off that pussy Garland.  Can’t stand the fucker.”  He looked at Cal.  “You gonna be okay?”

“I usually am.”

“That’s the spirit.  How’s that damn scribbling lark, anyway?”

“Same.”

“Well keep at it, you bastard.  Heard about the novel yet?”

“Not yet.”

Billy grinned a toothy grin.  “Well, don’t forget me when it’s a best-seller.”

“See ya,” said Cal, and walked out of the yard.  He turned left and crossed the road, and as did so he spotted a familiar figure.   The man from earlier, the short guy in the suit, was walking towards the yard.  Cal ducked into a nearby shop.  Shit, those bastards were persistent.  Still, he’d need to up his game to catch a pro dodger like Cal Johnson.  Keeping an eye through the window, Cal bought a bottle of bourbon and a pack of twenty.  Then, clutching the bag in his left hand and a cigarette in his right, he went home.

His apartment was on the second floor, and the lift had been broken since before Cal moved, in, so he was out of breath by the time he reached his door and saw the note on it.  It wasn’t even in an envelope, just stuck to the door with a single drawing pin, where every deadbeat who lived in this hole could walk past and read it and smirk.

Cal,

Its not working out, we both know that.  I’ve met someone new.  Please don’t try and contact me.  I’ll be round for my things in a week or two.  Good luck with everything.

Erica

Cal read it once, read it again, then crumpled it into a ball with his fist and tossed it over his shoulder.  He went into his apartment and opened the bourbon and took a long drink.  Then he went round his apartment and collected all her things and threw them out of the window.  Whore didn’t have the balls to say it to his face.  Well, now she wouldn’t even have to see him when she came round to pick up her things.

He finished, sweating slightly, and lit another cigarette.  He smoked it in silence, standing there, and then, more out of habit than anything else, he sat down at his writing desk.  He made it through half a page before he slammed his fist onto the desk and swept the paper and the pens and the spiral-bound notebook to the floor.  What was the point?  What was the point in this artificial remedy, this impulse to bury his problems in the graveyard of his imagination?  It would only go so far, could only go so far, and the creative soil was wearing thin with nothing to water it but whiskey and his own fucked-up urge to prove those bastards wrong.

He walked over to the window and stared out of it, smoking again.  He could see Erica’s things on the street outside, thirty, forty feet down.  How easy would it be to follow them?

He took another swig of bourbon and as he did so the ugly bulk of a Post Office van drew up to the sidewalk, way down below.  He watched as it came to a stop and a man got out, carrying a sack of letters for the block.  Nearly all of those would be bills, bills that would never get paid, but maybe one of them was something different.  He’d sent the manuscript out almost a month ago now, the novel he’d poured everything into, the novel he’d carved out with half his life and a bit more besides.

He’d sent out two before, both form rejected, but this one was different.  This one wasn’t him trying to be Faulkner, or Miller, or Hemingway, or Anderson, or Twain.  This was him trying to be him.

Grabbing the bottle, he left his apartment and took the stairs to ground level.  The mail was a messy hill beneath the slit the guy had shoved them through.  The porter was supposed to pick them up and sort them, but he was too busy smoking high-grade out back, and usually they were kicked to the side after a couple of days and left for months until someone finally tossed them away.  People in this place didn’t have much use for mail.

He scooped it up and began to sift.  Bills were easy to spot and were immediately spilled back onto the floor, but there were others, lots of them.  He began to wish he’d included the postage for the manuscript to be returned, but there was jack all money right then.  Besides, if it sold it didn’t need to come back, and if it didn’t… well, who wanted to pay stamp for a failure.

The pile in his hands was getting smaller and smaller, and he felt the rage bubbling.  What was taking them so long?  It had been a month!  Could the bastards even read?  He was about to swing away in disgust when he spotted it, hiding behind a junk mail ad.

Mr Calvin Johnson

He checked the postmark.  This was it.  Breathing heavily, he tipped the rest of the letters back onto the floor.  His urge was to rip it open now, right now, but he calmed himself down and took the stairs back to his apartment, closing the door behind him.  The mice that had been sniffing around the centre of the room scampered back to their holes.  He placed the letter on his desk and looked at it.  It was small, mundane, unassuming.  The mailman would have treated it like every other bullshit envelope he delivered, never guessing that this was the one that might contain a Golden Ticket.

Cal took a drink.  He took a second drink, and a third.  Then he picked up the letter, and with trembling hands placed his finger under the flap and slit it open.

Each word hit him in the gut, a sharp sucker blow to the abdomen.  He felt like he was back in Gino’s taking on a few crackheads for looking at him the wrong way but he wasn’t, he was in his apartment seeing his world crash about him and it hurt in a way no punch could ever match.

Phrases floated across his vision, taunting him like a jilted ex.

Sorry… Not interested… Good luck…

He put a hand on his desk to steady himself.  With the other hand he dropped the letter and reached mechanically for the bottle.  The golden sting in his throat was a far better form of pain.  He lit a cigarette and smoked.

He was still for so long that the mice crept back out, nervously at first, but then more confidently, running this way and that around the apartment, sniffing at everything with their tiny twitching noses.  He watched them out of the corner of his eye.  Three little shitsniffers with nothing on their minds except the next meal and not getting stepped on.  They had no idea there was anything outside the apartment, this block.  They had no idea there were other mice out there, eating better cheese, living in bigger holes, sleeping in warmer, comfier nests.  They were oblivious to anything that wasn’t right in front of their noses.

Lucky little bastards.

Filled with quiet rage, he reached slowly into his desk and brought out the gun he’d kept there even since he’d been robbed six months back.  He flicked off the safety and took aim.

bang – bang – bang

The mice fled in terror back to their hole.  All three bullets had missed.

Lucky little bastards indeed.

He put the safety back on the revolver and stood up.  Shots would bring the cops, sooner rather than later, and besides, he needed to get out of this hole.  Shoving the gun into his belt he picked up the whiskey and his keys and left, taking the back entrance to where his beat up Chevy was stowed.  He hadn’t driven her for months – his job had been within walking distance and gas was expensive – but right now he needed the road.

With a turn of the key, the engine coughed twice, then spluttered to life, first time.   Cal tossed the gun onto the passenger seat and took off.

At first he didn’t think he knew where he was going, but after a few minutes it hit him that he did.  He was heading out of the city, up to the mountain that overlooked it, to the place he sometimes came at night to stare at the lights.

Sometimes, in the evening, there were young couples here, necking, boy trying to take things further, girl blushing and swatting his hands away.  It was barely lunchtime right now, however, and the place was deserted.  Cal parked up and stared at the city, crawling with people.  How many were like those mice, blind to everything that wasn’t directly in front of their noses.

And how many were like him.

He picked up the bottle and drained the dregs of the bourbon.  He’d struggled all his life to get somewhere, to achieve something.  He never taken the easy route, always made it hard for himself, from getting kicked out of college for smoking grass to getting fired from every job he’d ever had.  But it had always been okay because he’d believed in something better, believed that if you had the talent and the determination you didn’t have to be a mouse, that you could achieve and earn and live without forfeiting your vision.

He picked up the revolver and knocked open the chamber.  Three bullets used, three bullets left.  What to do?  Carry on with the struggle?  Or throw in the towel…  Because if he knew just one thing, and one thing only, it was that he would never be a mouse.   He was too old to change now.

So, two choices.  He shrugged.  Why not let fate decide?   Three bullets used, three bullets left.  Heads or tails.  Fifty fifty.  Rodent roulette.

He hefted the gun, feeling the weight in his hand, and as he did so he heard the sound of a car pulling up behind him.  He glanced in his wingmirror and did a double take.  Who was getting out of the car but the small man in the suit from earlier, the greedy little taxman.   He laughed.  There was exactly a fifty percent chance that he’d never pay taxes again.

“Mr Johnson!” called the man, hurrying towards the car.

Cal spun the chamber and held the gun to his head.

“Mr Johnson, no!” shouted the man, beating on the window.

Cal closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

I pour myself one of these unholy cocktails and sample it.  It is surprisingly good.  I pour myself another and settle down to wait.

Two hours later and my phone is still a silent relic.  A quick text confirms what I already know.  He is still delayed.

I pour another drink.

Finally, almost four hours and five vodkas after I had planned to leave, my phone leaps to life.  The synthesized polyphonic bleeps are Rachmaninoff to my ears.  I meet my guy outside, buy ten pills, and get dropped off at the train station.  My destination tonight is Cardiff, to meet a girl.

Dominique.

I saunter into the train station and drop a pill to pass the time while I think about her.  On the outside, Dominique is your classic hot-and-popular type.  Blonde, bubbly, fun loving.  Her bedroom is flowery and overflowing with stuffed animals.  She is cute and amusing and sweet and excitable.

But that, my friends, is simply the glossy overcoat.

Underneath the surface – behind the persona – she is more than a little messed up.

That fluffy pink exterior hides a kernel of alcoholism, cutting and general instability.  I first discover her on the internet when I am doing research for a story I am writing about a girl who self-harms and stumble across her journal.  We start chatting and quickly become friends.  For one thing, I am intrigued by the contrasts that lie within her.  Unlike most of the girls whose journals I have read, Dominique is not a depressive, introspective goth.  She is bright.  She is cheery.  She is for all intents and purposes, quite normal.  Her life is built around hiding her feelings from the world.

We keep talking over the internet, long after the story was done.  Her mum, as she puts it, ‘likes a drink’, and she’s clearly passed the talent on.  Dominique drinks all the time, revels in doing what she pleases, and harbours a penchant for clubbing and cocaine.  She is, to coin a phrase, a kindred spirit.

We first meet when she leaves the South Coast for uni in Cardiff, and this collision of two wastrels is exactly what you’d expect.  I’ve spent the previous night getting smashed for my mate’s birthday, and I turn up at her halls carrying a bottle of wine in each hand (having drunk the third one on the way).  For her part, she’s bought a litre of vodka, already locked and loaded into the optic on her shelf.

We hug, exchange pleasantries, and fall upon the booze like alcoholic wolves.  The first hour or so is spent chatting and getting to know each other, but before long we are hammered and tumble out of her room to terrorise her flat, spilling wine everywhere and insulting everyone we don’t like the look of.  It is pure carnage.

Finally, exhausted, we stumble back to her room and sleep together – no, not like that.  We simply shed our clothes and curl up in her bed.  I consider trying it on, because after all, she’s hot and drunk, but something stops me.  Don’t ask me what it is.  I’d like to say it’s because I don’t want to mess up our friendship, but come on, that shit is for pussies.  Maybe the alcohol warped my sense of good and evil, or maybe I did try it on but she slapped me in the face and smashed a wine bottle over my head.

Anything but the friendship thing.

Whatever the reason, we continue to chat and soon meet up again.  Same venue, same idea, but this time we toss two grams of cocaine and a bag of grass into the mix.  We end up staggering into town and we’re dancing in some club when suddenly a guy cannons into her and slams her right off the three-foot high stage and onto the floor.  She picks herself up, dusts herself off, and immediately starts dancing again.  This girl is a trooper.  I suggest we do some more coke, and we go into the ladies’, getting some dirty looks as we do so.  It comes to something when a lady and a gentleman can’t enjoy a few whiffs of Peruvian dancing dust in the girls’ bogs without getting the evil eye.

Back in the present, I am startled from my reminiscences by the train pulling up.  I hop aboard and a familiar face hoves into view.  It is a guy from my school who I sometimes see out and about.  He is pissed and going to the Meze on his own, just to see what he can see.  Sounds like something I would do.

We grab seats and chat to pass the time.  I ask him if he follows the football.  Big mistake.  He leans in and tells me, in a drunken whisper, that he used to support Chelsea until they, and I quote, “got all the coons in”.  The black people in our carriage do not look impressed.

I get off at Cardiff and catch a taxi to meet Dominique.  She is drunk already, and on her way back from her boyfriend’s house.  I know very little about her boyfriend, except that he’s several years older than us, she met him in Creation, and he wasn’t very happy when she told him I was coming to visit.

Shane: Where will he be sleeping?

Dominique: In my bed, I guess.

Shane: What?!

Dominique: Oh I mean the sofa, yeah, the sofa.

I’d leave him out of it, but lets just say he becomes important later.

We head back to her student house, and she cracks open the wine while I unwrap the pills.  Surprisingly for someone who loves both cocaine and clubbing, she has never tried ecstasy before, a situation we are eager to remedy with speed and haste.

To this end we both drop and settle down on the sofa with a glass of wine for a chat.  We haven’t seen each other for nearly six months, so there is a lot to talk about.  Because we met through her livejournal and I already know about her issues, she feels comfortable around me, and our conversation meanders from the mundane to the personal.  She takes off her fishnets and shows me that she has carved ‘HOPE’ into her leg.  She tells me she likes me because I don’t judge her.

The ecstasy is coming on strong and we are leaning back, feeling the blissful euphoria swirl around us, wrapping us up like a beautiful quilt.  Then, without warning, the peace is shattered by the shrill cry of her mobile.

It’s her boyfriend.  He is steaming drunk and demands to know what she is doing.  She doesn’t want him to come round, so she lies and tells him we are out at a friend’s place, catching up, and she will ring him when we get back.

Five minutes later, her phone rings again.  And again.  Finally, she puts her phone on silent.  Problem solved.

We open more wine and get back to chatting.  Alcohol and ecstasy is a excellent combination, and we are deep in thought-provoking conversation when suddenly there’s a hammering at the door.

We look at each other.  The hammering sounds again.  Dominique peeps through the curtains.

“It’s Shane,” she says.  “I’d better let him in before he breaks the door down.”

She goes to answer it.  I am unsure of what to do.  Dominique and I are just friends, but drunk boyfriends are not creatures of reason.  I briefly consider taking off out the back, but I have nowhere to go, and I can already hear her letting him in.  All in all barely five seconds have passed before she is back in the room, Shane behind her.  I ball my fists in preparation.

“Hi,” he says, “I’m Shane.”  He offers his hand.  “You must be Robin.”

I am a little surprised, but I am high on good ecstasy and perfectly willing to dispense and receive love from my fellow man.  I engage him in friendly conversation, and he responds by asking me questions, lots of questions.  Where do I come from, what do I do, what my ambitions are.  I am riding a great buzz and am more than happy to talk about myself (for hours if necessary).  Dominique, however, is not content to let me do all the work and tells Shane how awesome I am and how good my writing is.  She makes no attempt to move away from me on the two-person couch, and in fact over time seems to be inching closer.  In the spirit of not fucking with a relationship, I move away, but she keeps sliding closer, and eventually Shane pipes up.

“Excuse me, but could I sit there with Dominique?”

“Of course,” I say, and get up, but after five minutes Dominique gets up too and proceeds to sit next to me once more.  I move again and again, round the room, each time with her following me.  It finally reaches the point where I am sitting on the chair, while Shane is on the sofa, and Dominique sits on my lap and leans in to whisper in my ear.  I lean back, and she leans in further, all this while Shane is just sitting on the sofa, staring at us.

Yeah, if I hadn’t been on Class A drugs, this might have been a little uncomfortable.

Throughout this, however, Shane doesn’t say anything to me.  Instead, he keeps telling Dominique he loves her – to which she looks at me and rolls her eyes – and keeps taking her out into the kitchen for ‘chats’.  For a moment I am unsure as to the best course of action, but I quickly decide not to worry.  For one thing I have nowhere else to go, and furthermore I am riding a great buzz and smoking great cigarettes.  What else is there in life?

Dominique puts on a CD and starts dancing to it.  Shane gets up too.  I am not really in the mood to dance and so I sit back and relax, enjoying the high – and the spectacle.  Shane is all over her, wrapping his arms around her in the manner of a bear performing the Heimlich Manoeuvre, but she keeps coming over to me, trying to sit on my lap then pulling me up to dance.  I ignore her and start flicking through the CDs – the Happy Hardcore thumping away at the moment isn’t really to my taste.  I find something I like and announce my belief that our little party would be immeasurably improved by the joining of this disc and that player in audio matrimony.  Shane disagrees.  He doesn’t like ‘music with guitars in’.  That’s right, he is 23 and only listens to trance.  And to think I was almost feeling sorry for him.

By now it is pretty late, and since Shane isn’t on ecstacy he is tired and wants to go to bed.  Dominique agrees, but as I go to crash out on the couch she loudly objects and insists I must sleep in her bed.  Shane has a problem with this, and throws a hissy fit, proclaiming that she doesn’t love him and threatening to go home.  Again I offer to sleep on the couch, even though it is only a two person and not really big enough to kip on, but Dominique is having none of it and drags me into her room, telling Shane that we can all sleep in her bed, with her in the middle.

This is fine by me, all I want at this stage is a comfy place to lie down and chill.  Finally Shane agrees, and we get into bed, me on one side and Shane and Dominique on the other.  Five minutes later, Shane is snoring the sleep of the drunk-and-not-on-stimulants, and as soon as this happens, Dominique disentangles herself from his arms, rolls over to me, and starts stroking my back.

Predictably one thing leads to another, and in no time at all we are making out.  Then petting.  Then heavy petting.  All while her boyfriend snores away on the other side of the bed.  I try to make myself feel bad about this, but Dominique is so hot and I am so high it is simply impossible.  Also, you know, I am a bad person with no morals.

This whole thing, however, is more than a little surreal and after an hour or two I get up, pop another pill, and relax with a much-needed cigarette.  It is morning by now and I tell Dominique that I am going to the pub to watch the football in a couple of hours, and that she is welcome to come with me if she wants, but regardless of what she does that is where I am headed.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, no, we didn’t have sex.  Even I thought that was taking it a bit far.

Dominique has agreed to the pub plan, and so a couple of hours later we all set off – Shane insists on coming even though he hates football.  I wonder why.  On the walk there, Dominique links her arm through mine, and I have great fun manoeuvring us either side of every lamp-post we pass, so she has to disentangle each time.  We finally reach the pub… and Shane whips out his wallet to buy us all a drink.

Wouldn’t have been my reaction, but hey, never turn down free alcohol.  I do make sure to sniff it, though.  Never can be too careful.

We grab seats and start drinking.  Dominique sits next to me and plays with my leg under the table.  I’m rapidly becoming bored with the entire situation, however.  I just want to watch the football, and so when I come back from the toilet I sit on the opposite side of the bench.  Dominique asks me why I have changed seats, but Shane… reaches across the table to high five me.

It takes everything I have not to burst out laughing.

By the time the football has ended in a 3-1 win I have finished with beer and moved onto the vodka.  Pulling out my phone, I get in touch with my mates across town and discover they are going to a house party tonight.  I smile.  It’s time to move on.  Last night?   Just another night.

Just another crazy night.

“Herr Verräter!” he said.

Herr Verräter gave a start, crumbs falling from his mouth, and saw at once there was no use pretending.

“Herr Brot,” he nodded, through the last of his mouthful.

Herr Brot looked him up and down. “Hungry?” he said.

Herr Verräter coughed and inched the bag he was carrying further behind his back. “A tad peckish,” he admitted.

“I see,” said Herr Brot. “And what, may I ask, did you choose to assuage this hunger?”

“Oh, just a snack,” said Herr Verräter.

“Indeed. And not just any snack,” said Herr Brot, “for if my nose does not deceive me, you are savouring the sweet taste of gingerbread.”

Herr Verräter coughed again. “I am.”

“Good?”

“Yes,” said Herr Verräter, colouring a little, “very good.”

“I see. And where did you get this gingerbread?”

Herr Verräter mumbled through his teeth.

“Pardon, Herr Verräter? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“…from Frau Hexe.”

“Oh, Frau Hexe. That would be the women who moved in at the edge of the village last month, am I right?”

“You are right.”

There was a long silence. “Herr Verräter,” said Herr Brot. “How long have we known each other?”

“A long time, Herr Brot.”

“Long enough for you to know my profession?”

“Of course, Herr Brot.”

“And what is that profession?”

“You’re a baker, Herr Brot.”

“Indeed. I am a baker. A baker, in fact, who, amongst other things, makes and sells gingerbread. You are aware of that, aren’t you, my friend?”

“I am, Herr Brot.”

Herr Brot glowered. “So why are you buying gingerbread from some pitch-haired outsider?”

Herr Verräter hung his head. “I’m sorry, my friend. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

“The fuss?”

“Yes. You must have heard. The whole village is talking about this woman’s gingerbread and how good it is.”

Herr Brot had, of course, heard. He could hardly not have. He frowned again. “And in your opinion, Herr Verräter,” he said, “does this woman’s gingerbread live up to the hype?”

Herr Verräter opened his mouth, then shut it again. “No,” he said finally. “No, it doesn’t.”

“So in future you will be buying your gingerbread from me?”

“Of course, Herr Brot. Sorry.”

“Oh, think nothing of it, Herr Verräter. I was merely concerned about losing a valued customer such as yourself.” Herr Brot smiled. “In fact, next time you drop by to make an order, remind me to give you some fresh gingerbread. On the house.”

“You’re a good man, Herr Brot,” said Herr Verräter. “Will you be coming to the Vic Königin tonight for a few tankards with myself and Herr Trinker?”

Herr Brot hesitated. He hadn’t had a glass of ale for weeks. Surely he could afford just one? His purse wasn’t that empty? He felt his resolve weakening, but at the last moment he pulled himself together. “Sorry, my friend,” he said, “but I am busy tonight. Maybe another time.”

“Ah, of course,” said Herr Verräter. “Auf wiedersehen!”

“Auf wiedersehen,” said Herr Brot, and tapping out his long dead pipe he went back into the shop.

Closing the door behind him, he turned and almost tripped over two excited bundles of blond hair and dirty clothes, chasing each other around the shop.

“Kinder!” he said. “Children!” They turned to look at him. “Play quietly,” he said. He walked into the back of the shop, where Eva was mending clothes. He looked at her for a second, sliding his gaze over her curly hair and shapely figure. After Belinda had caught the consumption and never recovered, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to look at anyone in that way again. But Eva had sought him out, helped soothe his aching heart, and before he knew it she’d moved in and they were married. He thought of himself back then, a successful man with a thriving business. Everything had been good. Everything had been wonderful. But then sales started slip, to slide, to tumble, and now it looked like that old hag on the edge of town would be the final nail in the coffin.

“Hello, my darling,” he said.

Eva looked up. “Husband,” she said. “Any business?”

Herr Brot shook his head. “None.”

Eva cursed. “What are we going to do,” she said. “We have barely enough money for ingredients, and when we do buy them the cakes do not sell.”

“I know,” said Herr Brot. “It is that woman’s fault.”

“That woman?”

“Yes. The new one on the edge of town. Everyone is buying her pastries, her cakes, her gingerbread.”

“How do you know?”

“I see them!” exploded Herr Brot. “Every day I see them, walking all the way to the edge of the village, all the way to the edge of the woods, just to buy that accursed woman’s baking. They think I don’t see them, but I do.”

“So, if that woman was not here, then business would be good again?” said Eva.

“Better, certainly.”

Eva nodded. “Then we should kill her.”

Herr Brot’s eyes widened, shocked at the even tone in his wife’s voice. “Kill her? Eva! That’s going too far.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

Herr Brot sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I should improve my technique.” He shook his head. “If only I could make gingerbread like her.”

“Well, why can’t you?”

Herr Brot glared at his wife. “I don’t have her recipe.”

“Then get it.”

Herr Brot frowned. “You mean steal it?”

“Why not?”

“Impossible.”

“Why?”

“People would be sure to see me hanging around. And then, when it went missing, it would not take a genius to put zwei and zwei together, hmm?”

“Then send someone else.”

“Who would be willing to do something like that?”

“There is always the children.”

“The children?”

“Yes. God knows they owe us something, the amount they eat.”

“I’m not sure, Eva…”

“It would be perfect. No one will notice two kids hanging around. Children mill about the village every day. They could slip into her house, hide there until nightfall, then steal the recipe and come back here. No one would be any the wiser.”

Herr Brot stroked his beard.

“And then,” continued his wife, “you wait awhile, to avert suspicion, before starting to make the gingerbread yourself.”

“I could improve upon the recipe!” said Herr Brot excitedly. “Blend it with mine! By taking the best bits from both I could make the best gingerbread in the county. People would come from miles around to taste it. We’d be rich!”

Eva Brot stopped darning and smiled. “Exactly,” she said.

“But can we really send the children in to do our dirty work?” said Herr Brot. “What if they got caught? What if she killed them?”

“Then we would have two less mouths to feed.”

Herr Brot’s mouth fell open. “Eva!” he said. “I can’t believe you would say such a thing.”

“I was joking, fool,” said Eva. “They are children. If they are caught they can say they are playing a game. Hide and seek. No one will suspect them.”

“You make a good point,” said Herr Brot. He hesitated.

“Don’t you want to be rich?” said his wife. She paused. “The man I married wanted to be rich.”

Herr Brot sighed. “You are right,” he said. “It is decided.”

“Good,” said his wife, and went back to her darning.

As the afternoon drew to a close Herr Brot called his children in. He explained to them that this was a game, a very important game, and if they won the game they would get to eat anything they wanted from the shop for a whole week. The idea met with considerable enthusiasm and they skipped off, small heads dancing with cake and pastries.

Night fell quickly. Herr Brot waited by the door, his pacing wearing the floorboards thin. Occasionally he opened it and looked out into the blackness.

“Where are they,” he moaned. “What’s taking them so long?”

“Calm down,” said his wife. “They are biding their time. Do you want some dinner?”

“I can’t eat.”

“Suit yourself.”

An hour passed. Then another. Then another. Finally Herr Brot slammed his fist into the wall. “Enough!” he said. “I am going to find them.”

“But if you are caught? You will ruin everything!”

“I do not care! I should never have let you talk me into this fool of a plan.”

And he put on his coat and went out into the night.

Frau Hexe’s house was on the other side of the village, a ten-minute walk, but Herr Brot made it in five. He slowed his pace as he neared it, stealing up to the window. A light glinted.

Moving slowly, Herr Brot peered in. Frau Hexe was immediately visible. What was she doing? Baking! No sooner had he realised than the smell hit his nostrils, the warm spicy aroma of good sweet gingerbread. But where were his children? Moving his head further into the light, he finally spotted them. In the corner.

Bound and tied.

Rage filled Herr Brot. He strode towards the rickety door and kicked it off its hinges. The children screamed, screams that turned to yells of joy.

“Papa! Papa!”

Frau Hexe turned, brandishing a baking tray like a weapon. “So, Herr Brot,” she said. “You have come to try where your children have failed?”

“I know nothing of what you speak,” said Herr Brot. “Just give me back my children.”

“Don’t play innocent with me,” said Frau Hexe. “I caught them sneaking in and they confessed everything. You’re after my recipes.” She bristled. “My priceless family recipes. I tied them up to teach them – and you – a lesson. Now get out of my house!”

She attempted to force him back out of the door, but Herr Brot’s blood was boiling and raising both hands he shoved her viciously across the room. Frau Hexe fell backwards into a table, hitting her head on the corner. The table wobbled, and the candle that was on it toppled to the floor. The rug started to burn.

“Children, quickly!”

“We’re tied up, Papa!”

Frantically Herr Brot searched for a knife. The rug was completely aflame now, and the chair beside it started to smoulder. Still Herr Brot could not find one. Fire crept up the back of the chair. The room brimmed with smoke.

Finally his fingers closed around a blade and he went desperately to work on the bonds, slicing through them just as the table and the side of the wall caught fire. Grabbing their hands, he dragged them through the white-hot smoke, eyes searing, and together they stumbled out of the house.

Behind them, there was the sound of wood cracking with the heat, and as they stood there, coughing and wiping their streaming eyes, the first of the villagers came running towards them.

“Herr Brot? What happened? Are you okay?”

Herr Brot’s mind worked quickly. “We are,” he said, “but only just.”

“What happened?” asked another villager.

“Frau Hexe,” said Herr Brot. “was a witch.”

“A witch?!”

“Yes. She lured my children into her home with the promise of gingerbread, then tied them up and tortured them. She told them she planned to feed them up, make them nice and plump, then feast herself upon their very bodies.”

Gasps rippled around the crowd. Herr Brot kept going.

“She baked the gingerbread into the very walls to make it more attractive to children. That’s why they were always around. And when I went to look for my children and knocked on her door, she attacked me with spells and curses. It was pure luck that one of her firebolts missed and in the confusion we managed to escape with our lives.”

“And Frau Hexe?”

“Still inside.”

Waves of chatter swept over the crowd.

“– never liked her –”

“– rather odd –”

“– could have been any one of our children – ”

And in the midst of this someone grabbed Herr Brot’s arm. It was Frau Verräter.

“Herr Brot, are you okay?” she asked.

Herr Brot nodded. “I… I think so.”

“Well, don’t you worry.” She smiled encouragingly. “As long as that witch is dead and little Grettie and Hans are safe, that’s the important thing.”  She smiled again. “Yes, that’s the important thing.”

Her hair is a sunbeam,
Of love-locks and corn-curls,
It gleams and it shines,
Like the crown of a nymph-girl.

Her lips are a bow,
Firing darts of amore,
Enticement is nice, but
You know she’s a street whore?

Determination stinks like hell,
They don’t know but they’ve been told.
Combats sticking to their thighs,
Though searing heat can’t warm the soul.

But noon is not the hottest time,
The sun is not the hottest thing,
For in the hearts of those who fight,
There burns a fire that makes men sing.

The wood of valour,
Courage,
Faith,
Is fuel for those most fearless flames,
And if the fire burns too bright,
The least we do is know their names.

-

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“…and the best part is this button right here, which switches on the Super-Suck.  Not only great for dust and mud, but if ever the wife isn’t around…”

SLAM.  Gary hit the steps and rolled with the ease born of long practice.  He dusted himself off and sighed.  Maybe he should work on his patter.  Not many customers seemed to be liking the sex-aid angle, but they were vacuum cleaners, boring as old Doc Martins, you had to spice them up somehow.

And wait!  The owner was opening his window.  Had he reconsid-

“AND IF I EVER SEE YOUR PERVERTED FACE ROUND HERE AGAIN I’LL RIP YOUR INTESTINES OUT THROUGH YOUR EYESOCKETS AND FEED THEM TO MY DOG AS AN HORS D’OEUVRE!”

Gary trudged over to his beat up Ford.

“THAT MEANS THE MAIN COURSE WILL BE THE REST OF YOU!”

Gary shut the door on the screaming and switched on the radio.  Maybe his favourite station would cheer him up—you couldn’t go wrong with a bit of classic rock.  Was this Deep Purple?  Yeah…  what was the tune called again?

You can’t do it right! sang David Coverdale, and Gary hit the off switch and slumped, head resting on the steering wheel.  Stormbringer couldn’t hold a candle to Machine Head or Who Do We Think We Are anyway.

Sitting there, his thoughts drifted back through the decades, as they always did when he was depressed, to the 70s – and the band.  He thought of Tym, with his mane of hair that changed colour every week—“gotta keep things fresh, man”—and of Peter, who was only in because he had a guitar that Dave Gilmour had supposedly touched.  But most of all, he thought of Rog, who had been lead guitarist, vocalist, and Gary’s best friend.

If only they hadn’t broken up because Tym and Peter wanted to be Pink Floyd while Gary and Roger thought Dark Side of the Moon was slightly pretentious and very overrated.  If only they’d kept in touch after college… then maybe he wouldn’t be a vacuum cleaner salesman… maybe he’d be a rock star, up on stage under the white-hot lights with girls screaming and guys yelling and—

There was a tap on the window.  Gary looked up to see a traffic warden.  Her lips were pursed.  Gary wound the window down.

“Are you aware,” she began, and suddenly the double yellows jumped out at Gary.

“I know,” he interjected, “and I’m sorry, I just had to pick something up from a friend.   I knew I’d only be a minute, so I thought it’d be okay.”

“Hmm,” she said.  “Is that your friend up there?”  She pointed towards the man, who was still screaming and gesticulating angrily through the window.

“Yes,” Gary said quickly, “he’s an alcoholic and I took away his Scotch it’s for his own good really and now I really have to byeee.”  He gunned the engine.

“Excuse—” began the warden but she was cut off by the Anglia backfiring, catching, and zooming away in a cloud of black smoke.  She sighed.  If only I’d kept up with my painting, she thought, maybe I wouldn’t be in this dead-end job.

PART II: A SALE AT LAST?

“Shit,” muttered Gary as the Ford’s gearstick played up again, sending him into second when he wanted to be in fourth.  It was never Brands Hatch calibre, but it wasn’t usually this bad.  Still, never mind.  Only a few more miles to go til Darkingham.  Plus, the sun was shining, and the radio, now forgiven, was belting out the Zeppelin.  Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all.

The Ford reeled in the remaining miles and soon there was a sign on the side of the road.  WELCOME TO DARKINGHAM, it said, PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY, but Gary wasn’t looking.  Instead, he was staring at the huge castle that had suddenly come into view.  Wonder if anyone lives there, he thought.  Probably abandoned, left to rot when some toff pissed away his inheritance.

He chuckled suddenly.  If this was a film, he thought, there would probably be a lot of ominous foreshadowing here, and it’d turn out that some great evil lives in that castle, some great evil that I, a humble vacuum cleaner salesman, have to vanquish.

He was still chuckling as the thick dark clouds rolled in and the lightning lit up the murky sky.

Heading into the town centre, he parked up the car and heaved his stuff out of the boot.  The rain had cleared up as soon as the castle disappeared from view.  British weather, thought Gary, shaking his head.  Never know what it’s going to do next.

He started his rounds, and after just two point blank refusals he found an old lady who actually seemed interested once she saw the cleaner.  It does have rather sleek lines, thought Gary, following her into the fusty front room.  These new models were really something.

“So, do you have a vacuum cleaner at the moment?”

“No,” said the old lady.  “I mean, yes, but it’s, old and useless.  My husband bought it, just before he died.  In the war,” she added.

“Oh,” said Gary, attempting to look suitably distressed, “I’m sorry.  Which war?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the old woman vaguely, “one of them.  So, how much for the cleaner?”

An idea flashed into Gary’s mind, but he quickly dismissed it, feeling ashamed of himself.  No matter how senile she seemed, he couldn’t rip off a defenceless old woman like-

“£265.95,” he said.  Morals were for suckers.

“Oh, okay,” said the old woman.  “Will a cheque do?”  She disappeared into the back room, and Gary fingers itched.  His first sale this week.  Maybe he was improving!

The old lady came back with a chequebook and made it out to Gary in the shaky scrawl of the Saga subscriber.

“There you go,” she said.  “Now hand it over.”

Gary reached for the money… and stopped.  A funny feeling had come over him, the kind of feeling you get when you’re a kid and the school bully is trying to trade his dog eared card for your shiny ones.

“What are you waiting for?” screeched the old woman.  “Take the money and give me my cleaner.”

“Er,” said Gary, completely nonplussed.  What was wrong with him?  His first sale for a week, and he was getting cold feet?  Just sell the damn cleaner, a voice inside his head urged, but the feeling was getting stronger and stronger.

“Well,” he said again, “you see, the thing is…”

The old woman grabbed a nearby umbrella and brandished it.  Her face contorted with rage.  “GIVE ME THE CLEANER!” she screamed, advancing on Gary.  His face turned white.

“I-I-I-I-I,” he stammered, backing into the corner, “I—

“Die!” screamed the old lady, raising the umbrella, and Gary could see that the tip was lethally sharpened.  “Die, fool!”

Gary was too scared even to close his eyes, and so he saw as well as heard the vacuum cleaner cry “Not so fast bitch,” and wrap its extension lead around the old lady’s neck.  Then he fainted.

PART III: VINCENT

Gary came round slowly, like swimming up through a deep, dark pool and eventually breaking the surface.  He blinked, twice, and then a voice said, “Awake at last, eh?  You took your sweet time.”

Gary sat bolt upright and glanced around wildly.

“Over here, idiot.”

Gary stared in the direction of the voice.  Stared at the vacuum cleaner.  The hose moved, and the events of not twenty minutes earlier came flooding back.  His mouth fell open.

“What’s the matter?” said the vacuum cleaner.  “Never seen a talking suction device before?”  Gary’s mouth stayed open.  “Well I’m here, baby, and you’d better get used to it.  C’mon, sit up and I’ll clue you in.”

Dumbly, Gary did as he was told, noticing for the first time the body of the old lady lying in a corner.

“You killed her?”

“Her or you, pal, and I didn’t see you doing anything about it.  You’re gonna have to buck your ideas up, my man, if we’re gonna do this thing.”

“Do this thing?” asked Gary, starting to frown.  At the moment, his plans consisted of nothing more than getting in his car and driving.  And driving.  And driving.  He planned to stop somewhere around Scotland, buy a nice little farm with his savings, and clean his house exclusively with mops and feather dusters until the day he died.

“Vanquish the evil spirit, my man,” said the vacuum cleaner, hose twitching eagerly.  “You saw the castle on your way in here, right?”

“Oh no,” said Gary.  “I knew that fucking castle was up to no good.”

“Well you guessed right, compadre.  There’s one hell of an evil presence lurking up there in that oversized heap of stones, and it’s our job to sort it out.”

“What?  Why me?” said Gary.

“Look man, I was brought to life for a reason,” said the vacuum cleaner, “and it sure as hell wasn’t to make a housewife’s life easier.  Plus, I saved your ass back there.  That old lady was under the spell of whatever’s in that castle, and I got you out of trouble.  You owe me.”

Gary coughed.  “Technically true,” he said, “but come on.  I’ve had enough bloody excitement to last me a lifetime.  Can’t you do it by yourself?”

“Man, look,” said the cleaner.  “I’m a fucking vacuum cleaner.  Sure, Hoover did a great job, but battling evil wasn’t high on their list of design priorities, capiche?”

“Point taken,” said Gary, “but I still don’t see why I should bother risking life and limb offing whatever evil presence happens to think that castle is a grade A des res.  Face it, it ain’t gonna happen.  And besides,” he added, as something occurred to him.  “What the hell brought you to life, anyway?”

“Now that,” said the cleaner, “is something I can’t tell you, but look at it like this.  Do you really want to disobey something with the power to animate a fucking Hoover?”

Gary thought about this.  The damn thing had a point.

“And besides,” the cleaner went on.  “You can’t tell me you haven’t dreamed of doing something heroic once in your life.  Dreamed of being something more than a vacuum cleaner salesman.  Dreamed of making a difference.”

Gary blinked.  For a electronic work-saving device, it was surprisingly perceptive.

“Good man,” said the cleaner.  “The name’s Vincent, by the way, but you can call me Vince.”

“Gary,” said Gary.  “Gary Trotter.  And don’t even start with the jokes, I’ve heard them all.  I swear, if I ever meet that bitch Rowling, she’s a dead woman.”

PART IV: THE CASTLE OF DOOM

They took the car, because walking was both too dangerous and would have attracted too much attention, but Gary still got a lot of funny looks for having a vacuum cleaner in the passenger seat.

“So,” he said, as they neared the castle and the clouds predictably rolled in, “what exactly are we going to do once we get there?  How are we gonna get in?  Do you have any idea what we’re up against?”

“Hey, quit with the questions man, I’m only the vacuum cleaner,” said Vince.  “I vote we just bust on in there and clean up.  Ahahaha, get it?  Clean up?  Man I’m funny.”

Gary sighed and parked up the car, more than a little shakily.  He couldn’t believe he was doing this.  Vince, still chuckling at his little joke, opened the door with his hose and tumbled onto the tarmac.

“C’mon, man, hurry your ass up,” he said, watching Gary reach into the back and feel under the seat.  “What you doing?  You gotta weapon in there?  A piece?  Bring it along man, we need all the help we can get.”

Under the seat, Gary’s hand touched something cold and hard.  His fingers closed around it, and he brought it out with a flourish.

“Man,” said Vincent.  “A bottle of whiskey?  How’s that gonna help?”

Gary unscrewed the cap.  “If I’m gonna do this,” he said, “I’m sure as hell not gonna do it sober.”  He took a long slug, feeling the Scotch slide down his throat and fill his stomach with a warming fire.  He grinned.  He felt more like a hero already.  “All right, Vince,” he said, taking another shot.  “Let’s roll.”

They made their way up the long path towards the castle, stopping outside for Gary to look at the  information board.  He read it aloud, in case vacuum cleaners were illiterate.

“National Trust site 216, Mordred’s Castle.  Known locally as the “Castle of Doom”—wow, great—this mighty fortress is said to have been built by Mordred, arch enemy of the fabled King Arthur.  Legend tells that when Arthur left Britain in the early 540s to take on the armies of Rome, he left Mordred behind to rule his kingdom and protect Guinevere, his wife.  Mordred, however, betrayed Arthur’s trust, claiming the title of King of the Britons for himself and marrying Guinevere.  Arthur was forced to return from Rome and engage Mordred in battle at Camlann, a ferocious encounter which resulted in the deaths of both leaders and most of their armies.”

Gary was silent.  “So,” he said eventually, “you think this has anything to do with us?  Are we going to have to fight Mordred’s very pissed off ancestors or something?  My middle name is Arthur, you know, they might not like that.”

“I don’t know,” said Vince, “but I guess we’re gonna find out.”

Gary was reading the sign again.  “Funny,” he said, “how it doesn’t say he forced Guinevere to marry him.  Sounds almost like she was up for it.  Wasn’t she having an affair with that fellow Lancelot as well?  Looks like Miss Guinevere might have been a bit of a – hey, where are you going?  Wait for me,” said Gary, hurrying after Vince, who was trundling through a door that said National Trust—Staff Only.  “Wasn’t she the one who turned up naked on a horse, as well?” he muttered to himself.  “I’m telling you, total bloody…”  He trailed off.  They were inside the main courtyard.  Shadows loomed.

“Now,” said Vince, “being a particularly smart suction based cleaning device, I would say that I am entirely correct in supposing that whatever’s in this castle has taken control of the—

“AIEEEEEEEEE,” came the scream and Gary turned just in time to dodge a furious Japanese tourist who came charging at them, swinging his camera.

“What the fuck?” said Gary, and swung his bottle.

Smash.  The Jap went down in a bloody mess, and Gary cursed.  There had been at least a couple of shots left.

“Heads up!” called Vince, and Gary looked up to see more people pouring out of the various towers.  Most of them wore over 70 and wore green National Trust Volunteer badges, the rest were Japanese tourists complete with lurid baseball caps, cameras and Mickey Mouse bumbags.  He glanced wildly around for a better weapon, and came across a loose piece of scaffolding that had been holding up a wall.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE,” screamed the possessed horde, pelting across the courtyard, and Gary gave the scaffolding a few test swings.

“All I need now is shades and a trenchcoat,” he called, but Vince didn’t reply.  Maybe vacuum cleaners didn’t watch many movies.

The first volunteer arrived and was met with a pipe to the head; his aging skull crumpled like eggshell, sending brains into the next one’s eyes, blinding him.  Easy meat.  Thank god only pensioners volunteer for the National Trust, Gary thought, and thank god these tourists couldn’t fight their way out of a sushi container.

Crack.  He swung the club again, starting to enjoy himself.  This sure beat being a salesman.  Who knew saving the world could be so much fun?  He glanced over to see that Vince was enjoying himself too, wrapping his lead round the neck of a octogenarian in a cardigan and shoving his hose extension straight up another one’s—

Gary grimaced and looked away, just in time to see a crazy tourist come running at him with a huge knife.  “Look, a site of cultural significance!” cried Gary, and even in his demonically possessed state, the man just had to look, maybe snap a few pictures, something to show the family back home…

Crunch, went the pole, crunch, crunch, crunch, and soon the courtyard was filled with dead and dying tourists.  Shards of camera lay everywhere.  OAPs crawled across the floor, moaning terribly.  Gary dusted off his hands and beamed at Vince.

“That was a doddle.”

“That,” said Vince, “was just for starters.  Something possessed those people, and I’m guessing it lives in that tower.”  He pointed with his hose to the tallest tower, the one with blood dripping out of the windows and sparks of electricity jumping from brick to brick.

“What makes you so sure?” asked Gary.

PART V: MORDRED

They walked together, man and vacuum cleaner—well, it was more of a trundle for Vince, really—towards the ominous tower.  There was one of those information plaques just in front of the entrance, the ones that old men stand in front of for inordinate lengths of time, making interested noises and saying things like “1092, eh?  Well , fancy that.”

“Let’s see…” said Gary.  “Of all the towers in Mordred’s castle, this one was his favourite.  Legend has it that he used to ravage virgins in the topmost room, then throw them out of the window into the courtyard below for his dogs to feast on once he’d finished.  Blimey.  I bet Germaine Greer’d have something to say about that.”

They stood looking at the door for a few seconds.  Gary pushed it gently, half hoping it’d be locked, but it swung open with a creak.  “Ready, Vince?” he said.

“Hell yeah,” said Vince.  “Let’s do this.”

“Right,” said Gary, and started up the spiral staircase.  After a few moments he stopped and turned.  Vince was still at the bottom of the stairs.  “What’s the matter?”

Vince coughed, and Gary could have sworn the white plastic on his body went faintly pink.  “I, er, I can’t quite manage stairs,” he said.  “You know, with the wheels and all.”  Suppressing the urge to laugh, Gary picked him up by the handle and carried him up.  He felt ridiculous, going to battle evil with a metal pipe in one hand and a vacuum cleaner in the other, but he guessed real life wasn’t always quite like the movies.

The stairs went round and round and round til Garry almost felt sick, but eventually they stopped at a huge wooden door.  Gary put Vince down and raised his fist to knock, realising in time that perhaps that wouldn’t be appropriate.

“What do I do?” he whispered to Vince.

“Bust the hell on in there, man!”

“Uh, okay,” said Gary, counted to 3, and burst into the room, yelling, “Hands up, motherfucker!”

The pale man in long silver robes turned slowly around and looked at Gary, who slowly dropped the arm that was pointing the scaffolding pole at him and coughed.

“It sounded better in my head,” he said to Vince.

The pale man laughed, a sound without humour.  “So,” he said.  “I wondered who was causing that commotion out in the yard.  Who, may I ask, are you?”

“We’re your worst nightmare, pal,” said Vince, wheeling forward.

The man laughed again.  “A talking Hoover.  How quaint.”

“I suppose you’re Mordred,” said Gary.

The pale man seemed quite amused by this.  “Dear me, no.  I am but a humble wizard,” he said, and as he did so he dropped something into the cauldron beside him, which fizzled.  Gary noticed the room’s contents for the first time.  Apart from the man and the cauldron in the middle, there were hundreds of different books—most very old and green with mildew—piled around the edges.  There were also two large candle-like fires burning against the back wall, and in between them the air seemed to shimmer.

Gary felt he was losing the initiative.  “Well,” he said, “we know you’re up to no good, so why don’t you just stop it now, before it’s too late.”

“Yeah,” added Vince, still smarting from being called “quaint”.  “Don’t make us rough you up, man.”

“Rough me up?” chucked the wizard.  “I’d like to see you try.”

“Fine,” said Vince.  “You asked for it!”  His extension lead snaked forward, plug tines glinting, and Gary raised his scaffolding.

The wizard snapped his fingers and they were each flung in different directions, ending up sprawled among the books piled against either wall.  “You see?” he said.  “An icicle’s chance in a furnace.”

“We have friends!” said Gary desperately.

The wizard laughed.  “From the look of you, I very much doubt that.  And besides, it is of no matter.  The potion is nearly done, and then our great lord Mordred will walk among us once more.

“Aha,” said Gary.  “I knew Mordred was involved somewhere.  That potion brings him back, does it?”  He started towards it but another snap sent him flying once more.

“Don’t be a fool,” said the wizard.  “The portal brings him back.”  He gestured behind him.  “This potion will give my lord a physical shape once more.  I spent years of my life constructing that magical gate, designed to bring back the greatest warrior-mage this country has ever known.  Imagine my frustration when I finally perfected it, only to find that my lord was a ghost and only possessed a fraction of his former power in our world.  But now, with this potion, he shall return to full strength!  And it is nearly finished!  Just a few more hours and the brewing will be complete.  So far, you are the only people to try and stop me.  And you’ve done a pretty appalling job, I must say.  But, pathetic or not, I must still kill you.  You distract me, and must therefore die.”

The reality of the situation hit Gary like a brick.  “But… but you can’t kill me!” he whimpered.  “I’m just a vacuum cleaner salesman called Gary Trotter, I like Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin and Black—”

“WHAT?” roared the wizard.

Gary cowered.  “Not a fan of classic rock then?” he said.  “I don’t like all of it myself, I mean some of it’s quite crap really, I—”

“NO!” said the wizard.  “Your name. What was it?”

“Oh, er, Gary,” said Gary.  “Gary Trotter.”

“Gary Trotter?”

“Yes,” said Gary.  And then, “Oh, I see.  Going to make a wisecrack, are you.  Well don’t even bother, I’ve heard them all.”  He put on a high, mimicking voice.  “Oh, where’s Hermione, Gary?  Not ditching Hogwarts lessons again, Gary?  Ooh, watch out for You-Know-Who, Gary, I heard he’s on the—

“SHUT UP!” thundered the wizard.  “STOP TALKING ABOUT IT!  HARRY POTTER, I CAN’T STAND IT!  THAT SILLY WOMAN WRITES A FOOL TALE FOR FOOL CHILDREN—GETS EVERYTHING WRONG—AND THE WORLD LAPS IT UP!  REAL WIZARDING IS NOTHING LIKE THAT!”  He was going purple.  “MAGIC WORDS AND BROOMSTICKS AND STUPID ALLITERATIVE NAMES!  I HATE IT!”  He stamped his foot, and red sparks flew up.  “I COULD BEAT DUMBLEDORE WITH MY EYES CLOSED!  GREATEST WIZARD IN THE WORLD MY FOOT!  AND VOLDEMORT?  I’VE SEEN EVILLER WATERVOLES!”

“Oh, er, well,” said Gary, completely caught off-guard by the wizard’s outburst and not really having any idea what to say.  But then he saw Vince move, ever so slightly, and he knew what he had to do.

“But you couldn’t beat Harry,” he said to the wizard, drawing on all his salesman-honed powers of sincerity.  “I mean, come on.  The kid survived a killing curse.  He’s got the power of love on his side!”

“LOVE?!” roared the wizard.  “LOVE?! SINCE WHEN HAS LOVE MATTERED?!  IF YOU WENT UP TO A REAL WIZARD AND SAID “OH YOU CAN’T HURT ME BECAUSE I’M PROTECTED BY LOVE” HE’D LAUGH IN YOUR FACE AND THEN MELT IT RIGHT OFF!  THAT ROWLING WOMAN IS A-”

Crack, went Vince’s hose as it poked the wizard in the back, and a brief look of surprise crossed his wizened features as he tumbled head first into the cauldron.  The potion sizzled, hissed, steamed, and a nasty smell pervaded the room.

Gary sagged with relief.  “Great work, Vince,” he said.

“Couldn’t have done it without ya, Gary,” said Vince, and for a moment they shared an intimate moment of man-Hoover friendship, that transcended all social barriers, buddy to buddy.  Then Mordred came through the portal.

“What is all this commotion?” he said, in a voice like shredding velvet.  He looked at Gary, then at Vince, then back at Gary.  “Where’s Thyolath?”

“If you mean the guy in the dressing gown, he’s dead,” said Vince.  “Snuffed.  Extinguished.  Kicked the bucket, ushered off his mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the-”

“Dead?” said Mordred icily.

“Yep,” said Gary.  “You’re Mordred, right?  Well, we know all about how you’ve got no power until that potion’s ready, which won’t be for hours.  If ever.”  He grinned.  “It might be permanently ruined because of a tiny new ingredient we added called essence of Thyolath.”

He beamed, but his smile faded as the air grew dark and little sparks of green electricity jumped from Mordred’s outline to the ground.

“No power?” said Mordred.  “No power? True, my strength is but a fraction of what it was, but I trust it will be sufficient you kill the likes of you.”

Gary gulped, and edged towards the door.  Vince was one wheel ahead, sending out his lead to yank the handle.

“Don’t even bother,” sneered Mordred.  “It’s locked.  And now, prepare to embrace your doom.”  He glided towards them, ethereal arms outstretched.

Gary cowered.  Was this the end?  After all they’d been through?  Think, Trotter, think, he urged himself.  Mordred came closer.

Gary snapped his fingers.  “Vince,” he hissed.  “Turn yourself on!”

“What?  This is no time for spring cleaning!”

“Haven’t you ever seen Ghostbusters?  Just do it!”  He bent down and flicked the on switch, grabbing the hose and pointing it straight at Mordred.  “Take this, you spectral bastard,” he cried, as Vince’s vacuum warmed up and began to suck.

Mordred’s translucent mouth opened in shock, but quickly turned up into a smile.

“It’s not working,” cried Vince.  “I’m only getting his edges!”

“Shit!” said Gary.  Then it hit him.  He bent down once more and smacked the small red button on Vince’s side.  “EAT SUPER-SUCK, BITCH!”

The vacuum cleaner kicked into high gear, the whirring became almost unbearably loud, and Mordred started to fade.

“No!” he screamed.  “I’d have got away with it if it hadn’t been for you meddling-”

POP. He was gone.

Gary smiled.  “Another job well done,” he said, looking down at Vince.  But Vince didn’t look too well.  He was vibrating, and smoke was pouring out of his vent.

“Quick,” hissed the vacuum cleaner.  “I can’t hold him much longer.”

Gary looked around wildly.  “What can I do?”

“Throw me through the portal, man!  And then put out the fires out!”

“But Vince,” said Gary, “how will you get back?”

“There’s no other way,” said Gary.  “Just do it!”

Slowly, Gary picked up the cleaner and walked toward the portal.  “You’ve been a friend, Vince,” he said, blinking away the tears.  “A good friend.  I don’t want to—’

“Hell, man, just do it!”

Gary threw the vacuum cleaner at the shimmering wall.  There was a brief flash as it disappeared.

“Goodbye, Vince,” he said.  “I’ll never forget you.”

And slowly he kicked out the two fires.

EPILOGUE

The shop bell tinkled, and a man walked in.  He browsed through the aisles of records for a few minutes, then finally walked up to the counter.

“Can I help you?”

“Er, yes,” said the man.  I’m looking for a band, quite rare now I guess, but they were popular back in the day.  Vincent and the Vacuum Cleaners, I think they were called.

The shop owner stiffened.  “Vincent… and the Vacuum Cleaners?”

“That’s right,” said the man.

“I’m afraid not,” said Gary Arthur Trotter, and smiled.  “But we do have some lovely classic rock…”

—

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No good manifestation of pure evil leaves home without its goth boots.

The film opens with the mandatory dark alleyway.  The Man walks down it and happens upon two Stupid Thugs, who despite looking distinctly scared as he walks by decide as soon as he has passed that they wouldn’t live up to their stupid thug billing if they didn’t follow him.  After bouncing a cigarette off The Man’s head, they attack him for no reason at all.  The Man goes down hard, and they beat his lifeless body with sticks for a minute and a half.  Right, that’s it.  Can we all go home now?

Sadly, no.  With tedious inevitability just as one Thug is bending down to rifle through The Man’s coat pockets (presumably after his black nail-polish and spare yellow contact lenses) The Man gets up and grabs the offender by the throat, ripping out his vocal chords with a distinct twang.  Ironically, this sounds better than most of Cradle of Filth’s back catalogue.  After peeling the other thug’s head apart like a soft-boiled egg, The Man throws back his head and roars in the manner of a 16-bit video game.  The opening credits roll.  Because that wasn’t anything to do with the plot, you understand.  That was just to show you how much of a badass The Man really is.  Seriously.  I’m not kidding here.  Don’t mess with The Man.  He’ll dig your brains out with your toenails.

So, after some credits mixed by a kid who’s run out of ritalin the film begins proper with a crime scene investigation.  One girl is lying on the bed with a big hole where her stomach should be and the other is lying on the floor with no face.  Presently, a detective walks in.  Lets make no bones about it, this detective makes Willy Loman seem like a go-getting young CEO.  He looks as though his wife drove off in his brand new car with his best friend and his credit card, and he is simply passing the time until the gun shop opens later that day.  Slowly, he walks over to the girl, who is covered in blood and has literally no guts left, and in a brilliant bit of detective work, checks her pulse.

However, there is no time to think “that’s pretty redundant” because the next thing he does is put his hand on her tit and give it a big ol’ squeeze.  No kidding, the guy literally cops a feel.  Of a horrifically maimed dead girl.  Even the forensics people seem to have a problem with this, because one nudges the other and whispers, “What’s he doing?”  “Don’t worry,” comes the reply, “it’s just his way.”

Dead girls can’t say no, the motto of all good homicide detectives.

And with that the camera zooms in on the dead girl’s face and everything goes all hazy to let you know we are going back in time, just in case you thought the girl with no stomach suddenly got up and started dancing to Cradle of Filth in a goth club.  She is making slutty eyes at someone who looks suspiciously like The Man, and after a quick trip to the bathroom for a few lines of coke and a throwaway comment about wanting him to cum all over her tits (you know, in case you thought she wasn’t a slut or something) she wastes no time in ditching her friend and taking The Man back to her apartment, where she mixes a few pills into some vodka and gets ready for a night of passion by stripping off  and slipping erotically into bed.  Goth Slut is quite hot with a nice rack, so this is easily the best part of the film so far.  The Man, however, doesn’t seem to appreciate it and rips the sheets off the bed before transforming into a demon and raping her.  This scene is lit by the strobe light The Man always brings to his raping sessions.

The next day Goth Slut isn’t too happy and she goes to see her friend from last night, who is of course in the shower and answers the door in a towel so heavy she can barely hold it over herself.  Goth Slut provides her friend with a brief explanation of the previous night’s events, including the complaint that he “just left” and “used her”, which you’d think would be the least of her worries, considering he also “turned into a demon” and “raped her”.  Then they both take sleeping pills and go to sleep, even though it’s the middle of the day.

Goth Slut’s peaceful slumber, however, is soon disturbed.  Something seems to be pressing against her stomach.  She wakes up her friend.  “Touch me,” says Goth Slut, grabbing her friend’s hand and placing it on her stomach.  “Touch me.  Can you feel that?  Lower.  Lower.  Press harder.”

The awkward sexual tension is so palatable it’s actually uncomfortable, which presumably means it’s supposed to be there, but the burgeoning lesbian sex is halted when a razor sharp appendage shoots out of Goth Slut’s abdomen and slices Goth Friend’s fingers off.  Goth Friend screams and stares at her hand while blood spurts over her face and more appendages emerge from Goth Slut’s stomach as some kind of Hideous Creature tries to dig its way out.  You know, like Alien, but even scarier.  The guy from Alien didn’t have the quick thinking of Goth Slut, however, and in a remarkably selfless act she grabs some nearby scissors and plunges them repeatedly into her stomach in a effort to slay the beast.  Dumb bitch can’t do anything right though and only manages to kill herself which is all for the best really because at least she doesn’t have to witness her stomach exploding like a watermelon dropped off a skyscraper.

Meanwhile, Goth Friend is screaming her little heart out, stopping only because a spurt of blood flies directly into her mouth, and watches aghast as out of the ruins of Goth Slut’s stomach, slowly and terribly, crawls the spider-baby from Toy Story.  You know, the one the bad kid made by sticking parts of other toys together.  This is no time for laughter, however, as this spider-baby clearly went to the Monty Python Killer Rabbit school of combat, and after emitting a few suitably scary sounds it flies across the room and eats her face off.

To infinity and beyond!

Back in what can only be a police station because of the presence of a computer and a few men in sunglasses, the detective is not happy.  We can tell he is not happy because every second word is a curse word.  In fact, this detective refuses to believe anyone can solve a case without swearing their heads off 24/7, and so for the rest of the film he does not speak a sentence without the using the words “fuck”, “bollocks” or “wank”.

But before DCI Fuckwank can swear at his useless underlings anymore, he is called into see the Police Chief.  This conversation is verbatim:

Chief:  ”I’ve had a worrying call from Joan the photographer.  Something about you touching the dead bodies…”

DCI:  ”Yes, sir.  Just something I have to do.”

Chief:  ”Okay…  Any particular reason?”

DCI:  ”To make sure they really are dead.”

Chief:  ”…how long has this been going on for, Pete.”

DCI:  ”About seven years.  Ever since the girl.  Abigail Watson.”

Chief:  ”Abigail Watson?  Wasn’t she one of Kemper’s?”

DCI:  ”His fourth victim.  She was only ten years old.”

Instead of shipping him straight off to prison, however, the Chief immediately forgets all about DCI Fuckwank feeling up underage corpses left right and centre and sits back as we are treated to some heavy-handed exposition.  Kemper is a serial killer now serving time in a lunatic asylum, and is as such Cradle of Fear’s attempt to create a plot when really we all know the film is nothing but an excuse to kill people in various gory and ill-thought out ways.  The scene shifts to the asylum, where Kemper, who looks a bit like Charles Manson and a lot like Gimli the Dwarf, is writing a message in blood which he then holds out the conveniently placed window all maximum security cells are required to have.  The message is hooked by a mystery fisherman, who I suspect is going to be a bit disappointed at not having hooked a prize trout for his wife’s supper.  But then again, he is fishing off the roof of an lunatic asylum.

In a twist that no one saw coming the mystery fisherman turns out to be The Man and the paper the name of his next victim, which he unwraps with difficulty due to the enormous number of rings he is wearing.  The next part of Cradle of Fear is unimaginably boring and involves two dumb whores in wigs stealing some old guy’s money and unsurprisingly ending up dead.  After this DCI Fuckwank uses all his detective skills to come to the conclusion that all the victims so far are linked to people involved with the Kemper trial.  He does this while swearing a lot.

Next on Kemper’s list is some guy called Nick, but before The Man can perform his master’s bidding he feels a bit peckish, so he scrapes the insides of a cat onto a plate and hoovers it up like a vacuum cleaner.  Hey, a Man needs to eat.

While this feast is going on we cut to Nick, who is taking his rather witch-like girlfriend for a spin in his car.  After running over a pissed-up tramp because he is too busy doing coke to watch the road (no really) they head back to the witch’s apartment and start getting busy.  Nick’s missus whips her tits out, writhes around a bit, then pulls Nick’s trousers down to reveal… a prosthetic leg.  Yes, Nick is an amputee.  This doesn’t seem to bother Witchy, though, and without further ado she removes the leg and goes to town on the stump, licking and slurping while Nick grins like he’s getting the best head of his crippled life.  The whole thing is more than vaguely disgusting.  The scene gets no further than that though, thank god, because as soon as he flips her over, Nick gets cold feet (well, foot).  Apparently, only having one leg makes him feel unmanly, and despite Witchy’s protests that she doesn’t mind (something self-evident from the enthusiastic stump-job she was giving him not ten seconds ago) Nick throws a strop and leaves.  Then, because Nick is a man who does something about his problems, he goes to see a friend, cuts his leg off, and takes it to a doctor to see if he can have it sewn on.

Wait til she gets to the deep throat.

The operation that stuns the medical world takes surprisingly little time – in fact Nick has it done while his girlfriend is out so she has a nice little surprise to come home to.  We are treated to a touching scene in a sun-filled park where his girlfriend steals his crutch and runs away, forcing him to hobble after her.  Of course, nothing can remain this happy for long, and when Nick drives his girlfriend to a restaurant to celebrate his return to the land of the bipedal the leg becomes possessed and causes the car to crash in possibly the worst piece of CGI I have ever seen in a movie.  The crash, or more accurately, “the bounce”, leaves the car body completely unscathed and somehow flings Nick’s girlfriend ten feet in the opposite direction, where she gets all mangled up on some railings.  Two police officers turn up to find Nick stabbing his new leg with a screwdriver over and over again, before pushing it up into his brain.  Then The Man appears and kills the police officers, because he’s just that evil.

With Nick out of the way there is thankfully only one more victim to go, and in a terrible twist of fate, that turns out to be DCI Fuckwank’s own son.  They’ve tried to phone him, but the line’s dead.  And the last time the detective saw his son was two and a half weeks ago.

On this shocking note the scene fades into Fuckwank Jr working at some kind of online company.  It’s never truly explained what he does but rest assured that it is something to do with The Internet.  Fuckwank Jr, whose name is Richard if anyone cares, has managed to talk a semi-attractive young lady into going out with him that night, even though he looks one dirty raincoat away from hanging outside the local school at lunchtime.  She comes over and sits on his desk, and as Richard looks at her he sees her tied up and gagged, in much the same manner as a hungry cartoon character sees people as giant turkeys on legs.  Could Richard be less than an innocent, charming young man?  Surely not.

After the boss comes round and chews Richard out for being late with his report and accessing some “rather disturbing websites”, Richard wastes no time in logging onto The Internet and showing us just how much of an understatement that was.  He skips past “Teenage Teasers” and “Lesbo Lust” – as if nubile young lesbians could ever turn anyone on – and instead visits the “uncensored” page, with such delights as:

• kinkycavader.com – Real Teenage Necro From KGB Files!!
• BURN LOVE – The Best Photos On The Net – Full Nude Skin Grafts!!
• APE RAPE – “100% Gibbon, 100% Sex”.  GENUINE AIDS INFECTED MONKEYS!

I’m not even kidding.

Despite these feasts of erotica, Richard is only interested in TheSickRoom.com, a lovely little site that professes to be “The Ultimate In Snuff Reality – You Are The Murderer!”  This prospect obviously floats Richard’s boat because he gazes at the screen with adoration before double-clicking the link.  Thankfully the site has a accept/decline warning, to make sure everyone looking at brutal and highly illegal snuff porn is over 18.

It’s such a turn off when the monkeys don’t really have AIDS.

Later that night Richard goes on his hot date, and after getting her drunk he takes her back to his house for coffee and beats the shit out of her, the way all good first dates go.  Consequently she refuses to come into work, and people start talking, but this doesn’t bother Richard because he spends all his time staring at TheSickRoom.com with drool pooling around his ankles.

The next day Richard pulls a partition around his workplace so no one can see him jacking off to snuff porn and actually joins his new favourite website instead of being cheap and looking at the previews.  As soon as he has entered his card details, however, his unfeeling boss pulls the plug, causing Richard to yell something about arses and headbutt him.

Some more crap follows that I can’t be fucked to write about but the upshot is Richard spends thousands of dollars on the site before the connection is suddenly and mysteriously terminated.  He breaks down crying, and before we know it the bailiffs are here.  They repossess literally everything.  Whether this is because of his sickroom.com bills or because months have passed and he’s done nothing but lie on the floor sweating and thinking about snuff porn is not made clear.  Finally Richard has to sell his house, and takes to the streets in nothing but the shirt on his back, to… well, I don’t know.  But on the way to doing it he spots an internet café, where he gets an email giving him an address where someone can “tell him more”.

This house, unsurprisingly, turns out to be at the very end of a long, dark lane.  As Richard gets nearer and nearer the ominous music builds and builds, reaching a terrifying crescendo as he knocks on the door and it swings open to reveal… a midget.

After overcoming his terror Richard demands to know about the sick room, and the midget shrugs – all he knows is that some dirty foreigners paid him top dollar to commandeer part of his house and put a big aerial on the roof.  Falling over himself to go back there and have a butcher’s (get it?) Richard stumbles along a dark corridor, opens a door, and walks through.  It slams shut behind him and the lights come on, revealing that he is in fact in the sick room, and is its next victim.  Se7en, eat your heart out.

The only thing smaller than this guy is the budget.

A man duly appears to hack Richard to bits, and just when you think this film can’t get any more ridiculous the camera pulls back to reveal The Man, sat behind his laptop deciding how Richard will die.  I mean, what?  Did The Man set all this up just to kill Richard?  Was it really worth the effort?  What happened to the good ol’ dark-alley throat-rip?  Saying that though The Man did hide in the bushes outside the last guy’s house and wait for him to steal a leg, get it sewn on, learn to walk, and get in a car before possessing the leg and killing him, so maybe he has a lot of time on his hands.

With the brutal end of Dicky you would think the film has to finally lay down and die, but no.  The horror is not quite over.  The merciless slaughter of his only son has really got DCI Fuckwank’s goat and he grabs a gun and goes to the asylum to exact revenge on Kemper himself.  After a cartload of terrible acting, the asylum sends in the guards to stop him finishing Kemper off and surprise surprise, one of them is The Man.  After ruthlessly slaughtering everyone except Fuckwank, The Man releases Kemper, but our noble hero struggles to his feet just in time and blows The Man’s head clean off.  A tad more shitty acting ensues and just when you think the good guys have won The Man grows tentacles out of his ruined head and eats DCI Fuckwank alive, just to remind you that evil always wins.

Anyone got an asprin?

All in all, Cradle of Fear is possibly the worst film I have ever seen.  At some points during the two hour snore & gore fest it seems as if it might just be tongue in cheek, but then it goes all serious again and you get the feeling that the director genuinely wanted to make a film that will keep people awake at night.  And he succeeded, but only because every time they start to drop off they’ll remember a particular scene and burst out laughing.  The funniest thing about this film though is that it tries oh-so-hard to be shocking and gory and when they released it the distributors made it available as a mail-order VHS from Europe – because the British Board of Film Classification would clearly never pass such a brutal, terrifying film without significant alterations.  Less than a month later, however, the film was passed by the BBFC completely uncut… and was picked up by Blockbuster and sold at a fraction of the mail-order price.

Justice, my friends.  Justice.

—

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