Doctor Who_ Combat Rock - Mick Lewis [47]
He knelt to examine his work. His wife was already rooting around in the mess on the floor for a bone knife, and finding it, began prodding the sharp end through the breach in the round and very bloody object that Baccha was now clasping between his knees.
She unspooled the grey matter from inside with great relish. Neither of them spoke.
Outside the hut, the bag of shavings drifted slowly away on the river.
Chapter Seven
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn.
‘You look like ’im.’
‘What?’ He was still admiring his fresh tattoo, and scarcely beard the bearded biker’s words.
‘I said, that fing looks like you.’
Now he looked up. The biker finished stacking away his laser needles and colours and fished for a cigarette out of a packet he’d just sat on a moment ago.
‘You tryin’ to be funny?’
The biker shrugged without smiling or doing any of the things that usually signalled an attempt at humour.
He let it go. Gazed again at the tattoo – the half-man, half-animal relaxing in the black grass, clutching Pan Pipes to its naked breast, yellow horns sweeping back, sinister smile.
Yeah. He could see the resemblance himself now. He wondered what she’d think of it. She’d be here soon. He’d wanted a new tattoo and hoped she’d help work on it, but she was late. She’d be here soon and then she could see it and she would know be was wonderful.
Yeah... Looked like him. That was soulful, man.
Sensitive side y’see. It would show her that special him that once sat in the purple dusk ‘neath a whispering tree while the musbies laughed and chuckled and distorted his fingers and his mind, and everything was natural, and everything was right, and to be lived for. All good stuff Elemental, man. She would recognise that, and she would love him even more.
His heart lifted, ran a few yards. She was coming. Could hear her opening the door. Footsteps down the short corridor, into the parlour. There.
Long blonde hair, nose slightly too large, but what did he care. Bluest eyes that took him in, smile so sexy just for him.
The biker ignored her face, but was looking at her breasts, fettered by the leather tunic.
She reached to touch him, caressed his face; he reached forward to kiss her but the biker put a hairy hand in the way, leaning it against the wall between them.
‘Forty-five,’ he said laconically.
That made no sense. ‘Huh?’ Anger at being prevented from kissing his woman took on an added dimension. Surprise.
He didn’t like to be surprised.
‘You don’t get discount cos you’re stiffin’ my staff. That’ll cost you forty-five sweet ones.’
He was back in the tattoo parlour.
Back where it all went wrong.
Where it all went red.
The line between reality and absurdity was tenuous on the road with the Dogs at the best of times, but now Pan was sure it had dissolved altogether. Clown had decided to deck himself out in war gear of a particularly surreal bent. He was going into combat made up as his circus namesake and that made Pan want to laugh and cry all at once, because it just proved life was The line between reality and absurdity was tenuous on the road with the Dogs at the best of times, but now Pan was sure it had dissolved altogether. Clown had decided to deck himself out in war gear of a particularly surreal bent. He was going into combat made up as his circus namesake and that made Pan want to laugh and cry all at once, because it just proved life was wrong.
Everything was wrong.
But he had to carry on with it ‘cos he had no choice. This shit had to be lived out. ‘Sides, sometimes there were fun things to do. And while he didn’t particularly enjoy killing any more – not like Grave and Saw for instance – it did pave the way for plenty of what he did enjoy. And he’d never lose his appetite for whorin’.
Yeah. Clown had discarded his eye glasses and was wearing white face paint, twisted red lipstick, red latex nose, a jester’s hat