A Novella By The Ink Abyss.
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Chapter One.
At last, in June, we have a good day: we find a monster in a dead old lady's ass. The Zit is twenty centimeters in diameter, which means it's been gestating for only a couple of hours. Its tentacles are translucent and baby smooth as they reach for my neck; I can see the morgue table through its pustule of a body. Once upon a time, I tell Bob The Brilliant, this would have been a warm-up.
His affirmative is muffled through the decontamination suit.
"Note it as a First Phase Encroachment, Bob, and pass me the Extinguisher." He hands me the Smith and Weston. I freeze dry the tiny monstrosity, my prerogative as head gravedigger.
We shuffle out of the isolation chamber; I seal the door. "Go on, Bob," I point a glove at the big red button. "My treat, buddy."
Bob's eyes crinkle behind the goggles. Flames squirt from the morgue's ceiling and reduce both Zit and elderly host to bone-speckled dust. I pull off my Kevlar gloves and lay a palm on the fused quartz viewing window; the inferno can be felt as a muffin-like glow. Clapping my assistant and very best friend on the back, I say "Let's hit the pub."
I aim the Tesla at the Oldport Arms, two hundred yards down the road. Most amenities are two hundred yards down the road because Oldport consists of three thousand souls stuck to a cliff above the Toone river. Oldport is semi-known for two reasons. One is the Toone itself, both the broadest river in Scotland and the largest tidal river in Europe. Reason one leads to reason two: the water creates a foggy micro climate much loved by the Zits. Combine that with a plentiful supply of pensioners and you have a spa town for humanity's parasitic scourge.
The pub is jumping — by Oldport standards. A full time drunk, Freddie, leans on the fruit machine like the victim of a drive by slumped on a car horn. The barmaid, Kelly, polishes beer glasses without making them any cleaner. A smattering of silhouettes occupy the booths or lean against the molasses-colored oak beams. Illegal cigarette smoke is the Oldport's perfume and Freddie's shrieking fruit machine is its soundtrack.
Bob The Brilliant moans, his always defeated shoulders slumping toward suicidal. "Can't we just get drinks at the office, Ramsey?" He looks sneaky. "We got them new craft beers you like. Play with the dog, hang out."
I order a Stella, which is what this place stocks in the absence of anything drinkable. "You don't like it here?" We've had this conversation before.
"I liked the Toone Hotel more."
Kelly plops the beer down, her lips slightly parted. "Refreshment from a lovely lady," I say. "What more could one want?" I sip. It tastes like the urine it will soon become. "The Toone Hotel closed six months back, Bob."
"Yeah, well—"
I inspect myself in the mirror behind the bar. Bob's true issue is not the Toone Hotel nor a desire for craft beers. Bob's true issue is me: specifically, that I resemble a late twenties version of the actor Jon Hamm, though with fuller lips and a beard whose lushness indicates above average testosterone. Factor in the V-shaped torso accentuated by a Breton striped Chanel jumper and I can't blame pudgy, shy, mid-forties Bob for wanting to bail: I am, quite frankly, catnip for females.
"The ladies," I say in a Spanish accent, "They love what you do, amigo."
"Uh-huh." He peers at the Oldport's red carpet, apparently searching for girls amongst the butts and roaches.
"Don't sulk." I pat his hand. "You're taller than me."
Bob's head swings round, accompanied — a moment later — by his chins. His eyebrow raise says, "Isn't everyone?" Luckily, the Universe won't permit Bob even this sliver of superiority: the doors are battered open by a tsunami of women. "Talking of ladies, the Gravedigger Groupies are in the house." I raise my glass to Bob, and to my own Grade A genes.
