The Unusual Thief

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Westside!

Stead opened his eyes, dull brown light battered into his sensitive retina increasing a thousand fold the painful pulsing in his head. He was looking up at sky, a familiar dirty brown sky, through which bloated yellow clouds occasionally zipped. He was lying on an uncomfortably hard surface and something was restricting his breathing, something heavy pressing down on his chest! Panic lanced through him as he sat up flailing his arms to be rid of the crushing weight, he knocked Paulhead off his chest which laughed evilly as it rolled out of sight behind a large coil of rope

“You were fucked mate!” called Paul’s voice from behind the rope “You been asleep for two days, we in West Port now!”

“Urrr” moaned Stead his mouth felt like the crew had been using it for a pisshole “Water!” he gasped

“I’ll go and get you some water, just let me find my body” with that Paulhead bounced down the ship to retrieve his absent torso. Stead pulled himself into a sitting position and noticed that the decks were deserted and silent save for a few squabbling gulls which seemed to eating the bloated carcass of one of the ship’s rats

“Urrr” said Stead, then again with more feeling “URR” this sound had weight behind it. Sickness is always unpleasant but as Stead sat; head pulsing, mouth-watering, tongue covered with white fur he knew true suffering. He thought his suffering was to be short though as Paul soon returned with a flagon of sloshing water

“Hey mate you look rough as fuck! This should help!” Paul said enthusiastically proffering the flagon

“Cheers” said Stead putting the flagon to his mouth and drinking deeply before tasting the salt and realising it was glutinous red seawater, he spat out what he could then began retching roughly, his throat burning. Paul’s body had long since darted away clutching his sniggering head. Stead sat for some time feeling sorry for himself but then deciding that would get him nowhere he cracked his knuckles and unsteadily rose to his feet. Before him was a stunning scene, Westport. Its docks rose straight from the sea seemingly forged from one piece of huge metal and were obviously the result of amazing technology wielded by an advanced culture. Moored along them were countless boats and ships, considerably less impressive as their generally wooden construction suggesting pre-industrial technology, Satan was the exception whom they hustled and jostled around with no space to spare. Outnumbering the ships were the rats, they scurried everywhere along mooring ropes, on and off ships, in-between stacked crates. Some of the hairy pests were fighting over scraps in the streets. Groups of hungry children seemed to be organised into rat hunting parties, a group had one surrounded and where jabbing at it furiously with a selection of sharp, improvised implements. Other than these children there were surprisingly few people around, there were groups of dockhands and a few foremen on the docks busy with loading and unloading cargo, apart from which the city looked as if it belonged to the vermin. City was perhaps not the best description either. The technology and culture that had built the docks had seemed to let its city fall to ruin and be replaced by a flurry of crap shacks. The older, grander buildings seemed to harbour entire neighbourhoods in their collapsed foundations. Westport was now a place where the stoutest building was made of mud bricks and tended to sway in a strong breeze and dissolve in the rain. Less a city and more a mega shantytown cowering in the wreckage of techno metropolis, clusters of crudely built homes, warehouses and buildings of poor design were sprawled for some distance around the port. These were interconnected by a series of dodgy one-track roads and seedy, furtive alleyways. Here and there large seagulls fought with the rats over small piles of refuse.

What a scabby fucking hole, thought Stead. Paul had crossed the gangplank onto the docks and pausing only to kick at a seagull he darted up the main road into the city, turned left into an alley and disappeared

“Right” said Stead “Gotta get me some fresh, clean water”

On closer inspection walking down the main street of Westport, Stead realised that it wasn’t just a scabby hole it was the dirtiest, most scum ridden, disease infested, scabby hole he had ever thought possible. Piles of rubbish and rat faeces lay everywhere, virtually every surface had been smothered in seagull shit (Stead had had two near misses in his two minutes off the ship). He had started itching as soon as he had set foot on land. Every person he met on the street seemed to have some form of disease or skin complaint. Most of the older buildings were unsafe and in an extreme state of disrepair, they loomed over the road precariously balancing on what remained of an ancient public transport network, their darkened doorways whispering and giggling as he walked past them

“Goddamn! Place is full of little scabies sufferers!” he cursed, Stead was unnerved by the unnatural tranquillity of the port. Turning left down what he thought was the same alley Paul had; Stead encountered a situation. Blocking the alley in front of him was a group of mangy looking deformed people brandishing crude weapons. This was disturbing to Stead, he knew he could waste them with ease under normal circumstances, but these were not normal circumstances. The stress caused his headache to increase to titanic proportions its thumping almost rattling his teeth; he was sweating and felt as weak as a puppy. One of the unwashed group stepped forward cautiously. His unclean demeanour was startling, his exposed flesh was covered with running sores and in the hole that should have been his nose, maggots writhed. Stead felt his stomach turn. The man lifted a dirty hand and pointed at him. The mob charged, or rather limped angrily towards him. Stead finally threw up. Some of them slipped in it. Blows fuelled by a need Stead did not understand rained down on him, despite his strength he felt himself wilting under them. He saw a large hacksaw being raised and being placed at the top of his legs, the fuckers were going to saw off his new legs!

“CUNTS!” shrieked Stead, they held him down with weight of numbers as their putrid brother started to inexpertly saw through Steads right leg. Through a red veil of anger and the mist of an intense drug binge all Stead could see were struggling filthy rag clothed bodies all around him. These bodies had extremities such as heads and the occasional arms and legs. Imagine Steads joy when gradually these extremities started to burst in explosions of blood, bone and gristle. Then the people who accosted him started to break away and leave as quickly as they could hobble but to no avail. They were cut down as they tried to shuffle off, Stead watched in wonder and admiration as his crewmates finished firing their weapons at the scum and moved in to finish the job at close quarters. Satan’s crew spread out and gradually beat down, cut and burned their handicapped enemy until they were just more broken bloody refuse on the streets of Westport.

Sat down on a plush chair in a warm smoky tavern with a large mug of fresh water in his hands Stead felt a lot better, Ache had just popped into the back alley for a piss when he had seen the detritus attack Stead and had alerted the crew

“So what did those scab heads want, Ache?” inquired a puzzled Stead

“They wanted those legs mate. Cybernetic implants are valuable, almost as valuable as drugs!” Ache exclaimed; he had started to put together some of his blue supersize rolling papers

“They were gonna sell my legs?!” asked Stead, astonished

“More than likely to a parts dealer…like me!” Ache added with a grin

Stead shook his head “It’s certainly fucked up round here cuz”

“Yeah innit! I grew up here! Basically there’s three types of people in Westport the rich; drug dealers mainly. The employees of the rich; there aren’t too many of those and last is the dregs, leftovers of chemical experimentation and genetic engineering gone wrong, there are thousands of those fuckers”

“Nice home town” commented Stead

“Yeah well there’s not many places fit to live in anymore, this is one of the last” Ache had now put together thirteen of the very large stiff blue “papers”. They were made of a synthetic material that rolled and burned like paper but at the same time was as strong as plastic

“So where’s the Captain at?” asked Stead before taking another grateful gulp of his water

“Not really sure, just said he was going off on business, could mean anything”

“Could be something to do with your insane plot to increase our wealth and notoriety”

“God” swore Ache “I hope not!” they both laughed at this

“So what’s this place?” Stead asked indicating the building they and the crew of Satan occupied

“This is one of my favourite childhood taverns! The beers hardly watered down and they do some good home-grown weed. Cosy atmosphere, classy customers! It’s called The Jolly Cock Smasher! You should check out the picture on the sign outside!!”

Aches appraisal of his favourite establishment was disturbed by the loud crashing sound made by the Captain as he staggered drunkenly in from the street and collapsed on the sawdust covered floor. A few crewmembers went to his aid and helped raise his tall, gaunt frame into a chair

“Ache! Fucking skin up!” he bellowed, spitting sawdust from his mouth

“He’s fucking pissed again! Now he’s going to try and make us do something” commented Ache who had almost completed his two foot long monster joint, he was taping the outside of it to increase its strength

The Captain pulled himself up in his seat, looked around confused for a second then said

“Lets DO something!” a few people nodded but no-one took any real notice of him, they knew he’d soon be asleep after a joint or two

“Where’s Paul anyway?” inquired Stead

“He stayed on the ship to make sure no one fucked with you while you were sleeping” answered Ache

“Oh! Just so he could fuck with me when I woke up yeah?”

“Dunno about that, but that’s the last place I saw him”

“Maybe I should go look for him, this ain’t exactly a friendly neighbourhood”

“I wouldn’t worry, he can look after himself and he’s got my phone and a stungun I made for him”

“Hmmmm” Stead wasn’t sure Paul being loose in Westport with a stungun was such a good thing, he was mulling over the worrying possibilities when Rattone came and sat beside them. His green eye shining brighter than ever

“Ache sir! Me and the lads are off to the palace of pussy to see if we can blag our way in, wanna come?”

“We might wander over in a bit man, we got some smoking to do yet!” replied Ache

“Alright, see you in a bit”

They both said their goodbyes to Rattone and the rest of the crew as they trooped out, leaving just Ache, Stead and the dozing Captain in the deserted public house. Ache had now completed his creation; it had taken thirty-five minutes, was two foot long and resembled an old style megaphone in shape. Ache lifted it into the air; Stead sniffled, rubbed his eye clear of a fake tear and whispered

“Its beautiful!”

“Thank you Stead, I shall now spark it, where’s the blowtorch?”

“A bit dead in here, isn’t it?” observed Stead, As Ache fumbled around under the table

“The workers will be in after first shift, most of the sailors and pirates stay down by the docks.”

“Whys that then?”

“Oh they think it’s safer down there, nearer their boats.”

“Pussies” cursed Stead; Ache nodded in agreement.

During Stead and Aches conversation, the Captain had risen from his semi-conscious slump in the chair and staggered over to the bar; where he was having a heated discussion with the small, shy barkeeper about the availability of free whisky. The Captains argument was that any self-respecting inn would gladly give free whisky to its best customers, the barman’s counter argument was that all the crew of Satan had bought so far amounted to a packet of peanuts the rest had been put on Aches slate. The Captain was having none of it though and started to get a bit aggravated. The barman who was a simple, cowardly man was starting to get a bit scared at the Captains tone and added to his argument that he would call his mother who would gladly push the Captains face through the back of his head if he didn’t piss off. This proposition did not sit well with the Captain who reached for his whip with the reactions of an alcoholic ninety-year-old, missed and instead succeeded in whipping out nothing more offensive than a handful of air. His whip failing him he grabbed the small barman by his collar and started shouting incoherent abuse at him

“Mother!” went the shrill scream from the Barman’s mouth

A door on the other side of the bar flew open and out stepped a monster of a woman. Although short, this woman was WIDE, with huge arms and shoulders. Sporting an ageing green dressing gown and a greasy mass of grey hair in a beehive style on her head, the woman approached the Captain her breath rumbling. The Captain dropped the little barman down behind the bar and turned towards the woman who he towered over

“Hah! Old bitch.” sneered the Captain

The old bitch reached out and took a firm hold of Cap’s testicles through his pants and tugged at them viciously. Then taking offence at this obviously aggressive manoeuvre, the wiry Captain doubled up and started to whimper, then dragging him to the floor the old bitch started to beat him viciously about the head and neck

“HEY!” shouted Stead who was first to take an interest “what do you think you’re doing?”

The old bitch ignored Stead and continued to beat and stomp the Captain who had now curled up into the foetal position

“Right that’s it! I’m gonna kill this motherfucking ho!” said Stead as he rose to his feet and kicked aside a table

“Stead! You can’t kill her, she’s a worker, they’re protected” Ache said with a note of urgency and a little fear in his voice

“But I can’t just let her beat the Captain down! I gotta do something”

Running across the room Stead swung a punch at her rounded old head. The impact jarred Stead’s knuckles and left an imprint of his rings on her pink forehead. She swiftly grabbed Stead by his collar and pulled him down and delivered a powerful headbutt; which left Stead seeing stars as he fell backwards hitting his head on a chair. The old bitch leapt up onto the bar with surprising ease and looked down at Stead with cold hatred, with folded arms she theatrically sneered and prepared to top rope the prone Stead. Looked like it was going to be a frog splash possibly even a moonsault. Jumping up from his chair Ache darted into the fray long legs catapulting him toward the bitch. He hefted his monstrous blue cone with both hands and like a barbarian with a sword he began to twirl it around his head.

“Mother fucker!!!!” squealed Ache almost losing control of the cone as he brought it to bear on that old ladies cranium. There was an audible crack as the joint made contact with her dusty aged head, she staggered slightly then fell from the bar into an ugly pile on the floor. As Ache struggled to raise the battered joint again; she rose began running round the room, drooling. Ache got the hefty joint over his head again and with some difficulty swung it down at her skull as she ran past him. The blow rattled Aches skeleton and cracked the joint, spilling tobacco and hash onto the floor. The old lady began making a low hooting sound and a thin red line of blood ran from the top of her head. The third whack on the noggin broke the joint in half and finally toppled the woman. Stead looked up at Ache with an amused look on his face

“Cheers Ache! Do us a favour? Get the Captain and let’s get the fuck out of here.” he suggested

The Captain had broken the neck of the barkeeper and was choosing himself a fine bottle of “free” whisky. Ache grabbed his arm and led him around the bar, past the broken wreckage of a huge blue joint. Pausing only to step over the body of a butch old lady in a coma they ran out the door.

Some running, swearing and sweating later, in a scummy back alley the three of them got their breath back

“What the hell was that all that about?” asked a rapidly sobering Captain as he sat down on the slimy floor of the alley to rest

“You started a fight with that BIG, UGLY mother of a barman!” explained Stead in between gasps of much needed air

“I’d say she was genetically modified” said Ache “that’s why she was so quick and agile”

“Does that explain the foulness of her face?” inquired Stead

As they stood there hands on their knees, huffing and puffing something caught Steads eye. On a nearby wall recently stuck over the dog eared collage of other posters and public notices was an advertisement. Stead moved a little closer and had a better look…….


Obey TRICKY, follow his one commandment

Make life FUN & SHORT by using drugs!!!!!!!

WE ALL KNOW THAT BY DESTROYING A SMALL PART OF OUR BODIES WE ARE HASTENING DEATH AND THEREFORE ETERNAL PEACE SO DEAL WITH LIFE BY CHOOSING ONE OF THE FOLLOWING ORGANS TO DESTROY!!!!

VITAL ORGAN 1: LIVER

A COMMON FAVOURITE, PLY YOURSELF WITH ALCOHOL BASED BEVERAGES THAT WILL GRADUALLY BREAK DOWN AND DESTROY YOUR LIVER! RESULTING IN UNPLEASANT AND PAINFUL LIVER ULCERS. ENDING QUICKLY AN UNCOMFORTABLE YELLOW LIFE.

VITAL ORGAN 2: LUNGS

SMOKE! IT”S SO UNNATURAL AND UNHEALTHY TO INHALE IT! THAT”S WHY THE BODY COUGHS TO DRAW IN MORE LIFE SUSTAINING OXYGEN (BOO! HISS!).

BUT LOTS OF STRESS RELIEVING FUN CAN BE HAD FOR THE INITIATED! SMOKE SOMETHING CARCINOGENIC, QUALITY CIGARS AND CANNABIS ARE GOOD, VERY RELAXING.

LUNG CANCER CAN QUICKLY RENDER THE BODY USELESS!

VITAL ORGAN 3: BRAIN

POISON THAT BRAIN! USING DRUGS SUCH AS LSD, MDMA, MESCALINE AND PHENCYCLIDINE. THIS CAN SEVERELY REDUCE YOUR MENTAL CAPABILITIES/HEALTH MAKING DEATH A MUCH MORE LIKELY PROSPECT, STRONG POSSIBILITY OF SUICIDE FOR THE EMOTIONALLY HANDICAPPED.

ALL THE AFOREMENTIONED SUBSTANCES CAN BE BOUGHT AT YOUR LOCAL TRICKY DRUG DEALER

GOD LOVE TRICKY OUR ILLUSTRIOUS MASTER

(try/buy TRICKY brand adrenochrome)

WOULD YOU LIKE TO HELP TRICKY PRODUCE HIS ADRENOCHROME?

CONTACT:- Mr Jinx on 0898 069 666

“Fucked up! Who or what is this TRICKY?” asked an amazed Stead

“Tricky is a big fish around Westport, virtually owns the place and every two bit crackhead in it” explained Ache, walking over to examine the poster himself

“Hey he’s selling adrenochrome now! How the fuck is he mass producing that? It must be synthesised!”

“What is adrenochrome?” asked Stead, his immense drug knowledge falling short

“Pure adrenochrome is too sweet, baby! It’s basically extract of human adrenaline gland and man it fucks you up and then some!” Ache’s eyes lit up as he talked about the drug as if it was God’s manna.

“It can only be obtained from the living human brain, getting it out kills the person and then you only get a very small quantity.”

“Yet it seems this Tricky is selling it en masse, how could he do that?” Stead asked puzzled

“Like I said it must be an accurate artificial reproduction”

“Well if it’s what you say it is, I only want to know one thing”

“What’s that?” asked Ache

“Where do we get some?” Stead said with urgency

Ache smiled “I know where we might be able to pick some up”

As Ache and Stead turned and started to leave the alley, the Captain who had been listening in the background got to his feet and walked over to the poster, smiling evilly at it he reached up and pulled it off the wall, scrutinising it

“Cap! You coming?” shouted Stead

“Yeah I’m coming” he shouted back, he was deep in thought staring at the poster.

Then screwing it up in a tight ball he threw it at a nearby rat and ran to join his friends.

Nearby. A rocky filthy beach, a mile or so away from the port and thus deathly quiet save for the lapping of weak waves. A small malnourished boy skips across the oily rocks, wearing just a ragged loincloth. He moves across the precarious landscape with an ease that suggests familiarity. The boy is a beachcomber, he darts here and there inspecting pieces of driftwood and other ocean debris. He carries slung over one shoulder a large sack in which he places items of worth and interest. He is feeling lucky and excited today, he found earlier a small crate of well packed waterproof plastic bags containing a white powder, probably cocaine that had been lost at sea or part of a smugglers cache. When sold it would feed him and his family for many weeks. As he had done so well today he intended to leave earlier and not continue searching. Indeed there was no point he had done well, very well! His father would be pleased. He started home, and as the shingle and rocks gave way to dark wet sand, which was so soft on his feet he saw an unusual sight. Some way up the beach a ragged bundle of clothes with legs lay perfectly still. A corpse! Thought the boy. There’s good robbing on one of those! Running along the beach towards the body he grew ecstatic, if he found more items of value he would be almost as rich as the great Tricky! As he got closer still to the corpse, he grew for some reason uneasy. His pace slowed till he was standing still just a foot or so away from it. The dead person was facing away from the boy and curled into a tight ball. Almost like the person was just pretending to be dead. The boy took a step back, but got no further. The corpse uncoiled and sprang at him, snarling. The face of death for the boy was pale and savage. But what was most horrific about the sight was that one of his attacker’s eyesockets was empty and rotten and a harpoon was lodged in his head. Andy let the boy scream as he dismembered him, there was no one to hear and he enjoyed hearing the squeals of his food while he was eating.


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