Short Story Saturday: Induction by guest author Paul Skelton

Induction

by Paul Skelton

 

  Adrian Brewer, a bachelor of some thirty-five years of age, had got a new job at Kadditech Industries in Leeds. It was the job of a lifetime, a huge leap from his previous job in London. The salary was thirty-five percent higher, he would have a Range Rover Evoque company car, BUPA private healthcare and a whopping final salary pension. Kadditech were even prepared to set him up in an executive city apartment and contribute fifty percent of the rental and service charges. The cream on the cake was that he could choose his working hours to suit himself, work from home or from wherever he wanted to be, at any time. There was, of course, a catch or two.

  Firstly, whilst he had successfully got “the job” following three interviews in London, no one would tell him what “the job” actually demanded or entailed. That, it seemed, would be determined at induction. All Adrian Brewer knew was that it would require all his I.T. Skills and computer software design experience.

  Secondly, it was made clear that with such a generous package came huge commitment. For example, it was a job for life, quite literally.

    * * *

   Adrian rose promptly at five-thirty a.m. to catch the six-twenty to Leeds. Following his ablutions, he donned his white button-down shirt, green paisley tie, grey pinstripe suit and black brogues. He left the final rent cheque and keys for his digs on the old-fashioned telephone table in the hallway. He then set off to the station at a brisk pace, carrying his gaberdine raincoat and dragging his luggage. Once aboard the train, he settled in a first-class cabin with his skinny latte coffee. During the journey, having read an abandoned daily newspaper, Adrian Brewer nodded off. He was rudely awakened by an irate ticket inspector at around eight-thirty.

   “Ahem, we'll be in Leeds in about ten minutes. May I see your ticket, please? I assume you have one? Heeeeee!” the ticket inspector shrieked whilst Adrian Brewer fumbled through various pockets.

  “Um, er, ah, here we are.” Adrian Brewer handed over the ticket.

  “Thank you, I must inspect it, you know. It's my job,” the inspector continued officiously. “On your hols, are you? You know,” he said, winking, “holidays? Hmmm?”

   “Er, no, business.” Adrian Brewer’s head was pounding.

  “Really? What kind of business, eh? Monkey business? Dirty business? Eh, eh? You can tell me, you know.”

   “None of your business!” Adrian Brewer managed to rant back.

   “I see, sir. Well, here's your ticket back. Have a nice time in Leeds, whatever your business is,” the inspector said as he pushed his right hand down inside his uniform trousers, and then proceeded to wiggle his forefinger through the button-up fly. As he did so, he winked, stuck his tongue out and ran off down the carriage.

   Adrian Brewer then alighted from the train and made for the ticket office to make a formal complaint about the ticket inspector. A very bored and monotonous sounding ticket office clerk pushed a form towards him from behind the security glass.

   “Complete the form and post it to the address at the bottom, or you can go on-line at the web address and file your complaint there.” The clerk yawned. “Of course, you must have the name of the colleague you're complaining about, or it won't get processed. At all. Never . . . ever. Okay?”

   “Can't they work out who I'm complaining about from the train I was on? There can only be one ticket inspector per train, surely.”

  “Sorry, sir, you'd think so, wouldn't you? But there's lots of them. All over. They pick the train they want to work on, at random. Next.”

   As Adrian left the station. He lit a cigarette just as a man approached him exhaling vapour from a highly perfumed E-cigarette.

   “Tobacco? Ugh! Disgusting,” spat the man, placing his E-cigarette in his jacket pocket. “Are you Adrian Brewer?”

   “Yes, that's right.” Adrian coughed, throwing the remains of his cigarette onto the street.

   “That's littering, that is. Littering, Mister Brewer. I'll have to note that down, I will. Well, I'm Gabriel. Gabriel Thompson.”

   “Oh, well, I was on my way to . . .”

  “Ahem, that's right, you were on your way, indeed. That's, himmmininn, why I'm here.”

  “Oh, I see. Kadditech have sent you to collect me. Very clever, I have to say, because I don't recall telling anyone how I was travelling to Leeds today.”

   “What? Heebeeb. Yes, I was sent to collect you and take you to induction, so come along, Mister Brewer, follow me.” With that, Gabriel Thompson seemed to melt away and disappear. Adrian looked around him to try and see where Gabriel went, but he was nowhere to be seen. After a few moments, he decided he would hail a cab and find his own way. After all, he had the address of his intended destination. He successfully hailed a taxicab, jumped in and was about to tell the driver where he wanted to go.

   “Aha, Mister Brewer. I wondered where you'd got to, hinnin. Now clunk click, and we'll get on our way.” The driver, evidently, was Gabriel Thompson.

   “You're a cab driver?” gasped Adrian.

  “No Mister Brewer. Hinninin. I've borrowed this taxi, the driver is a bit, aheeee, tied up.” Giggled Gabriel.

   “Right!” Adrian fumed. “Stop this car, now, and let me out. I've changed my mind. I don't want this position. I don't wish to complete the induction, do you understand? Let me out, now.”

 “Too late, Mister Brewer. Too late, I'm afraid,” Gabriel said soothingly. Adrian noticed, for the first time, that his driver was dressed in a pure white unblemished suit, and that his skin was unusually pale with a waxy sheen to it. The car was accelerating rapidly, Adrian became agitated and very nervous. Within a few moments, he passed out.

 The next thing Adrian Brewer was conscious of was walking into an entirely featureless white room. There were no door handles or even visible gaps defining panels and doors. Ahead of him was another man clad in white, with pale waxy skin, sat at a white desk with an object on it. The object seemed familiar. Adrian was sure he had seen it before. As he approached the desk the man in white looked up.

  “Sit down, please, Brewer. I'm just uploading your details now. Won't be long. I'm Peter Brook, your induction officer.” Peter Brook virtually snarled the last bit as if his job-title held great menace. “So, Brewer, you were born and baptised a Christian. A promising start, yes. A fairly well adjusted and compliant child, excellent. From a decent family .”

   “Excuse me, Mister Brook, is this relevant?” Adrian Brewer was experiencing some discomfort. He felt something here was not quite right.

   “Of course, it's relevant, Brewer. After all, you'll be here a very long time.”

   “Yes, I suppose that's true. Sorry.”

   “Now, teenage years, oh dear. Promiscuous, weren't you?”

   “Well?” Adrian smiled. “I was young and hot-blooded, know what I mean?”

   “I see, no shame then. You realise that's a cross on my checklist, don't you?”

  “Why? I've had loads of girlfriends and lovers all through my life, so what? I mean, how does that affect anything, eh?”

   “Brewer! Really! Are you trying to fail? Now, try a bit harder, will you, please? Next, gambling, alcohol and a flirtation with drugs, really? How do you atone for that, then?”

   “Okay, the drugs were a mistake. I'm clean now. You can test me if you like.”

  “Really? That's good, Brewer. Yes, much better. What about the wanton gambling, then, and the drinking, eh? Do you wish to repent of those now for me?”

   “NO! I bloody well don't.” Adrian sounded outraged. “Look, I like a flutter here and there and a tipple down the pub, where I can sometimes pick up girls. I don't hurt anyone, okay?”

  “Brewer, I have almost all crosses, where I should have ticks. The big boss doesn't expect saints at this stage, that went out in the sixties. But he does expect a repentant attitude amongst candidates.”

 “What? For a bloody job? Are you kidding me, Mister Brook? What about my qualifications, my experience and achievements? Do they count for nothing?”

   “Correct! They count for nothing, Brewer, and now you keep swearing. It's as if you actually want . . .” Brooks was interrupted by the sudden and violent vibration of the object. He picked it up and spoke to it as if involved in a telephone conversation.

   “Er, y-y-y-yes, sir. Ahem . . . Indeed, sir, I am doing my best, but . . . please give me one more try, sir . . . No . . . Yes . . . What if? . . . No, please, sir. Oh.” Brooks finished the discussion abruptly, or rather it was stopped for him. He was now perspiring heavily. He then addressed Adrian Brewer.

   “This job used to be easy, Brewer. You either were or you weren't, you see? Either you did or you didn't.”

   “Did or didn't?” Adrian repeated.

  “Believe, Brewer . . . believe. But then the pass rate went down, didn't it?” Adrian shrugged, and Brooks went on, “So, the boss decided to embrace diversity. Yes, diversity. I've had all sorts: Muslim, Jew, Sikh, Scientology, Wombles, Smurfs, Triads, and the list goes on. Honestly, it's so confusing. Oh yes, and just as one masters the skills required for that, He decides to be more inclusive. So, the net casts an ever-wider field. Yes, I have to consider atheists as well, now. I used to have good pass rates, Brewer. Now? Well you might as well know, I'm on a final warning. You see my pass rates have declined, because, I'm told, I'm too strict on the whole “born-again-Christ as saviour” bit. Huh! If I fail you, Brewer, I'm in deep trouble.” Brooks ended tearfully.

  “This is not about a job at Kadditech, is it? This is something else entirely. Right where am I, and what exactly is going on?”

   “You don't know, Brewer? Oh, joy! Oh, praise be. We still have a chance. Right, pay attention, Brewer. You, as an Earthly being, died on a train. You are now facing final judgement. With me so far?” Brewer nodded. “Good, so this is your final chance to repent on all your sin and avoid the lift that only descends to the Vortex of Eternal Shame & Flame.”

   “Do you mean Hell?”

   “Exactly so, Brewer. The pits of debauchery itself, to be avoided at all costs.” Peter Brooks was brightening up now and warming to his theme. “Yes, down there it's all sin and din, you know. The habitat of reprobates, the cursed and the damned. A cacophony of “The Devil’s Music”. Sex and depravity. Utter filth and disgraceful habits. You'd prefer Heaven though, Brewer. Oh, yes, eternal bliss. It's all white, clean and neat in there. Soft notes of harp and birdsong all day long. Yes, the days are long, indeed. As long as you want them to be in fact. No squalid darkness illuminated by flame in there, indeed not.”

   “Did you mention devil’s music? I assume you mean rock and roll?” Brewer asked.

   “Oh, no, Brewer. I mean, yes, rock and roll is devils’ music, if you can call it music at all. But I was forgetting you were in a rock band, weren't you, playing that kind of hideous noise? Oh, Brewer, please at least repent on that if nothing else now. I'm begging you.”

   “Wait a minute, Mister brook, are you saying that old rockers go down?”

   “Why, yes, of course they do.”

   “Like Amy Winehouse and Janis Joplin?”

   “Hussies,” spat Brooks.

  “John Lennon, Keith Moon, Jim Morrison, Chris Cornell, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain John Bonham and Lemmy?” continued Adrian.

    “Yes, Brewer. Cursed, shamed and damned, all of them. Plus, all manner of dictators, despots, madmen and criminals. Although, they are under lock and key.”

   “I see, Mister Brooks. So, what happens to you if I don't repent? Eh?”

   “Don't say that, please, Brewer.” Brooks looked close to tears as he implored Adrian Brewer, and then the object vibrated again.  With a shriek of despair, Brooks took hold of it and spoke into it.

   “Oh, er, hello, sir . . . what? . . . no, please . . . no, not that . . . he hasn't said he won't repent on that, yet, sir . . . but . . . I see.”

   “Bad news, Mister brooks?”

   “You've done it now, haven't you, Brewer. Yes, I'm sacked, fired and dispensed with. I'm surplus to requirements. Not fit for purpose. Redundant. Blamed and shamed, all at once. And it's down to your stubbornness, Brewer. Well, you'd better come with me, come on. Bring the object, will you?”

   They walked down a long corridor, reaching a featureless grey panel at the end. The panel evaporated before them, revealing a cubicle. They both stepped inside. The panel then solidified again, and the lift descended.

   “Are you escorting me?” Adrian enquired.

   “Not exactly, Brewer, no. You see, I'm condemned along with you. I'm being cast into the Vortex of Eternal Shame & Flame, as well.”

   “Why are we bringing the object?”

   Suddenly, Peter Brooks smiled. “Glad you asked, Brewer. I'm returning it to John Bonham. He was the drummer with Led Zeppelin, as I'm sure you know, and he forgot to take it with him when I condemned him to Hell, you see. The object was made for the “Presence” album cover. It's of great value. The boss won't be able to reach me through it now, of course.”

   The lift came to a stop, and the grey panel facing them dematerialised. Ahead of them was a provocative looking female in a cat suit.

   “Hello, boys. Do come with me,” she purred. “We'll show you a really good time.”

   Adrian looked at Peter. “I recognise you now, Mister Brooks. You were that ticket inspector on that train, weren't you?”

    “Yes. That's right, Brewer. Come on, we can’t beat the system, so let’s join the eternal party! Yaheeeeeeeeee!”

  

THE END 

Short Story Saturday Repost: Assuming Can Be a Pain in the Ass

Not my photo. Found on Pixabay.

Assuming Can be a Pain in the Ass

The night sky was clear with every twinkling star visible. That’s when Jimbob Baterman saw a group of those stars getting closer to him. He stood watching as they turned from little balls of light in the sky to big ones surrounding a round object just above where he stood. The object drew closer and closer, until a craft a little bigger than a large SUV landed in front of him.

              A door opened and out walked a creature, dark orange in color and slightly taller than Jimbob himself. The creature looked much like a man did but with a larger head than a normal person. The thing’s mouth was big enough to be proportionate to the size of its head, but its ears were tiny nubs on the sides. Its nose sat too high on the thing's face. Its nostrils level with its beady, black eyes. No hair covered its knobby head. It wore a green robe. Jimbob couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d waited years to have an encounter with an alien.

            It spoke, “I mean you no harm. My mate and I are on a mission to learn about your kind and your planet.” The creature knew English, which surprised Jimbob.

            “A real live alien! Hot-dog, ya don’t know how long I’ve waited to meet one of ya. I’m Jimbob. How long you stayin’ fer?” Jimbob asked the weird being that stood in front of him.

            “As long as need be, but in your tongue and the way you gauge time, about a week. My name is not pronounceable in your language, but a suitable translation is Arnie,” the creature said.

            “Arnie, huh, not what I expected fer an alien. So, you gonna take me aboard yer ship and do some tests or something?” Jimbob could hardly control his excitement.

            “You are welcome to board my ship if you like, but I don’t have any tests I need to run. You can meet my family, though. It is so nice to come in contact with such a friendly human; the last one tried to hit me with a cleaning tool,” Arnie said.

            “Well, that’s no way to be treated as a visitor,” Jimbob replied.

              Jimbob followed the alien, Arnie, aboard his ship where he met his mate and his child, which Arnie introduced as his daughter, but there were no characteristics to prove if the small purple creature was male or female, let alone that it was even the same kind of organism. It had the same large head and mouth, but the ears and eyes were huge in comparison.

              Jimbob was disappointed that Arnie hadn’t performed any test on him while aboard the ship.  So, he grabbed something on his way out. Maybe, Jimbob thought, Arnie wanted to hold off on testing so they could get to know one another better. Though, he figured he’d help out by getting one of the tests started.

              Jimbob went home content that night. Finally, he’d met an alien, and he couldn’t wait to get the test started. He took the gadget he’d taken from the ship out of his pocket. After looking it over, he found a dial on the bottom and turned it. The top lit up with a green light and he was satisfied that he’d figured out how to turn it on. Hoping that it wouldn’t affect the results, he wiped a little Vaseline on the tip and inserted it. He went to bed a little uncomfortable, but he’d figured he’d get used to it.

              The next morning Jimbob woke to a pounding on his window. He looked over and saw Arnie standing there looking at him. He went over to the window, awkwardly, and opened it.

            “Good morning, Arnie. Nice day, huh.”

            “If you say so. I was wondering if I could observe you for a couple of days. Is that all right with you?” Arnie asked.

            “That’s fine with me, but what'cha gonna observe? I don’t really do much around here besides tend to the cows and crops.” Jimbob sounded unsure when he spoke.

            “Anything to get me away from the mate and baby awhile, things are a bit rough back at the ship.”

              Over the next few days, Arnie watched Jimbob as he milked and fed the cows and as he worked the crops in his fields. On the first day, he noticed Jimbob walking weird, a little bowlegged like he was uncomfortable for some reason. Progressively over the days, his strange gait got worse and more bowlegged. Arnie wanted to ask about it but wasn’t quite sure how to bring up the subject, and every time he’d start to bring it up, he’d stop himself and say something else.

              On the third day, Arnie went back to his ship. Jimbob was disappointed that Arnie had still not brought up doing any tests. He wanted to surprise Arnie and let him know that he had taken the probe and started the tests on his own. Jimbob thought that Arnie might have been embarrassed to bring up the subject. After all, they'd sort of became friends, and friends don’t normally ask if they can stick things up your butt to collect data.

              Arnie came back the next morning and continued watching Jimbob. He noticed Jimbob’s walk was getting worse, but he still didn’t know how to bring it up. Arnie could help him if it was a health issue. His species had perfected healing through touch and a certain level of brainpower.

            “Jimbob,” Arnie started, but then he changed what he was going to say, “my family and I are leaving early. We’ll be leaving tomorrow because something has come up, and it’s not controllable on your planet. We must return home.”

            “Well, damn that kinda sucks, but hey, we had fun, right? Come get me before you leave, and I’ll see you off,” Jimbob said.

              Arnie watched as Jimbob finished his daily chores before he returned to his ship. Jimbob went to bed upset that the aliens would be making their departure the next day. He woke in the morning saddened that Arnie was not there, waking him. Jimbob hoped that they didn’t leave without saying goodbye.

              Finally, around five o’clock he decided to go and check to see if Arnie and his family had already gone. On his way there, he was pleasantly surprised to find Arnie headed toward his house.

            “I thought you left without saying goodbye,” Jimbob said.

            “No, I was having a problem with my mate. There was something I needed to say before I went anyways,” said Arnie

            “Oh, what’s that?” Jimbob asked.

            “I’ve been meaning to ask, what the hell is wrong with your ass? You’ve been walking around this entire week like you have a corncob stuck up there. Is it hemorrhoids? I can fix those for you. We’ve learned how to heal by touch.”

              Jimbob was so upset that Arnie was going home that he’d completely forgotten about the probe. He had meant to remove it before leaving his house, but Arnie hadn't shown up to say that he and his family were headed out.

            “Oh, I almost forgot about that. It’s not hemorrhoids, it’s yer probe. I figured ya forgot to use it, so I grabbed it and went ahead and put it up there fer ya. Ya should have plenty of data to show for your mission, although I had to take it out when I took a shit. Don’t worry, I stuck it back up there without wiping,” Jimbob told Arnie, excitedly.

            “Probe? What are you talking about, I don’t understand.” Arnie’s voice was laced with his obvious confusion.

            “You know, that’s what you guys do, right? To collect information about us, you use a butt probe.”

            “No, we collect information by interacting with beings from a species that are less dangerous than the majority. What does this thing look like that you took and, uh, put up your ass?”

              Jimbob ran behind a tree and proceeded to take the device out of him. Then he went back to Arnie with it in his hand. Arnie looked at the thing, covered in the most disgusting substance that could have covered it, and he knew exactly what it was.

              Arnie smacked Jimbob in the back of the head. “You asshole! My mate and I have been looking for this all week. We’ve gone crazy trying to find it, and now there is no way we can use it. We’re going to end up killing each other before we get back home!” Arnie shouted angrily.

            “Why? What is it?” Jimbob asked.

            “It’s our daughter’s goddamn pacifier! She’s been screaming her head off because she doesn’t have it!” Arnie yelled.

            “Oops, I’m sorry. But, you know, you should always carry a backup. Pacifiers seem to end up in the weirdest places.” Jimbob’s apology was overshadowed by his knowledgeable smart-assed comment.

              Arnie left to return home. The cops found Jimbob in the woods three days later, his head wrapped in, what looked like, a giant used diaper and the alien pacifier in his mouth. He was barely alive when they found him. They asked what the device was that he had in his mouth. He told them it was a probe, and that the aliens got mad and shoved it in his mouth when they didn’t get any useful information from it. Jimbob still sits in a mental institution to this day.




*Yes, I have posted this before. No, I still haven't edited it, but I may; I've definitely been thinking about improving it or working with a retelling of it. I hope you got a good laugh at this story as that's what it's written for. Thanks for reading! 😁

Snippet Saturday: The Plan part 1 of To Save Lives

1. The Plan

"We're known as the worst of the worst. The putrid. The ones that should not be. The Abominates. But, what if we could help humans who'd thought they'd lost a loved one? What if we could help them keep the people they care so much for but fear they have lost to sickness and disease? Would they agree, even if it cost more than they could ever imagine?" Calvin mused, more so to himself, but he turned to make sure Daphne was paying attention.

"I'm not sure I'm following, Cal. How exactly do you mean 'help them keep the people they care so much for'?" Daphne shook her head, puzzled.

"We take the humans that are one step over the threshold of death and we transform them. We convince their families, their loved ones, to ask the hospitals to take them home and live their final days, maybe hours, there. We do this under the pretense that we can save them. We promise the families that there's no reason for the person to die."

"Why? What's the point? If it's to feed, I find the hassle seems far too much."

"An army, Daphne. A defense against our enemies. The Inborns. The Wraiths. We'll truly be transforming those who knock at death's door. We'll give those families their wish of more time. Though, I believe it won't be exactly what they'll expect," Calvin explained as if it made all the sense in the world.

"I don't know. There's something about it that doesn't fit. Building an army that way, well, don't you think that someone else would have already done it if it were possible. Besides the transformation being so difficult, to begin with, there has to be a reason why we've never heard of anything similar being done." Daphne walked across the room to Calvin and smoothed the crease that had formed between his eyes with her thumb.

He knocked her hand away. He'd lived nearly seventy-five years more than Daphne as an Abominate. Her blood-need had only been awakened eighteen years before that night. In a way, she was his sister as they had both been turned by the same Abominate, Petra, but Daphne was also his lover. He despised the fact that she would disagree with him. He'd had more experience, and unlike him, she'd never attempted to transition a Newling. He had two attempts under his belt. Both of which were failures, but he'd since then studied the history of the Abominates, the turning process, and he'd also gone to medical school, learning all he could about the human body and how it functioned. He used the knowledge he learned of both human and Abominates to devise a plan to make the transformation process easier and more successful. At least, that was his hope. Yet, Daphne doubted him.

"I see that you're angry with me, Cal, but all I'm saying is, we should at least talk to Petra or another of our kind before moving forward," she said, showing him just how little faith she had in him.

"Petra?" he said, the anger tainting his voice nearly tangible. "Petra! The beast who transitioned us and then left. Sure, I had a decade with her, but you? She dumped you on me when you were barely six months transformed. You were still a Newling. You were still in need of your creator. And, you want her to, what? Help with a plan I've spent twenty years devising. I think not! Besides, she's probably still chasing down that impossible creature. Determined to claim a mere Halfborn is more than what it truly is. She's lived too long, and she lost her mind centuries ago."

"I'm not trying to upset you, Calvin. I'm just not sure about this. Please, we should, at the very least, question another of our kind. What's a little more time—"

"No!" Calvin boomed. "I will do this whether you're by my side or not!" He turned and left the room, slamming the door hard enough that he'd heard the frame crack.

*Want to read the rest of the story? You can grab it in its entirety over on Amazon. Best part To Save Lives is currently free until the 22nd of June! Just follow the highlighted title to be directed to your local Amazon to purchase your free copy. Thanks! 

Short Story Saturday: Alabama Dog Rot: A Creepy-Colin Escapade by Guest Author Paul Skelton

Alabama Dog Rot

(A Creepy-Colin Escapade) 

by Paul Skelton

   Desperate Dan (otherwise known as Daniel Eastwood) worked at Lather & Sons timber yard. He drove a bright red Ford Ranger and lived opposite the Gilby family, where sixteen-year-old Creepy-Colin lived. Colin had recently had his first sexual encounter with a neighbour, seventeen-year-old Jessica Wilson, and was now developing an unhealthy crush on thirty-five-year-old Janette Simpson, Desperate Dan’s live-in girlfriend. Colin employed various surveillance devices to witness her more private moments, when opportunity allowed. Opportunities were somewhat limited, as Colin was an apprentice at Lather's, and he was driven to work each day by Desperate Dan. His only opportunities occurred when Desperate Dan went to the pub and came home late at night, and Janette would (whilst he was out) perform her pampering activities, which, among other things, included shaving some very personal areas.

* * *

   'Gonna be away this weekend, Col'. I'm goin' to see a dog from a breeder down near the New Forest,' Desperate Dan confided on their way to the timber yard one morning. 'If you fancy earning some extra cash, I've got some gardening jobs 'round my place want doin' while I'm gone.'

   'Gardening’s not my thing, Mr. Eastwood.'

   'Okay, son, that's a shame. Janette can probably manage on her own, anyway.'

  Creepy-Colin had imagined Desperate Dan and Janette would be away for the weekend together. The fact that he had been mistaken in this assumption changed the incentives considerably. Creepy-Colin’s interest was now aroused, in more ways than one.

   'B-b-but, I could do with some extra cash actually, Mr. Eastwood, and if Janette’s there, she would be able to show me what wants doing and how to do it.' Colin then blushed, his pimple-ridden, oily skin became clammy and sweaty. 'I-I-I don't mean it,' (he did), 'I mean the work, er, the jobs, I mean.'

   'Hahaha, you crack me up, Colin, you really do. Hah hah. Yeh, she'll give you a hand.'

   WOW! thought Colin.

   'And I'll pay you thirty quid. There's a lawn to mow and a bit of hedge trimming,'

  'Trimming?' Colin nearly flipped, mentally picturing Janettes electric shaver in action.

   'And the weeds need a good seeing to.'

  Creepy-Colin needed “seeing to”, and when they reached the timber yard, he leapt from the Ford Ranger and made a dash for the Lather’s trade counter building where the toilets were situated.

   'You okay, son?' Desperate Dan called out as Colin sprinted across the yard to the toilets to deal with an uncomfortable problem, requiring instant gratification.

* * *

   Creepy-Colin saw Desperate Dan drive off at seven o'clock the following Saturday morning, and he decided to call on Janette a good half an hour earlier than planned.

   It's the early bird that catches the worm. He thought to himself, sniggering as he drenched himself in his Father’s favourite Diesel aftershave.

   Janette Simpson opened the door to Colin, clad in a short pink silk robe, which left little to the imagination. Creepy-Colin drooled.

   'Oh! Hi, Colin, you're early. Keen to get down to it, are you?'

   'Oh, God, yeh . . . ' He gulped, his eyes bulging. 'I mean, er, the gardening. Yeh, I like to make an early start.'

   'I'm impressed, Colin.' She smiled. 'I haven't showered yet, and I need to make myself decent, I do apologise.'

   Don't apologise. Thought Colin.

   'So, why don't you go through and fix us both a nice coffee while I get ready? The coffee’s in the percolator, the mugs are on the drainer, and, oh, there's some cream in the fridge.'

   Cream? Oh God! Colin thought, his head swimming, catching a glimpse of naked breast and nipple as Janette turned to go upstairs. Following her through the house, Creepy-Colin got another eyeful, “upskirt”, as she ascended the stairs.

* * *

   Janette sat down to her coffee, dressed in tight-fitting shorts and a loose, plaid shirt tied into a bow 'round her midriff. When they had finished the coffee, they set about the various tasks. Colin made much of “needing help” in order to be close to her as often as possible and peek down her open-necked shirt, noting that, on this hot day, Janette was bra-less. Colin worked hard though, mainly to impress Janette. They chatted amiably throughout the day, Colin trying to fit in as many compliments as possible, and Janette revealing that she may move out to get her own place soon, as she didn't want to share the house with a dog. She thought she would carry on seeing Desperate Dan but didn't imagine the relationship “going anywhere”. Eventually, the work was done, and Janette suggested that Creepy-Colin should take a shower before he went home.

   Colin undressed and stepped into the shower, hoping against hope . . .

   'You don't mind sharing, do you?' Janette purred as she slithered, naked, against Colin’s wet body in the hot shower.

   The fantasy ended abruptly when he heard Janette asking, 'have you come yet', and giggling from just outside of the door. He realised that she had been spying on him and what he was doing in the shower.

   She entered the bathroom fully clothed.

   'Sorry, Colin, I couldn't resist.' She sniggered. 'It's just that you've been so obvious all day. Really creepy, with those compliments, y'know? Bit pervy, Colin. Now hurry up, sort yourself out and get decent. I'm going out.'

   Creepy-Colin got decent and went home, deflated.

* * *

   Next day, Sunday, Colin got a call from Desperate Dan at around three in the afternoon, asking him to come over to collect his thirty pounds.

   'Ah, come in, Colin, and meet Lola.' Dan was beaming as they walked through to the kitchen where a grey and white puppy sat dozily on a dog blanket, 'There's Lola. She's half Greyhound, half Bearded Collie, only eleven weeks old. What do you think?'

   'Nice, Mr. Eastwood. She's a Lurcher then?'

   'That's right, Colin, she's a rough-coated Brindle dog. You know a bit about dogs then?'

   'Yeh, a bit. How much did you pay for her?'

   'Eh, don't worry. Here's your thirty quid.' Desperate Dan winked and handed over the cash. 'If you must know, I paid a hundred and fifty, not bad, eh?'

   'She's got some nasty sores, Mr. Eastwood.' Creepy-Colin was inspecting the dog closely.

   'Yeh, the breeder gave me some cream for those; look.' Dan picked up a jar from the Formica kitchen table and handed it to Colin who studied it meticulously. Colin then got his smartphone out and started browsing the internet.

   'What is it, Col'?' asked Dan.

   'Hang on a mo' . . . , she's very quiet, looks knackered. Has she vomited at all?'

   'Well, yeh she's tired, it was a long trip for her cooped up in my cab. She did puke a bit when we got back, probably travel-sickness.'

   'Appetite? Is she eating?'

   'Well, I put a bowl of food for her out as soon as we got back. She hasn't touched it yet, but . . .'

   'Alabama Dog Rot!'

   'Alabama what rot? Dog rot?'

   'Yep, reckon so,' Creepy-Colin said confidently. 'There's been no real clinical research, but the first cases affected Greyhounds in Alabama U.S.A. in the eighties. In the UK there's been about a hundred cases, most of them around the New Forest. The disease attacks the blood vessels, the kidneys, and affects renal movement. It's hard to treat and almost always fatal. Look, Mr. Eastwood.'

   Desperate Dan looked at the screen on Colin's smartphone, and he went deathly pale. He gulped a few times and then started ranting.

   'Right, I'll get her to a vet tomorrow. Meanwhile, I'm getting onto that bloody breeder. I'm gonna fuckin' kill 'im!'

   'No time for that, we've gotta act fast, Mr. Eastwood. If she's vomiting and not eating, it's advanced. The skin sores are already breaking. She's literally rotting away.'

   'What can we do, Colin?' Dan wailed and then started sobbing.

   'Not sure, but you stay here, have a drink or something. I'm off to get some stuff I've got, might help slow it down. Then tomorrow you can get down the vet's.'

   Creepy-Colin dashed home, and once in his room, started fetching bottles of various liquids from under his bed. He then started mixing them together, carefully examining the results each time he added something to the concoction. Finally, he filled some syringes with the formula and rushed back to Desperate Dan.

* * *

   Dan didn't show up at work for the next five days, he was taking some unpaid leave to attend to Lola. The following Saturday, Creepy-Colin was supping a pint of Coors that Desperate Dan had bought for him at the Rose and Crown public house.

   'Cheers, Col.' Dan raised his glass of Newcastle Brown. 'Yep, thanks to you, mate, Lola’s okay. The vet didn't have a scooby-doo, just offered me more skin cream. So I got her home and hoped for the best. I did administer another injection, as you suggested. Now, she's eating me out of house and home, and energy? Blimey, I've never known a dog like it. You should see how fast she can run when I take her down the park.'

   'She's grown a lot, hasn't she?' Colin was stroking Lola under the pub table.

   'Yeh, you wouldn't believe it's the same dog, would you? Drink up, Colin, I'll get you another.'

   After two more drinks they left the pub, and Lola, loping beside them, was now the size of a mature Great Dane. She stood thirty inches in height and weighed in at nearly one hundred and sixty pounds. Desperate Dan should have been worried.

* * *

   Creepy-Colin didn't fire up his computer to spy on Janette Simpson that night, as he knew she had moved out. He would miss her. He got ready for bed and settled down to look up breeds of dog, in particular, larger breeds. He was concerned by Lola’s sudden growth spurt, even if Daniel Eastwood wasn't. Then his mobile rang.

   'Hello?'

   'Hi, Colin, it's Janette. Look, I know it's late, but I want to apologise for making fun of you last weekend. I want to make it up to you. I've got my own flat, now, all to myself, and I'm home alone wearing my silk robe, the one you saw me in last week. Nothing underneath, Colin.' She spoke softly and sensuously. 'Come over, babe, and do a bit of gardening with me, yeh?'

   Colin stared at his phone, open-mouthed, instantly getting a hard-on, and momentarily couldn't think what to say. Then he decided to follow his instincts.   'What kind of fool do you take me for, Janette? You can't do gardening in a flat.  There's no garden. I wasn't born yesterday. Huh!' And with that, he terminated the call without waiting for an answer. Then he turned his phone off.

   Janette stared at her phone and threw it across the room in temper. Then she slid out of her robe, feeling rejected, and resorted to pleasuring herself. She was too far away from Desperate Dan’s house to hear the howling and screaming. But Creepy-Colin wasn't, and on hearing the commotion, he peeked outside. He saw Lola on Desperate Dan’s front lawn tearing him to pieces, throwing him around like a rag-doll. Creepy Colin wasn't the only neighbour dialing “999” at that point.

   Lola’s body lay dead on the front lawn, and to Colin, looked even bigger than he noticed at the pub earlier. The hide had large slits and splits in it, as if the animal had literally grown faster on the inside than the skin on the outside could keep up with. It had taken several gunshots from the Police vet before Lola went down, and Paramedics arrived to retrieve what was left of Desperate Dan.

   'You Colin Gilby?' the Police Constable asked, and Colin nodded in affirmation. 'And you work with Mr. Eastwood, I believe. Do you know anything about his dog?'

   'Bought Lola a few days ago in the New Forest. She got sick, and he took it to the vet. Alabama Dog Rot, I think. They gave him some cream.' Colin shrugged.' That's all I know.'

   'Thanks, son, never heard of Alabama Dog Rot. Vet should know what it is.'

* * *

THE END

Short Story Saturday: Rabid Dog: A Creepy-Colin Escapade by Guest Author Paul Skelton

Rabid Dog

(A Creepy- Colin escapade)

“I'm  a sick dog, a slavering canine,

My brains inflamed, come and be mine,

I got it viral, I got me a fever,

Come and taste my saliva, girrrrrl.”

“Coz, I'm a dog, a rabid dog, I'm a dog, a rabid dog,

I'm a dyin' breed doncha wanna snog,

With a rabid dog, a rabid dog like me?”

   The punk rock song blasted out from Jessica Wilson's boombox.

  'What vile lyrics, Jessica, who are they Slipknot?' Mrs. Sandra Wilson enquired of her sixteen-year-old daughter.

  'Uh? Mum, you're so lame. Slipknot? God, they're, like, so pre-historic,' Jessica spat back.

  'They sound a bit like them. Sorry, I'm sure. So you're out with Colin Gilby tonight, are you?'

   'Yeh , and?'

   'Just so's I know who you're with and . . .'

  'Yeh? Well, like, we're gonna go down the graveyard and have sex with dead bodies, coz Col’s well into necky feel ya,' Jessica said sarcastically. 'But I'll be in before eleven.'

  'Haha, it's necrophilia if you must take the piss, daughter of mine. Where are you really off to?'

  'Actually, Mum,' now more friendly, 'Col's got tickets for “Rabid Dog” at the Wagons. Says they include a backstage meet and greet with the band after.' Clearly Jessica was excited.

  'Well, watch that Colin, he gives me the creeps. Pete reckons it was him took some of my lingerie off the washing line.'

  'Mum! I'm not stupid, Colin is a creep. He won't get my knickers off. Pah! I'm just stringing him along to get gig tickets, ain't I? Huh!'

   'And this meet and greet business, Jess, what's that about? In my day, it was . . .'

   'I know, I know what it was in your day mother. That's how you met my real Dad, blah blah blah. So, I was a Rock n' Roll baby, so what? Col thinks it's cool, being Ralph Stocker’s illegitimate daughter. I ain't ashamed.'

   Mrs. Wilson blushed. 'No, what I meant was . . .'

  'It just means you get to, like, meet 'em, chat with 'em, maybe have a drink. I'll be with others, Mum. It's proper safe, everyone does it. God, you're so . . . so . . . oh I dunno . . . pot calling kettle black.'

   'Ok. Well, I'm not going to say you were an accident. It's just that I would rather have had you in other circumstances, that's all, and I'm just concerned that there might be drugs. I love you, Jess, and I want you to be careful and be safe, that's all.'

   'Yeh, whatever,' yawning, 'I'll be safe, and I'll be in by midnight.'

* * *

   'So, girrl, liked our show, did ya?' Connor Bryant, lead singer with Rabid Dog leered.

   'Oh yeh, like, WOW!' gushed Jessica.

  'Connor, what tuning do you use on “Snotty Little Creep”?' enquired Creepy-Colin, but he was ignored. 

   'Wanna come in the dressing room for a little vodka?' Connor continued, drooling slightly.

   'I'm up for it,' said Creepy-Colin, eagerly.

  'Not you, creep. He means me,' Jessica sneered, followed by a “no, not you” look from Connor.

   'What about “us”, Jess?' Creepy-Colin sounded hurt, and his lower lip quivered.

  'There's no us, Col. I just wanted tickets and him,' gesturing at Connor, 'he's lush, and you're not, pimple face! Now, piss off.'

   Creepy-Colin walked off sheepishly, back to the function room bar, whilst Connor led Jessica into a dressing room and locked the door. It was quite basic, the only furniture being two plastic chairs, a full-length mirror and a massive bean bag, which was heavily stained and discoloured. Connor produced a bottle of cheap vodka and two hotel bathroom type tumblers. Having both slugged their vodkas, Connor, salivating heavily, poured out more and put his arm 'round Jessica's waist.

   'Gotta question for ya,' he slurred. He seemed hot, almost feverish.

   'Okay.'

   'Listen, “Got the liquor out the back of my car, take a drink take off your bra,

Got the hots and gettin' hotter, lemme get inside your knickers”,'  Connor sang a line from one of his songs softly into Jessica’s ear.

   Jessica replied softly into his ear. 'You can't get my bra or knickers off,' she cooed.

   'Oh, ok, babe. Ya can't blame a bloke for tryin', eh? Just love what I'm seein', girrrl, and . . .' Connor started to say, but Jessica interrupted.

  'Because I haven't got any on. None. No bra, no knickers, wanna party?' she purred provocatively.

   They “partied” on the filthy bean bag, and Jessica just about made it home by midnight in the back of the Rabid Dog tour van.

* * *

    The first thing Pete (Jessica’s step-dad) noticed were the love bites on Jessica’s neck, on the Sunday morning after the show, as she emerged from the bathroom.

    'Bloody Hell, Jess, you got a bit heavy with Colin last night, didn't you?'

    'What?' she replied irritably.

    'Bit hungover, are we? The love bites on your neck, Jess. You're only sixteen.'

    Jessica checked her neck in the hallway mirror. 'It wasn't Creepy-Colin. I was just neckin' with, like, a real man.'

   'Well, you'd better put on a roll-neck or something, your Mother will go ballistic. One of the band, was it?' He smiled.

   'Yeh!' she said in a triumphant tone. 'Connor Bryant, the lead singer. He's lush, I mean like, so lush. Got his number an' stuff. Yeh. Like he'll get me in any gigs for free, and he said he wants to see more of me, coz I'm the prettiest girl he's ever, like, ever seen.'

   Jessica got dressed and put on a roll-neck sweater. She joined her step-dad and younger step-brother, Jacob, in the kitchen.

   'Coffee, Jess?' Pete called out as she sat at the dining table.

   'Nah. Just juice, please. Where's Mum?'

   'Gone 'round to help Creepy-Colin’s Mum with Church flowers. So did you do him then?' Jacob sniggered. Jessica ignored him, but he persisted. 'Did you 'ave him, Jess? Ol' Creepy-Colin? Haha, you'll catch pimples. He's well diseased he is. Haha.'

   'Shut up, Jacob, you plank,' she spat back at him.

   'Jacob! Go to the garage, get the mower out and do the lawn, now!'

   'Uh? Oh, Ok, Dad,' Jacob responded truculently and went outside via the back door, which he slammed violently.

   'Here's your juice, Jessica. Er, look, did you have sex with this Bryant guy? I won't be mad at you. We know you're on the pill.' Pete spoke evenly.

   'What? That's gross. I mean, what?'

  'Ok, so you did then.' Pete sighed. 'Like Mother, like daughter. Look, Jess, there's something you need to know about him. For a start, he looks young but he's thirty-two and married, at least in theory, and . . .'

   'So? That's only what Twitter says.' Jessica was defiant.

  'And, I was going to go on to say, he's Ralph Stocker's son, which makes you, my little groupie, his flipping half-sister! We'd better not tell your Mother.'

   Pete turned his laptop 'round so Jessica could see the aging Ralph Stocker with his arm 'round Connor Bryant. The text read: “Rocker Ralph proud of his 'Rabid Son', Connor Bryant, frontman of award-winning ska-punk's 'Rabid Dog'.”

  Jessica ran to the downstairs toilet and threw up with violent retching and coughing. Later she deleted a contact in her mobile phone and cried her eyes out.

* * *

“I'm drooling over your rancid corpse,

My brains are exploding my head is sore,

I got it bad, the fever's high,

Gonna have you before I die, girrrrrl.”

“Coz, I'm a dog, a rabid dog, I'm a dog, a rabid dog,

I'm a dyin' breed doncha wanna snog,

With a rabid dog, a rabid dog like me?”

* * *

   Colin Gilby listened to, and simultaneously read, the lyrics with growing concern. It was about eight weeks since the Rabid Dog gig, and Jessica had been ill for the last couple of days. Colin’s Mother, who had visited the Wilson's that day was most concerned.

   'They're getting the Doctor out if she's not better in the next couple of days,' she said to her son.

   Colin tapped furiously on his laptop, and upon finding what he was looking for, slammed it shut. He rummaged around in a drawer, produced some items and thrust them into his leather jacket. He grabbed the jacket, put it on, tucked his laptop under his arm and stormed out of the house.

   'What is it, Colin, you don't look well?' Mrs. Wilson gasped as she opened her front door to Colin.

   'Look, I know you don't like me, Mrs. Wilson, sometimes I don't like myself, but I think I know what's wrong with Jess. LOOK!' He opened the laptop and showed her the screen. Mrs. Wilson fainted, collapsing at Colin’s feet.

   'Sorry, Mrs. Wilson, gotta see her now. while there's still time,' he said as he stepped over her body, raced up the stairs and burst into Jessica’s bedroom.

   'What the . . . ? Colin?' Pete was standing over Jessica’s convulsing body with a glass of water as Colin went over to her.

   'Don't give her water, Mr. Wilson. Look at this,' he said as he handed his laptop to the stunned step-father.

  Jessica was panting, salivating and babbling incoherently her skin drenched in perspiration. She was clearly delirious.

   'Rabies? Fucking Rabies?' Pete Wilson was ranting, his eyes bulging and glued to the screen on the laptop. 'I'll get the Doctor,' he finally bleated weakly.

   'No time for that. Help me out,' said Colin. 'Got any whiskey, vodka or such?'

   'Er . . . yeh-yeh. I'll get it for you.' In a daze Pete fetched a bottle of vodka.

   'Right!' said Colin with authority. 'It maybe too late, but wash her neck where those welts are with the vodka, ok?'

   'Er . . . yeh, right. What are you gonna do?' At that moment, Jacob walked past the bedroom and peered in.

   'Huh, Creepy-Colin. Like dying bodies do ya, acne face?'

   In perfect unison, Pete Wilson and Colin looked up and yelled, 'PISS OFF!’

   ‘Do something useful and call the NHS, get a Doctor, tell ‘em it’s Rabies,' Pete added.

   Jacob rushed off to dial “101”. Pete turned to Colin. 'What are you doing?'

  'This!' said Colin as he stabbed Jessica’s thigh with an epi-pen, he then produced a syringe and plunged that into her leg as well.

  'Epi-pen, I have allergies,' he gasped breathlessly, holding it up so Pete could see it. 'And an injection I made up. Basically anti-flu inoculation and liquid paracetamol, I use it on my pet python, Boris.'

   The Doctor arrived thirty minutes later, examined Jessica, who was now lifeless, and prepared himself to share some bad news with the family waiting fearfully downstairs. Colin was still in Jessica’s room with the Doctor, having described his home-made treatment to him.

  Suddenly Jessica sat up, vomited and stared at Colin. Then she relaxed, and in a hoarse whisper said, 'Thank you, Colin.'

* * *

   Jessica's seventeenth birthday party, six weeks later, was more “Rag ‘n’ Bone Man” than “Rabid Dog”. Colin had been invited, and he appeared to be the centre of attention. Connor Bryant had recently died of a “mystery illness”, according to his publicist. The Wilsons and Gilbys knew better!