The Cannibals Of Mablethorpe – Part Two

The story so far …

Discovering gnawed human bones in the Banana Lounge and Grillette of the Dunes Family Leisure Complex, maverick policeman Snake Wolfbane has come to the conclusion that cannibals stalk the mean streets of Mablethorpe. With the future of the Grillette’s £8.99 all-you-can-eat beef, turkey and gammon over-fifties special in peril – and his over-fifties boss breathing down his neck – time is running out not only for Snake, but also for the success of the whole Mablethorpe summer season (and the aforementioned all-you-can-eat beef, turkey and gammon over-fifties special, obviously).

* * *

I was having a cup of tea and a jumbo sausage sandwich at Eric’s All Day Everyday on the Parade when my phone rang. I’m on a Tesco Mobile monthly contract.

“Wolfbane,” I answered, wiping brown sauce off of my chin with a napkin.

“Snake,” a familiar voice chuckled.

It was Detective Inspector Viper Malone of Skegness Holiday Police Constabulary. The man was an arsehole. He’d always been an arsehole. I’d been with him at Lincolnshire Holiday Police Training College, and he’d been a right royal arsehole back then. He was still an arsehole now, the arsehole.

“What do you want, Viper?” I asked.

“I hear you’ve been having a bit of trouble,” he smirked (probably).

“Nothing I can’t handle, Viper,” I muttered.

“Rumour has it you’ve got a cannibal problem up there.”

“So they tell me.”

“I better have a word with Troy Futters,” the bugger replied. “It’s not too late to transfer the Jim Davidson Comeback Jamboree to the Sandcastles …”

“You’ll do no such thing, Viper,” I shouted.

Troy Futters, the general manager of Skegness’s world-famous Sandcastles Bingo Fortress and Family Theatre Complex, had been itching to get his hands on the Jim Davidson Comeback Jamboree ever since the comedian announced his new tour back in June last year. It was a publicity coup for the town that he’d chosen Mablethorpe over Skegness. Takings were expected to rocket during the show’s three day run.

“Are you sure that’s wise, Snake? I don’t know what the Skegness, Ingoldmells and Mablethorpe Mercury would say if they found out the audience for the Jim Davidson Comeback Jamboree was in danger of getting all eaten off of cannibals because you bumpkins up there in the sticks can’t find your arses from your elbows.”

“You keep the papers out of this, you fucking arsehole!” I bellowed. “I’ll find these bastards, don’t you worry about that …”

“Well I’ll keep Troy’s number on speed-dial, just in case …” he laughed.

“You’ll do no such fucking thing!”

But he’d already hung up.

* * *

I was in the Lagonda smoking a cigar, listening to Chicago’s classic 1976 studio album, Chicago X. The beast thundered down the promenade at ninety six miles per hour, pedestrians leaping for the safety of the pavement. Chips came on the special police radio.

“Snake?”

“Talk to me, Chips,” I shouted over the roar of the Lagonda’s mighty V8 engine (and Chicago).

“You’re not going to like this,” Chips replied. “I’ve had a reporter from the Mercury on the phone, asking about cannibals.”

“Shit!” I smashed my fist on the Lagonda’s real leather steering wheel, spilling cigar ash all over my imported Yugoslavian Polynyrolene™ trousers. “That bastard Viper! Lock ‘em down, Chips, lock ‘em fucking down.”

“I’ll do my best, Snake,” Chips replied. “I’m not sure how successful I’ll be. You know what bloodhounds they are over at the Mercury …”

Didn’t I just. Two years ago, Mablethorpe had come under attack from a nuclear Godzilla. I’d done my best to keep the news from spreading and causing panic among the tourists, but it was hard-going with Lester ‘Scoop’ Jackson constantly sniffing around.

It also didn’t help when the nuclear Godzilla set fire to the sewage works.

“Perhaps you should have a word, Snake?” Chips said. “Use your legendary powers of persuasion?”

“Yeah,” I replied, slamming the Lagonda into fifth gear. “I’ll head over there now.”

And by ‘now’, I meant after I’d pulled the beast into Poundland’s staff car park and calmed the hell down by listening to the whole glorious three minutes and fifty eight seconds of Chicago’s If You Leave Me Now.

A man needs to have priorities.

* * *

I handbrake-turned the Lagonda into the car park of the Mercury and did some doughnuts. Parking the beast sideways across two disabled bays, I grabbed my dark beige leatherette jacket from the back seat and jumped out of the motor car.

I could hear the screams before I got to the Mercury’s front door.

Inside it was like my tour of the Falklands all over again. Flashbacks cascaded through my shattered mind: The Deuce with his guts out up on Beefburger Rise; Bernie ‘O’ crying for his mother with what remained of his arms clutched between his broken legs; a dead-eyed Argentinian boy with half a face pleading for mercy as I rammed my knife up his particulars.

There was blood everywhere in reception. Human bones littered the floor and there were innards all up the walls. The receptionist, a pretty young blonde with massive tits, was shrieking hysterically. I struck her with the flat of my hand across the face.

“Calm down, woman!” I shouted.

“Oh God, oh God!” she wailed. “They’re all gone! They’re all gone!”

“Who’s gone? What the hell’s happened here?”

She sank to her knees and began weeping uncontrollably. Absolutely no bloody use in a crisis, women.

I stepped over to the nearest pile of bones. From the shape of the skull and the nicotine stains on the teeth, I could tell it was ace reporter, Lester ‘Scoop’ Jackson. Lester’s bony head bore all the hallmarks of a frantic feeding frenzy.

“God help us,” I muttered. “The cannibals of Mablethorpe have struck again!”

I looked back at the gibbering woman. A light had gone out in her eyes. It was going to take a hell of a lot of Chicago to restore her faith in humanity.

By Christ, she had big tits.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED …

The Cannibals Of Mablethorpe – Part One

It was the height of the summer season in Mablethorpe … and why were there human bones on the floor of the Dunes Family Leisure Complex?

My name is Detective Inspector Snake Wolfbane of the Mablethorpe Holiday Police Constabulary. I’d had a busy morning giving tourists directions, letting pregnant women piss in my hat and telling people the time when I got a call through on my police radio.

“Snake?”

It was Sergeant Chips Monroe of the Mablethorpe Holiday Police Constabulary. He was calling from Mablethorpe Holiday Police Constabulary HQ.

“Yeah?” I answered with my deep, manly voice.

“Snake, it’s Chips,” said Chips. “We’ve had a call come in from Vern Bottoms over at the Dunes …”

“Let me guess,” I interrupted. “The toilet company hasn’t shown up again and there are no soap cakes in the men’s urinals. He wants me to lean on ‘em, yes?”

“I’m afraid not, Snake,” Chips said, gravely. “Vern’s found a pile of human bones on the dance floor of the Banana Lounge and Grillette.”

“Human bones? Is he sure they’re human?”

We’d recently had an infestation of feral terriers. They’d been the bane of the Mablethorpe Butchers’ Guild’s life for months until they were caught and gassed by the RSPCA. For the whole of the spring warm-up season, there wasn’t an hour went by without a Jack Russell or an Airedale running down Mablethorpe Parade with a string of sausages in its mouth, chased by a furious, pink-faced man in a red and white apron.

Cannon and Ball had cancelled their show and an angry group of disappointed pensioners had led an assault on Mablethorpe Dog’s Home in an act of bloody revenge. We were still finding hind legs and noses on the beach two months on.

“You’re thinking the dogs are back?”

“That’s my thinking, Chips,” I replied. “If they’ve got in the bins behind Barrington’s, they could have easily dragged bones into the Banana Lounge and Grillette.”

“I’m afraid not. Vern says there’s skulls, Snake,” Chips said. “Human skulls.”

“I’M ON IT!” I roared, jumping in the Lagonda, firing the beast up and tearing hell-for-leather at a hundred miles per hour along the Promenade towards the Dunes.

* * *

“I can’t have another scandal, Snake,” Vern told me as he led me through the Spinners Gaming Area towards the Banana Lounge and Grillette. “Since Jimmy Cricket flipped out and took the Carradoes and Henry the Dog hostage, takings have been down twenty percent. Punters are scared, Snake, they’re damn scared.”

Jimmy Cricket was now locked away safely in a mental asylum.

“Well let’s just hope you’re wrong about these bones, Vern,” I said.

He wasn’t wrong.

On the dance floor of the Banana Lounge and Grillette were the remains of two adult humans. Bloody lumps of flesh still clung to the bones. I knelt down, put on my special police gloves and picked up a femur.

“Are these … teeth marks?”

“Good God!” Vern staggered back, clutching at his chest. He’d already had thirty seven heart attacks because he drank like a chimney. “You don’t mean …?”

“Cannibals,” I muttered. “We’ve got cannibals in Mablethorpe.”

“Shit!”

* * *

“Cannibals?” cried Dagger Harrington, my Chief Superintendent, when I informed him of my discovery. “Here, in Mablethorpe?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” I replied, gravely.

“Dear Christ, Wolfbane! What the hell are cannibals doing here? This isn’t Skegness!”

“I wish it wasn’t true, sir, but I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it. Bones McClackers has been down to have a look and he confirms the remains are cannibalised human bones.”

Bones McClackers was Mablethorpe Holiday Police Constabulary’s chief medical examiner.

“Damn it,” Harrington muttered. “And in the Banana Lounge and Grillette, no less. Christ, Snake, it’s not even been a year since Jimmy Cricket went mad and kidnapped The Carradoes and Henry the Dog. This could kill the Dunes Family Leisure Complex stone-dead. Overall income for the town could fall by twelve and a half percent over the summer fiscal quarter.”

“I know, sir,” I replied. “And what’s worse is Chas from Chas ‘n’ Dave was due to play there tonight. He’s a guaranteed money-spinner for the Lounge and now Vern’s had to cancel. He reckons this could be the final nail in the Grillette Family Evening Carvery Buffet coffin.”

“What? You mean …?”

“I’m afraid so, sir,” I glowered. “Unless we can clear up this cannibalism problem quickly, you can wave goodbye to the £8.99 all-you-can-eat beef, turkey and gammon over-fifties special.”

“FIND ME THOSE DAMN CANNIBALS, WOLFBANE!” the Chief Superintendent bellowed.

He was over fifty, so this was personal.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED …

Speedway 7000 – Starring Barry Sheene

“Hello there! I’m Barry Sheene from off of the 1970s. In the year 7000, scientists will reanimate my corpse and make me compete in dangerous speed races, even though I don’t want to. But, as you shall soon see, messing with forces they don’t understand to fulfill their dreams of speedway glory will quickly turn murderously sour …”

* * *

“Jesus Christ!” shouted Barry Sheene, as he surveyed the futuristic speedway track. “That’s a steep circuit, Colin. How the hell am I going to get my speed racing machine up that slope?”

“Don’t ask me, Barry Sheene,” replied Colin. “You’re the reanimated corpse who’ll be speed racing, not me.”

It was then that Barry Sheene plunged his razor-sharp fist into Colin’s belly and started pulling out the young mechanic’s innards.

“Aaaaagh,” cried Colin. “My innards, Barry Sheene! Why are you pulling out my innards?”

“I’ve got no bloody idea!” shouted Barry Sheene, still pulling out Colin’s innards. “It’s like I’m possessed or something. Is it possible that the reanimation process awoke an urge to murder deep within my Barry Sheene mind? What do you think, Colin?”

But Colin didn’t answer because Barry Sheene had pulled all his guts out.

* * *

“This won’t do, Barry Sheene,” shouted Gordon McNuggets, the chief scientist in charge of Team Sheene. “Colin was our best mechanic. You can’t go pulling out our best mechanic’s innards on the eve of the most important speed race of the speed racing season.”

“I don’t know what came over me, chief,” replied Barry Sheene.

“You better get your arse in gear, Sheene,” replied Gordon. “This is a blue sky company. We think outside of the box here, do you see? You pulling out Colin’s innards is a problem and I don’t want problems. I want solutions. And if you don’t like it, Barry Sheene, you can piss off because it’s my way or the highway.”

“Now look here,” Barry Sheene cried. “I didn’t ask to be brought back from the dead and made to take part in dangerous, futuristic speed races! I was happy being not alive any more back in the 20th Century when I died originally from complications arising from bollock surgery (note to self – check Wikipedia about this). It’s YOU, Gordon McNuggets, wot’s made me … oh God! It’s happening again.

“What’s happening again?”

“I’m going to murder you and I don’t know why!”

And with that, Barry Sheene leapt over the table and pulled Gordon’s face inside out.

“My face! My face! How am I supposed to head the best speed racing team in the world when my face is inside out, eh?”

“You’ll not be heading anything,” roared Barry Sheene, pulling Gordon’s balls off and beating the scientist to death with ‘em.

* * *

“Right, lads,” said Clive Cheeseburger, Team Sheene’s head coach. “Barry’s gone and pulled out Colin’s innards and beaten Gordon to death with his own balls. We can’t let this play on our minds on this, the eve of the most important speed race of the 7000 season. Barry?”

“Yes, boss?”

“Don’t kill anyone else until the race is over, you got that?”

But it was already too late. Within seconds, Barry was on the hapless head coach, weeing in his eyes.

“What the bloody hell’s this all about?” shouted Clive, wiping wee out of his eyes.

“I can’t help it, boss. Something in the reanimation process has turned me into a murderer! What’s wrong with me?”

But Clive didn’t answer because, as Barry was saying that last bit, he was also tearing off Clive’s moobs and suffocating him with his own moobs.

* * *

“I want answers, damn you!” bellowed Barry Sheene at Bernard O’Potatoes, the scientist responsible for reanimating him.

“I’m sorry, Barry Sheene, but when we was reanimating you, there was a fair amount of you what had rotted away and dropped off. We had to rebuild over half of you with the remains of notorious West Country serial killer, Fred West.”

“You maniacs! Don’t you realise that Fred West was the most murderous man who ever lived?”

“No he wasn’t, that was Harold Shipman!”

“I’d forgotten about him! Anyway, you don’t understand the implications of your meddling! Fred West’s bits and pieces are making me kill everyone. What the hell am I going to do?”

“Well,” replied Bernard O’Potatoes, “considering how the rest of this story’s panned out, I imagine you’ll be murdering me next.”

“You guessed correctly!” Barry Sheene roared in a West County accent. “Oh God! Oi’m bloody taaaalkin’ loike ‘im now!”

And with that, Barry Sheene killed everyone else in the world.

* * *

“So that’s my story. Thanks to science’s never-ending quest to bugger about with everything, everybody in the world of the year 7000 is dead. There’s just me and Fred West now, here on our own because they didn’t realise, when reanimating the corpse of Barry Sheene, that they would get more than they bargained for (because they stuck bits of Fred West in me).”

The Haunted Pair Of Big Tits

Orphilia Wellesley was the happiest girl in the boarding school because her father had bought her a huge pair of tits for Christmas.

“I’m not having you walking around that school of yours without great big tits,” he had told her as she excitedly unwrapped the tits on Christmas Day. “So I bought these enormous knockers for you from a mysterious Chinese merchant who appeared in a cloud of smoke as I was heading up The Strand.”

“Oh, father!” Orphilla gushed. “I’m so awfully, awfully happy now you’ve got me these gigantic tits for Christmas. Emily Forbes-Sausage will be so jealous!”

And jealous she was when Orphillia rolled up at Knottington Priory School For Very Rich Young Ladies with her huge new boobies.

“You beastly squirt!” Emily Forbes-Sausage shouted. “I had the biggest pair of tits in the school and now you have! This is so unfair!”

“Ha ha!” Orphillia laughed, plumping up her massive udders.

But that night Orphillia wasn’t laughing when her tits – which were posessed by the ancient Chinese god of Merciless Anger – tore themselves off of the girl’s torso, strangled her, ripped her head off and shit tit turds down her neck.

“The molal of this stollee,” said the mysterious Chinese merchant who had sold her father the tits, “is far too compricated to get into at the moment.”

The One Hundred Year Old Fart

I approached the withdrawing room cautiously. Suddenly, I felt McManure’s hand on my shoulder.

“Dinnae go in there, sir! Dinnae dae it!” he cried. “There’s a fart in that room that’s been aroond for a hundred years! Dinnae dae it to y’self, sir!”

“Nonsense!” I laughed. “I am a man of science, sir! This old wives’ tale of yours is poppycock spouted from the mouth of a blabbering bumpkin! There’s no such thing as a fart that lingers in a room for a hundred years … as I shall soon prove!“

He moved to block my way.

“Dinnae dae it, sir! The fart’s noo a legend, d’ye ken? It’s real, sir! As real as you or I!”

“Get out of my way!” I thundered. “Your pudding-headed Scotch nonsense holds no sway with me, d’ye hear? This is 1880, not 1480! Remove yourself from the doorway this instant!”

Reluctantly, McManure moved out of my way.

“Dinnae say I didnae warn ye, sir,” he muttered.

“Pah!” I scoffed, turning the handle and stepping into the parlour.

“Dear God!” I exclaimed. “It fucking STINKS in here!”