There’s a storm coming.

A Cyclonic roar reverberates through the house as wood splits then metal crashes and glass smashes; out of sight Fingers screams – proceeded by a nasty silence.

Betty, H Butt and Will, peer nervously down the hall then creep forward and stop in a pile of hush a few feet from Fingers; he stares at an axe wedged into the wood panelling a few inches from his head, where it landed, narrowly missing his cheek, when Cyclon rushed blindly forward into the larder with murderous intent and skidded on a Granny Smith apple. Cyclon now prostrate on the flag stone floor, groans, surrounded by more apples, candles, cleaning products and broken jars once filled with jams and pickles. Clive Brendon’s feet and his right arm protrude lifelessly from beneath a metal shelf unit he had placed against the larder door for protection.

“Shit,” Fingers whispers and then volunteers, as an avid fan of medical dramas, to take Clive’s pulse; he can’t find it.

“Fook,” blurts H Butt suddenly, “Fook. Fook. Fook.” Cyclon glances down at his plum jam splattered t-shirt and wild strawberry compote flecked hands and suddenly wails. Fingers crouches down; he grasps the drummers muscular shoulders and shakes him until the hideously feral noise abates.

“It were the shelf that done it Cy! The shelf!” Fingers cradles Cy’s over sized head to his own almost concave chest, emitting soothing noises and adds, “Anyways luv, he used to steal your Haribos…the bastard.”

Cyclon, overcome by sudden ennui, succumbs, and goes limp in Fingers arms.

“Haribo’s,” murmurs Will thoughtfully and a previously unseen light flickers behind his eyes. He backs off, down the hall and out of sight; Fingers watches him go.

“Can it be?” He murmurs to himself, abruptly dropping Cy’s head and announcing, “Ah vote we deal wi’ this t’morra lads.”

Clive comes round when the larder door slams but he lies motionless for some moments more aware he has lost the feeling in his right hand, and both his feet (fortunately it is only blood circulation cut off by the shelf unit on top of him).  As quietly as he can, in pain as he certainly is, he shifts the shelf unit, picks up the axe, and limps, quietly sobbing, up the vast stairs, past the paintings of ruthless looking Scottish gentry. However, hearing Cyclon smash the hell out of his drums lifts Clive’s mood; his plan just might be working and he becomes more determined to get that fucking record written even if it kills him (ignoring the fact it very nearly did). He finds a small room, away from the designated guest area, in what must’ve been the servant’s quarters. He pushes the few pieces of furniture against the locked door, lies down, still sticky with jam and encrusted with pickle, on the bare stained mattress, gripping the axe handle.

Fingers herded the lads back to the vast drawing room where Will scribbled frantically into a grey dog-eared notebook (of the variety you might’ve used at school). “Is that a song luv?” Asked Fingers, hardly daring to hope.

“Well,” whispered Will, smiling his angelic yet crooked smile. “Reckon it is.’

Betty felt bad Clive had to get the chop to rid Will of his writing block but even his relief was palpable as kit came out of boxes and H was sent off to fire up the generator. Spiffs were rolled and lit, coke was snorted and Cy, notoriously off his head since 2004, announced his decision to stop taking drugs – tomorrow – then shoved an E, bestowed on him by Betty, up his arse (for rapid release).

Once his bass was tuned Fingers allowed himself to drift into a sexual fantasy involving Clive’s wife and her two sisters and then her Mum – who has thick blonde hair – seguing neatly to his neighbour Laurie (also blonde) who will be sixteen on Thursday and ends up at his Aunty Ginny, rolling back time to his eleventh birthday, watching her masturbate, afternoon sun spilling in from the bedroom window, her abundant pubic hair back lit – leading him directly to Will (also back lit): at which juncture Fingers experiences a volcanic surge of desire. Will, feeling Fingers’ eyes on him, hisses to Betty, “Fuck. He’s got that rape stare on at me again.”

Betty snorts, “Fingers mate, sex clinic worked out well then did it lover?”

Fingers blushes red raw, “Bugger off, it were working – the bastard took me out a bit soon tis all.” He briefly pictures Clive’s body, in the larder, and frowns, the bastard always could bring a good mood down and he snaps to Betty, “Oi, give us another pill yer wanker, this one ain’t doing owt.”

Betty has an idea, it causes him to smirk: he tosses Fingers a white tablet. It spins in slow motion through the air, round and round and round: Fingers steps forward and opens his mouth; revealing three gold teeth and a longer than average tongue. He carefully positions himself as the pill drops, then shifts his head two degrees and bingo; Fingers swallows and takes a bow.

(“Oh Betty mate…Ah hope yer don’t live to regret tha’,” sighed Will, when Betty, giggling uncontrollably, admitted the pill was Viagra and not Ecstasy,

Betty will live to regret it.)

Then it is sublime – the lads together again, jamming, Will singing to the memory of the late (but actually now snoring) Clive Brendon and his childhood penchant for a certain variety of sweets:

Give me your Haribos / You putrid bunch of weirdos / Give me all you sweets /

Give me all you got / BUT MAINLY / I’D LIKE TO HAVE A LOT / Of your Haribos /

Don’t kid me you’ve got none / Do I take you for a Nun / I see in you’re eyes you’re dark / Your thoughts are clearly very stark /

Give me your Haribos / You putrid bunch of weirdo’s!

The supply of drugs run out at 7am and Goliath drag a sorrier version of themselves and H (by his armpits), up the creaking stairs – a wheezing, coughing four-headed monster with a rotten tail.  It is icy on the first floor and the lads bunk together for warmth.

At 9am Will wakes, partly because of the Siberian wind careering through the building, slamming doors and rattling ill fitting windows and partly because he feels a firmness nudging at the small of his back. Fingers hisses, “Mate, I’ve been trying t’bang one out fer hours but tha ‘Love Rod’ needs a hole – take one for the team eh luv?” Will took a bread knife to bed anticipating this scenario and swiftly brandishes it with quiet menace.

“It’s not fooking fair,’ hisses Fingers, aggrieved but shifting, shivering, into the room and pulling on his clothes.

“It’s not my fault tha knows…Ah’m sick,” he adds, then pauses as he attempts to push his supersized and ominously turgid penis, into his skinny jeans. “Mate?” He asks, gesturing down at his crotch, “What am ah ‘sposed to do wi’ this?”

To be continued…

BONUS: Click and listen to Goliath’s : GIVE ME YOUR HARIBOS!


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