BLAZING SADDLES, SMOKING TENTACLES CH.3 - DIE ANOTHER DEATH

BLAZING SADDLES, SMOKING TENTACLES CH.3 - DIE ANOTHER DEATH

by Mandy Ward

After squirming and slithering around for a bit, the chains, blindfold and gag are no longer an issue.

Sally stares at you. “But… I thought… you were a…”

“A what?” you ask, rising up on four of your eight tentacles to tower over her. “A hybrid like you?” you laugh. “I am so much more than that.”

Using the other four tentacles, you simultaneously chain Sally up, undress and flay the body of her father, then wrap the remains in the sheet, stowing it untidily under a bench near the back of the office, a blood trail leading from the table to the bench.

Sally looks at the neatly flayed skin you hold in one tentacle. “What are you going to do with that?”

I’m going to walk out of here.” You change back to human form and then extend your tongue tentacle to the skin. With a bit of concentration you reshape your human form to the genetic pattern held in the skin and change the skin’s form to match your original one.

Throwing the skin at her feet, you smile. “Try explaining that one.”

“But they’ll hang me for murder!” She looks at you, horrified as you gently put the gag into place.

“Yes, yes they will.” You dress yourself in her father’s clothes, leaving your normal clothes piled on the floor suggestively. “And you deserve it.”

Stopping beside the door, you listen to what is going on in the street. There appears to have been a cessation of the fight the sheriff was orchestrating so you decide to make your break for it.

Stepping boldly out of the door, you tip your hat to Sally “Thank you for the relief, Ma’am.” And shut the door behind you.

You unwrap the reins of your horse from the rail and mount, moving confidently and ignoring anyone else in the street.

Vmmmmmmm….

Oh shit. You think as you turn your head to see a seven foot tall figure in a long black coat and dusty black Stetson. “You. Hello Hunter.”

“It’s been a long time, Rachorin.” The figure waves a gun. “Get down off that horse and move over to the middle of the street, nice and slowly.”

“I’m not going back.” You say, staying where you are.

“Your Father insists.” The figure says, aiming the laser at you. “Get off the horse. I really don’t like killing dumb animals.”

Tentacles whip out from under the coat, taking you by surprise and yanking you off the horse, holding you with one leg. The figure grins, sharp teeth gleaming in the sunlight as it shakes you around.

“So much for just walking out of here.” You sigh and change form, your tentacles wrestling with his like a pair of octopi sharing a peanut butter jar. “Let go.

“No. I don’t have to take all of you back to your father remember.” The figure’s grin splits his head in half. “A single tentacle will be enough to clone you.”

You feel the sharp burst of pain as he shoots and severs one of your tentacles. He scoops the tentacle up, deposits it into a stasis jar and puts the jar into his coat pocket. “That should do it.”

You blink. “what now?”

His grin disappears. “How about we see how fast you can run?” He aims the laser at the dirt in front of you and fires, the heat of the blast cooking the dirt into solid clay.

In this form, not particularly fast. You gulp and change back to human form. Only to realise half way through the change, that the tentacle Hunter shot off was the one that formed your human head.

The last thing you see is the street fading into black and Hunter taking aim at you. The last thing you hear is the hum of the laser and the last thing you feel is intense agony as the human form you have taken on is turned into charcoal.

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.5 - PECK HIS EYES OUT!

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.5 - PECK HIS EYES OUT!

By MJ Heiser

Clive Sinclair is just standing there, smiling smugly at you, the poorly-trained muzzle of his gun meandering on and off mark. He is obviously expecting you to do exactly what he just demanded: Drop to your knees and start clucking. No matter how incredibly fun it had been to be the chicken while you were dancing with this psychopath’s mother, you aren’t a chicken. You’re a man, dammit, and you’re going to behave as such.

Full of your manly pride and swagger, you take Clive completely off guard and drive your plastic costume beak into his face.

It goes better than you expect. Clive drops the gun as if it’s on fire and starts flapping his hands, trying desperately to land a lady-like slap on the side of your face. You crow with delight over his failure. You’re too fast. You’re too accurate. You land blow after blow on his meaty cheeks. That’s not satisfying enough, however. You need blood, and you need it now. You seize the man, one feathery hand on either side of his head, and resume pecking in earnest, aiming now for the not-so-fleshy parts of his face: his nose, his forehead, and his tender, delicate eyes.

“Aiigh!” he screams, seizing your forearms and trying desperately to get you off of him. “No! Mother!”

You must be kidding, you think to yourself, and distantly you become aware of your own voice letting out another rooster crow. You’re calling for your mother? You pansy. You total nancy-boy. You—

“Let him go.”

You stop. Of course you know that voice, but the last time you’d heard it (excluding the scream, naturally), she’d been suggesting you join her in the shower. Now, in a reversal worthy of some sort of alternate-universe James Bond flick, you find that she’s half-dressed and standing just behind her son’s shoulder, his gun in her hand. Her hand is remarkably steady, unlike her son’s, and that muzzle is aimed for the beak.

Possessed by the thought that you’re some sort of Bizarro James Bond, you seize Clive harder, spin him around, and press him up against your padded, feathered form. “Drop the gun,” you say, your voice hoarse from all the crowing.

She shakes her head. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” she asks, but instead of her son’s aggravating smugness, she only shows sad resignation. “I’m Melissa Sinclair, and for thirty years I trained the FBI’s best sharpshooters.” She reaches out with the gun and taps you gently on the nose. “Plus, I’m this close.”

She pulls back the hammer and you can hear a bullet slide into the chamber. “Now, let him go.”

You do as she asks. You push Sinclair away from you, and he scutters to stand behind his mother. She still holds the gun trained with deadly stillness at your beak.

“Wait,” you say, “I did what you asked—“

“Yup,” she says with a morbid grin. “And you have nothing left to bargain with. Not only do you have something my son wants, but you called him a nancy-boy.”

“What if I give him what he wants?” you ask in desperation.

“Kill him, Ma!” Clive shouts from over her shoulder. He sounds like an over-eager five-year-old.

Meanwhile, the cold-blooded sharpshooter slides her eyes over your chicken costume with a mixture of regret, longing, and desire. She coughs once, but that damned gun doesn’t flinch. “Let’s hear what he has to say, kiddo. You have no idea how hard it is to find a good chicken.”

“Aww,” Clive whines, his bloodlust denied.

“You can have the ‘Trotters,” you say, and you milk your sadness for all it’s worth. It takes a little bit of a stretch, to be honest; you’ve had a great time with the guys, but lately Curly, Sweetwater, and the rest of them have been growing too big for their slick and retro-fabulous britches. This kind of behavior has to stop. A return to the hardwoods may be just what they need.

“Really?” Clive asks.

“Just – let me wrap up this last case with them, will ya? Let me say goodbye the right way.”

The gun that had been pointing at your beak drops. “Do what the chicken asks, son.”

Clive sighs. “Okay, fine. But as soon as you catch the killer, the ‘Trotters are mine again.”

“Deal,” you say, holding out your hand.

And as soon as you say that, Missy Synch bolts for the door with the kind of speed and grace you could have never imagined.

“Ma?” Clive asks the still, empty, rat-infested apartment.

You narrow your eyes. You smell a rat, alright, and it’s the kind of rat that likes to dance with chickens and kill people.

Do you...

A. Grab Clive and threaten to resume pecking his face unless he tells you where his mom is heading?

B. Call the ‘Trotters for backup?

C. Use the force to figure out where Missy Synch is running off to?

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - BUSTIN' LOOSE!

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - BUSTIN' LOOSE!

By James McShane

What the hell? you think. Where do these guys get off with auctioning your skin? They have no right. Bastards! Isn’t stealing your soul enough? Dr. Skin and whoever else he has on his team are messing with the wrong Legend. This far, no further. A line has been drawn in the sand and pity the poor fool who crosses it. You feel empowered by your inner strength.

Then you look down at what Skin gave you and collapse into a heap of teenage angst. You cry for your mother, and she appears to you in a weepy dream.

"Get off your ass and take back what God gave you," she says. "It serves you right for thinking the grass was greener on the other side, child of mine. I AM on the other side, and trust me, there ain’t no green from where I’m standing. It’s all dark and cold...and evil. Oh Lord – here he comes again. Don’t let him take me! Not the pit bull! Please, no – not the pit bull..." She screams loud enough for you to stop your bawling.

That’s my mother, you think; as full of motivation as she was of Jim Beam. But deep down you realise she’s right. You must get back into your own skin. But how? The doctor hasn’t left you any obvious ways in which you can do this. No copies of “Skin Grafting for Dummies” anywhere. You look around and suddenly you spot what just might be your way out of there.

Dr. Skin has had the electricians in. There is a tool box beside a busted socket. You scurry over and rifle through its contents. You pick out a screwdriver, some double-sided sticky tape, a small hammer and packet of cigarette papers. You wonder if you have any weed at home. You may need a massive spliff once you get back. This has been one mother of a day. And it’s not over yet.

You reach the tube that holds your skin and bang on the glass with the hammer. You remember a part in a film where you played a member of a chain gang and channel your inner convict. You’re not so much Cool Hand Luke as Feck-All Use Justin, but you give it your best shot and eventually a small crack appears in the tube. You use the screwdriver to wedge it open. In a matter of seconds the pink goo that was protecting your skin seeps out. The crack opens wider and you reach in to grab your real skin. Now you’re holding it like a comfort blanket. "My Boobie," you say as you stroke your skin. "I’m sorry I mistreated you. Let’s skip this joint and get you back on me. I’ll find a real doctor who will do a proper job. Then we can go back to having threesomes again. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Boobie?"

Now you think about how to get your soul back. You throw your skin over your shoulder and secure it with the sticky tape, so it won’t come loose. You head to the vault that contains your soul and introduce the latch to your new friend, MC Hammer. You break it open easy enough and enter the vault. Once inside you’re inundated by the voices of imprisoned souls, each crying out for freedom. They fill your head until it’s about to explode. You cover your ears, but that’s no use. You look for your own soul, but can’t make it out. The doctor hasn’t labelled them. You scream so loud the other souls echo your cry. What’s left of your mind is escaping from every pore of that teenage wank-stain’s skin.

You take your hammer and break every soul-filled container. Each freed soul enters your body and fights for dominance. You run outside the vault and slip on the pink goo, banging your head viciously on the concrete floor. A hole appears beneath you. You feel yourself falling into it. You look down and see your mother. She’s waving at you.

"Come on down," she says. "Me and the pit bulls need some company." You fall further down and pass each of Dante’s Nine Circles of Suffering. You wonder if there’s room service.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 4