J&L: Mysteries of the Macabre (1)

The Red Tavern

PGL: "I must confess Jago, it is somewhat refreshing to be able to enjoy an evening with you, without the customary excitement we tend to find ourselves in."

HGJ: "Too true, Professor. It is a relief to spend time devoid of sinister statues, crazed cultists and charismatic captains."

PGL: "Though, you appear to be a trifle out of sorts, Henry. Whatever has gotten you down?"

HGJ: "Just the realities of being one of London's most eminent theatrical impresarios. The trials and tribulations of theater management are troubling Henry Gordon Jago."

PGL: "My condolences, old chap. Though, I had thought that your Egyptian artifacts exhibit was a tremendous crowd pleaser?"

HGJ: "Hmm. Eddie? He was popular with the punters for a period, but you know how how fickle they can be."

PGL: "What is the latest craze sweeping London's performance houses then?"

HGJ: "The Great Galvani, apparently."

PGL: "Galvani? As in, the scientist who pioneered the study of bio electricity? But he died about a century ago!"

HGJ: "All this technical babbling is over my head, George."

PGL: "Luigi Galvani discovered that the body transmits signals and impulses via some form of biological electricity. He demonstrated this theory by the application of electrical stimuli to the legs of deceased amphibians, causing them to twitch. Very interesting stuff, medically speaking."

HGJ: "Sounds like this chap alright. I've been to his show in the Apollo, you know, to scout out my competition. His act revolves around shocking audience volunteers, and that business with the frogs is his finale. A gruesome and grotesque of Gallic gyration, if you ask me."

PGL: "It appears someone is taking genuine scientific practice and using it for lowbrow titillation. I admit I find it somewhat revolting."

HGJ: "As do I Professor. But that isn't even the worst of it!"

PGL: "Oh?"

HGJ: "Wait until you hear how Eddie hopes to top the competition... He wants to unravel a mummy! Live, on stage!"

PGL: "How macabre! How does he plan on faking it? Some kind of dummy? A waxwork maybe?"

HGJ: "No George. He plans to use an actual mummy! Apparently it was shipped over here by an archaeologist friend of his, as a gift, if you can credit it."

PGL: "My word! I've heard of such unwrapping parties happening in some private circles, all part of this Egyptmania sweeping England. The upper classes will procure a corpse from abroad, and unwrap it in their parlours! But I've never heard of it in a theater before!"

HGJ: "It's grotesque. These are actual deceased people, George, not trinkets from the Orient. They deserve some dignity in death."

PGL: "I agree completely, old chap. As a pathologist, I must say that there is a certain morbid curiosity towards such a display... But it is not something that should be displayed to the masses for the sake of financial gain, or some kind of shock value."

HGJ: "I don't know what the world's coming to, Professor. There was a time when respect actually meant something."

PGL: "So, what did you say to Mr. Edmund, when he mentioned this new act?"

HGJ: "I told him, Eddie, The New Regency has standards of practice. I don't display any old sensational show, or appealing acts. If I refuse to hire a Pose Plastique, then I'm certainly not going to have corpse on stage. Intentionally, at least."

PGL: "How did he take the news?"

HGJ: "He said he didn't need my theater to run his bally show, and he looked forward to keeping the profits to himself."

PGL: "Sounds like you've had a terrible time of it all today. How about another ale,  my treat?"

HGJ: "How could a man refuse such a generous and good spirited offer, George?"

A London Alleyway

A man wanders through the London fog, stumbling and singing merrily, if not melodiously. As far as he can make out, he is alone on the deserted street. A muffled clanking sound wakes him from his stupor.
"Is somebody there?" he cried out into the fog. "Probably just a cat landing on a bin."

He continued on his way. After a few seconds, he heard the noise again, closer this time. He spun around, checking behind him. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he turned to face for home. Standing in front of him, on the edge of visibility, was  a large, hulking shadow.
"You're a big lad!" cried the drunkard. "Sailor, I wouldn't wonder."

The figure was silent. As the man drew closer, he could work out some details. The figure stood 7ft tall, about twice as broad in the shoulders as a normal man. He was curiously wrapped head to toe in grimy, off white cloth. His fingers were bound together by the cloth, which also wrapped around his face. There were no openings, no way to see or breathe through the material.
"Some kind of costume, is it? Or a prop. Is someone playing a joke on me?"

The figure stung to life, with a speed far greater than its looks would suggest. It grabbed the man by the shoulders, slamming him into the alley wall. It's hands found their way around his neck, and compressed, straining the life from the man's body. When it was over, the figure let the man slump to the ground, and returned to the mist.

Jago & Litefoot & Peggy (7)

Litefoot watched as the bell impacted on the floor below, cracking and denting the marble tiles. Flecks of stone were bounced upwards as splinters of wooden beams fell down in the bell's wake. The bell itself crumbled significantly, with a horrendous cacophony echoed throughout the church structure.
"Ask not for whom the bell tolls..." mused Litefoot to himself. After a brief pause, he added.
"How the Devil am I going to get down from here?!"

Jago abruptly stopped playing the church organ, falling to his knees and clasping his hands over his ears. Trying in vain to shut out the incapacitating ring of impacted steel. At the altar, Ulysses was also reeling in agony, and he dropped his weapon out of fear and surprise. The priest was tossed aside, and as he lay on the ground, was struck by a particularly large mass of debris. Peggy, seemingly unperturbed by the noise, charged at the distracted Ulysses, wrapping her arms about his waist and driving him backwards towards the altar. The both collided with the stone table, though he absorbed most of the impact. Ulysses was out out cold.

Peggy set about restraining the prone villain as Jago staggered towards her.
"Damn and blast!" he boomed, in her general direction. "Can't hear a bally thing, save for this accursed ringing in my ears! Say, why do you seem so unaffected by that cacophonous calamity caused by my colleague?"
For a few moments Peggy didn't acknowledge Jago's presence. With a start, she turned to find him alongside her.  Raising a hand to her ear, she withdrew a small flesh tones device.
"Earplugs." she explained. "Electronic and noise cancelling, the handiwork of Mr. Stark. Handy for air travel, especially when you travel as often as I do."
"Air travel... Humans soaring through the blue yonder as birds of prey. The wonders of the future..." Jago muttered to himself.

"Geronimo!" exclaimed a voice from the heavens, as Litefoot shimmied down the rope which used to be connected to the bell's chime. "Sorry to drop in like this."
"You've been waiting to use that one, haven't you?" asked Jago, smiling at his friend's return.
"Unfortunately yes. I didn't want to come down before I had prepared a pithy remark."
"Next time, best leave it to the professionals though."

"Over here!" called Peggy, interrupting the banter. "The priest is injured."
"Let me examine him, I am a medical professional." answered Litefoot.
"Though his speciality is those who are post mortis, typically." added Jago.
"Not now, Henry!"
"Sorry. Quite right Professor."
Litefoot removed his jacket, using it to support the priest's head. Peggy tore off a strip of cloth from the alter cover, and began to compress the man's head wound.
"Laceration to the temple, the chap is unconscious, probably concussed. Jago! Head outside, fetch an ambulance. This man needs a hospital."

Roughly an hour later, the trio had regrouped outside the church. The priest, a Father Crowley, had been transferred to St. Bart's for observation, while Ulysses was in police custody, and the sonic cannon in the hands of Howard Stark.
"Is that it?" asked Jago.
"What do you mean, old boy?"
"It's just, normally our cases are not wrapped up so succinctly."
"If I were you Mr. Jago, I'd just be grateful that this mess is over with." added Peggy.
"It's been an honour working with you two."
"Likewise, Miss Carter." said Litefoot. "You know, you remind me of our friend, Ellie."
"Sharp as a tack, hard as nails and good as gold!" concurred Jago.
"And, you've both saved our lives. I think you two would get along quite well."
"There's an idea! Ellie & Peggy, female fighters of ferocious fiends, defenders of the Earth."
"You must come along with us to Ellie's. She runs a restaurant not too far from here. You'd be more than welcome."
"A tempting offer, I'm sure. But..." Peggy protested.
"Nonsense, it's a time tested tradition to taste libationary liquids at the end of a case!"
"Well, if you insist. It would be churlish to refuse such an offer, after all."

Shortly thereafter, they all found themselves outside of Higgie's restaurant.  It was still relatively early in the day, so the place was empty of patrons. The only people inside were Ellie herself, and a dark haired serving girl.
"Ah, if it isn't the effervescent Ellie!" exclaimed Jago. "We'd like you to meet a friend of ours. Ellie, say hello to Miss Peggy..." Jago petered out, noticing that Peggy was instead staring at the waitress.
"English! Fancy meeting you in a place like this. It's been too long, how the hell are you?" she spoke at a rapid pace, with a New York accent.
"Angie? Is it really you?" asked Peggy in response. The two women ran towards each other, and embraced warmly.

In a hospital room at St. Bart's, a nurse was about to finish her rounds for the night. She entered the room of her final patient, a priest who had been rushed in earlier that day. He'd been catatonic since he'd been admitted, she thought to herself. Shouldn't take long to check on him before she could head home. She froze upon entering the room. The bed was empty! Startled, she spun around, preparing to summon a doctor to the room.

Blocking her path in the gloomy room was a figure in a hospital gown, head bandaged and white hair messy and unkempt. He spoke, gruffly, and rapidly.
"Heathens. Heathens must be purged in the cataclysm. I am the chosen, the herald of Judgement Day, the prophet of the apocalypse. He speaks to me, he has called me to carry out his work in this cesspit of sin and vice."
"Sir... Please, return to bed. I'll fetch the doctor..."
"No doctor can cure the excess of this world. Nobody an carve out the tumour of your sin, except me."
Something sharp and metal glinted in his hand. Before she could cry out, he had slit her throat.

Jago & Litefoot & Peggy shall return in;

JPL: The Second Coming.

The Horde of Travesties: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Guy (N. Smith)

Regular followers of my Twitter feed may be aware of my recent obsession with the literary works of Guy N. Smith. I would like to attribute this to my sister, who foolishly gifted me a book entitled "Night of the Crabs", with the blurb "A seafood cocktail for only the hardest of stomachs.". How was I not going to fall in love with it, regardless of quality? Here was a book series enjoyable on the same level as "so bad it's good" B-movies, like Birdemic, or The Room. Earnestly produced works with an unshakable air of pulpy trash.

Each page of my first Crabs book was a new joy. Every fact learned about Guy a revelation! This is a man who has an annual convention, in his home, for fans of his work. In practice, this appears to be a core group of 10 or so people, having a jolly evening. Presumably the published photos leave out the inevitable Devil worship. My favorite Guy N. Smith work, based on the title alone, is "Satan's Snowdrop". "It's fragrance was the sweet smell of death".

Currently, I am wading into the dark, demonic depths of "The Sucking Pit", a charming tale of a virginial  young woman who brews a Gypsy fertility potion, turning her into a sexual deviant. This is typical in a Guy N. Smith book incidentally. Currently, she has teamed up with Cornelius, a brute of a man who is both a devil worshipper and Messiah of the Romany people. Expect light racism and/or rape in this books, btw. For example, in the hit sequel to his Crab novella, a side character exists only to fill the book with smut of questionable consent.

By most metrics, I cannot call these books particularly great, objectively. But there is something about the pulpy schlock nature of them that I find morbidly fascinating. To this end, I hereby officially launch Thursday Trash Tweets, or #3T. A weekly series where I shall live tweet my reading of a Guy book, making snarky comments and pithy observations. Until I collect the treasure trove of bad literature my sister is stockpiling, the tweets shall be infrequent  however.  Watch this space.

Jago & Litefoot & Peggy (6)

"Jago, since you seem to have developed something of a rapport with the gentleman, you shall act as a distraction." explained Litefoot hurriedly. "Allowing me to make my way into the bell tower."
"At which point," continued Peggy, "I shall become the distraction, so Jago can get to the pipe organ."
"Then, during the calamitous cacophony of campanology and clerical chords, Miss Carter can tackle the brute!"

"Do you intend to remain hidden there all day, like sheep in the snow?" came a boastful voice from the altar. "Please enact whatever pitiful plan you have no doubt concocted soon. I have a Stark to slay."
Jago stepped out from behind the pew, to face Ulysses. His mustachioed jowls quivering with fear, though he stood his ground firmly.
"Ha, you call that pathetic patter villainous dialogue? You're nothing but a hack, I wouldn't even hire someone with your lack of talent for the January pantomime!"

"What?! What are you babbling on about, you semi-shaved baboon?" Ulysses felt himself loosing control of the situation. He had faced many threats in his coloured past, but never anything so confusingly bizarre.

"There, pertinently proving my prudent point. Your application of apposite alliteration leaves much to be desired. Have you ever considered a career treading the boards? I wouldn't waste my time if I were you."
"Silence! You will be silent! I should kill you right now."
"How exactly would killing me, or anyone here bring you closer to your intended target? I've faced more competent and capable criminals than you, who've just wanted to pinch my wallet.... Corks!"

Jago threw himself to the ground again, as the irate Ulysses fired another sonic blast. The air which Jago had occupied moments before rippled with energy, before calming. "Are you dead? Do we finally have peace and quiet?"

Peggy Carter sighed inwardly. She'd had enough ham-to-ham combat when Howard was involved. She only hoped Jago had bought enough time. She stepped forward into the spot where Jago had stood.
"Nobody else has to die Ulysses. Please, hear me out. I can grant you access to Howard, if that's what you want. Just don't harm anyone else."

"And why should I trust a... viper, such as yourself? You seem poisonous, deceitful..." He was wary, but his attention was focused on Peggy. She took a subtle glance downwards, Jago had moved out of sight.
"Because I work for Mr. Stark. He's a swindler, a lecherous fool and a despicable boss. I would like to see him dead."

Jago made his way quickly and quietly to the alcove that housed the enormous church pipe organ. He took a quick glance behind him. Miss Carter was still occupying Ulysses. Of Litefoot, he could see no sign, but surely enough time had passed?
"Blimey!" exclaimed Jago, looking at the organ. "Haven't tinkled the ivories since Mrs. Featherbottom dropped out on Sunday matinee. Then again, I hardly need classical training for this concerto."
He pressed as many keys as his two hands could reach. After holding this note, he switched to the keys he had not yet pressed, upping the intensity. A wailing howl emanated from the old instrument, and Ulysses was momentarily stunned.

In the rafters of the bell tower, Litefoot was gasping for breath. 

"I hadn't imagined that this tower would be so extensive..." he sighed. He had just reached the bell as Jago began his composition. Litefoot scrabbled to the ropes that operated the bell, to find them disconnected. A sign on a nearby wall mentioned that the bell was decommissioned due to rot of the supporting structure.

"Dash it all! This bell is missing it's ringer!"

Looking around for an alternative method, he spied the supporting beam holding the bell in place, and the rot therein. Litefoot clambered up above the bell, and began thrashing the beam with his cane.

"Please forgive me." he mused as the supports gave way. The massive bell, easily 15ft wide fell down below, clattering and echoing throughout the church structure as it plummeted.