Yorrick
Chapter 6 written by Cassandra Courtney
Chapter 7 written by Caleb Newcastle


Chapter 6

Giles, minus that finger, had lost the last pretence of sanity: The search for Pringles. With his last disappointment of finding then losing his version of the Holy Grail, he had gone un poco loco. If the joke had not already been done to death, he might have been forced into doing something silly, like wearing women's clothing, but like I say, that joke is as over as shell suits.
    So that was how one balmy evening in yet another unknown North American city, he found himself standing above the freshly mutilated body. In one hand the librarian held an axe, and in the other a brand new 12-Gauge shotgun. The fact he was never in one place very long had given him the idea of wanton lawbreaking - and this could pad out an entire series. Furthermore, a half-remembered quote had made him realise he could "rid the world of all those fevered egos tainting our collective unconscious, and forcing us to pay a higher psychic price." All the while safe in the knowledge that the Purple Pelican would carry him away from the physical pain of police capture and being locked away with tattooed psychopaths with nothing more than buggery on their minds. This way, he could enjoy the experience over and over again.
    Giles dropped the axe on the ground and ran a hand over his stubble. With his new upgrade to action character he had tried to make himself look more macho. The stubble and change of wardrobe made him, funnily enough, look like an unemployed librarian, but the introduction of body piercings and the fact that he had stopped waxing his legs made him feel just that little bit tougher. It was a shame that the multiple murders had ruined countless pairs of jeans, but he got a tremendous sense of job satisfaction. A wave of which swept over him as he looked down proudly at the blood-splattered remains of George Clooney.
    "That was for 'Revenge of the Killer Tomatoes', you bastard." He told the scattered limbs. Giles lit a cigarette and poured himself a Jack Daniels in one fluid motion before sinking wearily into a comfortable leather armchair. A smile of eager anticipation spread across his face as he heard the approaching police sirens.

Detective Yorrick watched the bell boy who had deposited the handkerchief on the lush carpet of the hotel suite leave. Finally closing the door, Yorrick looked around at his luxurious room. The bed looked so inviting, but ever-cautious, he forced himself to look around, checking the suite for bugs and video cameras. Eventually satisfied, he sank onto the edge of the bed before he remembered. It had been so long since he had slept on a bed, he had almost forgotten about the Under Bed Tongues. Although harmless to humans, their effect on clothing is almost legendary; ever wondered why you have all those half pairs of socks? With the last of his energy, Yorrick baited a mousetrap with his fresh, appetising Emergency Sprout, before collapsing face down across the bed. He had no idea what was going on since Caleb introduced a plot to this tale, but he did know that the burning need for revenge had dimmed, and in the failing light of a rainy evening, he felt himself dropping into the oblivion of the exhausted.

From below the bed came a snuffling sound. There was the click of a de-baited mousetrap, followed by a squelchy chomp and a satisfied giggle. And the rest is silence.

Rupert Giles scratched his head, a puzzled frown on his face. Mindless violence and wanton lawbreaking was just no fun on a world filled with peace-loving druids. Without television, radio or evil world leaders there had been no fevered egos for him to get rid of. Out of curiosity he had blasted away a few of these Medieval hippies, but after each attack he was surrounded by hundreds more of the buggers, urging him to get in touch with his inner child or become one with nature.
    Giles had thought about it, and then began pumping rounds into the bearded mystics, all the while screaming "Prepare to die, fuck-sluts!". He was still shouting and laughing when he realised the shotgun was clicking, empty, and the hairy wonders had run for their lives. With a sigh, he did the twirly thing with the shotgun (he'd been practising for hours inside the Purple Pelican), and slid it into the holster on his back. He stood there, regretting leaving his heavy spare ammunition inside the Pelican, but was interrupted from his deliberations by a loud hail from the other side of the cobbled courtyard.
    "Strange one!"
    The former librarian turned, correctly guessing that the speaker had been addressing him. Across the courtyard stood a druid, apparently unconcerned about the carnage caused by the stranger, but then, this druid was obviously a maverick. You could tell by one look at his beaded and dread-locked beard. Also, unlike the pop-psychology toting druids with their wizened hazel staffs, this one carried a four foot cannabis plant. Intrigued, Giles decided not to kill this guy. Yet.
    "That's me." Giles said proudly, smoothing the creases out of his horror B-movie patented blue polyester shirt.
    "You aint gonna find jack-shit in this hood, hombre." The druid told him, holding up the middle fingers of each hand.
    "Huh?!" Giles looked puzzled.
    "I'm like a head-trip to listen to, cos I'm only giving you things you joke about with your friends in your living room, only difference is, I got the balls, to say it in front of y'alls." The druid emphasised his point by grabbing his crotch.
    Giles just looked at him, blinking, and trying to work that one out. The druid shrugged his shoulders in despair. "You act like you aint never seen a white person before, jaws dropped on the floor." It finally hit home, that his particular brand of individuality had completely dumb-founded the librarian, and courteously switched into druidic mode.
    "You shall not find that which you seek in our realm, stranger." The bearded one intoned sagely.
    "But I'm not looking for anything." Giles objected.
    "Though you know not that you seek, nevertheless you search. Unknown to you is that it is only found in the place in which you dwelt."
    "What the fuck are you talking about?!" Giles screamed, looking around for a lethal weapon, then a thought dawned on him. "You mean Pringles?"
    "Known by many names, each journeyman must have a star to steer by."
    "Is that a yes?" Giles asked.
    "Err. Yes."
    "So tell me, how the bloody hell do I find them?"
    "You must seek the Necronomicon, the book held sacred to-"
    "Which is where?" Giles interrupted, slyly edging towards a croquet mallet propped against a stone wall.
    "It resides in a place across the deserts, through the mountains, to the canyon of the crescent moon, along the raging waters of the wild river rapids, and rests in a cemetery, in the woods of the deadites."
    "So, is that like North or what?" Giles asked, his fingers closing on the mallet.
    "It is not of this earth."
    Giles' look was one of blue murder.
    "But when you find the book, you must recite these words, or else a holy horror will be unleashed across the universe. The mountains shall be swallowed by the earth! It will rain blood! The lion will lie down with the lamb! The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse shall-"
    "What are the words?" Giles was getting well and truly bored with this arsehole.
    A crack of lightening in the sky added to the effect as the druid intoned ominously "Klatto, baratta, nicto."
    (Even if only one person gets the joke, please, please e-mail me and let me know that I'm not alone here, okay?)
    "Katto, baratta, nicotine." Giles mumbled.
    "Repeat them!" The druid glared.
    "Katto, baratta, necktie."
    "Again!" Roared the druid dramatically.
    Giles glared back, then grinned as he grabbed the croquet mallet and caved in the skull of that useless cum-fuck dipshit, who let's face it, had it coming ever since he started quoting Eminem.


Chapter 7

Yorrick was ripped from dreaming of sliced processed cheese by a loud sharp rapping at his hotel room door. Lifting his head he saw that it was still only 3:33am. Wiping himself down, smoothing out creases, picking off looser flakes of crust, he withdrew the gun from beneath his pillow. He walked quietly to the renewed rapping, holding the gun up to where he imagined a head might be. Looking through the spyhole, "whatdoyouwant?"
    "It's Inspector Widget, Yorrick. Let me in."
    "Why?" lowering the gun so that it was pointing at the Inspector's balls.
    "We think we've found the man who killed your partner."
    "Mitch?" getting ready to pull the trigger.
    "No, Giles."
    "Who?"
    "Rupert Giles. Let me in, Yorrick."
    "Fuck." letting go of the gun, letting it fall to the floor. Yorrick released the chain and let the Inspector in.

Giles walked through the door, into the shop. "Where're the fucking Pringles, bitch?!" he muttered at the cashier, waving his shotgun in her vague direction, face twitching, manic grin fluctuating.
    "Over there, Bubba," pointing towards the shelves clearly marked Pringles Aisle, brains oozing from the hole in her forehead.
    "You sassing me, momma?"
    "Pardon moi?"
    "Fuck you." Giles walked further into the aisle. All around was tube upon tube of Pringles; Salt and Vinegar, Chives and Onion, Regular, Chicken, Skunk. Hardly believing his eyes Giles began letting off round after round of shot into them. Fragmented potato snacks drifted down about him and he opened his mouth wide, letting the dust collect on his tongue like snow before crunching down mightily. "I'm home!"
    "Oh no you're not!"
    "Eh? Who said that? I am too!"
    "Oh no you're not!"
    "What? Shut up! I am home! These are Pringles!"
    "Oh yeah. Sorry."
    "I should think so. Who are you, anyway?"
    "We're processed slices of cheese."
    "You are?"
    "Yes. And you know what that means, right?"
    "I suppose so. Bastards."
    "Moo-hoo-ha-ha." The Pringles floating in the air melted into huge wet ping-pong balls, stinking of beer, never meant to be seen by mortal eye. The Pringles Giles had already consumed also transformed and his stomach started to expand as if filled by huge fish eggs. As he filled up the shop the cashier started singing "it's going to be a bright, bright, bright, bright sunshiny day." His ears started speaking to him and his beak itched and wriggled to get free. The sides of his torso split and a rain of bloody ping-pong balls, accompanied by thunder and lightning, filled the shop.

Inspector Widget walked into Yorrick's room, looked around, and sat in the comfortable leather armchair. He wiped the rain from his face with a handkerchief, took a damp cigar from his pocket. Placing it between his lips he looked at Yorrick questioningly.
    "Sorry, I don't anymore."
    "That's okay. Have a seat." Yorrick sat on the edge of the bed, the Inspector having taken the only chair in the room. "I suppose you're wondering how I know about Giles."
    "Not really."
    "No?"
    "No."
    "Oh. You mind if I explain anyway? I have a really good presentation planned, with slides and everything..."
    "Yes."
    "Yay! Let me just-"
    "No, I meant Yes, I do mind. Look, just tell me what you want and get the hell out of here, okay? I'm tired."
    "Oh, okay. Right. Rupert Giles. Your old partner. You remember him?"
    "Of course I do." And the strange thing was that he did. Just the day before he'd thought the name nothing more than a half-remembered dream. But now he could recall it all; He and his partner, Rupert Giles, going undercover to infiltrate the Slayer's group... They'd been FBI agents, deep cover. And then something had gone terribly wrong; Giles had been killed. Why had he been unable to remember that? And why was he remembering now?
    "You're remembering all this now because you've been reactivated."
    "What do you mean?"
    "You killed Assistant Director Skinner yesterday."
    "So?"
    "He was the one blocking you. According to my files he used to be the... office gimp?"
    Fond memories...

Assistant Gimpboy Skinner, dressed from head to toe in shiny tight electric-pink leather, could barely breathe. Mascara smeared from tears, his beautiful long blonde hair lay at his feet. A noose was tight around his neck, forcing him to stand on tiptoe in the middle of the room. If he let himself relax he'd hang. Detective Yorrick was standing in front of him, puffing on one of those huge cigars he favoured so much.
    "You enjoying this, gimp?"
    "Ymh Srr!" Skinner tried to shout through the gag.
    "Really? You some sort of perv, Gimp? You like all this sadomasochistic bullshit?"
    "Ymh Srr!" No sir, he hated this. But if he wanted to keep his job, and he did, he had to put up with these sick games Detectives Yorrick and Giles enjoyed indulging in.
    "Did you hear that, Detective Giles? Our gimp here is a perv."
    "Tch. They're getting everywhere ain't they."
    "I know, I know, a crying shame. Well, since he says he enjoys this we might as well oblige him."
    "Too true. I'll go and get the ferrets..."

"-excuse me!"
    "Hmm?"
    "You drifted off for a moment there, Detective."
    "Oh, sorry. Nostalgia. What were you talking about?"
    "Assistant Director Skinner. You remember how he used to be the office gimp?"
    "I sure do. Those were good times."
    "Yes... well apparently Skinner didn't think so."
    "No?"
    "No. After you and Detective Giles went undercover to infiltrate the Slayer's group he rose through the ranks of the FBI. He vowed he would have his revenge on you, that his sole aim in life was to see you two suffer the way in which you made him suffer all those years ago."
    "Really?"
    "Really."
    "Nice to know the old boy still remembered us. That was when we used to play dress-up in first school, after all."
    "Hmm. Would you like your old body back, by the way?"
    "What?"
    "You're still a vest. From when you were undercover? Do you know even what I'm talking about?"
    "No..."
    "Never mind then."
    "Quite. Anyway, you said Skinner was the one blocking me?"
    "Yes. He used his influence as Assistant Director to have some memory blocks placed upon you."
    "Why?"
    "I don't know."
    "You don't?"
    "No."
    "Oh."
    "You killed him."
    "Yes."
    "Why?"
    "I don't know."
    "You don't?"
    "No."
    "Oh."
    "Do you ever get a sense of deja vu, Inspector?"
    "Sometimes. Why?"
    "Just interested."
    "Right. I can't help but think I've forgotten something..."
    "Yeah. You said you'd found the man who killed Giles?"
    "No."
    "No?"
    "No. I said we think we've found the man who killed him."
    "And?"
    "And he ordered me to come here and tell you that."
    "He what?"
    "And then take you to him."
    "Right now?"
    "Right now."
    "I see. Let me get a few things?"
    "Sure."
    Yorrick got off the bed, went to the wardrobe and took out his handkerchief. He put the gun and his toothbrush inside of it, folded it up, and put it in his pocket.
    "You ready?"
    "Yes."
    "Then let's go."

On the way out of the hotel Yorrick stopped at the main desk. It was 3:49am but Bobby was there.
    "Bobby?"
    "Yes Mac?"
    "Any messages, Bobby?"
    "Plenty, Mac."
    "Any messages for me, Bobby?"
    "Not a one, Mac."
    "Thanks, Bobby."
    "You're welcome, Mac."

"What was that, Detective?" asked the Inspector.
    "I'm not quite sure, Inspector." replied the Detective.

"Where am I?" asked Giles.
    "You're in my beak." replied the Purple Pelican.
    "Did I kill anyone?"
    "Plenty."
    "For real?"
    "In your dreams."
    "Oh."
    "Better luck next time."
    "Thanks."

Yorrick climbed into the car. Inspector Widget walked around to the other side and got in too. They started to drive.
    "This has been a pretty crappy, dialogue-heavy chapter, hasn't it, Detective?" asked the Inspector, showing yet another crack in the story's edge.
    "It has at that." replied Yorrick, doing much the same.
    "Shall we go in for some mindless action?"
    "I think we'd better."

The car pulled away from the hotel, previously FBI headquarters, and started down a cliff-edge road, heading North. A heavy thunder storm blew in from the East and the road turned to a dirt track. A bright white light filled the inside of the car.
    "What the fuck?"
    A huge lorry was bearing down on the Inspector's car, painted red, belching smoke, headlights blazing angrily.
    "What's that idiot doing?"
    The lorry increased its speed until it bumped into the back of the car, nearly pushing it off the road, over the cliff.
    "Go faster!"
    Inspector Widget stepped as hard as he could upon the accelerator, the car shot forward, nearly going over the edge several more times.
    "Lose the fucker!"
    The lorry sped up as well, blaring its horn, crashing into the back of the car yet again.
    "This is getting tedious."
    "Fuck it." The Inspector turned left at the next off-ramp, without signalling, and the lorry sped by right behind them.
    "Stupid women drivers."
    "Yeah."
    The off-ramp they'd taken had turned into an even smaller dirt-track, winding through a dark and spooky forest.
    "Where are we?"
    "A few miles from the man who may have killed your partner. You ready to meet him?"
    "As I'll ever be."
    "Sorted."

Giles stepped out of the pelican's beak and looked around. He was in a dark and spooky forest, a few metres from a small wooden shack. Green light shone from its window and white smoke billowed from its chimney.
    "Rocking. How long, Mr Pelican?"
    "A couple days, Mac."
    "See you."
    "Later."
    The Purple Pelican flew off and Giles walked towards the shack. He knocked on the door, heard no answer and promptly turned the knob and walked inside.

"This it?"
    "It is."
    "A small wooden shack in the middle of a dark and spooky forest?"
    "Yup."
    "You coming in?"
    "Nup."
    "I don't like this, Widget."
    "I don't think you're meant to, Yorrick. Bye." Inspector Widget and his car vanished.
    "Fuck." Yorrick walked towards the shack. He knocked on the door.


To be continued by one or t'other.