Good vs Evil
The short, balding man was nervous. He’d been told, in no uncertain terms, that his presence was required in London, and that his failure to attend was not negotiable. In fact, the agency had sent several large men to his house in Switzerland, gently steered him into the back seat of the Humvee and accompanied him to the airport.
Driven straight to the venue, he was cold, hungry, confused. Nobody had told him the reason behind this… this… kidnapping and what was required of him. In the half-light of the small room, he made out a door opening and another man approaching him. Trying not to show his fear, pulled the baseball cap out of his back pocket and placed it on his head, the razor-straight peak betraying the deep, deep anti-fashion he’d fallen into in recent years.
“Mr Collins?” said the new arrival, who appeared to be dressed in a white dinner jacket and sparkling bow tie, “The audience is ready for you now.”
“The audience. And this one’s for Sussudio, you bastard.”
He didn’t even see the fist, but felt the white heat of pain, and tasted the blood as he was led down a series of corridors toward a growing crescendo of sound. And then…
And then… a confusion of light, sound, thousands, endless thousands of people corded round him in a frenzy of bloodlust, as he was dragged, urine – his own, he presumed - streaming down his thigh, to the roped-off area at the centre of the massive auditorium.
Manhandled, barely protesting into the blinding light, he slowly came to his senses. His baseball cap was gone. The warmth down his leg had given way to a cold chill, and he focussed on the far corner of the square circle of the boxing ring where he slowly, painfully made out the man-mountain waiting for him. His arch-nemesis. Blessed.
Blessed be, indeed. He had heard what had happened. A landslide of a vote, making him - Brian Blessed, the Dynamite Kid, Prince Vultan, the shouty one in all those other films - the Best Person Ever. And Collins, the dregs, he knew where he stood.
And now, the final face-off.
A bell, and Blessed rises from his corner, an ear-splitting roar coming from his mouth. Not just his mouth – his entire person, wild-eyed, leering, a berserker, bearing down on his quivering body.
A two-handed blow connects to the side of his head. The crowd roars, baying for blood, yet above it, he can hear Blessed chiming the words “EASY LOVER!”
Another blow – “ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE!”
Thud – “IN THE AIR TONIGHT!”
Thud “YOU” thud “CAN’T” thud “HURRY” thud “LOVE” THUD.
And then, one finall earthquake of a blow, a diving splash from the summit of Mount Everest, the audience screams its approval. Just as everything goes dark he hears the words “AND THAT’S FOR GENESIS, YOU BASTAAAAAARD!”
Dark. Take a look at me now.
It is over.
No. No, he’s not.
A Genuine, not fixed at all, vote-o
Yusssssssss. After the travesty of the democratic process of the last couple of weeks (Robert Mugabe would have been SO proud), we are now able to present a genuine vote to choose tomorrow’s Scary story of mirth and woe. Your choice, then, from the following. And yes, I have been a busy boy:
* Gratuitous Sax/Senseless Violins – not what you think
* Thumb – exactly what you think
* Guilt Trip – not guilty at all, as a matter of fact
* Theatre of Hate – the second obscure musical reference today, you lucky people
You know the form by now… vote-me-up!