Django Zoon: The Straightener

Hello Django

Liverpool. Friday 5th July 2003. 10:00 pm.

An ordinary night down at The Bowlers Arms, Django finished his first set on stage, headed towards the bar and his two free pints, lined up and ready to soothe his battered tonsils. Singing with the band was the highlight of his week and with the dark good looks of an English dude born of a Mexican father, an Irish mother and with a body that would put most athletes to shame, he never went short of pussy; to say his pecker was well-oiled was an understatement. His first gulp took out two thirds of the first pint. His second rudely interrupted by a babe of excellent proportions who poked him in the back and shouted. “Hello Django.”
He turned, rocking back on his heels at this vision of loveliness. “Do I know you?” he yelled, through the din of the jukebox.
“Of course you do idiot,” she replied, thumping him in the chest and laughing.

He finished the last of his first pint and immediately grabbed the second one, taking a small gulp before ordering a round for himself and the band. He asked the girl if she’d like a drink too.
“I’ll have a vodka-lemonade with ice tah.” She poked him again and he stared hard at her. “Well come on Zoony, you must remember me.”
He squinted, shook his head. “Look, my memory’s not what it used to...”
She cut him short and whispered in his ear. “What if I said I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?”
He swallowed his second pint and handed over cash for the round of drinks, suddenly recognising her. “Carla Wand?”
She grinned and stepped back, thrusting her ample breasts in the air, “The one and only.”
Django slapped his forehead. “Jesus, we must have been about seven years old when that happened. What happened to you? I mean one minute you were there and the next you’d vanished. Where did you and your family go?”
She sipped her drink. “It’s a long story. Anyway I’m back and living not far from our original house, why don’t you drop in and see me some time?”
Picking up her vibes, he responded. “How about after they close here?”
“Great stuff,” she smiled, linking his arm in a show of possession. “I love your band, how long have you been going?”
“Couple of years now, this is our regular weekly gig and we do whatever we can get our hands on, you know weddings or social clubs and stuff.”
“What do you call yourselves?”
“The big blue meat wagon.”
Carla smiled. “Nice name; full time is it?”
He rolled his eyes. “I wish. We’ve got no management so we look for our own gigs plus, we all work full time so it’s difficult, but hey, you never know who is watching you. You’re not a talent spotter by any chance?”
Carla laughed. You’re very perceptive Mr Zoon, she thought, shaking her head. “No, but if I was, you’d be top of my list.”

The rest of the band stepped back behind Carla, respectful enough to give Django space to pull properly, but also allowing room to take the piss out of their lead man with an assortment of degrading sexual gestures in a collective effort to embarrass him. They soon stopped when Carla, without even turning, shouted, “If you faggots weren’t so gay, I’d take you all on after closing time.”
Impressed, Django’s eyes widened and he smiled at his mates whilst holding up his hand, waving in a gesture of dismissal. They duly backed off to the other end of the bar, leaving him and Carla to it.
He bought her another drink, they exchanged small talk in the short time he had between performances and after placing his hand in the small of her back and pecking her on the cheek, he headed back towards the stage ready for the second half.

The place heaved, as it always did on a Friday night when he and the boys were playing and he struggled to get through the crowd. The rest of the band was waiting and eager to go as Django jumped up on stage, grabbed the mike and turned. Launching into their regular second half number, a version of Queen’s Tie your mother down, Django was surprised to see Carla seated, almost centre stage, as if she’d been there all night.

The guys brought the house down as always with their version of this song and it was one of Django’s favourites. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her as he strutted and thrust his groin towards the drooling girls in the crowd, his ample proportions shown off to their best in his skin-tight leather strides, made to measure with personalised lunchbox section.
Despite there being a house full of the tastiest totty he’d seen for a long time, she shone out, almost as if surrounded by a luminous glow or spotted in the beam of a trooper light. She sat with her dress raised seductively and not in the least bit sluttish, giving Django and the rest of the band a ringside seat to her leg and stocking top show. He enjoyed his weekly gig more than almost anything, but tonight saw his enjoyment in the anticipation of sitting this beauty, legs apart on her couch, with him kneeling in front, giving her a private session of his own big blue meat and he couldn’t wait for the final number.

Django asked the guys to drop his gear off at his place and go on to their usual club without him then left with Carla. With her place only a short distance away and the quiet, balmy night, they walked and chatted.
“Are you married or anything,” he asked, as they rounded the corner to the street where she lived.
“I lost my husband Frank in a road-traffic-accident a couple of years ago.” She reached in her handbag, took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “I’m still coming to terms with his death; it’s so difficult at times.”
Road traffic accident, thought Django, most people have car crashes; she’s a copper maybe. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“It’s ok. We’d only been married a short time, but it felt like longer. It’s very hard coping with not having a man about the place. This is the first time I’ve asked anyone back, it’s not what I usually do. It’s just with me knowing you and all I…”
“It’s alright,” he said, giving her waist a little squeeze, “you don’t have to explain.”
“Here we are,” she said, “it’s this one.” She opened the front door and they went inside.

A recently refurbished terraced house and one of many for rent in the regeneration areas of Liverpool; it was small, but modern inside and tastefully decorated. The entrance consisted of a vestibule leading to a short lobby. With stairs to the right, there was a lounge on the left and straight ahead a kitchen. Carla led him straight into the lounge.
“I rent this place through The Smackcover Renting Agency, they’re really reasonable.”
Django sat down on the Brown leather settee. “Me too; my place is decorated the same. I love these open fireplaces. They’re a bit messy raking out the coal ashes, but better than the imitation ones.”
“I love them too. Do you want a drink?”
“What have you got?”
“Lager, bitter or most spirits, unless you want a coffee or tea or something.”
“I’ll have a lager with a whiskey chaser. I’m sorry, I didn’t think, I should’ve bought a take-away from The Bowlers.”
“It’s ok, I’ve got plenty in,” she laughed.

Carla left the room and he shuffled around feeling embarrassed. Django, given his age was a little old fashioned in as much as he would always foot the bill when entertaining female friends and he mentally cursed at his forgetfulness. Despite the time of year and weather, a blazing fire raged in the grate and yet the room was not uncomfortably hot. He felt a strange rush of butterflies in his stomach as he recalled the sudden change in temperature on entering the lobby, thinking it unusually cold considering it was July.
She returned with the drinks and some nibbles in the form of peanuts and crisps, pulled the coffee table nearer to the couch and sat down next to him. “Do you like poppers?” she asked, placing her hand on his knee.
He patted her hand. “Never felt the need, but feel free by all means.”

Carla slid forward allowing her dress to ride up; giving Django a pleasant eyeful then stood and walked over to the mantelpiece. Opening a bottle of amyl nitrite, she placed a few drops into the bowl of an oil burner, lit the candle underneath, poured a small amount of water into the bowl from a miniature copper Chinese style teapot then took a large sniff, neat from the bottle. “This stuff gives me such a rush, you should try it.” I guess I’m going to, thought Django, now that you’ve put it in a fucking burner.
She sat back down next to him and he leant forward towards the peanuts then changed his mind. “So what type of work do you do then?” he asked, the road-traffic-accident remark coming to mind.
Carla sat up straight, turning slightly, smiling as she tipped her head forward and looking at him through her long thick eyelashes, replied. “I’m a recruiter.”
“What kind of recruiter?”
“A good one,” she laughed, wagging her finger at him.
“I don’t follow.”
“I sniff people out Django.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“You’ve lost yourself man; I’ve found you.”
Django frowned. “I think I’m missing something here.”
She smiled, stared at him without speaking. He stared back, trying hard to smile, but couldn’t crack one.

The smell of the amyl nitrite filled the air and he stood then walked over to the fireplace. The silence continued. She smiled, staring still, unmoving, like a life sized porcelain doll. He felt embarrassed, which was totally out of character for him, but couldn’t think of anything to say. She continued to stare, to smile; her head tipped forward. He averted his gaze, looking at the flames then turned back to stare at her. “Does anyone else live here with you?”
“Why?”
“I thought it strange, you know, the fire blazing after we’d been in the pub for hours; surely it would have burned down?”
“Is it important?” she huffed, her eyes rolling upwards.
“Well no, but I thought it….” He cocked his head to one side. “What was that?”
“What?”
“That noise.”
“I don’t hear anything,” she laughed.
“That scratching sound, I know I heard it.”
“I don’t hear it,” she repeated louder.
“It’s coming from the lobby,” he nodded, starting towards the door, but she stood, stepping in front of him. “It’s nothing Django, really. God you look terrible, do you feel ok?”
“To be honest no, I feel a bit sickly.” I’ve only had my usual few pints, he thought, it couldn’t be the ale. Must be that fucking Liquid Gold she’s burning.

She stroked the side of his temple. “Come and sit down, it’ll all be over soon.”
“What!” His head spun; the sickly feeling increasing. “Where’s the window?”
“What window?” she laughed.
He pointed to the wall at the back of the couch. “The window that was there two minutes ago.”
She tipped her head to one side, her eyebrows raised. “It’s not that window you should be concerned about dear.”
The room stifling; sweat poured from his brow. He staggered over to the couch and flopped down. Carla sat beside him. “It’ll all take a few moments then everything will be ok.”
His eyes rolled upwards as Carla faded out of focus then rushed back in. “I‘ll have to go Carla I’m feeling really shitty and…”
She cut across him, placed her hand on his chest in a light restraint. “You mean you don’t like how you feel? Look at me closely and tell me what you see. Is the room closing in on you?”
Pushing her hand away, he stood, his nausea building, the room pulsing in and out of his vision; spinning as he staggered forwards. She leapt up, slamming her back against the door. “Please don’t go; you’ll be ok soon.”
He held up his hands. “If I don’t get to your toilet I’m going to heave up all over your floor, now please move.”
She stood fast. “No, you’ll be ok in a minute, just breath deeply, you’ll see.” Sweating hard, he lowered his head, took in several deep breaths then sat back down on the couch and closed his eyes.

“Hey dead leg.” Django opened his eyes. Carla stood holding a glass of lager and a large whiskey. “Here, take these while I go and get mine. Could you pull the coffee table over?”
He noticed the fire unlit. There was no oil burner, only a small candle on the coffee table and the window behind the couch allowed the orange flicker of a nearby street lamp to cast a flame-like film show on the wall beside the chimneybreast. Fuck me, he thought, a dream; I must’ve dropped off.

Carla returned with her drink and some nibbles. She placed the drink, peanuts and crisps on the table, went over to the mantelpiece and fished about in a ceramic bowl. “Ahh, I knew it was here. Do you like poppers?”
Django felt sick again. “Never felt the need, but feel free by all means.”
Removing the top from the bottle of amyl nitrite, she took a large sniff then left the room. “I’ll just go and get a burner, won’t be a mo.”

He stood, his head muggy, feeling shaky and unsure as to whether he’d fallen asleep and was having some kind of deja vu or still dreaming. He headed for the kitchen and hearing whispering voices was just about to open the kitchen door when Carla came out, slamming it behind her. “Where are you off to tiger?” she laughed, grabbing his arm and steering him toward the lounge.
“Just wondering what you were doing.” He turned. “What’s that noise?”
“What noise?”
He pointed. “That scratching noise at the kitchen door, can’t you hear it?”
“Django, It’s just my fly deflector beads rattling that’s all, come on, we’ve got loads to catch up on.”

She placed the oil burner in the centre of the coffee table, allowing the amyl nitrite fumes to suffuse the room. They sat and chatted about when they were kids and how the past twenty-one years had flown, with Carla having to jog his memory about most of it. Onto life after school, she pressed him constantly, interrupting whenever he started to speak then after a particularly long rally of questioning, jumped up. “Time for a refill, what’ll it be?”
Django, feeling slightly better, stood. “Let me get them.”
“No, you sit, I’ll do it.”
He raised his hand. “Ok, you’re the boss; I’ll have a Scotch then.”
She returned with the drinks and sat down. There was a silence between them, allowing Django to speak. “So what type of work do you do then?” he asked, the road-traffic-accident remark coming to mind again.
She sat back down next to him and he leant forward towards the peanuts then changed his mind. “So what type of work do you do then?” he asked, the road-traffic-accident remark coming to mind.
Carla sat up straight, turning slightly, smiling as she tipped her head forward and looking at him through her long thick eyelashes, replied. “I’m a recruiter.”
“What kind of recruiter?”
“A good one,” she laughed, wagging her finger at him.
“I don’t follow.”
“I sniff people out Django.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“You’ve lost yourself man; I’ve found you.”
Django frowned. “I think I’m missing something here.” His nausea returned.
“Django, you look terrible, is something wrong?”
He stood and turned to stare at the wall behind the couch then turned again to gaze into the blazing fire that filled the room with a sickening weakness inducing heat.
Carla stood and tipped her head to stare at him through her long thick eyelashes. “What’s up sugar, don’t you like how you feel?”
Django moved over to the fireplace then turned. “Who are you?”
She laughed. “Your boss soon.”
The nausea decreased, but strangely, he found himself getting an erection. Confused at how he could feel this sick, but at the same time have a boner so hard it threatened to explode, he dropped his hands in front of his bursting trousers.
She laughed and moved forward, taking his hands away from his growth. “Would you like to take part in something that will take away the feelings of sickness you experience?”
His fear heightened, he pulled back away from her. “It’s a nightmare isn’t it?” he said softly, his voice weak and quivering, “I’m caught up in a loop; a nightmare, but it feels so real.”
“Not a nightmare darling, a wonderful dream,” Carla whispered, grabbing his growth and pulling forcefully.
“Ow, you bastard!” he screamed, “not so fucking hard.” The dizziness increased.
“Who the fuck are you calling a bastard?” she yelled, grabbing his balls and tugging harder.
“Oh you fucking bitch, are you crazy or something?”

His nausea peaking again, he vomited on the front of her dress. She looked down at the puke running down her frock and smiled, turned away slowly then twisted back to face him… not the vision of beauty a second ago, but that of an ugly old hag. She butted him on the lip splitting it and he fell backwards against the sideboard. Stunned and shocked, his feelings of sickness and fear vanished; replaced by an uncontrollable urge to tear her to pieces, but he composed himself.
She stared at him with a look of hatred on her face and he stood slowly, feeling at his bloodied swollen lip then turned to the door. “I’m out of here.”
“No you’re not,” she laughed with a toothless grin, “you’re turning, the time is right and the curse has struck. Make your fucking move now, coward.” She kicked him in the shin and he bent, grabbing at his leg. “Let me out now, whoever you are. I don’t want to hurt you old girl, but if you keep this shit up I promise I will fucking drop you, now move.”
The old hag spat in his face then lashed out with her fingernails, tearing deep stripes into his cheek.

With his anger passing boiling point, he retaliated, punching her hard on the nose and knocking her backwards. She fell banging her head sharply on the tiled mantelpiece, landing with a sickening crack in the fireplace. He found it hard to believe what he’d just done, never having hit a woman before, let alone an old one, but this bitch deserves it, he thought.

She lay unconscious with her head in the fire grate. The smell of burning hair and roasting flesh hit him hard and he moved to drag her from the flames when the door burst open. Turning, he rocked back on his heels and gasped. Standing in the doorway smiling, was the old hag. He turned and she was still there on the hearth, her head in the fire, the flames licking across her face and the fat under her skin, popping and bursting as it boiled in the heat. He turned again to see her, still standing in the doorway smiling.
“Am I dreaming?” he whispered.
“We are all dreaming;” she said, “You must join me as you have now entered my world.”
“What do you mean your world?”
“You have joined my world and you must abide by the rules,” she said, with a menace not shown before.
“I’m dreaming,” he screamed, “I must be; it’s a nightmare loop.”

Believing himself in the middle of an intense dream, he lunged forward kicking her in the stomach. She bent forward making no sound as he brought his right knee up into her face and then again harder. The blood soaked into the leg of his trousers as he kneed her continually in the face, but still she made no sound as she dropped to the floor; her face smashed to pieces. He held his shaking head in his hands. “No, this isn’t real,” he slobbered, “this is a dream.”
Dragging her body away from the door, he ran into the lobby, heading for the front door and the street where he felt he would be safe and would come out of his nightmare. She stood blocking the front door, smiling, her hand outstretched. “Come with me,” she whispered, “I will show you things.”
He turned, jumped back over the body lying on the floor and looked frantically around the room for another exit, but there was none. There seemed no escape from the hell house. He looked down, the fire eating its way into the upper torso of the hag and smoke backing up into the room as if the chimney was blocked. Finding it hard to breathe, the smell of burning flesh choked him. The other body lay unmoving and bleeding on the floor and the clone in the doorway continued to smile menacingly as it beckoned.

His erection grew so hard it hurt and he knew the only way of escaping lay in his hardened member, but the vision sickened him. He vomited again, the thought of making love to this creature, this most hideous of old hags making him heave repeatedly, but he knew somehow that he must in order to gain his freedom.
Fear threatened to overwhelm him, but he resisted and walked over to take her hand, allowing her to lead him upstairs. She has fine legs, he thought, in fact they’re perfect. Her waist trim and her bottom firm, her long black hair fell down her back like waves of water, rippling down a gentle slope. She stopped then turned and sat open legged on the top stair. He gasped, turned away then swallowed hard and looked again. Not the old hag that led him up the stairs, this was a beauty beyond compare; a ravishing vision as Carla Wand, but with a wondrous glow about her. Falling into her arms, he sunk his bursting manhood deep inside her bulging split, with every thrust relieving the pain in his rock hard rod and replacing it with the most intense pleasure ever experienced. Never had he felt a woman so hot inside and with so strong a grip. She raged at his pumping and cursed in tongues never heard before. As they climaxed together, he hugged her tightly; draining the last drop from his thumping tool then fell silent as they bathed in the warmth of the afterglow.

His fear gone, replaced by a feeling of freedom and fulfilment, he pulled away to gaze into her eyes and to his horror the angel had gone, replaced again by the old woman smiling, sitting on the stairs with her legs apart. Her labia bomb doors huge and dripping, hung like festering chunks of meat. “Now it’s my turn,” she squealed.
“Never,” said Django, “I’ll never do it.”
“Oh yes you will,” she taunted. “you’ll do it and like it.”

Django grew angry. His feelings of satisfaction now gone, he raged and with both hands grabbed the old woman by both labia lips, launching her backwards into the wall. “You’ll do it and like it,” she whispered sitting up. He wrapped his arm around her painfully thin neck and dragged her down the stairs into the room with the other body and burning corpse. “You’ll do it and like it,” she continued to grunt. He twisted sharply, snapping her fragile neck and blood trickled down her nose. “You’ll do it and like it,” she gagged; her eyes still wide open.
“You fucking old bitch,” he screamed, kicking her head. “I’ll finish you for good, you fucking old bastard.” He turned her on her front taking hold of both arms. With his feet on her shoulders, he sat down, pulling hard, and ripping both her arms backwards out of their sockets. “You’ll do it and like it,” she mumbled; her face burst and matted into the carpet.
Seething, he looked around the room for something to hit her with, but there was nothing. He went into the kitchen, found a meat cleaver, returned and flipped the old hag onto her back, leaving her propped up by the broken arms. “I want you to see this you twat,” he said, spitting in her face. He raised the cleaver high then brought it down with force, cracking right through her breastbone and into her chest cavity. “You’ll do it and like it,” she bubbled, through the blood gushing from her smashed mouth.
“Shut your fucking gob,” he screamed, bringing the cleaver down into the centre of her face. “I’ll cut your bastard head off and stick it in the fire with the other of your whore selves, that’ll shut you up, you bitch.” He smashed the cleaver into her face repeatedly, laughing, but at the same time crying in disgust as he vented his rage.

Her head in pieces on the carpet, he turned sideways and chopped through the neck until it completely split from the body then stood up holding the bits of head by the remaining hair and threw it into the fire. “I’ll do it and like it,” he said laughing. “I’ll do it and fucking like it.” He turned, lashing the blade into the old woman’s knee. “Four chops to get that one off,” he spat. Again, he hammered down hard on the other leg. “Three chops for that one. I’m getting better at this. I’ll do it and fucking like it will I?”
Becoming very aroused and yet completely relaxed, he reached around, grabbed the headless torso underneath the snapped arms and dragged it to the top of the stairs. Propping it up with its severed legs apart, he pulled out his throbbing member and thrust it deep into the bloodied corpse, slobbering and ranting, “I’ll do it and like it, I’ll do it and like it, I’ll do it and fucking-well like it.”

He awoke at the foot of the stairs, looked up to see the remains of the old woman and the horror as the realisation of what he’d done hit him. He backed into the room were the burning corpse and other body had lain only to find that no fire had been lit in the grate and there was no body by the door. He looked around the room and saw the two lower legs belonging to the corpse at the top of the stairs and the carved head lying on the bloodstained hearth. He couldn't believe what he’d done and covered in blood, ran to the front door. He stared wide-eyed at his bloodied hands, frantically rubbing them on his clothes, but only made them worse.
The front door was open and on turning, he discovered the woman’s torso had gone from the top of the stairs. He looked down and there were no traces of blood on him. Running back into the room he found it empty, with no bodies, no bloodstains and nothing to suggest that the nightmare he’d just experienced had ever taken place.

The sudden voice behind him banged in his brain, making his heart almost burst out of his chest. “Did you want sugar in your coffee?” asked Carla.
“I’m sorry,” said Django, his heart beating fast, “sorry for what I did to you.”
“What did you do?” she said, looking puzzled.
“No, I mean, I…” Django shook his head. “I don’t feel very well could I lie down somewhere please?” He staggered forward almost knocking her over.
“Oh you poor angel, here lie down,” she said, gently taking his elbow. She placed her tray of coffee, tea and biscuits down on the table and helped him over to the couch where he slumped down and groaned.

He was sweating hard; his pulse racing, “My god;” he said, “My brain feels like it’s going to explode” and held his head in both hands, as if trying to stop the insides from bursting out. Carla felt his brow. “I’ll just go and get something for your head.”
She went to the kitchen and returned a few moments later. “Here try this.” Django looked up and saw the meat cleaver hurtling toward him. It smashed into his lower jaw, almost severing it completely from his upper jaw with only the skin of his neck allowing it to hang limply. He made a guttural sound and his tongue, which was still connected, waggled furiously. “How about that then?” she cackled, pulling up her skirt and revealing her mound, “How would you like to get your tongue working on this?”
She dragged him up and stood him in front of the mirror. He heaved with disgust at the sight of his mutilated face. “My turn now,” she roared, turning him around and forcing a red-hot steel poker from the fire into his left eye and out through the back of his head. The pain he felt was more than he could stand and the searing heat of the poker sizzling inside his head threw him backwards onto the sofa. Carla leaped forward again with the cleaver. She brought it down into the top of his thigh, then again a little lower down, then again even lower. His leg now split from top to bottom, she reached in and grabbed his thighbone, wrenching it from the surrounding flesh. “Don’t like giving me this type of bone do you sweetie?”
His tormented brain raged. I should be dead, he thought, how can I still be alive?
Carla dragged him from the sofa onto the carpet by the roaring fire. She clasped her hands together as if in prayer and tilted her head, a kindly expression on her face.
“I’ll not be a moment my darling, do make yourself comfortable,” she said, as she left the room.

She returned carrying a large container - took off the cap and poured the smelly liquid all over his body. Django, in the direst pain and almost on the brink of blacking out recognised the smell as that of paraffin. “You look cold honey; let’s warm you up a bit shall we?” she cackled.
She took another steel poker out of the glowing coals and dabbed it on his tongue, which sizzled, caught fire and quickly spread across his face. He convulsed on the carpet in front of the fire, the vision of the room out of his remaining eye blurring and then turning to blackness as the smell of his burning flesh and the unbearable pain faded away into the silent darkness.

The dark veil slowly rose as Django’s void lifted and the voice grew clearer. “Oh you poor angel, you’re burning up.” As his vision cleared, he saw Carla leaning over him, dabbing his forehead with a cold wet flannel. “You must have a fever, you passed out.”
He felt nauseous and grabbed at his jaw, feeling it intact. He reached down to his leg and everything was all right. I’m dreaming, I must be, he thought, but such an intense dream. Feeling more at ease as she continued to pat his forehead with the cool flannel, he wondered if he could control his dream. “Wake up now, wake up now,” he bellowed at Carla, who jumped back in surprise. “Oh you poor honey you must be delirious. There now calm down, everything is going to be alright.”

She stood up, clasped her hands together as if in prayer and tilted her head, a kindly expression on her face. “You can stay here until you’re well and then you can make up your mind if you want to leave or stay on here. Try and get some sleep now and call me if you need anything.”
As she left the room Django reached out to her, tried to speak, but the door closed and his words would not come out. He lay on the sofa with his fists against his temples, his head moving from side to side. “No no no,” he continued to snarl between clenched teeth, until sleep finally came and with it a dreamless peace.

Hieey.” Carla stood over him holding a tray with some coffee, tea and biscuits on it. “I was very lucky to get these bikkies,” she giggled. “I’m very friendly with the local grocer and we have an understanding; I do for him and he does for me.” She placed the tray on a small table by the sofa. “My darling, you’ve been asleep now for almost thirty-six hours, how are you feeling?”
“A lot better, I must have been dreaming. I had the most terrible nightmares.” He pulled the blanket that was over him up to his mouth and bit it, looking nervously around the room as the hellish memories unfurled. “Tell me Carla, are you married?”
“I’m a widow, my husband Frank was killed, don’t you remember me telling you?”
He shook his head then nodded. “Yes I do and then…” The memories flooded back and he grew nervous.
“And then what my darling?” said Carla, stroking his temple.
“I must have dreamt something. I mean I must have…” He heard scratching at the door and his eyes widened.
Carla smiled. “We’re all dreaming sugar, say hello to my Frank.”

Django leapt off the sofa as the door to the room slowly opened; his heart pounding hard against his chest and his fists up and ready for another onslaught. He looked around the room for some kind of weapon, but there was nothing to hand. His eyes remained on the door, fixed in terror waiting for Carla’s dead husband to enter, but to his surprise in walked the cutest little Scottish terrier dog. He ran towards Django barking and wagging his tail furiously. Django fell back on the sofa laughing, hardly able to contain himself, the sheer relief making his laughter grow and it grew, becoming almost hysterical and then turned to sobs; all the time the little dog licking at his salty tears and wagging its tail. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he sobbed, “help me, please help me?”
He turned, burying his face into the sofa, all the time the little dog barking and wanting to play.
“Oh you poor love,” said Carla, stroking the back of his head, “what has happened to make you like this?”
“I don’t know if I’m dreaming or if any of this is real;” he sobbed. “When you said Frank, I thought you meant your husband; I thought he was going to…” He hesitated.
“You thought he was going to what sugar?” said Carla, clasping her hands together as if in prayer and with a kindly expression on her face.
“Carla, horrible things have happened in this house, in this room, on your stairs. When I say happened I mean I think they happened. No, I mean I think I dreamed that they happened.” Django was distraught. “I’m so confused,” he snivelled, wiping his nose on his sleeve and looking like a child that had lost his mother.
“Now look,” said Carla, “Frank is my dog. I named him after my late husband Frank. What things did you see hun? You must tell me before we can move on.”
“Move on,” said Django jumping up, his eyes widening. “What do you mean move on?”
“Well it’s like this,” said Carla, doing a strange little dancing jig as she spoke. “Before we can help you any further you must come to terms with what’s happened to you.”
“What do you mean we?”
Carla continued to dance the little jig for a few seconds more then jumped up on one of the armchairs and froze; her knees bent and her little finger tipped into her mouth. “Perhaps I should let Frank explain.” Carla looked down and there between her legs was the dog with his paws over his eyes. “Come on now Frank, don’t be shy; tell Django what we mean.”

Django sat wide-eyed, shaking his head in disbelief. The dog sat up and started in perfect Queen’s English. “It’s like this old chap…”
Django cut in laughing. “Oh my God a fucking talking dog, now I know I’m dreaming, a fucking talking dog. I’ve got to stay off the booze; it’s doing me no good at all.” He lay back feeling very relaxed, even surprising himself. “Ok Frank let me have it,” he said sarcastically.
The dog jumped off the chair, moved slowly forward with its cheeky little grin turning into a snarl and continued. “Your way of life and your evil intentions with regards to Carla led you to this house. This house does not exist in your space and time. You have moved through a portal…”
Django cut in again. “A fucking what?”
The dog continued. “Would you be so kind old bean as to shut the fuck up when I’m talking and let me finish? Now as I was saying…”
Django cut in again. “This is my fucking dream and I call the shots; now you fucking shut up while I find out where that tasty bitch that I fucked on the stairs is.”

The dog reared up on its hind legs. It was growing and turning darker, its hair becoming shorter and its head larger. Django jumped up with the fear returning. “I'm dreaming, now down I command you!” he yelled with his finger thrust high in the air. The dog now the size of a Shetland pony and with teeth like a Siberian tiger, leapt forward and snapped at Django’s groin. The bite, quick and snappy, tore off his genitals. “Oh my fucking god, oh sweet Jesus,” he screamed.
The monster dog stood upright by the fireplace with one leg crossed and the other front leg resting on the mantle piece, looking like a distinguished gentleman about to greet his guests. He spat out the genitals onto the grate. “May I continue now?” he growled, in a much deeper voice than little Frank’s.

Django’s groin area was pumping with blood and the pain unbearable. “Oh god continue, please fucking continue.”
“As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me, you have moved through a portal in space and time. A portal is like a window that you can see on one side, but not on the other. In your world you have strange ideas about many things. You believe that there are Gods that look after you. You believe that these Gods watch your every move and when you die, they stand in judgment on the life you have led, consequently sending you to what you term heaven or hell. You believe that these Gods created this world and all the other worlds that may exist, along with all the stars and universes. That is baloney. The only Gods that exist are the Gods that men create. I am here to tell you that the truth about the beginning and the end of what you perceive to be the beginning and the end of all life can be known by you, if you would enter our experience. Have I got your attention now?”
Django looked down and found his trousers intact. There was no blood and he’d forgotten about the pain whilst the dog talked. “Yes, by Jesus Christ you’ve got my attention;” he shouted, “You’ve got my undivided fucking attention.”

The beast continued. “Look closely and you will see a little man inside of me. A man so large and yet so small, a man whose guard will never fall. The dinner that I ate last night, looks like meat, but is really shite. The clouds that soar on overhead are like the pillows on my bed. The whistling toad on the garden gate will pay the price for being late, and all the while your mouth is open a fly will get in it.”
Django couldn't believe his ears. “What the fuck was that? That last bit didn’t even rhyme.”
The beast dog continued. “Beware of what you eat and drink; if you don’t float then you will sink. Do not go out the door marked in, more of silence less of din. Hook a fish and watch it squirm, light a baby and watch it burn. Kill your mother, eat your dad, be not good be fucking bad. Climb a mountain and swim a sea; go to bed with your hat on.”
“You stupid cunt;” shouted Django, “Why the fuck are you telling me idiot fucking rhymes and not making the last part rhyme?”
The beast dog continued. “Brush the car and wash the horse; let your madness run its course. Wing a bird with a tiny gun; call your teacher silly bum. Turn your head till you break your neck; be a sailor and swab the deck. Whip yourself till you cry for mercy; eat a pie late at night.”
What the fuck is happening here? thought Django, This is crazy.
“Shut the fuck up,” said the beast dog, “I know what you’re thinking, you little shit. You don’t get it do you? You just don’t get it. I have lived ten thousand years from now and I have also lived before the first fleck of nothingness exploded into what we now know as the endless universes. I have lived a trillion trillion trillion years from now and I have come here to teach you, and to welcome you into our experience.”
“Look,” said Django, “what’s all this about?”
“Silence turd;” demanded the beast dog, “I shall continue. You and people like you believe in sowing and reaping, you believe in cause and effect, Karma and doing onto others as you would have them do onto you, but I am here to tell you this. Find a log and throw it away; do this task everyday. Stick a needle in your eye; bite your foot and don’t you cry. Take a knife and stab your friend; walk the earth then start again. Warble songs of love and hate; always lick the dinner plate. Wrestle tigers, kill and hunt; kick your neighbour in the cunt. Pour hot tar on your brother’s head; stab holes in your Wellingtons.”
“I command myself to come out of this dream,” yelled Django.
“That’s it!” bellowed the beast dog, “if you’re not going to listen.”

The beast dog leapt forward to attack, but Carla got there first, smacking him hard on the nose and making him morph back to his cute little self. “Down Frank, you impatient twat, it’s my turn,” she giggled playfully, and produced a butcher’s meat cleaver from behind a large picture of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ that took pride of place on the sideboard. She tipped her head to one side and hissed then turned sharply, throwing the weapon down and picking up a pick-axe handle from behind the door. “Fuck the cleaver, this is more fun; how’d you like it up your bum?”
Jesus, thought Django, now she’s starting in with the fucking rhymes; this is madness. “Ok ok” he bubbled, “I’m in; tell me what I have to do.”

Django sat down on the sofa, while Frank sat between Carla’s legs, shouting at him. “Spoil sport. You were easy; not got much staying power have you? Thought you’d last a bit longer than that. We’ll have to get you trained up so that you’ve got balls you can throw over your shoulder and really put on show.”

The little dog ran forward and jumped up on Django’s lap. “Ok dick head, this is how it goes. We, meaning Carla and myself, are what are known as Portal Snappers. We hang around at the outer rims of portals and grab turds like you who are ready for initiation into our way of life. Some twats are real stayers and we have loads of fun with them. They go on very quickly to become what are known as Ball busters. They help with all the shit that goes on with the new arse holes like you by becoming copies of people, objects, animals or monsters that we use to fuck the shit out of folk. The stayers are mostly thickos, unlike yourself who is relatively intelligent. You may go…”
“Thanks a lot,” Django smiled, interrupting Frank’s flow, “Nice of you to…”
Frank growled low, cutting across him. “Will you shut the fuck up when I’m speaking? How many times do you have to be told?”

Frank wriggled about and turned around a couple of times until comfortable on Django’s lap then loudly clearing his throat, he continued. “As I was saying, you may go on to become a Bolok. A Bolok hurls itself around different time zones looking for area’s that can be good portal sites, and depending on how many sites you create, will depend on how high in the rankings you go as a Bolok. You start as a Bolok, you then progress to become a Bolok grabber; this means that you look after a pair of ordinary Boloks until they become Bolok grabbers. You then progress on and…”
Django interrupted again. “Hang on a minute. What the fuck does a Bolok do?”

Frank dropped his head, remaining silent and given his slow heavy breathing, Django feared he may be building up to another groin biting session so patted him on the head and stroked his back. “I’m sorry Frank, I’m just confused, please, continue.”
“No more interruptions,” Frank snarled through clenched teeth. “Now pay attention. You then progress on and upward and the next stage of development sees you as a Vanker. A Vanker takes care of all the Bolok grabbers who are struggling to become Vankers. When you have turned fourteen thousand Bolok grabbers into Vankers, you then become a Beever captain. By this time, you should be in the region of a thousand years old - a mere amoeba by our standards. Beever captains turn…”
Django interrupted again by shuffling about and reaching over to the coffee table to pick up a pen and notepad. “Sorry again Frank, I need to write this down.” He scribbled on the pad, mumbling, fourteen thousand Bolok grabbers, hmmm, one thousand years old…”
“Shut the fuck up!” Frank screamed, jumping off Django’s lap and running in circles, as if chasing his own tail, “Just let me finish twat! You’re doing my fucking crust in, you bastard, now can it Zoon!”

Frank suddenly sat still, panting, staring at Django, who daren’t move lest the beast dog return. The pair eyeballed for a few moments, with Frank snarling and growling low and Django wide eyed - waiting for the worst to happen.
Frank shuffled towards him, jumped back on his lap and Django’s arms shot up, as if held at gunpoint. “Wow! Take it easy Frank.”
“Settle down you nervous twat and please, for fucking hell’s sake, let me finish.”
He continued. “To continue then; Beever captains turn Vankers into either, other Beever captains or if they fail the Beever captain's first test, into Flange-flaps. Flange-flaps don’t do much of anything, they just hang around and wait until some extra Vankers that have moved up the ranks quickly to become Beever captains, but fail early on, start to overload the system and then they open up to swallow them; them now being Vankers as they are demoted Beever captains. These Flange-flaps…”

Frank stopped as Django, with his finger in the air, looking like a small boy requesting a toilet break from the teacher, threatened to push him over the edge. “What the fuck is it now?”
“Sorry Frank, but these Beever captains you mention. Where are the beavers in all this and…?”
Frank sat up and placed a paw against Django’s chest. “Once more cunt, just one more interruption for any fucking reason and I’m going to do you in good style.”
He sighed, then settled down again on Django’s lap and continued. “Now please, pay attention my good sir. These Flange-flaps, now boosted with the power of the Vankers they swallowed, become Vankers again and ready to take their first Beever captain’s test all over again. Now then, get this. A Beever captain is on what you would call the first rung of the ladder. We will monitor your progress and if we think you have the material to go any further than a Beever captain does, we will enter you on the list of hopeful Muffrippers, where you will have a really hard time becoming what could be best described as, a shop floor worker. Muffrippers are what keep our system going, they are the lifeblood that makes the machine work, and finally there are the mighty Vector Scabs, whose powers are so vast that you my friend can forget about ever becoming one; do you follow us so far?”
“No,” said Django, “I haven’t got a shitting clue what you two mother fuckers are going on about.”
“Ok I’ll put it another way;” said Frank, shaking his head, “you get to screw the brunette.”
“I’m in for sure,” said Django, cupping his balls.
“Deal?” barked Frank.
“Deal,” laughed Django.
Carla held out her hand. “This way tiger.” She led him to the top of the stairs.
“Can I watch?” said Frank, his tongue hanging out.
“Of course you can,” said Carla.
“Can you fuck,” said Django.
“Twat,” said Frank.
“Exactly,” shouted Django.

Django fucked Carla all night, with each screw even tastier than the one before. In the morning, they both showered and headed downstairs to tuck into a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausage, tomatoes, beans and toast, followed by orange juice and gallons of coffee.
“In all this excitement, I’ve lost track of time,” said Django, leaning back and pulling out a packet of fags. Carla leaned across with her elbows on the table and her hands clasped together. “It’s Ten O’clock in the morning, but it doesn’t really matter as time is our slave now;” she smiled, “we can use it as we wish.”
Django looked puzzled. “I don’t get you.”
Carla got up and took one of his cigarettes. “You will sugar; you’re off to 1945 this afternoon.”