Derek: A Crime Fighting Unicorn.

Right, I’ve gone back to this bastard and started editing it and shit. Here’s there first few thousand words to tie you over until I know where it’s going, and you better like it


Part 1

“Derek? Derek? Answer your fucking phone! We need you here, now! There is shit going down and you’re the only unicorn for the job! Derek? GOD-DAMN YOU, DEREK! GOD-DAMN YOU! You better call me as soon as you get this message or Bin Laden was the last terrorist you’ll ever get to kill!”

It wasn’t the first time Derek had gotten home from the strip clubs to find his commander, Col. Umpteen-Times, screaming at him down the answer phone, but truth is Derek knew he’d never get kicked from this job. He was the best damn unicorn the British army had ever had and he knew it. To give him up would be suicide. The IRA would run them into the ground in no time. He could spend as much time as he wanted fucking strippers, sniffing ketamine and beating up homeless people a la American Psycho, just so long that he was there when he was needed.

This particular night was no different to any other Tuesday night. A gram of K, a grand at the bar. The worst thing MI6 could possibly have done was give him a company credit card, but it was that or get fucked by al-Qaeda. He stumbled in around 3am to hear the message but something was different about it this time. Col. Umpteen-Times would never usually use blasphemy. He was a strict Christianman (Christian; male). God-knows what he was doing working for a fascist war criminal like the Queen of England. He knew he should return the call, but being a unicorn he didn’t have the dexterity to dial the phone so he just set his alarm for an hour earlier than usual, sucked a bong and slipped into a blissful unconsciousness.

The next morning he awoke to the sound of his alarm clock and the ringing of his phone drilling into his head like BP trying to kill off the dolphins. Who the hell could be calling him at this hour? He pulled himself out of bed and immediately slipped back down on a pool of what he could only hope was his own vomit before finally reaching the phone and hitting the hooves-free button he had made special because he’s a unicorn and unicorns don’t have hands to be free from.

“GOD-DAMN YOU, Derek! Did you not get my message?!” It was Col. Umpteen-Times and he was not happy. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you all FUCKING morning! What the hell are you playing at?”

“I was…”

“Don’t give me any of your bullshit, you pointy headed cunt! Haven’t you seen the morning news?” The col. cut him off.

Morning news? But it was only 6am. Derek checked his clock only to find that he had been sleeping through the screaming alarm for 7 hours. “That would explain that dream about all those dying pigs” he thought to himself. “I haven’t had the chance, sorry.” he casually lied to the Colonel. He never used to lie to Col. Umpteen-Times, but then he went to his first staff Christmas do and fucked both his wife and his daughter, but Umpteen-Times caught on and threw a shit storm. Derek had managed to calm him down by explaining how they had both started choking on the Col.’s dry, flavourless cake and he was just performing the Heimlich on them and he only did it in the guest-room toilet so that the other guests wouldn’t worry. He found this incredibly easy, fun almost, and ever since he usually tell him 7-10 bullshit stories a week. Just for kicks.

“Well,” said the Colonel, “You better turn on the news, get your shit together and get the fuck over to HQ otherwise I’ll stick my boot so far up your arse that it’ll look another homo-cone coming out your head and you will never work for this country again! GOD-DAMN YOU!”

Derek knew this was bullshit and that his job was safe, so he sparked up a doobie, made himself a bowl of Cheerios, put the news on in the background and read a bit of ‘The Beano Annual 1987′, his second favorite of all the Beano annuals. He finished his Cheerios and decided it was best to listen to the news. “What kind of bullshit is it this time?”, he thought to himself. “Probably just another fucking fake pipe bomb in the women’s toilets of BBC Headquarters or Kate Middletons cat needs to get wormed again.” He listened to what the stupid, northern bird reading the report had to say.

“Terrible times here in Newcastle. After last night’s unusual events there now appears to be a giant version of what can only be described as some sort of weird, giant baby-man from this angle, biting bits out of St. James Park up in the air and spitting it toward underland.”

Usually this kind of news would have him in a good mood, what with him hating anything to do with anything more north than Norwich ever since he got food poisoning in Kings Lynn, then got raped in Bangor by a drunk bull at what later turned out to be a really gay gay-bar, but not today. “… there now appears to be a giant version of what can only be described as some sort of weird, giant baby-man…” Did he hear the foolish, northern woman correctly? It couldn’t be. He hadn’t heard of anything like this since the late 90’s when he was working undercover in Canada for the Bush Administration back when he was a freelancer. He rolled one last doobie for the ride and left straight for HQ.

“About fucking time!” Screamed Col. Umpteen-times, “Its six in the fucking evening! You smell of whiskey and… what the hell are those stains on your trousers? You’ve been to that fucking strip-bar again, haven’t you? You knew we needed you here! Have you not watched the fucking news?!”

“Nope” he replied, cool as you like, “I didn’t watch the news because I listened to it… On the radio!” He gave a little grin. He loved his clever jokes. He has a particularly good one about rolf Harris in the BBC toilets, but it all got too real so I’ll leave it out.“I listened to it and I started to freak out on the way here. If it’s what it sounds like then we are all fucked, so I thought it best to get one last hand-shandy and a few shots of JD in me before this whole country gets wiped of the face of the earth.” Derek knew this wouldn’t be the case, as he was a bad-ass unicorn from the higher 7th dimension and could pretty much beat the fuck out of anything. He just liked to see the worry in the eyes of office workers whenever he said shit like this.

“GOD-DAMN YOU!” Screamed the colonel. “Get the FUCK into my office now so we can get this SHIT sorted, and no more cracking wise. The staff her are literally shitting bricks because of your stories.”

Derek entered the office and was immediately taken back by what he saw. the Queen (Liz the Second) was there. To her left, The Fascist Margaret Thatcher, and to her right was Nick Clegg and David Cameron in their true form, Man-Ant from Nigeria. He knew this was serious. It’s not often these people, The Unknown Supremes, would ever be together in public. The public do not need to know that the whole world is secretly run by The Queen (Liz the Second) and The Fascist Margaret Thatcher, who were actually just puppets for the Man-Ant Cameron/Clegg (Camerclegg). These people/Man-Ant had not been together in the same room anything closer to the earths surface than 5 floors below ground since they dressed Camerclegg up like a fat Jew bird and sucked Bill Clinton’s cock in a bid to blackmail him into starting Gulf War 2 (This plan failed but they managed to get Junior George Bush the Junior to do it by threatening to melt his Power Rangers and using the plastic to make computers for underprivileged black children), so he knew it was serious.

“I assume one has read the new news reports about Newcastle’s spot of bother last night?” Said Queen Liz the Second.

“I didn’t read it, no,” Derek said, already grinning at his clever gag. “I didn’t read it because I listened to it… on the radio!” He really did crack himself up sometimes. “I listened to it and it doesn’t sound good. It sounds like that damn baby but it can’t be. We did away with him years ago. I beat the shit out of him and threw him into the sea, just like I did with Obama, sorry, Osama, and the nasty Transformer. Could it be a copycat?”

“We wish it was,” said The Fascist Thatcher, a single tear running down her eye. She was obviously upset but this was probably because she had seen a child drinking milk or an independent country doing well enough on it’s own. “We wish it was a copycat but we are afraid it isn’t. Baby Man is back from his watery grave and we think we know who helped him.” but she didn’t need to say anymore. Derek knew the only people in this entire universe who would have helped Baby Man…

The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards.

Part 2

Life was so much easier for Derek when he was a baby unicorn (uni-foal). He would just spend his days having a canter, or a gallop if he was feeling frisky, around the meadows of Jelly Bean Island. It was a glorious place. A lot like the inside of Willy Wonkas factory, but more outdoorsy. all was going very well for him and his family. His dad was a particle physicist and his mother found the first cure for unicorn hepatitis C. One day, when he was ten-or-so, the three of them went out to the theatre, but on leaving his parents were killed in a mugging gone wrong and he was rich and he had seen Batman almost four times, so he decided to become a crime-fighter.

He stayed at Jelly Bean Island until he was old enough to move away. He vowed to spend his time there practising his crime fighting, but there wasn’t any crime on the island. Well, apart from that mugging that got his parents killed, so, for a brief while he had to commit his own crimes and then fight himself but this wasn’t really working out for him, so he just bought a mannequin and beat the fuck out of it three times a day instead. After seven years of this he was old enough to leave. the only problem being that if you left the island you could never return. This was a bit over-the-top, but it was to stop any outside diseases from coming in. Remember how I spoke briefly about the Hep C? Yeah, that kind of thing.

When he first left it wasn’t easy. Most people don’t realise that unicorns even exist, let alone bad-ass Rambo ones, so when ever he tried to make a friend they just thought that they had gone nuts and started freaking out. He had moved to a little place in Wales called Tenby. It’s a lovely place. a little fishing town. you should go there sometime. My nan and Dai use to take me and my cousins there for a weekend every summer when I was a kid, but I digress…

So yeah, he had moved to Tenby for a while because he had heard that Wales was a lot like Jelly Bean Island, with it’s flowing meadows and glorious mountains and rivers and waterfalls and rivers and flowers. And hills. It was, and still is, all of these things, but it also rained a shit-load. The bastard who told him about Wales had happened to leave that one out. “No more sunlight and no more dry”, he should have been told. But there we are. That’s just life. Another big problem for him was everyone who lived in Tenby was, and still is, genuinely lovely. The most crime he ever heard about was a kid stealing a few penny-sweets, so he had to relocate. He went to Swansea.

Let me explain Swansea to you. Imagine a not-so-great east London town. Like Dagenham,. It’s like Dagenham except everyone is on heroin, everyone asks your for change and nobody is black. All of the clubs are condensed to one street, so on the weekend nights one windy road (creatively names Wind Street) would be fully loaded with pissed students, heroin addicts and the police. This would be perfect for him, Derek.

“This place will be perfect for me, Derek” he said as he left the train station.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” asked an elderly lady standing next to him.

“Fuck off” he replied. “I was talking to myself. Don’t eavesdrop on my shit.”

He strutted off down the street and into the centre of town for a walk around before he went to his new flat. He walked down through Castle Square and tripped up a few skateboarders for a laugh and admired the castle. It’s not really that much of a castle though if I’m honest. Which I am. It is just one wall, then another wall. they’re tall walls, don’t get me wrong. It’s not exactly a castle though. It’s no Castell Coch, that’s for sure! Anyway, after maybe two minutes of gazing at this ‘castle’ he heard an alarm wailing from somewhere in the town. It was HMV. This was his time to shine. He galloped past McDonalds and the most probable suspect was heading towards him. It was a filthy looking smack-head, sprinting away from the screaming of the alarms with and X-Box 360 under him arms. Derek stood in his path and raised a leg out, clothes-lining the guy. Right in the fucking throat. BAM! He hit the deck like a sack of shit and started coughing some stuff no-one could ever understand and pointing at his throat. Then blood started to seep from his mouth and he hit the floor.



No more twitches.

Two security guards came running from the shopping centre. “Jesus Christ!” One of them yelled. “Is he dead? Did you kill hi… Are you a unicorn?”

“Yes I’m a fucking unicorn. Now don’t make a deal of it or I’ll smash your teeth out. I might hate crime, but I’m a renegade. Like Die Hard 3.”

Things had come a long way since that day. Now it wasn’t just a two-bit smack-head who stole an X-Box from HMV (It turns out the guy hadn’t robbed anything. He was just running to the bus. No-one had actually stolen anything. Some kid just knocked into the alarm, setting it off. It’s all a rather tragic accident when you think about it, but luckily there is no judicial system in the UK set up for prosecuting unicorns, so he got off scot-free. No, now things were much more serious. Now the future of the world was in his hands.

Shit was about to get real.

Really, really real.

Part 3

Derek didn’t know what to do first. Should he go after Baby Man or should he go get some weed? It was a nine hour drive up to Newcastle after all, so after much (not much) debate he decided to go get some green then be on his way to fuck this prick up once and for all again.

He had a lot of time to reminisce on the drive there. Why the hell were The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards helping out Massive-Tiny-Man-Child? Massive-Tiny-Man-Child never took help from anyone. He was his own Man-Child and no-one elses’. In the business of being mental enough to try taking over the world, to let someone help you once, no matter how small the favour, was to be in their debt forever. There had to be something that went much, much deeper than this. He had a feeling Camerclegg, the Fascist and Liz knew more than they had led him to believe, too.

After a few hours he decided to take a detour into Birmingham. He always had a soft-spot for that place and until Massive-Tiny-Man-Child was anywhere further south than Milton Keynes, he really didn’t give a fuck. He parked up, rolled a doob, stepped out of his car, took a long, hard toke and looked around. “Ahhhh!” he exhaled, “Black girls.”

He liked the Birmingham black strippers more than back in East London for some reason. Maybe it was the fact they lacked all self-respect completely. In East London you get tough to certain things and this always made it harder to get a “bit extra” from the ladies. Not in Birmingham though. If you had a five pound note those whores would dance until the Sun-God Ra shown his face and blessed the crops. This is why he tolerated the fact Birmingham was a bit more north than he’d like. He walked around looking for somewhere to get a drink and a wank-job, but everywhere was shut. He got this really eerie feeling doing a canter around the streets. It was almost like a ghost town. With that thought he got the song Ghost Town by The Specials stuck in his head and he fucking hated ska.

He walked about the city centre a bit to see if he could find someone who could explain why the fuck the strip bars were closed, but there was no-one. A city of millions and there was nobody around? Surely they hadn’t evacuated out of fear from Massive-Tiny-Man-Child, he thought to himself. With that he heard a gentle moaning coming from behind some wheelie bins.

“Hello?” he said, “Who’s there? What’s going on? Why the fuck are the strip bars shut? Where are the black women?” He had so many questions. He got closer to the bin and took a look behind. There was a tiny, old, white lady, shivering and crying. She took one look at Derek and began to scream the cry of a thousand dying dogs.

“Calm the FUCK down!” Derek yelled, putting a hoof over the silly bitches mouth. “What’s going on? Where the fuck is everyone? Where are the black women?”  He demanded answers.

“They just… they just started shooting these lights. they turned everything to dust.” She looked at the ground, trembling with fear and pointed. Derek hadn’t noticed but a film of dust was covering the entire street. She picked up a handful and shown him. “This,” she paused, I’ve decided, for dramatic effect, “This is all that’s left of all those children! Gone! Just like that!”

“So, you’re trying to tell me that some guy shot a light at everyone and turned them into dust? are you fucking mad?” He asked her, obviously annoyed that she had explained neither why the strip bars were shut or where the black women were at.

“No!” she interrupted  “Not a guy. There was more of them. They looked kind of Italian, but they had bolo ties on. And they came from up there, in the sky. Right bastards, they were.”

“Bastards? From the sky? Wearing bolo ties? and… fucking Italian?” He repeated back to her, spitting as soon as he said ‘Italian’.

“Yes” She replied.

“The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards.” he mouthed to himself. He took a quick look around and had one more look at this poor, dying old lady and turned to go find the bastards. They were here. In Birmingham. and it was time for them to die.

“Won’t you please help me! Please I’m in so much pain!” he heard the old woman plead with him as he walked away. “What’s the fucking point?” He thought to himself. She’s old as shit anyway and besides, The Bastards were here. Shit was about to get real. Really, really real. He walked the streets almost aimlessly for a while, wondering where they could be hiding out. “If I was a bastard where would I be?” He asked himself. Then he realised that he can be a bit of a bastard and got a bit of a laugh out of that. He was a different kind of bastard, though. He would just offer women big lines of ketamine and tell them it was cocaine, stuff that like. He had never tried to take over a nation. Apart from that one stag party he went to in Belguim, but he had apologised for that at least a dozen times, so it doesn’t count. also, he wasn’t the one that suggested snorting those pills they found in the taxi. No, The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards were a different bunch of bastards completely…

Part 4

Pew pew pew! Kaboosh! Pew pew! That’s the sound of lasers and shit because now we’re in space as I tell you part of the origins of The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards. Fucking Space. The coolest place on earth. Man’s ultimate goal. Not a lot of people know this but back in the fifties, when the USA and Russia were on an all-out space race, 5 people were sent on a one-way mission, never to return. You probably could have guessed that from the ‘one way’ bit though.

Yeah, the Russians sent three people into space on the premise that they would return safe and sound and the Americans sent two. It was a dick move on both their parts but they felt it was necessary for research purposes. Little did these people know at the time, but space was already full of life. A lot like Futurama, but real life, not a slamming good cartoon. One by one they all got rescued by aliens from Alpha Centuri and were taken to a space hotel orbiting between Mars and whatever planet is next after Mars.

It was a quaint little hotel. Much like a B&B I once stayed in in Minehead. Wood panel walls, wood panel floors and a wood panel bar to boot. All the ever played was David Bowie records until the humans came. Listening to Space Odyssey real upset them so they ended up swapping all the records they had for a couple of Monkeys albums. Needless to say it wasn’t long before the humans requested more David Bowie.

The first to get rescued from the cold, dark void of space was Alexei. A former fighter pilot who won many awards killing Nazis during the second world war. He was only there for a few months though before the first American, Bret Armless, arrived. He arrived at about 11pm, space time, while Alexei was getting blackout drunk at the bar.

“Do you know how to make a White Russian?” Brett asked the bar-alien while taking a seat a few stools away from Alexei.

“What is that suppose to mean?” Alexei questioned, mistaking the drink order for a racial dig.

“Hey!” Brett replied in a shocked tone, because he was shocked, “Are you… Are you from Earth too?”

“Bah! Earth?” Alexei laughed bitterly, “That place is dead to me. I was from there until my arsehole government sent me into space with no way of returning. I was drifting for weeks before I got picked up by an alien that looked like a vagina on a sunflower. What are you doing here? Has your brilliant  nation finally conquered space?” He asked in a rather sarcastic tone.

“Actually, no. I’m here for the same reasons as you. I was sent into space to be the first person to orbit the earth and return. I was suppose to gone a week. That was ages ago. Those bastards did the same to me as they did to you.”

With that, Alexei raised his drink and put a hand on Brets shoulder. “Fuck them! Fuck those mother fuckers all the way to fucking hell. We will get our revenge one day.”

On the other side of the room, the bar alien, Marcus Twain, was listening intently. These weren’t the first people that had stayed at the hotel with a burning hatred for Earth. Well, they were, technically, the other guy I will tell you about later was an alien, but you have to wait for that. that bit is a surprise.

“Got a bit of beef with the old Earth, hey guys?” Marcus asked them. Everyone speaks English in space, by the way. I’m not going to try and invent Kilgon because I hate Star Trek. “You’re not the first. That place has made a lotta enemies in it’s time.”

“Oh yeah?” Said Bret or Alexei. It doesn’t matter. they were both interested in hearing more.

“Yup. This one guy went there. About fifty years from now he get’s trapped at the bottom of the Ocean by some fucking horse or something. He’ll be back here in five years though to tell us about it.”

“Whoa whoa whoa whoa whoa!” Alexei hollered, “What do you mean fifty years from now? And what do you mean he’ll tell us about it in five? Are you having a laugh with us? You can’t fucking move through time time like that, you nonce!”

Angry at the tone, Marcus shouted, “Listen, you fuck! You’re in a wood panel bar in a hotel in Space listening to a fucking Moneys E.P. Do you really want to start questioning things now? Do you?!”

With that the doorbell rang. Then the front door opened. Because that’s how hotels usually work. A lot don’t even have a bell, but this is space and our earthly physics do not abide here.

“I think this is it,” a strong, Russian voice said nervously. “I think this is where that vagina thing told us to go.”

At the sound of this Alexei spun around to see who was making this Russian sound.

“Boris? Demitri?What are you doing here?!”

“What are we doing here? What are you doing here? and what is this place? Or Russia sent us into space never to return. Just like they did with you! The Bastard Motherland! they do not care for human souls!” Cried Boris. No! Demitri. Yeah, Demitri can be the gay one. All crying like a gay. Or a girl.

“Shut up your crying!” Shouted Boris. “I have had to put up with that since the moon. we are with friends now. we are no longer floating to our deaths through space” He looked at Bret, “But who is this…American? Why is he here?”

“Now, now! there’s no need for hostility. I’m in the same boat as you. I use to live on a farm in Texas after the war until I got singed up to be the first man in space. Little did I know It was a secret mission and I was to be outcast-ed like you guys. fuck the earth. the earth is full of scum. apparently we’re not the only ones who hate that place.”

“Yes” hissed Marcus, “He is quite right. there is a child, a man. He is huge yet small. He can help you get your… revenge. I shall contact him immediately. Let me show you to your rooms.”

Part 5

Back on Earth in present day, the fascist Thatcher, Camerclegg the Nigerian Man-Ant and Liz were freaking out. They felt in proper dire straights. Newcastle was almost completely destroyed and they hadn’t heard from Derek since he had left.

“Where on earth could he be?” Asked Liz with a tone of sheer desperation in her voice. “Do you think we should send in the T.A?”

“Ha! Don’t make me laugh!” laughed Camerclegg, “They wouldn’t last five seconds. We’re talking about a giant half-man half-child from God-knows where. He could spit and destroy them all! We need Derek! Get him on the phone!”

With that, one of the members of staff, a generic character who we shan’t even dignify with a name, came running in to the room.

“Miss! Miss!” he or she called for the Fascist.

“Don’t you ever knock!” She screamed back. Her face was as red as a used tampon and she was sweating like a really warm fat guy on a treadmill. she was angry. Not with the manners of the generic character, but because she was going through her fifth menopause of the year. and it was only June.

“I’m sorry, miss, but it’s urgent. It’s about Birmingham. It’s been…”

With that he or she was interrupted by Camerclegg, “Black girls! Of course! Has Derek been on the phone?”

“No, sir. Sirs?” He or she was unsure whether to plural the word sir or not, what with Camerclegg kinda being two people. “No. It was the mayor. Something has happened. I couldn’t quite make it out through the crying. Something about dust and lights and maybe cowboys?”

“Jesus Christ!” Exclaimed Liz, “Get him back on the phone, now!”

The generic character who I have not bothered to name ran out to get the mayor of Birmingham, Clive Bottomfeeder, on the phone. Then he or she came back with the phone. Because he couldn’t afford to lose his or her job. He or she had a second kid on the way. Then he or she handed the phone to Camerclegg who put it on speakerphone and set it on the table.

“Bottomfeeder? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know!” he wept, “There was… It was a lovely day. Everything was fine, then all of a sudden these people came. They were dressed as astronauts but they had cowboy hats on, but they couldn’t have been cowboys because one of them looked kind of half-Italian. Then they started shooting these really bad-ass laser guns and people started turning into dust! It’s like the final scene from Scareface out there! We need help!”

The three, or possibly four depending on how you count Camerclegg, leaders looked at each other in a stunned silence and at the same time they all said the words, “The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards.”

“This may sound strange, but have you seen a tough looking unicorn knocking around anywhere? We have someone who could possibly help you, but he’s gone AWOL. He loves Black strippers with low self-esteem though so we think he may have stopped in Birmingham on the way to Newcastle.” asked the fucking fascist Thatcher.

“A what? A unicorn? If he’s looking for black strippers with low self esteem he’s come to the right place. Our strippers have the lowest in the UK. We did a survey. But no, I haven’t. Do you think this has something to do with that big, baby-man thing that keeps spitting Newcastle at Sunderland?”

“We don’t think,” said Liz, who then paused for dramatic effect because it’s my story and she’ll do what I want, “we know. We need you to send some people out to look for him. His name is Derek. Do you have any police officers at the ready?”

“We did” he replied, “But the ting is, they’re currently hiding in the basement. I know for a fact at least thirty have wet themselves and one may even have soiled his pants with poo.”

“Well you better tell them to man the fuck up and go out there and look for him. Send a team. Tell them to be quick. We want some sort of constant communication with both you and the officers you send, do you understand?” Ordered Liz.

“You want me to send some police who are wet with urine to look for a Unicorn who may be looking for strippers to go and fight some mafia cowboys who are astronauts and bastards so he can stop them before going up north to stop a huge yet small baby man from eating Newcastle? I understand perfectly. I’ll get a team together now.”

With that, The Supreme Leaders realised that the generic, nameless character had been in the room the whole time. He or she had heard everything. Word of this plan couldn’t get out. They needed a total media black out until they had it under control.

“Could you come with me for a second?” the fascist Thatcher asked the aide. “We need to have a word about what you’ve just heard.”

The aide turned to walk out of the room, because the fascist thatcher had gestured him or her to walk that way.


Half a brick to the back of the head. They wouldn’t have to worry about him or her letting the secret slip now.

Part 6

Mayor Bottomfeeder didn’t like the sound of what he had just heard at all but mainly because he couldn’t understand. Not that he couldn’t understand The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards and their hurtful, hurtful way, but he couldn’t understand why his city? Why the charming town of Birmingham? With it’s enchanting character and trendy bars, it was a hit with anyone who visited. He truly did think that Birmingham really was the heart of Europe.

“Fucking bastards!” he said to himself. “I’m going in.”

He marched down the stairs and burst through the basement door. What he saw enraged him. A room full of, for all Bottomfeeder was concerned, Europe’s finest police officers in a scene that could only be described as a day-care centre in an P.O.W camp. He wasn’t angry at how pathetically his police responded to an emergency, he was angry because somebody out there had the audacity to do this the peoples Birmingham. His Birmingham. His and the peoples Birmingham.

“Right boys!” he shouted with confidence, “Some fucking muggins is trying to have his way with the peoples Birmingham, and I for one will not stand for such bull-shit. I need a team of twelve to get their fucking shit together and come help me find a unicorn. While your working out who’s coming just remember that it wont take very long.” He turned to leave but just as he got to the door he turned back and quipped, “Because most of you will be dead soon.” He felt like a bad-ass. He never felt like a bad-ass. He then thought about how sexy his wife would find him right now, if she were still around, that is.

At this point he was walking past a window and paused to look out. For a bit of dramatics and that.

No, his wife was out of the picture. They use have the perfect life, Clive and Diana. they grew up in a little fishing village in Yorkshire called Whitby. I’ve never been myself so I couldn’t tell you what it’s like, but apparently Clive thought it was lovely and so did Diana. They use to own a little flower shop in the market and Clive had a small interest in politics, what with him being from a long line of British army generals and M.P’s. I don’t really know much about politics so I can’t really tell you any more than this on that but I do know for certain Clive was from Whitby, fucking loved it, and his dad and dads dad were in politics and the war game. That’s how he eventually ended up being a mayor in Birmingham. A combination of those things. Oh! And he wife. No, his wife was no longer living with him. Or, he had moved out, rather. Yesterday she got home from work early and caught him wanking out of the cat-flap so he’s moved into his car… so it was sure gonna be awkward when he goes back there for his dads guns! LOL!

Nah, she’s either at work, hiding out somewhere from The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards or fucking her assistant, probably. No, probably not the last one. He just felt like he should blame her for something to do with his situation. So yeah, anyway, he got in his car and drove home to get his guns and then went to collect his team of Europe’s finest to bring these space-dicks to justice. And that’ll show his darling Diana that’s he’s more than just a mayor that wanks out of cat-flaps. He’s a mayor that gets stuff done.

“KA-BANG!” he screamed as he kicked the basement door open. this was odd for him, given his petite build, middle-class upbringing and glasses. “You mother-fuckers know who has the balls to almost definitely die trying to help me look for a unicorn? And astronauts? Pew! Pew!” he mimicked the sound of a laser gun using his finger as a replacement. He was excited.

“No! We will not die out there like dogs!” screamed one of the officers.

You will protect the peoples Brimingham!” he screamed back with the power of a thousand suns. “This town, this idea of perfection that most people can only ever dream of, has given you everything it’s had to offer your entire lives! You have eaten the fruits from its trees, drank the water from it’s springs. Don’t you think it’s about time you maybe gave something back? Is this how you want o be remembered by the children of the future? Dribbling balls of shitty, pissy cowardliness?  Well it doesn’t matter because without you the peoples Birmingham will have no future.” Bottomfeeder was all about the dramatics today.

“Yes, sir” a voice said.

“Yes, sir” Another.

Yes, sir”

You get the picture. Everyone got involved. Slowly they all started saying “Yes, sir” until they were all up on their feet, screaming and chanting with their newly-found pride. It would make a good scene in a film.

“I’ll show you to the guns” A voice said. Then a person walked forward. The voice was from that person. That person with that voice was Detective Constable    Ecclesworth. He led the Mayor out of the room and took him into a bigger, more secret room which was full of awesome guns. Machine guns and sniper rifles and some flash-bangs and all that awesome Call of Duty Modern Warfare shit. Stuff was about to get pretty epic.

Part 7

The streets were cold and quiet like and old, empty… something. Ship! That’ll do. The streets were cold and quiet like an old, empty ship and Derek didn’t like the feeling he was getting walking around one bit. The last time he was here the streets were full of drug dealers with mid-range product and children picking bits of broken glass from their palms, and to top things off he left his weed in the car and had forgotten where he parked. He could tell this was not going to be an easy day.

He thought to begin his hunt with The Bullring. The Bullring is a hugely massive shopping centre and the first place you’d go in a desolate town you just emptied would be a big, huge, fuck-off shopping centre. He was sure he’d find The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards there. After all, Derek saw them as childish cunts and there was an Early Learning Centre.

He turned left at the station (and don’t look up whether or not these directions are accurate. I’ve never been to Birmingham, either, so I’m just making it up) and began to walk down Pennylane Road, which was a road about a mile long with lots of little side-streets dotted up the sides. He got about a quarter of the way down and stopped to asses what had happened. He took a knee, or two because he’s quadruped, and picked up some of this corpse-dust that covered the streets. a single tear run from one of his eyes.

“I can’t believe I forgot to buy coke and left my weed in the car.” he said softly to himself. He then repeated it back to himself but in a jaunty Dutch accent to cheer  himself back up. If there was one thing that could always make him laugh it was the Dutch accent. Every time. He was about to continue on the walk where, from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a dozen or so men running in the opposite direction to where he just came from down one of the side-streets.

“Those bastards!” He said to himself again as he was the only person about still, “They’ve brought a gang this time, eh? Crafty cunts. Well I can be much, much craftier.”

He slowly cantered down the side-street and began to follow them. There was indeed a dozen of these men. “Had they found them all in space?” Derek asked himself. That wasn’t important now though. What was important was that they all die. He watched them get to the train station where they proceeded to split into two groups. “Ha!” he laughed. “Splitting up into two, smaller groups? they might as well be tying their own nooses.” The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards didn’t appear to be with those guys though so he decided to deal with them later. There were bigger fish to fry and he was hungry for big fish.

He turned to make his way back to The Bullring, but this time he decided to use the quieter streets. He didn’t want to risk being seen by The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards gang, even if he could fuck them up quicker than he could sperm on one of Birmingham’s world famous black strippers. No, he decided to take it easy and make his way to The Bullring.

What he saw when he arrived there was terrible. The Bastards had definitely been. There was corpse-dust everywhere and the scent of burnt flesh hung in the air, although that just turned out to be the McDonalds in the food court, and all the jewelry shops and been smashed up. “Bastards” he said to himself. “They better not have taken all the watches. I need two. Because I’m a quadruped. Actually, I could do with a new iron while I’m here. Wicked-cool.”

He cantered around for a while, doing a bit of casual shopping. He was going to go to Ibiza in a week so he got himself a nice Ralph Loren polo shirt and a couple of pairs of shorts, some rather quaint lamp-shades, he managed to get the watch and iron he had originally wanted and he even got himself a keyboard. He had always wanted to learn the keyboard. “I have always wanted to learn the keyboard.” he said to himself, just so you know I’m not making it up. He was about to go to Pets at Home to grab himself some food when all of a sudden,


The sound of clattering coming from above. This sure was about to get interesting if it was who he thought it was. He thought it to be The Astronaut Cowboy Mafia Bastards by the way. Just thought I’d add that in case your mind was drifting elsewhere. He began to get really worked up now. Just on the floor above him were the cunts who made him get out of work because bloody Newcastle was under attack, then ruined his pre-fight lapdance. “This isn’t going to end well for them at all.” Derek whispered to himself, buzzing like he had dropped an e at the thought of watching them die at his hands. He worked out from the sounds that they were probably trying on clothes in H&M so he went looking for a back door. Then he giggled at the combination of words ‘back’ and  ’door’.

Slowly and softly he crept up the stairs and towards the emergency fire-exit of H&M. “How can I kill them?” He asked himself. then he thought of all the different ways he could. Bullets? Fire? Hungry rats like the room 101 chapter from the book 1984? The choices were almost too abundant. “I’m gonna play this one by ear.” he thought. Just kill in the moment.

He quietly opened the door and he saw them right there, at the front of the shop, doing an 80′s ‘getting ready’ montage. They were completely oblivious to him. He walked through the shop, keeping as low as he could until he was about thirty feet away then he got up.

“Remember me, dick’eads?” he snarled.

“Well, well, well!” Bret gleefully replied. “Fancy that, guys!” he turned to the rest, “We got ourselves a gay horse! Hello, gay horse? How are you doing? We haven’t seen you in a while. Come sit down. Help yourself to a skirt or two. We need to catch up…


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