Kongomato

Chapter One

Vince extracted a large, oil-stained finger from his nostril and inspected it carefully. Not simply a display of revolting manners, this was a daily, and diligently performed ritual of which he was very proud.

Satisfied with the result he wiped the hand down the leg of his equally grimy jeans while belching with deep conviction. His satisfied smile faltered only as his giant belly shuddered. Usually the sight of his impressive beer gut evoked nothing but happy memories. Countless pints had been consumed to aid its construction, with the equally pleasing prospect of many more for its continued maintenance.

Tonight should have been one of such binges. This was the allotted day for their monthly cruise down the country pubs. Normally they’d take the van, get pissed and probably nick a motorbike on the way for spare parts. And if they were really lucky, find some poofs to beat up.

‘But why can’t we go to the pub and get wrecked?’

He was upset. He’d been looking forward to their little outing for days. Anything that spoilt the calm, well ordered routine of his life was a trip into the unknown. He didn’t like changes; they worried him.

The heavily veined skin of his swollen face glowed in counterpoint to a deeply spotted brow and grey streaked beard nestling into the thick folds of his neck. All of these less than attractive features were highlighted by a badly shaved, scar-laden head. However, since he rarely washed, he seldom gave much thought to his appearance. Anyway, he didn’t need to be Brad Pitt for a while. He’d stopped trying to pick up tarts after that episode a few months back when he couldn’t get it up. It was just that the giggling slag had been so fast on her feet. If he’d got his hands round her throat she wouldn’t have giggled again – ever.

Even now the memory of Old John failing to rise filled him with horror. It had never happened before and he hadn’t told any of the others because if just one had laughed, so much as smirked, he’d have wiped it off their faces permanently. It was probably just too many beers that night. He had a vague memory of some kind of drinking contest, which naturally he’d won. He smiled, reassured once more. That was it. He couldn’t be the world’s greatest drinker and lover in one night, could he? Wasn’t reasonable.

He knew he’d have to cut down on the fags, though. Even he could hear his voice changing almost by the day; grating and rough courtesy of the several packets he used every day. Bollocks. It was probably too late for him to sing in a choir, anyway. But his permanently sore throat was beginning to bug him. Bleedin’ quack had nervously warned him about those lumps that had recently appeared in his throat.

That was it. He was going to start exercising and then he’d be just like he was a few years back – fighting them off with hammers.

An ample backside billowed over the edges of a small wooden chair whose rear legs groaned ominously as his feet perched precariously on the edge of a tottering table. He shifted slightly to see around his belly, the better to admire the new jackboots he’d recently liberated from that army surplus shop. It was going to get another nocturnal visit if those German army uniforms he’d noticed were still there in a couple of days.

After gulping down the dregs of his last beer he belched again and tossed the empty can onto the filthy floor amid the remnants of several dozen others. Cracked and equally filthy nails absently scratched an annoying itch on his massively muscled arm. The source of the irritation was a large faded tattoo; that of a Union Flag flying from an inverted crucifix, constructed entirely from dead police officers. This emblem was a reminder of his support for the proletarian state back in those distant times when he’d actually cared about such things.

Several feet away Eric, a tall man also in his late twenties farted with equal sincerity. Eric had bidden goodbye to his hair a decade ago. Added to that, his facial eczema had crept resolutely downwards from his forehead and now encompassed nearly his entire face. It hadn’t reached his neck and shoulders yet but the doc said it didn’t matter how much cream he rubbed on, it was just a matter of time. Engraved into his equally enormous forearm was a lurid depiction of what appeared to be a rabid pit-bull straining at the leash in its eagerness to tear the innards out of a feverishly fleeing judge. But, like the forearm, the dog had run to fat and now subsequently resembled its owner, a grossly overweight and permanently mournful basset hound.

The mandatory Union Flag he possessed adorned the stained tee-shirt, looted from the charred remains of a shop he’d torched several years before. Now it pressed tightly over a beer belly almost as impressive as Vince’s. Leaning against the scorched remains of a kitchen table he’d rescued from a nearby fire, he waited, small black eyes darting nervously as he focused on the third occupant of the room.

Julian glared at them both, his unbridled and eternal anger evinced by the constant gasps of obscenity which had a peculiar habit of bursting forth with little or no provocation. As usual it was directed primarily at the whole world and to a lesser extent these two miserable twats he was saddled with. This fury had been birthed a long time ago courtesy of his mum, and his dad - the shithead. They’d inflicted him with a name he loathed to a degree he couldn’t even begin to convey since his extreme xenophobia and his rabid racism precluded it from even being shortened.

An overactive thyroid ensured, that unlike the other two he remained dangerously underweight regardless of how much beer he swilled or junk food he consumed. His thin, hairless face glowered as he ground black uneven teeth in a manner that made the other two cringe inwardly. While blue but eternally bloodshot eyes gazed maniacally around him. Both knew that it wouldn’t do to show any outward emotion, certainly not revulsion. They were supposed to be the hardest of the hard. At least that was what Julian always preached to them. His hero, and by extension theirs, had been tough and would still be in charge now were it not for the malignant communist hoard and malevolent American disease. This supreme knowledge denied the logic that a man of well over a hundred years old would barely be continent let alone running a world-encompassing state. Even Vince knew that, but it didn’t do to back-chat Julian.

Much to his eternal sorrow the gossamer nature of Julian’s epidermis would not tolerate any sharp intrusions. Thus thin, spidery arms bereft of any tattoos now tensed in preparation for his usual speech. Vince and Eric waited patiently, but were for the moment forgotten as Julian readied himself just the way Der Fuehrer had to such great effect at the Nuremberg rallies so long ago.

Julian readied himself after frowning at the numerous vivid scars adorning his skinny arms. These were the result of numerous abortive attempts both by himself and a tattoo artist, now permanently unemployed, after Julian’s attack with an iron bar, despite the fearful man’s advice regarding his skin type. Thus his only adornment today below a slightly infected representation of the British flag, etched with permanent ink on his equally bald head, was a tee shirt bearing the slogan: "What part of fuck off don’t you understand?"

‘You know why we can’t go to the pub. We’ve been over this three times already, dickhead. You want me to explain it to you again so that lump of budgie crap you call a brain finally remembers it?’ Julian’s strident voice was as strange as its owner; that of a petulant child on the verge of a hysterical temper tantrum. At thirteen his vocal chords had probably functioned quite normally for a child. But after developing at the same rate as his intelligence his attempt at sarcasm culminated in a crescendo of falsetto rage, and was lost on Vince who shook his head feebly. Even Eric shrank slightly, glad that Julian’s anger was directed at someone else for a change.

Why this tall thin man held so much power over the two when either of whom could have crushed the other with little or no effort, would have been beyond them had they ever bothered to ponder the question. However such was the power of his penetrating gaze that what Julian ordered was usually what happened. It seemed that tonight was going to be no exception. He frowned once more as he settled his rangy frame into the moth-eaten chair stolen from a local jumble sale, surveying the last three members his world-dominating group with contempt.

Situated in the condemned pavilion of a long since abandoned cricket pitch, the three were in their den or headquarters, as Julian had grandly named it. This ramshackle building lay conveniently isolated from local civilisation within the windswept hollow of a rotting copse. Their already limited membership was a result of their, or rather Julian’s, insistence that they all be born and raised in England and of such stringently proven Arian purity as to exclude almost the entire population of the country. Of the remaining six members of their ultra far-right organisation they were the only three still at large.

Thus were it not for the overly rigorous police force governing the dominating society they’d all pledged to overturn, all six brothers would have been present to rehearse their planned venture of this evening. However one was confined to his house shackled by an electronic anklet, ready at a moment’s notice to inform the totalitarian authorities of any nocturnal foray. While the remaining two had been banged up for the downright patriotic act of maiming two Arsenal supporters for their temerity in suggesting that Julian’s beloved Manchester United might not be the best football team in the entire world. Should have got a fucking medal for planting the two bastards in the canal. Next time they’d put the tossers in that abandoned industrial fridge and then no one would get out and blab to the cops.

‘One more time, alright?’ Julian’s forceful gaze pinned them both to whatever they were sitting on or leaning against. He sighed with a curiously theatrical gesture of weariness. About him SS memorabilia jostled for dominance over the quietly rotting walls. Wide jawed storm-troopers gazed stonily over a world plague of caricatured Jewry whilst simultaneously crushing hapless Russian soldiers beneath jackbooted feet.

Swastikas and Triumph motorcycle posters (non of that jap-crap) leered at by the mandatory hugely breasted women, peered from behind large crates of grimy motorcycle parts looted from a razed motorcycle shop they’d just been passing a few weeks before. The dampened acoustic result of their surroundings caused Julian’s voice to echo slightly as he intoned The Plan yet again.

‘The museum of natural history, remember?’ Julian droned patiently as if a teacher towards particularly stupid pupils. At the same time quelling the ever-present voices in his head ordering him to get that sub-machine gun he’d bought in an east end pub and shoot someone, anyone, just for practise. The whole world was out to get him and so they all deserved it. It would be a mercy, really.

An absent father and a drunken mother had foisted him, as a child, onto a state care system dominated by Jews and blacks, obviously just waiting for their chance to take over the government. Luckily for Julian this state had also afforded him the opportunity to meet a teacher brimming with his own radical theories of a world-wide conspiracy and had quickly become a willing receptacle to his philosophy. The teacher had also introduced Julian to other activities; those which could only be practiced inside the ground keeper’s deserted hut.

He secretly treasured the memory of the only man he’d ever loved. Unfortunately this person had espoused his ideas once too often and subsequently been removed and imprisoned by the police lackeys only to be murdered in jail by communist sympathisers masquerading as decent criminals. He’d never forgotten the wonderful things he’d learned from Mr Andrews, even if he kept most of them to himself. But not the single prized possession he had retained.

The only book he’d ever owned or read in his life had prophesied this, the coming struggle, and Julian was not a man to shrink from the daunting task ahead. Mein Kampf had all the answers and even if some of the logic seemed a little skewed he would follow it to its rambling, incoherent letter until the end of his days. Unfortunately since Adolph’s and his own myriad plans for world Aryan domination were so extensive and convoluted; these two pillocks were having trouble remembering them all. So now he had to go over them again, reminding them yet again about this, his greatest coup so far.

Vince and Eric were good fighters, Julian wouldn’t argue with that. The way they smacked people about was a pleasure to watch. Take last week for instance. That Jew who’d actually had the audacity to complain when they’d taken some beer from his shop. Should have been fuckin’ grateful they’d chosen his pig sty. The way his teeth had flown when Eric kicked him straight in his whining gob had been pure art. And the elegant technique Vince had employed to slam the lid of the fridge down on his chink assistant’s head – poetry in motion. And as for where he’d rammed the security camera – it still brought a warm smile to his face every time he thought about it.

Still, all that said, they could never be considered the sharpest tools in the box. Fucking thick as pig shit, both of them. But they were good foot soldiers and he’d keep them in mind for better things after the people – his people – finally came to power.

‘That artif, atifect. That rock thing they dug out of the ground in Africa. Remember, the one I told you about?’ Both foot soldiers shook their heads truthfully. Vince sort of remembered, but it had been a couple of weeks ago and he sometimes had trouble with long term shit since that kicking from a bunch of pikeys he’d tried to rip off. It seemed to swirl and just get messed up in his mind. Luckily Julian always remembered for him so it wasn’t usually a problem.

Eric had gone one further. He’d forgotten what he’d forgotten about so simply offered Julian a vacant smile. Anyway his leader always seemed strangely pleased when he had to explain things over and again. Eric’s stupidity was laced with a thin strain of animal cunning. It was always better if someone else took over the thinking and the blame if it became necessary.

‘The,’ Julian decided not to tackle that word again, the one he’d only read about for the first time a couple of weeks ago. It didn’t do to let Dickhead A and Dickhead B know that he wasn’t a hundred times brighter than they were. ‘the stone, the rock what they brought back from Africa. The one those...’ he nearly fell into his own trap again. There was no way he was going to attempt something as difficult as archyoli – whatever the fuck it was. Where did they find these names? Probably a Masonic conspiracy to keep all the real working people down.

‘Those twats what dig things up from the ground. Anyway, they say that this stone proves that human beings. That’s us. Or me, anyway.’ He allowed himself some rare levity. Indeed such bouts of humour were becoming increasingly so since he’d started taking those pills he got from the Net; the ones that made your muscles even bigger without having to do all that weight lifting shit.

‘Anyway, they say that it proves; proves mind, that we all come from Africa. Now I’ll tell you this.’ His voice quivered in fury at the very notion. ‘My great granddad weren’t no gollywog. Life on Earth started in Germany. My great granddad was a German like Adolf. Probably a SS officer.’ Eric and Vince nodded encouragingly as Julian’s glottal stops sent showers of saliva flying over them, because both fervently believed he spoke English with a purity that would forever elude them. Even though Vince vaguely remembered in the portion of his brain not yet addled by beer or marijuana that Adolf Hitler had not been a German but Australian or something.

He would never dream of saying it aloud but it gave him limited comfort that Julian clearly didn’t know everything. And in truth neither of them had the slightest idea of what their friend was ranting about, anyway.

And he was ranting.

Gobs of spittle dripped onto his chin, and were just as quickly swept away by those scarred arms flying about his head. His eyes glazed as his hands, clasped and jerked spasmodically the way he’d seen Adolf do in his many speeches which were required viewing if you wanted to be in the group. All those other part-timers hadn’t been able to do it but Vince had soon realised that you just switched off and pretended like you was enjoying it.

‘So what are we gonna do.’

Julian paused for a much needed breath of air and with a squirm of horror Eric quickly dashed the vain hope that Vince had not seen him politely raise his hand to speak. He had seen it and smirked. It was just that when Julian went into one, it was like being at school all over again.

‘We’re gonna nick it and shit on it. Then we’re gonna sell it.’ Both men sneaked a quick alarmed glance at each other. Neither of them minded getting their hands dirty, in real terms or even metaphorically, but the thought of handling it after Julian had laid a log didn’t appeal very much.

But Julian had caught their silent exchange. Throwing up his hands with concentrated zeal, he said: ‘You pratts. It’s made of Zirco...’ There, he’d nearly done it again. ‘It’s worth a fucking fortune. Cos’ it’s like a diamond or something. We’re gonna have it away and sell it and shit on ‘em.’

Julian seemed to have a lot of defecation in mind but the two men didn’t care. He’d uttered the one word guaranteed to recapture their waning attention: diamond! That had to be worth loads.

‘It’ll keep us in beer, and the cause in funds, for years.’ Julian amended himself quickly. ‘And if I feel like it I’m gonna torch the fuckin’ museum at the same time.’ His serene but slightly alarming smile told them that all was well. Julian was in charge and everything would go to plan, just like it always had done in the past.

Chapter Two

With surprising agility for ones of their girth, Vince and Eric left Julian at the clubhouse where he was now living since the rather acrimonious eviction from his own flat.

Thus far the police had not discovered his whereabouts. In fact it was doubtful if they had even looked since Julian’s former lodgings had also doubled as a brothel. This situation was helped little by the landlord, a vicious pimp who’d kept the local Accident and Emergency department well supplied, in the form of girls not pulling their weight. And since the pimp’s jaws were currently being held together by about twenty feet of wire, courtesy of Eric and Vince, it was doubtful if the hunt would ever begin.

After promising to meet in an hour the two men returned to the grime ridden hovel of which they had illegally taken possession during someone’s holiday the previous summer. The real owner had subsequently retired from the fight amidst the antiquated and convoluted squatting laws, on the basis that the whole place was falling down, anyway.

As agreed they changed into what passed for normal and innocuous clothing before making for the rendezvous. Though even now it was doubtful if even the moderately normal but grime encrusted rags they wore was any guarantee of their admittance into the museum, or anywhere else for that matter. Anyone seeing three shifty, middle aged skinheads wearing an assortment of filthy rags of the kind usually flowing out of skips would have given them all a very wide berth.

Vince had opted for total disguise by donning a hastily washed and faded parka bearing the stains of an engine rub-down of his now permanently seized Triumph motorcycle.

Eric’s jeans had not fitted him when he’d stolen them five years ago after discovering several bulging bin bags abandoned in front of a charity shop. They had also contained the once white tee-shirt which someone had accidentally washed alongside something red. He’d concealed most of its odd colour with a moderately neat pullover with only three large holes over his chest.

While Julian had arrived in an almost presentable fashion with the shirt and dark trousers he’d worn to his dad’s funeral five years before. He’d only gone in the first place so he could piss on the grave. If memory served it had also been the last time he’d washed them, and that was only because it had been dark by the time he’d got there already pissed. It had been raining and he’d subsequently fallen into the hole that some pratt hadn’t filled in yet. Along with a pair of black shoes with only one sole missing, he almost looked normal, although he didn’t feel like it. He hated not being in uniform; but needs must, he’d comforted himself. Adolf would have approved.

It was almost five o’clock and the museum would be closing soon so they would have to be quick. Julian made sure that they could not be seen from the ornate facade of the main entrance and that they were outside the flow of passers-by and, more importantly, any marauding coppers. He beckoned them both to him.

‘Remember. We go in apart, which means not together, got it? Then you both go and find somewhere dark. Don’t piss anybody off and make sure the guards can’t see you. Keep your gobs shut and don’t make a noise.’ Julian had practised this particular speech to perfection. ‘Don’t hide inside the bogs because they’ll probably check them before they close. When you do find somewhere to hide, don’t let anyone see you do it. Don’t screw it up.’ He glared at them both in turn.

‘Then as soon as the place shuts, wait for fifteen minutes before meeting me on the second floor.’ He nodded encouragingly at them. Eric nodded back but Vince frowned, his head already throbbing with a problem he was attempting to solve. He’d been worrying at it since Julian had gone over the plan in the clubhouse and the solution was still nowhere in sight. Julian saw the look in his eyes and instantly realised his dilemma. He resisted the urge to give the silly sod one in the bollocks.

‘How many bleedin’ times? The floor on the bottom is the ground floor. So the second floor is actually the third floor. Got it? Ground, first, second.’ Vince pondered this for a moment before smiling gratefully.

‘Got it.’

For a second Julian considered telling the two to stay together, but it was too dangerous. They’d knock something over and make a noise or try to nick something. And there was no way they were going in with him because if they fucked it up at least he could do the job himself. They were useful but not that useful. There was always more canon-fodder out there.

He sent Vince off first. After waiting for a minute as his lumbering shape disappeared through the door and was not instantly thrown out, he urged Eric forward. Two minutes after that he checked one more for any passing policeman and then set off.

Once inside the museum Julian fumed, controlling his fury with difficulty. That guard was lucky he hadn’t punched his lights out. Yes he did know there was only half an hour left. He didn’t want to move in, he’d informed the worried face of the guard; he just wanted a fuckin’ look around. He’d meet him again but tonight was not the time. Even he realised that kicking the man into unconsciousness would probably attract undue attention. He hadn’t yet heard the alarm so assumed the other two were doing as they were told.

Inside the dark and forbidding fortress which was the museum, the temperature seemed about twenty degrees lower than outside. He immediately felt cold. Still, he reminded himself, he’d be plenty warm soon as soon as he’d grabbed the rock and sold it. Probably get a medal. He wasn’t exactly sure from whom, but it stood to reason that proving the Aryan race had been the first to set foot on the planet would make someone grateful. And if they didn’t, sod ‘em, because he’d be rich, anyway

He made his way carefully through assorted dinosaurs and the rest of the crap that people actually wasted their time looking at. I mean what was the point? Everything that came before Adolf was just a waste of time and probably just lies to hide the truth. With the greatest of restraint he edged past an elderly man who seemed to find him interesting. Nosy old fart. Should have been put down years ago when he wasn’t good for work any more.

After wandering carefully past the few remaining punters for a while, his eyes fastened onto the nearest clock, now creeping ever closer to half past five. He still hadn’t found anywhere suitable to hide. So with a worried frown he strode up the carpeted steps to the first floor and there to his left Julian saw an exhibition apparently so boring that nobody wanted to look at it. That would have to do. He made his way towards a deserted area near the wall. There about twenty glass covered racks clustered about this section seemed to be filled with shiny rocks and some shit about man-made stones. Who cared? But there in the corner was a long curtain reaching from the big domed ceiling to the thinly carpeted floor. Perfect.

With a careful glance behind him he saw that nobody was looking. He’d already been in the week before to check the walls and ceiling for CCTV and found to his delight that there were none. He would have trashed it had there been any but this just made it easier. It was almost as if it were meant to happen. With exaggerated attempts at nonchalance he moved slowly towards it and within seconds was hidden. After ensuring his shoes weren’t protruding from beneath the dank curtain he pressed himself against the wall. His nose twitched from the close proximity of the material which smelt as if it hadn’t been washed for about twenty years.

Almost afraid to breathe he waited, listening with interest to the mechanical voice proclaiming that the museum would be closing in twenty minutes, then fifteen, then ten. There was enough light in his hiding place to read and he wished he’d brought ‘The Book’ because this was fucking boring. He decided to think about the boss’ famous speeches to while the time away.

After a few minutes the air behind the thick curtain quickly became stuffy and the urge not to sneeze, increasingly more difficult. Moving as slowly as possible he put his sleeve up to his mouth. He’d use it as a gas mask. Just the very thought of gas masks made him smile. That and the fact that so far he’d heard no sound of a scuffle or raised voices, so that meant the other two had hidden themselves. He just hoped the two pratts hadn’t got together and decided to smoke a spliff while they was waiting. He wouldn’t put it past them.

Finally a sonorous horn hopefully meant that the place was shut. Julian hadn’t heard any movement for a few minutes now. He decided to wait another fifteen before making his move.

The time passed agonisingly slowly. It felt like he’d been in there for years. But even after repeating Adolph’s teachings for several more minutes he could bear it no longer. His nose itched. His ear itched and the constant irritation from his newly hatched piles was enough to make him want to gouge them out with a rasp. Stifling a sneeze which felt like it had originated in his feet he carefully peered round the curtain. Thankfully all the lights had gone off ten minutes before and as a bonus it was almost dark outside.

Inside the museum it was hard to see anything with the few dim emergency lights that glimmered uselessly on the walls. Secretly, he was glad he wouldn’t be passing those dinosaurs. He’d never tell the others of course