Category Archives: horror

Cities within Cities.

Docked and feet back on familiar ground I was approached by two stout fellows wearing peculiar badges on the left breast pockets of their police uniforms.
‘Lord Game…’ said the taller of the two, both bowing their heads fractionally.

I was immediately taken back. These officers certainly knew who I was, it seemed.

‘Your presence is required by the Crown. If you would please accompany us to the City-

‘Hang on a minute there…mister officer. I’ve been away for almost two years, now I ain’t going nowhere till I’m good and ready, especially not for any fucking King of England!’ 

The men frowned, then shared a look. It seemed that I had missunderstood something here.

‘Forgive me Lord Game, it is not King George who summons you.’

The marines milled passed us and wooped into the arms of their loving families. Most of them avoided looking in our direction. I avoided giving a fuck. 

The oddly dressed police men waited, glances swapping back and forth. I wouldn’t say they were nervous, but, I don’t know, something wasn’t right about this picture. 

I zeroed in on the one who hadn’t said a word yet. ‘Talk then!’ I startled him. ‘Who has the fucking audacity to summon me, right fucking now, the precise moment I land-

‘The Crown!’ he blurted, cheeks flushing red. 

Some of the marines began ushering their families away from our little gathering as quickly as they could. I didn’t blame them.

‘Begging your pardon Lord Game,’ recovered the officer, stumbling over his apologetic mumbling. He stepped forward, fancy paper outstretched.

I noticed the coat of arms, “The City Of London”, in the top left corner. One word across the middle: Kratzenstien

I frowned at that word. Maybe I would finally find out who plucked me from the abyss of eternal unrest? I wasn’t holding my breath, not that that would kill me if I did, but something stirred. I felt hopeful.

Belatedly I felt ashamed that I hadn’t even spared a single thought for the tongeless surgeon who stitched me back together. I wondered what he was doing now. Then I thought of Claric…I turned away from the memory of my old friend. 

I conceded with a nod. The officers deflated in unison. I mused that now they looked even shorter. Dwarf secret policemen. Ha!

I gave the letter back to the gloved hand of the taller officer. 

‘The carriage awaits, Lord-

‘Look, it’s just Henry or Game, if you must, I ain’t putting up with all that Lord and Sir shit, all right?’ I think they smiled as I barged past them and into the waiting carriage, also festooned with the coat of arms of the City of London.

I don’t know what they found so funny.


Course Correction

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So there we were, wounded, tails tucked, racing across the atlantic to meet Napoleon head on; minus a General; minus all morale. 
The Americans had rallied at North Point, a little late if you ask me, but still, they weren’t chuffed that we’d burnt down their headquarters…we thought the fighting was over. 

Poor ol’ Bobby Ross had his balls blasted off. That left the troops dismayed. Lack of active reconnaissance had left us a little flat-footed. 

The lads were “sir”-ing Claric. It seemed in my absence he had been elevated from the humble rank of court jester. 

Admiral Claric, they confirmed, ordered us straight through the night and on to Fort M’ Henry, the last and most formidable gateway. A statement true in more ways than one. 

There it seemed the true American resistance awaited. They claimed the battle. The empire was sent scurrying. 

Claric, it seemed, had fallen. I refuse to believe he was slain. I almost refused to board the last Ship before it left the mortar pocked harbour. Almost, but truth is I didn’t have much choice. We were chased off by bullet and mortar fire. 

The topic of immortality never actually came up between us, me and Claric, believe it or not, but I knew that he was at least 300 years to the good. Somehow I suspected he was much, much older. Perversely, I found myself wondering where his hip flask lay. Wondering if it too had fallen to the icy depths of the harbour..perhaps some poor soul would find it one day and drink in the sweet cursed beor. Maybe that someone would be me. I would be so lucky.

The HMS Endymion quickly mutinied into a festering barge of egos. We had practically evolved into pirates! The crew needed a leader, a new general, a king – no, not a king, a President! God knows I hate the crown. Yes, the word President had a good ring to it. After all, they brought me back for one job, did they not? One order of business: to kill. And if anybody was going to be president of the killing business it would be me surely? Henry fucking Game.

I emerged from the thin shadow of my cabin, the wet cutting across the steel of my purpose. 

The chief bully was a marine known as Spike. He had taken the captain’s quarters for his war-room. He had guards by his door. Smart man. They eyed me as I wandered close. 

I nodded to them as I paused to peer out across the waters; not another vessel in sight…Our original orders, as given by Rear Admiral Claric, or whatever they called him, were to return to London, gather fresh supplies and then topple the nuisance of Napoleon. The crew had voiced other ideas shortly after Claric didn’t arrive on board…

I was happy to hold my tongue, keep to the shadows, but nothing stirs a mans stomach like the harsh Atlantic. I was owed a debt, a payment of French blood. 

The ‘Americans’ were not my enemy. I realised this as soon as I set eyes on one. They were no Iroquios, shit, they were basically us! Fucking colonised English, Irish and Europeans! 

That war was a war of merchant captilasm. 

Meanwhile I seeked revenge against those that had stolen the centuries from me. Gold was a soft and relatively useless artifact when weighed against the ledger of vengance.

The only way I could see the slate wiped clean was through this Bonaparte fellow, this little Beehive fucker who’d run amok in Francais, bleeding beneath my cold hard steel. The old way. You know I like to see a man’s light snuffed with my own eyes. Bullets are too efficient, too detached. Bullets are for cowards.

I straightened up from the rail and grebbed deep over the side. Cracking my neck both ways I turned to the marines and smiled. 

Fingers twitched toward holstered weapons. A moment was all the chance they would get. 

All I needed to do was line up the biggest of them, Spike the marine. The others would fall like dominos, they always do. 

Toilet Talk

White wood, when it burns, is a story all into its self…flacid orange-like tongues of flame coat across the glaze… I watched the wood bubble and spit, burning in a fury. Fighting the fire. Yet, burning all the same. 

The bravest of the American’s resistence, the survivors, had been rounded up and stripped to the bone. They had been charged with keeping the bonfire stoked. Their own clothes used as kindling. I laughed, along with the others, while they ran to and fro, between sections of the Whitehouse still not burning, wildly gathering chairs, curtains and, well, whatever they could safely carry! It was refreshing to see that mankind hadn’t yet lost its sense of humour.

General Ross arrived as the flames licked the lawns and we were forced to pull back the artilery. I noticed an egg-shape man juttering beside him on horse back. I noticed his arm slip beneath his rain cloak and produce a hip flask. I noticed that he noticed me, noticing him. 

He tipped his flask; I tipped my hat. 

The men let out a great cheer as a naked prisoner slipped and was covered by his load. Arms full of curtain. He scurried and flapped like a rat in a sock. The men only seemed to find this funnier, that was until General Ross stuck his sword through the struggling mass of draped fabric. The laughter soon died. Only person I could hear still laughing was Claric…

Ross withdrew his blade, inspecting it in the fire light. ‘Did I give ye all instruction to capture a few wee clowns and have a fucking giggle?’ He wiped his blade on the curtains still covering the dead, naked, american prisoner. 

None spoke up. 

‘Nobody? Marines, you were brought here to finish the job quickly. The fighting is not over yet. That pig-fucking Napoleon must be stopped. We set sail at mid-day tomorrow. And put that fucking fire out!’

One or two “yes sir!” Echoed through the killing fields. I scratched my head. This isn’t how I remembered a victorious celebratory. Where was the wine? Where were the whores? 

The remaining prisoners were slain quickly. I approached the fire and reached deep. The most efficient way of killing a fire is at the base. I crinkled my nose as I whiffed my own odour. Piss hissed as it soothed against the burning white-hot wood. 

A marine stepped up beside me and followed my lead, except, I noticed, his piss scattered widly across the fringes. That’s never going to put out a fire!

‘They don’t say much about you,’ said the marine.

I’d finished pissing a while back but I left myself hanging. Truth is, I quite liked feeling the heat on my cock. 

Several seconds of silence passed. He was still in full flow. I think I saw him look toward my man parts.

‘They say that they had to dig you out of a serious undercover operation-‘

I laughed, I had to, it was funny how close to the truth that statement was. ‘You could say that.’

‘I don’t usually lend rumour much credit, but the way you dealt with those Yanks up at that gate…shit, you’ve the devil in you, You know? He finished his piss and tucked up immediately.

I stayed where I was. ‘Again, that’s one way of saying it.’

The marine turned to walk away. 

I stopped him with a non-specific grunt. He turned, eyebrows high, expectantly so. So I asked him, cock still out, still directed toward the fire. ‘That fella, the one Ross just mentioned…that Napoleon chap, I think he said?’

The marine looked like he’d missed a trick or something. ‘Yes…? Napoleon, what about him?’

‘Well,’ I began, voice lowered. ‘Who the fuck is he?’

The marine cracked up laughing.  I frowned, which only made him laugh more. I turned back toward the flame just about to tuck myself back in when another marine pulled up on my other side, eyes darting low toward me. I left it where it was and looked him in the eye. He startled and looked down quickly, piss spurting in short, nervous bursts.

‘Napoleon,’ I hissed. The marine looked up at me. ‘What do you know about him?’

The marine stopped pissing all together. I looked down, he looked down. We both looked up together, eyes met.

‘Tell me everything…’ I threatened.


It was a clear dark night, not a star in sight. 

At the time I remember thinking how odd it was. In hindsight however, I now know it was the Gods at work, disgusted, turning their backs on what we were about to do. What is the antonym for annuit coeptis? 

 Knowing what I know now, I can’t help but think that I should have taken advantage of that moment…as for the night, well, for perhaps the first time since the dawn of mankind, the Earth, our planet was unmonitored. Shame really…

The boarder traipsed miles behind us, along with a steady trail of dead american scouts. Breadcrumbs. We crept through the outter reaches of Washington DC, the dark on our side. The dark-side indeed. A crecent moon provided the only glow in the tarred canvas above, but fuck did that moon glow. Another sign, we assumed… 

General Ross’s men had approached from the east, we took the northern most direct route whilst the rest of the navy oozed in from the west. Resistance was pathetically futile and thin. These fat americans thought themselves too far away to be touched by evil, but they forget…I was there when the Iroquois settled with the French. Evil was born here. Fuck, it had practically mass reproduced and infected the whole sodding country. Now evil had evolved and  flourished into something spectacular…astonishing.

My ankle still plagued me and it was cold. Bad combination. The men, “Royal Marines” Ross had said they were called, were a fucking tough bunch. Not a peep. Every man one of them would have had an oar aboard my vessel if I still had it. 

Claric had dispersed toward New York,an indigenous Irish contingency down there apparently, perhaps one of the Merks had moved that way after Newfoundland? 

It was the year 1814 and Henry Game was about to have him a fire. Then try to put it out by pissing on the flames…

The last bit was a joke…not funny? Well, trust me when I say that you had to be there.


The Warm-up.

‘Is this really necessary? It’s not like anyone gives a sh-‘

    He let the hatch drop with a crack, leaving me be in the rickety bowels of the ship. Or at least I believed myself alone.

   ‘Ye should’n take it to heart, mi lord. Huih.’

   I recognised the slur. ‘You too eh? Though as far as you’re concerned: I can’t say I blame ’em. Pig fuckers. But to stow me away, me! I’m the tip of the fuckin’ spear!’

   He laughed, congestedly, before chugging on something wet. ‘Aye, sometimes, mi ol’ bean, it seems like us mythics are nothin’ but slurried story. Yet here we are: the pissant’s phantoms, shitting and sleeping besides the rest of ’em…huih!’

   I didn’t speak for several minutes, thinking while the vessel lurched to one side. Something heavy bounced across the planks, sliding hard against my arse cheek. Claric’s hip flask. A great thirst seized me. Suddenly all I desired was to taste the contents of the flask that never ran dry…well, if anything, I really wanted to see if it actually held an alcoholic substance within. I never trusted that he was drunk all the time. It seemed like an act; and a damned convenient one played all too often. Nobody expects too much of a drunk.

   Claric’s fumbling in the dark stopped.The silence pressed against the dark.

   I located the stopper and eased it free. The smell that hit me took my mind reeling back to my days at the Monastery…sweet beor. I raised the flask to my mouth then hesitated. Claric’s nectar breath kissed hot on my cheek.

   ‘I wouldn’, not unless ye wanna end up a Claricuan. It’s a damned thirsty honour let me tell yer.’

   I lowered the flask, my arm feeling almost weightless as Claric took the flask from me.

   Noisily he chugged down the sweet smelling liquid.

   I realised that I had been holding my breath as I heard Claric’s muffled crawl back across the cargo deck. The ship steadied as the sails were lowered. Through the walkway above, orders were given to man the oars. 

   I sensed that the air tasted familiar, fresher even? I looked at Claric – who stared into the depth of his flask like a dying man searches for the meaning of life – and smiled; contradictory to my emotions; I wondered if we were all slaves to our past?

   The hatch lifted, showering us in a heavy vapour. If Claric felt it he showed no sign of it. I, on the other hand, cursed and threatened vehemiently, you know, the way I do. 

   ‘You’re best staying down there,’till we at least get past the last check-point anyway. All it’d take is one body count. No, Game, just fucking shut your mouth and wait.’

   And just like that the hatch slammed back shut.

   The soft hissing of Claric’s laughter haunted us into the land of Canada. Well, laughing or crying, I couldn’t quite tell. Soon enough my feet would be back on frozen ground and ready to march south to fuck the Americans in the ass, good ‘n proper.

Cataclysmic Comet

It branded itself upon the moonless night, eclipsing each star in it’s wake. It was a sight to behold. A sight to prove an existence beyond our skies and domed prison. A sight that is lost in the modern technological age.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the humid air, turning my back on the ripples of Windermere. The meeting had been set here, by the waystone on the east shore, and so I patiently waited. My left foot clicked when I rolled the front of my toes in a circular motion…something wasn’t right about it. But, I was whole again and breathing in the stagnation from the scummy shore. Unlike good ol’ Humpty, who, by the way, isn’t a fucking egg. Who the fuck decided Humpty Dumpty was an egg? And, more to the point why would you try to put a shattered egg back together? 

It felt good being back, allowing my mind to wonder, attaching itself to the back of the burning inferno trailing across the black sky and hurtling through the distorted reflections of the lake.

The comet heralded a change in times. In a way It seemed to be ushering in the dawn of the industrial revolution as we fell into it’s vice-like-grip. The age of the machine. The cogs of capitalism. The religion of despicabilities. Sacrificial offerings of true freedom. It heralded a change in me too, at least in my perceptions. The French had taught me the most valuable lesson. It’s true, they did, they taught me that I wasn’t unstoppable. Bastards.

A crunching on the pebbled beach behind me drew my eyes from the brilliance in the sky. Two shadows approached, one of them, through its egg-like shape I recognised as Claric, while the other, somewhat narrower shadow, beside him I did not. 

Claric and the stranger stopped short, lingering around ten feet away from me, whispering and mumbling to one another.

After several minutes I grew impatient. ‘Ahem!’ I began, tactfully, ‘do I have bad breath or something?’

Claric laughed and playfully slapped the back of the other man, he did not laugh. 

Together they approached, now I could see their faces beneath their trenched jackets. I continued to wait.

‘Take it in Ross, it’s not all that often you catch the Game wrong footed,’ slurred Claric to the other gentleman.

I rolled my foot around again, testily, it clicked. ‘What am I doing here Claric?’

This time it was the small man who laughed, ‘he’s a bit cock sure o’himself, ey, Claricuan?’

Another Irishman, I noticed. I was outnumbered. Too many Irishmen made me uncomfortable, especially when in England. ‘Claric, who the fuck is this little bastard?’ The heat beginning to rise in my face.

The “little bastard” stepped forward, his face about as serious as anyones I have ever see. ‘I am General Robert Ross, Mr Game, and as o’ tree days ago, the Empire  has enemies on both side o’ the Atlantic.’

‘General?’ I frowned, mainly directing my question at Claric who was quietly sipping at a hip flask. If he heard me he chose to ignore it.

General Ross bristled as he advanced another step.’Listen to me Game, you’ve been brought back t’ help us win these wars.’

I took note of the plural. However, I was still totally at a loss, almost two hundred and fifty years had passed since I was last knocking around. Back then Britain had virtually ruled supreme. I wondered who these multiple enemies could be, maybe the Spanish, obviously the French, but I couldn’t think who else? “Both sides o’ the Atlantic” he had said. 

Maybe my face gave me away as he laughed a flat and empty laugh. ‘Ah, but you know nothing do you?’

I didn’t appreciate his tone, if I’m honest, but he was correct so I kept my mouth shut. See! I told you I was a changed man!

‘It hasn’t been ‘officially’ announced yet, but, The United States o’ America have attacked two o’ our trading vessels, made plans t’ occupy Canada and have had the decision t’ declare war on us, on us! If you can believe it? Passed through Congress earlier this week.’

‘United States?’ I let slip, accidentally.

‘Two-hundred and fifty years is a long time. Entire countries can be born, yet still the Game can’t die? Huih!!’ Charmed in Claric between sips.

‘So who’s the other enemy then?’ I asked the General.

He looked back at me like he had just seen me eating shit. ‘Napoleon, of course!’ he snapped.

‘Two-hundred and, o’forget it.’ I began turning away from the General, ‘who and what the fuck is Napoleon?’

Claric’s face lit up as he gazed at the comet. ‘French. It could not be more perfect for you. Huih!!’

‘So let me get this right, my enemies are French and American, really?’

‘Call it a birthday present,’ teased Claric, his attentions turning back up to the great comet. 

I smiled, breathing in the chilled night. The comet really was a beautiful sight. 


‘Damn, but even though you’re a creepy bastard, I must thank you.’ I offered the still busy doc.

He looked at me, eyes magnified through the glass device craning from his forehead. The crinkle around his eyes told me that he was at least pleased. Without a word he looked down and continued to stitch my left foot to the bottom of my leg.

It had been a few hours since my throat had healed enough for me to make sounds. 

The doctor had been occasionally pausing in his work to feed me a sickly sweet slurry, which if I’m being honest, which I am, was bloody good, however the warm water wasn’t. It was cloudy and it tasted like a puddle. I drank it anyway, I had a serious thirst on me as I’m sure you can appreciate. On several occasions I had attempted to converse with him. The most I had achieved was a prolonged grunt. The grunt told me he was displeased, I’m sure of it.

It seemed that the stronger I became the faster I healed, and now I could move enough to prop myself up, almost into a full sitting position, almost, but not quite. The pain across my waist line was tremendous. 

From my elevated position I could see a lot more of my surroundings. The first thing I noticed were the heavy metal boxes of different sizes and shapes. Some rectangular and arm length, some small and box-like, you know, head size. I deduced that these were the boxes that once contained my severed and estranged body parts. I shuddered. I at least took comfort in the knowing they were lined with a soft looking material. Probably fucking imbued with itching powder though, eh? I wouldn’t put it past the fuckers, I wondered if it were le French who had constructed these boxes, of course it was, superstitious bastards they are. Still, I was grateful. Either way, they did cut me into several pieces and separate them. That’s how you keep me down, in case you were wondering, assuming of course you don’t have an Angelic blade, or items made in that vein. Hopefully you don’t. 

Back to the story, yes, looking around myself I discovered I was in a very old building, I suspected I was in a tower of some description, probably because the walls formed around us in a circular movement. Also the walls were bare and comprised of random stone. The eaves of the pitched roof bared their rafters in a shameless fashion, flirting with the pigeons. I licked my lips. I had to be in a tower. Still the wind and rain howled beyond the stone and slate shelter. Through the narrow slit in the stone work, probably an arrow-fire window, yet more evidence of why I was in a tower, I could see the overcast dark sky, the type that is synonymous with northern England; –  “If it ‘ent pissing down with rain, it’s just about to’ lad.”- they would often say. 

Looking over at the doctor again I “ahemed” as loudly as I could manage. I was dangerously close to being bored, I needed answers, namely why was I back?

He stopped his stitching and looked at me, all of me. Then, giving a peculiar grunt he stood from the end of my stretcher and finally wiped the snot from the tip of his nose. Gripping my foot between a long and bony forefinger and thumb, he gave it a turn and another satisfied grunt. 

‘Seriously now, I need you to talk to me.’ I tried. My words were once again met with a groan. This groan reeked of frustration, I tried to follow him as he stalked away behind me. I groaned myself as I accepted that my head could not fully turn yet. After a moment of scratching and equipment crashing he reappeared by my side; chalk and slate in hand. 

‘You can’t talk?’ I realised, finally as his eyes crinkled around the edges again. 

Lifting the glass away from his face he started to write on the slate: Dr Kratzenstein.

‘Henry Game.’ I offered, stupidly. 

He frowned at me. 

Of course he already knew my name! I asked the next most important question I could think of, ‘what year is it? How long have I…’ I trailed and almost choked as I saw the chalk scratch a number into the slate. I had been ‘dead’ for almost 250 years. If Dr Kratzenstein was telling the truth then the year was 1811. Fuck, no wonder I was so thirsty. 

The sounds of a key scratching in a lock drew my attention as a look of horror crossed the Doctors face. He dropped the slate to the stone floor as he stood and stepped away from me. The door opened revealing a figure, a large and round looking fellow wearing a large black trench coat.

I decided that my arm was aching and had to lie back down as the person entered, still unannounced, as the sounds of the door swinging shut and the lock clicking bounced around my circular purgatory. 

The doctor shuffled forwards and away as the stranger approached and sat down in the doctors seat by my head. 

I could turn my head just enough to look into his face. He smiled at me, I recognised him. It was Claric.

With a drunken flourish he produced a stoppered wine skin from inside of his coat and offered it, very briefly I might add, in my direction. I barely had the chance to refuse before he removed the bung with his teeth and gave it a long and satisfying chug. ‘There ye are, darlin, it’s bin to long.’ He declared.

Looking over I realised he was addressing his wine skin. I laughed, or I tried to but my stomach hurt.

‘Powerful enemies, Henry Game, power-full names.’ Riddled Claric, his jewelled eyes finally seeing past his drink to rest on me.

‘Yes, nice to see you too, Claric, to what do I owe the pleasure?’

Now it was Claric’s turn to laugh, blue liquid spraying out of his nose and mouth. ‘To what indeed. Nothin makes more of an enemy than your greatest friend.’

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