A Man of Wealth and Taste

by Alan Jackson

Conclusion

He looked at me blearily, and shook his head and shrugged. Whether he understood me, or not, he didn’t seem to need any more explanation. I ate in silence for a moment as he built himself a large roll up.

‘Want some,’ he asked as he lit up, ‘it’s Colombian — not bad?’

‘I’ll stick with the Chianti for now, thanks,’ I said, ‘but you carry on.’ After a few moments the musty aroma of hashish overlaid the tomato and basil of the lasagne and the damson plumminess of the wine. My senses revelled in such earthy stimulation. I was almost drunk on the sounds and smells around me.

I was in such a state of sensory overload that I temporarily blocked out the sound of thunder when it began to intrude. The sound grew progressively louder, and harder to ignore, I put down my glass. Clem looked at me bewildered as if to ask was there a problem with the meal, then his expression changed and I realised he could hear it too.

This thunder was a deep rumbling sound that was getting louder and louder, as if coming closer, but thunder doesn’t do that surely? It wasn’t like the natural boom of a thunderstorm either, this had a man-made sharpness to the sound.

‘Why don’t you take your drink upstairs now, eh?’ said Clem almost pleadingly. ‘Leave, before anything happens.’ I was really intrigued now. How had this approaching rumbling brought fear into this man’s face?

‘I’m perfectly happy here,’ I said, cocking an ear to follow the noise as it moved towards us, ‘I’ve still got food, wine, and music to enjoy. I seldom get to enjoy these simple pleasures.’ The rumbling noise reached a crescendo as it resolved itself into the sound of a number of large, unsilenced, motorcycle engines.

I heard the bikes circle the pub once, and was reminded of Apaches circling a wagon-train. They pulled around to the front of the pub, and stopped one by one. In the sudden silence I looked over at Clem, and his eyes were fixed upon the barroom doorway. The butt of his joint was almost burnt down to his knuckle, but he didn’t seem to feel it.

I was beginning to wonder what I had let myself in for. For one moment, as we waited for whatever would come through that door, I was reminded of a western saloon where the gunslingers wait in the bar for the new Sheriff to appear. I think I even hummed a few bars of ‘Do Not Forsake Me Oh My Darling’. I was actually enjoying the tense anticipation.

The door gently swung open disappointingly with no slamming or banging, and a vision in leather and denim stepped through. She was tall, blonde, and stunningly gorgeous. Her hair was windswept, from the bike I assumed, but obviously expensively cut and highlighted. This was no dishwater blonde. She wore a black leather cycle jacket, slightly too big for her, and over that a badge strewn cut-off denim jacket. Her jeans were fashionably holed and frayed, and of a cut that said they weren’t from any local market stall. A pair of mannish engineer’s boots completed the ensemble.

She was well-built, big in the shoulders, but plenty of feminine curves elsewhere. She paused in the doorway taking in the scene, and when her eyes met mine I could see an element of surprise in them, but she recovered quickly. I turned to Clem and saw that he had not taken his eyes off her.

She strode to the bar and leaned against the brass edging rail. ‘Five pints of best, Clem, and the usual Bloody Mary for me.’ She had a low gruff voice with a nicotine edge, middle-class accent so obviously slumming it. ‘Who’s your friend? He looks like he took a wrong turning somewhere, to end up here.’

She turned to appraise me slowly from head to toe and, somewhat to her surprise, I returned the favour. As she unzipped her jacket, I noticed that under her bike leathers she had a skimpy T shirt which showed off her bare trim midriff and didn’t disguise the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra. I smiled in appreciation, which put a wicked glint into her eye.

The half open door swung again as the rest of the pack followed on in behind her. As extraordinary as she was, the rest of the bunch were fairly typical of their kind. If you were populating an outlaw biker gang you may well follow similar casting rules in that the rest of the group consisted of the following: There came the obvious leader, a dark black-Irish kind of chap with real Mediterranean looks and a cruel twist to his lips. A hulking great muscle mountain followed him, not the sharpest pencil in the box, but he could probably snap your back in two. Two villainous-looking unwashed grunts came next, and finally a greasy-locked, short, wiry, rat-faced bloke. All wore the uniform of leathers and denim, all sported their cut-off jackets.

They came up to the bar to get their pints as Clem pulled them, with only the merest glances in my direction and a nod to Clem. The message was loud and clear that I was, as yet, of little interest or concern to them. There would be plenty of time to get around to me, later.

I perceived that I wasn’t being completely ignored though, as ‘Muscles’ took up position just behind me further down the bar. The two ‘Soldiers’ started working the fruit machine, paying me no obvious attention, and ‘Rat-Face’ stood and apparently concentrated on making his selection on the juke box at my right. I was very effectively and neatly surrounded.

Motorhead’s ‘Ace of Spades’ launched itself at our ears out of the old Wurlitzer. As their leader, ‘Irish’ I’d named him, stood in front of me, with his arm around the girl’s shoulder, I saw the calligraphy script on the back of his cut-offs; ‘Satans Disciples’. I couldn’t help myself but smile, patently untrue, and not too hot on the use of the apostrophe either.

‘Bloody Mary’ was lazily watching me as her boyfriend ran his hand down her back to fondle her firm buttocks. She appeared to enjoy the attention and didn’t mind me watching them. She blew me a kiss. All this time Clem had hung back from the bar after his pint pulling. He had a drink in his hand, which trembled slightly either with fear or the booze. Finally ‘Irish’ spoke.

‘Whose is that Merc' then Clem? Have you won the lottery and not told us? You tight-fisted grasping old prick!’ he laughed, as did his cronies a second later. I joined in, just to be sociable. Silence fell immediately. He turned around to appraise me. When a woman looks you up and down it’s flattering, the looking-over he gave me was supposed to intimidate. I gave him my charming smile, and sipped my Chianti. ‘Is it your motor, then, sunshine?’ he asked, shuffling along the bar to get right into my face. I was beginning to enjoy myself.

‘I am the current driver,’ I volunteered helpfully, turning to take another forkful of lasagne, ‘the previous owner died and I sort of “inherited” it, I suppose you’d call it that.’ I waved my glass in salute.

‘That’s an expensive motor to just give away,’ he grinned in mock appreciation.

‘Well he didn’t have much need of it anymore.’ I smiled. ‘Bloody Mary’ had come over to join us and was now leaning against my back and breathing on my neck. I could feel the weight of her breasts and the hard nipples against my back. This was proving to be a very interesting evening.

‘I’d like a nice car like that given to me,’ she said, suggestively stroking my hair, ‘I think I’d look good in a car like that. Don’t you, boys?’ There were a few grunts of agreement. So now we were getting to the point of the conversation, I couldn’t wait.

‘You heard the lady,’ says ‘Irish’, ‘you got the car as a gift, now you can play nice and pass it on to the her, or we may become slightly annoyed.’ Not very convincing as threats go, but I could see he thought it was enough under the circumstances.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said and was unsurprised when ‘Muscles’ grabbed me from behind, a novel sensation but not as pleasant as the soft breasts it replaced. His bear-hug was fierce and I could feel my breathing being restricted as he dragged me upright from the bar stool.

While he held me the rest of the gang moved in and took turns to rain blows into my belly and head. ‘Bloody Mary’ took her turn and delivered some powerful punches to the face, one split my lip and the other flattened my already broken nose. After the first few blows the pain became a red-hot haze, which was punctuated by brilliant white flashes as the odd spectacular blow fell.

So this was the reason for my coming here tonight, this was the reason I was brought forth to this place. I was experiencing stimuli that I thought I had forgotten about many years ago, thought I would never perhaps experience again. Human pleasure and pain, so indistinct in many ways.

After a while there was a pause in the proceedings, they all stood panting and sweating from their labours. Clem had not moved from his corner behind the bar, so I could expect nothing from him. That was fair, he had warned me. I could just about see them all through puffed eyes and a curtain of blood. ‘Irish’ reached under his jacket and pulled out a wicked looking squared-off automatic pistol. The vise-like grip that trapped me was relaxed and I fell to my knees. The pistol was pointed squarely between my eyes.

‘Would like the opportunity to reconsider?’ grinned ‘Irish’.

‘Nope!’ I spat bloodily through loosened teeth. The pistol was whipped down sharply on my forehead, knocking me to the floor and opening a new gash in my scalp. Slowly, painfully slowly, I hauled myself up the leg of a bar stool until I managed to achieve a tenuous standing position.

Blinking through the blood I could see myself in the mirror behind the bar. The split scalp revealed bone in the lights of the bar, and from it swathes of blood washed down my face and chest. It was as if I had been childishly painted in red gore. I saw ‘Irish’ in the mirror raise his arm to point the pistol at me again. Enough, I decided. Only tens of minutes had passed since the start of the beating, but now it was my turn.

I raised both hands to my scalp wound and took a grip on the edges of the torn flesh. As I ripped and pulled, I saw the reflection of the grimaces on the faces of the gang surrounding me. I got better purchase on the flaps of flesh as they grew, and tore with all my strength. The, ex-human, ex-face peeled back like an old Band-Aid to reveal my grinning, crimson, goat-like skull.

I heard gasps, retching, and shouts around me as the demon within was freed like a moth from a cocoon. ‘Irish’ came forward, pistol raised. Big mistake! I grabbed and broke his wrist as he screamed in my face. I unfolded myself upwards towards the beamed ceiling leaving my human’s body in a sloppy puddle like a pair of dropped pyjama pants. ‘Irish’ was held aloft at arm’s length, I slowly brought him face to face with my horned head, my long red snout of yellowed teeth, and my black vertically-slit eyes. He squirmed and recoiled in my grasp and I snapped his neck to end his incessant screaming.

The others decided this was the signal to try to run. I easily blocked their escape. They stood transfixed as my powerful, scarlet, leathery wings were pumped full of blood and stiffened and extended outward. Now I would have my due. I roared my triumph to the night.

One I killed with a claw straight through the chest, ripping his still-beating heart out for him to see as he died. Another I lifted bodily and used as a club to dash out the brains of a third, opening both their skulls to spray matter across the walls of the bar.

‘Muscles’ flung a bar stool at my chest which bounced harmlessly away. To honour his courage I quickly tore out his throat with my teeth. That left the girl. I looked around to find her. She was cowering down beside the Wurlitzer, eyes wide, almost catatonic with fear.

I turned away for a moment. ‘Clem?’ I said, for he still stood in his place.

‘Yes Master?’ he asked in tremulous tones. So, we had met before somewhere. He knew me.

‘Can you dispose of the bodies easily enough?’ I didn’t want a loyal servant compromised.

Clem looked askance at me for a second as if the question meant nothing to him in this context. ‘Er, yes, Master, not a problem,’ he was recovering his alcohol-fuddled wits, ‘there’s a meat reclamation plant in the next village. They’ve done me favours before.’

‘Meat reclamation, how very efficient,’ I said. What ever will these humans think of next? How entertaining it was to be in their company. ‘Right. I must get on,’ I regarded the quivering girl on the floor.

As I stepped out of the pub door, I realised the wind had dropped and the night was full of the earthy scent of the moors. I paused a moment to breathe it in and savour the feel of the air filling my lungs and the cool breeze on my new skin. Something shifted, I needed to adjust myself slightly. It was strange having breasts again after so long, they might take a little bit of getting used to.

I looked around the car park and pondered, should I take the Mercedes that I arrived in or one of these fine-looking Harleys? After a moment’s reflection I concluded that with this body, these breasts and a Harley Davidson motorcycle, tomorrow could be a very interesting day. I sat astride one of the shining black and chrome beasts, pressed the starter and the big V-twin engine rumbled into life. The lazy vibrations trembled all through my body, as I kicked it into gear, fed in the clutch, and gunned the throttle.

I left Longthwaite behind me at speed, heading...

Well, let’s just wait and see shall we?