'Daddy! Daddy! Help meeeeeeeee...!'
The piercing cry of his daughter's panic and agony should have torn him apart - much like the zombies were doing to her now - but it didn't. He'd already mapped out an escape route via the rear exit of the guesthouse, but only he knew he'd be the only one using it.
Little Katie was becoming a burden with her constant questions and whingeing. She was, however, the perfect bait to use as a distraction while he made good his escape from the undead.
Could he live with himself, sacrificing her for his own survival?
Galloway's wheelchair trundled over the damp grass, drawing up beside the girl sitting on the bench, his grotesque face - partially covered by the brim of a battered Skaggerston Bastards FC cap - was sweating profusely.
'Carly, is it?' he asked.
'Um...yeah. Who are you?' she replied uncertainly.
'Ah, you see...I'm Jason's dad. You know - Jason from Teenchat?'
The girl smiled.
High above Galloway, in the trees, the mutant spider lay in wait. It observed the movement of the forms beneath it, sensing prey. Its front legs waved in the air. More beastly arachnids joined the first, preparing to pounce.
'How much do you charge, love?' the punter asked.
Sighing, the skanky Duchess produced a creased pamphlet from her handbag:
Cadfael's Revenge - £25.00
Diving Elbow Drop - £15.00
Limp Biscuits - £20.00
Trisexual Blimp Action - £10.00
Rotten Canadian - £30.00
Spooky Blancmange - £50.00 (with happy ending, add an extra £10.00)
Shropshire Spanking - £30.00 (for Cornish Spanking, add an extra £260.00)
Swashbuckling - £30.00 (dressed as Hitler/Norman Wisdom, add an extra £10.00)
Sweaty Tit Crease - £10.00 (with spicy noodles, add an extra £25.00)
Throttling The Vicar - £20.00
Phoneboning - £20.00 per handset
'I think I'll give it a miss' he mumbled.
'Pussy...' she hissed at him.
The room was so sad, ravaged as it was by the fire and smoke of all those years ago. The building had been gutted by the immense blaze, and as he wandered the blackened corridors of the condemned orphanage, he could sense the day to day goings on.
But it was her room he'd been searching for. He placed the small bottle of perfume on the windowsill, kissing his fingers as he touched it for the last time.
Stepping back and looking out the shattered window, he took the pistol from his jacket pocket, and put it to his head.
This had to stop, Summers fumed, ripping up the photographs that had arrived a week after the package containing his wife's divorce-requesting underwear.
The most recent batch showed her impaled on the cocks of Alec Crufts and his business rival Gordon Bayleaf. To add insult to injury, the bed on which they were fucking was covered in £50 notes. The damnable little slut! She'd get her bloody divorce alright...she was lucky not to get a good thrashing.
As for Crufts and Bayleaf, two heads were better than one. Especially when hacked off and displayed on his study room wall._
He watched the girl in the window opposite his bedroom take her top off, followed by her skirt. She gazed back at him, daring him to do the same.
He upped the stakes by removing his boxer shorts, revealing his rampant excitement in all its glory. She unclipped her bra, fondling herself and relishing his enjoyment of the act.
He stroked himself faster and faster, watching lecherously as she dipped a hand into her flimsy knickers. He climaxed hard.
The pleasure from his orgasm evaporated as she picked up a small camcorder and closed the viewfinder, smiling at him curiously.
The Professor didn't consider there was anything wrong with using his prototype time-machine to travel back to 1964 in order to have sex with his own mother (she'd been quite the cutie).
He figured he could get around the laws against incest by arguing that, in 1964, he didn't exist, so no link between them would be found. As his current self was 35-years-old, there could be no allegations of under age sex taking place.
He cackled and rubbed his hands with glee. He had it all mapped out. He'd finally make his ultimate fantasy come true.
He'd flown several successful bombing raids previously, and been rewarded with a number of direct hits. A few narrow escapes here and there, but then again life was never free from danger - especially nowadays.
The added advantage of an aerial bombing assault was the enemy was always below; allies were around you, ready to lend assistance.
But now, his luck had run out. While swooping low, he'd been caught by something and was sent crashing into the road. Dazed, he sensed someone running towards him. He was vaguely aware his right wing was badly broken.
'Bloody seagulls' someone huffed, angrily.
Stanley had become used to the abuse doled out by his wife of thirty-seven years. A lashing of the legs with a belt for being late picking her up from bingo; a cigarette burn on the arm when he overcooked dinner.
But he'd never left her - not even during the string of one-night stands she'd entertained on their marital bed.
But even Stanley felt she'd gone too far this time: she'd secured him to the kitchen floor with nails in his hands and feet, laughing at his screams.
At least he'd never forget to buy the milk again.
Leaman always had an affinity with the dead. He'd never been sociable, from his schooldays forward. So he enjoyed his career, working long hours in the mortuary; often volunteering for overtime.
Sometimes, he embraced the cadavers left in his charge, to feel closer to them. One evening, he decided to sleep at the mortuary, to share a compartment with one of the deceased.
Lying on the trolley and pulling it closed, he felt peaceful.
He didn't notice that the compartment had locked itself behind him. When realisation struck, his night with the corpse didn't seem like such a good idea.
A woman who can turn herself inside out.
An 80-year-old man who can ejaculate constantly for a full five minutes.
Two cats who can hold a conversation about the band Pulp.
A grandmother who can set fire to her toes using the power of her mind.
A balloon-artist who uses prophylactics.
A small boy who can "vomit Beethoven's Ninth".
A blind man juggling plutonium rods.
A teenage girl who can recite the entire 170 minutes of 'Scarface' word for word.
An undead dog.
It had to be said, the entrants in Skaggerston's talent show were bloody awful.
Cal counted the blazing bodies as they ran, screaming, from the main entrance of the orphanage. Thirteen...fourteen...
He chuckled to himself as he sketched the burning building in a small notebook, you know - for posterity. For keeps.
Sirens were approaching from somewhere. This was A BAD THING.
From his pocket, he fished out the bottle of perfume he'd sent to the girl at the orphanage. It had been returned to him with her address scribbled out.
Well, this would teach the bitch, Cal thought. The other victims were...unfortunate - collateral damage he called it - but it made such a pretty picture.
Miriam Trimmingly-Suckitt had read about the cuts to the NHS, and was infuriated. Damn country had gone to pot since Churchill passed she thought, as she read her local paper and sipped her tea.
Just how could the council approve a plan to replace test result letters with a solitary bloody text message?! She blamed the younger generation, it was all "convenience this" and "technology that". God forbid one got an actual appointment to chat about one's health!
Just then, her own mobile phone beeped:
FROM: North Frottageshire NHS Trust
Mrs S, u have cancR.
Jonas had been apprehensive about acting in the porn film with the cyborg ('A-ME'), but his fears were allayed by his director.
'It'll be just like regular sex' he explained, showing him the designs.
The day of filming arrived. Jonas performed admirably, nailing a thirty-minute scene in just three takes. During a re-shoot, Jonas communicated his desire to insert his manhood in A-ME's rectum.
'I'm afraid I can't allow you to do that' purred a synthesised voice. A-ME's hands closed around Jonas' throat.
As his vision dimmed, he saw the autocue display the word 'MALFUNCTION'.
Summers hadn't seen his wife since the night he'd blown a million notes on Alec Crufts throwing his big fight at The Freckled Ginge. One morning, a full week after he'd come home incredibly:
b) Pissed off
He was woken by a postal courier at the door. The parcel contained a pair of knickers - the sort his wife usually wore - with a message written on them in black marker: 'I WANT A DIVORCE'.
At the bottom of the box was a photograph. It showed Alec Crufts holding up the exact same pair of knickers, smiling idiotically.
Galloway had done his homework, even if it meant researching some miserable guttersnipes called One Direction. He'd arranged to meet up with the girl - Carly - at the local park at 4pm. He'd managed to pass himself off as a 13-year-old boy with surprising ease; it was either that or Carly, sweet, innocent, blonde-haired Carly, was a right gullible shit.
Galloway thought he spotted her sat on a bench, playing with her phone. Tight white vest, skinny jeans...oh yes. He prank called her number, just to make sure, then started up his electric wheelchair and moved towards her.
'I'm going to wear your face like a mask...'
'I want to carve your tits off... and sew them onto my chest...'
'Oh Nigel, that'd be sooo sexy...more, more!'
'I'm going to pull your intestines out and wrap them around my...hard cock'
'Ohhhhh...tell me how they feel!'
'Slippery...and wet. _So wet...'
'I'm going to pour ants in your arse with a funnel...'
'Yes! What sort of ants?!? Tell me!!'
'Red ants. Hundreds of them!'
'You horny shit!'
'Yeah...you'd like that, wouldn't you? Tell me what you'd love to sniff!'
'The badger...I WANT TO SNIFF THE BADGER!!'
Norris looped the rope over the tree trunk for the fourth time, before tying it off around his neck. How the hell do people manage to hang themselves nowadays? he fumed.
Once again kicking away the wooden crate he'd brought with him, he wailed in anger as the noose undid itself and he fell to the ground.
Lucas Stevenson watched the man from afar. He tutted at his novice, schoolboy errors with the noose, the unprofessional way he was ignoring the strongest branch. He crushed his cigarette underfoot, and approached him slowly.
'Need a hand?' he asked, nonchalantly.
Dean liked what he did, and he knew he was good at it. Night-time was his favourite time. Where he earned a living. He took (and sold) photos of accidents, crimes, celebrities leaving clubs smashed off their tits.
But tonight he had a real scoop for the local rag - discarded clothes on the beach, and a suicide note.
This one could fetch a real juicy payload.
He was about to phone it in, when he noticed another pile of clothes - a woman's. Next to it, more clothes. Kiddies' shorts. Jeans. More suicide notes. Dozens. Hundreds.
Then more, and more.
'Are you absolutely sure you can't give me a better deal?' asked Father McKinney.
'N-n-n-no...sir, I'm not authorised to give money off!' urged the shop assistant.
'Very well, then' McKinney replied calmly, reaching for another toothpick. He waved it before the assistant's face, smiling as he squirmed in the chair he'd been duct taped to.
'Please...please Father, NO!!!'
McKinney inserted the toothpick into the man's bloodied eyeball, next to the three he'd already left there. Jammed under each of his fingernails were more.
'I'm buying that 60" plasma telly for £200. And not a fucking penny more."