The Rack & Cue Page 5

  Letting out a small yelp of pleasure, Baby stopped rubbing herself, knowing there would be plenty of time for such fun later on. Turning back to the body, she arranged it so it was spread-eagle on her metallic worktable. She then turned to face her wall of tools.

  Lifting her right hand, she brushed the blood-stained teeth of her chainsaw. Letting her hand linger, her mind flooded with fond memories of using the wood slicing instrument on past victims.

  “Oh, how they’d screamed,” she said, which wasn’t more than a whisper.

  But no, that was not for now. The robust tool was far too noisy, as there were people upstairs who would hear its motor revving and sawing. A tremor of excitement passed through her, but she managed to control herself.

  Moving her hand from the saw, it landed next on a rusted scythe. The thing hadn’t been used since her daddy used to cut the hedges at the back of the pub – which had been many, many moons ago. It was decayed beyond the point of use. The corroded blade would not cut through hot butter, let alone bone and sinew.

  The thing only served as a token to the memory of her dad these days.

  Baby’s hand slipped from the scythe and brushed a grinder, but moved on swiftly, knowing that would be no good either. It was loud, just like the chainsaw. Cumbersome, too. Next was an array of knives and daggers she’d collected over the years. Her favourite among them was the Hitler Youth Knife. The weapon had been stripped from one of the German youths in the Great War by her Great Granddad. The handle was smooth, except where a swastika was embedded in the middle of the black-as-coal handle. She only used that particular steel on special occasions.

  This wasn’t one of them.

  Beyond the impressive line-up of steel, which varied in shapes, sizes and lengths, was a cleaver. Her hand remained there for a while. She clenched and unclenched the tacky handle time and time again, before taking it off its hook on the wall. Lowering it to her side, it felt good. Heavy and threatening.

  In a swift movement, Baby turned about-face, then thwacked the butcher’s instrument deep into the thigh of the body. A slight squirt of blood shot up the midriff of her outfit, reminding Baby of the male ejaculation, and how easy it is to please a hard cock.

  Leaving the cleaver buried in the leg she turned again to her arsenal. Pliers, tweezers, bolt cutters, snips, gardening forks, shears, hammers, skewers and all other kinds of nasty, body wrecking weapons lined her wall. Then, it caught her eye.

  The fourteen-inch beast which hung alone. It was separated from the rest because of its sheer superiority. Even over the chainsaw, the machete was much more dominant, powerful and commanding. It commanded her, just like a masterful dominatrix would. It called her. Wanted her. Reaching for it, Baby unhooked the impressive knife which she kept in top-notch condition; sharpening and polishing it every night. Even if it hadn’t been used that day or for days before. It was her pride and joy.

  Taking it from the wall, she looked at herself in the gleaming, immaculate steel. Her image was blurred by the imperfect mirror, but still she got a kick out of it. Turning to face the body once again, Baby brought the machete down on the man’s wrist, severing the hand from the arm. Without taking a breath, she attacked the arm again, this time chopping through the elbow in one clean blow.

  She then hacked the rest of the arm off at the shoulder before performing the same task with the other arm. Once the limbs had been cut from the torso and sectioned, Baby used a very small pair of snips with a wide mouth to cut the fingers from the hands. After that, she placed the diced bits onto a massive tray which awaited the legs.

  Lifting one of the dead man’s legs into the air, so that his toes were in line with her eyes, Baby proceeded to cut them off. She then placed them on the tray with the hands, fingers and arms. With one set of toes cut free, she did the same with the other foot, before going back to the machete.

  After severing the feet, Baby hacked through the knees which cut the legs in half. All this was then added to the meat platter. Picking up the massive metal tray, which felt light to her, Baby took it into the room opposite. Nothing occupied the space apart from a dumbwaiter. Placing it in the centre of the makeshift lift, Baby gave the bell a ring and sent the first load up to Porky.

  She heard the lift come to a halt.

  Then, the intercom at her side kicked in. “Baby, where’s the rest of this fucker?” he barked.

  “On its way,” she said. Her voice soft. Her words clipped to perfection.

  “Good. That’s very good, girl,” Porky said. “I’ll have this little lot chopped, bagged and sealed ready for shipment tomorrow. The Champ can take it up to west country in the morning,” he continued.

  Baby smiled, but said nothing. She stalked back into her room and gathered up the torso, which just about fit into the lift. She slammed the door shut, rung the bell, and sent the remainder of the body skyward, all the while grinning and touching herself.

  Porky was in the chiller at the back of the kitchen when he heard the bell to the dumbwaiter ring. Exiting the freezer, Porky took his butcher’s coat and hat off the peg behind the door and put them on before going to the lift. The coveralls were blood-spattered and tacky, but it didn’t bother him.

  Sliding the door to the small food elevator back, Porky was greeted by a steel tray filled with various body parts, ranging from toes to elbows. Removing it from the tiny space, he closed the door and sent the lift back down to Baby, who, as ever, had done a fine job chopping the corpse into manageable amounts.

  But not all the body was there, and so he spoke into the intercom, addressing Baby. She informed him the rest would be up shortly, making the fat man smile. After exchanging a few more words with Baby, Porky set about his work.

  Turning, he placed the platter down on his stainless steel table, which had been immaculately polished that morning to a military gleam. Porky could even see his reflection in the surface.

  “Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” he uttered, placing the load down. “I can’t be making my famous ‘Porky Pie’ in filth-ridden conditions,” he continued.

  Next, he set a deep pan filled with water onto a ring of the stove. The cooking implement adorned the corner of the kitchen. Apart from that, and a large freezer and some spice racks, there wasn’t much else inside the room.

  The walls were stark white.

  A hint of sanitizer lay heavy in the air.

  The kitchen was clean. Hygienic.

  When Porky walked across the room, his white wellies made horrendous squeaking noises on the scrubbed tiles, paying tribute to his scouring efforts.

  Before he could unload the tray, the bell was ringing again. Going to the dumbwaiter, he was welcomed by the sticky torso. Removing it, he placed it onto the table next to the rest of the body parts as fast as he could.

  “Thank you, Baby,” he said into the intercom, before turned back to his work. As he started picking through the fingers and toes, ready to add them to the pot on the stove, a burst of laughter from the bar caught his ear. It made him smile.

  The pub hadn’t been busy at this hour of the day in years, he thought, adding the fingers and toes to the large cooking pot. The water bubbled and gurgled with heat.

  After the human flesh had been placed in to the pot, the skin began to melt from the bone. Witnessing this, Porky sniffed the air. He filled his lungs with the aroma. Grabbing some spices off his rack, he sprinkled the contents from three jars into the pan.

  “Ah,” he said, putting his nose closer. “What a delicious smell. I’ll have some pies on sale before I know it,” he continued.

  Another burst of laughter erupted from the bar, making Porky chuckle. “They won’t be going far,” he uttered. “What with this weather and the drinks flowing, they’ll be here until the end,” he said, gaffing at his little inside joke. “Yes, the pub is filling up nicely,” he went on. “This could be the best Harvest yet.”

  Taking the hefty meat cleaver and butcher knife from the shelf under the table, Porky set about
cutting the meat into cutlets for bagging. The price for human meat through their channel was insane. The organs, of course, went for much, much more.

  It’s how they survived these days.

  What with the road closed and most of their regulars dead, it was hard keeping the old place going, and calling last orders on The Rack and Cue was not something Porky was ever willing to do.

  Of course, he’d come close to selling the joint a few times over the years. But no, the promise to his dear brother had been enough to sway his decisions. Richard ‘Skinner’ Baby had loved the place. But not as much as he had loved his little girl, Baby.

  “Promise me, Pork,” Richard had croaked. “Promise me you’ll never sell the old place. No matter what. You have to pass it on to Baby.” Porky had promised; had nodded and shook his brother’s hand. The disease had set in roughly ten months prior to this, Porky recalled. “You have to look after my little girl, Pork,” Richard had continued.

  Porky could almost hear his brother’s voice over the noise of his cleaver chopping through the meat and bone on his table. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes. “Whatever it takes, you keep The Cue going, little brother. Doc and Champ will help with the running of the place, along with Baby. I’ll just be sitting it out…”

  Those had pretty much been the last words out of the condemned man’s mouth. Porky remembered the tears and sobbing well, as they’d quarantined Richard. How Baby had folded to the loss. Become withdrawn for months and months on end. How she’d started wearing the masks to hide her face.

  Yes, they’d been hard times, he thought.

  Putting his memories to one side, Porky stopped to wipe the loose tears from his cheeks and eyes. He bagged the meat he had already chopped and stored them in the freezers. After that, he went to the bubbling pot and gave it a stir. The meat was boiling nicely.

  Back at the table, he gathered up the stripped bones and took them to the back door, which led to the rear of the pub. The garden was closed off by high walls on either side. The yard had once been used as a beer garden, but was now the home of Hugo and Former Lee – two massive Doberman Pinschers.

  They gnawed through bones like babies munched through rusks.

  Both dogs whined, bounced and leapt when they saw Porky advance with food.

  “Down, boys. Down!” he commanded. “Got some lovely treats here for ya, lads,” he said, throwing the bones to the back of the yard, so the dogs ran for them. “There’ll be more where they came from,” he yelled after them, “Just as soon as I can carve through the rest of it,” he continued and smiled, as he watched the mutts tear ferociously through their meal.

  Once inside again, Porky let his mind slip back to his brother, as he continued to chop the meat. Richard had kept a neat and tidy pub; a pub which boasted an excellent range of ales and food to choose from. The Cue, under Richard’s command, had been spotless. Clean.

  No corruption or blood spilt.

  However, the year Richard become ill, the main road which passed the pub closed. A new motorway was built. Trade soon dried up. The rooms upstairs which had once housed guests and weary travellers now lay empty. Funds withered. Business started losing ground and soon they were dipping into their savings to help keep the pub afloat.

  The small amount coming in from the regulars, and the few travellers who still used the road, was barely enough to keep them going. This spurred the family into action, to see if they could come up with money spinners to aid their survival.

  Ideas of dart and card tournaments, karaoke, curry nights, pie eating contests were all lost on the pub’s downfall – attracting little or no attention at all. What was made from their mediocre nights went back into the pot which was soon swallowed by their debt.

  Then Baby come up with the idea of holding a pool tournament to end all tournaments, suggesting that they muster all the money they could get their hands on – savings, earnings, each of their personal savings, and so on, and put it into a kitty. The winner would walk away with the lot, but only if they could beat The Champ. Porky’s son.

  The pot came to an impressive £2,000.

  Which it currently stood at.

  Even though it’d been challenged time and again, nobody had ever beaten The Champ and walked out of The Cue with the cash.

  Or their life!

  Porky smiled, recalling how happy they’d been at the turnout of the first Porky Pool Tournament. More than fifteen have-a-go pool players turned up. Some were semi-pros. Others just thought they were good enough.

  None of them had made it out of the pub, which hadn’t been the intention of Porky and his family to begin with.

  Oh, no. They were going to wait and see how it went. To see how many turned up and what kind of profit they would make. Then Porky saw it – an article on how some people out there were selling, or rather ‘harvesting’, human organs on a black market. These people were making thousands out of it.

  And that’s when Porky propositioned his family. Told them how they could set the pub up in such a way, that they could butcher the losers one by one, without the rest being any of the wiser.

  Doc had volunteered to strip the body of organs, whereas Baby was more than happy to cut the carcass into sections. Porky, a keen butcher, was more than able to dice the meat.

  With a little research, Porky was soon able to find a buyer for the quantity of meat they would ship out of the pub in mass amounts once a year. And, of course, if a waif or stray just happened to wonder by now and then, then they too, would be chopped, sliced, bagged and sent out the back door for a quick sale.

  Hey, it may be dirty money, Porky thought – but it’s making us rich, rich, rich. He then laughed until his guts hurt. The amount of money they had made from the sale of beer and food that first evening had been enough to keep the Cue going for months.

  The earnings had been obscene that evening, but still Porky went through with his plan of harvesting the losers’ organs, which he and his family had executed very well.

  When the night had finally been done and dusted, nobody had suspected a thing. The pub had been clean of all traces, not that the police ever ventured out here. Nothing could lead back to them.

  After that success, the pool competition kicked on. It was now in its eighth year. The money kept at around the same level year in year out, as they didn’t advertise the competition that well. They didn’t want too much attention.

  Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Porky now turned his attention to his pies. He’d finished cutting and packing the meat, with the waste disposed of by the dogs. The meat inside the scalding pan had turned to mush. This pleased him, as he turned the hob off.

  Scooping the meat out of the pot, Porky put it into a deep glass bowl. He then mashed the contents to a complete pulp, before putting it into crusts he’d already prepared.

  As he did this, he heard new voices in the bar. He had not let these people in. Who were they, and how had they got in? Had the others opened the door for them?

  Standing there in shock, Porky almost pissed himself, when he heard the bell on the bar ‘ding-ding-ding-ding’ in a frantic manner, which was followed by a harsh call.

  “Shop?!” yelled the voice. “Shop?!” it bellowed a second time.

  Porky shuffled from the kitchen and entered the bar. A smile grew across his face on seeing the biker gang in his pub. Six of them in total. They looked wet, thirsty and weary.

  My, my, what a turnout we’ll have this evening, Porky thought, only just suppressing his chuckles.

  Chapter 7

  The Boas’ powered their motorbikes down the motorway with total absent mindedness. They didn’t give a fuck that it pissed down. They couldn’t give a toss if the road surface was slippery or not. They wanted home, even if it meant ripping the highway up at 100mph in wet conditions with a fatal crash possible.

  Fuck it.

  They were a branch of the Hell’s Angels.

  They were part of the fucking Boas; a motorcycle gang who were
part of the fifteen most notorious outlaw crews in the U.K

  Death on the road went with the territory.

  Many of their amigos had checked out that way. It was the way it went, Diesel thought, as the cold rain bit at his almost exposed face. The bandana he had wrapped around his mouth and nose area was sodden, offering little to no resistance against the elements. Better to die on the road with your bike on top of you in a crumpled heap, than in a ditch with a few bullets in the back of your skull.

  Yes, gang warfare was ugly. So too, were sour deals and run-ins with the law. All three could get you killed in all kinds of hideous ways, Diesel mused.

  But now he needed a rest.

  To get off the road.

  He began wondering when a fucking whore or ale house would come into view. He needed his fill of pussy and booze. He and the boys had been on the road since early this morning. The ride up to their Manchester charter had been a hard one, what with the rain and roads closing left, right and centre.

  The arduous and tiresome trek had been all for just three bundles of handguns. But it wasn’t just about the amount of guns, but the reason they had done it. The Manchester charter of the Boas desperately needed the hardware, as they had their backs against the wall with their most fearsome rivals – Hell’s Highwaymen.

  The Highwaymen were a gang born out of Ipswich, who’d made it places overnight. Having set-up charters all over the U.K, the Highwaymen had taken a liking to Manchester, and were making it their job to hustle The Boas out of town. But it was never going to happen, as The Boas also had an ally unit close by; a small outfit by the name of Wild Scum, who were Bolton and Liverpool-based. They’d formed a close bond with The Boas over the years, and for a small-time bunch, they packed some serious heat and muscle.

  The gun drop was a necessity to help the Manchester-based Boas with the ongoing war against The Highwaymen, yes, but the delivered cargo was not just for that reason alone. No, not at all, Diesel thought. A drug deal between The Boas and Wild Scum was going down tonight, just outside of Chinatown, Manchester. News of this had reached the Highwaymen through their sources, which Grizzly, The Boas fearless charter leader, delighted in.