XMAS WRITING COMP - "BOO! Thousand AD"

[Bad City Blue]

Yeah, yeah... it's an awful title.

But a great idea from our last winner, Raggedman.

Let's get some proper horror into the comp, and stick it up the arse of a Christmas theme.

SO... give us a 2000AD Christmas Horror story in 500 words or less.

So to reiterate:

Horror/Christmas theme
500 Words Or Less

Scarier and gorier the better.

Get scribblin, a prize shall be gifted ta the best one.

Merry Fraggin' Christmas, geekwads

Bad City Blue Christmas

[Eamonn Clarke]

Dead men tell no tales

"Santa, please call here" says the sign but it's the Judges who kick down the door. They are too late, the murderer's drug has taken hold and I'm already effectively dead.

"Jovus! He's been gutted like a fish."

"Eyes up, rookie. Perp may still be here."

The toxin paralysed me, heart rate reduced to almost zero, everything slowed to crawling speed, except my brain which races away but I can't let the Judges know I'm still alive.

"Clear. Whoever did this is long gone."

"Call the tech. I'll check the body."

Coloured lights reflect off her leathers as the Judge checks my non-reactive pupils. I can feel drops of moisture forming in my eyes. Maybe she'll spot them and realise I'm not dead? But no, Judges are trained for blood and violence not tears, and she stands up over me again as the tech sets his tri-d camera recording the scene.

"OK, rookie. Tell me what you see."

"Male, mid forties, naked apart from his u-fronts. Belly has been opened with a serious blade, I'm guessing it nicked the aorta because there is a lot of blood. Let me just look inside ... yes, his liver is missing. It's him isn't it? This is the work of the Christmas Delivery Man."

"Sure looks that way. Sicko's fourth victim in as many years. Let's see what else we've got here apart from a corpse."

Time passes. I'm just a piece of meat to them now.

"All done," says the tech. "You want me to send Re-syk up?"

"Yeah. We've got what we need here."

Then I'm alone again. I hear the Judges starting their door to door but no-one will have seen or heard anything, while I lay here taking it all in, unable to speak.

Re-syk is a short guy in the familiar yellow jumpsuit. As he lays out the body bag he doesn't notice my finger twitching, the drug is wearing off. Good Grud, what if I'm zipped up in his van before I can move?

However this guy is slow, methodical, diligent. He hasn't even got me in the bag when I suddenly sit up. His face is a picture but my hand closes around his throat before he cries out. My blade was hidden beneath me and his eyes widen as it slides in below his ribs.

"I'm sorry," I whisper in his dying ear, "but you have something I need."

I eat his liver straight away and feel life flood through me as mine regenerates. My belly wound closes and my mutated skin knits whole again while I quickly bottle a pint of his blood to use next time. Five minutes later I'm wearing yellow and pushing the gurney down the corridor. The Judges don't even look in my direction while they browbeat the neighbours.

Re-syk are expecting a body without a liver and that is exactly what I intend to deliver.

[Bad City Blue]

Bump (in the night)

[Hawkmumbler]

I'm cooking something up for a change.

[Bad City Blue]

I'm having trouble thinking up something truly sick

[Eamonn Clarke]

As there are no other entries yet I'm going to submit a slightly revised version of mine (minus one word).
Hope that's ok


Dead men tell no tales

"Santa, please call here" says the sign but it's the judges who kick down the door. They are too late, the drug has taken hold and I'm already effectively dead.

"Jovus! He's been gutted like a fish."

"Eyes up, rookie. Perp may still be here."

The toxin paralysed me, heart rate reduced to almost zero, everything slowed to crawling speed, except my brain which races away but I can't let the judges know I'm still alive.

"Clear. Whoever did this is long gone."

"Call the tech. I'll check the body."

Coloured lights reflect off her leathers as the judge checks my non-reactive pupils. I can feel drops of moisture forming in my eyes. Maybe she'll spot my tears and realise I'm not dead? But no, judges are trained for blood and violence not tears, and she stands up again as the tech sets his tri-d camera recording the scene.

"OK, rookie. Tell me what you see."

"Male, mid forties, naked apart from his u-fronts. Belly has been opened with a serious blade, I'm guessing it nicked the aorta because there is a lot of blood. Let me just look inside ... yes, his liver is missing. It's him isn't it? This is the work of Santa Claws, the Christmas Delivery Man."

"Sure looks that way. Sicko's fourth victim in as many years. Let's see what else we've got here apart from a corpse."

Time passes. I'm just a piece of meat to them now.

"All done," says the tech. "You want me to send Re-syk up?"

"Yeah. We've got what we need here."

Then I'm alone again. I hear the judges starting their door to door but no-one will have seen or heard anything, while I lay here taking it all in, unable to speak.

Re-syk is a short guy in the familiar yellow jumpsuit. As he lays out the body bag he doesn't notice my finger twitching, the drug is wearing off. Good Grud, what if I'm zipped up in his van before I can move?

However this guy is slow, methodical, diligent. He hasn't even got me in the bag when I suddenly sit up. His face is a picture but my hand closes around his throat before he cries out. My blade was hidden beneath me and his eyes widen as it slides in below his ribs.

"I'm sorry," I whisper in his dying ear, "but you have something I need."

I eat his liver straight away and feel life flood through me as mine regenerates. My belly wound closes and my mutated skin knits whole again while I quickly bottle a pint of his blood to use next time. Five minutes later I'm wearing yellow and pushing the gurney down the corridor. The judges don't even look in my direction while they browbeat the neighbours.

Re-syk are expecting a body without a liver and that is exactly what I intend to deliver.

[Heath C Ackley]

A RELIC OF CHRISTMAS PAST

'My agents found it in the Undercity.' Matchbox beckoned for him to enter the unit.'It's vintage and curious and dramatic. You'll love it.'

Kohl glanced back at his security detail. They stood with weapons at the ready. It was a bad neighbourhood. For the right price, Matchbox could get you anything. Junk and treasure of every description filled the unit. A rack of firearms lay beneath an antique print of a woman scratching her behind. An old vending machine wheezed as they passed by.

Matchbox was a valuable source of vintage robots and mechanicals. The small, shifty man considered him merely as a collector but Kohl did not actually possess a collection. What he did have was an industrial unit and a trash compactor. Kohl took great pleasure in watching droids being slowly crushed.

The vendor removed a tarpaulin to reveal the facsimile of a rotund human male. Kohl stepped back, suddenly wary. Most of the plastic skin and costume had perished. The white beard hung from a metal jaw. Dead lenses glittered under snowy brows.

'It comes complete with his little helpers.' Matchbox indicated to three small boxes on the floor.

'Does it work?'

Matchbox reached around the proud belly. The huge droid began to hum. Kohl started a little as the monstrous figure came to life.

'And what do you want for Christmas little boy?'

Horrified, Kohl cried out.

'Ah yes I remember.' Cyber Santa tucked its thumbs into a belt that was no longer there. 'A new hover-bike wasn't it?'

'Switch it off.'

With lightning speed, Cyber Santa swung an arm and struck Matchbox. His neck snapped. Kohl ran. Images of the grotto - shut away for so long - returned. He recalled ugly hands squeezing the life from his parents. The robots had taken over the city. Cyber Santa had rampaged through the store until the Judges arrived and blasted it out of the window.

'Code Red.' He shouted into his wrist communicator.

The clanking metallic beast roared behind him. The sounds of destruction reverberated throughout the unit. Kohl dived for cover as the doors slid open. The security detail opened fire. Armour piercing shells punctured the stout body. Cyber Santa toppled backward, dead and deactivated.

Kohl turned to his guards but found that they too had fallen. Bloody fountains gushed from their heads. Three small figures stepped over their twitching bodies and singing cheerfully, skipped towards him.

The Judges found him several hours later. Hugo Kohl had been reduced to nothing more than a puddle. They identified him by his DNA. By the marks on his body, the killers had used tiny hammers or mallets. Every bone had been ground to dust, every organ crushed, every inch pulverized.

Of the perpetrators, there was no sign. The Judges found a little spilt oil and a note.

Dear Fleshy-Ones,

'Tis the season to be jolly - while it lasts.

Best Wishes,

Call - Me - Saint Nick

[Darren Stephens]

Good stuff, guys. Love both of those tales.

[The Legendary Shark]

Torquemada's Choir.

I leave the Mall with my lover's prize,
A Christmas gift to brighten her eyes,
And a feeling in me like a supernova.
It's nothing queer and not too dear,
A heartfelt gift to ease the fear,
Of living in a world that just gets colder.

Termight's crowds I thus endure,
For in my heart I know that you're,
The girl who makes my spirit all the bolder.
Then I hear the sound all love to cure,
Through the buzz of the Christmas throng,
Drifts that dreaded cherub's song:
"Be pure, be pure, be pure."

Torquemada's Choir singing so bright,
Promising beauty – bringing blight,
And the joy within me feels just like it's dying.
Sat outside the Deviant Vats,
From whence the sound of screaming rats
And burning children in the air is flying.

All the shoppers hurry past,
The fear within them deep and vast,
As the cherubs sniff the downcast crowd for moulder.
Eyes bright red and staring sure,
Sweet, sweet smiles with needle teeth,
Angelic out but vile beneath,
"Be pure, be pure, be pure."

At me they fly from the entrance way!
"But I'm pure! I've got good DNA!"
They take the gift and grab me by the shoulder.
The paper shreds, the package bends,
And all at once my future ends,
"This object – it was made by an off-worlder!"

Termight's shoppers pass me by,
And none will look me in the eye,
Their spirits crushed as if beneath a boulder.
Their lowered heads, for me, ensure,
Into the Vats I will be tossed,
Damned and now forever lost!
"Impure! Impure! Impure!"

Their tiny fingers, strong as a vice,
Drag me away for to sacrifice,
Never no more to see my Love or hold her.
The doors to the Vats open wide,
I weep and piss away my pride,
With my wife I'll not now grow any older.

Down the chute to the Deviant Vats,
Toward the sound of breaking cats,
I think of all the things I should have told her.
My body will be mashed to manure,
Spread on Termight's roses so dear,
And as I'm sliced, the last thing I hear...
"Be pure, be pure, be pure."

[Bad City Blue]

Another Bloody Christmas


Christmas is supposed to be happy, he thought, this was anything but.
One foot in front of the other, he told himself, just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
To his left, a girl in an elf costume on the floor, he intestines spilling out of her stomach as she tried in vain to push them back in. Tears were running down her face.
'Help me!' she implored. 'Please! Don't let me die!'
One foot in front of the other.
Suddenly, the floor beneath him vanished, and he was falling, falling, falling into a pit of nothingness. Voices in his ear whispered vile promises of death, tales of his failings as a man, reasons why the world would be better off without him.
He concentrated with every fibre of his being, concentrated on his feet, nothing else.
One foot in front of the other.
Out of nowhere, the floor returned and he was once again walking slowly forwards. His body was bathed in sweat, his hands were shaking, and all he wanted to do was turn, turn and run.
From his left a huge, hulking man appeared, wearing a santa suit covered in filth, his face contorted in rage and madness. In his hands was an axe, an old, chipped head on a shaft made from a human femur, the blade bathed in blood.
'Ho Ho Ho! Now you die!' laughed the madman, swinging the axe in a mighty arc, the only result a quick and bloody death as he cleaved his victims body in two.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on his feet once more. One foot in front of the other.
'I AM NOT AFRAID!' he shouted in desperation, glad to see the axeman had vanished. He hoped he was convincing, because he was so very afraid.
Next, his niece appeared. Not the woman she had become, but the girl she once was, in the pyjamas she had been wearing the one Christmas morning he had been able to see her open her presents. She sat in his way, slowly slicing at herself with a sharp knife, rivers of blood running from every cut. Her eyes never left his, and as he watched, unable to take his eyes away, she lifted her skirt and thrust the knife between her legs again and again, laughing as she did so.
'End of the line, Uncle', she shouted, spraying hot blood over him, 'End of our line, no kids for me!'.
He fell, then, onto one knee, unable to rid the apparition from his mind.
'It's not real,' he said quietly to himself, then louder: 'IT'S NOT REAL!'.
He stood again, set his jaw and put one foot in front of the other, shakily but surely.
He knew the end was near, and drew his gun.


'I don't know how you did it, Dredd.' said Med Judge Tarrant. .That gas drove everyone who came near it insane, hundreds died from sheer terror. You had a broken respirator and yet you still managed to get through and put a bullet in Karloff's brain. How in Grud did you do it?'
'I've seen my friends raised from the dead, vampires, aliens, my city reduced to rubble, and more death than any man should see in a lifetime' said Dredd.
'So?'
'I don't scare easy...'

[RaggedMan]

Fairytale in Baja

Christmas Eve mate, in the drunk tank and Wolfie Smith is dubious about seeing another one.

America was a mistake. Amateur error.
Can't make it in the UK? Why not conquer the States?
He could tell you why not. LA is a monster.

But there's a girl. Last of the hippies. No bra and keeps leaning forward.
Oh Wolfie you divvy.
Looking for a rise from Gypsy Rose and instead she gave you a drink that tasted like dung and talked about shaman and now you're sweating a cell in Baja with the walls warping, your hands melting and the only solid thing in eternity your lumpy guts.

And that bloody song's still on the radio.

We know each other mentally
You gotta know that you're bringin' out
The animal in me

Let's get physical, physical

Closes eyes but nothing is shut out, falling down inside himself.

Let me hear your body talk

The bile in his mouth is sweet. The song changing with the walls. 

...you posses my soul now honey...

There's a monster in the cell with him. Looks like a college professor but his skin rips like chewing gum exposing constellations of burning eyes inside.

You need to focus Wolfie. Separate the trip from the real.

Someday we'll be together
Some sweet day we'll be together

He's up against you. The wall is solid now. So is his arm in your throat. 
B.O. cheap aftershave and the iron tang of blood. Butchery and hairdressers.
Clouding from his mouth that same sweet dungy smell of the magic drink.

'Why are you here? I won.
I broke the gate open...'

Trying to reach out with your mind to push him off but your mind is jelly, sliding off everything it touches and too many ghosts in the walls chunnering round your skull.

'You shouldn't be here. They can't cheat me now... I was promised...'

Hard to breathe he's in your ear, like a lover.
'Initiation... I broke her every bone... unlocked the secret...
I'll prove it.
First little piggy...'

He takes your little finger and snaps.
You're screaming now.

'Second...'

The pain is white and hot.

'Third...'

The pain is solid. Somewhere to stand.
Remember Wolfie Smith, you have the power.  This soft get is a tourist. 

'Fourth...'

Take the pain and pass it on. Reach out your mind and squeeze.
The bastard's blackheads burst first. Then his eyes.
Force him back. Back against the bars.
Keep screaming Wolfie. Keep pushing.

25th December 1981. Somehow the English dope-head has broken every bone in his left hand. Being Christmas they hose him down and turf him out without a beating. They take his passport and money on general principle.

25th December 1969. That nutjob? The crazy black magic professor that took that hippy-chick out into the desert and murdered her? They find him outside the cell. In pieces. Once they stop vomiting the cops call it a Christmas miracle and take the bastard out back in buckets to burn.