| LA Gormfidential- When Conan The Barbarian meets James Ellroy. Kinda.
Know ye oh prince in that ancient epoch known as the Bladderian age there was a great hero.
A hero called Gorm.
Gorm was a warrior.
A bold barbarian with a big axe.
Gorm was a bold fighter, an accomplished killer and well equipped in the loins department.
Women loved him, wizards hated him.
In turn he loved women and hated wizards.
It was a straight forward formula.
Gorm spent his youth honing his skills whilst loving and slaying his way across a planet and back again. When all the women had been loved and the wizards had been slain Gorm flew into the mists of time on wings of sorcery, intent of ridding the entire universe of the scum of wizardry.
Los Angeles 1958.
Hubbub in a dark-town street outside a pawn.
Rubberneckers crowd round, blue suits trying to hold back the gawkers as the medical examiner does his work.
Reporters start arriving. Cameras start flashing. Jigs start volunteering exaggerated claims of a naked white man waving an axe.
Straight up jungle town bullshit.
The testament is the amount of empty bottles lying in the street.
Name’s Lieutenant Elmore Ellroy. LAPD Homicide Division.
I called the short straw with this one.
The vic is a deceased male, a magician by trade according to the business card I found in his wallet.
Name Benny Goodman.
Age forty four.
Victim of a frenzied hacking.
No out-standing warrants or records.
I already checked up via the radio.
Beside the dead magician lay a hold-all.
Inside: jewellery, reefers and an empty .38.
According to the pawn owner Goodman had held him up.
Call it desperate times in the magic trade.
Call it over earnest retaliation for robbery?
Scratch that.
Pawn owner only has one arm, no bloodstains on his person either.
Call it a fucking head scratcher.
I leave the blue suits and shirt and ties to it. Hit the road, rolling to Goodman’s address.
Hope for an easy solution, got a date with a dame with hooters like hotel pillows.
Goodman lives in a tiny room in an Irish run boarding house.
The landlady lets me in, weeping.
Seems Goodman was good with the children, call him a sap.
Toss his room.
Living room, bathroom, kitchen.
Grime, dust, dirt.
Bugs, mould, cigarette butts.
Find a shit caked dildo under a pillow.
Call Benny Goodman: a desperate dildo degenerate.
Call it homo axe attack?
Call it jilted muscle boy axe hack?
Questions blip and bang.
Answers whimper and simper.
Rolling shitwork: enroute back to scene of crime when it comes over the radio.
“Attention all units, 187 in progress at corner of Wiltshire and Peckinpah, maniac at large in magic shop. At least two dead,”
I hit the siren, goose the engine to top speed.
Wail my way through traffic, instincts aflame.
Guts churn.
I know this is it.
Call it Goodman connection.
Call it wrapped up in time for steak and love pillows.
The shop is cordoned off, blue suits training store with twelve-gauge pumps.
Mickey’s Magic Mansion is smashed to shit.
Windows broke.
Blood splattered.
Mega mayhem amundo.
Someone is bellowing inside.
Someone is smashing.
Someone is screaming.
Someone is killing people inside Mickey’s Magic Mansion.
Call it full on whacko magic massacre.
I draw my .45 and dash in, ignoring blue suit shouts.
Call it my prerogative to take down the shitbird.
Inside is a ruin.
Top hats shredded.
Wands wanged.
Rabbits raped.
Cards crumpled.
A huge man waves an axe.
Blue eyed, blonde hair.
Regular Aryan poster boy.
He’s drenched in blood and naked, rippling with muscles.
Call it- mad muscle fruit killer.
Damn, the drunks were right.
“To the floor shitheel!” I order.
“Nay knave!” the fruit responds, I cock my pistol.
A dazed shop keep lies on the floor, his butchered customers lie around him.
“Touch that fella and I drop you homo,” I spit.
“That man is safe, tis naught but wizards I slay!”
“Cut the bullshit and get down on the floor!”
The fruit looks puzzled and shrugs.
“Why the aggression man? I am Gorm, deliverer of sorcery and lover of woman, I come here to deliver this planet from evil and spread my seed amongst your female populace,”
Call him Hitlerian degenerate fruit.
Call him whacked.
I shoot him in the chest.
Gorm grimaces and roars, waving his axe.
He rushes forward.
“DADDY!” I yell, pumping my whole gun into the fruit.
The fuck swings away, his brains leaking out of his ruined head.
Call him dead.
Call it one fucked up day.
Last edited by Charlie Parker; 1st May 2006 at 6:23pm.
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