A Spooky Story... (Part Three)

This probably isn't going to make any sense if you haven't read Part One and Part Two, preferably in that order.

There is some music that is so primal, so simple, that it bypasses the brain entirely. It doesn't bother with the ears, or with nerves, or with understanding: it speaks straight to your soul. It flows through your inner most being, and fits a red hot wire straight to your arms and your fight. You move to this music not because you have a choice, but because the music itself commands you - that deep, primal urge to respond in some way to something beyond mankind's understanding.

The Macarena is one example of that sort of music.

And by all accounts, it was going rather well. Those tiny remnants of humanity left in the child zombies were activated, stirred and awakened - their adorable stumbly little legs were desperately turning, their hands moving to various parts of their bodies as they danced, not because they wanted to, but because their souls had no choice. Needless to say, the second song of our set tonight was by far the more successful - on the keyboard, I was providing the backing, while Jacob had set his guitar down and was leading the actions, as Mark mirrored him and sang. Our seemingly certain death had been averted, as a warped version of thriller seemed to be taking place.

For once, just for once, Jacob had had a good idea. Not his usual "good ideas", which have, in the past, resulted in the explosion of a snowman, him setting an entire room on fire, and, my personal favourite, him deciding highly poisonous yew leaves would make a great tea.

The Bucket Wizard, however, was having none of it. With a snap of his wizened fingers, the power blew on my keyboard. Sparks shot from the speakers, looking somewhat like stage pyrotechnics but with the unfortunate effect of stopping the music. Unable to cope with the overload to what was left of their rotting brainstems, the childzombies collapsed, neutralised.

As the power blew, Mark ran away, seemingly in terror. It was just me and Jake left now, against an advancing foe of such ancient evil that petty malevolence seemed to roll off him. He raised his crinkly, liver spotted hands, and began an enchantment so ancient and virilent that the pavement began to melt and pool around his feet...

Thwack

That's the best I can describe the noise of a spade going through a three hundred year old skull soaked in dark magic and satanic influence. It's not a noise I've had to transcribe very often.

Mark, wielding the spade he'd just saved us with, further proved that he was, in his spare time, a bit of a badass. Surveying the corpse of the ancient evil he'd defeated with both the power of God-awful-pop-songs and cold steel, he spat out the strangest, if most appropriate to the situation, post mortem one liner ever.

"Come on Barbie. Let's go party."

Scratch that last line. I have never heard a man sound so badass and so incredibly gay at the same time.