The Hipster From Outer Space (The Hipster Trilogy Book 1) (23 page)

“Firstly,” Moomamu said, “you’re correct that this planet we’re on currently is called Earth, and secondly, as I’ve deemed you important enough to have a name, I will let you know of a secret. I am not from around here.”

Luna giggled a little louder.

“No kidding,” she said.
 

“No never,” Moomamu said blankly. “I’m an ancient space-being and yesterday morning I woke up, trapped in a human body, and now the cat has told me that he will show me the way home. Well … he was going to.”

Luna stopped laughing. She searched Moomamu’s face for madness.
 

“I think you have a problem,” she said.

“Yes I do,” Moomamu said. “My cat is dying.”

“Okay,” Luna said, now tearing open the foil wrapping on her rations. “Tell me, where were you travelling to from King’s Cross?”

“The cat told me we were going to a place called Nottingham.”

“Right,” she said as she bit on the food. “I should be going. I have a restaurant to close up and my guys will be waiting for me.”

“Okay Luna, I will allow you to leave. Again, I offer thanks for helping me and my guide.”

“Sure,” she said, laughing again.
 

As she went to stand, one of the uniformed women stepped into the room. Her mouth was fully open. Her eyes were wide. Her skin was pale. She was in the shock configuration.

“Your cat has asked for you,” she said, shaking her head, disbelieving the sounds coming out of her mouth.
 

***

The cat was lying on its side, its mouth open and tongue out, breathing a little stronger than before. His eyes were open at least. The broken human had bitten the cat’s right paw clean off. The stub was now encased in a hard white clay and fabric mixture.
 

“We need to go,” he said. His voice was missing its usual confidence. “We should go as soon as possible.”

Behind Moomamu, the woman in the uniform and Luna were both watching, mouths agape, unsure at what they were seeing.

“I think you were right,” Moomamu said. “You shouldn’t talk in front of humans. It seems to break them.”

Gary looked at Moomamu like he wanted to bite down on his nose until the thing bled.
 

“That tall one who attacked the Thinker. He’ll attack again. He’ll keep attacking until Thinker is dead, and if Thinker dies it will be very bad.”

“Sorry,” Luna said, interrupting and stepping forward. “But that madman who attacked you was taken down by Clifford, the security guard.”

“Where will he be now? What will happen to him?” the cat said.

“He was probably taken to the lock-up in the station, where the police will likely come and pick him up and arrest the bastard,” Luna said.

“Okay, so let’s get me home, little cat,” Moomamu said, getting ready to scoop him out of the bed.

“Wait,” the nurse said. “You can’t just take him. He needs rest and medicine, and he needs to have that cast changed in a couple of weeks, and … I mean, we should do something about the talking. Maybe tell the news … film it … go viral. We could make a lot of money with a talking cat.”

Moomamu shook his head in disgust.
 

“You humans,” he said. “Always looking out for yourselves, and your selfish desires. Now, can we please let me go home. Where is our travel machine?”

“I’m pretty sure you missed the train,” Luna said.
 

“So you will take us then, Luna?” Moomamu said. “To the land of Nottingham?”

Luna checked her phone for the time and put it in her pocket.

“I gotta call my staff and let them know … but … I mean, I guess, I could drop you halfway or someth…”

“Brilliant,” Moomamu interjected. “You will take me and the cat to Nottingham where I can finally get the hell off this planet and back to my home in the stars.”

Luna shook her head. Moomamu didn’t think it possible, but the nurse went paler, her mouth opened wider. She took her communication device out and pointed at them as Moomamu scooped the cat into his arms and they headed out of the door.

Rosie Darlington-Whit

They followed their noses to the main pig enclosure where their suspicions were met. In the middle of the pen was a dead pig. The pig was huge, but the sight of it didn’t make sense. They’d seen their fair share of dead bodies over the years. Normally, a recently deceased body would be moist, and full of jellied blood. It would look pretty much like a living body, albeit cold, pale and like it might come alive and bite you. Or if it had been dead for a long time, it would look dried out and shrivelled, like an old mummy, but this pig …

“Have you ever seen anything like that?” Rosie said.

Bexley shook his head. He reached into this bag and pulled out a small box device with a needle measurement on the top — the
 
EMF reader. He pointed the device in the direction of the pig and wandered over to it. The closer he got to the pig, the louder the device screamed at them.

“It’s … like it’s being sucked into itself,” Bexley said.
 

The flesh of the thing was still moist and intact, but the insides looked like they’d been sucked out. The dense matter of bone, muscle and sinew had melted away. Pools of a black tar-like substance were bubbling out of its ears, the holes where its eyes used to be, and whatever other holes it could find a way out of.

“It’s a fucking mess of hair and skin and ectoplasm,” Rosie said as she walked towards it. “I’ve never actually seen ectoplasm or anything like this before. I mean, I’ve read about it in the library.”

“Spiritual energy exteriorised by physical media,” Bexley said. “Or that’s what they say.” He put the EMF reader back into his bag and grabbed a pitchfork from the side of the barn. He flipped it over so that the fork end was facing upwards, and then used the handle to poke the skin of the pig. He prodded it a few times, around the face, the front legs, the stomach.

“What we actually believe ectoplasm to be nowadays is a substance of dark matter, pushed into our own world through some sort of chemical reaction. Now, what caused the reaction? What is it about this pig? What inconsistency is forcing the pig to … change the matter around it?”
 

“I think you should leave the pig alone,” a voice said from behind them.
 

Rosie turned to see a skinny little farmer, with his white vest top, crooked teeth and malformed face. He looked a man with a child’s mind.

“It’s dead,” she said. “We’re not doing any harm to it.”

“That’s not the point,” the boy said. “You shouldn’t be on our property in the first place, never mind touching our pigs.”

“We’re not touching your pigs,” Rosie said. “And … we’re supposed to be here.”

The farmer tilted his head.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re an environmental team, put together to look out for potential health risks and chemical hazards,” she said. “Look, kid, there’s something wrong here. You could get sick being near this pig. In fact, the other pigs may well be contaminated as well. We’re here to help.”

The boy looked around his little farm house. He looked at the other pigs, at the dead body of the pig on the floor. He took a step forward.

“Please don’t take another step.”

He stepped anyway.

“Please!” Rosie shouted. “We could be looking at the next swine flu, or mad cow disease or whatever. Do you really want to be involved? Do you really want the place to be plastered all over the news? Stupid farm boy accidentally starts flu that wipes out all livestock across Europe?”

The boy stopped.
 

“What do you want to do?”

“Well, I could do with seeing some papers or something. Where did the pig come from?”

“That’s Elsa. She was born here on the farm, but I think I have some stuff about her dam in the admin cabin,” he said.

“Her dam?” Rosie said.

“Her dam, you know, her mum.”

“Okay,” Rosie said, smiling. “Lead the way.”
 

She turned to look at Bexley who was still poking the dead body. She waved him to stop and he put the pitchfork down. As they went to follow the man to the admin cabin, she thought for a second that she saw the dead stomach of the pig move — she thought she saw something poke back.

***

The gangly little man with buck teeth walked them back to the car park without saying a word

“Do you live here? In that house?” Rosie asked, pointing to the main building of the farm, but he didn’t answer.

Every now and again the farmer’s head would jolt left or right, like he was scared that danger lurked behind every corner, ready to pounce on him. Next to the car park, they walked to the admin cabin. The place looked as decrepit as before. But this time the farmer was there with the key. He unlocked the door and they walked inside. Rosie could see the dust clinging to the air. She could see the papers and office equipment everywhere. She saw an empty shelf with a few empty bottles of alcohol on it and an old fashioned yellow Walkman. She saw an old computer that looked high-tech compared to the one they had at The Family House.
 

“Phew,” she said. “You guys get a cleaner in here every now and again?”

He looked at her and matter-of-factly said “No”.

She noticed Bexley looking at the farmer. He hadn’t taken his eyes off him. He was cautious of the man. She wasn’t worried. If it came down to it, Bexley could break the runt’s neck with a flick of the wrist, like he was squeezing toothpaste out of a tube. Hey, she could probably do it herself to this little mouse.

“I think the old animal papers are down here in this cupboard.” He flicked through the keys on his keychain and found a small bundle of two. He tried one and the cupboard swung open and more stacks of papers and files toppled out.

“Sorry, it’s not very well kept down here, not since the farm closed to visitors.”

“That’s okay,” Rosie beamed. “We can look through these, but … I don’t suppose you have any coffee?”

He looked at her, then Bexley, then back to her.

“No,” he said.

“Right,” she said.

“But we do have tea.”

“Perfect,” Rosie said as she placed her hand on his shoulder.
 

From this distance she saw his yellowing teeth, chipped on the front. She could see the heavy brow ridge, like a Neanderthal’s.

“Sure,” he said. “Two teas then, I guess.”

As he left the cabin to get the tea, Bexley watched him.

“What are you worried about?” she asked him.

“I don’t have a good feeling about that man, and why are we looking through the pig’s records?” he said.

“I’m buying time. We know there’s something wrong with the pig, but why wouldn’t he clean it up? Why would he leave a pig dying in the pen for so long? I need to find out more about this delicate little flower before I kick it.”

“Okay, so what now?” Bexley said.
 

“Get your gun,” she said. “Go get your gun.”

Markus Schmiebler

Markus scratched at the strap behind his mask. A loose thread irritated the sides of his head. He adjusted his green trousers as they were slipping. The suit smelled of fusty old sweat. It didn’t matter how many times the costume guy had run the thing through the wash, it still stank of stag parties, shots of alcohol, second-hand smoke and even a little bit like sex. The Dragon Boy character he was dressed as, a favourite from the Fantasy Sword Online franchise, smelled like it had drawn a different breed of role players.

Cosplay.

That was the dress code for the secret Yayatoo event: the session, no, the Sesh. Markus had made his way to a dingy old factory in East London. The kind of place where you find people partying at all-night raves, but this was different. It didn’t feel like a party. He found the place by following the trail of game, movie and comic book characters, like breadcrumbs, through an old industrial estate, past empty warehouses, some squats and several flat conversions.

As Markus queued up at the entrance he found himself about one hundred people back. Soon enough, a hundred more joined the queue behind him.
 

“This is going to be incredible,” said the woman in front of him dressed in a black way-too-tight vinyl leotard with a white wig tumbling down over her shoulders. “I can’t believe that we’re lucky enough to get an invite to the Sesh.” She turned to Markus, expecting something …

“Ahem … yeah … sure. It’s unreal,” he said and she nodded. “Listen, do we know if Louise will be here?”

“Who?” said the skinny teenager from behind. This one had hair gelled into violent spikes and a fake plastic longsword strapped to his back.

“Yayatoo … do we know if Yayatoo will be at this event?” he corrected himself.

The skinny swordsman leant close to Markus and whispered, “Well … word on the grapevine is that today will be a special event indeed. Yayatoo herself will be here to meet each and every one of us. She wants to personally welcome each of her new Yayatooists.”

The women in black squealed with delight and clapped her hands together.
 

“So how did you find your Yayatooism?” asked the woman.

Markus wasn’t even sure what she was talking about.

“My Yayatooism?” he said, and the energy in his queue-mates changed. They looked at him like he didn’t belong. “Well … just like everybody else, really,” he said. “We all find it when we need it most, right?”

The swordsman took a step back as a few of the other cosplayers looked over.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said the swordsman. “I was in a pretty dark place before I found Yayatooism. It came to me when I needed it most, like when you’re stuck in a dungeon on Fantasy Sword Online and you’re down to five health points and then, out of nowhere, you find a potion.” He patted Markus on the shoulder.

“Exactly that,” Marcus agreed.

Two huge men dressed like knights guarded the entrance. They stood next to lanterns of fire lighting up the night sky.

“Yeah dude,” said the swordsman, looking over with Markus. “This is some real epic shit.”

***

When they got inside they were met with sounds of the game soundtracks of old. Markus remembered his wedding night and readjusted his mask. The interior was a tunnel of black drapes, lit by lanterns, leading them through to a main hallway area where a stage and a microphone waited, like a stand-up comedian might walk out at any minute. They were handed little goody bags as they walked and found their own spaces to stand.