Leatherhead

What is this place?

I find myself in a hideous charnel house of writhing bodies, their tortured limbs flailing in agony to a twisted, contorted beat which seems to emanate from the very bowels of the earth itself. I am in some kind of infernal cave, lit by a hellish blood-red light that pulses like the internal organs of some maleficient monster. Pale agonised faces dance before my eyes, a monstrous gallery of macabre mockery, mocking me monstrously in a macabre sort of way.

A jerking mannequin draped in tattered black rags tap dances crazily on silver boots across my tormented field of vision, as though driven to do so by some malevolent Michael O'Flatley. This wild phantom’s jet-black hair whips across my burning face like a cat o’ nine tails. “Come on, Kuntz!” The ghoulish deathly-white face lears at me with gimlet-eyes. Its voice cackles through vampiric lips the colour of fresh arterial blood. “They're playing Get Down With It!” Gnarled fingers grope at my flayed body, tugging at me, trying to drag me Down With It... to Hell, or worse. I pull away, a feeble, lifeless gesture - I am losing control of my limbs.

The witch-like temptress tap dances away, fading into the maelstrom of tangled, tormented bodies. A sense of impending horror paralyses me. Something is approaching, some misbegotten, misshapen fiend is shuffling inexorably towards me. Its malformed body is draped in a funereal shroud; a bowler hat sits on its enlarged head. As the vile creature approaches, I can see that it has no human face. There are slits where the eyes should be; a gash where the mouth should be. The rest is grey, putrid flesh. What perversion of humanity is this? What monstrosity has the devil now thought fit to assail me with.

“Alright, Kuntz?” The voice is sneering and cynical. “Who are you?” I ask, though my voice seems to come from a thousand miles away. “What? Are you taking the piss, Kuntz? I am Joseph Merrick. Obviously.” As it speaks the creature raises its arms, lifting the shroud - which I now see is a Victorian gentleman’s cape, XS-size - until it resembles the wings of a raven, or some other hideous, monstrous bird, perhaps a Fulmar, or a bat, even. “Joseph Merrick?” I stammer. “I don’t recall having met...”

At this query, genuinely meant, the creature becomes agitated - I seem to have angered the beast with my ignorant foolish ignorance. “Why you little…” The creature waves a clenched fist at me, exasperated. “You’re a fucking cunt, Kuntz. You know exactly who Joseph Merrick is. Joseph Merrick... The Elephant Man.” I am still baffled. “The Elephant Man?” I respond. “Did we meet at a party or something?” “For fuck’s sake, Kuntz. The Elephant Man, you know? Also known as...” The creature pauses, taunting me with my ignorance. “Jack the Ripper!” At this revelation, the hideous figure takes a step backwards that I might take in the full horror of what it is that confronts me. I am overcome with a nameless dread. I can feel myself tumbling into unconsciousness, and as the room and its writhing occupants recede into infinity, a voice echoes down the vast eons of time to rattle against my tortured eardrums. “Enjoying your cocktail, Kuntz?”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Where am I now?

I wake to find a grotesque, hydra-headed gargoyle looming above me, it’s drooling jaws twisted into a hideously-mangled sneer. “Kuntz!” The voice tears through my very soul like the Devil’s own Aldi Brand Powerflex Economy Combined Bandsaw and Twigboy Shredder, a mere twenty-nine pounds and ninety pence in what you British laughingly call your sterling money. But only while stocks last. When they’re gone, they’re gone. GONE, I tell you! NEVER to return...

“Kuntz!” It is as though my eardrums are being assailed by a thousand angry honeybadgers, those dread Masters of Mayhem, high on a corrupted cocktail of amphetamines and Pro-Plus, blended violently in a Costa-coffee double-shot triple Americano siphoned from some diabolical urinary tract - and laced with High Commissioner for extra mayhem. To go. “Come on Kuntz! Condition of being insane! Seven letters. ‘M’ something; ‘D’; ‘N’ something, something ‘S’! Come on Kuntz!” A chorus of satanic voices joins in. “Come on, Kuntz! Come on, Kuntz!”

As the demented choir chants discordantly, a voice joins them, its gutteral Bavarian tones as harsh as any Wagnerian underworld demon: “Answer ze kvestion, Kuntz. You VILL answer ze kvestion!” Pallid faces fade in and out of the blood red mist that hangs in curtains before my tortured eyes, their mouths contorted, tongues lolling, teeth decayed and collapsing. I try desperately to protest that this isn’t strictly speaking a question at all, but the words that emerge from my dribbling maw are unrecognisable, even to me. Some malevolent puppet-master is controlling my lips.

Strange runes shudder across the demonic landscape of my madness; they form biblical names, dark and terrifying - St Ella, St Etienne - it is as though the very hosts of Heaven have themselves made a dark pact with their old drinking buddy, Lucifer, and have embarked on an apocalyptic pub-crawl through the Wetherspoons and late-night Travelodge bars of my skull.

A sinister voice whispers to me over my shoulder: “Alright, chief?” I turn slowly, and find myself face to face with what surely must be the Sabbath Goat Himself, or at least one of his trusted lieutenants. Horns protrude from this monster’s bald pate, the polished surface of which reflects the garish lighting of this abbatoir of insanity in which I have been incarcerated. A pair of hideous yellow hands appear clutching some kind of shroud and begin ritualistically to caress what passes for the demon’s scalp, bringing it to a lurid shine before passing on to torture some other poor victim of the Devil’s dread machinations.

“Not far now, Kuntz.” The voice rasps, taunting me with the promise of an end to this crazed nightmare. “Less than one mile.” All around me the demonic choir takes up the chant: “One mile! One mile!” The rasping voice retorts: “Less than one mile, I reckon. Roughly speaking.” And the voice is rough indeed, as rough as a Lidl Extra Rough Electronic Sanding Block With Cocktail Shaker Attachment, the equivalent of thirty-seven of our good European euros; offer available throughout eternity. Or while stocks last.

I laugh uncontrollably. One mile. It is surely the funniest phrase in the entire history of the world so why does no-one else laugh? I try to spit out an insult at these humourless devils, but I cannot seem to form words.

A deep rumble begins, reverberating throughout my entire body. It is as though the gates of Hell are being dragged open by teams of infernal drunken mammoths wearing leaden Ugg boots. The demonic choir begins to chant a new refrain as though to announce the impending arrival of some fresh horror.

Gabba Gabba, Hey! Gabba Gabba, Hey!

The rumble resolves itself into a voice so low that it is like the sonic attack that Messrs Hawkwind and Co warned us about all those years ago. A voice so low that it unsettles the very fabric of the universe, simultaneously loosening one’s fillings and one’s bowels. And then I know with absolute and utter certainty that I am finally in the presence of BeelzeBob Himself, the High Commissioner of Hell. “Got any food on you, Kuntz?" booms The Voice. "I’m starving.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

How long have I endured this diabolical torture? How long have I travelled in this infernal transport on the Highway to Hell? When will this torture end?

As though in answer to my unspoken questions a voice drifts into my head, a soft, flowing, melifluous voice, strangely comforting in this dread place. “Hang on, Kuntz! Not much further now. We’re going hell for leather.”

Hell for Leather.

The demented choir takes up the diabolical refrain: “Hell for leather, hell for leather, hell for leather.”

It seems we’re going hell for leather.

Hell for...

Hell or...

Leatherhead?

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

What is this place?

I am lying on my back on a bed in a white room. Is this some kind of operating theatre? Are the infamous Barber-Surgeons of Hades about to commence the amputation of my soul? My head is being pounded from the inside by a thousand devilish trolls who have all been issued with blunt pickaxes for maximum cruelty. My eyes are burning like hot cinders and my mouth is so dry it must surely have been stuffed with infernal blotting paper from the Devil’s own stationery cupboard.

Time passes. I drift in and out of consciousness. Each time I surface the pounding in my head is a little more distant, a little less intrusive, and my eyes feel less raw. After who knows how many eons I realise that I can feel my limbs again, and that I can move them at will. As my eyes improve, the room comes into focus: there are light fittings, curtains, a kettle, a mirror, doors leading... where? My mouth is painfully dry. A kettle suggests water. I decide that it is time I tried to get up and find something to drink. As I pull myself upright, something falls from chest. It is an envelope containing a short, hand-written note and some money - £10 in coins to be precise. The note reads:

“Dear Randy, welcome to Leatherhead Travelodge. We decided it would be safer to leave you here than to bring you back to Wolverhampton with us (that Dr Jones… What is he like, eh? What is he even like? Still, he’s lovely really...) We all hope you enjoyed the tour. If you’re hungry when you wake up there’s a Wetherspoon’s up the road a bit. They’ll do you a lovely full English and you’ll still have enough change for the bus up to London, yeah? Keep in touch! Love, the ‘gales.”

Rock ‘n’ roll.

It’s a funny old spiele.