The Beast Inside, Issue #001

Issue #001 – – – – – controlled by Frank Devocht – – – – – Credits 19

It was a quiet night at the club, as Wednesday’s generally were.  It would be midnight soon and the desperate “Doors Clear” message had already been passed to him.  It was a message he was getting often lately and it was essentially the boss telling him two things.  First, he should break the law in regards to who could come in.  People who didn’t meet the “dress code”, drunks, under age drinkers (within reason, the boss was happy to let teenage girls in as long as they were at least trying to look mature), maybe even Subnormals as long as they weren’t too freakish.  Second, if the Bullies came past and wanted to check the club he should hand them the brown envelope that he always had with him.  Surprising how those greenbacks changed the rent-a-cops attitude towards club patronage.  Or perhaps not surprising.

The Beast wasn’t in the best of moods.  He’d already had to give several hot-blooded young men, and one even hotter-blooded young woman the heave-ho and received the standard mouthful of abuse each time.  Why they didn’t realise that hitting another patron with a glass or a bottle was going to get them thrown out he had no idea –  and how they had the gall to complain about it was even more mystifying.  He wasn’t keen on letting scruffy drunks into the club – I mean having a few beers is one thing and letting some guy in with a shirt but no tie?  Not a big deal.  But no socks?  Who goes out with shoes but no socks?  And besides, he had a headache again.

The Beast glanced up as he heard giggling from along the street.  A trio of merry young woman were approaching; short skirts, tight tops, perhaps a little too much make-up but who was he to criticise?  They were steered by a strikingly handsome young man dressed smartly in  expensive jeans, a yellow Armani shirt and a dark blazer.  It wasn’t an obvious look, but it suited him.  The Beast growled low in his throat.  He knew the young man very well.

“Hey Nelson,” he called as he approached.  “Any action in there tonight?”
“Oh yes,” Nelson lied, “It’s very busy.”
“Hah!” the young man explained.  “That means it’s dead, right?  What are we talking, here?  A little bit dead? Very dead indeed?  Or Jay The Malleable Man, dead?”
Beast Nelson sighed, “It is extremely quiet tonight Edward.  You should go home and get an early night.  Then tomorrow, you could look for some work to do.  That might take your mind off of leading impressionable young women astray.”  The girls giggled.
“Nothing much else on this evening,” the young man said, ignoring his suggestion entirely, “Stamp us, I’ll cover the door fees for my friends.”
“I don’t think so,” Beast Nelson said.  Then, smiling evilly: “Your name’s not down.”
The young man frowned: “Don’t mess me about tonight, Nelson.  I know it’s Doors Clear and I can easily phone through and get the manager to come down.”
Beast Nelson eyed the young man, rumbling deep in his throat, then nodded curtly.  “Whatever.  That’ll be forty dollars.”

It was hard to pin down exactly why Beast Nelson disliked Edward Helk so much.  Part of it was because he was a well-known superhero – something he had indulged in himself for a while before the Bullies starting cracking down on non-sanctioned vigilantes.  Hard for somebody who looked as obvious as The Beast to avoid scrutiny by the authorities and he’d be damned if he’d beg those corrupt private cops for permission to do anything.  Part of it was because the young man’s cocky manner just rubbed him up the wrong way.  Helk was a playboy, of sorts.  Never needed to work, spent his life just having fun and playing at being a hero.  If he was honest, Beast Nelson might even admit to a twinge of jealousy.  Though only a twinge.

Beast Nelson’s musing was interrupted first by the cessation of music, the thumping bass from downstairs gave way to a moment’s silence.  Then there was a loud scream and the sound of breaking glass.  A second later his beeper was flashing – the signal to get down to the club.  He took the stairs into the cellar establishment three at a time, bursting through the double doors into the upper dance floor area.  He was momentarily stunned by what he saw.

Clubbers huddled in small groups around the larger dance area.  The main lights were still down so illumination came from the flashes and pulses and laser beams provided by the club’s impressive lighting rig.  But Beast Nelson couldn’t miss the blood.  There was so much of it.  It was everywhere.  It covered the dance floor as though somebody had poured buckets of the stuff there just moments before.  It was on the walls, the ceiling, the mirrored columns, and most of the people gathered at the edges of the cleared circle.

There, in the middle of the dance floor, the three girls who had entered with Edward Helk, aka Wild Thing, lay prostrate.  Their heads were missing.  Well, not missing, exactly.  Pulped.  Blood was still pumping from the three necks, now devoid of their usual “cap.”  Beast Nelson swallowed.  He wanted to say something, to take control, but for a moment words failed him.  Then he saw Helk.  He was standing in the DJ’s booth, shaking, terrified, covered head to foot in gore.  The two’s eyes met and Beast could see no trace of Helk’s usual arrogant surety.

“Help me, Nelson,” the young man said.  “It’s come to get me.”
“What has?” Beast Nelson asked.
“That,” said Helk and pointed at the middle of the dancefloor – where something hazy and indistinct was starting to appear.