Goodnight, John-boy Chapter 3
Dave’s new comic Aaagh! was a huge success. ‘Geiger counters at max! We’re radioactive!’ it had announced to kids living in the shadow of nuclear destruction.
Welcome to Book Two of my dark comedy thriller series, Read Em And Weep.
A new chapter of Goodnight, John-Boy drops every week – sign up for free so you don’t miss it!
If you’re new to the Read Em And Weep series, start with Book One: Serial Killer.
DAVE STROKED his chin as he relived that punch in the face. It was 1976 and he was now the editor of The Spanker, which incorporated The Fourpenny One, the legendary comic of his boyhood. But the bitter memories of youth still remained. Particularly as Mr Cooper was now a storeman working in the vaults of Fleetpit Publications, so they would sometimes bump into each other. Even though only a month ago he had finally stood up to him and given his tormentor the fourpenny one he so richly deserved. Maybe the memories would never entirely fade, and some part of him would always remain marooned in 1957 as an eight-year-old boy, endlessly entering Mr Cooper’s shop, asking him for The Fourpenny One, and being punched in the face, in an eternal time loop.
Best to think of something else, he decided. Best to think of something cheerful to distract him.
And there was plenty to be cheerful about. Dave’s new comic Aaagh! was a huge success. ‘Geiger counters at max! We’re radioactive!’ it had announced to kids living in the shadow of nuclear destruction. ‘Great free gift with issue one: The Super Nuker. The Red Terror from the skies.’ Actually, it was a made-in-Hong-Kong, elastic band-propelled, delta-winged piece of red plastic. With its ballsy, kick-arse, anti-authority stories about killer white sharks, car thieves, good German soldiers, black footballers, mutant families, working-class heroes, futuristic death games and gun-toting rebellious kids, Aaagh! was filling a void in the marketplace, and selling a record 180,000 copies a week.
Dave looked at the empty seat opposite him that belonged to his assistant editor, Greg, and wondered if he’d ever return. After all, he had just sent him into the lion’s cage at London Zoo.
It was one of the Aaagh! dares the readers had suggested for “Aaagh Man”.
‘Why do I have to be “Aaagh Man”? Why can’t you be “Aaagh Man”?’ Greg had protested. Dave had patiently explained he was too old himself (he was one year older) and Greg, with his cool Man in Black image, was more photogenic and handsome.
The appeal to Greg’s vanity worked and so every week Dave sent “Aaagh Man” up London’s highest crane, or driving on the London bus skid pan, or through an army assault course. That last dare had been problematic; Greg had taken considerable persuading because he was a pad’s brat, the son of a soldier, and wanted nothing more to do with the army.
His father had been discharged from his regiment, but could not go home to Northern Ireland because of the Troubles. The experience had made Greg bitter and resentful.
‘You don’t actually sound Irish to me, Greg,’ Dave said suspiciously. ‘Are you sure you’re not a terrorist in disguise?’
‘If you must know, I have a Heinz accent: 57 varieties from our travels,’ said Greg sullenly.
‘I’m envious,’ said Dave insincerely.
‘Oh, sure. Living with military issue furniture: orange-brown, and green and yellow in weird patterns, all bearing the Nato stock mark: the crow’s foot, like we’re convicts.’
‘Sounds psychedelic to me, Greg. Quite groovy, in fact.’
‘If you ever needed to hide in a lava lamp factory, they’d be perfect camouflage. The answer is no, Dave.’
‘But the assault course would give you brilliant material for your novel.’
‘I’ve given up on it. Forty-eight rejections from publishers was enough.’
‘It could also toughen you up.’
‘The army’s already toughened me up, Dave. Seven schools and I never spent more than three years at any of them. So I had to fight seven school bullies when they picked on the new kid.’
‘That explains your detachment, Greg. You’re always moving on. Never settling down. It’s why you never really made a go of it with Joy.’
‘Who? Oh, yeah.’
‘And possibly your interest in writing about German soldiers. The enemy. You haven’t got a secret Nazi temple back home in Churchill Way, have you?’
‘No,’ said Greg defensively. I just happen to like the uniforms. A bit. Without the swastikas, of course,’ he added hastily.
‘Hence your Rommel look-a-like, leather trenchcoat,’ agreed Dave. ‘But you were saying your dad always wanted you to “man up” and follow in his footsteps. This is your chance to show him what you can do.’
‘Not after what the army did to him,’ said Greg bitterly. ‘Poor bastard’s all washed-up. He’s a barman in the officers’ mess.’
‘So you can get in touch with your negativity when you’re on the assault course and write about it afterwards.’
Greg suddenly brightened up. ‘You mean I get to slag the army off?’
‘And get paid for it. It’s the perfect catharsis for you, Greg.’ Dave thought it all went rather well. Apart from Greg twisting his neck and meeting rats on the tube crawl; crushing his testicles when his foot fell through the scramble net; slipping and smashing his chest on a concrete stepping stone; hanging by his helmet chin strap on the cargo net; then landing on his head after clambering over a nine foot wall. Otherwise, it was a walk in the park.
Dave looked again at the empty seat opposite. He was rather pleased that he’d convinced Greg to go into the lion’s cage. But maybe he should have insisted on him putting his head in a lion’s mouth, too? And maybe done the boa constrictor dare while he was there?
Greg was currently in good spirits, which needed taking advantage of. His obsession with all things German had resulted in him dating Leni, the new German-Californian publisher.
‘No more writing novels,’ he announced to Dave. ‘Shagging Leni is now my road to fame and fortune.’
‘You’re her gigolo? Her William Holden in Sunset Boulevard?’
‘She’s only ten years older than me. You know what she calls me? Promise you won’t laugh?’
Dave nodded. Greg grinned. ‘Her schnookie. Her schnookieputz.’
Dave swallowed a laugh, keeping it back to share with Joy later. ‘So she has … nookie with her schnookie?’
‘I’ll tell her,’ chuckled Greg. ‘Germans. They need a little guidance where humour is concerned.’
It was because Leni was unsure about what was acceptable and what was not acceptable in British comics that Dave had got away with quite a lot on both Aaagh! and The Spanker.
At first, she had scrutinised his comics carefully, wanting to cut down on the usual violence, smoking and xenophobic attitudes towards Germans.
She looked at an episode of The Caning Commando where the teacher and his young assistant, Alf Mast, have emerged from an unlikely fish and chip shop in Hamburg before they begin their secret mission.
‘The Caning Commando says this boy is as thick as a plank, but he knows his way around Hamburg.’ Leni looked at Dave suspiciously. ‘What does this mean?’
‘It means Alf learnt all about Hamburg in his Geography lesson,’ explained Dave smoothly.
‘And this line where the Caning Commando says, “How can I give the sausage noshers …” ’ She broke off, ‘Sausage noshers …?’
‘Nickname for Germans,’ said Dave. ‘The writer has lots of them: Dresden dustmen; Frankfurt fire-raisers; Munich mutton munchers; pudding-headed Prussians.’
Leni’s eyes widened.
‘I’m sorry about the racial stereotyping,’ said Dave.
‘Hmm,’ said Leni thoughtfully. ‘He’s probably right about the Prussians.’
She returned to the strip, ‘ “How can I give the sausage noshers six on the bare if I haven’t got vinegar on my cane? The little monkey has used it all on his fish and chips.” ’ Leni looked coldly at Dave. ‘This is offensive violence. You must get rid of this terrible story.’
‘But it’s the most popular serial in The Spanker,’ Dave protested. ‘The readers love the Caning Commando. “It’s time to Carpet Bum the Hun!” is the number one chant in school playgrounds.’
A puzzled Leni looked up at Dave. ‘The readers want to “carpet bum” us?’
‘Not you personally,’ said Dave hastily. ‘I’m sure you would never be carpet-bummed. Or not in that way. I’m sure you’d be carpet-bummed in a good way. You know, like you and Greg. Maybe?’
‘They want to arse-fuck us?’ smiled Leni. ‘Now I understand.’
‘No. No. It’s perfectly innocent. No. It’s a meaningless joke, see? It’s our British sense of humour.’
Leni frowned disapprovingly. ‘I want no more such caning scenes. Is that understood?’
Dave ‘misunderstood’ and took her instructions literally. So in the next story, he had the Caning Commando’s cane whitened out of all the pictures. Therefore it looked as if the Commando, minus his cane, was constantly ‘fisting’ German soldiers, especially when they were bent over his knee with their trousers down. Particularly as he was snarling his famous catchphrase, ‘It’s time to Carpet Bum the Hun.’
This amused Dave greatly, especially when there were complaints from church groups about the ‘fisting’ and the Commando was quickly allowed his cane again.
Similarly, Leni required a ban on comic characters smoking, such as the chain-smoking secret agent Force Major, ‘the storm that destroys everything in his path.’ So, once again, Dave took Leni’s instructions literally and had the secret agent’s cigarette whitened out of the artwork. Without a cigarette in his hand, it looked as if Force Major was constantly giving readers the V-sign, which, once again, delighted Dave. It echoed his own feelings about the readers.
Leni was also not happy with the story Gas Mask. This featured a hero who breathed in gas to make himself invisible. Yet his domino mask somehow remained visible, which somewhat defeated the purpose of being invisible.
‘Parents are complaining about Gas Mask sucking on a gas pipe,’ she said.
‘To be fair, Leni,’ Dave reassured her, ‘Gas Mask does say in every episode, when he sticks his head in the oven, or puts the hose from a Bunsen burner in his mouth, “This would kill an ordinary human. Only I can do this and survive.” So it should be all right.’
Leni looked coldly at Dave. She read on. ‘This is so bad.’
‘It gets better once you get into it,’ Dave said encouragingly. ‘You see, despite Gas Mask’s super-power, he still has his kryptonite. He’s allergic to propane, which makes him more visible, so he glows in the dark.’
Leni read a page where Gas Mask’s enemies were guarding three sources of gas in a house, so he could not get to the source of his invisibility and he slowly became visible. The villains were guarding the New World cooker, the coal-effect gas fire and the Ascot gas heater in the bathroom. One of them warned the others: ‘Keep him away from the Ascot!’
But Gas Mask knew how to outsmart them. ‘My gassy senses tell me there's a mains pipe under the lawn. It's risky, but I've got to do it.’ His enemies saw him digging up the garden like a mole. ‘Stop him reaching the mains. But don't fire, you fools!’ But they were too late. Gas Mask broke into the pipe and filled his lungs with North Sea gas as he gave his health and safety warning to the readers, ‘Only I can do this and survive.’
Leni cancelled Gas Mask immediately. But she had no time to look at further examples of Dave’s editorship. She had been primarily hired by Fleetpit Publications to adapt their teenage magazines for sale in the States. So she was busy working on new American versions of Megahits, Good Vibes, Sassy Girl, Smash Stars and LBD (Little Black Dress) for Fleetpit’s ‘American invasion’.
Dave wasn’t bothered that Gas Mask was scrapped. The important thing was Leni hadn’t looked too closely at The Caning Commando. This was just as well. Because Dave was secretly adding dangerous ideas to the Caning Commando that his readers could try at home with potentially lethal results. He was literally getting away with murder.
He wrote serials and he was a serial killer.
Goodnight, John-boy is the first book in the Read Em And Weep series and is on sale digitally or as paperback.