Splinter Salem Part Three: Splinter Salem, #3

By Wayne Hill

SPLINTER SALEM

What if the worst version of you is exactly what the world needs?

The epic Space Fable Splinter Salem is a tale of love and loss, life and death, of redemption and copious amounts of space grog. 
With inspiration from Douglas Adams, Hunter S Thompson, Terry Pratchett, Clive Barker and Stephen King. Splinter Salem is currently a three part series, with much more planned for the future. Think Deadpool meets Red Dwarf.
Each novella- sized part consists of 11 stunning artworks and just under 200 pages. 
Why not raise a Bucky beer and join the Space Fable revolution? 

All three sections along with the 30+ images were completed over a 10 year period by one extremely weird chap who lives in a dusty warehouse

The much awaited third instalment of Splinter Salem has been lined up

In one -neck it- enjoy the smokey burn

If you enjoy it, rumble like Tom Waits and strum like Keith Richards- maybe leave a jagged little review… if you can find all your eyeballs and fingers

Enjoy the Bucky sludge, and the bang bangs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Hill
• Release date: Jun 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201760755

Wayne Hill

Wayne Hill is an enigma, little is known of this unreal wizard of words. Some say his powers come from an alien squid he carries in a backpack- it frequently swears at him, putting him down at any given opportunity. Others believe him to be completely insane and would do anything to stop him from mingling with normal people, or mildly nerdy people, or even the dregs of humanity, just about anyone really. Whatever the case may be, his status as genius has now been secured with this unbelievable literary accomplishment. He's turned down all the awards for this book because it's too good for awards. Awards don't even do his work justice. Justice doesn't do his work justice. His book now exists as a lawless cowboy shooting anyone down who staggers into his saloon of literary accomplishment.....Wayne Hill definitely didn't write this too...... no way.

Book preview

1

Splinter Salem and his brigand band take the extraction team’s shuttle and dock it with the Golden Falcon, putting cigars out on Captain Levy to get the clearance codes. Levy puts up merely token resistance, space pirates are scary people — their smell alone is practically unbearable. Captain Levy commands the crew aboard the Golden Falcon to stand down.

The pirates stumble merrily to the control centre of the purloined craft, a parade of clinking bottles, loud belches, dubious smells, and horrendous farts. This takeover typifies the nonchalance with which many USA crafts have been acquired by Splinter and his drunken crew in the past. Once the vessel is stolen, Splinter’s gang usually dump the hostages off in abandoned domes, on forgotten meteor or asteroid colonies, before heading off to indulge in every pirate's favourite pastime: plunderous endeavours — or, as they so eloquently put it, ‘fucking stealing shit!’

A feeling of disgust nestles in Levy’s mind. He hates admitting defeat and this — having this band of disgusting creatures onboard his sparkling ship — is a further affront to his sensibilities. He feels the progressive corruption of his ship with every passing moment these inhuman creatures were still on board. Levy feels used, contaminated, powerless. 

In the control room of the Golden Falcon, Splinter is musing on the USA’s Dionysus virus situation. They’ll be dropping like flies soon, thinks Splinter. They know nothing about the disease, its progression or prevention ...it’s gonna seriously fuck them up! The thought is not unpleasant. Splinter looks at his captives, the USA in microcosm.

In Splinter’s opinion, Captain Levy looks far calmer than the rest, which makes him annoyed. Men like Levy should show fear. The fact that he was not meant that Splinter had misunderstood some part of the man’s psyche. That was an error, and Splinter disliked errors. 

Levy keeps reassuring his men that he had no idea that the virus had spread so far. He tells them he is injured, and that all he wants to do is go to his quarters. He wants to access his link-up system and touch his wife one last time, tell her and their newly born child, Raymond, that he loved them. This quietened the extraction team down — no doubt they were all thinking about their loved ones now. Smart, thinks Splinter. 

From the comfy looking egg-shaped seat, at the bland heart of the Golden Falcon, Splinter commandeers the public address system. Embedded speakers buzz throughout the spacecraft, and Splinter slurs out to the ship’s two thousand strong personnel.

Greetings fellow germ-like individuals! This is your new important person speaking. You have one chance to survive. Listen closely to what your Commander McCrea has to say, then I — Splinter Salem — will attempt to save as many of you as is piratically possible ... those of you worth saving, that is!  Splinter uploads the audio from McCrea’s memory plate into the communication console and plays it.  The reaction of the crew is not as professional as Captain Levy expected. Faced with the reality that they have two weeks before facing an unimaginable and bizarre death at the hands of a deadly incurable virus, the crew falls into anarchy. There are stampedes for the luxury escape pods with cryo-units. Every man and woman for themselves.  Deadly fights take place for these pods, people murder crew-mates — friends — so that they can escape the inescapable. Unthinking, buoyed by selfish emotions, those escaping in pods programmed the navigation controls to take them to their home dome. No doubt condemning their loved ones to the same fate. They were betting on hope, and gambling with the lives most precious to them. Hoping, against reason, that a cure would appear before they died, and took their loved ones with them.    I fucking hate Domers! mumbles Splinter, as the pirates and their prisoners monitored the chaos unfolding on the ship via multiple camera live-feeds that were projected onto the control room walls. Splinter has a visceral dislike of all Domers — who he diversely dubs Bubble Wellers, Planet Hoppers, Meteoric Boils, Mould of Mercury — he despises their artificial, self-indulgent existence. However, Splinter does love the things that Domers collect because their love of antiquated items almost outstrips his own. No Domers, equals no domes, equals no collections of stuff to pillage. Domers possess a lot of tat but often there is a diamond to be found amongst the zircons. His beloved Wurlitzer jukebox is an example of just such a diamond.  These eureka finds he refers to as his double-yolkers. The domes are vaguely egg-shaped, and he is constantly drunk — his logic needs only be understood by himself. 

Splinter chuckles at the video wall as some big chap on one of the live feeds gets glassed by a woman who is trying to steal his code-card for an escape pod. The pirate moves to his beloved Wurlitzer, collecting a bottle from a beer crate on his way, and sways momentarily in front of the bulky device before choosing number 18C.  There are clicks and whirrs before the lilting sounds of Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush blares from the hidden control room speakers.

Contrapuntal cliché number three hundred, mutters Splinter, tapping a few indented buttons on the wall and walking back to the Captain’s chair. 

Fires rage on the lower decks, where hull maintenance crew, machine operators, robotics and computer engineers all coexist in a maze of rooms. The lower decks of the Golden Falcon, with its endless criss-crossing system of corridors, reminds Splinter of his beloved Lanes. Splinter watches the monitors whilst swigging blue space grog and listening to Kate Bush repeatedly singing, ‘Heathcliff, it’s me, your Cathy — I’ve come home.  I’m so cold, let me in-a’-your window.’ At the same time, he frantically flicks through the ship’s schematics — how the craft operates from the inside out — studying every inch of the capabilities of the ship and how to control such a beast.

As the swaying crew were watching the monitors and chuckling, Levy hesitantly approaches.

Excuse me, Captain Splinter?

Fuck! Don’t talk to this fool, Splinter, a booming voice says.

What the hell are you doing, Cooper? Levy says with confusion, as his dishevelled former second-in-command staggers over. Titan has been drinking and getting on famously with most of Splinter’s entourage.

Titan scowls down at the not small USA Captain — Levy’s head is level with the man’s solar plexus.

I’m fucking embarrassed to know you, Titan spits, his eyes starting to water with frustration. You think you can treat me like some sort of bug you can squash? Trying to kill me? I’m drinking with these men. I don’t even want to be in the same room as you. I can't go back to my family like this ... it’s all over!

I’m still in command here, Cooper, and you will respect my command. I had no idea about this ...this ...virus outbreak!

Bullshit! says Titan through gritted teeth. You knew more, John. You’re the Captain of this mission. You always know more ... I can’t believe you would fucking kill me! Kill me and leave my kid with no dad? What kind of heartless arsehole does that? You’re broken. Damn it, John, you’re a fucking broken man!

Levy blinks several times under the intense stare of Titan and begins to sweat. He tries hard not to look too guilty and looks around, nervously. The rest of the pirates have all stopped what they were doing and were now staring at the USA Captain and his big, black former first officer.

I — I — I ... have no idea what you’re talking about, Cooper, stammers Levy indignantly into Titan’s chest.  Has everyone lost their goddam minds? And, Cooper, you are to address me as Captain, as—

ME AND MARSHA ARE GODPARENTS TO YOUR CHILD! booms Titan, in a colossal voice which would have silenced any crowd, had they not all been intently watching, already. YOU NAMED HIM AFTER ME, FOR CHRISTSAKES! ... AND NOW YOU’RE GONNA PLAY ME LIKE THIS, YOU GODDAMNED SONOFABITCH?

Levy is now in fear for his life. He can hear Ray ‘Titan’ Cooper’s teeth grinding together. Never a good sign. He needs someone to intervene, and quickly. Levy scans the control room for potential allies but finds only curiosity, humour, and expectant glee. The three other members of his extraction team are sullenly nursing injuries, some worse than others, drinking heavily and glaring spitefully at him. He is alone ... and in serious trouble.

Splinter swivels around in his chair to face the rowing pair. Splinter can see Titan is close to exploding. The man’s huge hands are balled into anvil-sized fists and are trembling violently. Levy’s a dead man, Splinter thinks. Mount Titan to erupt in t-minus ten seconds... nine... eight... seven...

Right! Splinter snaps. I’ll take it from here, Titan. You have yourself a good, long drink. We all like you. And don’t you worry about your boy, either. We’ll work something out so that you see him again. Ain’t that right, boys!

Splinter’s arm-cannon fizzes and whirrs, popping bubbles of energy above his head, and rousing hearty cheers come from his piratical gang. The space pirates all grab Titan, placating him with kind words and comradery pats to his broad back, leading him to the drink crates.

Splinter smiles a crooked grin at Levy, grabs him, and dandles the struggling man on his knee.

I know we’ve gotten off to a dreadful start, Levy, Splinter says in a disturbingly soothing voice, but the fact of the matter is that you and your Golden Falcon crew are a fucking disgrace.

He pauses and takes an aggressive gulp from his dirty, patchwork flask. The blue filth contained inside smells to Levy vaguely like roast chestnuts fried in vodka.

Aside from those guys over there — here Splinter gestures with his arm-canon to where Titan and the other members of the extraction team are drinking and joking with the space pirates — they are just about the worst pieces of Bucky shit I’ve ever had the misfortune to scrape off my blast boots. What do you have to say about this shitty mess you’re making me walk in, Levy? Eh, you filthy, little, wasp?

Splinter prods Levy on his forehead with his index finger to emphasise each of his last three words. Mould from Splinter’s decaying index finger leaves a green circle on Levy’s forehead. Levy could feel the flaky residue on his forehead, and he experiences a wave of nausea.

Ignoring Levy’s evident revulsion, Splinter continues.

You think like the USA does. You act like shit. Your crew are only faithful to each other and, at a push...and ... and— Splinter trails off as he notices a scene playing out on one of the many small, live-feed streams playing in his eyeline. Three men are surrounding a woman. The woman is crying, and her clothes are ripped. She resembles a Cadet he had helped to rescue a long time ago. 

— I find people disgusting. Splinter finishes his sentiment in a whisper. 

He stands up, suddenly, throwing