Ungodly Critters

By Maria Thermann

Every Monday, every bloody week the same. He stumbled into the bathroom, cursing the last four pints he'd had the night before – all Barry's fault – and tore up the toilet seat to relieve himself. He was willing, but nothing came. No tinkle, no waterfall, no manly display of pee-prowess. He looked, refused to believe what he saw, closed his eyes and tried again. Focus! No, this was definitely a change from last Monday morning. Carl stared, fingered the spot where his penis should have been, but was not. Gone. Vanished. No doodah, no balls. Nothing but a smooth pink patch in hairy wilderness.

So begins Carl's Monday morning...and it gets worse from then on...

According to the Good Book, God made the world in seven days. Writers create their own universe...playing at being god. So here are seven stories of humans and other critters not having a terribly good time of it in god's splendid universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookRix
• Release date: Aug 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9783743878433

Book preview

The Misiing Link

6 o'clock. Carl squinted at his alarm clock. No chance squeezing another fifteen minutes in bed out of that cruel little machine! Its slave-driver mentality demanded he got up that instant or else he'd be out of job. Another bleak Monday morning! Another bleak week with that woman! Question: why did they hold these early Monday morning meetings every week? Answer: because Belinda The Bitch Barrington-Farrell said so! Carl rolled on his side with a grunt, pulled back sheets and blankets and fell rather than stepped out of bed. His toes sought and found his slippers and, thankfully, his feet still recalled the way to the bathroom without guidance from his brain. How he hated this endless rigmarole of getting up, showering and shaving, dressing, running for the bus and the lift that would catapult him at stomach-turning speed up to the 28th floor and into the orbit of Belinda The Bitch. Every Monday, every bloody week the same. He stumbled into the bathroom, cursing the last four pints he'd had the night before – all Barry's fault – and tore up the toilet seat to relieve himself. He was willing, but nothing came. No tinkle, no waterfall, no manly display of pee-prowess. He looked, refused to believe what he saw, closed his eyes and tried again. Focus! No, this was definitely a change from last Monday morning. Carl stared, fingered the spot where his penis should have been, but was not. Gone. Vanished. No doodah, no balls. Nothing but a smooth pink patch in hairy wilderness.

Carl staggered back to his bed, sank onto the mattress and thought. Could he have dropped his penis somewhere? He searched pillows, sheets and blankets, looked under the bed. Nothing. Did he lose his wedding tackle when he peeled off his jeans? Barry had teased him last night how tight those new jeans were. That must be it. It'll be in there somewhere, balls and all the rest, he thought. Carl went into the living room and retrieved his jeans from the floor, where he'd dropped them the night before. He shook his jeans hopefully, but nothing fell out. He peered into the denim trouser legs, in case the missing body parts got caught in the fabric's creases. Nothing. Carl searched the pockets, front and rear. His Nike trainers were empty too. Nothing. Gone. Vanished. He'd been robbed! No penis, no balls. He sank to his knees and became a misty reflection of misery on the polished oak floorboards. No lone wolf in the forests of snowy Alaska could have howled with more heart-wrenching intensity.

He slumped down, head in hands, and curled up into a foetal position. After a while, Carl's sluggish mind began reviewing the practicalities. Women. Tiffany. Wedding. Shit. She'd kill him! Pressure building up in his lower regions demanded he'd set immediate priorities, before dealing with the whole Tiffany issue. How was he going to pee from now on? The answer came almost immediately; a bright yellow jet of pee shot out of his left ear, bringing instant relief on the abdomen front, but at a cost to his luxury apartment. The smelly stream hit the magnolia-coloured ceiling, then plunged to the floor where it stained the pale green, antique Persian rug he'd bought only the other day with the rest of last year's bonus. Carl burst into tears. He'd just turned twenty-eight and overnight he'd become a rug-wetter!

He was dimly aware of another noise in the room, a high-pitched squeak that wouldn't shut up and leave him to his grief. Carl looked around. He was six floors up. Rats seemed unlikely, but not impossible in St Katherine Dock's premier apartment block. One took these things in one's stride in exchange for some of the best views of the Thames and a berth in the marina. Carl listened more intently. If this was a rat...the proximity of the White Tower could be trying. Tourists, ragamuffins, rubbish, rats. Further investigation revealed the squeak came not from a rodent on luxury holiday from next door's medieval dungeons, but from his mobile phone on the coffee table. He checked his watch. Shit! How could Belinda the Bitch Barrington-Fuck-You-Farrell possibly know that he'd be late for that Monday morning meeting? It wasn't even time yet to stand in that damn lift with all the other sales office underlings, who stared at their highly-polished, hand-made shoes, wishing they were somewhere else, anywhere else, but on their way into the office. Carl crawled on all fours to the coffee table and grabbed his mobile. With relief he recognised the number on the tiny display. Barry! Carl answered, but before he had even uttered one full syllable, Barry's voice came sobbing through the line.

It's gone, mate, it's fuckin' gone. I've looked everywhere. Gone. Vanished. Oh God, what am I going to do?

Barry was what Tiffany called a New Man, so he often wept unashamedly into the phone. Lost rugby matches, lost football matches, lost car keys, it was all the same to Barry's tear ducts. Or could it be...Carl's eyes widened. He sat up, cleared his voice and ventured a guess. No penis, no balls?

Man, ho-how d-d-did you -

Same here, Barry. Gone. Vanished over night. Nothing but a pink bald patch among the hairy bits. Carl the Man is no more. Meet Carl the Eunuch. What the hell's going on, Barry?

It's those witches, Bro', that's what it is, they've evasculated us. Spoke to Joe earlier, same thing there. Gone. Vanished over night.

Ever since Barry had been dumped by some New Age cow with knockers the size of melons and a mane of red hair down to her buttocks, Barry suspected witchcraft beneath every blouse he met. One had to humour him on the subject, or he'd get really hot under the collar. Carl's roving eye fell on a dream-catcher that dangled from the ceiling, spinning in the warmth of the radiator. A house-warming present from Tiffany when he'd moved in eighteen months ago. Bloody dust-catcher! It was so typical of Tiffany to give him something that had no earthly use, while she expected gifts of jewellery, designer handbags and perfume in return.

"Emasculated, Barry, that's what those bitches have done to us! Bloody feminists, the world's positively crawling with Barrington-Fuckin-Farrells these days. Witches. Perhaps you're right. Tiffany's dabbling in this New Age crap too. Black magic, must be. Oh shit, did you say they got Joe?"

Stick your head out of the window, Bro'! Joe says all over the city men are howling at the top of their lungs.

Carl looked at the windows. The sun rose at that moment, bathing his living room in hues of copper, cinnamon and orange. The colours of Hell. Even if he had the strength to get to his feet, he doubted he'd have the guts to listen to all that male misery.

Mine don't open, he said at last. This block was built after the last banking crisis. Some crap about suicide prevention. Safety-glass. Apartment's air-conditioned throughout, no need to open windows.

Well, just switch on the fuckin' TV then! If Joe's right it must be all over the news, Bro'!

Carl reached for the remote control, pressed the ON button and stared at the wall-mounted screen above his designer gas fire. From the BBC to Channel Four News, every channel showed men huddled in doorways, hiding under desks in offices, or prostrating themselves on pavements in front of churches, mosques, synagogues and Hindu temples, hands raised towards the heavens, praying, pleading. Or sitting in their cars howling, weeping, tearing their hair out and beating their chests. Carl noticed something else. Every news channel was manned by a smirking female newsreader!

Could it really be a conspiracy of women? No! They wouldn't dare! This had to be some sort of stunt, a weird hallucination. That was it. They'd all been hypnotised the night before. By one of those TV magicians. During the England versus Scotland match. On his birthday too! What a foul prank! He clamped his mobile between chin and shoulder to have his hands free for the remote control.

Barry, it can't be all over the city. No bloody witches' coven could be that powerful. I mean, there's more than four million men living in London. You'd need a spell so powerful...like the National Grid. We've been hypnotised, man -

You're still not getting it, are you? It's not just London. It's all over the world. Everywhere. They got every last one of us, Brother! Look at your bloody TV and tell me I'm wrong.

Neither of them spoke, while Carl digested this latest devastating blow. He flicked back and forth between the channels, returning to BBC One again. Hang on Barry, the PM is about to make an announcement. It's live from No. 10 Downing Street!

The BBC News showed a close-up of the British Prime Minister's wrinkly grey face. April Bowers, addressing a pack of reporters. April Showers, as left-wing media called her on account of her unpredictability, although some members of her own party said it was due to her chilling nature. Would the Government know what had happened to the nation's men? Carl turned up the volume. Unbelievably, Britain's PM tried to blame the European Union!

If Brussels thinks it can break Britain's spirit during Brexit negotiations by emasculating our men with some bizarre bio-chemical attack, our EU friends have got another thing coming! I've still got the balls to stand up for British interests, even if none of the men in my Cabinet have! Britain shan't be blackmailed into accepting unfavourable trading terms or rejoining the EU. Brexit still means Brexit, as far as I'm concerned! The PM stared at the female reporters assembled outside No. 10 Downing Street.

No dick still means no dick! Can you believe that woman? quacked Barry's voice at the other end of the line. "She's still got balls? Tory bitch! What about us? What's the bloody government going to do about our balls?"

Hang on, Barry, here comes the US President. Let's hear what he's got to say.

The screen showed a fat, orange-faced man in a crumpled white suit who minced across a stage that was draped left and right in the American flag. With both hands folded over his groin President Howard Frump leaned towards the microphone in front of him, pouting for a moment with the expression of a three-year-old about to throw a tantrum. Then he threw a sombre glance at the assembled American newspaper correspondents and TV reporters, before addressing the room.

"You'll have seen my earlier Tweet. There's little to add, other than so far no Islamic extremists have claimed responsibility for this latest cowardly terror attack", squeaked the US President.

Carl couldn't help himself any more than the assembled media people in Washington D.C. could. He roared with laughter.

Barry, at the other end of the phone, spluttered. Oh man, the head of the US government has also lost his balls! He sounds like a nine-year-old!

A terrible thought struck Carl. Do you think that's what's going to happen to us too? Our choir boy voices will come back?

This horrifying notion sobered them both in an instant. Barry stopped cackling. Let's meet somewhere. To hell with work. This is a world-wide crisis. Even your Barrington-Fuckin-Farrell bitch must get that.

I don't care if she does or not, Barry. I'm not going into work today. An impatient vibrating in the bowels of his phone told him there was another caller trying to get through. Hang on. That's probably the Bitch calling right now. Perfect. I'm just in the mood to give that woman a piece of my mind. Carl checked the identity of the caller. Oh shit! It's Tiffany!

For heaven's sake, don't answer it!

What do you take me for! In any case, what could I possibly say? There's nothing to say, since we don't actually know what's happened to us.

Well, if she does manage to track you down, say it with flowers. Women respond better with a bouquet under their noses.

Carl snorted. "Honestly Barry, even your New Man act can't hide the fact that we're dick-less, witless and shit-scared. What would you have me do? Hold a bouquet of roses in front of my groin throughout my wedding night? I think Tiff's going to notice at some point that there's something missing in the bedroom, don't you? Carl thought quickly. Call Joe and we'll meet at Luigi's in half an hour. We've got to get our stories straight before I can cope with Tiff. She's bound to accuse me of goodness-knows-what to have brought this about. Whatever this is."

Barry agreed and they both hung up. Butler's Wharf was a convenient location for both of them, as Carl's younger brother lived in the new St Saviour's Dock development on the other side of the Thames, a short walking distance from Luigi's bar. Their cousin Joe, a high-flying executive in petrochemicals, had a luxury apartment in The Shard tower, also within walking distance of their favourite Italian restaurant. Carl just needed to cross the river, then he'd have the shoulders of both his younger brother and older cousin to cry on.

Under the hot jet of his shower, Carl tried to imagine what his fiancée Tiffany would have to say about his condition. Whatever her response, it would probably start with I told you so, which would be a reference to his beer consumption, and end in you'd better not have left it behind at some tart's, in reference to the one and only occasion when Carl's beer consumption had led him astray and into the arms of Tiffany's best friend. It had taken him the better part of a year to woo Tiff back into his life. And now? Would one even be allowed to marry an It, a creature formerly known as Man? Carl stepped out of the shower, rubbed himself down – carefully avoiding the pink bald patch between his thighs – and got dressed.

He made a point of wearing comfortable Bermuda shorts and an equally baggy T-shirt. One had to give one's wedding tackle every opportunity to make a miraculous come-back, so baggy trousers it would be from now on! Who knows, he told himself, perhaps with a bit of encouragement the little chap would come home to Daddy. One simply had to believe this was not irreversible. A final look in the mirror. He should have a shave, but really, who cared about the bluish shadow around his lantern jaw when there was a crisis of cosmic proportions brewing? The pale face that stared back at him with bushy brows over big brown eyes had a long, slightly crooked nose over a generous mouth that was usually quick to smile. This arrangement was framed by chestnut brown hair that had a tendency to stick up at the back. He sighed. At least he still looked like a man...

Carl locked his front door and sprinted along the corridor to catch the lift door, which was just closing behind an elderly lady and her poodle, a fluffy white menace intent on nipping every ankle in the building. Great! Now he'd have to share a lift with that beast! Carl survived the fifteen second journey down to the ground floor without being mauled. He hurried past the boats bobbing in the marina and turned into St Katherine's Way. Here and there he heard sobbing coming from the yachts and houseboats moored along the quays that formed the western triangle of St Katherine Dock, but he didn't meet a single soul. The sound of traffic roaring past as he turned left and onto Tower Bridge Approach was like a blow to the stomach after the quiet of the marina. Carl trotted across the bridge, wondering where all those fire trucks, ambulances and police cars were headed that were speeding past him with sirens screaming and lights flashing.

He left the ancient White Tower of London behind him to face the white and blue turrets of Tower Bridge that loomed above him and the glass and steel towers of London Bridge City Park that glared at the world of men just in front of him. He shuddered, but not because of the icy blast Old Father Thames sent up the bridge's arches, tugging at Carl's windcheater and chilling him to the bone. The blast of a horn alerted him to some drama about to play out in the centre of the river.

A couple of tug boats and a water-bus were racing towards a small black dot floating away from Tower Bridge with some speed. He stared down into the mud-grey abyss, those waters that could carry you off in seconds and drag you goodness-knows-where. Carl gulped. A suicide victim? People were always jumping off this bridge. Some did it for a dare, others with a broken heart or because they'd gone bankrupt in some City deal gone wrong. He could make out legs and arms, outstretched like those of a discarded doll, a sodden black suit, a thatch of blonde hair. Oh God, there was another one! Carl lent across the railings for a better view. He counted quickly. There were five of them! Bloody hell. Five men. Five dead men. Men as young as he perhaps, with stories to tell of their weekend exploits in pubs, nightclubs, in the football stadium. Men with girlfriends or wives, kids even, all of them now waiting, waiting in vain, because none of these men would ever come home. It suddenly hit him. They must have jumped together. Just ahead of him. Jumped off the bridge, a bridge that they travelled across every Monday morning, just as he did. A suicide pact of friends? Colleagues? Neighbours? Desperate strangers who'd only just met on their final walk across the bridge and decided to give each other courage for that leap from the balustrade? Carl had to steady himself on the iron railing, before he could walk on. The view ahead wasn't any more encouraging either.

Just ahead, at the other end of this landmark bridge, lurked The Bitch. Actually, a whole tower full of Belinda Barrington-Frump-in-a-Barrel-Farrells, since most of his female colleagues seemed to model themselves on their boss these days. Trouser-suits, short bobbed hair, sensible shoes. Designer handbags big enough to slay a fellow with one whack over the head. At this very moment, he suspected, all the sales bitches were sitting around the huge table in the boardroom, laughing their heads off at what had befallen men in their office, across the city, the country – the whole bloody world. But today Belinda the Bitch wouldn't get a chance to humiliate him in front of other sales executives. He wouldn't even bother to phone, so there! And if these bitches were responsible for some prank that had cost those five men's lives...well, the medieval dungeons behind him contained plenty of racks and thumbscrews. Let those bitches fight for their lives with their outsized designer handbags. Men still ruled this City, dicks or no dicks, in the same way they'd done when William the Conqueror built the White Tower in 1078, a potent phallic symbol that still guarded the Thames Embankment today and had served for centuries as inspiration to legions of architects!

Just take a look at next door's office block, ladies, No 30, the St Mary Axe Building, better known as The Gherkin, muttered Carl grimly under his breath. Gherkins rule the world, ladies, never you forget it!

Recovered in spirits, if not in the gherkin department, Carl took the dark, dingy staircase down to Butler's Wharf two steps at a time. A cloud of urine, rotting burgers, rat droppings and Thames mud hit his nostrils on the way down. Turning the corner at the bottom, he was surprised to find that even on a day like this there was a group of Japanese tourists queuing up for the Tower Bridge Experience, their expensive cameras slung around their necks, their shorts revealing goosebumps above the inevitable white tennis socks and designer trainers. Carl grinned mirthlessly. Yep, this was the true London Experience - nowhere else in Europe could the month of May be so chilly, bleak and unpredictable. He checked his watch. Not even 8 o'clock yet. Phew, these guys still had a long wait before the exhibition opened. Why turn up so early?

He wondered if perhaps the tourists hadn't been able to bear a lonely bedroom, and had gathered in their hotel lobby for the comfort of being with another male. Unable to show their true feelings, they'd probably trotted along the Thames Embankment until they got to the spot they were meant to meet their guide much later in the morning. Poor things! He searched the men's faces for a sign of his own desperation, but as expected, that famous Asian stoicism compelled them to keep their emotions firmly in check. Carl felt resentment building up in his heart. Hadn't these guys noticed that there was something vital missing in their shorts? Why weren't they committing kamikaze...or was it hara-kiri? Anyway, whatever the Japanese normally did with their chopsticks, they should be doing that, not trying to squeeze through turnstiles to follow a tour guide wielding a yellow umbrella as a beacon. If ever there was a day in history, where men could weep and wail openly without shame, this was it!

Carl turned into Horsleydown Lane, trotted past closed bars, boutiques and cafes, wondered where all the road sweepers had gone, then took a sharp left into Gainsford Street and dived into a narrow alleyway that led into the bowels of Butler's Wharf. Another thirty-seconds' trot brought him to the door of Luigi's bar. Open 24-hours, every day of the year, the Italian bar-restaurant was the brothers' favourite haunt. Beer and spag-bowl, an unbeatable combination. Other chaps might brag about their Madras curry exploits or their Mexican chilli pepper prowess, but for Carl, Barry and Joe it had always been pasta and a pint. He opened the door and a blast of warm air enveloped him in a welcoming hug. He inhaled deeply. Oregano, thyme, mozzarella, garlic, Heineken. This was home from home!

He found Barry and cousin Joe ensconced behind their usual round, green marble-topped table in the darkest corner of the restaurant, two pints of amber nectar foaming gently before them. Joe, well-groomed as ever in an immaculate Savile Row suit, got up and spread his arms wide in preparation for a bear hug. Barry was quietly sobbing into his sleeves, his head resting on muscular arms between the two pint glasses. Like Carl, he had chestnut brown hair and brown eyes but, unlike Carl, Barry's face had a straight nose over a permanently pouting mouth. Two years younger than Carl, he had managed to carve out a successful career as a City Trader, raking in pots of money, much to his family's amazement.

Carl looked expectantly at the bar's counter, where the moon-shaped face of mine host should have been beaming at him. No Luigi?

Joe jerked his thumb towards a curtained doorway to the right of the mahogany gantry and twinkling brass optics. It's help yourself to whatever you fancy this morning, dear boy. Luigi's no more.

WHAT? Carl sprinted across the bar area, tore back the curtain near the bar counter and gasped when the sight of a dark red puddle greeted him.

You've only just missed the constables and paramedics on their way out. All women, incidentally. Joe made an expressive hand gesture across his throat. "Topped himself with the pizza cutter first thing this morning. The fruit and veg girl from Borough Market found Luigi, when she delivered today's basket of tomatoes and that hot green stuff he used to put on the Margherita to catch out his customers."

Chillies, muttered Carl under his breath, still reeling from the sight of that red puddle on the tiled floor.

Yeah, seeing that blood stain gave me the willies, too, said Barry, looking up for the first time, his expression one of utter incomprehension. He squinted at his older brother with red-rimmed, swimming eyes. Five years we've been coming here, Bro', ever since Luigi's opened. It's a tragedy. We should have phoned ahead. For support like. Oh, why couldn't he have waited until we got here...we might have talked him out of it! Barry's voice broke. He emptied his beer glass in one giant gulp and let his head sink back onto his arms in helpless sorrow.

The green-and-white gingham curtain slipped from Carl's fingers. He clung to the door jamb and blinked away tears. What did the police say? Should we even be here, Joe?

A passing WPC, who'd responded to the vegetable girl's cry for help, called Luigi's wife from here, when we arrived. Luigi's home telephone number was pasted to the side of the till. Arabella's on her way; she told the policewoman we're regulars and should just help ourselves until she got here. I've put money for a round of drinks next to the till, dear boy.

But...this...isn't this a crime scene or something? Didn't those coppers tell you not to touch anything until their fingerprint people had dealt with the place?

His cousin shook his head. Suicides all over the country. There's not enough coppers or forensic people in Britain to process them all. Started at 5 o'clock this morning; apparently they've been inundated with emergency calls ever since. They've had to draft in every available female police officer, even retired ones, to deal with... Joe waved his hands around in a helpless gesture, "whatever this is." Then he went back to checking for messages on his mobile phone.

Carl staggered over to the counter, took a glass from the gantry behind him and drew himself a pint of lager from one of the polished brass taps. Like a sleepwalker he stumbled over to the table where Joe was quietly cursing his mobile. Apparently it was still refusing to deliver a message he was waiting for. Carl slumped into his customary seat and allowed the cold lager to run down