Free Mister B. Gone by Clive Barker

soon. If I wanted the clothes I would have to pull them out from under the pair.
    I crept towards them, hands outstretched, hoping, I swear, that I’d be able to snatch his clothes out from under them while they were glued together, and be away before—
    Never mind. The point is, it didn’t happen the way I planned it. Nothing ever has now that I think of it. Nothing in my whole existence has come out the way I wanted it to.
    The girl, idiot beauty that she was, whispered something in the youth’s ear, and they rolled over, away from the boulder behind which all three of us were concealed, and off the very clothes I wanted. I didn’t give them time to roll back, but reached out and very slowly, so as not to draw their attention, began to pull them towards me. At that moment the girl did as she’d doubtless whispered she wanted to do. She rolled them over again and clambered on top of him, sitting on his loins to take her pleasure. In doing so her gaze found me, and she opened her mouth to scream, only to remember before the sound emerged that she was in hiding here.
    Luckily she had her heroic partner beneath her, and sensing through the girl’s sudden tightening of her muscles that all was not well he opened his eyes and looked directly at me.
    Even then, if I could have snatched the youth’s clothes and made my escape I would have done so. But no. Nothing in my life has been easy and this little business was no exception. The heroic fool—no doubt seeking to win the girl’s undying devotion—slid out from under her and reached for the knife lying amongst his clothes.
    “Don’t!” I said.
    I did, I swear on all things unholy, I warned him with that one word.
    He didn’t listen, of course. He was doing this in full sight of his lady-love. He had to be brave, whatever the cost.
    He pulled the knife from its sheath. It was a stubby little thing, like his bobbing manhood.
    Even then I said, “There’s no need to fight. I just want your shirt and pants.”
    “Well, you can’t have them.”
    “Be careful, Martin,” the girl said, looking at me now. “He’s not human.”
    “Yes, he is,” the lover said, jabbing at me with his knife. “He’s just burned is all.”
    “No, Martin! Look! He’s got tails! He’s got two tails!”
    Apparently the hero had missed this detail, so I helped him by raising them up to either side of my head, their points directed at him.
    “Jesus protect me,” he said, and before his courage failed him he lunged at me.
    Much to my surprise, he actually sank that little knife of his into my chest, all the way to the hilt, then twisted it as he drew it out. It pained me and I cried out, which only made him laugh.
    That was too much. The knife I could take, even when he turned it. But to laugh? At me? Oh no. That marked an unforgivable level of insult. I reached out and caught hold of the blade, seizing it with all my strength. Even though it was slick with my blood, I only had to twist it sharply in his grip and I had it from him, easy as tying a knot in a baby’s tongue.
    I glanced down at the little blade and tossed it away. The youth looked puzzled.
    “I don’t need that little thing to kill you. I don’t even need my hands. My tails can strangle you both, while I chew on my fingernails. ”
    Hearing this the youth sensibly dropped to his knees, and even more sensibly proceeded to beg.
    “Please, sir,” he said, “have mercy. I see the error of my ways now. I do! We both do! We shouldn’t have been fornicating. And on a Holy Day!”
    “What makes this day holy?”
    “The new Archbishop declared it a holiday in celebration of the great fires which will be lit at eight to consume twenty-nine sinners, including—”
    “The former Archbishop,” I guessed.
    “He’s my father,” the girl said, and perhaps out of some tardy respect for her parentage she did her best to cover her nakedness.
    “Don’t bother,” I told her. “I couldn’t care less about you.”
    “All