Free Vivisepulture by Wayne Andy; Simmons Tony; Remic Neal; Ballantyne Stan; Asher Colin; Nicholls Steven; Harvey Gary; Savile Adrian; McMahon Guy N.; Tchaikovsky Smith Page A

bridesmaid. One that I can -”
    “You want me to procure you a wedding guest?”
    “Not procure, merely -”
    “Please leave the bar, sir.”
    “But -”
    “You really will have to go.”
    Michael’s temper snapped. “Well fuck it then. Fuck it in deep and to the sides and all around the garden.” He shattered the glass on the bartop.
    Turning, he strode to the elevator and rode it to his room. Immediately he ordered a bottle of Glenfiddich from room service, praying the waiter had not tipped them off about the volatile drunkard who had misbehaved in the bar. It appeared he had not and the bottle promptly arrived.
    Michael sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.
    He was drunk but he was immeasurably stressed too, a calamitous combination. He thought about his procrastinations in the bar.
    Maybe, if I learn to love again, Cupid will leave me alone . . .
    Cocking his head back, Michael laughed bitterly.
    “Truly,” he scowled, opening the whisky, “I am the King of Bullshit!”
    Sitting back, propped against the pillows, he drank and drank.
    What was he going to do about Cupid? The sprite was unstoppable, eternal and clearly supernatural.
    He blinked.
    Supernatural. He needed a priest to perform some sort of exorcism. A proper, old-fashioned Catholic clergyman, of course, who slayed demons. Who would relish the challenge. Who would above all know what to do.
    I can’t be the first man to have this problem, he thought. There is probably a secret Vatican department which deals with exactly this sort of thing -
    Just then Cupid erupted from the toilet.
    The bathroom door was open and from the bed Michael thought the lavatory had suffered a catastrophic plumbing problem, but the scraggle-topped, rot-fleshed cherub surged out of the bowl like some enormous discoloured turd.
    Outwitted at the house, Cupid was too furious for theatrics. He swept across the hotel room to the bed, wings spraying waterdrops. Yelping, Michael swung the whisky bottle, and the vessel cracked against the cherub’s skull. Cupid crashed into the wardrobe and slid to the floor, leaving a slimy trail on the mirror. A heartbeat later the cherub was up again but Michael was already lunging for the door. Cupid intercepted him, clamping himself around Michael’s head, digging his claws into his scalp. Michael blundered sidelong into the bathroom then slipped on the wet tiles.
    “You gross little fucker,” he yelled.
    Cupid sank his claws deeper, the tips scraping Michael’s skull. Screaming, Michael whirled like a dancing Sufi, trying vainly to shake off the creature. Cupid was adopting a new tactic, he realised. He wanted Michael to pass out with pain so he could eat his heart whilst he lay unconscious. No doubt, it would prefer to consume the organ whilst he was wide-awake. But his previous attempts to do so had failed.
    Michael spotted a hairdryer on the wall. Grabbing the pistol-shaped blower, he jabbed the button marked MAXIMUM then jammed the nozzle against Cupid’s eye. Cupid clung on a moment then, screeching, dropped to the floor, eyeball bubbling like a globule of hot soup.
    It was now or never, decided Michael.
    Dropping to his knees, he clamped his hands around Cupid’s throat. And squeezed . Oh how he squeezed. He squeezed like a vice. Like a car compacter. Like tectonic plates grinding together during an earthquake. The cherub’s eyes bulged like soap bubbles. His taloned hands and feet flailed crazily, lacerating Michael’s forearms. His lips peeled back from frantically gnashing teeth and for the first time Michael noticed the cherub’s tongue, grey, soft and slimy like the meat of an unshelled snail.
    Oh yes, thought Michael, tightening his grip. Oh yes . . .
    Something throbbed in Cupid’s chest. With muffled surprise, Michael realised the cherub possessed a heart of his own - one symbol of love trapped inside another.
    “Let’s see how you like it,” snarled Michael because really, it was too good an opportunity to