Dan Carver - Ruin Nation

“And our friend with the railway spike,” Shorter clarifies.

“Indeed.”

“But I’m not…” I plead.

“Please, Mr Jupiter. You’ll have time to speak afterwards.”

“Best to sit back and listen for the moment, Sir,” says Shorter.

“We need a puppet maker.”

“We need a puppet maker and Mr Dromedary gave us your name.”

“Why?”

“Firstly, because you have the experience and secondly, because he’ll be taking forty percent of your first year’s wages as a finder’s fee,” Scarface tells me.

“He also wants a clear run at your wife,” adds the always charming Shorter, “but that’s very much by the by.”

“C’est la vie,” I say. “You mentioned wages?”

“Yes, Jupiter. You see, we’ve been observing you for some time. And, whilst we’re forced to conclude that your attitude does indeed stink and that you are indeed shifty, psychological profiling suggests that you can be brought to heel like a dog for large sums of money. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’d say there’s an element of truth in it. Are you… are you offering me large sums of money?”

“We believe in rewarding hard work,” says Shorter.

“Doing what?”

“We require someone to assist with a little, er, promotional campaign.”

“And you mentioned ‘first year’s wages’. So it’s a long-term contract?”

“Oh, believe me,” Laughs Scarface, “if this comes off, there’ll be plenty more work in the pipeline.”

“And I’ll be working for you, through Dromedary?”

“No, Mr Jupiter, you’ll be working for us directly. We know how he whips his staff like Hebrew slaves. It’s inefficient. We believe in nurturing talent. We’re progressive. We believe in the potential of people.”

“Sign up with us, Sir, and you need never worry about that goofy, red-faced troll again.”

“And that’s got to be an incentive. But think it over. We’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You know,” I say, as I’m halfway through the door, “when you dragged me in here, like a kidnap victim, I thought something sinister was going on.”

“Oh, no,” laughs Scarface. “Not in the slightest.”

“Heavens no!” says Shorter. “Why would you think that?”

So I walk past Dromedary steaming in bed, and I’m smiling so wide it hurts.

I’m about to jump ship for an undisclosed job with two unknowns who show strangers pictures of dead bodies. My motivation is the flimsiest of promises coupled with my own rampaging greed. Am I being stupid or is this the coolest thing I’ve ever done? I was looking for an adventure and it found me . I’m actually happy.

Dromedary signals with a dripping paw. He asks how my meeting went and then starts questioning my human parentage. Now I no longer have to take this.

“Has anyone signed your cast yet?” I enquire cheerily, rolling his protesting carcass over. And whilst he flaps his podgy flippers, I scrawl “To our very own Elvis the Pelvis, love from the boys at www.fisting.com.”

“He’s big on the scene,” I tell the nurse.

I walk out into the night. It’s black and it’s cold, but not even the smouldering wreckage of my car can bring me down. I feel free. I feel alive. It’s God: nil, Jupiter: one!

Picture the remnants of a supermarket car park. Weeds grow through the cracked tarmac. Faltering allotments ring one half of the perimeter, rusting automobile wreckage the other. The supermarket itself is long gone – looted and firebombed by Walmart shock troops. An abandoned petrol station remains. If you listen, you can make out two leopards fucking on its big, flat roof. A black limousine arrives. Scarface steps out of the shadows and nods. The limo leaves.

“It’s just a job,” I tell myself. I’m staring at my reflection in a compact mirror. My reflection doesn’t look convinced. He looks downright terrified. The floor’s covered in plastic sheeting, thank God, because if I don’t leak fluid on it, I’m sure Mr Bactrian will. Only I don’t know it’s Mr Bactrian yet. That knowledge comes later. I do know I’m alone with a corpse. And not an attractive corpse. And that today’s task is to skin him.

So I signed my new contract on Monday. Scarface and Shorter came around my house and formally introduced themselves as Misters Calamine and Calamari. I guess you need to sound continental to get ahead these days, now that ‘English’ is a byword for ‘inbred’.

We drank nettle tea and I signed my way through an array of papers arranged on the dining room table. Pretty standard stuff.

“There’s a three month trial period,” says Calamine. “Just a formality really, to see how we all get along. If all goes well, there’s a chance of a permanent position.”

“Which means you’ll be eligible for our health and pension schemes,” Calamari tells me, with a look that says I may soon need them.

“You’ve got a pension scheme?” I’m shocked. “Nobody has a pension scheme these days.”

“We do,” says Calamari smiling. “You’re playing with the big boys now.”

“There’s just one more thing,” says Calamine, opening his briefcase. “Nothing to worry about, though. Now, we’ve been through your contract, that’s out of the way. There’s just one more thing we need you to sign.” And he passes me The Official Secrets Act. My mouth drops open and my mind goes blank. Calamari claps me on the back.

“Yes, we kept that quiet, didn’t we? Thought we’d spring it on you. Thought we’d sound you out a little first – see what kind of stuff you were made of.”

“You told me you were from ‘Thruster and Parkin,’” I burble.

“On paper, yes,” says Calamari.

“And on your payslips, too,” Calamine confides. “But, in actuality, you’ll be working for His Majesty’s Government. Hence this.” And he slaps the document before me as casually as if it were a work colleague’s birthday card. Calamari passes me a silver fountain pen.

“Nice pen,” I say.

“It’s yours,” Calamari answers. “Now sign.” And, God help me, I do. It’s only later that I remember the photos they’d shown me and what I’d taken as drunken bravado – testing the nerve of the new guy – strikes me as something more sinister. Because they didn’t seem drunk at all.

So now it’s Friday and I’m alone in an abandoned industrial unit in the middle of a nasty estate. I’ve a hairy-backed carcass with a hog’s thighbone for a cock for company and there’s a bowie knife with a sinister matt-black finish in my hand. And I’m wondering, if this is what happens when you say yes, what the Hell happens if you refuse?

Out of fear and the promise of that fat paycheck, it’s the fear that keeps me here. The money lost its attraction an hour ago.

I hold the mirror to the corpse’s mouth. There’s no condensation, just seeping halitosis.

I’m not squeamish and I’m not superstitious. I’ve cut people open and I’ve stitched them back together. I’m eminently qualified for this job in terms of skills, experience and my usual mindset. But something’s wrong.

I’ve skinned mink before, sure – for food and blankets, we all have – but skinning a person seems like an act of desecration. If I thought God cared, I’d be concerned for my soul.

And then there’s the stench, and the fear of what it might mean. I don’t want to see this man’s intestines. It’s bad enough looking at that corncob of a penis. The thought of what this diseased hulk’s internal organs might look like has my stomach vaulting. But I’m a professional. I keep telling myself that I’m a professional.