Chapter 11

On the origins of Warwick Hunt.

Warwick Hunt had arrived at the City of Setebos some years earlier after a freak accident involving aggrieved co-workers, a spot of jealousy, a wormhole and a bubbling vat of lard.

The very scary Warwick Hunt originates from Earth though not quite down to earth; he had ideas above his station. Though as he lived next to Wigan Station nobody was sure what these ideas might be.

Warwick Hunt left secondary school after five years of arguing with his teachers and gaining zero qualifications. At this point he considered a life in Politics though he realised he didn’t come from a rich family so would be unable to bribe his way to the top. Plus he hadn’t attended a posh public school and didn’t have a double-barrelled name or an obscure middle name. Matthew Hunt didn’t so sound impressive against the daft names like Pfeffel, Roderick, De’Ath, Clutterbuck or Hardmeat. Later in life he became known as Warwick Hunt, though that name was chosen for him by his ‘mates’.

He spent his early life in the middle of Lancashire working for various Butchers and Abattoirs. He was moved on from most of his jobs due to his personal hygiene; his face was covered in pus oozing pimples, he rarely washed, he smelt like a pile of shite and he had clods of dandruff regularly dropping from his greasy hair. There are still some butchers in Rawtenstall that have difficulty selling sausages due to the rumours about things Warwick Hunt added to the mixture. Cats, rats and mice were collectively wary of the Matthew Hunt. Then he was merely known as ‘Big Matthew’ the fat lad from the back end of Wigan. He was fond of death and butchery, which should have made him suitable for an Infantry Regiment though they have certain standards to maintain. So despite the misgivings of many a poor butcher, Big Matthew finally found himself working at the Lard Factory.

This suited him down to the ground.

He would spend all day stirring the vast vats of purified pig fat, adding his own favourites such as nose pickings, toenails and spit. The longer he worked there the worse his skin became so that eventually he could even squeeze pus from his spots into the lard mix.

His workmates hated him.

They felt he gave lard makers a bad name.

So they called him ‘Warwick’, even though he never quite got the full meaning.

Most of his co-workers were honoured to be associated with the production of this delightful fat product. Many entered Town and Regional competitions for Lard Lad of the Year awards – in those days Lardy Girls did not exist. However it was generally agreed that Big Matthews’ additions to the mix were just too far beyond a joke. Matthew discovered himself increasingly isolated from his contemporaries. He realised that he had to sit at a table on his own at the annual ‘Lancashire Lard Ladlers Ball’. This didn’t bother him as it meant he could eat all of the Black Puddings, Tripe and Trotters to himself without considering the etiquette of handing a Trotter to the left or passing the Tripe to the right or even which way to pass the Duchy. He just gulped the lot down, picked his spots and farted all night.

It was a wet, weird Friday evening that Big Matthew Hunt ceased to exist in his humanoid form. (Some people argue that he was never human, just a fat inflated windbag that got on peoples nerves). His fellow lard workers had decided that enough was more than enough. Rumours had spread round Lancashire and lard sales were down. This was nothing to do with government health warnings or misled animal rights campaigners.

No.

People had heard of Matthews embellishments and were loath to fry their sausages in a mixture of snot and puss, though they found purified pig fat quite acceptable.

So the Lard Lads had conspired to do away with Matthew in a most appropriate manner, deciding that in the end one final batch could be made with one final added extra: Big Matthew himself.

On that lethal Friday night as he leaned over a large vat of Lard, his florid countenance dripping yellowy pus, teetering on the edge of a wobbly ladder… the Lard Lads made their move.

Shove, push, waggle, splash!

The big fat useless bastard fell headlong into a bubbling cauldron of Steaming Pig Fat.

Now in Fairy Stories it is always possible to have amazing things happen. The hero is close to defeat and up pops a friendly dragon to help him; the hero’s army is outnumbered and he just happens to remember there is a Dead Army waiting to help him out; the hero dies falling over a waterfall with his nemesis but comes back from a shower many moons later; the hero batters his girlfriend but still gets elected anyway because the media make it sound normal.

In our case it just so happened that Zeus was playing Pontoon with Jesus, Buddha and Confucius. Zeus was Banker as Jesus and Buddha had declined on principle – ‘I kick bankers out’ said Jesus; ‘Bank represents material possessions’ said Buddha. Confucius had two cards showing a total of sixteen.

“Twist!” he said.

“Pull my finger!” said Zeus.

In all innocence Jesus did pull the finger of Zeus.

And lo, a Great Fart was initiated from the bum of the Great God.

In any parlour in the back streets of Liverpool this would have been greeted with Great Mirth, all four players reduced to uproarious laughter and streams of tears.

But in the Metaphysical worlds of the Gods such an anal eminence had dire consequences.

For in a strange way the passage of noxious gases from the derriere of Zeus led to a kerfuffle in the Space-Time continuum. Mad Tom of Bedlam attempted a correction but alas and alack he was short on Travel-Gravel so he missed a wormhole formed by the Ring of Zeus. Now when these guys get together all kinds of Strange Things can Happen. In this incredibly coincidental case, the very same wormhole created by the fart of Zeus, opened up in the Vat of Lard into which Matthew had landed.

Well I never!

Big Matthew was whisked into the nothingness of the Space-Time Continuum and catapulted across an Infinite set of Parallel Universes, pausing only once to buy a packet of fags at the corner shop on Pleiades. As the chaos in the fabric of Space settled down and Confucius won with a five, Jesus walked away across the Sea of Infinity, and Buddha looked away philosophically, big Matthew found himself alive on the surface of Uranus.

But this wasn’t Big Matthew anymore.

He was no longer a disgusting individual who could be smelt five minutes before arrival.

The disintegration and realignment of the sub-atomic particles that had once been Big Matthew and the Vat of Lard had now been improbably combined to create a case of half-and-half. Yes it would have been nice if he had arrived at your house on a cold winter’s night as Chips and Rice. But No!

Matthew was now half-man half-lard – the slippiest, slimiest, nastiest creature in the Universe. Imagine all of that seething hatred mingled into a bipedal white lump, slowly oozing pus and farting non-stop. Not even a right-wing fascist who changed his name to sound more down to earth could be quite so disgusting – or maybe it could.

It occurred to him that if he was in a New Body on a New Planet then a New Name would just round off his day quite nicely. He realised straight away that he had now become even more unpleasant, though his spots had not cleared up. Would a really unpleasant name finish the job?

He considered names like Adolf, Stalin, Nixon, Attila, Pol Pot, Jeremy, George W., Trump, Farage, Thatcher, Rupert and Edwina but realised they had already been used quite successfully back on earth.

No, he wanted something really scary.

Matthew had never been the brightest of sparks confining his comments to things like ‘everyone from Liverpool is bolshy’ or ‘I hate you, scouser’ or the more acerbic ‘you are ugly’. So a scary name was never going to be an easy option for him. He settled on using the moniker given by his workmates.

“Warwick Hunt I am and Warwick Hunt I will stay,” he declared to no-one in particular.

The first creatures he met as he wandered around were a couple of Imps out on a mischievous raid.

“Oy mate you smell like a big turd!” cried the first of them.

“A what?” asked Warwick Hunt.

“A turd ….Ohhhhhhhhh!!!!” exhaled the imp in his last breath as Warwick Hunt ripped his head off.

“That’ll do”, said Warwick Hunt to himself. “Warwick Hunt, the Vengeance on Uranus!”

The other Imp disappeared as rapidly as his little legs would carry him.

“That’s right little friend. Run with fear, Warwick Hunt is here!”

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Published by Phoenix

I have been a teacher all my life. That doesn't just mean in School! I taught my brothers to ride bikes and go camping in the mountains. I taught Football, Cricket, Squash, Sailing, Climbing and Karate. In BNI I became the Education Coordinator. With my Property Business I laid on Investment Seminars. I taught my sons to Fish for Carp. And I still teach Maths and Physics to students who want to go to University to study Medicine or Engineering. Now I am teaching people the things I am learning online.

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