Horror High 2 (5 page)

You might've noticed that clever sleight-of-hand tactic at the end of the last chapter. It's a pretty convenient way of covering a whole lot of story in a very few sentences, and since I'm paid by the page I can legally pad half this story with out-of-date stock market columns and copyright-expired strip cartoons and still come away with the same pay cheque.

Pretty sweet hook-up, eh?

You probably think it's your right to be provided with every comical, quirky detail about the werewolves and their high-jinx cricket antics, since that's what the book's back cover advertised and what the publisher is paying me for. I can respect that. I think you're right. Really.

What I can't do is linger around here until April Fool's Day to hold a mirror up so you can swap notes with the Fool of the Year. Maybe we can arrange for an autograph and get ourselves back to the story, if you don't mind.

You may glare down your nose at these unworthy tactics, since it means you're denied all the nitty-gritty details and noteworthy incidents of those previous six matches against the likes of the Skulls XI and the Savage Cannibals X (who ate their eleventh team-mate for lunch). But why bother sharing pointless stuff like Howler setting the umpire's breeches on fire by accident, trying to light a skyrocket; or Dingus spiking the opposition's drink bucket with laxatives then accidentally
drinking four tumblers himself; or Fleabag, running scared, toppling headlong into a garbage can full of snapping turtles that were meant to be the raffle prize.

You don't need to know about the match accidentally scheduled on National Nude Day where both sides, the umpire and the spectators all participated in the raw – an AO episode.

You wouldn't be interested in the match that fell during International Elvis Week, when everyone turned up in big hair, garish glitter suits and 20kg of extra lard strapped to their butts, mumbling ‘Thank you very much' and ‘This one's for my momma' every time they hit the ball.

And if you persist on the complete low-down on these mangy werewolves and their six long gone but celebrated cricket matches, if you absolutely demand complete documentation and the entire transcript, here's a piece of advice for you – why don't you apply for my job and I'll take yours. I'm sure I'm up to it. Can't be too difficult being a juvenile delinquent …

The Vampires XI were so confident of year-after-year victory they'd taken to drinking human blood out of the ornate silver cup, permanently staining it a rank, murky purple.

Now, as their teams met on the field of final conflict, they hissed murderously at the werewolves. These bloodsuckers were definitely open for business.

Fleabag whimpered, looked like he'd wet his pants, but Jason-Jock said, ‘Don't worry. Be cool.'

That was easy to say, but JJ was worried and far from cool. Things had started bad and rapidly got worse. They lost the toss and the vampires elected to bat, making the most of the lack of light.

Say what? Lack of light? You read it right. See, those villainous vampires got to the head of the cricket committee, sucking on his neck until the owner agreed to reschedule the final match for twelve hours later than usual, ensuring the first ball was bowled at midnight rather than the standard midday.

Midnight, on a nearly moonless night, meant perfect conditions for vampires but disastrously shabby and problematic ones for werewolves.

Vampires have superb night vision, thanks to their finely tuned bat radar that operates much better than eyesight, whereas werewolves have fairly poor eyesight at the best of times, even in broad daylight. At night they were blind and all they had was their powerful sense of smell, which mostly emanated from their cricket shoes.

Because it was midnight and pitch black – the cricket ground had coincidentally forgotten to pay its electricity bill and the night lights had been cut off – the werewolf players were unable to observe the audience or even the stands. And obviously the audience saw nowt, and all chanted for a ticket refund. The werewolves heard the chants and muffled singing, then clearly over the top of it WG Grace shouting, ‘Come on boys – let's show them how to play real cricket!'

The team honed in on the sound of
WG's voice and found him sitting alone in the dark stand. These sad excuses for cricketers crowded around, complaining about the murky conditions, telling him they were sure to be beaten and that they might as well give up now.

WG looked disgusted. ‘Bah. Listen to you lot, whimpering like a pack of wet dogs. You think this is dark? You should have tried playing cricket from my point of view. You see this …' He held his great curtain of face fuzz up in front of their snouts. ‘This is like playing at midnight even on the brightest day.

‘This great beard blanket was tossed over my head every time I hit the ball, but did it put me off or slow me down? Never! You complain about the lack of light; well, light never penetrated this harness of hair, but it never stopped me. You know why? Because I played from here,' he said, tapping his heart, ‘not here,' tapping his eyes. ‘So don't give me that cheap whining. Get out there and take them down!'

That was the sort of rousing talk that
appealed to aspirational young werewolves, who are prone to cheap, tub-thumpingly patriotic speeches even more than they're prone to high-pitched whistles. They scurried onto the field of conquest, all fired up once more, brimming with newly stoked confidence.

WG sat back down in his seat and chuckled to himself. Little did the werewolves know, he'd always had his beard and hair done up in ribbons like a girl, not only keeping the hair out of his eyes during play but also helping him get in touch with his feminine side. Sometimes he even played in his maiden aunt's silk knickerbockers. In fact he was wearing them now. Who said being a captain meant sacrificing comfort?

What those hounds didn't know wouldn't hurt them …

The vampires, having won the toss, elected to bat first. Not wanting to tire his best bowlers out too early, Jason-Jock sent Dingus and Steppenwolf to bowl the first few overs.

It was called strategy.

The vampire opening batsmen savaged the ball like Fat Albert at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The batsmen demolished each ball in turn, ate them alive, hammered
them flat, cracking the bowlers all over the park.

So much for strategy.

Eight sixes in a row meant that pretty soon the opening batsmen had amassed a half century between them. Pretty soon? Criminy – the game had barely started. Not knowing what else to do, Jason-Jock sent Fangbert in to bowl.

It was a masterstroke. Fangbert, obsessive as always about Warney, had been practising the famous ‘Flipper' ball night and day for months. Those bloodsuckers couldn't handle the flipper – they began to fall like ninepins. Within two deliveries he'd dismissed the troublesome opening batsmen, then took the next vampire two balls later.

Then, just for kicks, Fangbert started in on the remaining middle-order vampires with Warney's famous ‘Wrong-un'. Wrong-un was right – the result was wrong. The remaining vampires – in their haste to get out of the crease and back to the safety of the pavilion – nearly busted their boilers.

Four overs later they were all out for seventy-seven.

 

None of this meant the werewolves were out of the doghouse yet. The vampires might have been talented batsmen, like Terry ‘Type-O' Taggart and Deadman Walken, but they were truly evil bowlers.

The head vampire opened play from the southern end of the ground with a blistering pace attack that claimed Howler first ball for a duck, smashing his wicket like toothpicks and scorching his new cricket bat so badly it smoked like an extinguished safety match the whole long trip back to the pavilion.

The crowd went mad!

That was first ball. Second ball was launched to Grubby after a seventy-five metre run-up. And I do mean ‘launched', like the space shuttle-type launch. The delivery resembled a fiery meteorite more than a cricket ball – head height, deadly accurate. Grubby screeched and, sweating with fear, ducked for cover. Speaking of
ducks, next ball took out Grubby's middle stump, but not before snapping his bat clean in half.

Third ball, third victim. Chomper for a duck.

Jeez Louise.

Three out for nowt.

The middle-order werewolves pretty much followed the same pattern, folding like cheap suits. So much for WG's great words of wisdom; in the inky darkness the batsmen simply couldn't see the ball.

Then, in an over-the-top attempt to cow the opposition, gross them out and give them the heebie-jeebies, the vampire bowler drooled blood from his fangs all over the cricket ball.

Bad mistake. In the failing light the vampire's radar had been a distinct advantage, but with the blood-dripping ball now broadcasting a distinctive and powerful scent, the werewolves' superior powers of smell took over.

Now they smelt the ball as it scorched towards them at top speed and lashed out
with the bat to great effect. Suddenly runs started amassing from the werewolves' bats. The middle-order batsmen held on for half a dozen overs, slowly stealing runs.

But even with this improved performance, the vampires still seemed to have it all over the werewolves. Every time the wolves clobbered the ball in a big hit, even as it rose over the fielders' heads and looked certain to be sailing for a six, a vampire fielder would transform into a bat and fly up to encase the ball like a black, leathery baseball mitt. It was mighty frustrating to see, and that was just for me watching through night-vision goggles from the stands …

Jason-Jock had deliberately put himself second last in the order of batsmen, saving himself in case of emergency – another threadbare stab at strategy. The wickets slowly but inexorably fell and now, finally, he took the crease, to do or die.

The other werewolves had done their best, but now it was up to Captain Jason-Jock
Werewolf and the famous Fleabag, their lamest batsman at the opposite crease, whimpering like a half-toilet-trained kid who's just let off and followed through.

‘Suffer!' hissed the vampire captain. ‘Suffer, and die!'

‘It'll take more than you've got to achieve that,' replied JJ.

The vicious vampire grinned an oily grin. ‘Time for re-education, dog.'

‘Time for resuscitation, bat.'

The two protagonists looked set to lock horns – not easy between a dog and a bat – when the umpire stepped in. ‘Simmer down, boys,' he commanded. ‘It's only a game.'

Only a game?

They needed over thirty runs to win. I need an aspirin.

Thirty runs? Not in this lifetime, maestro …

The vampires figured these last batsmen must be pretty puny and left their lesser bowlers to deal with them while crowding up close in the fielding positions.

Bad mistake. Jason-Jock cracked their first ball, sending it humming for six. Next ball went hurtling to the boundary for four. The fielders crowded in even closer. One vampire was so close JJ could smell his blood-flavoured chewing gum.

A wild bowl, then a no-ball, but JJ didn't know that and took two steps up the pitch and cracked it, aiming for the boundary. Maybe he was aiming for six, but he hit the fielder at silly mid-on, knocking his head silly mid-off, and the bloody missile flew through the air, hitting the ‘Hit Me!' sign on the full and leaving a thick, bloody smear down the middle of the billboard.

Jason-Jock ran around jumping with joy, thinking he'd won himself a car for hitting the coveted sign, as was the longstanding tradition in cricket. It wasn't until the umpire's cry of ‘No Ball!' that the werewolf captain noticed the headless vampire through the darkness, slumped beside the pitch.

No ball?

No head!