Nobody has ever made a study of Goylish history, but we shouldn’t think too badly of work-shy historians as the oversight is entirely justifiable. Fair-minded readers should see the following as an explanation rather than an excuse.

The fact is that Goyle, the unimaginatively named homeworld of the Visigoyles – and of all other types of Goyle – has too many histories. It is one of those extremely rare ‘timeshare’ planets.

This is not to be confused with the occasional ‘brigadoon’ world explorers have been known to encounter on the outer rim, those planets which have an annoying habit of appearing and disappearing at semi-regular intervals. Annoying for explorers hoping to land, twice as annoying for those who live there and only have limited windows in which to evolve, advance and/or venture off-world.

No, as a timeshare planet, Goyle was cursed from a very early stage in its prehistory to straddle a chronic rift – a particularly chronic one – that resulted in the world playing host to several parallel versions of itself at any given time, which gave rise to countless variations of Goylish civilisation: the Visigoyles, Ostrogoyles, Endogoyles, Marigoyles and so on. These parallels are in a state of flux, as unpredictable as most natural weather systems, with one reality tending to be predominant for a given but frustratingly variable period. Frequently there occurs a simultaneous convergence of parallels and, Goyles being Goyles, war breaks out. This was a feature of Goylish history that very soon put paid to the Minigoyles, whose unfortunate size disadvantage meant that the only remains of their civilisation are to be found in what has become known as the Model Village of GrrrunkFar.

Out of this mess, against the odds, several diverse species of Goyle have continued to flourish and develop as spacefaring races of one sort or another. Mostly of one sort, that being the belligerent kind. One thing that they have in common is a deep-rooted contempt for all other species of Goyle. Goylish ‘nations’ tend not to officially recognise the other parallels, even if theirs happens to be the primary reality at the time.

Another thing that they have in common is that all other races tend to hate them.


Take your pick.

Unfortunately the landscape will vary according to which parallel is existent when you arrive. The range of terrain on offer is to all intents and purposes infinite, although it is not impossible to encounter the same mountain in a number of different places. The same is true for the cities, whose locations are as varied as their architecture, although the majority are merely different combinations of grim, dull, monolithic and depressing. Many, but by no means all, of the versions of the capital city have been described as ‘a bit like Venice, if it had the misfortune to be converted into a major naval base’, with many of the locals preferring life on board docked warships rather than bothering with the old derelict buildings.

There are theories that in fact the Goyles themselves, being partially silicon-based life forms, originated from these rather medieval facades, the stones having been permeated with some sort of organic catalyst and thus brought to life. Hence the name Goyles, as derived from ‘gargoyle’. Other theories maintain that the name merely arises from the fact that they are hideously ugly. The jury is out.

All of this is rendered largely irrelevant when you consider that for all the differences exhibited by each parallel version of the Goylish capital, every one of them is named – in the Goylish language – AarkFakRaggaFok, which translates very accurately as No Visitors Welcome.

To Be Continued…


Goyles: A Portrait

We take a look at the Goyles, a race who feature prominently in the Evil UnLtd(TM) universe.

Goyles of most varieties – Visi, Ostro, Bilio, but notably not the leaner and frankly strange Spirogoyles – have earned frequent and widespread comparison to walking planets. Not solely owing to their girth, which is considerable and obvious, but once that particular line was pursued, it was surprising how many other similarities held true. Of course, like all such things, a great deal depends on the light in which they are examined, but since the range of light in which a Goyle is best examined is severely restricted there isn’t much room for manoeuvre when it comes to proper analysis.

Goyles, then, are mostly large, although less than celestial bodies with hot liquid centres encased in a hard outer crust, often pitted and scarred by the ravages of time and frequent collisions and impacts from their fellows, which are a formative part of their culture. Their faces change with glacial speed, which lend an impression of their species as deep thinkers – an impression that fools nobody. At the northernmost extremities, the reception one gets is invariably a frosty one, while regions south of the equator suffer a great deal of abuse and neglect and if exploited to any degree, people tend to look the other way and prefer to carry on with their lives in blissful ignorance. They are also surrounded by a gaseous atmosphere and often found to be inhabited by countless pestilent lifeforms.

Carrying the analogy one stage further than strictly necessary, the Visigoyles also possess their own magnetosphere and had discovered fairly early on in their development an ability to slap chunks of metal onto their already thick, partially silicon based hides and watch them stick. Later Visigoyle dynasties saw further refinements, such as the actual shaping of these pieces of metal into segments of armour. It’s believed that if a Visigoyle relaxes his concentration too much, then the magnetism will fail and the armour would slip and slide about like a lot of tectonic plates gone berserk – or fall off altogether. This, it’s believed, is why Goyles stomp about with an expression like they’d already spent most of their day on the toilet with no tangible results. It has been described as a foul concoction of miserable, frustrated, uncomfortable and constipated.

Although, given the general inflexibility of the facial features, it is equally possible that the expression sets in from an early age and all Goyles would look much the same even outside their armour. No one has ever seen a Visigoyle in such a state of undress, however, and the galaxy’s foremost xenobiologists are not exactly queuing up to be the first in that respect.

Next: The Lonely Planet Guide To Goyle


Evil TV: Galaxy Six Broadcasting


Scraping the entertainment barrel since all the other broadcasters broke through the bottom.


5:15 PM: I Think You Dropped One!

All the thrills and spills of TV’s favourite madcap game show as people from all walks of life take part in this extravaganza of human KERPLUNK!

5:45 PM I’m An Asshole! Make Me Famous

The I’m An Asshole! House welcomes a brand new batch of prize gorms and slappers who go all out to suffer the worst indignities, bitch about each other and act like twats over the next four months, all for that grand prize of their own 15-minute TV pilot and a celebrity biography book deal worth gazillions!

6:30 PM Celebrity Minefield Clearance

More reality TV, but this time in aid of a great humanitarian cause. Tonight, the team attempt to clear the vast war-ravaged fields of Agrimomon with the five surviving D-list celebs from last week’s show. Tense stuff, and we hope they remembered to pack their armoured underwear!

7:15 PM Evil UnLTD

1.2: Run-Time Errors. The team are on the run with an unfortunate choice of hostage and an indestructible action hero on their tail! In its new pre-watershed time slot so as to corrupt younger viewers and offend older ones. Don’t miss it!

8:15 PM The Saturday Night Movie: Dynamite Jones and the Eight Sided Polygon

High-octagon Action/Adventure with everyone’s favourite female daredevil. Starring Tanith Troy. The one with the really over the top rooftop car chase.

10:00 PM Galaxy 6 News

The latest headlines. Sorry we can’t make it sound any more exciting than that until we know what they are!

10:30 PM Baywolf

Another classic episode of this early but inexplicably enduring Rolph Stengun series, in which werewolf and lifeguard, Rick Fenn, battled drug smugglers, defended the beaches from evil marine life looking to evolve and take over the land, and saved an incredible succession of beautiful but surprisingly unskilled swimmers. Tonight’s episode chosen by the producer due to insufficient votes in our viewers’ poll.

11:15 PM Entities Aloud In Concert

The formless pop combo entertain in their farewell tour prior to departing for dimensions unknown.

And if none of that is to your taste…

Find more and, crucially, BETTER entertainment in Evil UnLtd(TM)

Evil. The One To Watch.



An Evil Magazine exclusive interview with Dexter Snide.

So first of all, the topic of the moment, what’s so great about Evil UnLtd?

You’re being dense, of course? No? Well, for one thing it’s not merely a book we’re selling. This little number goes well beyond that. It’s a property, a franchise, a brand. And brands are inherently evil, pervasive, the way they creep into your lives and stamp their identities on your very existence – and therefore what we in the trade like to whimsically refer to as ‘a good thing’.

And how would Evil UnLtd – the brand – go about stamping its identity all over us, so to speak?

So to speak? You are amusing. First of all, the entire thing is structured like a trio of TV episodes, so expanding into other media will be a doddle. The logo will need sprucing up I dare say, but once that’s done, well, you can easily see it – and the cast of characters – on posters, mugs, cups, wallpaper, every imaginable object with which people clutter up their otherwise meaningless lives. I draw the line at underpants, mind you. Nobody is having my face adorning their crotch. Then there’ll be the action figures, the audio books, the big screen movie – which they’ll get completely wrong, naturally, cast all the wrong people and make some appalling script alterations – but that will manage to upset and irritate a great many fans which of course, being Evil, I am all for. It will also serve to remind people just how good the books, the TV and perhaps the radio series were and so they’ll come flooding back to seek solace in those. Spending even more money and buying even more merchandise in a frenzy of nostalgia. Whoever gets on board at this stage will make absolute heaps of money, greed will spiral healthily out of control. And Mr Ferret may even be induced to do a record ostensibly for charity, but we will see to it that the funds are diverted elsewhere. And of course they’ll all be chasing me for autographs – which I should point out, will get them shot. But the danger will merely add to the thrill of the chase, won’t it.

An altogether rosy future, wouldn’t you say?

You, er, do paint quite the picture. So why on earth should other authors and readers support Evil UnLtd?

Well, it rather depends on their worldview. Some people, whether they’re authors or plebs without a creative bone in their body, are insufferably idealistic and generous, celebrating the successes of others. Of course, those types ought to recognise a good thing when they see one and cheer it on. Hurrah etc. Whereas, the self-interested, scheming and conniving types who long to see others fall flat on their faces so that they can feel superior, well, all they need do is make sure Evil UnLtd makes it really really BIG.

Sorry, I don’t quite follow?

Of course you don’t. Luckily I had an explanation prepared for just such an eventuality. First of all, imagine how ecstatically wonderfully nauseatingly happy and full of hope the author will be when he lands that first juicy contract from a major publisher and they’re bubbling over with enthusiasm and they’re all “well, this is fantastic, it’ll sell absolute squillions of copies, we see a TV series in this, movies, merchandise, the lot.” Now against that undoubted high point, consider how he will feel as its success spirals out of control. Imagine just how devastated and disappointed he’ll be when, like all series, his precious creation goes past its best and falls from grace. Then, a few years down the road, when his franchise gets turfed over to the Hollywood bigwigs for that inevitable remake and reinvention that completely violates the characters, the continuity, the ethos and everything it stood for in a riot of miscasting and committee-driven rewrites. Picture how crushed and utterly destroyed he’ll be! He’s a sensitive creative type. It’ll finish him, I’m sure. Worth every book purchase just to see that, if you ask me.

So, um, you want Evil UnLtd to fail, but not just now?

Are you even bothering to keep up? Of course I don’t want Evil UnLtd to fail. But naturally I want the author to suffer. At heart he’s one of those basically decent and stupidly good people. But you see, what you’re not really grasping is that for me this is a win-win situation. Evil fails, author’s dreams are crushed. Hahahahaha and all that for me, between sipping cocktails and embarking on my next Evil plan. Evil succeeds, we make much moolah, the Evil UnLtd brand filters out across the media, establishing itself for future generations. Hahahahaha etc for me, between sipping more expensive cocktails and planning my Next Big Thing.

There’s a – um – twisted logic to your reasoning.

Oh you noticed. How very astute. And by the way I’m not altogether happy with the way you put you in bold and me in plain text.

Sorry Is that better?

Much. Well, thank you, I’m done with you for now. This has been great fun. I think I may pop by to comment some more later. As I said, things to do.

Read more of DEXTER SNIDE’S ‘things to do’ in Evil UnLtd(TM)



The following is an excerpt from Evil UnLtd Vol1: The Root Of All Evil

The Hatchling sat tucked up in darkness, curled into a cosy foetal position and sucking at his stub of a thumb. There wasn’t much else to do in here but brood. To brood and to dream of his next delicious taste of freedom.

What went on inside the Hatchling’s egg was shrouded in mystery, speculation and a lot of icky fluids, including a substance very like albumin and a semi-sentient membraneous goo that did much to safeguard the embryonic occupant from intrusive scans. The shell itself was dense and obstructive enough, but this membrane could cleverly rearrange its cells so as to selectively filter any active signals, sometimes choosing to absorb all directed energies and so return a frustrating blank, or sometimes reflecting wavelengths according to its own whims, bouncing back images designed to toy with the minds of those foolish enough to pry. Standard soundwaves were generally granted permission to slip freely back and forth, allowing the Hatchling some useful contact with the outside world and occasionally affording him some worthwhile listening material to help alleviate the boredom. It was rarely much, but then again it was invariably more stimulating than most commercial radio stations and came without all the aggravating  jingles.

To the Hatchling, his complex and singular life-cycle was something of an exercise bike: an endless series of revolutions that never seemed to get him very far. The question of which came first, the Hatchling or his egg, was one of life’s imponderables and so he refrained from pondering it. Mostly, he contemplated his navel and all the havoc and destruction he might wreak when he was next outside.

That, and the delights of discovering whatever little details had changed about himself with each emergence.

Luckily, despite the often prolonged periods of confinement, the Hatchling rather enjoyed brooding and found that although a great many of his thoughts were the same, he was fond of each and every one of them and there was a degree of amusement to be had in seeing them dance around in circles, as thoughts tended to do in such cramped quarters.

As to which stimuli might prompt him to break out, the possible causes were many and varied. On this occasion, Dexter – for whom the Hatchling harboured feelings that were close to filial, but without his species’ usual desire to eat the paternal parent – they weren’t that close and anyway, his biological ‘dad’ having had the misfortune of being one of those extremely rare males to have survived the mating process, the Hatchling’s patrivorous appetite had already been sated – had lodged a quiet request that he, the Hatchling, bust out at a prearranged time. The Hatchling’s body clock was more accurate than most oven timers and he knew that the moment was fast approaching when he would be ‘done’.

The Hatchling’s nascent stomach growled in anticipation, eager to grow and be filled at the same time.

If people wondered at the Hatchling’s persistently aggressive behaviour upon hatching, then they ought to try being shut up inside an egg on a diet of fat-and-protein-enriched yolk. Despite the permissiveness of the membrane when it came to sound, it wasn’t as if he could send out for pizza, even though he found  himself within earshot of too many TV ads boasting about deep pans, free delivery within a specified radius and a mouth-watering variety of extra toppings. A growling stomach was just one of the items he would attend to once he was free of his shell.

As luck would have it, it was on that thought that the Hatchling’s bulbous chick-like eyes opened, still seeing nothing in the liquid gloom, but sensing the onset of change.

There was no more time for brooding. It was time to get out of here and start making some serious omelettes.



“Here in the desolate, volcanic wastes of [CENSORED] we may have found the homeworld of a creature of which almost nothing is really known. We can’t even establish with any certainty that it is indeed a creature.

“It’s not shy or elusive – quite the opposite – but its habit of categorising all lifeforms as either Grade Zero – beneath its contempt and therefore expendable – or Grade One – demonstrating basic sentience and therefore to be eliminated – in addition to a resolutely uncommunicative attitude – renders any attempts to study this fascinating specimen challenging, not to say deadly.

“Is it a mere robot? Does it house an alien so sinister and hideous we are never meant to prise open its armoured shell, for fear of exposing our inadequate human minds to the madness of some Lovecraftian nightmare?

“Hard to say.

“Attempts to analyse and observe its behaviour are invariably met with aggression – even at what would ordinarily be considered a safe distance – say, tracking via orbital satellite. We can at least deduce therefore that it enjoys privacy or hostility or some hitherto indeterminate measure of both.

“Here, you see our technical team attempting to establish a remote Wi-Fi connection with the creature, with a view to probing the workings of its supposedly positronic mind.

“But the scenes in our computer lab quickly descend into chaos and panic, as our software agents are met with the most sophisticated and some would say sadistic anti-viral programs ever encountered.

“Some were returned to us a piece at a time, splintered subroutines of their former selves, while still others, we have reason to believe, are being held in dark and shadowy recesses of the robotic brain and subjected to untold horrors. Experts are of the opinion that if we ever do get them back, our programs will be of little use even for routine filing.

“We know that even its associates have to act with care around the creature. In human society, we might say we have to mind our Ps and Qs. In the company of this alien machine creature, the trick to survival would appear to be a case of minding an entire obscure alphabet that, to all intents and purposes, might as well be locked up and encrypted to 2048 bit security on a hard drive that’s been dropped into a black hole.

“So, we have ventured here, to this remote and desolate planet where the raging lava flows from an angry red to positively livid orange, where the ash blots out the stars and where, it is believed, the race of machine creatures may have originated many many aeons ago.

“Where, it is rumoured, perhaps other specimens of this unique and fearful race may still exist. We have come here in search of answers. In search of – “

(The late Buzz Starstrider-Attenborough III, OBE, BsC, BBC, QED, TSB, RIP)

Catch up with Evil Robot in action in Evil UnLtd(TM)




You will need:

1 Large Tachyon Collider

3 Space Midge Larvae, trained

1 Pot Noodle

1 Bottle Of Shampoo (anything with Peach Nut and Jojoba is ideal)

4000km Copper Wire

Double-sided sellotape

1 Microwave (850W or better)

1 mint-condition 2000AD Issue#1 with the Tharg’s Space Spinner Free Gift still attached

1 Lead Pipe (always good to have a backup)

First, fire up the Large Tachyon Collider.

Warming get nicely that up. Noodle the mix pot with poosham and – wait wrong gone something’s!


Witness more of Prof Doomladen’s genius in action in Evil UnLtd(TM)




What hasn’t this man done?

A regular column for Evil Magazine by

Mr Knucks

When they asked me to write a column for this rag, I told them the only type of columnist I’d been was a fifth one. But they said, no, come on you’re big on this self-improvement lark and the writing exercise’ll be good for you. So I said, what the f**k am I sposed to write about then? And they said, well, you’ve had such a long and varied career, why don’t you write about all the stuff you *haven’t* done? So I said that’s going to make for a short series.

See, thing about me is I’m like that song, wotsitcalled – f**k knows, Google it – Van Morrison done, “I’ve been a poet, a prophet, a thingy, a priest” and all that magumbo. Except with me, it’s like “I’ve been a pirate, a bouncer, a soldier, and a whole heap of other things besides.” But before anyone goes calling me a Jack Of All Trades, you’d better know that whatever I do, I aim to be the best at what I do. So when I was a soldier, I made General and when I was a bouncer I sent so many geezers packing from the club I used to have the place and all the ladies to myself. I was that good. And that was back in the days before I had these detachable cybernetic limbs, so if I was in the bouncing game today, I’d have even more chicks hanging off me. They dig limbs with that kind of reach, if you know what I mean.

Which reminds me of a line my mate Doomy once said to me when I told him about my exploits with the fairer sex. “Fairer sex?” he says. “They used to take every other guy but me behind the grav-bike sheds. What the f**k’s fair about that?” But that’s just me digressing and perhaps illustrative (good word – all those crosswords I do paying off, see) of my rambling style, which the editors of this rag said would help fill up a regular column no time.

So anyway, yeah, Master Of All Trades, more like it, thanks very much. Remember that. Also remember that I’m typing this one hand, dictating from the other side of the room while I encourage a prisoner to assist me with a few inquiries. Extracting information is like squeezing juice out of a lemon, I always say. And you’re left wondering what to do with the pulp.

So, right. That’s me. Not your ordinary thug. Been there, seen it, done it. But this article’s sposed to be about what I haven’t done and I’ve had a think or two, and today the best I can come up with is Ice Cream Salesman.

I have not done that. Not because I couldn’t. I mean swanning around in one of those dinky little spaceships with the side window and those stupid chimes that resonate throughout a given hemisphere whenever you show up in orbit. Stop me and buy one yadda yadda, want a flake with that? See, nothing to it. But, honestly, f**k that for a game of soldiers, right? Where’s the job satisfaction – apart from when some snotty nosed oik comes begging for a lolly you haven’t got in stock, gives you some lip and you have to knock the kid’s nose into his frontal lobe. But, like, how often’s that going to come up? Nah, not for me.

So, in summation, Ice Cream Salesman. Yeah, Mr Knucks – me – hasn’t done that. Big f**king deal.

Next time I’ll see if I can think of something else. To be fair there’s probably one or two in that Van Morrison effort I haven’t had a go at, but that’s not to say I will.

Also, I can tell you this much. Before next time, I am gonna find whichever son-of-a-b*tch editor’s been censoring my f**king language and stick his f**king head in an oven, basted and wrapped in foil, eyes front so he can watch his body being stuffed in the tumble f**king dryer.

Keep it real, people. See ya next time.

Read more of Mr Knucks’ endearing ways in Evil UnLtd(TM)


Pimp My Firearm!

(Today, the spotlight falls on Mr Ferret, who turns his fashion conscious eye to that most essential of accessories for the discerning villain, the gun.)

People sometimes ask me, how do you reconcile your squeamish sensibilities with the use of weapons? To which I always answer, it’s all in the presentation, baby. Or words to that effect.

This week, we’re looking at the Burger Republic BR743-C Rapid Pulse Plasma Blaster, quite an old piece but a favourite from back in the very earliest days of the big fast food chains’ diversification into miliary equipment manufacture. The cyclic rate of fire is considerably lower than the Mocha-Cola MP29X-3000 Compact Machine Pulse-Emission Demi-Rifle, but its name and designation trips off the tongue a tad more readily and it comes with an integral suppressor, which not only cuts down on noise signature but reduces barrel overheating which, as we know, makes life a *lot* easier when it comes to suspending furry dice from the barrel. (Although do still make sure to use fairly sturdy well-insulated wire rather than thread, which will fray in no time at all in combat situations – leaving you entirely diceless.)

Anyway, for this little number, I’m recommending a hot pink laminate coating. Glow in the dark is good, but not for night stealth missions obviously. Some of you may prefer the full body rebuild, using transparent plastics for that chic see-through look, but for my mind, that’s so last year. For the showier weapons enthusiasts out there, like my colleague, Mr Knucks, who is always very keen to announce the arrival of himself and his gun, a boom box can – just about – be incorporated into the stock, but it is a little excessive for a weapon of this size and bass vibrations may throw your aim off by some margin. On the plus side, it is equipped with a laser sight so the attachment of a bobble head figure of your choice atop the gun need not interfere with your targeting as you will never have to sight along the barrel.

You’ll also want all the trimmings with this little baby, and on this occasion I would opt for a dash of streamlining chrome to nicely offset the pink. And for the finishing touch of real class, some fur on the grip and perhaps on the ammunition clip. Zebra stripe would be my choice, but you could probably get away with tiger or leopard skin. Some people prefer to go for the more endangered species, for that extra Evil touch, but if you are squeamish like me, you can go with a synthetic substitute and no one need ever know.

Remember, this little beauty packs quite a punch and anyone questioning the authenticity of your fur can easily be silenced at the pull of a trigger. Happy pimping!


Evil Magazine: Exclusive Interview with Tanith Troy!

{From reading the descriptions of the main characters, you might be forgiven for thinking that Evil UnLtd (TM) is – Mr Ferret notwithstanding – very male-centric. To be fair, the gender jury is still out on Evil Robot, but I do tend to think of him as a ‘him’. See, I just did it. Rest assured though that the story does have a very strong female lead. Here, we focus the spotlight on Tanith Troy, not least because she insists that is precisely where the spotlight should always be focused.}

Cover girl TANITH TROY speaks EXCLUSIVELY to EVIL MAGAZINE on her glamorous movie star lifestyle, her terrible ordeal as a HOSTAGE and what’s next for the intergalactic SCREEN GODDESS.

Tanith Troy looks a million credits posing for our photographer on a rather romanesque chaise-longue, while her sense-monkey, Giorgio, helps himself to a choice of finest Bellesivian chocolates. Sense-monkeys are, of course, all the rage among young starlets wishing to retain their perfect figures while still sampling all the best carbs can offer, but it’s fair to say that Giorgio is quite a special little marmalade-coloured specimen and Tanith Troy is certainly a princess among movie starlets. You can see it in her sensuous smile and misty-eyed pleasure, as faithful Giorgio telepathically beams the full experience and taste sensation of the chocolate direct to his mistress.

Chocolate is better than sex, they say. And some say the chocolate is better second-hand. Well, starlets and supermodels say it anyway.

A break is taken in the exhausting shooting schedule, and Ms Troy beckons me forward, ready to grant this humble reporter an audience.

EM: What is it that the public love about Tanith Troy?

She appears not to have heard, perhaps lost in the delicious memory of the chocolate as Giorgio rolls the wrapper into a little ball and flicks it delicately at my nose.

EM: Ow. I said, what is it that the public love about Tanith Troy?

TT: Oh, I thought that was a rhetorical question. (Laughs.) Well, if not it should be. I mean, it’s fairly obvious. They love my wealth and looks and fabulous clothes, the lifestyle, the works. I’m a vessel for them, I suppose, through which they can live out their dream existence vicariously and find some escape from their shabby little lives.

EM: Er, yes, of course. But what about your detractors? There are a few people out there who are foolish enough to criticise you, labelling you as –

TT: Oh, all that ‘stuck-up’ diva nonsense? Dearie, even they love me. They’re exactly like the other lot – the fans – except the only way they have of filling their empty little day-to-day drudgefest is with moaning and complaining. Without me, they’d have no focus for all that bitching and, well, the best they could hope for is to get a pet that scratches their furniture or a lot of faulty electrical goods. Something like that. Giorgio!

At this point, Ms Troy clouts the little sense-monkey around the ear, just as he is about to select another confection. Ms Troy flinches too at the blow, of course, but her glare remains fiery and, it must be said, potently attractive.

TT: You know I despise orange cremes!

EM: Um, and what of your recent experience as a hostage in the unfortunate incident on Lucre Centris?

TT: Ha! Those idiots made a mistake when they took me.

I resist the urge to nod.

TT: Don’t you worry, I give as good as I get. (Pauses.) I know they say it’s better to give than receive and normally I would never subscribe to such a *ridiculous* notion. But when it comes to dishing out grief, believe me, I was more than willing to make an exception.

EM: So there was never any hint of Stockholm syndrome between you and your captors?

TT: Oh puh-lease. The closest thing to Stockholm going on there was when that Swedish meatball of a boyfriend of mine showed up. Oh. Oh. Oh.

EM: Get off you little sh-!

At this point, perhaps I should explain, dear little Giorgio had taken it upon himself to become overly familiar with my right leg. Ms Troy’s empathic convulsions were truly something to behold, or would have been had I not been busy trying to shake the furry little bugger off.

EM: So, um, sorry.

Giorgio, shunned, retreated to the chocolate box and sought consolation in a praline.

TT: I think we’d better make this the last question.

EM: Yes, yes, of course. Well, what people really want to know now is, what next for Tanith Troy?

TT: I’m afraid that would be telling. They’re going to have to wait until the book is out in the shops, aren’t they. Giorgio, that’s enough chocolates for you, you little sodlet.

And so I leave Ms Troy to return to her photo shoot as we retreat, gazing longingly at her curvaceous figure because I am a red-blooded male of a vaguely compatible species and simply cannot help myself. Until I remember that I need to wipe down my trouser leg.

Of course, you can find out more of the Tanith Troy story (as she’d wanted to call it) in Evil UnLtd (TM).

  • Vol 1 – Kindle (UK)

  • Vol 2 – Kindle (UK)

  • Vol 3 – Kindle (UK)

  • Vol 4 – Kindle (UK)

  • Signed Paperbacks

    Signed Copies Direct From The Author