Heroes Gallery

Here at Evil UnLtd, we are loath to devote any blogspace to heroes, but as it’s January 2016 we hereby make an exception and hand you over for a personal note from our scribe, Simon A Forward:

HeroesGallery

Way back when I first decided to donate royalties from the Evil UnLtd series of books to Cancer Research UK, it was intended as a temporary measure – a gesture, more than anything, something positive I might do in the face of losing first my Mum and subsequently certain other heroes of mine. My Mum’s picture is not in the above gallery but she is there in spirit. Or rather here.

Many of us are at an age where the loss of heroes will become an all too frequent experience. And it will hurt. We have to remind ourselves that these heroes lived – really lived – and then some, both in their lives and in our imaginations as they connected with us through their chosen art forms, whether they were crafting worlds, characters, stories or songs or any combination of all those.

Lis, Caroline, Mary, Iain (M), David, Alan. And Mum. Thank you.

You all rocked. You still do.

And the royalties from the Evil UnLtd books will continue to go to Cancer Research UK for the foreseeable future. Because aside from being the least I can do, it’s all I can do.

If Evil UnLtd books aren’t your cup of tea, please donate to Cancer Research. For your personal heroes.

 

SAF 2016

 

 

Bloody Meerkats

PTDC0028Here at Evil UnLtd we appear to be having some trouble getting our message across.

Namely, that we are EVIL and we are UNLIMITED.

It’s hardly rocket science. Albeit we do indulge in that too from time to time. But that’s the point: unlimited is by definition bound to encompass a bit of rocket science on occasion. As it encompasses numerous other activities. Such as being cruel to meerkats, popping caps in them and such like.

But once again it falls on us to repeat what we have been saying all along.

If your own evil interests are confined to narrow specifics like gratuitous violence against meerkats then the website for you is popacapinameerkat dot com.

Just to properly hammer that home we’re escalating the use of graphic images, including a prime example of a favourite Earth pastime of senseless animals posing with the creatures they’ve slaughtered. Just look at this smirking loon pictured below with a recently culled meerkat and if that’s anything like you you’re in the wrong place.

WP_20150916_004

For broader and more ambitious evils, however, stick with us.

Evil UnLtd.

Check out our latest volume, Tempus Sinister and we’re cofident that, particularly if you’re a Doctor Who fan, rather than inflict harm on some insignificant wildlife you will want to lynch the author.

SAF 2015

Royalties from all Evil UnLtd books go to Cancer Research UK.

Not Safe For Weasels

PTDC0027Latest in a line of people posing with lifeless prey is Sergei the Meerkat, pictured below with his latest catch, Nicole Kidman, who was tracked down and headhunted by casting directors armed only with wads of cash. It’s a sad state of affairs and it’s time the world spoke up against this sort of behaviour.

nicolemeerkidmanNot us. We really couldn’t care less about a civilisation so easily persuaded to part with its money by animated stuffed toys.

But what does exacerbate our ulcers is this: people really aren’t getting the message about Meerkats.

We are Evil UnLtd.

UnLimited.

We don’t care to confine ourselves to animal cruelty. Indeed, as a rule, we tend to prefer to inflict pain and misery on sentient beings, creatures who can properly understand their suffering.

Individuals interested in more specific evils directed against meerkats should visit Popacapinameerkat dot com.

Simple.

We’re more than happy to reproduce further graphic and horrific images here, featuring the little furry buggers, to give you some taste of what you’re missing by visiting the wrong site.

But those with broader imaginations and the mental capacity to embrace Evil on a grander, more epic scale could do themselves a real favour and treat themselves to any of the books in our Evil UnLtd series.

meerkat01profileThose with a fondness for Doctor Who in particular, for example, will find much to celebrate and/or complain bitterly about in our latest, Volume 4: Tempus Sinister.

Evil UnLtd. Above average mean.

No meerkats.

SAF 2015

All royalties go to Cancer Research UK.

Pop A Cap In A Meerkat

CSIMEERKATHere at Evil UnLtd we have been receiving a lot of emails from people wanting to inflict grievous bodily harm on Meerkats. Apparently their decision, as a species, to head up a long-term advertising campaign on behalf of a comparison website has begun to grate on a few nerves.

While cruelty to meerkats, particularly annoyingly cute ones, is something we can heartily endorse, such activities are a very specific brand of evil and ours is a much broader bailiwick. The clue is in our name.

Evil. UnLtd.

UnLimited.

Simple. (Note. Singular, not plural. We are hard-pressed to think of any circumstance in which the word ‘simple’ would need to be pluralised.)

Meerkat. Sounds like ‘mere’. And there is nothing mere about us.

This, we hope, will go some way towards clearing up any potential confusion.

Those keen to indulge their anti-meerkat appetites further, visit popacapinameerkat.com.

Those interested in a wider spectrum of Evil choose Evil UnLtd.

meerkat01profileEvil UnLtd books, including the latest Vol 4: Tempus Sinister, are available on Amazon.

All royalties go to Cancer Research UK.

SAF 2015

Proctor Who? Part Four

Toolbox 

Who is the Proctor?

A question central to the latest Evil UnLtd volume.

The Proctor is a conundrum wrapped in an enema and – wait, either we’re getting déjà vu or we’re caught in a chronic hysteresis. We’ve been through all that before.

Today, we’ll be profiling another of the individuals who lays claim to the title of Proctor, in an eternal struggle between order and chaos.

The Fourth (?) Proctor

ProctorWho01

Exclusive Time/Space snippet:

Bibi broke from the path and barged through clumps of ornamental shrubbery. Where the plants resisted, she gave them a blast of her hairspray which doubled as an excellent defoliant.

She burst through and almost teetered into a pond. She veered left, hopscotching around its banks. Just as she reached the stone path, she hit a wall of sound. Or it hit her. Or both.

It was a horrible, grating sound like the braying of an asthmatic iron donkey with rusted lungs.

The sound gave birth to hazy blue light. The light sketched angles and lines in the air, tracing the outline of a box. Intersections glowed sapphire-bright before spilling their colour, flood-filling the surfaces with deep, metallic blue. The accompanying din terminated in a solid thunk, as though the donkey had keeled over and died, leaving only the solid confirmation that the object was indeed a box.

Beyond that, the unseen artist who had deposited this curio might as well have been snickering to himself and gleefully challenging, “Can you tell what it is yet?” Because Bibi still had no idea.

It boasted a chamfered lid like a toolbox. It even sported a carrying handle, although you would’ve had to be something of a giant to lift it given its coffinesque dimensions. Assuming it was as heavy as it looked. The thunk with which it had finally materialised could have been a sound effect, Bibi supposed. But it had sounded heavy as a falling star.

She looked at it, wondering what it would do next. Boxes tended not to do very much. Except contain stuff.

She glanced over her shoulder. On the far side of the pond, Mr Quiggs staggered after her, one hand still clasped over his eyes, the other waving wildly. He splashed blindly into the water, started wading across.

She should run.

But her legs wanted to stay rooted. As if her knees wanted to stick around and stare at the box. Despite her very human lack of eyes in either patella.

From out in the water, Mr Quiggs whined: “Please! Please, come back! I just wanted to talk!”

Bibi stared and stared at the box, willing it to do something. Anything. “Do something!” she urged it.

The box hummed.

A seam parted along its top. The lid opened like an oblong clamshell. Folding back to reveal an impossibly dark interior. And locking into place as a pair of tiered trays on either side.

In one of the trays lay a man.

Well, lay was too leisurely a word. He was squashed up in a cramped foetal position, the tray being nowhere near long enough to accommodate his tall, wiry frame. He wasted no time in leaping up and springing free from the box.

He aimed his head this way and that, his eyes darted everywhere – although hardly ever in the same direction as his head. He whipped out a very phallic silver tool, sized somewhere between pen and truncheon, tipped with a glowing purple knob. He thrust this bulbous end at Bibi.

What the hell? Two attackers now?

EvilFork

 

Watch this space for further profiles of this compelling character.

Alternatively, read Evil UnLtd Vol 4: Tempus Sinister.

Royalties from all Evil UnLtd books go to Cancer Research UK.

SAF

Proctor Who? Part Three

Toolbox

Who is the Proctor?

A question central to the latest Evil UnLtd volume.

The Proctor is a conundrum wrapped in an enema and – wait, either we’re getting déjà vu or we’re caught in a chronic hysteresis. We’ve been through all that before.

Today, we’ll be profiling one of the individuals who lays claim to the title of Proctor, cast in order of the garter.

The Third (?) Proctor

Proctor03

Exclusive Time/Space snippet:

Lisa McShane ran down the drab, gloomy corridor. Or up.

It felt like up, but most running did. She needed to cut down on the vino. On the other hand, she always needed a drink between adventures with the Proctor. And hey, as much as she had a hard time with the running, he had it worse.

He waddled at speed. Mind, he’d kill her with one of his withering glares if he whiffed her feeling sorry for him. He was giving her the hard stare right now, coming up yards behind her like a sore loser in a duck race on dry land. Of course, he was lumbered with luggage.

“I don’t know why you have to cart that thing round with you everywhere!”

The big blue Toolbox bashed against his little legs. In his other hand he wielded the Tool. “Yes you do! I might have to reach something!”

“Ditch it! You can stand on my shoulders.”

“Oh, can I really? How very BIG of you! Like a criminal on a down escalator.”

“You what?”

“Con descending.”

He was always throwing out lame puns just to annoy her. People who used humour as a defence mechanism forgot it wasn’t very effective against a punch.

“Oh, I get it. You’re insecure. Cos you’re short.”

“I’ll have you know I am very secure in my stature. It’s other people’s heights that make me nervous. I mean, they’re all so tall. They scare me.”

The Proctor fake-shuddered. For such a slow-poke, short-ass he always found time for mucking about while on the run from deadly threats.

Deadly threats like the machine of solid shadow and red-scratch eyeslit that trundled around the corner behind him.

“Proctor!”

He raised the Tool high, thumbed the controls. The Evil Robot’s micro-missiles and plasma fire bombarded a wall of hard air, metres aft of the Proctor’s heels. The tracked beast rolled forward, switching to some shrill sonic weapon that warped the force field like a glass wobble board.

Lisa ran on. The Proctor waddled faster.

“Corridors,” he quipped. “Don’t you just hate them.”

Lisa did. She’d lost count of the ones she’d run down. Or up. The up ones were the worst. Hence her huge disappointment at arriving on the rare and strange hyperstitial world of Hyperconda to discover more bloody corridors. “These corridors aren’t actually here. The planet occupies a dimension quite beyond the comprehension of us mere three-dimensional types,” the Proctor had explained. “The Hypercondans constructed a visual interpretation matrix to accommodate visitors in a reality that would make sense to the ordinary visual cortex.” To which Lisa had nodded dumbly and felt sorry for the Proctor: he only occupied a third dimension to about half the extent most people did.

Lisa hurled herself around the end of the passage, glued her back to the wall. The Proctor ducked in beside her. The robot tossed a plasma bolt the size of a caber in their direction. The Proctor swung the Toolbox up like a shield. The box flew from his hand, clattered across the floor. The Proctor blew at lightly cooked fingers.

The box was undamaged. Shame, because it could’ve used a few holes in its sides for extra leg room. And arm room. And bust room.

The Proctor snuck peeks around the corner and twiddled with his Tool. “I think we’ve angered it sufficiently.”

“You think?!”

 EvilFork

Watch this space for further profiles of this compelling character.

Alternatively, read Evil UnLtd Vol 4: Tempus Sinister.

Royalties for all Evil UnLtd books go to Cancer Research UK.

SAF 2015

Proctor Who? Part Two

Toolbox

Who is the Proctor?

A question central to the latest Evil UnLtd volume.

The Proctor is a conundrum wrapped in an enema and – wait, either we’re getting déjà vu or we’re caught in a chronic hysteresis. We’ve been through all that before.

Today, we’ll be profiling one of the individuals who lays claim to the title of Proctor, cast in order of appearance, ugliest first.

 The Second (?) Proctor

Proctor02

(aka Proctor Occam)

Exclusive Time/Space snippet:

 

Talulah Belle’s eyes roamed so far and wide over the walls and ceilings of the Imperial Palace, why, it was a marvel they didn’t just set off on an adventure of their own. Travelling all this décor, they’d need horses to properly explore the splendor. Or a coach, for avoiding the saddle sores.

(Splendour, she belatedly corrected herself. While her mama had told her to mind her ‘P’s and ‘Q’s, her Gentleman was strangely more insistent about her proper inclusion of ‘U’s in all kinds of words that hadn’t previously shown any use for them.)

She’d been working the Dixie Cleopatra when he’d come and whisked her away and she’d thought that queenly old steamboat was pretty palatial, but she was a tramp compared to this space. Mercy, she could have counted the gentlemen who’d wanted to save her – for themselves – on the beads of one abacus. Her Gentleman was different: he’d promised to show her the wonders of the universe. She’d been real close to saying no, on account of his professing to be a proctologist, but then she figured it must be a big old universe out there, with plenty of call for all kinds of professions, and who was she to judge. It was only later when her misunderstanding came to light, in polite company, that he explained that no, he was a Proctor, and went to some pains to stress the differences.

As the Empress Sabella swept forward, Talulah curtsied, safe in the understanding that her Gentleman Proctor was not here to probe the royal derriere. Discovering any means of access under all those regal skirts would have been no easy feat anyhow and her escort of purple-clad guards looked apt to fend off any attentions too personal.

The Proctor settled for a stiff bow. Formality rooted in gentlemanliness as well as a general stiffness of bones and joints and pretty much everywhere in his body apart from where it had mattered most to the bulk of the clientele on the Dixie Cleo. He cranked his old back upright and smiled. Something Talulah Belle recommended he did sparingly, seeing as how his cheeks were so hollow and his nose more befitting a bald eagle, and stretching his wiry lips to any degree often made him appear creepy. His brow was more furrowed than a ploughed field, topped off with a ghostly frosting of hair like fresh-whipped cobwebs and cotton candy.

“Your Majesty,” he said in his voice that scraped like a fiddle that had mouldered in the grave longer than John Brown’s body.

The Empress, bless her heart, showed no signs of being intimidated. She held her head aloof, nose at an angle to guarantee any errant sneezes an uphill journey. “Proctor Occam, I understand you have a gift for me.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. I hope you will keep it in an extremely safe place.”

He stood aside and gestured like a showman at their captive.

She was like a caged tigress and she was in no mood to perform. She beat against the invisible walls of her containment field. Talulah did not begin to pretend to understand the technology – walls clearer than windows, hard as anything she’d encountered on the Dixie Cleo – but she’d seen the girl go through similar motions in one of her promotional music videos. Her Gentleman showed her one sequence where the girl appeared in paroxysms of orgasm while sealed in a glass tank that would have been better situated in an aquarium. She had thrashed about, steamed the glass with her breath and imprinted the mist with big fuzzy red kisses. The song was called Love My Brain. A marriage of image and lyrics that struck Talulah like a lot of marriages, leaving her to wonder what in tarnation had united the two together in the first place.

The Empress swanned up to the container, almost gliding in those skirts of hers.

“Careful, sugar,” Talulah warned. She sucked at her pinkie. “She bites.”

The Proctor whipped out his Tool.

The royal guards levelled their fancy rifles. Something folks invariably did when her Gentleman produced his Tool all sudden like.

EvilFork

Watch this space for further profiles of this compelling character.

Alternatively, read Evil UnLtd Vol 4: Tempus Sinister.

Royalties for all books in the Evil UnLtd series go to Cancer Research UK.

SAF 2015