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

 

 

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 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

Proctor Who? Part One

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, although not necessarily in that order.

The First(?) Proctor

Proctor01

 

Exclusive Time/Space Snippet:

The earth moved. Not in a sexual way. More in the way you’d expect when two worlds bumped into one another. Actual planetary collisions were probably rare and Zennor Doone suspected there was a simpler explanation behind the seismic seizure.

“Proctor! What did you do?!”

The ground had another go at throwing her on her ass.

The Proctor squatted by the small hole he’d cut in the machinery that all but filled the chamber. His Elven features reddened and sweat glossed his bald head. Heatwaves crashed in through the cavernous entrance as if someone had left a huge oven open.

“Nothing much.” He sprang to his feet and waggled his Tool. “I reversed the polar conditions and the nutrient flow.”

Ice ran briefly to water from pipes the size of tower blocks before hissing away in fits of steam. Something like an apocalyptic convoy of trucks rumbled through on its way to the planet’s core.

“That’s bad, right?”

“Nonsense! Those are happy sounds! The planet’s thermovascular system coming back to life.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means… we should run!”

Zennor ran. Had it been an officially officiated race she would’ve been disqualified for dashing off two tenths of a second ahead of the bang. He frequently fired off that prompt like a starter gun and she’d gotten used to anticipating. And pre-empting.

She raced out onto the causeway with a good head-start.

She’d been in the habit of jogging most mornings around Dartmoor City Park, but that was nothing to the amount of running she’d done in space. Served her right, she guessed, for agreeing to travel the universe with this crazed loon. At least the exercise was a good way of working off the threat of DVT between trips in that ultra-cramped box he called transport.

“Why’d you park so bloody far away?!”

She ran on a jigsaw. Interlocking float discs wobbled underfoot, losing their interlockedness. The causeway started breaking up, piece by piece.

That is an excellent question!”

“And?”

She glanced back. Big mistake. There was the convoy: a tsunami of burning treacle. Lava rolled and thundered after the Proctor, devouring the trembling causeway. Walls fissured, feeding fiery tributaries into the main wave.

“A question far too excellent to be answered glibly while on the run!”

Translation: he didn’t know.

Worse news: sturdy vault doors swung open, all along the tunnel walls. More and more of them, further ahead. Black bulks stirred within. Slits lit up, bloody razor slashes in the black.

They were waking up.

“Proctor! Evil Robots!”

EvilFork

 

Watch this space for further profiles of this compelling character.

Alternatively, read Evil UnLtd Vol 4: Tempus Sinister.

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

SAF 2015

Of Time And Towels

Evil4Cover

Tick tock.

Happy Towel Day! And here’s to the late, great Douglas Adams.

Today struck us as a timely time to unveil the cover of the next volume in our Evil UnLtd series.

Evil UnLtd Vol 4: Tempus Sinister will, barring any chronic hystereses, be available in [Edit!] May 2015.

Lord, it’s about Time.

SAF 2014

Note: 100% of royalties from all Evil UnLtd sales will continue to go to Cancer Research UK, at least for one more year.

Make Your Own Hatchling!

The Hatchling is perhaps the shyest member of Evil UnLtd, only venturing outside his egg in times of direst need. But even inside his shell, he knows he has fans and so has given us permission to construct an idol in his image – out of marzipan. It was a momentous undertaking, fraught with challenges and difficulties, but one filled with celebration at every turn as the edifice took shape – much like the raising of the Amish barn in Witness.

For those of you who wish to experience this joy of creation, we have documented the process here. Enjoy!

Warning: this does involve sharp instruments and possibly dangerous spiking of blood sugar levels, so please ask a grown-up to assist.

You Will Need:

1. One copy of Evil UnLtd: The Root Of All Evil available for Kindle from Amazon.Co.Uk and Amazon.Com. If you don’t have a Kindle, don’t worry, you can download the Kindle software for FREE to enjoy the book on your PC, Mac, iPhone, iPad, Blackberry, Android, Chip Butty, Lava Lamp or blow-up doll.

2. Half a block of marzipan. You can use the white marzipan, but the yellow will save you some time in the painting stage.

3. Food colouring. Red and Yellow.

4. Cake decorating pen. Black.

5. Flaked almonds.

6. Knife.

7. Preparation board.

8. A strong source of Brownian motion, like a hot cup of tea, for example.

8. Somewhere else to put the cats. Note, it is possible to do without this, but we strongly recommend it, having our efforts thwarted on several occasions by an intruding feline muzzle or the swipe of a paw.

Step One

Cut your marzipan into several smaller blocks, one each for Body, Legs, Arms, Head, Tail. You’ll want the Body to be nice and large, so use about half of your marzipan on that, and divide up the rest proportionately, roughly equivalent to the sizes shown in the photo.

Step Two

Mould the different blocks into their relevant shapes. The Body should be nice and round. (Some would say ‘fat’, but on the off-chance the Hatchling is sensitive about his weight, we elect to be more complimentary.) The Legs – divide the block into two for these (the Hatchling is not deficient in the leg department) – should be chunky and somewhat elephantine. The Tail should be good and thick and long, tapering to one end. The Arms – and again the block should be divided into two equal portions – should be substantial too and of course when shaping the digits, take care when placing the thumbs that they will reflect the appropriate right-left configurations. The Head should be small and slightly flattened, tapering to a muzzle but still substantial enough to avoid actual cuteness.

See the photo for a guide.

Step Three

Piecing the Hatchling together. This is the scary Frankenstein part, so it’s okay to be a little nervous. A steady hand will see you through and for this the occasional sip of your strong source of Brownian motion is recommended.

We attached the Legs first. The exact order is up to you. Ideally the Arms should be affixed some way back and above the shoulders, to make them secure and bulk out the upper Body. Likewise the Tail should be attached at a point just a fraction above halfway up the back of the Body, both for the right Tail length and to form a ridge along the Hatchling’s spine. The Head can then be merged with this ridge at the back with the application of any small bits of extra marzipan you happen to have at hand. (What do you mean, you’ve eaten them? Well, don’t blame us if your Hatchling looks silly.)

We’ve included a photo to illustrate what the Hatchling might look like at this stage. If nudity offends, please look away now.

Step Four

Colouring. A simple delicate touch or several with the cake decorating pen should take care of those coal-black eyes – one either side of the Head for ideal results. Then you’ll want to give him a nice not-quite-all-over coat of Orange. We used a mix of Yellow and Red, favouring the Yellow. Leave most of his belly uncoloured, or if using white marzipan, you’ll want to paint it Yellow first probably. Allow the colour to dry a little before moving onto the Red, which you’ll be needing to apply in rough sort of stripes. The longer you leave the Orange to dry, the better the contrast with the Red, we suspect. Don’t be too neat and if the Red happens to bleed over a bit, so much the better.

Step Five

Spines. Think Stegosaurus here as you deftly stick flaked almonds into the Hatchling’s back like a nutty Brutus and his cronies repeatedly stabbing a reptilian Caesar – although possibly with less force. You’ll want plenty of each flake to protrude and arrange them in a crude sort of double row all the way down to the end of the tail, selecting the smaller flakes for the top of the head.

Step Six

Stand back and admire your handiwork. Your work is done.

Remember, a Hatchling is not just for Christmas. If you’re careful and you can run fast, you may last until New Year.

This product and its manufacturer may contain nuts.

SAF

The Dexter Factor

Everyone’s talking about The X Factor.

Not to be outdone, here at Evil Magazine, we thought it would be fun to catch up with the members of Evil UnLtd and, at the risk of interrupting their busy schedule of intergalactic criminal activity, quiz them on which acts were their favourites in this year’s X Factor competition.

Dexter Snide:

Must I pick one? I mean the whole sorry phenomenon is insidious trash and I couldn’t even begin to tell you how far beneath me. Of course, it’s not without its merits. I do delight in the desperation and the crushed dreams. Early on, watching the deluded no-hopers make idiots of themselves, that has a measure of entertainment value. But it only really scores points when they send home one of the genuinely talented ones. All those tears and misery, priceless. Who was that little girl? The one they called ‘adorable’. Gamu. Yes, I’d have sent forty of her home. Brilliant. Adorable? Detestable. But as for the rest, what does it matter as long as it floods the music industry with more inane ditties? You don’t even have to be a winner these days. A runner-up has just as much chance of being packaged and distributed to some pestilent tune coughed up by someone whose idea of bubblegum pop amounts to something scraped off their shoe. Ideally something insanely catchy that lodges itself permanently in millions of brains and drives half the populace up the wall. It’s to be applauded for that, but the outcome – I really couldn’t give a fig.

Evil Magazine: Go on. Please. It’s only for, you know, fun.

DS: Very well. In that case, Katie Waissel. I gather from the reports she’s a scheming, manipulative bitch, which is something to her credit, but more importantly she’s quite the public hate figure, isn’t she? Her winning could only incense the nation further, so yes, she gets my vote. Not that I’d trouble with phoning in. But I urge all of you out there, if you’ve a shred of evil in you, vote for Katie. There. Happy now?

Mr Knucks:

Aiden. That guy’s real intense. Psycho singer. All he wants is a microphone in one hand, a big-ass kitchen knife in the other. Give him a shower curtain, a splash of chocolate sauce and he’s good to go.

But Evil is many different things to different people and among its often overlooked facets we must count its chick-lit credentials.

 

Mr Ferret:


Diva Fever. I’m mortified. <Sniffs>

 

 

 

Prof Doomladen:

Oh, um, well, I guess – out of this year’s batch – I’d have to go for, ah, oh yeah, that girl band. Belle Amie. I could really make something out of them. Probably your basic femborg, nothing too challenging, but they’ve got the sort of materials I can work with. With a bit of tuning and surgically implanted MP3 players I could even get them to sing.

 

 

Evil Robot:

<Silence>

EM: (We’re not sure but we think we catch a glimpse of One Direction in his targeting scope.)

The Hatchling:

<BESTIAL GROWL>

EM: So, Wagner, then?

Tanith Troy:


Mary. The woman has an amazing voice. Plus, you know, not a whole lot going for her in the looks department. Not exactly any danger of her breaking into movies or stealing media exposure from us natural cover girls. And she’s built like a planet. It’s a short step from there to a star, isn’t it.

 

 

So there we have it. The X Factor verdict according to Evil UnLtd.

If you consider your tastes even more discerning you might wish to register your vote for Evil UnLtd by visiting

Amazon.Co.Uk

Or

Amazon.Com

Internet connection will cost nothing, but calls from neural networks and other communications interfaces much in advance of 21st century technology may cost considerably more. Note that Kindle software can be downloaded for FREE for your PC, Mac, iPhone, iPad, Blackberry or (Evil) Android, but please do obtain an adult’s permission before downloading.

 

SAF