Chapter . Lipton

After the joyful feeling of being free from the mental hospital he'd been in for the last six months Lipton did not know where the fuck to go so he reverted to the lifestyle he was familiar with. He hitchhiked up to bridgewater for want of a better town. He went shoplifting at Asda and walked out with two large bags of shopping and a bottle of port. He even managed to lift a half decent summer tent. With his spoils he walked out of the town to the A road bypass and followed a trick he'd learned from Skree. He found a large roundabout that was covered in trees and shrubs and made his way to the hidden centre. It's a place few people go and a great place to pitch your tent and feel confident that no one will bother you. Once the tent was pitched Lipton stashed the food he'd nabbed and sat outside enjoying the sunshine on his face. Something he'd long been deprived of. Taking a few long swigs from the litre of port he realised that for the first time in months he felt properly happy.

There were a few hours of daylight left so he made his way to the edge of the shrubbery that protected the passing motorists from seeing his new home and waited for o gap in the flow of traffic and ran out to the grass that served as a pavement and walked the two miles to the town centre. He thought back to the events of the Noah destruction. How the Clun Druid witch girls had summoned up the writhing mass of conger eel demon hybrids. How the crazed ex copper had appeared in his tiny boat and fired his artillery of weapons that had blown a hole in to the side of the vessel owned by Rupert Bunsen. The well known entrepreneur. Once the spacecraft was breached the myriad of eels had flooded in with the sea water and eaten all the occupants. The sea had boiled and most of his crew of freinds; Druids, shamen and witches had been thrown in to the water. Only Brock had been smart enough to strap himself to the boat. Lipton had gone under as had Skree. Lipton had somehow managed to recover himself and climb back aboard the boat he'd stolen for the mission. Christ had taken a huge spray of the bullets from psycho cops automatic rifle. It had severed his body; decapitated The son of god who simply had no time to ask a favour from his father. In conversations Jesus had told him that he was on bad terms with his dad and he might not have saved him anyhow. Him and Brock had put the pieces of him in bin bags hoping beyond hope that he could somehow resurrect from this. Lipton remembered Brock lift his severed head with seemingly zero revulsion. But then the Druid he'd come to think of as a close friend since the bare knuckle fight they'd had at Bury Ditches massive illegal rave. He had robbed graves and even taken the heads of two ravers. Removed the brains from the skulls, dividing the hemispheres and carefully collecting the pineal glands for his witches. Compared to this a severed head was nothing.

After the demon eels had eaten all the wealthy people they'd dispersed. There followed a silence. He'd seen a few people who had not yet boarded the spaceship frantically make their way to the houses and the huge mansion that sat on Bunsen Island. Nevertheless they'd managed to kill a good chunk of the world's wealthiest people. This thought was uplifting but the price they had paid. The Druid girls were happy to be taken by the demons, after all they had summoned them up. Brocks brothers, and Skree! Liptons mood dipped ias he thought of his lost freind, his brother, his fellow shaman, all the missions and adventures they'd been on.

Brock had the binoculars to his eyes as Lipton scoured the area all night before having to leave. The survivors would have informed the authorities and their minions would soon be here. And they had looked too long already. There could have been no more survivors. He'd lost his brother and the journey back to the British and Irish islands was spent mostly in silence. Lipton had skippered the craft, Brock only speaking if he was offering food or drinks. The journey back was over 60 hours. On the way there they enjoyed a party atmosphere. The return was funereal. But they had done it. Their mission was always likely to be beyond dangerous. Two survivors, three if Jesus was who he thought he was. That was a result really. The waters were still as the Druid and the shaman slowly made their way across the sea. And at night they both saw clearer skies than they had ever seen.

They'd returned the boat to Porlock Weir in the early hours of the morning and no one bothered them. Brocks Land Rover was still there and they'd carried the components of christs corpse and loaded them in the back. Brock had offered him a lift but Lipton said he'd hang around Porlock for a while. This had been a mistake. Lipton had pestered the few pubs, drinking heavily for his lost friend. It was during a drunken night that the landlord had rang to have him taken away. His rambling about being a shaman, an archangel and lunatic stories of witch and Druid, lost on some imaginary expedition. He was sectioned under the mental health act. Not for the first time. But he was free now.

In Bridgwater town centre he'd sat and begged up £60 then bought some brown and white that he took back to his roundabout haven. Hidden from the receding traffic Lipton smoked the crack in a tin. Can bent and perforated to gather his cigarette ash. The crack was good quality and he enjoyed the rush that cut through his port drunk. Then placing his brown on the foil he chased it until the heroin softened his world. He had no mat or sleeping bag that first night but the alcohol and drugs were warmth enough for him to sleep in peace. A free man once more.

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