The Feral Peril Read Online Free PDF Page A

to a crisis like this, differentiating between nightmares is like counting hairs on a savage baboon’s butt – futile and dangerous.
    Friends and neighbours were driving past the Hangdog joint, howling with laughter, barking their derision, yapping abuse and pitching half-chewed bones onto the front yard.
    Go fetch!
    Inside, the Hangdog pack hunkered down. Barnaby was chained in the corner, looking shamefaced and suitably hangdog. Since the incident exploded four days ago, he’d had all his rubber bones and chew-toys confiscated, and had only been let off the chain to go to the sandbox. He’d been yanked out of Horror High, Mrs Hangdog had quit her job at the security office, and the only reason Mr Hangdog left the houseat all was to trawl real estate agencies hunting for a suitable new doghouse in another county. When he found one, the family packed their meagre belongings – blankets, bowls, collars and leashes – and unceremoniously left Horror, never to return.
    Doggone.
    Â 
    So there you have it. Doomed dalliances, broken hearts, love gone wrong, shonky radio broadcasts, hated brothers … and a deep, deep lust for revenge.
    Which brings us nicely back to handball, the ball-call and the tall-call. That kind of stylish segue, linking background info to the main plot, is a sure sign of a top-quality writer with flair, panache, skill and talent, so if you meet any, send them round to the publisher. I’m sick of warming their seat.

Handball – the game they play in Hell. And things were heating up at the championship.
    The scene: courtside.
    The crowd: mesmerised.
    The mood: tenser than a stolen guitar string, more expectant than a heavily pregnant elephant and suffused with that regrettable vibe you often get with defectively mixed metaphors.
    The weather: lovely day, rows of single-cell monsters catchin’ some rays, photosynthesising in the sun like ragged lines of deformed carrots.
    The smell: a mix of fear, stress, anticipation and B.O., because you’re standing too close. Back off, whiffy.
    The players: Mick Living-Dead versus Frankie J. Mummy.
    The action: extreme. Fifteen rounds down with the sixteenth just finishing.
    We’ll let the Skull full of bull do the talking …
    â€˜Bill, sixteenth round just ended amid mad controversy with Mick Living-Dead – normally a very lively player for a dead guy – beaten by Frankie J. Mummy, who’s rubbish. Dead serious.’
    â€˜You’re right, Sirius, though I should point out that F.J. Mummy isn’t made of rubbish; that’s the garbage monster, Anton Grunge-Debris, created by a mad professor living at the Horror dump with too much time on his hands.’
    Skull nodded. ‘Yes, Frankie J., arubbish player, though not made of rubbish, just beat Mick Living-Dead, a hot fave. Frankie’s mummy wrapping worked loose during play and started whipping about like a long crepe fly-fishing line. It wrapped around Living-Dead’s deadhead and blinded him at a crucial moment.’
    â€˜Crucial?’ shouted Bill. ‘It was match point!’
    Sirius Skull took a long pull on his stogie. Long moments of dead air on the live broadcast followed, but the Skull knew how to play a crowd – what he lacked in facial features, he more than made up for in showmanship.
    Slowly, like an automaton, he recounted the scene: ‘Mick tried to tear the bandages loose. Too late. He hit out wildly, attempting to harness the blind laws of physics and calculate the ball’s position in time and space. Maybe that kind of astronaut logic works in Star Trek , but it doesn’t cut any ice with me. Dead serious. Okay, Bill, it was a valiant effort – he succeeded in hitting the ball, despite his handicap. Hehit it, sure, but it landed two millimetres outside the court’s baseline. Two millimetres!’
    â€˜Yes, folks,’ growled Lickpenny slowly. ‘He struck out