The Andromeda Strain

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So the Demon Hunter had returned.  This was bad news because Jorg Albertz only ever pops up when there are supernatural forces at work and the world of Scottish football has been refreshingly free of any demonic interference since Lawwell didn’t have to worry about competing with Rangers anymore.  Lawwell didn’t have to worry about competing with anyone anymore – the new SPFL being a one horse race and so he had no need for conjuring or haunting, relying instead on his trusty horse whip and a reputation for vicious punishment beatings and, well, vicious pre-emptive punishment beatings.

I had been standing in the second floor flat of the man I thought to be the latest of my rescuers but who turned out to be Albertz who had led us into a trap knowing that Keith Jackson wouldn’t be able to resist being a right old sneak and making off with some juicy gossip about Rangers stolen from someone for whom he should’ve had respect.  This wasn’t what concerned me though.  No, I was more worried about the gang of bearded youths who’d formed a silent circle around me and Keith and stood staring while some guy with a cock for a head tried to emasculate us with a samurai sword.  Who were these soundless men?
“They’re the Celtic Internet Mafia” said Jorg Albertz as if he’d read my mind.  “A loose coalition of young men who really should know better and live with their mums, they spend an inordinate amount of time obsessing about Rangers and causing mischief on Twitter and in blogs.  Their sole reason for existing being to damage Rangers.”

“Yes, yes,” I puffed.  “But what has all this to do with the supernatural and if they’re all nice middle class boys then who on earth was the nutter with the nob for a napper?”

“That’s the big question, Spiers.  What could possibly have infected these people, what could have possessed them to obsess about Rangers in this way?  Celtic fans to a man, they don’t seem to spend much time thinking of their own club when there’s lies and innuendo about Rangers to be spread.  I think there’s something bigger at play and that’s why I’m here.  Oh, and your friend with the sword?  Well he’s just hired muscle since these guys are internet geeks who’d faint if challenged to a fight, that’s why they’ve got the man with the German helmet for a head - for protection.  Although someone should tell him to check the blade isn’t loose in its handle next time – that was quite something, eh?  Even I didn’t see that coming.”  He laughed and so did I but only from nerves and then we heard the sound of a police car coming down the street.  I walked over to the bay windows and looked out and right enough, the boys in blue had arrived.  “I’d better go down,” I said and left Albertz alone in the flat.

 

I got a floor down when I met the police coming up and I told them about the sword man and Albertz and to follow me upstairs so we could explain together.  The door to the flat was still open and we entered, the police walking past me as I stood confused, gaping at the place.  The police walked around, checking rooms and cupboards until one of them eventually turned to me and said, “So where’s this Albertz fella then, and where’s the laptop?  This place is empty.”

Later, as I sat in Cottiers nursing a pint I went over in my head the embarrassment of explaining to the police that I had definitely witnessed a man murdered in the street by someone with a dick for a head and then had a conversation with an ex-Rangers player turned exorcist about a mass possession of nice young men which caused them to be all lairy on the internet.  The cops had been very angry and gave me a ten minute telling off about wasting police time, saying they had Common Purpose homework they could be catching up on instead of listening to my wild imaginings.  My mortification was such that I still had a beamer that lit up the pub, even an hour later and it was around this time that Tom Devine blundered in with his latest doxy who I didn’t recognise due to her having her hair stuck to her face.  “Hollo Spiers, well met” said Devine, squeezing his slattern’s arse.  “This is...  Um, truth be told I’ve rather forgotten who she is but she’s coming with me for a tumble, fancy joining us?”

“Sorry Tom, I’ve got things on my mind” I declined.

“You don’t have a fucking option, squirt.  I need someone to take us into the countryside, whatshername here fancies one up a country lane.  At least I think that’s what she said.  You’re driving.”

And that’s how I fetched up sitting in the front of Tom Devine’s old Jag while he lay in the backseat sucking down port and wine while some pribbling clotpole rode him horse artillery style, grinding away atop that swollen belly which groaned and gurgled in protest until the hag was nearing climax and ripped her shirt open to reveal a couple of prize bouncers which Devine gazed at in gratitude and was just reaching out to grab a handful when he vomited all over them.

“What a day, eh Spiers?” roared Devine later having cleaned up.  “Such a pretty little piece of baggage, what?  Wonder what her name was...  Anyhows, what have you been up to? “

So I told him and he didn’t believe me.  “Honestly, Spiers.  That imagination of yours is going to get you into trouble one of these days.”