"Say that again. Slowly."

Ian wished he could be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Maybe on a beach, with a pretty bird hanging on his arm. Or a casino... Yeah, that'd be nice. Wearing a pimpin' suit and looking oh-so-cool....

"Ian, baby? Your mind's wandering again."

"Sorry, sir."

The figure before him sighed, leaning back in his oversized, throne-like chair. Greenish energy spilled from the holes that had been cut for his eyes, nose and mouth. The figure's head was a living, shifting pumpkin that displayed a full range of emotion -- though it was generally set in a mirthful sneer. The jagged lines of Lord Pumpkin's mouth curled downwards in disgust as he viewed Ian and he reached down with his gloved hands to smooth his finely pressed suit. "Not sir. We've been over this before. Haven't we, boys?"

Three burly men, all well-armed, nodded from their spots around the room.

"It's either "my lord," or "Mr. Pump." No sir."

"Yes, sir. I mean -- Mr. Pump."

Lord Pumpkin nodded and sat back to hear the tale once more. His mind drifted during this retelling, but that was okay. He knew the gist of it already and was just making Ian repeat it in case he'd missed something the first time. A costumed goon by the name of Union Jack had been smashing up some of the Pump's operations as of late, and word on the street was that Jack had put out a warning to the new vice lord in town: Get Out or I'm Taking You Down. 

Heroes. They're so retarded, ya gotta love 'em, Lord Pumpkin thought. He'd seen his share of them back on his own world, before being brought to this one with that idiot Ghoul. Ultraforce. Prime. NightMan. God, he'd hated them.

He hated a lot of things, always had. He'd been created on a world of magic and sorcery, designed to be the perfect toy for a little boy who had a taste for mayhem and torture. Lord Pumpkin had been abused and debased in every way possible. Unable to die, he'd always reformed from whatever horrible fate he'd suffered... until one day, the indignities proved too much to bear. He'd killed the little brat, overcoming the mystical programming that had animated him. From there, it'd been like a kid in a candy store -- so many delicious little acts of evil to commit, so many stupid people in need of killing... he considered himself providing a public service by removing the less desirable from the human gene pool.

"...And I hear he's a vampire."

The Pump looked up at that, his carved eyes narrowing in surprise. "Yeah. You said that last time, Ian. Care to elaborate? I mean, how did you come to this stunning revelation? See him rising from his coffin? Is he screaming whenever he tries to cross running water? E-Lab-O-Rate."

Ian cleared his throat before continuing. "When he hit the Slimelight a few days ago, one of our guys managed to get away... but he says that Union Jack didn't just off 'em all -- he ate 'em. I mean, not whole or nutthin', but he drained 'em dry."

Lord Pumpkin exhaled a long plume of greenish-gray smoke. "Interesting. You've done good work, Ian. Very good work. You have your pick of one of the girls tonight."

Ian relaxed visibly. "Thank you, sir!"

"Never let it be said that the Pump doesn't reward his followers," the villain replied, waving a hand through the air as if the whole thing were now beneath his notice.  His eyes narrowed, however, as he said "But this little Union Jack better watch his step from now on."

Kenneth Crichton swung out his left hand, using his vampiric strength to smash the ghoul's head like a watermelon. Blood and bone flew into the air, staining the front of his uniform and inciting his dark hungers. Strong hands gripped from behind and the fetid breath of a second zombie reached him. He slammed himself backward, driving the undead creature against a brick wall. He followed that with several hard thrusts of his elbow, loosening the thing's grip on him by shattering its ribs. 

Free again, he whirled about, placed the muzzle of his gun beneath the creature's eyes, and fired.

Union Jack turned back to the entrance to the club, his voice sounding hoarse and strained. "Anyone else?" 

The undead shuffled about aimlessly, none taking the challenge. Clubs like this -- catering to the new undead community in London -- were springing up everywhere. The living were generally not allowed in for fear of creating riots amongst the hungry ghouls, but some of them with perverse sexual interests were given entry. Vampires, however, were seen as competition and frowned upon by the more intelligent zombies. Hence Kenneth's current situation.

"I want to see the man called Ghoul. Send him out... Or I'm shooting my way in."

"Calm your horses, cowboy. You want me, you got me."

A figure stepped out, dressed in torn clothing and a long, ratty jacket. His greenish skin sloughed off as he walked, pooling about his feet. Worms churned in and out of the remnants of his flesh. "Ghoul?"

"Who else? Ethel Merman? What do ya want?"

Union Jack lowered his pistol. "I want information. About Lord Pumpkin."

Ghoul smiled, his bulging eyes twinkling. "You got a death wish, don't ya, pal?"

Kenneth grunted. "You have no idea."

TO BE CONTINUED

Next Issue: Union Jack and Ghoul go in search of Lord Pumpkin, while Kenneth's mother -- Spitfire -- learns some shocking news.>>

AUTHOR'S NOTES

Welcome to week two of Union Jack! Reaction to the format has been positive so far, which pleases me greatly. Look for a lot of surprises in the next few issues, including Spitfire's discovery in # 3. 

Thanks,
Barry Reese