I'm dead.

Yeah, I know... that takes a second to digest. Took me a lot longer than that, t'be honest. I mean, it's one thing to be saddled with a puss like mine -- green, flaky and covered by flesh-eating worms -- but to actually know that you don't have a heart that beats anymore... to know that the only thing holding you to any kind of physical form is the bone structure that you wear on the outside....

Is it any wonder I smoke three packs a day?

My name's Ghoul. Former member of the Ultraforce, not like that means anything here.  They don't know the Ultraforce from Bo Diddly.  But that's okay -- sometimes those guys were a royal pain. The worst of 'em -- Dane Whitman, aka the Black Knight, is actually around though he hasn't bothered droppin' by to say hello. Which is fine with me. I just want to hang out in undead nightclubs and get laid by chicks who still are still fresh enough not to rot beneath me.

But here I am, creeping through a goddamned condemned theater in the middle of London, while Union Freakin' Jack gets himself whupped by a pumpkin-headed loser from my universe and his pal Necromon. Or Necromonimicnon. Necromouse. Somethin'. I forget and I wasn't half listening anyway.

Whatever.

So now I'm crouching here in my ratty old coat, staring down at my buddy UJ, who's tied up and moanin' as Necroguy emerges from some portal and Lord Pumpkin says "Now my friend is going to eat you all up! Bwahahahahahaha!" 

You know. The usual.

So now I'm faced with a choice -- risk my life for a vampire I barely know or slink back to the club with my rotting ass intact. Decisions, decisions.

Who am I kiddin'?

"Boo-Yah!" I shout, throwing myself straight into the fray. The gunmen down below are pretty shocked to see a corpse hurtling at them, so I land before they ever fire a shot. Gumba # 1 goes down when I kick him the shin and follow that up with a hard thrust of my fist into his crotch. Then I spit a bunch of phlegm into another guy's face and duck under a backhanded blow from Lord Pumpkin. 

Boo-Hiss, kids. He's the bad guy.

"What are you doing here, you rotting piece of shit??"

Trust me -- that sounds a lot scarier than it reads. I mean, he's got a pumpkin for a head. Let me repeat: a pumpkin for a head. And there's green flame that leaks out, all smoky and stuff. Primo special effects. Does it phaze me, though? No way. I'm a hero. "Rescuing Union Jackula, what's it look like?"

I slide on my knees, passing right through the legs of Necromantra or whatever his name is. He looks pissed. "I really hope you're ready to kick some ass, UJ."

Union Jack strains against his bonds, showing off that manly vampire physique. "Faster!" he yells, like I'm deliberately dragging my feet here. I pull a knife out from my jacket and slash upwards, cutting right through the ropes. With a satisfying rip, he yanks free of the remaining ones -- just as I feel Necropunk grab me by the collar of my jacket.

"A ghoul... you should be serving me, creature. I am your rightful lord and master."

"Sorry. That position's filled. His name's David Beckham. Football player. Makes my knees tremble."

Necroslut roars in anger, showering me with spit and an acrid odor. Before he can rip me in half, though, UJ kicks him square in the chest and sends him flying. I land on my rear at UJ's feet, gaping up at him like he's John Wayne or something. He's that cool. 

UJ offers me a hand and pulls me back to my feet. Lord Pumpkin and Necroguy are waiting for our next move while a bunch of mooks with guns draw aim.

What the hell are we gonna do now?

TO BE CONTINUED

Next Issue: "Pump" continues