The Curious Case of the Clockwork Man

  “Aaah,” he sighed, and when he pulled the dripping red arm back out, the philosopher's still-beating heart was gripped in his fingers. He tore it free of stretching arteries and flesh, raised it to his mouth, and licked it.

  “Why won't you fucking die?” Swinburne raged, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  The Claimant turned and regarded the poet. He grinned and chewed on the twitching organ.

  Swinburne raised the cactus gun and, without aiming, touched the trigger nodule.

  Spines sank into Orton's right eye.

  The butcher flinched, shook his head, and waddled slowly toward the tiny man.

  “More meat! I like meat!”

  Swinburne turned to run but suddenly found himself gripped by vaporous hands. Two wraiths had swooped upon him and now, just as they had dragged Sir Alfred Tichborne through Tichborne House to his doom, so they began to pull Swinburne to his.

  “Get off me! Get off me!”

  Orton gave a bloody smile and said: “Come to me. I eat you up!”

  Closer and closer Swinburne was drawn, until the gigantic butcher towered over him, dripping blood onto his flame-red hair.

  “Yum yum,” Orton drawled, through a mouthful of Herbert Spencer's heart.

  He reached out and caught the poet by the lapels. He lifted him into the air. The wraiths floated beside Swinburne, holding his arms, preventing him from using the cactus pistol.

  Orton spat the lump of flesh from his mouth. His lips peeled back from the big green incisor te