Modern Vespa

The scooterist who gave me the old book was in bad shape and I got the impression he'd been riding non stop for hours. I couldn't see what he was holding in the dark. He said it was a special edition and the owners don't give them up easily. Said he took it from the dead scooters breaker's yard. He was strange and sickly and I offered him cash for the book in the hope he would move on. It seemed like a weight was lifted from him as he pressed the book into my hands. He refused the money, said someone was following soon enough to collect payment. Then he rode on.

Now I've had a closer look at the thing. It's getting late and there is a drone of small engines growing in the night.

I'm having trouble taking a clear picture of the book...

There are crooked figures on motorscooters gathering outside the house. I must get rid of the book.

They have ridden down the gate. They have trampled and ridden over their own and the trampled have raised themselves back up like string puppets and set themselves forward again. On they come. A wild horde of the dead and degenerate in a fog of blue-black smoke, riding mongrel scooters bolted together from mongrel parts. Scooters running on car tyres, scooters running on car oil. Scooters with three wheels. Wooden scooters. Scooters with ornate murals of forgotten bands daubed on their side panels.

The rider who gave me the book is now also among them with his eyes dead. They are hammering at the doors with wrenches and tyre irons. They are coming through the windows.

The undead riders are inside the house, lurching along the walls. They are smashing the place up, drinking the good whisky. One is coming up the stairs with the words KILL SWITCH smeared on its chest in thick brown oil and it is setting the letters alight in cold blue flames.


I must be rid of the book. I must pass it on.

Here. You take it.

That's really clever and very, very scary

Uhh... I don't want it!

FUN! When's the next installment?