August 28, 2024

Poster Children
by L.N. Hunter

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.


When the bars and restaurants of the village of Wimbledon finally close in the wee hours of the morning and the streets empty, the people in the shop window ads can relax and make their presence known. Amongst the war-painted and angry-looking wrestlers in the poster for next week’s bouts, Jeremy is first to break the silence. ‘Thank goodneth for that, my jaw wath cramping with all that grimathing – why do I alwayth have to be the one who lookth like he’th gurning?’

Bruno doesn’t respond. He’s trying to peer around the corner to catch more than just a glimpse of Serious Jane and Party Jane in the High Street optician’s two-for-one stylish frames ad. ‘Hubba hubba, girlies, get yourselves over here and say hello to a real man.’

James, in the optician’s window across the road, wearing Gucci frames (plain glass – his eyesight’s perfect, but a job’s a job) and tasteful cardigan, sniffs and turns away. Serious Jane always tells him to ignore the wrestlers. There’s more to life than Neanderthal-browed morons like Bruno, she says.

James does quite like the Jane twins, but he finds Party’s purple hair, pink horn-rimmed glasses and extroverted manner a bit intimidating, and Serious, in her more sober wire frames and lab coat, always seems to have her head in a book. He sighs: if only there were a Jane halfway between them.

The Janes normally enjoy each other’s company, which is just as well, since they’re stuck side-by-side day after day. However, Party Jane has a headache tonight and tries to persuade Serious Jane to swap places, so that she can have a little bit of peace and quiet, instead of going clubbing with the guys in the wrestling ad. ‘Look, I’ll even let you wear my spangly top, the one you’ve been coveting since these new posters went up.’

Just then, a wail comes from across the street: ‘Look what they’ve done to me!’ There’s a synchronised gasp as all eyes turn towards Supermarket Sue in the Tesco’s near the station. She’s sporting a bushy moustache and ugly thick-rimmed black spectacles, thanks to the evening’s graffiti artists.

Beekeeper Bill, sharing the same window, wraps a fatherly arm around her shoulders and says, ‘There, there.’

Much tutting ensues, and a crude stick figure, also in thick black paint, on the wall beside Sue’s poster says, ‘I’m really sorry about what’s happened to you, Sue, but don’t worry, it’ll wash off in the next rain. I know, because that’s when I usually vanish. Those louts come round here every evening, but they’re getting no better at painting. Banksy needn’t have any worries about their competition—I’m the best they’ve ever managed to paint. They’ll be back tomorrow, and we really ought to do something about them before things get worse.’

James clears his throat. ‘Excuse me, everybody. I’ve got a suggestion. What if we douse the streetlights around here early tomorrow? That’ll make the rest of the public leave this bit of the village early, and we can set a trap for the yobs. Here’s what we’ll do…’

The next night, the poster people are ready. The street is dark, only the moon and shop security lights illuminating the scene. Two teenage boys dressed in heavy metal tee-shirts and tatty jeans approach. The taller one, additionally sporting a scuffed leather jacket, is carrying a can of spray paint, and he tells the other boy to keep a lookout while he gets to work. He approaches the wrestlers and mumbles something to his companion about giving them afros and beards.

With a hissing sound, a waist-high mist suddenly envelops them.

Party Jane had switched on the fog generator in her poster background’s night club and is directing the flow out on to the street. Serious Jane is shining lasers from her poster’s lab at the night club’s disco balls, spreading brightly coloured spots of light across the fog and up and down the walls. Both Janes start playing spooky music. To be more precise, Serious is playing the piano, and Party is screeching her fingernails on the window while making howling wolf noises.

As the boys jump round in surprise, Bruno leans out of the poster and growls, ‘We don’t like your sort around here. You’re going to pay for what you’ve done.’
Stickman shrieks a maniacal laugh, and the boys pale.

Beekeeper Bill opens his honey pots, and with a cry of, ‘Fly, moi lovelies,’ shakes loose a swarm of bees. He thrusts a finger in the direction of the boys, and shouts, ‘Attaaaack!’

With tearing noises, the bees rip themselves from the supermarket poster and buzz directly towards the youths.

The boys scream and drop their paint. They whirl in panic and run, but by now, the mist is above their heads, and they can’t even see each other, let alone where they’re going. Every turn they make, they’re confronted by a leering face or the roar of angry bees. Tripping over kerbstones and bouncing off trees, they make it as far as the common before they slam into each other and knock themselves unconscious.

Early next morning, a pair of patrolling police constables find the boys lying where they fell. Both sport black painted moustaches and glasses, and the taller one has something rude drawn on his forehead as well. They prod the youths with the toes of their boots to wake them.

Both boys sit up and clutch at the police officers’ legs. They start spouting some hare-brained story about a mysterious fog and ghost people coming to life, finally sobbing, ‘Help us, please. The bees. The bees!’
​
PC Jones mutters something about morons spending too much time sniffing the contents of their spray cans and deserving all the unpleasant hallucinations they get. PC Atkinson nods in agreement, but is only half paying attention. She’s wondering about the detailed drawings of bees someone seems to have carefully cut out and scattered on the grass around the boys.




                                                                     💀💀💀

L.N. Hunter’s comic fantasy novel, ‘The Feather and the Lamp,’ sits alongside works in anthologies such as ‘The Monsters Next Door’ and ‘Best of British Science Fiction 2022’ as well as Short Édition’s ‘Short Circuit’ and the ‘Horrifying Tales of Wonder’ podcast. There have also been papers in the IEEE ‘Transactions on Neural Networks,’ which are probably somewhat less relevant and definitely less fun. When not writing, L.N. unwinds in a disorganised home in rural Cambridgeshire, UK, along with two cats and a soulmate.

---