Across the Pond

I looked out over the Atlantic before my flight went over the UK. I sat next to some sleeping old man, who wasn't much for conversation. I mused to myself over my current luggage. In the hold of this Boeing was one of the most important tools in my life: my chainsaw, Dexter. Having named it for my favorite fictional serial killer, I had ensured it lived up to its name.

The name on my passport was Clyde Johnson. I was just some balding, middle aged man from Pennsylvania, living in a suburb of Philadelphia. I was single (unless you count cracking open a cold one now and then), overweight (despite my own workout routine), had no formal education beyond a useless liberal arts degree, and worked as a manager of a local department store. So, I had little to loose from picking up my current passion.

It was an easy matter to acquire a hockey mask, chainsaw, work boots, and trench coat. Rounding out the outfit was a wrist mounted slingshot with some lead balls. While my main tool was the chainsaw, having something a bit quieter was always good. On weekends during the spring and summer, I lurked around the campgrounds and areas favored by local university and high school students, picking off the assholes with the chainsaw. I tried to leave the nice and good ones alone, just scaring them off instead. I seemed to have a knack at locating (and finishing) the jerk-asses.

I was an urban legend after the first few years, known only as the Chainsaw Man. How unimaginative my nickname was is something my peers never let me live down. But, I digress. Being a mad slasher in an otherwise average American suburb gets boring after a while. So, I wanted something different this year. A different culture, a different country, and a different continent. Something other than strip malls, chain stores, landfills, and things that made my town look like it was New-freaking-Jersey.

So, on an impulse, I decided to visit the UK. Why Britain? Well, I didn't have to worry about much of a language barrier. I had memorized a few words that were different around here. For instance, instead of a "truck" in the US, it was a "lorry" here. Also, I learned some local slang as well. Instead of "wigger," here it was "chav." While "fucker" was used, "wanker" was a delightful vulgar term I soon added to my own vocabulary. I still found it odd they used the word "crap" like an adjective rather than the American use, which was a noun. A Brit might say "That crap knife is flimsy," while the American might say, "That knife is a piece of crap."

I got off the plane in London, and began to think of where I should go. So many places! I could hunt on the foggy highlands of Scotland. I could make some Troubles of my own in Ireland. I could follow in the footsteps of Jack the Ripper himself. Since he was the spiritual father to all of us mad slashers, London was a place I'd recommend all mad slashers visit at least once. I had once considered going to Wales, but there wasn't much to see there other than coalmines, farms, and choirs.

Still, the temptation to perform my work in London finally overtook me. I guess I was too star-struck by being in the same place as Jack the Ripper. So, I found a crappy part of town for later exploration and hunting, went to my hotel, and waited for the sun to set. From what I had read, the Enfield part of London might be a good place to start.

It was that night that the British Isles first would experience terror from the Chainsaw Man. I kept Dexter concealed within my coat, ready to rev and impale tonight's main amusement. I kept to the back alleys, and walked around with my hockey mask and trenchcoat on. The UK had CCTV cameras everywhere, but strangely, none of them worked while I was walking by. Must be that technology that doesn't involve causing pain or injury just doesn't like me.

I saw a pub across the street, and a bunch of drunken college students (or as they'd say here, Uni students), stumbled out. As tempting as a good drink sounded, I preferred to get drunk on the fear of my prey. They walked down the street, and into a similar establishment. It appeared I was watching the local "pub crawl" ritual. I weighed against picking them off. This sort of drinking in the States would only be done by frat boys and party animals. So, I watched the drunks stumble out, but I caught sight of someone running down the street.

A badly battered South Asian man darted as fast as he can from a group of youths behind him. The youths all held knives, and were dressed in a combination of cheap tracksuits and this ugly tan plaid pattern. "Get the Paki!" one of them shouted.

Looking at their jewelry and bottles labeled "white lightning" in marker, I grinned under my hockey mask when I realized who these people were: chavs. They were just out for some drunken revelry while attacking anyone that didn't look like they did (otherwise known as "Paki bashing"). I recognized the movement patterns and forces behind them: fellow predators. These were some of the nastier locals, and I revved up my chainsaw with anticipation.

The chavs focused on their quarry, so I needed to draw their attention. From my alley, I shot the lead one in the side of the head with a ball from my slingshot. I remained behind a dumpster (or "skip," as the locals called it), waiting for them to enter. The chav I had struck was bleeding, but pissed, he had dragged his friends inside my alley, and into my ambush.

"Sodding wanker!" he shouted in the direction the projectile had originally come from. He walked forward slowly, probably too drunk to hear my chainsaw's mechanical purring. Just as he got behind the dumpster, I attacked. I jumped out at the chav, skewering him with Dexter. I got blood all over his burberry jacket before drawing the chainsaw out. Now, chainsaws were horrible weapons, given how hard they were to handle, but it added challenge to my job, and hell, they were fun to handle.

Some of the chavs ran away in fear, but the bulk of them stayed behind. They produced knives and broken bottles, getting ready to attack me like a pack of Burberry-clad, white lightning-fueled killing machines. Before they could jump me, I vanished deeper into the alleyway, as if luring them on. Now, if these were American youths, they'd normally decide to split up into small groups to search for me. One group would undoubtedly start making out, another would feud while I was directly behind them, and the others would act as dumb as posts and split up into individuals. If they behaved more like the feral beasts I though they were, they'd travel on as a group. Like army ants or piranhas, chavs had strength in numbers, attacking bigger prey.

I climbed up onto a low-hanging roof to wait for the chavs. The alleyway split into four directions. Two ways lead back to the street, and behind buildings in the other two. There were about eight chavs left. Guess what they decided to do? Split up so two would search in each direction.

A pair of chavs in each direction. I guess chavs acted a bit smarter than most drunken teenagers and young adults I've chased, but not much. Plus, the smell of alcohol and drugs made them easy to smell from a mile away. Given my current position, I decided to sneak up on the nearest group of chavs, the pair to my south.

They smelled like if a frat boy bathed in the raw sewage of a trailer park. I kept on the roof above the two chavs, leaving them to wonder where the chainsaw sound was coming from. Instead of calling for help, they both continued stalking me alone. One held an empty bottle, and the other a knife. I fired my slingshot back into the alley, causing them to look back. When they looked forward again, they saw me waving my chainsaw in front of them. One slash of Dexter, and two piercing covered chav heads were separated from their bodies. Like American youth, they didn't hear me when I awkwardly climbed down in the roof and waited in front of them with a chainsaw. Must be something these younger generations are eating. (That's why I resolved to give up cannibalism.)

I went for the next pair of chavs. Instead of searching for me, they were drinking from a bottle one of them had stashed before. The two drunken fools tried sticking their knives at me, but passed out drunk before they even got within stabbing distance. They were not even worth it, so I just took their booze and left them face down in a puddle of sewage.

I tried something different for chav group number three. I left out the alcohol as a lure, and waited for them to get close enough. One of them sat down to take a swig of it, only to collapse dead from poison inside. The other one looked into the alcohol bottle, and stared at while I moved up from behind and cut him in half with Dexter. Six down, two to go.

The last pair was ignorant of the fact the other groups had been picked off one by one. Since a fog was rolling in, they couldn't see much in front of their face. So, I moved up to them on a nearby roof, pulled one up, and snapped his neck. His partner began to panic, feeling around for the one I had just taken, but felt relief when his friend's hand landed on his shoulder. It took him a second to realize it was only his friend's chainsaw-severed forearm.

He looked up, and I performed my final strike. I jumped down from the building, roaring chainsaw over my head, and slashed the last chav in half as I fell. I was covered in blood with enough booze in it to get me legally drunk, but damn, it was fun getting here. Nine chavs is a pretty good score for my first night.

I cut up their remains with Dexter, threw them in trash bags, and tossed them into the dumpster with the rest of the trash. Or, as the locals would say, I cut them up, threw them in bin bags, and tossed them into the skip with the rest of the rubbish. I took their gold, since I probably had enough to get a good amount of money for. When I left the back alley, and strangely, all the CCTV cameras began working again. I went back to my hotel through the back way, and soon left without incident. It was a delightful trip, even if the weather was not. So that was how my trip across the pond went. Maybe I'll go back soon.