Jeremy Kyle: Revenge

Chapter 10

Dylan stepped out of the questioning room, rubbing his wrists like the cuffs had still left a phantom grip on him. His eyes locked with Jeremy, who stood by the vending machine, arms crossed, holding two energy drinks.

Dylan raised an eyebrow.
"They let me out?"
Jeremy tossed him a can. "You're welcome."
Dylan caught it mid-air, confused but grateful. "Wait, how the fuck did you pull that off?"
Jeremy grinned, leaning against the wall like a schoolboy with a secret.
"Well," he said, "let's just say... I reminded Officer James that there's a whole vault of unaired footage from my show. Including a certain 2013 episode featuring his meth-head cousin named 'Crystal Dawn' who thinks she's the reincarnated Billie Jean from Michael Jackson's song and that she's carrying Michael Jackson's unborn son... we even had to do a DNA test to convince her it wasn't true"
Dylan burst out laughing. "No fucking way."
Jeremy took a sip. "Yep. I told him it could 'accidentally resurface.' Next thing I know, you're walking out free."
Dylan shook his head. "You're a scary bastard sometimes."

They walked toward the exit, energy drinks in hand.

They stepped outside and froze.

There, parked at the curb, was a huge blacked-out Mercedes Sprinter Van with flames painted down the sides and One Direction leaning casually against it. Every member wore matching black suits and dark sunglasses, like a boy band/MI6 crossover. They looked like they'd just walked off a Bond film set and into a nightmare.
Harry Styles raised a finger, pointed at them.
"Get in the van."

The door slid open with a dramatic hiss, like it had been waiting for this moment. Jeremy and Dylan stepped in and were greeted by a bizarre sight:
An all-star crew of celebrities sitting in a circle.

Harry Styles sat at the front, obviously in charge. To his right, Gordon Ramsay, arms folded, face locked in a deep, bitter scowl. Louis Theroux sat awkwardly with a notepad, nodding politely to himself. Piers Morgan, of all people, sat on the far end, sipping tea with shaking hands. Russell Brand was talking to himself in a mirror. In the back, half-asleep, was Danny Dyer, wearing a neck brace and muttering "fuckin' chicken..." every few minutes.

"Gentlemen," Harry said, "welcome to the real fight."
Dylan blinked. "What... what is this?"
Jeremy looked around. "This is a fucking support group."
Harry nodded. "More than that. This is The Flock."

One by one, they all shared their stories.
Gordon Ramsay went first.
"It happened after a late-night taping of Kitchen Nightmares. I was walking to my car. Heard squawking. Thought it was a bloody pigeon. Turned around—BAM—chicken costume, full sprint. Couldn't see his face. He got away. I broke two ribs."
He clenched his fists.
"I want to fillet that chicken and cook it medium-fucking-rare."
—
Piers Morgan, sipping his tea:
"He didn't touch me directly. But he broke into my home and shat in my espresso machine. I drank it. I drank it, Jeremy."
Jeremy gagged slightly.
—
Louis Theroux spoke gently.
"I tried to film a documentary about him. Interviewed witnesses. He started sending me VHS tapes. Home videos. Him... feeding pigeons. Singing lullabies. Completely nude except that horrifying chicken mask on his head. I... I still don't understand the symbolism."
—
Russell Brand turned from his mirror.
"The Chicken is not a man, he is an idea. He is the suppressed libido of the post-modern capitalist structure. He is Nietzsche in feathers. He is..."
"Mate, shut the fuck up," muttered Danny Dyer from the back. "He stabbed me in the arse cheek with a McDonald's straw."
Jeremy raised his hand. "Wait, was that reported?"
Danny lit a cigarette. "I was off me nut on ket. Thought he was a goose. Didn't bother calling the cops."
—
Dylan looked overwhelmed. "This is... fucking crazy."
Harry stepped forward, hand on his shoulder.
"You're not alone anymore."

~ A short while later ~

The van engine started. Jeremy sat between Louis Theroux and Russell Brand, who was now humming ominously to himself. Dylan sat next to Gordon Ramsay, who handed him a plastic container.
"Beef Wellington. Homemade. You'll need your strength."
Dylan unwrapped it, eyes wide. "This smells like the food of angels."
Harry moved to the front, put on a headset, and turned to look at them one last time.
"Gentlemen, the time has come."
Jeremy narrowed his eyes. "Where are we going?"
Harry turned back to the road and said:
"To the one place he's been spotted... but never caught.
The place where all trails go cold.
Leeds."
The van pulled onto the motorway, tail lights glowing red in the distance, fading into the night.
The hunt had begun.