Six teens, three guys, three girls in a camper van. Getting away from it all for the weekend in a remote part of the wild British countryside, where you're rarely more than a twenty minute drive from a fast food outlet.
It's dark. There is no moon.
The rain is hammering down so hard it's bouncing back up three feet or more in the headlight beams. It's like the monsoon has come to the UK.
"I'm gonna pull over the next chance I get," Todd, the driver informs his friends. He is worried because the windscreen wipers seem incapable of coping with the ferociously falling rain. "It's just too dangerous to drive in this," he says.
"But what about the camp site?" Angie, Todd's girlfriend bitches. "If we can make it to the campsite we'll be fine. There's a clubhouse with drinks and music, maybe even karaoke. Just keep going until we get there. It can't be far."
"It's too dangerous," Todd says.
"Prick!" Angie curses. "I've been practising 'I Will fucking Survive' for weeks now. Just for the campsite karaoke - if there is one. There usually is. Campsites and karaoke go hand in hand. But you go ahead Todd and deny me my one shot at fame because it's too dangerous to drive. You wimp."
Angie is a looker, and she knows it. Pretty face, great hair, long legs, ample cleavage and a nice ass. She's showing it all off to great effect by her choice of skimpy clothing. Problem is she can't sing for shit, and everybody apart from her knows it. She sounds like a stallion being gelded by an arab dwarf who slams two bricks together on the unfortunate animal's balls.
She thinks she has the voice of an angel. She is seriously deluded.
"I think Todd's right," Todd's friend Nick says. Not because he actually does think Todd's right, but because he can't stand the idea of listening to Angie's awful screeching. Nick is practical. He would give Angie a portion at the drop of a hat - providing she agreed not to sing for him. "We should pull over and wait the storm out."
"Who asked you?" Lola cuts in. "What the fuck does it have to do with you? You big cockhead!"
Lola is blonde and willowy. Lola wants to be a model. Lola drinks Coca Cola. Lola hates men, a point she proves by shagging as many of them as she can fit in to her busy schedule.
"Leave it out Lola. Leave it out. Just leave it. Leave it," Johnny Boy says. Johnny Boy is Lola's boyfriend. He is worried that he may have caught the crabs off his girlfriend. And possibly herpes, but he isn't sure about that yet. But he has this itch...it's persistent. It's starting to develop into a rash, and it's bothering him.
"Fuck you, pencil dick," Lola snarls.
Johnny boy feels the stirring of an erection. He loves it when Lola talks dirty. He can't resist it. He wants to drag her out of the camper right there and fuck her brains out in the pounding rain.
Fran looks on in disgust. Fran is unattached. Fran appears to be a plain Jane, but it's obvious to any seasoned girl-watcher that behind the tied up hair, the horn rimmed glasses and the baggy boyish clothes she wears, that there's a real babe hiding in there. A babe with a figure to die for, with a beautifully shaped pair of hooters and an ass so tight you could open a beer bottle with it.
Todd drives on, pretty slowly. The volume of rain hitting the windscreen makes visibility really poor. Todd is concerned.
A bolt of fork lightning and the rumble of thunder up ahead make his mind up for him. Screw Angie and her karaoke. He resolves to stop at the next available opportunity in order to ride out the storm.
Whump-whump go the wipers. They struggle to cope with the pounding rain. Lightning sears the sky like a massive flashbulb.
Then Todd sees it. To the left. A neon sign.
"DUNCAN'S POMPEY BAR AND GRILL"
Todd pulls off the road and into the car park, stopping the camper van as close to the entrance as he can. He cuts the engine.
"We stop here," Todd says. "There'll be food and drink. Once the storm dies down we'll move on."
"Can I sing 'I Will Survive'?" Angie snarls.
"I don't know babe. I just don't know," Todd says.
Nick risks a sly glance at Fran. He can make out the curves beneath the baggy clothes, he can see those full, shapely moist lips and wonders what they'd look like wrapped around his...
"Go Go Go!" Johnny Boy yells, and they leave the camper for the short sprint into the bar.
Inside, it's dark and a little seedy. Michael Bubble music oozes from unseen speakers. 'Me And Mrs Jones'.
They shake off the rain and approach the bar.
They are puffing and panting with the exertion of the transfer from camper to bar. But it's warm and dry here.
There are only two others present. The bartender is wearing full Royal Navy Officer's uniform. He is a big guy, scarred of face, who looks mean yet friendly all at once.
The other person is a guy sitting at the bar wearing camouflage gear and cradling a Browning over and under twelve gauge shotgun in his lap. He sips Southern Comfort from a shot glass.
"Looks like we got company Buck," the bartender says.
"Do you have a karaoke machine?" Angie pipes up. "Only I've been practising 'I Will Survive' for weeks now..."
The bartender fixes Angie with an icy glare.
"Listen, bitch," he says. "I do stand up but I'm not bending your ear to tell you a fucking joke, am I?"
"Err, no..." Angie says quietly.
"Exactly," the bartender says. He rolls his eyes at the guy in the camouflage gear, who in response shakes his head.
"Ah...I'll get the drinks," says Johnny Boy.
Johnny Boy orders. The guy with the shotgun seated at the bar is clearly making him nervous. The guy turns to face him.
"You got a problem?" the guy says.
"No. No problem whatsoever," Johnny Boy says.
"Go easy on him Buck," says Duncan.
Buck raises the shotgun.
"I don't shoot people with this," he says. "I put those days behind me. I shoot for sport. I shoot animals, for their hides and for food." Buck produces a highly impressive hunting knife with a razor sharp edge. "I skin 'em with this," he says.
Johnny Boy smiles nervously, nods deferentially, and pays for the drinks he ordered.
"You should have told 'em to fuck off, you wimp," says Lola. "Fucking lairy bastards."
Then everybody jumped almost out of their skins as a window shattered.
And a dead cat with an onion tied around its neck with string landed on the floor with a dull thud.
The teens screamed. As one. In harmony.
The bartender, Duncan, looked at the man with the shotgun, Buck, and said simply:
"It's starting again Buck."
"What? What's starting again?" shreiked Lola, terrified.
"Don't you worry about it hon," the man named Buck said, hefting the shotgun. Turning to the bartender, Duncan, he said: "We can handle this shit. We've known worse."
"No problem," Duncan replied.
Turning to Fran, the guy named Buck says in a measured tone:
"You may well fool these dumbass teens baby, but underneath those baggy clothes I just know you got a pair of perfect hooters, pretty pins, and I bet you bang like a shit-house door in a gale. You can't fool ol' Buck."
"We doing this Buck, or what?" the bartender, Duncan enquires, producing a chrome plated Colt 45 automatic.
"Does this mean 'I Will Survive' is out of the question?" Angie squeaks.
As the men known only as Buck and Duncan head for the door.