|
|
|
The Introductions
|
He was such an idiot. I hated his guts. I wished on several occasions that he would be in an accident that would make him walk with a limp. So that every time he walked past children they would laugh at him and call out “Ha ha, there goes the man that was in an accident and now he has to walk with a limp, ha ha.” He reminded me of something that I really hated like a big, ugly brussel sprout. Yes, the Big Ugly Brussel Sprout Head man. That is what he shall be known as from this day forth.
The most important thing to remember about this dude was his gnarly dog, Blinky. Oh what a sweet name for a little puppy, you say. No. It was no puppy, it was a killer.
Trained by the US Marine Corps in the early 60’s, the three tours to Nam and ‘that’ harsh undercover operation had made this dog real mean. His ironic name referred to his ability to sleep with his eyes open, an important skill when you’re deep in the jungle far behind enemy lines. He had been medically diagnosed to as psychoceramic - having developed the stare of a plaster figurine. Blinky was now deeply distrustful of the government. This made his owner, Big Ugly Brussel Sprout Head man (Bubs for short) a target for numerous FBI anti-American investigations.
“So, Blinky,” Bubs said one morning, as they strolled past the Potomac River, “what’s up with all these guys following me around?”
As usual, Blinky said nothing. Bubs took a drag on his cigarette.
“So, Blinky,” he said, “anything happening in that head of yours?”
Blinky kept his head down and trotted quietly along at his master’s heels.
“So, Blinky,” Bubs said, “where are we going?”
Blinky stopped suddenly and sniffed the air. There was trouble a-brewing, blowing in from the north-east. Bubs could smell it too. “What’s that smell boy?” Bubs asked Blinky.
Blinky sniffed again. Trouble, with a capital T, because it was at the start of a sentence.
“Blinky - what is that God-awful stench?” Bubs’ eyes were beginning to water as a cloud of noxious steam rolled off the river and engulfed his head. The acrid smoke burned his nose and lungs, eating at his flesh. As he fell unconscious, Bubs saw three men in gas masks approaching him. He tried to scream in pain but the smoke had dissolved his vocal chords. Blinky barked and wagged his tail as the men lead him away on a leash, leaving Bubs to melt on the riverbank.
The Potomac River had always been one of Ginger’s favourite holiday destinations. The friendly faces and clean air welcomed her back year after year. She was anonymous in these parts and that was exactly how she liked it. This was the only place where she felt entirely safe. Nobody here knew her past. They only saw her as one of the hundreds of holiday regulars. They hadn’t known what had happened that night three years ago, and she suspected that they didn’t care. She smiled to herself as she walked. To a passer by it could easily be a smile of remembrance to a lost love. Little did they know the evil that it hid.
As she walked in her warm, dreamlike state, she noticed that she had trodden in something. She slipped and almost lost her balance in what she at first thought was a pool of ice cream. Then as she looked closer she noticed a tooth and a patch of hair. Further investigation revealed a knucklebone. She gasped in horror. She knew that knucklebone anywhere. The mess in between the tread of her sneakers was the remains of HIM. The Big Ugly Brussel Sprout Head man.
Ginger did not notice the black car screech over the bridge, over the wide Potomac River, towards the city, towards certain uncertainty for Blinky. With his head firmly placed out of the window of the speeding car, Blinky showered the still-masked men in slobber.
Through the city streets flew the car, past schools and houses, workplaces, fire stations, past City Hall where the mayor was struggling to get back into his suit.
“Damn my secret shame,” mumbled the mayor, “Damn it to hell!”
The green fern didn’t answer - it never did.
Onward sped the car, the serpentine curves of the Potomac were left far behind. Blinky’s once uncertain destination loomed over head. He recognised it immediately.
“Woof?” he asked.
No response. |
|
|
|
Secret Shame
|
In City Hall, the Mayor had just managed to get his suit back on. Now dressed as a large Golden Retriever, the Mayor left through the back door and headed for the Secret Base. He hoped no-one would recognise him. He carried with him a portable stereo.
He felt like he was being filmed. People were certainly stopping and staring at him.
The Mayor knew that the Time was approaching. The Men at the Secret Base had told him to wear his dog suit every Monday. On this particular Monday there had been a message left on his answering machine:
“Well, Dogboy, the Time has come. You know what to do. We’ll see you at the Secret Base at noon for the Revelation. Oh, and if you’re not feeling up to it, just remember your Secret Shame.” |
|
|
|
NIPLs
|
|
Ginger grabbed her cell phone and dialled his number in a panic. She knew that it was her turn next. The Nasty Icelandic Peoples Liaison (or NIPLs for short) had finally caught up with her. She had to find Blinky. He wasn’t answering his phone. Foolishly she had hoped to hear his yap on the other end. Her mind raced as she tried to figure out how on earth they could have found them. She took a deep breath. Now was no time to let herself slip. She gathered herself and mopped up the remains of Big Ugly Brussel Sprout Head man and put him in her handbag. Even though he had that big ugly brussel sprout head, she still loved him. In fact, his melting into the pavement had proved to be somewhat of an improvement. But now was no time to get nostalgic. He was seeping through her bag, and she had to find Blinky, before it was too late. |
|
|
|
Indian Swami
|
Half way across the world, in another reality altogether, Swami Baboli was finishing his morning classes for the rich, bored American youths who threw their money at him, thinking that they could buy spirituality. He had not yet noticed the young foxy redhead in his class. A private investigator in her spare time, Nanny had come to Nepal to forget what she had learnt that frightful night three years before. But it wore on her face like a mask, it weighed on her shoulders like a cloak, it walked in her shadow like a nightmare. If only she could find some spiritual release. Maybe Swami Baboli could help her.
“Oh you are a pretty young thing.” said the Swami. “Would you like to come back to my inner sanctum for some private therapy?”
“Oh Swami I thought that you would never notice me. I need your help, the memories, the horror...”
“No my child, do not think of those things.”
He took her hand.
Spilling more than beans
Ginger, with her leaking bag, raced back to her hotel room, madly pressing redial on the cell phone, trying desperately to reach Blinky. If they got Bubs, then they would definitely be onto her next. She knew she had to keep Blinky’s secret. All that agent training she received would come in handy now. If the NIPLs got her, she wouldn’t talk. She was no stool pigeon. If there was a doll in all of New York town that Blinky could rely on, it was Ginger (excepting that she was in Washington). She repeated this to herself like a mantra.
“Rely on, rely on, rely on, relyon, relyon, relyon, relroyn, re lyron, re: Lyron.”
Oops, she nearly gave it all away. She checked over her shoulder to make sure no one heard. Phew that was close she thought.
She was wrong. |
|
|
|
On the Run
|
All this time the Mayor was running toward the Secret Base, tongue lolling from his mouth. The dog suit was hot. His brain buzzed with anticipation as he contemplated the days that lay ahead.
Finally, the Time for the Revelation had come. Ever since he could remember, the Mayor had been building toward this day. Because of this day he had become Mayor. As a little boy, the Mayor (or Johnny as he was known then) had been told by his father to strive for power. His father later went crazy and disappeared to India, but Johnny never forgot his message. Power... power over all else.
As Johnny grew up he used all his intelligence to gain positions of leadership. After a successful career in Guild Politics, he went into Local Government, and was quickly elevated to Mayor. However, if anyone had known about his Secret Shame, things may have been somewhat different... |
|
|
|
Swami’s Origins Revealed
|
“You will find it necessary to sit very still!” exclaimed Swami Boboli. “This only hurts if you make any sudden movements.”
“But why, Swami, what am I to learn from this?” queried Nanny.
“YOU need not speak to me of learning, only of listening. Your nature must be broken; you need to be rebuilt if you are to forget that which you remember.”
“You are so right Swami, I was right to come here in search of you. You know the answers.” Nanny gushed.
Swami Boboli, although a large overweight North-west American, seemed to have a way with young people. His love of hot dogs, baseball and that crazy disco music could have attributed to that. Posing for the last 30 years as a large overweight North-west Indian, Boboli had learnt many secrets of the orient. After eating bad Chinese takeaway, he experienced 7 days and 7 nights of visions mainly sent to him by an entity he called ‘Leave Me The Hell Alone You Crazy Giant Broccoli’. He did at last find peace but his life would never be the same. |
|
|
|
Did He Twitch?
|
Blinky sat back in his chair, staring. The Men had finally arrived at the Secret Base, and now he could relax. He was proud of these men, proud of the operation... it had been a success. It was down to the girl now. He rubbed his paw to his head. He didn’t want to think about it now, so he decided to think about it later, because it was either one or the other. The Men stood around Blinky’s desk and watched him slowly unwind. Blinky gave nothing away, but they knew he was pleased. One of the Men swore he once saw Blinky twitch. Nobody had believed him but he kept up the story.
“I swear fellas, I saw Blinky twitch,” he would constantly say. “He was watching Lassie and gettin’ real tetchy. Lassie was in all sorts of trouble. She was lost in the forest and a cruel hunter was out to get her. Man it was bad. REAL bad. Anyway, this hunter guy had her trapped and it looked like curtains for that pooch but then miraculously a bolt of lightening struck a tree and it landed on the cruel hunter’s head. She was lucky. REAL lucky. Anyway just as Lassie made her escape, Blinky twitched man. Blinky twitched.”
The annoying man kept this story up for nigh on six months, always with the Lassie and the cruel hunter, until one day the other Men had had enough. They secretly cornered him in a corner of the secret base and he cried like a girl. Admitted he made the whole thing up... Just wanted some attention... Nobody ever asked him to dance, he was the lonely wallflower. He had been dismissed from the Men at The Secret Base. Since then he had done surprisingly well, rising to position of some prominence. But they would never let him forget the day he doubted Blinky. Every Monday they would remind him. Every Monday he would have to retell his ‘story’ of the Twitching Blinky, acting out all of the parts: the cruel hunter, Lassie (except this Monday they were all out of Lassie suits). Every Monday they would have cold milk and tea cake (but that was usually after he’d left). Every Monday, ‘The Mayor’, as he was now known, would have to relive his Secret Shame. |
|
|
|
Barry White and that Fateful Night
|
The Swami turned on his hi-fi, put on a Barry White record and relaxed into his beanbag. The orange velour on the walls glowed warmly under the light of three Lava lamps. Nanny was sprawled on the shag rug, Trip-o-matic Mind Glasses on her head. She wriggled and writhed with pleasure as the lights blinked subliminal messages into her synapses. She had seen these New Age Miracles on the Home Shopping channel, but it had taken the Swami to show her how good they really were.
“Oh Swami,” she whined, “these glasses are amazing... I can see the music!”
“Yes... I am the Enchanting Wizard of Rhythm.”
“Oh Swami,” she wheedled, “how can I be as cool as you?”
“You cannot be as cool as the Magus of Ice, my pretty.”
“Oh Swami,” she pleaded, “how can Barry’s voice be so low?”
“The answer to that is a Secret, my child. But one day all shall be Revealed. One day very soon...” The Swami trailed off as Barry hit the lowest note on the album.
Nanny awoke from her Barry White induced nightmare in a sweat. She was at a Barry concert at the Hollywood Bowl and he hit such a low note that the Bowl collapsed on his head, killing him and everyone in rows A through F. She shivered at the chilling recollection. She began to doubt the Swami’s ability. She had come to find inner peace, serenity, serendipity, calm. So far all she had found was a large, overweight north-eastern Indian who in the afternoon light looked much the same as a large, overweight north-eastern American. However, there was no doubting the Swami’s coolness. Yeah, that cat sure was hip. She reminded herself to be patient. She was not the same girl she had been three years ago. The operation had seen to that. The Swami told her that all would be revealed soon. She had to believe him, otherwise she may be doomed. She put her head down. She tried to block the images of squashed Barry and the screaming faces of rows A through F. Sleep finally came as he gently sang “Darling, I can’t get enough of your love, baby …” |
|
|
|
Ricki vs Oprah
|
“I can’t believe its true, Ricki! All this time he’s been dissin’ me. That homey, he gonna pay!”
“You go girl!”
“Dressin’ up in that dang outfit, dancin’ round, why he nothin’ but a phoney!”
The audience roared its support; cat calls and whistles filled the studio. “I gonna kick his white bony arse to the curb, Ricki. I ain’t gonna stop til he learn that you can’t dis no doggy!!!”
Blinky sat down after finally saying his piece, crossing his paws smugly and wagging his tail. There was no way the Mayor was going to recover from this media barrage. He was to learn a painful lesson today, never tell tales about Blinky, because you are never sure of what that darn Blinky is gonna do.
The Mayor groaned and turned off the television. This was a disaster. How would he ever get over this? He felt his composure slip and he began to cry. He wept tears of frustration. Why did this have to happen now, when everything was going so well. Things had never run so smoothly. The people were happy, the sun almost always shone, and now he had to deal with this. He pulled himself together and tried to convince himself that this was only a minor setback. Things were sure to set themselves right. Ruth would come to her senses. She would see that it was for her own selfish reasons that she wanted to take Anne and Lance away. Surely her and Phil would get things resolved, and Ben had only just found his birth mother: how could he lose her a second time? Ramsey Street just wouldn’t be the same without them.
The Mayor got up to blow his nose just as the phone rang. He sniffed and answered it.
“Boss, it’s me.”
“What do you want?” The Mayor tried to sound gruff. He hoped that his assistant hadn’t noticed he had been crying.
“Boss, are you watching Ricki?”
“Oh no, I forgot it was on. I was catching up on last night’s episode of Neigh... umm... Face the Press.” The Mayor smiled to himself. Good pick up.
“Well Boss, maybe you should start watching. There’s an old friend of yours on and he’s dissin’ you real bad.”
Damn that Blinky. Weren’t the Monday rituals enough for him? The Mayor cursed himself for ever doing Blinky wrong. But it could be worse. He could have melted into the pavement like Bubs, or ‘vanished’ like the redhead. The Mayor hung up the phone and slowly sat down. He had to think of a counter attack. He reached for the phone and dialled Oprah’s number. He grinned as she answered. Now it was personal. |
|
|
|
‘That’ Secret Island
|
The pale midnight sun glinted off the grand glacier as it made is slow way into the Hudson Bay some 6000 kilometres away. It was damn cold up here. Too cold. Nothing stirred, no-one was around. There was nothing to see, except ice and glacier and midnight sun.
Meanwhile, the hot equatorial sun glinted off the calm Pacific Ocean as it lapped the shores of a forgotten island 6000 kilometres off the coast of Chile. This was where the action was. At a secret base deep under the palm trees, with no view of the tropical scene, a crazed American scientist and his hand picked team of equally loony research assistants were reaching the culmination of years of research, study and cloistered insanity. |
|
|
|
Supreme Doll Queen Championships
|
Bunny Breedwell cheered and clapped and cried as her daughter twirled upon the stage.
“That’s my baby,” she wailed, tears streaming down her face, “she’s so gorgeous, she’s just the best!”
Pandora Breedwell, resplendent in jewelled western-wear, smiled and smiled and smiled. She knew that if her lips slipped, Bunny would never forgive her. They had been through too much; the hours of driving, the endless costume fittings, the $300 make-up, the hair, the pain, the agony, the heartache...
One slip of that smile and the other girls would have the advantage. After that it would be all over. Pandora was nearly 5 years old, and this was her last chance to be the Supreme Doll Queen in the under fives category. Next year it was wash-up time... last chance to win...
Pandora’s little mind twisted these words around and around, tangling and entwining her other thoughts. Her routine started to become confused. She took off her sequined hat in the wrong chorus, dropped it and put it on backwards.
Bunny yelped. Pandora was startled by her mother’s cry and slipped over onto her face.
In that instant, both of them knew Pandora would never be the Supreme Doll Queen.
Unaware of his daughter’s growing psychological problems and using his wife’s devotion to pageants as a cover, Captain Breedwell had successfully infiltrated the headquarters of the NIPLs. Settling in the deep south of the USA, the Icelandic peoples had started the blonde baby competitions to select future breeding stock for their ruthless takeover of the world. Bunny had been specially selected by Blinky to have a blonde daughter and enter into these NIPL pageants, unbeknownst to Bunny of course. So far it was all working perfectly. The torment of a small child, namely Pandora, was nothing in the face of the NIPLs and their evil plans, or so reasoned Blinky.
The Captain quietly sidled up the dashing blond compère, Garry, just as he was finishing a fine rendition of ‘Foxy Lady’.
“Nice tune,” complemented the Captain in a very off-hand and unpractised manner, hoping to lure Garry into that all important sense of security.
“I sing to the heart of all the stars up their on the stage.”
“Hmmm, yes. I was wondering when the judges make their final announcement about the winner?”
“Soon... They are in their chamber now. But I must say, with that appalling display that your daughter put on, well...” he left the sentence hanging.
“Hmmm yes. In their chamber you say.” Breedwell had more to think about than his daughter. There was serious business ahead. He patted his ammunition belt under his knitted jumper.
In the Chamber, a bead of sweat ran down the Mayor’s back. He loosened his tie and gulped a glass of ice water. He could feel all eyes upon him. He cleared his throat and writhed in his seat. He rubbed his temples.
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He gulped again. “Do we need to come to a decision now? Can’t it wait?”
“No, Mayor,” barked one of the other judges. It was alright for him, thought the Mayor. He was just a junkie ex-sitcom star; he could break a little girl’s heart.
“I can’t decide. It’s too hard. They are all so cute and talented and natural. Their parents are so devoted. I don’t know if I can sleep at night knowing that I’m responsible for crushing one little girl’s dreams of stardom.” He smiled weakly.
“Just make a goddamn decision, you spineless good-for-nothing!” Ms Butterworth, the event coordinator, stopped herself before she said something she would regret. After all this was the Mayor. Ms Butterworth didn’t approve of the Mayor being on the judging panel. She didn’t approve of him as Mayor. His ‘We’re All Winners’ attitude didn’t sit right with her ‘There is Only One Supreme Doll Queen’ philosophy. Yes, there was something about this man she didn’t like, didn’t trust. It may have been the fact that he constantly smelt like dog hair, but she suspected it was something deeper, something more treacherous.
“OK, Ms Butterworth, there’s no need for name calling. I’ve come to my decision.” Again he attempted to smile.
All the other judges breathed a sigh of relief. It had been four hours. The Mayor left the chamber with the sealed envelope in his pocket. He patted it gently as he walked to the podium and winked at the row of excited, anxious faces of the mothers in the front. His face fell slightly as twelve sets of mascara laden blue eyes shimmered from the finalists circle.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The winner of third runner-up is...”
Suddenly there was a loud crack. The Mayor fell back, clutching his right shoulder. The anxious mothers dived for cover.
“Sniper! Sniper!” yelled the Doll Queen contestants as they ran behind the maroon curtain, slipping in their 10 inch heels.
In all the chaos no-one noticed the man in black slip out of the auditorium, gun still smoking at his side. No-one noticed his car speed away around the corner. No-one noticed as he pulled the balaclava from his head. No-one noticed as he smiled. No-one noticed ... or so he thought. |
|
|
|
Trouble Brewing on ‘That’ Secret Island
|
The fence ran for miles and miles around the island. There was no real point to it. No one even knew the island existed. It had been officially removed from all maps by a secret congress vote in 1952, and backdated to include all maps from 1897. The island was officially celebrating its 100th year of non existence, pretty good for a youngish island with a hell of a future.
“It all makes sense, Bob, the quiet, the trees, the tropical parrots. Why then do they have to make it such a crazy place? I wasn’t meant to be cooped up here. No, I want to be free Bob, free like... free like the tropical parrots, Bob. Is that so wrong? Is it? No, I didn’t think so either, not until the world got crazy. Yeah, crazy.”
Bob just sat there, looking drunk and uncomfortable. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
“You’re not much of a conversationalist, Bob. Maybe this will make you talk.” He picked up the bottle of home-made rum, distilled in secret by the base’s chief scientist Kalbosky, and threw it into the sea.
“Yeah! Will that make you talk, Bob, will it?”
Bob said nothing. He didn’t have to.
“We can destroy the world, Bob, how about that? Destroy it to smithereens; blow it right out of orbit. Kalbosky is crazy, we all know that. We gotta be too, Bob, or we wouldn’t be here. But why, Bob? Was it something our mothers did? Didn’t we play enough baseball or something? I don’t know. Bob. Bob you gotta say something.”
“Let’s blow this fuckin’ island to hell”
“Now that’s something...”
Dan wasn’t entirely surprised by Bob’s answer. He was after all a convicted mad bomber who had been on the run from every government organisation for fifteen years. What did surprise Dan was the way he said it. His ice-cool exterior had melted, and what was once maniacal became almost gleeful. This was very odd behaviour. Dan examined Bob’s face as he lay in the tropical warmth. There was something strange about his guy that he could never quite put his finger on. Dan had once thought it had something to do with Bob’s extensive criminal record, or the way he used to sway, arms stuck firmly to his side, at the mention of Barry White. Not that that happened very often on the Island. But there was that one Christmas party...
Dan convinced himself that he was being over cautious. He and Bob had known each other for a while now, and although Bob rarely said three words he felt as if they had become friends, all be it in a strange twisted sociopathic way. Yeah, Bob was alright in Dan’s book... But still a hint of doubt crept into the back of his mind. What was it that Dan could not completely trust? Who was Bob thinking of when he swayed to Barry? What evil dwelled in that head of his? Only time, beer chasers and noxious gas would tell. |
|
|
|
The Mayor Took a Bullet
|
A crowd of faces peered down at the injured man.
“Please lie still, help is on the way,” crooned Bunny.
“I don’t... think I’m gonna... make it. Blood... loss... too... great.”
“No don’t say that. Everything is going to be just fine. You’ll see. We’ll all see.” Bunny patted his blood splattered forehead. A murmuring of support went round the group.
Sequins and tiny high heeled shoes littered the stage where the mayor now lay, bleeding to death.
A group of middle aged women with large hair stood in a huddle nearby, every now and then glancing around suspiciously.
“That bullet wasn’t meant for him.”
“Yes it was - it was a warning - to all of us.”
“This will get the police involved, they might find out...”
“Shhh, don’t say it, we don’t know who’s listening.”
“It mightn’t have anything to do with it. The Mayor has enemies too.”
“We can’t take that risk. We’ll have to cancel the rest of the competition. I’ll inform Butterworth.”
A cry broke through the mutterings.
“Oh my God he’s dead! Where’s the ambulance?!!!!” screamed Bunny, “He’s dead!” |
|
|
|
Paging Doctor Stone
|
“Hey, bud that was in... damn it THAT WAS IN!”
Doctor Stone despised a crooked Ref.
“Where in God’s name did you learn to referee? Are you blind, Ref? Is that your problem? Because if it is then we have a remarkable eye institute in this hospital. Maybe I could refer you to a specialist?”
The Ref didn’t appreciate the doctor’s tone.
“Sorry, Doctor Stone, but I am going to have to disqualify you. Game set match to Doctor Peters on grounds of disqualification”.
“What? WHAT!? Are you outta your mind!? Are you? Because if you are, then we have a fantastic psych ward here. I can refer you to a great psych specialist, you crazy old bastard. I’ve been playing this game for fifteen years and never have I come across a Ref with such a lack of knowledge about the game. You don’t know the first thing about this sport. How did you ever get to be Ref? Your mother wasn’t available?”
“Doctor Stone, you leave my mother out of this. You are verging on the brink of insubordination. I am the Chief of Staff at this hospital. You just remember that.”
Stone glared at the Ref. He had had enough. He threw down his ping pong paddle and slammed the door of the doctors’ lounge. He stomped towards ER. Stone heard the yells before he saw the blood. There was a great commotion around a stretcher in ER room one. He knew this was serious, the word ‘stat’ had been barked several times in the past minute. Pushing his way past the nurses he gasped at what lay before him. Among the tubes and oxygen masks was a man whom he knew very well. To the world he was the Mayor, but to Doctor Stone he was just Johnny; his brother. |
|
|
|
Things Aren’t Looking Good for Ginger
|
Ginger knew that the time had come for her to act. The blue waters of the Pacific sparkled under the wings of the small private plane that she had hired especially for this occasion. The West Coast was slowly disappearing behind her. She was doing this for Blinky. Or so she thought. She patted the large bomb that sat next to her in the passenger seat.
“Hey lady, how far you wanna go?” asked the greasy pilot, turning his head to watch her.
“I’ll tell you later. Now leave us alone.”
“Crazy gringa,” he muttered.
“Soon... soon it will be too late for all of them. They thought that they would leave me out, did they? Ha! They can try. I’ll show them all, once you and me get airborne, baby. We can fly right into the sun.”
She patted the bomb again.
“Crazy gringa.”
“What? You think I’m mad, don’t you? Well I’m not. It’s everyone else who’s gone mad. What do you think of that?”
The pilot squinted as he gazed down at the ocean below. “Sounds right to me, gringa.”
It was hot in the disguise but someone had to keep an eye on Ginger.
She hadn’t coped well since the run-in with the NIPLs. It was too much like that night three years before. It had pushed her over the edge.
As she raced through the streets with Bubs in her handbag and mumbling about Lyron; a tall blonde women stepped into her path.
“Ha! Two birds with one stone... thought that you could give us the slip?”
“Er… no.”
Ginger backed away, her eyes darting for a route of escape. Out of the corner of her eye she saw two gunmen on the roof of the building across the street. There was no escape. A large black van with NIPL Dry Cleaners marked on the side pulled up beside her.
“Get in”.
She did. It was curtains for Ginger. She broke and spilled the beans of what she knew of Bubs and Blinky, which fortunately wasn’t much. She babbled the whole time she was in the van. It raced across the city, reminiscent of another drive that poor Ginger had taken; a drive that had turned her smile to one that hid evil. |
|
|
|
Nanny and NIPL
|
Nanny sat back in her seat and sighed with relief. At last she was getting the hell out of there.
The train pulled out of the station and away from the Ashram where Nanny had spent the previous four months. God how that fat American Swami had annoyed her. Poisoning him had been a big favour for the whole of the human race. With his Barry White this and Barry White that, day in day out. Talk about crazy. It was no wonder that his death wasn’t reported to the authorities - everyone was relieved. Nanny had done what she went there for. Her mission was complete. Had she successfully passed the initiation test given to her by NIPL? Only time would tell. If only she knew who the swami really was and how his death would affect the coming events. |
|
|
|
The Mayor and Doctor Stone Reunited
|
“There, now it is up to you both!!!” the coach cried, his grammar becoming confused in the excitement of the moment. “Both of youse Flaherty’s go out there and be the ones which win one of the games that can be won... or something!”
Johnny Footballhero gave the coach a mean glare. He was not happy with the situation. Ever since the Flaherty co-joined twins had discovered that being joined at the finger tips was a distinct advantage in certain gridiron plays, Johnny had found it hard to make the cut. His accurate passing used to be crucial to the team; now he was almost obsolete. Girls ignored him in the halls, or, worse still, asked him for the phone number of Trebor and Robert Flaherty. Deep down inside, somewhere in his jock strap, Johnny felt the stirrings of a coiled rage, wound up tightly like a steel spring, clawing like a leopard, rattling like a rattler in the Texas sun. So Johnny scratched himself, and then he felt better.
As the Flaherty’s loped onto the field, the local crowd went wild. The twins held their joined hands aloft in triumph. Johnny sneered and turned his back on them, walking slowly to his quarterback mark.
BANG! There was a flash of light, a crack of thunder, and then screaming. The twins, cowering on the grass several meters apart, nursed their hands and cried out in agony. Johnny looked on in wonder as his brain tried to comprehend the scene: someone has shot the twins in the hands, he thought, and now they are separated! Behold the return of Johnny Footballhero! No more worries! No more heartache! No more towel flicks in the communal showers! Johnny regained his composure and went over to help Trebor, silently thanking the unknown assailant that had saved his football career, and therefore his college education.
Unfortunately, the next bullet hit Johnny Footballhero smack in the temple.
The Mayor struggled to sit up. That dream... the memory... Where was he? He felt weak and disorientated, and that incessant beeping noise was really pissing him off.
“Where the hell am I?” he groaned.
“Good to see that you have come back to us. It was touch and go there for a while... Johnny. You’re at St Chloroform Hospital.”
“But why...?” his voice trailed off, confused.
“You were shot Johnny.”
“No, that was years ago.”
“It is all happening again Johnny, the pain, the hard work. You’re paralysed Johnny. I tried real hard but the wound was too bad.”
“No... it’s not true, I can’t be. Don’t you understand? I’m Johnny Footballhero, I can’t be true...”
“No, Johnny, that was 20 years ago, that’s why you went into politics, with your sporting career ruined. You were bitter and twisted and wanted to introduce new taxes.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”
Johnny lay in his hospital bed trying to come to terms with the past twenty four hours. The last thing he remembered was the smell of burning flesh as he snickered at the severed hands of the wonder-Siamese twins. Had that really been twenty years ago? Impossible, he thought. It barely seemed like twenty minutes. His brother, Doctor Stone sat vigilantly by his hospital bed recounting all of the lost memories...
“Ha ha... and then there was that time you laughed so hard milk came out of your nose... God, was that really fifteen years ago!”
“Nick, do you think maybe we could focus on the IMPORTANT events of the past... like a wife, or kids?” asked Johnny frustrated.
“Oh, of course what was I thinking? OK... ummm ... yes... I think this is probably more of what you’re after. Once, in 1985, you met Scott Baio... well you didn’t actually meet him. He was standing in the next checkout to you at Kmart and you saw him, and you started giggling like a little girl. You kept muttering to yourself ‘My God, it’s Chachi, it’s Chachi!’ You went over to get his autograph, but as you turned, your foot got caught in the Hubba Bubba display and you landed flat on your face right at his feet. You were drinking a Slushy at the time and the straw went right up your nose... Hey that reminds me of time that you laughed so hard...”
Johnny drifted into a self-enforced coma. Anything would have to be better than this. He asked himself a million questions as he drifted off. Had he really been Mayor? Why did someone try to kill him again? Had he really made such a fool of himself in front of the star of Charles in Charge? |
|
|
|
Charles in Charge
|
Chachi was angry. The Fonz had really done it this time. Cousins they may be, but the Fonz just didn’t know when to give up. And as for that Ralph Malph, he had REALLY done it this time. And Potsy was in trouble too. In fact, those pesky Cunninghams were asking for it, especially Joanie, with her sweet smile and cheerleader sweaters. And as for that freckled Richie, well he just took the cake, icing and all. Oh, and not to forget old Al at the diner, he was really gonna get it, big time, right when he least expected it. Most of all, the one who was really going to pay was that bitch Pinky Tuscadero. No more mister nice guy. No more ‘It’ll be cool, Fonzie’. No more lying down. No more height jokes. No more making fun of the bandana around the leg. Once he had finished with this town, no more ‘happy days’.
It was time for Chachi to take charge. |
|
|
|
On the Train to Bangalore Station
|
The train was slowly making its way through a mountain pass. Her mobile phone beeped enthusiastically.
“Hoi hoi?”
“Yes, hello Nanny, I see that your mission is complete. There will be new instructions for you once you reach Bangalore Station.”
“So am I in?”
“You know that I can’t discuss that – don’t you remember your training?”
“Spoilsport.”
“This isn’t a game.”
The line went dead.
“It must be times for drinks then,” she said to herself and signalled to the steward walking past.
Then… total blackness. The train had entered a tunnel. When the lights finally flickered on, her mobile phone started to beep, but there was no one there to answer it. |
|
|
|
Charles Really in Charge
|
Chachi opened the door of his Postal Van, tossed the shotgun onto the passenger seat, and climbed in.
“Time to go” he said to himself. |
|
|
|
Blinky, The Mayor and …
|
The dimmed lights cast a halo around Johnny’s bed. A little machine went beep beep. A squeaky trolley going past in the hall woke the slumbering Mayor. He was relieved to be awake. Another dream about that damn football game, it was the only thing about his life he could remember – and it wasn’t even that great. His brother was of no help with him, it was either embarrassing moments of his childhood or how his was ‘gonna whup’ those ER staffers at the next ping pong tournament. What an idiot.
He didn’t hear the soft foot falls of Blinky as he padded into the room. Blinky smelt trouble and had personally come to watch over the mayor. Even though there had been bad blood spilt between them - especially that whole Lassie thing. It had just got way out of hand. He had left the Secret Base, against the advice of his closest men. He would be by Johnny’s side when the heat went down – just like Johnny had been there for him back in Nam.
Blinky nuzzled Johnny’s hand. Johnny sighed. Blinky was here to comfort him again. Just like those lonely nights in the Vietnamese jungle, except without the Supremes costumes. Johnny felt at peace now. He could now let go, knowing that the bad blood that had been a-brewing between he and Blinky was off the boil. He closed his eyes and felt the gentle wave of submission wash over him. Ah, the calm of those waters. He could see the light, he was being drawn blissfully close to it. He saw a figure in the distance, it’s arms open. My guardian angel, thought Johhny. He floated closer and closer to the figure. As he got closer he was able to make out it’s features. Johnny felt a sudden pang of anxiety. He thought he knew that face, he just couldn’t remember where from. The face became clearer. Johhny gasped in horror. It was no guardian angel. It was HIM. Bubs! The Big Ugly Brussell Sprout Head Man! |
|
|
|
Bus to Oblivion
|
“Time to go!”
Mother Theresina herded the children onto the old convent bus. The bus was painted in a variety of carnivalè colours, and was named "Esmerelda". The bus driver, Juanos, was very proud of his bus. He loved it, and washed it every evening, in the cool dusk air.
“Today is a good day for bus driving,” Juanos said to himself as they pulled away from the kerb. Little did he know... because he wasn’t very clever.
Mother Theresina, on the other hand, was a genius. Not your run-of-the-mill, everyday, average genius, but a fully-fledged, out-of-this-world, well-above-average genius. Sort of like a whole bunch of genii tied together with catgut and strung into a really amazing tennis racket, sort of. She was more like a meeting at MENSA, where all the genii sit around, drinking coffee, waffling on about how smart they are, and how many square roots are there in a pi, and who has the best tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, and so on; but Mother Theresina chose to hide her secret from the world; relying instead on humility and charity, pretending to be a simple soul of simple means. To people like Juanos, she was just an old nun, nearly a saint. However, underneath that nun-like exterior lurked the devious mind of a spy. A spy who liked to herd children onto colourful buses for sinister purposes....
“Come, come, children on the bus” cooed the aging sister.
In a raggle-taggle fashion, the children complied.
“You like the carnivalè, eh sister?” asked Juanos when the last child was on the bus.
“More than you can imagine peasant,” was her silent response. “All on now, thank you. Lets make a start,” was all she said aloud.
What a lovely woman to love the children so, thought Juanos.
Little did he know.
A bead of sweat trickled from Juanos’ temple to his jaw. It burned like fire. He was confused. The last thing he could remember was the excitement in the children’s voices as they sang about that last zany bottle of beer on the wall, then everything went black. He had woken about an hour ago, bound and gagged by the side of a dusty road in the midday sun in the middle of nowhere, just left of Hicksville. The bus was gone.
“Juanos,” he thought to himself, “you’ve really done it this time.”
“Shut up ya little mofos!” Sister Theresina hissed. “No use cryin’ to your God now!”
Her maniacal laughter filled the bus as it bashed it’s way along the bush track. The radio blasted death metal through the ratty speakers as the old nun smacked her hands on the steering wheel in time to the barely coherent beat.
The children huddled, whimpering in their seats, jolting into screams as the nun bashed yet another bunny. They were terrified; all except for young Timmy. Timmy the Dog, as some of the children had cruelly, yet justifiably, called him. Timmy the Staremaster. Timmy just sat in that bus. Timmy just kept looking forward. Timmy barked... then quickly glanced sideways to see if anyone had noticed. A sly grin crept across Timmy’s face. The nun moshed on in the driver’s seat, oblivious to her impending doom. |
|
|
|
The Impending Doom or How Doctor Rebus Became Lost at Sea
|
“I now pronounce this fantastic ship, The Impending Doom, to be worthy of the sea, and wish her luck on her maiden voyage!”
Doctor Rebus let the bottle of Dom Perignon slip from his grasp, allowing the rope to which it was attached swing toward the bow of the magnificent ocean liner. The bottle smashed with an almighty smashing noise, sending a spray of champagne into the air. The gathered crowd cheered, and there was much rejoicing. The Chief gave the signal and the hydraulic supports rolled away, leaving the ship to slide gracefully into the port for its first taste of salty water. The Impending Doom groaned massively as it hit the surface, displacing millions of litres of water in seconds. Unfortunately, due to a severe miscalculation of weight ratios, the port was too small to handle the backwash, and the gathered crowd, including Doctor Rebus, were all swept away in the ensuing ship-induced tidal wave.
The Chief, who was safe in his control tower, scratched his head and wondered what to do. He picked up the phone and dialled. After thirteen rings, a voice answered.
“Yeah, what?” It was a female voice.
The Chief knew that it was now or never... he had to be strong. He licked his dry lips nervously before replying.
“Ginger, is that you?” |
|
|
|
Captain Breedwell Comes Undone
|
“Well you haven’t answered my question honey? I’m waiting.” Her foot tapped the edge of the breakfast table. She’d been at him for hours.
He slapped the newspaper down on the table, upsetting the milk jug, which crashed to the floor.
“Just leave it, woman. Why can’t you just leave it?”
“No, it’ll ruin the rug,” she said mopping at the split milk
“No. No, not that.”
“It’s just that you seem to be keeping something from me, and poor little Pandora won’t speak to me either. She says her therapist thinks it’s a bad idea. I’ve been so lonely, Sweetheart.”
“Stop it... just forget it, okay.”
“Why? Why won’t you talk to me? I’m your wife.” She held the milk soaked cloth to the corner of her eye. “Don’t you love me no more?”
“You really want to know why? Do you? DO YOU?”
The captain stood up with fists clenched, his chair falling backwards. With the tablecloth still tucked into his belt, the plates crashed off the table. He took a deep breath. His broad chest swelled and his medals went chink-chink against one another.
“I was the gunman, and just as I shot the Mayor, now I’m going to shoot you too!!” |
|
|
|
End of the Line
|
The bus, or more realistically what was left of the bus, smashed its way through the last concrete pillion and came to rest on the beach. It was going no further this day. The engine revved one last time and then was silent. Children spilled out through the emergency exits, much to Mother Theresina’s dismay. She remained in the driver’s seat screaming at them to remain on the bus. A trickle of blood made its way down her forehead. Now she felt exhausted and discouraged. She knew the jig was up - if only the bus could float she would have made it to the island. All those children would have been a great advantage to the experiment.
But it was not to be. |
|
|
|
Walk Through New York
|
Blinky slammed the phone down and swore under his breath.
“Useless,” he mumbled to himself. “USELESS.”
Apparently the mission had failed. There were missions failing all over the place lately. It was really quite discouraging. He had to get out, clear his mind. He decided to go for a walk.
Once he hit the busy street outside he started to relax. He stopped at a newspaper stand and bought the New York Times and a packet of Malboro Lights, in the soft pack. He smiled at the squat man in the squat stand surrounded by nudie magazines and thanked him for the free matches. He had something to read and some smokes. All he had to do was find a place to go. He cleared his mind and just let his feet do the walking... which funnily enough is how he usually got around.
He took a turn onto 5th Ave and headed Downtown. Taking a cigarette out of the packet and lighting it all in one fluid motion, as only the coolest of cats can, he thought he saw a shady figure out of the corner of his eye. He shook his head. This job is getting to you, he thought to himself. As he passed 14th Street he thought about Johnny. He had thought about Johnny a lot lately, about all of the good and sometimes bad times they had shared. It would be a long time before they saw each other again, and that saddened him. He felt the familiar pang of guilt. If only he had gotten to the NIPLs sooner. Then everybody would be a lot more satisfied. He shook his head once again and reminded himself he was walking to clear his mind.
And so he walked...
He walked all the way to Washington Square before he realised what the time was. There was no time to walk back, he’d have to catch the Subway. He bought his token and waited at the Number 6 Uptown platform. Hopefully the train would be coming along soon. There was a God-awful smell surrounding him. More awful than what usually greeted the Subway traveller, which is pretty awful. He checked his paws to see if he had stepped in something. Then a jolt went up Blinky’s spine. That smell. He knew it from somewhere. An image flashed through his memory. He was walking... along a river... next to someone... a man... and there was THAT smell.
“My God,” thought Blinky, “it’s the NIPLs!” |
|
|
|
Gunky Gunky Gunky Whoop
|
Far away on the Island, great things were afoot. The Chief had been dead now for fourteen days, and the Waiting Time had passed. It was time for the Choice to be made. And in the eyes of the Elders, there was only one option. The Choice had been made. Poor little Gunky didn’t want to be Chief. Just because he was born on the same day as the last Chief, he was destined to take over. He never had a choice in the matter, because the Choice had been made. The Waiting Time of fourteen days had passed, and now it was time for someone to take responsibility for the Island. That someone was Gunky, whether he liked it or not. Gunky heard the commotion while he was lying in bed on the morning of the fifteenth day. A cacophony of voices floated down the road and in his window. Groaning, he rolled over and tried to ignore the voices, even though he could clearly hear them chanting
“Gunky Gunky Gunky Whoop!”
Gunky pulled the covers over his head and blocked his ears.
“Gunky Gunky Gunky Whoop!” the voices cried, getting louder every second.
Gunky pushed his fingers so far into his ears it felt like he was touching his own brain. After a while that began to hurt, so he took them out.
“Oh why was I born on this Island?” he thought to himself. “I never wanted to be Chief. I wish Mother Theresina were here to advise me. And where are all the children we need to carry on with this stupid experiment?”
“Gunky Gunky Gunky Whoop!” the Islanders replied as they reached Gunky’s house and smashed the front door down. Several dozen of them poured into his bedroom, leaving hundreds outside, chanting and dancing in celebration of the appointment of the new Chief. The intruders wrenched Gunky from his bed, hoisted him aloft and carried him into the road. There he was tossed into the sea of people, and he crowd surfed on their upheld hands.
“Chief Chief Chief Gunky! Gunky Gunky Gunky Whoop!”
Gunky wondered how long it would be until the Islanders sacrificed him to the Master. The last Chief had been in office for three days. |
|
|
|
Then She Entered the Room
|
Blinky rubbed his paw to his eyes. He opened them slowly, focusing on the objects around him. He knew this place, he recognised the smell in his half-dream state. He lifted his head and was met with a shooting pain in his temples. He winced and groaned a little. He felt wrecked. His body ached, his head pounded and his tongue felt like it had been scraped across a welcome mat a few hundred times. He shook his head trying to rattle the pain in his head and the fog that had set in around his memory. He tried to haul himself up, but something had sapped his strength, right to his core. His heart quickened. His stomach groaned. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious. It could have been hours, it could have been days, possibly weeks, but that was probably pushing it. He tried to call out, but his voice caught in his throat. It was hopeless - all hope was gone. And then she entered the room.
“Oh Blinky, you’re awake.” She dashed to his side and jumped on the edge of his bed.
“Hmmm... awake? I barely feel alive.” |
|
|
|
Chief Scientist Kalbosky: you win some, you lose some
|
Doctor Kalbosky sat as his desk. The figures just didn’t add up. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and continued to stare down at the spreadsheet. His eyes blurred. How long did he sit there, staring, not really even blinking? He flicked off the desk lamp, then rubbed his temples. Leaning back in his executive leather bound chair he muttered “Another sleepless night ...” his voice trailed off.
Grabbing the dictaphone off the desk, he walked to the large windows at the end of the room. Pulling the blinds open he saw the majestic sun rising over the Pacific Ocean.
“Well if you have to waste your life - at least I got to waste mine with this view.”
Of course what he didn’t realise was that the view was computer generated. Chief Scientist Kalbosky was one kilometre under the surface. Sure he was on a Pacific island but located underground in a secret base.
“Miss Pursedlips” he began to dictate “Call a meeting of the board. I’m worried about the initial results that are emerging from the research. Try to schedule a satellite link-up with Mother Theresina. I know she is making her way here with the children. Its crucial that they arrive soon. Maybe more crucial than I first imagined. Sorry Cupcake. I don’t want to alarm you. Just get hold of the Mother ASAP.”
Pausing Kalbosky glanced around his office. “I also need the cleaning team to do a sweep of my office ... I don’t want to scare you but I think they might be mould growing in some of my dirty coffee cups. I’ll also need to be briefed by the lab teams. Organise a session with them at ... 10. Get security to check all rooms for alcohol. I think there are some bottles missing from my err ... confiscated ... err collection.” The Chief slumped back into this chair, the spreadsheet stared back at him. “The results have to be wrong ... I don’t understand ... all that research ... it can’t be for nothing. Sorry Miss Pursedlips just muttering to myself. Oh and get Cook to make some of that yummy cake that I like - with the cream. Hmmmm” Flicking off the Dictaphone, Kalbosky pulled a bottle of rum from his secret supply and poured himself a double.
“This’ll clear the cobwebs. Now spreadsheet, I don’t like you and you don’t like me ... but let’s try to...”
But he never finished the sentence. Gasping for air, knocking over his drink, Kalbosky fell to the floor clutching the spreadsheet to his chest.
The last thing he saw was the mistake on the spreadsheet, the answer to why the results were out. He knew how to fix it ... if only he could ... Nope. Chief Scientist Kalbosky was dead. |
|
|
|
Awakening Dreams
|
Captain Breedwell stood with his back to the door. His wife and daughter lay at his feet. He felt himself finally free. Free to start again, to dream again. Looking down at his shaking hands he realised the he could now become what he had hoped for all those years before. Being married had been the final door to slam shut on his hopes of becoming a tenpin bowling star. He had a wife and child to support so he did the only thing he could - join the Army. But that wasn’t enough. Bunny wanted everything and more. Then when Pandora became Little Miss Sunshine Indiana he wasn’t allowed to have dreams of his own anymore. His dream was flushed down the toilet to manure the growing ambitions of Bunny and her daughter. But NOW (oh yeah baby) now it was back to Numero Uno. He took one final look around the kitchen - the smashed milk jug, the broken plates and Bunny’s wiring sparking and fizzing. He did an abrupt about-face and marched out the door, patting his army issue revolver, still warm in its holster.
This was not the first time Barry White had had this effect over Bob
“And that was the man that we all knew and loved... well we kind of knew him. And I guess that loved is a little strong too. He was nice enough I suppose. Sometimes he could be a little on the moody side. But then who of us here, in all honesty, can’t say that at one time or another that we didn’t get a little grumpy now and then.”
Dan let out a nervous chuckle. He didn’t know why he had been chosen to give the eulogy at Chief Scientist Kalbosky’s funeral. But he thought everything was going quite well, considering. He hoped that no-one noticed he was struggling to find pleasant things to say.
“You know, I think my favourite thing about Chief Scientist Kabolsky was the way his nose would twitch whenever he was excited by the day’s results. He looked just like that nice young Sam from Bewitched. It really was quite charming. You know, I never liked that mother of hers. What was her name? Oh yes, Endora. She was terribly mean to that Darren fellow.”
Murmurs of approving and a gentle nodding of heads went throughout the gathering of mourners.
“So now we are going to finish with a hymn. Well, it’s not what most would traditionally call a hymn, I suppose. But it was Chief Scientist Kalbosky’s favourite song. Miss Pursedlips, if you wouldn’t mind taking up your position on the organ we can start. We’ll sing it E flat I think. If you would all like to turn to page 15 in your booklets you will find the words. However, I’m sure that you are all familiar with it. I think a rhumba beat might be the most appropriate thank you Miss Pursedlips. Ok, are we all ready? A one and a two and a three...”
As the mourners broke out into a Latin inspired version of Barry White’s ‘Can’t get enough of your love, baby’ a strange thing happened. Young Bob stood with his arms firmly clenched to his sides and started to sway from left to right. Everyone else was so enraptured with Miss Pursedlips rendition that they didn’t notice. Oblivious to the crazy latin rhythm, Bob continued to sway. His eyes wide, staring at the lecturn as if fixated by Dan’s solo rhumba and clicking fingers. This was not the first time Barry White had had this effect over Bob and as time would tell, it most certainly wouldn’t be the last.
The Islanders’ chant could be heard as the mouners finished their final hymn to their fallen leader.
“Gunky Gunky Gunky Whoop! Gunky Gunky Gunky Whoop!”
It was getting louder.
“Natives are restless,” commented Dan to himself before realising the mic was still on.
The assorted scientists and base workers looked anxiously around. Bob continued to slowly sway to music only he could hear.
“Gunky Gunky Gunky Whoop!”
It was getting nearer.
“Thanks for attending everyone but I think it best we retreat into the underground lab now,” announced Dave signally to the open doorway. “Bob could you give Miss Pursedlips a hand with the organ. Bob?”
But Bob was beyond hearing - all he knew was Barry was speaking to him; urging him to finish it all here and now.
“Gunky Gunky Gunky Whoop!”
The elaborate headdresses of the Islanders were clearly visible over the small grass mound where the funeral had just taken place. The gathered scientific community made a mad scramble for the entrance door, leaving Bob and the organ behind.
“Bob, quick we can’t keep this door open! BOB!” shouted Miss Pursedlips.
Bob swayed on.
“Gunky Gunky Gunky Whoop!”
The islanders had reached the mound, carrying their new chief on their shoulder. The lab door slammed shut. The rattling of several bolts and chains, made sure that it wasn’t going to open again anytime soon.
Bob was completely oblivious. |
|
|
|
Lost at Sea
|
|
Doctor Rebus clung to his flotation device. How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? His mind was filled with the horror and the glory of The Impending Doom. How many had died? What was their crime? A love of a big boat - it was unjust! He couldn’t see land ... he couldn’t see anything! Oh if only the wave had knocked off his glasses. He felt alone and lost, bobbing in the ocean. If he had his glasses he would have realised that he was only 20 meters from a beautiful tropical island. Maybe his luck will change and he’ll get washed ashore. Maybe he would be better left to the sharks. |
|
|
|
Franzie
|
“Maybe I should just give up.”
Franzie turned to see who was talking, but there was no-one there. Strange.
He kept walking down the quiet street.
“Maybe I should just pack it all in.”
Again Franzie wheeled to confront the speaker, but the street behind him was deserted. He craned his neck to see if there was anyone hanging out a window above him. Nothing.
“Maybe it’s time that I threw in the Mogga.”
Franzie stopped dead. It had been many, many years since he had heard the word Mogga, and it was not a word he wanted to ever hear again. The sound of that word had frozen his blood. No-one should ever say that word.
“Yes, I said Mogga!”
This time the voice sounded as if it was next to his ear. Franzie shook his head in terror, hoping to dislodge the ghostly voice from his brain. After a few minutes, he realised that the voice had actually come from inside his own head.
“Yes, Franzie,” the voice said, “the Mogga is back.” |
|
|
|
The Miracle
|
“Doctor Stone. Paging Doctor Stone.”
“What ... what is it...?” Doctor Stone wiped the sleep from his blurry eyes. He was lying in the darkened medicine closet again.
“Ah ... yes back saving lives,” he thought to himself, quietly exiting the closet. He walked down the hall, winking to nurses as he went.
“They all love me baby,” he thought. He was wrong.
Finally he presented himself to the main desk.
“Doctor Stone, where have you been? It’s your brother. Something’s happened.”
“What, he shoot milk out his nose?” chuckling to himself.
“Doctor Stone! Pull yourself together man. There’s been a development.”
“Just spit it out – he’s dead isn’t he? ISN’T He!?”
“Um no, he can walk – he’s not paralysed anymore.”
“Wow - modern miracle of science, praise Jesus.”
“Yes, it is a miracle. A miracle we believe performed by a local nun.”
“Oh?”
“Yes she said she was an old friend of the family ... Mother Theresina”
Doctor Stone didn’t even need to here the end of the sentence. He raced up the hall like his bum was on fire. “She’s here - that is a miracle,” he thought. He had to see her. To explain, to explain... even though it was so long ago, he could still picture her like it was yesterday... |
|
|
|
On the Road or Really little ants
|
Juanos was hot. Really hot. And dirty. Really dirty. And getting bitten by little ants. Really little ants. And he was angry. Really, really angry. Mainly at himself for being too complacent, but also at Mother Therisina for betraying him. That song about beer swirled around his throbbing head like a nasty carousel, one where you had to ride lizards and giant insects instead of ponies.
“99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer...”
His bound hands were cramping. His tongue was drying out. His eyes were burning in the hot, dusty sunlight. His skin was crawling with ants. His mind sang on and on, constantly reminding him of the cool, fresh taste of 99 bottles of beer. After a couple of hours, he passed out.
When he awoke, there was a shadow cast over his face from a large upright figure. Juanos assumed he was still unconscious and dreaming, but then the figure reached down and cut through his bonds. Water was poured onto his blistered face and into his parched mouth. Still too weak to rise, Juanos lay back in the sand and savoured the cool liquid. He heard a distant voice in his ears, and slowly realised it came from the shadow above him.
“So, Juanos, we meet again.”
Juanos found a cold metal cylinder being pushed into his cheek. He strained his eyes to the side to see the muzzle of a shotgun. The figure stepped out of the way of the sun, blinding Juanos again.
“Isn’t it funny how happy days can suddenly become sad?” the voice asked.
Juanos gasped. That voice. It had to be... no, it couldn’t be...?
“Yes, it’s me, Juanos. Chachi is back, and this time, Chachi’s in charge!”
He bundled the poor dehydrated Mexican bus driver into the back of the postal van. Sure there was no air-conditioning back there, but at least there weren’t any ants.
“I hate ants” cursed Chachi under his breath. He patted his shotgun.
He glanced up at a road sign that read:
250 miles to Roswell
New Mexico.
It was shot full of bullet holes. He added a few more.
“Time to deliver this package, amigo!” he shouted to Juanos, then jumped in the van and drove out onto the highway.
He drove out of the Arizona desert, and into New Mexico, following the Rio Grande through the towns of Truth or Consequences and Elephant Butte. Chachi was making good time. Juanos had stopped singing to himself. |
|
|
|
Doctor Rebus meets Carlos
|
Doctor Rebus felt the sun warm his face. It felt good. Carlos the Poolboy had just fetched him a cocktail and he took a sip through the curly straw. Mmmm... salty.
Was it tequila? He let his arm hang down from his floating li-low into the warm water of the hotel pool. This is the life, he thought as a steel drum played Kokomo in the lobby. He took another sip of his cocktail. It really was incredibly salty. Actually it was quite unpleasant, it made his lips shrivel. He didn’t want to cause a fuss but he really couldn’t drink it. He’d have to get Carlos to order him another.
“Carlos! Carlos!” Doctor Rebus clicked his fingers to summon the poolboy. He lifted his head off the li-low. “Where is that boy?” Doctor Rebus squinted past the glinting water of the pool. He could barely make out the bright cabanas. They seemed so far in the distance. The pool seemed much bigger than it had done a few minutes ago. He went to take another sip of the cocktail, but he couldn’t find his glass. He felt water splash over his head. Did his li-low have a leak?
Confused, he started to paddle over to the side of the pool. But where was it? Why was the water so rough? Doctor Rebus rubbed his eyes. He could no longer hear the steel drums. He looked around him and froze as the terrifying reality set in. There was no cocktail, there was no li-low, there was no steel drum band and more importantly there was no Carlos the Poolboy. There was only him, in the middle of the ocean, clinging to his floatation device with a severe case of sunstroke. |
|
|
|
He’s Not Dead After All
|
Swami decided it was time to check his email. It had been along time since he had heard from his contact in the FBI. He was starting to worry that he had been forgotten, abandoned while still on assignment. The disguise was good, put pretty soon the locals were going to work out that this “swami” wasn’t really from the Punjab. And they weren’t going to be happy, seeing as he had extorted millions of rupiah out of them for bogus spiritual therapy and Trip-o-matic Mind Glasses. Swami wanted to go home to the States, if only the FBI would let him. He had done his duty for his country, against his will, and look how they had repaid him: they sent some redhead to poison him. Luckily, Swami’s stomach had been removed and replaced with a metal box, just in case this kind of thing happened. The Mission could not be jeopardised by poison. The Mission was just too important.
For the first time in six weeks, there was actually some new mail:
>From: Guy Von Nutter
>To: Swami Boboli
>Subject: no subject
>
>Swami: the fish are jumping. The moon is ripe. The Mogga is ready. Do your
thing. And your thang too.
>Oh and I hope you are feeling a little better after that "incident".
>
>peace, Guy
Swami deleted the message, switched off his laptop, set fire to it, gathered up his Barry White records and began to prepare himself for the Next Move. |
|
|
|
Carlos and Kykle
|
“And then Kykle said ‘Well if you going to walk around like that people will start to talk.’
So I said ‘Who cares about other people, I mean like it’s the year 2001, not 1991!’
And he’s like ‘Well just try to make them smaller, you’re not alone in this you know. I have feelings too!’ and I’m like ‘Blah blah, tell it to the hand.’ I mean I have every right to feel this way right? And then Kykle goes ‘But those are MC Hammer pants and they just have to go! I mean I’m all for being an individual and the invite did say retro but I think they were thinking of something a little more chic. Plus you always care about what people think! I’m all for gay pride. But really this is ridiculous!’ So I go ‘Yeah, whatev!’ and eat some more shrimp. It’s cheap and nasty and smells funny, but then so does Kykle.”
The sun shone directly in Doctor Rebus’ eyes. He can barely make out Carlos. Who was he talking to? Why wouldn’t he get a drink? A lovely cool drink.... served by the lovely Carlos. He secretly hoped that Kykle wasn’t Carlos’ boyfriend. That would really ruin his day.
Doctor Rebus knows one thing for sure. He doesn’t like this Kykle guy.
“I don’t like that Kykle guy,” said Doctor Rebus. “I can’t understand why Carlos keeps talking about him like he’s something special.” But all the same, Doctor Rebus can’t help eavesdropping on the poolside gossip.
“Then I say ‘Let’s drop it. It’s for the best. Kykle stays, that’s all that matters.’ And you know what, for once, for the first time - Kykle agreed with me.” |
|
|
|
Guy Von Nutter Takes to the Sky
|
High above the Island, Guy Von Nutter was leaning from the open door of the helicopter, snapping pictures on his super-sensitive digicam. Crowds of people swarmed on the beaches, and with his zoom, Guy was able to pick out certain individuals. He honed in on one particular person: swaying and apparently humming to himself, eyes closed in bliss.
“Go closer,” he called to the pilot without taking his eye from the viewfinder. The pilot banked east and reduced altitude, nearly tipping Guy out the door.
“Jesus H. Christ, watch it! I nearly fell out, man!”
“Sorry, sir,” the pilot muttered.
“That’s OK,” Guy said. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice at you. Peace.”
Guy snapped a few more pictures as they swooped around to the far side of the Island. The Lab’s exhaust outlets were in full view, protruding from the shore rocks and belching smoke. Guy kept the shutter clicking. He noticed a movement at the mouth of one of the outlets and tried to sharpen the focus. It looked like a figure emerging from the belching smoke, crawling over the lip of the chimney.
“Can’t you get any closer?” Guy shouted at the pilot. The chopper banked again and dropped lower in a dizzying spin before flattening out again. Guy trained the camera on the moving speck and increased the zoom magnification.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said to the pilot, “but it looks like we have an escapee.” |
|
|
|
One Too Many Tequilas
|
“Look at the camera, Carlos. Smile for the camera. Click click. Click Click.”
Rebus leered at Carlos. His mouth contorted into a drunken smile. His tongue lolled.
Carlos shifted uncomfortably in his li-low.
“Click click.”
“Work it baby. Click. Ugh! Yucky.”
Rebus was so drunk he was taking photos with his asthma inhaler and had squirted himself in the eye. He had been poolside with Carlos for the whole day. He could never remember feeling so happy. The pool, the cocktails, Carlos and no sign of Kykle. Ahhh, these were good times.
He couldn’t remember how long he had been at the resort. He’d guessed he’d drunk so much of the salty tequila that it made his memory a little dim. He didn’t mind. It was peaceful here and Carlos - although yet to actually speak to him - was very good company.
“It’s so peaceful here with the steeldrums, Carlos. I think I could stay here forever. Poolside. With you. Can you hear the ocean, Carlos? Isn’t it dreamy? Can you hear the birds? Oooo...look at that one. He must be one of those big tropical beauties I’ve heard so much about. Much like yourself, Carlos. You know it’s kind of loud isn’t it? I don’t think I care much for it’s wompa wompa wompa wompa noise. But still it is beautiful. Wave to the birdy, Carlos. Ooo, it’s getting closer. Haha!”
Rebus waved his arm over is head like only a middle aged drunk man can. He waved and garbled at the majestic wompa wompa wompa wompa bird until it wompa wompa wompa wompa-ed out of sight.
With a truckload of imaginary tequilas inside him Rebus hadn’t noticed the strange plumage of the bird - it was metal and its wompa wompa call was actually the sound of blades rotating at an incredible rate. He didn’t notice that this was no bird of paradise at all. In fact, it was a helicopter of hell and as it disappeared out of sight, so did Rebus’ chances of making it out of his sunstroke delusions alive. |
|
|
|
Barry White Strikes Again
|
As Guy circled the island in the helicopter, he was overwhelmed by an incredibly powerful sense of deja vu. The thud-thud-thud of the rotor blades seemed to slow and warp in his ears, his vision blurred, and he almost dropped the camera as his palms suddenly broke out in a slippery sweat. A low chanting began in the depths of his memory, struggling to the conscious surface. He heard the chiming of invisible gamelan percussion and smelt the cloying scent of long-forgotten incense. Gradually, through the haze, he heard the clear melodious voice of the Swami, preaching at him from beyond the forgotten years:
“Let’s riff on love’s theme. I’m gonna love you just a little more, baby. I’ve got so much to give. Never, never gonna give you up. Honey please, can’t ya see, I can’t get enough of your love, babe. You’re the first, the last, my everything. What am I gonna do without you? I’ll do anything you want me to. Let the music play. You see the trouble with me... baby, we better try to get it together. Don’t make me wait too long; I’m qualified to satisfy you. It’s ecstasy when you lay down next to me, playing your game, baby. Oh, what a night for dancing. Your sweetness is my weakness, just the way you are: satin soul.”
For a moment, Guy was back there in the compound with the Swami. Back before the whole Project had fallen apart. Back before the Island. Back before Guy Von Nutter had even existed. Back when he had answered to one name, and one name only: Mogga. |
|
|
|
Doctor Stone Makes a Diagnosis
|
“Well Franzie, it’s a good thing you stopped by,” said Doctor Stone examining the x-ray photos. “There seems to be something lodged in your head. If I didn’t know better I’d say it was some sort of wireless receiver transmitting messages directly into your brain.”
“Doctor Stone... do you think I should stop wearing my tin foil hat?”
“NO! For God’s sake man! That hat is probably the only thing keeping you sane.”
“Do you have any idea how it might have gotten there? For as you know doctor, like I said, I have only been out of the coma for 6 months now... my life before the accident is still a blur.”
“I don’t think it was an accident... but I can’t talk now.” Doctor Stone looked concernedly around his office, “These hospital walls have ears.” Lowering his voice to an almost inaudible whisper he continued, “I have heard of this Mogga before, we’ll get to the bottom of this Franzie, together.”
“And what of the other test results Doc?”
“Yes Franzie. I was getting to those, gosh your pushy... reminds me of this lovely nurse I used to know... a dab hand at table tennis...”
“Doctor Please!” begged Franzie.
“No, I’m Doctor Stone, not Doctor Please. He works on Wednesdays.” Doctor Stone slapped his knee, highly amused by his gag. Franzie didn’t seem to get the joke though.
“Must be the brain implant.” thought Doctor Stone.
“The other test results show... yes Franzie, it’s as you thought - you were once a woman.” |
|
|
|
Will the Real Carlos and Kykle Please Stand Up or The White Hot Dance Troupe
|
Despite being figments of the tortured and feverish hallucinations going on in Doctor Rebus’ mind, far away on the mainland there was also a real Carlos and a real Kykle. They were attending an exclusive party at the flashy riverside apartment of their friends Horton and Phyllida Gruberhosen. Strangely enough, it was Kykle who had the MC hammer pants on, not Carlos as Doctor Rebus imagined. But his sunstroked brain had one thing right: Kykle did smell funny. And he was starting to act funny too.
As the other guests shimmied on the hardwood floor to the timbale-driven Latino sound of Tito Puente, Carlos pulled Horton aside.
“I think we might have a problem with Kykle,” Carlos whispered.
Horton looked surprised and shrugged his eyebrows at Carlos, as if to say “What you talkin’ ‘bout, Carlos?” Then he actually said it.
“What you talkin’ ‘bout, Carlos?”
Phyllida saw them conspiring in the corner near the ferns and came over to see what was happening.
“What’s happening?” she asked suspiciously. “Are you discussing new dance moves without me?”
“Shush quiet,” Carlos hissed, waving his hands worriedly, “Kykle might hear you.”
Oblivious to the others, Kykle was sitting quietly in an armchair nursing a large margarita. He slurped noisily, poking himself in the eye with the little umbrella and spilling tequila on his Hammer pants.
Carlos pulled Horton and Phyllida closer together and moved them further into the ferns.
“That’s his fifth margarita,” he said. “Not to mention all that red wine he scammed from your cellar during this afternoon’s rehearsal.”
Phyllida and Horton glanced at each other in that way that only married couples can. Carlos found it particularly annoying.
“Don’t do that look,” he snapped. “It’s time we all admitted it. Kykle has a drinking problem, and it’s starting to threaten the integrity of the White Hot Dance Troupe.”
“Don’t overreact, Carlos,” Horton said, peering between the fern fronds at Kykle drinking his margarita. Kykle was now licking the salt of the inside of the glass rim.
Phyllida poked Horton in the ribs. “He might have a point, Horty. Remember the last party where he tried the Merman Swimming Manoeuvre and gave himself that huge carpet burn on his knee? That nearly cost us the semi-final.”
“Don’t poke me!” Horton said between gritted teeth. “How many times have I asked you not to poke?”
“Focus, people,” Carlos said. “If we don’t intervene soon we could all be in trouble. I didn’t want to bring up that Blanket Move he tried to force on us for the Southern Dancefloor Bonanza, but that nearly blew our rep completely.”
As they discussed his welfare, Kykle finished licking his glass and headed for the dancefloor. Suddenly he ripped off his shirt, yelled “Hammer time!” and tried to pull off the Caterpillar. Unfortunately his feet crashed straight through the Gruberhosen’s new glass topped coffee table, sending an explosion of shards into the air. All the party groovers stopped in confusion; Tito Puente continued to whoop it up on the CD.
Carlos, Horton and Phyllida gaped at each other in shock. Kykle lay inert amongst the broken glass, moaning softly, his Hammer pants blowing in the air conditioned breeze.
Phyllida was the first to speak.
“Well there goes our chance of defending our title as the Whitest, Hottest, Dancingest Troupe in town.” |
|
|
|
Guy to the Rescue
|
Guy shook his head, trying to get his thoughts back to the here and now. He had a job to do, didn’t he?
The pilot was looking worried. He had thought that Guy was really cool - but all that swaying and humming of Barry White songs. “What was that about?” he thought to himself. It would be better if he never knew.
“Right, ok - so where were we? Ah yes! An escapee – we’ve got to help him!” shouted Guy, snapping out of his trance like state.
He immediately sprang into action. He did have a job to do and by jingo, he was going to do it.
“Get as close as you can pilot dude,” directed Guy.
Buckling the winch hook to his snappy utility belt, Guy launched himself out of his seat and the chopper in one graceful bound. Just as he began his descent, his eye was caught by a person floating near the shore. Although he was too high to see the man’s face clearly, he recognised the bloated body. Suddenly all thoughts of the escapee were swept from his mind.
“Change direction!” he shouted up at the pilot. “We need to rescue that guy in the water before we do anything else!”
The pilot banked left on Guy’s command and headed away from the Lab towards the floating figure. Guy held his breath and murmured to himself.
“Hold on you, Guy is on his way. Peace.” |
|
|
|
Blinky thinks
|
Blinky took a sip from his black coffee and then lit a cigarette.
“You know, Blinky. Those things will kill you.”
He looked at her, one ear cocked.
“Yeah, well. They can get in line.”
He then smiled, embarrassed at how gruff he had been with her. But he was still suspicious. It seemed like too much of a coincidence that she had found him just in time at that subway station.
So many things had happened; he wasn’t sure if he could really trust anyone, even himself.
He took a long drag and made his way to the window. He looked out and tried to make sense of the last few days. He felt sorry for the people below. They were oblivious to the fact of what was happening in the thousands of tunnels below their feet. The scheming, the plotting, the occasional game of charades. So much secret business in so many secret bases. He wanted to warn them of the inevitable danger that lie ahead. If he and his men couldn’t get to the NIPLs then the consequences would be catastrophic. Not just for him but for everyone one of those people scurrying through the city streets. It was time, he thought. Time to move this operation into high gear. The future of mankind depended on it. She gently placed her hand on his shoulder.
“What are you thinking about, Blink?”
He paused, wondering if he could be truthful with her. One look into her blue eyes gave him the answer. He sighed and his shoulders dropped and he sadly said, “I was just thinking about how I could really go some Chinese food.” |
|
|
|
Home Sweet (and Sour) Home
|
The Mayor sat up in bed, taking in the familiar sights of his bedroom. His Chachi poster smiling down at him, with that ever present ‘in charge’ twinkle in his eye.
“Ah it’s good to be home. Home from hospital; that has been like a home, but still wasn’t actually home. More of a figurative home of healing, or house if you will, than literally being a home where one gets home-cooked meals. Ah yes – home is where the heart is and where I hang my hat – if I had said hat.” He tried to think of more home adages. “Ummm home on the range, home and away…” His voice trailed off, they weren’t very good.
“Yeap, good to be home.” He leant back into his pillows, resting his arms behind his head. “Hey do I smell Chinese food?” |
|
|
|
Adieu Barry White
|
Somewhere in that huge city walked a desperate man. Alone, so very alone. What had his life been before? Doctor Stone’s words echoed through his tortured mind. “...once a woman... once a woman... once a woman...”
And then he stopped dead, caught in mid-step. A kid on the street corner was calling out the evening headlines, just trying to sell his papers; he didn’t know the impact his words would have.
“Maestro of Love no more!”
Screaming filled in Franzie’s head.
“Barry White Dead!” shouted the paperboy.
Franzie fell to his knees, clutching at the sky.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!” |
|
|
|
The Greatest Band of All Time
|
The crowd was growing restless. Most had camped out all week to secure their tickets. It was the last opportunity to see the greatest band of all time. The Sex or Sterilisation Tour had torn across the country - leaving broken hearts and broken stadiums in its wake. It was nearly time for last show. It was going to floor the world!
The Fisty Cuffs had come from no where, taken the rock scene by the scruff of its neck and taught it a lesson. They were here to make some noise and they wouldn’t be leaving until their time was up. Little did they know their time would be so short.
The drummer and synth player huddled together in the wings, quietly going over their moves.
“When we get to the bit that goes laaa blahh dee doo awhhhh, I’ll go like this ... and then you do this...”
“Hey that’s great,” said the drummer, as she pulled on her cut-off lace gloves. “About time to get this show on the ...”
But her words were cut off by the sudden silence of the crowd. Someone had walked on stage. It wasn’t a member of the greatest band of all time... it wasn’t even a roadie for the greatest band of all time ... it was Barry White.
“Isn’t he dead?” a single whispered voice said. |
|
|
|
Job for the F.P.
|
“This look like a job for the F.P.! Step aside please. Nothing to see here. Move along. No Gawking!”
A fabulous dressed woman glided through the crowd, with confident toss of her head, she flashed her badge.
“Fashion Police - move away please. I won’t ask again.” The crowd was immediately taken by her and she effortlessly took control of the situation.
The F.P. officer glanced at the crumpled form lying on the pavement. What was she to do? This was a complete disaster. Who’d wear white strappy kitten-heeled sandals (which were bad enough) with baggy shorts and a bra top? And the bandana? What was all that about? It was almost too much for her to stomach to bare. Taking a deep breath and fixing her eyes straight ahead, she demurely asked “Ma’am? Can you stand?”
“He’s dead!” wailed the figure on the ground.
“That’s no excuse for breaking the law.”
“Oh I was wearing this anyways,” replied the huddled figure.
“Goodness – you’d better come with me.”
“The grief ... too strong … can’t move.”
“Of course you can. Here take my hand,” she offered.
The miserable creature struggled to stand.
“Just don’t make eye contact with the crowd, keep your head down. I’ll take you back to headquarters. My emergency street pack doesn’t have anywhere near enough equipment to deal with you out here.”
Franzie gulped, “Why this lady so nice? Sniff sniff.”
“You’re a fashion nightmare, it’s my duty to step in and sort you out.”
Slowly the amazing officer and Franzie made their way down the street. The only noise was the soft sobbing of Franzie, and the hushed whispering of the dispersing crowd. |
|
|
|
Wumpy enters the picture
|
Far away in the cold winter of Iceland, Wumpy sat alone in his little cat-house. His house was a fake log cabin, made of plastic logs, with a pointy red roof. Wumpy’s human owners had bought the little cabin for his cat many years ago, hoping that it may provide Wumpy with some warmth and comfort. Wumpy was an outside cat. He was never allowed in the human house, and this made him angry.
At first Wumpy had been insulted by the kitschness of the cabin, but as he had no other form of shelter from the freezing Icelandic winds, he grudgingly moved in. The cabin was too small, and it was still very cold, but at least it stopped the biting wind.
Over the years, Wumpy grew bigger, and he barely fit into his little fake log cabin. He had to squeeze his tawny body in through the door, squash himself up to turn around, and then stick his head out of the tiny door to see what was going on. This made him very mad. But it was still better than being outside in the Icelandic tempest.
If anyone ever approached his cabin he would meow in a very threatening manner. People were scared of Wumpy, and with good reason. After being outside in his fake log cabin in the cold for so many years had turned Wumpy into a tightly wound spring of feline hatred. He was especially bitter that the humans lived inside the heated house with their stupid dog. Blinky the dog was definitely Wumpy’s nemesis.
Wumpy hated how the humans would take Blinky out for walks and then let him back inside to slobber on the couch. He hated how Blinky would sit at the glass door and stare out at Wumpy, wagging his stupid tail. Wumpy would stick his head out of the cabin door and hiss at Blinky in fury. Blinky would just wag his tail even more, as if to say ‘hey buddy, at least I’m inside near the heater.’ Wumpy hated that.
One day, Blinky disappeared. He went on a walk with the humans and never came back. Wumpy took this as a good sign, and prepared for a new life inside the human house. After a few days of Blinky being gone and Wumpy was still not allowed inside the house, Wumpy realised that things had gone awry. This made him very, very mad indeed. His bitter, catty soul turned black with unrequited rage. He sat quietly in his cabin and plotted the demise of those that had wronged him.
Wumpy would have his revenge. Revenge on the humans. And revenge on that stupid dog, Blinky. |
|
|
|
Blinky has got to go
|
Blinky leaned against the breakfast bar as he finished the leftovers from last night’s kung pow chicken. He needed to leave her apartment. Soon. He had to get out there, start working, let his men know that he was alright. But he had to do all of this without arousing her suspicion. It could mean disaster if she knew what he knew which she thought he didn’t know. Or something like that.
He needed a plan. He tapped his paws frantically on his forehead to the rhythm of the beating shower in the other room. He could hear the faucet shutting off. He willed himself to think.
He sat up straight as she entered the kitchen in her robe. Her pink towel wrapped around her head. It looked like a turban and he instantly despised her. Reminded of the time he had found her entwined in the arms of that so-called swami. Then an idea came to him.
“Dollface, I gotta get some air. I’ll be back soon.”
“But Blinky, you can’t. It’s too dangerous. You know that the NIPLs would have seen me take you here. They are just waiting for an opportunity to strike. I can’t let you leave.”
“You don’t understand. I HAVE to go. It’s imperative that I get out. For some air.” He looked pleadingly at her and then looked down at his crossed back legs. “I’ll just go downstairs and then come straight back up again. It will be fine. But I really, really have to go.”
Her frown deepened as her eyes darted and then it occurred to her.
“I can’t let you. I’ll put some paper down.”
He winced slightly. With a weak smile on his face he said “Paper. Yeah. Why didn’t I think of that?”
He jumped on the couch as her frantic search for old newspapers began. It was serious now. He’d have to hurt her to get out and he wasn’t afraid to do it.
In his frustration he didn’t hear the quiet clicking of the remote control spy camera as it zoomed in on Blinky’s face.
Across the street, men in dark glasses sniggered in the back of a dry cleaning van as they watching the flicking picture before them.
A purr came from the front seat.
The Boss was pleased. |
|
|
|
The Chief Remembers
|
“I wonder what Doctor Rebus is up to?”
“He’s dead Chief. Remember the boat accident?”
“What?”
“Oh that’s right, you’ve got no memory of the terrible day the Impending Doom was launched.”
“Impending Doom? Chief? What are you talking about?”
“Oh that’s right, you don’t even know who you are do you?”
“I know that I could take you over my knee and give you such a hidin’!”
“Well yes you could, teee heee.”
“Yes I could.”
“That’s enough talk. Time to settle down there. Would you like another drink?”
“Why yes Kykle, I would.” |
|
|
|
Aboard the Angry Mole
|
The pirate captain looked across the deck, “Arghh, what have we here?!” he exclaimed.
“And what’s he got, more’s the question?” said Ron, second pirate in command.
“League Bowling Cup and I’ll be damned before I give it to you!” Captain Breedwell stared defiantly at the one eyed, one legged, parrot festooned pirates.
“Now, now, calm down. I don’t wants it. I just wanted to know what it was for. Must be good at bowling ah? But why do you want to join my crew?” said the pirate captain. He was kind of offended by Breedwell’s assumption.
“Well I fulfilled one dream - to be a tenpin bowling champion, and next on my list was pirate. And I saw your ad?” Captain Breedwell fumbled with the cup as he pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.
“Argh yes, we had a lot of inquiries, but none have been pirate material. What’s you got that makes you the right stuff?”
“Well I have a uniform ...” he trailed off. This wasn’t going as easy as he’d thought.
“Argh and a nice one at that,” said Ron, second pirate in command.
“Easy there Ron,” said the pirate captain “Anything else? Killed anyone?”
“Well I am a military man. And … and I had a shot at the Mayor once … but he lived.”
“You tried, that’s the main thing.” said Ron, second pirate in command.
“I think we can do something with you. Best applicant so far. You haven’t cried or called out for your mother. What's your name?”
“Captain Breedwell, captain,” snapped Captain Breedwell, and matched it with a deft salute and a click of his heels.
“We can only have one captain aboard this ship - so I will call you Ron,” replied the pirate captain.
“But I'm Ron,” whined the second pirate in command.
“Arghh tis true,” replied the pirate captain. “How about Don?”
“Why captain - my name is Don, Don Breedwell.”
“Well that’s settled then. Welcome aboard the Angry Mole. Arghh”
Don Breedwell was beginning his new life - as a pirate. He couldn’t believe it; two dreams fulfilled in just two days. He hugged his trophy to his chest. The Angry Mole started out from the dock, and headed out to sea. Don watched the land disappear. He wondered where they were heading. Little did he know what lay ahead. |
|
|
|
Guy saves the Doc and loses his heart
|
“Now I know this is gonna be difficult. But if you keep still it will be a lot less traumatic. Peace.” Guy shouted above the noise of helicopter and the whipping of the salty spray against his face.
“You’re a big man, Doctor Rebus. I’m not sure that this cable will hold us both. You may have to go up alone. Now if you would just stop waiving your arms around like a school boy waiving his momma goodbye I could clip this thing on!” Guy blinked and shook his head. He wasn’t even sure if that made sense to him.
“But I don’t want to go. I like it here. I like it here so much. Hear the steel drum band. I paid for four weeks of sun, surf and salty tequilas and I ain’t leaving until I get it.”
“Doctor Rebus, you have a severe case of sunstroke. You don’t know what you are talking about. You have been floating in the middle of the ocean for weeks.”
“Why are you being so mean? You don’t sing to me anymore. Sing one song for me.”
“Doctor Rebus, this is hardly the time. Please try and be more cooperative!”
“You can go to hell for all I care. Go straight to hell. I can’t believe I’ve wasted all those tears for you. You can’t even make a decent tequila!”
Doctor Rebus spat salty water in Guy’s face.
“Now, Doctor Rebus, that’s the limit! If you can’t behave I’ll have to knock you out.”
“Oooo, tough man. Are you going to spank me? Hmm… Carlos?”
“Why must you…what? What did you just say?”
“Carlos. Sing for me. Sing Barry for me this one last time”
Guy lowered his fist and stared into Rebus’ blistered grinning face, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. He was a disturbing sight. Yet, somehow Guy couldn’t look away. His biceps twitched under the weight of Rebus’ bloated body. He drew him gently closer as they were lifted out of the water. The cable groaning under their weight.
“We’re dancing! We’re dancing!” shouted Dr Rebus as they twirled in the sky on their way up to the helicopter. “It’s been so long since we danced, Carlos. I forgot how good it felt. Wheeeeeeee!”
“Yes it has. Peace,” murmured Guy in Rebus ear. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold him this way for much longer, they were almost at the chopper and nobody would understand. He tightened his grip on the doctor as one salty tear rolled down his cheek. |
|
|
|
Just who is Franzie?
|
Franzie sat quietly in the sleek office, his mind still reeling, his body slowly rocking side to side.
“Dead … dead,” he sniffed to himself.
Meanwhile on the other side of the desk and on the phone, F.P. Officer Jones was in deep conversation with someone. That someone would shortly be revealed.
“We’ve had confirmation from head office. I’ve run the prints. I’m just not sure how to tell her, I mean him. I mean Franzie.”
Pause…
“Yes, yes that all very well but how would I tell him, ur her, ur Franzie?”
Pause …
“Right, okay. I’ll speak to you later, mysterious helper.”
Officer Jones hung up the phone and turned to address Franzie.
“I’m going to tell you straight. No beating round the bush Franzie. No clumsy ramblings or going off on tangents. I’m going to tell you what you need to know. Maybe it will remind you of your past? Maybe it will revive that thing inside you that died? Remember that thing Franzie? That thing that died inside you that day? Maybe it was your spirit that died? Or your hope? I suppose I shouldn’t have brought that up. Please don’t cry Franzie.”
Officer Jones offered a starch white tissue to the blubbering Franzie.
“Now I’m going to let you in on what I’ve discovered about your identity. I rang Doctor Stone like you said. I’ve spoken to him, and I’ve spoken to a very helpful friend.” Officer Jones made those annoying quote marks with her hands when she said friend. Franzie found this very condescending but didn’t have the strength to make a point of it.
“So we managed to discover that you’re not just some tragic fashion victim, even though you won’t remove the tin foil hat.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “We’ve run your finger prints through the missing person’s database and found a match. Your name is …”
But before she could say the phone rang.
“Tisk, isn’t that always the way?” she shook her head. |
|
|
|
Meanwhile back in the postal van
|
“Time for Chachi to stock up on some provisions,” he muttered to himself as he pulled the van into the drive-thru bottle shop.
“May I please have some more beer?” asked Juanos. Since Chachi had let him ride up front, he was having much more fun. “This is like old times, eh Chach?”
“Yes, happy days.”
“Well not exactly like Happy Days, I mean, without Ralph and Fo…”
Chachi cut him off. “Don’t say it. Don’t say his name. Didn’t I say not to mention anyone from the old days? Do you want to go in the back? Don’t make me put you in the back.”
“Oh no Chach, not the back, I’ll be good.” He paused. “More beer would make me good.”
“Alright you little scamp, but no more pissing off Chachi. Chachi don’t like getting pissed off.”
With their beverage purchase in hand, plus nuts because beer is just not the same without snacks, they set off again.
“Hmmm nuts” crunched Juanos.
Checking the map, Chachi remarked “Only 20 more miles ‘til the end of the road, compadre, then we’ll show them all.”
“Can I have the van when you’re done Chach? Cos I don’t think I’ll ever see Esmeralda again.” A single glistening tear rolled down his cheek, it wasn’t the first tear he’d shed for his beloved bus nor would it be the last.
“Sure you can old buddy, sure you can,” lied Chachi, looking across at the now smiling Juanos, even though he knew it wouldn’t be the case.
Little did he know.
|
|
|
|
|