Tweet
To get you all in the mood....
**************************************
Apolyton horror story
Part 1.
No-one knew exactly who had built it. Certainly, there were stories- most agreed that it had appeared back in the early years of Apolytonia, shortly after the great unification in the reign of King Dan the Relentlessly Polite. Some tales mentioned that two neighbouring structures had been joined, in some blasphemous act of architectural miscegenation which created the vast, looming edifice. What was clear was that it had grown over the years, with countless new structures and themes being added by many differing hands. Now it squatted over the fair and ordered land, like a twisted and rotting mass of roots. A diseased old stump that still shot forth strange and disturbing new shoots.
Like a colossal tumour, it was eating away at the land. It drew in life, and spewed forth nothing but whispers and mockery. Many had been seen to enter through it's revoltingly anatomical gateway, but few emerged. Those who did return were broken shells, their minds torn beyond repair by the unspeakable horrors within those walls, left to gibber and scream their days away in the asylums.
Even the light was affected. Even when the freshest of spring mornings teased Apolytonia awake, within the sight of that monstrous fortress the skies clouded over and the daylight became tarnished and yellowed as an old tooth. When those sickly rays finally lit up the looming barbican, they revealed the great carving over the gateway in a jarring and abrupt hand. Etched deep into the wet and slime-covered stone were the words "Offe Topyc".
It was, to be blunt, the sort of place that would make an estate agent splatter his walls with his own brains. Nobody said the place was entirely without redeeming virtues....
**************************************************
With a solid and reassuring "chunk", the door of the Blower Bentley slammed shut. Bulldog Rah crunched confidently down the gravel path towards Community Hall, idly swinging his tennis racquet as strode up to the doorway. On his way he tipped a forelock-tugging groom, ruffled the hair of a sooty-faced young urchin, and advised a grovelling beggar to acquire meaningful employment whilst simultanously removing himself from Rah's ****ing face. He rang the doorbell, and turned round to admire the view over the estates, his sunny good mood only slightly besmirched by his noticing that the urchin appeared to urinating in his fuel tank.
The door was answered by the wrinkled old retainer, affectionately nicknamed "Scrotum", who took Rah's handmade Panama and escorted him through the panelled hallways to the drawing room. There he was left to admire the dusty portraits of dyspeptic and syphilitic ancestors whilst surreptitiously stuffing his pockets with cigars from the inviting box on the coffee table.
The Hon. Markos Gianonandonandonandonandon didn't keep him waiting long. Exchanging brief and rather stilted pleasantries the two sat in facing armchairs. Bulldog broke the silence first.
"It's always a pleasure to sample your hospitality, old man. Now if you'd be so kind as to have your man bring me a shotgun, perhaps you can tell me what you want?"
Markos gestured to Scrotum, who vanished silently. "You recall old "Buffy" Siddiqui? Decided to investigate that......"thing"......on the borders a couple of years ago?"
"Old Squeakers?" said Rah. "I won't forget him in a hurry. I fagged for him at Harrow- he used to beat me senseless if his crumpets weren't sufficiently buttered. Disappeared without trace, didn't he?".
"Indeed" said Markos. "No great surprises there. You'd think people would start to take the hint, wouldn't you?". He paused to light his pipe. "The surprise was that he's turned up again.".
"Really? What sort of state was he in?"
"Oh, his mind's gone, of course. Buggered five ways to February and back. He's safely locked away over at Doc Strangelove's sanatorium, where I believe he's attempting to redecorate his cell in his own poo. "
Rah snorted. "He always did have a touch of "Day boy" to him. ". He accepted the 12-bore Purdey from the returning butler and broke it, casually extracting a cartridge from his waistcoat pocket. "I fail to see how this concerns me, however." he said.
"In among all the ranting, he's said that he knows what's going on in there. What's more, I think that he can provide enough useful information to get the right sort of man in and out safely."
Bulldog arched an eyebrow knowingly. "The right sort of man?". He walked over to the window and opened it. Raising the shotgun to his shoulder, he continued. "Did you have anyone specific in mind?".
"I think you know who that person would be. Rah, we need you to get in there. There's some sort of conspiracy afoot, and we need to find out what's happening before it's too late."
Taking aim at the distant urchin, who had fitted a jack under the Bentley and had so far removed both front wheels, Rah sighed. "I suppose I'd better cancel St. Moritz, in that case.". He pulled the trigger, and the Purdey's blast almost drowned out the brief and distant scream. "Have your man whip me up some Marmite sandwiches, would you?".
Part 2
"Strangelove" wasn't his real name, of course. It was a nickname acquired due to his revolutionary work in the field of deviant human sexuality. The recent developments in electrical batteries had allowed him to patent his "Onanecutioner", a device intended to combat the social evil of self-love. Through the medium of powerful electrical shocks to the privy parts, this apparatus caused a complete cessation of onanism in 95% of patients, and severe burns with psychological trauma in the other 5%.
He was a member of Gray's club, and it was there in an overstuffed leather armchair that Rah found him, sleeping off his port and spotted ****. After being nudged awake and plied with Turkish cigarettes, the good doctor proved more forthcoming.
"Ah, yes. Old "Squeakers" Siddiqui? He's lost the plot, poor chap. Keeps raving about some sort of plot."
Bulldog leaned forward to light the physician's ***. "So I hear. Is there any sense in what he's saying?".
"You tell me." said Strangelove. "He just gibbers away merrily. He's taken to beating his head against the wall at a steady rythym too, and believe me that's a real pain in the arse. It's "thud.....thud.....thud" all the bloody day and night". The doctor sighed. "I've heard that some Yank chap has come up with some sort of treatment involving severing the frontal temporal lobes through the eye-socket with an icepick to calm down incurables. Don't think I haven't been tempted, but if he doesn't start behaving I may use an axe."
"I think I may have to meet him in person" said Rah.
"Feel free. Just don't expect the height of luxury in the sanatorium."
"That's right!" guffawed the 14th Earl of DinoDoc as he gently settled his gouty foot on a pouffe. "Old Strangelove keeps them trussed up tighter than a pervert's turkey."
"Can you blame me?" said Strangelove. "Look what happened over at Professor Guynemer's Home for the Odd last week."
"God, yes" chuckled the Earl, his ample girth shaking at about 6.3 on the Richter scale. "Some loony smuggled a Beretta in and started blazing away. Shot the matron a new arsehole, I believe. She was none too pleased about it anyway. Ended up garrotting him with her corsets. Poor bugger."
An elderly academic in a neighbouring chair yawned, and idly commented "I suppose that wouldn't have happened if we had gun control."
Silence descended like an overworked tart's drawers. Bulldog looked at Strangelove. Strangleove looked at the Earl. Somewhere, in the far distance, a dog barked.
His knuckles bone-white, the academic stiffly dragged himself upright, his face ashen. "Would you excuse me please, gentlemen?" he said as he slowly stalked to the door. No-one met his eyes. No-one acknowledged his passing. He shut the door behind him. After a short pause, there was a single shot, followed by a thud.
Conversation resumed. "If you turn up at the sanatorium tomorrow I'll have you shown to Squeakers." said Strangelove. "He's not at his best but you might get something out of him. One thing you should know is that he keeps using the phrase "gayliberals"."
"Excellent." said Rah. "Now, about this French filth......"
****************************************
Part 3
It was a misty evening, and the woodpigeons filled the air with their bedtime coughing fit. Bulldog Rah sat on the running-boards of his Bentley, puffing on a "Craven A". He was watching the Georgian manor house on the horizon- formerly the residence of the Blakely-Felchinghams until their line had fizzled out in a flurry of rampant inbreeding so severe that their family tree was more of a family pillar. What horrors lurked behind those walls, where the lunatics screamed and gibbered? What nightmares awaited......?
He was soon to find out. A porter escorted him to an open ward where the lunatics were chained to the walls. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, he became aware of a warm moistness just above his brogues and was somewhat perturbed to discover that the cause of this sensation was a slim young lady who was enthusiastically licking his ankle.
Never one to pass up an opportunity, Rah raised a flirty eyebrow and passed comment. "I'm glad to see that my ankles are so appealing. However, you'll find I taste even better further up....."
The madwoman look up and grinned at him. "Really? ****! Thanks for letting me know, Mister.". Then she sank her teeth firmly into his shin. Rah howled in agony and, after a brief struggle, managed to beat her off with his tennis racquet. She wriggled away under her bed and leered at him. "Know what's wrong with your game, Mister? You've got no balls."
"She's got a point there, Rah. I always suspected that they hadn't dropped." said a familiar voice. It emerged from a vaguely pyramidal pile of blankets.
"Squeakers! Old boy!" Rah hobbled towards the mound. "How the bugger are you? Are you coming out from there?"
"Nope."
Rah sat down on a spare edge of the bed. "Why not?"
"Have you any idea what I've been through, you prat? I'm only hiding under these blankets because my chances of returning to the womb are pretty slim."
"You got inside there, didn't you? The Offe-Topyc.....?"
"Getting inside is easy. Getting out with all your marbles is much harder. I was lucky."
Rah was now holding his handkerchief over his mouth and nose. "From the smell I'd say you've been using faeces as sunscreen. Are the rumours about the poo-smearing true?".
The mound paused for thought. "OK. Perhaps I wasn't lucky after all" it conceded.
"What happened in there?"
The mound of soft furnishings started to shake convulsively. "Gayliberals! The Gayliberal hordes! They're in there! They're going to take our freedom!"
"Steady on, old boy." Rah leaned forwards and held out a comforting hand. "What would you like me to do about it?"
With the speed of a striking cobra, a hammer attached to the knuckle end of a skinny arm shot out of the mound of blankets and sharply connected with Bulldog's brow. Rah's eyes crossed, there was the obligatory sound of twittering birds, and he fell over like a particularly posh sack of spuds.
The mound of blankets slipped away, revealing the skinny and dung-encrusted form of "Buffy" Siddiqui. With murder glittering in his eyes, he pulled a breadknife out from under his pillow. "I would like you to show me what your insides look like, Bulldog".
*****************************************
Part 4
Though the concussed Rah's vision was blurred, as the knife-wielding lunatic bent towards him he still managed to view his life flashing before his eyes with perfect clarity. His first day at boarding school, his first energetic beating by a schoolmaster of dubious sexuality, his pet ferrets, the wonderful day when he successfully caught his groom in a home-made mantrap, his first kiss, his first slap (received seconds after the first kiss) and that strange day he experienced after Tibbsy "Frogger" Dingleberry-Firth spiked his pomade with a mescalin derivative. All this was reflected in the twelve inches of Sheffield steel descending towards his torso.
In a blur of motion, and with an ear-splitting "IAIIIIIHH!!!!" the young female inmate became airborne. With a speed that was barely human, her leg kicked out, her booted foot aimed squarely at Buffy's groin.
When it was a fraction of an inch from Siddiqui's love spuds, time suddenly stopped and caught all three in an elegant freeze-frame tableau. Then the point of view shifted right around the action, giving a smooth 360-degree sweep around the airborne nutter in mid-kick. This is the bit that will nail the Special Effects Oscar once I've shifted the film rights to this sucker.
Time restarted. The boot connected with a sickening thud, and the unfortunate Siddiqui was lifted bodily off the ground by the impact. He slammed into the wall, and fell to the ground, out cold. With no small sense of horror, Rah noted that Buffy now appeared to have three Adam's Apples. Shaking the stunned fugue from his head he staggered upright and stared at the woman, who was now lighting a *** and smugly inspecting her fingernails.
"Who the bloody hell are you?" he managed.
"Name's classified, I'm afraid. Defence of the realm, and all that. Codename's "Devilmunchkin", if that's any help."
"Not really. I take it you're not a patient here?"
She grinned. "You're a quick one. I've been undercover- been watching old Squeakers for weeks to find out what happened."
"Sorry" said Rah, rubbing his bruised bits. "I suppose that in saving my life you've blown your cover. All that hard work wasted...."
"Not really" she replied. "He got chatty and told me everything this morning. I think he was trying to impress my knickers off. Detailed maps and everything."
"Good God. That was a stroke of luck, wasn't it?"
"It certainly was" she said. "If he hadn't told me everything I needed, I'd have let him kill you.". She ripped off her tattered and stinking rags to reveal an eye-popping patent leather catsuit beneath. "Shall we go?".
*************************************
Part 5.
Dawn. The sleeping world of daytime awakens, whilst the nocturnal night-shift yawns and potters off to bed. Among night-time's most fascinating fauna is the common hedgehog, one example of which was patrolling the border roads. A voracious hunter of invertebrate life, it prowls the hedgerows in search of tasty worms and beetles. One commonly-noted phenomenon of the hedgehog's anatomy is that the skin of it's back is so tough that if the hedgehog is subjected to a crushing downward force, it's digestive tract is fired out of either its mouth or its anus like toothpaste from a tube. This was demonstrated in a spectular manner as the unfortunate creature went under the Bentley's wheels.
"What do you know about the Transcendental Order of the Immortal Wombat?" asked agent Devilmunchkin.
"They're believed to be the semi-public wing of an Illuminati off-shoot. Styling themselves on the Freemasons, they recruit suitable members of the public and, through a series of ceremonial indoctrinations noted for their brain-washing nature, the initiate is slowly dragged into their web of evil. Over the last 20 years they have fought a bitter turf war with the Scorpion Tong for global control of the white slave trade. Their favourite means of assassination is a curare enema and they're scared of acorns."
The agent shot Rah a pointed look. "You're bull****ting, aren't you?"
"Yes. Sorry. I assumed everyone knew and I didn't want to look thick."
She sighed and passed Bulldog a leather-bound book. Since she carried no baggage and wore a skin-tight catsuit, this simple act would cause Rah sleepless nights for years to come as he would ponder where it had come from. "Read this. It should provide a few pointers."
"What's the point?" asked Rah. "Look, I'm sure this might all be very exciting to you, but I'm only here to find out what's going on in the Offe-Topyc, and if you already know the answer then let's stop arsing about and go for a kebab instead."
"Well, firstly those deranged Wombatters are clearly planning something. They're well-versed in the Black Arts and we think they're fooling about with the Gayliberal Codex."
"What the hell's that?" asked Rah.
"An ancient curse. If unleashed, it creates the delusion that an ideal society must consist of ordered care for every individual within it, and that the role of government is to drive and control such an ideal through state-controlled welfare measures funded by taxation. Are you all right?"
Bulldog was retching violently. "The sick bastards!" he gasped.
"They also want the right for men to be able to lawfully do things to each other's bottoms too."
Rah pondered. "Well I suppose there's no harm in that sort of thing provide all participants belong to the same Rugby Club" he conceded. "You should have seen what we got up to at the annual Old Harrovians First XV bash last Michaelmas. "Bunty" Harrison was crapping billiard balls for days after."
"Yeeeeeeesssssss....... There is one other thing you may be interested in. It's not just the Wombat cultists who are in there. If Buffy's information is correct, you may find yourself face-to-face with your old Nemesis."
"Great Scott!" barked Rah. "Surely you can't mean....."
"Yes!" replied Devilmunchkin, acutely aware that the conversation was lapsing into parody.
"Ernst Stefu Blofeld!"
**********************************
**************************************
Apolyton horror story
Part 1.
No-one knew exactly who had built it. Certainly, there were stories- most agreed that it had appeared back in the early years of Apolytonia, shortly after the great unification in the reign of King Dan the Relentlessly Polite. Some tales mentioned that two neighbouring structures had been joined, in some blasphemous act of architectural miscegenation which created the vast, looming edifice. What was clear was that it had grown over the years, with countless new structures and themes being added by many differing hands. Now it squatted over the fair and ordered land, like a twisted and rotting mass of roots. A diseased old stump that still shot forth strange and disturbing new shoots.
Like a colossal tumour, it was eating away at the land. It drew in life, and spewed forth nothing but whispers and mockery. Many had been seen to enter through it's revoltingly anatomical gateway, but few emerged. Those who did return were broken shells, their minds torn beyond repair by the unspeakable horrors within those walls, left to gibber and scream their days away in the asylums.
Even the light was affected. Even when the freshest of spring mornings teased Apolytonia awake, within the sight of that monstrous fortress the skies clouded over and the daylight became tarnished and yellowed as an old tooth. When those sickly rays finally lit up the looming barbican, they revealed the great carving over the gateway in a jarring and abrupt hand. Etched deep into the wet and slime-covered stone were the words "Offe Topyc".
It was, to be blunt, the sort of place that would make an estate agent splatter his walls with his own brains. Nobody said the place was entirely without redeeming virtues....
**************************************************
With a solid and reassuring "chunk", the door of the Blower Bentley slammed shut. Bulldog Rah crunched confidently down the gravel path towards Community Hall, idly swinging his tennis racquet as strode up to the doorway. On his way he tipped a forelock-tugging groom, ruffled the hair of a sooty-faced young urchin, and advised a grovelling beggar to acquire meaningful employment whilst simultanously removing himself from Rah's ****ing face. He rang the doorbell, and turned round to admire the view over the estates, his sunny good mood only slightly besmirched by his noticing that the urchin appeared to urinating in his fuel tank.
The door was answered by the wrinkled old retainer, affectionately nicknamed "Scrotum", who took Rah's handmade Panama and escorted him through the panelled hallways to the drawing room. There he was left to admire the dusty portraits of dyspeptic and syphilitic ancestors whilst surreptitiously stuffing his pockets with cigars from the inviting box on the coffee table.
The Hon. Markos Gianonandonandonandonandon didn't keep him waiting long. Exchanging brief and rather stilted pleasantries the two sat in facing armchairs. Bulldog broke the silence first.
"It's always a pleasure to sample your hospitality, old man. Now if you'd be so kind as to have your man bring me a shotgun, perhaps you can tell me what you want?"
Markos gestured to Scrotum, who vanished silently. "You recall old "Buffy" Siddiqui? Decided to investigate that......"thing"......on the borders a couple of years ago?"
"Old Squeakers?" said Rah. "I won't forget him in a hurry. I fagged for him at Harrow- he used to beat me senseless if his crumpets weren't sufficiently buttered. Disappeared without trace, didn't he?".
"Indeed" said Markos. "No great surprises there. You'd think people would start to take the hint, wouldn't you?". He paused to light his pipe. "The surprise was that he's turned up again.".
"Really? What sort of state was he in?"
"Oh, his mind's gone, of course. Buggered five ways to February and back. He's safely locked away over at Doc Strangelove's sanatorium, where I believe he's attempting to redecorate his cell in his own poo. "
Rah snorted. "He always did have a touch of "Day boy" to him. ". He accepted the 12-bore Purdey from the returning butler and broke it, casually extracting a cartridge from his waistcoat pocket. "I fail to see how this concerns me, however." he said.
"In among all the ranting, he's said that he knows what's going on in there. What's more, I think that he can provide enough useful information to get the right sort of man in and out safely."
Bulldog arched an eyebrow knowingly. "The right sort of man?". He walked over to the window and opened it. Raising the shotgun to his shoulder, he continued. "Did you have anyone specific in mind?".
"I think you know who that person would be. Rah, we need you to get in there. There's some sort of conspiracy afoot, and we need to find out what's happening before it's too late."
Taking aim at the distant urchin, who had fitted a jack under the Bentley and had so far removed both front wheels, Rah sighed. "I suppose I'd better cancel St. Moritz, in that case.". He pulled the trigger, and the Purdey's blast almost drowned out the brief and distant scream. "Have your man whip me up some Marmite sandwiches, would you?".
Part 2
"Strangelove" wasn't his real name, of course. It was a nickname acquired due to his revolutionary work in the field of deviant human sexuality. The recent developments in electrical batteries had allowed him to patent his "Onanecutioner", a device intended to combat the social evil of self-love. Through the medium of powerful electrical shocks to the privy parts, this apparatus caused a complete cessation of onanism in 95% of patients, and severe burns with psychological trauma in the other 5%.
He was a member of Gray's club, and it was there in an overstuffed leather armchair that Rah found him, sleeping off his port and spotted ****. After being nudged awake and plied with Turkish cigarettes, the good doctor proved more forthcoming.
"Ah, yes. Old "Squeakers" Siddiqui? He's lost the plot, poor chap. Keeps raving about some sort of plot."
Bulldog leaned forward to light the physician's ***. "So I hear. Is there any sense in what he's saying?".
"You tell me." said Strangelove. "He just gibbers away merrily. He's taken to beating his head against the wall at a steady rythym too, and believe me that's a real pain in the arse. It's "thud.....thud.....thud" all the bloody day and night". The doctor sighed. "I've heard that some Yank chap has come up with some sort of treatment involving severing the frontal temporal lobes through the eye-socket with an icepick to calm down incurables. Don't think I haven't been tempted, but if he doesn't start behaving I may use an axe."
"I think I may have to meet him in person" said Rah.
"Feel free. Just don't expect the height of luxury in the sanatorium."
"That's right!" guffawed the 14th Earl of DinoDoc as he gently settled his gouty foot on a pouffe. "Old Strangelove keeps them trussed up tighter than a pervert's turkey."
"Can you blame me?" said Strangelove. "Look what happened over at Professor Guynemer's Home for the Odd last week."
"God, yes" chuckled the Earl, his ample girth shaking at about 6.3 on the Richter scale. "Some loony smuggled a Beretta in and started blazing away. Shot the matron a new arsehole, I believe. She was none too pleased about it anyway. Ended up garrotting him with her corsets. Poor bugger."
An elderly academic in a neighbouring chair yawned, and idly commented "I suppose that wouldn't have happened if we had gun control."
Silence descended like an overworked tart's drawers. Bulldog looked at Strangelove. Strangleove looked at the Earl. Somewhere, in the far distance, a dog barked.
His knuckles bone-white, the academic stiffly dragged himself upright, his face ashen. "Would you excuse me please, gentlemen?" he said as he slowly stalked to the door. No-one met his eyes. No-one acknowledged his passing. He shut the door behind him. After a short pause, there was a single shot, followed by a thud.
Conversation resumed. "If you turn up at the sanatorium tomorrow I'll have you shown to Squeakers." said Strangelove. "He's not at his best but you might get something out of him. One thing you should know is that he keeps using the phrase "gayliberals"."
"Excellent." said Rah. "Now, about this French filth......"
****************************************
Part 3
It was a misty evening, and the woodpigeons filled the air with their bedtime coughing fit. Bulldog Rah sat on the running-boards of his Bentley, puffing on a "Craven A". He was watching the Georgian manor house on the horizon- formerly the residence of the Blakely-Felchinghams until their line had fizzled out in a flurry of rampant inbreeding so severe that their family tree was more of a family pillar. What horrors lurked behind those walls, where the lunatics screamed and gibbered? What nightmares awaited......?
He was soon to find out. A porter escorted him to an open ward where the lunatics were chained to the walls. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, he became aware of a warm moistness just above his brogues and was somewhat perturbed to discover that the cause of this sensation was a slim young lady who was enthusiastically licking his ankle.
Never one to pass up an opportunity, Rah raised a flirty eyebrow and passed comment. "I'm glad to see that my ankles are so appealing. However, you'll find I taste even better further up....."
The madwoman look up and grinned at him. "Really? ****! Thanks for letting me know, Mister.". Then she sank her teeth firmly into his shin. Rah howled in agony and, after a brief struggle, managed to beat her off with his tennis racquet. She wriggled away under her bed and leered at him. "Know what's wrong with your game, Mister? You've got no balls."
"She's got a point there, Rah. I always suspected that they hadn't dropped." said a familiar voice. It emerged from a vaguely pyramidal pile of blankets.
"Squeakers! Old boy!" Rah hobbled towards the mound. "How the bugger are you? Are you coming out from there?"
"Nope."
Rah sat down on a spare edge of the bed. "Why not?"
"Have you any idea what I've been through, you prat? I'm only hiding under these blankets because my chances of returning to the womb are pretty slim."
"You got inside there, didn't you? The Offe-Topyc.....?"
"Getting inside is easy. Getting out with all your marbles is much harder. I was lucky."
Rah was now holding his handkerchief over his mouth and nose. "From the smell I'd say you've been using faeces as sunscreen. Are the rumours about the poo-smearing true?".
The mound paused for thought. "OK. Perhaps I wasn't lucky after all" it conceded.
"What happened in there?"
The mound of soft furnishings started to shake convulsively. "Gayliberals! The Gayliberal hordes! They're in there! They're going to take our freedom!"
"Steady on, old boy." Rah leaned forwards and held out a comforting hand. "What would you like me to do about it?"
With the speed of a striking cobra, a hammer attached to the knuckle end of a skinny arm shot out of the mound of blankets and sharply connected with Bulldog's brow. Rah's eyes crossed, there was the obligatory sound of twittering birds, and he fell over like a particularly posh sack of spuds.
The mound of blankets slipped away, revealing the skinny and dung-encrusted form of "Buffy" Siddiqui. With murder glittering in his eyes, he pulled a breadknife out from under his pillow. "I would like you to show me what your insides look like, Bulldog".
*****************************************
Part 4
Though the concussed Rah's vision was blurred, as the knife-wielding lunatic bent towards him he still managed to view his life flashing before his eyes with perfect clarity. His first day at boarding school, his first energetic beating by a schoolmaster of dubious sexuality, his pet ferrets, the wonderful day when he successfully caught his groom in a home-made mantrap, his first kiss, his first slap (received seconds after the first kiss) and that strange day he experienced after Tibbsy "Frogger" Dingleberry-Firth spiked his pomade with a mescalin derivative. All this was reflected in the twelve inches of Sheffield steel descending towards his torso.
In a blur of motion, and with an ear-splitting "IAIIIIIHH!!!!" the young female inmate became airborne. With a speed that was barely human, her leg kicked out, her booted foot aimed squarely at Buffy's groin.
When it was a fraction of an inch from Siddiqui's love spuds, time suddenly stopped and caught all three in an elegant freeze-frame tableau. Then the point of view shifted right around the action, giving a smooth 360-degree sweep around the airborne nutter in mid-kick. This is the bit that will nail the Special Effects Oscar once I've shifted the film rights to this sucker.
Time restarted. The boot connected with a sickening thud, and the unfortunate Siddiqui was lifted bodily off the ground by the impact. He slammed into the wall, and fell to the ground, out cold. With no small sense of horror, Rah noted that Buffy now appeared to have three Adam's Apples. Shaking the stunned fugue from his head he staggered upright and stared at the woman, who was now lighting a *** and smugly inspecting her fingernails.
"Who the bloody hell are you?" he managed.
"Name's classified, I'm afraid. Defence of the realm, and all that. Codename's "Devilmunchkin", if that's any help."
"Not really. I take it you're not a patient here?"
She grinned. "You're a quick one. I've been undercover- been watching old Squeakers for weeks to find out what happened."
"Sorry" said Rah, rubbing his bruised bits. "I suppose that in saving my life you've blown your cover. All that hard work wasted...."
"Not really" she replied. "He got chatty and told me everything this morning. I think he was trying to impress my knickers off. Detailed maps and everything."
"Good God. That was a stroke of luck, wasn't it?"
"It certainly was" she said. "If he hadn't told me everything I needed, I'd have let him kill you.". She ripped off her tattered and stinking rags to reveal an eye-popping patent leather catsuit beneath. "Shall we go?".
*************************************
Part 5.
Dawn. The sleeping world of daytime awakens, whilst the nocturnal night-shift yawns and potters off to bed. Among night-time's most fascinating fauna is the common hedgehog, one example of which was patrolling the border roads. A voracious hunter of invertebrate life, it prowls the hedgerows in search of tasty worms and beetles. One commonly-noted phenomenon of the hedgehog's anatomy is that the skin of it's back is so tough that if the hedgehog is subjected to a crushing downward force, it's digestive tract is fired out of either its mouth or its anus like toothpaste from a tube. This was demonstrated in a spectular manner as the unfortunate creature went under the Bentley's wheels.
"What do you know about the Transcendental Order of the Immortal Wombat?" asked agent Devilmunchkin.
"They're believed to be the semi-public wing of an Illuminati off-shoot. Styling themselves on the Freemasons, they recruit suitable members of the public and, through a series of ceremonial indoctrinations noted for their brain-washing nature, the initiate is slowly dragged into their web of evil. Over the last 20 years they have fought a bitter turf war with the Scorpion Tong for global control of the white slave trade. Their favourite means of assassination is a curare enema and they're scared of acorns."
The agent shot Rah a pointed look. "You're bull****ting, aren't you?"
"Yes. Sorry. I assumed everyone knew and I didn't want to look thick."
She sighed and passed Bulldog a leather-bound book. Since she carried no baggage and wore a skin-tight catsuit, this simple act would cause Rah sleepless nights for years to come as he would ponder where it had come from. "Read this. It should provide a few pointers."
"What's the point?" asked Rah. "Look, I'm sure this might all be very exciting to you, but I'm only here to find out what's going on in the Offe-Topyc, and if you already know the answer then let's stop arsing about and go for a kebab instead."
"Well, firstly those deranged Wombatters are clearly planning something. They're well-versed in the Black Arts and we think they're fooling about with the Gayliberal Codex."
"What the hell's that?" asked Rah.
"An ancient curse. If unleashed, it creates the delusion that an ideal society must consist of ordered care for every individual within it, and that the role of government is to drive and control such an ideal through state-controlled welfare measures funded by taxation. Are you all right?"
Bulldog was retching violently. "The sick bastards!" he gasped.
"They also want the right for men to be able to lawfully do things to each other's bottoms too."
Rah pondered. "Well I suppose there's no harm in that sort of thing provide all participants belong to the same Rugby Club" he conceded. "You should have seen what we got up to at the annual Old Harrovians First XV bash last Michaelmas. "Bunty" Harrison was crapping billiard balls for days after."
"Yeeeeeeesssssss....... There is one other thing you may be interested in. It's not just the Wombat cultists who are in there. If Buffy's information is correct, you may find yourself face-to-face with your old Nemesis."
"Great Scott!" barked Rah. "Surely you can't mean....."
"Yes!" replied Devilmunchkin, acutely aware that the conversation was lapsing into parody.
"Ernst Stefu Blofeld!"
**********************************
- and I actually mean that. I'm at "work" you bastard!
Comment