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Right, it's been too long since I could be bothered to bash you lot out a story. Since it's Halloween soon, you're getting a sort of bastardised horror story.
Usual sort of conditions will apply. Expect me to knock out an episode every couple of days or so, until the story's finished or I've got bored and jacked it in.
All rights reserved. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is pretty unlikely, but I'll happily libel anyone if there's some good gossip going. Enjoy....
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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 be 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?".
End of Part 1.
Usual sort of conditions will apply. Expect me to knock out an episode every couple of days or so, until the story's finished or I've got bored and jacked it in.
All rights reserved. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is pretty unlikely, but I'll happily libel anyone if there's some good gossip going. Enjoy....
*******************************
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 be 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?".
End of Part 1.
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