Onomatopoeiapocalypse Now

Posted by Mark on Feb 19, 2009 | 0 Comments

I’m not a happy person. Never have been. The rain in this city has a way of washing happiness down the sewer.

Splat! Splat!

I’m looking at the door and thinking some unhappy thoughts – something like: that’s not the sound I expect to hear from a door – when it opens up and in walks Inspector Alliteration. That’s not his name, of course, but it’s the one that’s stuck in my head ever since the case of the stolen similes.

"You look positively miserable Rick," he tells me. "Not happy, even."

I try to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the top of the tumbler of malt to see if he’s right. It’s too dark to see much but he’s not wrong anyway.

"You should water that down, you know? Bring out the aromas. Make it last a little longer."

You learn something new every day. I’d just learnt that Inspector Alliteration must be taking whiskey appreciation classes somewhere in the city. I tell him I don’t drink for the aromas but I swivel around and stick the glass through the open window and get the rain from the filth-coloured sky to help out anyway. A large drip from the sill above lands smack in the centre of the tumbler’s contents with a loud guffaw.

"Let me guess …" I start to say as I slide the drink away from me.

"No dice Rake," he cuts me off. "I’ve not come here to play games. I’m gonna talk and you’re gonna listen. Then you’re gonna trawl the streets and crawl in the gutters and do what you do best."

I’m not sure what it is I do best but I’m pretty good at staying quiet and listening unhappily to one of the city’s so-called finest letting me know what’s going down.

"Tainted onomatopoeia," I say when he’s finished. "And no blackmail note? No suspects?"

"The city’s full of suspects. Hell, you’re one!"

"Me? Why, officer, I’m a paragon of legal virtue," I smile. Not a happy smile.

"Don’t think we don’t keep tabs on all you private dicks whenever there’s a downturn in business. It wouldn’t take much for you to drum up some trade on your own now, would it?"

I return to my whiskey and point out that there’s never a downturn in business. The cases keep on coming, one after another, each more soul-soaking than the last.

"You’re back from Literalville!" says Danny The Weasel with fake genuine warmth. Not a lot gets past street smart Danny which is why I’m talking to him first. There’s street smart and real smart and explaining onomatopoeia takes a while. I think he’s got it, though.

"Yeah. There have been strange things happening," he admits quietly, looking around weasel-like. We’re down a dead end alleyway half-sheltered from the weather by the fire escape steps outside the old Roxy. There’s nobody around and it’s difficult to hear him over the incessant buzzing of rain hitting metal.

"Now, look," he continues, "I was minding my own business early this morning before that heist at the savings and loan which I had no part of by the way," – the heist was news to me; my radio had stopped working a month ago – "and I saw these two gentlemen in nice suits and long coats making their way out of Chinatown and they just happened to be going my way so I tagged along a bit, for company see, only a little way’s back on account of them not knowing me and it not being polite."

"You’ve got a way with words Danny," I tell him. "Mind if we skip ahead to where you hear something or see something I might be interested in or is this narrative absolutely vital?"

"Oh, you been to the new Sarcasm store on Fifth too?" he asks.

I’m about to explain that I get everything I need from that old mom and pop place next to the Fat Lip Emporium when our conversation is interrupted by a deafening ribbet! I flatten to the wall and drop into a crouch pulling Danny with me quickly. He comes all too easily and he’s sporting a switfly-opening flower of nearly-black blood on his chest.

There’s only one place that bullet could have come from so I look up into the faces of two heavily-coated men on the stairwell above. It figured. There might be a smaller guy above and behind them but it’s hard to tell for sure. One of the two is holding a revolver and I can see steam rising off its barrel from where I’m squatting. I’m glad I’m not closer or I’d probably hear the rain meowing as it hit the weapon too.

"I’m not packing!" I shout, holding my hands out. I don’t know if that’s going to matter to this pair. Poor Danny wasn’t packing either. I do know that I won’t have a chance if I try to run however.

"You! Rick Rake. You come!" shouts the unarmed one of the two. Visibly unarmed, I remind myself. He’s got a thick accent, one of the European ones. He’s also got a face that doesn’t look like it tolerates trouble and a friend with a history of cold-blooded murder.

This large room’s over the top of a Chinese laundry. It’s humid as hell. At least my wrists aren’t tied so I can wipe away the sweat from my forehead every few minutes.

"Surprised to see me, Rick?" asks "Boom-Boom" Bertie Simms.

"You could say that Boom-Boom," I answer. "I didn’t think you were up for parole for another couple at least."

"Parole’s one way out of prison Rick. There’s another way though. I’m just not a patient man it turns out."

"So I’ve heard," I tell him. He’s got a look like thunder on his face which he hides quickly. I move our little chat along smoothly. "You killed Danny The Weasel. You didn’t have to do that."

"Unfortunate. He’ll be missed I’m sure. As will you."

With hindsight I probably should have kept well away from the subject of killing in a room with a recently-escaped bank robber I helped to put away and a couple of trigger-happy Germans. I’m guessing they were German anyway.

"What’s this all about Boom-Boom? What are we all doing in Chinatown? You don’t need me here."

"I’m disappointed in you Rick. You’re usually quicker than this."

"I thought that was your reputation," I tell him before I wish I hadn’t. Bertie points at one of his acquaintances and the next thing I know I’m flying across the floor and landing in a heap with a disappointing crackle. My chin feels like it’s recently made friends with a lead pipe. Those Germans must be eating their greens.

Boom-Boom and the boys are standing over me so I don’t even bother thinking about standing up. I’m trying to cover up my ribs and some of my favourite organs just in case but I know that Boom-Boom wants me to know why I’m still around and breathing for the moment even if I can’t figure it out for myself.

"I’ve got a long memory Rick, and I’m a spiteful person at heart. You put me away so I’m going to put you away. I wanted you to know this personal-like."

"Much appreciated Boom-Boom. You remember to tell the judge that when he’s sentencing you."

Maybe that blow to the chin has knocked some bravado into me. That’s a dangerous attribute to have in the detective business but this seems as good a time as any to set it free so I kick out and try to sweep the feet from under the European heavies. It’s like trying to knock over a building in your socks. There’s a loud whistle as a gun is cocked and placed against my temple.

"Don’t move Rake. You’ll only make this harder on yourself."

I think my bravado’s just fainted with fright because I’m all out of retorts. Sweating on a wooden floor in an upstairs apartment in Chinatown is not how I imagined it would all end. "What’s with the tainted onomatopoeia?" I ask. It’s true; you do play for time when your life’s about to end.

Boom-Boom leans down and talks: "I’ve missed robbing banks while I’ve been inside Rick and that made me really, really unhappy."

"We’re all unhappy Boom-Boom. We’re people. People are unhappy. And the rain doesn’t help."

"Robbing banks makes me happy though. You wouldn’t begrudge me a little happiness now, would you?"

I would but I keep quiet partly because he’s got that wistful look in his eyes that means he’s going to explain what’s really going on and partly because with my head pressed to the floorboards I can hear a gentle tinkle, tinkle. It’s a reassuring sound.

"There’s only one person who blows up banks like me and that’s me," he says. "That’s why they call me Boom-Boom, of course."

Well, that’s not the reason I’d heard from a couple of his ex-girlfriends but that tinkle, tinkle is getting louder and I’ve got the feeling I should just let him talk.

"It turns out that my friends here, Herrs Muller and Freunde, wouldn’t call me Boom-Boom inside on account of their heritage and that got me thinking about how to avoid suspicion on the outside, see?"

And suddenly I was beginning to see. "The Germans are importing in bad onomatopoeia which you’re funding through bank jobs. They get paid, you get confused witnesses who report hearing woofs and zaps, and Danny The Weasel gets shot just for talking to me."

"He was shot because he witnessed my friends here aiding me in the act of a crime this morning. The pair of you meeting up was a happy coincidence."

It’s not my idea of happy but not a lot is.

I look at the Germans and nod with understanding. Seeing a puzzled look on their faces that tells me they can hear the tinkle, tinkle too and realising it’s not the heavenly choir tuning up before I pay them an unplanned visit suddenly fills me with confidence again. I never thought that would happen while laying on a floor with a swollen jaw and a gun barrel pushed against my head.

"Chinatown’s a good place to hide," I say, stalling once more. "Everyone’s got a different way of representing sounds anyway so it’s the perfect cover. Clever."

"And they’re so good at removing stains downstairs too," he tells me, smirking. I think I’m out of time but Boom-Boom’s suddenly realised that all’s not well with Fritz or Herman here.

The gun’s not digging in so much now while everyone’s straining to pick out that noise so I shout "Now!" as loud as possible and hope I’m right. It might surprise you to know I am sometimes and lucky for me this is one of them.

The door to one side of me plings open, splintering in the frame and showering everyone with slivers of wood. That’s quickly followed by a handful of uniformed policemen who overpower Boom-Boom and my European captors in a short scuffle with only a few distracting honks and beeps.

"You lot couldn’t have made more noise coming up those stairs if you’d tried," I tell them as I’m helped up while nursing my sore face.

"Didn’t seem like it would make much difference," answers Inspector Alliteration who comes in at the rear of my rescuers.

"You’re scum, Inspector. You used me as bait. You followed me knowing my contacts would get results when your ones wouldn’t. Danny The Weasel was killed. I could have been killed too."

"I thought you knew. It’s what you do best, Rake," he says, smiling. "Here, take this." He passes me a bottle of Scotch. I guess it’s from his class. "Remember to add a little water," he adds as he dabs some sweat off his forehead and steps out.

There’s plenty of water outside where it’s still raining so I follow him out and then head off home, whooping through the puddles on the way. Not in a happy way.

Literalville

Posted by Mark on Jan 25, 2008 | 0 Comments

I’m not a vacation person. Never have been. Vacation people are happy people and that’s not me. Maybe there’s a market in vacations for people bitter at the world. Maybe that’s something I can look into when the detective business really dries up. Really dries up. I know it’s not exactly flowing over right now but that suits me fine. Drip, drip, drip.

I’m not a vacation person but I’ve got no qualms in accepting gratuities and I’ve never been this far south before. It’s warmer and the rain is noticeably absent. I miss the rain. Never thought I’d say that.

This hotel’s called the Hotel Luxurious. If I had to describe it in one word then luxurious is the right one to use. I’ve stayed in hotels in the city from time-to-time. This one doesn’t have the stains, the stickiness, or that smell, and there’s a constant, gentle hum of quiet, happy talking from the men and women dotted around the lounge. Soft, clean chairs. Lots of smiles. Bright, open windows. The clinking of real crystal tumblers. One of them is mine. There’s an inch of dark, smoky malt in the bottom of it. I’m savouring it. It’s the only thing I don’t instinctively hate about this whole place.

"That’s some outfit you have," says the lady in the off-white trouser suit across from me.

She’s not wrong. I didn’t pack for this climate and my fit-in-anywhere clothes from back home are now fit-in-anywhere-but-here.

"I won a vacation," I tell her and then fill in some more details when pressed. It seems the city has some well-off individuals and one of them was seemingly grateful to the tune of some time off at my resolution to the recent simile heist. There’s something you don’t do to gift horses and that’s why I’m here. Just a little unprepared is all.

"How strange and delightful!" she exclaims. Strange, I’ll agree with. "And how are you finding Literalville?" she asks.

I tell her I haven’t left the hotel yet. The plane touched down late last night. I slept and this is my first morning in the vacation spot. Her eyes widen and she smiles a knowing smile to herself. "It takes some getting used to," she continues. "If you want a private tour then give me a call."

She hands me a card. There’s a number but no name on it. I make a show of nodding appreciation and pocket it in my inside jacket pocket. The one with the hole in the bottom. Old, lonely dears are the same the world over.

I don’t like Literalville and I’m beginning to wonder whether my paid-for vacation wasn’t some punishment rather than reward. Maybe it’s because there’s no criminal element obvious to the eye. A guy like me would be lost down here. What could I do? Clean streets, clean air, families strolling around. I haven’t seen a policeman or heard either a scream or a pistol going off since I arrived. But that’s not the worst of it.

Literalville. Strange name, but apt. Very apt. Take that hot dog vendor on the promenade down by the beach for instance. Nobody wants to see a labrador sweltering inside several woollen cardigans on a day like this. On any day even. The vendor looked at me like I was mad when I asked what was going on. Some couple gave me a wide berth and bought a chihuahua sealed in a sleeping bag.

Then there were the posters on the walls down by the college. A spate of lost virginities, apparently. Happy kids and rewards for the unrecoverable. I’m not a parent but that just doesn’t seem right.

And now this: a crowd gathered to watch a boxing match put on for tourists. Two fit men in a ring packaging souvenirs against the clock and each other. This place is a happy nightmare and I’m wondering if I should have had a more substantial breakfast and skipped the malts.

"Truly awful, isn’t it?"

Is she talking about Literalville or the fact that she’s laying across my bed in my hotel room while I’m standing in the doorway?

"Literalville," she says slowly. "I hate it and you seem like the sort of person who’d hate it too. Am I wrong?"

The dame from the lounge this morning isn’t wrong. I just wish she could be not wrong somewhere else. I tell her she’s right and I step into the room fully, leaving the door open behind me. It’s a long shot that she’ll take the hint. There’s a moment of silence while I make my way to the dresser and pour a drink from the decanter on it. I’m thinking.

"You’re the first author I’ve met," I tell her when I turn back. She hasn’t moved but there’s a smile on her face.

"Rick Rake, private detective. I do believe you’re even better than I imagined."

"You had to have been affected by the similes heist. Only so many professions were and you fit the bill of only one that makes sense and enough money to send some poor schmuck down the coast on a private case. So now I’ve had a day of tormented reward at your expense and I guess you think I owe you."

"That I do Mr Rake. We’re business people and you’re certainly not a vacation person so why don’t we skip the verbal fencing and get down to details?"

Maybe it’s the cumulative effects of decent malt whiskey but I’m warming to her. I close the hotel room door and tell her to begin.

Connie’s right about a lot of things. She’s right about me not liking vacations and she’s right about me preferring to earn money doing what I’m good at. She’s right about there being a criminal underworld in Literalville too. I should have known it was literally an underworld.

It’s dark in the sewers and catacombs, as you know. Somehow it feels more appealing than topside. It feels more like the city. There are a lot of bad people down here. That’s the thing about crime; it doesn’t attract a good element.

There’s a man looking for a fight if the placard he’s holding up is to be believed. I don’t want to help him. I’m getting shifty looks from the residents as it is. That’s the thing: I’m an outsider. I’m the only one she knows who might be able to get the job done. Connie explained that she couldn’t approach Double-Crossing Charlie Dodds or Mickey "The Failure" Farmer to get her manuscript back. I can’t imagine why.

"I need a lead to track down a stolen manuscript," I tell the scrawny lowlife in front of me. I hear he’s nicknamed "The Rat" and he doesn’t disappoint me. Much. It’s an old lead. Cracked leather. A collar on the end and a discoloured tag with "Fido" engraved on it. I should have known better. Then again …

"You again!"

The hot dog vendor remembers me. I shake the lead at him and see he remembers it too. I almost tell him to start playing ball but catch myself. I haven’t got the time to wait for some sporting activity to play itself out. I’m thinking about leashing the guy and taking him for a gentle run to see if I can jog his memory enough to let me know what I’m after. I’m getting the hang of this dreadful place.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about!" he cries, gathering up an alsation in a rug distressed by our altercation. I don’t believe him but it doesn’t matter.

"That’s okay Benny," says a quiet voice behind me. "This dick will be leaving soon."

There’s a weedy guy wearing a turtleneck sweater flanked by two gorillas in monkey suits. That’s more nature than I ever wanted to see up close.

"I’m after a manuscript on behalf of its owner," I tell the speaker. He knew who I was so I’ve got a feeling he knows this too already.

"I’m well aware why you think you’re here Mr Rake but I’ve got some bad news in that respect." I don’t like the sound of this. If I lived here all the time then right about now I’d put my fingers in my ears so there could be no mistaking how I felt. It’s a good thing I’m from the city so I can hear the explanation instead.

"I’m Connie’s brother. You, unfortunately, are the victim here. There is no manuscript; there never was. You’re not the first to be dragged down here and you won’t be the last. I’m very sorry but I’m going to have to insist you leave now."

He carries on and tells me about Connie’s life and their family history. It looks like I’m not getting paid. And I’m never going to learn to be a vacation person if they all turn out like this.

Connie. Short for Congenital Liar. Born to the wealthy Mr and Mrs Cruel-Bastards. Brother of Andy Plotpoint. Residents of Literalville, all of them. I hate Literalville.

Leopard Ladies Of Mercury

Posted by Mark on Apr 30, 2007 | 3 Comments

I arrived at Carruthers’ domicile in the fashionably decrepit part of South London with a severe case of butterflies in the stomach. It was my own fault for taking a shortcut through the 1889 Lepidopterist Gala in The Regent’s Park; oh, but how those Red Admirals entice the tastebuds! I over-indulged and was chased away by some angry and moustachioed gentlemen armed with nets. Exercise notwithstanding it was not the ideal start to what would be a momentous day.

After losing my pursuers through a slight deception – I convinced a constable at one end of a long alley that the pack of irate fellows some seconds behind were Hungarian assassins trying to silence me for discovering their plan to kidnap Her Majesty and blackmail our country into commencing war with Austria – I rested to recover from my exertions and rapped the door to Carruthers’ home.

"Doctor! Come in!" exclaimed Carruthers and he ushered me inside hastily. I barely had time to draw breath before my friend was urging me down the unlit hallway towards the drawing room.

"Steady now, Carruthers, there’s plenty of time!" I blurted. It was a little after nine in the morning and Carruthers had been most insistent that I was to arrive as early as possible and no later than ten. His palm in the small of my back – at least, I hoped it was his palm – nudging me forward, therefore, was most unseemly.

We reached the drawing room and I found myself staring at the thing which nearly filled the entire area.

"As you can see Doctor, the tube is complete!" said Carruthers proudly as he rounded the great cylindrical object. I was momentarily distracted by my reflection in the brass outer casing, distorted somewhat by the many protruding coils, pipes, and bolts and didn’t immediately answer. I imagined briefly that I was a half-man, half-machine construct; a brass being; perhaps the future of humanity.

"Tsk, tsk, you’re drifting off into one of your flights of fantasy again, aren’t you Doctor?" said Carruthers as he appeared from the opposite side of his tube.

"I’m afraid you’re right, Carruthers," I replied. "Unlike you, I keep my fantasies locked inside my head. Yours become terrifying reality."

Carruthers beamed first at me and then the tube. "It is a work of beauty, is it not?" he sighed. And then, suddenly, he shouted "Well, come come, dear man! We’re all here! Let’s not delay! Inside! Inside!"

Once again I was ushered by Carruthers, this time around the tube to the side facing away from the entrance to the drawing room. Here there was a small entrance that required a grown man to stoop ever so slightly in order that he might pass. As I was a grown man and had been one now for a good few years I duly stooped ever so slightly and so found myself within the confines of Carruthers’ great creation.

As a member of the Victorian Inventors Guild Carruthers had been obliged to follow the dictates of his fellow geniuses and the innards of the tube was decorated in as much plush red upholstery as he could obtain. Numerous dials and levers lined the walls and a small pedestal in the centre of the cylindrical chamber contained a single switch clearly in an Off position.

Besides Carruthers and myself there was one other occupant. Elizabeth, Carruthers’ niece, sat to my immediate left as I was pushed gently into a seating position by her uncle. Elizabeth nodded and smiled politely at me and I returned the gestures. There was a tension in that room that may not entirely have been due to the dangerous trip upon which we were about to embark but perhaps that was my libido thinking; Elizabeth was a most handsome young woman and this was the closest I had been to her while she was awake.

The room was sealed following a flurry of activity by Carruthers and then he too, eventually, became settled and calm. His wide smile never faded.

"Elizabeth and Doctor, I think we are ready for the adventure of a lifetime. I assume you are ready for … your trip to Mercury!"

I patted my gentleman’s briefcase. "As instructed, Carruthers, I have come with a stout pair of hiking boots fixed with studs so that I will not fly off the surface of the planet owing to its low gravity. I have purchased a new hat with a wide brim to protect my head from the closeness of the Sun and I have obtained from my Aunt a fan from the orient so that we may all keep cool. Finally, a hip flask with liquid opium, in case the planet fails to deliver any excitement of its own."

"As dependable as ever Doctor! Splendid! Then I think it is time we left."

I was nervous, or the butterflies were not digesting properly. Either way, there was a cramp in my stomach like I had not felt before as Carruthers reached across and flicked the switch on the pedestal. I think I wanted to take a deep breath but there wasn’t time. Immediately the sound of many pistons firing sounded and reverberated and there was a sudden lurching that threw me sideways. I found myself head first in the bosom of Elizabeth suddenly pressed down by a great force. My face burnt red with embarrassment and I struggled to right myself pawing away wildly at whatever was within reach. Mostly, it appeared I was groping the poor girl.

And then, as suddenly and as violently as it had started, the sensation and sounds abated.

"We’ve arrived!" shouted Carruthers from behind me. "And you can stop molesting my niece," he added as I pushed myself away and back into my seat. I started to stammer an apology but Elizabeth, I saw, shared her uncle’s single-minded fascination with the events unfolding and had no time to reflect upon my ungentlemanly behaviour. The pair of them were looking through the shiny periscope with wonder on their faces.

"What exactly has happened?" I asked, keen to put my impropriety behind me and act part of the expedition. It was Elizabeth who turned from the viewing apparatus and explained: "While the Earth and Mercury were at their shortest distance from one another, Uncle extended a tube of rings – much like an extendable telescope – from his drawing room in South London to the surface of this extraterrestrial world using the power of steam. We are now locked onto the surface of Mercury at this end and can explore at our leisure."

I tried to picture a long tube stretching between the Earth and Mercury and my mind swam with the immensity of what Carruthers had achieved. I was concerned also that the tube, despite being made of the best brass available, might deform under the pressure of space exerted on it making our return even bumpier but kept that to myself as the thought that I might also be able to get away with slipping a couple of fingers where they shouldn’t go suddenly popped into my head.

Carruthers’ hands were a blur over a set of knobs to one side. "Let’s not dilly-dally!" he said, straightening up suddenly. "The planet Mercury awaits. On with your boots and hat, Doctor. Elizabeth, your parasol if you please, and make sure the lead weights in your bustle are secure."

And with that the door was opened and Carruthers set about ushering us outwards onto the strange planet on which we were securely fastened.

We landed on our heads as the tube was effectively upside-down. Fortunately, the low gravity of the strange world softened the landing on Mercury’s soil.

It was hot. Carruthers had estimated that the temperature of Mercury would be comparable to Brighton in the height of Summer but I suspected it was even warmer than that. The sky was a vivid orange and the Sun appeared massive and low over the horizon. The landscape in which we had touched down was a drab affair; brown rocks similar in appearance to slate and dirt, and small bushes, also brown, with small brown fruits on them. The air felt thick and there was a distinct taste to it with every intake of breath.

"I do believe the air contains fine particulates of oxygen-carrying sand," I told my colleagues. "I recognise the taste."

"Just as I expected," remarked Carruthers as he approached one example of the small, brown flora nearby. He tugged at the fruit but it refused to budge. "Blast!" he suddenly cried.

Elizabeth and I gathered around in horror as we suddenly saw that Carruthers’ hand had come off at the wrist. Blood from his arm was spraying in a strange, low-gravitational arc over the soil.

"I see this Mercurian plantlife has a rather effective defence mechanism against poachers. I should have been more careful and realised that leaf was serated. Doctor, some assistance please."

I marvelled at his calmness and instructed him to put his stump in his pocket to stem the bleeding. "You should really get to a hospital Carruthers. There’s no telling how long it will take for an artery to clot on this planet and there’s a danger of fainting." I offered him the contents from my hip flask which he gratefully accepted and gulped down.

"Uncle, if this plant is this dangerous then what other danger might befall us on this world?" asked Elizabeth as she nervously scanned the horizon. I too looked around worriedly but there appeared to be nothing to see. Only the tube, which towered into the sky and disappeared into space towards where the Earth must surely be, seemed to move; an illusion caused by the slow progression of the wispy clouds high above.

"Perhaps you’re right and we were too hasty," agreed Carruthers. "A slight recess back in London for some bandages and to hunt down some hardy gloves is what is needed. Only …"

"What is it, Carruthers?" I asked.

"I know," said Elizabeth. "It will be several months before Mercury revolves into position once more and Uncle is worried that events may transpire to prevent our return. We are here now after all."

Carruthers was down spiritually and it took some effort on behalf of Elizabeth and myself to get him inside the tube ready for the return trip to Earth. As the door closed he lifted his still-profusely-bleeding arm from his now-stained linen trousers and sighed. "We never even got to meet the Leopard Ladies of Mercury," he said quietly.

"Liquid Opium," I mouthed towards Elizabeth. She nodded knowingly, leaned over, and flicked the switch on the pedestal.

The lurching, the noise, and the extreme pressure all returned but I missed landing in the softness of my young companion’s breasts this time around and ended up with the groin of Carruthers for olfactory company instead. I much preferred the outward journey.

Elizabeth insisted on taking Carruthers to hospital by herself and I took advantage to simply go home, suddenly finding myself tired and in need of a warm, wet flannel on the face.

London was much as it had been prior to our exciting-but-brief adventure except for the tsunami that had destroyed two-thirds of the buildings and killed tens of thousands, leaving hundreds of thousands more battered and destitute in our absence. Earthquakes and volcanic activity had done for most of Asia we later learned and the continental United States had slipped entirely off its tectonic plates and fallen into the ocean. Stopping the Earth’s rotation by fixing a long brass tube between it and the planet Mercury, it turned out, had a few global side-effects.

Nevertheless, I put that all to one side and returned to what was left of my practice in Woolwich, eager to hear from Carruthers once more, dreaming of some new adventure – perhaps with half-men, half-machine people -, and with half an eye out for wrongly-arrested lepidopterists out for revenge. Little did I know what thrilling event was waiting to entangle me later that week, but that story must wait for another day.

Simile City

Posted by Mark on Oct 26, 2006 | 6 Comments

I’m not a morning person. Never have been. I wake up like everyone else and I go to my office but the morning passes in a blur. I need coffee and cigarettes to get me out of my waking sleep. Alcohol too if it’s available. Sure, I sit at my desk and wait for clients like every other dick but nobody gets my full service and winning smile until the afternoon. Late afternoon. Everyone knows that. It doesn’t stop bums coming in off the street while the sun’s still low every now and then though.

Like this guy.

He’s wet and dripping all over my floor. I’m not worried because it’s been dripped on before. It’s always raining in the city. That’s a decent overcoat he’s wearing and the hat looks new. The water’s running off the felt in a stream onto my floorboards and making one heck of a racket. You’d think he could have shook himself dry on the way up to the office but I guess some people just have no manners.

It’s hard to work up the enthusiasm to enter into conversation with inconsiderate bums like this and, besides, it’s morning so I let him shake himself dry and pat himself down while I draw on my cigarette and finger the rim of my coffee mug. He’s looking at me now. Probably wondering why he picked me. I’m wondering that too but I’m a halfway decent detective and I’m already detecting a few things about him now that his coat is unbuttoned and I’ve got a good look at his shoes.

"You Rick Rake the private dick?"

Hey! He broke the silence. Good going. I nod back by way of reply and then add "And you’re a cop. Hooray, we all know one another."

"Your dour and dry demeanour is deserved I see," he says, lowering himself into my client chair. He’s getting it wet but I’m trying not to notice.

"Well, I don’t know you but I’m betting you’re known as Inspector Alliteration."

It gets a wry smile from him which is good. Those angry cops who fly off the handle at the slightest jibe can be real painful to work with and I really don’t work well in the mornings.

"You been using any similes in your inner monologue this morning Rake?"

That stops me. It’s not your usual opening sentence and I’m not entirely sure what to say; not a good thing for someone in my profession. I try to hide my surprise my putting on my thinking face. It looks like he’s buying it. I think back.

"You know what? I haven’t."

"Try it now. Humour me."

That’s a difficult request to just do and I’m a little distracted wondering whether I should change my coffee or cigarettes brand but I give it my best shot. There are puddles forming on the floor under the cop like clear jam on a flat thing.

What?

I think dropping my cigarette in the coffee tips off my visitor that I’ve just been shocked but to his credit he doesn’t laugh and that wry smile’s gone and been replaced by a tight-lipped grimace.

"Awful, wasn’t it? It’s happening citywide," he says and then goes on to explain. Overnight there was a heist at the Simile Warehouse. All the best ones stolen in the space of a few hours with no witnesses. I ask where the beat cops who usually patrol the area were and learn that a massive fire a few blocks across at the Expletive Lockup kept everyone distracted.

"So there’s been some damage to the expletives too?" I ask with some dismay. "Scum of a bench!" Maybe the graffiti in the alleyways will improve but it sure won’t make my job any simpler. Sometimes you need to swear at someone to solve a case.

"Well, I didn’t do it," I say but I’m pretty certain I’m not a suspect. He confirms that and gets to the gist of his visit.

"We’ve got every available person out checking into this. Who set the fire? Who stole the similes? Someone has to know. My job? Deputise the dicks, and that means you."

He wants me to do police work and I’m guessing it won’t be for police pay but this is one of those cases where you feel to just have to do your civic duty. Besides, a life without decent similes will be like a butterfly with tiny, grey wings. Urk!

"Is that a new hat?"

It’s hours later but I’m not sure how many. Walking the streets in the rain will take away your perception of the passage of time. The sky’s a stony grey and you can’t tell where the sun would be if the clouds were missing but I’m sure it’s the afternoon now. I’m feeling perkier despite the cold and the rain running down my hair, inside my coat collar, and onto my shirt. That’s the afternoon for you. I’m an afternoon person.

So far I’ve been to see Danny The Weasel and "Hats" Hoolihan. Danny knew nothing but he’d heard about the news all right. Hoolihan was a wreck; he’d been drinking hard and drinking the hard stuff. I knew he’d been trying to get out of the numbers game for a while now and working on his own inner monologue to branch out but he’s not a smart guy when you peel away the layers and the simile problem took a nasty toll. Poor old Hoolihan. I took one of his hats. He was too drunk to notice.

Which is why Jackie "J.J." Johnson is posing the interrogative.

"Forget about the hat," I say, jabbing a finger into his chest. J.J. is one of those guys that nature has decided doesn’t deserve muscles and he bruises easily. I’m not a tough guy but I play one on the streets. "What do you know about the heist over at third last night?"

J.J.’s acting weird. He’s playing with a book of matches in his left hand like a nun molesting a ping-pong ball. Urgh! Yeah, and that smirk on his face; I don’t like it. Like a mouse with a smirk implant. Flip!

"Heist? What heist Ricky? I don’t know anything about a heist." Ricky? He never calls me Ricky. J.J. calling me Ricky is like the Pope body-popping. What the heck is body-popping? This is hurting my brain.

And I think I’m seeing it. I think I’m seeing how this all fits together. But I’m not seeing that brick in the sock because of it and that’s a real shame because J.J.s sneering face isn’t a pretty last sight.

I’ve been in enough trunks to know when I’m in one again. My right eye feels swollen and sore and I’ve got a cramp in my wrist. There’s a knack to tying someone up and whoever won the lottery and got me doesn’t have it.

It’s noisy and warm in a trunk but you don’t mind that so much as feeling every bump in the road. Make that: mud track. I’m hoping that because I’m being taken off somewhere that it’s not to die. J.J. and his invisible accomplice could have finished me off in the alley. The rain’s got a way of washing away minor inconveniences like evidence.

It’s a puzzle but one I should be let in on in a minute or so because it feels like the car’s coming to a stop. I’m entertaining the old kick-out and leap into action when the trunk opens but it’s not a serious thought. Chances are I’ll be outnumbered and only earn myself a swollen and sore left eye to form a matching pair.

"No sudden moves Ricky," comes the muffled voice from outside my temporary tomb. I’m thinking of doing the opposite. Play dead. I can hear the key in the lock but I can’t stop myself from opening my good eye as the blast of cold air hits me when the trunk pops. It’s like a snowman blowing on sunburnt cheeks but far better than that lousy description.

It’s dark out and the rain’s down to a drizzle and I’ve just got a feeling that we’re high up somewhere. Difficult to say how I know especially from my curled-up position but there’s almost a taste in the air that gives it away.

"Looks like you asked the wrong person the wrong question, Mr Detective," comes a voice I don’t know. It’s the guy whose silhouette is standing next to J.J. I blink to pick out features but a spot of rain finds my good eye perfectly and the world becomes a commercial for vaseline. At least the metaphors are still working.

I’m manhandled onto the ground into a kneeling position. Shoot! They’re both wearing gloves and that probably means this is personal and my guess about not dying was way off. I’ve got a fairly good idea where we are now that I can hear a little easier.

"I’m surprised you didn’t just drive the car off the cliff with me still in it."

"And walk back in this weather? Are you crazy?"

He’s got a point. Still, there must have been a reason why I wasn’t finished off earlier. Or maybe I’m deluding myself. Sometimes you forget that criminals are dumb when it gets right down to it.

"Do I get your name before my imminent demise?" I ask gesturing with my head at the man I can’t place. It’s cliched to heck and I admit it: I’m clutching at straws, delaying the inevitable. Hey, last-minute rescues do happen every now and then.

I can make out the two figures looking at one another. I bet they’re smiling but it’s pitch black out here. Night on a cliff edge. I don’t mind nights usually but I’d swap this one for a morning any time. There’s a scratching sound and then a flash!

I know what you’re thinking. That last-minute rescue. What a cop-out. Yeah, if I was a lucky detective that would be the case but here and now it just means two people are lighting up cigars.

"Don’t even think of asking for one because you won’t get one," says the second guy. And as he draws in on his stogie the glow from the end lights up his features like a lighthouse lighting up a dark cave. "Brains" Bellamy. He sounds a little different but the face is still the same.

"Shouldn’t you be in jail?" I ask. I know the answer. He should. I helped put him away. As I recall it wasn’t that difficult. Brains earned his nickname from literally leaving his calling card after appearing in a bank job which co-starred a number of innocent deaths. His particular calling card featured his home address. Smart. Like a stupid plant. Flaming Nora!

"A little dedication to improving oneself goes a long way Rake," grins Bellamy without taking the cigar from his mouth. "You see, I just happened to share a cell with Ronnie K. You know Ronnie don’t you Rick?"

I did. He was the king of irony. Every caper he was involved in had some wonderfully inventive twist of ironic fate attached. Which, ultimately, made it easy to bait a trap and catch him. Ironically. I was putting the pieces together quickly now. Maybe the hardening rain cooling my exposed head in this precarious position was speeding up my reasoning processes.

Brains had finally learnt that his nickname was a joke from Ronnie and had then dedicated his time to escaping. He probably had help doing that but, once outside, he kept focussed and realised that if he was to stay free and continue his life of crime he’d need to get smart – real smart – quick. And if he could hinder the cops and detectives who’d caught him in the first place? Well, so much the better. Hence the similes. In his possession he could compare things to other things in a way he’d never imagined before allowing him to come up with jobs so devious that a police force and army of dicks confused by quick, random actions that reminded them of something else but only in bizarre manners would be rendered useless. It had worked on me in the alley.

I’m looking at the cliff edge because the wind is blowing that way and sheltering my eye is allowing me to finally see clearly for the first time in hours. I don’t know why but J.J. strides up and punches me full in the face. Maybe it’s to look big and strong. Maybe he thinks I’m disrespecting my predicament by looking away. I don’t think he’s going to like the disrespect I show his punch.

"J.J., get yourself to a gym if you’re going to try that," I say. Goading! While tied up on a cliff edge about to die. I must be crazy. But why not? "Did you take my hat?" I ask. J.J. reaches up instinctively like a baby grabbing for a necklace. Sheesh.

"It suits me better than you dick," he laughs. I feel it needs an "and you won’t need it where you’re going" tacked on for good measure and tell him so. He steps forward and kicks me this time. Mother fudge cakes! Yeah, that hurt a lot. I’m chewing wet grass now.

"Maybe we should re-christen you with the name ‘Brains’ before we leave" says Bellamy, puffing out a great cloud of smoke.

Have you ever watched smoke? Really watched smoke? It forms such complex patterns yet it’s following simple rules and it’s all quite predictable given enough dedication. Like monkeys flinging crap in the zoo. No, not like that! Like lemons rolling down the street into a sewer. No, darn it to Holland! Like criminals. Yes, that’s it.

J.J.s too close to me and I’m in a position now where I can strike at him. Big mistake J.J. I swing my legs across the ground and catch him at knee level. Nature really doesn’t like him and he flies – literally flies – to his left. To his left is where the cliff edge is. Sorry J.J. If he’s screaming as he’s falling then the rush of blood to my head is blocking out the sound and all I’m concentrating on is Bellamy’s cigar. Man, that tip is bright. He’s sucking it like an aardvark who’s discovered the last source of aardvark honey. Gah!

Panic. Not mine you might be pleased to hear. It looks like J.J. caught Brains as he left the general area and now our simile-stealing scumbag is off-balance. I’m cold and wet, my eye hurts, my wrist hurts, my shoulder hurts where J.J. kicked it but watching Bellamy flail and topple over the side is like watching a chocolate cake slide down a hill into your hands. I know, but who cares!

I can hear the rain now. I’d blocked it out for a while but it’s filling up my ear and I’m smiling. I don’t know how I’m going to make it back to the city in my condition but I can shelter in the car overnight if needs be.

"I’ll tell you where the similes are!"

Bother! How didn’t I realise that Bellamy was alive and hanging onto the edge by his fingertips? I hadn’t heard anything about a job at the Obvious Endings Emporium. Maybe I was out longer than I realised.

I’m looking down at his face and beyond it the rocks and sea. I know he was going to kill me but I’m no murderer. Looking around there’s nothing with which to help pull him up. What did I expect? It’s a cliff.

"Pull me up!" he shouts.

"Tell me where the similes are!" I yell back.

"Warehouse 6 on the South Dock! Hurry!"

I grit my teeth. "I’m sorry ‘Brains’ but I can’t help you. My hands are tied."

"Was that a joke?" he screams. I feel his pain. I hadn’t wanted to say it.

I never had a last-minute rescue and neither did Brains. Difference is, he never came up with a way to escape at the end. That’s what I’ve just finished telling Inspector Alliteration and his pals and maybe that’s what happened.

The similes were exactly where they were supposed to be and getting them back was like manna from heaven. But I hear it’s going to take a while to repair the damage to the Expletive Lockup and we won’t get any new ones in until the insurers have finished their investigations. Bunch of shunts.

The Christ Caper

Posted by Mark on Jun 24, 2006 | 3 Comments

The rain fell almost hard enough to wash the lice out of the beggars’ beards. Almost. These were Jerusalem lice. You didn’t survive in Jerusalem long without being tough and those critters hung on and dug in like relatives at a rich man’s funeral.

It had been six months since the case I’d labelled the Jerusalem Caper for my memoirs and things were back to normal for me. A few jobs here and there and those were lousy. My office had me for company and I think it was considering suicide. I couldn’t blame it.

The scholars, priests, guards, and vendors were all hurrying through the downpour to wherever it was they were going. It didn’t look like any of them were hurrying to my office. The early evening had all the hallmarks of looking like another quiet one with my feet on the desk sipping fermented prune juice.

"Sam, there’s a Mister Hired Goon to see you." That was Effie Perine of Judea, my loyal and long-suffering secretary. Maybe I’d drifted off for a few seconds because I hadn’t heard her come in. I was briefly annoyed. That’s the sort of thing that can get you killed in this line of business, not that I had much to fear lately. You don’t become the target of reprisals when you’re spending most of your time looking for missing cats.

There was a hulking great shadow in the doorway behind Effie. He pushed himself into the room.

"Let me guess," I ventured dismissively. "You’re a Goliath lookalike and some runt called David is muscling in on your territory."

Mister Hired Goon didn’t appreciate the humour and made for my desk brushing Effie out of the way. I didn’t appreciate the way he knocked her. We all have our limits. I reached for the Smith & Ishmael .22 Slingshot from the drawer but never had a chance.

Damn! He was fast.

"Damn! You’re fast!" I thought he deserved to hear what I was thinking. I thought the flattery might buy me some time too while I considered my position pushed up against the wall with my feet inches clear of the floor.

"Little Pee-Pee has a job you will be interested in." His breath stank of garlic. I let him have the full force of prunes in return.

"He didn’t want to come here personally?" I asked.

"That’s not Little Pee-Pee’s way." I was dropped to the ground. I made a mental note to buy sandals with more cushioning. A moment later and my offerer of employment had left. In my hand I held the small stone calling tablet he’d left. There was a name and address on it and, on the back, a date and time. Tomorrow night. I could have run. Effie too. Maybe set up in Bethlehem. I heard it rained there harder than here. That wasn’t my way though.

Tomorrow night rolled around right when I expected it to. It was raining all the way to the governor’s villa. I felt miserable but kept a professional sneer on my face. Nobody appreciated a professional sneer like a Roman.

Pontius Pilate. Little Pee-Pee. His dad was Big Pee-Pee. Peter Pilate. He’d set up most of the protection rackets in town when I was skipping school. Little Pee-Pee kept the family business ticking over these days. They said that Pilate Junior had been dropped on his head as a kid; that was why he didn’t object to his nickname. I didn’t know if he actually had a little pee-pee. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have taken a case to find out.

"The famous Samuel Spadius, here in my home!" Little Pee-Pee acted geuninely happy to see me. Or drunk as an Emperor. Seemed I wasn’t the only person buying fermented prune juice by the crate.

"I got your invitation governor. What’s the job?" It was the best growling I’d ever done. A good growl can make all the difference in negotiations. It helped that Goliath’s brother wasn’t around to make me feel insignificant.

"All business. I like that Mr Spadius. Very well, I’ll be all business too. I believe you’ve met the leader of this new group; Christians they call themselves."

I told him I knew of the gentleman. Our meeting hadn’t taken long or involved swapping stories about our childhood and I didn’t want Little Pee-Pee to think we were best buddies. I had a feeling that this new and improved Jesus and the old and traditional Pilate probably weren’t going to be joining up for fireside chats anytime soon and I needed to be as unattached to either group as possible for my own safety.

"It seems that the followers of this Christ fellow aren’t as keen on Roman governance as the Consuls would like and there are rumours of forming a breakaway religion. Needless to say, that’s the sort of thing that could upset Jupiter and if Jupiter gets upset then the Consuls get upset and I get upset and, well, I think you can see how this sort of thing can escalate."

I couldn’t. Jupiter had done very little in recent years as far as my sources knew and he sure as hell hadn’t intervened during the ongoing Praying Incessantly To Jupiter To Stop The Damn Rain Caper. If I was a god then I wouldn’t care about Jews and Romans starting a new religion. It would be premium prune juice all day and all night. Okay. Maybe Jupiter was different to me.

"I understand what you’re saying but where do I fit in?" I asked. I had a horrible feeling I knew anyway.

"You’re a resourceful man Mr Spadius. You’ve many contacts in the city and people who can help you achieve your aims quietly." I liked the flattery but I’m not one of those people who fall for it. I sneered a little more to let him know I wasn’t buying the act. He carried on: "Taxes are what keeps the empire from crumbling and religions are tax-free. If this Christian sect caught on in a big way it could ruin the world. And who would hire a detective in a ruined world?"

He smiled and cocked his head. I wished he would just cut to the chase. And hand out a glass or two of whatever he’d been downing. My throat felt rough from the earlier growling.

"We want Mr Jesus … gone. Again, if you will."

I knew it.

"I detect. It’s what I’m good at. I’m not a killer. And you must have people who can do the job anyway."

"Indeed we do. Fast, large people, as you’re already well aware." Goliath must produce detailed reports of his jobs. I liked that sort of dedication. There wasn’t enough of that sort of work ethic around in the world these days. "But this can’t come back to Rome in any way. The sestertius must stop with someone local. Someone resourceful yet also somewhat unpopular. In case of problems."

I objected to that characterisation of me. I enjoyed my solitude. It gave me time to contemplate where all the rain came from. Effie, I liked, but people in general couldn’t be trusted. But I had bigger problems now. I had a nose for set-ups and this one had the scent of Roman laurel leaves about it.

I told Pilate I’d see what I could arrange. I figured that wouldn’t be enough so I hoped it was a surprise when I didn’t react to the parting comment of "The killing of a miracle man could cause a riot, but secretaries are on every corner lifting their dresses and showing their ankles. Who’d miss such a thing, really? Happy hunting Samuel Spadius!"

I’d been in bad situations before. The Beard Arsonist Caper almost cost me my lips and The Plague Of Scientologists Caper still inflicted mental pain on my body thetans. But Effie was a whole new problem.

I knew that I’d be watched so escape was out of the question. If I hadn’t already met Jesus mark 2 then I might have considered finding a new God and seeing if a miracle could protect me. As it was it boiled down to me and my slingshot. Just like old times. How it should be. I’d have felt better if I wasn’t soaked through from the rain.

I debated about what to say to my secretary. In the end I decided I couldn’t let Effie in on her perilous situation. Dames don’t take that sort of news well and there’d be no chance of learning her filing system before she disappeared outside the city walls.

That left the case and the after-effects to sort out. I’d killed people before, people who deserved it. Often when they were trying to kill me. Cold-blooded murder wasn’t my thing though. My so-called resourcefulness wasn’t popping up any names of trustworthy stooges to fob this job off on either. And if I succeeded some way, what then? I had nothing but despair along that train of thought.

Days passed and I’d finally decided to fake my own death in a Sea of Galilee fishing accident when a crumb of luck landed on my plate. The city was buzzing with news of a new record-breaking miracle attempt to take place during the upcoming weekend. One loaf, one fish, nine thousand people. Perfect. I watched the rain wash away the rest of the week.

"Who are you?" The grunted question came from a familiar face; one of the brothers who’d stopped me from seeing Jesus 2 before. I hoped I looked different enough to not be recognised. I’d bought new sandals, a great-looking hat, and combed my beard just for the occasion. No lice. That was the first pleasant surprise I’d had since the Someone’s Dropped A Gourd Caper.

"Guinness," I replied. I told him I was at the record attempt to check everything was above board. You couldn’t get the record without independent adjudication. I thought the long words must have confused him because a few seconds later I’d been let through backstage at the event. Maybe the rain was getting through my skull and staring to dilute my brain. I should have known better than that.

For the second time in as many weeks I found myself up against a wall, feet dangling in the breeze.

"Samuel Spadius, we meet again."

I tried to nod but the hands pinning my throat made that difficult. I managed to force a smile.

"Hello Abe. Good crowd for such a wet day," I spluttered.

"I’d love to talk about it Sam but we’ve got a little problem to sort out first. The last time we met I warned you about causing trouble. And look what happens! You’re here. Causing trouble. What’s a religious icon like myself to do?"

The Apostle gang laughed. My instinct told me I was wasting my time but I tried the old innocent approach.

"What trouble Abe? I’m just trying to get the best view of the miracle."

"You’re here to kill me detective man. Little Pee-Pee’s not best pleased with the business he’s losing and you’re the little man’s solution. If my brother was alive he’d turn in his tomb at such goings-on."

I tried not to think about that last sentence too much. That’s the sort of thing that leads to headaches and I had enough problems. Somebody was feeding Jesus’ brother with a lot of good information. I had my suspicions who it was.

"Look, I came here to talk to you, that’s all," I tried. "Pilate wants to get together and work out a solution, beneficial to both of you. I’m just a messenger."

"You’re a liar Spadius and after I’ve transformed the food on stage into the food stolen from the warehouses in Nazareth I’m going to perform a very private transformation where you turn into a deceased detective. Slowly."

It wasn’t unusual for me to find myself trapped and awaiting certain death on a case. The last time had been the Let’s See How Crumbly The Cliff Edge Really Is Caper. I suspected a passing albatross wasn’t about to come to my aid this time. There was little I could do, surrounded by three of the bulkiest of Abe’s men while the miracle man himself was on the hillside enchanting donations from the crowd so I thought about rain some more.

I was distracted by a sudden commotion among the thousands of people present. The gang were intrigued enough to ignore me too. I had a chance to make a break for it but something stopped me. Something very large and very fast. In a flurry of fists and feet I found myself standing over three comatose bodies, sheltered by the hulking mass that was the Goliath-a-like.

"It would appear that Mr Christ could not survive the miracle of the exploding fish," I said, looking at the mushroom cloud rising into the air in the distance. "You tipped off Abe and his lot that I was coming so that you’d have a chance to switch fish. I was nothing more than bait."

"Little Pee-Pee says to tell you that you’ve been a great help and that he gave a lot of consideration to reducing your tax burden for the coming year but decided not to so as not to arouse suspicion."

Just great. I needed a drink. It’s not every day you get used as a pawn in some grand scheme despite what the peddlars of the various religions tell you. If you did you’d go stark-staring mad.

The rain couldn’t dampen the enthusiasm of the crowds streaming away from the exciting human fireball ascension to heaven they’d just witnessed but it was soaking into the extra cushioning on my sandals and squelching between my toes. That’s the sort of thing that sums up a caper quite nicely.

Lesser Tales Of Norse Mythology

Posted by Mark on Mar 22, 2006 | 3 Comments

Beofoxe
In the land of the Danes in the kingdom ruled over by Hrughkhar, son of Phlegm, the forest grew deep and dark around the great hall that held the old king’s throne. And the mood in the hall was as deep and dark as the forest outside for the king and his people lived in fear of Grendelsdottir, evil and mighty offspring of the now-vanquished Grendel who bellowed unearthly noises through the night and struck dumb with terror all from the mightiest man to the mightiest womanchild.

For ten years the timid folk sought a hero to save them but their cries went unheard for they were suffering a cashflow crisis and could not afford to pay a reward.

But a warrior from the north came into the hall one evening and proclaimed that his name was Beofoxe, a champion to his own people, defeater of the Four-legged, Chihuahua-headed Serpent of Kold Fjord, slayer of Baldur The God Of Tears’ Stable Boy Les, taunter of Grizgraz The Grumpy Goat, and that he would rid the land of Grendelsdottir in return for a wooden carving of the king’s likeness by the greatest woodsman in the land. And the king who was vain and drunk ordered it so.

And Beofoxe, wounder of Champion The Wonder Moose, left the great hall and strode bravely through the dark and deep paths that wound through the dark and deep forest until he came upon the clearing of Grendelsdottir. In the centre of the clearing lit dimly by the blood moon there was a small bog and there rested by this bog a hollow tree trunk. The brave warrior drew his sword, which he called Stabby, and advanced toward the tree trunk.

"Come out Grendelsdottir!" cried Beofoxe, chess partner of Ethelred the Unsteady. "Stabby longs for your demon blood and Odin will sing of the mighty hero Beofoxe while Loki taps his toes and hums along before this night is out!" And the terrifying creature leapt from his resting place and landed on all fours at the edge of the bog. Fully three inches in height and with skin green and damp, the mighty Grendelsdottir let out a croak that echoed through the tree trunk and became an unearthly bellow. And Beofoxe, pusher-over of The Cow That Slept Standing Up In That Field That Time, dropped Stabby and ran for he was deathly afeared of amphibians.

The following Summer an owl carried Grendelsdottir off to feed its young and the curse on the land was lifted and there was much prosperity. However, Hrughkhar had been unable to pay the woodsman for his carved likeness and had been declared bankrupt by this time.

Rugburn’s Saga
Rugburn’s father was advisor to the king of West Gotaland between Norway and Sweden and he invested his money wisely so that when Rugburn became a man at the age of eleven he had a considerable fortune to call upon. Although his father wished that Rugburn would succeed him as royal advisor Rugburn longed to sail across the sea to the rich island countries of the south and west and so he sought an audience with Honest Hagar, merchant of new and used longboats, whose advertisements were pinned to every tree.

Rugburn wanted a longboat the colour of his hair – red – with oars twenty-one to a side for that was how many fingers and toes he had. The sail was to be made from eastern silk and coloured like the sky – grey with patches of blue – so as to appear invisible on the sea. The prow would be like a wolf and the longboat should move through the water like Thor’s lightning.

But Hagar told Rugburn that the basic red would fade in the sun and he should pay extra for metallic. Twenty-one oars was good but you could move more like Thor’s lightning if you went for the next model up which had twenty three oars. And Rugburn agreed to the suggestions.

After a month Hagar called Rugburn back and mentioned that if Rugburn wanted he could have the new "sackcloth" material instead of silk – it was more hardwearing – and there was a free extended warranty at no extra cost. Rugburn was not sure and asked his father but his father was not an advisor of longboat matters so Rugburn decided that he would on his own.

Then Hagar told Rugburn that there was a problem at the carvers and that there would be a delay with wolfshead prows but if he wanted to he could have a pigeon as they were in stock and normally they’d be more expensive – what with the feathers and stuff – but Hagar could do him a good deal and split the difference. But Rugburn was adamant and said he would wait for the wolf to be completed.

A season passed and Rugburn asked Hagar when his longboat would be ready. Hagar told Rugburn that the sackcloth they’d ordered from their suppliers just wasn’t up to scratch so they were waiting for a new batch. Rugburn said he would take the silk instead then but Hagar mentioned it wasn’t a standard option on the twenty-three oar model unless he fancied going for the next longboat up in the range which included alloy shields and leather tiller handle. Rugburn reluctantly agreed.

Eventually, the longboat was ready but the sails were coloured like a cow owing to a mix-up at the sailmakers. Rugburn decided not to complain.

Thus ends Rugburn’s saga.

The Tale Of The Warrior Princess Brunhilde And Her Quest To Valhalla
Brunhilde was having woman problems and decided not to go.

Taunting The Yeti

Posted by Mark on Feb 21, 2006 | 5 Comments

I’ve got an uncle that is a little odd and does odd things. Not to me. Put down that phone to social services. He lived on a boat for a while and entertained himself by beading his hair and watching it sway as the waves rocked his leaking shell of a home. To keep warm he smeared nut oil on his body as insulation. He smelled of nut oil. A lot. He picked up a broken microwave for the boat too. There was no electricity on the boat so that was okay but he was convinced that putting tin foil on his head and placing it inside the oven would allow him to pick up television signals thanks to the way the cooking electronics were arranged. He went on a holiday to the Canary Islands and had everything stolen except for an inflatable bed and a tub of butter. He fell asleep on the bed, floated off to sea, used the butter as suntan lotion, and suffered third degree burns. He then stumbled upon a collapsed hotel inhabited by a gang of homosexuals (their preferred haunt) who chased him up a hillside until he lost them by hiding in a cave. One time he said to me "the Winter Olympics causes mental anguish". He may be odd and do odd things but he was right about that.

Now there’s mental anguish …

Figure skating causes brain pain, for example, because it is so mind-numbingly awful. Tinny speakers outputting 2 watts of raw Latvian folk music out of time to a couple spinning and sliding around an ice rink in matching polyester and rhinestone outfits is neither technical nor artistic and may even violate the Geneva Convention on torture. Cross-country skiing needs more bear attacks and someone needs to tell the snowboarders that there’s a supercool rad half-pipe just over that precipice dudes. Trying to guess the circumference of speed skaters’ thighs hurts right behind the eyes and causes trembling in the extremities. I tried to watch the Super-G and got a headache too. Why? From trying to work out why it was postponed just because it was snowing. How can you postpone an event that takes place in snowy regions of the world on snow in snow equipment because there’s snow? That’s like cancelling a deep-sea dive because there’s a chance of rain.

And then there’s mental anguish …

When I see those white mountain scenes, those white vistas, and those treelines (white), I’m reminded of the time I set out to taunt the Yeti. It was an act of bravery I’d told myself beforehand and wasn’t borne of a cruel streak that runs down my back and inside my underwear where it is mistaken for sweat. I was going to perform some deed that was unique in history or of which there survived no written record. I would impress the young ladies who hitherto had remained resolute in their steadfast lack of impression with regards to me. That was back when impressing the young ladies was an important aspect of my life; back before it was replaced with merely trying not to send them screaming from my presence in utter revulsion, of course.

I did my homework. I looked up everything there was to know about the Yeti at the time. Back then there was nothing you would recognise as today’s internet – just alt.binaries.pictures.erotica.star-trek.tribbles and a message board for fans of Def Leppard – but we had things called "libraries" and liked to perform activities called "ram-raiding W.H. Smiths" and it wasn’t long before I became something of a Yeti expert, or Yetixpert as I called myself. But nobody else would.

For instance: I knew the Yeti spoke French and my ‘B’ grade G.C.S.E. in the language would come in useful; I knew what yeti-guano looked and tasted like so I could be sure I was on the right track; I knew the creature’s most likely altitude at the time of year I would be travelling so as to reduce the hunting area; I knew that getting to the Himalayas would be a doddle thanks to my Young Person’s Railcard and my Cloak of Confusion (+3 against Pixies) which bestowed upon me cheap travel through Europe and the ability to blend in with the local populace outside its borders respectively; I knew that the Chinese would try to stop me and I knew I couldn’t allow that.

The eighties were over and everyone had got used to the fact that the nineties were up and running and there was nothing else but to grin and bear it. And I was snaking my way across the globe in search of the snowman that everyone labels "abominable" so I could taunt it. Time is what you make of it and I spent the days and weeks travelling through country after country hard-at-work. I would practice my taunts on indigenous people, honing my delivery, seeking advice as necessary. Twice I was nearly killed by angry mobs and I considered those moments as towering successes. I wrote down in my diary "if you can irk a Kurd you can vex a Yeti" with the intention of introducing it as a proverb into the English language. Events would unfold to quash my plan but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had adventures before reaching Tibet and I may expound on them some other day but this tale is not about rescuing an Afghani princess from christmas tree lights, how to survive when stuck in the plug of a Turkish bath, or why "Welcome to Myanmar" means so much more than just missing the stop at Tibet. Instead, let us picture a young me calf-deep in a snow drift on an unforgettable mountainside in the Himalayan range.

I would describe the cold but I would not do it justice. Let me simply say that the ground was littered with witch’s nipples. I was wrapped in numerous external layers of what had once been animals purchased from a trading station and suffered less than had I decided to press on protected only by my Aran cardigan from Marks & Spencers yet still the chill penetrated to the core. With hindsight I may also have been wearing the hedgehog underwear inside out which couldn’t have helped the comfort factor.

It was – you may be surprised to hear – at nearly the stroke of midday when I happened upon the source of my transcontinental jaunt. Yet I (that’s a sort of pun there) expected no less for I knew the beast was completely diurnal and a deep sleeper once the sun dipped below the horizon. I had crested a steep incline gasping in the thin air when some inner sense made me freeze and hold my breath. A primaeval instinct perhaps or had my eyes seen some movement or shape suddenly alien in this plain and inhospitable environment that my brain simply refused to process without further inspection? Whichever it was, there slowly detached from a wall of snow-covered rock to my left a giant. From the top of his ten-feet tall frame to the tip of his toes on feet larger than my head he was all hair, matted with ice. Eyes like ink turned to look at me as he stopped and stared. It was the Yeti.

I was there for a purpose and the Yeti, as you might expect, is very wary of the human animal. I had only a few seconds to do what I came to do before – I was sure – all I would see would be the back of this mighty animal loping away at a speed I couldn’t hope to match on that terrain. When presented with opportunity you must grab it with both hands and smother it to your bosom and so I pulled the flounderskin scarf from my mouth and shouted:

"Tu n’es qu’un petit singe!"

There was a giant roar of thunder that filled the air and I turned and ran, sprinting, falling over, relying on gravity to take me away. A taunt like that would not simply be ignored – could not simply be ignored -, I thought. But I was wrong. Running headlong into a petrified tree jutting from the path I was momentarily dazed and glanced back up the snowy gradient. The Yeti was not following and had not disappeared in the other direction either; he stood in the exact same spot, hands clasped to his eyes, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. I had made him cry. How quickly bravery is replaced by shame.

The roar which still echoed was not rage nor, even, was it torment but, as bad luck would have it, the noise an avalanche makes when set off by a young person shouting without due care and attention on an unforgettable mountainside in the Himalayan range. I was swept to the bottom, stripped of layers of cat wool and snail fur, stripped of dignity, and stripped of a chance to apologise and so I made my way home again vowing to try to forget the time I decided to taunt the Yeti.

Sense And Prejudice

Posted by Mark on Nov 22, 2005 | 6 Comments

For as long as anyone of import could recall the Thompsons had enjoyed a reputation of being among the most hospitable – and therefore liked – of the larger families along the Hampshire and Wiltshire border. The village which ran up to and around the southernmost tip of the Beaufort Park estate was gifted with lavish fetes on several occasions during each year and the head of the household, the retired doctor Ernest Thompson, welcomed all to his doorstep and never turned away so much as a vagrant or a Mancunian.

The Thompson fortune came through several routes; slavery and sea cucumber cultivation – naturally -, wine production and the private practice of medicine – of course; for the grape was a fond friend to the aging ex-doctor -, and sundry enterprises for diversification was the key to success in the market after all. The Thompsons were rich and smart.

There was immense sadness when the great fire at the Christmas gala took all but one member of the family from their place on God’s soil and ushered them swiftly into Heaven. Eliza Thompson, the youngest of the nieces in residence at Beaufort Park threw herself from an open window in the east tower, saving her life but taking in so much smoke and suffering so much shock from landing on Samson, the Great Dane, that she lapsed into a coma and was taken to be looked after in a clinic in nearby Whittingdon.

In the aftermath of the blaze and quite shockingly for the gentle folk around there was surprise to discover that the dispersal of the family’s wealth was to be tied in knots for years to come following complacent will-keeping and the young girl’s lack of age. It was most unlike the Thompson family, the village muttered. Fancy not preparing for such an eventuality. But poor Eliza needed expensive care and a decision was made to sell the house – when such a feat became possible – and the land.

The house was rebuilt largely for free by the local people out of love, reverence, and the need to keep moving as the cold of winter merely gave way to a cold and wet spring, a damp and quite cold summer, and an autumn that could best be described as cold. Finally, on very nearly the first anniversary of the inferno word reached the village that Beaufort Park had acquired a new owner.

Harold Plimpton was the new master. From north, was the rumour, with no word of a wife. Rumours and whispers were all that were known for Mr Plimpton – as polar opposite from the late Mr Thompson as the sea cucumber to the squirrel in the tree – kept himself to himself and tolerated no idle gossip with his neighbours.

"He has six daughters!" remarked Fanny Turtle to Mrs Muffle as they browsed the butchery display. "Six! So few, it breaks my heart. I’ll warrant that Mrs Harold Plimpton died in childbirth. Mark my words!"

"Now Fanny! Conjecture is best left to those with a whole brain and you’ve barely enough to act as a spare should a lowly sea cucumber suffer imminently fatal head trauma. Four hooves please."

"Ermintrude Muffle! As I live and breathe that is the singular most awful put-down with which you’ve ever put me down! Careful, that hoof has signs of foot and mouth. If your twelve daughters weren’t here to bear witness or wreak revenge upon my person I would box your one remaining ear for such an outrage. Do not pretend you have not given some thought to the mysterious Mr Plimpton for I’ve seen you staring up the road to the house on the hill."

"It is certainly an episode worthy of some consideration," replied Mrs Muffle. "But flights of fancy with no evidence to back them up serve no fit purpose. Were a sea cucumber here it would wave away any notion of diverting such time to frivolous thought and instead consider ingratiating itself with the new residents of Beaufort House. And you – who are not yet as advanced as the sea cucumber – would do well to follow its example, young Fanny!"

"Topside of shrew if you please. So, that’s it! I see right through you Ermintrude! You seek to marry off one of your daughters to the most eligible Mr Plimpton. A man who can raise his own daughters single-handed and who has enough money to buy a stately home and two hundred acres of land will be a wonderful son-in-law for a selfish woman like yourself."

"You are forgetting that we do not know he is eligible Fanny. But there is something in what you say; my daughters would be perfect wives for any man with aspirations. Little Jenny here has a lazy eye but a delightful personality, and her elder sister Mary – who will one day grow to be a most handsome woman if she loses the moustache – has a quick wit which most discerning gentlemen rate higher than child-bearing hips – such as those of Jane’s – in these modern days. Perhaps I will take up your suggestion of accidentally chancing upon Mr Plimpton when he is out hunting – for men such as he must surely take time out to slaughter wildlife for no reason – and expediting an audience with my beautiful girls."

"What suggestion?"

Mrs Muffle tried on a number of occasions – none of them hunting – to cross the path of Mr Plimpton; in February there was a church sale where the previous year’s stained glass windows were sold to the needy in exchange for their souls, and in April the annual Sea Cucumber Week Of Festivities commenced with many events and games for the whole village to enjoy but of Mr Plimpton or his daughters there was no sign. His staff frequented the village, purchasing foodstuffs and housewares as would any retainers of a large home but none would engage in conversation about the owner of Beaufort House. The enigma grew.

At the end of a summer most cool Mr Dalrymple the village postal clerk, his wife of some years, and their fourteen daughters paid a visit to nearby Whittingdon to check in on the condition of Eliza Thompson who, at last report, had shown no sign of progress but was otherwise comfortable. They were met by the resident doctor at the clinic who informed them that a strange man claiming to be a family friend had discharged the girl into his care. When pressed for a description the doctor confirmed the northerness of the family friend and the low number of daughters in tow but could not recall a name. With this information and their own suspicions the Dalrymple family made a hasty return homewards.

In no time – in no small part because Mr Dalrymple posted a letter to each and every household – the village literally buzzed with the news regarding the Thompson girl.

"Perhaps there is a real family friend we are unaware of who just happens to have only six daughters and we are mistaken with our assumptions that there is any foul deed at hand," urged Mr Short to nobody in particular.

"Perhaps Mr Plimpton is family," reasoned the publican at The Three Sea Cucumbers. "A name belies no blood affiliation nor lack thereof, after all."

"And I say that our own Eliza bears an uncanny resemblance to the late Mrs Plimpton whose death during childbirth haunts the master of Beaufort House so much that he has stolen away her double to be his unconscious wife." That was Fanny Turtle, naturally, and a brawl soon ensued between her and Mrs Muffle who would hear no evil spoken of her oft-dreamed-of future son-in-law. The fight was most unseemly and muddy and borne on the back of the wildest of fantasy but the notion itself had a way of lodging itself among the most everyday of thoughts of every simple person who heard it. So it was that on the cusp of another cold autumn the villagers as a single entity marched upon Beaufort House, there to resolve as many mysteries as might offer themselves up.

They were met – at last – by Mr Plimpton. His face showed indignation and a little concern under a handsome ginger beard and his stance seethed with strength. Many women were taken short of breath by his eyes which were the colour of topaz and the men noticed mostly that the leather boots he wore were tipped with metal plate and could do great and lasting damage should they ever make brisk contact with any bodily protuberances. The manner in which he held their gaze calmed their group rage. Even Fanny quietened noticeably, though her fractured jaw also contributed somewhat.

"Ooh eck, what be thee lot doin’ ‘ere?" commanded the imposing figure. He was, they all decided privately, most definitely northern.

Mr Willoughby the publican stepped forward, his years of issuing orders to the rowdy and inebriated garnishing him with some level of authority. "Mr Plimpton, sir, we have come in search of news of a dear daughter of the village, Eliza Thompson, whose last whereabouts it has come to be known are most likely to be in your vicinity. We would be grateful if you could confirm the rumours regarding this issue as her condition is of great concern to those of us who hold her deep in our hearts, she being our last tie to the previous, most loved owners of this house."

"Eliza? The lass from clinic up t’ road? That one? I’m caring for her now. Poor dear was bein’ abused by that there so-called doctor chap, keepin’ ‘er all drugged up for his own wanton acts. Bloody pervert. She’ll be right as rain in a few weeks you’ll see."

Mrs Muffle shuffled forward thrusting her eldest daughter Charlotte ahead of her. "Oh, Mr Plimpton we are so sorry to have disturbed you. Charlotte here was remarking that you have such a kind soul that you could not possibly be capable of the acts that many of my neighbours seem to consider commonplace for anyone they consider different from themselves. Let me be gracious enough to apologise on everyone’s behalf and invite you to the harvest festival on the Sunday after next. It is sure to be an occasion of high class which someone of your stature will appreciate."

Mr Plimpton was taken aback by the ferocity of Mrs Muffle’s invitation and more so by the one-armed Charlotte chewing absently at the edge of a sea cucumber sandwich and managed only to stammer "no, no, that’s all fine. I’m not a people person; I’ll just keep meself to meself and you just keep doing whatever it is you lot do." With that he turned and ran up the pathway to the safety of the brick surrounds of Beaufort House.

"Upon my word!" said Mr Short. "That certainly put us in our place. I do suppose we shall simply have to become used to the idea of living with an unsociable and rude northerner and bury any ridiculous tales that we might dream up before they take control next time." Many of the crowd looked towards the bruised Fanny with this and nodded their heads. Miss Turtle looked ruefully at the ground, secretly pleased nonetheless that the first meeting between the familes Plimpton and Muffle had been – at best – awkward.

With the passing of several seasons, all of them cold, a great change came over the village and the surrounding areas. The doctor in Whittingdon was murdered in a most disagreeable manner and the village soon lost the services of Mr Dalrymple who was handed down a life sentence. The loss of communication afforded by the post office served to draw everyone into their own shells and the once-lively village wilted. Neither Charlotte nor Jenny nor Mary nor any other daughter of Ermintrude Muffle – who, almost to a girl, took to spinsterhood with great aplomb – took the eye of Mr Plimpton who himself became, if anything, more reclusive than before. Indeed, he only ever took in one visitor and she stayed for a long, long time; Fanny always walked with a slight limp after her altercation with Mrs Muffle but she had a delicate and pleasing face and did not repulse the master of Beaufort House. Besides, she reminded him of his wife who had died while demonstrating how the orientals used to kill themselves with sharpened sea cucumbers when their family honour was blackened.

Eliza Thompson never recovered but she did fall pregnant some two years later and the baby was, of necessity, cut from the dying body in order that it might live. Mr Plimpton was arrested and convicted and shared a cell with Mr Dalrymple briefly before the latter dispatched the former in a similar fashion to that which had befallen a certain Whittingdon-based physician. Fanny was prudent enough to remain in the house and the six – no, seven – daughters of Harold Plimpton regarded her less as a step-mother and more a real mother and a calm joy enveloped each of them and spread into the village. Recovering from the gloom of years past the village eventually bloomed once more and everyone of import regarded the Turtle-Plimptons as among the most hospitable and well-liked of the large families along the Hampshire and Wiltshire border. Until a rumour surfaced that Fanny was leading a lesbian witch coven and they were all burned alive by a furious mob headed by Gabrielle, the daughter of Ermintrude Muffle who hated sewing but really liked fires.