Chapter four - Descent into the Rum and Uncanny

We now, for a few brief moments, leave Ambrose to almost certain doom and travel to a room. It’s not a room in a particular house, flat or office. It’s not even in a building or in any particular country. It would be very hard to say exactly where it is, so I’m not going to bother. Just trust in me that there is a room that looks very much like a Victorian gentlemen’s club, because it is one, that exists somewhere.

It has all the trappings that a room in this idiom should have, big red leather seats, mahogany tables, furry wallpaper, lots of books in glass fronted cases and lots of men sitting around smoking cigars and reading newspapers. There is also a butler standing in the corner by the grandfather clock. A grandfather clock that has no hands or numbers but continually ticks and never chimes.

Mysterious isn’t it?

A man with a ridiculous handle bar moustache rustles his paper and makes a tutting noise. All the other men do exactly the same thing.

"Good grief" says the man. "Did you read that?"

Another man, one with one of those strange pillbox hats with a tassel on, responds.

"What, old boy?"

Its may be noted that these men all speak in exactly the same voice.

"Its says here that H.G Wells has just been disembowelled by a demon."

There is a rustle of paper and all the men make this noise.

Huffhruuffenharbbrrrruf.

"That’s jolly inconsiderate of the demon." Says Pillbox, " Avocado won’t like that."

Huffhruuffenharbbrrrruf.

A man with a monocle folds his paper up and puts it on his lap.

"Its seems to me." A pause, "It seems to me, that out plans are being scuppered by an outside influence."

Huffhruuffenharbbrrrruf.

"Do you think we should, perhaps, send in someone to protect that Hedgetrimmer fellow, hmmm?"

"Like who?"

There is a faint rustle of paper as the men all put their papers down. A man with a pipe puffs thoughtfully.

"What about that chap with all the guns."

"Shwartzenneger?"

"Nononononono, the other one. Wears that leather coat, little moustache."

"Aah, you mean the one who travels through time and space, helping the innocent and needy so he can compensate for the evil and terror that he caused throughout his life?"

"Yes, that’s the fellow, although I do think that that was rather longwinded explanation."

"Sorry, but I have to avoid saying his name."

"Why’s that old boy?"

"Dramatic effect."

Huffhruuffenharbbrrrruf.

Handlebar rings a little bell. The butler springs to life and walks over to him.

"Jeeves" the butler bows his head. "Jeeves, send for that chap we were just discussing"

The butler, bows low, turns on his heel and vanishes.

"Splendid, should have this little situation sorted out in a trice."

There is a rustle as all the papers are picked up.

"Good lord" say Handlebar, "Look at the thr’penny bits on page three."

Huffhruuffenharbbrrrruf.

*******

The nature of time is a funny old thing. Because time - I’m talking about the notion of hours and days and months and things - does not actually exist. Its just a concept, an notion that someone once had that seemed like a handy way of recording events and making sure everything ran nice and smoothly.

Little did they know that this whizzo, sure-fire cracker of an idea would go on to rule everyone on earth’s lives and cause so much trouble.

This is because of a basic flaw in human nature, and it’s to do with rules. If you set up a rule saying don’t go hunting for whelks on Wednesdays you can be sure that from every Wednesday onwards you wont be able to get on the beach for all the bloody whelk hunters.

Time’s exactly the same, in fact it is relatively easy to break the laws of time because, as I said before, it’s something that doesn’t exist in the first place. You just have to find the loopholes and you’re sorted. The only trouble that would-be time travellers experience is the congestion in the space time continuum.

What I’m really trying to say is that even though it probably took a little while to find the gun-slinging time traveller, who shall remain nameless until the end of the next section, he appeared behind Ambrose roughly point two of a second later. It doesn’t really help the story, but it’s just nice to know.

*******

There was a loud explosion, like a giant banger going off and Ambrose opened his eyes. The demon had stopped in mid-swipe and appeared to be sporting a large, gaping hole in his chest.

There was a horrible ethereal wail, which sort of sounded like someone shouting "The jammy bastard!" and three ghastly figures faded out.

Another large bang and the demon’s head exploded in a manner far too disgusting to be fully described. If it was going to be described the phrase "explosion in an abattoir" might be appropriate.

Ambrose wiped something resembling half a pound of fresh mince from his forehead.

"Like I always say," said a voice from behind him, "The bigger they are, the messier they explode."

There was a strange lilt to the voice, like a combination of different accents, but the main tone seemed to be German.

Ambrose stood up and turned around. The figure standing in front of him who had been behind him until he turned round, Ambrose that is, not the man, had on a pair of black cowboy boots, stone washed blue jeans and a dirty white vest. Over this he wore a long, black leather jacket bristling with pockets. Around his waist he wore a holster into which two, converted colt 45’s snugly fitted. Ambrose’s gaze fell onto the man’s face. It was instantly recognisable face. Even though it was wearing a pair of Ray Ban’s there was no mistaking that stern expression and tiny black moustache.

"Bloody hell" said Ambrose. "Charlie Chaplin!"

In a slick move the man spun his sawn-off shotgun, the one I forgot to mention, and slotted it neatly into his back holster.

"An easy mistake to make" he said taking of his shades. "The name’s Hitler. Adolf Hitler."

"Hitler?" repeated Ambrose dumbly. "Adolf Hitler? The Adolf Hitler?"

"The one and only. I expect you’re wondering what I’m doing here?"

In truth, Ambrose was. In absolute truth, he was wondering why the world, previously quite mad, had now decided to go right off the deep end. Adolf Hitler, most hated and feared megalomaniacal leader of the early twentieth century, had saved his life. Ambrose found himself in a quandary.

Quick as a flash, Adolf smashed open the quandary and pulled Ambrose out.

"You appear to be a man in great danger, Mr Hedgetrimmer. Follow me please."

He reached behind him, ripped yet another hole in the fabric of space-time, and pulled Ambrose through.

If anything, their time spent in the very fabric of space-time, was even less than the last time Ambrose was there. Adolf paused briefly to put a few shotgun blasts into the radiator of oncoming Flooble cart, which seemed intent on running them down ("Bugger!" said an ever-growing chorus of voices), and out they popped, into a perfectly ordinary tailor’s shop. So quick was it that Ambrose did not even notice the small, furry form of Tiddles, as he squirmed into Ambrose’s top pocket.

The bespectacled tailor, dressed in immaculate attire was apparently unsurprised at their sudden entrance.

"Gosh!" said Ambrose, "That’s as immaculate a tire as I’ve ever seen."

"Thank you, sir. It’s by Michelin of France. Ah, Mr Hitler sir. Good to see you again. I think you’ll find dressing room number three to your liking."

Adolf led Ambrose to the rear of the shop, into a tiny changing room, with a number three above the entrance. Once inside, he pulled the first of the coat pegs at the rear of the small room (no easy task, let me tell you. Coat pegs are notoriously stand-offish and not inclined to mix with normal folk).

There was an odd "whoosh" noise, and the room lurched sideways. The wall to the left opened upwards, revealing a small reception room, the only notable feature of which was a rather nice desk, at which was seated a stunningly beautiful young lady.

"Herr Hitler" she oozed, "always a pleasure."

"Miss Moneypfennig, this is Ambrose T Hedgetrimmer. Yes, the Ambrose T Hedgetrimmer. Is there a queue?"

"Mr Hedgetrimmer!" She rose, tulip and daffodil, and slinked her way around the desk, revealing what was probably meant to be a skirt, but would have had difficulty being a decent sized handkerchief, slit to the waist. Let’s face it she was revealing everything.

"I’m blurblererble –" drooled Ambrose, unable to speak properly while his tongue hung to the ground.

She took Ambrose’s hand, then realised that wasn’t very fair, as he was likely to need it in the near future, so she gave it back. In it, when it returned was a piece of paper. Ambrose stuffed it, with some difficulty, into his top pocket.

"No, Adolf, there’s no queue, Mr R will see you both, now."

Adolf opened the door opposite. "After you Mr Hedgetrimmer. Welcome to the inner sanctum of The Powers That Be!"

Ambrose considered bracing himself, then remembered all the trouble that had got him into before. So instead he simply rolled up his tongue so he wouldn’t trip over it, and strode as manfully as he could, considering what was going on inside his trousers, through the door.

"Aah Mr Hedgetrimmer, we meet at last." The voice came from behind a chair, a red leather chair in the room that was described at the beginning of the chapter. Mind you, Ambrose didn’t need it describing because he was standing in it. "And welcome back to you, double-O-nein."

Hitler clipped his heels together and bowed low, Ambrose scratched his head.

"Please, don’t do that" intoned Hitler, removing Ambrose’s scratching hand from his head.

The chair swivelled around to reveal a bald man with a big handlebar moustache. He had a white cat on his lap and was stroking it.

"I expect you wondering what’s going on?" he said.

"Not really, I assume your part of the Powers That Be? The Great Avocado is it?"

"Only to those who aren’t in the know. You may call me Mr. R."

"Well Mr. R let me tell you what I know, I know…."

"Let me tell you what I know" interrupted Hitler taking an almighty cigar out of one of his pockets. "Ambrose is being tracked down by an o.a.p, a hamster and a decomposing fawn. Apparently Ambrose here was the cause of their death and they want revenge."

Mr. R raised an eyebrow, which is slightly less hard than raising the Mary Rose but equally as significant. "And the vibraphone?….."

Hitler took a huge puff on his cigar.

"Havana?" said Ambrose.

"Only on Tuesday’s" said Hitler. Mr. R winced at the atrocity of that joke.

"The vibraphone is still lost" said Ambrose. "I’ve looked all over the place and I have no idea where it is." He put his hands over eyes.

"Were doooomed" he proclaimed In the style of Fraser from Dads Army, "Doomed I tell ‘ee. DOOMED"

Mr. R and Hitler looked at the wailing wretch.

"Please try and pull yourself together there’s a good chap." Said Mr. R, "Do we have any clues to its whereabouts?"

Ambrose racked his brain, after that he hung, drawn and quartered it and then put it in an iron maiden. His brain objected to ‘Iron Maiden’ and suggested he try something by ‘Run Like Buggery’, maybe off the critically bashed second album. Ambrose tried this and a song title sprang into his mind.

"Hairclip A Go Go" he shouted triumphantly!!

"By ‘Run Like Buggery’? I always preferred ‘Bongo Au Requiem’." Said Hitler.

"Nonsense" said Mr. R, " ‘Hanging With The Butchers Boy’ was a much better track."

"No, no, no" ranted Ambrose as he searched in his trouser turn up. "The only clue I have is a hairclip I found at the scene of the crime."

With a magnificent flourish he produced the ebony article.

"Good grief!" shouted Mr. R shooting up from his seat sending his cat flying into a wall.

Hitler grabbed the hairclip from Ambrose.

"Only one person would own a hand-carved African ebony hairclip." He gave the hairclip to Mr. R.

"Davina Venticle; international thief, spy, despot, criminal mastermind, lover, fighter, Virgo, one time queen of the orient and my ex-wife."

"I know that name," shouted Ambrose." She used to live near me!"

"That’s right" said Hitler, "she retired to your town. Now we know why."

"If Venticle has the Vibraphone…" Mr. R slapped his fist into the open palm of his other hand.

"Don’t worry," said Hitler, "we will get it back". As he said this he slapped Ambrose on the back.

This loud slapping noise woke Tiddles from his sleep. He leapt, terrified, out of Ambrose’s pocket. The hamster landed about two feet away from where Mr. R’s cat (also called Tiddles, confusingly enough) had landed.

Even though the cat was groggy after hitting the wall he knew a small nervous sack of (albeit deceased) lunch when he saw it and went for it big time. The Hamster shot up like a furry bullet out of a gun.

"Careful!!" shouted Mr. R " Don’t let Tiddles…."

But it was too late. The cat took a swipe at the hamster and missed, instead ripping a gash in the walls of the pocket of space-time reality within which the Powers That Be’s room existed.

"Oh shit." said Hitler as the room; him, Ambrose and Mr. R were sucked through the hole. Miss Moneypfennig was also sucked through the hole, but she managed to do it in a much sexier way and managed to reveal an expanse of milky white thigh and a heaving bosom. It might be sexist but its about bloody time some blatant exploitation was added.

Tiddles and Tiddles were sucked through also.

*******

Emilia Hangnail was feeling rotten. She’d run out of Glee, and the effects of being dead for some considerable time were beginning to show. Odd that it had all disappeared so quickly. She stared hard at Aristotle, who somehow had managed to recover most of his body – in a strange holographic material, almost perfectly fawn shaped, although he still sloshed a bit when he walked – and smelt, even more oddly, of Glee. Realisation dawned.

"Aristotle, you bastard – you’ve used up all my Glee!" She reached for his holographic, but still somehow cute neck with both hands.

Ordinarily, this would have been perfectly OK. Well, not OK exactly – Aristotle would probably object – but nothing terrible would happen (except to Aristotle, of course) but this was not ordinarily. Oh no. This was driving a high-speed Flooble cart through the much-perforated fabric of space-time. And, wouldn’t you just know it, at just the moment that Emilia reached for Aristotle’s neck, someone walked out in front of the cart.

Well, not someone, exactly, there were about four someones, and two somethings. And they didn’t exactly walk out, more sort of flew out at a velocity approaching supersonic.

Tiddles (the Hamster) shrieked as Tiddles (the Cat) pounced. Then he started to giggle as Cat-Tiddles was splattered all over the fabric of space-time by the off-side front wheel of an out-of-control Flooble cart. He spun around just in time to see the near-side front wheel zip past him. He was just congratulating himself on his brilliant escape, when he was suddenly struck by a thought. This particular thought was marked "Very, very, very, very urgent!" and was clearly something to do with the design of Flooble carts. Hamster-Tiddles had just reached the bit about "three-wheeled" when the central rear wheel reached him.

Hamster-Tiddles watched the Flooble cart disappear into the distance - as his four erstwhile travelling companions disappeared through yet another hole in the continuum - and thought he should pull himself together – well, the bits he could find anyway. Sighing the sort of sigh that only a recently-crushed, twice dead Hamster can sigh, he pulled out the jar of Glee he’d stolen from Emilia, (giving just enough to Aristotle to make sure that he would get the blame) and began to rub it on the bits of himself within arms reach.

*******

Irony is a strange thing. In one sense, it’s a word used by young children to describe something that looks a bit like one of those things your mother uses to remove creases from clothes; in another, it’s a strange green jelly that you smear all over your third to fifteenth tentacles as part of your celebrations on the occasion of losing your two hundred and seventy sixth job; but we’re not interested in any of those. No really, we’re not. And if we’re not, then you won’t get to hear any more about it. Just make sure you don’t splash any onto your second tentacle – that is so last-millennium.

The irony we’re interested in, is – pretty ironic really. And by some bizzare coincidence, one of the heroes in our story is just about to experience it. I can hardly wait.

Ambrose tried not to look at Miss Moneypfennig’s ample bosom. Unfortunately (not for him the lucky blighter) he failed happily (well would you be miserable?). There were two reasons for him failure, and both of them were pressed so tightly against his face that he thought he was going to suffocate.

"Mmmrph" said Ambrose.

Miss Moneypfennig squealed. "Oh Mr Hedgetrimmer, you shouldn’t!"

Ambrose resolved to keep his mouth shut for the moment.

R and Hitler were in no better shape. All four of them seemed to be squeezed very tightly together inside some sort of box.

"Hold on my comrades," grunted Hitler, "I’ll try to reach my torch."

Miss Moneypfennig squealed again.

"Sorry! Ah here it is."

Click. Light seeped out into what did indeed turn out to be a box. A large stone box. Full of large stones, as well as four space-time travellers.

"Righto chaps" grunted R, "let’s see if we can get the lid off shall we?"

After much grunting, pushing and squealing, the lid opened a crack. It was as dark outside, as it had been inside. Slowly, they levered the lid further open, until, with a deafening crash, it fell to the floor. Our heroes picked themselves up and climbed out of the box.

"Where the hell are we?" queried Ambrose.

"I hope there are no spiders." worried Miss Moneypfennig.

In the distance they could hear running footsteps. Lots of footsteps, headed, by the sound of it, in their direction, very fast.

"Hitler, old chap," said R, "what on earth’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Hitler was experiencing the aforementioned irony (see, I told you so).

His torch was locked on one of the stones in the box, on which was clearly engraved:

"Thou shalt not Kill"

"Oh great," sighed Hitler, "the Ark of the Covenant. This might take some explaining."

"I don’t think so," said Ambrose with a knowing glint in his eye, "I’ve seen Indiana Jones, I know all about Nazi’s and the fabled Ark of the Covenant." He strode about the dark chamber with his hands in his pockets.

"I can only imagine that the ending of the film was different than the reality."

Hitler sighed a sigh that only time travelling, reformed evil maniac, secret agent can.

"Very different, very different indeed. So different that it may need a sub heading."

ADOLF HITLER

AND THE

ARK OF THE COVENANT

"It’s like this. You may all remember the end of that so-called film. The Ark was opened and the evil Nazi generals melted in a horrible gloopy mess. That happened, and it wasn’t pleasant. I know because I was there. In fact I was there twice, both at the same time.

There was no such person as Indiana Jones, he was character made up by a popular beardy director. No, the real hero was me, Adolf Hitler.

I wasn’t working for the Powers That Be back then; I was just randomly popping through time trying right a few wrongs. I’d had a few adventures, stopping psychopathic cyborgs from the future; helping crush alien invasions; that sort of thing, when one day I accidentally popped into an alternative timeline.

Normally I don’t worry about this sort of thing, it can happen. We’ve all seen the fabric of space and time, it’s hell in there, but this place scared the crap out of me. Swastikas covered every available surface, pedestrians were doing that stupid goosestep march I had invented, and everyone was driving VW beetles. That was scary enough until I saw a huge, gold plated statue of me standing proudly above the Ark of the Covenant waving a flag. In this time I had won the war, presumably with the aid of the Ark. There and then I decided, I couldn’t let something as bad as this reality happen in this, or any other timeline.

You pretty much know the rest of the story, you’ve seen the film, I did manage to get the Ark back off myself and it was stashed in that gigantic room containing all those crates. And there it sat for years, just gathering dust.

I don’t know what made me go back for it, maybe it was part of the old me wanting some of that power, maybe I just didn’t think that it was safe back where anyone could find it. So, I went back in time to about ten minutes after I had left it there and stole it back off myself for the second time. I travelled around a bit to try and find a suitable place to stash it, and ended up here. That’s pretty much it."

"I don’t think that deserved a sub heading." Said Ambrose who had expected a rip-roaring tale of derring-do and was a little disappointed.

"Hrrrgargle" said R

"Hrrrgargle?, what the hell does that mea….hrrrgargle." said Hitler.

"That does it," shouted Ambrose in a paddy, "I thought that I was confused before and now you’ve all started talking gibber….Hrrrgargle."

What, I hear you cry, is the cause for all this hrrrgargling. Unfortunately for the Women’s Rights movement it was caused by Miss Moneypfennig bending over the side of the Arc. I can only apologise at this terrible display of sexism and inform all female readers that Miss Moneypfennig does have a rich and colourful backstory and is not simply an object for our lead characters to drool over and male readers to imagine in derogatory and sexually discriminating ways.

Miss Moneypfennig waggled her incredible bum in the air.

"Ooh" she said, "There’s eleven of them."

"Ellargl…eleven of what?" managed R who was nearly bent double.

"Eleven of this big stone things."

"The commandments? There’s only ten." said Hitler

"No, there’s eleven of them." Mrs Moneypfennig stood up causing the three leerers to simultaneously look in other directions and try to whistle nonchalantly.

"Let’s have a look." Said Ambrose, who had been.

After much heaving, groaning and straining they managed to avert there eyes from Miss Moneypfennig and lift out all the commandments.

"Well swipe me," exclaimed R, "Miss Moneypfennig was right. There are eleven of them."

She giggled and blushed, which is a terrible way for a woman to behave in the new millennium.

"What does the eleventh one say?" said Hitler leaning over to get a good look.

R read the inscription.

"Good lord. It says, "Thou shall not steal another man’s Vibraphone, especially if that Vibraphone belongs to Ambrose T. Hedgetrimmer. Should this occur then the shit shall truly hit the fan, I can tell you. Amen." "

"AAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE" went Miss Moneypfennig.

"Well," said Ambrose, who wasn’t that surprised, "I think that reaction was a little over the top."

"No, no, no." said Mrs Moneypfennig, "The AAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE was not for you. It was meant for that sea of deadly spiders heading straight at us."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE" went the men.

Quite how Miss Moneypfennig knew that the spiders were deadly is not known. Let’s just say she had a knack for arachnid identification, or maybe the Observer’s book of Spiders, or something.

Quick as a flash, Hitler leapt to the, rather small, entrance to the cave they were in, and bricked it up, using the stones from the box, in a spider-proof sort of way.

"I say! Well done old man." R was clearly impressed.

"I had that problem with a temple," said Ambrose helpfully "try moving away from the stones."

R moved back a bit. "Ah yes, that’s better. Look, if I screw up my fist a bit, it looks just like George Formby."

"What are we going to do now?" asked Ambrose, fearfully. "We can’t hide behind the 11 commandments forever."

"Oh I don’t know" quipped Hitler "the Christian church has been doing just that for two thousand years."

"What I mean is, there’s no other way out of here, unless you can open another one of those holes in the space-time thingy?"

"Impossible, I’m afraid. We know where we are, but we don’t know when we are. Opening a portal now would be disastrous. We could come out anywhen."

Miss Moneypfennig bent down ("Hrrrgargle"), removed one of her stiletto-heeled shoes and, using the heel, began to dig at the wall.

"Now then Moneypfennig," began R, "you know that won’t do any –"

There was a hiss, followed by a loud roar and a nine inch long white hot flame issued forth from the heel.

"It’s alright, R. I haven’t completely cracked. This is the new Heel-O-matic Thermic Lance (model 3a). It’s only a prototype, but I think it’ll do the job."

Ambrose, Adolf and R looked on in naked admiration. Then they thought better of it and got dressed again. The Thermic Lance seemed to be doing a terribly good job. The hours were especially good, and although the money was crap, there was a lot of job satisfaction. It was also cutting through the rock very well. That is, until it broke through into the underground river.

Water began to trickle through the hole; then it flowed for a bit; then it thought "the hell with that" and gushed.

As the water level in the cave rose, Ambrose tried hard to remember an incident like this from his childhood, and how he had escaped. Unfortunately, as no such incident had ever happened, he failed; miserably, this time.

You must know what’s going to happen now, every time Ambrose gets into a difficult situation he is saved by bizarre circumstances. Lets look back over those again. We’ve had horses appearing from thin air, an Ambrose from another dimension, a pumpkin solar eclipse, an animated submarine, H.G wells and last but not least Hitler. That’s not all of them but I think you will agree they’re all pretty unlikely. So, you may think, what strange thing will save them now?

Will it be a friendly octopus?, a huge inflatable effigy of William Shatner?, Genghis Khan in a motor boat?, or will it be an inflatable raft that Miss Moneypfennig has hidden about her person. That last one seems the most likely doesn’t it.

"Damn!" cursed Miss Moneypfennig, "I must have left my inflatable raft in my other garter."

"Hrrrgargle"

"A raft would be no good!" shouted Hitler above the rumbling of the ever rising water, "It would simply mean we would be crushed to death!"

The quartet floated ever closer to the ceiling and Ambrose couldn’t help noticing how pointy the rocks looked.

"So, Hitler, since were about to die, now might be a good time to tell us exactly were we are." Said R.

Hitler doggy paddled, trying not to sink.

"Were in some caves." He said.

Ambrose slapped him.

"Point taken." Said Hitler, "Our exact location is two miles below the fabled castle of Camelot,"

They all looked at him.

"Bollocks!" said Ambrose, "I’m prepared to accept most things but Camelot? Pull the other one."

"I agree," said R, "Utter Bollocks. What do you think Miss Moneypfennig?"

"Well," she said, "Bollocks, total bollocks. And can I just add for the benefit of my post-pubescent fans that my blouse has gone see through."

"Hrrrgargle"

"Honest" said Hitler, "Camelot is right above are heads, or it was, or is that, it will be or is going to will have been?"

Ambrose slapped him again.

"Hang on a mo’" said Ambrose, "If this is Camelot then I think I have a means of escape."

R raised his eyebrows. To demonstrate how close they were to the ceiling, R’s eyebrow actually scraped the roof.

"No, think about it. Can you remember "Run Like Buggery’s" failed prog-rock album?"

They all thought, and Miss Moneypfennig…bobbed.

"Of course" said Hitler "it was called "Rubber roads and value rolls", but what has that got to do with anything?"

The ceiling was touching their heads and the air was a rare as hen’s teeth.

"Can you recall the secret track?"

Realisation dawned.

"My gods" said R "That’s genius!"

"Sorry?" said Miss Moneypfennig who was more of a "YoungMen in Baggytrousers" fan, "I don’t understand"

"The secret track.." Hitler coughed and spluttered, "the secret track played backwards is a ritual to summon The Lady of the Lake!"

HAH! You didn’t expect that did you? Of course you didn’t, that’s because it ridiculous. There’s hardly any air left so they couldn’t say it anyway and even if they could, that album came out over thirty years ago. There’s no way anyone could remember such an obscure reference…

The waterspout shot them 30 foot into the air and all four of them hit the ground with a crack. They all lay there stunned, mainly because Miss Moneypfennig’s top had gone see though and now there was a chilly wind blowing.

"Hrrrgargle"

Hitler was the first up, and had to cross his legs to cover his embarrassment.

"That was lucky," said Ambrose, "Where are we?"

R looked around.

"Good lord" he said, again, it was his catch-phrase, "Hitler was right. Look"

Miss Moneypfennig, Hitler and Ambrose looked to where R was pointing.

A few yards across the road it stood; grey stone, flags and ringing with noise and excitement.

"I told you!" said Hitler doing a foolish dance, "I bloody told you!"

Ambrose hit him.

"You were right. It is Camelot."

"Yes" said Miss Moneypfennig. "Camelot’s Motorway Restaway, Gateway to the West."

So our heroes now know where they were, but when were they? A more detailed description is obviously required.

The sun hung just above the horizon, looking (unknown to our heroes) astonishingly like the fried egg that Joe, the cook at Camelot’s Motorway Restaway, had just allowed to slip out of his frying pan. It was just at that moment completing the egg equivalent of a very difficult abseil down the side of the cooker held up only by a particularly stringy bit of albumen that wasn’t properly cooked yet.

The motorway stretched from horizon to horizon – sixteen lanes of a black glass-like substance, glistening in the heat of the desert that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Occasionally, there was a high-pitched whistle and a blur would flash along the motorway at incredible speed.

Strange craft hung in the sky overhead, varying in size from medium to large, to one or two that had obviously been max’d.

The air was hot and arid (as you’d expect in a desert) and, sad to say, Miss MoneyPfennig’s top dried out very quickly.

Restored in their ability to think straight, the male contingent of our heroes began to plan their next move. Hitler and R formed a "What the hell are we going to do now?" steering committee, and Ambrose prepared a justification for why the project was already ten minutes late. Miss Moneypfennig was preparing a PERT chart (Ooh, planning related innuendo!). Eventually, fed up to the back teeth with being a sex object, she took control of the situation by walking towards Camelot.

"Wait for us!" cried Ambrose, following.

After another five minutes, Hitler and R finally managed to bring the inaugural meeting of the "What the hell are we going to do now?" steering committee, (now known as ‘WTHAWGTDNSC’ to keep things brief) to a conclusion (the conclusion being that they hadn’t the faintest idea), and trudged after the others.

"Well Ambrose," purred Miss Moneypfennig, "have you considered the offer I made you?"

"Offer? What offer?" asked Ambrose, baffled.

"Would you remove that baffle when you’re talking? I can hardly hear you."

"SORRY!" shouted Ambrose, then he continued more quietly "What offer?"

"You don’t remember the note I gave you?"

Ambrose suddenly remembered the piece of paper he’d hidden away in his top pocket. He quickly fished it out, and opened it.

"Well it’s very pretty," he mused, "but I think you’d be better off showing it to your analyst."

Miss Moneypfennig snatched the paper, and looked at the strange swirling pattern on it, which bore an uncanny resemblance to Lickedy Split – Run Like Buggery’s latest drummer. "Damn! The ink must have run when we were swimming. I should have used the Write-O-matic waterproof, antigravity, solar powered ozone friendly pen. Oh well, never mind."

Camelot turned out to be a very disturbing place. The first thing Ambrose noticed was the portrait above the door of a benignly smiling bespectacled man with the words "Bill is watching over you!" written underneath. The second thing, was that you had to press three separate buttons whilst pulling the door handle, and state your name, address and ‘phone number, to get in.

Once inside a small cartoon paperclip appeared and demanded to know what it could help them with.

"Breakfast, please." Stated Miss moneypenny.

"I’m sorry," replied the paperclip "Breakfast may only be ordered before 10:00 am (EST). Would you like to troubleshoot ‘ordering from the menu’?"

Ambrose had already decided that the only thing he wanted to shoot, was that damned paperclip.

"Where is the menu?" asked Ambrose.

"Please press the right button on the mouse."

Ambrose looked, and sure enough, there was a small, brown, furry mouse on the table. On it’s back was a single button.

"But there’s only one button!" protested Ambrose.

"Then it stands to reason," said the paperclip smugly, "that it must be the right one."

Ambrose pressed the button.

"Squeak!" said the mouse.

A menu appeared before them. ‘Meal for Two’ was highlighted, all the other dishes were a sickly grey colour.

"What’s the ‘Meal for Two’?" enquired Ambrose.

"Select properties on the expanded mouse menu." Stated the paperclip. "Would you like me to show you?" Another mouse had appeared on the table, at least four times bigger than the first. The paper clip pressed the button on its back (a clever manoeuvre involving uncoiling a bit of itself temporarily) and another menu appeared. "Squeak!" said the mouse, in a different tone to the first one. The menu read "Meal for Two: Eggs, Bacon, Sausage, Baked Beans, Toast & Coffee".

"But that’s breakfast!" protested Ambrose.

"No," said the paperclip "Breakfast, as I’ve told you before, may only be ordered before 10:00 am (EST). This is the ‘Meal for Two’."

"But it’s almost exactly what I wanted."

"No sir, it’s exactly what you wanted. Bill always knows exactly what you want; and after you’ve eaten, your transport will be waiting outside."

"We didn’t order any transport!" complained Miss Moneypfennig.

"Yes you did. It comes bundled with the meal."

"But we haven’t ordered the meal yet."

"Yes you did. You didn’t click the box marked ‘Don’t order this meal’."

Ambrose looked at the table. Sure enough, there was the aforementioned box, unclicked. On a wild impulse, he tried to click it.

"Oh no sir." The paperclip was becoming unbearably smug. "You can’t click that now."

The cook was approaching their table, carrying two plates. They both contained the fabled ‘Meal for Two’, although one of the eggs looked a little like the Sun outside. Suddenly, just before he reached the table, he stopped.

"What’s going on? I don’t understand." Said Ambrose.

The paper clip smiled "You are not required to understand, everything is –" and he too was frozen in place.

The air shimmered. There was a brief, piercing "Beep!" and a large, forbidding grey rectangle appeared before them. Engraved upon it were the words:

The rectangle disappeared, along with the entire restaurant. Ambrose and Miss Moneypfennig found themselves sitting in the middle of the desert. R and Hitler were just arriving, with puzzled expressions on their faces. Off to one side stood their transport.

To say that it was futuristic would be a barefaced lie. What stood before them was an ancient, rusting, orange VW camper van. On the roof someone had placed a saddle and hanging down from the back was a false tail made from an old bit of towing rope.

"I thought this was the future?" said R who had somehow managed to light a pipe.

"It is the future," said Hitler, "it’s a well known fact that all camper vans turn orange when they get older."

Ambrose wandered over to the side of a van and gave it a traditional ‘Mechanics Kick’. Two things happened. The first was obvious; there was a rattle and a cloud of rust fell from beneath the under carriage. The second was a little more unusual, the camper van reared up on its back wheels and whinnied. Like a horse.

"That’s odd" said Miss Moneypfennig who was now perched on a rock and trying to catch up on her tan. R looked at her.

"Odd?" he said "Its bloody weird!"

"Oh I don’t know," she said, "after being rescued from a cave by the Lady of The Lake and then getting breakfast in a service station that just vanished, a camper van giving a little whinny when you kick it doesn’t really scale on my Weird Shitometer."

Hitler nodded his head in a knowing way, "Yeeesss" he said.

"What" said R, "What does that Yeeesss mean?"

"Yes," nod, nod, "Yess, I think I know where we are."

Hitler bent down and picked up a rock. On the under side was a small sticker emblazoned with a familiar logo. It said, ‘Reality 98 ™’.

Miss Moneypfennig sighed, "Then it’s true, the geeks did inherit the earth."

Ambrose, meanwhile, had been giving the camper a thorough going over. The van did not appear to have a steering wheel, only seats that had a certain…horsey appearance to them. There was no petrol cap either and the van seemed to smell strangely of mineral water and honey. The van also had a name. Emblazoned on the side in white paint was ‘The Lumpkinmobile’.

It was then, from across the desert he heard singing.

"With a hey down derry

and a dirry derry doe

take your daughter to the slaughter

and a mickle muckle-oohhh"

The voice had a strange lilt to it, like a man with chronic sore throat gargling gravel.

"Shake a down, wake a down

wickey wickey wah

I am just a poor boy

Fol da ree, fol da rah!"

Ambrose looked out into the desert to see a shimmering shadow of man. He had a knapsack over one shoulder and what appeared to be a toilet roll in his other hand.

"Um…guys -" shouted Ambrose, turning his head to his companions but all the time staring at the approaching figure.

"Lackaday, wacaday

hey nonny no

Like a bat out of Hell

Tinky-Winky, Dipsy, Po.

"I think our driver is here!" shouted Ambrose.

R and Hitler stopped staring at a dribble of sweat just running down Miss Moneypfennig’s inner thigh and turned to see what the hell was all the fuss.

"Oh look!" said Miss Moneypfennig, "It’s a funny little man."

And it was. The figure hove into view like a bin man on a rubbish day. On his head he wore a tatty jester’s hat that had bells on, he was shaven except for a piece of hair under his chin, which could only be called a beard under extreme circumstances. He was wearing the filthiest pair of trousers Ambrose had ever seen, a pair of sandals and a T-shirt that had the word ‘Balls’ written across it. The T-shirt also contained a selection of lovingly collected stains.

"What Ho!" said the man with a huge amount of cheer, "You good fellows must be me rides. Saddle up on daft old Fatty Lumpkin here and we shall away." Then he belched and scratched his balls.

"Good lord" said R.

Hitler strode over to the man, his leather coat flapping.

"Who are you?" he said doing his best Arnold Shwartzenegger impression.

The stranger gave Hitler a hearty slap on the back and farted.

"There’s no need to be a-feared. For I am Tom Bombadil, guardian of this daft old stretch of the motorway." He then proceeded to dance about in the dust and sing a song that seemed to consist mainly of the word ‘Derry’.

Ambrose placed his hands over his eyes and made faint weeping sounds. Hitler did the same whilst R waved his pipe in time to Tom’s singing and Miss Moneypfennig clapped her hands.

When Tom finished he skipped over to Ambrose and shook his hand.

"So, me old fellow, you must be Ambrose T. Hedgetrimmer. What a day it is, me daft old heart is bursting, hoorah!" Tom deftly avoided Ambrose’s slapping hand, went into a cartwheel, moonwalked over to the van and opened the door.

"Come aboard one and all, come welcome to old Fatty Lumpkin." R clambered aboard, as did Miss Moneypfennig who gave a slight squeal as Tom kindly helped her onboard.

"The fridge is stocked with honey and water and all the goodness of nature" said Tom and laughed.

"This man" said Hitler under his breath, "Is really beginning to get on my tits."

"Tits is it, you fine fellow, tits you say." Sang Tom, " Pray take a look under the drivers seat and you will find many pornographic magazines, Razzle and Playboy and all the deviants of nature."

Hitler, rather quickly, took his seat in the van.

Ambrose looked deep into Toms sparkling, bloodshot eyes.

"What is it I want?" He asked.

Tom let out a bellyful of laughter.

"Oh Ambrose, oh lackaday and woe. I cannot provide what you want, for Vibraphones are not my scene."

Ambrose sighed.

"But," yelled Tom leaping about like a loon, "If it’s a way of finding you want, dear old daft Fatty Lumpkin can take you to it."

As Tom danced to the drivers seat, Ambrose climbed on board and sat down next to Hitler who suddenly pretended not to be searching under the driver’s seat.

"What a lovely man" exclaimed Miss Moneypfennig as a big lump of honey dripped from her lips and coiled onto her cleavage.

"Hrrrgargle"

"Yes" said R, sipping at some Evian. "He does seem rather personable, and he can take us to the Vibraphone."

"I must admit" said Hitler leafing through a copy of ‘Filthy Asian Teens’, "that my opinion of him has changed."

Ambrose scowled.

"I reckon he’s on drugs."

Tom leaned over the driver’s seat.

"Drugs my fine daft fellow, drugs you want. Pray, come take a gander at my over-filled knapsack and you will find many kinds of drugs. Crack cocaine and Heroin and all the narcotics of nature!"

Ambrose wearily shook his head.

"Tom, just drive the bloody van will you."

Tom slapped the dashboard three times and sang:

"Dear old Fatty Lumpkin

a tim tom tam Hooray

drive forth o’er hill and dale

Look for the vibraphone akin

A roll ta foll-ta-Glrrppphharrggg."

Ambrose took his hand slowly away from Tom mouth. He leaned close to Tom ear.

"And. Stop. Bloody. Singing."

Tom grinned a grin, farted and selected a tape.

"Ahar away" he shouted as the tape began to play ‘Run like Buggery’s only number one hit, ‘Methadone and Marzipan’, the Lumpkinmoble whinnied into life and sped of into the sunset.

Which was like a peach in the custard sky.

A hey fol da ree tol a nonny non hey.