Chapter five – A tern for the verse

It was getting dark as Emilia Hangnail left the "Afterlife Cosmetics Emporium – where life comes to death" clutching a jumbo-sized jar of Glee. Not willing to wait until she got home (wherever that is), she began rubbing her hands with it (and other parts of her body, but we won’t go into that). So engrossed was she in this, that she didn’t notice the sudden mist that appeared, or even the fact that the mood music had changed to something sombre and menacing.

"Urrhrm!" The figure in the doorway, bored by the wait, cleared his throat in an effort to be noticed.

"Shove off, you pervert! Can’t a lady smear herself with Glee in peace anymore?"

The figure drew long and hard on his cigarette. It was a constable style landscape, spoiled somewhat by the fact that his pencil kept perforating the paper.

Emilia stared at him. He was dressed in a long dark raincoat, with a hat pulled down over his eyes. The shadows in the doorway lent him a distinctly spooky appearance.

"You don’t know me -"

"Yes I do. You’re that bloke off of the X-Files!"

He sighed a heavy sigh. "No, I’m not – but if I had a quid for every time that someone said that…" he left the sentence unfinished, as people generally do.

"I am, in fact a representative of a secret organisation. I have a message for you."

"If you’re from ‘The Powers That Be’ you can just sod off! That bastard Hedgetrimmer is going to get what’s coming to him."

The figure stepped out of the doorway. The resemblance to that guy from the X-Files was amazing.

"That’s exactly why I’m here. The PTB are nothing but a bunch of meddling fools with a silly name. We are the real power in this continuum."

Producing a small device from his pocket, he opened yet another hole in the space-time continuum. Emilia couldn’t help but notice that the edges were not only a lot neater than the ones the PTB used, but they were a prettier colour as well. Suitably impressed, she followed the stranger through the hole.

*******

The room was large, and overwhelmingly opulent. Rare woods plundered from depleted rainforests made up most of the furniture, with the hides of several endangered, or extinct, species providing the coverings. The occupants sat as if they had been waiting for the new arrivals to appear. The first to speak sported a strange birthmark on his forehead. His accent was Russian.

"Ah, punctual as usual."

The other three were wildly different. A stern-faced, hook-nosed woman clutching a handbag as if she were about to hit someone with it, had the glint of madness in her eyes. A strange wild-eyed fellow dressed in furs and carrying a large axe appeared to be ready to kill if necessary, or maybe not strictly necessary, well given half a chance really. The last had the look of a bumbling old fool, and to complete the effect, he had a monkey on a lead.

"See Bonzo, they’re here, just like I said."

The mad woman addressed the newcomers in a fine upper class English accent.

"Hangnail isn’t it? Have to do I suppose. Sit over there." She indicated a small, insignificant-looking chair, apparently viewing her guest in a similar light.

"Kill now?"

The accent was guttural, possibly Mongolian.

"Not now, Ghengis – well not yet anyway. Reagan, if that chimp of yours touches my handbag again, I’ll have it stuffed. Is that clear?"

"But Margret, won’t that make it hard for you to open it? What do you think, Bonzo?"

The chimpanzee fell into deep contemplation.

"Good grief!"

Margret’s exasperation was clear. Gorbachev’s was slightly cloudy.

Gorbachev cleared his throat. This was a rather messy affair, and I don’t intend to describe it here. It made a terrible mess on the carpet. Recovering his composure quickly, (it had made a bolt for the door while he was doing the throat clearing business), he struck a dramatic pose.

"Emilia Hangnail, welcome to the hallowed halls of – The Super Powers That Be!"

Its is customary, after such a dramatic statement as above, to change scene and leave you hanging in suspense, but you may have noticed that all literary laws have been ignored, (including spelling and punctuation), so instead were going to crack on in with particular piece of the plot thread.

"The Super Powers that be?" said Emilia who had also paused for dramatic effect. "You’re having a laugh."

Margaret stared at Emilia in the same way a hawk looks at rabbit.

"Were not in the business of having a laugh"

"Only if Bonzo does that funny thing with his teeth", chuckled Reagan.

"Funny monkey." Intoned Ghengis.

Margaret shot them a glare, which fell dead and bloody on the table.

Gorbachev poured some orange juice into a small glass of clear liquid.

"No Miss Hangnail, we are not having a laugh, we are deadly serious."

"Deadly" said Margaret.

"Really?" said Emilia.

"Not if Bonzo is doing his "Bottom Dance"" laughed Reagan, who knew no fear.

"Funny Monkey"

Margaret managed to ignore their remarks with only a passing sneer of disgust.

"You see, Emilia" she placed her claw like hands on the table and leant forward, "This organisation needs you."

Reagan shot up from his chair and began to dance.

"We want you, we want you, we want you as a new recruit."

Bonzo slapped him.

"What do you need me for?" asked Emilia, "And can him to stop doing that please, its disgusting."

"Stop that Ronald!" shouted Margaret, "and put it away!"

"It’s so hard to get good help these days" she continued.

"Tell me about it." Said Emilia, "At least yours don’t smell."

"Try sitting next to Ghengis for more than an hour."

There was a brief silence as Ghengis sniffed his armpits and grinned.

"We seem to have strayed from the point." Moaned Gorbachev, his voice slightly slurred.

"Yes" said Emilia, " You were about to offer me a position in your organisation."

Margaret smiled, or at least moved her mouth into a position that should resemble a smile.

"That’s right, do you know why?" she arched an eyebrow.

"Quite frankly" Emilia stood up, "I don’t care. It seems to me that you, for some reason, want Ambrose out of the way, as do I. You have the resources and I have the know-how. It seems like a perfect match."

Gorbachev hiccuped with surprise.

"Youassume an awwfulot" he slurred."Howcan yew possibly know somuch?"

"Two reasons. First of all I guessed; and secondly this section is beginning to get a little tedious and I thought I could hurry things up a bit."

Emilia stood up.

"So, if you could tool me up with lots gadget and guns, provide me with a top of the range Flooble cart and give me one of those watches with a magnet and two way radio on it, I will be on my way."

And they did.

I know it all came to an abrupt end, but I was never really a supporter of the Conservative Party and rather begrudge having to include its former leader. I know I shouldn’t let politics get in the way of the story but I do have my standards.

So there.

*******

Meanwhile, in a less politically sensitive part of the space time continuum, a battered old VW camper van called Fatty Lumpkin trundled across the desert. The sun hung low on the horizon, like a red-yellow balloon that had accidentally slipped from the sticky hand of a small child one summer’s afternoon at a village fete in Essex, or possibly East Sussex.

Ambrose sat with eyes closed, in blissful silence, thanks to a careful selection from "all the finest earplugs of nature – hey nonny nonny!" (Slap!).

"Well" he thought, "things aren’t so bad. It could be worse".

There are times when you wish your thoughts would just shut up and stop tempting fate. This was one of them.

"Fole-de-roll, and a h-". The outpouring of drivel was cut off in midstream, as a cricket ball smashed through the windscreen, striking the unfortunate Tom Bombadil on the side of the head. He slumped over the dashboard, foot firmly on the throttle, as Fatty Lumpkin veered sideways.

"Tom!" yelled Ambrose, removing his earplugs and attempting to shake the comatose figure awake. His attention was drawn to two things: firstly the trickle of blood from Tom’s ear, and secondly the previously unnoticed cliff-edge, towards which they were roaring at full speed.

"Stop that bloody roaring!" Screamed Ambrose over the din.

"Sorry!" chimed Hitler, Miss Moneypfennig and R, "it just seemed appropriate".

Fatty Lumpkin was no ordinary Camper van, but then I guess you knew that already. It would be wrong to say he was annoyed at having his windscreen smashed with a cricket ball – pissed off would be closer. I trust I don’t have to go into the silly name thing again. Good. Anyhow, given the circumstances, his reaction was predictable, really. When you’ve spent most of the day hauling a bunch of idiots halfway across the trackless desert, listening to the same "Run like Buggery" tape over and over again, punctuated only by some senile, drug-crazed loony "fole-de-rolle"ing all the time, and then some careless bastard smashes you in the windscreen with a cricket ball, you do the only sensible thing. You try to kill him. Obviously.

Of course, you probably should take into account the fact that you are at the top of a two hundred foot high cliff, and he’s at the bottom; but hey, nobody’s perfect.

As the Lumpkin-mobile plummeted over the cliff-edge and the occupants found themselves squashed hideously against the roof (except Miss MoneyPfennig, who was squashed sexily against the roof, naturally) they wondered what was going to happen next. As I guess you’re doing. Me too.

Tum-te-tum. Ho hum. Errm, well let’s see…

Oh right – got it. Phew, that was close.

Giant wings, the colour of sun on fresh snow at 7:36am on the 19^th of November 1836 at the very summit of Ben Nevis (more or less), sprouted from Fatty Lumpkin’s sides, as the camper van slowed its perilous descent.

"Whew! That was bleedin’ close." Muttered the still-groggy Tom Bombadil, still holding on to the bright red lever, marked "For emergency use only – especially falling off of cliffs".

Quickly he recovered his composure. "Err – I mean Hey nonny no, and down safely we go, er, fole-de-role". He glanced around nervously.

"What the hell was that! You slipped right out of character for a minute." Smirked Hitler.

"Look, you won’t tell anybody, will you – I really need this job, er, fa-de-la." He finished weakly.

"Too bloody right I will! You’re not going to live this one down. All that bloody ‘Hey nonny nonny’ crap, and it’s just an act."

Any further chat on this subject was curtailed by a soft ‘bump’ as Fatty Lumpkin touched down. Our heroes had no time to relax, however, as the van shot off at breakneck speed, into the centre of what appeared to be a village fete in Essex, or possibly East Sussex, running over a small sticky-handed child in the process. In the centre of the green, several figures dressed in white flannels were having what can only be described as, a cricket match.

The batsman on strike stared open mouthed as a ton-and-a-half of screaming vengeance hurtled towards him at sixty miles an hour. Well? It’s an old VW Camper. What did you expect? Ninety? Two hundred and fifty? Well hard luck. Sixty’s your lot. Look it can fly, for Christ’s sake – not bad for a knackered old van. If that’s not dramatic enough for you, I suggest you try standing in front of one. See? – not so keen on ninety now, are we? Er, where was I?

"Bloody Hell!" screamed the batsman, who suddenly realised that white was an entirely inappropriate colour to wear in such a situation.

"AAAAAHHRRRGGHH" screamed the occupants of the van.

"BEEEEEEEEEEEEP" screamed Fatty Lumpkin’s horn.

"TIMOTHY" screamed the mother of the boy that the Lumpkin-mobile had run over.

"OUCH" screamed one of the fielders as the batsman dived into him.

"CLACK, SMASH, CRACK" went the stumps as Fatty Lumpkin ploughed into them narrowly avoiding the leaping batsman.

"HOWSAT!" screamed the umpire who hadn’t been watching but has heard the stumps go.

"Hrrrgargle" screamed Ambrose as Miss Moneypfennig fell face first into his lap.

"SQUEEEAAAALLL" screamed Fatty Lumpkin’s tyres as he tried to do a very tight turn so he could have another crack at the batsman.

"MOTHER!" screamed the man in the top of the scoreboard as a mad spinning camper van came straight towards him.

"I’m not paid enough for this" whimpered Tom, hiding under the seats.

"GOOD LORD" screamed R, who hadn’t said anything yet but wanted to use his catch phrase.

"GERONIMO" screamed the man in the scoreboard who had decided that jumping out of the little hatch would be a good thing to do.

"CRASH" went the score board as Fatty Lumpkin rammed into it.

"OW,YARG,CRUMP,THRGARGLE" went Ambrose, Hitler, R and Miss Moneypfennig as they were shot forward towards the front of the van in one great lump.

"I’m alright mummy" went the boy who had been run over, "But I don’t think I’ll over play the Oboe again."

"Donk, Donk, Donk, Donk" went several lumps of wood and small boards with white numbers on as they hit the ground like a wooden rainstorm.

"Giggle" went Miss Moneypfennig as several hands accidentally grabbed bits of her in an effort to get out of the tangle.

"Pink, pink, pink" went Fatty Lumpkin’s cooling engine.

"YEROUT!" screamed the umpire who thought that it seemed a sensible thing to shout.

"BONK" went Fatty Lumpkin’s roof as the man in the score board bounced off it.

"Well," said R, who had somehow managed to keep his pipe, alight, in his mouth, "That was all a bit exciting, wasn’t it?"

Ambrose, from somewhere between the passenger seat and the gear stick, slapped him.

It was exciting wasn’t it, all that shouting and things crashing into other things. Usually of course the whole thing would end in one almighty explosion but, since the van was only travelling at sixty miles an hour and the scoreboard was only made out of cheap wood, the an explosion would be just a little excessive, don’t you think?

"KABOOM" went the Vicar, "That’s what I was expecting."

Ambrose sipped at his tea. Suprisingly, things hadn’t turned out too badly. All five passengers had survived with only scrapes and bruises, except for Tom who was so scraped and bruised that he couldn’t walk. A crowd of people had all gathered around the van as the five occupants staggered out.

Ambrose was expecting to be lynched, but the villagers were most welcoming. No one had been hurt, the batsman had been well padded out and was only suffering from slight shock, the scoreboard man was a professional stunt man who only worked the scoreboard as hobby and the little boy, Tommy, couldn’t play the Oboe in the first place.

The villagers helped them all into the clubhouse where the Vicar, whose name was Syngen, already had the kettle boiling and was busy cutting the crusts off a huge stack of tuna and cucumber sandwiches.

The first thing that Ambrose did was apologise, but the Vicar was having none of it.

"Nonsense!" he said, "This sort of thing happens all the time."

Hitler looked confused.

"So, you usually get camper vans flying into your village trying to kill innocent batsman then?"

The Vicar sipped at his tea.

"Well not exactly," he said, "But living in a quiet, English village, you expect these sort of things."

An old lady in a huge hat poured R out another cup of tea.

"Isn’t that right Mrs Irongravy."

"Ooh yes Vicar," she nodded sending fruit, feathers and fake fur flying from her hat, "Do you remember last week when we all fell asleep for a day and then woke up to find all the women of the village were pregnant?"

"Oh yes," smiled the Vicar, "And what lovely children they were, all blonde hair and golden eyes."

"How about when Mr Bandicoot the baker turned out to be from Jupiter?" Said the batsman.

"Or the time when I discovered a lost race of triceratops on the common." said Little Tommy.

"Hmmmm" said Hitler, scratching his chin, "Hmmm"

"Your ‘Hmmming’ again" said R, "It’s most unsettling."

"Yes," said Hitler, "Hmmm, I thought so."

"What!" shouted Ambrose.

"I think I’ve been here before."

ADOLF HITLER

AND THE

STRANGE ENGLISH VILLAGE

"Oh no," said Ambrose, standing up, "You’re not going to get another sub heading like last time."

"You can’t have been here before," said the Vicar, "I would have remembered you."

"Not necessarily. It was when I was time-hopping, this village had been taken over by Wheely bins with sink plungers and egg whisks attached to them. I defeated them and made it so they had never been here in the first place."

"I find all this time travelling ever so confusing." said Miss Moneypfennig who hadn’t said much up till then. To make up for this she uncrossed her legs and slowly re-crossed them.

"Hrrrgargle"

"That doesn’t sound so odd, considering the total strangeness of this village." Said R.

"No it’s not." said Hitler. "The Strange thing is that this village does not exist in the same reality as the vanishing service station."

R dropped his pipe, which set fire to Tom’s shoe.

"Then it’s started." Said R.

"What’s started?" said Miss Moneypfennig.

"The total and complete breakdown of reality."

"The fabric of time and space has started to rip apart at the seams" said Hitler, "We need to find your Vibraphone and fast."

The Vicar looked up from Miss Moneypfennig.

"Vibraphone? Did you say Vibraphone?"

"Not any old Vibraphone," said Ambrose, "My Vibraphone."

The Vicar grinned the grin that all Vicars grin when they know something that someone else doesn’t.

"Your name wouldn’t happen to be Ambrose T. Hedgetrimmer would it?"

Cups, sandwiches, plates and bowls were all dropped in astonishment.

"A Miss Venticle left it behind by accident after she had given us a lovely recital in the town hall. We were going to send it on but it didn’t have her name or address on it. It had yours."

Tom looked smug, well he would have done had his face not been completely covered by bandages.

"I told you old Fatty Lumpkin could take you to it. It’s a homing van."

*******

Incidentally, there may be some people wondering about Tom and his van. The explanation is really quite simple and, believe it or not, it has to do with the nature of space, and time and the old axiom that everything has to exist somewhere.

Take ‘The Lord of the Rings’. J.R.R (Jonathon Rita Rimskidaddy) Tolkien believed that he made the whole thing up, middle earth, hobbits and the whole shebang, Tom and Fatty included. This is not true, what he actually did, as do all writers, is tap into another reality.

You may think this sounds ridiculous, but think about it. There is large part of the human brain the function of which remains unknown. Psychics believe that they contact the dead with it, and new age followers would have you believe it’s to do with your third eye. Well they’re both wrong - it’s actually a sort of radio receiver, sending out it signals into the space time continuum and picking up on what it finds. Sometimes the signal is weak and only fragments of other places and worlds get through; sometimes the signal is fuzzy and jumbled and what you may get is a jumble of things that don’t really make sense. This happens mainly when we are asleep and not really concentrating on what were doing, which is why our dreams often make no sense at all.

Sometimes the tuning is perfect; you get a crystal clear reception. Which is why the Middle Earth is such a complete creation, J.R.R Tolkien tuned in right on the button.

That’s probably a very long-winded way of say that The Middle Earth is a real place but I think it probably explains a lot.

What I’m trying to say is that just because Tolkien stopped picking up the signals it doesn’t mean the existence of the world stopped. Far from it, Middle Earth changed and grew, much like our planet. Now I can explain to you about Tom and Fatty Lumpkin.

After successfully guiding the Hobbits in the right direction, Tom Bombadil went back to his cabin in the forest and sat down and thought. That’s not true. Before he got home, he sang a song about some mushrooms, fell asleep under a willow tree, picked some of the special leaves that grew near its roots, went back to his cabin, smoked the leaves, ate some honey, tried to make love to his wife who was having none of it, and eventually fell into a deep, drug induced sleep.

Whilst he slept his Brain Radio ™ tuned into the future. When he woke he knew exactly what he should do and told his wife so. At first she thought he was mad but then she realised she could spend a lot more time with that young Ent who she had been seeing. He had a massive root.

A few days later Tom saddled up old Fatty Lumpkin and rode of into the forest, not singing for a change but planning. After, he spent many years helping travellers find their way, which soon became too much, for just one man. So he hired someone else, taught him how to behave like him and bought him a fat pony. Time went by and there were soon hundreds of Tom Bombadils and Fatty Lumpkins fol-da-reeing about the Earth and helping travellers on their way. You can see how the whole thing develops. If we leap into present time, Bombadil Inc™© is a dimension/time spanning corporation, with literally thousands of employees, all acting like the the original leaping hippie and driving about in thier Lumpkin-mobiles, taking travellers to their destinations, and providing them with their hearts wishes and seeing to there every needs, whilst they are passengers.

All of this leads back to our Tom Bombadil who’s actual name is Kevin Kevins, a one-time pizza delivery man, and who was really beginning to wish he had the Gandalf chip™, which kept the Lumpkin-mobile operating normally, repaired after he accidentally ran into an Orc.

*******

"Well" said Kevin, "It was here, it must have been, otherwise old Fatty Lumpkin wouldn’t have found it."

Ambrose strode around the church hall with a stern look upon his face.

"Well its not bloody well here now. Is it!"

Readers who are confused should be told that after learning the whereabouts of the vibraphone, our band of heroes all rushed to the church hall to pick it up and restore reality to it proper state. Instead they found it missing. All that was left was a gap on the table where it should have been; a strange green liquid on the table next to it; and a cleaner laying dead on the floor with her mop pushed somewhere that would make it very difficult for her to sit down.

"Ouch" said Miss Moneypfennig for the third time.

The Vicar was in a panic.

"Its gone!" he squeaked, "I left Mrs Wingnut to look after it."

He looked at the figure lying on the floor, the dog end in her mouth was sill smouldering gently.

"Who could have done such a horrible thing?"

Adolf Hitler was prodding and poking around the table. At first he sniffed the table, then he scooped up some of the green liquid, tasted it, spat it out, threw up, fell over, pretended he had done it deliberately and started to crawl about on the floor. All the time he was going, "Hmmm"

"What are you doing?" asked Ambrose, clearly exasperated.

"Looking for clues."

They all watched him crawl about.

"I don’t think there’s any clues up there old boy" said R.

Hitler coughed and quickly crawled away from Miss Moneypfennig.

"Um…" she said.

"Do you have something to say Miss Moneypfennig?" asked R.

"Well," she giggled nervously, "I’m not sure really."

"Oh come now," said Hitler, "Stop playing the dizzy blonde."

"But her hair’s brown." said the Vicar.

There was an embarrassed silence. The Penny dropped.

"Oh!" said the Vicar as his ears went red.

"What’s the problem?" asked Ambrose.

"Well," said Miss Moneypfennig, "I know Mr Hitler was looking for clues and I was wondering if that was one."

Miss Moneypfennig pointed. The Vicar, R, Hitler and Ambrose all followed her finger.

There, written on the wall in big, red drippy letters was this:

"A ha ha ha ha haaaa. I have your precious vibraphone you murdering bastard and you’re not getting it back. So there! Also I’m going to kill you Ambrose, I’m going to rip put your gizzard and strangle you with it."

At this point the wall ran out so the readers all turned to look at the floor.

"You’re going to die and die painfully. Oh and then I’m going to kill your friends, and your little dog too. P.S. A ha ha ha ha haa haa haa."

"That doesn’t look good." said the Vicar.

"Hangnail!" said Hitler.

Miss Moneypfennig dug about in her ample cleavage ("Hrrrgargle") and produced a small pair of scissors.

"Pop it over here, and I’ll soon deal with it."

"No, Hangnail!"

"Oh OK, I’ll put these away, then."

"No, no, no! Hangnail - Emilia Hangnail. Ambrose toasted her in Chapter 1, remember? She’s been trying to kill him ever since."

"Really?" asked Ambrose. "Why?"

R put his arm around Ambrose’s shoulders and drew him off to one side.

"That’s an awfully good likeness," said Ambrose, "you should take it up professionally."

"Never mind that. It’s about time you were made aware of the consequences of some of your actions. If you go around killing people willy-nilly, it’s bound to upset them, you know, hrrrmph."

Ambrose stared blankly.

"Hangnail, Aristotle and Tiddles all want you dead rather badly, old chap."

"Tiddles?"

"’fraid so. Remember that ‘wild shot in the dark’ bit in chapter 1?"

"That was Tiddles?"

R nodded. Ambrose was beside himself with grief.

"Hello," he said to his other self, "are you one of the me’s from another dimension?"

"No, I’m the physical manifestation of the extreme guilt that you’re feeling. And it’s no fun, I can tell you."

There was a loud crack, and the other Ambrose fell dead to the floor. Hitler stood behind him, Magnum in hand.

"Sorry about that, but it had to be done. There are more important things to think about than your guilt."

Ambrose was shocked. "Yes, like how you kill someone with an (albeit quite large) ice cream on a stick."

Hitler smiled an enigmatic smile. The body of the other Ambrose vaporised, taking all of Ambrose’s guilt feelings with it.

Just where the body had fallen, lay a half-smoked cigarette.

"Correct me if I’m wrong, old chap," said R to Hitler, (in a tone of voice that said "Try it and I’ll sew your mouth closed.") "But isn’t that the type of cigarette usually left lying around by the chap who looks like that chap off of the X-files?"

Hitler pounced on the newly discovered clue.

"Damn me if you’re not right! This can mean only one thing – The Super Powers That Be!"

"Look –" began Ambrose.

"Shhhhh! Can’t you see we’re pausing for dramatic effect?"

"Sorry."

A minute passed. The Vicar coughed politely. A cock crew three times. A single bat flew from the church belfry. The guy writing the story described something else. And another thing.

"Right, that’s enough of that." Said R. "Wouldn’t want to over-pause. Leave that up to the Turks, eh?"

Ambrose scratched his head. In case it got jealous of his chin, he patted it for a bit, and opened a tin of head food for it.

"Aren’t you the Powers That Be?" he said, at length.

"Sorry?" said everyone else, in chorus.

"You’ll have to speak up, or come closer." added Miss Moneypfennig.

"How’s this?" shouted Ambrose.

"Better, but if you came over here you wouldn’t have to shout."

"Right. Now then, as I was saying. Aren’t you the Powers That Be?"

"Amazing!" exclaimed the Vicar, "I’ve just had the most amazing Déjà vu experience. I think you’ve said that before."

"I did. Over there."

"Oh."

"Well?"

"Oh not bad; you know; mustn’t grumble."

Ambrose began to tap his foot. Something resembling liquid cheese came out.

"Oh, I see. The Powers That Be, thing. Yes. We are. Well, part of them at least. But these other chaps, the ‘Super Powers That Be’, are a different kettle of fish altogether."

*******

In the darkest corner of the Vestry, sat a kettle. Oddly enough, it was full of fish. I mention it only because it’s impossible to describe because they’re all different, but the same. Take two kettles of fish. Plainly they are different, and yet each one is "another kettle of fish", hence in their very difference they are, as it were, the same. Weirds you out, doesn’t it? Anyway, this particular kettle of fish was not, you’ll be relieved to hear the Super Powers That Be. In fact it plays no further part in the story whatsoever. Which is a relief when you think about it, what sort of personality would you give a kettle of fish? I cod go on about this for hours but I wouldn’t want to mussel in on the plot and I expect you’ve Haddock up to here with me Carping on till it makes you eel…back to the plot.

*******

"I take it that’s a metaphorical kettle of fish?" asked Ambrose, who wasn’t keen on fish.

"Of course, what good would a kettle of fish be as a force of evil."

Everyone thought about this.

"Puffer fish are quite nasty." Said Miss Moneypfennig.

"I’ve heard that Electric Eels aren’t to nice either." Said the vicar.

"Don’t forget sharks." Said Tom/Kevin.

"Aaah," said Hitler, "But sharks aren’t fish, they’re mammals."

"Yes," said Ambrose warming to the subject, "But I bet they’d side with the fish if there was ever a war."

Everyone ummed and aahed and yessed about this. All except R who had his hands over his eyes and was shaking his head from side to side. He was starting to wish he’d never mentioned fish and kettles, all he really wanted to do was impress everyone with his knowledge of the Super Powers That Be.

After about five minutes of the fish conversation - where it was decided that yes, a kettle of fish could be a power of evil so long as there was at least three sharks, a puffer fish, two electric eels, a big crab and twelve prawns with bad attitudes - R got his big chance.

"The Super Powers That Be are a force of evil, whilst we are a force of good." He declared.

"Obviously," said Hitler, "that’s no big news."

R deflated. He made a Thrrrpping sound and flew round the room. After this he stood up and continued.

"It seems clear to me that they have employed Emilia Hangnail and her cohorts to prevent you from getting your vibraphone back!" he waved his pipe triumphantly.

"No," said Miss Moneypfennig, "That Venticle woman has the Vibraphone."

R deflated for a second time.

"She did," said Hitler, "But she accidentally left it behind."

"Wait a minute," said Ambrose, "If this woman is supposed to be this evil villain intent on destroying the known universe, she wouldn’t just leave it behind."

"You have a point," said Hitler.

"No, its just a birthmark" said Ambrose, smoothing his hair over it.

There was a confused silence.

"This plot is starting to get a little confusing." Said R.

"I agree", said Ambrose, "Its like the writers are confused about what’s going to happen next."

"No, surely not," said Miss Moneypfennig, "I’ve met them both and there intelligent, attractive men, particularly the younger of the two."

A dreamy look drifted across her face.

"I remember one wonderful night in Paris…anyway, I’m sure something will happen soon."

At that moment a great big tank burst in through one wall, sending woodchip paper and cheap bottles of orange squash flying all over the place. A great big tank it was too, bristling with guns and canons and horrible pointy spikes stuck onto the caterpillar tracks. The tank came to sudden halt on top of the Vicar.

"Oh" he said.

The hatch on the tank flew open and a raven-haired beauty poked her head out. She had wild angry eyes and a scarlet wound for a mouth. She slammed her fists on the top of the tank.

"Give me back my vibraphone" she shouted.

"Venticle!" shouted Hitler.

"Good Lord!" shouted R

"Bloody hell!" shouted Ambrose.

"AARRGGHHH CHRIST I’M DYING" screamed the vicar.

"Told you." said Miss Moneypfennig, who was too polite to shout.

An icy calm descended over Ambrose. This was clearly one of those life-defining moments, in which one’s life is, defined, as it were. He stared at the awesome edifice of wanton destruction before him and marvelled at how totally unafraid he was. The huge barrel swung to point directly at his head. He peered into the murky depths, no more than four feet away.

"The Vibraphone Hedgetrimmer – my patience is wearing thin."

There was a nasty something-deadly-being-loaded-into-something-designed-to-deliver-it-with-astounding-speed-and-accuracy noise.

"Click."

"Three seconds. Two. One."

There was a deafening roar, a blinding flash, and the acrid smell of cordite. Ambrose felt an enormous impact and everything went dark.

*******

Aristotle the fawn lay back in his sun-lounger. If he’d been a cat, he would have purred. If he had been a psytrog, he would have lungabulated. But he wasn’t, he was a fawn – a dead one at that. Still, suffice it to say, he was happy; contented even. Right up to the point when a particularly high-spec flooble cart screeched to a halt nearby, showering him with sand.

A gaunt, twisted figure emerged.

"Oh Emilia – how nice to see you again." He lied.

"Shut up and stop lying. Get in the cart. We’ve got to kill Hedgetrimmer."

"No." The word fell to the floor like a dead halibut.

"What?"

"I said, no." More like a monkfish this time.

"What do you mean ‘No’? This is my – I mean our chance to get even with that murdering bastard! You can’t just say ‘No’!"

"Can and have. I have no wish to see Ambrose dead. While you’ve been rushing around, consorting with goodness knows what evil forces in your blind pursuit of poor, misguided Ambrose, I’ve been seeking enlightenment. I have found my spiritual centre. My karma is in perfect alignment. I am one with the universe."

"Bollocks!"

"Even they do not mean as much to me as they used to. You see Emilia, there’s more to death than vengeance. I have forgiven Ambrose for killing me. I understand the forces of nature that drove him to do it. I am at peace. Now, GET YOUR BLOODY FLOOBLE CART OFF OF MY BEACH!"

The impact of his perfectly pitched karmic-aligned spiritually-centered outburst caught Emilia square in the chest. Like one of the bad guys off of "Dune", she was thrown backwards into the flooble cart. Incredibly, the controls operated themselves, and the cart raced away from the beach.

"Damn," she groaned, "the force is strong with that one."

*******

Ambrose awoke to the sound of sobbing. A quick investigation of his body parts told him that apart from some major bruising, he was pretty much ok. The sobbing was strangely interspersed with "Hey – nonny nonny" and "Fol-de-rol", identifying the sobber as none other than Tom/Kevin. Ambrose pushed himself up on one elbow, to see Tom sitting in the middle of a large pile of scrap metal, next to which was a small chair containing a securely bound Davina Venticle.

"Poor Fatty Lumpkin!" sobbed Tom "he was too young to die."

An explanation is probably in order. After all, Ambrose was dead, right? Kaboom! Blown away. A definite gonner. And yet here he is, more or less ok. Well it’s like this. When Davina pulled the trigger to send Ambrose to oblivion, two things happened pretty much simultaneously. Firstly, cordite exploded with fearsome force, hurling a large pointy explosive thing in Ambrose’s general direction. Secondly, a knackered old camper van, with a heart surely too large to be contained within his somewhat rusty frame, exploded through the wall, shouting "Gerronimo!" directly into the path of said large pointy explosive thing, with fatal results for the van, but saving Ambrose, and the entire universe in the process. Brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it?

Hitler, seizing the moment as Davina sat dumbstruck in the turret, crept up behind and laid her out with the back of his hand, ending any thoughts of a second shot.

And so we approach another quandary. Who is Davina working for? What will Emilia Hangnail do now? How will Tom/Kevin explain about Fatty Lumpkin to Bombadil Inc™? Has Aristotle truly found oneness with the Universe, or is he just making it up, to get some time off at the beach?

….

Um…

Well,…its like this…er..you see…no…wait a minute…there’s these three blokes…that can’t be right…hang on…I’m bound to think of something by the next page…

Got it!

*******

"Tell us why you stole it, foul harridan of the night!" Hitler’s face was right up close to Davina’s.

"That’s a bit strong isn’t it?" said Davina, who smelt strongly of fish. This was not down to a lack of personal hygiene but more to do with the fact that, finding no other container to fill up with water to bring her round, the only thing the vicar could find was a kettle. Which had fish in it. It worked mind you - there’s nothing like having dead trout sliding down your skirt to wake you up from concussion.

"Nonsense!" shouted Hitler, who was enjoying the interrogation. A little too much, thought Ambrose.

"You will tell us vhy you sztole zee vibraphone OR I shall have Klaus come and and have a verd vit you."

"Klaus?" said everybody all together.

"Yeees." Said Hitler, who now had his hands behind his back and was striding about the place using a walk that was…distinct, "Klaus is a sub-human fvriend ov mein who intchoys torture unt pain unt treating veemen in vays zat can urnly be deescibed as…naughty."

"Um," said R, with concern, "I think perhaps I should carry on asking the questions."

Hitler swung round, his eyes burning with hate. As he spoke gobs of foam flew from his mouth.

"Eet. Eez. I. Who. Eez. Doeenk. Zee. Kvestchoning."

R wiped foam from his face.

"Ambrose?"

"It will be a pleasure."

Ambrose slapped Hitler. With a plank.

Hitler fell to the floor murmuring something about Goebbles and Goering.

"Right" said R, rubbing his hands together, "My turn".

He turned to face Davina Venticle, who was still tied up in the chair and was beginning to feel slightly confused.

"Davina," said R, "I’m only going to ask you this once and I require an honest answer."

He fell to his knees and grabbed Davina’s ankles.

"Why did you leave me?" he sobbed, "Why, why, why? I was a good husband wasn’t I? I provided for us didn’t I? We had our problems, sure - everyone does!"

He fell to the floor hammering his fists on the ground.

"Why, why? I loved you dammit. I NEEEEEEED you."

Ambrose slapped him. With the same plank.

"You’re all mad." said Davina.

Ambrose grinned wide.

"Oh no, no, no." he said, "They might be mad."

He leaned closer.

"I’m just very, very, angry."

With one movement he lifted the chair, Davina and three herring into the air and began to shake them.

"My life was perfectly normal until YOU stole my Vibraphone!" He shook the chair some more, "Since then, I’ve been all over the place, different times and dimensions. I’ve nearly been killed, eaten, crushed, stabbed, poisoned and god knows what else. All because you stole an obscure musical instrument."

He threw the chair down to the floor sending Davina sprawling all over the place and causing the trout to fall.

"I just want to know why. Did you really want to cause the world to end or did you just do it to piss me off?"

Davina looked up at Ambrose with tears,(and scampi), in her eyes.

"I did it because I love you."

Ambrose was speechless. For two reasons: one because no one had said that to him before, and secondly because he had just been slapped. With a plank.

"You took your time." Said Davina.

"I had to wait for the right moment," the plank-slapper paused, probably for dramatic effect - or maybe because they were drawing breath, but mainly because they’re dragging out the bit when we find out who’s speaking.

"The right moment was when I burst through the wall in my tank, but no. You had to wait till I was tied up."

"I know, but there’s just something about ropes…"

"You’re sick," smiled Davina.

"Ain’t that the truth," said Miss Moneypfennig.

Unnoticed by the two scheming females, an unobtrusive, nondescript seabird flew into the church. Choosing its landing site with care, it settled high up on a rafter and began to observe the scene below.

"Ha! Once again we triumph over these pathetic men. You see Lucretia? Exploit their weaknesses and they are putty in your hands. As if you ever cared for the younger writer, or the older one for that matter! Now we are in control of the story. No longer shall we be mere sex objects to bolster a perilously thin plot. Now we shall reveal our true nature!"

Suddenly, inexplicably, they both removed all their clothes and began to dance naked around the font, the sunlight through the hole in the wall glistening off of their sweaty nubile young bodies.

Who’s in charge of this story? Nice try girls, but you’ll have to get up earlier than that to catch me. Mind you, if you were both interested, we needn’t get up at all…

A large, virtual bucket of cold water appeared from nowhere, completely soaking the older of the two writers. Thank god for that.

Meanwhile, back in the church, the repentant young ladies dressed hurriedly.

"Look we’re awfully sorry, we won’t do it any more, just please promise you won’t do that again?"

Hmmm.

Now, back to the plot.

"OK, so Hangnail’s got the damned vibraphone. There’s no point in us hanging around here – shall we go?"

"Yes, let’s."

Davina helped Lucretia up into the tank.

"Shall we kill them? Or do you think the Vicar was warning enough?"

Miss Moneypfennig thought for a bit. "Leave them. If nothing else, it will show our contempt."

The lid of the tank clanged shut, as Davina reversed out of the church, crunching the gears horrendously, knocked over a fence, breaking a small garden gnome called Oswald, and roared off into the distance.

*******

In a plush office, in a dimension far, far away, a balding old man in a crushed velvet suit watched through the Tern’s eyes. Seeing the tank disappear, he heaved a sigh of relief and removed his finger from the small silver button, on which it had recently been resting.

"Oh good choice," he breathed, "I would have hated myself for killing you, Lucretia."

Then he did that evil, echoey laugh thing that would have scared the shit out of anybody that heard it.

*******

Its all rather confusing, isn’t it?

Here’s an interesting question for you, what the heck was Tom/Kevin doing all the while Miss Moneypfennig and Davina were scheming and dancing about naked. I tell you what he was doing. Hiding, that’s what.

As soon as that tank crashed through the wall he was gone, out of the church, down the road, and into ‘Miss Bombthreats Ye Olde Tea Shoppe’, which was a shiny, new coffee bar. In actual fact it looked a bit like the coffee place that’s in ‘Friends’, all comfy chairs and coffee mugs so huge you need to be Geoff Capes to pick them up.

Tom/Kevin sat in a big, soft couch and sat and looked at his double latte mocha chocha frapinochino, he had tried to pick it up and drink it but he’d strained his thumb. All in all things weren’t going his way. He’d lost his van, probably his job and he also missed two very attractive women dancing about in the nude.

"Bugger, bugger, and buggery buggeration!" He swore.

"Hey buddy," said a voice with an American accent.

"What!" said Tom/Kevin

"Whoah, man" said the American voice, "don’t go all Mr SnappyPants on me." There then followed a brief burst of riotous laughter that suddenly cut off.

"What do you want?" He looked at the person speaking. It was a highly attractive blonde female who would probably be described as ‘Kooky’.

"Hey, you look like you need a hug."

Whahay, thought Tom/Kevin, and he said it as well.

"Not from me though"

Laugh, laugh, laugh.

"Thought as much." He said and went back to trying to lift up his coffee.

"No, your karma needs hugging."

"Sorry, I don’t believe in all that spiritualist clap-trap." He sighed and his thoughts wandered back to his home on Middle Earth, "You’re not an Elf, are you?"

Laugh, laugh, laugh.

"No, I am one with the universe."

"One what?"

"No, I am one with it."

"Prove it." said Tom/Kevin.

"Okay," said the female, "I will."

Tom/Kevin watched her for a few moments.

"So, being one with the universe consists of you sitting in a corner, hugging your knees and giggling."

"At least I’m happy," said the girl, who’s name was probably Bethany or May.

Tom/Kevin considered this.

"Your right. Sorry, I have had a day you would not believe." He smiled, "My names To.. Kevin."

The girl grinned and little fireworks lit up behind her eyes.

"Hi, I’m Bethany May. Pleased to meet you."

They shook hands and time stood still. This had nothing to do with love - it was a side effect of reality breaking up.

"That was unusual wasn’t it?" said Bethany May, grinning.

"Not really, considering. You have a lovely smile by the way."

"Thank you Kevin," she giggled, "It’s all to do with my religion."

"What religion are you?" asked Kevin, really hoping she wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness. During an off day Fatty Lumpkin had run over eight of them.

"I’m an Aristotlyte."

*******

Because of Kevin’s late arrival in the story he knew nothing of Aristotle the fawn’s past, and how surprising it is to hear his name connected to any sort of religion. As would all the people laying unconscious in the church hall. Particularly the Vicar, who was dead. He didn’t really deserve that, did he? Never mind we can all console ourselves in the fact that in another universe/time/dimension the Vicar is very happy and married to Pamela Anderson. In this place he didn’t turn up to the cricket match as he was to busy recording a video with his wife that would be later spread about on the internet and ruin his life… All right, that ending’s not happy. But at least he’s enjoying the moment now and it better than being dead. A lot better. In fact I would rather have Pamela Anderson stark naked and do….

Ahem, anyway the dark fug is rising from Ambrose’s eyes and the room mists into shape. (That was pretty good imagery, although I have no idea what a fug is).

"Oh no" he shouted, "They’ve gone."

"Gone?" groaned R. "My beloved, gone?"

Hitler rose slowly from the floor. When he got about three feet off it, reality reasserted itself and he fell back down.

"Right," said Ambrose "Let’s see, R an emotional basket-case, Adolf’s floating around like something out of a bad Exorcist remake, and Tom, Miss Moneypfennig, and Davina Venticle are missing. Oh, and the Vicar’s dead. What else can go wrong?"

Something fell onto Ambrose’s shoulder. Something white and sticky, that smelt of fish.

"Oh great. Now I’ve been crapped on by a bloody seabird."

"Turn." Said a strange squawky voice. Ambrose spun around.

"Turn!" Said the voice again. Ambrose spun back.

"No, no, no!" said the voice "I’m a ‘bloody Tern’, not a ‘bloody seabird’".

"Birdy talks. Pretty birdy. Nice Birdy…" mumbled R.

Hitler and Ambrose stared up at the bird.

"OK, it’s a talking Tern. Naturally. I suppose we’re due for something like this."

"Look, do you want to know what’s been going on while you were having your little snooze, or what?"

The bird’s accent was a cross between Norwegian and southern English, probably due to the fact that he’d spent a lot of time in his youth crossing between southern England and Norway.

Ambrose considered.

"Oh, go on then. The last thing I remember is being planked, by person or persons unknown."

"Me too!" gasped Hitler.

"Plank…" burbled R.

"Well," continued the bird (whose name was ‘Sails-over-the-waves-plummeting-occasionally-to-catch-a-fish’, ’Sails’ to his friends) "After Lucretia had planked you–"

"Hang on a minute. Who the hell’s Lucretia?"

"Lucretia Svetlana Androgens, intentional woman of mystery, spy and all around super-vixen - Miss Moneypfennig, to you".

"Gasp!" went Ambrose.

"Gasp!" went Hitler.

"Hrrrgargle." Went R, who was obviously starting to recover.

"Anyway, after planking you, and a brief interlude cheeking the writers and dancing naked around the font with Davina Venticle-"

You can probably imagine the "Hrrrgargle"ing much better than I can write it, so I’m not going to bother.

"-they got dressed, got back in the tank, and buggered off."

"Without leaving their bleedin’ insurance details!" said an odd gravelly voice from outside.

They ran to see where the voice had come from, stepping over the still-warm remains of the Vicar without comment. Well, all except for Sails of course. Being a bird, he flew. He could have walked, but he didn’t want to. If you don’t believe me, next time you’re at the seaside with him, ask him to show you his Walking-on-the-Water trick – it’s really cool.

So. Outside they found Oswald – the gnome. He was hopping mad – well more angry really. But definitely hopping, as one of his legs had been broken off by the reversing tank.

Ambrose picked up Oswald, and his broken-off leg, whipped out his trust tube of stone cement, and quick as you can say, "Ambrose glued the broken leg back onto the gnome’s body" Ambrose glued the broken leg back onto the gnome’s body.

"Bleedin’ ‘ell!" Oswald yelled. "You’ve glued me bleedin’ leg on! That’s bleedin’ fantastic!"

Ambrose smiled, and returned Oswald to the floor.

"But if you ever touch my arse like that again, I’ll bite your bleedin’ fingers off."

"Great Album." Said Sails, "but I’m surprised you’ve heard it. It was only released in Norway last week."

"What?" chorused everyone.

"’But if you ever touch my arse like that again, I’ll bite your bleedin’ fingers off’ – Run like Buggery’s new album. It got a great Garage remix of ‘Into the Undergrowth’ (featuring Talentless Bastard), on it. But never mind that, I’ve got something really important to tell you."

"Yes?" chorused everyone, again. They were having trouble keeping in time, so one word was about as far as they could stretch.

"I am not what you think." Said Sails importantly.

"Well obviously," said Hitler. "Thought is an abstract process, whereas you, my fine feathered friend are clearly, a bird".

"Not so; not so at all. I am the very latest in stealth-espionage-multi-role-super-detructive-self-aware-avioid hardware!

"Come again?"

"No, I can’t do that. Well maybe if I’ve had a good rest first, but the important thing is – I’m not a bird. I’m a flying robot. Even as we speak, this scene is being recorded in fine detail. In a dimension far, far away, there’s a grumpy old geezer –"

Sails made an odd, strangling squawk.

"- I meant, a venerable, dashingly handsome, extremely powerful chap – watching your every move. My eyes contain little tiny cameras, my ears hide teeny-tiny microphones, and hidden inside my beak is a laser cannon big enough to destroy this entire village!"

"Bollocks!" said Oswald. "You’re ‘aving a bleedin’ laugh. The entire bleedin’ village? The power supply alone would ‘ave to be ten times your bleedin’ size!"

"Oh all right then," said a somewhat crest-fallen Sails, "but it’s plenty big enough to vaporise you."

Ambrose had had about enough.

"Not another mysterious presence we know nothing about! Where is he? Who is he? What the hell’s going on?!"

"He works for the Man upstairs."

"What? Surely you don’t mean –"

"Yep. Aristotle."