As the fearful
five skidded out onto the High Street a cloud of paragliders rose above Mam Tor
and swept towards the fleeing heroes.
“It is Le Régiment Étranger de Chats Parachutists, known colloquially as The Flying Eyebrows; a nick-name deriving from the appearance of
the curved, hollow fabric wing of each chute above the
eye-like dot of le chat de combat,” explained Boz, hurriedly. “They side with the Dark Forces, so we might have a bit of a problem.”
The paras
swooped down onto the town, landing on their feet running, jettisoning their
parachutes and firing their PPSh-41s from the hip. The carnival crowd scattered with a depressed mumble,
a few shrieks or screams, the odd groan and thud, to take shelter, for the most
part, in the cellars of local hostelries. The crunch of the shock troops’ hobnail boots, rattle
of their blazing submachine guns and zip zipping of randomly scattering 7.62mm
Tokarev rounds terrified our heroes.
“Don’t let me
die dressed like this!” cried Slasher, momentarily shedding his customary cool.
“Amen to that.”
sympathised Ferdinand.
With lead and
splinters ricocheting all around them the fleeing gang dove into the Rose
Cottage Tea Rooms.
“I hear they do an excellent lemon
meringue pie,” cried Phoebles excitedly.
They were just
putting in an order with a nippy waitress in very short black dress, black
stockings, lacy white apron and starched doily perched and pinned to the top of
her head when the teashop windows were stove-in by a thunderous barrage of
sound. An intense pressure
wave was shattering plate glass along the length of Cross Street. Outside, the massed Dark Agents
of the Merovingian Lizard Kings stopped their advance, clutching at their ears,
then fell back and soon were in full retreat.
Down the road from
the neighbouring village of Hope, at full throttle, hurtled the legendary
Vicecream van, black and menacing.
Its jingle system had been upgraded and a bank of Marshall 350-watt vacuum tube amplifiers
was feeding The Kittens of Chaos Mariachi Band’s insanely abandoned live
rendition of La Cucaracha into an
array of horn woofers and tweeters flanked by twin Megadeath Bass Boomer
Geo-Frackers. Consuella was
riding the roof, unplugged on tambourine, and Dark Flo squatted behind the
driver, wringing every last decibel out of the sound desk. The vehicle squealed to a halt
half way down the shop lined, devastated high street and the Snake Pass Zapatistas charged past, guiding their mounts with their
knees, firing off bursts of 7.62 from their AK47s or accompanying the Kittens
of Chaos’ in La Cucaracha on their guitars and
singing till their lungs ached. Riders and chargers alike had
their ears plugged with cotton wool, twists of Bronco toilet paper, or
solidified and manipulated dairy products.
Snowdrop’s Techanka drew up alongside Phoebles.
“Jump up!” she signed, over the earth-pounding
music. And he swung aboard
to man the Maschinengewehr 08, heavy machine gun, its 250-round fabric belt of 7.9mm
ammunition snaking wildly. He, in turn,
collared a passing teddy, yanked him into the landau and yelled, “Feed me,
Ginsberbear!”
Tac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac!
Throwing the van door open, Dark Flo sprang
onto the street, dressed in full oyster-grey Ninja kit and armed with an 18inch
feather duster crowned with pheasant plumage. She took off after a small cluster of Les Chats
Souterrains that looked as if it might rally.
“And what exactly does she intend to do with
that?” queried Slasher McGoogs.
“Don’t ask. The last man to face the feather duster of Dark Flo
spent the next eight weeks in a full body cast and still has to suck his
sustenance through a straw,” muttered Boz.
Above the retreating Chats the sky-blue and
dusty pink, angular dazzle camouflaged, Merovingian Flying Frisbee had doubled
back and was moving slowly and systematically towards the partisans, waiting
for them to come within range of its death-ray, when it met the full,
reverberating force of the 'Wall of Din'©.
It tottered, dropped suddenly, partially recovered in time to avoid
hitting the ground and withdrew, spinning erratically. It also started to glow - an
unhealthy, bilious glow - as its magneto-shield overheated and the stricken
craft wobbled away towards Winnat’s Pass. A writhing bundle of Kittens of Chaos fell out of the
Vicecream van, the trumpeters and a lone soprano saxophonist now playing an
unbridled Marseillaise whilst the remainder threw their sombreros into the air,
jeering, mooning and making rude paw gestures after the retreating UFO.
As Cross Street began to calm, and the action
moved into the distance, Snowdrop returned; the horses were lathered up and
panting, the machine gun overheated and out of ammunition, Ginsbergbear and
Phoebles babbling in adrenaline fuelled over excitement. Aunty Stella, in matching honey-beige pith helmet,
snake boots and safari suit, climbed down from the cab of the Vicecream
van. She pushed her Halcyon
Mk49 goggles up above the rim of her hat and met the charging rush of squealing
cats and dodo. There were
relieved hugs and enthusiastic welcomes all round, then she explained to the
group that Googleberry had gone missing again. Before she had become really worried however she had
received a text message from him saying that he was visiting relatives at Chatsworth
Hall and to come up, urgently, with the Vicecream van, the Kittens, Consuella
and Dark Flo, all would be required and much would be revealed.
“Who’s running the shop?” enquired a fiscally
worried Boz.
“Doo not deesturb yoorselv Meester Bozzz,”
chipped in Consuella Starcluster, “Sam assurrres us hee ees ayble to hold thee
forrrt forrr ay day orrr two.”
“…We were met, en route, by the Zapatistas,”
continued Aunty Stella, “and so here we all are.”
“That’ll be ginger beer and lemon meringue all round
then. Job well done,” exclaimed Phoebles, fresh from the fray.
“Is there a litter tray out the back? I may have got a bit over
excited.”
