Bozmag #1

Wee Hamish

       

    Just inside the gate there were Hoop-La stalls and coconut shies and Hook-a-Duck, all the fun of the fair for thruppence a go. Beyond these they approached an inflatable paddling pool and soggy cleric beneath a sign proclaiming Dunk the Vicar.   A target was contrived, by utilising a cunning arrangement of levers and gears, that when hit it would trip a precarious chair, tipping its occupant into the water below. The local boys were very good at throwing. Flo had travelled down with Boz and Co on the Æthelflæda, trusting the public bar at the Den into the care of one of the more reliable regulars, a trustworthy, conscientious and only slightly undead connoisseur of the golden nectar. She took one look at the forlorn and bedraggled priest, strode over and stepped into the pool. 

            “Go and get yourself a cup of tea, Pops,” she said swinging herself up into the chair and smiling sweetly at the queue of teenagers. “Come on, brats, I don’t mind a little water.” Somehow, under Flo’s withering gaze they found themselves utterly unable to hit the mark, several broke down before they got to their turn and one optimistic urchin, having thrown up on the grass, tried unsuccessfully to demand a refund.

            Boz smiled, “Best crack on, she’ll be there for a while.”

            The irresistible scent of chips frying wafted on the air.

            “Is it lunchtime yet?” asked Phoebles.

            They were passing side isles cluttered with jostling fast food stalls, Egyptian Koshari, Vietnamese Pho, Bakewell puddings, Welsh cawl, Hairy Tatties from Strathbogie and, of course Harry Ramsden’s Guisely fish and chips.

            "Hokey pokey penny a lump. Have a lick make you jump." An Italian hokey-pokey man had parked his ice cream trike close by the Kittens’ Vicecream van and was attracting a queue. Within the forbidding gothic interior of the Vicecream van a plot was being hatched to remove the unwanted competition, whilst one of the less scary Kittens leaned out of the serving hatch and beamed a smile at the unwitting Latin.

            Overhead the Kronstadt Fleet Air Arm were giving a heart stopping aerobatic display in their little Ratas.   As the gang looked up Polly broke away from her squadron to skywrite Hello Boz within a heart across the clear blue.   At a lower altitude, Beryl & Ferdy were taking kids on flights round the town in the Dragon Rapide.

            The boys had not gone much further when they heard the soulful strains of Scottish bagpipes.

            “Come on.   Sounds like we’re missing something good.”

            They emerged onto a grassed plaza where, in front of the Ranters’ Mead Hall steps and shadowed beneath the looming presence of Tamworth Castle, erstwhile seat of Æthelflæda Myrcna hlæfdige, the piper, kilted and clad in Darth Vader helmet, droned out Motörhead’s March Ör Die, blasting flames from the chanters and swirling tight circles on his unicycle.   A small torti-shell was hurrying towards Boz and his pals.

            “We made it. Anna’s just over there with the ambulance.”    Anna Pyromatrix travelled with Bui her cat in and old ambulance converted to a mobile home.   It was more cramped than a Winnebago, but cunningly kitted out to provide all their basic needs. “This,” Bui pointed at the piper, “is Wee Hamish.   He came down with us.”
            As Hamish segued seamlessly into We Are Sailing, Bui grabbed Phoebles’ paw and dragged him towards a cluster of ghers, tipis and festival tents.   Boz and Ferdy hurried along behind.
            Near the centre of the encampment they found the ambulance. Close by a small group of pirate captains, Reivers, Moss Troopers and clan chiefs lounged around a roaring campfire. A black iron kettle hung precariously above the flames and a slight, wild haired blond crouched where a tablecloth had been spread out on the ground with a chipped teapot and collection of miss matched mugs.   Anna stood up when she saw them approach.
            “Mr Boz, Ferdy …and Phoebles!   We’re off to find Rotskagg in a wee while, but there’ll be time for a brew first.   You’ll be setting yoursels doon?”

The Tamworth Ranters’ Gala

Almighty Cod created the universe and all that is in it.   It created cats and men and tortoises.   It anointed kings to enforce its laws and appointed bishops to interpret its words.   And all was right with the world.

            This proved very lucrative if you happened to be a bishop or a king, but was not necessarily regarded as a good thing by everyone else. Then after eons of malcontent, the ‘English Civil War and Almost Revolution’ happened and the world turned upside down.   The scum on top of the placid lake that was the class system within this sceptred realm lost cohesion, began to break up and loosen its grip.   And out of the silt at the bottom rose up every kind of fanatical crank and loony demanding equality, emancipation, universal suffrage.   Pacifists and feminists, naturists, atheists and suffragists felt empowered to speak out; compelled to cry from atop soapboxes and from the backs of carts the length and breadth of the country.   Out of this turmoil emerged The Ranters.   Almighty Cod, they asserted, was not an omnipotent being somewhere out there.   A little piece of Cod (a piece of Cod that passeth understanding) existed, in equal part, in every living thing.   They reasoned, on the strength of this revelation, that no individual had more claim to represent the laws of Cod or man than any other.   Every man, woman, cat or carrot had an equal right to rule, and therefore no right over others at all.   Every man, woman, cat and carrot had sovereignty over its own existence and wellbeing, unfettered self-determination.

            Over the intervening centuries The Tamworth Ranters came to believe that the Piece of Cod was not a thing in itself; it was a metaphor, it was the spark of Life.   All living things were free and equal.   They also embraced the golden rule of philosophers and prophets to do to others what they would have done to themselves, and to love one another as they loved them selves, enthusiastically and often.   They tended to throw a good party.

June had been damp and dreary.   Not that this was noted to any degree by the people of Tamworth.   In Tamworth June was almost always damp and dreary.   However, on this festive day the sky was clear and the morning sun was already warming the recreation ground, though the overnight drizzle still puddled on the tarmac of the vehicle park, reflecting silver-cerulean against the dark grey clinker.   Boz glanced back as the gang strode out across the disused landing strip.   Several airships swung gently at their pylons.   Lady Æthelflæda, freshly painted, was dwarfed next to the looming black vastness of Rotskagg Blenkinsopp’s brutal Queen Anne’s Bounty.   The corsair’s flag ship bristled with quick-fire cannon, rocket launchers and Gatlings, her canopy emblazoned with the crimson, crowned skull (crowned with a papal coronet) that was the Blenkinsopp sigil.   It even had a hangar and launch port for its complement of armed ornithopters.

            “The pirate king’s here then,” he said to the others, “wonder who he’s brought with him.”

            “I noticed Larry’s dirigible back there too,” replied Phoebles.

            “I reckon we’ve missed the parade,” chipped in Ferdy, pushing his goggles up over his flying helmet.   “Told you we shouldn’t have spent so long over breakfast.”   But the bird was wrong.   As they reached the row of Portaloos and temporary litter trays by the road gate they could hear the trumpets and guitars of the Massed Zapatista Marching Mariachi as they played La Valentina, and see the tops of the wavering crimson union banners above the heads of the spectators.   The annual Gala parade always drew a large crowd.

            They squeezed through as near to the front as they could manage and Dark Flo lifted the vertically challenged Ferdy onto her shoulders.   They were in time to see Snowdrop’s techanka wreathed in flowers with Consuella in her most exotic Carmen Miranda outfit, letting rip on her tambourine.   The techanka was followed by the prancing cavalry of the Snake Pass Zapatistas led by Aunty Stella, in her Subcommandante Everyman outfit, sans ski mask, but wearing a delicate feathered purple half mask that perfectly matched her hair.   Each caballerro lofted a fluttering black SPZ flag.   Next came the Catnip Growers Association rainbow float, swathed in a purple haze.   Bringing up the rear, with the Kittens of Chaos crammed on the roof rack, came the Vicecream van blaring out the Slasher Theme from Psycho.   As the last of the parade passed, the crowd spilled onto the road and followed into the Recreation ground.

The Raid

A hearty group of Kriegsmariners had come into the concourse from the Unterseeboot Pens and was indulging in manly horseplay when the glass in one of the skylights shattered.   If they could have made out more than a vague mauve blur they would have seen Dark Flow running down the marble wall, paying out rope with one hand and frantically casting throwing stars with the other.   They scattered, rallied and returned fire with their Schmiesser MP-40s.   Bamse was abseiling, noticeably more slowly and cautiously than Flo, towards the distant floor, and the bullets chipping off chunks of stonework all around him were not making for a happy St Bernard.   To his amazement he was still whole when he reached the ground.   His survival was probably due in part to the distracting effect of an indistinct pink whirlwind that pirouetted through the ranks of mariners.   Sailors doubled over with an “Oooff!” or flew backwards, crashing into disintegrating furniture.   The disgruntled emperor penguins who had, until this moment, still been waddling around the vaulted hall, turned, gave out a communal squawk of disapproval and trudged towards the double doors of the main exit.   Bamse headed off to locate and liberate the crew of the Lord Ancaster.

            An alarm siren wailed, almost immediately Neuschwabian reinforcements burst onto the scene and the machine gun fire intensified.   Dark Flo became pinned down behind a Coca Cola dispenser.   The situation was looking decidedly desperate when there came the sound of two small explosions from the Submarine Pens and the Kronstadt sailors arrived.  They reached the top of the escalator already firing and immediately fanned out.   The battle was intense, and destructive.   As more and more lights were shattered by ricochets and an increasing gloom descended on the vast hall Dark Flo began to suffer the Purkinje effect.   In low light simian eyes become more sensitive to the blue end of the colour spectrum, this is Purkinje shift, or dark adaptation, her Plymouth Pink Ninja outfit was no longer working efficiently.   She was becoming visible.

Meanwhile Bamse was having difficulty rescuing the trawler crew.   They did not want to be rescued.   The third hand, Billy Tate teamed up with the St Bernard and they ushered the crew into an elegant, Art Deco wardroom.   Plans to organise a second front disintegrated.   The trawlermen were divided into two, almost equal factions.   One group wanted to sit it out in the wardroom, perhaps get a cup of coffee, and wait to see which side won.   The others had enjoyed their stay so much that were all for joining the fray on the side of the Neuschwabenlandians.   Billy was weeping with frustration.

            “T’ skipper seems pally enough wi’ that Kapitänleutnant chappy.   Thy squabble’s nowt te do wi’ us.”

            “Look,” barked Bamse, “Flo and I have gone to a lot of trouble to get you ingrates out of this mess.   Don’t you want to see your Yorkshire homeland again?”   He paused for dramatic effect, “The stigma of mutiny could get you all exiled to Grimsby.”

            “…”

            “Ay, and ‘tis starving cold here.”

            “Bleaker ‘n a February afto’ on Top Withens.”

            “C’mon lads, lets stick it to the Hun.”

            Bamse took a nifty step back to let them pass, but the unsuspecting young Tate was knocked to the ground and trampled in the rush.

Von Luckner and Harold emerged from the subway tunnel as the firefight was reaching its peak.   The hall echoed to a cacophony of swearing (in German and Russian), cries of anguish and anger, the percussion of small arms fire; and it was filling with clouds of smoke and dust.  Glass shattered and bullets zipped through the air like gnats.   The duo instantly drew fire from both sides and dove behind the check-in counter, where they were joined, cowering, by the first mate and chief who were crawling on their hands and knees.

The Ancaster’s crew burst into the foyer, roaring out a battle cry:

            “Tigers, Tigers, burning bright!” all bravado and slightly squeaky apprehension.

            The Kapitänleutnant glanced disbelievingly towards his companions.

            “It’s a Hull City supporter’s chant,” replied Easter Smurthwait, “…Football…   I’ll explain later, when things quieten down a bit.”

            Albert Fleck leaped to his feet, “Go the three-day millionaires!" and then ducked down again as the round from a Schmeiser plucked at his tea-cosy hat.

            The trawlermen fell upon the Neuschwabenlander troops with fist flailing.

            “This’ll ney tek long.   ‘Sney rougher’n a Satdi-night scrap in Rayner's on t’Hessle Road.”

            Taking advantage of the added confusion, Dark Flo ducked out from the cover of the soft drinks dispenser and tucked in behind the wave of fishermen.   She skipped lightly up the back of the nearest deckie, tripped across the heads of three successive Kriegsmariners, became airborne and tossed a Happo egg into a light machine-gun nest as she passed overhead.   Her 3 Inch diameter, hollowed out black egg contained a disabling mixture of itching powder and concentrated Naga Ghost Chilli sauce.   Flo adopted the ‘Flailing Squid’ pose as she hung briefly in the air then plummeted, feather duster in hand, into the midst of the battle.

“THIS WILL END… NOW!”   A voice like an intervention from the patriarch of all thunder gods reverberated above the crouching combatants.   The hunched and wizened oriental master had materialized in the open no-man’s land that separated the warring factions.   He drew himself up to his full height of four feet two and a half inches, shoulders back and ramrod straight.   His eyes glistened and his tall orange hat quivered as he glared about the room.   The shooting slowly petered out until only the intermittent crack of a sniper’s round broke the silence.   Otto von Luckner broke cover and approached his men.

            “Nicht mehr!   Aufhören zu schießen!”

            The Himalayan envoy waited patiently for a bleakly expectant peace to descend across the scene.

            “This is intolerable… and futile.   A machine that is secret, a truth that is hidden, are now known to all.   The Andromeda Gerät will depart.   We will depart.   And it would be wise for you to be not here when we leave.   I recommend you utilize the high-speed pneumatic tubes to your whaling station and there take ship.   You do not have long.”   He stalked over to his colleagues who turned and followed him back into the subway.

Ambush!

Flo passed her 8x30 field glasses to Bamse, “Do you see the Kronstad sailors approaching in open order?”   

            He did.

            “And the New Swabian ski patrol, half way between them and us, hunkered down for an ambush?”  

            Yes, Bamse saw them too; hidden behind wind carved pinnacles of ice either side of the path that the ever-nearing sailors would take.   The Neuschwabenlander Hauptmann, pointing a 9mm parabellum pistol skyward in his right hand, was waiting for the precise moment to signal his troops to open fire.

            “We must warn them… but they’re well out of ear shot.   If only I’d brought the flare gun.”

            “I could try barking very loudly, or a wolf like howl,” suggested Bamse.  

            He had just coughed to clear his throat and was taking a deep breath in preparation for his record-breaking yowl, when Flo shouted, “What’s that?”

            The Hauptmann dropped abruptly to the snow and almost instantaneously an Oberjäger collapsed nearby.   Gone, without so much as a 'Kiss me, Hardy.'   Moments later two loud reports echoed across the landscape.

            “That sounded like SVT 40 Tokarev rifles,” said Flo, “The Kronstadt troops have snipers out.   Cunning little buggers.”

            There was a puff of snow close to one of the ski troopers’ ear and he slowly raised his hands as the delayed crack of the rifle shot rang out.   Cautiously his comrades stood up and followed suit.   Soon the Kronstadt Unit had them disarmed and kettled into a submissive huddle, the snipers were trudging in from their hiding places and Flo and Bamse were walking in towards the group whilst waving white hankies.

            “Comrades?” enquired the doubly puzzled Starshina; puzzled at the unexpected appearance of a Saint Bernard with a flag of truce and equally bemused by the accompanying, vague, pink shape that he could not quite make out.

            “Long story,” said Flo, removing her headgear so that her face suddenly popped into view; not a reassuring sight as it floated in space with a black grease-paint slash across the eyes and Yves Saint Laurent Rouge Pur Couture #101 Violet Singulier defining her lips,  “Your support ship and crew is taken.   Bamse, you know from the voyage down.   He’s been sort of spying, I’m a spy too, a proper one, with a code name and everything, but today I’m a one-woman International Rescue, and you’re going to join in and help.   I have authorization from Larry and from here on in I am in charge.   I should think one of your prisoners would be willing to tell us where we have to go, if you ask nicely.   What happened to your transport, by the way?   Bamse said you had snowmobiles.”

            “They were rubbish,” said the Comrade-Starshina, “One never made it off the sea ice; threw a con rod.   Mine was so noisy the whole continent must have heard us coming.   So we detached the machine gun and ditched the aerosled.”

Bereft of their officer and sergeant, it took only a little persuasion for the Ski Troop grunts to co-operate with their captors and provided a detailed description of the location and layout of the Submarine Base.   Relieving them of their weapons and skis the Kronstadt shore detail left the New Swabians to make their own way back, their slow progress hampered by the deep snow.   Bamse had made a sketch map from their description of the terrain and was prepared to lead the way to their target.   The sailors checked their equipment, oiled their weapons and hung bandoliers of ammunition across their chests.   A brisk march soon brought them within sight of the sprawling base.

            “Bamse and I will go in first and create a diversion.   Give us ten minutes and then you bring your men in via the submarine pens.   Disable what you can on the way through, spike the guns and booby-trap the subs.   Let’s create a bit of mayhem,” said Flo to the Comrade-Starshina.

Dark Flo

“Kapitänleutnant, an aircraft has been spotted flying over the base.”

            “Stand the anti-aircraft crews to, but don’t do anything to attract attention.   It’s probably just the Yanks doing some stunt to get in the Guinness Book of Records again.”

            At last, thought Bamse, this must be Larry’s response to my call for help.  

            The day after sending out his radio message, not being one to waste time waiting, he had climbed onto the plateau above and behind the whaling station and had marked out a landing area with a large yellow X in the snow.   For good measure he had drawn a prominent yellow arrow pointing to the cross and written ‘Over here’ in joined up writing.   Each day he had revisited the spot and refreshed the markings.   And now help was at hand.   The Norwegian sea dog made his way through the back alleys, out of the camp and up to the landing site.

Beryl flew the Loening in a wide circle round the New Swabian whaling station, satisfying herself that they had reached the correct destination.   She could see the coleyfishtrawler Lord Ancaster in the harbour below.   Then she commenced a straight run directly over the harbour, trailing Red-White-and-Blue smoke.   Throwing the bi-plane into a series of loops and tight turns she sky-wrote Hi Folks across the heavens.

            “Might as well be obvious.   They’re bound to have seen us,” Beryl called down to Flo who, was kneeling over the Elsan.

            The Loening turned south, heading towards the pole until Beryl was reasonably sure their audience would have lost interest.   Then she climbed to ten thousand feet and turned back towards the coast.    In the cabin Dark Flo had changed into her new Class A1 16TOG ninja outfit.   It was dyed Mountbatten Pink – a Greyish-mauve all but invisible to simian optical sensors.   Over it she pulled on an X-Bird 3 wingsuit of mottled blues.   Her minimalist katana, devoid of decoration, and her Fukiya blow pipe were across her back, daisho and feather duster tucked in her waistband, and she carried a haversack filled with assorted Shuriken throwing stars, darts for the blowpipe, her war fan, and Happo eggs filled with Metsubushi blinding powder.

            “Ready to go, Flo?”

            “All set.   Keep her steady.”

            Flo clambered out onto the wing, there was a loud crack as her wing suit stretched out in the slipstream, and without a word of farewell, she was gone.   As the Loening continued northwards Flo swooped over the polar terrain, a tiny blue dart invisible from below.   Her speed sucked the breath out of her and an icy wind pressed her goggles into her face.   Looping above the barren land she took stock of her surroundings, spotted a line of despondent emperor penguins trudging inland and then noted a group of men – sailors, judging by their visorless caps - a few miles from the whaling station, proceeding in an open, skirmish formation.   Back tracking, Flo identified Bamse’s fresh yellow X and dove towards the landing area, deploying her chute at the last possible moment and ploughing into the snow with a thud.   She quickly wound in the parachute, unzipped her wing suit and buried the ensemble.   For good measure she kicked clean snow over the landing markers.   When she looked up Bamse was strolling across the snowfield towards her.   Being a dog, he could just make her out despite the camouflage pink.   Canine rods and cones differ significantly from those of monkey descendants and are less likely to be confused by weird colours.

            “Let’s get under cover and out of the cold.   I’ve built a bit of an igloo back there amongst the drifts.   It’s fairly cosy.”   He had also brought a thermos of builders’ tea and some pickled cabbage sandwiches.

The igloo was compact, inconspicuous, beautifully crafted, a handy bolthole and sufficiently warm for Flo to feel the need to remove much of her ninja kit.   While they drank their tea, Bamse launched into his report.

            “We got the shore detail away before we were captured so I don’t think anyone knows they are here.   The Lord Ancaster’s down in the harbour, but a bloody big sub took Harold and the crew off somewhere.   This whaling station is just an outpost - from what I’ve gleaned in my time here the main operation’s elsewhere.   And they all think it’s something special”

            “I believe I saw your Russians down the coast,” said Flo, “I wonder if the New Swabians have a submarine base over that way.   We need to locate the rest of the crew and find out what’s going on.   Sounds as if it’s every bit as big as Larry reckons.

“Don’t suppose we could manage the trawler on our own so it looks like we’re on foot for now.   Best save the sandwiches in case we need them later.   Let’s go and explore.”

Aqaba

Beryl was naked under her voluminous indigo thobe, reclining on rugs and cushions within a traditional Bedouin black tent.   An embroidered and tasselled wool camel bag nearby was playing As Time Goes By.   She concentrated, hard.   Phone.   That’s my iPhone.   I’m…   I’ve got a phone call!   Beryl dived for the bag, rummaged about in it and found the phone just as it stopped ringing.   She was cursing fluently in Arabic, English and Swahili when it rang again.   This time she answered.

            “Agent 160?   Can we talk freely?”

            “We can,” she replied, “The boy is with his sheep.”

            “Get down to Aqaba as quickly as you can,” it was Larry’s factotum, Barrymore, on the other end of the phone, “There will be a Loening Air Yacht down at the waterfront and Dark Flo will be joining you.   She has all the details for your mission.”

            “OK…” Beryl paused as if to say more.

            “That’s not a problem is it?”

            “Not a problem.   I’ll be there sometime this afternoon.”

            Beryl felt a weight lifted from her mind – action at last, and an excuse to move on.  She really had enjoyed her time with Abdulla, but his affair with the blond English woman was doing much too much for his confidence after a short lifetime with nothing but his goats and camels.   Before long he would have become a pain.   It was better this way.   Quickly changing into her flying kit and throwing a few necessaries into a threadbare carpetbag she wrote a hasty note of thanks and regret and left it on the brass tray under a coffee pot.   It was but a short stroll to her Dragon Rapide.   Beryl checked the fuel gauge, waved goodbye to the cluster of Bedouin children that had gathered around and, buckling her flying-helmet under her chin, taxied to the makeshift landing strip.   She was airborne when she noticed Abdulla’s Toyota kicking up dust as it sped towards the camp.   She banked the Rapide, flew low over his pick-up truck and dipped the wings in salute before heading south.

Beryl found the seaplane swinging gently at its buoy as the tide turned.   She selected a café on the Aqaba Corniche, sat at an outside table, ordered a strong Turkish coffee and the fill of a shisha pipe.   She would wait for Dark Flo to contact her, and pulling a well-thumbed Penguin paperback copy of Freya Stark’s Valleys of the Assassins from her canvas knapsack, she settled back in the uncomfortable plastic chair.

            She had reread a chapter and a half and was beginning to drift when the winsome figure of Dark Flo appeared in front of her.   The thick black hair was plaited into a single pigtail down her back and a thin, sleeveless frock exposed bare brown arms and legs glistening damp in the heat of the early afternoon.   Flo sat, took a long drag on the mouthpiece of Beryl’s hookah and waved to a waiter.

            “A glass of mint tea, if you would be so kind.”

            “So…” Beryl beamed and leaned in close to her willowy companion, “What have you got us into this time?”

            “We’re going to Antarctica.   Well I am.   You’re to overfly New Swabia and I will bail out over some whaling station or other.   Larry’s heard from Bamse at last and it appears they’ve made a right hash of things.   So good old Ninja Flo gets to don a wingsuit and do her Wonder Woman act.

“Larry reckons it’ll be easier to find places on the way to set down and refuel with the amphibian than your Dominie.   So he’s lumbered us with that crate over there.”

            “Great.”   The pair giggled together.

They took a room in a family run, backstreet hotel for the night.   Throughout the nocturnal hours there was no let up in the clamour from the street and the fragrant air hung hot and humid.   They did not sleep much.   Next morning they had a breakfast of croissants and grilled halloumi cheese before setting off for the waterfront.   After some hard bargaining Beryl secured the services of a local felucca skipper and they were ferried out to the air yacht.   Flo produced the keys to the Loening and balanced on the felucca’s thwart as she reached for the door.   Beryl passed up their luggage and they clambered, without much dignity, into the seaplane.   Giving them an appreciative leer, the boat skipper sheeted in the large lateen sail on his skiff and veered away.

            Within the fuselage most of passenger seats had been ripped out to make room for additional fuel tanks.   An Elsan ‘Bristol’ chemical toilet and pipe cots had also been installed so that the duo would not have to go in search of accommodation every time they stopped for the night.

            “How far is Antarctica?   This is going to be real fun, I don’t think,” muttered Dark Flo as Beryl climbed to the open cockpit to begin flight checks.

            “Don’t know.   Check the charts.   And can you make sure they cover the entire journey?   I don’t want to be trying to track down a copy of ‘Admiralty 4075’ in some one horse South American back water.”

No Plan B!

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.”