Ferdy's Autogyro Flight (Elstead Writers' Blog)

http://elsteadwritersgroup.wordpress.com/2014/02/18/ferdys-flight/
Here's another graphic page from The Unremitting Coldness of Snow - out on Tuesdays at our Elstead Writers' Group, Wordpress blog.
I want my Dad to draw a whole graphic novel of our adventures.

Gilnockie Tower

I (Phoebles) was the first to spot the Gilnockie Tower on account of I was looking out the bridge windows with the big spyglass.

            “Left hand down a bit, the tower is over there,” I says to Ferdy, who is doing the driving.   And he gives me a stern look, as if I’s criticising his navigation or summat.   I do have very keen eyesight, ’specially when I got the spyglass.   But Ferdy’s being OK too.  

            Polly sticks her head round the door.

            “Are we nearly there yet?”

            So I says, “Yup, we’ll be landing within the hour.”

            And she says, “In that case I am going to bugger off in my little red plane.   If things don’t go to plan you all may need back up later.”

            She’s dead good in that thing.   It’s a Polikarpov I-16 fighter, red all over with yellow stars and two 7.62mm ShKAS machine guns and two 20mm ShVAK cannons mounted in the wings.   And it’s dead manouverable.  She stopped off at the officers’ canteen to pick up a pre-ordered packet of Catapano goats cheese and Coln Valley smoked salmon sandwiches and to refill her hip flask with cheap vodka.

            “No point using the good stuff,” she said, “in the middle of a dog fight I spill more than I drink.”

            “You should get one of those Beerbelly™ WineRack bra’s for hands free drinking,” suggested the Pusser.

            “What’s a bra?” asked Polly.

            The best things about the Airship of State are deffo the food.   She has chefs instead of cooks and three-Michelin-star gourmet restaurants instead of mess decks and there is all day breakfasts available ALL DAY!

            Anyway, back to the story.   Polly gets in her plane and starts up the engine and stuff, while the crew are unbolting thing and hammering and swearing at the release mechanism.   Then there is a clunk and the red Rata drops away from beneath the airship.   And she is whizzing off towards the horizon doing barrel rolls as she goes.

            And I has another look through the spyglass.   It’s dead good, made of brass tubes that slide inside each other and when you stretch them out it’s really long and makes things look ever so close even when they’re not.   I’m looking at Gilnockie Tower again.   It is dour, built of grey stone and has a little flag on top.   We approach slowly from down wind and come in over the croquet lawn.   Lots of ghillies (sort of Scotch servants) in greeny-bluey tartan kilts and matching bonnets rush out to catch our mooring lines as we cast them down, and we are dragged and guided over towards the stables, where we are tethered close to the laird’s Silver Ghost.

            Once we have all tumbled out onto the gravel drive a window in the tower opens and someone shouts, “Come on in and get yourselves out of the cold,” ‘cos it is quite nippy out.   There’s a flight of narrow stone stairs on the outside of the tower, up to a small doorway on the first floor and the door is really heavy, three layers thick of oak planking laid at right angles to each other, which is called axe proof, and lots of iron strapping.   Inside, the reception hall is stark stonework, but we are met by a homely little woman in an apron and ushered into what she describes as the library.   The walls are lined with bookshelves and the shelves filled with books.   There is a tiny window, a huge inglenook containing a miserably weedy fire and a few stubs of candles scattered about for lighting.   Drawn up close to the fireplace is a large leather wing-backed armchair.

            “Come and warm yourselves by the fire,” says the chair.   Only it’s not the chair talking.   A tabby, greying-whiskered face appears round the side and a short, rather portly cat rises to great us.   He wears a maroon fez on his head, a crushed-velvet smoking jacket, a dress kilt of the same green and light blue, with a little bit of red, tartan as we saw on the ghillies, bed socks and carpet slippers.   His green eyes survey us through wire-rimmed spectacles.

            “I am the Gilnockie of Gilnockie,” and he shakes all our hands, and Ferdinand’s wing stub, vigorously.   We grab what seating we can and draw up to the fire.   Boz and Slasher have wobbly stools, Ferdy, Barrymore and Ginsbergbear are cosied up on a wooden bench and I found a beanbag that looked really comfy, but it has just swallowed me and I don’t feel very dignified.

            “Catriona will be in shortly with porridge and mugs of malt whisky.   No point wasting time, while we wait we can start the negotiations.”

             Slasher was the first to speak.   “Has there been any follow up to our chat last time I was up this way?”

            “Ah well…   There have been meetings.   The Moss Troopers are Felis Silvestris Grampia, like myself, and will follow their own inclinations regardless of what I suggest.   But for the most part the Border Reivers are fed up to the back teeth with your aggressive policing.   It is getting in the way of commerce and legitimate cattle thieving.   They are willing to sign up to a truce while they see how it pans out.   I have also been in touch with the pirate king.   Do you know him, Captain Rotskagg Blenkinsopp?   He doesn’t have quite the authority his title suggests, but the Corsairs can’t move in the North Sea at the moment without one of your airships turning up, so they’re willing to talk.”

            There is a commotion at the door and the lady in the apron, who it turns out, is Catriona, wheezes into the library pushing a rattly old catering trolley.   It’s got steaming bowls of thick, dishwater-grey porridge, a huge bottle of Bunnahabhain single malt whisky and a blowtorch.   She pours the whisky over the porridge and then flambés it with the torch.   There is a scary whump of flame and some of the nearby books catch light.   She calmly throws the burning tomes to the floor and stamps them out.  

            “There’ll be haggis for tea, if the Gillies have managed to bag one, with champit tatties and bashed neeps.”

            “Thank you, Catriona, we can barely wait.”

            Then we all tuck in to our porridge, which is REALLY salty, not like at home, and I’m not liking it much, but you got to be polite.   Conversation is replaced by munching for a while and then Boz pipes up:

            “I’ve got an idea.   It’s the Tamworth Ranters’ Gala coming up soon, and that’s always good for a laugh.   Lets all meet there and after the fun we can have a conference.   If you sir…” he addresses The Gilnockie, “ …bring some of your chaps and this pirate king along, we’ll get Larry to join us and we can thrash out a deal.”

            “Sounds good to me,” says The Gilnockie of Gilnockie, “Will there be booze?”

            “Good Burton ale,” says Ginsbergbear, puffing quietly on his Peterson briar.

            “But no weapons,” chips in Barrymore, “and that includes bagpipes.”

            “What about Les Chats Souterrains?” asks Ferdy, “No one’s mentioned them yet.”

            “Ah…”

That’s when I become aware of a whirry buzzing noise from outside.

            “Last time I heard a sound like that we were running for our lives in Castleton,” says I.

            “Oh no,” groans Boz.   And we all rush up onto the battlements in time to see the metallic Frisbee glinting pink and mauve in the setting sunlight.

            “Is that a real flying saucer?” shouts The Gilnockie.

            “Les Chats Souterrains’ foo-fighter,” says Ferdy, “We really don’t need this right now.”

            It’s got revolving, flashing lights and flies straight over the croquet lawn level with the battlements, and it is so close we can see the pilot’s face, all white and demented in dark goggles.   The flying saucer whizzes right past us, cranks its death ray round and targets The Airship of State.   And it doesn’t do the dirigible any good at all.   There are a series of explosions and a sort of crumpling metal greeouch noise and our airship transport collapses in on itself in flames.

            “Bugger.” Says Slasher McGoogs, looking pointedly at Boz, “Someone’s going to get that stopped out of his pocket money.”

            “If they’ve scorched my Roller,” screams The Gilnockie, “I’m going to get really cross.”

            The foo fighter is just beginning to train its death ray onto the upper floors of Gilnockie Tower when a stream of bullets is pinging off it’s hull.   Out of the majestic, orange disc of the sun races a little crimson Rata, and it will be opening up with its cannons any moment.   The saucer recoils and then hurtles off towards the east at an incredible speed, enthusiastically pursued by Polly, shooting as she goes.   But there’s more…

            “Hens’ teeth!” exclaims Slasher McGoogs as he peers over the parapet and his Mauser Red9 materialises in his right paw.   A wraithlike army is pouring out of the deciduous woods that border the castle grounds.   White cats in brass goggles are forming up to surround the tower, their white leather greatcoats conspicuous in the flickering firelight of our ravished airship.   They are carrying scaling ladders and grappling hooks, and as the sun goes down Les Chats Souterrains are pushing their dark goggles up onto their pickelhaubs or down to hang round their neck.   There are Moss Troopers in the ranks as well, large, fierce tabbies in dented tin-hats, a motley assortment of mismatched armour, basket hilted broadswords and targes.   And there are a few mercenaries from the continental wars too, distinguishable by their flamboyant wide brimmed hats with ostrich feathers, slashed jackets and vicious Tua handit swerdis.   (That’s what the locals call them.)

            “That’s the overmighty Black Douglas down there,” growls The Gilnockie, “treacherous dog.”   Black Douglas glances up and they wave to each other.   I can make out the uniforms of Le Régiment Étranger over by the ornamental carp pond where cats are checking the magazines on their PPSh-41 Machineguns.   A sea of frowning white faces with beady pink eyes stare up at us.

            The Gilnockie’s ghillie-weetfit rushes onto the battlements with his master’s brace of Purdy shot guns.   “We’ve shuttered the windows and barricaded the door.   Have you seen that mob down below, sir?   They don’t look very friendly.”   Several ghillies appear with arms full of pikes, halberds and scimitars that had, until minutes ago, decorated the walls of the dining hall, and others have brought the contents of the gun cupboard.   Catriona is the last up with a bundle of tweed country jackets to keep out the chill.

            I am just starting to feel a bit better about our chances when another bunch of ruffians emerge to form up behind Les Chats.   These are huge ginger haired highlanders in kilts and Borderers in scraps of ancient, ill-fitting armour, cuirasses and plackarts, mail, greaves and vambraces.   For the most part they carry old Sten Guns and assault rifles, Czech Sa vz 58Ps, Enfield Bullpups, Sturmgewehr 44s, Cristobal carbines and stuff I can only guess at; trophies from countless raids and conflicts, passed down from father to son.

            “Those were my boys,” says The Gilnockie, “Looks like they’ve sided with the opposition.   Sorry.   We could be out on a bit of a limb, here.”

            But the newcomers aren’t exactly mingling or being welcomed.   Les Chats are starting to look uncomfortable and mumbling amongst themselves.   And now the cavalry has arrived, in olive green fatigues and balaclavas, hefting AK-47s.   I can see a tall white horse ridden by a slim chap in a flamboyant hussar uniform with his face hidden behind a ski mask under his shiny black shako.

            That’s, Subcomandante Everyman,” I shout.   And Boz looks quizzically at Slasher McGoogs:

            “I thought you were Subcommandante Everyman.”

            “Not this time old chap,” he replies.   Because it is the Snake Pass Zapatistas and there is their black banner with a scull and crossbones, and Snowdrop canters out of the woods on her tachanka with Strawberry manning the Maxim Model 1910.

             Les Chats Soutarrains have split into small groups, with their hands in their pockets, staring at their feet or whistling innocently.   The scaling ladders have been abandoned on the lawn and are being avoided by their erstwhile owners.   The white menace is melting away with the cats of Le Régiment Étranger covering their retreat whilst trying hard to look as if they are not, and the Zapatistas strike up a merry La Cucaracha to encourage the departure.

We are all rushing down stairs and wrenching away the heavy timbers that brace the outside door and are dashing out to meet the Zapatistas.   Les Chats Souterrains are all gone, Black Douglass and his Moss Troopers have disappeared and the mercenaries are trying to negotiate a change of paymaster, without much success.   Subcomandate Everyman springs down from his charger.   He strides over towards us, removing his shako and ski mask.   And it is Aunty Stella!

Phoebles

Somewhere north of The Wall

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.

The Destroyer of Worlds

Flushed, nay ecstatic, with their unprecedented success at the siege of Berwick, and having extracted guarantees of future good conduct from the pirate captains, the Kittens of Chaos reassembled upon their waterborne battle craft and headed back out to sea.   The Destroyer of Worlds wallowed south on a mission to reap havoc amongst the Tyne ports.   The hours crawled slowly one behind another like zombies queuing for a brain handout at an NHS Autopsy Surplus Store.   As autumn turned to winter the weather deteriorated and seas rose.   The Kittens retrieved their buckets and retreated to their couches.   Tovarishch-Matros Petrichenko readied his mop and pail.

     As they passed the citadel of Bamburgh flares went up ashore and signal fires followed them down the coast.   Warnings of their progress dogged them every fathom and league till they were pitching some way off the Fiercely Independent Pirate Republic of Craster.   Braving the mounting swell a flotilla of sturdy cobles, tiny piratically decorated vessels, churning foam and bucking the waves, swarmed from the fortress harbour intent on surrounding the monstrous ekranoplan.   Kittens manned the ZU-23 Sergeys, prepared to sell their honour dearly.   Consuella took the helm and began to turn the Destroyer of World towards the oncoming fleet.   They had a jolly good ramming coming to them.

     “Hold fast, señora,” said the Tovarich-Starshina, putting down his binoculars and turning from the cockpit window, “The lead craft is displaying a flag of truce,”

     “Parlé!” came the cry.

     The Destroyer of Worlds heaved to and Consuella Starcluster stood by the Starboard paddle box, flanked by two heavily armed Kronstadt seamen, to receive their visitors.   The lead coble was approaching the wing stub a little too quickly.

     “Gan canny or we'll dunsh summick,” a sturdy corsair addressed his helmsman from the bow and then called out, “Hoos ya fettling, hinny?   Hey ya git the

Kittens aboard?   We waad leik te hev a crack wiv t’wi bairns.”   He heaved the boat’s painter to one of the Kronstadt crew.   Consuella did not move.

     “Stay een hyourrr boat.   Eef hyou want to talk hyou can shout frrrom therrre.”

     “Wi heerd aboot they rumpous in Berwick.   There's a hiring on offer fre they sonsy kiddars ashore heor.   Can Ah na come abooard?   Hit's aaful rough oot heor in this wi booat.”

     “Hyou’ll do fine as hyou arrre, señor.   Speak hyour pieze.”

     “Oh bugger!   Give ower, y'a kiddin.   Ah weel a’s ney huffed…   They’s a bit o’ sorta cabaret woerk.   T’ Alnwick Empire ay putting on a performance o’ Les Miserables on ice, bun th’entire chorus o’ revolutionary virgins hez gan doon wi chicken pox.   Wi wore hoping ter tice yer lasses in te standing in fer a few weeks.”

     “I ham not so surre about that, meesterr.   I hwould haff to come along too, as chaperrrone.”

     “Tha’d be fine, canny lass, the hintend o’ Dobbin hez bin caal'd fre jury duty, so wi's getten a job fre yee sel tee.”

     There were squeals of, “Please, please, miss, miss please, señora,” from the doorway behind Consuella.

     “Hokay meesterr, hyou haaf ay deal.   Lead the way.”

     Thus the bobbing flotilla turned to escort the Destroyer of Worlds into port and yet again the Kittens of Chaos disappear from our tale to pursue adventures of their own.

A History Lesson

Within the entrance chamber of the Andromeda Machine the Merovingian Lizard Kings’ diminutive ambassador was in full flow and warming to his subject.

            “Back then the grandparents of these people here were investigating a magnetic anomaly on the plateau above and mapped out a shape beneath the ice.   Huge it was, and not of a natural form.   Tunnelling down they were, until they reached the outer hull of the structure within which you stand.   Their proximity triggered a response from the Andromeda Geräte.   It sent a distress message.

“Received the message was, by the Lizard Lords.   Tell you I cannot, of what the Merovingian Lizard Kings already knew regarding the Mother Ship.   But tell you I can, that there is little that the Lizard Kings do not know.   One with The Chaos they are, and The Chaos is aware.

“Instantly despatched was I, with my companions, to contain the situation.     Neuschwabenland was isolated and the expedition to disappear was made.   A busy time in Europe this was and a few missing scientist soon forgotten were.   The descendants of those with the foresight to embrace our mission are still here.”

            “And those without the foresight?” enquired Easter Smurthwait.

            “The Merovingian Lizard Kings see only the bigger picture.   Those who did not embrace did not continue.   They were of no consequence.
            “You earthlings think you are so important.   You strive, and it is noble to strive, right that you strive.   But you influence nothing.   The weirdy web is spun.   It warps and quivers, pulled and shaken by dark tides – glistening dewdrop universes dancing on its threads.   And you, tiny animated specks on one tiny rock, circling one tiny star, on the outer rim of one tiny constellation, in a cosmos so vast that it is beyond your comprehension think that you can hang on, get noticed?   All is The Chaos, everywhere is The Chaos.   It carries you along or tosses you aside without reason.   It is tumult, and the Lizard Kings embody its deepest nature.”

            “You are all servants of evil,” spluttered Albert.

            “Servants of the Lizard Lords we are, and the Lizard Lords are The Chaos.   The Chaos is not evil or good, it is what it is.

            “Homo Credulous – programmed to see patterns in the turmoil.   Everywhere you little men find order and purpose, discover rules and laws and think this is how the universe works, but deluded you are.  You marvel at fractals that derived can be from a tiny equation yet are infinitely complex, you puzzle over a π without end.   You invent Æther to carry your light and radio waves, postulate Dark Fluff in the vacuum of space to make a random universe conform to your sums.”
            Harold was not convinced that he did any of these things; he had not really grasped algebra at school.   He could find a shoal of coleyfish in the vast Arctic ocean and navigate his aging tin tub through mountainous seas that should swallow the 500 ton sidewinder whole, but maths…

            “Wanting it all to make sense you are.   But it does not.   Not your kind of sense, anyway.”   

            One of the saffron men coughed and leaning in to the sage’s ear he spoke quietly to him.   The old man turned to von Luckner.   “You must return to the complex, Kapitänleutnant.   Be gone quickly.   You are about to be attacked.   We will follow directly.”

Airship (Elstead Writers' Blog)

Just a little promo for my writers' group blog on...
elsteadwritersgroup.wordpress.com

...I am reprising The Unremitting Coldness of Snow on Tuesdays, with some new pictures by my Dad.   And you can read stories by some of my mates too - there's Ferdy, the Early Years on Wednesdays, a children's time travel story on Thursdays and a daily post-apocalypse adventure with no zombies.

The Autonomous Peoples' Dirigible 'Airship of State'

 Wow man, like…

            That Larry, he’s the man.   That’s some pad he’s got.   And we talked… and drank… and smoked… and drank… and ate…   Those mooncakes… out of this world.   Some quality catip in the mix.   Bet Barrymore made them.   Not much she can’t get hold of.

            Sky.   I can see the sky.   Sky’s all around?   Wow!

            [Ginsbergbear wakes, or ‘comes down’ as some would say, on the upper observation deck of the Airship of State, beneath a geodetic Plexiglas dome.   We will discover why he is there before too long.]

            Woah!   Sky up ahead.   Sky up above.   And fluffy clouds…   And birds.   I like birds.   But what’s that behind me?   Behind me there’s… funnels.   Big bronze smoking smokestack funnels.   And this is?   A spiral staircase… that goes…               Wayhay!   Down and… down and… down and...

            Round and… round and… round and… round and…

            The rest of the gang were gathered in The Airship of State’s sumptuous lounge.   Boz, Slasher and Phoebles were huddled in a circle of armchairs discussing McGoogs’ plan, Ferdinand was studying the Scotland double page spread in The New Pictorial Atlas of the World, Odhams Press Ltd., 1926 Edition, and Barrymore was doing something mildly erotic with a cocktail shaker whilst chatting to Comrade-Squadron-Commander Polly Karpova.   Polly had been overseeing the tethering of her crimson warbird below the dirigible’s canopy, towards the stern, before coming forward and joining the others.

            “Woah-haaay!”   There was a protracted rumbling bumping sound and a bear rolled out from the bottom of a spiral staircase to halt with a thud against the leg of a coffee table.

            “Mr Bear, how good of you to join us.”   Barrymore and Ms Karpova advanced sinuously upon Ginsbergbear, the contents of their uniforms animating the coarse fabric like eels in a flour-sack.   Barrymore proffered a glass containing raw egg, Worcester sauce, Tabasco, vinegar, and a generous measure of Balkan vodka.   “This will pep you up.”

            Ginsbergbear took the glass and drank the contents without looking.   His eyes opened wide, then opened wider.   “Ay carajo!   That smarts – what is it, distilled aviation fuel?”

            Barrymore smiled and patted his shaggy head.   Polly sashayed over to the others and collapsed into a vacant armchair next to Phoebles.   She swung her army booted feet onto the intricately inlaid rosewood coffee table, flashing bare legs and thighs, smooth as a barrister, taut as banjo strings.   She removed her officer’s cap and dropped it on the deck, copper- red hair cascading about her shoulders.   As she lounged back her jacket fell open to reveal a body hugging, telnyashka-striped, thermal teddy.   Suddenly the temperature in the cabin felt uncomfortably warm and sweat began to form on Bozzy’s brow.

            “So gentlemen,” she purred, “What have you in store for us?”

            Ferdy joined them, still holding on to his atlas; his dodo cool untouched by the provocative antics of the young air ace, “We’re going north from Carlisle, following the A7 deep into Reiver territory.   Larry has lent us the Airship of State in the hope that it will impress the natives.   We are wholly and deliberately unarmed so let’s hope he is right.”

            The SL102 Airship of State was Britain’s most impressive dirigible, 978 feet long, with a polished aluminium skinned canopy embellished with bronze tracery and powered by four 1200 horse power in-line Stanley Steamer aero-engines with a funnel each.

            “Our destination is Gilnockie Tower, ancestral seat of the Gilnockie of Gilnockie.   He is nominally the Reiver Head Honcho and has agreed to meet us to discuss an acceptable way out of the current impasse.   That’s if The Kittens haven’t already set the Lowlands ablaze.”

            Ferdy paused as Polly took a catnip roll-up from the tin that Phoebles was offering round.   She struck a Swan Vesta on the hobnailed sole of her boot and set light to the end of the spliff.

            “And I don’t get to shoot anyone?”

            “Not unless the whole exercise turns to cold custard,” interjected Slasher McGoogs.   “But if we find ourselves up to our bum holes in angry crocodiles you’re the only hope we’ve got.”