Big Bad Regan
As Orcs go, Regan was a bad one. I know this implies that some Orcs are therefore good, which is not really the case. Rather than say an Orc is good it is best to say some of them are less bad than the others. This is Politically Correct Adventure Doublespeak. In real terms some Orcs are evil bastards and some are just downright vile. The level of nastiness determines how successful they are likely to be in the cut-throat world of Financial Planning and Mortgage Advice. The real bad ones end up as Tax Inspectors, Mortgage Advisors tied to an Estate Agent or Corporate Legal Accountants. Some get really evil, becoming legal Advisors in divorce cases. The most vicious, vile, vilified villains usually take up posts attached to Finance Companies, particularly those involved with wheel clamping.
(You thought wheel clampers were Earth bound. Not true. If ever you have to deal with one you’ll find they come from outer space, the nastiest definitely come from Uranus.)
Big Regan was one of the Bad Lads.
It was obvious on first meeting him that here was a character not to trust. At the first slimy handshake the recipient would quickly, if surreptitiously, count his fingers. Then one looked into that single evil black eye, then up on top of his bonce to the ridiculously grey bouffant locks; clearly a syrup, Orcs being generally bald. Dare mention the wig and expect to lose at least an eyeball. Talk about blatant; this mound of monsters pubes towered above his jug ears like a plume above Vesuvius, curly fronds beckoning the unwary to comment.
Big Regan was also rather keen on a dapper grey business suit, though most of his held barely disguised blood stains. Perhaps this was part of the game he liked to play with his clients. It said, feck me about and I’ll have your blood as a battle honour.
Big Regan was bad.
Evil.
Untrustworthy.
Just generally a bad sort.
And he loved Rugby and all those daft rugby club games which invariably led to lots of drunken men without any trousers pointing at the penises of their best mates.
This means that life is going to be difficult for our heroes. Ena was now missing in action, possibly dead, possibly spending all of her time playing with the little man in the boat. Ena was the so-called spouse of Regan, though the marriage vows of these bloodthirsty bankers were kept a secret from all but the Orc Shaman. The fact that Regan hated the sight of her would be completely irrelevant should he find out she was missing. It would be a full Orc Financial Auditing team descending on the alleged culprits. The team would spend a couple of days putting the personal finances of the four travellers into a format that would be approved by the revenue service before slowly killing each and serving them up with salad and bread sticks.
Fortunately, it came to pass that the pain in the ass called Big Regan, was unaware of the fate of his other half. Mind you so are the rest of us. We don’t know if she is alive or dead or whether she will make an appearance later on to explain some kind of anomaly in the fiction. As it stands Regan thinks his intellectually challenged partner is having a jolly with a rag tag group of Adventurers on a Quest that is bound to fail.
As time did slip away one sunny evening Big Bad Regan was dining with one of his oldest living comrades, Rob the Bursar. Rob was also an unpleasant Orc though with less Financial Acumen than Regan. Where Regan could go through a set of Accounts, balance them, rebalance them with a big cash bonus, successfully submit them to the revenue then dine on a limb donated from his client, Rob was just an old fashioned sexually confused bully. Robs idea of Financial Advice could be summed up as ‘Give it all to me or your life wont be worth living’. He would then organise for the punter to be kicked out of his accommodation and into a hovel.
Despite this Regan and Rob were bad friends.
That is to say they are ‘good’ friends but they like to say everything is ‘bad’.
“Bad ass Mo Fo!” would be considered a very chummy greeting for these two pals. There are echoes of such syntactical confusion spiralling along the arms of the Milky Way, through the Galaxy and off towards Mars, bouncing in succession through Venus and Mercury before funnelling through some infinite improbability into the mouths of gangstas in Manchester.
That’s bad.
Who’s Bad!
“So on this bad night of nights, pray tell me old cock, where is your lovely wife, the delectable Ena?” asked Rob slowly stripping the lean meat from the thigh bone of his last tenant.
“I’ve managed to palm her off on a group of losers,” said Regan. “Some Pixy with an arse like an over ripe vineyard, and his team of no hopers, has gone in search of a cure for piles!”
Rob stopped mid bite.
“Did they say, by any chance, they were in search of the Permanent Cure?”
“Now that you come to mention it, I do believe some nonsense of that sort was on the agenda.”
“Great Scott! Sacre Bleu! Onya Atonya! By the Great Swinging Balls of the Orcs of Yore! Hell and High Water! Oh My Word! Bugger me with a Bat Pole! You bumbling oaf! Have you never heard of the fabled Permanent Cure?”
Most creatures uttering such a sentence to Big Bad Regan would have suffered a large metal object burying itself deep into their skull.
Not Rob.
Yes, he was a total gimp but Regan seriously disliked him. He thought of Rob as the worst friend an Orc could ever have (it’s that funny negative lingo again.)
Regan paused.
“So there could be something in this Quest thing then?”
“Did they say how the Pixy ripped his arse to shreds?”
“Apparently he had a tart in the Queens Pantry, thus giving rise to an initial stinging feeling, followed some days later by painful swelling and a watery discharge. They said the Queen gave him some magic knickers or something to alleviate the pain, but I wasn’t really paying much attention. They said they were travelling South so I saw it as an opportunity to get rid of the lunatic for a while. Are you telling me there could be money in this?”
“Look,” said Rob, “if they get to find the legendary Permanent Cure by finding the fabled Lake of the Gloompty Fish somewhere in the fabled South of Uranus, then there could be big bucks involved. And if you’ve got a foot in the doorway then you and I could profit from this venture. Mind you if Ena is only there as a passenger we will find it very difficult to get a legitimate hold of the contracts.”
“Legitimate?!” queried Regan. “With Ena in there then it is my discovery; my cure; my profit. That set of geeks will just have accidents and disappear on the way home; you and I will have more fresh meat on the menu!”
“We always have fresh meat on the menu!”
“Yes but have you ever had roast Fairy and Barbecued Pixy? The Goblin and the Gnome will just get fed to the dogs ‘cos they produce really shitty meat. But roast Fairy!”
“Your living a bit dangerously there Regan, even for a scum bag like you. Lord Chalfont won’t let you get away with eating a Fairy.”
“Leave Chalfont to me! He’s almost as corrupt as you, you snivelling basket case! Chalfont spends his entire time feather bedding his friends and family, so a twenty percent share in any arse potions and he’ll happily turn a blind eye to us devouring a bit of Fairy Hanny.”
Normally Big Bad Regan would have been correct. However if Lord Chalfont were to find out that Regan was planning to make a meal out of his beloved Hanny then the obnoxious Warwick Hunt would be round there making mincemeat out of the so called baddest of the Orcs. The mincemeat would probably then be used to bribe a Tax Orc, but that’s another story.
Regan and Rob talked long into the evening to come up with a plan to get a greater involvement with the Quest. The simplest solution seemed to be to have Ena as the expedition leader, then any discoveries would be hers, based on the law of Colonial Theft. With Ena in charge the discoveries would be Marketed by Rob and Regan Orc Inc. The two foul Financial Wizards schemed away for hours devising money making plans, particularly those that would allow them to be as tax efficient as possible without incurring any penalties from the revenue.
Their discussion soon centred on the likely number of sufferers here on Uranus. Despite rumours to the contrary raging Dukes! aint as common as people try to make out. No problem really, thought Regan. With Chalfont in on the business there would soon be a black market in stolen tarts, many a young Pixy being ensnared and snarled up below decks. If anyone tried to intervene Warwick Hunt would be there to hide the evidence…
There would be a display showing the efficacy of the Permanent Cure. In one room they would place a different Pixy, one they would persuade to have a session with a tart thus leading to swelling of the veins in the anus. This unfortunate would be displayed, legs akimbo for all to see the damage that can be done by not looking after ones colon. Then in the room next door would be a smiling Pixy with the relief of a mended bum. Creatures would pay lots of lolly to have a good look at the before and after scenario of a battered arse. There could be concessions too. There could be little dolls and models for the children.
‘Buy your own Peter the Pixy doll with its own inflatable bottom parts! Marvel at the reduction in swelling when applying the Permanent Cure! Only ten tokens! Usual cost is an arm and a leg!’
There could be organised trips to the fabled Lake, with stopping points en route. They imagined themselves owning a string of inns between Setebos and the fabled Lake, with prices fixed by the terrible two in order to maximise profits on the venture.
“We’ll be rich beyond our wildest dreams!” declared Rob.
“Well I don’t know about you sunshine but my wildest dreams very rarely involve being rich; they normally involve several young ladies and unusual food stuff.”
The next morning as they nursed two wonderful sore heads the greed filled Orcs began on the serious detail on their plan. The first objective would be to find the travellers and ensure that Ena was established as the Leader of the Expedition. Then Regan or Rob could join them on the final stages, getting ready for the point at which they would take over.
How to find them? Regan knew that Lord Chalfont would have a finger in every Fairy pie and would therefore have some idea as to the whereabouts of the group. If not then it would be possible to send out a hunting party as, despite the apparent attempt at civilisation, there were still many Orcs who maintained ancestral vices.
Fairy Hanny 