“So there must be lots of these Spyders by now,” said Steve. “I heard that Spyders breed like rabbits!”
“That can’t possibly be true,” said Greg. “Rabbits are mammals so therefore the young are carried internally by the mother until birth. They then have to be weaned and fed milk from the mammary glands until able to fend for themselves. On the other hand Spyders are invertebrate arachnids. They lay eggs by the thousand and some of the offspring, those that aren’t eaten by their siblings, will grow to maturity independent of their parents.”
There was a large thump as Hanny smacked Greg with a large wet lettuce leaf.
“Pedant!” she said.
Hanny looked ahead into the village of Far.
“Do you see a mass of Spyder webs? Are we being stared at by eight million eyes as a possible lunch? No? No! Because the original bunch of Spyders were all male. Old Tom Cobbler only brought the remaining sons he had left from his fourteenth coupling. They decided a ship full of males was better than bringing any females; something to do with becoming a ladies lunch if you don’t get away fast enough after a session. It seems Tom Cobbler was a particularly romantic Spyder with the ability to run very fast. And fortunately they are not parthenogenetic!” she added.
“Bugger me; is this turning into some sort of Science textbook?” asked Peter.
“So are they all incestuous jobby jabbers then?” asked Greg.
Two more large slaps were quickly administered. Hanny reminded Greg that any references to personal sexual preferences would not be tolerated. This is a Politically Correct Adventure and no retarded Goblin was going to ruin it!
“You can’t refer to me as ‘retarded’ if this is a Politically Correct Adventure!” declared Greg.
Hanny looked at him and looked at the large piece of wet lettuce. Greg was right of course and Hanny should not be making fun of his lack of intellect. She really had no idea what it feels like to be Thick as a Brick.
“As fate would have it,” continued Hanny, “they are particularly good dancers; not that that has any link to your allusion about their sexuality, I might add; in fact I just did add,” added Hanny.
The Disco Dancing Spyders from Mars were developing an interplanetary reputation for the quality of their moves. All night dance parties were the order of the day for the Spyders. It was rumoured that Old Tom Cobbler was planning an infinite disco party that would last forever.
Waltz or Watusi, Madison or Margerena, Twist or Shout the Spyders would let it all go. So what that it was blokes dancing with blokes, anything goes when the party starts swinging. These guys could light up a party like a roomful of burning cats. To watch Tom Cobbler slide around the dance floor doing The Poltergeist was nothing short of sensational. When he lined up with his sons they moved from an unbelievably tight Jacklin into Line dancing that would set the Queens foot tapping. Salsa, Rumba and Cha-Cha-Cha shimmied out across the universe like beetles on a pool of mercury.
These guys were hot.
“Here’s a bit of advice for you lads for tonight,” said Hanny. “There’s a good chance we’ll end up discovating somewhere and will no doubt start shimmying with some Spyders. Don’t get too close as they can be carnivorous. They have a tacit agreement not to eat any of the locals but travellers are fair game.”
“Oh dear!” sweated Steve.
“Don’t worry though,” she continued. “If you think things are looking a bit dicey just shout ‘Okey Cokey’. It’s a call to dance that the Spyders just can’t turn down. But then they just stand there totally mesmerised.”
“Why’s that?” asked Peter.
“Try to think it through shit for brains. How would you react if someone says ‘put your left leg in, your left leg out’ when you’ve got four left legs? It throws them completely, and gives the quick-thinking traveller enough time to get away.”
The lads mused on Hannys musings. Far was not the place to go. Should they set up camp and consume a few bottles of Imp Ale?
Or might they risk a night down the bar dancing the conga with the eight-legged inhabitants?
No, a quiet night in counting their toes seemed a much safer bet.
It appeared that some forty years ago a gold disc had fallen into a field near Far in the middle of the night. The people came from Far and Wide, the neighbouring village, to see the gold disc. After all they normally only associated a gold disc with a trendy pop star; perhaps a wormhole had picked up The Sweet?
This gold disc was like no other gold disc. It was at least twenty feet in diameter, giving it a radius of ten feet and a circumference of some 20π, depending on what type of pie you’ve been eating. It wasn’t a flat disc because that would be two dimensional and even in this tall tale there has to be some semblance of reality. The centre of the disc had a height of some eight feet, which turned out to be quite significant in the end.
The disc lay in a field somewhere between Far and Wide for forty days and forty nights, which somehow appears to be significant too. The local people became bored waiting for something to happen, though did notice how much the grass grew and some of them began to see the wood despite the trees. Anyway they soon returned to their homes and carried on with their usual games of pass the parsnip and count-your-feet – first one to two is the winner!
On the morning of the forty first day came a loud bang. At first folks just thought it was dawn breaking; it turned out the gold disc had split in half. As the gasses and stardust settled there emerged ten Spyders from Mars!
Well there was a tiswas and a to-do!
Large hairy eight-legged Spyders, all the way from Mars. Why were these Martians on Uranus? How did they get here? (well we know how because I’ve just described the gold disc they landed in). Why did they get here? Could they communicate with the local populace? The people of Far and Wide rarely talked to each other, wallowing in the pride of self-determination; ignore thy neighbour was the byword. They referred to themselves as COPS – Company of Perfect Strangers.
“Yes we can talk” said the apparent leader of the Spyders. It may be that he was telepathic as nobody had asked the Question yet.
“Well listen to this,” said Dwayne Pipe, the local yob and smarty pants. “Get the Hell out of here. We don’t the likes of you in these parts. You probably come from a corrupt place and countries whose governments are a complete and total catastrophe. You should go back to from where you came, because the COPS don’t need you and man they expect the same!”
“Wait! Look! High in the sky there!” said the apparent leader of the Spyders. As all the locals turned to look the Spyders collectively turned in the opposite direction and scurried off into the undergrowth.
“Bugger!” snarled Mr Pipe, “Fooled by that old chestnut! Let’s get some stick and stones and break their bones!” he shouted to any who would listen.
“Now hold on,” said Norman Knight, a somewhat anxious but understanding member of the community and supporter of good causes and things. “Maybe we should try to get to know our new neighbours,” he pleaded. “And besides Arachnids don’t have any bones to break if I remember rightly!”
“Kiss my arse!” said Pipe as he ran headlong into the undergrowth, whirling a large stick above his head.
He was followed by dozens of other maddened residents all of whom seemed intent on stepping fatally on a Spyder. Norman stood, still surrounded by many other reddened residents, embarrassed by the exploits of their fellows. There was many a swirling and a turning and a gnashing of jaws as the maddened crowd from Far hacked and slashed at the undergrowth.
The Spyders should have been destroyed by the onslaught. Fortunately they had stopped off at a sportswear shop just before leaving Mars and had bought forty pairs of running shoes. One of the Spyders had queried the apparent leader concerning the wisdom of such a purchase only to be slapped down with the phrase “just does it!”
And they did just do it. Spyders are pretty nimble on their eight feet anyway but donning four pairs of running shoes made them uncatchable! They were soon off and away running round Far and Wide, maddening and reddening the crowd with their speed.
Pipe stopped everything.
“Look,” he said, “We routed them from the undergrowth, so that’s saying something.”
“Far Rout?” suggested Norman Knight.
“Perhaps it’s time for a Parley” suggested Dwayne Pipe, “Or we’ll be running round all day and all of the night!”
“Good move,” said Norman. “We can see what they want. I’ll ask nice, gentle, probing Questions and you can be really forceful and nasty with your demands.”
“OK,” said Pipe, “so you want us to play the good COPS bad COPS routine?”
So it came to pass, alack and alas, that Norman Knight and Dwayne Pipe approached the apparent leader of the Spyders.
“Hello there apparent leader, how are you?” asked Norman.
The apparent leader took a couple of steps closer.
“Is this a ruse?” he asked. “Because I got my guys on the starting line and they will be off as quick as you can say ‘whirling dervish’.”
“What do you want here?” snarled Pipe.
“We came here in peace,” said the apparent leader. “Well that’s not strictly true. We didn’t come here deliberately. We were heading somewhere else but ten sets of eight legs in a tiny control room and things are bound to go wrong. It took us forty days and forty nights to realise we’d even landed anywhere. Still being invertebrates we were able to squeeze in there and enjoy the flight. We didn’t want a fight!”
“I knew you were spineless bastards the moment I set eyes on you!” said Pipe.
“Patience, patience, patience,” said Norman, immediately sitting down with a deck of cards.
When he finished his game of patience he turned to the apparent leader.
“Was that Spyder solitaire you were playing?” asked the eight-legged visitor.
“Patience,” said Norman. “Now tell us all about yourselves.”
The apparent leader sat down on his rear four legs.
“Nice to take the weight off every now and then,” he said.
“We are Spyders from Mars. I am called Old Tom Cobbler and these are my children.”
“That sounds like a load of Cobblers!” said Pipe, half laughing at his own joke.
“Patience, patience, patience,” said Norman.
The conversation continued after the next game.
“So why was that gold disc full of Cobblers?” asked Norman. “There must be a reason you set off in a cramped spaceship. Of course we should be absolutely intrigued as to how you built it, how it’s propelled etc. But just at this juncture I can’t be bothered to ask.”
“Funny you should ask,” said Tom Cobbler. “It’s powered by a Guided Unique Light Propulsion System call a G.U.L.P.S.”
“And what does that stand for?” demanded Pipe.
“Well it won’t stand for any messing about,” said Tom Cobbler. “This is probably why we’re where we’re not meant to be! Astonishing stuff. Me and the kids make the G.U.L.P.S operate – it takes your breath away.”
“Fascinating,” said Norman stifling a yawn. “You’re not a Physicist by any chance are you?”
“Why yes I am,” said Old Tom Cobbler, “How could you tell?”
“You’re boring the life out of us. So what can you do that would make us let you stay living here?” demanded Pipe.
“As I was saying the system operates on light,” continued the Spyder. “Me and the kids operate it.”
“How?” asked Pipe, interested despite his lack of Science Education.
“Well you see us eight legged freaks are much misunderstood and maligned. Although we have eight legs the assumption is that we therefore have eight feet,” explained the knowledgeable arachnid.
“Seems reasonable to me,” said Pipe who had taken total control of the conversation, Norman Knight having fallen asleep during the Science bit.
“Ok, then answer me this – how does a Spyder comb his hair?” asked Tom Cobbler.
Pipe scratched his head. It really wasn’t something he’d ever thought about.
“With a comb?” he ventured.
“And how is the comb held?”
“In your hand – your foot? I don’t know!”
“You’re dead right,” beamed the professorial Spyder. “In our hands and our feet as our hands are our feet! A vice versa! Talk about ambidextrous; we’re ambimanupedestriatus! Didn’t you wonder how we managed to tie the laces on these running shoes that keep us ahead of the game?”
“I thought they might be slip-on’s” said Pipe.
“And how fast could we move with four pairs of slip-on’s on? No; it’s three pairs of lace ups and one pair of slip-ons for me; the kids all have four pairs of lace-ups – I tied them on. It aids the frictional grip.”
Pipe was getting sleepy now with all this boring Science.
“Which brings me back to The G.U.L.P.S. drive. Me and the kids all put our hands on the propulsion system. And as you know many hands make Light Work. So off we shot until we found ourselves here!”
The old arachnid looked around. All of the Maddened Crowd from Far and the reddened residents of Wide were asleep.
Isn’t Science wonderful?
So the Spyders were accepted into the communities of Far and Wide, plus the outlying hamlet of Near. They were able to travel about Far, Near and Wide gathering information for all and sundry, and occasionally all on Sunday. For they were Spy–ders; they could Spy on anything. I suppose a mega cluster of eyes plus eight legs would be useful for any spy. If paid handsomely enough in buckets of dead flies they would Spy on COPS all day long.
It was clear to Peter that Both contained some painful memories for Hanny; she had denied him amongst her oldest friends. He knew at this point in the narrative that he was madly in love with that fairy of fairies, yet she was playing hard to get – which is not quite as bad as playing a miserable get.
Three times she had denied him, all before he’d had the chance to let the cock grow.
At least now the Brownies were no more than the remnants of a stain on a set of old knickers. Time for some rest and relaxation.
“We need some time for rest and relaxation,” said Hanny.
“So what was all that in Both?” asked Steve.
“That was rest and recuperation,” said Hanny. “Try not to mix up R & R with R & R. It is important to know when to relax and when to recuperate. Recuperating when you should be relaxing can put a strain on the heart and lead to severe cases of migraines, boils and temper tantrums!”
“I thought R & R meant rooting and rodgering,” laughed Greg.
Again she had clearly confused her audience. There is nothing like a Goblin that is totally clear in his confusion. You only have to look at his face to see the pain.
“Never mind Greg,” continued Hanny, “we can have a real good blow out tonight! A night on the town! But watch out for the Spyders!”
There was a collective shudder from the big strong boys, facing a two headed Gloompty Fish on the Fabled Lake somewhere out the back of beyond, but a spider?
“Not a Spider – a Spyder!” corrected Hanny.
“And what, might we ask, is a Spyder?” chorused the Pixy, the Goblin and the Gnome.
“What a beautiful chorus,” said Hanny. “Now sing the main verse.”
The triumvirate paused, just long enough to convey contempt but not long enough to delay the story.
Climbing slowly upwards from the Vale of Glam Organ (where lived a girl of some renown) the party followed the old Roaming Road toward the bridge over troubled waters. Offal’s ravine was at its narrowest at this point due to him having a bit of a hangover on the day he dug out this part, deciding to just skim a bit off his usual work rate. The bridge had been constructed of things like wood and metal, with some bits of brick, the entire thing having been planned ever so carefully by a clever chap. As a result the bridge went from one side all the way across the middle until it reached the other side. This is why it was called a bridge rather than a jetty or walkway. This structure bridged the gap so it was known locally as the Bridge to Far.
Far was not far away from Wails but Far was far away enough to be different. It was a far Far better place they were going to; a little far out but hey that’s Far out so you saw him too!
The side of the expanse that lay in the Land of Wails was marked merely by two small houses. In each of these dwellings lived a friendly Gnome whose job it was to keep the bridge in good repair. So these Gnomes were called Bridge Keepers, a sensible title for two such auspicious fellows that kept the bridge. I don’t mean ‘kept’ as in took permanent possession of but ‘kept’ as in looked after. Keep reading and you’ll see what I mean.
Steve was over the Moon to meet two of his clan. They had travelled from the north to the coast then to the south of Wails without encountering another Gnome. This had confused Steve as he knew his people were some of the most helpful beings on Uranus, yet they had not seen a decent Gnome anywhere.
As they approached the bridge Steve became excited as he spotted the jolly red hat of one of his brethren standing guard at the entrance.
“In the name of the Wheelbarrow, and of the Pond, and of the Fishing Rod. Hey Man!” greeted Steve in his most helpful and ebullient way. “How’s tricks?”
“You must be confusing me with someone else. I don’t know any tricks.”
“You misunderstand. How’s it going? How’s life? How’re you doing?”
“Doing what?”
Steve paused. He looked in horror at the tubby red hated Gnome in front of him. Is it possible?
Yes!
This fat fecker had no sense of humour! His personality had been removed when he moved to Wails! This was a Gnome with no balls!
Hanny stepped once more into the breach.
“Listen, shit for brains my fine fellow. We need to get across this bridge safely and we don’t want to be followed by that gang of idle bastard Brownies you can see making their way here.”
“Okay,” said the Gnome, “pay the toll and you can go across.”
“What about the Brownies?”
“If they can produce the required fee they are also allowed to cross.”
“This is not what I want to hear!” said Hanny. “We must leave this land without a trail of Brownies hanging onto our backsides. Time to put my plan into action!”
The foursome paid the appropriate fee, which was whatever passed for currency on Uranus, and headed off across the bridge.
“What happens next?” asked Peter, who really had not understood Hanny’s plan due to the magic in his pants.
“Keep going across the bridge, I’ll catch you up!” said Hanny as she sat down in the middle of the bridge.
“But where are we going?” queried the finicky trio.
Hanny pointed to the other side. The lads became aware there was a village or small town at the other end of the bridge.
“Is that a village or a small town?”
“What’s the difference?”
“I think it’s defined in terms of the population and the area taken up by domestic dwellings. Also the nature of shops and if there is a church present.”
“It’s usually easy to find out.”
“How?”
“It will say ‘welcome to the village of’ or ‘welcome to the town of’ when we get to the sign at the end of the bridge. If it’s a town there will also be some statement that is twinned with some obscure place on some other part of the planet.”
“Shut the feck up!” shouted Hanny. “That, gentlemen, is the town of Far, population six thousand and it does have a well used church. We are on the Bridge to Far! Now get going while I sort out these tedious Brownies! Fly you fools!”
With that the lads ran on.
Greg wondered if it was possible to land some type of aircraft on the bridge as that would explain Hanny’s last comment.
The Brownies saw them run. The Gnome with the Red Hat saw them run. Hanny saw them run.
“See how they run!” said a Brownie.
“See Peter run!”
“See Gregory run!”
Hanny was delighted to be involved in an early reader scheme.
Then, coming to her senses she remembered why she had stopped in the middle of the bridge, and it wasn’t to watch the numb bummed Pixy waddle quickly over the structure. As for the bandy-legged Goblin and the corpulent Gnome! Hanny would have laughed if things hadn’t been so serious. (And if someone wrote a funny joke.)
There were whoops and cries of glee as the Brownies paid their entrance toll and scampered across the bridge. This would be a scoop. There must be some type of major mischief going on if the three lads had run away, leaving a maiden in distress in the middle of the bridge.
The Brownies slowed to a walking pace as they approached Hanny. They were naturally wary as they only Fairy they were used to dealing with was that bastard Chalfont. Lord Chalfont was not a good advert for the goodness of Fairies, particularly not when he used Warwick Hunt as his minder.
Hanny looked at each of the Brownies.
“What do you four hacks want?” she asked menacingly.
“What’s going on with the sore bottomed one?” asked the bravest of the four.
“I suggest you go back to Both and ask him!” smiled Hanny. “We left him behind with his behind.”
“But we saw him leave!” declared the Brownies.
“No! You were led to believe you saw him leave. We played a little ruse on you. Peter’s bottom is so inflamed he can’t get his arse into gear. He is wedged in the bathroom door with five luscious young chicks applying strange potions to the mountains of doom protruding from his plopper!”
“Well who is that little geek scurrying across the bridge, moving as though he’s just papped his breeks?”
“That’s a decoy! That’s an old friend from Fanovabba. His name is Paulinus.”
“Poor Linus,” wrote each of the Brownies in his little notebook.
“Well thanks for that tip you’ve been ever so helpful. But why did you stop in the middle of the bridge?”
“The devil can’t cross running water,” stated Hanny.
“Of course,” said the boldest Brownie as the others wrote it down. “Why didn’t I think of that? See you then. So long and thanks for all the gossip!”
“Talking of which,” continued Hanny, “you boys just watch out for those Asria or you’ll be acting on another tip-off soon.”
The Brownies headed back toward the Land of Wails. Hanny saw them stop at the bridge keeper’s hut to demand their money back. They didn’t stand a chance as the bridge keeper pointed out that they had effectively walked across the entire route.
“But we only went halfway!”
“And then you came back.”
“Yes!”
“So you’ve walked halfway across the bridge twice.”
“Yes.”
“So you’ve walked the full length of the bridge so you have to pay the entire toll. Now feck off or I’ll set the dogs on you!”
The Brownies each demanded a full receipt for their expense accounts then scurried back toward Both.
Hanny continued to Far where she met the lads. Peter was reading the sign welcoming them to Far.
“What did you say to the little shit stirrers?” asked Steve.
“I confused them with logic then told them some lies,” confessed Hanny, “as only a woman can!”
It had been over a week since Peter had surrendered. He was starting to understand how serious it could be to overdo things, yet there was still a naughty spirit within him which made him want to push that little bit further. He knew his friends, and Hanny, were a little fed up with him over his bum abuse but he wanted to keep trying. He wondered what it would be like to try the Magic Underpants plus some of the potions Mary Hinge had mentioned. Having a self preservation streak he kept these thoughts to himself.
It was a sad morning as they left the little house in Both. Peter had come to His Senses and had finally come to his senses.
The Fairies held their final group hug at the now familiar trysting place at the bottom of the garden. The three lads had simpered internally as they watched Hanny, Mary Hinge, Camilla Toe, Ginger Spiderlegs, Sugar Plum Bottom and the cute Ann Jyner kiss and cuddle, pushing pendulous breasts into each other as they declared their eternal love and friendship. Each of the three lads fantasised about being naked in the midst of that crush of bodies, enjoying the ultimate pleasure.
“What the feck were you gawping at then?” asked Sugar Plum Bottom as the girls dispersed.
“Nothing!” said Steve, red faced in his raptures.
“Good,” said Sugar Plum Bottom, “because if you were porning away in your head I’ll cast a spell that will make you cry forever! Have you heard of the spell ‘Bobbited Knob’?”
Steve was mortified. He had heard tales of the wicked Fairies, the Asrai, who liked to play Bob-a-Nob week. They looked for naughty boys who just couldn’t keep their hands off their appendages then – slash it was gone.
Chastened thus, the lads said their goodbyes. Steve kept his eyes on the ground as he did not want to catch a glimpse of those ravenous curves, precipitating the demise of his manhood.
The quartet smooched their way out of Both, singing as they headed South and East. They needed to get out of the Land of Wails as quickly as possible. Peter had discovered a lot about himself and his relationship with Hanny over the past week. He knew he was deeply in love with her, though her feelings toward him were now less clear. She was looking after him as any good friend would. Did she desire him in the same way he lusted after those gorgeous blue eyes, white teeth and cascading auburn hair?
Blue Eyes.
Brownies.
They were waiting in the hills just outside of Both, their notepads and brown hats ready and waiting for a bit of scandal. Just make anything up and it will be believed.
‘Sore arsed Pixy in love quartet’.
‘Does Pixy love Goblin?’
‘Bad Boy Pixy and his Fairy Hanny’.
“No way will you say that!” declared Lord Chalfont as he cast a Brownie into the cells. “Leave Hanny out of this. Just get that Pixy!”
The travellers became aware that they were being shadowed by the Brownies. It was a free country, or it wanted to be anyway, and there is nothing in the rule book that forbids a group of nasty little Brownies trailling through the hills behind a Pixy, a Gnome, a Goblin and Fairy. Of course the Brownies had not seen Fairy Hannys’ rule book. And she was ready to use it!
They stopped for lunch at a charming little café in the Vale of Glam Organ where they drank Earl Grey Tea and Pimms to wash down their cucumber sandwiches. Except Greg of course who ate all the pies, washing them down with gallons of Latte. The Brownies slipped into the corner of the café, ordered a glass of water for four, declaring that they could each claim for it on separate expense accounts. They did not understand the bloodlust of the Tax Orcs, or they would not have undertaken such a risky financial faux pas. To a Tax Orc this was almost as bad as claiming travelling expenses for non-existent passengers, an offence that can lead to threats of violence and floods of tears in some cases; and being eaten.
Leaving the café Hanny informed them that it would not be long until they came to that bridge that had to be crossed when they come to it.
Yes I know that was a ham-fisted grammatical sentence she told them, but say it as it is, is what must it be. The lads were totally confused and demanded a lesson on adverbs and past participles, verbs, adjectives and the correct use of punctuation. Hanny said she could not be doing with this, gave them each a slap and moved on to explain her plan.
“That Bridge we will cross when we come to it, we have almost come to it!” she explained.
“It spans a ravine that is so deep and so wide that people think it is the deepest and widest ravine on the planet. Legend has it that the ravine was dug by hand by the Legendary Offal in an attempt to keep the Legendary Land of Wails away from the Legendary Everyone Else. This was a good plan for Everyone as it had the potential to save us all from the Banshees. However Offal got hacked off after a while, though not before he had produced a ravine lots of leagues long and a league wide!”
“How big is a league?” asked Greg.
Hanny decided to put it into terms simple enough for the gobshite Goblin to understand.
“Imagine getting a large Ogre to kick a football as far as possible. The distance travelled by the ball is about one league.”
“Is that a football league?” asked the Goblin.
“If the distance was halved would it be a football league division two?” asked Peter.
“When he had kicked the ball would the Ogre say ‘FIFA Fo Fum!’” asked Steve.
Hanny was not impressed by these poor wormhole infested quips. There followed three quick slaps and one punch to the head of the Goblin.
“Does anyone want any more?” asked the large breasted Fairy.
The three lads declined the offer, apologising for trying to bring some humour into the story. (It would make a change.) Hanny assured them that the story was already as funny as a marathon runner in an iron lung, giving each of them one more slap for completeness.
She explained that the bridge, which did lie over troubled water, was the only way out of the Land of Wails for about twenty leagues either way. She scowled at all three as she said this, daring them to try another pitiful joke based on ‘leagues’. None of them took the life-threatening challenge so she explained her plan, demonstrating she was definitely out of their league.
“Will that really work?” asked Steve.
“Trust me,” she said. “I have seen the Brownies in action when they report into Lord Chalfont and they are total morons. Most can’t spell, can’t read, and can’t write.”
“Yet they act as spies for Lord Chalfont?” queried Peter.
“Lord Chalfont indeed!” said the Fairy with so much intuition she nearly predicted the end of the book.
Offal’s ravine was going to work today. The Brownies would be kept in the Land of Wails allowing our sumptuous quartet a new rhythm in life. The travellers would cross that bridge when they came to it, leaving behind a group of Brownies and the whole kit and caboodle of clichés, so they say, behind them. They would wake to a new dawn and many a mickle would make a muckle.
The departure from Both was now delayed. Peter lay in a small bed in one of the backrooms in the house of His Senses. He idled in a lovely bed, flitting in and out of consciousness. He dreamt that Hanny was in attendance. He dreamt that the King of the Fairies came to see him to ask about his health, but received nothing but rudeness from the bedraggled Pixy. Did Oberon berate Titania as Puck tried his luck? His Magic Underpants had been removed to help dilute the pleasure. Hanny felt this would allow the excess happiness to spread across the Universe and give a bit of love and kisses to all it met.
And it gave her the chance to wash out the skiddies.
It was evening.
Peter opened an eye as opening two felt like such an effort, and one eye was good enough even though it doesn’t really allow for any depth of vision. His dream seemed to be coming true as there at the foot of his bed sat Hanny. She was immediately aware of his one open eye though tutted to herself about his apparent lack of depth in vision. This was an issue she would bring up later as monocular viewing could result in trip hazards. Everyone knows that one eyed monsters often go astray even when well intentioned.
“How are you feeling?” asked the concerned handmaiden Hanny.
“What happened?” asked the confused Pixy.
Hanny looked into the single eye of her erstwhile lover and smiled. Here lay the sore arsed one with no idea about the power of Fairy Magic.
“Your bum got an overdose,” she said.
“Bummer!” said Peter.
It was coming back to him now; the pleasure from the anal relief had been replaced by a desire just for the Moonshine on his Jacksy. At first he had topped up his bum in secret but more recently he had been ultra blatant. Now he was starting to rely on the top up just to see him through the day.
“We think you have overdosed and overheated on Fairy Magic!”
He left it for a while to sink in.
Overdose.
It was all too much.
Just a short time ago he had been one of the happiest Pixies on the planet. Life had been good for him. He had a good job with prospects in the Pixy Phactory, with the possibility of one day being Chief Corrective Technician in the Summery Department, working toward life being Summer all year long. He wanted to cast out those cool Winter months and make every day a wonderful day.
Then devilment had overtaken him. It all came back – the session with a tart, then the sore bum, followed by CO2 and lard, Magic Underpants and now lying in a bed cast out on the coast of Wails suffering from an overdose of Enchanted Bottom.
“Still,” he thought, “nobody’s perfect.”
Besides, sitting at the foot of his bed was the most captivating bit of skirt he’d ever laid eyes on. His dreams continued. Would he ever lay more than his eyes upon her?
“What are you thinking about?” asked the Fairy, a mischievous knowing in her eyes.
“I was wondering if there is any kind of future for you and me,” he confessed.
“Of course there is a future,” she said pedantically. “You are asking if you and I have a future together. I can’t say. As I look at you in this bed I think not. You are a rascal, your stole the Queens Tarts then overdosed on her Magic Knickers; I am loyal to the Royal Family so your actions fill me with revulsion. Yet when I look into your eyes I feel a welling of passion that has been suppressed for so long. You remind me of tears I’ve lost in the days gone by. And yet …” She trailed off.
Peters mind was filled with a tornado of confused emotions. Looking at the curve of her chest he was filled with lust yet the deep blue of her eyes took him to the chapel of love.
He fell asleep.
It would be a while before the party would leave Both. The other guys took the opportunity to visit Fanovabba to take in the sights, smells and sounds of this larger town just south of Both. Here there were all kinds of strange creatures. The streets were filled with Banshees crying out that they’d been framed. All that they want is another baby but fortunately Mary Hinge had given the boys protection. This didn’t stop the Banshees from complaining to the lads about the lack of childcare facilities or the poor state of the benefits system or that their best mates all got the latest technology. It just meant that there would not be a miniature of Greg or Steve appearing on the highways and byways of Fanovabba.
Greg sat on the beach collecting Whelks. It’s another of those funny intergalactic coincidences that Whelks can be found in the seas of all of the planets of this Universe. So don’t ever be surprised if when bathing on the Costa Del Sol a companion on the beach will shout out that there are Whelks on Uranus.
For a gormless Goblin like Greg collecting Whelks was an interesting pastime in itself, though he subsequently found out the Hanny was an expert in Whelks and their breeding habits. With Steve in attendance they some came up with an entertainment plan.
A Whelk race.
The locals came out to watch as this was the most exciting thing to have happened in Fanovabba for quite some time.
Posters were made.
‘Whelk Racing on the Sands’ declared the hoardings.
‘Which Whelk Will Win’ enquired another?
Greg decide he wanted to have a winner in the Whelk races and so took a small team of slightly larger Whelks to a secret location further down the beach. There he trained them hard, though he fed them well too, what with decaying fish being quite common in the sea. On the day of the first race tension was high. Greg had developed one of the gastropods to such an extent that it could bend a sheet of paper with its overdeveloped foot muscle.
As the race started money was still changing hands. Most bets were on Greg’s champion Whelk ‘The Boy of the Sea’, though a few had gone for one of Steve’s outsiders ‘Foot and Mouth’. Nothing appeared to happen as the shell creatures were placed on the sand. Then “look out!” cried a voice.
A wave came in; small though it was it had pretensions to be a tsunami. The Whelks were ripped off the sand and dragged out to see by this pompous little wave.
Greg and Steve got wet ankles.
It was all over bar the shouting.
The crowd were distraught.
“Let’s go for a pint instead,” suggested Steve.
Fanovabba has few marvels for the traveller. In the centre of the town lies the centre of the town, marked carefully with a plaque declaring ‘This is the centre of the Town’. Close to this are alleys, streets and passageways that contain houses and shops. Different creatures live in the houses, and should the traveller be curious enough he can knock on a door and say, ‘Hello who lives here?’ Not always advisable as it could be the home of a Banshee, though in reality the Banshees don’t live in houses; they tend to have flats provided by everyone else, a parasitic arrangement that does no good for anyone.
It could be that the door opens to reveal a menacing carnivorous fiend; though again this is unlikely as not many of them live in Wails. Most of the monsters left a long time ago and work as Uncivil Servants in the grounds of the Great Castle at Setebos, where the streets have no names.
I dither and digress.
Steve and Greg found a marvellous little inn not far from the harbour in Fanovabba. It served a fine beer and lovely Whelk sandwiches. They ate and drank until they’d eaten enough. As the day wore on they began to realise that life in Fanovabba is quite predictable and routine. They became more conscious of this as they read a newspaper over a second pint, declaring that the second would be the last as they didn’t want to go home in a state of drunkenness and upset the other half.
“But you don’t have another half!” said Greg.
“Best make it a pint then!” quipped Steve in his oh so Gnomey way.
Boredom was setting in in the inn.
“When do you think the anally distressed one will be ready to move?”
“As soon as Hanny says so.”
“Well I hope that will be soon as I am bored!”
“How can you get bored here?”
The Question answered itself.
They headed back along the cliff path to Both, stopping to piss into the wind at the highest part of the path. Where they really that bored that they had to piss on themselves for entertainment? On the other hand so much of life is just pissing in the wind, which would have been a better title for a very famous song.
Back at the house of His Senses in Both, the Fairies were once again at the bottom of the garden. They talked long into the evening on the merits of Magic Potions, Herbal Remedies, Crystal Healing and Alternative Therapies as means of combating serious pile problems in Pixies. Some felt that the Magic Underpants should be returned to the vaults of the Queen deep in the dungeons of Setebos. There appeared to be a hint of criticism regarding the Queens decision to release the Magic Underpants from her safe keeping, but Hanny said it wasn’t one of her vaults. Others felt this would be a possible life-threatening action for the anally corrupted Pixy, withdrawal from bum relief possibly leading to a fatality. What if they could whip away the knickers and quickly insert a potion or a cream? After all he’d not been wearing them for a few days now. Had the Magic delivered a Permanent Cure?
“I inspected the dangling grapes this morning,” said Hanny. “Not a pretty sight, no sign of relief. In fact they were ablaze with itchiness!”
Peter had been overdosing on Jacksy Magic, and she said she would stand beside him when the going got tough. Besides, wasn’t the aim of the Quest to find a Permanent Cure? All of these potions and therapies could help in the short term but he needed a long-term solution. The issue that concerned Hanny most was the addiction; Peter seemed to have lost track of why he needed to wear the Magic Underpants, he just wore them for the pleasure they gave him.
Hanny carried the argument in her favour. They would continue the Quest as given to them by King Innocent. She would monitor the way in which Peter was using his underpants, reducing his dependency on the enchanted under garments and steer him on South until they found the Sea of Green, the fabled Lake of the Gloompty Fish. There Hanny would take charge until the Permanent Cure was achieved. After that they would return in triumph to the Great City of Setebos and the Castle of King Innocent. Oh how the crowds would cheer.
‘No more piles for Peter’.
‘A numb bum is a cured bum.’
‘Have a tart but return to fart’.
‘He who laughs last is usually the dim one’.
Hanny would ride into town on the back of some mythical beast.
“We love Fairy Hanny!” all the chaps would cry out with meaning.
Yes, Hanny would save the Quest.
“Good!” shouted Peter from the bedroom window, “‘because my arse is killing me!”
It wasn’t that they had lost the sense of being a quintet along with all of the possible melodic sequences that allowed, or the chance to do an impression of the Dave Clark Five.
Take Five!
It was the loss of Ena and all it entailed. They would not miss her as she was a useless twat. It was just that she was married to Regan the Orc, a chief Financial Advisor and associate of Tax Collectors. The Orcs were known to dislike their wives intensely but they had such a primal family loyalty that it made them scary creatures to deal with.
Very, very scary.
Scarier than the scariest thing you could ever think of, adapted by Hollywood and put into a scary movie. Though scary movies are actually becoming quite jolly really. I mean an old-style scary movie that used to make you go hide under the sofa because you were scared so much you thought you were going to produce a liquid evacuation in your pants.
That’s how scary an Orc can be.
How could they explain it to big Regan?
“Well you see boss you had never introduced her to the little man in the boat. So when the opportunity arose she went for it. She’s probably living on a little island with the little man in a little-known part of a little-known sea.”
It wouldn’t wash. Not the sea; the sea would wash up and down the shore with the seagulls flitting alongside the puppies. No, the suggestion that Ena was cooped up in a love nest with some fictitious little man. That wouldn’t wash. Actually it was a disgusting mental image that made Peter want to wash his brains in a bowl of soup, preferably mulligatawny.
So how could they explain the disappearance? After all big Regan had expected them to take the half-witted wife and broaden her mind with travel. Some of her more recent utterances did suggest that things were working in that direction as she had come out with a few useful comments. But it wouldn’t sustain; he would see through it and eat them all.
“He wouldn’t eat me,” said Hanny, “not without risking a fresh set of wars with the Fairies.”
“He wouldn’t eat me either. I’d give him the shits!” said Greg.
Peter and Steve didn’t feel quite so confident. There was little that could save them from becoming a Fictitious Character Burger, not unless they could contract some life-threatening illness, a bug that was passed on through the food chain. Perhaps they should coat themselves in Salmonella.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it!” stated Hanny in her controlling manner.
“What bridge?”
“The one that crosses the deep ravine at the southern end of Wails. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she explained.
“And how are we going to explain the disappearance of that annoying twat Ena?” asked the exasperated Pixy.
“I think what we will do is say that she met a handsome vagabond Orc called Geoff, fell in love with him and move to the land of the Frozen Nobbs!”
“That will work. Not!”
“Well if anyone can come up with a better story get it written down and sent off to a literary agent. Meanwhile let’s hit reality. We still have a long way to go to the fabled Lake of The Gloompty Fish. It may not exist, hence the term fabled. In spite of this if we ever do get there we have to catch one of the two headed monsters, land it, strips its guts out and extract the anti-bottom fouler from its liver. We then have to get home. If we survive all that then I’m sure we will be able to think of a way of dealing with big Regan!” explained Hanny.
“We could just kill him,” said Steve laconically.
They mused on this point, deciding that should they return from the Quest and get any hassle from big Regan then this was probably the best course.
“Should have thought of that first,” said Peter, hindsight being his forte.
The day was drawing toward lunchtime when Hanny felt it was time to bid farewell to her old friends. She would dearly have loved to stay at Both, to go running along the coastal path and back into her old haunts in Fanovabba. On the other hand she was on a Quest which had to take priority. Her thoughts flew back to the last great mission she had completed – the search for the Holey Grate, a valuable relic that kept the fire going in King Innocent’s bedroom. She felt there had been others but couldn’t recall if they had actually happened or if they were dreams outside of Time. Her puzzled brain chased a couple of ephemeral images – King Grumbleflick and the Sons of Turenn.
Reality or Dreams?
Dreams or Reality?
Or was it just my imagination, running away with me?
We shall see.
Besides, returning to the playground of ones youth is not always a good idea. Much of the fun is based around the people who were there at the time, not the place itself. When all those old companions have passed on to play the next level in the game of life, going back to the start can be quite disappointing, like sliding down the snake when you’re almost at the top of the ladder; Or being made redundant after a successful career in marketing and then having to get a job as an office junior even though you’re approaching pensionable age; Or spending a lifetime as a Priest and then finally admitting on your seventieth birthday that you are an atheist with anarchistic tendencies whose real ambition had been to undermine the state and all it stands for, whilst bedding supermodels to the delight of the tabloid hacks; Or spending twenty five years teaching Mathematics when really you wanted to build a garden railway.
Peter, Greg and Steve sat on the patio of the lovely house of His Senses while the Fairies went to the bottom of the garden to say their goodbyes. It was a favourite place for Fairies as Elsie and Yvette demonstrated. Nobody really understands why they like to congregate there, possibly something to do with Fairy Feng Shui or Mythical Motivators. Whatever the reason the six luscious ladies had a group hug at the bottom of the garden, a case of pseudo-erotic delight for the three lads. Peter felt he would like to stay here forever, watching the friendly bonding of these pretty, cute bosomed pals, sipping a cool glass of wine as the Sun goes down and the ladies kiss each other goodnight.
It would not do.
He had a Quest to fulfil.
He had a sore arse to fill full.
He dithered. It was a pleasure to wear the magic underpants; why not just keep them forever. They could all stay here in Wails. Steve and Greg would get used to being the playthings of the banshees, breeding new mongrel characters that would eventually exist only in nightmares. In fact a Goblin/Gnome/Banshee cross breed would make a marvellous character in a horror movie; or become a premiership footballer.
This was not the answer. It was not even the Question. The Quest your on is the Question. He knew his thoughts were being influenced by the overdose in his jacksy. The pile relief prevented him from reasoning clearly. He had agreed with King Innocent to search for the legendary Permanent Cure so he would continue on his way. The sunshine in Fanovabba was not enough to stop him.
To Hell with it, he thought, my arse needs an anal solution; I will go on and be cured. I will forsake the dubious sexual curiosity that has been engendered in me by these six birds. It is time to stamp my mark on the History of the planet. I will find the Gloompty Fish and I will obtain the Permanent Cure. I will be a success!
“Are you talking to yourself?” asked Greg, watching the interplay of mouth movements and facial gyrations.
“What if I am, bandy boy!”
Even Greg could tell that Peter was no longer himself.
“Who are you now Peter?” Questioned the gullible Goblin.
“Peter the Great! Tsar of all The Bottoms. Ruler of all the Piles! King of the Swingers and Garden Gate to the stars!”
Hanny came rushing across – she had heard the outburst as she parted the group hug. What could be wrong?
“He’s going into total meltdown! He’s really put too much power into his bottom and his system can’t take it!”
“What can we do?” asked Steve.
“We need to calm him down, give him some packets of crisps, preferably Prawn Cocktail, some Earl Grey tea and a cool bath. We call this overcooking!” she explained.
Peter opened one eye.
“You can call it what you want but I call it messing with the kid!”
The group sat on the beach at Both, watching the waves coming in and going out. They sat in two groups of five, the local delicious Fairies and the five travellers. To a casual observer it may have appeared that they sat as two alternative groups, six Fairies and four travellers. To the more discerning observer they could have been identified as yet a different two groups, seven female and three male. To an observant onlooker they may have appeared as three groups, being six Fairies, three males and a very ugly female Orc with ears like saucers. To the pedant it was six Fairies, a Goblin, a Gnome, a raggedy arsed Pixy and an Orc with a face like a bag of spanners. Which ever spectator we want to be we would have come to the same conclusion; there were ten of them sitting on the beach and the sky was filled with a myriad of rainbows.
Hanny was buried deep in the inner turmoil of her soul. She was afraid to admit that she had any feelings for Peter. He was a Pixy, she a Fairy and never the twain should meet. And yet she wanted to meet his meat. She felt an attraction that had been beyond her innermost self for so long that she felt it was a betrayal. Or some other soppy shit she couldn’t explain. Maybe it was a lust for life or a life for lust.
She tried a pragmatic point of view. She was a handmaiden to the King, a doyen of the Royal Court and one of the best-looking babes on the planet, a trustee of the King’s knickers. He was a maverick Pixy, a stealer of tarts and becoming increasingly addicted to the Magic in his Pants. If she got any closer her friends here would remind her of the heartbreak she had endured with the last waster who had dipped his periwinkle into her salty sustainer, followed by her resolve to never be involved with a male ever again in the entire future history of the Universes. Still, what else are friends for?
She looked sideways at Peter as he dug his toes into the sand. It was amusing to watch him with that miniature spade, excavating a tiny hole around each toe to ensure it was well and truly buried; she wondered if he would place a diminutive tombstone at the head of each digit. Observing the small feat on his feet she was glad not to be lack toes intolerant.
No body was speaking.
Each of the travellers and each of the hosts were buried deep within their own thought processes, each looking into their souls for a way forward in this game we call life. Apart from Dumbell Ena who lacked the capability to think much beyond her next meal or her next visit to the hairdressers.
Hanny was falling for Peter and she hated herself for it. Such vulnerability: to rely on another person to feel complete? Why give up that independence and commit to someone else? No more nights out with the girls without being asked what time you’ll be home. Having to ask for money when your pride forbids it. No more lounging round in sweaty pyjamas on a Saturday morning because you can’t be arsed to wash your hair and trim your lady garden. Relationships, she thought, who bloody needs them!
She resisted.
An intimate relationship would mean giving up her freedoms. No longer could she pop out for a drink with the girls when she felt like, or go training in the art of Scum Removal from Kings, or take a holiday on her own with her friends here in Both. Would her friends start to judge her based on Peter’s characteristics? Would she be judged by Peter’s friends, not that he had any apart from Greg. The whole dating game was just such an emotional and social minefield that she felt she may as well make do with chocolate and the occasional sneeze.
Alas for poor Hanny, she could not get inside of Peters’ head at this moment or else she would have felt a new dread enter her soul. As he sat this jolly sunny morning contemplating the golden sands of the Bay of Both, Peter was feeling a new ecstasy, one that was distracting him from Hanny. Last night he had taken his first overdose of moonlight in his Magic Underpants and the experience had thrilled him. Not only did the pants remove his burning sphincter pain but they added a new definition of happiness; just sitting in your undies watching the stars.
Peter wore the Enchanting Underpants as a necessary evil to cover the pain brought on by his misdeeds. He accepted they were designed to keep the pain at bay. He had not realised that if overcharged the Pants gave a pleasure in themselves, a pleasure he had not expected. He watched the sunshine on the water and longed for it to go down. He was planning to give the pants another top up tonight when nobody was watching. He was starting on the road to nowhere, the land where people lived for the dreamlike pleasure that came into their bodies. Not that he really needed to top up. It would just be for fun this one time, and then he’d follow Hannys instructions on the safe medical use of Magical Undercrackers.
His philosophical musings were aborted by the screeching of Dumbell Ena.
“What’s that out there?” she squealed.
They all looked.
At first nobody could see anything. Then far on the horizon they became aware of movement. They were unsure at first but slowly made out the outline of a small boat.
“Can you tell what it is yet?” asked Greg, astonished at the power of Ena’s eyes.
Ena looked flushed. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
“I can’t believe I’m seeing this,” she droned. “It is a myth from long ago. A legend dwelt upon by the female Orcs. A fairy tale that few of us really believe but I think it might be coming true for me today!”
The others were astonished at such lucidity from the moronic gargoyle impressionist. Peter and Hanny forgot their personal internal infernal denial problems, becoming intrigued at the Orcs’ uttering.
A legend for female Orcs?
How could it be a fairy tale if it was passed on by Orcs? Surely it was an Orcy tale.
“Tell me about the myth,” said Steve.
Ena shuddered and closed her eyes.
“I think I found the little man in the boat,” she said.
“What is the significance of the little man in the boat?” asked Hanny.
Ena sat down with a strange smile on her face and a new glow to her leathery skin.
“It is said amongst the lady Orcs that if we ever should achieve pleasure in this life then we must find the little man in the boat. And there he is out on the horizon, tossing about in the stormy sea. Is he coming this way?” she asked.
Ginger Spiderlegs stood up on her feet, leaning forward to peer out to sea. As she stood in this position the three lads imagined they were in heaven.
“I think I’ve found him,” said Ginger, “even though he is quite small. He is sitting there just in the prow of his boat. I don’t think he is coming our way; I think he will head back out to sea.”
“No!” screamed Ena. “He can’t just leave like that. I must get to know him better. I want to know more about him, his habits, his up and downs. What pleases him and what distresses him. I want more!”
With that she stood up and ran down the beach to the water side.
She hesitated for a short while then plunged into the sea. It was icy cold at first but she moved forward anyway.
“Come back little man! Don’t leave me this way! I can’t survive without your love; don’t leave me this way!”
With that she was gone.
A huge wave took her out to sea.
The remaining nine, being the original ten with one now departed, stood horrified at the waters edge. They saw Ena’s head pop up from below the waves occasionally but could not be sure it was really her; perhaps it was a seal or a porpoise or even the fin of a blue shark, creatures not that uncommon on Uranus, surprisingly.
Then nothing.
The sea calmed.
There was no sign of the boat with the little man and no sign of Ena.
The nine stood forlorn. Once they had been ten but no longer. One of their number had gone thus leading to the inevitable truth that ten take away one left nine.
Nine bodies stood on the beach, trying to feel a sense of loss.
Greg summed up their feelings; “Thank feck we’re rid of that hideous bitch!”
The approach to the coast turned out to be very pleasant. The smell of the salt in the air made their spirits rise and the thought of a good nights kip surrounded by hot chicks, and the possibility of fresh meat for the Orc babe, made them so much more contented.
Except for Peter.
He had spent some of the walk explaining to Hanny how much he liked her, how they were great pals and how much he would love to hold her hand for just a short while. They did hold hands for a part of the journey but as they got closer to her friends’ house in Both, she had let go of his grip.
What was the problem he had asked?
It was a sign of her softening that she took time to explain things to the befuddled pile ridden pesky Pixy. Hanny had spent many times in Both enjoying life with her friends, cavorting, singing and dancing at the bottom of the garden. Then one day she met a handsome Fairy Man on a visit to Fanovabba. She fell in love with dashing Fairy called Sizzling Quisling and gave herself fully to him in her desire to be loved. As in all such Fairy stories he turned out to be a bit of a knob head. After a few magic sessions together he dumped her and ran off with the girl from the next Village. This had broken Hanny’s heart, especially as it took ages to get the grass stains off her skirt. She considered the negativity of drifting into the life of a Banshee. Fortunately her friends pulled her out of this mood and made her strong again. Hanny vowed never to fall for the same sort of prick again. She had no desire to show her vulnerability in front of these old acquaintances, so did not want to appear to be attached to Peter in any way. Really, what kind of Fairy could get attracted to a Pixy with a butt full of grapes?
Peter was devastated.
His heart, lungs and loins went all a fluster. His knees knocked, teeth chattered and elbows throbbed. His eyes crossed and uncrossed, like a light show on the sea front. His meat and two veg shrivelled in anticipation as though they would never be used for anything more exciting than a ham shank. He wanted to scream at the heavens, discard his magic underpants and run away from them all and cast himself off a tall cliff into deep oblivion.
Then he remembered there were five other groovy chicks waiting at the house in Both and he grinned the grin of a grinning grinner.
He had fallen behind the crew as he was lost in wanderlust. Looking ahead he could see they had stopped outside a beautiful white cottage, surrounded in roses, honeysuckle, Cotoneasters, Purple Helmet flowers, Red hot pokers and Daddy-O-Reilly’s. It was a magical sight to behold. Peter trotted forward to catch up and suddenly felt a slippery squelch beneath his left foot.
“Be careful,” shouted Hanny. “They have a dog!”
This beautiful Chocolate Box Magical house had originally belonged to an Aromatherapist called Orange Blossom Jones, a wonderful Fairy Magician who believed you could cure anything with the right smell. She loved to invite guests around and say ‘smell my finger’ as she had prodded into some moist vessel of delight. She had named the house His Senses.
As Peter came to His Senses his olfactory powers were being offended by the portion of plop deposited by the mystical hound.
The house was now occupied by Hanny’s friends.
They knocked and the door was opened, which is not that unusual.
“Good day to you!” said the luscious Fairy as she opened the door. “And what´s that fecking smell?”
As she un-wrinkled her nose she took in the rag tag assembly before her.
“Hanny is that really you!” she shouted in delight.
The door gaped wide and out streamed five of the most beautiful Fairies in the Universe. God knows why, but this collection of Fairies was the most delectable any traveller is ever likely to encounter on any planet in any Universe. They could induce a priapism in anyone, even in Grumbleflick, the wan King of the Witches who was apparently dead. These gals would put the Playboy Mansion to shame.
The Pixy, the Goblin and the Gnome had to sit down immediately for fear of seeming too interested. The five Fairies hugged and kissed Hanny in a way that could have been the introductory scene to a special kind of movie that led to a heart attack in an aging gentleman.
“Come! Come! Come one and all!” said their host as she led the quintet indoors.
We nearly did, muttered the lads.
In the cheery glow of the fire they went through the introductions. Hanny began with the three lads and ended with “… and this ugly bitch is the wife of an Orc that bullies for a living.”
The Fairy who had first welcomed them introduced herself as Mary Hinge and acquainted the five travellers with the four remaining dolls.
“This is cute Ann Jyner, Ginger Spiderlegs, Camilla Toe and Sugar Plum Bottom,” she explained as the four charmers smiled and curtsied their welcomes.
In a phantasmagorical act of perception Peter suddenly realised why they were such good friends with Hanny.
There followed an evening of mirth with plenty of food to keep them all going. There were songs to be sung and gongs to be rung. Peter hoped there would be dongs to be slung, alas not tonight young Pixy. They brought each other up to date requesting information on what they were all actually up to.
“So you’re Peter the Pixy,” stated Camilla Toe. “We’ve heard about you!”
Peter was flabbergasted. His flabbers had never been so gasted in all his life. He was a stranger in a strange land. A cliché that got out of hand. He had never been here before, which again means he was a stranger by definition really. So how could they hear about him?
“Some Brownies came through the village a couple of days ago asking if we’d seen a raggedy arsed Pixy in the company of a Goblin and a Gnome. Of course we couldn’t answer yes so we asked why they wanted to know. They told us that the said Pixy was wanted back in Setebos for saying rude things to the King and using his bottom in an inappropriate manner.”
“They’re saying I used the Kings bottom in an inappropriate manner?”
“No! I apologise for mixing my meanings; no they said the said Pixy, Peter, was using his own bottom in an inappropriate manner”.
“The cheeky fast cats!” said Peter.
“Where?” asked Greg.
“That’s all-pure nonsense,” declared Hanny. “I’ve been in on this case from the start and Peter has done no such thing. He nicked some tarts and has suffered the consequences. He is holding a temporary solution but the rest of us are working with him to help him find a Permanent Cure; except for the Orc bitch who is just with us to keep her away from her other half.”
The sumptuous girls breathed a collective sigh of relief and the air was suddenly filled with a spectacular perfume which seemed to just emanate from the Fairies. They were willing to welcome Peter into their home as long as he was in the company of Hanny but that did not mean they had to like him. Now they were assured he was not an uphill gardener they felt more relaxed.
“So why are the Brownies saying such things?” asked Steve.
“Because they’re just shit stirring little brown nosers that would do anything to get noticed by Lord Chalfont and his cronies. They make me sick the miserable little turds! And I’m talking literally as I have tried to eat one and it did make me vomit!” shouted Dumbell Ena.
The rest of the gang looked at her in disbelief. After all this time of travelling together it was the first time she had said anything which made sense.
“So how is your bottom at the moment?” asked Ginger Spiderlegs in a soothing and calm manner.
“Well the magic underpants do a marvellous job but the Permanent Cure is my ultimate aim,” avowed the Pixy.
There was a short pause as the girls shifted in their seats.
There was a Question they wanted to ask but were unsure of the etiquette.
“Can we see the magic underpants?”
Peter blushed. What if taking his kecks off he lost control of his urges?
Would it be ok if there was a tent pole in the pants?
“We’ve all heard of the prophecy but none of us ever really believed in the reality of a Burning Ring of Fire! And so far no Pixy has been daft enough to try one of Dillberry’s tarts. Let’s see them pants so we can see how well Queen Spenser knitted her magic into your knickers. And would it be possible to inspect the ring?”
A dream situation.
Five of the most glorious examples of the feminine form ever created were asking him to take of his trousers and show them his underpants. An unholy dream that would get God playing poker with the devil, if they could find a decent set of cards. Peter mumbled something.
He was embarrassed. Rather he was afraid of sporting his embarrassment in front of such a crowd. Hanny looked pleadingly at him so he dropped his kecks there and then. Unfortunate really because just at that moment he lost his sphincter control produced a terribly loud and smelly fart. Yet it was fortunate too, as it meant his interest in his female companions waned instantly.
After another large spray of perfume, including that from unseen bottles and an urn full of incense being lit, the girls returned to their task, though not before admitting their admiration for the potency of Peter’ air biscuit.
The girls admired the quality of the stitching, the somewhat fetching red wool highlighted by the white banding at the waist, legs and pop out slot. They commented on the quality of design with the piping at the front making an upside-down letter ‘y’.
Quality in bespoke underpants.
Bless Queen Spenser and her foresight.
And how did she know it would be a male who would succumb?
“If I had a wayward male, I’d probably succumb,” said Camilla Toe.
Peter was now happy being the centre of attention.
“Shall I show you how I keep them fully charged?” he asked the five sweet things.
“Yes Please!” said Ann Jyner.
He rushed outside with his trouser round his ankles doing a marvellous impression of a penguin. Hanny tried to stop him.
“Wait Peter!” she called, but was too late. He already took up the position, his magic clad arse pointing toward the moon. A look of deep joy spread across his face as the pain giving grapes were sent into limbo.
“Peter!” called Hanny, “the pants don’t need a top up! You’ll get too much relief! You’ll get an overdose!”
Peter didn’t care. Hanny didn’t love him so he would exist on another pleasure. Overdosing on bum support from Magic Underpants would be just fine by him. And if Hanny complained then it would be her own fault. Life without love wasn’t worth living. Besides what could really be the danger of topping up the power of the Magic Underpants?
Fairy Hanny 