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.)
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.
I just checked and I have well over one thousand followers for my blogs, and over one thousand ‘friends’ on LinkedIn. I am sure that means there is a good market out there just dying to build up a big laugh from these books!
“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!”
Fairy Hanny 