Chapter 13

You can’t fool me.

The dubious quintet continued South. It would be nice to say it got warmer but it didn’t, the surface temperature being pretty much the same all over the planet. It was very, very cold at the extreme south and extreme north, known as the Poles, apparently, but throughout the rest of Uranus the heat was quite consistent. Except of course when one of the Fire Dragons got himself into a tizzy, then there was all hell to pay. A chap could be walking along enjoying the ambience of the daily warmth when suddenly he would be toasted from head to toe just because the Fire Dragon hadn’t slept well the night before. This condition is also well known amongst married men.

It was a shame that the Fire Dragons had such an ominous reputation as beneath all the huff and bluster there was a charming lizard just waiting to be loved. Some felt that the Bold Bravado of the Fire Dragons was just a way of covering up an inner timidity, though no-one had ever managed to get an answer to this as if you were stupid enough to suggest it to one of the beasts they would probably just burn you alive for asking.

The walk began to annoy the team. Ena lived up to her name. She would tell them they would soon be approaching a particular Village or Town, only to find herself totally wrong. This never discouraged her; she would merely claim that the Town had been moved or the locals were telling lies. She annoyed Steve as every time he took out his axe to cut wood she would declare her lifelong interest in choppers; not what any hot-blooded male wants to hear from a jug eared Trollope with a face like a Pekinese licking piss of a nettle.

The tale went on.

Peter felt he was madly in love with Hanny, though she showed no awareness or response to his pleading. She was used to pathetic pleaders and just ignored them in her haughty manner. As far as she was concerned this was a Quest and a Chance to get away from washing the Kings’ soiled undies.

This made Peter feel worse than a teacher who accidently farted in class. Is it better to have the girl of ones dreams declare her disgust at your suit, or pick holes in your clothing or vomit straight into your face rather than be left floating in a sea of ambivalence?  Hanny smiled at Peter and looked deeply into his eyes; but then she did that to all of the characters in this motley crew. Was she knowingly teasing him? Could he get a blimp of her knickers if she bent over? And that bosom…

As the days wore on the land began to rise ahead of them. They were heading for the land of the banshees, horrible women that just whinge and moan all day long about how awful males are and wouldn’t the world be a better place if men didn’t exist. (Of course I am using the term men here to refer to the male gender of each of the species found on Uranus. There are actually a few men and a few half men on Uranus but I’ll come to them eventually. In fact we’ve already met Warwick Hunt so you know what I mean.)

“We are getting close to the home of the banshees,” declared Hanny, “to the Land of Wails. It is a mountainous country but we shall only go through the valleys. It has been many years since I spent time in Wails, as I don’t really like it much. It has wonderful Lakes and valleys and mountains but the people drive me to distraction. All those banshees moaning about what a hard life they have, berating the male gender of each species (that was easier) and wishing for an all-female population! Well they got that as all of the male banshees ran away years ago to work for the civil service in Setebos. Not that ‘work’ is the right description. They sit round complaining that their tea breaks aren’t long enough, the chairs are too hard and the desks are too low. You’ll meet some of them if we get back and you have to write down a description of your journey for the King.”

“I know the geography of the land of Wails,” said Ena. “The highest mountain is Ben Filma Kraken and the longest river is the Trend!”

“Ben Filma Kraken is way off to the North in the land of the Frozen Nobbs!” said Steve.

“And the River Trend is in Inkland!” added Greg.

“I know what I know,” said Ena.

“How do you know what you know?” asked Greg.

“I just know I know,” she replied.

“Was that a ‘know’ or a ‘no’ or an ‘o’?” asked Peter.

“It was not a ‘no’ it was a ‘know’; I know it was,” she retorted.

“Oh”

Ena gave them a look of pure bile on their personages. How dare they gainsay the wife of Regan, the renowned Financial Advisor?

“When we get back from the trip I will let my husband Regan know how you constantly undermine me and he will inform the tax office.”

“Blow me down;” returned Steve, “do you know it’s me who’s getting all mixed up! Of course we have to pass Ben Filma Kraken fairly soon! Yes of course it’s in Wails!”

“Doesn’t the River Trend pass to the west of Ben Filma Kraken? Of course it does! Silly me, I’m just a dumb Goblin, so I am!”

Hanny shook her head in disbelief. How could such a dumb bitch wield so much power? Well there is a Question that has been asked more than once in several universes! And Ipswich.

The gang stopped for lunch at the foot of a gorgeous waterfall. They ate according to their needs and drank plenty of fresh water. Hanny of course ate plenty of sugary dainties and all things nice. Peter had learnt his lesson and confined himself to cheese and chutney sandwiches, the chutney being homemade from a recipe that had been in the family for many generations. Greg devoured a fantastic meat and potato pie, along with some spring onions and a couple of garlic cloves. Ena ate some stale bread and maggot ridden meat the origin of which was dubious; possibly the left thigh of one of her husbands’ previous clients.

“Hanny?” asked Steve, “if all the male banshees live in Setebos and all of the female banshees live here in Wails then where do the new baby banshees come from?”

“Now there is a tale that can’t be told, my reasons I hold dear. Yet for today I will tell you. The girly banshees will basically shag anything with trousers on, well with trousers off I mean, despite their normal protestations. They lie in wait in dark places such as Whine Bars and Knight Klubbs and Church Halls hoping for any kind of unsuspecting male to come along. Then when they find a victim they pounce! First they treat him with disdain saying all men are bastards. Then when the unsuspecting victim tries to defend his manhood, agreeing that yes some males behave in a quite despicable way but not all are the same, they go all soppy eyed. Then the victim tries to prove he is basically quite a nice chap. The banshee pretends to succumb to his charms and whips his pants off, giving him a fine seeing to. The next day when the victim says he has to move on the banshee screams ‘You’re all alike! All men are bastards!’ The encounter normally means the banshee will have swallowed a pickle; hence the breed continues.”

“That is a horror story Hanny.”

“So the banshees aren’t a particular species then?” asked Greg.

“No, anyone can turn into a whinging cow if she lets herself!” laughed Hanny.

Hanny knew that if they were to veer slightly to the west they would come to a large bay on which lay the village of Both and the town of Fanovabba, places well known to the beautiful Fairy as she had friends who dwelt down by the seaside.

“Oh I do like to be beside the seaside; oh I do like to be beside the sea! All I need is a tall ship and a star to guide me!” she sang as they descended toward the coast.

The lads were worried that if they were to stay in a village in Wails then perhaps they could be entrapped by a banshee, led surreptitiously into fatherhood and forced to pay child maintenance forever and a day. Then perhaps they would fall behind with the maintenance, leading to interviews with Tax Inspectors and possibly becoming a meal for a disgruntled Orc. Strange encounters of the female kind can be very bad for the health.

Hanny reassured them that her friends in Both and Fanovabba would protect them all as they could spot a banshee at a hundred paces and if necessary decapitate the bitch without anyone being the wiser.

The lads were relieved.

Peter looked lovingly on Hanny as he felt some self-relief.

“If that does happen could I help myself to the fleshy bits?” asked Ena. “It would seem such a shame to let all that yummy food go to waste.”

Chapter 12

I see a Pixy and I want it painted black.

The Chancellor’s Chief Hench thing gathered together his team of Brownies to do the dirty on Peter. They needed to dig deep into his past and uncover any kind of trouble they could.

Was there any scandal surrounding sex or finance?

Did he have a thing for young Fairies?

Had he met Fairy Hanny when she was a youngster and carried an unhealthy desire for her all of his life?

Was he keeping a slush fund of money to help the Trolls in their revolution?

Warwick Hunt briefed his set of Brownies.

“When you come back from your research you are going to tell me that all of the above is true!” he told them.  

Don nodded agreement so vigorously that his little Brown Hat almost fell off.

The Brownies did not have a problem with this approach to Investigative Journalism. Say what you are going to find out, then if you can’t find the evidence bribe someone or make it up then state it as fact. If you say it loud enough and long enough most people will believe you.

‘No smoke without fire’.

Then of course there are the dry ice machines that emit a type of smoke without fire.

And if when you’re using smokeless fuels there is plenty of fire without smoke; hence the definition ‘smokeless’. Nevertheless most people are too ignorant to understand the absurdity of proverbs, though one swallow doesn’t really tell you much about the girl.

‘A stitch in time saves my ideas on the Big Bang theory’ said Steven Hawking (Not the Steven Hawking but another Steven Hawking writing in a Journal of Physics in a parallel Universe in a Galaxy far, far away, just to save on copyright and libel.)

The Brownies set off in search of the truth they already knew, each carrying his lovely twee little reporter’s notebook and wearing his lovely little Brown Hat. It’s a thing about Brownies; they love to wear Brown. I suppose they could have opted for other colours in which case they would be known as Reddies, Greenies, Pinkies or Blueys.

Everything is brown down to their socks and pants. This is fortunate for them really as when they go on exotic holidays and eat exotic food and drink exotic drinks and get exotic diarrhoea then the chance of exotic embarrassment due to stains in exotic brown trousers is much minimised by being dressed in not exotic brown. This is a travel tip I would give to anyone travelling to Benidorm and planning to drink nine pints of Guinness with a Lamb Jalfrezi– don´t wear cream-coloured Chinos – trust me!

Mind you, when some oaf said ‘Brown is the new Black’ the Brownies got totally confused and began dressing in Yellow. Fortunately this was only a brief trend like baggy shirts and unkempt hair, beards and sandals and baggy trousers. So these days the Brownies are back in their traditional brown and jolly good they look too. They favour corduroy jackets, moleskin trousers and smart brown brogues polished on a regular basis.

And Brown Noses.

Within hours of the directive the streets of Setebos were rife with rumours of Peter’s misdemeanours. Most of the inhabitants had neither met nor heard of Peter the Pixy though that did not stop them from gossiping about his transgressions, especially when the Brownies offered free tax advice via Lord Chalfont and his Orc friends, or jelly donuts with custard.

Some people would sacrifice anyone for a glass of Tizer.

“Disgraceful!” they said, “a Pixy of his age stealing tarts and away with the Fairies”.

“He stole a young girl’s heart I heard”, said some busybody without an ounce of interest in her own existence.

“He chases after all the young girls apparently it appears”, suggested another no hoper.

“I heard he has been misusing his bottom,” opined one ne’er do well, “and he likes it”.

Lord Chalfont was over the Moon.

It would not take long for Hanny to pick up on this gossip. She would come running back, abandoning the Quest for the Permanent Cure; and she would be soothing his eyes in the Great Castle with its Great Walls and everything, a buxom delight to fill his flights of fancy. How could any young maid bear to be in the company of a Pixy that was demonstrably a cad, a charlatan, a total numpty who had even been accused of performing in a line dancing group?

Chalfont felt he had won this battle already so began looking round to see who else’s life he could ruin. There were plenty of other Pixys out there that were due to get the Chalfont treatment, encouraged by Warwick Hunt and the Brownies.

Who else could he destroy before lunch time?

At this rate he could become a Tax Dodging Newspaper Magnate!

Chapter 11

On the origins of Warwick Hunt.

Warwick Hunt had arrived at the City of Setebos some years earlier after a freak accident involving aggrieved co-workers, a spot of jealousy, a wormhole and a bubbling vat of lard.

The very scary Warwick Hunt originates from Earth though not quite down to earth; he had ideas above his station. Though as he lived next to Wigan Station nobody was sure what these ideas might be.

Warwick Hunt left secondary school after five years of arguing with his teachers and gaining zero qualifications. At this point he considered a life in Politics though he realised he didn’t come from a rich family so would be unable to bribe his way to the top. Plus he hadn’t attended a posh public school and didn’t have a double-barrelled name or an obscure middle name. Matthew Hunt didn’t so sound impressive against the daft names like Pfeffel, Roderick, De’Ath, Clutterbuck or Hardmeat. Later in life he became known as Warwick Hunt, though that name was chosen for him by his ‘mates’.

He spent his early life in the middle of Lancashire working for various Butchers and Abattoirs. He was moved on from most of his jobs due to his personal hygiene; his face was covered in pus oozing pimples, he rarely washed, he smelt like a pile of shite and he had clods of dandruff regularly dropping from his greasy hair. There are still some butchers in Rawtenstall that have difficulty selling sausages due to the rumours about things Warwick Hunt added to the mixture. Cats, rats and mice were collectively wary of the Matthew Hunt. Then he was merely known as ‘Big Matthew’ the fat lad from the back end of Wigan. He was fond of death and butchery, which should have made him suitable for an Infantry Regiment though they have certain standards to maintain. So despite the misgivings of many a poor butcher, Big Matthew finally found himself working at the Lard Factory.

This suited him down to the ground.

He would spend all day stirring the vast vats of purified pig fat, adding his own favourites such as nose pickings, toenails and spit. The longer he worked there the worse his skin became so that eventually he could even squeeze pus from his spots into the lard mix.

His workmates hated him.

They felt he gave lard makers a bad name.

So they called him ‘Warwick’, even though he never quite got the full meaning.

Most of his co-workers were honoured to be associated with the production of this delightful fat product. Many entered Town and Regional competitions for Lard Lad of the Year awards – in those days Lardy Girls did not exist. However it was generally agreed that Big Matthews’ additions to the mix were just too far beyond a joke. Matthew discovered himself increasingly isolated from his contemporaries. He realised that he had to sit at a table on his own at the annual ‘Lancashire Lard Ladlers Ball’. This didn’t bother him as it meant he could eat all of the Black Puddings, Tripe and Trotters to himself without considering the etiquette of handing a Trotter to the left or passing the Tripe to the right or even which way to pass the Duchy. He just gulped the lot down, picked his spots and farted all night.

It was a wet, weird Friday evening that Big Matthew Hunt ceased to exist in his humanoid form. (Some people argue that he was never human, just a fat inflated windbag that got on peoples nerves). His fellow lard workers had decided that enough was more than enough. Rumours had spread round Lancashire and lard sales were down. This was nothing to do with government health warnings or misled animal rights campaigners.

No.

People had heard of Matthews embellishments and were loath to fry their sausages in a mixture of snot and puss, though they found purified pig fat quite acceptable.

So the Lard Lads had conspired to do away with Matthew in a most appropriate manner, deciding that in the end one final batch could be made with one final added extra: Big Matthew himself.

On that lethal Friday night as he leaned over a large vat of Lard, his florid countenance dripping yellowy pus, teetering on the edge of a wobbly ladder… the Lard Lads made their move.

Shove, push, waggle, splash!

The big fat useless bastard fell headlong into a bubbling cauldron of Steaming Pig Fat.

Now in Fairy Stories it is always possible to have amazing things happen. The hero is close to defeat and up pops a friendly dragon to help him; the hero’s army is outnumbered and he just happens to remember there is a Dead Army waiting to help him out; the hero dies falling over a waterfall with his nemesis but comes back from a shower many moons later; the hero batters his girlfriend but still gets elected anyway because the media make it sound normal.

In our case it just so happened that Zeus was playing Pontoon with Jesus, Buddha and Confucius. Zeus was Banker as Jesus and Buddha had declined on principle – ‘I kick bankers out’ said Jesus; ‘Bank represents material possessions’ said Buddha. Confucius had two cards showing a total of sixteen.

“Twist!” he said.

“Pull my finger!” said Zeus.

In all innocence Jesus did pull the finger of Zeus.

And lo, a Great Fart was initiated from the bum of the Great God.

In any parlour in the back streets of Liverpool this would have been greeted with Great Mirth, all four players reduced to uproarious laughter and streams of tears.

But in the Metaphysical worlds of the Gods such an anal eminence had dire consequences.

For in a strange way the passage of noxious gases from the derriere of Zeus led to a kerfuffle in the Space-Time continuum. Mad Tom of Bedlam attempted a correction but alas and alack he was short on Travel-Gravel so he missed a wormhole formed by the Ring of Zeus. Now when these guys get together all kinds of Strange Things can Happen. In this incredibly coincidental case, the very same wormhole created by the fart of Zeus, opened up in the Vat of Lard into which Matthew had landed.

Well I never!

Big Matthew was whisked into the nothingness of the Space-Time Continuum and catapulted across an Infinite set of Parallel Universes, pausing only once to buy a packet of fags at the corner shop on Pleiades. As the chaos in the fabric of Space settled down and Confucius won with a five, Jesus walked away across the Sea of Infinity, and Buddha looked away philosophically, big Matthew found himself alive on the surface of Uranus.

But this wasn’t Big Matthew anymore.

He was no longer a disgusting individual who could be smelt five minutes before arrival.

The disintegration and realignment of the sub-atomic particles that had once been Big Matthew and the Vat of Lard had now been improbably combined to create a case of half-and-half. Yes it would have been nice if he had arrived at your house on a cold winter’s night as Chips and Rice. But No!

Matthew was now half-man half-lard – the slippiest, slimiest, nastiest creature in the Universe. Imagine all of that seething hatred mingled into a bipedal white lump, slowly oozing pus and farting non-stop. Not even a right-wing fascist who changed his name to sound more down to earth could be quite so disgusting – or maybe it could.

It occurred to him that if he was in a New Body on a New Planet then a New Name would just round off his day quite nicely. He realised straight away that he had now become even more unpleasant, though his spots had not cleared up. Would a really unpleasant name finish the job?

He considered names like Adolf, Stalin, Nixon, Attila, Pol Pot, Jeremy, George W., Trump, Farage, Thatcher, Rupert and Edwina but realised they had already been used quite successfully back on earth.

No, he wanted something really scary.

Matthew had never been the brightest of sparks confining his comments to things like ‘everyone from Liverpool is bolshy’ or ‘I hate you, scouser’ or the more acerbic ‘you are ugly’. So a scary name was never going to be an easy option for him. He settled on using the moniker given by his workmates.

“Warwick Hunt I am and Warwick Hunt I will stay,” he declared to no-one in particular.

The first creatures he met as he wandered around were a couple of Imps out on a mischievous raid.

“Oy mate you smell like a big turd!” cried the first of them.

“A what?” asked Warwick Hunt.

“A turd ….Ohhhhhhhhh!!!!” exhaled the imp in his last breath as Warwick Hunt ripped his head off.

“That’ll do”, said Warwick Hunt to himself. “Warwick Hunt, the Vengeance on Uranus!”

The other Imp disappeared as rapidly as his little legs would carry him.

“That’s right little friend. Run with fear, Warwick Hunt is here!”

Chapter 10

Lord Chalfont and Warwick Hunt.

Golf originated on Uranus of that there is no doubt.

The Gods have researched this to a great extent. Horus and the Whore of Babylon spent many a lifetime looking into the origins of the game. It is played throughout the Known Universe and on some of the places hidden in the dark matter, but the two ignoble researchers are quite adamant that such a small ball hitting pastime could only originate amongst the Mythical Beings of Uranus. What other pastime allows for the possibility of losing your balls in water, getting dropped into sand or having to search for them in the rough. They even noted that Kipling painted his balls orange so he could find them if it was snowing.

But that´s another story.

Lord Chalfont loved to play golf which sort of sums him up really.

He was enjoying teaching his apprentice, Warwick Hunt, the finer points of the game. Warwick Hunt tried his best to please the Boss but became quite confused from the original concept of the game. He could handle a club, was good at driving, chipping, using a sand wedge and putting for a birdie. It gave him great delight whenever Chalfont told him he had a bogey. He just could not see the point of why anyone would want to do it. Lord Chalfont would give his little condescending smile when challenged on this point, then he would emphasise that useful as Warwick Hunt was, he just didn’t have the correct breeding to understand and empathise with the game.

“In fact it isn’t a game, it’s a way of life,” said the patronising flunky.

Warwick Hunt felt it was more a way of death by boredom; however he held his peace and had reduced his handicap to fifteen which is quite impressive for a creature that is half man, half lard.

So we return to this day of days with Lord Chalfont coming back to the Great Castle with his trusty half-being Warwick Hunt and tried to catch up on the news. Chalfont always liked to admire the Castle with its Great Walls and Ceilings and Great Big Fat King Innocent. The Lord Chalfont requested and was granted an audience with the Odious Monarch.

Innocent was fond of small talk, explaining when he could about the joys of buying new socks and undies, eating Fairy Cakes and Jam doughnuts. He also loved to talk about his feet and how many he had. Chalfont noted every day that the King had the allotted number of two feet but granted the Fat Fool the pleasure in pointing out he had two feet ‘and not just on my legs’ he would wink.

Innocent then asked about his golfing game and how was the mysterious Warwick Hunt getting along.

Yes he’d had a great time on the links, yes he’d beaten Warwick Hunt despite the vastly differing handicaps and yes he had partaken of a nerve calmer at the nineteenth.

But what had been going on in Setebos while he had been away?

Innocent looked innocent and said “Fecked if I know. I´ve been asleep and eating.”

It was then left for Chalfont to call in his spies from around the Castle and around the City. He learnt there were rumours of the Trolls trying for independence yet again and vowed to send Warwick Hunt on another mission of suppression; he heard of the exploits of a Pixy called Stanley who had inadvertently drunk far too much cherry brandy and had found himself astride a pretty young Pixy lady – he noted the name and kept it for future use; he found out about a deal between a couple of Gnomes to make a little bit of money on the side from selling Jam covered Pancakes to visitors – risky as the Jam could still be hot when eaten and the Orcs could find out about the Financial Scam and intervene fatally; he discovered a plot of land that could come up for sale soon and make him a quick profit if he made the right move right here right now; and he heard about the hairy arsed Pixy who had disappeared on a Quest into the wild, taking the gorgeous Fairy Hanny with him.

Chalfont was horrified.

Fairy Hanny gone from the Castle!

This was too much!

Lord Chalfont is a very respectable Fairy who comes from a very old family of Very Respectable Fairies. He could trace his ancestry back to a Time before Time, when few records were kept and cassettes had not been invented – which is quite an achievement if you don’t have internet access. The Chalfont’s had been part of court life since Time immemorial and the day before that too, always there to give advice and point the various Kings in the right direction. In fact the Chalfont family felt it was they who held the true power on Uranus. Without Chalfont’s, Uranus would be totally different place, though probably a much more relaxed Place in Space.

The present Lord Chalfont was Very Respectable, Right and Proper and Dead Good in his role, but he did have a little bit of a soft spot for Hanny. In fact there were times when he felt he had a hard spot for Hanny too, what with long legs and buxomness. He liked to think she was in the Palace as his Icon of Beauty, the loveliest and most beautiful and sexy Fairy in the Palace. Of course he could never mention this to lady Chalfont or the Old Trout would convert his scrotum into a night cap. Now he found she had gone from his presence with a tender arsed tart stealing Pixy, into the wilds and possibly to her death. This filled the good Lord with a rage that threatened to overflow into a bucket full of rhetoric.

“Warwick Hunt, come here!” commanded the angry Lord. “They’ve taken my baby away and I want my baby back!”

Warwick Hunt listened intently to the wailings of his love-struck Lord. He slowly pushed the ideas around his atrophied intellect, till coming to a conclusion.

“Goodness Gracious Lord Chalfont. You are a happily married Fairy. Why are you so enamoured of the buxom Hanny? You know you can never have her as long as you wish to keep your status within the community. Dallying outside of a monogamous relationship is frowned upon, all be it in a terribly hypocritical way. I know sometimes Philandering Politicians manage to get away with it but you are a Fairy at the top of the tree so if you were caught giving Hanny a good seeing to you name would be Mud, rather than Chalfont.”

Chalfont mulled it over. He could remember the odd politico who got caught with his hands in the cookie jar and his knob in the PR specialist and still seemed to survive; though not for long. Usually the aggrieved party knew which skeleton to bring out of the closet and where all the bodies were buried, so to speak.

“If I can’t have her then nobody else can either,” seethed the seething Chancellor. “Find out as much as you can about this Peter the Pixy. Find out how he nicked the tarts. Did he have an accomplice? And what about the Goblin? Is it fit to be walking the lands in the company of a Fairy? And as for the Guarding Gnome, I’ll have his family removed from the Guard forthwith and thrown out onto the streets. They can make money from good old-fashioned work such as fishing from toadstools or shifting empty wheelbarrows, instead of enjoying the cushy status of standing by the Great West Gate with nothing to do all day! I’ll show them not to mess about with my Fairy Hanny!”

The obedient Warwick Hunt set to work immediately.

He summoned his team of Brownies, small imp like creatures who gained their name from the colour of their noses. The Court Brownies are the spies to the Court who are seldom caught in Court. They are also very loyal to Lord Chalfont. Warwick Hunt managed to get his four most trusted Brownies together – Don, Rhys, Jo and Dave had done much in the past to keep Chalfont happy, and were never afraid to embellish a story if it could have a negative effect on the subject of their snitching.

Warwick Hunt owed his continued existence and livelihood to the benevolence of Lord Chalfont and vowed to serve him all his days. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Warwick Hunt had a position of responsibility and a status at the higher echelons of society due to his association with Lord Chalfont, despite being a half creature; the Chancellor got a Senior Henchman to do his dirty work plus an instant source of lard should he be short when preparing a Saturday Morning fry up.

Chapter 9

Dumbell Ena

The atmosphere inside the inn was very much like that of any Public House anywhere in the Known Universe. It was probably the same as any Public House in the Unknown Universe but that will never be known. There was one major difference; you have to travel far and wide on earth to find a pub full of Orcs, Fairies, Pixy’s, Goblins and Gnomes – though a trawl around Norfolk would probably do it.

The four travellers booked in at reception discussing whether to pay by cash or credit card and if they wanted a morning call or breakfast in bed. There was some discussion as to what type of breakfast, Full Fairy or Continental; in the end they said they’d suck it and see. Being simple characters from the other side of the sky their luggage was minimal; each carried a small pack with the preparations Hanny had insisted on, including spare trousers, socks and pants. Hanny carried an extra bag for her make-up.

Soon they found themselves in amongst the crowd in the main lounge, drinking beer and swapping tales with other travellers. It is a universal phenomenon that travellers will always try to outdo each other with their tales of mishaps and misadventures. If one traveller lost a friend in a flooded river then the next lost his entire family in a similar flood; if one stood in the plop of a Harpy then the next was plopped on by a flock of Harpies; a third would claim to have been eaten by a Harpy, digested and plopped out amazed that he was still alive. And there was Jimmy Five Heads boasting about her trip to Eleven-a-reef: ‘So much better than Tenerife’.

Our awesome quartet listened to such far fetched tales and tongue in cheek jibes until one strange looking Orc asked what they were up to.

“Heading for the fabled Lake of the Gloompty Fish,” said Greg without thinking.

 “There’s no such place!” quipped a one eyed Orc, an accountant from Setebos with a penchant for yellow trousers and meat cleavers.

His smile disappeared quickly.

Conversation started up again in the room, though at a lower level as most people were now sitting down. Every now and again a face would turn to look at the quartet, then turn away laughing to its companions. The strange Orc sat with them. They began to feel uncomfortable. Orcs were no longer the fearsome warriors of the past but there was always a possibility that this one was a tax inspector.

“I can see I’m making you a little uncomfortable,” said the Orc. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Regan. I’m a chief Financial Advisor for a corporation of Imps, Ogres, Trolls and Alchemists from the far west. IOTA they called themselves though personally I couldn’t care a jot what they’re called as long as they pay me on time. And they do pay on time or else I’ll eat them! I’m not a Tax Inspector,” he added, “though I do know a few!”

He said this with a wicked glint in his single eye.

“Nice to meet you I’m sure,” came the stunted replies of the trio plus one.

“How did you get that wicked glint in your eye?” asked Greg.

“There was a sale on recently at ‘Glints-R-Us’. I got it at a fifty percent discount and counted it as a tax-deductible expense,” explained Regan.

“Was it half price because it was for only one eye?” asked Greg.

Regan ignored him though made a mental note about the correct oven temperature for cooking Goblins, and what would be the most suitable Vegetables and sauce.

“And Garlic bread, “mumbled Regan.

“What?”

“So you’re off in search of legends?” said Regan, changing the subject.

“That’s right,” returned Steve, still nervous over his upcoming Tax return. “Do you know much about self-assessment?”

The Orc laughed.

“Not really my field. These days I’m much happier advising on Mutual and Trust funds, Pension Planning and Will Writing.”

There was a pause.

The Orc took a large chug of his beer.

 As he put the glass down he asked, “So which one of you has the distressed arse?”

Hanny smiled. “A learned Orc! A rare treat. So if you know of the legend you know the answer to your Question.”

“Well little Pixy,” said the Orc, “caught with your hand in the tarts box. Serves you right. But it could turn out to be of mutual advantage to both of us!”

“Meaning?”

“Well you see my lovely wife Ena needs a bit of a holiday. She’s a lovely girl but she still has a bit of a desire to walk on the wild side. You know we Orcs became sophisticated many moons ago. We realised that there comes a point when it really just isn’t worth fighting against the system. What you have to do is get inside the system if you want to change it. So that’s what we do these days. We control the system surreptitiously from within. Everyone on the planet now keeps good financial records and as such we have almost alleviated poverty and reduced corporate excess. Except of course with the King and Queen. In spite of this I’m sure that will come. Lord Chalfont has more than a passing sympathy for the Ways of The Accountant. And Kings don’t last forever.”

Hanny felt an uneasy shiver in her spine as he said this.

“So what can we do you for pal?” asked the agitated Goblin.

“As I said we get throwbacks in our race, Orcs with a desire for the wildlife. My wife Ena is one such Orc. And I just thought if you lot were on a trip into the wild searching for legends then perhaps you could take her with you.”

“Look Regan,” began Peter, “we have a nice little team here ready to take on the world in the search for a Permanent Cure for Sore Bums. We’re happy. Why would we want another member of the team? More specifically why would we want the company of an Orc who thinks she’s born to be wild?”

“Excellent points and well made. But let me ask you this, who would want to come under the close scrutiny of a team of Tax Inspectors. Who would want every penny of income checked and double checked by some of the most boring but dangerous creatures on the planet?”

*

The next morning the five travellers set off from the ‘Slug and Rider’ much invigorated. As a sign of his gratitude Regan had agreed to pay all of the bills for the quartet, knowing he would be able to claim it back as travel expenses. Regan was a bully and knew how to get his way.

Ena was an irritating bitch.

She was also the oddest-looking Orc any of them had ever seen, even including all of the fiscally aware characters in Banks and Building Societies. Ena had a large mouth that rarely stopped talking, displaying an awesome set of pointy gnashers. She also had ridiculously large ears that looked as though someone had glued two half’s of a saucer to either side of her head.

Ena immediately wanted to take charge of the group, claiming she had scored one hundred percent in a map reading competition. By lunch time they were lost. Ena said ‘what do you expect if you try to lead Goblins or Gnomes anywhere; they are stupid creatures with no sense of direction. Hanny said ‘what do you expect when we don’t even have a map to read’.

Ena dismissed this comment and demanded lunch of cheese and chutney sandwiches with Ribena.

´Through a weird twist of fate and a weird twist of a wormhole, it once came to pass that a Dead Famous Writer picked up the tale of Dumbell Ena, though got confused between a very small person and a person with a very small brain. Still, it kept Danny Kaye happy for a while.

Ena did keep them all entertained with her stupidity. Whilst walking through the Woodland she admitted to enjoying the sight of a Lumberjack with a marvellous chopper; she constantly gave all of the mountains their wrong names; and whilst crossing a rather murky stream asked ‘what are water purification tablets used for? When she noticed the label on Steve´s T-shirt she said ‘yes that´s about right, your name must be ‘S’!’

The other four grimaced at the daftness which carried an air of menace.

Yet somehow, despite the trials and tribulations the jovial five made their way slowly south, inching day by day toward the fabled Lake of the Multi-Coloured Gloompty Fish.

Well that is assuming that South is the right direction for the Lake, which might not exist.

Chapter 8

At the sign of the Slug and Rider.

The afternoon wore on and the Sun sank her heavy head toward the horizon. In a twirl of mysticism the Sun sang, and she wants us all to know that she gets tired too and is glad of the night so she can rest. The quartet trudged south though still in high spirits. They were not far from the City and still felt safe. There would not be any Ogres or Trolls in this region, though you can never be too sure if there was swashbuckling or derring do available.

Eventually they hit a trail that led southeast. They debated the validity of following the track. Some said that southeast meant it was travelling east with a bit of south thrown in. Others said it was travelling south with a bit of east thrown in. There were those who claimed it must be travelling half way between South and East which was why it was called south east. Hanny gave a partial explanation of the difference between East South East and South South East, which merely left Peter picking at his magic undies and Steve experimenting with counting his toes. The debate raged on. There was agreement to follow it providing it didn’t go east too much; the argument that it would take them south, too, left a couple of them lost.

Eventually Fairy Hanny interrupted.

“You three are like twins,” she said. “If you would just stop and listen to me I’ll tell you exactly where this road goes. It travels southeast from here, and admittedly at first it is a bit more east than south. However it eventually gets to be more south than east. Nevertheless the point being that I know this road leads to a fantastic pub called ‘The Slug and Rider’. It’s a good place to spend the night, though you have to be wary as it does tend to get full of Orcs.”

“Filthy money grabbers,” said Steve.

“I hope you’re not behind on you tax payments,” said Hanny, “or there will be one less mouth to feed tomorrow morning, and one fat Orc who will not need to attend breakfast!”

As they walked on Peter asked Hanny to tell them more about the pub they were going to. It was such an unusual name. Most of the hostelries he knew had more predictable names like ‘The Kings Head’ or ‘The Queens Legs’ or ‘The Princes Toupee’. Of course there were the odd ones found in Pixy Ville such as ‘The Pointed Hat and Ears’ and ‘The Acorn and Toadstool’ and the legendary ‘Magic Pouf!’

But ‘The Slug and Rider’?

Bizarre.

“It comes from the deep and distant past, from the times of the Great Wars between The Fairies and the Orcs. It was in the reigns of the Great Fairy Kings such as Grayson, Inman and Howard that the wars with the Orcs were at their most fierce. The Orcs had war lords like Krakk Ed, Gut Eata and Death-Becomes-You. They were savage and bitter times. The wars were always in the balance, each side looking for an advantage. Then one of the Orcs remembered the Giant Slugs that roam wild in the Far East. It was said that these Slugs could Slime an enemy to death in no time at all. The Orcs sent scouting parties to find the beasts. The first few Orcs underestimated the power of the Slugs and were swamped in slime trails, a sight horrific to behold. Then Gaz Guzzla, a fierce Orc warrior, managed to sneak up on one of the semi-comatose Slugs; he quickly lashed a rope around its head and began to ride it. Legend has it, it took four days of bucking and bouncing until the Slug finally tired and gave up the fight, having slithered hundreds of yards and left a slime trial bigger than you’d find in the toilets at a Miss Universe competition. Then Gaz played his clever hand. He had a team of Orcs standing by for this moment, and as the beast gave up the fight the team ran out brandishing the leaves of many hardy perennials. The Slug was delighted, taking the proffered leaves with glee. It didn’t take long before this first Great Slug was tamed by the Orcs. The Orcs called it ‘Slippy’. 

After Gazs’ success with Slippy it wasn’t long before the Orcs had control of many hundreds of the Giant Slugs. They formulated a massive mounted attack on the City of Setebos. Now you must remember that although they are slugs they move much faster than the slimy little gits that ruin most Hostas. So here we have the scenario. Over one thousand Orc warriors mounted on their Giant Slugs began a devastating charge on Setebos across the flatlands that lie to the East of the City. It was a fascinating though frightening sight to behold, according to the stories that have come down over the ages and that. The cries of death and torment from the Orcs mixed with the deafening slither of one thousand Giant Slugs!”

“So what happened?” asked Peter, totally taken up with the tale.

“To the East of the City lies the great Plain of Yaw Wrasse. Long ago in the time before time, well a time before my time, anyway, the Great Plain was a shallow sea called the Suckitan Sea. It was filled with Cod and Codling, Salmon and Trout, Hake, flat nosed Flukes, magnificently coloured Wrasse, John Dory and Finny Haddock.”

“And Pollack’s?” asked Peter.

“No it’s true. Lots of fish; they were caught regularly to feed the city. We even had our Soles. As time went by the stocks got lower, and the sea began to dry up. The water level lowered and most of the fish died. But one species seemed to thrive in the ever-increasing shallow salty waters. It was a Wrasse that seemed to pitch and roll a lot. The people began to call it the Yaw Wrasse. The waters got lower and lower so that the fishermen could just walk out and nonchalantly kick up Yaw Wrasse, catch them in a net and serve them for supper with chips, mushy peas and curry sauce.”

“Even so the water got lower and lower until there was nothing left. No fish. No water. Just a massive salt Plain.”

“So what was happening?” asked Steve, being a curious little (though hardy) fecker.

“As the mounted Slug cavalry got closer to the City they began to slow down. This is very unusual as cavalry normally speed up on the final charge. Everyone wondered what was happening. Had the Orcs devised a new strategy? Then The Slugs stopped; one by one across the great open space the Slugs stopped and began to melt. It was only then that we all remembered that the plain on the east side of the City was a big salt flat. The Orcs had killed their mounts due to poor planning and preparation. It is said that nearly all of the Great Slugs died that day, and few can now be found in the East. Oh look we’re here,” continued Hanny as they approached the inn.

“The Slug and Rider.”

“That was a lovely tale thank you Hanny,” said Peter. “And we didn’t have to describe the scenery on the way!”

Chapter 7

What happens next?

They sat together in the Great Hall. Now they were seven, Queen Dillberry would have to play keyboards.

Rooty toot toot!

The pondering had long since finished and all seven were now deep in dialogue. Peter was more than happy with his newly acquired underclothing, though a little perturbed at the potential embarrassment and inherent danger of bending over with his rear end pointing up toward the Moon. Greg felt the outcome so far had been successful and quietly fulfilling, though he knew the task wasn’t over yet. This would be nothing more than a temporary respite.

A chance to draw breath.

A chance to draw little sticks men in the corners of a book and animate them to produce a very poor cartoon effect.

A chance to ask the King and Queen what is blowing in the wind.

A chance to write and talk in clichés, as it were.

A chance to play strip poker with three lovely young ladies.

No chance.

The Fairies felt it was time to bring the travellers down to the ground.

They pointed out that despite the pleasure given by the magic underpants it was only a brief measure and to find permanent relief Peter would have to travel deep inside his head, and deep inside the interior of the continent to search for a Permanent Cure.

“Is there such a thing as a Permanent Cure for the Dukes!?” asked Hanny.

“Legend says there is…” said the Queen.

“Well let´s ask Legend then,” said Greg.

 “…but the journey is perilous,” continued Dillberry, ignoring the stupidity of the diminutive Goblin. “Many have attempted it, none have returned. It is written that the Quest involves a journey Down South to find the Fabled Lake of the Gloompty Fish. There the intrepid explorer must find a Bold Imp with a Sturdy Boat that will take the courageous adventurer out into the middle of the Great Fabled Lake. Then he must sort out his tackle and begin the Herculean task of fishing for the Great Gloompty Fish. After writhing and fighting the Monster fish for many hours he will land the catch on the Sturdy Boat and bas h the fecker to death. At the end of this arduous task the Hero must rapidly get back to the shore of the Town on the edge of the Great Fabled Lake of the Gloompty Fish, find the legendary Imp who extracts potions from Strange Fabled Creatures and persuade this other Hero to extract the oil from the Magical Liver of the Gloompty Fish. Legend then says applying this fresh Liver Oil to the affected parts will lead to a Permanent Cure for the Dukes!”

“Well that sounds just fabulous,” said Peter. “I suppose I’d best be off as soon as I can. It’s me with the sore bottom and me that needs to cure it. So Queenie, if you could just give me a map and a bit of scran to see me through the next few days then I’ll be off love.”

“It could just be a fable,” added the Queen.

The Queen smiled at him, her beast like face almost betraying a touch of childhood beauty.

“No way young Pixy. You can’t undertake that journey alone. I would expect that your facially challenged friend (she grimaced at Greg) at least he will want to travel with you. And I will grant you a further companion. I will send one of my lovely Fairy Maidens with you.”

Hanny, Nouf and Thanthat all looked eagerly toward the Queen. They were all eager to take any chance to get out of washing the floppy flappy flabby bits of the Majestic King.

Dillberry looked from one to the other then back again. She knew that Innocent had more than an inkling in his dinkling for Hanny.

“It will be Fairy Hanny all the way!” declared the Queen,” She will be a good guide for you and is skilled in many tongues; I hear many great compliments regarding her tongue work. Besides she will be able to monitor your use of the Magic Underpants, report back to me on their effectiveness ensuring they are fit for purpose. It´s always important to have standards and meaningful targets, don´t you know! And if you eventually get the Fabled Bum Cure I would hope that Hanny would bring back any spare Gloompty Fish Liver Oil for my experiments.”

Greg bowed. “Majestic Queen Dillberry, I will gladly travel with Peter. He needs my looks and my brains if we are to make any progress.”

“That’s that failed then,” said the King in an aside to Nouf.

“And Majesty I too will be more than pleased to travel on this Quest,” said Hanny. “This journey to destroy the burning ring. It will be an amusement; it will get me away from having to scrub the hygienically challenged Monarch, a pleasure I can survive without for as long as necessary!”

“That’s settled then,” said the Queen. “See ya!”

With that the Pixy, the Goblin and Fairy Hanny departed the Great Hall, with its fine columns, its four walls and its roof, to head Down South to the fabled land of the Lake of the Gloompty Fish.

What adventures would befall them?

What fun would they have?

Would there be any shenanigans with two guys and one doll?

Would they meet many strange and interesting characters that seemed too outlandish to be true?

It was time to make preparations.

 Hanny took charge of this and put together packs of food and spare clothing. Being a logical and highly intelligent young gal she put each of the prepared goods into packs and labelled them. There were eight packs in all so she wrote down the contents on a list and labelled them from ‘A’ to ‘H’. She then assigned the packs amongst the three of them.

She made sure that Peter was carrying preparation ‘H’.

They left the Great Castle of Setebos via door number three, turned right, went up the road and bumped into Steve of the Guard. Being a nosey Gnome he asked how it had gone, what was happening, any juicy gossip to tell the guys as they stagged on overnight?

“What’s the buzz, tell me what a happening is!” he said.

Hanny explained the scenario and the Quest to a scintillated Steve.

“Sounds cool,” said the Head of the Guard, “any chance of coming with you?”

“But what about your duties here?” asked Hanny.

“By the sign of the Fishing Rod and Wheelbarrow I am absolutely bored shitless! It’s crap! I’d rather watch paint dry or be eaten by a fabled multi-coloured fish. This isn’t the life for me! I want adventure! I want to see mountains! See Trolls and be away with the Fairy´s!”

“And that´s going to happen,” mumbled Greg.

So it was that that evening Peter the Pixy, Greg the Goblin, Steve the Gnome and Fairy Hanny headed out of the West Gate of the Great City of Setebos.

They walked several miles before one of them remembered that the Quest lay Down South. So turning left they set off on what would be the Greatest Adventure of their lives, a Magnificent Swashbuckling Tale on the Quest to find a Permanent Cure for the Dukes!

Chapter 6

Of Gold mines and magic undies.

The sextet could have formed a magical jazz band. Innocent would have to be the drummer what with being fat and lazy, with Greg on the double bass – his overlong arms and squat legs made him ideal to handle the instrument, while his ugly face would look cool if adorned with shades. Peter would have a choice of instruments but would no doubt go for virtuoso guitar, sitting down to play as this suggests a more studied approach to music. The three babes would form the brass section and vocals. Hanny would play alto sax, caressing the long slender metal as she oozed each silky note; Nouf the trumpeter would cradle the moon with its bright shiny notes; Thanthat would play trombone and sing with a deep sexy voice that could turn saints into jazz fans.

King Innocent and his Unstable Mates play ‘Blues on Uranus’.

Radical.

They left the Great Hall with all its attributes – walls and roof and that – sliding off amongst the highways and byways that formed the Majestic Castle of the Fairy Kings of Setebos. Soon they were descending below ground, past the long disused dungeons, past the food stores (Peter was not tempted), and on toward the Magic Cellars of Queen Dillberry.

It was rumoured all over the planet that the Queen dibbled and dabbled in Magic. Everybody hoped that she dealt in Good Magic or White Magic as it is known, though many of the noble Fairies wanted to see some of that old Black Magic called love. Was the Queen a Black Magic woman? There are many dark secrets in Black Magic, but we won’t look into them as it may spoil our appetite.

They entered a room filled with bubbling cauldrons, smokes, fumes and strange coloured liquids. The smell was foul; there were bits of animals lying on worktops and odd-looking roots were arranged on shelves. There were jars containing potions and powders with strange labels like ‘Mango Chutney’ and ¨Piccalilli´ and ´Gherkins´ and ´Crabs dicks.

“I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere as we appear to be in the kitchens,” said the King.

It took a little more pondering and deliberating but they eventually reached the magic workshop of the Queen. The four Fairies had been here on the odd occasion; the King liked to see his Fairy Queen now and again. To the dynamic duo it was a place of awe. There were jars of green and yellow goo on the shelves; sticks; cauliflowers and potatoes with eyes; there were four and twenty years ago, baked in a pie; the were runes and prunes; nuts and bolts; there was a magic dog that made a bolt for the door and a guinea pig that made a run for a rabbit; there were birds that sing and bees that sting, a frog that walks and a dog that talks; they came upon a child of God who was walking along the road; there was a magical mystery tour just waiting to take them away; there were three blind mice training guide dogs; and there in the corner stood the wonderful Queen Dillberry, clearly a salad dodger just like her beloved King, but with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

“Hello love,” said the King, “I’ve brought a couple of the lads around for a pint. Oh and one of them’s got a sore bum he’d like some advice on! Come on girls, get us a drink.”

As the handmaidens searched for a few beers Queen Dillberry looked deep into the eyes of the frightened Pixy.

“I suppose I should shout ´off with his head!’ but I´ll leave that to another fantastic Queen.

“And there could be a copyright problem too,” suggested Hanny, practical as ever.

“Well yes – just copy it if it seems right,” said the Queen.

The Queen pondered and looked askance.

“Off with his head!” she shouted.

“And off his head we have done,” muttered Hanny, “with what shall we do with it?”

“Say that again!”

“What shall we do with his head when it comes off?” asked Nouf.

“Fairy Nouf, good Question, “said the Queen and pondered some more.

“Give it to Lord Chalfont,” suggested the pondered Queen.

“Oh my love, “said the King. “You´re always saying give Head to Lord Chalfont! It´s not really his role to be collecting Heads. He collects taxes!”

“Fair enough,” said the Queen.

“Yes Your Majesty?”  said fairy Nouf.

The Queen decided it was time to look askance again.

Peter looked upon her doubtfully. Would he lose his head? Quite a price to pay for a Fairy Tart and a sore arse.

“Worry not oh anally challenged Pixy! For I am the Queen Dillberry! Star of the Sea! Mother of Invention! Zapper of flies and Captain in the heart of Beef! I can kill or cure you young Pixy! Choose wisely or the consequences could be fatal!”

“A cure would be best I think your ladyship.”

“You chose well my young friend. Tell me what can ail thee, sprite at arms, alone and palely loitering?”

“Well if you go back a few pages you can see that I´m stricken with the Dukes! Due to having one of your tarts,” explained Peter.

So the Queen read the story so far.

“The Dukes! So the prophecy is true. Praise Oberon and Titania! And Puck and Quince! And a man named Vince! Oh Sweet Gene Vincent! So no more chasing after my beautiful tarts anymore?”

Peter adorned his guilty look.

“I might be tempted if they taste of raspberry,” he admitted.

“Saints preserve us!” squealed the Queen. “He likes raspberry tarts!”

“And strangled farts!”

“Oh aye!” said the Pixy. “If the most beautiful tart in the world stood before me now, tempting me to lick and munch and drool all over it, I would be able to say No! I do not want my lust turned into a stinging pain down below!”

“Even if it is a raspberry tart?”

Peter thunk it through. Raspberry?

He loved raspberry tarts, though he hadn´t tried many.

He could raspberry tart all day and be happy.

But then the bum grapes would expand.

“No! Not even a raspberry tart!” declared the pitiful Pixy.

“Good! Then I can help. Hanny!” she cried, “go to the cupboard in the back of my bedroom, the black cupboard with all the lovely pictures of hosts of golden daffodils, and open up the Golden Box. In it you will find a garment that will help our stricken companion. Go quickly girl for his arse has a burning ring of fire!”

Hanny returned after a period in which Peter and Greg felt their souls had been read by the Fairy Queen. Hanny held a small package that she handed to the Queen.

“My forbears knew of the prophecy and prepared for such an event. Long ago in the depths of time Queen Spenser sat in the light of the moon knitting her magic into this garment. The garment has the power to relieve a sore arse. I present now to you, troubled Pixy that you are, the magic underpants of the Fairy Queen Spenser!”

“Pardon?” said Peter.

“Magic underpants?” asked Greg.

“Yup!” said the Queen. “These will give better relief than CO2 or lard. However they must be looked after carefully. Too much time with the magic underpants can be addictive. They really should come with a government health warning.”

“What, like don´t smoke death sticks or drink Brownie Beer?”

“Something like that. Magic in your pants can be a bit bad,” explained the Queen.

“But what do I do oh bog eyed Majestic Queen?” asked Peter.

“Get your kecks off, chuck you lard stained trolleys away, divest your chuff of the semi-liquid lard and put these on. You’ll get instant relief.”

“Could you give me a hand please Hanny?” asked the Pixy in feigned innocence.

Hanny snorted derisively.

“If you want a hand that’s a job you can do yourself!” she said.

When Peter donned the magic pants his life changed instantly. The screeching, searing spikes that had insinuated their metaphorical presence in his rectum were immediately cast out like leftover cabbage. The tight pulsating smouldering sphincter lost its dominating authority in his brain. Freedom surged through his nether regions like a spring tide on a marsh. No longer would he walk in pain, carrying the fear of a leaking bum.

This was self-determination.

This was bliss.

Personal motivation to be the best of the best.

Yes Sir!

This was the magic underpants effect.

“Feeling better then son?” asked the King as he supped on a glass of brown ale.

“Better! I feel pretty and witty and gay!”

“Now, take care young Pixy,” warned the Queen. “You are using powerful magic; magic that can dampen the dark power of the burning ring. But beware. The magic doesn’t last forever. Those pants will need recharging every now and again if they are to maintain their effectiveness.”

Peter looked confused.

What could she mean by recharging? These pants had instantly rejuvenated his Jacksy – was she implying the effect wouldn’t last?

“The effect won’t last if they aren’t properly maintained, washed regularly and re-energised,” said the Queen.

Hanny looked at the perplexed Pixy in exasperation.

“Didn’t you listen to what her Majesty said? These are Underpants knitted in the light of the Magical Moon. Moonlight waxes and wanes! If you don’t keep them on full charge then the power will wane and you’ll be in pain!”

“Pardon me for butting in,” intruded the gob smacked Goblin, “but how exactly does one go about recharging a pair of underpants, even given that they are magic?”

“Moonlight!” chorused the Fairies.

“Moonlight?” Questioned the brave travellers.

“And roses?”  asked the King.

Fairy Thanthat folded her arms in disbelief.

“You two really are as thick as pig shit aren’t you!” she declared.

“Fair cop!” agreed the Pixy and Goblin.

“Look,” continued Thanthat. “The power of the pants will reduce over the lunar cycle. So when there is a full moon you have to recharge them. And before you ask,” she continued, preventing the thickos from interrupting, “the method is quite easy. You drop your trousers and point your underpants clad bottom at the moon.”

“In the world of magic we call this Mooning,” said Queen Dillberry.

Pondering continued for some time until Greg had the courage to ask “Which Moon does he point his bum at? After all there are seventeen.”

Fairy Hanny giggled.

“Surely it’s obvious. Oberon, King of the Fairies. Point your bum at that one!”

Chapter 5

Did you know I originally wrote this story as a Radio script? The BBC just weren’t interested so I changed it into a book!

“

Bearing Our Souls.

It was now a delight to be in the presence of the newly perfumed King, in the Great Hall with its Great Walls and Great Columns and Great Roof and Great Gargoyles. Add to that the sight of the three most gorgeous babes they had ever seen, the stars of this epic tale were finally ready to take another step in the right direction.

“As I was saying before I was turned into a powder puff; what can I do for you lads?” repeated the King.

“Before we go any further, oh majestically scented one,” said Greg. “Before we get any further could you give us a proper introduction to your lusciously lovely assistants?”

“I’d should say so too, oh fragranced one that no longer smells!” added Peter.

“Sorry lads, quite remiss of me. These are my favourite handmaidens, good for all the jobs that need to be done by hand. Let me introduce you to Fairy Hanny, Fairy Nouf and the other one.”

“Well hello ladies,” chorused the hopeful duet, eyes dancing a quick step up and down the obvious protuberances of the scrumptious trio.

“Hello lads,” they shrilled in return.

“But tell me, oh father of all things that no longer smell of Dragon shite,” continued the perplexed Pixy, “why do you call this third fair maiden ‘the other one’?”

The King looked away, the anger dancing back up his trouser leg, out of his shirt and onto his Crimson face. Anger personified!

Peter was worried. Had he accidently stood in a social dog turd, a faux pas that could get him twenty years in the doghouse?

 He turned to Hanny.

“Have I done something to offend, fair maiden?”

Hanny returned a gracious and condescending smile, like a Hollywood actor thanking a fan for pointing out what a great guy he was in his last movie.

“Not really,” said the buxom babe. “It’s just that the King sometimes has trouble in pronouncing certain names.”

“You mean like Siobhan, Niamh, Caoimhe and Aoife?” enquired Greg.

“Don´t be feckin ridiculous,” snorted Hanny. “Her name is Thanthat.”

“So it isn’t Beibhinn?”

“I can´t see how it could be any harder than those names!” stated Peter.

A glint of a memory came into Hanny´s eye. Had she travelled to the Emerald isle and the land of Faery? There was something troubling her, a memory that could not exist, and a sense of déjà vu without a view. Her vision glazed temporarily. Who is Turenn she asked herself.

Peter and Greg just assumed she had wind.

Fairy Nouf took up the tale.

“As well as starting each day smelling like a teenage boys bedroom covered in monkey ordure, the King just struggles with some names. We try not to make too big a deal of it,” she whispered conspiratorially.

“So what is the problem with saying her name?” asked Greg.

“Can´t you see,” said Nouf, “he’s the King, the most wonderful being in this Universe, the most Majestic Majesty ever!”

“And he can’t say Fairy Thanthat.”

The King smiled, then expelled his angry look, along with a large amount of home-grown methane.

“Get out and walk!” shouted the King as he airbrushed his recently changed underpants.

Peter and Greg, not being use to Royal Protocol, turned to leave the Great Hall.

Hanny and Nouf stopped them, while Thanthat giggled at their lack of sophistication.

The King chortled.

“Sorry lads,” he said, “I didn’t mean you had to get out and walk away from here. It´s just a little encouragement for the Lean Bean Machine to leave the room! You don’t want them air biscuits hanging round too long.

The boys sort of felt chastened and embarrassed; fancy not understanding what to do in the case of a Royal Anal Foghorn.

King Innocent calmed his chortle to a snigger.

“So lads; what is the problem?” he asked. “Why am I sitting here in my Great Hall waiting to listen to some petition from a hideous Goblin that is ugly as sin (no offence, and a Cardinal sin at that), and a Pixy that looks as though he has been riding a horse for the last fifty years and smells of part heated lard?”

Peter went simply red, then deep purple. The glow from his face began to light up the Great Hall and made the King even more Crimson. He tried to shift on his feet but each small movement told him that the lard was losing its effectiveness; the Dukes! were sending little spear parties deep into his jacksy. He looked lovingly into the eyes of Fairy Hanny; this was no time to beat about the bush, much as he would have enjoyed doing so; this was a time for action and honesty. And he was scared to fart.

Faint heart never won Fairy maiden.

Mind you in the annals of history a pile ridden Pixy never won a Fair maiden.

I digress.

“Your Majesty, here I am in the court of the most munificent monarch on Uranus.  I have a confession to make and a tale to tell, which might just explain the lardy smell.”

Greg nodded sagely; a decent rhyme was never a crime.

“Well hurry up lad, me dinners nearly ready!” said the King as he lifted his excess tummy flab.

“Sorry oh newly fragrant one. I stand before you, a poor humble Pixy, a forlorn hope for I have been stricken with a foul case of the Dukes!”

There was no reaction from the Fairies. They knew the implications of this confession. The dammed Pixy had been at the tarts. Fairy tarts at that. The Kings tarts, possibly. The King looked at his three lovelies. They shook their heads in denial.

No.

No way would any of these three ever consort with a Pixy, letting him help himself to a tart. They were too loyal.

He looked at Thanthat. He couldn’t say it for certain with that one.

Trust.

“How did a hairy arsed little scumbag like you get his hands on one of my tarts!” belched the King.

Peter began to shake violently. The rapidity of the shakiness caused the now partially melted lard to slip down and out of his chuff. The fear of the King outweighed the fear of losing the contents of his bottom, and slowly the life saving lard slid down his leg, like a sloppy turd escaping from the badly fitted nappy on a two-year-old.

The King grew more crimson as rage took the stage and treachery superseded lechery.

Hanny intervened.

“Majesty! It is your munificence to forgive and forget. It is obvious that our sore bottomed friend has suffered. But, on the positive side, he has proved to us that the old prophecy is true. This will be a good advert for the Kingdom. We won’t see many other reprobates wanting to suffer this type of anal embarrassment!”

The King subsided and released his pent-up anger by peppering the air with a staccato burst of trouser trumpets.

“True enough love; true enough,” said the King as he frowned upon his handmaidens clutching their noses. “In fact you really have done us a favour here young sore bum. I apologise for my harsh words but you have to admit, if you thought someone had had your tart you’d be nonplussed!”

Peter cast himself on the floor. He was filled with a mixture of shame for his actions and the pain in his arse. The tears began to flow. A shiny brownish white puddle also began to flow from the bottom of his trousers.

Greg looked to the King.

“Oh sweet-smelling sovereign! Please show forgiveness on your humble subject. Forgive him his trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us. Your tarts probably led him into temptation; now deliver him from the evil that resides in his jacksy.”

King Innocent allowed his eyes to do a little jig; there is nothing quite so fetching as a cross-eyed Fairy. Alas Innocent wasn’t particularly handsome. Never mind. He had a decision to make.

The King was far from displaying nominative determinism. When it came to temptation he gave in to his urges. He had a penchant for tarts, despite the warnings of revenge from his Queen. In the history of the Kings of Setebos, Innocent was the fattest bastard who had ever attempted to sit on the throne. His predecessors had taken care to diet properly, taking pride in their food intake. They loved fairy cakes and angel delight but knew when to stop. They understood the food pyramid, the importance of carbohydrates, proteins and fats in the correct proportions. It was the Age of the Thin Kings and all was well on Uranus.

Those days had long gone and now we have King Innocent the Salad Dodger.

He knew what is like to be tempted by a strawberry tart on a sleepy afternoon. He had his own little stick of Blackpool rock, and liked to have a nibble on it now and again.

“You’re right,” said the King, “the Pixy has suffered and will continue to suffer in his secret parts unless we can find a cure. You Goblin! Get some fresh lard up his chod bin before he starts screaming like a banshee.”

The Goblin rapidly got to work, pondering the origin of purified pig fat. Who first thought of that? Mind you who first thought of mixing hops and barley with water to make beer? And who thought reality TV would be a good thing? And who thought putting six hundred and thirty-five cheats and liars in a building would lead to good government?

There are stranger things in heaven and Earth than you would ever find on Uranus.

Hanny, Nouf and Thanthat watched in disbelief. They were used to unsoiling a fat Ruler but cramming a bum with lard was a new experience for them all.

“Can I have a go?” asked Hanny.

The remnants of Peter’s dignity careered out of control. How weird to have the girl of your dreams cramming a medicine up your troublesome chuffer. Should he be pleased with the intimacy or horrified at the loss of self-esteem? It was hard to work out. Would it be ok to ask her for a quiet drink that evening knowing that she had spent time stuffing his donk with lard?

The butt packing was soon done and Greg looked for a place to put the empty wrappers.

Time appeared to stand still for a few moments.

The six of them sat or stood in the Great Hall, with its walls and roof, not to mention its columns and windows, pondering. Each pondered in his or her own way, remembering previous times when pondering was less of a challenge.

The King intervened.

“I was just wondering as I was pondering,” he said, “as to why a Pixy and a Goblin should come in here as though they have been best friends forever. I just don´t get it. Pixies are fine enough creatures, with their little hats and pointy toed shoes, even if they do nick tarts and get the Dukes! But Goblins! Scum personified. Scum! I would not trust one as far as I could throw him!”

Greg looked at the fat bastard and realised the King probably couldn’t even throw a sprout at a Christmas Turkey.

Fairy Thanthat tried to pacify the King.

“My lord, don’t you remember you said you wanted to be more accessible to everyone on the planet. That you want to be seen as The Monarch of The Many. The King of the Kindred. The Leader of The Lowly. A friendly Fairy King with his beautiful Fairy Queen.”

“Fat chance of that, considering the bag of spanners I’m married to!”

Fairy Thanthat was taken aback; then she was taken a-sideways and a-down.

“Unfair my Lord. Queen Dillberry is one of the bestest Fairies ever. She is popular with all, even the Imps and Gremlins love her.”

“Do the Trolls love her?”

“Majesty the Trolls don’t love anyone since you sent Warwick Hunt to crush their revolution.”

The pondering continued, before turning into deliberating; after a while the pondering returned.

“You’re right as always, the other one. Why even my daughter Princess Layer says she likes Goblin friends. Bless me with the sign of Titania but you’re right! Sorry disgusting Goblin scum; didn’t mean to offend.”

“I’m not offended boss. I’m used to being at the foot of the tree. However I am a really useful Goblin when you get to know me.”

The panel continued to ponderously ponder possibilities. Was there a way to help the petrified Pixy in his Quest for a cure? Would he be forever reliant on lard? Would he ever manage to pull Fairy Hanny?

“Queen Dillberry could probably help,” said Fairy Nouf.

“Fair enough,” said the King. “Let’s go and ask her.”

Chapter 4

In the Court of the King with the Crimson Face.

It turned out to be much easier than ever to find their way there, to the Great Hall in the Great Castle in the Great City of Setebos.

They did turn left and enter door number three. From there they had to work their way along a few deep and dreary back passages but eventually they emerged from a little entrance into the Great Hall.

It was magnificent.

And Great.

And wonderful – and marvellous and that.

There were beams a plenty that stretched from floor to ceiling, majestically holding the splendour of the roof in its splendid place on top of the walls. Of walls there were four, one at each side of the Hall. Each wall consisted of bricks, magnificently place on top of each other in a Flemish bond to add strength, and magically held together by mortar. Then in his perversity the Master Builder said what is it all made of; so rendered the walls in rendering. The brilliance of the architect was shown by having windows in each wall, windows that, should the observer be fifteen feet tall, would allow one to look outside. This was majestic splendour on a magnificent scale.

From the buttresses rose magnificent gargoyle sculptures, such that, if one peered at them with a slight squint in the right eye and a fist pushed into the left side of ones head, one could easily believe the masons had captured Prime Ministers Question Time. Or the Liverpool team from 1974.

At the far end of the Hall, or the near end if you were coming in from the other side, lay a raised dais upon which stood two magnificently majestic thrones. Each throne was raised above the dais on another, smaller dais in order for the occupants to take an even more condescending view of any grovelling bastard who dared ask for extra sandwiches. The cannier observer would detect that both thrones were in fact commodes, a device that has saved many a monarch when having the shit bored out of them by whinging politicians.

Greg and Peter did not notice this as it is not really relevant, but worth mentioning in trying to understand the mind of the planners, who are also full of shite.

They looked at each other.

“What happens next?” asked Peter.

“Search me,” said Greg.

“You’ve got some coins in your left pocket, a knife in your right, lots of useful pens, a pocket watch, a fire extinguisher, a comb, two hard boiled eggs and a decent supply of lard in your ruck sack,” said Peter ten minutes later, having taken Greg literally.

“I think the Dukes! are starting to affect you mental skills,” said Greg.

“I think I have always had mental bits,” said Peter.

Just then there came the sounds of horns blazing.

‘Parp! Parp! Parpety Parp!’ went the horns.

The dynamic duo was drawn magnetically toward the dais. As the horns parped louder and louder there appeared from the side of the Great hall the Fattest Fairy imaginable, his face glowing crimson with the effort of moving. As this figure waddled carefully toward the larger of the two thrones there came a stench as though every demon in Hell had farted simultaneously: hydrogen sulphide overdose with mega portions of skatole. The pair gagged and shuddered in disbelief.

The figure sat down and looked down at his strange subjects.

“Don’t blame me lads; I’m Innocent!” he said with more than a hint of mischief in his eyes.

[It should be noted at this juncture in the story that one of the strangest things about Uranus is it is full of wormholes.  These wormholes convey not only images and stories but also notions. One of the funniest ideas to traverse the interplanetary quite extraordinary Space is the Liverpool accent. Scholars in the Greater Library of the Gods in Bootle and the What The Feck Happened Library of Alexandria can’t decide the direction in which the accent travelled; suffice it to say that the Fairies speak with a Scouse accent. If you can grasp this concept it will make the narrative even funnier. Funnier than flu.]

“What can I do for you, lads?” asked the munificent King Innocent.

The intrepid pair were still trying to get their breathing sorted. It takes some skill to breath only through the mouth; a talent achieved every night by many a drunk producing the most horrendous snoring to the annoyance of countless gorgeous young ladies. If perfected it eliminates the intensity of the smell. Schoolteachers and Nurses are highly proficient at this due to the horrible stinking environments in which they carry out their trades – I don´t mean those in their care, merely the shit they get chucked at them from governments. Mind you, taxi drivers have to be good at it too. As for sewage workers, they probably just enjoy the smell of shite.

Greg pulled himself together.

“Oh most noble and wonderful King; oh Glorious Master of all the Fairies and the lesser things of Uranus; oh tower of bulk and stoutness personified. There are many things we would like to ask. And may be so bold as to ask my first Question; why do you smell like a ton of camel droppings mixed with rotten eggs and cabbages?”

The King paused.

Pausing is all part of the game on Uranus.

The King continued his pause.

A look of anger danced across his face, down his shirt and out of his trousers. Then a smile crossed his face.

“I haven’t had a shower today yet lads, sorry! And with a chod bin as wide as mine, getting things spick and span takes a little extra support.”

The King turned to his left.

He shouted.

“Hanny! Nouf!  The other one! Come out here and make your King a little more presentable for his raggedy arsed guests!”

The music of the wordy hurdy gurdy filled the room and a scent of lavender and vanilla attempted to hide the Monarchs stench.

There emerged from a side door to the rear of the dais, in the middle of one of the walls that held up the roof, the three most gorgeous Fairy babes that either of our heroes had ever seen. They were the kind of gals that made any male want to fall in love, have babies and never spend a night in the pub with his mates ever again – ok this is a fairy story…

The young females brought in with them a large bowl of steaming hot water, towels and soap, perfumes made from the finest spices the planet could produce. Fairy Nouf ran immediately to the two travellers giving each a Nosegay, saying “This’ll mask the pong until we’ve cleaned the Gloriously Reeking Ruler!”

It took a good long time for the Malodorous Sovereign to be made presentable, in which time the two heroes sat and watched the dance of the three gorgeous handmaidens as they spruced up the bulky old git. Peter became more and more enamoured of Hanny, her hair cascading in corkscrews down her shoulders, flashing and parting to display fine young breasts enclosed in green linen. Her skull was crowned with the latest in Fairy Hairy-do’s; a v-shaped wedge that drew the viewer’s eyes up along that pretty face. Her beautiful almond eyes glowed blue in the half light of the Hall. Her waist suggested an athletic existence, the six pack tastefully covered by a short gypsy skirt. Beneath the flowing skirts he could see long lithesome legs, lovely legends living lavishly, lustful lingerie lengthening the alliteration. At the end of those lovely legs were calf high black boots, army issue, and 24 lace holes.

Fairies wear boots and you’ve got to believe me.

All three girls fluttered vestigial gossamer wings as they danced and entranced the Minging Stinking King. The Fairies have evolved on Uranus to a point where they can no longer use their wings. As they get older and slightly more tubby the wings become more colourful but less useful. These older Fairy gals refer to them as Bright Imitation Non Gliding Objects; or BINGO wings for short.

Peter had to stop looking, for fear of making a fool of himself, as a priapism attempted to keep him seated for an hour or two.

He wanted to declare his love instantly. But what would she see? A Pixy fallen on hard times, who had betrayed the trust placed in him, lying there with an arse packed with purified pig fat. Who could fall in love with such a forlorn creature?

In that instant Peter felt that Hanny had broken off a corner of his mind, a corner she would hold onto until he could rid himself of the curse of the Dukes! If he could atone for his sins then maybe she would give back that little corner of him, and he could be the Pixy he had always been. Then maybe they could live happy ever after, Pixy and Fairy in perfect harmony.

Bollocks!

Too many obstacles.  

Still, the road without obstacles never leads anywhere interesting. And if you don’t know where you’re going then you’re bound to get there.

A road to far?

Are we on the road to nowhere?

Will it be a long and winding road?

Any road, let´s continue with peter´s random thoughts…

A Fairy marry a Pixy?

Unheard of!

Peter ended his reverie as the more pleasant smells of perfume and parfum drifted up his nostrils, reminding him that Uranus can be quite a pleasant place to spend an evening. The King no longer smelt like a leather tanning factory in Morocco. He was all sweetness and light, and no longer smelt of shite. This was a new day. The aromas brought Peter back down from his musings. He could not afford to fall in love with anyone, let alone one of the Kings handmaidens.

In the midst of this romantic contemplation, Peter murmured out loud the thoughts wiggling a salsa through his imagination, “You can’t always get what you want!”

“I can!” said the King.