Fairy Hanny

Chapter 16

Trouble, trouble, trouble all the time.

The quartet were almost devastated.

It wasn’t that they had lost the sense of being a quintet along with all of the possible melodic sequences that allowed, or the chance to do an impression of the Dave Clark Five.

Take Five!

It was the loss of Ena and all it entailed. They would not miss her as she was a useless twat. It was just that she was married to Regan the Orc, a chief Financial Advisor and associate of Tax Collectors. The Orcs were known to dislike their wives intensely but they had such a primal family loyalty that it made them scary creatures to deal with.

Very, very scary.

Scarier than the scariest thing you could ever think of, adapted by Hollywood and put into a scary movie. Though scary movies are actually becoming quite jolly really. I mean an old-style scary movie that used to make you go hide under the sofa because you were scared so much you thought you were going to produce a liquid evacuation in your pants.

That’s how scary an Orc can be.

How could they explain it to big Regan?

“Well you see boss you had never introduced her to the little man in the boat. So when the opportunity arose she went for it. She’s probably living on a little island with the little man in a little-known part of a little-known sea.”

It wouldn’t wash. Not the sea; the sea would wash up and down the shore with the seagulls flitting alongside the puppies. No, the suggestion that Ena was cooped up in a love nest with some fictitious little man. That wouldn’t wash. Actually it was a disgusting mental image that made Peter want to wash his brains in a bowl of soup, preferably mulligatawny.

So how could they explain the disappearance? After all big Regan had expected them to take the half-witted wife and broaden her mind with travel. Some of her more recent utterances did suggest that things were working in that direction as she had come out with a few useful comments. But it wouldn’t sustain; he would see through it and eat them all.

“He wouldn’t eat me,” said Hanny, “not without risking a fresh set of wars with the Fairies.”

“He wouldn’t eat me either. I’d give him the shits!” said Greg.

Peter and Steve didn’t feel quite so confident. There was little that could save them from becoming a Fictitious Character Burger, not unless they could contract some life-threatening illness, a bug that was passed on through the food chain. Perhaps they should coat themselves in Salmonella.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it!” stated Hanny in her controlling manner.

“What bridge?”

“The one that crosses the deep ravine at the southern end of Wails. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she explained.

“And how are we going to explain the disappearance of that annoying twat Ena?” asked the exasperated Pixy.

“I think what we will do is say that she met a handsome vagabond Orc called Geoff, fell in love with him and move to the land of the Frozen Nobbs!”

“That will work. Not!”

“Well if anyone can come up with a better story get it written down and sent off to a literary agent. Meanwhile let’s hit reality. We still have a long way to go to the fabled Lake of The Gloompty Fish. It may not exist, hence the term fabled. In spite of this if we ever do get there we have to catch one of the two headed monsters, land it, strips its guts out and extract the anti-bottom fouler from its liver. We then have to get home. If we survive all that then I’m sure we will be able to think of a way of dealing with big Regan!” explained Hanny.

“We could just kill him,” said Steve laconically.

They mused on this point, deciding that should they return from the Quest and get any hassle from big Regan then this was probably the best course.

“Should have thought of that first,” said Peter, hindsight being his forte.

The day was drawing toward lunchtime when Hanny felt it was time to bid farewell to her old friends. She would dearly have loved to stay at Both, to go running along the coastal path and back into her old haunts in Fanovabba. On the other hand she was on a Quest which had to take priority. Her thoughts flew back to the last great mission she had completed – the search for the Holey Grate, a valuable relic that kept the fire going in King Innocent’s bedroom. She felt there had been others but couldn’t recall if they had actually happened or if they were dreams outside of Time. Her puzzled brain chased a couple of ephemeral images – King Grumbleflick and the Sons of Turenn.

Reality or Dreams?

Dreams or Reality?

Or was it just my imagination, running away with me?

We shall see.

Besides, returning to the playground of ones youth is not always a good idea. Much of the fun is based around the people who were there at the time, not the place itself. When all those old companions have passed on to play the next level in the game of life, going back to the start can be quite disappointing, like sliding down the snake when you’re almost at the top of the ladder; Or being made redundant after a successful career in marketing and then having to get a job as an office junior even though you’re approaching pensionable age; Or spending a lifetime as a Priest and then finally admitting on your seventieth birthday that you are an atheist with anarchistic tendencies whose real ambition had been to undermine the state and all it stands for, whilst bedding supermodels to the delight of the tabloid hacks; Or spending twenty five years teaching Mathematics when really you wanted to build a garden railway.

Peter, Greg and Steve sat on the patio of the lovely house of His Senses while the Fairies went to the bottom of the garden to say their goodbyes. It was a favourite place for Fairies as Elsie and Yvette demonstrated. Nobody really understands why they like to congregate there, possibly something to do with Fairy Feng Shui or Mythical Motivators. Whatever the reason the six luscious ladies had a group hug at the bottom of the garden, a case of pseudo-erotic delight for the three lads. Peter felt he would like to stay here forever, watching the friendly bonding of these pretty, cute bosomed pals, sipping a cool glass of wine as the Sun goes down and the ladies kiss each other goodnight.

It would not do.

He had a Quest to fulfil.

He had a sore arse to fill full.

He dithered. It was a pleasure to wear the magic underpants; why not just keep them forever. They could all stay here in Wails. Steve and Greg would get used to being the playthings of the banshees, breeding new mongrel characters that would eventually exist only in nightmares. In fact a Goblin/Gnome/Banshee cross breed would make a marvellous character in a horror movie; or become a premiership footballer.

This was not the answer. It was not even the Question. The Quest your on is the Question. He knew his thoughts were being influenced by the overdose in his jacksy. The pile relief prevented him from reasoning clearly. He had agreed with King Innocent to search for the legendary Permanent Cure so he would continue on his way. The sunshine in Fanovabba was not enough to stop him.

To Hell with it, he thought, my arse needs an anal solution; I will go on and be cured. I will forsake the dubious sexual curiosity that has been engendered in me by these six birds. It is time to stamp my mark on the History of the planet. I will find the Gloompty Fish and I will obtain the Permanent Cure. I will be a success!

“Are you talking to yourself?” asked Greg, watching the interplay of mouth movements and facial gyrations.

“What if I am, bandy boy!”

Even Greg could tell that Peter was no longer himself.

“Who are you now Peter?” Questioned the gullible Goblin.

“Peter the Great! Tsar of all The Bottoms. Ruler of all the Piles! King of the Swingers and Garden Gate to the stars!”

Hanny came rushing across – she had heard the outburst as she parted the group hug. What could be wrong?

“He’s going into total meltdown! He’s really put too much power into his bottom and his system can’t take it!”

“What can we do?” asked Steve.

“We need to calm him down, give him some packets of crisps, preferably Prawn Cocktail, some Earl Grey tea and a cool bath. We call this overcooking!” she explained.

Peter opened one eye.

“You can call it what you want but I call it messing with the kid!”

Chapter 15

Overdose.

The group sat on the beach at Both, watching the waves coming in and going out. They sat in two groups of five, the local delicious Fairies and the five travellers. To a casual observer it may have appeared that they sat as two alternative groups, six Fairies and four travellers. To the more discerning observer they could have been identified as yet a different two groups, seven female and three male. To an observant onlooker they may have appeared as three groups, being six Fairies, three males and a very ugly female Orc with ears like saucers. To the pedant it was six Fairies, a Goblin, a Gnome, a raggedy arsed Pixy and an Orc with a face like a bag of spanners. Which ever spectator we want to be we would have come to the same conclusion; there were ten of them sitting on the beach and the sky was filled with a myriad of rainbows.

Hanny was buried deep in the inner turmoil of her soul. She was afraid to admit that she had any feelings for Peter. He was a Pixy, she a Fairy and never the twain should meet. And yet she wanted to meet his meat. She felt an attraction that had been beyond her innermost self for so long that she felt it was a betrayal. Or some other soppy shit she couldn’t explain. Maybe it was a lust for life or a life for lust.

She tried a pragmatic point of view. She was a handmaiden to the King, a doyen of the Royal Court and one of the best-looking babes on the planet, a trustee of the King’s knickers. He was a maverick Pixy, a stealer of tarts and becoming increasingly addicted to the Magic in his Pants. If she got any closer her friends here would remind her of the heartbreak she had endured with the last waster who had dipped his periwinkle into her salty sustainer, followed by her resolve to never be involved with a male ever again in the entire future history of the Universes. Still, what else are friends for?

She looked sideways at Peter as he dug his toes into the sand. It was amusing to watch him with that miniature spade, excavating a tiny hole around each toe to ensure it was well and truly buried; she wondered if he would place a diminutive tombstone at the head of each digit. Observing the small feat on his feet she was glad not to be lack toes intolerant.

No body was speaking.

Each of the travellers and each of the hosts were buried deep within their own thought processes, each looking into their souls for a way forward in this game we call life. Apart from Dumbell Ena who lacked the capability to think much beyond her next meal or her next visit to the hairdressers.

Hanny was falling for Peter and she hated herself for it. Such vulnerability: to rely on another person to feel complete? Why give up that independence and commit to someone else? No more nights out with the girls without being asked what time you’ll be home. Having to ask for money when your pride forbids it. No more lounging round in sweaty pyjamas on a Saturday morning because you can’t be arsed to wash your hair and trim your lady garden. Relationships, she thought, who bloody needs them!

She resisted.

An intimate relationship would mean giving up her freedoms. No longer could she pop out for a drink with the girls when she felt like, or go training in the art of Scum Removal from Kings, or take a holiday on her own with her friends here in Both. Would her friends start to judge her based on Peter’s characteristics? Would she be judged by Peter’s friends, not that he had any apart from Greg. The whole dating game was just such an emotional and social minefield that she felt she may as well make do with chocolate and the occasional sneeze.

Alas for poor Hanny, she could not get inside of Peters’ head at this moment or else she would have felt a new dread enter her soul. As he sat this jolly sunny morning contemplating the golden sands of the Bay of Both, Peter was feeling a new ecstasy, one that was distracting him from Hanny. Last night he had taken his first overdose of moonlight in his Magic Underpants and the experience had thrilled him. Not only did the pants remove his burning sphincter pain but they added a new definition of happiness; just sitting in your undies watching the stars.

Peter wore the Enchanting Underpants as a necessary evil to cover the pain brought on by his misdeeds. He accepted they were designed to keep the pain at bay. He had not realised that if overcharged the Pants gave a pleasure in themselves, a pleasure he had not expected. He watched the sunshine on the water and longed for it to go down. He was planning to give the pants another top up tonight when nobody was watching. He was starting on the road to nowhere, the land where people lived for the dreamlike pleasure that came into their bodies. Not that he really needed to top up. It would just be for fun this one time, and then he’d follow Hannys instructions on the safe medical use of Magical Undercrackers.

His philosophical musings were aborted by the screeching of Dumbell Ena.

“What’s that out there?” she squealed.

They all looked.

At first nobody could see anything. Then far on the horizon they became aware of movement. They were unsure at first but slowly made out the outline of a small boat.

“Can you tell what it is yet?” asked Greg, astonished at the power of Ena’s eyes.

Ena looked flushed. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

“I can’t believe I’m seeing this,” she droned. “It is a myth from long ago. A legend dwelt upon by the female Orcs. A fairy tale that few of us really believe but I think it might be coming true for me today!”

The others were astonished at such lucidity from the moronic gargoyle impressionist. Peter and Hanny forgot their personal internal infernal denial problems, becoming intrigued at the Orcs’ uttering.

A legend for female Orcs?

How could it be a fairy tale if it was passed on by Orcs? Surely it was an Orcy tale.

“Tell me about the myth,” said Steve.

Ena shuddered and closed her eyes.

“I think I found the little man in the boat,” she said.

“What is the significance of the little man in the boat?” asked Hanny.

Ena sat down with a strange smile on her face and a new glow to her leathery skin.

“It is said amongst the lady Orcs that if we ever should achieve pleasure in this life then we must find the little man in the boat. And there he is out on the horizon, tossing about in the stormy sea. Is he coming this way?” she asked.

Ginger Spiderlegs stood up on her feet, leaning forward to peer out to sea. As she stood in this position the three lads imagined they were in heaven.

“I think I’ve found him,” said Ginger, “even though he is quite small. He is sitting there just in the prow of his boat. I don’t think he is coming our way; I think he will head back out to sea.”

“No!” screamed Ena. “He can’t just leave like that. I must get to know him better. I want to know more about him, his habits, his up and downs. What pleases him and what distresses him. I want more!”

With that she stood up and ran down the beach to the water side.

She hesitated for a short while then plunged into the sea. It was icy cold at first but she moved forward anyway.

“Come back little man! Don’t leave me this way! I can’t survive without your love; don’t leave me this way!”

With that she was gone.

A huge wave took her out to sea.

The remaining nine, being the original ten with one now departed, stood horrified at the waters edge. They saw Ena’s head pop up from below the waves occasionally but could not be sure it was really her; perhaps it was a seal or a porpoise or even the fin of a blue shark, creatures not that uncommon on Uranus, surprisingly.

Then nothing.

The sea calmed.

There was no sign of the boat with the little man and no sign of Ena.

The nine stood forlorn. Once they had been ten but no longer. One of their number had gone thus leading to the inevitable truth that ten take away one left nine.

Nine bodies stood on the beach, trying to feel a sense of loss.

Greg summed up their feelings; “Thank feck we’re rid of that hideous bitch!”

Times

There are Times

When I would like to travel again

To Lala

To Sara

To Aisha;

To revisit

The fun

We had?

Or was it just lust?

To Irada

Unfortunately named

By my siblings,

In that weird handstand.

An Tasha;

Natalya;

Natalie;

Talya;

All for one.

Whoever we were,

Dance with me.

Dance me without Tiffany.

You said no commitment.

No.

Until Manchester.

Chapter 14

Problems in Both.

The approach to the coast turned out to be very pleasant. The smell of the salt in the air made their spirits rise and the thought of a good nights kip surrounded by hot chicks, and the possibility of fresh meat for the Orc babe, made them so much more contented.

Except for Peter.

He had spent some of the walk explaining to Hanny how much he liked her, how they were great pals and how much he would love to hold her hand for just a short while. They did hold hands for a part of the journey but as they got closer to her friends’ house in Both, she had let go of his grip.

What was the problem he had asked?

It was a sign of her softening that she took time to explain things to the befuddled pile ridden pesky Pixy. Hanny had spent many times in Both enjoying life with her friends, cavorting, singing and dancing at the bottom of the garden. Then one day she met a handsome Fairy Man on a visit to Fanovabba. She fell in love with dashing Fairy called Sizzling Quisling and gave herself fully to him in her desire to be loved. As in all such Fairy stories he turned out to be a bit of a knob head. After a few magic sessions together he dumped her and ran off with the girl from the next Village. This had broken Hanny’s heart, especially as it took ages to get the grass stains off her skirt. She considered the negativity of drifting into the life of a Banshee. Fortunately her friends pulled her out of this mood and made her strong again. Hanny vowed never to fall for the same sort of prick again. She had no desire to show her vulnerability in front of these old acquaintances, so did not want to appear to be attached to Peter in any way. Really, what kind of Fairy could get attracted to a Pixy with a butt full of grapes?

Peter was devastated.

His heart, lungs and loins went all a fluster. His knees knocked, teeth chattered and elbows throbbed. His eyes crossed and uncrossed, like a light show on the sea front. His meat and two veg shrivelled in anticipation as though they would never be used for anything more exciting than a ham shank. He wanted to scream at the heavens, discard his magic underpants and run away from them all and cast himself off a tall cliff into deep oblivion.

Then he remembered there were five other groovy chicks waiting at the house in Both and he grinned the grin of a grinning grinner.

He had fallen behind the crew as he was lost in wanderlust. Looking ahead he could see they had stopped outside a beautiful white cottage, surrounded in roses, honeysuckle, Cotoneasters, Purple Helmet flowers, Red hot pokers and Daddy-O-Reilly’s. It was a magical sight to behold. Peter trotted forward to catch up and suddenly felt a slippery squelch beneath his left foot.

“Be careful,” shouted Hanny. “They have a dog!”

This beautiful Chocolate Box Magical house had originally belonged to an Aromatherapist called Orange Blossom Jones, a wonderful Fairy Magician who believed you could cure anything with the right smell. She loved to invite guests around and say ‘smell my finger’ as she had prodded into some moist vessel of delight. She had named the house His Senses.

As Peter came to His Senses his olfactory powers were being offended by the portion of plop deposited by the mystical hound.

The house was now occupied by Hanny’s friends.

They knocked and the door was opened, which is not that unusual.

“Good day to you!” said the luscious Fairy as she opened the door. “And what´s that fecking smell?”

As she un-wrinkled her nose she took in the rag tag assembly before her.

“Hanny is that really you!” she shouted in delight.

The door gaped wide and out streamed five of the most beautiful Fairies in the Universe. God knows why, but this collection of Fairies was the most delectable any traveller is ever likely to encounter on any planet in any Universe. They could induce a priapism in anyone, even in Grumbleflick, the wan King of the Witches who was apparently dead. These gals would put the Playboy Mansion to shame.

The Pixy, the Goblin and the Gnome had to sit down immediately for fear of seeming too interested. The five Fairies hugged and kissed Hanny in a way that could have been the introductory scene to a special kind of movie that led to a heart attack in an aging gentleman.

“Come! Come! Come one and all!” said their host as she led the quintet indoors.

We nearly did, muttered the lads.

In the cheery glow of the fire they went through the introductions. Hanny began with the three lads and ended with “… and this ugly bitch is the wife of an Orc that bullies for a living.”

The Fairy who had first welcomed them introduced herself as Mary Hinge and acquainted the five travellers with the four remaining dolls.

“This is cute Ann Jyner, Ginger Spiderlegs, Camilla Toe and Sugar Plum Bottom,” she explained as the four charmers smiled and curtsied their welcomes.

In a phantasmagorical act of perception Peter suddenly realised why they were such good friends with Hanny.

There followed an evening of mirth with plenty of food to keep them all going. There were songs to be sung and gongs to be rung. Peter hoped there would be dongs to be slung, alas not tonight young Pixy. They brought each other up to date requesting information on what they were all actually up to.

“So you’re Peter the Pixy,” stated Camilla Toe. “We’ve heard about you!”

Peter was flabbergasted. His flabbers had never been so gasted in all his life. He was a stranger in a strange land. A cliché that got out of hand. He had never been here before, which again means he was a stranger by definition really. So how could they hear about him?

“Some Brownies came through the village a couple of days ago asking if we’d seen a raggedy arsed Pixy in the company of a Goblin and a Gnome. Of course we couldn’t answer yes so we asked why they wanted to know. They told us that the said Pixy was wanted back in Setebos for saying rude things to the King and using his bottom in an inappropriate manner.”

“They’re saying I used the Kings bottom in an inappropriate manner?”

“No! I apologise for mixing my meanings; no they said the said Pixy, Peter, was using his own bottom in an inappropriate manner”.

“The cheeky fast cats!” said Peter.

“Where?” asked Greg.

“That’s all-pure nonsense,” declared Hanny. “I’ve been in on this case from the start and Peter has done no such thing. He nicked some tarts and has suffered the consequences. He is holding a temporary solution but the rest of us are working with him to help him find a Permanent Cure; except for the Orc bitch who is just with us to keep her away from her other half.”

The sumptuous girls breathed a collective sigh of relief and the air was suddenly filled with a spectacular perfume which seemed to just emanate from the Fairies. They were willing to welcome Peter into their home as long as he was in the company of Hanny but that did not mean they had to like him. Now they were assured he was not an uphill gardener they felt more relaxed.

“So why are the Brownies saying such things?” asked Steve.

“Because they’re just shit stirring little brown nosers that would do anything to get noticed by Lord Chalfont and his cronies. They make me sick the miserable little turds! And I’m talking literally as I have tried to eat one and it did make me vomit!” shouted Dumbell Ena.

The rest of the gang looked at her in disbelief. After all this time of travelling together it was the first time she had said anything which made sense.

“So how is your bottom at the moment?” asked Ginger Spiderlegs in a soothing and calm manner.

“Well the magic underpants do a marvellous job but the Permanent Cure is my ultimate aim,” avowed the Pixy.

There was a short pause as the girls shifted in their seats.

There was a Question they wanted to ask but were unsure of the etiquette.

“Can we see the magic underpants?”

Peter blushed. What if taking his kecks off he lost control of his urges?

Would it be ok if there was a tent pole in the pants?

“We’ve all heard of the prophecy but none of us ever really believed in the reality of a Burning Ring of Fire! And so far no Pixy has been daft enough to try one of Dillberry’s tarts. Let’s see them pants so we can see how well Queen Spenser knitted her magic into your knickers. And would it be possible to inspect the ring?”

A dream situation.

Five of the most glorious examples of the feminine form ever created were asking him to take of his trousers and show them his underpants. An unholy dream that would get God playing poker with the devil, if they could find a decent set of cards. Peter mumbled something.

He was embarrassed. Rather he was afraid of sporting his embarrassment in front of such a crowd. Hanny looked pleadingly at him so he dropped his kecks there and then. Unfortunate really because just at that moment he lost his sphincter control produced a terribly loud and smelly fart. Yet it was fortunate too, as it meant his interest in his female companions waned instantly.

After another large spray of perfume, including that from unseen bottles and an urn full of incense being lit, the girls returned to their task, though not before admitting their admiration for the potency of Peter’ air biscuit.

The girls admired the quality of the stitching, the somewhat fetching red wool highlighted by the white banding at the waist, legs and pop out slot. They commented on the quality of design with the piping at the front making an upside-down letter ‘y’.

Quality in bespoke underpants.

Bless Queen Spenser and her foresight.

And how did she know it would be a male who would succumb?

“If I had a wayward male, I’d probably succumb,” said Camilla Toe.

Peter was now happy being the centre of attention.

“Shall I show you how I keep them fully charged?” he asked the five sweet things.

“Yes Please!” said Ann Jyner.

He rushed outside with his trouser round his ankles doing a marvellous impression of a penguin. Hanny tried to stop him.

“Wait Peter!” she called, but was too late. He already took up the position, his magic clad arse pointing toward the moon. A look of deep joy spread across his face as the pain giving grapes were sent into limbo.

“Peter!” called Hanny, “the pants don’t need a top up! You’ll get too much relief! You’ll get an overdose!”

Peter didn’t care. Hanny didn’t love him so he would exist on another pleasure. Overdosing on bum support from Magic Underpants would be just fine by him. And if Hanny complained then it would be her own fault. Life without love wasn’t worth living. Besides what could really be the danger of topping up the power of the Magic Underpants?

It wouldn’t exactly kill him.

Would it?

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!”