Basil Bultitude shouts out his instructions to the attendees of the Nibblers Flatch Crochet Evening. Amongst those learning the art of fiddling with a ball of wool, are Gregor Arsentickler (Triple Threat) and Douglas Tetrahedron (The Medusa Compound)…
Will this chance meeting between such disparate characters lead to another Earplug Adventure? Only time will tell.
Every so often Tooty the Chef makes a poor buying decision. On this occasion it was the purchase of three duck legs. Naturally his reasoning was impecable: how many three-legged ducks do you see in an average week? Not many. So, having bought them, it was time to bring his culinery genius to bear upon the question of how to create a meal that would live in the memory of those who witnessed it for more than a fortnight that would emcompass three duck legs; some past-it plums from the bottom of the fridge; and two cups of jasmine rice. Tricky…
But not tricky enough to defeat il maestro – or should that be ill maestro? Ha-ha. Moments later the rice cooker rumbled into action like the starting grid of a British Superbike Championship race…
Okay, slight over-statement there. Whatever. Next up the plums soon sizzled in a fair representation of a sex-goddess with her knickers in a twist…
…as did the legs of the tri-pedal waterfowl…
Soon, though, trouble was to rear its ugly head like any leader of the UK’s Conservative party since the ineffective sailor-boy of the 1970s, Edward Heath: the cooked meat simply wouldn’t shred. It had to shred though; Tooty the Chef’s off the cuff recipe demanded it. But, no, it was too sinewy and chewy. It didn’t even like being cut properly, into chunks. This wasn’t duck: it was dinosaur! But the ladle-wielder kept at it – digging and scraping and getting all greasy and nasty – until (following the application of some hoisin sauce and quick rattle around a hot frying pan to warm up again – the food; not the chef) he was able to save the venture and display this to anyone willing to look…
Not bad, huh? He’s still got it. That kind of talent is generational.
Recently I found myself browsing e-bay for some bibs ‘n’ bobs for the new bike. You know what I’m like. I found a fenda extenda for the extremely abrupt mud-guarding on the rear of the bike. Like VERY abrupt. Almost non-existent in fact. Filth everywhere after a ride on a winter’s road – though not as terrible as the Honda Hornet 750, which is beyond belief. So I bought and fitted it…
Wondering how effective it might be, I rode the bike through a single muddy puddle at a very gentle pace. The result?
Well it looks nice and fills some of the huge gap betwixt the wheel and the sub-frame; so it’s not entirely useless. And who knows, it might keep some grit out of that shock absorber. On another bike-related front, I raided the man cave for some free widgets with which I hoped to create a camera mount. Result: a degree of success…
Could be. Only a test ride will prove it’s worth. But at least it didn’t cost anything.
The past few days have passed with a great deal of discomfort; incessant pain-killer consumption; weariness; a degree of dispondency; and occasionally breathlessness so bad that it resulted in a total inability to talk and walk at the same time. Not the sort of symptoms one would wish to carry to a meeting with his oncologist. However, moments into the consult I realised that they must have all been (to a certain extent at least) psychosomatic. I hadn’t parked my withered botty on the chair in Sub-Waiting Room 2 for more than twenty seconds, when the consulting room door opened suddenly, and a beaming smile greeted me. “Ah, Mister No-Lan,” my Italian oncologist said as he waved his arms expansively, “come in, I have good news for you!”
It was a good start. A comparison between my latest CT scan results and those taken at the beginning of the immuno-therapy course, and a fondle of the lump beneath the skin below my armpit followed. It was, indeed good news. Unexpected and very welcome. The cancer has stalled – held back from expanding further into my body tissues by my own immune system. I look dreadful – imaciated and very asymetrical, and definitely not a candidate for the naturist beach this coming summer;- but at least I’m still alive and kicking and expect to actually experience this coming summer first hand. All that biking I’m planning to enjoy!
“You have three days in which to celebrate,” the Doctor concluded, “before the next bout of therapy. Enjoy them.”
That I will most certainly do. I might even begin preliminary work on my next Earplug Adventure – tentatively titled The Redemption of Gregor Arsentickler. Remember him from the story Triple Threat? Here’s a shot of him with Douglas Tetrahedron and some other earplugs as they depart a crochet evening that I recently snatched whilst visiting the Silicon Continuum…
Until today I really didn’t think I’d be able to complete another story, so I haven’t done much toward that goal. In the grand scheme of things it has no importance; but to me it means continuence. I’ll take that.
Far across the galaxy, in the region of Worstworld, the Prowler closes upon the strangest of strange space anomalies…
From the FREE Earplug Adventure, The Veil of Shytar!
It appears that Herb Robert really likes living on the edge of a precipice. Here’s another one, growing out of another (much taller) flint wall…
The wall was as tall as me!
So here we are; the ultimate episode. Has it been worth the trouble – both reading AND writing? I’d like to think so. Well it’s certainly unique – unless you count all the other Earplug Adventures, of course. But, whatever, it aint over entirely: first there’s the little matter of the obligatory epilogue…
Unwilling to pollute the time line any further, Flaxwell and Gideon slipped away and re-boarded the Zephyr. Cast adrift from his military life, the former Captain of the Guard joined them. But it was a sombre mood that entered the command deck with them…
Naturally the Oracle inquired after their downcast expressions and lethargic body language. Flaxwell explained that they had been directly responsible for badly injuring four of the Earplug Brothers and killing Magnuss and Hair-Trigger.
“Is that what you think you’ve done?” The green ball said with a smile in its tone. “You presumptive bunch of twerps. Look at this.”
Oracle then tuned into a Rupert Piles broadcast that clearly showed five Earplug Brothers, plus Hair-Trigger mounting a stage…
They all looked puffy and slightly mal-treated. All but Hair-Trigger sported sun glasses, presumably to hide black or swollen eyes. But they all stood on their own feet and appeared to be breathing.
Flaxwell and Gideon couldn’t have been more pleased; relieved; joyous, even. It was palpable. Luke took the opportunity to discover the galley…
“I’ll see if I can find something suitable with which we might celebrate.”
Flaxwell and Gideon couldn’t tear their gaze from the screen as Rudi made a stentorian speech about ridding the museum of its enemies and making sure they never came back. He also took a moment to praise the unknown trio of strangers who had been predominantly responsible for saving himself; his brothers; Hair-Trigger; and the whole darned Museum of Future Technology.
Eventually Flaxwell responded to Luke: “Yeah, go for it,” he said as he cast an eye over his shoulder, “Just make sure it doesn’t include Hoalnite Healiweelium.”
So it was a far more cheerful Scroton Five that lifted off unnoticed; then shook off the bonds of Earth’s gravity…
“Where to, guys?” The pilot inquired.
“Well,” Gideon replied thoughtfully, “we have no idea how that video that brought us here ever came into existence. What was it about? Was it specifically designed to get us here and know to do what we did? Are we mere pawns perhaps?”
“That’s a lot of questions.” Oracle observed. “Unfortunately I can’t answer any of them.”
“If I knew what you were talking about,” Luke said into the reflective silence, “I’d probably agree.”
“Okay,” Flaxwell responded cheerfully, “better strap your selves down: we’re going on a little trip through time. First stop: the Sun!”
The End
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
I’ve had months of treatment and a recent CT scan; now all I’m waiting for is the news from my consultant that the therapy isn’t working. That may sound pessimistic (which isn’t like me at all) but I know how I’m slugging the pain-killers all day and all night, and they’re not really working. The next step is for me to wear a morphine patch, which will administer a set amount of relief 24/7 – topped up with codeine tablets (of course) when it hurts too much. However, on the other side of the coin, the optimist in me hasn’t given up entirely. Yesterday – when I could have been reading a nice motorcycle magazine in Tranquillity Base…
…instead I pulled on my walking shoes and attacked the hill that taunts me from the opposite side of the valley. The result?
Well here I am again: the master of the mountain. Well it feels like a mountain to me. Better still, as I mounted the final steep rise, (unlike previous attempts) I wasn’t close to collapse or a fit of panic-breathing. Moreover, I continued the bloody walk until I’d covered at least two kilometres. I’m gonna tell my doctor that, when he gives me the bad news. I’m not ready for chemotherapy yet; at least not all the while I can fool people into believing I’m not as ill as they think I am. Does that last line make sense – both logically and grammatically?
This is almost it: the grand finale. Could it get any more explosive? Read on…
Meanwhile in the era that the final two red sentinel robots still existed, Quentin Hearthrob had received an order. He banked the scout craft and began a run towards Henhouse Island…
“Hah,” Ballington scoffed from within the presumed safety of his suspended animation chamber, “you’re bluffing: you can’t touch me – not whilst I’m in suspended animation.”
Then a thought so horrible it made his hands begin sweating and his bowels to quivering struck. The light above him still shone green. Only when he was bathed in a red light could he be deemed comatose and therefore unassailable. He fumbled for the controls. He must sleep! However, before the circuit could be closed, Atcherly released the scout craft’s single piece of ordnance. He didn’t know what it was exactly; they all looked the same to him. However, when it exploded it was with a lovely shade of blue…
Then, moments later, both pilots realised that the large finned object that had been residing in the scout craft’s meagre bomb bay all these years, was a thermonuclear device…
“Whee!” They shouted as the craft shook with the onrush of the inevitable shockwave. “Didn’t know we had one of those: what a careless pair of twaddles we are!”
In the Café Puke closest to the blast, a slight tremor went largely unnoticed…
However, in the nearby Skanki Kaffe, the more intellectual customers that frequented a bar that served almost half-decent coffee recognised the fantastic explosion for what it was…
“Radioactive fallout.” One of them said. “It’s going to put up the cost of home insurance.”
“Won’t do a lot for my runner beans either.” Another grumbled.
Of course those watching events unfold upon a huge live TV screen cheered uproariously at Ballington Cork’s spectacular demise…
“That Rupert Piles really is good at his job.” Gobby said as he stood near the front. “Him and his camera don’t miss a thing.”
Of course Mister Zinc knew nothing of this. He was too busy guiding his vessel on an approach flightpath to Lemon Stone…
So, ten minutes later, having stowed the flying bathtub behind a pile of logs in a lean-to on the rear of the stone-built construction the would-be conqueror retook his place beside Blue in the watchtower window…
“It wasn’t my fault.” He said to Blue’s unspoken question. “Yeah, okay I was a little slow in recognising the Hoalnite Healiweelium for what it really was: but other than that my performance was flawless. I just played for a bad team.”
“Do you fancy a stir fry tonight?” Blue inquired. “Not sure what the meat is: might be mammoth.”
“Lovely,” Zinc replied, “but go easy on the soy sauce, eh?”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
Well, the answer to my leading question is most definitely ‘yes’. Guess you’d better come back for the final episode.
Or did someone simply forget where they left the cart?
With the horrror that comes from witnessing the demise of the Museum of Future Technology’s most beloved inhabitants, continuing with the tale becomes the most difficult of tasks. But, as an/a (potential) Earplugger, it is your duty to do so. Regarde…
Ballington appeared to have made good his escape with all the data concerning the Medusa Compound. Already his RD125 landing craft had powered its way to the outer marker buoy…
The A.I recognised that the situation was less than optimal. Immediately the call was put through to Quentin Hearthrob and Atcherly Speekin, who responded with utmost alacrity…
…dashing from their underground bunker – their flying helmets already donned and ready for action. Without a break in their stride they allowed their end cap engineers to join them as they charged across the school playground…
…thence into the rented lock-up garage, where the engineers kick-started the twin motors and the pilots began their abbreviated pre-flight check…
Meanwhile, at the bottom of the air well that helped cool the Nul-space generator, first Hair-Trigger, then Magnuss, discovered what lay beyond the dark square to which they had spent so long falling…
Battered and bloodied by the multitude of impacts that thankfully slowed their fall, the swollen Magnuss and the bloated Hair-Trigger helped each other to find a way out of their predicament…
“Help,” Magnuss bellowed loudly into Hair-Trigger’s ear, “this is Magnuss and his formerly lovely wife: we’re stuck in the Nul-space generator: send help – preferably with bandages and some paracetamol.”
Above ground, Hearthrob and Atcherly had launched their ageing vessel…
With the A.I guiding them, they quickly overhauled the much slower landing craft…
Atcherly made a report: “The cork’s made it to Henhouse Island.” He yelled into his microphone. “He’s about to enter the harbour.”
While the A.I considered this information, the RD125 rounded the harbour wall and proceeded to dock…
Ballington couldn’t wait to climb the rickety ladder to the quayside. Once there it would require a mere dash across the intervening veldt…
…to the sanctuary of his suspended animation chamber, in which he was immune to prosecution, because (obviously) he no longer posed a threat to society.
Zinc had similar ideas as his stolen Flying Bathtub carried him across the mountains away from the Museum of Future Technology…
Inside the rented office, the relentlessly watchful guards reported events to their superiors in the future…
The Chancellor, having got the heck out of the Civic Centre as quickly as its drive units would propel it, received the news…
“Blast and damnation,” It said to its associate in a most un-cyber manner, “if this campaign against the earplugs were likened to a turtle, the aforementioned turtle would be laying upon its back with all four flippers flaying the air ineffectually.”
“How insightful of you, Chancellor,” the associate replied. “And imaginative. If I ever write your Existence Story, I will include that almost poetic line of dialogue.”
“Thank you,” The Chancellor responded gracefully. To the operatives in the past it issued this order: “The special military operation is concluded: you may return to this era.”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
Praise be to the Supreme Being: the bad guys are beaten, the museum is safe, and Magnuss and Hair-Trigger have only suffered physical trauma and the reconfiguration of their countenances. Or, to put it a other way: “Horray, they’re not dead; there’s still some milage in them for another tale!” But I’m getting ahead of myself; the story has not concluded. Return for the next episode. Who has the foggiest clue what will happen next?
Growing out of the top of an ancient flint wall, that is…
Whenever the term ‘vengeance weapon’ is mentioned, you just know that someone is being unreasonable. Let’s see just how unreasonable. Read on…
Magnuss and Hair-Trigger were now deep inside the facility that housed the Nul-space generator…
But it wasn’t that wondrous device they sought: no, it was something much smaller and infinitely more dangerous.
Flaxwell, Gideon, and Luke had no idea what the former heroes’ plans were for the Nul-space generator; but it was a fair guess it wasn’t a fancy dress picnic. Having been given special access to the facility they now raced on (what they hoped) was a collision course with Magnuss and Hair-Trigger…
Meanwhile the incense cones, swiftly judging which way the winds of war were blowing, decided to act like rats in a sinking ship…
The same thought had occurred to the catheter caps. The difference in the two species being decency: the catheter caps had the decency to tell the red sentinel robots they were leaving…
“This is our last report, okay?” Their representative said as he backed towards the door. “You don’t need us anymore; so we’re…you know…out of here. Good luck.”
Then they too were gone…
Mister Zinc was more akin to the incense cones. In fact he’d already made his break and could now be seen racing across a pedestrian walkway…
He might have made it all the way to the other side, but (because of the blandness of the food supplied to him in the watchtower) he’d been stuffing himself all night with chocolate bars that he’d stolen from the vending machine in the corridor outside the rented office. The inevitable result presented itself about mid-distance across the bridge…
He sighed: most people required a robotic mesmeric wave in order to poop themselves: he could do it all alone.
“A rare talent,” he said to himself, “that I could do quite nicely without.”
Ballington Cork could also read the metaphorical runes. Unlike the others, he wasn’t content to merely flee. He took all the data pertinent to the Medusa Compound first…
This was unwise: the museum’s A.I had witnessed the sleight of hand; it would make sure the act would come back to haunt the devious fellow.
Those who lived in the bowels of the museum were being treated to the result of Zinc’s bothersome interior organs. Not for no reason was Zinc known at school as Mister Poophispants. Everyone thought he would grow out if it, but, even as an adult, when the pressures of life threatened his secretly fragile psyche, it was always the same result…
“Yuk, you’re disgusting, man: real distasteful and a discredit to your species.” One annoyed individual snarled, “I’m a former professor who has fallen on hard times: I know all about people like you. You were probably the subject of one of my experiments. Get the heck outta here!”
Meanwhile Flaxwell, Gideon, and Luke had arrived upon the viewing platform of the Nul-space generator…
Straining his eyes, a gasping Flaxwell said, “Do you see them?”
Luke’s keen eyesight spotted them first. “Over there,” he whispered, lest he give their presence away to the zombie-like earplugs, “reaching for something that’s labelled ‘Auto-Destruct’.”
Despite being programmed by the mesmeric wave and only half-aware of her surroundings, Hair-Trigger was horrified to discover where she now stood. The pit below the shaft upon which they perched precariously appeared bottomless. She said as much…
“No worries.” Magnuss replied as he reached across to throw the auto destruct lever, “this shaft will only begin turning if someone needs more power. It’s nowhere near coffee break right now: there’s absolutely no reason for anyone to need more power. Calm yourself and allow me to concentrate. Just one more centimetre…”
At that precise moment Flaxwell said, “A.I: more power required – and fast!”
The following moment saw the shaft turn suddenly and the married couple thrown to an almost certain death…
…their bodies to become battered and biffed by the pipes that criss-crossed the machine’s huge interior air well.
The watching trio looked away in horror and reproach. Flaxwell felt Gideon’s accusing gaze turn upon him…
“I don’t believe it.” He said to himself. “I killed Magnuss and Hair-Trigger Earplug!”
“How will history judge you?” Gideon added – rather meanly, or so thought Luke.
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
All around the globe a great wailing has gone up. Magnuss and Hair-Trigger: dead. Tell me it isn’t so. But, wait a minute, Magnuss himself spoke the words; inside the Museum of Future Technology anything is possible. Maybe, just maybe…
My wife and I bought this unusual bathroom cabinet…
…during the late nineteen nineties. Made in Haiti (when it was still a proper country), we discovered it in a rather expensive interior design boutique. Falling in love with it’s quirkiness we tried not to gulp when told the price, and duly mounted it upon the bathroom wall of the (nineteen sixties time capsule) house we had recently purchased and were renovating. There it remained until late 2003 when we moved to Spain. Ten years later we removed it from the bathroom wall in our Spanish home and brought it to the house in which I still reside. With it came the smell of Spain, and (if the door is open a crack) for the last decade it is impossible to pass by the downstairs bathroom without being assailed by the aromas of the urbanisation in which we lived. Somehow the materials of the cabinet have absorbed the particles of that place, and now release them slowly into the air. In an instant my daughter and I are there again. It brings joy. I don’t care how much it cost: it’s the best purchase I’ll ever make!
Gosh, that Episode 22 certainly was violent. Who has ever seen silicon life-forms so reconfigured. It must have been awful for the actors. But who cares: on with Episode 23…
In the rented offices deep within the Civic Centre, the leading catheter cap rushed in from the corridor. To the guard robots he said:
“Something really weird has happened: I’m getting reports that a gang of ruffians have beaten up the Earplug Brothers. Four of them are on their way to the hospital…”
Red sentinel robots are not the sort to show surprise: these were no exception.
“That leaves two operatives still…er…operative.” One of them said, but wished it had said it better. “Do not concern yourself.”
Meanwhile, on one of the main thoroughfares, Flaxwell and Gideon were gaining more attention than they would have liked…
Even sewage workers on their way to a spill in a Café Puke gave them some distance and a sidelong look.
Also meanwhile, one of the subjects of the off-worlder’s search had partaken of a coffee…
…and now made her way to the catacombs in which she visited the more unfortunate citizens who lived down there in various forms of misery.
The earplug responsible for the gate into the catacombs warned Hair-Trigger off…
Normally his warning would have had no effect whatsoever. After all she visited the unfortunates once a week on a regular basis; but today she found herself feeling at odds with her character. It felt as if she were merely going through the motions; that she should be doing something far more important. Of course she kept this to herself. But she didn’t want to disturb her husband, whom she assumed was entertaining the Pong Sisters by breaking wind in the pool…
…so she proceeded on her self-appointed mission…
But when she came across the mad female, Slippi Banister, seated as she always was on an intersection of stone-built corridors, singing at the top of her voice, “Golly, gee, what’s become of me, I’ve fallen down the rhubarb tree!”, which was then followed by the arrival, from behind a pile of cardboard boxes of the former champion archer, Horace Bangle, who had, many years past, shot himself in the head, and who subsequently had refused hospital treatment because he believed that the arrow would eventually work its way loose, Hair-Trigger decided to leave.
Something similar must have occurred to Magnuss, because by the time Hair-Tigger had returned to the surface, Magnuss was waiting for her. Together they made a phone call to someone neither of them knew…
But they didn’t question this, because they had no idea they’d been brainwashed.
Of course the A.I had been monitoring all communications. When it heard the instructions that the married couple had received, it nearly blew a gasket…
Flaxwell and Gideon had taken to the quieter corridors, when they received the news…
“There’re two of them.” Flaxwell pointed out needlessly. “There’re two of us. Even if we catch them, how are we gonna beat them senseless?
Gideon didn’t know what to say: so he said nothing and stared off into the distance and hoped it would all go away.
Meanwhile (again) Magnuss and Hair-Trigger had arrived at the gate that led to the Nul-space power generator. They were met with passive resistance…
The A.I experienced two negative revelations. One: it doesn’t matter how high-tech the lock upon a door, a former bounty hunter will have encountered something similar in his/her career and will circumvent it. Two: that the A.I itself had overplayed its hand by anticipating the red sentinel’s secondary target and despatched a team of RoboSecGuas to defend the dormant Tunnel Temporale…
Already they had captured a graffiti artist, but in doing so had alerted the enemy that the security forces were aware that the museum was under attack. Had the A.I access to the internal CCTV cameras of the Civic Centre, this hypothesis would have been confirmed by the arrival of the Chancellor…
“I thank you for your updates – even the minutia,” it said to the two robots that greeted it, “however I feel it appropriate that I visit, in person at this difficult juncture.”
“Quite so,” one underling replied, “I think they’re on to us.”
It was at this particular moment that the A.I finally convinced its opposite number in the Ciudad de Droxford to allow access to the Civic Centre CCTV…
…what it saw was the Chancellor (though of course it wasn’t recognised as such) exploring the perimeter of the robot-controlled city, which wasn’t much…
“This is it?” It growled electronically. “The total sum of our effort so far? And we still don’t know the identity of those who oppose us! This is very disappointing. Where did we go wrong? Surely the plan is flawless! I’m going to look like a total twonk for this. Ah-ha, but we still have Magnuss Earplug and his supposedly lovely wife at our command.”
With that the Chancellor returned to the office and instructed the robots to continue with (what it termed) their vengeance weapon.
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
In what form could this ‘vengeance’ weapon possibly come? Tune in for the next episode: it could be worth the effort.
Following another fruitless patrol of the surrounding desert, Colonel Leftfoot-Badger returns to Fort Dunderhead with his mounted troopers…
From the 2016 story Worstworld Volume 2.
Stand by for violence so graphic, you’ll probably spit out your cornflakes!
Meanwhile the A.I was ‘keeping tabs’ as instructed…
Its sensors soon detected abnormal behaviour from some normally law-abiding citizens. Someone was trying to pick the lock of Swottan Hetty. Further, upon closer inspection of those sensor read-outs, the A.I was able to determine that those responsible were none other than those Flaxwell, Gideon, and Luke were pursuing: the remaining four Earplug Brothers!
Instantaneously a message was forwarded to the Seventh Cavalry patrol. Almost as instantaneously, two members of the patrol spotted their quarry…
“Oi, you lot,” Private Fluster bellowed, “Get over here.”
“Hey, man,” the laconic Valentine replied, “aint nothing going down here. We’re just doing the funky hero guy strut, know what I mean? We’s just out strolling.”
“That’s right.” Chester said through a cheerful smile, “I mean, if you can’t trust the Earplug Brothers, who can you trust?”
It was clear, even to someone with the limited intellect of Private Fluster and his comrade that the Earplug Brothers were manoeuvring the two cavalry-plugs into a position where they would be unable to defend themselves from a totally unexpected attack from four of the most famous heroes that the museum had ever produced. Of course what Rudi, Valentine, Chester, and Miles didn’t know was that other cavalry-plugs awaited their arrival around the corner. That there would be no fight today: there would be a darned good, old-fashioned, beating up.
Using their plugmutts to fill a hole in the Earplug Brother’s flank, Sergeant Wetpatch Wilton led his troop into a very one-sided battle…
“Sorry, Chester,” he said as he karate-chopped one of the twins in the throat. “Sorry, Miles,” he added as he poked the other twin in the eye…
“It’s for your own benefit, long-term,” he assured Valentine as he knocked his ‘shades’ from his eyes and punched him in the nose.
“You’ll thank me, when this is all over.” He informed Rudi as he kicked him right up the arse. “It’s just that the only way to break the mesmeric wave conditioning is by beating it out of you – even if that means beating you senseless.”
Inside the control room of TWIT headquarters, Swottan Hetty, Major Flaccid heard the commotion outside…
“What’s all that biffing and whacking I can hear?” He asked of his associates in the quasi-military organisation.
“That was definitely an ‘aaargh’ I heard then.” One of them replied.
“Sound like,” Nature Beast said in usual simplistic speech pattern, “big scrap. Nature Beast like big scrap: we go join big scrap?”
Already Flaccid’s tendency to cowardice surfaced. “Not so sure about that, Nature Beast,” he replied, “but I think we’re duty-bound to investigate. Okay boys; follow me.”
Chester hadn’t enjoyed a single moment of the fight so far. Now the situation worsened when a grizzled sergeant tried to squash him into a crack betwixt the ground and the bottom of the gnarly wall…
Valentine and Miles had also been dragged into a convenient corner and given a good kicking…
It was while the same grizzled sergeant was attempting a drop-kick to Chester’s head that the members of TWIT arrived on scene. Wetpatch went to intercept…
As he did so, one of the cavalry-plugs thought he spotted the spark of returning individuality on the swollen countenance of Rudi…
“Rudi?” He said whilst holding back a right cross to the jaw. “Rudi, is that you?”
Rudi peered through the slightly better of his eyes. “Right now, sergeant,” he groaned, “I’ll be whoever you darned well want: just stop hitting me.”
Flaccid wasn’t fooled for a second by Wetpatch’s resulting utter nonsense to his inquiry – claiming that the Seventh Cavalry had been supplied with animated crash test dummies, which they were testing to destruction for the manufacturer. However, and despite Nature Beast’s presence, he didn’t feel inclined to get into a fight with a bunch of immigrant troopers from Worstworld. He’d been there: he knew how tough that planet could make its natives. So it was a relieved Sergeant who watched the TWIT group turn sharply about and re-enter Swottan Hetty…
He was even more relieved when he discovered that the treatment had proved successful. Rudi had even managed to regain his sunglasses…
All four Earplug Brothers were sore, but basically undamaged, and very glad to be silicon-based life-forms. They even managed some smiles as the cavalry escorted them from the scene, to the infirmary…
“So you just saved us from being a bunch of saboteurs, huh?” Rudi said to Wetpatch. “I guess we owe you one. But, hey, what about our middle bro, Magnuss: aint he one of the bad guys too?”
“Someone else is taking care of Magnuss and Hair-Trigger.” Wetpatch replied. “Well at least I hope they are.”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
See? Told ya! Jean-Jacques Bivouac clearly enjoys a good literary punch-up. I wonder if he enjoys a literary knee to the bollocks.
In which case, escape to the past. To your youth. Just like Tooty has…
Yup, thanks to the obscure Legend channel I’ve rediscovered Mission:Impossible. So addictive! So addictive, in fact that I’ve bought series 1-6 on E-bay. Now to go find that 7th series!
Heroes of tomorrow verses heroes of today. What a calamity. Better read on to see how this pans out…
However, as the two futurians progressed in their chosen direction, they chanced to enter the George Dumper Hall. There, to their surprise, alone in the exit, stood Luke Blister…
“Captain Blister!” Gideon exclaimed, “What the flipping heck are you doing here?”
“I thought it best I found you.” The blue end cap replied. “I heard Ballington Cork’s voice from way down in the basement where I was hiding. He’d finally figured the Hoalnite Healiweelium was soy sauce. I heard him roar, ‘bring the pathetic wretch to me: I will personally eviscerate it.’ So I snuck out through an admirably large sewer outlet, which of course was pristine because no one has used the loos yet. Using my innate tracking skills I followed you to the museum. It was easy after that: big hair and stupid hats are so next century!”
Remembering what Gideon had said about having an end cap aboard ship, Flaxwell felt unfeasibly pleased to see the dopey former military operative’s face grinning at him hopefully. ‘How did he ever make Captain?’ He asked himself. “Welcome to the club.” He said to Luke.
So it was a rather pleased alien that joined the out-of-era earplugs as they traversed the Fred Ricketts Tunnel of Joy…
He did, however, worry about what the copper tubing at the base of the walls was conveying. He hoped it wasn’t gas: he hated gas; particularly interstellar gas and intestinal gas.
A short while later Sergeant Wetpatch Wilton stood beside his friend and colleague Jo Frayzer and four other non-commissioned officers and wondered who was unsealing the stockade gate…
”Hey maybe Magnuss was having a joke with us.” Jo offered, though with little enthusiasm. “Now he’s back to let us out.”
Wetpatch didn’t think so. He said as much. He favoured the idea that it had been the act of some prankster who looked remarkably like Magnuss, who had been responsible for effectively eradicating the museum’s first line of ground defence. He just prayed that it wasn’t Cushions Smethwyke punching the code on the other side of the wall. The Seventh weren’t popular with the curator elite: this debacle he would rather keep to himself. So, when two complete strangers and an end cap waltzed in, he was utterly gobsmacked…
“Captain Wilton, is it?” Gideon said.
“Sergeant.” Wetpatch corrected him. He thought that Gideon appeared surprised at this.
“Sergeant?” The wearer of the world’s silliest hat responded. “Oh well, you’ll make Captain eventually. Perhaps as a reward for what you are about to do today.”
Wetpatch peered at all three strangers. He had a good eye for faces; he knew he’d never seen either of them before. “Is that right?” He said. “And what would that be?”
“Nothing huge.” Luke answered the Sergeant’s question. “Just help save the museum from an insidious threat that has already ensnared the legendary Earplug Brothers.”
“Explain,” Wetpatch responded as he felt his shoulder muscles begin to relax, “about this insidious threat and me making Captain.”
So they did, as they led the troopers out from their temporary and illegal incarceration, but not before stopping off to question why the Sergeant didn’t use his armoured personnel carrier to smash down the gate…
“Oh that.” Wetpatch replied as they breached the portal to the outer parts of Fort Balderdash…
…”that’s just for show. We used up all the fuel and ammunition fighting off hyperspace pirate attack craft a while back: there’s nothing in the budget to replace it.”
Sergeant Frayzer summarised: “It don’t work.” He said.
Stopping off at the Kitty Adams round-ish room of meditation, Flaxwell explained who he and Gideon were, why they were there, all about the Medusa Compound, and showed him the footage he’d shot of Magnuss and Hair-Trigger locking the soldiery in. He also told them that the A.I was likely tracking Magnuss, so it could guide them to him…
He also mentioned the simplest way that the A.I believed they could de-brainwash Magnuss and Company.
Once the military had made off upon their mission, the trio of out-of-towners proceeded to the Dan Power building, which Gideon had/would visited/visit during his tenure at the university that had yet to be built or inaugurated…
“Hmmm, yeah,” Flaxwell said appreciatively, “it’s…er…very yellow. Was it always this yellow? Or should I say, will it always be this yellow?”
Truth be told, Gideon was somewhat disappointed: in his era the Dan Power had been coloured a delightful lilac and swathed in Wisteria: this yellow reminded him of bile. However any further thoughts upon the insignificant subject were interrupted by Luke nudging his elbow and saying:
“Hang on, what’s this then? Two weirdos off the starboard bow.”
All three turned to regard the apparition…
“Hello.” They said as one.
“I’m Quentin Hearthrob.” The uglier earplug of the pair announced.
“And I’m Atcherly Speekin.” The other introduced himself.
Once more in unison, they added, as though they were applying for a job, “we’re ace fighter aircraft pilots, whom, unlike many ace fighter pilots, have actually seen real combat and shot our enemies down in flames, whilst surviving ourselves – intact and ready for another aerial punch-up.”
They then produced flying helmets from behind their backs and donned them.
Flaxwell was slightly amused. “I didn’t know we were recruiting.” He said gently to the pair that he thought were clearly fruitcakes standing before him.
However Gideon was less dismissive. “Wait a minute, I know these guys.” He said. “I’ve read documented evidence of their battle in the sky above Worstworld – when it was still a doomed planet. They did some bombing stuff too on Earth, I seem to recall. They’d make very useful allies – assuming they have access to an attack craft of some variety.”
“We still have the old Ship Number Fifteen Scout Craft.” Quentin and Atcherly spoke as one. “It’s ready to fly at a moment’s notice.”
Flaxwell was now interested. “Keep your helmets handy, boys,” he said. “Don’t be surprised if the museum’s A.I puts out a call for your services.”
This pleased the two pilots immeasurably…
“Yes Sir!” They said as the heels of their flying boots snapped together like castanets. “We’ll be there, don’t you fret. No worries pal. We’re on the case.”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
Ah-ha, so those slightly-less-than-famous scout craft pilots have joined the good guys. Things are looking up. Hold on to your flying helmets!
Looks scrummy, but sadly the meatballs were Sainsburys’ basic stuff and tasted foul. Tooty the Chef will not make that mistake again. Back to Waitrose for him…
In Episode 19 it became clear who is going to take the fight to the Axis of Evil. The same guys who appeared in the classic Earplug Adventure, A Tale of Three Museums, a story with which Jean-Jacques Bivouac has no connection whatsoever – other than being a huge fan, of course. But, casting digression aside, on with Episode 20; there are some tables to be turned…
Shortly Luke’s attack saucer emerged from the hyperspace portal. The Zephyr awaited it…
“Lower your screens, de-activate your weapons, and prepare to be abducted.” Gideon said into his communication panel. “Or face certain destruction. Oh, and while you’re at it, bring that bottle of…Hoalnite Healiweelium…with you”
Shortly…
Whilst Luke stared in wonderment at his sudden change in circumstances, Flaxwell studied the bottle of incongruous liquid before him.
“Veg oil,” he said.
“I’ll get some from the galley.” Gideon said as he backed out of the door. “Make Captain Blister welcome while I’m gone.”
Naturally Luke was intrigued by the pocket history bestowed upon him by Flaxwell. “You really think you can defeat the combined forces of the red sentinel robots from the future; that cork thing; those horrible catheter caps; and the silver guy?”
“You forgot the incense cones.” Flaxwell reminded the end cap.
“They don’t do anything.” Luke replied. “Lazy so-and-sos; I don’t know why they’re here.”
“We’ve already seen what they can do…tomorrow.” Oracle replied. “Believe me; they have a role to play.”
Gideon returned long enough to deposit a mug of soy sauce beside Flaxwell, before heading straight for the toilet…
“That, I assume, is my Hoalnite Healiweelium.” Luke said with a smile so conspiratorial that anyone who didn’t know him would swear he was born to live a life of espionage.
“Correct.” Oracle replied. “Now all you have to do is return with it to your craft and present it to the red sentinel robots as…er…the real thing.”
“Then make myself scarce.” Luke added.
“Then make yourself scarce.” Gideon confirmed from the bridge lavatory.
That evening the Zephyr slipped silently into the frosty region of countryside that separated Ciudad de Droxford from the Museum of Future Technology…
…where it settled, unseen, in a thicket.
Shortly Flaxwell and Gideon disembarked and began pushing their way out of the thicket, hopefully in the direction of the museum…
Meanwhile, in their rented offices, the red sentinel robots went about their boring cyber-business…
And what seemed like hours later, when Flaxwell and Gideon were dragging themselves across some gently rolling chalk downland…
…Captain of the Guard – or more properly Former Captain of the Guard – Luke Blister, remained safely tucked up in a shadowy hiding place…
…whilst watching the locked door and waiting for the inevitable discovery of his treachery. He didn’t know it, of course, but that wouldn’t happen until the morning. Mister Zinc had only just informed the two red sentinel robots that habitually stood guard at the office door…
…that he was baffled by the lack of progress with the Medusa Compound, and that he would ‘sleep on the problem’, and hopefully be inspired by a new day.
Safe in the knowledge that the Axis of Evil could not possibly create a working example of the Medusa Compound any time soon, Flaxwell and Gideon now need only wrestle the minds and bodies of those brainwashed by the aforementioned Axis of Evil from their control. Dawn was on the horizon, and if the master plan was to be followed to the letter, in just a short while – that is just after reveille, when the trooper’s brains were still addled by the fog of sleep – Magnuss would lock the Seventh Cavalry inside their stockade. This, they realised, must be allowed to happen: how else would they prove to an adoring public that their greatest hero now worked against them – for their greatest foes? Before entering through a maintenance door, Flaxwell made sure that his recording device was operating and safely drawing broadcast power from the nul-space generator that supplied the energy needs of the entire edifice…
Although, strictly speaking, the Museum of Future Technology didn’t really sleep, the daylight hours were undeniably its busiest time. As workers began to arrive for their shifts, none of them noticed Flaxwell and Gideon accessing a communication panel that linked them with the museum’s A.I…
The A.I was its usual self: “Yeah, whadda ya want, ya big bouffant?”
Flaxwell explained that he and Gideon had most important information that concerned an attempted coup within the museum. He included names and species, but no mention of the Earplug Brothers. He then paused and awaited a response.
“So?” The A.I prompted.
“We know this will happen because we are time travellers and have already seen it.” Flaxwell continued. “Now scan us for temporal abnormalities.”
“I don’t know about temporal abnormalities,” the A.I responded, “but your pal’s hat sure is one heck of a sartorial abnormality. Okay, scanning.”
A few seconds passed. It was Flaxwell’s turn to prompt: “Well?”
The A.I’s demeanour changed: “Yeah, I see what ya mean: you two have sure been through the wringer recently. So what is it you want from me?”
“Are you in awe of Magnuss Earplug?” Gideon asked.
“I’m a machine-intelligence, modelled on the Supreme Being: I aint in awe of nothing. Proceed with the bombshell you’re about to drop.”
Flaxwell did as he had been instructed: “Magnuss Earplug, his wife, and his brothers are all working for your enemies.”
“Now that’s pushing it, pal.” The A.I replied. “Those guys are A1 rated: they wouldn’t work for no one who threatened the good old MOFT.”
Flaxwell kept his explanation brief: “They’ve been brainwashed by mesmeric waves.”
“Yeah, except them.” The A.I responded instantly. “Mesmeric waves: I remember them from years ago: they made the RoboSecGua poop itself – and it aint even got no bowels! So, going back to my original inquiry: whatta ya want?”
“Keep tabs on us and be ready to raise the alarm and send in the troops, so-to-speak. Right now, we need free access to everywhere – before the museum opens to the public. But first of all, we’d like to know how we can break the mesmeric wave conditioning.” Gideon replied.
“You got it.” The A.I replied.
Thereafter, following a brief medical lecture, the daring duo proceeded to the Fort Balderdash exhibit…
…where they anticipated finding Magnuss going about his dirty work.
They weren’t disappointed…
“Look,” Gideon whispered to Flaxwell as they witnessed him sealing the Seventh Cavalry inside their stockade, “he’s got Hair-Trigger with him.”
“That complicates the situation.” Flaxwell said ruefully. “We really needed to catch Magnuss alone, by himself, with no one else there. But let’s not allow that setback to deter us: we have a task to perform.”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
Who would ever have thought it: Magnuss and Hair-Trigger – the bad guys. Read Episode 21 to see how Gideon and Flaxwell plan to remedy the dreadful situation.
Well it should be anyway – at least in this portion of the world…
Lot’s of sub-atomic petrification taking place in the Museum of Future Technology. Could this really be the last (sad) tale that features that wondrous edifice? To find out, better read on…
Of course the curators called out the troops. However Cushions Smethwyke couldn’t believe her ears when the Seventh Cavalry reported that they had been locked into their stockade by, none other, than Magnuss Earplug…
Worse news was to come. Apparently the other four Earplug Brothers had persuaded the entire TWIT force to enter their Head Quarters. Having complied, they quickly discovered that a force-field had been erected across the only door…
Cushions had no choice: she activated Crimson Alert…
Whilst this hullabaloo was taking place, the Zephyr arrived in the Solar System…
Both earplugs sighed when they recognised the Earth/Luna system…
Of course no one in the museum knew anything of their arrival, and wouldn’t have given two hoots if they had: they just kept running around in a panic…
Quickly entering the atmosphere, the Zephyr came in low and cut across the mountains that separated the museum from Lemon Stone…
Below its curvaceous wings earplugs of every hue could be seen struggling through the springtime snow as they tried to gain the sanctuary of the mountaintop citadel.
Gideon stared at the view screen. “We’re too late.” He whispered. “It’s a rout.”
“I can’t stand to look.” Flaxwell responded. “I’m taking us back up into space.”
Whilst doing so he cancelled the Oregano Alert…
“Oracle?” Flaxwell turned and asked hopefully.
“I’ll just check the up-chuck manifold for abrasions.” The machine intelligence replied. “I think we’ll need to run these engines above design limits one more time.”
Time, for once, wasn’t of the essence; they had plenty of it in which to spend fixing up the battered ship of Scroton for another push through time. No one was counting, but it must have been five days before Vermillion Alert was put into effect and the main drive of the Zephyr burst into incandescent life…
…its target; the Sun.
“Look,” Gideon squealed as he pointed at the main viewer a half-minute later, “That must be how the original Tunnel Temporale must have looked. Gosh, how historic!”
However Gideon didn’t get to enjoy the view for long…
Flaxwell wasn’t overly impressed either: “Why does time travel have to be so darned unpleasant?” He yelled as both earplugs became super-buoyant and floated around the command deck.
Gideon, ever the practical earplug, shouted over the din caused by Flaxwell’s nervous farting: “Watch your knees when gravity returns: try to land on your feet or some well-upholstered fleshy parts.”
It was a wise and timely suggestion, because just a few seconds later the ordeal was over…
“Hey, would you look at that.” Flaxwell said, “The coffee machine didn’t spill a drop!”
Naturally Oracle cancelled the Vermillion Alert whilst they considered their next action…
“So we’ve travelled back to before the Medusa Compound was completed, right?” Flaxwell inquired.
Oracle confirmed this. It then added: “Not all of the ingredients have arrived yet. They are waiting on the sesame seeds and that stuff from hyperspace.”
Gideon, in the great cause of accuracy and efficiency required clarity: “Hoalnite Healiweelium?” He inquired.
“Correct.” Oracle answered.
“Then why don’t you say Hoalnite Healiweelium?”
“I can’t.” The Oracle replied shame-faced.
“But surely,” Gideon pressed, “those few simple syllables can’t be beyond your linguistic talents. Even Flaxwell can say Hoalnite Healiweelium!”
“Yeah,” Flaxwell said from his pilot’s seat, “Hoalnite Wheelibinnium.”
Oracle decided to confess: “They are a rude word on Scroton.” He explained. “It goes against everything that I stand – or recline – for. It mocks Nigel, the Golden One’s buttocks. Oh, just thinking about it blows out my redundant diodes!”
“We had no idea,” Gideon said in mild surprise as he tested the coffee he’d just poured. “Oh, from now on we’ll call it…um… veg oil, okay?”
This was gratefully accepted and the proper conversation continued:
“We’re from the future.” Flaxwell stated. “Our weapons could slice through the defensive screens of current ships like a fish through water or a finger through a moist toilet tissue. I vote we take out the catheter cap ship as it enters orbit.”
Gideon appeared to consider this. He then presented an idea of his own:
Captain of the Guard, Luke Blister,” he said, “is not a particularly enthusiastic participant in this devious scheme. He is the weak link in their chain of command.”
“He volunteered to bring the…veg oil…back alone in a tiny attack saucer.” Flaxwell countered.
“He said he did.” Gideon replied. “But he was only after Brownie Points. He was just ingratiating himself with the red sentinel robots. The mothership captain ordered him to complete the mission. I think it will take very little to turn the little blue end cap. Perhaps the promise of…oh, I don’t know…a job in the MOFT? End caps make natural engineers. I wouldn’t mind one to keep this little baby purring like a feline predator.”
It was time for Flaxwell to feign consideration. He gave it three seconds:
“Yeah, it would be kind of nice not to blow him into a million atoms: let’s give it a go.”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
So, the Captain of the Guard features once more, just as you expected him to. If you want to learn how he reacts to the interuption of his life by earplugs from the future, tune in to Episode 20
After the remarkable events of the previous episode, it’s gonna be hard to astound any further. But Jean-Jacques is willing to give it a try. Read on…
The first anyone in the Museum of Future Technology knew of any disruption to the norm was when a bunch of mag-lift rail users discovered that the train hadn’t arrived…
“This is unheard of.” One of them bellowed, as more would-be passengers poured in through the entrances. “I’ve a good mind to write to the morning TV show that specialises in uncovering shoddy services and corporate corruption.”
“What possible reason could there be for the train to fail to arrive?” Another said more reasonably.
“Could have been gobbled up by a time storm.” Another passenger suggested.
“There was a volcano in the foyer once.” Yet another offered. “I was there: we all had to evacuate to Mars!”
Ideas abounded, but not one of them came close to the truth…
“I haven’t done this since my coming out party.” The blue-eyed incense cone informed the others in the caravan of burning incense cones. “I love the way the smoke swirls up to the ceiling and makes it all filthy.”
Oiger, one of the few earplugs to have seen the incense cones in action, rushed along one of the museum’s many thoroughfares…
He called out a warning, but (of course) it was so ridiculous that people either scoffed; laughed in his face; or told him to shove something somewhere. However they stopped scoffing, laughing, or making rude suggestions very abruptly when the incense cones arrived…
For them time simply ceased.
Meanwhile, aboard the Zephyr, Gideon and Flaxwell urged the Oracle to ever-greater stretching of cyber-sinews in its effort to calculate a means by which the Scrotonite ship might travel back in time to the era in which the documentary purportedly originated…
“You can do it.” Gideon assured the third element of their exploratory triumvirate. “I’d suggest trying a slingshot around a star, then applying one hundred and fifty percent energy flux to the interstellar drive unit: but that’s silly: I bet you can come up with something much better.”
An hour later the Zephyr approached (what in Fractured Space constituted) a star…
“How the heck are we gonna slingshot around that mass of turbulent star-muck?” Flaxwell complained.
“There are gaps in the ‘star-muck’,” Oracle replied – still smarting from his total and undignified intellectual defeat by the green earplug, “I can calculate a route through it that will supply our vessel great momentum. At the precise moment that only a cyber-being can calculate, I will activate the main drive at one hundred and sixty-five percent normal out-put. This should give us sufficient velocity to overcome space/time adhesion. Simply put, we will travel back through time.”
Putting his money where his mouth was, Oracle did as he had promised. Very quickly reality was stretched wretchedly…
Inside the ship conditions weren’t quite so bad…
“How did you know which ship was us, Oracle?” Gideon inquired with more than air of the deeply impressed.
“Ours was the only vessel showing navigation lights.” Oracle replied – thankfully feeling that he’d managed to even the score.
So, with the reduced Fractured Space of an earlier era behind them…
…the crew of the Zephyr made best speed for Earth.
Talking of Earth, or at least the Museum of Future Technology, many earplugs were learning of some terrible threat to the vast emporium. They ran around in a state of agitation that would have made water molecules in a microwave oven appear somnolent…
Some even left their midday lunch for complete strangers to pick up.
And all the while the smouldering incense cones wandered through every nook and cranny of the immense building…
“Big, isn’t it?” They would often observe.
The reply became commonplace: “I don’t know how we’re going to furnish this. One could get lost just going to the toilet.”
But soldier on they did – covering vast distances and petrifying untold numbers of inhabitants too stupid to get away. They even entered Skanki Kaffe outlets and turned numerous loyal baristas into living fossils…
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
You’ll never look at an incense cone in the same way again.
P.S Now you know where the book cover originated…
I can’t recall whether, during 2023, I posted a blog concerning an Italian Tune-Up I performed on my (now departed) Yamaha XJR1300…
…but now might be a good time to mention it. An Italian Tune-Up (I learned on You Tube) required that I select a lower gear than I would normally use, then open the throttle wide open and rev the nuts off the engine for as long as I dare (or until I run out of road). This is supposed to burn off all the carbon build up upon the piston crown and the valves, thereby making the engine work better. I watched as a roadside assist engineer performed the act upon an old rear-engined Skoda I owned during the nineties. It certainly worked on that occaision: I couldn’t believe the amount of soot and crud blown out through the exhaust pipe. Of course, it should only be done on an engine you trust (or you don’t give a toss about), because the stresses involved could wreck a weak one. Anyway, I wanged the bike down a deserted country road until the tacho needle was buried in the red zone – at which point I took a quick glance at the speedometer. I could not believe what I saw: that I was travelling at Triple X speed so quickly and with such ease. Naturally I rolled off the gas and clicked the bike up a couple of gears and, in doing so brought a little sanity to the situation. But it worked: thereafter the bike ran cleaner. This experiment came to mind recently when I found myself stuck behind a taxi whilst on my way to hospital. Initially I assumed that the taxi driver was driving ultra-slowly because he was looking for an address. I became suspicious however, when after watching me click on my direction indicators for the third time, he would also turn in the same direction. A mini-roundabout that would carry us on to a tree- lined back road confirmed my hypothesis: he was an arse hole who enjoyed making people angry. I watched him watching me in his side mirror. He was driving slowly on purpose! Unfortunately for me, not only would I now be late for my appointment, but I was driving my decidedly gutless Fiat Panda, and therefore stood no hope of overtaking the evil bastard! But then a thought struck: he always reacted to my direction indicators; what if I didn’t use them to indicate my intention to pass him? What if I just just floored the throttle in third gear and began the pass before he could react. Well no sooner thought than done. I wouldn’t say the little town car lifted up its skirts and ran like an Olympian; but it was quick enough for me to gain the taxi’s rear quarter before he too floored the throttle. His car was faster than mine, but I had the element earlier acceleration in my favour. I carried momentum. As our speed increased I came alongside. However I didn’t look across at him: my attention was fully upon the blind bend rapidly approaching. One of us would have to give way. Had it been later in the day, I imagine I would have backed off first: but this was first thing in the morning, and I’m not reasonable first thing in the morning. Now approaching silly speed he blinked. I swept past; dabbed the brakes to get the nose of the car pushing my Goodyears into the tarmac; and howled through the bend at a speed that will remain unrecorded. From there I poured on the coals again: I didn’t dare let him come back past me again. I needn’t have worried though: a few more corners and he was history. However, having then passed through a hamlet at a snail’s pace, I gained a road that was wide, open, and climbed a long, unremittingly steep hill. The mad dash seemed to have improved the car’s performance; perhaps it was time to blow out all the cobwebs of the previous owner’s more sedate driving style. Third gear out of the roundabout; then flat out until the red line; snatch fourth whilst still pushing the throttle to the floor. We climbed that hill together faster than I could ever imagined a little town car ever could. But then it’s an Italian little town car: when did Italians ever make a slow car? So now I have a far nippier, more responsive, more enjoyable Panda in my car port. No longer is it a back marker in the traffic light grand prix. “The name is Fiat Panda,” it roars, “you wanna mess with me?”
It’s not looking good for the inhabitants of the Museum of Future Technology. I wonder if the situation could possibly worsen, or get worser, as some people might say. Let’s find out, huh?
Meanwhile Douglas continued in his task – ceaselessly fretting about what he had witnessed earlier…
He also feared that he might yet witness more events for which his pay grade was far too low. Even now he could hear excited voices in front of him. Who could they be? What might they want in a largely unpopulated building this late in the evening? Of course he could answer neither question, so he picked up the pace and closed the gap. Keeping largely to the shadows he closed sufficiently to see a mixed group, five of whom appeared to be dancing girls. Then it struck him: these people were the first ever inductees to the Yabu Suchs Academy of Heroes…
Douglas’s observation was correct. In the sub-optimal lighting Magnuss and Hair-Trigger led the Greenhorn Girls, plus Hambledon Bohannon, Jibbering Johnson, Jessica Fury, Hunki McCallister, Gunston Warbler, and Bob Chalk on an extended walk into the Civic Centre. Belle Ching had just turned to Poki Kitchener to tell her how excited she was to see a play about themselves, when, quite suddenly and without warning, in the blink of an eye and a half-heartbeat, out of nowhere and without an observable point of origin, everyone there (save for Magnuss and Hair-Trigger) was struck by mesmeric waves…
Of course Douglas was horrified, but only half as horrified as Flaxwell and Gideon who watched from far away and in the distant future…
“That’s it.” Flaxwell said as he leapt from his chair. “I’m done watching: I need action. We’re outta here!”
Gideon, who formerly held reservations concerning any intervention on their part, primarily because it wouldn’t do a bit of good and would only waste their time and effort, agreed. To see the Museum of Future Technology fall to such low curs was too much. He joined Flaxwell upon his feet. “Put a call in to the Oracle.” He instructed the pilot. “Tell him to have the Zephyr waiting by that tower we came in through.”
So, a few minutes later, the explorers emerged into a mauve world, above which their Scroton Five hung like a welcome home sign…
And a few minutes more saw them hurl themselves into their respective seats…
“Would anyone care to explain?” Oracle complained. “I was in hibernation mode: your panic-stricken call caused quite a jolt to my systems, I’ll have you know. Where are we going?”
“The expedition is on hiatus, Oracle.” Gideon said as he and Flaxwell rushed through the barest minimum pre-flight system checks. “We need to get back to Earth, pronto.”
A couple more of those minutes later, the Zephyr approached the ancient breach in the even more ancient (or ancienter) Dyson Sphere’s external wall…
Moreover, having immediately plunged through the abyssal opening, the ship took off like a scalded plugmutt across the sphere’s outer surface…
…and lifted away from the colossal gravity well that the vast structure created.
“Right then,” Flaxwell said to Oracle, “now that the initial adrenaline rush has subsided, I guess we’d better tell you what’s what.”
So, with the backdrop of fractured space upon the view screen, the pair of earplugs gave a brief resumé of the unfinished documentary…
Meanwhile and now unwitnessed, an end cap attack saucer exited a hyperspace portal, just a short distance from Earth…
Its sole occupant – being Captain of the Guard, Luke Blister – stood proudly beside a family-sized bottle that he claimed contained Hoalnite Healiweelium…
“Great,” Zinc responded to the good news. “Where is everyone else? Where is the mothership? We might need your suicide squad, though I guess it’s unlikely.”
“Transmission problems. Caught a trans-dimensional pothole. ” Luke explained breathlessly. “Had to limp to the nearest space dock for repairs. So I volunteered to make the journey in an attack saucer. Here’s your Hoalnite Healiweelium: glad you called us end caps in to help now?”
“Yeah, well done.” Ballington replied in a tone that sounded a little begrudging. “Now take it to the makeshift lab; the catheter cap ship has just entered orbit.”
Luke hadn’t been long gone when a catheter cap, whose name was unpronounceable (and therefore of no interest) stood equally enthusiastically beside the produce of his quest…
The taller of the red sentinel robots scanned the special jar that contained the anti-matter sesame seeds. “This is acceptable: you have performed your task adequately. Follow the footprints of the end cap to the makeshift lab. Take the sesame seeds with you.”
“So now it’s up to the incense cones to show a little creativity.” Zinc said into the silence that followed the departure of the catheter cap. “Can one of you robots summon one of them?”
One could and did. Luke and the deliberately unnamed catheter cap followed the small creature into the room…
“Good news,” he said, “we have our means of delivering the Medusa Compound. We have fallen back on ancient ways. We are proud to live up to the name of our species. But it means smearing us with a thin veneer of grease first. Hopefully it won’t be too smelly.”
So as another day passed pleasantly at the Museum of Future Technology, and Submarine Space Freighters came and went with metronomic regularity…
…one of the incense cones set his head on fire…
“How do I look?” He asked of a female colleague.
Shortly the aforementioned female asked the same question of two red sentinel robots…
“I do not understand.” The baffled cyber-mechanism groaned.
“We mix the Medusa Compound, which Zinc and the big cork can produce so that it’s inert at room temperature, into a paste: rub it into our heads; set fire to it; and go walk about the museum. Anyone that gets touched by the smoke gets petrified. Neat, huh?”
The second robot understood in a nanosecond. “The thin veneer you spoke of protects you from the smoke.”
“That’s right.” The incense cone replied proudly. “And the heat makes most of it rise away from our bodies anyway.”
The first robot suggested a problem that it thought might be unsurmountable:
“How do you breathe?” it asked.
“Through our bottoms.” The incense cones replied.
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
After posting this episode, Jean-Jacques Bivouac asked me this question:
“Ave your lovely readers ever witnessed such an original and unforseen cleef-angair? Tell me this, Tooty: ave they?”
I pass his inquiry over to you. When did you last see a cliff-hanger that came close to this one?
The problem for many with a desease that will ultimately kill them is maintaining interest in life. For most, surely, family is the primary reason to carry on. Certainly, in my case, without my kids around, I doubt I would have survived the loss of my wife, let alone this damned cancer. Strangely, another facet of my life, right now, is feeding my creative side. I have physical limitations, though I try my best to reject them; but one activity that isn’t impacted significantly, is the creation of my Earplug Adventures. Producing the photos and building the minescule sets has become far easier (if less spectacular) than when I had my attic ‘studio’. But the writing is just the same: me and my laptop – away with the fairies, so-to-speak. However the Earplug Adventures are not the principal reason I continue to kick the grim reaper in the shins and tell him to fuck off: that honour goes to…
When I’m ‘in the groove’ and feeling as one with the machine, my ailments fade away. My breathing seems to improve; my thoughts come quicker; and, quite simply, I’m young again. It’s silly, but even buying little things for it, such as these crash bungs…
…which are designed to protect the bodywork, should the machine topple over at low speed. And this strange, parasitic tank bag…
…that has been designed for fuel tanks that are non-ferrous and therefore cannot retain magnetic tank bags in place, not to mention this eye-wateringly expensive lined bike cover that keeps Tracy the Tracer both warm AND dry…
…all add to the experience. The experience of still being alive. So although, statically motorcycling is more likely to cause me harm than sitting around on my arse, as long as I keep the shiny side up and don’t collide with anything, it’s the best thing I can do. As more and more people are discovering, good mental health and motorcycles go hand in hand.
Episode 15 proved that Magnuss Earplug isn’t infallible. Could the same be said for his brothers? To find out, read on…
Hair-Trigger and the boys didn’t know what to think. Hair-Trigger managed a brief, “Magnuss?” before this happened…
“There,” Magnuss said as five mesmeric waves found their cranial targets, “I told you it was a good show, didn’t I?”
Rudi managed to maintain enough self-awareness to call out to Magnuss:
“The psychic shield: it needs all of us guys to work properly. Without you we aint got enough mental power. Magnuss, you gotta join us. Raise the psychic shield. Fight these…”
A while later the party of six marched cheerfully along one of the Civic Centre’s many corridors…
“I really liked that bit when you lost your trousers.” Chester said to his twin.
“And I think that End Cap carried off her impersonation of you brilliantly.” Magnuss said to Hair-Trigger.
“Yes,” Hair-Trigger agreed, “but she doesn’t have my elegant calves.”
“So,” Rudi inquired from the back, “we gonna recommend they let these guys loose on the M.O.F.T?”
The response from everyone was resounding and in the affirmative.
Night had fallen in the Ciudad de Droxford…
…but far up the river of time, the red sentinel robots couldn’t give a toss. A junior robot raced to catch the Chancellor and its attaché…
Had it been constructed of flesh and blood it would have gasped: “Chancellor; good news; the Earplug Brothers are ours!” But, of course it didn’t, because it wasn’t.
Fiction or not, Flaxwell and Gideon were reduced to silent screams by the story’s latest development…
Flaxwell found his voice first: “Gideon, I’m really not happy with what we’re seeing here: let’s get the heck back to Earth: I need to see that the museum is okay – with my own eyes!”
Gideon was tempted. However he retained remarkable decorum and presence of mind:
“No, Flaxwell, it’s too soon. Don’t be rash. We must see the documentary through to the credits. Only then will we have formed some considered ideas concerning our next move.”
Because Mister Zinc believed that the safety element of his early work (on his ‘little idea’) in the shed behind the watchtower had been compromised by lack of facilities and (because it was unheated) the need to rush off to the toilet every fifteen minutes, he thought it wise to continue his study in the basement of the Civic Centre. But even here he ran into a technological brick wall that even Ballington’s technical brilliance couldn’t resolve. So, whilst the incense cones enjoyed a lay-in; the end caps pored over Mister Zinc’s Flying Bathtub; and the catheter caps drilled until their advanced sole leather began smoking, Zinc and Ballington took their shared problem to the red sentinel robots…
“There are two key ingredients we require.” Zinc informed the huge automaton beside him.
“Two ingredients,” Ballington interjected, “that we cannot obtain here and now.”
The robot understood in an instant. “You are asking if we might procure them for you from our era.” It stated, rather than asked.
“What are these two key ingredients?” the second robot asked Ballington.
“Hoalnite Healiweelium.” Ballington replied, “And something quite common here on Earth, but in anti-matter form.”
The robots communed electronically. Moments later the senior of them said:
“Uh-oh, no-can-do. Hoalnite Healiweelium hasn’t been seen in generations; and any anti-matter can only be obtained from a quantum reality that is the reverse of our own. What is so important that you complete this work: surely, with the Earplugs doing our bidding, the battle is already won?”
“They’re a tenacious bunch, these earplugs.” Zinc said bitterly. “They don’t give up, even when they know they’re beaten.”
“I can vouch for that.” Ballington added. “Unless we have something to stop them dead in their tracks, they’ll keep needling us until we cry ‘enough’ and surrender.”
“Medusa Compound will do that.” Zinc spoke conspiratorially. “Stop them dead in their tracks, I mean.”
Again the head robot displayed a fleetness of mind. “Medusa Compound.” It said. “From the ancient fable of the Medusa, the sight of which would instantly turn an earplug to stone. You intend to petrify our opponents.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” A somewhat impressed Mister Zinc replied. “Only in our case the medusa element will only need touch its victim. We haven’t decided on a medium yet, but we thought gas might prove a little unwieldy.”
“The wind could blow it back over us.” Ballington explained needlessly.
In what form does the anti-matter need to exist?” The second robot (that had clearly been making calculations whilst the other spoke) inquired.
“Sesame seeds.” Ballington replied.
The robot accepted this without response. Instead it said:
“The Hoalnite Healiweelium exists in a natural state in hyperspace.”
Five minutes later the end cap Mothership opened a portal into Hyperspace, and duly entered it…
A further five minutes later catheter caps could be seen rushing along corridors towards their flight cradles…
Their vessel then interacted with the gossamer thin sub-atomic film that separates alternative realities from each other…
…and accelerated into the unknown. Unfortunately not every catheter cap aboard was entirely successful in their search for a flight cradle…
Grazed knees and nose bleeds abounded.
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
Is it possible for the situation to worsen further? Surely not! But wait; this is a tale of the Museum of Future Technology here: as Magnuss is wont to say; “Anything is possible in the Museum of Future Technology!”
Holy shit, what a cliff-hanger Episode 14 was! So let’s not hang around like a bunch of kiwi fruit: on with Episode 15…
Instantaneously all four red sentinel robots let rip with their mesmeric wave emitters…
After a sustained blast, Magnuss was still yelling, “Aaargh!”
So he received another dose of advanced cyber-medicine…
Ten minutes later, Douglas, Shoreham, Wong, and Dongler watched as Magnuss approached them as they stood at a Café Puke Dispenser…
“Guys,” he said with a smile. “False alarm. But understandable: they had no idea these walls were so paper thin.”
He went on to describe the literary and acting antics of the repertory company from Nibblers Flatch. This was greeted with relief by the earplugs. Douglas, however, was less convinced. He had been spending the past three months attending crochet evenings in Nibblers Flatch. In all that time he had never set his eyes upon a theatre. This thought irked him as he departed…
Inside the Dyson Sphere cinema, the playback ceased and the machine’s cyber-voice invited both viewers to visit the urinal…
“It’s just through those doors on your right.” It informed them.
Although grateful for the intermission, Flaxwell was alarmed by the developments taking place on the so-called documentary. He made an understatement: “I don’t like the way this story is panning out.”
Gideon had decided that a little denial can be good for one sometimes:
“It’s just an amazing work of fiction, Flaxwell. A play, if you will. I mean, it can’t be real, can it! And like we said earlier: we’re thousands of light years from Earth. This place was probably abandoned before earplugs attained sentience. This is all one incredible coincidence. A story about a museum that really exists, featuring characters that also really exist, doing things that they almost certainly would in the circumstances. I bet a half-decent mathematician could argue that something like this would be inevitable eventually. So, is it real? Not at all.”
Flaxwell remained to be convinced. However Gideon’s argument did ease his concerns sufficiently to allow his regular character to emerge; so, as the playback resumed he raced Gideon to see who could regain their chair first…
On-screen Magnuss and Hair-Trigger were riding one of the museum’s ‘up’ ramps…
“I don’t know what to say, Hairy.” Magnuss said to a clearly doubtful stripy earplug. “I visited the offices to which that splendid fellow, Douglas Tetrahedron led me, and found a group of actors and their director running through their first dress rehearsal of a play they’d written, with which they hope to spend a season in the Museum of Future Technology. I even took a quick glance at the script: they’ve got you off to a tee.”
Hair-Trigger was only half-placated. “Well if you say so, Mags. But my internal bad-guy radar is pinging like a looney right now. I can’t shake off the thought that’s it really more than you think it is.”
They were on their way to visit the Chief Curator, Cushions Smethwyke. By the time they’d arrived, Hair-Trigger’s smile had returned. It fell slightly as Magnuss related his tale once again, but not so much that Cushions noticed.
“That’s a relief.” Cushions replied. “But perhaps you should take your brothers along…you know…just to make sure you haven’t been duped.”
Hair-Trigger was all for it. “Brilliant idea, Cushions. Come on Magnuss; there’s no time like the present.”
As a consequence of this, Magnuss and Hair-Trigger soon met with the other four Earplug Brothers on a main thoroughfare…
“A play, you say?” Eldest brother, Rudi inquired. “I’m a cartoon kind’a guy: plays are a bit high-brow for me – know what I mean?”
Valentine was more responsive. “Sho-nuf, man.” He said to the offer of a free show in the Civic Centre, “I can dig it.”
Chester and Miles, being the youngest of the brothers by some margin thought they probably had something better to do; but a smile and a “aw, come on” from Hair-Trigger convinced them otherwise. However, when they arrived in the rented office suite, all five guests became slightly wary and began to wish they weren’t there…
“Hey, Magnuss, man,” Rudi said to the middle brother, “why y’all standing over there? Someone smell bad or something?”
Whether Magnuss would have responded to this jibe from his brother, no one will ever know, because, at that moment five red sentinel robots from the future stepped from the shadows…
Ugh, bet you can’t guess what happens next. Return for Episode 16: you never know, you might be wrong.
Tooty Nolan: Languishing Somewhere Between Clever and Stupid 