Junior Earplug Adventures: The Masters of Scroton (Part Twenty)

At first Beatrix was non-plussed. Then she felt aghast. And finally she tried her hand at outrage: “How dare you!” She roared. “You – a complete non-entity, whom no one has ever heard of – have the temerity to assume the mantle of leadership so recently vacated by my late, lamented, and very deceased husband? Well I’ve never heard the like!”

“Shut your face.” Sponson said in a menacing tone that he’d been practicing in the elevator all the way up from the basement.

“My dear Silver One.” Edni said in a calm measured tone. “If you had been monitoring the social media and cable channels prior to your husband’s foolhardy escapade, you would know that we three are far from non-entities. You would know that we have been recently voted ‘The Three Most Gorgeous Bodies on the Planet’. Our popularity with cable ends of all ages is unequalled – at least on the Internet. So we claim the throne by right. The right of being fabulous and being in the right place at the right time.”

Beatrix opened her mouth to speak, but could find no words. Well actually she did find one, but it was very similar to the word she’d said earlier, and she was lucky that the ‘naughty light’ didn’t glow again. So, without further ado, she relinquished her position to the popular favourites of Scroton.

“But why do you want to rule Scroton?” Major Baizbal-Kapp, Permanent Secretary to the Military, inquired. With your looks, surely you’d be better off on television.”

“Injustice.” Saskia replied. “We’ve seen too much of it.”

“Yeah.” Sponson added eloquently. “You’re all lousy sods!”

It took Edni to explain that all three of them had been yellow desert dwellers – until their magical transformation. “We’re here for revenge.” She added. “We want everyone else to suffer like yellow cable ends do.”

Beatrix trembled so much that her knicker elastic gave up the will to defy gravity any longer. “Ooh-er.” She whispered to herself as she rammed her fingers into her mouth, in a feeble attempt to stop her teeth chattering. “This isn’t how things work on Scroton. Surely our wonderful benefactors; those that brought intelligence and self-awareness to cable ends, will interfere and cast out these pretenders.”

It was a reasonable assumption. Many were the times when evidence of their omnipotent powers filled the sky with the flaming wreckage of invading alien fleets and suchlike.

“But then,” she spoke wisely to herself – perhaps for the first time in the twenty-three years since she had attained sentience – “maybe it’s time that we – by ‘we’ I mean the species Cablus Endicuss – grew up and took control of our own destiny. Is this Edni Gilbatross and her two fellow former yellow desert dwellers, the beginning of a new era? Crap – I hope not!” 

Of course, unwittingly Beatrix was half-correct. Those she referred to as benefactors weren’t interested in petty politics. It was beneath the threshold of their awareness. They weren’t gods: they didn’t listen to every plea and prayer. They left that to the maintenance crew in the subterranean facility…

…who had been keeping an eye on the situation via their huge video screen. They’d seen everything, and they were not impressed.

“Did you hear that?” One of the mushroom-shaped earplugs snapped. “Who loused up? She shouldn’t have been left alone within fifty Mutrons of that bio-tracker.”

“Let’s not go apportioning blame.” The purple polystyrene blob snapped back. “We should spend our time formulating a plan to retrieve the situation.”

“We could tell them that their Golden One isn’t dead.” The huge blue polystyrene blob suggested.

“And how do we do that, without giving ourselves away?” Another mushroom enquired.

“I know.” The first mushroom announced. “We’ll put out a call to our masters. We’ve never done that before: it should get their attention.”

© Paul Trevor Nolan 2017 


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