…but despite PDF downloads of my Earplug Adventures showing no signs of slowing down, readers for the current story – The Redemption of Gregor Arsentickler (a sequel of sorts to Triple Threat) – are very, VERY thin on the ground. Barely anyone is dropping by to have a giggle. I suppose, once it’s complete, people will download the finished article. I hope so: I’d hate to go to all this trouble, just to be ignored. Kind of makes sense they would; it must be hard work reading a story in tiny little portions. But, whatever, I’ll continue producing the episodes: it is, after all, the way I get these stories shot and written. Welcome to Part Three…
What Mister Pong missed, in the short time it took for him to find the nearest emergency exit, was the systematic stripping of both sections of the freighter, before setting off charges that destroyed what remained…
This made exclamation marks of amazement appear above the heads of those watching inside the Museum of Future Technology…
This turned to awe when the elegant craft of unknown origin turned about; then silhouetted itself against its own star drive…
“Nice.” Someone was heard to say. But others, mainly a group of monks that were visiting from the mountaintop citadel of Lemon Stone, had already slipped out their logarithm books and slide rules and calculated the vessel’s course…
“Come, Brothers,” their leader, Flacidus Pissoire, spoke quietly into the stunned silence, “let us return to the abbey before the shit really hits the fan.”
“You mean..?” Brother Botty Wobbilous began.
“Yes,” Flacidus replied, “if that thing doesn’t change course, the Museum of Future Technology will be its next port of call!”
Chapter 2
Unbeknownst to everyone either present or watching on TV, this potentially disastrous information had been relayed to Cushions via her hidden earpiece. She turned to stare down the tube of Rupert Piles’ camera…
“After a quick conflab with my fellow curators,” she said, “I have decided to attempt an intercept of this unknown vessel as far away from the museum as possible. Within the hour I intend to have a detachment of the over-paid and generally useless Seventh Cavalry board their virtually unused space ship and go see what’s what.”
No one felt compelled to argue, especially any local tax payers, so, fifty-five minutes later the recently promoted Captain Wetpatch Wilton, Sergeant Joe Frayzer, and other cavalryplugs that few knew the names of, assembled in one of the secret hangars…
Quickly they boarded their vessel. None too soon because a decontamination process lathered the outer hull of the ship…
“What’s this for?” Joe inquired of Wetpatch as they sat in their designated seats on the Chuck Winker’s bridge…
“Latest protocol.” Wetpatch replied. “It eradicates anything that originates on Earth from the outside of the ship. It’s been designed to make aliens think we’re from somewhere else so don’t come snooping around here.”
“Genius.” Joe responded positively. “Who thought of that?”
“Magnuss Earplug.” Wetpatch answered proudly.
By now Mister Pong had found his daughters, Yu-Wah and Wah-Hey in a nearby Café Puke outlet…
Before its outwardly cheerful proprietor could intervene and offer Pong a mug of ghastly crappachino, the eternally grouchy yellow earplug urged the siblings to the door.
“Quick,” he whispered, “we gotta get home: there’s some welding on the main hatch of the atom-proof bunker that needs doing straight away. Come on – chop-chop.”
Meanwhile the Chuck Winker had blasted off and now climbed quickly above the frosty winter pea farming region below Lemon Stone…
It soon rendezvoused with one of Jupiter’s even frostier moons so that it might line up with a recently discovered interstellar hyperspace corridor…
All aboard were surprised when, instead of a lecture from Cushions Smethwyke, they were treated to a last-second farewell upon the main screen from none other than the famous dancing troupe, the Greenhorn Girls…
“Boys,” she said, “I know you’re going to be terribly brave and all that; but please keep your heads down, huh? We’re already planning a dance routine to welcome you back after your mission is completed. It’ll include the can-can, complete with the frilliest knickers you’ve ever seen!”
She might have said more, but the sole female cavalryplug aboard chose that moment to ease the Chuck Winker into the hyperspace corridor, and within seconds it and its vaguely disappointed male occupants were lightyears distant from Earth…
…Destination: Unknown!
Meanwhile in deepest Nibblers Flatch…
…those who had attended the crotchet evening were departing and going their separate ways. The evening had been interesting and educational. Many, though were doubtful of their instructor’s techniques. Basil Bultitude would stand at the front…
…and shout instructions, such as “Push, shove, twist, thrust!” whilst his wife, Betty would go amongst the trainees…
…and slap the backs of their hands with a wooden ruler if they fell behind.
As the group dispersed, the huge rapid marker top, Douglas Tetrahedon, who worked at the Ciudad de Droxford civic centre as a night security officer noticed that one of his fellow crotchet enthusiasts appeared keen to loiter…
“Nowhere to go?” He inquired politely. “Been kicked out on your arse or something?”
Gregor Arsetickler realised that he had come to someone’s attention:
“No-no,” he answered, “It’s just…” He let the line fade away.
Douglas was intrigued: “It’s just what?”
Gregor sighed. “It’s just that I really don’t want to go home. I live next door, so it’s really no problem. My apartment is spartan, but tidy. It’s really very nice. It’s just that I don’t want to go to bed. I keep having these dreams, you see…”
Douglas didn’t ‘see’: he wanted to know more. So he urged Gregor to continue…
“Come on, you miserable cur,” he said gently, “walk with me: tell me your sorrows. I’m a rapid marker top: we’re not particularly good listeners, but I’m not your average rapid marker top. I believe in doing one good deed a day: unburden yourself.”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2024
What Becomes of the Broken Winded? 