Unbeknownst to either earplug hero, Mincey Muir now stood in the featureless courtyard that she could usually only see from her apartment window and was deep in conversation with Heathrow…
“Heathrow, oh Heathrow,” she said dramatically, like the actor she was, “where, the flipping heck, am I gonna find poison? This is the Museum of Future Technology: not some wizard’s cellar or well-appointed apothecary.”
Those were a lot more words than the simple Plugmutt brain could process quickly. Heathrow looked at Mincey as she stared sightlessly into the limited distance. Unaware that it had been a rhetorical question, he then provided her with the answer: “Plugmutt pellets.” He said. “Tasteless, aroma-free, and easy to dilute in tomato sauce or something similar. Also toxic. Make bum bad – then explode in exaltation of dung and flatulence.”
Mincey didn’t look at Heathrow directly: she preferred, instead, to think that those amazingly well-chosen words had been a gift from a higher being or a transcendental dimension of which she had hitherto been unaware. Eventually she said: “Do you have some?” And Heathrow fired something small and dark out of his bottom that careened across the courtyard and bounced off the wall with a dull thud. “Do now.” He replied.
A while later, the two chefs, Wilson Bucket and Saxon Nibbles, were preparing a large paella for Piggies’ evening meal…
Naturally Duncan Propshaft – a being without culinary skills – was reduced to pacing back and forth outside the futuristic kitchen, fretting all the while about Piggie’s reaction to a meal of Iberian origin. He stopped fretting when Mincey arrived…
In fact he stopped fretting so quickly that his eyes almost burst from his head. “Cor,” he said appreciatively, “you’re nice; I’m Duncan; what’s your name?”
Somewhat taken aback by Duncan’s primitive chat-up line, Mincey introduced herself and told Duncan of her plan to poison Piggies Du Pong with a plugmutt pellet.
“Jeepers, Mincey,” Duncan responded enthusiastically, “why would you want to do that?”
“Because he’s mad as a tartan turnip.” Mincey replied. “And eventually he’s going to get us all destroyed in a cataclysm that will eradicate everything from the beginning, to the end, of time.”
“Whoo – heavy. Leave it with me, Mincey.” Duncan said. “I’ll take care of it. Then we can take in a movie or something.”
So, moments later…
…the relieved daughter of Sir Dodger Muir departed with Heathrow at her side.
“We make a good team, don’t you think?” She said. “Maybe your bringing me here wasn’t so bad after all: I could soon be running this show. You can be my First Officer.
Meanwhile Duncan did as he had been bid…
…and rapped on the futuristic glass. “Hey guys.” He shouted through the thick transparent material, “I’ve got one more ingredient for your paella. You’re gonna love it.”
© Paul Trevor Nolan 2018