Vingettes- The Windy Night

The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition: This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, that others might use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.

Based on prompt provided by Joan Opie.

[ADDENDUM: Made minor edits to improve style, 17/06/2023.]

The storm had been gathering momentum for over an hour until the point where it seemed as if a host of banshees were circling the house, waiting for some foolish soul to emerge. And knowing their luck, that’s probably exactly what it was. They’d never forgiven Jenny for that incident back in ’38, after all. This would be a fine time to go (ha!) but she would swear and rage against any possibility that her time was up, even in the circumstances.

The gramophone which had been playing the Prelude to Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 against the strains of the wind suddenly went quiet, the dim crackle as the needle wobbled against the centre of the disc inaudible against the din outside. Not that Jenny hadn’t noticed.

“Get up and turn the record over would you, Alice dear?” she asked her long-suffering wife.

Alice let out a “Hmmph” and pushed herself out of her chair, gritting her teeth against the pain in her right knee. All that hiking and running around this world and that took its toll on your body eventually. Dutifully, though, she wandered over to the gramophone, removed the tonearm from the record, and a thought occurred to her. This would teach Jenny a lesson.

All the rigmarole of replacing the worn out needle and winding the infernal machine just enough so the handle didn’t take your hand off having been done, Alice finally sat down, longing for nothing more than to be finally getting on with developing those 12 rolls of film still outstanding from their last little jaunt- that, and a decent tape player. No sooner was she seated than the sound of a piano playing over a rock ‘n’ roll beat and Little Richard screaming out “Good Golly Miss Molly” erupted from the horn. And what’s more, there was no volume control. You couldn’t help but hear it over the wind.

“I thought we were listening to Bach?” Jenny shouted over the multitude of dins.

“Thought you might want cheering up darling! After all-” Alice shouted back.

“You know I hate Little Richard…” Jenny tried to complain, but it was no use, Nobody would hear her. And she was a captive audience, more or less.

Eventually though, even that too had to cease, leaving the room to the sound of banshees trying desperately to make their entrance. Or not.

And then, above the squeals and shrieks of the wind, a loud knocking came at the sturdy wooden front door out in the hallway.

“Your turn to get it darling,” Alice said in insistent tone.

“Please tell me you aren’t serious,” Jenny replied. “It’s probably just the wind anyhow.”

“Just because that dinosaur bit your leg off doesn’t mean you can vegetate in your chair listening to classical music forever! What happened to that adventuring spirit of yours, the great Jenny Everywhere and all? Or are those crutches going to sit there idle?”

“Are you done yet?”

“When you decide to drag yourself up.”

“It’s probably just the wind… why are you so-“

That hypothesis was soon disproved when the doorbell rang with a furious ‘DINGDINGDING!’, followed by more banging on the door and voices shouting out “Is anybody alive in there?” and “Hurry up you two it’s bloody freezing out here!” coming from behind it. Jenny knew at once who it was- sensing a familiar presence as well as recognising the voices in question.

Reluctantly, and after further protests towards an unmoving Alice, Jenny fumbled with her crutches and dragged herself, at length, out of her chair and onto her one remaining foot. Muttering “I’m too old for this shit” under her breath, she hobbled out into the dimly-lit hallway and slowly made for the door. Reaching it, she pushed the button on the side wall that released the complex mechanical locking mechanism a certain Milton J. Mackenbach had designed and installed for her, at his own expense. (The old bugger had owed her more than enough favours.) The door burst open and after it burst in three figures without so much as a by-your-leave, not only bringing a blast of air with them which made the solitary lamp hanging from the wall sputter, but nearly knocking her over but for the fact she had a nearby wall to fall back against. They tried in vain to close the door behind them- if the wind wasn’t blowing it open, the mechanism wouldn’t budge.

“Give it a good hard shove and pull the lever to,” called Alice’s voice from the room.

The one figure which wasn’t trying pulled back her hood and pulled her goggles up onto her forehead. It was her, of course- the other, somewhat younger, alternate version of Jenny that wasn’t quite so old and whose hair still had some colour in it other than a murky grey.

“Hello Jenny,” she said. “Happy birthday! Big seven-oh eh? We brought cake!”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten,” replied the older Jenny, through still gritted teeth.

The younger of the other two figures, a pretty looking young blonde thing who couldn’t have been much more than thirty-five, turned her head and said “I made the cake, by the way!” then turned back to the door, which after much prising, was finally yanked shut.

“This is Inieda, by the way, Niddie if you prefer,” said the third woman, Megan, now looking as if she were getting on a bit in her forties, albeit with wisps of still mousy brown hair poking out from underneath her woolly hat. Either that or her girlfriends were getting younger…

Niddie gave a small, noncommittal wave and an embarassed grin.

Well, it could have been worse, thought Jenny. An unwanted birthday party is better than being done in by vengeful banshees, after all…

The Writer’s Block, part 3

On the ground floor

Princess Lucidity was not as alone as she would have liked as she burst through the double-doors leading out from the stairwell, laser pistol thrust forward in the grip of both hands. The unwelcome entourage she led included Jenny Everywhere, who had insisted on coming to the point that if the Princess had tried to use the Wand of Principality to stop her, she’d have “blown her damn hand off first”; Marieka the barbarian, who had likewise threatened to slit her throat (this time a little too close for comfort) and the other Jenny Everywhere from the second floor who had quite literally bumped into her on the stairs. It was quite understandable for her to be here, but the other two… they would never learn. It was no use reminding them about the healing nanites in her bloodstream or the two spare bodies in the basement if they tried anything. It was no use trying to point out she was risking her current one for their benefit. Their primitive minds could not grasp such basic common sense.

Briefly surveying the scene that lay before her as the antiquated overhead lights she’d switched on from behind the door reluctantly spat out their emissions one by one, Lucidity noticed that the door to the empty side-office behind reception was open ajar, its light already on, and with her peripheral vision just to say managed to see a flash of scarlet outside the front door to accompanied by the sound of a frantic rush of stiletto heels. Looking around, she had only just managed to see a couple of telltale bullet holes in the wall opposite the office before having to swiftly duck behind the door as several more rounds came flying, thankfully without much thought as to where they were aimed. Before anyone had any chance to say anything, a javelin sailed past, embedding itself in the reception desk. Typical of Marieka to act on base instinct- skewer first, ask questions later. She would be the death of them all one day. The temporary occupant of the office had nothing more to respond with but the frantic but the futile clicking of the trigger mechanism of an empty-chambered gun- clearly her twenty-first century mind was not much more evolved. Before she would even have chance to remove the empty magazine, Lucidity intervened with quick-fire reasoning.

“If you don’t mind… Miss Lastrange,” she said, careful to make sure she addressed her opponent with the correct assumed name to avoid further misgivings, “perhaps we could proceed without further violence? I’m sure the walls would prefer not to have any more holes in them before tomorrow.”

“Screw that,” whispered Marieka. “Let’s just kill the b-“

“Hold your tongue, cavewoman,” Princess Lucidity interrupted, “and let your betters do the talking. No-one asked for your input-“

A sharp prod in the small of Lucidity’s back was enough to put an end to any further scolding. The Princess would have preferred for Marieka to not press that particular point- metaphorically and literally- any further. It had rather hurt the last time. So perhaps it would be wisest to save her energies on Lady Deleval:

“Ahem… Miss Lastrange? If you don’t mind?”

A glimpse of head could be seen peeking around the open door, only to disappear again.

Meanwhile, on the third floor…

“Makie, dear, why not do us a favour and put the kettle on, or something? I know you’re scared but I’d rather have my arm back sometime tonight.” Megan’s words, however reassuring their tone, were largely wasted as the other girl’s vice-like grip held fast.

“B- but it’s not safe…” Makie whimpered… “and I need you… to protect me…”

“Don’t be daft girl,” Megan insisted. “I’m sure the others can manage it. You don’t think I’m not scared too? After all I’ve been through?”

“O- OK, Mejie…” Makie agreed with some reluctance, slightly relaxing her grip.

The room returned to its previous awkward silence for some moments, punctuated by the odd awkward glance.

It was finally broken by a gentle knock at the door, which promptly opened and in walked Alice.

“Hope you lot don’t mind me popping in for a brief while, you know… I’m afraid I couldn’t sleep with the awful racket downstairs…” She paused upon realising there were two very unfamiliar faces in the room looking at her.

“Sorry… new faces… hello… nice to meet you… I’m Alice, Alice Jane… I mean if I remembered you were coming, I’d…” She looked down at her clothing, feeling rather embarrassed at not being properly dressed.

“Hi,” said Mike, Mike Moheden, don’t know if you’ve heard of me…”

“Not everybody has,” Laura whispered to him in Lyniezian, before turning back to Alice. “‘Nisi, I’m Laura Mycarina,” she went on – her English, though clear, intoned with a strong Clochan accent – “and we shan’t be bothering you for long, Miss Alice. Don’t worry about us.”

That what she’d told them hadn’t sunk in was hardly any comfort to Makie, who was too troubled to say anything else. She was beginning to worry for Laura as much as herself. Proud Laura, didn’t she realise the danger she was in? That there would be no possible chance of escape?

In fact, nobody knew quite was to say, until Santa decided that after all this unpleasantness, the mood needed to be lightened somehow.

“I distinctly recall someone mentioned tea,” he boomed. “Would anyone fancy a cup?”

“Ra-ther,” added Arty. “Though since the cat’s away, you couldn’t perhaps sneak me a bottle of Brown, old chap? Strictly under the table? Please?”

“No trouble at all, my boy! I am the bringer of good things, am I not?”

“Erm… well, since I’m up…” said Alice, desperate not to be any more trouble. “Just the half a teaspoon though if you don’t mind, thanks. I’ll be needing the sleep sometime tonight.” She gingerly took a spare seat at the table. “Although if this commotion goes on…”

(Another half dozen shots and a crunch from downstairs could not have been worse timed for such words.)

“… I think I’d prefer a G&T instead!”

“Yes, er… please,” said Laura, trying to remember how English manners went. “If, as you say, it’s no trouble. I’d like the Simsonai yamen- sorry, Samson Extra Strong Blend, two spoonfuls, Lyniezian style without the milk, you know… and if you have any plum cake to go with it, I really haven’t eaten much all day…”

“Afraid we’ve only got biscuits,” Santa told her. “And tons of lebkuchen. Despite who I am, I wonder about the Author and why He seems so fond of the stuff…”

“I’m not sure what lebkuchen is, but I’ll try it, thank you,” Laura replied.

Mike was too busy thinking how much Alice reminded him of his Aunt Lucy, back when he was a boy, and she was 20 years younger. Even down to the way she spoke, the feigned ‘received pronunciation’ tone to hide her natural Yorkshire accent, and the way she was always flustered when trying hard to compose herself. She’d been like that at the funeral, the poor woman. Uncle George had only been 66…

A sharp elbow-jab in the ribs from Laura brought him back to reality.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he said.

Meanwhile, on the ground floor…

“We can be here all night, Miss Lastrange,” Princess Lucidity shouted towards the half-open door.

The sound of clicking as one magazine was emptied and another loaded was the only reply.

“Or if you insist,” the Princess went on, “I can always vaporize that door you’re hiding behind. And possibly much of the wall. I don’t think it’s a supporting wall, thankfully for us. Which is it to be, Miss Lastrange?”

More clicking followed.

“Or perhaps it’s Lady Delaval?”

After a pause, came a reply:

“Lady Delaval, madam, is dead. As will you be, unless I see weapons on the ground and hands on heads.”

Princess Lucidity laughed a haughty laugh. “I do think we rather have the advantage, milady,” she exclaimed.

“Perhaps one of us could try, Your Highness?” asked one of the Jenny Everywheres, the one that wasn’t dressed.
“I appreciate the offer, but I think I can handle this,”

“She does have a point,” piped up the other Jenny. “Perhaps a change of tack?”

“I’ve got several points and I wanna shove them all into Princess Thunder-Thighs there…”

A deft half-turn from ‘Princess Thunder-Thighs’ followed and Marieka found a sharp jolt of lightning sending her collapsing helpless to the floor.

“I did tell you not to call me that again,” Princess Lucidity exclaimed, neck craned round to face the fallen barbarian. “And I told you what would happen!”

“And I’ll… do it… again…” moaned Marieka, half-insensible.

As they were arguing amongst themselves, they barely noticed the sound of heels clattering across tarmac, followed by a car door slamming and the vehicle it was attached to madly screeching away. The Princess turned towards the front door and saw its tail-lights flash as it turned the corner out of sight. A faint smile appeared in the corner of her mouth. She’ll be back, she thought. In, let’s see, about thirty seconds? And then the fun really begins…

In the basement…

“Ak!” said a small, wizened looking figure which had just entered through a door from what would otherwise have been the boiler-room, half-dragging a taller, cloak-wrapped figure behind it. “Gakarit sogmoth! This not Mekkrit home! Tokgrotrit merat… strange magic! All over valley, hyoomahn! Not know where Mekkrit is, one night! Mekkrit drive mad soon! Come on, come on, stupid hyoomahn…”

“Oh, let me sit down, foul creature!” moaned the cloak-wrapped figure. “Let me sit down and rest a while…”

“Stupid hyoomahn! Not let yeggrahtik eat you, Mekkrit will not! Is right behind you! Hurry, Mekkrit close door!”

The cloak-wrapped figure, none the wiser about the complete lack of danger she and the goblin were in fact in, shuffled through as the goblin scurried and closed the door against the warm, droning metal behemoth that lay beyond. In front of them, a faint glow from a mysterious, magical set of lights shining down from the ceiling shone down onto a tiled floor and walls, the walls somewhat shinier than the floor, and beyond a low wall, dull silvery pipes with strange knobs and other things attached to them were attached to an outer wall. Along the other walls ran slatted wooden benches and a row of metal hooks, some of which had damp, skimpy-looking garments and some other pieces of material hanging from them, attached to a wooden rack. Doors could be seen in several of the walls. None of this mattered to the cloak-wrapped figure, who collapsed onto the floor, rested her back uncomfortably up against one of the wooden benches, and proceeded to catch her breath.

Several loud noises could be heard from above, sending the goblin scurrying under one of the benches in fear of her life. The cloak-wrapped figure pulled her hood over her ears, hands clasped around her head, hoping the nightmare would soon end.

On the third floor…

“So, Alice,” Megan asked, hoping it would lighten the mood, “how’d your little excursion into the woods go? Get any nice shots?”

“Oh, definitely! I took several red squirrels, a couple of woodpeckers, and – I kid you not- a most unusual thing! An actual, real live herd of mammoths! Would you believe it! All the worlds they’re extinct in…”

“Howsh other-Jennee?” slurred Makie, one arm still gripping in vice-like fashion to an ever-reluctant Megan’s arm, the other slamming the glass which had held her fourth gin and tonic down onto the formica-surface of the table, which wobbled on its thin metal legs under the sudden pressure.

“Other-Jenny is doing fine, Miss Marieka,” Alice said, using Makie’s proper name as was her custom. “Well, tired and frustrated really, but who can blame her, I suppose.”

“Please forgive me If I’m losing my hearing, or if my English is a bit… rusty, as you say over there, but did you actually say mammoths?” asked Laura, who was privately wondering just how much of a madhouse this building was. “I thought they were extinct, in the real world…”

“She won’t belieeeeve you,” Makie half-sang. “Gizza notha glass, willya pleeese…”

Alice reluctantly poured her a fifth, frowning.

“You’ve had enough,” Megan scolded, tugging on her arm.

“No I haven’t! Way no!” sang Makie.

Alice drained her own, before turning to Laura in an attempt at explaining:

“Well, I suppose they are, though it depends on which world you mean, and what you mean by real. I mean, I’m sure Jenny- my Jenny, that is- you’ll meet them both soon enough I’m sure- will tell you all about the dimensions and probabilities and quantum thingummy-doodahs. But there are, as far as I can remember, an infinite number of possible worlds. Everything it’s possible for her blessed Author- or should I say cursed- to imagine!”

“I was under the impression there was just the one,” Laura replied.

“Well if you don’t believe me, just wait until I develop the prints tomorrow and see if you believe me! The camera never lies! Which, strictly isn’t entirely true, but then, I don’t do celebrity photoshoots, so mine doesn’t. So there.”

“I really must cut back on my work schedule,” Laura said in Lyniezian, turning to Mike. “Or see that psycho-specialist old Doctor Menai keeps telling me I should see about my ‘work stress’. I could swear either this place is insane, or I am.”

“Seems real enough to me,” is all Mike could reply, before taking a swig from his ale-bottle.

“You would say that, wouldn’t you! Some friend you are!”

“Ey! Mikey-boy! Whenya done, do us ‘Across the Distance’!” yelled Makie.

Mike, taken aback, looked across at the small, drunken, colourfully-attired girl sat opposite him, turned back to Laura and whispered:

“Actually, you’re completely right. The place is stark raving bonkers.”

The pair could barely contain a mutual fit of laughter.

Outside, the squealing of tyres and the roar of an engine could be heard as a car sped off into the night.

Moments later, the same noise could be heard, this time getting closer.

Everybody, besides Makie who had collapsed face-first onto the table, rushed over to the window to see the commotion…

The Warrior Princess and the Pea (part 1)

Author’s Note: This is a daft idea that came to my head one morning as I was lying in bed musing: what if the princess in Hans Christian Anderson’s tale wasn’t as fragile as she seemed? I did think it was a bit silly that women might be expected to be so dainty, but at the same time, didn’t reckon with the possibility (as I later read) that it might be a satire of the ‘upper crust’! Nevertheless, the idea was intriguing, and given what you might have noticed is my somewhat awkward fascination with warrior women and a love/hate relationship with the notion of royalty, decided to write it as a sort of fantasy tale. Whether I finish it or not, of course, remains to be seen, but I’ll try…

The name “Malthus” was indeed based on the fellow who had certain still-controversial theories on overpopulation way back when, but such notions have nothing to do with the characters of the people so named.

A long time ago on some far-distant planet with uncanny similarities to our own, there lay a small Kingdom in the shadow of the Grey Mountains, called Melitania, on account of the fact that the honey produced there was famously regarded as the sweetest in the world- although, as everyone knows, it is not the sweetness of its honey that makes a country rich. Liquid gold carries not the worth of solid. It was fortunate, then, for that Kingdom, that there was, as they say, plenty of gold in them there hills, enough to furnish the royal palace with all manner of exotic luxuries, to clothe its principal inhabitants in glittering array, and still have so much left over that the great treasury door could barely be shut at night. All those riches, needless to say, come with a price- there are many neighbouring kingdoms who, should such a Kingdom lack a suitable heir to its throne, might find reason to invade and take that wealth for their very own.

It was hardly true that the Kingdom of Melitania, at the time our story will be told, lacked a suitable heir, though it would soon lack a King, suitable or otherwise. It so happened one day that when the royal chef de cuisine was personally preparing the rare dish of roast Kratchian fire lizard for the high table of King Malthus XVII himself, his hand slipped whilst performing the delicate task of removing the lizard’s deadly poison sac, unbeknownst to anyone until the King tucked in and, after guzzling down an entire pitcher of wine in a desperate attempt to sooth his burning palate, collapsed back on his seat with a heavy thud, then promptly plunged face-forward into his trencher, dead, much to the shock of the entire court.

Whilst in time the throne would pass to his only son – Prince Malthus, eighteenth of his name – it was not the Melitanian custom that a mere boy of sixteen should be crowned King until the time he turned twenty-one, and had taken a wife to his bed. Both of these things were required before one could become a man. Once upon a time, he would have had to kill a cave bear and bring back its head, too, but cave bears were scarce these days in the vicinity of the Grey Mountains, and were a protected species by royal decree. It would, though, have suited the Prince fine, since he was far more interested in hunting than in finding a wife; or, when not hunting, then fencing; or, when not fencing, then his favourite pursuit of all, falconry. Or so it would have seemed, for in truth he had been far more interested in the falcon-mistress, Yelenn, a sturdy young woman whose appearance every man from Lords of the Council down to the lowest kitchen-whelp thought far too butch for their liking, but not the young Prince. It was fortunate, then, that Malthus soon became fond of the birds that were Yelenn’s charge, not to mention the tasty game they retrieved; for his long-suffering mother, Queen Regent Marcia, tasked with overseeing the affairs of state until the Prince came of age, was determined that her son should find a woman more in-keeping with his station than a mere servant, and dismissed Yelenn for a man more suited to the job.

It would have been enough for Queen Marcia if her son’s betrothed were a princess, and the kingdoms round about had many virgin royal daughters who would have made a prodigious match, not to mention the benefits that an alliance with those kingdoms would bring. But she had to contend with her nemesis, Queen Maud the Dowager Queen Mother, who had very particular ideas about what manner of princess her grandson must wed- she must, indeed, be a “true” princess, one who was as fair as she was delicate, much as the gnarled old hag had claimed to be long ago, before her body had caught up with her soul. Both were, at least, agreed on one point: that in no wise should any common hussy be permitted to pollute the blood royal with any child she bore.

And so it came to pass that, from the Northern wastes to the deserts of the South, from westwards to the Great Sea and the islands beyond, from every land, came visiting delegations to the great royal palace in the city of Water’s Edge, by the Kraken Lake. They brought with them princesses of all kinds. Some were very young and some less so; some short, some tall; some all painted-up, decked in gold and jewels and arrayed in lace and frills and finery, others dressed simply but elegantly; some demure and shy, others brimming in confidence, eager to display their accomplishments. But there was always something wrong with them- her nose was just the wrong shape, her skin was the wrong shade, she was too fat, she was too thin, her dowry was insufficient… not that any of this mattered to the Prince, however. None could compare to his beloved Yelenn, from whom he had been so cruelly parted. Inwardly he pined for her, but outwardly remained stoic, for no boy who wanted to be a real man dared show tears. And so it was until no eligible royal daughter could be found for Malthus in all the Western Lands- neither of Their Majesties would contemplate finding him a barbarian bride in the strange lands east of the Mountains. And the Prince retreated to the open country, with no company save his attendants, the falcon-master, his horse Thunder, and his favourite bird, Lightning.

Of the Myth and the Reality- a tale of Telanna and her lover – Prologue

Author’s note: This is the beginning of a short story set in what is meant to be a much larger one, entitled “The Saga Of Telanna”. The Telanna (a.k.a. Tanna Maneldri) of the title is a semi-immortal warrior woman, sometime queen, sometime goddess-figure, sometime adventurer, sometime “antiquities expert” (imagine a cross between a female Connor MacLeod, Xena, and Lara Croft, only slightly more twisted!) who inhabits an unknown alien world and, along with a number of other individuals, gained superhuman abilities after being abducted by another, more advanced alien race. This occurs somewhat after the ending of what would have been the original stories I had mentally planned out, which concerned her origin and quest for vengeance over her extinguished tribe; another detailing the ongoing conflict with another of her kind, the Emperor Marenden. This short story, though, is intended largely as a discussion/deconstruction of certain cliched tropes about warrior women and immortals, an exploration of how real-life events might be mythologized over the aeons, and the like. As for our roguish protagonist, the amusingly named “Chad Edge”- well you can work out what he is soon enough. I want to have a bit of fun with certain idiotic internet memes pertaining to his name, too…

Chad Edge had not normally been fond of books before, even antiquarian books. He had, of course, been fond of any… opportunity he could manage to gain himself profit from the unwary businessman, though. Though it had but barely taught him the art of literacy, that was one thing the Guild had taught him well. Of course, now, he had developed a fondness for Tanna, who herself was more than fond of not only books but all things antiquarian. Seven thousand years upon this earth had, she had told him, given her ample opportunity to learn to appreciate the finer things in life- and to separate the silver from the dross. He, in turn, had much more quickly learned that it was possible to combine both his fondnesses to his own advantage.

It was for this reason that, three months into their joint sojourn in the city of Mexen Tegani, that he found himself frequenting the Bookseller’s Row more often than not. It was an important centre for the book trade renowned throughout the country of Laxam Yegna. Histories, scientific treatises, reference works, myths, legends, fantasies, romances of every description, the new and the old, the cheap shilling paperback and the ten-crown gilt edged parchment, hand bound in finest yilkskin. If he had any interest whatsoever in these tomes, though, it had little to do with what was printed in them. The prospect of actually sitting down and reading dry, dead words on a dry, dead page would surely send him to sleep before he’d even tried- he preferred the raw excitement of living reality. But the fact was that there were those who not only read and studied the things with great enthusiasm, but they were willing to pay considerable sums for them. So much so that the denizens of Booksellers’ Row made a tidy profit out of the fact. Profit made from, as far as Chad Edge was concerned, nothing more than extracting value from the desperate and the gullible. Did these people set the type and work the presses? Did they, in other words, do any real work, anything to, as “regular, decent folks” were bound to say, “add value to society” worthy of their fortunes? If not, it was hardly as if what he was trying to do was any more immoral, was it?

The method by which Chad performed his little enterprise was, he thought, subtle but ingenious. After all, any fool could walk in with a loaded crossbow and a mask pulled over his face, ordering whatever hapless clerk behind the desk to empty the cash-register or crouch helpless on the floor whilst he stripped the shelves of whatever was of value. Any fool, that is, who wanted half the city watch surrounding him at sword-point before he had chance to blink- which they certainly would in those streets where gentlefolk went about their business. No, it required careful observation and understanding of the mark, some clues as to their trade and their behaviour. All this he’d made note of every time Tanna dragged him into yet another shop looking for whatever rare and hard-to-find title she required this time round. At first, he’d got used to standing patiently and listening to her engaging with some shopkeeper about some particular rare volume she desired at that particular moment, whilst making careful note of the words they used- odd terms like “foxing”. Of particular interest, too, was their habits. Especially the fact that they tended to keep the most valuable items in some hidden backroom which, for some of the grey-haired old duffers who ran the “quainter” places (more for love than money), could take hours in fulfilling your particular request. Enough time to, if he was quick and quiet about it, help himself to a few of the more modestly priced titles and run them to Menam Tengi’s for a valuation, and be back in time for the senile old fool to let you know that alas, he couldn’t find what you said you were looking for in stock. Then back to Tengi’s to collect whatever… fair price he dictated.

Of course, the same trick would never work on Tengi, the stingy old miser. He was one of those most shrewd of merchants- and one of those most rich. For one thing, he would never dirty his shoes in those cavernous vaults of his- he had assistants for that kind of thing, usually some skinny, wet-behind-the-ears young lad with inch-thick eyeglasses who was too young even for a wisp of the neatly-trimmed Yegnan moustache their master sported. And he had the eyes of a threc- spotting even the smallest compact you snuck out of the bargain section at the far end without paying the fourpence it was worth. Yet when it came to his payment, the tight-fisted bastard wouldn’t give you a tenth of the book’s real price, and unlike any Yegnan on the face of the island, wouldn’t even haggle. Still, he was reliable, and didn’t ask too many awkward questions. Neither did some of the old duffers down the road- and they were easier to wring money out of, but less reliably so. And of course, you could never be too careful. You had to know which ones were easiest, and to play to their particular quirks.

Still, by now, he had it worked out pretty firmly by now- or so he told himself. He’d claim to be on some errand for Tanna, when she was busy with some affairs of state; or browsing the antique markets on the other side of town, whose golden items were far too valuable to simply liberate (if you wanted your fingers intact); or (rarely) going off on some expedition to recover some priceless rarities not found in the shops; or (much more often) going incognito into some sleazy dive, waiting for the chance to enact her peculiar form of justice- the sort which usually resulted in broken tables and congealed blood staining the tiles, yet she with barely a scar on her by the time she got home. He knew from experience exactly the sort of title she might be claiming to look for – often on some arcane topic – for it to appear believable. And then, he would put his plan into motion. It was a slow but steady income, and one he didn’t especially need, but it was one that, in his own estimation, was his. Or at least, did not depend on her– and in turn, not on the “regular, decent folks” who paid their taxes.

The Genesis of Jenny Everywhere (parts 1-2, pre-alpha version, re-upload)

[Obligatory notice: The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition. This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, in order that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.

‘BBC’, ‘BBC Home Service’ and the Today programme belong to the BBC, and are included for reasons of affectionate parody only.

All other characters, institutions and the story itself belong to the author, and should not be used without permission. Any similarities to real life entities are either coincidental or not intended with offence in mind.

Content warning: occasional racial and gendered slurs, purely for the sake of the narrative, possible stereotyping. Needless to say I don’t condone this language in real life, nor is any characterization meant to be generally reflective of any group.]

Author’s note

This is a re-upload of an unfinished Jenny Everywhere story I wrote circa 2014 and had up on the Republic of Lyniezia blog. As the title suggests it’s very much a work in progress and I’m not entirely happy with it. In retrospect, less so- in light of the increased awareness being placed upon racial issues in recent years, I am concerned that the character of Jenny’s Mum might in particular be reflective of the “tiger mother” archetype- which was intentional but I definitely don’t want to make out this this is reflective of all women of (implicitly) East Asian origin! Her actual origins, whilst implicitly not British, or Japanese, is left vague perhaps for this reason. Even though this story is meant to be taken from Jenny’s persepctive, I do think I could have made her Mum a more sympathetic character somehow, or at least give her a rationale.

I’ve also tweaked it to add in some of the “colourful metaphors” as it were.

This isn’t exactly meant to be the absolute origins of Jenny- after all she’s supposed to exist in every possible reality, probably at any point in history as well. Rather, it’s meant to be the story of how one particular Jenny discovers that she is, in fact, a Jenny Everywhere. After all, there must be millions of them, and they have to start somewhere. And her surname isn’t Everywhere to begin with either- it’s sort of a moniker, a general name used to denote the state of being Jenny Everywhere, in this version at least.

And don’t ask where Levendale City is. The real Levendale is a small suburb somewhere in the vicinity of a small town called Yarm. This isn’t it. It’s a lot bigger, for one thing. Like Springfield, it’s everywhere- in fact, just like Jenny. And yet, nowhere.

Part 1

Levendale City, on a September morning

“Wake up, Jenny!” came a shout from below stairs. It was Jenny’s mother, trying hard to get her up for yet another dreary school day. “It’s half past seven, young lady, and if you do not get up now, you’ll be late!”

“Yeah, OK Mum,” moaned Jenny drearily. “I’ll be up shortly.”

“Shortly’s not good enough! Now!”

The last thing Jenny wanted to do was get up, however: she was having far too much fun dreaming, and just wanted to roll over and doze off so she could continue for just five minutes more. When she dreamed, she could be anything she wanted to be, fly off to distant worlds and have all manner of crazy adventures. But her mother would have none of it, not when there were studies to be done and exams to be passed. Battling airship pirates over the Alps, riding your mammoth across the steppe or trekking though the Amazon searching for the treasures of El Dorado wouldn’t help you pass Geography or Further Maths. As for getting up late, why the heck that woman classed half past seven in the morning as late was beyond Jenny’s comprehension. School didn’t even start until nine, and it was only five minutes up the road.

“You’ve got to be early, got to make a good impression!” she would tell Jenny.

When all it would really mean is standing around the yard in the freezing cold whilst the other girls made fun of crazy Jenny with her silly goggles and scarf, always dreaming of adventures that would never happen; when she should be fawning over some boy-band member, arguing over who was going to win the latest reality TV contest or which shade of foundation was right for you. None of which interested Jenny in the least, any more than learning to solve differential equations so you could pass Further Maths or learning about the drought problems of the Democratic Republic of Muganda. School was just one big drag. Mum, though, didn’t seem to realise any of this. It was like talking to a brick wall.

“Hurry up Jenny! Get dressed! I made you some toast, your favourite, and there’s some tea in the pot waiting for you to pour it out! It’s twenty five to eight! You have no alarm clock or something?”

It was no use arguing. Begrudgingly, she dragged herself out of bed.

**********************************

Part 2

[Warning: contains some slightly strong language and one arguable racial slur. Apologies to the BBC who own the Today programme- this is meant as affectionate parody, I hold no rights to it.]

The faint strains of John Whatshisname roasting another politician for breakfast could be heard coming from the radio downstairs, whilst in the distance the low hum of a zeppelin and the odd whoosh of early morning traffic punctuated the silence, but this would hardly motivate Jenny to do anything other than flop back onto the bed and return to her reverie. As per her usual solution to the problem, she reached up to the shelf and picked out a cartridge at random from the pile, too tired and bleary-eyed to care which one, leaving the rest to clatter to the floor. Loading the cartridge into the player with a satisfying ‘click!’ the noise of a funky beat and slap bass soon drowned out the background. Jenny splashed some water on her face, changed out of her nightdress and threw on a few clothes: off-white blouse, dark blue sweater dark blue slacks, bomber jacket- and of course her trademark aviator goggles and scarf. (Since Mum had insisted the green-and-purple Levendale United one was not to be worn except on match days, a perhaps more appropriate silk scarf had to suffice.) A quick check in the mirror and it was off to face the day. The Bitch Squad would probably still be wondering what top matched what skirt or ensuring their eyeliner was applied just so, no doubt, she mused.

Several minutes later, Jenny clumped down the stairs nonchalantly just as Sister Belinda Snodgrass was just summing up her thought for the day and handing over to the weather forecast. Mum had by this point gone outside to hang the washing outside, leaving Dad sat at the table, munching on toast whilst mulling over the copy of the Morning Post spread out of the table in front of him, mumbling something about the “bloody Japs” entering Outer Mongolia, briefly looking up at his daughter and uttering a casual “Morning, Jenny” before returning his gaze to the newspaper. After a few moments, he added that there might be some tea left in the pot and that Jenny could help herself, which sitting down at the table, she did, along with some toast. Having cooled down too much, the toast lacked that warm, just-done feel but still went nicely spread with butter. Mmm. Her thoughts then wandered, and in her mind’s eye she was flying high in the skies above Mongolia, one of the bombers of the Imperial Japanese air force in her sights, fingers at the trigger ready to fire. But before she could her father’s voice brought her crashing back down to earth, not Mongolia but a kitchen table in England.

“So… penny for them young lady?” he inquired. Jenny took a while to collect her thoughts, before replying:

“Oh, erm… I imagined I was fighting the Japanese. Silly really…”

“Well,” he chuckled, “with you at the front I’m sure they’d not even be able to hold Manchuria! But if you want to do something about it, you know, you do have to stop just dreaming and work at it…”

“You’re beginning to sound like her,” exclaimed Jenny, gesturing towards the back window.

“Never mind,” replied he consolingly. “Friday today, and it’s the big match tomorrow, eh?”

“Yeah,” she replied. (Going to the football with her Dad was probably amongst the other of the few other real-life pleasures she had; the fact that she was a girl made no difference even though he insisted it was very much a “man’s game” and she’d never yet persuaded him to go along with her to one of the women’s matches.) “Cranchester without a chance I’ll bet. Got to be three-nil at least…”

“Don’t bet on it, now they’ve got Jefferson back in-”

At which point Mum had just opened the back door, looking worn out and none too pleased. Looking at Dad with that stare, she scolded him:

“You should be encouraging your daughter in her studies, not talking about silly games!”

“I’ll have you know that football is not some ‘silly game’! It’s the Beautiful Game! And it’s something we take very seriously here, if you don’t mind…”

“Studies are still more important, and Jenny is starting her A-levels, so she needs to focus!”

“Mum…” interjected Jenny.

“Less of that young lady! This is no joke, you know! This is the rest of your life you are talking about, so you need to knuckle down! No more football, and no more silly dreams! Finish your breakfast and get ready! What have you got on today?”

Jenny sighed.
“Double maths, biology, some film about Japanese knotweed…”

“You see,” joked Dad, “even the Jap plants are out to get us. They take over Asia whilst their plants are busy taking over Brit-”

“You stay out of this,” scolded his wife.

It was a pity, thought Jenny, that knotweed wasn’t like a real evil plant, grabbing you by the ankle with its tendrils and dragging you down into the depths like in the movies. Then, at least Biology might be worth staying awake for, rather than drifting off and thinking about riding across the plains on your trusty steed or shooting down Japanese bombers. But alas, it was not to be.

“…beep, beeeeep!” went the radio, signalling the hour. “You’re listening to the Today programme on the BBC Home Service…”

“See?” said Mum. Eight o’clock already! Get a move on! And take those silly goggles off before you go!” Jenny reluctantly wolfed down the rest of her toast, downed the mug of tea, got up, grabbed her books and shoved them into the satchel (along with portable cartridge player and a few tapes from the former pile) before hurrying out of the door, slamming it angrily behind her… still wearing her goggles.

“Hey, Jenny!” called a voice from behind her. “Wait up!”

Jenny turned around to see the source of the voice, a small girl with messy, mid-length blonde hair, pretty but with the lack of personal grooming which would make the Bitch Squad turn their faces in disgust, dressed in a loose T-shirt (yea, even in this weather), jacket and jeans, backpack slung over her shoulder and wheeling a bike beside her.

“Oh… hi Leelee,” she replied. “Bloody heck, not like you to be up this early!”

Leah “Leelee” Jones was probably the closest thing Jenny had to a friend, even though she was still only a fourth-former and could be intensely annoying at times. Not so much of the cling-to-you-like-a-limpet-and-don’t-leave-you-alone kind of annoying as she used to be when she’d first joined secondary school and started hanging around Jenny because she was “really cool”, but still overbearing and silly with a sense of priorities even Jenny felt worrying. Like, for example, she’d be nowhere to be seen for three days and then suddenly she’d show up for school one morning, asking Jenny a ton of questions about what adventures she’d dreamed up this time and begging her to go hang around in the park with her because she didn’t feel like going to school that day. Never mind that there were studies to do and things to be learned, and a mother to give you what-for if you so much as slipped behind an inch. (Not that Leelee’s uncle and sole guardian could care less, despite the concerned and pleading letters from Levendale West Academy that popped onto his doormat on a weekly basis, the most they could do since truancy laws were a thing of the past, a thing even Jenny’s Dad dismissed as “bloody Libertarian nonsense”.) Even when she did go to school, it was usually straggling in two minutes after the bell had called students in for registration, so to see Leelee up at a mere ten past eight was little short of a miracle.

“Well, I dunno, don’t think I could sleep or something, like,” was how she explained it. “Uncle Joe got drunk again and he started snoring like a pig so I thought I’d nip out without him noticing.” She giggled uncontrollably.

“Is that the only reason you’re up?” asked Jenny.

“I think so,” replied Leelee. “Maybe there was something on first period that was interesting, can’t remember…”
The girl was impossible. One minute she couldn’t care less about school, the next raring to get there because something caught her fancy that day? Make your bleeping mind up, lass!

“Hmmm,” remarked Jenny in snarking tone. “’Interesting’ and ‘first period’ aren’t exactly the sort of terms I’d put together. Do enlighten me…”

“What’s ‘enlighten’?”

“I mean, what have you got on that’s so interesting?”

“Dunno, history I think. Sounded interesting yesterday.”

Leelee was clearly bored with this line of conversation, and after a short pause changed the subject.

“So, tell me about your adventures again Jenny! Pleeease?”

“Not now Leelee. I keep telling you I’m not a storyteller. Can’t we just talk about something normal for a change, like how United are going to thrash Cranchester three nil tomorrow…”

“Foot-bore! Foot-bore!” chanted Leelee mockingly.

“You should come to the match tomorrow with me and Dad, you might like it.”

“You know I don’t like football! Come on Jenny, tell me about your adventures…”

Sometimes Jenny wished Leelee might actually start being interested in fashion, pop music and boys like most other girls her age. At least she might stop reverting back to behaving like a six-year-old, not the 14 she actually was. Maybe in one of her better moods, she might make some lad’s ideal Manic Pixie Dream Girl, fun-loving, crazy and demanding as she was. But then again, if she were any different she’d not be the Leelee Jenny actually liked anymore, just another member of the herd, leaving her with nothing but herself and her dreams to shield her from this dreary world.

“Oh, all right then,” she said with a sigh, going on to relate last night’s dream involving shootouts with gangsters in a run-down part of some American city. And charging the Mongol hordes astride a mammoth. And walking on the Moon.

It was about twenty-to-nine by the time the two girls finally reached the imposing gates of Levendale West Academy. (Mum would not have been pleased with such tardiness.) Students could be seen milling around both inside and out, mucking around and being hounded down by the exasperated teacher-on-duty, or chatting about the upcoming weekend.

“Once more unto the breach dear friend, once more…” said Jenny to a puzzled Leelee. “Oh, come on, you are doing Henry V in English this year? You know, Shakespeare?”

“Meh, English is bo-ring,” replied Leelee dismissively. “Who wants to know about some old king talking in thees and thous instead of flying your airship through the mountains, you know like you, Jen? Or maybe riding round the park scaring off the ducks like me?”

And getting wolf-whistled and cat-called by all the perverts on the benches by the fountain, which you wouldn’t even think about would you Leelee? thought Jenny. Anyway, who wouldn’t want to be stirred up to battle by that rousing speech, stiffen up the sinews, summon up the blood and all that? (That speech was one of the few bits that actually made Shakespeare, and English lessons in general worthwhile, in her eyes.)

Never mind that, though, as no sooner had they reached the yard, than Charlotte’s Posse descended upon them, perfectly manicured claws ready to sink in. Charlotte Mitchell was probably Alpha Bitch of the worst brigade of the Bitch Squad, period.

“Look at them,” she shouted out at them, ostensibly addressing her loyal followers. “Where you off this time, Amy Johnson? Australia? America? Cloud Cuckoo Land? You can take Leelee right back home whilst you’re at it!”

“Go fly a kite, Charlie,” Jenny shouted back. “In fact, go take a long kite-surf off a short pier. At least then you might get some real excitement before the waves take you. Except you can’t, that’d make your mascara run, I’ll bet.”

“Oooh, feisty!” mocked Charlotte. “And did you just call me Charlie? You know that’s Not My Name, don’t you? It’s Charlotte and don’t you forget it…” The Posse gathered round, closing in for the kill. Not before Jenny had one last trick up her sleeve, though:

“Well… that probably because you’re a right one, eh?”

“Give it a rest, Charlotte Mitchell!” shouted a male voice. It belonged to Mr. James, head of Maths and the teacher on duty that morning. “Leave poor Jenny alone for once. I know she’s a bit… odd, but that’s no excuse for you to go around harassing her! Besides, you should be setting an example for the younger students, like our Leah here.” (Jenny grimaced at the teacher’s insinuations but was secretly relieved at the same time.)

“Sorry sir,” replied Charlotte with mock sincerity. “We didn’t mean to be nasty, did we girls?

“No, Charlotte,” replied the Posse in unison. “How would we do a thing like that?” And so on.

“No excuses girls. Any more of this and you’ll be spending lunchtime in detention. I can still do that, you know. Now get out of my sight!”

Off went the Posse, dejected.

“Thanks, sir,” said Jenny to the teacher begrudgingly.

“Don’t think this is scot-free for you though Miss Bainbridge,” said James, using her actual last name. “We want you solving integrals, not breaking the air speed record in 1934,” he continued, glancing at the strange pair of vintage aviator goggles atop her head. (Jenny sighed.) “And as for you Leah… a good effort for once, but do try to turn up for lessons, not just registration? I don’t want to have to be writing to your uncle yet again, do I?”

“It’s Leelee, and… no sir,” replied Leelee, trying to wriggle out of the situation. Mr. James was not finished, though.
“Good. Now registration is at nine sharp, remember?”

“Yes sir.”

“And class is at two on the dot, don’t be late.”

“…yes.. sir…” she mumbled.

Mr. James’ attention was suddenly distracted by a group of first-form boys attacking each other with spitballs.

“Can’t we go to the park instead Jen?” pleaded Leelee, somewhat put off the whole school lark by the previous events.

“No,” replied Jenny.

“The shopping centre?”

“No!”

“Up the cycleway to the airport?”

“No!”

“Pictures? Grenadier Mary and the Great Zombie Massacre of 1987* is on this aft-”

“NO! I don’t care what you uncle says Leelee, but my Mum will kill me if I miss school again!”

“Pfft, suit yourself,” said Leelee, mounting her bike as if to make off back through the gate before Mr. James collared her.

“Oh no you don’t Leah, put it in the shed and lock it away,” he scolded.

Jenny let out a long and exasperated sigh. If only I could disappear from this shithole…

Perhaps, it turned out, she could…

In our next episode, the school day drags on and on, Jenny gains an unwanted admirer of the male sort… and Leelee, watch out for that bus…

The Writer’s Block, or, Where My Characters Go when the Story is Not Finished; A Self-Parody (part 2)

Finally, the long overdue second part, which I have no excuse not to have uploaded by now.

For Jenny Everywhere rights, see part 1.

Warning for occasional swear words and comedic threats of violence. Nothing nasty actually happens, though…

On the ground floor

Mystique Lastrange knew something was amiss with the room she had just entered into. Of course, this floor of the M.J.T. was being refurbished, so what a suite of rooms might otherwise look like differed greatly in appearance to what lay before her- a small, unfurnished, plain looking room with metal blinds drawn against the window- but it certainly did not look like this. Keeping her pistol drawn and cocked ready in one hand, she tentatively poked at the blinds for some hopeful indication she hadn’t suddenly disappeared into some Backrooms-esque hellhole of urban legend. The darkness which lay beyond did little to ease her mind. Turning cautiously around, gun pointed in front of her at all times, she noticed that even the door out of the room didn’t look like the one she’d come through- a plain wooden construction with a wire mesh glass panel up top and an old-fashioned mechanical lock instead of the keycard-operated electronic sort the original door had been. What appeared to be some sort of open foyer could be seen through the panel, but not much could be discerned in the dull ambient light which lit the space. Instinct immediately pushed Mystique to make herself well-hidden and, though her current attire wasn’t exactly suited to comfortable crouching, she ducked out of sight of whoever might enter the foyer.

Sitting down on the ground, she shed the wide-brimmed hat and high-heeled shoes she had been wearing, the better to appear undetected. She resisted the urge to tear her tight-fitting dress to allow for greater freedom of movement, lest the sound draw attention. Changing into her getaway clothes would probably make things easier on that score, but the time it took would leave her defenceless and that certainly wouldn’t do. Mystique jolly well intended to live every single minute of every day that it took to see her plans come to fruition. Making as little noise as she could, she shimmied up towards the door handle on her knees, and slowly pulled on the handle with her free hand, opening the door ajar and peering into the semi-darkness beyond. A loud clatter, which she only too late realised was coming from the outer door, startled her and she fired two shots blindly… fortunately for the door and whoever was behind it, both ended up embedded in the walls opposite, sending splinters of wood panelling flying.
The clattering on the door was replaced by a momentary “Bugger!” in a voice that sounded oddly familiar as a flash of scarlet illuminated by the glare of a pair of car headlights could be briefly seen as, with the frantic clomping of heels on concrete, whoever it was scurried for cover.

Moments later, there followed a clattering of more footsteps and a sputtering from above as the foyer was filled with light…

Meanwhile, on the second floor…

“Please stop tossing and turning will you, Alice?” asked Jenny in soporific frustration. “I’d really rather just get some sleep after that long trek.”

“I’m sorry, darling, I just can’t,” Alice replied. “It’s that lot and their constant bickering upstairs. How’s anyone supposed to sleep with that?”

“Just block it out, dear, I always do…”

The sound of gunfire from below put paid to any chance of peace and quiet the two ladies might have hoped for. Two shots, coming from somewhere near the entrance lobby and barely muffled by the intervening floors and ceilings, followed shortly after by the noises of clattering doors and a rush of footsteps coming through from the floor above.

“O holy mother goddess, grant us strength,” Jenny moaned, before dragging off the covers and tumbling out of bed. Alice followed suit.

“O divine one, please forgive the impertinence of Thy servant Jenny,” muttered Alice. “Grant us Thy nurturing strength. Blessed Athena, do Thou also grant us Thy favour, Thy wisdom and protection…”

“Might have known you’d take the gods seriously,” Jenny interjected. “Not like they’re actually bloody listening…”

“How do you know?”

“Well it’s all down to the bloody Author isn’t it, cursed be His name. If He chooses to write it it’ll happen. Nothing your goddesses will do to change that…”

“How do you know the Author really exists? This whole setup we’re living in could be just one more elaborate ruse by that Jenny Nowhere…”

“Let’s just get dressed and get this over with, shall we?” Jenny said with an air of finality, as she hastily yanked her jacket on over her nightie, wrapped a gunbelt around her waist, shoved her feet into a pair of slippers, and made for the door, not bothering with any trademark accessories. “You coming with, or..?”

“I think I’d better go upstairs and see about the others,” Alice replied. “I’m not sure all this Wild West business is good for the constitution. I’d much sooner stay in one piece.”

“Suit yourself.”

Alice pulled on a dressing-gown and slippers, and as Jenny left for the door, turned on the light and quickly checked herself over in the makeup mirror she kept by the bed, trying her best to get her hair straight before she left the room. No use in dying looking a mess, she joked to herself mentally. With the others doing their best to deal with whatever was downstairs, she supposed she could afford to take a little time. What was the worst that could happen when you’re already living in a building full of Amazons, adventurers and psychopathic killers?

Previously, on the third floor…

The door finally opened and in walked Makie, Arty, Laura and Mike, the latter not sure what to expect but with a look of trepidation on both their faces.

“Ah, little Miss Makie has arrived at long last, with our new arrivals I see,” Princess Lucidity said haughtily, doing her best to look regal and imposing. (Which, given her size, wasn’t that hard.) “Darling, aren’t you going to introduce them properly?”

“Don’t bother, we all know who you are,” retorted Marieka, fumbling with the ring on a can of lager.

“That will be enough, hussy,” scolded the Princess. “Manners are manners.”

“One day I’ll show you where you can stick yer manners, yer big green haired cunt,” the barbarian muttered, half to herself.

Makie rolled her eyes. Here we go again, she thought. Can’t be gone two minutes…

“Arty, if you’d be so kind,” Lucidity went on.

“Ah, erm… Your Highness, may I present Miss Laura Mycarina and Mr. Michael Moheden. Erm… my friends, may I present Her Highness, Princess Lucidity Morningstar, First Lady of Eta Carinae Prime.”

“Erm… hello… much obliged, your highness,” replied Laura, not quite sure how to address a Princess. Especially one that looked like her. “I’m not supposed to curtsey or anything am I?”

“I’m not Queen Victoria, you know,” Lucidity replied. “You’re about a thousand years late for all that antiquated nonsense, darling. Oh, and call me Lucidity… everybody else does.” Lucidity’s gaze fell in steely manner upon Mike, who was trying his best not to appear intimidated. There was something about the woman which had a profound effect on his nerves.

“Evening, min yensa,” he said, curtly.

The doorbell rang. Moments later, so did several gunshots.

“Ah, that’ll be the next new guests,” Lucidity went on. “The damned elusive Delaval and herself. I’ll deal with this one if you don’t mind. Alone.”

The Writer’s Block, or, Where My Characters Go when the Story is Not Finished; A Self-Parody (part 1)

The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition. This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, in order that others may use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.
All references to other works, which remain copyright of their respective rights-holders, are meant for the sake of affectionate parody only.

Author’s note: I guess it was time to update this blog sooner than later. This is something I’d been working on for a while, and is basically “what it says on the tin”: largely a parody of my inability to get stories finished, as well as perhaps some sort of character-buliding exercise. Or maybe just an excuse for the usual silliness.

“I could have sworn she said the third exit,” exclaimed Laura, trying hard not to admit that she had precisely no idea how she had managed to reach the mysterious, dimly lit, uninspiring looking grey concrete building standing before them.

“It was definitely fourth,” replied Mike, matter-of-factedly.

“I distinctly remember hearing third. Third exit from Jaina Mycarina’s Roundabout onto Mission Street then…”

“Mission Street’s the other way, going south towards Litmen, though, I should know, that’s where the Saviour’s Mission that Mama goes to every Sun-“

“Oh, why is it always you who has to be right, eh?”

Mike said nothing. She was clearly in one of those moods, and it would do no good to contradict. Silence reigned, and as Uncle George would have said when he was still alive, they all got wet. Or at least they would have, but Mensen 134s, unusually stylish as they were for Lyniezian cars, lacked a convertible option. Notwithstanding, the actual weather outside, as he observed when idly looking out of the window until the woman by his side had finally cooled off somewhat, showed no signs of raining.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m going in there to ask for directions,” Laura eventually insisted. “There must be someone still working or whatever they do in there. Truth be told, what is this place, anyway?”

It was, indeed, not at all clear what function the building served. One might assume some kind of office block, or special school, or maybe a telephone exchange, or even flats, but its presence was entirely unexplainable. Neither of them, despite living in the city all their lives, had any recollection of it ever having been there- though that was hardly unusual. It was a maze of streets, which came and went as the next phase of redevelopment bulldozed through, leaving the familiar patterns of childhood changed beyond recognition. What was for sure, the surroundings- an un-Lynieizianly large, even more dimly lit car park, surrounded on all sides by a shadowy, impenetrable thicket, rustling ominously in the breeze, was no help in discerning where they were.

Laura pushed the driver’s-side door open against the still-blowing wind and got out of the car, ready to brave the elements once more. Mike soon followed her as she clomped with determination across the worn, chipped tarmac over to what appeared to be the front entrance to the building, preceded by several concrete steps with a metal handrail attached. Next to the door lay a small brass plaque in which the English words “WRITER’S BLOCK” could be just about made out when Laura had shifted her body to one side enough to allow the dim glow of the car headlights to illuminate them. (The lack of a Lyniezian translation was slightly jarring.) Something that looked like an entrance lobby and reception desk lay beyond, but it was dark and empty. Nevertheless, she proceeded to rap on the door and shout “Is anyone there?”

“You might want to try the bell,” piped up Mike’s voice from behind, as he attempted to motion to a laminated note with “For attention, please ring” written on it just above a doorbell-button.

“As if I hadn’t thought of that,” Laura scolded back, once more unwilling to admit her error. Proceeding to do what had been suggested, however, yielded no further result. The lobby was as dark and empty as it was before.

“Well, that’s that out,” she went on, and with hand thrust back into her coat pockets, she pivotted on her heels and made back for the car.

No sooner had she began to do so than light appeared from behind and a dozen locks clicked open. Turning back, she noticed a small, blue-haired girl, probably about eighteen or nineteen years old, wearing a bizarre assortment of clothing in colours so bright and clashing that even in this light, Laura thought her eyes might bleed. Orange T-shirt, purple jacket, green skirt, purple and yellow striped hose… turquoise lipstick? She wasn’t quite sure this was what the hip-and-happening youth of today were wearing right now (which was certainly not much worse) but what she was sure about was that that girl lacked any sense of colour co-ordination whatsoever. As crazy as she might have got in her roughly week-long punk rocker phase back in the day…

“Eh… are you Laura Mycarina and Mike Moheden?” asked the girl in a heavy Tymena-sounding accent, interrupting Laura’s thoughts.

“Excuse me?” asked Laura, not sure what the hell to make of the situation.

“How do you know who we are? I mean, if you’re a fan…” said Mike.

“Maybe you should let me do the talking,” interjected Laura who seemed determined to do things her way tonight. Turning back to the girl she insisted: “I’m sure there’s been some misunderstanding, min tansa, we only came to ask for directions back to-“

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said the girl.

“Why not? I suppose you don’t know the city, right?” replied Laura, getting somewhat annoyed.

“It’s… not quite like that?” said the girl.

“Which means what, exactly?”

“There… well… isn’t any city?”

“What do you mean, isn’t any city? We’ve just been driving round it for the past half hour! Now either you stop playing this silly game missy, and actually help me out here, or I’m leaving…”

“You can’t.”

“And who’s going to stop me? You? I’ve had a very long and awkward day and all I really want now is to relax at home with a glass of wine and the late movie on TV2. And by the gods am I going to…”

“Well you can try…” interrupted the girl, surpressing a giggle.

“How’d you mean?”

“I mean drive all the way down there,” the girl went on, gesturing down the driveway, “and you’ll just end up back where you started. Once you get in, you can’t get out.”

“That’s impossible!” shouted Laura. “You tell her, Mike!”

“Oh, now I’m allowed to say some-” Mike tried to scold before Laura gave him The Look. The one you didn’t argue with. So he tried his best with the girl:

“Well I mean surely if we came in one way we should at least be able to come back, right?” What goes in must come out…”

“Not round here it doesn’t, not unless The Author wills it, cursed be His Name.”

“The Author? You mean, like God? I’m not sure I believe in God anymore, Miss…”

“Makie. Well, Marieka if you must. Not exactly God, I mean, we’re more like characters in a story. The Author built this place with his mind to send all the characters from stories he hasn’t bothered to finish yet. Hence the Writer’s Block. Kind of funny if you say it in English…” Makie released her suppressed giggle into fits of laughter.

“I suppose you think this is all one big joke do you, Miss Makie?” asked Laura, still in no mood to believe anything that contradicted the normal order of reality, let alone hindered her ardent desire to salvage some sort of enjoyment from her ruined evening. “Excuse me if some of us aren’t laughing.”

Trying hard to control herself, Makie eventually went on:

“I think you’d better come inside for a bit and have something to drink, come and meet the others, and we can discuss stuff in there. I’d rather not stand out here in this weather.”

“Might as well,” said Mike. “I mean now we’re here…”

“Oh, go on then,” said a resigned Laura. “Maybe we can get some sense out of somebody.”

The three walked through the door, which Makie closed and locked behind them, an elaborate procedure involving two keyholes, several bolts and a chain, “just to stop the door from rattling as that’s kinda annoying,” as she explained it. The entrance lobby which greeted them, a utilitarian but vaguely seventies-style affair with wood-panelled walls and dark grey carpet underfoot, housing a plain wooden desk atop which sat little more than a telephone at one end (one of those modern push-button affairs), a bell with accompanying “Please ring for attention” (again, oddly, just in English) at the other and an open visitor’s book with accompanying pen which Makie gestured to.

“Don’t forget to sign in,” she told them. “Doesn’t really matter but Her Highness insists on it.”

“Her what? I thought you were Lyniezian?” asked Mike, whose turn it was to be annoyed. “You shouldn’t have to bow and scrape before royalty you know…”

“Don’t ask,” was all the reply. “Oh, and you don’t need to put the time down, it has no meaning in here. If you don’t mind I have to make the damned call upstairs…” Makie picked up the phone and began to dial.

“You first or me?” asked Mike.

“I don’t see why we’re even doing this but since we’re here… well, I don’t know who ‘Her Highness’ is but if this were my work I’d be insisting on nothing less from our receptionist. Can’t have the Safety Office coming down on us like a ten ton truck next audit…” Laura said as she printed her name, scrawled her signature and, as if to echo her point, checked her brand new digital watch and noted the precise time, contrary to suggestion. Mike quickly scrawled in a signature whilst Makie finished talking to whatever person was on the other end of the phone.

“All done?” she asked. The others nodded. “Don’t forget you can check out any time, but you can never leave.” Looking at Mike, she added, “Loved the cover by the way. That guitar solo was a-ma-zing.”

“Thought you were a fan.”

“For real! Both of you, actually… well, the other you. Starship Trooper was one of the best ’80s bands out there…”

“But we’ve never been in a band together since high school!” insisted Laura. “And I mean we were only called that for a couple of months, when was it…”

“Around that time we took the trip to England? The one with no waterfalls and the kissing gate…”

“Could have sworn it was before then. You and your brother and that damned Yes song… and… Makie? Your world? Don’t tell me we’ve not just gone on some magical trip but we’re into parallel universes as well? Have I stepped into a sci-fi magazine?”

“Not exactly, but yeah. I’ll explain it when we’ve got upstairs.” Before going anywhere, Makie reached into a drawer under the desk and pulled out some booklets. Handing them to Mike and Laura, she told them, “Don’t forget to take a guidebook. It’ll help make sense of this madhouse.” Laura was unsure it would, and besides, she didn’t plan on staying long enough to read it. If she wasn’t back in her own bed by midnight, sleeping alone or not, she’d be damned.

“So,” Mike asked as the two followed Makie’s lead through a set of double doors and up a flight of stairs, “you said we were an ’80s band in your world… does that mean time travel too? How successful will we have been?”
“Don’t encourage her,” muttered Laura through clenched teeth.

Neither of them had bothered to care less that Makie had not bothered to turn any additional lights on and was lighting the way with a torch.

“Time travel, parallel universes, you name it. She’s right. I mean we’ve got a space princess, an amazon warrior, and a pan-dimensional being who wears goggles and a scarf for starters. And the actual, honest-to-gods Santa Claus…”

“Whatever Santa Claus is,” muttered Laura, largely to herself.

“And for real, you guys were huge. Well, will… have… would… you know. it’s actually weird to see you two when you’re still so young. Didn’t know Laura was so pretty in real life too…”

Laura was a bit confused as to why that kind of attention was somehow foisted upon her. She recalled back in her youth the girl fans of their band were mostly giving that kind of attention to Mike (not that he paid attention) or more likely, his brother. If anything, in the already awkward circumstances, it made her a little creeped out and ready to say such rash things as:

“Please, please don’t tell me you’re a…”

“What, lesbian? Yeah. Forgot you lot were all trogs back in the ’80s as well,” Makie retorted with more than a hint of annoyance in her voice. “Oh, don’t mention it in front of the others, either, Mejie might not be too happy…”

“It’s alright, I mean… I don’t mind,” insisted Laura, trying to save face. “Whatever turns you on…”

Trying not to be fazed by Laura’s casual bigotry, Makie went on trying to explain things. “We’ll be going up to the top floor, left and down the corridor. Just before we do, don’t argue with the space princess, don’t piss off the amazon, and whatever you do stay out of room 33.”

“What’s so bad about room 33?” asked Laura.

“More like who. Come on.”

“Just don’t expect me to be obsequious,” insisted Mike.

“You could try putting the revolution on hold just for half an hour, you know,” Laura cut back, trying to lighten the mood.

“The revolution doesn’t take tea breaks,” Mike replied.

With such banter provoking a twinge of nostalgia for happier times, it seemed to Laura, in spite of everything else, there might just be hope yet.

---

“Oi! Hearts are trumps if you don’t mind! I win this one!” yelled Jenny.

“Actually, I think you’ll find that wands are trumps,” replied Princess Lucidity in regal tone, well-trimmed red fingernails tapping rhythmically on a silver bejewelled rod placed before her on the table. None of them particularly needed to be reminded of its function.

“I’ll bet my friends Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson would remind you we’re playing German whist, not tarot,” retorted Jenny, her casual tone belying the obvious threat.

“Oh, Holy Zarquon’s singing bloody fish!” yelled an exasperated Santa. “Perhaps I should fetch some cowboy hats from my sack, if you want to pretend you’re in a smegging Western movie!”

“Keep your heads on Zaphod,” said Jenny. “Just trying to remind Her High and Mightyness there she doesn’t have a monopoly on violence.”

“She hardly needs reminding of that,” Marieka of the Clan Renavam pointed out nonchalantly, before taking a hearty swig of ale and wiping the excess from her chin. “One well aimed javelin will see to that.”

Princess Lucidity scowled at her haughtily. “Never mind that! Where is that girl? Are three flights of stairs too much for you primitives?”

“What the fuck Lucidity?” Megan yelled at the Princess, holding back sudden tears of rage. “Call our Makie primitive one more time and-” A gentle nudge by Jenny quietened her down.

Arty, looking intently at his cards, pretended to ignore the commotion. “I fold,” he said, laying his hand face up on the table.

“As if I need reminding we are playing whist, and not poker,” Lucidity pointed out. “Since you don’t even know how to play cards, boy, go fetch,” she commanded.

Arty at once got up and made for the door, not wanting 10,000 volts of extra encouragement. He closed it behind him and fumbled for the light switch. One by one, the geriatric flourescent lights buzzed and sputtered to what passed for life along the length of the corridor, startling the three figures making their way along it who had been content with Makie’s torchlight augmenting whatever ambient light came through from the glass in the doors of assorted darkened rooms. Makie, in particular, made a small jump and muttered “Not again” half to herself.

“Oh, you’re here,” Arty told them. “Name’s Arty… Arthur Michaelson,” he said, proffering a hand to Mike, not being prepared for the strength of the handshake with which he was returned. “Mike Moheden, right? Heard all about you. Musician, right?”

“Right,” Mike replied, just noticing this was the first time he’d spoken English all night, hoping his faint twinge of a Clochan accent wasn’t too much for the posh-voiced, lanky-looking English fellow who’d made his aquaintance. “I don’t suppose you want my autograph do you? Seeing as I was a bit well known round these parts, once upon a time…”

“Before his differences with the record company,” noted Laura.

“A true artist needs creative freedom,” Mike explained. “Especially from the bourgeois money-grubbing pigs at Teledai.” He made a face at Laura, so as to say ‘so there’.

“The revolution doesn’t take tea breaks, you see,” Laura added. “Nor does Mike’s inner child.”

“Anyway, old boy… Madam, er, Miss, er min y-“

“Laura will do,” was Laura’s curt response.

“…Laura,” Arty went on, “the others are getting impatient. Especially…” (a note of trepidation arose in his voice) “…the other half.”

“That’s the space princess,” Makie whispered to Mike and Laura. “Her name’s Lucidity. Try to humour her but don’t let her scare you, ‘right? The revolution can, y’know, at least take a beer break can’t it? There’s plenty in the fridge by the way…”

“I don’t plan to drink and drive, you know,” said Laura. “Got any Samson’s? Could do with a good strong cuppa.”

The Delaval Dilemma, rough part 1

Here’s another silly “Imperialist Lyniezia” related story for the writing group I started working on a few weeks ago. It’ll possibly do with some tweaking before I try to finish it! By the way, the protagonist is the same character as “Mystique Lastrange” in “An unfinished Megan story”. Based on prompts provided by Joan Opie.

Miss Blondine Scarlett (or so she was calling herself at the moment) had finished dressing and, looking her reflection up and down in the full-length mirror, just knew she looked stunning in the current iteration of her latest signature look, comprising a bright red tea dress, matching hat, gloves, shoes and (of course) lipstick. It would be sure to turn heads, not only of passing Lyniezians in their dreary casual attire, but also of the guests of the Tymena Gentlewomens’ Society’s monthly Afternoon Tea. At least, those of ladies from the other world: demure ‘English roses’ in their pretty floral attire or elderly grande dames quietly tut-tutting their disapproval to one another. They’d been indoctrinated to cloak themselves in mock humility; beauty was a duty and “modesty” a virtue, no doubt in deference to their lords and masters: the dominant male. Her own people, of course, would recognise and appreciate the effort, even though she hoped not too many would recognise her. At least, not openly, anyway.

As much as she looked the part, though, she wasn’t sure she felt it. An uncomfortable feeling of nausea, which had been churning around in her stomach all morning, lurched up and threatened to erupt. Barely digested remnants of scones and cucumber sandwiches would not be a welcome addition to her ensemble, nor to the pristine carpets of the two Misses Lancaster, her hostesses. Though outwardly the epitome of the ‘English rose’, as immaculate in their manners and virtue as in their appearance, Miss Scarlett knew full well that every rose had its thorns. Handle them carefully, lest you be pricked.

Even with that in mind, she decided she simply had to go. Not only because it was one of the few occasions in this Goddess-forsaken country where she could be amongst people of the better sort, where for once she could almost pretend to be who she really was, but also because it was a good place for intelligence-gathering. Beneath their elegant facade, the ladies of the Society were survivors, those who had lived through conquest and ignominy, yet learned how to make their way in this strange new world. One way or another they had found their way into positions of some importance, and the connections they provided were invaluable. Every idle word, every morsel of gossip, might yield valuable information to further her great agenda. Besides, though there were many thing she was not looking forward to in the upcoming gathering, they were too trifling to daunt her. Her discomfort- she was sure of it- must be something physical, not psychological. She must have a quiet word with a certain good doctor… tomorrow, perhaps. A couple of tablets from the medicine cabinet would have to do for now.

En route to the front door, Miss Scarlett glanced through the glass door into the living room and could not help but notice that a certain picture was hanging at a rather awkward angle. It was the reproduction portrait of Queen Moriana Renavam II dressed in warrior garb, one of the few figures of Lyniezian history Miss Scarlett deemed worthy of admiration. It guarded a secret safe, which held important family treasures from the old world, and if the picture had been disturbed, something was very amiss. As such, the only course of action was to detour into the living room and, with the windows set to translucent, remove the picture and check the contents of the safe. The furious honking from the taxi waiting outside would not deter her. She found almost everything in its place: gilt-framed photographs of long dead relatives; a broken statuette of Bellerophon riding Pegasus which had been a childhood favourite; and a jewellry-box meant to contain, amongst various decorative pieces her mother and grandmother had collected over the years, the all-important signet ring which was proof of her true identity, once a symbol of power that had been handed from mother to daughter for over a century. However, much to her horror, the ring was missing. The feeling which came over her did not bode well to her flagging constitution, and the condition of her stomach which might let rip at any moment. It took some moments for her to compose herself, both physically and mentally, before retracing her steps to the door and relieving the taxi-driver of his impertinent impatience. Whoever was responsible (Myria, the new cleaner, perhaps?) would have to be dealt with later. Preferably with a very sharp knife.

To be continued…

No Peace for the Good, Either (part 1)

Author’s note: This one is an as-yet-unfinished short story based on several prompts from the creative writing group I mentioned before. Naturally I had to do one of my usual things like sticking Jenny Everywhere in it. Although this is a slightly different Jenny Everywhere to the previous stories posted. Also, this is set in an alternate world where polyamorous marriages of all genders are legal, however accepted or otherwise they are by all persons. Nothing untoward is meant by this.

The character of Jenny Everywhere is available for use by anyone, with only one condition: This paragraph must be included in any publication involving Jenny Everywhere, that others might use this property as they wish. All rights reversed.

This work is based on, and incorporates, prompts provided by Joan Opie.

We all dream of living in peace, on’t we? Of having a well-ordered life, with friends, and a purpose to get up for every day, of having hobbies and relaxation time.

Or so I thought until I met Jenny.

Oh I had a full, rich and peaceful life until I met her. As a successful landscape and nature photographer with my own gallery (over on Carlina Street, Alice Jane Studios- the sign is still there, you can’t miss it) which I ran with the help of my wives, Bethany and Catherine, of course I was far from inactive. I’d always be roaming the fells and dales, looking for that next perfect scene to capture, or else working in the darkroom, developing negatives and prepaing prints to hang in the gallery or put out on the racks, to sell to eager tourists wanting a souvenir of this wonderful part of the countryside. On Sundays, though, when the gallery was closed, we’d walk for pleasure, we happy three, as we were then- take a picnic, with sandwiches (Cathy made the best) and a bottle of wine (naturally!), sitting down by the river enjoying each other’s company and the tranquil beauty of our surroundings. (You will note the word tranquil.) I, of course, with my camera strapped around my neck, as you never knew when that ideal scene, that perfect moment, would come, though it would annoy Beth no end. And on an evening, we’d meet with our friends, sit down at the table and play tarocky- not for large stakes, of course, as it was just for fun.

All in all, life was good.

It contained no parallel universes; no airships, mammoth cavalries, lost temples full of ancient sacred treasures, dragons, gryphons, wyverns, floating islands, vengeful witch-kings, or alien invasions.

Nor did it contain pan-dimensional beings who existed in every possible reality, could travel freely between them, and had a strange penchant for wearing aviation goggles on top of their heads “just in case”. Who live for high adventure and laugh in the face of danger- or, at least, moan about it with ascerbic wit over a pint of Wyre Piddle or a bottle of Tadcaster Brown the following Friday night. Yes, you know exactly who I mean.

Of course the series of events that led up to my life being changed forever didn’t happen just like that. They rarely do. It all started late one Sunday afternoon as we were getting back from one of our usual excursions. Beth had just popped to her Mum’s to return some Tupperware containers she had borrowed whist Cathy had gone home totidy the table for our usual evening card games. Meanwhile, I had decided to call in at the shop to drop off the several rolls of film I had managed to use up, ready to develop in the morning. (As you have no doubt realised, I am as modern, free thinking and progressive as they come, but Sunday was still firmly a day of rest and I would do no more.) Imagine my shock when I approached the premesis only to discover two rough-looking young men and a girl who was no better, all dressed in leather jackets and torn trousers, making off with the last of my darkroom equipment which they loaded into a nondescript white van parked just down the street. Not daring to approach them, the old instincts from my newspaper days kicked in: from the vantage point of a nearby doorway I had hidden outside, I managed to quickly-as-I-could take several shots of the miscreants, trying my best to get a good angle on at least one of their faces in one and the registration plate of the van clearly in another. They must have heard the click of the shutter, for they all of a sudden bundled straight into the van and sped off. I gave chase, running as fast as my heavily-booted feet could carry me, but by the time I had reached the corner of Albert Terrace they had gone from my sight. I sat down a nearby bench and wondered what I should do. My camera felt unusually heavy around my neck. After uttering a quick prayer of thanks to my goddess for making me leave the tripod at home, I was just beginning to lift the strap from around my neck when what should I see but a figure standing there, who I could swear had not been there a moment before. Dressed unseasonably for such a warm summer day in a dark blue, badge-festooned bomber jacket, jeans and dark brown, worn leather boots, a scarf around her neck and what looked curiously like a pair of vintage aviation goggles atop her short dark-haired head. (I was almost about to look to see if I could find a parachute trailing out of the pack fastened tightly around her back – the only logical explanation it seemed! – but there was none.) I thought I looked a sight, clodhopper walking boots at odds with my light, pale-yellow summer dress, but she looked stranger still. As I looked at her face, vaguely Oriental in its features and (though it should have barely crossed my mind, I swear) undeniably pretty, I could see it bore an expression of concern.

“Probably sounds a bit daft, but are you alright?” she asked.

I barely know what to say.

“Oh..alright… considering… my life has just… been… ruined!” That was all I could manage before I could hold back the tears no longer.

Before I knew it, the figure was sat beside me, her arm around me in consolation. At such a time, I found propriety goes out of the window. It mattered not that this was a complete stranger. It mattered not that I was already married to two other women, any third being an unwelcome intrusion. When your life is falling apart, what comfort you can get is more than welcome. I could not imagine how much worse it was about to become, before it would get better.

Almost a week would pass before I saw Jenny again. I would have to describe it as one of the worst of my life.

[TO BE CONTINUED…]

Insanity Claus, Part 2

Here it is folks, the second part of my bonkers Christmas story finally retyped for your reading (dis)pleasure… just in time for Pentecost!

Lyrics from the song “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer”, by Robert L. May, is copyright of The Rudolph Company, and are used here for fair use/fair dealing parody purposes only.

Any references to real life persons or organizations are for the purposes of fiction/entertainment/humour/parody purpses only and are in no way intended to defame or otherwise reflect them in real life.

Content warning: contains a few swear words and comic-ish violence.

“Well perhaps you should try and figure out a way to get in,” yelled Marieka, tip of her longsword pressed against Mary’s throat with an amount of precision the murderous grenadier would not have thought possible from some fur-clad ruffian. Yet, for someone whose fighting style amounted to (it seemed) little more than flailing around with the thing in a mad rage, she certainly had the art of only just not penetrating the skin honed to, in utterly pun-tastic fashion, a fine point. Fine enough that you knew quite well that one deft push would, should the amazon’s thin reserves of patience run out, leave a rather nasty rupture in your windpipe before you had the chance to reach down for your ultility belt and pull the pin out of anything. As such, Mary had little choice but to consider defences of a more verbal nature mere fractions of a second before the inevitable “After all, she’s your sister!” came in as a follow-up attack.

“If you hadn’t spent the past two years trying to kick in a gate which is made out of tons of unobtainium steel and fracturing your leg every time, instead of going to find Marcia like I suggested…” Mary cut herself short with the knowledge that the sword point was being applied with just that bit more pressure than before.

“Hmmm, now if I just drive this blade just a little deeper…” Marieka mused, “…maybe then you’ll stop talking shit. Or talking. I mean I only try to kick the bloody gate after I’ve tried to scale the damn walls – whatever it is they’re made from – or find something bigger and better to ram the bloody gates. I mean it’s not like I go kicking in obviously un-kick-innable gates out of sheer curiousity is it? Well, not anymore anyway. All while you go on going round raiding every bloody shop for toilet paper- I mean what do you need that stuff for anyway? Clump of moss or leaves or failing that your hand if you need to wipe your arse, works for me! Not like it’s going to cure this bloody Corono-whatsit is it?”

“Now, now, ladies, play fair,” boomed the voice of a bearded fellow in a red fur coat who was casually ambulating round a corner of the wall. “I thought that ladies were supposed to be the gentle sex but you two… Oh, I’m jst an old man, out of touch. Only been around for 1700 years, what do I know? Of course I blame these modern third-wave feminazi suffragette SJ-whatever pinko commie whatyoucallems, just like everyone seems to be doing on the interwebs…”

“Don’t blame us, blame the Author, cursed be His name. We were just wrote this way…” muttered Mary. Marieka relaxed her grip on her sword and made to aim it towards the bearded fellow.

“I might just see if I can ram this sword up your arse and then we’ll see who is the gentle s-” she yelled before being interrupted by several polybolos bolts fired from a sentry tower behind the walls that somehow had failed to be there a moment ago, thunking into the ground just in front of her feet.

“Yoo Hoo!” came a voice from atop the tower which, given the heretofore established proclivities of the author (who also likes to use big words he doesn’t necessarily understand) was naturally female. Like Mary’s, it carried a distinctly Yorkshire twinge but with just a hint of posh and belonged to a medium-sized but fairly well-built woman, with dirty blonde hair tied back into a neat ponytail, who was standing behind a large crossbow-type device, the aforementioned polybolos or repeating ballista. Mary recognised her instantly: it was her sister Wendy, the Monster Slayer, whose attention they had been trying to get all this time, in order to complete their quest to push the Temporal Reset Button and restore sanity to the universe- or at least what used to pass for it. It was supposed to have taken just a few days. Instead, it had taken almost two years, largely down to the fact that the Author (cursed be His name) had, much like any would-be deity worth His salt, largely foresaken them in the intervening time. Since then, the world hasd been plagued by orange-faced monsters from across the sea, deadly viruses that threatened to turn anyone who didn’t wear a mask into a zombie, and if there wasn’t enough monsters already, a Monster Raving Loony government more interested in turning the motorways into giant cycle paths than any lunacy like making a deal with the European Union. If the world needed a Monster Slayer more than ever, it was now. But ever since the Elvis Incident, which of course they wanted a word with her about too, she had been in hiding, locked up inside the curiously and somewhat ironically named Wendy House, which in fact happened to be a vast, imposing multi-storey edifice in mock gothic style, surrounded by 50-feet walls made from the shed skin of the dread World-Serpent Tiamat Herself, as slippery as they were impregnable and whose only entrance was a massive 6-foot-thick gate of reinforced unobtainium steel. Which made it all the more odd that their apparent only defence was a rickety mobile sentry tower fitted with a contraption which looked as if it hadn’t been cutting edge since Roman times.

“So glad you tried to pop by, Mary pet, but I’m afraid I’m rather busy cataloguing t’collection, you know how it is, eh? So if you’ll kindly, well, piss off and take your barbarian friend and old Kringle there, I’m sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble, WOULD IT?”

Mary responded with bullets before resorting to words, which felt rather more approprate to the situation. She’d have tossed in a grenade for good measure but for once, as she had to remind herself, her wanting to kill her sister would have to remain a mere figure of speech for the time being. After the two rounds which remained in the clip had finished arcing just wide of the tower and hitting some unseen pane of glass on the other side of the wall, making a satisfying shattering noise, she shouted back:

“Erm, actually it would, Wend! We’ve been trying to get hold of you for two whole years and all you do is sit behind that wall and not care that there’s a time-space continuum that needs saving and we need your help!”

“I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing- staying home, protecting the NHS and all that shite, whilst you’re out nicking all the bog roll and don’t think I didn’t see you on TV…”

“I was trying to build a papier mache mound to climb over the top of that bloody wall of y-“

“Out of TOILET PAPER?“

“Well you try to find enough old newspaper now that print media is dying…”

“Ahem,” interrupted Santa. ”When you ladies have quite finished arguing, we have things to discuss!”

“No ‘we’ don’t, Kringle,” Wendy shouted back in determined tone, as the sound of something clanking and mechanical could be heard coming from her general direction. “The only thing I have to discuss is the terms of your departure! Either back down the B9857 or down the highway to hell! I’ll give you three seconds to make your minds up. One…”

CLANK!

“Two…”

CLANK!

“Three… ohshitohshitgrenadebloodyMareee…”

BOOM!

“…eeeee…”

CRASH! An additional noise of shattering glass could be heard as Wendy plunged from the frag-riddled remains of the tower and disappeared behind the wall.

“What does she keep behind there, bloody greenhouses?” muttered Mary to herself.

“Well that was clever you stupid bint,” scolded Marieka. “Now your famous monster slayer sister’s dead and we have to do what we have to do all by ourselves. At least now we can get on with it…”

“Errr… I don’t think she’s dead,”

Rather unexpectedly, just as this moment or thereabouts, the intercom next to the gate crackled to life. A rasping but perfectly intelligible voice made an unexpected reply:

“That’s right, bitches… GASP!…I’m not…urrgh… dead… GASP!… and I can hear every…GASP!… word you, urgh, say! And if you think… urgh… I’m going… GASP!… to open the gate… COUGH! COUGH! COUGH!… so you can give me… GASP, GASP!… ‘medical attention’… urgh… don’t… urgh… bother! I have… my own… help! The Wendy House… is closed! COUGH! Now piss off…”

A faint “Are you alright, Miss Wendy?” seemed to confirm the second last claim. The intercom buzzing off, as if the invite those listening to do the same, confirmed the last. This was still, however not enough for a determined, irate Mary.

“Miss Wendy? MISS Wendy? By that girl’s getting too big for her bloody boots.” Pressing furiously and repeatedly on the intercom button, yelling “YOU ANSWER THIS THING RIGHT NOW YOU BITCH, I DON’T CARE IF YOU’RE DEAD!” before just as furiously reloading her pistol and emptying an entire clipload into the offending device.

By the time Santa and Marieka had stopped covering their ears, they both turned to each other, looking quizzical.

“What exactly went on just there?” Marieka asked.

“You mean Mary and Wendy being Mary and Wendy? Those two zarking smegheadesses have been on the Naughty List for years! No love in their hearts! I mean even Black Peter stopped going after Mary turned s-“

“No, I mean how is Wendy still talking through that thing, you div!”

“A remarkably resilient young woman, is Wendy…”

“Right after she just fell?”

“I dare say she has a phone… a toughened, shatter proof phone, perhaps? And that intercom can connect to it via the Internet of Thingies or whatever it is they call it.”

“Sounds like a lot of shattering going on to me,” remarked Marieka, whose barbarian upbringing and frequent accidental travel through time and space and planes of existence had left her confused and ignorant as to the pace of technological change.

“My dear girl, I’m not as ignorant of modern technology as you seem to be. I know at least we carry things like that in stock. For the really good kiddies, that is. A reinforced WhyPhone TuffPhone, let me se, XGS-40? I did have one in the bag a couple of years ago…”

“What are you blathering on about you fat old git?”

“Smartphones? Mobile phones? My dear girl where have you been?”

“More places than you can imagine,” Marieka retorted with determination. “And by the way…”

“What?”

“Call me ‘my dear girl’ one more time and your head gets impaled and stuck right next to that gate.”

Mary, meanwhile, heard none of the previous discourse. She was too busy kicking, banging, headbutting, throwing gravel at and doing whatever she could to impenetrable, unmoving gate, all the while shouting endless, unanswered demands to be let in “RIGHT NOW!” and uttering obscenities even your humble Author (cursed be His Name) dare see not fit to type. She had been at it for so long that Marieka had taken to hurling several javelins and a spear at the gate mere inches from Mary’s head. As each tip ricocheted off it with a reverberating “THWANG!” it was roundly ignored, or met with a brief, angry scowl. It was no good. Mary simply used the blunt end of the spear to keep on ramming the door and hurling further oscenities, it being all she had left to do it with besides bloodied fists and driveway gravel. Her utility vest, usually replete with hand-grenades and spare ammo clips now carried nothing. Marieka, fed up with of even trying to get Mary’s attention, had gone into the woods to relieve herself and Santa, long since having despaired of the entire situation, had gone off to find his reindeer, it being about feeding time. Now you might well be asking at this point: why, if Santa still had all his reindeer did he not simply rig them to a new sleight and fly over the wall, saving two years of frustration? But alas, due to the unfortunate mishap you will no doubt remember from part 1, in which Mary ended nearly accidentally brutally murdering Santa et al. with a rocket propelled grenade and missing, the universe had just started going haywire. So haywire, in fact, that not only had very unlikely coindicences started happening, be they Elvis nearly making a comeback to the Monster Raving Loony Party winning the general election, to coup attempts happening in previously stable first world countries (erm… maybe that last one isn’t all that unlikely) – not only, in other words, was the incident leaving very awkward creases in the fabric of reality that needed to be ironed out – they had played havoc with the supernatural; in short, magic was not working as it should. Be it Christmas night or any other, neither the red-nosed one (who ought not to be named for copyright reasons nor all the other reindeer would ever fly again whilst circumstances persisted.

But I digress. Let us now return to the narrative, and what shall we see? We shall see Mary, the infamous hard as nails, grenade wielding psycho killer from deepest, darkest Yorkshire, sat on the ground, her torn jeans caked in mud, in front of a 45ft. impenetrable gate, her raw, bloodied hands covering her face, crying. Eee by gum. Who’d have thought it? But, in spite of all expectations, this is what we find. After two years of frustration, of trying any means to get in, being refused entry, trying numerous ingenious schemes to scale the wall, being refused entry, nearly killing the rest of the party, catching one glimpse of her sister only for it to end in pointless bloodshed that for once actually mattered, and to cap it all, being refused entry (surprise surprise!) If only there were some way – any way- to breach that gate or get over that wall. Every helicopter, jetpack, and even biplane in the country had been commandeered for the war effort against Turkmenistan. Battering rams were useless. Explosives were useless. Santa’s reindeer were useless. Toilet paper mountains were useless. Normally, Mary would not care if her sister were lying in a pool of her own blood in the middle of some unexplored trackless forest. But now, when she needed her the most, was she willing to nearly get herself killed trying not to be disturbed? WHY? Was it really so hard to grow up and accept responsibility for the death of Elvis instead of hiding in that fortresscataloguing her collection of stuffed wyverns? If only Marcia were here, along with whatever superweapon she was developing these days. She would have it sorted in no time. But alas, the love of her life had deserted her. Two whole years she had been missing. Not at the bunker, not sneaking in the back entrance of some top secret laboratory to procure what she needed from her contacts, not even round at her Mam’s. Some beer-swilling, fur-clad savage who was frankly twenty years her junioranyway was no substitute. She needed Marcia, desperately. Her loins ached for her. If only… if only…

As a herd of flying pigs grunted ominously in the dull grey haze of encroaching twilight, distant lights appeared over the hill, accompanied by the clanking of metallic feet crunching against the surface of the B9857, heading eastbound. As they got closer the two-legged, faceless monstrosities producing them, arms and head bristling with assorted hi-tech weaponry, almost scared Marieka half to death as she came out of the forest, causing her to drop both the sword and the firewood she was carrying under her spare arm. She who had fought with giants and demons was thoroughly unprepared for such a sight as these, knowing that, deep down, they would kill her in an instant before she could think to reach for one of her trusty javelins. Neither sword nor spear nor arrow would pierce the hides of these great metal-shelled behemoths, any more than the tanks and armoured personnel whatsits she’d seen on a diversionary trip to that military museum. The ones which snorted fire and great metal lumps of snot from their snouts. These… these were far more fearsome. Faster, more agile, better armed, and could even walk on two legs. What were they? As soon as Marieka regained her composure, she decided that she didn’t want to know. She bade as hasty a retreat into the woods as her legs would permit. The machines, which hadn’t even noticed her, stopped, made a sharp left and stopped in front of the Wendy House’s gate. The lights, Highway Code-defyingly bright even for the dead of night, pierced into Mary’s tear-encrusted eyes, dazzling her half to the point of near blindness. She arose from her misery, awkwardly dusted herself off and did her best to stare defiantly at the things, damn their dazzling brightness, their missile launchers and rotary cannons and whatever the hell else they had.

“Go ahead, yer bloody punks,” she yelled. “Go ahead and blast me to Kingdom Come again, see if I care. You know you’ve always wanted to. You always do you bastards. What are you waiting for? It’s nearly Christmas! Haven’t you got families to go home to? Or are they all in Tier 4 areas? Eh?”

There was a clanking of locks and a whirring of motors as a hatch opened to reveal a smallish, pink jumpsuit-cladded female figure sat inside the cockpit. The figure pulled up her visor to reveal an all-too-familiar face.

“Now why would I do that you daft bat?” she exclaimed. Mary stood aghast.

“M-m-Marcia? Is it realy you?” After all this time?”

“The very same, you silly old cliche. Captain Marcia Williams, 1st Mechanized Division of Her Grace’s Own Northumbrian Amazon Regiment, and the inventor of these fine machines, at your service. And yes, that means I’m a Pinkshirt. And yes, you can stop sounding like the heroine in one of those mushy romantic movies I know you hate, when her lost love finally returns after so long.”

Mary was unsure whether to be overjoyed, confused or return to her default state of hard seething rage, on having this surprising yet ironically predictable revelation thrust upon her.

“But… but… TWO BLOODY YEARS!” Two bloody years of frustration, of misery, of heartache… bloody hell that sounds terrible… trying to prevent reality from collapsing all around us, and where were you? Nowhere! I see nothing of you for al that time and now you suddenly show up! I mean… at least I’m bloody impressed with what you’ve been doing but you didn’t even let me know you were alive! And… a Pinkshirt, really?“

“That’s right, standing ever ready in the service of Her Grace the Duchess, to free the North from patriarchal oppression and the maniacal rule of Howling Lord Dickhead and his cronies in Westminster! Oh, and to melt that ther gate down. Stand well back, this is going to be one hell of a lightshow and Goddess do I sound cliched. COMPANEEE… Assume formation!” As the other machines clanked into place in double quick time, the hatch closed and Mary did as she was bid, glad to be reunited and all was right with the world once more. But ye gods, she wasn’t one of those nutters, was she?

The plasma cannons mounted on the right arms of the machines sputtered to life, burning into the thick unobtainium of the great gate. Slowly, but surely, they melted away.

A brightly painted gypsy caravan pulled by a team of reindeer looks a very odd sight anywhere, let alone the rolling English road. Yet here it was, meandering along, the red-nosed one in front allowed to guide it assisted by a pair of mounted headlights as the rest worked steadily behind, the familiar red-coated fellow in the driving seat bellowing and chortling to himself in a manner uncanniliy like a Brian Blessed who had been hitchhiking round the galaxy, binoculars around his neck, with which he occasionally interrupted his concentration with to peer through along the valley ahead.

“Whatshisname the red nosed reindeer,” he sang, “had a smegging shiny nose, and if you ever saw it, zarking Belgium those plasma cannons glow…” Suffice to say, making the improvised lyrics scan was not high on his list of priorities. Even further down, though, were the lights and sirens approaching from behind, interrupted by a booming megaphoned voice:

“THIS IS THE ROYAL MILITARY POLICE! STOP YOUR VEHICLE NOW!”

“Oh, dingo’s kidneys! Woah, reindeer, woah!”

Santa pulled up by the side of the road and son found himself surrounded by cars and half a dozen red-bereted officers all pointing guns at him.

“I’m going to need you to put your hands in hte air and step off the vehicle, sir,” said one young fellow who must have been the commander. The reindeer, spooked by all the commotion, were about to start before being reassured:

“Easy, Dancer, easy, Vixen. I just need to speak to these fine military policemen and we’ll be on our way, eh?” Samta cautiously let go of the reins as the animals calmed down and did as he was bid.”

“What… erm… seems to be the problem, Officers?”

“That’s Sergeant to you, Grandad,” said the man. “The problem, matey, is you. Specifically, you’re in a designated combat area without authorization. Contravening the National Security Enablement Act 2019 as well as the CoronavirusProtection Regulations (No. 7) for unauthorized travel and non-wearing of mask!”

“By, I knew the Loonies would end up sad pathetic smegheads when they got in,” Santa muttered to himself. “No fun like their manifesto, but then, politicians…”

“I’m going to need you to speak up, sir,”

“Never mind.”

“Right, I’m going to need you to explain why you were travelling in a restricted area, and also some ID. Wait, don’t tell me, you’re Father Christmas out delivering presents to all the little kiddies in lockdown. In a gypsy caravan. What’s wrong, Grenadier Mary blew up your sleigh, right?”

“That is exactly correct, Sergeant. Don’t tell me you don’t believe, eh?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t no.”

“Smeghead.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” inquired a flabberghasted Sergeant.

“I said smeghead, you military meathead. Smeg, head. S-M-E-G…”

“I KNOW HOW YOU SPELL IT! I’m… just surprised an old bloke like you looking all jolly comes up with such language…”

“Well when you’ve been through what I’ve been through…”

“Yeah, yeah, sure thing fella. You’re under arrest. You have the right to… well, actually you don’t have any. You can tell it all to the tribunal before they lead you out with a blindfold.”

“Ho ho smegging ho. So much for British Justice… zarking foetid dingo’s kidneys…”

A spotlight from the overhead airship which none of them had managed to notice hitherto swung round and illuminated the scene, shortly before the military policemen were all dispatched with a hail of machine gun fire. Shortly afterwards a determined, almost girlish female voice boomed out of yet another megaphone from the airship:

“You’re free to go old man. You are instructed to rendezvous with us at the Wendy House at oh-six-hundred sharp, so get a move on!”

“Yes, Miss,” Santa muttered angrily.

Mary could only watch in amazement as actualy functional examples of Marcia’s beloved plasma cannons went through the heavy unobtainium gate like the proverbial hot knife through butter. Without melting and incinerating everything else, for once. This had to be more than impressive. Nowhere near as impressive as the eedy polybolos that greeted Marcia’s mecha on the other side, shonking half a dozen bolts into its impervious armour at roughly half-second intervals. Genuinely impressive were the built-in rocket thrusters with which the mecha, one by one, navigated the spike-filled pit that lay just over the other side of the gate. How typical of Wendy, to build such an imposing fortress and protect its insides with nothing more than a few rubbish traps from cheesy ’80s adventure movies. That said, no rocket thrusters for her, only laborious improvisation. Grabbing the explorer’s pack Marieka had conveniently left lying up against the wall, Mary fished out a rope and grappling hook, tied one end of the rope to the hook, the other to the also-conveniently-left-there spear, drove the spear point into the ground and, not having Marieka’s considerable dungeoneering experience, took multiple attempts to try and get any purchase on the ground on the other side of the pit with the hook. It was just as well she didn’t have to see if it would hold her weight, or her four years working as a tightrope walker for Barney’s Circus didn’t have to be put to the test, after all this time, as the cattlegrid-like cover for the pit conveniently closed over it, allowing her to walk across. It look enough attempts to try and pull out the spear, though, which was stuck fast. How did Marieka do it? Mary wondered.

“Come on, get a move on,” came Marcia’s voice via megaphone. Same old snarky b-…

Marieka, on the other hand, was staying well put in amongst the cover of the trees. Occasionally taking a stealth peek at the happenings across the road did little to quell her instinctive fear of the unknown. The ringing of sleigh bells and a certain familiar chortle from up the road was likewise little comfort. As much as she had reminded herself: You are Marieka of the Clan Renavam. You are an amazon. A daughter of the mountains. You have fought with giants. Not some prissy little city miss who shrieks at a mouse. What are you afraid of? it was no help. Sneaking up to the edge of the forest, she finally realised the coast was finally clear… and the gate had… melted? Nothing more than frozen rivulets on the driveway. Treacherous if you didn’t avoid them, but passable. A black metal grid on the other side might prove dangerous- not only to trip on but because they usually hid something nasty. And beyond that? A big crossbow? But no-one to fire it. Still, there was bound to be a tripwire of pressure pad or that strange magic they called ‘infer red censor’. She wanted, desperately, to just steel herself and run in screaming out a warcry. But a seasoned adventurer who’s been whacked by or fallen into one too many traps eventually learns from the experience. The surprises of this world, too, would prove too much even after years spent in it. So Marieka did something she hated to do… proceed with caution.

The courtyard looked every bit as imposing as the house and the walls themselves. Not simply for the fierce-looking Tyrannosaurus rex skeleton (and whatever had been done to it, it certainly didn’t look like a fossil…) that appeared to be the centrepiece, or the rather off tendril-spewing mass of plants whew in any saner such space would have been ornamental bushes. There were the huge statues in strategic places of grotesque creatures that appeared to watch you with such keenness that they might just as well be planning to pounce on you and rip out your liver any moment as just sit staring in ominous, bleak silence. Crisscrossing all of this was an intricate network of rails along which had run the now-remnants of the mobile sentry tower from which Wendy had tried to ward them off, perched up against the wall alongside the remains of a section of greenhouse into which she had evidently tumbled. Out of these remains seemed to sprawl yet another indeterminate mass of vegetation. A whole row of greenhouses of various sizes followed the line of the wall which curved around the house and grounds into what might has well have been forever. Last but not least, the hige ‘ornamental’ ponds… out of which Mary was sure something large and snakelike appeared to slither before disappearing back into the depths. In other words: enter who dares.

“Fan out, suround the house, watch out for nasty surprises and…”Marcia piped up in commanding tone before pausing to think how to phrase one rather important detail.

“Err… yes ma’am?” a subordinate chimed in, expecting the inevitable.

“Yes, Lauren, no blowing anything up which might contain nasty surprises. We’re supposed to be acting all diplomatic and whatnot.”

“’DIPLOMATIC’?!?” yelled Mary. “’Diplomatic’ with half a dozen superweapon-loaded mech-“

“Errr… Mary… may-be you might want to let me settle things my way for once? You know, without criticism?” Marcia retorted. “Megaphones off, ladies, radio contact only!”

“DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE ME OUT OF MY OWN BUSINESS YOU BITCH! JUST YOU W-“ Mary was prevented from carrying on further by Marcia’s mech nearly stomping on her, forcing her to dodge. Regaining her composure, she went right back to yelling:

“WHEN ALL THIS IS OVER I WANT A DIVORCE! DO YOU HEAR?”

“Err… you’re not married to one of those monsters?” asked a familiar voice from behind. Mary couldn’t think up a response before all of the mecha, which had been gradually and carefully moving towards the house up to that point, were suddenly ensnared fast by a thousand suddenly whipped-up tendrils.

“Like we didn’t see that coming, Mary muttered to herself. “But who’s going to do the ‘Mwuhaha I have you now!’ speech?”

“Looks like they trapped your wife good and proper eh?” said the voice, which happened to belong to Marieka. “Oh, and by the way, don’t do that to my spear again if you don’t want sticking with it.” A sharp poke up the backside seemed to give credence to that threat. Marieka didn’t make those lightly.

“So,” shot out a high-pitched voice coming from the direction of the house. “You trespassers think you can come for Miss Wndy, do you? Well I won’t let you kill her! She’s brave and she’s smart and she’s beautiful and-“

“Knock it off dimwit, we don’t want to kill her, we just want to talk to her!” came in Lauren over her megaphone.

“Will you be quiet, soldier! That’s an order!” shouted Marcia.

“Oh, could it be any more cliché?” muttered Mary. “Can’t the Author (cursed be His Name) come up with some better dialogue?”

“So,” said Marieka, quietly, “why’d those things speak with women’s voices?” Mary could feel the spear tip poking her for attention and she didn’t like it, and one hand was on her gun in readiness to end the annoyance known as Marieka of the Clan Renavam once and for all… except damn, it was empty.

“They’re just like cars on legs with lots of guns and stuff you gristle-brained cavewoman,” she replied through clenched teeth. “The voices are the drivers…”
“Enough of this, Tanya!” Marcia went on. “As my subordinate blurted out without authorization, we are here at the behest of Her Grace The Grand Duchess of All Northumbria, Including the Forgotten Scottish Bits, to assist her in her quest to destroy the Temporal Reset Buton and end the obsolete patriarchal capitalist imposition that is Christmas! There will be of course a great number of fearsome monsters to be defeated and we trust we can count on your mistress’s expertise. Of course the renumeration for this mission will be considerable…”

“Sorry but Miss Wendy is indisposed right now, Plasma Lady, and besides she doesn’t negotiate with trespassers and terrorists! Beast Guardians! Smash them to pieces and rip out their livers!”

At once the fearsome looking statues began to move from their positions…

Will our assorted cast of heroes, antiheroes, villians and ne’er-do-wells, whichever they all are, resolve this tricky situation? Will Wendy’s statues rip Marcia and her Pinkshirts’ livers from their ribcages, or will the Wendy House disintigrate in a hail of missiles? What are Mary and Marcia going to do about all of this? What happened to Santa whilst all this is going on, and just who exactly is the strange girl with the airship? As the fateful hour of six approaches, don’t miss out on our next horribly long-winded installment whenever the Author (cursed be His Name) can be bothered to write it, even if it is in fact before Christmas 2021!