[Notice: The character of Jenny Everywhere etc. etc. blah blah crap you know the drill.]i
[Content warning: violence, swearing, mild sex references, lots of incomprehensible in-jokes and general stupidity.]
It was a dark and stormy night. The rain beat down hard against the window and the wind howled like a demented wolf-bat. In the distance, lightning flashed and the thunder roared in response, as if Zeus and Thor were engaged in an epic turf battle to decide who exactly was going to be thunder god on this bit of this otherwise god-forsaken planet. In the midst of this sat Arthur Michaelson, sat at his typewriter yet again, looking out the window wondering if yet another damned tree would collapse over the power lines to his house and cut his work short for the night.ii It was more interesting, he supposed, than the drivel currently staining the scroll in front of him. It was different from the usual even worse drivel he’d normally write about nubile young space princesses brandishing laser swords, trying to rescue their hapless beaux from some green-skinned femme fatale from the planet Zog’chandra, who was trying to lure him in with her feminine wiles in order to eat him alive when he least suspected it.iii (That, or something very similar that would keep the punters happy.) No, this was supposed to be about an ordinary girl happening upon and ordinary guy in some railway station back on old Earth, hoping to rekindle the spark that had lain dormant for the past ten years since they had been childhood sweethearts or some such. Sentimental mush. But somehow he couldn’t get it quite right. Needs must, he decided to at least look down on the drivel he had written before the lights went out and he’d have to go to bed and dream about his dead wife and why he couldn’t save her all over again. This is that drivel.
***
Laura waited impatiently as the station tannoy announced that the 18:45 to Menaasa would be delayed for another four hours due to the wrong type of leaves on the line. Damn it, the wind was in danger of messing up her perfectly teased hair that had taken enough hairspray to burn a hole in the ozone layer all by itself and it was insufferable. She was too tired from seeing her- ahem – “clients” all day and it was blatantly insufferable that she couldn’t make a few bucks more. She tapped her 6-inch heels nervously against the concrete floor of the platform. Damn these railway strikers complaining that the timetables had worked out to their dissatisfaction! Didn’t they think of the ordinary passenger and their needs which she just had to satisfy? It was such a nuisance that she barely noticed the noise of someone- or someones- materialising next to her with a loud “SHIFT!” noise. One of those someones, someone who probably would have very vaguely resembled KT Tunstall (if she’d had her hair cut really short, just so happened to be wearing aviation goggles and purple-and-yellow-striped scarf, and wasn’t Scottishiv) if Laura had known who the hell KT Tunstall was since it was the ’80s, accompanied by a moody-looking, tomboyish teenage girl wearing a baseball cap and hoodie that looked ever so anachronistic. The first of the “someones” crept up behind Laura, tapped her on the shoulder and muttered in her ear “Hiya Lozza, how’s it hangin’ minliena?”
Laura stumbled and tripped over. “Totally bitchin’,” she exclaimed. She got up and dusted herself off. “Ah, Jenny, it’s you. What the hell are you doing in my story? I’m supposed to be moping and internally whinging all to myself. Kindly leave me be.”
“Nice to see you too, Laura. But what exactly are you doing here?”
The moody-looking teenage girl nudged Jenny in the ribs and said: “What exactly are we doing in Clochan North Station? Not exactly somewhere for an exciting adventure is it? Unless you were planning on hooking me up with-“
“Give it a rest Megan, we’re only getting started. This here is the Eighties. Time to savour the big hair and the sweet synthesizer music.”
Laura, unfazed, carried on.
“What does it look like? Me, a lone woman stood on a deserted station platform, all dolled up and nowhere to go? Obviously I’m a prostitute. Not some random career girl, like maybe an estate agent or something, just desperate to see their sister or something.”v
“Last I saw you were a bright young college girl with a future ahead of her. What happened?”
“Oh, a bad break-up, this led to that, now I’m just happy to screw anyone for the money. Shit happens, you know?”
“Err… no?”
“Well you wouldn’t would you? Were this written in a short story I would see it condemned as an improbable fiction. By the way, if your young friend wants to couchez avec moi ce soir, I can do her for $50. Mates’ rates.”
“How about that guy over there? Isn’t that Mike Moheden the rock star?”
“Meh, he had his chance ten years ago. Besides, me crossing that bridge in these heels? Do you want me to kill myself?”
“Err…. no?” asked Jenny sarcastically. “Why don’t you wave your arms at him maniacally or something? Let him come to you?”
“Err… ’cause he’s all plugged in?”
At that moment, Mike was dead to the world, trying desperately to listen to his tape of the band New Horizons which was named for some card that let you enchant lands so you could tap them to add 2 mana of any colour to your mana pool, wishing their attractive lead singer Mena Tenazi was moaning with pleasure in her beautiful alto voice and running her fingers all over his body as deftly as she was the Juno 60 she was playing, all whilst clutching his precious guitar tightly to his chest.
Megan nudged Jenny again. “You know what else would make this scene totally complete?”
Just then a wormhole opened up above the track and something dressed in camos plopped out of it, screaming with a rough Yorkshire accent and shouting “Ooof! Whoever did that’s getting a bloody frag enema!”
“What did I say about speaking of the devil?” exclaimed Jenny loudly.
“How very cliché,” remarked Laura, yawning with boredom and pulling out a fan from her overnight bag for dramatic effect. “What are we getting next? A tap-dancing robot girl?”vi
The thing pulled herself up off the tracks, dusted herself off and lifted herself up onto the southbound platform. “Sorry I’m late to the party, chucks. You’ve not by chance got owt to blow up?”
“You could try the picket line outside,” remarked Laura nonchalantly. “Or Mr. Walkman over there.”
There was a distant sound coming over the wind from outside the station entrance, of one female and several male voices having an awkward argument, followed by a bloodcurdling battle-cry and the sound of metal slicing through flesh and crunching bone.
“Looks like someone beat me to t’first one,” replied Mary, for it was she, the mad bomber of deepest, darkest Yorkshire.vii
In walked a rough-looking woman, greasy hair fastened back into a braided bun, wearing nothing but furs, leather boots, a backpack and more spears and javelins than it seemed humanly possible to carry, bloodied longsword in one hand, can of Tymena Dark Mild in the other. “Ey. Name’s Marieka of the Clan Renavam. Youse dunno if there’s anywhere to get any more booze?”viii
“Oi! No outside drinks!” called a voice (from a door behind them marked “Refreshment Lounge”) in broad Clochan Lyniezian. “If you want to get a cuppa Samson’s Extra Strong Tea, I’ve had no bloody customers all day and I’m getting sick of it, so feel free to step in!”
Mary tossed a grenade into the aforementioned doorway, which exploded with a satisfying “BANG!”
“Did anyone have a clue what she was on about?” she asked.
“Err, excuse me,” interjected Laura sarcastically, “actual Lyniezian who actually understands Lyniezian here?”
“Shut up yer frickin’ whore,” counter-interjected Mary. “Nobody asked you…uuggh…” she continued as a miraculously well-aimed javelin went sailing straight into her chest.
“YESSS!!! Finally I hit something with a thrown weapon that actually looks humanoid!” shouted Marieka triumphantly.ix
“AWESOME! ‘Bout time someone took care of her,” exclaimed Megan. “You said your name was Marieka right?”
“Errr, yeah? And, thanks?”
“Well, I used to know a girl called Marieka. Smaller and slighter and had much bluer hair than you, but same name. And if you want to know a great place to get some more beer, I know this little joint called the Leaky Bicycle just over the road and round the corner. Wanna come?”
“Errr.. sure!”
The two set off before Jenny or Laura knew what was happening.
“Did you just see what happened there?” asked the former to the latter.
“What happened,” replied Laura, “is that my last paycheck of the night just walked off with some baby-eating harridan.”
“I think she’d take offence to that last one.”
“Eh well. Whilst you’re at it, you never told me what happened to your other bit on the side, that Leelee lass…”
“She was NOT my bit on the side, just some annoying limpet-like idiot, who unfortunately got eaten by the Wast Monster whilst we were on holiday in the English Lake District.”
“Eh?”
“Tells you all about it in…” explained Jenny as she reached into her backpack, “… this here book,” pulling out a small, beaten up copy of Corinne’s Pocket Guide to Lake Monsters of the British Isles. “Available for two pounds ninety nine at all good bookshops.x And no, I don’t know what that is in Lyniezian dollars, so you can have mine for free.”
“Whatever,” yawned Laura disinterestedly, pretending to fan herself before the fan itself was flung out of her hand by a sudden gust of wind.
“Never mind,” replied Jenny.
Just then the station tannoy announced that all trains had been cancelled in both directions for the foreseeable future, and that their humble announcer was going home for a nice glass of elderberry wine and to put up her feet and watch telly, all ready to join the union in the morning and, whilst she was at it, call the police.
“Well, that’s it for the night,” said Laura. “I’m tired.”
“Fancy going past the videotekenxi then going back home for a little Betamax and chill?” asked Jenny.
“I don’t think you actually understand the meaning of that woefully mangled and anachronistic comment, but sure, why not? On the house. I thought you were asexual though?”
“Well…. I am a multidimensional traveller who has access to the knowledge of infinite alternate selves, I think I know a bit more than you think I do. And… if it’s you, it’s okay.”
“One more thing before I go, if you will indulge me min nara liena…” said Laura, before proceeding to remove her shoes, trudge all the way across the tracks barefoot, clamber up to the other side, march over to a shocked Mike Moheden, yank the earphones off him and yell:
“THIS IS FOR PREFERRING THAT KEYBOARD PLAYING STRUMPET OVER ME YOU FREAKING ARSEHOLE! DON’T THINK YOU WERE IMMUNE TO MY OBVIOUS FOURTH WALL BREAKING POWERS OF PERCEPTION!”
before proceeding to jam the heels of her shoes directly through his temples into his brain, then breaking the guitar over his head and walked right back across the tracks barefoot.
“Didn’t think you had such wanton acts of ultraviolence in you Loz…” exclaimed Jenny.
“I surprise even myself sometimes,” Laura replied.
The two walked off towards the station exit.
“Your universe or mine?” asked Jenny.
Both women laughed uproariously.
Overhead, Zygonitarian Demolition Fleet Captain Zzlplwik Mlplenk had had enough of watching these proceedings and exclaimed:
“Bah! Enough of these ridiculous Earthlings and their ridiculous carryings on! Gunner, charge the demolition beam! Helm, set in a course for Betelgeuse, hyperspeed factor four!”
The explosion could be seen from distant star systems when the time was ripe.
tHe EnD!!!xii
****
Arthur Michaelson removed the scroll carefully from the typewriter just as the power went out. Fumbling for a matchbox in the desk drawer, he pulled out a match, struck it, set light to one end of the offending document and tossed it into the stove. With another match he lit the smelly naphtha lamp with which to light his way to bed for yet more fateful dreaming.
THE ACTUAL END.
iFor legal reasons I’ll include the actual license: “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.”
iiFor reference, the character of Arthur Michaelson and his inability to write stories on a dark and stormy night are the idea I had called The Ma’Chandra Chronicles, set on a fictional world called, unsurprisingly, Ma’Chandra and peopled by those who, for some reason, came originally from Earth but found themselves trapped down a wormhole and ending up there.
iiiThis was probably inspired very, very vaguely by one of the movies for Rumiko Takahashi’s Urusei Yatsura series, and will in turn be inspiring another silly piss-take of my own called Princess Lucidity to the Rescue, coming to a blog near you very soon.
ivNot too sure if the KT Tunstall reference is fitting, but for the fact I found out that (like Jenny- at least, my version of her… maybe) she had part-Chinese ancestry and is also pretty awesome, in your humble author’s opinion. (I’m a little wary of making Jenny’s ethnic background official though as I feel like I might be stereotyping her Mum, though.)
vThis came from the fact I could not for the life of me work out what the heck Laura- who, as you might recall featured in several of my other stories- did for a living. I still don’t. Obviously in the actual story she’s not a prostitute, but someone on Quora “helpfully” suggested it.
viI actually had a dream about this whilst on holiday in the Lake District. Don’t ask. More jokes based on the same holiday follow shortly.
viiWould you like to know more? See here (tap dancing robot girls and lake monsters also feature): https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/DarthWiki/Consequences
viiiMarieka is my stock D&D character. If you play D&D with me you’ll probably already know this. The badly mangled Teesside dialect is not normally associated with her, mind, but was inserted for the lulz.
ixIn the games I was playing at the time, somehow I could never successfully roll to hit when attacking with javelins.
xRemember that holiday in the Lake District I was talking about? Those pocket guidebooks could be found in every bookshop and gift shop going. Obviously not featuring lake monsters, needless to say. (Publisher name has been altered so I don’t get sued or anything.)
xiLyniezian for “video rental store”. Of course you worked that out already, didn’t you?
xiiMost of the Consequences stories ended like this. Also, if Capt. Zzlplwik Mlplenk seems remarkably similar to the Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz from Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy franchise, it is quite deliberate. (Albeit for reasons of affectionate parody only, again just in case I get sued.)
Tales of Lyniezia 
(And just for the record, Megan is 18 or 19 here.)
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