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 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.”

Princess Lucidity to the Rescue, A Travesty- part 1

(Author’s Note: Yet another one of those “travesties”, this one kind of being a rough parody of sci-fi kitsch and the like which I wrote whilst sat in a pub somewhere just for something to write. It vaguely alludes to Arthur Michaelson in the first travesty, and might be something he wrote, or perhaps a dream of his if I ever actually get round to writing “The Ma’chandra Chronicles”. Needless to say this is a work of fiction intended for the purposes of entertainment/humour/parody only. The author does not condone any unpleasantnesses such as partner abuse which may follow in real life. There is also other general violence, death and some mildly adult humour. You have been warned.)

“My, my, darling! What a sight!” came an unmistakable voice from the foot of the bed.

Arty craned his neck upwards as best he could, the restraints binding his hands and feet firmly to the ornate frame of Lady Estrella Marcia’s bed, leaving the rest of his body barely free to move. As he strained to look upwards, he barely bothered to glance up at the frame he saw before him, all 7’2″ of amazonian perfection clad in little more than an iridescent silver halter-top and matching hotpants, laser pistol and utility belt strapped to the waist, crowned with a perfectly-permed mass of neon-turquoise hair and a bejewelled band around the forehead. Well, he could hardly not pay any attention to it – but his attention was soon diverted to the face, perfectly-lined eyes piercing deep into his brain with a megaton stare, bright red lips curled into that knowing, sarcastic smirk that let him know that he was in deep, deep trouble and its giver would gladly make sure he knew it. The look that let you know, in no uncertain terms, that the 2000 volts of searing pain that was shortly to follow was no less than you bloody well deserved. The look that let him know that, in spite of both of these things, he’d better be relieved to see it, which he surely was. And not only because it was better than the alternative.

“P-princess! By am I glad – to see – you! I- I mean… I can explain…”

Princess Lucidity Morningstar, First Lady of the space colony of Eta Carinae Prime, had no time for such feeble excuses. Not merely because they ill befitted the officially-betrothed of one as important as herself, but because the sound of screams and shouting and the hiss of burning flesh coming from behind the door made it obvious that danger was not far away, and they had better make like a tree and get out of there pretty zarking quick.

“Just hold still a moment,” she instructed him removing the laser pistol from its holster. “You know,” she said as she adjusted several dials on one side of the pistol to the correct setting, “if you wanted to get all tied up like this, there’s a perfectly good bed back home I can tie you to, if you like…” Flicking a switch at the side of the weapon, with just a few expertly aimed shots, she freed Arty of the restraints.

“I know,” he croaked back, struggling upright and to his feet.

No sooner had he managed to just about regain his balance, the inevitable came. A wave of searing agony surged through his body, knocking him back against the adjacent wall, courtesy of Lucidity’s Wand of Principality.

“That’s for sneaking off with that conniving lamia behind my back,” she exclaimed.
Barely had he recovered and staggered to his feet, than another jolt coarsed through him and collapsed to the floor.

“That’s for being such a bloody idiot,” continued the Princess.

Arty could have sworn that in an earlier era that would be considered abuse, but this was (relatively speaking) the 29th century and standards were different; besides, one did not betray the trust of a Space Princess when that trust bound you to her body and soul; besides, such thoughts are difficult to have when your body is still limp and searing with pain, and would mostly have to wait until later. Even more difficult when the Princess in question yanked him abruptly to his feet, planted a kiss full on his lips and assured him in no uncertain terms:

“That’s because I bloody well love you in spite of everything, and don’t you dare forget it!” before adding, “Now, to get out of here…”

“Shag…” was his response, still half-dazed from the pain.

“There’s plenty of time for that later,” she replied.

“…pile…” he continued. “I… mean… there’s an… escape hatch… under the… shagpile… carpet…”

“Ah,” replied the Princess, barely regretting having spoken so soon. Glad of the information, she dragged her hapless beau’s still-limp body over to a chair by the carpet, her well-honed genes and intesnse physical training making up for what those ridiculous 20th-century primitives back in Arty’s time would have considered the deficiencies of her sex.

Before she even had chance to lift the carpet, the door suddenly opened with a characteristic whirr. Lucidity whirled around, pistol quickly drawn out of its holster, ready to dispatch the half-dozen Dog-Men that came rushing through the door, whose abject stupidity made them little more than laser-fodder at her expert hands, but leaving her surprisingly underprepared for the well-aimed javelin of a rough-looking woman dressed in little more than a plain woollen tunic and furs, her hair tied back in a rough braided bun for practicality. The javelin pierced her chest, straight through the heart, and as her collapsed form lay spreadeagled on the carpet staining it with copious amounts of blood, she could have reflected of how wasting her time on such ‘shocking’ behaviour ill-befitted her name and the reputation that went with it, the most she could manage was “oh no, not again!”

“LUCIDITY!” screamed Arty, attempting to spring up to embrace the Princess’ lifeless form before collapsing right next to it, his muscles still weak and in pain from the spasms.

“WHY?!? WHY-Y-Y?!?” he bawled.

“Don’t blame me, sport,” replied the barbarian woman who had moments earlier thrown the fateful javelin. “Just doing what Her Bluehairedness pays me to do. You, on the other hand, she wants to keep alive, as well you know- Fluffy likes his dinner fresh, even if he doesn’t mind some stale dessert…”

“YOU KILLED LUCIDITY, MARIEKA!!!”

“No need to repeat the bloody obvious,” exclaimed Marieka (for what else would a javelin-wielding barbarian by this particular author be called?) matter-of-factly. “Come on,” she continued, drawing the longsword from behind her back and making to point it at the hapless male specimen.

He suddenly reached for the laser pistol that lay a few inches from Princess Lucidity’s lifeless hand, pointing it in turn at the barbarian.”

“Don’t… try anything… I’ll shoot…”

“But you don’t know how that thing even works,” taunted the barbarian woman. “I mean, beats m-”

A lound crackle of electricity could be heard, and she collapsed to the floor.

“Good boy, you’re learning,” came a familiar voice…

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

(In our next episode…)

Her Ladyship, Estrella Marcia the Third of Neptunia Secunda, stared at the monitors with an air of feigned calmness that belied her trepidation. Nervously she twirled a strand of midnight-blue hair which fell about her head in a mass of long, loose curls, pretending not to bite a lip painted the same colour as the wine half-filling the elegant crystal goblet hanging down between the fingers of her right hand, heavily-lined green eyes darting this way and that as she surveyed each scene. Carnage had decorated the corridor which led to her private chambers, the bodies of Dog-Men piled high before what was left of the three bikini-clad figures who belonged to her mortal enemy’s elite bodyguard, collapsed in the doorway in an equally dead state.

(What will happen to our hapless …”hero”? Will he ever be free from the nefarious machinations of Lady Estrella and her pelt-clad henchwoman, or get turned into monster food? Just what exactly is Fluffy, and precisely how sapient is he? Is that really a mentally-backed-up clone of Princess Lucidity, or someone completely different? Will Marieka jump ship… perhaps even literally… and join them, or stick by her employer until the bitter end? Will there be any exciting mecha battles involving Lady Estrella’s elite guard? Find out all this and more… sometime in the future, maybe?)

Insanity Claus, or the Awkward “Consequences” of a Very Mary Christmas: A Farce, part 1

[Another silly story that I wrote for Christmas 2018 to amuse the family. I know it’s a little early in the year but thought it was too good not to share now. Also, for more information, see here.

Please note this is a work of fiction. All real-life entities or references to other works are included for the sake of satire or affectionate parody only; no misrepresentation is intended. The Today programme is property of the BBC.]

Somewhere in a cut in spacetime slightly lambda-wards of the skies above the Atlantic Ocean, battered by the cold air currents and the snow it blew through the rift, could be seen a most curious sight, albeit one which would no doubt be familiar to millions of children on the surface of the planet “below”. It appeared to be a sleigh pulled by reindeer, a large sack positioned in the rear and a portly, white-bearded fellow in a red coat in the driver’s seat. He let out a loud, cheery “Ho, ho, ho!” in a manner somewhat reminiscent of Brian Blessed, before calling out:

“On Dasher, on Dancer, on… Oh, dingo’s kidneys, why can’t I even remember the names of my reindeer? This is what you get for being over a thousand years old… On… Rudolph? Yes, that’s it… with your nose so bright…”

At this point the red-coated fellow was interrupted by the droning of a biplane closing in behind. A biplane on which was mounted a very menacing looking grenade launcher. A grenade launcher that fired off a rocket propelled grenade which exploded several feet from the back of the sleigh, sending fragments tearing through the large sack fastened to the back of the sleigh, creating a secondary rupture in spacetime and gradually sucking the multifarious contents of the bag into the unknown aether beyond.

“Oh, my sweet lord!” cursed the figure. “Oh, smegging foetid dingo’s kidneys! She’s ruptured the Bag of Holding! That dratted Mary! Does she ever give up? Now we’ll all be sucked in, and good little children the world over won’t get their presents! Oh, won’t she just think of the childreeee..nnnnaaaaaarrrgggh!” The figure, sleigh and all was sucked into the rift, the biplane soon following behind.

The rift opened up somewhere in the middle of the Scottish countryside not too far from a certain well known loch, early on a winter morning. As the red-coated figure held tightly to the reins of his reindeer, which had snapped off from what was left of the sleigh due to the force of the rift, the remains of the biplane could be seen careering into the side of a nearby mountain (where it made a fairly spectacular explosion) whilst the pilot, having bailed out, descended safely to earth by means of her emergency parachute. As she did, she could not help but noticing a large head emerging from the surface of the loch. When Santa (for it was, of course, he) finally emerged, crawling out of the freezing water after having let go of the reins and making an awkward “emergency landing”, he found Mary standing over him, brandishing a revolver.

“So, now I have you, Kringle! Any last words before I decide to send you on your way to meet the reason for the season since you failed to deliver that Bionic Woman action figure I so desperately wanted back in 1979?”

“Erm… brrrr… do you know… w-w-what y-y-you’ve j-just…d-d-done? Y-you’ve j-j-j-j-just ruined C-c-Christmas for millions of child-d-dren all over the smegging world! And w-w-w-worse s-still…”

The half-chilled-to-death Santa was interrupted further by the whooshing of a flying saucer bearing the words “SS Graceland” flying overhead, before it was hit by a rocket and tumbled headlong into the monstrous head emerging from the loch, which by this point had been joined by the rather long neck to which it was attached.
Santa, by this point just beginning to get over the shivers, scolded:

“Oh… oh d-d-dear! Just as if things couldn’t get any worse, now Elvis has been done in as well!”

“Elvis?” asked Mary quizically. “He’s dead isn’t he? I think it’s time to put you out of your misery for good, you mad old fool…”

“Before you do, you mad Yorkshire terrorizer, allow me to expl-l-lain… brrrr! Elvis isn’t dead, you know, he just decided to take a break for a while, and he went back to his home planet… you know, the media have been hinting at it for years!”

“Well I don’t watch much telly, do I?” pointed out Mary. “Usually since most of my tellies don’t last very long every time Marcia decides she really, really wants to watch Eastenders. Anyway, do go on…”

“Well he was about to come back especially for a one-off special New Year’s benefit concert before somebody shot him down…”

Mary looked out over to the loch to see the smoking remains of the flying saucer floating next to the severed neck of the monster.

“You have got to be kidding me… now let me see…” she said, replacing the gun in it’s holster, fumbling in one of the many pockets of her coat to pull out a small radio which she switched on and fiddled about until she found a passable Radio 4-bearing signal.

“…beep, BEEEEP!” went the radio. “This is the Today programme with Mishal Hussein and John Humphreys on Friday 28th December. It’s 8 o’clock. Now, a summary of the news with ..BZZT!” Another voice chimed in following the static:

“…News at 8 o’clock. Following the emergency debate of the Missing Christmas Disaster held in the House of Commons last night which resulted in a snap vote of no confidence in Theresa May’s government, amid ongoing tensions over the final BZZZT! which was due to be voted on in the New Year, a snap general election has been called due to take place in February ahead of the BZZZT! date in March. Early polls suggest an unprecedented landslide victory for the Monster Raving Loony Party…”

Mary turned off the radio, retracted the aerial and put it back into the pocket from which it came.

“I thought as much! You remember when Screaming Lord Sutch was leader of the party? Remember how the bookies had better odds for Elvis Presley crashing a UFO into the Loch Ness Monster than him successfully contesting an election?”

“Y-y-yes…?” asked Santa, puzzled.

“Well it looks like the odds have been somewhat tilted in the favour of both.”
“Y-y-you know what this means, don’t you? One, I’ve overshot Christmas by three days, two, your smegging actions have just broken the fabric of reality! We have to fix this, and there’s only two ways of doing that…”

“Oh really?”

“YES! One, trail all over the Highlands looking for every last missing present and get them hitched up to the sleigh to be delivered by last Tuesday, and I mean even though the time travel part is easy with a bit of magic – how else do you think I do it every year? – looking for that lot would be pretty much like looking for a habedashery’s worth of needles in a hay factory, so, two, we go off questing in search of the fabled Temporal Reset button before Twelfth Night, and the clock is ticking! Can’t cheat it, you know, timey-wimey you-know-what…”

“Oh brother,” said Mary. “I guess I have no choice do I?”

“Nope!”

“Well, three things before we do. One, since when did you of all people start turning into a walking parody of classic British sci-fi comedy? Two, I would place the blame for that squarely on my sister Wendy, the infamous monster slayer, not me. Three, we’re going to need help…”

‘Shhk!’ came a javelin, landing right between Mary and Santa, landing at their respective feet.

“Oi! Need a hand? Or rather, a longsword attached to a hand?” came a gruff but female voice in a strange, indeterminate accent.
They looked round to see a rough-looking barbarian woman, dressed in furs, her long brown hair roughly tied up in a braided bun behind her head for practicality, her face beset with scars from numerous battles.

“Marieka of the Renavam Amazons at your service,” she continued. “If there’s adventure, excitement and monster slaying to be had, count me in!”

“Well, I can’t guarantee any monster slaying, but…” said Santa before he was interrupted.

“Oh, bloody hell! Get yerself back to tabletop RPG land, you haridan, before I frag you to the middle of next century!”

“Try me,” the amazon replied, with the sort of come-and-have-a-go-if-you-think-you’re-hard-enough tone you might expect from someone like her in these sorts of situations. “I already dispatched one version of you back in the other story. Now will you let me join you or not?”

“Oh, go on then,” said Mary, resignedly. “But first we have to get you some more modern weaponry, and then we have to get you another monster slayer to face down…”

Will Santa, Mary and Marieka manage to reset the fabric of space and time before Twelfth Night rolls around? Will our intrepid antiheroes manage to deal with Wendy the Monster Slayer or will she ballista them in the backside first? Will things ever manage to get back to whatever passes for a vague semblance of normality in the Consequences-verse? And will Jenny Everywhere make an appearance? Find out in our next thrilling episode… if there ever is one!

It was another Dark and Stormy Night: A Travesty only the Author will Understand (with Added Annotations so the Reader Can)

[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 Scottish^iv) 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 videoteken^xi 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.)

Vignettes no. 3: A Long Afternoon

An attempt, and probably a terrible one, at black comedy. Best not to ask any more about this one. But it might just pave the way for some of the silly ‘travesties’ that are yet to follow.

Content warning: contains mentions of violence and general tyranny.

Princess Martia yawned a long, slow yawn, one hand resting against the side of her head, scarlet-tipped index finger twirling a dangling gold earring, elbow resting against the arm of her throne, as the other hand fanned the rest of her in slow, sweeping motions with an ornate, decorative fan depicting the exploits of Jocasta IV against the Metalinian Wyrm. In front of her, yet another would-be jester was attempting to rap the lyrics to Jabberwocky as part of his audition, as if he wasn’t the fourth one today to think he was so original by attempting that very act. It got to the point where he was all calloo-callaying before the hand that had been propping up the Princess’ head reached down to a pistol crossbow propped up by the side of the throne and proceeded to project a bolt right through the offending bore’s heart. The Princess reassumed an upright, regal posture, placed the fan in her lap and held out the crossbow firmly in the direction of a waiting servant.

“Perkins!” she called to the man in a firm, commanding but measured tone.

“Yes, your Highness?” replied the servant, matter-of-factly.

“Reload.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

The servant took the crossbow from his mistress’ hand and proceeded to an appropriately placed table, removed another bolt from the box placed thereon, and proceeded to reload the weapon with it.

“Potts! Wheelwright!” the Princess carried on to another two attending servants in the same tone as before, who replied with the same, mechanically obedient “Yes, your Highness?”

“Dispose of that, will you?” One scarlet-tipped finger pointed at the freshly-deceased corpse and made gentle waving motions in the direction of the east door.

“Very good, ma’am,” replied Potts, followed by a slightly delayed, wearily sarcastic “Very good, ma’am,” from Wheelwright.

“Perkins!” snapped Martia. Perkins, trying to conceal a shudder, handed the crossbow back to her. No sooner was it back in her hands than another bolt flew in the direction of Wheelwright, its aim just as true but in this instance lodging itself in the head of its woebegotten target.

“Perkins!”

“Y-yes, ma’am?”

“Reload.”

The servant without delay attended to his duties, silently praying to the goddess of fortune that once complete, he might not be its next target.

“Jacobs! Matthews! Tompkin!” carried on the Princess, to another group of waiting servants, who at once attended. “Finish what Wheelwright was so hesitant to do, and make sure you deal with that particular piece of midden-fodder whilst you’re at it.”

“At once, your highness!” they exclaimed in unison, bowing and scraping as they did.

“Well, get on with it!”

The three men, along with Potts, hastened to do as they were bid, not daring to put another foot wrong.

Princess Martia sighed again, clapped her hands twice and shouted, “NEXT!” whereupon another hopeful auditioner clad in a patchwork assortment of many colours jingled into the room. Martia resumed an upright posture with stony-faced expression, both hands gently holding the fan against her lap, awaiting the next dire performance.

This would be a long afternoon.

Not Quite a Treasure-Chest

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.

With acknowledgement to Joan Opie(?) for providing the prompt this was based on, and to the creators of games with ‘funny-sided dice’ for inspiration.

Jenny was never good at doing this kind of job. The no-questions-asked kind of job where you had to locate and recover this lost item for your employer or deliver that package safely to so-and-so. Sooner or later her insatiable curiosity would get the better of her and she’d just have to take a peek, and that was when the complications would start. No doubt it would contain some item of world shattering importance. Either that, or it was some treasure of immense significance to some family or secret religious cult. Worse still, it might be human, and you’d have to rescue it from whatever dreadful fate was planned for it. And either your employers would get wind of the fact you knew what it was and want you dead, or whoever your employers didn’t want to see it would want to get their hands on it (if necessary, with you dead). Or, for some reason, you’d end up wanting to do something with it yourself… or it with you. The frustration this unfolding sequence of events caused was often not worth the thrill of the adventures that unfolded.

The job itself had been anything but pleasant. Deceptively simple-sounding to the point of cliché it might have been – go up into mountains, sneak into cave past dragon, locate and remove chest, deliver to Lord Marcus, claim reward. Something vaguely reminiscent of the sort of thing that group of lads at school playing at being barbarians and wizards whilst rolling funny-sided dice might pretend to do for fun, though they probably would have found the encounter too trivial. Well, they would never have to see the realities of having to deal with a 30-foot-long scaled monstrosity with vicious looking jaws that, confounding the expectations of biologists all across the multiverse, actually breathed fire and frankly didn’t stay asleep long enough to simply sneak past. Nor when it was all over would they get to experience having to carry a huge, heavy chest down a steep mountainside when your entire party consisted of two women with just-above-average strength. At the same time, at least having dimension-hopping superpowers did give you one advantage over these pencil-wielding tabletop wannabes. You could nip to the universe next door and, with the proceeds of all those various items of gold jewellery you had about your person to pawn when occasion required it, procure a high powered hunting rifle (semi-automatic for these tense situations, of course) with hide-piercing rounds of suitable calibre. Then all you need do was hope you were good at dodging and finding good enough hiding places to give you cover and a decent shot or three without being roasted. Or mauled. Or chomped to bits.

But somehow, remarkably, they had done it, and managed to carry the prize back to the run-down cottage located just outside the town walls which Lord Marcus had “generously” allowed them the use of for the duration, ready to deliver it to her employer in the morning. Megan had retired to bed, along with some local girl (Melinda, wasn’t it?) to whom she had taken a fancy to and no doubt would manage to enjoy a night or two with before the inevitable gut-wrenchingly tearful farewell when it was time to move on. That left Jenny sat alone, downstairs, on a simple wooden stool by the dying embers of the fire, pondering. It was hardly as if the pay his Lordship was offering, though generous by the standards of this backward world for roving adventurers of their “lowly station” (the nerve!) was quite enough, in her reckoning, to justify the hardship. The contents of that chest, whatever they were, would certainly far outstrip the value of such a sum. At the same time, the reputation of Lord Marcus within the town walls was that he was quite fond of doing some petty nasty things to people who failed to complete their contractual obligation or, lest they should get away, to people they cared deeply about. Even if Jenny could shift away and take Megan with her, there would be no consoling the latter if her beloved girl of the week (whatever her name might be) was consigned to some grisly fate on the other side of the dimensional divide. Frankly, Jenny didn’t want that stain on her conscience particularly either. Nevertheless, her curiosity was growing moment by moment, and with trembling hands she decided she had to satisfy herself as to the contents of the enormous chest. This was more difficult than it seemed as what looked like a keyhole did not exactly respond to her lock picking kit (how odd!) and the insides of said keyhole felt decidedly… fleshy? Eventually, though she managed to prize open the lid and lift it a few inches but at that moment noticing it was lined round the edges with what looked very like razor-sharp teeth, and its insides remarkably wet and mouth-like.

“You have got to be kidding me,” exclaimed Jenny in that surprised-but-sarcastic tone when you realise you just got hit with something you should have expected but never thought possible. Visions of people sat at a table rolling funny-sided dice flashed through her mind once again- wasn’t this something they encountered in the games they played? She barely had time to recall before the lid-mouth snapped shut, opened again, let out a low gurgle then snapped furiously and rattled about. Instinctively she darted for the rickety staircase that let to the loft where the other two girls were sleeping; the chest-creature, undeterred, suddenly appeared to sprout legs and bounded with hoping motion after her, gurgling and snapping furiously as it went. As if it were second nature Jenny quickly pulled out the pistol still strapped to her side and emptied an entire magazine-ful of ammunition, not even penetrating the chest-thing’s thick hide and only just slowing it down enough to let her bound up the steps. At the top, Megan and her girl-friend were sat in bed, huddled together, the latter panicked and screaming whilst the former was letting out shouts of “What the f*** was THAT?!?” Both were rather too ‘exposed’ for normal decency but Jenny really did not have time to care for such improprieties.

“Don’t just sit there you stupid bint, grab something to shoot with!” she shouted at Megan, as the Thing bounded up the stairs. As Megan, panicked, rushed around for whatever nearby weapon and nearly smothered the still-panicking girl (screaming her head off like some damsel in an old black-and-white horror movie) Jenny noticed the rifle propped up against the wall. After quickly rooting around in the appropriate backpack for a spare magazine, she took up the gun, loaded it, released the safety and fired just as the monster was about to snap her head off. The rifle rounds proved as effective against the Thing as they had been against the dragon and it collapsed on the ground, mouth-head hanging open, blood pouring out of a hole in its hide. She looked over at her two companions, both struggling to right themselves before huddling together with the moth-eaten sheets pulled tight over them for warmth.

“Alright, please tell me what in the name of all things holy that was, and why it looks so much like that chest,” said Megan, still half-panicked but insistent upon answers.

“It’s… it’s a… m…mimic,” whimpered her girlfriend. “It… looks like some sort of object… you know, like a chest. It’s a trick… it sits there and lures in… adventurers like you two… so it can…” The girl began to sob uncontrollably, burying her face on Megan’s shoulder as she tried to console her.

“Dammit,” said an angered Jenny. “Lord Twatface has some poxing explaining to do when we deliver his goods in the morning. Pull yourselves together you two, and put on some bloody clothes. If that gunfire has alerted the city guard you don’t want them staring at you like a bunch of pervs, do you? Don’t worry, I won’t look. I think you’d better come down, we need to discuss this carefully. Including you, Melinda…”

“Melara, actually,” scolded the girl, brushing aside the remains of her tears which had rather too quickly turned to annoyance. “I might be just some lowly tavern-wench, not important enough for such a brave and noble adventuress like yourself, but by all the saints you could at least remember my name!”

“Whatever,” grumbled Jenny, fetching some musty, spare sheets from an actual chest over by the wall, wrapping the bloodied carcass of the Mimic into them before recovering her ever-present goggles from where they had (somehow) fallen on the floor and trudging down the steps, muttering something along the lines of:

“I need a freaking drink, now where did I put that bottle of Black and McWhatsittie’s…”

The following morning

“Here,” pronounced Jenny, as the three women dumped the bundle unceremoniously on the floor at the feet of the fine-robed man sat before her, “is your… ahem… chest, my Lord,” unfurling the sheets to reveal what was left of the Mimic. “I somehow don’t recall any mention of that being what we were to retrieve in our contract, mind explaining if it please your most noble Lordship?” before muttering something that sounded like “A.K.A. Utter Bastard” under her breath.

“Oh,” exclaimed Lord Marcus as he arose from his ornately-carved chair, with almost genuine concern for the dead monstrosity. “My poor Mimic! My darling thing! What have you done to her? Alas, whom will I feed my most bitter enemies to now? She was only frightened, the poor thing, trapped up there with that fearsome dragon, she must have hibernated with the shock of it all, yet all for this…”

Jenny and Megan looked at each other with a mutual look of incredulity.

“Complete and utter…” whispered the one to the other.

“You needn’t tell me,” Megan replied, also whispering, in full agreement.

Melara stared at them, open-mouthed in horror at this complete lack of respect for their “betters”, saying nothing.

Turning to Lord Marcus, Jenny carried on in firm tone:

“I do trust we shall be fully recompensed given the extra complications? If you don’t mind, with a replacement bottle of whatever passes for whisky around h-“

“Why… you… impudent wench!” yelled Lord Marcus, flying into an uncontrolled rage. “How dare you! How DARE YOU!!! You bring me this and expect a single piece of copper from me? Oh, I bet you looked, didn’t you? You fetched a chest for me and had to get your grubby hands on the loot, didn’t you? Well, you snake in the grass, you conniving she-devil, there shall be no payment for you but pain! Perhaps you will wish you had been my poor Mimic’s next meal if you had not dispatched her thus… GUARDS! GET IN HERE AND PUT THESE BITCHES UNDER ARREST!”

The sound of several loud bangs, followed by a popping of displaced air, could be heard ringing out from the castle windows, startling the unexpectant townsfolk outside. Meanwhile, as the guards inside came bounding through the door of the great hall to fulfil the orders of their lord, they instead found his crumpled body lying next to the monster, a horrified common girl standing beside, but neither of the adventurers were anywhere to be seen.