by Graham Johns
EPILOGUE
YOU DON’T KNOW JACK SCHITT,
YOU DON’T KNOW HIM AT ALL,
YOU SURE KNOW HIPPO MAN & BLUE BOY,
ONE’S FAT & WIDE, ONE THIN & TALL.
Hippo Man was seated comfortably upon Jack’s prostrate form. Blue Boy dropped the stone he had utilised to knock him out. The Nether-Staining crowd had departed, the JCB was moving away, and the Lancastrian audience were enjoying more ice creams as they were pretty sure this show had a couple of acts left to run. The news crew who had been filming all of this so far were now climbing the wall, though they foolishly decided to climb where the electric fence was still in place and it was playing merry hell with their equipment.
“Well met, Blue Boy, well met indeed,” Hippo Man said.
“I missed you, my friend, I thought you’d gone for good,” Blue Boy said, with a small effort at restraining a tear from falling. That tear wouldn’t have been manly enough and sensibly stayed within his eye. “Where are your leg warmers and ballet shoes?”
“I travelled light. I see that much has changed in my absence,” Hippo Man commented, “hair seems a lot less abundant in Nether-Staining than before.”
“You said it, we’ve no idea what’s going on.”
“And you’re working with Just and Supré? Are you mad?”
“Erm, well, desperate times and all that, they’ve been OK as it happens.”
Hippo Man indicated the white item looking very sad on the field, “I have reason to suspect that you owe me a new shower curtain.”
Blue Boy looked a little sheepish as Hippo Man burst into laughter, “I told you to stay out of my house and yet you went in anyway and ruined my shower curtain, you bastard! I bet you supped all of my drink as well!”
They both laughed together. Another crisis averted in heroic style.
Jack Schitt stirred and groaned underneath Hippo Man’s sizeable girth, leading to Hippo Man pondering out loud, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to do for a while. I had a bit too much ice cream for breakfast earlier.”
Hippo Man unleashed an enormous gust of foul wind from his rear straight into the face of Jack, thankfully minus any follow-through as that would not have been overly heroic. Jack groaned loudly before passing out once more, and then something occurred that was most unexpected, his ice-cream-hair fell off. Not only did it fall off, but it moved away at speed in the direction of the village.
Blue Boy and Hippo Man looked at each other, not quite believing what they had just seen and wanting to ensure that the other had seen it too.
“Yes, his hair does have a life of its own,” Just Master said as he approached, “most unusual.”
“I was just contemplating an ice cream to complete my enjoyment of this epilogue in style,” Blue Boy said, “bugger.”
“I think we need to get to it once more, Blue Boy!”
“We should regroup at Gordon Shepherd’s farm,” said Blue Boy, eager to maintain a professional anonymity.
“Perhaps you will allow me to interrupt and suggest we avoid the centre of the village for the moment?” Just asked.
“Very well, though if you’ll forgive me for saying so, if you’re to help us fight whatever this hairy monster is, you’ll need a name reflecting your semi-albino superhero status, a name reflecting your superior nature to all who may note you in future, but with sufficient gravitas of your past deeds. Welcome to the team, White Man!” Blue Boy stated with the appropriate gusto that goes along with assigning names of due magnificence. He patted him on the shoulder.
Just didn’t go in for eye-rolling too much, Supré did though and duly obliged. Nobody decided to challenge Blue Boy on the apparent racist, and what to many could be rather insensitive, nature of this new title, though it was certainly circulating in the minds of everyone else present.
“What about me?” Supré asked instead.
“Let me think on that one,” Blue Boy replied, “White Man has already been taken.”
“What about him?” Supré asked, pointing at Jack.
“He doesn’t warrant a super-name. His name reflects him quite nicely I feel,” Hippo Man said.
Jack was coming round again and had a large welt on his forehead that would probably require first aid, “Where am I?” he asked, notably in a higher-pitched voice than before.
“You’re in Nether-Staining, fella, and may you never forget this day,” Hippo Man replied.
“Where?” He rubbed his head with his large hands and a look of consternation came over his face, especially as his hand had smeared tiny droplets of blood over his bald head. “Where is my hair?”
“Your hair just went that-a-way,” Blue Boy said, pointing towards the village.
“OK,” he said uncertainly, meaning “You boys are clearly taking something and I don’t want any of it.”
“We think it may be prudent if you get back in your helicopter and never come here again, go back to where you came from,” Hippo Man advised, “or feel our wrath.”
“I don’t know where I’m from,” Jack said, looking rather confused.
“Try America as a starting point, cancel your hotel and golf course project and gift the land back to Nether-Staining, and then never come here ever again!” Blue Boy said with a quite unnecessary exclamation. “Because if you do, we’ll bring nightmares upon you.”
Jack Schitt, if that was indeed his name as he wasn’t sure, got to his feet unsteadily and made his way to the nearby helicopter, where Nigel was urinating. As Jack got into the chopper, the dog dashed towards Hippo Man and, engines going, it rose majestically from the field and into the sky. The massive downdraft caused capes to billow in a super-style.
“Who was that man, I mean really?” Blue Boy asked.
“I think we’ve already covered this,” Supré replied, “and it’s true to say that you still don’t know him.”
Once the breeze from the helicopter had settled down a touch, it was time to move out.
“I’m just going to go and have a quick chat with the ice cream man,” Blue Boy said, “I’ll catch you up.”
“His name is Geoffrey, you can’t call him Geoff,” Hippo Man said after him, Blue Boy responding with a wave.
CHAPTER 21
HAIR THAT GROWS UNTENDED,
IS HAIR THAT’S ON THE LOOSE,
HAIR WILL POP UP WHERE IT LIKES,
BUT NEVER ON A GOOSE.
At Gordon Shepherd’s farm, in the evening, a warm autumn glow pervaded the gloom. Nigel was asleep in his worn basket, in a corner of the kitchen. Everyone else was seated around the table discussing important matters.
“So what name can I have?” Supré enquired again.
“Well, you do look a bit like Noël Coward, how about Coward King?” Mick asked, having removed his mask of Blue Boy.
Supré looked mildly offended.
“It’s better than King Coward,” Mick said, “at least Coward King makes out that you wreak havoc over cowards, whereas King Coward makes it sound like you have a yellow streak of royal proportions. Coward King also implies a graceful ability in the theatrical sphere.”
Supré looked defeated, “Can I at least have a mask so nobody recognises me?”
“Leave it with me, I think I know where I can obtain a uniform for you,” Mick said thoughtfully, “Selina, can I borrow you for a short while please?”
Mick and Selina left the room and a slightly less ignorant form of peace descended, although Selina had raised the knowledge bar multiple-fold when compared to Mick and Gordon.
“He means well, you know,” Gordon said by way of explanation that hadn’t been sought, “for a layabout Lothario wastrel at least.”
In the lull, Gordon decided he had best bridge a most pregnant of pauses, “I’m rather surprised we’ve come to this. It seems ridiculous that what started out as a defined list of actions pertaining to protecting Yorkshire and a confrontation with our MP has now led to a hairstyle that can move on its own. I guess life’s like that.”
“No it is not like that at all, Mr. Shepherd, this is stranger than fiction,” Just replied, “it seems to me that there has been a degree of subterfuge that is only now beginning to rear its ugly head. What began as an attempt to merge our county homes is perhaps not what it appeared at all, though I dare say that the hotel and golf course could have been significant though I am at a loss as to how.”
“Are you thinking misdirection?” Supré asked.
“Maybe, we need to find that hair.”
“That’s not going to be easy on acres of farmland, you know, though it was heading to the village,” Gordon chuckled to himself, “see what I did there? Hair…heading…?”
Nobody else laughed and so Gordon ceased and continued his chatter, “I’m wondering why you’re helping Mick, what did he offer you?”
“Would you not help honourably if the alternative was more lengthy sedation?” Just enquired.
“Perhaps, unless it is yet more subterfuge and misdirection, though I’d like to think that if my recent experiences have taught me anything, it’s that we can and should be as one and work together while also embracing our differences. Life is just better and easier that way.” Gordon had a vague look of melancholy mixed with peace on his brow.
Supré and Just exchanged a look before Supré said, “You’ll get no argument from me on that score.”
Mick reappeared momentarily, “Supré, can we borrow you in the games room, please?”
Gordon said to Just, “I hate to think what he’s concocted this time but I’m fairly certain there aren’t any more shower curtains available.”
Just shook his head and allowed himself a slight smile, the smile of the hopeless, wondering how it could be that these twits had beaten him once before.
***
A little while later, Mick and Selina returned. Mick wore a large grin above his Lycra. Selina appeared resigned to have been complicit in the scheme.
“Lady, gentlemen and dog, I give you Coward King!”
Coward King nervously entered the room in a loose-fitting, yellow uniform with a brown stripe running down the centre. It sagged a little around the posterior region. A yellow mask completed the attire. Nigel awoke from his slumber to sniff Supré and then decided to retire back to more desirable pursuits that didn’t require activity.
Slight shock mixed with despair spread across the faces of the group.
“Forgive me for asking this of you, Michael, as I would never wish to disrespect the superhero outfit of a new legend in the making,” Gordon said, “but would I be right to assume that you’ve located and butchered my new yellow curtains from the games room along with my ex-wife’s old uniform she wore in the brownies?”
Looking a touch sheepish, Mick answered, “Perhaps I have, why do you ask?”
“No reason, I didn’t really like the curtains and, quite frankly, interior design people should be strung up as the shallow idiots they are. But I give you hearty congratulations on destroying the brownie outfit because Betty was going to collect it eventually so the bitch can have whatever remnants remain and I’ll tell her the moths got at it.” Gordon smirked.
“What of myself and Nigel?” Selina asked. “Are we stuck with peripheral roles in whatever you’re up to? Seamstressing and the like?”
Icy tension suddenly froze the room and no one knew quite where to look. The table top suddenly required detailed scrutiny.
“Erm,” Gordon said.
“Yes?”
“I thought it best to protect you and Nigel by not involving you,” Gordon slowly offered.
“You obviously haven’t learnt much on your travels then, because if it wasn’t for me, we’d have been caught by an angry mob for a start and would still be walking to Preston, so accept it that I’m helping.” Selina stood firm with hands on hips, demonstrating an aggressive intent that was clearly not to be trifled with.
“OK, OK,” Gordon held his hands up in placating gesture with a smile, “What a woman! Mick, any chance you could do some more creative honours?”
After they had left, Just said with some degree of authority, “In the morning, we need to get into the village and sort this out once and for all. But first we need a plan of attack.”
***
A lot can happen in a short time. Most of us live in such a way that a lot never really does happen in a short time, and many of us like to ensure that not a lot happens in a very long time. Some people live out their whole lives with nothing much happening. It seems a bit of a shame when you think about it, the quest for a quiet life, but what is life without events of note? Perhaps a footnote at best in a small section of history, if that. Nether-Staining clearly wasn’t short of historic events, self-motivated and mobilised hair is merely the latest. Not all incredible events seem noteworthy to all, however, as Billy the Village Drunk had insisted on multiple occasions that he had been abducted by aliens and probed in the most uncomfortable and demoralising of ways. Nobody had listened as he babbled on about bushes and merkins as it was hardly quality conversation at the best of times, and certainly not with a drunk. If only they had paid attention.
During the night, the ice cream haircut had been feverishly busy. For a start it had had a slight trim, a wash and a blow dry. If you’d walked through a wet field without shoes, you’d probably want a wash too. How it accomplished this you may wonder and we may never know the truth, but sometimes hair does indeed have a mind of its own.
Our heroes emerged early to yet another glorious Yorkshire day and were ready to face it. Hippo Man, Blue Boy, White Man, Coward King and Nigel, who wouldn’t respond to any other name, were ready to roll. But there was now a new addition, and that member of the group was a robotic female, and what do you call a robotic female heroine?
“Given your electronic nature, how about Circuit Breaker?” Hippo Man asked.
“That’s rubbish!” Blue Boy said. “What about Silicon Valley?”
“That is not much better and seems just a touch sexist to me,” White Man said, “we could go for The Conductor.”
There were nods of approval for that. The Conductor was sporting Betty Shepherd’s old ivory wedding dress, which had been tastefully cut off at the knees and properly hemmed. The veil was in place, though rather smaller than before, and a blue lightning bolt was now scrawled on the chest. The outfit was finished with a pair of simple white plimsolls.
Blue Boy gazed proudly at the group and suggested that it was time to get a move on because the quicker this got sorted, the quicker they could hopefully all get their lips around a Priest’s Hole.
“Wait,” The Conductor said, “while I suspect that I may be able to handle myself, don’t you think that perhaps you human chaps ought to have weapons of a sort?”
This gave pause for thought. “The Conductor is nothing if not unerringly rational and of sound logic,” Hippo Man said, “I have some ideas, follow me!”
It didn’t take long for our heroes to emerge with some weaponry of heroic nature. Nigel of course had the benefit of speed and sharp teeth; The Conductor had a metal core and was naturally strong; Hippo Man had a pool cue because it reminded him of the tooth of a hippopotamus; Blue Boy possessed the other pool cue because it reminded him of his trousers; Coward King was really owning a steam iron complete with cord; while White Man insisted on sticking to his general air of self-assured superiority. They reassembled in a line, looking like possibly the worst imitation of legends it was possible to be, though of course legends are made through deeds rather than looks, something the fashion industry would do well to remember.
“Remember everyone, stay in character,” Blue Boy advised.
“To the Dog & Duck!” Hippo Man announced and pointed in the vague direction of Nether-Staining. As it was in the centre of the village, was Bob’s place of business and possessed large quantities of beer, nobody argued with the desired destination.
In an absence of genuine superpowers, the group walked down the lane towards the pub.
&
nbsp; “We could do with a name for our superhero collective really,” Blue Boy suggested, “something that doesn’t have ‘Men’ in the title because that is too gender-specific.”
“The Farm Hands?” Hippo Man said, though nobody seemed to like it.
“X-People?” Blue Boy said. “’X’ is an exciting letter of mystery and shock-factor and ‘People’ is all encompassing.”
“Not for Nigel it isn’t,” The Conductor replied. “And I think you’ll find that ‘X’ has been employed elsewhere by a sizeable comic entrepreneur already.”
“Oh,” Blue Boy said with a slightly crestfallen air, “maybe something will naturally evolve.”
Enough was said and they neared the village green in silence. Outside the Dog & Duck, all was quiet. The pub was closed at this early hour and nobody was about. Bob’s Jaguar was parked up outside, gleaming in the sunshine. The heroes looked on with some degree of envy.
Hippo Man approached the front door, clenched his fist and thumped loudly on the hard wood a couple of times before clutching his hand rather quietly in some discomfort.
“Pretty hard, that wood,” he whispered.
“Bob Roberts!” Blue Boy pronounced loudly. “Come down, Bob, your game is over.”
An upstairs window was slightly open, and it was through this that a voice could be heard, “What?”
“Bob, is that you? Come down!” Blue Boy repeated.
Thirty seconds of silence passed by, accompanied by uncomfortable looks around the group, before the front door was unbolted and Bob’s face appeared in the gap, “What do you want?”
