Renegade T.M.

by Langley, Bernard

  “After you’ve drunk the tea?!”

  “Yes,” she confirmed in a small voice, before adding, “that way I get pudding.”

  “I see,” lied Ben, “biscuit?” he asked, producing a biscuit tin seemingly out of nowhere, and holding it in front of her, with those giant hermetic claws.

  “Er, no thank you, I’m on the one to ten diet.”

  “Oh, and what’s that?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.

  “Well,” she replied, “whenever I feel hungry, rather than eat a biscuit, some crisps, or any food, I will instead count all the way from one to ten.”

  “Oh right,” he said, sounding deeply unimpressed.

  “Indeed,” she said unconcerned, “usually by number seven, I’m feeling quite sated.”

  “Here’s your tea then,” he replied gruffly, placing the cup on a hover-coaster in front of her.

  “Thank you,” she responded, blowing on the tea in an attempt to make it cooler.

  “Well Ben,” she continued, sipping on her hot tea and playing for thinking time, “I’m very new to all this. This is my first after-afterlife after all!”

  “Oh I didn’t realize my dear girl, well let me first to welcome you to Hupa Hool, how are you enjoying it so far?”

  “It’s charming, if not a little odd,” she replied remembering the smoking caterpillar, “how long have you been here?”

  “Why I’ve been here forever! Sometimes it feels like I was born here.”

  “You were born dead?!” she asked incredulously.

  “Still born yes,” he answered.

  “Oh okay then,” she agreed quickly.

  “Ask him about the shears,” repeated the increasingly impatient Fendel creature telepathically.

  “So Ben,” she began, “I noticed you have a lovely garden.”

  “Oh really,” he replied, evidently cheered, “where?”

  “Outside, outside of your house of course.”

  “Oh,” he realized, “well thank you, very kind of you to say so.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she said, “must take a lot of work to keep it looking so beautiful. I noticed a particularly lovely rhododendron bush, what do you do to keep it looking so healthy?”

  “Nice one Crinks,” encouraged the Fendel creature in her mind, “subtle, real subtle.”

  “Absolutely nothing,” he answered dismissively, “everything is beautiful here.”

  “Oh right yeah, forgot,” she replied crestfallen.

  “So why are you here young lady? I don’t get many visitors out this way.”

  “Okay it’s like this,” she levelled with the old man, “a little bird told me to get some gardening tools from you, and then they’d help me get out of here.”

  “Crinkle stop!” cried the Fendel creature out loud.

  “And by little bird, I mean giant caterpillar, and by gardening tools, I mean sacred shears of Salamaloo!” she unburdened at last, feeling all the better for having told the truth.

  “I see,” Ben replied after a moment, “and I suppose the thing that spoke just then is the thief I had trapped in one of my cages out there?”

  “Er yes, hello again,” said the Fendel creature appearing from Crinkle’s pocket.

  “I have to say,” he said, rising out of his chair, “I am terribly disappointed with you both.”

  “But we only want to return the caterpillar’s rightful property!” she pleaded.

  “Rightful property ha!” began Ben, “let me tell you about the sacred shears of Salamaloo…”

  When I was just a little boy, I was made an orphan. I spent my youth being bounced around different care homes with indifferent foster families, and at a very early age I learnt to take care of myself. There was one kid at one of the many schools I attended that took an instant dislike to me, a dislike so intense that it bordered disagreeably on the verges of hate. I would never find out why that kid hated me so much, but if you were ever to see the way he looked at me, then let me tell you this, you would have felt cold, chilled to the bone. His name was Christophe and it was clear from the outset, that he was my nemesis. Everyday he would wait for me outside the school gates, and everyday we would fight. Sometimes he would win and other times I would. Though there was never an ultimate winner, it seemed to us both that on one of those days, either he or myself would not get up again, and it therefore followed that whoever had survived, had won. As I understood it, we no longer had any control over the events themselves, and that the inevitability of one of our deaths was as certain as the rising sun. One day, either myself or Christophe would lie dead, and as it just so happened, that day was today.

  I was late for school that day so took a shortcut through the allotments. I knew this was dangerous as it was well known that this was where all the shady characters hung out, those without purpose loitered here looking to prey upon the weak and vulnerable. However as I saw it, it was either this way or I would be in serious trouble when I finally did get to school. I thought I had made it, just a couple more turns to go, a final gate to hurdle, and I would be out, back in society and just a short sprint to the school entrance. It was then that a heard a voice.

  “You there.”

  Damn it, I was discovered. Whatever this meant, of one thing I was certain, it would not be good.

  “You there,” came the voice again.

  I stopped, turning in my tracks. At first I thought it was Father Christmas, as I could make out an old man with white hair, a portly figure, probably from too many mince pies and sherry chasers, and clothed from top to toe in a characteristic red Santa suit. This image quickly dispelled however, as the man grabbed me with his grubby hands and shouted in my face.

  “I’m cursed little boy, I’m cursed with the shears!”

  It was now clear that it was no Santa suit but instead a large red bin bag he was wearing, with holes cut for his arms and legs. His girth was the result of binge drinking, and his beard simply the absence of a decent shave rather than any conscious grooming effort. The tramp, for that was what this man clearly was, was reaching inside his bin bag for something, and I could only hope that whatever he produced from it, would not be something that he had in mind for me.

  “Take them, take the shears from me!”

  I did what I was told and took the gardening shears he had presented.

  “At last I am free!”

  Said the man, before he scurried away like a mouse to a cheese evening.

  I stuffed the shears into my school bag, and hurrying away, forgot about them.

  School was like any other day. I learnt that Bunsen burners could melt rulers, two plus two would always equal four, and that girls really did not appreciate having their ponytails pulled.

  After school I was the first on the scene and Christophe had yet to have emerge from class. I readied myself for the upcoming melee by eating a bag of crisps and double-tying my shoelaces. And as sure as the sun rises and the moon then tags along for fear of being left behind, there he was.

  “Why are you such a freak?!”

  He shouted rhetorically at me. I had no time to respond because already he was bearing down on me, fists clenched and teeth bared.

  “Mumpf.”

  I sounded out as his fist caught me square in the chin, causing me to fall to the street and drop my bag and coat.

  He pinned me to the floor, and began a barrage of head shots with his well practiced punches. I was doing my best to parry his blows and I had managed to manoeuvre my knee close to his groin area now, so that in the next moment I would deliver a devastating counter attack. It was then however that I saw something new in my nemesis, it was now clear from the way he was looking at me that he was going to kill me. A resolve so concrete lay behind his steely glaze that I understood now that I would need something extra in myself if I intended to see the day out.

  I kicked out with my leg and delivered my unpleasant surprise.

  “Ooofphm.”

  Christophe crumpled up like a startled hedge
hog. He was slowly returning air to his lungs when that was when I saw them. Sticking out of my school bag were the shears, the cursed shears. They would fend off my adversary and see me through to tomorrow, surely? I was up already and grabbing for them, when he spotted them also. It was a race now. I had a head start, but he seemed possessed by some lunging demon, and as my hand closed around one of the handles, so his hand made its way onto the other.

  We tugged hard on the shears, and…

  And…

  And…

  Collective yellow; collective yellow; collective yellow; repeat ---

  Collective yellow, collective yellow, collective yellow, begin end.

  Tumbling over under over under over under tumbling --- reams of dreams --- reality remake, remade, sequel, prequel, stop – version ident, vision imprint, spool existence; 2+2=5 --- 2+2=5 --- 2+2=5 ---2+2=5 --- cue story…

  And then…

  When things were normal, Christophe sat very still. No longer was he the angry kid who wanted nothing other than my demise. Instead, Christophe was now a caterpillar. Now usually I would have laughed at this. As it turned out, I did not. Instead I just lay there. Instead I just lay there, dead.

  “So there it is,” Ben finished, “they are my shears now, the tool that killed me is now the instrument that sustains me.”

  “But we only want to live!” begged Fendel and Crinkle in unison.

  “Well I think I can help you there,” he growled angrily, “if by want, you mean gonna, and by live, you mean die!”

  “Run Crinks,” shouted the Fendel creature, “he’s going for the shears!”

  Sure enough, Ben produced from an innocent looking flower vase, the sacred shears of Salamaloo. He had dropped his visor now and raised himself to his full height, so that he now appeared as a really terrifying sight, and not at all the kindly old man who was offering biscuits but moments ago. There was no way she could wrestle the shears from those claws, so decided almost instantly that she was going to leg it.

  “Don’t even think about it!” he yelled, and making two practiced snips in the air towards her, she suddenly found her legs had turned to jelly, quite literally to jelly.

  “Now that’s better,” he went on, “I really must remember to get some more ice cream.”

  Crinkle lay in a puddle of her own gelatine legs. She remembered in her youth, that she had always taken an unhealthy joy in biting the limbs from jelly babies in a slow and methodical fashion, and decided that now she may be facing some comeuppance. As Ben approached, she noticed that one of the robotic hands had been altered and now resembled a giant desert spoon, and when his visor lifted again to reveal his slobbering tongue and hungry eyes, all she could then do, was scream.

  “I’m going to eat your legs young lady,” he said drooling, a maniacal glint in his eye.

  “Not if I can help it,” interjected the Fendel creature, who then leapt from her pocket and landed on his shoulder.

  “Get off me!” he shrieked, desperately trying to close his visor and protect his face.

  “Eat this!” yelled the Fendel creature biting deep into the old man’s cheek.

  Ben screamed, the bite drawing blood instantly, and dropping the shears, then grabbed the Fendel creature and threw him against the closest wall. Crinkle saw her chance, and picking up the shears then pointed them in his direction with grim determination.

  “Hurt my friend will you?! EAT MY LEGS WILL YOU?!” she shouted angrily.

  “You’ll never be able to work them,” he replied, his voice breaking slightly, betraying his concern.

  “Actually I rather like my legs, they make me taller!”

  “Look, let’s talk about this shall we?”

  “Oh, I’ll give you something to talk about it, talk about this!” she finished snipping the shears toward him, in the way she imagined he had done just moments before.

  “Careful Crinks,” said the Fendel creature, “that’s powerful juju!”

  Ben was instantly floored, and curled up in ball, seemingly defeated.

  “Nice work,” praised the Fendel creature, “now do me Crinks!”

  “Hold your hybri-horses Fends, first I’m gonna need my legs back,” and that said she made a couple of precise snips with the shears and returned her legs to flesh and blood.

  “I think I’m getting the hang of these!”

  “Oh you think,” replied the Fendel creature, “look at Ben!”

  Crinkle turned to look at Ben and discovered instead an enormous atmos-shark, the angry variety with extra teeth.

  “Ha!” Ben cried, “I’m still hungry!”

  Ben the atmos-shark then started to lift off the floor and fly towards them. An atmos-shark was a particularly nasty creature, which having evolved extra large fins, then used these to great effect when navigating air thermals. The upshot of this was that it was a lot safer to go swimming on the planets they inhabited, the down shot was that it was particularly unsafe when not swimming.

  “To the lake!” shouted the Fendel creature.

  “We’re not gonna make it,” she cried back, “quick Fends get on my shoulder!”

  The Fendel creature promptly did what it was told and leapt hurriedly onto her shoulder. She then turned the shears on herself, and several delicate snips later, was now looking down on the flying shark from over fifty feet up in the air.

  “Wow Crinks,” exclaimed the Fendel creature, “you’re massive!”

  “Tall Fends, the word is tall!”

  The word certainly was tall, as she was now a fifty foot version of herself, with the Fendel creature sat like an insect on her shoulder. This was not enough however, to dissuade Ben from eating them both, so as the colossal Crinkle ran away back through the woods, the hungry shark was in hot pursuit.

  34.

  “This way Crinks,” shouted Fendel, “over here!”

  Crinkle was running full pelt through a gorge, and even though she was now using twenty foot legs, Ben was closing in on her, using his new atmos-shark status to full advantage.

  “Crinkle,” bellowed Slip, “down here!”

  This time she heard it, so pausing mid-sprint, looked down to find Slip, Pete, and Fendel.

  “Borz your big!” stated Slip matter-of-factly.

  “Tall you lummox, the adjective is tall!”

  “He’s still coming,” said the Fendel creature, who having pride of place atop her shoulder, could see the atmos-shark but a short way behind them.

  Crinkle could see they needed a new plan, and that, combined with the fact she kept being called big, meant that moments later she had returned to her normal diminutive stature, having turned the shears on herself once again.

  “Neat trick Crinks,” said Fendel, “who’s the parrot?”

  “I’m you, you parsnip!” replied the Fendel creature.

  “Oh cool,” said Fendel nonchalantly, “I’ve lost weight.”

  “Listen everyone,” she addressed the group, “there’s a giant flying shark that’s gonna chomp us up as an aperitif if we are not outta here in the next thirty clicks!”

  “Don’t sweat it sweet cheeks,” replied Slip, “I eat shark for breakfast!”

  “You eat toast for breakfast,” corrected Fendel.

  “Yeah okay Fends,” said Slip, “I eat toast for breakfast!”

  “Well whatever you eat, here it comes!” interrupted Pete, quite clearly alarmed.

  “Fee, fi, fo, fum, I’m gonna eat you all and then some,” rhymed Ben.

  “What is this, a cannibalistic nursery rhyme?!” said Pete aghast.

  “Crinks,” began the Fendel creature, “this clearly calls for some more Salamaloo juju.”

  “Yeah Crinks,” agreed Fendel, “listen to mini me will you.”

  “Look these things only cause trouble,” she replied unconvinced, “we wouldn’t be in this mess if it wasn’t for these stupid shears.”

  “Calm down Crinkle cakes,” said Slip, “Slip McGroovy’s here hun’, and this airborne shark doesn’t
scare me!”

  “Fee, fi, fo, fam, I’m gonna eat the fat one first, ‘cos he smells like ham,” said Ben who was almost upon them now.

  “Fat one,” said Slip clearly upset, “I’m big-boned you brute! Crinkle, give me those shears.”

  “Here you go Slip,” she replied handing him the shears, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “There’s only one way I know to catch a shark,” Slip went on.

  “What way?” they asked in unison.

  He held the shears out before him, before slicing several intricate shapes and yelling:

  “Fishing!”

  35.

  “What have you done?!” shrieked Dink, managing at last to pull his hand free from the grafting tube.

  Only moments ago, Slip had plunged his makeshift fishing rod into the machine, when Dink had resolutely refused to accept it with his one good, attached hand. As he had done this, a whole array of alarm bells had started to sound, and the medi-computer itself had gone into meltdown, with error message after error message, beginning with the benign “warning, foreign object detected in grafting tube 4”, to the entirely terrifying “YOU ARE ALL GOING TO DIE, YOUR SOULS WILL BE AVAILABLE FOR DOWNLOAD SHORTLY FROM THE PUBLIC MAINFRAME”. Fortunately, nobody did in fact die, unfortunately, that was in no way going to stop Dink from killing them all in the very near future.