“Whatever,” she went on, “how’s your pal Mormid?”
“He’s not my pal Crinks,” refuted Pete, “he was just someone I felt sorry for, okay?!”
“Well your sympathy almost got us all killed back there, and now we’re right back where we started!”
“She’s right dude,” agreed Slip, “we should have killed him when we had the chance. Now when we return to our timeline, he’s still going to be looking for us, probably even more vigorously after all that.”
“Look,” argued Pete, “the plan was never to kill him. We tried to make him see the error of his ways, least, we attempted to see if he might take up fishing, and we failed on both counts. Okay, that plan may not have worked, so what we need now is a plan B.”
“I’ve got a kazoo!” announced Slip.
“Okay,” replied Pete encouragingly, “and how’s that going to help?”
“I’ve got a kazoo,” he repeated, “that’s it.”
“Anyone else?” Pete went on, a little downhearted already.
“How about we return to our timeline and then hide in a place he’d never find us,” suggested Crinkle.
“That could work,” he replied, “and what place do you suggest we’d hide exactly?”
“Oh it’s totally off the map, so remote that it’s very existence is a question mark, so unvisited that to arrive there would be a milestone in the history of achievement!”
“Brilliant Crinks,” said Pete excitedly, “so where is it, what is this place?”
“Your brain,” she answered deadpan.
Pete realised this was going to be tough. It had been his idea to go back in time and convince the younger Dinkle Mormid to turn towards the light, and give up his dreams of universal conquest. Now that they had failed, it was almost like they had arrived for a fireworks display, only to be told that due to a health and safety issue, all fire had been removed from the event, though not to worry, for they had an unusually shaped carrot they could have their photo taken with instead.
“I know what to do!” announced Fendel suddenly.
“No don’t tell me,” replied a dejected Pete, “I could dig a very deep hole, fill it with furniture, and then live in it?”
“No, that’s not it, though not bad for a back-up plan!”
“Go on Fends,” reassured Crinkle, “ignore him, he’s just feeling sorry for himself.”
“Well we’ve still got the time machine right?!” began Fendel, “so I propose we use it again. I’ll go back in time to the point when Slip activated the transplant device, and make sure that Mormid doesn’t end up with his fishing rod hand this time. Meanwhile, Slip goes to Mormid’s workplace and explains to his boss that he’s going to be late for work that day because Auntie Mormid has had a fall and he’s taken her to hospital. Crinks then arrives at exactly the point he’s leaving hospital and announces that he was the millionth transplant patient, and as a result has won a lifetime’s membership to Fisher-leen©, the weekly Journal for the discerning Co-leen angler. Once he starts reading his new Journal, he’ll be hooked!”
“Don’t!” warned Slip.
“He’ll forget all about his desire of universal subjugation and take up fishing as planned, one could say we have him hook, line and sinker!”
Slip then took the opportunity to punch Fendel nonchalantly in the face.
“Leave off him Slip,” interrupted Crinkle, “it’s a good plan!”
“Well count me out,” said Pete, “I’ve had enough of time travel, think I’ll have a brew.”
“Suit yourself,” replied Fendel, “Slip, Crinks, hold onto the orb, time travel in five, four, three, two, one.”
And that said, the trio winked out of existence, leaving Pete alone onboard the Humdinger, wishing it had a kettle.
“I wonder how long… “
“Hey buddy,” said Fendel, who suddenly appeared out of nowhere directly behind him, along with Slip and Crinkle.
“You’re back already!”
“Yep,” said Slip, offering very little in the way of enlightenment.
“Well how did it go? Is Mormid a reformed diehard fisherman now?”
“Let’s just say, he never wants to go skiing again,” answered Crinkle.
“You transplanted his foot didn’t you Slip?!” accused Pete.
“More like feet,” Slip replied, sounding thoroughly pleased with himself, “can’t see why he was so angry afterwards, I guess some people are never happy.”
“Oh well that’s just fab,” said Pete sarcastically, “you really are a bunch of morons aren’t you! I mean all this technology and power, and all you seem to be able to achieve is more mess! All you do is make matters worse, I thought you guys would help me save my planet, when in fact all you’ve done is anger the guy responsible for its destruction even more! I’ll be lucky now if he doesn’t destroy me, my planet, and probably just for good measure, my entire solar system!”
“Take a chill pill Petey,” replied Slip, utterly unmoved by his sudden outburst, “we’ll just go to plan C.”
“There is no plan C you giant cretin!” shouted Pete.
“Then what are we going to do next?” asked Fendel.
“God knows!” said Pete.
“Does he?” asked Crinkle.
“Does he what?”
“Does God know?” asked Crinkle again.
“Erm,” Pete stalled for a moment, trying to wrap his addled brain round the question, before replying, “yes I suppose he does.”
“Well that settles it,” put in Slip, “we’ll go and see God.”
“We’ll what?!” replied Pete, finding the concept a little slippery to grasp.
“If God knows what we should do, then we’ll go and ask him,” repeated Slip.
“What like praying?” asked Pete innocently.
“No,” interjected Fendel, “these sorts of things should be done over coffee! Don’t you know anything?!”
“Yes,” lied Pete.
“Set course for heaven Crinks,” ordered Slip, “we’ve got a man who needs to see about a God!”
And so the Humdinger went into warp (Fendel had restored the propulsion core), and as the Renegade gang settled down to get some well warranted sleep, only Pete paced the bridge uneasily, wondering how humanity was fairing in his own timeline.
“I can’t believe I’m going to meet God! I mean, if anyone can sort out this mess then he can! What if he doesn’t like me? What should I wear? What if I say something completely inappropriate, like the time I asked for my vichyssoise to be heated up at that posh restaurant?! This is almost too much to bear! How should I address him, your magnificence, your mighty, your goodness? Should I bring a gift? I’ve still got that Tolberone I bought on the ferry, everyone likes Tolberone!”
This went on for many rotations late into the night, and when Pete did finally manage to fall asleep, his last thought was whether he was actually worthy to stand in the presence of God, and that the task of saving humanity was perhaps one, he simply was not deserving of.
50.
Dinkle Mormid sat alone in his readyroom, smoking a radiation roll-up, and contemplating his next decisive move.
“So they got away,” he said out loud to himself, “they went back in time to convince my younger self to take up fishing and forgo my path to emperor of the universe! What blind fools! All they did is strengthen my resolve!”
He looked down at his artificial hand and feet, and remembering, it seemed like only yesterday when he had instead a fishing rod and pair of skis implanted there. Mormid was mostly artificial now, he had been ruler of the Co-leen for over a thousand circuits, and over time, his biological body had withered away and died. The only thing left that belonged to his former self was his multi-dimensional chin, the one thing that distinguished his species from humanity, and the one thing which he could rightly feel was still Dinkle Mormid. Before he had time to imagine the next terrible revenge fantasy he would exact upon the Renegade gang, the door opened and in
walked one of his minions.
“Sorry to interrupt your devilish scheming sire,” began the minion, “but I need orders as to what we are intending to do to the human’s planet.”
“Ah yes,” remembered Mormid, “it had entirely slipped my giant mind. What are they calling it again? “
“Earth sir.”
“Earth,” he repeated, as though trying out the word, as he might some exotic desert for the first time, “I have to say, I’m not remotely impressed so far. Now although it may not be entirely befitting to destroy the planet without it having been properly defended by a representative, it must be remembered that the said representative chose to run off with a gang of criminals, criminals who then venturing back in time, try to pervert my younger self and imbue me with an entirely inappropriate love of fishing!”
“Disgusting!” spat the minion.
“Indeed. So I think in this instance, expedience is the dish of day, and your orders are to start warming up the massive plasma canon, as we have a planet to annihilate!”
“Excellent your fiendiness, I shall report back when the canon is ready.” replied the minion, before leaving him alone again.
“So, I shall have my revenge in parts,” declared Mormid to his own reflection in a monitor screen, “the first of which will involve destroying the planet of one Pete Martin. Part two will consist of the long and drawn out executions of Pete, Fendel and Crinkle, and the grand finale will then be quite simply the leisurely removal of every limb currently occupied by one Slip McGroovy!”
He took a moment to savour the dastardliness of his design, then sitting back in his multi-chair after putting the settings to bath time, he added more bubbles and imagined he was a pirate emperor on a quest to slay a beautiful princess.
51.
The Humdinger dropped out of warp and arrived outside the gates of heaven. Having chosen valet parking, Pete was a little bemused to see that it was Bob Monkhouse who took the keys from Slip, and having amused Crinkle with a neatly quipped, “nice ride, now what about this Humdinger,” off he went. They then made their way to the gates themselves on foot, and approaching Saint Peter, the Renegade gang each introspectively examined what they were actually doing here, and not one of them wholeheartedly believed that they would actually get to speak to God.
“Hello gentlemen,” Saint Peter greeted them, “and off course, Crinkle, delighted!”
“Er, hello Saint Peter,” they all chorused in reply.
“Oh please call me Peter. Now I understand that you would like an audience with the Governor, this is correct yes?”
“It is,” said Fendel, before asking, “how is it that you know so much about us?”
“I am blessed with what you might call, a certain clairvoyance, I know everything there is to know about each of you.”
“Really,” replied Slip dubiously, “then what…”
“You’re not wearing any,” he answered correctly, before Slip had even finished the question.
“Brilliant!” cheered Slip, “can you do card tricks?”
“Later Slip,” interrupted Fendel, “look Peter, we have come a long way.”
“Everyone here has come a long way,” agreed the saint sagely, “though some have travelled less far to achieve the same destination.”
“We went by the Grishan Nebula, then took the hyperway after the Tiny Chef,” put in Slip, looking terribly pleased with himself.
“Erm yes, thanks Slip,” said Fendel beginning to feel a little lost, “we are here for an audience with God, can you let us in please?”
“Absolutely not,” he replied.
“But why?” asked Fendel totally taken aback, “you have no idea how important it is!”
“I have every idea how important it is,” said the saint, “but only good people are allowed into heaven. Have you any idea how many people you’ve murdered lately Fendel?”
“Honestly, I don’t,” answered Fendel, running out of fingers as he spoke.
“I’ll go,” announced Slip suddenly.
“Mmm not sure that’s going to work either,” mused Saint Peter.
“But what about all the good I’ve done in my life!”
“If by good, you mean, banging out some solid tunes, then totally, you’d be in already,” explained the saint, “however this is heaven, not a discotheque, and in the final analysis, I’m sorry Slip but ultimately, you’re self-absorbed.”
“Sorry what?” replied Slip, playing with his belly button, “didn’t catch a word of that.”
“That leaves just you two,” continued Saint Peter, meaning Crinkle and normal Pete.
“You do it,” said Crinkle, before Pete had a chance to protest.
“But I can’t do it, I’ll only muck it up as usual!”
“Well I’m not doing it,” she said, an abundant tone of finality in her voice.
“Why not?” he asked seriously.
“It’s personal.”
“Well I’m not doing it unless you explain to me why you can’t!”
“Fine, but you won’t like it,” she began, “God is perfection right?”
“Right.”
“And I haven’t straightened my hair, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well that’s it,” she concluded, “self-explanatory really.”
“Not with you Crinks,” declared Fendel.
“What’s not to be with,” she replied, “I’m not meeting God without perfect hair, period.”
“Looks like it’s down to you then Pete,” said Slip.
“I’m really not sure about this guys, I mean I have a track history of abject failure when it comes to so many given tasks!”
“Ah don’t be so hard on yourself dude,” Slip continued, removing his socks as he spoke, “here, you can even wear my lucky socks, I never take them off!”
“Think I’ll pass ta,” Pete replied turning up his nose.
“So,” began the Saint, “are you coming in or not? It’s really not befitting to keep the Governor waiting.”
“You mean to say that God’s actually waiting for me? Right now?” asked Pete.
“Indeed he is,” the saint replied, “shall I inform him that you wish to reschedule?”
“No, no, it’s just it’s all a bit much,” he explained, “okay, see you later gang, I’ve got an appointment to keep.”
“See ya Pete,” they all shouted after him as he made his way through the gates of heaven, “good luck!”
And so Pete stepped meekly through the gates of heaven, and with a heavy head, walked on to attend his meeting with God.
52.
“The massive plasma cannon is ready sire,” declared one of Mormid’s minions, the same minion that had been ordered to make the cannon ready earlier that day.
“Excellent,” replied Mormid, “are we in orbit of the planet?”
“The planet Earth is directly below us sire, would you like us to target anything in particular?”
“Would it make a difference?”
“The location targeted would be vaporised point one of milliping before the rest of the planet,” explained the minion.
“Can’t say it really matters then,” said Mormid, “aim for something shiny then.”
“I will lock the target on the mountain range known in earth parlance as the Andes then, the frozen water on its top is particularly good at reflecting light.”
“The Andes it is then, fire when target is locked!” he ordered, feeling the peculiar delight that only comes from the few moments before causing the destruction of an entire planet and its many varied species.
“Is there anything else your mightiness?” asked the minion.
“There is one thing,” began Mormid, feeling unusually awkward, “do you like me?”
“You are Emperor of the Co-leen, the rulers of everything, and anything else that may have been missed in the course of ruling everything! I love you with every fibre of my unworthy being!” gushed the minion.
“Yes, yes
, I realise that,” he replied, having not quite received the answer he was looking for, before trying a different tack and asking, “what’s your name?”
“It’s Crumble sire,” answered Crumble.
“A good proud Co-leen name,” decided Mormid, “now Crumble, let’s just say for a moment that I wasn’t the Emperor, and that I was just like you, another nobody, right?”
“Okay,” said Crumble hesitantly, a pained expression on his face.
“Then let’s say that I had a few cycles to kill, and I were to ask you if you fancied a getting a coffee with me, what would you say?”
“It would be my deepest honour, your fantasticness,” answered Crumble, with a look that suggested he may have just won the interstellar lottery.
“Even though I wasn’t your Emperor?”
“But you are my Emperor,” replied Crumble simply.
“But for the sake of this instance I am not, understand?”
“Perfectly,” lied Crumble.
“Good,” began Mormid, “let’s roleplay it then, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Hi, I’m Mormid and I’m not the Emperor of the Co-leen, the rulers of everything and anything that may have been missed in the course of ruling everything.”
“Hi, I’m Crumble.”
“Hey Crumble, and what do you do?” he asked.
“I’m a minion, third class, with fruit and vegetable privileges,” replied Crumble.
“Well that certainly sounds interesting, and do you like your job?”
“Actually no, I always wanted to be an accountant, but I can only count up to nine,” answered Crumble.
“How many fingers do you have then?” he quizzed, genuinely intrigued.
“Nine and one.”
“Okay, so how many fingers and toes do you have?”
“Nine and nine and two,” replied Crumble.
“Well I must say that you really are quite odd,” he decided.
Renegade T.M. Page 22
