Plob

by Craig Zerf

  Block stared at Prendergast with undisguised loathing. ‘Bloody posh glory boy,’ he mumbled under his breath.

  ‘What’s that, old chap?’

  Block shook his head. ‘Nothing. Come on, let’s go back to the station. Drink some coffee and eat doughnuts and pretend that we’re American cops with guns and big air-conditioned offices.’

  Prendergast raised a quizzical eyebrow and followed his partner down the steps to the white, unmarked Ford Sierra. He would never understand Block, he mused as he climbed into the passenger seat of the K-reg sixteen hundred. It wasn’t because Block was middle-class, that in itself wasn’t the problem, for, although Prendergast didn’t actually have any middle-class friends, he had met a good few of them and, all things considered, they seemed to be a fairly acceptable crowd. Well-educated, clean and hard-working. The problem lay in the fact that Terry Block was the only middle-class chap that he’d ever met that had such staunch working-class aspirations.

  The car eventually started on the third try and Block squealed out into the traffic, head down, hands clenched tightly on the slick black plastic steering wheel as a blast of roasting air was funnelled onto him via the broken heating system. And, swearing steadily and rhythmically under his breath like a fallen devotee of Krishna, he immediately started sweating.

  Plob woke up sweating, the name of the evil one ringing in his ears. It was bad. Very bad. Worse than even Master Smegly could have anticipated. They had spent the rest of the day after the young miss had left weaving magiks, searching, divining and auguring. Plob sweating and puffing like a blown horse as he shovelled tons of coal into the ovens, moved a score of cast iron cauldrons and hammered a hundred miscast spells back into shape.

  It all pointed to the same dastardly conclusion. There was no hint of ‘Bil de Plummer.’ He was ‘the unknown evil.’ An evil so dark and dank, so vile and loathsome that even the spirit guides forsook all knowledge of him.

  Well either that or that young girl was a crazy, inbred dimwit who’d got it all horribly wrong. But, somehow, Plob didn’t think so - and neither did Master Smegly. In fact Smegly’s lack of knowledge about ‘the evil one’ had thrown him into such a fit of harrumphing that that he had eventually hyperventilated and Plob had to rush around trying to find a canvas bag for him to breathe into.

  Plob yawned, stretched, fell out of bed, staggered stiffly over to splash himself awake at the washbasin and got dressed. Master Smegly wanted an early start to the day.

  Smegly had decided that the king had to be told and that was likely to take up the bulk of the day due to the fact that all would have to be repeated, retold and re-explained in approximately two thousand, two hundred and seventy-four different ways. It wasn’t that the king was that bad, he was, actually, slightly worse.

  Bill stepped back to survey his work. Mesomorph, ectomorph, endomorph. Blonde, black, brunette. Nice - he thought. Very lifelike - he thought. If it wasn’t for that stupid imitation blonde with her badly dyed hair I would have a full set - he thought. And he cackled. As the truly insane are wont to do. Cackle, cackle, cackle, cough, cough, cough. Thirsty work this insane cackling - he thought. No worries though, soon I will be king - he thought. King Bill.

  King Mange turned from the window to stare blankly at Master Smegly. And slowly, ever so slowly, Plob could see a flicker of understanding beginning to ignite in the king’s vacant eyes. It was about time, he thought, it had already chimed three times past the noon bell and even Master Smegly’s vast pool of patience was beginning to dissipate.

  But alas, no, it was not to be. The flicker wavered, spluttered and died. Ye Gods, today was worse than most. It seemed as if the king wasn’t even trying to understand. As if he was, well, completely, as opposed to partially, inept. Still - it was close now, thought Plob, as Master Smegly began to explain the entire scenario again, this time trying to present it in yet another, perhaps simpler way.

  As Smegly’s voice droned on, the King’s mouth would droop slowly open and then, periodically, and without warning, clap shut with such violence that it caused the king’s alleged twin brother to wobble up and down like a large radish on a stick having been struck by a soup ladle. And, as Master Smegly mentioned ‘Bil de Plummer’ for the umpteenth time, it finally struck home. Flicker, flicker…

  ‘Bad,’ said the king.

  Smegly immediately stopped talking, knowing that now was a crucial time. To push too hard, to throw more kindling on that tiny spark of understanding could extinguish it completely.

  Both Master Smegly and Plob waited with bated breath. (Whatever that means. Really, what is bated breath? How does one bate one’s breath? Can one do it on command? You know - ‘bate your breath, young man, I’ll be with you in a moment.’ I don’t think so. And, if it is possible, is it a higher or a lesser word? It just seems that your common and garden variety teenager wouldn’t go around bating his breath if he could just hold it, or exhale it or draw his last of it. Anyway - it’s debateable…Hmmm – Harrumph).

  The king’s meagre mind cupped the idea to its chest and carefully protected it from the myriad of other constant daily thoughts and bodily functions. And, lo, it burst into flame. A smoky, undernourished, damp firewood, I wouldn’t even bother cooking on that sort of flame - but flame nonetheless.

  ‘Very bad,’ said the king.

  Smegly nodded slowly in gentle affirmation.

  ‘Very, very bad,’ repeated the king.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Smegly.

  ‘Yeth!’ shouted the King, hugely encouraged by Master Smegly’s agreement with his obviously brilliant deduction. And, not one to let go of a good thing, the King squared his shoulders, gave Mucous a quick tug, and gave tongue.

  ‘Very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very bad.’

  Sooth, thought Plob, as he politely struggled to maintain his ‘master-magician’s-assistant-in-the-presence-of-royalty’ expression. If this was only partially inept then the grandfather, King Spot the Utterly Useless, must barely have had enough intelligence to dribble. Still, the king was the king and if it was ‘partially inept’ he wanted, it was ‘partially inept’ he got. However, it was a little like describing a syphilitic pit bull with rabies as ‘a little unsafe to become romantically involved with.’

  Plob stared in fascination as the King, after another particularly protracted string of ‘verys,’ went bright purple in the face due to lack of oxygen, rolled his eyes back in their sockets, and then went into complete panic as he realized that he had forgotten how to breathe. His head swivelled frantically around as he searched for some form of inspiration, his mouth opening and closing like a landed Carp.

  Smegly muttered an incantation under his breath, spun around twice in a clockwise direction and released the spell in the king’s general direction. The change was instantaneous; the king’s lungs began to pump away merrily as he tottered back to his padded throne, sat down and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

  Master Smegly turned sadly to Plob and gestured to the door.

  ‘Come, my boy. We have done all that we can. Let us away.’

  Plob followed his master out of the castle and into the town.

  Chapter 3

  The wrench was all right. Yeah. He liked the wrench. It was bright red with a knobble and squiggly bits, and, if you held it exactly right, in the dark, when you looked in the mirror it looked as though you might be holding a sceptre.

  King Bill.

  King Bill the Incredible.

  King Bill the Conqueror.

  King Bill the Socially Acceptable.

  As opposed to Bill - the guy who fixes other people’s crappers.

  Bill turned to survey his intimates - all perfect in his eyes, because the pieces that he didn’t like had already been cut out and discarded. Embalmed, and vacuum-packed for freshness, his subjects lay stacked in the corner of his crowded room - waiting patiently for his coronat
ion. He held his sceptre up for all to see and grandly saluted his fine, fine people. His beloved vassals. One more blonde one and he would have the full set. And then there would be no stopping him. Then he would be well and truly in.

  Plob liked the inn. He didn’t get to go there very often. Well, one couldn’t afford to on an assistant’s wage as it was hard to save when your pay consisted of free lessons. However, when feeling generous, or hugely distracted, Master Smegly would treat Plob to a meal out.

  ‘The complete and utter bastard and Wegren Bumbles inn and eatery’.

  It used to be called ‘Blurble and Wegrens inn and eatery’ but one day Mrs Wegren Bumble had got back early from the market and had found Mr Blurble Bumble asleep. In itself this was not a huge problem.

  The fact that he was naked and on top of Mrs Engred Moist, the allegedly insatiable town nymphomaniac, however, definitely caused some problems.

  So Wegren kicked Blurble out and re-named the inn.

  Master Smegly ordered the plough-man’s platter and Plob, after ascertaining, and verifying, that the ‘toad in the hole’ was guaranteed to contain absolutely no trace whatsoever of any bullfrog, croaker, paddock, pollywog or, in fact, aquatic reptilian species hereto known to man, ordered a double portion.

  Although Plob had always hoped that, when he turned thirteen, he would follow in his grandfather’s footsteps as a magician, he had spent the majority of his pre-teen years working, in a farmer’s dry goods store owned by his father and knew a great many ploughmen. To this day, he had never actually met one who ever had more than a crust of bread and a rind of mouldy old cheese for lunch. This had no apparent semblance to the veritable ‘horn-of-plenty’ that arrived at their table under the moniker of ‘ploughman’s-platter.’ Three different types of cheese, a mountain of pickles, a selection of breads and, of course, the ubiquitous trio of tired old skin of lettuce, slice of dried out tomato and ragged ring of onion that no one ever ate. (It has been rumoured that every eating establishment has one set of these weary, aged vegetable accoutrement that is carefully handed on from generation to generation, magically preserved and never eaten. Mind you, it has also being rumoured that this rumour is complete rubbish).

  And what about ‘Shepherd’s Pie’? As far as Plob knew, your average shepherd was seldom known to bake whilst herding (or herd whilst baking, for that matter). Plob thought of old Corbin the sheepherder. He was sure that Corbin had never baked a pie. Actually Corbin had probably never even eaten a pie (shepherds or other). All Corbin really ever did was herd sheep, spit a lot and, whenever possible, dry and smoke any and all wild herbs that he could find growing up in the mountains. As a result Corbin was - well - strange. A strange kind of strange, you know, the kind spelt with three or four extra A’s - ‘Straaaaaange.’ (OK, five extra A’s).

  And he never, ever, baked pie.

  Plob’s toad-less ‘toad in the hole’ arrived, greasy sausages shiningly resplendent in their nest of heavy overcooked stodge.

  He tucked in.

  Smegly hailed a hansom cab as they strolled down the cobbled high street back towards the master’s abode in Artefact Street that lay just outside the city’s inner walls and was home to most of the skilled artisans in the sprawling town of Maudlin. Ah. This is the life, thought Plob. If only I had the lucre. Eating at inns. Riding in cabs. Dead brill.

  The cab pulled over to the side of the street and Plob and Smegly climbed up. Master Smegly informed the cabbie of their destination and the horse set off at a trot. Smegly leant back in his seat and stared at the clouds whilst knuckling his left temple.

  ‘Well, my boy.’ He said, sighing. ‘I fear the worst. We shall receive no help from the king regarding this evil entropy named Bil. Something has to be done about it and it appears that we’re to be on our own with the doing.’

  Plob started upright, his brain racing. Well - perhaps not racing, as such, but definitely running along at a quicker pace than usual. Scurrying perhaps.

  ‘Why?’ He asked.

  ‘What?’ Replied Smegly.

  ‘No.’ Plob shook his head. ‘I said - Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘No. Just why.’

  Master Smegly stared intently at Plob. A short pause ensued, followed immediately by another that combined with the first and turned it into a medium pause. Plob drew a breath.

  ‘I’m sorry. What I mean is - why do we have to face this alone? Can’t we get help? Sort of like a quest. We travel around and collect a noble band of like-minded people to help us in our cause. Like in all the old books - you know - “Glimburble goes on a quest” or “The noble quest of Splurgitude the vain.” It’s got all the classic ingredients.’ Plob continued. ‘We’ve already got the master magician and his assistant. Now all we need is a beautiful maid, a brave and stupendous knight and a great thief. The thief’s very important - you have to have a thief, there’s always a thief.’

  ‘And a cab driver,’ came a voice from up front. ‘There’s always a cabbie.’

  ‘No there’s not,’ retorted Plob.

  ‘Is so,’ insisted the cabbie.

  ‘Not.’

  ‘Is.’

  ‘Not.’

  ‘Is.’

  ‘Not, not, not, not notnotnot,’ shouted Plob, knowing full well that he was sounding juvenile but not being able to stop himself.

  ‘Well – there was in all the stories that I’ve read,’ mumbled the cabbie sulkily as they drew up outside Master Smegly’s residence. Smegly paid him off and fished around in the depths of his voluminous robe for the front door key.

  ‘There is so too,’ they heard the cabbie shout laughingly as he turned the corner.

  ‘Not,’ shouted Plob as he grinned at the cabby’s disappearing back.

  ‘You know something, Plob?’ said Smegly as they opened the door. ‘You’re right.’

  Plob beamed at the knowledge that his suggestion was being taken seriously.

  ‘Yes. I’ve never heard of a cabbie being involved in a quest,’ said Smegly nodding.

  It was always the same. People only ever call a plumber when something went wrong. Burst pipe call the plumber. Blocked drain - call the plumber. Leaking cistern, broken geyser, dripping tap - plumber, plumber, plumber. Nobody ever practised ‘preventative plumbing.’

  Nobody ever phoned him up and said, ‘Hi - there’s nothing wrong with my pipes, I’d just like you to pop around and check them out. See if they need any maintenance.’ No - instead they waited until the sewers backed up and the crud was running out the door and then they phoned. And, when you’d sorted their problems out and presented them with a bill, they’d always say the same thing. ‘This is an outrage. Doctors charge less than this for making a house call.’

  And you’d say - ‘Well next time phone the doctor and see if he’ll wallow around in your shit-infested overflow for an hour for thirty squids, you stupid bastard.’

  Except you didn’t. What you actually said was ‘W-W-W-W-W’ and they slammed the door in your face leaving you holding a faeces stained personal check that would probably bounce at any rate.

  Because you were Bill the plumber - and you stuttered. And then you’d go back home and stand in the darkened room, in front of the mirror.

  With the wrench.

  In front of your subjects.

  And imagine.

  Chapter 4

  Horgelbund the pheasant killer. Soldier of fortune. Knight extraordinaire. And a legend…in his own mind.

  Actually Horgy was the highly qualified accountant, just orphaned, ex-son of Sir Hord the Incredibly Wealthy, who had recently passed away leaving his one and only living relative, Horgelbund, a portfolio of shares and property that was beyond even the king’s tax collectors wildest dreams of avarice.

  So, with his despot of a father finally gone, Horgy could do what he always wanted. And, what he always wanted, was to be a knight.

  Easier said than done, thought Horgy. He was sure that becoming a knight was the one thing that wou
ld be difficult to purchase. One couldn’t become a knight by simply shovelling lavatories full of gold in the general direction of the king.

  No. There were rules, etiquette, and honour. That sort of thing. So Horgy set about it in the only way that his accounting type brain knew how.

  Firstly he obtained a secret copy of the Knights’ Charter by bribing one of the middle to minor officials in charge of the hall of secret charters and such at the King’s court. Armed, at first, with only this rule-by-rule charter on how knights were chosen by the inner council, he sallied forth.

  Rule number one - All knights must be in possession of a serviceable suit of armour complete with all weaponry referred to in regulations 2.2, 6.1 and 14.7 of the ‘Rutting’ convention. (Shouldn’t be a problem).

  Rule number two - All knights must be in possession of a steed, mighty of stature and great of heart with a suitably noble name. (Not too much of a problem).

  Rule number three - All knights shall show complete proficiency and conversancy with aforementioned armour, weapons and noble steed. (All right, we’ll get back to that one).

  Rule number four - All knights shall be pure of soul, strong of body, courageous of bent and so noble of character as to be pretty well terminally boring. (Yeah, yeah. No problem. Horgy already had the boring bit down pat).

  Rule number five - All knights will prove said courageousness and purity of soul by entering the pit of champions naked and unarmed in order to fight a pride of starving lions to the death.

  P.S. This is a brand new rule that has just been added by the royal decree of King Mange the Partially Inept as he feels that there are far too many potentially noble knight types around. He has also decreed that they are outmoded, boring and they make his teeth itch. (Hang on. Half a mo. To the death. That will not do. No. Not at all. Death was nasty. And horrible. It made Horgy come over all icky like. But wait. What was this?) Horgy leaned closer. Hastily scrawled at the bottom of the scroll, in the king’s own spidery, inept (sorry - partially inept) hand was an addendum.