Plob

by Craig Zerf

  Fore inasmuch as aspiring knights may find rule number five pointless, repugnant and generally icky making (Horgy’s thoughts exactly) His Royal Highness, King Mange the Partially Inept, the first of that name, may seem fit to pass royal dispensation if, and only if, said aspirant knight sees fit to shovel lavatories full of gold in the general direction of said royal personage (and his twin brother Mucous).

  Horgy blinked, re-read the addendum, blinked once again, called for his shovel and fearlessly set out to become a knight.

  ‘By the powerth vethted in me I pronounthe thee – Thir Horgelbund the pheathant killer.’

  And, finally, it was so. It had been an arduous battle. Go to the vaults, withdraw gold, shovel in general direction of king. Sell portfolio of shares, collect money, shovel in general direction of king. Dispose of real estate holdings, convert to sovereign, shovel in general direction of king. Shovel, shovel, shovel.

  In all truth Horgy (sorry - Sir Horgy) felt less noble knight and more menial labourer of the shovelling variety.

  And his praise name, ‘Pheasant Killer,’ well, it was the best that he could do. It may have been Sir Horgelbund the Brave, if he had proved himself in battle, or Sir Horgelbund the Strong, if he had been possessed of great strength. Even the Chaste, or the Pure, if any of those were vaguely true. But when asked by the committee to present them with a list of stupendous things that he had done in his life (in chronological order restricting it to less than fifty stupendous events and or achievements) he had struggled a little. I mean, stupendous is so subjective, isn’t it? Anyway, it ended up being a very short list. A list of three, as it were.

  The committee had informed him that ‘Sir Horgelbund the Potty Trained’ was inappropriate and ‘Sir Horgelbund the Knight Able to Pee His Name in The Snow after Drinking Four Pints Of Mead’ whilst being impressive, was too long and cumbersome to be considered as a praise name. It was fortunate for Horgy that, just that morning, whilst riding to present his list to the committee, he had trotted over and crushed to death a pheasant attempting to run across the path. As this impressive feat (dare we say stupendous?) had happened in front of witnesses, he hurriedly tacked it onto his list of two, thereby bringing the massive total of stupendous feats up to three.

  ‘Arithe Thir Horgelbund, Pheasant Killer and Knight.’

  This part was tricky. Unfortunately Horgy, whilst ordering his suit of armour, had become embarrassed by his titchy measurements (paltry pecs, bitty biceps and teeny triceps) and, in a fit of bravado, had thrown in a good few inches all round.

  As a result, not only was it almost too heavy for him to move, he also rattled around inside like a preying mantis in a teapot, thereby ensuring that controlled motor movement was a nigh on impossibility.

  Horgy gritted his teeth and stood up. The first six or seven inches were easy going, only because he was still moving inside the suit as opposed to actually moving with it. As his shoulders came up solid against his steel epaulettes his vertical travel came to an abrupt halt. But, not to be shamed in his moment of glory (and very, very costly glory at that) Horgy puckered up, assumed a small-faced expression and took the strain.

  Huuuunggruuhhhmmooooograhooww!

  There was an embarrassed titter amongst the gathered gentry as, faced with the view of Horgy’s steel-rimmed bright red face, lips peeled back and newly-knighted nostrils flared, they all reached the conclusion that Sir Horgelbund was taking a noble and stupendous dump in his shining new metal suit. (Perhaps ‘Sir Horgelbund the Potty Trained’ would not have been so inappropriate after all). Horgy redoubled his efforts and it was only through a feat of tremendous self-discipline that he managed to prove them wrong.

  Inch by straining inch, left side up a little, right side up a little, left side, right side, left, right, Sir Horgy came to his feet. The cheers from the crowd were deafening as, proudly, Sir Horgelbund the Pheasant Killer, sweating like a brood mare in the mating season, lurched zombie-like down the red carpet and in the vague direction of the royal long drops.

  It had become an obsession.

  Bill sat hunched over his wrench. Lovingly polishing it and imbuing it with his vast store of bitterness and malice.

  Imbue, Imbue, Imbue.

  As it happened, Master Smegly had taken Plob’s suggestion seriously. Indeed he viewed it as more than passingly good. The only problem being that it was decidedly impractical. So, Master Smegly did what all wise old men do when faced with a possibly good, definitely impractical, suggestion from a teenager. Put him in charge of it. This he had already done.

  Plob stood back and looked on his work of art that he had nailed to the front door with much satisfaction.

  Queft members wanted

  Courageous Knight

  Nobly thief

  Beeyoutiful maid

  APPLY WITHINN

  Well - that should do it.

  Dreenee sighed as she picked up the tray of ales that Mrs Bumble had just drawn. It was late. Her back ached, her feet ached and her eyes smarted from the smog-like quantities of tobacco smoke that seemed to hang constantly in the air of the taproom in ‘The complete and utter…’

  She was a right stonker, our Dreenee. Possessed of thick blonde tresses and eyes like limpid pools. (Limpid pools of what, I hear you ask. To be honest I’m not sure. Let’s settle for limpid pools of some deep, dark blue sort of stuff and leave it at that). She had a large generous mouth that offset her large generous bosom to perfection. And, as she sashayed through the crowded tap room with her tray of ales, she received many an approving comment and friendly sally. None of the comments were ribald. There was no touching. Dreenee was a girl well-liked, well-respected and well-feared.

  When she had first started working at the ‘Complete and utter…’ only two days ago, on her first night, whilst taking her first order, a captain of the king’s elite guards had attempted to administer a playful pat on the behind (Dreenee’s, not his own). This overture was politely declined.

  However, spurred on by his companions, the captain leant over to pat again. As he patted, Dreenee turned to serve his ale, thereby receiving a less than playful grope on her ‘not-behind.’ This caused a loud burst of laughter from said captain elite and much ribald commentary from aforementioned comrades. It also caused Dreenee to break his collarbone in two places, dislocate his knee and splinter both of his front teeth whilst throwing him out into the street.

  She did not drop the tray that she was holding.

  She did not spill any of the ale.

  Not a drop.

  Unbeknown to Dreenee, however, the scented candle of fate was about to burn her imminently patable (or not, as the case might be) posterior. For Dreenee had assaulted none other than the king’s second cousin, thrice removed on his mother’s side (and once removed by Dreenee) and one hundred and forty third in line to the throne. Which basically meant that almost every known member of the extended royal family (including the budgie and both of the corgis) had to snuff it before he had an even vague chance of getting a stab at running the kingdom.

  So - as Dreenee sashayed and jollied around the boards of ‘the complete and utter…’ with all those interesting parts of her anatomy moving under her dress in that way that girls like Dreenee had without trying - the king’s guard was drawn up under royal orders to sally forth and arrest, with extreme prejudice, the person who had dared to cause damage to the captain of royal blood.

  One almost felt sorry for them - almost.

  Chapter 5

  ‘I’m bored,’ snivelled little Kleebles. He always snivelled. He was one of those children that make child battering seem like a sensible option.

  His mother turned from her butter churning. ‘You must learn to amuse yourself, my dear little Snoggins. I have much work to do.’

  ‘But, Mumykins. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do I don’t know what to do. Idontknowwhatadooooo.’

  ‘Well, dear, why don’t you go and groom the horses?’

  ‘No.’r />
  ‘Muck out the stables?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wash the wagon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Clean the old…’

  ‘It’s fine, I’ll find something to do.’

  Kleebles dragged himself off to his bedroom, sighing and shrugging and generally being totally hard done by. He poked listlessly around in his room, bored little child’s shoulders hunched over in an adult posture of failed world-weariness. Looking for something to play with, but finding nothing that came instantly to grasp.

  And then - he saw it. It had never been a favourite of his and, strictly speaking, you needed some friends to play it, but, then again, strictly speaking, he had no friends.

  He opened the box and pulled out his Ouija board.

  The ten-man detachment of the king’s guard dismounted and tethered their horses to the hitching rail outside ‘The complete and utter…’

  ‘Right, you ’orrible lot,’ bellowed Mr Tipstaff, the age-hardened sergeant-at-arms. ‘We are out ’ere this fine day to place under arrest one by standard small-to-medium-size attractive blonde lassie whom has been deemed, by his highness, the Partially Inept, to be a menace to society. So let’s be quick about it, and I do not want to catch anyone trying to sneak a sly drink once we’re inside. Form up.’

  The detachment formed up behind the grizzled old sergeant amidst much comment of the ‘Ooh, small-to-medium attractive blonde. I want to be the one who ties her up’ variety through to the ‘she may be carrying a concealed weapon. I get to search her - really thoroughly’.

  The curtains were drawn. The lights were low and Bill posed in front of the mirror, in his newest blue boiler suit with an old bedspread tied across his shoulders like a cloak. Face contorted into a spitting image version of Prince Charles. He stood tall in front of his vacuum-wrapped collection of subjects, held the wrench aloft and adopted what he thought of as a most regal stance.

  ‘Yes,’ he shouted at the mirror as he stared at his supposedly royal reflection. ‘Finally I am the king. No more plumbing for this fellow. Oh no, no, no. I am king and now I’ll show them. King Bill. King Bill the Merciless.’

  Yes. It had happened. Bill and sanity had taken separate buses to opposite ends of the country. Bill had gone bye-bye.

  Kleebles leaned forward, placed his forefinger on the upturned glass and intoned sonorously. ‘Oh, Great Evil one. Send your spirit to enter this glass for I am bored and can think not what else to do. Oh, cancerous and deplorable one, make something happen to relieve this boredom that I feel. Oh, vastly vile and lecherous one, come to my aid, I implore thee.’

  And, in that place that is both infinitely far away and uncomfortably close, Evil awoke from his slumber, sat up, and took note.

  Terry took an absent minded swig of his seven-hour-old, clammy, skin-covered, over-sweetened half cupful of house brand tea and shuddered. He’d been sitting at his desk since early that morning, poring over the cairns of photos, witness statements, sightings and crank calls. The evidence that constituted the framework of the two confirmed murders and the five missing persons cases that he suspected were the work of one man.

  Three missing men, one blond of hair and blue of eye, one black-haired and one haired in a reddish brown mop. The two girls, young, attractive, one raven-haired, the other brunette. The murder victims - yesterday’s, a petite, dyed-blonde model and last week’s, a slightly built man with lengthy flaxen locks. There was a pattern. A definite pattern. But somehow it still eluded him, gliding tantalisingly through the shoals of his thought just beyond his grasp. Think. Before the next victim…please.

  The sergeant’s ten-man detachment lay in tatters around him. He couldn’t believe it. Firstly, the intelligence report was completely wrong. The girl wasn’t small-to-medium. She was a slip of a girl. Almost child height.

  Secondly, she wasn’t an attractive blonde. She was an outrageously, stunningly, incapacitating sensual golden-haired Aphrodite of such radiant loveliness and beauty that even Mr Tipstaff, a hoary veteran of many an exotic campaign, was struck still by her blatant eroticism.

  And, thirdly, it was impossible to arrest someone who could break a man’s arm in four places without nary a wobble of her serving tray. The only reason that he himself had escaped with merely two badly bruised and bleeding kneecaps (a complete set, as it were) was his hereto undiscovered penchant for pleading and whining that he had put to full use.

  Any road - he was a tough old warrior, and he had work to do. He dragged himself painfully towards the door and out onto the pavement, withdrew his gold-plated alarm whistle from his breast pocket, and blew three piercing blasts, two long and two short (sorry, make that four piercing blasts). Thereby summoning all the king’s horses and all the king’s men (well, all those within whistle shot).

  Evil laughed. It sounded like a thousand nails being driven into the palms of a thousand martyrs. It was, in short, not a good sound. But Evil didn’t care. At least it sounded better than those snorting laughs that some people have. You know - Ha ha ha snort. Like a sow on laughing gas.

  Evil laughed because he was about to have some serious fun. He rose up, threw his arms wide and released his malevolent thought into the ether.

  And what Evil thinks comes to pass.

  A billion suns winked out of existence. Ice Ages came and went in the blink of an eye. Pestilence, famine and increased taxation swept through the multiverse. The horsemen of the apocalypse called all of their mates over for a party and went on a drunken rampage.

  And - somewhere far away, in a small bedsit in Islington, a young plumber standing next to a pile of dead, vacuum-packed subjects, holding a wrench whilst dressed in a new blue boiler suit with a bedspread as a cloak, was taken from his world and transported, via Evil’s satanic highway, to another world and another darkened room containing an Oiuja board and a small terrified boy-child called Kleebles.

  Ye Gods, they’re everywhere, thought Dreenee as she ran down the street. Soldiers on foot, soldiers on horseback, soldiers in wagons. Who would have thought that three (sorry four) blasts on a whistle could bring the city out in such a military rash.

  On reflection she should have simply run away and left the ten-man detachment alone. In fact that was exactly what she had planned to do until the short toad-like soldier with mismatched armour had started salivating whilst running towards her shouting, ‘Ooooh big uns. Yes please, I get to search her first.’ Well, at least he wouldn’t be doing much groping in the near future. Not with two broken thumbs and a set of ear-height testicles.

  Sod it. Dreenee stopped abruptly. A small detachment of cavalry were heading down the street towards her, pennants rippling bravely from their shiny steel lances, armour-clad and alert. They hadn’t seen her yet but it was only a matter of seconds. With nowhere else to go Dreenee turned to the closest door, pulled it open and jumped in. Both Plob and Smegly looked up from the scrolled parchment that they were studying.

  ‘Ah,’ said Master Smegly. ‘The beautiful maid.’

  Chapter 6

  It is rumoured that a time will come to pass when Evil begins to enjoy domination over good. The nights will grow longer, the days duller and the only vegetable that will grow will be the dreaded brussel sprout®.

  But, it is said, mankind must not be overly perturbed because, when it seems that all hope is lost, then all of the past heroes of antiquity will arise from the grave and join together against the evil host and in one last great battle the face of Evil will be forever scoured from humanity’s fair domain.

  Many believe this.

  Which just goes to show what complete pillocks many are. Stuff it - if you were dead would you arise from the grave and most probably be hacked to death all over again? No. I should hope not. You would simply lie there, getting nibbled by worms, or chewed on by badgers or doing whatever it is that corpses pass off as having a good time.

  In reality Evil is pretty much always there and it’s up to people like Plob, Smegly, you and me to fi
ght the good fight. I know. You never realised how much responsibility you had until now. Bummer, huh? Sorry, but that’s life

  Now - on with our story.

  Little Kleebles lay prostrate on the floor squealing in abject terror. At first Bill stared at him blankly, and then distastefully, and finally, he came to the conclusion that this was just a dream and so he could do anything that he felt like. So he raised the wrench up high, shrieked ‘Be gone, oh p-p-porky and dislikeable child,’ and brought the wrench crashing down on the back of little Kleebles’ skull causing an instant cessation of said squealing as most of the contents shot out of his nose.

  Evil went apoplectic with mirth.

  ‘What do you mean “the beautiful maid”?’ Dreenee gasped at Master Smegly, her breath coming in deep pants after her frantic dash.

  Smegly blinked. Plob blinked as well. Only he did it with one eye at a time fearing that, if he closed both eyes at ones, this panting, dewy-skinned, flushed-cheek, heaving bosomed blonde substantiation of every teenage boy’s insanely testosterone-driven fantasy, would disappear.

  ‘The note,’ said Smegly, drawing a blank look from Dreenee. ‘On the door,’ he added to another blank look. ‘Beautiful maid wanted for quest.’

  Dreenee’s next blank look was interrupted by a gauntleted hammering on the front door.

  ‘Open up in the name of King Mange the Partially Inept,’ demanded a military sounding voice without. (No I’m not even going to get into the ‘without what?’ scenario. Substitute ‘outside’ if you prefer).

  Dreenee’s eyes flicked around the room in search of a weapon as her body tensed for action.