Plob

by Craig Zerf

  Like a startled fawn ready to flee in terror, thought Plob, as he took an involuntary step forward. Master Smegly, who was older and wiser and less testosterone driven, hurriedly took two steps back. Gods, he thought, she looks like a man-eating tigress about to savage a group of kindergarten children.

  Dreenee turned to Master Smegly. ‘Who are you?’ she asked

  ‘I am Smegly. Master magician and third in line to the head of the circle of mages and this sweat-soaked young lad here is my assistant.’

  The banging on the door intensified.

  Dreenee glanced swiftly at the door and then at Plob. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Make them go away. I don’t want to hurt any more of them.’

  Plob heard this as ‘I don’t want them to hurt me’ but the true import of the words was not lost on Master Smegly as he nodded his affirmation to Plob who walked over to the door, slipped the bolts, and cracked it ajar.

  ‘Can I help you, officer?’ Plob asked.

  ‘I certainly hope so, boy.’ replied the armoured cavalry officer in his most officious manner. ‘We search for a small blonde girl. A perpetrator of vile and treasonous actions against the king’s guard. She was seen running in this direction. Have you seen her?’

  ‘No, sir. She could not have come this way, but in fairness, even if she had we would probably not have noticed. Our doors and shutters remain tightly shut as is my master’s habit.’

  ‘Well, if you do happen to see a small, remarkably attractive women in a blood-splattered dress, be sure to contact the king’s guard. There is certain to be a large reward.’

  Plob nodded as he closed and latched the door.

  Dreenee stared at him; her eyes had softened slightly from the ‘man-eating-tigress-about-to-savage-group-of-kindergarten-children’ look to ‘Grizzly-bear-whose-honey-has-been-stolen-by-Winnie-the-Pooh’ look.

  She walked deliberately towards Plob. One foot in front of the other. Hip left - thrust. Hip right - thrust. Left - thrust. Right - thrust. Left. Right.

  She lifted her tiny alabaster hands, held his face lightly and kissed Plob full on the lips, crushing her soft pliant hips up against his. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed into his mouth. The blood rushed from Plob’s head, thundering into his nether regions, robbing his brain of oxygen and causing him to fall flat on his back. Dreenee, well accustomed to this sort of reaction, batted nary an eye. Looking at a grinning Master Smegly she asked, ‘Now - could you please tell me what, exactly, is going on here?’

  Interesting that, thought Bill as he stared at the Technicolor mashed-in mess that was the back of Kleebles’ skull. And so realistic too. For a dream, that is.

  The door swung open as Kleebles’ mother walked in. Her eyes widened in shock and horror as they registered the scene laid before them. She opened her mouth to scream.

  The wrench rose high…

  It would have to go, thought Horgy. He would have to take it back to the blacksmith and get him to make two smaller suits and a nice range of heavy-based pots and pans from the leftover bits. He wouldn’t take it off just yet though, not whilst still in public. Not after being so newly knighted. Not here. Not now. Anyway, he couldn’t actually remember how the bloody release straps and buckles worked, so he would have to get home first and let the servants do it.

  He lunged forward, arms outstretched ala ‘mummy-from-the-forgotten-crypt’ legs pumping mightily. Now, where was the mounting crane? Gods, he was hot.

  ‘Valet,’ Horgy screeched. His voice ricocheted around violently inside his suit tearing at his eardrums until it was finally absorbed by the spongy membranes of his inner skull. Ooh - important safety tip, thought Horgy, never shriek with visor down. He lifted up his visor and tried again. ‘Valet.’

  This time someone heard. A grossly obese valet came jiggling up.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘No,’ replied Horgy sarcastically. ‘I was shouting for King Pathet, the ruler of the far northern places.’

  ‘Oh,’ mumbled the valet. ‘Sounded like valet to me. Sorry to have bothered you, sir knight,’ he concluded as he joggled off.

  ‘No, wait.’ cried Horgy to no avail. So once again he filled his lungs and threw his head back, and as his visor clanged shut, once again screamed mightily into his suit of armour.

  ‘Valet - ley -ley - ley - ley - ley,’ careened around his suit causing his jaw to cramp, toes to curl and eyes to fold in on themselves like a pair of live oysters doused in lemon juice.

  ‘I see,’ breathed Dreenee. She tilted her head to one side. ‘Beautiful maid required.’ She arched one perfect eyebrow. ‘How much?’ she asked.

  ‘How much what?’ asked the master magician right back.

  ‘Aardvarks,’ she quipped.

  ‘Shouldn’t that be ‘how many’?’ Questioned Plob seriously. ‘You know - how ‘many’ aardvarks?’

  Smegly harrumphed. ‘She’s talking about money, Plob. How much money. The aardvark thing is just a sarky aside. Anyway it’s a quest. One doesn’t get paid for a quest. Well - not in monetary terms at least.’

  Dreenee’s lips assumed ‘The Pout.’ (At this point let me clarify. When one says ‘The Pout’ one doesn’t mean a pout, one means THE POUT. As in The Pout that all others of the female race aspire to. The pout of pouts. An X-rated, lock your husbands up and cover the eyes of your first-born male child pout). She glided silkily towards Smegly looking like sex on ball-bearings, eyes artfully downcast.

  ‘Please,’ she whispered as she got up really close. ‘Please, please, please, pleasepleaseplease,’ she continued as she ground her hips up against Master Smegly. ‘Pleeeeeeeeeeeezzuugh,’ she finished as she threw her head back and stared up at him, tear-glazed eyes impossibly wide, wet ripe red lips parted, and breath coming in small hot pants.

  ‘No,’ said Smegly as he turned on his heel and strode off down the corridor.

  Alas, poor Dreenee, for Smegly was a master magician and, as we all know, master magicians are totally immune to the wiles of even the sultriest of succubae.

  Dreenee stiffened with shock. Her entire body registered its disbelief. She spun around, rushed over to Plob’s side of the room and repeated the entire performance directly at him.

  Plob’s nervous system went paroxysmal. Saliva drooled, toes curled, hands formed claws, vocal cords issued alternate mooing and grunting sounds and, finally, he fell to the floor and lay there, heels drumming spasmodically on the stripped wooden planking.

  Dreenee breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Come along, children,’ called Smegly as he walked back up the corridor. ‘The quest is about to begin. Plob go and get the trunk whilst I hail a cab. Plob?’ Smegly looked down at the prostrate and powerless, sweat-drenched teenager lying on the floor and moaning softly through a mouthful of Dreenee-induced drool. He shook his head. ‘Tut tut, poor Plob. Really, my dear girl. Was this absolutely necessary? It’s a little unfair on my unfortunate unsuspecting assistant, don’t you think?’

  Dreenee blushed fetchingly, and the glow of her cheeks threw the azureness of her eyes into a lush sparkling relief. ‘I’m sorry, Master Smegly. Truly I am. It’s just that, well, what with…and you didn’t…and normally men, and sometimes even women just…I had to...sorry. It won’t happen again. I promise.’

  Smegly chuckled. ‘Don’t make promises that you can’t keep, little one. Any road up, no permanent harm done, I’m sure. Go to the kitchen, it’s over there, draw a pail of water and chuck it on him. After the steam has stopped rising, give him a kick in the ribs and tell him to fetch the trunk. We’re on our way. Now I’ll go and fetch that cab. Oh, and Dreenee.’

  ‘Yes, Master Smegly.’

  ‘Welcome to the Quest.’

  Chapter 7

  ‘No, there is not,’ said Plob emphatically.

  ‘Is so.’

  ‘No. There is not,’ repeated Plob.

  ‘Well then,’ retorted the driver of the cab that Smegly had hailed. ‘What am I doing here, caught up in it as it were?’
r />   ‘Nothing,’ said Plob, sighing. ‘You are merely a mode of transport. You have nothing to do with the quest.’

  ‘I do so. There’s always a cabbie in a quest.’

  ‘No there is not,’ repeated Plob yet again.

  ‘Yes. It’s a well documented fact,’ continued the cabbie relentlessly.

  ‘No it is not.’

  ‘Is so. What about the chronicles of Glimburble?’

  ‘There’s no cabbie in them. I should know. I’ve read them twenty-three times.’

  The cabbie rolled his eyes. ‘Oh what a full and busy life you must lead. Anyways, in the second chronicle…’

  ‘Glimburble goes south,’ interrupted Plob.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the cabbie. ‘In the third chapter, just after he’s had a meal at the inn, he walks outside and he hails a cab.’

  ‘Yes?’ questioned Plob.

  ‘Well there you go,’ finished the cabbie.

  Plob snorted and shook his head. ‘No. You’ll have to do better than that.’

  ‘OK. What about Poodlepot’s quest for the sacred orb? A cabbie was extensively involved in that one.’

  Plob pinched his bottom lip as he dug through his memory.

  (Metaphorically speaking, of course. Not with an actual spade, pick and shovel. Yes I admit that it’s a bit of a stupid expression but it was either that or ‘rifled’ through his memory, which is also pretty weak. I suppose that I could have tried a little harder, given the clichés a complete miss and gone all poetic, like - Plob went dashing through the shadowy vaulted corridors of his long-term memory waving his arms in the air and shouting, ‘Poodlepot’s quest for the sacred orb’ to no avail - oh sod it).

  Plob pinched his bottom lip as he thought. (Ha, that’s better).

  ‘No. I don’t know that one.’

  ‘Ooh you must. It’s very famous. It involved lots of cabbies. Actually Poodlepot himself was a cabbie. Yes, that’s it. The full name of the book was actually ‘Poodlepot the cabby’s quest for the sacred orb, whilst being helped by numerous other cabbies who are oft involved in quests often…quite a lot.’

  Plob stared. ‘Rubbish. You’re just making this up as you go along.’

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘Are so.’

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘Are so.’

  ‘Not not notnotnot.’

  ‘Are are areareareareaaaarrrr.’

  ‘Notnotnotnooooooot,’ raved Plob, once again astonishing himself at how easily the cabbie managed to cause his normally fairly high intelligence quotient to plummet like a plucked chicken in flight.

  ‘Boys,’ Dreenee interrupted.

  ‘Yes,’ they replied in unison as, given the perfect excuse, both heads turned to watch Dreenees magnificent front jiggle interestingly up and down with the motion of the cab.

  ‘Eyes up,’ she continued, ‘now - QUIET.’

  They obeyed.

  Well bugger this for a lark, thought Horgy. There was no way out of it. He was stuck for sure. Well and truly stranded. Like a dung beetle on its back.

  ‘Buggerbuggerbugger,’ he shouted as he thrashed around inside his suit of armour.

  It had all been going so well. He’d eventually found a valet who had cranked him up onto his noble steed, Kashfloh, and he had ridden off to vast cheering and much swooning by a clutch of female Xbltqwb Buttneys. The first league or two were also fine, being borne aloft by his exultation. Then the armour began to take its toll. Heavier and heavier. Each clip, every clop seemed to add another pound until, finally, his strength simply gave out and he slid off noble Kashfloh like an avalanche of so much old iron.

  And that’s where he’d stayed for the last two hours. Grunting, groaning, grimacing, growling, grumbling, gnarling, sweating and forsaking. Promising that if anybody rescued him he would abandon knighting forever and never again put on any metal clothing.

  Horgy took a deep breath, followed it immediately with another and started to calm down. Now - let’s think this through, he thought whilst thinking about how to think it through. Think, think, think. (Perfectly good word ‘think.’ That is until you say it over and over a few times - think, think, think, think, think – then it starts to ring false as if maybe it isn’t a word, and you just made it up.

  And now that you’ve repeated it a few more times it’s starting to sound more and more like a word that you just made up. So you decide to substitute it with another word. A more real word. But then you realise that no other word describes the process, so you panic, get paranoid.

  What if someone actually publishes this? And then someone actually reads it. Not Mum or Dad or the wife or kids but someone from the general populous. And they enjoy the first few chapters until they get to this point and come across the word ‘think.’

  ‘I say, Susan.’

  ‘Yes, John.’

  ‘Awfully good book this. Rather. Except for this word “think”.’

  ‘Thnock, dear?’

  ‘No, no. Think.’

  ‘That’s not actually a word, dear.’

  ‘Hmm. Thought not. What a pity. I reckon I’ll chuck it then. Not really worth reading the rest of it then what?’

  ‘No, dear. And while you’re about it why don’t you write to the newspapers and tell them about the ‘thninck’ word.’

  ‘Think, dear.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  John writes to the newspapers, reporters pick up on it as a hot new story. Front-page news throughout the civilized world. I can no longer leave the house for fear of people pointing and laughing. Children jeering and chanting, ‘he thought think was a word, he thought think was a word. Nyaah nya nya nyaarh naah.’

  No I can’t take the risk. I know. I’ll substitute another word. That’s it. Phew.

  Strouge – yes – good word.

  Horgy took a deep breath, followed it immediately with another and started to calm down.

  Now let’s strouge this through (yes, it’s working) he thought while strouging about how to strouge it through (brilliant). Strouge, strouge, strouge. (Oh ye Gods. It’s worse than ‘think.’ Anyway, my wife just walked in, read this and told me not to panic as no one will ever publish and if they do they’ll cut out all of the stupid bits anyway. Thanks).

  If I could just turn over, thought Horgy, then maybe I would stand a chance of levering myself up onto my knees. Then, once on my knees, the possibilities are endless. I could pray for help. I could beg for help. I could pray and beg. Maybe even shuffle homewards. Oh yes. Life would definitely be rosy if I were on my knees.

  Here goes. Deep breathe. Relax the muscles. Wait. Wait…Turn.

  Horgy put everything into it. Every muscle turned. Every thought turned. Every cash flow, every balance sheet and every tax return in his brain took the strain.

  And - miraculously - Horgy turned.

  Unfortunately his suit of armour did not.

  So lay our intrepid knight. Back to front and face down in an oversized suit of armour.

  It’s at times like these that one truly realizes how mightily life can suck.

  This dream’s a little frantic, thought Bill, as he wandered down the street in a vague and puzzled fug, small nameless bits of Kleebles and his mother still splattered on his cheek and stuck to his wrench. People rushing about. Street vendors attempting to sell their wares. The odd travelling performer. It simply wasn’t good enough. It was his dream and he was going to do something about it.

  Bill’s dream must play the way Bill wants it to. Not right now though. First a drink, Bill was thirsty. Odd to be thirsty in a dream but it was that sort of dream.

  Bill’s eyes wandered around the street seeking a pub. Ah – there, ‘The Swans Pyjamas.’ Bill loped over, opened the door and strode up to the counter. The barkeeper scurried over.

  ‘Pint.’

  The barkeeper slid over a pint of PJ’s best bitter.

  ‘That’ll be four pennies, good sir.’

  Bill raised his head, eyes burning insanely and cast a stare
in the barkeeper’s general direction. The unfortunate hireling broke out into a sweat of the cold and clammy variety.

  ‘O-o-on the house, my lord. This one’s o-on the house,’ he haltingly muttered as he staggered back from the weight of Bill’s ocular insanity.

  That’s better, thought Bill. Much better. Good dream this. He pulled deeply on his mug of PJ’s best.

  Yes - very good dream. He’d even managed to order a drink without stuttering. Excellent.

  Since Dreenee’s last command, the quest had been continuing in relative silence. The only sounds being the clop of hooves, the odd harrumph, an occasional ‘is, is, isn’t, is’ and the almost imperceptible rustle of Dreenee’s breasts rubbing against the thin cotton of her blouse as they bounced sympathetically with the motion of the cab. Well, when I say almost imperceptible, it was for all but Plob. To Plob, with his testosterone-enhanced hearing, it was as a roaring in his ears that threatened to rob him of his precarious teenage sanity.

  ‘Look.’ Dreenee leaned forward in her chair and pointed.

  ‘Nipple!’ shouted Plob.

  All eyes, even the horse’s, turned to look at Plob who had gone a violent shade of puce.

  ‘Sorry. I meant to say “what”,’ he corrected as his entire body writhed and squirmed and threatened to implode with an onrush of teenage embarrassment. The cabbie gave him a lascivious wink.

  ‘Over there,’ continued Dreenee. ‘ It’s a suit of armour lying on the side of the road.’

  Chapter 8

  ‘Look, mate, that’s no good to us,’ said Hugo. ‘We all know that the murders were caused by a blunt metal object being brought into violent impact with the skull. We all know that. What we do not know is what the metal object is. A length of pipe? A tyre iron? A poker? What?’

  The coroner shrugged.

  ‘Listen, mate,’ shouted Terry in his best East End accent. ‘If you don’t stop shrugging and start coming up with some useful info then so help me, cop or not, I will become very upset. And you don’t want that to happen do you, my china plate?’