by Jon Hartless
70 There is some argument over how many cars can truly be called Thunderbus; some follow the designation and therefore claim three, while others say the engine is the beating heart of the car and hence only two vehicles are worthy of the name. Many more claim there was only ever one – the original.
Chapter Nineteen
Wrong BODY, wrong EVERYTHING! by Harvey McArdle, the Voice of REASON.
You know, it can’t be much fun being a man trapped in a woman’s body. Trust me when I say I have every sympathy for any such freaks of nature who are truly victims of their own blood, their own pangenesis, their own perverted mindset.
Petrol Queen Poppy Orpington is one such victim, clearly believing “herself” to actually be a “he”.
The indications are all there; wearing male clothing? Check. Driving cars? Check. And all right, I say good luck to you.
But I do not agree that you should parade this freakishness in front of respectable men and women, and especially in front of vulnerable, easily confused children.
Childhood is a golden time of innocence, so how can tiny Terrance, just six years old, process the adult perversion of a woman pretending to be a man? Simply put, he can’t.
But he will see this “example” parading in front of him, and he will think it normal. It is not.
As one stunned racing fan and father said: “I thought I saw a woman racing around the circuit, but I decided I had imagined it.”
Oh no you hadn’t. I only wish you had.
Lord Simeon Pallister, who is sponsoring this charade, said he is “proud of our actions in promoting both petrol engines and women in sport.” Well, of course he is. Having sunk money into the doomed petrol engine, what else can he say?
So that’s that. From now on, women will drive cars at race tracks. But who is going to stand up and point out the awful effect this perversion is already having on our innocent children?
Concerned parent the Honourable George Warrington, said the presence of Poppy Orpington has already harmed his little son and heir to the Eastham Estates, for now little Henry is terrified that his daddy, a proper racing car driver, will turn into a woman.
The racing world shouldn’t be forced to put up with this. Neither should decent society. We must all come together to say “We don’t care what you freaks do in private, behind closed doors, but you’re not going to shove it down our throats. Not anymore!”
Poppy Orpington is putting her selfish demand to live her perverse life over and above the sensibilities of the British public. If she wants to challenge the natural order and drive cars at high speed, why does she not do it in private? No-one would be insulted or offended by her then. But she cares little for public decency and Christian morality. That much is clear!
She has proven that not only is she in the wrong BODY, but she is in the wrong LIFE.
To celebrate the return of Thunderbus – and possibly to escape the ambiguity of her own reaction to Amy’s ongoing absence – Poppy decided to hold onto the familiar and hence late on Friday evening she roared down to Worcester, knowing Simeon was keeping the cottage at Pallister Hall in a state of readiness for whenever she wanted to visit. She arrived late, stabled Thunderbus and gratefully went to bed.
She awoke feeling better than she had done for the past month. She made breakfast before bringing her diary up to date, concluding with the events of the previous day. She then showered, wrapped herself in a towel, and sat down at the dressing table where the large mirror and two electric lamps facilitated her arm maintenance.
Undoing the small wingnuts on the back of her mechanical arm, Poppy removed the rubber-sealed rear plate and checked the mechanism was running smoothly, dabbing in a little oil and cleaning the gleaming gears and rods, flexing her arm fully in every direction before replacing the rear plate. She was debating whether to get dressed or to have another cup of tea first when a scuffling noise downstairs caught her attention. She tripped lightly down the stairs but stopped in shock at seeing an unknown man in the dining room, her diary open in front of him on the table, rubbing his unbuttoned crotch in salacious pleasure as he read the pages.
The man looked up, his sweating face twisting in a leer of sexual arousal. ‘You’re supposed to be in London,’ he exclaimed, his tone expressing outrage Poppy should find him breaking into her old home.
‘Who the hell are you?’ yelled Poppy from the doorway, her hands flexing in anger.
‘Harvey McArdle, Daily Post,’ panted the man in a triumphant tone. ‘I’ve been keeping tabs on you, Orpington; seen your nice house with its indoor plumbing and velvet curtains, and all your clothes laid out nicely in the wardrobe. And drawers.’ The sweat poured down his leering face.
‘You’ve been in my house?’ hissed Poppy, rage pounding through her head.
‘Easy, with my little friends,’ said McArdle with a leer, waving a set of skeleton keys in the air with his free hand; the other was still at his bulging crotch. ‘I needed all the latest information on you – for the paper – and now I’ve hit gold. These diaries! They’ll make my fortune. When the country hears about your behaviour, you’ll be finished, Orpington. Finished! No more racing for you once these pages are published. No more endorsements for you. You slut!’ His tongue licked at his dry lips as a new thought hit him. ‘But I’ll tell you what; you want this to stay our secret? It could happen.’ His eyes focused on the towel and Poppy’s cleavage. ‘If you’re good for it.’ He reached out toward her, bestial hunger clear on his face.
Poppy’s vision blurred as rage and disgust exploded within, fuelled by the constant press attacks against her over the past year. She savagely swept her mechanical arm around in a backhand swipe, smacking the journalist with such force he collapsed over the table, though this didn’t stop Poppy
pummelling him in outrage at the violation of her home, her character and her privacy until Simeon hauled her away.
Some hours later, Poppy was sitting in Simeon’s office in Pallister Hall. Simeon and Helena were both present, both looking strained, while a uniformed constable, Stephen Vale, was continually looking from the statement he had taken to the bloodied, bruised figure of McArdle trembling in the corner of the room, as though uncertain which to believe.
‘I want that pervert in jail,’ snapped Poppy, her anger visible on her face.
‘Yes, Miss Orpington, so you said before,’ replied Vale, licking his pencil as a totem of his authority. ‘However, I was called here on account of a break-in and yet all I found was an unconscious man, Mr Harvey McArdle, beaten to a bloodied pulp, with what seems to be a broken nose and jaw, who you admit to attacking.’ The editor’s identity had been confirmed by the calling cards in his wallet – his set of lock picks did not seem to be a consideration for the constable. He was also remarkably reticent about McArdle’s open trouser buttons, merely looking prim and disapproving when they were mentioned.
‘What do you expect me to do when a pervert attacks me? Scream for help?’
‘That would have been a more suitable way of dealing with things rather than beating him unconscious.’ The look on Vale’s face made it clear he thought Poppy was entirely to blame for the situation. ‘And I see you ate a good breakfast after the incident,’ he continued, gesturing at the remains of the meal on the office table. ‘Hardly the action of a traumatised woman, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘God, the police force in this country is a disgrace!’ raged Poppy. ‘You do know my friend and I were attacked last year by a group of thugs wanting to rape and kill us? You do remember that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I am aware that you have a tendency to make unfounded rape allegations,’ replied Vale,71 looking over Poppy’s head in disapproval, feeling safe from any rejoinder by virtue of his authority. His certainty dissolved as Poppy lunged toward him; his relief was clearly visible as Lady Helena restrained the wild, red-headed harpy, drawing her back with a few quick words.
‘Calm down, Poppy, let me deal with this,’ said Helena, firmly. She
turned her regal gaze onto the constable, who straightened himself now he had a gentle, pliable woman to interview before recoiling once more as Helena launched her own angry tirade at him. ‘I insisted Poppy eat something, for the shock. You have heard of shock, haven’t you, in the course of your duties?’
‘I, well, of course... but women don’t eat when they are upset,’ he spluttered. ‘They cry and have to be comforted. That is the natural way of things!’
Helena leaned forward in outrage. ‘You listen to me, Constable Vale, and mark my words; you are a miserable failure not only as a policeman, but as a man also. You will now use the phone over there to call your immediate superior. You will explain to him in our presence that I, Lady Helena Pallister, wish him to take over this investigation personally. If you do not, my husband will use his not inconsiderable influence to see you are ejected without references from your job before the week is out. Do you understand that?’
The constable shifted uncomfortably as he tried to process the idea that a woman could be rather more powerful than he was. He glanced at Simeon, who was staring determinedly at the opposing wall. ‘What were you doing there so early, my lord?’ asked Vale, trying to shift the conversation to where he thought it belonged; between the two men in the room.
‘I went to visit Poppy, to welcome her back to the cottage,’ replied Simeon.
‘But I thought she arrived yesterday?’ insisted the constable. ‘Did you not speak to her then?’
‘Yes, but I wanted to make sure the cottage was comfortable and had been kept properly aired, and that Miss Orpington had adequate supplies in, and she knew she had a standing invitation to visit us at the hall whenever she wished,’ explained Simeon, very carefully. ‘We have – all of us – been through a lot together this last year or so.’
‘You will make the phone call now,’ snapped Helena, her voice rising in anger. ‘Who is your superior officer?’
‘That would be Inspector Janson, my lady. But the station is not yet on the phone, so I will have to cycle back down there and report in person.’
‘Then do so now and lay the facts before him, and if you give all the facts in a clear, unbiased manner, I will not inform your Chief Constable, Colonel Arbuthnot, a good friend of my husband’s, of your appalling attitude. I want this journalist charged with attempted rape. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ coughed Vale, scurrying to the door. ‘I will place all the facts in the hands of the Inspector, but given the lack of physical evidence, I very much doubt the matter will go any further. Unlike a summons for assault against this... woman.’ He hastily pulled the door shut, forgetting in his eagerness to escape he was leaving the terrified figure of McArdle behind in the room.
Vale’s hurried footsteps had scarcely faded before the door to the office opened once more, this time after a deferential knock.
‘The morning edition of the Daily Post has just arrived, my lord,’ announced Wilkinson, his usually reserved face brimming over with indignation. ‘Oh!’ he exclaimed on seeing Poppy. ‘I do beg your pardon; I will return later when you are not entertaining.’ He tried to back out of the room, flipping the newspaper downward so it could not be seen.
‘I take it the press has made more negative comments about me,’ asked Poppy, her voice bubbling with fury; Wilkinson’s expression of outrage and pity told the full story.
‘Is that the case, Wilkinson?’ queried Helena in quiet anger, glancing at her husband as he continued to lounge against the wall, carefully avoiding everyone’s eye.
‘I’m afraid so, my lady,’ replied the butler. ‘And the journalist in question has gone even further than before. And it’s not right, it’s not!’ he exclaimed, his stately façade breaking momentarily. ‘Saying such nasty and untruthful things about Mr Orpington, when we all know he’s suffering so badly.’
‘You’d better leave it so we can see the worst. And thank you, Wilkinson; you are a treasure,’ replied Helena.
‘Thank you, my lady,’ replied Wilkinson as he retreated, casting a final commiserative look at Poppy as she grabbed the paper and scanned the contents. What she found took her fury to an even higher level.
Notorious Petrol Queen POPPY ORPINGTON’S father is a DANGEROUS LUNATIC in ASYLUM! EXCLUSIVE scoop by Harvey McArdle of the Daily Post – YOUR newspaper!
Today, the Daily Post can exclusively reveal that the father of the notorious cripple POPPY ORPINGTON is a DANGEROUS LUNATIC!
Our investigative journalism has revealed that Robert Orpington is confined in the Corbin Sanatorium, where he is restrained night and day by terrified nursing staff!
“Orpington is a big, violent man,” said a member of staff, who pleaded for anonymity to be safe from reprisals from within the home. “It takes four of us to hold him down when he is enraged.”
When asked if she feared for innocent people if a dangerous lunatic were to be prowling around, she replied “I would be very concerned about that, yes.”
It comes as no surprise to us to discover that insanity runs in this family. Suddenly, Poppy Orpington’s flouting of decency and morality takes on a more sinister aspect, as does her own POLICE RECORD for VIOLENT CRIME.
No doubt our readers will recall the case of Ezekiel Solomon, an escaped JEWISH LUNATIC who was found last year to be living rough no more than FIVE miles from a girl’s school in Wimbledon. Had he walked there in a straight line, he would have found the woodshed where the groundskeepers keep their gardening tools, including several LARGE AXES! The carnage does not bear thinking about.
And several unsolved murders have been laid at the door of unrestrained CRIMINAL MADMEN roaming the land, often having just landed here from abroad.
When will we see ACTION taken by the authorities to apprehend these men and keep us SAFE? When will the authorities investigate the powerful Turner-Casbach arm fitted to the violent Petrol Queen herself, more dangerous in her hands than any axe? And what actions will be taken in respect of the Petrol Queen’s hereditary mania? Or do we have to wait for the first blood-letting before anything is done to protect us all???
‘This... this is outrageous,’ gasped Helena as she scanned the article, the words barely forming as she stared at the trembling figure of McArdle who was pressing himself against the wall opposite Simeon as though trying to burrow through it. ‘Simeon!’ she commanded. ‘You must do something. Use your influence!’
‘I have dropped hints about the press going easy on a young girl,’ mumbled Simeon.
‘Hints?’ demanded Poppy, her voice rising. ‘Hints to whom?’
‘Oh, you know, various people on the board of the Daily Post. But they always say they don’t interfere in the editorial side of things, and the press must be free to report the facts.’
‘You know these people? To actually speak to?’ gasped Poppy in shock.
‘We run into each other at various clubs and the like, and many of us were at school together,’ muttered Simeon, gazing at the window as though too ashamed to meet Poppy’s gaze.
‘You’ve had access to the scum who have been attacking me for a damn year and you never said?’ hissed Poppy.
‘But you knew I knew them,’ bleated Simeon.
‘I thought they were remote bloody acquaintances, not your old school friends!’ shouted Poppy, causing McArdle to flinch at her anger.
‘I did try,’ protested Simeon. ‘I did ask them to consider the accuracy of the stories they were printing.’
‘Oh, you asked them to consider the accuracy of the stories, did you?’ snarled Poppy. ‘Thank you for your concern; I see exactly where I stand in your estimation now. Somewhere beneath the old school network. You’re damn lucky I’m tied to you by a contract, Simeon, otherwise I’d never see you again.’ She strode to the door but paused by the trembling figure of McArdle.
‘It seems you hold all the cards, Mr McArdle, so let me say goodbye and good luck,’ snarled Poppy, grabbing McArdle with her prosthetic. ‘Let me shake you by the hand, Mr McAr
dle, and wish you Godspeed on your future endeavours.’ She tightened her fingers, causing McArdle to squeal in horror and pain. ‘Let me agree to join your conspiracy of silence, that least said is soonest mended, that no action should be taken, that the status quo should be preserved,’ continued Poppy, her steel fingers closing inexorably around McArdle’s hand, the sound of splintering bone cracking around the room like a series of gunshots.
‘Do carry this message of forgiveness to all your colleagues in Fleet Street. Let us agree we will never speak of this day again – not your actions in trying to assault me, or my actions here and now,’ seethed Poppy as McArdle writhed in agony, tears pouring from his eyes as his screams of pain rose to a shrill series of gasps.
‘Let us agree you will keep quiet about me and I will keep quiet about you. Otherwise, Mr McArdle, I will pay you another visit – and it won’t be just the hand that offends me that suffers. And I will treat any of your colleagues the same way, Mr McArdle; make sure that message goes out. I know Lord Simeon Pallister will be sure to spread the message through his clubs, given he has so many “friends” there from the press.’
‘My God, Poppy, stop!’ shouted Helena in horror; blood was pouring from McArdle’s hand as Poppy’s steel fingers bit deeply into the flesh, crushing bone and tendon and muscle alike.
‘Do you understand me, Mr McArdle?’ snarled Poppy, her eyes staring down without pity or remorse. ‘Answer me quickly, while you still can.’
McArdle nodded frantically, his mouth forming words his voice could no longer create as agony and fear crushed him. His hand was now a bloodied, deformed, lifeless limb, no longer a functioning part of the whole, yet it was Poppy’s terrible anger which truly terrified him.
‘Welcome to my world, Mr McArdle; the world of the cripple,’ continued Poppy, her voice low as she ruthlessly moved her fingers up around the editor’s wrist before squeezing again. ‘A world where you will be judged for being handicapped, for being different from everyone else. A world where you are considered less than others because of a damaged arm. Welcome, Mr McArdle, welcome.’
