Plob Fights Back

by Craig Zerf

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Craig Zerf

  Plob/Plob goes South/Plob fights back

  © 2013, Author

  Small Dog Publishing Limited

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  PLOB fights back

  The third hilarious fantasy/comedy

  Chapter 1

  Right - let’s look at it this way. Infinity is a really difficult concept to fully understand. In fact it is said that the notion of infinity is beyond the human ability to comprehend. Even beyond the ability of the seriously bright humans who ambulate around in wheelchairs and have electronically synthesized voices.

  One could try to explain it using concepts such as The Continuum and the Aleph-Null Number but when it comes down to it, all that we really need to know is that infinity is big. Really big. Imagine something egotistically huge…okay, now double it. Now double it again. You’re still not even close to infinity.

  Here’s another way to look at the concept. Picture a giant Redwood tree. You know, one of those arrogantly large ones that are big enough to be able to carve a motor vehicle sized tunnel through. Got it? Now - cut the tree down…using only a moustache. Time it in seconds. It’s going to take a while…not an infinite amount of seconds but I am sure that you get the picture.

  Now - take whatever that number is and imagine this; that is how many alternative universes are out there. So many, in fact, that it is said that there is another one that is exactly like the one that we are currently in, except, and this is important, you are wearing a red shirt. (Unless, of course you are already actually wearing a red shirt - then you would be wearing a green one - probably.)

  And Typhon the Dark knew this. For those of you who have not yet had the dubious pleasure of meeting the Big T before, we shall paint a vista. A written identikit.

  Approximately seven feet tall, a face like a were-lizard caught halfway between the change from man to lizard, skin like a crocodile, talons like Wolverine and massive leathern wings of the bat-like variety.

  Also - Typhon was a big name in the Evil business. And, like any other villain worth their salt, he was bent on world domination. Any world, he wasn’t fussy. However, of late, he had become obsessed with one world in particular. That was the world that contained the despicable, the awful, the pain-in-the-buttocks-ful Plob. Magician’s assistant to Smegly the master magician. Twice now Plob had thwarted the demon’s plans.

  But - the last time it had been close. Very close. And the major reason for that had been Typhon’s acquisition of a platoon of Nazis complete with a King Tiger tank. Since then he had been scouring the multiverses, via his state of the art scrying screen, in an attempt to find the third Reich and once again to team up with them.

  Thus far he had had no luck, however, Typhon knew, due to the massive choice (see moustache theory) that he had, there was every chance that, although he might not find the original Nazis, he would come across some nation that was very similar. Perhaps even badder.

  So he and his team of goblins kept a permanent watch on, scouting, flicking between universes. Seeing much.

  And when they found their new allies…well, let’s put it this way - No more mister nice guy.

  Chapter 2

  They smelt. Not a wholly unpleasant smell but still a pretty powerful one. Sweaty horse with a base note of sulphur and a top note of cinnamon.

  It was a smell that was uniquely Dragon.

  People had been keeping, training and flying dragons for hundreds of years now but it was primarily a hobby for the wealthy or the extreme sports fanatic.

  They were expensive, rare and difficult to train. But master Smegly had done some work for Duke Demorly who had been so pleased with the results that he had given the master magician a fully trained dragon as a bonus and Smegly, who was now more than successful enough to afford to keep one, had accepted. And then given it to Plob for his sixteenth birthday.

  The young teenager was taken aback to say the least. It’s not every day that one is gifted with a two ton, fire breathing, whole cow eating flying beast. He had named it Nimbus and called it Nim for short.

  He wasn’t one hundred percent sure if he actually loved the dragon, it was slow witted and stubborn. But he loved the flying. And he was really good at it.

  It was the closest that man could get to feeling like a god. Part exultation, part concentration and part fear. On the slightly-down-side he was a little disappointed with the dragons flame. It was more sooty-coal-stove than the erupting volcano that he had expected. A sort of fiery burp with lots of black smoke. Apparently the flame was more part of the mating ritual than it was an aggressive weapon.

  Another expectation that had gone unrealised was - girls. Plob had assumed, hopefully, that the dragon would have them lining up to talk to him but, sadly, it didn’t help much. Firstly because the dragon smelt so weird and secondly because it tried to eat any girl that came too close. Master Smegly had said that was genetic. Something to do with dragons and princesses.

  Plob finished rubbing Nim down with oil and gave him a quick scratch above his eye ridge. The dragon purred with a sound like an approaching avalanche. Plob patted it on the head, gave it a lump of coal for a treat, closed the door to the stable and left for the night. He was looking forward to a good night’s sleep because tomorrow the three day Maudlin City royal festival started and it promised to be great fun.

  Chapter 3

  Herr Adolf Spitler was dead and the entire fatherland was in mourning. Vagoth soldiers and citizens lined the streets of the city of Lutetia. Brown jacketed members of the secret police wandered through the crowd, checking that mourners were showing a quantity of grief befitting the death of their glorious leader.

  As a result the repines outward expressions of angst and woe were so over the top as to appear comedic. Breasts were beaten, teeth were gnashed and hair was rent. Tears aplenty were forced and noses ran freely with great gobs of snot. Blubs were blubbered and lambs were lamented and cats were caterwauled. The people were showing about as much genuine emotion as a bunch of three year olds crying for more sweets.

  In other words, the Fuhrer’s funeral was fast favouring farce.

  On a raised platform, overlooking the spectacle, stood three men. On their heads were caps of black with silver skulls emblazoned thereon.

  The first, Mart
in Boredman, was dressed in black and silver. The deceased Fuhrer’s personal (very personal) secretary and general assistant who had brought back the good old-fashioned meaning of privy councillor. He was clean-shaven and, if one looked closely, one could see that he was wearing foundation, a little rouge and mascara. His hairline started on the middle of the top of his head but there was little bare skin showing as it was well covered by a pair of the universes bushiest eyebrows. Like large hamsters they were. Siberian hamsters. But with no feet. Or eyes. Or other hamstery bits. But the hamster shaped hair was there for all to see. Big bloody eyebrows is what I’m getting at. Huge.

  Next to hamster-head stood the grossly obese form of Herman Gobling. Clad in a tunic and trousers of a delicate sky blue with more gold trimmings than a newly ensconced African dictator. The balding blond behemoth was in charge of the Vagoth dragon corps and his pink cherubic face and obscenely large sensual lips hid a mind as quick and merciless as a steel trap.

  And finally, Josef Gooballs. Minister of propaganda and head of the cheese board. He wore his customary poo-brown tunic and pants with little adornment. Tiny, wire-rimmed glasses offset his tiny head and tiny body to perfection. He stood perhaps four foot four in built up shoes and walked with a profound limp due to a crippled right leg. But to bring attention to his diminutive size was to invite a late-night visit from the secret police. A visit that would, more often than not, involve the recipient of said visit being “cut down to size” – literally. The unusual quantity of prosthetic-limb-wearing, crutch wielding nonopeds and monopeds was stark proof of leadership that was both harsh but fair. Although the losers of said lower limbs might find the “fair” a bit of a grey area, having been so seriously caught short – as it were.

  And then, with a flourish of trumpets and a fanning of fares did a jet-black bier led by six black horses hove into view. The crowd of mourners did Ooh and Aah and then some did say - Huh?

  Gobling leant towards Boredman. ‘Why is the coffin so small?’ He asked, sotto voce.

  Boredman shrugged. ‘How the hell should I know? Gooballs organised the whole thing.’

  The big man in blue turned the other way. ‘Herr Gooballs, why the teeny coffin?’

  ‘It’s a normal size,’ hissed the little cripple. ‘I measured it myself. Four foot five inches. More than adequate for any proper, average, normal sized human being.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ disagreed Gobling, secure in the fact that late night visits from secret police did not happen to Air Marshall’s of the Vagoth flying corps. ‘There’s no way the Fuhrer could have fitted into that. What did you do, fold him in half?’

  If looks could kill, the one that Herr Gooballs gave the Air Marshal would have been classed as a weapon of mass destruction. ‘He fitted fine. He is a normal size in a normal coffin and he fitted in the normal way. Enough now. Watch, we are about to release one thousand doves. You’ll like this, very dramatic, we had them all painted black and red to signify mourning.’

  And sure enough, a line of twenty soldiers stepped forward and lined the street next to the passing bier. As one they flung open the boxes that they were carrying and from them came…nothing. Twenty soldiers stood in a row holding twenty boxes, each containing fifty doves that had long since died of lead poisoning from the layers of paint that had been slathered over them.

  In a panic, one of the soldiers grabbed a handful of expired avians and tossed them hopefully into the air. The rest of the soldiers followed suit causing a shower of dead birds to rein down on the bier and the horses pulling it.

  The lead horse took umbrage at being defiled by a deluge of dead doves and decided to decamp. Rearing up in his traces he darted forward only to get tangled with the horse next to him. The two stallions bit and kicked and fought, surging from side to side eventually causing the diminutive coffin to slide from the bier and go crashing to the street, splitting open on the cobbles.

  There was a collective gasp of horror from the crowd as the body of the Fuhrer rolled out of the coffin to lie face down in the street. It became immediately apparent how the ex-leader had been custom fitted to the Gooballs sized coffin. The corpse’s trousers were patently empty below the knees and the divorced appendages had been crammed into the coffin alongside the foreshortened body.

  A large shaggy dog took advantage of the situation to lope over and grab one of the loose legs, running off with the ragged stump hanging from its drooling jaws.

  ‘Stop it,’ shrieked Herr Gooballs. ‘The dog is eating the Fuhrer.’

  Brown shirted policemen pushed though the crowd as they chased down the running canine.

  From the raised platform Gooballs shouted commands, attempting to direct seven or eight policemen at the same time. ‘No, go left. Left, left. My left, not your left, you buffoon. There, go straight. Behind you, in front of you, next to you. The other left.’

  Policemen were running into each other, falling over, standing with puzzled looks on their face or, in one case, simply running around in a tight circle with their eyes closed.

  Eventually the inept pursuers cornered the dog and one of the policemen wrested the leg away, holding it aloft for all to see.

  ‘Where is the shoe?’ Shouted Gooballs. ‘Where is the Fuhrers shoe?’

  The policeman shrugged.

  ‘Find it. Someone has stolen the Fuhrer’s shoe. Check every one legged person here.’

  The brown shirts immediately turned on the many monopeds in the crowd and started to roughly search them, kicking their crutches away and frisking them to see if they were carrying any surplus footwear.

  Eventually one policeman cried out. ‘Here,’ he called as he held the shoe above his head.

  ‘That’s not it, you moron.’

  ‘How do you know, Herr Gooballs?’

  ‘It’s a woman’s high heel pump.’

  Another policeman held an object high. ‘Herr Gooballs.’

  ‘No. Wrong.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a right hand glove, you brown-shirted imbecile. We’re looking for the Fuhrer’s shoe.’

  Another brown shirt called out. ‘Here, here, here.’

  Gooballs looked. ‘No.’

  ‘How can you be so sure, Herr Gooballs.’

  ‘I can see that it’s your shoe, cretin.’

  ‘How can you tell from so far away?’

  ‘It’s still on your foot.’

  The policeman had the decency to look embarrassed.

  ‘Forget the bloody shoe,’ urged Gobling. ‘Let’s just get the Fuhrer back in the little coffin and put him in the ground.’

  ‘Yes, please. This is very upsetting,’ agreed Boredman who was close to tears.

  Gooballs screeched more instructions and the brown shirts bundled Spitlers’s body back into the broken coffin, pushing his detached limbs down the sides.

  The horses were calmed down and the procession continued. Mourners were encouraged to go back to mourning, as opposed to sniggering, and a short while of solemnity ensued.

  And then the dragon corps did a fly past. A ‘V’ shaped formation of twenty dragons powering through the air, some two hundred foot above the crowds, belching flaming balls of fire in front of them. They turned as one and powered back, once again spitting flaming balls of burning plasma into the atmosphere. Once again there was much Oohing and Aahing and then the lead dragon decided to evacuate his bowels in quite spectacular fashion over the concentrated throng of the bereaved. The Oohs changed quickly to Eeks and there was a mad Hillsborough-like dash for cover.

  Boredman burst into tears and dabbed at his eyes with a black lace handkerchief, Gobling went puce with embarrassment and Herr Gooballs limped from the podium in disgust.

  The goblin scuttled down the main tunnel. His claws clicked on the cold clammy cavern floor as he coursed as quickly as he could to carry his communiqué to his master.

  His master, Typhon the Dark. Capital T and capital D. The big man in the evil business.

  ‘Master,’ he said as
he entered Typhon’s private domain. ‘I have found them.’

  Typhon unfurled from the recliner that he was sprawled on. ‘Are you sure?’

  The goblin wrung his hands together. ‘Not completely, your bigness. But very similar at least.’

  ‘Do they have big bang things? Tanks, guns, whatever and such?’

  The goblin shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, you monstrosityness.’

  ‘Then you waste my time. Go away and punish yourself. Thirty lashes should do. Then rub salt in the wounds and deny yourself tea for a few days.’

  The goblin blanched at the thought of going tea-less for so long. ‘But, sir. They have dragons.’

  ‘Dragons’

  Typhon raised an eyebrow. ‘What, those big fat flying lizards that blow smoke? So what?’

  ‘No, my master. These ones were different. Men flew them with great precision and they fired huge balls of flame. Scary they were. And impressive. The people watching did go Ooh. And Aah.’

  ‘Show me.’

  So he took him to the scrying screen and did so. And the big T was mightily impressed. Massed troops. Fire spitting dragons. Men with death’s head insignia on their uniforms. Brown shirted men beating up cripples. All the ingredients that he was looking for.

  He patted the goblin on the head. ‘Well spotted. Now, prepare my best armour and a personal bodyguard detachment of ten Ogres in full battle gear, axes and morningstars. It is time to pay a visit on these peoples and make them an offer that they can’t refuse.’

  Herr Gooballs limped up the stairs to his private apartment. He had taken leave of the fat man and the fey man. A little alone time was what he needed, a drink and a long hot bath. With bubbles. And toys.

  You see, Gooballs was perturbed, to say the least. The untimely death of the Fuhrer had left an unfillable vacuum in the Vagoth political structure. The Vagoths needed a strong leader. Someone who could make decisions. Gooballs was enough of a realist to know his own shortcomings and leading was one of them. He was a brilliant propagandist and strategist but he would never hold the hearts and minds of the people.