Plob Fights Back

by Craig Zerf

  Boredman was out of the question, far too emotional and prone to random outbursts of hysterics. As for the flying fat man - he was bright enough, but was so narcissistic as to border on the very edge of insanity. In fact his entire apartment had all of the walls covered in mirrors so as to reflect and re-reflect an infinity of images of himself back and forth, so that he could simply stand and stare in wonder at them. Gooballs was not sure what the fat man saw but he suspected that his mind’s eye had trimmed down the reality somewhat and added a few muscles and thickened the straggly blond hair somewhat.

  The little cripple snorted in disgust. The self-delusion of some people was beneath contempt. He unlocked the door to his apartment and went in.

  At first glance there seemed to be nothing unusual about Herr Gooballs’s living quarters. They were sumptuous and displayed an abundance of fine arts and priceless tapestries, but apart from that it was a patently normal apartment. The chairs, tables and counters - all decidedly normal.

  And, after pausing to think a while…that very normality is what gives the game away. Typically, Herr Gooballs would enter a room and something odd would become immediately apparent vis-à-vis the relative scale of the room. Id est, either the room and contents appeared larger than life or it was obvious that the man who had just entered was of a diminutive nature.

  As a result of this feeling of constant vertical belittlement Herr Gooballs had had his personal rooms hand made in a 1:2 scale which made his relative height grow from four foot two inches to eight foot four. Even his crockery and cutlery had been scaled down. And his bath products. To further enhance his personal feeling of apparent hugeness, Herr Gooballs would often walk about his apartment in slow motion and make assorted swishing and crumping and stomping noises to accompany his giant footsteps.

  ‘Fee…Guramph. Fi…Gudoof. Foe…Fagluph. Fum…Badoink.’

  The little man loved his private rooms.

  He drew himself a bath, poured in a copious amount of bubble mixture, shed his clothes and lowered himself in. The mass of bubbles covered him completely as he lay back, relaxing in the hot water and soapy froth. After a while he cleared his throat and started to sing. For some unbeknown reason Herr Gooballs favoured a squeaky, Bee Gees, Monty Pythonesque ‘I’m a lady’ type falsetto.

  ‘All these hypocrites we throw them out,

  Goblins leave our Vagoth house,

  If the native soil is clean and pure,

  Happy and united we endure.’

  The little minister punctuated each line with a bout of aquatically enhanced flatulence that reverberated off the cast iron tub like a sounding board.

  And for a while Herr Gooballs was truly happy as he wallowed in his bath with his miniature soaps and tiny bottles of shampoo, singing Vagoth songs whilst his turds whistled for right of way.

  His reverie was interrupted by a frantic banging on his front door. ‘Herr Gooballs.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me. Sergeant Shultzenmoltenhausen.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I have a message for you, Herr minister, it is urgent.’

  ‘Well slide it under the door.’

  Gooballs arose from the bubble bath and donned a sumptuous white towelling robe and a pair of built-up slippers. Then he went to the door and opened it.

  Lying on the floor in front of the door, blood streaming from a gash in his head was sergeant Shultzenmoltenhausen.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, sergeant?’

  ‘Trying to push the message under the door, Herr minister.’

  ‘So what is so difficult about that?’

  ‘Please, sir. The message is in my head.’

  ‘Tell me quickly and then get a bucket and a mop and clean this blood up, you imbecilic clodpate.’

  ‘Herr Gobling needs you at the Führerhauptquartiere. We have a visitor.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I have no idea, Herr minister. May I go now, sir? I think that some of my brain has come out.’

  Gooballs waved the hapless sergeant away and went back into his rooms to don his uniform.

  A short while later he ushered himself into the main boardroom at the FHQ. And what he saw there filled him with surprise. And shock. And more than a little bit of fear.

  Chapter 4

  August.

  1940.

  England.

  The British airmen called it ‘first light’. That barely discernable lightening of the sky. Not yet dawn but no longer night. They sat in the dispersal hut, huddled over fast cooling mugs of sweet tea. Some smoked. None talked. They waited.

  First light. The rim of the sun edged slowly over the horizon. Not smoothly but in small incremental movements. As if it were embarrassed. Uncomfortable that it brought with it another day. Another eighteen hours of light. And with it, another eighteen hours of combat. And death.

  First light. Sheepskin lined leather flying jackets were shrugged on in preparation. Pipes knocked out. Time stretched thin, like piano wire. And then the bell rang; a call to arms. Instructions shouted out. “Bandits coming in over the cliffs. Forty heavies and twenty fighters. Angels eighteen”. Mugs knocked over, spilt tea shining on the tabletops. Men up and running. Boot shod feet pounded the damp turf. Ground crew standing by ready to help the flyers up and strap them in.

  First light. The smell of petrol in the air. The blaring of the twenty-seven litre Rolls Royce Merlin engines as the chocks were pulled away and throttles were thrown open. Seeking flight.

  And then the thundering engines, powering five thousand pounds of airplane into the air.

  Eight .303 machine guns, 1030 BHP, one proud young airman.

  The destructive power of Britain’s greatest fighter – the Spitfire.

  The flight of four Spitfires had taken off from Biggin Hill in Kent and consisted of flight lieutenant Samuel ‘Smudger’ Smith, flying officer Jonathan ‘Jonno’ Johnson, flying officer Reginald ‘Belter’ Bridgestone and the new Polish addition, pilot officer Rufin Kowolski.

  ‘Righty-ho, gentlemen,’ said Smudger over the radio. ‘The Huns are coming in at angels eighteen so let's try to get our birds up to twenty thousand feet and get some sort of height advantage.’

  ‘Roger, Smudge,’ confirmed Jonno.

  ‘Wilco, skipper,’ replied Belter.

  ‘Hupsydaisy, one more for the shoebox,’ said Rufin.

  Smudger ignored the Polish pilot’s seeming transgression of radio protocol. This was because Smudger, and everyone else in the flight, was well aware that the Pole was in the process of learning English.

  The odd thing about Rufin was that he had an eidetic, or photographic memory as well as an incredible ability to mimic sounds and syntax. Because of this he had managed, in an unbelievably short time, to learn pretty much every word in the English lexicon, but he had yet to learn what order to put them in. As a result, he tended to communicate in meaningless strings of perfectly pronounced English words and phrases.

  The Spits powered on up towards their twenty four thousand foot ceiling, using up petrol at a prodigious rate.

  After twenty minutes Smudger saw them. ‘Bandits eight o’clock, angles eighteen,’ he called.

  ‘I see them, skip.’

  ‘I’m on them, Smudger.’

  ‘Away with the melons, aunty.’

  And the flight swooped down on the enemy at odds of over twelve-to-one against.

  Chapter 5

  Plob wandered through the grounds of the fair eating a toffee apple on a stick. It was day one of the three-day festival that had been declared to celebrate the birth of king Bravad R Us’ first child to queen Dreenee. A son that had been named Bravad Aswel.

  A group of travelling carnivals had set up on the outskirts of the city along with the usual rides and sideshows and Plob had spent the morning checking things out.

  Master Smegly had given Plob the whole three days off, bar helping him during the magician’s contest on the second day. Also, Plob had to conclude the
third day with a dragon fly-past featuring the local flying club of five dragons and the young magician was going to the dragon pens to make sure that Nim was comfortable and had enough peat in his feedbag. He decided to take a short cut behind the carnie’s caravans so that he could get to the pens quicker.

  He turned the corner to see a group of singlet clad, tattooed, wiry muscled carny tent pitchers and handlers. There were six of them clustered around a skinny teenage boy who looked vaguely as if he were composed entirely of knees and elbows. His tunic and trews were too short, leaving six inches of pale, malnourished ankle and wrist extending from the material like bleached twigs wrapped in cloth. The carnies were laughing and pushing him from person to person. The gangling boy staggered and spun from hand to hand. Eventually he fell to the floor and lay there, staring up at his intimidators with a puzzled expression.

  One of the carnies kicked him. Not hard. Not even with aggression. Merely with casual contempt for someone who was not as physically able as he was. This was greeted with more ribald laughter.

  Plob had never been bullied. From an early age he had been apprenticed to mater Smegly and had spent many a laborious hour at the furnace, hammering raw magic into spells. As a result he was built like a blacksmith and had been since his fourteenth birthday. This, added to the fact that he was a very accomplished magician who had already been involved in literal life and death battles numerous times, made him an adversary that it was best to avoid. However - these people were not locals so were unaware of these facts.

  He strode forward, shouldered his way past the carnies and lifted the boy to his feet. Now he was closer he could see that the boy was not as young as he had at first thought. Probably fifteen, but seriously undernourished.

  Someone tapped Plob on the shoulder. ‘Hey, you. Bugger off.’

  The teenage magician turned to look at the speaker. A face like a police brutality poster. Broken teeth, crooked nose, ridge of scar tissue across the eyebrows and breath that would curl a corpse’s toes at a hundred yards. His arms looked like they had been put together with flesh coloured cables and skin. He stood perhaps three inches over Plob’s six feet.

  ‘Give us your toffee apple and piss off, pretty boy, before I get angry.’ This was greeted with much laughter and wolf whistles from the rest of the group.

  Plob knew the score. There would be a trading of insults, a bit of pushing and shoving and then the whole bunch would attack him. But he was a well brought up boy and thought that he should at least give them a chance to apologise.

  He held up his hand. ‘I am leaving with my friend. You will apologise, you will stand aside and you will let us leave. These are the last words that I will say to you.’

  ‘Oh, really? What you going to do, kiss me to death?’ There was more laughter but this time it was a little subdued. Almost nervous. There was something about this teenager that simply didn’t add up.

  Plob had already given fair warning so felt entirely justified in reacting the way that he did. He cocked his fist and drove a straight right into bad-breath’s face, hitting him so hard that he cartwheeled backwards into the side of a caravan with a sound like a watermelon smashing open on a pavement. Then he muttered a quick air-fire incantation, released it and pulled the boy to safety as a miniature bolt of lightning crackled from carny to carny, frazzling hair, burning off eyebrows and knocking them, twitching and drooling, to the ground.

  Plob continued to the pens with the boy lolloping next to him.

  ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘Boy.’

  ‘Yes, you. Your name?’

  ‘Boy.’

  ‘So, is that what everyone calls you?’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘What do they call you then?’

  ‘Youweeshitebuggeroff.’

  ‘Okay…Boy it is then.’

  ‘Sir, where we settin’ foot ta?’

  Plob had to concentrate a little to get his brain around the accent. ‘To see my dragon.’

  ‘Ah lik’ dragons.’

  Plob handed Boy the rest of his toffee apple. Boy ate it in two bites. Then he ate the stick.

  ‘Hungry?’ Asked Plob.

  Boy nodded.

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  Boy shrugged. ‘A while back. Day afore yesterday, I think.’

  ‘When we’re finished here I’ll find you something to eat.’

  Boy nodded.

  ‘Well,’ said Plob. ‘We’re here.’ Plob lead Boy into the set of six pens. Five were occupied and Nim was in the first pen on the left. ‘Now be careful. Nim gets very jealous and tends to bite.’

  Boy walked straight up to the dragon and scratched it under its massive chin. ‘Ach, ye braw wee thing. How urr ye?’

  Nim purred like an avalanche and licked Boy’s face with his two-foot long, sticky black tongue. Plob was amazed. Never before had he seen Nim react so favourably to a stranger. In fact, it was unusual for any dragon to so friendly first off.

  ‘He likes you.’

  ‘Aye, al dragons like me. Ah grew up wi’ thaim.’

  ‘So, where are you from, Boy?’

  ‘Ah wis born in th' hills o' Bracolgoght in th' Northern realms.’

  Plob started to fill Nim’s feedbag with fresh peat. ‘I wondered about the accent. But I thought that you guys all wore skirts.’

  ‘They’re nae skirts, they’re kilts.’

  ‘Well why aren’t you wearing one?’

  ‘Cripes, ah git beat up enough as it's. Whit dae ye think mah life wid be lik' if ah wore a dress?’

  ‘Kilt.’

  ‘Och, whatever.’

  ‘So, Boy, can you fly?’

  ‘Nae. Could never afford to.’

  ‘Do you know how it works?’

  Boy shrugged.

  ‘Here,’ said Plob. ‘Take a look. You steer via this set of rope and pulleys that we attach to the saddle. Then we run the rope along these sets of steel rings that are pierced through the leading edge of the dragon’s wings. Then we connect that same rope to the stirrups. So if you push down on the stirrup it pulls the corresponding wing in, causing the dragon to turn in that direction. You relax your foot and flight continues straight and level. Push both stirrups down and the dragon dives. Thump your heels into its flanks and it climbs. Squeeze your knees it goes faster. Simple.’

  In reality Plob knew that flying was actually anything but simple. In fact it was more akin to trying to scratch your nose with your elbow while carrying a rabid dog from a burning building. Complicated and dangerous.

  ‘Well, I’m finished here,’ continued the young magician. ‘Let’s go take a look at the fair and see if we can get you something more substantial than a toffee apple.’

  ‘Thank ye muchly, sir.’

  Plob led Boy away and they went in search for comestibles.

  Chapter 6

  Typhon was amazed. Astonished. And astounded. He was also glad, gleeful and gratified. No - not strong enough…he was more than glad, he was, in fact, ecstatic, elated…euphoric even. And the reason for this was; he was winning. After a series of quite serious setbacks in his recent past things were now going, almost uncontrollably, his way. And…it…was…GOOD!

  Afore him was arrayed the mighty army of the Vagoths. Pikemen and swordsmen and bowmen and engines of war. And to his left stood Herr Gobling and Herr Boredman. To his right, the little Gooballs. It had been the quickest transfer of power that Typhon had ever heard of.

  He had entered their realm with ten ogre bodyguards with the intention of organising a bit of power sharing in mind. A little, I scratch your back, you tear off Plob’s back and burn his cities to the ground, type of thing. But it was almost as if the Vagoths needed to be led. They had lived for so long under the yoke of their former Fuhrer, who was, as far as the big T could tell, a complete and utter nutcase, that they were incapable of leading themselves.

  Pretty much everything that Typhon had suggested was fast agreed on (as long as it involved war, destruction,
mayhem and dressing up in black uniforms with loads of death’s head badges and lightning bolts).

  Now he stood before the horde as they all threw their arms straight above their heads and honoured him with the traditional salute. ‘Hey-oop, Herr Typhon. Hey-oop!’

  But the thing that excited him the most. The reason that he shivered with multiple frissons of pleasure as he stood in front of the mighty multitude of militants, was the dragons. A score’s score and a bit more they numbered. (Work it out…a score is twenty. Okay? Twenty multiplied by another score makes four hundred. Add a bit more and you get; a lavatory full of dragons, like…umm…lots).

  Not the smoky, little noxious burp-of-flame producers that were prevalent on Typhon’s world were these beasts. Oh no. These dragons spat fire that burned as hot as the sun and travelled as fast as a bolt of lightning. The pilots that sat atop them were impressive, clad in sadomasochistic costumes of black leather and fur. They ruled the skies as knights of the air. And these smelting steeds and their searing sea of flames would bring on the decisive demise of Plob and his fellow denizens. So, ha. Take that. And that and that.

  Boy ate like a person possessed.

  A person possessed by a sumo wrestler after a day of fasting. Plob had purchased a tub of stew from one of the food stalls. The dish was listed as the “Mystery Meat Gut-Buster…feed the family for less than a Dollar.” They had sat down at one of the rough wooden tables provided and Boy had set to.

  Plob watched with amazement. Boy ate with a strange sort of deftness. He used the two handed method, whilst one hand was inserting food into mouth the other was scooping more up in readiness. Shoulders swayed slightly from side to side and jaws masticated rhythmically. The Gut-Buster went down in an incredibly short time.

  ‘Full?’

  ‘Ta, a’m stowed oot.’

  ‘Let’s go check out the sights.’

  Plob and Boy wandered aimlessly around the various stalls and sideshows at the fair. Boy ate another three toffee apples and a sausage in a bun. Then he ate something grapefruit sized and pink and sweet that had been rolled in sugar and syrup and honey and desiccated coconut and more sugar, and then left lurking under a glass dome waiting for someone like Boy. It stained his teeth, his hands, his tunic and, somehow the soles of his socks a virulent pink.