by Heide Goody
Table of Contents
PART ONE – DREAMS OF HOOFLANDIA
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
PART TWO - ARISE HOOFLANDIA!
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
PART THREE – THE FALL OF HOOFLANDIA
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
PART FOUR – MEMORIES OF HOOFLANDIA
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Hooflandia
Heide Goody & Iain Grant
Pigeon Park Press
‘Hooflandia’ Copyright © Heide Goody and Iain Grant 2018
The moral right of the authors has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, except for personal use, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9957497-8-8
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9957497-7-1
Published by Pigeon Park Press
Cover art by Mike Watts
www.pigeonparkpress.com
[email protected]
PART ONE – DREAMS OF HOOFLANDIA
CHAPTER ONE
Four-hundred-and-something Chester Road.
Boldmere.
Sutton Coldfield.
The house was built something like a hundred years ago, back in a time when people were shorter but ceilings were inexplicably higher. Three storeys tall and deeper than it was wide, it had probably been home to the family of a factory manager, a minor civil servant or a small-time professional. They might even have had a maid or a cook. It had been that kind of house.
In leaner, post-war times, it was divided into self-contained flats. As the barriers between social classes blurred, the divided house became home to a variety of factory folk, council servants, professionals of varying dubiousness and even a maid or cook or two – all living cheek by jowl.
Then, in the early twenty-first century, for some very convoluted reasons, it became the home of a man, a woman, the devil and an angel and there was a period of stability (in the same way that the Cold War was a period of stability). This did not last long.
Most recently, after a series of calamitous incidents involving (but not limited to) a psychotic capuchin monkey, a fire-breathing ferret and an apocalypse-obsessed landlord, the house had been virtually destroyed and rebuilt and was now the home and property of only three occupants. The man and the devil lived in the first-floor flats. The woman lived on the second floor with her dog, Twinkle. The angel was in prison, but the ground-floor flat he had once occupied was neither empty nor unused…
Jeremy Clovenhoof and Nerys Thomas stood outside the door to flat 1b, waiting for Ben Kitchen.
For the third time in as many minutes, Clovenhoof tested the padlocks on the door.
Nerys tutted.
“It never hurts to check,” he said.
Clovenhoof had a key to one padlock. Nerys and Ben had keys to the other two. They had all chosen high-security locks. The jargon came back to him: ball-locking, hardened shackles, reversible dimples. He shuddered with anticipation and shouted up the stairs.
“Come on, Kitchen! We’re waiting!”
“Someone’s eager,” said Nerys.
“You have to admit it’s spiced things up no end,” he said. “The three of us living in this place... Things get stale.” He waggled his eyebrows lewdly.
“Patience,” said Nerys, taking her padlock key out of her cleavage.
“What’s keeping him?” tsked Clovenhoof. “Doesn’t he know I’m a busy man.”
“No, you’re not. You have no job. You’re not even a man. Let’s just be thankful he doesn’t know you’re… you know.” She mimed a pair of horns.
“Well, he should know this is the highlight of my week. I went out to buy essentials and everything.”
Clovenhoof took the giant tub of petroleum jelly out of his bag.
“Whoa, what’s that for?” said Ben, coming down the stairs.
“It’s the only way to do some of those trickier manoeuvres,” said Clovenhoof.
Nerys glanced toward Ben. “You were the one complaining about chafing last time.”
Clovenhoof fished a key out of his underpants. Ben removed a folding leather key wallet from his pocket.
“Ready?” said Nerys. She and Clovenhoof unlocked their padlocks.
Ben hesitated.
“What are you waiting for?” said Nerys.
Ben licked his lips. “Do you ever wonder what people think?”
“All the time,” said Clovenhoof. “Usually they’re thinking ‘who is that smoking hot devil of a chap staring at me?’”
“I mean about this,” said Ben, waving his hands at the door. “It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”
“We’re all consenting adults,” said Nerys.
“Sure,” said Ben, sounding anything but. And he put his key in the lock.
CHAPTER TWO
The Old Place.
Hell.
Downstairs.
Hell had come into being at the very moment its first resident attempted a rebellion against the Almighty. It had been a bold military move on Satan’s part, a full one-third of the angels had been on his side, but he had failed to take into account that the Almighty had that whole omnipotence thing going on. It was a short war.
There was no time in Hell but, nonetheless, for a long time it was used as a dumping ground for those who did not match up to Heaven’s standards. The human equivalent of bruised fruit, bent cucumbers and rotten apples were barred entry to the posh supermarket of the afterlife and sent to Hell to be punished for being variously bruised, bent and rotten. Its first resident, Satan, found his role transmogrifying from prisoner to governor. He didn’t enjoy either role, so the change went almost unnoticed.
Most recen
tly, after a series of calamitous incidents involving (but not limited to) an attempted coup in Heaven, a management reshuffle, a heat malfunction and a Hell-wide flood, the abode of the damned was now ruled by a disgraced saint and undergoing a major architectural refurbishment programme.
Rutspud stared down at the latest addition to Hell’s landscape, one he had more than a hand in creating. Rutspud was proud of his contributions to the Infernal Innovations Programme. For a minor demon, working in Hell’s R&D department was a dream job, one he’d secured based on a combination of luck, intelligence and being a seriously sneaky bastard. His boss, Belphegor, Lord of Sloth and the original inventor demon, had a solid grounding in engineering principles and a Byzantine supply chain network that could secure any source material that they needed. With Belphegor’s political clout and Rutspud’s gift for ideas (many of them shamelessly plundered from the internet), they had produced initiative after initiative that enriched Hell’s torments immensely.
Before them lay their latest creation.
“The Pit of Big Cats with Assault Rifles,” said Rutspud. “It needs a snappier name.”
“Names do not matter,” countered Belphegor. “It’s the results that matter.”
It was an old argument between them and one they both enjoyed. The technical challenges of creating this had been interesting, but not insurmountable. They had discovered that although big cats lacked opposable thumbs, their razor-sharp hunter’s minds and generally high levels of misanthropy made them enthusiastic employees. As soon as R&D had developed aiming and firing mechanisms that could be operated with a paw, the Hellish cats turned out to be crack shots.
“I still don’t see why hunting is suddenly so sinful,” said Belphegor. “The Other Lot have got a bloody patron saint of hunting, Hubertus. Ever met him?”
Rutspud shook his head.
“A man in love with himself if ever there was one. The Celestial crowd shoved him sideways into some filing department just to get him out of the way.”
“It’s not hunting itself we’re punishing. It’s this ‘canned hunt’ nonsense,” said Rutspud.
Belphegor pressed a button on the arm of his steam-driven wheelchair and a pair of opera glasses on a stick popped up. Belphegor peered through them.
“Let’s give it a final test, eh? Line up the target.”
Rutspud whistled and waved down into the pit where a demon cowered at the edge of an otherwise empty floor. “Boffjock! Get in position!”
“There’s been a lot of interest in canned hunts on social media,” Rutspud said to Belphegor. “Rich arsewipes going into fake wilderness to shoot a sick or elderly lion. It creates a lot of outrage. You know how humans are about cats.” Rutspud shuddered. Even the thought of the furry critters was enough to creep him out. “Someone shoots a cat. Boo-hoo, everyone cries. It was too weak and pathetic to defend itself? How terrible! The shooter was some rich bloke, probably an American? He deserves the full fury of Hell!”
Boffjock was shuffling reluctantly into position, taking the smallest steps that he could manage and still be moving.
“You know, the scale of Hell’s punishments isn’t determined by internet likes,” said Belphegor. “This place isn’t a popularity contest.”
Rutspud gave him an appalled look. “Of course, it is. The Other Lot are all trying to crawl into the Almighty’s good books. And us… well, it’s better to reign in Hell and all that. Move it, Boffjock!”
Unable to delay any longer, the target demon took his mark. Belphegor nodded and turned to the lion that was strapped into the firing harness. “Fire away, Mr Wiffles.”
The lion pedalled his back paws to swivel his gun mount, turning the entire platform to line the gun barrel up with the target. He adjusted the angle of the rifle, sighted the target and used his right paw to press the trigger.
Boffjock’s head exploded in a delightfully visceral display. Mr Wiffles made a noise like a sneeze, the closest thing to a laugh that was available to a big cat.
“I think we can call that a success,” said Belphegor, tossing a strip of flesh to Mr Wiffles. “Now let’s get our inaugural victim in there. Did we go for Hemingway in the end?”
“No. Despite the fact that ‘Papa’ is clearly not suffering in the Pit of Angry Feminist Sharks, we’ve selected a new arrival. He should be here by now. We’ve put up the welcome bunting, even got some party poppers.” Rutspud twanged the bunting then added a festoon of Boffjock’s intestines to enhance the festive feel.
Belphegor pulled up a tablet device and scrolled. “Lord Claymore Ferret. Pre-fate check-in had him due to die four hours ago. And he was put on the fast track for processing. We don’t get many lords these days, do we?”
“No,” said Rutspud. “They’ve kind of fallen out of fashion on earth.”
“Really? Why’s that? You’re our resident earth expert.”
Rutspud pondered. His experience of life on earth was limited to a tiny Welsh island inhabited solely by half a dozen monks and about ten billion sea birds. Belphegor sometimes failed to appreciate that most of what happened on earth didn’t happen there.
“Couldn’t say. I’ll be happy as long as he gets here before any demons walk off with our party poppers and use them as eyes.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they’re eyes,” said Rutspud. He squeezed a couple to illustrate his point and they exploded wetly, gushing translucent gloop into the air. “Is it possible,” he pondered, “that Lord Claymore Ferret, his lordship, Lordy McLordface or whatever we call him has been given a last-minute reprieve?”
“You’re worrying,” said Belphegor. “The man’s a grade one sinner. As well as his hunting activities, he was a slum landlord, an arms dealer and when his drilling company poisoned an entire township in central Africa, he sent every bereaved family a ‘buy one get one free’ voucher for his Slice O’Beef burger bar franchise. You eaten earth burgers, Rutspud?”
“No, there were no Slice O’Beef burger bars on Bardsey Island,” said Rutspud.
“There aren’t any in central Africa either,” Belphegor noted.
“The monks of Bardsey were forced to eat whatever Brother Manfred cooked. We’re testing his pickled onion and melon ball starter in the Pit of Michelin-Starred Chefs Who Tell You You’re Eating Their Food Wrong.”
“Shankrule!” Belphegor called to an approaching demon. Shankrule’s body was covered in human faces. As the demon in charge of logistics, he claimed that it gave him the ability to organise multiple things at a time. Rutspud suspected that he just liked picking his noses.
“We’re expecting a celebrity guest,” said Belphegor. “Has Lord Claymore Ferret been held up?”
“He’s not coming,” said one of Shankrule’s faces and several more made noises of general agreement.
“But we’ve dug a whole new pit. Bring him here immediately.”
“No,” said Shankrule. “I mean he’s not coming. At all. We’ve had today’s intake and he’s not there.”
“Not there?” said Rutspud.
“You’ll just have to put someone else in your new pit,” said Shankrule.
“Like who?”
Shankrule shrugged and looked at the vengeance-ready animals in the pit. “What about some vegans who secretly eat bacon? Always good for a laugh.”
Belphegor revved his wheelchair and moved back and forth a few times in frustration. “Hardly the poetic irony we were going for with this pit.” The ancient demon sighed, lifted a cheek and farted thoughtfully. “Very well, bring us some of those then.”
“When we get some, I’ll have them sent here,” said Shankrule.
“Just pull some out of the line at the gates.”
“We haven’t got any in the line,” said one of the faces on his shoulder.
“What he said,” said Shankrule’s face (the one in the traditional face-spot on the front of his head).
“Nearly two hundred thousand people die on earth every day. It’s not unreaso
nable to assume we get a fifty-fifty split. We’ve got to have several hundred vegans, real or otherwise, in that lot. You telling me we don’t have a few bacon-snafflers among them?”
Shankrule bowed obsequiously. “You are welcome to go to the gates and have a look, my lord.”
Belphegor stabbed a pre-set on his wheelchair’s navigation system and sat back while the steam-powered chariot ploughed a path towards the gates of Hell. Rutspud had a little difficulty following. Belphegor had a very simple attitude to navigation; if the shortest distance between two points in Hell was a straight line then a lord of Hell had every right to follow that line. Cushioned by a complicated pneumatic suspension riding above its all-terrain wheels, and most importantly, featuring a cow-catcher on the front, Belphegor’s vehicle surged ahead of Rutspud as he scrambled through the broken remains of walls, pits and damned souls.
“So,” Belphegor called back to him, “what kind of animal is a melon anyway?”
“It’s a fruit. They scoop out balls of its flesh. No animals are involved,” said Rutspud.
“Sounds horrific,” said Belphegor. He flicked through files on his tablet, merrily ignorant of the chaos he left in his wake. “We’ve missed out on a number of big ticket inmates recently.”
“Yes?” said Rutspud.
“The roller coaster in the Pit of Indigestion for that guy whose theme park concessions put addictive substances into the food. Never used.” He flicked again. “Same with the Pit of Savage Chinchillas for the fashion designer who found that it was cheaper to use real fur and pretend that it was faux fur.”
“Odd,” said Rutspud, tripping and cartwheeling over a smashed Centre of Torturing Excellence and the dozen damned underneath it.
“Odd!” huffed Belphegor. “Those chinchillas were promised some quality entertainment. Nothing worse than a savage and bored chinchilla.”
They were near to the gate now. Hell’s basic geography had mostly stayed true to the original designs: huge cavernous spaces, jagged stalactites and stalagmites, a suffusing red glow of fires near and distant, the promise that however bad this spot here was there was somewhere worse just around the corner. However, the gates of Hell had been updated in recent times. The gate itself had been replaced by a giant concrete arch on which were etched the words:
