“Bring it on!” chanted Spike.
“Forty cheese crumbs!”
“So coool!” He sucked on the epod-virtual-gob-mounted-taste-generator and typed, “Mozzarella!”
“Sixty cheese crumbs!”
SumoPixie fired three Stilton Torpedoes and gained seventy cheese crumbs straight away. GeekGod retaliated with three Edam Grenades then hid behind some heavily-armoured Camembert. DragonMassager fired off a 22 millimetre Danish Blue scoring a direct hit on MightyGerbil. SumoPixie swiftly deployed his Red Leicester Taser and annihilated DragonMassager’s Double Gloucester Flak Jacket.
A well-aimed Brie finished off SwordofJelly and within seconds DragonMassager and MightyGerbil were taken out by Parmesan shrapnel.
GeekGod and SumoPixie were down to the final CheeseOff.
Spike inhaled The Sniffer3000™
On the screen appeared two words.
“Wensleydale or Gorgonzola?”
“Press F1 for Wensleydale or F7 for Gorgonzola!”
He knew the smell of Wensleydale anywhere. It was his favourite cheese. He smiled to himself, slowly leaned forward and, just as he was about to press F1, Analog the cat strode over the keyboard, purred softly and pawed F7.
“Incorrect cheese! It was Wensleydale!”
“I knew it was Wensleydale. It was the cat who pushed F7 - not me!!”
And suddenly words Spike had never seen before in his life appeared on his screen.
“You are a loser!”
Spike screamed, “What??”
“I said, ‘You are a loser!’ SumoPixie wins two million cheese crumbs!”
And a tiny avatar of SumoPixie jumping up and down and wiggling his bottom at Spike appeared on the screen.
“But it wasn’t me, it was Analog the cat!!”
The game shimmered to a little dot and disappeared with a pop. GeekGod never lost a game. Ever, ever, ever. Well, not until today, anyway.
Then something happened which he didn’t expect. SumoPixie sent him an email.
“It’s a booby prize. Losers always get a booby prize and you’re a loser!” said the email.
Spike clicked the attachment and a Plonka™ Online Scratch Card popped open on his screen.
“Oh, great. Really great! Thanks, SumoPixie. That’s really great. I calculate the chances of getting a winning card are close to 31,000,456 to 1 against.”
He was about to delete the attachment when he thought, “What the heck. It’s still a chance.”
And I don’t really need to tell you what happened next, do I?
I do? Goodness me, have you no imagination at all?
The onscreen card popped, fizzed, popped again and the virtual stench of bad alligator eggs, curdled badger’s milk and bacon yoghurt three years past its sell-by date splurged into his eyes and his mouth and up his nose.
He tore off the CGI-optical-generating-helmet and Wobble Goggles with a shriek revealing red and teary eyes. He yanked the epod-virtual-gob-mounted-taste-generator from his mouth and wildly licked his tongue on his hand to get rid of the foul taste. He snatched off The Sniffer3000™ and wiped his dribbling nose on his sleeve.
You think that’s gross? Believe me - it’s going to get a lot, lot worse…
* * *
1 That means at the same time. Okay, so you know that already. I was just trying to help.
2 See previous footnote.
MARLEY SUCKETT’S SCRATCH CARD
The first four Plonka™ Scratch Cards had been found. Isn’t that exciting?1 Nabbed by four children all eager to lay their eyes on whatever goings-on were going on behind the big metal gates of Billy Plonka’s Grot Laboratory. Within days they would be touring the secret inner sanctum of one of the most famous buildings on the planet and seeing things no one had seen before. It was the greatest treat in the world or so they thought…
~~~
But let’s return to the Sucketts. You remember the Sucketts? No? Well, just flick back a few pages. Done? Good. This is what is happening…
“Aitchoooooooooooo!” A deafening blast of snot exploded from Grandmom Freda.
“Aitchoooooooooooooooooooooo!” An ear-splitting boom of spittle erupted from Grandpop Eric.
“Aitchooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” A thunderous fountain of drool shot from Grandmom Erica.
They were ill. Very ill, and when the Suckett family were ill they competed for who was worse.
Grandpop Eric was curled up complaining about his tummy, Grandmom Erica was doubled up complaining about her knees, Grandmom Freda was flat out complaining about her head and Grandpop Fred was face down complaining about everyone’s tummies, knees and heads.
“You won’t want your dinner, then!” shouted Mrs Suckett by the hob scraping something green off a smoking pan. It was Thursday and that meant their favourite - radishes on toast!
“I’m too ill to eat!” moaned Grandpop Eric.
“I’m too ill to drink!” groaned Grandmom Erica.
“I’m too ill to even say I’m too ill to eat or drink!” muttered Grandmom Freda.
“Well, in that case!” said Mr Suckett, throwing down his newspaper and startling a rat, “You’d better have some medicine! Where’s that forged bank note?”
Grandpop Fred was quite a good forger. He’d forged biscuits, some jelly, a ransom note, a couple of socks but until now had never, ever forged money. He’d spent the previous week forging a ten pound note which had taken him hours and hours and hours. What he’d failed to work out was if he’d had a proper job he’d have earned more in all those hours than just ten pounds, but, nonetheless, he was proud of his work and waved it in the air whenever he felt like it and he was waving it right now.
“Here it is, here it is!” cried Fred, wiping his nose.
Mr Suckett snatched the note, slapped it in his son’s hand and pointed to the door, “Go buy some medicine!”
“But that’s mine!” pleaded Grandpop Fred, “I don’t want to share it with this lot!” Grandpop Eric sneezed at him and Grandmom Erica poked him with her walking stick. Twice.
“Do I have to?” moaned Marley, clutching the forged note, “Can’t I just nick some?”
Mr Suckett lovingly grabbed his son by his hair and snarled, “We don’t want to draw attention, see? Nip in, buy the stuff, get home. No messing. Understand?”
Marley wasn’t going to argue with his dad, at least not today. He was about to make for the door when his dad snatched him by the hair once more and said, “Don’t nick anything. Understand?”
Marley understood. Well, he said he understood…
~~~
It was a dark and dank day Marley stepped out into. The rain was cascading around him as he turned up his collar and adjusted his hat, skipped a grey puddle and walked off. Soon he was passing the gates to Billy Plonka’s Grot Laboratory and, despite the crashing, splashing rain, paused to peer through the bars. It was a fascinating and tantalising building. Water drizzled down the sides of the big, brown building and rivers of dark water flooded the driveway. The big doors at the front had the letters B.P. hanging from it and, as Marley watched, they dropped off and fell in a puddle.
For one fleeting moment Marley thought he saw a face at the window. A small, round face which stayed just long enough to make a rude gesture before disappearing. It disappeared not because it had decided to move away. It disappeared because Marley had just been slapped in the face by a piece of paper.
Marley muttered something and peeled it from his face. It was one of Plonka’s invitations to the Grot Laboratory. He sighed, screwed it up, tossed it in the gutter and watched it sail slowly away and gurgle down a drain.
~~~
“BILL’S EMPORIUM OF DELIGHTS” was one of the most famous shops in the town. It had sat on the corner of the High Street for more years than most people could remember and most people couldn’t remember very far except for Marley’s grandparents who could remember when all of it was swamps. Everyone went there for bits and bobs, thingies and doodah
s, whatsits and whatdayaymacallits. It was one of those shops that sold everything you could dream of and a few things you couldn’t. It was owned by Big Bill, who had also sat on the corner for many years. Usually in a chair, in his striped shirt, waiting for customers. He loved all his customers - well, he did until today.
The doorbell rang as Marley entered and Bill was about to launch into his usual, “Good morning/afternoon sir and/or madam (delete as appropriate), welcome to Bill’s Emporium of Delights. Are you interested in a bit/bob/thingy/doodah/whatsits or whatdayaymacallit (delete as appropriate)” when his eyes fell on one of the most feared boys from one of the most hated families in town and he simply said, “Oh, it’s you. No nicking!”
Marley, knowing his reputation, casually perused the aisles of stuff he had no intention of buying just to intimidate the owner. He picked up a packet of cotton buds, sniffed them and slowly put them back.
“What do you want?” asked Bill, hugging his till protectively, “We haven’t got any money!”
Marley waved the forged note in the air like a millionaire choosing a Rolls- Royce.
“I have money!”
“So you do,” said Bill, releasing the till and rubbing his hands, “What is Sir in the market for today? Could I interest you in some quality broccoli? Some bubble wrap? Perhaps a mop or a couple of trowels? How are you for paperclips? Avocado, maybe? Some nails? A kazoo? How about a hat? Toilet paper? Trifle? A paper plate? Some chives? Could I interest you in a paddling pool? This is Bill’s Emporium of Delights!”
Bill rubbed his hands some more and buzzed around Marley like an irritating bee about to descend on an unsuspecting tulip.
Marley paused for a moment, tapped the forged note to his lip and said, “Candy!”
“Very wise!” said Bill and dived behind the counter and immediately returned with a big red box. “Top quality candy, sir, just for you, sir. Secret stash!” He tapped his nose conspiratorially and pulled out a few samples.
“Chonka Bar? Butty Lunch Surprise? Pip Corn? That’s popcorn that hasn't popped yet. A bag of N and N’s? Yummi Bears? Mushmellow? Chocolate Gerbil? Jelly Spoon?”
“Is that a spoon made of jelly?” asked Marley.
“No, a spoon for eating jelly!”
He waved them at Marley who licked his lips, smiled and said, “All of them!”
The transaction was completed. Bill was happy he’d sold a lot of candy, Marley was pleased he’d paid for it with a fake note, but it wasn’t until he started to make for the door and the bell was half-way through its tinkle that Marley saw a bottle of cough syrup and said,
“Pants!”
He had forgotten to buy the medicine! He checked his pockets. Nope, no change. He thought about it for a moment. Then thought, “Ah, well. At least I got my candy!” and left. The doorbell tinkled and Bill sighed softly, counting his money.
Outside Bill’s Emporium of Delights was a pram and inside the pram was a small baby cooing and giggling, its bright eyes shining and a wide smile across its innocent face. Marley looked at it and immediately hated it. But what he didn’t hate was something small, square and card-like it held in its hand. You’ve probably guessed what it is. Have you? Well, let’s take a moment for you to catch up. Thought about it? Good. It was a Plonka™ Scratch Card!
Marley looked about. There was no one around apart from the baby’s mother who was rummaging in a big shopping bag and muttering to herself about the prices these days. Marley leaned over the pram like a grabbing machine at the fair and very, very carefully took the card from the hands of the little baby. Yes, that’s the kind of kid he was. I told you, didn’t I? The baby gurgled, giggled, smiled then slowly looked at its empty hand. It wiggled its fingers curiously and then, realising the hand was empty, let out a deafening, ear-shattering wail!
“Waaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!”
The mother shot up from her shopping bag, spotted Marley and for a short moment they stood face to face weighing up the situation. Marley, who’d weighed it up quicker than she had, turned and fled.
“Stop, thief!” yelled the mother.
“Waaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!” yelled the baby, but it was too late. As a crowd gathered, Marley was half-way down the street, round a corner, up a hill, down an alley and hiding behind a cluster of garbage cans.
He panted and caught his breath as a gaggle of caring and shouting people ran past the entrance to the alleyway.
Marley looked down at the card. He turned it over in his hands and wondered if this could be the one. He smelled it, he licked it, he held it to his ear but it was giving nothing away.
He had to scratch it.
He looked about and found a broken comb covered in hair, which he brushed away.
He started to scratch the card with the comb.
And he scratched.
And he scratched.
And he scratched.
Then suddenly the card popped, fizzed, popped again and the virtual stench of bad alligator eggs, curdled badger’s milk and bacon yoghurt three years past its sell by date burst out.2
Marley was enveloped in the foul stench, he inhaled deeply and spluttered, “I’m…(cough, cough) …a…. (cough, cough) … winner!”
* * *
1 The answer is “Yes.”
2 What a surprise. Not.
THE GROT LABORATORY
It was the day!
THE day!
The day!
THE day!
IT… WAS… THE… DAY!!
The day of the Grand Opening Tour of Billy Plonka’s Grot Laboratory!! If I had a trumpet I’d blow a triumphant fanfare but I don’t so you’ll just have to pretend.
A babbling scrum of nearly two thousand people were elbowing, jabbing and kicking each other outside the Grot Laboratory. It was a huge, thronging crowd of hangers-on, wannabes, hopefuls and no-chancers. There were hundreds of them. All different shapes, sizes, heights and widths. Some with hats, some without. Some with hair, some without. All colours and types and makes of the human race had gathered to see this one massive, magnificent global event. It was being simulcast across the world by Sox News. People in China, Argentina, America, Finland, Canada, France and every other country you could name were ogling their TV screens goggle-eyed waiting to see the finders of the five Plonka™ Scratch Cards! It was the biggest event in the history of Ever. Ever! Exclamation mark!
Two hundred and fifty-seven TV cameras stared, unblinkingly, at the gate of the Grot Laboratory. Multi-lingual reporters chittered and chattered to the millions of anxious ears across the globe and spotlights scanned the hordes of selfie-snapping gawpers.
Chief Inspector Knobsworth (who was more used to helping little old ladies across the road and rescuing cats from trees) looked at the mass of people, polished his radio and thought, “This is the largest gathering the town’s had since the day the Lord Mayor auctioned off his mother for ten pence. If it turns into a riot I’ve going for an ice-cream.”
And then the town hall clock struck twelve. Well, actually it only struck eleven due to one of its mechanical clackers being stolen ten years ago1. Luckily, the people of the town were used to it and whenever the clock struck eleven they would wait a few moments and all shout, “Bong!” together.
“Bong!”
Two thousand people chorused and watched as the foreign reporters desperately tried to translate it.
“Bing!”
“Ting!”
“Tang!”
“Dong!”
And at twelve o’clock (or eleven o’clock and a bong as the locals call it) and five minutes, sleek, gleaming limousines drove slowly down the street. The crowds parted silently as they drew up at the Laboratory gates and five small, black-suited drivers hopped out and opened the rear doors.
The crowd erupted in deafening cheers.
“That’s the Ploop boy!” shrieked one.
“Scab! Scab! We love you!”
“OMG Spike Peecee!!”
“Viola Mudguard! I’m your number one fa
n!”
Orson Ploop was accompanied by his mother who was weighed down carrying his huge collection of kazoos which he never travelled without.
Victoria Scabb was followed at a safe distance by her red-faced father, Mr J.D. Scabb. B.A. (Ed), and kept shouting, “Two hundred and fifty-ninth in line to the throne!” much to his embarrassment.
Tark walked in front of Viola Mudguard parting the gaggling crowds and shoving aside her number one, two and three fans who had all come on the same bus.
Spike Peecee followed on unaccompanied apart from his ePad from out of which peered the amazed faces of his parents who couldn’t make it so were watching him on Hype™.
“Lift us up, turn us around. Stop shaking us!” they cried.
The first four winners waved at the crowd, smiled, waved some more, signed a few autographs, posed for selfies, smiled some more and looked like they were having the time of their lives, which they probably were. Microphones were thrust and poked into their faces and endless flashes went off like a mad firework display. Meanwhile, inside the final car an argument was taking place.
“Give it all back!” yelled the little chauffeur tugging at Marley Suckett’s jacket, which he’d stuffed with anything and everything he could find in the car.
“No!” shouted Marley.
“Leave the kid alone!” said Grandpop Fred, “I’m his nominated responsible adult! If you tug him again I’ll poke you with my finger!”
“But I need that spare wheel!” insisted the chauffeur.
Marley and Grandpop Fred tumbled out of the limo scattering all the bits and bobs they’d tried to steal. A spanner, a couple of remote controls for the air-con, some things in the glove compartment and a very large fire extinguisher.
The chauffeur huffed and tutted and slammed the door shut as the Sucketts joined the rest of the winners. Cameras descended on Marley while Grandpop Fred plunged into the crowd to do a little pickpocketing. Within seconds people were yelping,
“Where’s my phone?”
“Who’s had my sandwich?”
“I’ve lost my teeth!”
New Title 1 Page 4
