“Weeks went by and I languished in this paradise of filth. It was one of the best times of my life. The beaches were pure mould, the air riddled with smoke and smog and you could get slime from a well just as nature intended. And then one day tragedy struck. Traders from a far off land arrived with diggers and trucks and started building hotels and swimming pools and shopping centres. Before long it had become revoltingly clean and hideously tidy. What was once grime and slime had become utterly, utterly spotless.”
Mr Plonka wiped a tear from eye, sniffed and continued,
“So we had no choice but to move. I had told them of my plans for a Grot Laboratory and they decided now was the time to join me. So I smuggled them aboard a passing tugboat and off we went leaving behind only a rotting pile of waste and many, many happy memories!”
Whilst Billy Plonka was finishing his tale Mrs Ploop was whispering to her son.
“Go on, Orson. Get some grot. We shall take it back to Austria and have it placed in the National Museum!”
Orson was picking up a couple of used tea bags and a mouldy apple and slipping them in his pocket when he saw something he really liked on top of the Giant Garbage Can. It was a disgusting piece of broccoli. You might think broccoli was disgusting anyway, but imagine what already disgusting broccoli was like when it was four months old. Very disgusting indeed. His mother knew what her son wanted and her son always got what he wanted. She dragged over a tall, grot-covered ladder and helped him climb up towards the disgusting vegetable.
“Oh, please don't do that!” said Mr Plonka, looking at his nails, “No, no, please stop!”
But Orson Ploop wasn’t listening and soon his sweaty little body had climbed the ladder and was on the top of the Giant Garbage Can. The other winners looked up in dismay.
“Hey, momma, look at me....ah...ah....choooooo!” Orson Ploop let off a staggeringly loud sneeze. The blast threw him off his balance, he lost his footing, tripped, yelped and toppled face first into the Giant Garbage Can.
“Arrggggggghhhhhh!”
Splat!!!!
“Hmmm, I thought that might happen!” Mr Plonka said, softly.
From inside the garbage can they heard a squelch, a groan, some rumblings and a cry of, “Help me!!!”
“Get my son out of this can!” screamed Mrs Ploop.
“But I don’t know if we have the facilities to do so,” mumbled Plonka, apologetically.
Mrs Ploop, who was used to always getting her way, soon got her way and the way she got it was by grabbing Mr Plonka sharply by the nose. And then tugging it.
“Oooooouch!” yelled Mr Plonka, wriggling himself free and inspecting his nose for damage.
“Now!” she snarled, “Otherwise I will tug again!”
“Oh, very well!” said Mr Plonka. He placed his hand under his armpit and pumped his arm up and down until it made strange noises.
“What are you doing??” yelled Mrs Ploop as he started making even louder noises with his armpit.
“Calling for the Grumpy Trumpers. What did you think?”
Eventually a Grumpy Trumper ambled in, licking a rancid candy bar, and said, “What?"
“Something terrible and unexpected has just occurred!” said Mr Plonka.
“Oh, right!” said the Grumpy Trumper, “Did someone just flop in the can?”
“Yep!”
“Whatever shall we do?”
"Extract our guest from the Giant Garbage Can, immediately!”
The Grumpy Trumper gave a rude salute and pressed a big red button on the side of the can.
There was a shudder, a judder, a gurgle and a plop.
“Where's my son gone?” shrieked Mrs Ploop.
“Read what it says!” said Mr Plonka, wiping some gunk off the sign next to the red button and tapping it with his cane.
It read - “Garbage Recycling System!”
Mrs Ploop started screaming, “Call the police! Murder! My son has been recycled!”
“Oh, please don’t shout. He’ll be fine. He’s only being recycled! It happens all the time. I lost a Grumpy Trumper there only last week and he came out the other end as a perfectly lovely slug!”
“Arrrggghhhhhhhhh!!” Mrs Ploop yelped her loudest yelp so far then fell into a slumped heap on the floor.
“She’s fainted!” shouted Tark, leaning over her.
“Yes, yes, that’s it - she’s fainted!” said the Grumpy Trumper. slipping a hypodermic needle back in his pocket.
~~~
As they led her away mutters of concern flittered through the crowd.
“Shouldn’t he be calling 911?” asked Tark.
“Is he insured!” asked Mr J.D. Scabb B.A. (Ed).
“Will he get medical attention?” asked Spike Peecee’s parents from the ePad.
Mr Plonka turned on his heel in a pool of goo, eyed the visitors up and down and down and up and sneered as politely as he could, “If you have any questions whatsoever, whomsoever, whensoever, whichsoever, whosoever, kindly keep them to yourself!”
Plonka paused, thinking he might have gone too far, but he wasn’t quite sure where too far was so he added,
“Plllleeeeaaaassssse!” then he smiled his one-tooth smile, swirled his cane in the air startling a passing bat and whooped, “Onwards!”
THE MUCKY TUG
“The Dirty Dock!” trilled Mr Plonka.
He had merrily led them down more twisting, dripping corridors, past walls bubbling with slime, round a few stinky puddles until they had arrived at what looked like an underground dockside. A twinkling lamppost tried its hardest to cut through the gloomy murk and a rough chain guarded the edge of the dock as they carefully leaned over the side.
“Behold - the longest, pongiest underground river in the world! The Gungees! One of the purest sources of unspoiled grot ever. Its tributaries can be traced back to the mythical sewers of Kakatun, the shimmering waste outlets of Lake Plopalot and the legendary sluice pipes of Dunawhoopa.”
They gazed down as the blue and brown murky waters washed and sploshed below them and tons of repellent flotsam and jetsam of all shapes and colours bobbed by.
Mr Plonka gazed across it admiringly. “I polluted it all myself, you know. It’s scumpiddlinoxious!”
“Chug, chug, chug, chug!”
“Heavens!” said Mr Plonka, jumping in the air, “Is that the time already?” He looked at his wrist, “Piddle! I don’t have my glasses.” He waved his wrist in front of Marley, “You, boy, what does that say?”
“It says, ‘Remember to wear your watch,’” said Marley.
“Chug, chug, chug, chug!”
“Well, it must be time, otherwise it wouldn’t be chugging this way, would it?”
“What is chugging this way, Mr Plonka?” asked Victoria Scabb.
“You mean you don’t know? You mean you haven’t heard? You mean I have to tell you everything?”
“Well, it is your laboratory and your tour!” said Marley.
Mr Plonka looked at Marley like he was a fresh little daisy, turned up his nose and snorted.
“Very well, very well! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, may I present - the Mucky Tug!”
They all applauded enthusiastically. Well, they were enthusiastic until the Mucky Tug came into view, then they stopped mid-clap.
The Mucky Tug could best be described as a rust-riddled, smog-pumping, just-floating, health-and-safety nightmare. Black smoke pumped out of its wobbly funnel and ten sweaty Grumpy Trumpers frantically shovelled anything flammable into the furnace. It bobbed towards them, lurching from side to side, crashed into the side of the dock and spat two Grumpy Trumpers out of a porthole. They splattered on the deck, jumped to their feet, saluted, slipped over, swore, slipped over again and fell overboard.
“Oops!” said Plonka, casually rubbing some dirt into his hair.
A rickety plank poked out of the ship like a shark sticking out its tongue.
“All aboard!” shrilled Plonka.
“You want us to get o
n that?” sneered Viola Mudguard, “I mean that is, like, gross.”
“I know - we’re all very proud!” smiled Plonka.
“No, stupid, I don’t mean good gross, I mean bad gross!”
“Is there a bad gross? Did you just call me stupid? Answer the second question first and the first question second! My, my, you do seem to talk a lot. It’s been one long witter since you arrived!”
“Please do not address Miss Mudguard in that hostile manner, sir!” said Tark, stepping between them.
“How dare you, sir!” said Plonka, clutching his top hat to his chest.
Eight Trumper faces appeared at the portholes. They liked a good fight.
“If I had my cane with me I would challenge you to a duel!” said Plonka, haughtily.
“You do have your cane with you!”
“I meant my other cane!”
Tark moved toward Plonka who said, “Do not step over this line, sir!”
He drew a line with his cane in the slimy grime. Tark stepped over it.
“In that case do not step over this line!”
He drew another line. Tark stepped over that one.
“If you insist on stepping over the line, sir, you leave me no option but to stop drawing lines!”
Tark gazed down at Plonka, Plonka gazed up at Tark, neither was sure what was going to happen next but what happened next was…
“Bbbbaaarrrrpppppp!!!”
“That’s the last call for the Mucky Tug! All dockside visitors aboard!”
Plonka smiled his one-tooth smile at Tark, dodged past him and trip-trapped over the plank onto the ship followed by his visitors.
“I want my own boat! Daddy, why can't I have my own boat? I’m two hundred and fifty-ninth in line to the throne!” Victoria Scab shrieked.
“Maybe they’ll have one in the gift shop.” said Mr J.D. Scabb B.A. (Ed).
Then there was the sound of a glug, a bang, a squawk and a pop and the Mucky Tug set sail on the grotty waters of the Gungees. Up and down, up and down, up and down, the boat lurched violently up and down in the choppy, sloppy water.
“I think I’m going to be sick!” yelled Viola.
“That’s better! Now you’re getting into the spirit!”
“This is going to get such a bad report on TrekMonitor!” Spike Peecee shouted, trying to nab a couple of incriminating selfies without success.
Plonka stood proudly at the prow of the ship, his cane dramatically pointing forward and his face sprayed with wave after wave of grot.
“There she blows!” bellowed Plonka against the howling growl of the wind, “The Gunk Pipe!”
Up ahead was a dark and foreboding hole, not unlike a train tunnel, into which the Gungees was flowing and into which the tug was sailing. They felt like they were about to be swallowed by a giant whale who’d just come off a very strict diet.
“I want a Gunk Pipe!” screamed Victoria Scabb.
“Maybe they’ll have one in the gift shop,” said Mr J.D. Scabb B.A. (Ed), hoping they didn’t have anything like it in the gift shop.
“What, actually, is a Gunk Pipe, Plonka?” shouted his daughter.
“It is a pipe down which flows all the dirty, slimy, smelly gunk, my dear fellow. That's why you’re going down it!”
Victoria looked him up and down, “That’s an insult, right?” Her father said, “Listen, my dear, can you hear music?”
“Oh, piddle, the Grumpy Trumpers are singing!” said Mr Plonka.
“Sailing through the grot and slime,
Having such a grungy time.
Wading through the slime and grot,
Are we happy? No, we’re not!
Sailing through the grot and slime,
Having such a grungy time.
Wading through the slime and grot,
Are we happy? You bet we’re not!”
And then there was huge jerk and the Mucky Tug entered the Gunk Pipe!
“Full speed ahead, Trumpers!” ordered Plonka.
The chanting and ranting of the Grumpy Trumper’s wailing song got louder and louder and they repeated it over and over, faster and faster. Everyone aboard was screaming for it to stop.
“You mean stop the boat?” shouted Plonka.
“No, the singing!!”
Within seconds the Mucky Tug was slipping and zipping and swerving and curving and dipping and diving. They lurched to the left, they lurched to the right, they plunged downwards, they shot upwards.
“This is horrible!” they screamed.
“You are so kind!” squealed Mr Plonka, gleefully.
“We’re going to, like, die!” screamed Viola.
“He’s mad!” shouted Mr J.D. Scabb B.A. (Ed).
“He’s mindless!” yelled Grandpop Fred.
“He’s demented!”
“He’s delirious!”
“He’s deranged!”
“He’s kooky!”
“He’s cuckoo!”
“He’s pointless!”
“He’s mindless!”
“He’s bird-brained!”
“He’s hare-brained!”
“He’s unhinged!”
“He’s unstable!”
“He’s unglued!”
“He’s crackers!
“He’s bonkers!”
“He’s daft!”
“He’s scatty!”
“He’s schizo!”
“He’s nuts!”
“You all say such lovely things about me!” shouted Mr Plonka.
And then suddenly, without warning, the boat creaked painfully and stopped.
They bobbed about silently in the darkness for a moment.
“Throw the levers!” ordered Plonka and the tunnel was drenched in blinding light.
“And this is our next stop!” he announced.
THE FERMENTING ROOM
Plonka leapt from the boat like a gazelle chased by a peckish leopard and squelched to a halt before a large green1 door. He tapped it admiringly and waited for the others to join him. He twiddled his thumbs. He yawned. He looked at his wrist. He yawned again then shouted,
“Oh, do hurry up!”
After enduring the mad journey the parents and the children took a while to gather their thoughts, their senses and most of their possessions, which had been scattered about the boat. Some of which found their way into Marley’s pockets. Finally they crowded around the door.
Hanging by the side of the door was a small box about the size of a thumb with a speaker next to it.
“I’ve seen these before!” said Spike Peecee, “It’s a thumb ID pad. You place your thumb on it and you get identified. It’s real hi-tech.” He waved his ePad in front of it showing his parents.
“Thumb, you say? I hadn’t thought of that. We do things differently here.” He removed his hat and placed his slightly brown ear against it. “Another invention of mine - the PlonkaEarScan™! It can detect two hundred and five types of ear wax. Everyone’s ear wax is completely unique, you know.2”
The speaker made a grunting noise.
“The Approval Snort!” said Plonka and, with a hiss like a deflating bouncy castle, the door slid open and the visitors peered in cautiously.
“This is the Fermenting Room! The epicentre of my grotty empire! It contains the deepest, darkest secrets of the laboratory. Picklescooper would give his right nostril to look around here! No one has ever been allowed in before!”
The visitors muttered amongst themselves and finally Tark was given the job of asking a question. He raised his hand. Plonka saw it, ignored it and so Tark asked anyway.
“Who’s Picklescooper?”
“Heavens!” said Mr Plonka, “Have you never heard of Picklescooper?”
Tark shrugged and so did everyone else.
“I’ll Gurgle him!” said Spike Peecee and stabbed a few things on his keyboard. His parents shimmered away from the screen and were replaced by the familiar logo of Ickipedia.
He tapped in ‘Picklescooper’ and this is what they r
ead -
“Horatio Colin Picklescooper
Born
Yes
Died
Not yet
Nationality
Gibberish
Occupation
Grotlatier
Employer
Self Employed
Known for
Founder of Picklescooper’s Finest Grot. Currently the proprietor of the second largest grot-producing corporation in the world with multi-national grotty interests throughout Europe and America. Specialises in Slop.”
“See that?” said Plonka, tapping the ePad wildly with his cane, “Second best! Second best! Ha! So what does that make me?”
“Approval-seeking with low self-esteem and abandonment issues?” suggested Viola.
Plonka gazed at her and tried to think of a witty comeback. He thought some more then thought he couldn’t think of anything so knocked over a bucket of brown sludge instead.
“Argghh!” yelped Viola.
“Ooops-a-daisy,”said Plonka, “Oh, don’t your shoes look pretty. Shall we go on?”
The tour followed Plonka through the green door.
The room was festooned3 with pipes. Big pipes, little pipes, square pipes, round pipes, triangular pipes. Blue pipes, brown pipes, black pipes, green pipes. Thick pipes, thin pipes, not-so-thick pipes, not-so-thin pipes, thicker pipes, thinner pipes. Pipes that went up but didn’t go down, pipes that went down but didn’t go up. Twisted pipes, bent pipes, broken pipes. Pipes with plasters, pipes with holes, pipes dangling, pipes dripping. Pipes producing steam, pipes producing sludge, pipes producing pipes. All plipping, plopping, fizzing and hissing.
“That’s a lot of pipes!” said Grandpop Fred, wondering how he could steal them.
Mr Plonka skipped merrily around the huge room inspecting gauges, tweaking valves and slapping clocks.
In the centre stood a large thing. I can only describe it as a “thing” because at this point in the story it was covered in a battered, patched canvas cloth with fetid steam rising from it. All I can say is it was very tall, very wide and seemed to be humming quietly to itself.
Mr Plonka leapt over to the covered thing and touched it lovingly.
“This is my latest invention!” He stood back and with one well-rehearsed snatch tugged the canvas from the “thing” like a sculptor revealing his newest work.
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