Horrible Horace

by Gerrard Wllson

dread to think what that one contains.” The mother of all kites, changing direction yet again, headed straight for the cloud. “Oh no!” he cried out, “Why did I have to open my big mouth?”

  Faster, faster, faster, with Horrible Horace dangling helplessly beneath it, Invincible headed for the blackest, darkest and scariest cloud in the sky.

  The closer Horrible Horace got to the cloud, the more he wondered what it contained. “I wonder if it will be something else to eat?” he mused. “And if it is something to eat,” he continued, “I hope it’s not something horrible, like cabbage, or parsnips, or turnips, or warmed up cauliflower. Yuk,” he groaned, “I hate warmed up cauliflower!”

  A few moments later, Invincible trailed Horace into the despicable cloud. At first, he saw nothing, nothing at all. No food of any description struck him, hit him, rained on him or offered itself to him. “This is a very strange cloud indeed,” he whispered. “I was sure there was going to be all sorts of nasty surprises here to scare me, or at least something to eat.” As he continued to drift through the fog of the cloud, it began to get thinner. “I think I can see something ahead of me,” he said hopefully. “But what can it be?”

  My Name is IMPS!

  Closer, closer, Horrible Horace drifted, until he was so close he could see the mysterious object in front of him. However, it was not acting in any way like the chocolate bars had done earlier. Unlike them, it was moving about, this way and that, under its own power. Drifting a bit closer to it, Horrible Horace could see it quite clearly; he could make out its outline – and its face. “What can it be, living up here so high in the clouds?” he mused.

  Not wanting to give it a reason to escape his attention, Horrible Horace kept perfectly still as he watched its every move. It was not big, mind you. It was no taller than a five or six year old child, at tops.

  However, the similarities it had with a child ended there, because it had a bent up back, an elongated jaw and two piggy eyes, glowing red, and sticky-out pointed up ears. Its skin was also different from that of a child. Whereas a child’s skin is pink, tan, or black depending on its ethnic origin, the skin of this being was silvery grey. However, in a peculiar way, Horrible Horace admires it. “When I grow up,” he said, “I will get myself a suit made of the same colour material as that.”

  “I can see what it is doing up here,” Horace said excitedly to himself, “it’s working, so it is!” Moreover, he was right. The thing, the being, was toiling away in the fog of the cloud, doing things. Staring harder, trying to see exactly what it was up to, Horrible Horace spotted sweets; piles of chocolate bars, mountains of crisps and other sweet tasting delights surrounded the creature. “What is it doing with them?” he whispered. Drifting closer, Horace reached out a hand, trying to touch the creature. SNAP, it snapped at his fingers, ready to bite them off.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Horace barked, inspecting his fingers to ensure they were all still there. “You might have bit my fingers right off!”

  Gibberish; Horrible Horace was subjected to a string of gibberish erupting from the angry little creature in front of him. “I am sorry,” he replied, “but I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

  Glinting and glowering, snarling its displeasure that its work had been interrupted, so, the creature turned away from Horrible Horace and returned to what it was doing.

  “Can I give you a hand?” Horace asked. “I can only offer the one, mind you,” he said, “because the other one is already engaged, supporting me under Invincible.”

  Turning to face him, the silvery grey creature, its piggy red eyes gazing briefly upwards, approached Horrible Horace. Pulling and tugging at the unbreakable string, the creature inspected it. “What are you doing?” the Horrible child asked it. “I only asked you a question!”

  Replying in gibberish, the creature pulled and yanked even more on the string. “Now stop that,” warned Horrible Horace, “lest I might fall!”

  “And if I don’t stop?” the creature asked, speaking perfect English.

  “You, you’re speaking in English!”

  “What business is it of yours, how I speak?” it asked, while tugging again on the string.

  “Stop that!” Horace ordered. “And if you don’t, I will have no other option other than giving you a good thrashing!”

  Laughing in gibberish, the creature pulled yet again on the string, so hard Horrible Horace lost his grip and fell into the cloud. “Right!” he fumed, rolling up his sleeves, ready for a fight, “I warned you!” Letting rip, he knocked the creature off its feet, into a huge pile of crisps behind it.

  “No, no!” it squealed, foraging about, trying to protect them from further damage.

  His goat being up, Horrible Horace punched the creature so hard it flew through the air, into a nearby pile of chocolate bars.

  “No, no!” it squealed. “Not the sweets!”

  “If you want me to stop,” said Horrible Horace, “you must first tell me what you are doing with these sweets and crisps and what have you.”

  Eying him crudely, the creature rubbed its elongated jaw, and then it said, “You want me to tell you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Are you sure?” it asked, its head cocked to one side, with its piggy red eyes glowing brightly.

  Horace nodded.

  “Right then,” it said, “I will tell you. Screalo, altorus, my kelo, balorus.”

  “Stop, stop!” Horrible Horace ordered. “You are tackling in gibberish again!”

  “Oh, sorry,” it answered, rubbing its hands mischievously as it spoke. “Now where was I?” it asked, feigning stupidity.

  “You were going to tell me what you are doing up here – and with so many sweets, to boot,” his Horrible antagonist replied.

  “I was going to tell you what?” it asked, testing the patience and perceived stupidity of the cloud invader.

  “I knocked you for six, and I’ll do it again,” Horace quipped. “Get on with it!”

  Picking up one of the chocolate bars, it said, “Try it. Perhaps, then, you will understand what I am doing here.”

  “What are you doing here?” Horace asked it again.

  “I am putting the bars of chocolate into their wrappers,” it answered. To enforce its point, the creature pointed to a stack of wrappers resting nearby on the cloud. It extended its hand, offering Horace the chocolate bar.

  Eyeing the chocolate with some suspicion, Horrible Horace said, “No, I don’t want that one. Give me one of those, the ones that are already in their packets.”

  Picking one up, it said, “Do you really want one of these? The others are much fresher.”

  “No!” Horrible Horace insisted. “I want one of those ones!”

  All right,” the creature replied. It handed him one of the bars; a Galaxy Super Special. Then, whispering ever so quietly, it said, “Be it on your head, that you eat it...”

  Opening the wrapper, Horrible Horace could hardly wait to eat the chocolate inside. Biting into it, he asked, “What is your name, anyway?”

  Pointing at itself, the creature, feigning modesty, replied, “My name is nothing important.”

  Taking another bite of the wonderful chocolate, the Horrible cloud visitor said, “Come on, everyone has a name. Mine is Horrible Horace. Come on; spit it out!”

  “Alright, I will tell you my name, but only after you have finished your chocolate.” it answered, “

  Seeing nothing wrong with this, for what possible harm could become of him, or anybody for that matter, eating a bar of chocolate fresh out of its wrapper, Horrible Horace nodded, signalling his agreement.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked the creature a few minutes later, because it was watching him so intently.

  “I am watching you eat,” it replied. “I want to see how you like it. Don’t you like me looking at you, so?” it asked.

  “No, I do not!” Horace answered.

  The creature turned away from him, casting its eyes do
wnwards.

  Feeling like a cad, for hurting its feeling, Horace said, “Oh, it’s all right, you can watch me.”

  Clapping, whooping with delight, the creature watched Horrible Horace take another bite out of his chocolate bar.

  A few minutes later, the creature said. “You are halfway through your Galaxy Super Special, so it won’t be long now...”

  “What do you mean, it won’t be long now?” the Horrible child enquired.

  Lifting his hands innocently, the creature said, “Until I can tell you my name, of course!”

  Satisfied by his explanation, Horrible Horace chewed his chocolate contentedly.

  By the time he had almost finished eating his Galaxy Super Special, Horrible Horace felt a headache coming on. He had forgotten all about Invincible, high above him, and the unbreakable string trailing down from it. Scrunching the sweet wrapper, he tossed it aside. “I’ve finished!” he said triumphantly. “I can’t see you,” he called out to the creature. “Where are you? Don’t you want to know how I liked it?”

  “No, not particularly,” it answered, from within the fog of the cloud.

  Turning around, Horrible Horace saw it emerge from the fog of the cloud. “But I thought you wanted to know!” Horace said to it.

  “See what thought did,” it curtly answered.

  “But!”

  “But nothing!” it snapped, reverting to its former, bad mannered demeanour.

  “All that I wanted to say to you,” Horace protested, while yawning again, “is that you promised to tell me your name.”

  “My name,” it replied, “is