A Cyborg Calls – Part 4 (the end)

February 28, 2013 by Nick

Part Four – Do Androids Have Wet Dreams?

“You know, we’re all different on the inside,” Alex feared he was sliding into cliche but its horrible inevitability drew him on, “that’s what makes us special.” Alex hated that he was spewing the same bullshit his own parents had used as they drove him to the psychiatric hospital, but he really didn’t need an emotional cyborg on his hands. His house was too small for someone that special.
“Special doesn’t tell you what silk feels like, special doesn’t get you friends, doesn’t get you girls….” Simon spat with teenage moodiness.
“In fairness, you don’t really feel silk anyway. Your fingers slide off it. Like a er, soft fridge. Normal’s just trying to fit in,” hearing voices and self-trepanation puts people off, “plus really normal people tend to be boring arseholes.”
“I want to be boring. I want to be liked.”
“I’m sure people like you.” Alex was skating on thin ice; it seemed plausible that no one liked murderous half robots.
Simon just stared at him with those weird mismatched eyes, the blue one went right though him and the red one, well, it just felt like a laser target. It probably was.
“Well, what about girls?” Alex rallied.
“All the girls I know are either family or slaves.”
“Right. Slaves?”
“Not slave slaves. They’re just mindbent. It’s fine. They do whatever you want.”
“Oh.”
Another awkward silence separated them. Alex shook the biscuit packet like he was tempting a wild animal. Simon took three bourbon creams.
“Well, there is this one girl,” he began shyly.
“Great!” (please don’t be anyone I know, or at least someone I won’t miss) “What’s she like?”
“She’s beautiful,” the cyborg crooned dreamily, “and strong and clever-”
“Sounds lovely-”
“-and evil.”
“Less lovely. So what’s her name, how did you meet?”
“She’s Volupine Dementia and she held me captive for a week.”
Fuck. “The Volupine Dementia?” Because it’s such a common name… Volupine Dementia, legendary survivor of the nuclear blast that destroyed most of Sheffield when Alpha Strangemind discovered his powers and went underground. Legendarily insane and as dangerous as anyone in Galaxy Team. The instigator of the Nottingham Massacre, creator of the Cathedral of Sexual Death and reputedly the only person Galaxy Team can’t kill. Of course it’s the same Volupine Dementia, who else would this crazy kid fancy?
“Yeah… when me and Sally (you’d know her as Talon) infiltrated her lair because she was turning everyone in Nottingham into killer lust-zombies. Well, she caught us,” he gave a big goofy grin, “next thing I knew I was chained up and blindfolded and there was this gorgeous girl giving me electric shocks and asking me all these questions. It was wonderful, you know, just really talking to a girl. She wanted to know all about me.”
Alex was struggling to keep the phrases ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ and ‘what the fuck’ out of his voice and off his face.
“We talked for hours. I mean, she’d go off to do stuff with Sally too, but that was just cutting her head off, it wasn’t like our time.”
“She killed your sister?” incredulity was creeping in.
“No, nothing like that. She just took Sally’s head off and stuck it on a sex-eagle.”
“Well, that’s okay then.”
“Eventually Dad spoiled it all by having us rescued.”
“You must have been disappointed.”
“Yeah,” he blushed to a remarkable shade of red and lights twinkled furiously in his cheeks, “we’d been, um, you know, before the Beastlie Boys smashed the door in.”
“Oh. Oh!”
“I’d really like to see her again. I mean, she escaped – obviously.”
“Obviously.” And went on to breed armoured tortoises which she unleashed on motorways.
“But, I don’t know how to get in touch with her,” he looked at Alex with an expression of hope and pleading that even spaniels couldn’t match.
“You want me to… find her?” No, this was awful. Alex could not be a matchmaker for the criminally insane. Simon looked suddenly defensive. Perhaps it was Alex’ tone of incredulity and horror.
“You have to find her!” the lights flared up and the toaster plug ejected itself from the wall.
“Okay,” Alex chirped as the frightfully important kettle began to smoulder, “okay, I’ll have a proper think about how to do that.”
“That’s great. You know, guys like us have to stick together. I’ll be really grateful,” Simon said, earnestness and desperation competing in his throat.
“I’ll see what I can-” Alex was cut off by a roar that passed overhead, shaking the windows and setting off car alarms all down the street.
“I think I’d better go,” said Simon, handing his mug back to Alex, “but we should do this again sometime. Thanks for the tea.”
With a cheery wave and an anxious glance at the light blazing through the living room window, he let himself out the backdoor and hurried away. His garage-crushing craft took off, and raced low down the back road. It disappeared from sight just as Alex’ front door shook under a pair of heavy blows. Sighing, Alex put down the mug and went to answer the door. He was totally unsurprised to find Man Ho-Tujsk glowering at him under the orange streetlight. He sneezed mightily and brandished his tusks.
“Oh hello, I suppose you’d like a cup of tea too?”

Will Alex snag Simon’s date? Do cyborgs dream of electric eels? Was that the end? (Yes it was) What happens next?

Find out in a future story!

Read more Galaxy Team adventures

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A Cyborg Calls – Part 1 (captainpigheart.com)
A Cyborg Calls – Part 2 (captainpigheart.com)
A Cyborg Calls – Part 3 (captainpigheart.com)

A Cyborg Calls – Part 3

February 21, 2013 by Nick

Part Three – Sad Days, Robot Nights

It can be difficult to find the right words when someone is crying in front of you. It’s still harder to console someone you suspect is going to kill you. “Oh,” was the best Alex could find for the weeping mechanical hulk in his kitchen. The Boytronic Wonder was trying to say something but the words were obscured by his incredibly undignified snorting, bubbling and fizzing noises. Alex awkwardly looked down at the mugs drippping scalding tea over his hands.

“Um,” Alex tried again, and proffered the Star Wars mug, “get this in you.”

The Wonder honked out a thank you and took the mug in one shaking hand. With the other he tugged a charmingly embroidered handkerchief out of the string of pockets at his waist and noisily blew into it. Tea spilled onto the floor.

“Why don’t you sit down,”Alex suggested. He pulled out the kitchen steps from the corner and deftly kicked them open. They stood a slightly better chance of survival than the battered dining room chairs.

“I’m sorry about this,” sobbed the cyborg, gratefully accepting the seat. Alex grimaced as the metal steps creaked and bent under his weight, settling into a more rigid and permanent structure. Alex took up a poistion at a safe distance and sipped at his tea. It was much too hot but was more polite than staring. He felt embarrassed for the man’s tears and figured he’d have to be the one to talk them out of this.

“So… Boytronic Wonder,” even saying the name sounded ridiculous and Alex cringed inwardly, “how have you been?” The sight of a the naked man exploding shot past Alex’ inner eye again.

“Please don’t call me that. I hate that name – it sounds so stupid.”

“It’s a bit of a mouthful alright,” Alex sipped some more scalding tea.

“Dad gave us such stupid names. I mean, I’m not bloody Robin, the Boy Wonder. Can you imagine being taken seriously? Batman’s bad enough,” he affected a high pitched female voice, “‘Hello Batman, how nice to see you again – black, two sugars isn’t it? And would the Boy Wonder like a croissant?’ You’d feel like such a dick. Just call me Si.”

“Cy? As in cyborg?”

“No, as in Simon. That’s what Mum called me.”

“Right.” Between them they were defeating Alex’ previous record of awkwardness, set when he tried to explain to his parents why he’d drilled three holes in his head.

“It’s nice of you to drop by Simon; I mean, it’s very – new, this dropping in for a chat. Is there anything I can do..?”

“Well who else is there to talk to? Everyone else we’ve ever gotten involved with is either dead, or,” Simon thought for a moment,”- no, they’re all dead.”

Alex really didn’t like the sound of this and was regretting asking at all.

“You know, I didn’t really see anything,” Alex began.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I don’t think Dad knows. We got Clive back, and that’s all he cared about.”

“Oh good. But there must be someone else you can talk to. Not that this isn’t lovely.” Alex felt he’d covered that well.

“Yeah – you. You’re not family. Dad would never understand.”

“Have you tried talking to him about how you feel?”

“God no! Jilly Lazareth tried that. We’re still finding pieces of her. She just wanted to go university.”

Alex pretended he still had tea in his mug and took a big fake sip.

“I liked Jilly,” Simon mused, “she had really nice hair.”

“At least you get out now and then,” Alex said, trying to get away from the topic of people dying. Simon’s blank look gave him a horrid trembling sensation in his stomach. “I mean, you’re here now…”

“Oh no, Dad would go mental if he knew I was here. I’m supposed to be silencing this policewoman in Leicester. Normally Man-Ho Tjusk would do it, but he’s got a cold, so it’s me. I was nearby so I thought I’d pop over, say hello, you know. I-” Simon broke off, tears threatening his circuits again, “I don’t want to kill people anymore. I just want to be normal.”

“Well, what’s normal anyway?” asked Alex lightheartedly.

“For me, this-” said Simon, tapping at objects on Alex’ kitchen table. A postcard vanished in a flash of flame, keys and coins magnetised and flew together in a clumsy orbit of Simon’s hand, and the radio turned itself inside out. Alex wasn’t entirely sure what was going on, but was grateful that he’d never hear John Humphreys on Radio 4 in the morning again.

“That’s, um, a bit different.”

“Different?” Simon stabbed his finger back down at the table. Blue tendrils crawled from under his t-shirt sleeve and down his arm, the ends sparking as they pulled free of his skin and vanished into the crap covering Alex’ table. Alex was alarmed by the rage emanating from the cyborg, despite his pacifistic claims. Then Alex’ ancient sandwich toaster glowed blue, coughed out a cloud of cheese-scented black smoke and started talking.

“First thing we have to do is establish an escape route – no matter what happens we gotta get you clean away,” Alex stared at the machine as it babbled, “we need an extra door in here.” Hastily Alex reached out and turned off the plug socket – the thing was prone to overheating at the best of times. He switched his stare to Simon.

“This is my life, look,” Alex averted his eyes as Simon yanked down the top of t-shirt, revealing a hissing mass of shapes revolving under the clear skin of his chest, “I’m just an experiment to them, like all the others,” Simon’s eyes lit up from the inside as he warmed to the topic, the tears welling up puffed out into steam; the coins spun round is a wider, sharper circuit of his outstretched hand; his voice took on a metallic ring as he began to shout, “thanks Dad – this is what I am. A monster, a killer.”

The coins exploded like domestic shrapnel, burying themselves in the brickwork. Alex’ house keys thudded into the cupboard door by his head. Alex swallowed nervously and tugged them out of the wood.

”Thanks, I’ve been looking for those. Would you like a biscuit?”

Do cyborgs like biscuits? Is Alex’ sandwich toaster alive? How many parts will this story have?

Find out next week in Part Four of: A Cyborg Calls

Read more Galaxy Team adventures

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A Cyborg Calls – Part 2 (captainpigheart.com)

A Cyborg Calls – Part 2

February 14, 2013 by Nick

Part Two – Tea For Two

The hatch of the gleaming retro space car hissed open. Alex whimpered and dodged back inside his house; being woken up in the night was a bad start, but now it had become dramatically worse. There was clearly nowhere to hide effectively, except by running out of the front door which would only result in a pathetic chase culminating in his ignominious death in an alley. The shiny spaceship-car was unmistakably Galaxy Team, as was the landing. It would be a bloody death. Alex had watched the family of high tech lunatics take care of one of their own in proper gangster style – a memorable evening. He remembered every moment of the killing, especially when Man Ho’Tujsk gave him a big hairy wink and then strolled away. Being left to live and (not, very definitely not) tell the tale just wasn’t their usual style. It made him feel very uncomfortable; Alex had been curtain twitching ever since.
Alex dithered in the kitchen. He opened and closed the cutlery drawer. Stacked up his unopened post. Checked he was still tucked in. In a fit of nervous energy he put the kettle on and faffed a bit more. Gravel crunched outside in the ominous way that only gravel can manage and the light in the kitchen faded away. Alex stood in darkness, hefting the ice axe unconvincingly. Blue light poured slowly through the panes in the back door and soaked the kitchen tiles with a cool glow. The gravel crunched with excessive menace as if someone were grinding their feet on the scabby mat Alex kept outside the back door.
Next there came a knock on the glass; followed with slight hesitation by a second weaker tap and a more confident third. With each tap the lights flared back up and faded away again. A pause. The knocks came again, slightly harder and with consequently fiercer pulsing of the bulbs. Crap. They probably knew he was in. Probably because they’d seen him in his pajamas. Turning on the kitchen light would likely have reinforced this. Alex had made many mistakes, he didn’t feel he was learning from them. The third round of knocking was much louder and two of the flimsy halogen light bulbs exploded like miniature fireworks; the kettle boiled.
With a daring display of nonchalance Alex opened the back door which he had failed to lock. His grip was slippery on the handle and his mouth was dry. He managed a weak, “oh hello” as the door swung open. Before him stood the brilliance of the Boytronic Wonder. He seemed human enough at the top, except for the silver tendrils that ran beneath his skin, tiny lights winking in his neck. From there down he became steadily squarer and blockier, his t-shirt’s Nike logo drawn tightly over the odd protrusions and angles that bent and deformed his torso. His legs were full on wind-up tin toy robot and they shuffled awkwardly as if his key was running down. The Wonder’s eyes (one human blue, the other a terrifying kill ‘bot red) met Alex’ eyes and looked down, embarrassed.
“Oh, hello,” said the semi-human half-robot killing machine, “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Umm,” said Alex, struggling for vocabulary in the small hours, “no, I was only sleeping.”
“Right,” said the Wonder, “look, I’m sorry about your shed-”
“It’s a garage, it’s just built the wrong way round.”
“-Garage then,” he turned to glance down the garden, his body revolved smoothly at the waist like Alex’ old Action Man. “Sorry about that. I just didn’t want to park on the road – it’s a bit too obtrusive.”
“Sure. Well, you’re here, I’m awake,” Alex stumbled into conversation, and waved vaguely at the steaming kettle. “Would you like a cup of tea?” Social conventions are there to fall back upon whenever one’s brain ceases to function; they navigate us smoothly through awkward conversations with doorstepping local politicians and help us to invite psychotic cyborgs into our homes. Well done good manners.
“Oh, if it’s no trouble.” The Boytronic Wonder’s eyes fell on the ice axe still gripped in Alex’ fist.
“Sorry. Thought it was kids,” Alex rested the axe against the door frame, “come in.”
Alex stepped back to allow the metal man to shuffle awkwardly into his home. He cast a worried eye over the 1930s ladder-back chairs which suddenly looked terribly fragile under the Boytronic Wonder’s reaching fingers.
“I’m a leaner,” said the Wonder, releasing the chair and settling back against the chimney breast. The radiator promptly buckled under the weight of his legs.
Reluctantly Alex closed the door and turned back to the kettle. Silence hung in the air between them like an ugly beaded curtain. Alex made the tea, with a minimum of teaspoon rattling or nervous eyeing of the cyborg’s reflection in the cupboard door. The last time they’d almost met Alex had been half-buried in rubble, able to only watch while seen the Boytronic Wonder levelled a ludicrously oversized weapon at one of his brothers and blasted him into a thin film of ex-personhood. Alex had every reason to be afraid, not least because he’d secretly recorded that encounter on his phone, and yet… Alex got the feeling that the powerful being destroying his radiator (and probably the structural integrity of his house) was the more nervous of the two of them.
Now that he was paying attention, freed from thought by the meditative ritual of mashing tea bags against the mug wall just the right number of times to make a perfectly average cup of tea, Alex noticed the waves of anxiety rippling out from the manbot. His unexpected guest was upset about something. That made Alex feel rather better, though a contrary thought that maybe the Wonder was just anticipating having to kill Alex skewed the calm into stomach twisting alarm. If total carnage (Galaxy Team’s usual style for everything from buying coffee to family disputes) were intended, Alex doubted that the only casualty would have been his garage.
He sucked in a quick breath and turned, fingers twisted awkwardly round the mug handles. Words died in his mouth once more as the Boytronic Wonder burst into tears. Sparks spattered and singed the lino as the tears flowed along the silver strips in his cheeks. Alex barely noticed the burning sensation in his knuckles as hot tea splashed onto the floor.
Is the weeping just a ruse? Will Alex be summarily executed? Will his radiator need to be replaced?

Find out next week in Part Three of: A Cyborg Calls

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A Cyborg Calls – Part 1

February 7, 2013 by Nick

Part One – An Unkind Awakening

For the first time in weeks Alex had achieved the underwhelming goal of being in bed before midnight. Sleep wouldn’t necessarily come anytime soon, but Alex wallowed in a rare well of psychic peace. Next door’s screaming harpies had flown away for a few days of relaxing shrieking at each other on a beach- the normal pitch of their rows and the slamming doors disturbed half the street. With luck they would both drown on holiday, or be eaten by some Brit-loving leviathan. The yapping dog on the other side had finally shut up; Alex assumed its master had finally come home and fed the poor thing, hopefully with himself. The grisly reassurance of these thoughts filled Alex with happy sunbeams and he stretched out in a few moments of contentment. To his great surprise, Alex slumped heavily after he turned the light off and without even knowing it (because that’s how it works), he was soon asleep.

Competing dreams tugged Alex back and forth like a rutting pushmi-pullu. He endured a bleakly-decorated office where two ladies of dubious acquaintance made him watch news clips of himself walking down a road, which led into a charity shop where he found a wallets he’d had stolen or lost over the years before glancing at a television and finding himself back in the office again. The circularity ground into him, as did the suspicion that he’d never lost any wallets and they were simply being stolen from him by the two women. Paranoia welled up in the dream and all the characters turned to look at him, and so did he, looking inward and seeing the stolen wallet for the metaphor it truly was. Alex felt he was on the verge of total comprehension when he was horribly, blinkingly awoken by the violent illumination of his bedroom. The dream broke off with a bleeding stump; his purpose vanished leaving only anxiety and frustration.

At first Alex suspected the harpies’ anti-socially sensitive security light of stabbing him in the eyes. Its real talent was in alerting everyone to the prowling intrusion of cats and magpies, and had notably failed to blind the darkly-clad man who made off with their X-Box. Alex had been amused. But even the fur and feathers detector wasn’t this bright – it was like a baby sun was burning through his day-repelling curtains. The duvet Alex hid beneath did nothing to reduce the glare. Oddly, neither did grumbling about his inconsiderate neighbours.

Then the sound of shearing metal violated Alex’ sleep-softened ears and forced him out of bed. “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, kicking his feet into the wrong foot slippers and stamping downstairs, “fucking kids.” Alex wrongly assumed it was the “fucking kids” from round the corner attempting to break into his garage again. There had been nothing of value in there the first time; it was unlikely he would have filled it with gold and Blu-Ray players to enhance their nocturnal sport. The continued screeching perfected the sensory horror of being awake and the shearing tore deep into whatever it is that makes us shudder.

Alex successfully navigated the stairs, kicked off the slippers and sought them out again with his toes and he fumbled for the kitchen light switch. That was just reflex: the light was flooding through every window and hole in the back of the house. He snatched up the decorative ice axe from its nestling spot between other people’s umbrellas behind the fridge and strode boldly towards the back door, a string of mocking taunts dancing on his tongue.

Naturally Alex had left the keys in the backdoor, and had failed to lock it. The swift banging of key and grinding of lock gave him a moment to check that his pajamas were suitably unrevealing. He had no desire to be arrested for indecent exposure – the prospect of being arrested for smacking one of the little sods was fine and might even justify being woken up. The recently conscious mind being what it is, Alex had not yet evaluated the likelihood of burglars using floodlights for their surreptitious thievery. Despite the undoubted convenience of well-lit swag, the shroud of night would be somewhat ruined. So when he opened the back door and stepped into the yard his expectations were proven hollow and the witty barbs crawled back up his tongue and jabbed into his throat.

The source of the light was obvious now, as was the cause of the awful tearing sound. Far from being robbed, the garage had been crushed, ensuring that its worthless contents were securely sealed in a huge aluminium pie tin. It now served as a mat for the gleaming, insectile craft that steamed in its place. It glittered and shone like a cost-no-object Christmas tree that was intended to be launched at Uranus. Fins and vents and ostentatious art-nouveau swirling reflected the blazing lights mounted in elegant carriage lamps. It was like all the awesome spaceships from Flash Gordon (Buster Crabbe) to Firefly mashed together Alex decided. He stood gaping at it for a few moments, ice axe dangling from his fist. This was bad.

Is Alex doomed? Is it just his Mum? Will his bits pop out of his pajamas?

Find out next week in Part Two of: A Cyborg Calls

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Goodbye Mister Bimbolino: Index of Clown Killing

December 9, 2011 by Nick

Chapter One	Chapter Two
Chapter Three	Chapter Four
Chapter Five	Purely for your reading convenience – an easy way to get through the chapters. Alex Trepan investigates a series of mysterious clown killings.I hope you enjoy the story!

Goodbye Mister Bimbolino. Chapter 5: It Only Takes One

December 5, 2011 by Nick

Chapter 5 It Only Takes One

Clive’s attention was drifting away from Alex. This was a good thing; he doubted there was much he could say that would soothe the powerful feelings of anger and shame that emanated from the embittered amoebic man. Alex hoped their earlier bonding would stand the test of time, or at least the next ten minutes.

The two mutant men’s eyes were locked on each other. The fresher second growing more and more alert, gripping his own leg and jerking them both with desperation. With every second the new clone looked smoother and cleaner – newer and stronger, while the primary, Clive seemed weaker and more tired. The palpable hatred of Clive for his identical twin meshed with the fear that sweated from Clive2. Though that fear was ebbing as he neared biological freedom.

While fascinating and horrible, it was a fine opportunity to creep away. But Alex had left it too late. With an appalling stretch of skin and tendon the men’s ankles and heels snapped free; the recoil of flesh made Alex retch. The mutants faced each other like a creepy pornographic version of the Marx Brothers’ mirror gag. They dispensed with the dancing and face-pulling, instead posturing, trying out their independent musculature. They both looked hard and dangerous. New Clive was tense, covered in a film of some bodily secretion alien to ordinarily-sexed humans. Old Clive still had a horrid fleshy rift down his side where the clone had torn himself free, and a sad murderous expression on his face.

Should he try to save the clone? Alex already had an imminent doom vibe and the thought made it vibe all the harder. But right now it looked bad for them both. Maybe if they ran for it Clive wouldn’t be able to hunt them down… in his super-fast flying car. Yeah, great plan. A deep hum rose from outside the barn. Oh… they weren’t even alone. Somehow, between being dropped on a pile of metal tubes and watching a man hatch out of another he’d managed to forget there was an even bigger jet outside. Alex didn’t know if that was good news, but the as the hum grew to a whine it made the trepanned discs of bone he wore round his neck vibrate. He fell to his knees to vomit an instant before the wall behind him dissolved in a violent shower of pulverised iron and brick, burying Alex in a pile of barn powder.

He felt, rather than heard, the massive footsteps thunder past him, but definitely heard the deep lisping of Man Ho-Tjusk.

“Vat’s enough Clive. Y’ain’t killin’ anovver one.”

Clive’s voice rose to a desperate shriek, “Fuck you elephant boy. It’s my clone. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Dad says no Clive.”

Alex excavated just enough powdered brick to see what was going on. Good view. The twin-things were dead ahead; nakedly glaring at each other. Just to Alex’ left the giant shaggy form of Man Ho-Tjusk rose up in the air, looking like a woolly mammoth on its hind legs. Next to him slouched his Beastlie Brother, Mu-Tant Ra’koon. The smaller, but brutal looking beast man was idly carving spirals into a helium can with his extended claws. On Alex’ other side the hissing beeping Boytronic Wonder toted a weapon that for its brutal compactness and branded lethality (Kills What You Want 100% of The Time) was evidently what had killed the wall.

“Just leave me alone. I just want to be alone.”

“Probably shouldn’t have started knocking off clowns then, eh Clive?” the Boytronic Wonder chimes in, ”could have just stayed at home instead of running off. You know that thing,” he pointed his gun towards the Petulance, “you do realise it’s trackable right?”

“Shut up Boy Toy.”

“I mean at least be smart about it, make some plans. Don’t just run off in Daddy’s car and go on a clown hunt. Don’t make me come and bring you back again.”

“Yeah I alwayth liked the clownth at the partieth Dad threw for uth. Remember Mithter Bimbolino? He wath a good one.”

“Oh yeah, I remember him – didn’t you two eat him or something?”

“Only his fingers.” Ra-Koon smirked at the memory.

“Come on then, let’s get the two of you back to the lab.”

“Stay the fuck away from me Wonder-Bot.”

“Hey, happy birthday new Clive! I wonder what you’ll get?”

“For pity’s sake Boyt’. What number’s this one Clive, twenty-three? Twenty-four? Where do they all go?”

Ra-Koon’s idle question visibly shook the clone, who had been watching his twin/father intently during the exchange, no doubt trying to figure out where he stood in this awkward family reunion. Alex also grasped the implications, they were definitely the same wavelength as his doom vibe.

The clone sprang into action, diving onto Clive with his arms spread and fists balled. Ra’Koon bellowed, “no!” and leaped forwards as the clone reached for his progenitor. Man-Ho Tjusk merely snickered, a curious sneezing laugh that bounced down his trunk, blowing dust off the top of Alex’ head. With swiftness that seemed incredible for a naked man with a hole down his side, Clive spun and seized from the floor a vicious bladed instrument that probably had a medical name. The blade whirled and flashed down at the clone. In a flash Alex caught the clone’s terror at the imminence of death and the miserable, hated shortness of his existence. As the gleaming edge descended towards the clone’s face a blinding bolt of violence spurted out of the Boytronic Wonder’s arms and Clive exploded in a spray of bloody wetness, evenly coating his clone and the insides of the barn.

“Fuckth sake Wonder Boy”

“What? He’s literally, exactly the same as Clive. Dad’ll never know the difference.”

“That’s really not the point. And you know that’s not true.” Ra’Koon looked seriously annoyed, teeth bared at his metallic sibling.

“Whatever. I’ve had enough of keeping an eye on that tool.” The Boytronic Wonder didn’t seem the least bit chastised. “Hey,” he called to the blood-soaked figure, “hey, Clive. Yeah, you. Think you can manage not to be a dick?”

The clone looked shocked, which was no great surprise. Still dripping with the pulp of his predecessor he took a step backwards. Alex sympathised; such casual annihilation of the clown slayer wouldn’t fill him with confidence either, but then nor would being attacked by your own mother-brother-dad-thing. Asexual relationships looked complicated.

“Mmm. Come on, Dad wants to see you.” Mu-Tant Ra’Koon retracted his claws and took the new Clive by the arm and dragged him, bloody footprints and all out of the barn. The Boytronic Wonder clicked, beeped and thunked off after him.

Alex breathed out slowly and started to dig himself out. He stopped when a gruff laugh came from right behind him, blowing the brick dust off his head. He turned slowly, into the face of Man Ho-Tjusk crouched in front of him. The man’s eponymous tusks were inches from Alex’ eyes. They looked at each other for a moment. All he felt from the mammoth man was a mild amusement. The giant man snorted and lifted a massive finger to the tip of his trunk, “Shsss. Lucky little man. Be watching you.” He snickered again and stomped off.

Alex cautiously stood up in a shower of ex-barn particles. The Vortex had vanished from outside, leaving him alone in a big room covered in blood and gas cylinders. An interesting day. He had no idea where he was and no way to get home. Unless… the Petulance… Really? Had caution entirely escaped him? Given his surprising bout of luck that night there was no reason to push it any further. Alex sighed, and started walking. After a few paces he scrabbled frantically through his pockets until he found his mobile phone. Still recording. Excellent. He turned off the sound recorder and granted himself a little hop and heel kick. Maybe he’d have something for Neil after all, as long as he could find his way back to town.

The End

More Alex Trepan and Galaxy Team coming soon…

Goodbye Mister Bimbolino. Chapter 4: Mutanto and Friend

November 28, 2011 by Nick

A Galaxy Team and Alex Trepan adventure.
Chapter 1′Bad Coffee’
Chapter 2 ‘Bungalow Country’
Chapter 3 ‘Inflate Me If You Dare’

Chapter 4 Mutanto and Friend

The barrage outside continued for a few seconds, the roof and walls flaring purple and white as the blasts discharged into the timbers and arced along the corrugated roofing. The sparks fizzled out before they hit the floor. Then it went quiet. The barn was silent, except for Alex’ moans and the hollow clanking of empty gas bottles as he crawled out of his pit of bruising. Combined with the creak of the barn’s walls flexing themselves back into shape, the place sounded like an ‘80s horror soundtrack.

The Petulance‘s hatch cracked open with a hiss and a high-pitched shrieking. If anything, the man-beast looked even worse than before – more stretched. Half of the fourth arm was now visible and both of his heads seemed to be talking at once. It seized a helium bottle and, twisting the valve, inhaled mightily. The other body squealed in pain and tried weakly to wrest the bottle from its twin’s grasp. The stronger twin ignored the grasping rasp of its pair and tossed the empty bottle down angrily. Lots of anger. Alex just let it wash over him for now; it was better than the spinal pain he was suffering.

”You fool”, the Siamese man squeaked (menace leaked surprisingly well into the helium pitch), “that was my last bottle”. Frantically he rooted through the other cylinders like a junkie scraping dirt from a sofa onto a spoon. The emerging man was growing slowly more animated, swatting at its progenitor as he dragged him around by the hip.

”What the fuck are you?” Alex hissed accidentally. This was counter to Alex’ plan which was to blend into the background and get out alive – being here was in no way an indication that his plan was likely to succeed. The rooting man ignored him, but the other croaked out a piteous “help me”. Immediately the primary guy (Alex had a desperate need to label them, at least for his own mental reference) jerked upright, declaring “that’s enough from you” and slapped it hard across the face. Both men flinched from the blow. Weird(er). The secondary man began to struggle more seriously, wrenching his flesh loose. It wasn’t pretty. Alex was pretty sure this was going to lead to a lot of poor quality sleep and possibly therapy. The primary lunged towards Alex, seized him and shoved him back on the ground.

”And you, wasting my precious time. But you’re not police – what’s your problem?”

“Oh, hi. Um. I’m Alex,” (he resisted the urge to wave) “I’m a private investigator. It’s… lovely to meet you”

“Investigator? What, the clowns? You’re investigating clowns? Even the police don’t care about clowns”

“Oh well – no, not really. It’s just the clowns seemed, y’know, odd.”

“Of course they’re odd – why would anyone behave like that?”

“No – I mean. It was a lot of clowns to um, die suddenly like that.”

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to get enough helium to suppress this bastard?” he indicated his self-extracting twin, “Once he’s out there’ll be two of us again. And that is not something I want. Helium slows it down. But they won’t let me have any, no. Dad and Pip got plans.”

“Wait – you’re in Galaxy Team though right?”

“What’s the matter, struggling to grasp the internal politics of someone else’s family? Not heard of the really freaky kids? Just the pretty ones for the camera.” He sneered bitterly. “You can call me Mutanto.”

“That sounds like a Mexican restaurant.” Alex needed to learn when to shut up.

“Better than Clive”

“Yeah, that’s fair enough. I never liked being an Alex”

“Right. Great. Well, we’re definitely going to be best friends now.” This sounded like a lie, but Alex was oddly reassured when Mutanto continued, “Once I’ve taken your head off, obviously.”

“Look, I get that you’re angry and uh, busy with your…” Alex gestured vaguely at whatever it was that was happening to Clive; the outgrowing Clive waved back, “But, clowns?”

“Don’t you even listen? What kind of investigator are you? The helium.”

“Right. Helium.” It seemed worryingly like Alex might actually have been right all along. Of course, he was in a distant barn with a maniac, so being right wasn’t especially good news.

“Yes, helium” Clive broke off for a quick scream at as his nouveau-him tugged its pelvis free. “It slows this down long enough for me to get away, keeps it quiet and passive so I can deal with it myself.”

“Okay…”

“It’s a gift, right? A gift from Dad, the marvellous Alpha Strangemind. No one remembers he’s just a jumped-up geography teacher now do they?” Wow, the sarcasm positively dripped off this guy.

“I. I didn’t get on well with my Dad…” Alex felt obliged to

“Oh right, that must be tough. Did you grow up without a strong role model? Aww. Well my Dad’s a generous soul. He gave us all gifts you know, those of us who survived. Those few who didn’t die during their experiments. And this is my gift – the gift of asexual reproduction. Thanks Dad. The man’s a psychopath.”

“You know, I hate to bring up pots and kettles…”

“Back to the clowns again? Who gives a damn. Do you cry for them Alex? I hate fucking clowns with their I’m crying on the inside, but I can make you laugh and that makes everything all right. They had what I needed and I took it. Do you want something to cry about – try automatically fertilising yourself every six months and waiting for this thing to grow out of you, eating up your body and tearing itself loose. Any idea how much that hurts?”

“I’d guess lots.” Alex had all the answers he needed to questions that had not occurred to him to ask.

While Clive had been ranting at him his clone had almost completely separated from him. An awful snapping sound made Alex wince as the clones’ knees parted.

Chapter 5 It Only Takes One coming soon…

Goodbye Mister Bimbolino. Chapter 3: Inflate Me If You Dare

November 21, 2011 by Nick

A Galaxy Team and Alex Trepan adventure.
Chapter 1′Bad Coffee’
Chapter 2 ‘Bungalow Country’

Chapter 3 Inflate Me If You Dare

Alex was right; a pleasant novelty. Just as he’d wildly guessed, none of the previous crime scenes had any mention of gas cylinders. Not even the tiny ones for self-inflating balloons or bicycle tyres. Motive acquired – the criminals were obviously breaking in and murdering people for their gas. You can’t mine helium, and unless you’ve got some radioactive rocks and access to a lab then balloon wranglers are the best source. The brutal collateral damage pointed to someone mental, or desperate. Not desperate enough to dress up as a clown and buy the stuff in bulk though. Which brought Alex back to Galaxy Team. It seemed a bit petty for them, but who could explain the motives of the people responsible for the cactus prairie in Wales, the animatronic squirrel army which devastated Hemel Hempstead, the buttercup laser guns or the screaming waterfall in Denmark?

It was time to take some action. He had a real chance to get at least one decent photograph and find out what was going on. Alex felt himself getting swept up in the excitement of the chase. He was not a good detective, being both impatient and rather lazy, but he did have recklessness on his side. So, to options. One: stake out some clown homes or a card shop. Bollocks to that. For one thing, there was no pattern. If you’re in a flying machine (and you’re crazy) why bother being systematic? Far better for Alex to take option two and provoke the killer. It was both easier, cheaper and appealingly stupid.

A day later and Alex had his fake business splashed over the local papers, a website and business cards in every supermarket business slot (even killers need bread). Trepan Balloon Menagerie – Fill Your Kids With Fun. A nice font surrounded by dozens of unlikely inflated beasts and the office address in huge letters. The office was an empty shop front in the arse end of town. He’d filled it with the office supplies from the skip next door. It looked like a fine balloonery. Alex settled down in the building opposite to keep watch.

A real stake-out is even less glamorous than when depicted on TV. This was only his fourth stake-out included the night drinking rosé in a patio armchair looking out for a missing cat. He’d never stalked a killer before and was hopeful that he’d qualify for beginner’s luck. He also hoped he wouldn’t die. It had occurred to him several times, while photocopying posters and tapping in the business card details that there was an element of risk that he hadn’t fully evaluated. This is one of the problems with drilling holes in your head, or even with needing to perforate your skull: sure, you escape some of the voices, but there’s always the chance that you’ll take out something useful – like common sense.

The apartment he’d broken into, to keep an eye on his fake premises (which he’s also broken into, to keep his expenses down) backed onto a Chinese takeaway. The smell of oil and meat was making him terribly hungry. The sheer invective of the chefs seeped through the walls like a grease stain. Alex hoped the killer came soon, this was too much like being at home. As a nod to caution he’d taken care not to dress remotely clownishly, to the extent of not even wearing a drab overcoat such as a man might wear when abducting children from the see-saw.

Luck chose to make another unscheduled appearance in Alex’ life at midnight. The Angered Dragon shut up shop for the night and the vengeful chefs faded away. Soon after, as Alex was relaxing with his Thermos of tea, the exact sound Edna had described made the windows shudder in their frames. Alex rushed to the window and pressed his face to the window as if looking for Santa’s sleigh. With his nose flattened, he could just see the sleek, deadly shape of Strangemind’s Petulance gliding downwards. He took a couple of quick pictures as it sank behind the ballooning premises. Game on.

Alex was somewhat disappointed that the killer was using the backdoor. He was perfectly comfortable keeping a road between them. Of course the back was a smart move – parking a flying machine in the front street would be stupid. Oh well, time to get moving. He bounded down the stairs and across the road to press his face up against another window, camera in hand.

Unfortunately, in the interests of greater exposure (and to conceal the discard-décor) Alex had smothered the windows in posters and flyers, all he could see were vague shadows. If he just open the door quietly he might be able get a few surreptitious snaps. He tugged the padlock keys out of his pocket with a loud jangle. He froze, but the crashing sounds from inside suggested his quarry was already engaged. There came a roar of rage from within and Alex dropped the keys with fright and a loud burst of Christmas music (the key fob was a gift and had sentimental attachments). The killer had apparently discovered the notable lack of helium on the premises.

The door exploded outwards as Alex scrabbled desperately back into the road. The wash of anger and pain kept him down. Stepping through the cloud of splinters was a man – two men. Maybe. Something fucked up had clearly happened to them. It looked like one man trying to climb out of the other, half unzipped taking his costume off. A hideous gory pantomime horse. The street lights cast an unnatural hue over the Swiss cheese skin and wet magnified cell texture. The creature(s) bellowed at him. Mostly from one mouth, the other agape wordlessly but enragedly. In one hand was a wickedly retro-futuristic gun – all vents and flashing lights. In another a crowbar and in yet another fist was one of Alex’ posters. The fourth arm was still inside the man-sleeve.

“Your advert?” The thing-man rasped, holding the poster up to compare Alex’ face with the grinning photograph of him inflating a duck.

“Ah yes, about that…” Alex was keen to distance himself from the unfortunate lack of helium cans, but could think of no reason why his innocent and unrelated features would be on the poster. He was spared an embarrassing babble because the street lights suddenly blacked out and with a deep drone the street was bathed in cold blue light. The duoman snarled, tossed the poster and crowbar at Alex and darted/dragged himself back into the shop. The poster was sucked up into the air, but the crowbar bounced off the kerb and hit Alex on the knee.

Oh yeah, the light. Alex looked up . The blue fluorescent cone ended in a vast ovoid above the rooftops, howling with all the forces of science. Galaxy Team. Cool. Despite himself Alex was overwhelmed. Then the shooting began. He’d briefly forgotten about Strangemind’s reputation. Sure, they were heroes… kind of. The kind that took no prisoners, or spectators, or even people who weren’t really nearby. Beams of force erupted from behind the balloon house, tearing it to pieces. The Vortex (for it surely was the flagship) responded by battering the rest of the house and its neighbours into a glowing dust. Alex was by now desperately grappling with the awkward handle at the door of his stakeout. What the fuck were Galaxy Team fighting each other for – weren’t there enough people to vaporise?

As Alex managed to drive the latch down he felt a grip on his shoulders. Cock. He was whipped up into the air, dangling at the end of a claw extending from the belly of the Petulance. The ship took off at speeds high enough to deprive him of air. They dashed across the rest of town in moments and were into the countryside before he’d re-filled a lung. Alex struggled to stop his limbs from flapping at unnatural, breakable angles and tried really hard to ignore the Vortex as it continued to rain fire upon them. With enough air Alex would have been screaming. Minutes later though it felt like a lifetime, the Petulance drew to a violent halt, pivoted and dropped through a long gap in the roof of an abandoned farm’s barn. The claw released him and he fell a storey onto a table covered with helium cylinders. Painful. He lay sprawling and gasping for breath while the Petulance settled into a cradle overhead.

Chapter 4 Mutanto and Friends coming soon…

Goodbye Mister Bimbolino. Chapter 2: Bungalow Country

November 14, 2011 by Nick

A Galaxy Team and Alex Trepan adventure. Read chapter 1′Bad Coffee’ first.

Chapter 2 Bungalow Country

Fucking buses.

The bus deposited him in a one of the nicer suburbs, leafy and full of post-war detached and semi-detached houses with either pretty bay windows or ghastly hobbit style front door arches. Alex stalked off the bus stench into a dead man’s cul-de-sac along a path which forked off to the local supermarket. A place for old people. Mostly bungalows with absurdly neat gardens. A weak-wristed riposte to nature and the march of death.

Neil, and the bus ride had turned Alex’ loathing of Starbucks into a foul temper. That was one good reason for catching buses. The residual bitterness and anger of its occupants provided a shell which would help to buffer him emotionally from the murder scene. Of course it was also extremely distracting, being forced to feel the inane gibberish spewed out by the teenagers who infest public transport. It’s a tough call whether their emotional immaturity or their tinny phone speakers are more irritating.

Dark bungalow windows, no car. No one home. Well that was a given. The guy was a fucking clown. Who could live with that? Any relatives were either too embarrassed or busy mourning to be picking over his fun supplies. All that was left of the clown was his face splashed over on a goose egg in Wookey Holes. Not much for a life of laughter. Or tears. There was no crime scene tape around the house. No one seems to bother leaving that up in England, but then there’s plenty of red tape to compensate. He’d never quite figured out how paperwork saves lives, although he did prioritise his expenses claims. According to the newspaper the crime scene was just the garage. Easily closed and easily cleaned.

With a sigh, Alex opened the garage door with his knife and raised it up and over so it slid into the roof space. He loved this kind of garage door. As a child he’d had enormous fun hiding just above that area so when people came in he could scare the crap out of them. Brilliant fun. That was before the voices of course – it’s substantially less enjoyable to startle someone when you get their fear roaring through your head too.

The police hadn’t cleaned up well. Alex had seen a few of these scenes and they’d made even less effort to tidy up this blizzard of paper, sticky stuff and other detritus the police left behind. It was like a disappointing snow shower. Beneath the cop flakes were Thomas “Wacky” Spoons’ prize possessions. A lifetime of irritating magic tricks, wigs, stilts, boxes full of jokes. Drawers and cupboards labelled enticingly rubber, gags, puppets, greasepaint, kiddy. An empty rack of gas cylinders presumably for balloons and whatever other creepy stuff a clown gets up to.

The blood started in the middle of the room. It crept up the side of a workbench and lumpily terminated in a box of hysterically long shoes next to the cylinder rack. Alex’ was still heavy with the fragile but intense feelings of the sub-literate future criminals on the bus, but the violence of this place was displacing them as it seeped into his skull. He rubbed the holes in his scalp absently, blurring the trapped sensations of fear and pain. They mixed like a cloud filled with screaming.

A sudden noise behind him almost left Alex gripping his own head like a bowling ball. He whirled round, fisted phone ready to battering a clownicide.

“Jesus’ shit” he exclaimed, startled. The fierce curiosity of the aged preceded the blades of secateurs which snapped towards his throat. The elderly garden warrior jabbed at him as she spoke,

“And who the buggering arse are you, young man? This is a crime scene.” Great, a fucking Marple. Alex smeared on his most bureaucratic smirk. “Indeed madam, perhaps you could explain why you’re seen fit to encroach on the area”.

“Don’t get smart with me you little twat. I live next door and I heard everything.”

“Really? Would you mind talking about it?”

“I’ve been trying to talk to the police, but they don’t listen, couldn’t give a frigid bollock for what I know”. Alex glanced up and down the street.

“Look, would you like to come inside?” The lady mimbled for moment and then stepped into the garage. Alex swung the door down behind her.

The old lady was Edna. Mrs Edna Millwax (widow). She talked interminably. Alex had been right to close the door – should she fail to shut up he’d be able to kill her in privacy. Still, she’d had a marvellous marriage (until Ted died – cancer, sad) but she had two beautiful sons, one of whom (David) lived nearby, unlike James (the selfish little bastard) who lived in London as an architect or a rent boy; it wasn’t clear which. Mr Spoons had been her neighbour for fifteen, no sixteen years come April. He was a lovely man, not a paedophile at all. He made lovely balloons for Cherie, Adelaide and Charlie (but not Dennis because he’s allergic to latex) her equally beautiful grandchildren (though even at the age of six Edna knew that Adelaide would be a slut – she had the mouth for it). There was a still a half-full baboon balloon in the eaves of her conservatory.

Two nights ago she’d been gardening (of course) late at night. Edna had heard a subdued roar, followed by a rush of air like God farting which had ruffled her conifers. Then a sound like two drunk men staggering up the path (it reminded her of Ted and his brother Bill – the best of friends until Bill died in that lawn mower incident. Their lawn was the envy of the street that summer). The garage door screeched up, then slammed shut again. At first Edna assumed it was just one of Thomas’ long-footed circus friends. And then the screaming started. It didn’t last long. The garage door opened and the two men came out again. It sounded like they were dragging something. It made a hollow rasping on the concrete drive. Before she could peer between her beloved conifers (which she’d planted only six, no seven years ago that Spring, oh how they grow), the wind came again and a flying car nearly took her weathercock off the roof (she gestured at the wall, behind which presumably was her prized ‘badger rampant’ weather vane – artisan crafted).

A fascinating account… Flying cars weren’t exactly common place so Alex had no doubt that he was finally, deliberately, on Galaxy Team’s trail. He might even get a snap of Strangemind’s runabout, The Petulance. No idea who the two man team might be. Dragging things. A simple question emerged:

“When did Mr Spoons make the baboon?”

“Last week. He had ever such a devil of a time twisting the buttocks just right”

“So he had lots of gas then?”

“Oh yes he always had gas, but then don’t we all. It’s a sin to deny it but that doesn’t mean we should embrace it, like Adelaide.”

Alex got himself and the mad Marple lady out of the dead man’s garage as quickly as her rambling would allow. He promised to come back and tell her anything he found out. He would not be returning. There were indeed drag marks (which he’d failed to notice before) down the path. They looked pretty much like the marks a gas cylinder might leave. Gas. Helium gas. Good for making your voice squeaky. Time to review some crime scene photos. He didn’t have any of those. He did have access to the web though and the local newspapers loved a crime scene.

Chapter 3 Inflate Me If You Dare coming soon…

Goodbye Mister Bimbolino. Chapter 1: Bad Coffee

November 7, 2011 by Nick

A Galaxy Team and Alex Trepan adventure.

Chapter 1 Bad Coffee

Alex choked on his coffee. It tasted like someone had dripped night soil into a cup. Hard to believe Starbucks could get away with selling this crap. Their incredible drive for ubiquity had left him a stark choice: Starbucks or a woman made of hair spooning instant with a grimy fist. He wasn’t convinced that he had chosen well. He grimaced and spat a tooth-scraping mouthful of grains back into the cup and glared at the de-pierced barista. He blew crumbs from the dried turd-log of biscotti off his notes and shook out the newspaper buried beneath.

Two more dead clowns and a burned down Happy Cards. That made a total of fourteen clowns, three kids’ “entertainers”, plus the incineration of two greetings card shops, a Big Joke Shop and a Mister Wowz Party Supplies. All in a fortnight too. At face value it was no great loss. Clowns are creepy – just one step up / down from mime artists and living statues. Still, that’s a good score by any nutter’s reckoning. On the plus side this was one of those killing sprees where the public didn’t seem to be freaking out. It’s possible they were on the killer’s side. The police were reportedly “baffled” and had no leads except for noting that the murders all involved parties. The prospect of a future with paedo-fear free parties and cards without children dressed as flowers was bright. Only a sex offender lynching party would cause less public consternation.

But Alex wasn’t there for the clowns – not specifically. It was hard enough to see them as people, let alone go that step further and care about them. Ever since Mr Fucking Bimbolino had made Karen Mingsy pull an endless scarf out of his flies at her birthday party…. well. Alex was glad they were crying on the inside. Before he could leave the vile coffee house his phone rang. Once more it had reset to the factory default ringtone. He answered it by slamming it onto the table, at once scaring the crap out of hole-faced girl and stopping the beeping sounds that tell mothers to drown their children.

“You still in Derby, yeah?”

“Yeah”

“No one gives a shit about clowns”

“This isn’t about clowns”

“Yeah. Galaxy Team, yeah?”

“Well clownicide is certainly weird”

“Yeah. Weird enough to bring ‘em out?”

“If they’re not already here, yes I think so. Maybe.”

“Don’t give a shit about maybes Alex”

“Thanks Neil, I appreciate your support”

“Get me a picture yeah. Nice shot of Strangemind or one of the freaks. Doing something. Don’t want pictures of them drinking tea or taking a dump.”

“Hey – that picture of Talon was a good photo.”

“She was putting sugar in her tea yeah. You couldn’t even see her wings. Not a good picture. Do better”

“Bye Neil”

Well that was cheering. Neil had little faith in Alex’ photographic abilities. Which was fair. His phone wasn’t very high resolution and his hands tended to shake. Shouldn’t have had coffee either. It was making his scalp itch. Alex’ last few years had left him with few useful avenues of employment. He’d been signed off with epilepsy, paranoid schizophrenia and obsessive compulsive disorders. Apparently that’s the sort of diagnosis you get when you drill holes in your head to let the voices out. Hadn’t worked. Investigation seemed the best way to go. Mostly, you got to avoid people and when you did meet them it was sometimes handy to be able to sense their emotions. Less fun in crowds or offices though. So now Neil had him on a retainer to investigate anything related to Galaxy Team. It hadn’t gone very well so far. First the sighting of Talon which he’d rushed to, and then managed to miss the ensuing story – her abduction and dramatic rescue. He had gotten pictures of crazed office workers attacking police, but it just looked like every Friday night in Nottingham.

Then there had been the Yorkshire Debacle – an awesome pitched battle between the Beastlie Brothers and the Boytronic Wonder against Lizzie Damocles and the Amalgamator. As the latter had hoovered up the grass and earth beneath him, gaining enormous mass Lizzie Damocles had gone sword and knife against Mu-Tant Ra’Koon with frightening force. Alex had only been there by accident. An old friend had lured him with wine to a shockingly dull cricket match. The show had been enlivened by the casual butchery of both teams and the green. Alex had hidden under the scoreboard, clutching the foiled bladder from the wine box, snapping away until the Boytronic Wonder had taken the Amalgamator down with a massive electro-magnetic pulse which put Alex back in touch with the Elder Gods. When he was finally dragged out from the rubble by emergency teams his phone and camera were useless. Apparently describing it really well wasn’t good enough.

Tracing Galaxy Team wasn’t easy – Alex was at least doing better than the other detectives Neil had hired. Two were dead and another was busy escaping from mental institutions. Their astonishing disregard for human life made the endeavour risky as well as difficult. But he’d discovered that by discarding almost all available information about them – conspiracy loons, newspapers, government disinformation (which didn’t leave much) and locating the few people to have met a Galaxy Team member and lived, he was left with the hint of a shadow of ghost of a pattern. Well, a trail of mostly stamped into the mud bread crumbs: just follow the weird. It turns out there’s a lot of weird stuff going on. Luck and whatever passes for instinct in Alex’s strange empathic head were his guides. They weren’t especially good guides.

Mass events, like the water in Liverpool that caused homicidal hallucinations, the accounts of a herd of unicorns running through night, the sudden dwarfism that afflicted Belgium, the diamond house in Bromley, the return of pikestaffs and chain mail as fashion had all been linked to Galaxy Team, or their numerous enemies. So the clown killings seemed promising. On the one hand, this seemed entirely normal – who hasn’t had the urge to strangle a clown? But the crimes were apparently motiveless. Despite allegations of impropriety on the fun-meisters’ parts there was no substance to the claims.

The intensity of the fires in the shops was screwing with the police investigations. The police couldn’t understand it – they couldn’t tell if anything had been stolen although why you’d steal greetings cards was baffling. Surely reading just one Purple Ronnie card makes you want to torch the lot. From what he’d seen on CSI fire was a great way to hide what you were doing, unless you set the fire with something really distinctive, like your Dad’s homemade vodka. Less interesting, too hard to investigate, and in a thoroughly amateur detective move would be entirely ignored. Alex was more interested in the clown executions, which seemed a little odd, and not obviously connected with the shops. The clowns were all killed in their own homes, which “showed signs of disturbance” – read “utterly trashed”. Alex had broken into a fair few of them now in his haphazard search for clues and seen the wreckage left. The deaths themselves showed opportunism, having been variously attributed to plastic bags, blunt force trauma, knife, strangulation, battery, being hit with a car (in their living room).

Alex’ list of possible motives was struggling to get beyond some guy who hated clowns because they were clowns. But the killer was obviously looking for something, and maybe taking it away when he found it. Alex was hoping for a world-wide (Derby-wide) ancient clown conspiracy where the secrets of Columbine had been passed down for generations, in which the truth about Jesus’ mum being a mime was withheld from the rest of the world. Perhaps he’d read too many terribly historical thrillers.

The second corpsey clown, “Wacky Spoons” (whom Alex now despised) lived just a short bus ride away in Allestree. With a sigh Alex gathered his papers and headed for the suburbs. He could probably just guess at what he’d find, but he was pretty sure that good detective work (as opposed to what he did) involved looking at things. Besides, what else is there to do in Derby.

Chapter 2 Bungalow coming soon…

Vermouth Thursday ~ Galaxy Team

August 20, 2011 by Nick

“Paris 1993 [Eiffel tower] Thursday July 22rd 17:53 [same shot of the Eiffel tower with a vast spaceship hovering over it]. The first recorded appearance of the intergalactic space villain, self-dubbed ‘Vermouthinator’ (over two hundred appellations to his name have been recorded – all honorific titles, apparently self-created as an expression of his extreme egotism). Vermouthinator contacted all humans on Earth directly, simultaneously entering their minds instead of all forms of traditional communication. His message was short and cryptic and has been pieced together from a variety of surviving sources [montage of confused Parisians]:

“Greetings human filth. It is I, the Ineffably Wondrous Lord of the Demiverse, Sculptor of Wonder, Imbiber of Galactic Fluids – the one and only Vermouthinator. Congratulations are due to your mixologists and cocktailliers. It is martini time.” [photograph of a martini glass]

This initial contact may have been mis-calibrated in either its force or content. Certainly the overture while apparently contemptuous, did not speak of an intent for the carnage that ensued. While all of humanity received a message (albeit in English, which was wasted on many), the area immediately around Paris, in a roughly 1000 mile radius was particularly affected by the intensity of the communication [map with big red circle]. Religious fundamentalists appeared to take the brunt of the damage, suffering from the now well-documented ‘Mental Expulsion Trauma’ (see appendix xii).

In summary: the contact forced a paradigm shift upon those affected. Undeniable evidence of non-terrestrial life or the sudden telepathic contact so vastly exceeded their supposed realities that their natural mental plasticity (the ability to compartmentalise irreconcilable information) was unable to cope. The result: their mental states were forced out of their physical structures to a point 14 inches to the left of their skull [image of a ghostly brain hanging above a mannequins shoulder]. It is notable that individuals suffering from schizophrenia and related disorders were less likely to be fatally affected.

Of the affected individuals 98.995% are now deceased, their vegetative states determined permanent. Rumours persist of sentient plants and animals who were within that 14 inch translocation range [photograph of 'Benny the Signing Dandelion' and 'Aquat, the Scholarly Squirrel']. Few of these cases have been verified, nor have the accounts of sightings of Alpha Strangemind and the Galaxy Team in heavily affected regions apparently armed with “high-tech butterfly nets” [artist's impression of techno-net].”

The film jerks to a stop, black streaks overtaken by white which flicker over the curious figure hunched before the screen. He is tall and thin, dressed in a fake silk dressing gown with a dragon cheaply embroidered on the back; his feet and ankles are bony and uncovered. With a snort of disgust he spits on the concrete floor and stabs the button on his arm rest which re-starts the film. The shadows cast by the television throw his long body back across the bleak room; his head tails weakly off the top of his shoulders. The shadow is no trick of the light: his head really is tiny. This is Pip, first child of Anne and Doyle Humpester; Galactobrain to his fans; Milkymind to his brothers; Bollockface to his enemies. The last is cruel but apt observation. He stands and hurls his Kit-Kat mug across the room. It falls short of the opposing wall and shatters on the concrete sending a coffee slick into the cracks.

“Oi. You can clear that lot up right now mister,” the door flies open to reveal the voluptuous figure of Comely Strangemind, wife and partner to the legendary Galaxy Team patriarch Alpha (formerly Mr and Mrs Doyle Humpester). She stands there with her stark black mask in place but otherwise wrapped in a towel, steaming from the shower.

Pip whirls around, his eyes bulging in surprise. They’re the biggest thing in his head, which looks exactly like someone’s taken a tennis ball and stapled a pair of poached eggs onto it. He bursts into tears. The way his face is squeezed means that his tear ducts are unnaturally pressed against his cheek bones and the tears spurt forward like windscreen washers.

Comely crosses the room and crushes her son to her breast, “Oh Pip, you must stop watching that.”

“I just hate him so much mum, it’s all his fault…” his tears soak into Comely’s towel. Quietly Comely extrudes a length of tail-like flesh and scoops the broken mug up and into the waste basket by the door. She sits down and pops Pip on her knee where he continues his bitter sobbing.

Pip is one of only twenty-three human survivors of the ironically titled Vermouth Thursday’s Mental Expulsion Trauma. At the time of the Vermouthinator’s fateful message he had been seven, an outwardly normal boy (if rather tall) with extraordinary mental powers. He had been instrumental in the development of Galaxy Team since before he was born and so had been involved in some of his parents’ earliest experiments on he and his siblings.

On Vermouth Thursday Alpha and Comely had strapped Pip into a device of their devising intended to map and amplify the already prodigious mind he possessed – the augMentation. Pip was a willing participant, keen to expand and develop the neoScience of Galaxy Team. His mind was wide open, the virtual tendrils of their machinery exposing and teasing apart his mind. When Vermouthinator blasted out his greeting to humanity Pip’s mind was naked and vulnerable. The words blasted into him, amplified a billion-fold by the augMentation. Unlike the millions who died almost instantly, the extraordinary mental prowess enabled him to find an escape from the endless reverberations of alien inanities. He tapped into the Quantum Occlusion (which shielded the village of Llandwi-ge-Hw from outsiders) and ejected his mind past the 14 inch limit. He went too far. Bent around the Occlusion, it strained his mind and the physical matter of his brain out into space and beyond. The stream of his ideation found its entangled particles and flowed around the converse edge of the universe, re-emerging into real space inside the Small Megallanic Cloud where it discovered structure sufficient to accommodate his mind, though massively dispersed.

Despite Alpha’s best efforts they had been unable to reverse the process – Pip’s brain was no longer located in his body – it was a galaxy two hundred million light years away. On Earth the shell of his head had buckled, cracking and collapsing unable to tolerate the vacuum within. Somehow he still controlled his body though it was some weeks before he fully integrated his disparate mentality between the stars. When he did regain the power of speech it was a huge relief to his parents who had almost ceased their experiments on their other offspring in concern. With the return of speech came a darkness born of the deep space in which he now lived, and despite being only a child, he swore vengeance on Vermouthinator.

Anne had grown used to finding Pip watching the news reports of Vermouth Thursday over and over again. Despite his galactic intelligence he just could not find it in him to forgive Vermouthinator for destroying his face. That he had likely gained immortality at the age of seven by replanting his consciousness in another galaxy was small comfort for a young man who ought to be chasing girls like the Beastlie Brothers (though hopefully with more success). All of Comely’s attempts to steer him away from revenge had failed. It seemed the only thing to do was to help him avenge himself.

“Pip, we know he’ll be back one day, people like him always come back.” Pip judders with rage and the force of tears firing upwards from his eyes.

“He’s not a person mum, we don’t know where he’s from or what he is.” Pip’s fingers begin to jerk in a complex pattern of virtual keystrokes and command gestures.

“Let’s try and find out shall we? You know your father’s been working on the Vortex. We could go and find him, out there.” The holographic screen appears in the room before them, engineering designs, molecular structures and anatomical diagrams flash away with a single gesture from Pip. A detailed image of the Milky Way resolves itself in the air and streaks past to reveal the cloudy mass of stars that compose Pip’s mind. They pierce the outer halo and streaks of stardust. Comely cannot help but wonder what part of Pip’s mind they are looking at. What happens when a star dies in his mind…

Pip’s tears dry up and his face takes on a distant, calculating aspect. He points at a cluster of stars and the view zooms in to show a star with its orrery of planets gliding by, “I wonder if he’s in me.” The thought makes Comely’s second skin crawl under her towel.

Alphabetic Dialogues 7 The Bucket

August 17, 2011 by Nick

Alpha Strangemind and The Krayfish find themselves in a stand-off. (The Krayfish is a hive entity who exists mainly in a bucket. Of crayfish. Well, he/it is the crayfish – put enough of them together and they get smart.)

‘Come any closer and I’ll nip off your pointies’
‘Don’t threaten me you scabby prawn’
‘Eventually you will grow weak and I shall destroy you and your freakish children, Strangemind’
‘Fresh fishmeat for the table. That’s all you are Krayfish’
‘Gashing you open is only the start of my plans for you’
‘Ha! As soon as you lay your slimy shell fists on me I’ll be as chitinous as you’
‘I’ve far larger crayfish to call upon who will hammer out your weak meat’
‘Just try me, prawn’
‘Keep up the taunts Strangeskin. I’d step off that puddle of fish vomit if I looked like you’
‘Let’s get down to it. You, me and a Swiss Army knife’
‘Move one inch closer and I’ll swarm!’
‘No Krayfish, you see I’ve brought Mu-Tant Ra-Koon with me, and he’s quite capable of kicking your bucket’
‘On my word I never had planned to harm you, ah ha, haha…’
‘Perhaps you forget your place Krayfish’
‘Quell my fears old frind, stand down your fur-boy’
‘Relieving myself of the advantage? I think not’
‘Supposing I were to supply you with certain nuggets of information that might tease your interest?’
‘That could well be another matter’
‘Underwater there have been murmurs of Dementia…’
‘Volupine Dementia? That vicious witch’
‘Well, that sounds like a yes’
‘eXplain to me your sources and we may grant you some leeway’
‘You’ll need to do more than that. I know when and where she’ll be’
‘Zealous bitch. Done’
‘And my product will be unharmed’
‘Brain Jam – you call that a product?’
‘Can’t complain about a profit Strangemind.’

The Life Punchinator ~ Galaxy Team

August 8, 2011 by Nick

The trees were burning. The flames leaped from one tree to the next, rushing up the avenue like autumn followed by winter. The dead blackened trunks crumbled to ash and were blasted into the air. The wave of incineration struck the window, glaring into an eerie whiteness punctuated by muffled thumps as the pane absorbed the shock. Gradually the smoke and dust cleared. Through the scratched glass the world was barren and shrouded in red. In the distance the fire-front could be seen reaching the horizon.

“Excellent,” declared the titanic black chair as it swivelled round, “three minutes and eleven seconds to utter destruction”. Tremulous Gutshank peered up at his master perching on the black seat, “yes sir, that’s one hundred and thirty-three seconds faster than the last world”. His master’s face was only just visible within the mass of fur surrounding him in his command chair. Gutshank checked the time nervously. “Yes, my doom has been imposed upon this world and its pitiful squealing populace. No more shall their artistic abominations infest the aesthetic sensibilities of the universe.” Gutshank fiddled with his watch while his master continued to ramble. “Doom from above, doom from below, doom from behind their homes where their children played in the green sand ground down over aeons by the relentless tides of their now dry and dusty seas.” Gutshank coughed politely.

“And their insipid stain is now wiped from the galaxy’s diverse blouse of existence- Gutshank, do not interrupt me as I wax lyrical upon the fate of my enemies”. His High Lord Ethereality of Maximum Terror, Vermouthinator looked down from his high seat of destruction at the quaking serf below. “Fetch me a martini, upon this instant, lest I cast you into the vacuity without,” he commanded, the sweep of his arm taking in the wasteland outside. “But sir, it’s been two and a half minutes since you changed the terms of existence on this planet – they’ll be here soon” Gutshank persisted. “Gin, vermouth, an olive.. a glass. Immediately!” Vermouthinator’s voice reached its quavery peak as he shrieked “a chilled glass – chilled! Not cold.”

As the weevilly Gutshank scurried from the room his Maximum Lordship sighed, and with a vast furry fist depressed the button which spiralled his chair back down to the floor. The view outside was still magnificent, an aura of death hung over the plain outside. The Life-Punchinator was almost ready for its ultimate purpose, to destroy Galaxy Team and whatever worthless planet they occupied at the time. Gutshank was right: they would soon be here to interfere with his progress, despite their own science provenance. It seemed unlikely that they would be especially concerned about the twittering inhabitants of Gockley IX. It was a small planet with an only recently sentient population of bird-analogues who had barely mastered growing trees in rows and shitting paint onto stone canvasses let alone contribute to the Sentience Shoal.

And yet still Galaxy Team would insist on interfering. Perhaps if Vermouthinator hadn’t pushed their former leader, Alpha Strangemind to the brink of despair (and just over it) they wouldn’t be quite so passionate. It had all been a bit of a game once. Vermouthinator and Gutshank would travel across space conducting experiments and making perfect martinis. Occasionally that required large scale experimentation (like the gassing of the Gimp-Muddlers on Kungly Prime). People didn’t always die (although everyone on Kungly Prime did).

It was after the Olive Debacle that things turned nasty. It was a simple scheme – turn the Mediterranean into a giant martini. That part had gone well. But when Vermouthinator and Gutshank had entered the secondary phase of morphing the great cities of Europe into olives, Strangemind and his Galaxy Team had come flying at them, severing the crucial streams of laser juice as they pumped the cities full of oliveness. Things had rather escalated after that: Belgium was left a smoking crater; the Beastlie Boys stole Vermouthinator’s skin; he released a video of Alpha in bed with a hooker named Causal Orgasm (who knew she had super-powers?); Alpha declared a personal war while negotiating a divorce settlement. So war it was.

“We have a reading on the Vortex!” cried Gutshank, artfully skimming the martini tray to his master as he leaped to the Observation Column’s control panel. The Vermouthinator’s seat spiralled high into the dome as Gutshank spun the elevation wheels. He desperately wobbled the glass to keep its precious fluids in a matching counter-spiral lest it be lost. Shaking off the pangs of motion sickness he sipped at the ginny nectar and arched an eyebrow at the growing speck of light arrowing towards the demisphere of glass. “Soon, soon. Come close into my Enpunchinating embrace you fools. Aye Alpha Strangemind, never more shall you and your mutated spawn infringe upon the dominion of all that is due to The Vermouthinator Master Vibrantine and Earl of the Decadent Liquid Realms.” He chuckled into his martini. With the final test complete (and Gockley IX now suitable for dust-farming) he felt confident that he would soon be removing Galaxy Team for good.

The Vortex had grown larger during The Vermouthinator’s unusually brief speech, much larger. Gutshank noticed a small, almost unnoticeable light flashing on the control panel, in an unobtrusive almost apologetic way. Almost like it didn’t want to be noticed, didn’t want to get poor Tremulous in trouble, get him flayed or inserted into another body. Maybe Gutshank should follow suit. He carefully stuck a post-it note over the light. “All controls re-routed to your command chair my Ascended Lord of the High Thought and Action, you have complete control sire.” Looking up through the crystal dome overhead Gutshank could see the distinctive eagle-mounting-a-lion shape of the Vortex closing in. It cruised over the billowing dust clouds and through the black rain, finally rearing up and presenting its fearsomely armed underside to the quailing Gutshank and the now maniacally giggling Vermouthinator.

Vermouthinator activated the communicator and bellowed into it, “Goodbye Strangemind, you shall plague me no more!” The Vortex’s weapons swivelled towards the villain’s base and Alpha Strangemind’s familiar teacherly tones echoed through the base, “Damn you Verminator. Another planet crushed beneath your spiteful boots. In a million years those birds might have been ready to share their music with the rest of the Shoal, but now they never will.”

“Indeed, and had they not insisted on waking me early in the day with their incessant wittering they could still have done,” replied Vermouthinator, “but like you they just couldn’t resist interfering with me – and now you shall share their downfall.” With the air of a fur-clad conductor he jabbed one long finger down onto the firing button on his armrest, “prepare to be enPunchinated!” The vast machine in their hideout vibrated and hummed, lights rippling up the inside of the dome in waves. Huge doors opened underneath the dome and extended equally enormous articulated arms ending in massive grasping fists.

There was a painful choking sound and the humming became a throaty growl and the entire dome shuddered. “This is most irregular, if you could just hold on a moment.” Vermouthinator stabbed wildly at the controls, slamming his fists into the buttons. Alpha’s voice came back through the speakers, “Normally I wouldn’t feel any obligation to mention it, but the generators at the rear of your facility appear to be overheating. It looks very much like we won’t be needed here at all.” The two arms began waving about, punching drunkenly at the rain.

“No, wait. I’m certain we’ll be able to destroy you momentarily.” Vermouthinator clenched his fingers tightly and screamed, “Gutshank, what the hell is going on down there?”

“I’m terribly sorry Master, but all my controls are slaved to yours -oh, what’s this? There’s a little light here which is flashing – just under the fist-power drive – is that a problem?” Tremulous nervously enquired. The martini glass bounced off his head and shattered on the floor.

The Vortex rotated in the sky outside and retreated to a good viewing distance while Vermouthinator screamed in frustration and hit the descend button on his chair. As the spinning throne tossed Vermouthinator onto the floor the machines pumped and ground their way to a roaring climax of tearing metal and throbbing energy. The red light had been joined by a mosaic of its fellows casting a red strobe over the villain who kicked Tremulous Gutshank all the way to the emergency exit (helpfully denoted by a flashing green light above the door). The safety doors gave way to the Wyrmwood, Vermouthinator’s ship.

The Life-Punchinator’s began randomly punching energy fists into the air and ground around the base, smashing the dome and its foundations. The pugilistic battery grew faster until the Life-Punchinator finished itself with a powerful one-two to the planet’s mantle and detonated in a white-hot cone of energy. The Wyrmwood was flicked into space by the force of the blast, which obscured it from the Vortex’s sensors. Gutshank struggled to regain control of the ejected ship as it veered dangerously close to one of Gockley IX’s moons. Not an easy task when being beaten about the head by your enraged and bitterly disappointed master. Gradually the Vermouthinator’s rage subsided into sulking and he sank deep into his furry robes until he could bring himself to speak without cursing. “Gutshank, tell me you at least had the common decency to salvage the cocktail trolley”.

Alphabetic Dialogues 3 Galaxy Team

July 31, 2011 by Nick

Galaxy Team villains The Vermouthinator and his crony Gutshank are in pursuit of the hated Galaxy Team…

‘You are an exexcrable wretch Gutshank.’
‘Zymon showed great promise, until we arrived’
‘And so your excuse is what, poor research?’
‘But everything pointed to Galaxy Team being here’
‘Could you just control your whine for one minute’
‘Death to Galaxy Team!’
‘Even your enthusiasm irritates me today’
‘Failing you is the worse than seeing them live’
‘Good. Despite your failings you are my favourite, Gutshank’
‘Happy to serve Lord Egregious Vermouthinator sir’
‘I know’
‘Just wanted to make sure sir’
‘Killing Galaxy Team shall, I suppose, be delayed by at least one day’
”Leven’
‘My god, can you not even speak fully anymore?’
‘No master, I’m sorry – eleven days until we can catch up with Galaxy Team’
‘Of all the cretinous activities: you’ve brought us to this abysmal rock of morons and cost me eleven valuable days?’
‘Perhaps you’d like a martini’
‘Quelling my rage with gin are we Gutshank? I could just expel you into vacuum you odious-’
‘Ready now Your Eminencial Vermouthinator sir’
‘Slip another olive in. I feel dirtied.’
‘That’s better master, there we go, just sip…’
‘Unless you have any strokes of brilliance you may leave’
‘Very well sir, though I have one thought that might cheer you up’
‘Well, go on then’
‘X-Rays. Blast the Zymonians into glowing skeletons; you always love that.’

Galaxy Team ~ The Beastlie Brothers

July 17, 2011 by Nick

“November 1977, the home of geography teacher Doyle Humpester [still photograph of man holding chalk] is struck by a nuclear blast, which ignites the gas main destroying his home and everything in a quarter mile radius [aerial view of the smoking ruin of the street]. Mr Humpester and his wife, Anne, are recovered alive and in good health from the radioactive rubble a week later [wedding photograph of Mr and Mrs Humpester]. Humpester is heard to claim that they were, and I quote ‘reassembled by the Magnetic Lords of Atlantis’. They are both taken to Northfork military hospital [location classified] to recover and be assessed. Nine days later Doyle and Anne are reported to have escaped after apparently petrifying the guards [still photograph of soldier, skin texture is distinctly granular] and turning the facility walls into a permeable jelly [still photograph of ragged, spongy hole in wall]. They disappear for twenty-three years. [MOD classified notice]”

The film peters out and the kid flips the lights back on. He turns round and goes “so, what do you think? I got it from a bag I found on a train between London and Brighton.” I grimace, which is tricky with teeth like mine “Well, I don’t think Dad’s going to like it.” The kid’s not listening though. I think his name is Chris or something boring and he’s babbling on about the other videos and papers that were in the bag, “one of the others gets into all the weird stuff that went down in the ‘80s and ‘90s, like that village in Wales disappearing.” “You don’t say” I mutter under my breath. “And there’s one on the Beastlie Boys and that pub where everyone died and the-“ I bristle at that (I can’t help it) and place my hand on Kevin’s shoulder. For the first time he shuts up and pays some attention.

He’s what, twenty-two? I found him on an internet forum devoted to geeking out and theorising about the activities and origins of Galaxy Team. Most of it is just mental nonsense, but now and again someone says something that sounds less crazy. And when you also hear that the Ministry of Defence has lost another laptop or left a folder on the tube… So I sought him out, Chris, Keith whatever and got myself invited to a little home movie showing in his mum’s cellar. That he’s showing me VHS footage only backs up its authenticity. “Listen kid,” I say, “you shouldn’t believe everything you hear about the Beastlie Boys”. Carl looks worried. He should be. I growl, and my claws slide out, curling over his shoulder, thick hair sprouts out of my sleeves. There’s a thump, a thud and a stifled scream followed by another thud and the sound of breaking glass from above us. Charlie goes white. “Sorry mate, that’ll be your mum”. The crashing continues.

I look at the kid with my real eyes, all black and rimmed with fur. “You’re about to die, so you may as well get some of your facts straight.” Tediously Kyle starts to blubber, “bu-bu-but you’re m- Mu’Tant Ra Koon”. I sigh, “yep and only me and my brother upstairs know what really happened in that pub. So you want to know, or do you want to die sooner?” I admit they’re not the best options in the world, but he managed to snot-bubble out a yes.

“We were the first to survive, me and Man-Ho Tujsk. We were four when Dad started the experiments. I guess that sounds pretty bad to outsiders but he was a great dad. We used to play with cyborg baboons and laser ducks in the mornings, get hypno-educated in the afternoons and at night Dad read us fairy tales and crime thrillers. This was all in Llandwi-ge-Hw of course, occluded from view. Dad was always determined that his children should be as special as he and Mum had become.

“He’d managed to get hold of some decent DNA from one of those freeze-dried Siberian mammoths and a Cuban contact had slipped him some thirteenth century land sloth genes. That’s where I get these claws from. Now Dad’s a genius, no doubt about that but that doesn’t mean he thinks too far ahead. So sure, you can shoot your boys up with retro-viral mammoth and sloth DNA and give them amazing super-powers but it’s definitely going to limit their potential for gainful employment.

“More importantly, it was going to be tough to meet girls. We were sixteen, we wanted to meet girls, go to the pub, do normal things. So we sneaked out through the Imperceptibubble and headed to the nearest pub, The King’s Chestnuts. We knew we’d stick out a bit, but Mum had long taught us the magics of the ancients (or as Dad said, old science) and we could at least hide the tusks, fur and claws which might seem odd to the locals. We thought we were doing alright – we’d gotten served (cider, naturally for teenagers) and settled into a dark corner.

“What we didn’t know was that MI6 had been using the pub as a small base of operations since Llandwi-ge-Hw went missing and we were exactly the sort of thing they were looking for. They pulled out guns; we pulled out our claws and tusks. We can rip up a bar pretty quickly, and managed to throw enough barstools and tables around to get us outside and into the beer garden. There was a lot of panicking and yelling, and then helicopters turned up – black against the night sky. Without any warning they threw out gas grenades. They must have misjudged the wind because it all streamed away from us and over the pub.

“Within a minute all the MI6 guys and the pub staff were dead and we were standing in a spotlight. I thought we were dead too, but the helicopters exploded and crashed flaming to the ground. It was Dad, in the Petulance, the jet he’d built to spite Mum’s ban on motorbikes.”

I look down at Clive, “not our fault you see.” The cellar door falls inwards and I see Man-Ho Tujsk’s big shaggy feet at the top of the steps. “Right then. Time for us to go Colin.” “So, you’re the good guys?” he whines. What can I say? “It’s complicated”. He looks sort of relieved, until I lean forwards and pull his head off. I gather up the tapes and go upstairs.

“What was you doin’ down vhere?” Man-Ho asks as we leave the house, locking the door behind him. The fire catches and blows out the windows as we close the gate. “Just thinking about old times bro’.”

Part Four – Do Androids Have Wet Dreams?

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