

Minion #247

Chapter 1

I's a lackey. An underling. A minion. A hench...thing. And I takes pride in my work, I do. I even fake this accent to sound more henchy. Not sure how long I can keep it up though.

These days everyone wants to be mighty overlord of this, vanquishing hero of that, princess of whatever. But someone has to do the legwork. It's all very well laying plans, but without minions who's gonna get the job done? The Death Star didn't build itself, you know! Nobody pays attention to the details any more. Time was when a minion could take pride in a good job of evil well done. But times are always changing.

I'm your basic common or garden underling. We're not talking Igor to someone's Doctor Frankenstein here. Or evil Robin to evil Batman. I'm not your standing-by-the-throne kind of hench-thing, not the go-to guy for toadying to the king or accepting the enemy's challenge. I'm more your one twenty-seven thousandth of a horde type of minion. Part of the crowd. Expendable. Bottom of the heap. But the thing people forget about the bottom of the heap is... that without a bottom the heap would... be... well, the point is that we're important, us nameless underlings.

You'll have understood by now that I'm in the evil camp, so's to speak. Heroes don't go in for minions so much. Oh I know Captain Kirk has his red shirted crew members that you just know won't make it to the end of the episode, but most heroes are surrounded by companions who they know by name. Sickening really. If my master, Thurgo the Awesome, King of Evil, Winner of Lotteries, and Overlord (of Slough), ever thought to call me Kevin then I'd know right there and then that his reign of terror was on its last legs. Even a 'you there' would be going too far, acknowledging my individuality. The closest Thurgo the Awesome's ever come to being familiar with me was just before the Battle of Putney when he roared out "You lot on the left – if any of you survive the first ten minutes I shall want to know why!"

So, to business. I'm a goblin. They've been making us pretty much the same way at Ye Olde Goblin Factory in Hong Kong for nigh on two years now. The process involves taking a big lump of recycled plastic and basting it in liquid wickedness (fully organic of course) for several weeks before skilled technicians beat the heck out of it with hammers and then drop it off a tall building. After that it's just a matter of saying the magic words and bingo – a new goblin. We're blister packed, boxed, and shipped off around the world in cargo crates. Currently Lord Thurgo has fourteen of us camped out in his coal cellar. The master plan is to build the horde to twenty-seven thousand but you've got to build slow in this economy, Thurgo says. You have to speculate to accumulate, and also there are cash flow problems ever since the incident with the jam-bomb and subsequent stoppage of pocket money for two months.

Officially I'm minion #247. That came off the packet. Sir Terror-knight calls me "Oi!" Captain Bort calls me 'the ugly little one', and Sergeant Yellow-Fang calls me Kevin. The chain of command is vital. It goes Lord Thurgo → Sir Terror-Knight → Captain Bort → Sergeant Yellow-Fang → me. There are plans to make it longer but that's it for the moment.

Right now me and my twelve fellow grunt-level goblins are in the cellar, sat on the coal heap, whilst Captain Bort outlines tonight's mission. Blah, blah, blah. I really should be listening, but then if I was clever enough to do the right thing all the time then I really wouldn't be good minion material. And my old mother, if I had one, would probably have said that evil plans always need a bit of flexibility in them, to cope with UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES. And she always said (probably, if she existed) that having at least a few of the minions without the least clue what's going on is a good way of keeping it real. Anyway, that's my excuse for sitting here gnawing on a lump of coal and narrating instead of paying attention to Captain Bort. Besides I'm next to Odo who appears to be attempting to fart the national anthem and it's quite distracting.

"...blah, blah, blah."

Now that I actually am listening it turns out that Captain Bort really is just repeating the word 'blah'.

He sees that I've noticed and he coughs to clear his throat. "Blah and so on. Then we'll rush up and hit them with-" I liked it better when I wasn't paying attention, so I stop.

I guess it's tough knowing nobody is going to listen and that even if they do the words will just run off them without leaving any impression of a plan, like water off the back of a particularly stupid duck. So it's much easier if instead of preparing a plan briefing he just says what we all think he's saying anyway. It's efficient, and efficiency is, after all, one of the purest forms of evil.

"So, we're all set then! Any questions?" Captain Bort slaps his pointing stick against the flipchart illustrating the master-plan (a rectangle) and the logistics (a triangle with a circle to one side).

"When's dinner?" Alfonso asks. Alfonso always asks about dinner, sometimes while eating it.

"Anyone else?" Captain Bort casts a hopeful eye across the rest of us. I crunch my coal and swallow guiltily.

"Um?" I ask.

"Not a question." The captain points his stick right at me. Which is kinda rude, frankly.

"Shouldn't the circle be on the other side?" I ask. "And round?"

The captain swivels to examine his plan chart. "Well spotted, ugly little one." He mutters and gets out his crayon to make corrections. "I was wondering if any of you would notice that."

"Any more?" He watches us with his mistrustful eye now, which is on the opposite side of his head to the hopeful one.

Silence. Just the sound of goblins trying not to crunch as they eat the coal.

"Well then." The captain finishes the replacement circle with a flourish of blue crayon. "To battle!"

And once more, just as always, we clamber up the grimy steps from the coal cellar, wedge open the cellar door and emerge black-footed beneath the many coats hanging from it, out into the hallway of Number 6 Victoria Avenue, or Castle Thurgo as our master titled it last Wednesday.

"To battle!" Captain Bort cries.

"Death or glory!" Sergeant Yellow-Fang shouts.

"Um..." I hate these multiple-choice questions. "Glory!" I holler. And we're off.

Overheard by a goblin (left on the stairs):

Lord Thurgo (upstairs): Mum! Muuuuuum! .... .... MUM!

High Queen Claire (downstairs): What?

Lord Thurgo: MuuuuUUUuuuuuMMM!

High Queen Claire: WHAT? ...what is it, Billy?

Lord Thurgo: I'm Thurgo now!

(pause)

High Queen Claire: What is it... Thurgo?

Lord Thurgo: LORD Thurgo!

High Queen Claire: Billy!

Princess Pukey: Blurrrrg!

Lord Thurgo: How do you spell 'counsel'?

High Queen Claire: Do you mean 'counsel' or 'council'?

Lord Thurgo: Dunno.

High Queen Claire: C.O.U.N.C.I.L

Lord Thurgo: Thanks!

Chapter 2

Castle Thurgo is one of those tall, thin Victorian houses where the ceilings of the bedrooms on the third story are the roof and slope up to a point, and the coal cellar nestles under the living room on the ground floor. Other tall, thin Victorian houses stand shoulder to shoulder, packed in close to make a long terrace. Castle Thurgo may look unremarkable, but one day the world will tremble beneath the thunderous advance of Lord Thurgo's armies, marching forth to all four corners of the Earth! Muhahahaha. That's my evil villain's laugh. I'm not really allowed to do it, as a minion and all, but I can think it. Muhahahaha!

We shuffle out along the short path to the front gate. Oooof knocks over all the empty milk bottles, like he does most nights, Jabber and me catch them before they make too much of a din. Jabber's got quick hands. Can catch a fly out of the air, Jabber can. And does when he gets hungry.

"Where's Sir Terror-Knight?" Gobber asks - minion #700 to give him his proper title. We call him Gobber because he's very good at spitting. A filthy habit in which he has passed several exams and once placed third in the national trials for both distance and accuracy.

"Yeah," says Odo. "Where's Sir Terror-Knight?"

"Special duty," Captain Bort says. We all know what that means and crane our necks to look up at the highest window. No light burns there but we know Lord Thurgo will be watching us from the darkness, Sir Terror-Knight with him to guard against under bed attacks. Not that any monster-under-the-bed would be foolish enough to try anything on Lord Thurgo, but an evil overlord can't be too careful, and under-bed monsters are known to never emerge if there are witnesses. That's why nobody has ever seen one.

"Let's go." And Captain Bort is off, scanning the pavement ahead with his hopeful eye whilst watching with his mistrustful eye to see if we follow.

"Ooof," says Oooof, walking into the gatepost.

The whisper among the troops is that we're off to number 12 to settle the account with Prince Stupid and his army of crazy robots, but nobody really knows except Captain Bort, and perhaps not even him.

Prince Stupid, or Malcolm Brown as he is sometimes known, commands a vast robotic horde and like all good evil dictators he wants to take over the world, no doubt to build sky-scraping statues of himself on every street corner and make going to school a criminal offence.

Our mighty goblin army tussled with the robots on Tuesday – the living room carpet lay scattered with body parts and the few survivors groaned in exhausted heaps waiting for the final push. Unfortunately even warfare has to give way before certain forces of nature, like earthquakes, hurricanes, and teatime, so Prince Stupid scooped up his stupid robots and scuttled off up the street to number 12, and Lord Thurgo had beans on toast.

We keep to the base of the garden walls, careful not to step in anything ickier than we are. There's a full moon, frosty above the rooftops opposite, but the orange glow of the streetlights washes away its light. A big fat rat scuttles past us, its scaly tail snaking by my legs.

"Oi!" I tell it.

The rat doesn't so much as twitch at my shout. Ignoring me it runs on and vanishes into the next garden. Rats are like that, full of their own business. They'll nibble you once to see if you're made of food and then they're off without a hint of goodbye.

"We're here!" Captain Bort holds up his fist. Gobber and me stop. Oooof knocks us both over.

"Number 12! I knew it," I say, getting up and wiping my hands on Gobber.

"Number 20." says Jabber.

"Really?" I squint at the numbers as if that will help. Truth is that I can't read numbers or count above three. I blame it on all the beating with hammers I had in place of going to school.

"Nah," says Jabber. "Just messing with you. It's 12."

As if to confirm Jabber's opinion a dark shape moves from among the darker shapes lining the path toward the front door and comes to face us.

"Frank," I say, keeping my voice cool.

"Kevin." His eyes glimmer beneath the gleaming bulge of his forehead.

Prince Stupid's minions get letters and numbers, like they're so la-de-dah special. Frank is R2D3PO. As if anyone can remember that! I certainly don't. He's a Mark III killer-driller-droid with auto-boosters. Pretty good at football too.

"Sorry about the thing with the orange juice," I say. In the Battle of Tuesday I may have pulled Frank's head off a little... and used it as a drinking cup.

"Hmmm." Frank's eyes glow red. He touches his neck. It still looks a bit sticky. The thing with robots though is that their heads will come off if you pull hard enough. That's the thing with most things actually. Don't try it at home. Unless a killer-driller-droid is trying to drill his way through your chest. Then do.

"You, robot, go tell Prince Stupid we're here." Sergeant Yellow-Fang looms over my shoulder. He's very good at looming.

"That's Prince Stupendous to you, toothy." Frank does that thing where he just starts walking away without turning around, and slowly, slowly his head swivels to point in the direction he's walking, shooting one last glowing red look at us before it's too late.

He knocks on the door three times with his shiny plastic fist and somewhere inside the house a yappy dog goes berserk.

"Shut. Up!" someone yells, possibly Prince Stupid, though the voice sounds deeper and more annoyed than Prince Stupid's.

In any case it's all for show, the robots can't open their front door, and Prince Stupid doesn't sully his hands with night battles any more than Lord Thurgo does. Fortunately a fair portion of the horde are stationed downstairs and will be exiting the house by the cat-flap then making the long trip around to the front via Dog Poo Alley, a short and ill-smelling passageway between number 26 and 28 that seems to have a magical laxative effect on any dog passing through.

"So," I say. "Nice weather."

Frank sets his eyes to simmer and rubs his neck.

"French fries tonight." Alphonso smacks his lips.

"Coal." Gobber spits. "It's always coal, why torture yourself, Alf?"

"Ahem." Sergeant Yellow-Fang, still looming.

"Yus?" Oooof blinks up at him.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Sarge asks.

"Ummm..." I like 'um' its a good word for drawing out until somebody else answers a question for you. "mmmmmmm....mmmmmm" I run out of air and start to black out.

"The enemy." Captain Bort comes up and points at Frank with his pointing stick. I don't think Frank likes it any more than I did.

"Shouldn't we wait for the horde?" I ask. "It hardly seems sporting to..." The captain is staring at me very hard. "Oh," I say. "Right. Evil! Got you!"

And so, without much enthusiasm we all jump on Frank and pull his head off.

In the end the other robots never show up. Perhaps the cat-flap has been locked. We hang around for a good half hour, have a game of football, and everyone enjoys themselves. Except Frank of course. But without Frank's head we wouldn't have had a ball.

Tired and with slightly sticky toes we set off for home.

"Ooof!" says Oooof, bumping into the wheel of a parked car.

"French fries," says Alphonso.

"Um..." I pause as the others plod on. The wheel belongs to a black SUV that dwarfs the collection of tired hatchbacks lining the street, and menaces the family-friendly people carriers around it. Even Lord Thurgo's wagon of destruction looks rather Volvo-ish next to the stranger. I call it a stranger because, like a nose on a robot, there's something plain wrong about this car.

"Tell the ugly little one to hurry up," Captain Bort mutters.

"Get a move on, Kevin!" Sergeant Yellow-Fang shouts.

"But," I say.

"247! You more your horrid green behind this way sharpish or you'll wish you never got out of the box!" The Sergeant roars it loud enough to make cats get up, turn around twice and lie back down.

I hurry on up the street. Before I go though I catch a glimpse through the dark and tinted windows of the SUV. There are men in there. Black suited men. Watching.

We reach the front door of Number 6, slip in and start the complicated procedure of 'locking up' which involves Grandpa's walking stick, some duct tape, a bag of marbles and a plastic chicken. Halfway through the process I drop the bag of marbles...

"Minions!" I say.

"No, marbles." Alfonso starts picking them up, trying to take a sly bite from the first one.

"Minions!!" I say it again, with two exclamation marks this time. I don't know much, but I know minions. And that's what those men in the car were. Minions. It spells trouble. I know it! And I can't even spell.

Overheard by a goblin (abandoned with the shoes in the hall):

*Knock Knock!*

Lord Thurgo: Oh hey, Malc, come in.

Prince Stupid: That's Prince Stupendous, remember?

Lord Thurgo: Right, I forgot. Prince Stupid.

Prince Stupid: Stupendous.

Lord Thurgo: That too. Anyhow, what did you want?

Prince Stupid: Did I leave one of my robots' heads over here? I was sure I got them all but this morning I saw one of the driller-killers was missing a head.

Lord Thurgo: Is that it there on the doormat?

Prince Stupid: Oh yeah. Cool. Thanks! ... Hey! A marble too!

Lord Thurgo: *starts closing door*

Prince Stupid: Hey! Did your mum say anything about the park?

Lord Thurgo: No? Why?

Prince Stupid: Nothing... just my dad got a letter. Something about 'redevelopment' whatever that is. He tore it up and got really angry.

Lord Thurgo: Hmmm... Speaking of the park ... we still on for football later?

Prince Stupid: Sure, meet you there.
Chapter 3

Eventually we get back to the playroom. After our glorious victory over Prince Stupid's robotic hordes... well over Frank at least... we're all tired but elated. There's not much time before we have to take our positions for the day but the lads flop down and start to discuss the night's highlights.

"That bit where I pulled Frank's head off!" Gobber slaps his knee.

"I pulled the robot's head off!" Jabber slaps Gobber's knee.

"No I ripped-" I stop mid-lie, suddenly aware that I'm being stared at from the corner. The sort of hard stare that bores into the back of your neck like a power drill.

I run over at once. "Fluffy! I'm so sorry! I forgot all about you!"

Fluffy stays stock-still, giving me the silent treatment and continuing to glare at me. Nobody does it better. To be honest, I can't see her eyes but you can always tell when it's that kind of stare.

Fluffy is my dog. I found her under the sofa ages ago. She's the absolute best dog ever. Even Captain Bort says she's sweet. At first I kept her because I felt sorry for her because of the Terrible Accident. But it didn't take long to realise Fluffy's true worth and now I depend upon her.

The Terrible Accident happened ages ago, even before I arrived at Castle Thurgo. This was way back, before The Christmas. In those days Princess Pukey didn't have any teeth at all and could hardly crawl. Even so she managed to corner Fluffy in a... corner. Gobber says it happened in the hall, Oooof claims it was the downstairs toilet. Anyhow, Princess Pukey gave Fluffy a vicious sucking and she's never been quite the same since. Not that I know what Fluffy was like before Princess Pukey caught her. In any event, the end result was that Fluffy lost her front leg on the right. Which is pretty bad when you're a dog. Also the front leg on the left. And her hind legs, tail, ears, nose... well, she's lost a lot of stuff but her heart's in the right place. Probably. She's a bit oval for a dog but she has a really nice fluffy coat, slightly minty smell, and she's very loyal. I take her everywhere. Even on missions! Except when it's raining. Or when I forget.

"Stop playing with the humbug #247 and get into position!" Captain Bort barks across the toy room. All the others call her 'the humbug' too, and that's really rude. It's her species, not her name. It's the same as having an ogre in the group and calling him 'the ogre' rather than Dave just cos he's the only one. She's _a_ humbug, not _the_ humbug, and her name is Fluffy. Jabber says it's not the same because all ogres are called Dave, but I think he's missing the point.

I hold my hands out wide to settle Fluffy – she can be awful mean – rip your throat right out... probably. "Sorry! Sorry! Next time. I promise." And I hurry back to take position. The sun's been up a while and High Queen Claire will be down the stairs soon, blundering around as if blind and calling out for coffee.

"Remember to take Fluffy," I say to myself as I run. I pause to smack my forehead. That normally helps the memory stick. It was probably best that I hadn't taken her on the last mission anyhow. I have to carry her and it can be awkward sometimes. I doubt I would have ripped Frank's head off quite so well if I'd had Fluffy under one arm...

It's not that she can't get about on her own. She turns up everywhere. In the TV room, under the fridge, by the bin, with the shoes in the hall... all over. It's just that nobody ever sees her do it. So whenever anyone is watching I have to carry her.

"Minion!" Captain Bort yells.

"Yessir!" And I lie down in my spot.
Chapter 4

By day, when Lord Thurgo is forcibly educated at the Slough Central School for Overlords, we goblins tend to lurk. Lurking is something we all do well, even Oooof. Daylight never agreed with me. Sunshine removes all mystery from the world, stealing away possibilities and putting in their place dull facts and inconvenient truths. I feel taller at night. Also better hidden.

We often lurk by lying around the toy box in the living room, playing the first-one-to-move-is-a-pixie game. We're all dead good at it. The toy box is a great disguise for us. We lie around among the real toys, and High Queen Claire, who even gets to boss around Lord Thurgo, just ignores us. Sometimes she scoops us all up, even Captain Bort, and heaps us in the box before vacuuming the carpet. We hate that. She gets rid of all the good crumbs and we go hungry all day. She'll even toss Sir Terror-Knight into the box if he's downstairs. As if he were a mere child's plaything. She doesn't appear to know he devastated the land of Mythica or that he laid waste to Sim City. How someone gets to be high queen without knowing stuff like that I couldn't tell you. I know I wouldn't vote for her.

Today, lying completely motionless on the carpet for the fifth hour in a row, my stare fixed upon a scrap of grey spider web up by the ceiling, I'm more concerned with my own thoughts than with not being a pixie. Pixies aren't that bad anyhow. And I reckon I could carry off the pointy hat. I've always looked good in a hat.

I blink, hoping none of the others noticed, and refocus my thoughts on that black SUV from last night. What were minions doing watching the street? And whose minions were they? And what did they have for breakfast? I have a bad feeling about this. I get bad feelings sometimes and they almost always come true. Like yesterday when that bucket of wooden blocks toppled off the edge of the table and I was sitting right underneath looking up... I had a bad feeling then. And *boom* a little bit later I was proved right. And then there was the running with scissors thing... I had a bad feeling about that too and it turned out to be the worst idea ever. One-Eye would probably agree with me right now if he wasn't being perfectly still.

I try to concentrate on being worried about those dark suited minions watching the street...

All I can see now is those wooden blocks tumbling end over end as they dropped towards my head. The blocks belong to Princess Pukey. Princess Pukey is Lord Thurgo's younger sister and second in line to inherit the throne of Claire if the high queen ever does go to that spa she keeps talking about and never comes back. Princess Pukey is the source of, and also our main competition for, crumbs. She eats by aiming her food only roughly in the direction of her face and then singing nonsense and dribbling instead of chewing. This creates a wonderful quantity and variety of food splatters for us goblins. Unfortunately she also crawls around the floor for hours afterward picking up and eating anything that will fit into her mouth. We've lost no end of crayons that way. She'll even tackle a full-grown goblin. It's no fun having your whole head inside the mouth of a drooling maniac. And now she has a tooth she can give quite a vicious nip. And then there's the puking! It's like she only ever borrows a meal for a limited period, before hurling it without any warning in the least convenient direction. Captain Bort predicts great things for Princess Pukey. He says she has the soul of a goblin and the killer instinct of a Queen of Terror.

Black SUV! Must keep focused. It had some writing on the side. That's a clue right there that is. If I could read I'd probably have solved the mystery by now. Maybe I should learn. It can't be much harder than eating coal. That's tricky that is. The art is to break the coal up without breaking your teeth up. Not recommended unless you have plastic teeth.

So, where was I. Oh yes, lying still, doing nothing, thinking. The writing even looked kinda familiar... Hmmm.

Anyway, the lights have gone off, and it's time for wickedness. Lord Thurgo must have had to draw up some important plans for world domination today, because he vanished upstairs as soon as he got home from school. I caught sight of him later when he came down for dinner. It took the high queen three yells, two bellows, and roar to get him down. She should just go straight to roaring, who cares what the neighbours think? Anyhow our evil overlord scarfed down fish fingers and beans like they were the forces of good or something, and was off upstairs again. Lord Thurgo could even teach Alphonso a thing or two about eating and Alphonso eats as if his only ambition is to be spherical. As it happens it is his main ambition, but he also has ambitions to perform on Britain's Got Talent. There's a lesson in there about not judging goblins by their bellies, or something.

We get up off the floor and troop out of the living room. I snag a nice-looking crumb off the carpet, catching it in between my toes. I'll have that later. We'll go down into the coal cellar now. We like it down there. Nice and damp and dirty and dark. Great. It's an ideal place for plotting. Plotting is like planning, but with more evil stirred in. Meeting up with Prince Stupid's robot horde last night to finish our battle – that was a plan. Shaving a rude message into Linda Mank's cat – that was a plot. Not a plot that worked – cat's have awful sharp claws – but a plot none the less!

Sir Terror-Knight is waiting for us on the stairs, on the bottom step. He's standing very straight and just where the light falls from the lamp outside the front door, so he's all lit up and his badge of office glimmers. It's all most unusual. He doesn't often bother addressing the lower ranks.

"Minions!" He booms – but quietly so High Queen Claire doesn't wake up. "Minions!" he repeats. "And Captain Bort." He often forgets Captain Bort isn't technically a minion. Sergeant Yellow-Fang's minion status remains undecided. Sometimes he is, sometimes he isn't. If Lord Thurgo sends down a message, "All the minions have done very well this week!" then Sergeant Yellow-Fang gets One-Eye to pat him on the back. If the message is more along the lines of, "All minions report to the wood chipper for recycling!" then suddenly Yellow-Fang is officer class. Very puzzling.

"Minions!" booms Sir Terror-Knight for the third time. "I have in my hand a plot from Lord Thurgo himself!"

Our expectant silence becomes an awed hush. The plot being brandished in Sir Terror-Knight's gauntleted and spiky fist looked suspiciously like a wrapper from one of the toffees Queen Claire keeps behind the lentil jar, but even so... a PLOT FROM LORD THURGO! It's enough to make a goblin think in CaPItaLS.

Sir Terror-Knight coughs like they do on the TV when they're not really coughing just telling you to shut up. We all go still as stoats. He spreads out the plot wrapper and begins to read. My attention drifts to his shiny badge of office. Lord Thurgo made that for him with his very own hands. The cutting on the cardboard is so perfect that the badge is almost circular and the crayon work is exquisite. The words themselves are in felt tip of three different colours. I blink at them. Words make me sleepy. Tonight the shapes of the words on Sir Terror-Knight's badge look vaguely familiar... Captain Bort told us they said 'Counsel to Thurgo, Overlord of Slough'. That means advisor. Which means if Lord Thurgo asks his opinion he gives it. Which is what any of us would do if Lord Thurgo asked. I mean, if Thurgo the Awesome stops and says, "Well minion #247, do you think it's going to rain tonight?" I'm hardly going to ignore him am I? Anyhow Sir Terror-Knight has a badge that says he's a counsel. And it's a great honour.

"And that, minions, and Captain Bort, is the evil plot!" Sir Terror-Knight wraps up by wrapping the wrapper up. "Any questions?"

Alfonso immediately opens his mouth to ask about dinner but thankfully Jabber jabs him and he says "Oooof!" instead.

"Not a question," says Sir Terror-Knight, and turns to Oooof since he was mentioned. Oooof just stands their blinking in surprise and Sir Terror-Knight, realising that he's not supposed to know individual minions' names anyhow does another pretend cough and marches through our ranks toward the door. "To the park then!"

At this point I wish I'd listened to the evil plot rather than staring at Sir Terror-Knight's badge wondering where I'd seen the words before.

"Park?" I ask Gobber, but Gobber just spits and shrugs, then spits again.

"Park?" I ask One-Eye.

"Big green thing behind the houses opposite us," he says.

"I know that! I wanted to know why we were going there," I hiss.

One-Eye shrugs and blinks... or winks... you can never tell.

"It's the plot," says Alfonso, helpfully.

"Yes, but what is the plot?" I ask. We're heading out the door now into the dark and the rain.

"It's like a plan, but with more evil," Jabber says, glancing back at me over his shoulder. "Everyone knows that!"

"Oooof!" says Oooof, walking into the doorframe.

"Did anyone listen?" I'm getting angry now... though I'm not sure why because if I didn't pay attention there's no reason why they should. That's a good thing about being on team evil - you don't need a good reason to get angry.

It turns out that none of us know why we're going to the park. We trudge on through the rain behind Sir Terror-Knight, keeping to where the streetlamps cast the deepest shadows. There's no sign of that black car tonight and that relaxes me. I had a bad feeling about that car.

I walk on, the rain dripping from my nose. We're all excited despite the weather. Most of our plans and plots are brewed in the coal cellar. Often we carry on what's been going on during the day. Like when we finished off the battle with Prince Stupid's robots. Sometimes Captain Bort will just concentrate very very hard and right at the point where his eyes are about to pop out of his head like extremely messy party poppers... he gets a great idea. Guided always by the principals of Thurgo: be bad, be naughty, Beyonce, be awesome. Lord Thurgo likes Beyonce. Can't see the attraction myself, but then we he-goblins look for different things in our she-goblins – like spines, and retractable dagger-claws.

Anyhow – the big deal with Sir Terror-Knight, and other 2nd in commanders like Prince Stupid's Power-Bot Nine, is that they can listen to the overlords' dreams and the plots they bring down from on high are the truest of all plots. It's just as if Lord Thurgo came down in his pyjamas and told us himself. And when you're on a direct mission it's hard to care if it's raining and you've just stepped in something squishy, and nobody knows what they're supposed to do. You don't care about minor stuff like that. You're on a direct mission and it's all win!

The park is inky black. We cross the road with Captain Bort looking both ways at once. Sadly while he's looking left and right he can't look forward and he trips over the curb, bringing Oooof down on top of him. Sergeant Yellow-Fang helps them up whilst Sir Terror-Knight watches on, tapping his steel-clad foot impatiently.

Once we're all safely across we slip between the green-painted iron railings and into the impenetrable darkness beneath the bushes on the other side. Being goblins we all see fine at night – the darkness beneath the bushes is impenetrable because of all the tight-packed little branches, crisp packets, crumpled coke cans, and random stuff that gets kicked and tossed and blown there – it's a gold mine I tell you! In the end we give up and skirt around the bushes, heading through the penetrable darkness between them, and on into the park.

Sir Terror-Knight draws up in front of the bandstand and points a bony finger out toward the pond where, on the central island, stands a statue of Slough's most famous citizen. His name escapes me, but he's very famous, and especially popular with pigeons judging by the way they've 'decorated' him. It will take more than rain to wash that lot off!

"There, gentlemen, there is our target." Sir Terror-Knight is always calling us gentlemen, even though Lucy (minion #215) and Gut-ripper (minion #190) are definitely she-goblins.

Sir Terror-Knight waits. Waits a bit more, then waits. At last Captain Bort peers up at him with his hopeful eye and asks, "If you could remind us about the plan?"

"Plot!" booms Sir Terror-Knight.

"Plot! Sorry! Plot." Captain Bort bows and nods, eying the pond behind him mistrustfully.

"Was it the bit with the ducks that confused you?" Sir Terror-Knight booms in a questioning tone.

"Well, yes." The captain nods again, and bows twice more. "Also the bit without the ducks."

Sir Terror-Knight slumps a little and begins to explain, again. "We'll need to capture and harness the ducks to get across to the island. Once we're there we can hang the banner across the statue of what's-his-name."

"What banner?" asks Gobber, spitting out a long jet of rainwater.

Sir Terror-Knight slumps a little more, looking rather like a question mark now. A long tall armoured question mark. "The banner that tells everyone to vote for Lord Thurgo as class president."

"No, I'm mean what banner?" Gobber spreads his hands and looks pointedly left then right.

Slumping so far that I'm worried his helmet will fall off Sir Terror-Knight turns his head toward Captain Bort. "Who did you have bring the banner, captain?"

Captain Bort casts a mistrustful eyed glance in my direction. "Kevin – where's that package I asked you to carry?"

"Back in a minute!" I say, and I'm off like a pair of hedgehogs carrying a toaster. Only a bit faster.

Pounding along through the puddles and down the path to the park gates I see a dozen or more robots busy papering the trees with posters showing Prince Stupid's ugly mug. Frank is halfway up an oak, hammering a drawing pin in. I wave as I go by to show there's no hard feelings. He waves back at me, with his fist, eyes flaring red as he slips and drops like a robot-shaped stone into the muddy tangle of roots far below.

"Sorry!" I shout over my shoulder.

Seconds later I skid to a halt. The Grimster's army are spilling in through the main gates. As evil overlords go the Grimster is one of the worst. She has hundreds of minions. Well, practically a hundred. Well, lots anyhow. Little ponies most of 'em. The sight of them prancing through the gates is enough to freeze a goblin's blood, and goblin's blood is made of antifreeze! Dozens of them, clip-clopping along, looking like a leprechaun ate too many rainbows and barfed up the lot right over them. A soaking wet banner lies draped across the brightly coloured backs of about ten of the hoofed vermin.

"Looks like the Grimster has her eyes set on class president too," I say. Then I stop because I'm all on my own and who am I talking to? I back into the bushes. It's not as if I could get any wetter.

Looming behind the little ponies comes Killerella, The Grimster's 2nd in command and the last thing a goblin wants to meet on a dark night. Taller than Sir Terror-Knight, a better loomer than Sergeant Yellow-Fang, long red hair, cold blue eyes, and a bow that'll send an arrow to part your hair at fifty paces...

I push back through the dark and glossy leaves, deeper into the bush, further back, cold rainwater running down my neck. Through the thickness of leaves and branches I catch bright glimpses of marching ponies. Killerella looms closer. Another step back... and... I trip over something. I fall backward, between the park railings and out into the windswept street.

It's a case of out of the frying pan and into a much bigger and hotter frying pan that's full of liver. Nobody likes liver. I'm so pleased I don't have one.

I lie sprawled on the pavement and looking up at two vast minions. These guys in their dark suits (and sunglasses that must make it very hard to see) could pick up Killerella and Sir Terror-Knight both in the same hand! Their black SUV is parked at the roadside, the strangely familiar lettering gleaming beneath the streetlights. There are more of the minions in the back of the car, lurking.

The rain keeps filling my eyes as I lie there, still as any goblin not wanting to be a pixie, doing my very best to look like a dirty old stick. I'm pretty sure I'm managing the dirty part of it at least. Every now and then I blink to clear my vision. I'm very curious about what they're up to. The pair of them seem to be fixing some kind of sign to the park railings. I wonder if they are also putting up messages about the election for president of class 3c. What was it Sir Terror-Knight called it. Proper something? That's it! Propaganda. It's pretty scary to think Lord Thurgo is not only up against Prince Stupid and the Grimster but some kid whose minions include four grown men in a sports utility vehicle!

I lie there while they finish securing their sign and watch as they get back into their car and drive away. I lie there a bit longer since it's a tiring business all this hiding and sneaking and I've got a long run back to the house ahead of me, and later I'll be wrestling ducks. I keep lying there. Wrestling ducks sounds dangerous.

Eventually I get up and have a look at the sign. The words in the biggest print at the top look familiar. The heap of little words underneath look familiar too but they just remind me of the tracks a spider will leave if dipped in ink first. My gaze returns to the big words. I don't know what they say but... I scratch my head very hard to help the idea come out. But... I bang my head against the park railings to see if that helps. It doesn't. But... but... ah! The words are the same as on the side of the car and... they look quite similar to the words on Sir Terror-Knight's badge. Not the same, but similar. Maybe in a different order or that sort of thing.

All along the jog back to number six I'm thinking about the words. Except when crossing the road of course. Then I'm thinking – please don't squash me. Also I'm watching and waiting because Lord Thurgo paid good money for me and doesn't want any more minions wasted.

I pick up the banner and head back to the park, carrying it in a great bundled heap on my back. With a little bit flapping over my head to keep the rain off.

The round trip takes less than three hours all told and I've no idea why everyone looks so grumpy when I reach them.

"Yoohoo!" I shout and I cross to the bandstand to drop the big sodden mass of the banner, splat, right at Sir Terror-Knight's feet. He has a lot of grumpy stuff to say about being kept waiting but I'm too busy staring at his badge of office to listen to many of the words. One of them was imcompoop, which I think is a fine word and one I will try to use later in conversation. I think it's how you say 'incompetent nincompoop' when you're too cross and wet to get the words out straight through your visor. Sadly three hours of heavy rain have reduced our glorious leader's badge of office to a soggy mess of cardboard from which I can deduce little save for the fact that three colours of felt tip pen will run together to make brown.

Captain Bort directs four minions to untangle the banner. Sir Terror-Knight draws himself up to his full and towering height of two foot one inch and leads off with Sergeant Yellow-Fang at his heels. "Follow me, goblin scum – let's go get us some duck!"

"Come on." Gobber strides passed me, spitting rain. "Nice weather for ducks."

I trudge on behind, wiping the wet from my face. I have a bad feeling about this.

Overhead by a goblin (kicked under the breakfast table):

Lord Thurgo: What's the matter, mum?

High Queen Claire: Nothing.

Lord Thurgo: Is it that letter? What's it say?

High Queen Claire: ... it's nothing. *crumpling sound*

Lord Thurgo: Only I thought it might be about the park.

High Queen Claire: If it was only the park!

Lord Thurgo: What do you mean only?

Princess Pukey: Bluuurrggg!

High Queen Claire: Oh Susie! Quick Billy! Get some cloths. Your sister has thrown up everywhere. Again.

Lord Thurgo: I'm Thurgo!

High Queen Claire: BILLY!

Lord Thurgo: Ok! Ok...

*footsteps retreating at speed*

High Queen Claire: What are we going to do, Susie? What are we going to do?

Chapter 5

Take this advice from someone who has learned from bitter experience: Never try to ride a duck.

I shan't give a full account of the Battle of Dean's Park Pond. Let us just say that the goblins didn't win.

Ducks are vicious things. They peck and they hiss and they flap and they do not like being woken up late at night. You would think that a bird whose top speed is 'waddle', whose beak is blunt, and who has no teeth wouldn't present much of a challenge to a full grown battle-goblin. That's where you're lucky to have what I did not. Someone to tell you differently.

I'm lying by the toy box again, perfectly motionless and waiting for Lord Thurgo's return from school. I can see Oooof and Jabber out of the corner of my eye. Images of last night keep returning to me. Jabber squashed mercilessly into the mud beneath webbed feet. Oooof crying 'Eeeek!' as ducks pecked him from four different directions at the same time. The sights and sounds of that night will never leave me. I have an exceptional memory. That's one of the reasons I don't listen to plans. I remember everything perfectly and I don't know how much storage space I have in my head. So best not to clutter it up with too much stuff, I say.

Memories of the park keep surfacing. We didn't get anywhere near the island. The banner sunk in the shallows. Sir Terror-Knight vanished early on – I last saw him being pursued across the football pitches by at least four mallards... I try to think of something else.

My exceptional memory helps me remember the fact that I didn't actually have to see Sir Terror-Knight's badge last night to check the wording. I could just have used my excellent memory to remember what it looked like. I try to remember the words now but I'm drawing a blank. To get back to old memories that don't want to be found it's generally quicker if I walk backwards whilst chanting 'remember, remember' but I can get there more slowly if I just wiggle my toes. I start wiggling them and hope nobody notices.

Toe wiggling helps me find an old memory and paint it bit by bit across the back of my eyelids. I keep wiggling and every now and then I blink to see how far I've got... Nowhere! I can't remember anything. And now I've forgotten what I'm trying to remember. Sometimes it's like this – sometimes I really want to remember something and I get nothing. I wiggle faster. Blink quicker. Not a sausage!

"Right," I say. "Nothing for it but to do it the hard way." I sit up.

"Pixie!" thirteen other goblins point as one, all thirteen knobbly fingers aimed my way. They only move their pointing arms. It's in the rules. Even though they can't smile I know they're overjoyed. We've been playing this game seven hours a day, seven days a week, for over a year, and nobody has ever been the pixie.

"Yes, yes, I'm the pixie. Hoorah," I say and hurry out of the room.

When a goblin needs to do some serious thinking there's only one place for it. I'm as quick as I can be, toes scrabbling at the carpet as I heave myself over the lip of the first step. I clamber up each in turn. By the time I reach the landing I'm ready to have another seven hour lie down. But I don't. I look around. Queen Claire is out with Princess Pukey collecting Lord Thurgo from Overlord School. The bedroom doors are shut. The toilet door is open just a few inches. I ignore them, take a deep breath, and throw myself through the railings at the top stair.

"Remember! Remember! REM-" I scream. Then I scream, "Urrrgh!" But a loud crunching sound drowns me out. The sound of me hitting the floor.

Now if a human was stupid enough to try this they would have to be scraped up and put into the bin. Goblins however are made of tougher stuff. We were fashioned beneath the pounding hammers of Old Town Hong Kong. A ten-foot drop onto our faces just shakes us around a bit, and with any luck when everything settles back into place the memory I want will be right at the top!

"I remember!" I shout in joy... and pain.

I remember the shape, the almost-circle of the badge. Then the coloured-in outline in blue crayon. I remember that there were letters... just not what those letters were.

Slowly, and groaning at each step, I haul myself back up the stairs to the landing.

"Weeeeee!" I shout with little enthusiasm as I plummet to the ground below.

I heave myself to my feet. "I remember..." The red letters. Why just the red ones? What kind of sense does that make?

"C n l t O r o o l g "

Not much sense by the look of it... On my next drop the green letters add themselves in.

"C un il t t e O er Lo of Sl ug "

"Arrggggh!" I say. Then I say something that would have made my mother say "KEVIN! Wash your mouth out!" Probably. If I had a mother.

It takes me an age to pull myself to the top of the stairs once more, moaning and groaning with each step.

"woo" I say as I fall.

"Thud." I don't say that as I land, only later when I can speak again.

And finally the blue letters join the rest and by blinking I can see the whole of the message on Sir Terror-Knight's badge, written now in multi-colours across the back of my eyelids.

"Council to the Over-Lord of Slough."

Hmmm. This means nothing to me. It's that not-being-able-to-read problem. Still... all I need now is to remember everything else I've ever seen written down and compare them! This is going to involve a lot of climbing and falling... and I've already made a dent in the floor. I sit for a moment at the bottom of the stairs and wriggle my toes. They're about the only part of me that doesn't hurt.

The toe wriggling summons up the wording on the side of the black car.

"Slough Council."

I put that next to the badge message: "Council to the Over-Lord of Slough."

Since I've been told what the words on Sir Terror-Knight's badge mean, and it begins in "council" and ends in "Slough" figuring out what the words on the SUV mean should be as easy as one plus one... I lie there for a while trying to figure it out. Eventually I hear car doors slamming outside. High Queen Claire! I hobble back to the living room as fast as I can.

"Pixie!" They all shout.

"Lord Thurgo's back!" I say as I lie down (well fall down really – I'm too bruised to bend).

"Lie still, minions!" Captain Bort barks.

"Pssst," I hiss to Gobber beside me. "Pssst!" I'm still thinking about all those words.

"What?" he mutters from the side of his mouth.

"What's one plus one?"

Overheard by a goblin (stuffed in Lord Thurgo's schoolbag):

Lord Thurgo: I bet it starts raining before we get to school.

Prince Stupid: Don't care. I've got my mac.

*pause*

Lord Thurgo: Is that Jane Grimney up ahead?

Prince Stupid: Grimsters? Could be. Hard to tell in that coat. Looks more like a Dalek.

Lord Thurgo: You know she thinks she's going to win class president?

Prince Stupid: That's going to be difficult see as it'll be me that wins.

Lord Thurgo: As if. I'm practically wearing the presidential sash!

Prince Stupid: Is that what it is? A sash?

Lord Thurgo: See? How can you win? You don't even know what the class president wears. Bet you thought it was a hat.

Prince Stupid: A hat would be cool. A hardhat with a lamp on it, like miners have. Or a top hat. That would be cool too.

Lord Thurgo: It's a sash.

Prince Stupid: What's the first lesson?

Lord Thurgo: World Domination with Mrs Bramley.

Prince Stupid: Oh YAWN!

Lord Thurgo: It gets worse. Double Plotting after lunch!

Chapter 6

"-can't close the park can they, mum? Why would they even-" Lord Thurgo asks trailing in behind the High Queen.

High Queen Claire sets Princess Pukey down among us. Immediately One-Eye is snared by a pudgy hand. We all lie even stiller, trying not to listen to the awful slurping sounds, whilst still trying to hear this news about the park.

"Car park," High Queen Claire answers. A snappy reply, lacking the tone of awed respect Lord Thurgo deserves.

"But-" Thurgo the Awesome begins one of his famously clever arguments. My view is partially obscured by One-Eye's legs sticking out of Princess Pukey's mouth. I daren't move for a better look though.

"Not now, Billy!" The High Queen clearly doesn't want to talk about this. She must know that Lord Thurgo would use his evil genius to defeat her. Instead she hurries off toward the kitchen looking rather upset.

"But I play there!" Thurgo's impeccable logic chases her out. "All us kids do! Who wants another car park?"

Lord Thurgo throws off his schoolbag and gives chase. He's not one to give up. You don't get to rule the world by giving up. Not without being extramungo lucky anyhow.

A terrible stink reaches me and I wonder for a moment if Lord Thurgo's enemies have launched some kind of chemical attack against us. I only wonder it for a moment before Princess Pukey's nappy-clad behind looms over me, obscuring all light... and hope. And then she sits down.

It's good and dark when I finally recover consciousness. There are some stenches that even a goblin can't withstand. Sergeant Yellow-Fang helps me to my feet. "Well done, Kevin. You took that one for the team." He pauses to scrape some baby sick from his shoulder. They say it's lucky to have a baby puke on you. I'd never really agreed with that myself before today, but compared to me the sergeant did get a lucky escape.

I sit up and have a good look around. Most of the goblins are over in the corner, crowded around Captain Bort but a few are still with me by the toy box.

"Alphonso! Are you eating my dog?" I narrow my eyes at him and pick up a large Duplo brick.

Alphonso straightens up and tries to look innocent – which is hard to do with a mouth full of fluff. "Ggfhfsmmm," he says... or it could have been, "Hjkldgds." I think he's saying 'maybe' but as if he's reading it after some tried typing the word with boxing gloves on. Fluffy is lying on the carpet at his feet displaying a glistening bald patch as big as... well... Alphonso's mouth. I snatch some of the fluff from his lips and pat it back on the exposed area. Fortunately the patch is nice and sticky so Fluffy's coat is almost as good as new.

"Don't you ever do that again, Alphonso."

Alphonso shakes his head.

"I don't care if she tastes nice," I say. Sometimes this sort of problem can be solved with a firm talking to and some calm reasoning.

"Sorry." Alphonso wipes his mouth and licks his lips.

I take Fluffy under my arm. "I'm glad we had this talk."

Alphonso nods.

I nod back. The matter is settled. Fluffy and I set off to see what the excitement in the corner is. I take two paces, pause, turn back, and hit Alphonso with the brick for good measure. "Settled."

All the goblins around Captain Bort are asking him and each other the same question, so I join in and ask it too.

"How can they close the park?" I ask.

"They can't close the park can they?" asks Gobber.

"They're not allowed to close it are they?" Jabber jabs Oooof.

"Munno..." Oooof shrugs.

It turns out that none of us know – which isn't unusual. None of us know most things.

"And who," I ask, "are 'they'?"

"Good question, #247" Captain Bort sets a heavy hand on my shoulder. Not his, just one he found in the toy box.

"Really?" I'm not sure I've ever asked a good question before. I feel somewhat lightheaded.

Captain Bort nods. "We need to find out who Lord Thurgo's enemies are. So we can crush them. It's inefficient crushing everyone. Best we find the person or persons responsible. Then we goblin all over them."

We raise a hearty cheer at that. Nothing we likes better than goblin-ing all over the enemies of Thurgo.

"For tonight though, Sir Terror-Knight has already given me our orders. A direct mission!"

Another rousing cheer, then another. I'm not sure at which point it stops being about the direct mission and starts being just because it's fun to cheer. Somewhere around the tenth minute I'm guessing.

"Silence, minions!" Captain Bort cuts our rejoicing off with a sharp command.

I swallow my cheer. And a small fly that happened to be passing.

"Tonight we're blocking up all the letterboxes in Victoria Street. Lord Thurgo has identified mail as the source of the High Queen's unhappiness. It might even be the source of all unhappiness."

I have to disagree on that last point. Princess Pukey's bottom had been the source of a lot of my unhappiness earlier on. I don't say so though – minions are built to agree. Except when we're being disagreeable.

"Questions?" Captain Bort gives us a hopeful look.

"When's-" Gobber pulls down Alfonso's arm and applies his hand to Alfonso's mouth to keep in the question about when dinner might be.

I distract the captain with, "Why do we have to block up all the letterboxes?"

"Good question, #247!" Captain Bort jabs his pointing stick in my direction. "You're wondering why we don't just seal the one on our door."

Actually I was just being lazy and using a whiny question to waste time rather than having to do all that work. But two good questions in one night has me so bursting with pride that I might offer to do block up a whole extra street as well if nobody shuts me up.

"We're doing them all," says Captain Bort, "so it's not immediately obvious who did it, and so mail can't just be left with the neighbours."

At this point I start to drift off and let the plot flow over me in gentle plot-filled waves as Captain Bort drones through the details. He starts to point to the flip chart where he has crayoned in two squares and a diamond to help illustrate our tactics.

"So!" Captain Bort declares enthusiastically.

My head snaps up. "I wasn't asleep."

"Me neither." Yawns Gobber, stretching his long arms.

"So!" Captain Bort lumbers toward us, slapping his belly. "Everyone grab their equipment and we'll be off."

I look at Gobber. Gobber looks at me. We both look at One-Eye. One-Eye shrugs. Then blinks. Or winks.

"Remember to only take the selotape if you can find the end. And for pity's sake be careful with the Kiddie Glue. We don't want another JimGumby situation." Captain Bort snatches some string from the play drawer and heads toward the hall.

"JimGumby?" asks Jabber.

"Before you arrived, Jabber." I shake my head and shiver. Jim and Gumby had been fine goblins until they got stuck together. Never the same afterward. Lord Thurgo traded them for jellybeans in the end. "Gots to be careful with the glue."

Armed with random bits and pieces from the play drawer we hurry after the captain. I clutch a piece of felt cut into a star shape and a lump of fairly dried out play-dough. I'm sure they'll come in handy. Lucy has four crayons, Oooof an armful of sequins, and Gut-ripper has a corkscrew... though I don't think she found it in the toy box.

The captain and Sergeant Yellow-Fang have already started opening the door. I help to steady the bag of marbles. Gobber and Jabber wrestle the plastic chicken into place. More goblins pile on into the effort and within a few minutes the door clicks open, swinging back to reveal...

"Power-Bot Nine!" Captain Bort states the obvious as the huge droid lowers his retractable arms from the vicinity of our letterbox.

Power-Bot Nine is Prince Stupid's second in command – the mega-mind behind the Prince's robot horde. Whatever he's doing on Castle Thurgo's doorstep it can't be a good thing!

"CAPTAIN BORT." Power-Bot Nine's mechanical voice issues from the translator hanging below his neck. All across his chest console lights come on, little blue ones and little red ones. Patterns of lights flicker briefly across the place where you'd hope to find a face.

As the door swings wider still we see at least twenty robots lined up behind Power-Bot Nine, all clutching rolls of selotape, drawing pins, or bottles of white glue. Frank's near the back. I wave my felt star at him and he glowers at me. I can tell it's a friendly glower. Frank's alright, Frank is.

"W-what are you doing?" Captain Bort's voice wavers. I can tell he'd rather have Sir Terror-Knight beside him.

"WALRUS... WALRUSing," Power-Bot Nine says. He taps a thick metal finger to his translator unit. "SEALION... MANATEE... MANTEEing"

"What?" Captain Bort glances back at us to see if anyone has understood.

Power-Bot Nine smacks his translator unit against the wall. "SEALing YOUR LETTERBOX."

"Why?" Captain Bort wisely doesn't give away the fact that we were just about to do the same thing ourselves. If we can get a bunch of robots to do it for us, all the better!

"CHOCOLATE FROG FINGERS >>&&X" Power-Bot Nine gives his translator unit a hard stare. Something he can do despite it being on his chest. I wish my eyes would go out on stalks too... He points back down the line. "MINION R2D3PO."

The robot being indicated steps out into full view and comes forward. "Frank!" I shout.

Frank comes up to speak on his boss's behalf. "Power-Bot Nine, all praise to him and to Prince Stupendous, bids me translate his mighty robot talk into mere goblin." Frank's single red eye scans back and forth across us in disdain. "We are sealing all letterboxes in order to keep out bad news."

"You heard about the park?" I asked. "They want to turn it into a park for cars, with lorry trees and truck bushes and everything..." I trail off under the hard stare Captain Bort is giving me. Power-Bot Nine is also staring at me with three of his five eyes, as if I were a used battery or something. "Oh," I say. "I'm a minion. Got it. Shutting up now. Won't say another word. Not a peep."

"If it was only the park we would be less concerned," Frank says. "Tarmac is easier on Power-Bot Nine's wheels than grass."

"There's more to it?" Captain Bort asks Power-Bot Nine the question.

"You don't know?" Frank manages to sound grim and yet superior at the same time. "The car park is so people visiting the supermarket have somewhere to park their cars."

"What supermarket?" I ask. "Sorry! Sorry! Shutting up."

Captain Bort gives me angry eyes and Sergeant Yellow-Fang makes a note of my number.

"What supermarket?" Captain Bort asks.

"The one they have to knock Victoria Street down to build," Frank says. For an emotionless metal killing-machine he sounds pretty sad.

"Isn't that where we live?" asks Gobber. I realise he's right.

"They can't do that!" Captain Bort shouts.

"Who is 'they'?" I ask. Captain Bort said it was a good question so I plan to keep asking it until I think of another one.

But Captain Bort isn't looking at me, he's staring out the front door toward the gate. Power-Bot Nine swivels his head entirely around to follow the captain's gaze. Robots are scattering to either side as Killerella strides up the path, a colourful tide of little ponies in her wake. The horrid little creatures, all rainbows and friendly smiles, are dragging something... something that Killerella stoops to haul up as she draws level with Power-Bot Nine.

"Which one of you put this up?" she says. At least that's what I think she says – all her words come out with a sharp edge on them and its hard to understand. She doesn't look like the sort who'd take well to being asked to repeat herself though. She holds up the sign from the park railings. How she reached up to get it, or how she broke it free I can't guess.

I stare hard at the sign. The words look familiar.

"HHR-FISH-77%^" says Power-Bot Nine.

"It's none of Lord Thurgo's doing," says Captain Bort.

"It says Slough Council!" I tell them, pointing at the words right at the top of the sign."

All eyes turn on me. Even the little ponies stare at me with an intensity that suggests I might be a new and delicious type of grass.

There's a long pause, followed by a short pause and three more long ones.

"You can't read." Captain Bort signals Sergeant Yellow-Fang over to drag me away.

"I cans! I cans!" I shout as Sergeant Yellow-Fang looms over me. He really is an excellent loomer.

"What does this say?" Killerella taps a word further down.

"Mango." It's a guess. She narrows those ice-water blue eyes at me and I can practically feel the frost forming over my face.

"Is he right?" asks Captain Bort.

"I don't know," says Killerella.

"I can read 'Slough Council' cos the first and last words on Sir Terror-Knight's badge of office are "Council and Slough," I say. "And," I draw myself up to my full height, which according to one of Lord Thurgo's shoes is Size 8. "It's the same words wot are on the side of that black car full of minions."

A shudder ripples through the little ponies. They know about the men in the car.

"What does it all mean?" Captain Bort eyes the sign with his mistrustful eye and me with his hopeful eye.

"Well," I say. "Slough Council is-"

"I know what Slough Council is!" Captain Bort booms. He scratches his bottom. "Wait." He scratches some more. "No I don't. What were you going to say?"

"Well," I say. "Slough Council is a thing I've never heard of."

A chorus of electronic whistles and beeps seem to confirm the robots' data banks are equally blank on the subject.

"Vincent Smythe works for Slough Council," says Killerella.

All us goblins boo and hiss, except for Alphonso who burps as rudely as he can. The robots chirp and whirr insultingly. The little ponies do their hate-whinnies and one does a multi-coloured poo. We all know about Vincent Smythe. He owns half of Victoria Street and comes round to collect the rent every month. Very interested in counting out each last penny that's owed but not at all interested in fixing the roof, or the window that won't shut in the middle bedroom, or the tap that leaks, or the plug that sparks. High Queen Claire often says the house keeps falling down but the rent keeps going up.

Killerella hushes us with a threatening look. "He's a council man. He gets to say what gets built where."

"Right then!" Captain Bort waves us on. "Better get these letter boxes sealed up quick!"

Killerella lowers her bow across his chest. "That won't do any good. Might as well stick your fingers in your ears when someone's telling you bad news. It doesn't change what is."

Oooof tries that at once, but with his fingers in his ears he loses balance and falls on Lucy. Captain Bort draws himself up to his full height, about level with Killerella's stomach.

"Madam, I'm on DIRECT ORDERS." You can tell he's scared. He's being polite.

"FISHCAkeZZZzz" says Power-Bot Nine.

"Direct orders," Frank translates for his boss.

Killerella shrugs. "If you've changed your mind by tomorrow night come and find us. Lady Grim will know what to do. She knows where Vincent Smythe lives. Posh house on Smuggster Street, up by the town hall. We'll have us a plot come tomorrow. You'll see."

Overheard by a goblin (shoved behind fridge)

Margo (High Queen Claire's bestest friend): You can't take this lying down, Claire! Get on to your local councillor or something. You'll have the same one as me... what's his name... Smith?

High Queen Claire: Smythe. Vincent Smythe.

Margo : Not... you mean your awful landlord is your local councillor?

High Queen Claire: Yup.

Margo: But he owns this house and half the others on the street! He won't want to have his properties knocked down for some supermarket...

High Queen Claire: He will if the price is right. He's already sent out eviction notices.

Margo: Smythe's just going to put you and the kids out on the street?

High Queen Claire: Slough Council will buy the houses off him. They won't care that he's let them fall apart or that the electrics are lethal or the plumbing leaks – he'll get buckets of cash and laugh his way to the bank.

Margo: It's some kind of scam. It's got to be! He's let these places go to ruin knowing he's fixed it to have them bought up by the council and knocked flat. It's criminal. That's what it is!

High Queen Claire: Probably... but what can I do? Me and my kids, we're little people and when there's big money to be made people like us get trampled.

Margo (bestest friend): But...

High Queen Claire: We've lost before we started, Margo... I can hardly raid the council planning offices for evidence now can I?
Chapter 7

You won't believe how much good stuff there is to eat behind a fridge. The best bits are underneath of course, but those grill things up the back get covered with the wonderful fluff. It's just hanging there waiting to be gobbled. Like candyfloss... almost. Dry, dusty, sugar-free candyfloss. Yum. With stuff on the floor I tend to operate on the six month rule. If it's been there less than six months it's fine to eat. To be honest though some of the things I pulled out from under that fridge had probably been there six years – but hey, rules are made to be broken.

I think Princess Pukey shoved me behind the fridge as an apology for sitting on me the other day. Anyway, it knocks the socks off lying dead still on the floor playing first-one-to-move-is-a-pixie. I spent the whole day fishing old peas out from underneath, coating them with grime (the black kind) and eating until no more would go down my throat. Delicious. It also meant I got to spend some more time training Fluffy. She'd been herding peas under the fridge when I arrived. Fluffy often spends the day under the fridge when her coat is getting patchy. At the moment I'm teaching her to roll-over, and she's pretty good at it, but mostly if there's a slope.

I'm a little late to roll call. Captain Bort is calling out my number as I hurry in from the kitchen, and it sounds as though it's not the first time he's called it.

"Here!" I take my place in line, still munching a floor-pea. I wipe spare fluff from my lips. "Sir."

"Right." Captain Bort has his battle helmet on tonight. He only wears that when expecting serious trouble! "Right," he repeats. "We're meeting up with Prince Stupid's forces in half an hour. Then we're going to find out what the Grimster's plan is and laugh at it. After that it will probably be war.

A ragged cheer goes up among us goblins. We're built for war. Also for eating. As it happens I'd rather be munching old peas than fighting the Grimster's troops. Those little ponies have got a hell of a kick on them. Also I can't see how bashing Killerella will help us defeat Vincent Smythe and the council and stop them covering the park in tarmac and knocking the house down. Still, I guess that's why I'm a lowly minion and not a captain.

We wrap up warm cos it's a cold night out there, and head off for the battle. I'm wearing one of Lord Thurgo's old socks. It's a great honour, and my head sticks out neatly through the hole worn by his mighty toenail, praise be his name. I've got Fluffy cosied away under one arm. Alfonso and Oooof are wearing a pair of Princess Pukey's mittens. It's a tight fit for both of them and they hop along at the rear like a pair of horribly mutated woollen octopi.

Before we reach the gate Alfonso and Oooof have tripped up Gut-ripper and Jabber with the long piece of elastic joining the mittens. Jabber just laughs, but Gut-ripper gets up with a mean look in her eye... though to be honest that was there to start with.

Frost glitters on the lamppost at the corner of Victoria Street and George Street. The robot horde are waiting in the shadow of a garden wall, huddled around their captain, Steel Jaws. We draw up to them just as Killerella rounds the corner, surrounded by a boiling sea of little ponies, rainbow hued and mean-eyed.

The bosses square up. I'd say eye to eye but Killerella towers over Captain Bort and Steel Jaws. Our proper commanders, Sir Terror-Knight and Power-Bot Nine haven't even bothered to come.

"DELIVER PLAN." Steel Jaws booms.

"Yes," Captain Bort nods. "What's this master plot then?" He hesitates and adds, "Ma'am."

I check the goblins to either side of me, One-Eye and Gobber. They're ready to laugh scornfully on command.

Killerella narrows her eyes at all of us, which takes some doing cos we've come in force. Her ice-water stare sends shivers down my spine. In that moment I'm sure that if anyone can defeat the Slough Council and the forces of good it's her. In the next moment she slumps, unexpectedly and says, "I don't have one."

We swallow our scornful laughs, unused. A ripple of fear runs through our ranks. No plan? No plot?

"What?" Captain Bort asks the question for all of us.

"I don't have a plan," Killerella says. "Do you?"

"Well..." Captain Bort tries to look down at his feet but his belly gets in the way. He stands there scratching his tummy. "Um..." The plan was to laugh at Killerella's plot, but he doesn't seem to want to tell her that. Somehow having no plot to laugh at has left us all worried. What will we do? Are all the houses going to be knocked down? The park replaced with tarmac. Will we be left behind? Where will Lord Thurgo and Prince Stupid go? What about the ducks?

"You don't have a plan either," says Killerella. "Vincent Smythe isn't going to be worried by us. He's got minions of his own and each of those minions is much bigger than our overlords. And anyway, the council isn't just one person. It's lots of people. How can we fight that?"

"Anyone got any ideas?" Captain Bort says.

I don't think the captain is including us minions in his 'anyone' but Odo holds his hand up.

"What?"

"I haven't said anything since chapter 2," says Odo.

"That's your idea?" Bort signals in Sergeant Yellow-Fang to drag him away.

Odo nods. We all look at him until he hangs his head in shame and saves sarge the effort of dragging him by sloping off on his own accord muttering.

"Any good ideas?" Captain Bort turns away from us and looks at Steel Jaws.

We all hold our breath so our breathing won't distract the higher ranks from thinking important thoughts. Three seconds later Oooof manages to fall over. He was just standing in line. It's not like he had to go up some steps or thread a path through the doorway or anything... but even so he manages to mess it up. I wouldn't mind but he falls over into me and sends me stumbling out of the front rank right in between Captain Bort and the lovely, I mean deadly, Killerella.

"Uh," I say. And then, "We can hardly raid the council planning offices for evidence now can we?" I'm not sure what makes me say this – I think I heard it recently, and perhaps Oooof's impact just dislodged it from the part of my brain where memories go to hide instead of being forgotten.

They all look at me as if I'm something Princess Pukey left behind. Steel Jaws grinds his metal hands into metal fists. Killerella bends down toward me with a murderous scowl...

"Your ugly little one might have a point, Bort," Killerella says.

"What?" I say.

"What?" says Captain Bort.

"The council planning offices. That's where they keep their plans. If there's any evidence that Smythe's up to something we might find it there – he is in charge of town planning after all. And if not, at least we can destroy the plans and slow them down!"

"Do you even know where the council planning offices are?" I ask.

Killerella fishes in her skirts and after a few moments pulls out a ragged piece of plastic-covered cardboard. It's part of the sign they took off the park railings. She taps a long finger to the words under the clear plastic. "That's the address."

"METHOD OF TRANSPORTATION?" Steel Jaws demands.

"It would be easier if you just spoke normally," Killerella tells him.

The robot sighs, sags slightly at the hip sprockets, and says, "How are we all going to get there? It's a hell of a long way to..." He cocks his head to look at the fragment of sign. "Kings House, Arlingdon Road."

We all stop and stare at Steel Jaws. He closes his great metal jaw with a snap, upper teeth meshing with lower teeth like interlocking daggers. "What?" he says.

"You can read?" asks Captain Bort.

"Sure," says Steel Jaws. "It's just a matter of putting the letters together to make words."

"I knew it!" I cry out. I'm learning to read as soon as we get back from the mission. If a Mark III Flesh-Rending robotoid can do it then I'm sure I can. Shouldn't take more than an hour. Two hours tops!

"So how are we going to get there?" Captain Bort brings us back to the question. He flutters his fingers at me while he asks it, shooing me back into line.

Killerella turns toward her sea of ponies, sweeping her arm out as she does.

"Robots can't ride," Steel Jaws complains.

"Get the carriages!" Killerella commands, and a dozen little ponies peel off from the rear of the herd and gallop away toward the Grimster's house. She turns back to stare at Captain Bort. "Well?"

Captain Bort eyes the ponies with suspicion and using his mistrustful eye. His hopeful eye is pointing back at us. "Mount up, goblins!" he roars.

They may be little for ponies but I can tell you they are quite tall enough for riding, thank you very much. Perched on my own colourful little nightmare with Lord Thurgo's sock rucked up around my hips, and Fluffy held awkwardly under one arm, I feel very unsafe. And then the pony starts to move and I suddenly need to add a lot more 'very's in front of that 'unsafe'.

In the time it's taken all of us goblins to get mounted. Well, all apart from Oooof who is still lying on the pavement exactly where he fell after his thirteenth try. Anyway, in that time, the ponies who ran off have returned pulling two large and ornate pink carriages of the type used to take scullery maids to royal balls where they dance the night away with princes. We all watch as an unlikely number of battle droids and assorted robots pack themselves into the vehicles. Oooof joins Steel Jaws, Frank and half a dozen other robots in the larger and more fancy of the two carriages.

And we're off!

Overheard by a goblin (wedged between books and a packed lunch in Lord Thurgo's school desk)

Lord Thurgo: I should have got the prize for dungeon-building.

Prince Stupid: No way. Mine was much better.

Lord Thurgo: Wetter maybe. But there's more to a good dungeon than dripping slime. Mine really should have won!

Prince Stupid: No mine sh-

The Grimster: Actually mine was superior, but either way Helen Goodshoes shouldn't have won.

Prince Stupid: True!

Lord Thurgo: You've got that right! Such a teacher's pet!

Prince Stupid: And you know she collects dragons? Everyone knows robots are the best minions. How can a dragon be a minion? I ask you!

Lord Thurgo: Yeah. Well, obviously goblins are better than robots. But dragons? That's just silly. Better than ponies though...

The Grimster: They're not my ponies! I keep telling you. It's not my fault if my Great Aunt keeps buying them for me! Anyway – I've been thinking about the park. We can't let them destroy it!

Lord Thurgo: It's alright for you, Jane, me and Malcolm are having our houses knocked down for some stupid supermarket.

Prince Stupid: Dad says there's nothing to be done. The council-

The Grimster: It's bad about your houses, and it's bad about the park – where will I play football now? Anyway, the same thing's behind them both. We just need to find out what.

Prince Stupid: The council is what! My dad says-

The Grimster: The council is letting it happen but that's not the same as making it happen. We need to find out who is paying to have the supermarket built!

Prince Stupid: We should totally do that.

Lord Thurgo: Deal! Let's do it together.

The Grimster: Deal. I'm in.

*awkward silence filled only by the drone of Mrs Bramley at the front of the class, blathering on about world domination.*

Lord Thurgo: Deal. But don't go giving us girl-cooties.

Prince Stupid: Deal.

The Grimster: Deal. But I'm still going to crush you two in this class president election.
Chapter 8

It turns out that being able to read an address is not the same thing as being able to find it.

On the long journey me and Fluffy chat to our pony a bit. Turns out he's called Burt. He tells us the Grimster never plays with her pony herd. They were mostly all given at once, in a big stable, by the same ancient aunt who sent the carriages one Christmas.

"One Christmas?" I ask. "Don't you mean The Christmas?"

But it turns out there have been more that one Christmas! Burt – who is way old – claims there may have been as many as four!

"Mind blowing stuff!" I say. "Sorry to hear the Grimster's put you out to pasture."

"Yeah, bummer." Burt canters on round a corner and I cling to his mane for dear life. "Actually though, we have more fun left to our own ends. All that 'being played with' stuff is over-rated. Lady Grim spends all her time with her soldering iron making electronics these days. Surveillance equipment mainly, and the death traps of course."

We carry on. And on. And then on a bit more. "Are we nearly their yet?" I cry in anguish. But nobody replies so I say it again in goblinish. Still no answer.

Our ride through the moonlit streets of Slough turns out to be a bit of a nightmare. Riding a little pony, even a chummy one like Burt, is a deeply uncomfortable business, particularly on the bottom part of a goblin. With each wrong turn and dead end the agony continues to grow worse, almost reaching the point where I'm tempted to put my legs down on either side and walk... but that would involve slightly more effort than just sitting there and complaining about it – so I don't.

Eventually Fluffy saves the day as she often does. I'm a bit hazy on the details but she totally does.

"Woah!" Killerella raises her hand and as one the pony army stops dead in its tracks. The goblin army however continues on for a little bit (as one) and slides off the pony army onto the pavement.

"Ouch!" I say.

"Oooof," says Oooof.

"We're here!" says Steel Jaws, pointing out of the carriage with his extendable finger at a huge building to our left.

"That," I say to Alfonso who is lying beside me. "Is the biggest building I've ever seen."

It's huge. All stone and pillars and carved window arches. A sweeping flight of steps leads up to double doors big enough for elephants. If evil ever had a palace this would have to be it!

I'm now slightly worried there may be elephants inside.

We surge up the steps. Or rather Killerella vaults up them, Steel-Jaws and the captain scramble up behind, and the rest of us start scaling the first step. Gobin towers and pony pyramids are required – it's a slow business and Killerella is back before we reach the third step.

"It's locked."

"Try round the back," I say before I remember my station, and general stupidity.

"Around the back?" Captain Bort manages to make it sound like the worst idea ever.

"There might be a cat-flap," Frank says. I told you Frank was a good sort.

"A cat-flap?" Somehow by adding a question mark to what you say Captain Bort can make anyone sound stupid. Even someone with their head screwed on right, like Frank.

"Yeah," says Alfonso who never normally says much but probably wants to hurry this along so we can eat. "Evil sorts always have cats. White ones. It's the law. Or something."

"Lord Thurgo doesn't have a white cat," says Captain Bort, "or even a cat at all."

"Different sort of evil," says Alfonso. "Also, he did ask for one for Christmas."

Fifteen minutes later we're all filing though the cat-flap in the back door whilst Killerella holds it open. We leave the carriages parked at the front by a parking meter. And we don't put any money in. Cos that's the sort of thing you do when you're evil – whatever kind of evil you are.

We stream into the Town Hall like a stream of ... well ... goblins, robots, and little ponies. Once in I pause to haul Alfonso away from the cat litter tray in the hallway.

"Mgggdfs?" he asks.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," I tell him.

He carefully munches the last pieces of cat litter and swallows. "Mggg dfs?"

"Probably." Is the best answer I have for that, and then we're off.

We separate – always the best policy in unlit old houses that you shouldn't be in – and race around madly hauling open filing cabinets, shredding paperwork and tossing about it like confetti. I'm not clear how doing this will help us uncover the secrets we're looking for, but it's great fun. I also adjust the settings on all the swivel chairs I can find and swap the contents of the decaffeinated and regular coffee jars in the break rooms.

After an hour or so of rampaging randomly through the many offices, corridors, bathrooms, and storage basements of the town hall a sudden two-tone wail sends us all into blind panic. The noise springs up out of nowhere, neeeee-NAAAAA-neeeee-NAAAAA and so on. I'm bored of it already and it's showing no signs of stopping. And loud? So loud I can't hear myself think... not that I ever can... but now I can't even hear Alfonso think and he always buzzes when he thinks.

"I know what that is!" yells Frank.

"So do I," I lie.

"Oh you liar," Frank yells.

"Nuh uh." I shake my head.

"It's a burglar alarm!" Frank shouts. "There's one in Prince Stupendous' house. Goes off all the time."

That's enough to turn my mild panic into full panic. I tear across the room, scattering papers, and crash into Alfonso who has his mouth crammed with documents - presumably trying to eat the evidence.

"Run! Alf! Run! There's burglars coming!" I've seen burglars before. One time High Queen Claire left the telly on all day by mistake and we all saw it, except the goblins pointing the wrong way. "They steal toys!"

"So?" Alfonso manages through a mouthful of half-chewed paper. "We're goblins."

That stumps me and I calm down for a moment. "Yeah... but... they might mistake us for toys!"

Alfonso spits out an extraordinary amount of papier-mâché and goes into full melt down. "We're all going to die!"

I join in.

Panic, it turns out, is more infectious than a stomach bug. Within a few minutes we were all locked in a frantic struggle to get out of the cat-flap at the same time. Goblins, ponies, robots, all of us squashed into a more or less solid mass of screaming fear.

Little known fact: many ponies emit high-pitched squeaks when squeezed. And some of them also emit far less pleasant things.

Somehow we all escape with only minor injuries. It's true that the robots are mostly compressed into one huge uber-bot that runs away all by itself on towering legs... but I expect they're OK... ish.

We trudge home, too tired to ride the ponies. The mood is glum. Yes we made a mess... but what did we learn?

Steel Jaws managed to avoid being transformed into the uber-bot and stomps along at the back. I'd say he's sulking but he always stomps. He has his face buried in a sheaf of papers. Probably crying.

Finally at approximately stupid-O'clock we arrive back where we started, on the street corner. The robots have reassembled themselves are waiting, along with two coke cans who they seem to be getting on with very well.

"Well that's it then." Killerella looks grim.

"We're all doomed." Captain Bort throws up his arms in dismay... then catches them. Somehow.

A general wailing and gnashing of teeth goes up. Except from the robots who mostly don't have teeth and tend to beep rather than wail.

Steel Jaws, possibly the one robot to own teeth, looks at us all from over the top of the papers that he's had his face buried in all the way home. He's not gnashing or beeping.

"It says here..." He scans the page with a red light set into his chest. "...that a man named Marcus Gutboat is funding the supermarket and is behind the application to buy the necessary land. His point of contact in the council is Vincent Smythe." He riffled through the documents. "On this one it says an investigation was conducted after allegations of corruption. An accusation was made that Gutboat had bribed Smythe. But no evidence was uncovered."

"Well our next move is clear then." Killerella straightens up, her chin set in that purposeful way that makes her look so lov- ... um... deadly.

"Er... yes." Captain Bort nods wisely.

The rest of us give her a knowing look, as if we know exactly what she's talking about. Under my arm Fluffy does... well, nothing, if I'm honest, but I'm sure she's pretending to know exactly what Killerella is talking about too.

Killerella looks at us, realises none of us have a clue, slumps the slightest bit, and says, "Tomorrow night we raid Marcus Gutboat's house for evidence of dirty deeds that will stop the sale."

"Exactly!" cries Captain Bort.

"BEEP!" beeps Steel Jaws.

"Hooray!" we all roar.

The game is on!

Overheard by a goblin (in the TV room at Prince Stupid's house)

Prince Stupid: Why'd you bring a goblin with you?

Lord Thurgo: Saw my little sister was using it as a hammer in the front garden as I was leaving. Trying to break rocks I think. Anyway – what do you think about what Jane found out?

Prince Stupid: Who?

Lord Thurgo: Jane. You know, Jane.

Prince Stupid: You mean the Grimster?

Lord Thurgo: Yeah.

Prince Stupid: Oooo! Jane now is it? Oooo! Jane and Billy sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G

*sounds of prolonged fight, including phrases like Ow! That's my ear! and We said no weapons! and I surrender*

Lord Thurgo: So what did you think?

Prince Stupid: I think she's doing too well in this election. The poll's tonight and Ralph and David J. both say they're thinking of voting for her.

Lord Thurgo: Hmmm. That is bad. But then again they changed their minds when I offered them my old Doom-Lord comics. But anyway, I meant about what she found out about the supermarket guy.

Prince Stupid: This Gutboat guy?

Lord Thurgo: Yeah.

Prince Stupid: We should go and see him.

Lord Thurgo: That's stupid! He's some kind of criminal overlord, she says. The papers are full of him-

Prince Stupid: You read the papers?

Lord Thurgo: Well... no...

Prince Stupid: We should do it then. She knows where he lives.

Lord Thurgo: Who does?

Prince Stupid: Jane.

Lord Thurgo: You called her Jane! You called her Jane. Jane and Malcolm sitting in a-

*sounds of a longer and more vicious battle*
Chapter 9

"That's the largest building I've ever seen," I say.

I'm lying between Jabber and Gobber and underneath Oooof and Gut-ripper, on the pavement where we all fell when the ponies stopped.

"It is quite big," Jabber agrees.

"Get the hell off me, Oooof," Gobber says.

The Gutboat mansion is even larger than the town hall. It has a high wall with railings and spiky bushes. It has floodlights, pillars, ornamental pools, stone lions... the works.

We get to our feet and look up at the tall iron gates, and up, and up. My neck starts to hurt and Oooof falls over again, backwards this time.

"We're gonna need a bigger goblin," I say.

Steel Jaws shrugs and steps in, between the bars. "Get too big and you won't fit through."

I glance back at the avenue once more, a quiet side street. Traffic races past along a main road at the far end, but from here it's just a distant roar. "C'mon, Fluffy." I pick her up off the floor. "We're going in." And I join the slow tide of ponies, robots, and goblins squeezing through the gates.

We snake our way past bushes cut into the shape of peacocks, past tasteful water features in the shape of huge steel pound signs, past a pagoda and a pergola, whatever they might be, and round to the back of the mansion.

"That's the biggest cat-flap I've ever seen," I say.

I say it because the biggest cat-flap I've ever seen is right there in front of us, set into the biggest backdoor I've ever seen... and I've seen at least six backdoors.

"In," says Killerella, and we all bundle through into the marble-tiled hall beyond, hoping not to meet the kind of cat that needs such a large flap.

"Right," says Sir Terror-Knight.

"All set?" Killerella asks.

"Bleeeeeep?" Power-Bot Nine says.

With our three glorious leaders united, standing shoulder to shoulder, we can't help but win.

"Yes!" we variously roar, whistle, or neigh.

"Go crazy!" Killerella yells.

And we do.

"Also – look for evidence!" she calls out after us.

"All the good stuff will be upstairs!" Jabber shouts, vaulting off the back of a pony to gain the first of about a million marble steps that sweep up from the far end of the hall.

How Jabber knows this is a mystery but I give chase, Oooof, Odo, One-Eye, Gobber, Lucy, and Alfonso at my heels, Captain Bort hurrying after.

We arrive at the top of the stairs about an hour later, panting and sweating. Goblins sweat a stinky glue-like substance that makes climbing even more difficult. I unstick myself from the carpet and follow Jabber into the grandest of many grand bedrooms.

"Wow." We stand looking at a bed the size of a tennis court and covered with satin sheets in a 'crushed cherry' colour. Shelves in the corners stand stacked with statuettes and vases. Delicate glasswork gleams beneath a huge circular window. Pictures hang on every wall. Expensive ones probably 'cos I can't tell what they're supposed to be.

"Beautiful," I say, and scratch my nose. "Let's wreck the place."

For the next fifteen minutes we rampage about in an orgy of destruction. Feathers fly from shredded pillows. Gobber gets the window open and we drop breakables out of it as fast as we can. Odo finds a way up to the picture rail and starts biting through the wires so that the paintings fall one by one.

"What's THAT?" yells Alfonso.

I put down the crystal goblet I'm about to smash and look around. There, revealed behind the last but one of the paintings is a little grey metal door set into the wall with a numbered dial in the middle of it.

"Dunno," I say.

Captain Bort sets a hand to each of our shoulders. Not his, just some he found somewhere. "That, minions, is a safe!"

"No," says Alfonso, continuing to point toward the doorway. "THAT!"

"Ah," I say. "It looks like a very big dog to me, Alf. The vicious kind. Rottweiler?"

All across the room goblins freeze in place.

"No, I meant that." Alfonso points to what appears to be half a doughnut, on the floor, poking out from behind the door. But by this time however we're all running.

Out the door and we split up immediately. The hound chases Odo who turned left along the landing. It seems to be the silent kind of dog who never barks and whose bite is definitely worse. The rest of us regroup and charge down the stairs, tumbling head over heel for most of the way.

We crash down on the marble floor, slide a foot or two, and come to a halt. Alfonso's fall is cushioned by the half-doughnut he managed to pick up on the way out.

The hallway is crowded with minions. Everyone is here – except Odo who, judging by the splashing upstairs, appears to have jumped into a toilet to escape the silent-but-deadly dog. The odd thing is how everyone in the hall is hiding. Every last one of them, and very badly too, many simply by standing stock-still and covering their faces with their hands.

"What? Why-" I don't manage any more questions before the door starts to open.

"Dave, stay with the car. Louie and Al, with me." A gruff voice, coming through the gap as the door swings inward.

I dive for the shadows, or at least for where the shadows should be. Captain Bort and the rest of them do the same. A hand flicks the switch on the wall by the door and the hallway lights up bright as a summer day. There's not scrap of shade to be had, no matter how deep we burrow. So instead we do what comes naturally and lie still as a bricks.

Three big men come in, all dark-haired, thickset, wearing long black leather coats.

"Where's Maria?" The man in the middle of the trio, dwarfed by his two companions. Has to be Gutboat.

"You gave her the night off, boss. Glenda too. The place is empty."

"Oh yeah. I'm too soft on the staff. Don't I always say I'm too soft on the staff, Al?"

"You do boss."

As they walk through the hallway more than two dozen robots, goblins, and brightly coloured ponies stand in clear view. Sir Terror-Knight at least has hidden behind some umbrellas in the corner. Killerella just flops across the floor, playing dead.

The three of them walk on past without a blind bit of notice. One of the thugs actually kicks Frank and sending him skidding across the tiles... but still, none of them actually see us.

"Gotta get some cash from the-" Marcus Gutboat, breaks off mid-sentence at the foot of the stairs. "Hey, hey, hey, what's this?" He bends and picks something up off the second step.

"NoooooooOooooOOOOOOOooooo!!!" Is what I would be screaming if Sergeant Yellow-Fang hadn't slapped a hand across my mouth when I drew breath. The Gutboat monster has Fluffy in his dirty great paw!

"Ha! A humbug. Wipe that off and it's good for eating." He rubs her on his coat sleeve. "Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves, boys. That's what my old mother used to tell me... before she went inside for stealing all those pounds..." The splashing noise from upstairs becomes suddenly louder, combined with something that sounds rather like the whine of a dog being flushed. "What's that? If anyone-" Gutboat looks suddenly worried. "The safe! C'mon!" And all three of them charge upstairs.

"NoooooooOOOoooo!" I keep trying to wail.

"Out! Everybody. Now." Killerella is on her feet.

"What she said," says Sir Terror-Knight, already halfway through the dog-flap.

"Wait!" I manage to get the sarge's hand off my mouth. "Whatever happened to the 'no humbug left behind' rule?"

"No such rule, #247," says Captain Bort hurrying past. "You just made it up."

I draw breath for another yell but Sergeant Yellow-Fang smothers me with a hairy arm and drags me toward the back door. Loud shouts are starting to ring out upstairs as we pour through the dog-flap. Me and the sarge are practically the last ones out.

"NooooOOOoooo!" I scream, and by the looks on everyone's faces they seem to agree.

We keep running – or in my case dragging – out across the lawn and into the darkness of the bushes. A second later floodlights come on, bathing the gardens in near daylight.

"Well that's that then," says Killerella, hunched under the leaves of what turns out to be a very prickly bush, smelling of dog wee. "If there's any evidence against him in that safe Gutboat will destroy it now he knows someone's after it..."

Overheard by a goblin (lying near the telephone at Castle Thurgo)

Lord Thurgo: ...nah, but I'm getting a new one on the weekend. The shop says there's a new consignment coming in. Ultra goblins, girl goblins, even winged goblins! Says a container lorry is bringing them from Southampton to the distribution warehouse and he can get his hands on some early.

Lord Thurgo: Uh huh.

Lord Thurgo: Uh huh.

Lord Thurgo: What?

Lord Thurgo: Tonight?

Lord Thurgo: Does she even know where Gutboat lives?

Lord Thurgo: Course I'm in!

Lord Thurgo: Midnight it is then!
Chapter 10

As we leave the Gutboat grounds we see three figures approaching the front door up the long gravel drive. More of his thugs I expect, or visitors from the criminal underworld there to do shady deals... though rather shorter than most crime-lords.

We trudge despondently up the mansion-lined length of Marbella Avenue. Or rather the other's do and I'm dragged along, still struggling to get loose and run back to rescue Fluffy.

"Casualty of war, Kevin," says Sergeant Yellow-Fang as he drags me. "A sad business."

The houses grow smaller as we near the main road, the cars parked outside cheaper and less glittery.

"We're doomed," Odo says as he takes my other ankle to help the sarge drag.

"We need a miracle," says Frank, a red light blinking under his chin. "Not that robots believe in miracles."

Up ahead at the junction with the main road there's a sudden squeal of brakes, a crash, another longer squeal, a ripping noise, and a louder crash. Then silence, except for the traffic rumbling on.

"What on Earth was that?" Sir Killer-Knight shouts.

"To me it sounded like a fourteen wheeled articulated truck jack-knifing then falling over and spilling its cargo across the side of the road," I say. Because it did. "A blue one!"

"The ugly little one got it right!" shouts Captain Bort from the front of our procession. "Only it's green."

Everyone races forward to have a look. It's true. A huge lorry is on its side, the top ripped open, and thousands upon thousands of cardboard boxes are lying tumbled everywhere. Some have broken open, spilling smaller plastic-windowed boxes onto the verge. The driver is wandering away up the side of the road, looking a bit dazed.

"What is it?" I ask, pleased to have stopped, because all that dragging has made my back a bit sore.

"Goblins," says Gobber.

"No, that's what we are." I try to explain it slowly.

"Goblins," says Jabber.

"You're not really getting this," I say. "We're goblins. What's in the truck?"

"Girl goblins," sighs Oooof.

"It's been a long wait." Odo nods, letting go of my ankle.

"You've already got girl-goblins, doofus!" Lucy smacks Odo around the head. Then something catches her eye. "Oooooo, ultra goblins!"

I shake free of sarge and take a look for myself. "Goblins," I say.

"This shipping manifesto," says Steel Jaws, holding up some papers he's fished from the wreckage, "says there are 27,000 of them."

"Why are they all just lying there?" I ask, bending over one of the ultra goblins, almost twice as tall as me and banded with stylish yellow stripes. We're almost nose to nose but he just stares ahead as if I'm not there.

"You gotta turn them on," Captain Bort murmurs, still in shock.

I search for the button. It's on the belly, just like mine. There's an oval hole in the plastic where you can reach in and push it. So I do.

"RRRRaaaaaugghh!" the ultra goblin roars, held completely immobile by the blister pack plastic.

"Oi!" says Captain Bort. "Zip it."

The ultra goblin sees Bort's an officer and shuts up.

"You want to help convict a dangerous criminal, son?" the captain asks.

"Nuh uh."

"Quick!" I say, shaking the box. "Come with us. There's a humbug in trouble!"

"Pah," the ultra goblin says.

Sir Terror-Knight advances, pushing Oooof and Odo over as he draws up, towering above even the ultra goblin. "You, worthless one, are conscripted into the army of Lord Thurgo, son of Claire, master of Castle Thurgo. Come with me. We have a safe to crack."

"Now that's more like it!" shouts the ultra goblin. "Get me out of here!"

And so in a matter of moments every able bodied robot and goblin is working hard, pressing on-buttons and tearing away at packaging. The plastic has a consistency similar to hardened steel, and even when you're through that there are still countless little twists of wire to undo. Fortunately goblins have tough teeth, and robots have circular saws, and each new goblin set free immediately becomes a fresh set of teeth and claws to unbox yet more recruits.

In the frantic mayhem of ripping boxes and torn cardboard I slip away. I run from there as fast as I can – bound for the Gutboat mansion. Fluffy's all alone in there at the mercy of a monster and I can't wait for twenty-seven thousand boxes to be opened.

Running has never been my strong point but I power on relentlessly for several yards, growing slower and slower, panting, sweating, burping occasionally.

"Want a lift?" it's Burt, trotting by me on four day-glo pink hooves.

"Do I ever?" I've never been so glad to see a little pony outside of a butcher's shop before.

Seconds later and I'm mounted, charging the length of Marbella Avenue at full gallop. "I'm coming, Fluffy! I'm coming!"

Cantering down the drive we see no signs of the three visitors, Gutboat's minions, or the silent-but-deadly dog. In all the excitement I forgot to ask Odo how he escaped the hound and whether he really flushed it down the loo. Gravel scatters beneath hooves as we veer onto the grass.

Burt brings me across the lawns – still with the floodlights blazing across them and brighter than a film star's smile, right up to the backdoor.

"I'll... uh, wait here," he says. "I'm not good with stairs."

I give him a fist bump. Well, hoof bump... well. We say goodbye and I climb through the dog-flap.

I last saw Fluffy being carried upstairs so I make for the flight of steps. It's a lot easier to climb them this time. Firstly I've had a plenty of practice recently, and secondly no other goblins are trying to help me. I've a sneaking suspicion, looking back at it, that Oooof's 'helping' was just hanging onto my ankle and letting me drag him up with me.

The landing is covered in wet footprints, wet dog footprints... and a whining and scratching is coming from behind the door at the far end. The door to the bedroom with the safe is also closed. A door between those two stands a few inches open and I can hear raised voices.

"You better own up you little maggots. I'm not a nice man, and Louie here is a very nasty man indeed. Tell me who put you up to this and you might just get to go home!" It sounds like Marcus Gutboat. "No way did you three just happen to ring my doorbell moments after the place got turned over. They wrecked everything... it's clearly the work of professionals... mustard powder in the Jacuzzi... nasty!"

I edge closer while they talk some more. I can see a sideboard, the back of a large man in a Hawaiian shirt, and part of a wall, lined with bookcases, all of them stuffed with big leather-bound books. "Smythe? What's Vincent Smythe to me? Small fry, that's what. I can buy and sell men like Smythe. He didn't send you."

Closer... My heart skips three beats, then another one... then two more. There's a bowl on the sideboard... and it's full of humbugs! The man's fat-fingered hand hovers over the bowl and picks one out.

"Phew." It's not Fluffy. Still... poor humbug! And now I spot her, in with the rest, her coat almost gone. The monsters have pulled most of her fur out!

"Enough of this! Louie, make them talk. Start with the girl, she looks like the ringleader."

The hand returns and takes another humbug. No! Not Fluffy! At the last second he chooses a different one. Clearly he's saving the best 'til last. Seconds later there's an awful crunching noise. I want to be sick. So I throw up on the carpet. Princess Pukey would be proud of me.

Sneaking in closer still I can see three men with their backs to me. All of them are huge. If I stood on tiptoes I could bite Gutboat's ankle but that's about it. One of the men is looming over three shorter persons. He's pretty good at looming but Sergeant Yellow-Fang could still teach him a thing or two. It's hard to tell much about the smaller ones as they're all bundled up in parker coats and the men are blocking my view... but if you made me guess I'd say they were children.

"Last chance, Missy!" And the thug called Louie reaches out toward the middle of the three kids. She dodges back and I see her face. OMG (I got that off the telly – the G is for Goblins, I think)... it's the Grimster! Uh oh! This Louie guy's in trouble... she's backing away into a corner pretending to be scared. From the stories I've heard about the Grimster this guy has about three seconds before something very... grim... happens to him.

As Louie follows the Grimster into the corner, arms outstretched and a big stupid grin on his face, he reveals the other two captives. First I see Prince Stupid, looking upset and rather red in the face... then... LORD THURGO! By the wrathful crimson hue of his noble features and the sparkle in his eye I can tell Lord Thurgo has things under control. I relax. Lord Thurgo would never let anything bad happen to Fluffy. He must just be toying with Gutboat.

The Grimster shrieks as Louie catches hold of her arm.

"Leave her alone!" roars Lord Thurgo.

Louie turns toward Lord Thurgo, then it's his turn to shriek as the Grimster sinks her teeth into his knuckles. He shakes her off and raises his other hand in a fist but something hits the window. Then two more things hit it.

"What the-" Marcus Gutboat, pauses with Fluffy inches from his mouth. "Kids throwing stuff at the house?"

The other henchman, Al, goes and hauls open the window. "Oi!" he shouts.

Three flying goblins crash straight into his face. He falls backward, trying to pull one of them out of his mouth. Seven more flap in before Louie can shut the window again.

With the reinforcements careering wildly around the room, grabbing the men's hair or biting their ears, Gutboat leads the retreat out onto the landing. I back out of the way and grab hold of the banister to stop myself falling through. Glancing over my shoulder I see an unbroken mass of goblins filling the hallway. They're flowing up the stairs like a backwards waterfall. Ultra goblins hoisting up fierce-looking she-goblins who then haul them up in turn.

"What the-" Gutboat and his cronies stand there for a second, mouths open, while the flying goblins bite them. More fliers are coming up over the balcony as I watch.

"I-" Marcus doesn't get past 'I' because a particularly fierce fly-boy hurls himself into his mouth. At that point Gutboat starts running for the far end of the landing, his two goons in hot pursuit. My victory shout dies on my lips, my victory dance goes undanced... I've noticed that Fluffy is still in Gutboat's hand, stuck to the side of his thumb. She's probably hanging there by her teeth, biting him. More bravery than sense sometimes that dog! But she's in terrible danger. If they escape with her she'll be eaten for sure!

I give chase, sending up my best howl. It's quite bloodthirsty but it does make my throat sore after. They run a bit faster than me since their legs are six times as long as my whole body, and also I'm not much of a runner. But with Fluffy's life at stake something snaps inside me and I throw myself forward with all the speed that's in my heart.

"What you doing lying on the floor?" asks Burt as he comes level, he flicks his long pink and yellow tail. Goblins are flying over head, unscrewing light bulbs and peeling off wallpaper, the horde have just started flowing over the topmost step and an awful din is rising from downstairs.

"Dunno," I say. "Something snapped inside me..."

"Get on!" says Burt. So I do.

Mounted once more I gallop after the retreating Gutboat. Burt puts on a spectacular turn of speed but we're a half second too late. All three men have escaped out the window and are lost in the night. By the sounds of it Louie and Al landed on something soft. By the sounds of it Gutboat didn't. By the sounds of it the soft thing Louie and Al landed on was Gutboat.

"Oh," says Burt, looking up at the swishing curtains.

"NooooooOOooooOooOOOooo!" I shout. I can't believe it! "She was the only humbug I ever loved!" I howl.

"Steady on," says Burt. "There are other fish in the sea." He pauses. "There are even other humbugs in the curtains."

I look up, wiping my eyes. "That's not another humbug... THAT'S FLUFFY!" And it is. There, stuck to the curtain. "She must have clung on to the curtains when they were pushing through to escape!"

I start climbing up to save her. By the time we get down Fluffy has a new coat, as thick as her old layer of refrigerator fluff but blue this time. Like the curtains.

"Oh Fluffy!" I say. "You saved the day again! Chasing that evil crime-lord out of his mansion so our evil over-lord Thurgo can triumph.

"That's some dog you got there!" An ultra goblin towers over me, grinning appreciatively and toothily down at Fluffy.

"Yessir!" I agree, and hurry off before he asks for a bite.

With Fluffy safe under my arm I ride back to the master bedroom. Twenty-seven thousand goblins have made short work of the safe. Twenty-seven thousand goblins will make short work of anything! Except forming an orderly queue.

They've dismantled the brickwork, hauled the safe out onto the floor, and chewed their way in through the side. It's a good thing Lord Thurgo offers a great dental plan.

The Grimster is reading aloud from some of the documents to Prince Stupid and Lord Thurgo whilst Power-Bot 9, Killerella, and Sir Terror-Knight watch on amid a sea of goblin green.

"It's all here!" she says. "Payments to Vincent Smythe, bribes to other council officials, lists of robberies and where the loot is stashed... everything." She looks up. "The park is saved!"

"Yay," cry the goblins, although it's clear that none of the new recruits know what a park is.

"And our houses won't get knocked down!" Prince Stupid punches the air.

"Yay!" shout the goblins.

"And... I've got a huge mansion to use as my evil over-lord base!" roars Lord Thurgo, breaking into the time-honoured in-your-face dance of evil.

"Our base!" chorus the Grimster and Prince Stupid.

"YAY!" scream the goblins, drowning out any other protests they might have had. Someone, Odo I think, starts to goblin-dance... which is rather like fighting but more elbows are involved and someone is more likely to lose an eye... and soon everyone is at it. Steel Jaws tunes in his chest radio and starts to blare out 'Who let the dogs out." And we party until dawn.

Overheard by a goblin (in Marcus Gutboat's former office)

The Grimster: What are you doing on the phone? And what's that in your hand?

Lord Thurgo: Oh, hey Jane... It's Gutboat's credit card. I making a donation to World Peace. I've just made one to the benevolent fund for retired evil geniuses. Then I'm going to order some new curtains, and unicorns for the lawn...

The Grimster: No really.

Lord Thurgo: All right, all right – I'm ordering upgrades and power-suits from Ye Olde Goblin Shop. Also I've instructed Gutboat's submarine to be brought upriver and made ready... oh, and paid for a ton of chocolate to be unloaded in the school playground.

Prince Stupid: School! I forgot all about school! We better go... it's nearly morning. Dad'll be up soon and-

Lord Thurgo: Rats! You're right. Better run!

Chapter 10

And so here I am, one twenty-seven-thousandth of a horde, minion #247, relaxing in the cinema room of Lord Thurgo's palace on Marbella Avenue. Alfonso's with me, head-deep in a bucket of caviar. I still prefer coal myself, but maybe my tastes will change... A robot called Sparky is on my other side. Sparky lives for films. Most of the ponies and robots went home but the Grimster and Prince Stupid left a few to keep an eye on things. Burt's out in the garden right now trying to eat grass.

Fluffy is doing fine. Jabber and Gobber have taken her to see the gold Rolls-Royce in the garage. They're planning to learn to drive it. It can't be that hard. And when a goblin sets their mind to it they can do anything.

"Hey Kevin!" It's Odo, walking in with Sarah, Knee-bone, and Bite-Face. Girl goblins seem to follow Odo everywhere. I didn't even know there were girl-goblins apart from Lucy and Gut-ripper until last week, but hey, I like it. Sarah's sniffing like there's a bad smell, but it can't be me cos I washed last... um... cos I washed once. Or at least I got rained on.

I wave and look back at the film. There's been a lot of talking so far, everyone seems to be being nice to each other, and so far we've had no explosions, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed that everything will come good in the end. That's how things tend turn out in my experience.

There is a bit of an odd smell come to think of it. I sniff deeper. A bit familiar... a bit like cooker gas.

Films can teach you as lot of stuff, but they're not always right. There's an old tale to scare baby goblins with that says the baddy's mansion always blows up at the end. But we proved that bit wrong.

I sniff again. Knee-bone slips away from Odo and the others and comes to sit by Sparky.

"Alf," I ask. "When you finished cooking that caviar... you did turn the gas off properly didn't you?"

"Mgghhk?" says Alfonso, lifting his head from his bucket, mouth full of piping hot caviar.

"Nothing," I say.

He clears his throat. "I didn't need to. There was a little dragon in the kitchen already playing with the cooker. She said she'd sort it out."

"Dragon?" I don't remember any dragon minions...

"So," says Knee-bone, setting her hand to the robot's shoulder. "Why do they call you Sparky?"

I lie back and watch the film as Sparky prepares to show her. I still have high hopes for this film. Everything always comes good in the end. I'll get my explosion.

Overheard by a goblin (lying in the gutter of Marbella Avenue, smoking slightly)

Lord Thurgo: I can't believe it.

Prince Stupid: I cannot believe it.

The Grimster: It's unbelievable!

Lord Thurgo: I was so close!

Prince Stupid: I was so closer! How could it end like this? Hey... isn't that one of yours, Billy?

Lord Thurgo: Hey yeah. Number 247. How'd he get out here? Ouch... he's hot.

The Grimster: Anyway. Like I was saying. It's unbelievable! I got more votes than either of you. I should have won. I should be wearing the class president hat, sash, and monocle right now!

Lord Thurgo: Yeah. How on earth did Helen Goodshoes win? I mean how?

Prince Stupid: Yeah, Helen stupid Goodshoes and her stupid dragons... At least we don't have to look far for a new arch enemy now.

The Grimster: Yeah. It's war all right. Goodshoes better watch out that's all I'm saying.

Lorg Thurgo: Yeah, I think- What? What's THAT! Why is there a big column of smoke rising from my mansion?

The Grimster: Our mansion.

Prince Stupid: What mansion? All I can see is a big hole.

The Grimster: I guess all these bricks and tiles strewn across the street are your mansion, Billy.... I, um... I've remembered – I got poison's homework to do. Have fun clearing it up.

Lord Thurgo: Wait? What? It's my mansion now is it?

Prince Stupid: Sure is! Gotta run. Enjoy!

*sounds of running feet*

Lord Thurgo: Looks like it's just you and me #247. Let's go and see how many goblins we can salvage.

*Lord Thuro looks heroically up at the column of smoke*

Lord Thurgo: And then we plot our revenge!

