 
The Lurking Peril Series

Book 2

Europalia

by

Rich E Beckett
**Disclaimer:** All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead, or somewhere in between, is purely coincidental ... probably.

**Additional disclaimer:** The views expressed in this sequel are solely those of the fictional characters and do not in any way represent the views of the author. It will become certain the author has run low on his sedatives but is still trying his best to maintain a sense of reality.

Smashwords Edition
Acknowledgements

For those who have had the patience to help bring this novel to the masses. You know who you are but if you have forgotten - Dickie, Mikey Too Tall, Alli, AmGo Blossom, Jeni and Al the Hawk. I thank you.
Contents

Prologue

Chapter OneV.I.P.E.R.

Chapter TwoDeath of a Hero

Chapter ThreeOld Friends

Chapter FourHard Bastards Reunited

Chapter FiveKiss of Death

Chapter SixHeadache

Chapter SevenRealms of Improbability

Chapter EightV.I.P.E.R. Again!

Chapter NinePride and a Precipice

Chapter TenArt Thou Pure of Soul

Chapter ElevenSign Your Life Away

Chapter TwelveCardinal John Fisher

Chapter ThirteenA Bad Omen

Chapter FourteenNo Use Crying

Chapter FifteenThe People's Avenger

Chapter SixteenZe (New) Union of Europalia

Chapter SeventeenJust Dropping In

Chapter EighteenBad Atmospheres

Chapter NineteenTaking One for the Team

Chapter TwentyDavey's Disbelief

Chapter Twenty OneA Rock and a Mad Place

Chapter Twenty TwoOne Hull of a Place

Chapter Twenty ThreeThe Dishonourable Lord Octobelly

Chapter Twenty FourJP vs JP

Chapter Twenty FiveMusic of Creation

Chapter Twenty SixThe Much Bigger Hardon Collider

Chapter Twenty SevenZe Veel of Interrogation

Chapter Twenty EightRoute of All Evil

Chapter Twenty NineNiggley Phone Home

Chapter ThirtyOh Hell!

Chapter Thirty OneCloudier's Little Friends

Chapter Thirty TwoBadly Judged

Chapter Thirty ThreeA Ripper of a Time

Chapter Thirty FourHe's Alive!

Chapter Thirty FiveProfessor Brain Makes a Deal

Chapter Thirty SixDevbo Finds Religion

Chapter Thirty SevenThe Greatest Martial Arts Expert, Ever!

Chapter Thirty EightTake Your Time

Chapter Thirty NineKentish Shitfire™

Chapter FortyWay On Down

Chapter Forty OneChaos in the Chapel

Chapter Forty TwoPath of the P.I.S.H.

Chapter Forty ThreeCigarettes and Alcohol

Chapter Forty FourFast-Tracking France

Chapter Forty FiveDeparting Souls

Chapter Forty SixNot So Great Alchemist

Chapter Forty SevenThat Sinking Feeling

Chapter Forty EightRaise Your Glasses

Epilogue
Prologue

Deep in the heart of the Vatican events are moving at a pace. The takeover is complete and as yet, there has been no mention on any of the planetary news-webs. The holy men, those of higher rank, have been replaced by more trustworthy agents. Proper subordinates who will follow orders no questions asked, and that is as it should be.

There can be no mistakes this time, not like six months previously when a lesser servant of the Lurking Peril failed. The plan was good but it lacked subtlety as most reality shows do.

The warlock, Garenthis, settles back in the Papal throne and observes through his reptilian yellow eyes, one he has spared. The highest no less and one who claims to have the ear of God. He hopes the human does otherwise sparing him would be pointless. Still, he knows God will come, or at least, one of his subordinates will, and then they can have a little chat.

Garenthis chuckles, his black, forked tongue poking between thin, scaly lips, and he wonders if Lucifer might show his absurd red face. Again, he hopes so as there is something waiting for them both.

He peers sideways at his little surprise, floating on the holy altar only a few yards from his throne. It's truly beautiful, the way it swirls and changes through the colours of the rainbow. He even admires the miniature tornadoes racing throughout, hitting the red energy ropes holding the anomaly down, before bouncing back towards the bright emerald centre.

He knows the thing isn't truly _her_ as she is well under wraps with his master, the Lurking Peril. Her power though must be impressive, to be able to manifest a part of her being outside the prison at the planet's core.

Garenthis waves a clawed hand for the genuflecting Pope to be returned to his cell. Only when alone will he marvel at the sight of the imprisoned Omni, Flora, in only a tiny fraction of her glory.

God and Lucifer will be truly impressed once they have finished soiling themselves.

It's now a matter of time but the warlock isn't concerned. He has been waiting thousands of years for his turn, so a few more days won't be a problem.
Chapter One

V.I.P.E.R.

There is a very big house, the biggest in fact, that being the Houses of Parliament, in the splendid city of London. The wonderful city with its dirty streets, traffic problems, beggars, astronomical pollution levels, fat-cat bankers, more beggars, misspelt graffiti on the railway lines, dubious brown-tinted river, a few more beggars, and the occasional interesting bit of history. All hail London!

Inside the Commons House, the UQ Prime Minister, Davey Macaroon, is fending off the last few questions he will face for a while. Parliament is about to break for its usual mid-month two week holiday and all eyes are on the clock. Actually, they're not on the clock as they're waiting for a bell to chime, that of Big Benji.

It is dress-down Friday, so Davey stands in his moccasins, overlong Bermuda shorts, 'I Love Maggie' T-shirt, and a straw boater with 'Kiss Me Quick' written on the front, although some juvenile scallywag has scribbled out 'Quick' and written the word 'Arse' in black felt-tip.

Beside and behind Davey sits his faithful host and all are constantly peeking at their twenty-eight carat gold wristwatches.

Across the floor sit the opposition, them being the Belaboured Party led by man-of-the-people, installed by popular Union demand, Fred Shopfloor. Curiously, he's dressed in a dirty boiler suit but he does have a knotted hanky on his head, so he's making an effort.

Beside him are the newcomers to the political fold and joint leaders of the SNPP, the Scottish National Piscine Party. The big fish, Asslick Salmon isn't exactly sitting, more like resting in a large, glass water tank, his damp, scaly head poking above the surface. Around him swims Sticky Sturgeon, a much smaller orange fish, which occasional jumps out of the water and squeals something nonsensical before flopping back in.

As Davey flicks through a thick folder, one containing his Posh-History homework, he attempts to answer the latest question relating to the National Heretic Service, the NHS, and its apparent downward spiral into oblivion. Sadly, for the questioner, Davey is interrupted by a distinct and welcome sound.

_Bing-Bong-Ding-Dong, Bing-Bong-Ding-Dong!_

There it is - home time. Chaos erupts but one and all are unceremoniously brought to an abrupt halt on hearing the resounding bash of a heavy, wooden hammer. A pack-up-and-run cacophony suddenly becomes a game of musical statues and all eyes turn to he who has the power, the Speaker, Johnny Berk-Oh. 'Order, order, nobody leaves until I say. That bell is for me ladies and gentlemen and not you. Everyone sit back down,' he demands, but then notices a limp-wristed hand raised on the opposition bench. 'Yes Mr Shopfloor, what is it?'

'Mister Speaker, Eric Piccalilly is eating in class,' says the Belaboured leader, his words issuing forth from a mouth encompassed by a straggly, working-man's beard.

All eyes turn to a large man, a few rows back from the PM.

Eric looks up and half a biscuit falls from his multi-chinned jowls. 'Doh I'b dot.'

The Speaker raps his hammer hard. 'We all know Sir Eric has a gland problem and his round appearance is nothing to do with him stuffing his face every waking minute,' he says, his attention turning to the chubby MP. 'However, I do hope you brought enough for everyone, Mr Piccalilly?'

'No, it's all mine! Fuck off, I'm not full up yet,' growls Eric, wrapping his chunky arms around his tuck-stash.

As the laughter begins, the Speaker growls and fixes all present with a withering stare. 'Right, I'll take no more of this. When I next bang my hammer you'll all stand quietly and file out in a dignified and orderly manner. If I hear any talking then the culprit will be locked in my office for three minutes with my wife, Dilly-Dally-Sally, and let me tell you, she's an animal. Now then, don't forget to do your homework while on your well-earned break and if any of you send me a selfie, I'll beat you with the Ceremonial Mace on your return. Okay, you may ...' but he gets no further and groans at the ensuing unruly exodus.

So that's it for the hard-working politicians. Two more weeks of lounging in the sun and not being able to bugger up everything they get their hands on, thus fulfilling the age old political mantra - 'if it ain't broke, sod around with it until it is.' For a scant few though, that's not quite it, as they have one more task to take care of before hitting the beaches and penny-arcades. A very important task and one that will require the greatest minds and might the UQ possesses; the politicians as well. The party leaders are off elsewhere, heading to a mega-secret location deep in the heart of London. They are heading to a convening of V.I.P.E.R. that which is an emergency response to evil, foul threats to the homeland.

Davey Macaroon, Fred Shopfloor, and the SNPP leaders, their tank on a trolley, exit the chamber but unlike the other ruffians, they turn left into a different corridor. Davey skips merrily across the parquet flooring, Fred smiles proudly at the rubbish strewn everywhere as the cleaners are still on strike, while the piscine twins are doing what fish always do - look gormless.

Minutes later they are outside the rear exit of the house and entering the Parliamentary minibus, with darkened windows, taser-slits, and roof-mounted water/ethanol cannon. The vehicle itself is unmarked so as not to draw attention but if a commoner were to get too close, the paintwork has an anti-peasant coating.

Davey gets the passenger seat with Fred sitting behind, as there's more room for a working-class man. Sticky and Asslick are placed in the rear on a waterproof tarpaulin, their tank tied down. The minibus moves away, exits the gates, pulls onto the public highway, and picks up speed.

'I say driver, could you slow down,' asks Davey, nervously fiddling with his amusing hat, as he's thrown sideways in his seat due to the erratic driving.

'Sorry Guvnor but that's a gibber, gibber, ginger hair no,' says the curiously familiar red-haired driver.

'Slow down,' insists Davey, turning to the man. 'Hold on, aren't you that presenter chap, the one rising fast in the Best Presenter charts and tipped for an award next time round?'

'No Guvnor, that's not me,' says the man, continually looking sideways at the PM.

Davey momentarily glances ahead and sees an old woman running for cover. 'Dear God man, keep your eyes on the road! It is you. You're Crispy Evans, the presenter and gazillionaire.'

'Sorry Guvnor, never heard of him,' says Crispy, turning back to the road, his eyes going wide. 'Zebra crossing!' he shouts and ripping the steering wheel round, skilfully manages to avoid the terrified pedestrians.

The minibus careens on accompanied by the sound of relieved gibbering and the tyres screech as the vehicle is driven through the city by a madman. Eventually the PM finds his voice again, although it's somewhat stuttering. 'Crispy Evans, I order you to slow ...'

'Okay Guvnor, braking!' shouts Crispy, placing both feet on the brake pedal and the vehicle skids to a swift, swerving halt, narrowly avoiding some long abandoned roadwork cones.

Inertia is a wonderful thing and Fred Shopfloor gets a good soaking as a wave of water surges forward. He has his reinforced knotted hanky hard hat to thank for not be brained by a fast moving Sticky Sturgeon, who bounces back into the fish tank.

In the front, the Prime Minister is sat bolt upright, his face white. He slowly turns his head and sees they have stopped at a Kebabys™ Drive-Thru. He notes the signs which read: _All Meals May Contain Piss or Phlegm_ , and at the far exit: _We Hate You, Please Come Again_.

'I'll order,' says Crispy, reaching for a buzzer on a stainless steel post outside his window. 'We'll have five Kebabys™ Big Benji Bongers with Special Associated Sauce.'

'Yummily infidelicious. Take the left lane,' responds a tinny sounding, male voice.

'Right you are,' says Crispy, putting his full weight on the accelerator pedal. 'We're off!'

The minibus shoots forward, takes the left lane and enters a whole new world, through a cascading red-tinted wall of water, masquerading as a bloodied waterfall. The vehicle is now in a concrete tunnel, lit by blinking fluorescent tube lighting and it continues on, now with headlights blazing.

The concrete descent ramp continually switches back, and is a blur for those inside the vehicle. Though honestly, all the passengers have their eyes closed, except for the piscine twins who have no eyelids.

Crispy is laughing manically in between his bouts of gibbering and after the umpteenth turn the brake pedal is trodden on. The minibus squeals to a sliding halt leaving a trail of smoke and the terrible smell of burning rubber. He turns to the PM. 'Right Guvnor, that'll be a hundred quid for the fare, fifty for your fish friends soaking the seats and another twenty because your mate back there has stained the seats with elbow-grease.'

The PM slowly turns to Crispy. He's in no fit state to argue but an instinct has kicked in and he raises an eyebrow, slyly. 'So that's fifty pounds in total.'

'Nice try Guvnor, but even us ginger cabbies can add up. We both know that's a hundred and forty,' snorts Crispy.

Davey Macaroon nods, takes his wallet from his jacket pocket and opens it. Inside is a wad of coloured, paper notes which look suspiciously like toy money. 'Ah yes, no problem, here's a hundred, twenty, and twenty. Thank you Crispy, it's almost been a pleasure.'

Crispy stares down at the notes in his hand. 'Don't forget the tip, Guvnor,' he says, winking.

'Of course, silly me, here's your tip. Never drive like that again or I'll set the Mayor, Porridge Johnson, on you. He's not scary but he'll babble you to death. Is that good enough?'

Crispy huffs and bangs the dashboard, 'You tight bast...'

'Uh, uh, Crispy,' says a smiling Davey. 'Remember that my Chancellor, Georgie Frogspawn, has seen your tax returns and how interested would your radio show listeners be on hearing you own the rights to every song you play. You make a fortune from them.'

'Let's call it a fiver then,' says Crispy, grinning sheepishly at being found out.

'I think we'll call it quits.'

'A pound then as transporting your mate Fred counts as a special-needs journey.'

'Quits,' insists the PM smiling smugly.

Crispy knows he's beaten but with a touch of decency he helps his passengers alight the vehicle. As he roars away he drops the party leaders' wallets, those he has lifted, onto the passenger seat. He winks at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. 'Suckers.'

Davey Macaroon adjusts his t-shirt and strolls to an impressive, solid-metal set of double doors. Beside the doors, one each side, stands an armed _Kebaby ™_ chef. Both are sporting a pair of long, serrated kebab knifes and are sneering beautifully beneath their thick moustaches. Davey reaches for his red V.I.P.E.R. pass card, the one in his wallet. He rifles through his Bermuda shorts pockets but finds nothing and then turns to the guards and smiles, embarrassingly. Luckily, entry is gained when the guards inexplicably go on strike after a quick chat with the Belaboured Party leader.

The small group enters a metal-clad corridor, the fish twins on their trolley and being pushed by man-of-the-people, Fred. After a short walk they are inside a large room, with an oak, oval table, plush leather chairs and banks of screens covering every available inch of wall space. As the last of the chairs are filled by those just arrived, the PM addresses the group.

'Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. We have a heinous, foul, and downright disgusting deed to discuss so we'll get on. Yes?' asks Davey, seeing a woman he doesn't recognise who is waving a hand in the air. She has an unsettling smile and he feels a shiver run down his spine.

'Good afternoon Prime Minister, I'm Dawn from HR. I'll be facilitating today's meeting as well as representing diversity, equality, respect, and other past reality show winners. I think it would be useful if we undertake a short bonding session,' says the woman, sporting a punchable grin.

Davey peers at everyone in turn, wondering if he has slipped into an alternate universe, one straight from Hell. 'Dawn, from HR? With all due respect, I think that's unnecessary.'

'Sorry, but we must stick to protocol. It's only right we have a brief, getting to know you session, an icebreaker perhaps. In front of you all there is a blank piece of paper. Write your name on the top as well as three interesting facts about yourself, then pass it to the person on your left.'

Davey shakes his head. 'Excuse me but the clock is ticking.'

Dawn, from HR, totally ignores the PM's protests and smiles, irritatingly. 'Now, when I point to you, read something from the piece of paper and we'll find we respect each other, especially you disabled, transgender, smelly, or generally useless people. As the HR representative here today I must point out that any sniggering is unacceptable as that's bullying and you'll be frowned at. Okay everyone, get writing.'

As Dawn smiles, weirdly, Davey reaches a hand under the table, presses a button he never thought he'd have to use and a seated figure is forcefully catapulted upwards, through a newly opened hole in the ceiling. He titters in embarrassment and reaches for the next button, realising that having accidentally ejected Courtney, from Admin, there'll be no minutes taken. With a seriously patronising frown aimed at the PM, Dawn from HR goes through the roof ... the ceiling in fact.

The PM adjusts his comical hat and gets down to business. 'Right then, there are no fire alarms expected but if it does sound, follow me out the door. For anybody needing the toilet, we're all sat on Commode-Ready-Suction-Chairs, but please be discreet. Anybody wanting to smoke must stay exactly where they are as we're far too important for smoking laws to apply so puff away. If you're peckish there's a Lazy-Susan in the middle of the table, she'll prepare whatever you want and know that she's earning a living wage, so leave her alone Fred. Okay, we're done with the formalities so let's get down to ...'

Sadly for Davey, the chapter unexpectedly comes to an end.
Chapter Two

Death of a Hero

There is a home, a detached three-up and two-downer with a splendid front garden. Surrounding the property is a strong iron-railing fence with a padlocked gate to the fore. A sign is nailed to the gate: _Beware of the Dog!_ As with many houses sporting such a sign, there isn't a dog. However, putting up a sign saying: _Beware of the Beast Capable of Biting you in Half_ , would most likely be frowned upon by the locals.

Within the garden sits a stocky creature, about the size of a bulldog. It appears docile enough, but looks can be deceiving. For those brave souls willing to take a closer look, they would see it appears more porcine than canine, bald except for a few tufts of red hair on its head, sharp protruding teeth and a curiously blue face. On very close inspection, by a particularly courageous person, one in the know, they'd recognise it as a _Haggi_ , the extremely rare national animal of Scotland. This one appears to be thriving in its new homeland, the village of Royal Wellorf Wells in one of the few remaining rural parts of the county of Kent, in the south-east of the United Queendom. It is currently spitting out black feathers, those of a crow, which was far too inquisitive for its own good. Still, he was only playing.

The beast is sitting on a lush green lawn bordered by planted beds containing blooms of all shapes, sizes and colours. Attached to the lawn, the house in fact, there's an expanse of decking with more flora but these are potted.

Upon the decking is a glass-top table surrounded by four metal-framed chairs. There's an umbrella raised, above but that's purely for shade purposes. The sun is out, the sky is blue, there's not a cloud to spoil the view and it most certainly isn't grit-coaling, or raining maybe.

Below the umbrella sits a tanned, tattooed man, who has taken time out of his busy schedule to visit an old friend. Fillipo appears not to have a care in the world as he whistles quietly to himself and flicks through the pages of the early morning newspaper. It's _The Stun_ and was delivered to the reinforced titanium gate-box a few minutes earlier by a fearful and reluctant papergirl who took off pretty sharpish on her bicycle.

Fillipo, dressed in a yellow t-shirt, pink shorts and green flip-flops, turns the newspaper's front cover and his eyes go wide. He sees a massive pair of frontal lady-glands but also a nice story about an Australian shark, a big male one, which after months of counselling has recently turned vegetarian.

He swiftly turns the page and sees a story that makes him smile, it bringing back memories of a feted reality show, six months ago. A tiny woman who robs cash machines, armed only with a plastic ladder, has been caught on CCTV. Allegedly, she's aided by a large, ginger tomcat, which leaves his calling card on the number pad, it being a wonderfully sculpted turd of a human hand with the middle finger extended.

Fillipo flicks through the pages and another story catches his eye. It relates to the enormous Gulag-type holding pens that sprang up after the fall of the reality shows. It tells of the wannabe _Lower-Than-Z-List_ celebrities who have nowhere else to go and the headline reads 'It's A National Disgrace.' The half-page picture shows a row of desperate, moronic faces, peering forlornly from the page. The chairperson of the _After Reality Show Executive_ , the man in the middle, is quoted as saying, 'they are working hard to find a solution.'

Again, the pages are turned and this time Fillipo's expression switches from amusement to one of seriousness. He reads the story.

'There is still no news on the ex-Spewsnight convict, Jeremiah Paxo-man, who has taken it upon himself to rid the UQ of the evil which besets it. The vigilante, middle-aged, of medium build, very poorly dressed and wielding a wickedly sharp Russell Canadian Belt Knife was last seen by his political victims and nobody else. The public are encouraged not to approach him, unless they're extremely stupid and have nothing to lose.'

Fillipo flicks the page and the smile returns, though he's unsure why. Curiously, the page is blank apart from a few words in the middle, which read 'Move on quickly, there's nothing to read here.' He sees the number 13 in the top, right corner and obeys the instruction.

The tanned and tattooed man continues to flick, his boredom growing, but he stops and turns back a page. A picture has caught his eye, that of a recognisable man, under the main heading 'World News.' He starts to read and slivers of ice slide down his spine.

'It was reported today that on the island of Thailand, Sir Devbo, former conjoined member of the multi-award winning pairing Anton Dev, fell to his death from a Buggerist Monk monastery built on a thousand-foot high volcanic stack. Sir Devbo is due to be buried ...'

Fillipo drops the paper and his mouth falls open. He glances at it again, but no, he read it right the first time.

A glass patio door at the rear of the house slides open and Anton steps through. He's carrying a laden breakfast tray and is wearing one of those really funny aprons, depicting a naked woman. A pair of jugs can be seen, one of milk and the other, orange juice.

'What a lovely morning. I've made us breakfast and I know you're vegetarian so I cooked yours in a different pan,' says Anton, momentarily appearing thoughtful. 'Why is it they make vegetarian food in the shape of meat products? It's a bit weird if you ask ... are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost,' he says, peering with concern.

Fillipo's eyes are fearful, staring directly at his friend, as a shaking finger points to the dropped newspaper on the table. 'B-big Anton.'

'What is it?' asks Anton, placing the tray down.

'Look at the paper.'

Anton glances down at the newspaper and gasps loudly. 'Blimey, I can't believe it. You were looking at the lass-melons page and all this time I thought you were ... you know ...'

The tanned man shakes his head, looks at the newspaper, and swiftly flips the pages, which had been turned by the early morning breeze. 'What? No, I'm not like that. I'm just comfortable in other men's company and not afraid to show my feelings,' says Fillipo, his words becoming quieter. 'I'm so sorry, but you need to read this.'

Anton sighs loudly. 'Okay, but I've no idea why you read this rubbish. Devbo used to and I told him the same,' he says, and a wistful smile brightens his face. 'I know I shouldn't say it, but even after six months, I miss him. He's doing so great and I got another letter yesterday. Shall I read it to you?'

'But big Anton, Devbo's d-dead.'

'I know, he's dead chuffed. I'll read you his latest letter,' says Anton, removing it from his apron pocket. 'It says, _Hi Anton, my ex-conjoined brother. The last six months in Thailand has been fantastic. I 've just finished building another school for the kiddies out of sticks, spit and hair, and that's four in all now. There are five rooms in this one and I've made desks and chairs out of faeces from the locals. I'm even teaching them our language and yesterday we did the letters Y and I. They'll be talking it proper in no time, like what I do. I also had a run in with a bunch of nasty bastards, but I showed them. I were only armed with ... oh, hold on, there's someone strange in the monastery courtyard, I'll be back in a tic. Can I help you? What do you_, aargh...!'

Fillipo sees the dreamy look on Anton's face. He doesn't want to burst his friend's bubble but knows he must. 'Don't you think that letter's a bit peculiar? It sounds to me like he may have been in trouble.'

'Ah, shut up and eat your breakfast, man,' says Anton, playfully. 'If Devbo were in trouble he'd write and tell me,' he says, but his expression turns thoughtful and he looks at the letter again. 'Actually, now you mention it, that ending were a bit strange.'

'I'm so sorry,' says Fillipo, sniffing and wiping a hand under his nose.

'He usually adds kisses but he's not camp. He's just in touch with himself but not actually touching himself. I don't mean it like that. I mean ...'

Fillipo places a hand on Anton's wrist. 'I understand, I truly do, and you'd better read the newspaper.'

'I don't want to look at lasses udders,' says Anton, peering disgustedly at the paper. 'Close that thing ... you're joking!'

Fillipo sees the torment on his friend's face and can no longer contain his own pain. As the tears start to fall, running like little streams from a saturated incontinence pad, he reaches out to a friend in need. 'I'm so sorry, big Anton.'

'Newcastle lost again, and to the Sunderland third-eleven with disabilities. That's bloody typical and their striker scored a hat-trick despite being in a coma,' growls Anton, adding muttered curses under his breath.

Fillipo jolts, stares at the newspaper and turns the pages to the correct one. 'No, read this.'

Anton tuts and reads aloud. 'It was reported today that on the island of Thailand, Sir Devbo, former conjoined member of the multi-award winning pairing Anton Dev, fell to his death from a Buggerist Monk monastery built on a thousand-foot high volcanic stack. Sir Devbo is due to be buried ...'

Anton pauses, blinks rapidly and rereads the article. He stops and slowly he turns to his friend. His hands are trembling and his mouth is making like a goldfish but he eventually finds his voice. 'It's a fucking lie!' he shouts.

'I really hope so, but this is _The Stun_ and they've never printed falsehoods before, ever.'

'It's a lie,' growls Anton, hearing a knocking by the garden gate. 'There's the post, go and get it.'

Fillipo dismisses the angry tone and heads to the front gate before Snuggly, Anton's _Haggi_ companion, gets a whiff of the postman and bites a hole through the fence. A letter is gratefully handed over and the deliverer returns to his van with all swiftness.

The Thai postmark is plain to see and Fillipo shudders. He takes the letter to Anton who tears it open. He watches his friend read it, though how, considering how much Anton's hands are shaking. On finishing, Anton is deathly still and the letter is dropped. His eyes roll up, showing only whites, and it takes all Fillipo's strength to prevent the man from crashing through the top of the glass table.

Fillipo has managed to settle Anton into one of the chairs, placing him in the shade. A glass of juice is sitting in front of him but his eyes are staring forward, blank and expressionless. Understandably, there are tears on his cheeks, though they've dried, leaving only streaks.

'Big Anton, what does the letter say?' asks Fillipo, his tone gentle.

Anton replies croakily. 'Read it.'

'I shouldn't,' says Fillipo. 'You read it to me, however painful it will be. Have some juice and begin when you're ready. I'm going nowhere old friend.'

Anton takes the glass and downs the contents, then begins. ' _Dear Anton, I have grave news to tell. I must inform you that Devbo passed away today. He was thrown from the monastery by an unknown assailant and our investigation is currently ongoing. I 'd like to say he died peacefully, but he didn't. He screamed the whole way down the thousand-foot drop and his body hit many crags and crevices. Three quarters of his limbs, that's three in total, were torn from his body, as were his ears, nose, both eyebrows and an undetermined amount of skin. When we found his much abused body at the base of the volcanic stack we almost mistook him for a gibbon that had been tenderised by Moneekar. Devbo didn't survive, I'm so sorry. My best guess is that evil is abroad once more. An old enemy is moving and I fear for us all. Regards, The Great Bellendi. P.S. Call in the team and get here fast!'_

'Anton?' asks Fillipo.

'Get me the fucking phone ... please.'

Along the lane, a postman in a red van is watching the pair through binoculars. Having steamed open the letter, read it, then resealed it, he knows he must report to his superior, the warlock, Garenthis. Firstly he needs to ditch the van, consume the body of the real postman lying in the back, and then transport himself to the Vatican. A promotion is likely in the offing and with Devbo disposed of; plans made long ago can be sped up.
Chapter Three

Old Friends

There is a small terrace of cottages, four in fact, and curiously three have a 'For Sale' sign in the front garden. The only inhabited one is in the middle, just left of centre. This particular cottage is a splendid example of a chocolate-box country dwelling. There's an unevenly tiled roof, whitewashed external walls with black painted timber frames and a quaint, low, warped front door with long riveted hinges. As picture-postcard looks go - it's a doozy.

The inside is no less impressive and equally charming, with a cellar which is being utilised as a model workshop, with a long workbench, racks of plastic components and shelves full of manuals and magazines.

Sadly, there isn't much of a garden as the married couple who live there have much more important hobbies to fill their time. The front is gravelled, acting as a parking space, and the rear is mostly lawn, although a large, plastic chicken coop can be seen.

Quite pleasant, one might think, though on closer inspection it would be hard to find more frightened fowl. It would also be difficult to discover chickens anywhere on the planet that lay more eggs than these. Allegedly, they have been known on occasion to lay two eggs at once, especially when being stared at by the lady of the house.

Moneekar, dressed in her assistant chef whites, is currently in the kitchen preparing breakfast, but only her own. She doesn't appear happy as she rips off the fridge door, drops it on the lino floor, and searches for the streaky bacon. The pack has sensibly slunk to the back and is hiding behind an assortment of fine cheeses.

There is a constant knocking on the front door but she's trying to ignore it. She knows who it is and considers shoving a baguette through the open letterbox the man is shouting through, knocking him senseless. She dismisses the idea as that would be wasting food which for her is a deadly sin.

'Moneekar love, the door won't open. I think a chair has accidently fallen beneath the handle. Moneekar!' shouts Walshy Loo, ex-reality show judge, while constantly shoving against the timber door.

The woman tries to remain calm but fails and a faux-marble kitchen worktop receives a knife imbedded up to the handle. 'Walshy, you bastard, you've been messing with that slag from down the road. I bloody hate you!'

'That's not true my snarling angel. I've only been talking to Delphine about a possible plastic and metal merger. Her talent with stainless steel and other strong alloys would complement my ...'

Walshy gulps and slowly turns his head sideways. Barely an inch from his nose is the corner of a piece of wholemeal toast poking through the solid timber of the front door. It appears he has had a lucky escape but no. If his angel had meant him real harm, he'd now be _brown bread_. He reaches up, breaks off a piece, checks it for splinters and starts to eat. He notes it's covered with his favourite spread, _Blahmite ™_, and he manages a half-smile. It soon disappears.

'I bloody hate you and I hate her! Go and sleep with the strumpet. I don't want to see you again.'

Walshy frowns momentarily. 'Moneekar my sweet little anvil, I don't know what you're talking about. I only showed her my plastic bag,' he says, suddenly squealing and ducking as half a croissant whistles through the letterbox, crosses the road, narrowly avoiding causing a road traffic collision, and disappears into the woods opposite. Moments later there is the sound of a tree branch falling and a surprised yelp from an unidentified mammal. He frowns again, wondering what he has said that was so bad.

'You showed her your plastic bag! You said only I'd get to see your bag and that was in our marriage vows. You promised you bloody bastard. You said, I promise to love, honour, cherries, and show only my wife my special bag. You said ...' Moneekar pauses at an untimely, or perhaps timely, interruption. 'Hold on, the phones ringing, I need to get it.'

Walshy bravely raises his head and again peeks through the open letterbox, 'Moneekar love, plea...'

'Shut up, the phones going,' growls Moneekar, walking into the living room and lifting the receiver. 'Hello ... Yes, it's Moneekar ... Hi Anton, long time no ... Bloody what?'

There is a prolonged pause followed by Moneekar rushing to the front door which she tears from its hinges, crushing the chair holding it shut. She lifts her husband by the front of his brown sweater and carries him inside. He's unceremoniously thrown on the sofa, where he lays still and terrified. It's a carbon copy of their wedding night, five months previously.

'My cuddly steamroller, you've forgiven me, you'll not regret ...' begins Walshy, but sensibly he shuts up on receiving the look.

'Here take the phone. It's Anton,' says the woman and as she turns, she bursts into tears. ' _Waah, waah!_ '

Walshy hesitantly takes the handset and holds it to his ear. As he speaks, he stares at his distraught wife. 'It's Walshy ... Plastically, flipping no! We're on our way. Moneekar love, get the car keys.'

They are on their way soon after, having bundled dull brown clothing and pristinely laundered assistant chef uniforms into a large suitcase. It's carelessly thrown into the boot of their car, landing between two emergency bags of plastic components, and they're off.

_Ring, ring ... ring, ring ... ring, ri..._ a pretty, dark-haired girl runs into the hallway and picks up the phone. It appears she has been crying as her eyes are red-rimmed and looking sore. She sniffs loudly. 'Hello?'

'Hello young pet, can I speak to Cloudier please?' asks Anton.

'Mummy isn't here,' replies the girl through occasional sobbing sniffs. 'She's in the back garden, putting grasshoppers into freezer bags. Can I take a message and er, ask her to call you back?'

Anton can hear the sadness in the girl's voice and wonders at the meaning. 'Right, I see. Can you take the phone to her, little one?'

The girl pauses before answering. 'Sorry strange man but I mustn't. Mummy won't talk to anyone since she came back from ... that show.'

'I understand, I think, but can you go and tell her Hidden Anton needs to speak to her. It's right important.'

'It'll make no difference. Even Daddy can't get near her, she ... she ignores us all,' says the girl, fresh tears falling.

'Ah, that's right sad. What's your name, lass?'

'It's Katy, and you're not one of those weirdo phone-perverts Daddy warned me about are you? We never had loan insurance or a recent accident.'

'No Katy pet, I'm a friend of your mothers, now, will you do me a favour. I've got an idea and even though she won't talk to me I can still shout to her. Take the phone to the back door and hold it out, I'll do the rest. Will you do that for me?'

'Okay, but Mummy will sh-shout at me,' says the girl, fear clearly edging her words.

'No she won't. She'll understand when she hears my voice,' says Anton, feeling anger building on talking to another victim of the cursed reality show. Cloudier couldn't wait to get back to see her family and he wonders what has happened to her since.

The young girl nods even though Anton can't see it. She exits the hallway, enters the kitchen and moves to the back door. 'Okay, I'm at the back door but she won't listen.'

Anton shouts as loud as he can. 'Cloudier you mad, crazy spuggy!'

'I haven't opened it yet,' says Katy, the phone held away from her ear.

'Ah, sorry lass, let me know when you have,' says Anton, chuckling with embarrassment.

Katy opens the door and hides behind it, only her head and the phone poking round. 'It's open.'

'Cloudier, you bonkers Howling Hurricane Harlot, take the flipping phone!' shouts Anton, as loud as he can manage.

A dark haired, dark attired, dark faced Cloudier stops her frog-hopping across the lawn. Her head whips round and she stares fixedly at her daughter while raising a black-painted eyebrow. Sadly, her inattentiveness allows a grasshopper to escape. 'Huh, what? Freezer bag full of jumpy-hoppers. Put the phone down Katy, there's a good girl.'

'Cloudier, it's Anton, take the phone. Devbo's dead and you're needed!'

Cloudier stands, drops her freezer bag onto the lawn, wondering if she heard right. She recognises Anton's voice, there's no mistaking it, and she floats across the lawn on a current of air to the back door. She only has eyes for the phone in her daughter's hand and fails to notice the girl's terror.

'Mummy I'm s-so sorry, please don't go b-bonkers. I didn't mean to disturb you but the m-man insisted,' stammers the girl.

Cloudier holds up a no-nonsense finger, making the girl flinch. 'Hush. Mummy isn't angry, now give me the phone,' she insists and grabs the handset. 'Anton?'

'Did you hear what I said?'

'I did,' answers Cloudier, turning to glare at a hydrangea, making the leaves wither and the flowers fall off. 'You must be wrong.'

'I'm not wrong,' says Anton, his anger quickly fading. 'I wish I were but it's ... it's true. Devbo's been killed.'

Cloudier drops the phone, which bounces into the kitchen, ricochets off a pile of old _Domingo 's™_ takeaway pizza boxes, and slides under the cooker, which hasn't been used for many months. She considers what she has heard and had it not come from Anton, she would refuse to believe it. She looks down and sees her hands are beginning to shake. 'Calm down. Deep breaths now, and focus. I need to leave and behold a tornado!'

As she heads for the front door, moving through the kitchen, she pauses and slowly turns around. She sees her daughter shaking uncontrollably and something clicks inside Cloudier's head, making her gasp. Instantly, months of madness become a moment of motherhood. With a wave of a hand, the girl is trapped in a small anti-cyclone, lifted, and carried forward.

Face to face with her mother, the girl bursts into tears and presses her hands tightly over her eyes. Through racking sobs, she blurts. 'Mummy, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to, please forgive me.'

Cloudier smiles genuinely, for the first time in nearly half a year. 'Hush Katy darling and look at me, properly look at Mummy. I love you dearly, more than life itself and I love Daddy and your older brother and sister as well. I ... I've been moping and it's me who should be asking for forgiveness.'

The girl uncovers her moist eyes and Cloudier reaches forward a tender finger. She wipes a few of the tears away, smiles through black lipstick, and knows her mascara is running with newfound joy.

'You have a job to do don't you Mummy, an evil-fighting job,' says Katy, half-smiling.

'Yes I do and I have to leave again.'

The girl giggles and her damp eyes gleam as more tears flow. For the first time in many months her mother doesn't appear completely bonkers, just a tad manic. She throws her arms forward and there's the tightest of hugs. The girl eventually leans back, uncaring of the dark make-up splodges on her face.

'Then go and I'll let Daddy know when he gets home from the pub where he spends all his time recently. I'll tell him you have to fight evil again. He'll be really happy you've come back, even though you're leaving again.'

'Thank you my lovely but when a friend calls, I must go,' insists Cloudier.

'I know and kick it's crazy, mad bastard arse!'

Cloudier stares at the girl. 'Language, Katy darling.'

'Sorry. I meant, I love you.'

'Mummy's girl,' says Cloudier, with a devilish wink.

She carries her daughter into the hallway, places her on the parquet flooring and blows her a kiss as the front door is sucked outwards into a waiting tornado. She turns and glimpses her reflection in the hallway mirror. She gasps on seeing poorly applied dark make-up, smothering her face and neck, and her hair is looking no better, resembling an uncared for afro. She shrugs, throws herself through the empty doorframe and speaks a single word. 'Perfect.'

The telephone cradle is placed down and Anton looks at Fillipo. 'They're on their way.'

'I knew they would be but what about the others?'

Anton frowns, not quite understanding. 'There are no others.'

'Yes there is and you know who they are. They'll also like to pay their respects, I think.'

Anton's face scrunches in thought. He casts his mind back six months but nothing of use pops into his head. 'What are you getting at?'

'We were helped by others, you must remember. Very important others who quite possibly don't exist,' says Fillipo, deliberately winking at his friend.

'Did you just wink at me?' asks Anton, feeling a little uncomfortable. 'Don't do that, it makes you look weird.'

Anton warily backs away as Fillipo reaches into his tight shorts. He pulls out something slim and dark and holds it for Anton to see. 'This is a very special telephone I've been keeping. It only has one button, a night-shadow button. I suggest you press it.'

Anton sighs with relief and takes the warm phone. 'I can't see any button.'

'It's right there,' says Fillipo, pointing at the front, 'now press it.'

Anton inspects the phone closely. On still seeing nothing, he twists it to the light and an anomaly can be seen near the top. 'Ah right, that button,' he says, pressing it.

A ringing tone can be heard and eventually there's a click, followed by a female voice. 'Special Associated Scouts, though we don't actually exist. Can I help you?'

Anton hesitates but quickly remembers who he needs to talk to. 'Can I speak to Richard, please?'

'He doesn't exist sir, but if he did, do you know his extension number?'

'No but er, maybe I could speak to Colonel Richard, the ex-cameraman?'

'He still doesn't exist but I'm putting you through, have a nice day.'

As the telephone rings again, Anton gives Fillipo the thumbs up. Moments later a deep, distorted male voice answers. The words sound harsh and unforgiving. 'Who is this?'

'Er, it's Anton, can I speak to ...'

'How did you get this number?'

'Well, I've got this special phone ...'

'We do not exist so this number is unachievable. I'm hanging up.'

'No, wait! It's Anton, Sir Anton actually. I'm trying to contact Colonel Richard, the ex-cameraman.'

There is a pause, a click, and the timbre of the voice changes. The distortion is gone and a young-sounding, American voice can be heard. 'Oh, hi Sir Anton. It's me, Chip, the sponsor boy from the reality show. I'm Lance Corporal Chip now and Colonel Richard has been promoted to General. I'm afraid he isn't here right now as he's currently on black-ops somewhere in the Asian islands but I'm not allowed to say where exactly. Third Captain Dilbert is available, if you'd like to speak to him.'

Anton pauses for a second, digesting what he has heard. 'Dilbert, the third-best presenter?'

'No sir, it's Third Captain Dilbert and he's across the room,' says Chip, turning his attention to the other side of the office. 'I've got Sir Anton on the line,' he says, waving the phone handset in the air.

Dilbert, deservedly promoted after his heroic sacrifice near the end of the reality show, where he was shot saving Chip, but later resurrected by God, however fortuitous and unbelievable that may be, turns from the office wall mirror. He adjusts his SAS light and dark blue fatigues then reaches down to his standard-issue belt. He toggles a switch, and with a look of cunning, deftly goes up on tippy-toes. 'I'm invisible Chip, and see how I merge into the shadows of the filing cabinets and office pot plants. I'm like a ghost as I slip past the water cooler, step over the very-top-secret file box _aargh_ , bugger!' he exclaims, as he trips over the waste paper bin before hobbling back to his desk and sitting. 'That was my bloody shin. Now then, who did you say it is?'

Chip slowly shakes his head and sensibly keeps the words he's thinking to himself. 'It's Sir Anton, formerly of Anton Dev, the best two presenters in ...' he says, quickly dodging sideways to avoid a well-thrown staple remover.

Opposite, Dilbert yanks at his black, silk woggle with the letters 'SAS' stitched on the front in fine silver thread. He glares at the boy but notes he's picking up a camera from his desk. His expression softens and he nods in approval. Apparently, old habits die hard. 'Am I in frame, Lance Corporal Chip? I need to look utterly incredible before I take this call.'

'You're fully in frame and looking great, sir,' says Chip, foregoing switching the camera on.

Dilbert nods and reaches for his phone. He holds it to his ear, realises he has picked up a nasal hair trimmer, drops it on the desk, and reaches for the phone handset. 'Two plus one Captain Dilbert here, if I existed that is.'

'Dilbert, it's Anton. There's been terrible news, Devbo's been ki...'

' _Whoa_ civilian, let me stop you there. Terrible news, what terrible news? If there had been terrible news I'd be the first to know. Nothing gets past me,' insists Dilbert, as he considers Anton's words. 'Ah, I see, Devbo's been kissed. Don't worry Anton, I'm sure he still cares about you but he was bound to meet a nice girl one day.'

A muffled curse can be heard down the phone line. 'No, Devbo's been kil...'

'Right, of course, he's been kilted. It was only a matter of time as he is the protegee of the greatest Gaelic martial arts expert ever, Jocky Chan. Well done I say and the recognition for his services to fighting evil needed recognising.'

There is another curse, a juicier one and not so muffled. 'Don't be a flipping idiot Dilbert, Devbo's been kill...'

'It's two plus one Captain Dilbert and don't forget it civilian, now where were we? Okay, he's been kill... actually I can't think of anything to add other than Devbo's been killed.'

'Aye Dilbert, he ... has,' sobs Anton, his voice cracking.

Dilbert holds the phone out and stares distastefully at is, as if he were holding a cheap, plastic framed mirror. He places it back to his ear somewhat hesitantly. 'What, actually properly killed.'

'Aye Dilbert.'

'So he's no longer breathing?'

'Flipping 'eck, aye Dilbert.'

'So let me get this straight, as we of the SAS would have known of this before you. Devbo's an ex-living person.'

'For fuck sake, yes!'

'Not possible Anton, if something that momentous had happened I'd have been the first to ... hold on a sec,' says Dilbert, peering across at a gesticulating Chip. 'What very-top-secret report? I never, ah, okay, I think I have it now. It was in my in-tray ... Oh, I see. Anton, it says here your ex-conjoined brother has been killed. Anton? Anton, are you there?'

The line is dead and all Dilbert can hear is a recurring _brrrrrrrrr_.

Anton throws the dark phone down and the hard-to-see button breaks off, making it easier to see. 'Flipping hell, how did that prat ever get to number three in the Best Presenter charts? He's such a twat,' he growls, stamping on the phone for good measure.

Fillipo simply nods. 'We need to pack and get going.'

'Why ... oh right, we're going to Thailand, aren't we?'

'Yes big Anton, we're going to Thailand.'
Chapter Four

Hard Bastards Reunited

There is a long-extinct volcanic stack near the middle of the reasonably sized island of Thailand in the planetary Crab Tropics. The base of the stack is surrounded by thick, rolling jungle spreading outwards in all directions, for as far as the eye can see. It really is a lonely place, if discounting all the populated villages within spitting distance, providing the spit came from the top of the stack and the wind direction was favourable.

Atop the stack there sits a magnificent hand-hewn structure - a monastery. It is home to the secretive, Buggerist Monks and their privacy is sacrosanct. It has to be as they guard a terrifying secret and not even the ten thousand tourists who visit each year have the knowing of it. The monks are the self-styled fighters of perilous evil and protectors of mankind, womankind as well, as they're good like that and in no way sexist.

This day though, the tourists aren't visiting. They have been turned away as a far more important occasion has been pencilled in the diary. A single bell is ringing in the high tower and its peel is dragged and forlorn. It sounds solemn, as it should.

A very old Sensei steps into the courtyard through a wide, ornate archway. He's dressed in a tartan chequered-skirt, with tartan sporran. For once he has foregone his tartan cap and his long, grey hair is flowing freely down his back. He slowly steps forth, a pair of blue-faced _Haggi_ walking obediently, one on either side, and approaches the group in the courtyard. He eyes them each in turn, through whitening lens. He performs a low and meaningful bow and it's returned by one and all, even Walshy Loo.

The group stand upright before Jocky Chan manages to. He has a hand pressed into the small of his back and it's obvious he is feeling the wear and tear of old age. None present feel the need to point it out though, partly out of respect and partly because all have learnt in the past, looks can be deceiving.

'Hoots, welcome back my not-so-wee pupils and I'm sorry we couldnae have met again in brighter times. Now then, which of ye thinks they can take me down?'

Moneekar nods and steps forward. She tilts her head back and looks at the old man down the length of her nose. 'I can bloody well take you down Sensei, but I'm not going to. Now's not the time.'

'Is that right, lassie? Maybe now is the time and I'd deserve it if ye did. The safety of everyone on or in this volcanic stack is my responsibility and I failed as I couldnae save Devbo,' says Jocky, turning to eye the drably attired man beside Moneekar. 'Now, who's that wee, boring fella? Don't tell me you play hide-the-tatty with him. I thought ye'd do a lot better than that.'

Walshy Loo shakes his plastic component bags in barely contained rage and takes two steps forward. All eyes turn to him, mostly out of curiosity. 'Excuse me old man. I may be boring but know that I'm Co-Editor of Plastic Modelling Monthly and if I wanted to, I could delve into these bags and assemble a trebuchet that could launch you off this stack. It'd take seconds and I wouldn't even need an aliphatic resin wood/plastic adhesive for such a simple construction. You're not dealing with an amateur.'

Jocky laughs loudly and slaps his thigh. He leans forward, his white eyes examining the man; up, down, and all over. His humour evaporates and he leans back. 'I stand corrected. Maybe my pupil did choose well and I see yer two component bags, laddie. Ye remind me of a pupil I once taught many years ago. He was shite at martial arts but he could make anything out of randomly discarded uninteresting materials. He was only eleven when he constructed a sword from an eye wash bottle, a monk's flip-flip and a table spoon. The wee bairn nearly took my head off, the ungrateful shite.'

'Try me,' says Walshy, placing his bags on the flagstones, his hands hovering above them threateningly, like a fighter ready to go for their gun.

Sensei Jocky half closes his eyes and clenches a fist, an index finger slowly straightening in readiness for the deadly single-finger-inch-jab, a lethal attack very few have ever survived. Moneekar swiftly intervenes and gives her husband a gentle loving tap on the shoulder, knocking him to his knees. 'No bloody fighting Walshy. Sensei Jocky talks to everyone like that but he doesn't really mean it. If he did though, I'd tenderise him against the monastery wall,' she says, staring at the chequered-skirt wearing, tough bastard.

Jocky's eyes shift and observe the challenging expression of his accomplished pupil. Both exchange the barest of nods. 'Well said lassie and I dinnae doubt yer,' he says, his eyes moving elsewhere. 'Now then, Cloudier lass, ye look like ye've been crying what with all that running darkness on yer face.'

Cloudier smiles and her affection for the old man is obvious. 'It's good to see you again, Sensei. I have been crying but only because it makes me appear more sinister ... I mean girly,' she titters, fluttering her eyelashes.

'Och, what's this? Where's yer madness? Where's the craziness and I cannae see a tornado? I hope ye're nay going soft in your old age,' says Jocky, frowning.

'Look into my eyes, big boy. You can't goad me. I've learnt to control my bonkers fits and for your information I'm only forty-fi... fortyish,' says Cloudier, poking her tongue out.

'That's bonny but I hope ye're ready for the storm that's approaching. A Howling Hurricane Harlot isnae much use if she doesnae howl.'

Cloudier is about to respond but pauses. Jocky's words have reminded her of something and a question spikes her mind. 'Have faith, Sensei, and actually, I've been meaning to ask you about my martial arts name, Howling Hurricane Harlot. Why did you name me so when I actually summon tornadoes and not hurricanes?'

Jocky scratches at his receding hairline and with a pained expression, looks around for support but the few monks present in the courtyard suddenly find more interesting tasks to undertake. He looks down at the pair of Haggi at his feet but they simply stare back with a 'why are you looking at us' expression, as most pets do. 'Damn, ye had to ask didnae ye? Well lassie, it's quite simple. I thought hard but couldnae come up with a decent name as tornado begins with T and nothing else went with it. I'm a bastard hard martial arts expert and nay very good with words. I was hoping ye'd eventually progress onto much larger anti-cyclonic weather events, like a hurricane.'

'I see,' nods Cloudier, 'but how about, Terrifying Tornado Tempest or Tyrannical Tornado Tormentor?'

Jocky growls and appears embarrassed. 'I didnae think of them. Change it if ye wish but ye'll have to fill out official forms in triplicate and submit them, along with two recent photos, to the Martial Arts Divas Fighting Ugliness Council and then there's no guarantee they'll agree to yer request. Ye'd face years of uncertainty and I wouldnae want to see ye disappointed.'

Cloudier ponders the possibility, but in truth, she likes her martial arts name as it adds mystery to her talents. She bows and steps back allowing another to present himself.

Fillipo bows deeply. 'Big Sensei, I'm pleased to see you and might I add, despite your apparent aging you still have excellent muscle tone and the twinkling glint in your eyes still sends shivers down my spine.'

Behind Fillipo, there's loud tutting. 'You're such a flipping creep. Next you'll be giving the old bastard an apple and rubbing ointment onto his bunions,' says Anton, teasingly, but he notices clouded, white eyes glaring at him. 'Ah, sorry for calling you an old bastard, Sensei.'

Jocky snorts as he eyes the pair. For certain he was ready to launch but the ex-conjoined twin stepped up and performed a perfectly acceptable bow. 'Hah, to the pair of ye. If it isnae Hidden Anton and Wee Turdy Skinny Runt, or am I blind already?'

'It is us, Sensei,' replies Fillipo, cringing on hearing his martial arts name, one he isn't fond of for obvious reasons.

'Well ye both still look like talentless bairns to me. I see little use in either of ye. Do ye ken what I'm saying?' snarls Jocky.

'We ken Sensei!' shout Anton and Fillipo together, both trying not to smirk.

'And dinnae take the piss out of my words or I'll set my _Haggi_ on ye. They dinnae look like much but they can dislocate their jaws and swallow wee bastards whole. I've seen one eat a man twice the size of ye and the poor Monk that took it out for its evening crap is still in therapy. He only took a pedal bin liner with him to clear it ... stop sniggering!'

Jocky notes all are chuckling and stares, his fierce gaze unwavering. He meets every eye and his old heart misses a beat as immense pride gushes through it. Not that he'd tell them. 'Right, ye'd all better come inside and we'll talk. The kitchen has provided tea bought from the _Toshco ™_ store, right at the bottom of the stack, but personally I wouldnae touch it. It looks like drain fluid and tastes like gibbon piss,' he says, turning and doesn't look to see if they follow.

The group enter the Monastery through the grand, sculpted archway. They haven't far to go, just inside to the reception area which also doubles as a Tourist Gift Shop. One and all settle on overly comfortable sofas, ones that like to swallow the sitters and are reluctant to let them back up again, slowly consuming them until only hands and feet are visible.

'Okay, Sensei man,' says Anton. 'You'd better tell us what happened.'

Jocky isn't sitting but not because he'd never manage to extricate himself from the potentially carnivorous seating arrangement. He simply feels he doesn't deserve to and he begins his sorry telling. 'Aye, I will. Devbo were visiting as he always did on the seventh day of each week. He didnae get much time what with all his school building and beating the crap out of terrorist bastards. Anyway, he'd always make time for his old Sensei and I'm grateful he did, as I dinnae get out much. We were in the courtyard playing _Kerplink_ , the Buggerist Monk game from ancient times past, and he was leading by six marbles to ten. That was when I felt the call of nature, so I popped into the visitor amenities. I'd had a _Domingo 's™ Four Sensei's_ pizza the night before, a family sized one all to myself, and it was calling for release. I was only gone for a few minutes so I didnae see what actually happened but I heard it though. Devbo was shouting loud when he died. Actually, that's nay right. He died when he hit the ground a thousand-feet below and it was a right mess. There was blood everywhere and ...'

'We don't need to know the gory details, just tell us what you heard,' says Anton, and there is general nodding and sniffling from those gathered.

'Och, sorry, I didnae mean to be disrespectful. The noise sounded like religious chanting. It was bastard strange and I've nay heard the likes before. At first there was nothing other than my own teeth grinding as I went for a second heave. Those artichoke hearts and black olives are right tough on my digestive system. It sounded like a machine gu...'

'Sensei, we don't need to know that part,' insists Anton, though he appears thoughtful, 'but you're right about the olives. They go right through ... just carry on Sensei.'

Jocky nods. 'Now where was I? I heard Devbo talking, then he was shouting and finally screaming, which got steadily quieter as he tumbled further to his nasty death. Only then did the religious chanting stop and did I mention the mess? There's still blood on the ground and no matter what we try, it willnae shift. One of his ears is still down there if ye'd like to take a look.'

Moneekar, dressed in a black, chef's uniform, out of respect for the recently deceased, raises a single eyebrow. 'Sensei, I bloody respect you but I'm going to attack if you don't get to the point.'

'Like I said, I heard religious chanting but it had stopped by the time I got outside. I went as fast as my old, arthritic legs could carry me and I didnae even bother with a shiner on wiping, that's how concerned I was. That's about it, I'm sorry,' says Jocky, and he lowers his head. His eyes are watering but that's probably down to dust in the air.

The friends look at each other and then at Jocky who is walking toward a door marked with a sign: Monks Only.

'Sensei, where are you going?' asks Anton.

Jocky doesn't turn. 'We've got a funeral to attend. There are goodbyes to say.'

Anton says nothing more and is grateful for the many hands preventing him from collapsing on the floor.
Chapter Five

Kiss of Death

A space has been cleared, small trees felled, bushes hacked back, snakes relocated, and spiders splatted, as spiders are without doubt, evil. A black attired group stand around a rectangular hole in the ground, a white shrouded body suspended above it, and going nowhere. There is silence, broken only by the occasional sniffle and the usual jungle fauna noise emitted by creatures either howling in death, screeching in joy or squealing in coitus.

A thousand feet above, the sound of a dozen _Bagpii_ , the national instrument of Scotland, made from stitched together cat-skins, can be heard drifting down through the late morning mist. The sound is melancholy, sad and respectful, and offers a fitting tribute to he who has fallen.

As the moisture drifts lightly in the air, it also grows in the eyes of those present.

Across from the mourners, on the other side of Devbo's wrapped corpse, there stands another. A local dressed in a long crimson robe with the hood obscuring their face, showing only darkness within. In his hand he holds an old book, dog-eared and foxing, that not being the title though. The book is open on page thirteen and the heading reads: _Prat 's Guide to Traditional Geordie Weddings_. A deep voice emanates from inside the hood. 'Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining of ...'

'That's nay the right service. Turn the page!' shouts Jocky, shaking his head while wondering which village the holy man came from as he doesn't recognise him.

The pages of the book are turned. 'I'm very sorry. Ah yes, here we are. It is with great sadness we gather to commit the body of Devbo to the coal-seam below. He was a friend to a few, a hero to many and a brother to you, Anton. To us in the jungles of Thailand, he was a builder and a magnificent recycler of faecal waste. I remember the day of his death clearly and I recall how his limbs were ripped off, his head smashed in and ...'

'Ye can skip over that bit,' insists Jocky, sensing uncomfortable shuffling around him.

Hankies are taken from pockets and nose blowing ensues. It's not the best noise to hear at a funeral but then again, what is?

Anton is staring straight ahead trying to control his breathing when he feels a tug on his arm. 'Not now, Fillipo. Sensei Jocky's right, we need to get this done.'

'But I have a strange feeling,' says Fillipo, looking closely at the holy man's robe. He has seen something similar before and is trying to place it.

'Well you should have gone back in the monastery. Go behind a tree or something,' says Anton, looking at Fillipo none too pleasantly, annoyed in fact. He shakes his head and turns away. 'Can we get this done please?'

The holy man's hood nods and he peers down at the service book, curiously floating a couple of inches in front of his sleeve-ends, with no hands visible. 'Of course. Ashes to ashes, charcoal to charcoal. I commit the body of Devbo to the coal-seam for ...'

As the words of the man conducting the service ramble on, Anton feels a nudge in his ribs. 'Please don't be angry but something isn't right.'

Anton glares at Fillipo and the tattooed man leans away. 'If you interrupt again that's us done. I'll never speak to you again and you can forget about your share of the royalties me and Devbo earned over the years,' he angrily whispers and then turns away. His fists are clenched tight and he doesn't need this right now. He's barely holding himself together and not once has he looked at the shrouded body of his ex-twin. He rubs the backs of his fists over his eyes as his vision is blurring but still stares forward. He wipes again, then again, but suddenly stops. He turns to Fillipo. 'Did the holy man just say, charcoal to charcoal?' he asks, knowing the correct wording should be - coal-dust to coal-dust.

'Yes, he did and look closely at him. The bottom of his robe's not touching the ground and he has no feet. It's as if he's floating.'

Anton sees what Fillipo means and he also notes the holy man's shadow which appears to ripple to and fro, despite him not moving. 'He is floating,' he says, and turns to Jocky. 'What's going on?'

The old Sensei already has his eyes firmly fixed on the holy man, noting how the jungle has fallen silent with even the sounds of the distant _Bagpii_ no longer audible. Jocky walks forward, avoiding the shrouded body and burial hole beneath. 'I dinnae ken but that's nay a holy man from hereabouts. They could never float like that. Let's take a closer look shall we.'

Before Jocky can reach him the minister thrusts his arms wide and laughs manically. 'Well done you old fool. You're right, I'm not from hereabouts but I am a holy man and one far more capable than you were expecting. You are all nothing and now you will pay for the crimes you've committed. Like the weak Devbo here, I will crush you one by one and paint the jungle red with your innards.'

Jocky reacts and flows effortlessly into a crouched fighting stance, preparing to unleash his index fingers in the single-finger-inch-jab. 'Ye'll nay touch a hair on their heads, not while I'm around. Come on, attack me!'

'If you insist,' laughs the floating minister. 'Die old man.'

Jocky's pointed fingers of doom are only 2.5 centimetres from making contact when an incredibly fast moving sleeve rotates in an arc and catches him under the chin. There is no visible fist but the contact sends Jocky flying upwards and in little time he's a small speck in the distance as he heads toward the top of the volcanic stack.

Those still on the ground stare in disbelief but Anton has his wits about him. 'Holy fuck. Quick Moneekar lass, get the bastard.'

Moneekar punches a balled fist into an open palm, which sounds like a gunshot and she stomps forward. 'I'm gonna bloody kill yo _aargh!_ '

There was no discernible attack; just a wave of a sleeve and the woman flew backwards, tumbling past her husband and friends. She lays dazed on the ground, her eyes rolling uncontrollably.

'Shite. Cloudier lass get him,' says Anton, his concern growing.

Cloudier drifts forward in a tight air-weave, her face a picture, one painted by a sociopath most likely. She unleashes tornadoes, small ones, each heading toward the enemy but the holy man ignores them. He pulls his sleeves wide then thrusts them forward. The whirlwinds are forced back, hitting Cloudier full on and she too flies backwards like her sister before her. 'Mad, craz _ooheek!_ ' she exclaims.

Anton peers back at his sisters, both down but hopefully not out. Allies are falling but he's not done yet and turns to the next. 'Walshy, get him.'

The dull man reaches for his plastic component bags, realises they are up in the monastery and looks into an empty, laughing hood. Unarmed, but never a coward, he closes his eyes and runs forward, his hands making swift slapping motions before him.

The enemy pauses, perhaps weighing up an attack it hasn't faced before? Is the holy man seeing a foe beyond his capability to defeat? No, he's wondering whether killing such an inept creature is worth the effort. Only when the slapping becomes an annoyance does Walshy Loo get forced back, a sleeve connecting with his chin. He is instantly unconscious and only stops sliding when he collides with his wife.

Anton growls. 'Bugger! Fillipo, take the bastard.'

Turning to Anton, Fillipo shrugs. His eyes are wide and frightened but he can still speak sensibly. 'In all the time we've known each other, what makes you think I know how to fight? I'll stand beside you and pitch in but I'll not be much ...' he says before going the way of his friends.

Sleeves are finally lowered and the holy man's hood is looking directly at Anton. He flows forward and Anton thinks about backing away. He only thinks about it though. For the first time he looks at his brother, dead and suspended. He asks himself, what would Devbo do? He knows the answer, so stands his ground and stems his trembling.

The holy man laughs, manically. 'It's just you and I, weak and foolish, pathetic human. Your time has come and you'll scream like your brother did when I threw him to his death.'

Anton can't help but shiver on coming face to hood with his brother's murderer, but he won't run and hide, not this time. Surprisingly, his words aren't hesitant or blighted by fright and he's proud of the way he's staring unwaveringly into the darkness of his demise. 'But why man, or thing? What did we ever do to you?'

'Why?' asks the hood. 'Don't you recall what you did? You killed some allies of mine when you fed them to crocodiles on that pathetic reality show.'

Anton's memory reaches back and he recalls the events vividly, especially the first forfeit round, the one with the hungry reptiles and the 'Wheel of Fate.' Who wouldn't and he tries to recall the acts? Memories flit through his mind and he stares at the robe before him. He has seen something similar previously but theirs were brown and not crimson. 'The RC Priests?' he asks.

'The very same,' hisses his assailant.

'But that weren't me,' begins Anton. 'The Secret Aural Voice made us do that.'

The empty hood shakes to and fro. 'It was you who spun the Wheel of Fate and for that you will die, as horribly as my associates did. I'm only upset I can't feed you to something and watch your pain.'

Anton finally steps backwards. His mind races and like many when faced with certain death, he's not thinking properly. 'But they tried to kill Gally Rinekar when he interviewed them and bullying someone with big ears isn't right. They were nasty bastards and deserved it.'

'They were not nasty! They were messengers of the Master, spreading the word and they touched whole families.'

'Only kiddies if you ...' Anton stops, pressing a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide.

The voice in the hood gasps at a statement going too far. 'Those will be your final words and cease your pontificating if that's what you are doing. Play for time little human but nobody can pontificate as well as a member of my supposed faith. It is time to die you no-longer conjoined fool. It will not be as long and drawn out as I would like but needs must.'

Anton, to his credit, doesn't cower as a scaly hand with sharp claws emerges from a robe sleeve and reaches for his face. As the claw tips threaten to gouge his eyeballs from their sockets ...

'That's far enough you fake Monsignor and it won't be Anton dying today,' says a stout voice, sounding very close but no newcomer is visible. A sharp sword appears in mid-air and slashes down on the scaled wrist, severing the reptilian hand. It falls to the ground and the sleeve is tugged away. The one named as Monsignor by the invisible speaker screams in pain and jolts back.

'Now suck on this,' says the incorporeal voice, adding in a sneer. 'Taste my weapon!'

The floating sword is reversed and plunged into the open end of the Monsignor's hood where a face should be. The hilt stops just short of entering but the blade exits the back. The blood, shining damply on the metal is thick and yellow. Only now does the creature within properly scream, a buttock-clenching screech which has the local fauna running for cover. The shriek continues as the non-severed hand reaches up and grips the sword hilt. Inch by inch it retracts the weapon and at the last a face emerges. Actually, only the eyes emerge and they flare a bright yellow. The thing chuckles, manically, not for the first time. 'You missed, the sword didn't kill me.'

'So it seems but ... it wasn't meant to,' says the invisible voice.

The unseen man becomes visible as he switches off his night-shadow concealment. General Richard grabs Anton by the arm and drags him backwards, away from the cloaked creature.

'Flipping 'eck! General Richard man, what did ...?'

'There isn't time to explain, Sir Anton. Trust my SAS diversionary delaying tactic. Just stay out of reach and let a fine, fine man take this creature down.'

Anton's eyes light up and he stares at the body of his ex-nearest but very dearest. As yet, Devbo is unmoving but he knows a ruse when he sees one. Any minute Devbo will pounce ... any minute ... any minute now. As he's pulled further away, his newfound hope starts to crumble. He stares at the General and receives only a wink in response.

Ahead, the robed figure is approaching, now with a sword in hand. 'I will finish you both.'

There is an old saying, which is infinitely true and it states: what goes up, must come down. It's an unquestionable law and when taking into account the object which has gone up, namely a pissed-off Scottish martial arts Sensei, then the coming down part isn't going to be pretty.

Jocky drops, hitting terminal velocity with his arms tucked into his sides. When it comes to falling a thousand feet, there are none alive who can match Sensei Jocky, or survive like him, and this time he's not looking for a net to catch him. This time he means business.

Far below, but not too far, a possessed Monsignor is bringing his newly acquired sword to bear. Jocky grins and prepares for impact. He has never planted a Scottish Kiss on any living creature from such a distance before.

'Och, ye bastaaarrrd!'
Chapter Six

Headache

Despite the ferocious assault it doesn't take long for the air to clear of the resultant dust and debris and the swiftness is mostly down to a dark-faced Harlot with wind, so to speak. The local fauna is eerily silent but even they have overcome their curiosity and are poking their various sized heads from the jungle cover.

There's snorting, sniffing, a little bit of choking and sneezing, but eyes can now see again and what they are seeing is a deep crater. All is quiet and only the footfalls of those walking forward can be heard.

Anton speaks first, voicing the words of all, succinctly. 'Holy shite,' he whispers.

Feet are kept away from the edge but many heads are leaning over. The air inside is still dust-laden and Cloudier puts her skill to good use. 'Did my darkened eyes see right?'

Anton nods. 'Aye, Jocky gave it a thousand-foot Scottish Kiss and that'll right hurt.'

'Do you think it's dead?' asks Cloudier.

'I hope so,' replies Anton, 'and don't take this the wrong way but if it isn't, I'm scarpering.'

'Too right,' says Moneekar. 'I'm no coward but even I'd not survive one of them. I only like a Walshy wet kiss, where he slips his tongue ...'

'Stop, too much information. Let's just hope Sensei Jocky is okay,' says Anton, daring to move closer to the edge of the crater.

The carnage is clear to see but tricky to define. There are pieces of clothing including crimson robe and chequered cloth strewn around the sides. There is also blood, lots of it, but thankfully it's yellow. As for the two combatants, there is no sign.

As those above look at each other in confusion, the dirt at the bottom of the crater starts to shift. Emerging is a clawed and scaled hand, followed by; a Scottish hard bastard holding it aloft.

Sensei Jocky pulls himself upwards and there are many gasps. Not at his injuries, as there doesn't appear to be any, but at his nakedness. All backs are turned, with Anton forcefully turning Cloudier. She mouths the word 'spoilsport,' but doesn't resist.

'Sensei man, are you alright?' asks Anton, over his shoulder.

There is no answer but a reptilian hand sails over his head and lands on the ground. As all stare, it twitches and the fingers clench, all except the middle one. A final act of defiance most likely, and one swiftly halted by way of an SAS standard-issue boot stamping on it.

General Richard turns back to the crater. 'Is it dead, Sensei Jocky?'

'Aye, it's dead. It went to pieces when I challenged it, the useless cretin,' says Jocky, dragging himself over the crater edge. 'Ye were right, General. That was one tough bastard and I wasnae sure the plan would work.'

'No Jocky, you were right. Nothing can survive a thousand-foot, high velocity, Scottish Kiss. It didn't stand a chance. That would most likely have taken down a Cardinal and we all know how tough they are,' says the General, looking to the others for confirmation of his words. He soon realises that nobody, apart from Jocky, has a clue what he's talking about.

'Hold on a short Geordie second,' says Anton, raising an index finger. 'Are you saying you planned this?'

The naked Jocky and far from naked General, don't look at each other, for fear of incriminating themselves but the jungle silence ramps up a notch.

'I don't like the bloody sound of this. What's going on?' growls Moneekar.

Cloudier nods. 'Answer them as I'm getting a teensy-weensy bit angry.'

'I agree,' begins Fillipo, crossing his arms. 'I think you, big Sensei, and you, big General, have some explaining to do.'

Jocky and the General finally eye each other and neither appears willing to speak. It has to be done however and the SAS man bravely steps back, allowing Jocky to take the lead. 'Och right, well, ye see. What it is, we er, we kind of ...'

General Richard sighs and realises he has no choice but to take over. 'Very well, here's the rub. I apologise for the subterfuge but it had to be done. We've been tracking the Monsignor for the past few days and rightly so. They rarely leave the Vatican nowadays but when they do, it's for one reason only; an assassination. We knew who the target would be and kept a tight watch.'

Looks are exchanged and despite calm heads being needed, anger has an annoying habit of getting in the way of common sense.

Anton has added two and two together. Okay, he has got the answer five, but he's not far out. 'You knew that thing were going to kill Devbo,' he says, his voice barely audible.

'We knew it would try but we didn't think it would succeed,' insists the General.

'Well you were fucking wrong! It did kill Devbo and it nearly killed us as well.'

Fillipo, calm in the increasing storm, tries to placate Anton. 'I think we should hear them out before we ...'

'No we shouldn't! These bastards, and I'm not sorry for calling you a bastard this time Sensei, could have saved Devbo but they couldn't be arsed.'

Other voices are heard and a new fight threatens to erupt, the worst possible, that between friends. Many a word is spoken in moments of grief and in general, they represent true feelings. Resentment is bubbling and it needs to be nipped, before getting out of hand. An unlikely source throws a plastic spanner into the ring. 'Er, sorry for interrupting but it can't be their fault. They didn't kill Devbo.'

'Shut up Walshy man, this doesn't involve you,' snaps Anton, still glaring at the General and Jocky.

'Hey, don't you tell my husband to shut up. Only I can do that,' growls Moneekar and the arguing ricochets back and forth.

With voices raised, another devastating fight is brewing. A larger plastic spanner, a metaphorical one of course, is needed to bash some sense into those present.

'Oi, why don't you all plastically shut up and listen!' shouts Walshy, his whole body shaking in anger. 'It's nobody's fault Devbo's dead because he's not. I've found a pulse.'

Everybody quietens and turns their attention to Walshy. Fists are unclenched, clutched clothing is released, and a hovering tornado is allowed to disperse. The silence is somewhat eerie as all notice where Walshy's arm is, reaching inside Devbo's death-shroud.

There are frowns but not from Cloudier who has witnessed this before, six months ago when Moneekar fell after beating a T-Rex to death. All ended well on that occasion but it didn't make seeing it any easier.

'Walshy, please tell me that you haven't got your hand where I think you have?' asks Anton, never actually seeing what the man did to Moneekar all those months ago but guessing with aplomb.

' _Eurgh_ , no, I'm not a perv. I'd never stick my fingers up ... you know where,' says Walshy, his expression distasteful.

'Then how do you know he's not dead, and I can't believe I actually want to know the answer?' asks Anton, trying to tear his eyes away but finding he can't.

Walshy smiles and for certain, a did-you-know moment is in the offing. On this occasion all are willing to let him get on with it as their brains are refusing to believe their eyes. 'Well, I'm using a tool I invented which circumvents the need for rectal-digital interaction.'

'That's not a good start, man,' says Anton, placing a hand over his eyes.

'Oh, right,' says Walshy, and he looks to his wife for support but doesn't get it. 'The tool I'm using tests for true-death. It's made of plastic, obviously, but has a mother-of-pearl end. I call it a Nacrephile. All I have to do is push it home and it tells me if a person's still alive. It's far more sensitive than using fingers although I do have to keep replacing the tip because of tarnishing and cracking but trust me, Devbo's alive.'

The group are unsure of how to react and rightly so. Thankfully, nobody is thinking of asking the questions; how many times have you tested it, where have you tested it, and why did you have it in your pocket? Instead, each concentrates on the good news, that of Devbo being alive and none doubt the accomplished plastic-man.

Should they be joyous? Should they be disgusted? Should they look on uncertainly and pretend this isn't happening? In truth, it's unlikely there is a correct response to seeing a grown man doing what he's doing to a potential corpse.

A short time later when all have fully regained their composure and dignity, the group are making their way back to the stack, a long climb up internal stairs ahead of them. Devbo's wrapped body is being carried by Moneekar and no words are spoken.
Chapter Seven

Realms of Improbability

The group have regathered in the Tourist Gift Shop, inside the monastery entrance and again, the comfy sofas are attempting to eat their fill. The addition to the group, General Richard, stays standing, as does Anton, who is leaning angrily against a _Win a Buggerist Monk_ claw-grip game. His arms are crossed and he's looking for answers. 'Right, which of you bastards is going first? What's going on?'

General Richard nods. 'Allow me, Sensei Jocky. As I was saying, we tracked the Monsignor and as soon as he headed east, we guessed who the target would be.'

'Bastards,' growls Anton, under his breath.

'The target was Devbo and we warned him what was coming,' adds the General.

Anton's head whips up. 'He knew. He never said and he wrote me every few days.'

Sadly for Anton, he's grabbed by Moneekar, who has moved from the sofa and a strong, yet surprisingly gentle hand is placed over his mouth. He struggles in the tight embrace but to no avail. 'He won't say anything else and sorry Anton but I bloody well want to know who to hurt. I admire you General but if you don't get to the point I'm going to throw this ex-best presenter at you.'

All eyes turn to Moneekar, including fearful eyes from Anton. Would she? He knows the woman doesn't bluff.

'Of course, you're right,' begins the General. 'We offered Devbo protection ...'

'No,' says Moneekar, shaking her head. 'You go further back than that. What's a Monsignor and what's the other one you mentioned, a Cardinal? You're bloody assuming we know but we don't. You say it loud and you say it clear or you're going for a fast trip to the bottom of the volcanic stack. What do you think, Cloudier?'

'Well my love, I couldn't have put it better. Thank you for flying with Bonkers Airlines and note your exits are here,' says Cloudier, pointing through the archway. 'Feel free to fasten your safety belt but frankly it won't help. For those who don't believe me, look into my eyes. I'm your pilot and mess with me at your peril. Haven't I got a pretty face though?' she says, while bouncing a small tornado in the palm of a hand.

General Richard notes Cloudier's unsettling smile. He eyes the exit, being through the archway, and he considers whether his SAS standard-issue parachute would make it to the ground. It would, but he questions whether he'd still be attached to it.

'Very well,' begins the General, again. 'Sir Devbo isn't dead. We knew that and didn't need Walshy to confirm it. His means of discovering it is curious though but that's irrelevant. Evil is rising, the same ilk of that from the reality show and this time it's reaching further. Care to continue, Sensei Jocky?'

The old Sensei is looking elsewhere, pretending he's not paying attention, so General Richard continues. 'It appears the reality show was the first step in a heinous plan, one we're still trying to figure out. However, when that failed the RC Church Headquarters, the Vatican City, was attacked and the assailants succeeded in usurping the regime, though that isn't common knowledge so keep it under wraps. Our best guess is the Secret Aural Voice from the reality show was meant to soften up the enemy and then the so-called Church would rise and finish them off, the enemy being us of course. We thwarted the first stage but the second is ongoing, delayed but not halted. Any questions?'

Many hands are raised and General Richard again looks to the old Sensei but there's no rush to join in so he continues. 'As I said, we warned Devbo and offered protection but he refused. He said he wasn't scared of a "right weak priest" and I personally explained the assailant wouldn't be a priest but a possessed Monsignor, a creature far more powerful and difficult to kill. Still, with a stout UQ stiff-upper-lip he said "he'd kick its flipping head in" and we trusted him. In truth, he should have been able. Any questions?'

Hands are still held aloft and the General points to Walshy. 'I may be just a plastic craftsman but are you suggesting we've got the whole of the RC Church coming after us because of what happened back at that stupid show. I only ask because there are lots of them and I've only bought two bags of plastic parts. That won't be anywhere near enough.'

'You're a good man, Walshy Loo,' nods the General, 'but plastic on its own is no use against a Monsignor or those of higher rank. Certainly, you could take down an RC priest but nothing more powerful. Sorry, but it's the truth.'

'Oh, right, I'll shut up then,' says Walshy, dejectedly.

'No Walshy, you don't have to shut up, but just shut up for a bloody minute if you don't mind,' says Moneekar, staring at her husband.

Walshy smiles uncertainly. 'Yes hammerkins.'

Fillipo takes over. 'Big General, I don't understand. Why have ...?'

'Och Fillipo, give the mon a chance,' interrupts Jocky, finally getting involved. 'Let him speak as the RC Church isnae the whole problem. He hasnae mentioned the other evil yet, the ...' he adds, but on seeing the General's expression, stops speaking.

All eyes turn to Sensei Jocky but swiftly turn aside as he hasn't yet bothered to clothe himself.

'Thank you Sensei Jocky, and well said,' says General Richard, with a hint of annoyance. 'Untimely of course but needs must I suppose. Okay, the church isn't everything and they're not the worst of the new evil. Any questions?'

'Yes actually, I have a question,' says Cloudier. 'What are you talking about? What new evil? We came here for Devbo's funeral and I think I'm right in saying nobody mentioned a new evil. I may be one lid short of a jar of bees but this doesn't make sense.'

General Richard stares at Jocky and both raise an eyebrow. At last, Jocky takes over. 'Alright then, here goes. Me and the Great Bellendi were on the brink of calling ye back anyway. As ye ken, the Buggerist Monks can detect evil rising. We've been paying close attention hoping the end of the reality show would be a proper end but it isnae. We thought the possessed church might crumble but it hasnae. They're getting stronger and there's another problem.'

'Mmph, mmph?' asks Anton, Moneekar's hand still covering his mouth.

Jocky nods. 'Aye, that's a good question but we dinnae ken exactly what the evil is. All we know is where it is and its West of here, back near the UQ islands. I can only tell ye what I do know, so ye'd better prepare yerselves. Ye're nay gonna like this.'

'Just tell us, Sensei, and we'll decide that,' says Cloudier.

'Here's how the Monks see it. The evil's building something massive and is trying to make sure we cannae get involved but I say tartan-todgers to that. The takeover of the church and the other occurrence cannae be coincidental but we know nothing more. We only know its big and getting bigger by the day. We think that's why the evil tried to kill Devbo, to get him out of the way. It knows its enemy and is trying to stop us. General, back to you.'

The SAS man nods. 'It's our belief, having used all our tactical expertise, the answer can be found in the Europalian Peninsula. Islands are being pulled together and as yet we cannot determine the reason why. The new landmass is being called Europalia but we're unable to tell how it's forming. The UQ Government have brought together some of the greatest brawn and brains from across the home island and a response is imminent. The intention was for you, the greatest martial arts team on the planet, to spearhead the operation in infiltrating and stopping it, as you're good like that. The only problem is you've lost Devbo. Any questions?'

'But we haven't lost Devbo, he's alive,' says Walshy, getting in first.

There are nods from everyone, except Jocky, who takes up the reins. 'Devbo isnae dead but he's unresponsive. He survived the fall pretty much intact and apologies for lying but it was necessary to make the RC Church think they'd succeeded. He's sleeping and nothing will wake him, not even a plastic torpedo shoved up his ar...'

'Sensei, no, show some respect,' insists Cloudier, crossing her arms and tapping a foot.

'Sorry lassie, ye're right, but we've tried everything to bring him round. Nothing works and we're out of ideas,' says Jocky, sighing deeply. 'It'll take a God or the like it seems.'

Tick, tock, goes the clock, and outside, in a clear blue sky, nothing untoward occurs. Back in the Tourist Gift Shop however, just in front of the till and chewing gum rack, a popping sound is heard. As Omni entrances go, it's rather pathetic, but when he of the heavenly glow and he from down below, appear together, they'll always cancel each other out.

A thickset black man and a tall, thin white man can be seen standing next to each other. God, dressed in his trademark white suit and carrying his gnarled but solid looking Staff of Justice casts his Omni-eyes over all present. Beside him, Lucifer, wearing his familiar black leather jacket, with three sixes sown onto the breast pocket in blood-red thread, is smiling widely as thumbs fiddle with a silver deaths-head belt buckle. Neither speaks but the heads of those present slowly turn and a conversation is seriously put on hold.

'Ah shite, I think I need the bog again,' says Jocky, being the first to react.

God points his staff at the man. 'You stay put Jocky, you're going nowhere.'

The old Sensei growls and drops into a nearby sofa hoping for a swift disappearance into its depths. He's out of luck and suddenly finds himself fully clothed. Growling again he turns to the Omnis and sees both stroking a curious _Haggi_ which is snuffling and licking their hands. He sits back, presses a hand to his forehead and curses. Despite his arthritic body, he invokes his long unused concealment skill, the _Way of the Unseen Neep_ , and to anybody not paying close attention, it would appear that an extra cushion is on the sofa.

Looks are exchanged and it would take someone brave, daft maybe, to break the silence.

'Mmph, mmph?' asks Anton, still trying to break free from Moneekar's hold.

'You are quite the young man, Anton, and your question deserves an answer,' says God. 'Jocky and the General's assessment are correct. Evil is rising once again and yes, it is of the previous ilk.'

'Not a reality show though, this is something far stronger,' adds Lucifer, running a hand through his luscious, black hair while ignoring the dark look God is giving him.

'Mmph, mmph?'

God nods. 'Yes, we do know what it is but unfortunately we can't explain or intervene. There are rules you know, even for the likes of us. If I were to tell you your brother is indeed still alive and that his soul was stolen, then I'd be out of order. If I mentioned that the Monsignor split Devbo's life-force in two and cast the parts into the Realms of Improbability, I'd be up on a charge in seconds. Lastly, and most importantly, so please listen carefully, it would be a heinous treachery upon my Omni-status if I gave the slightest hint where the Realms of Improbability are.'

Lucifer nods in agreement, places a solid, basilisk-skin boot-heal forward and smiles. 'I, on the other hand, couldn't care less as I'm damned for eternity anyway. You'll find the parts of Devbo's soul in our very own realms.'

Looks are exchanged and it would take an immensely courageous person to ...

'So what are these realms then, I don't understand?' asks Moneekar, scratching her head.

God and Lucifer both turn to the brutal Assistant Chef. 'Seriously?' they ask, in unison.

Walshy steps in front of his wife and as bravery goes ... 'Moneekar my love, they mean Heaven and Hell. That's where they live.'

'Then why didn't they bloody well say so instead of beating around the bush?'

'Well my love, they er, they er, somebody help please?'

Walshy notes his wife's annoyance as she eyes the Omnis threateningly. As mistakes go, this will be up there with the man who climbed a mountain during an electrical storm and tried to poke Heaven with a metal pole, while shouting God is a bastard.

'Mmph, mmph?'

'A sensible question, Anton,' acknowledges God, 'but I'm afraid we can't take you there and that is a definite no. Only the dead may enter our realms, although ...'

'So we have to die then?' asks Cloudier, her dark eyes a little frightened.

'No Cloudier, and note I ended with "although" on my last statement,' says God, rubbing a hand over his bald temple. 'You don't have to die. As I said, only the dead may enter, although ...'

God turns to Lucifer and his anti-Omni doesn't disappoint. As pairings go, this particular act has been well-rehearsed. 'There is another way, a back door shall we say, a secret entrance into each of our realms, known only to myself and God. If you can find them you have a chance.'

'Where are they then, can ye tell us that?' asks Jocky, his voice seeming to come from a cushion.

Lucifer waves a finger admonishingly. 'Alas, no. God is correct and to provide you with such information would bring trouble upon us. You must locate the secret entrances, enter, retrieve the parts of Devbo's soul, and then bring them back here. Only then can he be restored and only then, can the fight truly begin.'

God nods, grudgingly. 'Well said Lucifer and I urge you not to take too long. The evil is growing day by day so I suggest you get moving. I'm sorry we could be of no assistance whatsoever but happy hunting. Oh, by the way, take this jar. You'll need to sprinkle the contents onto the secret entrance of Heaven to open it.'

And that is that. God and Lucifer disappear in the same manner as they appeared, with a less than impressive pop. Many eyes are peering around but not Fillipo's. He's looking at the small, sealed jar God just gave him, and he places it in his pocket for safe keeping. The rest of the group stand around unsure of what to do until General Richard steps forward.

'So there we have it, we must retrieve the parts of Devbo's soul, return them here and then the fight begins. I suggest we get going, I'll call in the choppers.'

'Och, hold a minute, General. Ye cannae leave until ye ken where ye're going. If ye ask me that all sounded like _Haggi-shite_ but we've nay got a better plan. We'd better put our heads together and have a wee think.'

'I'm not putting my head together with you Sensei, that'll bloody hurt,' says Moneekar.

Walshy smiles at his wife. 'Moneekar dearest, we don't have to actually put our heads together, we need to think where the secret entrances to Heaven and Hell might be. How hard can it be?'

Deep and strained thinking is underway. Ideas bounce around and in all honesty, the majority bounce right off the volcanic stack and head downwards. Occasionally a less than ridiculous idea breaches the parapet of rhyme and reason and barely two hours later a plan has been formed. Granted, it's not the most sensible of plans but from small acorns, great oaks grow, or some such drivel.

SAS Dark-Zero Whisper-Hawk helicopters are called in and the group are off to their first destination, that being the secret entrance to Heaven. At least, their best guess at it.

God and Lucifer reappear elsewhere. The sun is out, the sky is blue, there's not a cloud to spoil the view, but looking through a window of their bamboo constructed beach hut, a dark stain is gathering on the horizon and both know the meaning.

'We're doomed,' says God, shaking his bald, black head.

'No we're not,' replies Lucifer. 'You need to trust them.'

'And if they fail?' asks God, appearing worried.

'Then we fail,' answers Lucifer. 'It's not as if we haven't prepped them. They'll do what they do and we'll do the same. Life is never certain old friend.'

'But what if they fail?' asks God again, staring at the distant gathering gloom.

Lucifer sighs and shrugs. 'Then we lose. That's life, death even. That's the game we entered into when we started all this. We knew the risks so trust in those we created, we can do no more.'

'And do you trust them to pull us through?'

Lucifer ponders for a moment before grinning, devilishly. 'Not really but let's give them a chance before we do something ... Omni.'
Chapter Eight

V.I.P.E.R. Again!

The UQ is being threatened like never before and only stout hearts and minds will have any chance of saving the day. That is as it should be, as this is the most important meeting to be convened in UQ history.

Davey sets the ball rolling. 'Okay, er, I'm not quite sure what happened there but welcome everyone to V.I.P.E.R. the Very Important Privately Educated Rascals. I wish we could meet in better times but if that were the case this wouldn't be V.I.P.E.R. would it? We'll do quick introductions around the table then get down to business. You all know me, so to my left is?'

'Fred Shopfloor, Belaboured Party leader and man-of-the-people.'

'Next,' says Davey.

'Asslick Salmon, Scottish National Piscine Party, and let me tell you, the people of Scot...'

'Blah, blah, blah, nobody's listening. Next.'

' _Screeech!_ ' squeals Sticky Sturgeon before dropping back into the tank.

'Next.'

'Niggley Barrage, United Queendom Inebriated Party, I think.'

All eyes turn to stare at Niggley, noticing real-ale stains on the front of his tweed jacket. The man has a hand covering one eye and he's trying to focus with the other.

'What's he doing here?' asks the PM, pointing at the man. 'Niggley, how did you get in?'

'I jusht wandered in. I thought thish wash a _Toshco ™_ and I needed new pantsh. I losht my lasht pair, don't know where I left them,' slurs a drunken Niggley, adding a loud, fruity burp.

The PM stares aghast at the man, his words taking a few moments to sink in. 'This is V.I.P.E.R. and ultra-top-secret, you can't just wander in.'

Niggley hiccups. 'But there wash a key under the doormat.'

'Bother and blast. Well, you're here now so just sit still and don't say anything. Next.'

'Major General Field Marshall, Tarquin 'Tarkers' Ffullaheadand'eath-Towall, head of the UQ army.'

'Next.'

'Bear Grilled-Steak, SAS Chief and official tough bastard.'

'What, who said that?' asks Davey, looking every which way.

'Apologies, I'll switch off my night-shadow mode. Here I am, Prime Minister,' says Bear, holding his hand up.

Davey nods. 'Oh yes. Next.'

'Professor Brain Clogs, Scientific Advisor to the Government and the first they've ever listened to, I hope.'

'Nice leather elbow patches, Professor. Next.'

It appears there is no next, so Davey starts proceedings. 'Right, there we have it. We'll get on now and I won't be going over the minutes of the last meeting. They're secret and unless you fill in an FOI request you'll remain ignorant. Good, any questions? No, I thought not. Over to you, Major General Field Marshall 'Tarkers', fill us in.'

The army man, dressed exquisitely in full combats, just about visible beneath all his medals, shouts his words from beneath a huge, non-stereotypical handlebar moustache. 'Well Prime Minister, I say bomb the bastards. Don't hold back. Give them the old one-two-one-three-one-one-two-two, followed by a three-two-one, kaboom!'

Davey stares curiously at the wildly gesticulating army man while shuffling papers on the desk in front of him. He licks his lips. 'And that means what exactly?'

'Bomb the bastards, kaboom with bloody knobs on!'

'Okay, but if I may be so bold, which bastards exactly?' asks Davey, raising an enquiring eyebrow.

'All of them, every bastard who's ever been a bastard and will continue to be so.'

Davey sighs but he did ask the man's opinion. 'I ask again, which bastards, and excuse my language?'

'For heaven sake!' shouts the army man, banging a fist on the table. 'The bleeding, bloody, buggering bastards!'

'O-kay,' says Davey, smiling politely before turning his attention elsewhere. 'As we're not American we'll forego that particular advice. Any other input that doesn't involve bombing an as yet, unknown target?'

The most gifted among them, unarguably, leans forward. As he speaks his gesticulating hands hover over a sleek musical keyboard lying on the table. He flicks his grey-flecked auburn hair and his smile makes those present, gasp in admiration. 'Professor Brain Clogs, sir, and I have impressive intelligence.'

Davey tuts. 'We know that Professor, there's no need to boast.'

'No, I'm not boasting, I'm simply saying that in terms of the whole Universe, we're merely a tiny, tiny ...'

'Get on with it,' insists the PM, drumming his fingers on the table.

'Of course, forgive me. We're all aware of the Europalian Peninsula and the joining together of the island countries to form a Super-Continent, but I've also learnt that the Quite Big Hardon Collider in Swizzeland has been compromised. There has been no contact for months and this is worrying.'

'How so?' asks Davey, his interest peeked at last.

'Well, we're surrounded by millions and billions of stars which ...'

'Get to the point!' growls Davey, having to clench his hands together to stop one reaching under the table for an ejection button.

The dreamy look on Brain's face dissolves and he refocuses. 'Right, yes. I'm convinced the loss of the QBHC and the rise of Europalia is no coincidence. The two must be connected as Swizzeland is at the centre of the growing landmass. If I were to guess, and being an astrophysicist that's well within my remit, compulsory in fact, I'd say Swizzeland may hold the key.'

Davey nods as he taps a finger against his chin in thought. 'I don't understand but as you're a scientist, who would? Okay, who's next?'

A man dressed in navy and light blue scout fatigues, stands. He's tugging his woggle and like the army man earlier, his uniform is barely visible, it being smothered in badges. These include his Rectal Waste Recycler badge, Rope Making Using Shod Eyebrows badge and the ultra-rare Male Multi-Tasking badge. He salutes, stoutly. 'Bear Grilled-Steak, SAS Chief and official tough bastard. The next course of action is simple, in my eyes at least. Look up to the screens around the room if you would. I can add to what the Professor has told you. We've been taking aerial shots all across Europalia,' he says, and clicks a button on a remote control, bringing up a photo on the screens. 'This one is a Yagi Aerial and is what you generally find on domestic houses. The next is a Digital High Aerial and you get those in poor reception areas. Next is a Grid Aerial and ...'

Davey interrupts, wagging a finger to and fro. 'Bear, that's all very nice but I was expecting aerial shots of the growing Europalian continent, not actual aerials.'

'Oh right, apologies, but when we were asked to take aerial shots across Europalia we assumed ... shit!' exclaims Bear, angrily pulling at his woggle. He throws the remote control down, places both hands on the table and leans forward. 'Bollocks, we've buggered up then. In that case, I suggest you agree to airlift me over enemy territory and drop me in. The New Union of Europalia has its headquarters in the Bavarian village of Feckenshmacker, so that will be as good a place to start as any. I'll need a stooge as cover, one of you political leaders, and if I might suggest, sir, the Quite Big Hardon Collider also needs checking out. Between the three of us, we'll get your answers. I'm ready to go, just say the word.'

The PM smiles deeply having read between the lines. 'Your mission is a go, with my blessing.'

'Thank you but who's coming with me?' asks Bear, looking around the table.

Davey glances sideways at his opposing party leaders and contemplates Bear's request that one of them accompanies him on the potentially perilous mission. 'A stooge you say?'

'And a scientist,' says Bear.

Professor Brain Clogs steps up to the plate, metaphorically. 'I volunteer as nobody knows the QBHC like I do,' he says, flicking his hair in a charmingly, handsome manner.

Davey nods to Brain, then again glances at his peers and a cunning expression can be seen. If he had a pencil moustache, for certain he would now be rolling it between a thumb and forefinger and raising his eyebrows. 'A political stooge you say?'

'Yes sir, preferably someone with nothing to lose, a fool perhaps.'

Davey chuckles wickedly and notes the other leaders staring at him, their fear evident, all except one. 'Well Bear. If it's a stooge you want then you'll have one. Ahem, all those who want a fine, frothy, Kentish Ale,' he asks, before adding quietly, 'and are prepared to drop into enemy territory probably to be killed, please raise your hand.'

Faster than an inebriate on hearing the last orders bell, Niggley Barrage is reaching for the ceiling. 'Yesh, yesh! I want ... why are you all shmiling at me?'

'Niggley, my new best friend, I can't think of anyone better to be unleashed on Europalia. Sir, if I were military I'd salute you, but I'm not, so I won't. Best of luck, meeting over, and last one to the carpark's a stinker,' says Davey, already out of his chair and running from the room.

A decision has been made. Bear Grilled-Steak, the epitome of bravery, and Niggley Barrage, the er, epitome of a respected politician, will be heading to Bavaria in Jeermany, in order to infiltrate the power behind the growing Europalian continent. Professor Brain Clogs, the Government's Scientific Advisor, musician, and a regular fixture in the _Most Handsome UQ Men_ charts, will be going to Swizzeland to investigate the Quite Big Hardon Collider.

Their mission is a go and all three are driven, at speed, to RAF Northolt by a ginger, talkative chauffeur. Within minutes of arrival, they are on a Dark-Zero Shush-Eagle cargo plane, heading east.

'Right then, here's the crux,' says Bear Grilled-Steak, staring at his two comrades in the plane's cargo-hold. 'When the red light turns green, we bail out. Me first, then you Niggley, and finally you Professor, but you're going on a bit further. On landing, tuck away your parachute and ... yes Niggley?'

'What'sh a parachute?'

Bear smiles and salutes stoutly. 'Brave man. Now, when you hit the ground find your safe house. Any questions?'

Professor Brain raises his finely manicured hand. 'I have a question. Given that gravity is a constant force upon our planet, and given what goes up doesn't always come down in one piece, will anybody be trying to shoot me through the head?'

'Not on my watch Professor, not on my watch. Now don't forget to ... Niggley, no!' shouts Bear on seeing a sozzled politician stumble out the plane door. 'Damn it. Let's just hope he remembers his super-intensive four minutes of training,' he adds, rushing to the cargo door and he stares down at a politician growing smaller by the second. 'Pull the bloody cord Niggley, pull the ... oh sod it. For Baden-Powell!'

Bear has shouted the familiar SAS battle cry and he's off after Niggley, only a few seconds before the green light comes on.

Professor Brain's time is yet to come, the light having turned back to red and he sits cross-legged on the floor of the plane. He pulls his keyboard round, places it on his lap, and begins to play. He hums as he does so, thinking, things can only get better.
Chapter Nine

Pride and a Precipice

Swift progress from Thailand has been made and the Dark-Zero Whisper-Hawk choppers are resting lightly on a vast expanse of lawn in the leafy UQ countryside. Those inside have discussed the particulars of where the secret entrance to Heaven might be and are ready to see if their theory is right.

Sensei Jocky isn't one of them though, having been tasked with protecting the body of Devbo, much to his annoyance as he doesn't get out much, bless him.

'I'm not bloody convinced, husband,' says Moneekar, now dressed in her traditional chef's whites. 'What makes you think this is where Heaven's secret entrance is?'

'It has to be anvilkins. We've argued to and fro and this must be it,' insists Walshy, carrying out an audit of his carrier bags of plastic components.

Cloudier is looking at her reflection in a small compact mirror. 'We're in the right place. I can smell it, Walshy's right,' she says, applying another layer of black mascara.

'I think so too but it seems crazy,' says Moneekar. 'Sorry Cloudier but it does. Nobody's going to believe there's a secret entrance to Heaven here.'

Fillipo has been listening intently to the conversation. Personally, he didn't have much input in the decision making but the reasoning was sound. 'Listen, this is as good a starting place as any and in my eyes, it makes perfect sense. For many, the home of the extremely handsome, English actor Colin Mirth is Heaven.'

'It seems a right longshot,' says Anton, appearing unconvinced.

Fillipo shrugs. 'Maybe, but considering this is the final resting place of the shirt Colin wore when exiting the lake in the period drama, Pride and a Precipice, then perhaps it isn't.'

'It just seems a bit silly,' says Anton, guiltily, as he hadn't thought of anything better.

'Of course but when the damp shirt was retired after Colin Mirth made his fortune, he bought this estate and had a chapel built in its honour,' replies Fillipo.

Walshy has a hand raised and he leans forward. The others lean back. 'Fillipo's right and I read all about it in _Modern Holy Relics Quarterly_. Women come here from all over the planet, even the _Land of American Righteous Democracy_. The damp shirt is reputed to perform miracles and they say it has healing powers.'

'Precisely, not so big Walshy, the wet shirt is esteemed in all its wondrous glory and to many it is Heaven. This seems a good place to start,' says Fillipo, wonderment flooding his eyes.

'I hope you're right,' says Anton, internally saying a prayer, but not to a moist shirt.

With the conversation over, all eyes turn to General Richard and the man nods. He takes up a standard-issue SAS satellite phone and dials a number.

A nattily dressed woman, sporting brownie leggings, yellow t-shirt and extra-long badge sash, steps into a wide and lusciously decorated hallway in order to answer the telephone. She lifts the receiver. 'The Mirth residence, may I assist you?'

'Ma'am, forgive me for calling ...' begins General Richard, but he soon curses. 'Damn it, she hung up.'

The telephone answerer shakes her head as the receiver is returned to the cradle. Having better things to do than deal with random callers, she prepares to move away.

Again the phone rings. 'The Mirth residence, may I assist you?'

'Ma'am, I really need to speak to ...'

'Now listen up chummy. This is the Mirth residence and if you keep making these nuisance calls I'll open up a can of cluster-flocks on your arse. I will not have my Master, or the Mistress, being disturbed, do you hear me?'

On this occasion, the SAS General, sitting inside a stealthed helicopter, is prepared and reads from a card he's holding. 'Brown Owl code 69-69-101, listen up. This is General Richard of the SAS and I must speak to the Master. I repeat, I must speak to the Master.'

Brown Owl pauses, contemplates the words and at the last, smiles. 'General Richard, forgive me, I didn't recognise your voice. It's great to hear from you and thanks for filming my nephew's Brit-Milah. My sister is so proud and she still wears the skin on a chain around her neck. I'll fetch the Master, give me a minute.'

Exactly a minute later, the receiver is lifted from the hall table and the Master of the house, Colin Mirth, is on the line. 'Yes, what is it?' asks the handsome, deep voice.

'Special Associated Scouts General Richard, sir, please don't hang up.'

Colin pauses and a strange smile flickers across his face but only momentarily. 'I know who you are General and thank you for filming me on more than one occasion. What can I do for you?'

'Sir, we have a situation.'

'What kind of situation?' asks Colin, frowning attractively. 'Know that I was a member of the Scouts in my youth although I didn't make the grade for full SAS.'

'Really, you didn't?' asks Richard, incredulously.

'No, General. I got all my badges bar one and even sewed them onto my uniform myself,' says Colin, his voice starting to crack, 'but it wasn't to be. I ... I cried myself to sleep for years, all through Grammar school and during my A-levels.'

'Sir, that's ... terrible. I'd have thought you of all people would make the grade. You have a magnificent chin and the eyes of a predator. If I were recruiting now you'd be a dead cert,' says the General, and he means it.

'That's very kind but I ... I didn't make the grade. Goodbye!' shouts Colin, slamming the phone down.

'Darling, who was that on the telephone?' asks his elegant wife, having entered the hallway. On seeing his pained expression, she flinches and presses a hand to her mouth.

'Just some nutter my dear, some fool,' says Colin, wiping sweat from his fine brow. 'I ... I need to be alone for a while,' and he runs from the hallway, enters an open door and slams it behind him. Immediately, the sounds of bashing and crashing can be heard from the other side. There are many juicy curses but all shouted handsomely and perfectly enunciated.

Back in the helicopter, the General glares at the phone in his hand and looks for a place to slam it down.

'It didn't go well then?' asks Anton.

'No it bloody didn't,' scowls Richard, un-stoutly.

There's nothing else for it. The team exits the helicopters and step onto the gravel path leading to the mansion. Stealthed SAS operatives take control of the flower borders and a nearby gardener falls to the ground, drugged with carfentanil. The martial arts team and the General walk to the enormous front door, with sculpted marble, naked female surrounds. One of the enormous knockers is gripped and used.

Brown Owl answers the door and she has a length of sewing thread in her hands which she is brandishing as a garrotte. 'Right you cold-calling bast... oh, General Richard, sir.'

'Major, it's a pleasure as always. We must speak to the Master and we don't have much time.'

Major Brown Owl shuffles uncomfortably. 'I'm afraid that won't be possible. Sadly, your call brought back unpleasant memories and he's not seeing anyone. He's locked himself in the kitchen with only a copy of _Jammy Oliver 's, Quick and Simple Four Hour Recipes_ for company. He's inconsolable and shouting about the bastard SAS and the fact he never managed to achieve his Cookery badge.'

A tall woman wafts into the hallway, the base of her crinoline dress scratching against the well-polished marble flooring. 'That's quite enough, go about your business, I'll deal with this,' says Mrs Mirth, her expression disapproving.

Brown Owl nods and departs without a fuss leaving Mrs Mirth standing in the doorway. She doesn't have her arms crossed but she is tapping a foot, so all is not well. 'I'm Colin's wife and what you were told is true but I don't hold you personally responsible. Your call has unfortunately brought back long suppressed memories for my husband. Colin may be a magnificently handsome man with astonishing acting talent but not making the SAS grade has always been his Achilles heel. It has haunted him since his childhood. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave and not return.'

'Apologies Ma'am, but we must see him,' insists General Richard.

'Aren't you listening, General, and yes I know who you are? Your abilities with a camera are near legendary but my husband is a broken man and broken men require more than a camera to fix them.'

'Ma'am I ...' begins Richard, but he pauses. 'Of course, we'll trouble you no longer.'

'Thank you General and if only Colin could have got that blasted cookery badge then he'd have made the grade. Good day General and thank you for not pressing the issue.'

The SAS man nods, turns, and leads the small group back along the gravel path. They return to the helicopters and the rotor blades start to spin.

'Moneekar my stocky stone cannon, are you okay?' asks Walshy, staring with concern at his wife.

'Shut up, I'm thinking,' says the woman, her face scrunched but then, she gasps. 'I've got an idea and it's a bloody good one. General, have you got a Scout cookery badge?'

The General, a tad confused, reaches into his SAS standard-issue belt-pack. He removes a wad of badges and sorts through them. 'Let's see. First Aid, Second Aid, Peasant Neutering, sorry, Pheasant Neutering, Cookery, yes I've got one,' he says, holding it up but still none-the-wiser.

'Good!' yells Moneekar, stomping her feet, making the helicopter rock. 'What if I teach Colin to cook? Will you give him the badge?'

'Of course, a General has the authority to award badges at any time.'

'Right, we're going back in. I'm going to teach Colin Mirth to cook and you're going to give him the badge. Then he'll help us, at least, he bloody well better.'

'That's pure genius, Moneekar. Why didn't anybody else think of that?' asks General Richard, glancing at his companions but all are staring downwards.

The group are once again at the mansion and the door is hit with gusto and purpose. It seems they had been spotted and the door was already in the process of being opened. 'General Richard, I assumed you were a man of your ...' says Colin's wife, but her words halt on coming face to face with a fierce looking woman.

'I'm Moneekar and I'm gonna help. I'll teach Colin to cook and then he'll get his badge. I promise, Mrs Mirth, and I never tell lies.'

'My dear,' says the woman, with a sad smile. 'I'm sure you mean well but it would take a highly qualified cook, at least to assistant chef standard, to help my husband. I'm sure you understand.'

'Then you're in luck as I'm the best, baby,' says Moneekar, thumping herself on the chest.

Mrs Mirth opens her mouth but it closes with force, her teeth clashing together, sounding like a pair of love-drunk Scottish Kissers. The woman's eyes roll on recognising the assured woman from her favourite programme, _Blast-a-Chef_ , which she watches alone so as not to upset her husband. 'Oh my, I feel lightheaded.'

General Richard rushes forward and catches Mrs Mirth before she cracks her skull on the marble flooring. The woman has fainted and the General swiftly reaches into his belt-pack, removes a small bottle, uncorks it, takes a swig, and then places it back. He's thirsty, that's all.

Swiftly, he reaches for another bottle, uncorks that one, and wafts it under the lady's nose. Her eyes fly wide and she tries to catch her breath, while not vomiting. The _Mendicant 's Scrotum Smelling Salts_ have done the trick and she is assisted to her feet by General Richard. 'Take your time, ma'am, you're still a bit delirious,' he says, gripping her elbow.

Across from them, Moneekar chuckles devilishly. 'I'm going to the kitchen. I may be a while,' she says, rolling up her chef jacket sleeves.

Mrs Mirth, still a little wobbly, smiles. 'Good luck my dear. You're Colin's only hope.'

Moneekar approaches the kitchen door and she can hear the raging within. Two maids have their ears pressed against it but on seeing the tough woman, they scarper. She reaches the door, tries the handle but it's locked. For a woman of Moneekar's power, a locked door is no obstacle whatever the size or material, but this is one of those rare occasions where she's nervous. This is Colin Mirth, actor, model, and a hero to every television viewer who has ever existed. She presses an ear to the door and listens.

'What, damn boiled eggs, I even burn bloody eggs. What the ... bugger it, I didn't put any water in. Blast the SAS and their stupid badges. I bloody hate you, I hate you all ... Oh, it's no good, I'll never be able to bloody cook.'

Moneekar adjusts her chef's whites, takes a deep breath, and knocks gently on the door. Colin's response isn't the one she was hoping for.

'Bugger off, can't you hear I'm having a nervous breakdown?'

'I can help you Colin,' says Moneekar, in her softest tone, so not that soft.

'Can't a man fall apart in bloody peace?' shouts Colin and something metal clangs against the door before bouncing across the kitchen floor.

'I only want to help.'

'Then fetch me a rope ... and a Morriski album!'

Moneekar licks her lips. 'I can teach you to cook and then you'll get your Cookery badge.'

'Really, you can, can you?' scoffs Colin. 'Who do you think you are, that scary yet proficient Assistant Chef off the telly? I know my wife watches that program but being the noble gentleman I am, I never mention it for fear of upsetting her.'

Moneekar gives the door a shove. As expected, the hinges and lock give and it topples inwards, landing with a thump on the lino covered floor. She steps in, picks up the door and forces it back into the frame before turning to Colin. 'Yeah, that's me, and I'm gonna teach you to cook. Now put down the egg-whisk. Nobody needs to get hurt ... yet.'

The kitchen is huge, with high and low cupboards on every wall, except where the long window is, and there is an island worktop in the middle. Colin is standing on it and he's holding a silicon-coated, balloon egg-whisk to his throat, his hand paused on the rotary handle. When he recognises Moneekar his wild-eyes widen and he presses the whisk closer to his well-defined Adam's apple. 'It ... it is you, but don't come any closer. I'll do it, I'm not bluffing.'

Moneekar knows the truth when she sees it. 'No, you bloody won't. You're desperate but not stupid. Drop the whisk and get down off the work top. I'll not ask again.'

An internal struggle is etched on Colin's face and he knows deep down the woman is right. Slowly, he removes the kitchen utensil and drops it onto the worktop. With a wretched curse he follows it down.

Moneekar rushes forward and catches Colin before he crashes to the floor. She places him down, feet first and then fibs, unashamedly. 'It's okay. I understand as I wasn't able to cook once. I remember crying for days because my lardons were too big and the Chef kept shouting at me. He'd yell, "Moneekar you clumsy oaf, you're useless with your strong hands and non-subtle knife technique." I was really upset and nearly gave up.'

Colin stares through red-rimmed eyes and his despair breaks slightly as a hint of a smile brightens his gloriously chiselled features. 'Really? What happened?'

'I kept going as I'm no quitter. I worked hard and when the Chef shouted again and again, do you know what I did?'

'Break his skull open with a spatula?'

Moneekar laughs loudly. 'No, I used a ladle, but I learned my lesson and kept trying. Eventually I got it right with the ninth Chef and now I'm a proper cook. Now I'm gonna teach you and you'll get that Cookery badge, I promise.'

Colin stares across at a pair of fierce eyes and a spark ignites within his heart. 'Really, you can teach me? The worst cook in the world.'

'Yeah, but if I can't, we'll cheat. I'll cook the meal and just say you did it.'

'Moneekar, you're the best!' beams Colin, wiping his sore eyes.

'I know, now put on an apron and call me Assistant Chef or I'll thump you.'

A hopeful man rushes to the dry store, grabs a clean apron and dons it. He returns and stands proudly beside Moneekar, who in the few seconds he has been gone, has collected all the necessary ingredients for the intended dish. She gives Colin the once over and the man flinches beneath the unforgiving stare. She's in professional mode and this is no time for nonsense. 'Right then, we'll keep it simple. First you turn on the oven and preheat it to 400 Fahrenheit, gas mark 6.'

Colin nods and looks around the kitchen. 'Yes, right I'll errr ...'

'That's the oven there,' growls Moneekar, pointing. 'Now turn it on.'

'Right, got it, I'll turn on the oven,' says Colin, giving the piece of equipment a smouldering glance. 'Hey oven, you're looking sexy today.'

Moneekar turns slowly to Colin, who wilts under the stern gaze. 'Are you taking the piss?' she growls, stepping across the kitchen. 'You turn on the oven and ... oh, it's on, that's odd. Right, come here and take hold of this lamb shoulder.'

'Okay, I've got it.'

'Other end!'

'Yes Moneekar, I'll switch it round.'

'No, not Moneekar. You say, yes Assistant Chef!'

' _Aargh_ , yes Assistant Chef!' shouts Colin, the lamb shaking in his hand.

'That's better. Now rub the lamb with oil, sea salt and fresh ground black pepper.'

'Yes Assistant Chef!'

'That's good now er, you've got bloody lovely eyes.'

'Yes Assistant Chef!'

Tick, tock goes the clock. Slish-slash goes the knife and eventually, a meal sits on a plate. It's not a whole leg of lamb but there are slices. There are also vegetables, a few pine nuts and gravy. It's simple in the extreme, according to Moneekar, but an extraordinarily handsome man peers in wonder as if it were the Holy Grail. He smiles, adoringly, at his mentor and how she reacts is a secret she'll never reveal, ever!

'Shall I ...'

'Get it out now, he's waiting!' shouts Moneekar, pointing to the kitchen door.

'Yes Assistant Chef, I ... but I can't open the door. It's wedged,' says Colin, tugging at the handle.

'Oh yeah, sorry, allow me,' says Moneekar, dragging the door away. 'Go get 'em tiger.'

'Right yes, I'll go get them, tiger,' giggles Colin, as he nervously walks towards the dining room. His hands are shaking and by default, so is the plate. A pine nut makes an unexpected dive off the plate but eventually the meal is placed in front of General Richard who is sat at the head of the dining table, an open napkin paper-clipped to his woggle.

With knife and fork in hand, meat and vegetables are cut and skewered. The food enters a stout, scout mouth, is chewed, and then swallowed. Collective breaths are held by the rest of the team and only released when the cutlery returns for a second helping, followed by a third, and then some. At the last, General Richard, let's rip with a burp, rubs his tummy, looks up, and nods heartily. 'That is without doubt the best lamb I've ever tasted. It's as if it was pounded to within an inch of its life by a strong hand.'

The dining room door bangs open. 'That's more than enough. He's a really good cook now give him the badge,' insists Moneekar, walking around the table.

'Of course,' says General Richard, turning to Colin. 'He's earned it but tell me, how did you make the carrots so soft yet so crunchy?'

Colin's pupils fly wide and he starts to tremble. He turns and stares desperately at Moneekar but she only has eyes for the General. She walks forward, places hands on the table, one either side of the plate, and stares eye to eye. 'Just give him the badge, you hear me,' she whispers, none too gently.

'I'm giving him the badge, Moneekar. Anyone would think by your reaction, you cooked the meal. How ridiculous would that be?'

Silence is golden, though on occasion, it can be platinum, and that's far more precious. Colin takes his Scout Cookery badge, handling it as if it were an Academy Award. He turns to all present with dampness in his eyes but decides against making a speech. Instead, he turns, throws open the dining room external doors and marches into the sunlight. He's heading for a small building in the distance - a chapel.
Chapter Ten

Art Thou Pure of Soul?

Colin leads the way across the grounds, over lawns, past the occasional ancient tree, an invisible helicopter or two and the others follow. Now being SAS, and that's official, his confidence has returned. His steps are huge, as would be expected from a man who has achieved his childhood dream. The destination is a small stone building, a folly perhaps, but no. A folly has no purpose other than to be decorative, whereas this small, stone chapel, with gargoyles, pitched roof, solid-oak door, CCTV surveillance and anti-intrusion slice'n'dice lasers, is something to behold.

The chapel is currently closed and as the group approach, Colin gestures for everyone to stop. Now alone, he walks to the door, the lasers tracking his every movement. He ignores them and when only a yard away a female voice sounds from a security pad beside the entrance.

'Identity requested?' insists the professional sounding female voice.

'Colin Mirth, Master of the Estate, open the door please.'

'Voice recognition verified. Entry denied.'

Colin sighs. 'You know it's me so open the bloody door.'

'Entry denied. Further proof required,' says the female voice, curiously sounding softer and if possible, playful.

Colin runs a hand through his greying, yet gorgeous hair, briefly glances behind and sees everyone watching him. He doesn't want to, but knows he must, and leans in close to the security pad. 'It's Mr D'Arsey and I must say you're looking beautiful today. So ravishing in fact, I feel compelled to undo a shirt button and show a tasteful glimpse of chest hair.'

The voice-lock squeals in delight and the chapel door crashes open, faster than a Lord's expenses account on hearing a prostitute has just entered the chamber. Colin turns and those waiting behind note the tight look on his face. 'Don't ask. It's just a program glitch but I'd dare any lock-breaker to get past it. You're in and good luck,' he says, holding out an inviting hand.

General Richard leads the way. 'Thank you Acting Corporal Colin, it's appreciated.'

'Indeed but I think you're barking up the wrong tree. You can't seriously believe there's a Heavenly entrance behind the vacuum-cased, damp shirt I wore in Pride and a Precipice. I realise many ladies come here, men even, but I can't see it myself.'

'I think we're about to find out, aren't we,' says the General, stepping past Colin and entering the chapel. He's barely over the threshold when he gasps. 'My God!'

The chapel is far plainer on the inside, but there it is, a glass-fronted vacuum-case hanging on the far wall, with a sodden shirt inside. In front of it is a crude wrought-iron stand holding spent candles. Whether by luck or design a shaft of sunlight, entering through a small stained-glass window, has hit the glass front of a candle dispensing machine with coin slot, the monetary amount above reading £3, and is reflected across the chapel. It hits another dispensing machine, one for matches, the price above the coin slot reading £2, and is angled back across. There, it hits an enamel wall sign stating: _Anybody Caught Bringing Their Own Candles Or Matches Will Be Left Unblessed And Forcibly Ejected_. From there it deflects onto the cased shirt, illuminating its wondrous beauty in all the colours of the rainbow.

General Richard unintentionally falls to one knee and judging by the exclamations behind him, others are doing the same. All eyes are on the illuminated shirt. All except Colin's who has moved forward and is standing in front of the candle rack. He appears a little perplexed. 'For Heaven's sake, it's only a wet shirt. I don't know what all the fuss is about.'

General Richard dares to look up. 'I disagree as it's more than a shirt, Acting Corporal. It's a symbol of hope.'

'It's a damp bloody shirt,' insists Colin, turning to look at it. 'We take it out each morning and give it a quick dunk in a bucket of water.'

General Richard's head whips round and he stares at the man. 'You what?'

Colin realises what he has said and thinks about backtracking but being a man of handsome honesty, he can't, so his intended lie will never see the light of day. He drops to the floor and places his head in his hands. His body is rocking back and forth as he mumbles to himself. Eventually, he stands and salutes to all present. 'It's a bloody fake. What kind of idiot thinks a shirt I wore years ago has healing powers? It's ridiculous, isn't it?'

Moneekar walks up and places a friendly hand on his shoulder. 'I believe in you and I taught you to bloody cook.'

'But you cooked the food, my effort was a disas...' says Colin, but his statement remains unfinished due to a gentle clip on the chin.

'We better get going before he gets his senses back,' insists Moneekar, smiling weirdly at her companions. She looks sheepishly at General Richard who moves to stand beside her and quiet words are exchanged.

'Moneekar, you're right, and for the record, I didn't have a Cookery badge in the first place. I lied and he now has his Crockery badge but let's keep that little secret to ourselves.'

Moneekar nods, knowing nothing more need be said.

As the General winks he turns to the shirt to consider their next move but Anton, having entered the chapel, is already a step ahead. 'Okay, let's go for it. General, can you pry the vacuum-case off the wall? You must have a crowbar, or explosives.'

'Big Anton it just lifts off, quite easily in fact,' says Fillipo, lifting the case down and placing it to one side, beside a bucket of water. All present shield their eyes preparing for the Glory of Heaven.

'There's nothing crazily behind it, it's just a wall. Bugger it!' exclaims Cloudier.

Anton growls and kicks the stonework. 'Shite, we came all this way for nothing.'

'No wait,' begins Fillipo, recalling a conversation in Thailand. 'God said the entrance wouldn't be visible. We must use the jar he gave us to open it.'

'Aye, do it man,' says Anton, crossing fingers on both hands.

Fillipo reaches into his shorts pocket and brings out a small jar, sealed with a cork and wax, the one God gave him. He stares at it and reads the label: _Utopia Revealing Powder_ and underneath in smaller letters: _this product may be harmful to asthmatics_. He breaks the wax seal, pulls the cork and empties the contents on the stone wall. All watch as the multi-hued powder dribbles to the floor, some getting caught in old spider's webs. The group waits ... and waits.

'Ah man, this is crap, we've come to the wrong ...' says Anton, pausing as the chapel begins to shake and the powder starts to dance and fly around. Rainbow hues brighten the interior and a feeling of contentment settles over everyone. Stones start to move within the wall where the shirt was hung and sweet singing voices can be heard. The actual song, a prayer perhaps, is unrecognisable but the volume increases and gunfire erupts suddenly, aimed at the widening hole. As swiftly as it started, the firing stops, and an embarrassed General stares down at the floor, knowing all eyes are on him.

'Sorry, I'm so sorry everyone. Force of habit I'm afraid, learnt while training for two years in America. Shoot first and ask questions later. I'll er, put the safety catch on.'

The hole is fully open, the stones having stopped shifting and a heavenly voice resonates through the gap, now brightly lit from inside. As yet the speaker can't be seen. 'Which of you son-bitches was shooting? What do you think this is, North Kent? This is the secret entrance to Heaven not a frigging firing range. Are you done, well, are you? I hope so because I'm coming through and if anybody fires then I'll smite their frigging ass,' says the male voice, with an American accent, unfortunately.

A head pokes around the inside of the hole and a black, male face, but not that of God, is staring suspiciously. After a few seconds of peering, the powerfully built man emerges fully. He's wearing tight silver shorts and nothing else, to the delight of a few of those present.

'Oh, it's you lot. I was told you might turn up. Right then, I'm St Michael, an Archangel, and anyone who buggers about will get a lightning fork up their frigging jacksy. I know why you're here but only those of pure heart, mind, soul and all that stuff, can come in. Any questions?'

The group are a little taken aback to say the least and eventually Fillipo breaks the silence. 'Big St Michael, I have a question,' he says, holding a hand up.

'Hey, don't call me big, although I guess you've noticed my tight shorts. You hear what I'm saying, brother,' says the Archangel, winking. 'Okay, what's your question?'

'I do hear what you're saying and actually I've forgotten my question but I've thought of another. Why are you nearly naked?' asks Fillipo, trying to tear his eyes away.

St Michael mumbles under his breath and throws his arms wide. 'Right, I see. Why is the first question always about my lack of clothes? It's never about the secret entrance or my corporeal majesty. Oh no, it's always, why ain't you dressed proper? It's the frigging same every time. Well, I'm nearly naked because the shop I usually buy my clothes from has slipped in standard. Where you once got quality, now all you get is cheap foreign crap, frigging _Monks and Spinsters ™._ Let me tell you, that is the last time I'll allow my name to be used on a clothes label. Any other questions, sensible ones?'

'Yes, General Richard here, can we come in? We're in a bit of a hurry.'

The Archangel looks the military man up and down, sensing the hand-rifle he's hiding behind his back. 'No you can't, get lost.'

'Why not?'

'Why not? I'll tell you why not white boy. You frigging well shot at me and that doesn't count as being pure so no, you can't come in.'

The General contemplates the answer and admits the Archangel has a point. He backs away, allowing Anton to step forward. 'I didn't shoot at you man, er angel. Can I come in?'

St Michael sucks air through his teeth and rubs his chin as he considers the request. 'Well, I shouldn't really as you once had a bubblegum pop career and that's categorised as evil but what the Hell, I mean, what the Blessed Heaven. Okay, you can enter but I need to see photo ID. It's silly, I know, but rules are rules and who am I to question them?'

'You're the Archangel St Michael,' says Anton, shrugging.

The black deity nods slowly. 'Yeah, I am, you're right. In you come, go to the right, and wait by the lift door. I'll be with you shortly. Now then, who's next?'

'May I enter, big St Michael?' asks Fillipo, presenting himself.

'No, next.'

'But you allowed Anton in so why not me?' asks Fillipo, not understanding.

'Sorry brother but I can't risk you getting up to any hanky-panky. Personally, I've got nothing against camp people but even I have to accept outdated, religious bigotry. If I let you in I'd be demoted instantly. It's too big a risk, sorry.'

'Firstly, I'm not camp. I'm in touch with my feelings and not afraid to show them,' says an annoyed Fillipo but as ever, he has a plan and looks away. 'Very well big St Michael, you with the wonderful glowing skin, an eight-pack stomach, and the largest bulge I've ever seen in a tight pair of shorts. I understand an Archangel of your standing, being the highest most likely, mustn't take risks especially as you're so well-honed and toned.'

The Archangel is smiling smugly on hearing the compliments. 'I take it back, brother. You know fineness when you see it. Go on in and stand with Anton but not too close. Who's next?'

'Me,' says Moneekar. 'I'm an assist...'

'In you go, lady,' interrupts St Michael, beaming widely. 'Next.'

'Is that it?' asks Moneekar, frowning in confusion. 'I can just go in?'

The Archangel beckons the woman forward. 'Honey, you need say no more. We've heard of you and its frigging rare a chef makes the grade for Heaven. Hence, the food's crap most of the time, so when we get the chance to let one in, no questions are asked.'

Moneekar scratches her head. 'I don't understand. Why don't chefs go to Heaven?'

'It's like this. Chefs are nasty son-bitches. They're bullies and bullies never get into Heaven. They're self-centred, Moneekar, and seek to belittle people in order to make themselves appear bigger. In my experience anyone who has to scream at an employee to get the job done has a very small bulge. You hear what I'm saying?'

'I hear but some chefs are female. What do they have that's small?'

St Michael chuckles. 'Just go and stand with your friends. Next.'

'Thanks, but can my husband come in?' asks Moneekar.

The Archangel raises an eyebrow and glances at the brown-attired Walshy. 'Sorry honey, but nobody boring is allowed in and don't look at me like that. I don't make the rules, I enforce them.'

'Then I'm staying here,' says Moneekar, moving back.

Walshy steps up and places a hand on his wife's shoulder. 'No my fluffy nail-gun, you have to enter. Go and save Devbo and for what it's worth, I once constructed an angel from plastic nasal-spray bottles but it exploded and I was covered in sticky decongestant. I scrubbed at it for days, with a single-use cloth and my cardigan was ruined due to tight-weave, overaggressive surfactant rubbing.'

Moneekar smiles and gives Walshy a peck on the cheek, then nods to the Archangel. 'I understand.'

'You're really married to him?' asks St Michael as the woman passes him.

'He has a big bulge,' says Moneekar, blushing.

St Michael laughs and is about to ask who's next when he sees Cloudier stepping up. ' _Whoa_ , hold it right there crazy lady. I'm not letting you anywhere near Heaven.'

Cloudier scowls and runs a finger across her black lipstick. 'Try me Saint man.'

The Archangel shakes his head. 'Try me Howling Hurricane Harlot and I'm upset you didn't call me big boy, so that's a definite no. Step away, lady.'

'Nasty, horrible shit!' exclaims Cloudier, poking her tongue out.

'Sticks and stones, lady, sticks and ... put that stone down right now!' demands the Archangel, pointing a threatening finger. 'I'm frigging watching you. Right, it's just the three of you then.'

As St Michael turns to re-enter his glorious realm, Colin steps forward, having recovered from Moneekar's chin-tap. 'Wait, can I come in? I'm an SAS Acting Corporal but I'm unarmed. I'm Colin Mirth,' he says, his smile turning to a frown when there's no answer and he wonders if he has said something wrong.

The Archangel is somewhat hesitant and has a dreamy look on his face. 'Colin frigging Mirth, you say?'

'Actually, I'm Acting Corporal Colin Mirth of the SAS, that's my official title now, and my middle name is Ulric, not frigging. May I enter, please?'

'Surely not the Colin Mirth who was in that programme?'

'Which programme was that? I've been in many.'

'The one who was in ...' begins St Michael, gulping, 'Pride and a Precipice?'

Colin sighs. 'Ah, that one. Yes, that's me,' he says, placing his hands on his hips.

St Michael eyes the man all over and grins. 'You want to enter Heaven?'

'I've got photo ID, pictures of me receiving the _Most Handsome UQ Man_ award from 1995 going all the way up to last year and I'm hotly tipped this year as well. May I enter?'

The Archangel considers the request with a finger tapping his lips. He appears to be contemplating but he's not fooling Colin who can spot poor acting in his sleep.

'Okay, you can enter but on one condition.'

'Name it.'

'When you get inside will you sign my shorts, the side of course, as I ain't camp. It's nothing really but I've been a fan since, forever.'

Colin hesitates as over the years he has been asked to sign many things. This is without doubt the strangest but he nods nonetheless. 'It'll be a pleasure,' he says, his fake smile, unwavering.

'Right on, the Host will be so jealous. I'll have the signature of the most handsome man to ever exist. Come in Mr Mirth and let me bask in your Majesty.'

'Right, I'll _eurgh!_ ' blurts Colin as he's forcefully dragged through Heaven's secret entrance and instantly the light emitted from inside dims. The entrance is still visibly open but is being blocked by an unseen and unassailable barrier.

Those left outside take to the floor of the chapel and make themselves comfortable, in preparation for however long it will take to retrieve the first part of Devbo's soul. Nothing is said but there is rifling through pockets for pound coins. Four candles are purchased, placed in the metal rack and lit by General Richard, using an SAS standard-issue lighter and not matches from the dispensing machine, the rebel.
Chapter Eleven

Sign Your Life Away

The entrance to Heaven is impassable and those on the inside have no means of returning to their own realm, though at present they're not wanting to. They have a job to do, a task to complete, and now is most definitely the time for purity. The four intrepid adventurers, those waiting by the lift, watch as St Michael walks towards them, smiles sharply, and clicks his fingers. Instantly, the light of Heaven changes as rows of LEDs set within the ceiling, dim. Now able to see properly, those admitted, glimpse their surroundings. The room they are in is bare but does have immaculately painted walls, not in magnolia. Above them hangs a suspended ceiling but a strange one. There doesn't appear to be any brown stains due to past water leakage from above. The carpet is soft, unworn, and of colours that are constantly changing.

As the group stare, St Michael clicks his fingers again and a desk and chair appear. The solid looking wooden desk is supported by nothing - it just floats in the air. The chair behind would be unspectacular but for a huge pair of carved wooden wings reaching upwards from the backrest. The Archangel grins as he walks around the desk and deposits his holy posterior upon the chair's leather seat. When settled, the chair wings take on life, attach to his back and where before there was wood, there's now a cascade of feathers. He folds them behind his back, looks up, and beckons the group forward with a no-nonsense waggle of an index finger. The four step forth obligingly.

Again St Michael grins but this time, there is an element of chill about it. 'So you've entered Heaven, of your own free will. There are a few, shall we say, formalities to go through before you rise properly above. So, if you'll just sign these forms I'll set you on your way. There's no need to read them, it's just the usual consent stuff.'

'What forms?' asks Anton, looking at the desk and seeing nothing.

St Michael notes the empty desk, hits a palm against his forehead and tuts. 'Well silly me, these forms of course. All I need is a signature on each page and then you may go in search of your friend.'

The group stands aligned on the opposite side of the desk and see forms appear and slide across. Each of the four has a set and after another click of an Archangel's fingers, a quill and inkpot appears. The inkpot is heavy, polished brass and nestling inside is a shifting pool of blue liquid. The quill pen is huge and looks suspiciously like one of those on the deity's wings. It's of the purest white and shines like a rainbow when turned to the light.

'These papers are just for admin purposes. Now, best not hang around, take the quill and sign your life away, ahem.'

Anton shrugs and reaches forward. 'Right, I'll go first.'

'Wait, we should read them first, especially the small print. Who knows what they say?' says Fillipo, grabbing Anton's wrist.

'We need to save Devbo. I don't care what they say,' replies Anton, taking the quill and he signs at the bottom of all six pages, swiftly followed by Moneekar. Colin does the same and very handsome his signature is too.

All eyes turn to Fillipo who has been flicking through the pages, speed reading them. The tattooed man doesn't meet the eyes of any present as he places the sheets back on the desk. With a quivering hand he takes hold of the quill and writes his name on each, although his signature is untidy as his hand is shaking.

Now fully signed, the forms gather together and slide across to St Michael who places a black hand on them. 'Okay, you all agree to the terms and conditions of your stay so I guess, you may properly ascend. Move into the lift and press the button for the top floor. I would say good luck but falsehoods really don't become a member of the Host.'

The group move into the boxy lift and Anton presses the button for the top floor. In fact there is only one button, a large blue one with _HS_ written on it. The doors slowly drift together and meet in the middle with a gentle kiss. The lift starts its ascent and four heroes, privately prepare themselves for what they may face. Anton appears pensive yet knows he mustn't waver. Colin appears nervous yet knows the cause is handsomely worthy. Moneekar appears lonely yet knows a good friend is in need and there's a husband waiting for her. As for Fillipo, he appears terrified having read the small print, yet knows in his heart what must be done. After all, if the tables were turned and it was he who needed rescuing, Devbo wouldn't hesitate in doing what was right.

The lift comes to a halt after a few minutes and the doors give up their tight embrace. Fillipo is first out but not because he's feeling brave, he simply doesn't want his friends to see the tears welling in his eyes.

Down below, in the reception room, St Michael rests easy in his chair, presses his hands together and chuckles. So far so good and he flutters his wings. The feathers rub and caress each other, creating a tinkling vibrato, and he stands. On clicking his fingers, the desk and chair disappear and he prepares to leave and observe. With another finger click he finds himself unmoved. He tries again but there's no change. Confused, he looks at his Holy digits, those on his right hand, and tries again. Still there is nothing and St Michael's head slowly rises in understanding. He turns, sees another deity and instinctively steps back. His confidence evaporates as the newcomer seems somewhat displeased. 'God dude, how's it hanging?'

'Proud of yourself are you?' asks God, with a tight stare.

'Hey, this wasn't my doing. You know the score. I had to do it. Don't forget all the prayers and stuff. Even we have to listen to them.'

'We do, unfortunately, but I ask again, are you proud of yourself?'

'Come on boss, I had no choi...'

'Are you proud of yourself!' vocalises God, his words packing a punch.

St Michael has never heard the 'Voice of God' so forceful and strong, at least, not since the long ago days of _The Takeover_ , when the Lurking Peril was put down. And neither has he nearly had his wings ripped off by such an intense oration, and a rushing cloud of feathers hit the far wall. He who was so recently confident is now a cowering wreck. 'God brother, there was nothing I could do.'

'There was nothing you could do,' spits God, every repeated word another smiting blow. 'Don't you realise what's happening? Don't you see the danger? Don't you understand what we're facing? Michael, dude, I warn you and consider this a final verbal warning. You'd best beware because here's my less-than-little friend. Say hi to Lucifer.'

There is an anti-flash, and beside God stands the Prince of Darkness, wearing his black leather jacket with a 666 motif on the pocket, and on this occasion, he's spinning a short, fiery trident in his right hand. 'Hi Mikey, long time no see,' says Lucifer, grinning devilishly.

St Michael gasps. 'That's impossible, he can't be here. _I Out Thee Foul Demon of the Pit and Cast Thee Back to Hell!_ ' he shouts and thrusts an open-palmed hand forward.

Lucifer feels an invisible force attempt to eject his eternal soul but he's going nowhere. He rolls his eyes in mock sympathy and holds out a blue, laminated card. 'Manners Mikey, manners maketh, ahem, Omnis. I've got a day pass, signed by God himself. Here, take a look, and what do you know, it says I can stay. As for you though, take my proffered hand. Go on Mikey, I dare you. Make my Eternity.'

'Ah frigging crap,' stammers St Michael, stepping away from the reaching hand.

God has heard Lucifer's threat and despite not wanting to, knows he must intervene. He places his gnarled Staff of Justice between the pair. 'That's enough Lucifer, and sadly, for us both, there's little I can do on this occasion. What's done is done and cannot be undone.'

Mikey nods rapidly. 'That's right boss. This is my part of the realm and if you interfere I'll report you to HR, the Host Righteous, and they'll have to adjudicate. Trust me God brother, I don't want to, but if I must,' he says, his voice still shaky.

God snorts. 'You're a pitiful gnat St Michael, weak and unworthy in my eyes.'

Lucifer peers at his anti-Omni, his annoyance evident. 'I thought ...'

'There's nothing I can do, Lucifer,' interrupts God, his sight never leaving the Archangel. 'This creature has released those who entered Heaven, of their own free will, to their fate above and so it must be.'

'But we'll need them all,' growls Lucifer, his face taking on a redder hue.

'No old friend, the deed is done and I must abide. You have the same rules in your own realm, do you not?'

'I do but they can be broken any time I wish. What point are rules to the eternally damned?' says Lucifer, fingering the sixes on his jacket.

God nods. 'I hear you but up here the Host has a voice. We're a democracy and how would it look if I overrode the voice of the many?'

'You'd appear human ... ah, I see. On your head be it but when our old foe fully arises, don't call on me for assistance,' says an annoyed Lucifer, disappearing with a pop, leaving God and St Michael alone.

As the lesser cowers, God finally smiles. He reaches out a hand to St Michael which is hesitantly taken and the Archangel appears relieved. Sadly, for him, he's dragged forcibly face to face with his boss. 'Now listen up. You try this shit again and I'll send you down to Lucifer. I'm not pissing around, you hear me? As for the Holy Righteous, they can kiss my big, black ass and I'll even drop my trousers so they can really pucker up. You know what's coming Michael, so why do this? Tell me why?'

'God, I ... it was the prayers and the adulation,' stutters Mikey, avoiding eye-contact.

'Angel-crap, I don't buy that and neither do you. Now what's going on? And tell the truth or I'll smite you,' says God, repeatedly tapping the butt of his staff on the carpet.

'God, I ...'

'The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you, _ME!_ '

'I can't go against them. The RC Church isn't the evil you think it ...'

A glare cuts the Archangel's words short. 'The Lurking Peril is moving Michael, he's seriously moving and current events are just a subterfuge. They're just another distraction like that stupid reality show was. Tell me you see the real threat, otherwise you're of no further use.'

'I ... I see it but it can't be real. We can't go through that again. The Takeover, when we toppled the Lurking Peril, nearly destroyed us. Maybe we should make a deal. Yeah boss, let's talk to him and ...'

God has heard enough. He pushes St Michael to the floor and thinks about spitting on the Archangel. That however would be spiteful and God has never been spiteful. Smiteful yes, but spiteful, no. He glares through white, hooded eyes and spits out his words instead. 'Trust me Michael, this is real. We're about to face a new Takeover bid from our old adversary and if the planet below falls then he'll come for us next. Those are my words and understand that when I speak, it's probably a good idea to frigging listen!' he shouts, slamming the butt of his Omni-staff onto the carpet and is gone.
Chapter Twelve

Cardinal John Fisher

Anton, Moneekar and Colin, step from the lift and stand behind Fillipo, who was first out. At first, their disorientation is expected as the scene is somewhat unexpected. Heaven is said to be strange and wonderful but it appears that might not be the case. Looking left, then right, there is confusion as the street scene which greets them is no different to that which greets millions of people every day.

'I don't understand. Is this Heaven?' asks Anton, looking all around and seeing people appearing to be going about their daily business.

'Yes big Anton, this is Heaven,' sniffs Fillipo, keeping his back firmly turned to his friends.

'But it looks just like a normal shopping High Street.'

Fillipo nods. 'The _HS_ on the lift button stands for High Street. It makes sense really as St Michael appears on clothing labels. What were you expecting? A host of angels, a forest of nubile cherubs carrying amphorae of _Nuke 'em Brown Lager™_, or perhaps a coalmine with adequate ventilation so as to limit the chance of contracting pneumoconiosis? What were you fucking expecting?' he shouts, spittle flying from his mouth but nobody notices as his back is still turned.

Anton notes a few passing shoppers turn their heads to the unexpected commotion but they continue on their way. He's unsure what to make of the outburst, it being un-Fillipo like, especially the swearing, and he moves in front of him. 'There's no need to get angry, man. I only said I weren't expecting ... Are you crying?'

'No, I'm not,' says Fillipo, swiftly facing the ground. 'I have Heavenly dust in my eyes now let's find Devbo's soul so you can get out of here.'

The group walk along the street and the scene is familiar but something isn't right. For starters, there are no beggars with a scruffy dog on a string. Music can be heard but it's not coming from a graffiti-covered, shuttered shop front. This music is sweet, harmonic, and the orchestra in the middle of the pedestrian area isn't impeding the foot traffic. In fact, those passing pause to listen and nod in appreciation. There is also a lack of ... no, one is approaching, it being a student type with silly clothes and a collection box in hand. It's a Chastard, short for Charity Bastard, and the young lady has blocked Colin. 'Hello, I'm Fallopia. How are you today, sir? I'm collecting for the Joylove Society. Could you spare a moment?'

Colin looks upon the young woman and pats his empty trouser pockets, having not had time to collect his wallet from the house prior to entering Heaven. Being a man of manners and possessing an unwillingness to offend, he apologises.

The young girl shakes her head. 'Oh no sir, you don't understand. I'm not looking for money. I'm simply asking if you would spare a smile. Your donation today would go a long way to spreading happiness throughout our realm.'

'So you're not after cash then?' asks Colin, suspicion tinging his words.

The girl appears horrified. 'No sir! Collecting money from unsuspecting souls who have no idea they're being mugged is evil. All I ask is a smile. It is said sir, that a smile goes a long way and that a kind word can make a person's day, their week even. Of course, I wouldn't press you for a kind word as that would be overstepping my remit and Heaven forbid I interrupt your important business for too long. A smile would suffice but please don't feel obliged,' she says and unexpectedly her demeanour turns sad. 'I'm so sorry. I've taken up far too much of your precious time. Please forgive me for being a bad soul. I'm really not cut out for this, am I?'

Colin reaches out and raises the chastard's chin with a single finger. Eye contact is made and Colin smiles, handsomely. 'My dear child, if it's a smile you wish for, then take this one, and if I may say so, you're a charming young lady with impeccable manners. You may have those kind words on me.'

If the whole heavenly scene were a microwave then it would have just gone _ping!_ Unfortunately, even a well-intentioned gesture can sometimes have devastating effects. The young lady has held forth her _Happiness Collection Box_ and as the smile and kind words are sucked inside, it explodes. The street-scene pauses and multitudes of eyes turn as one. The sudden silence becomes an undercurrent of muttering, along the lines of 'it's him,' or words to that effect. The situation swiftly escalates, becoming a series of pointing fingers, and at the last, a stampede towards Colin, from both female and male souls.

The SAS Acting Corporal looks at his companions. There is concern all round but Colin, being unerringly chivalrous, manages a few words before he's deluged with Heavenly love. 'Go, save Devbo!'

'Thanks man, that's right brave,' says Anton, holding a thumb up.

Colin cries out from inside a growing crowd. 'What, you're just going to leave me?'

'We can't just leave, _eurgh!_ ' squeals Fillipo, looking to Anton and then Colin. He's unsure which way to go but has had the decision made for him.

'He can handle it. We need to find Devbo,' says Moneekar, grabbing her two companions before shouting. 'Get out the bloody way you loved-up wenches!'

She presses forward and despite the impending crush, nothing stops an Assistant Chef in full flow. Not even a tight crowd of Heavenly dewy-eyed, lusting souls. She continues to push on with Fillipo and Anton tight behind her. Eventually, the crowd begins to thin and they are in clear air.

'We must go back for Colin,' insists Fillipo, looking back at the crowd, trying to pick out the man in the growing crush.

'No, we have to find Devbo and ...' begins Anton, but he pauses. 'Call me daft but why is there a church in a row of shops on a High Street?'

Moneekar and Fillipo look to where Anton is pointing and a church can be seen with a stained-glass window frontage, organ music coming from the open front door and a flashing neon sign reading: _RC Curiosities_.

As the trio cautiously approach there's a flash, a bang, and a throng of barely dressed dancers are running from the arched doorway. All are holding pom-poms and they are forming a guard of honour leading directly to the entrance. They are also singing, a particularly bad song.

_' Come on in, ignore our din, don't be scared, there are no traps_,

_Enter here, do not fear, take a seat or a soul perhaps_ ,

_Come inside and you 'll find, that this store is not a wreck though_,

_Turn away, would you dare, cos if you do, you 'll not find Devbo!'_

As the scantily dressed dancers, both male and female, start to _la, la, la_ , Anton, Fillipo and Moneekar find themselves shepherded through the entrance. Once inside, the dancing and singing stops and a heavy, metal shutter drops to the ground on the outside, preventing their exit. The trio have been caught like rats in a trap and despite their misgivings; they know for certain this is the place to be.

Anton notes a serving counter, blocking entry to the rear and there's a reception desk bell resting on it. With no better idea, he presses his palm to the top. It dings and as the sound dissipates, a figure wearing the brown robe of an RC Priest floats into view from a rear doorway.

'Can I help ... ah, at last, the murderers? We've been expect...' says the priest but his words fail when a strong hand reaches forward and grabs him round the neck.

Moneekar drags the priest unceremoniously over the counter and pulls his face close to hers. Despite desperate struggling he fails to break free and only when he's still, does she speak. 'I don't take any crap so be a good boy, you hear?'

The priest manages to speak but his voice is strained. 'I'm Father, _eurgh_ , yes I hear you.'

'That's good, now give me Devbo's soul or I'll tighten my grip. I'm only playing at the moment so what do you say?' asks Moneekar, adding a chilling sneer.

'Your souls will be _aargh!_ ' squeals the Priest, and as his neck vertebrae start to make unnatural grinding noises, he points a sleeve over his shoulder. 'It's out the back, down the corridor.'

'Thanks, and because this is Heaven, I forgive you. Now fuck off and don't come back.'

Anton and Fillipo stare at Moneekar but give no admonishment with regards her rare use of potty-mouth. Each flinches however, as the woman launches the priest at the front shutter and window. There's a combined sound of shattering stained-glass and metal slats being torn apart. The Priest lands out in the High Street, rolls, rights himself, and swiftly floats away. There is no sign of him returning but Moneekar isn't prepared to take any chances. 'I'll watch the front, you get Devbo?' she orders.

'Yes Assistant Chef!' shout Anton and Fillipo, who throw themselves over the counter and run through the doorway.

Moneekar watches her two friends disappear then turns to the front of the store. She snarls ferociously at the faces peeping through a priest-shaped hole, and sees a Heaven Borough Council worker already on the scene, clearing glass and metal from the street.

Anton and Fillipo are in a poorly lit corridor with flickering and buzzing fluorescent tube lighting. They continue on, walking with purpose despite the eerie scene and each attempt to control their fast-beating hearts.

Soon enough they reach the far end which is being blocked by a thick curtain. Light can be seen around the edges and they look at each other. Anton smiles on seeing the tears in Fillipo's eyes. He knows his good friend and Devbo have never really got on, and it means a lot to him that Fillipo's getting emotional.

Anton takes a deep breath. 'It's now or never.'

'Yes big Anton, come hold me tight.'

'You what?' asks Anton, glancing sideways with concern.

Fillipo gulps. 'I have a confession to make. I ... I like wearing lady's clothes,' he says, now facing the floor.

Anton peers curiously at his old friend. 'Why are you telling me this now? Couldn't it wait until tomorrow?'

'Tomorrow will be too late. It's now or never.'

'Right, but I already suspected,' says Anton, wondering what has come over his friend.

'What, how?' asks Fillipo, the fear in his eyes clearly evident.

'Well, when you were staying over I did your washing and I know those lacy knickers weren't mine. I'm not judging or nothing. What you do is your business and we can still be friends.'

Fillipo forces a smile and turns to the curtain blocking their way. His next words are barely audible. 'That's not all my sweet friend.'

Anton hasn't heard him. 'I know you're scared but are you ready?'

'I don't think I'll ever be ready but as Devbo would say, let's rumble.'

The curtain is ripped from its mounting as two men race forward. After a few steps they skid to a halt, untangle themselves, drop the curtain to the floor, and move not another inch. Both gasp at what they see. The room, more like the inside of a cathedral, with tall stained-glass windows reaching right round and a massive domed ceiling, is pocked with small alcoves all around its circular wall. There are thousands of them and within each there is an object. They range from ornate, decorative items to simple ones. As two pairs of eyes pan around the walls both settle on a much bigger object, a living and breathing one. It is man-shaped and wearing a crimson robe.

Anton speaks but his words are hesitant and suspicious. 'What are you?'

'That's an RC Cardinal and it would have been better to ask who, not what,' says Fillipo.

'Aye, right, who are you?'

The RC Cardinal is sitting a dozen or so yards ahead of them, on a simple three-legged, wooden stool. His hood is not pulled up and his face is currently looking to the floor, revealing a few wisps of grey hair on his bald, mottled head. His hands are clasped tightly together, a rosary hanging from them, and his forearms rest on his thighs. He appears gaunt but at least he's not floating. Slowly the head rises and pitted eyes stare at the pair before him. He speaks with a deep, throaty growl. 'You made it but I guessed you might.'

'Give us the soul of Devbo or we'll ...' demands Anton but the words are interrupted by a snorting Cardinal.

'You'll what exactly? Beat an old man who's already dead. If you were capable you would never have been allowed into Heaven in the first place. You're no men of God, that much is obvious, yet there is goodness in your hearts and that's lacking in many of today's youth.'

'We're not exactly youth, we're over forty,' says Anton.

'You're youth to me, child. I was born in the fifteenth century in the UQ County of Yorkshire and everyone alive today is a youth compared to me. Now take the soul of your friend and be gone. I'm tired,' says the man, staring back at the floor, his bony fingers again caressing his rosary.

Fillipo takes a step forward. 'Excuse me big Cardinal, but you do not sound like you're from Yorkshire, or look like it in fact.'

'Pah! Do you not think six centuries of death might make a man lose his accent? Should I have a whippet and a flat cap? Oh 'eck and eeh by gum. Is that better?' asks the old man, and he waves a hand. 'Just take your friend and leave me in peace.'

'Of course big Cardinal but ...' begins Fillipo, but stops when the man fixes him with a less than amused stare.

'I'm John Fisher and not big Cardinal. I ceased being a Cardinal when I was executed by the fat King all that time ago. As for your friend, take your pick from the objects in the alcoves, he's in one of them but I don't know which.'

Anton and Fillipo take another look at the thousands of objects. Nothing seems to stand out but then, most of the objects can't be seen from where they are standing.

'Can you give us a clue which one it is?' asks Anton, scratching his receding hairline.

'What? I said I don't know and I meant it. A Cardinal doesn't lie, we're not able.'

Anton scoffs loudly. 'Can't lie? That's crap and I bet you're going to say you also don't like kiddies.'

Cardinal John's head rises and he stares sharply at Anton, his piercing eyes closed to slits. It appears the words have touched a nerve. 'What did you say?' he hisses.

'Big Anton, I think we should leave him alone,' pleads Fillipo but Anton ignores him.

'No, the bastard needs to hear it. You're a bunch of weirdos and if it weren't for your stupid vow of celibacy then you might actually not want to do nasty things. If you were able to get married, and touch women, with their permission of course, then the temptation wouldn't be there, would it?'

'Big Anton, please stop,' says Fillipo, placing a hand on Anton's shoulder but it's shrugged off.

'He needs to know that religion only works if it puts the needs of people first. You can't just throw millennia of evolution out the window, pretending ordinary people can cope with it, and that's what priests are. They're just ordinary people being asked to do something inhuman and that's not right.'

'Big Anton, that was unnecessary.'

'The bastard deserves it,' snarls Anton, crossing his arms and looking away.

The seated Cardinal visibly shakes and the rosary in his hands shatters, sending beads clattering across the stone floor. His words are full of pain and torment. 'This can't go on. The evil must be destroyed and the stain removed. The Lurking Peril must not be allowed to ascend. Gentlemen, I have seen the darkness within, the vile taint. You must restore Devbo for only he can destroy that which has defiled my church. The evil has been allowed to creep inside by stealth. That which you describe is not the doing of decent humans but that of an Ancient travesty. I know you understand me and the Buggerist Monks will confirm my fears. The RC Church isn't evil but that which has usurped it, is. Anton, Fillipo, take the part of Devbo's soul you came for and please hurry. I'm a mere husk of a man but you have the ability to restore my faith, the totality of my faith, and make me whole again.'

Anton and Fillipo exchange glances, both unsure whether to believe the man or not. 'So which object's Devbo then?' Anton asks.

Cardinal John Fisher groans and presses fingers to his eyes. 'Eeh by gum, I don't flipping know as like.'

Anton swears and again looks at the multitude of alcoves. He shakes his head and for wont of a better plan, starts pacing forward. Having taken a few steps, he looks back. 'Fillipo, we need to find Devbo. I'll start on this side and you the other. Get with it man!'

Fillipo isn't looking at Anton despite his best friend's insistence. He only has eyes for Cardinal John and those eyes are blurred. As he starts to tremble, he locks sight with the deceased Cardinal. The man nods in understanding and a pitying smile falls into place on his thin lips. 'Do as your friend says, Fillipo. Find the soul of he who is broken. Only then can the evil be fought. Go now, fulfil that which is written, signed perhaps, and know that God will have mercy on your soul.'

'Will it hurt?' asks Fillipo, shakily.

'Oh yes, the pain will be excruciating but I'll not leave your side. My Church has much to repent and it will start with you. That's why God asked me to come here. Now go and find your friend,' says Cardinal John, smiling at the tattooed man.

Fillipo nods as the tears start to fall. He takes a deep breath and prepares to move.

Anton is shouting as he looks at the first of the objects. 'Fillipo, we have to find ...'

'Shut up big Anton! Just for once be quiet and listen. Come back here now, I'll find Devbo. I'll retrieve him. I'll give him to you and once you have him you run. You run fast and never return.'

Anton scratches his head and slowly wanders back. 'Fillipo?'

'You run and don't look back. Promise me big Anton, with all your wonderful heart. Promise me.'

'I don't think ...'

'I said fucking promise me!' screams Fillipo, his words echoing through the cathedral.

Anton stands dazed. Is that really his good friend swearing? Apparently it is and although taken aback, he obeys.

Fillipo smiles sadly and whispers. 'I warned you that tomorrow will be too late. Now wait here and leave this to me. I understand the game and will find Devbo.'

Fillipo is off and as he rounds the cathedral wall he looks intently at each alcove. On seeing the vastly differing objects he mumbles the word 'no,' to himself. The first of the alcoves are seen and dismissed in no time, so he continues on. He ignores the first hundred, then the next and the next. A thousand are left untouched and soon he has reached the far side of the circular cathedral. Now heading back round to his starting position, he continues to leave alcoves behind.

He reaches three quarters of the way round, still mumbling 'no,' to himself. On and on and ... he stops, backtracks, and stares at the alcove before him. The object inside is a transparent plastic bag with a dead bird inside. It has no apparent connection to the broken Devbo but Fillipo is certain of his find. He licks his lips and his heartbeat quickens. 'I've found him!' he shouts.

'Then grab him and we'll get out of here.'

Fillipo hears the words, reaches for the object but pauses. He draws in a stuttering breath and tries to keep his voice steady. 'No, you must come here!'

Without the need to be told twice, Anton is sprinting and soon skids to a halt beside his friend. 'What makes you think it's him? It's just a bag with a dead spuggy in it,' he says, appearing unconvinced.

'It's him, I'm betting my life on it. When I pass him over you run and don't look back. You promised remember,' says Fillipo, reaching for the bag.

'I don't think I did. You asked but I didn't actually say it.'

'Then promise me now. I'm not pissing around.'

Anton sighs. 'We right need to have a word about your language,' he says, but suddenly finds a bagged, dead bird in his hands. He also reels at Fillipo's next action. 'You kissed me on the cheek, man!'

'I did, now run. Get out of here before it's too late.'

'Aye, and make sure you keep up.'

Anton hits the space where the curtain used to hang. He races along the corridor, hurdles the counter and bowls into Moneekar. Thankfully the woman is prepared and she grabs her friend, hurls herself at the shuttered entrance, making the priest-shaped hole a little bigger and lands outside, unharmed. As they sprint down the High Street they smash through the crowd and grab Acting Corporal Colin, who is more than grateful. At the last they race into the lift and hit the only button, curiously now reading: _SETH_ \- Secret Entrance to Heaven. The lift drops, the doors open on the reception room and the trio race back into the chapel. The wall instantly closes behind them with a resounding crash of stone and there is no way back.
Chapter Thirteen

A Bad Omen

Chapter thirteen does not exist for health and safety reasons, as per current 'Fate' regulations. Move on ... quickly!
Chapter Fourteen

No Use Crying

Fillipo has seen his cherished companion depart at a serious rate of Geordie knots. Now alone, he feels a cold pain creeping within his soul. As he looks up he sees the aged Cardinal walking slowly towards him.

'I feel no different other than an overwhelming, immense sadness,' says Fillipo.

'It is to be expected but be proud you acted in good faith. As for the loss of your soul, the one you signed away, the true pain is yet to come. Fear not though, I am here.'

Fillipo eyes the Cardinal standing before him in his fine crimson robe, and he would appear as a force to be reckoned with, were it not for his sad eyes. John Fisher winks and turns on hearing a popping sound. The Archangel St Michael has come to pass, appeared as it were, and the black deity is smiling widely.

'Ah, so it was you who stole the soul of Devbo and theft is a sin which will require payment. _I Claim Your Soul For ..._'

As Fillipo's eyes range wide, there is another popping sound. The newcomer is fingering a laminated blue card and he speaks, his words beautifully threatening. 'You touch that man Mikey and I'll drag you further than you intend to drag him.'

St Michael growls loudly. 'Lucifer you frigging fiend, you can't come here. This is my realm. _Foul Demon I Send Thee Back to Hell!_ '

A look of amusement crosses Lucifer's face and he holds out his card. He taps a fingernail on it, directly atop the signature of God. 'Blue pass card Mikey, now give it up. Sadly, God is indisposed at the moment but he gave me his, ahem, blessing to speak on his behalf. I'm not sure if I'll get this exactly right but the gist of his words was as follows. "You tell that trumped up, expletive deleted, Archangel if he harms a, expletive deleted, hair on the man's head then he'll have me to, expletive deleted, answer to." That's it, though I may have got the odd word wrong in all the excitement. I'm guessing that God isn't happy with you. Nice wings by the way. What happened to the feathers?'

St Michael ignores the Omni's piss-taking, weighs up his options and rallies. 'You can't come here and preach to me you piece of frigging Hell-bound crap. He signed the forms and that's binding.'

Lucifer brushes imaginary dust from his leather jacket and holds up a thin sheaf of paper. 'What, these forms?' he asks, licking a red finger and starts flicking through them. 'Now let me see. Form one signed, Derek Duck. Form two signed, Mary Mouse. Form three signed, Jeremiah Paxo-man, whoever he is? Need I go on?'

St Michael glares at Lucifer in an un-heavenly way. 'You devious shit, this is my neighbourhood and you cheated. The soul is forfeit, to do with as I see fit.'

With no warning, St Michael's eyes roll in their sockets and he topples backwards, landing on his wings which lose a few more feathers. A tall Cardinal is flexing and contracting the fingers of his left hand. 'Eeh by gum that felt right special. You have no idea how long I've wanted to punch someone, even if it was him. Watching my faith slowly slide into oblivion tends to focus the mind and lend a man to violence, but only temporarily of course, hmmm.'

Lucifer glances down at the prone figure of the Archangel. It was a powerful punch and one a certain Assistant Chef would have been proud of. The self-styled Prince of Darkness turns his dark stare to the old man and raises an eyebrow. 'Touche Cardinal and can I assume you'll protect Fillipo? I have a feeling God has plans for him. Anyway, I need to be elsewhere as that shambles of a group will soon be entering my realm, attempting to at least.'

John Fisher snarls. 'Be gone demon and know that no harm will come to him, not while I still have a decent left hook.'

'I see that and give my respects to your faith, your real faith. If it wasn't for them I'd probably not exist, if you know what I mean,' says Lucifer, chuckling before disappearing with a pop.

Cardinal John turns to a stunned Fillipo. 'Well that was exhilarating but tell me, how did you know which of the objects was Devbo? There were thousands after all,' he asks, looking at the empty alcove the dead bird was in.

Fillipo sighs. 'It was easy and the objects themselves seemed irrelevant. Only the carved letters beneath the alcoves made any sense. Thousands of recesses had thousands of letters, from every language that has ever existed, but one stood out.'

'I see it but why the letter _R_ from the ancient American alphabet?'

'In truth, I don't fully understand but it seemed to make sense that Devbo would be an _R-Soul_.'

The older man frowns. 'Please explain?'

'I'd rather not. Can we call it divine intervention instead?'

'As you wish,' says John Fisher, placing a hand on Fillipo's shoulder. 'Let's just say, God certainly moves in mysterious ways.'

The first part of Devbo's soul is secure, wrapped tight in General Richard's standard-issue backpack. So far so good and the group prepare to leave. Candles are extinguished, for safety reasons, and a glass-fronted case containing a damp shirt is placed back on the chapel wall. Sadly though, not all is well.

'I'm not going. I'm not fucking leaving until Fillipo comes back and that's final!' yells Anton, trying to take the shirt back down.

'You have to come with us Anton,' insists Cloudier.

'I'm not fucking going anywhere and stop trying to put the shirt back up you nut-job.'

'That wasn't nice, brother, but you're upset,' says Cloudier, wrestling Anton for the glass case.

'Upset, I'm upset! Listen you fu...'

A sound left hook an RC Cardinal would be proud of connects with a damp chin. Anton's head rocks back and Moneekar catches his limp body before it connects with the hard, stone floor. 'Okay, I'm not bloody proud of that but he's not thinking straight. I'll stay with him until you get the other part of Devbo's soul,' she says, holding Anton in her arms.

'Moneekar my sweet cannon. You can't stay here, we'll need you in Hell and ...' begins Walshy, but he sensibly shuts up on receiving his wife's look.

'I won't be going. I got into Heaven so it makes sense I won't be able to get into Hell, doesn't it?' asks Moneekar, eyeing her companions for confirmation.

Cloudier's eyes suddenly light up despite the blackness around them. 'That does make sense, which means ... I can go to Hell. Yippee!' she exclaims, fast-clapping her hands while jumping up and down on the spot.

'Me too,' adds General Richard, slapping a hand on his weapon. 'I'm locked, loaded, woggle adjusted and ready. Are you coming, Acting Corporal Colin?'

Eyes turn to Colin who is standing proud and handsome. In the Heavenly High Street melee another shirt button has come undone but enough of his chest is still covered so to prevent further feminine lustiness. His hair is a mess and his face, well, only a transvestite should ever wear more lipstick. 'It's been a pleasure General, but I agree with Moneekar. Any who entered Heaven have no place in Hell, but I also disagree with her,' he says, turning to the accomplished Assistant Chef. 'Moneekar, you're without doubt the most amazing woman I've ever met, apart from my wife of course, but you can't stay here. I'll take care of Anton and the rest of you should be off. I give my stoutest promise no harm will come to your friend,' he says, saluting, and there's a collective gasp on seeing the handsomest salute ever.

General Richard nods. 'Well said Acting Corporal. It seems the decision has been made so let's be off as Hell waits for no man, or woman,' he adds, casting a cautious glance at an overexcited Cloudier.

The group exit the chapel but there's always one who has a question. This particular one voices it as he grips his plastic component bags tight. 'General, I know we decided on where the entrance to Hell might be, while the others were gone, but you said we'd have no way of getting to it. How then will we?'

The General turns to address the group. 'I've been thinking on that and in truth, we'll not reach it on our own. There is however, one who can help us. He's the People's Avenger and damn good at what he does. Our next stop is to find and then convince him to do just that.'

'Who is it, General? Who can get us into Hell?' asks Walshy, including himself in the reckoning as he wasn't let into Heaven.

The SAS man taps his nose and winks.
Chapter Fifteen

The People's Avenger

It's the dead of night but the night itself is rarely dead. The period between dusk and dawn is a living, howling, predatory beast. The night is a time for those creatures which shun the light, namely foxes, badgers and lawyers. There is however, another, but this one isn't recognised as a run of the mill night beast, and why not? The reason is nobody cares about this beast's prey. There is always mention of a victimless crime, and it is rare one exists, but in this case it does, and the masses spur him on.

The night beast, a human he, doesn't do it for the masses though. That's neither here nor there as he doesn't give a flying fig about public opinion. He does it for himself only. He has but a single goal and that is to bring those to task who have cursed his life.

Twenty-five years spent in solitary confinement, locked in a UQBC _Spewsnight_ studio, can make a man go mad. Even an intelligent man would find himself in the darkest throes of insanity were it not for a little friend. He has a Canadian Belt Knife, named Russell, and were it not for that, he would have given up the ghost and slit his own throat years ago. As it is, revenge is a dish best served cold, metallic and very sharp.

The People's Avenger is abound, one whose footfalls are damp but only because of the rain earlier that evening. As badgers peer from the hedgerows and foxes stop in their tracks upon a poorly lit country lane, they stare at him and see a much bigger creature. Their curiosity is peeked but the expected creatures of the night are far from stupid. Sensibly they run but not too far as they want to watch. Even the slyest of creatures recognises that an opportunity to scavenge might be on the cards, so they bide their time.

The man walks along the lane and swats his hand at the gathering cloud of insects above his head. He knows he smells like a month-long unemptied wheelie bin but that is of no consequence. He pauses and his eyes dart to the hidden places where the expected carnivores are hidden. He smiles on knowing the fauna of the sleepy village of Posh-de-la-Forge, deep in the heart of Kent, have decided to take the night off.

Jeremiah Paxo-man, man of intelligence and the People's Avenger, as he has come to be known, has another victim in his sights but in truth, they're not a victim as he has a sound defence. Whether that would stand up in a court of law would be interesting but is wholly irrelevant as he has no intention of getting caught. He's a wraith, a slippery mist, though somewhat pungent.

As he steps along the lane to an echoing _flip-flop, flip-flop_ , that being the sound of the loose soles on his well-worn brogues, he stops. He has reached his intended destination, a mansion entrance with tall, stone pillars holding tight to a pair of dark, wrought iron gates. A huge sign, cable-tied to the gates reads: _Trespassers will be Executed!_ He expects no less from the woman he seeks and in smaller print below: _If my husband is away you must expect to be ravaged as I 'm insatiable ... and then executed!_ There is smaller print below that but Jeremiah's not wearing his glasses, having lost them while tackling the Surrey Estate of Count Norman Titbit two nights previously. They were devoured by a vampire guard but he showed them.

Jeremiah tuts loudly, removes his flip-flopping shoes and leaves them by the gates. He'll return for them later, when the deed is done. He places his hands in front of his face, leaving a thin crack between his fingers to see through. By doing so his vision is limited but that is of no concern. Certainly, he can't see well but he also knows nothing can see him, having become invisible. It is a child's trick but has served him well over the past six months. He has no idea why it works, just that it does, and he's not about to argue against it.

He slips his thin body between the bars of the gate and once inside, walks lightly along the gravel driveway, his moist, holed socks making no sound. The makeshift road is long and goes some way to revealing how rich the owner of the eighteen bedroom mansion is. As he approaches a side window, and not the front door, he recalls the nameplate on the gate: _Mrs & Mr Edwina Rogan-Josh_. Jeremiah smiles wickedly and continues on.

In the Security Control room, directly below bedroom thirteen and above S&M dungeon four, there is confusion regarding a bank of CCTV screens. A security officer dressed head to toe in black leather isn't happy. He's shouting into a microphone, through the unzipped mouthpiece in his head encompassing mask. 'Oi, officer six, we just lost all camera feeds. You go and check what happening. Last thing me see was strange pair of blue eyes hanging in air and nothing else.'

Officer six responds but not over a radio. He shouts from a nearby room. 'Why me go? Me in the bog. You go and me watch CCTV.'

'No, me officer two and me supervisor, now get out there.'

'What if that the People's Avenger, him kill me?' says officer six.

'You not worry, me watching.'

'How you watching, security cameras not working?'

'Right er, if that People's Avenger out there then you scream really loud,' says officer two.

'Then you come help?'

'Then me lock office door and when sun come up me send out other officers.'

'That hours away. What if he kills me?' asks officer six, still in the nearby toilet.

'Then me pay out Death-in-Service to your Mum. You now worth eight pounds fifty-four pence, plus interest and bonuses. Do me have to force you, officer six?'

'Yeah, me going nowhere as there better lock on bog door than on office. Good luck officer two, me hope you make it,' says officer six, switching off the toilet light and lifting his feet, even though the door reaches all the way to the floor.

Security officer two starts to panic. 'But that People's Avenger out there, officer six!'

'Me know and shush, pretend me not here.'

'Hah, you a coward but ... can me come in bog as well?'

'Okay, but be quick and no hanky-panky. Me have seat though, you have to stand.'

Officer two swiftly exits the Security Control room and runs the five yards to the toilet door. He knocks and a few seconds later the door opens. Officer two is admitted and as stated, he has to stand. The door is swiftly locked.

'Ta officer six. Me not scared or nuffink but me need toilet. It er, dark in here.'

'Who say that?'

'That officer two and him Supervisor so budge up officer eleven.'

'Right,' says officer eleven, hearing a shout as he's stood on something. 'Who that?'

'It officer three, you standing on my toes.'

'Shut up you lot.'

'Who say that?' asks officer two, seeing nothing in the darkness.

'It officer fifteen, me sitting on cistern.'

'Right, you finish sweep of grounds then, officer fifteen?'

'Me needed a poo so me come in. Me not scared or nuffink though.'

There is a knock on the door and all pause. Eventually officer six whispers. 'Who that?'

'It officer nine.'

'Sod off, bog out of order,' exclaim five officers.

There is the sound of breaking glass from the billiard room, possibly the library, or potentially the ballroom. It's difficult to tell exactly as visuals are offline and those given the task of ensuring the safety of the owners have all come down with a tummy complaint. Is it food poisoning? It's entirely possible, as the prevalent pathogen, _Clostridium Runandhideii_ is currently running amok in the heart of Kent. As it stands, the toilets, including every en-suite, are currently in use and the mansion's antiquated drainage system is about to find out if it can cope?

There is soft padding across a carpet, from whichever room, and a door handle is turned. An internal alarm starts to shriek!

Almost instantly, a first floor door flies open and a black-haired woman crashes into the hallway and grips the bannister. She's wearing a tight, black leather basque, red stockings, and enough make-up to stun an Avon lady. In her hand is a vicious, multi-headed whip with fresh blood on the tips. She hits it against the bannister, throwing up splinters and screams out. 'Security! Has Sir Eric Piccalilly got out again? Find him, I'm ordering you to find him. Security ... oh, I see. I'll have to do it myself then. What's the point of employing you lumps if I have to chase down the patrons myself? I hope you haven't fed the dogs yet.'

Edwina Rogan-Josh throws herself over the bannister and floats down to the floor below. Has she done so in an unexpected way? No she hasn't, as evil does move mysteriously. She strides purposefully to the Security Control room.

'I'm warning you, I'll not ... where are you? Right, I'll do it myself,' curses Edwina, sitting herself at the security desk and she quietens the annoying alarm by smacking her hand down on a flashing red button on the console. As her black leather knickers slip down, revealing a bum-crack that parting tectonic plates would be proud of, she shouts into the desk-mounted microphone.

'Officer one, release the dogs and bring that fat sod back. He's been pigging the fruit bowls all night, even though they're wax, so he shouldn't take long to catch. Officer two, go downstairs and check Johnny Major-Personality-Bypass is still chained to his rack. Officer three, get in here right now as I'm horn-on-a-stick and need satiating,' she orders, and hears the office door moving. 'Good, that was quick, now put my legs behind ...'

Edwina turns and sees nobody so she rises from the chair and peers around the door. She shouts for Security but there's still no reply. Confused, she steps back into the office, pulling the door as she goes. As it swings shut it inexplicably bounces open again, as if hitting an invisible obstacle. She pauses and sniffs. There is a taint in the air, not too dissimilar to that of her Patron Disposal room, where the non-survivors are discarded. She calls out. 'Who's there? Is that you, Silvio?'

'No, I'm not Silvio. Care to guess again?' says a rumbling, authoritative voice.

'Who said that? Who's there?'

Jeremiah chuckles and removes his hands from in front of his face. Edwina's pupils expand on seeing the People's Avenger and she screams. 'Security, help me, it's Jezza!'

The man sneers on knowing Security won't be coming. He knows where they are hiding but has no quarrel with them. He only has eyes for the woman of the house and those eyes are angry slits. 'Did you just call me ... Jezza?'

'Er, no, no I didn't. I called you Jesus. That's right, I called you Jesus as you're spiritual and infinitely forgiving,' stammers Edwina, backing into the security console.

Jeremiah taps his knife, Russell, against his ripped trousers and shakes his head in disappointment. 'Madam, I can assure you I'm neither forgiving nor spiritual, though I do have a tendency to say "Dear Lord" on occasion. Now, I suggest you submit to me and take your punishment. I'd hate to have to kill you but my little friend Russell will do so if the need arises. What's it to be Mrs Rogan-Josh, easy or hard?'

Edwina has heard the words, easy or hard, and that's a red rag to one such as her. Easy means nothing, but hard? Unable to control herself she launches at the man, her eyes flaring with lust-fire.

The speed of the woman has momentarily caught Jeremiah off guard and he finds himself in a situation he wasn't expecting. 'Dear Lord, get off me you rampant wench. Control yourself or it will be hard.'

Edwina shrieks loudly with mad laughter. 'Oh yes Jezza, thrust me the hard way. Make me have it you big, smelly man. Dominate me!'

'Get off me you tramp or I'll ...' growls Jeremiah, one hand holding the woman at arm's length as the other swipes a knife round. 'There, you made me do it, taste my weapon.'

'Yes please Jezza, spank me and say I'm naught...' begins Edwina, but a drowsiness overcomes her and she drops to the floor completely naked, as Jeremiah has sliced through her clothing, him being that proficient with his knife. As she sits upright, her legs wide apart, she stares up at the man in a misty daze. In return, Jeremiah takes a step away and glances down at a red, angry looking gash. The cut is shallow, across her midriff, and non-fatal as was his intention. He takes another step away and waits.

As the woman starts to rise, she stumbles, her eyes roll, and she falls none too gently back to the floor. The carfentanil smeared blade has done its job but Jeremiah waits a few more seconds, just to be sure. When he is, he steps forward and kneels beside Edwina's limp body. He lifts the head, turns it to him and using Russell, carves his calling card on her forehead. What took an age to begin with, when dealing with his first victims, now takes barely a minute and when done, he releases the head and stands tall. The letters he has carved are currently bloodied, raw and unrecognisable but when healed, his message will be clear to see. It'll simply read: _JP!_ ... which may or may not stand for 'Justice of the Peace.'

The deed is done and Jeremiah leaves the mansion, exiting through the front door on this occasion, knowing full well security won't raise the alarm until daybreak. Just to be sure he covers his face with his hands and all is well as he makes his way along the gravel path.

Unfortunately, a snarling, growling dog has limped from a stand of rhododendron bushes and blocked Jeremiah's exit. The thing is the size of a Great Dane, but has the looks and build of an Eastern Europalian weightlifter. It is also baring its teeth and dribbling, as any decent guard dog or weightlifter should.

Jeremiah, with hands still covering his face, licks his lips. 'You can see me then?'

The ex-Spewsnight convict swiftly weighs up his options and lowers his invisibility hands. The dog is an innocent but he realises his own personal safety comes first so he reaches into a torn pocket and grips Russell's handle. As the two beasts stare eye to eye, none willing to be the first to commit, Jeremiah notices the canine is holding a leg off the ground and blood is dripping from a wound. He bravely steps forward and crouches. The dog continues to snarl but allows Jeremiah to examine the leg. He notices something sharp and metallic, cutting its way inside and with deft knife swipes he removes the offending item. It appears as part of a bear trap but as for what happened to the rest of it, he wouldn't put it past the giant canine to have bitten it away. As he lowers the leg the dog finally stops growling and topples over, the remnants of the drug on the knife blade enough to render it unconscious. Jeremiah smiles genuinely, pats the flank of the sleeping beast and continues on to the estate gates. Once through the bars, he puts on his shoes and makes his way along the damp country lane to his lodgings, no more than a mile away.
Chapter Sixteen

Ze (New) Union of Europalia

It is a perilous, frightful night and a storm is lashing its way across the large island country of Jeermany. Everyone is staying inside, taking cover from the deluge and incessant lightning strikes. The unforgiving weather demands a stout roof and nerves of steel. Thankfully, in the Bavarian town of Feckenshmacker, close to the Swizz/Horstrian border, there's an abundance of both. Those in the small town are battened down, riding out the ferocious storm but others, those in a castle, beneath a castle in fact, are far better protected.

Within a large cavern, one smoothly hewn from solid rock by a long gone underground lake, a secretive group gather. They are wearing black robes, their faces and bodies unseen, making them indistinguishable from each other.

They stand upon a sandy ground and before them sits a massive round table which would seat at least fifty, although those attending number only twelve. With a nod from one of the cloaked figures, all take their seats. Seconds later, many of the figures stand and shuffle around to one segment as it would be difficult to hear each other being so far apart. Now properly gathered, they converse. A female voice speaks first, as is always the case for this particular meeting. Her robe sleeves are thrown wide and her Europalian accent echoes forth.

'Velcome vun and all to ze zird ever meeting of Ze (New) Union of Europalia and I note ve are now twelve in total, having been seven at ze start. For you newcomers who do not understand ze vorkings of our meetings I'll give you a short induction. I am Frau Jeermany and ven I am here I have no other name. Zat vill be ze same for you all and if you forget it, you'll be mocked until you get it right. Now, I zink ve vill go around ze table and introduce ourselves. As you know I'm Frau Jeermany. Who's next?'

'I'm Herr Horstria,' says Herr Horstria, obviously, raising a sleeve in the air.

'I'm Herr Luxuryburg.'

'I'm a new member from the Cheek Republic which is a wonderful country.'

Frau Jeermany bangs her sleeve on the table making everyone jump and her dark hood turns to the man. 'No, Herr Cheek Republic. If you vish to join us zen you must speak in ze new Europalian language. No vord can begin vith _W_ or _Th_ , however silly zat may be, now try again.'

Herr Cheek Republic coughs in embarrassment and notes the incumbents in the chairs either side of him, leaning away. 'Right, yes Chancellor Angular Murky, I apologise.'

Again a dark sleeve is banged on the table. 'I am not Chancellor Angular Murky! I am Frau Jeermany and don't forget it. Just zis once ve'll forgive you but don't slip up again. Now introduce yourself properly.'

'Of course Frau Jeermany. I'm Herr Cheek Republic from a wond... vunderful country and I'm happy to be here,' says a hesitant Herr Cheek Republic and his tense shoulders drop in relief when he sees the hood of Frau Jeermany nod.

'Zat's better, now who's next?'

'Oody blurby snur...' begins the next robed figure.

'No, you vill speak like us, now get it right!' screams the Frau, waggling a sleeve at the man.

The figure tries again. 'I'm Herr Belgym, I'm very happy to be here and ze ports of Belgym are yours to control.'

Frau Jeermany's hood nods again and her tone is more gentle. 'Zat is better Herr Belgym but I, er we, do not seek to control your ports. Zis is not Planet Var Zree,' she says, laughing loudly.

Laughter also erupts from the other six original members and each appreciates the humour of Frau Jeermany, recognising a very funny joke when they hear one. Fists, inside sleeves, are banged on the round table and there is exaggerated jumping around in seats.

'Thank you, Frau Jeermany,' mumbles a nervous Herr Belgym.

'And it's zank, not thank. I'm varning you Herr Belgym and if it vasn't for your country having ze outdated Europalian Peninsula Court of Human Rights zen I vould mention you all vear silly clothes and eat ze brussel sprouts.'

Again, laughter echoes across the table, there are more banged sleeves and one member, though who is unknown, due to all wearing identical encompassing dark robes, falls off his chair but soon gets back on and controls his joviality.

The Frau waves her sleeves for calm. 'Now zen, who's next?'

'Herr Lickastein, Frau Jeermany. Always at your ... our service.'

'Zank you Herr Lickastein. Next please?'

'Herr Svizzeland and I'm no longer neutral so if any of you vish to deposit huge amounts of stolen gold or precious artefacts in my country you are out of luck. I'll also no longer take orders for cuckoo clocks or skiing chalets. Orders of course, vich cannot be obeyed!'

Frau Jeermany laughs loudly and on this occasion bangs her hood on the table. 'Herr Svizzeland you are so funny I nearly vet myself. Your understanding of Jeerman er, Europalian humour is vunderful.'

The introductions continue and they include Herrs Netholand, Danepakmark, Hungry, Wetvakia and finally Slowenia, but curiously the only female voice is Frau Jeermanys. 'Okay, let's start ze meeting. Herr Horstria, tell us of ze other countries who are voluntarily seeking to join Europalia vithout any coercion or zreats votsoever.'

A dark robe stands, Herr Horstria most likely, and his sleeves are pressed to the table. 'As you are avare ze Europalian Peninsula island countries are falling over zemselves to voluntarily join us and it's only a matter of time before zey all do. Please note ze huge projected map vich has appeared on ze round table before us and I vill use zis pointy stick I've just picked up to indicate zem. If anybody has questions as ve go along please raise your sleeve,' he says, and a long, pointy stick starts to tap on the map. 'Ze island countries of us seven original members are all touching shores and our new best friends are on zere vay, though I must admit I've never heard of Wetvakia or Slowenia before today. Accept my apologies and before you get upset, my parent's vere originally from ze Land of American Righteous Democracy, so had never heard of any other country previously.'

Frau Jeermany nods her hood and sees many others doing the same. 'I also admit to not knowing zese countries but all are velcome in my ... our bosom.'

Again, laughter erupts at the mention of the word - bosom. Even the new members join in, though in all honesty, they're struggling to understand what all the fuss is about.

Herr Horstria finally controls himself. 'Frau Jeermany, I nearly dropped my pointy stick I vas so overcome vith ze humour, but moving on. Ve also have Hungry and Danepakmark approaching fast and note how I pause,' he says, pointy stick hovering in the air.

'I do Herr Horstria and I vonder vy?' asks Frau Jeermany, rubbing a sleeve under her hood, where one of her chins might be.

The Herr starts to giggle. 'It's because ... I'm sorry for laughing at my own joke but let us hope ve are so Hungry, Danepakmark brings home ze cured pork product!'

The sitters erupt in raucous laughter and the insides of robes start to dampen. It's a curious scene and whoever said Europalians don't have a sense of humour was wrong. They have a wonderful sense of humour; it's just that they laugh at the drop of a hat. Especially if the hat has feathers on it, has been dropped over a dog-poo and then someone has trodden on it. Anyway, the laughter continues until ...

'Herr Horstria, you're so funny zat I did vet myself this time. Please continue but stop vith ze jokes. I cannot take much more,' insists Frau Jeermany, swapping her seat for a drier one.

'Of course Frau but Herr Svizzeland should continue from here. Bottoms!'

The mirth goes on and on but eventually Herr Svizzeland finds his feet. 'I am overjoyed to report all is currently vell and ze very secret, hidden machinations of Europalia are operating at vun hundred and ten percent.'

The Frau tuts loudly, ensuring all hear her and she waggles a sleeve. 'I appreciate your enthusiasm Herr Svizzeland but operating anything at over a hundred percent is impossible. To add ten percent is pure bravado and unachievable. Now, tell it like it is my ... our not so secret ally.'

'Of course Angu... Frau Jeermany. Ze scientists at ze Quite Big Hardon Collider, ze QBHC, have been thrown in jail for crimes against ze stupid. Let's be honest, who believed accelerating unseen particles against each other in order to find a different unseen particle vas ever important? Who needs to know ze origins of ze Universe ven ve have ze Great Alchemist hidden in ze cavern bel...?'

Frau Jeermany jumps to her feet. 'Shut up Herr Svizzeland, shut up! Ve do not mention zat, not yet. Now get back to ze point.'

Herr Svizzeland's hood drops. 'I apologise. Now, ze slaves operating ze new and improved QBHC are vorking ze chains and ze islands are coming together as predicted.'

Frau Jeermany smiles but nobody can see it. 'Very good and for our newcomers, zose who have not heard zis before, please give an in-depth explanation of vot is really going on.'

'I vas about to,' says Herr Svizzeland, holding his sleeves wide.

'Gut er, good. Get on vith it zen.'

'Ze QBHC has been taken over by your ... our forces, and ze scientists have been cleansed from ze installation. It's now full of slaves, gathered from free movement across our joined borders and ahem, from ze boats arriving from non-Europalian islands. All are now yoked like oxen and ze undervater chains in ze newly dug chambers are being pulled in, dragging our neighbours to us. It is only a matter of time before France, Italy and Poland are pulled in. Zen ve'll drag in Spain, Romania and so on, voluntarily of course, and give them new, sillier Europalian names. It's a foregone conclusion my Frau.'

Frau Jeermany drums her fingers inside a sleeve and asks in her sweetest tone, so not that sweet. 'And ze UQ, vot of zem?'

'I don't understand?' asks a surprised Herr Swizzeland.

'Vere my vords muffled? Ze UQ, vot of zem?' asks the Frau, even less sweetly.

'But Frau Jeermany you never mentioned ze UQ previously.'

'I vant zem! I ... ve need zem Herr Svizzeland. Ve cannot be complete vithout zem.'

'But ze UQ vas never mentioned in Ze (New) Union of Europalia planning applications zat ver passed by us.'

Frau Jeermany shakes her hood and tuts, her loudest yet. 'Herr Svizzeland, you have done vell but sadly, I ... ve cannot tolerate failure.'

Herr Svizzeland's hood turns to Frau Jeermany. He gasps loudly and pushes his chair away, goes to run but falls to the floor. His robe-hood and the concealed muzzle in Frau Jeermany's sleeve are both smoking. A faithful servant has bit the dust, the inside of his hood in fact.

The Frau rises to her feet and theatrically turns her hood, taking in all present. 'Ve do not tolerate failure. Herr Svizzeland von't make ze same mistake again. Now, are zere any further questions? No I zought ... yes, Herr Slowakia?' she asks, seeing a trembling raised sleeve.

'Frau Jeermany, if I may be so bold. I realise I am late to ze party but vas zat really necessary?'

'Zis is not a party Herr Slowakia, zis is serious, and yes it vas,' insists the Frau.

'I understand but I must ask. Ze veapon you used appears to be impressive. Vot is it?'

Frau Jeermany giggles in delight. 'At last, a vorthy question. I accidently shot Herr Svizzeland through ze temple vith a _Butt-Tonguer Single-Barrel Cranial-Exploder_. Mr Butt and Mrs Tonguer, of ze UQ, are ze greatest veapon designers to have existed, better even zan our own Herr Koch-Licher. Ven using zis ... yes Herr Danepakmark?' she asks, on seeing another raised sleeve.

'Frau Jeermany, may I have vun of zose guns?'

'No you may not, even though I vould like to give you vun.'

Frau Jeermany is confused as muffled chuckling can be heard but only from the new members. 'Vot, vy are you laughing? All I said vas I'd like to give him vun?'

Herr Horstria interrupts. 'Frau Jeermany, I believe you just made an unintentional joke. As our lead... our equal partner, maybe you should put ze gun avay.'

She doesn't understand but nods regardless. 'Maybe I should as gripping such a large, spluttering veapon ...'

'Stop, and trust my vords are for ze best,' insists Herr Horstria, cutting the air with a sleeve.

Frau Jeermany retakes her seat and the others follow, including Herr Svizzeland but not the original one. He has been disposed of and a replacement swiftly found. He speaks. 'I am ze new Herr Svizzeland and I've just realised, sensibly, zat ze UQ islands are next on ze list and all vill be vell. Zen ve can all relax, reap ze benefits, as paid for by ze UQ, and sing ze Europalian Anthem. Ve can also have lots of hairy sex, no?'

The dark hoods of the new members turn to Herr Svizzeland and muttering can be heard. He swiftly continues. 'I do apologise, now vere was I, ah yes. Ze Quite Big Hardon Collider is dragging in ze islands and soon ze super-continent of Europalia vill be complete, but only ven ze islands of ze UQ voluntarily join us. Any questions?'

Many sleeves are raised but a strong female voice intervenes. 'Zere vill be no more questions, I insist, and look at ze barrel poking from my sleeve.'

All sleeves are instantly un-raised.

Frau Jeermany nods. 'I am proud you all learn so quickly. Zis meeting is over but first ve'll sing ze Europalian Anthem. For our new members zere is a song-sheet in your Velcome to Ze (New) Union of Europalia packs on ze table in front of you, so please join in.'

Music starts to play from tannoy speakers dotted around the walls and it echoes within the cavern. Everybody joins in.

_Oh God, Jesus Christ and Bloody Hell_

_Our islands joined, can you not tell_

_Ve share power, all equal in our heart_

_Ve are vun, ve are lots, a lovely start._

_Europalia, Europalia!_

_Europalia, ze mother land_

_Europalia, Europalia!_

_Ve are friendly and nice, just as ve planned._

_Ze beast zat feeds us from below_

_Gives strength, beyond zat vich ve know_

_Through vealth, we have prosperity_

_As friends, da, da, da, dee, dee, dee._

_Europalia, Europalia!_

_Europalia, none stands above_

_Europalia, Europalia!_

_Join now and taste our lovely love._
Chapter Seventeen

Just Dropping In

An aircraft is winging its way across the newly joined islands of Europalia, or more precisely, across the region of Bavaria in Jeermany. The politician, Niggley Barrage, has already thrown himself from, or more accurately, fallen through, the open cargo-bay door and SAS Chief Bear Grilled-Steak, isn't far behind.

Thankfully, the rain has stopped and the thunder and lightning have curtailed their chaotic naughtiness. In all it would be a grand night for stargazing and for any individual looking upwards, they might see a curious pair of shooting stars.

The first star, if a watcher peered closely, would resemble a man. Not an impressive one, but it's still a man, whichever way they looked through their telescope or binoculars. The second star would appear somewhat similar, but no.

The lower star, that being Niggley, is having a right old time but the upper, Bear, isn't. As Niggley falls, his legs are splayed and he appears to not have a care in the world. Bear however, has his limbs tucked tight to his body and is closing fast.

The distance between them decreases and as Bear passes Niggley, he grabs the parachute opening toggle and the sound of cloth being deployed is heard.

'Wheee, thish ish fun. I haven't had thish much fun shince ... Hi Bear, where are you going? Bugger it,' curses Niggley, the slowing in descent tearing the fag and pint glass from his hands.

Instantly, the distance between them increases and it seems Niggley has suddenly shot upwards but it's an optical illusion as he has just decelerated. Bear hasn't however and realises he has no time to deploy his own parachute. As he hurtles toward the ground, he hopes there might be something soft to land on. There isn't.

Being a survival expert, Bear remains silent and angles his body in order to take the hit. He's down, he splats a little, but his impressive Three-Ply Body-Armour takes the impact and after fifty yards of tumbling, crunching, bashing, crashing and a tad of flattening, he sits upright. A little shaken but unstirred he reaches into a pocket. Sadly, he has another problem to deal with as a gun muzzle is pressed firmly to the side of his head.

'Don't move an inch UQ man. We have you covered with many _Butt-Tonguer_ pistols and they never miss.'

Bear, wearing a concealed SAS Aural-Oral Translation-Unit shoved deep in his ear, enabling him to understand and talk the foreign language, glances up and sees the Bavarian guard isn't lying. To look a _Butt-Tonguer_ weapon in the barrel is to know certain death, so he slowly places his hands on his head. The guards double up, treble up, and surround him. Now captured, he ponders his fate but knows through stout intelligence he'll be taken to the _Dungeon of Near Certain Death but Not Quite as Ve Expect you to Talk, Johnny Foreigner_ , up in the Bavarian castle. He stifles a smile, knowing full well the plan is working. He also knows the Europalian guards aren't complete dunces so some kind of fight is necessary. To give in so easily would make them suspicious, so he instigates a classic SAS diversionary tactic.

'You think you have me, do you?' sneers Bear, peering up into the dark sky above.

'We have but why are you looking upwards and pointing?'

'There's an elephant with eight noses, just look up,' insists Bear.

The guards chuckle and hold their weapons tighter. 'We won't fall for that silly subterfuge. You want us to look up so you can escape. We weren't born yesterday, or the day before that.'

Bear raises an eyebrow. 'You must look up, and actually it's not an elephant, it's a dog, without a nose. Look!'

'Do you think we're stupid, you roast-cow eater? Everyone knows a dog must have a nose. If not, how would it smell?'

'Awful most likely but look, there's a drunkard hanging from a parachute.'

Indeed there is and Bear realises he needs to be away with his captors very soon. Using SAS standard-issue optical implants he sees what else is dropping from the sky and smiles properly.

The guard continues. 'I see you intend to confuse us with your sophisticated UQ humour but it won't work. Now stop being clever and just sit still or we'll shoot you.'

Bear reacts fast and grabs the gun muzzle, turning it aside. As the other weapons start firing, he is elsewhere but doesn't use his night-shadow concealment on this occasion as he needs the enemy to see him. He disarms two of the guards using only a bootlace, steps back and now in the correct spot, braces for impact. A falling pint glass hits him solidly on the head and he slumps to the ground. As more weapons fire, he rolls aside, stands and looks up again. This time, a lit cigarette stubs itself out on the bridge of his nose, sending ash into his eyes. Temporarily blinded, or so the guards believe, Bear rubs at his eyes and falls to the ground. 'Stop firing, you've got me. I give up, you're too good.'

The main guard laughs loudly. 'You see my fellow soldiers, the UQ's best is weak. Now drag him to the castle. I must admit though, it's a good job we've been highly trained as the joke about the dog's nose was very funny and I nearly wet my shorts.'

There is general agreement by all present and after several dozen, reigned down punches, Bear feigns unconsciousness and he is dragged off. The way is now clear.

Crunch, snap, crash, snap again, serious foliage rustling, and finally - silence. The eagle has landed, much like a pissed eagle would, loud and graceless. Niggley Barrage is down and as his few minutes of intense training dictated, he is instantly reaching into the pockets of the pack he's wearing. He must free himself and get out of sight. After frantic searching, he smiles and withdraws a gleaming silver blade. He eyes the standard-issue knife, throws it away and reaches for the pack of _Tarpit Full-Strength ™_ beneath. Withdrawing a cigarette, he places it between his lips and reaches for the lighter, further down in the pocket. With time being of the essence he lights the fag, inhales deeply and sets to burning away the parachute cords above. He realises that to get caught now would be disastrous, especially as he's carrying two thousand non-duty paid fags.

Niggley continues to puff away as the parachute strings burn and one by one, they twang, finally dropping him free but his joy is short lived as he lands in a fountain. 'Shod it, I've got wet feet,' he curses, adding a loud burp for good measure.

The potential saviour of the UQ steps toward the fountain's edge. Slosh, slosh, goes his beer filled bladder and his boots are doing a decent impression. He reaches the stone edging, sits and moves his legs over. Placing his feet on the ground, he lights another fag, the previous one already smoked well into the dangerously toxic filter.

As he removes his wet boots and empties them onto the rain-soaked ground, he turns his head and stares at the fountain centrepiece. The magnificent sculpture depicts a pair of strangely dressed men, both bent over and slapping the other on the bottom. Despite his knowledge in the ways of Bavaria, he can't help but chuckle. The wannabe saviour reties his damp boots, looks left, then right, and topples backwards into the fountain.

Sodden, yet alive and uncaptured, Niggley steps forth. Slosh go his boots on this occasion as his bladder is now empty and it's best not to mention fountain filter systems or the alcohol content of, what in the UQ, would now be a licensable water feature. Again he reaches into his pack, withdraws a map from a waterproof freezer bag, and holds it in front of his face. The map is of the utmost importance, his lifeline, having directions to the safe-house. He blows his nose on it and throws it to the ground.

'Right where'sh my map, it wash in one of these pocketsh? Bugger, I'll jusht have to wing it,' he says, shaking his head while trying to focus.

Niggley sees houses across from the fountain and that's as good a place to start as any. He stumbles to the first one, knocks the front door and waits. Moments later a man answers, dressed in lederhosen and a black, feathered hat - the national dress of Bavaria.

'Yes, may I help you, apparently drunk UQ spy?'

Niggley looks left then right, staggers a little but stays upright. He has a finger pressed to his lips. 'Shush, ish thish the shafe houshe?'

The Bavarian man frowns. 'I'm sorry but I do not speak the American language. I have no idea vot you are saying? You must speak louder and slower in order for me to understand.'

'Damn, he doeshn't undershtand me,' mumbles Niggley, slapping a hand to his forehead but missing. 'Ish, thish, the, shafe, houshe?'

'No, I still don't understand but maybe you should try ze beerhall along ze road. Zey are likely having ze knowledge of an American speaking UQ spy. Goodbye.'

The door is slammed in Niggley's face, not the first in his lifetime. 'Rude wanker,' he mumbles.

He approaches the next house and knocks the door. Another man answers, also wearing traditional Bavarian garb. 'Have you not read ze sign in ze vindow?' says the man, pointing. 'Ve do not accept cold callers especially if zey are spies. Go avay or I'll mock you vith very funny humour.'

The door is slammed and there appears to be a pattern emerging. Niggley looks at the sign in the window which reads: _No Cold Calling Especially FromAmerican Speaking Spies. You Should Try Ze Beerhall Along Ze Road Vich is Safer._ He shrugs and moves on. 'Bloody foreign shigns, how am I meant to read them?'

The next house appears similar and the neon sign, covering most of the frontage reads, for the benefit of Europalians only: _Foreign Spy Unforgiving Bureau of Torture and Certain Death, Vith a Lovely Caf e_. Niggley wanders on in his ignorance, steps over a white picket fence and his fist is millimetres from knocking the wooden door when a voice out in the street causes him to turn. He sees a young girl and stumbles back over the fence.

The girl, dressed in lederhosen, speaks in fluent American. 'Excuse me strange spy, you shouldn't knock on that door. You'll be dragged inside, be beaten to a pulp and taken to the castle. Note I ... please don't burp at me. I expect you have stinky breath just like my father who's also a raging alcoholic.'

Niggley peers closely at the blonde girl. 'Hello little girl.'

'I'm not a girl! I realise my voice hasn't yet broken but I'm male,' insists the boy.

'Oh right, shorry.'

'My name is Heinrich and don't get too close. You smell like a stale beer catchment tray and I don't know where you've been, apart from in the fountain which all the dogs and local wildlife urinate in.'

Niggley peers intently at the boy but isn't convinced. He places a hand over his left eye, focuses with the right, and only then realises the truth. 'Right, you are a boy but shush. I'm a shecret agent and pretend you haven't sheen me.'

Heinrich steps back and shakes his head. He considers leaving the fool to his fate but knows he can't. In recent months the town of Feckenshmacker has witnessed many strange comings and goings so any kind of assistance, however ridiculous, is welcome. 'You need to be quiet UQ spy. Follow me, but be very quiet,' he insists.

Niggley winks, steps forward and treads on a cat which shrieks loudly. 'Shush, we need to be quiet,' he says, and turns to Heinrich. 'Ish it far?'

'No, it isn't far.'

Niggley steps backwards off the cat, loses his balance and falls on a dozen inflated balloons with _Happy Birthday Jorg_ written on them, which all pop. 'Shush, we need to be really, really quiet and not make a shound.'

Heinrich curses and his anger gets the better of him. 'Vor Vuck sake you idiot!' he shouts, in his native Bavarian tongue.

'Shush,' insists Niggley, stumbling back upright, a finger pressed to his lips.

'Just follow me and don't fall against that old _Planet War Two_ air-raid siren,' says Heinrich, pointing to a strange looking contraption beside the road.

'Okay, I'll be really caref...'

_Wwwhhhoooaaaoooeeeeeeeaaaoooeee!!!_

Heinrich sees lights going on in the nearby houses and quickly drags Niggley into a dingy alleyway. He leads the man, at pace, through the shadows and halfway along pushes against a wide, wooden gate. It creaks open and as Niggley stumbles in he sees a local business, one that has a large number of empty kegs and bottles lying on the ground. His eyes go wide.

'We're at my family's beerhall. Wait here and I'll fetch my father,' says Heinrich.

Niggley stares around noting the tell-tale signs of his favourite type of business, including a dray-cart, sadly empty. 'Did you jusht shay beerhall?'

'Yes, I did,' says the boy, peering in annoyance.

'I shee, but did you shay beerhall?'

'Yes I did, you useless piece of crappen-schlappen!' shouts Heinrich, again slipping into Bavarian.

Niggley frowns at the boy. 'Shush.'

Heinrich stares forlornly at the rear entrance to his father's business and understands what's coming. Calming himself, he rounds on Niggley. 'You must stay here, in the shadows beside the fence and wait for me to call you. Do you understand?'

'Of course, I'll wait here and ... what wash the queshtion?'

The boy sighs. 'Just stand here in the shadows and don't step in the dog faeces beside you. I'll fetch my father and be back soon.'

'Right, I'll shtand here and not ... _eurgh_ , that'sh dishgushting. Look what I jusht shtepped in,' slurs Niggley, reaching down but thankfully thinking better of picking the offending item up.

Heinrich is gone and a banging can be heard, that of a young hand frantically rapping hard against a beerhall rear door. The boy is shouting and has reverted back to his given language. 'Father, father, open up! I have ze idiot spy in ze back yard.'

Moments later, the door opens and a massive figure, Heinrich's father, emerges in the doorframe which is barely bigger than he is. He's dressed in lederhosen, unsurprisingly, sports a huge mess of a black beard, and he's wobbling slightly. 'Vot is zis? Oh it's you my lovely daughter. Vy are you out so late?' he asks, burping loudly.

'No father, I'm your son, Heinrich, and I've brought ze UQ spy.'

The beerhall owner stares in confusion and leans forward for a better look. 'I have no son. You shouldn't try to trick me, Helga, my little edelweiss.'

The boy growls in annoyance. 'I'm Heinrich, not Helga, and I'm not an edelweiss. Please listen, I've brought ze spy. Hopefully he has placed his Aural-Oral Translation-Unit in his ear so you can communicate. I'll check.'

The boy rushes back and eventually the Translation-Unit is in place, after much fumbling with pack pockets and an earhole. Niggley staggers from the shadows and looks to the rear door. He gulps on seeing two huge men, identical twins by the look of it. Realisation strikes and he closes one eye. 'You're the owner, I take it,' he says, pulling in his belly and trying to look tough.

The huge man totters forward, looking seriously tough. 'I am and what were you doing with my daughter?'

Heinrich's eyes flit between the two men and with an anguished cry he rushes past his father. 'Mother, come quickly!' he shouts, as he runs to the rear door.

'Stay back daughter, I'll deal with this fool,' says the giant, bearded man, slamming a fist into an open palm.

'Bring it on Bavarian big boy,' hisses Niggley, adding an unnecessary hiccup.

'Mother, mother!'

There follows a wobbly standoff as the two men single-eye each other. Niggley is out-heighted and out-weighted but he's had worse. Thankfully though, a female foot is being tapped on the ground at the rear entrance. 'Dieter my husband, what are you doing?'

The big man waves a hand dismissively. 'Stay inside Brigitte. I can take this repro... reprobi... fool.'

'Dieter, I order you to ...'

Niggley laughs loudly. 'Hah! Shaved by a wom...' but his smile becomes a gurn as a huge fist connects with his chin, at the third attempt, and he flies backwards. No sense no feeling, or so it's said, and quickly regaining his feet, he responds with an attack of his own. He snarls and invokes the _Kentish Kosh_ , an attack move known only to a few in-the-know individuals. Dieter, the owner, has no answer to the two-handed, random slapping assault, and despite being a large man he's knocked to the ground. Niggley has the upper hand and moves in for the kill. Now standing above his stricken opponent he inhales until his lungs are near to bursting. What he has in mind is the dreaded _Death Burp_ , which includes expelling phlegm and yesterday's tooth-held food debris. The bearded man, prone on the ground, takes a fearful Bavarian breath.

Heinrich quickly rushes back and stands over his father. 'Please, spare my father, he's beaten. Don't kill him,' he pleads.

When prepped, the _Death Burp_ has to be released but Niggley, being a man of fairness, turns his head and unleashes it away from harm. Sadly, a passing bat takes the hit and it melts instantly. He looks down at his prone opponent and offering forth a hand helps him to his feet. The man known as Dieter nods to the victor.

The pair enters the rear of the beerhall, scrutinised by Brigitte, the wife, and followed by Heinrich, definitely the son. All ascend a wooden staircase and enter a room, which in Niggley's experience is the closest place to Heaven imaginable. It isn't the actual drinking hall but something better, the chilled cask room which is stock full with sweet ambrosia. He stumbles slightly, recovers splendidly, lights a fag inside a working establishment, and whistles admiringly at the sight. He looks around, taking in the splendour, then suddenly gasps. He has caught a scent and constantly turning his head, sniffs out an old looking barrel. 'Thish ish _Adolf 'sh Ale 1942_. I thought there wash none left on the planet,' he says, staring with wonder.

Dieter, wiping sweat from his face, looks to where Niggley is pointing. 'It is. That's the last existing barrel and it's piped to a secret pump, one under the bar.'

Nodding with appreciation, Niggley is moving again, his olfactory senses having picked up something else. He points to another barrel. 'That'sh _Wall-Fall 1989_ , they only ever brewed ten cashksh.'

Dieter peers suspiciously at the spy, evidently surprised at his knowledge. He walks forward and stands beside him. 'You're right. Are you mocking me?' he asks.

'I'm not mocking you shir, I'd never mock the likesh of you. I'm a bit of an expert that'sh all,' says Niggley, savouring the aromas bombarding his nostrils.

Dieter isn't convinced and taking a small glass from a nearby shelf, he moves further up the cask room. He draws off a small amount of ale from a really old, battered barrel and returns to Niggley. 'Tell me what this one is,' he says, handing the glass over.

Niggley sniffs it, downs it in one, pauses and then hiccups, 'Bloody hell, that'sh _Churchill 'Oh Yesh' 1915 Bulldog_. Nobody hash any of that left,' he says, eyeing Dieter intently. 'Who are you? Name yourshelf.'

Reaching into a lederhosen pocket, Dieter removes a card and passes it to Niggley, who reads it. The name says _Dieter Hefe_ , below it the initials _P.I.S.H._ and below that, the words: _Permanently Inebriated Sozzle Head_.

Smiling widely, Niggley removes a card from his own pocket and passes that over. It's the same as Dieter's apart from a few extra words, reading: _Worshipful Master - Hons_.

The big man stares at the card and his shaking hands drop it. With mouth wide open he stares at Niggley then falls to his knees. 'Please forgive me, sir, I didn't realise. My daughter never said you were ... Brethren Elite.'

Niggley places a hand on Dieter's head and burps loudly, which is a sure sign of forgiveness. He smiles at Brigitte and winks at Heinrich but doesn't notice both rolling their eyes while mouthing profanities.

All is well, or so it seems, and Niggley is led up to an attic room, sporting a huge bed which is a welcome sight. It's been a long night and even he knows some shut-eye would be a welcome relief. He approaches the bed, trips on the edge of a floor rug, hits the springy mattress, and is snoring loudly in seconds.
Chapter Eighteen

Bad Atmospheres

As the night eases towards dawn in the Bavarian town of Feckenshmacker, a _P.I.S.H. Worshipful Master - Hons_, sleeps in his bed. Not soundlessly though as every night, wherever it is spent, has its own special noises. Be they the cry of a fox, the scream of a frog, the compression of a hedgehog, or in a certain Bavarian drinking establishment attic room, air expulsions which lift sheets a few millimetres. The rest is best left unsaid.

As Niggley dreams of being chased by eight-pint steins which insist he sup from their frothy magnificence, another is wide awake. This other is currently tied upright to a large wooden board. The tightly knotted, coarse bonds are rubbing on his wrists and ankles, bringing forth angry welts and blood trickles, but does the captured one complain? No he doesn't, as he's an official tough bastard.

Having been stripped naked and relieved of his backpack, Bear Grilled-Steak is now at the mercy of his captors. As the stout SAS Chief stares around at a typical dungeon set-up, with torture equipment, stone-block walls, dripping water, and the occasional scream from elsewhere, he regulates his breathing. A heavy door is opening and the hinges supporting it squeal uninvitingly.

A hard looking woman walks in and she nods to the six guards standing around the perimeter of the dungeon. The armed guards bow their heads in reverence and lower their weapons which have been trained on Bear ever since he was first strung up. He recognises the woman who has entered, partly because of his mission brief, but also because of her numerous appearances on the _UQBC Planet Service_ news channels.

Frau Angular Murky, Jeerman Chancellor and winner of the _Best Europalian Peninsula Chancellor_ award every year since 1995 is now free of her dark robe and recognisable. Bear shows not a flicker of surprise and is thankful for still wearing his Aural-Oral Translation-Unit, ensuring he understands every spoken word.

Frau Murky slams the cell door shut then turns and gasps in surprise on seeing the naked prisoner. Instinctively, her hands reach up and rest on the rollers in her hair. 'My God! Why is this man still alive? He should be jolly well hung.'

Herr Horstria, also having entered, answers his Europalian equal. 'Apologies Frau Mur... may I call you Frau Murky as we are no longer dressed in the dark robes?' asks the tall, narrow-faced man, sporting a round helmet, on his head.

'You may Herr Horstria but only because the other serv... our equals, aren't present. Now kindly explain why this man still lives?' she asks, pointing at the naked Bear.

'Well Angular, I ...'

'It's Frau Murky, not Angular!' growls the woman, adding a loud tut for good measure. 'Only when we are in my bedchamber may you call me Angular and then only when we are having the hairy sex. Do I make myself clear?'

Herr Horstria nods frantically. 'Of course Frau Murky. I may only address you as Angular when we are making the love and just so I'm sure, when is it satisfactory for me to call you Sausage Dumpling and for you to call me Alpine Horn?'

An angry Frau Murky turns to her companion and reaches for her concealed pistol but it isn't there. Having retired to her bedchamber after the meeting, she has changed into her semi-see-through nightie, one thankfully concealing her naughty bits. She turns back to Bear but her words are certainly aimed at Herr Horstria. 'Old ally, you may consider yourself lucky I do not have a weapon right now. If I did, I would shoot off your helmet!'

Herr Horstria shrieks and his hands drop to his groin, for some reason. 'I'm sorry Sausage Dump... Frau Murky and in answer to your question, I took it upon myself to have the spy strapped up for interrogation. I feel we can learn much from him.'

'You do, do you? Do you know who he is? He's Bear Grilled-Steak, the UQ SAS Chief and he's formidable. Look at him all naked with his big muscles, rippling chest and his huge, really long ... everybody leave now!' shouts a wide-eyed Angular.

'Frau Murky, I think we should ...'

'Get out now! You have done well Herr Horstria but I must interrogate this prisoner alone. This requires a woman's touch,' says Frau Murky, licking her lips and chuckling frighteningly.

Herr Horstria opens his mouth to speak but sensibly closes it. He orders the guards from the cell, follows them outside and slams the door shut. Momentarily, he considers staying outside to listen but knows he mustn't. Instead, he makes his way along the stark, stone corridor. Behind him, he hears a key turning in a lock.

Inside the cell, Frau Murky places the door-key inside her whalebone bodice, worn beneath her nightie. With an upwards flick of her hand, two hair rollers take to the air, hit the stone floor, and roll beneath a benched anvil. 'So, Bear Grilled-Steak, tell me why you are here and you may go free, if I believe you?' she purrs, sounding like an asthmatic lion.

Thankfully, Bear understands every spoken word because of his Oral-Aural implant and he sneers. 'Do your worst, or your vurst perhaps. You'll get nothing from me Frau Jeermany.'

'Really Herr Bear,' says the woman. 'Take a look around the dungeon. I think, maybe the torture implements will make you talk, especially these, the Pliers of Tooth Ripping!'

Bear eyes the heavily rusted pliers, which appear not to have been oiled for at least seventy-five years. 'Do you think that scares me you amateur? You're looking at someone who has had teeth pulled out for a laugh, without anaesthetic. You'll have to do better than that,' he snorts.

Frau Murky drops the pliers and picks up what appears to be a hollow, metal pipe. 'Then how about I use this Hot Coal Enema Tube,' she says, laughing.

'Been there, done it. I went to _Eaton_ and hotter things were shoved up my backside every day.'

Grumbling, Frau Murky moves on to another eye-watering torture implement. 'How about this then, a piece of paper to slice between your fingers and toes so you get little cuts. Then I'll rub salt into them so they really sting.'

'You demented crone, I've got skin like a rhinoceros. Give it your best shot,' laughs Bear, shaking his head as best he can while tied to a board.

Frau Angular huffs loudly and throws down the next implement, a urethral inserty-skewer encrusted with sharp diamonds. Bear allows a slow, sigh of relief to escape his mouth.

'Very well, then there is only one thing left to do Herr Bear,' says Angular, pouting scarily.

'I can withstand anything, anything I tell ... what are you doing?'

'I'm removing my clothing,' says Frau Murky, her semi-see-through nightie dropping to the floor, followed by her whalebone bodice. She kicks off her fluffy, pink slippers and slowly rolls down her varicose vein compression socks. 'Oh my, what a shame I haven't shaved my legs for weeks.'

Drops of vomit dribble from Bear's mouth as he gags. 'Frau Murky, what you intend here is a blatant contravention of Article Six, Chapter Nine, of the _Spurich Convention_. It clearly states: _no prisoner should be threatened with unwanted sexual come-ons, especially if the torturer 's a minger._'

Angular chuckles as she unclips her night-snood. 'Didn't you know Herr Bear, Ze (New) Union of Europalia rescinded Article Six in its entirety?' she says, now reaching for her dentures.

Staring at the woman, Bear tries to detect a lie but doesn't see one. He can feel his panic rising and thankfully that's all. He has been in some terrifying situations in his life but nothing has prepared him for this. All he can do is keep quoting the _Spurich Convention_ but Frau Jeermany isn't listening.

'Bear, my hunky trumpzenveasel, look how I lift my topmost vest over my head followed by the other two because this castle is quite cold.'

'Oh my God!' exclaims Bear, trying to recall a time when he has had worse, but sadly, he hasn't. He also has no idea what _trumpzenveasal_ means as the Translation-Unit didn't recognise the word and he feels a prickly sweat emerging all over his bare skin.

'There, I'm now naked apart from my gloves, lower socks, _Sex-Coburg_ reinforced brassiere and knee-to-chest knickers which I'm pulling down now, slowly and ... enticingly.'

The knickers drop and Bear passes out, for real this time. Maybe there is a God after all.

As Bear drifts in the realms of unconsciousness, Niggley Barrage, potentially cunning spy, is waking from a similar state. 'Where the bloody hell am I?' he asks, rhetorically, and unsticks a pillow from his face.

He sits up and rubs gritty sleep from his eyes. He has little recall of recent events and moves to leave the bed but on throwing off the duvet finds he's not alone. There is a female form to his left and peering right, he sees two more. He prods each of them with a finger but none moves. Sniffing, his nasal hairs vibrate on detecting something noxious, and he knows what must be done.

Those who have shared his bed will also have shared his odorous offerings and there is no time to lose. He launches himself over the first female and rushes to a large window. Gripping the bottom frame he lifts the lower sash and allows fresh Bavarian air to enter the room. Instantly, the chill makes his hirsute nipples rise to the occasion then looking down, he wonders if another part of him may have done the same during the night. He decides, probably not, and rushes back to the bed. Taking hold of the first woman he drags her deadweight across the floor rug and drapes her over the window frame, her upper body in the fresh open air. He quickly returns for the second and does the same for her. Like a true hero, or a man who doesn't want to face murder charges, he returns for the third and luckily the window frame is wide enough for all three. Now together, he slaps them on the back in turn, as if playing the bongos, until they start coughing and spluttering. Finally, he sits back on the bed and exhales in relief, while running a hand through his sleep-shaped, grey hair. Behind him, the door to the attic room opens.

'Worshipful Master, it's me Diet... what's that smell, has somebody died?'

Niggley is off the bed in a microsecond, pushes the man back out and closes the door with a loud bang. He leans his back against it, his eyes darting every which way as he tries to get his befuddled brain to think.

'Worshipful Master, are you okay in there?' asks Dieter, outside in the hallway. 'Can I help in any way?'

Niggley shouts back. 'Don't come in. I'm trying to revive your er, actually have you got a beer, I'm sobering up,' he says, holding a non-shaking hand in front of his face.

There are loud gasps from the hallway. 'No, that mustn't happen. Brigitte my dear, rush downstairs and fetch some ale. Hurry my wife, hurry!'

Twenty seconds later, a full stein is placed in the bedroom, delivered through a previously unmentioned cat-flap in the door. Niggley grabs the glass, a six-pinter, and downs it in three. It would have been in one but he paused to burp and hiccup between gulps. He places the glass down and peers at the trio of women over by the window. All are uprightly mobile and he knows the air has cleared sufficiently for the door to be opened. He turns the handle and finds himself face to chest with Dieter, the huge, bearded owner. The two men nod to each other and Niggley is led downstairs, after dressing of course.

Now gathered around a beerhall table all eye each other but who will speak first? Will it be Dieter who is caressing a half-full stein, or half-empty, perhaps? Will it be his wife Brigitte who is looking pensive, having a sound knowledge of potentially flammable and noxious bedroom atmospheres? Or will it be Niggley, who is peering at the three recently revived and now fully dressed, giggling serving maids behind the bar?

Actually, it's Heinrich, the son. 'Father, tell the UQ spy our plan.'

'Hush daughter, it's not for you to speak ...' begins Dieter but a solid whack halts him.

'Apologies, I accidently hit you with my clenched fist while I was stretching,' says Brigitte, staring hard at her husband as she pulls her arm back to her side.

'Ah, of course, I understand,' says Dieter, rubbing his cheek.

Niggley notes the tension and realises the importance of his next words. 'Ash you know, I'm a UQ shpy and I need to infiltrate the enemy, wherever they may be. I realishe I've probably landed in the wrong place but er, I er ... what wash the question?' he asks, scratching his temple.

Brigitte and Heinrich glance unsettlingly at each other and the pair grip hands beneath the table, hoping for the best. After all, the spy is a _Permanently Inebriated Sozzle Head, Worshipful Master - Hons_ , a man of purpose, and if he can't help then all is lost. Brigitte smiles and addresses Niggley. 'You have landed in the right place, sir. For the past six months there have been strange happenings and the castle on the hill, which is surrounded by a deep chasm, is the cause. You must investigate and deal with what is inside. You're our only hope,' she says, trying not to wince.

Heinrich continues. 'My mother is right. We have witnessed strange comings and goings including taunting with very funny humour in the town square. Men and women have been dragged from their beds in the dead of night, never to be seen again, and wretched noises leak down from the castle. Death is abroad, Worshipful Master.'

Niggley nods knowingly then burps unexpectedly. 'I shee but that all sheems normal.'

'Normal!' exclaim all those around the table.

'Oh right, you've never been to the Isle of Thanet in Kent then,' says Niggley, sucking deeply on a pair of fags. 'It'sh normal there but er ... what wash the question again?'

The young boy bangs a hand on the table. 'Mother, this man's an idi...'

'Quiet Heinrich!' shouts Brigitte and her son flinches. She continues in a gentler tone. 'We have a sound plan to get you into the castle. Dieter, my loving and currently un-noxious husband, I feel a beer festival coming on. What say you?'

Dieter grins at his wife. 'Well my love, what Bavarian man doesn't enjoy a beer festival?'

'Good, now let's tell the Worshipful Master what we intend.'

Niggley's eyes flit between the Bavarian trio, and he's totally confused, although the mention of a beer festival has piqued his interest. He nods in agreement on hearing the plan, despite not understanding a word of it.
Chapter Nineteen

Taking One for the Team

The Bavarian town of Feckenshmacker is staging an impromptu celebration. Over there is a drunken bum urinating in a fountain, and over there is a drunken bum shouting loudly about how much he loves his partner, so it seems this might be a beer festival. Truthfully, there can be no doubt as the men are all downing copious amounts of alcohol while the women are standing with their arms crossed, feet tapping, and are displaying seriously splendid cleavage.

The whole event is a ruse however, and as ruses go, it probably isn't the best that has ever taken place. It's unlikely to be a finalest at the next _Best International Ruses_ award ceremony but this is a small town and they should be applauded for their effort. It is late afternoon with the festivities in full swing when the only beerhall in town finally throws open its doors.

Those inside look out into the street and see crowds of drunken revellers who started imbibing before the festival was actually announced. Did they have a sixth sense? Who knows, or cares, but as the Trojans might say - never kiss a gift horse on the mouth.

Unfortunately, Niggley is refusing to budge. 'I can't go out like thish, I look shtupid.'

'You don't look stupid now on you go and remember the plan,' says Brigitte, trying to prise his strong hands from a table edge.

'I look a prat,' says Niggley, dressed in a red and yellow chequered onesie and wearing a motley hat with bells on. He also has bells on his shoes. 'I look like a fool,' he insists.

Niggley does look like a fool, fittingly perhaps, but there is a serious element to his outfit. He needs to look the part otherwise entry to the castle might not be gained. As he grips the table a heavy glass is dropped on his fingers and he lets go with a shout. Unceremoniously, he is carried into the street and placed down. As he turns he comes face to face with an angry woman and his protestations evaporate.

'I'm stronger than I look Worshipful Master so don't cross me,' says Brigitte.

Niggley thinks hard, thinks soft, and then capitulates. He knows all about stern women and not to cross them. 'We follow the plan then,' he says and receives a no-nonsense nod.

The small group, namely Niggley, Dieter, his wife Brigitte, the son Heinrich, and a trio of serving wenches, make their way along the street. The destination is clear, that being the sentry-post at the base of a path, leading to the magnificent yet ominous castle built atop a hill and surrounded by a deep chasm.

It isn't far and barely two steins later, as the UQ politician staggers, the group are standing before a slender, wooden hut that's barely large enough for a single man, let alone a married one. However, the hut isn't the problem and to walk past it would be simple but for the red and white striped pole stretching the full width of the path. That also wouldn't be much of a problem but there is something else preventing the ascent to the castle. A security officer, dressed all Bavarian, has squeezed his bulk out of the wooden hut and is standing between the group and their goal. As per the plan, Niggley has removed his Aural-Oral Translation-Unit. It wouldn't do for him to understand the Europalian language at such a tense moment. He is pushed to the fore by his entourage and his eyes cross on seeing a gun muzzle pushed against his forehead.

'Me security, show me pass card,' says the officer, before bursting out laughing. 'You dressed like idiot and me nearly dropped my gun. Now sod off or me shoot you,' he scowls.

'Er I, er _owww!_ ' exclaims a flustered Niggley, having unsurprisingly forgotten his lines and he's punched in the ribs sending him staggering sideways.

The puncher, Heinrich, takes his place. 'Lower your veapon. Don't you recognise a Europalian Ambassador ven you see vun? Zis is Herr Niggley Barrage, from ze island of Zanet and he's here to join Ze (New) Union of Europalia. He has travelled across many seas and islands to be here and Frau Jeermany vouldn't be happy if you shoot him in ze head.'

The officer scratches his bald temple as he peers questioningly. 'Who you little girl and vy you speak good Europalian?'

Heinrich is pushed to the side by a taller, more formidable individual who has the sheer gall to slap the officer on the cheek. Brigitte scowls for all she's worth. 'How dare you call ze Personal Assistant to ze Zanet Ambassador a girl? Isn't it obvious he's a boy and he learnt fluent Europalian from ze _Interveb_ and popular, American language music like all children do?'

The officer leans back slightly. 'Er, me know you right but him look like he come from town as he dressed Bavarian, now who you?'

'Who am I? I am ze vife of ze local beerhall owner and I offered to escort ze party here along vith my husband, ze drunk man over zere,' says Brigitte, pointing to Dieter who is sensibly staying well back.

The officer looks over and nods to Dieter, who raises his half-drunk stein in return.

'Okay, but vot about ze zree venches, vy zey here?'

Brigitte exhales sharply and starts to tap her foot. 'Isn't it obvious? Zey are Herr Barrage's supple Personal Secretaries. Ze party got vet in last night's storm and ve leant zem dry Bavarian clothing.'

'Is zat vy me can see their nipp...?'

Again the officer receives a stinging slap. 'You insolent idiot, how dare you?'

The exchange continues for some time and Niggley, knowing never to get in the way of a confrontational woman, has moved to the side and sat on the ground. He's just finishing his fourth fag when the striped barrier is finally lifted. Brigitte has played her part but she hasn't won by means of constructive argument. She has won by attrition alone and the officer has sensibly decided the whole situation is above his pay grade. Those of higher rank up in the castle can deal with the problem and to be on the safe side, he has tossed away his gun, grabbed beer from a passing reveller, and retired his post. The way is now clear.

Niggley, Heinrich, and the three serving girls step past the raised barrier and make their way towards the castle. The uneven path zig-zags upwards and they stay close to the middle, none wanting to fall into the gaping chasm on either side. As a crosswind buffets and tugs at them, they continue on, taking care with every step.

After much forward pressing in an increasingly gloomy dusk, the quintet finally stands at the castle's huge double-door and Niggley eyes some splendid knockers. He reaches out for one and lifts the heavy ring attached to the beak of an iron eagle's head. He lets the ring go and an echoing thud can be heard. As the door shakes on its mighty hinges he gives it another go. He does it for a third time as its fun but nearly has his arm ripped from its socket as the door is pulled inwards. He backs away on seeing a figure in the gap, the light from the hallway behind, darkening their features.

The man, dressed in a heavy, paisley night-cloak and wearing a floppy night-hat, eyes the newcomers and sniffs disdainfully. He points a finger to a sign beside the door which reads: _All Fools, Young Boys and Attractive Strumpets Must Report to ze Tradesman 's Entrance Around ze Back_, then he pushes the door.

Niggley doesn't understand the sign but he knows all about doors being slammed in his face and deftly places a foot in the jamb. As expected, the door hits his foot and pins it against the other closed one. 'That bloody hurtsh!' he yells.

The man pulls the door back and sneers. 'I do not understand vot you just said but remove your foot or I vill break it. Votever you are selling, go around ze back vere you'll be shot and dumped in ze chasm. Now go avay!'

Whether brave or stupid, Niggley is having none of it and his bruised foot stays planted. Again he hasn't understood a word but he doesn't need to as Heinrich has intervened on his behalf. 'How dare you speak to my master like zat, you little man? Now let us in or I'll tell Chancellor Murky you refused entry to ze Zanet Ambassador, Niggley Barrage, who has travelled far to be here.'

The castle porter eyes the group with suspicion, especially as Frau Murky has been mentioned. 'I've never heard of him and ve're not expecting anyone. I recently checked ze appointments diary and it vas empty. Now go avay or I'll break ze fool's foot.'

'How very dare _eurgh!_ ' exclaims Heinrich as he's grabbed by the back of his shirt and pulled away, allowing three others to take his place.

'Sir, I'm Tittiana, vun of Herr Barrage's Personal Secretaries and zese are my sisters, Nipplette and Jugmina. Ve have travelled far to be here and are very chilly in zis evening air. See how ve are jiggling up and down to try and stay varm.'

The porter gulps as his eyes gently rock up and down. 'Vell yes, I can see but I have strict orders to admit only zose who are expected. I'm sorry but zese orders must be obeyed,' he says, sounding more reasonable and a little apologetic.

The Personal Secretary's jiggling has now become something more vigorous and the porter's pupils are gradually widening. 'Please sir, it's so cold ve're having to jog on ze spot and see how ze elasticated tops of our blouses are almost exposing us to ze chill.'

'I, er, I ...'

Tittiana interrupts before the man can say anything more. 'Sir, zis temperature drops so fast only star jumps vill keep us varm but ve understand. Ve'll return to ze town and avait an invitation. Vunce back in front of a varm fire ve'll not have to vear so many clothes, as is ze custom of ze island of Zanet, vere ve come from. It's such a shame ve'll not be able to perform ze other custom either, vere anybody opening a large, vooden door to us during dusk hours must wriggle naked vith us on a bearskin rug for ...'

Heinrich swiftly darts through the doorway and kneels beside the fainted porter. After a few slaps, he shows signs of consciousness and being supported by the boy, shows the party into a reception room, with roaring open fire and bearskin rug on the wooden floor. The ladies have done everyone proud and prepare to take one for the team. As it is, the porter foregoes the invitation, mumbling something about his 'dodgy heart,' and takes his leave, hastily.

So far so good and the group settle down to wait. The trio of Secretaries are seated on a sofa, Heinrich has moved to what appears to be a play-corner, and Niggley has spotted something interesting - a mahogany drinks cabinet.

Time has ticked on and the Personal Secretaries are still sitting quietly in front of the fire. Heinrich is still in the play-corner and has assembled a _Let-go ™_ Bavarian Castle. Niggley has also been busy and the mahogany drinks cabinet is down to its metal box interior with a padlock on the front. The intricately carved legs, outer surfaces, and top-mounted glass holder, are now on the floor, as are the glasses, but he's grumbling under his breath as he has tried everything to remove the lock from the box. As yet there is no give despite his loosening of three teeth, four finger-nails and two shoe-bells. The lock seems impenetrable but he's no quitter. If force won't do the job then perhaps a mild acid will. His onesie is at half-mast and with one hand pressed against the wall to steady him, the other is aiming his ...

A door bangs open and in strides Frau Angular Murky, dressed in her night clothes. 'Velcome, velcome Herr Zanet to ze headquarters of Ze (New) ... oh my, vot are you doing to my drinks cabinet?'

'It'sh not what you think,' says Niggley, not daring to turn around.

Bad situations require calm heads and few are calmer than a woman's. 'Frau Murky, I'm Tittiana, a Personal Secretary to ze Ambassador. Please forgive him but ve vere here such a long time he needed to rebuild his strength and only ze drinks cabinet vas available. Ve have a custom in Zanet vich says ze Ambassador must have sex vith each of his female assistants ven let into a foreign castle. He's somewhat tired now and er, needs ze calories.'

Frau Murky peers doubtfully at Niggley who has curtailed his aiming and swiftly redressed his onesie. 'Okay, but vy didn't he use ze key on ze vall above ze cabinet? Ze sign beside it clearly reads: _Drinks Cabinet Key, Please Help Yourself_.'

All eyes turn to Niggley who in true UQ style, looks bewildered, as he stares at the massive sign and the key hanging beside it.

Heinrich swiftly intervenes and bows. 'Frau Murky of ze vunderful island of Jeermany. I am ze Ambassador's Personal Assistant, Heinrich, and I'm afraid he doesn't read Europalian,' he says, adding under his breath. 'Although he'll learn fast.'

'I see,' says Angular, rubbing a hand across her night-snood, 'but ze sign is in all ze old Europalian Peninsula island languages also. Zat's vy it's taking up most of ze vall. Surely he noticed.'

Heinrich sees the enormous sign, takes a calming breath and goes for broke. 'Yes, but it isn't in his own language. You must understand zat ze Ambassador is from a small island connected to ze United Queendom. Zat's vy he only speaks American.'

'Of course ze signs aren't in American as ze UQ vill nev...' begins Angular, but she pauses and appears deep in thought for a moment. 'Did you just say ze Ambassador is connected to ze United Queendom?'

'He is,' replies Heinrich, trying to keep his smile in check as the plan appears to be working.

Frau Murky throws her arms wide and laughs loudly. Several of her whalebone bodice clasps spring open as her chest thrusts outwards and she presses hands to her cheeks. Her mouth is wide as she gasps. 'Can it be ve have a UQ territory villing to join us? You have no idea how happy zat makes me. Oh my, zis is ... unbelievable. Ve all thought ze UQ vould show a stiff upper-lip and raise two fingers but vun of you has come. Vun has come and I didn't realise it vould be such a handsome man,' says Angular, patting her hair rollers and pouting sensually ... kind of.

Niggley smiles inanely and stumbles forward. He now has his Oral-Aural unit firmly in place and appears to have learnt the Europalian language extremely fast. 'Well, thank you Frau ... handsome, really?'

Frau Murky stares smoulderingly at Niggley, her predatory eyes devouring every inch of the man. 'Oh yes, very handsome. I realise I don't yet know of your country, you horny-like man but that can wait. Right now I'm in the initial throes of ecstasy and I must have you. Quickly, take the drinks cabinet key and replenish your strength, then follow me to my bed chamber, you irresistible schtaffenprober.'

Niggley frowns, wondering what _schtaffenprober_ means as his translator didn't recognise the word. Still, he understood the rest of what she said, so takes the key, opens the padlock and goes about his business. Twisty lids are unscrewed, corks are gouged out and copious amounts of Barrage-Fuel are consumed, including a demijohn of cabbage homebrew sitting next to the cabinet, which he'd failed to notice.

He may be a fool but even he knows when it's time to take one for the team, or more precisely, give it one. Completely bladdered, he's dragged forcefully from the room by the Jeerman Chancellor.

The wall-mounted cuckoo clock in the bedroom has ticked on and twice the little bird has left its cosy nest to give its hourly retort. On the first occasion it cuckooed once, screamed nine times and was sick. The next time, it had its wings pressed firmly over its eyes before it was asphyxiated and would have fallen to an untimely death were it not for the concertina-like contraption nailed to its back.

In the massive, luscious bed, Angular is propped up on one elbow and she's running an index finger up and down Niggley's hairy man-boob cleft. 'So tell me, where exactly are you from?'

'Zanet, it'sh an island that'sh part of the county of Kent,' says Niggley, impressively recalling the plan.

'And that's important in the UQ?' asks Angular, nonchalantly poking her tongue out and licking the inside of her night-snood.

'Oh yesh. Kent'sh the gateway to Europalia. If you bring me in the resht of the United Queendom will shoon follow.'

Angular smiles ecstatically. 'Oh Niggley, you're such a big, big man.'

'Oh Frau Monkey, sho are you.'

'Please, call me sausage dumpling,' giggles Angular.
Chapter Twenty

Davey's Disbelief

Buckingham Palace, the home of Her Majesty, Queen Lizzie II, is without doubt one of the greatest UQ island wonders. Not because it's more impressive than other stately homes, or castles, or ancient monuments, but because it's the place where all the tourists want to be, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the planet's greatest living monarch. Regal-Spotters come from every island across the planet, with their little notebooks, in the hope they can tick her off their list. To make the importance clear, to tick off, so to speak, Queen Lizzie II, is a clear ten-pointer in global Royalty terms. To put that into perspective, her son Prince Charlie is a seven-pointer and his younger brother, Prince Andy, along with his family, a single-pointer, but only because they have little else to do other than be on holiday all year round, so they are easy to spot.

Anyway, Buckingham Palace, the front-façade at least, drips with splendid finery and the tourists love it. But remember, every front has a back and the rear of the Palace is somewhat different. For any person wishing to enter the rear, the most secretive part, then a serious amount of winking and stout hand shaking must take place.

A vehicle is currently on its way following a need-to-know route. It's the Parliamentary minibus and the driver knows the way with his eyes closed. The passenger, the United Queendom's Prime Minister, Davey Macaroon, recalls a similar road trip not too long ago and has his eyes firmly shut. He also has hands over them for added protection and is ignoring the ginger driver's constant gibbering.

Despite wanting to admonish the erratic driver, Davey's not saying a word though his lips are moving. He's mouthing silent prayers for his seatbelt which is preventing him from being splatted on a toughened-glass windscreen.

Mostly, the journey has been reasonably flat but now the vehicle is on a continuous decline with regular tyre-screeching cornering. Only when the plane of travel levels out and the vehicle squeals to a halt, after braking, does Davey brave a glance through a gap in his fingers. The destination has been reached but he waits until the engine's steady drone stops before he considers leaving the transportation.

'That'll be a thousand quid, Guvnor, and don't skimp on the tip,' insists Crispy.

Davey checks himself for damage and being a tad dazed, hands over the money without question. It appears fear has addled his brain and Crispy takes the opportunity to relieve the man of his recently purchased leather wallet.

'Nice one Guvnor, now get out as I've got a fare in Ackney to get to.'

Davey is assisted from the vehicle with a foot in the small of his back and he lands on the dirty tarmac. As he starts to protest, his senses having returned, he finds himself spluttering as exhaust and tyre fumes fill his lungs. The vehicle is gone and all that remains is an eye-watering haze of toxicity.

Rising to his feet, Davey adjusts his blue tie and sees dark shadows moving towards him through the unwelcome mist. He prepares to admonish the new arrivals for such dreadful treatment but pauses on hearing a familiar voice. Instantly, he drops to one knee and stares at the ground.

'This way Prime Minister, Grandmamma awaits you,' says the voice.

Davey stands and moves to the lift, which the regal SAS operative is pointing to. As he steps past Prince Hairy, he bows constantly.

The lift descends but not far and the doors open. Davey, having checked his appearance in the elevator mirror steps out and enters a corridor which screams _Regality_ throughout. There is an ornate carpet made of finely woven, golden strands, canvasses painted with real gold, gold candelabras and crystal chandeliers with gold infused crystal drops. Ostentatious is the word but to mention such a thing would be a serious mistake. This particular extravagance is no doing of the current reigning monarch and in truth, Her Majesty hates it.

Prince Hairy takes the lead, ignoring the bling, and leads the way toward a gold door at the far end of the corridor while Davey walks behind with two SAS ops bringing up the rear.

On reaching the door, the Prince grabs the handle and with a look of amusement, turns to face the PM. Davey's returned smile is tight-lipped and there is a hint of disapproval on his features. The Royal Spare grins naughtily, turns the handle and pushes the door wide. He invites the PM to enter first, which he eventually does, somewhat hesitantly. The Prince steps through, behind Davey and closes the door, leaving the SAS operatives outside.

As always, the PM sighs and tries to appear relaxed. Sadly, he can never quite manage to hide his disapproval at the sight which greets him. And why is that?

Is it the Dukes of Edinburgh and Cambridge sat on a sofa, games console controllers in hands, laughing as their avatars smack ten-bells out of each other on the _Eggs-Box ™_ fighting game - _Evisceration ™_. Or maybe it's the sight of the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall and Prince Jedward, giggling as they attempt to assume the position while playing _Twistier ™_. Or even the Duchess of Cambridge standing at a wooden tub, up to her elbows with a washboard and a stack of soiled washable nappies. Or could it be the other Royals, also doing - normal stuff?

For Davey though, it's the sight of Queen Lizzie II, the reigning UQ Monarch, sitting in a rocking chair with a cowboy hat on her head and a guitar in hand. She is currently belting out an acoustic version of _Runestone Cowgirl_ , much to the delight of her great-grandson George, who is sat on the back of the chair, gripping her hair, pretending she's a horse.

The PM has seen this before and it stabs at his very soul that the Royals, behind the scenes, are normal. Davey wipes a tear from his left eye and moves forward to present himself.

Her Majesty looks up and smiles widely. 'Davey, you're here at last, now come on George, let go of Nanny's hair, I need to talk to our guest. Come on, there's a good boy. How about doing me a painting but no gold please, I despise gold?' she says, standing. 'Now then, come on through to the kitchen Davey and I'll make us a nice cup of tea.'

The Queen removes her cowboy hat and drops it onto the rocking chair. She helps Prince George down, leads him to his easel, then disappears through a side door. Prince Hairy chuckles, walks to the kitchen and Davey follows sullenly but he knows his duty.

He enters the kitchen and there's Her Majesty, digging out mugs from a cupboard. She places them on a typical domestic-style worktop and opens the fridge, removing a two pint container of semi-skimmed. As the electric kettle starts to boil she points to a table, big enough to seat the three of them. Davey sits and folds his arms across his chest, his expression huffy. With the tea made, Her Majesty carries the mugs over, sets them down making sure none spills, and plonks herself in the chair opposite her PM, then admonishes herself. 'Blast, can you fetch the biscuits, Hairy? They're in the tin by the toaster.'

'I know where they are Gran,' says Hairy, grabbing the biscuit tin. He places them in the centre of the table, covering an old stain which is blighting the woodgrain and removes the lid. Davey takes three _Rich-Thee ™_, and Her Majesty, three pink wafers, her favourites.

The Queen smiles at Davey and raises an eyebrow the merest fraction. 'There, isn't this nice and remember Davey, we never stand on ceremony here.'

'I remember,' mumbles Davey, as he dunks a biscuit.

'And while here we all refer to each other by our preferred first names. I'm Lizzie and my grandson is Hairy. I know you disapprove but I accept nothing less. What say you, Davey?'

'Very well,' grumbles Davey, taking a bite from a soggy biscuit.

'Excellent, right then, let's get down to business. I suggest you start, Davey.'

'Of course Highn... Lizzie. I'll skip the details regarding the rise of Ze (New) Union of Europalia as I'm sure Hairy has kept you well informed and I'll move straight to the response. Bear-Grilled Steak, Niggley Barrage and Professor Brain Clogs are ...'

Lizzie waves her hand in a shushing motion as she sips from her mug. 'I know all about that Davey, just tell me what they have to report?'

'Well, nothing as yet. We've not heard from any of them but they haven't been gone long. I'm not sure what you want me to say?' asks Davey, shrugging.

'Astute as ever Davey but I didn't ask you here to tell me anything I didn't already know. You're here to be brought up to speed. Take over please, Hairy,' says Lizzie, nodding to her Grandson while blowing across the top of her mug to cool the steaming contents.

Hairy nods. 'Of course Gran,' he says and turns to Davey. 'We know Bear and Niggley landed safely and Bear was captured but that was always part of the plan. The Professor will soon rendezvous with our contact in Swizzeland and all will be well.'

'Forgive me but I know this. I know the plan as well as anyone,' says Davey, dunking his already sodden biscuit and leaving most of it in the cup, much to his annoyance.

'Okay, here's what you don't know. If those three fail in their tasks it doesn't really matter. Bear is present to draw suspicion away from Niggley and he's only present to give the enemy false hope, providing he remembers the plan. As for the Professor, he's gone to Swizzeland to cause as much carnage as he can and trust me, he will.'

'But I thought we sent the Professor because he knows the Quite Big Hardon Collider and how to shut it down,' says Davey, a little confused.

Prince Hairy shakes his head. 'That's not possible as the QBHC's no longer what it used to be. His only remit is to cause as much mayhem as possible and prevent the Europalian continent from growing.'

Davey dunks his second biscuit, quickly removing it before it has time to break. 'I'm missing something. If our spies are there to potentially fail then what's the point?'

'A good question Davey and I'll answer it,' says Hairy, sitting back in his chair and his expression becomes more serious. 'I'll also remind you that details of this conversation go no further than your own head. Do you understand?'

'Of course I understand, I'm the Prime ... sorry, please forgive my terse tone.'

'Forgiven Davey and our three spies may well fail,' says Hairy, swiftly glancing at his Gran who appears not to be paying attention, 'but our fourth won't.'

Davey looks quizzically at Hairy then Lizzie. 'Fourth spy? Since when have we had a fourth spy?'

Lizzie continues, waving a damp, pink wafer, but not threateningly. 'Actually Davey, we haven't, as strictly speaking he isn't a spy. He'll be very visible to the enemy as will his friends, once he recovers.'

'What do you mean, once he recovers? I have no knowledge of this,' says Davey, his confusion growing.

'We're referring to Sir Devbo and his martial arts team,' says Lizzie, biting into her wafer.

'But Sir Devbo is dead. I read it in _The Stun_ so it must be true. Isn't it?' asks Davey, now ignoring his mug of tea and biscuit.

Lizzie shakes her head. 'His death has been greatly exaggerated and that secret must be kept under wraps. I'll not go into detail but we expect him back on his feet in a day or two. Raring to go, one might say.'

'Very well ... and I appreciate he's exceptional but he's only one man,' says Davey, trying to get to grips with what this means.

Lizzie waves her wafer again. 'Don't forget his team, never forget them.'

'Indeed but I still don't understand,' says Davey, and he truly doesn't.

'Tell me Davey, have you ever faced an annoyed Geordie martial arts expert? I'm guessing, actually I know, you haven't, or you'd be dead. Trust me that once Sir Devbo has fully recovered then God help the ones who incapacitated him, and I'm sure he won't.'

Davey stares at his half-drunk tea and contemplates what he has heard. Eventually, his eyes return to Lizzie and he nods. 'Okay, I appreciate the heads up but what has Sir Devbo's target got to do with any of this? What is his target? The danger is in Swizzeland and Jeermany only, isn't it?'

Prince Hairy takes up the reins from his grandmother, not that she's actually wearing reins. She was only pretending to be a horse for her great-grandson. 'Truthfully Davey, the greatest threat has arisen elsewhere, more stealthily you might say, and the whole Europalian super-continent thing is just an aside. The problem will come when Sir Devbo attacks this real enemy. The planet's news channels will notice and have a field day. There's the potential for planetary meltdown which the enemy wants. We're giving you the heads up so you can prepare a response for the UQ citizens and try to stop the anarchy that will surely follow. The unnoticed enemy has been very clever and that's the real threat.'

Davey shakes his head. 'So what is the real threat?' he asks, his eyes darting between the two Royals.

'Look at this map,' says Hairy, taking a folded piece of paper from his SAS fatigues pocket and placing it on the table. He slowly unfolds it and waits for the PM's reaction. He and Lizzie aren't disappointed when the penny drops.

'The Vatican!' exclaims Davey, banging a fist on the table and shattering his remaining biscuit, showering crumbs on the two Royals opposite.
Chapter Twenty One

A Rock and a Mad Place

There is an old saying about walking a mile in a person's shoes. Most shoes are very comfortable but flip-flops aren't, especially if they are sole-loosened, leather brogues. There is one individual who wears such and he's approaching his lodgings. Having avenged the vile Mrs Rogan-Josh, Jeremiah is presently content, but as the rain starts to fall, a flip loses its flop. He pauses and looks to the ground behind him. As expected, their lies a piece of his sole. The entirety of the bottom of his left shoe has finally fallen off and he sighs. Bending and reaching back he picks up the damp and worn strip of rubber, turns it over in his hands, and shakes his head. He places the item in a torn pocket of his seen-better-days jacket and continues on. He is only ten yards from a dry harbour and he skirts the wooden picnic tables on the forecourt, ignores the bucket of sand overflowing with spent cigarette butts, and grabs the latch on the public house door.

From the outside, the newly named _JP Arms_ , formerly known as _The Posh Totty_ , appears locked up for the night but Jeremiah knows different. As the rain hammers down, he steps inside and allows the door to swing shut behind him. Those inside, the late night, or perhaps, early morning drinkers, turn and stare at the newcomer. Conversations pause, raised glasses hover, and even the open fire stops spitting and spluttering for a few seconds. Jeremiah eyes five people and steps damply to the bar.

The barkeep eyes him suspiciously, reaches below the counter, withdraws a small glass of _L 'Art de Martell Cognac_ and places it on the bar. 'Been a long night has it stranger? You're wet through and you'll catch your death if you're not careful. There's a change of clothes in the back, dishevelled and ripped just as you like them, but very dry. My Lynn insists you change whatever you may wish now on you go, after the drink of course.'

Jeremiah downs the cognac in one, places the glass back on the bar and heads for the backroom without saying a word. The bar-proppers move aside, giving him a free path and as the door closes behind him, the conversation ramps up again.

'Is that really ...?'

'No, it's not sonny, now listen up as you're new around here,' says Barkeep Brian, a grey-haired, miserable looking man. 'That certainly isn't Jeremiah Paxo-man, the greatest gent ever to do us commoners proud. What say you, Old Tony?'

Old Tony, a red-faced, gaunt man pauses in his drinking and nods. 'It sure isn't the one some call the night beast. Isn't that right, Blacksmith Beardy-Man?'

A magnificently bearded man nods and wipes froth from his facial follicles. 'I've never heard of the night beast, or the People's Avenger, and even if I had, that isn't him. Isn't that right, Lady Mucky-Muck-Spuck-Puck?'

A drunken lady with tall hair wobbles on her bar stool. 'Oh no, that certainly isn't the smelliest, worst dressed, unshaved, sex-god ever to stalk our narrow country lanes.'

The backroom door bangs open and admits a now dry, yet still poorly dressed Jeremiah. He walks to the bar, past the newly silent patrons, reaches into a ripped pocket and pulls out a mouldy wallet.

Barkeep Brian waves a hand dismissively. 'Your money's no good here stranger so put it away. Just order what you wish and I'm sure there are those here who'll pay the bill, but not me obviously as I'm trying to make a living.'

Blacksmith Beardy-Man pipes up. 'I'll pay for his drink. Another Cognac for the stranger and keep them coming,' he says, reaching into his back pocket and withdrawing a wad of notes.

Jeremiah's sapphire eyes stare at the huge, bearded man. 'That isn't necessary.'

'I beg to differ, it's very necessary and I note you're carrying a pair of tired old brogues. I'm just a simple blacksmith but I also have knowledge of cobbling. I can have then right as rain come sunrise.'

'I prefer them how they are thank you,' growls Jeremiah, protectively pulling them close.

'I appreciate that but what I mean is I can sew new soles, just to the back of course, so the front still flaps about.'

Jeremiah eyes the man and his natural suspicion searches for the lie in his words. 'Do I know you, sir?'

Sweat erupts on Blacksmith Beardy-Man's face and he scratches his beard where it has started itching. 'No sir, but I meant no harm.'

There is a welcome interruption as the lady of the public house enters, through the door Jeremiah has just used. Her scowl speaks volumes and the hands on hips shout loud. 'Our guest would welcome your services, Blacksmith, and don't look at me like that stranger. You're a man of purpose and such a man must have well-soled shoes, half-soled at least.'

Jeremiah stares at the woman. His cobalt gaze meet a woman's glare and he reluctantly hands over his shoes. Blacksmith takes them and leaves hastily, without finishing his pint.

Barkeep Brian speaks up. 'Right you lot, it's early morning and haven't you got homes to go to? Come on, out you go and don't come back until tomorrow evening. I've got a feeling we might get a visit from the coppers in a few hours so make yourselves scarce.'

The patrons are thrown out, to walk home in the rain, and inside the public house, Jeremiah is offered another Cognac. He rebuffs it, enters the backroom and makes his way up the nearby stairs to his lodging.

The People's Avenger sighs, feels a tightness creeping through his muscles and lies down on his bed. He falls asleep swiftly and soon dreams of something large and gruesome with a huge belly, many bellies in fact - a foe of days past.

_Nee-naw, nee-naw_ , go the sirens as they sweep past the lower reaches of a public house. The grating wailing would be enough to wake even the most tired Avenger but Jeremiah is already awake, looking out the window of his room. The screaming cars pass but he doesn't see their blue, flashing lights until they are further along the lane, heading for a well-known country estate. He snorts, notes it is a bright morning outside but the wind has really got up in the night, moving the nearby trees with force.

He moves from the window and enters the small bathroom. He checks his clothes, the ones he has slept in and sniffs the shirt collar. Being of sound nasal capacity he detects no hint of a smell and reaches into a bag at his feet. He removes an oil can and drips a few drops onto the collar. As the amber liquid is absorbed into the fibres, he rubs it hard. He looks at his reflection in the mirror and then frowns. Moving back into the bedroom, he peers out the window again and sees the wind has dropped, with the trees no longer moving. He curses, shoulder charges the bedroom door, smashing it from its hinges, exits into the hallway, drops down the stairs, and finally crashes into the bar. He skids to a halt on seeing many weapons aimed at him.

An SAS operative speaks. 'Apologies Mr Paxo-man but you're covered inside and out so keep your little friend in your pocket. My superior wants a word with you.'

Jeremiah berates himself for not having recognised the danger sooner. He should have realised straight away the excessive wind wasn't natural and was being caused by several _somethings_ coming into land. Certainly, the stealthed helicopters wouldn't be seen but there would be no hiding the downdraft. 'Dear Lord, so this is it. The SAS have finally succumbed to their political masters.'

The front door of the public house opens, admitting a General dressed in shaded blue fatigues with many sewn-on scout badges. 'Stand down, I've got this. You know me Mr Paxo-man, or at least, you know them.'

Jeremiah looks across at those General Richard has indicated. His demeanour relaxes but only because he knows he is definitely beaten and to put up a fight would be futile.

'Hiya Jezza, this is a bit bonkers don't you think,' says Cloudier, smiling menacingly.

Jeremiah's sapphire eyes flare. 'Did you just call me Jezza?'

'Er yes, is that a problem?'

'Nobody may call me Jezza,' he says, but then feels a tap on his shoulder. He glances behind and down, sees a chef's uniform and so much for making a run for it out the back way.

'Can I bloody well call you Jezza?' asks Moneekar.

The man sighs and moves to a nearby table. He sits, reversing the chair for personal safety reasons, whatever good that will do, and stares forward. 'So you've found me. I knew it would happen one day but I never expected it to be you lot. Very well, let's get this over with,' he says, pressing his hands forward, the insides of his wrists touching in readiness for the cuffs.

Moneekar, seating herself opposite, reaches out and pushes his hands away. 'You don't understand. We're not arresting you. We need your help to go to Hell.'

Jeremiah frowns at the woman and wonders if he heard correctly. He's still staring when General Richard takes the seat next to Moneekar. 'You heard right and I'm not quite sure how to put this but we er, have a delicate situation which requires er, your skillset shall we say. We can't go into detail but er ...'

Jeremiah glares and bangs a fist on the table. 'Dear Lord, will you stop babbling! You're an SAS General, not a blond politician, now spit it out. You must realise I despise nincompoops.'

'Very well, here it is in a nutshell,' says General Richard, eyeing the man while wondering how much he should tell him, especially considering the _nincompoop_ comment. 'We need you to get us in somewhere. Here's a map, now take a look.'

Rolling his eyes, Jeremiah stares down at the map the General has laid out on the table and he's currently wondering why the so-called Special Associated Scouts are so incompetent as to need his help. On staring at the map though, he fully understands and his eyes rise. 'Queenston-upon-Hull, the Lord's lair. I was leaving him until last for a very good reason. He's the biggest and the meanest, a fighter born and bred. He's also very well guarded,' he says, thinking for a moment as he glances in turn at Moneekar and the standing Cloudier. 'But it seems you have me between a rock and a mad place. Very well, I'll get you in, but I'll also get myself back out. I wonder if you'll be able to do the same.'

General Richard also wonders but needs must. 'Just get us past him. After that, you have my word you'll not be troubled again.'

'Hah! So I have the word of a politician's performing monkey that I can go free. Forgive me but you'll need to do better than that. I do not trust the word of a lackey.'

General Richard removes a small, disk-shaped object from his fatigues pocket, places it on the table and pushes it towards the man. It's a trump card, an emblem in fact, and he watches as Jeremiah picks it up. 'It's genuine. An official pardon for past and, ahem, future crimes, sealed by Her Majesty Queen Lizzie II, herself. She has even tucked a personal note inside if you'd care to read it.'

Jeremiah examines the sealed emblem and truthfully, he has no idea if it's genuine or not, but faking an official Royal Seal is still a hanging offence in the UQ. He guesses even Her Majesty's most disciplined and trusted fighting force wouldn't do such a thing, especially as her own Grandson ranks highly in their echelons. The offer is genuine it seems.

Jeremiah tucks the sealed emblem into the inside pocket of his jacket, without reading the note, and standing, pads to the front door of the pub in his socked feet. Blacksmith Beardy-Man is outside, holding a pair of semi-repaired brogues, and Jeremiah takes a moment to put them on. Now properly dressed he crosses the narrow road, jumps the drystone wall, slides down a damp, grassy bank and at the last hops up into a helicopter. There he sits, defiant, but when another joins him he chuckles, genuinely.

'I'm a bit damp and that isn't meant to sound dirty,' says Cloudier, grinning darkly as she flutters her black eyelashes. 'Aren't you afraid of me, Jezza?'

'Madam, I devour women like you for brunch, and that's not being dirty either.'
Chapter Twenty Two

One Hull of a Place

Dark-Zero Whisper-Hawks move fast, very fast, but occasionally they can take their time. It simply wouldn't do for a seriously adept fighting force to land at their destination in strong daylight, despite their invisibility. Everyone knows that a decent fight never takes place under a noonday sun - that's just movie nonsense. Dusk is the time and luckily, the sun is only an hour or two away from setting.

Having landed, Jeremiah peers through the open helicopter door and sees a wilderness. He steps down onto a potholed and unkempt road, which has stubborn weeds growing all about and a tumbleweed rolls past him. Turning, he sees a high wall in the distance and during the helicopter's descent noted an eight-storey abandoned factory, with broken, multi-paned windows, weathered brickwork in need of pointing, and a vehicle graveyard, consisting mainly of rusted and broken fast-food delivery vehicles. In all, the place is uninviting and seems deserted but if that were the case then why are the two and a quarter miles of twelve foot high perimeter wall topped with razor-wire and electrified? To the unknowing, the derelict building would appear as a remnant of a bygone industrial era but to those in the know, it's a cleverly disguised fortress.

From the air, Jeremiah saw all he needed to. He uttered the words, 'Dear Lord,' on exactly five occasions during the approach and now on the ground considers his options. Part of him wants to flee but another part is looking forward to the confrontation. Either way, he was leaving the Lord until last for a very good reason.

The vast sanctuary of the incumbent is just that, a sanctuary, and as politicians go, he considers himself untouchable. Partly due to his sheer presence, partly due to his defences, but mostly due to the fact he's one powerful son of a bitch.

Jeremiah turns to General Richard who is stood beside him. His interest is piqued and he is still wondering what it is he can do that a ferociously armed platoon of SAS operatives cannot? 'Do you have a mobile telecommunication device?' he asks.

General Richard removes his phone and passes it across. 'Here.'

The offer is rebuffed. 'I never got the hang of such things but you should make a call to the nearest fast food outlet and request a delivery.'

'Consider it done,' says the General and he orders a wealth of food from the nearest such business. When done he presses the _End Call_ button and tucks the phone away.

Jeremiah nods, places his hands in front of his face, and disappears. Without looking back he knows the General is right behind him, using his high-tech stealth-ware. The unlikely pairing move past derelict buildings, skip over piles of rubble and halt in the shadow of an abandoned lorry. Both turn their attention to the lair's main gate. The impressive General observes through a pair of standard-issue Toggle-Goggles and Jeremiah simply looks. Both wait silently and after thirteen minutes, an approaching vehicle can be heard.

'You do realise the delivery driver will have no chance,' says the General.

Jeremiah nods. 'Indeed, but you made the call so it's on your head.'

'Affirmative, but I can un-make the call.'

'That isn't a proper word.'

'True, now let's move closer.'

'Not this time, let's just see what happens,' insists Jeremiah, staying put in the shadows.

General Richard, feeling Jeremiah's arm across his chest, does wait, and watches the delivery van pull up to the fortified entrance. The driver exits, approaches the gate, presses a brass button on the gatepost and waits. Moments later, the gate slides aside and the screaming delivery person is dragged inside. Whatever did the dragging wasn't fully visible from their viewpoint but Jeremiah feels a chill when a huge arm reaches out, lifts the front of the van, and pulls that inside.

Sadly, it is as Jeremiah expected and another innocent won't be alive come the morning. Joe Bloggs, perhaps Joanne Bloggs, or more likely Piotr or Petra Bloggski, won't be working any more shifts. The fate of the delivery driver is sealed and they will be consumed, with a selection of tasty dips.

Jeremiah has seen enough and his aggressive nature is rising. The part of him which senses an injustice has kicked in while the part of him seeking an escape route is fully doused. Barely containing his anger, he grabs the General and drags him back to the helicopters.

A plan has been formulated, not the best of course, but needs must.
Chapter Twenty Three

The Dishonourable Lord Octobelly

Jeremiah's hands are clenched into fists, with both wanting to slip into a pocket and grab a knife handle, but he's fighting his instinct. He knows that's not the way to go but he recalls his recent dream of a multi-bellied beast. He wonders if he has the stomach for the fight and unintentionally chuckles. He hopes so as his opponent has many.

'Make another call but they come here and not to the gate,' growls Jeremiah.

General Richard nods and a call is made to a different catering establishment. Before he can say anything, Jeremiah grabs the phone. 'Hello, I'm an employee of Lord Johnny 'OctoBelly' Pisscott and I'd like to place the following order. He wants two clan-size deep-fried chicken bins and throw in the discarded carcasses ... What? Of course he wants them smothered with disgusting congealed fat. He wants every _Jen & Berry™_ ice cream you have and they'd better arrive chilled ... No, I haven't finished! Actually, send everything you've got whether cooked or not, he won't care. Load it all into a lorry and bring it to my current location ... Ah, how would I like to pay? I'll pass you to my colleague.'

General Richard takes back the phone. The bill is paid using a standard-issue SAS credit card and a delivery time agreed, taking somewhat longer than usual due to the business having to hire a lorry at short notice.

As watches are watched, the delivery lorry finally arrives, two minutes later than expected. General Richard, ever the professional, has made a note of the time knowing late delivery will result in a refund. As the two employees exit the lorry, they are grabbed; delicately stripped and led away, unknowing their lives have just been saved. Jeremiah and the General don the uniforms, which fit perfectly over their clothing, however lucky that may be, and the former moves into the driver's seat.

'Care to join me, General?'

'It'll be a pleasure. So what's the plan?'

Jeremiah shrugs. 'I drive to the gates, get out and talk through the communication device. I get back in, drive into the compound when the gates open and we disable the internal guards before Lord Octobelly gets wind of what we're doing,' he says, raising an eyebrow to his passenger.

'I like it,' says General Richard.

'Really, that's a good plan? I thought you might have airborne gunships or snipers placed on the nearby buildings, or the sewers packed with operatives ready to spring up at a moment's notice. Are you really going with my plan?'

'It sounds fine and I've not got a better one.'

'Seriously?' asks a shocked Jeremiah and when he sees the General wink at him he mutters. 'Dear Lord.'

The plan is a go and Jeremiah guns the accelerator pedal. He then takes his foot away, puts the van in gear and hits the accelerator again. The vehicle stalls and with no word spoken, the two men swap places. Jeremiah doesn't do technology and with both strapped in, their seatbelts tight, the vehicle moves forward and heads towards the foul sanctuary of the Lord.

The gate is huge, double thickness ply-wood, smothered in razor wire with a large sign nailed to the middle, reading: _Bugger Off!_ Despite its uninviting appearance, General Richard, dressed in a red and black uniform, exits the vehicle. He presses the brass buzzer and a tinny voice is heard. 'Who dat?'

'I'm Slawek and I've lots of lovely, greasy food,' says the General, in a silly accent.

'But we not order nuffink.'

'Okay, I'll take it back then.'

'Wait, we have it anyway! Stay by gate and me give you hand. Me give you big hand,' says the voice, adding rumbling laughter.

'No, you're fine. Just open the gate and I'll drive in,' insists the General.

The communicator falls silent and the reinforced gate starts to slide open. General Richard runs back to the lorry, throws himself inside and turns to his co-pilot. 'We're in,' he says, but frowns on seeing an empty passenger seat. He wonders if Jeremiah has had a change of heart but doubts that is the case. Taking a deep breath, he drives the lorry slowly forward into what can only be described as a typical, Queenston-upon-Hull warzone.

In the fading daylight General Richard has brought his infra-red optical implants to bear and sees dozens of semi-concealed heat signatures as the lorry rolls inside and halts. He can hear the gate closing behind him but that is of little concern. His eyes are turned to a _Temp-a-Kabin ™_ with dirty windows, mouldy felt roof, and a wonky front step, no more than twenty feet away. The sign reads: _All Drivers Report Here_ , but he decides to forego the invitation. His decision appears sensible as the flimsy building rocks and a massive creature eases itself sideways through the doorframe. He knows this isn't the feared Lord Octobelly, but only one of the guards. That is little comfort however and he winds up the driver's window, leaving only a small gap at the top.

The creature is massive, fifty stone at least, and can barely be described as human. At least, there are no records in the 'SAS fauna files' of such a thing existing as General Richard has just checked via a Knowledge-Hub implant. He reaches for his hand-rifle and twisting a dial on the handle, switches it to _Drop-A-Fat-Bastard_ mode. Sensibly, a second dial is also turned, to _Lard-Incendiary_ , and a third to _Double-Damage_. As the blubbery beast waddles towards the vehicle, General Richard checks his exit routes and sees only two vehicle doors. He shuffles away from the one he's closest to.

The approaching guard sniffs, pulls a clipboard round and crouching slightly, settles its belly on the pocked and puckered concrete. It tugs up its trousers, which drop straight back to the ground and at the last it gurns, showing distorted teeth, thin lips and a plethora of chins. 'Me officer Tubber-Two and me wanna eat you er, have to look at food in van. You have to step out of vehicle and then get _eurgh!_ '

The officer collapses to the ground, which isn't far considering its huge belly is already on it and it rolls over - dead. Richard leans towards the window for a better look and can see no reason for such an unexpected but well-deserved death. He considers a timely coronary episode but knows that's not the case when Jeremiah's whispered voice makes him jump.

'Not a word General. Just keep looking forward as you're being watched from the eighth floor by the Lord himself. As yet he hasn't seen me but when his other defences start to fall, he'll become suspicious. You just sit tight and when he shows himself, I'll deal with him. Now keep looking forward.'

Jeremiah is gone again and General Richard inwardly applauds the man. He realises his concealment is nothing short of ridiculous but there's no denying it works. Whatever technique is being used requires further investigation but that must wait. Other beasts are approaching and he winds his window up fully.

The things look like huge pigs and again, the SAS database has no record of them. With bellies scraping the uneven ground, their legs are barely supporting their bulk but they are moving forwards, in a pack. The dozen or so beasts, completely hairless, with gaping jowls and protruding teeth, are soon sniffing around the lorry and surrounding it.

As the General checks his mirrors, there is a loud bang and the van jolts as one of the tyres is bitten through. He curses inwardly but then outwardly when the other three go the same way. He takes a firm grip on his hand-rifle as the last of the tyres gives up the precious air inside and wonders if he might be doing the same sometime soon. He recalls the orders he has given his operatives that nobody moves until the Lord is outside. Nobody exits sewers, storms the walls, or traverses from the helicopter gunships until he is visible. As other creatures emerge from hiding, these much bigger but no less horrifying, he considers revising the plan.

As his eyes continually dart this way and that, some fifty yards away a wrecked and rusted delivery van takes to the air. It rises, spins, moves faster than it has for years, and crashes down in amongst the sharp-toothed beasts surrounding the lorry, downing a few but more importantly, scattering the remainder.

The General doesn't question how Jeremiah has managed such a thing, he's just grateful the lorry is free to move. He gently presses the accelerator and moves the vehicle forward on burst tyres. The damaged road surface is jarring as are the discarded carcasses of past delivery drivers as they're crushed under the wheels of industry. He tries his best to avoid desecrating the unmarked graves of hundreds, perhaps thousands of unfortunates but needs must. As the vehicle slowly trundles toward the front entrance of the dilapidated industrial building he has to brake. There's a dry moat in the way, not massively deep but more than enough to trap the lorry if he tried to cross it. Checking his mirrors again he sees the beasts regathering to the rear and curses. The lorry is put in reverse ...

'Not yet, General,' says an invisible Jeremiah, from the passenger seat.

'Shit, where did you come from?' asks the military man, his heartbeat quickening.

'That's unimportant, now sit tight. The beasts won't attack this time. We need to wait.'

'How did you get back in the cab without me noticing?' hisses the General.

'I'm not telling, now hold still. He's on his way down so prepare to move when I say.'

General Richard stares dumbfounded at the apparently empty seat where Jeremiah must be sitting and shakes his head, wondering how he does it. The vigilante was a curiosity previously but now his talent is throwing up many questions, none the General has an answer for. He sighs on knowing he must accept the situation. 'So what's the plan? I asked, what's the ... right, you're gone again? Sod this,' he says and addresses his woggle communicator. 'This is General Richard, all units are a go on my mark. Fully stealthed, locked and load... holy fucking shit!'

General Richard, accomplished cameraman, and SAS to the core, is rarely stunned. When he is however, it takes something beyond comprehension to pull him up and Lord Johnny 'Octobelly' Pisscott's emergence has done just that. The front doors to the industrial unit have been thrown open, or more accurately, smashed open. The man is so vast, the size of the biggest of bull elephants, that it must be asked how he managed to get inside the building in the first place, but Lord Octobelly doesn't appear to care about that right now. He's hungry and his gross form is picking up speed, heading straight for a fully loaded food lorry. His huge fists are thumping the ground as he runs and abandoned vehicles are being smashed aside as if they weren't there.

'Mah wannn foo you bastarrr!' he shouts, the words sounding guttural.

General Richard has faced everything in his career, or so he thought, but the approaching politician is beyond even his remit. The Lord's size is astonishing and his appearance frightening. Wide legs are somehow managing to carry the enormous body forward and every step is making the lorry shake. The torso lollops side to side with great rolls of flab bouncing up and down and as for the enormous bald head with its giant mouth, well, the least said the better. In all, Lord Octobelly's naked presence, bar for dirty underpants, is beautifully terrifying, especially his arms which are massively muscled with fists the size of beach balls.

'All units, you're a go, I repeat, fucking move it!' shouts the General into his woggle communicator when he eventually finds his voice.

As Lord Octobelly prepares to jump the dry moat he unexpectedly loses his footing and rolls forward. The ground shakes as he enters the moat, bounces up and crashes into the front of the lorry, pushing it back a few metres. Looking dazed he stands, staggers, then falls backwards, plugging the moat enough for the lorry to get across.

General Richard, rubbing a pained chest where it collided with the steering wheel, due to premature seatbelt removal, rises from his seat for a better look but is again startled by Jeremiah's voice. 'I tripped him and he's filled the moat now get moving.'

'Will you stop doing that!' shouts the General, his chest hurting more now his heart is trying to break through his ribcage.

'He's only dazed. Now get going and good luck. Perhaps we'll meet again,' says Jeremiah, exiting the lorry in his own special way.

The General guns the accelerator and the moat crossing, over a makeshift tubby-flesh bridge, isn't gentle, nor pretty, but it is effective. Despite lacking inflated tyres, the accelerator is right to the floor and the vehicle is driven straight through the front of the building, taking advantage of the recently enlarged entrance. It hits an internal steel support and crunches to a halt with steam starting to fizz through the radiator grill.

Gunfire and explosions erupt outside and as hundreds of revolting, concealed creatures emerge from their hiding places in amongst the masses of broken vehicles, the battle is truly met. In the front of the lorry a relieved SAS General wipes sweat from his face. He opens a small hatch behind his head and speaks to those who have been concealed in the rear of the lorry. 'We're in so let's find the entrance to Hell,' he says, adding for his own benefit, 'if we haven't already.'

The lorry's rear doors are flung open and the team who were hiding inside exit at pace. Knowing time is of the essence, they ignore the enormous service lift which states it can hold twenty four people or one fat git, and instead scramble up the stairs. On reaching the eighth floor, Moneekar beats the enormous doors of Lord Octobelly's private apartment to the ground. Now inside, they spread out and search and moments later, a voice calls out. 'I've found it, sir.'

'Where are you, op two?' shouts General Richard.

'It's op three, sir, and I'm in the sleeping quarters ... shit, there are bones everywhere.'

'Stand down op three, I see you,' says General Richard, running into the room. 'So there it is. Hell's entrance.'

The others, them being the SAS ops, Cloudier, Walshy, and Moneekar, stare at a massive chest of drawers. The piece of furniture is bruised, battered and foreboding but General Richard steps up and pulls the bottom drawer open. He stares at the clothing inside and retches. 'I'll go first,' he says, attempting to control his breathing as he moves aside the underpants, each the size of a bedsheet, and lays in the spacious drawer. He shuffles to the back and after a short time re-emerges. 'Damn, this isn't it. This isn't the entrance to Hell.'

Cloudier scowls and glares darkly. 'It must be. What can be more Hellish than the underpants drawer of Lord Johnny Pisscott?'

'Nothing I'd have thought. Let me have a go,' says Moneekar, helping the General climb back out.

'It's not there, trust me. I even nestled in the gussets,' says the General, unashamedly.

Many juicy curses and mentions of timewasting are heard before Walshy shouts loud. 'Of course this isn't the entrance, we're in the wrong place. Quick, find the laundry room.'

Without questioning they're off searching again and very soon a call is heard. 'Sir, op one here, I've found it but I think I'm gonna puke.'

The laundry room is as expected; dire, sickening, painted magnolia, and appears to be seldom used. The huge washing machine doors are wide open and the smell of soiled clothing is almost too much to bear. Noses are held and mouths are covered as all enter. General Richard turns to Walshy. 'Okay, you're up. What were you thinking?'

Walshy smiles, smugly. 'It stands to reason if the entrance to Hell isn't in the clean pants drawer then it has to be in there,' he says, pointing.

All stare at a large, wicker linen bin, wrapped in strong, padlocked chains and shaking occasionally. No words are spoken as all know what it contains and all agree without doubt, it must truly be Hell inside. The soiled underpants bin of Lord Octobelly has to be their goal.

General Richard gestures to op five. 'Get those chains off. Everybody else stand back as it might be booby-trapped?'

And indeed it is. The operative, having removed the padlocks and chains with a set of standard-issue bolt croppers, explodes in a red mist on opening the lid. What has caused it is unknown yet if any present were to stare at the nearest wall, they'd see a crimson spatter picture of a blood-red horned face. As it is, all eyes are on the linen bin and the open top, the lid having been blown away in the explosion. It's now a case of who will go first and only the stoutest is likely to volunteer.

General Richard steps forward. 'Op four, you take point. I've got your back soldier.'

'Yes sir, I'll go first sir. Thank you very much, sir,' says op four, eying the General in a way inferiors shouldn't.

Op four steps gingerly into the bin and quickly drops out of sight. Soon enough there's a shout. 'Sir, Walshy Loo was right. I see Hell's entrance and I'm going through. I'll cover you from the other side. Just watch for a crusted G-string at the bottom, it sliced a lump from my body armour.'

The others follow, the last being Walshy who is dragged into a huge hug and given a wet kiss. As his eyes meet Moneekar's, no words are spoken. He knows that having entered Heaven there will be no place for her in Hell and the love of his life will be right there waiting when they return. He smiles adoringly as he's dropped into the most disgusting place known to woman ... and a few men.
Chapter Twenty Four

JP vs JP

The gunfire has stopped, all bar the occasional staccato as the SAS mop up the last remnants of a dire, overfed army. As Jeremiah sits cross-legged on the ground, he picks at a jacket seam using his little friend Russell. He knows in his heart his time is nearly up and questions why he's waiting. Every cranial synapse is screaming for him to leave but the People's Avenger is a creature of the heart and what that says goes. The last six months have been cathartic but now it must end. He promised himself Lord Octobelly would be the last and despite there being others still deserving of his unique form of justice, he won't renege on his word. The bloated Lord was always going to be his swansong and so it shall be. Has he lost his nerve or his stomach for the fight? No, he's simply tired, and as a very large beast begins to move in a dry moat, he stands.

Still Jeremiah waits as the Lord coughs, splutters, rolls and turns. Soon he is on his feet and facing his nemesis. The Lord speaks and the words are surprisingly coherent. 'I knew you'd come. You should have branded me and buggered off while you had the chance.'

'I most likely should but where's the fun in that. I like to look into their eyes and see the fear as the pain bites,' says Jeremiah, raising his knife in front of his face, making sure the Lord can see it.

'You're a man after my own heart Jezza. It's good, ain't it, seeing the terror and pain and I wonder what yours will look like when I bite you in half. Will you beg for mercy as I tear you limb from limb and introduce you to the first of my stomachs? Will you cry, Jezza, as I keep you alive long enough to watch? Will you ...'

'Dear Lord, shut up! You blasted politicians do go on, now if it's not too much trouble will you get your bloated backside over here so my exceptionally sharp little friend can get a word in?'

Lord Octobelly laughs loudly, setting his chins a-dancing. 'You are funny Jezza. You'll not be branding me you skinny runt. I'm better than you think.'

'Who said anything about branding? I was saving you until last for a reason, milord. You're an abomination and a simple branding wouldn't avenge your sins. A murderer deserves but one punishment and that, to put it sharply, is death. Now shift your arse fatty and come taste your final meal, that of a cold, sharp blade.'

Lord Octobelly roars and launches himself out of the moat, belying his seven tonne bulk. Such a massive creature moving so fast would unsettle even the most steely-nerved individual but Jeremiah's prepared. He throws himself to the side and avoids a hammered fist which leaves a decent sized crater in the ground. The night beast rolls and regains his feet. 'You'll need to be quicker than that Lord Tubby.'

'Oh, I can be quicker Jezza, much quicker. I guess you haven't noticed I've been on a diet and lost three stone in the last ten minutes while unconscious and not eating. Now stop mucking around and I promise to kill you quick.'

'Actually, it's "kill you quickly," to be grammatically correct but you always were an imbecile,' says Jeremiah, staying out of reach.

Lord Octobelly growls. 'You're not helping yourself. Sticks and stones have never hurt me and name calling, well, I've heard worse. Now see if you can deal with this.'

As Jeremiah prepares to dodge, expecting another flying fist, he's woefully unprepared for what comes his way. The Lord has taken a deep breath in preparation to strike, or so Jeremiah thought, but unexpectedly he unleashes a gushing spurt of phlegm. He moves but not quickly enough and the disgusting, stinking fluid catches him full in the chest. It forces him back and he smacks heavily against the side of a defunct _Kebabys ™_ delivery van. The Lord bellows loudly as Jeremiah attempts to unstick himself. Using his knife he's only half free when a massive hand grabs him around the waist and lifts him. Now staring blue eye to beady eye with a monster, Jeremiah swipes his knife but it's knocked from his hand and falls to the ground out of reach. He's defenceless as the fetid breath of the one he has vowed to kill, near melts his nasal cavities.

Lord Octobelly sneers and shows a mouldy-toothed smile. 'You see Jezza, now you see. Nobody beats me, not Lord Octobelly, and now I'm gonna eat you. It's a shame I admit, as you did play fair but I'm a politician so I can't do that. It's not in my blood. Any last requests before I bite your head off?'

So the time has come and surprisingly Jeremiah is feeling no fear. Truthfully, his eyes are watering but that's due to the rotten stench coming from the Lord's mouth. Jeremiah smiles and speaks for what he guesses will be the final time. 'I hope I give you diarrhoea you repulsive wanker.'

Lord Octobelly's gaping maw encloses Jeremiah's head and the lights go out. The lights then come back on as the Lord's bald head rocks backwards and the huge hand holding Jeremiah relinquishes its grip. He drops to the ground and rolls away, putting distance between himself and the erstwhile diner. Only when out of thumping range does he look back and see something large attached to the face of Lord Octobelly. The creature is dog shaped and massive. Obviously it doesn't compare in size to the biggest of land-based politicians but it does have the advantage of possessing incredibly powerful jaws and seriously sharp teeth.

Jeremiah pauses, trying to make sense of what he's seeing and a remembrance fills his mind. He recalls a country estate, in the dead of night, that of Edwina Rogan-Josh, and a huge dog with part of a bear-trap stuck in its leg, which he removed. But how did it get here and manage to cover hundreds of miles in so short a time? Jeremiah knows divine intervention when he sees it, recalling a meeting with God during a reality show not so long ago. He questions no more and departs, fast.

It was too close a call for Jeremiah but he's through the gate and back into freedom. Still hearing the screams of Lord Octobelly and dog snarling he makes his way past a group of bloodied SAS operatives who have no intention of stopping him. The showing of a Royal Seal isn't necessary and he ignores their respectful salutes. At last he is free of fear, free of anger, and free of the need to avenge.

A spine-grating howl makes him pause but he shakes his head and continues on. There is nothing he can do but an anguished whimper followed by a metallic crunch halts his flip-flopping. He recognises the sound, that of a bully taking down a lesser, and a shaking hand reaches for a knife, but it's not there. He curses on forgetting to pick up Russell during his escape and knows his little friend is still lying on the ground back at the fight.

Lord Octobelly stands menacingly over the dog's broken body. The canine is bleeding from a snapped leg and punctured torso and the Lord goes in for the kill. He reaches down a chubby hand and lifts the whimpering dog by its thick neck. He opens his mouth, and an extremely sharp Russell Canadian Belt Knife imbeds itself in the back of his throat. The Lord starts to choke and falls to his podgy knees. A large hand and forearm enters an even larger mouth and eventually the knife is pulled free. Lord Octobelly bellows and reaches down to ... nothing. The dog is gone, as is Jeremiah, and he smashes his fists into the ground. Lord Octobelly, with blood gushing from wounds around his face and throat, takes a last look at the industrial building and heads for the high perimeter wall, making his getaway by crashing straight through it. Once outside he shouts. 'This ain't over Jezza, not by a bloody long chalk!'

_Flip-flop, flip-flop_ , goes the sound of a tall, poorly dressed, and blood-covered man, as he rushes along the dark alleyways of Queenston-upon-Hull. Despite being weighed down with nigh-on three hundred pounds of deadweight canine, he won't stop nor pause. After what seems ages he sees a sign he has been searching for, well, kind of. Without faltering he crashes through the front doors of an A&E department and pushes to the front of the queue. It's a Friday night but Jeremiah isn't concerned by the drunks clogging up the system, despite their nonsensical protestations. He has but one concern and as doctors and nurses stare, a flicker of recognition ignites in their brains. Quiet muttering is growing and they rush to assist.

A trolley is brought forth and a mockery is made of average waiting times. The injured canine is placed on the trolley and wheeled from the waiting room. Jeremiah sighs as he takes a seat on an uncomfortable plastic chair, with only his thoughts for company. Several grumbles are sent his way but the grumblers are met with a sapphire gaze and they swiftly fall silent. Still though, there's always one and a sozzled hulk of a man steps in front of him and starts to shout. Pound for pound it's a no-contest but Jeremiah has faced bigger and the drunken man is persuaded to leave the department. Did Jeremiah convince him by way of powerful discussion and clever argument? No, he didn't. He punched the man, hard in the stomach, and he doesn't return, as once hit, then twice shy. As Jeremiah glances around, daring further stupidity, a female surgeon appears through swinging double doors. She has a frown on her face.

'Dear Lord, don't tell me he's ... dead,' says Jeremiah, his words catching.

The surgeon crouches. 'He's a she Jeremiah and she'll be fine. We fixed her leg and all the other wounds were superficial, no major organs hit, somehow. Someone must be looking down on her,' she says, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Jeremiah chuckles humourlessly. He knows nobody was looking down, but up, maybe? Divine intervention indeed and a chill gnaws at his innards. As he contemplates the possibility he realises the woman is speaking again.

'She'll need rest. I suggest you take her home.'

'I ... have no home,' stutters Jeremiah, the truth hitting hard. He can't even remember where he used to live prior to his imprisonment and since the Reality Show debacle he has constantly been on the move, never staying in the same place for more than a couple of days. He looks up into the woman's eyes and sees her pitying expression. For the first time in over twenty-five years, he doesn't feel the need to take offense at such a look. He reaches into his ripped pocket, for his only friend, the one who gives him comfort in times of need, but his hand comes away empty, Russell now being lost. His mouth opens but no words come out and his shoulders slump as they no longer have to carry the weight of the expectation he has placed on himself. He feels a tear slide down his cheek and wonders if it's for what he has lost, or has now gained, that being a brute of a devil-dog.

The woman places a hand on his knee and reaches the other into her gown pocket. 'I guessed you have nowhere to go so here, take my keys. My Aston is in the staff-lot and you can stay at my place for a while. Take your new friend there and know that you're a hero to us all.'

'I'm no hero, I'm just an interviewer who did what he had to,' mumbles Jeremiah, his words barely audible, and he feels a set of keys pressed into a trembling hand.

'And I know you're somewhat unused to technical machinery so use the self-drive mode, the button is on the steering wheel, and it'll take you to my home. Your new friend has already been made comfortable in the passenger seat. Help yourself to whatever you want and I'll see you when my shift finishes.'

Jeremiah gulps, freeing the lump in his throat and genuinely smiles at the woman. 'Er, thank you Mrs ...?'

'I'm a Miss, Jeremiah. Miss Bond, Jane Bond,' she says, winking, before walking away.

Jeremiah stands and then sighs on hearing his spine and knees creak. He leaves the A&E department to a round of applause and disappears into the ether, retired, and unlikely to ever be seen again now his avenging days are over.
Chapter Twenty Five

Music of Creation

The Dark-Zero Shush-Eagle engines roar as it exits Bavarian airspace and heads to its next destination, the mountainous Swizzeland. Professor Brain Clogs has already seen his co-passengers alight and soon it will be his turn, but only when the internal flight light turns from red to green. Unknown to Brain though, the green bulb has blown and as a spare isn't carried, the co-pilot has snuck back into the cargo-bay. As he leans out the door, the woman is currently stood behind him with a size twelve SAS boot a few inches from his backside. Has he noticed her? Of course he has. He's Professor Brain Clogs and he misses nothing.

Barely sixteen minutes after Niggley and Bear jumped, Brain is off, downwards at a rapid rate of knots. The co-pilot closes the cargo-bay door, takes two steps towards the cockpit and accidently trips over a pack of some sort. She reaches for it and on closer inspection mouths the word, 'oops.' The pack is Brain's parachute and she knows that for certain as there's a big label on the side which reads: _Brain 's Parachute_. She returns to her seat in the cockpit and straps herself in.

'Did he get away okay, Miranda?' asks the pilot.

'Er, yes sir, and I definitely didn't trip over his parachute. I'm not a clumsy cow.'

'Outstanding. Let's get back to Northolt for a well-earned mug of _Early Grey ™_.'

Brain doesn't have his parachute and the obvious question should be, why not? He's an intelligent man and surely he realises that what went up and then jumped from a plane, will come down very fast, but he's no fool. He isn't wearing his parachute but he is wearing something else. Strapped to his body is an instrument but not just any instrument. It's of his own design, a flat, rectangular shaped object with a row of black and white keys which his fingers are currently hovering over. To an unknowing, passing layman, it would appear as a musical keyboard but honestly, how many laymen would be passing him right now?

The Professor peers down and estimates his contact time with the hard-packed snow of the mountainside. Adjusting for wind speed, which is minimal, and taking into account Newton's Law, he presses his fingers to the black and white keys. A tune is played and for certain it sounds awful but when playing notes beyond the recognised range of A to G, it's rarely going to be pretty.

As the notes sound, his descent slows and continuing his finger movements, he drifts ever slower toward the snow-covered mountainside, eventually touching down with a soft whump. The third Eagle has landed and it must be said, this one is somewhat more impressive than those who flew before.

With another finger flutter on the keyboard, playing the notes W-A-R-M, his jumpsuit becomes a thick, fur-lined coat and now properly dressed he starts to gently slide down the snowy slope. Ahead and downwards there are lights, homely lights, and he glides towards them. Within minutes he has entered a mountain town and all is quiet. He's looking for the safe house and on seeing it, he smiles a wide, lovely smile.

He slides over, knocks the door and waits. There is no answer so he knocks again. On preparing to knock a third time, the door swings in and Brain comes face to face with a man wearing a yeti onesie, with only his grey-bearded face visible. 'Can I help you?'

Brain, being a man of intelligence, recalls the plan. 'I was wondering if you have the correct time,' he asks.

The man scratches his grey beard as he eyes Brain suspiciously, then peers down at a piece of paper he has pulled from his onesie pocket, a script maybe. 'Why do you need to know the correct time?'

'I have a consignment of fresh sardines and if I can't sell them in the next twenty minutes they'll go off,' says Brain, recalling the secret code perfectly.

'Then you'd best come in and warm yourself by the fire, but not the sardines of course, they'd defrost and refreezing them would be culinary suicide.'

Brain nods, having understood every word the man has said despite not knowing the language. He doesn't have an Aural-Oral Translation-Unit though. He has something better, his keyboard. 'Thanks and you have a lovely fire. I'll ...'

The man reaches into his onesie and pulls a gun. 'Wait, that's not on my script. You should mention antifreeze next. You spoke the wrong code, now who are you?' he asks, pointing the weapon at Brain's face.

There is a loud crack and Brain is staring down at a corpse with a bloodied hole in the centre of its forehead. His head whips round and stares at another grey-bearded man, this one wearing a bear onesie. The man is walking up the icy street, a pistol pointing forward. 'Don't go for your keyboard professor. Unfortunately, since you were given your instructions I swapped houses with Leo, the body at your feet. He was due to meet a foreign fishmonger this evening and unluckily you both had a similar secret code. I suggest you come with me and warm yourself by my fire. Then we'll talk.'

Brain eyes the corpse, then the neighbour, and weighs up his options. He realises the gun would seriously test his abilities and wonders if he could stop the bullet? Would he be quick enough? In previous tests, though not conducted to tight laboratory standards, he managed to stop all eighty-four fired at him but he knows reliable statistics are always based on a minimum of a hundred. Could he stop the next sixteen and achieve a perfect success rate? Calculating, he appreciates the man holding the gun is a good shot. 'Very well, you have me, and I'll warm myself by your fire.'

The man keeps his pistol raised. 'That's very sensible but tell me, as a test, how many celestial bodies are there orbiting our Sun? Tell me or I will shoot you.'

Brain frowns at such an unusual question but with a gun aimed at him, knows he must answer. 'Well, nobody really knows, not even us intelligent astrophysicists.'

'You call that an answer. I'll shoot you just to be sure,' says the man, opening fire.

Brain smiles widely and his fingers are already hitting the keyboard, playing the notes W-A-L-L. The shots are accurate but none find their intended target, an invisible shield deflecting them. 'Nice try but I have the knowing of ballistics. Now prepare to be blinded by science.'

The man throws the pistol down before it's ripped from his grip. 'Wait! Hold those flighty fingers Brain. I had to be sure it was you. How long has it been my not so young pupil?'

Professor Brain grins on hearing a familiar phrase. The mention of 'flighty fingers' could come from one man only, his old University tutor and a man he avidly respects. It has been twenty years at least since they last met and sliding down the slope, they embrace, appearing as two grappling ursine beasts. With hugs and back patting over, Brain gratefully steps into the Swizz chalet and his old friend follows behind. Both men strip their outdoor gear, the host using his hands, and the guest using a few well-pressed musical keys.

In minutes they are sat before an open fire, both with a _Rivella_ in hand, the national drink of Swizzeland, and they converse.

'You didn't need to shoot me Françoise. You knew who I was,' says Brain.

The man snorts. 'I didn't shoot you, I missed, and anyway, strange things are happening here. I had to see if you could still use that ... thing,' says Françoise, looking distastefully at the keyboard.

Brain peers down at his instrument. 'This thing, Françoise, is what I played on my 1997 UQ number one hit, I Can't Believe That Things Can Only Get Better. It's only a keyboard.'

Françoise growls loudly. 'Pah! That isn't only a keyboard and don't insult my intelligence. That's the reason for your rise to celebrity status and I do not approve, neither does the scientific community.'

'With all due respect, I couldn't give a damn what the scientific community thinks. If they don't like my invention they can kiss my backside.'

Françoise bangs a fist hard on the arm of his chair. 'You're not appreciating what I'm saying. That damned instrument, and it is damned, will be the undoing of everything. It has the power to manipulate the very nature of creation ... oh I see, it's funny is it? Very well, play something. Play a tune and make me dance to your whim.'

Brain stems his chuckling. 'Françoise, I'd never use it on you. It's a force for good ...' but he pauses on looking across at his old tutor. 'Why are you aiming another weapon at me?' he asks, seeing a large gun barrel pointing at his face.

'You're a fool Professor Brain "Clever" Clogs and I'll shoot you properly this time. I know you recognise the weapon. It's a _Butt-Tonguer Blunder-Thunder-Chunder-Buss_ and even you won't be able to escape the projectile spread.'

Brain is already playing as the gun goes off. His fingers do the talking and hundreds of high-speed pellets ricochet from his invisible shield, many heading back towards his ex-tutor, Professor Emeritus Françoise le Poster. Many objects in the chalet feel tiny balls of metal exploding through or just hitting them but the old man isn't one. Brain has wrapped him tight in another shield and only when the full gamut of projectiles halts their fizzing around the room does he release the man. He stands, steps across, and checks he hasn't killed him.

Françoise is alive but unconscious, Brain deliberately wrapping the shield so tight as to cut off his air supply. He isn't proud of his actions but needs must when a gun is pointed at him.

He waits and eventually the old man stirs, turning weary eyes on his ex-pupil. 'I warn you Brain, that thing is the work of the Devil, mark my words.'

'I mark them Françoise but a question springs to mind. Neither of us believes in the Devil but let's say he does exist. Let's say my keyboard is a deity's creation and not mine. My question is this. Why do you believe this is the work of the Devil and not God? Why, throughout history, when something so wonderful and unexplainable comes along, does everybody assume it can only be the Devil's work? Answer me that, old friend?'

'You don't believe in God!' scowls Françoise, glaring angrily.

'I don't but if he does exist then he'll be far more powerful than us astrophysicists. The picture you paint is that God is a naive moron and only the Devil can be devious.'

'You're missing the point Brain,' growls Françoise, his whole body shaking in fury.

'No, I'm not, and give me the credit I deserve. This keyboard is a mark of my intelligence and I admit I stumbled upon its power by accident but that's irrelevant. What cannot be denied is that I control it and it will play to my whim, Françoise, my exceedingly good whim.'

'And you believe that do you?'

'Do you not?'

Françoise sighs, knowing he won't win the argument. As a scientist he knows he must deal in facts and the fact is, his ex-pupil has the keyboard. It's here, it's now, and deep down he understands it might be needed, despite his objection. The old man also knows that Brain doesn't possess a wicked bone in his body. He rubs his forehead and nods. 'Very well, you need to get into the QBHC but it won't be easy. A lot has changed since you were last there. Come into my study.'
Chapter Twenty Six

The Much Bigger Hardon Collider

Brain takes a seat at the study desk as Françoise continues on to a packed bookshelf. The man reaches to the middle shelf and removes a folded piece of paper which was tucked between two large tomes: _Riverdance on Hot Coals: Watch Those Feet Move_ and _Soccerball for Numpties: The Thick Professionals Guide_.

Moving back to the desk, Françoise unfolds the piece of paper, which shows a hand-drawn map and Brain peers at the rough, childlike sketch. He ignores the drawing of an enormous dinosaur swimming in Lake Geneva as he's certain such a beast doesn't exist. He sees other, bigger creatures swimming in amongst the Europalian islands but knows his ex-tutor wouldn't take kindly to him pointing them out and laughing. Truthfully, he only has eyes for that which is drawn thickly in red crayon inside the borders of Swizzeland.

Françoise looks up and sees his ex-pupil's curious expression. 'I see that you're surprised at what you see. The QBHC has been extended, with new chambers dug beneath the mountains all across Swizzeland and they're getting ever deeper, well below sea-level. There are now nine chambers; at least, there was when I was last there. Most likely there are many more by now.'

Brain studies the drawing, trusting his friend is right. 'Okay, but I just need to get inside the original one. Where's the main entrance now?'

Pressing a hand to his head, Françoise wonders if Brain believes him. He takes a moment to look at his ex-pupil but notes he only has eyes for the map. 'The main entrance hasn't moved but I guess you paid little attention when you were driven there previously. I can point to it but it will make little sense, my map is too small. I'd have to take you there but it would take days trekking through the mountains ...' but he pauses. 'Ah, of course, you can get there quicker.'

Brain nods and taps the edge of the keyboard. 'I can and I hope you'll agree to guide me.'

Françoise shakes his head, grabs the _Rivella_ top up jug which he carried from the lounge, and downs the contents. He eyes the smiling Brain and wonders if he should ask what might happen if he refuses? He decides against it and leads his friend out of the study. Soon enough, both men are dressed in their furry gear and standing back out in the cold.

Francoise appears dejected but Brain, elated. Once again his fingers stroke the keys, playing a soulless tune, and a giant bird appears before them. It has double white wing bars, pink breast and cheeks, and a blue-grey crown and nape. It turns its enormous head and chirps. Brain mounts the bird, non-pervy like, and Francoise follows, though reluctantly.

The old man, despite his scientific objections, sits behind Brain. 'This is an abomination. You're playing with fire using this instrument.'

'Maybe so Françoise but needs must. Now fly my beauty,' chuckles Brain.

The huge chaffinch launches upwards, its wing's beating strongly as it heads into the night sky. A mile away, a snow eagle spots a potential prey and soaring on high, drops down for the kill. At a half mile away the eagle has a niggling feeling and starts to question its hunting instinct. When a hundred yards away it wonders if it might have a vision problem and when ten yards away it defecates unexpectedly. Screeching loudly it veers aside, avoiding an open beak, bigger than its own wingspan. To avoid embarrassment, as other eagles are watching, it dives for a snowdrift and burrows inside, searching for imaginary prey concealed beneath the snow. At the last, the bird defecates again, attracts an Alpine Dung Beetle, and eats it, thus saving face.

The snow eagle then launches back into the air and decides to migrate to the Northern Scandin Islands. It knows Polar Bears are big up there but not as large as pretty UQ garden birds.

High above the peaks of the Swizz Alps and in the vacuum of space, the two planetary orbiting moons of Deimos and Phobos are reflecting light onto the snow-capped mountain peaks, and despite the sun having fled, the way seems clear.

Sadly, Françoise isn't appreciating it. 'Brain, I'm wearing five layers but I'm freezing.'

'Oh right, sorry, I forgot you were there,' apologises Brain, stroking fingers across his instrument. 'I've extended the heat globe. Is that better?'

Françoise growls. 'What you're doing is damning all physicists and you'll be demonised for it ... though I'm much warmer, thank you.'

Onward they fly and the scenery is stunning. As the chaffinch soars in the silence of a night sky, the peace is again broken by Françoise who is pointing. 'There's the entrance but don't get too close. They have ground-to-air missiles that can shoot us dow... What are you doing? Dear God, the one I don't believe in of course,' he exclaims, a hand pressed to his forehead having seen Brain jump from the back of the bird.

Again Brain is falling without a parachute but he has the benefit of something else and is playing a terrible tune. Hitting the notes S-L-O-W controls his descent and playing A-W-A-Y, makes the chaffinch bank sharply, sending it away. Back to a mountain town perhaps but no, its destination is much farther and as the giant chaffinch flies, it won't take long. Professor Emeritus Françoise de Poster is heading for London, far away from the firing line.

Brain drops slowly, sees everything, and contemplates his next move.

The Quite Big Hardon Collider entrance is different to before and as Brain crouches in a snowdrift on the periphery, he watches a convoy of trucks approach a gaping hole in the side of the mountain. Previously, the entrance was a series of modern, glass-fronted buildings covering an outcropping plateau but now they are gone. The entrance has been bored wider and the snow covered plateau is dirty and stained from multitudes of vehicle movements. Above, the mountain peak is in the clouds, and below, a winding road reaches down into thick fog.

Blending perfectly into the background Brain sees the trucks stop at a striped and barred gate. The gate is lifted and they move forward. Once through, they stop and armed guards approach. He watches them forcing people from the backs. A few land heavily and lie still but most regain their feet and are pressganged towards the yawning entrance. Brain is appalled but he's a scientist and his ilk never rushes in. Everyone knows that reading is important but reading of a situation is paramount. Of those who have been delivered, the dead are dragged to the edge of the plateau and cast over the side, there to fall more than a thousand feet most likely.

With a lump in his throat, he has seen all he needs to and plays the notes H-I-D-E thus rendering himself invisible. He walks forward, to the side of the rudimentary road, and strolls around the lowered, striped barrier. For sure, he's leaving tracks in the snow but nobody is looking and he continues on to the QBHC entrance. Before entering he stares at the dead being thrown to their unmarked graves. He then looks at the living being forced to carry heavy burdens, delivered by other trucks, and sees them entering the cavern's maw. He makes a mental note and continues on, keeping his anger in check, for now.
Chapter Twenty Seven

Ze Veel of Interrogation

Niggley Barrage, a fool allegedly, knows when he's between a rock and a hard place. He has left the rock, Frau Angular Murky, where she lays, snoring gruffly in the bed behind him, and his hard place has well and truly wilted.

In the semi-darkness, Niggley is making good progress. He has slipped off the bed, well, actually he fell off and hit the floor quite hard but that's by the by. He has dressed himself and despite having both legs through the same underpants leg-hole, his red and yellow chequered onesie is worn as expected.

He grips the door handle and presses it down. There's no give and he curses, which in Niggley language is a burp. Again he tries the handle and still nothing happens but in a moment of enlightenment, he twists it. The knob turns and the door swings open, letting light into the room. Behind him, Frau Murky snuffles loudly but importantly, doesn't wake. He steps into the corridor and gently pulls the door shut, with a thunderous crash, as he stumbles backwards. Now in the lit corridor he turns and nearly jumps out of his skin.

'This way Ambassador,' says the night porter, looking extremely bored.

Niggley holds a finger to his lips. 'Shush, you might wake her.'

The porter just rolls his eyes. 'This way, I'll show you to your room.'

Niggley follows the porter along the castle corridor, and when two coat-stands and a suit of armour crash to the ground he shushes the numerous wall-hung portraits by pressing a finger to their painted lips, or thereabouts.

Along corridors, down stairs, around corners they go, and eventually Niggley is shoved through a door and into his room. Once inside, he exchanges looks with Heinrich and the three serving girls who are immediately pinching their noses with a thumb and forefinger. No words are spoken and he's pushed unceremoniously into the spacious bathroom. He sets the shower running, strips his onesie, and peers at the assorted pots of cleansing gels and male perfumes. He uses the toilet, with seat down, and on looking up, his head swims. He falls backwards onto the floor, unconscious.

There is gentle but persistent knocking on the bathroom door. At first Niggley thinks it's the blood pumping in his ears but eventually opens his eyes. ' _Eurgh_ ... fucksup?'

The knocking continues. 'Oh my head,' he says, unsticking his cheek from the tiled floor.

Still the knocking goes on. 'I bloody hear you, what is it?' he growls.

'It's Heinrich and it's morning. Have you finished your shower? The castle is on a water meter and normally I wouldn't care but the townsfolk have to pay for the bills. Are you alright in there?'

Niggley's eyes open wide and he jumps to his feet but not due to the mention of a water meter. His urgency is something far more important and looking in the mirror, sees only one reflection of himself staring back. That means one thing only, he's sobering up. Screaming, he presses hands to the sides of his head and starts to panic.

'Worshipful Master, unlock the door so we can help,' insists a concerned Heinrich.

Niggley doesn't have to unlock the door. Instinctively, he turns and hits it at a velocity any inebriate would be proud of. The door flies out, minus a lock and hinges which have pinged off in different directions. Despite appearing solid, it couldn't cope with the sheer violent assault of a sobering UQ politician. Now in the bedroom he looks manically at his peers, his eyes screaming in desperation as memories of the recent past start to surface.

Heinrich recognises the look and having predicted the outcome of a night spent in the depths of depravity, well, not entirely as he is only young, holds out a welcome glass. 'Quick, drink this.'

Niggley rips the stein from the boy's hand and downs the contents. He drops the empty glass as another full one is passed forward by Nipplette and that too is gratefully consumed. The scene is curious but necessary and after a full round of refills, he stares at Heinrich and the ladies. Closing his left eye, he smiles crookedly and leaks a love-puff. 'That wash way too closhe,' he says, sniffing, then looks around at the carpet, wondering if a dog has done its business in the room, considering the nasty smell.

Heinrich, with fingers pinching his nose, steps back. 'You've been summoned to attend Ze (New) Union of Europalia in the secret cavern and need to get dressed,' he says.

'Oh right, I'll get er, what wash the queshtion?'

'Sir, we don't have time for this. You must dress and go to the meeting. There's a guard outside who'll take you there,' insists Heinrich.

'Yesh but er, who are you?' asks Niggley, a little confused.

'Worshipful Master, you must concentrate!'

'Of courshe but ... who am I again?'

Heinrich turns to the three ladies. 'For twattvucken sake! Ladies, make him presentable,' he growls.

Niggley frowns, his Oral-Aural unit not fully translating the words and he's about to raise a concern when three ladies step in front of him.

The Personal Secretaries to the Zanet Ambassador giggle. 'It'll be a pleasure,' they reply.

Niggley is grabbed, none too gently, and forced back into the bathroom. His drunken cursing is ignored and thus follows serious manhandling, rough scrubbing, and a modicum of near-drowning. Once finished, the man is clean, shaven, and all his creases have been gotten into. He appears sparkly but more importantly, doesn't stink like a music festival toilet. In all, he looks great and a dark, hooded robe is thrown over him. Niggley is ready and reaching a hand from his sleeve, takes a piece of paper from Heinrich.

'Here Worshipful Master, it's your script and remember what it says.'

Niggley snorts. 'Of course I'll remember what it er, what wash the queshtion?'

'It's your script! When in the meeting you must speak as me and the ladies have planned. Everything you need to know is on the piece of paper and do not deviate.'

'Right, but what doesh deviate mean?'

'Sir, if you lie you'll be shot and killed and end up dead.'

'Ishn't that all the shame?' asks Niggley, adding a questioning hiccup.

'Yes, now go,' says Heinrich, shoving the man, 'and may the Lord have mercy on us all.'

The room door bangs open and a hulking guard steps inside. 'Oi you, me take you down.'

Niggley's hood turns swiftly. 'I beg to differ. I'll take you down and don't think _eurgh!_ ' he squeals as a huge arm grabs him round the waist and carries him from the room.

Heinrich and the ladies look at each other. Do they appear confident? Of course they do and it's all smiles in the suite of the Zanet Ambassador. Who wouldn't trust an inebriate to come through when the chips are down? Who wouldn't realise that if the man failed they'd be executed alongside him? Who wouldn't have discussed an exit plan during the night and have already knotted together every piece of available fabric so they can abseil to freedom down a steep castle wall? Who in their right Bavarian mind wouldn't have made a contingency plan on the off chance Niggley totally cocked it up?

Inside the cavern beneath the castle, one with a huge round table that has the capacity to seat about fifty, the dark robed Europalian Ambassadors have gathered. All are sat on one side, except for Niggley, who has been forcibly plonked opposite.

Frau Jeermany is on her feet. 'Welcome to our newest Europalian friend. Please introduce yourself and don't be shy, tell us who you are.'

All eyes are on Niggley, at least, all hoods are. 'Oh right, I'm Niggley Barrage, Ambasshador to the island of Zanet,' he says, grateful for his translation unit so he can understand.

'Excellent and as is customary when we have a new member, although we forgot with the last five, we must commence with questioning. Bring forth _Ze Veel of Interrogation!_ '

Whatever Frau Jeermany just said, Niggley's translation unit hasn't helped, and he watches as a strange contraption is wheeled forth by a pair of lackeys who have been lurking in the shadows. It's pushed down a short, smooth pathway and placed beside Frau Jeermany. _Ze Veel of Interrogation_ is curious insomuch it appears familiar to Niggley. Despite being sozzled, he recognises the crossed out words - _crocodile pit_ , and notes other sections that have been scribbled over. He's sure he's seen it before but can't place it.

Frau Jeermany rests a sleeve on the edge of the wheel. 'Now then, what I say democratically supported by you all, goes, and I'll accept no nonsense.'

Currently, the wheel is divided into sixteen equal sections with metal pegs on the outer edges of each. There is small writing in each section but Niggley can't make it out at such a distance despite closing an eye inside his hood. He tried closing both eyes in the hope it would further improve his sight but that just brought about darkness.

As Frau Jeermany speaks again, all hoods turn to her. 'Okay, you should tell us your name again and we'll get started.'

Niggley briefly glances at the script Heinrich gave him and places it on the table in front of him. It seems study notes are permitted in this particular test. 'I'm Herr Zanet and ...'

'Say no more! It is customary Herr Zanet, that every new member must answer five questions as dictated by _Ze Veel of Interrogation_ and nothing more. We must, as a matter of anonymity, maintain some secrets and that's why we use this wheel. You can see the questions despite your distance, I take it?'

'Actually I'm not wearing my glasshes,' lies Niggley, as he never wears glasses, only drinks from them, but he is swiftly silenced.

'Herr Zanet, you do not have permission to talk. As the wheel spins you'll say nothing and only speak to answer the question. Do I ... we make ourselves clear? You may answer that question.'

'Ashk away, I've nothing to hide,' says Niggley, again peering down at his script.

'That's good, so I'll invite Herr Luxuryburg to have the first spin. Up you come and do the honours please,' says Frau Jeermany, holding a sleeve out.

Herr Luxuryburg grips the wheel, gives it a fierce spin and the sixteen written questions become a merged blur. As the metal pegged segments click when contacting the rubber _Peg of Truth_ , it starts to slow.

Eleven minutes and six seconds later, the pointer finally finds its port of calling. During the time of the over-oiled wheel spinning and stopping, Niggley has been able to sit down, smoke four fags, and consult his script, including the reverse side titled: _FAEQ - Frequently Asked Europalian Questions_, and he's as ready as he'll ever be.

Frau Jeermany and Herr Luxuryburg are both looking at where the _Peg of Truth_ has stopped and the woman speaks. 'The wheel has stopped on ...' she begins, but Herr Luxuryburg starts gesticulating wildly with a sleeve.

'Frau Jeermany, you moved the wheel! It stopped on _Quantify Your Island 's Gross Domestic Product_ but you moved it to _What is Your Favourite Colour?_ You can't er, nice gun,' says Herr Luxuryburg, coughing to clear his throat. 'The question stands, Herr Zanet. Tell us your favourite colour please?'

Niggley leans forward, unnecessarily, and addresses the group. 'That'sh eashy, it'sh blue, no red, er purple ... no it'sh er, I actually like rainbowsh ash they're nishe but I'm not camp. Ashk Frau Jeermany ash she made me bend her over ... nishe gun. It'sh purple, definitely purple.'

Frau Jeermany's next words hint at menace. 'Well answered Herr Zanet but I suggest you are quicker and more precise next time,' she says and pointing, beckons another Europalian member over. 'Herr Cheek Republic, spin the wheel, but not so hard this time.'

The man steps forward and four minutes later, the wheel looks like stopping on _Current Benefits Outlay For Irresponsible Multi-Breeders_ but clicks forward, maybe with the help of a sleeve, to _Favourite Sexual Position_. There is a gathered intake of breath as all hoods turn to Niggley, even that of Herr Cheek Republic, who isn't about to pull Frau Jeermany up for cheating. They are all aware of her antics the previous night due to substandard Europalian earplugs.

'Herr Zanet, the wheel has stopped on _Favourite Sexual Position_ and I'm sure everyone here is keen to know,' says Frau Jeermany, sounding excited.

Niggley doesn't need his script for this one. 'Well, my favourite ish _Bow-The-Frau-Anyhow_ although shaushage dumpling preferred _Iron-Crossh-Candy-Flossh_.'

'That's quite enough!' shouts Frau Jeermany and she stares at the other Ambassadors in turn. 'I hope you were all paying attention and diagrams will be delivered to your rooms by this evening. Now, Herr Lickastein, spin the wheel, very slowly please.'

The wheel is spun with barely a touch on this occasion and Frau Jeermany smiles inside her hood, not feeling the need to skip it on, as she's interested in what the answer might be.

Herr Lickastein asks. 'Tell me Herr Zanet, the wheel has stopped on _Exports_ , and as we're a common market, what can we expect from your island country?'

Niggley feigns a coughing fit, which is believable as cigarette smoke has filled his hood. He blows it away and takes a peek at his script but there's nothing written down that may help so he'll have to wing it. 'Well Herr Lickashtein, we export er ... toadshtoolsh, by the lorry load.'

'Toadstools, why export them?'

'My island country'sh quite shmall and there'sh not mushroom,' giggles Niggley, slapping a sleeve on the table but missing.

Muttering hoods turn to each other in confusion, wondering why the man laughed. For certain he must have made a joke but none understand and put it down to the incomprehensible sophistication of UQ humour. As the muttering increases, Frau Jeermany brings order with a cloak sleeve bang on the table and reaching for the wheel, gives it the barest nudge. The _Peg of Truth_ bounces in a different segment and all hoods are back on Niggley.

'Herr Zanet, the final question is this. Where is your country located? Show us exactly on the projected map so we can arrange for our huge chains to snare it, voluntarily of course.'

Herr Horstria raises a sleeve. 'Frau Jeermany, that is only the fourth question and we must ask five as the custom dicta... ah, nice gun.'

'Yes, it's a lovely gun, and I grow bored. This is the final question now come, come Herr Zanet. Where's your country? Show us on the projected map on the table.'

Niggley can't quite make out the map so climbs onto the table and shuffles forward as best he can in his robe. Despite his inebriated state he possesses one important skill and that's being able to find his home when bladdered. He could find it with his eyes closed if necessary but he's never been a show off. He stops and points to the far south-east of the UQ. 'There, thatsh me, right there.'

The Europalian Ambassadors lean forward for a better look but that doesn't help. One and all climb onto the table, shuffle forwards, and on seeing the tiny island Niggley is pointing at, they start laughing.

'Is that it, that little island we can barely see?' asks Herr Lickastein, mockingly.

'Yesh, that'sh it and I don't know why you're laughing?' growls Niggley.

Herr Lickastein curtails his chuckling instantly. 'Ah, you have a point,' he says, turning to Herr Luxuryburg beside him. 'Hush or you may be mocked next.'

'Good advice,' says Herr Luxuryburg, backing off the table.

'Cheeky gitsh! Shize isn't everything ish it shaushage dumpling?' asks Niggley, sounding upset

Frau Jeermany's patience has worn thin and she shouts. 'Enough! Everybody leave, this meeting is over. Go back to your rooms and do not leave them until I say. No, not you Herr Zanet, you will come with me, we need to have a little ... chat.'

There is much gasping from the assembled Ambassadors but in record time, the cavern is clear. Only Niggley remains and he turns his hood toward Frau Jeermany. He can see her sleeves are crossed and can only imagine her expression.

'Shorry shaushage dumpling, I ...'

'Silence, now let's get one thing straight. Do you understand what I'm talking about?'

Niggley frowns and reaches for his script but it's still on the far side of the table so he's on his own. As he ponders the question, he sees Frau Jeermany remove her dark robe. She throws it to one side and beneath, she is naked, apart from several layers of warm clothing which she is hurriedly removing.

She growls enticingly. 'Well my Zanet-Gannet, do you know what it is you must get straight? No, let me give you a clue. My sugar-levels have dropped and I'm in need of some _Iron-Cross-Candy-Floss_.'

Niggley thinks hard and hey presto, the penny drops. 'Oh, you mean my knob.'
Chapter Twenty Eight

Route of All Evil

Forty-eight seconds have elapsed and Angular Murky is purring like a pussy that got the cream. She peers into Niggley's unfocused eyes, dabs at the sweat on his face, then rolls over on the table and lies on her stomach. 'Oh Niggley, we were made for each other and I feel it's time to show you something large and dark beneath.'

'I think I've jusht sheen it shaushage dumpling.'

Frau Murky frowns, not understanding. 'Let me ask you a question and don't worry, it's not a trick. What would you say if I told you I'm the greatest woman on the planet?'

Niggley sits up, reaches for his cigarettes and lighter, tucked inside a sock, and looks across at the countries projected on Angular's bare skin. 'I'd believe you as your arshe coversh mosht of Poland.'

'Ah Poland, when our work is done, I'll take you there. Can you see Krakow?'

Niggley looks at the projected map on the woman's backside and sees a long Krakow, guessing it to be a river most likely. As he puffs on a pair of fags he watches Angular slide off the table. The woman redresses her black robe and holds a hand out. Exhaling with relief on there not being another bout of intimacy, Niggley dons his and takes the proffered hand. He's led down a slope to the back of the cavern and into a poorly lit rough-hewn corridor. After a long walk he spies a metal elevator platform with waist high guarding on three sides. Once inside, Angular grabs a lever, moves it to the down position and the platform starts to fall.

The descent isn't fast but Niggley still feels a bit queasy. Heights have never been his thing so he's grateful for the solid rock walls on all sides. When the walls end however, to be replaced with a vast, open space, he stumbles and falls against his erstwhile bit of rough. 'Holy crap!' he gasps, as the lift continues to drop, now below the ceiling of an enormous cavern.

Angular grins and grips him tightly. 'I know, isn't it wonderful and you're not the first to utter such on seeing the lair. Hold tight to me, it's alright my little vinkyprober.'

Niggley pays no attention to the lack of translation of the final word as his head is starting to spin and he burps acidly, which can mean only one thing. Swiftly, he turns from Angular and vomits something vile and stinking over the top of the guard rail. Where it will land, he doesn't care, as he can feel more coming on.

'Oh Niggley, you've been savagely sick, I'm so proud of you. None of the others showed so much emotion on seeing the real power of Europalia. They were only interested in the Great Alchemist and how much wealth they would attain. I wish I could take you again right now but ... that's right, get it all out, and don't worry that my robe now stinks of your stomach contents. It doesn't matter as we have disposable paper suits at the bottom of the lift shaft and ... oh my, you must have a really large stomach. There, there, Angular will look after you. I guess you're done ... ah, luckily we also have shower units. We're nearly there so be brave.'

Niggley exits the shower unit and his stomach is growling but that's down to the two litres of alcohol-based hand-sanitiser he has consumed from a wall-mounted dispenser. It wasn't easy, contorting his neck to such an angle, but in true UQ style, he wasn't going to be beaten.

Now outside the cubicle and standing beside Angular, both wearing paper suits, he reaches down for his fags but stops. His head rises, his eyes pan around the vast underground cavern and his jaw drops. 'Blimey!' he gasps, adding not one but two burps.

'Now you see Herr Zanet. I knew you'd be impressed,' says Angular, beaming widely.

Niggley is impressed but he's not sure at what precisely as he takes in the enormous high-ceilinged cavern, big enough to house sixty-six soccerball pitches. He looks every which way and sees masses of heavy plant machinery, including fork-lifts, cherry-pickers, quarry trucks, bucket excavators and miles of criss-crossing railway lines carrying cargo trains. Directly ahead he sees a gargantuan steel-girder platform, big enough to support a ... he pauses on seeing what's on top. The beast is something to behold and he gulps. 'What the Hell'sh that?'

Angular's smile widens 'The Great Alchemist, the beast behind our wealth. Care for a closer look?'

Niggley nods dumbly without taking his eyes from the thing. At present he can only see one side but guesses it would fill Wembley stadium, although the owners would be upset at selling only one ticket. He reaches for his fags again, removes one, and after steadying his shaking hand, lights it.

The Great Alchemist, laying atop the metal platform appears as a stubby, legless lizard with a densely scaled yellow body. Looking to both ends, Niggley sees nothing that resembles a head, just rounded surfaces making the whole thing look like a massive sausage. At one end there are dozens of pulsating tubes reaching down through the steel platform into a large building beneath. At the other, there is a growth on top and although he can't make it out clearly, it appears similar to a volcanic cone, but upside down, so more like the top of an ice-cream cone really.

As he stares at the cone his blurry eyes can make out objects dropping into it and his eyes are drawn upwards to a wide supported roadway, reaching out from a cave, just below the roof and to the side of the cavern. Closing an eye to better focus he finally understands what is happening. The Great Alchemist is being fed and judging by the screaming of the falling objects, he can guess exactly what with.

The queasy feeling returns with a crash and stumbling, he feels Angular grab his arm. She pulls him close. 'Are you alright? I realise this is much to take in but here, hold my hand and I'll show you something even more impressive.'

Niggley fights the vomiting sensation and also the urge to punch the woman in the face. Closing his eyes he tries to remain calm. 'Oh er, of courshe,' he says, flinching with every heard scream.

'You seem somewhat out of sorts. We can do this another time if you wish,' says Angular, still supporting him.

'No, I'm fine. I'm jusht overwhelmed with ... excitement.'

'I thought so,' says Angular, starting to lead him towards the building beneath the metal platform, which the beast's tubes enter. 'It happened to all the other Ambassadors so don't feel embarrassed.'

Niggley allows himself to be led and just before walking beneath the Great Alchemist's platform, he takes another look up at the supported roadway. More living souls are tumbling and the screaming echoes loudly in his head. For the first time ever, his own inner scream is being drowned out.

Now at the building entrance, a plain wooden door, Niggley's enthusiasm has waned further, but he knows he mustn't back out now. Puffing hard on another fag, to calm his nerves, he follows Angular inside and thankfully nobody is pulling him up for smoking in a workplace.

He peers up at the high ceiling, sees the tubes of the Great Alchemist reaching through it and notes how they become thinner. The scaled, yellow pipes reduce in diameter from ten feet to a few inches at the lower tip and each is held in rigging above a thin conveyor. The conveyors, and there are many, disappear through a mass of struts and pipes, heading for the far side of the building, which cannot be seen. As the machinery clonks and clatters, Niggley forces his lower jaw closed.

Frau Jeermany sees Niggley's shock. 'Impressive, isn't it? Come, walk with me and I'll explain what's happening. We'll skip the Great Alchemist's wealth-positers and ...'

Niggley shakes his head. 'No, I'm intereshted. Tell me everything sho I fully undershtand. It'sh kind of making me feel er horny,' he lies, deliberately adding a forced burp.

'That is uncalled for but to be expected,' gasps Angular, feeling her paper suit starting to stick in places. 'Anyway, this is the result of the Great Alchemist's feeding.'

'I shee. Tell me more shaushage dumpling,' says Niggley, actually interested but feeling guilty for being so.

'Do not call me that here, it's inappropriate but I'll continue. The food is consumed, digested and the precious minerals are extracted and crushed inside the Great Alchemist's body. Then, when ready, the beast extrudes them through its wealth-positors onto the conveyors and they are taken for sorting. It's a wonderfully efficient process and nothing is wasted. The by-products, the bones and flesh which have little value, are excreted and turned into cheap, Jeerman supermarket own-brand ready meals. Isn't it magnificent?' asks Angular, her eyes shining brightly.

Niggley understands, doesn't approve mind, but knows this is his one chance to gather as much information as possible. 'About the food. What'sh it being fed?'

'You saw and heard what it's being fed. For our new society to be of the utmost efficiency we cannot allow the dregs to exist anymore. Those who are a drain and cannot contribute in a technical capacity must contribute in another way. Since the islands started coming together the people of Europalia have made us over six hundred billion Eurodollars. They would be proud of their achievement and hold their heads high, if they still had them.'

Niggley ignores the attempt at a joke and wanders over to the nearest wealth-positer. At first it is lifeless but soon enough it twitches, contracts, and a fist-sized red object drops onto the conveyor. He reaches out, picks it up and swears on realising he is holding the biggest ruby he has ever seen. As yet the stone is bland and raw and he drops it back onto the conveyor, where it makes its way through the building. He keeps his eyes on it, moves to a central walkway then pauses. 'Wait a shecond, people haven't got rubiesh in them.'

Angular nods her head and annoyance taints her words. 'Normally no, but many of our new society volunteers swallowed their valuables. That's how selfish they are but thankfully the Great Alchemist misses nothing. The beast stores and crushes them together, like that ruby, and when big enough, deposits them for a worthier cause.'

Niggley eyes the woman and wonders where the real monster is; on the platform above or in the building with him? Still, he plays along. 'Where'sh the ruby going?'

'To a very special place, come and see,' says Angular, holding her hand out.

The two paper-suited individuals continue through the building. As they walk Niggley sees the conveyors merging together and stares at the objects riding them; huge diamonds, chunks of gold, sapphires, and many other valuable commodities. He continues on, his eyes wide but mouth wider. Only when a strong hand squeezes his, does he stop. He looks into Angular's ecstatic face. 'There,' she says, pointing to the end of the building. 'That's the sorting room. Follow me.'

Niggley is led up a series of metal steps and when on a high platform, looks down at another vast area, the epicentre of Europalia's wealth, he guesses. There are hundreds of long workbenches with dozens of workers at each, all bent over with tools in hand. Stones are being cut, metals are being gathered and on occasion, workers are being beaten by vicious looking humanoid lizards. Niggley's eyes are wider than they have ever been and he turns to ask Angular what the creatures are. Only then does he see the truth. The woman's stare is unfocused and despite being no expert, he knows when someone is being beguiled.

The whole scene is leaving a nasty taste in his mouth, one not associated with cigarettes or alcohol for once. He so wants to leave but knows he can't, not yet. He needs as much intelligence as possible for when he makes his report, so those who need to know are fully informed. 'What do you do with this wealth? Why do you need so much?' he asks, and in all the so-called excitement he can feel sobriety approaching fast, but for once he doesn't care, despite his body shaking and sweating with withdrawal symptoms.

'Why do _we_ need so much, I think you mean? It's simple. There are bribes to pay so our new partners don't throw a spanner in the works. Of course, there is little any island can do to stop us but we'd rather pay great sums than face an attacking army. It would be such a waste of life, don't you agree?'

'Of course but who gets the money, the politicians I suppose?'

Angular peers curiously at Niggley. 'Are you feeling alright? You're sweating heavily and aren't slurring anymore.'

Despite his head pounding, Niggley understands his mistake so burps loudly and hiccups twice.

Apparently satisfied, Angular nods. 'Not the politicians, well, they get a share. The money goes to the bankers obviously. They have the real power and only they have the ability to break the planet in two!' she shouts and then laughs disturbingly.

Niggley, sobering fast, sees that Frau Murky's expression is away with the fairies. He has seen enough, he knows that, but he can't leave her last words hanging. He has no idea what she's talking about but every piece of information might be important. 'I know I'm a bit slow sausage dumpling but why do we want to break the planet? Who would benefit?'

Angular turns sharply and grabs her guest. 'Oh Niggley, my rockencocken. Only when the continent is too heavy and sinks below the waves, cracking the planet's core in two, can he who lost everything arise and reclaim his stolen legacy. Only then will the Lurking Peril be free of his prison. Now take me!'
Chapter Twenty Nine

Niggley Phone Home

Niggley is reeling as he is led back through the castle. What he has witnessed is almost beyond comprehension but not quite as he has had some juicy drunken hallucinations in his past. Despite his pounding skull, even he acknowledges what he saw. He doesn't fully understand it mind but that was never his job. His remit all along was to be a stooge for the SAS Chief, Bear Grilled Steak, and he understands the reason perfectly. Draw attention, play the fool, but don't get involved. Leave the hard work to the big boys and hope he comes out the other end still breathing. A fine plan and one he comprehends. The words, 'play the fool,' bounce around his head, but they are fighting for space with others, them being - idiot, drunken twat.

He considers the plan again and knows he has played his part superbly. At least, that was the case up until thirty minutes ago. He now has a new plan, one that certain others won't approve of.

Having reached his room, he grabs the door knob, turns it, and it opens first time. As painful thoughts collide inside his head, a young boy and three adorable women step forward. Each is holding a froth-topped six pint stein which is a welcome sight. It's an overwhelming desire but he knows he must be strong. Now is not the time for stupidity as that must come later. He removes his paper suit and stands in his birthday suit. Smiling sadly, he takes the stein from Heinrich, gulps a few mouthfuls then hands it back. Four sets of terrified eyes stare at him.

'Worshipful Master is there something wrong with the beer? If it's gone off there are eight other barrels we have procured from around the castle while you've been gone. Quick ladies, pour more,' says Heinrich.

Niggley smiles and rubs Heinrich's hair. 'Dear boy, there's nothing wrong with the beer, I'm just not thirsty.'

Heinrich gasps. 'Quick ladies, hold him down and I'll fetch the funnel, he's delirious.'

As hands reach for him, Niggley pushes them away. 'I'm not delirious, now leave me be. Pour that beer away and assemble the radio, I need to call in ... and stop looking at me like that! Haven't you seen a sober drunk before?'

Tears flow as Heinrich shouts. 'It's worse than we thought, he's not slurring. Bring the super-strength Schnapps and leather gauntlets.'

Again, hands reach for Niggley and he's not proud of his next action. He grabs Heinrich's shirt front and drags him to the bed. He sits, places the boy over his knee, and raises a hand which hovers threateningly. 'Don't make me do it. Stay away from the alcohol, ladies ... that's right, stay where you are and listen up. I know I'm freaking you out but needs must. My sobriety is only temporary so don't worry yourselves on that score. When the time comes you can pour every damn drop in this castle down my throat but not right now. I need my wits and yes, I do have some. Just assemble the radio and all will become clear. For once I know what I'm doing, now move!'

The ladies set to, poking into all corners of the room, removing various sized and shaped metal objects which the group had smuggled into the castle inside their clothing. With impressive speed they slot the radio together and in no time at all, it is sitting on the floor. To Niggley, it doesn't look like a radio, lacking a handset, but what does he know?

He releases Heinrich and slips onto the floor, in a controlled fashion. He sits cross-legged before the antique device, scratches the back of his head, then peers up at the three ladies who in turn look to a frightened Heinrich.

'Fetch the speaking device and power leads Heinrich,' insists Jugmina.

'But this isn't right. He's gone mad. He's ...'

'Fetch them now! I'll not ask again,' shouts Jugmina, her expression fierce.

Heinrich tenses, then falls to the floor and slides under the bed. Eventually he emerges with the required components and attaches them to the radio. The speaking device, a brass cone, is handed to Niggley and the man eyes it curiously. More curiously though, he observes what Heinrich is doing with the power leads. There are three leads, which split at the ends, with crocodile clip attachments. The unattached ends are handed to the women, who turn their backs, fumble inside their blouses, yelp, and then start jogging on the spot.

Niggley looks questioningly at Heinrich, who answers sheepishly. 'Don't ask, it's best you don't know. I'll turn the operating handle and when you hear static start speaking.'

Shaking his head, Niggley doesn't ask. As three women jog on the spot and Heinrich cranks a brass handle, static is heard. He speaks into the brass cone. 'This is Wunken Dranker calling Eaton Trifle, come in Eaton Trifle, over.'

There is no answer and the radio continues to buzz. He tries again, but still nothing. Niggley continues and after his thirteenth attempt, a reply is heard. The voice sounds posh but with added static. 'Hello, who's this?'

'This is Wunken Dranker, am I speaking to Eaton Trifle, over?'

'No, this is Davey Macaroon, the UQ Prime Minister. Who is this?'

Niggley slaps a hand against his forehead in annoyance. 'This is Wunken Dranker calling Eaton Trifle, is that Eaton Trifle, over?'

'Is this a sales pitch because if it is, I'm warning you? I'm waiting for an important call and if you even think about trying to sell me triple-glazing I'll set the SAS on you.'

Niggley growls and wonders why he hadn't sobered up before. If he had, then for certain the speaking tubes would be reversed. He prepares to speak again but hears a muffled conversation coming through the radio speaker and moments later. 'Oh right, I'm Eaton Trifle, sorry I forgot. I was engrossed watching Kensingtonenders and they were about to reveal who scratched the words "Non-billionaire peasant!" on Poppy's Lamborghini. Now I've missed it and this had better be good. This is Eaton Trifle now bloody hurry up, over.'

'Eaton Trifle, this is Wunken Dranker, now listen carefully as I'll say this only ...'

'Get on with it!'

Niggley chuckles. 'You forgot to say over, Davey Macaroon, UQ Prime Minister, who can be found at 10 Drowning Street in London, if anyone's listening in. Go in through the rear garden as security is always out the back having a fag and can easily be shot, over.'

Again there are muffled voices before Eaton Trifle talks again. 'Er right, I hear you Wunken Dranker, what do you have to report, over?'

'Okay, here it is. The situation is far worse than expected. Frau Jeermany, that's Angular Murky, has been beguiled by unnatural forces and has taken control of the Europalian Peninsula islands.'

'But she's always had control Niggley,' says the PM down the line.

'It's Wunken Dranker, not Niggley, now don't interrupt! There's no time to lose Eaton Trifle. Send in the SAS now, storm the castle and take it down.'

'I hear you Nig... Wunken Dranker but it's gone eight o'clock. It'll have to wait until morning and anyway, Bear's there, he can deal with it, over.'

'Eaton Trifle you're not listening. Bear is only one man and he can't do it alone. Send in the taskforce now!' shouts Niggley, shaking with barely controlled rage and alcohol withdrawal symptoms.

'With all due respect Wunken Dranker, I'm not Tony Blah so I'll sleep on it before sending soldiers into danger. I suggest you have a nice lie down and a beer or ten. Get some sleep Niggley and it'll all look better in the morning, over and out,' says the PM, adding as his voice fades. 'Who's got the remote as I don't want to miss _Cash In The Posh Attic_ , there's a Countess selling a Rembrandt.'

Niggley throws the speaking horn to the floor, where it bounces, tears free of the radio, and makes a dent in the bedroom door. He stands from his sitting position and runs to the window. It's open and he throws himself through it, into the open air.

A politician falling to their death is never a pleasant sight, not an unwelcome one of course, but a mess is a mess however they land. However, as Niggley launched, he has loosely taken hold of the knotted fabric escape rope made by his Bavarian entourage and his travelling outwards soon becomes downwards. Like a powerful electrical current, Niggley is arcing, and if a curved line were drawn from his exit above, to his intended entrance below, he'd still be a foolish nutter.

No sense no feeling is his intended epitaph and he grips lightly to a silken cloth. His hands slip, as expected, but the expensive table covering was never his goal. The cotton towel tied beneath isn't it either. Heat grows on his palms, and only when his hands take hold of a lacy commode cover tied below, does he hold tight. He sees a small barred window, that of a dungeon, and pushes his legs to the fore. He realises his feet are soft but he hopes the stonework holding the window in place is softer. As he approaches, at a frightening velocity, he closes his eyes, not wanting to see just how strong the window might be.

Niggley grimaces and shouts the age old battle cry - 'Fucking shiiiiiit!'
Chapter Thirty

Oh Hell!

It was close but they made it. Walshy Loo, Cloudier, General Richard, and four as yet unnamed SAS operatives have made it through the dirty underpants bin of the despicable Lord Octobelly and entered into what can only be - Hell. The situation is precarious and having a moment or two to look around they realise, without doubt, that a single wrong move might result in eternal damnation.

The SAS operatives take guard, crouching, locked and loaded, in a semicircle to the fore of the others. Their hand-rifles are pointing forward and gently swaying to and fro. None say a word, such is their incomprehension of a seriously foreign land.

General Richard is looking around at a desolate landscape, with distant volcanoes and intermittent lava flows but he's seen worse. There is also a blood red sky and an atmosphere that tastes tinny but that is of no consequence. He has also spied a number of strange beasts, multi-limbed, multi-headed, multi-coloured, and distinctly alien, but he's killed worse. As he stares out at an unforgiving landscape he hears a gasp. It's the boring man Walshy, who is pointing theatrically at a small building.

Four unnamed operatives and one stoutly-named SAS General instinctively bring their weapons to bear on something so disgusting, so vile, they feel tainted. Each stares across at a _Toshco ™ Maximart_ and even General Richard won't chastise op two who has vomited their last semi-digested ration of Hi-Energy Choc-Bloc, as he himself felt the bile rising. He reaches into his standard-issue backpack, removes an Imploder-Grenade, pulls the pin, and lobs it through the open doorway. It bounces, rolls, comes to rest under the warm fruit display, and after eight seconds, implodes. That which was there, now isn't, as the store has been compacted to the size of a legal-high takers genitals.

Their attention is then drawn elsewhere on hearing a popping sound nearby and a newcomer appears. Shots ring out and projectiles strike Lucifer, though none penetrate.

'Hold your fire!' shouts General Richard, rapidly lowering his weapon.

The firing stops and the Prince of Darkness runs a hand through his dark hair. His other hand, the thumb at least, is tucked behind a silver, deaths-head belt buckle. 'Touche General. You made it then and that was good shooting,' says Lucifer, smiling playfully.

General Richard averts his eyes before speaking. 'Sorry about that and if you intend to claim our souls, know that we're all wearing Anti-Demonic Lip-Gloss, factor four thousand.'

Lucifer laughs and then shakes his head. 'Touche again General but you needn't fear me, I find you amusing. I knew you were coming and quite frankly I'd rather you didn't run amok through my realm destroying everything in sight, the clean-up bill will be extortionate. It has taken a while to get the place how I like it so here, take what you came for and nothing more need be said,' he says, removing a crude cup from inside his jacket and holding it out. 'This is what you came for, the part of Devbo's soul, so take it, what have you got to lose?'

General Richard takes two steps forward but a hand tugs him back.

'Don't take it General, it's a trick, a deception,' says Walshy, before turning to Lucifer. 'Sorry, but by default you have to lie.'

Ignoring the plastic man, Lucifer continues. 'This is your last chance General, take the cup or leave it. It's of no consequence to me. Go further if you wish, destroy if you must, but know if you refuse my offer I'll demand a forfeit. Also know I don't require any of you to sign consent forms. You've entered my realm willingly, yet uninvited, and your payment is mine to decide. Ask yourself this, are you prepared to pay the price? Recall the fate of your associate, Fillipo, on entering Heaven. At least one of you will not leave, I promise you that.'

General Richard cricks his neck. 'My operatives are ready and willing to die for the cause. They're not afraid. That's why they signed their contracts, in their mother's blood, as they knew a day like this might come. They knew that one day they might be sucked into a realm of depravity, there to be defiled again and again and ... hey, come back op four, I order you to return!'

Operative four is off, running at full pelt toward where the _Toshco ™ Maximart_ recently stood. As the rocky ground gives way to sand, a grasping, suckered demonic testicle reaches up, grips their trailing leg, and pulls him under the surface.

Lucifer raises an eyebrow. 'And then there were three, be cautious now General.'

'You don't scare me Lucif...' begins General Richard but he's captured in a mini-whirlwind and his words are cut off by the ferocious airflow.

Cloudier drags him back. 'Hush now General, there's a good boy,' she says, curtseying to the Prince of Darkness. 'You know me, I'm Howling Hurricane Harlot and he didn't mean it. Note my blinking dark eyes, aren't they pretty?'

Lucifer chuckles as he looks at Cloudier's eyes but he suddenly pauses. His smile evaporates as he takes a closer look. He stares deep into her eyes and notes, surprisingly, there's not a hint of darkness about them. Despite the swathes of jet make-up, the eyes themselves are a deep, emerald green. Somewhat unsettled, he turns back to the General. 'Last chance, take the cup or leave it,' he growls as his face starts to turn red.

'Don't ta...' begins Walshy but he too finds himself inside a miniature whirlwind.

'Be quiet Walshy, there's a good chap,' insists Cloudier, tapping a black-nailed finger to her lips. 'Let me think. Why would you offer us the cup no questions asked? I see it Lucifer and I can tells it's the part of Devbo's soul we are after. The question remains though, why just give it to us? Why don't you want us to go any further? Come on, tell Cloudier. I dare you.'

'You're testing my patience. Do you want it or not?' asks Lucifer, his words cold and threatening.

Emerald eyes lock with a pair of crimson ones and Cloudier claps her hands in delight. 'Ah, I see your game and no, we don't want the cup,' she says. 'You can keep it for now. We'll take it later after we've found ... him. Come on Luci-big-boy, tell me I'm wrong.'

Lucifer's confidence flickers although he makes a grand effort of disguising it. He tucks the cup inside his jacket and rubs the three sixes on the pocket. 'So be it and best of luck, you'll need it. Oh, and here's a tip, stay off the sand,' he growls, and disappears with a pop.

With Lucifer gone, many frightened eyes stare at the back of a woman they would all consider insane. Thankfully, none can see the look of sheer bliss on her face.

A red cocktail with pink, translucent stirring stick, umbrella, and warm citrus fruit slices, takes to the air as a red clawed hand swipes it from a wicker table. God, who is sitting at the table, relaxing with his feet up, peers curiously at Lucifer. 'It didn't go well then?'

'I'll tell you how it went. It went exactly as we both guessed it would.'

'O-kay, then forgive me for asking but why the temper? I'm guessing they touched a nerve but I wasn't aware you possessed any.'

'Yes, she did!' shouts Lucifer, kicking a wicker chair across the floor of the beach hut.

'She?' asks God, frowning in confusion.

Lucifer plants his hands on the table and stares across at God, who is now attentively sitting up straight. 'So what did we miss?' asks God.

'We missed nothing. They got inside, they refused the cup and they're on their way to reclaim it. The problem though is her, the tornado lady.'

God shrugs dismissively. 'She's just a madwoman and of no concern. Sure, she'll leave you with a big clean-up bill but she's hardly about to tear your Realm apart.'

Lucifer snarls, leans forward and stares deep into God's white eyes. 'Is that right?' he asks, his words drowning in sarcasm.

'Isn't it? Why do you say such?'

Lucifer sighs and backs off. 'I looked into her eyes and there was ... something else about her. I've seen those green eyes before, in a time long past. It's her, Flora, our old partner. I know it to be so.'

'That's not possible, she died when we imprisoned old LP,' says God, his confidence rapidly waning on recalling emerald eyes, ones he'd forgotten about, and as Lucifer said, from a long time ago. He sits back, this time not relaxing, and considers the possibility. If Lucifer is right and why wouldn't he be, then the stakes have just been raised?
Chapter Thirty One

Cloudier's Little Friends

The group has made good progress and as yet, nobody else has been introduced to eternal torment. SAS op two is taking point with op three bringing up the rear. The attacks have been few and easily dealt with although no shots have been fired. Of the nine beasts seeking a soul to devour, three were eaten by clouds of ravenous insects, another three were crushed in a tornado, and the final three simply slithered away on witnessing the fate of their demonic cousins.

An hour has passed and the landscape hasn't changed. A wide rocky path dips into sand on either side and it appears as a great sea-less shoreline. Despite the heat, none are sweating as Cloudier is continuously circulating the air, cooling it with her anti-cyclonic weather events.

Another hour passes and changes are finally afoot. The path is getting wider and rising steeply, making them toil harder. Eventually, after some climbing and scrambling, the group stand above a giant precipice, looking down on the largest structure any of them have ever seen. Truthfully, all they can see is a flat, yellow, marble roof which stretches far into the distance. That however, is of no concern. What is concerning is the sheer drop they stand above which appears to be a thousand feet, or thereabouts.

General Richard is at the edge, peering down at what he deems to be the building entrance far below. He knows that he and his operatives each carry two-hundred feet of needle-thin nylon rope but with only eight hundred feet between them, it won't be enough. He curses the loss of operative four, their backpack at least. 'Sod it, we're buggered.'

Behind him Cloudier giggles. 'Not so, now gather around everyone. I'm taking us on a whirlwind tour of Hell. Keep close and if anybody tries to take advantage and gropes my boobies, you'll reach the bottom a bit faster than the rest of us. Right, let's get going.'

As the group drop, encapsulated inside a tornado, the façade of the building becomes clearer, revealing an enormous, columned entrance at the top of a range of stone steps. Only when drifting closer do they realise the steps were never meant for human feet. Both the tread and riser are way too long, so whatever they were made for, was big. Lower they go and Cloudier prepares to land.

'Stop!' shouts General Richard, peering down. 'Sand, take us up.'

'Oopsy,' says Cloudier, and she shifts the group horizontally.

'Can't you take us all the way to the top?' asks Walshy, somewhat sensibly.

'Where's the fun in that? Come on, it's a nice day for a step workout,' says Cloudier and none argue with the woman as she sets them down, well out of reach of the sand.

General Richard is the first to move. 'Okay, by the book folks. Op two, you're on point. Op three take the rear. The rest of you, let's shift arse.'

An impressive tornado-lady clears her throat and places her hands on her hips.

'Right, sorry Cloudier. Shall we make our way to the top?' asks the General, politely.

Cloudier smiles and moves into the middle of the group. The way isn't easy due to the size of the steps but steady progress is made until op two raises a hand and halts. 'Lots of snakes, sir, permission to burn them with a standard-issue Bake-a-Snake flare.'

General Richard nods. 'Go ahead son.'

'Don't you dare,' shouts Cloudier, enveloping herself in a cyclone. 'I like snakes, they're cute. I'll deal with them.'

Op two nods gratefully and drops down a couple of steps. 'You've got my vote, ma'am.'

Cloudier rises into the air, diagonally ascending, and reaches the point where op two spotted the problem. He was right, though 'lots of snakes,' appears to be an exaggeration. She counts the grand total of three and they are not very big, barely a foot long. She drifts closer and each watches her, their hoods opening. In response, she pokes her tongue out and blows a raspberry. The snakes ignore the gesture and lean back as they raise their upper bodies another inch from the ground. She drifts closer still and one of the snake's strikes, but not in the conventional manner. It has launched itself into the air and is heading straight for her face. The little beast is fast but Cloudier is faster and she catches it, gripping just below the head.

'That wasn't nice, was it? I only came to say hello and you're trying to bite me. Naughty snaky,' says Cloudier, admonishing the creature.

A second snake launches, which she catches with her other hand and she glares at them both. Looking past them, she stares at the third, which is ready to spring. 'I wouldn't, not if you know what's good for you. Look into my eyes and see if it's a good idea. I triple-dare you.'

The third snake pokes out a forked tongue and tastes the air. It hasn't understood a word the woman said but it recognises the human female's green eyes and knows an unwinnable challenge when it sees one. It drops back to the step and slithers away.

'Oh no you don't, you come back here right now and say sorry. I was only being friendly and look how you treated me,' says Cloudier, before shouting. 'General Richard, do you have a bag in your pack?'

The General, feeling unsettled on hearing the exchange, reaches into his pack. 'I've got a four-ply hessian drawstring sack.'

'Will it hold snakes?'

'It's rated for stupid-glasses-wearing transvestite heads so it'll hold snakes no problem.'

'Can I borrow it?' asks Cloudier.

'No, you can't borrow it, you can have it, and you're not putting them in my backpack.'

Cloudier grins widely. 'Ah sweety-diddums. Mummy's got a bag of snakes.'

With the help of the General, holding the bag on a telescopic pole, standard-issue of course, Cloudier places the three snakes in the bag and pulls the drawstring tight. She smiles at her companions who smile back, kind of. The group continue their journey up the steps, as the other three hundred and thirty snakes op two first spotted, cower in the cracks and crevices of the huge steps, staying well out of sight.

Inside a beach hut, Lucifer presses a button on a remote control and a sixty-six inch flat-screen television pauses. He turns his red eyes to God. 'Well?'

God taps a finger against his chin. 'Impressive and she's taking to your realm rather well but its beginner's luck,' he says, hoping he's right.

'Beginner's luck! You saw what she did with the Eek cobras. She should be dead on the ground, sucked to a husk,' insists Lucifer. 'And did you see her eyes?'

God forces a laugh and waves a hand dismissively. 'It's a coincidence. That can't be Flora. There's no way she could have survived our old foe's imprisonment. Let's keep watching and see what happens. Let them get the piece of Devbo's soul and then we'll reassess.'

'I'm not just giving it to them. There's a forfeit remember.'

'I know and don't be concerned. You'll have your forfeit, they'll have Devbo and then the fight can truly begin. Restart the telly. I want to see what she does next.'

'I'm not happy she entered my realm,' growls Lucifer, pressing the remote control and an image of the invading group is seen approaching the top of the steps.

'Of course not but I wasn't going to let her into mine,' says God, taking a sip from his blue cocktail. He looks down at his shaking hand, slowly relaxes it and is grateful Lucifer has turned to watch the screen. There really is no mistaking the woman's green eyes and who they represent.

The group has entered the building, a vast marble-block construction, with sand covering the floor but not deep enough to hide multi-testicled beasts. Scattered hither and thither, are statues, huge lianas, broken masonry, and immense towering columns holding up the high ceiling. The scene is soundless and peaceful, at least, it was.

'Come out, come out, wherever you are!' shouts Cloudier. 'I'd like a word with you. That's right, I know you're there. Let's have a party!'

Cloudier's words echo, ricocheting back and forth, and only when they fade, can a new sound be heard. There are barks, growls, hisses, snorts, grunts, trumpets, shrieks, screeches, howls, roars, and every other kind of animal noise that can be imagined, even some that can't. The three remaining SAS operatives are knelt to the fore, their weapons ready. Behind them, General Richard is staring forward, one hand gripping his hand-rifle and the other inside his backpack, sorting through various standard-issue weaponry. Beside the General, Walshy is crouched, one hand in each of his plastic component carrier bags, ready to go. And behind them all, Cloudier is opening a four-ply hessian drawstring sack. As the first snake slithers free, she grips it and places it on her head, above her right ear. She ties it in place using wild strands of black hair and despite struggling, it cannot free itself. She does the same with the second but this one is tied above her left ear. The third knows its place and ties itself down on the crown of her head. Now in place, Cloudier strides forward, through the ranks of her companions.

The approaching beasts are many, of all shapes, sizes and colours, numbering many hundreds, but that is irrelevant, to Cloudier at least. One and all fall, actually, they stay right where they are, as shining, green snake-eyes turn that which was flesh, to non-flesh. Cloudier though, doesn't want to miss all the fun and many are consumed by plagues of insects. Others are gripped by succulent vines growing from the lianas and are crushed. A few, the biggest of them, are caught in ferocious winds and cast away, there to hit thick marble columns with such force they crash through. Then they are crushed by lianas and consumed by insects. Cloudier is thorough, if nothing else.

With only a few minutes on the clock, the gigantic hall is silent again, except for the odd curse from those behind. She turns, curtsies, and sadly for op one, who stares up at Cloudier, the outcome is somewhat - rocky.

'Shit, sorry, I didn't mean to,' blurts Cloudier, placing a hand over her mouth.

'You didn't mean to what?' asks Walshy. 'I've got my eyes closed.'

'I've just turned operative one to stone, sorry.'

General Richard's eyes are also averted. 'It's what she would have wanted. Now, if it's not too much trouble, can you control those snakes?' he asks.

Cloudier reaches up and pushes the cobras down into her rough hair. 'Hissy, Missy, Kissy, no more staring until mummy says so, it's rude. You can all look now.'

All eyes are open but are sensibly looking down. Eventually, they rise and where before in the vast hall there were intermittent obstacles, there is now a mass of stone statues, bones, hell-blood, torn flesh, and a snake-haired woman with a big smile on her black-painted lips. All stare back to the ground and many, many curses are uttered.

A large television screen is paused again and two Omni's exchange looks. Not a word is spoken as two cocktails are drained and glasses thrown through a beach hut window.
Chapter Thirty Two

Badly Judged

General Richard, Walshy Loo, and ops two and three, thread their way towards the far side of the giant building. The way is now clear, Cloudier having dispatched everything within. The woman had offered to carry them over the recent carnage but they declined. Instead, she was convinced to stay and watch the entrance in case other intruders were stupid enough to enter. For certain there might be worse ahead but those moving forward are prepared to take their chances. Also for certain, if there is worse ahead, then it couldn't possibly make them more fearful than they already are, on knowing what remains behind. Once free of the devastation, op two takes point with op three at the rear and forward they move.

Soon enough they stand before a rough-cut tunnel entrance in the far wall which is emitting immense heat and steam and each instinctively knows it's the way to go. General Richard looks at op two and nods for the woman to enter. She soon disappears into the haze and the others wait. She reappears a few minutes later. 'Clear sir, follow me.'

'Op three, stay here and watch the entrance. Walshy you go, I'll take the rear.'

The tunnel would be dark but for the fizzing lava dripping down the walls, falling into gratings along the edges, which is providing a light source. The steam is clawing and General Richard calls a halt. He removes his backpack, rips off his three-ply body-armour and drops it to the ground, then carries his backpack due to the heat. As his t-shirt grows damper and his woggle sticks to his neck, he sees that Walshy isn't sweating, though he is moaning about his pots of glue overheating. Onwards they go through the sweltering haze.

'Forty-five Celsius and rising sir,' says op two, glancing at a dial on her hand-rifle.

'Let me know if it hits sixty,' orders the General.

'Affirmative sir.'

'General, my glue's too hot and won't be much use in this heat,' says Walshy. 'I'll be restricted in what I can construct.'

'Understood Walshy, I'll er, bear that in mind.'

The tunnel continues, now slowly descending and meandering from left to right but sadly, there is no let-up in the heat. Op two wipes at sweat-filled eyes. 'Fifty-two and rising, sir. There's no end in ... no wait. I see the _arghhh!_ ' she screams, having stepped on a thin patch of sand, no wider than her boot.

Long, thin testicles erupt from the sand and grip tightly to op two, dragging her down. Walshy, having run forward, reaches the screaming soldier and sees one leg, a hand and a head poking out. He drops his carrier bags but a strong hand grips him and holds him back. Walshy looks up at the General and sees his head shaking. He turns back to op two, sees her jaw now below the sand, and gags when her eyes fly from their sockets. They land, roll backwards onto the sand and are pulled under. Walshy says a silent prayer and reaches for his component bags.

Richard presses them into his hands. 'We go on, nothing more, nothing less.'

Walshy nods sadly. 'I know. I take it I'm in the lead now.'

'Not this time,' says the General, stepping past him. 'I'll take point but stay close and watch where you step. The exit's ahead and the end is nigh,' he adds, seeing a brightening of light through the steam.

'I hope you're not being prophetic,' says Walshy.

General Richard doesn't answer and is soon stepping cautiously from the end of the tunnel and he pans his hand-rifle around. There is little to see, apart from a pool of lava with a walkway, leading to a raised dais in the middle. Atop the dais is a throne and upon it, sits a man. He is naked and there are still flecks of chocolate around his mouth where he was choked to death with _Minky Tray ™_ treats during a reality show some six months previous.

'Name yourself demon,' demands Richard, aiming his hand-rifle at the figure, currently indistinct through the steamy haze.

Walshy shouts. 'No, don't fire! That's Duke Cowely er, hello your Dukeship.'

Duke Cowely has an elbow on the left arm of the throne and he is resting his chin on the hand. His other hand is tapping the right arm of the throne and he's eyeing the two men. 'Get off your knees Walshy and there's no need to call me Duke. I'm Cowely, just Cowely. I must say, I never thought it would be you,' he says, sounding bored.

Walshy's carrier bags are shaking. 'Duke Cowely, you have no idea how much I miss ...'

The seated man shouts loudly. 'It's Cowely, Walshy, and get used to it! Now then, I see you have the SAS's finest with you which explains you making it this far. Hello, Richard.'

'It's General Richard, Cowely,' he says, recognising the man at last.

'As you wish,' says Cowely, a part smile slipping onto his lips. 'So what's it to be, General? I note your gun trained on me. Do you intend to take me down?'

'Can you go any lower?' asks the General, his weapon unwavering.

Cowely thumps the arm of his throne and laughs. 'Hah! Well said and to answer your question, there are many more levels below this one. Care to take a look?'

General Richard says nothing as he lowers his weapon. He turns to Walshy and with a waved arm invites the smaller man to take over.

Walshy steps onto the path leading to the raised dais and finds he has trouble looking directly at his former boss. 'We've come for the part of Devbo's soul and nothing else, Duke Cowely. Can we have him?'

'It's Cowely, just Cowely, and don't make me tell you again. Yes, I have him and one of you may leave, but only one. If you both run I'll unleash everything Hell has and even the crazy woman will struggle to cope. She's very impressive by the way and I do hope she reaches the next round as she's got my vote. Now choose but I guess I already know who will volunteer.'

'I'll be staying, Cowely. We're old acquaintances after all,' says General Richard, pulling Walshy off the path. 'Give him Devbo and let's chew over old times.'

'Not a chance,' says Walshy, turning on the SAS man. 'Me and the Duke go back even further. I'm sure he'd prefer my company to yours. Isn't that right, boss?'

'Walshy you're stoutly brave but you're not taking the fall,' says the General.

'But I must,' insists Walshy.

General Richard looks across at Cowely who is sitting forward in his throne, his eyes wide in ... is that fright? 'Brave man. Throw me Devbo and best of luck to you both.'

Cowely snarls and throws his arms wide in exasperation. Reluctantly, he reaches beneath his throne and withdraws a plain looking cup, the one Lucifer was holding when they first entered Hell. He tosses it to Walshy in the hope he'll touch it first but the General reaches out and catches it. He places it safely in his backpack, and then salutes Walshy, seeing real tears on the man's face.

'I suggest you run General. Get out while you still can and thanks, for nothing,' growls Cowely, adding muttered curses.

The General starts to sprint away but pulls up on hearing Walshy shout. 'Wait! Tell Moneekar I love her very much. Tell her I'll ...'

Richard gulps and then swears. 'Moneekar, fuck, I forgot about her. Quick, take the cup Walshy, and run man!'

'Not this time,' says Walshy, sniffing loudly. 'I've always wanted to be a hero.'

Fearfully, General Richard turns and heads back up the tunnel at a rate of knots. He is proud at gaining the piece of Devbo's soul but has no idea what he's going to tell Moneekar. Still, it will take a few hours to get back to Hell's secret entrance and a soldier of his standing will think of something suitably heroic to get him off the hook, the left hook most likely.

Cowely has seen General Richard run back into the tunnel. The ex-reality show guru rubs his hands over his face and closes his eyes. He opens one, a fraction, and sees Walshy looking back at him, a silly grin on his face. He exhales and slowly shakes his head.

'Duke Cowely, would you like to play a game?'

'No Walshy, I wouldn't.'

'I can make a draughts board and pieces,' says Walshy, shaking his plastic component carrier bags.

'No Walshy.'

'Connect Five?'

'No.'

'Ooh, I know. I can make tiddlywinks.'

'I don't want to play anything!'

Walshy drops his carriers and peers sheepishly at his hero. 'I spy?'

'Somebody save me from this Hell!' screams Cowely, his words full of torment.

General Richard shouts at op three to get moving as he exits the steaming tunnel and the pair run towards the far end of the huge hall. Eventually, they see Cloudier and within seconds a tornado appears, whipping sand from the floor, causing temporary blindness. Both men are sucked inside and the whirlwind changes direction, heading for the gargantuan exit. Once outside, the trio fly upwards and breach the top of the precipice, but Cloudier doesn't slow. They head straight for the secret entrance and barely twenty minutes after gaining the cup, they are back where they started.

General Richard is relieved but still swears. So much for having time to think of a suitable story regarding the loss of Walshy.

The winds dissipate and without hesitating, op three enters what is now, a secret exit from Hell. Cloudier follows, with the General bringing up the rear. They have survived Hell but must now face another kind of torment, that of a soon to be enraged, Assistant Chef.

A sixty-six inch flat-screen television is switched off and the remote dropped onto the table. God and Lucifer stare at each other. Both lift their freshly made cocktails and take sips.

'I'd prefer to have the General, he knows how to fight,' says Lucifer.

'Don't underestimate the plastic man,' insists God, lowering his glass. 'A man with the right tools can shift the Heavens ... Hell even.'

'And the tornado lady, do you think she's Flora, our old companion?'

The glass in God's hand shatters where he has gripped it too hard. 'No, it's not her but there's a connection of some kind. There are too many coincidences for there not to be. I suggest we watch, very closely,' he says, raising an eyebrow.

'Touche,' mumbles Lucifer and he crushes his own glass, for the sheer Hell of it.
Chapter Thirty Three

A Ripper of a Time

General Richard exits the linen basket, throws his backpack to the floor and prepares himself for an onslaught. However, Moneekar isn't present for whatever reason and he breathes a sigh of relief. He looks at Cloudier who has a concerned look on her face and both turn to stare at op three. Of them all, he appears the most relieved and leans against one of the huge washing machines' doors. As it closes there are a series of clicks and an explosion engulfs the industrial building's top floor. Broken window panes, iron girders, concrete blocks, and flaming underpants detonate outwards and upwards.

The floor below goes the same way, followed by the next and the next, all the way to the ground. When the explosions finally stop, all that remains is a deep crater in the ground, scattered and smouldering debris, and dozens of burning vehicles. The scene is devastation, fittingly resembling a Hell-hole, and the Queenston-upon-Hull City Council have another regeneration project to deal with.

In amongst it all, a fire-storm is snarling and like a massive phoenix, it rises from the crater, flies away and settles outside the perimeter wall, near the fortified gate. The fire dies as the swirling storm dissipates and another scene from Hell is visible. Cloudier is holding tight to a badly burnt, hairless body which is breathing raggedly. She shouts loud, 'Medic!'

SAS medics are swiftly on the scene and the body is wrapped in SAS Cool-Film, placed on a stretcher and carried away at speed to the helicopters. Now alone, Cloudier looks at the backpack she is holding which survived the explosion in one piece, although one of the straps is singed. She unzips the top, checks inside, and sees the pieces of Devbo's soul, safe and intact.

The explosion happened so quickly she's not sure which of the two men she saved, General Richard or op three, but for certain, one didn't make it. She also ponders what happened to Moneekar and the tears start to tumble. She wouldn't have left Hell's secret entrance without a good reason and a small part of her thinks it might be best if she too is lost, like her husband.

Cloudier swears, loud and strong, and whips the air around her into a new tornado. She hasn't the time to dwell as there's a job to do. With a mixture of sadness and controlled rage she rises fast, into the higher layers of the atmosphere. The UQ diminishes and looking east she can make out the island of Thailand near the horizon. She heads for it, picking up lots of speed.

Atop a thousand-foot high volcanic stack in the jungles of Thailand, a pterodactyl is dozing on a red cross in the courtyard. Beside it is a hog badger carcass, currently being fought over by three snarling _Haggi_. As the beasts feed, an old man in a deckchair is snoring softly, outside the monastery's arched entrance. All is peaceful, until the pterodactyl screeches and launches itself off the stack, startling the Haggi which race past his feet, squealing a warning. The man wakes, lifts his tartan cap from his face, and notes a change in the wind. A smile spreads across Jocky Chan's weathered face and he stands, while pressing a fist into the base of his spine.

A tornado lands in the courtyard and when the wind dies, a familiar woman is seen. Jocky bows, as does Cloudier, and on rising she holds out a backpack. Jocky doesn't take it. He just stares, wondering if his rheumy eyes are deceiving him. He bows again, deeper and lower, knowing Cloudier will have to do the same. He rises quickly and stares at the three blood red snakes in her hair. He knows what they are and he stumbles slightly. The Eek cobras are significant and his heart skips a beat.

'Sensei, it's rude to stare,' says Cloudier, rising from her bow. 'I know I look a mess. I haven't had time to change or wash.'

Jocky breaks from his self-induced spell. 'Sorry lassie, I meant nay disrespect, it's just ...'

'It's a long story Sensei, actually, it's not that long but here, take the parts of Devbo's soul and restore him. I'm going to need all the help I can get.'

'Ye're going to need his help?' asks Jocky, not paying attention but thinking only of snakes.

'Sensei, please get moving. I'll explain later.'

'Aye, I guess ye will,' says Jocky, taking the pack from Cloudier. He leads her into the monastery where they are met by the purple robed magician, the Great Bellendi, who nods on seeing Cloudier. The trio exit the Tourist Gift Shop through a door marked: Monks Only, and start to descend a spiral staircase.

Jocky is at the rear, deliberately staying higher than Cloudier, so he can see her hair snakes. The one on the crown raises its head, looks at him and he flinches. Its eyes remain black and the head nods up and down, as if confirming his suspicions, before settling back. He understands the meaning and feels ice forming around his heart.

He always knew Flora didn't die when imprisoning the Lurking Peril, she was far too strong, despite what God and Lucifer may think. She would return one day and now he has proof. Her snakes, for they are hers and not Lucifer's, wouldn't lie. He also knows she has chosen her vessel for release, his wee Cloudier. Jocky's ancient heart misses a beat knowing he has no choice but to sacrifice his favourite pupil to restore Flora to her rightful position.

He sighs and feels a tear run down each of his creased cheeks - one for sorrow and one for joy.

Round and round and round they go and where they'll stop, Cloudier doesn't know. The spiral steps seem to descend forever, for a thousand feet in truth, but the destination is barely half that. Many doors and small landings are passed but none paused at, until the Great Bellendi holds a hand up. He then holds his other hand out. 'Give me the parts of Devbo's soul. I'll see to his restoration and no, Howling Hurricane Harlot, you can't help. You're tired and need rest. That much is obvious.'

'Tired, I'm not tired! Try me purple robe man, I dare you,' growls Cloudier.

'I do dare Cloudier, however silly of me, but you'll be no use to Devbo if you can't keep your eyes open. His restoration may take a while so you have time to sleep. Jocky, show her to my apartment then join me here. We have much to do.'

'You'll do no such thing Sensei, I'm not ...' begins Cloudier but Jocky cuts her short.

'Lassie, ye're dead on yer feet, now do as yer told for once. I promise I'll fetch ye when Devbo wakes.'

'You'd better or I'll throw you off the stack again,' says Cloudier, trying to look tough while stifling a yawn.

Jocky chuckles, takes Cloudier by the arm and leads her back up the stairs. Thankfully, Bellendi's apartment isn't far and they enter. Inside is a huge, luscious bed with purple, silk sheets and Cloudier finally acknowledges the weight of slumber pressing down on her. As Jocky walks away, he feels a pair of arms reach around his chest from behind. He turns and sees a girl, not a woman, young and fragile. As his major organ thumps, he goes to stroke her hair but thinks better of it. Instead, he lifts her chin and wipes at the tears on her cheeks.

'I know wee lassie, I know. There wasnae anything ye could do to help them. Ye did your best. Now get some rest and I'll wake ye afore long.'

Half smiling, half yawning, Cloudier retreats to the bed, falls backwards onto it and starts snoring, loudly. Jocky walks to the door, takes a last look at the girl, remembering her as a frightened five year old bairn, and steps outside.

He has an appointment with the Great Bellendi but there is something else he must do first. He goes higher up the volcanic stack, near to his own room, approaches a special door, one he hasn't entered for nearly forty years and steps inside. He notes the numerous sparring dummies, covered with dust and old cobwebs. Jumping forward he smacks the non-living crap out of each and every one while screaming wildly.

When done, he collapses to the floor and grabbing his long grey hair, drags it round to cover his eyes. He presses his thumb knuckles tight against his eyelids and multi-coloured lights start to dance in his vision. He sees it clearly, the sacrifice Flora made in taking down the Lurking Peril, the bastard dinosaur God, some nine thousands years ago. He sees her multi-coloured hair smothered in Eek cobras and at the last, her bright emerald eyes staring, as the prison locked tight with her on the inside. And then ... there was only darkness, the light having fled, as did the young Jocky Chan, moments after.

Jocky opens his eyes, the dancing lights quickly fading and he stares at the broken dummies. One of the heads is on the floor, near his crossed legs and he picks it up. He turns it, looking for a face but knows it doesn't have one. Still, he imagines one and sees a sweet, black-haired girl staring back at him. He casts if away. 'Wee Cloudier, I'm sorry, but I cannae break a promise, not to Flora,' he whispers.

The Great Bellendi raises an eyebrow, noting the sweat streaking Jocky's face. 'You took your time.'

'Och aye Big Monk Mon, there was something I had to do.'

'Indeed and when we're done you go and get those hands bandaged. I take it none of the bones are broken,' says Bellendi.

'I dinnae ken what ye mean?' says Jocky, placing his hands behind his back. 'I only needed the toilet, now let's get on with restoring my not-so-wee pupil.'

'Very well, I see, and have your feet looked at too, they're dripping blood on the floor.'

Jocky looks down. 'Och, I must have accidently kicked the bog brush as I came out.'

Bellendi sighs and stares at Jocky. 'I'm being serious.'

'Aye, so the fuck am I,' growls Jocky and the conversation is done.

The purple magician shakes his head and turns to the body of Devbo which is facing the ceiling, suspended inside a steel frame. Above, below, and to each side, chains with leather straps on the end hold the body. One is around the forehead, with the others binding his wrists, ankles and torso. Either side of Devbo's head but much higher are suspended two massive, glass beakers holding liquids, one deep red and the other a bright blue. Just beyond these and standing on a metal platform, is a pale, thin man wearing a top hat and a flowing cloak. He is looking down, expectantly, as if waiting for something.

Bellendi nods to the man. 'Of course, would you fetch the soul parts, Sensei?'

'Aye, but what am I looking for?' asks Jocky, rummaging through the SAS backpack Cloudier brought. 'There's so much crap in here.'

'May I?' asks the man, jumping down from the platform, making his cloak billow out.

Jocky pushes the backpack across the floor and steps away.

The cloaked man crouches and starts to rifle through the pack. 'I'll know the soul parts when I see them. I have experience in this field ... ah, here we go,' he says, holding up two objects. 'Why a dead bird and a cup made from ... is that faeces?' he asks, sniffing disgustedly with his head tilted away.

Bellendi answers. 'Jack, you'd need to know Devbo to understand. It is dried human waste and the cup represents his work in Thailand and his building of schools. Some would call it a builder's cup but it's not. We all know builders carry thermos flasks. It is a sign of his caring nature though, call it his good side. The dead bird represents his other side, the hardness within. He's proficient in the _Way of the Peed Off Spuggy_ and that brings only pain, for others of course.'

The man, Jack, looks up. 'I see, but why was the cup found in Hell and the dead bird in Heaven? I know it to be so as the taints are clear on each,' he says, sniffing the items again, the cup only briefly.

'It's obvious Jack. Inside all good there is an element of evil, and vice-versa. Are you familiar with Yin and Yang?'

'Of course, that explains much. Thank you for the enlightenment. I knew I missed something all those years ago when I was ... soul searching,' says Jack, chuckling.

'Indeed but we must get on. Do what you do, Ripper, and resurrect Devbo. Our continued survival may depend on it,' says Bellendi.

'Not mine, I'm not of this planet and only came due to your request for assistance, so your little game doesn't concern me,' says Jack, placing both soul-parts in one hand, 'and let us hope your associates God and Lucifer haven't been playing silly buggers or this might not go as expected.'

Jack, the Ripper apparently, climbs back onto the platform. He drops the cup into the red liquid, and the dead bird into the blue, and presses a lid down, tight onto each beaker. Both liquids start to bubble furiously and he attaches tubes to the top of each lid, securing them with dairy fittings. When the liquid rises and starts to flow along the tubes he jumps off the platform and moves inside the metal frame. The hanging tube-end from the blue beaker is pushed into Devbo's mouth and Jack forces it down until he can push it no further. The tube attached to the red beaker, he also pushes home with force but not into Devbo's mouth. It's shoved unceremoniously up his ...

'Och, is that really necessary?' growls Jocky, instantly turning away.

'It is,' says Jack. 'Good and bad, happy and sad, and ...'

'That's enough,' interrupts Jocky, his back to the frame. 'So what now?'

Jack shrugs. 'Now we wait. There's nothing else to do until he shows signs of life.'

'And how long will that be?' asks Jocky, the distaste in his words obvious.

'No idea, I've never restored a soul before. I've only ever taken them in the past. It could be days, it might be hours, or maybe only minutes. I suggest you take a seat and I'll prepare the syringes.'

'Syringes?' asks Jocky, looking over his shoulder and seeing the man lift a battered leather case which he opens.

'Oh yes. Restoring Devbo will need more than a simple, ahem, simple-ish reinsertion of his soul parts. Only when he accepts them, if he accepts them, can we administer the final, shall we call them, hits.'

'Which are?'

Jack shows the contents of the case to Jocky. 'I call them soul juice, which I've kindly donated from my own collection. They'll remind him he's a creature of life and should bind his soul to his physical presence. That's why there are three of us, one for each syringe, so the three parts of his soul reattach simultaneously.'

'Three, but we only found two parts!' exclaims Jocky, instinctively clenching his fists and straightening his lethal index fingers.

Jack holds his hands out defensively. 'The third part cannot be stolen, only dislocated, now back away and I'll explain. Note the three syringes,' says Jack, pointing to them in turn. 'This one is for the head, the dead bird obtained from Heaven, and this one for the heart, the cup that was found in Hell. The third is for a male soul-part that can never be taken but in his case it was detached, I'm sure of it. The head, the heart, and the, ahem, libido.'

'Okay, I get it,' says Jocky, briefly glancing at Devbo. 'So what's really in the syringes?'

Jack smiles and taps a finger against his nose. It's obviously need-to-know and he's not telling.

Jocky turns to speak to Bellendi but the magician is already sitting on a nearby sofa, paying no attention. He looks back at Jack, then again at the case of syringes. 'I'll do the head syringe,' he says, walking away while trying not to think about the width of the needles or where they will be inserted.
Chapter Thirty Four

He's Alive!

The trio are on their sixty-sixth game of _Kerplink_ , the ancient Buggerist Monk game, when the Great Bellendi pauses in pulling out a bamboo straw. For certain, four marbles are about to fall into his tray but that's not what has caused him to hesitate. There was a noise, a clink of chains and all three men are staring at Devbo's steel prison. Bellendi, sat facing it, doesn't have to turn his head, like Jack and Jocky have to. Unnoticed, he inserts another straw thus halting the next fall of marbles. Is this cheating? It's not, as he is simply using an opening that has presented itself, as any intelligent person should. To not gain an advantage when the opportunity arises is pure foolishness, especially when a life is at stake.

This is the third time Devbo has shuddered and like the two previous occasions, Jack the Ripper stands, walks over, and presses an ear to his chest. He hears fluid movement beneath the skin but as yet there is no heartbeat.

He turns, shakes his head, and retakes his seat, not noticing that Jocky and Bellendi have each moved a few marbles into his _Kerplink_ catchment tray from their own.

The Great Bellendi pulls the 'extra' straw from the plastic cylinder frame, releasing only a single marble and looks to Jocky.

Jocky reaches forward, feels an unexpected chill, and then turns again to Devbo's body. 'Holy shite, he's alive!'

'No he isn't,' says Jack, frowning at his marble tray as he counts the number in it.

'Then why's he looking at me?'

Jack turns and sees that Jocky is right. 'Excellent, take your places gentlemen,' he says, running to his syringe case. 'Jocky you've got the head, Bellendi the heart. I'll take the other.'

The three men stand beside Devbo's naked twitching body. The eyes are wide and if it wasn't for a throat inserted tube then the mouth would be screaming. Uncomfortably, Jocky sees the eyes staring at him and he tries to ignore them. He tilts Devbo's head back and rests a sharp needle on his forehead.

Jack gives the signal to insert and they do just that. Sharp needles enter Devbo's temple and heart and the third, with a prick. Plungers are plunged, and the contents administered. Devbo again lies still, the twitching stopped, as needles are withdrawn.

'I dinnae like the way he's still staring at me,' says Jocky.

Jack looks to the head. 'He remembers that he's a creature of life but it might take a little while for him to appreciate what that actually means. The parts of his soul will bind, hopefully, but as yet he's inert, unable to move. Give him time.'

'He was twitching. That doesnae seem inert to me,' says Jocky.

'It's an autonomic response and a natural one. How would you react on feeling those?' asks Jack, indicating the two tubes entering Devbo's body.

Jocky grimaces. 'Aye, I suppose ye're right. I don't like it though.'

'Here, cover his face with this,' says Jack, handing Jocky a towel.

'I ... I cannae. He's my pupil and I'll nae desert him in his time of need. I'm his Sensei,' says Jocky, feeling guilt wash through him and a question forms. 'Can he hear what I'm saying?'

'I've no idea,' says Jack, honestly. 'This is new to me but I suggest you turn away. When he fully revives he might see you as the responsible party. As for me, my work is done, I'll be off now,' he adds, packing away the syringes and closing the catches on the case.

'What, ye cannae leave?' says Jocky. 'He's nae awake yet.'

Carrying the case in his left hand, Jack takes up a walking cane with his right, which was leaning against the metal prison, and doffs his top hat as he walks to the door. 'I can and I am. I'd rather be away from here before he's up and about.'

'How will we know when he's recovered?' asks Bellendi, finally entering the conversation.

'You'll know, trust me on that,' smiles Jack and he disappears around the door. Swift footfalls can he heard descending the spiral steps, two at a time, heading for the base of the stack.

Bellendi places a hand on Jocky's shoulder. 'Go and wake Cloudier. I have a feeling she may be needed.'

Jocky nods and leaves the room, but unlike Jack, he runs up the steps. The Great Bellendi sighs, steps outside and closes the door behind him. He removes a key from his robe pocket and locks it. Walking down a few steps, he starts to incant, his words sounding ancient.

'Sensei, I don't understand. If Devbo's alive then let's get in there,' insists Cloudier.

'Patience lassie, he's nay alive yet but I'm reliably informed we'll know when he is.'

'Are you scared of him?' she asks, frowning.

'It's nay a case of being scared. When he wakes he's going to be a wee bit pissed off, I think.'

'Okay, but wouldn't a friendly face help?' asks Cloudier.

Jocky says nothing and looks to Bellendi, standing a few steps lower.

'Alas no, he needs to get it out of his system. I've placed a warding around the room and he'll not escape. Let him have his head and then you can enter,' says Bellendi, seeing the woman start to cross her arms. 'You don't believe me Cloudier, well, consider this. Everyone knows about a woman scorned, but a man scorned can do far more damage, especially one like Devbo. If you told him his friends are lost it may break his soul again. Leave him be for a while.'

'Forgive me Great Bellendi but that sounds like total bollo...' says Cloudier but her words halt on hearing an immense crash inside the room.

Devbo comes fully to, pulls his splayed arms in tight and snaps the chains holding his wrists. Only the leather bonds remain and he easily rips them free. He then tries to sit up, but something is holding his head down. Reaching up, he tears away the head restraint and sits up properly. As his eyes focus he grasps the mouth tube and tugs it free. His throat repeatedly contracts and expands and he vomits a blue liquid. It flows across his naked chest and onto the floor but that is of little concern. Now free, he screams loudly as fresh air flows down his raw throat. He vomits again but ignores it and reaches out to release his legs, but pauses. Feeling a strange discomfort he leans forward, looks down, and sees a red tube sticking out beneath his manhood. He frowns and questions flood his mind, none of them encouraging.

Cautiously, he reaches down, grabs the tube and gently tugs it. He mouths a curse and looks around the room, making sure nobody is watching. It seems nobody is and using both hands, while clenching his eyes shut, he pulls harder. Eventually, the tube comes free with a _schluck_ and is dropped, sending more liquid flowing across the floor. Not dwelling on the meaning he unbuckles the rest of his restraints and falls unceremoniously into a purple puddle.

Now free of the metal framework, Devbo stands. At first, his legs refuse to support his weight, partly due to a lack of strength and partly because of an unwelcome, damp slip hazard, so he holds tight to the steel frame of his erstwhile prison until they do. Breathing raggedly, his throat still hurting, he looks around the room again. He sees a plastic cylinder with bamboo straws sticking through it and the marbles atop them. A memory explodes.

There was a crimson cloak followed by ... the sense of falling. He knows he died but if so, why is he now alive? His head pounds as he stumbles over to the _Kerplink_ game and drops onto the sofa. Swiftly, he leans over, onto a single buttock, a discomfort stopping him sitting properly. He tries to order his thoughts but can't. There is only pain ... and rage.

'It's very quiet in there, Sensei. I thought you said he'd go mental,' whispers Cloudier, her ear pressed against the door.

Jocky ponders, also wondering why that is. 'I'm guessing he knows better than that but we should be careful. Big Monk Mon give me the key.'

Bellendi passes the key over and starts to ascend the steps. 'I'll be in the courtyard if you, or perhaps he, needs me. I've just removed the room's warding, good luck.'

The key is pressed into the lock, turned, and with a gentle shove, the door opens. Cloudier and Jocky step inside, see the broken steel frame and both turn to the sitting, naked Devbo. Jocky beckons the woman to wait as he walks across the room and takes the seat opposite his pupil. He reaches for a bamboo straw, tugs it free and sees two marbles fall. 'This game's shite. I never was any good at it. It's your turn.'

Devbo slowly raises his eyes and if looks could kill. 'Damned fucking right man, now tell me what happened.'

'Well, I pulled out the bamboo straw and the marbles fe...'

'What happened, Sensei?' hisses Devbo, glaring accusingly.

Across the room, Cloudier speaks. 'Devbo it was bonkers.'

'Not you! Sorry Cloudier lass but I need to hear it from him, our so-called, bastard hard as nails Sensei. Go on Jocky, tell me what happened. Tell me how you ran away when the bastard appeared over the edge of the stack. Tell Cloudier how you ran for your life when that religious fucker attacked me.'

Jocky takes the insult well, knowing that however much his pupil blames him, it doesn't come close to how much he blames himself. 'It wasnae like that. I was in the toilet when it happened,' he says, his words spoken softly.

'You were in the bog?' scowls Devbo, banging the table and dislodging more marbles into Jocky's tray. 'No, you ran you coward.'

'Wee pupil it wasnae ...'

'And don't call me "wee pupil." You buggered off when the going got tough you hard as spuggy-shite Sensei.'

Again Jocky doesn't react but he does stare hard at an increasingly angry woman standing across the room. He slowly shakes his head, stilling her, and allows Devbo to continue.

'Sensei fucking Jocky Chan. You've always been the same, acting all big and tough when we were kiddies, beating us up and laughing. Now look at you, you're old and past it, you half-blind twat. I've had enough of this place. I'm out of here and you can all go fuck yourselves.'

'Does that include me, Devbo?' asks Cloudier, controlling her increasing ire.

'Ah, Cloudier lass, I forgot you were there. No, it doesn't include you but I'm done with this place. I'm leaving and don't try to stop me.'

'Okay, but where will you go, back to the UQ?' asks Cloudier.

'In time but there's something I've got to do first,' says Devbo, standing and turning.

'And what might that be?' asks Cloudier, swiftly averting her eyes at Devbo's nakedness.

'I'm going to smack ten barrels of spuggy crap out of the bastards who did this to me. Come and watch if you want but don't get in the way,' says Devbo, jumping over the sofa and running out the door. Moments later he pokes his head back inside. 'Er, Sensei Jocky man, I still think you're useless but have you got any clothes I can borrow?'

Jocky rises, says nothing, and fights the grin threatening to engulf his face.
Chapter Thirty Five

Professor Brain Makes a Deal

Professor Brain 'Clever' Clogs enters the Quite Big Hardon Collider, walking beside the line of burdened slaves. Invisible, having played the notes, H-I-D-E on his keyboard, he makes an initial assessment. Like the entrance, the cave is now much higher and wider and there is a sloping path heading deeper into the mountain. He sees an intersection ahead where the row of slaves splits into three separate lines, each heading in different directions. He can hear the fearful protests as families are divided by black uniformed, brutish guards. Those who object are dragged aside and beaten mercilessly. Some regain their feet and again take up their burdens but others, those unmoving, are thrown onto a growing pile of bodies.

Brain sighs and turns away. After taking two steps, his conscience gets the better of him. He may be an intelligent and handsome astrophysicist, and well aware of the theory regarding 'survival of the fittest' but he understands that some actions require an unscientific, opposing reaction. He stares at one of the guards, plays the notes D-I-E on his keyboard, and the man collapses to the ground. He knows it's not much but it's a start. Again he turns, and walks to the side of the cavern where he has seen something useful.

There is a large map, nailed to a rough, stone wall, and he sees where the slaves are heading. The paths split deeper in the mountain and two of them split again, then some again, creating many paths in total. Some continue in a straight line but others double back and in all, the map looks like a drug-crazed spider's web. It also shows large circles at the ends of the paths and he guesses that these are the newly dug chambers.

The map isn't three-dimensional but he gets a feel for what he's looking at. He peers back at the slave lines, seeing each one walking on a path heading downwards and knows that his ex-tutor, Françoise, was right. Judging the size of the entrance on the map, it being barely a dot, and the length of the paths, which are long, he knows that each will culminate well below sea-level if they continue to descend, and why wouldn't they? He understands where he has to go and picks out the path leading to the largest island not yet joined to the growing continent - France.

For a moment he questions why he needs to go there. His head says he can bring the whole ensemble crashing down in minutes but his heart is saying otherwise. Making a swift, intelligent guesstimate he predicts there must be around fifteen million innocents currently inside the installation with more arriving every minute. Could he sacrifice that many?

A good question he decides and one he's not yet prepared to answer. He needs a plan and contemplating his next move, wanders back towards where the slave line splits. More innocents are being viciously beaten and in amongst the screams, there is vile laughter from the guards. Brain taps a finger to his lips, while thinking, and then taps more on his instrument, an idea having presented itself.

Having mentally picked his victims, just by looking at them, he watches the guards rise into the air where they explode and create a shower of blood red rain, pieces of clothing, and bone. It isn't pretty, he admits, but it is effective. He considers his idea, which becomes a plan and he says it aloud to hear if it sounds right, 'to Hell with you all.' He smiles handsomely, as it sounds perfect.

He sets off beside the line of slaves on the right, estimating his destination to be about forty miles away so he should be there in a few hours. He could reach it in minutes if he wanted but scientists always like a bit of thinking time. He needs to consider what to do about the slaves as rescuing that many will be tricky despite the remarkable attributes of his musical keyboard. As for the QBHC machinations in which he stands, a suitably impressive idea of how to take them down, so they cannot rise again, is now a certainty in his mind.

Twenty-two minutes have passed when Brain reaches the next point where the slave line splits. Those to the right will soon be turning in their long descent and heading for a chamber marked on the map as: Zanet. Despite his profound intellect, he hasn't heard of the place but he doesn't dwell. He needs to remain focused so continues beside the line on the left, heading for the chamber marked France.

Onwards he jogs, encountering more guards but these continue to breathe, for a while anyway, before the nano-singularities inside their skulls, detonate. At first he thought it would be difficult to achieve, with so many differing DNA signatures being fed back and then having to tailor the implosives for each guard.

Luckily, and Professor Brain does believe in luck, keyboard analysis showed all the guards to be identical. Curiously though, his instrument didn't identify the cloned guards as human and only 'Genus Unknown,' flashed inside his head.

The scientist in Brain doesn't question further. Strange things do happen and with the DNA mapped, producing millions of identical airborne killers was easy. Swarms are already spreading through the Collider complex seeking guards to burrow into. When the time is right they will fall, all at the same time. That however, still leaves the problem of rescuing millions of slaves and as yet, he hasn't managed to devise a suitable solution.

An hour and ten minutes has passed when Brain finally halts but not for a breather. Despite jogging hard all that time he's not sweating and his breathing is regular. His reason for stopping is simple. There is an unmapped fork in the tunnel although none of the slaves are travelling along it. The new tunnel has a red and white striped barrier across the entrance with signs attached. He ignores the 'No Entry' signs, as they wouldn't apply to him, and instead looks at the larger one in the middle, reading: Italy Tunnelling in Progress. It has piqued his interest and he decides he can take the time to investigate further. Being an astrophysicist, an extra hour or two in the grand scheme of life means little, so he jumps the barrier and jogs on.

It isn't long before he can hear tearing and wrenching sounds up ahead and assumes these are from the tunnelling equipment. He does have one problem with that assessment though. If a tunnel is being dug, why is no excavated rock coming back the other way? He knows if it were him doing the digging he'd easily make the rock disappear using the keyboard, but it isn't him. Like a true scientist, he considers the evidence. A tunnel is being dug but there is no waste material, ergo, a power is at play. He considers possible alternatives but none are forthcoming, so continues on, now walking.

The noise up ahead steadily increases and dust is clogging the air, reducing visibility but this isn't a concern for Brain. His impressive instrument is providing clean air but in the dust cloud his invisibility shawl might be seen if anyone cared to look. Still, he continues on as scientific curiosity will always outweigh being sensible.

Two hundred yards further and he knows he's close, almost too close, but he can't see a thing. Whatever is ahead, at the rock-face, sounds impressive and is throwing up so much airborne contamination visibility is practically zero.

He stops and looks down at his keyboard which is just about visible on his hip. Weighing up his options he considers what to do next as he is unsure. There is one way of finding out though and the answer is at his fingertips. Forming the question in his mind, 'What is happening here?' he taps a very special note on the keyboard, this one not a letter but a symbol - a question mark. Brain has no idea how it works, the mental connection, but it always has in the past and an answer is soon forthcoming. His brain interprets the response, if it can be considered one. He frowns as alien words filter through his mind and despite asking further questions, the responses make no sense. He sighs and it appears there is nothing else he can do other than clear the air. He taps the notes S-E-E and the dust disappears. Looking ahead he sees huge, unrecognisable beasts clawing at the rock-face. Before he can make sense of the situation, the lights go out.

The Professor opens his eyes and finds he's back at the barrier blocking the tunnel entrance. He knows something is wrong and reaches for his keyboard but it's not there. He stands, but a swipe of a wooden pole takes his legs away, putting him ungracefully on his backside. For the first time in years he feels pain and yelps.

Standing opposite is a stocky, black man, dressed in a white suit and he's holding a gnarled staff. He has the keyboard at his feet. 'Are you looking for this, Professor?' asks the American sounding man.

'Who are you?' asks Brain, his eyes not leaving his keyboard.

'I see. No word of thanks for saving your ass then,' says God.

'You didn't answer my question,' says Brain, looking up at his apparent saviour and noting strange white eyes staring back at him.

'And you didn't answer mine, so let's call that even. Now, are you looking for your keyboard?'

Brain shakes his head. 'No, I can see it's at your feet. Can I have it back?'

'Take it. It's of no use to the likes of me,' says God, waving an arm inviting him to take it.

Brain goes on all fours, shuffles forward and takes the keyboard. He lifts the strap over his head and rests it on his shoulder while checking the instrument, now on his hip, for damage. Thankfully there is none. He presses keys, reinstates his invisibility, and jumps the barrier, again walking beside the slave line heading to the 'France' chamber.

God shakes his head, levitates over the barrier and catches up to Brain. 'Is that it? No thanks, no nothing?'

'Not until you answer my question. Who are you?' asks Brain, continuing on.

'You won't like the answer but I think you already know that. Am I right?'

Brain stops and stares at the black man. He sees the staff, as well as the man's pristine white suit and weird, white eyes. 'You're God, aren't you?' asks Brain, noting the man's air of confidence.

'Hot damn Professor, smoke yourself a burger!' exclaims God, grinning widely and showing a flash of a gold tooth.

'You know I don't believe you exist,' says Brain.

'Then I guess you're hallucinating and given what you saw back in the tunnel, that's a dangerous situation to find yourself in. I suggest we walk and talk. What say you, oh great scientist?' asks God, only a little patronisingly.

Brain rubs a hand across his forehead. 'So what did I see back in the tunnel?'

'No idea as I didn't look. I was too busy saving your butt. How about you tell me what you saw and maybe I can make sense of it for you,' says God, a playful twinkle edging his voice.

'There were ... they looked like dinosaurs clawing chunks out of the rock-face but that's impossible,' says Brain, wincing at his unscientific explanation.

'Is it as impossible as your impressive keyboard, or meeting God?'

Brain chuckles unexpectedly, surprising himself. 'Point taken but that particular dinosaur has never existed. There's never been any archaeological evid... oh I see.'

'Do you, Professor?' asks God, staring hard at the man.

'I do and I'm reserving judgement on you being God. It's entirely plausible we haven't discovered all the dinosaurs to ever exist. We've yet to discover all the animal species that exist today on our own planet, so missing one or two extinct ones would be a certainty,' says Brain, who after a moment of thought adds. 'But they were huge.'

'They were and I suggest you consult your keyboard. Before I dragged you away, I procured a sample of their DNA for you. And yes, I lied about not paying them any attention.'

Brain peers questioningly. 'That's not possible. Nobody else can use my keyboard. It's designed to respond to me only.'

'Of course and please don't take offence,' says God, grinning, 'but have you ever heard the words, made in my image?'

Brain admits the words are food for thought but ultimately chooses to ignore them. He forms his query in his mind, presses the question mark on his keyboard and information fills his head. The tunnelling dinosaurs are named as _huposaurs_ but there is information about another, a _katestheosaur_ , only a little smaller, that was consuming the waste rock. The keyboard tells him the beast crushes the rock inside its body and emits pellets, thousands of times smaller than the rock it digested. Looking down he sees many such pellets spread around, each no bigger than his thumb-nail, and attempts to pick one up but can't move it. As he ponders, he jolts rigidly and considers information regarding a fourth creature, one he didn't originally see. He stares wide-eyed at God. 'I'm in the wrong place. I need to be in the Vatican.'

God holds his Omni-staff wide. 'Don't concern yourself with that place, it's being taken care of. Certainly, you encountered a Cardinal and he was ready to strike. Just be thankful I dragged you out when I did, though I'm not holding my breath.'

The words sink in. 'Is it coming after me?' asks Brain.

'It will be once free from the million tons of rock I accidently dropped on it. For now, I'd say, let it go.'

'But I need to ...' begins Brain.

'Others are on the case Professor, so don't concern yourself with the Vatican. I have every faith they'll be dealt with but they're just one loop in the chain. Here and now is the biggest problem. The Europalian continent cannot be allowed to grow.'

Brain nods. 'I know, but what are they hoping to achieve? They can pull in the whole of the Europalian peninsula islands, making it bigger than the Land of American Righteous Democracy, but it'll become unstable. It'll be too heavy and sink.'

God is impressed. 'Indeed and do you know what will happen then?' he asks.

'It'll hit the planet's core which will crack open. The resultant release of pressurised magma will react with the cool oceans, boil them, and trigger a mass extinction event,' says Brain, using his own intelligence and not the keyboard.

'That's a near enough assumption,' says God, sensibly not mentioning the release of something equally devastating from the planet's core - the dinosaur Omni, The Lurking Peril. He stares at Brain. 'You know what must be done, Professor. Nothing has changed regarding your intended action. Stay on the path and I wish you luck.'

Brain frowns as he calculates other options. 'No, wait! I know what to do but what about the people inside the mountain? I can't save them all, millions will die.'

'That's life, or death maybe,' says God, shrugging.

'You can't abandon them, they're a part of you,' says Brain, his anger rising.

'What makes you think they're a part of me, Professor? I'm just a black man wearing a white suit and holding a brutal staff.'

Brain shakes his head furiously. 'You have to save them, you're God!' he shouts.

God chuckles at the acknowledgment of his status from a powerful non-believer. 'I'll get back to you shortly, Professor,' he says, and disappears with a pop.

'Well played. I'd take my hat off to you if I was wearing one,' says Lucifer, nodding to God, as he sips from a crimson cocktail.

God sits and removes his shoes which are rubbing. 'Thanks, but the job isn't yet done. The professor is an enigma and who knows which way he'll turn when he discovers the truth about the Lurking Peril. He made a good point about the millions of souls inside, though.'

'So what, we'll survive without them,' says Lucifer, shrugging.

'We will but can he? He'll be able to take down the growing continent problem but unless we do something about the slaves, he might yet turn on us. He's strong but I doubt he can handle the guilt of causing millions of innocent deaths.'

'He's snared, stop worrying,' says Lucifer, waving a hand dismissively. 'He admitted to believing in you and in the scientific community that's practically unheard of.'

'True, but remember he has the keyboard,' says God.

'Not a problem. You can take it back any time you wish,' insists Lucifer.

God eyes his Anti, curiously. 'Is that so? I had a Hell, ahem, a Heaven of a job breaking the security codes. It's no instrument of mine. As it's not yours either would you care to guess where he got the idea for its invention?'

Lucifer ponders then sits upright and stares. Horns start to grow from his forehead and he thumps a hand on the table. 'The Lurking Peril,' he states, taking a swift gulp of drink.

'I think not,' says God, waggling an index finger. 'Our old foe LP doesn't have the will or the sophistication to manage such a thing. He's a destroyer, not a creator. But we do know of someone who does enjoy a bit of creation and I'm certain it's "her" doing.'

Lucifer exhales sharply. 'So it is Flora then, the green-eyed harlot. I knew it, I bloody knew it,' he snarls, throwing another cocktail onto the already damp and glass-littered floor.

' _Whoa_ , hold your Hell-hounds,' says God, looking down at a growing red puddle. 'Don't you think if Flora was free, we'd be the first she'd want a chat with? The tornado harlot is of her, no doubt, but not actually her. If she was out then LP would be as well, I'm certain of that. But she's not the problem at the moment. The professor is and we need to deal with him.'

Lucifer looks thoughtful then grins sinisterly. 'Okay, what did you have in mind? You distract him and I'll take the instrument, or the other way round?'

'I meant make a deal with him,' says God, scratching the back of his bald, black head. 'It seems to me she's building an army in readiness for her freedom. As yet we know of the harlot and the professor, only two admittedly, but both rather good. I suggest we watch closely for now and see which way the wind blows.'

'And if she comes after us?' asks Lucifer, his skin turning redder by the second.

'Then we reassess but for now we play along. I think I'd better go have a chat with the professor. What say you?'

Lucifer runs a hand across his forehead, fingering the growing horns, snarls, and finally nods.

'Good advice,' says God, disappearing with a pop.

Professor Brain continues on, contemplating the existence of God. In truth, he never completely dismissed the idea of there being a Supreme Entity, however unlikely. But if one did exist then all science, including the astrophysics guesses, could be explained. The planet is over four billion years old, according to science, but only nine thousand years old according to religion. Both can't be right but he realises, on acknowledging the existence of God, and if the deity's powers are as great as suggested, where to place his bet.

The science states, as per theory, the planet came into existence eons ago. It says dinosaurs existed between sixty five and two hundred million years ago, thus debunking the nine-thousand year theory. The so-called science says a lot more but Professor Brain, having reached the end of the tunnel, lets the thought go. He is staring at enormous screens scattered around the circular wall of the 'France' cavern and doesn't like the images.

There are thirty-six screens in total and each is showing an underwater scene. Plesiosaurs, one on each screen, have jaws latched onto a rock-face, well below the waves. Their size cannot be fully appreciated but when a humpback whale swims past one of them, appearing barely larger than a dot, Brain sees them for what they truly are, gigantic city-sized grapples. Chains are attached to their tails and the creatures are being pulled backwards. The screens haven't given up that particular piece of information but the massive, slowly turning wheel in the middle of the chamber, has.

Brain taps his keyboard, playing the notes U-P and he rises toward the roof of the chamber high above. From the elevated position he sees a large spindle in the centre of the cavern, dipping down into a wide pool of water with miles of thick chains wrapping around the submerged part, which is much lower. The spindle has hundreds of radials stretching out from the top section, and on the outside of the pool, slaves are pushing them around, in their hundreds of thousands. The radials are long, a good half mile each, and the exhausted pushers are falling in their droves. This is of little concern as a row of fresh slaves are continually filing into the chamber and being put to work. The dead are thrown into the pool by clone-guards and fought over by masses of gathered sharks but still the wheel turns.

Brain looks back at the screens. He understands what is happening, how Europalia is forming, how the islands are joining. He places fingers on his keyboard and waits.

Soon enough, there is a popping sound beside him and he turns to God. 'Well?' he asks.

'I'll save them,' says God. 'Give me an hour then take this place down.'
Chapter Thirty Six

Devbo Finds Religion

Devbo stands fully clothed before a mirror. He looks at the black and white stripes on his shorts, socks and sleeveless top. 'The stripes should go upwards and not across,' he says, while running a finger along one of them.

Standing a little further back, Jocky slaps a hand on his forehead. 'Och, I apologise for being so useless but that's all we've got in stock. The Monks can order more from France, where they're made, but they're still celebrating National Strike Month.'

'Sensei, I'm right sorry about what I said. I know you didn't run,' says Devbo, wincing.

'Is that so? What if I told ye I saw the Monsignor coming and crapped myself.'

'I know the RC bastard didn't make you poo your pants, Sensei.'

'And how do ye know that?' asks Jocky, standing with arms crossed, looking annoyed.

'I remember what happened now. You'd already soiled them,' says Devbo, looking at Jocky's reflection in the mirror. 'You farted then said something about a dodgy pizza and ran off. It right smelt.'

Jocky laughs, embarrassingly. 'Och ... you're recall isn't fully back yet wee pupil.'

'You did. I were leading the _Kerplink_ game by six marbles to nine and you farted right loud,' insists Devbo. 'Even your _Haggi_ moved away and I've smelt what they do. It's good building material though.'

Cloudier steps in between her two boys, as she sees them. 'Devbo, please stop talking. You look fine and it doesn't matter which way the stripes go. That's crazy thinking, now pull your socks up and let's get going.'

'But ...'

'No! Just do it. I'll not tell you twice.'

Devbo and Jocky exchange looks, both knowing the woman most certainly won't tell him twice. 'Right, but I look daft. What will Anton say when he sees me dressed like this?'

Now it is Cloudier and Jocky who glance at each other on hearing the first mention of his non-conjoined but very real brother since waking.

The trio climb the spiral staircase, walk through the Tourist Gift Shop and emerge into the courtyard. The Great Bellendi's pterodactyl is on its landing cross and the magician is standing beside it. He smiles and beckons Devbo over. 'Care to hop on?'

'No need Bellendi man. I'll go with Cloudier as she can get me there quicker.'

Cloudier raises her eyebrows and perhaps all isn't yet forgiven regarding Devbo's lack of concern about the rest of the team. 'You presume brother.'

'But Cloudier lass, your tornado ...' begins Devbo, but he's cut short by a hooded, black-eyed glare.

'You presume and no I won't take you,' insists Cloudier, her foot tapping.

'Don't piss around, I need ...'

'Look into my eyes brother, one of several brothers I have. Go on, stare deep. I'm happy you're alive but you're seriously missing something. Care to tell me what it is?'

Devbo stares at Cloudier but has no idea what she's talking about. He knows a bit about women and that a man should never ask what's wrong when he's already meant to know, so he turns to the purple robed Bellendi. 'Okay, I'll come with you.'

As Devbo climbs onto the pterodactyl, Bellendi eyes Cloudier and Jocky in turn. He shakes his head and taps his wrist where a watch might be worn. He turns and mounts his beast which hops to the edge of the stack and launches.

Cloudier throws her arms wide in annoyance. 'He didn't ask about them. The unfeeling git, I could wring his flipping neck.'

'Dinnae be too hard on him,' says Jocky, rubbing his receding hairline. 'He's been dead for a few days and despite what he thinks his head's nay back to normal yet.'

'Then why let him leave? You should have stopped him,' growls Cloudier.

'Why me? The Big Monk Mon has taken him so dinnae blame me. What's done is done but more importantly what are ye going to do?' asks Jocky, pointing at the woman.

Cloudier huffs and gesticulates. 'Well, I can't just let him fight on his own, can I? A Monsignor took him down before and there'll be hundreds there.'

'Bishops and Cardinals too, dinnae forget about them,' says Jocky. 'The main man as well. That's going to be a bastard of a fight.'

'Thank you Sensei, I needed cheering up,' scowls Cloudier, sneakily smiling at the last.

'Ye devious wee bairn, ye cannae fool me. Ye're looking forward to it and dinnae say ye're not. Right, come with me, I've got something for ye.'

Cloudier shakes her head. 'There isn't time, I need to get going.'

'There's plenty of time as the Big Mon's taking the scenic route,' says Jocky, imitating how Bellendi tapped an imaginary watch on his wrist. 'They won't get there for ages. Now follow me,' he says, ignoring Cloudier's dark stare. He turns and walks back into the monastery, again heading for the spiral staircase.

Cloudier follows, her eyes questioning. 'Where are we going?'

'Somewhere special lassie, very special indeed.'

'And where's that?'

'Och, ye ask too many questions. Just follow and ye'll see. There's something I've been meaning to give ye for a while now.'

Cloudier's dark made-up eyes fly wide. 'Sensei, that's disgusting!'

'What ... hoots no? What do ye take me for?'

'Well, you're a man, and I'm a woman in my mid-fort... my prime.'

Jocky growls loudly. 'And I'm a man pushing nine thou... will ye just shut up for once. I dinnae see ye like that.'

'I apologise Sensei. You're camp of course, I understand.'

'I'm nay camp! Now button it and follow me,' says Jocky, rounding angrily on the woman.

'But you always wear a skirt.'

'It's a kilt, now shut it or I'll beat ye to a ...' begins Jocky, but stops on seeing Cloudier's innocent fluttering eyelashes and wide grin. 'Cheeky cow,' he grumbles.

Cloudier follows Jocky down the spiral stairs. In her younger days the man was a bully but now, she feels a proudness flooding her heart. She loves her family the most but Jocky comes next, even before her martial arts brothers and sister. The old man makes her smile and in the current climate, that counts for a lot.

They stop on a landing and Jocky opens the door. He leads Cloudier inside and the woman jolts to a stop on seeing it's his apartment. 'Sensei, you said ...'

'Don't start yer piss-taking, harlot. Now wait here, I've got a gift for ye,' he says, approaching his bed, a simple wooden cot, and awkwardly kneeling beside it. He reaches a hand underneath and drags out a dusty box. His knees and ankles click loudly as he stands and returns to Cloudier. 'Here, I've been keeping this for ... a while. Open it.'

Cloudier blows dust from the top and sees a carved tornado on the lid. She flicks it open with a black-painted fingernail and looks inside at a pair of silver bands, hinged and open. 'What are they?'

'These wristbands, lassie, are what ye've been missing. Put them on and we'll go back up top so ye can try them out.'

Cloudier stares curiously as she fits the bands. 'But what are they? No offense but silver's never really been my thing. It brings me out in a rash.'

'Howling Hurricane Harlot, give me some credit. They're nay silver and ye'll get nay rash from these. Now follow me,' says Jocky, not waiting for an answer as he exits his apartment and jogs back up the steps, his movement belying his age.

In the courtyard, Jocky bows to his pupil. 'Right lassie, ye can form tornados. Ye can summon clouds of bastard insects and ye can turn an elephant to stone but ye've nay had the controlling of the fiercest force of nature before. Can ye guess what they do?'

Cloudier stares at the bracelets, barely feeling them on her skin, they are so light. She knows Jocky didn't lie about them being silver as her forearms would now be red and itchy. She wonders what metal they are but the mention of the fiercest force of nature has captured her attention. She understands, at least she hopes she does and with a flourish, thrusts out her arms and shouts. ' _Craaazyyyyyy!_ '

Where there was nothing, a lightning bolt now crackles in the air, super-hot and devastating. At least it would have been had it been longer than a few inches. Cloudier bursts into tears, making her mascara run.

'Hey lassie, dinnae get upset. Ye just need to practice,' says Jocky in a gentle tone.

Cloudier hugs the old man tightly. 'You don't understand. I'm so happy.'

Sensei Jocky Chan does understand, only too well, and he accepts the hug. He considers the lightning bracelets and who gave them to him. The memory is so old he can barely remember it but he'll never forget the shine of her emerald eyes. Such beautiful eyes and he'd never seen the likes again until a five year old girl arrived in the monastery courtyard forty years ago. He knew instantly what Cloudier represented and loved her for it. Now though, he must say goodbye and reluctantly he steps back. He turns instantly, not wanting the woman to see his guilt. On entering the monastery he drops into a couch hoping it will swallow him.

He knows the deal, made long ago. For Flora to escape the prison of The Lurking Peril she needs her full power restored. Someone, a sacrifice, must take it to her. The bracelets, the Eek cobras and most importantly, that which is inside Cloudier, will all be needed in order for her to succeed in being free once more. Jocky curls into the foetal position, presses hands to his head, and prays for his own oblivion.

Devbo admits it is good to be alive again. The pain of his murder continues to fade and the fresh, high altitude air in his lungs is invigorating. Thinking of his destination is also energizing and he can barely wait to get stuck in to the bastards, as he calls them. 'Hey, Great Bellendi, are we there yet?' he asks, for the umpteenth time.

'No, we're still not,' replies Bellendi, holding back his growing irritation. 'It's a lovely day so savour it. It might be your last.'

'That's not a nice thing to say after all I've been through,' says Devbo.

'Most likely but I think your eagerness is misguided. This fight will not be easy.'

'Just get me there and I'll do the rest,' says Devbo, seemingly oblivious to the advice.

Bellendi shakes his head, his annoyance notching up. 'This will be no Secret Aural Voice you'll be dealing with. The Lurking Peril has much stronger allies and the Vatican is a true citadel of power. The holy men inside won't be hurling scripture at you, hoping you'll convert to their way of thinking. The evil has usurped those within the borders and you've seen first-hand what a Monsignor can do. There are many stronger than him. They'll also have conventional weaponry to back them up.'

Devbo snorts in defiance. 'Aye but they've never dealt with a bastard hard Geordie before, or a mad tornado woman, or a tough assistant chef. I bet Anton's got better with his hiding and Fillipo will spot any weaknesses. Walshy could even hit them over the head with a plastic stick. They won't know what's hit them. Just get me to the team.'

And so the time has come, thinks Bellendi. 'What team is that, Devbo?'

'My brothers and sisters, come on, get with it man.'

Bellendi has been waiting for mention of the others and wonders whether to sugar-coat his response. No, he decides. 'Devbo, they won't be there, except Cloudier of course. There'll be no keeping her away.'

'You what? Don't be daft, they'd never chicken out of a fight,' says Devbo, chuckling.

'You're correct on one count,' says Bellendi, feeling his anger starting to boil but controlling it. 'They haven't chickened out, but believe me when I say, they won't be there, as they can't be.'

'Stop mucking about man, you'll see,' says Devbo, currently practicing his array of war-faces.

Bellendi shuffles in his saddle and turns to face Devbo. 'It's very rare I lose my temper but you're pushing me to it. I suggest you listen carefully to what I say next because I will not repeat myself. You've had a rough time, that's true, but consider what your friends have been through in order to restore you.'

'I bet it's not ...' begins Devbo.

'Don't interrupt me boy!' shouts Bellendi, his words making Devbo lean back in his saddle. 'There's a reason only Cloudier was present when you woke and here it is. On gaining a part of your soul from Heaven, Fillipo was lost and Anton's devastated. He's guilt ridden and holed up in some shitty little chapel, hoping he'll miraculously return, but he won't. Walshy was also lost, in Hell, and he won't be returning either. As for Moneekar, she's disappeared and we've no idea where she is. She may well be dead for all we know. Then there's General Richard, the SAS's finest, burnt to a crisp and as good as dead. There you have it, it's just you, me, and Cloudier, and trust me, this will not be fucking easy, man!' spits Bellendi, rapidly turning back round.

As hammer blows go, this one nearly knocks Devbo from his saddle. Thoughts thrash around inside his head and his eyes start to water. The news is hard to believe but the Great Bellendi wouldn't lie. 'I'm sorry. I didn't know,' he says, his words barely audible.

'No, and you didn't bother to ask? Still, what's done is done and cannot be undone. Despite your selfishness you mustn't let it distract you. Our course of action is utterly stupid but it's the correct one. The power of the Lurking Peril mustn't be allowed to grow and requires neutering, or at the very least, taken down a rung or two. I admit Devbo, I have no plan but we must cause as much damage as possible. Remember what Sensei Jocky has taught you and let's hope for the best.'

'Aye, I won't let you down,' mumbles Devbo.

'Don't concern yourself with me. More importantly, don't let yourself or your friends down.'

'You're right and can I ask a question?'

'Go ahead,' says Bellendi, his anger starting to fade.

'Are we there yet?'
Chapter Thirty Seven

The Greatest Martial Arts Expert, Ever!

The flight takes as long as expected and a plan of attack has finally been agreed. The Great Bellendi admits he knows little of the current Vatican set-up since an agent of the Lurking Peril gained control, so any plan will have its flaws.

Bellendi's pterodactyl is flying low over the rooftops of Rome hoping to avoid triggering the ground-to-air missile sites scattered across the rooftops of the Vatican's buildings. The approach makes sense but the drop off point for Devbo, right in the middle of enemy territory, will leave him exposed.

As the pterodactyl breaches a high roof it drops to a few feet above the ground, and heads towards the centre of the strangely empty St Peter's Square, fully in sight of the Basilica. Bellendi shouts for Devbo to be ready but he is already on his feet, standing on the leather saddle. When the flying lizard is about to collide with the central obelisk, it veers sharply upwards, it's clawed feet scratching at the stone surface. The beast beats its wings furiously and it shoots skyward incredibly fast, pursued by dozens of flaming rockets, leaving smoking wakes. Bellendi glances over his shoulder, sees the missiles below and laughs. Seconds later he is in the upper atmosphere, the city a mere speck, and the rockets left far behind. He pulls on the reins, levels out, and unknown to Devbo, heads swiftly back to Thailand.

He knows the act may appear cowardly, departing from the fight so soon, but there is logic to his thinking. On the approach through the Square, he sensed something, a presence of old, and he knows Devbo won't be alone. He isn't thinking about Cloudier though, who is present, preparing to unleash her howling on the unsuspecting enemy. He has sensed another, one he thought dead but he really should have known better, and without doubt, they are the greatest martial arts expert there has ever been. The Great Bellendi smiles and almost feels sympathy for those inside the Vatican boundaries. Almost, but not quite.

Devbo watches Bellendi make his getaway and takes a deep breath. He licks his lips and with his back pressed hard against the base of the obelisk, he pokes his head round. He sees no movement near the Basilica so ducks back.

The place seems deserted but he's not about to fall for that old deep-fried chestnut. Dozens of ground-to-air missiles shooting into the sky tells him someone is home and again he peers around the obelisk. This time he sees movement, in the dark shadows ahead, and a mechanical grinding sound reaches his ears. It seems familiar but he can't place it. Seconds later, he does place it on hearing an almighty roar and seeing a flash of fire. He ups knees and seriously legs it across the square as the top half of the obelisk explodes, sending chunks of rock flying.

Despite being a martial arts expert, he knows a tank would seriously test his abilities and even if he gave it his best shot, it wouldn't fall unconscious. He continues to run and wonders whether the tank will have time to fire again before he makes cover. He guesses it won't but that becomes a moot point. Mortar shells starts to rain down, exploding a random pattern on the hard surface of St Peter's Square, and heavy machine-gun fire streaks from the Basilica's open windows. As expected, Devbo finds himself in a warzone.

Speeding up, he reaches cover and looks for a place to lay low so he can consider a new attack plan. There isn't much but he spots a sign: _Bin Compound - Littering is Holy Unacceptable_ , with an arrow pointing to the right. Thankful that the sign was in the American language, so readable, he sprints towards a group of coloured wheelie bins. It's not the best hiding place but needs must and he dives into the closest bin, pulling the lid down.

He sniffs, almost retches, and notes he is crouching on a slowly putrefying layer of meat and bone waste. Lifting the lid a mere fraction to let fresh air in, he notices through the crack, the square filling up with holy men all carrying conventional weapons, rifles and the like. So much for weird, unworldly powers, he thinks, and before he lets the lid drop he sees three tanks in the square, all heading in his direction. 'Fuck it!' he exclaims but not too loudly.

'I would be grateful if you did not swear,' says a calm voice beside him.

Devbo screams, jumps, bangs his head on the lid, and sees a glow in the bin's darkness; that of a disembodied oriental face staring at him. Clutching his heart, he kicks out with speed but the head bobs sideways, avoiding the foot easily. Instinctively, he launches the dreaded _Deep Fried Twix_ , a two fisted punch very few can avoid. The face grins, contracts to an inch wide, and the fists fly either side. When Devbo pulls back, the head regains shape and a body appears beneath it, dressed similar to him, although the black and white stripes are vertical, not horizontal. The figure glows and is recognisable but in his fear Devbo can't place him.

The glowing man smiles. 'I see you know the _Way of the Peed Off Spuggy_ but your attacks are crude and lack discipline.'

'So would yours if some loony crept up on you in a fucking bin,' hisses Devbo, still attempting to control his heartbeat.

The man waggles a finger. 'I said, you should not swear. Such words have power and can backfire if used unwisely.'

'Then don't creep up on people you bloody weirdo.'

'Was it I who crept up on you or you who crept up on me? Did not the great teacher, Confusing, once say; let he who is inside a bin, stand on a bone.'

'If he did he's mental,' growls Devbo, lifting the bin lid a fraction and taking a swift glimpse outside.

'You appear unhappy to see me young pupil,' says the man, frowning.

'No, I'm over the moon,' says Devbo, sarcastically.' I'm always happy to share a stinking wheelie bin with a nutter, just before a tank blasts me to bits.'

The man nods and a chuckle escapes from between his thin lips. 'Ah, yes, the tanks. How do you intend to deal with them?'

'I don't. Hopefully Cloudier's around and she can crush them or send them flying.'

'Ah, the mad woman, she's quite skilled by all accounts,' says the man, nodding again.

'Quite skilled? She'd kick your arse, or crush it, or have it eaten by insects,' says Devbo.

'Doubtful, but she isn't around, not here at least,' says the man, peaking through the gap beneath the bin lid. 'I see it is time for your first lesson young pupil. There are three tanks in the square I believe?'

'Aye, and hundreds of holy bastards with big guns,' says Devbo, his fear growing.

'The armed individuals are of no concern and I believe I asked you not to swear.'

'You did and I believe I'm choosing to ignore you.'

'Of course, the bravado of the young and did Confusing not say, I hear and I forget. I see and I remember. I do and I understand. Now watch closely how I deal with the tanks.'

'Fucking great, a nutter with a death wish,' begins Devbo, but as he turns to the man, he is no longer there.

Devbo feels he might be going mad, perhaps having a reaction to his resurrection, but he lifts the bin lid a fraction and peers out. The man is walking purposefully towards the first tank and he is no longer glowing or insubstantial. He is fully flesh and has a large calibre tank barrel pointing at him. Of greater concern for Devbo though, is the fact the barrel is also pointing straight at the wheelie bin. As he prepares to move, the gun fires and what happens next, leaves him gasping for breath, more so than the fetid atmosphere in the bin.

Devbo sees the gun muzzle explode into pieces and hears the second tank fire. Without being able to turn his head fast enough, he sees through his peripheral vision, the second tank's muzzle go the same way. When his head finally does turn, he finds he has to turn straight back. The first tank has again been assaulted but he has missed how the wheel-tracks on both sides have been broken, leaving it floundering. The second tank suffers the same fate but again, he was too slow to see it. As he stares at the third tank, a little further back, he feels a tug on his black and white striped shirt and stumbles backwards, just stopping short of sitting on the bins disgusting contents. 'Holy fu...' he starts to say.

'Do not swear! I warn you, such words have power, now tell me what you saw,' insists the man, his stare boring deep into Devbo's skull.

'I ... I've no idea but it were great. You destroyed two tanks without moving.'

The man sighs. 'Hmm, without moving, I see. I was correct in thinking you lack true knowledge. So then pupil, here is your second lesson and I suggest you learn it fast. There is a third tank and it's about to shred this bin and its contents. What does the _Way of The Peed Off Spuggy_ tell you to do in this situation?'

Devbo doesn't need to answer and already has the lid open. As he throws himself sideways, he feels the heat of molten plastic and burning meat waste as a missile tears through the bin compound. He hits the ground, rolls, and is swiftly legging it, as dictated by his martial arts training.
Chapter Thirty Eight

Take Your Time

Cloudier picks her way through rhododendron bushes and low lying fruit trees in the Old Gardens of the Vatican, to the rear of the Basilica.

She approached the city from the west, at a run, not in the air, and with every step she felt a sense of wrongness within. The closer she got, an uneasy feeling grew in her stomach but she convinced herself it was trapped wind.

So far, she has encountered dozens of armed holy men of whatever rank and all went the same way, downwards into oblivion. Some were crushed, some were eaten alive, but as yet her lightning bracelets are proving useless. The first time she tried them all she achieved was a cloud of static which gave the priest a strange afro, so she imploded him in a tornado.

A few moments earlier she had heard gunfire, loud and booming from the other side of the Basilica, and guessed Devbo was now in the field of play. Crazily great, she thinks, as that should draw attention from her own sneaky approach. Stifling a sniffle, she wishes her sister was present as a seriously irritated assistant chef tearing up the north or south of the city would add another distraction. For the umpteenth time, she considers what might have happened to Moneekar but dismisses the thought, it not helping. She isn't here and nothing will change that. She continues on, trying to keep foliage rustling to a minimum but before her next step hits the dirt, she makes like a statue.

'The west wall isn't responding. Go and see why Father Edward.'

'I guess it'll be another communication blip, Bishop Brendan. They're becoming more frequent,' says the Priest, pressing a hand through his grey hair.

'You guess, do you?' asks the Bishop, dressed in a cassock with a purple trim.

'Ah, I meant nothing by my insolent words. I'll take a look.'

'Indeed and don't return with bad news. His Holiness no longer likes bad news.'

Father Edward smiles awkwardly. 'Be assured that if its bad news, I won't return, ever.'

'Very good and ... now you mention it, I think I'll escort you. We can't be too careful.'

'We can't and wouldn't it be terrible if all the guards are dead? Wouldn't it be an absolute disaster if the defence somehow has a hole in it which individuals like you and I could slip through, never to be seen again?'

'What are you suggesting?' asks the Bishop, raising an enquiring eyebrow.

'Nothing, I'm only saying it would be a calamity if we suddenly found ourselves with an escape route from this Hell-hole.'

'Father Edward, that's a blasphemy on the grandest, most despicable scale.'

'Apologies but I don't give a damn. I'm out of here,' says Father Edward, starting to run.

'You'll burn in Hell, Father!' shouts the Bishop.

'Rather there than here.'

Bishop Brendan peers around for any witnesses before he also starts running. 'Wait for me!'

Cloudier smiles, realising not all the holy men have been possessed but she knows there won't be time to pick out the innocents. She decides to revise her stealthy approach plan, rises into the air and does what she does best. It is certainly a crazy move but it might give Devbo the time he needs to locate the evil hub. As rooftop missiles scream towards her, she smiles, traps them in her swirling winds and watches as they circle. She counts ninety nine sleek projectiles in total and she keeps them moving, going round and round. She giggles and drifts forward as machine-gun fire adds to her ever-thickening cloak of metallic invulnerability. Unseen by all who assault her, Cloudier grins, darkly.

Devbo has found another place of concealment and not a hiding place as some might call it. The Vatican laundry room is huge, with dozens of oversized washing machines and tumble dryers. Dotted around the room are wheeled linen baskets and the occasional washboard with soap bars used for the most stubborn stains. He is currently concealed in an empty washing machine and trying to keep still is proving tricky. With every slight movement, the drum starts to move, making a humming noise.

As the front wall of the vast room is smashed inward by a moving tank he hears bricks, mortar, and glass, fall to the floor. He then hears a turret whirring round and when it stops, he prepares to scarper.

'There is nowhere to run pupil,' says the glowing oriental man, appearing opposite him.

Devbo curses, quietly. 'Don't do that, now shush,' he insists, pressing a finger to his lips.

'I'm inaudible, I'm true silence, and here is your next lesson. Did not Confusing say, time is on my side, yes it is?'

'I'm getting fed up with your stupid flipping quotes. Now take down that other tank.'

'Me, no my son,' chuckles the man. 'I left the last tank for you to disable. You saw me in action and you saw what I did. It is not beyond you.'

Devbo stares angrily at the man. 'I didn't see a fu... sorry, I won't swear. You were too fast, I couldn't keep up. First you were here, and then there, then ... I couldn't keep up, Master.'

The oriental man smiles widely and bows his head. 'And so the penny falls, my son. You have named me and so shall you learn from me. To call me Master is a small first step but an important one. Hold up your hands, show them to me.'

'There's a tank outside, we haven't got time,' whispers Devbo, his panic rising.

'Wrong, we have all the time in the world. Now, hold out your hands.'

Devbo stares aghast at the man but does as he is told, holding his hands out with palms facing the Master. 'Okay, what next?'

'You are not seeing them young pupil.'

Devbo sighs deeply, not understanding. 'I'm seeing them. They're right in front of me.'

'Really, are they? Look at my hands held before you and watch. Now you see them,' says the Master, his hands suddenly flinching, 'and now you don't. Do you understand?'

'Holy shi... that were right fast,' admits Devbo, seeing two wrists with no hands attached.

The Master nods and his hands reappear. 'Time my son, think only of time, and nothing else. Tell me, how long is a second?'

Devbo scratches his forehead. 'Well, it's er, about so long. It's ... it's difficult to explain in words. I can say go, then stop, and that might explain it, if you had a watch to time it.'

'But I have no watch. Explain it to me another way, explain the passing of time. Tell me what it truly is.' asks the Master, staring deep into Devbo's eyes.

'I can't, it's just a stupid, meaningless thing we use to explain why things happen. If time didn't exist, we'd all stand still and nothing would ever move. We'd all be locked in a moment with the world stopping around us,' says Devbo, surprising himself with what might be a decent explanation.

The Master looks strangely at Devbo, appearing surprised. 'That is true. So why do we bother measuring something beyond our comprehension?'

Devbo chuckles and shrugs. 'Time's just daft when you think about it. It doesn't mean anything. We're just trying to quantify our own existence.'

'So time is irrelevant my son, I believe that is what you are saying.'

'I suppose, but we can't ignore it.'

The Master, Toon-Fan 'Bruise' Lee, grins wickedly. 'Can't we?' he asks.

Realisation hits the back of Devbo's skull and his eyes roll. He now knows what his Master did when disabling the two tanks, he slowed time, and he jumps out of the washing machine. He walks up to the third tank, reaches into the gun barrel and pulls out the shell which was half-fired. He eyes it, turns it round, and pushes it back in, as far as he can reach. He then returns to his hidey-hole, knowing there is going to be an explosion and bows to his new Master, as best he can in the rotating cylinder. He allows time to speed back up.

The tank explodes, rocking the washing machine, and as Devbo steps out, he starts coughing. The room is filling with smoke and without looking back he runs to a door on the far wall. He races through and comes face to face with three startled Monsignors. Each is unmoving as he snaps their necks with backhanded scissor-chops and then continues on, with time very much on his side.

Back in the laundry room, dozens of armed holy men run through the smoke but they inexplicably fall. Only when all are dead does the Master, Toon-Fan 'Bruise' Lee, turn and follow his youngest living offspring.

Cloudier drops below the Basilica roofline, certain she has captured all the rooftop missiles. She has no idea how many exactly but there are hundreds. There are also clouds of bullets and in truth, she is struggling to control them all but as yet, there are no disastrous collisions. She has widened her tornado considerably and she waits inside its swirling embrace.

All firing has stopped but she doesn't believe she is not being targeted so randomly sends a few thousand bullets towards the Basilica. Walls and windows feel the force, but there is no return fire. She ejects more bullets, primarily at the remaining windows as the thick walls just deflect them. Glass and frames fly apart but still nothing. She decides that enough is enough and the time for playing is over. She huffs, and she puffs, and blows the house down!

Half of the rockets in her embrace are released, heading for different parts of the wall. The rear of the Basilica explodes in a vast shower of masonry and extending her cyclonic cocoon, the resulting debris cloud is swept away. She sees a series of rooms, all finely decorated, or they were, and each and every one is now open to the elements. She drifts forwards, tightening her weapon shield, a crazy expression on her face.

Devbo continues to slow time as he delves deeper inside the Basilica, the skill becoming easier the more he uses it. He knows what he is doing is daft, totally unbelievable, but he doesn't question too hard, in case it stops working. He doesn't care how it works, just that it does. The holy men he encounters are no longer a problem and each falls, bloodied and seriously dead.

Four Bishops fall foul of his newfound trick, none realising what hit them. There was also a Cardinal and despite knowing it was wrong, he made the man eat his own robe, watched him crap it out and then fed the end back into his mouth. At the last, the possessed bastard was curled so tight his spine snapped. It was gruesome but Devbo is on a mission.

Another Cardinal appears and this one has his tongue ripped out, then thrust down his throat, choking him to death. Devbo isn't proud but the adrenaline is pumping and his dander is well and truly up. Onwards he travels, in search of the main man.

Descending many steps, heading toward the evil's heart, he kills two more Cardinals, standing before a heavy wooden door, by punching their hearts through their spines. He looks at the door, tries the handle but it's locked. No matter, he thinks, and the door rattles on its huge hinges as a flying kick connects. He tries again but it doesn't give. As he ponders his next action, the Master appears by his side.

'Ah, young pupil, are you going to allow a piece of wood to defeat you?'

Devbo shakes his head in annoyance. 'It won't budge and I gave it a right good kicking.'

'Indeed but Confusing once said, why kick when you can click?'

'Did he?' asks Devbo, eyeing the man suspiciously. 'I'd like to meet this Confusing fella and tell him he's talking boll...'

'Do not swear!' insists the Master, giving his pupil a slap. 'Now think. Not everything is solved with a good kicking. There are times when you must use your head.'

Devbo nods in understanding. 'You mean give it a Jocky Chan Scottish Kiss. Okay, but I'm not too good at them,' he says, backing up.

The Master sighs. 'I mean use what is inside your head. I take it you have a brain?'

'Aye but ... oh right, there must be a key.'

'Well done, another penny falls. At this rate you might have sixpence before the year is out. I leave you now, my son, but when you are done here, seek me out so your training can truly begin. Bellendi will know where to find me,' says Bruise, bowing his head.

Devbo returns a full bow and watches the man fade away. He reaches down, searches the dead Cardinals' pockets, finds the key, and unlocks the door. Taking a calming breath, he pushes the door open, jumps through and sees a man dressed all in white. He is sat on a low wooden bench and is staring back at Devbo through sunken eyes. 'Have you come to release me my son?' he asks.

'Only from this life you evil bastard,' says Devbo, clenching his fists and extending his index fingers.

The holy man nods. 'I see it must be so. Send me to my Lord. I am done here.'

'What, you're not going to fight me? Call yourself a possessed Pope?'

The Pope shakes his tired head. 'My son, what makes you think I am the power here? If I were, would I be locked in a cell with only rats for company?'

Devbo considers the words and a look of embarrassment crosses his features. 'Ah, good point well made, man. You're the real Pope then?'

'I am and I am not possessed. I cannot speak for the others of my faith though.'

'Bugger!' exclaims Devbo, knowing he should have thought his plan through a bit more. 'So where's the fake Pope?' he asks, pulling his index fingers back in.

'In the Sistine Chapel I expect, exalting its false idol.'

'Right thanks, I'll er ... can you find your way out? I need to get going.'

The Pope smiles sadly. 'I will be fine my son. Do what you must but please don't damage the ceiling. It will take an age to repaint.'

Devbo nods and swiftly backtracks. He has heard of the Sistine Chapel but isn't sure where it is. No matter, he thinks, just follow the enemy. They will lead him there.

Cloudier enters the Basilica and there is no more firing. She sees the dead, scattered amongst the wreckage in the rooms and there is no movement. She drifts forward, pulling her circling weaponry closer, but there is no assault. She continues on, ripping out doorways and walls as she goes, sending small clouds of bullets through the gaps.

The unsettling feeling in Cloudier's stomach grows but she knows she can't stop. Onwards she forges, now hearing no fighting noises elsewhere in the city. That means one of two things. Either Devbo is defeated or the enemy is. She doesn't dwell on the thought but instead speeds up, blasting everything before her.

She doesn't know where she is heading, the name of the place at least, but the direction is screaming out to every fibre of her being. Something is calling her, of that she is certain.
Chapter Thirty Nine

Kentish Shitfire™

The sober politician Niggley Barrage swings, getting ever closer to the dungeon bars set in the castle wall, and his life flashes before his eyes. It is a quick flash and so much for spending time wisely. All was fine until he reaches his eighteenth birthday and a pint of beer is thrust into his young, naive hands by an uncle whose name he can't recall. After that it is all a blur, up until a short while ago.

He grimaces and shakes his head but not because of the lost years. He has just realised his legs are slim enough to slip between the bars of the dungeon window meaning the first part of his body to connect will be his ... ' _Arggghhhhhh!_ '

_Kerrumph_ , go the bars as a small explosion sends them inexplicably falling outwards and Niggley is swinging through the window with nothing in the way. Hurrah, he thinks, as he enters SAS Chief, Bear Grilled-Steak's cell, unharmed. Oh shit, he then thinks, as he releases the makeshift rope and heads speedily through the air, straight towards a solid cell door.

He closes his eyes, prepares for impact and is caught in a net, strung between an iron maiden and a woodworm riddled crucifixion cross, solidly nailed to the wall. The net gives and leans away on catching the currently un-sozzled politician travelling at immense speed. Hurrah, thinks Niggley again, followed by another, oh shit, as the net springs back. His direction of travel is reversed and he is heading for the bar-less cell window, this time without a rope to cling to. As he starts to scream, two strong hands pluck him from the air and moments later he is staring into the face of SAS Chief Bear. 'I've got you Niggley, you're in safe hands,' says the man, winking stoutly.

Niggley exhales with relief. 'Thanks Bear, I thought I'd had it.'

'Not on my watch,' says Bear. 'Now tell me what you know, if you can remember.'

As Bear puts him down, Niggley nods. He is unsteady on his feet but when hasn't he been? He looks around and sees numerous instruments of cruelty. 'Did they torture you?'

'A bit but that's unimportant. Tell me what you know, if you discovered anything that is? Here, take this bottle of _Kentish Shitfire 70% Inferno-Syrup ™_. Get that down your neck and apologies if it's a bit warm. There weren't many places on my person I could hide it,' says Bear, also handing over a bottle opener as he stands with his feet wide apart, continuously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Niggley considers the words regarding personal hiding places and gingerly sniffs the bottle, which smells a bit funny. Sensibly, he places it on a nearby stretching table. He stares at Bear, naked apart from a pair of shorts fashioned from a frayed piece of rope and a couple of stitched together rat-skins. He nods in appreciation, knowing Bear can pretty much do anything.

'Come on Niggley, you must be thirsty after that impressive stunt. No other pissed politician could have done it, apart from Porridge Johnson of course.'

'No thanks but out of interest, where was it hidden?' asks Niggley, briefly glancing at the bottle.

'Sorry, that's a need-to-know privilege,' says Bear, still hopping from foot to foot as if in pain, or feeling uncomfortable. 'So tell me what you know but leave out your room's mini-bar, any other bars, and emergency vomit-bucket locations.'

Niggley hears the patronising words and for the first time in years, feels the sting of them. Previously, when drunk, they would have been water off a tipsy duck's back but now, they hurt. He sighs, realising his personal pain must be set aside. 'The castle's under the control of the Jeerman Chancellor, Angular Murky.'

'I know that, we er, met briefly,' says Bear, his eyes flaring.

'Was it her who tortured you?' asks Niggley.

'She did ... with the utmost malice.'

'But you've had worse, right?'

'On this particular occasion, no,' admits Bear, his body shuddering.

Niggley smiles and then nods, knowingly. 'Ah, she shagged you.'

'She did not!' exclaims Bear, raising his stout SAS chin and looking offended.

'It's okay as I've shagged her a few times, for the good of the team of course.'

Bear peers questioningly but sees no lie. 'Niggley, you brave man, I'd like to shake your hand, provided you've washed it.'

'Nah, you're alright,' says Niggley, keeping his own hands back. 'I've guessed where you pulled the beer bottle from and I can't see a wash hand basin in here.'

'Not a problem, I also had a supply of sanitising hand wipes, four packets, with soft, rounded corners.'

Niggley briefly contemplates where they were hidden but lets the thought go. 'As I said, Angular's running the show and the other Europalian leaders are doing what she says.'

'So the target's Frau Murky,' nods Bear, rubbing his strong chin. 'Good work, surprisingly. I'll be recommending you for the finest rehab the SAS can offer when we get home.'

'That's not all,' says Niggley, again feeling the sting of the other's cutting words. 'You need to know about the horrible beast below.'

Bear flinches. 'I saw it and it wasn't pretty but thankfully I passed out.'

'Not that, though it was fierce,' says Niggley, nearly reaching for the beer bottle.

'Move on, quickly now,' insists Bear, also eyeing the warm alcohol.

'Right, yes. There's something else, a giant lizard-like beast, shaped like a sausage, in a cavern below the castle. It's eating the people of Europalia and turning them into precious metals and jewels so Angular can bribe the Europalian Peninsula islands' bankers and politicians into joining her.'

Bear smiles politely and pats Niggley on the shoulder. 'Have you been drinking? Ah, of course you have. That was only a bad dream. The beast isn't real. I know you're scared but let it go.'

'It is real!' growls Niggley, his face creasing angrily. 'It was the size of Wembley stadium.'

'Niggley, stop! Like I said, you've done well but it's time for the SAS to take over. Go back to your room, if you can find it, and barricade the door. I'll personally come and fetch you when the enemy's neutralised and the situation is under control. You're a good man, a total pisshead admittedly, but you mean well. I'll be putting you forward for honorary SAS membership and here, take this. You've earned it,' says Bear, handing over a warm scout badge.

Niggley knows arguing with Bear is pointless. He was privately educated at _Eaton_ and they never listen. He takes the badge, reads the word: BURP, stitched on the front and grimaces. He reaches over, grabs the bottle of _Kentish Shitfire ™_ and heads for the exit. Unfortunately, the cell door won't open. 'Bear?'

'I'm on it, don't concern yourself. I also secreted some skeleton keys,' says Bear, sorting through a keyring while crouching to look at the lock.

With the door open, Niggley walks into the corridor. Having thought of a question, he turns, but Bear is no longer paying him any attention. The man is crouched beside a radio, similar to the one he himself used not long ago. Another question forms but he decides not to ask it. Truthfully, he doesn't want to know where the SAS chief had concealed the thing.

'Eaton Trifle, Eaton Trifle, this is Bear Behind, come in, over.'

The radio hisses with static and on the thirteenth attempt a reply is heard. The posh voice of the UQ PM, Davey Macaroon, isn't amused. 'Niggley, I warned you last time, not while I'm busy and watching Polo Match of the Day! It's the third chukka and Eaton Lap Mounties are four goals to three up against the ghastly Harrow Big Boys. For Heaven sake man, don't you listen?'

'Eaton Trifle this is Bear Behind, not Wunken Dranker. I have a situation to report and am requesting immediate backup, over.'

'Bear Behind?' asks Davey, pausing for a second.

Bear hears a short conversation in the background before a sense of professionalism returns to the radio. 'Oh yes, Bear Behind, it's good to hear from you. What do you have to report?'

'It's worse than we thought sir. The Iron Cross Lady is pulling the strings, over.'

Davey yelps. 'What, Thatcher's still alive! Oh for fu...'

'Negative Eaton Trifle. Note your code book and look up Iron Cross Lady, over.'

The sound of page flicking can be heard. 'Okay, I'm looking it up but it doesn't sound pretty.'

'Trust me it's not Eaton Trifle. Nobody should ever look up that one but the danger is real and present, over.'

'Okay, I've found it. No, it can't be, Angular's a lovely woman. She once took me hunting in the Northern Scandin Islands and I incinerated a polar bear.'

'I believe they're protected Eaton Trifle, over.'

'This one wasn't. It was sitting on a chunk of ice in the middle of nowhere and asking for it.'

'Eaton Trifle, you're missing the point. Frau Angular Murky is the mastermind and needs taking down. I'm requesting full SAS infiltration, sir.'

'I'm not sure Bear Behind. It's late and they won't be happy if I wake them.'

'Negative sir, there are twelve Dark-Zero Shush-Eagles already in the air over my position, waiting for the order to drop, over.'

There is a pause from Eaton Trifle and another muffled conversation before he returns to the radio. 'Very well but I thought we only had six of those planes due to defence cuts.'

'That's what you told the public Eaton Trifle but you lied, over.'

'Did I? I don't remember ever lying to the public. I'm sure I never have.'

'As you say Eaton Trifle, now can I have my girls and boys dropped, over?'

'Do they have parachutes otherwise it might get messy? I'm looking at my defence cuts colouring book and it says we cut parachute numbers to only five. Will that be enough?'

'It'll do sir. Just give the order and let's take the bitch down, over.'

'Oh ... very well. I'll send the order and good luck Bear Behind, over and out,' says Eaton Trifle, and in the background. 'What do you mean Harrow Big Boys scored two late goals? The cheating bast...'

Bear unfastens the crocodile clips from the small battery, which he also smuggled into the castle. He stumbles on standing and presses a hand to his backside. The things he does for Queen and Country.

Niggley has walked slowly back to his room, finding it first time, and is sat on the edge of the bed. He is staring at the far wall, his expression glum. 'Bloody idiot.'

Heinrich sits beside him. 'You're not so bad,' he says, patting his knee.

'Not me! I'm talking about that puffed-up prat Bear Grilled-Steak. He didn't believe me when I mentioned the Great Alchemist in the huge cavern.'

'With all due respect, it is a little hard to believe.'

'Oh, I see, you don't believe me either. Thanks for nothing, Heinrich,' says Niggley, his expression hurt and angry.

'I do believe you, the ladies too, but for any not seeing you at your best, they might think you a ... fool.'

Niggley nods. 'Perhaps you're right. I should never have volunteered. Come, let's leave.'

'But the job's not yet done. Are you going to just walk out?' asks Heinrich.

'Yes, I am. There's nothing I can do here,' says Niggley, his head bowed.

'But what about the great beast?' asks Heinrich, glancing at three concerned ladies.

'Forget it, and what can I do anyway? Shout obscenities, burp in its face. No, let's leave the job to the SAS, they know what they're doing,' says Niggley but as his words cease he hears a noise from outside. He turns to the window, certain he has heard cloth catching on a television aerial, a Digital High Aerial most likely. He sees a figure dressed in shaded, light and dark blue fatigues dangling in front of the open window. Eight Bavarian eyes are also looking at the unexpected interloper.

'Hi, I'm Tarquin, SAS Accounts. Is this the castle we're supposed to subdue?'

Niggley, Heinrich, and the three women exchange looks before turning back to the window. 'It er, did you say, SAS Accounts?' asks Niggley.

'I did and isn't this exciting. One minute I was behind a desk totting up all the standard-issue costings and the next, I'm jumping from a jolly big plane flying over Bavaria,' says Tarquin.

'You're from Accounts, really?' asks Niggley again, a little confused.

'I am and if it's not too much trouble could you help me? Between you and me, we weren't given much training. I'm sure I should be on the inside and not dangling out here.'

Niggley jumps to his feet. 'Heinrich, ladies, help me, and Tarquin, just out of interest, why are you here and not the highly trained SAS operatives?' asks Niggley, helping drag the man inside.

'Oh thank you, it's good to feel a solid surface beneath my boots. To answer your question, there aren't many left. It was the defence cuts. Apart from Chief Bear, General Richard, and a few teams, there wasn't anybody else so they had to call on whoever was available. I jumped with Toby, the Cafe serving boy, and Maureen, who empties the waste paper bins, all going for confidential shredding of course.'

Niggley eyes the young accountant. 'Tarquin, what weapons training have you had?'

'Very little, sir, but I'm told you can't go wrong with a standard-issue hand-rifle.'

'You might want to turn it round so the barrel is pointing away from you,' says Niggley.

'What, oh ... how silly of me. Anyway, you stay put and I'll secure the area,' says Tarquin, stepping into the corridor to the sound of fresh firing. ' _Aargh_ , they're shooting!' he screams and runs off.

Niggley shakes his head, walks to the wardrobe and dons the dark robe of a Europalian Ambassador but he leaves the hood down so his face is showing. He knows what must be done and he nods to his Bavarian companions. They nod back and gather behind him as he prepares to exit. He takes a deep breath and grimaces. 'Heinrich, have you still got that Schnapps?'

'Yes Worshipful Master, we have fifteen bottles and it's very strong.'

'Good, bring them all, and ladies.'

The three women look on adoringly. 'Yes you big, brave man?' asks Jugmina.

'Bring all the alcohol you can carry,' insists Niggley, his expression serious.

'Yes sir, but what are you going to do?' asks Nipplette, pulling two crates of _Bavarian Brain Buggerer Beer ™_ from under the bed.

'I'm going to do what the SAS can't. I'm going to take down the beast below. Now hand me that bottle of _Kentish Shitfire 70% Inferno-Syrup ™_,' says Niggley, holding a hand out.

'Okay but it smells funny,' says Tittiana, handing it over.

'It doesn't matter you gorgeous woman,' says Niggley, biting off the cap, spitting it out swiftly, and downing the contents. He burps loudly, hiccups twice, and only when his eyes cross does he speak. 'Ah, that'sh much better. Now shtay behind me or you might get shot.'

'Yes Worshipful Master,' say the Bavarians, as they exit the room, in a line behind him.

Truthfully, Niggley doesn't know where he is heading but he remembers a place far below and his inebriated mind has labelled it 'home.' Nothing else is needed as his body takes over and instinctively follows a path he has trodden before.
Chapter Forty

Way On Down

Bear exits the cell, his night-shadow concealment making him invisible. Heavy boots are stomping along the corridor but he presses himself to the wall, allowing the soldiers to pass. Once they are out of sight he continues on. He takes two more steps, then pauses, and listens intently to distant weapons fire. All the firing sounds like that of _Butt-Tonguer_ weapons and not SAS standard-issue hand-rifles. He nods but only to himself and proceeds cautiously to the end of the corridor.

The SAS Chief and official tough bastard has his ear pressed against a wooden door. There is no shooting on the other side but there is sound. He can hear a Europalian voice, one he has heard before.

Herr Horstria sounds animated. 'What do you mean we're being assaulted by morons? These are the UQ SAS and they are the creamiest of the crop. How can they be so useless?'

Bear smiles and removes his ear from the door. So far so good and the enemy is falling for the ruse. There are twelve Dark-Zero Shush-Eagles circling high above but as yet only four have dropped their payload, them being the entirety of accounts, planning, cafe personnel, the cleaners, and even the Political Directorship, thus giving the enemy a false sense of security. The other eight aircraft are still circling, those carrying the real black-ops commandos. Bear reaches to his backside and removes a clear plastic bag. He opens it, removes his neckerchief and woggle, fastens them around his neck, turns off his night-shadow concealment, and kicks the door in.

'It's him, take him down, quickly!' screams Herr Horstria.

_Butt-Tonguer 's_ fire from every angle but Bear is moving fast, using the only weaponry currently on show, his feet and fists. In seconds the enemy are dead, apart from a stunned Herr Horstria. Bear smiles at the man, reaches down and takes a weapon from a dead guard's hand. He checks it is loaded, which it is, and throws it to Herr Horstria. The man catches the gun and aims it at Bear, somewhat shakily.

'You've just made a grave mistake, Herr Bear,' growls the Horstrian Ambassador.

'Maybe,' says Bear, holding his hands wide to show they are empty. 'Take your shot, I'm unarmed. Go on, what have you got to lose?'

'Nothing, now die!' shouts Herr Horstria, his finger pressing the trigger.

A single bullet from the hand-rifle Bear is suddenly holding enters Herr Horstria's temple and tears his mushed brains out through the back of his head. To say the man didn't see it coming is an understatement. As the robed Ambassador falls to the floor, Bear retrieves a sanitiser wipe and cleans the weapon. He considers putting the gun back into his personal hiding place but he may have need of it. He also knows his secret hiding place is now a little sore and tries to recall if he packed any SAS standard-issue _Ring-Soothy-Salve ™_.

Before leaving the room he again assembles his radio and speaks into the tube. 'This is Bear Behind, come in Night-Flight, over.'

'We're ready Guvnor, over,' replies an enthusiastic voice.

'Is that you Crispy, you didn't gibber or mention ginger hair?' asks Bear.

'The birds are plump and ready to dump. Just give the order,' answers Crispy.

'Outstanding,' says Bear. 'Do it!'

'Poop away and ... ginger hair, gibber, gibber!' shouts Crispy Evans, adding manic laughter.

Eight aircraft are currently excreting forty black-ops commandos each. Bear checks his wristwatch, recently concealed of course, and presses a side button, starting a countdown. In eight minutes the castle will be swarming with the UQ's finest but he isn't going to wait for them. He stands tall and adjusts his standard-issue backpack, wherever that came from? He opens the far door and finds Herr Luxuryburg on the other side, looking somewhat surprised. Moments later, the Europalian Ambassador is looking somewhat dead.

Niggley calls a halt, actually he shouts, 'heughaaalt,' but those behind him understand. Herr Cheek Republic is standing at the end of the corridor, weapon in hand. It's not large but cannot be mistaken for anything other than a _Butt-Tonguer Finger-Pistol_ , it having a short, narrow barrel.

'I suggest Herr Zanet, you return to your room you drunken imbecile. The likes of Frau Jeermany may have fallen for your sexual prowess but I wo...'

Niggley is surprised as the Herr's head is blown away and the robed corpse falls to the ground. He turns slowly and sees Nipplette holding a smoking gun. He stares at her and she giggles, sheepishly.

'Did you jusht shoot him?' asks Niggley.

'Please forgive me Worshipful Master. I accidentally found this gun and I accidentally pulled the trigger, making his head accidentally explode. It was an accident, I promise,' says Nipplette, slowly placing the weapon behind her back.

'Right, that'sh okay then, but don't shoot anybody elshe unlessh you have to.'

'Of course Worshipful Master, I'll not shoot anybody else unless I really have to,' says Nipplette, smiling dangerously.

'Good, now follow me. It'sh thish way,' says Niggley, opening a door and disappearing through it.

'Worshipful Master, that's a cupboard you've walked into,' says Heinrich.

'I know!' exclaims Niggley, his head poking back out. 'I wash checking it for ... cupboard mothsh. They're nashty little bashtardsh with big teeth and we can't be too careful. Now where wash I?'

'I suggest we take the next door on the left. That will lead us to the large cavern with the round table,' says Heinrich, pointing to a door.

Niggley places his hands on his hips. 'Really? Have you been shpying on me?'

'No sir, the sign on the door reads: This Way to the Large Cavern with the Round Table.'

'Right, yesh, jusht checking. Now follow me,' says Niggley, opening the door. He walks through, trips over his robe hem and tumbles headfirst down the staircase on the other side.

Bear is making good progress in his search for Frau Murky but as yet, there is no sign of her. As he approaches another door, he hears a beeping sound and looks down at his wristwatch. He presses the side-button and sees the readout flashing a row of zeroes. Eight minutes have ticked by, meaning his black-ops should be in the field of play, and he takes a few moments to listen. At first there is nothing but soon hears a sound that is music to his ears. Standard-issue hand-rifles are echoing their recognisable retorts. Admittedly, the sounds are high above but it won't take long for his finest to clear the upper levels and join him in the lower reaches.

He continues on, crashing through doorways, ducking below enemy fire, diving over makeshift defences and taking down all before him. Eventually, he reaches a door that appears far more substantial than those he has already encountered but whatever he tries, it won't open. Cursing, he crouches behind a tall, potted dragon tree back along the corridor and speaks into his woggle communicator. 'This is Chief Bear, come in General Richard.'

Unexpectedly, a young-sounding American voice replies. 'Apologies sir but General Richard's out of action. He was nearly killed when he came back from Hell.'

'What ... who is this?' asks Bear, not recognising the voice.

'Lance Corporal Chip, sir. I'm an apprentice cameraman and we're closing on your position. I can't see you but I'm sure you're looking great.'

'Chip? Oh yes, General Richard told me about you. Who's leading the infiltration?'

Chip hesitates before answering. 'Third Captain Dilbert, sir, but I can't see him right now.'

Bear nods. 'He'll be in night-shadow mode, son. Of course you can't see him.'

'He er, most likely is. Shall I approach your position?'

'No, you stay back. This requires the best of the best and no offence but I need Third Captain Dilbert. Tell him to bring up the Big Gun.'

'I'll tell him but he's really good at hiding when he needs to be,' says Chip.

'We're all good at hiding. Now get that Big Gun to me,' insists Bear, looking again at the heavy door blocking his progress.

'Sure sir, Lance Corporal Chip over and out.'

Bear waits and hears the sound of 'friendly' gunfire drawing ever closer. His timepiece tells him four minutes have elapsed since he made the call. Turning, he sees a disturbance in the air, moving along the corridor. 'Outstanding Third Captain Dilbert, now pass me the Big Gun. That damned door's impregnable. We'll need to blast it.'

'It's Lance Corporal Chip again, sir.'

'Lance Cor...? Ah, I see. It's much easier to move a Big Gun through the lines if it's carried by a lesser. Third Captain Dilbert's no fool.'

'Is he not, er, I mean, of course not?' says Chip, hastily correcting himself.

'Son, you've got a lot to learn, now set that thing up,' says Bear, his eyes never leaving the heavy door. 'When it blows we need to be out of sight or the splinters will tear us apart. Use a ten second timer. Can you do that?'

'Affirmative sir, I got my Big Gun Assembly badge two months ago.'

'Outstanding, now get to it,' says Bear, as he watches Chip assemble the impressive weapon. The boy has the foot-wide barrel on the stand in seconds and the stand feet are bolted to the floor to prevent kickback. He opens the breach and inserts the huge round into the chamber. Lastly, the boy sets a ten second timer and nods. He presses a red button and swiftly retreats back along the corridor, followed by a proud Bear. Both duck into an empty room and wait.

Only four seconds have elapsed when a voice is heard on SAS coms. 'This is Third Captain Dilbert, I'm a wraith, a night-shad... hold on, I've encountered a strong door which won't budge. Chip, bring up the Big Gun.'

'Dilbert, it's already there!' shouts Chip into his woggle communicator.

'Where? I can't see it. No, wait, there's a key in the lo...'

_BANG!!!_

Niggley sits up, shakes his head, and checks himself for damage. Apart from a few rips to his robe all appears well and grabbing the handrail at the bottom of the steps he has fallen down, he pulls himself to his feet. Moments later, the four Bavarians run around the turn above. They reach the bottom and stare at the concussed man who is smiling weirdly.

'Worshipful Master, are you okay?' asks Heinrich, breathing heavily.

'I'm fine, it wash only a few shteps. Don't worry Barbara,' says Niggley, swaying gently as his eyes continually cross and uncross.

The Bavarians stare worriedly at the drunken man. 'It was six flights of hard stone steps. Are you sure you're alright?' asks Heinrich, peering concernedly.

Niggley continues to sway and hiccups loudly. 'I'm fine Barbara, shtop fusshing. Let'sh try the next door and shee if they'll vote for me. Er, actually I think I've broken my arm, you'd better knock for me,' he says, waving a floppy sleeve, bending in a place it shouldn't be.

Two serving girls grab him tightly, as the third, Tittiana, rolls the robe sleeve back. She gasps on seeing a bloodied mess with protruding bone.

'Sisters, hold him tight, I need to set this. Heinrich, pass me those two lengths of wood and the piece of rope that are luckily on the ground there,' says Tittiana, and looking into Niggley's red eyes, adds. 'Worshipful Master, this is going to hurt.'

'For heaven shake, Barbara, every losht vote hurtsh but I'm not giving up. I'll ...' Niggley stops and stares at his distorted limb. 'Ish that my arm?'

'It is,' says Tittiana.

'Should it be bending like that?'

'No, that's why I'm going to set it. Be brave my UQ hero,' replies Tittiana as she grabs Niggley's wrist and pulls it towards her. Flesh expands, two forearm bones crunch, sounding sickeningly, and a brace of sticks and rope is applied. As four Bavarians fight the urge to vomit, a sleeve is pulled down and all eyes turn in sympathy to Niggley.

'It is done,' says Tittiana, stroking the man's sweating forehead.

'Already, that wash quick, Barbara. Okay, let'sh get moving,' says Niggley, moving to the exit door at the bottom of the steps which he pushes open with his broken arm. He walks through, feeling no pain, and descends a gentle sloping path, heading for a huge round table inside the large cavern.

Back in the stairwell, four Bavarians stare at each other. Heinrich licks his lips and frowns. 'Correct me if I'm wrong but he seems to mend quickly.'

'You're not wrong, he mends very quickly,' admits Tittiana, having nothing else to add.

The Bavarians set off after Niggley.

Chief Bear and Lance Corporal Chip exit the room they had taken cover in. They see the Big Gun lying on its side, the bolts holding the feet down ripped from the floorboards. Looking along the corridor they see the heavy door and the hole in the middle of it. Inspecting further, they note very little flying-splinter devastation and there is a distinct lack of blood or Third Captain Dilbert body parts. The young and the experienced SAS operatives exchange questioning looks. Bear is the first to speak into his woggle. 'Third Captain Dilbert, report.'

' _Eurgh_ ,' is the reply on the comm.

'Dilbert, its Chip, come in.'

'Help, please,' says a mumbling voice.

Chip and Bear move forward. 'Dilbert its Chip, I can't see you. Seriously, for the first time since we met back in the drunkard's pen during the reality show, I can't see you. I know you're not dead as you're making strange noises. Tell me where you are?' insists Chip, moving to the holed door.

'Chip, is that you?' asks a weak-voiced Dilbert.

'It is. Where are you hiding?'

'I'm not hiding. I'm on the other side of the door. A shell just missed me.'

Chip frowns but understands. 'Okay, I'm at the door and the shell didn't explode, it went straight through. Confirm you're on the other side. Give me a sign.'

A hand reaches through the neat round hole. A sign is given, not a pleasant one, and even Chip, a young American boy, can count to two.

Bear sees it and knows what it means. 'Third Captain Dilbert, its Chief Bear. Has anybody ever told you you're the bravest soldier ever to fill these ranks, apart from me and General Richard of course? If ever there was a need for a "V for Victory," it's now. Your courage is outstanding soldier. To actually stay put and guess the shell wouldn't explode but instead leave a hole in the door is incredibly brave. You'll be a Major before the day is out, trust me on that. Chip, film that man, for training purposes obviously.'

'I think Dilbert's hand gesture may have meant something else, sir' says Chip.

Bear snorts. 'Nonsense, I know what it means. I always see that sign from my black-ops when I walk by, but only behind my back. They're far too respectful to show it to me up front. Third Captain Dilbert, unlock the door so we can proceed.'

'I ... I can't do that, sir,' mumbles Dilbert.

'You said there was a key in the lock, before the gun fired, so why not? Are you injured, have you lost a limb? If you have, we'll get you fitted with a higher-than-standard-issue prosthetic.'

'No sir, I'm not injured but ... can I talk to Chip alone, please?'

'Of course, I know past colleagues count for a lot. I'm saluting you as I back off,' says Bear, turning and walking back along the corridor.

'Thank you sir,' begins Dilbert, his quiet words wafting through the hole in the door. 'Chip, are you alone?'

'What's the problem? I can get you fully in frame if you open the door.'

'That's not going to happen, not yet,' says Dilbert, his words sounding fearful.

'Why not?'

'Well, it's simple. I've shit myself.'

'Okay, but replacement fatigues and underwear will already be on the way.'

Dilbert pauses. 'How, I didn't even hear you speak on comms?'

'There was no need as you're broadcasting on full bandwidth. You're ... Dilbert ... Dilbert?' asks Chip, hearing a loud thump on the other side of the door. He quickly reaches an arm through the hole, locates a key, and turns it. He then looks for Chief Bear but the man is already running along the corridor.

Bear opens the door and sees the prone body of Third Captain Dilbert. He turns to Chip and gently shakes his head. 'There lies a brave man, son. Pick him up and take him to safety. His fight's done,' he says, saluting sharply.

'Must I, he's a bit pungent?' says Chip, pulling a face.

'You're SAS son and that's part of the training. For certain you'll have something distasteful dribbling down your back, your front even, but that's what we do. Third Captain Dilbert has shown us the way and a bit of turd rubbing into your fine young locks is a small price to pay. Be grateful as when you're older and training new recruits you can recount this tale. You can say you once had the finest Third Captain ever to grace these ranks slung over your shoulder. He's a hero, Chip. Nobody else could have got that door open.'

'But I reached through the hole and unlocked ...' begins Chip.

'Of course you did son, of course you did. Keep telling yourself that but one day you'll realise a bit of turd on your cheek is a small price to pay for freedom. When outside, I want you to look at the man you carried to safety, knowing he'd have gratefully given his life to be down in the depths with me. He'd have gladly delved into the pits of depravity and sacrificed himself. Now go Chip, Go!'

'Sir, don't you think you're being a bit melodramatic?' asks Chip, eyeing Dilbert, while looking for non-squelching hand holds.

'I love your gallows humour son, now get out of here. This fight isn't over yet and make sure you light a candle for your fellows who fall today,' says Bear, raising his stout chin.

'But I haven't got a candle,' says Chip, still looking at Dilbert distastefully.

'Here, take this one and light it,' says Bear, removing a candle from the back of his rat-skin shorts.

'Er, thanks. Where did you get it from? It's quite big, and warm.'

Bear chucks his lesser operative on the chin. 'Best left unsaid and here, have this lighter.'

'Thanks and I won't ask where that came from.'

'Good, now get the Third Captain to safety so if this goes bottoms-up, as we say at Eaton, the SAS can live to fight another day.'

'I ... aye sir,' says Chip, weakly saluting the man.

Bear salutes back and takes off down the steps on the other side of the door, soon disappearing from sight.

Chip lifts Third Captain Dilbert to his shoulders, his hands slipping on squelching fatigues, and following the wall-mounted exit signs, heads back along the corridor to the castle entrance.

'I know you're conscious and I hope you're happy,' growls Chip, feeling an unpleasant dampness on his neck.

'I've no idea what you mean,' replies Dilbert.

'Yes you do and I'll get you for this.'

'Unlikely Chip but er, you're not filming are you?'

'Sadly, on this occasion I'm not.'

Dilbert chuckles. 'I'm a dark shadow, I'm a wraith in the ...'

'Just shut the fuck up!' shouts Chip.
Chapter Forty One

Chaos in the Chapel

Cloudier drifts through the many rooms and levels of the Basilica but the only life she encounters is occasional vermin which she leaves alone. She still feels the nagging tug in her stomach, pulling her onwards. At first it was an annoyance but the further she goes, the more it becomes an insistence. The feeling seems familiar but she can't quite put a black fingernail on its meaning.

She squeals in frustration and sends a hail of bullets towards a beautifully sculpted, alabaster statue, obliterating it. Why, because she felt like it?

'Okay, here's what's going to happen. I'm getting madder with every passing second and I've had enough. I suggest a vote on what to do next. All those in favour of staying where I am, raise a hand,' she says, and feels the three cobras in her hair rising as high as they can. Despite not being able to see them, she knows which way they are voting. 'Mummy said raise a hand Hissy, Missy and Kissy, and necks don't count. Although, I can sense your fear so what are you afraid of my lovelies? Mummy won't let anything happen to you and you are scared, aren't you? Anyway, I didn't raise my hand and despite their being not much point, all those who want to find the annoyance, scream madly.'

The Eek cobras dive back into the tousled safety of Cloudier's hair and disappear from sight. As expected, she shrieks loudly, taking down a few more walls and a couple of ceilings in a one-sided vote of confidence.

She continues on, feeling happier, at least, that's what she's telling herself.

Devbo has ran up three flights of stairs and walked up the last two. He knows he's a tough martial arts expert but even they start to puff on occasion. Of course, he's conserving his energy for what's to come, whatever it may be, but he knows there will be a reckoning.

The Basilica seems eerily quiet, apart from the odd bout of rending and screaming above, but he recognises the sound of a Howling Hurricane Harlot when he hears it. He guesses the lack of an enemy is down to his martial arts sister and it's time to find her and join up.

Admittedly, the fight hasn't been as difficult as anticipated, apart from the tanks, but his newfound slowing-time skill put paid to them, one at least. Can the enemy really be so weak? The Great Bellendi said it wouldn't be and he still believes the man.

Two more flights of steps are plodded up, still conserving energy, and he finds himself in a wide hallway with tall windows. Everything outside is dark but at least he's no longer underground. Praise be for small mercies, or as Devbo would say, thank fuck for that!

He takes another step forward and the ceiling ahead caves in. He shields his eyes and waits for the dust to settle. Seconds later a welcome sight is seen, dropping down through the shattered remains.

'Cloudier, it's right good to see you,' says Devbo, walking forward.

'Wait!' she shouts. 'Don't get too close.'

'Why, what's up?'

'I don't want people to think we're dating. Look at us, all alone in a romantic setting, me in my prime and you er, male.'

Devbo chuckles and normally he would move in for a non-romantic hug but he has seen the bullets whipping around the woman at tremendous speed. At least, he slowed time to see what they were.

Cloudier peers questioningly at her brother. 'What did you just do?'

'Nothing, I'm just pleased to see you,' lies Devbo, licking his lips nervously.

'Don't fib brother and never, ever look into my eyes, or those of my babies but you know that. What did you just do? I won't ask again.'

Devbo throws his arms wide. 'It were nothing, I just slowed time a bit and then sped it back up. It's quite easy when you know how and are a bastard hard martial arts expert.'

'Oh I see. As easy as summoning a tornado I suppose. Are you good at that too?' asks Cloudier, poking her tongue out while crossing her arms and tapping the toe of a black shoe.

'Cloudier, I ...'

'Don't you Cloudier me brother, but as it's my name, I'll forgive you. What can't be forgiven is what you did, or didn't do, and I'm not talking about this slow-time thingy.'

Devbo looks down, avoiding eye contact. 'I know, I know, the Great Bellendi already had a go at me for that. I weren't thinking straight when I ... re-lived, and I'm right sorry for not asking about the others. I'll make it up to them when this is over, I promise.'

'You'd better but you've got a way to go to get back in my good books sunshine.'

'Okay lass, I'll do my best,' says Devbo, looking humbled.

'Good, and remember that revenge isn't everything.'

'I know but they did kill me and are kind of responsible for what happened to our team,' says Devbo, sneaking a look at his sister.

Cloudier ponders the statement, a finger tapping her lips. 'Good point, well made, and actually, I take back what I said about revenge. Apparently, it's a dish best served cold but I disagree. It's best served with a cloud of bullets, the odd tornado, a hint of petrification, and a bastard hard beating. What say you, big boy?'

'I say you're flipping right,' says Devbo, his chest puffing, 'and if you weren't surrounded by loads of bullets I'd give you a peck on the cheek, but not a snog mind.'

'Really, am I that ugly?' asks Cloudier, her bottom lip trembling.

Devbo laughs. 'Shut up you crazy spuggy, now let's get going. What's the plan?'

'Same as always I suppose, we come, we see, we conquer.'

'That's clever as we are in Rome, kind of.'

'We are and when in Rome ...?' asks Cloudier, leaving the sentence unfinished.

'We do like the Roman's do,' replies Devbo, pulling a war-face and smashing a fist into an open palm.

'No, we smash evil into teeny-weeny bits. _Crazyyy!_ ' screams Cloudier, thrusting out her arms, sending out her cloak of bullets in waves. Wall after wall falls, more ceilings come down, and when the dust clears, with the help of an unnatural crosswind, the path is clear. The pair steps over piles of rubble, heading towards a wide wooden door.

It isn't far and both read the enamelled sign attached to the front: Sistine Chapel - Unauthorised Access is Holy Inappropriate. Devbo invites Cloudier to do the honours but she declines, so he launches with a two-footed, flying kick with twist. Mere inches from the door, he slows time, snatches a key hanging on a hook, unlocks the door, replaces the key, and reassumes his attack position. On speeding time back up, it appears he has smashed open the heavy wooden door with force.

Devbo turns to Cloudier, blows onto the knuckles of his left hand and rubs them on his black and white striped shirt breast. He walks into the chapel, his smugness unnecessary.

Cloudier allows her brother his small victory. Only when his back is turned does she roll her eyes, blow a raspberry and follow him inside.

Both have taken only a few steps inside when they halt. The Sistine Chapel is the most beautifully decorated building either has ever seen and Devbo understands what the Pope meant about not damaging the ceiling. He has never seen the like and the lack of cheap swathes of magnolia is a change from the norm. As he stares all about, he sees his sister beside him bristling with intent, her eyes locked forward. Facing ahead he sees what Cloudier sees. 'Flipping 'eck, what the fuck's that thing?'

Cloudier hisses. 'Don't swear Devbo, but if you must then not so loud please.'

'Sorry er, I don't know what else to say?'

'Then say nothing,' whispers Cloudier, not moving an inch as she stares at the apparition hovering above the altar on the far side of the chapel. Devbo has called it a 'thing' but that's too dismissive for Cloudier. The gnawing in her gut is now threatening to tear her insides out as she eyes the swirling, ever-changing chaos. She hasn't seen the likes before; it appearing as alien, but within the turmoil there is a sense of beauty. Certainly this is the reason for her discomfort and a smile flickers across her lips but only momentarily.

She sees Devbo step forward but she grabs his arm and pulls him back. Instead, she steps forward and the raging chaos flares briefly. It tries to rise but dark red ropes of energy are binding it to the altar, preventing it from flying free.

She gasps, places a hand over her mouth and stumbles, but a strong hand grips her, that of Devbo. She shakes the hand off and takes another two steps. She hasn't moved far but the object on the altar is so much clearer. It appears as a pulsing anti-cyclone of bright emerald green, interspersed with veins of blood-red and sky-blue. Whatever it is, it is constantly changing and she sees something else, inside its boundaries. Tiny storms are flitting to and fro, hitting the edges, but the crimson ropes are holding them, sending them back toward the centre. She sees lightning strikes flying from the swirling hub but these are rebuffed, their power dissipated. What appear to be massive trees fly wide, smashing their huge branches against the prison wall but they too are repulsed. Volcanoes, earthquakes and tsunamis crash within but there is no give, the red energy ropes preventing their escape. Cloudier smiles, properly smiles and a single tear meanders down her cheek. She gathers herself, finding a strength she never knew she had. 'Devbo, you should leave.'

'That's not going to happen,' says Devbo, his eyes darting between his sister and the chaotic, elemental thing trapped on the altar.

'And if I insist?'

'Insist away. Teams don't split up, not on my watch.'

'I see,' begins Cloudier, 'but this might get messy.'

'When doesn't it? There are hundreds of the bastards but we can take them.'

Cloudier tears her eyes away from the mesmerising altar and finally sees what else is in the chapel. She looks forwards, left, and then right, at approaching holy men and Devbo was right, there are hundreds. Each is wearing differing coloured robes signalling many ranks, all the way up to Cardinal. She stifles a giggle, doesn't stifle a smile, and slowly rises into the air. 'Brother, I know you're fond of films and did you ever see that one with the sexy American actor who was named after a car?'

'Lass, I'd need more information than that. Do you mean John Waynge-Wover or Diesel Washington?' asks Devbo, his hands clenching with index fingers pointing, preparing for an attack.

Cloudier grunts. ' _Eurgh!_ That's poor even by your standards. No, I mean Harridan Ford and the film with those Jeerman Nastis who opened a big gold box. They were all killed by lightning strikes that shot from inside.'

'You mean India Jones and The Traders of the Lost Carp. I know it but you're wrong. It were about an Indian migrant who moved to Wales and bought a fish farm.'

'This is serious Devbo,' says Cloudier, briefly glancing down. 'Are you pontificating?'

'I might be and this is the place to do it don't you think,' answers Devbo, grinning widely.

'I love you Devbo but I'm not Anton, so I'll nip this in the bud before it gets too silly.'

Devbo nods, knowing his sister is right. 'I'm sorry but the need to be entertaining still flows through me, even in retirement.'

'I know and let's see what happens when I send something flowing through this lot,' says Cloudier, rising higher, and she slams her lightning bracelets together, which hold tight as if magnetised. With all her strength she pulls them apart and sees flashes of super-heated air moving in and around the bracelets and her hands. In all, it's a perfect storm, and she thrusts out her hands, unleashing a pair of mega-charged lightning bolts. The Priest at the front is melted instantly by the bolt from her left hand and it continues on, blasting through to the next unlucky holy man. The Monsignor on the right also falls, his robe blazing brightly, and again, the fork flows on. So-called holy men fall in their droves but eventually the lightning fizzles to nothing, leaving behind a metallic taste in the air, as well as the sickening stench of incinerated flesh.

'I did it. I made lightning. I killed them all!' shouts Cloudier, her body shaking with unconfined joy.

'Aye lass, that were right impressive but you only killed half of them,' says Devbo, adjusting his striped martial arts uniform. 'The others are still coming.'

'Bum and arse. I'll just have to tornado them to buggery then.'

'No way, you did fine but I'll take the rest. You're not having all the fun,' says Devbo.

'Okay but don't hang around. She doesn't like to be kept waiting.'

Devbo peers curiously at Cloudier at the mention of 'she.' He guesses its Cloudier referring to herself as usual and ignores it. He clicks his neck left, then right, and invokes the _Way of the Peed Off Spuggy_. 'I won't hang around, now take a pew. I'll be back in a second.'

Devbo doesn't rise into the air, well, not high. The first twenty holy men fall easily with well-aimed flying kicks. The second twenty feel the full force of single-finger-inch-jabs and the next twenty, he leaves alone. He frowns as something doesn't feel right. 'This is wrong,' he says, backing away from the enemy.

'Devbo, they're a bunch of crazy bastards and remember what they did to you.'

'No! It feels wrong, they're not fighting back. Look at them. They're like zombies,' he says, noting the blank expressions on the enemy's faces.

Cloudier rolls her eyes. 'Don't be silly. They're just really scare...'

But her words are interrupted by slow, loud clapping. A tall figure wearing a crimson, hooded robe is walking slowly forward, around the imprisoned anomaly on the altar. Still the hands clap, reptilian hands poking from the ends of the sleeves, and the sound echoes through the chapel. When the creature is beside the altar it reaches up and pulls its hood back, revealing a scaled, lizard-like head. The eyes are yellow, the mouth a slit, and a forked tongue momentarily pokes out, as if tasting the air. When it speaks, it's perfectly enunciated words sound almost human. 'You were right my dear, you said she'd come.'

'Who are you, you bastard?' demands Devbo, again moving forward.

The warlock, Garenthis, turns from the altar and looks at Devbo. 'I don't believe I gave you permission to speak, now be quiet!' he shouts, and yellow beams of light erupt from his eyes. They strike Devbo in the chest and propel him backwards, skidding forcefully back through the chapel entrance. The beam then changes direction engulfing the remainder of the 'zombie' holy men, who erupt in clouds of black smoke. His eyes eventually cease their destruction, the yellow beam dissipating, and he looks at Cloudier. He speaks but appears to be addressing another. 'I see her but is she worth it? Certainly there's a small element of chaos but her skills are somewhat ... childish.'

'Call me childish again lizard-boy and I'll tornado your brains out. It'll be a shame for the paintwork but needs must,' growls Cloudier, her black-rimmed eyes opening wide, revealing a bright emerald stare.

Garenthis chuckles and would likely raise an eyebrow, if he had any. 'What's this? I take it back. I'm so scared I nearly soiled this stupid robe. I admire your spirit human but do shut up,' he says, and gestures to the anomaly on the altar. 'I'm having a private conversation with an associate, so if you wouldn't mind just hanging around for a bit.'

Cloudier has little time to react as Garenthis reaches into his robe and withdraws a short length of glowing, red rope. He hurls it and despite the distance, it accelerates, grows in length and wraps itself around her. She shrieks loudly as her winds disperse and is trapped, slowly rotating in red-energy ropes. She struggles but can find no escape.

Again Garenthis speaks, addressing the anomaly. 'Now, where was I? Oh yes, as I was saying my dear, why her? She's a little crazy, has a modicum of talent, and ...'

'Oi, false Pope man er, lizard. Let her go or you'll have me to deal with. I know the _Way of The Peed Off Spuggy!_ ' shouts Devbo, racing back into the chapel as he slows time.

Garenthis turns and sighs loudly. 'Oh good, the other one's back, but I suppose that was to be expected. Shame on you and don't try that infantile slowing-time trick with me, it won't work. I'm far above a so-called expert in your stupid _Way_. On life's game-board I am a king and you are barely a pawn, Dev.'

'Actually, it's Devbo, now let Cloudier go and we'll talk. Let her walk ... float out of here.'

Garenthis places a scaled hand on his chin and rubs it theatrically. 'Right, now let me see. My options are, and correct me if I'm wrong. I should let Cloudier go and talk to you, which was never the plan. Alternatively, I can blast you to pieces and keep Cloudier, which was the plan. I realise I'm showing the ace up my sleeve but securing the female has always been the intention. Tell me Dev-bo, which should I choose? Which would you choose if you were in my position?'

'I'd never be in your position you evil fucker,' snarls Devbo, sweat beading on his forehead. He's no coward but losing his newfound time-shift skill is concerning.

'No you wouldn't as you'll never reach my heights, although you do offer an interesting alternative, one which might be worth pursuing. Very well Devbo, here's the rub. I'm an agent of the Lurking Peril, you've heard of him I take it.'

'God mentioned it once,' says Devbo, thinking back to the time of the reality show and hoping he's right.

'Did he? How brave of him but to correct you, the Lurking Peril is not an "it." My Master is a he, a very real he,' says Garenthis, staring curiously at Devbo through lidless yellow eyes, weighing him up perhaps.

'So what? I beat him once and I'll do it again. The Secret Aural Voice was nothing when it faced me. I beat the crap out of it.'

Garenthis snorts noisily and runs a hand over his scaled head. 'Ah yes, the Secret Aural Voice, the lowest of the low in the Master's eyes. Forgive my chuckling but even a human child could beat that one. You're proud of that are you, Devbo? No, don't tell me as I'm keen to ascertain its purpose. I guess it was trying to make your race so imbecilic they'd die from stupidity. How ridiculous would it be if a species fell for that?'

Devbo's thoughts churn searching for a decent comeback. 'The SAV were right tough.'

'No it wasn't! It was ... my word, you did fall for it,' says Garenthis, shaking his head. 'Fools, you seriously embraced reality shows, the oldest trick in the Galactic Handbook. I've had my doubts about facing you humans but now I see it'll be a walk in the dark-park. Oh my, give me a moment to compose myself. I take it all back. You are nothing, now be gone,' hisses the lizard warlock, thrusting out an open-palmed hand.

Devbo flies back out the chapel entrance, as if struck by a solid wall of air, and he tumbles all the way back into the ruins of the Basilica where he eventually lays still. As he groans in pain he looks up and swiftly rolls sideways as a large stone block tumbles down toward his head. He avoids it and attempts to stand but a weight is pressing down on his chest. He sees nothing until he leans his head forward and observes a disembodied hand holding him down.

'Confusing say, rise high but keep your head down, my son.'

Devbo's head drops back. 'Oh great, more bollocks.'

'I said don't swear!' shouts Bruise, flicking Devbo on the chin, making his teeth crash together.

Devbo reaches up to check his jaw isn't broken. 'Why, they're just words?' he says, but adds nothing more as the hand drags him to his feet.

'They're just words are they?' asks the Master, his oriental face appearing a few inches from Devbo's. 'I forget how wise you are at times.'

'But they are,' stammers Devbo. 'Anton swears all the time, especially when he's scared.'

Bruise Lee's face drifts back and the hand gripping Devbo's shirt eases. 'Anton, of course, another I can account for but you tell nobody. That will be our little secret,' he says, pointing a warning finger. 'He would have knowing of the _Way of the Tough Tyne Curse_ but he was not taught properly and is not here. That is a shame as together and both fully trained, you would have already defeated the enemy.'

Devbo stares open-mouthed at his Master, wondering if he heard right. Could Anton really be his brother, well, half-brother? The thought of their previous conjoined status comes crashing back and he wonders if Anton knows. He guesses not but lets the thought slide. Currently there are more important matters to consider. 'Master, with all due respect, shouting obscenities doesn't do much. All it does is piss off the enemy.'

'Don't swear,' insists Bruise and he slaps his pupil hard, making his eyes water.

As Devbo's vision swims, he refocuses and sees the Master standing a few yards away, fully corporeal. 'I promise not to swear again Master,' says Dev, bowing deeply, 'but I don't understand.'

'That much is obvious so I'll demonstrate. Now watch,' says Bruise, and he turns to face an undamaged statue, one that has had its man-bits chipped off sometime in the past, for whatever reason. He stares intently at the sculpture, takes a deep breath and shouts. 'Bastard!'

To Devbo's astonishment, the statue explodes into dust, creating an airborne cloud, and all that remains of the sculpture are the feet. He goes to speak, swear actually, but hears a woman's scream. He bolts away, heading back towards the Chapel.

The Master shouts after him, but not in annoyance. 'When you come to me Devbo, bring Anton. He also has much to learn.'

The corporeal embodiment of Toon-Fan 'Bruise' Lee starts to fade but he stops, and becomes whole again. 'How long has it been, Gregory?' he asks, not turning.

'Too long Bruise,' says Gregory 'the Great' Bellendi, having appeared around a broken wall. 'Can you really teach them?'

Bruise smiles and turns. 'Didn't Confusing once say; a man is but a boy until the man understands why he was a boy?'

Gregory shakes his head. 'Truthfully Bruise, I suspect Confusing did far too many legal highs in his youth.'

'He did but that doesn't mean he was stupid. He was ... enlightened,' chuckles Bruise.

'He was off his face and talking complete gibberish most of the time, when he wasn't stuffing his mouth because of the munchies, but seriously, can you teach them?' asks Gregory, his expression serious.

'I can,' says Bruise, 'but only if they wish to learn.'

'They do,' insists Gregory. 'They'll come to you when this little episode is over but don't take too long to train them. It won't take our old foe long to fully rise.'

Bruise nods. 'I see that and I know what the _Nearly Dead and Right Salty Sea Scrolls_ say. After all, Confusing did write them, and I helped with his punctuation and sentence formation. Why do you think I developed the _Way of the Peed Off Spuggy_ and the _Way of the Tough Tyne Curse_ , amongst others? I foresaw a time when the Lurking Peril would rise again. I foresaw a time when the creations must fight beside us, so they must be equipped with the knowledge to do so.'

'You did but so did we all. There's no need to get cocky.'

'Be careful Gregory, the word "cocky" is close to swearing,' says Bruise, waving an admonishing finger.

The purple robed magician shakes his head. 'I see that death hasn't stilled your sense of humour. This is serious and if old LP wins we're done for. You, me, Jocky ...'

'Jocky?' interrupts Bruise, his eyes questioning. 'He still lives?'

'You know he does so don't fu... mess around. You know the score with him. Love and loyalty can make a man do dangerous things.'

Bruise nods soulfully, fully understanding. 'I see. He still has feelings for Flora after all this time. I wondered at the lightning bracelets and Cloudier has her eyes, not literally of course. He's sacrificing the girl for the greater good.'

Gregory sighs, his expression haunted. 'He's keeping a promise made to Flora all those years ago and it's tearing him apart, Bruise. We both know what Jocky is capable of and if this goes bad I'm heading for the stars. My magic won't hold him and neither will you. Do you recall the time he defeated you?'

'It was only the once,' says Bruise, a flicker of remembrance crossing his face.

'Indeed,' says Gregory, staring hard at the man, 'and you've been dead ever since.'

Bruise chuckles and then nods at the wise words. 'Maybe, but what's done is done and cannot be undone. Cloudier is forfeit, we both understand that, and I know Jocky will die inside. The pain will be immense but he'll survive. A new Takeover bid is approaching Gregory. We need Flora freed from LP's prison despite what God and Lucifer might prefer and only Cloudier's sacrifice can make that happen.'

Bellendi nods sadly, knowing the truth, and he bows. 'Jocky's tears might drown the planet, Bruise.'

'His tears may float the islands, Gregory.'

'Wise words but we're playing dangerous games.'

'We live in dangerous times. Deny my words.'

'I can't,' says Bellendi.
Chapter Forty Two

Path of the P.I.S.H.

Niggley looks at his Bavarian companions and drags himself onto the wide, round table, his broken arm miraculously appearing to be fully healed. 'What I did wash hop onto the table, I pointed at Zanet and then I er, I can't remember the resht. That'sh odd,' he says, scratching his head.

Heinrich follows Niggley onto the table and sees where he is pointing. At the south-east coast of the UQ on a huge map projected from above. Truthfully, he is impressed the man remembers anything but frustrated he can't recall what happened next. So much for his impressive homing instinct, but he guesses falling down six flights of stairs might have something to do with it. 'Worshipful Master, look around the outside of the chamber, there's only one path leading downwards. Do you think you may have taken it?'

Niggley looks and shrugs. 'I'm not sure but I don't shee another,' he says.

'Excellent, that's the one. Ladies, let's go,' says Heinrich, jumping from the table but he collides with an invisible object and bounces back. He sits up, a little dazed, and stares forward. His eyes widen as dozens of SAS black-ops commandos disengage their night-shadows and appear all around the cavern. His sight rests on the one he'd just run into.

Chief Bear, now dressed in light and dark blue armoured scout fatigues, is standing at the edge of the table and he doesn't appear happy. 'Niggley, I told you to leave this to us. This situation needs a stout head and not a pint of stout head. Turn around and get out of here. I'll not tell you again. Ops, show this man the exit as he'll get in the way.'

'Bear, you bashtard, I wash here firsht,' slurs Niggley, pointing a wavering finger.

'I can't have you buggering things up. You leave, now!' shouts Bear.

'I refushe, you can't make me,' says Niggley, now holding up a shaky finger. 'I'm invoking Shtatute Shixty Sheven of _The Europalian Peninshula ... Shomething or Other Act_. It clearly shtatesh, any man, or woman, drunk or not, hash the right to tell a sholdier to shod off.'

'Statute sixty seven doesn't say that,' says Bear, shaking his head.

'Shtatute shixty eight then!'

'Statute sixty eight of _The Europalian Peninsula ... Something or Other Act_, doesn't say that either,' replies Bear, his recall perfect. 'That refers to not pointing at ugly people.'

Niggley frowns and scratches his head. 'Oh right? Which one ish it then? One of the shtatutes shays I can tell you to shod off.'

'It's statute eight hundred and two,' says Bear. 'It's very clear and says, any non-military man, or woman, whether drunk, or not, has complete immunity from an invading force. The aforementioned male or female, has the right to tell a soldier, providing they are of sufficiently high rank, to sod off.'

'That'sh the one, now shod off!' shouts Niggley, giving Bear a V for Victory sign.

Bear growls. 'Damn it! You've got me but I warn you, don't get in the way.'

'Get losht Bear. You've no idea what you're dealing with. I remember clearly now sho take the path and you'll find a lift. Go down and you'll shee the great beasht.'

'So Frau Murky is below. I'll at least thank you for that,' says Bear, saluting weakly.

'No, not Angular, though she probably ish down there ash well. There'sh the other thing. She calls it the Great Alchemisht and it crapsh out diamondsh and gold and er, other shtuff,' says Niggley, his words tailing off on hearing laughter from all directions.

Bear chuckles and places a hand on Niggley's shoulder. As he speaks into his woggle communicator, he turns to take in the black-ops who are present. 'Listen up everyone, this is Chief Bear. Be on the lookout for a huge beast in the lower cavern called the Great Alchemist. It's got massive fangs and claws and ...'

'I never shaid it had fangsh and clawsh!' exclaims Niggley, shrugging Bear's hand from his shoulder.

'It also shits money and is the size of Wembley Arena.'

'Wembley Shtadium!'

Bear slaps himself on the forehead. 'Apologies, it's the size of Wembley Stadium, so it's probably some kind of sports mascot. Also be on the lookout for herds of vicious velociraptors. Take them down black-ops, using standard-issue pretend gunfire,' says Bear, winking at Niggley. 'Oh, and if you find the time, put a bullet through Frau Murky's head.'

Shaking angrily, Niggley starts to swing a fist but three pairs of female hands reach out and pull him away. Heinrich, controlling his own anger, walks across and stands on the edge of the table and looks down on Bear, but not by much. 'You choose not to believe him, brave soldier?'

'He's a fool, now go home. Leave this to the big boys and girls.'

'The ladies holding Niggley are big girls and they believe him.'

'With all due respect son, they'd believe anyone who could claim the kind of expenses he can. They'd jump into bed with a pig if it wore a gold nose-ring,' says Bear, laughing.

Heinrich stiffens and takes a calming breath. 'Sir, that didn't sound very respectful and if I were a little lower I'd kick you in the man-jewels. As it is, I won't, and even though I can't see my friends behind me, I can feel the thousands of daggers that are thumping into my back trying to get to you. Okay, brave soldier, go about your business but be warned. If the beast below doesn't get you then the three pretty beasts behind me will. Good luck and I know this is somewhat rude, but fucken ze offen!' he shouts, and raises a middle finger.

Bear sees the raised finger, meaning 'I for Impressive,' or something similar he guesses. Despite his annoyance, the boy at least recognises a great soldier when he sees one. Bear turns away and addresses his woggle. 'Unit Delta, find a way down from the west. Epsilon, you take the east. Units Beta, Gamma, Eta, Zeta and Theta there'll be plenty of other entrances into the cavern below, so choose wisely. Alpha Elite, you're with me, we're taking the lift at the end of this path. Frau Murky will be down there somewhere and she'll be well defended so keep your eyes open. Stay back and out of sight until I give the order. Now let's move!'

The SAS commandos in the cavern fade into their surroundings and those waiting above, still in the captured castle; begin their search for other entrances. Bear looks at Niggley, shakes his head disdainfully, and jogs along the exit path followed by his Alpha Elite.

The cavern is empty apart from four Bavarians and a pissed politician. The ladies have at last released Niggley and he has fallen off the table and slumped to the ground, his demeanour, one of defeat. Heinrich crouches before the man and looks for eye contact. There is none so he reaches a hand forward and lifts Niggley's chin. Eventually, the eyes uncross, try to focus, and a loud burp is heard, smelling less-than-fruity. 'Worshipful Master, I need you to look me in the eye and tell the truth,' he says, his words gentle.

'Heinrich, you can't handle the truth,' says Niggley, trying to look serious.

'Yes I can. We Bavarians always know if a drunk is speaking the truth or telling a lie. Look into my eyes and tell me the truth, Worshipful Master,' pleads Heinrich, adding a smile.

Niggley goes to pat the boy on the shoulder but misses. No matter, he thinks, and awkwardly stands upright. He knows what needs doing and without saying a word sets off toward the path leading to the elevator but stops on reaching it. He closes his eyes and recalls the Great Alchemist's vast cavern, a certain part of it.

Somehow, the vision of a suspended roadway, the one slaves are being thrown from, is clear in his head. He opens his eyes and still sees it but his eyes automatically move slightly upwards and to the right. He sees the roadway again but at the point where the slaves first enter the cavern, high above the Great Alchemist. Niggley smiles and steps forward, his foot landing on - nothing. He takes another step, then another, and appears to be walking an invisible, slightly ascending path. He turns. 'Follow me or shtay there, I don't really care, but know I'm a Worshipful Mashter for a reashon. Your father would know what I can do, Heinrich. Do you trusht me?'

'I don't understand?' says an astonished Heinrich, seeing Niggley walking in the air.

Niggley nods. 'No Heinrich, you don't, and I hope you never do. Don't be shcared that there's no vishible path as we _Permanently Inebriated Sozzle Heads_ alwaysh make our own. Our P.I.S.H. motto shays, the way to true enlightenment is alwaysh through a hedge, or a flowerbed, or shomething like that. I can't remember exactly. Jusht trusht me,' he says, holding out a hand.

Despite their fear, four Bavarians are soon in a line, staying close behind Niggley. All are in the air, the invisible path supporting them, and higher they go. Eventually, Niggley walks straight into a wall of rock and for once, he doesn't bounce off, but disappears inside.
Chapter Forty Three

Cigarettes and Alcohol

Ten minutes have passed and Bear, now in the lift, is calling for status reports. All units have confirmed readiness, though none have a clear sight of the gigantic cavern. They are staying well back, as ordered. He looks at his nine tightly packed ops from Alpha Elite, eyes the plaque on the inside of the lift stating a maximum capacity of eight persons, sneers, and rips the control handle downwards. The lift starts its descent.

The first thirty yards are solid rock on all four sides but Bear soon spots an opening at his feet, so crouches. As the lift drops further, with solid rock giving way to open sides all around, he looks out.

The lift drops another yard and Bear is on his feet, tearing the lift control upwards. Sadly, for him and his Alpha Elite, the lever breaks and the elevator continues to drop, ever downwards in a controlled manner.

What isn't controlled though are the words of a man looking stupidly at a broken control lever in his hand. He tries to reattach it but can't, and finally stares back at a sausage shaped beast that in his opinion, is damned fucking big.

'All Units, attack!' screams Bear down his comms.

Niggley senses his four companions behind him, and walking forward with such close attention is proving difficult, his heels constantly being clipped. But that's not his biggest issue. Being honest with himself, he's clenching his butt cheeks tight as this is a new experience. He has walked through objects before but they have always had gaps which gave way, like a hedge. The solid rock however, is pushing his _Permanently Inebriated Sozzle Head, Worshipful Master - Hons_ status, to the limit.

At the secret P.I.S.H. meetings, there were always claims of doing such a thing, walking on water even, but he'd dismissed them. Actually, they had been vociferously burped at and the drinking had continued without too much upset from the claimants. Now though, he's concentrating hard on the path beneath his feet. He can't see it but he knows it is there.

'Worshipful Master, we ... we're very frightened,' says Heinrich, gripping tight to the back of Niggley's robe, not wanting to lose contact.

'Jusht hold on to me or you'll get shtuck,' says Niggley, instinctively knowing he's right.

'But my father can't do this,' insists Heinrich, his voice shaky.

'He's not a Worshipful Mashter, he hashn't progresshed,' says Niggley, hoping he's right. If truth be told, nobody has ever achieved this and he assumed it to be complete drunken bravado. The earliest covens of the P.I.S.H. go back millennia, the first recorded individual being an alcoholic named Moshesh. Allegedly, he parted a sea or something but Niggley always put that down to a 'natural phenomenon' of some kind. Now he's not so sure. Maybe the man just made a path, like he's doing now. He casts the thought away and concentrates on his own doings. Being entombed in rock for the rest of his life, which would be rather short if it happened, doesn't rank high on his sick-bucket list.

'This is mad!' exclaims Heinrich, his voice reaching hysterical levels.

Niggley giggles inappropriately but says nothing. He has never done this before, who has, and was winging it when he set off from the round-table cavern? To his utter shock the path he imagined, appeared, and he took it.

He continues on, the solid rock encompassing but he knows where he wants to be. In his mind, he sees the suspended road, high above the Great Alchemist, the platform it rests on, and the building beneath, and he follows his instinct. As he contemplates his intention, the engulfing rock finally ends and he walks onto a road, a line of slaves passing before him. Breathing deeply with relief, he unclenches his buttocks, let's go a rectal exhalation, and vomits on the ground.

The lift hits the ground and gunfire is erupting all around. As yet, Bear can mostly hear hand-rifles and his ears are telling him that all units are assaulting the enemy. With his own eyes he can see black-garbed defenders firing back but they are being taken down with intense professionalism. He then stares across at the ... thing, it appearing as a massive, scaly sausage, just as Niggley described it.

Twice he has consulted the central SAS fauna database but each time the answer has come back, 'Genus Unknown'. He looks at his hand-rifle, then back at the beast. He knows he needs better weaponry and speaks into his woggle. The line is feint due to him being underground. 'This is Chief Bear, are you there, Crispy?'

'Ginger hair and intense gibbering Guvnor, what now?' replies a crackly voice.

'We need the Really Big Gun. How soon can you get it to me?' asks Bear.

A sound like air being sucked through teeth is heard. 'Well Guvnor, you realise I don't carry one of those.'

'How soon, Crispy?' shouts Bear, ducking behind a shower unit as the firing in the cavern intensifies. More black guards can be seen but his ops are dealing with them.

'Well, I'll have to go back to Northolt, let's say that's twenty minutes. Load the weapon, that's another ten, and then fly back, so add another twenty.'

Bear nods. 'So about an hour including getting it down here. Do it, Crispy.'

'Are you sure, Guvnor? The meter's already reading seven thousand quid. The cost will be about two hundred grand by the time I return on Thursday ...'

'Thursday!' snarls Bear. 'Today's Wednesday. You said it'll take about an hour!'

'Thursday week Guvnor, let me finish. I'm on a week's leave shortly. I booked it ages ago.'

'Don't fucking bother!' growls Bear, hefting his hand-rifle, ready to enter the fray.

'Okay Guvnor, but I've turned the plane around already. That's another grand on the clock,' says Crispy, continuing to listen but there is no response.

Bear cuts the call, steps out from behind the shower unit, and looks at the giant beast. He estimates three hundred or so hand-rifles might be able to take it down so orders all weapons to fire on it. He would have shouted go for the head but it doesn't appear to have one. He joins in the firing and the creature suddenly bucks before settling back on its huge metal platform.

He shouts further encouragement to his operatives, but then pauses as hundreds of flaps open across the beast's visible flank. Each emits a large, ovoid object, which drops to the ground and lays still. Bear takes a pair of binoculars from his backpack and focuses on one of them. The object breaks open, it being an egg he realises, and releases a creature straight from a horror movie, or more precisely, a Cretaceous Period movie, if one were ever made.

Bear scans the binoculars left and right and sees many more. 'Velociraptors, take them down!' he shouts into his woggle.

High above, on the suspended roadway, Niggley can hear the gunfire raging around the cavern. He knows he should be smiling as this is a classic, 'I told you so' moment, but he can't bring himself to. In his own words he would describe Bear as a knob, but there is more at stake than pride. The United Queendom, his precious homeland, and he loves it unconditionally, is under threat and he hopes in his heart that Bear can destroy the beast. Sadly, he guesses the man can't and in an ironic twist, it's now the SAS Chief who is playing the stooge. Niggley has a plan, a stupid one without doubt, but stupid plans tend to have an unerring and unexplainable success rate.

For the life of him he has no idea why but maybe the old saying was right. Perhaps fortune really does favour the brave, or stupid, or inebriated. Whatever the truth, he's a man on a mission, and there will be no stopping him.

Walking on, he sees the line of tearful, fearful slaves. Guards are ushering them forwards. No, ushering is the wrong word. They are being beaten forwards and Niggley is no exception. He feels a baton on his back and stumbles to his knees. Moments later, Heinrich, walking behind him, takes a sound whack and yelps. Niggley turns his head and sees Jugmina pulled aside by a pair of laughing guards and recognises the leering looks on their faces. Their intention is clear. Staring at the guards, he uses his P.I.S.H. skill and conjures a path, one below their feet, heading straight down. The shock on their faces is expected as both disappear into the solid roadway. When out of sight, he removes the path, their screams dying instantly, as do they.

Jugmina stumbles and begins to tumble off the road but Heinrich races forward and pulls her back to safety. Regaining his feet, Niggley looks along the line, locates the other guards and does the same for them all. Now free of beatings the slave-line pauses and all eyes turn to him. He sees their desperate expressions and knows he has chosen the correct path. He looks to the end of the roadway and walks forward, the staring slaves parting as if giving him a guard of honour.

A hundred and eleven steps later, and Niggley has counted each one, he knows that he has reached the end of the road. 'Heinrich, take my hand,' he says, reaching back, knowing the boy is behind him.

'Sorry Worshipful Master but you're heavier than me. You might pull me over.'

'I'll not fall, Hein _eurgh_ ,' exclaims Niggley, barely keeping his balance as he peers over the edge, into the conical mouth of the beast below. 'Bloody hell, that'sh a long way down.'

'It is and I see what you intend. The ladies still have the alcohol, over forty thousand units. You intend for us to tip it all into the beast so it can pickle itself to death. I take back everything I thought about you previously. You're a genius and I want to be just like you when I grow up. Move aside and we'll start.' says Heinrich, grinning proudly at a man he never thought he would come to admire.

Niggley looks into the adoring eyes of the boy and rubs a hand over his hair. 'Heinrich, you're a good lad and promishe me one thing before you get out of here. A proper promishe, with hand on heart,' he insists, and hiccups loudly.

'Oh course Worshipful Master, I'll promise you anything.'

'Good boy. Promishe me you won't look back and that you'll never touch a drop of thish evil shtuff ... ever! Promishe me you'll get a proper professhion and never get involved with drunksh or politiciansh, though technically they are very shimilar.'

Heinrich appears confused. 'I can't do that. I want to be just like you. I want to be a member of P.I.S.H. and make paths and ...'

Niggley crouches and presses a finger to the boy's lips, at the second attempt, halting his words. He glances up at three teary ladies before gripping Heinrich by the shoulders, at the first attempt. He stares into his eyes. 'Heinrich, you've made an old man very happy, but not in a pervy way, that'sh jusht wrong, I'm not like that. I'd never er ... what wash the question?'

Before Heinrich can say a word, female hands pull the boy away and Jugmina steps forward. She places the crates of _Bavarian Brain Buggerer Beer ™_ at the end of the roadway and kisses Niggley on the cheek. 'You were the best I ever had,' she whispers, and turns away.

Nipplette takes her place, seeing Niggley's cross-eyed bemusement and she kisses him on the lips, while holding her breath. 'I'll never forget how I bit my tongue when you first touched me,' she purrs, placing a dozen bottles of super strength Schnapps beside the beer crates.

Walking forward, Tittiana hands him six shot-belts she'd been concealing beneath her blouse. 'When we were in that attic room I saw rainbows and you had me flying high. We know what you intend and me and my sisters will pray for your safe return, while bathing together ... naked,' she says, and backs off, wiping tears from her cheeks.

Niggley stares at the three women, looks at the long drop behind him, stares back at the women, and starts to sweat. He smiles crookedly, reaches down and picks up a bottle of two hundred percent proof Schnapps. He glugs it down and totters a little. Next, he reaches into his robe pocket, removes three _Tarpit ™ Full Strength_ fags and lights them, sucking the toxic fumes deep into his lungs. 'Ladiesh, it'sh been a pleasure, for me only I expect, now go. I eshtimate you've got about fifteen minutesh,' he says, while peering at the copious amount of alcohol beside him.

Three ladies smile at Niggley, tears flowing freely down their faces, and they grip tightly to Heinrich, who is fighting their woman-handling, but to no avail.

Soon enough, Niggley is alone, at the end of the road it might be said, sitting with his legs dangling over the edge. He is glugging from a bottle in each hand and when empty, he tosses them into the air and reaches for others, all the time smoking his lungs out.

Down below, on the floor of the immense cavern, the scene is lacking any kind of party atmosphere, and SAS operatives understand what it's like to be the main course at a dinner party. Their impressive weaponry simply cannot cope with an army of veracious, flesh-ripping velociraptors.

'Unit Zeta, report. Unit Zeta ... fuck it! Unit Gamma, come in. I said come in! For fuck sake, will somebody come in?' screams Bear into his woggle but only static rules the airwaves.

Eventually, a voice is heard, crackling but audible. 'Sir, it's Tarquin from Accounts. Can I help in any way?'

Bear stares confusedly at his woggle. 'Tarquin, Accounts? Where are you?'

'I'm at the top of a lift shaft but there's no lift. I'm feeling a bit useless up here. Maureen, who empties the bins back at HQ, got bored of waiting, so she's going through the castle checking their recycling regime. She's not happy, sir.'

'Tarquin, have you got repelling equipment in your standard-issue pack?'

'I'll have a look. Is it like a fly spray or something?' asks Tarquin.

'It's a fucking rope with metal attachments to help me get back up. It's like abseiling but in reverse,' growls Bear, crouching behind the shower unit, staying out of sight.

'There's no need to swear, sir. Now let's see ... oh yes, there's a rope with metal things attached. Is that what you're after?'

'Too right son, now throw it down the lift shaft,' says Bear, a grin finally returning.

'It's on its way, sir,' replies Tarquin.

Bear waits beside the broken lift car and hears the rope drop, clattering loudly. 'Tarquin, I've just thought of something. Did you attach the end of the rope to something solid?'

'No, you never said to. You said throw it down.'

'Fantastic soldier! Thank you so very much. I guess I'm going to die down here then.'

'Don't be ridiculous, sir. You're Bear-Grilled-Steak, SAS Chief, and you can do anything. That was in my training. I'm sure you'll find another way up.'

As Bear prepares to rip off his woggle, he hears inane laughter and singing coming through the comms. He pauses, looking confused. 'Who is this?'

'Bear Grilled-Shteak, made a mishtake. Messhed up his hunt, what a shilly cu...'

'Niggley, get off this wavelength, now!' demands Bear, looking around for the man but not seeing him.

'I shee you Bear and you're an iddy-biddy little man far below.'

'Niggley I'm warning you, get off this wavelength or you'll be in serious trouble.'

Drunken laughter can be heard. 'Sherioush trouble, ooh I'm shcared. You have no idea what sherioush er ... what wash the question?'

'Niggley, I'll have your head for this!' shouts Bear, a little too loudly.

'Shush,' says Niggley, pressing a finger to his lips. 'They've got really good hearing. Eshpecially the two velociprapt... vecoli... dinoshaurs with big fangs and clawsh, shtalking you. They shmell you, Bear. They know you're there.'

Bear falls silent and doesn't dare look out from behind the shower unit. He checks his hand-rifle which still has a half-full, but more likely, half-empty magazine. So this is it, he thinks, time to ... but Niggley can be heard again.

'Okay, I'll shave you, now when I shay, move to the left, kill the bashtard in front of you and keep running,' says Niggley. 'I know you're ashking yourshelf if you can trusht me but what other option do you have? You'll shee a forklift truck and shtick to the left of it, but only jusht. I don't like you Bear but I do like my country sho keep running and firing and I hope you redeem yourshelf one day. Don't look back and get ready for a shock. Nod if you undershtand.'

Niggley sees Bear nod and looks down at the forklift. He then looks at a fire escape staircase snaking from the cavern floor, disappearing into the cavern wall, high above. One that leads back into the lower reaches of the castle. The intended path will take Bear halfway up, providing the man runs straight and true. 'Ready, Bear,' he says, feeling his head swim as he drops the eleventh empty Schnapps bottle. 'Go!'

Bear knows he has no choice. His death is imminent, so why not follow a fool's errand? He exits his cover, to the left as Niggley suggested, and initiates 'multi-fire' and 'triple-damage' on his hand-rifle. The viciously clawed dinosaur drops to the ground, minus a head, and sprinting forward, he hurdles it. The second velociraptor is now on his case but he doesn't look back. He only has eyes for the forklift ... and the other six beasts rapidly closing in on his position.

He fires all around in swathes and runs past the forklift as Niggley suggested, but there is no escape. 'Niggley, there's no way out you fucking bast...' he begins, but his words end as he trips and starts to slide upwards. He peers down, sees clear air beneath him, regains his feet, and keeps running. A man of Bear's standing knows never to question anything when his life is on the line. He continues to run and despite his bravery, doesn't look down, or back.

'And sho you shee,' says Niggley, over the comms. 'Keep running shtraight, you're doing fine.'

'Niggley, what trickery is this?' demands Bear, his words shaky.

'No trickery Bear, jusht keep going and I shuggesht you get a move on. I'm really, really pisshed, even for me, and I'm not sure how long I can keep the path shtable.'

'Right I ...' begins Bear, understandably pausing. 'Thanks Niggley, now get out of here. I'm calling in a Dark-Zero Murmur-Albatross to bomb this place to oblivion.'

'Bear, there'sh no need, I have a plan,' says Niggley, burping long and loud.

'Yeah right. Does it involve unicorns and yetis?'

'No, it involvesh the Great Alchemisht, the one you didn't believe in. And it involves me, the one you sherioushly didn't believe in. Don't make me shay more Bear ash I'm running out of bottles and loshing the plower of shpeleach.'

Bear continues to run up the invisible path. 'Niggley, you've got ten minutes. If this place isn't down by then, I'll send in the bomber, you understand me?'

'That'sh glood henough. I'd shalute you Bear but my left shide has jusht glone numb. Oh well no ma... mar... matterer.'

Bear reaches the top of the invisible path and scrambles onto the fire escape. He looks out at the cavern and staring up, finally notices a high roadway. He thinks he can make out a pair of legs dangling off the end. His right fist clenches and he raises it to his forehead. It then unclenches and holding the fingers straight, he salutes. 'Do what you can Niggley, and God dammit, good luck.'
Chapter Forty Four

Fast-Tracking France

Professor Brain has been trying to entertain himself by playing his keyboard in the conventional manner, not using the mystical abilities it possesses, but seeing people dying in their droves is somewhat off-putting. With God departed, he has taken up a position close to the ceiling of the enormous 'France' chamber and conjured a chair. A plain wooden one with a backrest as the weight of the keyboard on his hip, though not heavy, does pull after a while. The chair is tipped forward slightly so he can see down and follow proceedings. After a few minutes his playing takes on a different dimension.

He knows there are billions, perhaps trillions of planets in the Galaxy, providing ample opportunity for life, thus foregoing an extinction event should a single one fail, but they are way out in the ether of space. Right here and now he is looking at his own planet, a tiny part of it, and to say he is having fun would be monumentally wrong. But it is satisfying picking out the ruthless guards below, lifting, then moving them over the pool in the middle of the chamber and dangling their feet in the brine.

The gathered sharks now have new toys to play with. Blood is one thing but furious movement is something else. Brain knows that sharks can taste blood from miles away but he also knows they can sense frightened movement equally well. He estimates several thousand guards are currently 'fishing' and at last the slaves are no longer being thrown in. That hasn't stopped them dying in their ever turning world but at least they can fall with a sense of dignity and without having to enter the food chain.

He checks a timer on his keyboard, which shows God has been gone for fifty-six minutes, so not long to wait now and he prepares for what the French might name: a piece de resistance. He glances at the keys beneath his fingers, looks up at the massive sign which says 'France,' and closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath, seeing in his mind the screens showing the giant, chained plesiosaurs and his fingers hover - waiting.

Tick-tock goes the clock, and when the hour is up, he hears a distinctive pop. God is beside him, floating in the air.

'It is done and there'll be no more deaths, Professor. They all have a place to go to,' says God, taking a moment to look down at the guard-shaped shark-bait and he raises an eyebrow to the professor.

'Tell me where exactly?'

'Does it matter? You're going to do what you do regardless but know they will not die here. You have the word of an Omni on that.'

'So where will they die?' asks Brain, opening his eyes.

'That wasn't part of the deal. You asked for them to be moved away and nothing more. Know that they'll be cared for.'

'I see and I also see they're still here. I won't bring down this installation until they're gone,' insists Brain, finally turning to face God.

'Very well but before I do so, I need to ask you a question,' says God, staring back.

'Might my answer change your mind?'

'Do you realise we're living in a dangerous age?' asks God.

'Was that your question because if it was, you just wasted an opportunity? Don't worry, I know what I'm doing and I know what's at stake. Now, let me ask you a question. Are you concerned about the consequences of my intended action?'

God peers quizzically at Brain and a worrying thought flits through his mind. Is the man really in the know regarding the ultimate payback? He glances at the keyboard, then back into the man's eyes. For the first time he notices the spears of emerald criss-crossing his irises and he has his answer. The Professor is one of Flora's; there can be no doubt now. 'I'm a little ... hesitant, Professor. I must admit,' says God, feeling uncomfortable.

'Well don't be. Just get these people out of here. We'll see soon enough what the future brings, but for now, Swizzeland must fall.'

God nods his bald, black head. 'Indeed and good luck. I hope our next meeting will be in brighter times.'

'That's unlikely but who knows,' says Brain, turning back to his keyboard.

As the slaves within the Quite Big Hardon Collider installation mysteriously fade away, Brain presses four fingers to his keyboard, while staring in turn at the screens showing the underwater dinosaurs connected to the huge island of France. The first finger presses the note S, the second - P, the third hits E twice, and the last slams down hard on D. Together they play the word 'SPEED' and the spindle in the middle of the cavern starts to rotate faster.

As the chains tear inwards, wrapping around the underwater section of the spindle, they continue to accelerate. Two miles an hour becomes twenty and then fifty. When Brain finally removes his fingers from the notes, the island of France is approaching Swizzeland at over three hundred miles an hour. The sheer weight of the bigger island will most certainly swamp the lesser. Add to that, a bow wave over a thousand feet high as France is rising on its leading edge, there is likely to be very little left.

The Professor estimates contact to be no more than four minutes away and with another deft swipe of his keyboard, releases the islands joined to Swizzeland. They will have little time to move away but at least they won't be sunk to the depths. But he does wonder about the smaller islands, those of Lickastein and Luxuryburg.

He knows that Jeermany will be fine, a little swamped around the edges, as will the others, but that can't be helped.

He takes a last look at the screens, and plays his instrument for a final time in this Hellish place, that which used to be his cherished, Quite Big Hardon Collider. The notes G and O are played and he is soon floating above the main entrance to the installation.
Chapter Forty Five

Departing Souls

With Devbo ejected, the warlock Garenthis releases Cloudier and instantly she pulls a tight tornado around her body before she falls to the floor. She whips forward through the Chapel, clangs her bracelets together and two bolts of lightning hit the creature in the chest. It stumbles slightly, snarls, and beams of yellow light shoot from its eyes. Before they can reach their target, three Eek Cobras rise from Cloudier's hair, extend their hoods, and open their own eyes. The yellow beam explodes in a blinding flash and both combatants are thrown backwards. Garenthis regains his feet unsteadily and shakes his scaly head in shock. As he pats smouldering patches on his robe he notes Cloudier is back in the air and advancing.

Garenthis' lizard eyes are wide. 'That's not possible,' he says, as he turns to the anomaly on the altar. 'She hurt me!'

Cloudier chuckles devilishly. 'Poor diddums, did my babies make you sore? Come on little boy, look into my dark made-up eyes. Go on, make my day!' she snarls, releasing two more tornadoes that whip up the burnt and beaten bodies of the dead holy men, along with a few wooden pews. She launches the airborne detritus at the lizard warlock and follows it with more lightning bolts. Throughout the chapel, thunder and lightning crashes, and if anybody were watching, it would certainly be a little bit frightening.

Continually she pounds the creature and at the last she raises her hands, wrists held together. 'Well, it's been a pleasure but what do you know, time waits for no woman.'

'You said you'd take her!' hisses Garenthis, again addressing the anomaly as he shields himself from masses of flying debris.

Suddenly, all becomes still, with bodies and broken pews falling to the floor. Cloudier's tornado dissipates and a female voice echoes throughout the chapel. The words are hard yet unthreatening. 'And so I shall, Garenthis. Come Cloudier, it's time for us to finally meet.'

Cloudier pauses, her head whipping round to face the imprisoned chaos and from within the swirling mass above the altar, a hand reaches out. She floats, mesmerised, the hand drawing ever closer and watches it stop just before her. The fingers and thumb splay, rest against her chest, then continue inside. She feels coldness spread throughout her being and screams loudly. As her body shakes uncontrollably, she looks down and sees the hand withdraw. It is holding something, an emerald light, and the hand retracts back into the chaotic mass. Once inside, the anomaly brightens to eye-watering levels before starting to collapse. It slowly implodes, the red-energy bonds dropping away and just before winking out, a female voice chuckles. Seconds later, there is no sign the thing ever existed.

Cloudier's lifeless body drops heavily to the chapel floor and walking forward, Garenthis gives it a kick. There is no response and even the snakes in the woman's hair appear dead. The agent of the Lurking Peril smiles, wickedly. The deal is done, the plan has worked, and the imprisoned Omni, Flora, has her prize. The Master's own restoration should now be a formality. There will not be long to wait before he reclaims that which was stolen nine thousand years previously and he won't be tricked by the likes of God and Lucifer this time. He will be ready for them.

Garenthis turns to the altar, takes a small glass jar from inside his robe and prepares to depart. He smashes it down and the Revealing Powder opens a gateway back to his own realm, a set of stairs leading downwards into darkness. He chuckles but then pauses on hearing a voice.

'Where do ye think ye're going yer scaly bastard?' shouts Jocky Chan, stepping through the entrance of the chapel.

A smile crosses Garenthis' thin lips. 'I recognise that voice but forgive me if I don't turn. I have an appointment to keep and the Master frowns on tardiness.'

'Ye're going nowhere now turn and face me like a ... lizard.'

'I think not on this occasion, Jocky,' says Garenthis, taking another step toward his exit. 'There has been enough death for one day, don't you think?'

'Aye, but one more willnae make much difference. You stole my wee bairn and ye'll pay for that,' says Jocky, walking toward the altar, down the centre of the chapel.

Finally, the lizard turns and faces his old, or rather, auld enemy. On seeing the man, Garenthis' lizard eyes flare but only momentarily. His shock is swiftly concealed and he struggles to believe that Jocky Chan has aged so badly. This isn't the man he faced so long ago. 'I didn't steal the female, Jocky. Your old girlfriend did, as well you know.'

Jocky nods on finally seeing a lizard face. 'Och Garenthis, I had a hunch ye'd survived back then. Ye're right, she has taken my lassie but she's nay here anymore. That leaves only you. Now attack me!' he shouts, clenching his fists and extending his index fingers.

Garenthis sighs, shakes his head and his black, forked tongue flickers out. 'I don't need to attack you and here's why. I guessed one of you lot would turn up? Bellendi maybe, but I know he's close by with the so-called martial arts expert, Devbo. Do you think for one second I wouldn't have arranged an insurance policy? Here, I'll show you, and I suggest you two stop loitering outside. I'd like you to see this as well. That's right, come on in, the more the merrier.'

Bellendi enters the chapel and he has a tight grip on Devbo's arm. Both walk silently forward and stand next to Jocky. If looks could kill then the lizard warlock would already be a bloodied smudge on the floor. All three turn as an image appears on the Sistine Chapel wall. It appears to be a living room and there are four humans, gagged, bound, and sat on the carpeted floor. They appear terrified, especially the three children, and the reason is obvious. Half a dozen lizards are behind them, prodding them occasionally with long claws.

'You see,' says Garenthis, gesturing toward the image. 'If you prevent my return I'll send the order to kill the hostages. I'm sure you'll not want those four on your conscience.'

'What's four more you murdering bastard,' says Devbo, trying to break Bellendi's hold.

'Hush bairn!' shouts Jocky, his angry retort making Devbo flinch. 'That's Cloudier's family and she wouldnae thank us for getting them killed. So what's the deal lizard-brain? We let you leave and they go free, I suppose.'

Garenthis shakes his head. 'You're half right, Jocky. I leave and then you have a chance of saving them. You'll have four hours and I can't say fairer than that. So what's it to be?'

'Sensei, we can kill him before he gives the order,' says Devbo, judging the distance between Garenthis and his exit.

'We cannae ye wee spuggy-brain. He's already given the order. Okay, ye scaly bastard, piss off out of here and the Lurking Peril help ye if ye're lying. I'll come after ye, ye know I will, and I'll feed ye to my _Haggi_ , a bit at a time.'

Garenthis sneers. 'You still have those nasty little beasts. I hope they've aged better than you. So we have an accord and that is a sensible decision. Well, I must say it has not been a pleasure to see you again and I'll be off. Happy hunting and I dare say we'll be catching up in the near future,' he says, then turns and uses his exit steps. Once through, the hole closes, and the altar is whole again.

Jocky is already exchanging nods with the Great Bellendi when Devbo turns to them. 'We need to get to Cloudier's house.'

'Devbo, ye're nay going and before you spit yer dummy out, listen,' says Jocky, finally unclenching his fists. 'Ye're going with the Big Monk Mon back to the monastery and ye're taking Cloudier. Once she's settled, ye're going to find Anton and take him there too.'

Devbo looks down at Cloudier's body, his confusion obvious. 'But Jocky man she's ...'

'Call me Sensei ye wee bastard!' snarls Jocky, an index finger poised an inch from Devbo's chest. 'Ye're nay going and that's final. I'm going, with two of my Haggi. This is personal and it's about time I stretched myself a wee bit. I've been stuck on that damned volcanic stack far too long and I need to dust off the cobwebs. Dinnae fret laddie, I eat lizards for breakfast, fried normally, and they'll nay be a problem. Now piss off, I need to meditate.'

Devbo relaxes when an index finger is withdrawn. 'You've only got four hours. How will you get there? I'll wait here with Cloudier. The Great Bellendi can take you.'

'Devbo, Sensei Jocky doesn't need my assistance to travel long distances. How do you think he got here? I didn't bring him,' says Bellendi, finally joining the conversation. 'Good hunting, Jocky. We'll see you back at the monastery when you're done.'

Again Devbo is led away and behind them, Jocky drops into the lotus position. He closes his eyes, raises his arms and holds them horizontal, with the palms of his hands facing down. Moments later, a _Haggi_ appears under each, and then, the old Sensei and his pets disappear.

For a man of Jocky's skills the journey will take no more than an hour, which will give him time to warm up his old muscles. Within minutes he has reached the kind of speed many aircraft can only dream about and he breaks the sound barrier. The sonic boom should be a passing phenomenon but the noise gets louder. For anybody listening, and there are very few admittedly, the boom becomes a roar - an anguished roar of rage.

Once outside the chapel, Bellendi halts, pulls Devbo round to face him and they stare at each other.

'Great Bellendi man, shouldn't we have brought Cloudier with us?' asks Devbo, surprising himself at keeping it together so well.

'We'll go back for her shortly. Give Sensei Jocky time to depart first.'

'Eh, I don't understand?' says Devbo, glancing back at the chapel entrance.

'No Devbo, you don't, but you will in time. Your Sensei isn't as useless as he likes to make out,' says Bellendi, gently shaking his head.

'I've never thought he was useless, just not as good as he likes to think he is.'

Bellendi chuckles humourlessly and places a hand on the younger man's shoulder. 'Jocky is ten times better than even he thinks he is. Consider this Devbo, how many men do you know who could head-butt an agent of the Lurking Peril from a thousand feet up and come away with only a slight headache? Your Sensei likes to play the fool but he most certainly isn't one,' he says, his eyes suddenly looking skyward as if watching something. 'Okay, he's gone, so let's get Cloudier back to the monastery and make her comfortable.'

Devbo appears confused. 'Great Bellendi man, she's ... dead.'

'Technically, you are right but death need only be temporary. You of all people should know the truth of that,' says Bellendi, a half-smile on his lips.

'So God can bring her back to life?' asks Devbo, hope brightening his eyes.

'God, no not him, nor Lucifer. There's only one who can restore Cloudier and that's the one who took her,' says Bellendi, a frown crossing his features. 'We just have to hope she did it for a sound reason and not because she has made a pact with the enemy.'

Devbo shakes his head. 'I'm right confused, man.'

'I know but don't concern yourself. All will become clear, now let's get Cloudier and then you can go fetch Anton. Once we're back together we can try and discover what happened to Moneekar. Quite frankly, her disappearance has me stumped.'

'Cloudier said she might have ... died in the explosion at that old factory,' says Devbo, his words catching.

'Believe that do you?'

'No way, Moneekar's no wimp,' says Devbo, sighing as they approach Cloudier's lifeless body. 'She'll be okay and would have had a good reason for leaving.'

Bellendi nods, though he's not feeling as confident. 'Let's hope so. You take Cloudier's legs and I'll take her shoulders as the Eek cobras are still dangerous, even when hibernating.'

'Will Sensei Jocky be able to free her family on his own?'

'He's not on his own, he has a pair of _Haggi_ with him, not that he needs them. He's just showing off really and I almost pity the lizards. Almost, but not quite.'

'Will you tell me what's really going on?' asks Devbo, lifting Cloudier easily, as the woman weighs little.

'When we're all back together, I'll tell everyone what I can. Currently though my understanding has a few holes and there's a pair of individuals I want a little chat with first.'

'Who's that then?' asks Devbo.

'So many questions, but its God and Lucifer if you must know. Now let's leave this place. It smells bad.'

The two men carry Cloudier's body between them and gently strap her onto Bellendi's pterodactyl. They mount their saddles and are in the air soon after.

Below them, a lone man steps from the front of the defiled Basilica and into the devastation of St Peter's Square. The Pope closes his eyes, grips his rosary, falls to his knees, and prays.

Elsewhere, an Omni hears his words and smashes a Heavenly blue cocktail, scattering more glass on a bamboo hut floor.
Chapter Forty Six

Not So Great Alchemist

Hordes of velociraptors are chowing down and the majority of the meals are dead but some are still breathing. As the injured scream for help all they receive are rows of viciously sharp teeth. The scene is carnage on a grand scale and only one SAS operative escaped. A man who is currently running through the castle at a speed that can only be described as - damned fast!

Back in the cavern, on a high roadway, and well away from being on the menu, Niggley is nearly done. The last bottle is about to be cast away when he feels something cold, round, and hollow, pressed to the back of his head. He doesn't need to turn to know what it is. He can barely speak but he's determined to have the final word. He draws on all his P.I.S.H. Worshipful Master strength. 'Frau Murky, I preshume.'

The woman sneers and part compresses a weapon trigger. 'It is, Herr Zanet, or should I call you, Niggley Barrage, leader of the United Queendom Inebriated Party, and cunning spy.'

Niggley chuckles, then burps, hiccups, and farts, damply. 'That'sh me baby.'

'I admit I fell for your seduction technique but I'll not make the same mistake again,' says Frau Murky, spitting at her captive.

'I sheduced you?' asks Niggley, trying to think back, but the memory is long lost in an alcoholic haze.

'Of course. Only a man can seduce a woman and not the other way around. The hairy sexual intercourse can only ever be instigated by a male. You played me Herr Barrage, and now, I'm going to shoot you in the head. What do you say to that?'

Niggley laughs loudly, too loudly, and vomit spatters down the front of his robe. 'Shaushage dumpling, I shay ... catch me if you can,' he drunkenly slurs, and topples forward off the roadway, avoiding the two shots Frau Murky had intended for blasting his head apart. As the woman screams in rage she races to the edge, points her gun down, and then pulls it back. She sees where he is falling, right into the gaping maw of the Great Alchemist, and she smiles. She steps away and places the _Knob-Tonguer_ pistol inside her whalebone bodice. Turning, she casually walks back along the roadway.

Niggley peers down, then he peers left, upwards, and finally to the right. He rotates as he tumbles and truthfully, it doesn't matter which way he peers. He knows where he is going and has only one wish. He is hoping for a soft landing and to not die instantly otherwise his somewhat stupid plan will fail before it can be executed.

On his last look down he has noted concentric circles of flesh-coloured pads below, pulsing up and down inside the mouth of the creature. His legs are the first to hit, the landing softer than expected, but he still feels pain as both hips dislocate and he bounces across the mouth. Thankfully, he remains conscious, his inbuilt regeneration skill swiftly masking the searing pain. Again, he hits the fleshy pads but suffers no further dislocations.

He briefly wonders what it must have been like for those who fell before but knows he doesn't have time to grieve for them. He is on a mission to take down the Great Alchemist in the only way he knows how.

His body starts sliding downwards and he is heading for a dark hole. Shuffling as best he can he ensures a leg enters first, followed by the rest of his body, with the other leg awkwardly tucked behind his back. He drops into a dark, fleshy tunnel and instantly, the sides start crushing inwards, breaking many bones throughout his body. The pain is immense, even for such an inebriate as him, and he tries to convince himself he has had worse, but he hasn't. He thinks of the plan, only the plan, as he continues to cling to consciousness.

Further he slides and the crushing gets worse. He can feel the insides of the creature tight around his head, and his body is squeezed to the same dimensions. Niggley knows he is experiencing the last flickers of life, so it's now or never. He draws in breath for the final time, the air tasting fetid and corrosive. His lungs expand and he ignores the pain of broken bones trying to scythe into them but it would take more than a sharp bone to pierce the outer edge of the _Tarpit ™ Full Strength_ toxin-lined organs.

The Great Alchemist cannot be killed with weapons from the outside, but he hopes it can be killed from within. As the saying goes, Niggley's new saying that is, the best way to topple an evil empire is to have a man on the inside, literally in this case.

Niggley feels his heart finally stop beating as his abused body exits the crushing tunnel and drops into the stomach of the beast. It splashes down into a vast pool of acid and starts to sink. His plan is a go and he instinctively expels the air from his lungs in a long drawn out burp, which bubbles to the surface. It's not much of a plan, or so it seems, but he had prepared that which is most heinous, the dreaded - Death Burp! And then, he dies.

Being a Worshipful Master, and possessing the knowledge of his ilk, a concentrated forty-thousand percent proof, bubbly burp, isn't to be sniffed at. Seriously, it isn't. It mixes with the surrounding stomach acid, as well as the internal corrosive atmosphere, and sets in motion what he had hoped would be a devastating chain reaction.

Science had never been Niggley's strong point but even he knew it would take a monumental strength to survive such a lethal poison. Being of unsound mind, and partially pickled, he could survive such an onslaught but could the Great Alchemist? Despite him being dead, mostly dissolved, and his component atoms making their way through the beast, to be extruded as something valuable or a supermarket ready meal, he has taken a gamble. He has gambled that the creature had not previously been exposed to such high levels of the deadly drugs of nicotine and alcohol and the torment they bring.

He had also soiled himself but that was unintentional. Excreting Beer-Diarrhoea and a Bladder-Shiver-Yellow-River, was a natural reaction to dying but every little helps. Niggley has done all he can and his only regret, before he died, was not knowing the outcome.

Around him, the Great Alchemist spasms on its platform, flips into the air, lands heavily, and causes the whole cavern to shake.

Bear is making his way through the castle's corridors, toward the exit, when the castle trembles, causing dust to fly and objects to tumble. He pauses momentarily then swiftly continues on, running past slaves fleeing the madness below. Seconds later, the castle really jumps, sending a ceiling crashing down. He mutters swear words, only for him to hear, and sprints a little faster.

He wonders what Niggley has done but truthfully, he doesn't care. The castle is falling and he needs to get the hell out. Following the handy exit signs, nailed to the walls, he runs around a turn in the corridor, and skids to a halt when the castle bucks again. More fixtures and fittings fall but that isn't what made him stop. He sees slaves struggling to leave and others are lying on the floor, either exhausted or dead. Now he swears loudly and grabs a woman who was limping along the corridor, being supported by a small girl. He places the woman over his shoulder, gripping her legs tightly to stop her sliding off, and lifts the girl with his other arm.

He starts to run as best he can with the extra burden but stops again. Looking down at the floor he imagines a man far below. 'Niggley, I'd salute you but I'm a bit loaded right now. I take it all back. You're a damn hero,' he says, and takes off again, feeling the tears of the girl he is carrying against his cheek, where they mix with his own.

Bear exits the castle, no longer running but stumbling forward. To his relief there are a line of Bavarians from the town, helping the escaping slaves to safety. The woman and child are taken from him and he slumps to the ground, exhausted.

Trying to catch his breath, he reaches a hand to his backside, and shuffling awkwardly, retrieves a standard-issue high-energy ration pack, which he devours. His strength starts to flow back and he pushes himself to his feet. As he looks through the castle door, there is an almighty crash, the ground shakes, and then drops a few inches.

Everyone on the path leading to the town stands still, with many frightened eyes looking at each other. Bear curses again, this time extremely loudly. 'Fucking run!' he shouts, and takes off along the path, shoving everyone in front of him, making sure they have got the message.

Slaves and Bavarians head along the narrow path as best they can, but Bear doesn't overtake them. He stays at the back, and as the castle behind him starts to disintegrate in the impromptu earthquake, he feels small parts of his soul being torn away on seeing people fall from the path and into the deep gorge.

The ground continues to tremble, the path growing ever narrower as chunks fall away but Bear urges those fleeing, on. Only when he reaches a red and white striped barrier at the bottom, does he feel his adrenaline drain away, and he falls to the ground, utterly spent.

A job well done, he knows, and he stares back at the castle. His relief fails and a frozen chill floods through him. The castle has collapsed in on itself and is dropping into the deep gorge but the path is mostly intact, as are the numerous slaves still making their way along it. He then focuses on the far end of the path, that nearest the castle and sees it is starting to fall. As yet, the slaves closest to the barrier will survive but those further back ...

As he watches, helpless, he hears a voice, but at first it doesn't register, such is his distress.

It repeats. 'This is Night-Flight, Guvnor. We'll save as many as we can, ginger hair or bloody not!' shouts Crispy Evans, through the comms.

Bear lifts his woggle and stares at the communicator attached to it. 'Crispy?'

'That's a yes, Guvnor.'

'Whatever you're going to do, make it quick, that path won't hold for long.'

'Not a prob. We're coming in fast, trailing Redback-Sticky-Ropes from the cargo doors. We'll get them.'

'Just do what you ...' begins Bear, but his words falter on seeing the path fall apart sending living souls downwards into oblivion. 'They're falling!'

'Gotcha Guvnor, we see them. All eagles take a dive, we've got fallers,' says Crispy, without a hint of gibbering. Apparently the man can be serious when necessary.

Bear waits, hearing fearful shouts from those watching on the edge of the Bavarian town of Feckenschmacker, and many turn away in distress.

Bear doesn't, as he is more interested in what his ears are telling him. He can hear twelve Dark-Zero Shush-Eagles sweep into the chasm on the far side. He knows they will bank sharply and come around, trailing their sticky ropes, but he doesn't hold much hope. The castle and the rocky outcrop are tumbling downwards but also outwards, and it would take some seriously crazy pilots to not pull up.

As more rock falls into the gorge, a billowing cloud of dust shoots upwards and Bear knows the planes have to get out of there. Certainly, they have already passed the front of the castle, but way down in the gorge, and would have made their catches is possible. He stands. He grips his forehead. He holds his breath.

'Ginger bloody gibbering hair, that was close!'

Bear stares stupidly at his woggle communicator. 'Report Crispy, did you save any?'

'Every single one, Guvnor, we're pulling them in now. These sticky-ropes are great,' shouts Crispy, remembering at the last to say. 'Gibber, gibber.'

Bear licks his lips. 'I didn't hear right. You said you got all of them.'

'That's a ginger yes, Guvnor.'

'But how?'

'Well Guvnor, it's like this,' begins Crispy. 'I'm that bloody good.'

Bear releases his woggle and drops to the ground, landing heavily on his backside. On contact he shifts his weight to his left buttock, realising he is still sore down below and vows never to test run an SAS non-standard-issue TARDI-arse ever again, regardless of its carrying capacity.

He wipes sweat from his brow, rises to his feet, and sees the Bavarian boy, Heinrich, approaching. He starts to salute but swiftly doubles over in pain on feeling a kick in a place he'd rather not have got one.

'Bear Grilled-Steak, if you call the serving ladies cheap tarts again, I'll do more than just kick you in the man-bits. I'll stamp on them until they really hurt. I'll not have you saying anything bad about them, or the Worshipful Master, do you understand?' shouts Heinrich, pulling his leg back for another shot on goal.

Bear looks the boy in the eye and weighs up his options. He can kill him in any number of ways but ... 'I understand,' he says, taking it on the chin, or more deservedly, lower down.

'Good, and be thankful my parents are holding the ladies back. They were all for tearing your man-bits off, with pliers, very blunt ones.'

'I've had wor... I understand,' says Bear again, both hands covering his nether regions.

As Bear flounders on the ground, no longer looking Heinrich in the eye, another SAS operative intervenes. Lance Corporal Chip, with dried brown stains on his light and dark blue SAS fatigues, steps between the man and boy. 'Allow me Chief Bear, I'll deal with this. I suggest you go up to the town. Third Captain Dilbert is in the beerhall so perhaps you can go and exchange notes or something.'

'Sure,' is all Bear says, as he rolls onto his knees, pushes himself upright, and waddles like a ruptured duck toward the town centre.

'Just follow the line of empty steins on the ground, sir. You can't miss it and I suggest you don't call any of the serving ladies cheap prostitutes. They're tougher than they look.'

'Got you,' says Bear, over his shoulder, as he stumbles forward.

Lance Corporal Chip and Heinrich watch the SAS Chief meander away, both curious as to why he has a hand on his backside as well as his front-side? When out of sight, Chip salutes the slightly shorter boy. 'Before you say anything, Heinrich, he's a brave man, but he went to Eaton, so his social skills are somewhat lacking.'

Heinrich peers suspiciously. 'He spoke cruelly about the ladies and Worshipful Master.'

'I guess so but don't blame Bear for how he treated you. You need to understand that Niggley was a bit of a joke back in the UQ. Nobody was expecting him to actually take down the threat of Europalia.'

'He's a great man,' says Heinrich, his throat constricting on hearing Niggley's name. 'He'll tell you himself when he climbs out.'

Chip looks across at the gorge, the castle and path now gone and he can only imagine the devastation. All that remains is a rumbling far below and a slowly dispersing cloud of dust. He wonders if he should lie to the boy regarding Niggley's chances of survival. Probably best not to. 'Yes, we know that now and he'll be honoured,' says Chip, and he sees the tears in Heinrich's eyes. 'You miss him, don't you?'

'He taught me the most important thing I've ever learned.'

Chip frowns. 'What was that, just between you and me?'

'He taught me that even a fool can achieve greatness,' begins Heinrich, and he grows angry on hearing the young SAS operative laugh. 'Why are you laughing at me? The Worshipful Master has done a great thing!'

'Heinrich, I'm so sorry,' says Chip, finally controlling himself. 'I'm not laughing at you, or Niggley. It's just that your words take me back six months. I don't know if you watched it, but there was a big reality show back in London, and the words, fool, and achieve greatness, struck a chord. Third Captain Dilbert took a bullet for me once,' he says, finally realising that not all fools are useless.

'I don't understand?' says Heinrich.

'No, neither did I until now,' says Chip, thinking about Dilbert and feeling a little guilty.

'Niggley's not coming back is he?' asks Heinrich, the held tears finally breaching his lower eyelids and tumbling down his cheeks.

Chip puts an arm around Heinrich's shoulder and leads the boy back into town. He recalls Dilbert's death clearly, and yet, he still lives. 'Who knows?' says Chip, taking a final glance over his shoulder at the chasm. Stranger things have happened, he thinks.

The castle is in pieces, as is the huge hillock it stood on. Both have reached the bottom of the chasm but the newly distributed weight doesn't stop there. Now spread out, it breaks through into a cavern, one with a round table, and it doesn't stop there, either.

In a larger cavern below, stalactites start to fall, most crashing harmlessly to the stone floor, but some hit creatures not seen on the planet for over nine thousand years. The velociraptors have little choice but to spread their inside bits all around when struck.

As for the Great Alchemist, now bucking around in immense pain, it has a bigger problem. It is trying to emit a toxin from its body that it has no understanding of. Never before has it had indigestion and the cause is being rapidly expelled.

Frau Murky is running across the cavern floor, avoiding falling ceiling-spears and hungry dinosaurs. The former is a problem but the stalactites are few and far between, and the latter is of no concern. She has doused herself with a whole bottle of _Kinky Stunt ™ Anti-Dino Eau-de-Lavvy, 'for hirsute women constantly on the job'_ perfume, which will keep the aggressive lizards at bay.

Her head is pounding, and thoughts are flashing through her mind, asking her questions she would rather not answer. She starts to wonder how she ever got into this mess, but something got to her, she knows that now.

She reaches the door to the long building beneath the Great Alchemist's steel platform and grabs the handle. She wrenches it open, runs inside, and slides to a halt. One of the jewel-positers is whipping around, to and fro, across her path. She stares and sees it contract towards the roof, a purple light beaming from the end, making strange shadows across the floor. Her greed overtakes her senses and she stands beneath the living tube, ready to catch the largest gem ever, she guesses.

With her arms held wide, she hears a disgusting sound. The tube emits a flow of air which has her gasping for breath, and threatens to melt the rollers in her hair. But still she waits, and moments later, she is assailed by another airflow. This time, the toxic expulsion fills her lungs, melting them, as well as the rest of her internal organs. She drops to her knees, dead, and is unaware of a massive gem, fired from the jewel-positer, hitting the top of her head, exploding her kneeling corpse across the floor.

The jewel-positer curls upwards, now un-constipated, shivers, and hangs still. The beast above is relieved but only for a few seconds, as the roof of the cavern falls and billions of tonnes of rock crush it onto the criss-cross, steel girder platform supporting it. Whether relevant or not, the Great Alchemist becomes non-thin, but very regular chips.

With the added weight, the frame buckles and the building beneath is buried in a mountain of rock. The unfortunates, still alive in the sorting and smelting room, are also squished, and the precious mounds of gems and metals are once again buried, which seems fitting.

Nothing remains of the evil machinations of _Ze (New) Union of Europalia_ but there is an addition - an irregular shaped, dark stone, the size of a soccerball, with veins of amber, the colour of a freshly poured pint of lager, meandering across its surface.

If anyone were to dig it out and inspect it closely, they would also see myriad specks of purple, dotting the surface. And if that person were to hold it up to their ear, they might hear strange, gurgling noises coming from within.

As it is, the strange jewel, the _Soul of Niggley_ , is going nowhere - for now.
Chapter Forty Seven

That Sinking Feeling

Professor Brain rises higher, away from the QBHC entrance, and well above the peaks of the Alps. He enters the upper cloud layers but doesn't stop there. He continues to play the notes H-I-G-H, which sound like a banshee being dragged across a cheese-grater. Only when he judges himself to be at a safe distance does he stop.

The atmosphere is cold and sparse, and he conjures a bubble of breathable, warm air. Looking down, he can hear the large island of France but as yet, can see nothing, the cloud below being too thick. Again he plays, the notes A-W-A-Y, and visibility improves.

His eyes widen on seeing the leading edge of France making its way over Swizzeland, as if in slow motion. He knows this isn't the case and despite the larger island travelling at a relatively slow speed, in the grand scheme of physics, its sheer bulk will take some stopping. Most certainly, and he has done the math, the smaller island will not survive.

Swizzeland is dipping, and France is rising higher as the land masses kiss and hug, and he can hear the noise. The incessant grinding and tearing of mountains is sending out clouds of dust and debris.

From his elevated vantage point he sees the other ex-joined Europalian islands drifting further away, them also making a safe distance, well, safe-ish. There will be casualties, no doubt, but that cannot be helped. In such dire times there will always be deaths, collateral damage it is called, but what other option was there?

He hangs his head, knowing there was another option, but he understands the surviving islands of the planet need to sit up and take note. He could easily have sunk Swizzeland, playing a single word on his keyboard, but the planet's leaders would have put that down to an unexplainable, one-off phenomenon, and carried on oblivious in their happy little parliamentary bubbles.

Professor Brain snorts, realising they will do that anyway, but he has a plan.

His contemplating ends on hearing a frightful noise and looking down, sees France three quarters of the way across Swizzeland. As calculated, the larger island has slowed but the smaller is sinking, the additional weight too much for it.

And so it begins, he thinks, and over the next hour sees Swizzeland disappear, heading for the bottom of the oceans. France settles and a huge tsunami is set in motion, displacing vast amounts of brine.

He knows that when the wave finally gives up its energy, many of the smaller islands on the planet will no longer exist on the surface, them being swamped, and sent to the same watery grave as Swizzeland. Lives will be lost, many, many lives, and that was one calculation Brain did not want to make. It is acceptable collateral damage and he keeps telling himself that, hoping one day he might believe it.

If the planet's populace knew what he had done, then rightfully, he would pay for it, but as always, there is method to his - calculating.

Only recently, just prior to setting the fall of Swizzeland in motion by speeding up France, he found a weird file in his keyboard, one named LP, and he accessed it. Who put it there, he has no idea? Maybe it had always been there and only then decided to show itself. That in itself was concerning as it might suggest the keyboard had a level of sentience, but he knows enough about impressive instruments, computers perhaps, to know information can be buried.

Whatever the truth, Brain understands that the how and where is unimportant. Only the information in the file marked LP, standing for Lurking Peril, matters, and it told him everything he needed to know - about God, Lucifer, his strange planet with floating islands, and most importantly, the impending Omni-War.

Of course, he would not have believed it a few days ago, but the appearance of God most certainly sealed the deal. If one Omni exists, then it isn't too fantastical a leap to know the others also do. The file told him a war is imminent and told him how it is coming. It didn't say when, but Brain, being a man of intelligence, a human who loves his planet and all the wonderful creatures on it, did exactly what any decent General does at such times.

He has picked the time of the battle, to suit his liking, not the enemy's and by his calculations, it will be no more than a few weeks away. The first salvos, namely the sinking of the smaller islands and Swizzeland, have been fired, and now he has to muster the troops. Them being - every soul left alive.

The planet's core will be rocked, but not broken, which is a better outcome than waiting for the Lurking Peril to break free, and still have his armies to call upon. Brain knows that LP has managed to sneak an army into the human world and very soon, the battle will be met. Importantly though, they will be without their leader, him still being imprisoned.

The humans however, will not be leaderless, and he is not thinking about God and Lucifer, who are running scared. The file didn't tell him that for definite, but suggested they would probably sit back and let their creations soak up the damage before unleashing their hoards from Heaven and Hell, in a hope of winning.

And so, Professor Brain floats in his bubble and waits.

There is a popping sound beside him and he turns to God, kind of.

'Good work, Professor,' says God, smiling widely, a gold incisor showing. 'The evil has been defeated.'

'Has it?' asks Brain, keeping his expression calm and anger in check, as he stares at the black deity.

God peers curiously and reads the truth. 'No, you're right, it hasn't. How much do you know?'

'How about you tell me everything?' asks Brain, making a point of hovering his fingers over the black and white keys of his instrument.

God sighs and runs a hand over his bald, black head. 'That might take some time and we both know, you can't wait around that long,' he says, peering questioningly.

'Well, if you can't be bothered to answer a simple quest...'

'We will not desert you!' exclaims God, slamming down his staff in mid-air, making the sky rock with thunder. His white, piercing eyes threaten to tear Brain apart. 'Plans have been made, Professor, but the simple fact is, the planet will bear the brunt of the storm. That is as it must be. Those are the rules. Now answer me a simple question or whether you like it or not, we will have a bit of a falling out. Whose side are you on?'

Brain tries to step backwards at the furious verbal assault but doing so without anything solid beneath him, is somewhat tricky. 'I'm on the side of good.'

Again God slams the butt of his staff down. 'There is no good, haven't you realised that! There is no evil! These words mean nothing and are only relative. You, an astrophysicist must realise that. Is a star which explodes killing every living creature in the system, evil? Is a tiger evil when it kills its prey? Is a mother defending her child, evil, if she kicks an assailant in the balls? The galaxy is not black and white, Professor, and you are missing the point. Dark exists, as does light, but the real prize is that which lies in between. Now tell me, whose side are you on?'

'You're talking about creation,' says Brain.

'I'm talking crap and you know it,' interrupts God, sighing deeply and calming his ire. 'Sometimes, in fact, most of the time, we overcomplicate. All I'm asking is whose side are you on? It's not a trick question. You shouldn't have to think about it, because when you do, when any human does, they start questioning their intentions, and make mistakes. The question is simple. Which side have you chosen, and there are more than two. There's a clue.'

Brain smiles viciously and taps notes on his keyboard. 'I've chosen ... the correct one,' he says, and disappears.
Chapter Forty Eight

Raise Your Glasses

The grand old city of London is in lockdown, nobody in, and nobody out. Except UQ nationals, legal and illegal migrants, and, well, anybody really, providing they can find their way past the eighteen Border Control operatives currently stationed at strategic points around the edges of the capital. It is not quite a ring of steel, more like a ring of tin, but needs must, given the swingeing cuts of the past.

The Metropolitan Police have cancelled all leave, and pestering of innocents, so their entire force is ready to roll should things turn ugly. Nine police cars, six motorcycles, all pedal-power of course, and four undercover toffee-apple sellers, wheeling their bicycles in amongst the enormous crowds, are on tenterhooks.

On the River Thames, eight rowboats are patrolling the life-stream of the capital, each officer well trained in using their oars to flick floating turds at anything they don't like the look of. And high in the air, three paragliders are circling, their eyes firmly fixed on the ground, ready to report in should they spot anything suspicious through their magnifying glasses, provided by the hardworking taxpayer.

They have a thankless task but the brave officers know they can call on backup should the need arise. Eighteen thousand Specials, all on zero-hour contracts, another six thousand volunteers, all on a hiding-to-nothing, and nine Chelsea Pensioners, are ready to rock. Apart from the latter, who will roll, providing their carer's are not on a break and can push their chairs through the seas of crowds?

London is heaving, not in the sickly sense for once, but instead in the - there are shitloads of people present, sense.

In all, the scene is incredible and the crowds continue to press forth, trying to get a glimpse of those who have fought for their freedom.

There are five Jaguar XTCs, bombproof, bulletproof, selfie-proof, and their windows are blacked out. They enter the centre of London and a tickertape parade is under way. Small, coloured pieces of paper rain down from above, creating a pretty cloud, and the drivers of the vehicles turn on their windscreen wipers in order to see their way forward.

This being London though, the wipers are not much use against the empty lager cans, cigarette lighters, small currency coins, and the inedible pies, which are also being launched from the buildings' roofs. For certain, the soccerball supporters are out in force, and despite the incumbents of the vehicles being national heroes, they don't care. They are not wearing their team's colours, so all is fair in love and moronic, pointless hate. Pathetic chants can be heard, with no words being of more than two syllables, as would be expected of the average soccerball supporter, but the cars continue on.

Those on the tops of the buildings though, have been targeted by magnifying glasses and Dark-Zero Quiet-Now-Dragonfly-Drones are hovering silently above, their Splat-That-Twat Blow-Pipes picking out all and sundry. When a target is identified, they are marked with a small dart fired into the neck which extracts their DNA signature and sends it back to SAS HQ in Northolt. Whether relevant or not, it turns out that all the supporters are highly paid executives and bankers within the City of London. Well, fancy that.

Still the cars move on, through the city, and at last they enter an open space. The wide road is tree-lined, and the crowds are being held back behind double-rows of control barriers. Many UQ flags are waving and the cheering is tumultuous. If one were not to know any better, it might appear the crowd are going wild.

The line of five vehicles makes their way along The Mall, approaching Buckingham Palace, and they split. The first car moves to the far right, and the one behind, moves beside it but on the inside. The one to the rear moves to the far left, with the one in front moving beside that. The middle car of the five continues on, its course, unswerving.

The Jaguars slow and finally come to a halt fifty yards from the palace gates. Normally there would be a Queen Vicky Memorial in the way but it has been dismantled and packed away, such is the importance of the day's events. It will be reassembled at a later date but for now, the ceremonial pomp must do without.

Within the grounds of the Palace, just inside the open gates, their stands a woman of high regard. She is wearing a crown, a much lighter papier-mache replica, as she isn't getting any younger, God bless her. In her hands she holds a fine looking sceptre and decorative orb, all made by her great-grandson, George, from sticky tape, glass baubles, glitter, an infinite amount of glue and definitely - no gold. The trio of crown jewels would easily be seen as fake but for one reason. Her grandsons are beside her, Princes Willy and Hairy, and both would have serious words with anybody daring to point it out.

Queen Lizzy II, reigning UQ monarch, and current holder of the _Longest Ruling Monarch Ever_ title, adjusts her lime green dress, and she waits. Beside her and a little to the right she hears complaining. She knows her husband, Phil, needs the toilet but he will have to wait. She will be as quick as she can but the enormity of the situation cannot be underestimated.

The first of the car doors has opened, the one on the far left, as she sees it, and the PM, Davey Macaroon, adjusts his blue tie. He is checking his appearance in the Jaguar's reflective window and at the last, he strolls forward. He stands the acknowledged five yards short and he bows, deeply. He takes another step forward and drops to one knee. 'Majesty, it has been a pleasure to serve.'

'I'm sure it has Davey, now tell me, how is Kensingtonenders progressing? I haven't watched it for ages as Phil is always hogging the flat-screen,' says Her Majesty.

'Well Lizz... er, Ma'am, Sebastian has finally admitted he spiked Olympia's champagne causing her to sell five million shares to him for a mere pittance of four hundred thousand pounds. Of course, Lord Snuffle-Trough got wind of the transaction, he is a banker after all, and his servant damn near dropped his platinum rectal-cleft clippers when he found out. As for Barbalina von Windsor, she had Emerson thrown out of her wine bar, quoting the classic line, "get ye gone from my ultra-posh drinking establishment, oik!" I ask you Majesty, have you ever encountered such intrigue and subterfuge?'

Davey has taken a moment to look up, breaking protocol, but needs must on occasions, and he sees a stern face staring back at him. No words are spoken from she who ranks highest but Davey understands. He says no more, sensibly.

'Indeed Davey, now stand up, stand still, and try to look important. As the UQ PM you must be rewarded but if I hear another word from your lips, then know that many of the SAS operatives scattered hereabout are somewhat raw. What say you, Hairy?'

'Well Gran, the new recruits are coming on in leaps and bounds but their weapons do have a habit of going off at the wrong time, and in the wrong direction. If it were me Gran, I'd keep shtum,' says Hairy, smiling widely at Davey.

'Well said, young man,' says Her Majesty, turning her attention to the next car which has its door open.

SAS Chief, Bear Grilled-Steak alights, his neckerchief and woggle drifting in the breeze, his chin high, and his steps, long and assured. The man stands beside Davey then takes a knee before his Monarch. 'Majesty, it's a great honour.'

'You won the day, Chief Bear. My Grandson said you would.'

Bear gently shakes his head. 'Majesty, we won the day, and forgive me for correcting you.'

'Really Bear,' says Her Majesty, a flicker of a smile on her lips. 'Who is we?'

'Apologies Ma'am, are you referring to the Royal We or the we who actually won the day?'

'Chief Bear, don't test my patience. Who won the day?'

Bear curses, very much under his breath. 'I believe Ma'am, you already know.'

'Indeed I do,' says Her Majesty, adding. 'I think we'll have a little chat later.'

The third car passenger alights and the man can be seen by the crowds. Fifty percent of those watching scream in adulation at his handsomeness, while the other fifty percent, those being partners, husbands and boyfriends, acknowledge the man with forced hand claps.

Professor Brain 'clever' Clogs, immensely talented, immensely intelligent, and for half the crowd at least, immensely good-looking, is stood beside the blacked out Jaguar. He takes a moment to wave, not that he covets the adoration. He simply sees millions, perhaps billions, of souls interested in the science he can bestow upon them. His remit is simple and he stands with his impressive musical keyboard hanging by his side. Again the crowd erupts, and he presses fingers to the keys, playing H-U-S-H. Instantly, the crowd become quiet and he walks towards the Queen. Like those before, he bows, takes to a knee, and waits.

Her Majesty's voice is loud and clear. 'Stand tall Professor, taller than those already present. I am Queen Lizzy II and I insist you shall not look up to me.'

'Apologies Ma'am, but I will not stand, and forgive me, but I have my reasons. I'm not overly proud of my part in this. Murder doesn't deserve rewarding.'

Lizzy nods, knowing not to argue with the Professor. 'As you say, Lord Brain,' she says, her eyes meeting those of the man, daring him to respond. Graciously, the man nods, and nothing more need be said. Lastly, Brain un-quiets the crowd using his keyboard and the cheering becomes a wall of sound yet again.

The fourth car door opens and three stunning women step into view. Half the watching crowd stops shouting and screaming, and instead, they cross their arms and tap their feet. The male half, however, go apoplectic! Bavaria is a long way away but the lesser intelligent of the partnerships are already thinking of ways to convince their better halves that the southern part of Jeermany might be a decent holiday destination, as its cultural.

Tittiana, Nipplette, and Jugmina, are dressed to the nines with low cut tops, high cut skirts, and tasteful, to the men at least, revealed flesh. And fittingly, they are wearing black, the colour of mourning. It is Nipplette who reaches back into the car and assists another, a young boy, also dressed in black. Heinrich is trying to hold himself together but on hearing the crowds, he gasps, and stumbles. Nipplette holds him tight and leads him forward.

On reaching their mark, five yards short of the Queen, they stop. They begin their curtsies and a bow, but Prince Hairy has stepped forward. He places a hand on Heinrich's shoulder and addresses him. 'Look at me, boy, look at me.'

'I ... I see you, Highness,' says Heinrich, looking up into the kindly face of the ginger spare.

'No Heinrich, I'm not Highness, not today. I'm your friend, a good friend, and call me Hairy. Will you stand beside me and talk to my Gran?'

'But Highness, er, Hairy, she's the UQ monarch and demands respect.'

Prince Hairy laughs. 'Gran has never demanded anything in her life, ever. Trust me on that. Stand tall Heinrich, and tell her the truth. She'd like to know everything that happened, as would I. Will you tell us the truth?'

'I could do nothing less ... Hairy,' says Heinrich, his words stumbling.

'Good lad, now don't be scared. Gran's a pussy cat really. Admittedly, she has sharp claws but she's just a pussy cat, remember that.'

'I ... I will not lie but this is a little overwhelming. Will you stay beside me?'

'Absolutely Heinrich, I'm going nowhere. Here she comes and don't faint at what she does next. This ground's quite hard.'

Heinrich frowns on not understanding but nearly does faint, when Her Majesty walks forward, bows, and then fondly smiles at him. Now looking eye to eye, as the Queen isn't tall, Heinrich feels panic rising and thinks about running. Sadly for him, a stout Princely hand is pressed against his back and he is going nowhere.

'Tell me young man, you very brave young man,' says Lizzy, her smile wide and genuine. 'What happened in the castle?'

Heinrich gulps but eventually finds the words. 'Majesty, Chief Bear has told you I expect.'

'I have seen his report but he wasn't there, not near the end. Now tell me and I insist on hearing the truth.'

'I ...' begins Heinrich, but his eyes roll up and he faints clean away.

Prince Hairy catches him, preventing a fall on the hard ground, and lifts him in his strong arms. Glances are exchanged between Hairy and his Grandmother. Eyes turn to the three women and it is Jugmina who steps forward. She curtsies, but unlike Heinrich, she has no knowing of the American language. Thankfully, Her Majesty understands Jeerman perfectly.

'Your Majesty, I am but a serving voman and I vill tell you ze tale if you vish.'

'I vish it, dear girl,' says Lizzy.

'Very vell. Our town vas overcome by dastardly evil from ze castle but zen your agents came. Ve did not know about Bear Grilled-Steak, but Niggley Barrage, ve call him ze Vorshipful Master, gave us hope. He infiltrated ze castle vith our help and he faced up to Frau Angular Murky. He vas so brave and did not care for his own safety. He discovered ze horrible beast in ze lower cavern and ven ze time came to destroy it, he stepped up, or fell over most likely. He gave his life so zat ve vould ... live,' says Jugmina, her words stumbling, and she wipes away a tear. 'I'm sorry Majesty, I cannot go on. It is too painful.'

'I understand and zank you,' says Lizzy, momentarily laying a white gloved hand on the woman's arm.

Her Majesty glances at her grandson then returns to her position by the palace gates. The driver's door of the central Jaguar has opened and a ginger haired man has stepped out. He walks to the rear, opens the boot, and picks up what is inside. With no gibbering, he balances the purple coloured tray on his hand, places a pint glass in the middle, and reaches for another item. Using his teeth, Crispy Evans bites the lid from the bottle of Old Dickens Bladder real ale, and pours the sparkling contents into the glass.

When done, Crispy walks toward the Queen but he doesn't halt five yards away. He walks right up to the woman, kneels, and offers the tray forward.

Queen Lizzy smiles and winks at Crispy, while moving her handbag behind her back for security reasons. She looks up and speaks, her words being fed through banks of speakers spread throughout London. 'Today we honour those who have given everything in our service. My Prime Minister, Davey Macaroon, is to receive the _Order of the Posh_ , a new honour my great-grandson George invented yesterday. George himself will be drawing the medal on our Prime Minister's bicep and it will be permanently tattooed into place. I believe that is fitting,' says Her Majesty, now staring tight-lipped at the PM.

Davey's face is whiter than an albino's backside, as the blood drains away, but he reluctantly nods.

Her Majesty continues. 'Chief Bear, you are to receive a one-off scout badge, drawn by my son Eddie. This will consist of only two letters, them being B and S, which stands for Brave Soldier, or so I'm told.'

Bear smiles deeply and clenches a fist in pride.

Lizzy turns to the next hero. 'Professor Brain Clogs, you wish no reward but you're going to get one anyway, whether you like it or not. My grandson Willy's wife, Kat, has knitted you a keyboard cover. I admit it started out as a romper suit but with the dropped stitches and fumbled casting-on, it should do. Oh, you're now also going to be known as Professor Brain Clogs, Lord of The Cosmos, so get used to it.'

The next reward makes Her Majesty truly smile, and she reverts to Jeerman. 'Ladies step forth. From zis day you vill have a role in my Royal Household should you vish. I see your confused expressions, but my grandson, Hairy, is quite useless when it comes to looking after himself. You are to be his Personal Secretaries, his angels, one might say,' says the Queen, only stopping on seeing the expression on her grandson's face.

'Gran!'

'Hush Hairy, you need a good woman's touch, three maybe,' says Lizzy, readdressing the three Bavarian women. 'Do you accept?'

The three ladies curtsy deeply, their cheeks nearly as red as the Prince's hair. Tittiana steps forth and answers for them all. 'Ve accept your offer, Ma'am, and zank you. Your grandson vill stay out of trouble vith us ... if he knows vot is good for him.'

Lizzy laughs, her white gloved hand held delicately in front of her mouth. She then turns to Heinrich, but the boy is still unconscious, in the arms of Prince Hairy. She continues anyway. 'Heinrich, in honour of your service to the Crown, the most important Crown, and winner of the Best Crown award, going back donkey's years, I bestow upon you the greatest reward it is in my power to give. At least, it will be when my PM votes it through Parliament in the next few days, if he knows what's good for him. As the newly free island of Jeermany is leaderless, and requires a firm, yet gentle, and intelligent hand, I name you Kaiser Heinrich. I also hold out my hand in friendship at your country's time of utmost need and officially invite you to join the United Queendom. I realise it will make a mess of the Union Flag, having to add Jeermany's black and yellow, but I'm sure George can paint a new one.'

Her Majesty pauses, hearing uncertain murmuring from the assembled masses but she knows her next proclamation is likely to raise the roof. 'Finally, I realise that Niggley Barrage cannot be here today as he gave his life to save us all, so a reward will not be forthcoming. Instead, there will be a tribute to the man, and hopefully, a very fitting one.'

The Queen finally looks at Crispy, takes a hold of the glass of real ale the man has been holding diligently on a purple tray, and raises it high in the air. The crowd goes absolutely bonkers; cheering, screaming, shouting, crying, throwing handheld Union Flags in the air as they won't be much use after today, dancing, prancing, flouncing, kissing, fighting, and last of all, laughing with relief.

Never again will London party so hard and very few witness Queen Lizzy II lower the glass, bring it to her lips, and down it in one. Even fewer see her wipe froth from her upper lip, using a sleeve, and hardly anybody, due to the raucous noise, sees her lower a hand to her belly. Her Majesty blinks rapidly, hiccups and ... ' _Buuurrrp!_ '
Epilogue

A young woman is sat at a dressing table which has a huge swivel mirror centrally mounted at the back and she is currently pulling a brush through her multi-coloured hair. The reflection however, isn't showing her own pretty features, although the face she is seeing does have similar emerald eyes.

The woman known as Flora, smiles and mouths the name, 'Cloudier,' thinking how it sounds, and it feels appropriate, having a connection to nature. As yet, the woman still sleeps, which is unsurprising, considering she has recently had her soul ripped out. Humans tend to take a while to recover, if at all, when that happens.

'Cloudier,' she says, hearing how it sounds when spoken aloud and her smile widens.

As the door to her chamber opens, she swiftly reaches forward and pushes the bottom of the mirror, turning it, so that her own face is now seen on the reflective reverse side. 'I believe, I told you to knock first,' she says, scowling at the reflection of her jailor as he steps inside.

The Lurking Peril, or LP to those who have the balls to call him that, runs forwards and jumps onto the huge bed, a few feet across from Flora. He starts to jump up and down, squealing with delight as he does so. He has always liked playing the bouncy game, well, this part of him has.

Flora places her hairbrush down and swivels her chair to face him. 'You're in a good mood today LP,' she says, as she stares at the naked humanoid lizard, no taller than four feet, and skinny, appearing almost malnourished. She knows this isn't the case though, as LP has a veracious appetite, especially when his angry side shows, like it's about to.

'Happy, happy days,' shrieks LP, somersaulting as he bounces. 'So where is she? We need to get started so you can free me.'

'Ah, yes, about that,' says Flora, turning back to the mirror. 'I lost her,' she lies, and waits for the outburst.

The bouncing of the bedsprings stops immediately, and the following moment of silence feels like an eternity.

'You ... what?' asks LP, his voice now much deeper, his words saturated with malice. There is a heavy thump on the floor, making the room shake, as he jumps from the bed.

'It's only temporary, so don't get flustered. She's somewhere in your prison. I just need to find her, and before you go off on one, it couldn't be helped. Reaching outside the prison weakened me. I haven't been outside for ages, and when I returned, I lost my grip. Don't worry, she won't be far.'

'I hope for your sake, that's right,' growls LP, bringing a huge, scaled fist down on top of a wardrobe, smashing it and the contents to tiny pieces.

Flora turns to face the dinosaur Omni and it takes all her strength to remain composed on seeing the giant, muscular form of what she would term - the pissed-off LP. Their eyes lock, and emerald meets the fiery yellow pits of unadulterated rage.

'Trust me,' she says, managing a sweet smile, but only just.
