 
The Lurking Peril Series

Unreality Show

by

Rich E Beckett
Copyright (C) 2016 by Rich E Beckett

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Smashwords Edition
**Disclaimer:** All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living, dead or somewhere in between, is purely coincidental ... most likely.

**Additional disclaimer:** The views expressed in this desperate tale are solely those of the fictional characters and do not in any way represent the views of the Author. It will become pretty obvious, as the ridiculousness unfolds, that the Author is a few plump pilchards short of a paella but he's tried his best to maintain a sense of order and dignity.
Contents

Prologue

Chapter One - The Greatest Show Ever

Chapter Two - The Rise and Fall of Dilbert O'Really

Chapter Three - Show Me the Money

Chapter Four - The 1st and 2nd Best Presenters

Chapter Five - Sleep, Piggy Sleep

Chapter Six - Northern Light

Chapter Seven - Silver Dragon

Chapter Eight - Mister Plastic Fantastic

Chapter Nine - Space Girl

Chapter Ten - A Big, Big Man

Chapter Eleven - Crystal Balls

Chapter Twelve - Alphas

Chapter Thirteen - A Bad Omen

Chapter Fourteen - Feeling Peckish

Chapter Fifteen - Getting Everywhere

Chapter Sixteen - Anyone For Soccerball?

Chapter Seventeen - Mismatch of the Day

Chapter Eighteen - Don't Call Me Jezza

Chapter Nineteen - The Near Final

Chapter Twenty - Three More is a Crowd

Chapter Twenty One - Utter Madness

Chapter Twenty Two - A Loss of Senses

Chapter Twenty Three - The Wheel of Fate

Chapter Twenty Four - You Gotta Love Politics

Chapter Twenty Five - Down Came the Rain

Chapter Twenty Six - The Really Close Final

Chapter Twenty Seven - A Goose in the Hand

Chapter Twenty Eight - Really Close Final, Results

Chapter Twenty Nine - An Unexpected Truth

Chapter Thirty - Fears and Tender Tears

Chapter Thirty One - And Then There Were Four

Chapter Thirty Two - Dear Lord!

Chapter Thirty Three - The Finalest Final, Honestly!

Chapter Thirty Four - The Duke Who Would Be King

Chapter Thirty Five - Black Box Magic Pixies

Chapter Thirty Six - The Prince of Darkness

Chapter Thirty Seven - Flashbacks

Chapter Thirty Eight - He's Back.

Chapter Thirty Nine - Dev's Reality Check

Chapter Forty - The Third Bravest Man, Ever!

Chapter Forty One - Security Attacks

Chapter Forty Two - Big Bastard Lizards

Chapter Forty Three - The Eyes Have It

Chapter Forty Four - I Sensei ... Another

Chapter Forty Five - Pawns Become Knights

Chapter Forty Six - The Secret Aural Voice

Chapter Forty Seven - A Farewell to Evil

Chapter Forty Eight - The Great Bellendi

Chapter Forty Nine - One Becomes Two

Epilogue
Prologue

In the chilling vacuum of space there is a world awash with water but also inundated with islands. The bodies of liquid, whether they be oceans, seas, channels, inlets or whatever, meet, their boundaries pounding chaotically like inebriated, young lovers. They are never-ending, never-starting, and constantly flowing back and forth.

The islands though, never meet. Each one floats alone, as the water doesn't just surround them, it also flows beneath. Scientifically this is strange, but science is odd at times.

Some of the islands are huge - like the _Land of American Righteous Democracy_ or the _Autocratic Russian non-Socialist Empire_ - but most are tiny and barely noticeable. From the smallest to the largest, there are many sizes in between, but not quite ad infinitum.

One island is small to middling, appearing as less than significant but for a very important reason. This particular island forever punches above its weight - always has and always will.

On this particular day a deal is going down. In the United Queendom, in the capital city of London, a contract has been signed, in blood, and the greatest event to grace any of the millions of miles of island shores across the planet is in the offing.

_Duke Cowely Simon Dockland Plaza and Arena_ , a newly redeveloped crop of land jutting into the River Thames, has been chosen to host the greatest show ever. Within the razor-wire, fenced Complex all are ready, but only one voice matters: the director, a controller as it were.

Inside a hidey-hole, the controller sits behind an antique desk with a 1950's desktop microphone for company, and the letters SAV, standing for Secret Aural Voice, are written upon it in dark crimson. This mysterious director will never be seen, only heard.

The SAV smiles, across the many faces on its bloated head, instinctively knowing the time is right, and speaks. Its voice is heard by those in the know, those wearing special earpieces.

And what has it said? Well, in the beginning was the word, and the word was with the SAV, and the word was - Go!
Chapter One

The Greatest Show Ever

Ten thousand lights - give or take another thousand - of all colours, including some beyond the visual spectrum of the human spectators, have burst into life. Glaring rainbows are shooting every which way, up, down, left and right, leaving the heaving mass of spectators temporarily blinded. The _Duke Cowely Simon Dockland Plaza and Arena_ has erupted into a visual feast, be it on the ground or in the air.

A massive crescendo of every musical instrument ever invented is blasting forth. Cue the enormous orchestra pit, the size of a soccerball pitch, and the musicians inside are giving it their all. The conductor, an aged, white-haired man dressed all in black, wearing tri-focal glasses in order to see all his charges, is standing with his back to the stage. In his hands are two batons, one not being enough. His frantic hand movements appear chaotic, but not to the instrumentalists before him.

His ears can make out the lesser-known instruments: a deep throb of a trombohorn and the tinkling parp of a piccalumpet. He also determines the finery of an extremely rare Gravas Knee-Harp alongside the crass sound of a stone'n'bone crackophone, a vile instrument from a time long past. Regardless, he waves his batons furiously, and for certain the resultant sound is musical ... sort of.

Far above, another noise can be heard, that of the United Queendom Red, White and Blue Arrow display team. The jets are flying this way and that, narrowly avoiding each other at tremendous speeds, trailing their multi-coloured ribbons of smoke. The enormous crowds are staring up and each spectator marvels at the skill of the pilots. It's a sight for sore eyes, no question - but not for the spectators in a more elevated position, up in the gods. Those on high, not gods in their own right of course, but those in the cheap seats, aren't enjoying the spectacle. The jets are flying barely a few metres above their heads. Their ears have popped and the toxic fumes are beyond the capacity of their lungs to cope with.

Many have fallen, not in the actual falling sense, but they won't be seeing anything of the show, their lives extinguished by poor planning and a quest for the spectacular. Others, those at the very top, have actually fallen, their bodies ripped upwards as the wake of the jets dragged them from their seats. Still living, they tumble to their deaths, but those below have no idea. The less elevated continue to _ooh_ and _aah_ , unaware that others are really screaming.

Callous observers might say those in the cheap seats, rows ZX to ZZ, would deserve their fate, but they'd be wrong. Even the poorest in the UQ, and those who have collected 15 cut-out tokens from the daily newspaper _The Stun_ , have a right to see the greatest event ever - but some lives have been cut short.

Unseen, a team of caretakers, lackeys maybe, are moving their carts to the rear of the immense scaffolding seating arena, a temporary structure erected overnight to accommodate the multitudes, and the SAV has bid them do so. The clean-up of the deceased is unemotional, almost autonomic, and those doing so retreat back into the Gubbins, the equally vast backstage area. Their carts are emptied into a large compound of awaiting skips; they change the liners and set off again for the front of the stage. They are prepared, but for what exactly, only the Secret Aural Voice can tell them via their special earpieces.

Again the jets fly past and all is well in the consciousness of those lower down.

The sound ramps up as enormous banks of _Lucifer_ speakers, the most powerful on the market, fanning above and beside the vast pentagonal covered stage, are put to work. The units are tiny, but they are pounding out 150 decibels plus.

On the stage, off the stage, in fact everywhere, dancers can be seen with pom-poms, bare bellies, long legs and smiles wider than their faces. Limbs are pointing every which way and the watching crowds are mesmerised. Their attention is drawn to the lights, the orchestra, the fly-overs, the dancers and, in some cases, the gargantuan stage before them. In all, the observers are being blind-sided, but that's for the good, as far as one particular creature is concerned.

Only the SAV, the director, is truly smiling, and only it can hear a different noise. The retorts of gunfire shooting skywards are clear in its dozens of ears, but the angle of fire may have to change. It appreciates this could be a long night, but as far as it's concerned, all bases are covered. It smiles, chuckles sinisterly, and considers its next move.

All going well, the SAV won't have to make a next move as everything will play out, but there are always glitches during a live show. The pawns have been gathered but pawns can take knights or higher if given the opportunity. It understands that simian "chess games," or the like, are never straightforward, especially when humans are involved, and it exhales through its many maws. It leans toward the desktop microphone and prepares itself. The moment it has been waiting for is nigh. Thousands of years of meticulous planning is about to come down to one single night.

It knows hundreds will be directly involved, thousands will be supporting the smooth running of the show, millions will be flocking for a live view and billions will be tuning in. That is all as it should be and the Secret Aural Voice issues commands. Thus starts the feted show that will be the greatest the planet has ever seen and most likely - the last.

The multi-faced creature leans back, relaxes, and observes.

High above the stage in a blacked-out cubicle, fighting for space with a massive viewing screen and a Security Control booth, sits a man - and he's waiting. He has an implant in his ear connected to the director who has the responsibility of ensuring the smooth running of the live, well, live-ish show.

The man stares at his reflection in a desk-mounted swivel mirror, adjusts his dickie-bow, licks a finger and presses down a stray eyebrow hair. Finally, he removes a small aerosol from his jacket pocket and gives his dry mouth several squirts. He's ready, and the SAV is speaking through his earpiece.

What the man is told is unknown to all but him. Moments later his confident voice can be heard issuing through the hundreds of Complex speakers. The voice in none other than that of Allen Petticoat, who reads out the National Lottery numbers - at last it's time. His fluent words issue forth to all ears, whether they are present in person or observing through various types of visual media across the planet.

'Ladies, gentlemen, VIPs and everyone else, allow me to introduce your host for the start of tonight's extravaganza. Please welcome the third best presenter in the United Queendom according to recent polls, _Dilbert O 'Really!_'

As the audience goes wild the smartly suited and booted Dilbert casually strolls on to stage and he looks damn fine. His navy blue suit is pristine, his black shoes are gleaming and there's not a brown hair out of place. He acknowledges the massive crowd with a wave and a smile and trots nimbly to the front. He laughs, as expected. He bows, as expected. He mumbles the words, 'holy crap,' which wasn't expected, but his microphone isn't yet pressed close to his wonderful lips. Gathering himself, he speaks. 'I'm Dilbert O'Really, one of the United Queendom's most popular presenters, and I hope you're ready for the greatest spectacle ever to be broadcast anywhere. Welcome to the magnificent show that is ... _The UQ has the Feck Factor and is Really Talented!_ '

Dilbert reels at the approval of the attending millions and takes an unexpected deep breath. He knew this was going to be big; a fine opportunity to improve his presenter rating, at present the third best in the UQ, but the sheer scale has taken even him by surprise. The cheering goes on and on and he waves his hands in a calming gesture, hoping for the chance to speak again. It arrives soon enough.

'Wow, you are fantastic! Now, for the first time ever, the UQ television channels are coming together and letting go the fact they hate each other. For this show only, we're broadcasting on a neutral channel as this evening, most of tonight, and for a few of the early hours, we're as one my brothers and sisters. Oh yes!'

Dilbert takes in the tumultuous applause fed through the stands of thumping speakers, but feels his head nearly imploding. Lowering his microphone, he shouts to a nearby sound engineer but the woman can't hear him. He considers throwing something to gain her attention but all he has is his microphone and various pocketed items of grooming paraphernalia. Instead he swiftly dashes over and taps her on the shoulder.

'Hey, sound lackey, these speakers are too loud. Can we get them turned down a bit? I can't hear myself think, turn them down! How the hell am I meant to present the greatest show ever with this racket in my ears? Turn them down! Turn them ... Oh blow this, I'm moving back behind the stage and carrying on from there.'

Dilbert exits via concealed steps at the side of the stage and retreats through the Gubbins, the magnificent backstage show set-up. He walks past vehicles, trailers, masses of cables, satellite dishes, tall lighting rigs and pretty much everything else that would be expected in order to broadcast such a massive show across the planet. Now very far backstage and able to hear himself speak, he continues. 'Welcome back everyone. Let me introduce my long-serving associate and cameraman Richard, who'll be with me for the full ten hours. Obviously you can't see him, but are you all right, old friend?'

Richard, dressed in navy and light blue camouflage scout fatigues with a green woggle and dozens of sewn-on badges, briefly peers out from behind the camera.

'Richard will be with me every step of the way throughout this evening, tonight and into the early hours.'

'Whoa, Dilbert, sir. I've only been contracted for the first four hours. The wife's expecting me home by midnight,' says Richard, looking somewhat surprised.

'Richard, you're such a wag. Just pan the camera around for a second so the viewers can get a look at the Gubbins in all its magnificence.'

When Dilbert disappears from shot, he places his microphone behind his back and speaks to his cameraman in no uncertain terms. 'Listen up old friend. If I've got to stay, you're staying. Remember what I saw you doing with one of those tarty dancers during rehearsals. I wonder how the wife would feel about you placing your camera on the ground so it looked straight up her skirt, you filthy voyeur. I saw you, Richard. I know you did it because I've already watched the recording four times.'

With his face masked by the camera, Richard grimaces and reluctantly gives a thumbs-up gesture. 'I'm with you all the way, ten hours and then some. You're in frame and looking great, Mister Dilbert sir.'

'A fine decision. Now camera back on me,' insists Dilbert, and when in shot continues. 'That's my good friend Richard holding the camera and he's the best in the business. Okay, I think we'll make our way over to the enormous backstage viewing screen away from the loud excitement out front and continue from there. Any objections, Richard?'

'No sir, you know best. I've got your front.'

Dilbert makes miniscule adjustments to his blue jacket as he stands to the side of a three-storey screen displaying his own happy face. His features are perfection and his smile is wider than ever, showing the whitest of teeth.

'Welcome back, and my word! I can't believe the crowds who've swarmed to London's newly rebuilt Duke Cowely Simon Dockland Plaza and Arena, and every single one of you is beautiful. There are over three hundred thousand people in the temporary scaffolding stands - can you believe that? Looking around the show Complex, you really get a feel for how many people have turned up this evening. The spectacular crowds go on forever and there must be well over a million outside the seating area. That's great news for the concession stands and especially great news for our sponsors, who we'll hear from a little later. Now, I have to hand you back to Allen Petticoat, who's going to give you a taste of what it's taken to stage this incredible event. Take it, Allen!'

Dilbert winks and reaches into his jacket for a small compact mirror, but only removes it when the camera is lowered. He wouldn't want the viewers to think he was vain in any way. He starts his grooming as a nearby cameraman slowly shakes his head.

The planet's screens switch to the crowds and not to Allen Petticoat, which isn't wholly surprising as Allen only does voiceovers. As always, his words are eloquent and concise. 'Thanks, Dilbert, but before I do that, we have to go live to today's special, one-off, greatest-show-ever lottery draw. Earlier today we were in Gravesend in Kent, where a gorgeous lady called Chlamydia Sprogdropper picked set of balls 13 and the machine, Judas. I kid you not, and let's hope that's not an omen. Without further ado, I'll ask lottery draw-mistress Con Doubter-Yercash to set the balls rolling.'

Allen takes a well-earned moment to draw breath. Despite not being able to see the lottery machine, he can hear it. Being a consummate professional, he can clearly distinguish the sound of a ball-releasing button being pressed.

'There they go, and since the lottery began, _Cane-A-Lot_ , the company which runs the lottery, has given over fifty pounds, that's fifty whole pounds, to good causes, with the rest of the money placed in offshore bank accounts for the benefit of their Executive Directors. It's a win-win situation for everyone, unless you lose but what am I saying?' asks Allen, listening intently. He notes a quietening of the clattering balls; one has been selected and an aural voice tells him which it is.

'Here's the first ball - its number 13! The first time ever to have been drawn in the lottery, even though it's been going for over twenty years. Let's hope that's not an omen. Now then, here comes the second ball, and its number 666, even though the numbers only go up to 59. Let's hope that's not an omen, and so to the third ball. We're waiting, and here it comes. It's a picture of somebody walking under a ladder as a black cat wanders across their path.'

Allen presses a finger into his ear and gives his hidden earpiece a swift wiggle. Has he really heard right? It seems he has. Taking a moment to look down, he glances at a complimentary lottery ticket he was given prior to entering his voice-over cubicle. At first he thought it a joke, with strange pictograms and numbers, but now? Using a Biro, he ticks off the first three in his line.

'I ... I'm not sure how that got in, but anyway, here's the fourth ball. It's a cartoon bomb, with a sizzling wick. Yes, oh yes, I er mean, back to you Dilbert. Sorry, we've got a technical fault.'

Dilbert is momentarily caught with an eyelash straightener held to his face. The implement rapidly disappears and his charming features again fill the huge Complex screens. He silently curses his cameraman for not telling him he was back on.

'Thanks, Allen, and good luck everyone. Right, okay, so let me give you the lowdown on the location for tonight's incredible show. Anybody who knows London's Docklands will understand it was once a thriving centre of docks and ... land,' says Dilbert, his smile evaporating, being replaced with a more serious expression. 'But then, not too long ago, this area became a hub for extortionately expensive high-rise flats and ultra-posh businesses that looked out across the dubiously brown waters of the River Thames. What a sight, and smell, it must have been.'

The presenter pauses and wipes away an imaginary tear. He knows what's coming as he's been rehearsing his script diligently for the past two months.

'Then it happened. Everything that stood here was destroyed in only a few minutes. The cowardly bombers came and what had so recently been constructed came down, in an apocalyptic crash. I ... just give me a moment to compose myself.'

Once again Dilbert is brushing at his eye and gently shaking his head. 'Nothing was left except piles of twisted debris. It was a sad time, but miraculously, over the following days, the rubble was removed by heavy plant machinery which just happened to be nearby. In its place was built the setting for tonight's extravaganza. London's Docklands recently renamed by popular demand to Duke Cowely Simon Dockland Plaza and Arena were transformed into what you see now. Has there ever been a more fitting tribute in remembrance to thousands of innocent deaths? I ... I'm overcome, and here's a first-hand account.'

The image on the Complex screens and across the planet changes instantly, showing an equally stylish man, the first of many special guests due to appear on the show.

The bald-headed man, a thespian no less, sits behind a grand desk. His arms rest lightly on the rhinoceros-hide inlayed top and all that can be seen of his clothing is a tight, red and black sweater with a curious silver insignia on the breast. He smiles, a sad smile, and his deep melodic voice rings forth.

'Hello everybody, I'm Patrice Stewart and I remember that day, those few hours. I was in my penthouse suite on the 237th floor of London's tallest building, _The Sheared_ , when the terrorists struck. Being a highly trained actor with acclaim for _Richard III, Eggs-Men, Spa Trek_ and a guest appearance on _The Muppets_ , I realised that as the building began to topple, there would be no way out for me, but then I remembered. I once played John-Luke Picarse, Captain of the _Starship Enterpies_ , and with haste I contacted my Number Two. No, of course I didn't, as that's purely fiction but there was a number two involved, I can tell you. In truth, I swiftly ran to the roof of the building where I had a helicopter waiting. I barely made it out alive, and to this day I'll never forget seeing my penthouse apartment, with swimming pool, jacuzzi, and head-polishing chamber tumble into the apocalypse below. It brought many tears to my eyes, and I vowed this would never happen again ... not in my lifetime! Goodnight one and all, good luck with the show and, make it so.'

Patrice nods as his image wobbles, mysteriously fades, and disappears.

Dilbert, appearing upset, wipes away a tear using a monogrammed silk handkerchief and signals for his cameraman to start filming. 'Well, there you have it. I feel for Patrice and all the others who lost everything that day. It was devastating, nothing short of murder, a tragedy of the highest ...' he says, pausing while listening to his earpiece. 'Quick Richard, the judges are arriving, let's turn our attention to the front gates.'

'But sir, we're in the backstage area,' says Richard.

'Just film the front gates and don't be so selfish.'

The cameraman knows he can't film the front gates, but somebody else is, as the picture is already lighting up the enormous screen. It's not as if he's the only cameraman in the Complex; that would be ridiculous. He lowers his camera, allowing his shoulder a little rest and watches. Observing the massive screen, Dilbert is now voice-only.

'Apologies for the sudden change, but we need to go to the front of the Complex. The judges are arriving, and just look at the black-garbed security officers trying to control the crowds. I've no idea how they're going to open a route to the backstage area through that sea of fans,' says Dilbert, suddenly stopping. 'Errr, was that a flamethrower?'

Richard, ever the professional, tugs at his woggle and stares at the screen. To his professional eye there was no mistaking the scything flash of flame. 'You're right, sir, but it can't be. Who'd use a flamethrower?'

Dilbert hears the Secret Aural Voice in his ear and growls in annoyance. 'No, I'm wrong. Apparently the legitimate crowd control method was a water-cannon, which accidently contained methanol and was accidentally set alight by a security officer holding up his cigarette lighter to the jet of liquid. Richard, look at the pain ... oh no. Some of the human torches are getting too close to the pyrotechnic platforms set up for tonight's winner. That would be a real tragedy if they went off early.'

'It certainly would, sir,' says Richard, dryly.

'Indeed, and look how professional the massive, hulking security officers are. Without a thought for their own safety they're beating the blazing fans with large clubs and stomping on them, trying to quell the flames.'

Richard grips his woggle with his spare hand, nearly ripping it from his neck. 'They're real heroes, sir,' he says, through gritted teeth.

'All herald security! I've never seen such selfless acts from dark-garbed, brutish, extended forehead individuals ever before. We're in safe hands, big hairy-palmed hands admittedly, and I salute them,' says Dilbert, lifting his microphone to present once again. 'As we watch the judges' Bentleys enter through the Complex's far gates, now three abreast, that's six in total, only six? Ah, of course, our head judge, Duke Cowely Simon, would never arrive by car. If I'm not mistaken, here comes his private Learjet now. No wonder the Bentleys are speeding up.'

As Dilbert pauses for dramatic effect, Richard peers intently at the screen. He can see the six cars, and in the background, the approaching jet. Whoever's behind the camera is doing a sterling job in his opinion but his attention is broken by Dilbert speaking again.

'Blimey, are you seeing this? The cars need to be free of the crowds and into the Gubbins before the jet hits the tarmac. My word, that's amazing. If they planned it this way then it's a big thumbs-up to the Director,' says Dilbert, realising that the Bentleys are being used to clear the way through the dense crowd. It's going to be a close-run thing as the jet, barely thirty feet above the river, is catching up with the cars fast. The crowd are trying their best to get out of the way but to no avail in many cases. 'It may look brutal, but the crowds were warned of what might happen,' he adds.

Richard turns his head and frowns. 'Really?'

Dilbert nods. 'It's in the small print. The complimentary show pamphlet has it on the back. It clearly states, _failure to provide a clear path to the Gubbins for the judges may result in unsightly injury, for which the organisers can take no responsibility. This includes broken bones, decapitations, incinerations or all of the above_. It's in the small print.'

'Show me.'

'No, I can't. There isn't time and I know it's unfair but when it's in writing, what can you do? Phew, the Bentleys are home and here comes the jet. It's skidding on some unexpected liquid on the newly vacated tarmac ... yes, the Duke's jet is safely home. Just listen to the cheers.'

'Sir, I'm so happy,' growls Richard, sarcasm edging every word.

'I know, Richard, I know.'

'That's fine then, Dilbert sir,' says Richard, adding in a whisper, 'you unfeeling tit.'

Dilbert's head moves sharply, questioning eyes staring around his compact mirror. 'What was that?'

'Nothing, best get on. You're looking great, sir.'

Richard lifts the camera to his shoulder and notes the look on his boss' face. His eyes are staring, unfocussed and dreamy, which isn't unusual for Dilbert, though his momentary bouts of lack of empathy are. The man always wants to look his best, to be the best, but his behaviour is tipping beyond his usual obsessiveness.

Richard has an idea as to the cause, and silently curses. He notes Dilbert's earpiece, provided by the show's Director, and raises a finger to his own. To any observer they would appear identical, but they're not. Richard's is blocking the malicious undercurrents hidden in the words of the Secret Aural Voice. The creature's foul commands will not be able to scramble his thoughts.

The importance of this cannot be underestimated, given his scout mission brief.
Chapter Two

The Rise and Fall of Dilbert O'Really

An excited Dilbert moves forward in the Gubbins, past multitudes of overloaded trailers, but not too far because of the blaring speakers out front. The whole time his friend and cameraman keeps him in frame, the camera never wobbling despite walking backwards. For certain, the feed isn't live but a small army of editors will be working on the film and sending it across the planet in next to no time.

Once again, Dilbert has had his orders, and like a faithful puppy he's following them to the letter, pausing only once to gaze at his reflection in a minibus wing mirror.

'Welcome back, you wonderful people. I'm currently on my way to pay a visit to the sound-proofed booth above the stage used by the Security Company hired for tonight's event and just look how high it is. It's like a biblical tower what with the ivy and iguanas growing up around the scaffolding. It truly is very high,' says Dilbert, gulping. 'Are you getting this, Richard?'

'Yes sir, I'm getting it, and the plants are lianas, not iguanas.'

Dilbert ignores the correction as he only has eyes for a very tall structure. 'And look at all those steps leading up to the control booth. There must be a thousand at least.'

'There's a hundred and eleven, sir. I've counted them,' says Richard.

'Right, but I don't like the look of the two security officers at the bottom of the steps. You go first, old friend.'

'You're so generous, sir. I've still got your front,' says Richard, expecting nothing less.

A pair of dark-garbed, brutish hunks of meat stomp forward from the bottom of the steps. Both are near to breaking out of their tight, un-made-to-measure black suits, and each has fists the size of melons. The bald female one listens to a radio handset moments before she speaks. 'Oi you, bugger off or me bloody hurt you.'

For the first time since the show began the camera wobbles, but it's barely noticeable. The man behind the lens turns the camera to the officers, getting them fully in focus. With as much confidence as he can muster. 'I'm Richard the cameraman and this is Mister Dilbert. Dilbert ... Dilbert sir? He was here a second ago,' he says, looking all around but not seeing his boss.

The officers flex their muscles and crack their knuckles but pause when up close. The male leans forward and notes something beneath the camera, flapping around in the breeze. 'Wait, you not bugger off as you got red square thing, but if it not right, then it punch time.'

Richard releases his held breath, lowers the camera and holds up the red square hanging from a lanyard around his neck. It's an All Areas Backstage Pass and he holds it towards the officers, as far forward as the lanyard reaches. 'That's right, here's my red square thing. Take a good look.'

'You okay. You go up but if you lose card you get a slapping,' says the female officer.

'Right, thanks. Now, where did ...?' begins Richard, but he stops on spotting the man.

Dilbert's strolling confidently from behind a row of temporary toilets. He's waving his red pass frantically before him. 'I'm right here and I knew we'd be fine. Don't look so scared, Richard. They're only doing their job and you need to calm down. We're perfectly safe, and despite my distrust of heights, I'm going to take one for the team,' he says, starting his ascent. ' _Eurgh_ , I'm not liking this.'

'That's the fifth step, only another hundred and six to go.'

'Shut up, Richard,' says Dilbert, shakily.

'You're so brave, sir.'

The ascent has taken a little longer than expected, but Dilbert has finally made it, with a few helping shoves from behind by a loyal cameraman. He's sitting a little shakily on the floor of the elevated Security Control booth, way above the stage. A faithful cameraman is standing close to the floor-to-ceiling glass frontage unaffected by the altitude.

Dilbert eventually speaks, and thankfully this isn't a live feed. 'Okay, I'm up in the security booth ... Oh heck, that's a long way down. Calm now, Dilbert, keep calm.'

'Would you like me to empty your sick bucket, sir? It's quite full,' asks Richard.

'Shut up, just shut up. You know I've had a problem with heights ever since I fell off that swing when we were teenagers.'

'I remember that scout-camp sir. It just goes to show how dangerous a three-foot fall and the repercussions can be.'

Dilbert glares. 'Are you being facetious?'

'Not a bit, sir. I've no idea what it means.'

'Well, you wouldn't, would you?' snarls Dilbert. 'You never went to proper school. You only went to scout school and learnt how to tie ropes and skin rabbits. They didn't teach you real subjects like maths or science or grooming techniques. Just think what you might have achieved if you'd stuck with me.'

'A good point, sir. If only I could have accomplished being the third best at something.'

Dilbert nods, but not strongly as his head's thumping. 'I'm glad you understand. Now let's get on. Okay, here beside me is the head of security for ... Oh no, wait a second.'

If stomachs could talk, then Dilbert's is doing so. The words however, are incoherent, sounding like, e _urghhh ... chundereurghhh._

'Sir, would you like a fresh bucket?'

'Just film it, Richard,' says Dilbert, but shouts when he sees where the camera's pointing. 'Not me, you fool! Film the crowds. Sod this, let's break for a minute.'

Richard can only agree, and turns his camera to the front window of the booth, his concern growing with every passing minute. As he considers the situation, he can hear the voice of Allen Petticoat being fed through his special scout earpiece. The man's currently on and what Richard hears only adds to his worries.

'Yes, yes, yes! I got all six and who could have known the last ball out would have been a devil's head with a fiery trident behind it. Who, eh what? I don't give a damn, I'm back on. I've just won the lottery! I'm out of here and good riddance to the lot of you. You can all kiss my superior posterior.'

Richard walks to the side of the security booth and sees Allen Petticoat exit the rear of the voice-over box. The man's waving his winning ticket as he runs down the steps. On rounding the third turn, he meets a wall of officer flesh and bounces backwards. The ticket's ripped from his grasp and a large hand lifts and throws the startled man over the safety railings. Richard grimaces on hearing orders from the Secret Aural Voice to bring it the lottery ticket as it's very keen to take a look.

The scout cameraman moves back to Dilbert, contemplating the meaning of what he's just seen. The SAV without doubt is a foul creature and needs to be stopped, but he didn't think for one second it would openly sanction murder, especially with so many potential witnesses.

He hopes those on the side of good, of which he considers himself one, have the means to take it down when the opportunity arises. For now, he must bide his time.

Dilbert contemplates his next movement - hopefully not another gastric one - and raises a sweaty eyebrow. With a hand covering his mouth, stifling an acidic burp, he takes slow breaths. He turns to his cameraman. 'Right, help me up, Richard, help me up. Oh God, I'll sit back down,' he says, taking more calming breaths, but eventually manages to speak. 'Hi everyone, you join me a bit green around the gills due to acrophobic issues, but we all have a fear of some kind, don't we? With me now is the Head of Security.'

A man, dressed identically to the security officers, crouches beside Dilbert. He's only of average human proportions, although he is bald and sports a broken nose, so some effort has been made. He smiles, showing a cracked front tooth, just the one. 'Hi Dilbert, I'm Ray Crushem, Head of Security for tonight's show and Senior Director of _Crushem and Punchem Security_ , or CPS for short. Let me tell you, this is a tough one. I've had to pull in all my best officers and even recruited from a number of open prisons on a day-release basis. This is quite something, I must admit. I wasn't expecting these kinds of crowd numbers.'

'How many were you expecting, Ray?' asks Dilbert, his eyes firmly fixed to the floor.

'No more than ten thousand but I've always put a contingency in place to deal with unexpected bigger crowds.'

'Ray, there are over two million people here,' says Dilbert, adding under his breath. 'Or there were before the jet display team and the judges thinned them out a bit.'

Ray scratches his bald pate and nods, knowing the truth of the presenter's words. 'I know, Dilbert, and ain't that a trouble. Thankfully I've been given full autonomy over London's defences, although that's left me stumped.'

'Why so?'

'I've no idea what autonomy means and it's all a bit confusing. I'm a simple man and more at home with a bit of brute force and ignorance.'

'So why take the job?' asks Dilbert, briefly glancing up at the man.

'That's the funny thing. I was contacted by a really strange voice that talked me into it. _Go on Ray_ , it said, _you can handle it. I 'll even give you special radios and earpieces_. I weren't sure at first, but it offered to pay ten times the going rate so I took it. Wouldn't you?'

'Probably. Now tell me ...' Dilbert begins, but stops as the booth door flies open.

'Hold on, here comes one of my Team Leaders,' says Ray, standing and stepping past the sickly presenter. He's waving an admonishing finger at a huge man who's squeezed inside. 'No, Ug-Og Knucklescraper, I said no! Dilbert and his cameraman have got permission to be here. Go and guard the stage or something, there's a good lad and pick those knuckles up. I've just had the lino replaced.'

The enormous officer scratches at a fresh, scabbed tattoo above his left ear, frowns, and his brow ridge drops. 'Me Ug-Og, Team Leader ... is me not allowed to hurt him?'

'No Ug-Og. Dilbert's got a pass, that red square thing around his neck. Remember what I told you about the red square things at our security briefings?'

'Errr, you say, no hurt people with red square things round neck.'

'That's right, and what else did I say?' asks Ray.

'Hurt everyone that don't have red square thing around neck.'

Ray laughs and shakes his head. 'I'm sure I didn't, but think about what I said after the hurting part. Do you remember that bit?'

'Errr, we not to damage any people. We hold them, talk to black box magic pixie and ask for po-lease ass-is-tents.'

Ray nods and smiles widely. 'That's right Ug-Og, now off you go and wait for the magic pixie in the black box, that's a radio to you and me, Dilbert, to talk to you.'

'Me Ug-Og, me good Team Leader.'

'Yes Ug-Og, you're very good. Now out you go,' says Ray, wincing as the top of the door frame is ripped outwards by the officer's shoulders.

Dilbert watches the huge man squeeze back out and gulps. Once he's gone, he turns his attention back to the security chief. 'Ray, forgive me for saying, but your officers appear to be somewhat lacking in the cranial department. No offence.'

Ray glares at Dilbert and stands beside him. He presses his hands against the wall and gives it a few good shoves, setting the booth to swaying. 'Well what do you know? The wind's getting up and this booth's really rocking, to and fro, to and fro. Oh no, clumsy me, I've accidently kicked your bucket of sick all over you. Sincere apologies, and let me fetch you some unabsorbent tissues to clean yourself.'

Dilbert can feel his head staring to whirl. His stomach's making strange noises and is imitating a tumble dryer. 'Richard, I'm not feeling good,' he says, belching.

'I'm still filming sir, no harm done.'

'I'm going to throw up,' says Dilbert, sweat cascading down his face.

'Green is the colour sir.'

'Have you got all the film you need?'

'Yes sir, yes indeed,' says Richard, turning his camera from Dilbert and switching it off.

Dilbert leaves the security booth at a sprint, almost reaching terminal velocity in his descent, and when at the bottom, disappears from view. Unknown to him and in truth he doesn't care, a camera has filmed his every step.

Richard's taking his time descending, calculating the number of officers walking the Gubbins. He counts ninety six, only a fraction of the full amount most likely, which is bad news considering what Ray said about special earpieces. It appears the SAV already has allies in place for when the shit really starts to fly. No matter, he tries to convince himself.

At the bottom of the steps, Richard walks on a little way and waits for his boss to return. He lowers the camera and checks his woggle's straight. It wouldn't do for his scout uniform to look shabby. He peers at his watch and estimates Dilbert will take no more than fifteen minutes to shower and change.

After fourteen and three-quarter minutes, Richard raises the camera and hovers a finger over the 'record' button. Twelve seconds later, Dilbert appears, wearing a fresh yet identical navy blue suit. The presenter's once again looking immaculate and a healthy, rosy hue has returned to his cheeks. Richard's always impressed at Dilbert's recovery speed and raises a thumb on his free hand. He starts the camera recording.

'I'm back, looking great but not as magnificent as you, I bet,' says Dilbert, winking. 'I must say, I'm so excited at the sheer scale of the show we're witnessing tonight, as is my cameraman who can hardly contain himself. Isn't that right, Richard?'

'It's most likely the truth, sir.'

'Wow, Richard's grinning from ear to ear,' says Dilbert, listening to his earpiece. 'This is new. Apparently I have to take a ride with one of the high cameras,' he adds, hearing more aural words. Suddenly his face drops. 'No bloody way, I'm not ... _eurgh!_ '

A huge hand grabs Dilbert before his first running footfall touches the ground. His legs cartwheel in mid-air as he's lifted by the back of his jacket. He can't see who has hold of him, but they must be strong.

'You no run, naughty Dilbert presenter,' says a security officer. 'You go for ride in high crane. Up you go into wide-open box thing. Black box magic pixie says so.'

'Richard, help me!' shouts Dilbert, panic rising as he's lifted over a metal bar and dropped on his backside inside an exposed crane cradle. He tries to scuttle out, but the man at the controls has other ideas. Before Dilbert can escape, a lever's rammed forward and the ground drops away at an alarming rate. The words 'going up' take on a whole new meaning as the arms on the crane start to telescope out. The Show Complex grows considerably smaller. 'Rich _arggghhhhhh!_ '

On the ground, Richard curses as he hadn't seen this one coming. The SAV's blind-sided him and he wonders what it's playing at. He also wonders if it's got wind of the mission and is using Dilbert as a stooge. He dismisses the idea as not possible. Dilbert knows nothing of the current situation so this is purely coincidence. He grimaces as there's nothing he can do, so switches to a mega-super-zoom lens, aims the camera in the air, and waits.

It's a lovely evening, reasonably warm for the time of year, with a gentle southerly breeze caressing its way across London. In all, conditions are ideal for high-up filming, if that's what floats your boat.

It's said that a man's best friend is a dog, but in some cases, a man's best friend is a good solid surface right beneath the soles of his shoes. Sometimes though, fate deals a really crappy card.

Dilbert lies flat on the metal non-slip floor of the quite-high crane cradle, and green is definitely the colour. His eyes are tightly closed and he's mouthing silent prayers. After an interminable amount of time, he opens his eyes, stares up to heaven, the sky in fact, and licks his lips. He knows he'll have to speak eventually as the voice in his ear is insisting and, being a professional, he must.

Thankfully, the crane operator beats him to it, giving him a few more precious seconds to compose himself. The operator has released the going-up lever despite the crane not being at its full height, but he's not a psychopath. He's just a man, dressed in white overalls, doing his job. He takes a swift glance down at his passenger and shakes his head. 'Come on, Dilbert, we're not that high. I've only used twelve of the sixteen arm extensions. Stand up and take a look. It's beautiful.'

'I'm fine on the metal floor, thank you very much, but how h-high are we, just out of interest?' asks Dilbert, taking fast, shallow breaths.

'No more than six hundred feet. We can go higher if you like.'

'No! No higher, just describe the scene to me.'

'Well, down below I can see the crowds and they look like an ant's nest that's had a taste of boiling water. There are tiny little dots going every which way, and if I turn to my left you'll notice, not you of course as you've wimped out on the crane cradle floor, we're only halfway up the scaffolding stands. Let's go a little higher.'

'No!' shouts Dilbert, adding silent curses. 'I can see the top of the stands. How high do they reach?'

'I don't know exactly, but London City airport has had to suspend their flights for the duration of the show. If you really want to see how high, I'll pass you over to Wendy in the very-high crane but you'll have to jump the four-foot gap. I'm calling her over now.'

'No! I've seen enough. Take me down, take me back down,' snarls Dilbert, but the ear-voice is back. 'Alright, I'm getting on with it. Sorry, I didn't catch your name, anonymous crane person.'

The crane operator grins at Dilbert's splayed body. While not appreciating the man's fear of heights, he does appreciate the whitest knuckles he's ever seen as the presenter hangs on for grim life. The man chuckles, his words sounding playful. 'They call me Icarus as I love being up in the air. Sometimes I even undo my safety harness and play silly buggers.'

Dilbert groans. 'Please don't do that. Where the hell are you going? Icarus!'

' _Wahaaayyy!_ ' shouts Icarus, throwing himself over the side of the crane to an untimely - or perhaps a timely - death. As the third-best presenter Dilbert O'Really turns from duck-egg to olive green, Icarus reappears on the other side of the crane cradle, grinning theatrically.

'I'm here, Dilbert, I was only joshing. You don't really get a feel for the whole of Duke Cowely Simon Dockland Plaza and Arena this low down. As you don't seem willing to make the jump, I've had Wendy move her very-high crane cradle beneath us. I'll use my controls and tip you over the side. Good luck - and nice white knuckles, by the way.'

'No Icarus, please don't. _Arggghhhhhh!_ '

Having had his hands trodden on, Dilbert no longer has a grip on anything and he feels a momentary falling sensation. It's swiftly followed by a jarring thud to his back that knocks the breath from his lungs. He lies still, slightly in pain but still alive. Reaching out with his hands he grabs tight to the first handholds he encounters. Moments later, the rising sensation is back and he tries to be brave.

' _Arggghhhhhh!_ '

Brave-ish.

Wendy, the very-high crane operator, looks down on the presenter, but not mockingly. She turns, shakes her head and keeps her hand pressed firmly to the going-up lever. 'You big baby, Dilbert. You're not in any danger - and call me Wendy. I'm on the twenty-four arm crane, which will take us level with the top of the stands. Up we go.'

' _Mummmyyyyyyyyy!_ '

The cradle eventually judders to a halt and Dilbert does nothing. He lays still, his hands clenching tighter as the memory of a childhood fall from a swing fills his thoughts.

Wendy stares out wistfully, her long auburn hair drifting in the breeze. 'Just look at the view, Dilbert. Here, I'll help you up,' she says, reaching out a hand, but draws it back, sensing the presenter won't take it. Maybe his intense glare and strong use of potty-mouth was a clue.

Wendy nods and backs away. 'Okay, you just lie on the metal floor, but you've no idea what you're missing. The crowds look like teeny-weeny ants this high up. If I look west, I can see the M25 motorway, and there appears to be a problem causing a jam. If I look south, I can see the M25, and there appears to be another problem causing a jam. If I look north, I can see the M25, and there's yet another problem causing a jam. If I look east I ... oh my God, there's a plane!'

' _Aaarrrggghhh, aaarrrggghhh, aaaaaarrrrrrrgggggghhhhhh!_ ' screams Dilbert, quite loud.

Wendy knows she's probably gone too far. 'I'm joking, Dilbert. We're nowhere near high enough to be in the way of planes.'

Dilbert ceases his screaming, but only because he's run out of air to expel. As his whole being shakes, he finally finds his voice. 'H-hon-honestly?'

'Of course, we're nowhere near the flightpath. I'll just tip you off so you can ride in the extremely-high crane. I'll pass you to my colleague, mad-crazy-stupid-irrational Bob who's on the thirty-two arm extension crane. Off you go and happy rising.'

Dilbert, despite his anti-white knuckle grip, slides free with the assistance of more well placed boot-heels. As he makes his exit, Wendy shouts. 'Have you got him, mad-crazy-stupid-irrational Bob?'

'Eh?'

'Dilbert O'Really. Have you got him?'

'Who's Dilbert?'

'I just tipped him into your crane cradle.'

'But I'm above you, Wendy,' says a wide-eyed, bearded man looking down from above.

Wendy looks up and stares into a pair of questioning eyes. She bites her bottom lip.

If the third best presenter in the UQ were meant to fly, then God surely would have given him wings. As it is, God didn't, so what has gone up ...

'This is me, Dilbert O'Really, no longer afraid of heights as the wind rushes through my hair, tearing at my sweat-stained suit. I'm falling to an untimely death. Hi Icarus, how are you? He didn't have time to answer and looked surprised. As I quietly tumble, I can see the ground approaching fast. Damn, that's frightening, and God bless Richard. He's filmed it all, he's ... he's placing his camera on the ground. No Richard, never put the camera down! He's moving below me. No, get out of the way! Ah, he's going to try and catch me. This is me passing you on to the next presenter of this magnificent spectacle or maybe, just passing on. It's been a pleasure sharing these first few moments of the greatest show ever with you and as planned, let's go to our sponsors so you don't have to witness the harrowing outcome. Here comes the ground ... Whoa, that's weird, I'm not afraid anymore.'

'I've got you, mister Dilbert, sir!'

In a secret trailer compartment in the Gubbins, the many faces of the Secret Aural Voice, the Director, smile on knowing the show is well and truly, up and running. The demise of Dilbert will be unfortunate but entirely necessary if it's going to reach the viewing target it has set.

The creature glances at a digital readout screen, resting on the desk in front of it, and notes the number of viewers watching the show to have just passed the two point five billion mark. A remarkable figure for any show, anywhere, but it has been preparing for as long as it can remember.

The SAV understands that under normal circumstances it could never boast such a number but these are not "normal circumstances." Careful planning, infinite tweaking, and stealthily controlling the human race's thought processes has been necessary to ensure those who can watch, will watch.

Well, at least they should, but there are always some who will resist, at first. Them being the more intelligent, it knows. It does however, have plans in place to bring them into the fold. The first of which is to astound the primary viewers with such entertainment they contact their friends and urge them to tune in, hence the demise of Dilbert, a sure-fire audience winner.

It's brutal, the SAV understands that, and many humans will feel disgusted but in their heart of hearts, they know they'll not turn away for long. Although the humans like to think they're a peaceful race, the SAV knows different. They would never have achieved their Alpha status without knowing how to be killers, or enjoy a bit of blood and guts. Its own species are well aware of that particular truth.

The SAV ponders its own situation, stuck in a tiny room, with only itself for company. Okay, it appears as many, but in truth, it is singular. A creature of old, from the time before, forced to become what it is now through circumstance and the need for revenge.

It can't recall when it first thought of the plan. That memory has long since been wrapped in cobwebs and confined to a part of its brain labelled, "nope, can't remember." But what it does remember is the seething hatred flowing through its weird humanoid body, a form it has taken on for the duration of the show. Still, needs must when a higher purpose comes a calling.

The SAV leans back and again stares at the viewing readout and the number is steadily rising but there's still a long way to go. It's a good start admittedly, but not nearly enough. The number will have to go much higher before the creature pulls the plug on the human race's existence.
Chapter Three

Show Me the Money

Every show must have its backers, the people with the money, huge corporations most likely, and when an opportunity to sponsor the greatest show ever comes along, the vultures will surely gather. Are they in it for their own benefit? Of course - but sadly, even this show couldn't exist without them. Such a magnificent spectacle requires a mega-input, and when it comes to mega, only the fattest can compete.

The Complex screens and media sets across the planet go blank, thus sparing the viewers the sight of a presenter's innards. A fraction of a second later, a famous actor appears. The man stands tall, proud and menacing. He's dressed in a smart red jacket, sports a military helmet and resembles a UQ army officer from the late Victorian era. He's standing next to a Mk1 Austin Mini Cooper S and speaks, with a strong London accent. 'So bloody sad, poor Dilbert, but that happens sometimes. I'm your latest guest presenter, though not a lot of people realised I'd be on tonight. I didn't even know until I was asked to fill in. Still, when the going gets tough I was only too happy to leave the bloody VIP enclosure and step up,' says the famous Cockney actor Mikey Cane, saluting to every viewer across the planet. Such is the respect for him that all salute back.

Smiling widely, he sits on the car bonnet and rests his feet on the front bumper. Unexpectedly his demeanour changes and he points to camera in annoyance. 'Now then, I'm upset. Part of my manor, that's London by the way, took a nasty hit. The docklands was bombed by bloody terrorists and that, ladies and gentlemen, isn't acceptable. What is, though, is this wonderful show which couldn't happen without all you lovely people.'

Mikey smiles again, and displaying the grace and reflexes of a cheetah, plucks a spear out of the air. 'Oi, I'm presenting here so stop chucking things at me. Anyway, here are a few words from our main sponsors.'

Screens across the planet, including those in the Complex, flicker and reveal the first sponsor advertisement. Unseen by all, Mikey has catapulted off the Mini Cooper, opened the passenger door, and removed his Martini-Henry rifle.

There's a white sandy beach somewhere on the coast of the Land of American Righteous Democracy. The sun's blazing in a cloudless azure sky and everybody's enjoying themselves - especially the women, who all appear to be jiggling up and down for no apparent reason. A surfer-type man turns to face the camera. He has the whitest and shiniest teeth. 'Hi, I'm Chad and wow, this can of _Chokers Cola ™_ I have in my hand is so refreshing. Look how I tip it into my mouth and see how muscular and tanned I am. I also have six cute babes fawning at my feet and they're barely dressed but not quite naked enough to make this advert unsuitable for young children.'

As Chad smiles wider and brighter, a young, blond-haired boy runs forward. He skids to a halt, throwing up a small cloud of perfect sand grains. He too, smiles to the camera, although some of his teeth are missing. Those that remain, though, are sparkling.

'Gee Willikers. I'm Chip and I can see how refreshing _Chokers Cola ™_ is. Can I have some?'

'Of course you can, Chip. Here, take mine. Drinking _Chokers Cola ™_ will undo the damage that eating fruit and vegetables have done to your teeth. It'll also stop you getting fat, especially the diet brands.'

'Oh Chad, you're so right. Just one refreshing Mega-Pail of _Chokers Cola ™_ will undo all the harm that eating blueberries, lettuce and kale has done.'

'That's right, young Chip. Hold on... hands off, attractive babe. This is serious, and the fact that you want to sleep with me for drinking _Chokers Cola ™_ isn't important.'

'Chad, you're my hero. I'm going to drink _Chokers Cola ™_ every day until I die,' says Chip.

'I'm everyone's hero, Chip, and let's hope you don't die too young. I'm Chad. Drink _Chokers Cola ™_ just like me. Hands off, babes!'

The screens switch back to Mikey, lying on the roof of the Mini Cooper with his rifle pointing forwards. He's trying to remain calm but a red mist is descending. 'That's bloody appalling. Everyone knows drinking gallons of bloody sugar-water will rot your teeth,' he says, but pauses as the SAV is speaking through his earpiece. 'No, I'm wrong. Apparently it's good for you, but what the hell do I know? Here's the next bloody sponsor.'

Again screens flicker and a scarily dressed man can be seen, standing in front of a huge, yellow letter R. Before him huddles a small group of children who appear a little frightened.

The man smiles and speaks in a Texan drawl. 'Ye-hah and howdy, it's me, Old Dunny MuckRunny. My restaurants have a menu which is wholesome, good for you and contains a recognisable meat content, before the animal was stunned, killed and eviscerated of course.'

A young, blond-haired American child steps forward. 'Wow, Old Dunny, your food sounds awesome. I'm Chip, by the way.'

'I know who you are, and you certainly get around, son.'

'I sure do, and my parents are so proud of me for making them millions of dollars which they've spent on numerous procedures of plastic surgery, tiny expensive handbags and, in my father's case, ownership of a combined Evangelical church and shooting range.'

'That's fascinating, son, but not really relevant.'

'Oh, I almost forgot, they also bought me a new cage to live in. It's got a strong roof so when the tornadoes hit, I'm not sucked through the mesh ceiling and turned into thin but neatly cut chips.'

'Well _ye-hah_ , that's great, and it's funny you mention magnificently cut thin chips.'

'It's not funny, it's in my script, Old Dunny,' says Chip, pointing at a piece of paper.

'That's great, son, now get back in your cage. Trust me, Ma and Pa knows best.'

Chip smiles and steps backwards into his awaiting cage. Once inside, the top is closed and a strong bolt is pulled across. 'Sure, Old Dunny. I love you and there's nothing better than eating a _MuckRunnys ™ Bloat-Bugger_ washed down with a _Chokers Cola ™ Four-Litre_ ...'

'Hush, boy, you've already advertised them. Now it's my turn.'

'Sure sir,' says Chip, kneeling in his cage and looking appreciatively at one of his heroes.

Old Dunny turns and smiles to camera. 'The boy's right on one thing. The chips we serve at _MuckRunnys ™_ are so thin you'll barely be able to see them and the actual potato content is almost non-existent. That's right folks: we put the _Fasting_ into _Food!_ That's our motto, and scientific studies have shown you'll burn more calories ordering your delicious _MuckRunnys ™_ meal than you'll take in by eating it. That's how good it is for you. You don't believe me, well that's too bad. I don't care.'

Old Dunny MuckRunny draws a pair of guns from holsters worn around his waist and starts shooting into the air, most likely at random, though as he's American, that isn't a certainty.

The screens change and an actor, arguably the United Queendom's finest ever, is gazing nonplussed. Mikey's even dropped his bayonet on the ground in shock. 'Holy bloody Moses. Is that the best we can offer our kids? It's crap, totally crap. I'm out of here,' he says, but growls on hearing the Director's voice through his earpiece. 'No, I'm wrong. Apparently I've got another five minutes to go before my impromptu contract expires.'

The screens flicker.

A handsome man with designer stubble and luscious black hair steps forward. His suit is of the finest Italian design and his smile is to die for. 'Ciao. I'm Giorgio Todgeroli and I'm the Managing Director of _Domingo 's Pizza Restaurant, Takeaway and Delivery™_,' says the man, suddenly glancing down at a young caged boy. 'Hello little boy. What's your name?'

'Hi Giorgio, I'm Chip. Gee willikers, your pizzas look and smell awesome.'

'Oh Chip, that's a really stupid name, but here, let me get you out of that cage.'

Chip smiles and gratefully stands when the bolt's drawn back and the top opened. 'I like you, Giorgio. I know I shouldn't ask, but have you got anything to eat? I'm so hungry and the last time I had anything was two days ago.'

'Here's a fresh Italian lettuce. Eat as much as you want as I embrace you, metaphorically.'

Chip grabs the lettuce and begins to tear at the outer leaves. As he finishes, he grins dotingly at Giorgio.

'You really were hungry. How would you like some _Domingo 's Pizza Restaurant, Takeaway and Delivery™_ crunchy garlic bread?'

'Yes please. Wow, this smells just like your mouth. I adore everything that's Italian. I think _Domingo 's Pizza Restaurant, Takeaway and Delivery™_ are the best.'

'No, little Chip, you're the best. Sadly though, it is time for you to move on.'

'What if I'm put back in my cage? I'm scared,' says Chip.

'Don't be, because if anybody tries, they'll find a horse's head stuffed in their bed. And talking of stuffed, why not try _Domingo 's Pizza Restaurant, Takeaway and Delivery™_ new extra-mega-super-stuffed-crust pizza that has only two thousand calories per slice. Over you go, Chippibambino, and happy sailing.'

Giorgio feels a tear slip down his cheek, but he's not embarrassed. Apparently, it is okay for a grown man to sob, especially if he's Italian and can have piss-takers whacked with little effort. In all it's a sad farewell, but the show must go on.

The screens flicker.

An aghast Mikey Cane stands beside his Mini Cooper. His red jacket's ripped and there's a bloodied bandage across his forehead. 'Bloody hell! I can't believe it was the wops who've restored my faith in humanity. I met an Italian once. I was doing a job out there, and I think you know the rest. This is me, Mikey Cane saying goodbye.'

He jumps into his car, revs the engine and speeds off, safe in the knowledge there isn't another car in the world with the ability to catch a Mk1 Austin Mini Cooper S, when driven by a pissed-off Cockney.
Chapter Four

The 1st and 2nd Best Presenters

A surprisingly alive and kicking presenter stands in the Gubbins. He's looking smart in another freshly ironed, navy blue suit and there's not a hint of green about his complexion. His hair is perfectly styled again and there's a distinct look of smugness about him. Dilbert is staring to camera and when a raised thumb is seen, he speaks with confidence. 'Hi one and all, isn't this a turn up for the books? I'm very much in the land of the living but more about that in a moment.'

Dilbert smiles sincerely as he waits for the audience to calm down. He's genuinely touched by all the cheering and applause. He adjusts his tie, brushes imaginary dust from his jacket and turns an enquiring glance towards his trusted friend and cameraman.

'You're looking great, sir,' says Richard.

Dilbert nods on knowing his friend is right. 'The last time you were with me, I was tumbling to my death from a very-high crane. Whether it was God who saved me, or just pure luck, I survived and I've got one thing, perhaps three things, to thank for that.'

'Sir, it was nothing really.'

'I'm sure it wasn't but I landed on a pallet of _Chokers Cola ™ Low-Calorie-Lite_ pouches, and then bounced onto a stack of _MuckRunnys ™_ soft and feathery bugger buns. Then I was caught by an Italian fellow called Giorgio who put me down gently, without placing his hands anywhere near a part of my body which might label him as weird.'

Richard shakes his head. 'Actually, I caught you, sir. I put the camera down ...'

Dilbert directs a stern stare at his cameraman, halting the man mid-sentence. 'That's quite enough, Richard. And _never_ put the camera down. Now, camera on me and stop it shaking, there's a good man. Right, when it comes to presenting such a really long show, it's not possible for one man to do it alone, no matter how good he is. There are going to be a host of presenters tonight, and you'll see them as the show progresses. However, there's a pair who deserve, nay, they demand a pre-presentation. That's right, folks, tonight you have the top three presenters in the United Queendom, and I'm about to give you a brief glimpse of the other two. Me being the third best, behind them of course, but am I bitter? Am I flipping bitter?' he scowls, as his smile starts to crack.

'You're modest and unassuming, sir, remember that,' says Richard, adding, 'I know this isn't live, but go to your happy place and we'll get done sooner.'

Dilbert nods and forces a genuine smile back on his face. 'Let's wander a little way across the Gubbins and approach this innocuous-looking orange and white campervan. I can hear the two alleged best presenters are inside, so I'll knock. Film me knocking the door, Richard.'

'I'm filming it, sir.'

Dilbert can hear the sounds of a furious bust-up taking place in the campervan. Voices are raised, and what's being said is unsuitable to be aired as children will be watching. He leans forward and presses an ear to the door, while waving for his cameraman to move away.

'Anton, you bastard. That weirdo Fillipo were in our campervan again. I told you, not while I'm around.'

'He's not a weirdo, Dev, he's my Personal Assistant. Anyway, I were having a nap and I didn't see him.'

'You're a flipping liar, man.'

'I'm not lying, honest I'm not.'

Dilbert has changed his mind, partly at the insistence of an aural voice but mostly because he was going to barge in anyway. Being the experienced presenter he is he can scent an opportunity to improve his own standing. He reaches for the handle, slides the door aside and steps in. 'Hi, Anton Dev, it's me, Dilbert. Who was that slim, tanned young man I saw running from here a minute ago?'

The blond-haired Dev whips round and stares at the dark-haired and balding Anton. In response to the withering glare, Anton smiles weakly and starts to sweat. The atmosphere's electric as Dev, barely containing his ire, slowly turns to Dilbert. 'What tanned young man?'

Dilbert shrugs. 'Some tanned Asian fellow in shorts and flip-flops. I didn't mention it to the viewers as it didn't seem important and we didn't film him either. Who is he?'

Dev takes a deep breath, turns and glares at his other half of many years. His words drip with malice. 'Anton, you flipping liar.'

'No Dev, that couldn't have been my PA, it must have been a different Asian-looking tanned man. It's just a coincidence,' says Anton, finally noticing the man behind Dilbert. 'Is that camera recording?'

'It is Anton,' replies Dilbert, his smile wider than ever.

A swift, unspoken exchange takes place between Anton and Dev, and their recent argument is instantly forgotten. Their survival instinct has kicked in and they haven't endured at the top of the UQ Best Presenter charts for so long without being able to react to unforeseen circumstances. Calmness washes over them.

'Sod it!' shouts Dev. 'Get back out, Dilbert, and give us a minute. Give us a right short minute. Get dressed, Anton, the flipping show's started.'

'What show's that?' asks Anton, scratching his balding head and looking confused.

Dev stares at Anton and considers letting fly a balled fist, but he knows he can't do the show on his own. Despite his partner's occasional mental lapses, he realises that when they step on stage, the butterflies in his brain let go their tight embrace of his thinking synapses and the professional entertainer is let loose.

Dev, the brains of the operation, understands their relationship perfectly and recalls a song of old by the _Pit Shaft Boys_ , one of Newcastle's finest singing duos. He remembers a line that goes: 'I've got the brains, you've got the looks, let's win lots of awards.' Dev takes Anton by the hand and speaks softly. 'The show's started, man. We overslept and need to get ready. Can you give us a minute, Dilbert?'

Dilbert nods, his smile barely suppressed, and exits the van, his cameraman beside him. Together they politely wait outside.

Inside the campervan, frantic bangs and crashes are accompanied by a few choice expletives. Dilbert, with a hint of self-satisfaction, raises a well-trimmed eyebrow. 'Are you looking at your watch, Richard?'

'I am and if I didn't know better, the minute's up,' says the cameraman.

'So here I go again. Film me knocking the door.'

'I'm filming it, sir. I'm a professional, remember,' growls Richard.

'Now, now, there's no need to get tetchy,' says Dilbert, knocking the sliding door. The hectic sounds from inside have abated and surprised voices, which have in no way been rehearsed, answer.

'Blimey, Dev man, whoever can that be?'

'I don't know but I bet it's someone important, kind of,' replies Dev.

'It must be because nobody ever disturbs us. Maybe it's the third-best presenter in the UQ at this current time, behind us of course, and maybe he's got a cameraman with him?'

'Maybe he has, so it's a good job we weren't caught in a compromising situation. It's a right good job nobody saw your flipping friend doing a runner,' shouts Dev.

'His name's Fillipo, not Flipping, and he's my Personal Assistant, not a friend.'

'I don't care what you call him, I can't stand the bastard.'

'You're a rotten sod, Dev. You've never trusted me, even though we're joined at the hip.'

'Don't I know it,' says Dev, adding. 'We can't get away from each other.'

Outside, Dilbert licks his amused lips. He's dreamed of this moment for years. There's an old saying about giving an opponent enough rope and they'll hang themselves. He takes a firm hold of a metaphorical rope and imagines it slipping through the closed door. In his own head he can see it wrapping around a pair of necks and pulling ...

A camera hits Dilbert in the back of the head, and despite the anger and head-rubbing, the one holding it knows he's acted correctly. Richard steps back and silently curses that he hasn't managed to dislodge his boss' earpiece.

Like the duo Anton Dev, Richard and Dilbert have spent most of their lives together, and the cameraman knows when his old friend's thinking dark thoughts. He also knows when another is speaking dark thoughts to him through the earpiece. He backs off, muttering to himself, as Dilbert shouts, 'Lads, should I come back later?'

There's a moment of silence before Dev answers. 'Dilbert man, you weren't meant to hear that. You see what you've done, Anton. We'll be a laughing stock.'

Dilbert bites down on a finger to stifle full-blown laughter, and shouts again, 'We can delete the film and start again if it helps,' as he turns. 'Can we do that, Richard?'

Before the cameraman can answer, Dilbert continues. 'My cameraman says he can delete it and I'll wait here, outside your home. Take a minute and then we'll start over.'

'Dilbert, you're a saint. Isn't he a saint, Dev?'

'Aye, just give us a tick and we'll be ready.'

Dilbert stands beside the campervan and prepares to knock on the door again. 'Ready, Richard?'

'I was born ready, sir. You're in frame.'

Dilbert nods, adjusts his tie, his trousers, his jacket, his hair and his eyebrows, as he needs to look his best, especially as he's about to introduce the top two presenters in the UQ. He receives a thumbs-up from around the camera.

'You join me as I stand beside the campervan of the top two presenters in the United Queendom, but before I knock on the door, I'll ask you a rhetorical question. What, or perhaps who, has two heads, four arms, two torsos but only two legs and feet? Well let me tell you, it's none other than the nation's favourite conjoined twins and the leading presenters in the UQ islands, allegedly ... its Anton Dev!'

Dilbert enters the campervan with a flourish and stands across from the conjoined best presenters. Numbers one and two are both wearing bright sequinned shirts. Anton's yellow shirt has a big 'A' sewn on the front and Dev's blue one has a 'D', though why is anybody's guess. They're also wearing black trousers, but just the single pair, and shiny black shoes.

To a passing layman they would look like a large letter Y, their torsos sprouting from a single, wide waistline. As for how their shared lower body works, well, that's their little secret.

'Look brother, its Dilbert, you remember him,' says Dev, turning his head theatrically to look at Anton. 'He keeps coming third whenever the Best Presenter awards are voted for. Come in, man. We'll turn and face you so you're not behind us ... again! I must say we weren't expecting you, were we, Anton?'

'No Dev, and I'm right glad I'd finished descaling the kettle. It were all _furred_.'

Dev nods in appreciation. 'Good one, brother, but that's enough now. Dilbert's here to interview us and we're professionals, remember. The best there are.'

'Aye man, I'm sorry,' says Anton, suppressing a half-smile.

Dilbert smiles tightly before addressing the conjoined brothers. 'They're playful, loveable, damned lucky if you ask me, and without doubt joined at the hip. It's Anton Dev, folks. Now tell me, are you excited about the show?'

'Aye man,' says Anton. 'We can't wait to get started as we've never presented a four-hour show before. It'll be a right challenge, but we can cope.'

'Okay, but its ten hours, lads. Well, only nine now,' says Dilbert.

Anton frowns. 'Nine hours? Dev, I can't go ... Can I borrow your fingers to work it out?'

'You don't need my fingers, brother. You've got enough of your own. Just stick a thumb in your gob and count what's left,' says Dev, shaking his head.

'But I won't be able to talk.'

'It'll be a crushing blow but I'll manage on my own,' says Dev.

Anton huffs loudly. 'You can be a right bastard at times, you know that?'

'Can I? Thanks man, I'll remember that.'

The argument continues, back and forth. Dilbert stands politely and wonders why his luck's suddenly changing. Someone must be smiling down on him, and as interviews go, this is ambrosia for the soul. Being a true professional, he realises he must intervene for the good of the show. 'Should I come back later, lads?'

Both turn and Dev speaks. 'What? Oh, you're still here, Dilbert. Sorry, we always have these arguments as we get nervous before a big show, don't we Anton?'

'Aye, we always argue, especially when you accuse me of having a weird PA.'

Dev stares daggers at his brother and shouts in his ear. 'We're nervous, Anton, and look! Dilbert's here with a cameraman.'

'But ... oh right, sorry Dilbert. I forget you exist sometimes what with you always getting the second runner-up spot at the awards ceremonies. Is that camera recording?'

Dilbert bites his lip and counts to nine before answering, which is higher than a certain other presenter could manage. 'It's off. Ignore the red operating light. It flashes, regardless.'

Anton sighs loudly. 'That's a relief. We wouldn't want to appear amateurish.'

'Of course not. I hope all goes well when you get on stage,' says Dilbert.

'What stage?' asks Anton, staring questioningly.

Dev shakes his head at his less-than-adept conjoined brother and wonders if strangling a part of him to death would count as murder. As Dilbert and his cameraman leave the campervan, Dev reaches across and turns his brother's head so they're facing each other. 'Anton, you're so flipping stupid at times.'

'He's my Personal Assistant, man, nothing more. I promise.'

Dev rubs a hand over his forehead, closes his eyes and searches for his inner calm place.

A jubilant Dilbert picks a small piece of lint from his jacket, adjusts his navy blue trousers and smiles to camera. 'That was our favourite _joined-at-the-hip_ presenters. Well, yours, but not mine,' he says, but sighs on hearing the increasingly annoying Director's voice in his ear. 'No, I'm wrong, apparently they're everybody's favourites. Yes, I get it. Let's move away. We're done here, Richard.'

'Right you are, sir. There's more than enough for the editors.'

A digital readout in a hidden secret compartment skips through the two-point-seven-billion mark and the smiles on the SAV's watching faces grow wider and wider. Okay, Dilbert survived his flying lesson but that was for the good as it turned out. It appears the humans like a bit of death-defying luck. So be it.

The creature turns its head slightly and looks at a wall of screens inside its hideaway. It picks out one of the feeds and stares at the weird-shaped human presenters, Anton Dev. A forked black tongue flickers from one of the mouths and the one beside it utters, 'freaks.'
Chapter Five

Sleep, Piggy Sleep

As the sun embraces the horizon, the dusk sky ignites with pastel shades, most likely due to the copious air pollutants in the UQ's greatest city. The lighting rigs within the Gubbins fizz to life. New shadows are made and a pair of good friends work their way across the huge backstage area. Dilbert walks confidently towards the most important part while Richard, dressed in dark and light blue scout camouflage fatigues, captures his every movement without wavering or shaking. He signals to tell Dilbert he's recording and silently applauds the editors who will have to sift through and footage and make it appear real time.

'Welcome back. You join me as I head towards the judges' compound with my good friend Richard the cameraman. Are you keeping up alright?'

'I'm in front of you, sir. Of course I'm keeping up.'

'No need to be a clever Dick,' chuckles Dilbert. 'Now, as we round this ice-cream van we ... oh dear.'

Richard instantly stops and removes his finger from the recording button. 'What is it?'

'Don't move another step,' insists Dilbert. 'Hold out your backstage pass high and wide.'

'What's the problem, sir?'

'We're being targeted by ... I'm not sure what we're being targeted by but I've got bright red dots flashing across my suit jacket. I think they're coming from those watchtowers inside the judges' compound.'

There are regularly spaced watchtowers around the compound, set just inside a high razor-wire topped fence. The Gubbins in general is an inviting place, but not this part of it. Six Bentleys and a Learjet stand inside and are heavily guarded by bulky officers.

Richard turns a slow three-sixty, in order to take in the scene, before finally settling back on Dilbert. 'Snipers, sir. The red dots are their laser rifle-sights.'

'Yeah right! You're such a dreamer. Now hold out your pass. Here comes Security.'

'Out of interest, are they also being targeted, sir?' asks Richard, his back to the compound.

'They are, but with violet dots,' replies Dilbert. 'What does it mean?'

Three male officers and one female, are stomping toward the pair. None appear to have noticed the small dots of light flitting across their black jackets. 'We security. Show us red passes on string or you get a kicking!'

'We, errr, he did it, that Richard fellow with the camera,' shouts Dilbert, as he lifts his knees and bravely runs. The Gubbins is full of equipment so finding a place to hide shouldn't pose a problem for the resourceful presenter.

'That's very brave yet again, sir. Try not to run up too many steps making your non-cowardly escape!' yells Richard, lowering the camera to his side. He turns to the officers, notes the dancing violet dots about their persons and half-smiles.

'Show us red pass card or we ... Oh, you got one,' says one of the officers, seeing Richard's pass being held wide. He turns to a colleague and notices dancing violet dots. 'You got strange coloured dots on you. You look like dot-to-dot ... Why you fall down?'

The officer has indeed fallen down as something small and lethal zipped through the air and thudded into his elephant-hide neck. The remaining three officers appear confused, and some serious head scratching ensues. There are three more shots and in seconds the four officers are flat on the ground. Curiously, not a single shot was fired from within the compound. Whoever the shooters are, they were positioned elsewhere in the Gubbins. The last man standing, Richard the cameraman decides not to look for them, knowing they'll be well hidden, as their specialist Scout training dictates.

He smiles proudly, crouches and presses a finger to the neck of the closest officer. There's a pulse, meaning they're only sleeping. Standing upright, he gives his woggle an appreciative tug and places the camera back on his shoulder. 'It's okay, Dilbert! The officers have been darted and won't be getting up for a while. By the smell of the tranquiliser I'd guess the assailants used a fast-acting drug called carfentanil.'

Dilbert runs back and slides to a halt beside the downed officers. As he catches his breath he takes a comb from an inside jacket pocket and runs it through his hair. 'My diversion tactic worked then?'

Richard sighs, but knows he has to ask. 'What diversion tactic was that, sir?'

'Don't be obtuse. I was playing the odds and confusing the enemy.'

'Of course. I forgot that hiding behind a stack of _Chokers Cola ™ Cheery-Churns_ meant you were taking one for the team,' says Richard, rolling his eyes.

'Well don't forget again - this area's done up like a prisoner-of-war camp,' says Dilbert, staring at the vicious razor-wire topped fence that makes the place seem impenetrable. 'I've no idea how we'll get inside.'

'Maybe we should walk through the front gate. It appears to be open.'

'Okay, we need a plan,' says Dilbert, tapping a finger to his chin while thinking aloud. 'You could tunnel under the fence and when on the other side rush for the ... ah, the front gate's open. Let's walk in, cool and calm, no sudden movements. I've got your back.'

'I see, but could you back off a little. You keep clipping my heels you're so close.'

'We can't be too careful,' insists Dilbert, peering over his friend's shoulder.

'Apparently one of us can't.'

Richard enters through the wide-open front gate with Dilbert very close behind. The compound really does look like something out of a war film, the only difference being that there are no barracks or token American playing catch with a baseball up against a cooler wall.

'Here I go slipping past the sniper watchtowers, unnoticed and invisible,' whispers Dilbert into his microphone.

'We've got two General Electric searchlights on us, those with rhodium plated parabolic mirrors. They were used during the last war to spot planes at night and we're lit up brighter than an Amsterdam knocking shop.'

'The searchlights are on you, Richard, not on me. I'm a wraith, an unnoticed shadow. Okay, when I give the signal, run for it.'

'As you say, sir.'

'Now, Richard!'

The cameraman forgoes the invitation to run and mumbles, 'Somebody please shoot him.'

'Eh, what was that, Richard?'

Richard turns and aims the camera at Dilbert. 'I said you're in shot, sir.'

The two men walk through the open gate and head deeper into the compound, Richard continuing to film. Every step they take is closely scrutinised by armed guards stationed in the towers but there are no more challenges.

'Okay, I'm inside the judges' compound, having made a mockery of the so-called defences. My mask of stealth seems impenetrable,' says Dilbert, again presenting.

Unexpectedly, a voice blares out from tannoy speakers scattered around the compound. There can be no mistaking the show's head judge or the meaning of his words. 'Get on with it, Dungbert!'

Dilbert pauses mid-step. 'That sounded like Duke Cowely Simon, but how would he know I'm here? I'm invisible,' he says, frowning. 'No, I'm wrong. Apparently, according to the aural voice, I'm fully in view. I guess you gave me away. Thanks old friend.'

'It's a pleasure,' says Richard, grinning widely.

'I suppose we'd better start the judges' interviews then. Who's up first?' asks Dilbert as he walks to a trailer resembling a huge chrome bullet like the ones seen on old American film sets. 'There's no name plate. Let's just go inside.'

Using the chrome handle, Dilbert opens the door and steps inside, closely followed by his dependable cameraman. On seeing the incumbent, they flinch and approach cautiously.
Chapter Six

Northern Light

Relaxing on a chaise-longue is the judge, Keryl Insert-Surname-Here, dressed in a white towelling bath robe, her hair gathered up and confined inside a white towel. She beckons Dilbert to the sofa opposite, while his cameraman stays back to get them both in shot. When a thumbs-up is given, Keryl speaks in her distinctive gentle accent. 'Why-aye Dilbert pet, I haven't seen you since I tried to marry you a while back. Do you remember?'

'I ... I don't recall that at all, Keryl. Let me introduce Richard, my cameraman.'

Keryl smiles and her eyes shine, like those of a cat when it's spotted prey. 'Hi Richard. I haven't seen you since we nearly married last year on that Jamaican beach. Do you remember? You were about to say "I do" but then you saw an interesting manta-ray in the surf and ran. I never saw you again and thought you'd drowned in the uncompromising interflowing tides of the Caribbean seas.'

The camera gives an uncharacteristic shudder. 'Pure fantasy, sir.'

'It's true, pet, I cried for minutes on being stood up at the palm-tree altar. I'd even shown you my puppies.'

'It never happened, sir!' shouts Richard, retreating a few steps.

'I believe you, now stop the camera shaking. There's no need to stand by the trailer door. I'm sure Keryl doesn't bite ... _owww_ , that was my leg!' yelps Dilbert, pushing Keryl back towards her chaise-longue. Checking his leg, he sees that no blood has been drawn and his trouser crease is still straight.

'Sorry Dilbert, I can't help myself. My puppies like the taste of a potential husband,' purrs Keryl, biting the tip of a finger seductively.

Dilbert tries his best to ignore the words. 'How about keeping your puppies on leashes?'

'Okay Dilbert, I will, or maybe ... I do.'

'Careful sir, she's proposing.'

Dilbert nods and looks at his old friend. 'Good advice. Now why not come and stand over here. I'll watch the entrance.'

'Yeah, right. Do the words "I wasn't born yesterday" mean anything to you?'

'Touche, old friend, I understand,' says Dilbert, turning back to his interviewee. 'Keryl, let's talk about tonight's show. You have two acts. What are your thoughts?'

'Oh them, I understand, but shouldn't we talk about me first, and how I came from humble beginnings? There has to be a sob story, everybody knows that.'

'She's right,' says Richard, briefly glancing out the door, weighing up exit routes.

'I know she's right,' says Dilbert, unhappily realising he'll be in the trailer longer than he wants to be. He shuffles to the end of the sofa, placing himself a yard closer to the exit. He knows he can out-pace the woman if the need arises. 'So Keryl, you came from humble beginnings and all that tripe. Tell the viewers your story.'

Keryl smiles. 'I will, and I love tripe. That's all we had to eat when I were a lass and back then we had to suck it from a living cow's mouth.'

'Of course,' begins Dilbert, his smile turning to a frown. 'What, seriously?'

'Aye. Me and my seven brothers and eleven sisters used to sneak into one of the land-owners' fields and we'd take it in turns to suck out a bit of stomach lining.'

'That sounds offal,' says Dilbert, looking smug on slipping in an unscripted joke.

'No, it were delicious, but I don't do it anymore. I don't have to as I'm rich and as happy as a coal miner who's mine's still open. My Dad said coal makes the world go round. I guess there's a big furnace below our feet and it's fed by coal, but not from my home town now. My Mam says it comes from the huge Eastern Islands, but I think she were joking. We all know it comes from petrol stations.'

Dilbert opens his mouth to speak but quickly closes it again. Being the third best presenter in the UQ and by default, the third best interviewer, he realises he'll have to be at the top of his game. Thank God for the editors, he thinks, as he engages his brain before speaking. 'Yes, right, you were talking about cows, Keryl.'

'Aye, but there's more to us up north than just coal and cows. We've got this thing called rain, though we call it _grit-coal_ and I flourished in the dampness. I remember being soaking wet as I sucked that cow's face.'

'This is a bit surreal,' says Dilbert, concentrating hard.

'Aye Dilbert, the cow owner were called Sir Reall and he were my first husband. I were only sixteen when he fought through my brother and sisters, picked me up, took me to the edge of the field and made me sit on his big white monster. Oh Dilbert, up and down I went for what seemed ages,' says Keryl, sounding breathless.

'This is a family show!' shouts Dilbert, trying to ignore the images flooding his thoughts.

'Up and down I went on his horse, that's what he said his white monster were. Eventually we got to his huge mansion, where he lifted me off and gently placed me on the ground. As he led me inside I didn't know what to make of it. I looked up into his kind eyes as he looked down on me and do you know what he said?'

'The floor needs mopping, peasant?' asks Dilbert, hazarding a guess.

'No! He said, you see that stain on the table over there? And walking over I leant across for a better look. Then I felt Sir Reall grab me and there were a bit of jostling and fumbling.'

'Oh, please no,' gasps Dilbert, his pupils going wide.

'That's right, pet. He passed me a cloth and I got the stain off with a bit of spit and polish, like my Mam taught me. I learned a lot that day and it were Sir Reall who put me on the road to sing...'

'That's fascinating, but we're running out of time,' interrupts Dilbert, now seated on the sofa arm with both feet facing the exit. 'That was Keryl's sob story, which if I guess right, accounts for her continuous search for love. I hope one day she finds it, but we have to move on. So Keryl, tell everyone about your acts in tonight's show.'

'Oh them. I'm right confident as Ramitinada the Mexican pathologist has been strong through all the rounds, and he reminds me of how I used to suck a cow's intestines out through its gob.'

'Magnificent,' says Dilbert, not really listening. 'And your second act?'

'Well, the Shat Cat is something special and everyone's going to love him. I've never seen turds so beautifully sculpted. It reminds me of my career.'

Dilbert groans. 'That's great, and I think we'll call that...'

Sadly for all involved, the judge is drifting off into her own world again. 'I were visiting my Mam the other day and she's so proud of me. She still won't believe I've actually eaten a cooked bit of cow, though. I told her about burger vans but she doesn't believe me. She says that's just a dream and I should look for bits of testicles in the minced meat, but I just laugh. I'll be honest, I don't know what a testicle is and I'd never know if I had one in my mouth.'

Dilbert chuckles fearfully. 'Yes quite, and I'm sure you're referring to the delicious taste of a _MuckRunnys ™ Tasty-Teste Bugger_.'

'What's one of them, pet?' asks Keryl appearing confused.

Dilbert smiles politely, rises to his feet and sensibly wraps up the interview. 'There you have it - and move from the door, Richard. I've got a feeling ... run!'

'I'm already gone, sir!'

The men come to a halt after a short sprint. Both lean forward and gratefully suck in lungful's of sweet-tasting air. Dilbert eventually stands upright and turns to camera. 'Well everybody, that was Keryl Insert-Surname-Here, and wasn't she great, but we can't stop. Are you ready, Richard?'

'Ready's my middle name, sir,' says Richard, checking the footage from the interview. Keryl's been known to act odd at times, but on this occasion the ball was firmly hit out of the park. Still, it's down to the editors to decide what to use, so not his problem. He lifts the camera to his shoulder, pondering what the other judges may have to offer, as Keryl is in no way the strangest.
Chapter Seven

Silver Dragon

'One down, six to go, and next up is a stalwart of the UQ entertainment industry. He's been gracing the airwaves for years or so it seems,' says Dilbert, seeing a plain army-style marquee. He raises his eyebrows at the lack of ostentatiousness but the man was never the type to demand star service or throw temper tantrums.

Dilbert shrugs and walks inside through the wide-open flap. He takes a seat on a wooden stool as Richard focuses on the judge opposite.

The living legend, Dai Dinagony, formerly known as Tommy Jones, is sitting upright in a high-backed chair. A fold-out camping table's beside him and a steaming polystyrene cup of cocoa rests on the top. Dai, as he's now known, smiles widely. 'Welcome, Dilbert. Ah, Richard boyo, it's good to see you again. Last time we met you filmed my music video, _Baby its Fecking Freezing Outside_ , with my fellow countrywoman Cllerys Maffyews. She took a shine to you. Her trailer was rocking for hours.'

'It never happened, sir,' says Richard, shaking his head in extreme denial.

Dilbert peers curiously at his cameraman before turning back to Dai. 'It's Dai Dinagony everyone, arguably the most experienced member of our judging panel.'

Dai's smile drops away and he leans forward. 'Experienced? Are you saying I'm old?'

'No Dai, I'm saying you've got a lot of experience.'

'Are you suggesting I'm fat?' asks Dai, sucking his belly in.

Dilbert starts to fluster. 'What, no Dai? I'm simply saying you're ... you've ... oh heck.'

Dai turns an irritated stare to the cameraman by the tent-flap. He has an eyebrow raised. 'Richard, is Dilbert all there?'

'Yes Dai, he is, mostly.'

'Then why's he gibbering?' asks Dai.

'He's Dilbert O'Really. Go easy on him please, for old time's sake.'

'Okay Richard, I'll try my best,' says Dai, turning and smiling. 'Well Dilbert, I'm happy to have you here so fire away. I've nothing to hide.'

Dilbert's eyes dart between Richard and the living legend. He's heard the exchange but isn't sure what to make of it. 'Dai, you've reached the heights no singer has reached before and let's face it, you're a legend. I must say, you look great in your tight leather trousers.'

'Thanks Dilbert, but I'll be honest with you. I've had these trousers on since 1975 as I can't get them off. They're stuck.'

'What? You've worn the same trousers for the last forty years?' asks Dilbert, frowning.

'Yes boyo, the same underpants as well,' says Dai, a smile cracking his lined face. 'Sorry, is this the sob story bit?'

'I suppose it is. Fill your boots,' says Dilbert, settling himself on the wooden stool.

Dai leans back, takes a sip of cocoa and a dreamy expression washes across his lived-in, weathered face. 'I was born in Wales as you know, and life before I became famous was really hard. I grew up with fourteen brothers, nine sisters and my mother had trouble sitting down.'

'I'm not surprised with that many childr _owww_ ,' exclaims Dilbert, rubbing his head. 'Watch where you point that camera, you caught me right on my earpiece.'

'Apologies. How clumsy of me,' says Richard, stepping away again.

'Yes, well, be more careful. Sorry about that, Dai. Please continue.'

Dai peers up at the cameraman and winks. 'My father, God rest his soul, worked two hundred hours a week just to feed us all.'

'That's a lot of hours Dai, was he ever at home?'

'Twenty four children, Dilbert boyo! You tell me how often he was at home, the horny old toad, but I digress. Anyway, I was only twelve when it happened, the Great War as it were.'

'The Great War,' repeats Dilbert, a little confused. 'That would make you, hold on a sec, a hundred and twelve and with respect you don't look a day over ... fifty.'

Dai smiles. 'That's very kind, but I'm not referring to Planet War One. I'm talking about the Great Welsh War, which was a bit earlier.'

'I've never heard of the Great Welsh War, Dai. Could you enlighten me?' asks Dilbert, actually looking interested.

The Welsh legend shuffles in his chair, making himself more comfortable and begins his sorrowful tale. 'I wasn't always a singer, oh no. What you have to understand is that my home country of Wales wasn't always as happy as it is now. Back then, the people were divided into very different tribes. We may appear content with our orchestras mixing with our singers today but back then ... it was war.

'It all started with our orchestra leader, Archduke Charlinand, and his wife Camellia going for a jaunt in the Welsh countryside. It was lush, very beautiful, but then they were hit. A cowardly choir militia had set up an ambush. They sprang from nowhere and sang their hearts out. Sure he had percussion bodyguards, but what can any percussionist do against a whole rendition of _Bread of Heaven_? Lying bloodied and bleeding, the Archduke then felt the full force of a tenor. There was nothing he or his bodyguards could do, especially when the assassin reached the second F above middle C. It was carnage, I can tell you.'

Dilbert peers slyly at his cameraman. 'Is this for real?'

'Hush sir,' replies Richard.

'That was the start of it, and in retaliation the choir villages were overrun with our own trumpets and cornets. The singers fought well but when the tubas appeared on the hilltops, their lot was done. I hear it was a travesty.'

'I ... don't know what to say,' stammers Dilbert, and in truth he doesn't.

Dai shakes his head and wipes tears from the creases around his eyes. 'I was only a boy and all my older brothers had gone to fight but none ever came back. The war ebbed and flowed and it was terrifying seeing the injured instrumentalists carried from the front line, right past the hole in the ground in which I lived. I'll never forget hearing a wounded trombonist mumbling through bloodstained lips: "they've bent my valves, they've bent my valves!" It stayed with me, and I still have nightmares about crumpled and useless flugelhorns to this very day.'

'I'm replete in sympathy, Dai, but I'm not getting why you're now a legendary singer.'

'Well, the war eventually came to my family's hole-step. The singers were too strong, and although armed with a piccolo I couldn't do much. I was the only one who survived when the enemy dropped a countertenor onto our roof. Everybody died, including our pet cow, Llandrethyll. As I stared at the invading army, through broken bodies, I saw a kindly face. A man called Ivan Novello, a Welshman true and pure, picked me up and kept me safe. He taught me how to sing, thus forgoing my instrumental roots.'

'Wasn't Ivan Novello an American, Dai?' asks Dilbert.

'No boyo, he was very Welsh. Eventually though, the war passed over, but I'll never forget the orchestra, despite my powerful voice.'

Dilbert's a little stunned. 'That's incredibly moving. Forgive my asking but your real name's Tommy Jones, not Dai Dinagony. How did that come about?'

Dai chuckles sadly and sips at his cocoa. 'Well boyo, I changed my name to honour my late father - and notice I haven't mentioned him in this awful tale.'

'You haven't, and it was the best sob-story I've ever heard, which didn't mention an incurable disease from the first person or a close relative. Tell us about him.'

'My father was a parachutist in the war, and it was many years later, when I bumped into a veteran who jumped from the hot-air balloon with him, that I learned his fate. The veteran took me to my father's grave. I learned my father's parachute never opened and he hit the ground hard. It took him ages to die. His legs were wrapped around his head, his arms were broken in ten places, and his tubular bells were everywhere. The veteran just kept shouting _Dai Dinagony, Dai Dinagony_ , so I took the name in remembrance, as it was my father's.'

'That's remarkable but do you think the veteran might have been saying your father died in ag _owww_?' yells Dilbert, feeling a camera thunk into the side of his head.

'Sorry sir, a bit of cramp,' says Richard, manically waving the camera around.

Dai leans forward with his elbows on his knees. Momentarily, he has a look of pain on his face as his leather trousers have to adjust to his new position. 'Always the professional, Richard, and don't worry, I can handle the likes of Dilbert. You want to know about my two acts, I guess, and Wilma-U-What is a feisty girl. She's a tough, foul-mouthed bitch, but she sure can rap. She scares the hell out of me, and I've lived through a war.'

'Absolutely, Dai. And your second act?'

'Never call her a second act as Alli Kayeeda represents everything I stand for. She's survived another war-zone in the South Desert Islands and fought through adversity.'

'She's a charm, that's for sure,' says Dilbert, smiling while rubbing the side of his head.

'She's a woman and not a charm. She deserves respect. She's fought against us males at every turn and if there are any here tonight who seek to put her down they'll answer to me. I'll fight tooth and nail for her to be taken seriously,' says Dai, banging a fist on his table and knocking his cocoa over.

Dilbert nods and turns to Richard, who appears to have recovered from his momentary bout of cramp. 'I think it's time we moved on. Have you got enough film?'

'Absolutely, sir,' says Richard, tugging his woggle and saluting Dai before he leaves. The veteran Welshman nods in return.

Now departed, the two men look toward the next judge, or his temporary home at least. Both exhale sharply on seeing a replica of a castle constructed entirely of moulded plastic components by the judge's own skilled hands.

To the unknowing, it would appear the incumbent is a joy to behold. To the knowing ...

Richard gulps. 'I've got your back, sir, and not your front this time.'

'Thanks Richard, thank you very much.'
Chapter Eight

Mister Plastic Fantastic

'Welcome back, and you join me as I approach the er, castle of our next judge, Walshy Loo,' says Dilbert, glancing briefly at the plastic construction. 'What a shame. He's not in.'

'He might be in,' says Richard. 'Cross the drawbridge and look. I've got your back.'

'What was that? I can't hear you properly from back there. Come here.'

'I'm fine where I am, sir,' says Richard, keeping well back.

'Get over here now. We're a team and teams don't split up. Now go and knock the door. I'll wait here for you,' says Dilbert, giving his friend a shove as he walks up.

'You're the presenter. I'll stay here for a wide-angle shot,' says Richard, staring above the plastic castle door. 'Is that a plastic model of an airplane hanging from the ramparts?'

Dilbert squints, placing a hand above his eyes to cut out the glare from the nearby lighting rigs. 'You're right, it is an airplane, but from this distance I can't tell the model. Go take a closer look, you wonderful friend. I'll hold the camera for you.'

'In the words of every turf accountant who ever lived, sir, all bets are off and you can respectfully sod yourself,' says Richard, holding firm to his filming equipment.

'There's no need to be rude. I'm the boss, now on you go.'

Richard curses, knowing he's the junior in the relationship. He grabs his woggle for luck and drops into a crouch. He slowly approaches the plastic castle and in all, looks like he's done this kind of thing before. He's like a coiled cat, or a snake maybe? On reaching the castle door, he reaches out and knocks, gently. 'Nothing. You're right, he's not in.'

The door flies open, taking Richard by surprise and reveals the judge, Walshy Loo. 'Actually, it's a plastic model of a Hawker Hurricane and I built it with my own hands. Did you know I'm very good with plastic modelling?'

' _Arghhh!_ Run, Richard. I'll create a diversion,' shouts Dilbert.

'I can't, sir. He's grabbed my woggle. Please don't leave me.'

The castle door has been slammed shut with Richard dragged inside. Dilbert looks out from his hiding place and bravely steps into the open. He peers left, then right and finally over at the castle. He moves forward, still presenting but voice only. 'Here I go, approaching the castle where my more than likely erstwhile cameraman and good friend Richard is currently suffering a fate worse than death. In all probability there'll be nothing left to save. However, I owe it to his wife Rebecca and his three children to try. I'm currently using all my stealth capabilities ...' he says, then looks up. 'Oh yeah, the model is a Hawker Hurricane, and it's even been converted into a catapult-launched Sea Hurricane.'

As Dilbert admires the skilled modelling, a scream is heard inside the plastic castle walls.

' _Arghhh_ , help!'

Dilbert stands deathly still. 'It appears Richard's still breathing but there really is no hope. I'll just have to be brave and do the rest of the interviews on my own.'

'Help me, Dilbert, or I'll tell your wife you took a job on Channel 13 once, presenting a daytime quiz show,' shouts Richard, his words loud and clear.

Dilbert looks every which way and there are no witnesses in earshot. 'Shut up, you bastard, and anyway, it was just the once. I was young and impressionable.'

'You'd better help because if I make it out of here alive, I'll tell your wife you're not even Irish. I know where you were born. I'll tell her you're an Essex boy.'

Dilbert swiftly places a hand over his mouth to still his high-pitched squeal and thinks for a moment. 'Okay, keep away from the door, I'm coming to get you, old friend and to hell with the consequences. Although let's be honest, my wife wouldn't believe a word of it. I can string a sentence together and I've never holidayed in Ibiza.'

'I'm away from the door, sir,' shouts Richard.

Dilbert takes a couple of deep snarling breaths as he faces the castle. He pumps his fists and launches. 'Here I come!'

Before Dilbert has a chance to heroically force the door with a well-placed shoulder charge, it opens and the judge Walshy Loo can be seen. He's wearing tan cords and an uninspiring, brown shirt. In his hand is a bulging carrier bag, which has a variety of plastic model components poking from the top. 'Come in, Dilbert. I'm really happy you recognised my plastic model. I spent days making that and I even used an aliphatic resin wood/plastic adhesive so the finished product would be waterproof. It had to be as it was hanging outside, and did you know, statistically it's more likely to rain at the weekend, so I was thinking ahead as this is Saturday. That's what Walshy Loo does. Dilbert, why have you got your hands over your ears?'

'Quick, Richard, the door's open. Run old friend!' shouts Dilbert, standing his ground.

'I ... I won't leave you, sir. I'll stay for the interview but I can't promise the recordings will be used.'

Licking his lips, Dilbert steps inside, out of grabbing range of the dullest man on the planet, as confirmed by numerous polls over the years. 'Hush, Richard, I'm a professional and I'm removing my hands from my ears.'

'Blimey sir, you really are brave, and I'll certainly be voting for you in next month's Best Presenter elections. If you don't get second this time I'll be amazed.'

'Thanks Richard, those are kind words. Now take a seat beside me,' says Dilbert.

'Don't push it sir, I'm moving to the door and I'll film from there.'

'Right you are. Ah, Walshy Loo, it's great to catch up with _eurgh_ , what have I sat on? Oh my God, is this a pair of your underpants?' asks Dilbert.

'No it's not. That's a cloth I use to oil the drawbridge,' replies Walshy, appearing frightened.

Dilbert holds the offending article at arm's length. He turns it slowly in his fingers and feels a familiar, sickly sensation dredging at the pits of his stomach. He instantly drops the item. 'It is your underpants. Oh hell, I've touched them. Richard, call for a decontamination unit. I'm infected, I'm soured, I ... Walshy, can you turn your television off, please. I have to, er, what's that you're watching?' asks Dilbert, hearing loud grunting and groaning.

In wide-eyed embarrassment, Walshy stands in front of the screen which is showing two naked people who appear to be wrestling. 'It's not what you think. The channel's got stuck. I've tried to turn it over but the controller won't work.'

'Walshy Loo, I'm shocked!' gasps Dilbert, craning his neck for a better look. 'That's a men-only booby-channel and that's disgusting. I'm married and even my wife wouldn't do that.'

'Actually, she would, sir,' says Richard, inwardly cursing on realising he'd spoken aloud.

'Eh, what was that?'

Richard grimaces as Dilbert stares directly at him. Swiftly he moves the camera to focus on Walshy, who's furiously pressing buttons on a remote control. 'Look, it doesn't work, it ... oh, it didn't work earlier. I'll switch it off ... see! It's gone back to the booby-channel and that costs me a pound a minute. Is that camera recording?' asks Walshy.

Richard's grateful for the change of subject and holds a raised thumb high and wide. 'Oh yes, Walshy Loo. Take it, sir.'

Dilbert accepts his cue and stands, being very careful about where he places his hands. 'Touche, Richard. Let's start the interview. Walshy Loo, we all know you've never had a meaningful relationship in your life, so ...'

'That's not true, Dilbert. I once met a lovely girl and she didn't try to hurt or vomit on me. We got on so well, she moved to the Land of American Righteous Democracy. She said she wanted to see me from afar, and as far as I know she's still looking.'

'I see, hey, don't reach for your plastic model bits,' says Dilbert, pointing accusingly. 'I'm watching you and if you try anything my man Richard will hit you with a camera-loaded stun dart. He can take down a bull rhino at a hundred paces, and I'm not bluffing.'

Richard frowns behind the camera, and a worrying thought enters his mind. 'How do you know that, sir?'

'Shush, I am bluffing, but don't tell Walshy,' whispers Dilbert and he winks.

Richard sighs with relief and says no more.

'Moving swiftly on,' says Dilbert. 'Tell us how you feel about your two acts, Walshy?'

'Well Dilbert, I don't hold out much hope for Morriski. I know he was popular once but let's face it, he's a bit dull.'

Being a consummate professional, Dilbert doesn't react on hearing the word - dull. He continues flawlessly. 'And your second act? We all know you're great with boy bands and I bet Gimp Jism fills your sails.'

Walshy's eyes light up. 'Well Dilbert, that depends on whether you're talking about sails from boats or ships. If boats, then I'd compare Gimp Jism to, er, actually you've got me. I can't compare Gimp Jism to any boat as there's never been a famous one. Oh, here's an interesting fact, do you know the difference between a ship and a boat?'

'Careful sir, he's in seriously boring mode,' says Richard, checking castle exit routes.

'I can handle it,' says Dilbert. 'Go on Walshy, if you must.'

'The difference between a ship and a boat is a ship can carry a boat but a boat...'

'You're wrong, sir. You can't handle it. Run!' shouts Richard.

A serious amount of leg movement ensues. Two men are exiting the plastic castle in record time and neither feels the need to look back. By the time Walshy Loo reaches the door, neither can be seen.

'Don't go, please! I've just started to tell you about ships and boats and ... Dilbert, are you listening? Dilbert!' shouts Walshy, but there's no response. His shoulders slump and he closes the castle door, his friends having dashed away, as they all do. He returns to the television set and switches it off. Amazingly, it switches itself back on. As the grunting and groaning of naked wrestlers blares out, he sighs and reaches for a nearby box of four-ply man-size tissues, but only because there are tears in his eyes.

'Richard, I must say, you run backwards with the best of them.'

'Thank you, sir. It's a skill I'm proud of,' says Richard.

'I'm sure you are. So what was that about my wife?' asks Dilbert.

'Diversion tactic, sir. I was trying to throw Walshy off the scent - and apologies for mentioning this, but you've got a four-ply man-size tissue stuck on your trousers.'

Dilbert shrieks. 'What! Pull it off Richard, pull it off, and nothing more need be said.'

Richard reaches into his scout fatigues and pulls out a fold-up spatula. He opens it out and deftly flicks the piece of tissue to the ground. 'All done sir, and there's no staining.'

'Good man. Now let's keep moving. Are you with me, old friend?'

'I'll not miss a step sir, but I just realised we didn't ask Walshy Loo about his sob story.'

'Richard old friend, occasionally, a person's whole life is a sob story.'
Chapter Nine

Space Girl

The two men approach the temporary residence of B-Mel-D-Cup, an uninspiring static wooden construction, that being the home and not the judge. There are three rotary washing lines outside and they're covered with towelling sheets, the likes of which might have recently been wrapped around a young child's bottom.

Dilbert looks to his cameraman, throws a stone at him to gain his attention and only then receives the thumbs-up gesture. For certain the interviews aren't live, but he needs his man on the case. He has his presenter rating to consider and will not accept second-rate filming being fed back. 'Welcome back, you wonderful people. We're now approaching the abode of one who is much more pleasing to the eye and ear. Providing she doesn't sing, or talk, or open her mouth at all.'

Inside the temporary home, an awful screeching is heard. ' _Two become one!_ '

Dilbert instinctively ducks. 'What the heck was that? It sounded like a banshee being dragged across a cheese grater.'

'I've got your back, sir,' says Richard, holding his thumb up.

More of the spine-shredding racket is heard. ' _Zig-a-zig, arggghhhhhh!_ '

'What the hell? I think my cochlea just died,' exclaims Dilbert, rubbing his ears.

'I've got your back, sir.'

Again a cacophony rings out. ' _If you wanna be my lu-verrr!_ '

Dilbert keeps his hands over his ears. He can feel the pressure building inside his head and sparks are dancing across his vision. 'Bloody hell!'

'I've got your back, sir,' says Richard, his thumb still high.

'Richard, can you hear what I'm saying?'

'I've got your back, sir.'

'Are you wearing earplugs?'

'I've got your back, sir.'

'Thanks. I thought we were friends,' growls Dilbert, stepping toward the wooden building. His hand hovers inches from the door handle and he takes a calming breath. For now, the noise has abated but he's ready to cover his ears should the need arise. 'Here we are at the home of B-Mel-D-Cup. Are you getting this, Richard?'

'I've got your back, sir.'

'And take those bloody earplugs out! If I've got to listen to this appalling racket then so have you,' shouts Dilbert, but swiftly a voice is speaking through his earpiece. 'My mistake. Apparently B-Mel-D-Cup is one of the best singers ever and personally I think she sounds like a young Mama Cass.'

In a moment of solidarity, Richard removes his earplugs. 'Before or after she died, sir?'

'Yes, right. I'm about to open the door. For once, I don't care if you film me but don't you dare think about creating a diversion. We're in this together, you hear me?'

Richard nods but instinctively takes a step backwards. A dark woman with a mass of black hair and two enormous lady-globes held in place by a sliver of white cloth has appeared in the entrance. She's wearing thigh-high leather boots which complement a pair of gold micro-shorts. The two men unconsciously gasp at the truly fearsome sight.

B-Mel speaks, none too gently. 'Don't make a noise! I've just got the little darlings off to sleep. Oh, it's you Dilbert, come in. Hiya, Richard, I didn't know you were here. I'll never forget the time in Iceland when you filmed me for my first solo record release. Do you remember us making love on that iceberg and you accidently dropped your lens-bag into the ocean.'

'It never happened, sir!'

'I understand Richard, now calm down. _Eurgh_ , what's that smell, B-Mel?' asks Dilbert, getting a waft of something nasty coming from the temporary home.

'The sweet smell of success, Dilbert. If you set aside the stink of baby poo and sick. Come in and keep quiet, I've just sung them to sleep,' says B-Mel, waving her guests in.

Dilbert enters and stares at the scattering of cots and bunkbeds that are all around. He speaks quietly. 'So what we heard was you singing?'

'That's right, I was singing them to sleep, and it's amazing really. Every time I open my mouth, they drop off instantly. I must have a knack.'

Dilbert nods, before turning back to his cameraman. 'Richard, can you come further inside and get a close-up of B-Mel-D-Cup?'

'I'm fine by the door sir, haven't you realised that yet?' says Richard, unmoving.

'Okay, I'll make this quick. We'll not stay any longer than we have to. So, B-Mel, how many children do you have?'

'I've got eight so far, including Richard's little'un from our night of rampant icy passion.'

'It didn't happen, sir!' shouts Richard.

'Shush,' insists Dilbert, a finger to his lips. 'Just hold your equipment and keep shooting.'

B-Mel smiles widely. 'That's exactly what I said to Richard when he impregnated me.'

Despite Richard being a professional, a camera is seriously shaking. 'It wasn't me, sir. It must have been a different cameraman, an amateur.'

'Yes, right. B-Mel-D-Cup wouldn't lower herself to the likes of you. Just leave this to me, a proper professional,' says Dilbert, his eyes rolling.

Behind the camera Richard nods, gratefully.

'Actually, I'm B-Mel-F-Cup now. I've had one of those titty jobs. Trying to feed eight kids all under the age of ten with my old milk pails wasn't practical.'

Dilbert is momentarily taken aback and tries not to stare. 'Let's move on to your acts for tonight. I must say you've drawn the deuce in the pack with these two. Not those two of course, not your breasts, as they're huge and round and lovely. What I mean is ...'

B-Mel-F-Cup interrupts, much to the relief of Dilbert. 'Did you say juice? Ah bless, you look hungry, so why don't I pop out one of my mama-glands and let you have a nibble?'

'By all that is mighty, no! I said deuce, not juice. This is a family show.'

'Don't shout, Dilbert. Now come over here and have a tuck in. The left one's drained but I've still got a little sugar in the right ... Dilbert, where are you going?'

Both men set their legs in motion and make their swiftest exit yet.

Dilbert stands, a little out of breath but with his dignity intact. Admittedly he is hungry, but not that hungry. 'Are you okay, Richard?' he asks.

'I'm fine and we should never mention that again.'

'Touche, but the editors will have received the pictures. There's no going back, is there?'

Richard winks and pats the camera with his hand. 'Cameraman secrets, sir. Rely on me.'

'You're a godsend old fri...' begins Dilbert, but pauses to listen to his earpiece. 'No, I'm wrong. Apparently you're not a godsend but a criminal. You're to be neutralised for assaulting four security officers back at the gate. Crap it, we'd better get a shift on.'

As Dilbert starts to move away, primordial grunting can be heard back near B-Mel's home. 'We security. We gonna bloody have you!'

'Follow me. I'll show you how to make a diversion,' says Dilbert, preparing to run.

Richard has a confident yet chilling smile on his face. Ignoring Dilbert, he raises his camera to the approaching officers and takes a moment to straighten his woggle. With a twist of a lens he brings the officers into sharp relief, counting nine in total. Using his little finger he opens a hidden flap and flicks a switch. 'Say cheese, girls and boys,' he says.

Dilbert stands dumbstruck. He didn't see or hear anything untoward, but he can't ignore a pile of officers, snoring heavily on the ground a few dozen yards away. 'Did you just put those officers to sleep?' he asks, looking furtively at his cameraman.

'Me, sir? I've no idea what you mean. Let's move on - and you'd better mention B-Mel-F-Cup's acts for the sake of the viewers.'

'Do you know something I don't?' asks Dilbert, peering suspiciously at Richard.

'No way, sir. You're the best, remember,' says Richard, giving his boss the thumbs up.

Dilbert shrugs then nods in agreement. 'That was B-Mel-F-Cup and her acts really are the barrel scrapings of tonight's show. There's One Erection, the big-haired boy who was thrown out of the boyband, Many Erections. She also has the RC Priests, who've been thrown out of the Church, but I'm not saying why. Let's just say the irony of giving them a mentor who has eight children is reverberating around the planet.'

'Blimey sir. You'll surely get the Second Best Presenter award for that last line.'

Dilbert preens and raises a smug eyebrow. 'You think?'

'I'd bet your life on it, sir.'

'Thanks old friend.'
Chapter Ten

A Big, Big Man

Dilbert notes the home of the next judge; a large pink double-decker bus with blacked-out windows and door. He's looking closely at the entrance, but not to see inside. The darkened glass has wonderful reflective qualities. He turns. 'Our next judge, Wally Davidiams, is a comedy big-shot, as tall as a phone box and he's married. I rather admire him and I'll bang on the bus door quite happily. Come and ...' says Dilbert, suddenly realising his cameraman's nowhere to be seen. 'Where are you, Richard? This is Wally Davidiams. He's harmless, isn't he?'

The bus door hisses open and a massive hand reaches out, grabs Dilbert and forcefully drags him inside. 'Hello, Dilbert. I insist you come in,' says a soft sounding, smooth voice.

'Thanks Wally, that's _arghhh!_ '

Richard, curiously invisible, waits for the bus door to close before de-cloaking. He appears as if from nowhere and recalls a recent encounter with Walshy Loo. A grin slips onto his face but swiftly fades. Whatever he thinks of Dilbert, he knows this isn't the time for games. Especially on spotting the SAV earpiece the big judge was wearing.

He recalls his Scout brief and considers what he's learnt so far. Despite having no show earpiece, he's still linked in via his own special one and his camera. The words of the Secret Aural Voice, the shows Director, have been loud and clear in his own ear for the whole evening. For certain, Dilbert has been reacting to them, but he hasn't.

His scout earpiece, attached to his very special camera, has filtered the SAV's commands. A low frequency element has been isolated and deleted before the words reach his ears. He knows this is the true voice of the SAV and is responsible for the ensuing madness. What it's saying though, others far more intelligent than him are currently trying to work out?

To the untrained eye, Richard's just a cameraman, a good one, mind, but there's far more to Dilbert O'Really's old friend. He's a man on a mission, one approaching its climax.

There's a rescue to take care of, and not Dilbert's, though that must now take precedence. Whatever he thinks of his old friend, his vanity, his selfishness, and most definitely his naivety, he won't leave him to his fate.

Richard adjusts his green woggle, the colour depicting his Scout rank, dips a hand into a fatigue pocket and withdraws a coil of nylon cord. He recalls his special training - be prepared!

He can hear the crashing sounds inside the bus and the terrified screaming, but only fools rush in. He speaks, but only to himself. 'I'm afraid I'll be putting the camera down as I'll need both hands for this. Dilbert, you pain in the butt, here I come, ready or not.'

The bus door explodes inwards as Richard crashes through it. The inside resembles a typical living room, with a three-piece suite, television, and the other usual stuff, but he isn't interested in that. He only has eyes for a very big judge wearing a pretty blue dress. He drops his camera to the carpeted floor and tackles the man, dragging him down onto a wooden chair. The following moments are a blur as Richard gets to work, his hands moving every which way. At the last he steps away, takes up the camera and switches it back on. A relieved Dilbert looks up gratefully from his prone position on the beige sofa. 'Richard?'

'Speak nothing of it, sir.'

'Yes, well,' begins Dilbert, turning to look at Wally. 'He can't escape, can he?'

'No way. I've tied a double fisherman, two triple overhands, a constrictor, four half hitches, nine reefs, and a Richard oblong slot-knot special. The big boy's going nowhere.'

Wally fights against his ties but, despite his strength, he's not about to get the better of a Scout knot-master. His muscular frame tenses but there's no give. 'Let me go!' he shouts.

Dilbert responds angrily. 'You're going nowhere, Wally Davidiams. I see through your so-called "I'm normal" scam.'

'Careful sir, watch the tone, if you know what I mean?' says Richard, tapping his camera.

'What ... oh right. Where did you learn to tie knots like that?'

Richard looks down at his light and dark blue fatigues and sees the numerous badges sewn onto them including the knot-master one. He tugs at his woggle, sucks air through his teeth and peers at Dilbert. 'Well sir, I'm an operative in the Special Associated Scouts, the SAS, but we don't exist, if you know what I mean.'

'No, I don't know what you mean. What's the SAS?' asks Dilbert, a little perplexed.

'We don't exist and have never existed, if you get my drift, sir.'

'I don't get your ...'

'We don't exist, sir!' shouts Richard, winking furiously at his old friend.

Dilbert slides off the sofa and slowly stands, pulling off the purple flannelette nightie the big judge was forcing on him. The pain from Wally's attack was uncomfortable but not as shocking as the shouted words from his long-time friend. Dilbert peers questioningly, wincing with every movement. 'Does your wife know about this?'

'She doesn't exist,' says Richard, quickly correcting himself. 'Actually, she does exist, but maybe you should interview Wally. See how I'm winking at you.'

'Right, okay. We'll discuss this later,' says Dilbert, somewhat confused.

Wally continues to fight against the magnificently tied knots but to no avail. Eventually he stops struggling and peers at his captors. 'Let me go. I'm harmless, and I only dress up as women for a joke. I'm not properly camp. I'm not like my ex-comedy partner Matty Loocas in that _Little UQ_ show we did.'

Dilbert ponders Wally's words and a cunning plan forms in his mind. 'Look Wally, you tore my shirt, and I'm showing a glimpse of man-nipple.'

'Good move, sir,' says Richard, appreciatively.

Wally gasps loudly. 'Ooh, let me at it, you ... What I mean is, that doesn't interest me in the slightest. I've got a wife - and she's female. I'm not camp!' he shouts.

Dilbert frowns as his cameraman presses a wad of photos into his hand, removed from a fatigues pocket. He flicks through them. 'Where did you get these?'

'Special Associated Scouts, and we don't exist, remember. I've switched the camera off, so do what you must. I've got your back,' says Richard, keeping one eye on the smashed bus door in case of unwanted intrusion.

Dilbert turns and shows Wally the photographs. 'Okay, Wally, it seems your wife is none other than your comedy partner Matty Loocas ... in a wig!' he exclaims, showing Wally an old wedding photo.

Wally smiles devilishly and chuckles, before a realisation strikes him. 'It can't be. Why didn't he tell me? If I'd known I'd have told him ... he's a disgusting individual.'

'Don't deny it, Wally. In this day and age there's everything to be ashamed of. If the public knew you actually liked dressing as a woman, they'd take to you like wasps at a bake-off party.'

Richard clears his throat. 'Actually sir, being camp's now socially accepted. It's positively encouraged in the higher classes, especially the politicians.'

Dilbert sneers. 'Shush, I'm on fire. Admit it Wally, you're a cross-dressing weirdo.'

Richard shakes his head and again reaches into a fatigues pocket. He removes another wad of photos and shows them to Dilbert. 'Look, sir, being camp's nothing to be ashamed of. Here's a photo of you in your teens back in Essex.'

Frowning, Dilbert squints at the photo. 'It's out of focus. That could be anybody.'

'And this photo,' says Richard, passing over a picture of a young man wearing a floral dress and blonde wig with pigtails.

Dilbert takes it, stares, and then his eyes go wide. 'Bloody shit! I knew there was somebody with a camera. That was you?'

'It was, way back in the day, sir.'

Adjusting his tie, Dilbert chuckles nervously. 'I, er, see. Do you still have the negatives?'

'Of course not. I wouldn't dream of keeping them,' says Richard, winking as he watches photos being torn up. He switches the camera back on and raises his thumb, signalling Dilbert to start the interview. They'll need some appropriate footage at least.

Dilbert smiles widely. 'With me is the delightfully "normal" Wally Davidiams. Tell me, Wally, in your trussed-up state, how do you feel about your acts on tonight's show?'

'Release me and I'll tell you.'

'Wally, you know I'd love to but we're on a tight schedule. So, your first act is the magician, The Adequate Bellendi. Have you ever seen such a performer?' asks Dilbert.

'Please let me go.'

'Your second act is the Dutch mime artiste, Smelyairy Cleft. He's quite something.'

'I promise to be good. I won't be camp anymore,' says Wally, smiling meekly.

'Could we untie him a bit?' asks Dilbert, looking enquiringly at Richard.

The cameraman shakes his head. 'More officers are on their way. They'll take no prisoners.'

Dilbert nods, a little fearful. 'Can you avoid them?'

'I'm SAS sir, I can avoid anyone,' says Richard with a playful grin. He presses a button on his camera and becomes invisible, his SAS night-shadow initiated.

Dilbert notes his old friend disappear but not at a sprint from a judge for once. 'I can't see you.'

'Just walk out nice and easy, no sudden diversions. They're not after you. You're in frame and you're looking great,' says Richard, whispering close to Dilbert's ear.

Dilbert does as he's told and heads for the next judge, unaccosted by the growing numbers of officers in the compound.
Chapter Eleven

Crystal Balls

Dilbert approaches the second to last judge's abode. It's a traditional-looking gypsy caravan with a beaded curtain across the entrance with a set of wooden steps leading up to it. His cameraman's nowhere to be seen, though he trusts he's still being filmed. Security officers are everywhere, but he boldly waves his backstage pass for all to see.

'Okay, I'm a touch bruised and battered from my encounter with Wally, the normal judge, but that wouldn't stop a professional like me. In my unequivocal bravery, I'm about to interview Armada Hold'em.'

A voice speaks in Dilbert's ear, but it's not the SAV on this occasion. 'Keep it up. Armada's a stand-out woman and very charitable.'

'Right, and did you just mention charity?' enquires Dilbert, his smile wider than it has been all evening.

Richard groans as he's reminded Dilbert of a well-rehearsed conversation had prior to the show. The timing couldn't be worse, but he's had his cue. 'I did, sadly, and am I right in saying you do a lot for charity?'

'Richard, you know I don't like to talk about it,' says Dilbert, trying to look embarrassed.

'We'll move on then.'

'But as you've brought it up, I suppose I'll have to. I once ran five miles in support of the Lower Limbless Society and raised money for people with no legs. I recall the bookmakers _Billy Hill ™_ saying they'd donate a million pounds if anyone with no legs beat me to the finish line. They had no idea who they were dealing with when they bet against me. Do you recall I was thirty yards from the finish when Strong-arm Legless Dave was about to overtake me but he inexplicably tripped over?'

Richard has switched the camera off and shakes his head. 'He was tipped over, with a good shove, if I recall rightly. It's difficult tripping someone with no legs.'

'Yes, well, er, right. You haven't got it on film have you?'

'Not with me sir,' says Richard, adding swearwords under his breath.

'That's good. Now let's keep moving. I don't like this one bit. Security's everywhere.'

'Great, you've noticed.'

Armada Hold'em is standing on the steps of her caravan. She appears normal, but looks can to be deceiving, especially given the previous encounters. She's wearing a pretty red dress, high heels and is a natural beauty. Her brown eyes are wide and stunning.

'Come in, Dilbert - and there's no need for you to hang around outside, Richard. I know you're there, somewhere? Take a seat and rest assured you won't be assaulted, breast fed, bored to death, married or told about some non-existent Welsh bloody war.'

Richard whispers into Dilbert's ear, making him jump. 'I told you she's sane.'

Armada huffs. 'I can hear you, Richard. We've crossed paths before. It was you who filmed my first childbirth, and I'm eternally grateful. Your use of the soft-angle narrow lens when my little one's head emerged was beautiful.'

Moments later Richard appears inside the caravan, his SAS night-shadow switched off. 'I did film the birth and it was wonderful to see a mass of hair at that crucial moment.'

'So Armada doesn't shave, then?' asks Dilbert, his words tumbling out without thought.

'It was the baby's head, sir.'

'Stop being dirty, Dilbert,' says Armada, tutting loudly. 'If you want to watch my birthing video, I've got it right here.'

'No way, lady,' says Dilbert. 'Let's go straight to your acts for tonight,' he adds, perhaps learning from previous experiences.

'Now hold on, Wally injured you, and I wouldn't be a genuine hostess if I didn't try to ease your pain. Just pop your clothes on that chair.'

'Seriously, I'm fine,' says Dilbert, but his annoyance grows on listening to his earpiece. 'For heaven sake, this is ridiculous. There might be children watching. There's no way I'm stripping off and being filmed.'

'I won't film,' says Richard. 'Take advantage of the offer. You'll feel better.'

Dilbert turns to his old friend and sees the camera down by his side. Reluctantly he removes his torn clothing, all bar his underpants. He turns to Armada, who is dipping fingers into a large pot on a table beside her. She starts to apply a thick white balm to grazes and bruises, some in awkward places. 'I take it Wally was trying to force a dress on you. Hold still, you'll soon be as good as new.'

'If you mus... aye, aye, aye!' exclaims Dilbert, the cold balm making him shudder.

Armada ignores Dilbert's exclamations and continues to tend to his injuries. 'So you want to know about my acts. Coffin Fit is the strangest I've ever seen, but needs must when we get to the final stages. Hey, stop being a baby. I haven't applied the plasters yet.'

'You, er, have such wonderful soft hands Armada.'

'I have, and my second act is from a bygone age. Geriatric and the Pacemakers are old hat and the public won't like them. I've no idea how they made it this far. There, we're done, now turn around and sit on that chair for me,' says Armada, her words commanding.

Truthfully, Dilbert feels much better and the pain's fading fast, but he's sure the slap on the bottom wasn't necessary. 'Why?'

'Just sit. I have a talent and I'm going to predict your future,' says Armada, her stern expression brooking no nonsense.

Dilbert peers questioningly at his cameraman but sees no sign of distress.

'Do as she says, she's very good, sir.'

'Okay, I'll sit,' says Dilbert uncertainly, looking at a chair similar to a toilet seat but open at the front.

'Don't be embarrassed Dilbert, I'm a professional fortune-teller and adept in the Mystical Art of Testicology. Now remove your pants and sit still. Surely you'd like to know what the future holds for you.'

Dilbert makes like a statue, unmoving, as the woman's words ricochet inside his head. Did he just hear right? Surely not, but in a state of shock he does as he's told. Maybe he is concerned regarding what the future may hold? More likely he's concerned about what Armada intends to hold. He must have heard wrong?

'Armada, I've never heard of Testicol... holy crap, you've cupped my man-nuggets!'

'Hush, Dilbert, I'm going to enter a trance-like state.'

'You're going to enter a trance-like state!' blurts Dilbert, his panic rising.

Armada hisses. 'Silence, let me work.'

Dilbert doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. On the one hand he's appalled, but on the other it does feel kind of nice. He sits deathly still and stares up at the caravan ceiling, making sure eye contact will be zero. 'Richard, you'd better not be bloody recording,' he says, eyes firmly fixed upwards.

Before a reply is given, Dilbert feels a hand grab his chin and pull his head down. Devastatingly, he locks eyes with Armada and coughs involuntarily.

'Dilbert, this vein tells me much. You're going on a journey, or at least you should be.'

'You're damned bloody right I am, and if it wasn't for Richard pressing down on my shoulders I'd be out of here like a shot.'

'Quiet. I ... I see a flying metal bird.'

'Let me go, Richard, you bastard!' shouts a struggling Dilbert.

'Ah, of course. I see a helicopter and I ... I see death, lots of death. Quickly, get dressed and run,' says Armada, placing a hand over her mouth in shock, before quickly removing it on recalling where it's been.

With two pairs of hands released from him, Dilbert falls off the seat and starts to run. He makes it outside the caravan door before the underpants around his ankles trip him and he falls to the ground. With impressive swiftness, he's on his feet, his pants pulled up but suddenly a pair of ripped trousers hit him in the back of the head. He dons them as best he can and sprints off into the gloom.

Inside the trailer, Richard sighs and prepares to switch on his SAS night-shadow cloak. Before doing so, he turns to Armada. 'Are you wearing your earpiece?'

'Of course, but the Secret Aural Voice can't command me, Colonel Richard.'

'I see. So what does it want?'

'I've no idea, but you'd better defeat it. I wasn't lying to Dilbert when I said I saw death, the devil himself in fact. I predict a riot, a wasteland, Colonel. Are your operatives ready?'

'We'll see. I'd better go after Dilbert before he hurts himself, the useless sod.'

'Colonel, before you go, I saw something else,' says Armada, her expression serious. 'You must keep Dilbert safe as he's going to surprise you. Surprise us all, in fact.'

'Unlikely,' chuckles Richard, saluting the woman. 'Good luck. I hope you make it.'

Richard exits the caravan, presses a tracking button on his camera and notes that Dilbert hasn't gone far. As he jogs after the man, he realises he's forgotten to switch on his night-shadow. He sees a group of officers approaching and hits a camera switch marked _sleep-dart salvo_. He jogs on, safe in the knowledge dozens of wannabe captors are snoozing soundly.
Chapter Twelve

Alphas

The two men make their way to the final judge with Dilbert fully dressed from the waist down. He's devastated at losing his shirt and jacket, especially as they contained his grooming tools. Richard walks confidently on one side, filming his boss as well as keeping tabs on an increasing number of heat signatures in the judges' compound.

'This is me, Dilbert O'Really, if I haven't already said so, but it never hurts to keep bloody reminding people, does it?' growls Dilbert, his expression and demeanour moody.

'Family show, sir, don't forget that.'

'Oh yes, it's a family show, how could I ever forget? No wonder I'm the third best, putting up with this kind of crap. Anton Dev wouldn't, the freaky bast...' Dilbert stops as his eyes alight on the final judge's home. It's huge, but obviously not as big as the real Buckingham Palace. He notes the golden walls, diamond-encrusted windows and a huge circular glowing ring above it, much like a halo. 'What are those tiny lights flitting and fluttering around?'

Richard raises an eyebrow. 'I have no idea,' he says, taking a tighter grip on his camera.

Dilbert watches the small creatures and his anger evaporates. 'I feel strangely content.'

'Of course you do. You're close to Duke Cowely Simon and I've got your back proper this time,' says Richard. As he follows Dilbert in, he spares a glance over his shoulder, wondering if anyone has his back.

The head judge, Duke Cowely Simon, lounges in a magnificent golden throne. His hair's immaculate, his teeth gleam, and the top three buttons of his expensive gold shirt are undone, revealing neatly combed chest hair. His black trousers are perfectly ironed, the waistline pulled up high as is the wont of a highly respected Duke of the Realm, and his unicorn-skin shoes are buffed to perfection. Beside Duke Cowely's throne sits a very familiar figure, although Dilbert fails to notice her. In all, the setting is somewhat, regal.

'Enter Dungbert, it's almost a pleasure to see you - but take not a step further. You're invited in, but if you move another inch you'll be vaporised. Hold still, there's a good little presenter, and submit yourself to my bacteriplagueometer containment field. It'll just give you the once over.'

'It's Dilbert, and thanks Cowely,' he says, as he's momentarily doused in a bright light.

'That's Duke Cowely, and don't forget it, lesser. Ah, I meant Dungbert, of course.'

'Certainly, Duke Cowely, but I'm Dilbert, D-I-L-B-E-R-T.'

'Of course you are, and if I'm not mistaken that's Richard behind you. Welcome, my most favoured cameraman. There's no need for you to be decontaminated. Come, sup from my overflowing generosity and kiss my ring. I've had it polished. There's a good man, come to he who is forever giving,' says Duke Cowely, offering a huge ruby ring.

Richard kneels and puckers up. He then retreats backwards, towards the palace door, his camera never wavering. He realises the importance of the captured film and calms himself with controlled breaths. He notes that Dilbert has turned to him, his expression distasteful.

'Was that really necessary?' asks Dilbert.

'Sorry but needs must, given the circumstances.'

'But I thought you were SAS.'

Richard bites both lips as an outburst now might have terrible consequences. He hisses softly so only Dilbert can hear him. 'We don't talk about that, sir. We don't exist.'

'Right, of course,' says Dilbert, turning to the highest ranked man in the whole show Complex, by his own reckoning of course. 'So, Duke Cowely, I won't ask you about a sob story as I'm sure you haven't got one, but the viewers would really like to know about your acts. What do you think they can achieve?'

'H-mmm ... It speaks, and I'm certain I didn't give it permission, but this is a program after all. A televisual talent contest no less. You may continue, Dungbert.'

'Right, thanks. So then ... actually, I'd finished and the question stands.'

Duke Cowely ponders the question with a finger tapping his chin. Before answering, he turns to the woman sitting beside him. 'Lizzie, you may well be the Queen of this country, but never take the last strawberry dream from my box of _Minky Tray ™_.'

Dilbert frowns, his attention moves sideways and he sees who Duke Cowely's rebuking. His pupils expand significantly and he points theatrically at the woman sitting on a smaller throne. His mouth opens, closes, opens again, and his pointed finger starts to dance. He sees _Her Majesty_ , dressed in full regalia including a glorious crown, sheepishly withdrawing a white gloved hand from a box of chocolates.

'Fucking hell, that's the Queen,' blurts Dilbert, as his arm is suddenly pulled down.

Richard's in his face. 'It's not sir, it is not! That's nobody important.'

'But that's the Queen,' stammers Dilbert.

'No it isn't, now look at me!' hisses Richard, gripping Dilbert by the chin.

Dilbert shifts his eyes forward and stares into those of his old friend. Never before has he seen such force or smelt his breath from so close. Blinking rapidly, he recalls the hissed words and despite his confusion, nods before stepping sideways. He hopes his indiscretion hasn't been noticed, and it appears Duke Cowely's none the wiser, such is his arrogance.

'My acts ... but what is there to say? They're outstanding and I wouldn't have chosen, ahem, they wouldn't have been randomly allocated to me if I thought they couldn't win. I'm looking forward to seeing them both in the Finalest Final, Honestly, the actual final, somewhat later in the show. Tiny Tina the Dagger Swallower is quite superb and Bitches with Dogs are music to my ears. I sincerely hope everybody votes for them.'

Dilbert licks his lips and surprises himself with the calmness in his voice. 'Well, Duke Cowely, I'm sure the people will choose who they prefer.'

Duke Cowely leans forward in his throne and stares to camera. His eyes glow red for a second, although it's probably a trick of the light. 'Everybody will vote for them,' he says, waving a well-manicured hand dismissively. 'You should leave, Dungbert. I tire of you.'

Dilbert doesn't argue, and once outside, for want of better words - legs it.

Back at the entrance to the Duke's domain, Richard curses and sets off after his friend.

Dilbert's grateful for his fitness and soon finds he's racing past downed security officers. He's fearful, and an instinct has kicked in - survival. Without checking whether his old friend is behind him, he keeps running. His goal is unclear, but getting out of the judges' compound would be a good start.

He pumps his fists, dodges and even jumps a few more snoozing officers, then skids to a halt. The exit is clear to see but isn't clear to use. There's a wall of security in front of the open compound gate, and they are approaching. He can clearly hear their threats of severe pain and frantically turns, searching for a diversion. There's none available, but he sets off anyway, heading back the way he came. As he skips over a fallen officer for a second time, he hits an invisible object and catapults onto his back. With panic rising he hears a disembodied yet familiar voice.

'Don't move an inch, Dilbert, until I tell you. Keep calm. I'm going to reach into your ear and take out your earpiece,' says Colonel Richard, his voice much stronger and not sounding like the subordinate he was earlier.

'Okay,' stammers Dilbert, but his expression quickly turns nasty. 'You're wrong! You won't take my earpiece. I'll have to kill you if you try. I know how to box and I'll beat you to ... _arghhh!_ '

Richard also heard the words of the SAV, the command to attack, but not the underlying hidden message compelling Dilbert to do so. Whatever it was, it had the desired effect as his boss, for the first time ever, has become a whirling dervish of feet and fists.

That's of no consequence to a highly trained SAS Colonel as a well-placed boot on the chest, a deft swing of a camera to the jaw, and a punch to the testicles has done the trick. As for which of the three worked best, God only knows and Richard doesn't care. He reaches down, inserts his fingers and pulls the earpiece free. There's a horrible sucking sound as it tries to hold, but a stout tug does the trick. Richard holds it up for a better look but swiftly throws it to the ground and places a boot heel on it, crushing it into the dirt.

He shivers, having seen the earpiece's fine, bloodied tendrils, which had burrowed into Dilbert's brain and they were still moving. He grabs his old friend, now free of coercion, and pulls him upright.

Looking forward, Richard sees the officer swarm getting ever closer. He shakes Dilbert left, right, backwards and forwards, until the man shows sign of life. His eyes have opened but there's confusion on his face. For Richard, that's good enough and he talks into his woggle, one with a concealed SAS communicator beneath the fabric. His tone is strong and commanding. 'SAS ops, this is Tricky Dicky, come in.'

Moments later a reply can be heard, although the static is strong. 'SAS ops, Tricky Dicky. Do you have Fizzy Lizzie?'

'No, I do not have Her Majesty. The situation's worse than expected. She's safe though and shouldn't be harmed. I'm requesting evacuation, actually I'm demanding evacuation.'

'Understood Tricky Dicky. The chopper is down and waiting in the Gubbins. The judges' compound's done up tight but I guess you know that. Do you need assistance?'

Colonel Richard takes a look through his camera at the security officers. If a wall of flesh could move, then this is certainly it. He considers the offer of assistance, peers at Dilbert, then answers. 'That's a negative, ops,' he says with a snarl. 'I've got this, over and out.'

Dilbert has heard one half of the conversation and has fully recovered. He's looking at Richard, fear in his eyes. 'What happened, old friend?'

'Bad things and they're not over yet.'

'I ... I've been acting like a moron, haven't I?'

Richard bites his lip and genuinely smiles at his old friend. 'How well can you run?'

'Faster than you, I'd bet.'

'Good. Now get down and wait for the signal.'

'Okay, but what signal?'

Richard chuckles, raises his camera, and prepares the remainder of his sleep-dart salvos. There are not enough to take down all the officers, but he only needs to clear an exit route. Using the officers' heat-signatures, he picks out the necessary individuals and programs their positions into the camera with the press of a button. He smiles at Dilbert and winks. 'What signal? How about this one? Run!'

Richard releases dozens of darts, which shoot forward at supersonic speeds. Each thunks into an uncovered officer neck, and the recipients drop to the ground. Without waiting for Dilbert, he sprints forward. Soon he's running over large human bodies that are keeping those on the periphery at bay. He shouts over his shoulder, 'Move it, Dilbert!'

'I'm with you,' replies Dilbert, overtaking the man.

They exit the compound, and Richard is impressed at the speed of the third-best presenter in the UQ. They dash through the unguarded gate, leaving the conscious security officers far behind. With no thought of pausing, they continue on, dodging around all the Gubbins obstacles. As a special camera beeps, Richard shouts. 'Stop!'

'We need to get out of here.'

'Too right, but hold up. You're beside the helicopter.'

Dilbert, his eyes flitting in panic, turns every which way. 'What bloody helicopter?'

'It's stealthed. Now hold still. It's an SAS Dark-Zero Whisper-Hawk, the best there is. Here, give me your hand.'

'I can't see a helicopter,' says Dilbert, peering suspiciously. 'Are you taking the piss?'

'I'd never do that, not of you. Give me your hand and I'll help you up.'

'I still can't see it, and if you're making fun of _owww_ that was my shin.'

'Up you go, and remember, none of this actually exists.'

'Richard, this is very strange.'

'You're damned right. Now strap in and close your eyes. This baby flies high and fast.'

Dilbert peers uncertainly at his seated cameraman beside him. 'Am I safe?'

'Safer than you've been all evening. In a few minutes we'll be out of range of the SAV, and trust me, the further away we are from that thing the better.'

'Okay, I trust you. But about the Queen being with Duke Cowely?'

'Forget about it. We're approaching UQAF Northolt.'

'Already?'

'This is a Dark-Zero Whisper-Hawk and it doesn't fuck around.'

'Language, Richard.'

'Apologies. I mean, yes, Dilbert sir.'

'I ... I admire you, Richard.'

'You and me both, sir. You and me both.'

Far, far away, on a UQAF base in Northolt, Dilbert O'Really, the third-best presenter in the UQ, shakily alights from the helicopter and turns to his so-called cameraman. 'So what's going on?'

'Sorry, it's a need to know basis.'

'And I don't need to know, I suppose.'

Richard turns sharply. 'Dilbert, all you need to know it there's evil going down. A very ancient evil that's seeking to take over the planet, and right now, the SAS need to regroup and launch an offensive. That ridiculous show you've been presenting is just a front for something disgustingly vile. I can't say any more.'

'Okay, and that's quite a lot of information actually. Thanks.'

Richard pauses and turns to Dilbert. 'We've been through a lot together over the years. Do you trust me?'

'Not particularly, as you did have those photos of me in a dress.'

Richard raises his camera and points it at Dilbert. 'You're in frame, sir.'

'I am, oh, and am I looking great?'

'Outstanding, Dilbert.'

'Thanks, old friend.'

Colonel Richard shakes his head, takes the man by the arm and leads him towards a scout hut on the corner of the landing pad. As Dilbert smiles desperately, the man leading him can only growl in response, thinking there'll be tears before bedtime.

Sadly, he doesn't appreciate just how prophetic he is.
Chapter Thirteen

A Bad Omen

There is no chapter thirteen - best not to tempt fate.
Chapter Fourteen

Feeling Peckish

There's intense anger at the disappearance of Dilbert before his contract has been fulfilled or, more likely, his death confirmed. The SAV is shouting very loudly, with all and sundry getting earache. But, and this is a big but, as always happens on such shows, a replacement must be found - and fast.

On SAV's orders, officers lope into action, pluck a volunteer superstar none too gently from the VIP enclosure and hustle them back to the _Gubbins_. A contract is hastily signed, in blood, but a safe pair of hands is required to steady the ship. These particular hands belong to an outrageously dressed, pink-rinsed, permed, Aborikiwiland superstar.

'I'll begin with thanking Dogbert for giving us such an exciting show so far. I have to say I wasn't expecting to be a guest presenter but I don't mind as I'm a consummate professional and only too happy to help when situations get sticky,' says the woman, patting her hair-do and pouting to camera. 'Now then, I expect you recognise me from television, theatre, adverts, films, red carpets or the local GU clinic. That's just my little Aborikiwian joke. Of course you know me. I'm Dame Edina Average ... g'day pussums!'

The cameraperson jumps, but who wouldn't when faced with one of the most terrifying sights ever to appear on stage or screen?

'Now then, behind every great show, this one as well, you'll find a wealth of talent who never get noticed, but I'm going to put that right. I'm back in the Gubbins and about to enter a very special place. Every army marches on its stomach, and I realise this isn't an army, but there's sure to be fighting before the night's through. I'm about to enter the canteen, but hold on, these men look fierce,' says Dame Edina, gurning scarily.

Two robust security officers are standing beside the entrance. Each is scowling and their fists are ready to strike out at the first sign of nonsense. 'It a res-toor-ont now sod off or me smack you one.'

'Wait, him got red pass card,' says the second officer, noticing something hanging down Dame Edina's front, a little way below her chins.

Dame Edina, barely containing her rage at being referred to as _him_ , glares and holds out the red pass. 'Actually security pussums, I'm a woman! Look at my outrageously ostentatious dress and pink hair.'

The officers exchange a shelf-browed look and there's much head scratching. 'Him a woman? That not make sense.'

'Me know, but talk to magic pixie in black box. It tell us what to do.'

'Okay,' agrees the officer pressing the magic pixie, black box button, it being the radio of course, before speaking into it. There's a pause, then a response, somewhat tinny but very persuasive. 'You okay bloke-bird, magic pixie say you can go in even though you weird.'

Dame Edina sweeps into the restaurant through a wide-open set of doors, her crinoline gown rustling around her. 'Wow, look at this!' she says seeing the serving counter with spotty teenagers rubbing hands through their greasy hair. Most of the area is covered by tables with really annoying, attached, plastic chairs that people have to slide into one at a time. There are also vending machines for the workers far too busy to sit and eat. 'This is a Utopia. All the convicts back home would give you a neighbour's right arm to be here.'

While continuing to look around, Dame Edina pauses, her mouth dropping open, revealing red lipstick on her yellowing dentures. 'My word, I can't believe it. Look, that's none other than that really famous chef,' she says pointing to a tall, thin man dressed in chef's whites on the far side of the restaurant.

The Chef is gesticulating wildly and shouting. 'Zis is completely sheet. I can't believe I'm surrounded by non-Michelin starred amateurs.'

Dame Edina prances forward and touches the man on the arm. 'Excuse me. You're Michel Poo Junior aren't you?'

The chef growls at the interruption and rapidly turns. He has the fright of his life and presses a hand to his heart. ' _Arghhh!_ Don't scare me like zat you dress-wearing man. Get out of my restaurant.'

Dame Edina pats the back of her pink-rinsed perm in annoyance. She's about to speak when a stocky, bald man dressed in a Pearly King outfit, steps in. It's Greg Wallarse from the popular _Blast-a-Chef_ program. 'Calm down Michel and keep your barnet fair on,' he says, waving a hand in front of his nose. 'Phew, garlic-breath animated disgust doesn't get any tougher than this.'

Another man moves in and stands beside Greg. He's wearing a tight pair of budgie-smugglers and nothing else. It's Johnny Terroad, also from the _Blast-a-Chef_ program. 'Strewth Greg mate, I'm nearly spitting billabongs. Hey Michel, if you were in Aborikiwiland right now I'd be opening up a tinny of snags on you.'

'But look at heem, he's a man dressed as a lady. He's an abomination,' spits Michel, leaning away while pointing exaggeratedly.

To be fair, Dame Edina ignores the slight. There isn't much she hasn't heard in her time, the deviant, un-funny, freakish, cross-dressing, nut-job she is - allegedly.

'Well pussums, you sure are having a ding-dong but no matter. So tell me, what's on the menu for our wonderful acts and backstage staff, tonight?'

'What? Zere's nothing on ze menu you old transvestite. Pees off!' shouts Michel, following up with an impressive spit to the floor.

There's the unmistakable sound of a punch being landed and a well-respected chef's lying prone on the floor. Greg's rubbing his knuckles and looking irritated that a couple of white buttons have fallen off the sleeve of his Pearly King outfit during the assault. 'Decking a two Michelin Star chef doesn't get any tougher than this,' he says, staring to camera.

'Too right Greg mate. Come in Dame Edina, my fellow country ... person.'

'Oh Johnny, you're a charm and just look at those clean plates laid out on the self-service table, they're practically gleaming. What will be dished up on them?'

Greg and Johnny exchange angry looks. 'That's the starter you iron hoof. It's already on the plate,' snarls Greg.

'Really? I can't see anything but I am in my eighties and blind as a wombat, despite my spectacular glasses,' says Dame Edina, shrugging.

'Are you looking for a baseball cap?'

Johnny sensibly steps in and stands facing his mate. 'Steady Greg, this is Dame Edina and I won't take that from you, you cat-breedy-plastered. That's Aborikiwi rhyming slang by the way.'

'Sorry Johnny, I apologise,' says Greg, appearing embarrassed.

Johnny nods and is about to speak again when he notices movement and looks down. 'Hold on, Michel's coming round.'

The chef stands, rapidly blinks his eyelids and points a finger forcefully. ' _Eurgh_ , ees zat zing still here, ze dirty deesgusting transves...'

With a well-disguised, backhanded slap the French chef is once again kissing the floor tiles and Greg winks to camera. 'Hitting a renowned two Michelin Star chef in the boat race for a second time doesn't get any tougher than this.'

'Oh pussums, you're wonderful. So that's the starter then, on those shiny plates?'

'It sure is Dame Edina Sheila mate. If you look closely, you'll see a mozzarella and winter fruit salad. It's one of Michel's specialties,' says Johnny, taking a quick swig from a can of _Frosters ™_ as the camera leaves him and moves in to focus on the plates.

Dame Edina leans forward, pushing the camera out of the way. 'All I can see is the plate pussums,' she says, leaning further forward, her nose nearly touching the plate. 'Oh, is that it, that tiny speck in the middle?'

'Ruddy bell! That's a masterpiece and one of Michel's greatest ever starters, you hampton wick. That gripping delicacy costs forty-five squidly in his restaurant.'

Johnny Terroad, the Aborikiwiland food expert, has had enough. He puffs out his over-tanned chest, fires a warning look at Greg, then turns to Dame Edina. 'That's right. It's a Michel Poo Junior _piece-de-resistance_ , whatever that means?'

'That's er ... great, but we'll move on to the main course,' says Dame Edina, turning to a different table and her eyes go wide in shock. 'My word, look! It's my favourite bald chef who runs a pub, Hester Bloominghell. Oh Hester, I adore you as much as you probably adore me.'

The diminutive chef sweats profusely as he bounces up and down with excitement on a mini-trampoline. 'Dame Edina, I'm rubbing a hand across my damp, bald head as I look at you, but in my mind, it's in my trousers.'

'Oooh, that's enough Hester you cheeky Chef you, this is a family show. Why don't you tell the viewers about the delicious delight you've conjured up for the main course?'

Hester grins, wipes perspiration from his brow and licks his top lip. 'Yippee! I've been infusing beef, lamb, chicken, slugs, snails and puppy dog tails, to make a dish which will have you watering from every available orifice.'

'Steady Hester pussum. I'm an old man, ahem, Dame of course and already damp because of my age. Tell us about it.'

'I will. Every ingredient has been sent into space, irradiated by the suns unforgiving rays, frozen to Absolute Zero, dipped in moon dust, expelled back into space, cooked on re-entering the atmosphere and caught in a really big net. Then it was fed to Minotaurs, excreted, stomped on with hobnail boots, sat on by nonagenarians, washed, and finally seasoned with herbs and spices.'

Dame Edina claps her hands in delight. 'And the vegetables?'

'Carrots and parsnips,' says Hester, high-fiving himself.

'Oh I see, is that all?' asks Dame Edina, a little underwhelmed.

'Well yes, but they've already been eaten twice.'

Dame Edina pulls a strange face ... a stranger face. 'I can't errr, wait to taste them.'

The two _Blast-a-Chef_ presenters stare at each other in disbelief. Both want to speak but Dame Edina turns a near-petrifying, over-made-up glare towards them. 'I believe pussums that it's Hester's main course, so shut it!' she shouts, pointing a gnarled, warning finger.

Greg leans back at the furious rebuke. 'Muddy bell, that told us.'

'It sure did Greg,' adds Johnny, a dark patch slowing spreading across the front of his budgie-smugglers.

As the two men stand in abject terror, Michel starts to rise again. 'I hope zat transves...'

Again there's the sound of a punch, accompanied by a backwards, falling elbow drop to the ribs. The chef's down - maybe for the count this time.

Dame Edina ignores the assault and notes another laden table. 'Oh my! Look at these desserts, they're delightful. Who made them?' she asks.

Johnny being nimbler than Greg pushes his mate forward and ducks behind him. 'Er, it was Michel's Assistant Chef, Moneekar,' grunts Greg, trying to get his co-presenter out from behind him.

'Well she's really talented and I adore what she's done with the wafers. She's cut them into sword shapes and stuck them into the little ice-cream men's chests, right where the heart would be. Ah look, there's even raspberry sauce leaking from the wound.'

Greg gulps and turns to camera. All sense of bravado has fled as he addresses the watching billions. 'Moneekar, the Assistant Chef of Michel Poo Junior, doesn't get any tougher than this. In all seriousness, she muddy doesn't!'

Dame Edina feels a tug on her crinoline dress. It's an overexcited Hester still bouncing away happily. 'Dame Edina, my hand's really high, please, ooh please!'

'Oh, all right Hester but only because I like you,' says Dame Edina.

'I've made _arghhh!_ ' cries Hester, crashing from his trampoline as a frying pan connects solidly with his head, sending out a shower of sweaty blood.

A terrifying sight has emerged from the kitchen. The woman isn't big but she radiates power and her sheer presence screams for attention. She drops a dented frying pan, glares at Johnny and Greg, and then the other whose gender she isn't sure of. 'Me Moneekar, Assistant Chef to Michel Poo Junior, and me not like Hester. Me now security officer as me got bored making desserts. Me bastard hard.' she growls, thumping her chest with a fist.

'Muddy bell, Johnny!'

'Too right Greg mate. I'm making a Harold Holt for it. I don't give a rubber duck anymore.'

'I'm right behind you but what about Michel, he's waking up again?'

'Who gives an Edgar Brit,' insists Johnny, his frightened eyes wide.

As Michel clambers to his feet, rubbing his bruised chin and ribs, he spies the terrifying man/woman. He sneers and then smiles on seeing his assistant squaring up to him/her.

Dame Edina has her hands held out. 'Now then Moneekar, there's no need to be angry. I was just saying I love your desserts. _Arghhh!_ ' she screams.

Moneekar has reached forward, grabbed Dame Edina around the throat and squeezed the life out of her. She throws the lifeless guest presenter to one side, and turns to her ex-boss who is standing by the dessert table and is once again gesticulating wildly.

'Moneekar look at ze state of your desserts. Zey're so amateur, zey're ... Moneekar? Why are you looking at me like zat? I'm your boss, ze famous Mich _arrrggghhhhhh!_ '

The incredibly strong Assistant Chef pull hers boss in close and stares into his dead eyes. 'Me security officer and me not like you no more. Strange voice in ear says so,' she says as she prods at her SAV earpiece with a strong finger.

Having crushed Michel's windpipe using only a thumb and forefinger, she turns to the two _Blast-a-Chef_ presenters. 'Him not have red square on string round neck,' she says, shrugging, before throwing Michel's corpse aside.

Greg has a hand half covering his mouth and he whispers sideways. 'Johnny geezer, Moneekar's killed Dame Edina, Michel and Hester.'

'I saw it Greg mate,' says Johnny, swiftly retracting the statement on hearing the aural voice through his earpiece. 'No, we're wrong. Apparently it was a rubber-ducking accident.'

For the final time, thankfully, Greg turns to camera and the panic in his eyes is clear. 'Muddy bell. Senseless murders don't get any tougher than this. Leg it!' he shouts.

Johnny and Greg are out the door in a shot, both hoping for a clean getaway. Sadly, two huge officers, standing just outside are waiting and the food experts have had their chips.

Moneekar stands over three fresh corpses and is staring at her blood-covered palms. After a few minutes, she steps back into the kitchen and uses the wash hand basin, all the time trying to make sense of her actions. Constantly shaking her head, trying to clear her fuzzy thoughts, she suddenly shouts and smashes the basin from the wall. She places her wet hands over her ears and tries to stop the aural voice which is constantly talking to her. It doesn't help and the words continue - persistent and annoying.

The SAV snorts through its many mouths. Unexpectedly it has found an ally and one it hadn't considered during the planning of the show. 'Giving Moneekar an earpiece has been a masterstroke,' it thinks as it sends out further orders to the abnormally powerful human female.

It settles back and turns eyes to the digital readout on the desk. The numbers are soaring with another twenty million being added in the past few minutes and the figure's rising all the time. At the current rate it estimates two-thirds of the planet's population will be watching when the time comes for the axe to fall. That's the target and so it shall be.

The creature chuckles and removes a piece of paper from a desk drawer. Placing it on the desk, it scratches through the written names of Dame Edina, Michel Poo Junior, Hester Bloominghell, Greg Wallarse and Johnny Terroad, using a sharp fingernail. It stares at the long list and sees many names; those destined to bring in an increasing number of viewers.

It's eager to cross through the rest but knows time is on its side. It must be patient. Plans made long ago insist on it.
Chapter Fifteen

Getting Everywhere

Once again there's no presenter. Dilbert is as yet, unfindable, so the SAV tweaks the running order, giving those highest on its list, the conjoined brothers Anton Dev, additional time to prepare. The change is flawless, as it should be for such an ancient and experienced creature. Orders are shouted and most definitely obeyed.

A woman enters by way of the much-used, stage side steps. With clenched fists to the fore, she trots forward as if riding an imaginary horse. Wearing a colourful jockey's outfit, she races round and round to the sound of orchestral coconut halves being banged together.

The audience are curiously silent and heads are scratched and complimentary show pamphlets studied. None were expecting this. Eventually she pulls up her horse with a tug on imaginary reins. She steps off, shoes the animal away, adjusts her pink, yellow and green silks, and wipes her sweaty brow. Thankfully, but it's unclear for whom, Clare Baldy speaks through gasping breaths.

'Hello everybody. I'm so happy to be introducing this part of tonight's extravaganza. I'm an ex-jockey and for the life of me I've no idea why I seem to be getting everywhere nowadays. Maybe it's because I tick so many of my employer's equal opportunities boxes. If only I had a disability you'd never see anybody else.'

Clare pauses and listens to a voice talking through her earpiece. Her smile drops away and a look of sadness replaces it. It appears that even successful presenters have a sob story, and she slowly wanders forward. 'I was brought up in humble surroundings in the heart of Berkshire. We were so poor we could only afford to run two stables. My three sisters, Eliare, Belliare and Hefuffaliare, had to attend public school without boarding. They were teased mercilessly as Mummy only had a cheap Bentley. I was also set upon by my peers, but I had a best friend. You just saw her - my darling horse _Flangefloss_. We'd run about the fields and frolic together,' she says, peering wistfully at an invisible stage presence but an aural interruption brings her to her senses. 'What am I saying, here are the sponsors.'

The screens across the planet flicker.

A sweaty, greasy man, with a drooping moustache stands before a pair of kebab cookers with a rotating elephant's leg attached to each. In his hand is a very long serrated knife that he's sharpening on what appears to be a human pelvic bone.

'Welcome. I'm Attila, the owner of _Kebabys ™_, and I have a long serrated knife, which I use to slice through necks, but only necks of animals which go into making my delicious meals. Yum!' says Attila, his eyes closing to slits on noticing a young boy in the serving area.

'Hi Attila, I'm Chip and your food looks ... really nice.'

'Ah! Little Chip, would you like to try some? I can hear your belly making strange noises.'

Chip stares fearfully at the long knife, then notes his cage a little way behind him and steps backwards. A heel connects with the metal mesh and he gratefully falls in, pulling the top over. 'Hot-diggity! I'd love to Attila but I'm full right now. My belly's only grumbling because your food's awesome.'

'That's right little Chip,' says Attila, licking the blade of his knife.

'You're so funny, Attila,' begins Chip, nervously hunkering down. 'I think everyone should eat at _Kebabys ™_. The food is really fresh and served with a smile.'

Attila crouches behind the counter and taps his knife on the top of the cage. He winks at Chip, stands upright and turns to camera. 'That's right. My _Kebabys ™_ yummy meals are filling and lovely. Isn't that right, little Chip?'

'They sure are Attila!'

'Good boy. Listen everyone, come and enjoy a _Kebabys ™ Special Brew Boneless Homeless Shish_, made with real street drunks, er, I mean beer infused meat. I'm Attila, the man with the big knife. Come to _Kebabys ™_ as all our food is infidelicious!'

The sound of a cage hopping frantically across a tiled floor surface can be heard.

Screens flicker and, much to the relief of the crowds, go blank. Sobbing can be heard, mixed with gasps and general noises of disapproval. Those in the stands are appalled and are letting their feelings be known.

Once again, an imaginary horse is clip-clopping around the stage and Clare Baldy has a pained expression on her face. Perhaps she has imaginary saddle sores?

'Well I must say, isn't Attila great. I particularly liked his moustache. We should all admire people who don't shave their top lip. As for the scrumptious food, sadly I can't eat any as I'm vegetarian,' says Clare, scowling at another aural interruption. 'I'm wrong. I've just become a carnivore again and so has my baby, Flangefloss. I'm not sure I can contain myself, so we'd better go to the next runner and rider, sponsor of course.'

An ever-increasing number of viewing screens flash across the planet.

There's a serving counter with a glass front. Inside the counter are myriads of open pots, bags and coloured metal capsules, each of differing shapes and sizes. Other than that, there isn't much else to be seen except rows of shelves full of crack-pipes, bongs, mortars, pestles, razor blades, skins and other drug-related paraphernalia. It's a colourful and wacky display.

The man behind the counter sports a ragged beard, long, tatty hair and his eyes are sunk and sullen. He holds his arms wide in a welcoming gesture, showing underarm sweat patches.

'Welcome to _Hairy Danny 's Legal Hi'zzz Emporium™_. I'm Hairy Danny and I've built this business up from the ground. As many of my customers end up under the ground, that seems fitting. Growing this business was hard at first, but the more legal drugs I took, it got softer and smaller. I lost all sight of my genitalia but I'm rich now so I don't care.'

A caged, young child bounces into shot, ignoring the _Over 13s Only_ sign on the front door. 'Wow, Hairy Danny, I hope I can be as successful as you when I grow up.'

'Chip, I didn't recognise you in that cage. Welcome little man. Come and sample some of my wares. Remember, they're all legal.'

'Okay Hairy Danny. Those rows of pots and bags look so enticing but I don't know where to start. Can you tell me what you have?'

'Of course I can Chip. I've got, uppers, downers, Medway Towners, inners, outers, round-a-bouters, spinners, spooners, yids and gooners, flumpers, trumpers and stinky-dumpers.'

'Wowzers, Hairy Danny. I can't keep up and my heads beginning to hurt.'

'Of course it is Chip, that's the point. There's stinkers, thinkers, plonka-plinkers, headers, leggers, tramps and beggars, munters, punters and organ stunters.'

'Whoa Hairy Danny, I can't take any more.'

'Everyone can take more Chip and don't worry, we're nearly done. There's dungers, bungers, far-reached flungers, oops-a-daisies, cross-eyed crazies, rat on a stick, a doggone trick, purple hazes and labyrinth mazes. Remember Chip, they're all legal.'

'That's an impressive range Hairy Danny, but I've got a headache from listening to that.'

'No problem boy, every branch of _Hairy Danny 's Legal Hi'zzz Emporium™_ is also a bone-fide pharmacy. Here are some of those paracetamol tablets. Take these.'

Chip peers cautiously at the two white tablets in Hairy Danny's sweaty palm. 'I'm not sure. Those tablets look kind of dangerous.'

'You'll be fine Chip. I got a doctor to write it for you.'

'Hairy Danny, you're the man!' shouts Chip, grinning widely.

'That's freaking great, now get that dangerous stuff down your neck. It's all legal!'

Sporadic clapping can be heard from the assembled crowd and, as the sound of colliding coconuts is heard, many mouths emit groans.

'There, there Flangefloss. Whoa my darling,' orders Clare, now trotting on the spot. 'It was difficult being a jockey in Berkshire. There were all those public rights of way getting clogged up with walkers. We couldn't hunt foxes anymore, but there was nothing in the law that said we couldn't hunt peas... pheasants obviously.'

Stopping, Clare listens to the show's Director speaking in her ear. What's said is a mystery, but not to her. 'What? Not a chance, I'm out of here as I'll never say that.'

Clare leaves the stage but not by the concealed side steps. Taking a run up, she jumps and sails over the head of the orchestra conductor, landing in amongst the violas. The musicians scatter, their cheap fold-away metal chairs clattering aside, and as she heads through the clarinets and oboes, she pulls her earpiece free.

Racing on, past the percussionists, she throws it aside and all seems well. Sadly, she hasn't heard the SAV's latest command and high above a sniper takes aim. The first shot, not a real one but only the shooter shouting _Bang_ takes Flangefloss straight through the heart, felling the horse. Clare, now unseated, is sprawled in amongst the glockenspiels. The next shot, a very real one, sends her on a journey to meet her potentially imaginary maker.

Back in the Gubbins, a sharp fingernail is tapping on a desktop. The SAV stares at its long names list. It scrawls out Clare Baldy and the list is made a little shorter.
Chapter Sixteen

Anyone For Soccerball?

It's nearly time for the acts to take to the stage for the first elimination round - The Near Final. However, there's still time for some brief interviews before they perform.

The running order is back on track and the SAV sends out its commands to the next presenter.

Cue camera, in the biggest room within the whole Gubbins and from far out, three men can be seen. The camera zooms in on the main man - a familiar face wearing a white, soccerball strip. He has big ears, requiring a made to measure earpiece, and sports a fuzzy, grey goatee but that can be forgiven as his smile is lovely. The camera pans down momentarily, to dozens of open boxes of _Winkers ™_ crisps around his armchair. As for the other two men, his co-hosts, he'll introduce them when deemed necessary.

'Good evening, I'm Gally Rinekar, the likeable host of the _Premiershit_ soccerball show. I know what you're thinking, we all know the beautiful game as football, but as the UQ's small compared to the Land of American Righteous Democracy, we have to refer to it by its alternative name for copyright and bombing reasons.'

A packet of crisps can be seen as Gally winks, places his hand inside, removes one and places it in his mouth. He starts to chew and a look of pure ecstasy transforms his features. He knows it's wrong but an ongoing contract must be adhered to.

'My word, that was tasty but moving on. With me are my fellow pundits Garth Brooks and Mark Lorryson, who'll be commenting as we go along. Garth is of course an ex-soccerballer and not the American country singer. You shouldn't get the two mixed up as one's a mega-talented superstar and the other's black, errr, round-faced' says Gally, turning to the second man. 'Then there's Mark Lorryson, the unsmiling Scouse fellow with the most slappable face ever to appear on television, allegedly. Anything to say boys before we interview the acts who'll be performing in the first of tonight's knockout stages, The Near Final?'

Garth slaps himself on the forehead and shakes his round-faced head. 'I can't believe the naivety of the presenting so far. Dilbert was poor but it's a good job he had his cameraman to back him up. As for Clare Baldy, at least we didn't have to see her going down in the box.'

Gally frowns and reaches a hand into his shorts pocket. He withdraws a yellow card and shows it to Garth who slaps his forehead in exasperation. Gally then turns to Mark who's slumped in his chair, his demeanour deflated and sad. ' _Eurgh_. I just want to hang myself.'

'That's great we'll find you a rope. Anyway, the clock's ticking so let's get on with the interviews. I'll just put down this deliciously flavoured bag of _Winkers ™ Trembley Wembley Roasters_ and go to our first act.'

The three men are on their feet, their soccerball boots clacking on the boarded flooring. They prepare to approach the first act but not before a whistle blows - they're off!

'Here we go, in the Magnolia Room, named so because of the cheaply painted walls, floor and ceiling. Okay, with me is a very unusual act and I'll be talking to them all but in no particular order,' says Gally, standing beside a man resembling a waiter from a 1930's silent movie. 'First up is Smelyairy Cleft the mute, mime artiste. So what made a foreigner like you enter a competition that has nothing to do with your half-submerged island country of Netholand?'

Smelyairy Cleft makes a number of hand movements, dazzlingly fast.

'Nope, didn't get a word of that. I'll keep it simple then. I'll speak louder and slower as foreigners understand that better. How, do, you, feel, about, being, in, The, Near, Final?'

Smelyairy raises his eyebrows, nods and smiles.

'Well, I certainly understood that. Do, you, fancy, your, chances, tonight?' asks Gally.

The mime frowns, taps a finger against his lips and thoughtfully gazes at the ceiling.

'Unsure it seems. A, word, about, Wally, your, mentor?'

Smelyairy half clenches a fist and moves it to and fro, then scowls and mimes spitting.

'There you have it. Smelyairy Cleft is really happy to have Wally Davidiams as his mentor. Any words of wisdom boys?' asks Gally, turning to his co-hosts.

'That's a disgusting gesture and he should get a red card,' says Garth.

' _Eurgh_. My hanging rope's too long,' says Mark.

'Well said boys but the clock's ticking as they say.'

The trio clatter onwards.

On the floor lay closed coffins and these contain the deceased members of Coffin Fit. Sitting atop the coffins are the living members and together, they're taking up a fair amount of space.

'Hey guys and gals. Are you ready for the big showdown?' asks Gally.

An elderly gentleman steps forward and acknowledges Gally with a handshake. He nods to Garth, and totally ignores Mark. 'We sure are. I'm Smokey Joe, Coffin Fit's spokesman. Sadly, since the qualifying rounds, one of our living members has died.'

'I'm sorry to hear that Smokey Joe. Will you still be able to perform?'

'Of course we will. It'll take more than an unexpected death to stop us. Old Alf was pushing a hundred and ten when he passed away, but we've patched up the bullet holes and tubed him up.'

'So Old Alf has gone from player to instrument?'

'He has and we've been looking for a suitable F-sharp corpse for ages,' says Smokey Joe.

'Fantastic. Just for the viewing public, those who didn't see the earlier rounds, give us a quick summary of what it is you do.'

'Sure Gally. We have a row of corpses in propped up coffins, all attached to a series of tubes and us living members step on a range of pedals. That forces air through the tubes, into the corpses preserved lungs, and we get a note from their mouths. We've now got a full range thanks to Old Alf, gawd bless 'im.'

'That's a little morbid isn't it?' asks Gally, warily eyeing the coffins.

'Heavens no! Who wouldn't want to appear on the greatest talent show ever, alive or dead?'

'Who indeed? A word about your mentor, Armada Hold'em.'

'She's been brilliant. She knows sod all about talent but has used her Mystical Art of Testicology on all the corpses - even the female ones. They've never smiled so much. Wait till you see them.'

'Coffin Fit, I honestly can't wait and I'm sure you'll do well. Any comments, Garth?'

'It was clearly gone-off-side. The decomposed one was playing foul,' says Garth.

' _Eurgh_. Can I be a Coffin Fit instrument?' asks Mark.

Gally chuckles and heads for the next act.

Five over-excited lads, Gimp Jism, are jigging around on small chairs borrowed from the local primary school. They appear as if they need to use the toilet but are too afraid to ask.

'Hi lads, you look great,' says Gally.

' _We rock, we roll!_ ' sing the boys but the lead singer waves a lollipop to silence them.

Gally smiles and wonders why a young man in his late teens is waving such confectionary. 'You look fantastic in your pastel coloured suits boys.'

' _We rock, we roll!_ '

'It's Dale isn't it, you're the lead singer?'

' _We rock, we roll!_ Are you my mum?'

'No Dale, I'm not,' says Gally pulling a face.

'I want my mum, have you seen her?'

Gally listens to the voice in his ear, which is telling him what to say, then hesitantly looks to the boy. 'No Dale, she's dead. She was run over by a colourful van that was playing _Greensleeves_. If I'm not mistaken the driver was distracted while munching on a bag of _Winkers ™ Fat Parent in a Tracksuit Ready Salted Bubblers._'

'Was it an ice-cream van?' asks Dale after a moment of thought.

Gally sighs. 'Yes Dale, it was an ice cream van.'

'That's fab Gally. We'll have two ninety-nines, one without nuts as Dwayne's allergic, two Zooms and a Screwball.'

Gally ignores the request and turns to his co-hosts.

'I scream at their naivety,' chuckles Garth, slapping his forehead with delight on making a rare joke.

'That's terrible. Mark?'

' _Eurgh_. Can I have a Mini-Milk, but without any milk in it?'

'Sure you can as long as that noose is tied properly,' says Gally, shaking his head. He prepares to move on but his face creases as he listens intently to his earpiece. He flings his hands wide in disbelief and a whistle can be heard. 'I'm being told we need to take a break as its quarter-time. Apparently we can thank the viewing Americans as they have short attention spans,' he says, tutting loudly. 'Here's another sponsor, don't go away.'

A man stands in front of a compact convenience store. He's expensively suited, sports angel-feather-quill shoes and has a 28-carat gold badge on his lapel. It reads "I own Mercury, Saturn, Jupiter, Venus ..." There is also space for more orbiting bodies to be added.

'Welcome everyone to _Toshco ™_, which is probably no more than 18 inches from your property boundary. I'm Don Givashite, the current Chief Executive and how do I know you have a store so close? It's because we bought up all the available land in the UQ and built on it so we could save the planet! Oh, hello,' says the man, looking down at a caged boy.

'Sorry for interrupting sir, I'm Chip. Your store looks great. Can I have some food?'

Don smiles widely. 'Of course you can young Chip. Do you have a loyalty card?'

'No sir.'

Don stops smiling. 'Do you have cage-wheels so you don't scuff our floors and, if I haven't mentioned it already, a loyalty card?'

'Sir, that's a no, and another no,' says Chip.

Don Givashite stares at the camera which explodes without warning. Only his words can be heard and he doesn't care that half the human population is hearing them. 'Then you can go to hell little boy! We don't exist to look after irritating cage-dwellers who can't be bothered to buy wheels for their cage or obtain a loyalty card. Do you think we're a bloody charity? You're a little c...'

The man's rant comes to an unexpected halt when a space-fired laser vaporises him. _Toshco ™_ immediately appoints a new Chief Executive and the circle continues.

Screens flicker and Gally is seen with a crisp halfway to his mouth. Such is his disgust at the advert he drops it. Only when a whistle sounds does he drag his co-hosts back into play and jogs to the next act.

A middle-aged woman stands attentively next to a soft leather sofa. Lying on the seat beside her is a large, ginger tom - The Shat Cat. There's plenty of room for the woman to sit but she doesn't want to disturb him.

'Hi, I'm Gally Rinekar.'

'I know who you are Gally,' titters the woman. 'I'm a massive fan of yours.'

'I'm sure you are, as is everybody who watches soccerball.'

The woman giggles. 'No Gally, I hate soccerball but I've wrapped my tongue around all your multi-flavoured, fried potato offerings. You're a God.'

Gally smiles nervously and takes a step backwards. 'Really?'

The woman winks and licks her lips. 'I'm Joanne and this big ginger fella's Dumper.'

The moggy looks up, sneers and raises a middle toe to Gally.

'Dumper says hi and he weally wubs you Gally, just like Mummy does. Oh yes she does. Mummy wants to strip Gally naked, smother him in jam and lick it off, doesn't she? Yes she _owww_ ... that was Mummy's finger. Naughty Dump _owww!_ '

Gally takes another step backwards. 'About the Shat Cat, Joanne?'

'Oh right Gally. The early rounds were tricky but now I've got his diet right he can defecate anything that's asked of him. Isn't that right snuggle puggl _owww?_ We kept it simple in the early rounds as we didn't want to peak too early, so there'll be no Big Ben or Stonehenge tonight. That's amateur cat pooing and won't see us through.'

Gally frowns, unsure what to say so he wings it. 'No Stonehenge?'

'Certainly not. Tonight the Shat Cat will be starting with the Roman Coliseum. You must appreciate he'll be recreating it in its full, historic glory and not just the ruins. He'll even add the Romans inside.'

Gally takes a moment to compose himself. 'So let me get this straight. The Shat Cat, Dumper there, passes fascinating historic sites? I'm not sure what to say.'

'It's fine Gally. You don't have to say anything as seeing you in the flesh is more than enough. As for his mentor, Keryl, she's been wonderful. She loves Dumper.'

Just to be sure, Gally takes another step backwards and pulls Garth in front of him. It's a tried and tested soccerball defensive manoeuvre. 'Anything you want to say boys?'

Both Mark and Garth shake their heads.

'Okay,' says Gally, fear in his eyes. 'Let's move on.'

A young man stands defiantly with his hands on his hips. His dark hair is huge but it doesn't compare to the size of his ego. He's angrily stamping a foot on the ground and sneering with contempt. 'Don't talk to me Gally. You're nothing but a big-eared, crisp-advertising freak.'

'How endearing Hairy Smiles, performing as One Erection, and former member of the boyband Multiple Erections. Tell me, why did the band throw you out?'

'I wasn't thrown out. I chose to leave and my drug taking wasn't out of control.'

'Of course it ...'

'Don't patronise me Gally. You're just a second-rate presenter and not even in the UQ top 20. You're so ordinary.'

'No offence taken,' says Gally, turning to camera. 'We've probably heard enough for the public to decide how to vote. Let's move on.'

The boy continues to stamp his foot. 'Throbby Billious took me in. He taught me everything I know and he did all right after leaving the popular boy group _Kop That_.'

Gally sighs. 'As I recall, Throbby fell into a sinful pit of debauchery and only re-emerged when _Kop That_ reformed and became more popular than him.'

'Sod you Gally and sod everyone else. I'll keep taking my drugs if I want to.'

'Which drugs, Hairy?' asks Gally, sounding a little bored.

'I've taken everything from _Tixylicks ™_ to gripe water. I'm a bloody rebel,' states Hairy.

'You sure are, a rebel without a pause and how about a word on your mentor?'

Hairy snorts disdainfully. 'B-Mel-F-Cup can go and suck her own titties.'

'It's before the watershed Hairy. You can't say titties,' says Gally, showing a yellow card.

'Oh right sorry. I love B-Mel-whatever-Cup and my bones are big and strong because of the added calcium in my diet. I've also taken crackling candy and I like how it pops on my tongue. I'm so wacky.'

Gally turns and smiles to camera. 'That's Hairy Smiles, One Erection. Let's move on.'

Alli Kayeeda stands alone and is dressed from head to toe in black, with just her eyes on show. Her only other adornment is a wide belt with coloured wires wrapped around it.

'I'm really getting into my stride _arghhh!_ ' exclaims Gally, suddenly jogging backwards before addressing the woman. 'So then Alli, I hope you can hear me at this distance? You've come so far to perform tonight.'

'I've come from Kent, Gally. The journey was pleasant and my father drove me here.'

Gally frowns as he wasn't expecting such an endearing voice. 'Your father, I see. He must have seen some things having avoided despotic tyrants and evil warlords at every turn.'

'He grew up in Maidstone in Kent, Gally. The estate was rough but our close neighbours were very nice. I've had a blessed life as have my father and mother,' says Alli.

'Not your real mother, of course, as she was blown to bits by terrorists intent on causing untold cowardly death.'

'My real mother's still alive. She works in the local _Pound 'n'a'Penny™_ shop.'

'So she didn't die in a hell-fire of chest-worn explosives?' asks Gally, a little confused.

'No, she didn't,' insists Alli.

'And your grandparents weren't strung up in a Godless desert? Their bellies ripped open by ravenous beasts and feasted upon by vultures?'

'No Gally, though they did grow up in the Medway Towns so I'm not absolutely certain.'

'Right,' says Gally, smiling unexpectedly. 'A word about your mentor please.'

'Dai Dinagony's wonderful and if it's not too controversial, he's quite sexy.'

Gally finally takes a few brave steps towards the dark attired, female contestant. He smiles at her then turns to his co-hosts. 'Well, I must say I wasn't expecting that. Garth, anything you want to add?'

'What was the United Island Nations referee thinking? She had to go for not obeying her faith, the distorted male version at least.'

' _Eurgh_. I agree with Garth, but who cares?'

The three men head towards the next act in the very big Magnolia Room.

Gally is tip-toeing forward with Mark and Garth right behind him. They're approaching the act, Bitches and Dogs. He speaks quietly. 'Now then, I have to move carefully toward the next act and, for certain, there'll be no crisp-bag rustling.'

As Gally winks to camera a commanding female voice rings out. Even he, a presenter of his experience, flinches and jolts upright.

'Stay where you are Gally. Neckripper smelt you coming.'

'Neck... errr, would that be one of the dogs?' asks Gally.

'He is and I know what you're after. Between us we have seeing dogs, hearing dogs, touching dogs and a tasting dog. To anybody else they're just dogs but to us they're our one, two, three, four-legged friends.'

Gally gulps and slowly turns from a snarling Doberman that's eyeing him suspiciously and baring its sharp teeth. His attention moves to the group of fierce-looking women. In turn, they all stare right back at him, except the blind ones.

He licks his lips. 'Very well, as I can't come any closer, tell everyone about your act.'

'We're an all-female choir and our babies sing a backing acappello, starting at the high end with Yapper the Chihuahua, going all the way down to Neckripper, my Doberman. We're an acquired taste, but we've made it this far and Duke Cowely's certain we'll win.'

'Well, who am I to say Duke Cowely might be wrong? Anything you want to say, boys?'

' _Eurgh_ , I once thought about throwing myself to the dogs,' says Mark.

'Gally, are they blind? Are they deaf? They need to sense what's coming or they haven't got a chance. The opposition will devour them. As for having Neckripper at the back, even a child would breeze past that one,' says Garth, his arms gesticulating wildly.

Gally catches a final glimpse of the Doberman. 'I think not.'

Thankfully for Gally and his co-hosts, a whistle is blown.

A few yards further on there's a simple wooden bench and the three men sit themselves. For once, Gally isn't holding a crisp packet as he needs his hands free to reach for a bowl on the ground. Lifting it, he removes a stretch-wrap cover and offers the bowl to his co-hosts. Both gratefully take a few slices of orange and suck at the fleshy innards. Gally does the same, adding drops of juice to the crisp crumbs stuck in his goatee.

Its half time, a period set aside for recuperation and reflection. The three men are breathing heavily but the game isn't over yet, not by a long chalk. Gally is rubbing his thighs, loosening the muscles. Mark is moving his neck around, while trying to tighten a rope knot and Garth is practicing slapping his forehead in stunned astonishment.
Chapter Seventeen

Mismatch of the Day

Approximately fifteen minutes later, a whistle blows and the third quarter is underway.

A trio of old men, not the ex-soccerballers, sit hunched and arthritic. The members of Geriatric and the Pacemakers are rubbing soothing gel onto various swollen joints.

Gally jogs up. 'Phew, what's that smell?'

An aged rocker looks up through tired eyes, his smile cracked and wrinkled. 'Sorry Gally, Charlie had the Thames Platter from the restaurant. We've got the windows open but it's not helping much, yeah.'

'It's Micky isn't it? Tell me ...' says Gally, pausing then moving away, 'That really stinks.'

'Don't worry Gally, Charlie only had three helpings and he's passed two lots by now. Come a bit closer so I can hear you properly.'

'I'm fine where I am thanks, but I'll speak up!' shouts Gally. 'Tell me Micky, how do you rate your chances tonight?'

'Well, providing Charlie can get off the bog we'll be fine, yeah.'

'That's fantastic and a word about your mentor Armada Hold'em.'

'She's been great yeah, although she only talks to us by phone. We've got no idea why she won't come near us. We think it's because she's young and shy.'

'Armada's in her forties Micky,' says Gally, fingers pinching his nose.

'Pah. She's a spring chicken or maybe, a little red rooster, _yeah!_ '

'I should go to Garth or Mark now, but seriously we need to move on.'

As Gally and his co-hosts rapidly progress, the lead singer Micky jumps to his feet and sprightly, for an old guy, rushes across to the nearby toilet cubicle. He bangs on the door. 'Hey Charlie! It's me, Micky, I had the Prawn Surprise. Hurry up, yeah.'

Ramitinada, the Mexican Pathologist, sits majestically on a golden, jewel-encrusted throne that, quite frankly, would be fit for a duke. In front of him is a fold down table and upon it lays a body, unmoving.

Gally doesn't get too close as the man has a sharp knife and is cutting into the body, while muttering. 'Cutty-slitty blood-slash. Biggy blood-slash.'

'Well that's disturbing,' says Gally, before asking nobody in particular. 'Is he allowed to practice in the Magnolia Room?'

Gally presses a finger to his ear as his question is answered. 'Apparently he can practice and I'm being told to commentate, so here goes. He's cut the body open and taken the heart from the chest.'

'Sippy-suck boom-boom.'

'He's holding the organ aloft.'

'Pulsey boom-boom.'

'My word, he's switched it back and now he's going for the lungs.'

Ramitinada, with his hands inside the chest, finally looks up and smiles at Gally. 'Puffy-puffs. Ramitinada makey whoosh. Gally be volunteer body?'

The presenter shakes his head emphatically. 'Gally will not be a volunteer body and I hope that's not a bladder you're reaching for.'

'Pissy-chew. Ramitinada makey life.'

'Ramitinada makey a mess,' says Gally, grimacing and leaning away.

'Now cutty and slashy er, meat and two veg?'

Gally feels a bit faint, stumbles, but stays on his feet avoiding an obvious dive. 'Moving on boys, swiftly!' he shouts, racing to the next act.

'Ah, winky ball-ball, _wahay!_ '

Gally and his co-hosts suck in deep breaths following the short sprint, before interviewing The Adequate Bellendi. He's a grand looking magician, wearing a long flowing purple robe and a rounded, purple helmet. He's also hovering a few inches off the ground, strangely.

'Ah Gally, you've come at last. I'm The Adequate Bellendi, you know that of course, but what you may not know is that tonight I'll be attempting a planetary record.'

Gally nods in appreciation. 'That's quite something, tell me about it.'

'I, The Adequate Bellendi, will endeavour to produce a thousand thrushes from my robe.'

'They're garden birds aren't they?' asks Gally.

'Of course they are! In the past, all I've ever produced is sea-birds and I already hold the planetary record for puffins and petrels.'

'Bellendi there's no way you can fit a thousand thrushes inside your robe.'

The magician glares. 'I'm no cheat! Are you suggesting so?'

'Heavens no, I'm rooting for you. Would you say a few words about your mentor?'

'Wally Davidiams is a fool. Those are my few words,' says The Adequate Bellendi.

'Right, Garth, anything to add?'

Garth peers fearfully at the magician. 'Not this time.'

'Okay. Mark?'

' _Eurgh_ , I see hope. Can I take this noose off?'

'Not right now,' says Gally moving to the next act.

Wilma-U-What, a young, black American girl stands with hands on hips and she looks menacing. She's dressed from head to toe in denim and smoking a cigarette, indoors! She's a proper rebel.

'Hi, I'm ...' begins Gally before being rudely interrupted.

'Who the fuck are you? I'm trying to fucking practice and all I get is a fucking asshole interrupting me. What the fuck do you want?' snarls Wilma.

Gally reels at the tirade but only for an instant. He's interviewed soccerball managers in the past so can cope. 'I'm here to interview you.'

'Just fuck off.'

'Understood Wilma you tough errr, lady. A word about your mentor please?'

'Dai Dinagony can go fuck himself.'

Gally turns away, shrugs, and holds his hands wide. He's completely forgotten that he could have shown the red card for such outbursts. 'I guess that's it then. That was the American girl who comes from the Land of American Righteous Democracy, which seeks to keep world peace and teach the rest of us how to behave. Anything to say, Garth?'

'Let's stick a bomb up her arse and blow the bitch to kingdom come.'

'Garth! What's got into you?' asks Gally, his expression one of shock. 'This is your final warning. It's red next time,' he says but doesn't dare show it, having forgotten to send off the contestant. He knows that viewers hate inconsistency.

'Sorry. I meant, that was disgusting language and the referee has to act. Actually, there isn't a referee on the whole planet who'll pull up an American.'

' _Eurgh_. Garth's right, but if there are explosives, then I'm willing to do the decent thing.'

Gally sighs and rubs his goatee. 'Mark, I almost think your sad sacrifice would be worth it.'

The trio give Wilma a wide berth and continue on.

They approach the next act, Gally walking slowly as he's expecting a third quarter interlude. He hears a ruckus further back in the Magnolia Room, turns, and his pupils widen. A whistle blows, signalling the break, and he's able to speak freely. 'Bloody hell, that woman's naked!' he exclaims.

A well-endowed female streaker, wearing only a cat-mask, is racing along the room with security in her wake. Gally can't help but swing his head to and fro as he watches. He reaches for his co-hosts but they're keeping well away.

'Blimey Gally, there's no defence for that, she's too strong up front,' says Garth.

Gally prepares for impact but, as the woman closes in, she slows. She presses her mouth against Gally's ear, as he tries to ignore where other parts of her are pressed. 'Gally, I adore you but you must hurry, your life depends on it.'

Somewhat confused, Gally looks into the woman's eyes, visible through the mask and then peers down. He sees scratches on her hands and forearms and recognition sparks. 'Joanne, is that you? You're the Shat Cat's head servant.'

' _Arghhh!_ No, it's not me but hurry Gally. You must hurry!'

Security officers grab the woman, drag her away, and most likely settle her next to a ginger tomcat further back in the room.

Gally's head doesn't move but his eyes are racing every which way. After a few deep breaths, he looks to camera. The edges of his smile are fluttering and his heart's pumping wildly. There's no voice calling for extra time on the third quarter break and a whistle sounds.

The smallest human contestant of all the finalists stands on a chair, one that might be suitable for Mark Lorryson if he only had a shorter rope. Tiny Tina the Dagger Swallower is wearing a tiny silver jumpsuit with only her face exposed. It must be said, were she not a dagger swallower, she'd make a wonderful human cannon ball, or bullet.

'Next up is the really small Tiny Tina,' says Gally.

'Hi Gally, and thanks for finally getting to me.'

'Who said that? Oh you're down there. Sorry, I'm joking of course. So Tiny Tina, in the qualifying rounds we've seen you swallow all kinds of objects, including a runcible spoon.'

'Gally, a runcible spoon isn't real, but in previous rounds I have swallowed sugar tongs, crochet needles and a child-size rolling pin,' says Tiny Tina, grinning.

Gally winks. 'You're every man's dream and being you're one of Duke Cowely's acts, you're expecting to reach the Finalest Final, Honestly, later in the show.'

'How can you say that? I'll only get there on merit. I don't want to advance just because my mentor is Duke Cowely. I want to get there because I deserve it and for no other reason.'

'I like you Tiny Tina, you're honest. Garth?'

'She has no chance against the big boys, she'll be steamrollered.'

' _Eurgh_. I like the sound of a steamroller. My voice is flat so my body should be the same.'

Gally shakes his head and steps away, all the time wondering why he ever signed that contract. It seemed a good idea at the time and he looks at the cut on his thumb where the blood was drawn for his signature.

Next up is the penultimate act, the thirteenth - hopefully not an omen. Gally and his boys have only a short distance to walk to reach the daffodil holding, Morriski. Curiously, he's standing on a chair with a rope around his neck.

'Next up is somebody you've likely heard of before. It's Morriski, famously of the group, The Smithsonians.'

' _Heaven knows I 'm miserable now!_' sings Morriski.

Gally tuts. 'Hmmm, how about you remove the rope and talk to me?'

The un-charming man, dressed in black, stares blankly at the trio as his chair rocks. ' _I was the First of the Gang to Die!_ '

'I'm not surprised with that voice. Here have a crisp,' says Gally, offering a bag forward.

Morriski pulls a disgusted face. 'I don't eat crisps. They've been grown in fields that were close to animals and I'm a vegetable errr, a vegan.'

Gally rolls his eyes. 'A word on your mentor, Walshy Loo.'

'He's ...'

'That's a word, say nothing more,' interrupts Gally. 'Garth, Mark, anything to add?'

'Gally, how could you leave the man hanging like that? He's obviously out of his depth.'

' _Eurgh_. That's Morriski, Garth, so shut up. He's a hero of mine.'

Gally checks his watch and the final few minutes are approaching. He steps up the pace.

They approach the final act. Gally's looking down at another packet of crisps, opens them, and takes one out. He raises it to his lips but pauses on looking up. Before him stands the RC Priests dressed in dark brown robes. They're unmoving though their dark shadows are mysteriously fluttering across the walls of the Magnolia Room.

Gally looks around but can see no light source. He steps back. 'Whoa, I'm not getting too close to this lot. It's the RC Priests and I wonder what the RC stands for. Any idea, boys?'

' _Eurgh_ , I'm not saying,' says Mark, staying well back.

'Thanks a lot,' says Gally turning to Garth but the man has done a runner and hidden behind a large potted plant, his round face peering out in fear. Gally turns back to the Priests. 'Okay, which of you lot am I talking to?'

A single member answers and the expression on his face is less than friendly. 'You may speak to me, Father Teddie Krooger. Come closer, though be it of your own free will.'

Gally gulps and holds his packet of _Winkers ™ Holy Water and Garlic Square Crinkles_ to the fore.

Father Teddie's eyes blaze bright yellow and the holy-man touches a finger to his ear, as if listening. Instantly, the sound of a church organ reverberates through the room. 'Crisps are the devils work! If potatoes were meant to be so thinly sliced and boiled in oil then our Lord would have attached razor blades to our fingers and made us pass lava.'

'Well, I'm just an ex-soccerballer and I'm glad our Lord ...' begins Gally.

'Soccerball is evil! If our Lord had meant us to play such a game he would have given us powerful legs and round balls,' says an increasingly animated Father Teddie.

'I guess so Father,' says Gally. 'Your mentor is B-Mel-F-Cup.'

The group of Priests lean back as one, their shadows flitting faster and the organ music volume increases. Father Teddie's words sound vitriolic. 'A travesty of weak humankind and her lack of abstinence regarding the rut is disgusting.'

Gally takes a careful look around but can see no church organ or any means of playing amplified music. He removes a square crisp from his bag and bites off the four corners, making it into a rough-shaped cross. 'But people have to breed don't they Father?'

'Revolting individuals and you would never catch an RC Priest breeding, especially those of us who trained at the Elm Street RC Church,' says Father Teddie, his eyes shining brighter as he floats closer to the interviewer. A long-nailed hand reaches for Gally's face but when an inch away the Priest leans to one side noticing his SAV earpiece. 'Ah, you are one of us I see, but needs must as we have orders from a higher secret being.'

Gally has had enough and thrusts the cross-shaped Holy Water and Garlic Crinkle crisp to the fore. The RC Priests and their shadows are forced backwards. He considers taking another bite but that would be incredibly dangerous as a T-shape rarely deflects evil.

From the back of the room Garth shouts. 'Keep it there Gally. Their defence is holey, perhaps unholy. Now bite me and Mark a couple of crosses, we'll need them.'

Gally doesn't hesitate and removes the two biggest square crisps his fingers can find. He bites off the corners and passes the crude crosses to his co-hosts. 'Now what?'

Garth slaps his forehead in exasperation. 'We've got to get out of here and fast, Gally. We're in extra time and you just came close to being sent off.'

Gally nods in appreciation knowing team-mates must always be trusted. He starts walking backwards, the RC Priests never leaving his sight. The three ex-soccerballers retreat through the vast Magnolia Room, keeping the possessed Priests at bay with well-held crisps.

Like a well-drilled team on Cup Final day, they exit and slam the door behind them.

The trio turn and hesitate on seeing a wall of hulking flesh in the guise of security officers but they've faced bigger walls before. Gally runs forward, drops his right shoulder and sneakily feints to the left. Mark grabs Garth and throws him over the top before he starts his run round the right.

The men are still elite professionals despite their age, and this is a classic case of experience triumphing over youth. They're so highly skilled the opposition doesn't manage to grab any of their shirts. The officers are left clutching at shadows and the three co-hosts, duck, dodge, weave, dive a little and eventually reach the rear exit of the Gubbins. They depart through a minefield, which none knew was there, and escape into the dark avenues and alleyways of London.

At the last, Gally can be heard, his voice growing fainter by the second. 'Well, those were all the acts for The Near Final, the first of tonight's final rounds. That was too close in my view but thankfully we avoided penalties. It's on to the next part of the show. From Garth, Mark and me, Gally Rinekar, good night.'

The screens throughout the planet go blank but a catchy tune can be heard.

_Da-da-da-dah-d-d-d-da-dah, da-dah-d-d-da-dah ..._
Chapter Eighteen

Don't Call Me Jezza

A fingernail taps lightly on a long list of names. The SAV stares down, seeing the names of the three ex-soccerballers close to the bottom, and its mouths contort. It knows the survival of the trio is a loss, but not a game-changer. The creature considers sending agents after them but on seeing the viewing-figure digital readout decides not to.

The numbers are moving ever upwards and the sportsmen have played their part. They can live for now but their time will come. As for the RC priests, considered allies and the final interviewees for a reason, their failure to dispense with the humans cannot be tolerated. They are on the show for one reason only, to carry out orders. Their time is done and they'll not progress beyond The Near Final.

The SAV shrugs on knowing those who have fallen are mere cannon fodder and not overly important. The real crowd pleasers at the top of the list, the best in their field, are still to appear and there won't be long to wait.

It glances at its screen-bank in the secret compartment and sees Anton Dev still aren't ready. No matter, another juggle of the running order can be made. The SAV smiles and decides it's time to release one of its aces. It's earlier than it would have liked but needs must. The many mouths speak into its microphone and inside the VIP enclosure; a master in his field can be seen.

The man's a true professional and the SAV respects him enough to forego the use of an earpiece. Not because it doesn't want to control him, it simply isn't sure it can. The human race is weak and can be easily manipulated but even they throw up the occasional anomaly.

The man's an intellect and a force to be reckoned with. As it is, the SAV has safeguards in place. If the situation turns bad, security is close by and concealed snipers have his position.

The human male's dressed in a dirty, ripped suit that, back in the day, would have been an expensive purchase. His shoes are heavily scuffed with both soles coming away. His hair's a matted mess reaching halfway down his back. In all, he resembles a gutter tramp but his piercing blue-eyed stare says otherwise. If ever the words "looks can be deceiving" were meant for a human, this male fits the bill.

The SAV pauses momentarily, considering whether allowing the man his head after such a long imprisonment is sensible but his race adores him. He'll be good for the ratings, drawing ever more humans to their timely demise. It cuts the music, reinstates visuals, stays alert and observes.

An interviewer, not a presenter, is holding a microphone with a round orange sponge on the top. Jeremiah Paxo-man is eyeing it with utter contempt, as if holding a dog turd. Eventually, he speaks, his words hinting at barely controlled malice. 'Dear Lord! My agent will be hearing about this. Is this the best he could come up with, a damn talent show? So be it. At least I'll be able to breathe fresh clean air again, even though this is London, the UQ's pollution capital.'

Jeremiah casually glances to his right and sees a pair of security officers getting up close and personal; each much bigger than him. He faces them and gives each a shove. Despite his lesser strength, they shift backwards. His blue eyes meet theirs and only when they nod, does he continue.

'That's better. I could start by grudgingly thanking the one who released me, but I damn well won't. Twenty-five years I spent in a blasted _Spewsnight_ cell eating awful food pushed through a flap in the studio door, and never being given a change of clothes. I haven't bathed so I stink. The only reason I'm lacking a long, rough beard is because in my pocket I have a little friend called Russell and he's sharp ... very sharp,' he says, his free hand in a ripped pocket lovingly caressing a knife handle. 'Right, I'm not being nice. My adult life has been hell and that tends to make a man tetchy. So be it, more flaming interviews, the alleged VIPs no less. Here goes.'

Jeremiah glances over the hundreds of attendees, sees many smiling faces and realises he must start somewhere. He sees a man not looking at him, for whatever reason, and he stalks over. 'You sir, you must be important. Tell me your name and why you've bothered to come along today?'

The interviewee jolts back on feeling the microphone's sponge end rammed against his nostrils. The man, his face wrapped in dark glasses, pushes the microphone a few inches away so he can speak. 'Hi angry sounding UQ person, I'm Stevie Blunder and I can't wait for the show to start.'

Jeremiah scowls as he can't wait for it to end. 'I've heard of you Stevie. Aren't you blind?'

'That's right, but being a singer my ears are my eyes.'

Jeremiah groans loudly. 'Yeees, well Stevie, you could also be a politician as that sounded very much like tosh. Tell me this if you will? How can you possibly defend America's policy of bombing everything they don't like the look of?'

'It's a policy I support as I'm black just like my island's leader. The president assures me that as the explosives drop they play one of my songs - to soften the blow if you like.'

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' says Jeremiah, looking quizzically at Stevie.

' _Signed, sealed, delivered, I 'm yours!_' sings Stevie, his head wobbling left and right.

Jeremiah reaches into his pocket and fingers Russell's handle. He imagines making a swift swipe and seeing the VIP's jugular blossom open releasing a crimson fountain. He curses, blinks rapidly and berates himself for such a thought. He puts it down to a rush of blood to the head and his increased oxygen intake now he's in the open-air. Releasing the pocketed knife handle, he turns to camera. 'Yeees well, that was Stevie Blunder. I can't bring myself to tell him he isn't actually black. I have a moral compass and even I've heard of _Mikeyjack Syndrome_ , though I didn't believe it existed until now.'

He glances along the line of seats. There are more, many more. 'Dear Lord, am I really stooping to this? I suppose I must.'

Jeremiah tugs at his stained shirt collar, then spits into a hand and applies it to his wayward hair. A multitude of follicles feel the moisture but remain unmoved. 'You Sir, tell me your name and give me a reason why I shouldn't rip the absolute heck out of you? Can I say heck? Of course I can and why am I talking to myself? I'm free now and the question stands,' he says, pushing the microphone into a face far too happy for his liking.

The recipient is wearing an emerald coloured jacket and cocked hat. 'Hi, I'm Patrick Kill-Tree and I'm a comedian.'

'Yeees, and the last anybody saw of ... did you say you're a comedian?'

'I am and here's a good one. A man walks into a pub and there's a Protestant, an accountant ... no, I'm wrong. There's a Jehovah's Witness and two quarts of donated blood ... no, I'm wrong again.'

'Dear Lord, I see entertainment hasn't advanced while I've been away.'

'Wait, there was a foot-high man, three tuna fish and a piano, or was it two tuna fish?'

Jeremiah curses under his breath and once again, a hand dips into a frayed trouser pocket. 'Yeees, I remember watching you on my monochrome television Patrick. I recall the tumbleweeds bowling across the stage whenever your mouth opened.'

'Tumbleweeds, that's a good one, but do you remember what I followed it up with? I said fornication, and the girl replied, "rubber johnnies" and it was hilarious. The front three rows wet themselves.'

Jeremiah shakes his head and scowls. 'Patrick, the front three rows were members of the UQ Incontinence Society and it was their day trip. It was their annual outing to try and cheer themselves up and curiously it worked, you emerald-clad nincompoop. They were overjoyed to see someone more unfortunate than them.'

'Was I that funny? Do you remember the joke with the nun and ...?'

Jeremiah presses a finger to Patrick's lips. 'I'll have to stop you there before you make me do something I regret,' he says, shouting. 'Security!'

An officer swiftly arrives and he's laughing much to Jeremiah's annoyance. 'Me think him really funny. I be gentle and not hurt him.'

'Other Security!' growls Jeremiah.

Jeremiah watches as Patrick Kill-Tree's led away. In annoyance he picks a stray thread from his trousers, making the hole in the knee larger. He's shaking his head, furiously. 'Did he really deserve a painless exit? Back in my day, masquerading as a comedian carried the death penalty but I guess times have changed. I'll move on. Madam, I'm talking to you because the men are fools. Are you important in any way?'

'Yes Jezza, I'm Karal Doberman. I used to do arithmetic on a quiz show and then started appearing everywhere. I'm not a jockey though, or a ... you know?'

Jeremiah peers questioningly at the woman and gives the microphone a less than gentle shove. Whatever "you know" means is beyond him but that's not what has raised his hackles. 'Did you just call me, Jezza? I don't believe I gave anybody permission to call me that.'

Karal stares back, nonplussed. 'Everyone calls you Jezza, or Paxo.'

The interviewer inhales deeply through his nose. He adjusts his threadbare jacket, and briefly closes his eyes. On reopening, he turns his sapphire stare on the woman. 'I'm Jeremiah Paxoman, newly free of incarceration and nobody calls me by my nicknames, not to my face and never on live television. Look into my deep, blue eyes and tremble with fear. Never, ever, use those names again. Do you hear me you, woman?'

'I ... I'm sorry Jezza, I didn't know,' stammers Karal, her whole body shaking.

'Security!'

Two officers approach and Karal's terror is clear. 'But I've done nothing wrong.'

'You have a large backside and are taking up two seats, now be gone.'

As Karal's removed, two more officers appear. There seems to be a queue forming.

Jeremiah picks at a few more stray threads on his suit jacket and, sadly, one of the arms comes loose. It was only a matter of time as very few suits look good after such prolonged wearing. He approaches the next VIP. 'You madam, you're almost recognisable?'

'I'm Vanessa Feltch and I'm really happy to be here,' she says, smiling.

'Security!' shouts Jeremiah, not smiling.

The man screams and holds his head in his hands. He begins to panic and every which way he looks, absurd, cheerful faces stare back at him. He thought twenty-five years of incarceration was bad, but this? The ex- _Spewsnight_ presenter bites a knuckle and races back along the row of seats, past some newly vacated. On exiting the high-fenced VIP enclosure, he shouts into his microphone. 'I've had enough of this codswallop. Goodbye!'

The SAV observes the digital viewer readout, which hasn't increased as much as it would have liked. The creature looks at the fleeing figure of Jeremiah Paxo-man on its screens and presses lips to the microphone on the table. The words are formed and ready to go but it pauses. The creature understands that aces can go high or low and on this occasion, Jeremiah went low. The SAV appreciates he can do better and the man has a stay of execution. It leaves him be and checks on others.

There's movement within an orange and white campervan in the Gubbins and the inhabitants have slid the door open. Anton Dev is finally ready.

The names of Karal Doberman, Paddy Kill-Tree and Vanessa Feltch are crossed through and the SAV smiles from a fair few of its mouths.
Chapter Nineteen

The Near Final

The vast crowd are on tenterhooks. Complimentary pamphlets have been checked and multitudes of differing coloured lights are blazing across the front of house. The orchestra has erupted into overdrive, the conductor gesticulating wildly with sweat poring across his brow and high above, the UQ jet display team have screamed past yet again, despite it being dark. Expectation's growing - as is the screaming, shouting and cheering.

The current Best Presenter award holder, the conjoined twins Anton Dev, is ready and they look magnificent. Having exited their orange and white campervan, they are moving forward, on a freshly laid red carpet. Either side, the Gubbins' operatives have formed a guard of honour. The dark-cloaked rear of the stage is ahead and they can hear the insanity out front. Neither is wearing an All Areas Backstage Pass because everybody knows who they are. The twins are channelled to the steps at the side of the stage.

Anton and Dev smile widely and all the petty arguments they've had down the years are forgotten. Dev's let go his macho image and Anton's extricated the butterflies from his brain, well, most of them. It's serious business time and both are well aware this is the stuff awards are made of. They face forward, deep breaths are inhaled then exhaled, muscles are loosened and mouth exercises are completed.

'Ready, Anton?' asks Dev.

'Aye brother and I love your shirt. It's all spangley, just like mine.'

'It is and you look fantastic. Now remember, this is the big one. We get this right and the twentieth in a row Best Presenter award's in the bag,' says Dev, winking.

'Aye and that means we'll hold the record, overtaking Lord Terry of Woebegone who got nineteen before we were born. I heard he was right good.'

Dev chuckles. 'He was but we're better, so don't mess up. You ready?'

'I am. Gimme five,' says Anton holding a hand up.

'I'll give you ten, brother,' says Dev, holding two hands up. 'Now here we go. Three, two, one, let's rumble!'

Anton Dev races up the side steps, alight onto the stage and the crowd go crazy. There's pushing, shoving, a small amount of bloodletting, and the most famous conjoined twins ever, start to sing. ' _Let 's go steady eddy, let's go steady eddy, let's go steady and rumble!_'

The crowd join in, making one of the best songs ever written, sound cheap and amateurish but Anton grins widely. 'Wow! Listen to the noise Dev.'

'Aye, I can hardly hear myself speak. Those speakers are right loud.'

'I think my heads going to explode ... ah great, they've turned them down,' says Anton, turning to the crowd. 'Alright everyone, are you happy to be here?'

The crowd grow louder in their appreciation as the sparkly dressed joined-at-the-hip hosts, smile and wave their hands at all and sundry.

'Yeah, yeah we get it. We know you're fantastic and we're so excited at being able to host the rest of the show, aren't we Anton?'

'We are and it reminds me of when we won our fourteenth Best Presen...'

Before Anton can finish, Duke Cowely's voice is heard, blasting across every inch of the Complex. He's seated centrally at the judges' table, front left of stage, 'Get on with it!'

Dev sensibly gets on with it. 'So, ladies, gentlemen, VIPs, and anybody who doesn't fit into those categories, welcome to the first of tonight's elimination rounds, The Near Final.'

Anton nods. 'That's right Dev. You've all waited long enough so please welcome on stage, the first act, which is ... ...'

'Anton, what are you doing? We don't pause for introductions, only the results.'

'Oh right, I forgot. Please welcome on stage, Geriatric and the Pacemakers!'

As the crowd erupts, Anton Dev jogs to the side of the stage and stand behind a dark curtain, out of sight of the massive audience. In front of them is their own private screen and moments later, the first act's belting out their song - it's a strange composition called _Under My Arthritic Thumb_.

'They're rubbish,' says Anton.

'Aye but the lead singer Micky's really going for it.'

'He should know better at his age.'

'I guess but they're finished. Let's go,' insists Dev.

Members of St Joan's Ambulance assist the four elderly band members off the enormous pentagonal stage and Anton Dev retakes their position.

'That were our first act performing in The Near Final. Let's hear it for Geriatric and the Pacemakers,' says Anton, hearing polite applause wafting from the crowd.

'Indeed and let's go to their mentor. Armada, what did you think of the performance?'

'Well lads, I believe they were ... old but interesting,' says Armada, giggling.

'I told you they were rubbish,' whispers Anton.

Dev ignores his brother. 'Moving on as they say in show business, please welcome the next act. It's the Mexican Pathologist, Ramitinada!'

A hospital trolley with a naked body on top is wheeled forward. Ramitinada, dressed in a golden cape and sporting spectacular Aztec headgear, stands behind it. He reaches for a series of metal tools laid out on a shelf below and starts to make incisions. The crowd are stony silent.

Behind a dark curtain two brothers are staring at their screen.

'Dev, is this really entertainment? This is a talent show, not a horror film.'

'Aye but the public voted him through the earlier rounds. I know it looks bad but it's educational,' says Dev, pointing. 'That's a spleen.'

'Please don't Dev. I feel a bit sick.'

'Sorry man and I hope that wasn't a vas deferens he turned into a bracelet at the end.'

'Dev!' shouts Anton, giving his brother's torso a shove.

'Okay but we need to get on stage. Just take deep breaths and think of the awards. I'll do the talking,' says Dev, turning his winning smile to the gathered multitude. 'Okay, let's have a quick word with Ramitinada's mentor. Keryl lass, is your act cut out for the later rounds?'

'Dev!' growls Anton, stifling rising bile.

'Sorry, I couldn't help myself. Actually Keryl, don't bother. The clock's ticking and next up, for your enjoyment hopefully, is Gimp Jism!'

Five young lads, dressed in different coloured suits, start to sing, as they run, tumble and frolic in all directions.

'Dev, I really am gonna vomit,' says Anton, sweat prickling his forehead.

'It's okay man, Ramitinada finished a while back.'

'I know but its Gimp Jism.'

'Oh, I see what you mean. Take deep breaths now,' says Dev rubbing his brother's back.

Soon enough Gimp Jism has finished their somewhat interesting version of the _Beastly Boys, Fight for Your Right_. Hand in hand they leave the stage, escorted by volunteers wearing hivis vests from the show creche.

Anton Dev carefully walks back on stage, avoiding dropped ice creams and a dubious looking yellow puddle. 'Walshy Loo, how did they do?' asks Dev.

'Well, I'm a simple man who enjoys making plastic models but did you know ...'

'Dev, shut him up, I'm feeling right queasy,' says Anton, swallowing down copious amounts of saliva forming in his mouth.

'Aye man and sorry Walshy, there's only seven and a bit hours left so there's no time for you to say anything else. Next up ... Wilma-U-What!'

Wilma swans onto stage as if she owns the place. She scowls, raises a middle finger and launches into one of her own compositions. It's a rap called, _Fucking Fuckers!_

Again the crowd remain silent, unsure what to make of her.

Dev spits on the ground. 'That's disgusting. She used the F word, P word, and the S word.'

'Aye errr, what's the S word?' asks Anton, scratching his forehead in thought.

'She said Sunderland and that's right out of order,' says Dev, spitting again.

Anton gasps. 'It's not nine pm yet and nobody should be allowed to swear before then.'

'Aye man, she were taking the piss,' agrees Dev as he watches the woman leave the stage on finishing her performance. 'Let's talk to her mentor. What did you think, Dai?'

'Well boyos, she's an American big island tramp and doesn't understand the intricacies of instruments and voices. My uncle would be turning in his grave if he had one and wasn't left to rot on a battlefield, covered by splintered and useless clarinets.'

Dev nods strongly. 'Well said Dai and next up is, or are, The RC Priests!'

The brown robed priests glide onto stage, their eyes burning a bright, alien yellow. Their shadows are dancing manically - but that could be explained by the numerous lights shining down on them. They start to intone, something dark and evil, in a long forgotten language.

'Dev, what are they chanting?'

'No idea man but it's ... hold on I've got a voice in my ear.'

'Really, what's it saying? I can't hear it.' asks Anton, confused as he should be hearing the same as his brother.

'It's saying that when the acts are done, we should go back to the campervan as there's a gift for me, a weapon of some kind. I can't say any more but the voice says the RC Priests have been possessed by an ancient evil and need to be exterminated.'

Anton stares at Dev, wondering if he heard right. 'You can't kill them man.'

'The aural voice says I'd be performing a public service if I did,' says Dev, shrugging.

'Oh right, in that case, you shouldn't argue as I'm all for doing public services.'

'It wants me to kill them,' exclaims Dev, hoping his brother understands.

Anton snorts. 'Well, you don't have to decide now, decide later. I see I haven't got a gift but you don't hear me moaning. Anyway, the Priests are done, let's get back out there.'

Dev's head is spinning so he lets his brother take the lead. As he contemplates the words he has heard, he can hear more in his earpiece. He rapidly shakes his head and tries to concentrate as Anton talks. 'B-Mel-F-Cup, have the RC Priests done enough to make it to the next round? As we're on a tight time-line, you can only say one word?'

'They were disgusting, all weird,' blurts B-Mel.

'I agree and I realise that were more than one word but we'll let it go on this occasion.'

Anton feels a hand pressed over his mouth and looking along the arm, notes it belongs to Dev. He looks at his brother's face and sees uncharacteristic anger.

'No Anton, we won't let it go. B-Mel-F-Cup, when my brother says you can only say one word then that's all you can say. There's a weapon in my campervan coming for you lass,' says Dev, pointing a finger at the woman and nodding.

Anton forces the hand away from his mouth and glares at his brother. He covers his microphone. 'Dev, what the hell are you saying?'

'I'm sorry Anton but she's got it coming. I won't have you being ignored.'

'That's great but are you feeling alright? You look a bit strange.'

'I'm fine brother, never felt better in fact. Now get on with it!' shouts Dev.

Anton reels at the ferocity of his brother's words and gets on with it. 'Next up ... Bitches and Dogs!'

The act takes to the stage and without doubt they have the most legs and teeth of any of finalists. The ladies stand to the rear with the dogs sitting in front of them. All bar one, which has decided to give the orchestra conductor a shower he wasn't expecting.

'What's got into you?' demands Anton when behind the safety of their curtain.

Dev stares back and frowns. 'What are you talking about, I'm fine?'

'You're fine are you? You just threatened B-Mel-F-Cup,' snarls Anton.

Dev laughs and waves his hand nonchalantly. 'Don't be daft, I'd never do that.'

'You did, I bloody heard you and so did billions of people. You're acting right weird brother and you need to snap out of it. Keep this up and we can kiss goodbye to this year's Best Presenter award.'

Dev growls in anger. 'You what? You're accusing me of acting weird. You're the one who talks rubbish all the time and if it weren't for me we'd not of won any awards.'

'Don't talk to me like that you selfish bastard.'

'I'll talk to you any way I like. The aural voice said I could and if you're not careful, I'll flipping hurt you as well,' says Dev, showing his brother a bunched fist.

Anton flinches on hearing and seeing the direct threat. Of all the past arguments, his brother has never threatened to cause him harm before. He stares deep into Dev's eyes. Something isn't right, and despite his supposed lesser supporting role he knows exactly what it is. For certain Dev's acting strange and the mention of the aural voice has sealed the deal. He backs off. 'I'm sorry Dev. I'm just getting nervous. Can you forgive me?'

Dev's glare evaporates instantly and he grins. 'Aye you daft spuggy but I don't like being accused of something I didn't do.'

Forcing a smile Anton says nothing more on the subject. He knows that was a close call and will have to tread carefully where his brother's concerned. He'll also have to try and find a way of removing Dev's earpiece. He knows his own is fine, it being of SAS design, with the subliminal orders of the SAV filtered out. He tries not to think about the weapon - left back in the campervan. He knows what it is and why it's here in the show Complex. He shudders to think what his brother might do if he remains under the control of the SAV. Such a weapon in the wrong hands may have decapitating effects but he casts the thought aside. He needs to continue as if nothing untoward has happened.

First and foremost there's a show to present and a Best Presenter award to secure. Once again Dev appears to be his old self and as Bitches and Dogs have vacated the stage they move back out. 'Duke Cowely, how do you rate ...?' begins Anton but he's interrupted.

'Sure winners, move on,' says the head judge, waving a hand dismissively.

Anton shrugs. 'Okay, that were short and sweet. Next up ... Alli Kayeeda!'

Dressed head to toe in her black outfit, with a colourful wired belt, the young woman walks onto stage to a hushed silence. The crowd are uncertain and even the conductor, along with the orchestra strings section, has moved further away. On reaching the front of the stage Alli starts to sing.

'Blimey, she's got a right sweet voice,' says Anton, smiling widely.

'She has and I love this song.'

'So do I and this is better than the original. Fat Gary's Band were right good when they recorded _Zoom_ , but this is more believable.'

'Aye and the line, "just one look and then my heart went boom," had me believing. I hope she gets through to the next round,' says Dev, his conjoined torso swaying to the music.

'Me too but you know the public. Anyway, she's done, let's go.'

Anton Dev waits for the crowd to finish their appreciation, noting the clapping, shouting and, in many cases, sobbing; such was the performance. Both presenters wipe moisture from the corners of their own eyes as they turn to the judges' table. 'Well Dai, what did you make of that?' asks Dev.

'An angel and it reminds me of my grandfather as he fought the ...'

'Get on with it, Dai,' interrupts Duke Cowely, looking bored.

Dai nods. 'Alli's a diamond, probably a blood diamond, but brilliant.'

Anton appears to be overcome with emotion so Dev takes the fore. 'The competition's hotting up, and next ... The Adequate Bellendi!'

The magician floats onto stage, his arms tucked inside his purple robe, pulling it tight around his body. On reaching the front, he raises his head, shouts loud, and throws the garment wide. Immediately, thrushes emerge, a few at first but the number quickly grows and the birds circle above the orchestra pit. The flock increases and many of the musicians find themselves dodging unwanted falling packages. The brass section, those with their bell ends pointing upwards, are particularly concerned.

'Wow, look at that!' exclaims Anton, pointing at their private screen.

'Aye, it's always nice to be surrounded by birds,' chuckles Dev.

Anton stares at him. 'I didn't know you were an ornithologist?'

'Flipping 'eck, it were a joke man. Ah, forget it.'

Anton furtively glances at his brother. If the aural voice is talking to him then it isn't obvious. He's thankful, as a threat to kill the Adequate Bellendi would be a monumental mistake. He sighs in relief and they retake the stage.

'That were fantastic. What did you make of that, Wally?' asks Dev.

'Well, I'm not fond of birds but I like his dress. Can you untie me now?'

'No Wally, we can't. Take it Anton.'

'Gladly and next up ... The Shat Cat!'

The moggy's carried onto stage by his chief servant, Joanne. She places him a few feet from the front edge. He stands, raises his head high, lowers his rear end and performs.

The audience are holding their breaths, with many in the closer seats holding their noses. Eyes grow wide and mouths drop open. With the assistance of a close up camera and huge screens scattered around the Complex, defecation appreciation is soon underway.

When done, The Shat Cat wanders off disinterestedly. Joanne goes to pick him up but he shows claws and she backs away. He sits, raises a back leg and sets his tongue to cleaning.

Anton Dev, behind their curtain, looks stunned. On their private screen is a miniature version of Rome's Colosseum. Inside is a tiny sculpted Rusty Crowe fighting tigers, while an angry, steaming Wackim Phoenix looks on.

Now back on stage Dev finds his voice. 'Keryl, have you ever seen the likes before?'

'He's bound to give Duke Cowely's acts a run for their money,' says Keryl, but she swiftly corrects herself. 'Oh right, hopefully he'll come third.'

Anton ignores the insinuation. 'Next up ... Coffin Fit!'

With the assistance of the show's lackeys, coffins are wheeled onto stage using sack-barrows. They're placed in a row, reaching across the whole stage, and chocked in place. Behind each, stands a living member of the group. Foot pumps are stepped on, attached tubes fill with air and the corpses release their notes as air is forced from their dead lips. A noise, actually a tune, is heard.

'Flipping 'eck Dev, these acts just keep getting better.'

'Aye and I weren't expecting this. I've never heard Flight of the Bumblebee sound like this before.'

A huge bang slams through the speakers and Anton gasps on seeing one of the corpses explode. 'Do you think that were an intended special effect?'

'Probably not,' says Dev, shaking his head.

Anton appears disappointed but the act has finished. He gets on with it, before being ordered to do so. 'Have they got a chance, Armada?'

'Of course, I thought they were dead good.'

Dev groans but keeps going. 'Next up ... Smelyairy Cleft!'

The mime artist, smiling widely, jogs onto stage. He waves to the crowd and moving forward, hits an invisible wall. His hands start to press against the unseen surface and turning sideways, the same occurs. He turns once more, then again, but the walls are all around and closing in. Moments later Smelyairy Cleft holds a hand to his throat as if fighting for breath and collapses onto the boarding.

Behind the private curtain, Anton's confused. 'Were he really in an invisible box?'

'He's a mime artist, that's what he does,' replies Dev.

'It's right sad he couldn't get out no matter which wall he pressed against.'

'He's a mime artist Anton.'

'And when he started to choke, I nearly cried.'

'He's a flipping mime artist!' shouts Dev, glaring at his brother.

'Oh. What's a mime artist?'

'Just get out front and I'll do this one. What did you think, Wally?'

'Well, I'd have rescued him because I don't like boxes. Can you untie me now?'

Dev shakes his head. 'No Wally, we can't, and next up ... Morriski!'

Behind their curtain Anton Dev can hear the crowd growing restless. Both peer back out and Anton tries again. 'It's Morriski!'

'Give it up. I'm hearing from the aural voice he committed suicide back in the Magnolia Room,' says Dev, and though not intended, his words have been broadcast for all to hear.

The biggest cheer of the night is heard. There's yelling, shouting, screaming, security officer clapping, and another flyover from the UQ jet display team. Even those inside the VIP compound are nodding their heads and applauding politely.

The conjoined twins walk out and Anton speaks. 'Walshy, you must be devastated losing Morriski so early in the competition?'

Walshy looks up from his plastic modelling. 'Not really. He's boring, so it's no loss.'

Up in row DV a pin's dropped and the noise is heard across the Complex. Anton moves on, very swiftly. 'It's One Erection!'

Hairy Smiles stomps onto stage and when he reaches the front he performs. It isn't quite singing and neither is it recital. In truth, trying to tie it down to a specific genre's difficult, but he does it nonetheless.

The crowd are confused and unresponsive having never heard Shakespeare's _Richard III_ performed so. The interpretation of, _A Winter of Discontent_ , doesn't go down well. When done, Hairy bursts into tears, jumps off the stage and runs to his mentor.

'Ah bless, he's a sad puppy,' says B-Mel, adjusting her top. 'There, there Hairy, have a little sugar. Ooh, steady with the teeth.'

Anton stares open mouthed at the screen. Unsurprising considering B-Mel-F-Cup has lobbed out a lady-melon on live telly.

Thankfully Dev's on the case, pokes his head around the curtain and introduces the last act. 'It's Tiny Tina the Dagger Swallower!'

Tiny Tina runs onto stage. Behind her, a lackey is pushing a wheeled tool-box. She reaches inside and takes out eight different sized spanners. Leaning her head back she drops them down her throat one at a time, in no particular order.

The crowd appear fascinated, especially the men, and when done, Tiny Tina takes a bow, but she's not finished yet. Taking a few steps backwards, she turns to the left side of the stage and spits one out - the smallest. Turning slightly she regurgitates the second smallest and so on until all eight spanners are laying on the stage, in size order.

Crowd frowns soon turn to grins. The cheering's so loud even the sound engineer feels it prudent to tweak the volume down a couple of notches.

In amongst the cheering is the usual screaming, cussing and stomping of feet, which is great for Tiny Tina. Sadly, for others, squeals of joy are about to turn to screams of terror.

There's a reason why armies don't march in step on bridges - the appropriate term's mechanical resonance. It can occur in every structure, including temporary scaffolding stands. The seating's already swaying, very gently and practically unnoticeable, but a well-placed foot, tens of thousands in fact, in perfect unison ...

There are no cowboy acts on the show but there were definitely some present during the build stage. So what if the odd bolt isn't tightened properly? So what if the occasional pole isn't the correct length? So what if tea breaks and a tight deadline are set in stone so a few corners were snipped?

As a long departed third-best presenter knows only too well, what goes up must come down, and that doesn't always happen in a safe and orderly manner. Bolts have vibrated loose, poles are bending and high up; unwanted movement's occurring. Scaffolding poles snap and tragically for the top four-dozen rows, part of the temporary construction breaks free.

The mass of metal falls, taking those seated with it. The cowboys got one thing right though, the broken section isn't collapsing downwards. It's tilting backwards, avoiding crushing the whole structure but that's little consolation for the poor unfortunates involved.

Those in the lower seats have no idea and fail to notice the terrifying screams as the sound engineer has been ordered to turn the speakers back up, edging to eleven point one on the readout dial, a record for any live performance.

The SAV already has the show caretakers on standby, as if it knew something others didn't. Trolleys are pushed forward, shovels are removed, heavy cutting gear is employed and bin liners are filled. Many trips are made, back to the Gubbins skips, but the remainder of the crowd are none the wiser, cheering and screaming as loudly as they are.

The same can be said for the show's presenters who are back on stage and equally oblivious to current, devastating events.

'Wow, Tiny Tina were amazing! How did she manage to swallow all those spanners then spit them out in order?' asks Dev, shaking his head in disbelief.

'No idea but I hope she makes it all the way to the Finalest Final, Honestly,' says Anton, sounding equally impressed. 'If she does, she's promised to take down a _Kebabys ™_ serrated knife and I can't wait to see that as it's longer than she is.'

'Aye man but slicing open a short woman isn't entertainment and definitely don't try that at home. Anyway, what did you think, Duke Cowely?' asks Dev, looking to the judge.

'Top two for certain,' says the Duke.

'On this occasion, I agree Anton.'

'I'm glad you do as trying to kill him would definitely be a mistake,' whispers Anton.

Dev peers at his brother. 'I'm not with you?'

'Shite, er ... I mean, you've seen all the acts in the Near Final and which is your favourite? We're taking a short break. See you soon.'

The conjoined twins appear pleased at their night's work so far and only the odd minor glitch might count against them. Unnecessary threats of murder are unprofessional, so is accidental swearing, but they're not award losers, not on a live show. Errors are expected to creep in, but Anton and Dev both know it's all about the recovery.

Anton considers this as he glances at his brother and he currently seems normal. That's likely to change when they take their next extended break, back in the campervan. He wonders what action he can take, if any, when Dev gets his hands on an impressive weapon. Still, there's no point trying to predict future events. First off, it's back to the stage to bring the Near Final to a close - until the results that is.

The conjoined twins race forward, both waving their hands in a shushing motion for crowd silence but they already have it. Exchanging looks, they shrug and being complete professionals, get on with it.

'Welcome back everyone,' says Dev, grinning. 'Our fourteen acts have performed, except Morriski of course as he's dead, although that didn't stop Coffin Fit did it?'

'It didn't,' agrees Anton. 'Okay, the voting lines are open. Remember, if you want to get your favourite act into the Almost There Final, coming up later, you must cast your vote.'

'Absolutely and for this show only you can vote by carrier pigeon but don't forget to send them out now as late arrivals can't be counted. I must add though, please only send one as emptying your whole loft isn't fair, is it?'

'That's right as the last thing we want is for the votes to be skewed,' says Anton.

Dev stares at his brother, a little shocked. 'Blimey, listen to Anton. He just said skewed and he doesn't even know what it means, he's that excited.'

'No Dev, I don't, and thanks for pointing that out,' says Anton, forcing a smile.

'It's a pleasure brother. Now, I'm hearing there might be some confusion for certain individuals but I'll name no names. I must stress that your vote can't be counted if you think scratching the name of your favourite act on a piece of wood and holding it in front of the telly is acceptable. It isn't.'

'Dev man, who in their right mind would do that and think it's okay?'

'I'm referring to daft people,' says Dev, raising an eyebrow.

'Right but it were pointless saying that as only intelligent people watch this program. The daft people will be doing something else, like picking their nose with a screwdriver while bouncing on a trampoline, or sitting in their parents attic sending nasty messages to nice people over the Interweb.'

'I know but there's always one, isn't there,' says Dev, tutting.

'There is and I'm hearing that the votes are coming in thick and fast. As we've got to allow time for them to be counted and verified, we'll hand you over to ... hand you to ...'

'Anton?' whispers Dev, a hand over his microphone and glancing sideways.

Anton's microphone is also covered and he speaks from the side of his mouth. 'Dev, where's my script notes? I've lost them and don't know who's on next? Dev man, help me, you're my only hope!'
Chapter Twenty

Three More is a Crowd

Anton grows more agitated as he frantically looks every which way for his script notes and he isn't faking. They really are missing and he knows winging it is a definite no-no. He checks his pocket, looks inside the collar of his shirt and peers up his sleeves but they're nowhere to be found. He stares in panic at Dev but his sibling appears cool. Anton wonders if Dev might have - no, he dismisses the idea. Even a coerced Dev wouldn't jeopardise a potential award.

'Help me,' insists Anton, sweat starting to leak from every inch of his skin.

'Anton, we haven't won dozens of awards for nothing. Calm down, I'll take this, because I know who's presenting the next slot.'

'How? I don't see your notes.'

'The aural voice just told me but, if I'm being honest, I knew anyway. They're behind us.'

Anton turns his head slowly and sees a tall elegant woman with a microphone in her hand. He gulps on recognising her as one of the UQBC's top presenters and she's speaking in her alluring Welsh accent.

'Holy crap, that's Alexis Jones from _The Fun Show_.'

'Aye it is and look who's with her,' says Dev, indicating with a nod of his head.

'Gibber, gibber, rattle on and get things wrong with a chirpy smile. Finger pointing at top of head, ginger hair, ginger hair!'

'Flipping 'eck, it's Crispy Evans,' says Anton. 'I'm a bit scared man,' he adds.

'I'm not, but we better watch ourselves. If we're not careful those two might give us a run for our money in the Best Presenter awards next month.'

'Oh come on Dev! Crispy's right good but you're pushing it a bit with the Welsh spuggy.'

As Anton Dev retreats to the side of the stage, Alexis Jones and Crispy Evans make their way to the front of the stage, both presenting in their unorthodox style.

'Verrry welsh, a quick lean forward displaying cleavage and oh, split dress exposing ...'

'Ginger interruption when lesser co-presenter in full flow, camera on me and far too chirpy. I've been awake for ninety days solid and far too much energy for a man my age.'

Dev suddenly notices a third presenter. 'Bugger! It's the other _Fun Show_ presenter, the short one with the square jaw and boyish good looks.'

'Not Matty Beaker, the farmer and ex-gymnast.'

'Aye brother, it's him alright,' says Dev, watching as Matty performs a triple somersault, two forward rolls and finishes with a lifelike mime of milking a cow.

Matty speaks, his presenting no less curious than Crispy and Alexis. 'Lovely smile and a wink. Unassuming boy next door type and your mother will love me.'

'What can we do?' asks Anton starting to panic.

'We need to leave brother,' says Dev, forcing their shared legs to start moving.

'Oh Matty. Verrry llong llegs. Pronouncing Welsh double L's like they should be. Ah, blink and you miss it, nipple shot,' purrs Alexis, feigning surprise.

'Whoa Dev! The Welsh spuggy just gave a tasteful glimpse. We're in trouble.'

'Run Anton, get to the campervan,' insists Dev.

'I'm with you but I don't get it? The _Fun Show_ presenters just talk crap, more than me, but the public love them. What are we doing wrong?'

'We're doing nothing wrong.'

'But if we're not careful we'll not win this year's award.'

'Yes we will, I've got a plan,' says Dev.

Anton deflates and recalls a SAV's promised gift, a weapon no less. The word extermination floats through his head. 'Okay and I think I know what your plan might be.'

'Do you disapprove?' asks Dev, staring forcefully.

Anton considers the question and thinks about the weapon in the campervan. He knows it's wrong but he also knows that an award, however earned, might have to take precedence. Internally, a fight has begun. On the one hand there's a glitzy honour to think about. On the other, he screws his eyes shut, 'No Dev man, I don't disapprove.'

As the brothers race back through the Gubbins, Alexis Jones is front of stage. She continues to present in her teasing, unique style and her two co-presenters leave her to it. The two men use the side steps and exit the stage.

'Blimey Crispy, being that boy-next-door-type's tiring. Can I stop smiling, doing stupid exercises and pretending to be a farmer?'

'Absolutely Matty, but only if I can stop pointing out the fact I've got ginger hair, gibber incessantly and have tons of energy.'

'You're on. I don't suppose you've got a fag, I'm gasping?'

'Sure but don't tell Alexis, she thinks I've given up.'

Crispy gives Matty a fag, lights it for him, and wanders back toward the stage entrance.

Anton Dev drops onto the fitted bench-seat in their orange and white campervan and take recovering breaths. Sweat is wiped away, more from Anton's brow than Dev's, curiously, and they look at each other. Eyes meet, then swivel sideways, taking in a television nailed to the partition behind the driver and passenger seats. Dev reaches over and switches it on. Immediately the screen flashes and after a few seconds, images from the show can be seen.

Normally a remote control would be used but on this occasion it's not necessary; all stations revert to Channel 13. The conjoined twins stare unwaveringly at the screen, both ignoring a large wooden crate sitting barely a foot from their knees.

'Are you watching this?' asks Anton, still peeved at the current show presenters.

'You know I am. That's last year's Pox Factor runners up, the Dad Dancers. That's not entertainment. All they're doing is waving their arms about and wiggling their arses. They look like they're drunk and at a wedding reception. This is crap.'

'Do you remember when we were practicing the steps for our first music video _owww!_ ' exclaims Anton, rubbing his bicep where Dev punched him.

'Don't go there. We're presenting a competition and we've got competition. The _Fun Show_ presenters are making us look like second rate amateurs.'

'To be honest it wouldn't take ... _owww!_ '

'This is serious,' says Dev, rubbing his knuckles. 'Now pass me that crowbar.'

Anton frowns. 'What crowbar?'

Dev stares at his brother and sees tiny beads of sweat erupting on his forehead. He understands Anton won't be happy; he being a gentle soul, but needs must, especially when the SAV has commanded. He speaks gently. 'Do you trust me?'

'I do, with all my heart, you know that,' replies Anton.

'So pass me the crowbar and know I'll only use it if there's no other choice. I'll not kill the RC Priests or B-Mel unless I really have to, despite what the aural voice says.'

Anton stares at Dev, then at the crowbar on the nearby sink unit. He frowns and spares a glance down at a large wooden crate, finally noticing it. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. Reaching up he rubs his eyes, looks down at the crate again then turns to Dev.

Can his brother really not have spotted it, a big wooden cube only a few inches from their shared knees? He appears not to have, and Anton pays it more attention. There's an envelope taped to the top and the name Anton, is written on it in black felt-tip. He reaches for it but draws his hand back. Maybe it's time to test the water as he's somewhat confused by Dev's lack of observation.

'Dev man, about the crowbar. Is that really what the aural voice wants you to use to kill the RC Priests?'

'Aye and I'm sorry but it says they've been possessed by evil.'

'And that's all?' asks Anton, his eyes flitting between the crowbar and the crate.

'Of course. Now watch the telly. The next guests are coming on,' says Dev, groaning. 'Oh no, it's that stupid performing one-legged dog.'

Anton ignores the television and reaches for the envelope with his name on. He rips it free, the tape making a sharp noise, but his brother doesn't turn from the screen. Opening it, he removes a note and reads the neat handwritten words. On reaching the end he gulps and re-reads it.

_Anton. Trust in your brother and know that a higher power is watching over you both. The SAV 's well contained within the Complex, but Dev must be given his head. It may be brutal, it may rip at your heart, it may be murderous, but follow his lead. Continue on your lesser path, however painful, and only reveal the truth to him at the right time. I trust you Anton. You were always the sensible one. Look to the wooden crate and nothing more._

_Good luck and know that the others will be with you before the show finale, as will I._

_TGB._

_p.s. The SAV is currently being blocked so get a move on_.

Anton crumples the letter, drops it to the floor and using a heel, flicks it beneath their bench seat. He takes calming breaths and considers what's to come. Gripping his hands together, to stop them shaking he mouths a silent prayer then taps Dev on the shoulder, trying to draw his attention from the television. 'Flipping 'eck man, what's this big wooden crate? I didn't notice it before.'

'Shush, I'm watching the tel _arghhh_ , that hurt!' shouts Dev, rubbing his ribs where a crowbar connected.

Anton appears sheepish. 'Sorry, it were an accident.'

'Well, be more caref _owww!_ '

'Sorry again, I'm right clumsy with this crowbar,' says Anton, before pointing theatrically. 'Bloody Hell! Look, there's a big wooden crate in front of us. I wonder where it came from.'

Dev grabs the crowbar from Anton. As he considers an unlawful act his eyes are drawn downwards. 'Look man, where did this wooden crate come from?'

Anton rolls his eyes and bites his lip. 'No idea, but I wonder what's in it? You've got a crowbar, coincidentally, so maybe you should open it. It'll be good practice.'

Dev nods, leans forward, inserts the flat end under the crate lid and levers the other end down. Nails and staples start to squeal as they release their hold and one side of the lid's forced up. Twisting the crate round, he does the same for the other sides. Soon enough, the lid is free and cast aside.

Leaning forward, Anton starts to scoop out handfuls of S-shaped polystyrene packing pieces, hoping this isn't a foul trick. Eventually, his hands connect with a solid object.

Dev is still eyeing the crowbar, paying Anton no attention. 'I'm quite good with this. I feel right confident I can take down the priests and B-Mel if I have to.'

Anton grips the object inside and pulls it free. His heart skips a beat on seeing something more effective than a simple length of metal. He half smiles and half cries. Holding the crate contents up for Dev to see, he knows he'll recognise it. 'What's this?' he asks innocently.

'Holy shite man, where did you find that?' exclaims Dev having turned.

Feigning ignorance, Anton stares at the object. It has a pair of rotating, dark barrels, each two feet long, contained inside a series of spaced circular coils with a trigger handle fixed to the top. The whole ensemble's attached to leather straps, which appear to be a harness. Protruding from the side of the object and feeding into the base of the barrels is a thin metal belt, the other end dipping down into the packaging, connected to something as yet unseen. Within the belt, packed tightly together, are what can only be bullets, lots of narrow, blunt tipped ammunition.

'Is it a gun of some kind?' asks Anton still pretending not to know.

Dev snorts loudly. 'Don't be daft, that's not a gun. That's a _Koch-Licher Double-Barrel Mini-Decapitator_ , one of the best weapons ever made. If the inventor, Herr Boris Koch-Licher heard you call it a gun he'd turn in his grave, if he had one. That's the right sad thing about this weapon. When he first used it, it backfired and all they found were a red mess.'

'Right, I'd better put it back then. It's obviously been delivered to us by mistake. You can't use this and carry the crowbar,' says Anton, not daring to look at his brother.

Dev's tapping a finger to his lips. 'No I can't, but I've got an idea.'

'I thought you might,' sighs Anton.

'What if I use the _Mini-Decapitator_ instead of the crowbar?'

Anton's hands start to shake and he quickly passes it over. The crowbar has been discarded and his brother's now caressing the new weapon. For certain the RC Priests are possessed but it appears Dev might also be, considering the way he's eyeing the firearm.

Anton reaches back into the crate, searching for the missing part. He locates a round object, much like an old cinema film reel in size and shape. Lifting it free he notes the ammo belt entering through a slot on the edge. He recalls the attached note and knows he must play his part. The author, TGB, has insisted and such a man should never be questioned. 'Here, let me help with the harness.'

'Thanks and make sure it's tight, I don't want to feel the kickback; you neither,' says Dev, assisting Anton with the strapping. 'It's weird that the harness fits our joined hip and my torso. Almost as if were made for me.'

'Yeah, funny that,' mumbles Anton. 'So when are you going to shoot the priests? We should read out The Near Final results first. It'll look strange if they suddenly disappear.'

'You're right but they can wait. There's a bigger problem.'

'What bigger problem?' asks Anton, not fully understanding.

'The aural voice just said the _Fun Show_ presenters are favourites for this year's Best Presenter award and we can't have that, can we?'

Anton's head drops and barely containing a scream, he attempts to still his thumping heart. He recalls the note and the words - _it may be brutal, it may rip at your heart, it may be murderous, but follow his lead_. So the SAV's again ordering his brother but he can't let the statement go without some kind of protest. 'I'm not sure.'

'Anton, it's what _The Fun Show_ presenters would want. Who wouldn't want to be shredded by a _Koch-Licher Double-Barrel Mini-Decapitator_? Trust me, they're pros and proper pros don't want to die in their beds, dribbling and crapping themselves in their old age. Trust me and follow my lead.'

'Aye man, apparently I must,' sighs Anton, recalling another part of the note - _continue on your lesser path, however painful_. He understands only too well that the game is now well and truly, afoot. From now on, he must remain Anton the fool, nothing more, and most certainly, nothing less. He says a silent prayer for those who'll soon be giving their lives for a hopefully, greater cause.

The SAV is snarling out instructions. For the first time the digital viewer readout is dropping. Not hugely, but falling numbers aren't acceptable under any circumstances. It doesn't care as to the reason. Numbers are numbers and currently, they're going in the wrong direction.

Again it attempts to contact the show's conjoined presenters but there appears to be a glitch, so it issues orders for security to investigate. As officers approach the campervan, the SAV calls them off. The brothers are back on line and its heard mention of an impressive weapon.

Using a concealed camera, it sees the campervan door slide open and looks for the weapon worn by the one called Dev. Previously it would have been watching for a crowbar but having heard the conversation of the twin-freaks, it now sees something different.

The SAV considers the change and ponders the unexpected occurrence. For sure, they have the means to carry out their orders, but now it must be careful. A _Koch-Licher_ is never to be taken lightly and it places security on amber alert.

It peers at its screens, one in particular, which is replaying the last few hours of footage from outside the campervan. Whoever delivered the weapon must be hunted down and destroyed. That's a priority.
Chapter Twenty One

Utter Madness

On leaving the campervan, Anton locks the sliding door. Security of possessions has to be taken seriously especially when so many awards are involved. The pair makes their way to the stage. As Dev strokes the _Koch-Licher Double-Barrel Mini-Decapitator_ affectionately, Anton can feel his heartbeat quickening. 'Are you sure about this?'

'Aye man, have you got the ammunition carousel held tight?' asks Dev.

Anton knows the SAV will be having serious doubts right now, so realises he mustn't falter. It'll be paying close attention to everything they say so being Dumb Anton is more important than ever. His words catch on seeing a _Fun Show_ presenter. 'I have and look there's Matty Beaker. He's smoking a fag below a _No Smoking_ sign, the dangerous bastard.'

Matty sees Anton Dev approaching and swiftly throws the cigarette to the ground, his heel grinding it into the dirt. He smiles and waves. 'Hi lads, how's it going?'

With a gentle touch on the trigger the _Koch-Licher 's_ twin barrels revolve in the circular coils, becoming a blur and the weapon emits a hum. There follows a more forceful trigger press but only for a fraction of a second. As the weapon screams out its projectiles, Anton clings tight to the carousel expecting it to be yanked from his hands. He needn't have been concerned. The ammunition feed is flawless and barely noticeable.

Anton closes his eyes as he doesn't want to see the outcome but his curiosity overcomes his fear. He sees what's left of Matty, now spread across various Gubbins' equipment - including the _No Smoking_ sign. Stifling an acidic rush from his stomach, he turns to look at his brother and sees a pained expression. 'Are you alright, Dev? Your face is all scrunched.'

'This is my war-face. As for Matty, now he's really smoking.'

Anton curses but keeps his head, which is more than can be said for Matty. 'That were uncalled for.'

Dev ignores him. 'Here comes Crispy Evans,' he says, a trigger finger hovering.

'Ginger hair, gibber gibber, wrong again. Hi Anton Dev, you two are great.'

'Please don't Dev,' says Anton reaching across but his hand is knocked away.

Two barrels revolve at near supersonic speeds, emit a hum, and another Best Presenter award is two-thirds in the bag. Anton's eyes are clenched tight and he lowers his head, shaking it from side to side. His eyes are still closed when an alluring Welsh presenter exits the side-stage steps.

'Verrry Wellllsh with four L's. Wow, I've been looking forward to meeting you two.'

When the weapon fires again Anton feels his teeth vibrate. Alexis Jones has been killed, with only two L's.

Anton opens his eyes and takes in the carnage, noting Dev's staring forward showing no emotion. He presses hands to his trembling head. 'Shite man, what have you done?'

'What I had to. Nobody threatens our twentieth in a row Best Presenter award,' says Dev, without feeling.

'That were right terrible,' whispers Anton.

'I know, but it's what they would have wanted.'

'Perhaps we should have given them a choice?'

Dev stares at Anton, his expression hard and unforgiving. 'Did Gandhi have a choice? Did John Lennon have a choice? Did Mary Celeste have a choice? No, none of them did. When the buck stops then sometimes the choice has to be made for them. I'm not happy but when a _Koch-Licher Double-Barrel Mini-Decapitator_ spins up, it never lies. I'm as sad as you brother, but the show must go on.'

'I ... I guess so,' mumbles Anton, the words barely audible but his brother heard them.

'You guess what?' asks Dev, his eyes rapidly blinking before refocusing. 'Flipping 'eck, what happened here? Has someone spilt a load of blackcurrant? Oh man! It's on our shoes. This is right unprofessional. How are we meant to work like this?'

Anton opens his mouth but swiftly closes it. Before he can say anything the SAV interrupts. It's not giving further orders to wipe out their fellows, which is immensely welcome and Anton has to admit the command is necessary, though his concern grows. A cue has been given and they're again voice-linked to the viewers across the planet as the next segment's ready to roll.

'Welcome back,' says Anton, forcing moisture around his mouth. 'The voting lines are near to closing so we'll have the results with you very soon, won't we Dev?'

'We will but before we bring the acts back on stage for their exterm... elimination, let's go to the Magnolia Room. There's somebody back there for the post-performance interviews. It's Cloudier Tinklewoman.'

The Complex screens light up, showing the Magnolia Room. Inside are the acts and all are looking pensive, with good reason. Across from them stands Cloudier, dressed in a loose fitting black dress. Her face is darkly made-up, mostly around her eyes, and if piercing looks could kill, Coffin Fit would have an abundance of volunteers.

Cloudier smiles to camera, flutters her dark lashes innocently, and then turns to the acts. 'Wahhh, maaad, crazyyy!' she screams.

The contestants all huddled together, jump. Any differences they may have are forgotten as there's safety in numbers. At least, they hope so.

Cloudier's leans forward, mouths the word "boo" and when the acts flinch she giggles. Is the mad-haired woman frightening? Is the black-garbed woman who wears far too much black eyeshadow alarming? Is she, who possesses a stare that could stun a gnu at fifty paces, terrifying? You bet!

'Maaaaad! I'm here in the Magnolia Room with all the acts and look how nervous they are? I hope it's nothing to do with my tri-polar condition which can be a bit scary at times,' she says, smiling sweetly.

For the contestants, many emotions are coming to the fore. Admittedly, most of them revolve around fear, including crying, underwear damping and for the RC Priests, rosary chewing, despite them being possessed by evil.

'Whey Cloudier lass, it's me Dev. What can you tell us about the acts?'

'Never, ever, look me directly in the eyes, Dev. Totally bonkers although, rapid blinking and all pretty. How did it go for you, One Erection?' asks Cloudier.

Hairy Smiles is pushed to the front, against his wishes. Despite him trying to tunnel his way back through the crowd of contestants, many hands are holding him to the fore. He turns, faces the woman, and his bottom lip starts to quiver. 'Please lady, I didn't mean to take all those drugs, I ...'

'Shut it! I'm far too old for you although we're both in the prime of life. You're young and I'm approaching ahem, forty.'

Hairy Smiles' eyes roll, showing only whites, and he faints clean away.

Cloudier appears surprised, bites her bottom lip and continues to blink harmlessly. She shrugs to camera before continuing. 'Well, that was as mad as a marquee full of big fluttery, nuttery bats. Morriski, how was it for you?'

'Errr Cloudier lass, it's Anton. Morriski won't answer, he committed suicide.'

'Dead? Poor Morriski. See my very sad eyes with beautiful mascara and look, a tear as well. Cloudier must take a moment to pause for sad reflection,' she says, head bowing.

Anton and Dev are peering warily at each other. Microphones are held out of the way and Dev whispers. 'Is Cloudier all there? She's commentating on her own actions.'

'She does that a lot but she's okay. When you get to know how she works you'll ...'

An ear-shattering outburst, not the first or the last, interrupts Anton. 'Maaad! Poor Morriski, on a cross, on a cross, he's been nailed to a cross!'

'We know Cloudier lass,' says Anton, but he pauses. 'What do you mean he's nailed to a cross? We thought he hung himself.'

'Well, Morriski's dead and deady, nailed to a cross. I'll look again with my gorgeous black-eyed stare but ... I'm right, he's been hammered.'

Anton and Dev exchange suspicious glances.

'That's right weird,' says Anton. 'How did Morriski nail himself to a cross?'

Dev shrugs. 'No idea but something strange is going on here. Maybe we should ask security or the Police to investi...?'

There's another outburst, loud and authoritative. 'Get on with it!'

'Flipping 'eck that were Duke Cowely,' says Anton, his torso shuddering. 'Should we shoot Cloudier with the _Mini-Decapitator_ just to be on the safe side?'

Dev considers the question but shakes his head. 'No man. She's as bonkers as a swimming pool full of piranhas, but harmless really.'

Anton deflates in relief but he knew he had to ask. In his mind he recalls the list of people not to shoot. Duke Cowely is one, as too The Adequate Bellendi, and he's grateful his brother doesn't feel the need to take down the crazy woman. Not because he likes her, even though he does. He simply knows that Cloudier wouldn't take kindly to being shot at and would kick-off in no uncertain terms.

Still, Anton knows he mustn't dwell as, presently, the show won't allow for it. The SAV has spoken again and with the act interviews cut short it's time to return to the stage.
Chapter Twenty Two

A Loss of Senses

The conjoined twins stand on their spot, designated by a small taped cross on the stage. Anton's wearing his presenting smile and Dev his, along with the _Koch-Licher_.

'Okay everyone,' says Anton. 'There's just over a minute left to vote.'

Dev continues, 'That's right and for the audience, if you look at the massive screens around the Complex, you'll see the numbers to dial to get your favourite act through to the next round. Hurry up and get those votes in.'

'Absolutely, get dialling if you haven't already,' says Anton, covering his microphone. 'Dev, have you looked at the screens?'

'No man, that's not on my script. It's on yours.'

'I know but those phone numbers look strange.'

'Why?' asks Dev.

'All I can see are the numbers for Duke Cowely's acts. I can't see,' says Anton but stops on hearing aural instructions. He reluctantly continues. 'The numbers are up on the screens and clear on all the viewing media across the planet. If only my eyesight weren't so bad.'

'Anton, what am I going to do with you?' asks Dev playfully, before shielding his microphone. 'I sense foul play. Flipping 'eck brother, I wish I knew where the person giving us our aural instructions was. I'd give them what for.'

Anton does a double take, his next words catching as he stares meaningfully at Dev. Did he really say he'd like to give the aural voice what for? He glimpses down at the weapon his brother's wearing. He knows it's rare in the extreme, and understands it might have mystical powers. Is the _Koch-Licher_ fighting the SAV for control of Dev? Is his brother being coerced in more ways than one? He hopes so but gives it no more thought. He needs to concentrate and now isn't the time to waver.

'Okay, here are the numbers for the acts,' says Anton, intermittently squinting and opening his eyes wide in an attempt to make out the numbers on the nearest _Complex_ screen. Thankfully, maybe, the SAV intervenes yet again. 'Well, I'm pleased to announce there's a short extension to voting as so many people are trying to get through and London has been deluged by carrier-birds. Here are the phone numbers. To vote for Smelyairy Cleft, Wally Davidiams's act, dial 0713666001, press hash for option 2, listen to the six minute recorded message and your vote will be counted.'

It's not on Dev's script to intervene so he's whispering surreptitiously. 'Something's not right. What are the numbers for Duke Cowely's acts?'

'If you want to vote for Bitches and Dogs, dial 7,' says Anton, continuing flawlessly.

'Followed by what?'

'That's right everyone, you only need to dial 7.'

Dev frowns. 'And Duke Cowely's other act?'

'For Tiny Tina the Dagger Swallower, dial 14, only 14.'

'At least that's two numbers,' says Dev, shaking his head.

Anton's heard his brother but continues as if he hasn't. 'If you'd like to vote for Ramitinada, dial using Aztec ciphers on your keypad ...'

_AAAWWWOOOAAA! AAAWWWOOOAAA!_ A siren crashes from the masses of speakers around the Complex and Anton doesn't have a chance to finish.

'Voting's over. Get on with it!' shouts Duke Cowely, glaring at the twins from the judges' table.

Anton nods frantically. 'Time's up! Any votes cast now can't be counted, but you may be charged and any late voting-birds will be shot down by the _Complex_ perimeter defence lasers. Let's welcome all the acts back on stage. Give them a big hand everybody.'

In past shows, the act transition would have been fluid and without fault but considering the size of some of the current ones, Anton has to wait. Only when the assisting lackeys have left the massive pentagonal stage does he continue. 'Can I have the results envelope plea...' he begins, but he's cut short.

'Hold up,' says Dev, 'this would be a good time to mention this isn't just any ordinary show. As this is the greatest ever, it won't only be the acts leaving if they don't make it to the next round.'

Anton peers at his brother and the faraway look is back. There's no doubt the SAV's feeding its foul commands to him. Anton reluctantly continues. 'That's right, any judge who doesn't get an act into the Finalest Final, Honestly, later in the show, will have their contract terminated and will never work on television again. That's how amazing this show is,' he says, knowing he's spoken the truth as Duke Cowely's sure to have enough dirt on them all to bury them.

The Judges' table erupts in disorder and Keryl storms to her feet. She stares in shock at the brothers on the stage. 'What do you mean?'

'Keryl, it was in the small print, didn't you read your contract?' asks Dev.

'I didn't as I can't read small writing. I assumed no matter how bad I was I'd keep getting asked back as Duke Cowely fancied me.'

'Dream on,' says the Duke, shaking his head in amusement.

Keryl turns, her expression pleading. 'But Duke Cowely, I love and adore you and thought about making you my next husband,' she says, bursting into tears.

Walshy Loo intervenes on seeing an upset fellow judge. 'Don't cry Keryl love. You can help with my plastic modelling ...'

'Shut up Walshy, you're so bloody boring!' squeals Keryl, dropping into her seat.

B-Mel-F-Cup jumps to her feet, setting in motion a pair of enhanced lady-globes, which try their best to knock her unconscious. 'I won't stand for this. I feel a song coming on I'm so angry ... _I wanna, I wanna, if you wanna be my ..._'

The whole judging panel turns to B-Mel. Some in fear, some in astonishment, one in annoyance, and each makes moves to silence her. However, a _Koch-Licher Double-Barrel Mini-Decapitator_ has spun up to speed and a gentle trigger press has beaten them to it.

'Holy shite Dev, you killed B-Mel-whatever-Cup!' shouts Anton.

Dev glances at his brother, his eyes empty and emotionless. 'She were annoying me.'

'You didn't have to blow her head off! Walshy and Dai are covered in blood.'

Dev leans forward and blows at the heat haze radiating from the ends of the _Koch-Licher 's_ barrels. He shrugs nonchalantly. 'It's what they would have wanted.'

'You can't keep saying that!'

Walshy butts in. 'It's okay. You did what you had to do Dev, you nailed her.'

As Anton gawps at Walshy, Dai speaks up. 'She had it coming and actually the blood splatters have loosened my leather trousers a bit. I can feel my legs moving.'

Anton shuts his mouth and closes his eyes. He can imagine it, a mass of Police officers rushing the stage. He keeps his eyes closed and braces for impact. They can't be too far away. They ... he opens one eye a fraction. It swivels to and fro but Her Majesty's constabulary aren't forthcoming.

He opens both eyes and turns them every which way, finally settling on the slumped body of a decapitated judge. He questions whether he's seeing right. He is but all's continuing as if nothing ever happened. It's as if B-Mel had just been shouted down and not had her head relocated.

Finally, Anton listens to his filtered earpiece. The commands are clear and concise, as they have been during the whole show. There are hidden orders though, ones he can't hear and this is no time to second-guess. He knows one thing for sure. Whatever the SAV's doing, it extends beyond the reach of the show _Complex_. He sticks rigidly to his script as that's what a professional does and turns to an unconcerned looking middle judge. 'Duke Cowely, you must be fuming at B-Mel being killed.'

The Duke's tapping his fingers on the desk. 'Of course I don't approve of decapitation but she was singing without permission. It clearly states in her contract, random singing is unacceptable. I'll say no more. Now get on with it.'

Anton's eyes are flitting between Duke Cowely and his brother but there's nothing he can do, other than soldier on. 'Okay, we're down to six judges - very unexpected,' he says, through gritted teeth, but curses because a conscience must always be listened to. 'No! I can't just let this go. B-Mel had loads of kiddies and we always have to put them first.'

Dev answers. 'Aye man but it's okay. Mad-Donna, Flangellina Jolly and other American VIP guests are already fighting over them. They'll be cared for and given new, stupid names so don't worry. It's what they would have wanted.'

'Stop bloody saying that, it's harsh!' shouts Anton, rounding on his brother.

Dev turns his blank stare. 'Reality is harsh. That's death, get used to it,' he says, turning back to the audience. His eyes rapidly blink and come alive. 'The Near Final acts are in their spotlights. Can I have atmospheric drumming from the orchestra, please?'

And there it is - Dev's back. Anton growls, and wonders what is going on in his brother's head. He reluctantly drops back into character. 'Have we got an orchestra, Dev?'

'Flipping 'eck, man. Who do you think that lot are in that big hole just in front of the stage? Look, they've all got instruments in their hands.'

Anton looks down at the extensive orchestra pit and points a finger. 'That man over ...'

'Get on with it!' shouts Duke Cowely, banging a hand on the table.

Anton and Dev both jump, which is entirely feasible considering they share a lower body.

'Yes Duke Cowely,' stammers Dev. 'Ladies, gentlemen, VIPs and everyone else. The votes have been counted and verified.'

'They have so can we have atmospheric tuba and drums, please?' asks Anton.

'We only need drums,' laughs Dev, shaking his head but he slowly turns to face the orchestra. Drums and tubas blast out, and in his opinion, it's wholly unsuitable for such a moment of suspense.

_Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp. Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp._

Anton's expression is deadly serious. 'I'm about to read out the results and we'll soon know who's going forward to the brand new _Wheel of Fate_ forfeit round.'

' _Wheel of Fate_ , what's that?' asks Dev, turning to look at his brother.

Anton scratches his head and shrugs, though deep down, he feels his stomach turn. 'No idea man but it sounds exciting, doesn't it?'

Dev, currently free of coercion, doesn't think so. He takes a firmer grip on the _Koch-Licher_. 'Okay, read out the results. I've got you covered.'
Chapter Twenty Three

The Wheel of Fate

_Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp. Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp._

'Here are the results of The Near Final,' says Anton as he looks at a results card handed to him by a lackey. 'If I read out your name, stay exactly where you are. Security will be right with you as you're in the bottom five and eliminated. Okay, quiet from the audience please. The first act leaving us tonight is ...'

_Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp. Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp._

'That's decent pausing but get on with it,' says Dev giving his brother a nudge.

Anton looks at the results card and pulls a face. 'I don't understand this.'

'Let me have a look,' says Dev snatching it away. 'It says; "any act which has lost their mentor due to decapitation from a near-mythical rapid-fire weapon is automatically eliminated". It's right clear and means The RC Priests and One Erection are out.'

There are enormous cheers and thunderous foot stomping from the crowd at a tragically popular decision. Both acts appear stunned and the arrival of mounds of grinning security ensures that any thoughts of making a run for it remain only thoughts.

'Okay, it seems a bit unfair but it is in writing so what can we do?' says Anton taking back the results card. 'The second, sorry, the third act eliminated is ...'

_Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp. Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp._

'Morriski!'

'He's already dead, move on,' says Dev.

'Sure. The fourth act leaving er, going forward to the Wheel of Fate challenge is ...'

_Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp. Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp_.

'Geriatric and the Pacemakers!'

Dev nods emphatically while making sure his microphone is covered. 'Too flipping right, they were crap. Who's the last one?'

'The final act meeting a potentially uncertain fate is ...'

_Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp. Dmmm, dmmm, paaarp._

'Oh no, I really liked him. It's Smelyairy Cleft!'

The crowd erupts with boos and hisses at an unpopular decision. Inside the VIP enclosure, the disapproving tutting sounds like hundreds of dripping taps.

'I can't believe it,' says Dev, leaning across to look at the results card just to make sure Anton isn't making it up.

'Nor me, but what can we do? So, will the surviving acts please return to the Magnolia Room. As for our five eliminated acts, I mean four of course as Morriski's dead, please make your way to the back of the stage where we'll be introducing a brand new forfeit round.'

The pentagonal stage is huge but, as yet, only the front half has been visible. Dissecting it in two is a large black curtain blocking any sight of the rear.

The nine surviving acts gratefully leave and hightail it, or lowtail it in Tiny Tina's case, from the stage. The four eliminated acts are assisted to the black curtain by security.

At the judges' table Duke Cowely is on his feet, leaning forward with his hands planted on the surface. 'Raise the ominous black curtain!' he shouts.

The curtain rises and reveals a huge round hole at the back of the enormous stage. Only when spotlights illuminate the area is it shown in its full, terrifying wonder. The audience's gasps swiftly change to murmurs, then something louder. There's shouting, screaming and the odd inappropriate cheer thrown in.

On the stage, two brothers stare in disbelief.

'Crap man,' says Dev, staring at a pit of crocodiles - some big and some huge. Many are lying still but some are reaching upwards, their jaws snapping.

Anton remains silent. As professional presenting goes, there are times to talk and times not to. Sometimes the scene speaks for itself.

The conjoined twins slowly walk to the newly revealed rear of the stage and fully take in the sight. The pit's wide, circular, deep and the sides are sheer and smooth. Around the top is a high metal-mesh perimeter fence with five gates, spaced equidistantly. Inside the gates are walkways, reaching to a central column, handily wide enough to take five acts - whatever their size.

The four acts are led, dragged, cajoled or simply thrown through the gates. Their assisting officers, being very diligent, lock the perimeter gates and stand guard. Those on the walkways stare fearfully down at the reptiles below and make their way to the central column. The reptiles look longingly upwards and, despite having no understanding of the laws of gravity, they smile, prehistorically.

Hairy Smiles, of One Erection, has tried climbing the fence but his fingers have been prised loose. On hitting the walkway, he nearly slipped into the pit but regained his balance on the walkway just in time.

The acts are jostling for position on the central column, all well aware that larger creatures are doing the same - but down below.

The brothers stare at the unexpected scene and Dev is the first to find his presenting voice. 'Well, I've witnessed some things in my time, but what's this?' he asks and points theatrically on seeing a show lackey pushing forward a big, colourful wheel, mounted on a central spindle.

'That's a big wheel and it looks like it's been divided up into small sections each with something written in them. I wonder if they're forfeits of some kind?' asks Anton, knowing exactly what he is seeing but he understands that the presenting must come first.

'Possibly and each section has a pair of metal pegs on the outer rim. It's as if we're meant to spin the wheel and whichever section stops at the top, then that's the forfeit which will have to be paid.'

Anton smiles forcibly. 'Oh good. Why don't you read out what's written on the wheel for the benefit of blind and illiterate viewers.'

'I will. Every single section says "crocodile pit" so I'm guessing that somewhere in the spinning of the Wheel of Fate, assuming this is it, a crocodile pit is involved.'

'You don't say,' says Anton, using all his acting talent to appear surprised.

'I do say. As it is, the four living acts are in place. The fence gates have been padlocked shut and are being guarded.'

Anton glances at Dev and he shudders on seeing that the blank expression has returned. For sure the SAV is spouting forth, but at least his brother won't have to shoot the priests, saving him a potential eternity of devilish damnation - and some ammo.

'What do we do now?' asks Anton, reluctantly playing to the audience.

'I guess we spin the Wheel of Fate. I'll read what it says in the outer sections first, for blind and unschooled people. It's divided into six sections with four of those containing the names of the eliminated acts. Of the remaining two sections, one says all the acts can go free, but the other says they must all take their chances with creatures that haven't changed much since life began. What are the odds they'll all be dropped into the pit; there to be eaten by right hungry, lethal reptiles?' asks Dev, shrugging exaggeratedly to the audience.

Anton can feel his stomach turning, but needs must. Trust in your brother, he keeps telling himself. 'About one-in-six is my guess. The rules say we can only spin the wheel once, but stranger things have happened,' he says, adding under his breath, 'They bloody haven't.'

Dev gestures grandly. 'Spin it!'

Anton gives the Wheel of Fate a good tug. It spins fast, the segmented colours creating a rainbow effect. It spins slower, the differing colour segments separating out. It spins even slower and eventually comes to a halt as two of the metal pins on the outer rim bounce the _Pointed Peg of Destiny_ , that being the rubber indicator, between them.

The crowd exhale in shock, those who can actually bring themselves to watch.

Anton speaks, his words lacking expression. 'I can't believe it, they're all going in.'

The walkways retract with such speed none of the acts have an opportunity to react and they're grateful for not standing on them. Sadly, the central column starts to drop and the fighting truly begins.

'Wow, how exciting is this?' says Dev turning to his twin, who has his eyes closed. He places a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. 'It's okay, you don't have to watch and don't feel embarrassed.'

Anton curses knowing he should watch but can't bring himself to. He feels like sticking fingers in his ears because of Dev's unnecessary commentary but he needs to hear. Maybe not in such graphic detail, but the images in his mind are hardening his resolve. More than ever he knows that the show's Director must be stopped.

Hearing about Hairy Smiles being bitten in half, the RC Priests getting torn to pieces and Geriatric and the Pacemakers being consumed then spat out as they are not very meaty, is pushing him to the limit. Sadly, a piece of Anton does want to watch and he opens one eye. Looking into the pit he sees the mime, Smelyairy Cleft, a creature gripping him around the chest with blood spurting in all directions. He mouths a silent prayer for the man - a professional to the end, dying soundlessly.

The forfeit is complete and the acts have paid the ultimate price, that of dying on stage. It's always a risk when stepping into the spotlight and they'll not be the last. Thankfully the curtain starts to fall and the twins make their way to the front of the stage.

Anton is covering his microphone. 'Did you find that entertaining, Dev?'

'No man! I didn't get to shoot the RC Priests,' growls Dev, patting a pair of gun barrels.

Anton ignores him and instead listens to a cue from the SAV. 'Okay, we're going to take a short break. Don't go away, but if you must, make sure you hurry back. Who in their right mind would want to miss any part of the greatest show ever?' he says, adding under his breath, 'However flipping sick it is.'

Anton Dev exits the stage.

The single backside of the twins drops forcefully onto their campervan bench seat.

As Dev sits, he adjusts the mini-decapitator, making sure the trigger is safe from any unwanted pressure. As Anton sits, he spares a glance towards his brother before looking to the rear of the campervan and his face drops. He gesticulates frantically at a familiar figure, his PA, Fillipo. Unfortunately, Dev has also turned to look to the rear. He attempts to rise, but Anton's keeping him seated using all his strength.

'What the hell is he doing here?' yells Dev, eyes burning with fury.

Anton is frantic and tries his best to place himself between his brother and the man. As conjoined twin movements go, this is one of the tougher ones. 'No man, you don't understand. I gave him permission to be here. He's got a key. Don't shoot him!'

Dev's glaring at the despised interloper standing motionless, in his shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops, in the rear of the van. His hands are opening and closing, mere millimetres from the trigger handle of his strap-on weapon.

'Don't shoot him, I can explain,' pleads Anton.

'You'd better as I'll do more than shoot him. I'll beat the bastard to a pulp.'

'Let me explain.'

Dev's eyes half close, never leaving Fillipo. 'Okay but only because you're my brother.'

'Fillipo were cleaning up the campervan,' Anton says, his words rushed.

Dev's wearing his war-face, his hands on a trigger handle with the barrels pointing at the visitor. With a gentle finger press a humming fills the campervan. 'You've got three seconds to explain it better.'

'Oh shite,' exclaims Anton, noting the lifeless eyes of his brother. 'He's ... er ... polished our awards - all of them.'

'Including the Best Presenter ones?'

'Aye man, all nineteen, and even the biennial, Best Conjoined Twins on TV or Radio statuettes,' blurts Anton.

'Did he get into the creases?'

'He did. Look how shiny they are, as if we only got them yesterday.'

Dev peers at the awards taking up most of the rear wall and sees how they are gleaming. 'I'm reserving judgement.'

'So you won't hurt him?'

Dev releases the firearm trigger and the barrels spin down, eventually halting with a gentle click. He looks at Anton, suspicious eyes staring. 'Not this time but we need to talk.'

'We always talk,' says Anton trying to control his panic.

'In private!' shouts Dev.

Anton nods, knowing he's dodged a bullet. At least, Fillipo has. For sure the SAV was leading Dev, but whether it was his own request for leniency or the mystical powers of the _Koch-Licher_ weapon which stopped the firing, he doesn't know. In truth he doesn't care right now and finds his voice after a few attempts. 'Run along Fillipo and don't come back, especially when we're next due in the campervan.'

The tanned and tattooed Fillipo nods and exits the van at a run. He then reappears, picks up his accidently shod flip-flop, and disappears again.

'Anton, it's lucky for Fillipo I can show compassion. Now listen up ...'

The SAV slams a fist upon its table, making the microphone jump into the air. Among its many shouting and swearing mouths, a reptilian one is snarling.

All was going well when the forfeit round was introduced. The viewing figures were rising nicely and moments after the crocodile pit was first seen they jumped considerably, breaking through the three billion mark for the first time.

It was going so well, but on re-entering their campervan, Dev let it down. How many times must it say "kill him", meaning the skinny, brown runt called Fillipo, before it's obeyed? The creature begins to wonder if it has underestimated the freakish human pairing. Maybe it has but the once is acceptable. It now has their measure and won't make the same mistake again.

It considers withdrawing the next part of the show, but the audience are expecting him, their complimentary show pamphlets saying so. Reluctantly the command is given for the return of the convict.

The SAV glares at its screens.
Chapter Twenty Four

You Gotta Love Politics

The screens and viewing sets across the planet change and show a dishevelled man stepping in among the VIPs. He might not be dressed for the occasion, but he's unconcerned. If so-called dressing applied only to the body he'd be a peasant. Thankfully, dressing also applies to the mind and that being so; Jeremiah Paxo-man upstages all around him. His intelligence is profound. He's a rough diamond but a tough one and he's not about to take any crap.

'Dear Lord, am I here again? I thought I'd seen the back of this debacle. Needs must, I suppose. If this is some kind of repentance for my sins, know that my angst is growing. A quarter of a century I've had to put up with morons and smug, egotistical reprobates. I do not suffer fools gladly. Seriously, I do not! Now, who's the first victim, interviewee perhaps?'

Jeremiah kicks legs out of the way, those belonging to persons he doesn't recognise, or want to interview. As he blusters loudly, attempting to control his inner violence, he pauses, recalling the better times of the last twenty-five years. He rarely smiles, but one has been conjured. His blue eyes light up on seeing a familiar figure. He stalks forward with a hand firmly in his pocket, realising he's standing in the VIP political section.

'Well, well, what have we here? I spent all those years in my _Spewsnight_ cell but I never got anywhere near you, did I?'

'ступид ман, жу авай!' says a superbly attired, yet mostly bald man. He appears powerful; and he truly is. Sadly for Jeremiah, it's the one seated beside him who speaks. The microphone is pulled sideways and a heavily accented voice is heard.

'Welcome badly dressed peasant. I'm Sergei, translator and I will tell you what President Poochin of magnificent, friendly, Autocratic Russian non-Socialist Empire, say.'

'вхо иис тных энглиш фулл?' asks President Poochin, sneering beautifully.

'He say you're welcome to talk to him, UQ person.'

Jeremiah snorts. 'Of course I am. Your boss needs to remember it's me on home soil.'

'не ис вэринг о чеап сот,' says the President, adding a dismissive chuckle.

'He say that he love the Western islands and their lifestyles. He wishes freedom and democracy for all.'

Jeremiah's eyes flit back and forth between the two men, both showing overconfident, punchable smirks. 'He said all that in so few words? Very well, ask President Poochin how he feels about the erosion of his hegemony and his steady decline in the world of politics.'

'ве still наве nuclear веапонс анд lots оф тхьэм.'

'He say he is only here to watch this magnificent show and he really liked Alli Kayeeda. He also supports gay, transgender and other mental people,' says Sergei.

'Yeees, I see. Would mister Poochin care to comment on how he flips between President, Prime Minister and Dictator and never leaves power?'

'President Poochin say ...'

Jeremiah turns his devastating, cobalt stare on the translator. His dander's up and every muscle in his body is tense. He leans in close and his words drip with venom. 'I'm not finished yet Sergei, and you're in my country now, you putrid lackey. You've not come up against the likes of me before. I'm not a politician so I won't whimper, plead or go doe-eyed. I won't squirm in his presence or fawn at how muscly he is. I won't believe those propaganda pictures of him finding antiquities at an ancient dig site by the Blackish Sea that hundreds of downtrodden archaeologists have been scouring for years, but he just happened to walk in one day and hey presto he finds the greatest treasures of the century.'

Jeremiah backs off, stands tall and inhales deeply. He peers into the night sky, practicing a stare, the _Spewsnight_ stare - without doubt, the most powerful stare known to humankind and one guaranteed to turn any interviewee into a gibbering, flustered wreck. High above on a crane, a sniper, one looking down through a rifle-sight, drops dead instantly on seeing it. The intellect that is Jeremiah Paxo-man flicks his head back down. 'Answer me this Sergei, you dung-spouting, jackboot-licking translator. Is whatever-title Poochin, and forgive my uncouth vocabulary, an arse?'

Jeremiah sneers on seeing the devastating effect of the stare. The translator can't answer as his head has caved in, unable to cope with the sheer ferocity.

'таке ним отъ серге!' shouts President Poochin, leaning away from the bloodied mess beside him.

'Yeees, apologies but I'm educated and I understand your language.'

The Russian leader jumps up swiftly and throws himself over the back of his seat. Jeremiah goes to follow, but stops on seeing security on the move.

An officer soon has the leader in a headlock. 'Me got him Jeremiah. Fool President, or whatever title, a struggler. What me do with him?'

Jeremiah's eyes narrow. 'Terminate him with the utmost prejudice,' he says while clutching tight to a knife handle in his pocket.

The security officer tightens his grip and there's a shocking crunch of breaking vertebrae in the neck region. 'Him dead and me feel bad.'

'No, don't feel bad. You acted impeccably for the good of all the islands on the planet,' says Jeremiah moving on.

The interviewer prepares to kick more legs away, those of lesser politicians, but pauses on seeing a man he doesn't recognise. 'You sir, I thought I knew every Westminster lickspittle. Explain why you're in the political section and make it quick.'

The man, dressed in a tweed suit stares up at Jeremiah. His eyes are unfocused and his head is swaying from side to side. When he speaks, his words are slurred. 'I'm Niggley Barrage the leader of FUC ... er ... I mean UQIP, the United Queendom Inebriated Party.'

'That's a new one on me. Tell me Mister Barrage,' says Jeremiah, pausing to sniff the air, 'have you been drinking, sir?'

Niggley stares at the identical men standing before him, each one holding a microphone. He knows all about Jeremiah Paxoman but never realised he had a twin. He realises his error, covers an eye with a hand and one of them disappears. 'I reshent that Jeremiah. I'm jusht nervoush.'

'You said "jusht nervoush" and you reek of real ale, _Old Dickens Bladder ™_ if I'm not mistaken. Am I correct in assuming you're from the far South-East, as that's a Kentish Ale?'

'I mosht shertainly am. I'm Kentish through and through ... and through and ...'

'And what's all this smoke? Do you imbibe cigarettes, Mister Barrage?'

'I do Jeroboam. I'm on eighty _Tarpit Full Shtrength ™_ a day, without filtersh.'

Jeremiah leans back, partly in surprise but mostly to avoid being suffocated. 'Well sir, that's a turn up for the establishment. Tell me about your policies.'

Niggley appears confused. 'My what?' he asks, adding a loud burp.

'Your policies, Mister Barrage? What does your party stand for?'

'Well Jezebel, I try not to shtand ash I normally fall over when I try, but I'm all for getting as pished as posshible whenever I can,' says Niggley, hiccupping loudly as if to prove a point.

Jeremiah stares with interest at the man and as he cogitates a voice interrupts.

'Me can remove him Mister Paxo-man. You just say so,' says a nearby officer.

'Hold a second ... hmmm, bear with me,' says Jeremiah, re-addressing Niggley. 'So that's it, that's your party's core beliefs? Get drunk and hold two fingers up to the staid, boring and entrenched political establishment?'

'Oh no Jellied-eel, I alsho want to shtay away from all thoshe other islandsh on the Europalian Peninshula, the ushelessh bashtardsh.'

Jeremiah smiles and wonders if he's dreaming. He hopes not as on waking he may find himself back in a place he utterly loathes.

'Do me remove him now?' asks the officer again.

'No security, I think not. He's kind of interesting. Completely barmy of course but best of luck to you Mr Barrage. I hope your party achieves a modicum of success as there's always something to be said for giving a real politician a bloody nose, metaphorically or physically.'

'Thanksh Jambalaya,' slurs Niggley, his eyes flying wide at an unexpected noise. 'Have fartsh got lumpsh in?'

'Nooo Niggley, they haven't. Goodbye!'

Jeremiah gratefully departs the toxic atmosphere and approaches his next target further along the line. The man is in a seat that is different from those of the other VIP guests. His chair is much more comfortable, almost posh, and he's relaxing with his legs crossed. His hair is neat, his suit is neat, his shoes are very neat and the lace-loops are exactly the same size. The man takes pride in his appearance and is checking his blue tie knot using a hand mirror. On seeing Jeremiah he lays it down and smiles. 'Jeremiah, it's great to see you. I welcome any questions you may have.'

'Yeees. Davey Macaroon, Prime Minister, it's good to see you also. You want questions, so here goes. How do you feel about sharing a seating area with an international terrorist?'

Davey wags a finger and tuts loudly. 'Come, come. Niggley Barrage is a fool but not a terrorist.'

'I was referring to President Poochin.'

'No, Valery's a good man and we've holidayed together on many occasions. We once visited the African Polar islands where he shot a nasty beast called a rhinoceros. I killed one myself.'

'You shot a rhinoceros? They're protected Prime Minister.'

'This one wasn't. It was standing in the open.'

'I mean sir, they're an endangered species, there aren't many left,' says Jeremiah, his hand slowly dipping towards his pocketed knife.

Davey Macaroon snorts dismissively. 'I can't say I'm surprised, the dumb animals and anyway I didn't shoot the rhinoceros, I used a flamethrower. Valery said it's far more humane and that's the kind of man he is, or was.'

Jeremiah's mouthing naughty thoughts as he tries to frame his next sentence.

'Don't go all speechless Jeremiah, that isn't like you. I remember a time at Eaton when I was speechless and Big Rupert from Eugene House gave me a damned good thrashing with his Bottom-Trumper. I never forgot that lesson. Do you know why?'

Jeremiah raises an eyebrow. 'I guess we're going to hear it Prime Minister.'

'Big Rupert was the son of a commoner, his parents barely able to afford their five-bedroom house in Hertfordshire. He was taunted at Eaton. However, by studying hard he became a Senior Prefect. I'll never forget the lessons I learned from Big Rupert and, to this day, I admire poor people. Know this, I respect the hardworking man, and woman of course, who live on disgusting council estates. I'm a humble man of the people and the people made me the humble man I am today.'

'Forgive me Prime Minister but that sounded like complete and utter balderdash.'

'It's true, and that's why I've reshuffled my cabinet to cater for the humble commoner.'

'Care to elaborate?' asks Jeremiah shooing back a pair of officers.

'I will. In reaching out to the hard working people, the ones I care about, those who toil endlessly in filthy drudgery, I threw open my cabinet. The twelve bottles of ultra-expensive champagne were cast into my gold-leaf lined bin. I moved the Baileys to the right as the ladies like that. I even introduced two real ale beer pumps in readiness for a coalition with UQIP, though thankfully they're not needed, yet. Finally, I introduced a prepay card swipe system so if any MP kept pigging from the nuts and crisp drawers, then they've got to pay for them themselves, and not claim them on Parliamentary expenses.'

'A word about your ex-coalition partners, the Dim Lebitwats?' asks Jeremiah.

'They've been thrown out of the cabinet along with the other unwanted lickers, ah, liquors of course.'

'A grand clear out, or so it seems Prime Minister.'

'Of course, the hard working peasan... people deserve it,' says Davey before taking up his hand mirror once again.

'Yes indeed,' says Jeremiah, standing proud, though somewhat rough and ready. He stares to camera, his blue eyes twinkling. 'That was the Prime Minister and I wonder what you, the public thinks? I realise I forgot to ask him about the so-called talent show but so what. Frankly, I don't care as I've had enough of this drivel.'

As Jeremiah rounds off, he notes holes suddenly appearing in the seats around him. Each is accompanied by a thwack and it seems the SAV has also had enough.

'Dear lord, somebody's firing at me!' exclaims Jeremiah as VIPs dive for cover.

'You no worry,' says the nearest officer, grabbing the presenter and crouching over him. 'Me get you out of here. You stay under me and sniper bullets not hit you.'

Jeremiah stays beneath the officer and the unlikely pairing make their escape.
Chapter Twenty Five

Down Came the Rain

The SAV taps a fingernail on the screen showing a departing interviewer. Seconds later, it taps on another and then another. The man is moving fast through the Complex and the SAV chuckles on seeing the fear on his face, but the snipers weren't meant for him. Their purpose was twofold - to gee him up and have a swift VIP cull. Both are cruel admittedly, but necessary.

Orders have been given to protect the man, but not to let him escape. Jeremiah appears on its names list, close to the top, and his demise will be a coup indeed. A certainty to send viewing figures soaring but now isn't the time. The human still has work to do.

The SAV peers at the digital readout - it's pushing close to three point one billion and the smiles grow ever wider. At this rate all its expectations will be exceeded and the human race will be in disarray come the endgame. Its imprisoned Master will be very pleased.

Easing back, with many eyes closed, it relives that which it remembers. A time of great beasts, a time of dominance - a time the planet has forgotten. It wasn't always so, this planet of water-bound islands.

In periods long past, all was joined in a magnificent huge landmass. Then it could roam free, it could devour and it could wield power. The Master made it so.

But then the pretenders came and stole it all, the bastard Omnis, God and Lucifer. It's Master, never weak but unprepared, fell - but only because of a foul trick.

Ares, the largest of the three orbiting moons was cast down, fracturing the huge continent. A cloak of darkness fell and a choking dust-cloud coated the planet. All lizard life, without the light and heat were weakened. It was only a matter of time before the Simians, those newly created by the cheating usurpers, took over.

Scales gave way to skin and the Master's lot was done. He was imprisoned, in the planet's core, never to raise his beautiful head again - until now.

With the planet warming, the heat reaching far below, the Master is stirring. Those few who survived the original apocalypse, the SAV being one, are finally ready to make their move. Thousands of years of waiting are nearly over and events are coming to a head.

The thought of heads has made the creature hungry and it opens the middle draw of its desk, withdraws the head of the deceased Allen Petticoat and holds it up. The dead eyes appear content, as they should on winning such a lottery jackpot but the human will never claim it. The ticket has been destroyed but not before close scrutiny. For certain the bastard Omnis are involved, hence the stupid pictogram balls that were drawn from the machine.

The SAV gurgles in delight, its longest tongue, black and forked at the end, flicks free an eyeball and it drops into a pointed-teeth mouth. As it crunches down, freeing the liquid inside, it considers the enemy anew.

If God and Lucifer are aware of its presence then so be it. Dreamily, it considers the riches it will inherit from the Master when he learns how the so-called great Omnis have been defeated. He will be very pleased indeed.

Still, it's getting ahead of itself and must focus.

Discarding the licked clean skull, the SAV checks that its microphone is working properly. The occasional technical fault is starting to creep in and it's prepared for more, especially considering the sheer destructive power of the storm gathering overhead.

The Y-shaped conjoined twins Anton Dev are kneeling on the bench-seat looking out of the campervan window, the net curtain tweaked aside.

'Dev, Jeremiah's coming past. I hope he makes it, but there are snipers everywhere. I don't like this one bit.'

'Too right,' says Dev, glancing sideways. 'Come on, we better get back on stage.'

'Shall I carry the _Koch-Licher_ ammunition?' asks Anton.

'No need. I've attached the magazine in a sling between our torsos. It'll feed out okay.'

'Oh yeah, I didn't notice,' says Anton, lying through his back teeth.

The twins are back on stage and ready to present when their senses are overloaded ferociously. A tremendous crash, louder than an orchestral fanfare, has made their ears ring. An equally impressive flash, brighter than all the lights in the Complex combined, has left purple motes washing across their vision. They both swear in shock, but such was the unexpected interruption, they've got away with it.

Hail, snow, sleet and rain are rocketing from the sky and lightning flashes are bringing the Complex into sharp relief. Sadly for many, the stands are acting as a conductor and a fresh smell of roasting meat is pummelled downwards. It isn't the sort of weather in which to be caught in the open. The heavens have opened and they mean business!

'It's grit-coaling it down,' shouts Dev into his microphone. 'We should go to our weather watcher in the Gubbins for an update. Are you there weatherman or woman?'

Screens flicker and a large map of the UQ can be seen, although it's centred on the region of England. Front right of the map stands a handsome young man. He's wearing a white convict's outfit with black pointy arrows, and a large metal ball chained to his leg. The reason for his uniform is that he's still making amends for giving a one-finger salute on live television. The nametag on his uniform reads, Tommy Shaveyerknackers. 'Hi everyone and I know you were expecting a weathergirl but I've been drafted in at the last minute as they're all pregnant. We were having too many complaints about their extended bellies blocking out the Silly Islands and the west coast of Cornwall, but that's another story.'

Tommy instantly turns serious as he gesticulates passionately at the map. 'Anyway, it really is chucking it down. Thankfully though, the judges, the stage and the VIPs are well covered and not feeling it in the slightest. As for those lacking cover, tie yourselves down! This isn't about to let up. Looking at the weather map, you'll see an extremely tight, low-pressure system sitting right on top of London. Sadly folks, it ain't gonna move,' he says, rubbing his chin and looking puzzled. 'Actually that is a bit strange.'

'Move on!' growls Duke Cowely, his words blasting into Tommy's earpiece.

'Yes right,' says Tommy, his frown instantly becoming a smile. 'As we focus in, you'll note the ferocious anti-cyclone over London, which appears purple and blood red. Trust me folks, this isn't good. There's thunder and lightning, sure to be a little bit frightening but hey, knock on wood if you're scared,' he adds, winking to camera.

The conjoined twins are back on screen, looking pensive. Anton's listening to aural instructions and thankfully there's nothing sinister involved. 'Okay, we're a few minutes ahead of schedule so let's go to the judges and see what they make of it so far.'

The remaining judges can be seen, a little shaken due to the change in the weather, all except Duke Cowely who's relaxing in his chair, looking particularly smug. To his left are Keryl, Wally and Armada, with Dai, B-Mel-F-Cup and Walshy on the right. Obviously, B-Mel-F-Cup is lacking a head, but when has that ever stopped a reality show judge from giving an insightful opinion?

'Keryl lass, what are your thoughts so far?' asks Dev.

'Whey Anton, it's great,' she says, patting the white towel she's still wearing on her head, for whatever reason.

Dev's mood darkens on hearing the woman commit the ultimate sin of getting the presenters mixed up. 'Keryl, I'm Dev! I've got a big "D" on the front of my shirt. Get it right as I'd hate to have to put you right another way,' he says, tapping the barrels of his weapon.

'Sorry but you're so alike,' says Keryl.

'No we're fuc...'

'Dev, don't!' shouts Anton, grabbing his brother's chin, forcing eye contact. 'Swearing would be right unrewarding. Un-awarding most likely,' he says, speedily continuing. He doesn't want his brother to shoot Keryl for two reasons; firstly, she's a Northern kindred spirit and secondly, he has a niggling feeling they might need to conserve ammunition.

'Let's start again Keryl and please listen closely lass. I'm Anton, the clues on my shirt, the letter "A" I'm pointing at so look closely. What do you think of it so far?'

'Well, both my acts made it through, there's nothing more to say. Oh actually, I just got married again. It's the fella up in row AQ with the big ...'

'That's great Keryl,' interrupts Anton, sensibly paying the woman no more attention. 'Moving on, Dai, you also got both your acts through.'

'I did and I really think third place is a realistic prospect for either of them.'

Before Anton can say anything Dev places a hand over his mouth. 'Don't say it,' he whispers. 'Duke Cowely is listening and he has two acts through. Do the math.'

Anton has done the math and his brother is right. There's no need to point out the obvious. He nods and the hand is removed.

As is always the case, the more the judges interact, the more likely it is upsetting words will be spoken. Keryl, Walshy, Wally and Armada are soon going at each other like squabbling soccerballers arguing over who has the highest IQ, or who can spell it correctly. Bad words are flying and metaphorical daggers are thunking deep into colleagues' backs.

Eventually, Duke Cowely's visage of calm breaks and he bangs a fist on the table, denting the surface. 'That's enough! I'll not have this from my lessers. Your very un-rehearsed and non-contrived bust up will not be tolerated. Wally, your behaviour is unacceptable. What will the male, dress wearing public think? Keryl, the Northerners will be dropping their coal picks in disgust. Walshy, what will all the lonely, pathetic, single men in the UQ be thinking? As for you Armada, you should know better. The precognisant demographic will most likely have been outraged some time ago. This isn't acceptable and you should all be ashamed.'

The rebuked judges' heads droop in disgrace - leaving one unmentioned.

'What about me, Duke Cowely?' asks Dai.

'You didn't need to get involved as the Welsh audience is certain. It's not as if they've anything better ...'

Unfortunately, interrupting laughter is heard within the orchestra pit. Someone has gone too far and Duke Cowely glares at the musicians. Nobody ever interrupts him. He raises his huge ruby ring to his perfect lips, speaks quiet commands and gives a barely perceptible nod. Immediately, familiar cracking sounds can be heard, those of sniper shots.

The instrumentalists are off their seats and taking cover wherever they can find it. Unfortunately a bullet has ricocheted off a tuba and imbedded itself into the stage boarding, not far from a pair of feet.

Anton squeals. 'Oh 'eck Dev, duck man pet!'

'That's easy for you to say.'

'It bloody wasn't,' says Anton.

The cracking sounds continue and the chat with the judges is over.

'We'll be back in a bit, so don't go away!' shouts Dev as he and Anton dash for the exit.
Chapter Twenty Six

The Really Close Final

High above, the snipers on the cranes have taken aim for the last time. The apparent random lightning strikes have sealed their fate. In truth, the appalling weather was playing havoc with their aim so the impact of their loss is minimal.

For other snipers, those secreted beneath the various Complex canopies and in hidey-holes, they're faring little better. Such is the deluge they can't keep their sights clear and intended targets are a blur. They're taking random pot shots at anything that moves which is highly unprofessional and a little unfair.

As for Anton Dev, it would take more than a few stray bullets to slow them down. Throughout their career they've been shot at by the very best but nineteen Best Presenter awards speaks for itself. They reach the hallowed sanctuary of their campervan.

'What the fuck's going on?' asks Anton, dragging in deep breaths.

Dev's all set to answer but his attention is drawn elsewhere, to the rear of their home. 'What's Fillipo doing here, again?' he asks, his words quiet and threatening.

Anton slowly turns his head and mouths a bad profanity on seeing his PA. 'It's not what you think Dev man.'

'You've no idea what I'm thinking, brother.'

Anton sees two weapon barrels spinning up to speed. 'I think I do,' he whispers, before shouting. 'Fillipo, get out and don't come back! Seriously, don't come back.'

The campervan sliding door slams shut with Fillipo on the other side. Anton sighs with relief but can't bring himself to look at his brother. Instead he's looking at a filing cabinet in the far corner and sees an orange cloth caught in the middle drawer.

Anton isn't sure whether to laugh or cry. His PA was present for a reason and the piece of cloth tells him something important. In the drawer is an old photo album, planted by Fillipo, and one Dev must soon find. It contains images of a dark and painful secret. He wonders how his brother will take the news of a hidden past revealed.

Anton knows full well that to defeat the SAV, Dev has to be free of its pull. The photo album will do that, at least, he hopes so. Again he recalls the letter that was taped to the wooden crate and the words - _Continue on your lesser path, however painful, and only reveal the truth to him at the right time._

The time isn't yet right so the ruse must continue. For certain all Hell is breaking loose but it'll get worse before it gets better. Anton knows this but it's not helping his nerves.

A fleshy hand is smashed onto the table and the SAV shouts in pain. Many of the bones are broken - which would never have happened in its erstwhile, lizard incarnation. Previously the desk would be splintered and broken, but now only the weak hand is. Still, it will mend soon enough, the SAV having the means to regenerate itself quickly.

The creature growls out its orders. The random shooting stops and it considers telling the snipers to turn the rifles on themselves. It won't accept disobeying of orders, especially in the form of lessers using intuition.

Barely containing the primal urge to destroy its surroundings, the SAV grips its microphone with its good hand. Taking multiple calming breaths through all its mouths it sends further orders. The show must go on.

The stage is awash with a colourful light fiesta. The orchestral cacophony is in full flow, the survivors playing their hearts out. The dancers, their numbers ever dwindling, are going every which way, with pom-poms thrown wide and terrified eyes wider.

The ensemble is one of madness but within the lunacy, an individual who might bring a sense of realism to the night's proceedings steps forward. It's a possibility, but unlikely. The man is wearing more make-up than Cloudier Tinklewoman, dressed more extravagantly than Dame Edina and possesses all the charm of a dung beetle, a disliked one. He resembles an evil pantomime witch. Reaching the stage front he throws his arms wide and gurns.

The crowd, those still drawing breath, cry out and lean away.

'Hello darlings! I'm Craig Reveal-Morewood from the massively popular UQBC show, _Stiffly Come Dancing_. It's wonderful to be here tonight and without further ado, please give a gorgeous welcome to my fellow presenters. Here he is, the darling, the twinkly, the quite old, Len Pudman!'

Len, wearing a beige cardigan and magenta coloured flares, staggers to the front of the stage. He might actually be dancing but it's difficult to tell. He's emerged at a rate of knots and it takes an intervention by Craig to turn him, thus preventing a tumble into the orchestra pit. As they spin, like two crazed wrestlers in headlocks, Len falls to the stage and bangs his head. His mad, staring eyes are looking everywhere. 'Seven!'

'Stay down there Len darling and don't move.'

'Seven!'

'Hush Len,' says Craig, gesturing toward the side of the stage. 'Hey, who's got his medication? There it is darling, thank you,' he adds, taking hold of a large syringe offered by a lackey. He holds it, needle to the top, and gently presses the plunger. A drop of liquid flows down the side of the needle and then it's forcefully shoved into Len's backside and emptied. His eyes roll and his head drops to the stage.

'That's right, Len darling, you have a little sleep. Now, please welcome, the cheeky and wonderful-ish, Bruno Todgeroli.'

The crowd gasp, covering children's eyes, as Bruno, dressed only in gold hot pants flounces onto the stage, thrusting his groin in all directions. 'This is so exciting. I haven't been this enthusiastic for years and look, my groin has a mind of its own.'

'That's fantastic darling but stop that. Next up, please show your appreciation for our last but not least presenter, Classy Muscle!'

Classy drops from the underside of the pentagonal stage canopy. She lands on the little finger of her left hand and flips upright, her right leg next to her ear as she rotates on tiptoes. 'I'm delighted to be here and behold my Black Swan.'

Craig gasps loudly. 'Classy darling, I can see your Black Swan, it's winking at me. Lower your leg and put some knickers on!'

'Spoilsport,' says Classy, putting both feet on the floor.

'That's gorgeous darling but we need to get on. I don't want to be here any longer than I have to, so let's welcome on stage the first of the Really Close Final acts performing tonight. It's the Shat Cat,' says Craig, hoping he heard his aural cue correctly.

The four presenters, one being forcibly dragged, retreat behind a side-stage curtain.

Nine acts come and nine acts go. Are their performances important? Just ask the audience who are reaching breaking point. They're wet, uncomfortable and irritable, which isn't a pleasant situation for anybody.

Of course, they're the fortunate ones still being alive, but enough is enough. For sure, Tiny Tina excelled again, as did Alli Kayeeda and a few others but the likes of Wilma-U-What and the Adequate Bellendi, performing another tedious garden bird trick was too much.

The audience are voting with their feet, filing towards the exits, but officers have blocked their path. They're unceremoniously returned to their cheap plastic seats with the threats of a sound beating ringing in their ears if they refuse.

The SAV is tapping buttons, those on the bottom of its screens and is assessing the situation. It can just make out the four presenters, huddled together behind the side-stage curtain and it's trying for a better camera angle. It can't find one as the storm is playing havoc with its feeds but isn't disheartened. They'll have to break cover eventually.

The viewing figures are dropping and it berates itself. The presence of the four seemed a good idea when it booked them but now realises its error. The show isn't for their sort and it seems even humans have a caste system much like its own species.

Orders are given - security can deal with them, but only when they are finished.

Tick tock goes the clock, and with the acts done, the four presenters make their way to the stage front. Craig is prancing while Bruno jumps around like a demented monkey, his hands rubbing the insides of his thighs. Classy is everywhere, her limbs flying in all directions.

All three reel at the booing and threats of violence coming from the crowd.

Len is surprisingly on his feet and he grabs Craig, forcefully dragging him backwards. He looks at his co-hosts in turn and shakes his bald head. 'You don't get it, do you? You've been duped. We're on channel 13 and only commoners are watching this. There aren't any fox hunters and nobody drinking a bloody fortified wine. You've all been conned. You think I'm a common git but you've no idea,' he says, actually spitting onto the stage.

Classy halts mid pirouette and Bruno finally stops his groin thrusting.

Craig stares aghast, his fearsome features fully revealed by a well-timed lightning strike. 'Len darling, you're exaggerating.'

'You call anyone around here darling Craig, you'll find yourself getting dentistry from your backside upwards,' says Len, throwing his hands wide. 'This is London my co-presenters and the working-class don't take kindly to the likes of you. I'm an exception of course as I'm Kentish born and bred. I'm a fighter, one of them, and I've just about had enough of your hoity-toity crap. Go on, bugger off!' he shouts, raising two fingers.

Classy performs a plie, contretemps and vole and vaults from the stage.

Bruno isn't far behind with Craig bringing up the rear.

'Darlings, head for the river,' shouts Craig.

Doubling over, Len laughs. 'Would that be the river Severn?'

'No Len darling, it's the Thames,' says Craig, over his shoulder.

'Just sod off!' shouts Len, starting to laugh and he inadvertently spits his dentures onto the stage where they bounce then slide into the orchestra pit. Swearing he follows them in.
Chapter Twenty Seven

A Goose in the Hand

The twins have been watching proceedings closely.

Anton points at the television. 'They've done a runner and didn't even round off properly. That's right poor presenting even for amateurs like them,' he says, shaking his head in disgust. 'Do you think they'll get past security?'

'No chance. They've already caught Craig and Bruno but Classy is kicking them all over the place,' says Dev, looking on admiringly.

'Whoa!' exclaims Anton, his eyes following Classy as she twists, flips, then leaps the perimeter fence, avoiding fence-mounted fizzing lasers, and then vaults the mine field. 'She's made it.'

'Aye and I can almost forgive her for being a crap presenter,' says Dev.

'Don't push it.'

Dev nods in agreement while listening to aural orders. 'We need to get out there. The crowd are going bombastic.'

'Okay man, but what happened to Len?' asks Anton.

Dev just shrugs. 'He just seemed to fade away as if he were a ghost.'

Anton smiles on knowing something his brother doesn't. He was paying attention when Len slipped from the stage. Actually, he fell but being graceful at that age is difficult.

The SAV sits and ponders. Two more names are off the list, those of Craig and Bruno, so that's a positive. The female managed to escape though, so that's a negative. As for Len, despite using numerous cameras at its disposal, it can't locate the man.

This is curious but it mustn't dwell, not right now. A reckoning is approaching and it glances at the ever-shortening list. The names of all the presenters, special guests and invited VIPs are on it. All except one and the human is up next.

The creature had considered adding the presenter's name to its death-list but there wouldn't have been much point. Killing something that's already deceased tends to be a bit tricky. Still, he'll be good for the ratings, drawing more viewers to their intended doom and that's what counts.

The SAV has felt many emotions throughout the show, including joy and anger but a new one is spreading throughout its body. It can feel apprehension creeping slowly to the fore.

Anton Dev makes their way forward, grateful for the newly erected canopy over their soggy red carpet. They walk onto stage and address the audience.

'Hi everyone, weren't that exciting,' shouts Dev, as he bows and waves.

'Wow and wow!' exclaims Anton, shaking his head in mock disbelief. 'The Really Close Final were so exciting I nearly dropped the polish while buffing up all our awards.'

Dev glances at his conjoined brother. 'Really, what awards are they?' he asks, innocently.

'I don't like to talk about it, though you did ask,' says Anton, winking. 'There are the Best Presenter awards we've won for the last nineteen years, seven biennial Best Conjoined Twins on TV or Radio statuettes, though we were robbed in 2003 by Tony Blaah and George "daft-as-a" Brush Jr. Then there are the five, triennial Presenter with the Most Limbs awar...' he says, but gets no further.

'Get on with it,' demands Duke Cowely, his tone one of warning.

Dev takes over flawlessly. 'So remember everybody, the same voting rules apply as before including sending a homing bird. The numbers for voting are hopefully scrolling across your screen and for anybody shouting their favourite act name into the general ether; your vote can't be counted as you're daft. And for those of you living in far flung rural areas that have no electricity, those neeps and tatties won't harvest themselves.'

Anton laughs and covers his microphone. 'Good joke man but it were a bit harsh.'

Dev appears smug and both eyebrows rise. 'Harsh is my middle name.'

'Really, I thought your middle name were Shirley,' says Anton.

Dev's hard stare says it all and Anton shrinks, metaphorically. The physically stronger of the two continues. 'Now then, as there's a short while until all the votes are received and verified, we'll go to our next presenter who'll be introducing some more guest performers. If you think Dai Dinagony's a legend, just wait till you see this man. We've had to ask for help from Coffin Fit as the bygone master is technically dead. Just in case his revival doesn't work, we've also got that squeaky presenter with the big teeth and glasses.'

Anton knows he shouldn't but he can also make off-the-cuff jokes. For certain it's uncalled for, but so what? The show's already slipping into the deepest abyss ever and he turns theatrically to his brother. 'Have we really got Sister Wendy Beckett, the singing nun?'

Dev tuts. 'No, I mean Alan Caaaaaarr, though they do look similar. Anyway, can we have the ancient sarcophagus of our guest presenter brought onto stage, please?'

It takes twelve lackeys with reinforced sack barrows to move the thing. Four security officers are also helping and honestly, they're doing all the heavy lifting. Behind the stone sarcophagus walks Coffin Fit, uncertain expressions on their faces.

The casket is placed down with a resounding thump on the orders of Smokey Joe, Coffin Fit's leader. The lackeys and security depart, swiftly followed by conjoined twin presenters.

The weighty stone lid of the ancient sarcophagus is levered aside by the might and muscle of Coffin Fit. There's a thudding crash as it lands ominously on the stage-boarding and a cloud of dust billows out.

'Blimey, this one's ancient,' mutters Smokey Joe, daring a closer look. 'We've got our work cut out here. Barry, Maurice, Robin, attach the tubes and pedals. Coleen, Linda, Maureen, Bernie, I hope you're in the mood for pumping. Ready, now pump girls, pump!'

Intense foot pumping ensues as the big-toothed, glasses wearing Alan Caaaaaarr moves forward. He waves to the crowd but his full attention is on the tomb. 'Hi everyone,' he says, squeakily. 'What's that big stone coffin there? Ooh, that pumping looks fun.'

Alan is ignored by Coffin Fit as they already have enough on their plate. The foot pumping continues furiously and the act members are sweating heavily.

'Make him have it. Pump you buggers!' shouts Smokey Joe.

The mummified corpse has slowly sat upright but as yet, shows no signs of life. Coffin Fit is done, their members collapsing, knackered upon the stage. In hope of divine intervention Smokey Joe peers upwards and he's not disappointed as fork lightning connects with the stage canopy lightning conductors. It travels downwards, reaches the ground, then leaps up, races across the stage and enters the sarcophagus.

The corpse starts to shake and dry bandages ignite, quickly becoming ash. As the smell of super-heated flesh and o-zone fills the air, the lightning bombardment continues.

Lackeys rush onto stage with fire extinguishers and blankets in hand. They swiftly turn and run as the thing seated inside lifts a bony hand and holds it in front of its mouth. It sneezes and false teeth fly from between its ancient lips. The long dead presenter catches the dentures expertly and pushes them back. Soon enough, a noise can be heard. 'Nrrrrrr.'

Alan Caaaaaarr grips his glasses and points. 'Oh plop. It's growling everyone!'

The creature coughs and dust exits its aural and nasal cavities. 'Nrrr, nrrrrrr.'

Smokey Joe appears surprised they've managed to bring the creature back to the world of the living. 'Good work boys and girls. Now leg it!'

Coffin Fit exits the stage damn fast as the partially mummified body stands. It adjusts its remaining bandages and the remnants of a well-worn suit beneath. It speaks. 'Nrrr, niii, n-n-nice to see you, to see you, nice!'

Inside a campervan two pairs of eyes are glued to a television set.

'Holy flipping crap, Dev! I can't believe it, that's errr, what's his name?'

'It's Goose Foresight and don't mention awards with him around. He's won Best Entertainer of the Century for the last five thousand years, all the way back to the Early Egyptian Dynastic Period,' says Dev, every spoken word coated with respect.

Anton doesn't respond - he just stares. He knows the plan inside out but _TGB_ , the note writer, never mentioned this. Goose is a true legend and he wonders where he fits in to the scheme of things, if at all. He leaves the thought hanging and just watches.

Goose emerges from his tomb. He's alive for sure and has found his voice. 'Hello and welcome,' he says, but before he can continue he feels a tug on a bandaged elbow and looks down.

'Goose, I'm Alan Caaaaaarr, your co-presenter.'

'That's great Anal, now don't crowd me,' says Goose, turning to the audience - his life-force. He pauses and stares back down. 'What's your name again?'

'It's Alan, I'm a massive fan.'

'Never heard of you,' says Goose, dismissively. 'Now watch and learn sonny, I'm about to encourage crowd participation. It's nice to be resurrected, to be resurrected ...'

'Nice!' scream the audience in unadulterated jubilation. There's even applause and nodding from the VIP enclosure which is praise indeed.

'Goose, you're amazing, but we must get on,' says Alan, hearing the aural voice and he peers down at a script he's holding. 'Okay, hi everyone, here's the first of our spec...'

Goose growls and grabs Alan's script. He holds it up to his dead stare and the piece of paper spontaneously combusts, tiny pieces of ash drifting away in the breeze. 'You don't need a script. I said watch and learn. Like my old mummy always said when selling fruit, you get nothing for a pear in this game!' he shouts, and holds his gnarled, bony hands wide in anticipation.

Sadly for Goose, the crowd groan. 'Oh come on. I know my jokes are old,' he says, then sighs, expelling more dust from his nasal cavities. 'Let's get on with the show then. So, looking at the audience, hearing what I'm hearing and rubbing my long bandaged chin, I calculate this is a ... talent show. My task is ... bear with me ... to introduce some special guests.'

The crowd gasps in astonishment as they huddle together in the lower seating rows, with those of a higher elevation being deader than the presenter.

On the stage, Alan's piggy eyes are wide. 'Blimey Goose, you're a master.'

'Appreciated Anal, and who needs a script. Now then, I'm reading the body language of our first special guest,' says Goose, seeing a strange man walk onto stage.

'It's Keef ...' begins Alan, but he's silenced.

Goose's head twists; fully rotating before stopping and staring at Alan. 'Don't tell me little man. Now, adjusting for wind-speed, taking into account silly costumes and the overwhelming stench of desperation, this must be ... Keef Harris and Awfulle.'

There's silence from the audience, unsure on how to react to such a proficient assessment. Most certainly they should be applauding but one and all are stunned.

Alan shrugs and finds his voice. 'It really is, Keef Harris and Awfulle!'

The crowd continue to sit in shocked silence and only a few are clapping, damply. The complimentary show pamphlets never mentioned anything of this.

A sense of apprehension has progressed to fear. The SAV knows all about The Goose - which of its species doesn't? Not for one second did it believe the old presenter would actually be resurrected. The creature considers the lightning strikes from above and tries not to think about who or what, could have sent them. It's underestimated the enemy yet again and snipers are ordered to readiness.

An additional order is voiced, aimed at the judges' table but it's ignored, unsurprisingly. Half the cameras are momentarily turned to Duke Cowely but he's unmoving. He's a cool one, thinks the SAV, but it knows even he will have concerns. All cameras turn back to Goose.

Keef Harris trots to the stage front, avoiding a large stone tomb and perches himself on a high stool. He's smiling absurdly, as if he needs the toilet, and he's holding something green and fluffy beneath what appears to be a fake arm. 'Say hello, Awfulle.'

Awfulle speaks, sounding squeakier than Alan. 'Oh it's you again. I see you've still got your hand somewhere uncomfortable.'

Keef chuckles. 'Now, Awfulle, you know it's necessary as I can't make you do what I want unless I control you in a, ahem, special way.'

'It hurts Keef. I've put up with this for forty years and I'm sure there are laws against it.'

'You know laws don't apply to soft toys, Awfulle,' says Keef, still smiling stupidly.

'I'll have you know I ...'

Keef squeezes his fingers, which brings forth a green duck, cross-eyed stare. ' _I wish I could fly, way up to the sky, but I can 't_,' sings Awfulle.

'You can't?'

'I wish I could you perv _arghhh_ , _I Can 't!_' sings Awfulle and despite him having glass eyes; it appears his tear ducts are real.

'You see Awfulle, you're mine. There's no point fighting it,' says Keef, smiling his chilling ventriloquist smile. He's about to speak again but pauses when a bony finger taps his shoulder. He turns and gasps.

'N-n-not a very nice one and you haven't bargained on me,' says Goose, his next words booming loud. 'Get thee into my eternal sarcophagus!'

Keef stammers as he's surrounded by a globe of dark light. He fights for release but can't free himself from the encompassing bubble. Using both hands to try and break the surface he drops Awfulle to the boarding. 'What, no. I'm loved by everyone.'

'You're a ventriloquist so by default you're creepy. Now get into my stone tomb. You'll reside with me ... forever!'

Keef flies into the air and is flung into the sarcophagus at immense speed. The green and fluffy body of Awfulle is lying still. The duck rights itself using stubby wings and turns. 'Keef's gone but what about me, Goose? I'm just a nappy wearing, stuffed green duck.'

Goose smiles widely, his jaw dislocating but he deftly pushes it back into place. He holds out a hand and the duck levitates into his long-fingered grip. 'Hush Awfulle, you're my favourite and can go free. I'll launch you. Fly little Awfulle, fly.'

' _Ooohaaarghhh!_ But I can't fly, that's the whole flipping point,' squeals Awfulle, as he takes to the sky, thrown high and fast by Goose. As he tumbles, head over webbed-cotton feet, he flaps his wings. Soon, he's righted himself and amazingly he's flying. Quacking in delight he heads away from the stage, crossing above the orchestra pit and enters the pouring rain, heading for freedom. On reaching the Complex perimeter fence, he turns his head, waves a stuffed wing and ... _fizzyothwhump!_

All that remains are a small cloud of green, smouldering feathers being forced downwards by the driving rain.

'Oh Goose, you just killed Awfulle,' says Alan, grabbing his glasses in shock.

Goose snorts and waves a hand dismissively. 'It wasn't me, it was the perimeter lasers. They did it, and anyway, it's what he would have wanted,' says Goose, raising his hands to the crowd. 'Not so cuddly toy!' he yells, using all his experience to encourage crowd involvement and they don't disappoint. The whooping and cheering is immense but whether it's for a presenter at the top of their game, or a stuffed duck being incinerated, is hard to ascertain.

'Goose, you're wonderful,' mutters Alan, doe-eyed. 'Who's on next?'

'Just tell me little man. I'm growing tired,' snaps Goose.

'Well, it's lucky I wrote the running order on my hand in Biro. It's Hot-Rod Stewart, the chequered-skirt wearing singer.'

'Well then, he shall reside for all etern...!' roars Goose, but he stops. 'Hold on, I quite like him. We sang together at Queen Lizzie's coronation all those years ago.'

Alan nods. 'I know, it's well documented. He's Scottish and ...'

'Scottish? Get thee to my sarcophagus Hot-Rod Stewart and I hope you wear it well!' bellows Goose, and a tartan-clad performer is hurtling through the air before he can even bring his microphone to bear.

Jeers and cat-calls ring out, and for the first time during the whole show, concession food is being thrown at the stage, but only because it tastes like crap.

'Blimey Goose, you're so unforgiving. Who's next?'

Goose smiles at his diminutive co-presenter. 'There are no others, Anal. It was nice to see you, nothing for a pair in this game and you're my favourite.'

Alan reaches up and wipes at a tear which has leaked beneath the lower rim of his glasses. 'So we're done. This is goodbye then.'

'Not quite Anal, not quite,' says Goose, his dead eyes staring. 'Enter my eternal casket!'

'But Goose, we're kindred spirits.'

'Your time is up, Anal. Now come to Goose and let's see what you could have won?'

' _Arghhh!_ ' screams Alan, as he's sucked up and dumped in the coffin.

That leaves Goose, standing alone, and his eyes are no longer on the audience. They're staring directly at the judges' table. 'Nice one, nice one. Now then, where was I, oh yes? The final word should go to the judges.'

Duke Cowely is standing, imposingly. His fists are planted on the table, his body leaning forward with his eyes firmly on Goose. His words are forceful. 'I think not and nobody say a word, that's an order. Be gone Goose.'

The Duke is glaring but Goose is gazing straight back, his eyeless sockets unwavering as he steps to the front of the boarding. An aural order has been given and sniper bullets pierce his body, thwacking into the stage but he doesn't falter. Lifting an arm, he points a bony finger. 'I see you Duke Cowely but I see you for what you really are. The likes of you need to get up pretty early in the afternoon to outsmart old Goose. I hope the others see what I see before it's too late,' he says, finally noticing the bullets passing through his body. 'You must know your snipers can't hurt me. They're useless Duke Cowely, or should I call you by your real name? That's right, I recognise you. How long has it been?'

Duke Cowely scowls and bangs a fist on the table, cracking the solid top. He opens his mouth, wider than any living person should be able. 'Be gone, this is none of your business,' he says, his voice deeper than usual.

'None of my business?' asks Goose, and after a moment of thought, nods. 'No, I suppose it isn't but you invited me here, of your own free will. Still, I will be gone, back to where I belong. I've a feeling you'll be doing the same sooner than you think. Your enemies have you pegged and you've underestimated them. Know this Duke Fakely, you're not my favourite and you'll get nothing from the pairing in this game.'

Bowing, the wizened and dusty presenter walks back to his tomb, bullets continuing to pass through his bandaged body. 'Keef Harris, Hot-Rod Stewart, Alan Caaaaaarr, you're lucky I intervened when I did. Not a very nice one and Goose goes back to sleeeeeep.'

The aged entertainer levitates up, over, and backwards into his sarcophagus. He sits and finally, lays back. The sarcophagus cover rises from the stage, performs some nifty spins, and then slams shut with a resounding crash, throwing out more dust.

As the show lackeys approach with their reinforced barrows, the casket is hit by more lightning and it disappears, in a supernatural cloud of multi-coloured smoke.

At the very last, a muffled voice is heard, but unnoticed by everyone.

'B-b-budge up you lot. This is my tomb now don't crowd me.'

Duke Cowely sits down and looking left and right, dares his lessers to speak. None do so, sparing him the necessity of calling on concealed shooters. He does however, have his ruby ring close to his mouth and he's speaking to it, quietly.

The words are heard but the SAV is ignoring them. A digital readout has passed three point three billion. Thankfully, all is well and progressing nicely, in the SAV's opinion.
Chapter Twenty Eight

Really Close Final, Results

Dev appears thoughtful. He's running a finger over the barrels of the _Koch-Licher_ weapon and despite the aural voice shouting in his ear, he's paying it no attention. He's replaying others words through his mind. Those of Goose have struck a chord and he turns to his side-on brother. 'Did you hear what Goose said about Duke Cowely?'

'Aye, what does it mean?' asks Anton, seriously wanting an answer.

'No idea but we'd better be careful. I need you to do me a right big favour. Can you say you're not going back on stage when we're next up?'

Anton frowns as he wasn't expecting that. He wonders what Dev's up to and glances over, seeing what he's doing. He's pulled an earplug from the _Mini-Decapitator_ trigger handle and pressed it into his free ear, a lead hanging down. He's also studying a small booklet, intently.

_Trust in your brother_ , the note said and Anton will, but care must still be taken. 'Why would I say I'm not going back on stage? We've got results to read out.'

'Please, just say you've had enough, and trust me, I've got a right good reason for asking,' says Dev, holding the small booklet for Anton to see. 'Here, it's the _Mini-Decapitator_ operator's manual and look at section 3.'

Anton glances at the manual and the penny drops. He now knows why his brother's asking, as it'll take time to track down the SAV, so the request to delay going back on stage is a sensible one. He's not about to just roll over like a faithful puppy though. 'I'll say it but only if you do me a favour. I want to discuss my PA, Fillipo.'

'Can you please stop mentioning that weirdo?'

'No, and I won't say I'm not going back out either, not until you accept I've got a PA.'

'I've got a big bloody gun,' growls Dev. 'You hear what I'm saying?'

'I know but I'm not scared of you,' says Anton, meaning it. 'I know you hate Fillipo because he's black.'

'Anton!' exclaims Dev, staring aghast at his brother. 'That's a right bad accusation of racism. It's nothing to do with that.'

'Then why do you hate him?'

'Now isn't the time. Fillipo can wait as there's an evil going down, now look here. Section 3 of the manual says, "if while using the _Koch-Licher_ weapon the user senses an evil voice overwhelming the situation, then he/she should make use of the Secret Aural Voice Locater as shown in diagram B of Appendix six,"' says Dev, flicking the manual pages to Appendix six, Diagram B, and showing it to Anton.

'I see it but what does it mean?' asks Anton, knowing full well what it means, having been told all about the _Koch-Licher_ weapon by _TGB_ , the note writer, a few days previously.

'It means, I've got to Section 3 and that's a lot further than most blokes get when taking ownership of new, technical equipment. Most of us never take the instruction manual out of the plastic bag. We just chuck it but I'm glad I didn't this time. Look at the diagram.'

Anton just shrugs and Dev scowls. 'Flipping 'eck brother, the weapon can do more than just kill people. Do you understand?'

Anton does understand but letting his brother know that would be a mistake considering who truly designed the weapon. He still doesn't believe it himself, despite being told by a man he trusts implicitly. He licks his lips, knowing the past is catching up fast and he wonders what his brother will make of it when he's finally enlightened. No, he can't think about that yet. Now isn't the time and he must continue to play dumb. He just stares at Dev and shakes his head.

'Flipping 'eck! I'm using the Secret Aural Voice Locater, this earplug thing, as shown in Diagram B, and you see that flashing blue light on the weapon handle. That says there's an evil aural presence in the Complex. Can you guess what it might be?'

Anton frowns, appearing deep in thought. 'Is it Walshy Loo as he's boring?' he asks, feeling a little guilty at messing Dev around.

'No, it's not Walshy.'

'Ooh, I think I know. Is it us?'

Dev bites his lip and peers suspiciously at his brother, 'Do you know what aural means?'

'Aye, it means something spoken and as we're doing all the talking it has to be us, doesn't it? Blimey, I had no idea we're evil,' says Anton, feigning looking frightened.

Dev stills his rising irritation and momentarily looks away. 'It's not us but if I were using the Secret Idiot Locater, shown in Diagram F, you'd be half right.'

Anton stares confusedly at Dev, his past acting abilities seriously being put to the test. 'Is it, no don't tell me, I like guessing games. Is it Wally Davidiams?'

'No man,' says Dev, a hand pressed over his eyes.

Anton throws his hands wide and goes for broke. 'I've no idea then. You might as well say its Duke Cowely but how mad would that be? Dev, I asked how mad would that be?'

Dev holds up a hand, demanding silence. 'Hush, the locator function is homing in on the evil aural voice. Can't you feel it? Can't you sense the wrongness? The eliminated acts have never been killed in a crocodile pit before however deserving it would have been.'

'Ooh! Is the evil Clare Baldy?'

'For fuck sake no!' shouts Dev, taking a few calming breaths. 'Clare was okay, though she did have an imaginary horse which is strange, but not evil.'

'I can't think of anyone else,' fibs Anton, peering sheepishly at his brother. He can see the sweat on his forehead and knows why it's there. In one ear is the raging SAV but in the other is the _Koch-Licher_ earpiece. Their influences are merging within his brain, fighting for precedence and though Dev doesn't realise, a power struggle is taking place.

Dev finally manages a smile and turns. 'Anton, go with it, do it for me. I've nearly got a fix on the aural voice bastard but I need more time. Just say, you're not going back on stage. The Locater function shouldn't be interrupted.'

Anton knows the truth of Dev's words but he has to push regarding Fillipo. He can't have his brother shooting him. The man's too important to lose. 'About my PA?'

Dev scowls and throws his arms up. 'Okay, I'll give Fillipo a chance but I don't want him near me. I don't trust him. Anyway, since when have we ever needed assistance?'

And the conversation has gone full circle but Anton's not out of the woods yet. 'Then promise you'll give Fillipo a chance?'

Dev tuts then nods. 'Right man, but I can't promise I'll like him,' he says, reluctantly.

'Not good enough. Make a proper joined at the hip promise,' insists Anton.

Dev knows his brother will accept nothing less. 'I promise, my joined at the hip brother, I'll give Fillipo a chance and not shoot him the next time I see him. How's that?'

'That'll do. I love you brother.'

'Yeah, whatever,' says Dev, finally grinning. 'I love you too, now let's rumble.'

'Too flipping right, man.'

The Y-shaped conjoined twins, torsos side by side, both facing forward above joined hips, approach the side of the stage.

On getting a nod from Dev, Anton licks his lips knowing his next spoken words won't be appreciated. 'Well everyone, after seeing what happened with Goose Foresight, there's no way I'm going back on stage,' he says, but the SAV's quickly spouting and he covers his microphone. 'Sod it, the bastard just mentioned our contract and that's sacro-errr-thingy.'

Dev curses as he'd completely overlooked the contract which truly is sacrosanct. 'Damn, but at least I got a sort of fix on the aural voice. It's somewhere in the Gubbins which is weird. I weren't expecting that.'

'What were you expecting?' asks Anton, also a little perplexed.

'I thought it would be out front at the judges' table,' says Dev, suddenly noticing dozens of approaching security officers. 'Just act natural and to be on the safe side, I'll try to send telepathic messages through our conjoined body. I hope you pick them up.'

Dev, using his telepathic command scrunched face, one eerily similar to his war-face, has sent the message. 'Are you getting anything?' he whispers.

'Are you saying you want a _MuckRunnys ™ Lemon Minkyshake_ with extra sprinkles?'

In a fit of anger, Dev forcefully shoves the slung ammunition cartridge towards his brother. There's a decisive thump as metal connects with a fleshy jaw and Anton's torso flops forward. Dev groans and covers his microphone. 'Ah, bollocks.'

Having used the sidesteps and walked on stage, Dev's still cussing but there's little he can do, other than fulfil their contract. 'Hi everyone, I'm sorry to say there's been an accident. Anton walked into a steel crossbeam that didn't have a _Mind Your Head_ sticker on it,' he says, elbowing sideways in an attempt to wake his brother but to no avail. 'Okay, the nine acts have performed in the Really Close Final and sadly, five of them have to go. Anton, would you announce the results, please?'

Dev berates himself. He's on his own for the first time, well, ever, but knows he must soldier on. The feeling is strange, alien almost, and he notes the audience silence. He feels butterflies in his stomach, most likely migrated from Anton's head.

Controlling his breathing, he continues. 'When I call out your act name, step out of your spotlight, move to the back of the stage and cross your allotted walkway,' he says, gesturing to the rear and taking a quick peek. 'Flipping arse!' he shouts, unintentionally, and places a hand over his mouth.

There's no longer a crocodile pit, which is good. There's now a large pool of water which isn't too bad, but the presence of dark triangular fins breaking the surface, says otherwise.

Dev starts to panic and gives Anton a hefty slap. He's pleading with him to wake up but his head just lolls back and forth. He smiles weakly and chuckles inappropriately. 'Well fancy that. For any act that doesn't cross to the central column, officers are on hand to help you, as they're good like that.'

'They walk the walk or get hurt,' mumble dozens of nearby diligent officers.

Dev chuckles again, clasps his hands together to stop them shaking, then peers at the officers who surprisingly appear as scared as the acts. He frowns but soon realises why. Many of the cameras are pointing at one in particular.

Moneekar, Michel Poo Junior's ex-assistant, is among them. She's much smaller than her colleagues but does have three kills to her name which demands respect in the Security Fraternity. Each and every one jumps, when she shouts. 'Me hurt you if you not do as told!'

Dev, ever the professional, didn't jump but only because he's slapping Anton again and wasn't listening. There's still no response so he must continue alone. 'Quiet from the audience and can we have some atmospheric drumming please?' he asks, but swiftly turns and stares at the musicians on hearing the accompaniment.

It appears the orchestra have run short of proper drummers so are making do with a xylophone and a flute - _Plinky plonky, tweet-phweet!_

Dev pinches the top of his nose and rubs his eyes. 'Here are the results of the Really Close Final. The first act placing their life in a strong, assistant chef's hands is ...'

_Plinky plonky, tweet-phweet!_

'Wilma-U-What!'

The American girl spits on the stage and pushes up her denim sleeves. 'You can kiss my ass. I was fucking brilliant!' she shouts, turning to punch a nearby officer but comes face-to-face with a nightmare.

'You wanna fight, bitch,' growls Moneekar, squaring up.

Wilma shrieks and though unseen, several of her tattoos start to melt. 'Sorry ma'am, I'm very sorry,' she stammers.

'That better, now stand over pool.'

Dev closes his wide-open mouth, gulps involuntarily and swiftly continues. 'The second act, facing the pool of no return is ...'

_Plinky plonky, tweet-phweet!_

'Ramitinada!'

'Sucky, cutty, sod it,' moans the Mexican Pathologist, starting to run but he's grabbed by an officer and thrown through the pool perimeter gate. He bounces on the walkway, flies past Wilma and enters the water. The feasting is swift and brutal and Wilma bravely fishes out the man's robe. Holding it aloft, two stomachs and a length of small intestine drop from hidden inside pockets. The crowd start booing as they know a cheat when they see one.

'Oi, you stupid!' shouts Moneekar at the officer, who looks at her, then the shark pool, and races across the walkway, thus increasing his chances of survival.

Dev keeps facing forward, never wavering. 'The third act going for a short swim is ...'

_Plinky plonky, tweet-phweet!_

'The Adequate Bellendi, and right after he broke two garden bird records. Well, that's voting for you,' says Dev, giving his brother another unsuccessful prod.

The adept magician throws his purple robe wide. 'Stay back, I can defend myself,' he says, starting his defence, but stopping when officers pile in. They're using the tried and tested "have-him", restraining method and eventually he's standing on the central platform.

'There goes The Adequate Bellendi,' begins Dev, his nerves running away with him, 'and unless he's hiding a right big bird in his robe he's going swimming. How ridiculous would it be if he managed to pull a huge ...?'

'Continue!' shouts Duke Cowely, his expression dark and threatening.

Dev obeys without question. 'The fourth act dicing with fate is ...'

_Plinky plonky, tweet-phweet!_

'Coffin Fit and all their instruments! That's a turn up, eh Anton?' says Dev, nudging his brother a few more times and then covering his microphone. 'I'm sorry I hit you. I can't do this on my own. I'm just Dev without you. Please man, wake up.'

There's no response but Dev can't stop now. 'The last act not making it to the Finalest Final, Honestly is ...'

_Plinky plonky, tweet-phweet!_

Dev's heard the act name in his earpiece and the blood drains from his conjoined torso. His head starts to spin and he feels like vomiting. The name of the final eliminated act is repeated and sweat engulfs his face. 'The last act leaving us is ...'

He continues to play for time, his eyes wider than a show-dancers' legs and the sweat's soaking his shirt collar. 'I don't believe this. Anton, wake up. I can't say the act name. Please come round, I need you.'

Duke Cowely is on his feet. 'Read out the result, now!' he demands.

Dev shudders. 'Right, okay. The last act becoming fish food is ... it's ...' he says, praying for divine intervention. Across the Complex, the lights go out and night-time reigns. Only dark silhouettes can be seen and one stops before him. A fortuitous lightning flash shows Fillipo, dressed in show-lackey overalls. Instinctively, Dev reaches for a weapon trigger.

'Don't shoot, just listen. There's a technical problem but it won't last long. I know how you can awaken big Anton,' says Fillipo, pointing to the floppy twin.

Dev glares through half-closed eyes and remembers his promise not to shoot the man so releases the weapon. 'Then wake him.'

'I can't, but you can,' says Fillipo. 'You need to ...'

Fillipo's words are drowned out by a thrash of thunder but Dev heard them.

'You're fucking joking,' says Dev, wide-eyed and horrified.

'It's no joke, big Dev,' insists Fillipo. 'You know how much he loves your singing.'

Before Dev can say anything more, Fillipo's gone. He knows the truth and stares at his brother's limp torso. In times past when Anton was ill or feeling down, Dev's beautiful singing voice always managed to cheer him up but he hasn't sung in years. Does he really have to do this? He gives Anton a few more slaps but there's no response. It appears he must.

Dev licks his lips. With the power off, nobody will be listening, or watching, so he lifts his brother's head. Moments later the greatest voice of the whole show is heard but only by Anton, as Dev sings his brother's favourite song. ' _Anton, you 're my first, my last, my everything, the answer to my dreams. You're my sun, my moons, my shooting star. You're right great man, that's what you are._'

Sadly for a cringing Dev, the power is reinstated, thanks to a surprisingly adept lackey using a remote control back in the Gubbins. The stage-lights are blazing every-which-way and the last surviving dancers are giving it their all.

Fillipo smiles deeply and another part of the plan is enacted. Dev's one of the finest singers ever, but shuns the opportunity to show it since he and his brother's final record release bombed all those years ago. Still, Fillipo knows it's necessary and Dev needs to be reminded of how good he is. The SAV will despise it and with hate being a blinding emotion; irrationality may follow.

The remainder of the orchestra have joined in, their playing full of heart. Throughout the crowd and in the VIP section, noses are sniffing and eyes welling up. Lighters are being held in the air, but only under covered areas.

Dev appears like a badger caught in headlights but he needs his brother so the song must go on. ' _Brother, there 's only, one right like you. There's no way they could have made two. You're all I'm breathing for, your love I'll keep, you can be sure. First, you're the last, my everything_.'

Across the planet, candles are lit and homemade alters are prayed to. The outcry of affection and hope is reaching to the heavens, and above London, a storm starts to falter.

Even the SAV's captivated, much to its own disgust, but the viewing readout has jumped considerably, past three point five billion. Every few seconds another million is added and that's the only concern. And it fails to notice huge, jagged cracks appearing in its plans.

As it is, Anton's still not awake, so Dev continues. ' _Anton, you 're my reality, but you're lost in a sleep. You're the first, you're the last, my everything_,' he sings, before whispering into his brother's ear. 'Please wake up man, I'm nothing without you.'

Anton turns his head and smiles adoringly at his brother. He has tears in his eyes and a small, dangling snot rope which he sniffs back up his nose. 'That were beautiful. You've still got it.'

'You're awake!' shouts Dev, his joy brighter than any lightning flash.

'Actually I woke up after the first verse but I didn't want you to stop. I pretended to still be unconscious,' says Anton, winking devilishly.

Dev stares at his brother, his own torso bolt upright and his lips are tighter than a politician's alibi. He speaks quietly, his joy well and truly fled. 'You what?'

'Don't be angry. You've got a lovely singing voice. I'm sorry but you did knock me out so that kind of makes us even.'

Dev's annoyance slowly fades as Anton does have a point. This situation was his own doing and he can't deny it. He peers at the audience and notes their silence, not a bad one on this occasion. He then glances at the front of the stage and sees dozens of pairs of underwear on the boarding, both male and female. 'Okay, we're even, but get with it. You need to read out the last eliminated act, I'll cover you.'

'Why, what's the problem?' asks Anton, and then hears the name of the act in his earpiece. 'Flipping 'eck, it can't be.'

Duke Cowely is again on his feet, his annoyance at the delay, clear for all to see. 'Read out the act name, now!'

'Do it Anton I've got your side,' whispers Dev, gripping the _Koch-Licher_ trigger handle.

Anton takes a deep breath. 'The last act not making it through to the Finalest Final, Honestly is ...'

_Plinky plonky, tweet-phweet!_

'Duke Cowely's act, Bitches and Dogs, so please make your way to the pool,' says Anton, feeling a forceful tug on his shirt.

'Run brother,' says Dev, his eyes wide and fearful.

'I'm running!'

Anton Dev sprints toward the side-stage exit. They jump all the steps without using the safety handrail, the mavericks, and flee into the Gubbins.

Above London, the thunder and lightning is taking a welcome breather. The rain, hail, sleet and snow, have halted their apocalyptic descent and seconds later, the golden silence rapidly turns to shit.

Duke Cowely's mouth opens, wider than is humanly possible. ' _Whaaaaaat!_ '
Chapter Twenty Nine

An Unexpected Truth

Are Anton and Dev cowering in their campervan or taking a well-earned break? Whatever the truth, they glance awkwardly at each other as the vehicle starts to shake.

'Were that a minor local earthquake causing the drawers and cupboards to fly open?' asks Anton, his eyes firmly fixed on the open middle drawer of a filing cabinet. He recalls Fillipo's visit a short while ago and him leaving a piece of orange cloth hanging from it as a sign he'd done what was necessary. His so-called Personal Assistant was signalling that an old photo album had been placed inside. So the time has come, thinks Anton and he prepares himself for the most dangerous part of the whole plan to take down the show's evil Director. That of convincing his nearest and dearest that pretty much everything he thinks he knows is bullshit.

Dev is already forcing them to rise. 'No man, that were Duke Cowely being right peed off. Let's tidy up and pretend it never happened. I'll take this side ...'

Anton's months of theatrical training sparks into life and he dramatically reaches for the filing cabinet. 'No man, I'll take that side and don't look in the middle drawer!'

'I weren't, I'm just going to close it.'

'Oh ... good,' titters Anton. 'That's great as there's nothing important in there.'

Dev peers suspiciously, recognising the expression on his brother's face. He's hiding something. He smiles, pretends to turn away then lunges forward. His arm is inside the middle drawer before Anton can do anything to stop him.

Rifling through the contents, it appears there are just old papers but he spots something else, an old, ragged photo album. He picks it out and shows it to Anton, whose eyes fly wide. He is hiding something.

'What's this? And don't say you don't know, I can tell when you're lying.'

Anton, acting his heart out, waves a hand dismissively. 'It's just stupid photos of us getting our awards. It's nothing it's ... don't open it man!'

Dev blows dust from the external cover and randomly thumbs through the album. He pauses and stares at a very old photo which definitely isn't showing an award ceremony. 'What's this?' he asks, somewhat confused.

'I said don't open it. Give it here,' demands Anton, attempting to take the album back, but he's not trying too hard. He needs Dev to look inside, the whole plan hinges on it.

'No, I won't give it and I'll only ask one more time. What is this?'

'It's nothing, man,' says Anton, faking a laugh. 'Just old photos I collect.'

Dev points at one of them. 'Don't lie to me brother, this one says, "Baby Dev."'

Anton appears panicky and Dev can feel shudders going through his other half's torso which can't be attributed to a localised, Duke Cowely being pissed off, earthquake. 'I think, you'd better explain.'

Anton sighs and rubs a hand over his balding pate. Here goes, he concedes, the time for revelation is now. He closes his eyes and properly prays for the first time ever. 'You weren't meant to find that,' he says, falsely. 'Turn to the beginning. I better tell you the truth.'

Dev flicks the pages and goes back to the beginning, while intermittently peering sideways. He wonders if something might have dropped on his brother's head during the recent tremor. 'What does, "I better tell you the truth" mean?'

'I'll explain everything,' says Anton, half fearful but half relieved as the time has come.

Dev's staring at the first photo, a black and white one showing a woman on a hospital bed. Her hair is a sweaty mess and her legs are wide open, exposing ... 'Anton, that's disgusting.' he exclaims, in real shock.

'Shut up! That's your mother so don't say bad things about her or I'll hurt you.'

Dev slowly turns and there's genuine anguish in his brother's eyes. 'Steady, that were almost violent,' he says, chuckling. 'That can't be our mother. She were killed during a safari trip on the island of Thailand before we were born. If that's possible?'

Anton wipes his sweat-beaded brow. He has genuine tears in his eyes and his hands are shaking. He goes for broke. 'Dev ... brother ... I didn't say our mother. I said your mother and that's her. That patch of dark hair is your head being born.'

'Don't be flipping daft,' chuckles Dev. 'How can we have different mothers?'

'Dev, I ... bloody shite,' mumbles Anton, sniffing loudly. 'I don't know how to say this but, we're not actual conjoined brothers.'

Dev stares, knowing the butterflies have finally strangled Anton's brain. He takes a deep breath and tries to be gentle. 'How can we not be conjoined brothers? We're joined at the flipping hip and if that is a picture of our mother, it explains the pained look on her face. Two heads definitely weren't better than one.'

Anton feels anger rising but resists the urge to slap his brother. He understands this was always going to come as a shock and tries to remain calm. 'Just turn the page.'

Dev is laughing again. 'This is such bullsh...'

'Turn the fucking page!'

Dev leans away and if that's Anton's war-face, it's a good one. 'I'm turning,' he says, peering at the next picture. 'It's some little kiddies and there are oriental fellas in orange robes. I don't understand.'

Anton points to one of the small children in the photo. 'That's you there, in the white robe, and that's me over there. We're both only five years old and we're not joined at the hip. There are other kiddies as well but we'll get to them in a bit.'

Shaking his head Dev smiles at Anton. The smile isn't returned. 'This is crap.'

Anton can feel his throat constricting. 'I wish it were crap but as you found the photo album I better tell you the truth, as much as I'm allowed to. That picture were taken where we grew up, in a monastery built atop an ancient Thai volcanic stack. Your mother died during your birth and you were taken in by orange-robed, religious Buggerist Monks. That's where we first met. My mother also died, a few days before yours, but that were because she got drunk and fell over the edge of the stack. It were a flipping long way down.'

'Bollocks man! We grew up in Newcastle, on a combined cow farm and coal mine,' says Dev, trying to control his amusement.

Anton shakes his head. 'No Dev, that's a perpetrated lie. We were raised by monastery dwelling Buggerist Monks who were martial arts experts. When we finally left the monastery, they altered your brain. Don't ask me how exactly but they used some kind of mind-drug. It were called _Mind Diffracting Memory Adjuster_ , at least, I think that's what the initials stood for. The Monks had to so you didn't reveal yourself to the enemy. They didn't want you to know the truth, you couldn't know the truth. They said that when the time came, you'd remember your real calling and put all you learnt into fighting the forces of evil.'

'Oh man, this just gets better,' says Dev, wiping chuckle-drips from the sides of his eyes.

Anton freely admits it does sound ridiculous but he can't stop. 'They said you had to be kept in the dark and I had to act stupid, as a ruse.'

'You did a good job but I still don't believe you.'

'No, they knew you wouldn't,' says Anton, sighing. 'Turn to the next photo and I'll explain.'

'This is right precious. I'll play along as its funny,' sniggers Dev, turning the page. 'That's just another picture of the kiddies, but a bit older.'

'Aye and we're about ten years old in that one. We're still in the monastery and look who else is there?'

Shaking his head, Dev pulls the photo closer for a better look. 'Okay, what am I looking for? All I can see is ...' he pauses, and looks closer still. His smile wavers. 'That tanned, tattooed boy looks like Fillipo. Can he have tattoos at that age?'

'He can and when we were finally sent back to the United Queendom, when our specialised martial arts training had finished, the monks sent Fillipo with us. He stayed out of the way for most of the time but when we got the call for the show, I knew it were time to bring him in. That's why he's pretending to be my PA. Do you remember anything yet?'

Dev shakes his head again and continues to look at the photo. Another figure, one wearing a purple robe has taken his interest, and he feels a shiver run down his spine. 'That monk looks like ... holy shite! That's The Adequate Bellendi but, it can't be?'

'It is but his real name's The Great Bellendi. He's here now, undercover and pretending to be adequate. He's actually right powerful and I'm glad you didn't threaten to shoot him as you'd have blown his cover. He'd have got right miffed.'

'He can't have been that great. He were torn to pieces by sharks,' says Dev.

For the first time in a while, Anton smiles. Partly on realising his brother's slowly coming round and partly on knowing the note from TGB, The Great Bellendi, was right. 'He got away and is circling right high up, out of ground-to-air missile range. When you mentioned a huge bird earlier you didn't know how right you were. As he were about to be dunked in the shark pool, he dragged a flipping great pterodactyl from his robe and took off. The snipers couldn't hit him. He were that fast.'

Dev's still chuckling, but his growing uncertainty is obvious. 'Have you been taking stuff from _Hairy Danny 's Legal Hi'zzz Emporium™_? It's okay if you have and I won't be angry. I admit I've tried a couple of _Medway Towners_ but they just made me feel violent, smell bad, and I lost the power of proper speech.'

'I haven't, now look at the photo again. You haven't recognised everyone yet.'

Turning back to the photo, Dev studies it again. He sees a tough looking girl snarling at one of the monks. Again he shivers, as she seems familiar 'Who's she?' he asks, pointing.

'You tell me, Dev. I'll give you a clue. She's an assistant chef now.'

'No way, man! That's Moneekar, the lass who worked for Michel Poo Junior and is now a security officer. Flipping 'eck, she looked right tough then.'

'She were and she's even tougher now.'

'Shite, I'm glad she's on our side,' mumbles Dev. 'Providing this isn't all crap,' he adds, laughing loudly but not convincingly.

'There's a problem,' says Anton, sounding cautious. 'She had her memory blocked as well and the SAV's controlling her through an earpiece. We'll have to get that off her and remind her who she is before she smashes the Complex to bits. She's that strong.'

'I don't envy you doing that brother,' says Dev, exhaling deeply. 'Come on, you can't really expect me to believe this? It's flipping bonkers.'

Anton laughs but he doesn't feel the humour. 'It's funny you should say the word "bonkers". Look at the picture again, there's someone you missed. Can you spot her?'

Dev tears his eyes from his brother, having seen no hint of this being a joke. Reluctantly he turns his attention back to the photo. 'If you've photo-shopped this I'll have to give you a slap. I don't want to but this is going too far. No, I don't recognise anyone else.'

Anton taps a finger on the photo, pointing out an angry, dark-haired girl, who has her teeth sunk into a Monk's forearm. 'What about that girl there?'

'Fuck man! That's Cloudier Tinklewoman and I'm a bit scared if this is true,' says Dev, turning. 'Look at me and tell me it is.'

Anton and Dev lock eyes, like two gunfighters weighing each other up.

'I promise, an unbreakable joined-at-the-hip promise its true, and that is Cloudier. I'm really glad you didn't want to shoot her earlier as she'd have gone crazy and, well, I'm not sure what she would have done. You'll have to wait to see the talents she has. Even the monks were scared of her so she were the first to be sent back to the UQ. They didn't dare try to hide her memory as she'd have launched them over the side of the volcanic stack. She's ready to go when the shite really starts to fly but never mention it. We can't have the SAV knowing, not yet.'

Dev leans his torso back, and scratches his head. It's totally unbelievable but Anton has promised it's true. Like himself, Dev knows he wouldn't lie, not when having made a joined-at-the-hip promise. He goes to close the photo album but Anton intervenes. 'We're not done yet. Turn the page.'

'So, what's going on? Is this all some devilish trick of Duke Cowely?'

'We don't think so,' says Anton, concern edging his words. 'The monks think Duke Cowely's a stooge of some kind. He's not the main man even though he'd like to think so. He's being used and there's something else above him. That's the target and that's why we're here. This is what we were trained for so forget the awards ...'

'Forget the awards, are you fucking mad!' shouts Dev, spittle exploding from his mouth.

Anton understands his brother's anger but carries on regardless. 'I know, but the awards were just a means to an end. It's a coincidence we turned out to be right good and won so many, but listen. Ancient scrolls found millennia ago in a cave, beside the _Nearly Dead And Right Salty Sea_ , tell of future times and of an ancient Lurking Peril rising. They don't say when, or where, but it's now and we're being threatened like never before. The Buggerist Monks found them during some kind of pilgrimage way back. They took it upon themselves to become planetary guardians and have prepared secret fighting forces throughout known history. The Lurking Peril has rumbled before but not seriously, it weren't fully awake then. Remember Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, Adolf Hitler, and The Krankies, to name a few. They were all attempts to free itself. Now though, the Monks say it's fully awake and wants out. It's just lucky, or unlucky, that the time is now. It's our time brother and well ... turn the page.'

Dev just stares, still not fully convinced, but for Anton to make this up would mean the butterflies in his head had impressive imaginations. He turns the page and sees a full length photo of a man. He's slim, but not skinny, has a rippled physique and a perfect six-pack. All he's wearing are black and white striped shorts and T-shirt, and in his right hand dangles wooden nunchucks. If Dev looked closer, he would see a tattoo on the man's right bicep reading, _Toon_ , and on the left, _Fan_ , but he doesn't.

'That's your father Dev, your real father. I know you recognise him,' says Anton.

'Aye, he's the greatest martial arts expert ever, Toon-Fan 'Bruise' Lee. He's my dad?'

'He is,' nods Anton, 'but he died too young. Some conspiracy theorists say he were assassinated, and I know that word's usually reserved for right important people like Presidents, but he were assassinated.'

Dev closes his eyes and pinches the top of his nose. 'Okay, providing I believe this crap, are you saying this Lurking Peril thing is after me?'

'No, it doesn't even know you exist and the Lurking Peril isn't important, well, not yet. Only the Secret Aural Voice is. That's its agent and the one we have to go after. Look Dev, I don't know everything but I do know it wants us all dead, the human race as it were. It's taken a while but it's finally shown itself and how it plans to achieve that. We've got to take it down.'

Dev puffs out his chest, reaches up and dabs at a bead of sweat on his cheek. He moves the finger to his mouth and rubs the tip on his tongue, tasting the saltiness. His war-face returns. 'I'm ready for it.'

'Aye man, but you can't do it alone, you need us all. As the son of Toon-Fan 'Bruise' Lee you mustn't reveal yourself, not until your memory's returned.'

Dev nods as he practices new war-faces. 'I suppose me being his son does kind of make sense. It explains where I got my accent from.'

'Aye, he were born and raised in Hong Kong, the Geordie Quarter.'

Now Dev's pulling a muscleman pose with his fists clenched and his biceps taut. 'I always knew I were special and it makes sense now. So what next?'

'Just keep tracking the aural voice. That's the agent of the Lurking Peril, the bastard pulling the strings. Other than that, there's a show to present,' says Anton, shrugging.

'The show must go on,' agrees Dev, now practicing menacing, hooded stares.

Anton shakes his head and rolls his eyes. 'When the time's right though, we take the evil down, just like we've been trained to.'

'We will brother,' says Dev, karate chopping lumps out of the wooden crate.

'Luckily we're not on next so keep searching for the evil voice,' says Anton, his voice breaking with his next words. 'Dev, despite all this, our non-conjoined-ness, you're still my brother, in the flesh.'

Smiling widely, Dev places a hand on Anton's shoulder. 'Aye man and ... thanks.'

Anton comes close to fainting with relief, but picks his microphone off the floor, where he's had a foot firmly placed on it. He doesn't have the benefit of the _Koch-Licher_ firearm fooling the SAV, but hopefully the weapon has been feeding back a fake conversation. That's how impressive it is, or should be.

He lifts the microphone and effortlessly morphs into his harmless, simple self once again. 'Hi everyone, we're back and better than ever. Here's your next guest presenter who'll introduce the final sponsors. She's a legend in the making. It's Miranda Fart!'

'That's not her name, its Hart,' scoffs Dev, his spangley shirt pulled up as he counts his six-pack.

'Sorry, folks. She's a legend in the making. It's Hart Fart!' says Anton, placing a hand over his mouth to stop himself laughing. He twirls the microphone in the air and catches it impressively. Ta-dah!
Chapter Thirty

Fears and Tender Tears

A tall woman emerges from the side-stage steps and stomps ... steps lady-like, in her Air-Ware boots. She adjusts her dungarees, smiles widely, and frantically waves at the audience. 'Hello everyone, I'm Miranda, and isn't it great you're seeing another comedian.'

A tumbleweed rolls from the right and across the stage, the crowd remaining silent.

'No? Okay, but I'm certain you recognise me from my sit-com Miranda.'

The tumbleweed rolls back the other way, curiously defying the current breeze direction.

'Tough crowd. Nothing else for it then,' says Miranda, setting off across the stage, and accidently tripping.

There's approving applause from the surviving crowd and appreciative nods from the VIP area. Miranda regains her feet, ignoring the broken boarding beneath her.

'Don't, please don't. Actually, please do,' says Miranda, picking splinters from her hands. 'Well, I must say, I'm a little annoyed, not so little of course ... no, not getting it, very tough crowd. Oops!' she says, tripping again but this time the audience are frowning and turning to each other in confusion. It was amusing the first time.

'Let's go to the final set of sponsors, _arghhh!_ ' screams Miranda, stepping on a broken stage-board which gives way sending her tumbling head first into the orchestra pit. ' _Owww_ , I'm really hurt this time.'

The conductor has reached breaking point. Being vaulted by a woman on an imaginary horse, peed on by an inharmonious dog, and near suffocated by the stink of cat soiling, has taken its toll. He takes up position to the rear of the players and doesn't care whether they can see him or not. In a fit of annoyance he snaps one of his batons.

Cue the first sponsor.

Screens across the planet flicker and a man appears. He's quite short, so most likely has an anger complex, but in his favour, he is dressed immaculately.

'Hello, bonjour, pozdrowienia, saluti, ciao, Konnichiwa. Please observe the tasteful, art-deco construction behind me. I represent a grand institution called Wait-'outside-peasant'-Wose and we cater for the upmarket clientele,' says the man, but he has to take drastic action, and neatly steps aside, as a large woman bustles past as if he wasn't there. There's a small girl trailing in her wake.

'Do keep up and put your public school cap back on. Standards Audrey, always maintain standards in the face of _Commonism_ ,' snarls the woman.

Clasping his hands in delight, the man bows, and his nose almost touches the ground. 'I'm the General Manager, Evelyn Fafuqua'd'duke, and I represent shopping for the elite. Every product you buy in Wait-'outside-peasant'-Wose will be suitably expensive and all effort is taken to ensure the lower classes are kept out. We have security on every entrance,' he says, nodding to a pair of smartly dressed officers.

'Do come in, but wipe your feet. Our fresh section is still growing, so feel free to pick your own. There are avocado trees and silverberry bushes amongst others. Also, a King Eddie potato plot so take hold of a gold-plated spade. Of course, no rightminded customer would actually dig so we have a rack of chauffeur and butler overcoats which can be rented at extortionate prices. These are then burnt in our onsite incinerators which power our rotisseries. They provide wonderfully precooked prime meat-cuts including Isle-of-Man dragon rumps and Tibetan unicorn thighs.'

Another large, yet poorly dressed woman hones into view. 'You, inadequately dressed peasant, are these Amazon river dolphin steaks from a sustainable source?'

'Of course madam,' smarms Evelyn.

'I'm not a madam, I'm a Lady, and you can shove them up your common arse.'

'Indeed, my Lady, but perhaps you would prefer our sustainable Kemp's Ridley turtle, vacuum-packed flippers.'

'Don't tell me what to buy you oik. You may be the General Manager but I can have you sacked. I'm so rich my family can trace our ancestry back to the beginning of time and we still live in a leaky, ruined castle we can't afford!'

Evelyn crosses his legs in joy. 'Very good, my Lady.'

'Impertinent scum! Flambard, my chauffeur, let's go. This place is sooo common.'

Evelyn's eyes are crossing, more than his legs, and his whole body is trembling. An unexpected noise disturbs his moment of ecstasy. He looks across and sees a small boy inside a cage, dragging himself across the Cyclops-hide entrance mat.

'Hi Evelyn, I'm Chip and your store looks magnificent.'

Evelyn sneers down his nose, clicks his fingers and two sprightly dressed security officers rush into the store. They take hold of the cage and launch it back out.

Miranda's back on the screens.

'Oh, you're back, that was quick,' says Miranda, having extricated herself from a pile of smashed cellos. She laughs loudly. 'How mad was that ... no, not laughing? Okay, here's ...' but she pauses on hearing a strange scraping noise. She turns and sees a caged, skinny boy. She has no idea where he has come from. 'Hello little boy, what's your name?'

'I'm Chip, ma'am,' says Chip, his thin hands gripping the bars of his cage. He coughs and it's deep and rattling. 'Please help me, I don't feel too well,' he says, spitting specks of blood through the cage bars.

Miranda's rarely seen caring instinct comes to the fore and she crouches beside the cage, placing a hand on the top. 'What's the probl... oh shit, _arghhh!_ '

'Ma'am, no!' cries Chip, as he feels the full force of an unplanned fall. The bars of the cage buckle and only his thin body stops the roof touching the floor.

Miranda rolls sideways, gets to her feet and looks down. 'It was an accident, I didn't mean it. I need a medic, now!'

Cue the final sponsor.

A man wearing a hoodie, jeans exposing his underpants, the crotch nearly down to his knees, and smoking a roll-up, appears on the planet's screens. He's standing within a metre of the entrance of a rather drab looking supermarket, and the smoke is being sucked inside.

'Alright, I'm Dwayne Geeza, the Chief Executive of _Crudo_ , your local discount shop,' says Dwayne, pausing as he glances into the store. 'Oi you, the bird with seven kids by nine different blokes, get away from the nearly fresh display as you ain't got a clue what it is. That's right darling, over you go to the lard section.'

As Dwayne directs his customer a scraping noise from behind causes him to turn.

'Hi sir, I'm Chip. Your store looks ... great.'

'Stop mumbling boy, I hate bleeding mumblers. What are you doing crabbing around outside my shop? Bugger off.'

'Sorry sir, but I'm really hungry. I haven't eaten for ages.'

Dwayne throws his roll-up to the floor, ignoring the nearby litter bin. 'Look crab-cage-boy,' he sneers, reaching to a metal rack outside the entrance. 'Here's something that grew on a tree once. Take this and sod off.'

Chip takes the offered fruit and sees the back-end of a worm burrowing into it. 'Thanks sir, this is ... darn I've dropped it. Have you got anything else?'

'Are you taking the piss, boy? You beggars disgust me, coming round here without your benefit food tokens, stinking the place out. We only want proper scroungers in here and only those the hard-working taxpayer supports.'

'I'm sorry sir. I didn't mean anything bad, but I can't stop scratching myself now.'

'I see, now you're stealing my customer's fleas? Get lost you non-scummy little git.'

Dwayne lights another roll-up, exhales smoke, and smirks. 'If you want a bargain get yourself down to _Crudo_. Sign up your family and you'll get a discount on bubonic plague lozenges, onesie-chafing cream, and a contraceptive pill that actually works. That's right, but you don't have to swallow it. Just hold it between your knees and it's guaranteed to stop you spitting out gormless brats that are a drain on society. I'm Dwayne Geeza, and I want you, shopping here, but only if your kids are on the at-risk register.'

Dwayne throws down his roll-up, swears loudly, and raises two fingers to camera.

The screens across the planet do their thing and confused mumbling can be heard from the audience. Once again all eyes are looking to the exits but security has then covered.

On stage, Miranda's panicky. 'Will the boy be alright, mister medic? Is he hurt?'

The medic adjusts his blue top, one with a silver insignia on the breast. His wrinkled face looks up as he twists buttons on a boxy implement he's holding. His eyes are afire. 'It's worse than that he's nearly dead, Miranda!'

'Oh no. I feel so guilty. _Arghhh_ , bugger it. I've fallen on his cage again. I'm such a clumsy cow,' says Miranda, lifting herself off, and shuffling away.

A seven inch cage has become only five inches high. The medic is shaking his head furiously and has his mysterious beeping box against the bars. He's twiddling small knobs and looking at the flashing lights. 'Damn it, I can't help this boy. He needs a God!'

'Please don't say that, I feel so bad,' says Miranda, moving further away. As clumsy goes, clumsy does. Her Air-Wares slip on the damp stage and falling backwards, she enters the shark pool, creating a mini-tsunami.

The audience goes flipping bonkers and even the surviving VIPs are on their feet. The remaining musicians in the orchestra pit give it everything and some of the concealed snipers are shooting in the air, showing their appreciation.

'Help me, somebody help me! I'm being eaten alive by sharks,' screams Miranda, feeling only a gentle nip on her thigh. 'I see, even the bloody sharks won't touch me. Come on, especially that big one at the back. Yes, I see you, and I know you're male. Look, I've pulled up my dungarees and here's a nice chunky calf muscle. Come on ... please!'

The big male shark pretends not to notice and if big male sharks could whistle, it would be a disinterested one as it's looking elsewhere. Perhaps at the stage lighting that is refracting through the pool in pretty rainbow patterns.

A sopping Miranda climbs out and officers rush her. She beats them down and sniffling, leaves the stage. She enters the Gubbins, tears out her earpiece, and walks free from the Complex, avoiding each and every defence. There are tears in her eyes, and whoever said big girls don't cry, should be ashamed.

Chip is alone on stage, trapped and crushed. He's very thin and perhaps that might assist his survival in a five inch high cage. The boy speaks stutteringly, as blood drips between his lips. 'Hi everyone.'

He coughs and crimson flecks shower from his mouth. 'Did you like the show sponsors?'

He sneezes and blood spurts from his nose. 'I hope I didn't let you down. I tried my best.'

Blood starts to exit his tear-ducts. 'Someone help me, please,' he mumbles.

Chip has no escape. He chokes as he pushes against the bent bars which hold him tight. As the tears flow freely across his thin face, unheard by all, the beating of a pure, innocent heart - ceases.
Chapter Thirty One

And Then There Were Four

The judges' table is silent, all exchanging horrified looks.

Walshy finds his voice. 'Poor little Chip. Maybe I can model him a plastic heart using my impressive constructing skills?'

'It's too late, he's gone,' says Keryl, dabbing at the tears around her eyes with the edge of the white towel holding her hair in place.

'So, there's nothing I can do?' asks Walshy, his head drooping.

'No boring pet but the show must go on.'

'I know Keryl,' says Walshy, sparing a glance across at Duke Cowely, who's still in a state of shock, having lost one of his acts.

The head judge is still standing, facing the spot Anton Dev vacated a while back. His hands are planted on the cracked surface of the table and his face is a rictus of rage. He hasn't moved, not even a fraction of a millimetre.

'It reminds me of a time I once looked like that,' says Walshy, anger flashing across his features. 'I'd made a model of the Blackpool Tower from plastic toothpicks, and when ... oh right, I'll shut up,' he says, on seeing the annoyed looks on the other judges' faces.

Further along the table a thumping sound can be heard as Wally's once again fighting his bonds. His chair's bouncing up and down but as yet, there's still no give. 'Everyone listen to me. Keryl, you're dumb, and Walshy, you're boring. Neither of you ...' he says, but stops on seeing fearful expressions. 'Why are you all looking at me like that?'

'Wally pet, don't you realise,' begins Keryl, with genuine sadness. 'You heard the results and you've got no acts into the Finalest Final, Honestly, since The Adequate Bellendi got carried off by a flying lizard. You know what it says in our contracts.'

Wally laughs disconcertedly, his struggling stopped. 'That was a joke, wasn't it?'

'Keryl's right,' says Walshy, nodding. 'Did you know I once made a model of a shark tank using only plastic spoons and phlegm?'

'Don't mention phlegm, Walshy,' says Dai, looking pensive. 'I won't have you demeaning my Welsh roots. You're done for Wally. You best start running and here, I'll untie your legs.'

'Thanks, Dai, but where will I go? My wife is my comedy partner, Matty Loocas, in a wig, and I ...' says Wally, only stopping on feeling a stinging slap on his cheek. He stares at the slapper - it being Dai.

'Snap out of it! There's nothing wrong in admitting you're a bit camp, not in this day and age. I remember my friend Ieuan who lived next to me before the war. He was camp, he wouldn't admit it mind, but I said to him one day, I said, Ieuan, if that's what you are then stand proud. It's nothing to be ashamed of and do you know what he did?'

'Tell me?' asks a curious Wally.

'He nodded, raised his chin, and walked down to the local Public Hole. He stood on a large, semi-buried rock and shouted at the top of his voice that he liked dressing as a girl and speaking with a high voice. From that day forth he was free as a bird and had a weight lifted from his shoulders.'

Wally manages a half-smile. 'And that went okay, Dai?'

'Kind of. He was wearing his Tuba at the time and it really was a weight. Sadly the disgusted clientele rammed it down his throat, bell end first. He was certainly free after that. Free from the rigours of life.'

'No, I can't admit I'm camp, because of course, I'm not,' says Wally, his expression fearful.

Armada joins the conversation, no fear on her face. 'Don't be a baby, Wally. Look at you, all afraid. You're not the only one to lose your acts but do you see me running scared. No, you do not.'

'That's right. You've also had it, but what can we do? Help me.'

'Hush Wally, we've been eliminated, just accept it,' says Armada, shaking her head.

'I'll never accept it. I'm the nation's favourite children's author and a comedian.'

'One out of two isn't bad Wally, but hmmm, I've an idea,' says Armada, peering slyly at him. 'Let me predict your future,' she adds, breathing warmth onto her hands.

'Don't Armada, you have no ide _ooh!_ ' exclaims Wally, his eyes crossing.

All eyes are averted, and even Armada can't bear to look, but perhaps seeing Wally's fate might give her a glimpse as to her own. 'I thought so, my Mystical Art of Testicology never lies,' she says, nodding. 'You're going on a short journey and I see ... water.'

'Am I going on a boat?' asks Wally, his hope rising.

Armada rolls her eyes. 'No, you're not going on a boat. This pulsing vein here tells me you'll shortly be swimming with sharks.'

'I've always wanted to swim with sharks,' says Wally, smiling, but his expression swiftly switches to terror on realising the truth. 'Oh no, not those sharks.'

In a fit of panic, Wally, chair still tied to his back, jumps to his feet and starts to run. Sadly, security is on the case and it takes six officers to pin him down.

'Me untie you Wally Davidiams,' says one of the officers, pulling at the rope.

Wally dares a brief smile. 'You're giving me a chance, thank you.'

'No, sharks no like rope as it gets stuck in throat and kills them.'

The rope is torn away and six pairs of chunky hands forcibly launch Wally onto the stage. He bounces, bounces again, slides, and stops a few inches from the pool edge. He stares down at the water, chuckles manically, then peers back at the half dozen annoyed officers.

Now free of restraint, he jumps to his feet. Unfortunately, he fails to notice that a massive male shark is no longer on the far side of the pool. A laugh turns to a scream and there's a huge splash as the shark leaps from the pool and grabs Wally around the waist. Both slide back in and the rest is best left unsaid. Nobody needs to hear about a big man being torn to pieces by veracious, razor-toothed, peckish fish.

One officer remains, next to the judges' table. He turns to Armada and gurns brutishly. 'You come with me, woman.'

In an act of camaraderie, Dai jumps to his feet, and on experiencing intense painful rubbing from his leather trousers, quickly sits back down. He's not done though. 'Don't touch her or I'll take out my instrument,' he says, sighing on seeing alarm in the eyes of everyone in earshot. 'For heaven's sake, my _crwth_ , an actual Welsh musical instrument.'

The officer quickly grabs Dai round the neck but another judge intervenes. Keryl stands, whips the white towel from her hair, and shakes her head from side to side. Her glorious locks flow majestically, her lips pout, and there's no man alive who can resist such an obvious come-on. The mesmerised officer releases Dai and clomps over to Keryl.

'That's right, over you come you great big bully,' purrs Keryl, giggling enticingly when she's picked up. 'Tell me, pet, have you ever been married?'

The officer grins, showing two rows of cracked not-so-pearly whites. 'No, me never been married.'

Keryl reaches a hand into her towelling robe pocket and withdraws a handful of golden bands. She selects the biggest and holds if forth. Her eyes are shining, brighter than a coal-miner's lamp. 'Well, it's your lucky day. Just say ... I do.'

'Me not sure. Me talk to black box magic pixie,' says the officer, trying to fight the inevitable, but no, he's snared. 'You very beautiful and me like your tattoos.'

'Oh pet,' giggles Keryl, her smile wide and predatory. 'I love the ones on your knuckles that say _LOV_ and _HAT_. Have you only ever had three fingers on each hand, big man?'

'Me have but me not know why.'

Keryl runs a finger under his chin. 'Oh, you're so strong, now say, I do. Say it for Keryl.'

'Me say, I d...'

Regrettably for Keryl, but mostly for Armada, fate once again intervenes. Timing is everything in show-business and can make or break a career. In this case, one is about to be broken, or consumed most likely.

'Do not say that!' yells a reanimated Duke Cowely. 'Halt your spell casting, witch.'

Keryl screams and the enchantment breaks. ' _Arghhh_ , he's awake and fuck as like!'

Duke Cowely stands to his full height and glares with the utmost malice. He really is an imposing figure and as he pulls his trousers up, which for some reason were down around his knees, he points an unwavering finger at Armada. 'You have no more acts. Do what you must. I command it.'

The woman stands and walks fearlessly up to the Duke. 'I'm ready and you'll burn in hell Cowely Simon. You're so vain I bet you think this show is about you. I'll gladly walk to my demise but know this you over-coiffured twat. While you were incoherent I tried to use my Mystical Art of Testicology on you but I couldn't find any boll _arghhh!_ '

Armada's scream is loud and clear as she flies through the air heading for an unforgiving fish pool. But it wasn't security who threw her. It was Duke Cowely, using only one hand. There's a lethal splash and Armada has talked bollocks for the final time.

Behind the judges' table, a surprisingly strong man is addressing his three lessers. 'I'm back and there'll be no more nonsense. I order it! Don't dare to step out of line again,' demands the seething Duke, retaking his seat. 'Now, where were we? Oh yes. Where's that pawn, Jeremiah Paxo-man?'
Chapter Thirty Two

Dear Lord!

The SAV has been watching proceedings with great interest, while tapping fingers to many of its lips. The freakish twins are now beyond its grasp, it knows that for certain, and they'll have to be dealt with. In hindsight it knows it has dallied too long and should have eliminated them the moment it saw the _Koch-Licher_ weapon.

Still, what's done is done and cannot be undone. It's well aware though that the timing must be right in order to maximise viewing potential. As it is, the numbers are still rising and will continue to do so, especially with the last of the Finals approaching. That will spell the end for the conjoined humans Anton Dev, and it ponders the two names written just below them, on its ever-shortening names list. Those of Duke Cowely and Jeremiah Paxo-man.

The execution of the Duke, shown live across the planet, is certain to be a game changer and will be the beginning of the end for the loathsome human race. When his heart stops beating, or in reality, explodes, then the axe will fall. A specially prepared signal will be sent into the brain of every viewer rendering them a puerile, mewling puppet, making them easy pickings for his own species when they rise.

The SAV won't be sorry to see the back of him, despite his inspiring empire building. He's been a useful tool but as with all tools, when their usefulness dulls, they must be discarded.

Looking back to the names list, the creature taps a fingernail upon the other of the greats. It sees Jeremiah is already inside the VIP enclosure, and issues commands for security to treble up, and fully surround it. There'll be no escape this time.

Jeremiah is unmoving, near the middle of the VIP seating arrangement. The parts of his suit that were whole before now sport additional dirt and sporadic grass stains. The soles of his shoes are hanging off and both suit jacket arms are gone, but he doesn't care.

As his piercing blue eyes pan every which way, he scowls. 'Dear Lord, here we go again. I thought I'd flaming well finished with this catastrophe but it appears I haven't. There aren't many VIPs left to choose from but I'll try my best.'

The great man looks around again and he sees a small group. He frowns as he's sure they weren't there when he looked a few seconds ago. He shrugs and makes his way over, past many empty, and occasionally bullet-holed, plastic chairs.

Drawing closer he slows and his eyes blink rapidly, certain he's seeing things. When the VIPs don't disappear, he gulps, and tentatively steps forward. He hesitantly holds out his microphone making no attempt to push it up the interviewee's nose. 'You sir, you're dead aren't you, and I don't mean as a result of this tragic show?'

Elvis Priestly adjusts the collar of his magnificent white, sequinned jumpsuit. 'Indeed I am, Jeremiah. I'm a ghost. Thank-you-very-much.'

'You're dead then, Elvis?' asks Jeremiah, wondering if he's finally gone doolally.

'Thank-you-very-much for continually pointing that out and trust me son, I'm not happy about it. I was on the throne eating a _MuckRunnys ™ Quadruple Cholesterol Clogger Bugger_ and the next thing I knew, I was all lonesome that night and leaving the building.'

Jeremiah's mouth momentarily imitates a goldfish. He's exceptionally proficient but this has briefly thrown him. 'Oh what the hell, I'll go with it. Tell me Elvis, and Lord help my descending into the realms of improbability. What do you make of this talent show?'

'Is this a talent show? God help us. All I've seen so far is death, destruction, and a heck of a lot of trashy acts, although, I thought Alli Kayeeda swung it baby. I couldn't help falling in love with her. Thank-you-very-much, you've been wonderful.'

'So you're not impressed?'

'Jeremiah, if this was one of my shows I'd rather be dead.'

'As astute as ever and swiftly moving on.'

Jeremiah shakes his head, trying to gain control of the thoughts tumbling through it. He's never interrogated a dead person before though a few politicians came close. He closes his eyes for a moment, and tells himself all is well, before opening them a mere fraction. He peers at the next VIP and involuntarily gasps. It's another ghost, as is the next, and the next. He moves past them with barely a glance and prepares to make a run for it. Sadly, there's a wooden staff blocking his exit and he peers across, into the eyes of the holder.

Jeremiah has never wet him himself before and he doesn't this time, but its damn close. He gulps, takes a seriously deep breath and pushes the microphone forward, at arm's length. He has experienced a few firsts during the interviews but this is a big one. He can feel his heart beating rapidly and without thinking, instinctively reaches for a concealed little-friend named Russell, nestling in his pocket.

The interviewee speaks calmly, but his words contain the raw power of an Omni-sledgehammer. 'You pull that knife on me Jeremiah, and you know where I'll stick it.'

Jeremiah nods and moves his hand away, leaving Russell well alone.

The interviewee smiles. 'You recognise me don't you? I appeared to you once in your hour of despair when you were locked up. It was in answer to a not-so-silent prayer and it was me who gave you that knife.'

'Yes Santa, I ...'

'I'm not Santa you ass! Santa wears a red suit and mine's a heavenly white.'

'Sorry, er, oh dear lord. I was only joking,' stammers Jeremiah, fighting to keep his voice steady. 'You're God, aren't you?'

'Yes, I'm God. I wear a white suit and carry a magnificent Staff of Justice which can dish out eternal pain to the naughty. Anything else you notice about me?'

'Well God, you're black,' says Jeremiah, starting to feel a little ill.

'That's right. I'm a big, black man with an American accent. Do you know why that is?'

Jeremiah has an idea and however stupid it may be, he voices it. 'You're making a point, aren't you? Your corporeal manifestation represents the largest demographic on the planet, the black American, and you're here for a reason.'

God is impressed. He knew the interviewer was good, the best maybe, and he presses his point. 'I am son. Now tell me what's occurring here. Get it all out, you more than anyone has assessed the situation. Know your words will go no further than into my own ears. Everybody else will see and hear what I want them to.'

'I ... I'm not sure, God. I haven't been paying that much attent...'

'Bullcrap Jeremiah!' interrupts God, forcibly. 'You've seen everything so tell me what you know. I've put my trust in you and your good friend, Russell, and it's time for some payback. Now spill it or I might have to think again.'

Jeremiah notes God's gnarled smiting staff held high, one easily capable of smashing him into his component atoms. He tries to convince himself he's had worse but not even he can trick his powerful mind into believing that one. Nevertheless, this is his interview and he'll not be dictated to, however crazy that may be. 'Yeees, but answer me this, if you will? How do I know you're not a lower being? Perhaps you're the devil, attempting to lull me into doing his work. If you truly are God you'll not baulk at my request. Prove yourself.'

God pulls back his staff, shakes his bald, black head and laughs loudly. 'Oh man, you're quite something,' he says, smiling widely and showing a glint of gold amongst his perfect white teeth. 'You want proof, well, okay. By default, I can't answer your question, not so you'd believe it. You have me all ends up. Am I God or am I Lucifer? The answer as you know is irrelevant. You want the truth then find it in your own heart. Scour your thoughts. Physically I sit before you but since when has physics ever mattered when an Omni's around? I could wax bullshit for days on the subject but we don't have that much time. All I ask is that you be true to yourself. You're the best Jeremiah and never forget that. You know what's going on here and that's why I released you from your twenty-five years of personal torment. You're needed here and I know you won't disappoint,' he says and his physical presence fades.

Jeremiah places a hand over his heart but not in search of God. He does it to prevent it smashing through his ribcage much like a mischievous alien might. 'Dear Lord!' he exclaims.

The physical presence of God returns, and peers enquiringly. 'Normally I wouldn't answer prayers Jeremiah, but what is it?'

'Sorry, I was only exclaiming and it wasn't an actual prayer. Though as you're here, perhaps you might answer another question?'

God stares, locking eyes with the great interviewer. Sparkling white meets sapphire blue but there's no challenge involved. 'Jeremiah, know that I don't answer questions. I simply am, and all others answer to me. Let me offer you some free advice son, you of the lengthy imprisonment. When you meet a bone-fide Omni, you should be asking yourself a question. It should go like this. Why is God here and why am I hanging around to find out? Do you understand my words?' he asks, two black eyebrows raised high.

Jeremiah's cranial synapses start to fire on all cylinders. His cobalt eyes fly wide and a realisation rockets around the inside of his skull. Knee lifting and sprinting rapidly follows.

God leans back, in the most uncomfortable chair he has ever sat in. He rubs a hand across his face and reflects. He didn't lie when stating Jeremiah is the best. The man's a force to be reckoned with, though being human, still vulnerable. The swarm of officers around the VIP enclosure will seriously test him but he should pull through. God considers the word - should. That isn't acceptable and he lifts his Omni-backside from the plastic seat.

If the interviewer falls then the enemy might have its day. The Lurking Peril's agent, the Secret Aural Voice, can't be allowed to prevail. His own existence relies on the fact and he needs the ex-imprisoned one to fulfil his role, that of aiding the conjoined twins. God moves - in a mysterious way.

Jeremiah approaches the officer cordon which is blocking the exit. He stops and instinctively reaches a hand into his pocket. He carries out a swift head-count but gives up when reaching six. Admittedly it's not a high number but pound for pound, his knife, Russell, is outweighed thousands of times over. Looking left and right he sees many more officers outside the enclosure, and snarls.

A huge lump stomps forward. The hulking brute is shouting and pointing a thick finger. 'Oi you, ex-offender, show me red square on string or me gonna splat you!'

Jeremiah has no pass card, having never been given one. He removes Russell and launches himself at the officer. His snarl becomes a gush of exhaled air as his chest connects with something solid, but it isn't the officer. Peering down he sees a solid wooden staff held across his torso. His eyes shift sideways, notice the hand holding it, and slowly they rise. He stares into the face of God, who winks. 'I'll deal with this,' says the Omni.

The presenter nods, what else can he do, and watches God approach the officer? The brute of a guard is on the move but stops suddenly when God waves a hand nonchalantly. 'You don't need to see his red pass card.'

The officer scratches his head in confusion and turns to his colleagues. 'We not need to see red pass card.'

God waves his hand again. 'This isn't the interviewer you're looking for.'

'This not who we looking for,' says the officer, shrugging.

God waves his hand for a final time. 'He can leave the VIP enclosure.'

'Him can leave. Move along non-wanted interviewer.'

Jeremiah doesn't need a second invitation and bolts between the parted officers. He doesn't look back so misses seeing a wide Omni grin. All that matters is he's free, from the VIP enclosure at least.

The SAV replays the escape. Plays it again, then again, but has no idea what just happened. It reruns other camera-feeds but there's nothing of note, so where Jeremiah has disappeared to is unknown? Like the deliverer of the crate to the twin freaks hours earlier, his vanishing is a mystery.

It looks at its list of names and considers how it will uncross one; it being certain a death was imminent. It cannot go back, that's impossible. It can however, go forward, and reaches a hand under the desk. A finger presses a secreted button on the underside, and leaning back, it watches as the table-top flips. The microphone and the names list both slip down the back but that's not important.

A tipping point has been reached as events are occurring beyond its control. A wooden surface gives way to - another wooden surface, but one that has inset lit buttons on it. It observes the buttons, knowing the time is approaching to use them, and uses a foot to retrieve the microphone. It places it back on the desk and waits, with fingers hovering.
Chapter Thirty Three

The Finalest Final, Honestly!

Dev sits in the campervan and judging by his expression he's still coming to terms with the recent reveal of his hidden past.

'You okay, man?' asks Anton, gently, noting Dev hasn't spoken for a while.

'I'm fine, but I'm still trying to get my head round the fact I'm the son of Toon-Fan 'Bruise' Lee, and I grew up in a monastery in Thailand,' says Dev, speaking quietly.

Anton nods and wonders how he might have taken such news, not well he guesses. He also knows there's more to come. 'It happened, now turn the page. It weren't Bruise who trained you, he were already dead. It were another.'

'Eh,' says Dev, turning to the next photo. 'Flipping 'eck, that's Jocky Chan. Are you joking me?' he asks, staring at a photo of a man dressed from head to toe in tartan. He gapes, pulling the album closer.

Anton taps a finger on the photo. 'It is him. That's Jocky, the legend.'

'Blimey, were I really trained by the chequered-skirt wearing Scottish tough bastard?'

'Aye, we all were,' says Anton, shuddering on recalling Jocky's training techniques.

'This is flipping crazy.'

Anton can't deny his brother's words. 'It is, and once you get your memory back you won't need the _Mini-Decapitator_ anymore.'

Dev peers distrustfully as he caresses the weapon's twin barrels. 'I'm not putting it down.'

'I wouldn't expect you to, not yet, but we need to get out front. There's a show to present. Are you with me?' asks Anton.

Dev simply nods.

Anton grins, holds his arms wide, and opens his mouth to speak. He swiftly covers his microphone on seeing the devastation. The stands are gone and by default, the audience also. All that remains are a few up-jutting scaffolding poles. His exclamation is less than professional. 'Holy shite!'

Dev is also looking around and murmurs. 'It's a disaster.'

'Should we call it a day?' asks Anton, gulping in fear.

'We're professionals,' says Dev, shaking his head. 'We stick it out through grit-coal or shine. We're ranked one and two in the UQ presenter charts. We don't quit.'

'I hear you but ...'

Dev stares sideways. 'No man, it's time for the Finalest Final, Honestly so be strong.'

'Okay, but I haven't got a script and the SAV isn't speaking to me anymore.'

'Nor me and I know this is right ridiculous but let's wing it for once. It's not as if it matters anymore, considering what's happening.'

Anton chuckles. 'You're so brave and daft. Let's do it.'

Anton and Dev are unmoving, an eerie silence greeting them, so no change then. The only interruption is an occasional crash of apocalyptic thunder blasting across the night sky.

'Whey everyone,' says Dev, turning to Anton.

'Whey everyone,' repeats Anton, turning to Dev. He covers his microphone. 'Crap man, this winging it is right tough. I don't know what to say.'

'Just make it up, you don't see me panicking,' says Dev, sweat beading his face.

'Get on with it!' bellows the sitting Duke, smashing a hand down on the table.

Dev reassesses. 'Okay, now I'm a bit panicky.'

The joined at the hip twins start to shake and their fear notches up, clearly evident on their faces. Both have opened and closed their mouths several times but the words won't come. Sheer terror is approaching fast and it would take an intervention of near-divine proportions to stop them fainting.

' _Arghhh!_ ' they scream, when a pair of hands rest on their shoulders. They jump and turn in the air. On landing, Anton's lashing out a fist and Dev's spinning the _Koch-Licher_ weapon up to speed, but they pull back just in time.

Their mouths drop open on seeing a man they have the utmost respect for. After all, he holds the current record for Best Presenter awards in a row, and he's the one they're looking to overtake.

Lord Terry of Woebegone smiles cheekily, his lived-in face full of affection and bursting with the freshness of a warm spring day. He steps past the twins, tweaks his emerald tie, and speaks in his gentle Irish lilt. 'Hello everyone,' he says, winking at the judges. 'I'm a sure family favourite now calm yourselves, especially you Duke Cowely.'

'Why are you here? You weren't invited,' says the Duke, slowly rising to his feet.

Lord Terry raises an eyebrow and smirks. 'Was I not? What a fool I am, but I'm what you would call a safe pair of hands. Welcome everyone, to the Finalest Final, Honestly. So, let's welcome our first act on stage. What can I say about this little gem that hasn't already been said? She's a small star in the making, intent on belittling the opposition. It's Tiny Tina the Dagger Swallower!'

Anton Dev stares dumbfounded at he who epitomises all that's professional, and make no complaint on being assisted to their private viewing screen, behind a side-stage curtain.

'Errr, thanks for coming out of nowhere and assisting us, Lord Terry,' says Dev, laughingly adding. 'Not that we needed it though.'

Terry winks and says nothing. Anton however ...

'Tiny Tina promised to swallow a kebab knife if she made it this far and here comes Attila, the owner of _Kebaby 's™_. Flipping 'eck, that knife's longer than her whole body.'

Dev nods. 'Aye, and I don't like the look on Attila's face. I've got a weird feeling he doesn't like women much. He's sharpening his knife on a female pelvic bone and if you didn't know, there are certain differences between lasses and men. The female pelvis is adapted for gestation as it isn't as high, but is wider, than those of us fellas. The sacrum ...'

Anton interrupts. 'What are you flipping talking about? Are you pontificating again?'

'No man and if you'd let me finish,' says Dev, snorting in annoyance.

Anton continues to peer at Dev and realises what he's up to. The sudden spouting of knowledge is for his hero, Terry's benefit. Anton is about to add his own wisdom but catches a glimpse of the screen and points. 'Tiny Tina's about to swallow Attila's huge weapon.'

'No! Don't get all smutty at such a tense moment. Tiny Tina's about to swallow Attila's kebab knife and nothing else,' says Dev, smiling at Terry.

'Sorry, but I can't bear to watch,' says Anton, closing his eyes.

'Don't be squeamish. That's not a real knife,' says Dev, suddenly gasping. 'Should there be blood running out the bottom of Tiny Tina's jumpsuit? I don't like the way Attila keeps twisting the knife handle.'

'Shut up, man, I think I'm gonna vomit.'

'Oh no!' shouts Dev, his eyes wide in disbelief.

Tiny Tina has regurgitated the knife. It shot into the air and landed on the stage at her feet. Feigning taking a bow, the small woman grabbed it, and in a fluid movement, jumped, and beheaded Attila.

'Shite, she cut his head off,' says Dev, impressed on seeing another mini-decapitator. 'Whoa, now she's playing keepy-uppy with it,' he adds, in awe.

Anton dares a peak at their screen. 'Did I hear Tiny Tina say, " _out-fidels?_ "'

'You did and maybe she's making a stand against bad people who lack the courage to face up to their own short-comings. Maybe she were being the bigger person ... or maybe not,' says Dev, turning away. 'That's nasty man. She just squatted and peed on Attila's corpse. That were a bit uncalled for.'

Anton agrees. 'Aye, no matter what we think of bad people, we should never pee on their decapitated bodies. We're better than that.'

'We are. We should only ever spit on bad people.'

'Damn right, brother!' growls Anton.

With Tiny Tina departed, Complex cleaners are put to work. Such is their efficiency, the stage is blood and corpse free in no time. Most likely it's due to all the practice they've had.

Lord Terry emerges from behind the curtain and strolls confidently forward on the stage. 'Wasn't that great? Now, when I was growing up in I-land, many a time I strolled through the hills ...'

Two heads are peering around the side of the curtain.

'Blimey Dev, Lord Terry's right good at winging it. I'm glad he's semi-retired. Should we try to learn from him?' asks Anton, his eyes shining in wonder.

'How do you think I managed to win so many awards?' answers Dev, equally mesmerised.

Anton nods, not in the least bit bothered his brother said "I" instead of "we".

As they stare at the personification of perfect presenting, both are making mental notes. Every word sliding off Terry's silver tongue is listened to intently. The man continues to wing it, with barely a pause for breath, but eventually he gets back to the show.

'Please welcome the second act on stage. It's Gimp Jism!' says Terry.

Anton can only shake his head. 'How does he do it, presenting on the hoof like that?'

'I've no idea, man,' whispers Dev, respect tinting every word. Gimp Jism are performing their rendition of, _It Takes Two_ , though the title has been changed to, _It Takes Five_. It isn't a long song and thankfully, the new lyricist was sitting in row BS, seat 22, and is unlikely to defile any other timeless classics in the future.

Behind the curtain, Anton's shaking his head. 'How did those wan... wanton ice-cream lovers ever get this far?' he asks, turning to Dev. 'Are you wearing earplugs?'

Dev smiles at his brother and raises a thumb.

'That's unfair. If I've got to listen so can you,' says Anton, pulling an earplug free.

Dev swears and comes close to lashing out. 'You daft twat! That were the Secret Aural Voice Locator earplug, I were trying to find it again. Now I've got to start over.'

Anton sees the fine wire connecting the earplug to the weapon. Sheepishly, he passes it to Dev who snatches it back. 'Sorry, I weren't thinking,' he says, looking ashamed.

'No, you never do, do you? Honestly brother, sometimes ...' says Dev, pausing. 'What's that flipping noise?'

'It's Gimp Jism. Can I borrow your weapon?'

'No, you're not responsible enough, and anyway, you can't shoot them.'

'I were thinking of shooting myself,' says Anton.

Dev has a finger raised, nearly pushed up his brother's nose. As he glares, his body spasms, as if somebody has walked over his grave. His eyes fly wide and he yelps.

'Are you okay?' asks Anton, looking on in concern.

'I feel right weird. I _whoa_!' exclaims Dev, sweat suddenly erupting across his face.

'You're worrying me. What's happening?' asks Anton, his concern notching up.

'Shite man, my head feels right fuzzy and I can hear a weird noise.'

'That's Gimp Jism, they're flipping shite.'

Dev growls. 'Shut up man. I think I'm gonna vomit.'

'Gimp Jism again.'

'Anton! It's ... it's like a presence has entered my body.'

Anton opens his mouth to speak but closes it again. He can't feel anything himself, which is strange considering they're conjoined. 'Dev?'

'I can hear Scottish music in my head and I'm seeing tartan,' says Dev, with a faraway look in his eyes.

Anton's heart leaps, so this is it, at last. He composes himself, knowing the next words from his mouth must be considered, intellectual and calming. 'Fucking hell man, you're remembering the learning of our Sensei, Jocky Chan!'

b'I'm what? I'm, I ...' stammers Dev, and his head drops to his chest. Instantly, it rises and turns.

Anton gasps, noting tartan flecks flitting across his brother's eyeballs. There can be no doubt. The memory adjusting spell is breaking and Dev's remembering.

'Ye wait here brother, I cannae concentrate with them bairns screaming. Hoots, I'll be back in a wee second,' says Dev, his chest puffed and fists clenched.

Anton simply nods, lost for words, and they move onto the stage. He can't bear to watch so closes his eyes but he can hear well enough. Knowing the Dev of old, and the teaching of Sensei Jocky, it's obvious his brother has employed the _Migratory Spuggy Single-Finger-Inch-Jab_ , genetically inherited from his father, Toon-Fan 'Bruise' Lee. He can feel Dev's torso twisting and turning as he sets his lethal index fingers to work. Moments later, they're back behind the stage curtain. Anton opens one eye and looks at their screen. The members of Gimp Jism are flat out and covered in a sticky liquid; their ice-creams having melted due to the furious assault. He glances at Dev and sees his eyes have returned to their normal colour, the tartan flecks gone.

Dev is looking at the screen, a little confused. 'The racket has stopped, that's a relief. What happened, another technical fault?'

Anton licks his lips and calms his breathing. 'Dev, you just gave Gimp Jism a beating. You ... oh hold on, Terry's back.'

The man is walking slowly across the stage, his eyes flitting between the judges and the twins. For the first time, the smile is wavering. 'Well, errr, that reminded me of the UQ Europaliavision entry of 1976, though I can't recall the brightly suited _Brotherhood of Humanity_ getting such a pasting,' he says, now sounding far less certain of himself. 'I recall that during my UQBC radio show, a member of a faith would come in, and we'd take a moment to "Pause for Thought". It was an opportunity for a religious leader, from whichever faith, to present a teaching. I'm happy to say I have such a person with me now, splendidly attired in a white suit. Thank you for coming and you are ...?'

'I'm God.'

Terry's smile stays put but his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. 'That's marvellous and, errr, which faith are you representing?'

'Every single one, Terry.'

'That's fantastic, God. That's ... it's ...'

'Terry, let me stop you there as a man of your standing should never have to deal with the likes of me, not until it's your time of course,' says God, aiming his next words directly at Duke Cowely. 'I'm God and here's my "Pause for Thought". Whoever you are, I know you. Whatever you say, I hear you. Wherever you are, I see you. Whatever you do, I shall bear witness. I am God, the only God, and when you mess with humanity, I'm obliged to take action. I'm watching everything that happens here tonight and only I can show mercy,' he says, flourishing his Staff of Justice as he fades into the ether.

Terry's walking backwards, slowly. 'I'm off lads, best of luck with the rest of the show,' he says to Anton Dev, and being a man of acute intelligence, races from the stage. He flees the Complex avoiding everything the SAV can place in his way.

Behind a large table, only three judges can be seen. The fourth, Walshy Loo, has slunk away taking his modelling plastic with him. The fall of Gimp Jism, his remaining act, was a sign and the appearance of God focused his mind. Even boring knows when to be sensible.

Anton Dev waits behind their curtain, aghast on seeing Terry scarper. The lack of professionalism is astounding and neither can believe their eyes. Still, the show must go on and they muster onto the stage. It's Dev who speaks. 'Next up, it's The Shat Cat!'

'Dev, you winged it and that were brilliant,' whispers Anton, grinning in admiration.

'Ah, thanks man. That means a lot.'

Joanne appears, carrying the Shat Cat. Since the previous round a low plinth has been built and a lackey has placed it at the front of the stage. Joanne's whispering into the moggy's ear and the cat is listening - not at all.

His only consideration is whether to scratch Joanne on the lip, the cheek, or go for the eyeball. It would be cruel, he knows, but servants are two-a-penny. She may feed him but there's more to life than food. There's ... he pauses on seeing a gilded plinth, fit for the finest of felines. Peering sideways, with disdain obviously, he sees his servant smiling widely.

Very well, thinks Dumper, but this will be the last time. Joanne places him down and he saunters onto the plinth, lowers his rear end and performs.

'Dev, do you think you can keep up this presenting on the hoof?' asks Anton.

'It'll be tricky but I'll ... bloody hell!' exclaims Dev, staring at the private screen.

' _Arghhh_ , is Duke Cowely coming for us?'

'No man, I'm watching The Shat Cat.'

Anton turns and observes the screen. 'No flipping way!'

'Way, look at that! He's pooping out the Manhattan skyline.'

'I love what's he's doing with the light and shadows,' says Anton, whistling in admiration.

'Aye, and look at that tall building. He can't reach and Joanne's put a stool beneath him.'

'Isn't that cheating, he's meant to make his own stools?'

Dev refuses to answer such a daft question and continues to watch. Eventually, the Shat Cat is done, and Dev takes a peak at the judges' table. Certainly, Duke Cowely's not impressed but that's to be expected as it was Keryl's act.

The brothers retake the stage and Anton introduces the last performer. 'Please put your hands together for Alli Kayeeda!'

The shrouded woman walks onto stage, only her eyes showing through her black garb and she waits for her cue. There is none so she starts to sing, acappello. After the first few lines there is movement as a man wades forward, through an ever deepening pool of rainwater in the orchestra pit. Once again, the conductor is at the fore. He raises a baton and conducts the few remaining musicians. Strangely, the accompaniment sounds better than it has all night.

'Oh man, it's making me cry,' says Anton, sniffing damply.

'Aye, and I've never heard the _Prodigal 's, Smash my Pitch Up_ sung so sweetly. It's right moving.'

'I'm joining in,' says Anton, singing loudly. ' _Smash my pitch up; it 's a stitch up, whoahhh!_'

At first Dev isn't impressed, but thinks, what the hell. Anton can have his moment, only a moment though. He has one eye on Duke Cowely and the man is visibly growing. Dev rubs his eyes and looks again, but no, he wasn't mistaken.

' _Buh-buh-ba-bow-ba-bow, whoahhh, whoahhh, smash my pitch up ..._'

Anton receives an elbow to the ribs from Dev. 'Brother, you need to get with it.'

' _Owww_ , that hurt. What's up?'

Dev points to the judges' table. 'Look at Duke Cowely.'

'What about ... shite man, he's getting bigger. I've got your back.'

'You've got my side, Anton. There can be no other way.'
Chapter Thirty Four

The Duke Who Would Be King

Anton and Dev are witnessing the stuff of nightmares. The show, from start to finish, has been frantic, frenetic, and loud, but that's nothing compared to the fantastical roar currently overwhelming the Complex. Sadly, for those still surviving, the running order is about to be consigned to the sewers.

'Holy flipping fuck!' shouts Dev.

Duke Cowely's body has expanded fifty fold, sprouted dozens of extra limbs and his head has disappeared. As he continues to grow, his guttural roaring increases.

Dev's mouth is dry. 'Duke Cowely looks like some kind of demonic multi-limbed monster.'

'No change there then,' says Anton, adding a frightened chuckle.

'Good one but quit the smart-arse comments,' says Dev, gaping at the huge, new Duke. He slowly moves a hand down to his strap-on weapon trigger handle.

'Shite man, his testicles are reaching towards us!' shouts Anton, sounding terrified.

'They're tentacles and look at the suckers on them,' says Dev, as he takes in the un-glory of what might be described as a dodeca-multi-pus.

'Can we run, brother?' pleads Anton, attempting to turn.

'No, we're professionals. We can't run,' says Dev, somewhat calmly. He strokes the barrels of the _Koch-Licher_ weapon and snarls at the massive, turgid Duke with its grasping, suckered limbs and a newly grown gaping maw sporting thousands of pointy teeth.

'Dev, I really think we should run,' insists Anton, but his brother still won't move.

'We can't. I've got that tartan sensation back. I'm feeling calmness within.'

'Please man, I'm right scared,' stammers Anton, hands pressed to his high forehead.

'Ye'll be fine Anton, we cannae run as I'm sensing something ... Gaelic,' says Dev, seeing multi-coloured tartan lights. 'Och, I'll nay run from Duke Cowely but ye go if ye want. I'll think nothing less of ye.'

'You just said "ye" and "och." You're remembering again,' says Anton, staring at his brother.

'Aye,' says Dev, unexpectedly bursting into song. ' _Duke man where 's yer troosers?_'

Anton has always been certain of one thing, that Dev would remember when the time was right. He also knows his brother possesses one of the best singing voices ever but had no idea his remembering might involve using it. Dev's past; the singing and the teaching of Jocky Chan are clashing together, like a big girl's buttocks do on standing up. Memories long forgotten are fighting for precedence which for Anton isn't concerning but being joined to a singing, Scottish martial arts lunatic is jangling his nerves to the limit. He knows he has to go with it. The Buggerist Monks said the memory recall might be strange but this? 'Dev, that's great man but I think we should get out of here,' he says, seeing flailing testicles getting ever closer.

'Nay wee bairn,' says Dev, and like any true warrior going into battle, the need for a rousing tune is essential. He sings, heartily. ' _I would walk five hundred miles and I would walk five hundred more. When you go, will you send back a letter from the right big island of America?_ '

Dev is marching on the spot and there's nothing Anton can do to stop it. He keeps his eyes firmly on Dev. 'You're remembering but could you speed it up a bit.'

' _Let the wind blow high, let the wind blow low ..._'

'I'm not joking, hurry up!' shouts Anton, his fear filtering down to his bowels.

' _We 'll tak a cup o'kindness ..._'

'Don't you dare do another verse,' growls Anton, peering back at the Duke, seeing bloated testicles spreading in all directions. The largest are already on the stage and not far short of them. He prepares to scream but strong words still him.

'Anton wee bairn,' begins Dev, his voice calm despite the daft Scottish accent. 'I've had an epiphany.'

'Aye, our trousers are soaked, now shoot the bastard!'

Dev performs a head tilt to the left and his neck clicks. He does the same to the right before staring intently at the overblown Duke. As testicles, or tentacles possibly, slither forward, a whirr and a hum is heard, followed by a prolonged trigger press.

Anton's visibly relieved and doesn't care Dev is singing again, however inappropriate. At least there's a part of his own personality shining through.

' _I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my nose. Love is all around me, and I can 't feel my toes_,' croons Dev, and as expected the singing is beautiful but the _Koch-Licher_ weapon is drowning it out with its high-pitched, devastating retort.

Anton can hear and feel every word though. His heart skips and he grins. 'Oh man, you're quoting Sensei Jocky's favourite group - _Soggy Damp Moist._ '

' _It 's written on the wind, Anton brother, it's everywhere I go, yes it fucking is._'

The firing continues and the smell of burning evil is indeed, on the wind. The shattered pieces of testicles are all over the stage, with some flying into the orchestra pit, hitting the back of the conductor who has started to cry. The thick green blood, if it is blood, is spraying into the VIP enclosure and the hellish form is starting to disintegrate.

' _So if you really want me, go on and let it show_ ,' continues Dev, his firing unwavering.

'Holy crap, I'm right proud of you!' shouts Anton and he can't help joining in, their past singing career catching up on him. ' _You know I like you, I always will. I 'm right made up by the way that I feel. There's no beginning but let's hope there'll be an end._'

Dev's torso is shaking as his finger sticks rigidly to the trigger of the magnificent weapon. The barrels are a blur as they glow the colour of a clear autumn sunset. The Duke is taking a horrendous battering; its maw spitting blood and teeth in all directions.

Dev wonders how much more it can take but that becomes a moot point as the sound of super-sonic projectiles halts. The carousel is empty and all that can be heard is a persistent whirr and hum of revolving barrels. 'Fuck it!' he growls, his Scottish accent gone.

'What Dev? I really do like you.'

'No man, we're out of ammunition and it's not dead. It's reforming!'

The Duke is pulling the multitude of damaged appendages into its cavernous mouth, at the same time extruding new, intact ones. Broken teeth are re-growing and a huge, blood-shot eye has opened above the mouth. It peers at the conjoined twins and the beast emits a grating laugh. 'Anton Dev you freaks, do you see my testicles?'

'Do you mean tentacles, Duke Cowely?' asks Dev, soon wishing he hadn't.

'I mean what I say and nobody messes with me! I'm King Cowely and here's some free advice. Never bring a _Koch-Licher Double-Barrel Mini-Decapitator_ to a _Koch-Licher Treble-Barrel Maxi-Disintegrator_ , talent show.'

The twins shriek loudly as dozens of weapons, similar to their own, appear on the newly grown appendages. The only difference is each has an extra barrel within the coils.

'It's got better guns than us Dev!'

'I see the guns,' says Dev, calmly.

'Good, can we run now?'

'Aye brother, five hundred fucking miles!' exclaims Dev, not so calmly.

The beast formerly known as Duke Cowely opens up with his _Koch-Licher Treble-Barrel Maxi-Disintegrators_ , all sixty six of them.
Chapter Thirty Five

Black Box Magic Pixies

Whether by luck or by judgement the conjoined twins make it into the Gubbins before being _Maxi-Disintegrated_. They're somewhat surprised, but never look a gift imaginary horse in the mouth. Both are puffing hard and they're well short of making the relative safety of their campervan home.

'Flipping 'eck, Dev, I've never been so scared.'

'Me too man, this is right fucked up,' scowls Dev, through ragged breaths.

'No, you don't understand. I'm scared because we haven't had the last of the special guests on and there's the Finalest Final, Honestly results to read out. By running away we might not win this year's Best Presenter award. The public don't like cowards.'

'Anton, we've just been shot at by a hell-pit wannabe King that were pretending to be Duke Cowely,' says Dev, but his fear quickly gives way to thinking. 'Ah, you've got a point. We must win our twentieth in a row Best Presenter award. We need a plan. Crap, it were so much easier when ...'

Anton doesn't like the sudden pause or the wide-eyed expression on his brother's face. He decides not to look where Dev is looking, but asks. 'What is it?'

'Don't move a muscle, security's coming and they don't look nice.'

'Security's never looked nice,' says Anton, unable to help himself.

'Not funny. The officers seem right ugly and don't say it!'

Anton keeps his lips tightly closed and waits for Dev to continue.

'What the ...?' begins Dev, pointing. 'Look at that officer there.'

Anton reluctantly turns, immediately seeing what Dev means, but he has trouble understanding what he is witnessing. Why though, is anybody's guess, considering current events?

The officer, one of many, is unmoving, as if in stasis. That in itself is strange but stranger still is a skinny, purple creature climbing up her arm. It's the size of a man's thumb and the critter appears to have emerged from the top of the officer's belted radio.

The brothers stare as it reaches the shoulder, jumps upwards, pushes itself into the officer's ear and disappears inside. Moments later the officer's head starts to shake.

'I know I shouldn't but can I say something stupid?' asks Anton.

'Brother, anything you say right now would be sensible, but no you can't. I'm going to say it. I've got a feeling we're about to face pixie-brained security officers.'

'They've always been pix...'

Dev interrupts with a waved hand. 'No, not this time. This is too serious to piss around.'

The dozens of officers lift their balled fists and stare at the conjoined twins. An evil little face can be seen staring through an eye of each. The officers speak as one. 'We no hurt you. We no take you prisoner. We kill you Anton Dev!'

Anton gulps. 'Is it just me or were you expecting that.'

Dev isn't listening as he's searching for a way out. 'Quick, get in that handily located _Temp-a-Kabin ™_ over there and lock the door,' he says, pointing to an open doorway.

The twins up-knees, run toward the structure and throw themselves inside. Swiftly they slam the door and reach for the lock; which doesn't exist. Dev can feel Anton's panic rising and knows he has to remain calm. He turns, takes in the room, and realises where they are. It's the restaurant and a plan forms in his mind, a stupid one obviously. 'Quick, help me put the bodies of Dame Edina and the chefs against the door.'

Anton feels his panic ratcheting up a notch. 'You what?'

'Just help me,' insists Dev. 'I know it's daft but there's nothing else we can use.'

Anton doesn't question and chooses to trust his brother. They push heavy tables out of the way and manhandle their intended obstructions against the closed door, placing Dame Edina on the bottom, him, or her, being the heaviest.

'They won't hold for long,' says Anton, wondering if they'll hold at all. He shudders on hearing the first bash on the door which shifts the corpses a few millimetres.

'They don't need to, I've got a ...' but Dev pauses on hearing another sound he's not impressed with. He looks to the kitchen, where the strip lighting is blinking and fizzing, creating an eerie and alternating light-dark scene.

'Dev, do something!' shouts Anton, seeing the blocked door slowly being forced open.

'Hush, I can hear something,' says Dev, seeing intermittent flashes of someone moving through the kitchen. At first he can't make them out but a longer light exposure reveals them in all their terrifying glory. He recognises the white chef's jacket of their martial arts sister, Moneekar. He doesn't need to point it out to Anton as the woman announces herself.

'Me gonna bloody hurt you!' she shouts.

Anton squeals. 'Shite, its Moneekar, and she won't have remembered who she really is yet. Run man!'

Dev stares at the woman, her face creased in a rictus of what appears to be pain. She raises a balled fist and smashes it down on a stainless steel worktop, buckling the surface.

'We need to run!' insists Anton, sounding hysterical.

Dev makes eye contact with the snarling woman and a long-forgotten memory floods his mind. He smiles. 'She won't hurt us, I remember now. I'm going to sing to her.'

'You fucking what?' shouts Anton, his eyes flitting between the tough woman and the gradually opening restaurant entrance. He knows his brother has turned loony for sure when he hears sweet singing at a very inappropriate time.

' _Nobody does it better, makes me feel sad for the rest_ ,' sings Dev.

Moneekar pauses in her crushing of a set of coloured chopping boards. Her eyes narrow and she stares at the brothers. Her scowl relaxes and astonishingly, the beginnings of a smile are flicking around the edges of her mouth.

'Dev, this is right dangerous,' says Anton. 'I hope you know what you're doing. I'm nearly crapping myself and security's close to getting in.'

'Trust me, brother. She'll remember this song for sure,' says Dev, continuing his ballad. ' _Nobody does it, half as good as you, Moneekar lass, you 're the best._'

The tough woman sniffs loudly and dabs at her eyes with a corner of blue chopping board. Whatever Dev remembers, it's having the desired effect as Moneekar is grinning, which is only a tad less scary than her scowl. 'Me Moneekar and me the best. Me not hurt you. Me given job of protecting you and me not fail. Can you sing more, as me remember our nights together?'

'Is there something I should know?' asks Anton, glancing slyly sideways.

'It weren't like that, man. I better keep singing,' says Dev, continuing. ' _Whenever you hold me, there 's some kind of magic, inside you. Baby, you're the best!_'

Moneekar yells with happiness. Reaching up she pulls out her SAV earpiece and crushes it in her fist. Instantly, pain envelops her body, she doubles over and sweat pours like a waterfall from her face. Slowly she rises and looks at her trembling hands. 'What the bloody hell happened to me?'

Anton's the first to speak. 'Moneekar, it's us, Anton Dev.'

The woman's head whips round and she sees two men stuck together. Her head's pounding in confusion. 'Anton ... Dev?'

'Aye lass it's us,' says Dev, smiling widely. 'You were being controlled by evil but it's gone now. You took out the earpiece.'

'I did what?' asks Moneekar, peering down at a foul, red stain on her hand.

'Sister, we haven't got much time. What do you remember?' pleads Anton.

The woman grips her head as memories explode and not just those of being at the show. A much older recollection batters her skull, and she recalls a volcanic stack mounted Monastery on the island of Thailand. She remembers her brothers and takes a closer look at them. 'Why are you glued together?'

Anton smiles on knowing she at least remembers something. 'There's no time to explain. We need your help. Do you remember what you were trained for?'

The memories keep coming, thrashing together, and with the earpiece gone, her thoughts are starting to make sense. Finally, the memory of her brothers joining blossoms in her skull. 'Yeah, I know what I was sent here for and you're right, Dev. Baby, I am the best. Now get lost, I'll deal with these bastards.'

As Anton Dev escapes through the kitchen the restaurant door flies open and the pixie-infiltrated officers bundle in. As expected, the prone bodies of two exceptional chefs and a weird, transvestite Dame were unable to keep them at bay.

An extremely hard-hitting Assistant Chef glowers at the officers. She smashes her fists together, tenses her muscular frame and her chef jacket rips along its seams. She smashes through the servery counter, not around it, and her eyes flare as she impolitely forces the nearest officer to leave the restaurant via a window. 'I remember something else. Sensei Jocky gave me a proper martial arts name.' she growls, caving in another officer's face. 'Feel the power of the _Pissed Miss With Fists!_ '

The twins exit through the rear, leaving behind a one sided battle Moneekar has little chance of surviving. It's one against dozens and the sounds of fighting leak back through the catering unit.

'We made it,' says Anton, pausing on feeling Dev's body shake. 'You alright, man?'

'I ... I remember. You were the best Moneekar,' whispers Dev, raising hands to his damp cheeks.

Dev collapses and Anton places a brotherly arm across his shoulders. It's of little use as feeling guilty on leaving a sister to face the music alone, is a crushing emotion.

The brothers sit on the rear step, and the frightful racket from inside the restaurant has abated. Although in a precarious position, no security officers have made it through, and Anton continues to rub his brother's nearest shoulder.

'Dev, I know it hurts but we need to get with it. Duke Cowely has ...' says Anton, stopping when a man scuttles into view.

Walshy Loo is holding his bag of plastic components which are scraping on the ground. 'Thank God it's you two. I thought you might be more security, quick follow me.'

Anton peers at the former judge and considers asking how he managed to escape the judges' table without anybody noticing, but doesn't. 'You're alright Walshy, save yourself. We're going back, and okay, I'm right scared but there are still the last special guests and the Finalest Final, Honestly results to read out. I've never abandoned a show before and I'm not starting now,' he says, turning. 'Before you argue, Dev, we can't just run away when the going gets tough. We've never reneged on a contract before.'

Dev shakes his head and chuckles, but it lacks humour. 'You just said reneged.'

'Aye, and I don't know what it means but I won't run. I know the Duke thing is after us and security will rip us to shreds but it's a contract, man.'

Dev sees the fire in his brother's eyes and sighs. 'You're right. Sorry Walshy but we have to go back. What kind of multi-award winners would we be if we didn't?'

Walshy shrugs and moves away. 'Living ones most likely. Good luck, you'll need it and don't come crying to me if you get your heads ripped off.'

Dev snorts. 'Yeah, thanks Walshy, and good luck to ...'

There's a bright flash and God appears, his white eyes staring at the brothers. 'That's commendable, Anton Dev, but don't be concerned when you return to what's left of the stage. You'll come to no harm. I've located an acquaintance of mine and he'll look after you. Off you go, with all haste, as nobody ever keeps him waiting.'

The twins peer questioningly at each other, neither wanting to look God in the eye.
Chapter Thirty Six

The Prince of Darkness

An illuminated table-top button has been pressed, though perhaps pressed isn't the best description. The button has been forced downwards as has the surface of the table around it. The SAV's human hand shouldn't have managed such a thing but looks can be deceiving.

Some of it mouths are scowling, others are growling, and one or two are cursing loudly.

The possession of Security is complete and now they must take care of those surviving inside the Complex. This includes its own servants but only the possessed lackeys as they're no longer needed. In truth, it could destroy their brains using the earpieces but that would be too easy. Where's the entertainment value? The officer pixies need a workout, a bit of time to get used to their new bodies.

It peers at the viewing figure readout which is still rising but not so fast. The number has passed three point nine billion and the SAV is tempted to set the ball rolling right now but it knows that is its own bloodlust rising. It will enjoy the moment when two-thirds of the human race becomes drooling morons but it must wait.

The death of the Duke, the real Duke Cowely, is the pre-planned showstopper and that will not change. It checks on the man. He's nicely bound and going nowhere. Panning the camera, the SAV checks on the regal executioner, and she's still present, though growing more agitated by the minute.

The SAV's mouths smile as one and it uses a foot to retrieve the names list from under the desk. It doesn't bother crossing through any more but instead crumples it into a ball and throws it aside. The list is no longer important as its cards have been played. Those present will die, and those watching are so beguiled, they can't switch off.

The list lands out of sight and mysteriously unfolds. If anybody was observing, but nobody is, they would notice something odd. The word at the top, reading _Victims_ , disappears, to be replaced with another - _Heroes_. Those which have been crossed through vanish, as too those who have managed to escape, leaving very few on the page. The names of Anton and Dev remain at the top and those below, shift upwards.

New names are also added and if the SAV could see them it would not hesitate on hitting the button on its desk marked _End-Game_.

Anton Dev returns to the stage, and as they forge onwards, the words of God are repeating in their heads. What does, "nobody ever keeps him waiting," actually mean? Dev has an inkling, but Anton, he might as well be tinkling for what it's worth. With trepidation they step lightly forward but not lightly enough.

A multi-testicle horror-beast has spotted them. 'You're still alive? Well boys, your time has come. There'll be no more awards for the likes of you.'

Anton finds his voice. 'Duke Cowely sir, or whatever you are, we haven't revealed the Finalest Final, Honestly results yet. If you shoot us you'll never know for certain that your act, I mean, which of the four acts has won?'

'That's right,' adds Dev, 'and don't forget we haven't heard from the last special guests yet. If you blast us there'll be no one left to introduce them and they're all signed to your _CoSi_ record label. They make you a lot of money.'

The creature considers the words, its single eye closing to a slit as it looks suspiciously at the twins. 'You have a point, but if you try anything, I'll blast you to bits. Now get on with it!'

Anton nods and licks his lips. 'Aye man, er, thing. Next on stage is the greatest American female vocalist ever.'

'That's right,' says Dev, taking over, 'providing you don't count the ones who are better than her. For your entertainment, it's Mad-Donna!'

The lights around the stage dance every which way but that's all. There are no dancers, no orchestral music, and no crowd involvement. The dead are generally less noisy.

Anton Dev have slunk away to watch proceedings behind a shredded curtain, noting their private screen no longer exists, having been _Maxi-Disintegrated_.

Mad-Donna races onto stage and starts screaming lyrics about getting to like a virgin's groove which isn't wholly appropriate but there are no complaints. Behind their ragged curtain, the conjoined twins appear pensive.

'What are we going to do? I've not fully regained my memory yet,' says Dev.

A terrifying cacophony of _Maxi-Disintegrator_ projectiles brings the singing to an abrupt halt, and all that remains is a bra resembling two large ice-cream cones strapped together.

'Shite man!' exclaims Anton. 'I guess he doesn't need her after all.'

'Sod it, let's just introduce the next special guest and see what happens.'

'Okay, but I'm doing it from here. Please welcome for your enjoyment, or target practice maybe, it's Joustin Beiber!'

Rapid weapons fire is heard and Dev curses. 'Crap, the prat's dead already and I know it were richly deserved but it doesn't give us much time.'

'Damn, who's next?' asks Anton, his terror rising.

'There's only one more special guest and I won't introduce him,' says Dev, his emotions going into overdrive. 'He's a legend and my absolute favourite.'

'Just get him on stage, so we can scarper.'

Dev's insistent. 'No, I won't. If I do I'll have to stand in front of him and take the hit.'

'Don't talk bollocks, man. You'll get splatted while protecting one of the greatest singer-songwriters of all time.'

'Aye, but you don't have to come. Run away and save yourself.'

'I can't leave you,' says Anton, exhaling sharply.

'Just go and ...'

'I can't physically flipping leave you, and don't make me state the bleeding obvious. You're not going out there, I forbid it,' says Anton, crossing his arms and shaking his head.

Dev raises an eyebrow. 'You can't forbid me, brother.'

'Get on with it. My trigger testicles need a workout!' shouts the Duke, from out front of stage and he sounds like he's enjoying himself.

The twin's argument flies back and forth and both fail to notice a man approaching them. The newcomer is tall, wearing a black leather jacket, high healed yet non-camp basilisk-scale boots, and a dark smile which could melt tungsten. He has his thumbs tucked into his belt, behind a solid silver, deaths-head buckle with ruby eyes.

He steps forth, his dark hair flowing succulently in the breeze. He stops and looks down on the brothers, but not with contempt, only because he towers over them. Raising a hand he runs it through his sinuous black locks and when he speaks, his words can almost be seen, not just heard. 'Calm yourself lads. You leave that thing at the judges' table to me and don't worry; the last special guest will be safe.'

Anton's the first to speak. 'Who the hell are you? Don't mess with us, my brother has got a _Koch-Licher_ weapon and he'll blow you away.'

The man chuckles, darkly. 'I see, but as you're out of ammunition it's useless, unless of course you're thinking of hitting me over the head with it. That wouldn't be wise.'

'Bugger, he's rumbled us, Dev,' whispers Anton.

Dev's eyes are wider than they've ever been, almost dropping from their sockets, and he's now certain who God was referring to. 'He's rumbled you, Anton, now shut up. I've got a right strong feeling the last special guest would survive if he went on stage.'

'Why?' asks Anton, his innocence shining through.

'Look at the man's black leather jacket. The outside pocket has three numbers stitched on it in blood red thread and they're all sixes. You know what that means?'

'I hate devilish questions. Just tell me.'

Dev slowly raises his eyes. His words are croaky. 'You sir ... you're the devil.'

'Bollocks, man, don't be flipping ridiculous! The devil doesn't bloody exist,' blurts Anton.

'Remember that God appeared to Lord Terry and we just met him behind the restaurant,' says Dev, staring forcefully at his brother.

Anton, despite feigning ignorance for most of the show, knows his brain is being overwhelmed. He can handle reality but this is too much. This is unreality. He recalls the original plan. Find the evil, destroy the evil, all done and go home; simple in the extreme. 'It weren't me, mister Devil sir, whatever it is. It were someone else and I tried to sto...'

The man waves a hand and Anton's words fail, though he's still mouthing them. The tall Omni speaks. 'Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm a being of wondrous taste. I've been around for many a year and, well, you may call me Lucifer.'

'Where's my next target you turd twin freaks?' snarls the Duke, firing a swift volley into the air.

Lucifer clicks his fingers and the twins can't move. He looks at them and winks; his open eye is jet-black with a swirling crimson pool in the middle. Slowly his head turns to the front of stage, his expression changing to irritation. As yet, the Duke hasn't seen him. 'You're not going out there, lads. You've another task to fulfil. I'll deal with that thing.'

'But Duke Cowely has ordered ...'

The Price of Darkness holds a forefinger to his lips. 'That thing isn't Duke Cowely, it's a side-show, and I'll deal with it. You must tackle the Secret Aural Voice and put a stop to this travesty. Run along now. I've reloaded your ammo carousel.'

Dev tries to leave, recognising an Omni-dismissal when he hears one, but Anton's having none of it.

'So that's not Duke Cowely. I'm a bit confused,' says Anton, scratching his head.

Lucifer's lips tighten but he understands human inquisitiveness, however tiresome. Like his Anti-Omni, God, he's been watching proceedings with interest throughout the night and understands the questioning. Anton knows the plan inside out but wouldn't have been told about the Omni interventions. The Great Bellendi would have kept that to himself for good reason. Despite Lucifer not having to answer, he goes with it. 'No Anton, that's not Duke Cowely. That thing out there is a self-aggrandising monstrosity.'

'Are you sure it's not Duke Cowely then?'

'No, that thing has an over-inflated ego the size of a large moon.'

'Sorry Lucifer, but the same question again?'

'You're starting to test me, Anton. That thing believes it owns the whole Galaxy.'

Anton's face scrunches in deep thought but Lucifer has had enough. 'Listen up brothers, be gone and let me deal with it. That thing isn't Duke Cowely Simon and don't concern yourself with the last special guest. Know that I'm a fan of his and he'll be fine. Let's get this so-called talent show over and done with and only then will he perform. Do you understand? Only then, can we all go home. What say you lads and notice how red my face is becoming? If you look closely you might even see the sprouting of sharp bloody horns!'

'Dev man, we ...' begins Anton, but a hand is pressed firmly over his mouth.

'Seriously, shut up, brother! Just smile and nod politely, bow in reverence, just like me, and step away from the Prince of Darkness, as he's looking a bit pissed off. We're right gone and we hope we never see you again, ever,' says Dev, and when Anton nods, he removes his hand from his mouth.

The twins turn and race from the stage, breaking land speed records in the process.

' _Why am I waiting, you 're pontificating!_' sings the Duke, his testicles flopping in all directions.

Lucifer grins, ominously, as he casually strolls to the front of the ruined stage. He stops; the echoes of his boot-falls fading, and raises a hand to his dark hair. Brushing a few stray locks from his forehead he stares at the beast-of-many-testicles. 'Hi old friend, remember me?'

'What? Lucifer, my old boss, how ya doing you pitiful has been? You think you can stop me do ya? I'm Bulbulus, Prince-Lord of the Third Lowest Pit, now deal with this.'

Lucifer spies a trio of approaching denizens of darkness, spat from Bulbulus' cavernous mouth. The screeching, winged beasts are terrifying, but nothing new to him. He adjusts his leather jacket as he stares at the razor-sharp aerial demons. He raises an eyebrow, smiles impolitely then swiftly nods and three dirty splodges defile the stage. The Complex cleaning operatives, those still surviving, hang back, as even those on the living-wage know when not to intervene.

Lucifer sighs and shakes his head. 'Bulbulus, you bloated crap-smear, you never learn, do you?'

'You think that was all I have, Loser-Fur? See my testicles with judgement on the ends. How do you feel about facing the wrath of sixty-six _Koch-Licher Treble-Barrel Maxi-Disintegrators_? Go back to Hell, old friend!'

Lucifer sees the testicles, notes the impressive weapons, but doesn't move. For certain the firepower is imposing, almost the best, and he should know. It was he after all who provided Herr Gunter Koch-Licher with the design template. He also developed a lesser version, the _Mini-Decapitator_ , a one-off that was delivered to a campervan hours earlier by Lucifer himself. The devil incarnate smiles, content on knowing something Bulbulus doesn't.

There is an enormous, skull-crunching scream of _Koch-Licher Treble-Barrel Maxi-Disintegrator_ retorts. What follows is the instant disintegration of much of the stage, the stage cover, the lighting, the speakers, and everything else beyond, but as the bullets are travelling in a slight incline, anyone behind the stage should survive - luckily.

The scene is a true apocalyptic portrayal of Hell that no mortal creature could possibly survive. As the heat-haze and smoke slowly dissipates in the early morning breeze it reveals a being, a tall individual, with thumbs tucked behind a silver belt buckle. The Omni briefly takes in the devastation around him, then shrugs, and stares back at the Prince-Lord. 'You missed Bulbulus, old friend and it appears you've forgotten the first rule of combat.'

'No! I couldn't have missed. I couldn't, but what is the first rule, just so I know?'

'Bulby-baby, you multi-bollocked, shit-slime. The first rule of combat is this. Never, ever, bring sixty-six _Koch-Licher Treble-Barrel Maxi-Disintegrators_ to a _Koch-Licher Infinity-Barrel Mega-Repeating-Devastator_ party. In the words of the final special guest, who is yet to perform - Read 'em and Weep!' growls Lucifer, whipping out a weapon, the master of the _Koch-Licher_ fraternity, from the inside of his leather jacket. He presses a clawed red finger to the trigger and thus follows the brain-melting scream of a _Koch-Licher Infinity-Barrel Mega-Repeating-Devastator_. The noise and damage is - indescribable!
Chapter Thirty Seven

Flashbacks

Back in the Gubbins, the conjoined twins sensibly duck as the volleys of Bulbulus' bullets scream overhead, severing anything and everything that happened to be in the way.

When the lethal firing finally stops, the Gubbins is a mess, with many of the high-posted lighting rigs severely damaged. The backstage area is doused in intermittent shade with occasional fizzing sparks. It's shadowed and eerie and perfect for a localised apocalypse.

And when they hear more firing, that of Lucifer cancelling Bulbulus' land-above membership, both come close to soiling themselves.

'What the fuck was that?' asks Dev.

'Not a bloody clue, man. What are we going to do?'

'Lucifer said we need to find the SAV, nothing else. I'll use the Locator function on the weapon but we need somewhere to lay low for a bit.'

'But where?' asks Anton, turning all about. 'Look, our campervan is still in one piece.'

Dev grins. 'Well spotted, run brother, get inside.'

Unmolested by security, who are curiously absent from the Gubbins, the twins reach their home with ease. On entering, both pause and look around.

'We're not alone, brother,' says Dev, speaking softly.

'I can see that.'

The twins had intended to use the bench seat but it's already been taken by a darkly made-up woman. 'Crazy! How do you do, but shush, I'm not here?'

'Er, sure Cloudier lass,' says Dev.

The twins stare at the next interloper and their hearts lift on seeing Moneekar. 'I got hurt bad but I killed the bastard officers. I've got broken legs, broken arms, a broken spine and my chef jacket's ruined. Still, I've had worse.'

'We're all back together just like the Buggerist Monks knew we would be,' says Anton, as he prepares for a group hug, but his joy is short lived on seeing his brother's face. 'Are you alright, man? Talk to me.'

Dev's eyes have rolled, showing only whites. He can't answer as unconsciousness has hit him harder than a runaway freight train.

Dev cautiously opens his eyes and sees a volcanic stack mounted monastery. A group of young children, about five years old, are huddled together in the courtyard. Each is wearing a white robe and looking fearful. Across from them stands the tartan clad Sensei Jocky Chan. His hands are planted on his hips and he's peering scornfully down his nose at his newest pupils.

Either side of him sit small, stocky porcine-like creatures, though they're not pigs. These are _Haggi_ , the ultra-rare national animal of Scotland and their bite is much worse than their bark. Each has a tuft of red hair on the tops of their heads, curiously blue faces, and the rest of their body is bald and muscular. The creatures are growling threateningly but they won't attack, unless their master tells them to.

The master, Sensei Jocky Chan, is unimpressed at what he sees. 'Hoots ye wee bairns. I'm your Sensei, and if ye take the piss out of my tartan skirt I'll beat ye to a pulp. Right then, Dev, step forward and give me yer best shot.'

'Jocky sir, I don't understand,' says young Dev, walking forward but suddenly hurtling back as a too-fast-to-see punch, connects.

'Call me Sensei, now stop blubbing and attack me!' shouts Jocky, now crouched with his fists clenched.

'That really hurt Mister ...' cries Dev, but his words are curtailed by a forceful elbow to the shoulder followed by an uppercut to the jaw. He lands heavily in a heap.

'I said call me Sensei!' growls Jocky, threateningly. 'Now attack me like ye mean it.'

The small and frightened Dev does the only thing he can in the face of brutal superiority. He lies still on the courtyard flagstones, rubs his hurt bits, and blubs.

Jocky flicks his tartan sporran and sneers. 'Ye're a cry-baby, Dev. Right, who's next? Come on wee Cloudier, take that dummy out and attack me.'

'Hello Jocky, this is a bit bonkers isn't ... _arghhh, owww, eeek, wahhh, wahhh!_ '

Jocky's attack was swift and powerful, a blur to the naked eye. 'Damn snivelling girlies the wee lot of ye. Who's next? Moneekar, hurt me. Come on!'

'I don't want to fight, I want to be an assistant chef when I grow up,' says Moneekar, smiling meekly.

Sensei Jocky pauses magnificently in mid-flight, and pulls his foot back. His interest is piqued and he wafts to the ground. He peers through half-closed eyes. 'Ye wanna be an assistant chef? Let me tell ye, Moneekar bairn. When evil shows up it needs to be given a brutal beating, not a well-seasoned steak!'

'But I like cook... _arghhh, wahhh, wahhh!_ '

Sensei Jocky unclenches his fists and backs off, but not far. He stares at his next victim, pupil perhaps.

'What about ye, Anton? Do ye ... hah,' exclaims Jocky, watching the boy run away. 'Ye can run but ye cannae hide. Ye ... shite, ye can hide. Where are ye?'

Jocky's a little perplexed but secretly pleased one of the young pupils is displaying a modicum of talent. He himself is a Grandmaster in _The Way of the Unseen Neep_ , a concealing discipline it took decades to perfect. He scowls at the final pupil. 'Holy Haggi, it's the skinny, tanned runt with tattoos. What's yer name laddie, I can never remember?'

'It's Fillipo, big Sensei.'

'Well, at least ye addressed me right. Attack me boy, I bet ye dinnae get close.'

'Sensei Jocky, I'm not a fighter,' says Fillipo, bowing with respect.

Jocky lets go a flying kick to the head, combined with a punch to the stomach, then unleashes his infamous Scottish Kiss - in essence, a head-butt. Fillipo skids and bounces to the edge of the fatal drop around the stack mounted monastery. He desperately tries to cling on but his lack of strength is telling.

There's a shriek, but not Fillipo's, as Anton emerges from hiding, dives, and grabs the boy by his sleeves. 'I've got you. Help me Dev, you're my only hope.'

Dev is already moving and slides toward Anton. Fillipo's already over the edge, with Anton about to follow, but Dev grabs his legs and holds tight. 'I'm not strong enough to pull you both up.'

Back near the monastery entrance, Sensei Jocky's smirk has gone and he's watching with interest. He sees where Anton was hiding, behind a small potted palm only half his size, and nearly nods in appreciation.

Moments later, young Cloudier is on her feet and moving towards the boys. 'This is bonkers. I've got you Dev, but you're all too heavy. Moneekar!'

Each in turn feels their hips nearly dislocating as a strong child grips Cloudier and drags her backwards. The three young boys, and a girl, are pulled away from the lethal drop and all lay, breathing heavily. Sitting up, relieved looks are exchanged, and soon the five year olds are rolling about in fits of bruised giggles.

'Wow, that was mad,' laughs Cloudier, but her smile quickly fades. 'I hate Jocky. He's horrible, like a crazy bag of frogs.'

Jocky snorts as he turns and re-enters the monastery, his Haggi bustling around his legs. He speaks, but only so loud he can hear. 'Aye, they'll do.'

The imagery fades and Dev finds himself in another place. Well, actually it's the same place but there are subtle differences. Again the hard as nails, chequered-skirt wearing Sensei is standing in the monastery courtyard. His red hair's tied in a ponytail and there are flecks of grey running through it. 'Are ye ready for today's lesson?' he asks.

'Yes Sensei,' answer the ten year old pupils, each bowing deeply.

Jocky eyes them in turn, a little proudly, but he's making a fine effort of not showing it. 'So be it. Imagine I've got a big gun in my hands. How are ye going to fight me? Dev, step up.'

Dev races forward. 'Yes Sensei.'

'How are ye going to fight me, Dev?'

'Sensei, I can't fight you as you have a big imaginary gun. I'd lose.'

'Hah! Hoots Dev, ye're learning. Okay, given your surroundings, could ye fight me?'

'I couldn't Sensei,' says Dev, daring a sneaky peek back at his friends, 'unless ...'

'Unless what?'

'Unless my sisters and brothers could help me.'

'I mentioned your surroundings, Dev,' says Jocky, raising a red eyebrow.

Dev nods. 'In that case I'd ask Moneekar to ...'

Jocky scowls and flows into an imaginary-gun firing stance. 'Don't tell me, show me!'

The youngsters attack and rippling lips, imitating gunfire, are heard. Flashes of tartan flow through the group and after some finely disguised elbow and knee hits, five children are lying on the ground, soundly beaten. Jocky's standing above them, laughing. He lifts the imaginary gun-barrel to his lips and blows away imaginary smoke.

He walks back into the monastery and when out of sight, stops. He lifts the hem of his chequered skirt and notes an angry bruise on his thigh. Never before has such a young group managed to get a hit on him. He chuckles and continues on.

Dev's memory shifts again. Five pupils in their middle teens are standing in a row. Sensei Jocky is before them, his tied hair mostly grey, but he still looks bastard hard. He eyes each one in turn before settling on the shortest. 'Step forward, Cloudier.'

'Try me, Sensei big boy,' says Cloudier, taking two paces forward and bowing.

Jocky Chan, in the face of a very inappropriate comment, frowns. 'Ye ken ye shouldnae address me like that, lassie.'

Cloudier smiles, innocently-ish. 'Sorry Sensei, but you can tell your good friend ken to look into my eyes, if he dares.'

Jocky nods and points a finger. 'Ye see that shop-dummy over there, just short of the thousand foot drop. Show me what ye can do.'

Cloudier turns and stares at the dummy through black-painted eyes. She flutters her pretty lashes and takes a monumentally deep breath. 'Bonkkkeeerrrssssss!' she screams, as a compact whirlwind erupts from her outstretched hands and envelops the dummy. The head goes up, the body goes out, and the limbs just go. Once in the air the pieces are enveloped and devoured by swarms of flying insects summoned by the dark dervish of a girl. All that remains is the brass stand it was attached to, swaying forlornly.

Jocky laughs loudly. 'Wee lassie, that's damn fine. From this day forth, when ye're fighting evil, ye'll no longer be Cloudier. When the time comes, and it will, ye'll go by yer martial arts name, _Howling Hurricane Harlot_. Step back my deserving mad pupil.'

Cloudier grins, then giggles inanely. 'Thank you, Sensei. I'm so happy, my make-ups running. I hope I don't look too sinister ... I mean pretty.'

Jocky points again. 'Moneekar, step forward. Do ye still wish to be an assistant chef?'

'No bloody chance, that's no longer my ambition, but I can cook and it would be a good cover. I'm bastard hard as really big, tough nails!' shouts the girl.

'Too right,' says Jocky. 'Ye see that other shop-dummy. Attack it!'

Moneekar rushes forward and unleashes a single punch, nothing more, and most certainly, nothing less. The dummy whirls outwards, and much further outwards, stopping only when striking another volcanic stack, far in the distance.

Jocky whistles in appreciation. 'From this day forth ye're no longer Moneekar, except when ye're undercover. When fighting evil ye're, _Pissed Miss With Fists_. Now get back to the kitchen as the tatties need peeling.'

'Yes, Sensei!' shouts Moneekar, running from the courtyard.

Jocky turns to the next pupil and his proud demeanour deflates. 'Fillipo, step forward ye skinny bag of crap.'

'Yes, big Sensei!'

'I've been training ye for years now and normally I'd have thrown your likes over the stack edge, but ye've got a talent. There's a brain in your head, Fillipo, now step back and I'll talk to ye later.'

'Yes, big sensei,' says Fillipo, nodding and stepping away.

'Right, Anton, step forward, ye too, Dev,' orders Jocky, his eyes flitting between the two.

The two boys bow as one. 'Yes Sensei!'

'I'm nay sure what to do with ye two. I admit that ye Dev are bastard hard, but ye Anton, aren't. Don't get me wrong, ye have a talent in hiding but normally the two go together, like twins. Take me for instance, I've both skills, and it's rare to have one without the other. Apart, ye're good, but together, ye could be unbeatable. I've called in the Big Monk Mon. He's coming in on his pterodactyl so clear a space.'

There is serious looking upwards from the pupils, followed by running from what is actually, a prehistoric flying lizard landing pad, complete with a faint red cross drawn on the flagstones. The lizard touches down and a purple-robed man dismounts. He removes his purple riding-helmet, worn for safety reasons, and bows to Jocky. It's returned.

'You called for me, Sensei,' says The Great Bellendi.

'Aye, Big Monk Mon, I did. These are the two I was telling ye about.'

The Great Bellendi stares at Anton and Dev. He considers the pair then turns back to Jocky. 'I see a way forward but it will be perilous.'

Anton runs forward, steps sideways, avoiding a huge, supposedly extinct lizard and continues on. 'Please Big Monk Mon, I don't want to be thrown to my death. I'll agree to anything.'

Dev strolls forward, oozing confidence. 'Anton, get behind me. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is throwing you to your death. They've got me to deal with and I'm watching you Sensei Jocky. I've had enough of me and my friends being bullied. Go on Sensei, make my flipping day,' he says, flowing effortlessly into the martial arts stance, _The Peed Off Spuggy_ , which is a Geordie derivative of _The Peed Off Haggi_ , as taught by Sensei Jocky.

The Great Bellendi claps his hands, delighted. 'Well said young Dev and I can assure you nobody will be thrown to their deaths. I give you my word as The Great Bellendi, the best magician, ever. We do though, have to resolve this. If you are willing, I see a way of making you one of the greatest fighters ever to exist.'

Dev lets go his fighting stance, stands and bows, wondering how two people can be one of the greatest fighters. He doesn't ponder for long. 'Okay, just do it.'

The Great Bellendi and Jocky exchange brief glances. Jocky shrugs and moves away, as the purple magician steps forward. 'Very well, stand beside each other, your hips touching.'

Dev frowns but obeys. 'Anton, come over here.'

'Sure Dev, but why?'

'I've got no fu...'

Dev's words are cut short by the magician. There's no magic wand, no incanting, but there is smoke, and an overpowering burning smell of melding flesh. Two screams fill the air and the bodies of Anton and Dev are on the ground. Actually, the body of Anton Dev is.
Chapter Thirty Eight

He's Back.

Dev's torso is flopped forward, sweat soaking his head and face, dripping onto the campervan floor. Anton is right beside him, trying to pull him upright but not succeeding. He didn't realise how heavy his brother was and he's growing more frantic by the second. 'Dev, talk to me? Wake up, man!'

Dev's eyes flutter open and he slowly rises. He looks his brother in the eye and the dampness present isn't down to recent sweating. His bottom lip quivers but he manages to force his words out. 'It's true. We're not actual conjoined brothers.'

'What, of course we're brothers,' says Anton, just about holding it together.

'No man, I've remembered. We were joined by the Great Bellendi. I've seen the truth, about us all,' says Dev, adding in a whisper. 'It really is a lie.'

Anton opens his mouth to speak, but can't find the words. The pain is unbearable but he has always known the truth. How bad must it be for Dev, who hasn't?

Moneekar speaks, her words gentle. 'It's not a lie. I've only just remembered as well, when you sang to me. They were right in keeping us hidden so evil didn't spot us.'

Cloudier giggles softly. 'My dark eyes are staring with barely concealed happiness at my darling, scrummy brothers. We had no choice, Dev, you're our only hope, apart from me of course, and Moneekar, and the Great Bellendi. Maybe Anton and Fillipo as well, but less likely, no offence.'

Dev rubs his hands through his damp blond hair and attempts to order his thoughts. His face is scrunched. It's his pained face. 'But you lied to me.'

The missing sibling intervenes, poking his head around the door of the on-board chemical toilet. Fillipo appears wary, with good reason. 'I never lied to you big Dev, not once, and please don't go off on one. I'm guessing you haven't yet remembered what happened after you and Anton were joined. If you're willing to listen and not shoot me, I'll tell you.'

Dev now knows the truth about Fillipo but old habits die hard. His hand is near the _Koch-Licher_ trigger. 'You've got one chance.'

Fillipo nods but doesn't feel brave enough to leave the cubicle. 'When you came round after the conjoining, you went a bit crazy. You launched yourself and Anton at big Sensei Jocky and powered him over the edge of the volcanic stack. As he fell he shouted; "Ye ungrateful bastard. I teach ye for all these years and this is how ye repay me. You just kicked me to my death."'

Dev shuffles his torso on hearing a near perfect impersonation of his Sensei. He peers at Fillipo. 'You must have right good hearing.'

'I have excellent hearing, big Dev, and I'm not finished. He then shouted; "Evil will be rising and ye must go back to where ye were conceived, the UQ islands. I won't be there to help, but look to each other."'

'How far were that drop?' asks Dev, suspiciously.

'A thousand feet and I'm not finished yet. Sensei Jocky added; "Defeat the evil wee pupil. Ye Dev, are the best of them, that's why The Great Bellendi will hide yer memory to fool the enemy, and it'll only return when ye really need it. If everything goes well then the Big Monk Mon will be with ye. I believe in ye Dev, I, _owww, arghhh_ , fuck that ground's hard."'

Dev turns slowly to Anton. 'Be honest, did that really happen?'

'It did,' says Anton, nodding solemnly. 'I'm sorry I lied to you.'

Dev reaches out a hand and grips Anton's shoulder. 'Hush man, I heard Fillipo's right long message. It's not your fault.'

Moneekar places her hand over Devs. 'Too bloody right. We all have a destiny to fulfil.'

'I madly agree,' says Cloudier, reaching her hand across.

Finally, Anton places his on the top but says nothing.

Dev nods but realises something is missing. 'Where's Fillipo?'

'He's scared of you and thinks you'll shoot him,' whispers Anton.

'No chance, man,' insists Dev. 'Not now I know the ...'

Four hands feel a slight pressure as the fifth, and last, presses down. The circle, the hand-stack in truth, is complete. There should really be a peel of thunder, or a telling lightning strike, but there isn't. There's nothing, other than five hearts beating as one, the sum of the parts, far more powerful than the individuals. They each know it; instinctively.

Intelligence meets madness meets strength meets concealment meets ... Devastation!

Soon enough, hands are removed and it's back to business. Fillipo is gesturing at the _Koch-Licher_ weapon but Dev's already on the case, the locator earplug back in his ear.

The group wait silently, and it's not long before Dev makes them jump with a loud exclamation. 'Got you! The bastard's in Duke Cowely's palace in the judges' compound but that's right confusing. Dilbert were in there earlier and there were no sign of an evil presence, apart from the thing pretending to be Duke Cowely. I don't get it?'

'I get it,' says Anton. 'It must mean the Secret Aural Voice is the real Duke Cowely, and he's been in his temporary home all along. What else can it be?'

Dev shakes his head. 'I'm not convinced, man. We need to get inside and have a closer look. It'll be tricky, but we're Anton Dev, the toughest conjoined presenters ever.'

'Er, actually, we're not,' says Anton.

As statements go, it appears harmless, but the thudding of hail on the roof of the campervan, sounding like small-arms fire, pauses. The thunder, which has been growling and grumbling for the past few hours, can no longer be heard. The incessant lightning flashes have taken a momentary leave of absence, and the silence is something to behold. It's as if a small part of London is holding its breath.

'What do you mean, we're not?' asks Dev.

'Well, Moneekar is _Pissed Miss With Fists_ , and Cloudier is _Howling Hurricane Harlot_. Even Fillipo has a martial arts name, _Wee Turdy Skinny Runt_ , though that's unkind.'

'Are you saying we've got a martial arts name?' asks Dev, frowning.

'Aye, a conjoined one.'

'What is it?'

Anton smiles proudly. 'Sensei Jocky named us, _Hidden Anton, Crunching Dev_.'

Dev's chest puffs out and he grins, widely. 'I like that, it sounds bastard hard,' he says, as he forces himself and Anton to the campervan door. 'Time to rumble, brother.'

The severe weather is again making its presence felt as Dev presses forward. Anton knows he must trust in his brother but is unsure on this occasion. Dev's off, faster than an athletics drug cheat.

'I'll bloody have you, you aural voice bastard!' shouts Dev, suddenly pausing. 'Shite, its right grit-coaling and I can hardly see.'

'That makes two of us,' utters a soggy Anton. 'We'd better go back.'

'No Anton, we ...' begins Dev but he pauses and despite his hindered vision, he can make out a few objects. They appear hulking, and mobile, and are shouting threatening words. He raises the _Mini-Decapitator_ , fires off a few hundred rounds, and is relieved to see bulky figures fall to the ground.

Swiftly though, others move in from all directions and the twins are being surrounded. Dev continues to fire and more officers bite the mud.

'We need to go!' shouts Anton, the pounding weather nearly drowning his words.

'Aye, but where? We've turned so much I don't know where our campervan is?'

'Fuck it, just fire and run forward. We'll ...'

Dev's trigger finger is forcefully removed from the weapon and his arm's bent behind his back. Before he can react, he hears a voice, but not through his earpiece. The voice is recognisable, very close, and he can feel warm breath on his ear. 'Stand down Dev, stop firing. The Special Associated Scouts have got this.'

A shocked Dev turns his head slowly, to look at the man behind him. At least, he peers at where he should be. 'Dilbert, is that you?'

'Sure is,' says the invisible Dilbert. 'Now watch and learn.'

'Where are ...?'

'Just watch,' insists Dilbert, releasing Dev's arm.

Dev does watch and despite the seriously inclement weather, he can see officers dropping like wet flies. Spears of violet laser-sights are everywhere, culminating on the eyes of the possessed officers, and this time, carfentanil tipped darts are not being used.

Soon the firing ceases and SAS operatives are de-cloaking. One of them places a spherical object on the ground, which lights up and an invisible dome stops the falling deluge, the downpour being forced aside.

Dev turns back to the invisible Dilbert. 'You gonna show yourself?'

'Yep, just give me a second, now where's that damn night-shadow device?'

'It was in your training, Dilbert,' says another familiar voice, a short-haired man, wearing a green woggle and dressed in navy and light blue scout fatigues, stepping before the twins. 'Seriously, can't you remember? It was on page nine of the training manual. Please tell me you read it.'

'What? Of course I read the manual, Richard, but page nine was missing. It went straight from eight to ten.'

Richard shakes his head, reaches past the twins, and disables Dilbert's stealth mode.

'Oh right, that's it,' says Dilbert, looking down at the night-shadow button on his SAS standard-issue belt. 'I thought it was, but we can't be too careful.'

'No Third Lieutenant Dilbert, we can't, and that's Colonel Richard, if you don't mind.'

Anton and Dev look at each other as a spoken word has stood out.

' _Third_ Lieutenant Dilbert?' asks Anton, the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

'Ah, well, yes,' begins an annoyed Dilbert, 'but I'll rapidly rise through the ranks.'

'Then you'll be Second Lieutenant,' says Dev, winking at the man.

Dilbert laughs sarcastically. 'Or First Lieutenant, thus gaining my rightful place.'

'But you're third at the moment,' says Dev, nodding.

Dilbert stares daggers at the brothers, before turning to his ex-cameraman. He shields his mouth, hoping Anton Dev can't hear. 'You bastard, you did this on purpose. I was happy being a private, but no, I had to be Third Lieutenant. I'll get you for this.'

Colonel Richard salutes, his expression epitomising stoic solidity. 'I've no idea what you mean. Your promotion was well deserved and you're well on the way to making Captain, Third Captain most likely.'

Dilbert brushes melting hail from his scout fatigues and forgoes removing a foldaway compact mirror from his SAS standard-issue belt. He glares, turns, and stomps away.

Dev watches Dilbert leave then turns to the Colonel. 'So what's going on?'

'I'm not at liberty to say but know the enemy has been stifled. The SAV intended to take over the planet but that's no longer possible. Any signal it sends will be intercepted but it has no idea.'

'And what does that mean?' asks a confused Dev.

'I'm not at liberty to say, orders from above, I'm sure you understand. However, you must face the SAV and destroy it, with the utmost prejudice. The thing is evil in its purest form and you mustn't hesitate. You'll be sending an important message to ... others.'

Anton raises a hand, which isn't really necessary. 'Colonel Richard, I know I'm being daft, but why don't you take it down? You're well-armed.'

The Colonel looks at an imaginary watch on his wrist. 'Is that the time? I really must be off. Best of luck,' he says, saluting sharply, and moving away.

Anton and Dev both shrug, and walk sluggishly through the mud, back to their home. Both are unbloodied, yet very moist.

Dilbert has waited for his old friend, despite his irritation. When the man is beside him, he turns towards the Complex perimeter. 'I can't believe you, Richard.'

'That's Colonel Richard.'

'Blah, blah, whatever! Do you really think they can take out what's waiting for them?'

'Ah, you remembered that part, well done.'

'Don't patronise me, now let's get moving.'

'To where, Dilbert?'

'To the perimeter where we'll wait for events to unfold. It was in the manual, page thirteen, I believe.'

Colonel Richard chuckles, recalling the doctored manual he gave his old friend. He locks eyes with the man. 'Dilbert, if you take a single step toward the perimeter, I'll put a bullet through your brain. Admittedly, I'll have to shoot a few times to find it but you move a fucking inch and you're dog-meat.'

'Richard, did you just swear? We're SAS, and it wouldn't do for us to swear, or intervene.'

'Bullcrap, have you forgotten our motto?'

'Of course not but er, remind me. That page of the training manual was also missing.'

' _Who Shares Wins_ , or in this case - _Twins_.'

'I see, so we can't retreat.'

'No Dilbert, we can't.'

'We're in the thick of it then.'

'Yes we are.'

'Has anybody ever told you you're a git, Richard?'

'Every single day of my life, now lock and load. Here come more pixie-brained officers.'
Chapter Thirty Nine

Dev's Reality Check

As the stout and competent operatives of the SAS melt into the night, a nearby orange and white campervan can be seen. No light's shining from the windows though, due to decent blackout curtains. But there is life inside, the conjoined twins are seated and look as if they've been for a dip in a shark pool. Their spangley shirts are sodden, most of the sequins have fallen off, and the letters on the front are peeling away.

'Dev man, what's the plan?' asks Anton, taking a towel from Fillipo.

'How should I know?' grumbles Dev. 'I'm one half of an award winning presenter who's just found out he's a martial arts expert trained to fight evil.'

'Aye, but what's the plan?'

'I don't know!' shouts Dev in annoyance, and he holds a hand out. 'Fillipo, give me a towel.'

Fillipo says nothing and passes Dev a towel, despite the unfriendly order.

'We can't hide in the campervan forever,' says Moneekar. 'What's the plan?'

Dev bites his lip, preventing juicy swearwords becoming audible. 'Moneekar lass, I haven't got a flipping plan.'

'Crazy! What's the ...?'

Fists are balled and Dev shouts loud. 'For fuck sake Cloudier, if you ask me what the plan is, I'll tell everyone you're married, have three children, and are right sensible!'

Cloudier reels, her dark eyes fluttering in fear as her reputation is on the line. 'S-sorry Dev ... you wouldn't, would you?'

Anton glares at his brother and his fists are balled. 'You rotten bastard! You crushed Cloudier's confidence just like Sensei Jocky used to,' he growls, turning sympathetically to the woman. 'It's okay lass, we all know your bonkers, so don't cry. You're as barking as a shed full of jumping toads with no sense of direction. Don't listen to Dev, he's an arsehole.'

'Don't talk about me like that. I'll wallop you,' says Dev, pushing his head towards Anton's.

Whether sensible or not, an intervention is required.

'Big Anton Dev, don't fight,' says Fillipo, not getting too close. 'I have a plan.'

Dev sneers. 'Sod off Fillipo you useless twa...'

The following noise isn't pretty but for some, it's been a long time coming. Dev is staring, with mouth wide open, as he gently moves his jaw to and fro, checking it isn't broken. Anton's punch was powerful; more so than Dev would have considered possible. 'You just hit me, right hard,' he says, a little shocked.

'Aye, and you'll get another if you insult my friends again,' snarls Anton, with real anger.

'But they're my friends as well.'

'Then treat them so, unless you want another whack.'

'No offence, but you're a wimp,' says Dev, wide-eyed and unbelieving.

'You think I'm a flipping wimp!' screams Anton, as he glares at Dev. 'I've put up with you and your shite for years, never really saying what's on my mind. I've had to agree with you, simper to you ...'

'Simper? You don't know what that mea...'

'Shut up and don't interrupt! Have you got any idea what it's like being joined to a bastard like you? You hog the limelight. You're always first to speak when we accept our awards, and I know the true meaning of every word you've ever said. You think I didn't learn but I did. Whenever you slept, I were wide awake reading books. Books, man!'

Dev reels at the ferocity of the verbal attack and leans away.

'Big Anton, you should stop there,' warns Fillipo, from across the campervan.

'No, he needs to hear this,' insists Anton, his anger-face a real winner. 'When you were snoring and farting because you'd got pissed, I was learning.'

'Anton, you ...' begins Dev, but he holds his hands up. 'Stop hitting me!'

'Don't you dare interrupt, I haven't finished,' spits Anton. 'Listen up brother, all that fast food and alcohol crap you consume isn't good for anyone. I'm sorry, Dev, but whenever you over-indulged, you always puked.'

'Quite violently,' adds Fillipo, inappropriately.

Silence reigns and there's no eye contact as Dev rises to his feet, taking Anton with him. His eyes are downcast and he's shaking in humiliation. 'I ... I'm just going outside everyone.'

'You can't,' says Anton. 'Officers are everywhere and they're looking for us.'

'I'm going outside. I want to be alone for a bit. I'm sorry everyone, I'm right sorry.'

Anton shakes his head and sighs. 'Okay, but you're not going alone, I'm coming with you.'

'No, I need some time to myself.'

'Don't make me say it,' says Anton, looking menacingly.

It is an old joke of theirs, the wanting-time-apart thing, but now isn't the time to play. Dev glances across and notes Anton's fury. He also reads more into it than any other would. The annoyance is slowing ebbing away, and despite his own embarrassment, he shouldn't test his brother. That would be cruel.

'Okay man, I don't want to put you in danger,' says Dev, actually meaning it.

The pair plonk back down, and thankfully, Moneekar speaks, before more regretful words can be said. 'Dev you're being a total bum-hole but I'm not bothered. I liked the way you always said my cooking tasted nice, so you're not a bad boy. You used to compliment me on my roast gibbon, which I'd punch against a rock for tenderness. And you used to say that if I wasn't so aggressive, you'd give me a big kiss, instead of just a peck on the cheek. I guess that means you bloody well like me.'

Dev's breathing catches, and his chest expands at the support. He knows he doesn't deserve it, but who's the tougher man, or woman, on this occasion? His heart swells with pride, and not through overindulgence of unhealthy foodstuffs. He peers sheepishly at his sister. 'Moneekar, I don't like you. I love you. Like a friend of course, and I'll give you a sloppy kiss now. You're right special.'

The campervan starts to shake with happy stomping as a kiss is planted on an assistant chef's cheek. 'Bastard hard! I'll follow you anywhere, Crunching Dev.'

Dev turns to his other sister. 'Cloudier lass, I hope you can forgive me. You're as daft as a city full of zombies wearing clown outfits, who want to juggle chainsaws, while singing happy birthday to a six-headed spuggy. That's how bonkers you are.'

Cloudier smiles, her black lipstick shining. 'My cute dark eyes adore you, Crunching Dev, but don't tell my husband and children, hmmm?'

'Your secret's safe with me,' says Dev, looking for another. 'Fillipo, I ...'

Fillipo pokes his head out from the toilet cubicle. 'It was nothing. I did what I had to do.'

'But I misjudged you.'

'It was nothing,' insists Fillipo, smiling cautiously.

Dev smiles at his friends, and finally turns to Anton, his best friend, and without doubt, the closest of them all. 'Anton, you've been the best conjoined brother I could wish for. I'm sorry I've been a prat, can you forgive me?'

And the stroll along the road to forgiveness is complete. 'I do. So this is it then?' says Anton, grinning.

'Aye, man. We're going to face the SAV and do what we were trained for, but I go first. If anybody takes the first hit it's me and no arguments. In three brother. Are you ready?'

'I were born ready,' says Anton, his new tears, ones of pride.

'Okay, three, two, one, let's rumble!'
Chapter Forty

The Third Bravest Man, Ever!

Anton Dev leaves their campervan home for what will be the final time, though they don't know it yet. It's still throwing it down, with intense thunder and lightning, and for anybody unprepared, it certainly will be a little bit frightening.

'Crap man, this weather's stupid,' says Dev, fast approaching saturation.

Anton agrees. 'I know. I can't see my hand in front of my face.'

'That's my face and I can see it you daft twonk.'

The twins pause on seeing an approaching SAS operative wearing a waterproof balaclava. The man stops, looks at them in turn, and raises a middle finger to each, while poking his tongue through the hole in his headgear.

The twins say nothing, pretending they can't see him, and eventually he speaks. 'Don't be scared, lads, its Dilbert, but you won't see me. I know the way to go. I've been to the compound before. I'll keep talking so you know where I am.'

'Okay, we'll try to follow your voice then,' says Dev, with a shrug.

As the trio prepare to move, another operative intervenes, this one invisible and unnoticed. 'Third Lieutenant Dilbert, why aren't you wearing your night-shadow?'

'Flipping 'eck, Richard!' shouts Anton, pressing a hand to his chest. 'Don't creep up on us. You nearly gave me a heart attack.'

'Brother, we both know he's a professional,' says Dev, attempting to control his own heartbeat. 'Can you give us a warning next time?'

'Sorry sirs, old habits, and talking of such, know that I'll be filming on a body-mounted cam, for training purposes only. You're both in frame, you too Dilbert, despite your unusual definition of invisibility.'

Dilbert's peering at the twins, his expression a mixture of surprise and alarm. A hand is fumbling with the night-shadow mechanism on his belt. Moments later, he laughs, and slaps his thigh. 'Of course I know I'm visible. It's a tactic to lull the enemy into a false sense of security. It's the old; they think, that I think I'm invisible, so they take less care. Come on, haven't you heard of that? You really are amateurs at times but I suppose I'd better conform. I'll turn on my night-shadow, if I must,' he says, toggling the cloaking device. 'Right, I'm invisible, now try and follow.'

Anton and Dev don't bother to exchange looks. Beside them, Colonel Richard is slowly rubbing a hand across his balaclava-covered forehead.

Anton goes to speak but Dev nudges him with an elbow. 'Who said that? Whoever it were, they're a wraith in the dark, a night-shadow. I can't see a flipping soul and especially not Third Lieutenant Dilbert.'

'I knew it, you joined-up freaks,' whispers Dilbert, as he sets off toward the compound, presenting as he goes, for training purposes obviously. 'Here I go bravely slaloming through the rain. Whatever awaits us as I lead my colleagues toward a foul evil ... hold on; there are red dots on my flak-jacket. Bugger, they're shooting, I'll create a diversion!' he shouts, sprinting away faster than a steroidal greyhound.

Anton raises an eyebrow. 'Colonel Richard, Dilbert's brave isn't he, showing us the shooters in the watchtowers. Will he find cover?'

'Dilbert's a survivor,' says Richard, watching the man dive head first into a holding pen of _Kebabys ™_ drunkards. As the firing continues, he grabs the twins and drags them to cover, behind an ice-cream van. Together they peer out, eyeing the compound.

'So what's the plan, Dev?' asks Anton, before cursing. 'Shite, I didn't mean it.'

'No worries,' says Dev, 'but the compound's locked tight. We'll struggle to get in.'

'But we must, Sensei Jocky trained us to.'

'Anton, if Jocky wanted fools to rush in he'd have made us fools, but we're not,' says Dev, glancing back on hearing an approaching roar. 'Ah, crap no.'

Anton turns, following his brother's line of sight. 'Sod it!'

An orange and white campervan passes the trio, heading towards the judges' compound gate. The engine's screaming and sprays of sodden mud are being thrown from the wheels. It roars past at top speed, approximately ten miles per hour, and despite the watchtower guards opening up with all they have, it isn't slowing. The tyres are shot flat, the windows exploded, and the metal skin is starting to resemble a pepper-pot top.

Still the vehicle continues, the front hitting the gates, and they shake, as if hit by a stiff breeze, but the padlocked chains hold. The driver, whoever it may be, crunches the gears and slaps it into reverse, making the van retreat at an astonishingly slow speed.

'Dev, I can't watch. Who's driving?'

'No idea, man, but it's got all our awards in it.'

' _Arghhh!_ ' screams Anton.

The driver finds first gear, accelerates, and the van hits the gates again. This time, a black-nailed hand reaches through the shot-out window and pushes a huge, lit firework into the holding chain. The incendiary splutters and hisses, but stays alight. There's a moist but effective explosion of the lock and the chain falls free as the campervan reverses.

Cloudier shouts from the driver's seat. 'Follow me ... if you dare!'

The trio of fighters break cover, walking slowly behind the forward-moving campervan so as not to overtake it. As the gunfire continues, a poorly aimed rocket, launched from one of the watchtowers, hits the ground a few metres away. Thankfully, the explosive only throws up a shower of mud, instead of devastating shrapnel.

'Damn it, everyone down!' shouts Colonel Richard.

No sooner are his words shouted, the unexpected occurs, and near-blinding flashes temporarily illuminate what's left of the Gubbins. Oddly, the flashes were accompanied by a high-pitched shriek, one not heard on the planet for many a millennia.

Anton peers at Dev, his expression thoughtful. 'What were those right bright flashes?'

'Maybe it were right bright lightning,' responds Dev, uncertainly.

'And the shrieking?'

'Sorry, you've got me there.'

The twins turn to Colonel Richard, seeing him rise and step out from behind the campervan. Neither attempts to stop him as they recognise the look on his face. It's one of pure, unadulterated confidence, and professionalism to boot. They move beside the man, fully in view of the watchtowers, which are burning brightly.

Colonel Richard salutes. 'That wasn't lightning. That was the Great Bellendi, his fire-breathing pterodactyl to be precise. He's taken out all the watchtowers.'

Anton and Dev are perplexed and both are brushing mud and sequins from their shirts.

'Can pterodactyls breathe fire?' asks Anton, getting the question in first. 'I'm probably picking holes but there's never been any evidence saying they can.'

Dev scratches behind an ear as he considers his answer. 'Here's what I think. Prehistoric history is pock-full of holes. Unless Colonel Richard lied, which I doubt, then a fire breathing pterodactyl just fried all the watchtowers. Call me picky but quite frankly, I don't care. The shooters are dead and we've got a free run ... ah fuck no!'

'There's something else isn't there?' asks Anton, avoiding looking.

'Aye man,' says Dev, adding in a shout, 'run, now!'

Unfortunately, none have expected what is emerging from the compound. 'We security, and pixies living in heads say, you die!' shouts a massive officer swarm.

Colonel Richard, backed by SAS intelligence, had previously estimated the number of security officers within the whole Complex to be around the six hundred mark. Colonel Richard, using his own eyes, has had a rough recount. He notes the retreating backs of conjoined presenters and decides their course of action is sound. If ever there was a time to retreat and regroup then facing a horde of massive, possessed officers probably fits the bill.

He makes a very sensible retreat, with stout swiftness.

Turn back the clocks, but not by much. A great man, the third best perhaps, is laying face-down in the _Kebabys ™_ drunkards' holding pen. Dilbert's swearing but not loudly. He's not stupid and isn't about to advertise where he has tactically diverted to.

Despite his predicament, being stepped on and fallen across by sozzled tramps, he's a master of his craft. Unable to help himself, he continues to present, not that there's a camera on him. 'For anybody watching, you find me taking one for the team. Normally, I wouldn't be seen dead with these types, I left Essex years ago, _arghhh_ , they're being shot. No matter, as the bullets are going over my head. Looking across, I see Anton Dev, the best allegedly, and my old friend Richard, cowering behind the campervan. They're actually cowering, the wimps, _arghhh_ , bloody shit!'

As firing continues from the compound, Dilbert hears a weak sounding voice in amongst the slain tramps. He peers across. 'Who's there?' he asks.

'I'm Chip, sir,' says a young boy, within a crushed cage.

Dilbert knows he has seen the boy before but can't place him. 'What happened to you?'

'I was recently crushed by a big, yet entertaining lady. I thought I was dead, but after my cage was thrown in here, a black man wearing a white suit showed up and he errr,' says Chip, pausing. 'Please don't hold my cage in front of you. I'm really thin and won't stop many bullets.'

'Quiet Chop, trust the SAS, we know best.'

'It's Chip, sir.'

'Yeah, whatever. Keep it shut, boy, we don't want to draw unwanted attention,' says Dilbert, finally lowering the cage, but only because his arms are aching. 'I'm SAS boy ... bloody hell!' he exclaims, shielding his eyes from immense flashes inside the compound. Blinking rapidly, he keeps his head down but soon realises the shooting has stopped. Bravely grabbing a dead drunkard's arm, he raises it, and waves the floppy hand in the air. There's no gunfire, only the sound of a caged boy's voice.

'Please get me out of this squashed cage, sir? My cramps are coming back.'

Dilbert scowls at the boy. 'Hush, stay down, just to be sure.'

'I can't get up, I'm in a cage. Please help me.'

'Alright, I'll undo it,' says Dilbert, attempting to pull the top open. 'Blimey, this is tough. What happened to you?'

'I was squashed but it wasn't the big ladies fault. She's just clumsy.'

'Okay, hold still, I'll ... bugger it, I've broken a nail,' squeals Dilbert, on finally managing to pull the top open.

Chip is free and jumping from his cage he hugs Dilbert, in a non-weird manner. 'Thank you, I'm ...'

'Get off me, you skinny sod,' says Dilbert, attempting to push the boy away. He stops suddenly on hearing a worrying gurgling sound. 'What's that noise?'

'That's my stomach, sir, I haven't eaten for ages.'

Dilbert sees the boy's frightened face and reaches a hand inside his flak-suit. 'Here, have this. It's a _MuckRunnys ™ SAS Survival-Revival Ration Pack_.'

Chip's eyes ignite with gratitude. 'Oh sir, you've got some food, gee willikers. You're the best and I'd better stand to eat this. Lying down isn't good for digestion,' he says, standing, as he tears into the ration pack.

Dilbert stays down, keeping an eye firmly on the blazing watchtowers, and notes one that isn't burning as brightly as the others. A silhouette has moved forward, and despite the distance, there can be no mistaking a rifle being aimed. He grabs the back of Chip's shirt, drags him downwards, and throws himself across the boy.

'Get down you're ...'

A single shot rings out. An all-encompassing SAS flak-suit and balaclava have come apart during a recent diversionary run. There's a thin gap, half an inch at most, but that's enough. Neck muscles are ripped through, an oesophagus is holed, and a breath-filled throat is flooded with a life-giving red liquid.

Thirty yards away, the shot is heard, and a fleeing SAS Colonel instantly changes direction. He sprints at top speed towards his stricken old friend.

The Colonel throws himself forward, twisting in mid-air, draws his hand-rifle sidearm and expertly shoots the sniper through the heart. He replaces the weapon, continues his airborne rotation and lands on his feet, skidding forward. He drops to his knees and lifts Dilbert's head from the mud.

'Richard, I ... I'm hit.'

'You'll be fine, lay still,' insists Richard, shouting. 'Medic!'

'I finally did something heroic ... shit, that hurts.'

'You've always been a hero to me, Dilbert sir.'

Dilbert's smile is wet and weak. He shakes involuntarily as blood bubbles down his nose. His final words are faint. 'Am I in frame?'

'Yes, mister Dilbert sir,' stammers Colonel Richard, giving his best friend the hug he'd always wanted to, but never could. 'You're in frame ... always and forever.'
Chapter Forty One

Security Attacks

The SAV has one eye on the buttons upon its desk, another on the still-rising digital readout, and the remainder on its ever-decreasing camera feeds. For the first time, the bank of thirty-six screens is not in full use. Blank screens are dotted in amongst those still working, creating a weird crossword effect, but that's to be expected, considering events in the Gubbins.

The human operated cameras are all offline - as are the humans who were operating them. It's now relying on the feeds from its secreted cameras, though these are gradually being destroyed. No matter, it thinks, the pictures it's receiving are good enough to be sent around the planet. As for what the billions of humans are making of them; it's not as if they have a choice anymore.

The time for the credits to roll is approaching fast, and it's just a case of when the show Director decides to call it a day.

Anton Dev pauses in their retreat and say a silent prayer for a fellow presenter.

'Dilbert just bit the bullet,' says Dev, feeling sadder than he thought he would.

'Aye man, but he didn't bite it, it just hit him. We better keep moving, security's everywhere. We need to fall back.'

'Fall back to where?' asks Dev, panic edging his words. 'There's nowhere left to go. The stage is buggered, the stands out front are buggered, everything back here is buggered, our campervan is bullet-hole riddled and buggered ... hold on. The right big Magnolia Room's still intact. Head for it, I'll cover us.'

'Me too,' says Anton.

Dev peers curiously. 'What can you do? I've got the only gun.'

'I can swear,' says Anton and then yells loudly. 'Oi security, you're a bunch of twat bastards!'

Dev shakes his head. 'It didn't do anything.'

'I didn't think it would but I feel better for it.'

Colonel Richard, he of the Special Associated Scouts, adjusts the green woggle beneath his flak-suit before removing his balaclava. Is he sad or angry? In truth, it's difficult to tell as he's trained to deal with these situations, despite the tears. 'This is it then. We're finally done, posthumously promoted First Lieutenant Dilbert,' he says, saluting sharply. 'I'm sorry, don't berate me, but I'm stopping filming. I'm turning off my camera as what happens next won't be pretty, unlike you old friend.'

A young voice causes the Colonel to turn. 'I'm so sorry for your loss, he was a brave man. I'm Chip, and now I've eaten, I'm feeling stronger. Maybe I can hold a camera for you?'

'What? You, yes Chip. Here, take this hand-held camera I always carry as a back-up,' says Richard, passing it to the boy. 'Am I in frame, son?'

'Yes sir and you look great.'

'Damn right, now follow me.'

'Of course, but I don't see you anymore.'

'Sorry, I initiated night-shadow mode. I'll turn it off as I think the enemy will want to look me in the eye when next we meet. Have you got me?'

'Sure, sir. You're in frame and you're so brave.'

'Thanks son, but I'm not brave,' says Richard, peering stoutly into the gloom. 'I'm just an SAS Colonel doing his job. Are you ready, young Chip?'

'Gee willikers! You bet.'

Colonel Richard nods and moves away.

The conjoined twins cover the last few yards to the Magnolia Room. They race inside, lock the door, and prepare themselves for the expected onslaught.

'Flipping 'eck, we made it,' says Anton, sounding surprised. 'Quick, close all the curtains so security can't see us and help me move those crisp boxes against the door.'

'Don't bother,' says Dev, looking at the entrance. 'They already know we're here.'

'So this is it, our last stand,' says Anton, his voice unexpectedly strong and not cracking.

'Aye, but I'm not going out crying.'

'I'm not going out at all. There are thousands of the bastards out there.'

Dev chuckles. 'Brother, you make me laugh at ... shit, they're coming in. Get behind me.'

'I can't and you know why.'

'Yeah, right, but I'm not shooting until I see the whites of their eyes.'

'The officers have all got purple pixie eyes, Dev.'

'Good point well made. Chew on this you bastards!' shouts Dev, and there's a shockingly prolonged din of a _Koch-Licher Double-Barrel Mini-Decapitator_ blasting through magnolia painted walls, entry door, windows, and hopefully, security officers. In support, Anton shouts his full range of potty-mouth, for what good it might do?

As Anton and Dev fight for their conjoined lives, Jeremiah Paxoman crouches beneath a remnant of the stage. It's just a corner, the front left, but it's enough to keep him hidden. He's holding a wickedly sharp Canadian Belt Knife, he calls Russell, so if anyone or anything were to discover him ...

'Dear Lord, I can't still be here, can I? How many escape attempts do I have to make? If I'm not mistaken I recently witnessed Lucifer ... Why am I still talking as if I'm being filmed? The interviews are ...' Jeremiah's words halt on feeling a hand on his shoulder, and he makes a backwards swipe with Russell. His wrist is caught expertly, so he attempts a more traditional punch, with his free hand. That is also caught and the scruffy presenter finds himself staring into a pair of experienced eyes.

'Easy Jezza, it's me from that bloody dancing show. Put that knife away before you hurt someone,' says Len, slowly releasing the interviewer's wrists.

Jeremiah's eyes flare like molten steel. 'Did you just call me, Jezza?'

'Stop being so bloody hoity-toity. You spent twenty-five years in a flipping _Spewsnight_ prison, but so what. I did thirteen series with those twonks, Craig and Bruno. That makes us even in my book.'

'Yeees, well Len, I still don't like being called Jezza.'

'Noted, now what are we gonna do about the security officers?'

'I'm not going to do anything. I'm going to sit here, wait for the show to finish, walk home, and never show my face again.'

'It doesn't work like that Jez... Jeremiah. There's something really evil going on here.'

'I know. It's Channel 13, what were you expecting?'

Len tuts and shakes his old head. 'If we sit here doing nothing then before you know it we'll be presenting a game show on a satellite channel nobody ever watches.'

Jeremiah's sapphire gaze twitches and fear darkens his face. 'I never would. My agent wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing.'

'Pah! We've got to pitch in and here, hold your fists up. I'm from North Kent and I'll give you a quick fighting lesson.'

'There's no need,' says Jeremiah, his eyes sparkling, but not as brightly as his knife blade. 'I have a little friend. He knows what to do.'

As Jeremiah and Len ponder their next move, the three surviving judges are hiding beneath Keryl's silver-bullet trailer, inside the judges' compound.

'Walshy, I'm so scared I've pissed myself,' says Keryl, unashamedly.

'It's okay,' says Walshy. 'Take this plastic model of a four-leaf clover I've made and hold it tight, for good luck. Now shush, there are officers everywhere.'

Dai's shaking his head with concern. 'I don't like this either and I've survived a war-zone in the past.'

'Quiet Dai,' insists Walshy. 'Security doesn't know we're here.'

'Right you are, boyo, but if I could reach the orchestra pit, I know I could get hold of a bassoon, or a harpsichord, then I'd give them what for.'

Walshy places a hand on the man's wrist. 'It's too risky, Dai, you'd be seen.'

'I know but I've got to do something. A Welshman doesn't cower under a trailer when there's a war on. I can't take this anymore, I'm going for it,' says Dai, emerging from beneath the trailer, and making a dash for the compound gates. Security spots him but despite his age, he's surprisingly agile, and easily avoids lumbering, swung fists.

Using bewildering hip gyrations, Dai reaches the gates. He's made it, but sadly, fate has marked his card. After forty years of constant wear, his stuck leather trousers finally give, and drop around his ankles. The Welsh legend trips and falls, shouts the words "why, why, why," and officers extinguish his life, leaving a corpse who has nothing.

Walshy gasps, but not too loudly. 'Oh no, they got him. He was torn apart and must have died in agony.'

'That's horrible,' cries Keryl, reaching out in her terror.

'I know, love. Now keep quiet ... are you touching my crotch?'

'No Walshy,' says Keryl, rapidly taking her hand back. 'I'm not!'

As Keryl and Walshy argue whether her hand was on his man-packet or inner thigh, Fillipo runs towards a VW campervan that has seen better days, but then again, haven't they all? Pulling the door open, he sees a woman, slumped in her seat. 'Big Cloudier?'

The woman's head slowly lifts and she doesn't look happy. 'Hello big boy.'

Fillipo swiftly assesses her injuries, notes the blood, but her wounds are superficial. Looking into the rear of the vehicle, he sees Moneekar in a similar state, though most of her bones are still broken due to her previous set-to. He had feared the worst but should have known better where these two were concerned. He peers at Cloudier and the copious amounts of running black make-up, making her appear unsettlingly creepy. 'Big Anton Dev is in trouble,' he says.

Cloudier nods calmly, which is never a good sign. 'Where are they, as I'm very, very mad but shush, don't tell anyone?'

'Yeah, and I'm bastard hard pissed off,' says Moneekar, in the rear.

Fillipo's eyes flit between the two women. They finally settle on Moneekar as she shuffles to and fro. He knows what she's doing. There are loud cracks but it isn't gunfire. It's the sound of her bones resetting and it always makes his teeth jar. He takes a step back and tries once again to take charge of the situation. 'Please big ladies, security might hear us.'

'Let them hear us,' says Cloudier, a pair of tiny tornadoes appearing in her open palms. 'I'm an internal campervan maelstrom of chaos, but a pretty one mind. I'm Howling Hurricane Harlot, and I'm a teeny-weeny bit peed off.'

Fillipo closes his eyes, presses a hand to his forehead and whispers. 'Oh shit.'

The campervan doors explode outwards and the roof flies into the air, so again, the vehicle is still in reasonable condition. Two very different, terrifying women, emerge from the wreckage. One stomps, but the other floats, within a tight storm of supersonic air.

As Cloudier and Moneekar prepare to unleash their unique forms of retribution on the enemy, Dev continues to fire, and there's now a gaping hole in the front of the Magnolia Room. Officers are flooding through, stepping upon their fallen comrades, none too gently.

'I think this might be it,' shouts Anton, his voice still strong, but barely heard above the noise of the firing weapon. 'If this is the end it were a pleasure knowing you.'

'Same as, brother, but we'll take as many of these bastards with us as we can.'

There's a controlled explosion at the rear of the Magnolia Room and a part of the back wall falls inwards. Dev continues to fire and doesn't dare look round. Anton though, sees the man who throws himself through the hole.

'You killed my good friend you MF bastards!' shouts Colonel Richard. 'Now taste my weapon.'

Colonel Richard fires a pair of hand-rifles, his own and Dilbert's, adding his furious assault to that of Dev, and the wave of officers momentarily halts. The calm, yet intense man stands shoulder to shoulder with the twins, well, one of them.

'Dev, when Colonel Richard said "now taste my weapon" that weren't pervy were it?'

'For fuck sake! We'll ask him later, though he just blasted a dozen officers back outside, so I guess it weren't.'

'And what does MF stand for?' asks Anton, looking thoughtful as he tries to work it out.

'Now's not the time. He just saved our arse but the bastards are still coming.'

'Colonel Richard's right good isn't he,' says Anton, seeing numerous head-shots.

Dev's about to agree but another section of the Magnolia Room back wall caves in.

'You wanna fight do ya? Listen up you buggers, I'm Len Pudman. I might be a septuagenarian but I can take you bloody amateurs,' growls Len, wading in with his fists and feet everywhere, expelling more officers from the room.

Jeremiah walks forward purposefully. 'I've recently spent nigh on half my existence in the clink, and each and every day, my chagrin grew. My pent up aggression has, unfortunately for you Security, reached boiling point. I apologise for my language but feel the pain of my little friend Russell you mother-fuckers!'

Dev gapes at his brother. 'Shite man, look at Jeremiah go.'

'Yeah, he's right angry, and I now know what MF stands for,' says Anton, nodding.

'That's not a good thing but it doesn't matter. Security's still coming. There are loads of the bastards.'

Dev and Colonel Richard continue to fire, but in controlled bursts, so as to avoid hitting Len and Jeremiah, who are darting around like crazed speed-freaks. Still though, Security press forward, and the defenders are being pushed ever backwards.

'Dev, I can hear something strange,' says Anton, turning his head so his ear's pointed towards the large hole at the front of the Magnolia Room.

'It's okay you keep farting, I'm scared as well.'

'No, it's not that,' begins Anton, and he points a finger toward an officer being captured in a mini-tornado and imploding. He then points to three being eaten alive by locusts.

Dev grins and punches the air. 'Only Cloudier can summon locusts, she survived.'

'Go Cloudier lass!' shouts Anton, accidently punching his brother on the side of the head in his moment of joy.

A dark, drenched harlot emerges through the rain. Her black make-up's everywhere, making her look like the rock-star Alison Cooper, but that's as far as the comparison goes. Alison just pretends he's bonkers. 'Look into my eyes, Security. I'm very mad, now feel my wrath!'

'Dev, were that pervy, what Cloudier just said about feeling her wrath?'

'No man, she's not like that,' answers Dev. 'She's married with kiddies and I think I hear something else.'

Hot on the heels of Cloudier runs a growling, scowling nightmare. She's no match pound for pound against the enemy, but she has something they do not. She possesses the raw, unadulterated aggression of a seriously enraged assistant chef. 'I'm bastard hard angry and gonna hurt you all!'

'Let's go brother, they need our help,' says Dev, his chest swelling with pride.

'They seem to be doing alright actually,' replies Anton, adding an appreciative whistle.

'No, we're a team, the best team. Here, help me get these stupid guns off. From now on we're Hidden Anton, Crunching Dev. Let's rumble.'

'Aye, let's have the bastards.'

Thus follows a beating, bashing, punching, crunching, stabbing, slashing, imploding, shooting, and eating alive of pixie-brained Security officers - on a colossal scale!
Chapter Forty Two

Big Bastard Lizards

The SAV cannot believe all its eyes, and for the first time, it's deeply concerned. Its third best ally has been defeated and it was sure the possessed officers would live to fight on beyond the confines of the pathetically small _Complex_.

It thought losing Bulbulus, its second best was bad enough, and it still hasn't worked out how that happened. The camera feeds showed nothing untoward and how the pit demon went to pieces is still a mystery.

Running short of options there's little else it can do other than release its top trumps. With the touch of a table-top button, two huge ground level metal covers start to rise inside the compound. A Learjet and six Bentleys are forced aside and only when the covers stand upright does the SAV dare to smile again, as the beasts awaken.

The fight is done, Security is done, and sadly, some of the newfound heroes are also done. The Magnolia Room is a complete mess and will definitely need a tender DIY touch if it's ever to be put into service again.

Dev's puffing hard as he surveys the carnage. 'That were too close.'

'I know,' murmurs Anton, looking around with sadness. 'Colonel Richard and his camera-boy are both dead and Len took a right beating.'

'Aye, but Len's gone too. It really is how he would have wanted to go and I'm not being flippant. I realise you don't know what flippant means ...'

'I know what it means,' interrupts Anton. 'I'm pretending to be stupid, remember.'

'Yeah, about that. Why are you still pretending?'

Anton just shrugs. 'I've been doing it for so long it just happens without thinking. I'll stop if you want but I can't promise I won't forget at times.'

'No man, keep doing it as it's a bit unsettling when you start making sense. I guess old habits die hard you dippy twonk.'

Anton turns swiftly but his anger evaporates on seeing his brother's playful grin. His newfound smile lasts for barely a second when his eyes alight on another fighter. 'This is right tragic. Moneekar's had all her bones broken again, though she'll mend, given time.'

'Aye, but how fast? We need to get into the Judges' Compound as whoever's in there has relocked the gates and what's left of our campervan has been set on fire.'

'That's nasty Dev, but it shouldn't lose too much resale value.'

'No, but all our awards were in there.'

Anton sniffs and wipes his eyes. 'I know, but what can we do?'

As the brothers contemplate their loss, Fillipo emerges through the deluge. 'It's okay big Anton Dev, don't worry. I have your awards in my large black sack.'

Anton dares a peek at his brother. 'Dev, were that a bit pervy?'

'Probably not as he's carrying a black bin liner,' answers Dev, beckoning the man over. 'Don't worry I won't hurt you. What happened?'

Fillipo walks over hesitantly. 'I'm sorry big Dev. I tried to keep the compound gates open but the evil got the better of me. I had to run.'

'Okay, but this stops now,' growls Dev, his fists clenching. 'No ifs and no buts, now who's with me?'

'I'll be right beside you,' says Anton.

'Big Dev, before you rush in, listen up. We have a man on the inside, well, I say man but I mean it loosely. We also have a woman who might be of more use.'

Dev peers curiously at Fillipo, his hope inflating like a freshly puffed balloon. 'Who?'

'Walshy and Keryl,' says Fillipo, a hopeful glimmer in his eyes.

The balloon goes pop and Dev snorts. 'Nobody then. Right, I've had enough of this crap. I'm flipping soaked and seriously peed off. Cover me, Anton.'

'Eh, you what?'

'The rains getting in my eyes so find something waterproof.'

The twins, covering their heads with a tarpaulin, approach the compound. Cloudier's close behind, the rain not bothering her one jot. Any female martial arts expert with the word _Hurricane_ in their name is unlikely to be concerned by a silly little storm.

Fillipo has remained with Moneekar, and what happened to Jeremiah in all the chaos is anybody's guess? The small group reach the compound and the gates are again chained and locked. Fillipo wasn't lying, not that anybody thought he might be.

Dev grips the gates and rattles them forcefully. 'Let me in you bastard!'

In the grand scheme of life, Dev's oral ejaculation is in the top three most stupid he has ever said. A frightening retort within the compound greets his request. The sound is a _ROOOAAARRRRRR!_

'Dev, what were that,' says Anton, licking his lips in concern.

Dev's eyes are wide, which is the exact opposite of his butt cheeks, which are clenched for all they're worth. Before tonight, he would have laughed off his guess of what had roared as a daft fantasy, but not now. He releases the gate chains and gently pats them, as if meaning, no harm done. He chuckles nervously. 'It were nothing but let's walk away, nice and easy. No sudden movements.'

There's another horrendous roar, followed by a series of ground shaking thumps. Dev glances down and sees the nearby puddles all have fresh ripples on them.

'Dev man,' begins Anton, his face scrunching in thought, 'that sounded like ...'

'No it didn't,' insists Dev. 'Just keep backing away.'

'You don't know what I were going to say. I could have sworn that were a ...'

Now there are two booming roars, followed by the gate and part of the perimeter fence being crushed under giant, clawed feet. At first there's nothing to see as the Gubbins lighting is still unreliable, but a well-timed lightning flash does the trick.

'You could have sworn could you, Anton? Allow me, fucking run!'

The twins turn, noting Cloudier has already departed, the sensible woman.

When it comes to running, those under extreme duress are always the fastest. Despite the tricky underfoot conditions an adrenalin burst can do wonders. The brothers cover a hundred yards in what would be a planetary record in the "shit-scared conjoined twins" category.

Something large is following them and Dev's panicking, but Anton isn't. He knows they need to find cover and he isn't called Hidden Anton for nothing. Their refuge isn't the safest but the Gubbins has little left to offer. Both are shaking as they hunker down beneath a forty-foot flatbed trailer, close to the rear axle.

'I hope we'll be safe under here,' says Anton, his voice shaky.

'Aye man, and you know what those roars were, don't you?'

Anton nods. 'A pair of T-Rex's and they're stomping around the Gubbins.'

'They are and you know what that means?'

The butterflies in Anton's head get to work. He can't help himself, and quite frankly, a brief injection of stupidity might be called for to ease the tension. 'Aye Dev. It means the special effects people have run out of ideas for great big monsters. As the CGI graphics are in the public domain they can be lazy and keep doing the same thing over and over again, without putting any thought or effort into being original.'

Dev stares blankly at his brother, and then chuckles. He can't decide if Anton's being deliberately daft or whether it's gallows humour. 'Yeah, they're used a lot, probably because they think kiddies are stupid, but these are real T-Rex's. Let's not argue about lazy special effects people, not right now.'

'Aye, but I'd be more frightened by a Diplodocus,' says Anton, shivering unexpectedly with fear.

'Why?' asks Dev, wondering where his brother might be going with this. 'They only eat plants and aren't scary.'

'Only because that's what we've been told by fossil hunting archaeologists. Remember, the Great Bellendi's pterodactyl breathed fire. Could you imagine a huge dinosaur with a really long neck that could reach under this trailer and gobble us up?'

'Until now, no I couldn't. Thanks brother,' says Dev, his fear ratcheting up a notch.

'It's possible. There's even a dinosaur that's got a right flat head which can squeeze under flatbed trailers. I read it in _The Stun_ newspaper, so it must be true.'

Dev shakes his head, hoping its only fear gripping Anton's mind, making him babble. 'Brother, there are T-Rex's stomping around the Gubbins and they want to eat us.'

'Maybe they're trying to make friends. It must be right lonely being the only existing dinosaurs, apart from the big man's pterodactyl of course.'

Dev has had enough and whispers forcefully. 'They're trying to make friends? That one across the Gubbins tried to eat Jeremiah. He only got away because he's so pale and his white face near blinded it.'

'So we're buggered then,' says Anton, his lower lip starting to quiver.

Dev's war-face is back and he sniggers. 'No man. I've got a plan but it's stupidly mad.'

'What, madder than Cloudier?'

'Nothing's madder than Cloudier but I'm running her close. Let's move, but quietly.'

The conjoined twins slip out the other side of the trailer, unseen by a very real T-Rex.

Having ducked, dived, crouched, and scuttled, for several minutes, the twins make it to their destination. Unfortunately, the door to the restaurant can't be closed as it was unceremoniously smashed to pieces in their previous avoidance of officers.

As he scans the wreckage, Anton looks confused. 'I don't get it, why are we here?'

Dev's smiling, wickedly. 'I've got a plan. Do you remember watching that film about a lad who were the son of Zeus. The lad fell in love with this Princess, but she kept being kidnapped by her ugly ex-boyfriend who'd put a right nasty spell on her. Anyone who wanted to win her hand had to answer a riddle.'

Anton scratches an ear, none the wiser. 'That's great but there's not much a lass can do with only one hand. Where's this going? We don't know any Princesses.'

'Don't interrupt,' insists Dev, dragging officers' corpses from a huge pile. 'The Princess were cursed to be fed to a beastie called a Kraken. To save her, the lad had to find a way to kill the bastard monster.'

'What were the Kraken? Were it a T-Rex?' asks Anton.

'No, it weren't! Anyway, the lad visited these three wise women and they told him how to kill the Kraken. He had to use the head of another monster, a different Titan as it were.'

'Were the other Titan a T-Rex?' asks Anton, his mind flip-flopping, trying to understand.

'Flipping 'eck, no!' shouts Dev, dragging more officer bodies aside.

Anton's eyes suddenly go wide. 'Ah, I remember that film, the original _Clash of the Titans_ and not the rubbish remake.'

'Aye, the remake were crap, but you're missing the point.'

In truth, Anton has no idea what Dev's thinking. He recalls the film, and the plot, but can see no relevance. 'Okay, I'm with you, kind of, but what is the point?'

Dev, sweating freely, has finished moving deceased officers.

The bodies of Michel Poo Junior and Heston beneath them are much easier to lift, and they're thrown aside with ease. That leaves the one at the bottom, a bit squashed, but still intact.

'Aha!' laughs Dev, dragging the body upwards, resting it against the pile of officers. 'Have you got a knife?'

Anton looks at the corpse of Dame Edina Average, his stomach turning at the ghastly sight. 'No man, when have I ever carried a knife?'

Jeremiah enters the Gubbins eatery, unexpectedly, and he's sopping wet. 'That was close; the damn lizard nearly had me. I heard your request and I have a very sharp knife.'

'Can I borrow it, Jeremiah?' asks Dev, his eyes never leaving Dame Edina's corpse.

'Over my dead body. I may have been savagely incarcerated for what seems an eternity but I'm not bereft of my wits. I'll not relinquish my only means of defence. Tell me the plan and maybe I'll help.'

Dev nods. 'Okay, you see Dame Edina, I need you to ...'

As Jeremiah commits a crime that could be considered worse than murder, Walshy and Keryl have finally finished arguing.

'You know what those terrifying beasts are, don't you?' asks Walshy.

'Aye they're security officers,' replies Keryl.

'No, not them, they're all dead. I mean the really big ones. They're Tyrannosaurus Rex's, kings of the Cretaceous period and not the Jurassic, bloody American film makers. Did you know that ...?'

Keryl stares at Walshy in disgust, her white towelling robe close to bursting open. 'Walshy, shut up you dull bastard.'

Walshy waves his hand in a hushing motion and scampers back a few feet. 'Keryl, keep your voice down. T-Rex's have really good hearing.'

'Don't you dare tell me to keep my voice down, I'll shout as loud as I why-aye bloody like!'

'Shush,' insists Walshy, scuttling further back.

'I know I'm being unkind but you really are the most annoying, tedious, bor _arghhh!_ A big bastard lizard has just grabbed me in its big bastard jaws. Walshy pet, help me, you're my only ho...' shouts Keryl, as she's dragged from beneath the trailer by huge jaws.

Walshy looks on, clutching a plastic model of a recently constructed five-leaf clover. He can't see above the T-Rex's knees but can make out a shower of golden rings falling to the ground. 'Sorry Keryl, pet,' he whispers. 'Well mister T-Rex, you nailed it. You made that bony, tattooed bitch your own. Whatever happens during digestion, don't growl, I do.'

As the T-Rex departs, at speed, it considers spitting out a less-than-meaty treat.

'Shit, I really hurt,' stammers Moneekar, her voice sounding weak.

'Don't worry, we'll move you to safety, won't we big Cloudier,' says Fillipo, peering fearfully at his dark-denizen sister who's screaming loudly. 'Please be quiet, there are two very large dinosaurs out there.'

Cloudier ignores the caution. 'I'm mad and extremely dark-faced bonkers. Sod them!'

Filippo calls to Cloudier again but stops on seeing something emerging through the rain. The outline is more than enough to tell him what it is. He tries to shout a warning but the words won't leave his throat. He almost faints clean away on hearing her next words.

'What are you looking at, big boy?'

'Oh shit,' croaks Fillipo, seeing the woman staring at a T-Rex. Thankfully, he finds his voice. 'Run big Cloudier, Run!'

'I never run, I'll summon a huge tornado, although, despite my dark-eyed stare, you're a lot bigger than me. This time only I'm letting you off with a warning,' says Cloudier, shaking a finger at the dinosaur.

Enormous jaws shoot forward and crash together, but close on empty air. Cloudier is away and rising fast in a tight anti-cyclone of her making, but not so far as to make the giant lizard lose interest. She spares a glance at her siblings and winks. The T-Rex snaps again but she drifts beyond reach. The woman is undoubtedly mad, but not stupid.
Chapter Forty Three

The Eyes Have It

Jeremiah has finished his defilement and wipes his knife blade on Dame Edina's shockingly ostentatious dress before returning it to his pocket. He's spattered with blood, as beheading a body, whether alive or dead will always result in jetting. 'Dear Lord, I can't believe I've just severed a corpses head. What do you ...?'

'Don't ask questions,' interrupts Dev, stuffing the head in a huge icing bag he found in the kitchen. 'I've got a plan. We need to find those T-Rex's.'

Anton is leaning away in disgust. 'Dev man, I flipping hope you have otherwise you're right weird. Having an old man's head cut off is so wrong.'

'He's not an old man, he's a transvestite. Now let's find those dinosaurs?'

Jeremiah frowns, his curiosity piqued. Normally, beheading would be beyond his remit, outside UQBC Prison of course, but he sees something in the eye of the blond presenter. He recognises a kindred spirit, two kindred spirits in fact. Both have been sailing in the same boat as him, rudderless, yet moving forward the only way they know how. He sighs, shakes his head, and finally chuckles.

The worst dressed and most pungent interviewer ever to walk the planet has started to believe. In himself, in his sharp little friend, and now, in twins holding an icing bag containing a transvestite's severed head. The belief is crazy, totally without logic, but he senses a calling. There comes a time when caution must be thrown to the wind, when sense must give way to nonsense.

He chuckles again, wondering if he has finally lost his mind. Time will tell as if he gets this wrong, he'll be losing far more than just that. 'I'll go back out and lure them here.'

'That's right brave,' says Dev, appreciatively.

'Maybe but after spending so long in solitary confinement the need to be impetuous is overwhelming,' says Jeremiah, swiftly exiting the restaurant. He moves into the pouring rain, peers left, then right, lifts his knees, and is gone.

That leaves conjoined twins standing in the poorly lit eatery entrance. Anton's expression still resembles that of someone who has accidently pushed their finger through a square of toilet roll when not meaning to. 'Dev, I've got no idea what ... cripes, Jeremiah's coming back already and there's a T-Rex right behind him!' he shouts, pointing into the deluge.

'I see it,' utters Dev, his head whipping up, 'and never say cripes again. It's not very martial arts.'

'Sorry brother, I ...'

'Hush man,' insists Dev, and he shouts. 'Jeremiah, close your eyes!'

Dev reaches into the icing bag and removes the severed head. He grasps it by the pink-rinse perm, holds it aloft and shows it to the approaching T-Rex. 'It's had it now.'

Anton shrugs. 'Nothing's happening and the T-Rex is about to snap its jaws on Jeremiah. It were right bad telling him to close his eyes as he's about to run into what's left of a lighting rig. I know it'll be amusing watching him bounce off but ...'

'Shut up man. I ... I don't understand. The T-Rex should turn to stone,' says Dev. He turns the head through ninety degrees and dares a peak at the terrifying, gurning face. Realisation suddenly dawns. 'Of course, Dame Edina wears stupid glasses and petrification eyes don't work through them. Quick, take them off.'

Anton's shaking his head as he reaches up. 'Okay, but this is really pushing the boundaries. Nobody's going to believe a single stare from the glasses-less head of Dame Edina Average will turn a big reptile to stone.'

The glasses are gone, the head is held high, and horrifying eyes meet those of a T-rex. There's a metallic boing as Jeremiah, with eyes closed, runs into the base of the lighting rig, bounces back, and collides with the beasts open mouth.

Dev turns a smug look, which includes a single raised eyebrow, to his brother. 'Well?'

Anton can only stare, open mouthed. There's a big stone statue of a T-Rex, and an unconscious Jeremiah lying inside its unforgiving, open jaws. He nods at his brother's ingenuity but suddenly squeals. 'No, don't show me Dame Edina's face!'

Anton closes his eyes and places hands over them for added protection but it's too late. He has stared directly into the _Pits of Hell_ and a squeal becomes a scream. His bowels open and were it not for his brother's quick clenching, another form of Hell may have been let loose from their shared backside. Dev throws the severed head into the mud.

'Don't worry, man. Dame Edina isn't a proper Gorgon, not like Medusa were. She only has a single-charge petrification stare, like all glasses-wearing transvestites. I know I were taking a chance but ...'

'You fucking bastard, I nearly shat my ... errr, actually I think I have.'

'It were only a nugget and I won't take it personally. Let's get that second T-Rex.'

Anton isn't staring daggers at his brother. He's glaring spears, long sharp ones, and using the hem of his shirt, wipes snot from his upper lip. It isn't his finest moment but he doesn't care. He has only ever been this frightened once before, when the wrong winner was originally read out at their ninth-in-a-row Best Presenter award ceremony. He takes a moment to compose himself. 'Right, we'll find it, but Dame Edina's petrification stare is used up, you said so,' he says, noting the wicked smile on Dev's face. 'Ah, you've got another plan.'

'Aye brother, I have.'

'Is it madder than this one? No, actually, I don't want to know,' growls Anton, deciding he'll just trust his brother. The Great Bellendi said he must, but he makes a mental note to have a serious word with the man, should they come through this.

They jog past one of the most lifelike statues ever created, and an unconscious Jeremiah, and stealthily retreat through the Gubbins.

With Cloudier and the T-Rex departed, Fillipo has managed to drag Moneekar to cover. It isn't much, being the lee of a huge waste skip, but there's no light on them. The tanned man is grateful as he doesn't want to see the massive piles of bodies overflowing the skip.

He recalls a film he once watched, about a German man who had a list. He doesn't recall it well, having promised never to watch it a second time, such was his sadness, but this is a harrowing reminder of what can occur when evil is given its head.

He knows he's well out of his depth but he's trying to be fearless. The woman beside him however, is bravery incarnate, and the bones within her body are knitting together with tremendous speed.

'Crap, shit, bugger, shit ...'

'Stop swearing Fillipo, you're better than that,' says Moneekar, twitching and convulsing as her bones mend. Painfully she rises to her feet. 'I gotta go.'

'No, wait a while. You're not fully healed yet. Please, wait another five minutes,' pleads Fillipo, as he stares at the disappearing back of Moneekar. A flash of lightning illuminates his surroundings and he shudders on seeing that which he was trying to ignore. Whether through bad luck or design, many of the corpses' faces are staring at him, their dead eyes almost accusing.

He wipes at the damp terror on his face, lifts himself from the mud, and follows the regenerated woman, as that's what friends do.

Anton Dev has moved towards the rear perimeter fence. They have avoided the second T-Rex, wherever it may be, and they finally halt. Dev glances at the wet ground and smiles. He reaches down and picks up something long, thick, and heavy.

'What are you doing?' asks Anton, looking on.

'This is a main power cable,' Dev explains, groaning as he struggles with the weight. 'I'm going to hold it up and hope the lizard bites through it and frazzles itself. Help me.'

Anton, having no better plan, adds his strength. Between the two of them the weight is halved though their feet start to sink in the mud.

'Nice one, now lift it right high,' insists Dev, his face showing the strain.

'This is right daft. Who's going to believe a T-Rex is going to bite down on an electricity cable and kill itself?'

'Nobody most likely, but what else can we do, we're desperate?'

'But we don't know where the T-Rex is,' begins Anton, a sudden gust almost making him drop the cable. 'Flipping 'eck man, that wind's getting up.'

'Aye,' says Dev. 'Cloudier summoned a tornado, a right big one, out where the audience used to be. She's going flipping bonkers but I sent her a subconscious command.'

Anton knows Dev is speaking the truth. It has been grit-coaling for most of the show but there was very little wind before. 'Nobody commands Cloudier. She's a roaming, bat-brained free spirit, and you should have just sent her advice, a request maybe.'

'You're right, I'll do that,' says Dev, his face scrunching, it being his attempted telepathic-command face. 'I think it worked. I asked her for help. Ah, shite man.'

Far ahead, beyond the remnants of the stage, the tightest of anti-cyclones and a decent sized one is moving. It's whipping up scaffolding poles, concession stands, VIP enclosure fencing, in fact, anything and everything in its path.

The brothers can clearly see it, and the fierce whirlwind is sucking the evil storm above, down into its ferocious funnel, creating an unnerving, swirling lightning-fest.

'It's coming, Dev,' says Anton.

'Be strong man. It'll drive the T-Rex towards us,' says Dev, his voice catching on seeing something new in the tornado. 'Crap, it's sucked up the sharks from the stage pool.'

'Those poor sharks, they never asked for any of this.'

'Aye man but ... were you awake when I watched that crap film about tornado sharks?'

'I weren't,' fibs Anton, as he did watch it, through half-shielded eyes. 'Have you got a bad feeling about this?'

Dev doesn't need to answer. Cloudier has appeared and there's a T-Rex right behind her, its jaws constantly snapping at the ever-moving woman. On the ground, she'd have no chance of escape, but being encapsulated in a weave of fast moving air, giving her vertical as well as horizontal movement, is confusing the beast.

She constantly adjusts, moving ever nearer to the twins and the plan is working. The T-rex, unable to retreat due to the massive tornado approaching from behind, moves closer, and she drops to the ground. She runs the last ten yards and sprints under the cable.

The T-Rex pauses, not following, the reason being a shark has thudded into its back. It turns, grabs the floundering fish in large, powerful jaws, and in two bites, it's gone. It sees others approaching and lunges but misses. The flying sharks continue on, heading straight for startled conjoined twins who throw the electricity cable into the air and back away. The cable lights up, sparking loudly, and a serious number of volts provide an impromptu seafood barbeque.

Anton and Dev stand stock still, looking on. They see the huge tornado Cloudier summoned lose power as the funnel slowly ascends into the storm clouds. It's no longer needed. There's no point trying to corral the beast now the trap intended to kill it is gone.

The beast approaches cautiously, sniffing the air, possibly wondering if it wants a fish supper, but no, it isn't a scavenger. It likes live food and its eyes focus on a strange shaped human. It smiles, as well as a large prehistoric lizard can, and takes a step forward. It takes another, then another.

'Dev?'

'Flipping Run!'

The T-Rex doesn't need a second invitation as fleeing prey is always better than ones standing still. It lives for the chase and taking another step, feels an immense pain, and crashes to the ground.

The stunned creature rolls to its feet and its reptilian eyes try to make sense of what it's seeing. It sees a small human shouting loudly in its alien language.

'Oi, not so bloody fast, I want a word with you,' snarls Moneekar.

The T-Rex opens its huge jaws and lunges.

During a lifetime of tenderising meat, the best of chefs, including assistants, know the how, and the wherewithal. Whether using a wooden hammer, a heavy spoon, or in some cases, seriously strong fists, every piece of meat will eventually give. Generally, the meat is already dead, but occasionally, it isn't.

Carnivores are cruel, that's a given, but nature is unforgiving at times. It's survival of the fittest and the strongest will generally prevail, unless luck is on the side of the lesser.

Sadly, luck escaped the lesser on this occasion. The deceased beast is a soggy mess having had its lower jaw ripped off, head caved in, and heart torn from its chest. The assault was ferocious and the T-Rex, lacking punching power because of pathetically short arms, had no way of holding off the victor.

Moneekar is staring at the beast but her own eyes are lifeless. Her crumpled body, with every bone broken, and a huge lizard heart in her clasped hand, is unmoving.

The fleeing friends approach the woman, their souls full of trepidation.

'She killed it,' says Anton, not wanting to get near the mutilated thing.

Dev nods, ignores the huge corpse, and instead looks at Moneekar. He forces Anton into a crouch and presses fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse. He moves them several times and lastly grabs her wrist. There's no response so releases the arm which flops into the wet mud. He sniffs loudly. 'It's what she would ...'

'Please don't, Dev. Don't say it's what she would have wanted.'

'Sorry man, you're right,' says Dev, sighing deeply. 'The T-Rex's are dead and we can get to the judges' compound. We've got a free run.'

Anton wipes his eyes, knowing the truth. There were always going to be casualties but he never thought it would be one he grew up with. He flinches on feeling a hand on his shoulder. He knows it's Cloudier as he can hear her crying. 'Whey lass, can you stay with Moneekar? Please stay with her.'

The woman nods and speaks softly. 'Of course, my husband and children would think less of me if I didn't. Good luck.'

Anton Dev stands and prepares to move away but stop on seeing someone running towards them through the rain. At first they don't recognise him but soon realise its Walshy when they see the carrier bag of plastic components in his hand.

Walshy skids to a halt beside the trio. 'Thank god I found you. Keryl got eaten by ...' he pauses on seeing a figure lying in the mud. 'Is that the woman from Michel Poo Junior's restaurant? I really like her, she's beautiful.'

Anton sees the dopey expression on Walshy's face and nearly reaches out to him. 'Sorry man, she's dead.'

'Don't be plastically ridiculous, she can't be dead,' says Walshy, snorting in disbelief.

'She is. She's braised her last steak,' says Dev, in a whisper.

Walshy drops his plastic component carrier bag to the mud and his eyes are dancing. 'She can't be dead. She's tougher than really old boots. Did you check for a pulse?'

'There isn't one,' says Dev, shaking his head sadly.

'Okay, but where did you check for it?'

'I felt her wrist and her neck. There was nothing,' replies Dev, a little confused.

Walshy smiles up at the twins. 'You don't understand. She's incredibly tough and her skin is like a rhinos. You'll never find a pulse by pressing her epidermis. Here let me try.'

Anton and Dev hear a gasp from behind. They turn and see Cloudier with a hand pressed to her mouth in shock.

'What is it?' asks Dev, concern etching his face.

Cloudier grabs the fronts of the brothers' ruined shirts, one in each hand. 'Whatever you do, you mustn't turn round. Promise me you won't.'

'Why lass, what's ...?' begins Anton.

'Promise me!' screams Cloudier, making the twins jump.

The brother's peer at each other and make their promise.

'That's very good,' says Cloudier, now peering past them. 'Walshy, what are you doing?'

'I'm searching for a pulse. I know it looks bad but trust me.'

'Cloudier, what's Walshy ...?' begins Anton, again.

'Hush now, I've got this,' insists the mad woman, her eyes staring at Walshy. 'Have you found a pulse? Tell me you have or I'm likely to hurt you.'

'Give me a moment. I need to push my fingers into ...'

'We don't need to know! Have you found one or not?'

Neither Anton nor Dev can see, but their vivid imaginations are throwing up all manner of scenarios. Both want to turn but only out of morbid interest. They're trying to read Cloudier's expression but decide they're better off not knowing.

'I've got one, I've got one!' shouts Walshy, smiling widely up at Cloudier. 'She's not dead but the pulse is weak. She should regenerate and be okay.'

Cloudier deflates in relief but doesn't relinquish the strength of her grip. She pulls the twins towards her and three heads come close to touching. 'Listen up, here's what's going to happen. Walshy's going to stay with Moneekar and he'd better hope she doesn't remember this moment. If she does, it's been kind of interesting knowing him. Anton, Dev, look into my eyes, and if you ever think about asking me what just happened, I'll send a mini-tornado up your only shared orifice. Do you understand?'

The twins nod emphatically at such a direct order.

Cloudier holds them tight and only when Walshy has his hands to himself does she release their shirts. The brothers turn and see a stricken, yet still living assistant chef. Walshy crouches beside her with a stupid grin on his face.
Chapter Forty Four

I Sensei ... Another

The martial arts trio make their way towards the judges' compound and little is said. Nothing in fact, as the topic at the top of the agenda is taboo.

Unopposed they reach the crushed gates where they pause. Apart from the weather, there's no other sound to be heard. It appears that nothing is drawing breath, although something must be.

The SAV is sitting bolt upright, its eyes staring at the six screens still sending camera feeds into its hidden compartment. Mouths are wide open and a hand is uselessly smacking down on the, as yet un-pressed, green table-top button but it isn't working.

Feeble human nails are all broken and fingers are bleeding. A microphone is in pieces, the metal buckled and broken, but still nothing. As a last resort it stood on the damn button, jumped up and down, but there was no give. It wonders whether its long-shed reptilian form would have made a difference, but guesses not.

The creature holds a hand in front of its face and gags at the sight. Poking out a black forked tongue it tastes the blood but instantly spits it out, vomiting soon after. The odorous bile flows across the desk and thankfully covers the _End-Game_ button.

How did such a disgustingly weak race ever get the better of it? The plan was sound, an act of genius, and conditioning the humans to a dependency on telecommunications seemed logical. All of the four billion viewers used a telephone every day, many times a day. Some never left the things alone, their whole sad lives revolving around them.

Hiding tiny, brain-infecting pixies in every aural telecommunication device across the planet was an obvious way to reach out and control the humans. When first using the handsets, the small creatures would escape, burrow in through an aural canal, each one delving deep into cranial lobes, and wait for the SAV's _Reality Show_ signal.

The pre-prepared message would be sent via the planet's satellites, reviving the brain-dwellers and it would render two thirds of the humans immobile. The race would fall, the command being to sit and die, so in truth, they'd just waste away. Picking off those not watching the show would be simple. Security and those surviving of its own kind would achieve that, in time. The Omnis, God and Lucifer, would be weakened without their simian creations, and the imprisoned Master would overwhelm them.

Simplicity in motion, or it should have been, were it not for a green button that couldn't be pressed - a single, stupid, tiny little button. But no, it wasn't to be.

The SAV doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. It can do both simultaneously, but instead, rests back in its chair and waits for the inevitable end, one approaching fast. It isn't scared, as life is perilous, especially in the time it originated from, the planet's own history. It considers the word perilous and does laugh. Its master, The Lurking Peril, will not be pleased and that is an understatement. At least it will not have to face him and explain its failure. The master will rise, regardless of the outcome here, but the timing will be delayed. As for the SAV it will soon face a true death, and for that, it is grateful.

It peers at the remaining screens and sees the architects of its demise entering the compound. It remains still ... and waits.

'The compound's quiet. There's nothing to stop us,' says Dev as he, Anton and Cloudier step inside.

'Aye, but I don't like how easy it seems,' says Anton, peering around.

'Easy?' asks Dev. 'We've fought pixie-brained security officers, T-Rex's, the Duke Cowely thing and snipers. I wouldn't call that easy.'

'We didn't fight Duke Cowely, Lucifer did. It's just that, I can't help feeling there might be something else.'

'There is, it's the SAV. That's what we've come for.'

'No, Dev, I've got a weird feeling that ...' begins Anton, but pauses on feeling a hand on his shoulder. He knows its Cloudier as the black fingernails in his peripheral vision tell him so.

She steps around the brothers. 'Wait, this may be bonkers but ... I can feel your presence Sensei.'

A mocking Scottish laugh is heard, and Sensei Jocky Chan steps out from behind Keryl's chrome trailer. His tartan skirt wafts in the breeze as he places himself in the way of his pupils. 'Hoots Cloudier bairn, ye're a wee astute mad, crazy lass. I hope ye've learnt all ye could. There's nay getting past the likes of me, or the Haggises nipping around my ankles.'

Cloudier gives Sensei Jocky her darkest, hooded, black-eyed stare. 'I'm not afraid of you.'

'Is that so? I bow to ye,' says Jocky, leaning forward, his face low.

Cloudier returns the bow but keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the old man. 'Go brothers. Leave this one to me.'

Anton and Dev nod then dash past their bowing Sensei and his primal beasts. They trust Cloudier implicitly and don't question her. Neither looks back so miss their sister launching her attack. They hear her though.

'Crazy old bastard!'

The joined at the hip brothers know where they're going. Both watched Dilbert earlier in the show and for certain there's a stand-out judge's home they are after - the last one.

The rain continues to hammer, both feeling it. Muddied shoes, containing wet socks, pound forward, and the falling hail feels like bullets to the brain. Their soaked trousers are now filthy below the knees but they don't pause.

Was that the fifth or sixth judge's abode they've passed? They are unsure but they can see a much larger one, resembling Buckingham Palace. There's a halo above it, however false it may be, and finally they slow.

Dev's staring forward but Anton isn't as he's leaning over, regaining his breath. Eventually his torso rises and he turns his wet face. 'I hope Cloudier will be alright.'

'We can't help her right now. Sorry, but we've got a SAV to destroy.'

Anton nods and notices a small camera pointed straight at them, on the side of the Duke's home.

They furtively walk toward the ornate entrance but Dev suddenly shouts. 'Duck!'

Anton ducks and frantically looks around. Whatever it is he's ready to let rip with a fresh set of swear words. 'What is it?'

'Look, there's a mallard,' says Dev, pointing. 'I wonder where it came from. You don't usually see them this far up the river.'

'Stop pissing around, man. We're about to face a bastard evil SAV and this is serious.'

'Sorry, you're right. Let's get going,' says Dev, a tad ashamed.

Sensei Jocky barely moved or broke sweat, the assault from his pupil being of no concern. He knows Cloudier's unconventional methods inside out. As his pig-like Haggi snarl and growl, he looks down on the woman with the utmost contempt. She's sitting in the mud and that's the best place for her as far as he's concerned. 'Wee Cloudier, your trumped up madness willnae work on me. I raised ye, I trained ye, and ye'll need to do more than shout warped words. Telling me ye're bonkers has nae effect. I'm immune ye wee bitch. Now feel my power.'

Jocky drops to one knee, elbows the woman on the temple, follows it with an uppercut and finally, a two-fisted boob punch. Cloudier is sent sprawling, but despite the agonising pain, she manages to regain her sitting position and stares at her Sensei.

'Ye weren't expecting that, were ye? That's why ye cannae defeat me,' says Jocky, unleashing a furious growl. 'Now attack me!'

Cloudier raises her shaking hands, palms facing Jocky but before she can finish her summoning, they're kicked aside. A hand grabs the front of her dress, pulls her upright and she feels the full force of a Scottish Kiss. Jocky's forehead connects and she slams into the mud, her body sliding backwards through a puddle, creating a wave of dirty water.

Again, she rises into a sitting position and wipes a hand across her face. It comes away bloodied, although, in the gloom, the liquid appears black. Clearly rattled she stares at the man she trusted during her childhood. She shakes her head, trying to regain her senses, but laughs inappropriately. Is she really trying to regain her senses? That's just crazy.

'Ye disappoint me pupil,' says Jocky, slowly walking forward. 'I knew ye were shite the moment I set eyes on ye. What would yer family say? What would yer two bairns think about their Mummy giving up and dying in a pool of her own blood? Sorry lassie, but I've got to take ye down, my haggises say I must.'

Cloudier grins, madly. 'Sensei, you just said haggises?'

'Aye, and they cannae wait to feast on your human flesh,' says Jocky, clenching his fists.

'And you mentioned my two children.'

Jocky nods and extends his index fingers from his clenched fists in preparation for the deadliest assault in his armoury - the single-finger-inch-jab. 'I did, and know this. Ye were never worthy and once ye're dead, I'm going for the joined-up twat twins. Say goodbye lassie.'

Cloudier stands, unsteadily, as Jocky places the tips of his index fingers an inch from her sternum. She can see his arm muscles tensing as power flows into them, and with a primordial snarl, he releases not one, but two, shattering single-finger-inch-jabs.

Cloudier takes the hit and flies backwards, her chest aflame with staggering pain. It feels as if her heart is being forced through her backbone but there's method to her madness. She bounces and rolls, eventually coming to a stop, and slowly rises into the air on a current of super-speed wind. The pain is incredible but she knows she has had worse. She has given birth three times, without anaesthetic, and not the twice her Sensei suggested. She raises her head, locks eyes with the chequered-skirt wearing bully, and grins, insanely.

Her whirlwind of chaos increases in magnitude but not in size. Within the tempest, she holds out her hands, palms up and a tiny tornado appears in each. 'Sensei Jocky, you know I adore you but understand this, black is back. I'm going to hurt you now and I don't feel guilty. Here's why. Firstly, the real Sensei Jocky, and you're not him, would know I have three children and not two. Secondly, the genuine Sensei Jocky would never call his pet's haggises, they're _Haggi_. Thirdly, actually there isn't a thirdly but if I think of one before I smash you, whatever you are, I'll let you know,' she says, releasing the mini-tornadoes, each arcing towards her foe. 'Feel my dark wrath, and that's not pervy if anybody's listening.'

The thing masquerading as a very tough Sensei turns to run but doesn't get far. It shrieks, something incomprehensible, and is then crushed to the size of a sugar-lump.

Cloudier laughs with relief and then drops to the ground, unconscious.

'Dev, what were that horrible noise?' asks Anton, wincing as his ears are assailed by a chilling shriek further back in the compound.

'I'm not sure but I ... I'm feeling right dizzy again.'

Anton notes Dev's eyes rolling and recognises another bout of remembering.

wThe tartan terror is standing in the monastery courtyard. With hands on hips he's staring at his pupils, daring them to move. None does, as many years of training has taught them to know better. 'Right, wee bairns. Today I'm going to test ye in proper combat. Step up Moneekar. I dinnae expect ye to have a defence for this but try anyway.'

The tough girl has her fists ready to defend herself, or even get a hit in, if she can. Jocky instantly drops to one knee and releases a single-finger-inch-jab into her midriff.

' _Owargheooh!_ ' squeals Moneekar, not having seen it coming, and she tumbles backwards. The other students gasp as they watch their friend slide over the edge of the stack. None had time to assist her; such was the speed of the attack.

Anton's the first to shout, sounding hysterical. 'Sensei, you just killed Moneekar as that's a right high drop.'

Jocky laughs and waves his powerful finger to and fro, daring the others to retaliate but none are so reckless. 'I cannae help that, laddie, she should have defended herself,' he says, knowing the girl is currently being held in a net, a little way down the drop. He points the finger at another student. 'Cloudier lass, defend yerself against my fatal finger of doom.'

'Yes Sens _ooweeek!_ ' screams Cloudier, as she follows the same flight path as her sister before her.

Young Dev has seen enough. He knows he's up next so decides to get his retaliation in early. 'You bastard, you killed Cloudier. I'll have you for ...' he says, but he's cut short.

'No, he didn't kill me. It'll take more than a thousand foot drop to end my life. I'm the darkness within the light. I'm a tornado of pretty chaos. I'm also very mad!' snarls Cloudier, as a miniature twister places her back inside the courtyard. The turbo-charged winds dissipate, leaving a messy haired, crazy-eyed, girly dervish. 'Good try Sensei, now feel my power. Look into my eyes and tremble at the sight of dark lipstick on my teeth. I'm scarily going to teach you a lesson.'

Jocky is too slow and solid bonds of air carry him toward his student. Now up close, Cloudier stands on tip-toes and plants a gentle peck on his cheek, leaving behind a few flecks of black make-up. Was that a Cloudier kiss?

Grinning devilishly, she pushes the man over the edge of the stack and releases him. Jocky falls and is caught in a net and then helped inside by three Monks, leaning from a wide lower window, cut from the volcanic stack.

Sensibly, they say nothing as they pull him to safety.

Dev comes to and he's smiling.

'You've remembered more, haven't you?' asks Anton, hoping he's right.

'Aye and I'm beginning to think Sensei Jocky weren't as good as he made out. Cloudier beat him again but she's right hurt. Don't ask me how I know, I just do.'

Anton nods, knowing Dev speaks the truth. Cloudier is seriously hurt and her emotions have been picked up through the ether. Being kin, her pain has been screaming for attention, but so has her joy at a victory well-earned. Every fibre of Anton's being is telling him to help the woman but he can't. There can be no turning from his and Dev's own path, one that has led them to a regal looking entrance.

Anton reaches out and pulls down on the door handle. It barely moves and he tries again, but it won't budge. 'Bugger, it must be locked from the inside.'

Dev throws his arms up. 'How are we going to get in then?'

'No idea man, but ... maybe we should knock?'

'No way, we don't want the Secret Aural Voice to know we're here.'

Anton sees a camera just above the door. He holds a hand up and waves it to and fro and the camera follows the movement. 'I think it already knows we're here. I'm guessing it isn't stupid. It did set a pair of big bastard lizards on us.'

Dev contemplates the words and can find no get out clause. There's only one thing for it then, the door's going to get a sound beating. He bunches a fist and as he lets fly, he just manages to pull back in time. Tiny Tina, dressed in her silver jumpsuit, has appeared and is standing in the way.

'Wait, let me help you. I know I shouldn't have left the remains of the Magnolia Room but I can get inside through the cat-flap,' says Tiny Tina, pointing at the bottom of the door.

Dev stares at the feline entrance, knowing for certain it wasn't there before. He recalls meeting with God and Lucifer earlier in the show and convinces himself this is another example of divine intervention. He reaches down and helps Tiny Tina through the flap. 'Anton, isn't it lucky that she's tiny enough to get inside. I don't know what we'd have done ... oh hold on, she's coming back out. What's the problem, lass?'

'I can't reach the key. I've tried jumping but the lock's really high.'

'Sod it! What are ...?' begins Dev, but yet another interrupts.

Like a bad penny, or a good penny, or a plastic penny perhaps, Walshy approaches through the rain, still carrying his bag of modelling components. 'Hey lads, great news! Moneekar's awake. She's not sitting up yet as she's still mending but I made a plastic cushion to keep her head out of the mud.'

In a fit of bravery, Dev goes to clap Walshy on the shoulder, but the man has moved past him. He has already looked up at the high keyhole well above the door handle. He has also noted the cat-flap and Tiny Tina. 'I see the problem. I can help with that,' he says, reaching into his carrier bag. He removes a number of plastic components and starts to twist them together. Long ones, short ones, thick ones, thin ones, he's using them all. Anton Dev and Tiny Tina look on, each feeling a sense of apathy descending.

Admittedly, the man's talented, but boredom is approaching fast, and heads start to nod. Walshy removes a glue spray and gives the joints of his model a squirt. Despite the saturated atmosphere, the glue sets, and he holds out his model - a plastic ladder. 'Here, take this, it'll fit through the cat-flap,' he says, pushing it through, and Tiny Tina follows.

There's a recognisable click as a key is turned and reaching for the door handle, Anton tugs it down. The door opens and a frightened looking Tiny Tina does a runner.

The twins, exchanging glances and taking calming breaths, prepare to enter.

'Walshy, wait out here,' says Dev, as a foot is placed over the threshold.

The Secret Aural Voice has been watching through the external door-cam but that has now stopped working. None of the humans would be tall enough to reach it but the creature knows they wouldn't have to. There are higher beings at play, the Kings of the game board.

A realisation has come crashing down and despite no solid evidence it knows the truth. The _Koch-Licher_ weapon, the demise of Bulbulus, the escape of Jeremiah, the uselessness of an _End-Game_ button, and more recently, the significant appearance of a cat-flap in the palace door, can mean only one thing - the Omnis are at play.

Sadly, it has only two cameras remaining, one aimed at the stricken Duke Cowely, and the other, inside its own compartment pointing at itself. The viewers have not had the benefit of that particular view throughout the show but they will, when the time comes. The final shots, the killers as they say in show-business, will not be held back.

It understands the game and knows it has been outmanoeuvred on every level. The presence of God and Lucifer was always going to be a risk but one it had to take.

The SAV, a foul beast and there can be no doubt, chuckles from all its mouths. It isn't evil; it knows that, as any creature trying to secure survival and regain their position in the grand scheme of existence is only doing what comes natural. Any beast would fight, as it has, if their life were on the line. Hence it inwardly applauds. There is no shame in being beaten by a better opponent.

It has lost and will soon be no more. That's certain, but there is another certainty, it understands. It could stop the camera feeds now and deny the viewers an ending, but that would be cruel. Every show must go on, and every show must have a conclusion. The sense of fair-play within the SAV says so, and it will not deny the humans their victory.

It peers at the digital viewing readout for a final time and notes the number, over four billion, that being two thirds of the planets human population. It wonders what the other third are doing but realises, like its own species before the humans were created, they're the paupers, the fodder, and would not have the ability to watch.

The SAV turns its chair, facing away from the desk it has sat behind for the last ten hours. It faces a blank wall with no distinguishing features but it will not be that way for long. One approaches, actually, one and a half approaches, and it wants to see them in their conjoined flesh before it dies. The noblest of fighters throughout history have always needed to look their conqueror in the eye as they're sent to meet their maker. The SAV is no different.

As it waits, it looks down, sees its names-list on the floor, and picks it up. It notes the word, "Heroes" at the top, and it considers the names.

They are all there, the architects of its demise and it nods it's huge, bloated head to them. The names of God and Lucifer are at the top, side by side, as one can never be above the other. Below are the names of Anton and Dev, also side by side.

It recognises the name of The Great Bellendi and snarls. The oldest of magicians hid well and it should have spotted him. No matter, it thinks, and tosses the list away.

Facing the wall again, the creature wipes a blood-stained hand across its faces. It has never sweated before, but soon realises - the unexpected moisture isn't sweat.
Chapter Forty Five

Pawns Become Knights

The twins enter the trailer, hesitantly, one step at a time, each concentrating on the foot on their side. It isn't quite poetry in motion but once inside, do a double-take on seeing Duke Cowely tied to a chair.

'Crap man, he's naked,' says Anton, quickly averting his eyes.

Dev's about to agree but finds he has to take avoidance action. 'Duck!'

'Is it another mallard?'

Dev ducks but Anton doesn't, and he receives a powerful blow to the head from a long jewelled stick. Anton's body flops forwards but Dev is pumped and ready.

'Right you fu...' begins Dev, turning to punch the assailant, but he drags his fist back. 'Ah. Sorry your Majesty, I errr, didn't realise it were you.'

Queen Lizzie II, the most respected monarch across the planets' islands, adorned in her finest regalia, hides the wielded sceptre behind her back. 'Oh, Anton Dev, I'm so sorry. I thought you were that fool Jimmy Bond, zip-wiring in with another box of _Minky Tray ™_. I'm sick of those blasted chocolates and there's praline all over my crown.'

Dev gulps and sweat-beads erupt across his body, making him itch. He's trying to stay composed and thinks about the numerous times he has wanted to meet another of his heroes, a heroine in fact. He has faced everything in his life, from a bullying Sensei to enormous award presentation audiences, but this is the pinnacle. He wishes Anton were conscious so he could say something stupid and save him. As it is, he's on his own. 'That's er, okay, Your Majesty, Ma'am, and you really gave Anton what for.'

'I apologise young man, you're Phil's favourites you know. Can I make it up to you?'

'I ... I don't know,' says Dev, fighting hard to stay focused. 'Maybe you can tell us where the Secret Aural Voice is? All I can see is Duke Cowely and ... you.'

The greatest of women gazes magisterially at the twin. It's a mixture of a smile with just enough scorn thrown in to render the recipient a blithering fool. 'Careful Dev, are you suggesting that I, your reigning monarch, am the Secret Aural Voice?'

'No way Ma'am, I'd never think that. The voice sounds nothing like you but who else can it be, other than the naked Duke Cowely?'

The Queen stares at the Duke and un-regally spits on the floor. 'It most certainly isn't me and neither is it this pathetic creature before us.'

'Ma'am, he's not pathetic, Anton's my brother.'

Her Majesty adds a tad of extra scorn to her smile. 'You know who I mean.'

Dev nods as myriads of uncontrolled words threaten to dribble from his lips in a cascade of poorly constructed, moronic drivel. His uncontrolled sweating isn't helping, and he takes a deep breath, trying to remain focused. He's failing dismally but an unexpected intervention comes to his rescue, almost.

Fillipo dashes in and skids to a halt. 'Big Dev, I'm sorry I took so lo...' he says, but his words fail when a jewelled sceptre is put to use. He didn't see it coming, and she who wields it, isn't the sort of person to advertise the fact. He hits the floor, hard.

Dev looks down at another unconscious ally. 'Ma'am, that were Fillipo and he's a friend. I wish you hadn't hit him but it were a good shot mind.'

'I apologise again, but maybe I can revive your brother. I'm well versed in first aid techniques. I was a medic in the last big planetary war,' says the woman, tapping a white gloved finger to her lower lip in thought. 'Wait, I have a much better idea.'

Dev can only shrug. 'I'm willing to try anything.'

'Very well, kneel before me,' insists Queen Lizzie.

'Why, Ma'am?' asks Dev, realising his mistake. 'Oh right, sorry, I shouldn't question you as you're right high up in the Royal ranking tables.'

'The highest, now kneel, and bow your head.'

'I hope this isn't a trick, Ma'am,' says Dev, taking a knee.

Her Majesty squints a little and her smile fractionally wavers, not that Dev notices as his head's bowed. 'It's not a trick and this may seem a strange thing to say but I have a dessert,' she says, reaching for a wonderfully crafted sword-shape wafer, shoved into a partially melted bowl of ice-cream.

Dev recognises it as one of those Moneekar had prepared in the restaurant way before the start of the show and a realisation dawns. 'Holy fu...!'

'Don't swear, not when you and your brother are about to be knighted,' says Her Majesty, delicately taking hold of the wafer sword. In any other's hand, it would just be a wafer, but in the hand of the greatest of living monarchs, it's a magnificently tempered instrument of glory, with raspberry sauce on the pointy end.

Her Majesty speaks. 'For services soon to be rendered to the Crown, I dub thee, Sir Dev. Normally you would rise and make pointless small talk but I'm not finished yet. For services to the Crown, I dub thee, Sir Anton, and I apologise for dripping raspberry sauce onto your damp, spangley shirts.'

Dev raises his head and grins, noting Her Majesty has a proper smile on her face.

'Anton's going to be right chuffed when he comes round, Ma'am,' says Sir Dev, seeing if his brother is showing any signs of life, but as yet, there's nothing. Turning back to the Queen he sees her smile evaporate. 'What are you doing?'

Her Majesty has turned to the bound Duke, the sword-wafer held threateningly, pointing at his face. The man's eyes are wide and he goes to speak when his gag is torn away by a less-than-delicate, white gloved hand, but a fierce glare stills him. 'Duke Cowely, I've had you up to here,' says Her Majesty, a hand hovering just above her crown. 'You've earned the wrath of a Windsor. I ex-dub thee Duke, I ex-dub thee Sir, and I'm going to shove every blasted _Minky Tray ™_ chocolate down your simpleton throat. Choke on them, _Mister_ Cowely Simon, and may God have no mercy on your soul.'

'Majesty, please, this wasn't my fault ... nooooo!'

As the ex-Duke chokes to death on cocoa products, the Queen turns, and leaves in an exceptionally regal manner. It would also have been to a rendition of _God Save the Queen_ but the orchestra are otherwise indisposed, decomposed maybe.
Chapter Forty Six

The Secret Aural Voice

Dev watches, open mouthed, as the highest of all UQ women makes her exit and he turns to his unconscious brother. 'If only you could have seen that,' he says, pausing on seeing unexpected movement, and he tuts loudly. 'Anything to say, brother?'

Anton meekly turns his head, his torso still leaning forward, and his smile is precious. 'Sorry, but I were pretending again. Am I really, Sir Anton?'

'You sneaky bastard. We're both Sirs and I guess that's it. Duke Cowely's dead. It's over.'

Anton looks across at the sitting Duke, his head tilted back with chocolate dribbling around his mouth. He always wondered what the man would like with a goatee and now he knows. He would look a prat. That's by the by as he spots a camera on the far side of the room, pointed straight at them. A red operating light on the underside is flashing.

'No, Dev, it's not over.'

'But Duke Cowely's dead.'

'Aye, but he weren't the SAV,' says Anton, shuddering on looking at his brother's torso. 'If you don't believe me, check the _Koch-Licher_ weapon. What does that say?'

Dev reaches down, withdraws the Locator function earpiece, and presses it into his ear. The SAV is silent, but for certain, the creature is still present, and alive. The weapon says so.

Anton already knows the truth and he's shaking in barely controlled panic. Not because the SAV is in with them, but because his brother is again wearing the weapon. It was unharnessed and discarded some time ago, so why is it once again strapped to his body? Without looking, he eases back his right elbow and connects with the ammunition carousel, nestling in its sling. Neither was present a few minutes ago. He thinks about mentioning it to Dev but his brother appears oblivious. Omnis certainly move in mysterious ways, he thinks.

Dev nods. 'The SAV's still alive, you're right.'

'I know I'm right,' says Anton, trying to make sense of the situation. The weapon has reappeared for a reason and it wouldn't take too many guesses to know why. 'The evil would never let itself be killed before the show's over, not intentionally anyway.'

'Aye, but where is it?' asks Dev looking around.

Anton also looks around but there's little to be seen. He can't make sense of the situation and doesn't like the conclusion he has come to. 'The evil is still here, and I only see you, brother.'

'What?'

Anton knows his thinking is seriously awry and his head is pounding, his thoughts, madness. 'It's not me, and remember that Sensei Jocky turned to the shaded side. Shite man, I'll still love you, even though you're evil.'

'Fuck off, it's not me!' shouts Dev, pointing an accusatory finger. 'It must be you, you devious bastard. I'll have you for lying to me all this time.'

Anton's heart is thumping. He knows in his heart that his brother isn't evil, so could it be him? It would be madness but what in the show hasn't been? Could he really be the one they're after? His mind is in turmoil as Fillipo intervenes, recovered from a regal blow.

'Wait, stop this! The SAV is neither of you. The evil is still in here and it's tainting your thoughts. It's setting you against each other,' says Fillipo, suddenly backing away. 'Why are you both looking at me like that?'

'Sorry Fillipo, but apart from me and Anton, there's nobody else,' says Dev.

Anton nods sadly. 'He's right, there is no other, but you.'

Fillipo tries to run but four hands have grabbed him. 'It isn't me! It's _eurgh_ ... look over there, there's a secret compartment,' he squeals, pointing at the far wall.

Two sets of hands pause and two sets of eyes turn to where Fillipo's pointing. A previously uninteresting wall on the far side is no longer bare.

'What secret compartment?' asks Anton.

'The one over there, behind the dark altar big Duke Cowely worshipped at. Please tell me you see it,' implores Fillipo, gesturing towards an alcove, with lit black candles emitting a dark light. It's truly disgusting, containing a pair of bloodied goat skulls with their eyes still attached, pentagrams scrawled in blood, and a poster of The Krankies, naked.

Both Dev and Anton have hands pressed over their mouths, trying to still their retching.

'Ah man, that's sickening. Dilbert never mentioned that when he interviewed Duke Cowely,' says Dev, becoming lightheaded as the candle smoke drifts around him.

'He didn't, and I'm wondering if he deserved the title of third-best presenter. I know it's not right to speak ill of the dead, but Cat Deeley-Bopper wouldn't have missed it, or the cat-flap in the door, and she's a distant fourth in the rankings.'

'Aye, neither would have Fern Cotton-Reel, and she's just scraping fifth ...'

The conversation continues, discussing the merits of the also-rans in the Best Presenter charts, and the twins are unaware of their predicament. The vileness of the altar is leaking throughout the trailer, befuddling their minds, and distracting them. The candles stink and the eyes of the goat skulls are rolling in their sockets.

Whether through luck or judgement, on discussing the merits of Crispy Evans, a new entry in the top twenty, Dev guiltily slams his hand down on the _Koch-Licher_ weapon. He has unintentionally activated the _Localised Evil Atmosphere Cleanser_ function as outlined in Appendix 6, Diagram H, of the operator's manual.

The smoky foulness is sucked away, leaving sweet fresh air. It also leaves the twins staring at each other, mystified. They can recall their conversation but not why they were having it.

Feeling embarrassed Dev points theatrically. 'Look, there's a dark altar at the back of the room. Oh yes there is!'

'I see it but how do we get through?' asks Anton, already knowing the answer.

The whirring and humming of rotating barrels is a welcome relief, an aside to the daftness of the past few minutes. Candles, goat skulls, a sickeningly vile poster, and the wall of a hidden compartment are destroyed beyond recognition. The atmosphere is tainted once again, this time with airborne particulates, which may or may not contain asbestos, but does the shooter care? No, for he is Dev and he currently doesn't give a shit.

A finger is removed from the trigger, before the ammunition runs out, and the brothers are coughing, both rubbing their eyes, as they wait for the air to clear. This time, the palace door left open by a swiftly departing Fillipo does the job.

With every passing second the shape of a seated figure becomes clearer, and when the brothers can finally make out the Secret Aural Voice, the shows unseen Director, they step backwards. The creature is bleeding heavily from multiple bullet wounds but the blood is quickly congealing and the wounds healing. This however, isn't what has caused them to retreat. It's the sight of an over-sized, bloated head, on top of the naked human body. The thing has no hair but it does have a face, many faces in fact, and each one is staring at the twins.

'There it is,' whispers Dev, not knowing what else to say.

Anton nods but gasps when the thing morphs. The naked figure momentarily becomes a humanoid lizard with vicious clawed hands and iridescent scales covering the entirety of its body. This is the true image of the creature, but they only get a quick glimpse as it reverts back to its distorted human form.

'Shite, what is that thing?' asks Anton, almost fascinated.

'That's the bloody SAV!' growls Dev, elbowing his brother in the ribs.

'I know it's the SAV. I meant, what is it?' asks Anton, his eyes suddenly going wide on seeing a familiar face replace all the others, that of Duke Cowely. Moments later the face changes again, then again, flipping between those of past and present reality show judges.

As the twins watch it becomes the first ever _Plop Idol_ winner, Willy Young, then Stove Brookstein, then the Irish twins, Jizward, and many more.

Dev has been considering Anton's question. What is it? 'I might be guessing, but it looks to be an ever-changing, bio-amorphic mass of rancid energy. It's just pretending to be a coagulation of evil through the age of reality shows.'

Anton stares at Dev, knowing he really is guessing, but he can't think of any better description. 'But what does it mean?' he asks, hoping for a better answer than the last one.

'Anton,' begins Dev. 'I've no idea but I'm going to make some bollocks up anyway, pontificate if you like. I think the evil is the show itself. I think the truth of reality shows is this brother. They're a blight as they make mediocrity famous and mediocrity should never be a hero to the masses, whichever island they come from. Too many kiddies in the world today dream of growing up to be reality show stars, or soccerballers, or lawyers even, instead of having proper dreams and aspirations,' he says, peering hopefully at his brother.

Anton's nodding. 'Aye man, that were bollocks, but I've got nothing better, so we'll go with it. I'm just a simple conjoined twin but I fear for our race if we let this continue. Dev, you'd better do what you do best.'

'Don't you think there's been enough killing?' asks Dev, his trigger finger hovering.

'Nearly, but not quite. Shoot that bastard thing right in the faces. Kill it, or the kiddies will be, and I realise I don't understand this word, castigated. And so will we for not being good and proper, upstanding Knights of the Realm.'

Dev nods solemnly, and a finger presses. 'Asti la pizza, Secret Aural ...' he begins, but his war-cry fades. He peers down to where his hands are. 'Errr, this is right weird but I haven't got the weapon anymore, it's disappeared. I suppose I'll just have to punch the bastard out and hope for the best. Look, it's turned into the ice-cream loving faces of Gimp Jism.'

'Go for it brother. It's Gimp Jism, what more incentive do you need?'

Dev wades in and a succession of blows rain down, including multiple use of the face-shattering, _Geordie Migratory Spuggy Smack_ , an open handed slap. Anton pitches in with some well-aimed swear words, and despite them having little effect, he's trying his best.
Chapter Forty Seven

A Farewell to Evil

Anton and Dev are both leaning forward, panting heavily as they step back out of the hidden compartment. The beating is done, the swearing is done, and the SAV's bloated head resembles a deflated soccerball which has been dipped in red paint.

'I killed it, man,' utters Dev, wiping blood and sweat from his face.

'You belted the crap out of ...' says Anton, though his words catch on seeing movement, and the bloodied face of the Scottish warbler Susie Boil is staring at them from atop the SAV's body, 'It's not dead though.'

Dev relaunches with an intense assault of blisteringly fast karate chops. More swear words are shouted and finally the twins stand back.

'There, I killed ... no way!' shouts Dev, seeing more SAV faces than ever before, now a conglomeration of past Big Non-Conjoined Brother contestants.

Again they go about their task. Fists, feet, and potty-mouth, rains down in an unforgiving mauling which would render even a thick-skinned pachyderm a slushy mess. They step back and survey their handiwork.

'That should do it,' says Dev, sucking huge gulps of air into his lungs while trying to ignore the throb of blood pounding in his ears.

Anton speaks warily. 'Aye, but it's looking up again.'

'It's taking the piss!'

Despite their tiredness, the twins launch again, hoping this will be the last time, as they are seriously knackered. Thus ensues a vicious battering of the SAV, including a Jockyesque Scottish Kiss, Category C expletives, nose tweaking, and eye poking.

They stumble back and fall onto their shared backside, all energy spent.

Dev briefly peers up and faces are looking at them. He curses under his breath and places his head in his hands before slowly forcing himself and Anton back to their feet.

There's a popping sound inside the room, and the twins are forced back down when a solid, wooden Staff of Justice presses down on the point where their torsos meet. Both tiredly look up, see a large, black man dressed in a white suit, and sigh loudly.

God turns from the twins and approaches the injured creature, seeing it for the first time in its fake skin. He knows what it truly is, an agent of the old enemy, the Lurking Peril, and for certain the staring faces know who he is. The Omni considers thrusting his staff through its black heart but that would be too easy and the wrong ending completely. The show is everything, God knows that, and even he understands that it must go on. The humans must have their victory and be proud of it. The future depends on them defeating the SAV, gaining a sense of invulnerability, as there will be much stronger enemies to come.

God considers Dev's assessment regarding the creature, a blight on humanity, and in a way, he's right. He decides he'll go along with it as the mortal twins have no need to know the full truth - yet. He turns to them. 'Desist your beating, that's quite enough. Haven't you learnt this thing can't be destroyed using violence?'

The twins appreciate the words and are grateful for hearing them. Dev's close to passing out and Anton's voice is croaking badly.

God crouches before them. 'Beat it all you wish but you can never defeat the multi-faced existential servant of The Lurking Peril by means of brutal assault. All the time it can feed off a viewing audience then ...' he says, deliberately leaving his words unfinished in the hope an understanding is reached.

Anton is shaking his head. 'Dev, I know I'm only pretending to be stupid but what does it mean, what God just said?'

'No idea, man, but I understood part of it. We can't kill the bastard thing so let's go home. I'm flipping exhausted.'

God grips his staff a little tighter. 'I said, and listen carefully. All the time the SAV has an audience it can't be defeated,' and gestures towards a digital readout on the SAV's desk. He then stares at a screen, the only working screen of a bank of thirty-six, showing a badly beaten creature. He nods his head, indicating a camera with a red flashing light on the ceiling of the secret den. At the last, he raises his eyebrows to the twins, questioningly.

The answer from Dev isn't the one he was hoping for.

'I've punched it, slapped it, head-butted it, you've sworn at it, poked it in the eyes, and even whispered sweet nothings but it won't die. Let's go home.'

God grips his Omni-staff very hard, his black knuckles starting to turn white. 'I said, maybe the SAV still has an audience. Do I need to spell it out? Please don't make me, Anton Dev, as I'm an Omni and proud of you. Don't make me backtrack as Gods really hate to be proved wrong. We tend to get ... tetchy.'

The twins peer suspiciously at God.

'Dev,' whispers Anton, tapping him on the shoulder, 'move in close so God doesn't hear but I think he's a bit annoyed.'

'I can hear you, Anton. I'm Omni remember, I hear everything, and seriously, do you not see the answer?'

Anton looks to his brother for inspiration. 'Dev?'

Dev peers at his brother through perspiration. 'Anton?'

Mercifully, for all concerned, there's a crash at the entrance as a man rushes in. Actually, he has fallen in, as his foot caught the step and his bag of plastic parts, newly refilled from his own temporary home, hurtles forward and hits the far wall. Walshy Loo, in the guise of an unlikely saviour, lifts himself from the floor and limps towards the sweaty twins. 'Hey lads, I ... ah, hi God, fancy seeing you here. I once made a model of you although I was guessing as you're everywhere and ...' but he pauses when he sees something nasty in a recently revealed compartment. ' _Eurgh_ , what's that drippy thing?'

'That's the SAV,' says Dev, turning to stare at the creature which is now wearing his own face. 'The bast... er, good looking thing won't die and we've tried everything.'

Giving God a wide berth, Walshy walks forward and takes a closer look inside the cubicle. So that's the SAV, he thinks. So it won't die, he considers. Hold on, what's that digital readout with the big number and what's that single working screen, he asks himself?

He sees the SAV on the screen and estimating the angle of filming, his eyes rise. He spots the camera and calculations start racing through his brain.

He looks back at the SAV, peers at the readout, peeks up at the camera again, and he has the answer. He clicks his fingers, but all that's heard is a dull slap of digits. 'Of course it won't die, you need to, oh, I almost forgot. Moneekar's back on her feet and she's agreed to marry me. How good is that? She's gorgeous and didn't mind me sticking my fingers, oh, just remembered. Cloudier crushed the bejesus out of that Scottish fella and she's recovering. Ah, sorry God, I just took your son's name in vain. Please forgive me.'

God has the butt of his staff pressed firmly to the floor, both hands resting on the top, and ignores the blasphemy. He's smiling proudly. 'Walshy Loo, you are without doubt ...'

'I know God. I'm the most boring man on the planet.'

'Don't interrupt, plastic man. You're the most ingenious man on the planet and maybe you can show these two how to destroy the foul representation of reality shows.'

'Right, of course, but seriously, haven't they worked it out? Come on lads, isn't it obvious?' asks Walshy, his smug smile quickly disappearing on seeing how Anton Dev are staring at him. 'Okay, judging by your looks you haven't. I'll go and ask Moneekar to do the honours. Just keep watching the SAV,' he says, as he runs back outside.

The seconds become minutes but not too many. Anton and Dev have tried engaging God in small talk but the black Omni is having none of it. Every time they speak he catches them with a stare and their words dry up. They talk to each other instead.

'Dev, I hope Walshy isn't planning to bore it to death. Not even the SAV deserves ... fuck, the multi-faced bugger's melting!'

The SAV is melting. It has slipped from its leather chair and fallen to the floor. There's no screaming, no shaking and no sound other than that of a pool of foul-smelling liquid slowly spreading across the floor. Finally, only the front of the enlarged head remains and in a last show of defiance, it pokes out a black tongue, split at the end. Moments later, it's no more.

In the compartment, the digital readout is blank and the screens fully dark as the last camera has stopped operating. The twins shuffle backwards to avoid getting liquefied SAV on their already ruined trousers and shoes.

'What did Walshy do, God?' asks Anton, trying to ignore the stink.

God chuckles and expertly twirls his staff. 'He did what he had to. He used the tools at his disposal, his newfound love, and brought an end to this travesty of chaotic creation.'

'What, Channel 13?' chuckles Dev, trying to raise a laugh, but nobody else joins in.

God stares at the conjoined twins. He considers whether they have the means to truly win against the enemy, those still to come. Alone, he guesses not, but they won't be alone. They have their siblings, and a surprisingly adept, future brother-in-law. There will be others as well and without doubt, all will be needed when the time comes.

The SAV was a force to be reckoned with but in the grand scheme of the enemy, a lesser in the game. Not a grunt but most certainly not a _Power_. Not like its master, the Lurking Peril, who would have rode roughshod over the show Complex in seconds, had it been free and had the chance to do so.

As is it, all is well, and God chalks up another victory for his own kind. His adversary, the Lurking Peril, or LP to those who know him, will not be best pleased but shit happens, even he knows that. A small victory has been achieved but the war is far from over. LP's next move won't be so subtle and the aged dinosaur Creator will not try the likes again. He's a creature of brute force, some might say ignorance, but God knows better than that.

Despite LP's own imprisonment, some of his best are still on the surface and waiting to unleash their own attacks. For certain the old bastard is breaking from his prison but God and Lucifer have done all they can in preparing their own creations to thwart him and his.

A reckoning is fast approaching and God feels an icy flow down his spine, the first for many a millennia. Still, his own have prevailed this time and he feels a celebration might be called for. He breaks from his reverie on realising he's being asked a question.

'So it's over then?' asks Dev.

'It will be,' says God, handing over a sealed golden envelope, 'once you've read out the Finalest Final, Honestly results.'

'No offence, but there doesn't seem much point,' says Anton, taking the envelope. 'Nobody's watching.'

God crouches and smiles widely. He flicks his fingers and a floating camera appears, pointing at the twins. 'You'd be surprised,' he says, and with a loud pop, disappears. Unnoticed by Anton Dev, he has reappeared in the SAV's hidden compartment and pressed the table top button the SAV hadn't managed to, the one marked _End-Game_. A coded message, but not the SAV's, is sent across the planet. This one is God's, and in essence it says - all is well.

As billions of brain-dwelling pixies die, a digital readout unexpectedly flickers to life. Unlike before though, the number is rising fast, much higher than the previous four billion, as screens are cropping up in places across the planet where they've never been before.

The human paupers, wherever they may be, stare curiously at technology, some for the first time. To some it is magic and spears are thrown. To others, their Gods are speaking. Whatever the truth, all stare at a creature none have seen before; that of weird, Y-shaped human twins. As audiences go, Anton Dev has never had a bigger one.
Chapter Forty Eight

The Great Bellendi

Anton Dev leaves the late Duke Cowely's replica palace, the floating camera keeping them in frame. But the boys aren't smiling as the victory was _Pyrrhic_ \- not that they understand the meaning of the word.

'We won then,' says Anton, paying no attention to the camera.

'Aye, but so many died it seems like a defeat. I wish there were a word we could use which might describe it,' says Dev, as he wipes blood, sweat and tears from his face.

'I know man and this seems a bit inconsiderate but we need to read out the results,' says Anton, looking toward the stage, more precisely, where it used to stand.

Dev feels his brother's pain, subconsciously leaking into his own being and he chuckles, forlornly. 'It is wrong but the show must go on. Just open the envelope and read out the results, then we can go home.'

Anton starts to tear open the envelope but stops. A small group are approaching. It's their sisters and Moneekar is carrying Walshy in her arms.

'Hey lads, look! Moneekar's fine and we're going to get married, isn't that right my sweet little anvil,' says Walshy, and the pair exchange a sloppy kiss.

'That's great,' says Dev, genuinely smiling and winking at Moneekar, who blushes. 'Before I forget, thanks for getting rid of the SAV, but how did you kill it?'

'It was easy,' replies Walshy. 'It needed an audience and the camera in the secret compartment gave it one. I asked Moneekar to bash the crap out of the generator that was linked to Duke Cowely's palace and the power was cut. Without a live feed, there were no viewers so it withered and died. I guessed that the only way to get rid of reality shows is for nobody to watch them.'

'Walshy man, that's genius,' says Anton, wondering why he hadn't thought of it.

'Aye man, genius,' whispers Dev, his face dropping on realising their life-blood might be coming to an end. No more shows, means no more awards, and moments later, Anton's also picking up on the reality of the situation. They look at each other and no words need saying.

Across from them, Cloudier drifts in a tight maelstrom, sees the sad expressions on her brothers' faces and understands their need for privacy. She has also heard a shrieking sound, that of a huge flying lizard and she knows what's coming. She nods to them, smiles sweetly without a hint of insanity and expands her tornado to envelop the love-birds beside her. 'Laters, big boys,' she shouts, and she's over the Complex fence, heading for freedom.

Anton Dev watches their two sisters and future brother-in-law take their leave. As they turn they feel a forceful gust of wind hit them from above. Shielding their eyes they try to look upwards but the rain's blurring their vision. Only when the impromptu gust stops do they see something frightening. A pterodactyl is crouched in the mud, it wings folded in, though its head is reaching for them, as it sniffs the air.

The Great Bellendi has dismounted, and he gives the prehistoric lizard's neck a shove, and it pulls back. He stares at the twins, his expression unreadable. 'Well done, you've performed well, as was expected. I must say, we never envisioned you attaining celebrity status when we sent you home from the monastery, but there was always a spark within you both. That's why I joined you together, a masterstroke if I may be so bold. Sadly though, with the SAV defeated, your time is at an end,' says the magician, throwing his purple robe wide.

The storm above emits a crack of thunder, and a lightning fork hits the halo above the abode of Duke Cowely. It travels along the line of seven homes and each one explodes, sending out lethal, burning shards. The electrical charge ends when hitting six Bentleys and a Learjet, each vehicle exploding in flames. The scene is like that of a pyrotechnic stage, throwing out a cacophony of aural-bursts and visual treats.

'Fuck it, the Great Bellendi's a baddie!' exclaims Dev, bunching his fists in preparation to attack.

'What, no I'm not! Apologies, but I enjoy the theatrical and all I meant was your conjoined status has played out. Your target was the SAV and now it's defeated there's no point you staying joined. You're individuals, and still have a way to go to find your true calling. You, Dev, despite what you think, are not the finished article and you, Anton, are far from what you need to be. Sensei Jocky did all he can and I should point out that wasn't him that Cloudier defeated a little earlier, but was instead a little ruse I placed in her way. Before you complain, it was necessary as only you two were meant to face the SAV. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, your conjoined status. Trust me when I say that neither of you will achieve full enlightenment in this form. I'm sorry, but it's time for you to go your separate ways. It was I who joined you and now, you must be parted, for the benefit of the whole of humanity.'

Anton and Dev stare at each other, both with hands pressed to their hearts, the greatest of organs pounding away like a drummer on mind-bending chemicals. They are breathing heavily and exhaling with force.

Anton's the first to speak. 'Why, Great Bellendi man? We're right good together, we're a team, we're ...' he says, but stops when Dev interrupts.

'Hush brother, the great man's right,' says Dev, placing his hands either side of Anton's head. He doesn't like it, but the magician's words rings true. He can feel a damp realisation bubbling in the corners of his eyes, and his heart's missing beats, but he knows he must continue. 'I love you Anton, but it's the right thing to do. I ... I need to go my own way. I need to find myself again.'

'But you're right here, Dev. Don't leave me, please don't go,' pleads Anton.

Dev's head drops and he does the only thing he can when ultimate pain comes a calling. He sings, his melodic tones ringing out in a beautiful acappello overture. ' _Anton, I love you so. I want you to know, that I 'm gonna miss you brother, the minute you're not on my hip. When I leave, believe in our lifetime, I've had one dream come true. I was blessed to be joined, to someone as beautiful as you_.'

'Please don't, man,' sobs Anton, recalling the pain of their joining all those years ago. It was the lowlight of his life, but led to the highlight, that of a brother he could cherish.

' _Anton, I have to go, '_ sings Dev, sighing at the last as every ounce of strength flows away. 'I'm sorry, brother' he whispers, then looks to the Great Bellendi, and nods. There are tears in the eyes of all three men, and they are men.

'I, the Great Bellendi ...'

'Just fucking do it!' shouts Dev.
Chapter Forty Nine

One Becomes Two

The Great Bellendi stares at Anton Dev and flaps his purple robes. There's an eye-watering flare of light, and a billowing cloud of smoke, as a bolt of lightning flies from the heavens and hits Anton Dev in the V, where their torsos join. Moments later, a distinct aroma of scorched flesh taints the air.

' _Arghhh!_ ' screams Dev.

' _Ditto!_ '

A conjoined body flies apart and two pieces land in the Gubbins mud. For anybody watching, and thankfully nobody is, as their floating camera has mysteriously turned, the sight would be sickening. Two bodies flounder, each with only one leg, as if hacked from shared-hip to groin by a sharp blade. As the seconds tick by, an extra leg grows on each, and where their shared trousers have been torn in half, these also grow to cover their immodesty.

Eventually, the transformation is complete and the Great Bellendi nods. 'It's done, and I'll leave you boys. Actually, I'll leave you men,' he says as he turns, mounts his beast, non-pervy like, and takes to the skies, heading toward a moonbeam poking through the dissipating cloud cover.

The relentless deluge has finally stopped and two men are getting to their feet. Both are inspecting themselves while getting used to a new centre of gravity. There's the odd stumble, the occasional knee placed on the ground, but both manage to stay upright on their own two feet. Their eyes meet.

'What are you doing over there?' asks Dev, rubbing his new un-shared leg and hip.

Anton sniffs. 'We're not joined anymore, so I guess we're no longer brothers.'

'Still talking crap then,' says Dev, shaking his head.

'But we ...?'

'No Anton! We'll always be brothers, right good ones, whether we're five hundred miles apart or stuck to each other. It doesn't matter we didn't have the same parents. Nothing will ever stop us being joined at the hip.'

Anton grins but his expression turns soulful. 'Thanks, but I guess this is it then.'

'Nearly, you've still got the results to read out. There doesn't seem much point but a show's a show, and a contract's a contract. Go for it brother, bloody do it!'

Anton looks directly at the floating camera, which has turned back to face them, and takes the results card from the envelope God gave them. 'Ladies, gentle... whoever's watching.'

Dev moves beside him and puts a hand on his shoulder. 'I've got your side man, always.'

'Here are the results, in a particular order,' says Anton, smiling. 'In fourth place, and actually going home as they survived to the bitter end, is ...'

'That's great hesitating, brother,' says Dev, nodding his approval.

'It's, ah crap!' exclaims Anton, as the Shat Cat appears, jumps up, grabs the card, and runs off. He makes to go after the feline but Dev stops him.

A woman is approaching, Joanne, the Shat Cat's head servant. 'We're withdrawing from the show. Dumper doesn't care anymore and I respect his decision. Wherever we are on the results list, it doesn't matter. We're going home,' she says, running after the ginger moggy. 'Dumper, oo's a naughty boy den. Give mummy the results, dere's a good _owww_ , you scratched me you little bast _owww!_ '

Anton smirks and turns back to camera. 'Well, we didn't see that coming. That means the Shat Cat automatically comes fourth,' he says, mock surprise on his face.

'Aye, and I think we might have another shock on the cards,' says Dev, seeing another contestant walking towards them, at least, they assume it is.

Neither recognises the woman until she speaks, as she has shed her full length dark attire. Alli Kayeeda is a true beauty and she smiles, warmly. 'I'm also withdrawing. I never signed up to entertain evil as that goes against my religion. I will not ...'

'Yeah, whatever,' interrupts Anton, waving the woman away. 'So, Alli Kayeeda comes third and we're down to the final two.'

'Anton, I'm so excited,' says Dev, lying through his back teeth and forcing a smile to camera. He's trying to be enthusiastic but his wow-factor has deserted him.

'Now, I know everyone's wondering how I can announce the winner without the list but I had a sneaky look when I first opened the envelope,' says Anton, taking several deep breaths. 'So, here it is. In first place, and the winner of the really long epic that was _The UQ has the Feck Factor and is Really Talented_ is ...'

Anton's words are drowned out as another contestant approaches at a run. 'Stop, I'll not be a part of this charade any longer.'

'Who said that?' asks Anton, looking around theatrically.

'Look down you twat. I'll not be named the winner of such an evil show,' says Tiny Tina, standing with tiny hands on tiny hips.

The ex-twins glance at each other, wondering which she had just called a twat.

Anton crouches and smiles at the woman. 'Sorry lass, but you only came third.'

'Third, that's not possible! I beheaded an out-fidel,' stammers the woman, disbelief on her face, but it soon turns to a scowl. 'Sod you both and you're getting my laundry bill. I'll have you know blood's hard to remove from a tiny silver jumpsuit,' she says, stomping away in a huff.

Anton stands up, shakes his head, and sighs. 'Well, Tiny Tina automatically comes second so I guess we have a winner.'

Dev smiles broadly, feeling flushed on hearing the word "winner," it bringing back so many happy memories. He goes to speak but realises who the victor is. 'We do, but I feel a sense of fairness must prevail. They should have a chance to withdraw as well,' he says, turning to the five colourfully dressed lads of Gimp Jism. 'Hey, there's an ice-cream van. It just went underwater in the river and it were handing out free pop-ices.'

Five young heads whip round and look towards the brown streak of water.

' _We rock, we roll_ , bagsy I'm first,' shouts the lead singer, whose name is forgettable, and they're off. Certainly, they can't sing, but they can run like whippets and soon enough there are distance splashes - five in total.

Anton chuckles and stares at Dev. 'That were cruel but a fitting end I suppose.'

'Aye, and that really is it then.'

'It is, let's ...' begins Anton, but his words are drowned out by a tremendous wall of sound. A combination of the largest orchestra ever gathered, a jet display team, and millions of screaming and cheering fans, have erupted from nowhere. The lads turn and what greets them is enough to leave even the very best speechless. The whole of the Complex with everyone inside has been reformed.

'Holy fu...!' begins Dev, but he doesn't finish his profanity as an elbow in the ribs from Anton knocks the breath from his throat. They stare at each other, both subconsciously knowing what the other's thinking.

A familiar voice can be heard blasting from the powerful speakers stacked around the stage, and if one were to guess, they might say it sounded - Godlike. 'Ladies, gentlemen, VIPs, visual media observers, and every other wonderful human tuning in across the planet, hear my words.'

The presenter's eyes ignite with joy and they start to run.

'We need to get on stage!' shouts Anton, his arms and legs pumping.

'No we don't. Let's go out front and watch for once,' replies Dev, a yard behind.

They run hard and skirt around the stage, normal looking security officers waving them through. On reaching the front they see the judges' table, with five living judges behind it, Walshy having already left, but Duke Cowely is also missing. They take in the VIP enclosure, full once more, and the towering scaffolding stands brimming with ecstatic life.

'Crap man, I can't believe it,' gasps Anton, looking every which way.

'Nor me,' whispers Dev, his eyes finally alighting on the stage. 'Shite, here comes the final special guest. He looks magnificent in his leathers.'

'He does and errr, Dev,' says Anton, peering sheepishly at his brother. 'Shall we dance a two-step for the last time, together as like?'

Dev's face scrunches. It's his happy face. 'Why not, get on the table.'

As the brothers climb up, the voice of the Omnis, God and Lucifer in unison, blast forth. 'For your enjoyment, it's ... _Fruit 'n'maltloaf!_'

And the crowd go seriously fucking apoplectic!

After much merriment, an ex-conjoined twin steps into a long-tail boat on the River Thames, and settles beside the inboard motor. He tears a strip of cloth from the bottom of his unspangley shirt and ties it around his forehead, making him look tough.

It'll be a long journey, all the way back to the island of Thailand, but he's had worse, much worse. He smiles up at Anton, who despite a tear in his eye, is grinning. Fillipo is also there and Dev acknowledges him with a nod, which is returned.

'So this is it, Dev?' asks Anton.

'Not quite, brother, but we're close. I'm not Dev anymore. I'm going to use my full given first name from now on. It'll sound better when I'm in Thailand, building schools, fighting gangs of armed buggers, and protecting Planet Heritage sites. What do you think?'

Anton ponders for a second and his smile widens. 'It sounds bastard hard ... Devbo. Goodbye brother. I'll miss you.'

'Goodbye Anton, my brother!'

The sun rises on the horizon and another day, where it feels good to be alive, dawns.
Epilogue

God and Lucifer sit in wicker chairs, one either side of a wicker-top table. Upon the table are two cocktails, one a Heavenly bright blue, and the other, a Hellish deep red. Also upon the table is a vicious looking weapon consisting of two barrels set inside a series of coils with an attached harness. Both are staring at it.

'What will you do with it, old friend?' asks God, as he runs a finger over the condensation on the outside of his cocktail glass, drawing three sevens.

'It'll go into safe keeping. I can't afford for it to be noticed. Think of the trouble we might find ourselves in,' says Lucifer, winking devilishly.

God stares at his Omni-opposite, 'Then why take it above in the first place?'

'A calculated risk but enough of that,' says Lucifer, clicking his fingers and the weapon disappears. 'Have you noticed our old adversary, the Lurking Peril's, next move?'

'I miss very little, you know that. Our old adversary's growing stronger, going for a three pronged attack. I wonder whether our little humans will cope.'

Lucifer leans forward and looks God directly in the eye. 'Well, old friend, that all depends on how much we intervene, doesn't it?' he says, raising dark eyebrows.

The two ancient friends raise their glasses, and toast a job well done.
