Plob

by Craig Zerf

  The coroner, who actually was from the East End and thought that Terry was a complete and utter prat, turned to cast a world-weary gaze upon him. ‘Firstly, guv, I am not your mate. Secondly, if you threaten me again, cop or not, I shall tear you a shiny new arsehole with my bare hands and, thirdly, if you don’t stop conversing in that fake East End bovver-boy accent I shall never speak to you ever again. And you don’t want that to happen do you, my little ray of sunshine?’

  Terry swallowed hard. ‘OK. Point taken. So, can you help us?’

  The coroner, whose name was Phred. Phred Smythe. (Which just goes to show that even the most simple and honest of names like Fred Smith can be cocked up by having pretentious parents) stared at Terry for a while and then acquiesced with another shrug. ‘I think that it’s painted red. Bright red. Probably. Maybe. It’s not much to go on,’ he conceded. ‘But at the moment that’s all we’ve got.’

  Terry nodded. ‘Thanks, Phred. Every little bit helps.’

  ‘What’s that then?’ asked the old man at Bill’s side as he gestured towards the bright red wrench. Bill turned and stared.

  ‘It’s a wre…sceptre.’

  ‘Oh,’ nodded the old man. ‘A receptor,’ he nodded again. ‘Ah.’

  ‘No, you stupid daft old coot. Not a receptor, just a sceptre.’

  ‘Hey bugger off,’ growled the old man. ‘What gives you the right to call me a stupid daft old coot?’

  ‘This,’ said Bill shaking the wrench in front of the old man’s face.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cause. It means that I’m the king. King Bill.’

  The old man stared blankly at Bill, his mouth hanging open as his age addled, less than agile mind tried desperately to keep up with Bill’s mad reasoning.

  Bill stared insanely at the old man. The old man stared back blankly. Insanely, blankly, insanely, blankly.

  ‘Oh sod it,’ exclaimed Bill, as he savagely backhanded the old man with the wrench causing him to somersault off his barstool and crash to the floor like a lightning-struck veteran golfer in an electrical storm.

  Now, we’ve seen it all before. It’s not the biggest kid in the playground. More often than not you can pick them by the ‘constant slight sneer,’ ‘the left eye twitch’ and the ‘thousand-yard stare’ as they lurch around by the sandpit or the swings attempting to rip off girls’ pigtails, putting head locks on all the other kids and indiscriminately lashing out at innocent passers by.

  And we all know what happens next - a group of basically decent kids get together and discipline the little psycho by clipping him sharply around his schizophrenic lughole and convincing him to no longer torment his peers in such an unseemly fashion.

  In our dreams perhaps - in reality, the group of basically decent kids get together and join our budding young Genghis Kahn in his vile oppression of the general populace.

  It’s no good denying it. This is what happens. Perhaps not the playground, perchance the teenage bicycle gang, the office bully and his sycophantic lackeys, the lynch mobs in the Westerns, Kermit and his Muppets, or - Bill the plumber, his wrench and his soon-to-be expanding group of Hitleresque goons.

  This was truly great fun. Far and away the best dream that Bill had ever had. He didn’t stutter any more, he seemed to be able to do anything that he wanted and behave exactly as he felt like.

  In fact, the worse he behaved the more his new friends cheered him on.

  And a scurvier band of cut throats, vagabonds, camp followers, spin doctors and thoughtless racial stereotypes, one couldn’t wish for.

  They loved him.

  And he hardly had to use the wrench anymore. He found that by raising it up on high to the striking position, stopped any approaching arguments or indiscipline in their tracks.

  Lo, he had even discovered that oft times he merely had to point his bright red, drop forged all-steel wrench at the offending miscreant and his newfound friends would carry out a bit of severe reprimanding on his behalf.

  His new live friends.

  His people.

  His true subjects.

  Good old Bill the plumber.

  Great Bill de Plumber.

  King Bil dePlummer.

  And the forces of evil shall be legion.

  And the armies of light shall consist of a cabbie, an accountant, a waitress, a teenager and an old magician.

  Why? I do not know. But it’s always like that, isn’t it. Well -isn’t it?

  ‘Whoa there. Whoa.’ Cabbie hauled back on the reins stopping his cab and snow-white horse next to the prone suit of armour.

  ‘Come on, Plob my boy,’ said Smegly. ‘Jump off and have a quick butchers.’

  Plob vaulted off the front of the cab and walked over to the pile of iron.

  ‘It’s a suit of armour,’ he said.

  Dreenee rolled her eyes. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Looks like a Smithmaster series seven with the reinforced epaulettes and the multi-swivel knee joints,’ said the cabbie. ‘A real beauty. Got five stars in last month’s issue of ‘Axe & Armour.’ Damn heavy though,’ he continued. ‘A real hernia fest. Well, open up the visor and see if anyone’s at home.’

  Plob tugged at the visor to no avail. It wouldn’t budge.

  ‘No, no,’ urged the cabbie. ‘Push that button on the side. That’s right. Now grab the tip of the visor and pull.’

  Plob did as instructed, pulling up the visor to expose…

  ‘Cripes,’ he yelled as he leapt back in shock.

  ‘It’s a werewolf,’ screamed the cabbie pointing at the back of Horgy’s head with a shaking digit.

  ‘Calm down, Cabbie,’ shouted Master Smegly. ‘Show some control, damn it, man,’ he continued as he clambered down off the cab and strode over to the armour

  And then they all heard it. Echoing and vague. Like an exhausted whisper from a tomb so very far away -‘Hello, hello. Is someone there? Anyone…help me…please…anyone.’

  ‘The voice of the damned,’ whispered the cabbie as he proscribed the complex, but totally ineffectual, warding sign of the small pink-headed god Oxtoclitris on his chest with a shaky finger.

  ‘I think it’s coming from in here,’ said Plob pointing at the non-ambulatory Smithmaster series seven.

  ‘Well of course it is,’ agreed Smegly. ‘Now let’s see if we can prise that helmet off and attempt an educated guess at what in the gods’ names is actually transpiring. Cabbie, get down here, you seem to know a fair bit about how these steel overcoats work.’

  The cabbie shook his head.

  ‘Come on, get down here,’ repeated Smegly.

  Another more vigorous shake.

  Master Smegly seemed to grow in stature, lose his ‘kindly-wise-old-man’ look and replace it with the unfamiliar visage of a true Master of magiks in their prime.

  ‘Now,’ he commanded.

  The cabbie all but flew off the driver’s seat to Master Smegly’s side.

  ‘I live but to serve, Master,’ he said nervously.

  Smegly nodded. ‘Right, how does one remove this helmet?’

  ‘There,’ the cabbie pointed at a small silver lever on the chest. ‘You pull that out, then you swivel the helmet one third turn to the left and remove. It’s quite simple really.’

  Master Smegly looked at the cabbie thoughtfully. ‘So you’re pretty up with all this militaria are you, Cabbie?’

  Cabbie shrugged. ‘I don’t recommend opening that,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what manner of dire beast lies within.’

  Smegly shook his head in seeming despair. ‘It’s a man, you pillock, Plob, remove the helmet.’

  Plob knelt down again, toggled the lever, turned the helmet and pulled. ‘The Master’s right. It’s a man. I think that he’s broken his neck. His head’s all twisted around.’

  ‘Oh thank you, good sir. Thank you, thank you,’ mumbled the twisted head.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ said Plob in amazement.

  ‘A miracle,’ quoth the cabbie.

  Sme
gly clipped him about the ear. ‘We’ll have no “quothing” by you, my friend Cabbie,’ he said. ‘Strictly higher mortals’ word that. Now, turn him over and let’s have a chat.’

  Dreenee walked up for a closer look as Plob and the cabbie readied themselves to roll the prostrate iron suit over.

  ‘Together now,’ said Plob. ‘One, two, three…Hunggh.’

  And over it went.

  And there he lay. Poor old Horgy. Hoarse from his hours of begging and pleading. Exhausted, dehydrated and back to front in the world’s heaviest suit of armour.

  And staring down at him – a magician, a cabbie a teenager and…

  It was all too much for Horgy. Tears rolled freely down his face.

  ‘I’m dead,’ he blubbered. ‘Buggeration, what a senseless waste of money.’

  Smegly chuckled. ‘You’re not dead, my good man. Far from it. Plob, get the man some water.’

  ‘But….’ Horgy looked confused. ‘The angel,’ he said staring at Dreenee. ‘How can it be that such poignant and ethereal beauty may walk the face of this poor and wretched land and not be heaven sent. My life has most surely seen its zenith and now all else shall pale in comparison.’ He finished and started blubbering again.

  Dreenee leant forward and kissed him lingeringly on the forehead. ‘You sweet, sweet man,’ she breathed.

  For once Horgy was pleased that some areas of his suit allowed ample space for growth.

  It had been a long day and they had only found an acceptable inn many hours after night had fallen. The quest members were sitting around a rough-hewn wooden table in the tap room, spearing chunks of rare venison off a large steaming platter set in the centre.

  Plob was nursing a beer, his first ever, whilst simultaneously feeling both grown up and slightly nauseous. He’d heard that ale was an acquired taste that needed a little perseverance, and now he was wondering why anyone bothered. He forced another sip down and marvelled at the look of relish on the cabbie’s face as he swigged down his fourth ale and then placed the empty tankard upside down on his head.

  ‘Ye Gods,’ shouted the cabbie. ‘My drink’s evaporated again and I am being cruelly left without by our less than attentive serving wench.’ He stood up and did a jig over to the bar to rustle up another round returning quickly with more ale for all. Plob groaned.

  ‘Come on, Plob,’ ribbed Cabbie. ‘It’s not always easy drinking and having fun. There are times when I really just can’t face it. But do I let that stop me? No. I show strength of character. Fortitude. Oft I have to force the first couple of ales down, and then try to stop me.’

  Plob nodded politely and managed to brave a larger sip of his, by now, body-temperature ale.

  ‘Here,’ said the cabbie. ‘I’ll teach you a song. It’s a good one. Goes like this. Concentrate now. You’re gonna have to sing it yourself after I’ve taught you. OK.’

  Plob nodded whilst taking down another gulp of ale.

  ‘Right…Ahem…La, la, la,’ the cabbie stood up and struck what he considered to be a suitably operatic pose. ‘First verse -Ale, ale, ale, ale. Ale. Ale. Ale.’ He paused for a breath, quaffed half of his ale, and continued. ‘Second verse - Ale, ale, ale, ale. Ale. Ale. Ale. The end.’

  The cabbie sat down to huge applause from the gathered quest members.

  He polished off the rest of his ale and started singing again. ‘That was a very good song. Sing us another one, just like that other one. Sing us another one -Plob.’

  All eyes turned to the magician’s assistant who, surprisingly, agreed. Plob raised his tankard to his lips for another quick sip only to find that it was empty. Cabbie pushed a full one into his hand. Plob drew deeply on it and launched forth. ‘Ale, ale. Ale. Ale. Ale.’

  ‘No,’ said the cabbie irritably. ‘You’ve got the words wrong. It’s - Ale, ale, ale. Not Ale, ale. Ale. Ale. Ale. That’s a completely different song. Try again.’

  Plob assumed the position and gave song – ‘Ale, ale, ale. Ale. Ale. Ale.’

  ‘Yay,’ the cabbie cheered. ‘All together now,’ he continued as he climbed up on his chair to conduct.

  The quest members all joined in -‘Ale, ale, ale.’ Excepting for Plob who was now near the end of his third first ale (or first third ale), as it were, and had forgotten the words.

  The hours passed quickly, as they do when you’re having fun (or in a coma, but that’s a different kettle of mice -or is that fish, I’m never quite sure)?

  It was definitely the wee hours of the morning. Dreenee, Master Smegly and Horgy had all left and gone to bed, and that amber nectar, so capable of helping along with a good time, had now bitten the hand (or perhaps mouth) that drinks it. Both Plob and the cabbie had been through all of the phases. Incredibly happy and jovial (Ale, ale, ale), happy and serious (I am really having a good time. No seriously, guys, a really good time), happy and loving (I love you guys. Never before has anyone meant so much to me. Never), happy and weepy (Everyone else has gone to bed and left us. But we’re still here. And we’re still happy. Right?). Wrong -finally -not happy, just weepy. And morose. Weepy and morose.

  The cabbie scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘I was a champion. One of the best. Agile, dextr…dextro..dexterereres..bloody good. No, really. There was no better with a sword and very few with a…a…long pointy thing.’ He waved his hands in the air. ‘…wooden. Longish and pointyish….’

  ‘Stick,’ prompted Plob.

  The cabbie stared at him blankly. ‘Thash stooped. Is not a stick.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Plob. ‘Sounds like a stick.’

  The cabbie shook his head. ‘Not stick. Sticks aren’t pointy…or long…just wooden. And sticky.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a long pointy stick,’ affirmed Plob.

  The cabbie stared at him in drunken amazement. ‘Thash brilliant. Yeah, you’re right. There were very few better than me with a long pointy stick.’

  Plob poured some ale in the general direction of his face, choking and spluttering as he inhaled a goodly amount into his sinuses. ‘I can’t believe that you were a knight,’ he burbled through his ale. ‘What was your praise name?’

  ‘Can’t say,’ said the cabbie sadly.

  ‘Oh,’ nodded Plob understandingly. ‘You’ve taken an oath.’

  ‘No, I’m just too drunk to remember.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ said Plob. ‘So sad. It’s alright thou. We’ll all just call you Cabbie. Why did you give up?’

  ‘It’s a long tale containing much woe.’ Cabbie slumped forward onto the table. ‘Basically I developed an inferiority complex. You can’t be an inferior knight. It doesn’t work.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ consoled Plob. ‘I’m sure we’ve all got some sort of inferiority complex about something.’

  ‘Probably,’ agreed Cabbie. ‘But other people’s inferiority complexes are better than mine. I have an inferior inferiority complex.’ His head fell forward into the pool of spilt ale on the table and he started weeping drunkenly and inconsolably, pausing every now and then to lick some ale off the table top.

  ‘So sad,’ repeated Plob as he slid off his chair onto the floor. ‘So very sad.’ He hit the floor with a thump. ‘Lance. It’s a lan….’

  Plob had run out of deities to pray to.

  He had woken up in his bed that morning (God knows how he got there) fully clothed, rumpled, bent, nauseous and gummy. Sporting a mouth that tasted like the moist parts of a vulture’s crotch.

  And the thirst. It was as if some gigantic dishwashing type person had used him as a sponge to scour all the grease off the pots left over from a meal prepared by ‘the deep fried lard cooking convention’ and then wrung him out, leaving not a drop of usable moisture in his poor dehydrated body.

  And the head ache. Ye Gods. He was convinced that some small burrowing creature had clambered into his cranium via his left ear and was proceeding to gnaw viciously on his spongy grey matter.

  He would never drink again. Never. This he had solemnly swor
n whilst kneeling in the latrine worshipping position and seemingly throwing up every meal he had ever eaten. Ever.

  Cabbie had met him in the corridor on their way out and banged him chirpily on the back, looking no worse for wear than a vegetarian teetotaller after a Sunday afternoon sing song.

  He had asked Plob not to mention the knight thing. Plob had readily agreed as, anyway, he could only vaguely recollect some discussion regarding knights and…pointy sticks?

  Over breakfast, Master Smegly filled in the uninformed members of the quest regarding Bil dePlummer and the problem of the unknown evil as well as his short-to-medium-turn plans apropos the solving of said circumstances.

  ‘I’m not sure that I understand,’ said Horgy. ‘We have to go and see the master?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Smegly.

  ‘But I thought that you were the master.’

  ‘No, no. I’m merely a master magician. Well, in one way you’re right. I am Plob’s master.’

  ‘Ah,’ Horgy nodded. ‘Two masters.’

  ‘I’m only talking about my master,’ continued Smegly.

  ‘And is he also a master magician?’ Horgy wanted to know.

  ‘Oh yes,’ affirmed Smegly, ‘he’s The master magician.’

  ‘A sort of master magicians’ masters’ master. Three masters. Or would that be four masters’, as it were?’

  ‘Isn’t that a boat,’ Cabbie interjected. ‘A four master.’

  Horgy shook his head. ‘No. You’re thinking of a ketch aren’t you?’

  ‘That would be a two master,’ said Dreenee. ‘I saw one down at the docks once. I’m sure that a ketch has two masts.’

  ‘Well a cutter then,’ offered Horgy. ‘That’s got four masts.’

  ‘I think that’s a Man-of-war,’ corrected Cabbie. ‘A cutter’s got six masts.’

  ‘That’s a midshipman,’ said Plob, unable to keep out of the fast spiralling conversation despite his newly discovered brain tumour.

  Every one turned to stare.

  ‘A midshipman,’ said Smegly. ‘That’s a person that works on a ship.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Plob. ‘And he has six masters. There’s the ship’s master, the captain, the bosun, the navigator, the gunny and…and…the other one.’