by Ivan Brett
It was obviously a hard decision. Lamp looked Casper up and down and did some counting in his head. “S’pose I could make some more. But do you have to kill them?”
“There’s no other way. Sorry, Lamp.” Casper steadied his nerves with a few deep breaths. “Right. Dad, get some food ready. If this goes according to plan, you’ll have a couple of hundred hungry villagers to feed.”
“I can do that,” nodded Julius.
“Snivel, Lamp – you need to distract the Brewsters.”
“I’ll c-call them ugly,” said Snivel.
“I’ll teach them the particulars of Fermat’s Last Theorem!” cheered Lamp.
Casper grabbed the jug of water. “And I’ll deal with the machines. This should short the circuits. Good luck, chaps.”
Lamp saluted.
Snivel itched his face.
“Casper,” said Amanda, “why are you wearing my dress?”
The crowd was thick near Jean-Claude’s table, so nobody saw the three approach, but Snivel got the Brewsters’ attention quickly enough.
“Hey! B-Bash!” Snivel shouted, his squeaky voice carrying over the crowd with surprising power. “You got a f-face like a d-donkey’s armpit.”
Bash spun round, spotted his little brother and snarled. Snivel didn’t wait a second longer than he had to; he darted away between two men in anoraks, but Bash caught the scent and blitzed straight after him with fists raised. Never one to miss out on a fight, Pinchnurse followed behind. Meanwhile Spit and Clobber scratched their buzz-cut heads and nibbled their lips at the mathematical conundrums Lamp was posing. With Jean-Claude pretending to fricassee some rabbit loin for the baying crowd, not a soul saw Casper steal behind the line of tables with his water jug.
Crouching, Casper reached up and poured a splosh of water into the top of a jiggling pink laundry basket.
TSSSSSS.
Squelches of unbaked bread seeped through its holes and the jiggling stopped. Next was a spaghetti-stretching mechanical monkey.
SHHHHKNK.
The monkey’s arms dropped and the spaghetti flopped to the table.
GLUGLUGLUG… BONK.
There went the coconut-juicer.
SSSSPNTBLOLOLOING.
Hundreds of champagne jellies bounced to the cobbles.
FIZZZ-WHEEE.
Whatever that one used to be, it was now purple and broken.
“Lunch munny.”
Casper frowned. That was an odd noise for a machine to make. He poured a little more water on.
“Lunch munny.”
And then Casper felt the hot-tuna breath on the back of his neck and realised his mistake.
Jean-Claude looked round from his chopping board. “What is going on?” His rubbery face curled with displeasure as it met Casper’s, and his cigarette dropped hissing to the floor. “Boy. I thought I was rid of you, but ’ere you are, getting in my way once more. You are like a boomerang and I ’ave had enough of you. Brewsters? Throw him away! And zis time, make sure he won’t come back!”
“RETREAT!” Casper yelled, diving to his left just as a brutish fist whooshed past his head. He leapt up, spun round and ran straight back under Bash Brewster’s outstretched arm into the crowd.
“D-did you do it?” Snivel was right by him, ducking daintily through the pack of villagers.
“Some, but not enough.” Casper looked back to see only six of the thirty or so machines pluming smoke.
“S-sorry. B-bash forgot he was ch-chasing me and went b-b-back. I c-can’t keep them away for l-long enough.”
Lamp stood under Mayor Rattsbulge’s statue nursing a dead arm. “They didn’t agree with Fermat’s conclusion, Casper,” he said, prodding the arm gently. “Wakey wakey.”
“Six machines down at the cost of one arm and very nearly my head. We need a new tactic.” Casper gritted his teeth. “Long-range attack. Everyone, empty your pockets!”
Casper had some fluff, a paper clip and the ring pull from a tin of peaches. Snivel had a packet of plasters and a comfort blanket. Lamp had twenty-eight-and-a-half eggs.
“Where do you keep all those?” asked Casper, amazed.
Lamp tapped his nose. “Secret pockets,” he said. “I sewn them in.”
“But that’s perfect! Who’s got good aim?”
Snivel shook his head.
Lamp shrugged.
“Fine. I’ll give it a go,” Casper grunted. “If I can get an egg in the works, it’ll clog up all the machinery. We’ve got twenty-eight eggs and twenty-four machines to hit. Should be fine.” His stomach gurgled. Fifteen metres away sat the line of Lamp’s machines, the wheezing Omelette Gun right in the middle. In front, the four Brewsters towered protectively above the crowd. Casper flicked the hair from his eyes and grabbed an egg. “Watch this.”
The egg left his hand cleanly, spinning as it cleared the heads of the nearest villagers and soared into the sky. Up it flew, up and up, until it seemed to hang in the air above Jean-Claude’s table. But the egg had veered too far to the left, and as it began to plummet, Casper saw he’d pitched too short. It dropped like a stone, flipping and wobbling until it landed with an ominous crack… on the shoulder of Bash Brewster’s tracksuit.
Bash looked at the yolk running down his front, and then up at the crowd. “Oo did dat?” he roared, teeth bared, and without waiting for an answer, he reached behind him and flung the first thing to hand at the villagers. A clump of boiled rice struck Sandy Landscape’s cheek.
“Oy there!” Sandy lashed out with a carrot, whipping about and catching the hairs of Spit Brewster’s nose. Spit roared in indignation and started lobbing boiled tomatoes, which struck a dozen screaming faces as they hailed down on the crowd. Clemmie Answorth grabbed a bucket of mayonnaise and a ladle to flick it with, while Mayor Rattsbulge had drawn two double-barrelled sausages from his holster.
“FOOD FIGHT!” the mayor roared as he unloaded the first sausage at Mitch McMassive.
“Non! Do ze stopping!” yelped Jean-Claude as a strawberry meringue exploded by his feet and his Soufflé Puffer toppled to the ground. A volley of olives followed the meringue, uprooting two more of Lamp’s nearby inventions and knocking off Jean-Claude’s hat. “My machines! You are ruining zem!”
Casper’s mouth gaped open. “I missed, but… I hit!” The food fight was in full fling now, and the biggest casualties were the delicate inventions, their intricate wiring now spattered with spinach and buttercream, their circuits fizzing from the red wine jus that rained from the sky. Grabbing two more eggs, he flung one into the crowd and cracked the second over Mrs Trimble’s head.
Anemonie had joined in by now, jabbing at nearby brainiacs with the spiky end of a pineapple, and Milly and Milly Mollyband had scaled Mayor Rattsbulge’s statue and were taking potshots with seedless grapes.
Casper cackled with delight as he shielded himself from a treacle tart and threw more eggs. Snivel ducked deftly when Sandy Landscape lunged at him with a carrot, then giggled and introduced the gardener’s bald spot to an egg.
“Stop it!” shouted Lamp. “Those eggs are mine!”
The hideous wheeze of the Omelette Gun screeched above the crowd noise, and those not yet blinded looked round to see Jean-Claude, the vacuum-cleaner neck under his arm, loosing omelettes at approaching villagers.
“Get back!” he roared. “Ze machines must not be ’armed!”
An omelette splattered Anemonie in the face, and by the time it slid off, she was already reciting Shakespeare.
The omelettes had grounded ten villagers, what with the force that Jean-Claude fired them. Casper took Lamp’s last two eggs and danced forward, one in each hand. He dodged behind Mayor Rattsbulge to avoid the omelette that soared towards him and threw an egg right back, but its flight path met that of a chocolate log and they both exploded, spattering their innards across the crowd.
Casper dived for the cobbles and held his breath. He could feel the cold eggy slop hitting his head, but as long as it didn’t touch his mouth, he
knew he’d be fine. Jean-Claude was close – Casper could hear the bagpipes and smell the garlic.
All around the Frenchman, the remains of Lamp’s inventions hissed and sizzled. One thing was for sure– he’d be cooking no more food tonight.
“Give up, Jean-Claude!” cried Casper, hiding his face behind a poppadom. “You’ve lost! Your machines are ruined!”
“Ah, non. Not all of zem!”
FLOOM.
Casper dived for the cobbles once more, the omelette missing him by centimetres. He peeked up in time to see that it had hit Bash Brewster, and that he’d responded with the closest bit of food to hand, which just happened to be Mitch McMassive. Squealing, Mitch spun through the air towards Jean-Claude’s table and Casper had to duck again, but Mitch’s squeak and a hideous burp from the bagpipes told Casper all he needed to know. Direct hit.
“NON!” roared Jean-Claude. “My machine! You fool!”
“Sorry,” said Mitch. “I’ve got some tape at home.” But the damage was done. Round the tiny barman, the Omelette Gun deflated and died, screaming its last sad notes through a dozen punctures. The last invention was broken – Jean-Claude was beaten.
“But… but…” The Frenchman’s mouth pursed in horror, and then he saw Casper. “Heh.” His face tightened. “You think you are so clever, boy?”
“Give up, Jean-Claude.”
“Never! If I am going down, I will take your fazzer wiz me!”
“What d’you mean? My dad’s fine!”
But as Jean-Claude vaulted over the table and bustled through the crowd, Casper had doubts. “Where are you going? Come back and give yourself up!” Casper tried to push after him, but the gaps in the crowd closed themselves up as soon as they’d opened. Soon he was face to face with Betty Woons and two cream pies, but he only managed to dodge one of them.
As he fell, bodies piled on top, squelching and yelping.
“Stop it now!” Casper yelled, wriggling under the mass of three brawling villagers. “The fight’s over. We’ve won! We need to get Jean-Claude!”
But everybody’s ears were filled with custard.
“Let me go!” He wrenched free and pushed the villagers aside, climbing upwards and scraping sauce from his dress.
Across the square, some huge commotion had caught the villagers’ eyes. The crowd was too dense to see what was causing the ruckus, so Casper pushed forward, worried at how close it was to Julius’s table. And then he saw them – two men locked in a heated sword fight.
“Combat!” The brainiacs screamed with excitement.
One of the sword-fighting men was French and stumpy; the other tall and balding. Their swords were producing quite a few crumbs. In fact, they weren’t strictly sword fighting at all because for that you’d need swords. And those weren’t swords. They were baguettes.
“Dad?” Casper bellowed. “What’s happening?”
Jean-Claude growled at the intrusion and stabbed at Julius’s chest, missing, but forcing him back.
“Casper—”
CLOB.
Jean-Claude’s loaf struck Julius round the head and he clattered to the floor in a bread-clobbered heap.
“DAD!”
The crowd let out a disappointed sigh.
“Over already?” moaned Audrey Snugglepuss. “But I so love a good duel.”
“Oh, it’s not over.” Anger swelled in Casper’s belly as he ran to his defeated father, lying there crummy and winded. He leant down to pick up Julius’s loaf, not once taking his eyes off the villain before him. “Jean-Claude D’Escargot, you’ve messed with the wrong village.”
“Bah.” The Frenchman spat at the ground and sneered through his grubby teeth. “Do not make me do ze laughing, boy. Get out of my way. I will be finishing off your fazzer.”
“I’m not moving.” Casper’s baguette trembled. “You’ve come here for revenge, but my dad owes you nothing. How many chefs’ careers have you ruined with bad reviews, huh? Hundreds? Even thousands? My dad was just the first to stand up for himself. You think you can ruin my dad’s life just because you’re too high and mighty to write a proper review? You didn’t even taste his food!”
“He cheated me wiz his English tricks!” Jean-Claude roared. “He made me ze fool! I will be paying him back, if it’s ze last thing I do.” With his free hand, Jean-Claude fumbled for a cigarette from a pack in his pocket, pursing it between his rubbery lips as he lit it.
“You’ll have to get past me.” Casper didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t even know if he was holding his baguette the right way round. But he couldn’t fail now. The consequences would be too dire.
“Hergh.” Jean-Claude coughed, letting the cigarette flop to the side of his mouth. “Zen DIE!” He charged, slashing his baguette straight at Casper’s neck. Casper parried the blow by instinct, but lost his footing and stumbled backwards. Instantly Jean-Claude was on him again, jabbing from above and then lunging at Casper’s chest. Casper fell back further, dodging his blows, but losing vital ground.
The crowd began to chant, but what they said was too indistinct for Casper to hear.
FWOOSH.
The baguette whistled past Casper’s head, but he ducked just in time.
“You cannot do ze winning, boy.”
The crowd chanted, every mouth repeating the same words, but Casper still couldn’t make out what they were saying.
“Stop that!” he yelled between frenzied bats of his baguette. “It’s distracting.”
Lamp appeared by his ear. “It’s easy for us, Casper.” He tapped his brain. “Brainiacs, you see. Just copy what we say and you can’t lose. Speak up, everyone!”
The villagers chanted more loudly. “Lunge! Parry! Lunge! Riposte!” they cried, and Casper did his best to follow their instructions.
“Zey cannot help you!” Jean-Claude beat back Casper’s attack with ease. “I ’ave fed their minds with intelligence, not sword skill.”
“Jump!” cried the crowd and Casper did so, just as Jean-Claude swiped at Casper’s feet.
“You’re wrong, sir,” said Lamp.
Fencing’s easy when you know what the other guy’s going to do next. It’s a bit like chess.”
“Pah! As if you know zat.”
“Parry! Parry! Feint! Stab!”
Casper didn’t know what some of those moves were, but he tried his best and it was forcing Jean-Claude backwards.
“Lunge! Riposte! Lunge! Flèche!”
“What’s flèche?” Casper had to guess, swinging his baguette twice round his head. Evidently he was wrong because he found himself wide open. Jean-Claude didn’t need a second opportunity; he charged and struck hard on Casper’s chest. The cobbles met his fall, knocking the wind from his fingers and the baguette from his lungs (or was it the other way round?).
A gasp rose from the crowd, followed by deathly silence.
Jean-Claude loomed over Casper. He pressed his crust firmly to his victim’s neck. “You lose, boy. I am ze last man standing. Victory, she is mine.”
“Oh yeah?” It was a struggle to speak with the bread pressing against Casper’s windpipe, but he had nothing left to lose. “I thought this was a cook-off. If you’re the winner, where’s your food to show for it?”
“You destroyed it wiz your petty little food fight.”
“Then cook some more!”
“Non! I will not!” Jean-Claude raised his baguette.
“Tell them why not, Jean-Claude.” Casper turned his head to face the crowd. “They deserve to know. Why can’t you cook any more?”
The Frenchman spluttered. “It… er… IT DOES NOT MATTER.” He raised the baguette further, ready to strike.
But Casper hadn’t finished. “It’s because you can’t cook! Admit it! You couldn’t make toast if your head was a toaster!”
“Fine. I cannot do ze cooking! What does it matter? It ends the same for you, boy.” He grinned his black-toothed grin.
“You’ll never get away with this, Jean-Claude,” said Casper
helplessly.
Jean-Claude tipped his head back and laughed, a vile, phlegmy, dirty laugh that echoed round the square and made Ted Treadington cry. “Who will be stopping me? Huh?” He swung his baguette menacingly and the crowd shifted backwards. “Au revoir, boy,” snickered Jean-Claude. He raised the baguette once more, this time bringing it crashing down.
Casper scrunched his eyes shut, clenched his teeth. This was it…
SPONK.
He held his breath, but the hit never came. Something had gone SPONK, but it wasn’t him. He dared to open an eye. The man standing over him was considerably larger than Jean-Claude D’Escargot. In his outstretched hand was a massive Cumberland sausage. Casper’s gaze followed the flabby hand that held it, to a purple mayoral gown, to a broad gold medallion, to sixteen trembling chins, to the furious face of Mayor Rattsbulge, his lip curled in anger.
“Whu…?” was all that Casper could manage. He felt something lying across his feet, heavy like a stocking at Christmas. He lifted his aching head, but found no presents. Jean-Claude lay face down on the cobbles, out cold after a sausage shot to the temple.
“He… couldn’t… even… cook?” wobbled Mayor Rattsbulge, sneering down at the motionless Frenchman.
“He tricked you all into doing it for him,” muttered Casper, cool relief coursing through his veins.
“HOW DARE HE!” Colour flushed back through the mayor’s face. “A chef who can’t cook? Why, that’s like… a mayor who can’t raise taxes.” A shudder travelled through the whole of his gigantic body, finishing with a wild shake of his jowels. “This imposter will forfeit his place in the cook-off at once, and will henceforth be banished from Corne-on-the-Kobb. You, men, GET HIM OUT OF MY SIGHT!”
The crowd cheered and Casper would’ve leapt up and kissed the mayor had he not been exhausted to his bones and wearing a dress. Closing his eyes, he rested his head back on the cobbles and let out a long sigh. It was over. Jean-Claude had been beaten and Julius got to keep his restaurant at the price of one bread shot to the head. Luckily, Casper knew his father would be fine after a cup of tea and a drop of brandy – he’d had worse, after all; Julius fell off the roof three times when fixing the aerial and survived to tell the tale.