by Miles Hurt
I checked the other stores in the pantry. The bicarb was gone, eaten, as was the wholemeal flour, the box of oatmeal, my hand-mixed muesli, the straight pasta, and the curly pasta. The only thing left was a box of wholemeal pasta.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
Terror is not a clammy hand on your shoulder while you're driving your car on a quiet highway. It's not a long shadow cast against an alley wall at night.
Terror is that feeling you get, when you're making pancakes on a bright sunny morning and there's a hot black coffee steaming in a cup, and a fresh smooth copy of the Rambunculan Times waiting for you at the kitchen table, and you look up at your ceiling. And you see dozens of yellow cocoons hanging from the ceiling like dead bananas. And terror is seeing the moths begin to wriggle about, begin to peel back their toenail-coloured sheaths and emerge, wings glistening. And terror is forgetting all about your pancakes and coffee and newspaper as the kitchen is filled with the flapping of enormous mutant insects. And did I mention that they have faces? Human faces. With tiny black eyes that look down at you. And terror is fleeing from the kitchen and running into the corridor and crashing into a clone of yourself that's been gene spliced with a horrid flour-eating parasite, so big he fills the entire corridor, wings brushing the hanging lampshade.
He was still wearing the poncho.
I screamed. Pops Poncho smiled with his ruined insectile mouth. He waited for my scream to run out of air.
'We meet-'
I screamed a second time. Pops Poncho's smile faltered a little, impatient at having to wait for a second scream to finish. My scream ended in a gurgle.
'-again.'
I stumbled backwards, tripping over a bag of lawn bowls that were half-tucked under the telephone table.
'I see you've met my children,' he said in a voice as dry and flaky as desiccated coconut.
Terror is also wondering what Pops Poncho could have mated with to produce those hellish offspring.
'Pops Black Turtleneck,' he intoned, looming over me. He flexed his long, cruel fingers. His wings riffled, shedding dusty scale powder.
'What do you want with me?' I said.
'You tried to kill me once,' he said, his mouthparts chattering together. 'You assumed my identity. I'm here to reclaim it. I'm going to kill you and move into this house with my children. I will father a new race that will repopulate Rambunculous.'
So, he was insane. The usual drivel about taking over the city. Sadly, it seems that any person at all is just one cactus up the backside away from becoming a homicidal monster with delusions of grandeur.
Even me.
I threw the packet of wholemeal pasta I was holding into Pops Poncho's mutated insect face. Improbably, a sharp corner of the box collected him in the left eye. He clutched his eye, reeling in pain.
In hindsight I had him at my mercy then. I could have impaled him with my hat rack, or beaten him to death with the lawn bowls bag. But I didn't. I never do anything like that. Instead I pushed past him, and ran into the street, still in my jammies.
Poncho screamed at me as I fled.
'I'll find you, Pops Black Turtleneck!' he howled. 'No matter where you run to. I will have my revenge!'
To be honest I didn't actually catch that last bit. It was kind of muffled what with the wind whistling in my ears as I pelted down the road. But I figured it was something about vengeance, payback, druthers, blah blah blah.
The police managed to track Pops Poncho down from my report. They laid a huge sheet of sticky paper in the street outside the house, coated in pheromones. The scent was too enticing for his younglings, who got stuck. The cops smashed their heads in with an old boot and chucked them into the rubbish. But Pops Poncho was able to resist the bait. He rose on impossible wings into the Rambunculous night and went into exile.
Nursing his grudge against me all the while.
THIRTY-FOUR
I crawl out of the pipe, blinking in the light. In front of me is the bay, a grey flat expanse of water with a thin ribbon of land on the horizon. A curving line of granite boulders extends on either hand for hundreds of yards, providing a support for the wall above.
Squeezing out of the storm drain, I feel rebirthed. It's an absolute relief to be alive.
It's not easy to climb up the granite boulders, but I manage, by lifting first the box and the gun up onto flat spots above me, then hauling my ancient body up inch by inch. I poke my head over the cement wall. There's a mile-long dockyard, shipping containers piled up and prised open. Idle gantry cranes loom.
I drop down onto the rough concrete of the dockyard and scan the sky above. The clear blue is giving way in the east to a glow of orange. A handful of seagulls turn in silhouette.
No Pops Poncho. Yet.
There's no way I'll get back to the Nest without him coming after me again. Even if I hide. I'm like a fuzzy little critter in an open field, waiting for the talons of the hawk.
Well, bugger that. Not while this fuzzy critter is carrying a big-arse gun.
I'm not being heroic. I'm just tired. I want to go home, and I can't go home. Not with Poncho out there.
I shuffle towards a pile of refuse stacked up against some shipping containers, and pull out a few empty cardboard boxes. I drag them into an open space, marked with a patchwork of old oil stains. I take a box of matches from my pocket and light up my pipe. Then I hold the match to the small pile of cardboard.
Grey smoke plumes into the fading sky. Poncho won't be able to miss it.
Yellow flames lick up. The fire kicks up a gear. It feels kind of nice. The warmth.
And the feeling of facing up to a monster.
I toke on my pipe.
THIRTY-FIVE
It's not always bleak in Rambunculous. In fact it can be quite the party town. When the Dark Lord Galactamagon got overthrown there was a city-wide street party for a week. It was bananas.
Galactamagon was a cosmic entity who was taking a breather from his main job of planet eating. He'd recently consumed a gas giant with a couple of icy moons for dessert and had a touch of indigestion. Galactamagon kept himself amused by becoming the god-king of Rambunculous and toying with the terrified populace. He shrank himself down from his interstellar scale in order to preside over the humans of Rambunculous, but he was still a terrifying presence; seventeen feet tall with a head that had three faces stacked on top of each other. He created a crystal palace out of cosmic energy and installed himself on a huge throne.
Cue the hero questers.
A crew of adventurers finally rounded up all of the pieces of the Sword of Komonar. It wasn't used to take out the Dark Lord that was specifically prophesied, but you stick a sword that big into just about anything and it'll die. Thoxx Flirguld was the one who dealt the killer blow, driving the Sword of Komonar through one of Galactamagon's three faces.
Rambunculous had Thoxx-fever after that. He was paraded up and down Eternity Avenue on a huge float festooned with garlands of flowers. I shudder to think how many wenches the man bedded on the back of that. The killing of the Dark Lord, that is, not the float.
Although I wouldn’t put it past him.
But for some reason Thoxx went into a bit of a slump when the partying abated. Must have been a post-overthrow hangover of some kind. I came home one day to find him curled up asleep on my couch, wearing nothing but a loincloth, snoring like a grizzly bear. He stank of mead.
I let him sleep.
Thoxx was up and about the next morning when I got out of bed. Even into his sixties he was a fine specimen. His superb metabolism had worked through the grog with no sign of a hangover. His head was in my pantry, and he was eating cereal by the handful, straight from the box.
'You're out of Weet-Ohs,' he said, tipping the box upside down and scattering crumbs all over the linoleum.
'Hello to you to, Thoxx,' I said. 'Or should I say, "Well met in my pantry."'
He tossed the empty box to one side. I saw that age hadn't totally spared th
e barbarian; although he still sported flowing tawny locks down to his shoulders, the top of his head was totally bald and shiny. As if to compensate for this lack of hair, he'd grown a prodigious handlebar moustache.
'I need a place to lay my head for a while.'
'What? Surely there's somewhere else? Didn't Galactamagon have a palace? You could stay there.'
'The interim government have set up there,' he said. 'They gave me a state dinner there two nights ago. I got the feeling they didn't want me to hang around for too long, though.'
'What gave you that feeling?'
'They threw me out.'
'What? Out of your own dinner? Why? Doesn't the interim government owe you a debt of gratitude for saving the city?'
'You'd think. But I might've had a few too many ales and...'
'And what?'
A darkness came over his chiselled features.
'Thoxx?' I said. 'What did you do?'
He winced.
'I think I went berserk.'
'Berserk? At the state dinner? How?'
'It's a bit fuzzy,' he said. 'But the new guy, the Controller, I overheard him call me a moron's moron.'
'A what? A moron? That's not so bad.'
'No,' he said. 'Not just a moron. A moron's moron. Like I'm so stupid the other morons are impressed by me.'
I chuckled. Thoxx gave me a dirty look.
'So he made fun of you,' I said. 'You've had the run of the city for the last couple of weeks. What's the difference?'
'It annoyed me. A lot. I saved the city, and this upstart takes the reins. I can't recall too much; once the red mist descends things get a bit hazy. But I do remember picking up the Sword of Komonar and...'
'And?'
He examined the pantry for more food.
'I may have killed a few of them.'
'Of who?'
'Just a few stuffed tuxedos in the interim government,' he said. 'And a couple of henchmen. Possibly an innocent bystander or two. Nobody important. But they didn't appreciate it. They kicked me out. Once they subdued me, that is.'
Thoxx ripped the top off a box of Corn Pops. He grabbed a salad bowl from the cupboard and tipped the entire box of cereal into it. He filled it with two litres of milk from the fridge, and threw himself down on the couch to eat. With his hands.
'Thoxx, you can't just go berserk at the drop of a hat. You need to learn to shake things off.'
'Look Pops, I know I'm not the smartest guy in town. I'm just the muscle. Just the guy who takes down the baddies. Who nobly steps aside, let the dweebs take over. Until I'm needed again, of course.'
He drank from the salad bowl, milk soaking into his moustache.
'I think you're feeling a bit sorry for yourself.'
He sighed, dabbing the milk off his moustache with one of my couch cushions.
'You're right. I need to lie low, forget about the stupid Controller. Which is where you come in.'
My flat was pretty small. I liked Thoxx, but he was larger than life. He kept odd hours, had some weird friends, and was always rubbing my nose in my misery.
'I don't know, Thoxx. I've only got the one small bedroom.'
'That's alright,' he said. 'I don't expect royal treatment. Your room will do fine.'
'That's not what I meant,' I said.
'It's just for a few days,' he said. 'Until I can find my own place. Come on Pops. Do your bit for...'
He was about to say 'Do your bit for the cause.' And then he stopped himself. For the first time in our friendship I found myself feeling sorry for him.
I quite enjoyed it.
So I agreed.
But of course, a few days turned into a few weeks. And weeks into months. The city was put to right, and we enjoyed a little bit of peace. I got an office job, working in the mail department of the interim government. Regular hours, low stress. Thoxx slipped deeper into his dark brood, rarely leaving the flat. I shopped for the both of us, and pay all the bills. On top of which he refused to cook or clean. Whenever I brought it up he played the 'I saved everyone's life' card. It was hard to argue with, but it wore thin fast.
I had to get him out of there, on his own two feet, but he seemed immune to hints. He put on weight, eating and drinking nothing but blocks of cheddar cheese and chocolate milkshakes. In the absence of an adversary, an enemy to focus on, he'd lost his zest. He needed a challenge. But what could I do to inspire him, short of buy him a copy of 1001 Monsters You Must Slay Before You Die?
I came home from the office one day to find Thoxx packing his haversack. He was emptying the contents of my pantry. Stuff from the kitchen drawers was strewn across the counter: matches, batteries, a pocket knife, torches, a small frying pan, and a packet of party balloons.
'Pops,' he said when I came in, 'Where do you keep your rope?'
'My what?'
'Rope.'
He inspected a bag of salted potato chips before stuffing it into his haversack.
'What for? You're not going to do yourself in, are you?'
He stopped raiding the pantry for a moment and gave me a deprecating look.
'It's for climbing, you kobold.'
'Thoxx, it's five-thirty in the afternoon,' I said. 'What are you going to climb?'
'Not sure,' he replied. 'A sorcerer's minaret, maybe. A giant idol carved out of living rock? Who knows? Maybe I'll just use it to drop into a crypt somewhere.'
I couldn't believe how animated he was.
'Are you heading off, then?'
He stopped, looked at me with excitement written all over his face.
'I was called today, Pops.'
'Called? By whom?'
'Krong.'
I gave him a blank look. He raised his eyebrows.
'Krong,' he said. 'My tribe's totem spirit? I've mentioned him about a dozen times to you.'
'You go on about your tribe so much. Frost giant this, massacre that. It's hard to recall every detail of your backstory.'
'Krong, the Pangle.'
'The what?'
'The Pangle,' he said. 'Krong is a jet-black panther with the wings and beak of an eagle. Panther, eagle. Pangle.'
I clicked my fingers.
'I remember now,' I said. 'Doesn't Krong also have the testicles of a yak?'
He narrowed his eyes at me.
'Yes, but we tend not to dwell on that.'
'What do you mean you were called?' I said, sitting down on a stool at the counter. 'How did Krong call you? Did he appear in a dream? Did you see his face in a piece of burnt toast?' I looked at him skeptically. 'You haven't been smoking the vision-pipe with the shaman up in 4C again, have you, Thoxx?'
'Krong called me up on the telephone.'
I grinned in disbelief.
'The phone? You're joking.'
'No. Why would I jest?'
'Did he call collect? I imagine the charges would be pretty high from the aethereal realm.'
In a flash Thoxx reached over the counter and grabbed me by the shirt, lifted me up close to his face. His eyes crackled with lightning. I'm not using a metaphor. I literally saw little bolts of lighting flashing in his eyes. I realised I'd pushed Thoxx to the brink of a berserk fit of rage. His grip started to rip apart the stitching at the sides of my shirt.
'Listen to me, you feeble non-player. I wouldn't expect you to understand what it is to serve a higher calling, you whose totem spirit is the cockroach. But do not mock Krong. I'll sever your head with your own can opener and pull your spleen out through your neck.'
He breathed heavily through his nose.
'Okay,' I said. 'I get it. You're sensitive when it comes to the Pangle. I won't mock again. I promise. No more mockery.'
He released me.
'I leave tonight for the plains of Ha'dath,' he said. 'Krong has commanded me to hunt down and kill the Shuddernock.'
'What's a Shuddernock?'
'I have no idea,' he said, rolling his head like a prizefighter. A crunching sound came from the base of his skull. 'I expect th
ere will be much questing in order to find out what and where it is. And how to kill it.' He thought for a second. 'And what to kill it with.'
I nodded, relieved to get him off the topic of can openers.
'Well,' I said, 'It's great to see you get your quest-yen back, Thoxx. You're going to waste in Rambunculous.'
He slung the haversack over his back.
'Pops,' he said.
Here it comes, I thought. He's finally going to thank me for my support over the years, to acknowledge me, his dweeby friend. It was going to be a great moment between us.
'You don't have a spare bastard sword lying around, do you?'
I raised an eyebrow.
'I thought not,' he said.
He shook my hand, his grip still crushingly powerful.
'Very well,' he said, 'mustn't tarry. There's a... thing out there that needs killing.'
'Goodbye Thoxx. Safe sojourn.'
He gave me one last clap on the shoulder, and then was gone.
I sat down on the couch, and leaned back, smiling to myself.
Krong. Good old Yak's Balls. Lucky I'd listened to Thoxx's crazy stories, hung on to a couple of details. It came in handy when I made the call that afternoon, from the mail room.
I still can't believe he fell for that.
THIRTY-SIX
Poncho sweeps down, weaving through some crane legs, lands with impressive drama on the wide field of dockyard concrete. His wings rumple across his shoulders like a cloak. A mop of white hair pokes up, tousled by flight. Framing his weird face.
Stepping close, he beholds me with his compound eyes.
I hold the gun at my hip, pointed at him.
'That'll do, Poncho,' I say.
'Pops Black Turtleneck,' he says in a burnt voice. His antennae twitch and he flexes his hands. 'At last. Vengeance.'
'For what?'
I already know. I just want it on the record at last.
He flicks his wings a little, gestures to his segmented body.
'For this,' he says. 'For crippling me, leaving me in the street to die.'
'We didn't leave you to die,' I say. 'It was crazy that night. When we looked for you, you were gone.'