by Tony Lewis
Ethan retrieved the fourth map and rhyme from his seemingly infinitely capacious bag.
“Here we go,” he said, laying out the sheets on their now usual place on the bonnet of the hearse.
Whilst he did this, Ollie put on his sun blocking fashion accessories due to the fact that the sun was due to rise shortly.
“Here he is,” said Stitches,” the world’s only albino vampire.
“Up yours. How we doing? Anyth… I’ve been there.”
“Bloody hell, that was quick,” said Ethan.
“Good huh. It’s a small town called Cornucopia. There’s loads of stuff there, but I don’t need to look at the map to tell you exactly where we’re going.”
“And that would be?” Ronnie asked.
“The zoo. Dad used to take me there when I was a kid. Obviously we could only go at night, so all the animals were asleep. For years I thought that all wild animals were invisible. Anyway, let’s go over the rhyme. Not that they’ve been much use so far.”
Ethan read it out loud to the group.
“Brawn not brain will see you through
Muscle and sinew will have to do
Gird your loins and don’t let go
The prize will then be yours to show.”
Stitches looked at the piece of paper and tapped his nose thoughtfully.
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” he said. “We can pretty much guarantee that Flug is going to be the next one up. The rhyme mentions brawn, not brain. With only him and you left,” he pointed at Ollie, “it stands to reason. I don’t think you have quite as much loin to gird as the big fellah.”
“Could be,” Ollie replied, “but I’m not without some strength, you know. There are some muscles up these sleeves.” As if by way of demonstration, he flexed his arms.
“I’ll remember that the next time you ask one of us to take the lid off a Marmite jar,” said Ronnie, squeezing Ollie’s left bicep.
“Well, it can get sticky,” Ollie replied indignantly, rubbing his arm that he was sure would be sporting some bruises tomorrow. “Come on, let’s go,” he said in a pinched voice as he tried to suppress a sneeze.
* * *
“Excellent,” the figure said, watching the swirling waters. “It’s going well now.”
* * *
Jekyll pushed open the doors to the Bolt and Jugular and wandered in, wiping the sticky goo from the handle off his hand as he went. It was a strange place that was always busy, and due to its extremely eclectic clientele, made the cantina at Mos Eisley Spaceport look like a rather normal venue for a sit down, the sort that you might take the kids into for a spot of lunch, whereas the Bolt and Jugular was the type of establishment where the casual visitor may very well end up as a spot of lunch.
As he strode to the bar he acknowledged those that he knew. Hector Lozenge was there, of course, getting to work on his minimum of five a day. Bludger Smith, the district magistrate, was deep in conversation with Constable Gullet, no doubt deciding which local laws and ordinances it would be fun to change or impose this week, ensuring a steady flow of income into the town’s coffers. The trouble with Skullenia was that the population may well be a murdering, slaughtering and generally genocidal bunch who made the Nazis look like a sewing circle, but they were, on the whole, a law abiding lot. There were no petty criminals here, so the authorities would never find themselves dealing with a shoplifter or a litter dropper. That being the case, a constantly evolving list of local statutes kept fine money rolling in. Also, Gullet got a perverse pleasure seeing the looks on people’s faces when he gave them a ticket for drinking tea on a Wednesday without a reasonable excuse, or laughing without due care and attention.
Jekyll shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with Gareth Hopkins, The Whichfinder General, a magazine fanatic who had the largest collection of consumer publications known to man or beast. It was a well-known fact that before you bought anything it was best to consult with Hopkins, to ensure the best deal was to be had. He had a nice side-line going in bonfire design and construction as well.
At last he saw the person that he had come in to see. Propping up the bar front and centre, talking to Goblet the landlord, was Mrs. Ladle. She was holding a pint of something in one hand and a cigarette in the other. As he approached, she turned towards him and smiled through a misty haze.
“Hello there, Henry. What brings you here on a weekday? Old Singh driving you up the wall, is he?”
“Nah, he’s alright. Actually, he’s in one of his stupors at the moment. He’ll be out for a good few hours yet.”
“Can I get you a drink, Doctor?” asked Goblet whilst engaged in a futile attempt to wipe away some of the viscid resin that had accumulated on the bar over God knew how many years.
“Can I have an orange squash, please?” he asked, not seeing the looks of disgust cast his way. “Mrs. Ladle?”
“Very kind of you, Henry. The usual please, Goblet.”
No alcoholic beverage served in the Bolt and Jugular could be described as usual. Mrs. Ladle’s tipple, a pint of Dangly’s Old Codpiece, was about as near to a regular beer as you were likely to get without growing hair on your tongue. Once you started getting into the realms of Titley’s Bowel Cruncher or Cracknell’s Wibbly Wobbly, to name just two, then you would be attempting to imbibe liquids that had been known to eat through solid rock. Although this had never been a problem to the regular drinkers who had developed stomachs like leather buckets and bowels that could strangle an elephant, one look at the pock marked stone floor of the pub would instantly cause someone unaccustomed to such vicious beverages the raging collie wobbles, and make them extremely wary of entrusting their innards to anything coming out of Goblet’s pumps. Lead lined pumps, actually, because the drinks flowing through the pipes had a half-life slightly longer than Uranium 238. The toilets were testament to that. They had a permanent greeny glow and an atmosphere so thick that if you dropped a coin you could catch it before it hit the floor, even if you didn’t move too quickly. It was the only place in the world outside of Scotland that this phenomenon occurred. Unless you were used to it, it was wise to take a canary in with you (the canary would be carrying a small cage as well, with a fly in it. He wasn’t taking any chances either).
A frothing and disturbingly brown glass of liquid was placed onto the bar. Then Goblet gave Mrs. Ladle her ale. She blew the foam off the top, which landed with an audible THUMP on the floor akin to dropping curdled milk, and took a long, deep draught.
“Ah, that’s the stuff,” she said, licking her lips and removing the frothy white line clinging to her moustache.
“Don’t you ever worry about your liver?” Jekyll asked, sipping at his own drink.
“Not really. It’s sitting in a jar on my mantelpiece at home. Pink and lovely, it is.”
Jekyll didn’t want to get into the mechanics of remote organs, so he shrugged his shoulders and looked nonplussed.
“So are you going to answer my question, Henry? What are you doing here?”
Jekyll nodded his head whilst picking out a couple of clumps of unidentifiable grit from between his teeth that definitely hadn’t been there before he took a sip of his ‘squash’.
“I was going to ask you about someone.”
He told her about the quest that Ollie and the gang were on and what he had been up to in Fibula, in particular his investigation into Vortex.
Mrs. Ladle’s eyes lit up at the mention of the curators’ assistant.
“Oh, I do know him,” she said. “We do have a certain amount of history together. When he was a student and I was at Witch College we had, how shall I put it, a bit of a fling.”
“So leaving out the gory details, what can you tell me about him?”
Mrs. Ladle saw a particular look pass across Jekyll’s face.
“Don’t be so dismissive about this old exterior you’re seeing, Henry. When I was younger I was quite the head turner. And unlike some, I didn’t need spells and potions to maintain my looks.”<
br />
“My apologies.”
“Fine. As for me and Vortex, we did have a relationship of sorts, but he was far too wrapped up in his studies to take it too seriously. He was always off on expeditions and digs somewhere or another, sometimes for months at a time.” She took a cigarette from the packet on the bar and sparked up, as a wistful and regretful look touched her features.
“Still, I did get to know him quite well, and all I can say is that he never showed any outward signs of leaning towards the dark arts, other than what was required for his work. Still, that was a very long time ago and people can change, I suppose, so who knows what he might have got himself involved in since then. I’d be surprised, though.”
“That’s the problem I’m having,” said Jekyll. “Everyone I’ve spoken to just sees him as this philanthropic do-gooder, but I’m still convinced he’s up to something.”
“Well, if that’s the case, then I would have thought that he would have done a certain amount of research.”
“Agreed,” said Jekyll.
“And I dare say that doing such research in the museum under Starch’s nose would be rather risky, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would.”
“So I would suggest you may want to visit somewhere else that said research could be carried out as unobtrusively as possible.”
Jekyll slapped the bar, then slapped his head, after which he wiped his head because his hand had picked up something sticky from the bar.
“The library,” he announced triumphantly, “why didn’t I think of that before? I’ve actually spoken to the librarian because she came to me with information. I didn’t even think of visiting the place.”
“Looks like you need to make another trip, my boy.”
“I do.”
“But not before you buy me another drink for being so helpful. Goblet, a pint of Rigid’s Nasty Bastard, please.”
* * *
Cornucopia was, by conventional standards and not those of what is usual in this part of the world, a normal looking town. Very normal. From its car parks and cinema multiplex to the throngs of people wandering up and down its streets looking for a bargain or somewhere to hold up for a drink and a bite to eat.
Ethan followed the signs that took them right through the centre of town and out the other side, until about a quarter of an hour later they picked up directions for the zoo. As they got closer they noticed that the traffic had thinned out considerably, but not to the point that they would be going into the zoo by themselves. More like a select group of people that had come out for a specific purpose.
They were third in a line of about eight cars to access the car park, after which they queued up to get into the zoo itself.
“Reckon this challenge might be a bit more public than the others,” said Stitches as they got nearer the ticket booth. “Can’t for the life of me think what it’s going to be, though. Celebrity Safari, maybe? Set a bunch of Z list celebs loose, and the contestants have to hunt them down. I like that actually, might be worth a pitch to a TV company. The public would love it.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said a voice from a little man who had appeared from nowhere, interrupting Stitches’ vision of Amy Bushclimber with an arrow in the back of her head. (Amy Bushclimber was the supernatural world’s answer to Pippa Middleton. A complete nobody, bereft of any discernible talent, who had somehow managed to become well known. Amy’s one and only claim to fame was that she’d had a fling with a Romanian rockball player; remarkable for the fact that he was over a hundred years old and couldn’t have rocked any balls if his life depended on it). “Could I talk to Flug please?”
“You could try,” said Stitches, “but I can’t guarantee that you’re going to get much of a response. He does do a very good impression of a brick for ninety nine percent of the time.”
“Who are you?” asked Ronnie.
“Tile, Sir. I’ve come to escort Flug to where he needs to be, and seeing that you gentlemen are accompanying him, then you had better come too.”
“Where are we going then, Tile?” asked Ollie.
“Oh, not far,” he pointed round to the left. “Just down there and round the back a bit.”
Then, in a rare, insightful understanding of his surroundings, and what was currently going on about him, Flug’s brows knitted and, eyes staring skyward, he said, “Is it my turn, Ronnie?”
“Looks that way, mate,” Ronnie replied. “And before you ask what you’re doing, we’ll find out in a minute.”
“This way, gentlemen, if you please,” said Tile, heading off.
In fact, it wasn’t that far at all. About fifty yards along the perimeter was a large steel gate, and it was through this that the little man led them.
“That explains everything,” said Ethan, pointing to something ahead.
It appeared that they were in the central region of the zoo where all the various paths and routes converged. It was a reasonably sized open area that was hemmed in on all sides by cages of differing sizes. The only way in or out of the enclosed space was either through the gate that they had used to come in, or alleyways between the cages, although you would be taking your life in your hands if you used the alley between the lion and the zebra enclosures. The Health and Safety officer would have shut it down on the spot if he hadn’t meandered down there to see what the fuss was about. His colleagues stopped looking for him after a couple of weeks, and the zoo staff never figured out why the lion went off his food for a couple of days.
There was also a crowd. Quite a reasonable one at that, maybe a hundred or so, beings. They were spread out about the whole area, dotted here and there but most, if not all were looking towards the large central sector that was roughly the size of a football pitch.
There were odd pieces of wooden and metallic equipment here and there, but what it would be used for, none of them could fathom. Tile certainly wasn’t giving anything away just yet.
As well as the milling crowd, they noticed there were others. Strange others. Very big others.
“It looks like Ethan’s Fright Club on steroids,” said Stitches, casting a concerned look around. “That one there has got arms as big as my chest.” He was pointing to a massive demon that was sitting on a stool. It was bright red, scaly skinned, had hands the size of shovels and horns that would have shamed a Triceratops. It was eating what appeared to be most of a pig, and was currently receiving a shoulder massage from a grey, stumpy, dwarf-like creature.
“Come on, Tile,” said Ollie. “Give us a clue, something that’ll help us get ready.”
Tile turned to them and smiled in what he no doubt thought was a friendly manner. It wasn’t, and only succeeded in making him look like a deranged psychopathic killer of epic proportions.
“If you cast your eyes over there, gentlemen, I think the banner should explain everything.”
“Don’t know why he’s being so shifty,” said Ronnie.
“Who knows?” said Ethan. “In fact, who cares? We’ll find out in a minute.”
The banner looked like any other banner that you might see across a high street, advertising some crappy festival or another, that meant you wouldn’t be able to move for Morris Dancers for the next forty eight hours, and would have to listen to the shriek of musical instruments that hadn’t seen the light of day since Henry the Eighth was dragging his flaccid backside around Hampton Court Palace. Seriously though, why on earth would you want to listen to a lute being badly plucked while some fat bloke in a beard and white trousers, that were quite frankly far too tight, minced around with bells attached to his ankles. Appreciating history is one thing, but not when it reminds you that throughout the countless aeons of time people have always acted like complete knobs. The passing of five hundred years doesn’t make retarded behaviour quaint. It just means that people in the Middle Ages were weirdoes, much as they are now (Why there isn’t a Front Age and a Back Age I don’t know, but there should be. It rounds things off nicely).
One end of the
banner was attached to a lamp post and the other end was half way up a cage, so they were able to read what it said.
“Welcome to the Annual Mr. Cornucopia Strongman Competition.”
“There you go, Flug,” said Ronnie to his friend. “You’ve got to lift some heavy stuff up.”
“Okay. Like wot?”
“I don’t know. Stones and stuff is the norm, I suppose.” Tile had made his way to stand underneath the banner. He had a megaphone in his hand that elicited a loud squeal when he put it to his mouth and switched it on.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, gods and goddesses, demons and demonesses…”
“This could take a while,” said Stitches loud enough for Tile to hear. “Why on earth would you use two words when thirty will do?”
“Well, quite,” Tile continued, ever so slightly thrown by the zombie’s comment. “Welcome, everybody, to this year’s Strongman Competition. Would the contestants join me, please?”
And so they emerged from the crowd, thinning it out considerably, and went and stood under the banner with Tile, not that there was a lot of room once they’d all arrived. Just one of them in a room by itself would make it crowded. They were the usual mix of creatures that you might expect to see at any time, but it was the size of them that drew the attention. The demon they had previously seen getting a rub down turned out to be eleven feet tall and five feet wide. The bunched muscles in his arms rippled as he moved, and the veins popping out from his biceps were the width of a grown man’s finger. His trapezius muscles were six inches high and his neck could have been used as a normal sized person’s waist. And he wasn’t the biggest.
“You need to go and stand over there with the others,” said Ollie to Flug.
As Flug arrived to join the others, the scale of his task became more apparent. Apart from one scrawny, albeit wiry imp who looked like a two hundred year old schoolboy, Flug was the smallest being there, which, when you remember that he was eight feet tall and forty two stone, was something to behold.
Tile took the opportunity to introduce some of the athletes.