by Tony Lewis
With Flug dusted down they ushered him off to the next event. Thankfully, it was one that he had no chance of winning. The idea was to throw as many heavy metal objects over a twenty foot bar as possible, and seeing that one of the participating trolls was fifteen and a half feet tall it was more of a foregone conclusion that he would win than it was that a cyclist on a square wheeled bike would lose the Tour de Skullenia. He came second as it happened, but then sadly had to retire due to a nasty case of vibration white buttock.
“Here, fellahs,” said Ronnie. “Huddle round so that I can have a smoke, will you please.”
Stitches wasn’t going to huddle with anyone, especially if it meant being subject to smoke making its way through Ronnie’s invisible system.
He wandered away from the crowd who were busy watching something or another. He stopped a few feet away from Ethanwolf’s hiding place. Six to be precise. He knew his friend was in there somewhere, but he didn’t want to find out the hard way that Ethanwolf would have no problem whatsoever in eating some rather stringy, two hundred year old meat. Good job he didn’t realise that the cage door was unlocked.
Stitches didn’t know which animal had originally been housed there, but he was pretty sure that it wouldn’t be here now. If it wasn’t currently being used as gym equipment, then it was probably residing in Ethanwolf’s stomach, wondering why the world had suddenly become so moist and dark.
A rustle from a bush at the rear of the cage caught his attention. To his surprise, Ethan, back in human form, emerged from the foliage, and in his arms was cradled a fuzzy mass of wispy fluff, about the size of a rugby ball.
“Lunch?” Stitches enquired.
“Not quite. I found it curled up at the back of the cage, over by the wall. I can’t say I recognise it but it looks like a cross between a lion cub and an oven glove. I’m surprised it’s still here actually.”
“Well I don’t fancy its chances if you put it back. One of this lot will be using it as a speed-ball before the days out,” said Stitches, gently tickling the unidentified little creature under what appeared to be its chin. As it turned out, the zombie didn’t touch the animal as gently as he thought he had. A set of razor sharp teeth emerged from the depths of the fluffy bundle and snagged his probing index finger before giving it a twist and a sideways jerk. Two tiny twinkling eyes gazed up at him and he could have sworn that the cheeky little bugger smirked at him.
“I’m going to need that back,” he said to Ethan, pointing at the creature with his middle finger.
Ethan, with a bit of gentle tugging, eventually managed to free the digit and return it to its rightful owner.
“The holes barely show,” he said. “You can always put a bit of filler in.”
“You’re very kind. I’m not a DIY project, you know,” said Stitches, popping the nibbled finger into his pocket. “I don’t represent a charming fixer up opportunity. So what do you intend to do with the little charmer, then?”
“Can’t leave him,” said Ethan, trying to make out that what he was about to say was spontaneous. “Here’s a thought. He’s small enough to fit into my backpack; I’ll look after him when we get home.”
“Well, good luck with that.” Stitches glanced over his shoulder. “Seems like the throw has finished. I better be getting back.”
“Okay, see you in a bit.”
“How’s it going?” asked Stitches upon his return to the games arena.
“Good, mate,” said Ollie. “Flug came last but one in the throw so that means the competition has evened up. The crowd has mellowed out and there’s only one event left. If Flug comes in the top three, he’ll win and we’ll get the fourth piece of the Cup.”
“What’s the last event?”
“Looks like we’re going to find out now.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” shouted Tile. “The last event in what has been an extremely exciting contest, and the one that you’ve all been waiting for. The arm wrestling.”
“Should be alright here,” said Ollie smiling. “Flug’s got industrial strength biceps. His forearms are like most people’s thighs. I can’t see him having too many problems with this one.”
And he was right. Blowing the rest of the competitors away without so much as a drop of sweat spilt, the final bout was between Flug and Thor Finger. They were on equal points which meant it was down to this last battle of strength to determine who would be victorious.
The two giant beings sat opposite from each other across a heavy wooden table and grabbed a solid iron rivet with their respective left hands. They then joined right hands with a clap that was as loud as thunder. Ollie and Stitches could see them both squeezing each other’s hands as hard as they could, trying to gain the best hold and at the same time trying to convey, without words, that their strength was far greater than the others. As the referee tied their clasped hands together, they stared at each other intently. Thor was attempting to psych out Flug, using his deep scarlet eyes to burrow into Flug’s subconscious, trying to unnerve and unsettle him, to delve into his very being to scratch away the exterior and gain access to the weaker and more fallible creature within.
Flug was dribbling from both sides of his mouth at the same time and was wondering what the referee meant by three, two, one, go.
“From the vacant look in his eyes and the length of the spit dangling, I’d say that Ethan has left the building,” said Stitches. “We’ll just have to hope that…”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” interrupted Tile, suddenly appearing next to them, “but is this yours?”
He didn’t seem to have a hold of anything, but his right arm was at a right angle to his body. On closer inspection though, his fist did appear to be clasping something.
“Is what ours?” said Ollie, not having the vaguest idea what Tile was banging on about.
“This,” Tile explained. “About five feet nine, slim build, giving off a bit of smoke, invisible.”
“Hi, guys,” said Ronnie.
“Now, I’m not sure what’s been going on today,” said Tile, the accusatory tone in his voice more than a little obvious, “but I could make a few educated guesses. Not that I would be able to prove anything of course.”
“There’s nothing to try and prove,” said Ollie defensively. “Ronnie here is a bit shy and has a touch of agoraphobia. He normally does this sort of thing if faced with a large crowd. There’s nothing sinister or underhand about it, I can assure you, Mister Tile.”
Tile leaned in closer to Ollie and lowered his voice, making him sound all the more menacing.
“I would suggest that when this is all over, you lot get out of here as quickly as possible. Are we clear?”
“About as clear as the cages surrounding us,” said Stitches, getting annoyed. “And by clear I mean utterly devoid of anything living. I don’t know if you’re aware of the concept of how a zoo is supposed to work, but this is not it. I’m sure that certain authorities would be very interested to hear about how the local animal population is being treated for everyone’s amusement.”
Tile stared at Ollie and Stitches with a fixed and steady steely glare, but some of the bravado had clearly been stripped from his initially arrogant outburst.
“Perhaps we can come to some sort of an arrangement,” Tile offered.
“Yes we can,” said Ollie, “and a very simple one. You let the five of us get on with what we came here to do, and we’ll not mention to any animals rights people that we bump into about what’s been going on around here.”
“Agreed,” said Tile who, without another word, wandered off.
“What are we going to do now?” said Ronnie. “I can’t really go invisible again; there’d be a riot in spite of what we’ve just sorted out with Tile.”
“And Ethan isn’t going to be much use at the moment. I’ll explain later, but it’ll be pretty obvious,” said Stitches.
Ollie put his hands on his hips and blew out a heavy breath.
“Looks like he’s on his own then,” h
e said, “and there is absolutely nothing that we can do about it.”
The referees’ voice floated over the crowd. “Three, two, one…”
Now, for those of you familiar with the Sylvester Stallone film, Over the Top, you can skip this bit and go straight to the results but, for those of you who haven’t seen it, it’s about a single dad truck driver who works full time, struggles to see his son, but who still manages to fit in being a world class arm wrestler (time management issues are not covered in the story). He’s even got an arm trainer set up in his cab (try explaining that to the CSA when you can’t make your payments). At one point Stallone is in a contest and is up against a guy with biceps the size of Bramley apples. They face off, with their hands tied together and the referee says go. Roughly 0.2 seconds later good old Sly smashes his opponent’s hand onto the table with the force of a jack-hammer. Transfer the above set of conditions to the present scenario and you have an idea of what Flug did to Thor Finger. It’s basically Rocky in a denim shirt.
“…go.”
An instant explosion of shoulder, bicep and forearm power erupted from Flug, and he slammed his opponent’s hand down onto the table with a boom that sounded like a cannon being fired. Finger wailed in defeat and a considerable amount of pain as he clutched his damaged hand (please note that there are no jokes relating to sore fingers at this point in the story. Some jokes are far too obvious, and no doubt you have thought of one of your own already).
The referee took hold of Flug’s free arm and raised it aloft. He had a vague smile on his face, but there was no real indication that he had much of a clue of what he had done. He had been asked to do something. That something had been done so it was of no consequence whatsoever, now that it was over.
Tile looked on with a disappointed and somewhat pissed off expression on his face. Not only had the title been taken by a stranger, but the crowd and even some of the other competitors were shouting and applauding Flug’s victory. He took an object from a cloth bag at the side of the event arena and walked towards Flug to give it to him, but he was stopped before he got to him.
“As Flug’s representative and manager, I’ll take that for him,” said Stitches, taking the package from Tile. “He’d only try and eat it.”
Stitches quickly retreated and grabbed hold of Flug’s arm, and led him from the stage to rejoin the others. Ollie and Ronnie told him well done amidst the back slaps and congratulations from people in the crowd.
“Where’s, Ethan?” asked Ollie, glancing round. “I haven’t seen him for ages.”
“I think he’ll meet us at the car,” said Stitches. “He had something to take care of.”
“Wha… AITCHOO, bless me. What?”
“I’m sure he’ll fill you in.”
When they finally managed to exit the zoo, they did indeed find Ethan waiting for them.
“I take it all went as planned?” he said.
Stitches revealed the second golden handle that he had taken from Tile. “Sure did,” he said, passing it across to go with the rest of the pieces.
Ethan rummaged around in his backpack, moving things around to make room.
“Squeak.”
“Did you hear something?” asked Ronnie.
“Squeak.”
“There. You must have heard that.”
“I did that time,” said Ollie, glancing over at Ethan or more specifically, at his backpack.
“You got something in there you want to tell us about?” he asked the guilty looking lycanthrope.
“Oh, you haven’t?” said Stitches.
“I couldn’t help it,” said Ethan in a pleading tone. “I put it somewhere safe, but it followed me every time I tried to walk away.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out the small, furry bundle hiding inside. “So I brought it outside for a drink. He’s kind of grown on me and now I haven’t got the heart to get rid of him.”
“Squeak.”
“A compassionate werewolf. What is the world coming to?” said Stitches. “It’ll be vampires giving local anaesthetic before sinking their fangs in next.”
“I know it’s an obvious question,” said Ronnie, peering at the creature in Ethan’s arms.
“I don’t know what it is either,” Ethan replied stroking it softly, “but it’s so cute that I couldn’t stand the thought of one of them lot getting their hands on it.”
“Aww soft,” said Flug patting it gently, well, as gently as he could. “Can we keep im, boss, can we? We’ll look after im and love im and walk im every day.”
“It’s not up to me, mate,” said Ollie, “but it looks like it could be here to stay, if the look on Ethan’s face is anything to go by.”
“You’re all heart,” said Stitches.
“Not quite, but I try. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
* * *
The hooded figure swept from the room. The last but one piece had been won and won well, it was grudgingly admitted. The end game was close now and preparations needed to be made to ensure that once the final piece was located, all was in readiness to go at a moment’s notice. Thanks to the constant monitoring, the figure knew the location of the final piece of the cup. The seekers had discussed that directly after the previous challenge, as they had with all the others. It was surprising how quickly and efficiently they had proceeded through the quest. A long wait was what had been expected but thankfully, they had proved far more resourceful that had ever been envisaged. It would actually be a bit of a shame to have to do away with them after all their efforts. Still, casualties of war and all that. What was it called? Collateral damage, wasn’t it? The conqueror’s way of justifying the slaughter of the innocent to assuage a battered and beleaguered conscience, should such a thing exist in a person of that persuasion. Anyway, such trifling matters were of little concern. Not now, not ever. The end was in sight.
* * *
Jekyll pushed open the old wooden doors and entered the library, and was followed by a loud creak as the doors closed again. Scorpio looked up from behind her desk and was on the verge of ordering the miscreant to keep quiet, when she recognised who it was. She waved and beckoned Jekyll over.
“Hello again,” he whispered.
“Hiya. What are you doing here?”
“I need some information, but I can’t spend the next fifteen minutes sounding like I’ve had a tracheotomy. Have you got an office we can go to?”
She nodded and led him off, further into the maze of shelves and books until they came to a door.
She knocked, waited for a couple of seconds, then opened it up and went in.
“You can talk normally in here. We’re far enough away that no one can hear us. So, what is it that I can do for you? Would you like a cup of tea, by the way?”
“No thanks,” replied Jekyll, sitting down in an ancient, wing-backed leather arm chair. “I wanted to ask you a few more questions about Vortex, if that’s alright.”
“Fire away,” said Scorpio, leaning back against an old desk and folding her arms.
“It’s quite simple, really. I assume you keep records here of who takes out what, how often and for how long etc.?”
“We do.”
“Excellent. What I want is a list of which books Vortex has been lending from here over the last six months, say. Is that something you can do for me?”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” said Scorpio, bumping herself away from her perch. “Won’t be long.”
Whilst she was away, Jekyll busied himself with making the cup of tea that he had previously declined, but by the time the kettle had boiled and he was about to pour the water, the librarian returned.
“That was quick,” said Jekyll, replacing the kettle to the desk top after filling the cup. “Where’s the milk, please?”
Scorpio pointed to a small cupboard under the half size sink.
“Marvellous. So, what did you find out? How many black magic, demon summoning and spell casting books has he had out, then?”
“None,” she replied.
“What!” he exclaimed.
“None,” she repeated.
“None!” he protested.
“None,” she repeated again.
“What do you mean, none?” he asked, not quite sensing the stupidity of the question.
Scorpio raised a finely shaped eyebrow. “I mean none. As in less than one. Nada. Nothing. None.”
“Sorry, but that’s a bit of a surprise, if I’m honest,” said Jekyll disappointedly. “I was expecting a list as long as, well, as long as a long box of library cards.”
“Afraid not. The only books, and by books I mean two, that he’s had out in the last year were ‘Home baking for the Busy Curators Assistant’ and Professor Van Helsing’s autobiography ‘Don’t Get Mad Get Cross’. And that’s it.”
“Well, Miss Bytheway, it appears that I’ve not only wasted my time but yours as well. My apologies.”
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss your trip here,” she said encouragingly. “The check on Vortex was so quick that I thought it might be worth compiling another list about a person that you mentioned. This goes back three months.” She handed him a piece of paper filled with writing.
“Whose is it?”
“Flange’s. For a list of reference books it makes quite interesting reading, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
It did indeed make for interesting reading. On the list, according to Scorpio, and she should know, were some of the darkest and malevolent volumes ever to have been printed. In fact a couple of them were known to be so maliciously evil that they had written themselves out of sheer bloody mindedness and the need to force themselves into existence to spread their nefarious word.
“That is a veritable Who’s That of evil scriptures,” she added.
And indeed it was. ‘Tipley’s Believe It If You Want’, a collection of bizarre and possibly true stories from around the world.
‘Dante’s guide to the Underworld, a Travelling Companion’ and ‘Spells to Really Mess Someone Up’ were just three of them.
“Are they all as nasty as these?” asked Jekyll, shaking the list at Scorpio.