by Tony Lewis
“Ah, Dr. Zoltan, my eminent medical friend,” said Flug, grasping the physicians hand and giving it a shake that could have toppled a crane. “Marvellous to see you.”
Zoltan stared at his swamped hand and then at everyone else in the room. Needless to say he was lost for words. (I've never understood the benefit of the word `needless'. If to say something is needless then why say it? The use of the word is always followed by the very thing that is needless to say so why bother. It's like other redundant phrases such as `I shouldn't tell you this but' and `don't look now, but.' Needless to say the author shan't be using such nonsensical wordage during this particular tale. Bugger!)
“Don't worry,” said Stitches quietly, “that was our reaction as well. We're still trying to get our heads round it.”
“I'll bet,” whispered the Doctor. He didn't press the matter any further because Mrs. Ladle had gestured to him in no uncertain terms to curb his curiosity. Her non-verbal method of delivery sent a shiver up his spine, leaving him in no doubt as to what would happen if he enquired any more. God help anyone deaf who bumped into her. Her sign language was a cross between Makaton's and Karate.
“So what can we do for you, Doctor?” asked Ollie, wondering why he had Mandrake with him.
“Well,” said the physician, “I suppose you're wondering why I've got Mandrake with me?”
“It had crossed my mind, yes.”
Zoltan related the conversation that he and his patient had had in the hospital. He left out the fact that Mandrake had tried to end it all again twice on the way over to the office. Firstly he had tried to jump out of a ground floor window at the hospital landing on some dense and very soft moss, and then by lying on a railway track that hadn't been used since Methuselah had a paper round.
“So can you assure me then, Doctor, that he's of no risk?” said Ollie.
“Absolutely,” said Zoltan, who still had his fingers crossed. They were getting a bit sore now.
“So what are we going to do with him then?” said Ronnie. “He can't just kick about here all day every day.”
“I'm sure we can find him something to do. Right, Mandrake?” said Ollie.
“Indeed. I'm more than happy to muck in with anything,” he replied, wondering if he could suffocate himself by placing a blanket over Ollie's desk and getting under it.
“I'll look after him,” said Flug, draping an arm over Mandrake's shoulder causing him to droop by six inches. “He'll be fine as long as he's with me.”
Stitches rolled his eyes and raised his eyebrows at Ollie. The look said `you know he's going to try and kill himself at every available opportunity, and be a complete pain in the rear end don't you?'
Ollie shook his head because he didn't have a clue what Stitches was trying to impart to him. Not that it would have mattered. Ordinarily he would never agree to a request like the Doctors, but he was such a pleasant chap and did so much for the community that he felt that he couldn't really refuse him. And he was awfully helpful when Ollie went to see him with his medical complaints. The ointment that Zoltan had given him for cape rash had worked wonders.
PHHHHSSSSSSHHHHHTTTTT.
“What was that?” said Stitches, looking round the room.
“What was what?” answered Ronnie.
“That noise. It sounded like a tractor tyre being let down.”
PHHHHSSSSSSHHHHHTTTTT.
“It's coming from that box of yours,” said the zombie, approaching Mandrake who was trying to secrete said box behind his legs, which was proving to be as successful as trying to hide an elephant in a rabbit hutch. As he got closer the noise got louder. “What on earth have you got in there because it doesn't sound very happy?”
“That's Noggin,” said Mandrake.
“And Noggin would be?”
“My cat.”
Stitches knelt down and peered into the cage. “I know this may sound like a dumb question, but why would a cat need a steel box that looks strong enough to hold a werewolf with anger management issues who hasn't eaten for a week?”
“He's a little feisty,” said Mandrake, who was getting cramp in his hand trying to keep the cage under control. The sinews in his forearm bulged like wire cords.
“But he's just a cat,” said Stitches, putting a finger up to the grill and tapping it gently. “How dangerous can a moggy be, for goodness sake? I think you're overreacting a bit.”
Just then a fur covered javelin shot out from the cage and attached itself to Stitches' left nostril.
“YEOWWWW!” screamed the zombie as his nose was deftly removed from his face. It was left dangling by a set of claws that wouldn't have looked out of place on Elm Street.
“Maybe that's something I should have mentioned,” said Doctor Zoltan, helping the stricken zombie to his feet. “I told Mandrake to bring Noggin along so that they can bond.”
“Sorry about that,” said Mandrake amidst the general amusement rippling through the room. He extricated the disembodied appendage from the clutches of Noggin and handed it back to its owner. “I told you he was a bit feisty.”
“FEISTY,” shouted Stitches, rather more nasally than usual. “That's not a cat, that's a hairy killing machine. What does it eat?”
“Zombie jerky by the looks of things,” said Ronnie. “I reckon you better watch out Stitches, mate. Noggin seems to be rather attached to you.”
Dr. Zoltan apologised once more, thanked them all profusely for their help and took his leave. As soon as he had done so, Gullett came in followed closely by Golden Kilo who was unfettered and not as in custody as he was before.
“Is that normal procedure?” enquired Ollie, wondering which bit of him the one time prisoner would use in his fleshy collage. “Because I was under the impression that it was common judicial practice to keep offenders locked up.”
“He's not an offender,” said Gullett.
“What!” they said collectively.
Gullett explained.
“Interesting,” said Stitches, half way through putting his nose back on. “I didn't realise that corpses had a use by date.”
“Well, be that as it may,” said Gullett, “Mr Kilo here hasn't committed any offences so he's free to go.”
“So I assume you intend to carry on with your work?” said Ollie, beginning to wish that he was lying in his coffin all snuggled up and flollopy.
“Why yes,” replied Kilo, “but I seem to have come to a bit of a sticking point.”
“I'd call a body not having a head a bit more than a sticking point,” said Ronnie. “More like I've got two hundred pounds of meat on my slab and it doesn't work.”
“Well quite,” said Kilo. “Actually I do have a head down there.”
“Whereabouts?” asked Ollie. “I didn't see it.”
“In a mini-fridge under the work bench. I haven't had time to put it on yet.”
“Remind me not to have a sandwich that you've made,” said Stitches, tying off a loop of cotton.
Kilo smiled. It was a friendly one. Genuine and welcoming. On first impression he seemed to be quite a decent chap for a bit of a head-case.
“The problem I've had,” he continued, “is the electricity supply round here. It's absolutely useless. I'd generate more power rubbing a balloon on my head and shocking the corpse with that.”
A short debate ensued during which no useful comments or ideas arose because no one had the slightest clue on how to help Kilo with his problem. Even Flug with his newly discovered intellect wasn't able to come up with anything vaguely usable. He did point out though that it was a little known fact that a bolt of lightning carried about three million volts of charge, and lasted less than a second.
“Excuse me, boys.”
All eyes turned to the fireplace where Mrs. Ladle stood in a cloud of grey smoke. Ninety percent of it was coming from her lungs. She'd trim the burnt bit off her skirt later.
“I'm awfully sorry, Mrs. L,” said Flug. “What with everything else going on I totally forgot that you were
here.”
“Don't worry about it, Flug love,” she said. “I like blending into the background. Now it seems to me that there's someone in the building who should be able to help, if any of you bothered to ask him.”
Ollie knew exactly who she was talking about.
“But we've already taken the Professor down to the lab,” he said, “and not to be indelicate he was about as much use as a season ticket for Skullenia United.” (An ill-fated football team that had only lasted one season. Well, one game to be precise. They'd gotten into the changing room and proceeded to slaughter each other without even seeing a ball. All that was left was a boot, a torn shirt, a couple of toes, and a knife and fork)
“When he's caught on the hop I would entirely agree with you,” said the witch, “but if you acquaint him with all the relevant facts and let him think about it there's a very good chance that he'll come up with a practical solution.”
Stitches sighed. “What, like that idea he had to cure smelly feet by wearing your socks over your shoes? I am usually quite optimistic about things, Mrs. Ladle, but when it comes to Crumble I don't care how many facts you make available to him it'll end badly. Or be totally worse. Usually both.”
“I have to disagree with you, Stitches,” said Flug, still clamped firmly to an ever shrinking Mandrake. “Given the right circumstances he can be very inventive. And don't forget that some of sciences most important discoveries were made by accident and that many of those poor intellectuals were derided for their work and, in many cases, persecuted. I think we should give him a chance.”
Unbeknownst to those assembled in Ollie's office, the door behind his desk was open a crack. It was enough to allow all the conversation to be heard but not enough to be noticed. Ensconced there, in the dark confines of the secret passageway, Crumble listened and inwardly digested. On the whole what he had heard had been quite encouraging but he had to disagree with Stitches regarding the socks and shoes issue. Crumble himself had tried it and it had been very successful. Obviously he developed blisters on his feet the size of jam tarts, but at least they hadn't stunk. He pushed the door all the way open and entered the office.
“Hello, Prof,” said Stitches. “Locked yourself out again? Created a fourth dimension?”
“Oh no, dear boy. I gave up on the whole fourth dimension thing a while back. Rather dull if you must know. I'm hoping the fifth will be much more interesting.”
“So what can we do for you?” asked Ollie.
“Well, as a matter of fact it's more a case of what I can do for you, or in particular, Mr. Kilo here.”
Now he had their attention.
“Go on, Professor,” said Kilo, approaching Crumble. “What are you thinking?”
Crumble perched on the edge of Ollie's desk and addressed his audience. He hadn't had this many people pay attention to him since the time that he had put a self-made air freshener into Mrs. Strudel's café. He had slightly over estimated the amount of neutraliser needed and had rendered every single customer comatose for a day and a half. Mrs. Strudel hadn't minded though. She charged every single one of them for five meals that they hadn't actually eaten. She was nothing if not opportunistic. And a bit of a crook.
“Well, your problem seems to be with the electric current, correct?”
Kilo nodded.
“So what we need to do is ramp up the power somewhat. Now, in my laboratory I have a dynamo powered by bats.”
“I've seen that in action,” Ollie cut in, “but it wasn't powerful enough by a long way. It only just got a small light bulb going.”
“And the bats needed a week off afterwards,” said Stitches.
“Indeed. You're right of course,” Crumble continued. “But imagine the power we could generate if we scaled everything up a tad.”
Flug smiled and nodded his head knowingly. “Jocular,” he said.
“Exactly,” said Crumble.
“I don't think the Count will take very kindly to being strapped to a wheel and told to flap about,” said Ronnie. “Not unless he's allowed to decorate it first.”
“I think you're going to have to enlighten them, Rufus,” said Mrs. Ladle, who also knew what was being suggested. “They'll never get it on their own. They're slower on the uptake than a brain dead troll.”
“She's right,” said Stitches. “You're going to have to tell us.”
“As I said,” crumble continued, “it's all a matter of scale. If a tiny wheel and a dozen small bats can power a light bulb think of the power that we could generate with a much larger wheel and…..”
“Jocular's giant vampire bats,” said Ollie triumphantly. “That's brilliant, Prof.”
“Thank you. And don't forget the thunderstorms of course. Jocular's castle wouldn't be a credible vampire's lair if there wasn't a violent electrical storm every night.”
Golden Kilo grabbed the Professor by the hand and shook it vigorously. “Thank you,” he said, a trace of emotion in his voice.
“Not at all, dear boy. Glad to be of service.”
“Exactly how high is the castle?” asked Mandrake.
He didn't get a response.
Fifteen minutes later Ollie finally had his office back to himself. Crumble was in his lab with Kilo getting to work on the design for the upgraded dynamo, and the others were somewhere or another. He picked up the phone and dialled Jocular's number. It was all very well coming up with a plan to help Kilo but it would be for naught if His Royal Darkness decided to say no.
As he held the handset to his ear he noticed that even the dialling tone had an eerie, malevolent quality to it. After six rings it was answered.
“His Royal Darkness Count Jocular, Black Knight of the Realms of Fury, Keeper of the Unholy Seal of Instability, Grand Protector of the Wristwatch of Doom, Overseer of the Undead lands of Skullenia and Winner of Best Decorated Dungeon September 1947's residence.”
“Hello, Egon,” said Ollie, trying to stay focussed.
“Ah, Master Splint, what a pleasure to speak to you. How are you?”
“Oh, fine fine, thanks. Bearing up, you know.”
“Of course. And how is that delightful colleague of yours?”
“I take it you mean Stitches?”
“I do. It's been a while since you've visited. I do enjoy it when you come up.”
I'll bet you do, thought Ollie. He and Stitches had taken a trip up to the castle a couple of months ago because Jocular wanted Ollie's opinion on some wallpaper that he was thinking of putting up on the outside walls of the ancient building. Ollie had diplomatically pointed out that not only would it be a massively awkward task that would take ages to complete, but that wallpaper paste would have a bit of a problem sticking to centuries old stone. He less than diplomatically thought to himself that it was the worst idea since the dawn of time, and that his host was a complete loon of a magnitude not seen since Leyton The Brainless tried to row to Shark's Bay in a tea cup dressed in nothing but a pair of flip flops and a deranged grin.
That was until Jocular suggested using fresh blood to get the job done. It has been said that there is a fine line between artistic genius and madness, but it's more clear cut than that. Van Gogh was a genius, so to Leonardo Da Vinci, both giants of creation whose works still inspire awe to this very day. Jocular on the other hand was an undead whack job whose idea of fine décor was internal organs strewn haphazardly about a room. Actually it's not a fine line at all. It's a dirty great, thick black one that art critics and snobs choose to ignore. Unless it costs over a hundred grand or so of course!
Anyway, during Ollie's artistic deliberations with the Count, Stitches had the dubious pleasure of Egon's company. This incorporated a visit to the well-equipped torture chamber (victims included), a roof top walk in the worst storm since Noah built his floating zoo, and a detailed study of Egon's collection of bath plugs, which was ironic because the zombie was convinced that Egon hadn't immersed himself in soap and water for at least three hundred years. Add to that the spectacle of feeding
time for One Lump and Two, and Stitches had left the castle on the verge of a nervous breakdown, vowing never to return until Flug was able to have a conversation of more than two sentences without fainting. Irony. Don't you just love it?
“Can I have a word with the Count, please?” asked Ollie eager to end his chat with the creepy dwarf. “If he's not too busy, of course.”
“Certainly, Master Splint. I shall go and fetch him directly. I believe that he's in the atbrom, arbormat, the greenhouse. Shan't be a mo.”
The `mo' turned out to be about five minutes, during which Ollie wondered what on earth a vampire would want, or need, with a greenhouse. It's not as if he could pop out there at midday to check on his sunflowers.
“Sunflowers prosper very vell in zis climate, Ollie,” said Jocular down the phone. “It's all a matter off creative cultivation.”
A sense of ice cold foreboding swept over Ollie like a freezing tsunami. Jocular's voice was enough to shrink the softer parts of your anatomy and stop your heart mid beat, but to pick up on the fact that Ollie had been thinking about sunflowers was taking the piss. He made a mental note to be more careful with his mental notes in future.
“Do they really?” he said trying to keep his voice, and his bladder, on an even keel. “How very interesting.”
“Indeed. So, vot can I do for you, Ollie?” asked Jocular.
The half vampire gave his immediate superior a rundown of the series of events leading up to his making the phone call. He tried to keep it as precise and as factual as possible because Jocular did have a tendency to lose his concentration sometimes, forget what you were talking about and kill you ever so slightly.
“So, Professor Crumble sinks zat vith ze aid off my bats and a decent storm, he and Mr. Kilo can reanimate ze corpse?”
“That's about the size of it yes, Sir.”
“Vell, I must say zat it does sound like a very interesting project, Ollie. Anozer chapter to add to your ever increasing body off vork, yes?”