by James Walley
Now was the time for action. Something inside him demanded steely resolve. It cried out for him to throw open the rickety shed door and chase down the departing evildoer. It screamed inwardly for justice.
It groaned as O’Riley shuffled uncomfortably into a kneeling position, and cautiously peered out of the little window.
Outside, nothing stirred. There was no evidence of the scornful being which had been there moments earlier, and O’Riley almost hated the fact that a sigh of relief escaped his lips at the sight. Beyond the creeping thickets and leftover gardening tools, the gardens stood motionless, bereft of anything that could leap in terrifyingly at him, and almost normal in what had been an evening of anything but. Aside of course, from the enormous pirate ship in the town pond.
With everything that had happened so far that night, he didn’t even question what it was doing there.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Marty had never been a big fan of surprises. Even on Christmas morning as a child, he would sneak downstairs when all but the most diligent of partygoers had collapsed into their beds, or a close approximation to it. He would shake, poke, and pry at the myriad of wrapped goodies beneath the tree mere moments after his paren…ahem…Santa had placed them in the moonlit living room. Even then, the not knowing would drive him crazy. All the guessing that the tiny, box-shaped gift in the corner was in fact a bike wouldn’t change that. It was, after all, the mission of every child to ponder endlessly about what goes on out of their sight. Curiosity might kill the cat, but such portents held no fear for a youngster, especially when the prospect of shiny new free stuff bestowed upon them by a mysterious, fat bearded stranger hung like pixie dust in the air.
This child-like hunger for answers had followed Marty into pseudo-adulthood, and it jabbed him impatiently in the ribs as all manner of unseen shenanigans exploded violently in the shrouded street behind them.
Kate squeezed his hand, as though she sensed his pensive curiosity, and stared out into the chaotic void as something exploded, maddeningly just out of sight. They stopped to wait for their pirate allies, with the Fathom in sight, and the imminently arriving clown reinforcements now shrouded in the darkness.
“I’ve got this one in a headlock, that means he’s mine,” a voice cried out from somewhere in the gloom. “There’s a bunch more over there, go play with them.”
A red nose clattered down the street and came to rest at Marty’s feet.
“Oaf, get off! I’m on your side. Aim for the taller ones.”
More whup ass escaped its constrictive cans behind them, and still Marty could make out nothing of the melee which was so obviously going down.
“I’m sorry, was that your face?” Came a much deeper, Oaf sounding apology.
Marty bunched his fists, much to the displeasure of Kate, who was still holding one. This was like playing a video game with your eyes shut. “This isn’t right,” he muttered. “We should be in there, helping them.”
Kate shook her head slightly. “It sounds like they’re doing okay on their own.”
An order rang out from Timbers, as if to emphasize Kate’s point. “Whipstaff, go easy on them. We’re supposed to be getting them to follow us, not making them explode.”
“I can’t help it,” another voice chimed in, with enough enthusiasm to sink a battleship. “They just go off like paper fireworks. I’m only hitting them a bit. Okay, I’m hitting them a lot, but hey, fireworks!”
Much giggling, followed by what sounded like an explosion in a piñata factory ensued, and Marty darted a nervous glance up the street, then back towards the Fathom, silhouetted against the night ahead of them. This was not shaping up to be a textbook execution of the plan, unless that textbook had been written by an Austrian cyborg on a sugar high.
Three pint-sized shapes galloped out of the cloaked chaos behind them, carrying various trophies of the fight which had disappointingly unraveled without Marty, and darted past, back the way they had come. Timbers was, of course, leading the charge. He was holding what appeared to be a freshly scalped clown wig, which was unravelling back to whatever rapidly balding horror he had accosted in the battle just moments earlier.
Whipstaff followed close behind, clutching a pair of freshly liberated pantaloons. Marty had no idea how that little skirmish had panned out, and had no wish to delve further into that line of enquiry.
Bringing up the rear, Oaf appeared, holding proudly aloft a potted plant. Whether this item had been in any way connected with the epic coming together of clown and pirate in mortal combat was unclear, but the lumbering buccaneer cradled it like a new born puppy, and Marty thought it best not to probe too much into the whys and wherefores of its origin or purpose. In any case, the guttural shrieks of protest, and juddering shapes which appeared in pursuit were sufficient incentive to send both him and Kate sprinting after the departing pirates. It appeared that they had snagged the attention of the marauding circus hellion, and although that had been the plan all along, Marty grasped at the logic behind it, which had seemed such a good idea only moments ago.
A few fleeing strides brought him level with Timbers, who was already on the home straight back to home base, and Marty aimed a frantic glance down at his still chuckling comrade. “I think we’ve got their attention, Timbers. Maybe drop the hair?”
Timbers was in full flow, caught in mid-adventure, and shooed his friend’s suggestion with a flapping, wig filled hand. “No chance, Marty. I got me a scalp, like one of them Cherokee fellows. This’ll go great with the red nose and Peepers’ boot in my trophy cabinet.”
They were running parallel to Main Street now, and turned collectively on a heel for the final stretch to home straight, with the Fathom looming silently before them. There was a simplicity to this that made Marty almost break stride as it sunk into his brain. There were no meetings, no traffic jams, no minimum wage to this life. Throw a rock, watch it hit and run. It was as close to his childhood as he had come in twenty or so years, and the sheer carefree abandon of it forced a smile onto his face. He turned to Kate, wondering if some semblance of reality remained with her, waiting to drag him back into the nine to five and remind him of his inherent realness, but she grinned back. Clearly responsibility had taken just as much of a hit as the town, and it was time to embrace what had rudely arrived in its place. Wholeheartedly in the ‘run’ portion of this scenario, Marty’s only wish was that he had been present at the ‘throw the rock’ part.
Ever the sage, albeit blithering lunatic, Timbers seemed to catch a whiff of Marty’s epiphany. “Look lively, lad. There’ll still be plenty of clowns when we get back to the Fathom. Man a cannon and you can pop as many of them as you like.” He winked, and streaked off ahead, a pirate on a mission to get back to his ship, and make ready with the plan. Marty’s plan. The grin was spreading, and setting up a decent argument for permanent residence. This wasn’t reality, or at least the reality that had imposed itself on Marty’s life. This was his road, and he was currently hurtling down it with a bunch of toy pirates and the girl of his dreams. Aside from the clowns pursuing them, it didn’t get much better than that.
Life, of course, has an evil way of demonstrating just how much worse it can get. As the group reached the Fathom, Marty gazed up at its deck, and almost stopped dead in his tracks. There had been who knows how many clowns at their backs, braying and cackling in a demented pursuit of their prey, but none of the crew had given any thought to the hordes which might be lying in wait for them. Clowns are a wily bunch, and when not falling foul of wonderfully half-cocked, and amazingly working plans, can be found concocting strategies of their own.
Upon the deck of the Fathom, a dozen or so of the scheming harlequins ran hither and thither, hooting, creeping, and making a general nuisance of themselves. High up in their crows’ nests, the Bobs cowered, clearly outnumbered and with no backup, whilst Zephyr sat motionless, apparently in some sort of recharge mode.
Marty called out to Timbers, hoping it wasn’t nearly as
desperate and panic stricken as it sounded in his head. “They’re on the ship, Timbers. They’ve boarded the Fathom!”
The little captain shot a barely discernable glance upwards as he hit the gangplank. Territorial indignance had taken hold, as quickly as a tiny clothed hand met the hilt of the blade at his side. “You are in direct violation of the plan, and you’re on my boat. Prepare to meet your fluffy maker, you gibbering bilge rats!”
Even as Timbers sprang onto the deck of the Fathom, his loyal crew adopting similar modes of attack behind him, the clownish interlopers were in motion.
As Marty and Kate finally reached the jetty, the clowns slithered back to form a tight circle in the center of the deck. They bared countless yellow teeth, and hooted frantically at the advancing crew. From somewhere in the middle of the hideous huddle, a new voice sprang forth, high pitched and pleading, as Benji was hoisted above dozens of brightly wigged heads like some kind of squirming trophy.
“Miss Kate!” Benji struggled against the grasp of his leering captor, as the crew of the Fathom stopped dead in their tracks. “Don’t let them take me. I don’t want to be a koala bear picnic.”
Kate turned, wild eyed, towards the whimpering marsupial. Benji shot from yellow, to green, to radiant white as the monster holding him turned its face upwards. Like a painted anaconda, the clown’s jaw dropped, unhinging, and Kate’s mind dragged her unwillingly to thoughts of Sir Reginald in the alley behind The Pickled Judge.
“Benji! No!” Marty grabbed Kate as she flung herself helplessly across the deck. The ghoulish face loomed further towards its prey, and the tiny koala dropped, strobing, out of sight into the slavering clown’s now impossibly gaping mouth.
For a searingly long moment, everything seemed to come to a standstill. Marty turned to the crew of the Fathom, his mouth hanging open, although not quite to small furry creature swallowing capacity. Timbers’ blade dropped, and a blinking, quizzical look flitted across his face. Even the clowns, still panting and full of murderous mirth stood rooted to the spot, as if waiting for something to happen.
“That’s not supposed to happen,” Timbers ventured, shaking his head vaguely. “We win. We always win.” He turned his attention to the waiting jesters. “You can’t do that. Undo that right now, bad show!”
Appearing to enjoy this little outburst, the clowns erupted into fits of shrieking laughter, snapping the shell-shocked Kate from her stupor. Marty let go of her, stunned at what had happened, and only realized that his hand was Kate-less when she shot past him, Oaf’s mallet already sweeping in a lethal arc over her head.
The nearest clown was still giggling manically when the force of a woman wronged dropped wooden retribution onto its head. Hell predictably followed, reducing the unsuspecting creature to a pair of oversized shoes, jutting out from a pummeled flat wig on the deck.
Clearly this was the cue the other clowns were waiting for. As one, their waistcoats parted, and a flurry of balloons cascaded forth, peppering the air with brightly colored plastic. As they drifted into the sky, Timbers flailed at swiftly departing devils, throwing hastily crafted insults at the ascending jesters.
Kate crashed back onto the deck, her sobs rattling through Marty in heart wrenching tremors. It was safe to say that the plan had flown out the window, and was currently being trodden under the flappy size twenties of the angry clowns still chasing them in the street below.
Up on the quarterdeck, Timbers was at the helm. “Bobs. Wake up Zephyr. We need to get airborne, sharpish.” A look arrived on the little pirate’s face, filled with more determination and purpose than Marty had ever seen in his admittedly limited interaction with living toys.
His sword was still drawn, and his intention was clear. With enemies above them, and more incoming, the order came swift and direct.
“Nobody eats a koala on my ship. Follow those balloons.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Marty sank back against the railing of the Fathom’s deck, as a million thoughts, emotions, and questions wrestled for priority in his head.
Yesterday, his most pressing concern had centered around whether his socks had one more day’s wear in them, and whether to have ham or cheese on his sandwiches.
As the Flying Fathom soared silently back into the heavens, his mind was beset by thoughts possibly more befitting of a madman. What were they going to do when they reached the big top full of psychotic clowns at the edge of town? How would they deal with dozens of similarly demented jesters currently at their backs? How exactly does one console a significant other who has recently lost their talking koala?
The latter thought pushed all others aside as Kate’s sobs played wrenching power chords on Marty’s heart strings.
“He didn’t want to hurt anyone,” Kate wailed, clutching her knees and rocking to and fro on the deck. “He didn’t even want to be here.” She paused, collecting herself, before following up with the sort of unintelligible mass of syllables any mortally upset person imparts in an attempt to sum up their feelings. “Ebeeweefoteeweemeeeee!” Kate sniffed, blinking up at Marty through teary eyes. “You know?”
Even though Marty hadn’t caught the words, he had understood the sentiment, just as he knew that a hug would not help, but delivered one anyway. Words came next, although he acknowledged that they would be equally redundant. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but right now we have to concentrate on the job in hand.” Marty winced at his words. Never mind redundant, those had been downright unhelpful. He pressed on, hoping that his follow-up would be more comforting. “And anyway, what better way to get back at these red-nosed gits than by booting them, arse first back through their portal?” Although better, they still weren’t the verbal medicine that he’d intended them to be.
Nevertheless, Kate straightened, sniffing back tears and nodding deliberately. “You’re right,” she croaked, rubbing her eyes and springing to her feet. “They’ve crossed a line, and now they’ll have to pay.” Marty decided to forgo any further words in favor of another hug. Kate was stronger than he could have ever imagined, and right now he was looking at a girl with one thing on her mind. Revenge. Knowing what he already did about Kate, Marty decided he’d take that over a tactical missile strike of the big top any day of the week.
Turning to glance over the side, he surveyed the night sky around them. The gang of koala munching clowns had disappeared in the distance up ahead, but there were still plenty more on their backs, no doubt hot on their sails. He tried not to think about the hovering shapes, borne beneath countless billowing balloons, behind them. “We’ll figure all of this out. We always do.” He summoned up the best smile he could muster, and was simultaneously surprised and relieved as Kate managed a defiant one in return. “Even with clowns to the left of us, and…” The remainder of the question was lost as they both succumbed to nervous, uncomfortable laughter.
“These creeps are cannon fodder,” he declared, gaining strength from her smile. “We beat these guys before armed only with ice cream, remember?”
“And pirate ass-whuppery,” a voice from the quarterdeck interjected. Marty looked up to see Timbers hanging over the rail and delivering a cheerfully supportive wave. “Don’t you worry, Katie lass, we’ll be over the big top and raining down the good stuff on `em before you know it.” Marty suppressed a fist pump. There was a time and a place for such gestures, and he wasn’t done consoling his lady.
“But what about the ones behind us?” Kate asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping back into her voice.
The Fathom descended soundlessly down towards the gray slumber of the town beneath, as exactly far too many floating clowns bobbed and snaked out of the night in pursuit. They sure as hell weren’t going to outrun these balloon-borne monsters, Marty thought, and it seemed Timbers concurred as he issued the order to dive.
They were approaching the outskirts of town as they dropped adjacent to the various shops and office blocks skirting the street, but there was still enough urban maze to exact some d
evilishly brave and foolhardy evasive maneuvers amidst.
A tall, steely building which looked boringly clerical cast a reflection back at the crew of the Fathom, and Marty took a moment to remember just how awesome a flying pirate galleon looked, mid-swoop. The Fathom’s sails billowed in the night air, and the slow arc in which Zephyr was carrying them drew a mirror image of the ship’s mighty deck from the tower’s shining facade. “Damn, we’re pretty,” Timbers crowed, adjusting his hat, and twirling his flintlock in a dashing pose which would surely have made it onto the cover of Toy Pirate Weekly.
“No time for looking awesome, Timbers,” Kate pointed back the way they’d come as several dozen flying lunatics drifted into a V formation behind the Fathom. Timbers stamped a disapproving foot, and leapt from the quarterdeck. There was always time to look awesome.
The little corsair hit the deck at speed, nodding at Whipstaff as he took up a position at the railing. His first mate was already hurrying to the aft of the Fathom. “Don’t you worry about them. We dream pirates have ways of dealing with noisy neighbors.” Timbers winked at Kate.
As one, Kate and Marty stared over at where Whipstaff had taken a seat upon a large, cast iron apparatus, moored to the rear of the ship. It stretched out behind the Fathom like an oversized artillery cannon, which sat upon a metal cage that Marty felt sure he should have noticed at some point before. “It comes up out of the deck, specifically for situations like this,” Timbers explained, as he rested on a lever which presumably had brought forth this impressive tailgun. “We don’t venture onto another plane of existence with only our wits and finely stitched good looks to fall back on you know.” He beamed.
Whipstaff leapt into the operator’s seat, and used a complex array of gears and winding things to pivot the big gun. Beneath him, Oaf took up position beside the cage, and looked back at his captain, awaiting the order to fire. Above him, Whipstaff jiggled and bounced in his seat. “I’ve been waiting to use this bad boy for ages!” he squealed.