by Brian Hughes
“But we don’t want to bloody buy anything!” Hogan snapped.
The two yokels stopped their respective employments and stared at him as though there couldn’t possibly be any other explanation for his being there.
“Although, of course,” Hogan went on, realising that fiscal exchange was paramount in these peoples’ minds. “If it’s that important to you we could reach some sort of arrangement.”
Seymour held up the egg again mutely, not entirely sure what language the commander was speaking.
In desperation Hogan turned to Cissy.
“Shall I just kill them?” she asked, drawing her ray gun.
At that moment a weird, high-pitched scream rattled out of the chicken coop.
It was accompanied by the sound of a rake falling over.
“Arh...now, thart sounds loike moi dard now,” said Seymour with a grin, scratching his grubby head happily.
The Fourth Course
Grimshaw swung the DNA Reconstructer angrily round his head, bringing one corner down on Barley’s rear end.
Actually, the words ‘rear end’ are the closest I could come up with to describe the green protrusion from the farmer’s rump.
Not that the khaki appendage was greatly different than the rest of his body.
In fact, Giles Barley probably couldn’t be referred to as ‘a farmer’ any more. A lime jelly with three eyes and several animated tendrils would be closer.
The jelly howled as Grimshaw brought it another crack.
Then it reared up on a set of haunches that it didn’t have.
And it bared its teeth.
Translucent molars that bore a passing resemblance to stalactites of snot.
Grimshaw flinched from the terrible stench. He might have been a completely different life form now but Giles’ breath could still strip the paint off walls.
The Health Inspector/mouse tripped over his own tail. He came down with a yelp on the Reconstructer’s needle.
“Oh bollocks!”
This time it didn’t take half an hour.
A mouse’s capillary system is smaller than a human being’s.
Blood pumps faster and diseases spread quicker.
In the case of Grimshaw the metamorphosis was almost instant.
Hogan and Cissy pounded down the farmhouse steps in the direction of the growing rumpus.
They skewed to a halt in the middle of the yard.
Creaks and groans flew out of the coop like tortured banshees.
Then a crash!
And a huge yellow dragon with large purple spots smashed its head through the roof.
Fragments of corrugated iron span in all directions.
On the far side of the building a monstrous pair of webbed feet suddenly emerged through the wall.
Debris scattered into the yard, one sizeable chunk rebounding off Seymour’s head as he appeared on the doorstep behind them. It continuing to spin into the kitchen where several bantams squawked noisily and Anne Barley’s bathtub was suddenly filled with a cold lump of iron.
The dragon hiccuped.
Then it burped pathetically and watched a helter-skelter of smoke drift up from its nostrils.
Its tiny moustache smouldered pointlessly.
Scratching its crown with one talon, the multi-coloured beast narrowed its eyes shiftily as though an evil idea had taken root.
It dived back inside again.
Several further sections of roof clattered into the yard.
“This might sound stupid,” muttered Cissy, lowering her arms from where she’d wrapped them about her head. “But that dragon definitely had the look of Mr Grimshaw about it.”
Back inside the flimsy building the action was starting to hot up.
Come to that matter so were the giant chickens, whose tails were leaving trails of smoke across the coop.
The dangerously positioned bails of straw and the combustible woolsacks crackled and spat violently beneath the arc of the dragon’s flames.
Not that the dragon was around any longer.
The small wobbly green thing that had previously been Farmer Barley had put paid to that, regardless of how difficult it was to carry the transmogrification device in its slippery tendrils.
Okay...some of you might be wondering exactly why this dangerous machine had been invented in the first place.
Well, it certainly wasn’t for Giles Barley’s entertainment.
As it happened, in the outer reaches of the cosmos, DNA Reconstructers served several useful purposes.
On the one hand there were the medical applications. Limbs blown off in the Great War could easily be regrown with a simple jab and the digestion of plenty of rhubarb. (Don’t ask me why rhubarb was so important to growing new limbs...it just was, that’s all.)
On the other hand, during excessively lengthy journeys, there was sometimes the need to transform oneself into a creature that could hibernate for several months. Most of the intergalactic mining sloughs that ploughed the furthermost reaches of Ursa Major had secret stashes of nuts and dried berries squirreled around their bulk heads in case any members of the crew woke up en route.
On the third hand, which was often the case when the DNA Reconstructer was involved, there were the recreational considerations. Levels of tension can rise dramatically over periods of time for groups of males caged-up in star-ships without recourse to women. The DNA Reconstructer certainly had some advantages there, just so long as whoever volunteered to take the injection drank plenty of Scotch before hand and didn’t object to waking up in the morning with severe constipation.
None of the situations mentioned above, however, allowed the recipient to transform every few minutes.
This was an unheard of and highly dangerous practice.
In fact, up until this point, nobody had ever injected themselves more than once in a twelve-hour period.
So there were no known precedents as to what might happen next.
Giles Barley and Seth Grimshaw were about to find out exactly what that entailed.
“This doesn’t look good,” said Cissy, thrusting her head around the corrugated doorjamb and watching the spectacle taking place before her.
“I think we’ve got problems,” she added with typical understatement.
Hogan’s face appeared a few inches above her own and blinked into the gloom.
“Yeah...this really doesn’t bode well,” he added to Cissy’s observation.
The two archenemies before them were caught up in a tit-for-tat loop. Or possibly a tit-for-tit loop, neither of them having enough brains to back down from the spiralling battle.
Barley would turn into some new creature, an overweight bat with tartan wings for example, and in doing so would drop the DNA Reconstructer. It was difficult to keep track of where fingers and claws were in relation to one’s body when, every few seconds, one’s body wasn’t where it was supposed to be any longer.
At this point, Grimshaw would scream as the falling device hurtled towards him.
Then a puncturing sound and Grimshaw himself would change species.
In turn the DNA Reconstructer would go spinning back towards Barley, once again landing with a well-aimed pop.
Altradian Mango Sloth, Inter-polarity Rimpersnort.
The lesser-spotted JuJu Lizard, Beetleguisan Sharp-toothed Amoeba.
So the circle continued, the two combatants becoming vaguer and more melted in appearance with every new transformation.
Soon it was difficult to tell which was which, both of them melding and glooping together into one indistinct form.
“Right...it’s time we put a stop to this.”
Hogan reached into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a pair of thick, leather gloves.
Tugging them determinedly over his fingers he stepped into the fray and caught the machine in mid-flight.
Then he stared at the dispirited blob on the ground, wheezing pathetically and shimmering sadly in the pale light.
“C
issy...can you find me a dustpan and brush?” he asked, crouching down for a closer look. “I reckon this thing needs to simmer in its own juices for a while.”
Cocktails
Wars are fought for many reasons. Sometimes they’re over land ownership. Many innocent, and some not-so-innocent, lives have been lost fighting over an infertile strip of soil. Oddly enough the gerbils and lizards that actually occupy such patches of ground have little time for shedding each other’s blood, being too busy eating and mating and then eating some more to bother about ownership rights.
Sometimes wars are fought for the continuation and/or establishment of religious and/or political beliefs. In these instances everyone assumes that their own cause is just and their opponents are evil and, well, to prove it they have to kill some of them in the name of peace.
Sometimes wars are started just because one nation needs to give its fellow nation a damned good thumping in order to prove that they’re still in charge.
The truth is, the people who start wars generally end up thousands of miles from the front-line, expending the lives of their troops from the security of a warm desk and a comfortable armchair.
Don’t believe the history books when they tell you that such and such a duke lead his army to victory.
History books are notorious liars, commissioned, as they are, by the victors and, in particular, the perpetrators.
If the people responsible for wars, the kings and the queens, the religious fanatics and the so-called world leaders, were stuck at the head of their armies where they would be the first to fall, then wars would be much shorter, far less bloody and the loss of innocent lives and the financial savings would be considerable.
On top of which there’d be less statues and fanciful paintings around to celebrate these acts of barbarism because there’d be less of their bodies around to immortalise.
“What happened to Grimshaw?” asked Cissy behind the back of her hand.
Hogan removed the thermometer from Barley’s mouth, shook the spittle from its bulb, checked the gauge and then stuffed it back into his trench coat, having wiped it thoroughly on his cuff first.
“I’ve no idea. It’s possible that his DNA’s become so mixed up with Barley’s here that his body’s been distributed in one form or another about his...”
Here Hogan paused, searching for a word that would best describe the grimy mess that was Farmer Barley.
“His body...” he concluded lamely.
Cissy shuddered and watched as Mavis, the chief bantam of the Barley household, clambered on to the patchwork quilt and started to peck at Barley’s ear.
Giles made to object but was still too weak to utter more than a feeble grunt.
“On the other hand,” Hogan went on, kicking the guzzunder with his toecap. “Grimshaw might still be wandering about in the shed somewhere disguised as a beetle. It’s hard to tell.”
He turned to Seymour who was standing behind him.
“If you come across a cockroach with a little moustache when you’re grovelling around in the pig swill,” he suggested. “Then it might be wise to stomp on it. There’s nowt we can do to change him back to his original shape now.”
“Couldn’t we just use the DNA Reconstructer again like we did with Barley?” asked Cissy.
Hogan pulled the diamond-shaped machine from his pocket.
Holding it up to his eyes he wiped the LCD with his sleeve.
Then he brought up one knee, slammed the device onto it, and snapped it in half.
Cogwheels and chips flew in all directions, rattling against the furniture as though it was raining indoors. (Surprisingly, this wasn’t unusual in the Barley household...especially seeing as Giles had been meaning to fix the various holes scattered about the roof for decades but had never gotten around to them.)
“Nope,” Hogan added.
Cissy nodded to herself and smiled weakly.
Wherever Grimshaw had disappeared, it would be better if he stayed where he was and the whole sorry episode was put behind them.
If he turned up again there’d be public enquiries and machinations made by military scientists.
Rather one life destroyed than monstrous chickens and transmogrification wars being waged across Lancashire.
“Mine I believe.”
Hogan took the enormous egg from Seymour and tucked it under his arm.
Then he opened his palm towards the coughing farmer still wrapped up in his duvet.
“Yours I believe.”
“Arh...unfortunately,” replied Anne Barley, understanding Hogan’s gesture to mean that the egg was in payment for returning her husband to her alive.
With that Hogan turned to Cissy.
“We’d better drop these goobledons off,” he said. “The cockpit ’ull covered in shit by now!”
Engines roared and newspapers scattered.
The pitiful corpses of long dead voles were whipped into a frenzy and hurtled round the yard as the Icarus lifted gently off the cobbles.
For a moment it hovered in front of the rattling chicken coop, the walls of the building tearing apart beneath the blast.
“I suspect Brasswick’s supply of Ostriches will run out by the end of the week,” mused Cissy, staring thoughtfully at the singed chicken that, in turn, was returning her gaze with a sorrowful air. “Unless of course he decides to use the last of his creations as a tourist attraction.”
“Grimshaw’s disappearance should put paid to that,” Hogan replied tapping in the co-ordinates for Allyson Moore’s house, his mouth starting to water at the thought of chocolate Hob Nobs. “Old Barley won’t want to attract too much attention to his farm for a while.”
“What do you reckon happened to him?” Cissy asked as the Hyperdrive geared up into a whine.
“God only knows,” said Hogan, flicking the switch. “But wherever he is he’s probably not happy!”
The bedroom windowpanes on the tumbledown farmhouse rattled noisily as the shuttlecraft rose into the air.
Several loose roof tiles span into the yard and shattered noisily.
Giles Barley struggled upright in his bed still too weak to shout but casting a glower across the room at his industrious wife crouched over her potato tub.
Then he lifted the soiled quilt and checked underneath to make sure all was well.
He’d been through a great many physical changes that day and he wanted to be certain that everything was still in working order.
As it happened, it wasn’t.
Barley’s eyebrows arched in astonishment.
Then a brown, gummy grin broke out across his hoary countenance.
“Two of ’em, eh?” he muttered to himself, cocking his head on one side for closer inspection. “Oi always said the man was a dick!”
And he lowered the duvet again thoroughly content with his afternoon’s labour.
Intermezzo the Eighth
Lucy slurped noisily from the bottom of her cup. The soft farting sound this produced suggested she hadn’t been impressed by the traveller’s tale.
“Another one?” the stranger asked, optimistically.
“To be honest, ” Lucy replied. “I haven’t recovered from the last one yet. You’re starting to worry me, you know? You seem to be a bit obsessed with sex.”
Whether he was or he wasn't, the traveller’s cheeks turned a scarlet hue.
“Perhaps you watch too many documentaries on Channel 5,” Lucy continued. “Or have too much access to Internet porn. I must admit before I went on the Web I always thought I had a fairly adventurous sex life. You know the sort of thing...socks off even in the winter...unless it’s a particularly cold night of course. Keeping the light on during foreplay. Experimenting with food stuffs in the kitchen.”
She heard the stranger cough uncomfortably but ignored his mute pleas to change the subject.
“Anyhow, these days I’m starting to believe that my sexual appetite is as bland as one of Calista Flockhart’s appetisers. I mean...call me old-fashion
ed but grown men getting turned on by custard pies or women stamping on their testicles.”
The traveller tried to interupt, but Lucy was off at full pelt once again.
“Scat-munchers, lolita wombats, adults wearing nappies the size of bed sheets and then soiling them, folks dressing up as bunnies with big floppy ears, bestiality, extreme bondage, midget sex...I'm not saying that midgets shouldn’t have sex of course, or that those of a more normal height shouldn’t find midgets attractive, but when the only way a bloke can get turned on is by having a three foot high dwarf lock their bollocks in a vice and then batter them round the face and neck with a beheaded chicken perhaps it’s time he turned off the internet and sought psychiatric help instead.”
There followed several moments of highly charged silence.
Suddenly realising her predicament Lucy reached over without another word and picked up a small black box.
She held it up to the traveller’s nose.
“Ah...now this...” the stranger explained, relieved to have finally steered away from the topic. “Is definitely worth a buttered teacake.”
“I see these tales are getting more expensive.”
“That’s inflation for you...” said the stranger.
“Inflated prices for inflated stories...” muttered Lucy opening her purse again.
The Strange Affair of Maude Blueberry
The End
Sometimes quantum physicists get things wrong.
Let me illustrate...
According to the theory of relatively an object travelling faster than the speed of light moves backward through time.
This, of course, is impossible.
Density increases with momentum and by the time the object reaches the ultimate velocity it becomes, in effect, infinitely dense.
In an attempt to overcome this minor problem scientists are now exploring the possibility of wormholes, unusual phenomena renowned for their unique space-bending properties.