by Wez Wallie
"Legends say The Wife of Michael Fish has the strength of ten men!"
"Really?!"
"NO, DOROTHY. Strangely, I've never seen that in the 'Big Book of Eastern Proverbs!' Who cares, let's gooo!"
Tilda heaved her pal up and they raced over to the plane and got in. "Wow!" Tilda squealed. "A Cessna 208b Grand Caravan - how cushy! Ooh, thermal seating and gold-plated oxygen masks - this must be one of them personalized-designer planes!" said Tilda excitedly. "Common as muck on the outside, but oh-so pampered on the in! Ooh look, it's got some shiny buttons and custom features that standard aircraft like these never have!"
"Alright, don't cream yaself, Tild - just get us out of here!"
"Right," said Tilda, coming back to her senses. "Dang it. There's no keys in here!"
"You have to have keys for these fings?!"
"Well, it's not like Knight Rider, you old crank, it doesn't just turn itself on!"
"It hasn't lived."
"What? Look, she probably has the keys on her somewhere. Take my fold-up machete and get over there whilst she's still bewildered and grab them so we can get the heck outta Dodge! "
"Leave off - I ain't going back over there! Besides, where would they be - she ain't got no pockets!"
"Might have to check her peachy pocket, then."
"Eh?!"
Tilda pulled back the ejector lever and Dotty went flying without wings, landing on the top of the plane and gracelessly sliding off the side, bunching up her drawers and giving herself a right botty-burn.
"You're a bleedin’ swine, Tilda coontin' Maffews!" she shouted back, whilst massaging her red-raw tooshie.
The fold-up machete was nowhere to be seen, so she quietly approached the enemy and as she did so, spotted her cane leaning against an industrial crate. "Luvly jubbly!" (Oof, she made herself cringe with that.)
"Dammit," muttered the Wife of Michael Fish, slowly coming back to consciousness and heaving herself up on the nearby chair. "I fell for the titty massage again..."
The Hitnan put the end of her cane to the throat of her foe and demanded the keys to the light aircraft.
"Never! You're gonna have to do a sexy search of me if you ever want to get out of here..."
The Wife of Michael Fish raised her arms in a sultry manner above her head, as Dotty moved a little closer and rolled up her sleeves, about to dig deep into cleavage when suddenly her enemy grabbed the end of the cane, pulled her in close and swiftly got The Hitnan in a tight headlock.
"Didn't see that coming, did ya! Time to bring the STORM!" The Wife of Michael Fish stood in the middle of the aircraft hangar giving The Hitnan a right hard noggin noogie, rubbing her knobbly knuckles deep into the top of her white permed head. Dotty tried to shout from under her arms: "Ouch! You're messin' me barnet up, twonk!"
Tilda's shouts of protest echoed from across the hangar, and she approached the bizarre sight with an outstretched stick threatening the black-leathered head agent.
The Wife of Michael Fish brought Dotty up straight and into a human shield position, backing them away a little and asking why this posh giraff-ical woman was coming at her with the end of a mop.
"It's the only thing I could find that resembles a weapon in this place!"
"Stop right there, thank you very much!"
"No way, Ugly Spice. I need the keys to this plane here. So, do be a dear and toss them over to me or else you shall feel the wrath of Tilda coontin' Matthews!"
"Oi, that's my line!" shouted Dotty. "But they say mimicry is the sincerest form of flattery, so I'll take it as a compliment."
Tilda picked up pace as she closed in on Michael's wife, and a little panicked she cried out: "Stop, or, or I'll twat your partner here!"
"She's enough of a twat for both of us! ARRRGGH!" Tilda charged at them, and the Wife of Michael Fish threw Dotty into a stack of crates and parried as Tilda's mop smacked against the ancient steel-like wood of The Hitnan's cane, whereby they both began to engage in the world's shittest re-enactment of a Star Wars Lightsabre battle any primary school playground has ever seen.
Dotty found herself watching the action from in-between the boxes on the ground, making subconscious 'WHOOSH'-ing noises, as it's impossible to watch such a scene and not do the classic sci-fi sound effects as they go.
With a 'crack' 'crack' here, and a 'whack' 'whack' there, both women were clashing with everything they had, doing everything they could to best the other, and to prevent the indignity of either death by cane or death by utility mop.
As Dotty lay there, she suddenly realised she had been thrown into the midst of Bognor's off-books and packaged-up ammo supplies; she was laying in tons of gear! "How convenient!" she said with a hearty chuckle. She cracked open the nearest box of poppers and lobbed them at the pair, both ladies dancing a jig on the spot to avoid the small explosions at their feet.
"DOROTHY!!" scolded Tilda from across the way, whose proximity to the popper had blown her beret clean off. (Her flattened, pink-streaked pixie cut was on full display now.)
"Sorry, I was just trying to help!"
"Don't touch all that, woman!" warned The Wife of Michael Fish. "That's half a pony's worth of stock you're squatting on!"
As she was distracted, Tilda smacked the mop into her enemy's ribs and they began to battle again. Dotty suddenly noticed the discarded bullwhip laying under a box of fireworks; "Fack this!"
Tilda took a smack to the thigh as she ducked a blow to the head, countering with a swift jab to the other one's shoulder and again blocked a potentially fatal crack of the cane above her face. The Wife of Michael Fish was about to spin into delivering another quick blow when she raised the cane above her head to strike but the sound of a whip stopped her in place: the black leathered tendril of the bullwhip had wrapped itself around the cane above her, and was promptly snatched out of her hand with a satisfied catch -
"I'll be havin' that back, fanks, wench!" said The Hitnan, standing tall and stoic and smacking the cane down onto the epoxy resin floor with a self-satisfied lean.
"Right," said The Wife of Michael Fish. "I've had enough of this now. Playtime's over."
She did a surprise rolly-poly over to the scattered stock of crates and lobbed some flash-bangs into the centre of the battlefield, temporarily blinding her foes and regaining ground.
"OOH, I'M SEEING STARS, DOROTHY!" Tilda shouted, the pair stumbling around each other in a stunned haze and trying to focus their eyes from the blinding white.
"WHAT? I DON'T SEE LEN GOODMAN ANYWHERE!"
Before Tilda could say "stop being a clown," they were both flat on their backs in the middle of the Hangar with the enemy retaking the upper hand. Literally. The Wife of Michael Fish was standing above the pair, with a pistol pointing directly into their foreheads.
"Do we wanna ask where the heck you slid that out from?" asked The Hitnan with a gulp.
"I got it from the crates, you bloody perverts! Loads of goodies in there if you smash enough of them."
Tilda rolled her eyes. "Really, Dorothy? There were guns in there the whole time and you chose a poxy bullwhip?!"
“That’s rich, coming from the world’s shittest Jedi and her trusty Force-Mop!”
Tilda made a sarcastic face as Dotty just shrugged. “Anyway, sucks to be you – I’m bulletproof!”
The gun cocked. “Allow me to test that theory…”
“Ohhh, baby Jebus!!”
"Shut it! Enough chatter. The end has finally come for you two losers; any final words?"
Tilda and Dotty turned their heads to the middle, gazing into each other's eyes with dread. A moment of silence fell between them, and then they both spoke at once:
"I'm sorry for shagging your husband!"
"I forgive ya for shagging me 'usband!"
They fell about laughing - "Jinx!"
"Oh my word, you two really are pathetic, you know that? I'm really going to enjoy this!" The Wife of Michael Fish took aim between the eyes of the vanquished women.
"This is it!" screamed Dotty in acceptance. "Time to meet the Lord – Goodbye, my friend!"
Dotty clung to Tilda's arms and Tilda's arms to hers.
"See you on the other side, pal."
*BANG*
Chapter 22
"Argh, you bleedin' bastard!" screamed the Wife of Michael Fish, as the tops of her fingers went flying past her nose. "Bloody defective chinky shite!!"
"Jesus, lucky we didn't use them then," said Tilda in relief.
"Don't take the Lord's -"
"Not now, Dorothy!!"
The Wife of Michael Fish was bleeding from her right hand, and had now swapped the pistol for the left, aiming at the pair on the floor once more. She held her knobbly stumps close to her chest, her good arm swaying and struggling to keep aim through the pain.
"Oh gawd, here she comes again! This really is the end this time, Tild!"
"Hold me, Dorothy!"
They embraced once again as their soon-to-be murderer screamed "Screw you!!" and unloaded the entire clip at the cringing pair.
Somehow, The Wife of Michael Fish had simply drawn the shape of a love heart in bullet holes scattered all around her targets, and the pair in the middle were just cowering when they opened their eyes and realised they were still alive and clutching at each other's hips.
"Fack's sake, this is just embarrassing now."
"Yeah, please just kill us already; we've gone all in on this death thing; the least you can do is hold up your end of the bargain."
"I'm trying!! I'm losing blood over here don't forget. Right, this'll do it!" She picked up Tilda's fold-up machete which she had spotted hidden just under the airplane's wheel.
"Now where were we, oh yeah... time to say your goodbye's!"
Tilda and Dotty just turned to each other exasperated and said together: "Blah blah, forgive you, you forgive me, it was nice knowing you, blah blah, sayonara."
She raised the machete high above her head until suddenly a thundering BOOM rang out around the acoustic hall and The Wife of Michael Fish went shooting across the room and slamming into the wall at the far end of the hangar.
Tilda massaged her ringing ears whilst Dotty's hearing aids were quivering in vibration, and as they looked to their left a giant plume of smoke distorted the shadows of two figures, and as it cleared, the shape of Peader and Robert emerged from the hangar entrance.
"Ms Walker!"
"Tildy-Tops!"
Peader zoomed over in his pimped-out wheelchair with Simply Robert straddling his rear. The Irishman did a drift-skid and burned rubber to rest on the resin floor. (Robert went headfirst into some crates and ended up with two sticks of dynamite up his nostrils but quickly got back on his feet to greet his sweetie.)
Peader was struggling to pat out the fire that had broken out of the steaming arm of the chair from which he had just shot a mini rocket out from. He finally extinguished the smoke and proudly turned back to Dotty, wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Wheeley McWheelface at yer service, Ms Walker!"
"Oh Peter, I am not afraid to say that on this one singular occasion, I am very happy to see -"
*Ahem* "5000."
"Blimey Peter, that was seriously dodgy though, son - this place is full of fireworks, bullets and TNT! One stray rocket and we'll all go up like it's New Year's Eve in Brighton!"
He scanned the room quickly. "Oh, so it is now. But at last, Ms Walker - we finally bagged ourselves a Level 5 jobbie!!"
“Aboy the kid!” she replied with a wide and warm bear hug. Peader’s eyes lit up with pride.
Meanwhile, Tilda and Robert were gullet-deep in a snog-fest, as he was playing tongue tennis with her tonsils, and she was curling his ginger locks around her bony fingers.
Dotty was about to upchuck in her mouth again. "Tildy-tops? Do you lot have any dignity?"
She pulled back into the room and wiped her mouth. "Never mind that, how did you guys find us?!"
"I wanted to make things right," said Robert, sitting back against a crate and massaging his side-stitches.
"We both did," added a slightly sweaty Peader.
"So we put our skills together and Peader here designed a special drone that would scan the skies looking for your specific pheromone signatures, whilst I used my building skills to craft the thing into reality."
"But den we realised it was all pointless because I suddenly remembered I had already shot ye wit a tracking pin t'rough a straw at de hozzie. De trusty Etchersketch did de rest, like. Looks like we got here in de nick'a time!
A second later and ye would'a been chopped meat - ha, incredible, it's jus' like a movie!"
Tilda and Dotty just looked at each other coyly, covering their panicked handprints left in one another's skin. "Yes... perfect timing..."
"Heh, heh. Some of the things we come up with, eh?" said Robert, putting an arm around Peader. "Honestly, we're the dream team! Between his TITs and my KNOCKRS, there's NOTHING we can't do!"
Dotty suddenly noticed Peader was really dripping in sweat now and was restlessly looking all around him like a paranoid crackhead. "What's the matter with him? He looks worse than Pete Docherty after an Amy Winehouse tribute sesh."
Robert leaned in close: "Yeah, I picked him up from the hospital but he was conked out kippin', I'm talking dead to the world - they really need to stop showing Mrs Brown’s Boys repeats on them TVs - so I loaded up a little smidgen of epinephrine, which is essentially a shot of adrenaline to get him going asap, but he was so anxious about Ms Walker that he fell out of bed and landed directly onto the needle - which pierced his chest and injected the full whack directly into his heart! Now he is like a Duracell Bunny. I'm afraid there's no other choice but to let him ride it out."
Peader had cast off his sling and was boxing on the spot, throwing jabs at the air and itching to go, apparently feeling no pain in his recently sewn-up collarbone.
"Are you gonna be alright, Peter?" said Dotty, looking up. "You look a bit ill, son."
"Yehyehyehyehyeh, where's de Fish-Wife??"
"You blew her into oblivion with the rocket, remem -"
"IS DAT HER NOW, MS WALKER?"
Sure enough, running toward them was the half-cindered form of a woman who had survived the mini explosion of one of her own military grade rockets fired at her. "IS EVERYTHING HERE DEFECTIVE SHITE?!" she yelled, as Peader shot off and charged toward her like Chev Chelios in the Crank movies, just less baldy and more flabby.
"Careful Peter - you ain't Jason Stafams!"
They leapt through the air and clashed like Neo and Smith in The Matrix and smacked down hard on the quartz like wrestlers in WWE.
"It's the hunk of Instagram!" said The Wife of Michael Fish mockingly, before brushing away the remnants of scorched lashes. "Ah, the prodigal son returns!" she laughed, dodging the pounding fists of a turbo-charged Celt.
"WHADDAYESAYINNOW?"
"I remember you from the training days. You were the silly sod who stuck a potato in your car exhaust to prevent air pollution. Yeah, you may have blown up your girly friend but I was impressed by your out-of-the-box thinking all the same."
Peader paused his raining thunder, wiping more sweat from his forehead as he began to calm a little. "T'anks. It's nice ta know me skills were appreciated, like."
"That's why I put you with Dotty. I knew together, you could accomplish great things."
"Aye, dat we did. Did’je see I found ye here tonight by using me Etchersketch invention, which connects to a Russian satellite via an old T-Mobile sim card? I still don't know how dat's possible but it's not fer us ta question why or how, just ta ask ‘does it get de jobbie done’, like."
"Well, I can help you there. You see, 'John Etchersketch' was really a Soviet spy called Igor Rustinspudz, who used to work for the Kremlin before faking his death and defecting to the west. That's where he ended up creating a new identity as a T-Mobile engineer and selling kids toys on the side. Apparently, he hid all sorts of high-tech inventions inside those things."<
br />
"I knew it!"
"Yeah, you really tapped into some secrets there. Seems like you have a sixth sense for these things. So come work with me. You've hit the end of your creative process with Dotty. Come be my partner and together we could rule the library, and soon - with your innovative brain and my resources - the fucking town hall!"
"And den de world, maybe?"
"Well, I wouldn't go that far, but we could probably spread out to a few English seaside’s I would've thought. Think about it: we wouldn't just be called Bognor; we could OWN the whole of Bognor itself!"
Peader's heart was pounding as the adrenaline coursed through his veins thinking about her offer. "Unlimited fish an’ chippies by de sea! Slush Puppies on tap!"
"All that and so much more my friend. Like Red Coat shows at Butlins every night at 9pm, and you'd get two for one tickets - Every. Time."
Dotty, Tilda and Robert just sat a few dozen meters away up against the plane.
"Should we help him or something?" asked Robert.
"Nah, looks like he's got it all covered," Dotty replied, fixing up her barnet in the wing mirror.
Robert looked uneasy. "Could've done with that Harry Potter taser wand, right about now, Tild. And that sonic screwdriver I made that has the unfortunate side effect of inducing orgasms."
"What, so you could get the upper hand on the enemy?"
"No because I'm well horny watching this."
"Why didn't you bring them all with you?!"
"Didn't think, Tild. It was all a blur getting over here on the back of that thruster-engine wheelchair contraption barrelling down the A101. (Must make a note of that.)" He tried to focus his eyes on the figures in the distance. "Wonder what on earth they're talking about?"
"Trying to lip read them now," said Tilda. "Something about 'following in the footsteps of Stephen Mulhern' and how 'donning a red coat means you've truly left a mark on the world.' How bizarre. I must be a bit rusty at this."
"Didn't know you could lip read, Maffews."
"Amazing what you pick up when you venture outside of Peckham, Dorothy-boo." Tilda watched them again. "You know we could end this right now by just lobbing a few sticks of dynamite over there and making a run for it..."