Consensus decreed that the best course of action would be to run like the clappers, which advice was closely followed after but a moment’s dithering. A glance over his shoulder revealed to Cedric that the Skrotan contingent, although struggling to extricate its component members from one another, was not struggling quite so much as would have gladdened his heart. Unrepeatable profanities (mainly because of their spellings being impossible to work out) seared through the air after them and shots began to be fired willy-nilly as the troops sorted themselves into semi-effective units.
“What’s your name?” asked Cedric as they ran.
“Qjzxxxq Zxxxxxxxxxxxqqqjxxxzxtl Junior the zjzjkqth”
“Do you mind if I call you Juju?”
“Not at all.”
“Fine.”
As they ran, Cedric examined the splatter-gun, looking for familiar controls. He’d studied the weapon during his training but it was an early example captured during some long-forgotten skirmish, probably, for the sake of making up another stupid name, the fourth Battle of Krykkykokklschel. This was clearly a far more advanced model.
“What’s this button for?”
“That’s my hologram player.” puffed Juju, “That’s where the Laurel and Hardy film came from.”
“Well [please apply your own gasps and wheezes to this sequence to imply breathlessness under exercise on the part of the participating participants] I’d be very grateful if you’d point to the button or trigger or switch or whatever makes the bloody thing fire.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Well, what kind of use is that? What are you a soldier or a tosspot”
“Luckily for you, a tosspot, ‘coz if I wasn’t this discussion would be academic.”
“Okay, okay. Is there anywhere we can hide?”
“The Fundle Caves of Snarge.”
“They’re billions of miles away!”
“I know, but we could hide there if they weren’t.”
“F………”
“Or there’s my den.”
“What??????”
“Here it is. Look.”
There was a clump of vegetation with a dark hole leading into it, at which Juju pointed excitedly. Cedric regarded it suspiciously.
“Go on, they’re catching up.”
Indeed they were. Cedric puffed himself up to his greatest height and, in his best Superman voice, said,
“I have no choice.”
The Skrotan’s den wasn’t the nicest place Cedric had ever been. He felt an unnatural hankering for the cell from which he’d recently gained egress. It had a “Juju-No-Mates” air about it. The only homely thing in the place was a fire grate with some old socks screwed up on it ready for incineration. Cedric calculated that the Skrotans would have found them by now if they were going to so peered out of the entrance to check. All was still.
“Come on, let’s go.”
“Don’t you want to see my gugugugugul collection?”
“No.”
Back in the open air Cedric began to feel better. He really hadn’t a clue where he was or how he was ever going to get home, but at least he was free. There were some buildings in the distance so they set off towards them, looking for food and drink, and maybe a wash and brush-up. Juju’s little hideaway had made him itch and he wished his system purged of it.
They reached the buildings to discover a few houses, a shop and a bar. The bar looked strangely familiar but Cedric couldn’t quite put his finger on why. He wasn’t about to prevaricate so in they went. It was a seedy, grubby sort of place, but warm and welcoming. Juju had a few Skrotan coins so he bought them both a glass of something pink and they chose a quiet pew near the door.
The air for yards around was suddenly filled with the majestic sight and sound of a full Galeutian Fredharmonic Symphony Orchestra a minute or two into Ravel’s “Bolero”. The Galoot are a peculiar race. Although humanoid in appearance, they have an average height and weight of thirteen and a half feet and three stone. Excellent musicians, they prefer to spend their lives playing instruments and have a particular liking for the above piece which they accompany with ice dancing a-la Torvill and Dean. Several factors combine to make these performances somewhat risky and truncated. It must be realised that, although Galoot musical prowess is very great, their intelligence level is not. To say they were thick would be an insult to thick people. Suffice it to say that a below-average stegosaurus would give a leading member of the Galeutian equivalent of MENSA a good run for his money. It is a consequence of this thickness that Galoot society has not yet come to realise that the strains of Bolero have a profound and instantaneous aphrodisiac effect on 85% of their number. This, coupled with the fact that their method of coitus involves twining around one another in the manner of a double helix and that, given their height and slenderness, the ice dancers tend to find themselves hopelessly entangled in this fashion after the second or third triple backward upside down have a tea break half way through rollmeoverlaymedownanddoitagain axel anyway and that the Galoot gestation period is fifteen and a half seconds and the method of delivery is that the infant, contained in an egg-like sac, is spat at the nearest vertical flat surface with sufficient velocity to cause the sac to fracture, ejecting all the accoutrements and wherewithal concerned with childbirth over a large area, the midwives and parents then being left to forage amongst the effluvium for said infant – performances of the great work in the land of the Galoot are apt to be, at best, incomplete and at worst, reminiscent of the closing scenes of Reservoir Dogs spread on a deep-pan pizza base. Having said all that, they’re good at pole vaulting which, for the less well-heeled Galeutian athlete, is an ideal sport as he does not require any equipment. As an aside, Galoot musical instruments are a sight to behold in themselves, their design of necessity being appropriate for the unusual dimensions of their exponents. A Galoot flute is really not that different to a Human one, but the double bass is a miracle of engineering, as, it must be pointed out, are their drum kits which can easily spread themselves over half an acre.
The apparition vanished suddenly giving Cedric the chance to take in his new surroundings.
“This is the bar from Star Wars!” he exclaimed. His new companion nodded,
“After Solo blew Greedo all to shit it sat about unused for years and then these people bought it and had it moved here.”
“You mean all that actually happened.”
“Oh yes,” Juju confirmed, “Star Wars was a documentary.”
There was a whinnying from outside. Exaggerated Hollywood cowboy voices drifted in through the half-open door.
“Mighty fine lookin’ hoss y’got there, Elmore.”
“This here ain’t m’hoss; this here’s m’wife.”
“Oops! Sorry!”
The door opened and two Clint Eastwood lookalike contest entrants (1st round losers) entered. The larger of the two, sporting a sheriff’s badge, confided in his companion;
“’F’n ah had a wife like that, I’d trade her fer a hoss.”
They swaggered up to the bar where another cowpoke type, previously unseen, slouched over his beer.
“Mighty fine lookin’ piece y’got hangin’ there, Slim.” said the sheriff.
“Ah ain’t got muh guns on.”
“Oops! Sorry agin!”
“Is this real or out of that thing?” demanded Cedric, pointing at the splatter-gun.
“Can’t really tell…” replied the former guard.
Suddenly, there was a crash and a small, agitated man ran into the bar, spluttering and stammering…
“B-b-b-Big Jim’s a-comin’”
“Oh God..” said Cedric, and he held his head in his hands.
The occupants of the bar entered a mutual and blind panic, slamming down their drinks and heading for the door. Too late! A huge man, bearded and grizzled, trail-grime clinging to his clothes and a look of pure malevolence about him, crashed through the door, filling it completely. He stood in the doorway and growled. Nobody dared move as he began to lope slowly across the room, pausing to glare at Cedric and his companion for a terrifying second before moving on. He grabbed the sheriff by the throat and threw him bodily across a table, about which sat four motionless, defecating poker players.
The stranger strode through the room, knocking over tables and chairs and pushing the grand piano over with an effortless shove. He reached the bar where old Amos, the petrified bartender, stood dribbling yesterday’s lunch into his underwear.
“Whisky!” boomed the drifter in a voice like thunder.
Amos played an involuntary tattoo on the glass as he poured a measure from a dusty old bottle and handed it to his customer.
“BOTTLE!”
Amos handed the bottle to the man who bit a chunk out of the neck and chawed a bit on the glass before swilling down the contents in one and demanding another.
No-one in the room spoke for a lo-o-ong time. Eventually, brave old Amos, lump in his throat like a scatter-cushion, mustered all his courage and ventured,
“Y-you – er – reckonin’ on stayin’ ‘round awhile, S-stranger.”
The man mountain fixed him with a steely stare, reached over and lifted the poor wretch bodily from the floor until their noses touched and with foetid, gut-wrenching, stale, whisky breath, growled….
“No fear. Big Jim’s a-comin’”
Cedric was still holding his head and saying,
“God, no, I don’t believe it…” over and over to himself.
The scene vanished and they both looked suspiciously at the splatter gun.
It suddenly became very cold. A chill wind howled across the floor and round their feet, swirling about their legs, sending icy shivers up their spines and making the hairs, and, in the case of the Skrotan, warts and festules, on their necks stand on end. Once again, the door creaked open, but this time to admit a presence; a strange, indefinable aura of malice and foreboding. All eyes turned to the entrance, entranced. For a moment, nothing happened, then, four dark shapes, with eyes of fire, emerged from the gloom, black cloaks rustling, into the room.
“Helph’s teeth, it’s the Nazgûl.” gulped Juju.
“Don’t be ridiculous, they aren’t real.” whispered Cedric, hoping he was right.
Ignoring their audience, the four figures crossed to the bar, brown withered leaves and bits of feather and stuff spiralling in their wake. The lowered their hoods and their true, terrible significance became all too clear.
“Right, who’s round is it?” croaked Death from his bony throat.
“Not mine. I got the last one.” mumbled War, “Anyone got a problem with that?”
“Oh, don't start that, you’re off duty.” retorted Famine, as he picked a crumb from the bar and popped it into his thin mouth.
The other one just coughed and blew his nose on a slimy, green sleeve.
“He’s always trying to stir things up.”
Death rapped on the bar and one of his phalanges fell on the floor.
“Bollocks. Where’s that gone?” He began to scrabble about in the dust much to the irritation of the others.
“Will somebody stop pratting about and get the beer in.” wheezed Pestilence, his voice struggling to be heard over the whirr of the extractor fan high in the vaulted ceiling.
“Are you alright, Mate? You look like death….” Asked Famine. From the floor came,
“’Oi! Don’t you compare me with that scrawny little……?” War once again rose to the challenge, even though none were made.
“Do you wanna make something of it?”, his voice weak and thin.
“Oh, for God’s sake..here I’ll get ‘em…..bloody hell, my voice is going…..”
“Well, it’s a funny thing,” said Famine, “but I woke up this morning…” somewhere a blues guitar went “Duh Durrh Duh Duh!” …”with a sore throat and I can hardly bring myself to swallow this Scotch.”
“Perhaps it’s rabies?” glowered War, the glower directed at Pestilence, who replied,
“Look there’s no point blaming me. I don’t deal in one-offs. Whole bloody civilisations, me. So get off my back.”
It all went quiet again for a minute.
“Anyway, it’s still a funny thing.”
“What?”
“Well, us all getting sore throats at once like this.”
“Well, actually, it’s not that strange at all when you think about it.” argued Death in a voice like a rusty dalek.
“Oh yeah, and why’s that then?”
“I mean, after all, we are the Four Hoarse Men of the Apocalypse.”
Cedric looked at his new comrade.
“I think it’s time we got out of here.”
“I agree.” said the Skrotan.
“You talkin’ to me?” said Robert de Niro.
“Will you turn that bloody thing off?”
To be continued (sorry)...............