Pendrakenmas 2016

[fsn]

Well, Gentlemen of the Forum, it's that time of the year again. It's as inevitable as taxes, as regular as that little twinge after you eat too much bacon - but probably isn't anything to worry about, and as awkward as a condom in a Catholic girls' school. It's time for FSN's Pendrakenmas outing. This year, he gets invited to a swanky party in a tall building, and ends up running around in his vest whilst trying to colour all his new Pendraken sheep (SCN-NML2). Gentlemen, it with some shame, and no little regret that I present:   

FSN in "Dye Herd".

[fsn]

Part 1: In which FSN is invited to a party.
Bert the British Paratrooper with Sten (BR11) glanced in the rear view mirror. FSN was asleep in the back seat of the Fiat 508CM (ITA24, £2.80). Savagely, Bert stamped on the brake pedal again. Once again, FSN shot forward and his head hit the back of the seat in front of him. As Bert accelerated again, FSN was thrown back into the rear seat. Bert noted that FSN's eyes remained closed.

"Either he sleeps like a drunken elephant, or I've knocked him senseless." He thought, then smiled slightly. "Or maybe I've killed him." Cheered, he drove on, whistling a selection of classic Rick Wakeman solos.

"What's that awful racket?" enquired FSN awakening not so much like a cat, but more like a llama that's recovered from a really good night involving cherry brandy (the drink) and Cherry Brandy (the friendly stripper), but then remembered he'd only popped out for a packet of oatcakes.

"Oh! Hello Bert. That time of year again?" Instinctively Bert slammed on the brakes and was pleased to see FSN's head again make contact with the rear seat.

"Sorry." He explained, in his best "I'm not really sorry" voice. "Had to avoid a rabbit."

"No problem, Bert," said FSN, wondering at the amount of bruising on his forehead. "I suppose someone just left it switched on, and it sort of buzzed off."

"Oh Frell!" Muttered Bert.

"Ah!" Ejaculated FSN, but we did that joke 2 years ago, so we won't repeat it. "Still no swearing in Pendrakenland then?"

"Obvi-spugging-usly. This year, I think they're going for words made up for science fiction film and TV series, in which they've included Judge Dredd."

"Oh, I liked that one. It was awfully good."

"Really?" Enthused Bert, astonished to find something that he and FSN could actually agree on. "Karl Urban was great. He was a fan of the original when he was a kid."

"Who?" Asked FSN innocently. "I liked the bit when Sylvester Stallone said 'I am da lawr'." Bert stamped on the brake again, and in the following silence pondered the Hezmana that was his going to be his time with this spug-wit.    

FSN awoke and dabbed at his forehead.

"Another rabbit?" He asked?

"Yers." Replied Bert. "It's Duracell season." FSN had on the tip of his tongue a witty rejoinder, but instead wondered how many more rabbits it takes to count as a serious brain injury. Instead, he looked around, and was delighted to see a large toy in the shape of a fluffy animal sat in the opposite corner.

"Oh how lovely!" FSN exclaimed, and because he was really a tender soul, put his arms around it and gave it a big hug.

"GerrofyaweeBelgium." Piped the toy. FSN backed off hurriedly and stared at the animal.

"I'm most awfully sorry ..." he started. The stared again. The toy was a white dog. A terrier of some kind ... he'd seen something like it on the bottles of Scotch he used to sneak into his grandmother in the nunnery. Only there were two on the labels, a black and a white, if only he could remember the name of the whisky.

"WhittheStommaryoulukkingat?" Asked the Scottish terrier dog-toy.

"Oh yes." Agreed FSN.

"Ah seed..." explained the dog, slowly, "whit..  the... stomm...  ar.. you... lukking... at?" Who despite the mock-Glaswegian accent actually hailed from the same side of Scotland as the Hebrides, but higher up.

"I don't know. I don't wear a watch." Said FSN, displaying two naked wrists and an unpierced navel. 'Higher up' meant in a mountain, not further North. [Editor's note. Oh for Gruds sake! The dog is a West Highland Terrier. It's FSN's feeble way of ridiculing a perfect sane, knowledgeable and nice member of the forum – and 'Westie' Westmarcher.]

"Oh hello Editor." Said FSN. Clapping his hands. "We missed you last year, where have you been?"

[Editor's note – The 'Editor's Notes' were introduced in FSN's 2014 offering where they had a very public falling out. Well me and him tried again. Took some time off to rebuild our relationship, but he has a roving eye and now does subtitles for continental art films (FSN's note – porn.) Thank you. He's living with a Speak 'n' Spell, and I came back here.]

"We're here!" Called Bert, hoping to stop the flow of maudlin reminiscence and move the plot on. "Pendraken Towers!"

"Frell me!" Said FSN, his gaze following Bert's pointing finger. "That's huge."

"Not bad." Replied Bert smugly, "and that over there is Pendraken Towers." Pendraken Towers had been constructed in the wasteland of Middle Borough, built from the ruins of Victorian sums, disused factories and the hopelessness of the natives.

"It's a bit like your mind." Said Bert, lighting a cigarette.

"Massive and imposing?" asked FSN hopefully.

"Nah. On unsound foundations and the lift doesn't go to the top." In the back of the FIAT, the dog-toy Westie sniggered.

"You don't change much, do you Bert?" Said FSN through gritted teeth. "Why are we here anyway?"

"You've been invited to the Pendrakenmas party – way up there on the 38th Parallel Floor. There is a special guest waiting for you – Anne Hathaway. She's heard about your obsession about her and either wants to meet you or issue a restraining order. Fifty-fifty, I reckon."

"Aye.Yernowrang." Agreed Westie.

"My, that is very tall." Said FSN wonderingly.

"Does Anne Hathaway have that effect every time?" Bert's voice held a faint twinge of awe.

"Every time." Breathed FSN. Bert stood on the accelerator and Westie guffawed all the way to the parking lot.

"So this is Pendraken Towers?" Asked FSN, to set up a 'Die Hard' pun.

"It's not really named Pendraken Towers, that's just what everybody calls it. Dave named it after seeing Leon play X-box."

"The Leon-X-box Towers?"

"Frell, wait on and minute will you?" Bert reached for a cigarette, but then realised he's given up since last year. "Leon's name isn't really Leon. For grud's sake, nobody has been called Leon since 1842, and that was only because of an accident with the registrar's cough medicine. Nah, his real name is Anthony, but everyone called him Tony." FSN's face was blanker than usual. Bert wondered if all that contact with the seat back had actually made FSN stupider. He shook his head sadly. It was going to be a long drokking Pendrakenmas.

"Errr ..." Said FSN.

"The Naked Tony Towers. It's the spugging Naked Tony Towers, 'cos Naked Tony Playzere! Anyway, off you frell. I'll park up. "

"Will you be coming up later? I'll buy you a drink." Offered FSN, hoping for a free bar.



FSN walked into the revolving doors of Pendraken Towers. The security guard watched him impassively and counted the revolutions. FSN waved at him every time he passed, but by the 25th spin of the doors, the guard thought that FSN was showing distinct signs of motion sickness, and the guard knew that he would have to clean it up so adroitly whipped FSN out of the revolving doors the next time he came round.

"Thanks." Said FSN, shaking his head and disconcerted to hear rattling.  "Nice whip."

"Not a lot to do here evenings." Replied the guard.

"Wait a minute " said FSN excitedly "I know you! You're ... too short for Techno, too young for Techno, too well dressed for Techno ... you're " FSN put his chin in his hand where he could find it later ...  "you're not Techno!"

"Brilliant." Deadpanned the guard.

"You're ... frell me, you're Stan Lee! Hezmana! Is it not bad enough that you created most of Marvel Comics, and Stripperella, and that you have to ruin every Marvel film by your not-so-Hitchcockian cameos, but you have to turn up here in Pendrakenland?  

Any further intercourse with Stan Lee would have resulted in his cameo turning into a bit part, so FSN stormed off and more by luck and some very large signs, than by judgement, found the lifts. It's a long way up to the 38th Parallel Floor, so let's see what's happening with Bert.



Bert had parked the Fiat on top of a bollard. Now he sat in the rear seat next to Westie.

"Frell me. That FSN's a gorram nightmare."

"Aye." Responded the stuffed toy, sympathetically.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take. Every spugging year I have to wet nurse that ..." A paw appeared in front of his face, holding a bottle of scotch. Two terriers, one black and one white were on the label.

"Drink?" Asked the dog.

"Don't have to ask me twice!" Enthused the paratrooper. The paw reappeared bearing two glasses. Bert took them and watched as Westie poured two stiff measures.

"Just a minute, "he mused "where did you have that bottle?"

"Ah!" sighed the dog. "It is a sad tale, friend Bert. I was destined to be the most loved plaything of some small child. Perhaps a little girl of maybe 16 or 17, with tawny ringlets and bright blue eyes. She would love me and hug me and constantly stroke me and pat me, and sit me on the bed to me as she got undressed, and at night I would sleep beside her, her lithe body next to mine ..."

"Yeah, but that didn't happen." Broke in Bert hurriedly.

"Alas no. I was in fact purchased by a member of the BigJackMac cartel operating out of a chip shop in downtown Hartle Pool. They hollowed me out and used me to smuggle Pendraken goodies north of the border. I didn't mind the infantry so much, but I dreaded the introduction of the 14" Rail Gun (BP56). When I heard about the plan to sell the Maus, I scarpered." Bert sipped his Scotch.

"What happened to your accent?"

"An affection for the bumbling oaf. Besides, it cements the premise of my character being a representation of Westmarcher, a fine fellow, and a skilled modeller – one of those three anyway. Cigar?" Bert took the offered Cuban and lit up. He blew a smoke ring.

"You do know there's no border checks between Hartle Pool and Scotland?" He asked.



The lift was really slow.

On the ground floor, Stan Lee chuckled over his latest creation. "He'll be a rich man turned crimefighter after the death of his hamster ... son ... nanny ... parents. Parents! That's good. He'll dress up to conceal his identity ... as a hamster ... HamsterMan! No ... a rabbit ... Rabbitman ... well that could attract the female audience ... Gerbil, Guinea PigMan ... no ... Elephant ..."

A bat flew into the lobby. Stan Lee struck it from the air with one flick of his whip.

"Lousy bats. DogMan? SlothMan? Hyena Commando? Turtle Ninja? Has that been done?"

Stan Lee continued to muse.


Only the 26th floor? Right, right, no, I'll think of something.

The revolving door was invented in 1888 by Theophilus van Kannel from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. An old urban legend holds that revolving doors were invented to prevent horses from entering buildings, though it is more likely that the purpose was to keep warm air in the building. Van Kannel is also reputed to dislike having to hold doors open for women so he invented one that he could legitimately use first. Not funny, but true.

What? The idiot got out on 28? No, stuff it, we'll break here and get to the party tomorrow.

[d_Guy]

Popcorn popped, beer in the cooler, EC42-A's covering their tiny little ears! 

[fsn]

 

Part 4, my friend. Look out for part 4.

[fsn]

Part 2: In which FSN meets his host and doesn't meet Anne Hathaway

The doors of the lift opened on the 38th Parallel Floor. This one, he thought, ought to be the right one. He'd carefully crayoned on the buttons of all the ones he'd tried, and there were very few left. He noticed the small differences between this floor and the others. The decor was slightly richer, the tones warmer, the lighting more subtle. That, and the Pendrakenmas decorations. And the people. There were people on this floor. There other floors were empty. He thought this might be a clue.

A tall, thin man glided up to FSN and took him by the elbow.Unusually for FSN, he was not escorted from the building, but guided to a youngish looking man in immaculate tails – ring tailed lemur – who stood watching the crowd.

"Leon!" Cried FSN. Leon put his hands to the side of his eyes and pulled the sides of his eyes taught.

"Ah! You made it. Welcome to Naked Tony Towers." He said in impeccable English, with a slight English accent. (Editor's note: there is no such thing as an English accent it's like "ice cream flavoured ice cream". There are regional accents, but that's different.)

"What's with the eye thing ... bit racist! And those glasses! Japanese sniper glasses ... it's all a bit much isn't it?"  snarled FSN.

"Actually, I've just put drops in my eyes and they're stinging a bit ... and these are my normal glasses."

"Ah. Sorry. Made a bit of an elephant of that, didn't I?"

"You did." Leon was as smooth as a freshly changed baby's bottom, which was a coincidence, because Leon's bottom, when freshly changed was remarkably urbane. He smiled. "But you've had a long trip here. How far was it?"

"About 23 rabbits."

"Indeed. Perhaps you'd like to change out of those pyjamas into something ... cleaner. What is that ... chariots?"

"Oh yes!" Put in FSN proudly. "There's an Egyptian two horse on my elbow and a Hittite 4 horse on my belly and a tiny Persian scythed on my collar and I have a Sumerian ass somewhere."

"I'm sure you do. Chariots, eh? That could be a useful addition to the range." He guided FSN into a side room and left him there. The door clicked shut behind him. FSN made to follow, but found the door had become stuck or jammed or something. It was like it was locked.

"When do I meet Anne Hathaway?" Cried FSN. Unable to get out of the side room, FSN took off his Angry Cat slippers – it amused him to think of where he was putting his foot – and made fists with his feet in the long pile of the carpet.

"Tickles!" He said. He ambled around until he found the bathroom. There he began to strip off, and nobody wants to see that.


They arrived in a van - 14 of them. They were cramped and angry when they got out. There were mutterings about cheap operations and legs gone numb after having had someone sitting on their lap for hours. And the luggage. One was sure it was his case that had fallen off the roof rack. They were fourteen men of a certain similarity – all short and stocky, and copper skinned. Dressed alike they would be hard to tell apart – and they were all dressed alike. The grumbling ceased as the passenger door opened and the leader emerged. He was tall and, unlike the others, bearded. He was also dressed differently, in a very expensive suit with a creamy white shirt and sombre blue tie. The men watched as straightened his cuffs, and dusted his sleeves back to perfection. The only unconventional aspect of his dress were the high heeled Pigalle Spike shoes in nude. The men had reflected that he would have been better with something in black, or at least taken his socks off.

The leader clicked his fingers and two of the little men glided off into the darkness. The leader sighed and pointed two more towards the Naked Tony Tower. By the time the leader had sauntered into the lobby, Stan Lee had been overpowered, tied up, beaten, stabbed, throttled and then stabbed again. As the leader passed the corpse, he pulled from an inner pocket a Browning 1935 Hi Power and put three rounds into the old man's head.

"That's for Iron Man 3" he sneered.

"Ow!" Said the corpse.

The men filed into the lift. When it came time for the leader to enter, the lift refused to move. It pointed out with impeccable machine logic that it was rated for 14 persons only and that 15 was too many – especially with all that baggage.

"But there's so small!" complained the leader, "Surely these men only count as halves or even two thirds?" But the lift would not be swayed, so the leader disembarked from the lift and waited impatiently for the next one to arrive.

"Don't start without me!" He shouted at the closing lift doors. Whilst the leader waited the 14 men ascended slowly to the 38th Parallel Floor.



In the side room on the 38th Parallel Floor, FSN had dressed in formal vest and trackie bottoms, as worn by the beaus and blades of Runcorn.  He heard music coming from an adjacent office.

"Some game by night,
Some game by day,
Nothing could change you,
'cos you're stuck that way,"

FSN edged into the room. All he could see was a large desk, and the back of an executive chair.

"Sherman alight,
Old Marshall Ney, 
Civil war gamer,
Plays the blue and the grey"

On the desk were a pair of feet – female feet. They wiggled slightly to the music in their Bianca 140mm pumps (black). The feet were linked by some elegant but robust ankles to some shapely calves. A smooth pale thigh was exposed by the split in the powder blue skirt.

"Funny." Though FSN. "She's got no knees." He stared open-mouthed, then looked up "no knees" on the internet, then tittered. Goggled, googled, giggled.

His little titter brought the chair swishing round. FSN saw the occupant fully. She was dressed in the epitome of '80's chic. Her skirt was paired with a long jacket with sleeves that ended below the elbow so as to be useless as a handkerchief. Under the jacket was a pure white blouse with frills and flounces running up the front. She stood to confront the intruder. FSN could see the full womanly figure now, flared hips, fists on narrow waist, and high emotion moving the full breasts with a movement made all the more fascinating as each breast seemed to be moving independently. The left breast did the conventional up/down whilst the right was more like Simon Rattle's baton conducting the Berliner Philharmonic in Beethoven's "Ode to Joy".

Eventually, FSN moved his gaze upwards. The long blonde hair, curled and flounced, swayed and partially covered her face – and what a face! It was the face of an angel dominated by a large black moustache. FSN knew that face, knew that body, though the thing with the right breast was new. This had to be Madeline Lemon Hayes. They had met when they worked at a detective agency, the Blue Moon, but they business folded from lack of clients. FSN still thought the logo had been wrong. Perhaps a tinted photo of Earth's celestial twin would have been better than what they had come up with. He had been picking blue paint out his underpants for weeks afterwards.

Madeline Lemon Hayes. Maddie-Lem. Mad-Lem. Once, FSN had thought they had had a chance, until her perfectly formed knee had made swift contact with his mivonks. She's had knees then, he reflected. FSN had stayed though, stayed with her while she worked late in the office, been there when she had made all those calls to potential customers, dozed on her couch when she had read all those long and tedious case files. Obviously he had scarpered when the bailiffs broke in.   

"Mad-Lem?" Whipered FSN.

"Oh Zarking Fardwarks!" Exclaimed Mad-Lem. "What in the name of the Dark Lord's back, sack and crack waste are you doing here?"

"I was looking for Anne Hathaway. She's awfully pretty. I have a bit of a crush on her." He remembered ducking a lot when he had worked with Mad-Lem. He ducked now. However Mad-Lem had either been practicing, or had reviewed her policy on thrown objects, and FSN took the vase in the side of the head.


In the FIAT, Bert and Westie were playing the Pendraken Board game. Bert had just drawn Mr Bun the Baker and the King of Hearts, so could get out of the Rehabilitation Program free. In return, Westie had advanced his Pz35t and claimed "Czech". Bert threw a 13 and a dragon, so had to remove an item of clothing. As he removed his ammunition boot, he noticed that the iron hadn't paid for landing on his hotel and minefield.

"Are you the iron?" He growled.

"Thought you were." Snapped Westie. Bert kicked over the board and leapt at Westie, fists flying.



Leon was quite tipsy, he was on his third, and he usually limited himself to two. The first had been the scotch with the two adorable doggies on it, one black and one white – but he couldn't remember what it was called. The second had been crème de menth and the third? He looked at the bottle in his hand and found it was Malibu. At least his vomit would smell coconutty. That partially made up for the way his much rehearsed "Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees" joke had flopped. Perhaps the time for comedy based upon the tribulations of British businessmen in the Far East in straitened post-Brexit circumstances had not yet arrived.
He leaned on the railing and peered down onto the party. Ithoriel had taken centre stage. You couldn't stop him at the Pendrakenmas party. He was looking dapper for Ithoriel. He'd washed his hair in the last six months, and his hump was set off perfectly by his tailed coat (lemur). Leon relaxed. He'd seen this so many times before, but it was always good fun. The music started, and Ithoriel began to move. Fenton moved to join him, resplendent in maid's outfit, complete with 160mm Daffodile Aurora Boreale pumps.  Ithoriel began to chant:

"It's astounding,
Time is fleeting,
Madness takes its toll.
But listen closely"

"Not very much longer" added Fenton excitedly, shaking his frilly petticoats.

"I've got to keep control." Ithoriel's voice rose to a shriek.
"I remember playing with War Band
Lizardmen, elves and
Goblins are all uniform free!
And the elves would be calling!"

At this point the entire party threw off all notions of normality and divested themselves of their outer clothing to reveal assorted fetish gear and lingerie, but always, always black stockings and high heeled shoes.

"Let's all do Warband again!" they bellowed "let's all do Warband again."

Sunray jumped from his wheelchair, throwing off his blanket to expose a very trim pair of pins and a need for some judicious trimming.

"It's just the trolls on the left!" he exhaulted.

"And the dwarves on the right" echoed the party guests, waving glasses, bottles and copy of John Locke's "An Essay Concerning Human Understanding."

"With a few air-ships!" sang Sunray.

"You bring your bats in tight!" From the guests.

"But it's your central thrust,
That really drives them insane!
Let's all play Warband again!
Let's all play Warband again!"

Leon watched the happy mayhem indulgently. He liked to see the Forum members enjoy themselves, and he felt that he was one of the few who had managed to wear fishnets to good effect. He snapped a suspender and took a swig of Malibu.

[fsn]

With apologies to Rocky Horror

and Moonlighting    

[Techno]

Excellent, Nobby  .......First time I've had a chance to look at the forum for the last few days !

I'm going to have to keep coming back to look at all the other posts I've missed...(Will I ever catch up?).....Really sorry Gang...If I haven't complimented you on reports or painting, recently...Having to grab a few moments here and there, when possible !

Cheers - Phil.

[Duke Speedy of Leighton]

Ive been upgraded from Cher to Cyboe Shepherd! ❤️❤️

[d_Guy]

EC42-A's have curled up in a ball, ears still covered and with eyes now so tightly shut they look like prunes left out on the countertop for a fortnight. They are loudly singing some mad tune, off key and not nearly in unison.
Considering a fourth beer before breakfast.

[Westmarcher]

 

Good stuff, Nobby (you mad drokker*)! Loads of laughs there! 

Looking forward to the next instalment. 


* Do you know that drok also stands for the Divine Right Of Kings? Does this therefore mean a drokker is a Royalist?

[fsn]

OK, I have to ask. What is an EC42-A?

Is it
     a) a set of head phones? 
     b) A Boeing electronic surveillance aircraft?
     c) The 42nd in your line of genetic modification experiments on cauliflower?
     d) A puppy?

[mollinary]

OK, I have to ask. What is an EC42-A?

A modified set of 10mm English Civil War civilians?    :- :- :-

Mollinary

[d_Guy]

If you look at the EC42 picture and lable each figure (or grouping) from left to right, A,B..... "A" is the preacher! 😀

[Orcs]

Can't wait until the next episode

[d_Guy]

Although fsn, your choice C would have worked even better.