Pendraken Miniatures Forum

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".

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.

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

 :D

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

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.

With apologies to Rocky Horror


and Moonlighting    

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.

Ive been upgraded from Cher to Cyboe Shepherd! ❤️❤️

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.

 ;D ;D ;D

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

Looking forward to the next instalment.  8->


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

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?

Quote from: fsn on 18 December 2016, 03:35:28 PM
OK, I have to ask. What is an EC42-A?

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

Mollinary

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

Can't wait until the next episode

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

Part 3 In which the Leader Reveals Himself

Gentle reader, now may by an apposite time in which to review the fortunes of our heroes and heroines, the Frobisher quintets.

The eldest of the five siblings, Emily has, as you will doubtless remember married her gentle suitor, the Parson Elderberry. She has discovered on her wedding night, much to her apprehension and with no little distress, a lamb tethered to the foot of the marital bed. Is this some quaint country custom or is something more sinister afoot?

Meanwhile, the adventurous Edward is aboard the schooner "Anne Hathaway" where he has been smitten by the charms of Esmarelda, the mulatto sugar trader. This description one hopes in not a euphemism. However, he has a rival in the first mate and stoker of the "Anne Hathaway", Captain Cold. Captain Cold has bewitched Esmarelda with his scrimshaw, and hope to woo her completely by demonstrating his energetic hornpipe. The dastardly Captain has seized and bound Edward, and suspended him beside the ship's compass. Poor Edward seems unlikely to stop the courtship whilst hung up by the binnacle.

Our third Frobisher quin is the hot headed Eustace. You will remember, gentle reader, that Eustace was in peril of his life at the time of his delivery, and it was only the quick thinking of the midwife, the late Mrs Muddlepuddle, who attached a male goat to the baby's leg and by judicious use of a quirt encouraged the goat to such a violent start that the Eustace was popped from the womb, thus saving the baby's life and giving Eustace the nickname by which he is commonly known. Now, Eustace has been seduced by Savannah Goldstein into joining the forces of the Confederacy, but how will "Billy Yank" Frobisher fare amongst the rebels?

Erasmus, the fourth and most jolly of the Frobisher children, had joined the police force in the hope of catching Jack the Ripper, but since Eustace has just joined the Confederacy, Erasmus is undoubtedly some 30 years too early, so clues are thin. Nonetheless, he passes his time removing the skins from potatoes and frying them to give to the poor and needy. The unwanted centres he feeds to the pigs. On Sundays he attends church where he joins the other campanologists in calling the faithful with the cheerful ringing of bells. In many ways, Erasmus is a most cheerful peeler.

The fifth Frobisher child, as you may recall, is possibly the most remarkable. Not only was she born four year after the rest of the quintuplets, but to a different mother. As if this was not enough to differentiate young Lim from her siblings, she was also possessed of a different father and was born many thousands of miles away from Frobisher Hall. However, dear reader, you will be pleased to recall that Lim has begun life as a camel breeder and has attracted the attention of a handsome young yak herd. 
   
Having caught up with the Frobishers, let's get back to this other rubbish ... 


FSN awoke to find Mad-Lem's Bianca pump pressed on his chest. He looked up the length of her skirt.

"Oooh! Nasty!" He said sympathetically. "I've got some ointment that may help." Maddie-Lem tutted and made to riposte, but finding a suitable pithy response eluded her, she pithed off to find it.

"Perhaps some cranberry juice?" He called after her solicitously, but she had gone.


In the main hall, the party was in full swing. They were playing "pin Tawa on the donkey". To be fair, Tawa wasn't happy about being nailed on the ass, but he was a good sport.

Dave appeared, passing canapés but this is just a quirk of his biology. He moved slowly among the guests offering drinks. Leon watched him from the balcony, and pondered if the casting machine still attached by a length of stout chain to Dave's ankle was slowing him down. At least this year he'd put wheels on it.

Mad-Lem moved through the partying crowd like a knife through face hardened steel. She sent Aksu flying with a combination wrist lock and hip roll. She brought down fred with an ankle kick and punch to the back of the neck, and she glared so hard at PeterCooman that a little bit of wee came out. She was upset. It had always been the same with FSN. They could have had a chance, but for his obsession with Anne Hathaway. Damn him! He had to come back into her life now, just when she thought she was finally over him.

"I don't like dog eating Koreans." Leon said, stepping in front of her.

"I'm sorry?" Asked Mad-Lem, unprepared for such a comment from Leon, whose dislikes she had catalogued as shellfish, wearing purple on a Tuesday and anyone from Redcar.   

"Dog eating Koreans." Leon took off his glasses and began to clean them on the tail of his shirt. Mad-Lem wasn't fooled. She knew that Leon had 20:19½ vision, and that there were no lenses in his glasses. He just wore them to look more intelligent, but everyone knew they were just frames so the effect was rather the opposite of what Leon hoped for.

"No. Not dog eating Koreans." Leon recapped. "Sunray has suggested them as a vignette piece for the new range Techno's sculpting. I don't like the idea."

"Oh, I see." Said Mad-Lem, putting her finger on her lips and her thumb on her shoulder. She had remarkable stretch, thought Leon, she should try playing the piano. "You think that a canine devouring NKPA corpses would be a bit gruesome?" Leon played with his pipe as he pondered. Mad-Lem wished he wouldn't do that in public.

"No, it's just that they won't sell."

Any further conversation was halted by the doors being unceremoniously thrown open. The Leader stood there, his 14 copper skinned cohorts crowding behind him. He waved his Browning and the intruders fanned out, herding the party goers into the centre of the room. The operation was conducted in silence because the men were disciplined and well trained and because the leader had run up 38 flights of stairs and was unable to speak. He was, in fact, sure that one of his lungs had stopped working and the other perilously close to following suit.

"I didn't order disco dancers!" Cried Leon, and his mistake was forgivable. The men were dressed in brightly coloured pyjamas, or just some very short shorts. They had painted their faces and all carried a piñata on a framework above their heads.

Mad-Lem gripped his arm. Leon winced with the pain. "I don't think they're disco dancers, Leon. I think they're ... Aztecs!"

"Ladies and Gentlemen." The Leader's voice was low and menacing, mostly because he was now sure that one of the chambers of his heart had gone to take a look at the unmoving lung. He sucked in a lungful of air. "I am looking for Leon." There was silence in the room. "Born 1st April 2004 in Middle Borough Military Maternity Hospital and Home for Distressed Space Marines." The Leader walked among the partygoers. Yes, walking helped with the pain. He thought the heart chamber may be doing CPR on the lung. "The name on the berthing record is Phillip Edward Nailclipper Dad .."

"We wanted him named after my father ..." piped up a proud voice from the back of the watchers. The leader paused and scanned the crowd for the source of the interruption. He shrugged and carried on.

"Rachel ..."

"We wanted him name after his mum's dad too!" The Leader ignored the heckle.

"Anthony Kitchener Elephant Nailclipper ..." He paused as he noticed Paul R with his hand up.

"Please don't do that." Asked the Leader politely. "Do you have a question?" Paul R put his hand down.

"Haven't we had Nailclipper twice?"

"Family name! Had to be sure!" Chimed in the voice from the crowd.

"Known to the family as Rover because they were too poor to own a dog ..."

"Ay! His sister Tiddles loved to throw sticks for him!" Again, the voice from the crowd. The Leader ignored the fresh interruption.

"Educated at the Little Sunshine Secure Playgroup, took 12 GCSE's at Dorian Grey Institute and failed both Impractical Geography and ..." the leader paused significantly "woodwork."  He stopped in front of Zippee and glared at him. Zippee met him glare for glare, then deliberately bit into a mushroom vol-au-vent, sending a stream of grey-brown matter onto the carpet. The Leader backed off a pace, and continued his recitation.     

"Proprietor of Pendraken Incorporated Inc. due to the ability to forge Dave's signature, and an innocent countenance."

"The gimboid!" Came a voice from the crowd, accompanied by some aggrieved chain rattling.

"Will no-one come forward as Leon?" He looked at the sea of faces. The Pendraken Forum looked sullenly back, ruminating slowly. "Very well, I shall continue. Implicated in the fall of Gadaffi, the financial crisis of 2008 and suspected of running 10mm League of Ausberg figures into Scotland with the help of one BigJackMac." The Leader stopped his meandering by the bar, which Aksu was fortifying with stern, Finnish resolution.

"Do you have a light?" Asked Akso politely, indicating his Molotov cocktails neatly lined up and on the bar. The Leader patted his pockets.

"I'm afraid not. I don't smoke." He turned to the crowd. "Anyone?" Murmurs and the patting of pockets.

"I've got a vape!" Offered Ithoriel. The Leader sighed and walked on. Akso set to making an abatis out of cocktail sticks and pickled onions.

"Well", said the Leader. "We may have to go a bit more personal. Married to Adele, and may I say, I enjoy her work - I have all her albums." Leon made to make himself known. But again Mad-Lem's grip held his forearm. Leon was sure that the resulting crunching was probably a bad thing. The Leader's smile faded.

"Distinguishing marks. Leon has a dimple on his left knee and a small wart on his right knee. If he is not careful, the one interacts with the other and his legs lock together." Again the deliberate pause, the studying of the faces.

"He has a tattoo on his ..."

"Stop it!" Screamed Mad-Lem. "Stop this! That's him!" She pointed an accusing finger at Leon. The Leader smiled. Somehow, his lungs felt better too.

"Take him away."

As two of the burlier Aztecs hustled Leon away, the Leader seemed to sag. His had reached to his chest, his face grew pale. One of the fourteen rushed to his side and made to support him by the elbow.

"Are you all right?" He asked earnestly. He would have asked solicitously, because that was one of his favourite words, but FSN had beaten him to it. Revenge, thought the mesomorph Mesoamerican, would be sweet when he caught up with that meddling fool. This period of contemplation had given the leader a chance to recover himself. He straightened and brushed a feather from the front of his jacket.

"Just a little down."



In the FIAT, Westie and Bert had made up. They had shaken hands and wobbled feet and then picked up the spilled pieces of the Pendraken Board Game.
"Don't know where that pawn went." Said Bert sadly.

"Don't fret, Comrade." Replied Westie, patting the paratrooper on the shoulder. "That was mainly for the expansion pack."  He proffered a bottle and glasses, and they drank in companionable silence.

"Fancy a game of I-spy?" suggested the dog-toy, then looked out the window to the complete darkness. "Maybe not." Then he brightened. "Would you like to see my collection of Pendraken All Stars Collector's Cards?"

"Would I!" Enthused Bert. "Have you got the Nosher?"

"Standard and foil versions!"

Awesome, Nobby..... ;D ;D ;D ;D

Cheers - Phil

Red-eyed and stiff from their previous exertions the EC42-A's have fallen into a sullen silence. They send their most junior member, D, (the one suspected of hererodoxy) to collect more BoCP to burn. The EC42-C's, at the mention of Aztecs, slide forward on their benches
(they are detachable you know) smiling in rapt attention (except for Mrs. B who is distracted by noises issuing from her farthingale).

Bravo, fsn!  ;D =D>

Truly impressive fsn, could be your best effort yet.....

I'm personally Incalined to think so.

Part 4 in which Orcs steps forwards, and meets d_Guy
On the 38th Parallel floor, the Aztecs had searched everywhere and rooted out the Pendraken forum members who had hid when the raid had begun, or had already sought a quieter place for some private business. Fenton was dragged in, his maid's outfit askew and white powder on his nose.

"You P'tok!" Yelled Ithoriel "you've eaten all the stollen!" Fenton wiped the sugar from his face and took his place miserably with the prisoners.

Now, thought Mad-Lem, is the time for a hero. Someone who will save us. Obviously, she was thinking of FSN, but the attempt came from a different quarter. For it was Orcs, a skilled negotiator and a expert psychologist who stepped forward.

"All right you two. I can handle this." Snapped Orcs. He sauntered up to the Leader.

"Hi." He began. "Call me Orcs. It used to be Just a Few Orcs, but some of the new Pendraken ranges are fantastic, and who can resist? What can I call you?" The Leader looked down his nose at Orcs. He was able to do this because of a childhood accident

"You may call me Christian Loubouitin." He looked around for a reaction. There was none. Just shows the short term memory of the members of the Pendraken Forum. (editor's note – what me? Now? OK, let me just ... that's better. Right. Where are we? Oh! Only there? I've got babysitters you know .. Oh, all right, just let's get on shall we? *ahem* Pendraken forum members will remember that Christian Loubouitin caused some distress to the Pendraken website in 2016, when all attempts to access the Pendraken website were redirected to the Loubouitin shoe shop.)

"Hi, Christian ... Chris ... Mr Loubouitin. We're just having a Pendrakenmas party here, we're hurting no-one. What could you want with us?"

"You know, Orcs, that I'm getting to the age when by the time I have climbed the stairs, I have forgotten what I wanted." Loubouitin smiled a tight smile. "And I have just climbed 38 flights of stairs."

"Ah ... OK." Orcs stammered. "But these guys you're with, they're Aztecs aren't they?"

"Indeed."

"Then may I ask, how come they're armed with automatic weapons?" Loubouitin put an arm around Orcs' shoulder and led him away from the group. 

"It's an interesting story, and quite amusing. I found them languishing. Cast off, you might say. It is all due to a mistake with the sculptor you see. He was requested to make Aztecs with stone weapons, and he misread, or got confused or something. He gave them a selection of weapons designed by noted American small arms designer Eugene Stoner." He laughed, and pointed to members of his group.

"May I introduce Eagle who carries the M-16, originally Stoner's AR-15." The impassive Aztec nodded.

"Then we have Jaguar with the Stoner 63, and Shorn ... "

"Sean?"

"No, Shorn. He has a shaved head. He is a Shorn One. Why else would he paint his head blue and red?"

"Aston Villa fan?" suggested Orcs. Loubouitin looked at him sadly.

"No. This is Shorn with the SR15 ... and this is Jaguar with another M16."

"Jaguar? I thought that was Jaguar." Orcs indicated Jaguar with a thumb.

"Really Mr Orcs, you need to learn to listen. This is Jay-gwar. That is Jag-ewe-are. Completely different!"

"Same animal though."

"Well I suppose so, but quite different sounds. Homographs." Orcs sucked through his teeth, though if he keeps winding up Loubouitin that may be an activity he won't be able to enjoy in a few paragraphs.

"Well, technically, homographs are spelled the same but have different meanings. Like tear as in rip, and tear as in what happens when you cry, or lie to tell an untruth and lie to be recumbent ..."

"Or die as in the singular of dice and die as in become dead?" Offered Loubouitin, smiling thinly.

"Er ... yes ... good example." Added Orcs hastily. "And who have we here?" This Aztec was unlike the others. He slouched against a wall, his eyes glassy and unfocussed. An oddly smelling cigarette hung from his lips, and over his head was a gigantic packet of crisps.

"Ah." Said Loubouitin, somewhat sadly. "This is Sloth. He is a completely different kind of Stoner. But I must away and have a chat with Leon. Let me leave you with d_Guy." He snapped his fingers and broad Aztec marched up to stare unwinkingly into Orcs' face. He wore yellow pyjamas and above his head was the representation of a large grey bird. Orcs gulped and pointed at the bird.

"How did you get that?" He asked.

"He started as a boil on my butt and just grew and grew." Replied the bird, laughing loudly at his own joke. Orcs stared.

"Jeez! Tough crowd." The heron laughed again."I'm just kidding wit ya! I'm Herry the Heron."

"Hairy?"

"Nah! Jeez, you got cloth in dem ears? Just kidding wit yah! But seriously, do these look like hair?" He shook his feathered wings, and one fell off. "You can keep dat one as a present!" The Heron laughed again. Orcs didn't miss the wince that came over the face d_Guy, doomed to carry this bird around with him.

"Hey! Hey!" Called Herry, "Do you know why we're called Herons? Do ya? Huh?" Orcs shook his head.

"'Cos we're everywhere. We're heron dis branch, an' we're heron dis fence an' we're heron dis roof!" Herry laughed again. Orcs looked at d_Guy.

"Why?" He asked.

"Well, I wrote on the forum that I thought Aztecs were sorta cool and I suppose this is some kind of Dante-esque punishment."

"Heron dis roof!" cawed the heron, wiping his eyes with a wing. "Hey you, do youse know where I can get some eats round here? Something that'll loosen me up, you know? I've been a bit restricted recently, and when I go, well, it'll be a doozy!" He laughed again and d_Guy shivered. "Only kidding wit ya, Big Feller, I've been going all night!" He laughed again. D_Guy couldn't help but look over his shoulder, thus causing the heron to begin peals of course laughter again. "Don't make me laugh or I'll ..."
Orcs could only look in pitying horror at his forum mate.



Leon had been tied to a chair. He thought he didn't like it, but was willing to give it a chance. A light shone in his face.

"Could you turn that thing off?" He pleaded.

"Oh sorry!" The light was dimmed. The Leader appeared in Leon's vision.

"Good evening Leon. Or may I call you Chloe?"

"I'd prefer Leon."

"Fair enough, MrPennedfilly. It's just I've always liked the name Chloe." Loubouitin looked faintly disappointed. "Never mind. I'm going to ask you some questions and you're going to answer them."

"Right-o. Bit like Mastermind, except they don't get tied to the chair."

"Quite. Firstly, when does Pendraken plan to produce figures for the Korean war?"

"Probably early 2017. Haven't you been keeping up with the Forum?"

"Damn the Forum! Damn them all!" Loubouitin's voice raised to a hysterical pitch and his eyes blazed with hot fury.

"Oh! Sorry. Touchy subject, I see. Well, you could just sign up for the newsletter. Get it e-mailed to you every month."

"Don't be clever with me Mr Partsilly!"

"Pengilly." Corrected Leon.

"Don't be obtuse. You think your twisted words will ... monthly you say? That bears investigation. Now, what about Byzantines?" Leon sucked through his teeth.

"Hard to say. We'd like to do them of course, but with so much going on, I doubt they'll be next year."

"Pity." He stared at Leon. Leon smiled back, and shrugged his shoulders in a "what can you do?" sort of way.

"Well" asked the Leader slyly, "answer me this. When will we see the completion of the 1809 Napoleonics range?"

"I think we may finish off the 1815 ..." began his captive. Loubouitin leapt away, his eyes crazed, his colour high, his flies low.

"You twist everything, you lie! You lie! Tell me the truth!"

"You can't handle the truth!" Yelled Leon. By now flecks of spittle flew from Loubouitin's mouth, he dragged at his hair and stamped his feet - first class. Airmail.

"You will suffer Mr Potbelly!"

"Pengilly." Corrected Leon calmly.

"You will suffer until you tell me what I want to know." Leon made to speak, but Loubouitin laid a finger gently on his lips. His rage had become a twitching cold insanity. "You will tell me what I want to know. To persuade you" he giggled "I have had all of FSN's Pendrakenmas posts recorded." Leon felt earphones being lowered onto his head. They cut out the sound of Loubouitin's tirade.

"Sorry? Can't hear you!" It was to no avail. Leon saw with growing horror as Loubouitin gave a signal to an unseen Aztec and the headphones crackled into life ...

"6th December 2013. 06:40pm. Well I got a parcel today. Awfully exciting as always,"

Leon screamed.



"What was that?" Asked Bert.

"What?" Westie took his snout out of the popcorn box.

"Thought I heard a scream."

"Oh. Was it Wilhelm?" Westie laughed sourly. "Let's watch the film." He settled the 3D glasses back on his nose and started the DVD again. Bert shrugged, took another slurp of his chilled, ice drink and wondered where Westie had stored these things. Still, it didn't pay to look a gift horse in the mouth or a toy dog in the ... well that didn't bear thinking about.



FSN had few real talents. None that would get him onto "Britain's Got Talent". There were a couple of things he could do that would get him into the quarter finals of "Runcorn's Got Talent", but that was a completely different set of judging standards. One of the few things he could do was hide. When the Aztecs had searched the office, he had stood in a corner and pretended to be a standard lamp. The tricky bit had been when an Aztec had tried to switch him on, but eventually they had given up and left. FSN wiped sweat off his brow.
He noted that one of the Aztecs, the one with the cigarette and the silly grin, had left behind a satchel. Being a friendly sort, FSN thought he had better take it, just so that he could return it to its rightful owner. To ensure he got the right person, FSN had a quick root through to see what it contained. He carefully laid the contents out on the desk: a pair of shoes (comfortable), a pack of crayons, a framed photo of Anne Hathaway, two green apples, a notebook, a roll of tin foil, some foot lotion (orange blossom), a dozen hair bobbles, two walkie-talkie radios, a torch, and an advert for fabulous shoes from a Mr Christian Loubouitin, with address and contact details. 

"Anne Hathaway!" Murmured FSN. Five minutes later, he slipped from the office. The repacked bag across his shoulder, the advert, now slightly soiled, in the bin. (Editor's note: FSN had sniffed the foot lotion and some of it had squirted out onto the carpet. FSN had used the printed order to clear the mess off the carpet. Why? What were you thinking?)

FSN made his way to the roof. Yes, he could have gone downstairs, as the Aztecs hadn't thought to guard the emergency stairwell, but he hadn't seen the sights from the roof and thought it would give him a wonderful view of Middle Borough. A second thought would have told FSN that there were no wonderful views of Middle Borough, but this was FSN, whose first thought fell out of bed, found its clothes, dressed and escaped from the house vowing never to call the second thought, as the aforesaid second thought slept on in a contented and alcohol deluged stupor.

FSN made it to the roof quite easily, being only slightly out of breath, but what awaited him left him totally breathless.

"A petting zoo!"

Brilliant, Mad, but Brilliant

And now we've got to wait another 24 hours to see how Nobby escapes ! :-SS :-SS :-SS

Great stuff, Matey !

Cheers - Phil

The youngest of four female cousins, EC42-E.4 stood on the paving stones with one of her little fingers deep-diving her left nostril and her eyes as wide as a Tom turkey's tail in full display. Nearby Preacher A.2 (or more formally EC42-A.2) was in the third hour of a seven hour sermon which explicated a heretofore unrealized exegesis of the Book of Job. But this was not the focus of Lobella's (as we will call little E.4) enthrallment  - No - it was placed on the imposing figure of the Minstrel EefSin (as he was known in those parts) as he sang his famous composition,  "The Siege of Pendraken Tower", the graphic content of which is legend.

Suddenly Lobella's mother (the oldest of four sisters, for she had come late to the marriage bed), drawn by the caterwauling, appeared and snatched the young miss away. "But Mother", the child wailed, "however will I know the ending!!!???

Again Bravo and thrice Bravo, fsn.  ;D   =D>
It is a work of unsurpassed beautify ... or something.

I am pleased to have been promoted from a widebodied shopper mincing through WalMart to a boil on the bottom of a big  bird's behind! (or possibly the other way round - but no matter).
Drinks all around!

Part 5 In Which Techno should have made an appearance, but he got lost.

Before we return to FSN's activities, perhaps we should spend a few moments contemplating the real meaning of Pendrakenmas.

I know of a man who used to visit the same cafe every lunchtime. It was close to the place he worked and served good food at reasonable prices. The waitress had eyes like Anne Hathaway and an attraction to décolletage. She smiled readily and was always prompt. It was, thought the man, a little haven of peace in his busy day. He felt at home in that cafe, and for an hour he could just let the cares of day take second place.

Well, one Monday, the man woke up with a strong appetite for potato scones. The desire was so strong that he skipped breakfast, unable to face cornflakes or toast. Throughout that morning's busy work, the man was thinking about potato scones. He looked at a pie chart and imagined it as a circular tattie scone, dripping in butter and slightly salted. With a nice cup of tea. At his desk, he googled potato scones and indulged in a few moments imagining them falling softly apart in his mouth. Instead of flirting with Sandra whilst making tea, he just imagined her covered in potato scones. 

At lunchtime, the man virtually ran to the cafe and ordered potato scones, and was terribly disappointed to find that they were not on the menu. Disconsolate, he moodily ate a salmon and soft cheese bagel.

The next day, the man's craving for potato scones had not disappeared. If anything it had grown. He wondered if he could mash up some crisps for the same effect, or even butter some microwave chips, but he knew that these would be just pale imitations of proper tattie scones.

By lunchtime, he was literally salivating at the thought of the starchy goodness. His howl of despair to be told again that potato scones were not on the menu brought stares from the other customers, and not a little tea was slopped into saucers in surprise.   

The hunt for potato scones continued. The man searched all the local supermarkets for potato scones. He tried making them from scratch himself, but the results were disappointing – dry and tasteless. His eyes took a haunted look, he developed a nervous tic and he found himself replying "potato scone" to whatever question he was asked. People were beginning to notice.

Friday morning came and the man was a wreck. He hadn't eaten properly for days, and even his tea consumption was down because he didn't want to drink tea without the accompanying salty butteryness of a potato scone. Friday lunchtime, he skulked into the cafe. As he opened the door, his nose twitched. Was it? Could it be? And it was. The waitress stood ready with a tray containing a teapot and a large plate of fresh potato scones.

The man collapsed into the chair and with trembling hands buttered and salted a potato scone. It was if Milady herself had blessed his tongue. For long moments he just sat and ate slowly, the potato, the salt, the butter combining in an ecstasy of taste. The scones brought the man back to his senses, the madness left him. He looked up to the waitress.

"Will you marry me, Anne?" He asked. She laughed a delicate laugh, and her cheeks coloured slightly.

"Thank you very much for your kind offer." She managed a graceful curtsey. "But firstly, my name is Jane, and secondly, I'm married to Elizabeth, who works the kitchen."

"Three way?" Asked the man.


Now, isn't this just like Pendrakenmas? We each conceive of a desire for some product or range and when we find we cannot find it in the Pendraken catalogue, it becomes a bit of an obsession. We do the research, and buy the books, and try other manufacturer's offerings, but they're never as good as the munificence of the Dark Lord. So we beseech his Saturnine Majesty to grant our request, and for some time it seems as if he is oblivious to our desires. However if we are patient, or we keep whinging on at him, he will eventually grant our wish.

And then what?

We always want more and have to push it.


   

 
Loubouitin was worried. Leon still hadn't cracked, and they were nearly through the 2014 offering. Perhaps it was time to try a new tack. He signalled for the Aztec to remove the headphones from Leon's head. 

"Now, Mr Petteddy ..." he began.

"Pengilly." Leon was quite proud of his name. He'd borrowed it from his father. He'd discovered the origins one day in the ironmonger, browsing a copy of "The Middle Borough Book of the Damned Quarterly", June 1957 edition, price 2' 9". The esteemed organ narrated that the Pengilly name dated back to the Norman times when the new overlords had killed all the native ducks and replaced them with swans. A breed of grim, hardy Flemish gamekeepers (and there's nothing that make you grim more than hard flem) had been imported into the area to mind the new birds. These men stalked the land like their superior Scottish equivalents, the ghillies, whilst dressed as female swans, or "pens". Thus these pen-ghillies had become a feature of Middle Borough, clomping across the moors dressed as giant white birds. Leon smiled at the traditional family get together when all the men had donned their feathery disguises and marched through the town, being shown the traditional disdain of the locals by the hurling of offerings of mouldy cheese, rotten eggs and out of date hummus. 

"Are you back in the room, Mr Pearjelly?" Sneered Loubouitin, who had in fact been waiting quite patiently for his prisoner to come back from his remembrances.

"Oh sorry!" Despite the fiendish torture, Leon remained polite. It was an internal fortitude built up from years of attending shows and facing the great British public.

"Are you ready to answer my questions?" Loubouitin's voice was as low and menacing as he could make it.

"Certainly. Fire away!" Loubouitin leapt from the ground in his rage. He flapped his arms and honked his displeasure. He repeated this bizarre action several times, before thrusting his face close to Leon's.

"You will tell me what I want to know, Mr Piegravy, or it will go very hard for you!" He signaled for the headphones to be replaced.

Leon screamed.



FSN emerged onto the roof of the Naked Tony Tower. As predicted last time, the view wasn't spectacular, but at least from 40 floors up he could see civilization. Then there was the petting zoo! FSN coo'd at the cows (SCN-NML1), had a gander at the geese (SCN-NML8) and scratched at the pigs (SCN-NML4). He noticed in the goat pen (SCN-NML5) that someone had left a large baulk of wood suspended by two ropes. These ropes were fastened to an eye bolt where the goats stood, and at times they chewed on the hemp.

"Well that's an accident waiting to happen!" thought FSN, who should have remembered that safety is everyone's concern, but had become distracted by an enclosure set away from the others. It was labelled "Reject", and in it stood a single pony. It was short and rotund, white with large patches of brown over the flanks and one side of the head. A long mane dropped over one eye and the other glared at FSN with pure, unadulterated hate. As he approached, the pony showed large yellow teeth and snorted menacingly.

"Aw! A Shetland Pony!" exclaimed FSN, making sure to keep fingers clear of the beast, for he had much experience with the breed. This was no pampered Thelwall pet, this was an old school Sheltie. Half wild, half mad and all evil. FSN felt his heart warm at the memory of his childhood.



Loubouitin had commandeered an office and sank heavily into the overstuffed chair behind the overstuffed desk.

"Bring me my foot rub!" He commanded d_Guy, who had followed him through the overstuffed door and now stood on the overstuffed carpet.

"Ah! Boss .." he began.

"Oh-oh. Someone's got some bad news to tell!" Interjected Herry delightedly. Loubouitin glared at the heron, then at d_Guy.

"We lost your foot lotion. Sloth had it, but when we searched the place, he left the bag somewhere. Now we can't find it." D_Guy tried an apologetic shrug. The Leader really lost it. I mean big time. Ten minutes solid he went on, with nary a pause for breath. Poor old d_Guy as treated to a spittle shower. Anyway, it turns out that Loubouitin has to have his feet ...

"I'll continue if I might." Suggested Loubouitin darkly. "I must have my feet treated regularly, otherwise they go all hard. You know that way when the soles seem to go yellow and rough? I found this orange blossom lotion, and if I spread it on my feet and then wrap them in tin foil, it keeps them smooth and soft."

"Yeah, Boss, I know."

"Yes," replied Loubouitin testily, "but I can't stand that spugging narrator. I suppose you have lost my comfy shoes too?"

"'fraid so, Boss."

"You pujwl petaQ!" growled Loubouitin in badly accented Klingon. "Find my lotion. Find my shoes. Find them NOW, you baktaq qoH!"

"Jeez! Do you kiss your hooker with that mouth?" Asked Herry. Loubouitin drew his Browning and pointed it at the Heron.

"I suggest fewer jokes and more searching." D_Guy felt something warm and rapidly cooling slide down his shoulder.



In the FIAT, Westie gently took the glass from Bert's hand. He placed a blanket over the sleeping Para. He turned off the DVD player and laid his head on the feather pillow next to Bert's. He tossed uncomfortably for a while, then knew it wasn't just because he had company. He rummaged around inside until he found his night light. Lit, it sent tiny glowing cats scurrying across the roof of the car.

"Good night, Bert." He said gently.

"Bowb off you gimboid" replied the sleeping Bert, though without rancour. Westie smiled, and settled down to sleep.   



"Oh yes!" cried Mad-Lem in her sleep. "Yes! FSN! Yes! It's so big and powerful! Yes!" Her physical body writhed as her dream self enjoyed itself. "Harder FSN! Harder!"
D_Guy shook her roughly by the shoulder. She awoke, flushed from her dream of FSN picking up a high voltage cable. She'd liked the bit when he'd gone black and crispy.

"Hiya Toots!" Called Herry affably. "D_Guy here was looking up your skirt."

"Was not!" Exclaimed d_Guy indignantly. 

"Just yanking your chain!" cawed the heron.

"Sore subject!" called an aggrieved voice from the back of the party goers. The heron squatted onto d_Guy's head.

"How long would I have to sit here for this thing to hatch?" To illustrate the point he rubbed his feather nethers on the top of d_Guy's head.

"Stop that!" protested the fake Aztec. "It wasn't the funny the first time!" Herry pecked at d_Guy's head.

"Aw! Did "peck "I" peck "hurt "peck, peck, peck "your" peck "feelings?" Again the grating laugh. D_Guy waved his hand at the annoyance, but Herry adroitly avoided the blow.
"Hey Toots!" the heron called to Mad-Lem, "never let this guy tell you a sad story." He paused. "He'll rip your heart out!" The bird's laughter filled the air. "Have your heart out! Aztecs!" he bird mimed having his heart torn from his body.   

"What is it you want?" Asked Mad-Lem tautly.

"I was wondering if you had any silver foil, or better still Orange Blossom foot lotion?" D_Guy looked as if he should have a hat that he could twist whilst supplicating. Mad-Lem patted her pockets.

"No, sorry. I gave up. Anyone?"  The captives patted pockets and came up blank.

"I've got a Kit Kat!" Offered Ithoriel. Several heads turned to stare at him curiously. "They used to have silver paper on them." He explained. "Taste different now, though." To this contribution, even Herry was left speechless. 

Quote from: fsn on 21 December 2016, 09:39:02 AM
Part 5 In Which Techno should have made an appearance, but he got lost.

I suppose I didn't learn my lines properly.

Or perhaps this is the director's extended cut version. :-\

Superb madness, as usual, Nobby. ;D ;D ;D

Cheers - Phil

Just building up the tension Mr T, so your entrance is magnificent!

You will be there tomorrow. I promise.

Thinking about it, if d_Guy hadn't said nice things about Aztecs, you could have a much earlier start.

 ;D ;D ;D ;D

Cheers - Phil

Phil,
Knowing the film...
You are either Al, the Electrician, or one of the CIA agents...
Good luck!

 :-\

Cheers - Phil

Little Lobella (EC42-E.4) managed to worm her way to the very eave-end of the family dwelling where she could peer through the thatch and - uh - eavesdrop on EefSin as he completed the chanting of Act V. His voice now huskie with strain and the ravages of the smokestacks of his homeland Runcorn, he concluded this preformace with as gasping wheeze. As he prepared to leave the square for another night of rest and debauchery at the nearby inn - he took a small glass vial of wicked looking green fluid and downed it in three swallows. Screwing his face into an expression that would stop a clock, his knees buckling, he slouched off to the applause (and some exclamations of relief) of the assembled crowd. But - not before stooping to grasp his tattered hat which the more naive had filled with pennies and bits of coloured string.

That evening, as Lobella sat at the family table for supper, her Mother placed before her - a plate of potatoes scones!
Looking up delightedly, she queried, "Mother, what's a 'Three-Way'?"

Fsn, the mastery of your art and sheer scope of your observations and conjectures is a wonder.  ;D =D>

The farce is strong in this one!

Quote from: d_Guy on 21 December 2016, 05:21:06 PM
Looking up delightedly, she queried, "Mother, what's a 'Three-Way'?"

In Runcorn, that's what comes about a year before the paternity test.

 ;D ;D

Part 6 in Techno makes an appearance and Mart calls in the tanks
Techno drove into the Naked Tony Playzeer in the vehicle he originally bought to drive along the motorway to London to see Mr Baden-Powell. Yes, it was his M3 Scout Car, and yes he eschewed the blue and red variants and settled on the White Scout Car (BR70). He had popped out to buy the Sunday Herald on Tuesday, and was sure that he should have turned right instead of left at the end of the drive. Though, he wondered, did he actually have a drive?

FSN saw the car from the roof. How though was he to attract the attention of the occupant? He took the torch from the bag he was just carrying until he could find its rightful owner, and sent a carefully coded Morse message.

"Oooh! That looks like Morse!" Said Techno, but it was definitely Lewis. He put the copy of "TV Detectives Monthly" back in the glove compartment and stopped the car. From the roof of the tall building, which he was pretty sure wasn't Tesco's, a light was blinking at him.

"Faulty connection somewhere in the wiring I expect." Thought Techno. If Techno could have read Morse, it would have said "-.. --- - -.. .- ... ... -.. --- -" which of course means "dot dash dot". FSN didn't really understand Morse code.

As Techno contemplated the difficulties of life, especially trying to write "left" and "right" on your shirt cuffs when you are right handed, so ending up with both "left" and "right" on the left cuff, an object bounced off the bonnet of his car.  

"Oh dear. I seem to have hit something." Though Techno, misunderstanding again that it is difficult to hit something with a parked car. "Perhaps it won't really be dead and will haunt me like on that film, um ... with ... and the stabbing ... " Techno mimed the stabbing to no-one in particular, but being Techno, managed to nick himself with the imaginary knife. "Breakfast at Tiffany's! Well they must have had a knife to take the end of their egg." Being a solid if not very deep citizen, Techno stepped out the car and after some rooting found the torch. Attached to it was a note, in purple and green crayon.

"Hello. I am on the roof of this bilding. It has been captured by Asstecs. Send help. Love." Then there was a small drawing of a heart. Techno stared up at the roof, and was narrowly missed by a walkie-talkie radio. Attached to it was another note.

"You can use this to keep in contact with me." Again, a little heart, and this time a picture of two stick figures, smiling broadly. One was carefully labelled "you" and the other "me". Around these two champions were littered the bloodied corpses of stick Aztecs.

"Aw sweet!" muttered Techno. He fiddled with the radio for a while, trying to find the "on" switch. Five minutes went by, with Techno still as unswitched-on as the radio. A thump on the bonnet drew Techno's attention. It was detailed instructions about using the radio, drawn in very neat crayon, including diagrams, settings, power levels and care instructions, in English, German, French, Japanese, Arabic and Serbo-Croat neatly attached to the second radio. Techno devoured the instructions in all languages, and thought the Serbo-Croat was a little clumsy, but managed to get his radio switched on and on the correct channel. See, reading the instructions does help.

"Hello." He said cautiously.

FSN, watching from the roof realised the flaw in his plan. Now that he had thrown the instructions down to Techno he didn't know how to use his own radio. Beside which, it now lay 40 floors below him.    

Undeterred, he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and pressed speed dial 1.

"Hello." Said Techno. All he got was a ringing in response. After some experimentation, he found that the ringing was coming from his pocket. Furthermore, it came from a mobile phone.

"Hello." He said.

"Hello Techno!" came a cheerful voice.

"Who's this, please?" asked Techno, using his telephone voice, which is something like Parker out of Thunderbirds – before puberty. "Oh!" sudden dawning.. "It's you. Oik! OIK!"

"Yup Techno, it's me."

"Can't talk now, Oik, I've got to help someone on the top of this building."

"I know, Techno, it's me!" Techno peered suspiciously upwards.

"How did you know it's me from way up there?"

"Well, I get used to looking at you from a distance, and sometimes I don't even bother to bring the rifle."  

"You're a rotten rotter you are. Always making fun of me." Techno whined aggrievedly.  "You say I'm always hurting myself and .. ow! .. and that I'm really old and that I'm always getting lost and ... and .. there's something else..."

"That your memory's awful?" Offered FSN. "Oh! Wait a moment. I've got another call coming in. It may be my pizza!" FSN's fingers flew across the keypad. "Hello."

"Hello?" The voice at the other end of the line was filled with curiosity.

"Is this about my pizza? 'Cos I forgot to say that I want double anchovies as well .."

"I'm sorry. This is not about pizza. I have to go, I have a tower block full of hostages ..."

"Could it be about shoes? I phoned you earlier because there were some killer heels I was interested in. For my Mum."

"Of course ..."

"Hang on did you say hostages? There's a funny thing, 'cos I'm on the roof of a building that's got lots of people being held hostage in it." Even FSN's brain isn't that slow. His fingers flew to the keypad.

"Techno!" he called desperately. "It's him! The hostage taker."

"Well I don't know if I'm going to help you Oik. You're always rotten to me. Saying that I always hurting myself and .. ow! .. and that I'm really old and that I'm always getting lost and ... and .. there's something else..."

"Mr Oik!" Both FSN and Techno froze. "It would seem" gloated Loubouitin, gloatingly, "that instead of putting me on hold, you put us all onto a conference call. I hope to meet you soon - face to face." He laughed evilly.

"Yoikes!" Said FSN. "Listen Techno, I'm going to hide on the 39th floor. You've got to get help."

"Still here!" Called Loubouitin sweetly.    

"Wait a minute though, Oik. How did you know I had a mobile phone, and what the number is?"

"Oh Techno! Mrs T slips the mobile into your pocket every time you go out. It's got an app on it called WheresTheSillyOldSpuggerGoneNow. We've all got the app so she can always get one of us to find you."

"She's right clever is Mrs T." Smiled Techno.

"That she is!" came a voice from behind the aged sculptor. It was Leman, looking tall and handsome in his full hero rigout – tights, cape and tiny budgie smugglers that showed where he kept his spare socks. "I'm here to help, and I have brought help!" He waved a mightily thewed arm, and scores of armed police (BR168) appeared and surrounded the building. He grinned, showing impossibly white teeth, and winked as only a hero can wink.

"Wonder if my teeth are that white?" Thought Techno, so he took them out to have a look.



Bert had been woken by some energetic movement inside the FIAT. He woke to find Westie lying beside him, stubby legs kicking rhythmically.

"How sweet!" though Bert. "The little chap is chasing rabbits in his sleep." The dog gave a throaty little bark. In Westie's dream, he'd finally managed to get his teeth into Anne Hathaway's skirt and she'd giggled. Now just one sharp tug ...

Bert's elbow in his ribs woke him from the dream.

"Aw Belgium! Nearly had her that time."

"Westie? Are you awake?"  Westie felt for cracked ribs.

"Aye."

"I can't get to sleep."

"I'm not singing you a smegging lullaby."

"I need a drink of water." Westie sighed, and had a  rummage. "Here y'are." He yawned. Bert took the glass and sipped.  

"Westie?" He asked.

"How do you keep the water so cold?"

"I keep it in the fridge."

"And where do you keep the fridge?"

"By the freezer of course. Go to sleep." Bert considered this new information.

"Westie?"

"Yes?" Westie replied sleepily.

"Will you sing me a lullaby?"  



On the 39th floor, FSN was hiding. He had just managed to conceal himself behind the only curtain on the floor, when a half dozen armed and angry Aztecs led by an armed and angry Loubouitin kicked through the door. They scoured the floor efficiently. Brought it to a beautiful shine in fact, but they didn't find FSN. Loubouitin pulled out his phone and dialled. FSN had anticipated this and had his phone on vibrate only. Besides there were side benefits.

"Are you here, Mr Oik?" Asked Loubouitin.

"Noooo." Replied FSN.

"Zark it!" howled the Leader. "I need my foot lotion!" He fought to regain control. "Mr Oik. If you leave the bag you have, then you can leave with no harm done to you."

"Can I keep the photograph of Anne Hathaway?" Sloth, listening in to the conversation, violently shook his head

"Of course!" Slimed Loubouitin, then seeing the disappointed look on Sloth's face put his hand over the mouthpiece. "We'll get you another one." Sloth took another drag on his fag, and a faraway look came to his face.



At the base of the tower, Techno and Leman had been joined by Mart, who had been alerted to the proximity of Techno by the WheresTheSillyOldSpuggerGoneNow app. Mart stood 6'2" in his sock feet. He'd forgotten his shoes again. He had a broad intelligent face. He carried it in backpack. He and Leman looked at each other, hero measuring hero. Leman flexed his pecs. Mart pumped his biceps. Leman stroked his luxuriant moustache. Mart adjusted the medallion that nestled in his chest hair. Techno yawned. It was way past his bedtime.

"I shall storm the building with my specialist police units!" Leman declared. One hand on hip.

"You're a gorram fool!" Growled Mart. "You need armour to crack that nut." But with a cheerful laugh, Leman moved confidently off towards the Naked Tony Tower, his cape flapping at his heels.

"He's a gorram fool!" Reiterated Mart unnecessarily. Techno nodded sympathetically. Mart slammed one mighty fist into the palm of his hand. He winced as he realised that it hurt.

"That's Oik on that roof." Said Techno. "He's trying to help." Mart sneered.

"He needs to keep out of this. Leave it to the professionals."


Leman came back, crestfallen.

"It's closed." He said. "Sign up on display and everything." He looked at the file of policemen (BR168) retreating back towards their lines, and shook his head dejectedly. "They even had a purple rope."

Techno's phone rang.

"Hello." He said carefully.

"Techno, it's me."

"Oh hello Oik. I've got Leman and Mart here with me." The heroes looked horrified and made head shaking and hand waving gestures that strongly suggested that they didn't want to talk to FSN.

"Oh, it wasn't my pizza?"

"'fraid not."

"Oh, by the way, tell those policemen not to try and break in. The building's closed. There's a sign up and everything. Possibly even a purple rope."

"We know." Said Techno sadly.  Loubouitin's laugh came over the line.

"We are very well prepared." He chortled. "Now, please prepare some helicopters preferably UH-1 'Huey' transport helicopter (AV14)."

"Undercoated or base coat?" Asked Techno.



He never received a reply. The air was suddenly filled with a low rumble.

"The tanks have arrived!"



On the 39th Floor, Loubouitin screeched his fury. He had to rescue his foot lotion, but also had to deal with those damned tanks. How to keep FSN pinned until he could deal with him properly. The Leader's eyes alighted on some boxes of Pendraken goodliness. He laughed a barking-quacking laugh. He tore open one of the boxes – brand new League of Ausberg "Pikemen wondering if it's tea time." Loubouitin took a handful of the figures and threw them across the floor.

Eagle and Jag-eew-are were quick on the uptake. Soon the floor resembled a glittering cemetery of tiny LoA soldiers: "Musketeers marching, but thinking they left something behind" were piled with "scythemen realising they'd brought a knife to a gun fight" atop "drummer with stone in his shoe".

With another evil laugh, Loubouitin slapped shut the door.    

You OIK !! ;D ;D ;D ;D ;D

Cheers - Phil

Told you Phil!

 ;D ;D ;D =D> =D>

Nice!  ;D ;D

I could get on board with the new LOA stuff!

I do like the latest instalment.  ;D

QuoteTechno mimed the stabbing to no-one in particular, but being Techno, managed to nick himself with the imaginary knife.

:D ;D sorry Phil!

Not sure whether to be pleased or miffed at my red shirt style demise early on...

Quote from: mad lemmey on 22 December 2016, 11:06:50 AM
Told you Phil!

Spot on, Will.  :)

From the three you put down, I thought I'd probably end up being Al.  ;D ;D

Now.....Where is the Oik ?......Must be time ! :-SS :-w :!!

Cheers - Phil (You can call me Al.)

Part 7: The Fall of Loubouitin
FSN waited for a few moments, until he was sure the Aztecs had gone.
"Stupid spugger." He said, pulling on Loubouitin's comfy shoes. He stamped across the League of Ausburg to the door.


Mart peered anxiously over his shoulder. The tanks were on the way. He could hear them, everyone could hear them, but where were they? Suddenly, from a convenient bank of fog, which had been placed there for dramatic effect, they appeared – huge green monsters, turrets poking from every orifice.

"Frell me!" exclaimed Techno. "T35's!"


On the 38th Parallel Floor, Loubouitin was barking orders to scurrying Aztecs.

"D-Guy! Break out the anti-tank pipe-cleaners! Quickly now!" There was a long silence. Loubouitin felt it descend. He turned. D-Guy was going through his hat-twisting act again.

"Well?" Asked Loubouitin, icily.

"Well, Boss, you know we bought them anti-tank pipe-cleaners from BigJackMac? Well, he smuggled them in to us in that dopey dog, and they've been kinda rolled up."

"Can't you straighten them out?"

"We can have a go, but they'll never fly right. We'd be lucky to hit anything."

"Why doesn't it matter that Aztecs can't?" Asked Herry rhetorically. "Because Texlacan." The black humour caught at  Loubouitin.

"Indeed, Heron. We had best pray for a miracle."

"I could always get one of the prisoners ..."

"What did we say?" The Leader's voice was stern. "No sacrifices. There will be no heart ripping until after the job is finished. Understood?"

"Aw, Boss." D_Guy turned and tantrumed away. Loubouitin returned his attention to the oncoming tanks.


The first tank broke down when on the far side of the square. Great black oily clouds of smoke poured from the engine housing and the crew abandoned the tank, tears streaming from their eyes.

The second, blinded by the smoke turned sharply to avoid the first. With a sound like a metallic band (say Black Sabbath, or Iron Maiden. Maybe Motorhead, with a touch of Judas Priest) being fed into a shredder the T35 shed a track. Going at its full speed of nearly 20 miles per hour, the behemoth turned onto its side with a screeching like Maria Carey being bent over and having an electric sander applied to her rump.

The third tank driver was either more cautious, or more clever than her compatriots. (Editor's note: Actually, she was having trouble with the transmission, a common problem with the T35). The third tank nosed into the square, its five turrets moving like the legs of an upturned insect that been the victim of a rather naughty school boy. The T35 passed by its beached comrades, moving deliberately towards the Naked Tony Tower.

"By the dripping of the Dark Lord's underarms!" Yelled Mart. "He's going to do it! Go on you big beautiful Belgium!"

"Why does the Dark Lord spread beef fat on his armpits?" Techno wondered.

The T35 was close to the building now 40 yards – 30 yards – a chain – then they converted to metric and the driver got a bit confused, so went out to 27 meters before sanity and the Imperial system were restored and she closed to 4 rods.

"Oh no!" Mart's crie de Coeur was enough to wake Techno up.

"Wassup with the T-baggy-tanky thing?" He asked disinterestedly.

"Steps." Indeed, the T35 had reached the impressive and rather steep steps leading up to the entrance. The driver was game though. She swore and kicked the gearbox until she found a low gear, then pointed the green monster at the steps. For a brief moment, it seemed as if the T35 was actually going to mount the step, but as the first track plate bit concrete, there was a gnawing, rending sound like Macaulay Culkin getting what he deserves from the zombie burglars in George A Romero' remake of "Home Alone". The T35 stopped. It didn't burst into flames. Bits didn't drop off. Not even a mild leakage. It just stopped. Cursing, the eleven young, female crew climbed cautiously out from their vehicle and ran across the square to the police lines.

"Why are they all wearing bikinis?" Asked Techno, paying close attention to their ankles and being mildly surprised that even with some energetic movement, they didn't snap.

"Putin's Russia." Answered Mart, enigmatically.


FSN keenly watched the debacle from on high.

"Hope that doesn't mean my pizza delivery won't get through." He mused. His phone rang. It wasTechno. Someone had shown him how to make calls.

"Listen Oik." Techno sighed. "I've got to tell you a story."

"Tell me, Techno."

"The Aztecs. I think I had a hand in them."

"And were they OK with that?"

"No, you misunderstand." Techno sat down heavily as he continued his story. "The Aztecs, I think they're my fault."

"How so, Techno?" Techno passed a hand over his face. Whose hand, he wasn't sure.

"It was about a year ago. Someone had phoned me up and asked me to make a range of Aztecs." Techno heard the gasp on the end of the line.

"Sorry, this seat's cold."

"It was a voice on the phone. I was tired, dog tired. I'd just returned from touring with ..." his voice caught and broke with the emotion welling up in his chest "... I was being Bjorn in Jennifer Saunders and Joanna Lumley's ABBA tribute band – ABBAsolutely Fabulous. ABBAFabba we called ourselves, ABBA Fab. Sometimes ABFa. Or just Aaaa." Techno tailed off.

"Is Bjorn the skinny one or the one with the beard?" Asked FSN.

"The skinny one. We'd added 'Does Your Mother Know' to the set, and so I'd got lead solos. The tour was crippling, always another town, another train, and I was shattered. We'd just get one place then  we'd be off. It was arrival, and then hasta manana. Move on. Always plastic food. Usually, we'd just pop out fer Nando's. I was sick and tired of everything, when I sculpted a knight in Glasgow, then I get this call. The line was bad, but what I did hear was the price being offered for Aztecs. Aztecs! Frelling Aztecs." Techno almost become a bit upset, but regained control. He sighed. "I just heard 'money, money, money', so I must wasn't paying attention or forgot or something, but I'm sure he said he wanted Aztecs with Stoner weapons. I didn't know what rule set he wanted to use, there's all sorts out there. If I'd only asked what's the name of the game, none of this would have happened. He said nice things about me, too. I was just sort of pleased he decided to take a chance on me." FSN remained silent. Techno recognised the technique. "So I made them. I got home and called out to Mrs T. 'Mam, I'm here'. I always call her Mam. She always calls me S.O.S." A thought made the arid journey across his synapses. "Didn't know why before, I guess it stands for Silly Old Spugger." He laughed. "Oh! Mrs T! What a sense of humour. Anyway, I started making the Aztecs, but it didn't go well. Like, I was just making this one replacing a magazine, when I Mrs T dropped her load of scaffolding behind me, and the magazine got all bent and flattened. *Bang* A boomerang! But the voice kept calling me. Ring, ring, all hours of the day and night. Throughout July, I spent long evenings sculpting – summer night putty. Anyway, I made them. Made them all. Jay-gwar, Eagle, Shorn, Jag-ewe-are – even Sloth."
Techno paused. He thought FSN was considering his plight. Then there was the sound of flushing water.

"Techno, old thing!" called FSN happily. "What are the natural enemies of Aztecs?"

"Smallpox, measles, mumps, the 16th Century Megadrought, competing tribes ..."

"Exactly. Spaniards on horseback. Conky-doors. Where can we get a conky-door at this time of night Techno?" Techno snapped his fingers – but he knew he could reset them.

"The Riders of Murcia are camped outside Stockton-on-Tees!"

"No, Techno. That's a long shot. We're going to have to do this ourselves. All we need is a horse, a suit of armour and a command of the Spanish language."

"Who do we know that speaks Spanish?" Gasped Techno.

"Que?"

"Who do we know who speaks Spanish?"

"I do! Didn't you hear me then? That was Spanish!" Slightly peeved at Techno's lack of imagination, FSN made his way upstairs.    



FSN leaned on the rail of Reject's paddock, deftly fashioning a morion out of silver foil.

"How am I to gain the trust of this wall-eyed brute?" he pondered. He rummaged in the bag and brought out an apple. Reject's head came up. FSN, missing his pizza took a bite. The pony's head cocked to one side.

"Good pony." FSN soothed, taking another bite. The pony took a step towards him. FSN reflectively took another nibble. Reject took another step, snickering gently and nostrils flaring. FSN made to take another bite, then paused. He looked thoughtfully at the apple, now little more than a core.

"Ah well", he said "just have to do this the hard way." He tossed the core towards the goat pen, then as the astonished pony watched it fall, he leapt.


The pony didn't try to leap the barrier. It charged through it, chest first, sending debris flying in its wake. FSN clung atop, hands clenched in the beast's mane, ridiculous tin foil helmet crammed on his head. The pony bolted straight for the stairs and downwards.

"Dos cervezas por favor!" He cried. "Qué?!" The Aztecs, saw the approximation of a man bellowing the approximation of Spanish from the back of the approximation of a horse, and knew fear. It was a deep fear, from a primitive part of their being, almost a racial membership, and fed by the stories of the elders told around fires on cold mountain nights. Their reaction was akin to the reaction of a chicken seeing a fox, the natural reaction of the prey to the predator. They fled.  


Mad-Lem didn't break down the door so much as march through it as if it didn't exist. Leon was tied to the chair, slumped forward. Mad-Lem felt her heart jump, and wished it wasn't Organ Olympics year. She really dreaded the kidney synchronised swimming.

Her gall bladder breasted the tape when she saw Leon's chest moving. He wasn't dead! She knelt by him as he opened his eyes.

"I hate nips!" He snarled.

"I'm sorry?" Retorted Mad-Lem.

"Well, every time the Leader asked me a question, he's twist my nipple and shout 'nips'. Then he'd laugh. I hate 'nips'. I may even have bruised." He said coyly.  He smacked his lips. They had been naughty. "Could you cut me free? Have you a knife?" Mad-Lem patted where she would have had pockets.

"No, I'm sorry. I gave up." She turned to the forum members crowding in at the door. "Anyone?" There was much patting of pockets and shaking of heads, then significant stares at Ithoriel.

"I have a copy of 'À la recherche du temps perdu', 3 groats, half a Mars bar, a bus ticket to Penge, and " he paused significantly "a Swiss Army..." the Forum members gave a collective intake of breath "... from about 1450." By this time, Mad-Lem had bitten through the rope binding Leon.

"Are you all right?" She asked solicitously. "We heard screaming. Did they torture you?" She caught sight of the CD cover on the desk. She gasped when she saw the title.  

"Ah! FSN's Pendrakenmas offerings." Leon said.

"The fiends!" Gasped Mad-Lem again.

"Oh FSN is just one barmpot on a pot full of barms. A bigger barmpot that most of the rest, to be sure, but I've long been able to ignore his drivel. The forum membership in general is just like ... er ... like a mildly irritating thing in a Pendraken thing." Leon furrowed his brow. "Like wombats in the Pendraken henhouse?" Mad-Lem looked confused. "No, the ants in the Pendraken mole hill?" Again. He shook his head. "FSN used to be so good at these. Remember 'the fish-heads in the Pendraken stargazy pie'? That was my favourite."

"But the screaming?" Asked Mad-Lem. Leon sighed.

"Every time they put the headphones on me, they caught my glasses and pulled my ears a bit. It hurt."


Reject quickly tired of FSN's horsemanship. Indeed to FSN, "horsemanship" meant blokes meeting ladies of easy virtue on a boat. So Reject returned to his pen as instinct demanded. FSN climbed off the panting pony, and found it in his heart to carefully give him the second apple. From the corner of his eye he noticed a figure skulking in the goat pen. It was Loubouitin! Before FSN could stealthily make his escape, or as stealthily as someone of FSN's peculiar shape, wearing tin foil, and wheezing like a pervert at a sorority house window could. Loubouitin ceased skulking and stood full height, the Browning pointed at FSN's head, where one could reasonably assume some organ of thought was stored.

"Well, Mr Oik. We meet at last." He hissed.

"What now?" Asked FSN. He wasn't playing for time, he really is that stupid.

"I shoot you and escape." Loubouitin wasn't pandering to the hero, explaining his plan so that the hero gets time for a last desperate ploy, he was just very polite and literal. FSN saw movement behind Loubouitin. The goats ... the rope ... the baulk of wood ... with a gentle sigh, the rope parted and the baulk swung.

"Duck, man!" Yelled FSN, who as we have noted before is really a caring sort, but his warning had the opposite effect on Loubouitin. He froze and the arcing baulk struck him squarely on the ribs and threw him over the side of Naked Tony Tower.

FSN rushed to the side to see Loubouitin falling, but very slowly.

"You discovered my secret!" Accused Loubouitin.

"Yeeesss." Said FSN, uncertainly.

"You have discovered that I am Duckman and wished only for Pendraken to produce only what I want!"

"We're all a bit like that." Assured FSN.

"You sort of stamped on my big line there Mr Oik. What I was going to say was 'and I would have gotten away with it too, if it hadn't been for those nibbling kids!'"

"Oh bravo! Well played, Sir!" FSN applauded politely.

"I have concealed my duckiness. The down on my jacket, the yellow feet and now my ability to fall very slowly from heights and land unharmed. It's because I'm fluffy." He smiled depreciatingly. "Look this fall may take some time. Have you anything to read?" FSN patted his pockets and looked blankly.

"No I'm sorry, I've given up." He looked over his shoulder for Ithoriel, but for all to note he was gobbling stolen stollen with Fenton. "I think I saw a copy of Kant's 'Prolegomena to Any Future Metaphysics' downstairs. I could pass it to you if you drop by."

"Very kind, " Loubouitin looked dejectedly downwards. "but I think I best be off." And he drifted downwards.

"Yippie-ki-ay, Mother Lover!" FSN whispered.

"I'm sorry?"

"Not quite sure why I said that. Sort of felt the need."


The police had rounded up the Aztecs and were herding them out of the Naked Tony Tower. All eleven of them. FSN was explaining to Leman, Techno and Mart that Loubouitin was really Duckman.

"Duckman?" The voice came from under the sheet carrying the body of Stan Lee, which was being carried from the building by three Ambulancemen in brightly coloured pyjamas. They carried piñatas, an eagle, a jag-ewe-are and a heron with its bill taped up.  

"Duckman?" Continued the cadaver. "Say there's an idea! But didn't we do Howard the Duck? Is it too similar? Don't want to shell out, go down and be left with a huge bill."

One of the ambulancemen ripped open Lee's shirt and drew on a cross, just left of centre. He nodded significantly to the other two, and they hurried from the building.

FSN turned and Mad-Lem stood there, a small dab of soot on her nose. Why, nobody knew, for there hadn't been a fire.

"Well?" She said.

"Well?" He replied. They both through coins in the well and made a wish. Suddenly she was in his arms.

"FSN?" She asked. "Could we have made it work?"

"Well I believe there are some medical techniques ..." He broke off as he saw a face in the crowd – dark hair shimmering impossibly, dark eyes like pools of brown velvet ...

"Anne Hathaway!" He cried and ran off. Well, he didn't so much run as use a form of locomotion peculiar to FSN. Sir David Attenborough has been shown film of FSN progressing at speed and his comment was "frelled if I know what to call it!"  Mad-Lem watched his departing form.

"Oh FSN! You magnificent spugger! Always ... moviing away from me." She said softly.

"You have a tear on your cheek." Orcs said, offering her a slightly used tissue.

"I haven't been crying." With an effort, she drew her attention away from FSN.

"No, a tear. A cut or wound. That's how to use homographs." He said. Cocky little twonk.



In the FIAT, Bert and Westie awoke. They looked at each other and laughed.

"You know what, Westie? I've had a good Pendrakenmas. No FSN to worry about, just a good bloke to have a few drinks and a laugh with." He sighed.

"Aye, we should do this again."

"Not wait to next Pendrakenmas? Sooner?"

"Aye. That would be good." They both knew their words were hollow. They would return to the back of FSN's mind and not be brought out again before next Pendrakenmas. Then, Bert would be nursemaid and foil to the bumbling oaf, and Westie ... well who knew? Next year he could be a dragon or a 6th form schoolgirl or a flying monkey. Bets could be put on schoolgirl.

But they shook hands and counted themselves blessed that they had spent at least one Pendrakemas in good health, good comfort and good company. And what more is there to be wished for?

Merry Pendrakenmas everyone.    
   

And you, Nobby !

Excellent work, that man ! :-bd......Loved it !

Cheers - Phil

Insane genius! Wonderful stuff. Thanks, FSN!

Chris

Very good, Nobby!  More than a few gems in there.  Bravo!   ;D ;D ;D

Thank you for your kind words.

You'll be pleased to know that Techno has told me that there are 6 Die Hard films, so I'm OK for material until the Pendraken 30th Anniversary.

He's also offering two tickets to ABBAsolutely Fabulous's gig on 3/2/17 for the first to identify all the ABBA songs in his big speech. Unfortunately, he's not sure if 3/2/17 is 3rd Feb or 2nd March.



Hey America? Why do you put dates that way? Where else in any measurement system is something put in any order apart from smallest-largest or largest-smallest? You don't say 3 minutes, 5 hours and 26 seconds. 4 pounds, 16 stone, 5 ounces.

Absolutely brilliant, Az Taken my hat off to your genius.

Quote from: fsn on 23 December 2016, 12:32:29 PM

You'll be pleased to know that Techno has told me that there are 6 Die Hard films, so I'm OK for material until the Pendraken 30th Anniversary.

Great!  #-o

;)
Hope that means I won't have to wear a dress (again)?  #:-S

Great FSN...
I feel like I missed a page somewhere? Must have been that nap...

Quote from: mad lemmey on 23 December 2016, 02:27:12 PM
I feel like I missed a page somewhere? Must have been that nap...

Nah! It's just when you try a limit yourself to 2000 words a session, you occasionally have to sacrifice a few things - like plot.


What you think should be there has probably been edited out.   

The crowd had quickly dispersed leaving the square in shambles. As "Voulez Vous" continued to sound over the speakers, little Lobella scurried around happily picking up feathers and bits of shiny glass.

A gang of Irish navvies (EC22) appeared to begin restoring the square to its pre-Pendrakenmas purity and order. The leader, surveying the oil slicks, broken bottles, discarded Pendraken bookmarks and a flaming remnant of a T-35, could only exclaim,
"Jaysus, Mary an' Joseph wud yer luck at dat!"

D_Guy sat inconsolable on the pavement picking at a pipe cleaner.
"No Aztecs?", he sobbed, "There won't be Aztecs?"

Happy Pendrakenmas, fsn and all!

And a final Bravo to the author!   =D> =D> =D>
Well done, Sir!

It's quite simple,old fellow,  letters come before numbers, EC22 for example. Names come before numbers on the back of football jerseys - I could go on.
The date is clearly "March 2^nd, 2017" ...and, no, suoerscripts don't count!

Brilliant FSN!!

I only a new member and even got a staring part.   :-bd

I love you FSN.  :x ( In a platonic manly sort of way )

Well done Nobby, another brilliant Christmas offering

Mark

Quote from: Duckman on 23 December 2016, 04:26:35 PM
I love you FSN.  :x ( In a platonic manly sort of way )

You're welcome Duckman.

Sorry I threw you off a building.

 =D> =D> =D> ;D ;D ;D