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.....

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! 

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 !

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.     
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.

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.

 

Cheers - Phil

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

 

Cheers - Phil