Anyone want to write a story?
 

Its been a while since we did one of these. Anyone up for another cellar group story? LJ used to be great about starting them up, and they were kind of fun. If anyone is interested in playing, the rule is that you use the name of another dweller in your part of the story and you have to mention whatever music was playing at that point in the plot. Any takers? I'll go first:

It was a dark and stormy night. The neighbor's cat had just shredded LJ's trash bag for the kazillionith time when gunshots were heard coming from across the street 3 houses down. LJ leaned out his window and hollered "COCK!" - perhaps at the cat or perhaps at the sound of the gunshots which had rudely awakened him from his slumbers. Busterb emerged from a darkened alley with his faithful dog, Sheila, hopped into his car and drove off with the CD player blaring "Send Lawyers, Guns and Money"...

They didn’t get far. As they turned the corner, a powerful set of headlights blazed at them from a large vehicle directly opposite. Busterb brought the car to an abrupt stop, but left the engine running - he had this feeling it was the right thing to do.

The other vehicle was big - a Hummer or something similar, Busterb thought. It didn’t look right. Sheila edged towards her master, whimpering knowingly. He could just make out a figure in front of the headlights – the rain made it so difficult. Sort of silhouetted ,but the strength of the glare and flap flap of the wipers made it hard to work out who or what is was. Near the ground it was a little easier and Busterb could make out the shape of army boots, combats tucked inside each bootleg. Busterb tried to shield some of the glare from his eyes. The rain eased slightly and he could just manage to trace the shape more clearly. His eyes worked upwards. It was a man – a big man - it looked like Urbane Guerilla, but he couldn't be sure.

There was a strange click-clack. He couldn’t work it out at first but then he knew. The barrel of an AK47 was pointed towards him. ‘What the he –‘. His words were cut off as the distinctive crack of rifle-fire pierced the cold, wet night air. A split-second later his windshield shattered into a million pieces and rain and glass crashed into his face. Sheila yelped. Was she hit? No time to check as he heard the click-clack again. Busterb thrust the gear into reverse and floored the gas pedal. The tires spun, the car vibrated violently, the smoke and smell of tyre rubber all around. The rain now beat against his face. Then the tyres found solid tarmac and gripped, and he was thrown forward suddenly as the car hurled backwards.

He grasped the wheel and spun it anticlockwise on full lock at the same time pushing the lever into drive. In an instant the car was facing away from the assailant and it raced forwards, Busterb fought to right the car as it lurched left and right. The rain was soaking him as he battled with the car's erratic movements, but he had it under control at last. Glancing in the mirror he could see the Hummer’s headlights rising and falling. That meant one thing - it was moving and in pursuit, but who the hell was it? And why was this man chasing after Busterb….??

A fresh track on the CD was just beginning. Gloria Gaynor, ‘I will survive’. Busterb had to smile - I hope you're right, he thought to himself, but he didn't sound that convincing, not even to himself...

The crystal ball glows in the darkness of the "overseeing lair", where Lord Undertoad oversees the anarchy of his cellarites. The images flash on and on, until he hears an alarmed "cock!" from the crystal balls dolby digital lair surround speakers and he strokes his beard as he watches the hummer in pursuit of one of his cellarites.

The humming and croaking of the mutant helper frogs encompasses the lair and UT lets out a short sigh as he slumps in his deer antler adorned throne. At that moment a clocked figure slid down the lair entry pole, and fell to a heap on the floor.. UT jumped up in defensive alarm and swung his maroon velvet cape to one side.

The cloaked figure rose to stand and whispered "i have information for you about Busterb". The man edged forward to UT "Busterb has been spotted visiting a coffee shop. Where there IS coffee......... and UT, there IS a shop."

"NEVER!! Who are you and who is that attacking my Cellarite?!" UT puffed out his chest challenging the mysterious informant.

The man drew even closer, lifted his hands & pulled back his hood to reveal his face. "Mwahahahaa"

UT gasped in disbelief.. the lair walls started to crumble with bassline and meatloaf as they both looked toward the crystal ball.. The Hummer was closing in on Busterb in an alley way. Buster could hardly see through the rain in his eyes and sheila was howling from the passenger seat * flash to the hummer * an AK 47 mounted on the dash was being reloaded by very delicate fingers. The female driver of the big 4wd knows that Busterb is cornered, she puts her foot to the floor and turns up the car stereo "Midnight at the lost and found.. lost soals in the hunting groud" cho choo chooo

(Not sure if this is breaking the rules, but... oh, what the hell..)

His body was cold and drowning. The speedo showed 75 and still he raced ahead, rain pelting his face like thousands and thousands of ice cold needles penetrating his tired, battered skin. His hands slipped on the wheel, everything was wet, soaking, his vision constantly blurred, but he could just see enough to catch the reflection in the mirror, to know that those lights were still there and closing up behind. A flash of gunfire and another bullet buried itself into the trunk of the car.

That must be about the tenth, he thought to himself, and he knew he couldn’t take much more. Just one lucky shot and the gas tank would go, and so would BusterB with it. He glanced at the passenger well. Sheila was there trying to get what shelter she could from the relentless rain. She barked. Not a frightened bark, more one that said ‘we can make it.’ He owed it to her to try.

They were out of town now heading towards the lakeside and the woods. Perhaps……

He pressed the gas pedal harder still. It was already flat against the floor but he was convinced he could get more out of the old girl. Come on, come on, come on… not far now. We can make it….

Lightning flashed, reflected in the waters of the lake. The road bent sharply here, he remembered. He prayed the Hummer driver wouldn’t. He eased his foot off the pedal a fraction, enough for the Hummer to gain extra ground. Come on,,,come on… Closer… closer… God please don’t let a bullet have damaged this. His hand moved towards the switch as the lake waters filled his vision.

NOW!

Light blazed from the rear of his car as the floodlight on the roof gunned into life blinding the Hummer’s driver. She raised an arm to shield her eyes and at that instant BusterB slammed the brakes, while swinging the wheel viciously to the right. Brakes off and gas hard on again. The car swerved across the road and off the tarmac, the rear wheel slewing and biting mud. Then it gripped. The whole car shook and he was whiplashed away from the lakeside and back on to the road, looking in his mirror just in time to see the Hummer crash through the lakeside barrier and fly into the storm-ridden air. BusterB braked violently and the car skidded to halt. A stomach-churning crash filled the air as metal hit a solid floor of water, and then just as suddenly it was silent. Even the storm seemed to hold its breath..

BusterB jumped out of the car and raced back to the bend. Hard to see, but, yes, there it was, the rear of the Hummer about thirty yards out, disappearing beneath the black rain-pocked surface. Did he hear music or something. It seemed to be coming from the Hummer. Hah! ‘The long and winding road, that leads to your-…’ and it was gone. Certainly not ‘door’ maybe ‘doom’, he smiled to himself…

A bark. Sheila was outside the car, soaked but tail-wagging. She was clearly visible - he'd left the floodlight on. He jogged back towards her and she to him. They met and he stroked her head:‘Come on girl, let’s get out of here’. They made their way back to the car. And that’s when he saw the other lights coming towards him out of the sky - and the noise. ‘What the fuck now….!!??’

The helicopter swung in low. Inside, Elspode grabbed the loud-hailer, pushing the door back so that he could reach out towards the figure below. ‘Buster, Sheila is that you?’ He looked at the pilot. ‘Turn that crap off will you’. ‘Crap?? That’s the Beatles, one of their last numbers…’

(Aside: I love how we are moving back and forth between the UK and the US here with words like tarmac and tyres - you really are an excellent writer, Cyclefrance, as I have noticed on the other site we share in common ;) )

Busterb tied Sheila into the sling Patrick had dropped from the hovering helicopter. She was raised into the aircraft, barking wildly at her unexpected ascent heavenwards. Busterb was next up and the helicopter whirred off into the night.

The driver of the Hummer noticed that she had a run in her brand new silk stockings and uttered a short curse, "Cock!"

UT leaned back from the screen and gave a huge sigh of relief. Sheila, Busterb and Patrick were safe for the moment. Time to send off a scathing reply to TW's latest 4 page contribution to the Politics Forum. UT became engrossed in writing a very witty and very devestating response to the hapless TW. So absorbed was UT, that he failed to glance up at the monitor again for quite some time.

Plthjinx leaned back at the controls of the chopper and said to Patrick and Busterb, "Well, boys, I don't know about you, but I could use a jagermeister about now. Seeing as how we're right over Ohio, why don't we stop by Brianna's and take her out for a drink?"

This excellent plan was met with sounds of approval all around and Sheila joined in with excited barks. When the chopper set down on the tarmac at Armpit of Ohio International Airport, Brianna was already there waiting next to a gleaming stretch limo.

"You guys are never going to believe this, but I'm being followed by some wierd chick in a hummer. She doesn't look too friendly, either. What's going on?" The CD player inside the stretch limo abruptly began to blare "Born to Run" by Emmy Lou Harris and the Spyboy Band.

"My dear", replied Plthjinx removing his flying goggles, "I have no idea. But be a good sort, what – don't say anything in front of the D-O-G."

Understanding completely that it was poor form to air your troubles in front of canines, Brianna dimpled a reply and set about tucking her guests into the limousine with tartan blankets and flasks of tea.

"Do help yourselves to sandwiches" she trilled, swigging on a barely concealed hipflask that winked below her thigh-skimming dress.

BusterB gagged on a tomato sandwich, "No flavour. You want decent tomatoes you better call me in future Brianna."

By this time Brianna had elegantly motioned the driver to proceed and not spare the horses, and the beautiful leather interior was pebbled with drops of tea, masticated snacks and dog drool. Despite this sacrifice to the gods of speed, a set of headlights was already illuminating moustaches from the rear, creating coat hanger shadows on the partition.

"Darn" said Brianna, wide eyed & innocent, "Perhaps I should have taken the time to wax after all…."

"Just cross your legs," replied BusterB

"You're mainlining xoxoxoBruce!" cried Pltjinx in obvious distress.

"You say that like it’s a bad thing, would you prefer Urbane Guerrilla?"

And in UT's lair, RuPaul's Supermodel of the World hit the decks…….

(In memory of Robert Rankin – he’s not dead yet, it’s just a long time since I’ve read any of his books!)

The limousine glided to a halt outside the chosen bar. It was an interesting establishment, multi-sided architecture from the Geometric school. From one angle it seemed to have five sides yet from another you could definitely count seven. Viewed from above, however, as Plthjinx could testify, it clearly had six sides. Hence the name the locals gave this establishment: The Dead Parrot (more correctly the Polygon).

Five figures and a d-o-g emerged and entered the bar, just as a darkened-windowed Hummer throbbed slowly past.

The place was almost empty, save for the temporary barman who was polishing a few glasses - holding one up to the rather poor light, deciding there was still a speck of dirt somewhere on it (even if he couldn’t see it, there was certainly one, it was just a matter of degree of magnification) and taking to further application of his tired looking tea-towel (as that cloth is so called, he very well knew, in the merry country of England) - and a spotty looking youth who was entranced by an old–fashioned Wurlitzer Juke Box, which now sat in the corner of the bar, the corner that had been Brianna’s favourite place to relax….

Brianna approached the bar: ‘Still here then?!’ it was both a question and an exclamation.

‘Of course.’ Clodfobble carried on polishing.

‘How long exactly have you been here?’

‘Five years, seven weeks, three days, four hours and……' he stopped polishing and looked at his watch, '...twenty three minutes’

‘That’s some temporary job!’

Clodfobble had heard it all before: ‘What can I get you?’

‘Six Jagermeisters – large ones’

‘I can count only five’

‘Sheila likes a Jagermeister too. So what’s with the Wurlitzer. That wasn’t here last week.’

‘I came in Monday and there it was. I guess the brewery decided we needed something to liven the place up. Not sure the selection of records is going to achieve that mind you. There’s actually only one record. A hundred of them but all the same record. You’ve arrived when it’s stopped playing it. Fair driving me round the bend it is. Plays it automatically every five minutes, non-stop. I’ve tried pulling the plug out but it makes no difference, it keeps on playing. Must have one hell of a back-up battery is all I can say. I’ll bring your drinks over.’

Brianna joined the other four plus d-o-g at the table by the door.

‘Buster, you mentioned a lady driver in a Hummer. Did you get to see her face at all?

‘Briefly, just as the floodlight hit. Looked kind of familiar. Like someone I know or have seen somewhere, but I can’t put a name to her.’

‘I think I might be able to help there.That person, her name, it wouldn’t be Monica Lewinsky would it?’

‘That’s it, that‘s who she looks like. Monica Lewinsky. Spot on. Hey, wait a minute how did you know?’

‘I can tell you that…’ another woman’s voice. The five turned agog to look at Sheila. Surely this wasn’t to be one of those talking animals in the bar jokes….?

BusterB broke the stunned silence. ‘Err, Sheila, did you just talk?’

‘I did.’ Sheila sat at the table, paws extended looking at the surrounding people she already knew so well, making individual eye contact like all the best speakers do. ‘I’m sorry Buster. It’s all a bit complicated. I’ll try to explain as best I can. You see, I’m not a dog – quaint the way you spell the word rather than say it, I’ve always thought – in fact I’m not from this planet. If you saw me in my true form then doubtless you would find me quite repulsive. I took the identity of a dog because they seem to be so well accepted by you earth humans. And being so well accepted, I could go about my business without creating any concern…’

‘And your business is?' from Elspode

‘Your drinks, gentleman. I say Buster. When did you teach Sheila to sit like that? Amazing trick, I must say.’ Sheila wagged her tail and barked.

‘Yes, she ‘s full of surprises.’ Said Buster ‘’Put it on the tab will you?’

‘Sure!’, said Clodfobble and went back to clean his glasses (this time the ones he should have been wearing when he delivered the drinks – he might have seen and learned more if he had!)

‘Sorry about that,’ Sheila continued, ‘I’m not sure who I can trust outside of our little group just yet. My business. Yes, well it might take some explaining. A stiff drink beforehand might not go amiss.’

To a man (well, four men and one woman – Sheila declined to participate) each simultaneously raised their jug of Jagermeister and downed it in one, Then, wiping froth from their lips in unison they gazed as one again back at Sheila.

Sheila’s voice dropped an octave and became rather powerful and low: ’My name is Phtrethnog, of the race of Drarth that dwells upon the planet Snagell 3 in the constellation Kryngax. We are a cultured, hmmm… I’ll use the word… people. Our task is to preserve inter-galactic peace and harmony. This we have done for many millions of your Earth years.

‘I am here because your planet is in danger. Brianna, you are right about the lady – or rather creature – resembling, Monica Lewnisky. The earth is being invaded, or about to be invaded. That juke box is not what it seems. It is sending a homing signal to the Klarnak fleet, to the mother ship where the commander is waiting for the coded message to attack. It is not going to happen yet, but it will happen. There is still time. The Klarnak are a foul race who suffer from perpetual flatulence. They wish to take over the earth because their own planet is now uninhabitable – the smell is even too much for them. They have sent ahead scouts who have taken over the form of Monica Lewisnky. They acquire new bodies from you earth folk, but only the men. The women are of no interest to them at this time.They don’t seem to have much trouble, either. The Lewinsky approach does it you see. When it comes to body transfer you don’t need much imagination to guess what part of the body she latches her mouth to, sucking out human life and implanting that of the Klarnak.

Four men went ‘ooooooooh’, their hands moving simultaneously and protectively between their legs.

Suddenly the juke box whirred into life. And the mechanical arm stretched across the line of records, carefully selecting one about five in from the left and placing it on the turntable, which began to turn at the prescribed 45 revolutions per minute. The needle dropped to the record’s edge, a few second’s hissing and then….

The distinctive voice of David Bowie:
’Ground control to Major Tom, Ground control to Major Tom:
Take your protein pills and put your helmet on….’

UT looked up glassy eyed after reading TW's latest contribution to the Current Events Forum. Time for a little comic relief! He glanced at the second monitor which showed him the activities of his following of Dwellers. All seemed well. The Dwellers were mostly hunched over their computers studying the Image of the Day and trying to look busy in case the boss walked by. Then UT panned to Busterb, Ptlhjinx, Brianna, and Patrick (Elspode) and the D O G. WTF!?

This was definitely a job for xoxoxoBruce! UT picked up the phone and dialed...

Meanwhile, back at the bar, Brianna stretched out a silk encased leg provocatively, and drummed her high heel on the floor impatiently. "Clodfobble!" she called imperatively. "How many times do we have to tell you that this cross-dressing thing confuses everybody! Please get your hand out of that pickle jar and bring Busterb a shot of Cuervo. We are trying to fend off an invasion of Klarnaks here!"

Clodfobble pouted and said, "Well, if those six dudes who were in here earlier dressed as Monica Lewinsky can cross dress, I don't see why I can't." She brought over a bottle of Jose Cuervo and set it in front of Busterb who promptly poured himself and Sheila doubles.

Sheila finished off her Cuervo with a single lap of her pink tongue and snarled, "Will somebody please shut up that damn juke box?"

As if on cue, Bruce stepped through the door with his phazer and aimed it at the juke box, causing it to dissolve into a hipcupping mass of neon plastic and hissing wires. Davie Bowie whined once and then his voice faded away.

The others stared at Bruce in surprise. "No time for explanations," he told them as he stepped over the pool of coalescing gunk that had once been a Klarnak mind control device and joined them at their table.

"We need to get out of the steaming armpit of Ohio, NOW!" Bruce informed them. "Plthjinx, how good are you at evading enemy alien space craft?"

"Funny you should ask," responded the intrepid pilot. "I just got my EEASC certification yesterday."

"Well, lets get the hell out of Dodge," said Patrick. "I have a strange feeling that the key to all this is that cat that's been shredding black plastic objects."

"I never liked cats much," commented Sheila, aka Phtrethnog. Busterb grinned and poured Sheila another double shot of Cuervo which Sheila caused to vanish as quickly as the first.

"To the airport!" shouted Clodfobble and the group sprinted out the door to the waiting limo where the CD player had just begun to issue forth the sound of "Rocketman" by Elton John...

'That's not fair, you sucked the last one'
'I did not!'
'Did'
'Didn't'
'Oooh, you lying bitch...'

Monica1 (aka Harnog) glared at Monica2 (aka Bondriz), his handbag twitching at the end of his arm, ready to swing it at Bondriz's head, if necessary.'

'Now, now, you two, do, do calm down, goodness, goodness me, what WILL the commander think, if he finds out. Oooh, these heels are killing me!'

Monica3 (aka Playtah) stumbled slightly, righted himself, and brushed down his skirt.

'Well I reckon Harnog's got a point you know'. Monica4 (aka Arnax, Harnog's twin brother, although in their present guises this was hardly obvious or even mattered, and none of the remaining four had a clue about this anyway, but it explains why Arnax might want to support Harnog on this one). 'I saw who did the last one, and it was definitely Bondriz, so there.'

'How could you, Arnax, that's just so mean. After I let you go first yesterday as well. You've, you've really upset me, you really have.' Bondriz burst into tears, and mascara lines began to trail down his cheeks. It was all getting too much for Bondriz, he'd given up his hairdressing job to come to this god-forsaken planet. All those promises of handsome men with fine scultured bodies... well, what a load of old rubbish that had turned out to be. And now he was stuck with this bunch of catty individuals. What had he got himself into?? He searched anxiously through his handbag, trying to find his hankie...

'Come on girls (hic), no need to fight over me, there's plenty to go around...'

At this moment Capnhowdy couldn't believe his luck - six of them! and all fighting over HIM!

'Shut up you!' Monica5 (aka Slarvos) was getting tired of this. He looked over to the Hummer where the driver, Qarvop (Monica6) was seated checking his make-up in the mirror. The other four were still arguing amongst themselves, and to top it all he could no longer pick up the signal from the juke box, which meant that, if he couldn't, the ship couldn't. This wasn't looking good at all. This wasn't the way they'd planned it. He had to find out why the signal had stopped. If he didn't then the invasion would start right away, and they weren't really ready for that. He broke wind violently. His nose picked up the ripe odour of ten day old rotting cabbage - God they weren't getting any better. He needed a cigarette - about the only thing he'd found worthwhile here as far as he was concerned. Where had he put them. Couldn't find them in the handbag. Don't say he'd left them in the bar. He suddenly remembered putting the packet down when they'd been speaking to that nicely dressed Clodfobble fellow. Oh, well, he didn't suppose it would hurt to go back and get them, the others seemed well occupied, and he quite liked the idea of seeing Clodfobble again.

Slarvos looked over to the strange-shaped building that was the bar (he was sure it had had seven sides last time he looked) just in time to see six figures and a dog climbing back into the limousine, and the limousine start to move away...

Slarvos shrieked loudly: 'Stoppit, stoppit, STOP.. IT!!!' It was so loud and so urgent that the other four Monicas stopped talking immediately and looked at Slarvos. 'Look, look over there. Phtrethnog and his friends are getting AWAY!!'

Five pairs of stillettos rushed towards the Hummer. In that short distance to the waiting Hummer at least four stiletto heels broke. Slarvos, the first to arrive opened the door. A foul stench emerged, filling his nostrils.

'Really, Qarvop. How could you?' Slarvos flapped his hand trying to disperse the hideous odour invading his nose, but regretably without success: 'You know the rules. No farting inside the vehicle! God, open the windows, please!'

The five Monicas scrambled into the Hummer, Fingers clasping their noses, all of them.

'Night, Narvop. Norwow nat nimoutheen!' Qarvop looked back totally bewildered. Slarvos saw it wasn't working. Bravery was called for. He removed his fingers, and quickly: 'RightQarvopfollowthatlimousine' and just as quickly covered his nose again.

Well, they say you can't smell your own, which is a good job really as it at least meant that Qarvop could drive the Hummer. They sped off in pursuit of the limousine, whose tailights were still just visible in the distance...

'No, please, don't go. I'm sorry if I said something to upset you. Please come back...' Capnhowdy looked totally forlorn. It had been a dead cert. He coudn't believe they'd gone. Only two minutes ago they'd all been tearing his trousers off. Now? He just couldn't undertstand it....

Automatically, in his current slightly inebriated state, he put his Walkman earphones back in his ears and clicked play. The Nelson Riddle orchestra struck up, and Frank Sinatra burst forth: 'That's life...-' Capnhowdy pulled out the phones: 'Oh fuck off, Frank, that's the last thing I need now!!'

If only he knew how lucky he had been.....

so with xobruce and clodfobble leading the bunch, they notice the hummer trying to catch up to them only it is swerving uncontrollably. apparently all of the monikas were beating on Qarvop (Monica6) for emitting such a foul odor and breaking the automatic windows in the locked position from all the slamming around in the hummer. xobruce taps on the limo driver's shoulder: "you might want to slow down a bit and jump out, i don't think you want to be a part of this" but Zippyt turns and says "what the fuck is wrong with you? don't you know i'm an ex-pissed-off-at-aliens-marine?! AND not to mention, i have a plasma exo-radiation blaster left over from my duties at area 51. not that i was there, uh, well, sir, IF there were such a gun or situation, i'm not at liberty to discuss such matters nor am i aware that they even existed." XOB says in a low voice, actually whispering to zip, "you remember me then as your base commander. welcome aboard son." about this time they notice that the hummalowinski mobile is starting to gain ground so zip pops in red barchetta in the CD player and it blasts them toward the airport......

The speedometer on the limo was pegged at 120, but still the Lewinskis were gaining. If I'd had a stranger day, it hadn't been in recent memory. First, the whole helicopter trip, and now Zippyt materializing out of thin air in the seat next to me.

"Unlock the windows so I can stick this pop gun out and let go a couple of blasts" yelled xoxoxoBruce. The windows slid down silently, and a blast of wet wind roared throughout the passenger compartment.

"Damn, Bruce; when I said you blew my skirt up, this isn't what I meant!" shrieked Brianna.

Bruce didn't respond. He was too busy leaning out the window, trying not to be pulled through it by the roaring slipstream. Two quick flashes and a deep popping sound were followed closely by his exclamation of "Shit! I hit that bitch square in the grille, and it didn't even chip the chrome!"

"We're coming up on the airport runway gate, Bruce! You've gotta buy us some time to board the ship, man!", Sheila yelped.

It was just then that we sped by a blur that looked a lot like a proper Brit standing beside a bicycle on the side of the road. A proper Brit standing beside a bicycle...and holding something that looked disturbingly similar to a spacetime distillation blaster.

Bruce, head still out the window, had time enough only to cry out, "Now, Cyclefrance, NOW!"

[jaws]plthijinx: "we're gonna need a bigger plane!"[/jaws]
plthijinx "bruce, does your buddy still have that secret retro-fitted valkyrie xb70? and if so, we HAVE to have it for me to do the advanced EEASC manuevers! also if you can call in the ospry's that would help us with our escape! about that time, 30 seconds to mars starts blaring on the stereo "attack"

The Cellarites increasingly packed limo sped towards Cyclefrance (luckily it was an instantly-adjustable stretch limo which made it possible to accommodate all these extra occupants), who was busily trying to work out what the strange object he was holding actually, well, was. He'd seen it poking out of the bunch of onions that he always had strapped either side of his handlebars. His memory was getting bad - for the life of him, he couldn't remember when he'd put those onions there, or for that matter why, but he was sure he hadn't included this object. There was some writing on the side. He started to read: The Omega Fully Patented Space Time....-

At this precise moment a lot of shouting coming from the limousine caused Cyclefrance to look up. 'What a noisy bunch,’ he thought – ‘strange looking dog....Hey, wait a minute!’ one of them seemed to be shaking a fist at him and shouting as well...

The car sped past, xoxoxoBruce's words rising and fading the way they do when a fast car goes by (you know a bit like when a police car goes by with its siren blaring). and, unfortunately for Cyclefrance, he had managed to break the cyclist's golden rule by stopping immediately adjacent to a large puddle left by the recent storm.

A wall of water gracefully rose from the roadside as the limo passed, seemed to hang in the air for the merest fraction of a second, as if pondering whether to complete its intended finale or not, then the decision having been taken, it proceeded to cascade in one huge gush all over Cyclefrance (quite beautiful in away, although Cyclefrance didn't quite appreciate this...)

Distilla-t-i-on...( he looked up) bla-. He didn't quite finish. In fact he found himself saying something else, and quite loudly, in the direction of the limousine:

'You fucking basta-'

This just wasn't Cyclefrance's night! A huge Hummer sped past at that very second, just as the storm water had re-gathered itself into a nice big puddle again.

SPURRRRRALASSSSHHHH!

'..r-d-s!????'

Right, thought CF, that's it, a cyclist can take so much. He threw his bike to the ground, and grabbed the Distillation Blaster resting it upon his shoulder and gazed through the sight-piece, pointing it towards the distant Hummer. 'My God it seems a hell of a way away' he said to himself, and he pressed the 'fire' button (handily marked ‘fire button’ - useful that). A laser blast (naturally) of pure energy shot from the blaster. Unfortunately, this was in the opposite direction to the one he had intended, as Cyclfrance had the thing the wrong way round.

'Oops!' A grand old oak tree, just about to celebrate two hundred years of existence and feeling very proud of itself as a result suddenly disappeared in a flash of quite astounding brilliance.

Seems it was not his night either.

‘Oh, dear…!’ Cyclefrance looked at the blaster whose strap still hung around his shoulder,’that wasn’t meant to happ-’

Sun Sparkz, clad in a very fetching all-in-one red leather biker’s number shot past CF, missing the puddle (such a nice girl), but unfortunately catching the blaster’s strap in her handle bar.

‘Werrerrerggh – oh!’ Cyclefrance found himself behind Sun Sparkz and astride the pillion seat.

‘Hi CF – messed that up a bit didn’t you – you’d better give the blaster to me in a moment, hang on!

And she gunned her flame red (color co-ordination is so important) Kawasaki 636 towards the Hummer at speed, an extremely damp CF, and a trailing line of onions behind (yes, they had somehow got caught up in CF’s apparel as well!)

The on-board stereo of Sparkz’s bike (well, a girl can’t do without music now, can she) thumped away – it was N.E.R.D: ‘She's sexy!! Her youth ... She's sexy!!.’

‘Oh, I say, this is rather nice..’

‘For you, maybe (CF noticed an Australian twang to her words) – I don’t mind you holding on like that – but don’t go getting any ideas – and do your hands really have to be that high?? – Take it easy, cobber, we’ve more important things to do - we’ve a world to save!’

And she turned the accelerator grip even further, adding another 20 mph to their already phenomenal speed…

Thanks to Zip's quick thinking, our heroes make it to the airport with minutes to spare in front of the extremely stinkeriferous Lewinsky-mobile.

Plthjinx jumps out of the limo ahead of the rest (after all, airports are HIS turf!) "That way, everybody," he shouts and points to a darkened hanger with a LARGE sign reading "AIR CRAFT MAINTENANCE - VERY BORRRRING!" Underneath these words is a second, smaller notice which reads: WARNING! UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL WILL BE SUBJECT TO SEIZURE OF THEIR CAT AND GRANDMOTHER BY THE CIA. DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!

Clodfobble objected, "I HATE being bored! Looks like there's a nice 747 over there on runway 9 that we could hi-jack. I bet it would be very comfy, too."

But Sheila/Phtrethnog exclaimed, "Hey! I'd love to see them even try to do anything with "my" cat or my grandmother! I'd tell them that I owned the feline which adores black plastic objects. What was left of the CIA after the cat got through with them would then have to take on my sweet old grannie who has 72 tentacles, 8 heads, teeth like razor blades, and is bored as hell back in the old alien's home on Alpha Centauri. You should see what she can do with a crochet hook! On second thought, you don't even want to know what her crochet projects look like!"

Bruce gives Ptlhjinx a look which is a mixture of outright admiration and frank disbelief. "You’re not telling me that you can fly that thing, are you?"

The brash pilot grins and says, "Can Cyclefrance ride a tricycle? Of course, I can fly it!"

This assurance is good enough for the gang of Dwellers who make a dash toward the hanger, following hot on Ptlhjinx's heels.

Good thing Cyclefrance and Sunsparkz had made it there first. Upon their arrival they had observed the CIA agent who was supposed to be doing his turn on guard duty being beckoned toward the janitor’s closet by Lewinsky no. 7. “Mr. Libby told me to tell you that I suck but I don’t swallow,” no.7 informed the mesmerized agent. “Wanna see?” Obviously deeply concerned for the threat such an action might pose to National Security, the agent had unbuckled his belt and followed the Lewinsky into the closet.

Thinking fast, Cyclefrance grabbed the distillation blaster back from SunSparkz and aimed...

Then he remembered to turn the blaster round in the direction of the janitor’s closet. Shall we say that the agent and the Lewinsky went out with a bang?

A few minutes later a mysterious aircraft began to taxi at an alarming rate of speed down the airport’s main runway. This plane was no Valkyrie! Only Bruce and Ptlhjinx and maybe three other people on the face of earth knew that the thing was an Aurora.

The pilots and crews of the other aircraft waiting on the various airport runways knew only that they had been told that all takeoffs had been cancelled indefinately. The chief air traffic controller had just recieved a message that the CIA had his cat. No plane other than the Aurora would be cleared for take-off until he saw “Snookems” safe and sound with his own beady little eyes.

“Can I do a good imitation of a spook or what?” Busterb crowed excitely.

Sheila replied, “Almost as good as I can imitate being a D O G,” and rolled her eyes heavenward.

The Aurora quickly reached a cruising altitude of 21 miles and setled into a soothing speed of mach 5. Ptlhjinx’s voice came over the intercom. “this is your pilot speaking. I would like to thank you all for choosing to fly with Area 51 Airlines. We’ll be reaching Alpha Centauri in about 7 light years. Ground weather at Centauri Global Airport is predicted to be a mild drizzle of methane. We will have one brief stop in LJ’s backyard. Enjoy your flight!”

Clodfobble appeared walking down the aisle with a tray of dog bisquits and Cuervo which she handed out to each passenger.

Zippy apologized profusely to Cyclefrance for the mud puddle. Always the proper English gentleman, Cyclefrance accepted Zippy’s apology and a large dog bisquit from Clodfobble.

Meanwhile, back on the ground, the 6 remaining Lewinsky’s had piled into a phone booth to call the mother ship and were arguing with the operator about the area code. The operator put the Lewinsky’s on hold while she consulted with her supervisor and added a quick coat of polish to her nails. The operator thoughtfully switched on the phone hold muzak to entertain the Lewinsky’s as they waited. It was Sarah McLaughlin’s “Building a Mystery”...

'It's very crowded in here,' Harnog shuffled uneasily, trying to gain a few extra inches of space - not much chance there. 'Not sure I can keep my buttocks clenched any longer.’

‘We’ve waited long enough’, said Slarvos. ‘They’re not coming back, we’ve just been left hanging on to thin air.’ A very small squeak invaded the tight silence. Qarvop blushed.

‘Sorry…!’

‘You of all people. That’s it we’re getting out of here. Look, over there , another phone box. Looks like one of those old British Police jobbies with the blue light on top as well.’

They burst out of the phone booth and wobbled and farted their way across to the blue police phone box (they hadn’t had a chance to do anything about those broken heels yet!).

‘Hmm. Seems to be locked. Let me see’ Slarvos reached into his handbag, took out his Universal Electronic Lock Descrambler, and placed it next to the keyhole. A slight humming, a few lights, a bit if vibration, some steam, then some beeps, some more humming, lights again…

‘Are you sure this is working…?’

‘Give it time – the old locks always take a bit longer!’

Some more steam, then vibrations and … The Descrambler stopped, and the door to the police phone box unclicked, and swung slightly ajar.

Everyone entered except Slarvos:’Won’t be a minute just need to get rid of something’

The other five Monicas entered just in time to hear a rather loud thunderous buttock growl behind them.

‘That’s better’, said Slarvos, and walked towards the door only to find it had closed on him. ‘ Jesus, can they do nothing right…!?’ He took the Descrambler out of his handbag again….

Inside the five other Monicas were all standing with their mouths open.

‘Ooooooo, it’s enormous in here, and yet it looks so small from the outside. Doesn’t look much like any phone box I know. I suppose this is where we place the call.’ Bondriz walked about twenty feet to the center of the ‘box’ where there was some kind of round console. All flashing lights, knobs and levers – and a big clear plasticky looking cylinder that was moving slowly up and down making a strange grating whoooing noise. Looked more like something out of a 1960’s television programme than anything – you know, the sort of programme that suddenly makes a comeback in the new millennium.

‘Let’s see. I think we should press…..this one.’ A manicured nail arced through the air and landed gently but firmly on the green button. The lights flashed more brilliantly, the central cylinder picked up speed, the grating whoooing noise increased.

‘Are you sure you know what you are doing…???’

Outside the Descrambler fell to the ground, and Slarvos saw himself staring at nothing but a strange grating noise.

‘’What the…?!?’

‘Here, young lady – eugh, sorry, forget that – mutton dressed up as lamb comes nowhere near it! Anyway where was I – Oh yes, what do you think you are doing?’ An eccentric looking male figure (who bore an uncanny resemblance to Slang*, but was clearly somebody else) had just burst round the corner accompanied by a quite nice looking young female assistant. ‘Where’s my time mach- I mean police box. What have you done…..’

'It was definitely him, Doctor,' the attractive female assistant (who looked a lot like that nice singer turned actress Billy Piper) explained. 'He attached some small round thing to it and then it disappeared!'

Slarvos wasn’t about to stay even to try to explain what had really happened. He’d clearly seen the last of the other five Monicas. Now it was up to him alone to warn the mother ship and to try to put things back in order. He raced towards the hangar. He knew that his only chance was to get back to the ship himself. Not so easy. He didn’t need a space craft as such. Just something that would take him 30,000 feet above the ground so that he could tune in his Everyman Portable Demogriphicating Alien Transportation Device to the mother ship’s onboard desktop version. And there it was a nice little Learjet. Ideal!

‘Coo-eee’ He called to the mechanic, who stopped, looked and immediately responded to Slarvos’s beckoning wave. I won’t go into the horrifying details of what followed, but let’s say that apart from the obviously mortifying shriveled up frame of the mechanic that was left at the end, his face was at least frozen into a smile!

The radio resting on the wing was still playing: More Sinatra: ‘Fly me to the moon and let me-‘ No time for that. Slarvos switched it off and climbed into the plane. Five minutes later he was heading towards the runway and effecting a most illegal but nevertheless perfect take-off…


*in the UK writing world, this is called 'poetic licence'** - but in the writers world of the Cellar, it means I forgot to introduce a Cellarite!


**or should that be 'prosaic licence...??

The pilots still standing by with great impatience on the airport's runways had never heard such language from the control tower in all their lives!

"You blankety blank, expletive deleted, son of a bitch! Air traffic control did NOT authorize your take-off! Hear that, CIA? That Leer Jet was not authorized to move an inch on the runway, never mind take off! Ooooh, Snookems! Shoot the bastard in that air craft down! Nuke Canada! Just give me my ibby bibby baby back! Snookems! Hang on! I'll buy your favorite kitty treats for you!"

Ptlhjinx listened to the airwaves with astonishment and turned in surprise to Sheila who was sitting in the co-pilot's seat gnawing a Milk Bone(tm).

"What the hell is THAT about?"

"Cat's!" opined Sheila. "Can't live with them; can't live without them. Can this thing shoot down a Leer Jet?"

"We can shoot down anything that moves except that we are currently in the air space over the United Kingdom," replied Ptlhjinx. "The UK's Department of Social Scrutiny requires that anyone who shoots down a Leer Jet over British soil first fill out an anti-avionics permit request form in triplicate. The form has to be signed by both Winston Churchill and Prince Andrew. Churchill's signature is no problem. One of us can just hijack that time machine that just flew past with the 5 Lewinsky's in it. Prince Andrew is being a brat about anti-avionics permits these days, however. Something about the Queen taking away his Piper Cub because he didn't make curfew one night last month."

Sheila loked serious for moment - as serious as a D O G with its mouth full of Milk Bone(tm) can look, anyhow. Then she got an idea.

"I say old chap, Cyclefrance is British, isn't he? Perhaps he could put in a word with Prince Andrew or even the Department of Social Scutiny. He does have both a poetic and prosaic licence. I believe the Brits are impressed by such things. Let's ask him!

Busterb had strolled up to the cockpit in time to overhear this conversation. "I say just shoot the damn thing down without the permit. We could say the Welsh did it, Take 'em years to figure it out!"

"Where is Wolf with her Glock when we need her?" Sheila asked in exasperation.

The Aurora's radio suddenly began to emit Pat Benadar's song, "Hit me with your best shot! Fire away!"

Reader notice:

You will require ‘split brain image’ technology to fully enjoy the next instalment of this amazing story. The latest version of this imagery can be downloaded from:

'www.brain-image-implants/it-wont-hurt-at-all/oh-OK-it-will-hurt-a-bit-well-quite-a-lot-to-be-honest.com'

or else you’ll just have to use your imagination (that might be the better option if you want my opinion)


The brain image splits into three distinct scenes – so far without sound. The first scene is the bridge of the Klarnak mother ship where commander Smarjanth (who unfortunately suffers from tourette’s syndrome), is assessing the current situation. In the second scene we see Slarvos at the controls of the Lear jet, and in the third scene we see our merry Cellarites aboard the Aurora.


The first screen brightens and sound volume increases to an acceptable level:

‘First Officer Qvargist, ARSEHOLE!, I don’t like the way this is going. We haven’t had a signal from our PISSHEAD! Earth transmitter for several hours at least now, have we?

‘Er, ….no, sir,’ Qvargist, had been serving under Smarjanth for several months, but he just couldn’t get used to the commander’s problem with speaking – it was all too close to being personal….he farted quietly to himself, and replied: ‘There’s nothing to say it is a malfunction and I haven’t been able to raise any of the advance guard as yet.’

‘So I gather. Well, I’m not waiting much longer WANKER!. Tell the crew we’re going to amber alert now! What the…. SUCK MY PRICK!!’ For once Smarjanth said something that made sense – he stared through the forward window to see a blue box-like object go spinning past, a light flashing away on its top, and what seemed to be five very similar female faces pressed against the small area of glass that was set into what he could only imagine to be some sort of door.

‘It’s no good. All this invasion stuff is starting to get at me, get me my medication will you, BOLLOCK-BRAIN! Qvargist? I think I need an extra dose…! In fact , I think I’ll have a lie down… Red alert in one hour if no change – you can GO SHIT YOURSELF! take care of that can’t you?

‘Er…. Yes,sir…’


The first image and volume fades, and at the same time the second image brightens and sound is available.

‘Here we are. 30,000 feet. That should do nicely.’ Slarvos opened his handbag and took out the portable transportation device. He pressed the ‘on’ switch and the object started to hum quietly.

‘Just need to set the co-ordinates and I’ll soon be back on the mother ship….’

‘Not if I have my way you won’t!’ Slarvos turned sharply in the direction of the voice. ‘YOU!!’ he exclaimed

The man facing him (her?) was dressed in camouflage fatigues and was pointing an automatic at Slarvos.

Urbane Guerilla spoke: ‘Didn’t think you’d lost me did you. I’ve had you in my sights for a long time, ever since that incident in the alley. I was following you as you gave chase. I saw your Hummer go into the lake. I kept low. BusterB was rescued by the ‘copter, and then you re-appeared, as I thought you would. It didn’t take long before your, heh, ‘sisters’ arrived. You were so busy arguing that you didn’t see me slip into the trunk. I’ve been with you ever since. Getting into the Lear was easy after that. Now your times up, asshole! Any last…..’

UG stopped suddenly. Were his eyes playing tricks? He gazed past Slarvos to where he could see, through the cockpit window, the Aurora, some distance away. Did his eyes deceive him – the Aurora had just fired a missile and it was heading directly at them!

Slarvos, noticed UG’s hesitation, and glanced back over his shoulder Oh, Shit! Turning back to UG he saw that his attention was still averted. Slarvos quietly set the coordinates on the transporter…..

If it hadn’t been for the small light on the transporter, Urbane Guerilla wouldn’t have noticed Slarvos’ movements.

‘Good bye.’ Slarvos smiled…

‘No you don’t!’ UG leapt at Slarvos, grasping at him and grabbing his clothing.

‘Oooooh, you naughty boy…!’

And with that they both disappeared (just like that!), which was a good job really as a split second later the missile hit the Lear jet and there was a really nice explosion, with smoke, flames and bits of metal flying off in all directions, just as you’d expect in such a classy production as this.


The second image and sound now fades. The third image….. the third image…. The third image…… now what?

Hang on a minute, I seem to have lost the remote. No, wait, no I haven’t….. I think I’ve found it. Right. Let’s try this button. Oh, no, it’s the remote for the CD player. Marichiko must have nipped in and taken the other one while I wasn’t looking – well it is her story I suppose….

What IS that playing? Oh it’s Moody Blues, War of the Worlds. How appropriate:

"The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one," he said.
"The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one - but still they come!"

Marichiko stares at the screen in amazement. HER story? The damn thing has definately taken on a life of its own, and she's just along for the ride! "Heh, heh!" she thinks. "Cyclefrance thinks I stole his remote when actually I got a hold of his prosaic licence. Let's see him try to write without that!"

Meanwhile back at the ranch...

It was a dark and stormy night. The neighbor's cat had just shredded LJ's trash bag for the kazillionith time when gunshots were heard coming from across the street 3 houses down. LJ leaned out his window and hollered "COCK!" - perhaps at the cat or perhaps at the sound of the gunshots which had rudely awakened him from his slumbers. Busterb emerged from a darkened alley with his faithful dog, Sheila, hopped into his car and drove off with the CD player blaring "Send Lawyers, Guns and Money"...

Yes, the 5 Lewinsky's had managed to land themselves back in time to the beginning of our story. They climbed out of the blue police call box, blinking their eyes in confusion. The smell of methane permeated the night air...

Ah, the chance to live our lives over again! Would we do things differently or being who we are, would we be forced to proceed on the same old collision course with fate? The Lewinsky's chose the same old, same old, but were now several hours behind everyone else. In fact, they were further detained by the sudden appearance of LJ toting a shotgun and ordering them to stay right where they were until the police arrived. Nothing worse than getting the chance to relive your life and messing it up even worse than the first time around, as the 5 Lewinsky's and survivers everywhere of encounters with space aliens can attest.

Slarvos and UG were feeling a bit disconcerted themselves when they suddenly appeared in two passenger seats on board the Aurora amidst a festive party of Dwellers, Cuervo and dog bisquits. Slarvos had locked on the wrong co-ordinates with his transportation device. It was minor mistakes like this which had kept him at the level of Corporal in the Klarnak Alien Invasion Army for years.

"Don't worry, everyone. I've got him covered!" announced UG to the plucky band of Cellarites who had long since stopped being surprised by anything that had happened in their lives in the past few hours.

"Good job, UG! Have a shot of tequilla!" exclaimed Patrick. "Shall we notify Sheila that we have a Klarnak aboard?"

But Sheila had already entered the cabin, her fur bristling on end and her eyes red with rage.

Slarvos farted loudly.

UT anxiously fiddled with the controls of his computer screens. Damn hackers! Or was it the "This is not porn" crowd? At any rate, the screen showing the doings on board the Klarnak Mothership remained frustratingly blank.

Maybe it was the Sony virus. Or maybe it was a stupid thing that seemed like a good idea at the time. UT quickly typed a message in the "Generic Support Group" thread, "BigV, know anything about bugs?"

BigV typed back, "I know plenty about liquid nitrogen, but I only got a "C" in entomology. How can I be of service?"

Marichiko slipped Mary Chapin Carpenter's song, "Sometimes you're the windshield; sometimes you're the bug" into her CD player and waited with baited breath...

Things were not going well (he’d seen that written somewhere before, he was sure). One minute he was at his PC writing furiously, then he was on board an Aurora with a load if people that although he sort of knew, he was sure he hadn’t really met before. Then there was this talking dog and what the hell was Monica Lewinsky doing there farting all the time???

To cap it all someone had stolen his prosaic licence – luckily, he always carried a spare in his back pocket. He took it out and turned it on (bet you didn't know you had to do that with it, did you...) – the mists of confusion began to part…

He could see a solution to all this. He couldn’t be in two places at once. Thank God for the prosaic licence.

‘Where are you off to CF?’ enquired Elspode.

‘Call of nature, old boy…’ and with that Cyclefrance went into the one of the Lear jet’s two loos. He chose the executive one, the one with the power socket, locked the door and opened his laptop, that he had concealed cleverly inside the bunch of onions that for some reason refused to leave his side. It was an old laptop and the battery was completely buggered (this is completely true!). He plugged it in and began to type: ‘Things were not going well….’

Anyway at least he wouldn’t be disturbed for a while. No sooner had he said that than the door handle rattled….

Slarvos didn’t like the way things were shaping – he had to do something and quick. The Cellarites seemed occupied enough, and UG was concentrating on his tequila – he’d counted five shots already that he’d downed. He quietly checked his handbag. The transporter was still there, thank God. OK this was it…

Slarvos farted three more times, as pungently as he could.

‘Jesus!’ exclaimed xoxoxoBruce, ‘can’t you do ANYTHING about that??’

‘Perhaps if I go to the toilet – it sometimes helps. Is that OK?

‘Anything that prevents that godawful smell is OK with me!’

‘ Oh, I think I can remove the smell if you give me a few minutes.’ Slarvos tried the first toilet door, the Executive one, turning the handle. Damn, it was occupied (good back-link, huh, or what?). The other toilet was free. Slarvos entered.

‘So what now?’ Sundae Girl tucked into a Walnut Whip she had been keeping for a moment just like this.

‘Hey, where did you spring from?’ queried Buster

‘Oh, I’ve been here all the time. Just had to wait for my turn to enter the script. CF said that as soon as I had reported back on the Walnut Whip situation in the UK he’d write me in.’

Buster seemed satisfied with that answer (oh, the power, the power!), and in any event he was being distracted by Sheila/Phtrethnog, who was becoming agitated and pacing up and down the aisle looking in all the seats.

‘What is it, Sheila?’

‘Where’s Slarvos?’

‘Oh, he went to the toilet,’ said Bruce

UG overheard and seemed to sober up suddenly (now downing his 10th tequila….) ‘Noooooooooooo!!!’

UG rushed to the toilet door. It was locked – he put his shoulder into it.

‘Not this one – the other one!’ UG recognised Cyclefrance’s muted tones, and turned to the door opposite. He gave one massive shove against the door and it burst open.

Slarvos had gone!

‘Damn, damn, damn’ (unusually docile language for UG). 'He’s made it to the ship this time. I knew I should have taken the transporter off him – dooohhhh!!'

‘This is no time to do your Homer Simpson impression, UG.’ ZippyT intervened and tried to galvanise everyone into Acton – no, no sorry , I mean action – Acton’s in the suburbs of West London. No one in their right mind would want to go there. Hmm, second thoughts, taking everything, and everyone, into considera-

CF’s second thoughts were interrupted by ZippyT continuing: ’Right everyone. Plan B!!’

As one cohesive unit, our gallant and ever-increasing collection of Cellarites responded in unison: ‘Yeah!… Plan B!…..!!…?? Plan B?…?? What the hell’s Plan B????’

Well not quite one cohesive unit, first there was CF who was still banging away on his laptop in the executive loo, and then, of course, there was Plthijinx who was part flying the plane and part listening to his CD, which was, coincidentally, playing the same track at that very moment as the one that CF was listening to via his laptop CD drive (haven’t gote one really – told you it was an old laptop) although neither was aware of this (well, that’s not true, I mean CF HAD to be aware, didn’t he – he was writing all this at that very self-same moment…).

Anyway, to carry on and keep inside the rules…

80’s icons Duran Duran were belting out one of their classics – the voice of lead singer Simon Le Bon as ever straining to reach the high notes: ‘If you're coming down to land is there…Anybody out there trying to get through … Bop bop bop bop bop bop bop bop this is planet earth…’


That’s it. I’m not writing any more. No, it’s no good, I won’t be swayed.

Loose ends you say? Before I end this episode, there’s the matter of loose ends? Oh, all right then. If you must. The way this story is going there are going to be quite a few, I can tell.

I suppose I can start tidying up a bit now. Let’s see. Aah, yes, over there in that corner. We can deal with that one - a bit of a loose end - there are others in a far worse state, but as you insist….


The 5 Lewinsky’s were being escorted by the police towards their cars (police cars – not the Hummers, don’t be silly, but wait aminute….). They turned the corner and as they did so 5 other Lewinskys were just getting out of their Hummer. Now this could be tricky. Was it the same 5 Lewinsky’s who were even now being escorted by the police, or some other Lewinskys? If it was the same Lewinskys and the other Lewinskys (the ones being escorted by the police) were about to meet themselves, then that could mean only one thing. As any one with even a modicum of Science Fiction reading behind them (or at least one who has seen that Jean Claude Van Damme time-travel film) will tell you – meeting up with yourself in this manner can have nasty consequences….

Harnog took hold of the situation in his nicely, fingers-crossed, manicured hands: ‘Cooeee, Harnog, is that you…?

‘‘Ooooh, it looks like my twin brother!’ The other Harnog rushed forward to embrace the first Harnog, realising all too late, that his twin brother was there with him already. They embraced (well one of them embraced a rather reluctant other). There was a strange squeaking sound followed by the largest fart you’ve ever heard, and then a very minsicule ‘plop’ and the two Harnogs disappeared, sort of into each other - gone!.

Well, as you can imagine, there was instant chaos. A melee of broken stiletto heels and unbroken stiletto heels as the remaining 8 Lewinsky’s rushed around in a complete flap, not sure which way to turn. Sadly, but in some ways fortunately, each of them chose the wrong way to turn. It was like a load of balloons going off (well sort of ) one after the other, until the final ‘plop’ as the last two Lewinskys merged and imploded, leaving two police officers bewildered and scratching their heads with the one hand, while the other was clamped soundly around the nose of each - what a smell….!!

Still, that's what life's ends up like sometimes - you know, a bit like a fart in an empty lift that someone has left. You enter, you smell it, it's not nice and it's certainly not yours - trouble is if you hang around too long and someone else turns up, you might have trouble convincing them it isn't. The two policeman conicidentally realising this about the same time, suddenly rushed to their respective cars and sped off into the night....

Oh, by the way, there is a failed logic to the final fickle fate of the farting Lewinskys. The first Cellarite to let me know what it is will get a free Walnut Whi-…… Oh…!... No, you won’t, after all. Seems that Sundae Girl’s just eaten the last one!

The problem with the Lewinsky's fate is that where-ever you go, there you are. I have proven this for myself time after time. No matter where I go, its that's same old tiresome person who looks back at me from the mirror, Can't seem to shake that woman. Oh, well.

The Lewinsky's are just like the rest of us, we have no where to go but this present moment. You can't double back on yourself in time, since your future has changed your past and now you're in one hell of a mess. Ask any sci-fi writer. Still, the bit of whimsy will be allowed since Cyclefrance did have a spare prosaic licence handy.

We turn now to LJ wildly waving his shotgun about in his backyard. Damn cat! But all cats look black in the dark, and a cat which is fond of black plastic objects lookes blacker than most and was nowhere to be seen.

LJ's attention was distracted anyhow by the landing of a large, highly classified object on his petunia beds. Dwellers began to disembark from it en mass.

"Hey! Which way to Forks, LJ?" shouted Busterb.

"We're having it at our house this year," Jinx called down from an upstairs window. "Glad you guys could make it. Nice work rounding everyone up, Plthjinx!"

The intrepid pilot bowed and smiled modestly, as everyone made a bee-line into the house to feast on Walnut Whip (whatever THAT is).

Meanwhile, the cat who started this whole thing scurried down a near-by alley and whipped a transponder out which it had hidden in its fur.

In an alien space craft hovering high above earth, Slarvos encountered it on ship's deck number 8. "Hey! No pets aboard a military vessel!" he exclaimed.

The cat looked him square in the eye and then began to morph back and forth rather like its relative from Cheshire, but not really.

"I'm Sheila's grandmother," replied the cat. "Wanna see my crochet hook?"

Happy Ever After - The End!