'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...??