| Hargrove
the Marxist Detective and the Adventure of the HMS Hoobe-Entwhistle |
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Hargrove
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“As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly.”
Arthur Carlson – WKRP in Cincinnati With a startled intake of breath, the three conscious occupants of the
room spun to face the voice they heard.
It was indeed coming from the ruin of Captain Brashnikov’s
cryogenic chamber. Slowly
they advanced, sloshing through the icy fluid leaking from the myriad
cracks in the glassy cylinder. “Captain Brashnikov?” asked Hargrove, gallantly attempting to warm
Frieda’s already warm body with his own. “Yes, I’m Captain Brashnikov. Now
get me out of this contraption before we are all doomed.
There’s still time to prevent the launch if we act quickly
enough.” They inspected the tube, but there was no obvious method to open it.
Finally, MacGuinness stepped back and put his hands on his hips.
“Alright, ye great flatulent, leaky tube. It looks like the time for a wee bit o' percussive
maintenance.” He held out
his large hand - a hand so massive and ugly that it was only regarded as
such by popular consensus and then only because of its relative proximity
to his wrist watch – a wrist watch so massive and ugly that it looked
like it had been hacked out of a block of solid metal – metal so massive
and ugly that it possibly had fallen to earth in a meteorite, and Frieda
dutifully dropped the wrench onto his palm. “I dinnae ken how ye keep knickin’ it, but I’d bloody appreciate
it if ye’d get your own.” With a nonchalance born of having hit, and enjoyed hitting, many things
in his life, MacGuinness whipped the wrench at the cryogenics chamber.
With a satisfying crunching noise, it shattered into frosted shards
and a sluice of cryogenic fluid washed over their shoes. Stiffly, the man within the crushed remains of the chamber sat up.
He swung his legs over the side of the tube and stood.
Icicles dangled off the epaulets of his captain’s uniform, and
his eyebrows were dusted with snow. “To
the control room, we’ve no time to lose!” shouted Brashnikov, who
turned on his heel and strode face first into the nearest wall.
He backed away from the wall, but stared down at something in his
hands. Peering over his shoulder, Hargrove saw it was the man’s
nose, broken clean off at the base. “Sorry,”
said the captain, with a voice like someone suffering from a terminal
sinus cold. “I don’t
think I’m fully defrosted yet.” He pocketed his nose, oblivious to the collective disgust of the other
occupants of the room, and proceeded about the room, rubbing his hands on
the wall. “That damnable
automated door is around here somewhere.
I think the bloody cleaning crews kept moving my tube around when
they came in to mop, or I wouldn’t be so disoriented.” Soon enough, a section of wall slid away under his touch, revealing a
short hallway ending in another room.
From where Hargrove stood, he could see the various dials and
buttons mandatory for any self-respecting control room. Why, he remembered a similar sight when he was given the tour
of the Chernobyl Nuclear Reactor that fateful day when… No, no need to think back on that. The curses of his so-called comrades mocked him to this very
moment. Obviously his
commitment to the cause and theirs differed mightily.
Fair-weather socialists, he thought ruefully.
On and on about ‘control rods’ and
‘safety override’ and ‘stop sitting on the goddamn buttons’ but
nothing about working for the collective good. They were all thrown to the floor again as the room rocked violently.
A painfully-loud roar filled their ears as an invisible force
pushed them against the cold, wet floor and held them there.
Soon enough, the sound and force eased off and they were able to
sit up. “What in the name of Stalin’s hunchbacked mistress was that?”
asked Hargrove. “That,” said Brashnikov, quietly slipping part of an ear in the
other pocket. “Was the ship
taking off. We’re too
late.” “Yer bloody daft, ye great gob-smacking Popsicle,” cried
MacGuinness. “There’s nae
submarine in the world that can accelerate like that.” “That is because we are not on a submarine, repellant Scotsman!” They all whirled at the sound of the voice. No! It
couldn’t be! As
unbelievable as it might seem, the voice was unmistakably that of Louis
Santiago, and was indeed issuing from his unmoving corpse. Serapion sat bolt upright. “What
foul Satanic slop is this?” he shouted, causing at least one of the
room’s occupants to experience sound the way Pete Townsend does these
days. “Knocked unconscious
by unbelieving heathens, only to be roused by the blasphemous undead?
Things have certainly gone downhill in the last sixteen centuries.
Why in my day, running a bishopric commanded respect.” “Yes, yes, you’re a prick of a bishop,” crabbed Hargrove, dabbing
at a dribble of blood coming from his ear.
“I think we all understood that already.” With no small trepidation, they all gathered around Santiago’s corpse.
Suddenly, the fabric of the Spaniard’s shirt stretched and
buttons popped off. The fabric ripped from the strain of something trying to push
its way out from inside his rib cage.
Everyone scrambled away from the writhing corpse and raced to the
safety of the control room. The
door slid shut silently behind them. “MacGuinness, go back in there and kill whatever that thing is,”
cried Brashnikov, who had lost an arm in the mad dash into the control
room. “Ah’ll do nae such thing, ye pustulent no-nose snowman.
If ye’ll do me the favour of checking, ye’ll find that fighting
the undead is nae listed in me bloody job description.
Get yon pinko pouf tae do it – he’s got a gun.” Hargrove looked wildly about the room.
“As much as I would like to dispatch Santiago I feel that this is
a matter of superstition and religion, and not a matter fitting for a
Marxist such as myself. And
besides, uh,” he stalled. “Frieda
has a gun too!” Frieda’s eyes popped wide at the mention of her name.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense that Serapion would deal with that
thing? Aren’t bishops
supposed to exercise ghosts and demons and things?
Besides, my pistol is so small and harmless that it would just make
the zombie angry.” The men in the room suffered a momentary deflation when they realized
that no, they wouldn’t be finding out where Frieda kept her derringer.
All save one, Serapion, perked up as they realized there was a
loser in their little game of undead hot potato.
Smiling, they turned to the bishop, now ashen-faced. "Ignoramus microsoftis
multa pecunia dat.”
he mumbled as he turned towards the automated door. “Yeah,” he said by way of translation. “Where do
I want to go today?” The door dutifully slid open, and Serapion peered inside.
The corpse was still twitching on the floor, its chest cavity
bulging ominously. The Bishop
of Thmuis took a tentative step forwards, then another.
Now he stood directly in front of the writhing remains of Santiago.
A moment to straighten his mitre, clear his throat, and he was
ready. Behind him, four pairs
of eyes looked around the doorframe. "Minutus cantorum, minutus
balorum, minutus carborata descendum pantorum,” he intoned. His resonant, all-consuming bass voice rang out in the small
metal room. Ah, it was good
to be bishop… Any composure he had disappeared like a free hot lunch at a university
campus. The writhing of the
corpse had intensified, and with a slurp, a slorp, and one final
slllurrrup! Santiago’s chest burst open and something fell out.
Serapion screamed like a schoolgirl and backpedaled against the
wall. Sitting on the floor beside the dead Spaniard was a hemispherical glass
globe. At its base was a rim
of shiny chrome, and from that ring extended eight short metal legs.
Bobbing in the foul fluid filling the dome was what looked to be a
human brain and eyes. The voice of the late Louis Santiago filled the room.
“You were right Hargrove, I couldn’t have survived that
unfortunate incident with the cable car in Barcelona!” Captain Brashnikov sadly shook his head. “Louis, I can’t believe you let them do this to you.” “They?” asked Hargrove, whose hands were shaking too hard to keep
his Webley aimed at the monstrosity before them. “The aliens. I told
MacGuinness we weren’t on an escape submarine.
This is a flying saucer, launched out of one of the ship’s
funnels.” “Then that means…” said Hargrove. “Yes,” said Santiago. “My
alien masters were going to abduct Brashnikov, thaw him and replace him
with an android replica. The
Armenian separatists would succeed, only to find themselves a puppet
government controlled by aliens.” “So then…” tried Hargrove. “Indeed. The Irish
Special Forces were unwitting dupes for the Americans, working in concert
with the secret alien embassy in the Roswell Air Force Base. The Americans convinced the Irish to use certain top secret
information they had on the Egyptians, who have been plotting against the
Armenians.” “But Serapion…” “Yes, Hargrove, yes,” said Santiago.
“The so-called Feudal Detective is no more than a clone of the
real Bishop of Thmuis, cultivated as an agent by the Egyptians, used as an
informant by the Americans, regarded as a triple-agent by the Irish, but
really in the employ of France.” Hargrove stiffened suddenly, realizing the implications.
He spun to face his beloved Frieda.
“By Czar Nicholas’s all-cotton undershirts!” “Hargrove, my darling. I’ve
been meaning to tell you, really. Things
have just been so busy, and the time was never right, and there were the
Russians to consider. You
know how these things are.” It was almost enough to make him weep.
That entire heady summer in Paris, all he could think about was
Frieda. Grandfather Engles
had cursed Hargrove bitterly, calling him the worst student he had ever
had the misfortune to set eyes upon, but Hargrove knew it was because he
couldn’t concentrate on his studies.
Ah, Frieda… Her hair was like a mass of workers, yearning to be
free of their capitalist masters’ yoke.
Her eyes flashed with the revolutionary fervor of a Bolshevik in
1917… That same love for State-owned and controlled means of production,
collection and exchange would eventually tear them apart.
They had ideological differences, as any couple might, but it was
that moment when Frieda admitted toying with Social Democracy that doomed
their affair. He shook off his musings and turned back to Santiago.
Sighting down the barrel of his Webley, he took slow, steady aim at
the brain in the jar. “Too late, Hargrove, too late,” Santiago laughed.
One metal claw flicked open the dead man’s cloak to reveal row
upon row of silvery Fairburn-Sykes daggers.
Two more claws plucked a dagger from its sheath, then dropped it,
picked it up again, and again dropped it.
The smooth metal claws could find no purchase on the round chrome
hilt of the dagger. “Oh shit,” said the Spaniard. Hargrove allowed himself a smile, as he pulled back the hammer and
prepared to put Santiago in the grave he should have been in years ago. “No!” yelled Brashnikov. “We
need him to pilot the flying saucer!” Reluctantly, Hargrove put away his beloved revolver.
“Fine then. Let’s
get him piloting. The sooner
we make it back down to Earth, the sooner I can send this aberration to
whatever afterlife he believes in.” They trooped into the control room, Santiago somehow managing to
swagger. He scuttled up to
the pilot’s seat and extended his claws to the controls.
Delicately, he took the joystick, but his claw slipped off of the
smooth plastic. He tried
again, managing to send the ship in a barrel roll.
Santiago looked back at the others and mimicked shrugging his
non-existent shoulders. “So who is going to pilot this thing?” shouted Hargrove. “I will,” said Brashnikov. “We
need to get to a proper medical facility before I manage to crack
something vital.” “We will do no such thing,” thundered Serapion.
“We shall proceed to either Cairo or Dublin so I can confer with
at least one set of my superiors.” “Ye nae will, papist git. It
is almost feeding time for the engines aboard the Hoobe-Entwhistle, and
Ah’ll be damned if ye illegitimate, slope-browed spawns of a
drippy-nosed Christmas caroler are going tae interfere wi’ that.” Hargrove was going to reply, but stopped for a moment to marvel over
being called an illegitimate, slope-browed spawn of a drippy-nosed
Christmas caroler. “I agree with MacGuinness. We
need to go back to the ship,” said Frieda.
“I must retrieve my crate.” “Not a chance,” said Santiago.
“We shall rendezvous with my alien masters so I can get a new
android body. You never
realize just how useful opposable thumbs are until you don’t have
any.” All eyes, including the gently bobbing eyes of Santiago, turned to face
Hargrove. Dublin was nice
this time of year and tick-free, he pondered, and he had never seen real
aliens before. Such a
quandary. He sat heavily on the ship’s control board, deep in
thought. For a moment, the switch currently resting under the weight of the
blood-soaked Marxist Detective’s buttocks fought valiantly, but lost the
struggle and clicked to the “on” position.
A pleasant voice came on to accompany the red flashing lights and
klaxon horn. “You have
engaged the emergency evasion and landing system,” said the voice, quite
reasonably. “Make sure that
your seat is in the upright position, your breakfast tray properly latched
and the restraint harness securely fastened.” A moment later, the five occupants of the saucer who still had internal
organs felt their stomachs rise as the ship suddenly dove.
Looking out the front view screen, they could see the HMS
Hoobe-Entwhistle below them, rushing closer at dizzying speeds. “My ship!” “My crate!” “My God!” “Me engines!” “My saucer!” “My colon!” Will the saucer plow into the HMS Hoobe-Entwhistle? Is there enough time for a quick game of musical chairs to decide who gets the only seat in the saucer? What is in Frieda’s crate?
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