Return to Index or go to part: 1 2 4 5 Epilogue
Episode Three:
Raving Uncle Brian
The ocean was wild. It ripped at the sides of the fourteen approaching troop carriers. A murky, frothing greyness surrounded the vessels as they headed towards the shore of Insinceria, a massive assembly of troops preparing for the landing. They could see the beach had already been taken by the yFalminicans, and that the whole island would be a huge battle zone, once they landed, and fought on behalf of the Insincerians.
Colonel Twitchy focused on the beach for a moment, raised his eyebrows at the impressive yFalminican fortifications. He took from his pocket a green, metal drinking canteen. Slowly Twitchy put it to his lips and took three, quick, successive swigs. Oh, yeah, lime cordial, that’s the stuff. As twitchy lowered the canteen his hand began to tremble. He fought valiantly to fasten the lid to the bottle, but soon his hand shook wildly and his face dissolved into a fit of mad spasms. Finally Colonel Twitchy regained control of his hands and once the bottle was fastened, returned it to his pocket, his face still convulsing slightly.
The water rocked the vessel carelessly, rendering the nerves of the troops even more sensitive. The commanding officers in each of the landing craft uttered inadequate words, with the aim of calming them.
Twitchy sighed. The craft shuddered to a halt and the gate at the front fell open. The troops stormed out. The yFalminicans immediately responded, one throwing a tin can, another hurling abuse: "Yeah, go home you pricks!" The soldiers squealed in shock.
"Retreat!!!" one of the commanding officers screamed. "Retreat!!!" The soldiers immediately turned around and headed back for their boats.
"Gee those Kiwis are easily freaked aren’t they?" Captain Ryback uttered softly. He was a man in his late forties, who had a remarkable resemblance to Steven Segal, his hair stretched back into a ponytail, a sly smirk eased across his thin lips. "I was really expecting a fierce battle like the one at the start of that movie! You know where the troops come on to the beach and are attacked immediately by relentless gunfire, unable to avoid the stinging passage that the bullet takes into their bleeding hearts! Under the command of a man with bizarre hand spasms . . ."
"You mean, Star Wars, sir?" A younger corporal inquired.
"Yeah that’s the one." He quietly observed the soldiers as they galloped through the rough shallow. Their retreat was hasty and when they had made their boats they quickly sped off for the larger ships waiting one kilometre away. "This campaign looks like it really is gonna be a hoot!" Ryback beamed.
In the yFalminican capital an hour later . . .
"So far this has been the easiest military expedition in the history of yFalminica!" Igor hollered. "I would venture to say the easiest ever in the history of the world! Never before has anyone had such success with so little effort. It’s what makes our nation one of the greatest. Minimal effort expended for maximum effect!"
"Well done Igor, thanks to your guidance and expertise this campaign has been a huge success!" NTM praised.
"I’m thinking that it would have a hell of a lot to do with the idiotic actions of the Kiwis!" Gamblor suggested.
"Don’t steal my . . ." Igor kicked him in the groin. ". . . glory!!!" As Gamblor collapsed in a paroxysm of agony, Igor strutted to the circular table, placed a dangerously high heel on the lacquered surface and grinned with indecent self-assurance. "Igor - 1, Kiwis – 0. Chalk that one up on the board boys!" Carelessly she tapped her heel on the table with excessive force and it penetrated the wooden top of the table. She struggled to free herself as NTM paced, quite unaware of her brawl with the table, which was presently winning magnificently.
Guru Al giggled vehemently, unable to control the laughter that the sight of Igor and the table provoked. Anvil-Falls-On-Coyote assisted Igor, supporting her as she attempted to lift the heel from the splintered furniture piece. After a few minutes she was free, and lacking her former composure.
"Ah . . . err . . . Let me see," she stuttered. "To conclude: I am wonderful. All great things, including this victory are attributable to me!"
"Nicely spoken, Igor." Guru Al said, applauding with attempted sincerity. "So, what happens now? When do I get to take my long-awaited vengeance out on Gregor Stix??!!?"
"Keep it in your pants, Guru!" NTM commanded authoritatively. "What happens now is the making of the yFalminican Republic, the event which will mark us as a nation to compete with, a people to watch out for. Much will become of this. Including perhaps a film version made by Steven Spielberg or James Cameron, or a loosely based space epic by George Lucas, in which I would like to be played by Val Kilmer. Not anyone like George Clooney. He just didn’t cut it as Batman. Well, now that I think of it Val wasn’t near as good as Michael Keaton. And he was definitely better than Adam West. Yeah West just gave the role a rather shaky, homo-erotic edge. Not really what a character in tights needs, well that’s what I . . ."
"WHAT is you point Mirrors?!" Al queried.
"Umm. . . yFalminica shall achieve glory basically, and I will be portrayed in the film by Michael Keaton. Our Nation is reaching a most brilliant stage or power!" Everyone nodded solemnly. "Let those Kiwis eat cake!"
"That’s a rather blatant misuse of an historically famous phrase . . ." Igor muttered.
"We have an excuse now, don’t we?" Gamblor asked.
"Excuse for what?" Igor asked.
"To invade New Zealand!" Gamblor exclaimed.
"Oh . . . that!"
"Pablo mittens taken bottled fluorescent duck," Anvil-Falls-On-Coyote suggested.
"Begin the annexation . . . and . . . get the phone. I have a craving for that Hungarian Goulash!"
A small bark hut on the coast of northern New Zealand . . .
1pm
"He just won’t shut the hell up, I am afraid!" A voice shouted from outside the door of the hut. Inside a man, with long grey hair and a wide bald patch lay on a pale blue and red floral mattress, large yellow marks staining it. He possessed the neglect of five days of having not shaven. His eyes were a pallid blue, almost grey, bearing no final testament as to the mind that lurked behind them. He was in his late fifties and rambled uncontrollably and on occasion screamed out as if in pain.
"Plaa-argh-warghlllllerrrrrrrrrrllllagh!!!" the old man wailed.
"Shutup!! Shut the f#$k up!!" came a command from outside, accompanied by a thump on the door.
In front of the hut stood two men of about equal height. Each wore a long, brown robe and sandals. They had the appearance of a couple of monks, however their faces held expressions of loathing and irritation at the obvious confusion and discomfort of the man inside the hut.
"What would make it easier for us, and probably the whole freaking country was if the old fuck was dead!"
"Is that your answer to everything? Kill, kill, kill?"
"Fine, how about we just castrate him?"
"Oh yes, one way to stop a man screaming is to cut off his testicles!! I am sorry, but we have a duty to protect this man, and in doing so we are protecting ourselves."
The more reasonable of the two had light brown hair, cut neatly to sit just above his ears. His companion lightly tapped the door of the shack, his face ticking with annoyance. He grimaced, bearing his teeth. He was a man of dark features, black hair, reaching to the middle of his back, dark brown, small, piercing eyes, a wide face and tanned skin – not entirely unlike Steven Segal. In fact, not at all unlike Steven Segal. He moved a few paces from the hut, to the edge of the clearing in which it stood. Beyond was a thick forest. At the rear of the structure was an area, running for about twenty metres, of small shrubs lining the edge of a cliff. The Ocean lay beneath.
The man with the long hair turned around. "So, Lem, how about a change of plan?" The man grinned. "I say we kill ol’ Uncle Brian, take the money that Gregor Stix has offered us, and then go to Guatemala or something where we can take some nice well-endowed women as wives. What do you say?"
Lem smiled hesitantly. The plan was appealing. He was annoyed at the task he had been assigned by the Supreme Council. He had assumed that after seven years with the Abu-Kandandi Devotion League he would have climbed the ladder further than he had. He was now at the rank of Ordained Minister, which would probably be equivalent (when comparing power and responsibilities) to Cabin boy on a ship or Fry-boy at a take-away restaurant.
"I would like to, Swirly," Lem said softly, "But, my son . . ."
"Your son? Your son?!" Swirly spluttered. "Your son . . . the one that left you at the age of 17 and hasn’t written since? No phone calls to say how he is going . . ."
"I know how he is going, I have seen him in the newspapers and on TV."
"But he has never said a word to you has he?! Hasn’t sent a fax or an email?"
"Well, no . . .But I don’t have email."
"But it is the principle of the thing! Do you think he even cares about you anymore?"
" . . .err . . ."
"No!" Swirly paced back and forth for a moment.
"Swirly, I am concerned. You don’t seem totally devoted to the League anymore. You have been changing . . ."
"I have found sense!"
"Is it because of that Communist, Santa-worshipping cult that you have been hanging around? I have a feeling they have been up to something suspicious. There is something about them that I just can’t pick - something that makes me a bit edgy. You haven’t been involved in anything have you?"
"No . . . I . . . err."
"Please feel you can be open with me, Brother Swirly."
"I am as open as I feel I can be brother Lem. Any more open and it could lead to complications. A large man once asked me to be open with him . . . he wasn’t talking about comfortable conversation. He wasn’t talking about comfortable anything really! In fact it chafed . . ." Lem glanced at Swirly with growing concern. "Well, no matter. I have my goals, Brother Lem. I shall reach them." He reached inside his robe, and withdrew a large rifle. "So what do you say? Will you join me?"
Lem crumpled his brow, considering deeply the offer . . .
Wellington, the capital of New Zealand 2 hours later . . .
The delivery van was parked exactly thirty centimetres from the curb, in front of the Parliament house. A man slipped from the drivers seat and shut the door carefully. He was dressed in light grey shorts, a white, short-sleeved button-up shirt, white socks, pulled all the way up, half way up to his knee, and obsessively-polished black shoes. In his hands he carried a gold, rectangular, cardboard box, two feet long and 20 centimetres wide. He marched through the door and stopped at the first man before the metal detector.
"Hello," he said, nodding curtly. "I have a delivery."
"Ahh . . ." The guard began. "Delivery??"
"I have some flowers."
The guard studied the man carefully. He had small, blue eyes, thin, pale lips and a pair of crooked, thick-rimmed glasses. Overall he appeared awkward and anxious. "Flowers for who?"
"The . . . the president!!" The man began to breathe heavily. Tiny beads of sweat glided down the contoured surface of his wrinkled brow. He looked around nervously, his eyes flicking from the guard, to the gun that was clipped to his belt, to the other guards whose interest had been piqued by his own odd behaviour. "The President!!" He thence commenced wheezing, as if about to have an asthma attack. Carefully he fingered the box, and suddenly braced it with both hands. In an instant he opened one end, reached in, dropped the box and was standing there holding a large double barrel shotgun. "Don’t move!" He screamed.
Within a second a whole force filed out from the van outside, about fifty men brandishing menacing weapons. At the gate of the complex, tanks could be seen assembling and jets flew overhead.
Surprisingly Steven Segal stepped from the crowd. "It’s Steven Segal." Many said, a hushed whisper circling the room.
The man held up his hand. "No! I am Captain Ryback, of the Royal yFalminican Expeditionary Force, and I hereby announce yFalminica’s annexation of New Zealand." He smiled with poorly-concealed self-satisfaction. "Good work men!" He turned to his second in charge, Colonel Ribeb.
"I still say we should have put one of our own men in to act as the flower delivery guy, instead of actually sending him in! Sure it worked, but he almost had a panic attack in the process." Ribeb said. "I am really surprised that we managed to fit fifty men in that van. Boy am I gonna be sore tonight!" Ribeb spoke in an obvious accent from somewhere in the Near East. He had a dark complexion and curly hair. "What would we have done if he had collapsed?"
"Ribeb! Heh heh heh," Ryback chuckled. "You old dog! You worry too much. What matters is I was successful and New Zealand is now mine!"
"Err. . . yours?"
"Ah, and yFalminica’s as well . . . I suppose . . . in a way," he muttered.
"So, Mr. Kiwi bigshot! What are you going to do about it?!?
The Guard smiled. "Well . . ."
yFalminica City, the capital of the yFalminican Republic . . .
The doorbell on the door of the Presidential Palace rang. Nobody was nearby. It rang again . . . and then once more. It continued again and again for a while until one of the guards at the main entrance awoke, rose and walked from the room in search of a place to rest undisturbed. Accompanying his exit were further attempts by the doorbell to be acknowledged.
"Ring!!" It persisted.
NTM was in the main gallery on the ground floor. He glanced at the door, noticing the sound. "Would someone get that!?!?" he called loudly in no particular direction, returning his attention to the comic book which lay on the desk before him, comparing how the supervillains in Batman and Superman attempted to grasp power over the world, to his own vain efforts.
"Ring!!!" The doorbell maintained.
"Oy! I am working here. How am I meant to organise world domination with the constant ringing of a fucking bell in my ears?"
"Ring!!!!" The Doorbell insisted.
NTM leaned over to the phone on the desk. He pressed a button. "Igor, would you answer the door, please?"
"Err . . . ah, sure . . ." Igor said hesitantly. "I’m right on it!"
NTM smiled to himself. Igor frowned to herself, and reached for the phone and rang through to Al’s office. "Al, there is someone at the door. Could you send someone to answer it or get it yourself?"
"Ah, sure Igor, but I will be expecting a BIG favour!" Al said. Igor replied accordingly. "Hey! There is no need for that language." Al insisted in shock. "I will see what I can do."
"Thanks."
Al swivelled in his chair for a moment. "Ah . . . what was I doing?" He swivelled a minute longer, forgetting the task at hand and commenced his ritual ogling of an obscene publication he had gleaned from Gamblor’s collection. "Mmm, who love’s you baby?!"
Meanwhile downstairs, the ringing continued.
"Ring!!!! Ring!!!!! RING!!!!!!"
"Alright damnit!!" NTM screamed and launched himself from the chair and strided out the door of the gallery. He was at the door of the palace within a few steps and opened it as if performing a task which required a great expulsion of energy.
"Yes?" he addressed the Bear before him. "Wait a minute, you’re a bear!"
The bear entered, placed a tape recorder on the floor, which in turn began to play The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy, and began to prance around. In a wildly unenthusiastic tone it began to sing, the voice apparently from a middle-aged man who cared little for what he was doing.
"Hello hello hello, how do you do?
I am a bear here to give this message to you.
My nation and I think that you really suck.
So our president thought, "Hey what the fuck!"
We’ve come just as we damn well said
To kick your arse and blow off your freaking head."
With the song done, the bear immediately discontinued his dance. "Hey don’t stop!" NTM wailed. "That was good. Keep going! I thought you were rea . . ." NTM was silenced by the sight of a six foot tall bear holding a semi-automatic rifle, pointing forebodingly at his head.
"You’re not such a nice bear afterall!" NTM yelled, as the bear handled him with increasing hostility.
"Shutup and do as I say!" the Bear ordered, and shortly afterwards a small, but powerful force invaded the Presidential Palace.
Caught unawares in his office, Guru Al shrieked as two men with wholly adequate weaponry burst in. "Wh . . . what are you doing??" He stammered. "Who are you?"
"Retain your current mode of seatage please!" One of the men barked at Al.
"Seatage?"
"Stay where you are! Do not attempt to . . ."
"Are you sure that is a word?" Al interfered. "I bet if I look that up in this dictionary," he said, raising a small pocket lexicon in his left hand, "the word ‘seatage’ will not be anywhere in it!"
One of the men immediately fired his gun, blasting the book away. All that remained in Al’s hand was a small fragment from the bottom of the dictionary. Pages showered the men, the page with the word "terrorist" presently fell in front of Al as he sat there, wide-eyed.
"Come with us sir!"
Al was politely shoved into the cellar of the Palace. The armed men closing the door abruptly behind him. Shortly he was greeted by someone in the shadows, smashing a wine bottle over his head. "Ow!" he said before collapsing, the red wine puddle creating a rather credible blood-effect.
"Al!" someone said to him. "Al! Wake up! It’s us!"
"Wh-what?" he stuttered. All was hazy, he could not reckon how long he had been lying on the floor. "What happened?"
"Ahh . . . sorry." Al identified the speaker as Gamblor Silk. "It was just part of our escape plan. You know, to smash one of the guys over the head when they came through the door. Well we were busy planning and heard the door open. I suppose we were a bit over-zealous and didn’t think . . . the light’s not that great and all . . . and well . . ."
"You smashed a wine bottle over my head!?!"
"It was kind of a mistake."
"Mistake? Mistake!!??! Do you know how many shards of glass I already have in my cranium? It is just about full, I’d say!"
"It wasn’t me!" Gamblor blustered, aware that Al seemed to be aiming his reprimand at him. "It was Igor!"
Al shifted his glance and saw the face of Igor, smiling in a way as if to say ‘Am I allowed to be happy, or are you in one of those moods that might just make you want to drive a nine inch nail into my head?’. "Al, ah . . . sorry. It was a split second, you know . . ." Igor held up her hands apologetically, the neck of the bottle still firmly clasped between the thumb and finger of her right hand. "Err . . ." she tossed it aside hastily.
"Forget it!" All yelled, struggling to get to his feet. "It doesn’t matter now. We have to get out of here. What are they doing to our country?!?! They sounded like . . . curse me damn me pluck my eyes out . . . they sounded like Kiwis!"
A gasp exploded through the cellar.
"Kiwis!" the people hissed.
"Hey . . ." Al said. "Where’s Mirrors?" At that point the door opened and Nine Turning Mirrors was thrown courteously into the room. Igor picked up another bottle and held it above her head menacingly. "Igor! It’s NTM!!"
"I know . . ." Igor muttered.
"Where have you been Mirrors?" Gamblor inquired.
"Ah . . ." the President General panted. "They . . . they tried to get what they could out of me, but . . . I wouldn’t tell them anything! Whatever they did, I wouldn’t tell them where the toilets were located in the palace!"
"Good work man!" Guru Al smiled. "But now . . . what do we do? How are we meant to get out of here? Those bastards are taking over our country . . . while we are doing the same to them! Surely a truce will have to be met!"
"Mmm, you would think so." Igor said. "But shortly before the invasion I got word from an inside source in NZ that Gregor Stix, and his associate Kook had known of the impending foray and left the palace. We don’t have their highest government officials . . . but they have ours!"
"They do?" NTM asked.
"That’s us Mirrors," Al whispered.
"Oh yeah . . .!" After a moment of pondering he spoke. "Well this is a tricky situation. Have you checked for any way we may escape?"
"I have already surveyed the entire cellar, Mr. President General." Igor proudly announced, saluting NTM. "I have found nothing, unless there are any hidden passages?"
"None that I know of."
They all hung their heads. "We’re doomed!" a shiny gold android in the corner announced frenzied, but was for the most part ignored. It muttered something about George Lucas, and desert Planets and disappeared into the shadows.
"Gregor Stix, curse you!" Al screamed. "I will have my revenge!"
Northern New Zealand . . .
Throughout the entire dense forest, there was nothing quite remarkable except for the small gathering of men in gothic attire, holding blazing torches, circled around a massive altar, behind which stood a magnificent deep scarlet throne, two elephants grazing carelessly behind. Not that much out of the ordinary in a forest in New Zealand, granted, but an important part of this tale.
The men softly chanted before a hushed awe swept around the assembly, the catalyst of the silence being the arrival of a tall figure, adorned in a shimmering silver robe, the hood obscuring his face. The men on the left side of the throne parted to allow the new arrival passage. There were twelve men in all, including the new arrival and a further personage who followed behind the silver-robed individual.
As the new man, who had undoubtedly become the centre of attention, seated himself on the throne, the crowd grew hastily silent.
Quickly, almost deliberately in search of a dramatic gesture, one could say, the silver-robed man lifted his hood from his face, and there sat the droll, loathing expression of one Gregor Stix.
Beside him Kook grinned insanely.
Two men from the crowd stepped forward, each displacing their hoods. "Ah," Stix began. "Brothers Lem and Swirly! You look like dickheads! Cut your hair Swirly, it’s far too long. Lem, you just look . . . dopy."
"Ah, as you wish Mr. President." Swirly uttered diplomatically. "Shall we at once proceed with the business that has brought us here?"
"I suppose," Stix spat. "If you must. I hate business!"
"Concerning Brother Brian . . . Myself, Lem and these eight men are willing to cooperate with you and have decided to hand him over, in return for some small favour, such as the donation of fifty million dollars!"
"Mmm." Stix glared carefully at Swirly and Lem. He tried his best to affect an amiable grin but the resources were just not available. Instead he installed in his expression a malevolent stare, which in turn startled brother Lem. Swirly maintained his composure.
"Do you agree?" Swirly asked.
"I don’t like your tone! I am president! You will listen to me."
"I beg your humble apology, Mr President!"
"You will address me as sire!"
"Forgive me Sire!" Swirly bowed elegantly, waving his arm broadly as he bent over. He carelessly stepped on his robe and when he began to stand up he fell over. When he returned to his upright position, he possessed a slightly grazed chin. "I will have to cover that up with a beard," Swirly thought. He quickly straightened his hair and tied it back, away from his shoulders. "Ah . . ."
"Brother Swirly!" Stix screamed. "Where the fuck is Brother Brian?!?"
"Err . . ." Swirly was unable to relocate his former composure. He stumbled forward and grasping the corner of a black sheet that lay on top of a box at the altar, he made a few wild movements, withdrew the sheet and exposed Uncle Brian, caged and gagged.
"Excellent." Stix uttered. He clapped his hands languorously, and four men, dressed similarly to those already present rushed into the clearing and seized the cage in which Brian was held, they then dragged him away as quickly.
"The . . . err. . . money?" Swirly inquired.
"Yes, Mr. Swirly? Oh, the money! You will receive your money!" Stix rose from his throne, and followed the path that the cage-bearers had taken. Kook approached Swirly and Lem.
"What about the money, Mr. Kook?" Lem asked weakly.
"Yes yes!" Kook spat vigorously. "Let me just write you a cheque." Kook withdrew a book and made out the cheque for fifty million dollars. "Ah, who do I make it out to?"
"Swirly the Re-Nec please!" Swirly said.
Lem glanced at him suspiciously. "Re-Nec?" Lem asked. Swirly smiled vaguely, cheque in hand. Kook grinned. "It was a pleasure doing business with you gentleman. Now if you will excuse me I have some other affairs to attend to, involving gorgeous models and steamy, bubbly spa-baths. Thankyou." He left the clearing hastily and nine of the ten men hollered enthusiastically. Lem stood quietly near the altar, unsure of what he had just done.
"Five million dollars each boys!" Swirly hooted.
yFalminica City, 6pm, January 31 . . .
"The President General requests intelligence from the Leading Main Head Chief Hole Excavator as to the dimensions of the present aperture being developed in the cellar wall for the purpose of the escape of we captured yFalminican individuals, sir!" The stout young man in Palace Guard uniform spat in one breath.
"So basically," Guru Al replied, as Leading Main Head Chief Hole Excavator. "NTM wants to know how big the hole is?"
"Yes sir!" the young man gasped.
"Well tell Mr. President General, that it is making rapid and extraordinary progress!" Guru Al announced.
The young guard made a rather insanely speedy about-turn and marched off with haste to report this to NTM.
"There is barely a scratch in the wall, you know that don’t you Al?" Igor inquired.
"Of course I do!" Al blustered. "But I don’t want information like that getting out. Do you know what that would do to the spirit of the children if they were to hear that they would not be getting out of here and that they were doomed to spend the rest of their lives in a dingy cellar living only on the droppings of rats and cheap German wine, plus the extra Rat droppings that is in cheap German wine?!?! It would just break their little hearts to hear something like that. They would just give up all hope and crawl into a little ball and die, Igor! Just die!"
"There are no children down here Al."
"Well there is NTM. You don’t want to crush the poor little Tiger’s spirit do you?"
"Personally I would like to crush his testic. . ."
"Dig Gorf dig!" Al shouted. "Where has all your freaking energy gone? You were doing a fine job before."
"Yeth . . ." Gorf breathed shallowly. "But that wath before you had me conthtruct thith ‘fort’ out of old wine casks and bottleth. It took me two hourth alone to dig the mote!" He said bitterly.
"Bitch, bitch, bitch. There is never any gratitude for the work that I do for you people!" Al moaned. "I might as well find a nice hole to die in!" He lamented. "Hey Gorf. Do you think you can dig me a hole . . .?"
"I am buthy with thith one at present," Gorf muttered. Presently Anvil-Falls-On-Coyote awoke on the floor. He fished through the pile of tools that had been collecting to develop the "Aperture" and withdrew his hand, grasping a small garden fork. Along with Gorf, armed with a corkscrew, the pair frantically worked at the wall, the hole becoming more and more like a . . . well, like a hole!
NTM sat on a throne of sorts, fashioned from barrels of wine. At his side stood Gamblor Silk. His head hung forward and extended sounds of bemusement exited his mouth. "One more bottle, Silky, eh?"
"Ah, Mirrors, I think you have had enough!" Gamblor said.
Igor and Guru Al emerged from the shadows grim-faced, Al stepped forward. "I’ll put it this way – worse holes have been dug!"
"What does that mean?" Nine Turning Mirrors slurred.
"Well the hole is crap, it is just not possible to dig one big enough in these stone walls."
"But," Igor said. "We have another idea that just might work!"
New Zealand, 6:33pm . . .
Three men sat in a small, mouldy room in a cheap, seedy motel, on the outskirts of Wellington.
"Okay Ol’ Brian," Stix said menacingly. "You are going to help us with our task of world domination or we will slice your belly open and allow rodents to feast on your innards!"
"Arghplwwwwwwwsssssiiuwkddhhkassllll!" Brian moaned.
"What are you stupid?" Stix inquired. He glared at Brian rather effectively, evincing a frightened shudder from the old man. "I don’t understand!" Stix screamed. "Why are all the powerful people idiots!"
"Just like yourself!" Brian added bitingly.
"Hello, the raving lunatic can talk!" Stix smiled. "What is with all that yelling and moaning then?"
"It is a mantra. It helps to clear the mind of thought."
"You are damn right!" Stix screamed. "I can’t fucking think with that noise going on!"
Kook stepped forward and backhanded Brian. "Maybe this will help you to talk."
"More treatment of this kind and you will acquire no assistance from myself!"
"You are and idiot! I will make you help me whether you like it or not!" Stix yelled insanely. He returned to his former mundane/loathing expression. "First, you will get rid of all the yFalminican soldiers who have invaded the capital and then you will assist me in destroying the yFalminican republic."
"I have no reason to aid you willingly." Uncle Brian retorted.
"I think you do!" Stix cried. He casually attempted a smile. It seemed as if his face was contorted and the end result was only a vicious snarl. "Take a look at this! Kook!" Kook quickly ran from the room and returned wheeling a large whiteboard. As he spun the panel around, Brian could see the picture of his Mother, Abu Kandandi – whom the Abu Kandandi Devotion League was, accordingly, devoted to – tied, gagged, Kook grinning insanely, holding a knife to the ancient woman’s neck.
"But, she is an old woman, a harmless eighty year old!" Brian cried. "Please, release my mother!"
"Only, if you do as I say!" Stix said.
Brian mumbled uncontrollably, his tied hands shaking as he glanced at the large photograph of his mother, bound, abused, seemingly confused. She was an old Indian woman, skin wrinkled and faded, long grey hair. Brian examined her face – she appeared terrified.
"OK." He said softly.
Stix smirked evilly. "Excellent," he said in time with Kook, Kook rubbing his hands gleefully. "We shall begin immediately!"
Back to the cellar . . .
"Molotov Cocktails, of course!" Nine Turning Mirrors beamed. "But what about rope, and something to light it with?"
"I always carry a bundle of twine or two," Igor under-exaggerated, hauling a grand loop of rope from somewhere beneath her skirt. "I made it from the fibres of tree trunks myself! And this knife," she said holding up a terrifyingly large machete for all to see, "will be used to cut the rope! And Gorf has some matches."
"Brilliant. But we need wine or something don’t we?"
"Ah . . . look around Mirrors!" Al yelled.
"Alrighty then . . . Let’s get this show on the road!"
Return to Index or go to part: 1 2 4 5 Epilogue
Last updated: 02/07/00