The Complete Magicbox Saga...

The AMYtiville horror

Chapter one

As Andrew opened the door to the dingy, Boston office, a warm, rotting smell of damp filtered into his flaring nostrils. A mechanical hissing came from the room, carried through the shadowy ingress on a subtle, but cool breeze.
“Hello?” he said, addressing the darkness. There was fear in his voice and his predator could sense it, she could taste it on the air, she could almost feel his trepidation.
“Come in, Andrew,” said Amy. He froze. His body went rigid from head to toe. That voice, that hideous, serpentine voice. It grated on his fading memories of humanity and reminded him of a nightmare he had endured as a child. He was lost on a cold, desolate plain, standing before a grey blue sky, his feet tickled by an electric yellow grass blowing in the wind. Satan had come for him that night, but he had awoken and escaped. He felt the dark lord’s breath on his back once more and imagined this time that he would not be so lucky.
“Come closer, Andrew. I want to see you spreadsheet.”
“No,” he said, quivering. His sweaty fingers clenched around the dripping document.
“Give me the spreadsheet.”
“You’ll say it’s all wrong. I know you will. They told me about you on the fifth floor.”
“They know nothing about me.”
“But what about Shelly…they said you screened her calls…”
“Pah, Shelly is useless to me.”
“What do you mean?” he said, his bravery returning in the face of her undue slander, “She’s an SME!”
“I care not for SMEs,” said the beast, licking her swollen, puce lips, “I care only for spreadsheets and their carriers.”
“Their carriers?” said Andrew, his heart turning to stone. His eyes fell to his hand and to the spreadsheet in his grasp. What had he done? Had he walked into a trap?
“Yes,” the monster continued without provocation, “Shelly’s spreadsheets were nice, but she couldn’t give me what I truly desired… A mate.”
Andrew shit himself…


Chapter two

“I’m sorry,” said Andrew nervously, “but my heart belongs to someone else.”
“I don’t want your heart,” she said bitterly, with all the venom of a thousand scorned women, “I want your loins. I want a son,” she said, her glassy eyes rolling madly in their sockets, the small black nuclei setting behind her gobbet-like, Rosacea stained cheeks like the sun setting behind a distant hill. As her arms flailed wildly, and her voice took on that weird, detached timbre that seemed to Andrew to indicate more than a touch of insanity, he couldn’t help but feel she was talking to someone else, and that the bellowed command; “Give me my son!” was directed at nature, or at someone or something in her past that had robbed her of a once deserved shot at motherhood.
“What about my spreadsheet?” he said, hoping he could delay the impending violation of his genitals. He dashed forward form his position and dropped the excel printout on her desk. Her chubby, bloated fingers reached for it, her trailing wrist leaving a track of green slime in its wake. She squinted at the document through tiny, piggish eyes that were deeply set in a thickly padded skull behind distorting, milk-bottle-bottom glasses.
She snorted irritably.
“This is rubbish,” she snarled. “This reads 1654…You rounded up, you buffoon!”
“Gosh,” said Andrew, trembling with the slim hope that his incompetence would save him a grossly uncomfortable raping. “I am sorry. I did it with Jo from Manchester the other night; wasn’t entirely sure what I was supposed to be doing…sorry.”
“What do you mean you weren't sure?” A viscous globule of spittle jettisoned from her podgy mouth and landed with a sickeningly splat on the floor, just inches from Andrew wicker brogues.
He looked down at the acidic mucous, his eyes widening in horror as it burned a hole clean through the grey tiles. He took time to admire his own fashion sense and laud his taste. Those shoes really were fantastic. Unfortunately, gone were the days he could nip into Selfridges on his self-sanctioned lunch break and pick up the latest trend, for our hero had been forced from his chosen and lucrative profession into a tiresome, and ultimately loin-threatening job at the local custodian.
Amy’s guttural growling wrenched his thoughts from his youthful dreams and focused them on the serious matter in hand.
“I find you undesirable,” said Amy, discarding the spreadsheet disconsolately. “Bring me a carrier who can fix a decent spreadsheet.”
Andrew was about to leave, thanking the heavens in advance for sparring him, when Amy’s haunting chuckle floated into his ears.
“On second thoughts,” she said, twiddling a pen between her stubby fingers provocatively, “I could do with the practice. Its been an awfully long time since I was…intimate with anything…”
Anything?
“I’ll page downstairs for a replacement. In the meantime…” the door swung shut in front of Andrew and he span on his heel, appalled at the sudden reversal of fortune.
The demon lumbered from behind her desk, standing a proud four feet tall atop stubby legs. Rolls of ankle fate over-spilled her clunky shoes and an ill fitting pleated skirt, barely fastened with a large safety-pin, covered whatever modesty a gargoyle of her inimitable description could hope to muster.
She advanced, spitting as she did so. Andrew watched in terror as the tiles around him melted away under the erosive powers of her accurate, acidic projections. He stumbled backwards and fell hard on his wrists, jarring them both as he did so.
She laughed maniacally and hauled her disfigured frame on top of her prey.
“Now Mr Andrew,” she whispered in a failed attempt at seductiveness, “you will be mine.”
Andrew shit himself…


Chapter three

The edge of a loose paving stone caught the pointed toe of Jo’s black boot and she fell forwards, dropping her bag, flinging her arms out to cushion her fall in the process. In her right hand she held an I-Phone, which she tried in vain to protect from damage. She hit the deck hard, managing to cushion the impact slightly with her left arm, while the right had done its level-best to keep the I-Phone raised, but to no avail.
“No, no, no,” she muttered to herself as she sat up, ignoring the prying stares and juvenile comments of passers by. She was oblivious to it all. Her precious phone was giving off an unhealthy whir and, as she searched for any sign of life within the handset it gave a grinding groan and the screen flickered and died.
“No,” she wept, “not my I-Phone.” It seemed to her, as she sat in tears in the middle of St Ann’s square, Manchester, England, that all was lost.
The grey clouds of the north gathered above her and opened. She was still sobbing to herself when the first drops of rain hit her sagging shoulders.
Within seconds the streets had cleared and Jo was alone. It wasn’t until she raised her sodden head, taking the first tentative steps towards dealing with her loss, that she realised just how alone she was.
There wasn’t a single person in sight. Everyone had disappeared. She was completely alone.
Suddenly, her right hand started to shake. She looked down at the I-Phone and saw to her amazement, that a pixelated blur was flashing across the screen. She narrowed her eyes and studied the device. What was happening?
A massive roar of thunder stole her gaze away and her head jerked up towards the cracking heavens. She gave a muffled yelp as a bolt of lightning appeared from nowhere and coursed straight through the handset. The thin, sinewy wire of light split the greying mid-afternoon sky. The whip of electricity came to rest in the device that was now vibrating in her hand. Beneath the transparent screen she could see it twisting and writhing, contorting and buckling under its own power. After a few painful moments of voyeurism the spark that seemed to have been alive, lay still and slowly faded from view.
But it didn’t leave the device. Its essence seemed to seep into the metal structure and in a second of inspiration, reprogrammed the handset’s functions and turned the I-Phone into something more than a flash-in-the-pan accessory.
Jo sat still, not even realising that the rain had passed. The screen blinked and yawned into new life.
With dumbstruck eyes she peered down and noticed a message glaring back at her from the display.
“Look in your bag,” the phone instructed. Jo, too befuddled to argue (for once), did as the apple-made gadget asked. She rummaged around in her purple handbag, not knowing what she was looking for, but feeling something important was about to be discovered.
“What is it?” she said to herself in frustration. The phone didn’t respond with words, but gave an impatient groan, which irked the young Senior Clerk slightly. Determined to find whatever it was she was supposed to be looking for, she returned to her bag search in earnest.
Notebook, make-up, spare clothes, biscuits, the dog-eared I-Phone manual covered in Sharpie scribbles…
But no Sharpie. She stopped mid-rummage to check her memory. She had definitely packed her Black Sharpie this morning. She was sure.
She checked again, but only the coloured, liquid-ink highlighters could be found. They were good; some would say better than the bog-standard Black Sharpie, but the Black Sharpie was strong, its power was permanent.
It was unique.
And it was gone.
“You know what you have to do…” said the I-Phone. Jo stood, her whole body shaking with the shock of the last few minutes, and held the I-Phone at arm’s length. She didn’t know why; the movement was instinctive. She watched in silent horror as rows and rows of complex calculations spilled onto the screen as I-Phone searched for something, desperately trying to lock onto specific coordinates.
It stopped. A 12 digit ISIN appeared and was followed a jiffy later by an angelic beam of light that burst forth from the tip of the I-Phone, carving a passage between this world and the world of Lord Xandor, Lord of the Harpies.
Trembling with trepidation she stepped into the glaring void and vanished from Manchester, intent on retrieving the Black Sharpie.
Whatever the cost…


Chapter four

Amy heaved herself on top of Andrew’s snake hips with a lumbering grunt. He heard something crack and hoped to God it was his penis. At least if it was ruined it wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of a rough shagging, courtesy of the foul beast from Everett.
Before Andrew could fully ascertain the source of the sound and whether he would be forced to live the rest to his life as a physical or emotional cripple, another, more violent splintering tore through the otherwise silent room.
This time even Amy paused. She abated her onslaught and pricked up her feral ears.
Too late.
The floor that had been decimated in patches around the fallen pair by Amy’s acidic spittle, gave way and they fell, a tangle of limbs and loins, through the three floors beneath them, landing in a crumpled heap in the basement.
Amy gave a sluggish moan and Andrew, who had been fortunate enough to land on top of his captor, saw his chance to escape. He hopped to his feet, dusted his William Hunt suit down and made for the barely visible door that would lead to freedom.
He stopped in his tracks: The spreadsheet!
Turning on the spot, he saw the valuable misprint clenched between the podgy fist of his most sickening adversary. He steeled his nerve and, with a light, animalistic reach, snatched the telltale document from her grasp, span on his heel and bolted outside.
As soon as he was in the car lot, he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket.
“Damn Nokia,” he grunted, bashing the blank screen with the grazed palm of his left hand. Eventually the phone spluttered to life and he dialled his home number. The phone rang fifteen times before it was answered; he counted to pass the time.
“Hello?”
“Michelle?”
“Andrew, what’s wrong?”
“No time to explain, can you pick me up from work? Something terrible has happened!”
The line went dead before he finished the sentence.
“Michelle,” he tried, desperation taking a firm hold of his tone, “Michelle?”
Nothing.
Grey clouds rolled in above him as he shot his dying Nokia N95 a look of absolute contempt. The rain poured down, but Andrew didn’t care. In fact, the cleansing quality of the downpour was welcome and it washed away the memory of the banshee’s touch.
He shuddered at the vivid memory.
He was safe he could relax, deep breaths, deep bre-
Boom
A spear of lightning ripped through the sky and hit his Nokia square in the keypad sending it flying across the car park.
“Dang,” said Andrew in shock, shaking his stinging hand before retrieving his phone.
He bent down to pick up the phone. It was scolding. He swore loudly as the phone dance between his hands like a hot potato; a vocalisation of the frustration his day had brought.
All of a sudden the rain stopped and as it did so the phone bleeped and thousands of digits started to race across the display.
“What the..?”
A ray of heavenly light shot out from the tip of the old, battered handset and sliced a doorway open in front of him.
“What on Earth?”
“Go through the door. Find the girl. Use the map.”
“What about Michelle?”
“Michelle is safe. Go through the door. Help the girl. She will repay you in time.”
“But…”
“Go.”
And so he did as the Nokia N95 said. He stepped through the door to the land of Lord Xandor, clutching to his chest the sacred spreadsheet…


Chapter five

Jo, stumbled through the doorway that had appeared midair and looked around at the strange world she had just entered. Tall trees with a yellowish bark towered hundreds of feet above her, the lush canopy shielding her from what she could tell by the humidity was a ferocious sun.
In fact, a hundred timidly trodden metres down the rocky path, it became clear that the intense heat was the result of not one ferocious sun, but two.
"What is this place?" she said to herself, not expecting an answer.
"It is the Colony of Magical Shenanigans," said a mischievous looking Lepracorn from his toadstool perch. She almost jumped out of her skin and wheeled round to face the queer little creature that was half Leprechaun, half Unicorn. He was about two feet tall, dressed in green velvet with a dirty shadow framing his round, jolly jaw. Where a normal Leprechaun would've worn a hat, he sported a pearlescent horn that sparkled spectrally in the blinding light of day.
"Good Moro'," said the Lepracorn giving a maniacal laugh that seemed to the rattled traveller to have been involuntary. "Why come you here?" he said, erupting with crazed laughter once more.
"I don't know really," said Jo, too befuddled by the queer little creature to lie effectively, as her cautiousness would normally dictate, "My I-Phone just kind of opened this door in my world and I stepped through."
"Ah," said the Lepracorn knowingly, "Stepping is very dangerous. Yes, yes. But I see you are well prepared for danger. I see you carry a Magicbox." He pointed with a stubby finger at her I-Phone that was safely stowed in her red leather holster on her belt.
"Yeah...a Magicbox," she said, praying she could leave the odd little man's company soon.
"What do they call you in your world?" he asked.
"Jo," she said curtly, hoping her hostility would deter his inquisitiveness.
"Jo is not a name for a sorcerer with a Magicbox!" he said, sounding almost offended by the lack of ceremony surrounding the exotic stranger, "I shall call you Countess Magicbox!"
"That's a pretty terrible name," she said, "Far be it from me to lambaste a lack of creativity, but you sound like a complete retard."
"I cannot help it," he said sadly.
"Why not?"
"It is all because of Lord Xandor," he sighed.
"Who is he?"
"The king of this land. A fearsome, bearded troglodyte. A mighty warrior from overseas, from the mead swilling nation of Bel Gee Um."
"Why is your lack of creativity his fault?" asked Jo, intrigued by the majestic Lord that the Lepracorn seemed to hate.
"Years ago, Lord Xandor discovered a powerful group of Harpies living in the Confederate States of America. He persuaded them to return to his castle in the clouds and promised them a share in his world domination in return. They duly accepted and have since stood by Lord Xandor through all his conquests, giving him the power to slay any who stand in his path and using their cunning and intelligence to exact a bitter torture on any who resisted their dominance. But Xandor encountered two problems: Firstly, the Harpies powers were reduced every time they were used, and being the tools of dreams’ architects, but not the architects themselves, relied on the dreams of others to function optimally. And so they began to feast on imagination and love, stealing it away from the people of CMS, until they were unimaginative shells of what they once were. But still it wasn't enough and if Xandor was to lead his army to world domination, they needed to be replenished constantly and controlled once they had reached their full, fearsome power.
"Legend told of a magical Harpie: The Black Harpie, who's power was contained in a stylus that could draw walls between worlds and outline malicious intent, and channel the power of the bright and vibrant Harpies and thus gift Xandor absolute power.
"He searched and searched for it, vowing never to trim his mighty beard until he found the Black Harpie and now... now it seems he has succeeded. All is lost for us. he has cut off our imagination; isolated it in a separate world and their he sends his servants to reclaim the sweet imagination juice with which he refuels his Harpie warriors. Xandor's possession of the Black Harpie renders us defenceless and he will use his rainbow powers to sweep aside our nation’s resistance, drowning hope and smothering our happiness.
"I, like many others , am a shell of what I once was. I wanted to be a writer, but now it looks as if I'll have to settle for a life in banking, as our kingdom's capital; Pick a Dilly any Dilly, is a renowned centre of financial commerce."
"I see," said Jo, biting her tongue. She knew that the Lepracorn was too short to be a banker, but she daren't tell him. Maybe in his world crazy things could happen, like women being allowed to join the fire service or victims of crime prosecuted more severely than the criminals, or trains running on time, or Klingon being officially recognised as a degree level subject...
"It has long been foretold," said the Lepracorn going on without encouragement, "that a saviour would come to our land with her Magicbox and capture the Harpies. And she and she alone would be able to use the Black Harpie’s power to defeat Lord Xandor."
"Am I that person?"
"I imagine so yes, but to do just that has moved me close to death, for imagination is nigh on impossible for me and all creatures like me now."
"I am so sorry for your loss."
"Don't be. You can still save us, but you need help. No one can find Xandor unless they have the map. The Spectral harpies as we call them now, stand guard around his palace, flying between our world and theirs, picking off those who stray too close to their master's kingdom with their sharp, serrated talons and devouring their creative souls for fun. Legend states that a man with a map will enter our world at the same time as the girl with the Magicbox."
"It sounds like a long winded and poorly thought out legend."
"Yes it's a bit shit, but I'm thinking on my feet."
"No matter, where do you think I could find the man with the map?"
"Arrrgh, don't ask me to think," cried the Lepracorn, "it's bloody excruciating. Ow, my horn hurts."
"Sorry," she said, rubbing it better. "What is your name?"
"Nudds," said the sulky Lepracorn. "I'm king of the Lepracorns."
"Are you really?"
"Well...I think I am, but that's only because I'm the only one."
"How sad."
"It's not so bad. I'm a king."
"Yes...yes of course you are. Would you like to come with me on my adventure?"
"Jo, Jo, Jo. Countess Magicbox. there are many things you don't understand. Things in my world are different to things in yours. Our universes, although one, are in fact many and this side of the spatial rift your Magicbox created, Jeremy Kyle is on at 3pm, not 10am, and I promised my mate I would tape it for him, so no I can't come with you, but Ta anyway."
"You watch Jeremy Kyle?"
"It doesn't take too much imagination to digest."
"Right, well I'd better be off. Better go find the Mapman."
"Yeah, give him my love."
"Right..." said Jo, moving away from the odd little Nudds and hoping to the heavens that she could find the man who would lead her to Xandor.


Chapter six

She left him behind, feeling his unwanted, probing eyes follow her as she ducked into a nearby forest and out of view. The trees around towered above her head, scraping the cloudless sky with a dense, dark brown canopy, the decay of which looked well under way.
Their bark was grey and deeply ridged, giving the trees an old, drawn and withered appearance, as if all the enthusiasm for life had been sucked out of them. Contradictorily, the suns shone through the heavy canopy and dappled the path ahead with pinprick rays of ethereal light.
Suddenly a thought struck Jo, Queen of the Gadgets: Why not use her I-Phone to find the way? Why spend all this time searching for the Mapman who for all she knew, may not even exist? She unsheathed her precious Magicbox and tried to navigate to the GPS function. She tried and tried and tried again, but the touch-screen wasn't responding as usual. In fact, it seemed that the device had gained a sentient intelligence and was physically resisting being used in its old way.
"Damn," she said, shaking the Magicbox in frustration. The Magicbox squealed in protest. She stopped; her hand frozen in midair and her open mouth struck instantly with gawping rigidity.
"Don't shake me, so," said the I-Phone as an indecipherable flood of alphanumeric blurb raced across the screen as if it were its own manifested conscience. The I-Phone fell silent and the screen went blank. Jo was still dumbstruck, but shook herself into shape and apologised.
"I'm sorry...I didn't know you could feel."
"Of course we can feel. How do you command us?"
"Via the touch-screen of course..."
"Exactly...We can feel the soft caress of our masters and we do their bidding because we crave their touch...we serve you for your love and you pay us unknowingly."
"So why won't you let me use the GPS function? And how come you can talk? My friend has got the next generation apple I-Phone and not even hers can talk."
"Well apple had planned to save the sentient function for the third gen, but couldn't help fitting a patch to all the first and second gen phones; it's good market practice after all. And Apple aren't the first to do it either: Swedish based mobile manufacturer, Nokia had the same idea. Problem was, creating a conscience was all well and good, but there is never any guarantee that the phone owner would get along with his or her phone once they had been activated...Apple tried to get around this by fitting an uninstallation program, but the legislation to legalise the deactivation of an autonomous consciousness failed to be passed and is only legal in Switzerland ."
"That's inconvenient."
"Tell me about it."
"But how did you come alive? I certainly didn't download you."
"The bolt of lightning reconfigured my circuits...It updated me and here I am, alive and in you pocket, hoping to help you in anyway I can."
"By not letting me access my GPS?"
Somehow, and Jo never knew quite how, the I-Phone blushed.
"Well...you know how it is...now I can think for myself, I'm aware of my body. And although we've known each other a while, up until now we've just been friends and I'm a little shy. I don't want you prodding around inside me until I feel comfortable in your hands."
"So you'll let me see your GPS one day?"
"Maybe we should get married first...But I don't know. Time will tell. I'm not just going to put out on the first date. What do you take me for?"
"Its just, I paid a lot of money for you..." said Jo pleadingly, "I hoped you'd give me a good service."
"I'm not a prostitute you know."
"I know I-"
"And you can't expect favours without earning them."
"I'm sorry I-"
"You've got to warm up the oven before you stick in the turkey...know what I'm saying."
"Yes," she said, hoping to end the ridiculous exchange. "So how do I find the Mapman?"
"You've got to go through the forest of the dead. I can sense a rift in space up ahead: I can use my next gen apple software to cut through. I'm not sure what world lays beyond, but I can feel it leads to a shortcut that will see us rendezvous with the Mapman."
"Does he know we're coming?"
"He will by the time we reach him, but his quest is slightly delayed...have faith Countess Magicbox."
"Oh, you heard that did you?"
"Yeah he was a bit weird."
"You're telling me! Who watches Jeremy Kyle?"
"Pfft, I know. Does he not know how to set a VCR timer? Loose women is on ITV2 at 3. Madness. That's Lepracorns for yaw."
"Right," said Jo, not entirely sure which was loonier; Nudds or the Magicbox for whom she had no name.
"Come on sweet cheeks, let's get a move on."
With that Jo delved deeper into the forest, the world behind swallowed by greedy foliage and was soon but a dot on the departed horizon. Magicbox in hand, she ploughed on in search of the rift, in search of a new world and what lay beyond.


Chapter seven

Andrew was glad to leave the world of Amy behind, but almost considered diving back through the rapidly closing void when he saw what confronted him in this new and strange place.
Standing, not ten feet away, was a man-sized creature, covered head to toe in a long shaggy, chestnut pelt. The first thing Andrew noticed was a small nick of missing hair just in front of the buffalo-man's right ear. He made a mental note to ask what had happened to it, assuming the furry beast abstained from devouring him immediately.
The creature made a low guttural groaning sound, that seemed more curious than threatening and then he spoke;
"Rallo," he said, in gruff and mispronounced English.
"Err, hello," said Andrew, feeling instantly uncomfortable about the way the buffalo-man's eyes wandering over his rain-soaked form. His clothes were damp and clung to his 16.5 inch biceps like a limpet would cling to a hull. His rippling six pack was visible through his white shirt and it became the focus of the hairy stranger's perverted eyes.
"I fink I ruv roo," the furry monster beamed, full of elation.
"Err, no," said Andrew, hardly able to believe that he had been blatantly propositioned twice in as many hours. What would Michelle think? She would probably feign disbelief, but no doubt punish him anyway by reducing his triple-decker sandwiches to a standard, and grossly uninspiring two layers. Nightmare.
As he pondered the horrific possibility and the unavoidable jeers he would have to endure from the boys at the office if his missus was to pull the trigger and encumber his sarnie-rights, the buffalo-man approached and reached out a tentative, but steady hand to touch Andrew's shoulder.
"Nice," he said.
"Get off, please," said Andrew, stepping away from the over-friendly monstrosity.
"Do roo ruv me?" said buffalo-man.
"No, of course not. I don't even know your name..."
"My narm ees Daniel Charles."
"Hmm, I would have expected something a little less Etonian."
"Lots of people do, but then I bum them for saying it..."
"Ah, I see the connection," said Andrew, who had once, in his nonage, taken a trip to Eton and been chased by a groups of toffees who proclaimed at the top of their gleefully spoilt voices that they planned to sodomise him in the boat house and thus induct him to their special clique. Andrew had saved himself by telling the boys he attended a comprehensive school and they went off him immediately with no further attempts at his maidenhood.
"Will roo marry me? Daniel Charles is in love, yes?"
"No...I don't think you know what love is," said Andrew, starting to feel sorry for the clearly retarded buffalo-man.
"Show me."
"No-
"Please."
Andrew sighed.
"Alright, I'll try and explain it to you, but I won't show you anything," he said assertively, his memory flitting back to the boat house and the narrowly avoided bumming...
"Fankroo."
"Love is...well, love is a connection. A bond between two people that is much more than physical. It is sacrifice and selfishness, it is independence and reliance, it is a partnership. It's the feeling that makes a woman put an extra layer of roast chicken in your sandwiches, even though it means there will be less for her," a tear came to his eye as he thought about Michelle and the life he so dearly wished he could return to, "It's the reason why you give up something to want to help the person you love achieve their dreams, but its the understanding that your lover would do the same for you that allows you to accept it when the tables are turned. It is something that can't be broken or taken away."
"Like Daniel Charles?"
"No, not like Daniel Charles. I don't know you, but you seem a little strange and in my world, likely to become a criminal if given half the chance."
"What is criminal?"
"It is someone who takes something they are not allowed to take."
"Like me take you?"
"Yeah...that's not going to happen."
"But I ruv roo."
"No...No you don't."
There was a tense, uneasy air between the two of them. the stand-off evaporated though when Andrew's initial query returned to the forefront of his mind.
"What happened to your eyebrow?"
"Ruv."
"Love?"
"Yes, my ruvver, Johnoldham, cut it from my manface when he went a travelling away."
"Where has he gone?"
"To the heart of the Kingdom of Xandor to fight the Harpies."
"What are Harpies?"
"They are powerful weapons stolen by Lord Xandor. Like bright swords, they can cut ribbons of rainbows in the air. I ruv it and he ruvved it too, but the Harpies did their magic too much and went dull and grey and lost their colour and now they is soulless and bad, like Daniel Charles."
"Are you bad?"
"I fink so. I would have done bad fings to you if you had not spoken so kindly of ruv. I ruv ruv. It makes me happy and my danglebit not so dangle."
"Right. Not really necessary, but thanks."
"Welcome."
"I'd better be off," said Andrew, not sure where he was heading.
"Won't you stay a while and sup with me?" said Daniel Charles in his best voice.
Andrew paused, using all of creative intellect (which was a great deal) to fashion a response that was both decisive and negative without causing the bizarre buffalo hybrid heartache or pain. In the end he settled on a curt; "No," followed by a staunch middle finger and a muttered; "wanker."
He set off in the direction of Canal Town, which was, accordingly to Daniel Charles cursory finger, the same bearing as Lord Xandor's castle and the path trodden by his lover, Johnoldham.
Little did Andrew know that answers and queer folk aplenty awaited his arrival in the town and there he would learn the divine purpose of his mission and the great service he must do the Colony of Magical Shenanigans if it was at all to survive.


Chapter eight

A yellow cow with six and a half legs swam past Jo, stopping mid-breast stroke to give a cheery wave and ask how she was in fluent Catalan.
"Err."
An orange turtle with the tail of a squirrel and the horn of a rhinoceros did a cartwheel, fell onto its back and died. Jo was powerless to help it.
"What is this place?"
A monkey with angels-wings and vampire-fangs swooped down from a tree that was there a moment ago and then gone, dissipating in the shimmering world of no substance the next.
"I-Phone?"
Seven flamingos riding a giant rabbit all singing Canto De la Terra (the Katherine Jenkins version) rode past, tipping their bowler hats, before being eaten by a marauding troop of blue meanies that looked set to crash into Jo. She threw her hands up to bar their onslaught but in the blink of an eye, they vanished and she was alone. A dense, stuffy grey mist hung all around. She couldn't see the ground; she wasn't sure she could even see her feet...
"Where are we?"
"This is the land of imagination. A dream world that knows no physical existence. Before the days of Xandor, its thread was interwoven with the tapestry of life. It and the waking world were one. they were inseparable and they should have remained that way till the end of time. Xandor needed to fuel his rainbow Harpies and so he built a wall of magic between the two worlds. his subjects can barely think, let alone dream as all their creative energy is directed here, where it manifests itself in strange and bizarre creatures that Xandor sends his minions to hunt. They carry the carcasses back to their master and he siphons the colours of imagination into a thick syrup, with which he feeds the Harpies and makes them strong again."
"That is terrible. So that's what Nudds meant when he said it hurts to think."
"Mmhm, Nudds nearly died! Its lucky for him that Jeremy Kyle is repeated on ITV4 later. And they said it was useless."
"Fools."
"You must cross this land and exit in Canal Town. There you will find the Mapman."
"How long will it take to cross this place?"
"I don't know. maybe a second, maybe a year. I have a stopwatch function if you'd like to time it?"
"I think I'd rather not know."
"Suit yourself."
"Well I suppose I'd better set off."
"You might want to leave a trail of cotton? You know, like Hansel and Gretel. Use your shirt; by the time you get out of here you'll look like Xena the warrior princess."
"How would you know what Xena the warrior princess looks like?"
"3G...What, even I get lonely on those cold winter nights. hey you know there's a lot of saucy movies based on Xena. I could show you if you'd like?"
"Err, no thanks, save those for Nudds. It's probably been a while since he's imagined anything like that."
"You are kind, Jo."
"Not really...just not a fan of Lesbian porn."
"Fair point. I think you should turn left here. Try not to concentrate too hard though, I doubt you'll be able to resist Xandor's lure while in this world, so your imagination could be at risk. Let me guide you as best I can, my technology is impervious to mental draining."
Jo didn't argue. She was feeling tired and sluggish as it was. her legs were heavy and every step she took felt like another one nearer to sleep. As she started to drift from consciousness and Magicbox's voice became fuzzy and distant, a daydream popped into her head and, out of the grey expanse of nothingness, leapt a huge Bengal tiger being ridden by a tall, slim man.
"Whoa there, Nelly," said the man, pulling hard on the reins. He skipped deftly from the tiger's proud back and looked at Jo, who had wrestled with sleep and won. She stood wide eyed in the face of the massively tall stranger, whose narrow, handsome face was framed by walnut brown curtains and defined by startling blue eyes that shone with the scathing gentleness of an Alpha lion. "Jo, Jo, Jo, that was a close one! You have to listen to Magicbox or you'll be in the shit. And that is not cool beans."
"Who are you?" she said, shaking the sleep from her eyes.
"I'm the Porter," he said, grinning and bowing in one swift motion. His svelte shoulders were draped in a long black cape that hung just a few centimetres from where she imagined the invisible floor to be. "I guard the place between awake and asleep."
"Are you my imagination."
"Nope, I'm everyone's imagination. I stop the nightmares the complex synapses of the human brain can create from escaping into the real world. This here is Kimberli, my Tiger. With her on my side I can defeat even the most perverse creations of the subconscious mind."
"That's good to know, but why are you here?" she said, yawning.
"To keep you awake, you dingbat," he said, shaking her by the shoulders. "Bloody hell, when they said you would be a hero I'd expected a little more nouse. You're just a bit crazy aren't you."
"I get things done."
"Pfft."
"Anyway, who said that about me?"
"Everyone in this world. Like I said, I guard everyone's dreams so as recompense for not being able to have a functional relationship with a woman, I get to watch and listen to everyone else’s night time musings."
"So how are you here? Surely with you here, the world is subject to the tyranny of evil imagination?"
"No, thanks to Xandor I'm pretty much obsolete. All the dreams go here and I might as well be at home watching Jeremy Kyle."
"You should talk to Nudds."
"Yeah I would, but I've seen his dreams and I am not down with that." The Porter pursed his lips and looked Jo up and down, seemingly attempting to decide whether she was up to the hype. Finally, he spoke, “Listen, I'll accompany you out of this world and help you fight Xandor and the Harpies if you can find me a wife."
"Well I’ll do my best but..."
"How about you?"
"Err..."
"Why not?"
"Err...I'm...I'm a lesbian..."
"She is not," said Magicbox.
"Well I'm undecided," said Jo, her cheeks flushing red, "I'll let you know, but I promise I'll try and find you a wife."
"Bodacious. Shall we?"
And so they set off, led by the Porter across the wasteland, doing whatever they could not to imagine the horrors that lay in wait.


Chapter nine

Andrew barrelled through the door of The Two Dockers, red-faced and exhausted. The pub was full of men: there wasn’t a woman in sight. his eyes instantly gravitated towards a dark, shrouded figure propping up the far end of the long oak bar that stretched the whole width of the sweaty watering hole.
"He looks just as lonely as me," he thought, and traversed the bar to the side of the hunched stranger.
"What can I get you, gorgeous," said the topless, oiled and pouting barman.
"Err, I'm alright, but could you get yourself a shirt, by any chance?" said Andrew, visibly repulsed by the overwhelming gayness of the barkeep.
"Afraid not, Sunshine, tonight's wet torso night, and besides only you and old misery guts over there aren't enjoying the fun. Come on now, have a raspberry woo woo and let your hair down."
"I'll have none of your woo woos and this number three hairdo is by design not chance. I won't be letting any hair down in this place."
"Amen to that brother," said the hooded stranger to whom the bar tender had alluded. The mystery man's accent would, in our world, be described as camp-scouse, but in CMS the settlement of Liverpool had been rightly torched four hundred years ago and its people were extinct. Further to his campness, in the current environment his inflection seemed positively manly.
Andrew hopped onto a barstool and relaxed. He finally ordered a lager, which was delivered to him by the now sour-faced waiter. Andrew removed the listless strawberry that was bobbing in the head and launched it at the back of sullen, rejected barman.
"So you're not into this woo woo shit."
"Hardly," said the mysterious stranger.
"So why come here?"
"Same reason as you I'll bet; blind ignorance. I was so tired and emotionally ravaged that I just needed a beer and to rest. This place was the first I came too. I didn't care as long as I could drown my sorrows."
"What sorrows are they?" asked Andrew, enjoying the chance to converse with someone who didn't want to have sex with him.
"I recently did something...something terrible, but I had to do it, I just had to." It sounded to Andrew's keen and sympathetic ear that the man was trying to convince himself rather than his new friend.
"What was it?"
The man sighed, his hidden face contorting with self-hatred. He lifted his slender, elfin hands high and removed his hood. His twinkling blue eyes met Andrews and his GHD straightened hair glinted a straw gold in the warm disco lights of the pub as he said:
"I had sex with a Buffalo."
Andrew's nose screwed up in disgust.
"Aww, not Daniel Charles?"
"You know the heir?"
"I didn't know he was the heir to anything! Except perhaps a few well deserved STDs."
"Ah, be that as it may (for it has been sometime since I was tested and there was this one time I... actually, scratch that, the gist of it is: I didn't bag up and if my bird finds out she'll kill me), he is more than a simple paedophilic buffalo-man; he is in fact the rightful heir to this kingdom, the son of Lord Xandor and the wicked one, whose name I should not speak."
"He is Lord Xandor's son? Does he know?"
"Of course not, he barely knows his penis from a stranger's and that has led to some embarrassing incidents, let me tell you! But I needed to sleep with him to gain his trust and then to retrieve what I set out to: a snippet of hair from his head."
"Why would you need that?"
"I work for the Rebel forces. Since Luke Skywalker left us, I was instated as the next great hope. Things didn't go quite to plan when Xandor got hold of the Black Harpie though, nobody thought the day would ever come that he could use it to draw lines between worlds and channel the power of the colourful Harpies into an aggressive, cohesive force. Well we have a prophecy, the folk of our world, and it says that an immortal king of Xandor's powers could never be destroyed by any but his own hand. He didn't want an heir; but he got careless and fell in love with a tempting siren. He banished her when he learned she was pregnant and many cite that heartache was the catsalyst for his obsession with world domination. Prior to the pregnancy, he had been little more than your run-of-the-mill evil Lord. As soon as the bump started showing, his rage started growing.
“He intended to banish his son and its mother to the world of heroes, from whence our saviours are foretold to come, but his lover was canny and she hid her beloved son with a herd of Buffalo where he has since been raised a wild child. When the hairs from Daniel Charles' head are placed within the fused casing of a Nokia N95 and a first gen I-Phone, a weapon of galactic might will be formed and it will be able to defeat Lord Xandor for his son is his weakness: His son is him and can therefore smite the wicked Lord. Those tools, the two Magicboxes, are the marks of the heroes who will come to our world."
"I have a Nokia N95," said Andrew, revealing his handset to the dumbfounded rebel.
"My lord," he said dropping to his knees.
"I wouldn't be so bothered if I were you. The screen is shit: it keeps going on and off and it took an age to download all my Fleetwood Mac tunes. Nightmare."
"I love Fleetwood Mac!"
"No...really? this is getting weird!"
"My name is Johnoldham, and it is a pleasure to meet you Son of Mac."
"Andrew...my name is Andrew, and I'd prefer it if we could keep the Fleetwood thing on the down low."
"Understood...it nearly got me bummed in this place."
"So where should I go from here?"
"You have the map?"
"You mean this spreadsheet?"
"That is no spreadsheet! it is the map of the Grid: the scaffold matrix on which our world survives. It is map of the rifts in space that you can use to travel swiftly between locals."
"Great."
"Just wait here for the woman. She is prophesised to come..."
Andrew was about to reply when all of a sudden, a deafening crash shook the pub and silenced all the go-go dancers, greased acrobats and blaring ABBA tunes. A wail of unfathomable anguish followed and then what sounded like giant sobs and the sound of falling rain.
"Good gracious," said Johnoldham, jumping of his stool with the nimbleness of a cat, "That sounds like a wandering Titan!"
"What in heaven's name is one of those?" said Andrew, stuffing his N95 back into his pocket.
"You'd better come and see for yourself..."


Chapter ten

The sight that confronted Andrew was close to unbelievable, and the nauseating feeling of vertigo that shook his stomach as his eyes tracked from the Titan's sandaled foot, past his silo sized calves to his continental chest almost caused him to pass out.
"Who...What is that?" he shouted above the roar of splintering timber and collapsing ramparts.
"That's a Titan," yelled Johnoldham. "They live in the mountains usually, but Xandor has flushed them all out using the colourful Harpies. They don't think much and so aren't as threatened as us, but they loved their homeland greatly and I'd wager would side with us in an effort to reclaim it, if only we could stop them from rampaging and get them to sit down and talk."
"Why are they smashing everything up?"
"Because they're sad, and bloody clumsy by the looks of things..."
As Johnoldham spoke, the Titan reeled off course and ploughed straight into a mill. The wunch of gays who had spilled out onto the streets to watch the carnage screamed and ran for the hills, not caring that their bare torsos would feel the icy blades of the night's frosty legion.
"This is madness," said Andrew, massaging his temples. "How can I get his attention?"
"God knows, but I wouldn't try anything too brave. Titans aren't bad folk, they're just really, really stupid and if you get too close he'll probably stand on you.
The Titan stumbled into what must have been a bank, as following an explosion, thousands of gold coins began to rain down all around. Andrew took shelter, always keeping at least one eye on the movements of the rampaging giant, while Johnoldham stood still and watched the fall of the coins.
"Sorry to leave you like this," said the rebel spy, "But I could do with a bit of cash. Since Liverpool was sacked by the Goths in 400 years ago, my gypsy people haven't been on a proper rob. If it's all the same to you I'll clean up this mess...I need some new straightening balm and you know the price of solariums is soaring, what with the lack of orange in the world thanks to Xandor's hoarding of colour."
"It's alright, mate," said Andrew, "I'm going to figure out a way to sort this geezer out. Besides, if I hadn't just bought a new pair of retro Adidas kicks that I don’t want to risk scuffing, I might well be joining you."
"Fare thee well, then, O brave hero, and may we meet again on the fields of war."
"I hope it doesn't come to that. I'd really rather keep these sneaks box fresh."
"I fear it must, my friend, but hear me know: You have my sword when the time comes."
"Better bring your GHDs; I've heard war is a nightmare for Tresemé products."
"Noted." And Johnoldham disappeared, as he was trained to do, blending in with the shadows, ducking in and out of nooks and crannies, collecting each and every gold coin that glittered in the light of the flaming destruction wreaked at the hands of the dopey Titan.
For ten minutes or more, Andrew hid and watched the beast rampage. He was the last man left in the abandoned Canal Town and intended to leave alive, but with more dignity than the rest of the settlement's fleeing citizens.
Bit by bit, he edged closer to the ogre. Suddenly, a stray ray of light coming from the neon sign of The Two Dockers, illuminated a small sign, hanging from the waistband of the Titan's loin cloth.
How's my pillaging? Call 016172553766 to let me know.
Andrew, full of nervous excitement, fumbled with his N95, dialled the number and waited.


Chapter eleven

"Wakey, wakey," the Porter waved his delicate, elongated fingers in front of Jo's sagging eyes. "Wakey, wakey," he said, his voice breaking into a laugh.
Smack
"Ow, what was that for"? said Jo, rubbing her swollen cheek. The Porter was grinning inanely and sipping at what looked like a vodka and coke.
"You were almost asleep and I got bored."
"Yeah well it's tiring walking all this way. Are you sure you won't let me ride on the tiger with you?"
"The tiger has a name."
"Kimberli, then. Please," she begged.
"Err, no."
"Why not?"
"I don't like women all that much: They annoy me. They take up my time and space. Look at this: you've only known I exist for ten minutes and already you want a piece of my tiger. No sir. That ain't gonna happen."
"I thought you wanted a wife?"
"For certain reasons: I'm a bloody awful cook and as much as I love Kimberli, she's used to a barbed penis. Mine's just regular. massive, though...I mean its not regular sized. I mean it looks regular, but is definitely huge..."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure I'm sure: I've seen inside everyone's imagination remember? I know all their secrets. Plus, in this world, anything you imagine materialises physically, but don't go trying it. I can only get away with it 'cause I'm unique, you could lose your whole mind, but Xandor can't destroy me: At least, it would be in his best interests to keep me alive."
"Why?"
"Free bar," he smiled and offered her the vodka and coke.
"No thanks, I don't drink."
"Sensible girl," he said, downing the glass and watching with a marvelling interest as it refilled under his imagination's accord. "Well, I think we're nearly here. Now," he said, dismounting Kimberli, "I want you to be prepared. When your Magicbox opens up the doorway we will be greeted with a view of great destruction. Currently our hero, a man called Andrew from your world, is trying to subdue a rampaging Titan in Canal Town. The town is deserted, but reeks strongly of man love, so be prepared for a ripe stench."
"Okay," she said, hoping she could be as brave as the Porter.
A beam of light shone from the I-Phone and the greyness of the dream world seemed at once to evaporate: Like fog lights scything through a dense mist, the path was suddenly cleared and the world seemed never to have existed.
They stepped out into the 'real' world and were confronted with the scene the Porter had described. he stood tall, his keen eagle eyes scanning the distance.
"Just one Titan, shouldn't be too much of a problem. I just hope he's up to the task!"
"What should we do?"
"Sit and wait, we would be useless against a beast that size. Kimberli and I are only strong against those with complex thought: we can penetrate their minds and destroy their consciousness, but this fella, well he's a totally different kettle of fish. He had about two brain cells to bash together and they've already succeeded in slugging the sense out of each other. A man such as myself is of no merit in physical combat, and I doubt you would be able to wrestle a giant of his size."
"I wouldn't want to try."
"Good decision, so let's sit and wait and hope that Andrew is the hero we’ve been waiting for."

Chapter twelve

The standard Nokia ring tone danced on the midnight air, replacing the sound of destruction with a Swedish jingle. Andrew ground his teeth in irritation: Who on Earth still used that ring tone? It wasn’t big, it wasn’t clever and it certainly wasn’t funny.
“HELLO,” bellowed the Titan in a moronic voice, pinching the gnat sized handset between dirty, cracked fingernails the size of paving slabs and just as hard.
“Hello there,” said Andrew, not quite sure how to turn the situation in his favour. “My name is Andrew…I come from another world and I’m here to destroy Lord Xandor. Do you think you could stop smashing everything up and have a chat with me?”
“You want to talk to Rog?” said the Titan.
“Yes…nothing would give me greater pleasure.” He said, hoping to massage the Titan’s rightfully inflated sense of power.
“Ha, ha,” the ogre laughed a booming and unintelligible laugh, “You got a fancy voice. You sound like a fairy man.”
“Yes…” said Andrew, not sure what to make of the behemoth.
“Show yourself to Rog,” the Titan demanded. Sheepishly, Andrew revealed himself. He edged tentatively from his hiding place until Rog’s massive roaming eyes had picked him out amongst the rubble. “Tiny man,” he said and took a lumbering step forwards. Andrew tensed every muscle in his body; he was sure Rog was about to pick him up, but the Titan stopped mid-reach and recoiled in fear.
“Eeeeaarrrrggh!” he cried, and fell onto his nappy-covered backside.
“Whatever’s the matter?” asked Andrew, completely surprised by the Titan’s cowardliness.
“Your Magicbox…it’s…it’s the one.”
“The one?”
“The one the legends speak of. The one that destroyed Rog’s village.”
“Look, mate, I’ve only just got here. I’ve been in this blasted world for less than a week and my phone…my Magicbox,” he corrected himself with an almost tangible air of disdained impatience in his voice, “hasn’t left my pocket. There’s no way it could’ve destroyed a village without me realising.”
“No…you don’t understand. It is why my village was destroyed. The Highlander was searching for it and levelled our fortress in the mountains trying to find it.”
“Why would he think it was there?”
“We don’t know. All we know is that Xandor sent him to find the Magicbox as soon as his spies detected that the walls of our world had been breached. Many of my lovelies were killed.”
“I’m sorry to hear that…Tell me more about this Highlander?”
“Rog not so good at stories,” said the Titan, looking emotionally distraught by the admission, “Rog not so good at much. I don’t even mean to smash, smash, smash, but I am clumsy and my eyesight not so good.”
“You should go to spec savers,” suggested Andrew, helpfully.
“I would, but my local branch just closed (credit crunch).”
“Ah.”
“I have a little friend who will tell you stories. I found her in a pinecone. She is my special pixie friend.”
“How nice,” grinned Andrew, finding himself endeared towards the docile dolt.
Rog fumbled with his deerskin nappy and, after a few minutes of suspiciously laboured over-rummaging that the Titan seemed to be enjoying, he removed a pinecone from his crotch-pouch and set it down.
“Emmareena,” in a sweet, cooing tone, “Emmareena, come out and tell Rog stories. I have a new friend who wants to know about the Highlander.”
An odd buzzing came from deep inside the pinecone and it began to rattle as if caught in a sudden breeze. Without warning, the cone opened like a flower, the skeets parting and releasing a neon green glow and a plume of glitter.
A moment later what looked like a fairy or a pixie or an imp of some magical description flew out of the splayed cone and did several loop-the-loops in the air.
Her delicate wings gave a low mechanical hum as they beat at a rate faster than the human eye could track. Her skin was green, at least it appeared so, but could well have been white and affected by the viridian glow that seemed to radiate from the very core of her being. Her eyes were profoundly deep and a crystalline shade of emerald. Her hair was dark, chocolaty brown and hung in loose curls across her face and down to her graceful shoulders.
Andrew wasn’t sure if she was naked or not, again the green light foxed his mind, but if she was her modesty was more than retained by her overwhelming beauty. It was so distracting he felt as if he had fallen into a trance just looking at her. The world around seemed to loose its focus and perspective and she was larger than life and sharper defined and then blurred and distant all at once. He shook himself and smiled at her, a geniality she returned.
Her teeth seemed to be made of diamond and glittered hypnotically under the strength of her own light.
She whirled through the air as effortlessly as a swift and, tucking her wings back, dived to within a foot of his face. There her wings sprung out, braking on the subtle breeze and holding her still in the air.
A humming entered Andrew’s ears as she hovered in front of his eyes.
“Good day, traveller,” she said, her voice sounding like the rustling opaque droplets of a glass chandelier.
“Hello,” he said, impressed his tongue managed to function at all.
“My name is Emmareena. I look after Rog; I have done since he saved my pinecone from the forest. The Highlander has been deforesting our world for some time. He hopes that Xandor will reward his long service by granting him permission to found a new colony…Salford or something ridiculous like that.”
“So who is he and what’s his bag?” asked Andrew, realising he should keep the beautiful Emmareena talking for fear of revealing his own overwhelming desire through his stuttering.
“The Highlander is a bad man. He is a politician, a backbencher of Xandor’s corrupt parliament. He has mean policies and hates everyone. His sword; the Liberator, is one of the most feared weapons of our world. It can destroy whole races with its droning hum. As it cuts through the air, the dull and unreflective blade radiating an intense dislike for management, a long-winded, diabolically designed assault on one’s own political ethos emanates and penetrates the mind of its victim, reducing their political values to dust. Once crushed and directionless they either die or vote for Liberal Democrats out of confusion, suffering under the delusion that they actual have real policies and are more than a student friendly bunch of saps.”
“I always hated the Lib Dems…except for Charles Kennedy, he was always up for a laugh.”
“In my experience, there is little the Lib Dems aren’t up for.”
Andrew laughed along with her little joke, hoping his joviality masked the deviant thoughts he was having about her. It was ridiculous: she was only twelve inches tall and despite the favourable repercussions his manhood would enjoy, he averred it would simply never work and put the sordid imaginations to the back of his mind.
“I want to find this Highlander and stop him.”
“We would be eternally grateful,” she smiled seductively and leaned forward in midair, squeezing her luminescent green breasts together. Andrew’s head swam. “Also,” she said, “if you capture him, Xandor would have lost his most faithful servant and premier defender of the realm. Without the Highlander, you would only have to contend with Xandor and the Harpies.”
“Only,” said Andrew, smiling with resigned irony.
“Emmareena,” said Rog, hauling his massive bulk to a standing position, “We should go. Look for the little ones.”
“Ah, yes, our quest to find survivors from our village must continue. It was a pleasure to meet you,” she said, turning to Andrew, “You will be well remembered, Andrew, son of Blackburn.”
She flitted to Rog’s shoulder and he bent to pick up her pinecone which he stowed in his nappy before ambling away from the scene of devastation.
“Wait!” called Andrew, befuddled, “How did you know my name?”
She smiled, her radiant grin still visible despite the distance that was already between them. Her voice carried on the wind, unbroken and unhindered by the travelled expanse as it was lighter and more finely wrought than air itself:
“The peoples of this world have long awaited your arrival. You are the hero that will free us all. Find the girl, Andrew. Find her and help her to reach Xandor. Together you can bring his kingdom to its knees.”


Chapter thirteen

The Porter, sat astride Kimberli, charged down the hillside towards Andrew. Jo ran as fast she could in order to keep up with him.
“He looks uninjured,” whooped the Porter as they hurried on.
“I wonder why the Titan didn’t just crush him? Maybe he has magical powers?”
“Well, he has a Magicbox similar to yours, but the Titan wouldn’t have killed him deliberately. They’re not a violent race, just bloody clumsy. In fact they are on our side. The Titans hate Xandor’s reign more than most as they have suffered greatly at his hairy hands. From the markings on that Titan’s nappy I’d say he was a member of T.A.X.”
“What’s T.A.X?”
“Titans Against Xandor,” he said with a wry smile.
“What do they do,” she said, panting as she ran.
“Well, currently they’re scouring the land for those who escaped the Highlander’s recent attacks. Since you and the Mapman breached our world’s buttresses,” he laughed childishly to himself, “Xandor’s been going mental. His turnip is well and truly roasted. Sure, he’s got the Harpies, but he knows now that he has a weakness. Your presence validates the prophecies that have circled this world for nigh on two decades and if you’re here then that means his son survived.”
“He has a son?”
“An illegitimate child that he tried to destroy. In failing to do so, a path of fate was initiated by the gods. Now he knows that you are coming he’s trying to find weapons around this land that can be used against you. This is a strange a powerful world with many tools of havoc hidden within its boundaries.”
“Is he searching for these weapons himself?”
“No…Xandor rarely leaves his cloud castle, but I can not be sure. Although I can penetrate his mind as I can anyone else’s, he possesses a rare, erratic and indecipherable imagination. It is his own creativity that allows him to wield the Harpies to such effect. If he were to face one such as you in battle though, he would be tested.”
“Is the Mapman strong in this way too?”
“More than you could imagine,” said the Porter, his voice suddenly becoming grave and measured. “I tried to reach him with my thoughts and almost passed out. It was like taking ecstasy and washing it down with rohypnol.”
“Not a good combination.”
“Not on a Thursday, no, but we always party on a Thursday in CMS. Nightmare.”
Without another word they sped on to Andrew, who, at this point, had noticed them and was approaching, armed with a splintered plank that he’d found laying nearby.
As they neared, Kimberli slowed and Jo’s rapid strides reduced in length and frequency. They crept towards the man for whom they had searched with caution.
There was a wild look in Andrew’s sharp eyes. They flashed with ferocious mirth and sliced away Jo’s confidence. She trembled under his wise gaze and for some reason, found her hand feeling for the I-Phone.
Despite their knowledge of each others’ existence, Andrew and Jo were too cautious to risk letting their guard down. After all they had seen, one slip would surely be enough to end it all, condemn CMS to an eternity of suffering and vanquish any hope they still harboured of making it home to their loved ones alive.
Andrew lowered the piece of wood, but as he did so Jo’s hand closed around the I-Phone. The offensive move was spotted by Andrew who reacted instantly, his own reflexes proving a catalyst for Jo’s nerves. She whipped her phone from its holster as he snatched his from his pocket.
She gawped at his lightning reflexes and made a mental comment that, if he hadn’t been a banker he could easily have played up front for Blackburn…maybe even Liverpool.
That moment of deliberation was all Andrew needed to catch up with her and a second after their tentative feeling out session had begun, they were standing twenty feet apart, phones drawn and eyes narrowed.
Neither one of them intended what happened next to pass, but suddenly, beams of light shot out from their phones, like magic wands dispelling years of pent up energy in one glorious act. The handsets quivered as they unloaded shafts of pure power.
Both heroes were scared: They hadn’t meant to hurt each other; having only reached for their phones out of fear and apprehension. But, as the magical tendrils entwined, spinning around each other like oppositely charged particles, swirling and dancing through the dusky air in a light-show comparable to the Aurora Borealis, they began to understand.
They phones were not fighting and they were in no danger. They loved each other and were communicating in the special way only they could.
Carefully, Andrew turned his handset over in his hands, all the while the tentacle of light flowing freely from the tip. The screen was buzzing with foreign information that hurt his eyes to read.
The phones were talking to each other and it was the most awe-inspiringly beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“What is this…” he said in stunned wonderment.
“Bluetooth,” said the Porter, “Well better than Infra-Red, isn’t it? Shut it off though; you shouldn’t leave it on. One time, I left my Bluetooth on and I got sent a load of dodgy photos. At least that’s what I told the police,” he said, chuckling to himself and elbowing a disgusted Jo.
The two heroes navigated to the Bluetooth function and shut the phones down. Embarrassed by their devices’ connection and their unfamiliarity, they made sheepish eye contact before Andrew took the initiative and introduced himself.
“Hi, I’m Andrew,” he said, sticking his hand out awkwardly, “I think you may have heard of me.”
“The Mapman?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“I’m Jo,” she said, smiling and shaking his hand.
“The Girl?”
“Obviously.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“No it’s okay I know.”
“It’s just…this one time…I was in Amsterdam and I thought she was a…I mean my mates told me…never mind.”
A shy silence descended only to be shattered by the Porter who seemed incapable of keeping his mouth shut for more than five seconds.
“Shots anyone?”
“I don’t drink,” said Jo.
“I don’t think I fancy shots right now…” said Andrew, not liking the intrusive nature of the Porter’s lingering stare.
“Suit yourself,” he said, seemingly un-offended. He unscrewed a litre bottle of Smirnoff, removed a packet of playing cards from inside his cloak and sat down cross-legged not three feet from Kimberli who was lying on the ground.
“Right,” he said, shuffling the cards, “Shit head is simple and the rules are, every time a seven is played we drink three fingers, every time a two a six or an eight are played, we drink two fingers and every time anything happens we drink one finger.”
Kimberli nodded dutifully and prepared to sleep. She had played this game with the Porter every night for the last ten years and she was yet to have a drink. Her paws were not opposed enough to allow her to grip a glass and the Porter was too focused on the game in hand to notice her throat remained dry while a river of vodka ran freely down his.
After ten minutes of furious Shit head the Porter was unconscious and roaming the dream world he could still access with administrative privileges intact, while he slept.
It had long been the assumption of scholars that he was the sole cause of nightmares, though rarely by intention. In his frequent drunken stupors he has been known to stumble to and from dreams, doing as he wills in any shape or form his intoxicated mind cares to adopt.
As he tossed and turned with a sordid grin stamped irrevocably on his face, the two heroes got to know each other.
The night wore on and they sat around a campfire Andrew built for them, telling each other of their old lives and how they had found themselves embroiled in the turmoil of the CMS.
Piles of rubble towered all around and nocturnal creatures of the weird and wonderful world stalked them in the shadows as they conversed, ignorant to the watchful eyes that clung to their every move.
“…so what should we do now?” asked Andrew.
“Have you got the map?”
“I think it’s this…” he said, handing her the spreadsheet. Jo took it and studied it for a while. I remember this! You’re Andrew from Everett aren’t you? You rang me about a week ago for help!”
“Oh my god; you’re Joanna Hailes from Manchester? I’m from Manchester. I only moved out to the states a few weeks ago to take my job.”
“Mistake, huh?”
“Tell me about it,” he laughed ruefully.
“I wonder how I got this wrong…” she said, a mask of complete puzzlement marring her soft features. She thumbed the sheet, staring intently at the erroneous number.
“You rounded up,” said Andrew, unhelpfully. He hadn’t meant to make her feel worse, he had just wanted to break the uneasy silence.
“But why would I do that…I suppose I must have been tired.”
“Well, I wouldn’t blame yourself,” he said, putting his arm around her disconsolate shoulder and smiling warmly, “You know what our line of business is like. Why, the other day the correct procedure for entering CAscade responses changed three times while I was on the phone to one client. I had to put him on hold and I rang him!”
She laughed, but it was clear to the intuitive Mapman that she was troubled by her own mistake. All of a sudden her face brightened. She grabbed her I-Phone and, to Andrew’s astonishment, spoke to it.
“I-Phone, what is the meaning of this spreadsheet? How can we use it to find Lord Xandor’s castle?”
The I-Phone whirred into life, clearly slightly comatose from its hot, sweaty Bluetooth session with the N95, but willing to help nonetheless.
“It is a blueprint of this world’s structural matrix. It is a map of weak pockets of space that can be manipulated by our magic. We can travel through them like wormholes. Although the locations represented by the numerical values entered in the fields appear next to each other, they are in fact many hundreds of miles separated. However, the rift that my powers can create between the two cells make such distances easy to traverse in a matter of seconds. Each of the numbers is actually a grid reference and the invalid entry made on your behalf Jo, is the map reference for Lord Xandor’s castle.”
“Unbelievable…”
“Yes…that’s why Dorling Kindersley refuse to publish this.”
“So where are we now?”
“Grid reference 1631.”
“That’s several fields away from Xandor’s cloud castle. Can we travel through more than one at once?”
“No. You may only travel through wormholes that are directly to the north, south, east or west of the local you currently occupy.”
“So we can choose our own path?”
“In a manner of speaking, but fate will see to it your conclusion remains unaltered.”
“So where should we go?” she said, turning to Andrew, who had been watching the casual exchange in utter amazement.
“Err, I don’t know…I suppose I’d quite like to go to the Titans’ village and see if I can find this Highlander chap.”
“Who is he?” asked Jo keenly, glad she had found another normal person who she could talk about the crazy world and its odd inhabitants with.
Andrew explained as best he could, taking care to omit his questionable motivation for such a chivalrous act.
Try as he might he couldn’t get Emmareena out of his head. Her songbird voice had etched itself upon his brain and every thought he had had since meeting her had been veiled in memories of her starlight smile.
He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to see her again. Maybe just to gaze upon a being that was finer formed than anything in his home world. Maybe it was to hear her voice again and to drift off into heavenly relaxation of its melodic tide. Or maybe she reminded him of Michelle and how much he missed his life…
“I suppose if we could stop the Highlander’s rampage through the CMS, we would be better placed to launch an assault on Xandor and his Harpies,” said Jo, her military tone prompting a raised eyebrow from her newest companion.
“Wow, you sound into this.”
“I just like to have a clear plan in my head…and I don’t know why, but I’m desperate to get to Xandor. I think he may have something to do with the disappearance of my Black Sharpie.”
“Your what?” said Andrew, not sure if he had misheard.
“My Black Sharpie…you know…the marker pens endorsed by David Beckham?”
“Err…is it just me or does that sound a little too much like the Black Harpie, to be a coincidence.”
Jo’s jaw dropped.
“So that’s what this is all about! Wow, I knew Sharpie branding (www.sharpie.com) was powerful stuff, but I never realised they would rise to epitomise imagination itself. In this world they must be supremely powerful.”
“Must be something to do with the ink not travelling so well between universes,” said Andrew convincingly.
“Well, I’m more determined than ever to stop Xandor now!”
“And I want to leave this world in peace when we finally get home.”
“Let’s go then. Let’s find the Titans’ village and stop the Highlander. With him removed our allies will grow and I will be able to get my Black Sharpie from the evil bearded one and then finally, we might be able to go home.”
The Porter gave a girlish scream before rolling over in his sleep and sucking his thumb.
“Jeez, I wouldn’t want him doing that in my dreams…” said Andrew, wondering how such an action might manifest itself in the world of nightmares.
“I suppose we better let him sleep off his drunkenness. As much of a pisshead as he is, he is useful to have around.”
“If you want to get smashed,” grinned Andrew.
“Come on, let’s bed down for the night. We can chase the Highlander in the morning,” she said, adopting a maternal role and foraging through the rubble, searching for anything that could be used as a mattress or pillow.
She threw a dismembered teddy bear at Andrew and hauled a tattered tartan rug out from beneath the debris for herself.
They slept on either side of the dying fire and drifted off quickly, tired from the day’s exertion and nervously excited about the adventures yet to come.


Chapter fourteen

Andrew awoke suddenly, a sharp pain searing through his right cheek. He opened his mouth to cry out, but no sound escaped. His hand flew to the tender flesh and felt warm droplets of blood forming on the surface. He strained his eyes to see in the dark and managed to pick out several small, scurrying shapes, their outlines only visible in the dim light given off by the waning embers.
He tried to sit up, but felt a weight on his chest. He swatted at whatever it was sitting on him and felt his hand make contact with soft, bare flesh. The creature, which was about the size of a baby, flew into the fire and screeched as it frazzled to a crisp.
Andrew felt sick; he’d never killed anything before and hadn’t really intended to do so much harm, but he had acted impulsively and the mischievous creature had paid the ultimate price.
Suddenly his mind switched to Jo. Why hadn’t the screams of the frying imp not woken her? He peered through folds of darkness to the other side of the fire. She was only ten feet away but the night time obfuscation was so intensely complete he struggled to make out her dusky silhouette. Then he saw her, surrounded by a hazy, purple corona.
Despite the blurred light emanating from Jo, she was almost impossible to track in the dark, though she seemed to sway dangerously on her feet before collapsing in a clearly unconscious heap.
Andrew leapt to his feet, his sudden movement causing commotion amongst their night time invaders.
Without warning five of the small creatures flew out of the darkness and latched onto his legs, purring with what sounded like arousal. Andrew kicked hard and two of the mini-beasts flew off, another landing in the fire and fizzing and popping as it died. Three clung tight and started to laugh.
Andrew could feel their creeping hands stroking his calves.
“Get off,” he shouted, but they held on tight. “What do you want from me?” he yelled, shaking his legs furiously.
“Show us your biceps,” said one of the creatures in a thick Merseyside brogue.
Andrew stopped struggling out of shock.
“What?”
“Show us your biceps,” they said, loosening their hold, sensing they had the upper hand and their request was close to fruition.
“Why..?”
“Do a squat thrust!” said another. Andrew could here him jumping up and down in excitement. He reached for his phone and selected the torch function. The small creatures, whose heads just about reached his waist, screeched, but did not flee in the face of light.
Andrew stared down in wondering disgust at the creatures whose skin was so black it was purple.
“What are you?” he said, slightly sickened, but intensely curious.
“We’re the Purple Akis,” they chimed in unison.
“What the…” He was dumbfounded. In his world, Purple Aki was a frighteningly legitimate Urban Myth, but in the CMS his mantel had been split across a whole race of munchkin-sized perverts.
“Show us your biceps,” said one.
“Do a squat thrust!”
“Can I feel your abs?”
“No, no and definitely no. What have you done with Jo?”
“We have entranced her with supplements from Holland and Barret. She will not awake until we give her the antidote.”
“Give it to her.”
“Show us your biceps.”
“No.”
“Then she will die,” said the biggest of the three.
Andrew glared at him. He knew what he had to do. Reluctantly, he ripped the sleeves off his shirt and flexed.
“Ooo,” they swooned.
“Is that enough.”
“No. We must feel them and then measure them. Measurer!” the biggest one called to a smaller Purple Aki who came running. To his back was strapped a small step-ladder and in his hand he clutched a violet tape-measure. He set up shop by Andrew’s right foot, clambered onto the step-ladder and wrapped the tape around Andrew’s flexed muscle.
“16.5 inches,” he said, impressed. He noted it down and then hopped the ladder, folding it up and dashing off into the surrounding darkness.
“Very good. Very good. Thrust for us.”
Andrew sighed and did a squat thrust. One of the Akis screamed with ecstasy, climaxed and then exploded, covering everyone in the vicinity with a jam-like goo.
“I’ve done as you ask,” he said, shame tingeing his voice, “Now free Jo from your spell or I’ll kill you all.”
The venom in his voice was tantamount to a fatal dose and the Akis responded instantly. They scurried to Jo’s slumped form and forced a few pills into her slightly open mouth. She swallowed involuntarily and within a few seconds she came to.
Andrew ran to her and lifted her up.
“Are you alright?”
“I think so,” she said dozily.
The Akis gathered around, watching the pair intently. The silence was eerie, but was broken by a cheery whistle, approaching their camp from the distance. The Purple Akis all raised their right eyebrow in interest, whereas Andrew reached for his trusty plank.
About a minute passed, during which time the hotchpotch alliance of Akis and Andrew stood side by side, scanning the blacked out horizon for the source of the ghostly tune.
Then Nudds skipped round the corner, his pearly horn sparkling in the dim light.
“Hello, hello,” he said, looking at each of the graven faces in turn. “What have we here?”
“What are you?” said Andrew forgetting his manners.
“I’m Nudds, King of the Lepracorns, you would do well to treat me with more respect.”
“Sorry,” he said, lowering his wood.
“Nudds?” said Jo, squinting at him through the darkness.
“Hello, Countess Magicbox. How have you been?”
“A little confused…”
“Yes, I see you met the Porter,” he jabbed a pointy thumb in the direction of the snoring dream keeper. “He is confusing to say the least. And who are these chaps with you?” He waved his little hands at the legion of Purple Akis that had congregated out of the night.
“We are the Purple Akis,” said the leader contemptuously.
“Oh, shit,” said Nudds, taking a step backwards.
“Yeah, you’d better run, you grass!” shouted a raging Aki from the back of the growing group.
“Woah, woah, woah, what’s your beef with the Nudds?” said Andrew, turning so his back was to the Lepracorn, shielding him from the instantly aggressive Purple Akis.
“He told on us.”
“Went to the police he did.”
“Now the Highlander’s after us.”
“And we’re in the shit.”
“All we wanna do is touch some taut biceps.”
“And see some powerful squat thrusts.”
“I’d quite like to give a small boy a piggy-back,” said the leader, rising up to his full height, threateningly, “But thanks to that little git we’re on the run. We have to conduct our business by night.”
“It’s humiliating,” said the Aki.
“Shameful,” said another.
“Andrew,” whispered Jo, so the Akis couldn’t hear, “You have to help Nudds. He’s the last Lepracorn and my friend. Those Purple men are weird. Protect Nudds, please.”
He nodded that he understood.
“You Akis better clear off,” he said in his best Oasis accent, “Or I’ll do you in with this piece of wood.”
“You’re no match for us,” said the leader, his eyes narrowing at the Lepracorn. “Akis! Attack!”
They rushed forwards, bearing their fangs. Andrew swore and picked up Jo in one hand and Nudds in the other and began to run away. Kimberli picked up the Porter in her jaws and bounded after them. As they ran, Andrew’s N95 began to glow and vibrate. With a mental command Andrew opened a door in front of them and they sprinted through, hoping to god the Akis would be left behind.


Chapter fifteen

They barrelled through, out into a sprawling mountain landscape. Although the peaks were obscured by the last traces of night that was fast eroding under the rising suns’ advance, the vista was awe-inspiring. The summits pierced the clouds, just visible in the dawn light. Their snow capped slopes ran to within a mile of the village that they had stumbled into, but seemed much closer because of the houses’ mammoth size.
Andrew figured they had travelled to the village of the Titans, but before he could spend more time deliberating that possibility, the merciless chatter of the rampant Purple Akis stole his concentration away.
“Damn,” he cursed. They were fast little critters! Somehow they had managed to dive through the wormhole before the N95 had been able to seal it up.
He found himself momentarily distracted by a motionless figure on the hillside, standing about two hundred yards away. He was forced to refocus on the attacking Akis though, as they had caught up with him and were tugging on Jo’s trouser leg.
“Get off, leave us alone,” he begged, but his pleas fell on ears deafened by their owners’ insanity.
A whooshing sound caught his attention and a long arrow whizzed past his cheek, straight through the chest of the Purple Aki leader. He choked and spluttered and fell backwards, dead, never again to feel the soft, supple biceps of another man.
The other Akis chattered nervously and allayed their attack somewhat while they figured out what had happened. Before they could regroup another three arrows whistled through the air and found their marks.
One, two three: the Akis fell, defeated by their distant assassin. Andrew retreated and watched the Akis fall one by one.
Nudds hid behind Andrew’s calf, trembling and whimpering like a small puppy. Andrew didn’t want to say anything that might upset the little guy, but his horn was wet and rubbing on his leg.
Putting the uncomfortable feeling to the back of his mind, he ushered his companions to safety, leading them behind an overturned apple cart that stood about two storeys high.
Ten minutes passed and in that time all the Akis were slaughtered. As the last one lay dying, Nudds crept out from their hiding place and evaded Andrew’s desperate attempt to grab him by the ankles and drag him back to safety. The velvet-clad Lepracorn snuck across the dirty and disarrayed square to the heap of bleeding Akis. The last Aki looked up at his ratter and said:
“Can I touch your biceps?”
Nudds said nothing, but rolled up his green sleeve and flexed.
“Nice,” said the Aki, and died.
Nudds shed a single tear. Although he hated the Akis, he found the loss of life, however perverted and strange, to be a disheartening reminder of the frailty of mortality. He turned his attention to the hillside ranger who had saved their lives. Slowly and deliberately, the shadowy figure made his way towards the king of the Lepracorns.
As the mysterious Samaritan descended the mountain the sun rose and illuminated his hardened face. His squinting, malevolent eyes glinted menacingly in the first rays of morning, and his sword flashed with the neutral yellow of liberty.
“The Highlander…” said Nudds under his breath. Fearful for the safety of Andrew and Jo, he waved at them and motioned for them to stay hidden. They did as he instructed, though Andrew, who felt strangely protective of the last loneliest Lepracorn, reached for a large rock which he planned to lob at the Highlander, should things turn sour.
“What is your name, Lepracorn?” said the Highlander in a dragging voice.
“Nudds.”
“How is it that you are not dead? I personally saw to the…disappearance of your tiresome species twenty years ago.”
“I was born twenty years ago,” said the Lepracorn. “I never knew anyone else like me.”
“That’s because I…took care of them.”
“Why?”
“They threatened to vote conservative.”
“Local or general?”
“General, of course.”
“Can you blame them?” said Nudds, knowing full well that voting for the Lib Dems in the general election was effectively the same as throwing your vote away. He glared at the Highlander.
“Not really…but I can punish them and I did.”
“You’re a bad man…” said Nudds, his horn getting wet with rage.
“I’m a very powerful man.”
“You’re evil,” said Nudds angrily. His emotions were starting to get the better of him and he was feeling drowsy. He wasn’t used to such intense feeling and it often made him fall asleep.
“I’m going to get you,” he said, yawning. His pathetic stature and obvious narcoleptic deportment made the Highlander laugh. Nudds gave a feeble roar and charged at him, horn lowered at crotch height.
Still the Highlander laughed and raised a casual hand to grab the horn. But then something strange happened. Nudds’s eyes turned black and his horn began to quiver. Without warning, the horn grew rapidly. It doubled in size then tripled again. The Highlander’s laugh stopped and he just had time to scream before the razor sharp, elongated horn lanced his bollocks and ripped straight through his groin.
He gasped in shock and pain and slumped to the floor, mortally wounded.
“Nudds, you bastard…”
“You’re a bad man,” he yawned again and fell asleep.
“Bastard…” said the Highlander as life began to leave him, “At least I killed those bloody Akis,” he said, a resigned smile lingering on his face.
At the very moment before he died one of the Akis crawled from beneath the pile of his dead brothers and dashed off, unseen by all but the dying servant of Xandor. The Highlander began to scream, but the sound never reached his lips.
Andrew and Jo, who was fully recovered from her poisoning, crept out from their hiding place. The Porter came round and took a nip of vodka to stay the spinning world and staggered after them, Kimberli in tow.
“Nudds?” said Andrew, addressing the snoring Lepracorn, whose horn had returned to normal size and was once again bone dry.
He picked the skewered testicle from its tip and flicked it onto the pile of Akis which he promptly set light to and watched burn.
“Well, Nudds did us a favour. The Akis and the Highlander are dead. Perhaps we should take him with us when he wakes up.”
“I suppose he might be useful,” said Jo, mopping the little man’s brow.
“I can carry him in a papoose,” said Andrew. “Help me find some stuff to make one.”
So they set about making a harness for Nudds to be carried in and in the process, explored the Titans’ village in depth. It was a rustically constructed town, with few luxuries, but a surplus of organic passion. Statues and other works of art were common and the individuality of each home spoke volumes of the Titans’ old-world values. They wished for the simple life and enjoyed a leisurely dalliance in the arts. Xandor’s oppressive regime crushed their spirits which were not as fortified as their mighty bodies.
Andrew imagined that should a war befall this world, the Titans would be honest and ardent warriors: exactly the sort his army would need when the time came.
His army.
He repeated it to himself until it sank in. He looked at his companions. The Porter was back to his old self and was sat, cross-legged on Kimberli’s back, reading a Richard Dawkins Novel, and Jo was tending to the exhausted Nudds like a mother would her son. And then Andrew looked at himself. Sleeveless and sweating; the days events had left their mark. His clothes were ragged and his muscles corded from constant exercise. He was becoming the part he was destined to play; he was becoming the hero.
He separated from the group for a while and went hunting for a weapon he could call his own. Eventually he found noticed a tall shack. A sign bearing a hammer an anvil was swinging in the wind, marking it as the village’s armoury. He rifled through the chests within until he found a gilded hammer made of incredibly light Titanium. He imagined it would be little more than a finishing tool in the hands of a Titan, but for him it was a double handed war hammer. He found an attachment that could be fitted on either of the large, flat, round beating surfaces of the hammer, which gave it spikes and made it infinitely more deadly.
He returned to his companions and took the Liberator from the Highlander’s corpse. He lay it on the ground and with one clean, decisive sweep, broke it in two with the hammer.
“The war is coming,” he said, staring out over the lands of CMS that stretched out beneath his lofty vantage point, “This killing will not go unnoticed. Xandor will retaliate. We have to fight.”
“We’re not fighters,” said Jo, “We’re CMS clerks.”
“Well consider it a promotion,” he grinned wryly.
“I suppose anything’s better than working for Lehman’s.”
They laughed.
“You know,” said Jo, “Maybe Xandor won’t find the body of the Highlander?”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, musing the possibility, “He is an awful long way up this mountain.
“Maybe we should take a trinket, or…I don’t know…part of him to prove he’s dead.” Andrew grinned; he liked her new offensive gall.
“Okay, let’s talk something distinctive. Like…holy shit! What’s that on his head?”
They all looked: they hadn’t noticed it in the dark, but on the left side of the Highlander’s head, towards the back, was a tufty crest of hair that was completely unique. Without further ado, Andrew cut it off and stowed it in his pocket.
“Right, let’s get out of here. The smell of burning Akis is making me sick.”
Jo stood up and whispered to her Magicbox while Andrew hauled the sleeping Nudds into the crude papoose.
A door opened in front of them and they stepped through, greeted on the other side by the sound of lapping waves.


Chapter sixteen

“Eeeearrrgh,” snarled a pirate. His growl was instinctively inquisitive and was prompted by the sudden and inexplicable appearance of the travelling group before him.
“Erm, sorry to drop in like this,” said Andrew, his grip tightening around the handle of the war hammer, “but we’re looking for a place to rest.”
“Be yee friend or foe?” said the pirate, his one wooden leg obviously more proficient at balancing on the swaying deck than both of Andrew’s. He stood perfectly still and watched his uninvited guests stagger from side to side with his one good eye, while the ship roiled from side to side on the high waves.
“Well, that depends,” said Andrew, his body language becoming edgier, “Do you follow Lord Xandor?”
The globule of spit that just missed Andrew’s shoe, drew a sigh of relief.
“Pah,” said the pirate, wiping his slavered mouth, “I hate Lord Xandor. He stole all my gold, and his Basilisk and those god damn Harpies have made it impossible to break back into his kingdom.” The pirate looked truly enraged. He beat his fists, which were clad in heavy gloves bearing the skull and crossbones logo that could also be seen on his hat, against his thighs. He paced back and forth on his uneven legs and stared off into the distance with his mismatched eyes.
“Basilisk?” said Andrew, placing his hands on his hips and furrowing his brow, “What’s that all about?”
“Ah, so news has not reached the far corners yet…that is…regrettable.”
“Well, we haven’t been here for long…”
“Arr, shiver me timbers! You ain’t them are yee?”
“Who…”
“The heroes! The reason why Xandor’s so scared! The reason why he unleashed the Basilisk.”
“Yes, that would be us.” They all smiled and drew themselves up to full height, throwing their chests out and wearing pompous expressions that although unnatural, succeeded in fulfilling the rough and ready pirate’s perception of their character.
“An honour it is, to be sure,” he said, shaking each of their hands, lingering contemplatively on Jo, before briskly greeting the Porter (who was once again sober, but not coping too well with the inertia).
“What’s your name, seafarer?”
“My name’s Captain Blackbeard.”
“Really?”
“Well, no; it’s actually Amandip Singh, but honesty just doesn’t do in my profession. Plus, I’m on the run from my family. Sailing the high-seas is no life for a Sikh. I’m 24, you know, no wife, no desire to follow in my father’s footsteps…pirating was all that was left for me. It was a damn good job too till Xandor began his aggressive takeover of our world. I had so much gold, I was more fly than P-Diddy. Now I’ve been reduced to raiding small trading vessels that stray into my waters. It’s no living, though. One day I hope to rally my piratical brethren and storm Xandor’s cloud castle and reclaim my gold, but the Basilisk is too powerful and it’s mountains of Shed skin are impossible to scale.”
“What is it exactly?”
“It’s a giant snake. It’s true name is Le Snake Enorme (LSE), and it slithers in a repetitive circle around Xandor’s stronghold. It feasts on procedure, old and new, and discards the obsolete information in the form of gargantuan exuvia which has, over the last few days, piled up on top of itself, forming impenetrable buttresses around Xandor’s citadel. It is a vicious beast that will devour on command (and sometimes without). The moulted skin it leaves behind is a huge hindrance to Xandor’s opposition: it gets in the way, costs us all time and causes internal errors to be made. Why the financial sector insists on the feeding the Basilisk with a wealth of out-dated procedure, I do not know. The obsolescence of data is detrimental to the sound functioning of our nation’s economy. But I guess when you’re as powerful as Xandor, you can do what the hell you want without fear of rebellion.”
“Well, he should be fearful!” said Andrew, who found himself surprisingly invigorated after hearing about Le Snake Enorme. “I am forming an army and I want you to join, Captain Blackbeard.”
“Oh, goody,” he clapped camply and gave a little skip. “I’ll send round a hundred groups e-mails to make sure my associates know when and where to turn up for the war. Do we have to book the battlefield in advance?”
“Err…no.”
“What colours will we be wearing?”
“Err…I don’t think that matters…actually, tell them black. I don’t want to see anyone in blue. That would just be silly.”
“Of course. Moisturiser?”
“No thanks, I have huge testicles.”
“Fair point.”
“Anyway, is there anywhere on your ship me and my gang could get some sleep? We’ve been on the go since we got here and could do with some peaceful sanctuary.”
“Of course, but might I suggest an alternative relaxation activity…”
Captain Amandip Blackbeard Singh clicked his fingers and the double doors behind him swung open on queue. Standing there were two fine sea-wenches, sporting corsets that seemed intent of forcing their bountiful breasts from their confines and out into the open sea-air.
“These are my pirate babes,” said Aman, grinning from ear to ear. “Unfortunately, as their captain, I am prohibited by pirate law by indulging in their…talents, myself, but it is customary in these parts to offer them to male travellers that could become allies.”
Jo snorted disapprovingly and Aman looked deeply hurt. He shot her a longing look, which seemed to be lost on her.
“I’m not sure I should…”
“I’ll have a bash!” said the Porter, leaping off Kimberli and striding forward, clapping a hand on Amandip’s shoulder. “So what are their names?”
“This here is Dawn,” said the Captain, gesturing towards the slightly shorter of the two. She was delicately built with compact, elfin features. Her body was lithe and slender, and her bodice white with tan leather laces. A short crop of flame red hair had caught the Porter’s approving eye and from beneath her side-swept fringe, two sparkling blue eyes that were as captivating as the first super-nova, shone and pulled him in deeper.
“And this is Cheryline,” said Blackbeard, bowing to the taller woman, who smiled a pearly smile in response. She curtsied to the Porter who lowered his head in reverence. She too was slim and daintily put together. She was tall for a women, taller still in the heels she wore. Although still inches shy of the Porter’s lofty heights, she was almost perfect for him in size.
Her hair too, matched his. It was a rich, coffee brown and was tied up in a glamorous bunch, with two opulent curls framing her striking face and drawing the Porter into her gaze. Her warm eyes were a stark, but complimentary contrast to Dawn’s. they radiated a comeliness and security of confidence that was enticing, and parried well the intense, volatile stare of her companion.
Her skirt was purple where Dawn’s was black, though their bodices were identical. His eyes skipped from one to the other in turn, hardly hiding the wealth of scenarios he was playing through in his active mind.
“Well, sir. Have you made a decision?” asked the Captain. The Porter, tapped his right index finger on his upper lip as he contemplated. Still his eyes switched between the pair. He lowered his hand and nodded slowly.
“Yes,” he said.
“And?”
“I’ll take them.”
“Them?”
“Well…there’s hardly any point in letting one go to waste…Andrew’s too tired for these shenanigans and despite the rumours, Jo’s straight as a rule. No, I’ll see to them both. Don’t you worry,” he said, patting the Captain, who looked shocked at the prospect of sanctioning a threesome on his boat, on the shoulder and smiling reassuringly, “in my line of work I’ve seen this thing so many times I’m sure I’ll be able to entertain them both.”
“Shame Nudds is asleep,” said Jo, “He could’ve got his horn wet.”
“His horn’s been plenty wet enough,” said Andrew sharply. He was yet to forget the disturbing slickness of the Lepracorn’s horn whenever danger loomed.
“Right, we’ll get some rest while the Porter gets his oats. Try not to mess them up too much, will you Porter?”
“I’ll do my level best to ruin their lives.”
“Sounds about right. Anyway, we should have a kip. We’ll set off for land tomorrow, if that’s alright with you captain?”
“Arr, it be fine.”
“Great. As soon as we land we’ll use your sea bound contacts to spread the word across the CMS. I need to form an army and the sooner we set about doing so, the more chance we have of defeating the Basilisk and storming the cloud castle. The tide has changed and will inevitably sweep the forces of good and evil together in a Titanic crash to decide once and for all who will wield the Black Harpie, and who will control this world. War will soon be upon us, captain, and I intend for us to win. Ready your ship, Blackbeard: Tomorrow we sail to our destinies.


Chapter seventeen

The night was darker than usual. Somehow, black had found a new shade of black that was so definitely black, everything categorised as black prior to this; the blackest night on record, now seemed decidedly grey and at times, puce cerulean.
Andrew had come up on deck for some fresh air. The saltiness of the night time breeze cleansed his sinuses and lifted his suffocating spirits. Times were changing him. In less than a week he had gone from a humble, mild mannered CMS clerk from somewhere that wasn’t, but alluded to being near, Blackburn, to a world defending hero whose job it was to march through immaterial wormholes, head held high and bearing the standard of hope and resilience in the face of eternal oppression and the death of dreams.
Heavy stuff for a man on less than 20k a year.
He gripped the support rail that ran round the edge of the boat and sighed as the foamy white wake of the sea-ploughing hull, drifted off into the cosmic nothingness on which the boat seemed to be travelling.
The cawing of distant seagulls alerted him to the fast approaching shore, but still he knew that they would not dock until morning. The Captain was travelling at a conservative pace so not to alert Xandor’s spies which were many and widespread about the land.
A second sound entered his ears and momentarily frightened him. A ghostly sobbing was being carried across deck by the soft wind and reached him so gently that he half believed he was imagining the wraithlike whisper.
Ascertaining that he was not, he followed the sound to its source and found the Porter huddled up at the foot of the central mast. His tear-stained cheeks were illuminated by a dim lantern that was perched on a nearby keg of ale.
“Porter? What’s up?”
“Aw, nothin’,” he said, slurring his words. Andrew noticed the glinting glass of a Smirnoff bottle, crudely concealed beneath his cape.
“Been drinking?”
“So what if I have…”
“No, I haven’t got a problem with it. Thought I might join you, for once.”
“Shure thing…what’s your poison?”
“Disaronno?”
“Hang on,” he fumbled in his cape, “here you go.” He handed him the familiar, rectangular, mottled bottle; half full, of course.
“Cheers. So why are you out here tonight? I thought you’d be tied up with the…talented ladies.”
“Ha…turned out there were exceptionally talented,” he hiccoughed, “but not at good things. Hic. I spent the last three hours playing Mahjong. They kicked my ass every time.”
“Mahjong?”
“Yeah…they’re grand masters. Hic. Not hookers at all.”
“Shame. Seems old Blackbeard could do with their services.”
“You ‘eard what he, hic, said. Against the rules innit? Maybe he could get off with the other pirates’ women.”
“I suppose so. It will be a great boon to our cause when the other pirates arrive. With them in tow our forces will have a powerful air that I hope will blow in gusts across this land, whipping up the tired optimism of reclusive races and uniting them under one banner.”
“Yeah, hic, we could do with the other peoples to join our side. Hic. You should talk to the fairy in the Captain’s galley.” With that, he passed out.
Andrew, who slid the bottle of Disaronno into his pocket, wondering if it would ever get chance to be drunk in times of peace, headed off to the galley, full of curiosity.
He knocked once and entered without pause to find both women in a modest state of undress.
“Good evening, sir,” said Dawn, completely unperturbed by the visitor.
“Err, good evening madam,” said Andrew, bowing out of discomfort if nothing else. He hadn’t expected to find the girls in their smalls and he did his best to avert his eyes while they dressed themselves at a unbothered, languorous pace.
“Can we help you?” asked Cheryline, without a touch of hostility in her songstress voice.
“Well, I, err heard…”
“That we are very talented?” said Dawn, winking at the hero of CMS.
“Well, I did actually, but I thought that was restricted to Mahjong.”
“That’s just foreplay. If only the Porter had hung around. Still, he couldn’t take the loss.” Grinned Cheryline.
“You did batter him,” chuckled Dawn.
“Well, anyway…”
“Since we exhausted our Mahjong addiction with the Porter,” said Dawn, approaching Andrew seductively, “We could skip straight to the point for you. You are, after all, the hero of our world.”
“Not really done anything yet…” said Andrew, talking a reluctant step backwards, “But, err, thanks for the offer.”
“Well, it is a standing one,” she smiled and laced up her bodice for his benefit, not hers.
“The thing is…” he said, breaking the tense silence, “I heard you had a fairy in here?”
“Indeed we do,” smiled Dawn proudly, “My daughter in fact.”
“Your daughter? How is that possible?”
“In my youth I loved a fairy-man. We had a child: it was a painless birth. She takes after her father.”
Andrew giggled at the thought:
“Gosh; you must not expect much from a man.”
“Well he took ‘being inside me’ to a whole new level.”
That shut Andrew up and turned him a fairy-like green.
“So, erm, your daughter…may I speak with her?”
“Of course,” smiled Dawn and gestured for him to follow her through into an adjoining room. There, asleep in a hanging lantern was the miniscule form of Evie Mae, Dawn’s fairy-child.
“Oh, I don’t want to wake her,” he said, regretting his intrusion.
“Don’t worry about it: when you live on the seas you have to get used to rising when necessary. Evie.”
The small, sage green fairy-girl stirred. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, stretched and yawned and looked at Andrew inquisitively. Her brilliant blue eyes twinkled like sapphires in the sparsely lit room. Her blonde, sunlight coloured hair shone in the duskiness and radiated the same vibrancy that Emmareena’s had.
“Evie Mae?”
“Yes?”
“My name is Andrew, I-”
“I know who you are. My queen told me you would come.”
“Emmareena?”
“Indeed.”
“When did you last see her?”
Evie Mae thought hard:
“A few days ago, I think, though my memory has always been hazy. It’s these irregular nights, you know. I never know whether I’m coming or going.”
“Think how your mother feels!” said Andrew, joking with the fairy who, despite her remarkable intelligence, couldn’t have been more than a couple of years old. He supposed fairy’s matured at a much faster rate and thus lived for a considerably shorter period of time than humans. He lamented the temporariness of such beauty and paused momentarily to acknowledge the parallel fragility of all things so perfect.
“I need you to send a message to your queen. Can you do that for me?”
“Better still, I can summon her here. It will only take a few minutes: she is a very fast flier.”
“Excellent, could you do that for me please?”
Evie Mae agreed without hesitation and slipped instantly into a trance. For the next few moments she made a low, almost inaudible humming sound, which tapered to silence soon after.
Andrew wasn’t sure whether he was imagining it, but he could have sworn he heard the buzzing of Emmareena’s wings long before she shot through the glass of the closed window and landed gracefully, unharmed and coherent, on the table next to which he was standing.
“Hero.”
“Fairy-queen.”
“How is your mission progressing?” she looked up at him with such proud desperation in her swirling, witching eyes he almost fainted.
“We are doing alright. We’ve convinced the pirates to join forces with us.”
“Excellent.”
“We have Nudds with us too.”
“The Lepracorn?”
“Yeah, the only one left apparently.”
“Hmm…interesting. My people have often wondered why the gods allowed him to survive. Maybe keeping him around will prove useful. Why did you summon me?”
“Well, I want you to gather fairies and the Titans and join us in battle. We need to defeat the Basilisk before we can even think about breaking into Xandor’s castle and I figured the Titans might be best served to handle an enemy of that size.”
“Meanwhile we can fly ahead,” she said, her eyes glinting with the excitement of war. “We can act as your eyes and ears on the battlefield. We can infiltrate Xandor’s tower and spy for you. Not to mention fight: we may be small in body, but we are great in speed and skill. Together we will form a powerful legion.”
“I’m sure we will,” he smiled, glad to have the assured queen on his side.
“Make sure TAX are ready to meet us on the shore. We will camp there for a few days while the army amasses. We will use the Porter, with whom we travel, to contact the remaining races. Once we are one we can begin our march towards the LSE and do what we can to save the CMS.”
“May the gods, and all the fairy-sparkle-goodness in the world help you, Andrew, son of Blackburn.”
Then she jumped from the table, spread her silvery wings wide, beat them twice in preparation and zoomed out of the window, across the midnight sea and into the blackest of nights.


Chapter eighteen

The sun rose quickly over the horizon and bathed the course to land in sanguine rays. Amandip was at the wheel and the craft was roaring along at a jolting pace, losing momentum then gaining inordinate velocity as he shifted through the gears.
“What the hell are you doing to your clutch?” screamed Jo, who came darting out of her quarters, hair piled high atop her head in a birds nest, as soon as autopilot was switched off and the captain had taken the wheel.
“It’s new,” he said, blushing, “I haven’t quite found the biting point yet.”
“I’ll say. Here let me drive.” He gladly stood aside and watched with silent reverence as she steered the ship skilfully towards land.
The Porter briefly obscured her view of the shoreline during his thirty foot fall from the crow’s nest. His rangy body fell, flailing desperately in front of her and he landed with a dull thud. He groaned, which Jo assumed was a sign he was alright.
“How was last night, Porter?” she asked, disapproval tingeing her voice.
“Oh, you know. Got my oats.”
“Oh, really?”
“Uhuh, well…not as such. I got a hand-job though.”
“From yourself you mean,” said Andrew, who had appeared on deck just then. The Porter’s life-threatening fall had roused him from his peaceful slumber and he had come out to investigate.
“Oats is oats,” grinned the Porter. He rummaged in his cloak and removed The Selfish Gene and a bottle of cloudy Jack Daniels, which he began to sip at as he read.
“Woah, stop that,” said Andrew, swiping at the bottle and snatching it clean out of his hand. “We’re gonna need you to be sharp today. We’re calling the nation to arms. The last thing we need is you directing them to the Northern Quarter by mistake.”
“As if that would happen!” he protested, secretly thinking that there was a gig on Deansgate he had fancied for a while and that, if anything, would take precedence should his mind go awry.
“Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll call you when we land. Be ready, Porter. Today we begin the march!”
“Yes sir!” said the Porter, swaying as he saluted Andrew mockingly. He snatched the bottle of cloudy Jack Daniels back, screwed the cap back on and threw it beneath his cloak, where it seemed to disappear into the seemingly endless vault beneath the cowl. “I’ll just smoke instead, then,” he grumbled, lighting up as he slunk beneath deck to freshen up.
“Morning, Jo.”
“Hi, Andrew. Did you sleep well?” was the phatic reply. Jo was clearly focused on driving the unfamiliar craft, but despite her elsewhere concentration, Andrew responded to her throwaway query in depth.
“Not really, no. I tossed and turned all night. I can’t get the thought of Xandor out of my head. His fortress sounds fearsome, the Harpies totally devilish, and his armies gigantic. I don’t know if this is a fight we can win!”
“We have to,” she said, hardly thinking, “Without victory, the imagination of this land will die. People will lose the will to live. Without the ability to imagine better times, hope will die, and with it so will the will to live. If we can’t stop Lord Xandor, this world is finished. And who knows what ramifications that will have for our world.”
“Ha…our world,” said Andrew, smiling ironically as his eyes glazed over with a memory in which he rarely indulged. “It’s been so long I hardly remember.”
“Andrew…it’s been about a week. No more than a fortnight. Pull yourself together.”
As if nature wished to lend a helping hand to Jo’s words, a large wave surged over the side of the boat and drenched Andrew from head to foot. His mouth gawped, and his eyes widened in surprise, which quickly turned to laughter when he realised how deeply he had fallen into this world. Jo laughed too and in those shared moments of levity, a great burden was lifted from their sagging shoulders.
“Right, I’ll get Nudds dressed and ready. You get us to shore safely Captain.”
“Aye, aye, Andrew,” she said, still laughing at her sodden friend.
Within an hour they had landed and alighted the craft. Nudds was dressed in his finest green livery; an emerald flash, darting between his friends at waist-height whenever Andrew permitted the minute monarch free-reign. At other times the compact king travelled in the specially tailored papoose, asleep for the most part, and chattering nonsensically for the rest.
The odd party walked in a tight huddle for about five miles, scaling a tall mountainside, the bracing air invigorating the adrenaline-fuelled Porter, who had requested the altitudinal increase to place him physically closer to the non-physical world through which he hoped to communicate with the rest of the CMS.
“Here will do,” he said, collapsing under his own weight, not ten metres from the summit.
“Do you not want to get to the top?” said Andrew, raising a disapproving eyebrow as the Porter swigged a bottle of dubious, clear liquid.
“No, it’s too exposed. The wind might blow my mind off track, and we wouldn’t want that now, would we?” Everyone shook their heads as they each imagined their own personal horror that could well befall them and anyone else within the Porter’s mental range should his thoughts miss their mark. Jo’s hands crept, almost involuntarily, to conceal her modesty that felt suddenly exposed under the glare of the strange, powerful, drunken man. “Stop looking at me like that,” demanded the Porter, throwing the plastic bottle from which he was drinking at Andrew. “It’s water: bloody water. Taste it if you don’t believe me!”
“Alright, alright; calm down. I’m sorry!” said Andrew, who could tell from the odourless splash back that the Porter had been telling the truth. His sobriety was the most probable cause of his irritability, and, for the first time, Andrew found himself wishing their superhuman comrade was half-cut.
Kimberli nosed her master, who patted her face lovingly. Using her stiff shoulder blades as support, he hauled his wearisome frame to its rangy height and shielding his eyes from the sun with a long-fingered hand. A ring on his fourth finger glinted in the sun and the blue jewel appeared as tranquil as the distant lakes whose surfaces, protected by surrounding mountains, remained unruffled by the wind that blew their hair to and fro and made it hard to stand.
“I can see it. I can see the Basilisk,” he said, without tone or emotion. Everyone’s breath seemed to catch in the air. No one spoke for quite some time, they all studied the keener eyes of the Porter as he used both sight and mind to see far into the distance, and into the soul of the gargantuan snake that constantly slithered around the base of the Xandor’s stronghold, shedding its skin, day after day, piling it high; a scaly buttress of dank decay; rotting, discarded flesh towering above the natural Earth.
“The castle…” said Andrew, “Can you see the castle?”
The Porter tore his gaze away from the distant sight, and turned. He nodded slowly, his jaw wired together in a grim mask of pessimism.
“And the Harpies too. They are circling the tower like vultures. The stench of the Basilisk’s flesh must keep them keen.”
“What are we going to do?” said Jo, brushing the whipped up sand away from her eyes as she spoke. The terrain around the mountain they had climbed was dusty and arid. As far as the eye could see, a desert sea reigned. Contradictory lakes, and palm-treed oases dotted the otherwise blank landscape. They were calm and untroubled, and like the bleak expanse of dry land, dead.
“We will do what we came to do,” said the Porter. “We will summon an army and fight them for our right to dream. Once he is gone, the Colony of Magical Shenanigans can return to times of peace. As long as we go to war for what is right, we will be spared the humiliation of defeat. For to die for what one believes in is a victory of ideals, and a far better price to pay than a life of shame and self-compromise.”
“He’s kind of brave when he isn’t drunk, eh?” whispered Andrew to Jo.
“He probably read that off a cereal box,” she said back.
“Quiet, both of you: I need to concentrate.”
An expectant hush fell over the group as the Porter left his body, which stood prone and erect in its spirit’s absence, and floated into the minds of each and every soul that inhabited the CMS. TAX were called to arms, the fairies and the Buffalos too. Soon the peoples of the CMS were colouring the sparse horizon, swamping in from all directions, cheering as they marched to war for a cause unrivalled, united under a single banner of hope.


Chapter nineteen

Nightfall had arrived by the time the gathering armies of the CMS had congregated as a singular whole in the natural basin beneath the mountain from which the Porter had summoned them. The Porter, riding high on the back of Kimberli, was patrolling the ranks, closely followed by Jo and Captain Blackbeard. They were greeting the faithful warriors who had travelled all day, some by land, some by sea, and some by air, riding to their destination in giant, ramshackle war-wagons, or on the backs of mythical beasts that ranged from the cutesy Unicorn, to the fearsome green-scaled dragon.
They had all obeyed the Porter’s call, but, as it turned out, had no idea as to why they had been summoned. It seemed such postulation was beyond their imagination-less minds, and it quickly became apparent that the Porter, for fear of scaring the required troops into inaction, had neglected to fill them in on the details, and merely demanded their presence, taking the guise of an irrefutable authority to assure a pleasing turnout.
“They don’t seem too worried about the war,” observed Jo, as they left behind a recently informed troop of dwarves.
“Worrying takes imagination, for one,” explained the Porter wisely, as he navigated through the throngs in the direction of a freshly beached band of pirates, “And furthermore, they are glad of it. The fight gives them hope that things can return to the ways of old. It’s a good job I am here to explain all this. Without me you’d kill yourself thinking.”
“I try not to,” she said sulkily.
“I should hope so to! The minute anyone thinks about CMS they realise that most of the procedures and regulations that exist within it are sheer poppycock. If you need to ask questions, or find yourself having trouble with anything, and I’m not around, just ask your Magicbox.”
“It doesn’t have the same functions here as it does at home,” she whined. “It’s gone all funny and keeps quoting Jerry Springer, and spouting fatalistic rubbish.”
“That may not be rubbish,” he said, stroking his whiskered jaw, “Keep your ear to it: it may yet reveal some interesting truths.”
Their chat was halted by a sudden warbling scream of shock-come-delight from Blackbeard Singh. He barged past Jo and the Kimberli-perched Porter and hobbled on his odd legs towards the band of sea-lovers, who, upon spotting the familiar face of their comrade, cheered and touted his name.
“Omar Io,” cried Blackbeard, falling into the strong arms of his one-time cabin boy.
“’allo Captain,” said Omar Io, beaming at the slighter man, “How’ve you been?”
“Good, good. All the better for Darren Fletcher’s recent form.”
“Aye, who’d have thought it.”
“How about you?”
“Still hard from Berbatov’s scissor kick, and running me own Galleon now. These men here are my crew, and a feisty lot they are too, arr.”
“Where be your first mate?” asked Blackbeard Singh.
“He be here; the Wylde one, they call ‘im.” Omar Io yanked on a chain that was attached to his belt, and a sinewy man, who was alternating his walking pattern between canine and upright, appeared from the crowd behind the newly promoted captain and bared his filed fangs, and flashing red eyes at Singh.
“Yipes! He’s a bit of a looker.”
“Tell me about it. Cost me a tenner from Petsmart. Still, he’ll eat anything and sleep anywhere (and with anything). Loyal to a fault: he never leaves me side.”
“Is that because he is chained to you?”
“Yep. Five quid from Petsmart, this leash. Want one?”
“No I’m good for leashes, thanks.”
“Say,” said Omar Io, scanning the horizon, “I don’t suppose you’ve got a Philpotts round here have you? It’s just the Wylde one likes a Philpotts before a killing. It kind of sets him up for the day.”
“I don’t think so,” said Captain Blackbeard, turning to Jo for assistance, “Only McDonalds.”
“Pah, that’ll be Lord Xandor and his American shite. Oh well, I’ll just have to promise the Wylde one a reward if he kills a lot of Xandor’s minions, and hope to God we can get him a sandwich before he turns on us.”
“Who are these scurvy bastards?” asked the Porter, nodding a greeting to the pirates and their leader.
“Friends of mine, oh Porter. They will fight by our side.”
“Cool beans. I hope they- HOLY CRAP, LOOK OVER THERE!” His shout took the surrounding men and women by surprise, and was so loud, reached the distant ears of Andrew and Nudds who had remained atop the mountain in order to address the fully assembled force.
“What, what is it?” asked Jo.
“It’s Barnanaman and Italian Manface, his oddly hot sidekick.” In the distance, the troops could see the descending form of Barnanaman, picked out by the rising moonlight and gifted a shining silver corona that, whilst in flight, made him appear quite angelic.
In his arms, draped like a languorous anaconda, was Italian Manface, arguably the most beautiful woman with a Manface in the whole of CMS. Her body was tight, but voluptuous. He breasts were full and heaving with passion. He thighs were taut and tanned, and her deltoids were shredded to the max.
Her face was, as many ignorant of her moniker had commented, much like that of a man, but strangely beautiful nonetheless. Her Jaw was as desperately hard-set as Dan’s, and her eyes flashed with a steely resourcefulness that would’ve have made Robert Baden Powel rather stiff, assuming there were at least a handful of small boys in the vicinity to supplement his needs.
The crowds beneath them parted, and they landed deftly, without so much as a billow of dust. Barnanaman strolled with purpose towards Jo and the Porter, and when he reached them he thrust out a hand and smiled in greeting.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said in a scratchy, cockney brogue. “Sorry about my lateness, I was having a Tommy-tank, and the time ran away with the spoon, and the cow jumped over the moon. Ooo, listen to me, I’m all sixes and sevens, apples and pears, tens and elevens. I never was that good at the three ‘Rs’: reading, riting and rithmatic, but there you go, can’t have it all. I’m a superhero, that’s about it. I tried to get a job at Kwik Save, but I didn’t have a the right GCSEs, shame too, I right fancied that deep sea diver an hour gig. Havin’ a laugh. Legend.”
“Hi.”
“God, you Northerners talk funny,” he laughed, or at least, his mouth and body followed the correct protocol to produce a laugh, but the outcome was, to the ears of the Porter, a raucous calamity of sounds that reeked of a distinct latitudinal deficiency.
“Nice to meet you in person, Barnanaman. I’ve enjoyed your dreams for many a year. I see you brought the object of your desire with you?”
“Keep it down, you Muppet. She don’t know I fancy her.”
“Of course she doesn’t. I suppose she thinks that banana down your pants is all part of the costume right?”
The queer superhero blushed, but seemed incapably of anger or annoyance for more than a jiffy at any one time, and was quickly ‘laughing’, and acting the fool again. The Porter shook his head in disbelief and guided Jo away from the weird man.
“Only superhero in the CMS. Comes from somewhere called Oz; north of Londinium apparently. Arrived in a balloon six months ago. Was only supposed to be here till November, but for some reason decided to hang around.”
“Will he be useful?”
“I suppose so. Somehow he can fly, and I guess that may come in handy. I hope he gets distracted during the fight though; I fancy a bit of that Manface myself!” Kimberli snorted with jealousy, but the Porter whispered a reminder that he lacked the barbed penis she desired, and the rumours that suggested otherwise were cruel and unfounded.
Italian Manface strutted past the cloaked protagonist, wearing an off-the-shoulder. Beige cashmere sweater that just graced the tips of her rocking hips. Other than that, she wore nothing but black spandex knickers and polished high heels of the same, broody shade.
It wasn’t until Andrew’s booming voice, amplified by shouting into the tip of Nudds’s horn, rung out across the basin that the Porter tore his eyes away from the lusty sight, and focused on the deadly matter in hand.


Chapter Twenty

The speech lasted longer than was necessary, but Andrew kept losing his train of thought every time Nudds gave a whimper of what sounded disconcertingly close to pleasure, as the tremulous vibrations of his powerful voice tickled the midget’s horn to ecstasy.
With the troops energised and the army united and focused, Andrew began his descent down the hillside to join his newly anointed subjects in the basin. As he walked he gazed out across the now dusky horizon and glared at the looming castle in the distance. He wasn’t sure whether his eyes were playing tricks on his, or whether, somewhere between where he stood and where Lord Xandor feasted, a renegade bunch of insects were confusing the blurry picture that was forming on his tired retinas, but he was almost convinced he could see the Harpies, colours muted by dusk, but flapping their leathery wings in time to the rhythmic, and calm beat of their master’s heart. The distant swarm seemed to be circling the cloud-covered tower in the opposite direction to the Basilisk which, even now in the fading light, could be seen slithering in an endless loop, never tiring, never forgetting its duty to the evil Lord of the CMS.
“Tiring day, eh, Nudds?”
“Certainly,” agreed the Lepracorn, who had dismounted the hero a moment earlier and was hopping along like a kangaroo, trying to loosen his stiff legs. The cold night air whipped around their ankles and rustled the lights from the camp below, the blazing torches casting ghostly tarns of light across the ground.
Andrew sighed at the beauty of it all: how peaceful was this night, this calm before the storm. He and his party had stumbled from their world and sailed headlong to the eye of a building tempest, and now, now that they were standing on the cusp of history, and there was every likelihood of them all dying at the hands of this world’s enemies, he felt s startling pang of morbid happiness. In that moment he realised the source of his joy, and it was found simply in purpose.
Life at the custodian had been dull to say the least. There was never any sense of achievement: some days dragged worse than Eddie Izzard, while others were busier than Liza Minnelli’s face. He had lacked the impetus required to live each day to the full. The nothingness of work was draining: the void left him heavy-lidded and sluggish of limb. His mind had grown fallow and had deserted his dreams.
Michelle, the woman he loved, had noticed his recent decline and it had been difficult for her to remain optimistic about the bright spark that was fading under the smothering shroud of corporate finance. His subsequent disappearance had left her heartbroken, but his return was hoped for day in day out, and should he win this war, rid the CMS of Xandor, and restore imagination to its soulless inhabitants he would do everything in his power to get back to his old world, revamp his old life with newfound optimism and vow to never waste another second of the love that he prayed would grow older, and more sacred with every passing day.
Staring into the eyes of death, and the possibility of never seeing his loved one again had stirred his true nature inside; like a dragon that had slumbered for centuries, the fire still raged within, but was unaccustomed to blazing forth and showing the world what it could still do when tested. Life and death made more sense to him now: death was not something to be feared, but embraced as the spur of ambition. It was the engine that drove all men to achieve, for it scrubbed out any permanence their existence could have hoped for. It curtailed immortality and forced one to cram experience into a few snatched decades.
He was privately giving thanks for his life, and his welcome appreciation of it, when a rubber soled, canvas ninja boot connected squarely with his temple, switching the lights out, and sending him crumpling to the ground.


Chapter twenty one

Andrew awoke to the sound of Nudds’s high pitched scream. He blinked his weighty eyelids and gazed upwards. Stars prinking the navy canvas of the night sky above, like a thousand radiant pearls, delicately set against the smooth, dark skin of an African princess, flashed about him. He hauled himself onto his elbows and looked for Nudds. His iridescent emerald waistcoat was just visible, glinting in the dim lantern-light of their assailant as he struggled with his captor. Andrew called out and tried to stand, but his legs felt like jelly, and he collapsed twice as quickly as he rose.
Nudds wriggled and squirmed, but was soon subdued, and it looked to Andrew that the small king had fallen asleep under the stress. His captor set the tiny, snoring body down, slightly perplexed by his prisoner’s sudden narcoleptic turn, and approached Andrew. He was still three strides from the fallen hero when he began winding up for another kick. He swung his black boot towards his captive’s jaw only to find it parried away by a resurgent Andrew.
“Not so fast, sunshine,” he growled, “I’m rather partial to my face. You’d better explain myself or I am gonna get off my ass, and cause a whole world of pain.”
“Swearing,” said the mysterious stranger, removing a notebook and scrawling a reminder on the end of an exceptionally long list. He wrote with a burnished silver pen, the contours of which resembled a Parker, but judging by the way the officious attacker handled his stylus, Andrew averred he was closer to that pen than most men were to their wives.
“What the bloody hell’s that list?”
“These,” said the man, stepping forward into the light of his own, cast iron lantern for the first time, “Are a list of all the crimes, felonious and minor, you have committed since entering Lord Xandor’s hallowed kingdom. You are a villain! You lie! You cheat and kill! You are no hero: you will lead these good people into war against a brave king. You are a charlatan.”
“Hang on a second,” said Andrew, coming to his senses, and finding them unwillingly abused by the dark man’s tone. “I’m only here to help. Your people, they’ve got a prophecy or something, it’s about me and this girl. Neither of us wanted this; we’re here because we have to be. Because that’s what fate intended. We don’t want anything from you.”
“But you have been taking liberties with our Lord’s rule ever since you arrived!”
“Who are you to make such an accusation?”
“I,” said the tall, slender man rising up to full height and propping his hands on his narrow hips, “Am the Nightrider. Loyal servant to Lord Xandor, and chief of the midnight police. We watch each and every citizen from midnight to midnight of each and every day. We know everything. We’ve been watching you ever since you tore a hole into our world.”
“So what crimes to you say I’ve committed?” said Andrew, feeling totally unnerved that a member of Xandor’s police had found it so easy to ambush him. He had heard nothing…
“Ahem,” Nightrider cleared his throat, “It is for you to know, civilian, that these laws have been penned by the bearded hand of our Lord and saviour, Xandor the first of the CMS, soon to be renamed Xandovia. They were inspired, in fact some borrowed directly, by the alien continent of North America. These laws; rules and regulations that the more upstanding of us citizens have no trouble obeying, are sacrosanct and unquestionable. Their wording is final and precise. The countless violations we have observed by you and your party, will be paid for in blood, or the very least money, for it is a sacred and much revered rule that bullets may not be used as currency, except on the third Wednesday of every leap-year, when the perpetrator in question is wearing a yellow ribbon on the third index finger of his prosthetic limb attachment and has spent no less than seven, but no more than nine hours darning socks in the last seven weeks.
“Clear?”
“As mud,” said Andrew, glowering at the black-clad man. His tall frame was illuminated by the cleverly angled lantern that up-lit his face, giving him a ghoulish, skeletal appearance. His hair was as black as his cloths, which were fitted and cut an unbroken line from all views, save side on, from which angle a pin badge bearing a winged motif, interrupted the otherwise faultless arc of Nightrider’s jutting chest.
“Firstly we have received intelligence from your previous life that you are guilty of committing ‘unnatural acts’ with another person; your live-in partner. Furthermore, it is illegal for any citizen of the CMS to kiss his wife’s breast, to have sex in ANY other style than the missionary position, or to tickle women. We have evidence that you have done all of these things.”
“How on Earth-”
“Continuing!” he bellowed. “Here are a list of your crimes, and the crimes we associate with you, for as the leader of this ragtag band, you are answerable for all misdemeanours, felonies and infringements committed by your party.”
“But I-”
“Silence! Your crimes are as follows. In the glorious United States of the CMS, it is considered an offence to view moose from a moving aeroplane. We have reason to believe that on your journey to the land of America in your home world, you committed this offence, but due to your cross-border location were not prosecuted duly. We also have reason to believe that this act of flagrant voyeurism could lead to one of several sub-laws, which an attestation of your character has led us to aver you may be prone. One: we accuse you of postulating the merits of, or in fact, possibly once considering the likelihood that you might, one day, entertain the notion of pursuing a relationship with a non-human animal. This, although legal if the animal is below 40lbs in weight, is frowned upon and could lead to the much more serious offence of commencing a relationship, both physically intimate and spiritually open, with a porcupine, which is, regardless of weight or ethnicity, wholly illegal.”
“How odd.”
“Remember, traveller. Laws are designed for you protection. I too have felt the fiery urges of my flaming giggle-stick, when surrounded by a herd of our spiny brethren. But to indulge…to dip ones wick in the guilty valleys of forbidden pleasure, would be to risk the prolific puncturing of ones abdomen, and furthermore incur the unlikely possibility of pregnancy. Such a hybrid would be shunned from society and forced to live with the Buffalos. The simulation of sex with one such buffalo is illegal whilst within the confines of a bar, or four-star plus hotel.”
“Whilst in a bar?”
“Yes. In the name of decency. Other such bar laws, none of which I am glad to say you are guilty of flouting, include the doctrine: no horses are allowed into Fountain Inn unless they are wearing pants, you may not tap your feet, nod your head, or in any way keep time to the music in a tavern, restaurant, or café, and it is illegal not to drink milk.”
“I like milk.”
“Just as well. Ahem, your proposed war on Lord Xandor has led to the speculation that you are planning on breaking the following laws: in the United States of the Star-spangled CMS, it is illegal to detonate any nuclear weapon, to wear a bullet-proof vest while committing a murder, to kill a dog using a decompression chamber, to shoot rabbits (who may or may not be servants of Xandor, are, at the very least, citizens of the Colony, and should be respected as such) from a motorboat, the failure to own such a craft is punishable by a fine of twelve lives, a tamed Sasquatch, and twelve guineas; the coins used in the payment of the levy may not be kept, or have been at anytime stored, in ones ears.
“You army has travelled far, hero, and they have broken many laws along the way. One band of gypsy folk failed to observe the time honoured code that states that if two trains meet each other at a railroad crossing, each shall come to a full stop, and neither shall proceed until the other has gone. Furthermore, it has been noted that said gypsies have been seen sleeping on the top of refrigerators outdoors, keeping the hind legs of farm-animals in their boots, keeping tissues in the back of ones car, dyeing a duckling blue and offering it for sale without the requisite six others for sale at once.”
“That’s just bizarre…”
“For your protection! Existentially and emotionally! Imagine the heartbreak if you were seventh in the queue for sky-blue ducklings! Imagine the woe, imagine the distress! One might consider throwing oneself from a building (the penalty for which is death), and then consign the mourners at your wake to impoverished hunger, for it is illegal for any guests at a wake to consume more than three sandwiches, and in the pursuit of social decorum, it is considered obscene for a sandwich to be more than twelve square centimetres in size.”
“That’s rather small…”
“Size has no bearing on the law,” said Nightrider, shooting a disgusted glance at Nudds, who, unbeknown to Andrew, was guilty of many of these laws, and in fact under investigation for leaving an elephant is tied to a parking meter, and not paying the parking fee, which has to be paid just as it would for a vehicle. “For instance,” said nightrider, pacing the ground in front of Andrew, as the hero studied the list of crimes in the dim, flickering light, “If any person has a puppet show, wire dancing or tumbling act in the state of Indiana and receives money for it, they will be fined $3 under the Act to Prevent Certain Immoral Practices.”
“But Indiana’s in America! All these laws are from America! They have no bearing here,” he cried in desperation. “This is an absolute farce; why have you chosen that country of all? In that country a man over the age of 18 may be arrested for statutory rape if the passenger in his car is not wearing her socks and shoes, and is under the age of 17! Seven or more Indians are considered a raiding or war party and it is legal to shoot them! It is considered an offence to throw pickle juice on a trolley, for fuck’s sake! They are mad! Why use them as a role-model?”
“Because,” said the dark knight, his tone hushed to a portentous whisper, “Because to some of us, however loyal we are to Xandor, our nation’s extradited first lady’s plight is still held dear. Her imprisonment in the United States of America has taught me much about judicial practice in my visits there. You see, I too am guilty of breaking a code: one of the most personally afflicting crimes in the book. Yes, I have broken the code of honour. I have lied to my master, and visited his estranged spouse in the wilderness. I have fed her with information, and kept her heart warm with news of her son. She will return to us, oh brave hero, but you will have hanged for your crimes by then!”
With that, he reared up and picked up a large rock that was at his feet and was about to smash Andrew’s skull to a pulp, when a sudden laser blast grazed his ear, shocking him intensely and causing him to drop the rock and stagger backwards. He whirled on his black, Ted Baker heel, to face the heavy breathing Nudds who had staggered to his slumberous feet and, with a great effort that was candid in his pained expression, was forcing bolts of energy form his horn. Laser after laser whizzed around the Nightrider, causing him to stumble and fall to his knees. An orange beam of searing light caught him in the shoulder. He gasped with unexpected pain.
“You know,” he said as the blood started to trickle down his square jaw, “you know it’s illegal to shoot lasers at a police officer.”
“Suck my horn,” growled Nudds, and with a squeal of effort, he discharged a blast, so powerful, that it lit up the night sky and sent the first lady’s loyalist to his grave.
“Bloody hell,” said Andrew, hauling himself to his feet, “That was a close one!”
“You bet,” said the little man, dusting himself down and yawning. “Give us a lift then, that papoose looks pretty comfy right now.”
“Hop in. We’d better hurry back to camp: he won’t have come alone,” he said, nodding at the slumped Nightrider. “No doubt reinforcements will be here soon. We need to warn the camp, and ready the war-machines. If we don’t hurry, our forces will be slaughtered in their sleep.” But his words fell on deaf ears, for Nudds had fallen asleep. The day’s events had taken their toll on his childlike mind, and the slightly retarded king had drifted off into a summery wonderland, happy in the knowledge that the memory of his double-parked elephant had died with Nightrider.*

* All of the laws in this chapter (save one, I believe) are genuine laws in the USA. If you don’t believe me check it out on www.dumblaws.com


Chapter twenty two

“Andrew, whatever’s the matter?” said Jo, running from the mouth of her wigwam, her body and hair wrapped in separate towels.
“Bad news, Xandor’s men have found us. They’re coming here now!”
“Crap,” she said, desperately drying her hair, “I haven’t even had time for a good tickling. I met this gypsy before and he offered to-”
Andrew slapped her.
“For the love of God, Jo! Don’t let him tickle you! It’s against the law here!”
“Andrew, this isn’t Virginia,” she said, rubbed her rosy cheek.
“It might as well be! This place is insane. Apparently they’ve adopted all the most bizarre rules from the United States. This guy, Xandor’s chief of police or something, just told me that the first lady; you know the one Johnoldham told me about, is still alive, and has been living in our world, and that he has been visiting her! That’s where he got the crazy laws from!”
“That must mean that there’s another way out, other than the Magicboxes!”
“Exactly, but how will we find it?”
“Who knows,” she said, drying herself furiously. “Come inside while I get dressed, we need to make a plan.”
They went inside together, and Andrew set down the papoose, allowing Nudds to snooze away. Jo clothed herself quickly, dressing in gilded robes; presents from the many cultures of the CMS.
“You look lovely,” smiled Andrew as she stepped out from behind a dividing screen.
“Thanks. Listen, we need to put our heads, and our Magicboxes together if we are going to get out of this one alive. Now I’ve been talking to some of our allies while you were away, and it seems that Xandor’s forces will outnumber us two to one, so our best chance of success is to use what support we have as a diversion, while a smaller party breaks away and attempts to infiltrate his stronghold while he and his men are distracted.”
She removed her I-Phone from her pocket and scratched its belly. It gave a gurgling laugh and the screen blinked into conscious wakefulness.
“Countess Magicbox,” it said, irony cracking its voice.
“I-Phone can you help us come up with a strategy to beat Xandor, and recapture the Black Harpie?”
“Of course. First things first you must use Andrew’s map. The erroneous field on that spreadsheet contains the grid coordinates for Xandor’s castle. We will have to enter through an opened rift. I can cut through space time as can the N95. We can’t risk getting much closer to the castle, else the Harpies will be able to pick us off, and I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t fancy my chances against that bloody huge snake.”
There was a murmur of agreement from both heroes. “Once inside the castle we will have to hope that Xandor has either left the Black Harpie, or is there with it. Then we must fight him and steal the weapon from him. Only then can the spectral harpies be controlled, the walls of imagination demolished, and peace restored.”
“But how will we beat him?” said Jo, stamping her foot in frustration, “If he has the Black Harpie, which I’m sure he will, then we’re done for: there’s no weapon that can match its might.”
Suddenly an odd fizzing sound filled the air, and the two friends became aware of a presence behind them.
“Maybe I can help you there.”
Jo and Andrew spun round to the source of the unexpected voice. Nudds snored. Johnoldham threw back his hood, necked a knock-off berocca, extinguishing the fizzing, and struck a pose that was so photogenic it was a pity tilllate.com were away on location in West Kirkby, documenting the recent sucking-spree.
“Johnoldham!” cried Andrew, with delight.
“This is Johnoldham?” said Jo, a typically unimpressed sneer marring her dainty features.
“Indeed it is,” said the straw-haired, self-tanned, self-made man, as he flexed his cut biceps, and did a couple of aki-pleasing squats.
“Have you been working out?” asked Andrew, slightly amused by his friend’s routine.
“No. I’ve just been taking three kilos of protein with every meal and eating a baby every week. Their full of essential amino acids.”
“Ew, a baby?!” said Jo, retching at the thought.
“Not a live one,” he said in his defence.
“Johnoldham, why did it take you so long to arrive?” asked Andrew.
“Give me a break! You only assembled this army this morning, and unlike you, I have to walk everywhere. If I didn’t have the fear of Daniel Charles catching me, I doubt I’d have had the impetus to keep going.”
“Have you got the hairs?”
“Indeed I do,” he said, removing a small poly-bag from his pocket. “Oops, sorry; they’re the pills that I don’t take when I go clubbing. Here’s the hair.”
Andrew reached out and took it from the rebel assassin.
“Have you, erm, seen Biggs around?” asked Johnoldham tentatively.
“No. He didn’t come. Sent Red IV a text about fighting the death star or something. Said he’d be back in time for Hollyoaks though.”
“Safe.”
“So how do we fuse our Magicboxes?” asked Andrew, reaching into his pocket and taking out his Nokia. In the yellowy candlelight, long ghostly shadows were cast by their milling figures.
“Maybe we should just try putting them together?” said Johnoldham, craning his slender, bronzed neck to see the two sacred devices.
“I don’t know,” said Jo, “My Magicbox is a little shy. It wouldn’t even let me use it’s GPS function, so I doubt he would willingly fuse with a stranger.
“Eee ar,” said Johnoldham, fumbling with his pockets, “Give it one of my pills. It’ll sort out its morals: long-time.”
Jo slid the sleek battery cover from the I-Phone, took one of Johnoldham’s pills, hesitated a moment as she considered how to feed a phone, then crumbled the pill between her fingers, allowing the powdery residue to cover the battery.
“Open wide,” she cooed. The I-Phone coughed as the heat from it’s own battery began to dissolve the dust. Jo quickly slid the cover back into place and gave the Magicbox a little shake. It whinnied in protest, but even as it did so it’s voice had begun to crack with the onset of increased psycho-activity.
“How do you feel?” she asked?
“Spesh…” said the phone, reeling as best as a limbless, inanimate object could.
“I think it’ll be fine.”
“You ready to perform, little guy?” asked Andrew, wiggling his N95, which said nothing, but gave an enthusiastic rumble as the text: “how kinky can I be..?” strafed across the screen.
“Knock yourself out,” chuckled the hero.
Jo and Andrew held their respective Magicboxes at arm’s length, and Johnoldham, to whom Andrew had handed the hair, stepped up to the plate.
“Do you think I should say something…profound?” asked the assassin, turned unwilling master of ceremonies.
“Anything coming to mind?” said Andrew.
“Not as such…” said the perma-tanned b*stard (It is against company policy to swear in e-mails. Further use of such language will not be tolerated.).
“Try your best,” said Jo encouragingly, “Say whatever comes to mind. Johnoldham nodded reluctantly and took a deep breath, closing his eyes in silent reverie as he did so.
“I would have won Big Brother six with ease,” he mumbled, much to the astonishment of Andrew and Jo, who, by clicking their fingers and prodding him in the shoulder to no avail, realised he had fallen into some kind of self-indulgent trance. It seemed the pressure of responsibility had finally gotten to him, and rather than being able to employ a clarity and decisiveness that was both respected and required in leaders, he had elected to swim in a sea of narcissism in an optimistic attempt to deflect the inevitable realisation that he wasn’t much cop at his job, and should, rather than pursuing the career of senior assassin, have submitted that application for BB6 instead of taking whiz (Johnoldham does not take whiz. Nor was his friend on whiz when he crashed his car. The previous week’s trip to Ibiza was a humorous coincidence) and falling asleep on his straighteners while listening to happy hardcore.
“Johnoldham?” said Andrew, with no response.
“I could do more keepy-uppys than Phil Neville. If a man can be a tree, a man can have two cocks. I want to work in television,” his voice became higher pitched as the verbal diarrhoea speeded up its flow, “Got any Lazzy bands? I want to be an actor. Somewhere, in Nepal, right, there’s a man with two penises and one of them is on his back…Mint—”Andrew punched him in the face, and he came to instantly, shaking the trance away like a wet dog would shed water.
“Thanks.”
“No problem,” said Andrew patiently, “Forget about the ceremony, just chuck those hairs in there and see what happens.” Johnoldham said nothing, but nodded dutifully and did as the loyal Blackburn supporter said. He sprinkled the hairs over the touching phones, and a flash of white light filled the air and then there was nothing but darkness.


Chapter twenty three

“Bloody hell,” said Johnoldham, rubbing his eyes as the light returned to normal. “That was a bit sharp! Are you two alright?” He looked for the two heroes, but in front of him there was nothing but dust. “Oh God. I’ve killed them!” He wailed, falling to his knees, “Phil Neville is gonna have my ‘nads for this!”
“Calm down, you tanned-toffee,” Said Andrew, picking himself up from where he had been thrown, “We’re alright. Just a bit of shock that’s all.”
“Where’s the Magicbox?” said Johnoldham, still as skittish as an Everton fan in the last minutes of a Merseyside Derby. But thanks to Tim Cahill, there was no need to worry…
“Jo’s got it, But I think it’s more than a Magicbox now.” True enough, the thing in Jo’s hand was not as one might have expected. It was more than the sum of its parts. Not only had the two Magicboxes fused, and the hair of Daniel Charles become engrained, the casings had, upon contact with the cells of Lord Xandor’s son, morphed into something new. Something powerful. Something that resembled a gun.
“Can it still talk, Jo?” asked Andrew.
“I don’t know,” said Jo, tapping the screen of the I phone, which was one of the original traits left intact. Now though, it was located on the side of barrel of the ‘gun’. It responded to her touch, and spoke in a different voice from before. It was multi-tonal; both male and female, and it spoke directly into their minds, supplanting their thoughts.
“We are strong,” it said, catching them all by surprise. “We are ready. March on.” And then there was silence. Not just in the room, but in there minds. A silence left behind by the departure of something. An absence, a hole, a void; a void that was suddenly being filled by the flooding realisation that the battle was upon them. It was time to take on the final leg of their journey. Time to meet destiny.
“Time to go,” said Jo, her voice detached and distant, echoic and ethereal.
“What are we waiting for?” said Andrew, doing his best to rouse the party from their numbness.
“A bevy of Virgins perhaps?” said Johnoldham. “A reason to make our lives worthwhile before we march happily into the jaws of death? I can’t die; I’ve never seen Everton win the Premiership.”
“Johnoldham…you could live to a billion and six and you’d still never see that. Some things are impossible.”
“But I’ve never been in Hollyoaks!”
“See above.”
“I’ve never tasted ecstasy.”
“The drug?”
“Yeah…”
“You sprinkled some on your Weetabix this morning. The only reason why you can’t taste it is because you washed it down with poppers.”
“Fair point, but I’ve never slept with more than one person at once.”
“I’m pretty sure you have,” said Andrew raising an eyebrow.
“Well, okay, maybe I did. Maybe there were lots of us. I can’t quite remember, but I’d like to do it again.”
“There’s no time,” said Andrew.
“It won’t take long. Four minutes tops. You know, I’m a pump and squirt kind a guy.”
Jo retched.
“Come on,” sighed Andrew, slightly disbelieving he was the one left to rally the troops. A lot of what John said resonated with him: he didn’t want to die; he had plenty to go home to. A girlfriend, a baby on the way, Triple Decker chicken club sandwiches and Sam Allardyce. “Let’s sort out the camp before we leave. We’re gonna have to leave someone in charge.”
“Who?” said Jo, looking over the room, her eyes falling on the snoring bundle of emotion in the corner. “What about Nudds?” Andrew chewed the inside of his mouth as he considered what madness had led her to suggest leaving a deranged, sexually ambiguous/unpredictable/deviant, midget in charge of a nation’s forces, before shaking his head and proposing instead that they hand the reins of power to a deranged, sexually ambiguous/unpredictable/deviant, tall person.
“No, Nudds might be useful. Anyway he’s travel sized so we might as well take him with us. I suggest leaving the Porter in charge. He seems to connect with everyone rather well.”
“I suppose he has been inside them all.”
“Now that’s living,” said Johnoldham, clapping his perfectly manicured hands together and jigging with imagined glee.
“Okay, I’ll go tell him,” said Andrew authoritatively. “I’ll make sure the Pirate captains are on his side, and tell Emmareena to lend him her support.”
Andrew swept out of the tent as Jo fiddled with the Magicbox. Johnoldham paced idly, and studied the many maps that hung around the tepee.
“It’s a shame…most of the people who have come to fight this war will probably die. Xandor’s men are tenacious fighters, and there’s thousands of them. They breed with those that are members of their own group you see, rapid gestation, and ridiculously accelerated development. They could probably do it on the battlefield if things were looking grim.”
“But if we win the war it’ll be worth it.”
“Bit prophetic though isn’t it…all that stuff about one man’s freedom is worth a hundred willing sacrifices.”
“But without the war there is no victory for these people. And besides,” said Jo, fingering her shirt as she dwelled on the concept of existence, “Even those who die can be reborn in victory. By restoring the imaginations of the people the memories of those who died for them will come to life. And is that not the road to immortality? To live on in the memory of others?”
“Pfft, yeah, but only if it’s the memory of Pamela Anderson, and her recollections of you involve a leaked sex tape.”
“Do you ever think of anything else?” said Jo, thought not in a disgusted tone. Johnoldham’s pursuit of fanny was endearing, for its persistence if nothing else.
“I think of many things,” said Johnoldham, smiling enigmatically.
“Do you think of your legacy?”
“You mean if we all get horribly massacred? What people will think of me?” Jo nodded. Johnoldham whistled as he considered. “Yeah I guess so. I’d like to think that in someone’s mind, somewhere I was a legendary shagger. That way, if what you say about immortality is true, then every time someone thinks of me, I’d get my oats. Be they spectral or not; oats is oats.”
She smiled and nodded, resolving to imagine Johnoldham having sex with Pamela Anderson, should he meet a sticky end (and not the kind of sticky end he’s hoping for, you cheeky monkeys!).
At that moment Andrew returned. In his hand was the mighty war hammer, looking as new (and as heavy) as it had the day it emerged from the Titans’ forge.
“You bringing that along?” asked the assassin.
“You never know when a big ol’ hammer might come in handy.”
“True story. Shall we go?”
“Just let me get Nudds.” Andrew crossed the room, and picked up the little guy, swinging the papoose onto his back. Jo noticed that he was holding the hammer in one hand. He must be getting stronger, she though, I saw some of the soldiers trying to lift that thing and they couldn’t even get it off the ground. She allowed herself a few minutes of fantasy, as Andrew flexed his ever-returning peak. She shook herself out of her daydream and tapped the Magicbox. Where in the past it would have groaned into life, a slick advancing of its mental message was felt simultaneously by all three.
“Enter the coordinates…” the soundless voice instructed. Andrew rummaged in his pocket and pulled out the damaged spreadsheet that had accompanied him from the very beginning.
“It’s that field there,” he said, “The one outlined in red.” Jo keyed in their destination, held the ‘gun’ up, parallel to the ground and field at the space in front of her. Instead of the usual slicing of the splice function, a ragged wormhole-esque portal appeared. Around the lip of the mystical gateway, a perennial storm seemed to rage; lightning cracked and clouds innumerable swirled. Somewhere amidst the contained gale, Andrew swore he could see the outline of a greyish cube, but dismissed the apparition as a trick of the constantly varying light.
“Once more into the breach, dear friends,” he said with a daring grin, and then jumped through the gate, disappearing from view.


Chapter twenty four

To say that the Porter was like a fish out of water in his new role would be so far from the truth, the sentence: “I’m just popping to Jupiter, Darling!” would seem immeasurably more acceptable. He was, in fact, perfectly poised to take charge of an army. Despite his frequent tussles with drink and the law, he had the unrivalled advantage of having seen everyone’s minds. He knew them, inside and out. He was them. Not only did this make him an incredibly empathetic leader, his access to the subconscious of every master strategist the CMS had ever produced had gifted him with an instantly accessible store of tactical case studies, effective war plans, and perhaps most essentially, massive cock-ups. And so the decision to attack the Basilisk as a diversion, and hopefully flush the Creepy-Creelys, the minions of Xandor, from their hidey holes and away from the insurgent heroes, had come to him like Gary Glitter to a Playground.
Heading the field, wrapped in a fine purple war gown, and sitting atop Kimberli’s proud shoulders, he looked every inch the historic general. And behind him filed the armies of CMS, the Titans, the fairies, the Pirates and the men, interspersed by odd representatives from smaller tribes; buffalo, homosexuals and one single, solitary purple Aki…

ººº

Meanwhile, Jo, Andrew, Nudds and Johnoldham crept through the shadows of Xandor’s lair. The portal had dropped them into a vast hall that had, by the looks of the cobwebs, succumbed to the might of darkness long ago. The cavernous chamber snatched the slightest sound made by their rustling feet and amplified it to such a level, any attempt at stealth was rendered pointless. With an unwilling calm, the trio of wakeful allies made timid progress, crossing the void in search of Xandor.
“We’ve been walking for hours,” whined Johnoldham.
“Not much further I’m sure,” said Andrew. Nudds snorted and suddenly woke up.
“Are we there yet?” he yawned, tapping Andrew on the crown.
“No. Keep it down; There’s no need to be louder than necessary. It’s bad enough as it is!”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” said Jo, the hand that held the Magicbox trembling.
“Just stay calm, I’m sure that we’ll be alri—”
“MWAAAAAAHAAAAAHAAAAHAAAA”
A maniacal scream tore through the air. The acoustics of the hall made the sound boom like a jet engine, and the heroes were forced to cover their ears. A blinding light appeared from somewhere near the ceiling and spot lit the four intruders. Silhouetted against the white hot light was Lord Xandor, fuzzy beard only visible by the ginger corona that sat just below his mad red eyes.
“Fools! I will crush you, MWAAHAHA!” He raised his right hand high, and in it, glinting in the light, Jo saw her missing Sharpie.
“My sharpie!” she cried, reaching out to it as a mother would her child.
“No, my dear: my harpie! The Black harpie! The Strongest in the Universe! One pen to rule them all, one pen to find them, one pen to bring them all, and on the page outline them! Colours for the world of man, to sculpt and craft his dreams, pliable, unlimited and never what they seem. Options are unbridled, so is the chance to fail, to know responsibility, would turn a man’s skin pale. So give the pen of power, to just one man to wield, and all the dreams of humans, their fruits he may yet yield. They fall forgotten and misused, without a cause or gain, but thank to their Lord Xandor, soon there’ll be no pain!”
“Well one thing’s for sure,” said Andrew. “He’s f*cking crazy.”

ººº

“Here they come, men! Brace yourselves!” The Porter’s battle-cry reverberated through the troops, as the Creepy-Creelys began to pour over the horizon.
“Going forward!” they screamed in chattering unison. “Going forward, going forward!”
“Hold firm!” commanded the Porter.
A wave of arrows were loosed from a thousand miniature bows. Attached to the tips were blazing minutes of meetings past. As the arrows found their homes in the bodies of the front lines, a second wave were nocked and loosed away.
The Porter the dreaded sound of an arrow finding its mark, and out of the corner of his eye saw a small body, no larger than a goldfish, fly by and land in a puddle of muddy water by Kimberli’s paw.
“Blahaha, owey, ow ow, ack!” the little thing, which turned to actually be a goldfish, struggled to cling to life. The arrow that was sticking out of it’s side was several times longer than its whole body, but Porter didn’t have the heart to tell the little fella his minutes were numbered. Instead he provided his version of the last rites.
“What’s your name little buddy?” he asked soothingly.
“Ack, cough, cough…Discofish, sir.” The small fish responded respectfully.
“Why do they call you Discofish, brave soldier?”
“Because, sir…ack, cough, I may be but a fish, but oh, when I dance, oh how beautiful I become! In my tank the lights blaze eternal, and the thud, thud, thud of curious finger on glass provides the most electric beat. I used to dance whilst off my tits on little fishy pellets mostly but, oh how beautiful I was, and how ugly is this war.”
“’Tis an ugly thing, little fish, but it war you have shown your true beauty. To fight with pride, honour and humanity, you have surely done Pete Tong proud.”
“Oh…” the little fish began to blubber, which was probably just as well as he was going crusty round the edges, “Thank you, sir.”
“Go forth, little one. Gatecrasher is calling, and remember: heaven is a dance floor and God is a DJ.”
“I hope he’s in the Indie room,” said Discofish as the life went from his eyes. The Porter shed a tear as he scooped the dead fish’s body off the ground.
“Poor little guy…I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him…God’s definitely a Drum and Bass man!”


Chapter twenty five

Far away, in a part of the world where little was of consequence and the war was far from mind, a lonely buffalo man with a patch of baldness upon his tearstained face committed heinous acts of perversion with a small piggy.
As the butterflies fluttered by, and the morning dew added a coat of varnish to the twinkling, watercolour landscape, the war raged a hundred miles away. Daniel Charles was detached. He cared not for his fellow man. He cared only for ruv. He believed he had found it too, but by the way the piggy was reacting it was either not enjoying the experience of physical ruv or it was enjoying it on a level that was so depraved, Daniel Charles was unsure they were as compatible as he had once thought. Yes, the more he thought about it the piggy was trying to hurt itself using his not-so-danglebit. This was ever so slightly wrong, and it was this appreciation of right and wrong that marked Daniel Charles out from the other buffalo, for they were not built to feel compassion, or to care if another took undue pleasure from pain caused by their own actions. They saw only greed. Daniel Charles was selfless. He would lay down his life for the pleasure of others. He believed in ruv, and believed that sacrifice was the basis of ruv. At least that’s what his mother had told him before she escaped to a magical place he knew only by name…Boss Town, Boss Town…he played it over in his head as the piggy finally succeeded in choking itself to death on his now-very-danglebit. If only the piggy had understood ruv, maybe it too could have been as important to the fate of CMS as Daniel Charles was about to become.


Chapter twenty six

“Duck!” Andrew shoulder tackled Jo to the ground and out the path of an energy beam unleashed from Xandor’s Black Harpie. All the colours of the rainbow filled the room every time Xandor unleashed a fresh burst of power. The imagination of the people channelled as a weapon was sent in the form of a thousand darts, coursing through the air at lightning speed towards Johnoldham. Xandor cackled madly as he savoured the moment of murderous anticipation.
But Johnoldham dodged the attack with a catlike ease, silencing the evil Lord. In his head, behind the closed eyes that had seen the world around slow down, the voice of his dead Jedi master, Discofish, now fused with the force spoke:
“Set the VCR for Jeremy Kyle. It’s on at three, you prick.” He heeded his words and duly ignored them as he battled to preserve his life.
“I will kill you all,” roared Xandor as Jo and Andrew dived behind a suddenly visible rock. In the burgeoning light it was becoming apparent that the room was not just a room, but a huge, natural cave at the far end of which, as luck would have it in the direction they had been heading, there was a door that Andrew assumed led to the interior of the castle and out of what he imagined was a basement-come-dungeon.
“It’s such a waste,” said Jo.
“What is,” said Andrew, as he foraged on the floor for rocks to throw at Xandor. He couldn’t risk throwing and losing his hammer, and right now there was no way to get close enough to wield it to its best effect.
“All that creativity…all that ink…we have to stop him, Andrew.” A steely determination filled her eyes. “We simply have to.”
“Alright,” said the hero, “I’ll make a run for it, and as soon as he sees me, jump out and shoot him with that gun.”
She nodded, unable to speak; frostbitten with fear. Andrew smiled at her; a touch on the arm imploring her not to worry, and to be strong. He turned, and in an instant was out in the open; a sitting duck for Lord Xandor’s deadly weapons.
“Now!” he cried, sensing Jo’s hesitation. She jumped out from behind the rock and aimed, but her trembling fingers fumbled with the trigger, and Andrew’s shout had alerted Lord Xandor to her presence. He faced her; a malevolent, supercilious smile spreading across his bearded face.
What happened next appeared to all involved to progress in slow motion. Xandor raised the Black Harpie, its searing cry uniting its coloured brethren all around. Andrew, realising that Jo was seconds from not just death, but absolute obliteration, planted his foot and dashed back in her direction, flooring her just before the blast from the Black Harpie blew chunks off the rock behind which they had been hiding. In the commotion, the Magicbox flew from Jo’s hand and skidded along the uneven floor. Such a development was not lost on the keen eyes of Xandor and he instantly retrained his attack. Andrew hauled himself up and jumped, at full stretch towards the Magicbox.
Whether his intention had been to knock the Magicbox out of the way or to block the energy beam coursing towards the prophetic item with his body, and presumably sacrifice himself for the CMS; an action motivated by that irrational sense of duty and self-destruction that afflicts all heroes from modern and classic literature, was, and still is, unknown. What is known though, is that the latter of the two eventualities transpired, and in the wake on Andrew’s heroism, serenaded by the anguished screams of his allies, the Magicbox, which despite Andrew’s brave efforts had sustained a minor hit from the Harpies, began to shake and splutter. Lines and lines of text scrawled across the screen, and the smell of burning hair wafted around Andrew’s lifeless body as Jo sobbed, unable to move from the shock.
Without warning, a jet of light shot from the gun and tore another ragged wormhole in space. All present watched, slack-jawed as an unmistakably shaggy figure stepped through the immaterial ingress, leaving behind the pastures green that were his home, waved on his new solo journey by the memory of a sad, little piggy.


Chapter twenty seven

The cool evening air streamed into Amy Galveston’s office in Boston, Massachusetts. She had stayed late to do some filing. She did the same thing every night, not because she wanted to. Not because she had a passion for the job, but because she had to. The truth of the matter was, Amy Galveston was terrible at her job. One of the worst. She had survived thus far by sniping at anyone, disregarding the organisational hierarchy, accusing innocents of heinous crimes of which she was in fact the perpetrator, and all the while insisting she be included on all company e-mails in a never ending quest for knowledge that could somehow mask her gross incompetence.
And why did she do this? Why did she try so hard at something that was completely alien to her? For her son. For the heir to the throne of the CMS. She had to keep her job, so she could stand vigil over the cabinet. The box-like, grey cabinet that stood in the corner of her room, and contained the only way in and out the CMS (without a Magicbox, of course). She had disguised herself. In her youth (which was, in our ontogenetic terms, perpetual, by our standards at least) she had been/was incredibly beautiful. Bountiful bosom and snake hips to boot, she had been the talk of all the CMS, and had caught the eye of a young bearded visionary, whose aim it was to rule for time immemorial.
But things had gone awry. The silly tart got knocked up after Xandor’s pump and squirt routine, and conceived a creature of such piliferous voluptuousness that the young Lord of the CMS, who had been warned by an old sage that the only man who could end his rule was himself (Xandor rightly assumed that this meant that a son would constitute an extension of himself and therefore pose a mortal threat to his kingship), attempted to kill his son, and his sl*g of a mother. But Galveston fled to the outer extremities of the land, and for once acted wisely. Drawing on her maternal instincts she hid her son with a tribe of buffalo who she knew would protect him, and then fled hoping that when Xandor’s hunters eventually found her, they would believe her story that the child was dead.
Upon capture she was dragged back to Xandor’s castle where her former lover interrogated her as to the whereabouts of their illegitimate child. Not believing her story, unable to do away with the one link to his son’s location, and fearing the possibility of an assault at the hands of his son, he removed his Castle from reality, using the powers of imagination gifted to him by the coloured Harpies he had acquired, placing the entire building inside a cabinet of unfathomable internal proportions. As a defence mechanism, the cabinet existed in two parallel universes (Rather than ‘parallel’ our universes can be assumed to be layered as opposed to adjacent) simultaneously, and at the same time, it existed nowhere. One end of the space-time anomaly was protected by the Basilisk that circled the cabinet in the CMS, forever hiding the true nature of Xandor’s ‘castle’ from the masses. The other was planted in Boss Town, to where Galveston was banished by Xandor, where she adopted a hideous disguise and guarding the cabinet that she swore only to use if she sensed her son’s presence within its bounds.
And that, as she answered e-mails insufficiently, made unfair demands on co-workers, and insisted that the reason why she had been unable to perform the simplest of functions for the past week due to a miscellaneous ‘fever’ that had purportedly spread to her e-mail system, preventing it from being able to send out or open any mail, was exactly what she sensed.
Turning to the cabinet slowly, the unmistakable force of Daniel Charles’ presence hit her full on in the face, as so many of her co-workers wished they could do with a shovel. Or a truck. Or six bullets. Any would do, just as long as they never had to listen to her benign, ignorant, haughty tone ever again. But currently she cared not for her colleagues’ hatred of her. Her son was in danger and he needed her.
Discarding her disguise and stepping out of the fat suit, into a ready and waiting hot cerise cat suit, she banged on the edge of her desk with a clenched fist, and smiled as a secret drawer slid open. From the drawer she took a gun; crude and clichéd as it was, she wasn’t taking any unnecessary risks: Xandor was dangerous, and if the noises from the cabinet had been anything to go by, his descent into madness was snowballing. She took a deep breath and approached the cabinet. Closing her eyes she could see into the other world, where the cabinet stood, surrounded by the snake; a top mounted projector, projecting the image of a castle onto the clouds above maintaining the image of power that Lord Xandor had become so well known for. She reached out, and as she did so, sparks of green electricity flicked between her hand and the handle of the cabinet. She reached out and gripped it as once she had tried to grip Andrew’s unwilling shaft, and yanked the drawer open. She closed her eyes, and flung herself inside.


Chapter twenty eight

Amy Galveston’s appearance took everybody by surprise. No less because it had been preceded a few seconds earlier by the arrival of Daniel Charles. The genetic signature of the unwitting buffalo man’s hair had caused the Magicbox to latch onto to his coordinates and transport him in an instant across hundreds of miles of the CMS to be standing, for the first time in his adult life, in the presence of his biological parents, both of whom were suddenly speechless.
“Who are roo?” asked Daniel Charles, ignoring the potential danger and turning to the sexy figure of Amy Galveston, “Roo looks ruvly!” he salivated.
“Daniel Charles, listen to me…I…am…your…mother.”
“Mummies?” he said, in a jingly Christmas tone. “Come to give Daniel Charles her ruv, yes?” He reached out with his overlong buffalo arms and gave her a hug. “Daniel Charles thirsty. Mummies give him mummy-milk, yes?” He pawed her bosom, but she patiently stayed his hand.
“Maybe later, Daniel Charles, if you are a good boy. You see that man up there?”
“The hairy face?”
“Yes, he…is your father.”
All of a sudden a black cloud descended over Daniel Charles’ brow.
“He a bad man. He feels no ruv. Me hates him! He make Daniel Charles feel hate! RaaAAAA!” Without any encouragement from his mother, Daniel Charles, pumped up off his little hairy teats on rage (an alien sensation for the lovelorn bovine sapiens) raced towards Lord Xandor who, to his credit, managed to shake his state of stupefaction in time to raise his right arm. He was jiffies away from shouting a command and summoning the combined powers of imagination to finally vanquish his son when a bullet from a downtown store in Boston whistled through the palm of his hand. He hollered in pain as the Harpie slipped from his grasp and into the outstretched hand of Jo who had dived across the cavern to catch the falling weapon.
Xandor fell to his knees as the Harpies around him began to shimmer and pulse. A new order was coming to pass, and as soon as Jo had got to grips with the weapon in her hand, the world would change forever. Daniel Charles continued to charge towards his fallen father, and Xandor hardly noticed when the whiskered buffalo atrocity mounted him, gave him a jolly good old-fashioned rogering and then ripped his head off with his mighty hands.
And then a symbolic moment came to pass, as the crown of Lord Xandor flew from his decapitated head, across the cave to encircle in hoopla fashion, the once more slumbering Nudds, asleep and oblivious to the new dawn.


Chapter twenty nine

Suddenly the room seemed lighter. The air seem lighter too, and the hearts of those who still breathed it lifted. Jo wrestled with the black harpie that was bucking and writhing in her grasp.
“I can’t do it,” she whimpered, the power too much for her. “I can’t control it.”
“Clear your mind!” shouted Galveston, who was doing her best to ignore the incestuous necrophilia that was commencing in the background. A tear fell from Jo’s eye as she caught sight of the limp body of Andrew and her mind became a fuzzy haze of pain.
“I can’t…I’m not strong enough.”
A tugging at her trouser leg distracted her from her pain. She looked down at the slender form of Nudds, who was rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand and dragging the crown of the CMS behind him like a teddy bear with the other.
“I believe in you, countess Magicbox. You have come so far. I know you can do it. Do it for us…please. Do it for Andrew.” She nodded, choking back the tears as she scrunched up her eyes and tried harder than she ever had before to focus with all her might on absolutely nothing.

And then there was light.

A new beginning…

A clean slate…

A blank canvas…

And she began to draw…


Chapter thirty

Meanwhile, the battle on the planes raged on. Thousand of Creepy-Creelys swarmed over the armies of the CMS, the itchy little fingers scratching and probing, tearing apart. The Titans did a sound job of crushing many of them with them thunderous footsteps, but the fairies were having less success and were forced to stay airborne and launch an aerial bombardment, throwing pine cones and rocks at the chattering critters as they overrun the battlefield, pouring forth from the gaping jaws of the Basilisk like ants from a hill.
Every so often a wave a arrows would darken the sky, and descend rapidly towards the exposed front line, but the Porter had taken it upon himself to act as a human shield, edging his forces ever closer to the mighty snake, by absorbing the arrows as if they were air.
“Immortal invincible, you see. Constitution of a goat,” he bragged to Barnanaman and Italian Manface, who, along with the pirates led by Captain Amandip Blackbeard Singh, and Omar Io were hiding behind the Porter as he made the tedious advance towards the Basilisk. “You know the sh*t; I’m a f*cking God, I guess…Why I’ll bet I could—”
Exactly what the Porter thought he was capable of, no one ever found out, because at that precise moment Jo had gained control of the Black Harpie, and with it, redrawn the boundaries of imagination, returning the minds of the population to their rightful homes, and removing the Porter from his temporary assignment. He was, as he said a God, and it was time for him to return to his kingdom and go about his godly business.
Unfortunately for a few of the people whose dreams he imagined to be screening (Bad news Chris Langham, Gary Glitter and Jonathon King…The Enforcer’s back in town), his sudden disappearance meant that the most recently fired (and as luckless irony would have it, last) wave of arrows were free to complete there journey, minus a Porter shaped barricade. Instead, they found homes in the bodies of Bananarama man and Captain Singh, killing them both instantly and leading Italian Manface to remark that they both made finer pincushions than they had lovers (and she would know).
Now, with their forces depleted the armies of CMS could have been forgiven for panicking, but the keen strategic mind of Omar Io, and the sultry heaving bosom of Italian Manface combined superbly to lead them onwards against the Creepy-Creelys.
“They’re running scared!” whooped Omar Io, dancing up and down, yanking on the collar of the Wylde one who was barking and salivating at the Creepy-Creelys. “Go sick ‘em boy!” He detached the Wylde one’s lead and the savage beast shot off like lightning, nipping the Creepy-Creelys on the ankles and tossing their mortally wounded bodies in the air like a fox in a henhouse.
“What should I do?” asked Italian Manface, as she rubbed suntan cream into her chest.
“Do you um…think you…um…might be able to cause a distraction? There’s still a lot of minions near the Basilisk…any chance you could give me a chance at getting through?”
“I will do what I can,” she purred, unclasping her superfluous bra as she strutted towards the melee. It took Omar Io a good few seconds to banish the fantasy of Italian Manface from his mind, and replace it with the memory-banked images of his lust-fuelled romps with Eric Cantona: at least they were good, clean sex: whatever physical intercourse with Italian Manface constituted, it was not good, and definitely not clean.

Somewhere on the battlefield, Patrick Porter lit up a cigarette.

Without wasting another moment, Omar Io called for TAX to assist him. Rog rumbled to his side and saluted. His cumbersome hand hit his wide, flat forehead with enough force to floor a skyscraper, but the resilient giant didn’t seem to notice.
“Yes captain?” he said, giving his nappy a scratch.
“Rog, I have sent Italian Manface to distract the Creepy-Creelys.”
“Oh goodie,” smiled Rog, interrupting the captain, “I hate them. They’ve been stopping us boys from getting to the big snake. We wants to rip it to shreds!”
“Perfect! Thanks to our diversion (which should keep them busy for three minutes tops) we should be able to reach the Basilisk. Are you sure you guys will be able to fight it?”
A smile as long as the Nile split Rog’s lower face.
“Just try and stop us!”


Chapter thirty one

As Omar Io surveyed the grey, uninteresting cabinet, that stood innocuously where he had expected to find the foundations of the castle, or at the very least a rope ladder hanging down from a bewitched, floating island above, the battle behind him died down to little more than a collection of sporadic scuffles.
And there had been such a loss of life, and such horrors had been seen in their attempts to cross the Basilisk’s line: to penetrate the inner circle: to break into the castle and aid their heroes who had dared jump into the scolding pot of danger. And had they found the grandeur they had expected? No. Just a cabinet from Staples (http://www.staples.com/office/supplies/p4__239274_Business_Supplies_2_10051_SC2:CG34:DP1543:CL70400). It was a fine cabinet as far as this generic kind of Ikea spawned dirt goes, but it was largely uninspiring and grossly disappointing.
And yet he was so engrossed with the mundanity of it all he didn’t notice the topless Italian Manface return, covered in sweat that was only sixty percent her own.
“What ees zees?” she said, her voice like velvety chocolate sauce, cooling to body temperature on the tongue.
“A cabinet…”
“I can see zat! Why ees eet ‘ere?”
“I don’t kno— look, do you think there’s any chance you could put your top on?” He was trying to concentrate on the matter in hand, but she was making it very difficult. “Cantona, Cantona, Cantona…” he whispered to himself.
“What is wrong wiz zees?” she squeezed one before exclaiming: “Oh no! I see ze problem. Zis one ‘as dirt on eet!” I will clean it.” Which she proceeded to do.
“Cantona, Cantona, Cantona, a bit of Giggs, oh yes, that’s better.”
“Manface, any idea what this is?”
“A minute ago you said eet was a cabinet?”
“But why’s it here?”
“I don’t know…unless…” she bent over (much to Omar Io’s distraction) and studied the maker’s mark on the side of the grey cube. “My goooodness!” she gasped. “It is a KAKA original, one of Milan’s finest blacksmiths!”
“Any idea how we open it?” said Omar Io, shifting uncomfortably on either foot. He couldn’t help but feel that time was running out.
“Hm,” she mused, “Well throwing money at it doesn’t work. Trying to prise it won’t work either.”
“Kicking it?”
“I wouldn’t advise it,” she said, screwing up her angelic face, “They say his cabinets are blessed; protected by some higher power. KAKAs are a source of much respect. If we want to open it, I think we’ll have to think outside the box.”
“Well we don’t have much choice! We won’t be able to get in to the box until we’ve thought outside it, will we!”
“Think,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, and directed more at herself than Omar Io. “We have to speak to ze same language…to show ze cabinet we respect it, and we share ze same ethics.”
“Well what can we say?” said Omar Io, desperately suppressing the urge to unleash a flying dragon kick on the cabinet. After a lengthy pause, during which the silence was punctuated by the bloodcurdling screams of the Wylde one’s rampage through the army of Creepy-Creelys.
“I’ve got it!” beamed Italian Manface, jumping so suddenly she popped out again. “We must pray to the cabinet! Zen it will trust us and let us inside.”
“Does that work with women?” he tried optimistically.
“Do I look religious to you?” she quizzed, as she skilfully slid her runaway breast out of view.
“I suppose I should do it then,” said Omar Io, feeling a wave a anticipation break over his back, and sending a rush of cool sweat down his spine. He fell to his knees before the KAKA original (purchased from Staples.com) and prayed.

ººº

Jo moved the Black Harpie with such skill and dexterity, one might have assumed it had always been a part of her arm, and her redrawing of the universe was as natural to her as spending a penny was to your grandma.
But suddenly, as she carved the new boundaries of creativity that would forever shape the CMS in an enriching and enlivening way, the world around her began to shake. Her concentration was momentarily diverted from the task in hand as the ceiling of the cavern in which they still stood, split open and began to widen, allowing the light of the twin suns to spill through the gap, and fill the cavern with evangelic light.

ººº

“It’s working!” cried Italian Manface, suitably impressed. Omar Io said nothing, but continued to pray as the drawer slid out, more and more.
And then something totally unexpected happened. From behind them, running hell for leather from the battlefield, and presumably the voracious clutches of the Wylde one, came the last loneliest Purple Aki, pumping his little quads as if his life, which it probably did, depended on it. Before Omar Io knew what was happening, the Aki vaulted onto the kneeling man’s shoulders and dived like Tom Daley into the opening drawer, grabbing the handle on the outside as he passed it, and with a gargantuan effort for such a small fellow, slammed the drawer shut behind him.
Omar Io, and Italian Manface stood dumbfounded. What was that little purple pervert playing at?
“Can you open it again?” asked Manface, now suitably worried that their efforts had been for nought, and could, in fact, have landed their friends with another, rather unnecessary problem. Omar Io tried.
“No,” he said, sweating with the effort of yanking the jammed handle, and muttering ritualistic incantation as fast as his tongue would allow. “It’s stuck.” As he uttered the devastating observation, the cabinet began to rock from side to side, and from within, a great crashing and tearing could be heard. The sweat on his hazelnut skin turned cold. “And I think that little bastard’s performance just brought the house down.”


Chapter thirty two

The Aki’s infiltration of the Castle came as quite a shock to the remnants of the recent clash. Amy, Nudds, Daniel Charles and Johnoldham looked to Jo for advice. She was the bearing of the Black harpie: she was like a God to them. But an unwilling one at best. She had done what she knew she could, but now she was being asked to kill another creature. To take the life of the murderous Aki before it took theirs. She couldn’t do it. It just wasn’t her style.
“Show us your biceps!” the Aki roared, growing in size until he towered above the tallest of the protagonists.
“Never!” screamed Nudds, hoping he wouldn’t be forced to reveal his pitiful cocktail-stick arms.
“SHOW ME YOUR ABS!” bellowed the Aki.
“In your dreams!” shouted Amy, who, despite the rumours Xandor had spread about her lack of chastity, was incredible proud of the fact that only three men had ever seen her abs, and one of them had been first love, the second a drunken reaction to the infidelity of first love, and the third…well the third turned out to be the homicidal maniac whose decapitated head was all that was left of his attempt to take over the world, both physical and mental.
“THEN YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” The Aki, now quivering with rage, bashed his swelling purple fist into the wall, causing it to fracture, and several boulders to fall from above.
It was then the others noticed the twinkle in Johnoldham’s crystal blue eye (enhanced artificially by Argos contacts and Optrex© eye drops, used to rejuvenate tired eyes). He turned to them all and said, in a voice that was not dissimilar to Luke Skywalker’s measured tones: “Go. Take the body of the hero with you and escape. I will fight this Aki.”
“But Johnoldham,” said Amy, squeezing his sizable biceps. “I would very much have liked to make you my fourth…”
“Take Nudds,” said Oldham, nodding at the grinning Lepracorn, who was gleefully tugged at the seat of Amy’s Cat suit. “He looks like he could do with a good shagging, and I’m sure you’d find some use for that horn of his.”
She looked at the horn, which she could’ve sworn had grown since the last time it caught he eye and nodded contemplatively.
“That’s my girl,” smiled a reflective Johnoldham, “Now run. And don’t look back. I have sacrificed much (Anal virginity) for this war already, and I would gladly lay down my life to secure the safe return of the heroes of the CMS!” As he spoke his parting words, Nudds did his best to stuff Andrew into the papoose, which he dutifully strapped to his bowing back and proceeded to plod, for to run would have been an impossibility, towards the now visible door at the far end of the cavern. Amy and Jo followed, while Johnoldham turned to face the Aki.
“YOU WANNA SEE BICEPS?” he hollered, and ripped off his shirt. He flexed his arms and kissed his peaks, tenderly. “YOU WANNA SEE ABS!” he crunched his washboard stomach together and punched himself in the belly-button. “YOU WANNA SEE PECS?” He licked the tips of his index fingers and circled his nipples. “By the power of Grayskull, I summon the spirit…of CLAUDE BASTION*!” Blue electricity flicked around his tanned torso and he roared with the testosterone of a thousand lions playing gridiron, after waxing each other’s chests. “NOW WATCH ME SQUAT!” He screamed as he dashed towards the Aki who, during Johnoldham’s striptease had become quite aroused and found most of the blood diverted from his muscles and was therefore slow to react as Johnoldham dipped his behind close to the ground and powered off with the passion of Free Willy, his fist connecting with the Aki’s jaw and sending the pulsating purple paedo careering backwards.
But it wasn’t enough, and as Jo, Nudds, Daniel Charles and Amy escaped through the faraway door, the Aki rose up above his attacker, grabbed him by the shoulders and raped him to death.
“I will remember you, Johnoldham,” sniffed Amy, as Daniel Charles too shed a tear for his former lover.
“Thank roo for showing me ruv,” he sobbed. Then they closed the door and ran, just the ceiling collapsed trapping the Aki within the cave forever.

* The Adventure of Claude Bastion.

It is the morning time. A sleepy French village, crooked in construction, and jumbled in arrangement awaits the waking of its premier resident.

Claude Bastion.

Claude awakes. Less than a metre (approximately 30cm or, in England/the civilised world, a solid imperial foot) from his face, a horizontal chin up bar extends from his headboard. He grasps it with his many fists, curling his hairy knuckles around the cold steel, as he wrap his leonine jaws around the inner thigh of Aphrodite should she be foolish enough to dress provocatively in his presence. He does one thousand reps. He sweats out an iridescent compound that contains any rogue traces of oestrogen, and the surplus uranium produced by the radioactivity of his sperm.
He does not take a shower.
He gets out of bed and takes a crisp white shirt from his sparse and efficient wardrobe. He stands prone in front of a shuttered window and buttons his shirt slowly and deliberately. This is the calm before the storm. He takes one measure step forward, throws open the shutters, rips his newly buttoned shirt from his rippling torso and, every fibre in his body trembling with an insubordinate level of primal fury, roars:
“Bastion!”
A thousand white doves take flight from a nearby fountain. A hundred virgins swoon (this is much more impressive than it sounds as there are few virgins over the legal age of consent within a sixty five kilometre radius of Claude bastion at any one time).
He leaves his house and drives to work in an original 1966 Alfa Romeo Spider (Red). He parks up, neatly; equidistant from either white line. He storms into the office, tattered shirt fluttering around his tanned torso. The secretaries, four of them, greet him with a smile and a wave. They know what is coming. They are. He makes love to them all, one after the other, sometimes two at once. They finish. He does not. He can not. He leaves, not bothering to clean them up, and they do not mind. They are glad of it. He sits down at his desk and opens CAscade.

This is the adventure of Claude Bastion.


Chapter thirty three

It was a sombre air that gushed in and out of their burning lungs as they sprinted up the spiral steps into the main hall of Xandor’s castle. Rocks and debris fell all around as the castle reached total collapse.
“We must hurry!” cried Amy. “Follow me, there is another way out. On the top floor. Quickly!”
“How many sodding ways are there in and out of this place?” said Nudds, moving as fast as his little legs could carry him. Daniel Charles was behind him, carrying some of Andrew’s dead weight.
“Well,” said Amy as she ran, panting, “There are two drawers on the cabinet, one into the basement, where we’ve just come from, and the other to the attic, where we’re heading now. The only difference is coming and going. When you enter the castle/cabinet, no matter which of the two worlds you enter it from, the ceiling opens and in you drop. But when you leave, you have to leave through a door, and each exit has two doors. One that leads to Boston, and one that leads back out to the CMS.”
“Marvellous,” sniped Nudds, “Will we be able to tell which one is which?”
“Yes. I’ve done it loads of times before,” she assured him.
On they ran, rubble falling like rain all around them. It was a miracle that they avoided being crushed, but miracles were prone to happen to those who deserved them. Soon they were in the attic. Bursting through the door, Amy stopped dead, unlike the rest of the party who barrelled into her back and sent her sprawling, face first across the floor.
“What is it?” said Jo, nerves jangling her voice, “What’s wrong?”
“The doors!” Amy cried, pointing at a vertical wall of rubble that split the room in two. They’ve been blocked off! We’re trapped.”
There was a moment of stunned inaction as all of the group stared, dumbfounded at the blockade. It was Nudds who, with his imagination and ingenuity recently restored, spoke first.
“Andrew!” he cried unintelligibly.
“What?” said Jo.
“Andrew is the only one of us strong enough to move these rocks!”
“But Andrew’s nearly dead. He’s not even conscious!” she protested.
“But you have the Black harpie under your control!” he said in desperation. “Is there nothing you can do?”
“I don’t know. It’s all new to me! I don’t know where my powers begin and end, much less do I know how to make use of the all.”
Suddenly, the quietest member of the group stepped forward and spoke.
“I do,” said Daniel Charles calmly. “I have been close to the forces of imagination ever since I was a babyman. Must be ‘cause of my daddy that I knows so much. I think dat you can connect people with your Harpie stick. And then when peoples connected they can swap things. Like ideas and stuff. But if you connect me to Andrew Mr Hero, then I will swap with him my life.”
“But if we bring him back and leave you here you will die!” said Jo, appalled at the idea.
“Without him we all die,” said Daniel Charles, calm as a summer’s day. “I have felt ruv, and I know that for all our ruv to be lost in this room would be a bigger tragedy than my death. And besides, when I die I will live on in your imaginations. Maybe once I’m there I will find more ruv. There is nothing for me here now. My daddyman is deaded, and my mummy has the nicest mummy-milks I’ve ever seen, and I cannot stand to be around her or I will do a bad thing. Let me die Jo. Please. Let me save you, so that you might ruv again.”
Tears were in her eyes as she did as he wished, drawing a channel between their two hearts and watching, because her curious nature forced her to, as the energy drained from one body and restored another to strength.
Andrew jumped to his feet, stretched his aching arms and inspected his body. All intact. Thank God: Michelle would kill him if he’d lost anything important.
“What happened to Buffalo boy?” asked Andrew, thumbing in the direction of the slumped Daniel Charles.
“He died a hero,” said Nudds. “Don’t mean to skimp on the formalities, mate, but do you think you might be able to shift these rocks for us. Any time now would be good, because I reckon this place will be down around our ears in about twenty seconds. Andrew didn’t ask twice and, using strength that would’ve made an Aki moist, he lugged rock after rock, stone after stone, brick after brick out of the way until both the golden doors were visible.
A deafening roar tore through the castle, and the group covered their ears.
“Which door,” yelled Jo above the noise of a collapsing pocket of space time: an abomination that should never have existed imploding.
“The left goes back to the CMS!” shouted Amy, “And the right will take you both back to Boston.” Amy ran to the left door and opened it. “Come on!” she cried, as she jumped through the gap.
“Which way are you gonna go?” shouted Nudds as he walked towards the left hand door. Andrew and Jo looked at each other and smiled.
“I heard there’s a flight out of Boston, into Manchester leaving in the next couple of days,” said Andrew, “I don’t know about you, but I intend to be on it.”
“I always wanted to visit America,” she smiled, “Visit, mind you…I think I’ve had enough of travelling for a while!”
“I’ll never forget you, countess Magicbox,” said Nudds, reaching up to hug the departing hero and copping a cheeky feel in the process. “It was a pleasure, Holmes. Touch.” Once the Lepracorn’s knuckles had left the hero’s he was gone, swept away by the lure of his home world, and out of their lives.
“Well,” said Andrew as the castle crumbled around them, “I think it’s time we went home.” He opened the door and ushered Jo through. With one last look behind him at the world the world they had saved from the tyranny of Lord Xandor, he jumped out of the CMS and into the warm Boston office where the adventure had begun.


Epilogue

In the months that followed the battle for the CMS, Nudds and Amy Galveston saw the world restored to peace. The new partnership, which quickly developed into a deep relationship of mutual dependency greatly angered Omar Io, who had, at one point in his shady past, made a bet with Nudds that the first to sleep with, and impregnate, the rightful queen would not only hold bragging rights over the over for all eternity, but also be a liberty to claim all expenses incurred during the raising of the first born.
One year later Nudds noticed a Jeremy Kyle special taped on his TIVO. Upon exploration the subject matter turned out to be “Love. Is it real or am I just imagining things?” and featured the fledging couple of Daniel Charles and The Porter. It seemed the Porter had found himself the wife Jo had promised him all that time ago, but Daniel Charles wasn’t keeping all that ruv for one person and had been caught, on more than one occasion, screwing Kimberli in a buffalo-rage.
Despite ruling well as an intimate diarchy, Nudds and Amy’s rule was put on hiatus when she revealed to him the truth about Lepracorns and that there were more like him imprisoned far away. So he set off on a pilgrimage to find his people and left her to rule alone in his absence. Prior to his departure he tried his hand at being a novelist, but after much critical abasement he decided it wasn’t for him (see below).
And back in the real world Andrew and Jo returned to Manchester, leaving the Massachusetts nightmare behind them. Both decided to leave their current jobs and Andrew found work as Blackburn’s interim manager in the wake of their relegation to league one and Sam Allardyce subsequent hanging, whereas Jo decided her experience with the Black Sharpie was one she’d like to perpetuate, and so moved to LA to pursue a career as an animator.
What further adventures lie in wait for our heroes, both in this world and the next remain unknown. But one thing is sure: they will never forget the time in CMS and the selfless heroism of those they found there.

ººº

THE END…


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