DCI Mordor took off his hat.
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DCI Mordor took off his hat.
Not for the first time that day DCI Mordor scratched his head. A number of things still worried him.
What was McTavish’s cockpit doing by the smouldering tail fin?
Who could have written the blood curdling scream in lipstick?
Why were the dwarf’s lips so scarlet red and glossy?
Where was that poweful smell of horse shit coming from?
Why was his scalp condition flaring up again? Could it be his Bovril allergy?
He sensed that the laws of thermodynamics were being broken again and very close by.
Glancing around quickly he concidered and then dismissed the idea of abusing Alice while she lay unconcious. It would be just his luck that she'd wake up before he had finished. That was the sort of week it had been.
"Do you have a wizard's hat?", Mordor asked Sven.
"No, I don't think so", Sven replied while munching on a stick of celery, "why do you ask?"
"Oh, no reason. Just curious."
Day turned to night and back into day again when it dawned on DCI Morder that Sven was not all he appeared to be. Yes he was a dwarf, there was no disguising that; yes he liked celery and was an accomplished builder - but there was the question of the plane crash, Nancy McAllister's bulldozed house and the massive earthquake which had shifted the quaint Scottish border town of Melrose to the Highlands. Sven was definitely harbouring something and it wasn't the Queen Mary. Then there was Alice....
Mordor adjusted his hat, carefully ensuring that the duck remained hidden this time.
Sven heaved a deep sigh as yet another writer took up the challenge
"Not another cocking narrative diversion, I just want to get these bleedin' flashings sorted"
He thought darkly of his family : his father's barely legal tossing exploits, his mother's sticky buns. The family sitting around the table joylessly chewing mouthfuls of twig -
"Damn you, Heston Blumenthal, damn you to hell"
In the gathering gloom, a muffled, melancholic quack heralded the approach of Mordor
"Your Bovril hip-bath is getting cold"
Sven stared at his feet, clenching and unclenching his fists
"Into the third page and none of those bastards have written me any taller ...."
Alice slowly regained her senses, stumbled back upright, and took a few seconds to take in the enormity of the situation.
She realised she had one chance, and that chance was now. Grabbing DCI Mordor's truncheon from his utility belt, with one swift move it swung around and hit Sven hard in the chest, smashing his teleport belt.
"Oh, you bitch", Sven would have said, if he had time. But he didn't. He instantly disappeared, with just a small scattering of exotic-looking components and a dented truncheon left to show.
Sven materialised in Prague in 1813, although he would not find this out for another two hours. He looked at his ruined teleport belt, the glow of the wrecked components slowly fading. He was stuck here, in Prague, in 1813. "Oh, you bitch." he muttered to himself.
Tears welled up in DCI Mordor's eyes as he surveyed the mangled wreckage of his prized truncheon.
"Oh, you bitch" he squeaked in a pained falsetto, before collapsing in a heap on the floor. The duck, dislodged by the fall, stared at him with thinly veiled anatine contempt.
Sven wandered through Prague, attempting to get his bearings. He came upon an unsuspecting prostitute - a re-occurrence of the old problem brought on by time travel - but had to admit that he had no means of paying her.
"You filthy perverted whorehole bastard" she spat at him, swinging at his head with a mighty hammer of a fist. Sven ducked the blow, and scampered into the crowded street, all the while marvelling at the speed and alacrity with which his assailants threat had been subtitled.
Faster and faster typed the subtitler, until her fingers were but a blur, speeding across the keys.
Pausing briefly to take a sip of water, she...
...said, is there any news of Nancy McAllister?
"Aha!" said the duck, "Do you know, I have always wondered what the word for duck-like was". Testing it out the duck muttered "anatine, anaTINE, ANAtine". But all anyone heard was "Quack, quack, quack."
Alice swung her booted foot at the bird's head but in a well practiced move it avoided the blow by swiftly bending and reeling in its neck so as to temporarily reduce its height. "There's probably a word for that too" it thought.
"Its Scotland so yes, my name is Donald" sighed the duck anticipating much more duck related jolity while at the same time enjoying the freedom of no longer being simply an accesory to Mordor.
With the disappearance of Sven, the pact between Hitler and Alex Salmond was impossible.
Fermi was, paradoxically, both furious and delighted. Mordor promised Alice that he would not press charges, as long as she would make him a nice cup of bovril.
The duck also promised not to press charges, but no-one cared.
"I think this is a most satisfactory conclusion", Mordor stated. "I hereby declare this book closed."
And they all lived happily ever after.
But did they?
1938, Mad O'Rourke's bar in Dublin
5 hard years, miles of tramping through the countryside and a very long swim had taken their toll on Nancy McAllister. Her once chisseled features were now leathery and wrinkled. Her brilliant smile was replaced by a gummy grin and the remains of her flowing red locks poked out from under her bonnet in matted clumps. Still, it was worth it to be able to start a new life here in Ireland and at least she didn't smell of seafood like Molly bloody Malone.
She had to look up ‘chisseled’ in her Anglo-Irish dictionary. She was astonished to find it meant ‘duck-like’ in Erse. "So, that duck mistook me for his mate, did he? Well, I’m more concerned about stretching Sven out to a normal length. Or height.”
missing for over a year. She wiped away a tear, wondering where he was now.
In fact, Sven had died in Vienna in 1824 after a cat bite went septic. He was -71 at the time of his death.
Then the rumours started.
Or, at least, people were suggesting that rumours had been started.
Had Sven fathered a son? How old would his son's son have been when Sven first appeared in Melrose? Could it be that he was his own granson? <Stops to work out the chronology>
Meanwhile, Enrico Fermi was puzzled. Just why had he been speaking in French earlier, when he was clearly Italian?
He looked back on his career and recalled when he chose to derive and solve the partial differential equation for a vibrating rod, applying Fourier analysis. This had led to a lucrative patent on dildos that would later lead, via the Manhatten project, to the development of the Rampant Rabbit. This would prove to be the invention that finally kept his students awake and interested during the slide show in lectures.
Enrico's invention had also helped Nancy McAllister through many a rough period in the beautiful border town of Melrose before its seismic shift to the Highlands. The witch hunts and ducking stools and the sinister demands of Sven the Dwarf had taken their toll on the former beauty who had once turned to baking her own dildo's. As soon as rabbit was on the menu her life changed for the better and she could see the light.
But then the bulldozer moved in along with that strange whiff of Bovril...
Nancy prostrated herself against the bulldozer, partly because whe was short of cash and there were a lot of workmen around, and also to stop the house from being knocked down. "Stop!" she cried, "You cannot mash this place up, innit! It contains a secret treasure that is, like, well rare? Like, all Davinci Code and ting!"
"Oh, sorry, I had no idea", the Bulldozer driver said. "I'll be off then".
He turned the bulldozer around and headed off back towards town.
and then all was quiet apart from the rotating sound coming from the late Douglas Adams. Oh and a very faint quacking.
"What the duck's that?" Nancy was thinking to herself as, without warning,
...the reanimated corpse of Douglas Adams burst from its grave, conveniently, but oddly, located next to Nancy's house...
"I had dinner with his brother last weekend" boasted BJ who couldn't be arsed to go right back to the celeb encounters thread.
Little did Nancy McAllister and Sven the Dwarf realise that they were soon to become household names - better known than Bovril in fact. Melrose too would soon become the haunt of the rich and famous despite now being in the Highlands, however at least Onassis' Yacht would be able to dock.
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