"Climb upon my knee, Sonny Boy" Dr Bastard started to warble, smartly fetching his hand down on Sven's trembling shoulder...........
The Newsbiscuit online novel.
(270 posts) (30 voices)
Meanwhile, in a dark cellar on another planet in a far-off galaxy ...
the whole universe suddenly collapsed in on itself into a single point infinitely dense and infinitely small.
And it was named 'Slough'.
which is why, to this very day ...
...objects in your mirror may appear closer than they are.
... not just because you've put on weight.
"The universe reduced to an infinite mass singularity" mused Sven "This'll test the WeightWatchers plan to the limit"
He shrugged and rolled Dr. Bastard's eyes - double one. Snake-eyes, but why snakes ? Surely any binoculoid lifeform would do ?
In the Stygian absence-of-nothing Sven was dimly aware of the susurration of preening feathers and the unforgivable aroma of Gentlemen's Relish.
That's enough, thanks, Flash. The reviewers have now made up their minds.
And the reviewers' considered opinion is ?
But Nancy McAllister's ghost had precious little time for reviewers and longed for more news of Sven. Had he given up Bovril? Sitting among the ruins of her burned out cottage she reminisced about the good times they had spent in the Blue Oyster Club and the night he showed her his third nipple...
I'm in the wrong book club, obviously.
DCI Mordor lay down his number 2 pencil with a sigh. It wasn't the first time he had regretted being a 'pantser', not a 'plotter'. The lads down at the station would never let him hear the end of it. All these months of unpaid leave to write his great Mordor Mystery series, and it just wasn't paying off. Sure, the title was coming along:
DCI Mordor Solves the Case of the Possessive Dildo's
and the latest incarnation of his first sentence, Sister Bovril was getting whiffy, was okay. But he'd have to scratch the rest. All but the duck. The fekking duck.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Then it opened, just a quack.
"Donald!" shouted Mordor in delight. To be fair all ducks look pretty similar and Dougal was not going to miss the opportunity of a warm bed and lots of bread. If DCI Mordor was willing to forget that his duck had been eaten then why shouldn't he answer to the name Donald. To be even fairer it would have be quite hard for even the ducks' late mother to tell them apart. Donald and his surving evil twin had been practically identical in looks at least. It was just that smell...
Dougal cocked his head towards DCI Mordor and smiled an evil smile (on the inside at least. On the outside his bill hardly flinched) "Quack!" he said.
Nurse Timidmouse set to cleaning out the surgery toilet. Gathering up the remaining body parts of her late employer she let an uncommon tear bounce down the stubble of her cheek. "Oh Dr. Bastard", she sobbed. Their relationship had always been so formal. She had never allowed herself to be so familiar as to even use his name. She sighed heavily. Even in death she couldn't bring herself to think of him as just Tony...
<I'm so sorry!>
Aside:You're sorry? I read that as "sugary" toilet. May never get the taste out of my mouth. So I'm sending you the bill.
(Thank you, Lindy, I will.)
'Little did Nancy McAllister's ghost know (comma) as she continued to long for more news of Sven (comma) that the third nipple (comma) so lovingly displayed to her so long ago (comma) was the key to his
reincarnation resuscitation rejuvenationreplication. Its DNA (comma) isolated from a lone curly hair clinging for dear life to what passed for an errant areola (comma)...
'Am I dictating too fast for you, Donald, dear?' asked DCI Mordor, with real concern for the imposter's welfare. 'How lucky it is that you happened to have a shorthand machine tucked under your wing, Donald, just when my number two pencil was running low on lead.'
'Not at all,' quacked the duck that, although he looked like a Donald Duck, and he walked like a Donald Duck, and even quacked like a Donald Duck, was in fact still a Dougal Duck. A Dougal Duck biding his time, until...
Zebedee entered the room and said, "Boing, are you Dougal or a poorly disguised Duck Billed Platypus?"
"I'm Dougal!" said the web footed hound in protest. "I surfed all the way here from the Antipodes and along the Caledonian Canal to come to the rescue."
Just then a sudden whiff of Vegemite filled the air...
A cross-eyed Zebedee had the decency to look embarrassed.
"Sorry about that, it's my nerves"
The vegimite trouser trump acted like smelling salts on the hapless duck, dragging him smartly from his
dodgydoggy daydream and back, smack into (what passes here for) reality. The steady clackity clack of the shorthand machine had had a hypnoticaly soporific effect. Dougal had almost become unaware of the swirling, pounding evil filling his head. Now he was back. He could almost smell the evil. He knew he would do something horrible and do it soon. Throwing back his head he let out the sort of blood-curdling laugh only pure evil can perform. DCI Mordor looked lovingly at his old chum. "Something tickling you duck?" he smiled. "Just wait until you go to the toilet" mused the duck. "you'll find out what happened to all the sugar then. Aaaah Ahahahahahahahahaha!
"Toilet? Duck.", DCI Mordor replied, "Hmmm. I've just had an interesting marketing idea."
Mordors stomach growled : when was it had last eaten - if ever - in this narrative ?
As he watched the cackling duck it occurred to him that it was only an 'R' away from a tasty banquet.
He pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind - Dougal-Donald was like family to him, and what with Great-Grandad coming from Norfolk, might even be kin.
Mordor had to stay focussed and alert, time was running out, less than 24 hours to crack the case. Impulsively, he reached for the paper knife and pulled out his Waiter's Friend ...
who was possibly the campest man in the country despite his waiter being as straight as Tommy Cannon.
But thankfully, that wasn't camp as in David Walliams, Lionel Blair or Nick Clegg, but camp as in Stalag Luft III, the Nazi prisoner-of-war camp.
Dougal sighed and shook his head, looking over the last few pages -- who was he kidding? -- the last few hundred pages of Mordor's motley manuscript. DCI Mordor, legendary detective, diagnosed a year ago with Alzheimer's, was losing the plot quicker than ever these days. He still thought he was on leave from the The Bill to write a series of novels, loosely based on all those amazing crimes he had solved, all those villains he had caught, all those years ago.
And all there was to show for it was this... this... hopeless tangle of plotlines, characters, timelines, narrators. It was enough to make Dougal wish he'd never been hatched -- or at least, never hatched his plan of vengeance.
To think that Dougal had landed on Mordor's doorstep all those months ago, disguised as Donald, shorthand machine under his wing (flying had been a bitch, he could tell you) in hopes of wreaking his revenge on the kindly old man -- who at that time had only short lapses of memory and had, after all, only eaten Dougal's twin by mistake. With plum sauce.
For the last year, every time Dougal took a leak and returned to the room, Mordor greeted him the same way: 'How lucky it is that you happened to have a shorthand machine tucked under your wing, Donald, just when my number two pencil was running low on lead.'
And then, invariably, but sometimes variably, there came a knock at the door.
Sometimes, Mordor thought it was Sven the Dwarf come to call, sometimes Alice, sometimes Gertrude Jekyll dressed as the Mad Hatter. Luckily, Dougal had hidden the knives and Mordor's trusty service truncheon had been confiscated.
There came a knock at the door...
Mordor opened the door to an earnest young man dressed in a sober suit, white shirt and black tie. "Yes?" enquired Mordor. The EYN looked straight into Mordor's eyes and asked "Have you found Jesus?"
For a long moment Mordor waited for someone to make up a suitable joke before finally stammering "No" and shutting the door briskly.
Visibly shaken he hurridly returned to his study. "Theyr'e on to you" he said to the long-haired man in the sandals. "You'd better slip out the back door. No Stop! On second thoughts lose the beard and get into this clown costume."
Dougal looked up once again and said to Mordor, "Lol."
Mordor looked over his shoulder at the page and said, "You spelled brusquely wrong."
"Did not, Miss Prissy!"
"Did too. And don't call me Miss Prissy! I asked you never to call me that!"
Suddenly there came a moan from the direction of the clown suit, and the prince of peace chimed in with his 2 cents: "Both spellings of 'bruskly' are perfectly acceptable. And he did ask you never to call him that. Now, would you help me with these shoes?"
Dougal and the detective stood corrected by the Lord. Shamefaced, they each took up a clown shoe, and...
..."hang on a minute", cried the DCI. "It did say bruskly didn't it? Only now it is briskly which, although correctly spelled, does not really convey the same huffiness. How the hell did that happen?"
"Nothing to do with hell" said a quiet voice. "Maybe you're looking in the wrong direction...".
Both Dougal and Mordor turned sharply on the clean-shaven, shoeless clown. "Oh f*ck off Jesus! It was a sneaky edit not a f*cking miracle!"
The divine clown at least had the good grace to blush and fiddle arkwardly with his large red nose. He reached inside the pocket of his huge checkered coat and squeezed a rubber bulb. A jet of red wine squirted from the sunflower in his buttonhole. "Hey look guys! I can still do that trick."
"Its not a real flower" said Mordor, unimpressed
"No I meant..." The clown let the sentence die on his lips. His mood changed sharply. "Are you going to help me get into these giant bastard shoes or what?" he snapped
"What do I say if I'm caught?" Jesus asked.
"You're a clown, just say :-) and walk off.", DCI Mordor replied.
Jesus looked confused. "How can I say :-)? It's an emoticon, you can't actually say it."
"You just did.", Mordor responded.
Jesus suddenly understood. "Oh, yes, I did, didn't I? ;-)"
<Just then, the real Miss Prissy opened a tiny trap door in the ceiling, drawled, "I love you guys," and, "It's spelled divine," and snapped the tiny door shut.>
But Dougal's thoughts were on the toilet.
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