A blood curdling scream from upstairs suddenly spelt the unfortunate end of Miss Prissy, their would be no more problems in the grammer department today.
The Newsbiscuit online novel.
(270 posts) (30 voices)
It changed! Another small miracle. Praise the Clown.
Unfortunately, Miss Prissy had been silenced -- if only temporarily -- by none other than Mrs Weatherby, her sixth grade teacher (retired), who soon snapped the trap door open, snarled the correct spellings for "there" and "grammar", and then, in a slightly more conciliatory tone, suggested a hyphen for "blood-curdling" and wondered if those below, including the son of God in a clown costume, knew that "spelt", otherwise known as "dinkel wheat", made "marvelous, high-fibre muffins".
The Weatherbys good eye roamed about the room - her bad eye was off mugging an earlobe - until it lit on Mordors manuscript.
"You, boy" she sneered "h-what h-is h-that ?"
"N-n-n-n-nothing" he stammered, a certain trouserial dampness ensuing.
"Piffle, pish and tush, give it to me" The honeyed tone of phrase-start was eclipsed by the iron in 'me'. The once unfriendly countenance now took on a grimmer, fouler form of almost savilian malevolence.
Mordor started to gibber and panic . He remembered the advice his dear old white-haired onanistic father passed on to him, but that was no good : apparently Jesus's response to the situation was involuntary defecation.
In desparation he stared at his stenographic fowl. Dougal blanked him back, his criminal mastermind secure in the fact that no one ever thought 'The duck did it'.
Mordor slowly crept towards the door
"God help us" he whimpered
"You're on your own, son", intoned God in a Sven-like voice, "She scares the fecking widdecombe out of me"
Mordor had almost made it to the door when the whiffy scent of bovril descended from above, from the trap door, through which the horrifically squashy thighs of Mrs Weatherby were descending along with the horrifically whiffy rest of her. Unfortunately for Weatherby, the others were fortunate. All those spelt muffins spelt disaster for the aging grammar guru, and she was soon stuck fast.
"Humph," she said. "Oh bother. I suppose I've alienated another bunch with my bossy ways, and no one will help me out of this pickle."
"You got that right, sister," said Jesus. The prince of peace was in no mood for absolution, having no spare clown trousers.
"But didn't you notice? I didn't even correct those last little punctuation boo-boos?"
"Too little too late," said Mordor. "We must resume the narrative."
There came a knock at the door, so he opened it.
"Oh, Christ, another Sheila," quacked the duck, revealing his Australian origins along with the sex of their new guest -- a fetching young lady in a black beret.
"I beg your pardon?" said the fetching young lady in the black beret. "Who is this Sheila? I am Oubliette. Chante Oubliette. Of the Resistance. Listen very carefully, I shall say this only once... or maybe twice. Or 'alf a dozen times, it all depends..."
"You-who?" The muffled voice of Mrs Weatherby descended from on high. "Do you boys know what an oubliette is? I do."
"Nobody likes a know-it-all," mumbled the
men boysdrooling adolescents, in unison.
Chante of the Resistance, Chante of the black beret, was wearing nothing but.
"It's a trap!" shouted Jesus, who was the first to tear his eyes away from Chante's mesmerizing... stare. Sure, let's call it that. Her stare. Cuz she had these great big beautiful eyes, see, and...
"It's always a trap," lamented the demented detective Mordor, wandering off to look for his number two pencil, which was running low on lead. He paused under the flailing legs of the whiffy sixth grade teacher (retired), suddenly remembering that someone had been at the door.
Mordor turned to Dougal to say, '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,' but he didn't get the chance, because...
...Mme Oubliette pushed past, her trench coat barely concealing the naked voluptuousness inside. She grabbed the son of God and quickly pulled him over by the back door. Golly, thought the poo-panted clown, if ever you need an innuendo to liven things up you can always rely on a French bird to give you one.
Meanwhile Weatherby was pondering just where to punctuate the 2nd sentence.
The girl slipped the clown a small plastic bag. Luckily she always carried something to clean up after her God.
"Take this Coco," she purred "it's Chanel scented bleach. Yes Coco, Chanel."
His lapel flower twirled anti-clockwise before emitting an involuntary squirt, narrowly missing the son of God but hitting John the Baptist full in the face.
"Holy water!" He exclaimed
Dougal looked around the room. Mordor still had his back to him, John the Baptist was wiping the water from his face, and Jesus was having an entirely different trouser-crisis thanks to Mme. Oubliette. Perfect ! All distracted !
He winked at Chante - money well spent, even if her plumage was a bit too tufty for his liking - and scampered across the floor to Mordors document box, lying half-open where it had fallen.
At last, the plans for the Kneel family vault, within his grasp, after all these years. The fabulous wealth built on the back of respectable nineteenth century drug-dealing, casual racism and war-mongering, including the now-legendary diamond as its centrepiece. If ducks had palms they would be sweaty now.
Grasping the papers, Dougal made a bolt for the door ...
...on his Black and Decker workbench and lathe.
And with all the noise of the lathe, it would be easy to understand why Mrs Weatherby, still dangling from -- and stuck fast in -- the trap door above, would take the opportunity to fart. To fart long and hard. She'd waited so long...
But, alas, the lathe stopped just as she let loose with wild abandon. Fortunately for her, because she was elderly the others pretended they hadn't heard a thing. Despite their burning eyes and throats, they all just carried on as, well, normal?
"Tha' canna be right..." said Dougal, wiping his stinging eyes with his good wing...
Having finished the bolt in lightening quick time Dougal stepped smartly outside and lightening bolted the door closed. He quacked a hugh sigh of relief. It had been getting a bit too surreal in the cottage but now with J the B, DCI M, Mme O, Mrw. W, and Coco the S of G all safely locked inside he could begin to relax a little. Dougal took a great bill full of fresh air. The stench of the S of G's cacky cecks, Mrs. M's malodourance and MMe O's cheap perfume had become quite oppressive. He was glad he would be miles away before thy realised that he had filled the toilet with icing sugar.
Now it was just fresh air... and an earnest young man in a black suit.
"Gwendoline," he said "have you seen Bunbury?"
Dougal froze. He quickly took in the scene. The EYM had evidently not spotted him but was adressing someone he himself had not spotted. So as not to be spotted, he squatted. <still with me?> He squatted behind a small rock. OK, OK, he bloody ducked behind it. <Jees!>
Gendoline was evidently the large woman in the unconvincing cow disguise, but who was Bunbury?
Bunbury was the earnest young man's ailing friend. Unfortunately he was too frail to enter the narrative, leaving poor Gwendoline to clear up the mess.
"Glad we cleared that up" thought Dougal.
"Why should I clear that up", thought Gwendoline
"Clear as anything and no smears", thought Windowlene.
With the papers firmly under his wing the duck needed to get out of there fast but flying was not an option...
The Shah Akbar diamond dated back to the Mughal Empire and had been cut with the words “to the Lord of Two Worlds”. It was bought in 1886 in Istanbul by London merchant George Blogg who re-cut it to almost half its original size, losing all the history on the way. At 71.7 carats it still remained hugely valuable but Blogg was the last known owner. <- That is all true. -> this may or may not be. What had happened to the diamond in the passing 127 years? Only two people knew for sure and one of them was currently standing in a field talking to an unconvincing cow while trying not to catch the eye of a worried looking duck.
Meantimes, Dougal had spotted Earnest's coach-and-four.
"A-ha ! I can twock that" he thought and surrepticiously started sidling towards it. A little bit of light hijacking ? Just what the evil doctor ordered.
Clambering aboard - no mean feat in itself, considering his burden - he settled on the velvet upholstery and rapped on the frame at the driver.
"Where to, zur ?" asked the coachman.
Yet again, Dougal inwardly cursed his linguistic limitations : how often had his magnificent plans been thwarted by his inability to pronounce ... well, virtually anything.
A thought struck him - perhaps the driver understood Morse code ? He started tapping away furiously.
Dropping his yokel accent the Australian coachman immediately got the message. "What's that Skippy" he yelled excitedly, "He's fallen down the well? There's no time to lose!" With that he whipped up the horses and shot off like a drag racer.
Dougal shrugged. At least he had made good the first part of his escape.
Earnest turned wearily towards his vanishing coach-and-four and, not for the first time today, whispered to himself, "Oh fu...
Suddenly, Dougal remembered that he's had no trouble communicating in English for the last few pages, at least.
'What's wrong with me,' he said -- unfortunately aloud, because that's what 'said' means -- 'have I finally quacked?'
The coachman turned... into an enormous cockroach. 'Funny story' he said to the amazed Dougal, 'I was hypnotized last week by a guy named Kafka, and now everytime I hear a duck quack, I turn into a monstrous vermin.'
'Really?' Dougal asked dubiously. 'How do you turn back?'
'Oh, the usual way; I just use lots of hand signals and the horses do the rest.'
(that was the alternate universe version, I guess, due to spending too much time actually thinking. Carry on!)
Not for the first time either had Earnest Youngman been surpised to find thet everyone appeared to know his name.
but then after all, that's why he REALLY liked this bar. 'Cheers!' He cried, as Ted Danson and Kirstie Allie flirted abrasively and a cute dopey bald guy did a bit of dribbling.
'Hey...where's fat moustache, fat no-moustache, po-faced brains and grouchy brillo tonight?' he hollered.
Still chuckling at the coachman/cockroach's clever joke Dougal took in his surroundings for the first time. The coach was sparcely furnished but the few drapes were evidently expensive. He was not sure what the long stripey furry thing sticking out was for though. Grabbing it firmly he yanked it out from under the seat. Dougal was surpised to find that it was attached to a large and unhappy cat. "Oh bollocks" he thought still clutching the big hairy pussy, "I do hope I haven't opened up a whole new thread of Mrs. Slocombesque filth"
Mrs Slocombesque had hated her name, ever since it was given to her by a pretentious and witty student of the 1970's who was her first "owner", in as much as a cat can ever have an owner. She preferred the term "feeder".
She rounded on the duck. That is to say, she arched her back and made herself look as big and round and hairy and scary as she could. And she hissed.
"Why, its Mrs Slocombesque!" smiled Dougal thrilled to see his old freind and erstwhile evil companion."or should I call you Bagpiss?"
<surely that should push us onto a new page?>
Meanwhile, trapped in DCI Mordor's whiffy locked cottage -- which was now no more than an oubliette, something you could have let Mrs Weatherby define for you, but noooooo -- the prince-of-peace-in-a-clown-costume was pensive, and had a bit of a nappy rash.
Looking around for a short duck the hapless DCI had realised that he was a duck short. "Duck!" he shouted.
As they hit the floor together the prince of peace very nearly gave Mme Oubliette a piece of prince.
Mrs. Slocombesque deflated as she recognised Dougal. "You can call me Bagpiss if you like, me duck" she hissed in a not-quite-friendly manner, "but only if you want a blood striped bill." "Nowadays I like to go by the name ....."
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