"How do I pronounce .....?", the perplex duck replied.
The cat held up one leg to demonstrate.
"Long paws", she answered.
The NewsBiscuit Community
"How do I pronounce .....?", the perplex duck replied.
The cat held up one leg to demonstrate.
"Long paws", she answered.
DCI Mordor paused, suddenly stricken dumb. Dougal's shorthand machine fell silent.
'What's the problem?' Dougal asked, thinking the old man had really lost the plot this time. Indeed, it would take a better-brained duck to make sense of Mordor's novel approach to mystery writing. Mordor remained silent, looking befuddled. Dougal added, 'Cat got your tongue?'
"Hey, look at this" said Longpaws.
Dougal apologised "Sorry old friend, for a moment then I thought I was still locked in the cottage with the the others rather than speeding across the country in a coach and four. What am I looking at...ugh!"
"Haha, I've got a few of these you know!" beamed Longpaws.
The conversation was interrupted by a large THWUPPP sound, the sort of sound that would be made by someone hurling a whole Brie de Meaux at a barn door.
Mordor walked to the door, and peered outside. At the end of the vegetable garden lay a large, metallic cylinder, half buried as if it had fallen from great height. The end of the cylinder was starting to unscrew, and as he watched, the end fell off with a metallic clang revealing a hollow interior.
A head, a human head, revealed itself from inside, and a figure slowly climbed out.
"No, it can't be! This is impossible!", Mordor gasped.
The figure, clothed in some strange metallic fabric walked towards the house.
"Good afternoon.", Winston Churchill said. ", I can tell from your expression that you were not expecting me."
For the second time within a few short hours the son of God, prince of peace, saviour of mankind, soiled his clown suit.
"Jesus Christ, that stinks", Mordor said.
Mrs Weatherby, still stuck fast in the trap door above, was on the one hand relieved to know that someone was whiffier than her fine self, but on the other hand was starting to lose all feeling in her limbs, and on the other hand was looking forward to seeing Winston Churchill if he would just pop up into the loft space for a quick canoodle.
"I bring grave news", Churchill said. "The Romans are coming, and they're fully intent on nailing Jesus to a tree."
He pulled out a revolver, and spun the barrel. "But they have to get past us first."
"We shall fight them on the beaches, we shall fight...". Churchill's speech was interrupted somewhat when Long Paws started coughing up a furball.
In the back of the speeding coach and four...but evidently loudly enough to be heard from inside a cottage miles away. "AaaaaHack!" cried Longpaws, "Oof! that's got it. So sorry. Do carry on."
"Hang on a minute" cried Jesus. "Just go back a bit to that nailing Jesus to a tree part. I may be an immaculately concieved son, and I may have holes drilled in my hands and feet, but that doesn't mean I'm Jesus. I could be Pinochio."
"They are not all that keen on puppets, too" said Winston. He reached into the capsule and pulled out a duffel of weapons. He selected a Sten gun from the bag and passed it to the pale, trembling, shit-stained figure. "Lock and load, young man"
DCI Mordor looked down in horror at his manuscript, then looked around the room. He stood up and squinted into the distance, picking out the coach as it careered towards the horizon. He frowned, blinked, grimaced and then gave a huge, shoulder-dislocating sigh.
"Shit - it's all gone a bit fucking Pirandello" he sadly murmured
The reality struck Mordor like a well-aimed blow with a rounders bat.
One moment he was travelling in a coach, and the next he was back in his cottage.
Was this just some terrible dream? Sadly no. Since the universe had collapsed into a single point of infinite density and infinitely small size, many different places were now on top of each other. Bradford was now in the suburbs of Berlin, for example. New York and York were now the same place, with the National Rail Museum inexplicably hanging off the side of the Chrysler Tower. And the inside of the Coach was also the inside of the Cottage. As much as they tried to get away, they could not leave.
Luckily, the Internet still worked, as Mordor realized he had no idea who 'Pirandello' was, so he had to look him up, even though he had made the comment himself. Perhaps a more knowing Mordor had whispered in his shell-like ear -- a Mordor from the future, if there was such a thing, who had backed up his brain just in time?
If there was/is/will be such a thing? As time?
And if there was/is/will be, might there be time enough to read all the Italian's many works before the next episode of The Big Bang Theory? In Sicilian?
And then as quicky as it had happened it unhappened; THWUMP! and the universe was back as before. Mordor had never been in the coach, that was just the duck and then the coachdriver/cockroach and then the cat (Do keep up Bonjo)
"Phew," said the duck. "I was getting confused."
However, in all the excitement of the universe unfurling they had failed to notice their humble abode was now surrounded by at least one full Roman legion.
They only bothered to look after an arrow with a message attached was shot through an open window.
The message said "If you don't hand over Jesus immediately to face justice, you will all be killed", although it was probably in Latin, and in upper case.
A lively debate about whether they should hand Jesus over or not should have followed, but as the arrow carrying the message had hit Jesus right in the face killing him instantly, there seemed little point.
Meanwhile, back in the quaint border town of Melrose, still in the Outer Hebrides, the ghost of Nancy McAllister let out a huge wail, and spat out her Werther's Original in favour of a delicious Murray Mint.
Allegiances were about to change and Saint Andy was exactly the strong, fit and silent type she had yearned to follow. "I'd strap that Jock, anytime." she mused over her Bovril flavoured Irn Bru.
The indefatigable DCI Mordor had a rival, and it wasn't a duck...
The ghost of Nancy McAllister decided to set out on a pilgramage to Dunblain just as soon as she could figure out where the hell it was and where the hell it might be now. From all the chatter she'd picked up recently she decided to start looking in middle Engalnd.
Meanwhile, somewhere above the cottage, a choir of heavenly angels were singing a forlorn chorus while below, the front door opened and a clown-coated corpse was clumsily rolled out, and then poked with a broom a few times to move it so that the door could shut.
After about fifteen minutes a vanguard of Roman Centurions marched up to the door to claim the body. Despite the awful smell they carried it back down to their camp.
It was then that the three witches, on holiday from their Cardiff run of the Scottish play, were pressed to do a resurrection spell -- this despite the fact that they were really just actors in drag and funny noses. It wasn't the first time they regretted having had no time to change before catching their plane, since all their luggage had been lost.
And it wouldn't be the last.
Marcus Flavius Aquila, commander of the Garrison, was furious. He was indebted to the witches, and decided he had to act.
"Send twenty-four of our fastest riders at once to Edinburgh Airport, apprehend the peasants who work in the baggage handling section. Use every method of torture we have available to us to locate the missing luggage, and return it here forthwith."
He turned to the Witches.
"Now, please explain to me, why am I not allowed to say Macbeth?"
The witches gasped in horror, and stared back at the centurion so hard that their own eyelashes started to curl.
"If ye say Macbeth, Marcus Flavius. Scotland will ne'er become independent."
It was at exactly that point that the Stone of Scone was mysteriously smothered in a thick layer of clotted cream and strawberry jam.
Meanwhile, over the hill and not-so-far away, the intrepid twenty-four fastest riders were aghast to eventually notice that they had no horses, and were reduced to stealing ideas and actual bits from the classic films 'Airplane' and 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail':
'Well, surely... that's a coconut you've got there, not a horse or even a donkey.'
'Don't call me Shirley. What's that up ahead?'
They stopped ( That is to say, they stopped banging their coconuts together. It was getting awkward anyway. ) and peered into the distance, to see what Shirley was pointing to. It was a Youtube clip.
The two dozen decided to make camp for the night, and as dusk fell they shared a pleasant meal with Stone of Scone and the rock cakes.
Stone of Scone and the Rock Cakes were of course a popular music combo of the area. They just happened to be passing on their way to a popular music recital at a local dance hall when they saw the camp fire and wandered over, guitars in hand...
... eternally grateful that NewBiscuit had used 'with' rather than 'of'
Seated around the camp fire Stone of Scone and the Rock Cakes sang of the love between a Swedish dwarf by the name of Sven and his one true love, the late Nancy McAllister.
A strange whiff of Bovril filled the air.
"Are we having a spit roast?" enquired lead guitarist Trevor 'snake-hips' O'Toole, his plectrum poised between his thumb and forefinger.
All eyes turned towards Shirley, the only woman in the group. She beamed back at them. Little did they know that she had recently been de-frocked by the Slutty Sisters of Satan's Slatterns for excessive zeal, inventiveness and enthusiasm : her penchant for chilli dusted sex-toys had left her sistren aghast, agape and ever so slightly singed.
She reached into her pocket and brought out a crumpled packet of paprika. "Any takers ?" she asked mischievously.
'I wish you knew,' Dougal, back in the cottage, where he was still doing his feathered best to keep his shorthand machine from catching fire due to the speed with which DCI Mordor was dictating his fanciful, demented tale, said.
'But I do know,' nodded Mordor. 'Wait, what do I know?'
'Kinetic typography? Because if you do, that last bit about Shirley and the Slut Sisters--'
'Slutty Sisters. Slut-T--'
'Whatever. That last bit would be a humdinger of a clip for the animated book trailer.'
'Make a note of it.'
There came a knock at the door, and Mrs Weatherby, sixth-grade-teacher, retired, who had just that second lost enough weight to slip through the trap door from which she'd been dangling for absolutely (p)ages, hit the ground running and went to open it, complaining all the while that this sentence was 'run-on, commariffic and whiffier than Jesus' -- and a bunch of other stuff that man and duck tuned out.
She had just turned the doorknob, when...
'Where's that music coming from?' asked Dougal.
Mordor spun around, and his eyes came to rest on the door, which was just the right height, being, as it was, a council-approved, head-banging cottage door. 'Beats me; I didn't write it. Hard to call it music, though, just those three cords...'
'So, do I open the door or what?' Mrs Weatherby asked, shooing Mordor away. 'Nothing good ever comes after those three cords. Might be something scary out there. Girl Guides, for instance. Three of them.'
After a heated debate surrounding the door opening which lasted 2 days and saw a period of 16 hours straight where Mrs Weatherby and Mordor refused to speak to each other - although to be fair that did include 6 hours of sleep - they decided to open the door.
Everyone inside had quite forgotten by this point that the argument had started after foreboding descending chords preceded the previous question as to whether to open the door so they chords where played again... however due to lack of sleep the band were woken rather sharply and with haste rather than care played the motif backwards.
"Actually it doesn't sound so bad like that" Dougal commented "rather jolly all told I suppose."
Mrs Weatherby opened the door to, not 3, but 62 girl guides who were going door to door selling warm cups of bovril in aid of Scottish Independence. "It's good for you and will help unite the country" the girl guides all said together. The strong East Kilbride accent sent shivers down Mordor's spine. The Bovril sent nice warming anti-shivers up his spine. On reflection his spine temperature was about right.
Mordor now had a creeping paranoia. There was a nagging feeling that he, or someone he knew, might be allergic to the brown brew. Also £4 a cup seemed steep. Was his good nature being taken advantage of? And if so by whom?
'Whaaa--aah--ahh!' someone said, trying to sound as ominous as the original, descending, chords. But failing miserably.
'Who said that? Who? Who?' asked Dougal, apparently forgetting he was a duck, not an owl, and that he was disguised as his own dead twin, Donald, who had been eaten by DCI Mordor, and whom he was here to avenge, but then he got too involved in the novel and besides was starting to get a crush on the demented Mordor.
'It is I, Donald! Or maybe not!' called the voice -- from the cupboard under the stairs, where a small boy with a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead might have lived, had he existed in this universe. Or anywhere.
'I have an urgent message for Winston Churchill, the ghost of Nancy McWhatshername, and the three witches,' continued Donald, who apparently was back from the dead. Or maybe not. 'Um, could someone let me out of this cupboard?'
'How did you get in there?' asked Mrs Weatherby, while Mordor and Dougal looked on, perturbed. And itchy. From the allergic reaction to the brown brew. Or not.
'Thermo-Man dropped me off,' said Donald. 'Prat missed the bathroom entirely.'
Longpaws scratched his head. "I must be going mad" he said to himself. He had to say it to himself as he was alone in the stage coach. "I could have sworn" he went on to himself, "that I had been chatting to my old pal Dougal for the past few pages. But now it appears he never left the cottage."
Sensing something very wrong was happening the cat commanded the coach to do a nifty 3-point turn and head back to towards the cottage. "Don't spare the horses" Screamed the cat before yawning, curling up and falling asleep.
A wry smile played across the lips of the pantomime cow as she looked down on the unfolding drama.
You must log in to post.