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Saturday, 11 February 2012

image for The Mystery Of Puddleby Cove - Featuring The Spiffing Six - Episode Three What Could The Meaning Of This Be?

Update - The story so far... The Spiffing Six (Of whom there are four, and a somewhat priapic dog,) have arrived at Aunt Peg's cottage at Puddleby Cove, and have encountered a mysterious figure, flitting about amongst the rocks in the cove, in a highly suspicious manner. The Spiffing Six attempted to pursue the suspicious character, but - hampered by overindulgence in food, Headbanger beer, and a few spliffs - they were in no way physically capable of keeping up with the athletic agility of their quarry, so they gave up, and went back to Aunt Peg's. By no means have they given up - they are well aware that an adventure is afoot, and they have little taste for squandering such a golden opportunity...

Episode Three

The attic of Aunt Peg's cottage had been converted into one huge dormitory, and ever so splendid it was too. It ran the entire length of the house, with the pitch of the roof making it low slung and incredibly snug.

Each of the chums had their own bed, and in the mornings, the sunbeams poured in through the single dormer window, illuminating dancing dust motes with an ethereal beauty.

That is, when it wasn't raining, dull, and cloudy.

But all things considered, the dormitory room brought to mind Heidi's room in that book of the same name by that bearded Austrian bloke. Whatever his name was.

The chums had returned from their clifftop odyssey and were sitting on their beds in the lamplight, drinking more cans of Headbanger beer, which - yet again - had been thoughtfully provided by Aunt Peg. The atmosphere within the room almost tangibly crackled with suppressed excitement.

"So, what do you think, Sis?" Tugboat addressed Martina, whom he considered to be by far the best of the bunch, in as much as thinking things out goes. Or went. Whatever...

"Too early to say Tuggers, and at this stage, I must say, one can only envisage mere speculation as being an act of cerebral frivolity. Utterly futile, at best. What I am prepared to say though - bearing in mind that this is purely a personal POV - is that, whatever that mysterious man was up to, he was definitely up to no good."

"Perhaps he was picking up a consignment of illegal drugs," Spanky theorised. "They do that, you know, these drugs barons - they lurks offshore in helicopters, or on board yachts, and then they drops their highly illegal cargo into the sea, from where an accomplice - usually a frogman with some chums in an innocuous looking rowboat - later retrieves it. When the heat is off, so to speak."

"Really? Is that how it works?" Abigail had become totally engrossed in the possibilities which could possibly arise, if Spanky's diagnosis transpired to be wholly (Or even partially.) accurate.

"Oooooh Yeessss," Spanky nodded sagely. "That's how we get the term 'drug pusher.'"

"So how on earth does that work?"

"It's like this," Spanky explained. "The actual 'drug pusher' is the chappie who literally, physically, pushes the illicit drugs either out of the helicopter, or over the side of the boat."

"How absolutely fascinating! Pray continue, for I am rivetted!"

"Then again," Tugboat interjected. "Perhaps it isn't anything even as remotely exciting as that. I mean, the chap we saw could merely have been laying illegal lobster pots, or even stealing birds' eggs. Or even birds for that matter."

"Crikey!" Spanky guffawed. "Stealing birds? That just sounds extraordinarily bloody ludicrous to me!"

"Not at all," Tugboat argued. "I saw a prog about it on the 'Crime And Investigation Channel.' There are actually unscrupulous individuals around who are more than willing to steal birds to sell to the Arab Sheiks - they train them to hunt, you know. It's a big sporting thing over there in the desert. All your top Sheiks do it."

"But surely," Spanky countered, with irrefutable logic. "One can't just steal a bird - not just like that! I can only speak for myself, but every time I've ever chased a bird, it's just gone and flown away! Birds are bloody good at flying you know, some of them. Apart from ostriches, and chickens, and turkeys, and emus, and those Australian things that can kill people. That's why I stopped chasing them. Gave all that nonsense up years ago. It's amazing how quick the little blighters are!"

"They don't steal adult birds, you dunderhead! They either steal the chicks, or they steal the eggs, which they then go on to incubate artificially. Then, when the chicks are fully fledged, they sell them to the Arabs. Who train them to hunt."

"Well..." Martina cut in. "I can't, in all honesty see the point of having trained seagulls. Especially in the desert. I mean, how are they supposed to catch fish in the blinking desert? It's all sand, man! Nary a drop of water for many a mile!"

"Not seagulls! They don't take seagulls - they take goshawks, and eagles, and peregrine falcons, kestrels and sparrow hawks, stuff like that. Even owls sometimes. It's birds of prey they're after, not flaming seagulls!"

"But there aren't any birds of prey around here. Just seagulls, and that's about it," Abigail pointed out.

Tugboat dumped an empty Headbanger can in the wastebasket by his bed, and cracked a fresh one. "I suppose you could say, that that urinates on that little theory then," he muttered.

"Maybe, but just perhaps, mind..." Abigail said thoughtfully. "The chappie we saw, is a pervert. Perhaps he was going down to the beach to drop his trousers, or whatever tomfoolery it is that perverts get up to - although to be honest, one shudders to think."

"Why on earth would he want to do that?" Tugboat was totally bewildered. This conversation was getting way beyond the somewhat limited boundaries of his own personal experience. "Why on earth would somebody - anybody - want to sneak around among the rocks in the cove, to pull his trousers down?"

There was no easy answer to that question.

**********

Darkness fell.

If it hadn't fallen already, and been rushed to hospital by ambulance.

More Headbanger beers were quaffed, and as it did, the conversation gradually steered away from matters of perversion and similarly related deviant behaviour, taking on a more positive tone, as the chums discussed the hopes and dreams they shared, relating to their stay at Aunt Peg's.

"I smell adventure in the air, most definitely. No doubt about it whatsoever," Spanky sighed dreamily.

Or drunkenly.

"I hope so," Abigail said supportively. "It seems like an absolute age since we had a stonkingly good rip snorting adventure, and, you know, I really do sense something in the air. Must be the gypsy in me.But if we don't get involved in some big-time adventure this trip, I'll eat my hat. Or at least, I would do if I had one. Perhaps the Shuttlecock chappie could lend me one."

"Yah, I feel pretty much the same way myself," Tugboat added.

"Well, I feel a bit squiffy actually," Martina said. "Methinks I've had too many Headbangers. When I get much beyond twelve or thirteen cans, I feel I need to decelerate a tad."

"Really?" Spanky popped another can. "The more too many, the merrier, that's what I say, what. There's no point whatsoever in going off half-cocked - I never feel like I've really had a few pints unless I'm violently sick."

Abigail got up off her bed, and walked - or to be slightly more accurate, weaved ever so slightly - over to the window.

"I love this place," she said wistfully. "I could stay here for ever and ever."

She stood by the window, gazing thoughtfully out over the moonlit sea, and up at the glittering, diamond studded heavens.

"I love beer, I do," Spanky continued. "And of course some other stuff too. I mean, life in general is just so boring, and with too many oiks involved. One needs to be able to escape from all that sort of mundane drudgery from time to time. There's a proper word for it - escapism! I love escapism! It's what keeps me going!"

"Yah, Spanky, that's so toooo-tally understandable." Martina was really starting to sound sloshed by then. "I agree with you, but most people seem to find escapism by reading books, or watching TV, or going out to the cinema, or something..."

"But that's soooo boring! Who on earth wants to sit reading a book, or watching Pip sodding Schofield and Holly Willoughby on the box on 'This Morning' when one can get utterly blitzed on booze or drugs? Or both? Whatever one's particular poison may be - I'm all for it! There's nothing like rotting a few brain cells for a quick spot of extreme escapism. I tell you - you can't beat it!"

"Oh my God, yes Spanky, I'll second that bowel movement!" Martina agreed. "Rotting one's grey matter away at an unnaturally accelerated rate is such a wonderful free form of free expression, actually, succinctly symbolic of raw, in the buff, the nude, sense of unfettered creativity."

Abigail turned away from the window. "I can understand the point you're trying to make, but really, I fail to see how rotting one's own brain cells away in an orgy of self abuse, can in any way be construed as free expressionism, or raw, untainted creativity."

Considering this point, Spanky swilled more Headbanger beer from a can. It spilled out between his slurping lips and trickled down his chin. Or at least, some of it did. "You don't get it Abigail. Not at all. It's not simply a case of systematically rotting one's own brain cells away, oh no. Certainly not. It's a case of rotting away one's surplus brain cells."

"What? I beg your pardon?"

"Let me explain. You see, people like Isaac Eisenstein, and that bird who used to be on Countdown, doin' the sums an' that..."

"Carol Vorderman?"

"That's him! - People like that, people of genius - well, they're absolutely hopeless when it comes to things like trivia quizzes, or the price of eggs, or what number bus to catch, or anything like that.

"Now, you see, the reason for this, is that they simply do not possess surplus brain cells, which are only wasted on the general sort of stuff and nonsense of life, the minutiae. All the brain cells these brilliant people possess are dedicated to the really important stuff. Like processing thoughts, and making them work.

"Now then, take people like us; okay, so we're not as well endowed mentally, I'll give you that - so what the likes of us need to do, is to burn off the surplus in order to make room for the really important stuff. Once we've burned all that stuff off, what we're left with is the creative centre of our very humanity. The true self!"

"YEAH!" Tugboat started waving his arms around and making stupid doggy barking noises, like the morons in reality talk shows on the television.

"So, what you're suggesting, is that by destroying your own mind, and blasting it full of black drug and alcohol fuelled holes, what you're actually doing - in a totally illogical way, is expanding it..." Abigail said.

"Well, yes. I suppose one could interpret it like that - though it is a rather simplistic analysis."

"That's balderdash Spanky, that's what that is. Why don't you just tell the truth? Eh? Why don't you simply admit that you do drink and drugs because you ENJOY it? There's no point in fannying about, and you don't need to justify anything to anybody anyway! Justifying substance abuse is strictly for the oiks."

"She has a point there Spanks," said Tugboat. "One should never, under any circumstances whatsoever, have to justify one's personal habits or outlandish behaviour to the bloody chattering classes."

"Hmmm..." Spanky considered the pros and cons of the conversation. Sure, Abigail probably did have a valid point to make in her argument. Perhaps one shouldn't attempt to justify one's shortcomings to the unwashed oiks of this world.

It was certainly caviar for thought.

Then, Spanky's train of thought was brutally derailed by a most curious, sort of strangulated yelp, coming from Abigail's general direction.

"Abigail..." Spanky's concern was immediately evident. He got up and moved quickly towards her, as did the others.

"Out there," Abigail said, pointing towards the clifftops with a trembling hand, her voice cracking. "There's...a light..."

All eyes were drawn towards the clifftops, and sure enough, there was a light - it flickered, and moved around in the darkness, randomly, erratically.

Had the chums not been so sozzled, they would surely have gone outside to investigate further. As it was, they could only huddle together, and watch...

"It's a UFO," Spanky said with considerable authority a short while later. "Definitely a UFO."

"How do you know that?" Martina asked.

"You can tell. No earthly aircraft could possibly execute maneuvers like that. I'm pretty sure you'll find that it's an aerodynamical impossibility. It flings manure in the very face of every theory known to modern physics. I mean...just look at it..."

The chums crowded around the small dormer window, excitedly jostling to get a view at the curious, dancing light.

"I say, it's just like Roswell is this," Spanky said.

"Who's he when he's at home?" Tugboat asked.

"It's not a 'he' - it's a place, in America, way out in the Gobi desert. A UFO once crash landed outside the CIA headquarters there, and while all the aliens were staggering about, shocked and injured from the impact, the CIA rounded them all up and locked them in a big potting shed."

"Then what?" Martina asked.

"They had to decide what they were going to do with 'em," Spanky continued. "But they had to be really careful, you see, because these aliens, they're like, really advanced with their civilisation and that - like, they've got cars that fly, and they never wear out or anything like that, so they don't even need MOT's, and they don't need petrol either, 'cause they run on water. Now, the CIA simply can't afford to have people knowing all about that stuff, especially not the Russians, or the Chinese, or the Japanese, or the Inuits, the Eskimos - for obvious reasons, that last one - because it would lead to all sorts of problems.

"And...not a lot of people know that the CIA is actually run and financed by the Ford Motor Company, which gave them even more reason to operate with extreme caution. I mean, who in their right mind would splash out on an Escort RS Turbo, when they could buy a space car that flies and runs on water - not to mention never wears out and doesn't need an MOT?

"So...you can see their dilemma - they had to be ultra cautious, otherwise Fords, and tens of thousands of back street garages around the world would go bust. It's quite frightening when you think about it."

"So what did they do?" Martina asked.

"I was coming to that..."

"So get on with it!" Abigail didn't sound one hundred percent convinced.

"Righty ho," Spanky said. "Right - these alien life forms were little silver midgets with baldy heads and big black, almond shaped eyes. They had scaly skin, a bit like reptiles, and they were wearing these tinfoil type suits, made out of indestructable material, and they communicated by telepathy, but they were no good to the CIA because they'd have put them all out of a job in no time at all. So they shot them."

"I say! That's a bit brutal, isn't it?" Tugboat's face screwed up in utter disgust.

"Not at all," Spanky said. "They didn't really have any choice. It makes sense when you think about it. I mean, even CIA men have mortgages to pay, and they didn't want to lose their jobs and end up homeless, just because some baldy headed little spacemen who knew how to make flying cars that run on water had arrived on the scene. So they machine gunned them all and covered it up. Just like nothing ever happened."

"What a load of old crap!" Abigail opined, most bluntly.

"It is not!" Spanky argued. "The CIA cover everything up. Everybody knows that!"

"Codswallop!" Abigail quipped.

"So who shot Elvis then? Answer me that, Miss Smarty Pants?"

"Nobody shot Elvis," Abigail said patiently. "Elvis died on the toilet doing a number two while the balance of his mind and body were disturbed by the notion of quintuple cheeseburgers and an almost maniacal craving for, and subsequent consumption of, a lethal cocktail of prescription drugs and alcohol."

"Aaaah," Spanky said, condescendingly. "You've fallen into the trap too. That's exactly what the CIA want you to believe, just like they convinced the whole world that Kevin Costner shot JFK - and you fell for it. But, don't worry Abigail, it's nothing to be ashamed of - even Maggie Thatcher fell for that one. Not that she was mental anyway..."

"You great big penis flange!" Abigail snarled.

"That's right!" Spanky mocked. "Penis flange? I say, what an absolutely cracking riposte!"

"Look!" Tugboat interrupted, pointing through the window, towards the clifftops. "There it is again!"

The chums watched, gripped, as the mysterious light flickered and danced in the distant darkness.

"That's no UFO, you stupid great lump," Abigail snorted.

"So what is it then, smart arse?"

"If you ask me," Abigail sighed. "That's no more extra terrestrial than Stiffy's arse. That's no flipping UFO - I reckon it's just some chap out on the clifftops waving a torch or a lantern around. It's most probably that bloke we chased after, earlier today."

"If so, then why on earth would he - or anybody else for that matter - want to do anything as bloody stupid as that in the middle of the buggering night?" Spanky said dismissively.

"I don't honestly know, and I wouldn't care to speculate, but it makes a great deal more sense than your stupendously idiotic UFO theory."

"She's right you know," Martina said.

"Oh bollocks," Spanky sighed. "I'm too flipping tired to bally well argue."

"Me too. What say we all go to bed?" Tugboat suggested.

And so they did.

Their dreams were pleasant ones.

More as we get it.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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