Halloween story reprint

[Bugs ****ing Bunny]

To get you all in the mood....

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Apolyton horror story

Part 1.

No-one knew exactly who had built it. Certainly, there were stories- most agreed that it had appeared back in the early years of Apolytonia, shortly after the great unification in the reign of King Dan the Relentlessly Polite. Some tales mentioned that two neighbouring structures had been joined, in some blasphemous act of architectural miscegenation which created the vast, looming edifice. What was clear was that it had grown over the years, with countless new structures and themes being added by many differing hands. Now it squatted over the fair and ordered land, like a twisted and rotting mass of roots. A diseased old stump that still shot forth strange and disturbing new shoots.

Like a colossal tumour, it was eating away at the land. It drew in life, and spewed forth nothing but whispers and mockery. Many had been seen to enter through it's revoltingly anatomical gateway, but few emerged. Those who did return were broken shells, their minds torn beyond repair by the unspeakable horrors within those walls, left to gibber and scream their days away in the asylums.

Even the light was affected. Even when the freshest of spring mornings teased Apolytonia awake, within the sight of that monstrous fortress the skies clouded over and the daylight became tarnished and yellowed as an old tooth. When those sickly rays finally lit up the looming barbican, they revealed the great carving over the gateway in a jarring and abrupt hand. Etched deep into the wet and slime-covered stone were the words "Offe Topyc".

It was, to be blunt, the sort of place that would make an estate agent splatter his walls with his own brains. Nobody said the place was entirely without redeeming virtues....

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With a solid and reassuring "chunk", the door of the Blower Bentley slammed shut. Bulldog Rah crunched confidently down the gravel path towards Community Hall, idly swinging his tennis racquet as strode up to the doorway. On his way he tipped a forelock-tugging groom, ruffled the hair of a sooty-faced young urchin, and advised a grovelling beggar to acquire meaningful employment whilst simultanously removing himself from Rah's ****ing face. He rang the doorbell, and turned round to admire the view over the estates, his sunny good mood only slightly besmirched by his noticing that the urchin appeared to urinating in his fuel tank.

The door was answered by the wrinkled old retainer, affectionately nicknamed "Scrotum", who took Rah's handmade Panama and escorted him through the panelled hallways to the drawing room. There he was left to admire the dusty portraits of dyspeptic and syphilitic ancestors whilst surreptitiously stuffing his pockets with cigars from the inviting box on the coffee table.

The Hon. Markos Gianonandonandonandonandon didn't keep him waiting long. Exchanging brief and rather stilted pleasantries the two sat in facing armchairs. Bulldog broke the silence first.

"It's always a pleasure to sample your hospitality, old man. Now if you'd be so kind as to have your man bring me a shotgun, perhaps you can tell me what you want?"

Markos gestured to Scrotum, who vanished silently. "You recall old "Buffy" Siddiqui? Decided to investigate that......"thing"......on the borders a couple of years ago?"

"Old Squeakers?" said Rah. "I won't forget him in a hurry. I fagged for him at Harrow- he used to beat me senseless if his crumpets weren't sufficiently buttered. Disappeared without trace, didn't he?".

"Indeed" said Markos. "No great surprises there. You'd think people would start to take the hint, wouldn't you?". He paused to light his pipe. "The surprise was that he's turned up again.".

"Really? What sort of state was he in?"

"Oh, his mind's gone, of course. Buggered five ways to February and back. He's safely locked away over at Doc Strangelove's sanatorium, where I believe he's attempting to redecorate his cell in his own poo. "

Rah snorted. "He always did have a touch of "Day boy" to him. ". He accepted the 12-bore Purdey from the returning butler and broke it, casually extracting a cartridge from his waistcoat pocket. "I fail to see how this concerns me, however." he said.

"In among all the ranting, he's said that he knows what's going on in there. What's more, I think that he can provide enough useful information to get the right sort of man in and out safely."

Bulldog arched an eyebrow knowingly. "The right sort of man?". He walked over to the window and opened it. Raising the shotgun to his shoulder, he continued. "Did you have anyone specific in mind?".

"I think you know who that person would be. Rah, we need you to get in there. There's some sort of conspiracy afoot, and we need to find out what's happening before it's too late."

Taking aim at the distant urchin, who had fitted a jack under the Bentley and had so far removed both front wheels, Rah sighed. "I suppose I'd better cancel St. Moritz, in that case.". He pulled the trigger, and the Purdey's blast almost drowned out the brief and distant scream. "Have your man whip me up some Marmite sandwiches, would you?".


Part 2


"Strangelove" wasn't his real name, of course. It was a nickname acquired due to his revolutionary work in the field of deviant human sexuality. The recent developments in electrical batteries had allowed him to patent his "Onanecutioner", a device intended to combat the social evil of self-love. Through the medium of powerful electrical shocks to the privy parts, this apparatus caused a complete cessation of onanism in 95% of patients, and severe burns with psychological trauma in the other 5%.

He was a member of Gray's club, and it was there in an overstuffed leather armchair that Rah found him, sleeping off his port and spotted ****. After being nudged awake and plied with Turkish cigarettes, the good doctor proved more forthcoming.

"Ah, yes. Old "Squeakers" Siddiqui? He's lost the plot, poor chap. Keeps raving about some sort of plot."

Bulldog leaned forward to light the physician's fag. "So I hear. Is there any sense in what he's saying?".

"You tell me." said Strangelove. "He just gibbers away merrily. He's taken to beating his head against the wall at a steady rythym too, and believe me that's a real pain in the arse. It's "thud.....thud.....thud" all the bloody day and night". The doctor sighed. "I've heard that some Yank chap has come up with some sort of treatment involving severing the frontal temporal lobes through the eye-socket with an icepick to calm down incurables. Don't think I haven't been tempted, but if he doesn't start behaving I may use an axe."

"I think I may have to meet him in person" said Rah.

"Feel free. Just don't expect the height of luxury in the sanatorium."

"That's right!" guffawed the 14th Earl of DinoDoc as he gently settled his gouty foot on a pouffe. "Old Strangelove keeps them trussed up tighter than a pervert's turkey."

"Can you blame me?" said Strangelove. "Look what happened over at Professor Guynemer's Home for the Odd last week."

"God, yes" chuckled the Earl, his ample girth shaking at about 6.3 on the Richter scale. "Some loony smuggled a Beretta in and started blazing away. Shot the matron a new arsehole, I believe. She was none too pleased about it anyway. Ended up garrotting him with her corsets. Poor bugger."

An elderly academic in a neighbouring chair yawned, and idly commented "I suppose that wouldn't have happened if we had gun control."

Silence descended like an overworked tart's drawers. Bulldog looked at Strangelove. Strangleove looked at the Earl. Somewhere, in the far distance, a dog barked.

His knuckles bone-white, the academic stiffly dragged himself upright, his face ashen. "Would you excuse me please, gentlemen?" he said as he slowly stalked to the door. No-one met his eyes. No-one acknowledged his passing. He shut the door behind him. After a short pause, there was a single shot, followed by a thud.

Conversation resumed. "If you turn up at the sanatorium tomorrow I'll have you shown to Squeakers." said Strangelove. "He's not at his best but you might get something out of him. One thing you should know is that he keeps using the phrase "gayliberals"."

"Excellent." said Rah. "Now, about this French filth......"

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Part 3

It was a misty evening, and the woodpigeons filled the air with their bedtime coughing fit. Bulldog Rah sat on the running-boards of his Bentley, puffing on a "Craven A". He was watching the Georgian manor house on the horizon- formerly the residence of the Blakely-Felchinghams until their line had fizzled out in a flurry of rampant inbreeding so severe that their family tree was more of a family pillar. What horrors lurked behind those walls, where the lunatics screamed and gibbered? What nightmares awaited......?

He was soon to find out. A porter escorted him to an open ward where the lunatics were chained to the walls. As he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, he became aware of a warm moistness just above his brogues and was somewhat perturbed to discover that the cause of this sensation was a slim young lady who was enthusiastically licking his ankle.

Never one to pass up an opportunity, Rah raised a flirty eyebrow and passed comment. "I'm glad to see that my ankles are so appealing. However, you'll find I taste even better further up....."

The madwoman look up and grinned at him. "Really? ****! Thanks for letting me know, Mister.". Then she sank her teeth firmly into his shin. Rah howled in agony and, after a brief struggle, managed to beat her off with his tennis racquet. She wriggled away under her bed and leered at him. "Know what's wrong with your game, Mister? You've got no balls."

"She's got a point there, Rah. I always suspected that they hadn't dropped." said a familiar voice. It emerged from a vaguely pyramidal pile of blankets.

"Squeakers! Old boy!" Rah hobbled towards the mound. "How the bugger are you? Are you coming out from there?"

"Nope."

Rah sat down on a spare edge of the bed. "Why not?"

"Have you any idea what I've been through, you prat? I'm only hiding under these blankets because my chances of returning to the womb are pretty slim."

"You got inside there, didn't you? The Offe-Topyc.....?"

"Getting inside is easy. Getting out with all your marbles is much harder. I was lucky."

Rah was now holding his handkerchief over his mouth and nose. "From the smell I'd say you've been using faeces as sunscreen. Are the rumours about the poo-smearing true?".

The mound paused for thought. "OK. Perhaps I wasn't lucky after all" it conceded.

"What happened in there?"

The mound of soft furnishings started to shake convulsively. "Gayliberals! The Gayliberal hordes! They're in there! They're going to take our freedom!"

"Steady on, old boy." Rah leaned forwards and held out a comforting hand. "What would you like me to do about it?"

With the speed of a striking cobra, a hammer attached to the knuckle end of a skinny arm shot out of the mound of blankets and sharply connected with Bulldog's brow. Rah's eyes crossed, there was the obligatory sound of twittering birds, and he fell over like a particularly posh sack of spuds.

The mound of blankets slipped away, revealing the skinny and dung-encrusted form of "Buffy" Siddiqui. With murder glittering in his eyes, he pulled a breadknife out from under his pillow. "I would like you to show me what your insides look like, Bulldog".

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Part 4

Though the concussed Rah's vision was blurred, as the knife-wielding lunatic bent towards him he still managed to view his life flashing before his eyes with perfect clarity. His first day at boarding school, his first energetic beating by a schoolmaster of dubious sexuality, his pet ferrets, the wonderful day when he successfully caught his groom in a home-made mantrap, his first kiss, his first slap (received seconds after the first kiss) and that strange day he experienced after Tibbsy "Frogger" Dingleberry-Firth spiked his pomade with a mescalin derivative. All this was reflected in the twelve inches of Sheffield steel descending towards his torso.

In a blur of motion, and with an ear-splitting "IAIIIIIHH!!!!" the young female inmate became airborne. With a speed that was barely human, her leg kicked out, her booted foot aimed squarely at Buffy's groin.

When it was a fraction of an inch from Siddiqui's love spuds, time suddenly stopped and caught all three in an elegant freeze-frame tableau. Then the point of view shifted right around the action, giving a smooth 360-degree sweep around the airborne nutter in mid-kick. This is the bit that will nail the Special Effects Oscar once I've shifted the film rights to this sucker.

Time restarted. The boot connected with a sickening thud, and the unfortunate Siddiqui was lifted bodily off the ground by the impact. He slammed into the wall, and fell to the ground, out cold. With no small sense of horror, Rah noted that Buffy now appeared to have three Adam's Apples. Shaking the stunned fugue from his head he staggered upright and stared at the woman, who was now lighting a fag and smugly inspecting her fingernails.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" he managed.

"Name's classified, I'm afraid. Defence of the realm, and all that. Codename's "Devilmunchkin", if that's any help."

"Not really. I take it you're not a patient here?"

She grinned. "You're a quick one. I've been undercover- been watching old Squeakers for weeks to find out what happened."

"Sorry" said Rah, rubbing his bruised bits. "I suppose that in saving my life you've blown your cover. All that hard work wasted...."

"Not really" she replied. "He got chatty and told me everything this morning. I think he was trying to impress my knickers off. Detailed maps and everything."

"Good God. That was a stroke of luck, wasn't it?"

"It certainly was" she said. "If he hadn't told me everything I needed, I'd have let him kill you.". She ripped off her tattered and stinking rags to reveal an eye-popping patent leather catsuit beneath. "Shall we go?".

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Part 5.

Dawn. The sleeping world of daytime awakens, whilst the nocturnal night-shift yawns and potters off to bed. Among night-time's most fascinating fauna is the common hedgehog, one example of which was patrolling the border roads. A voracious hunter of invertebrate life, it prowls the hedgerows in search of tasty worms and beetles. One commonly-noted phenomenon of the hedgehog's anatomy is that the skin of it's back is so tough that if the hedgehog is subjected to a crushing downward force, it's digestive tract is fired out of either its mouth or its anus like toothpaste from a tube. This was demonstrated in a spectular manner as the unfortunate creature went under the Bentley's wheels.

"What do you know about the Transcendental Order of the Immortal Wombat?" asked agent Devilmunchkin.

"They're believed to be the semi-public wing of an Illuminati off-shoot. Styling themselves on the Freemasons, they recruit suitable members of the public and, through a series of ceremonial indoctrinations noted for their brain-washing nature, the initiate is slowly dragged into their web of evil. Over the last 20 years they have fought a bitter turf war with the Scorpion Tong for global control of the white slave trade. Their favourite means of assassination is a curare enema and they're scared of acorns."

The agent shot Rah a pointed look. "You're bullshitting, aren't you?"

"Yes. Sorry. I assumed everyone knew and I didn't want to look thick."

She sighed and passed Bulldog a leather-bound book. Since she carried no baggage and wore a skin-tight catsuit, this simple act would cause Rah sleepless nights for years to come as he would ponder where it had come from. "Read this. It should provide a few pointers."

"What's the point?" asked Rah. "Look, I'm sure this might all be very exciting to you, but I'm only here to find out what's going on in the Offe-Topyc, and if you already know the answer then let's stop arsing about and go for a kebab instead."

"Well, firstly those deranged Wombatters are clearly planning something. They're well-versed in the Black Arts and we think they're fooling about with the Gayliberal Codex."

"What the hell's that?" asked Rah.

"An ancient curse. If unleashed, it creates the delusion that an ideal society must consist of ordered care for every individual within it, and that the role of government is to drive and control such an ideal through state-controlled welfare measures funded by taxation. Are you all right?"

Bulldog was retching violently. "The sick bastards!" he gasped.

"They also want the right for men to be able to lawfully do things to each other's bottoms too."

Rah pondered. "Well I suppose there's no harm in that sort of thing provide all participants belong to the same Rugby Club" he conceded. "You should have seen what we got up to at the annual Old Harrovians First XV bash last Michaelmas. "Bunty" Harrison was crapping billiard balls for days after."

"Yeeeeeeesssssss....... There is one other thing you may be interested in. It's not just the Wombat cultists who are in there. If Buffy's information is correct, you may find yourself face-to-face with your old Nemesis."

"Great Scott!" barked Rah. "Surely you can't mean....."

"Yes!" replied Devilmunchkin, acutely aware that the conversation was lapsing into parody.

"Ernst Stefu Blofeld!"

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[Bugs ****ing Bunny]

Part 6

Extracts from "The Boy's Book of Evil and Kinky Global Conspiracies".

"Ernst Stefu Blofeld"- a.k.a. "Miss Tippytoes", "Bent Ernie" and "Cyanide Cindy McClure"

Details of his early life are sketchy, but it is believed that this cat-stroking loon was enrolled to the Illuminati Scouts at the age of 8, in the Leech troop. He was expelled after an unfortunate incident with a radioactive elk that left large stretches of Lapland habitable. Founded the Anarchist Reaction (Special Executive) at the age of 24, and by 27 had seen covert organisations all over Europe making substantial contact with his organisation.. His plan to monopolise the German opium market was foiled when legendary agent "Bulldog" Rah penetrated ARSE on several occasions, leaving the evil mastermind totally buggered. His attempt to assassinate Rah using a surface-to-air prostitute was narrowly foiled, and Blofeld disappeared shortly after. Believed to have taken up the career of criminal mastermind in a bid to impress girls.


"Evil"

See "Finland".


"Transcendental Order of the Immortal Wombat, The"

Bunch of deluded big girl's blouses who think that, just because they have access to esoteric lore that can summon up demonic forces, they're something special. Well do I look impressed? Do I? Do you think I give a ****? No, seriously- look me me in the eye and ask yourself "Does this man give a ****?". I hope their flouncy and flowing robes get them dragged to a brutal maiming in the bowels of some sort of agricultural heavy machinery because every single little thing about them makes me want to puke blood. Incidentally they're trying to raise the spirit of gayliberalism in the Offe-Topyc yadda yadda yadda.....


"Gayliberalism"

Do you know what they do to each other? Christ! How could they?

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"Is this supposed to enlighten me as to what's going on?"

"No. It's supposed to shut you up. Hey, look! We're nearly there."

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Part 7

In his later years, Bulldog would often come to reflect his entry to the Offe-Topyc. The dashing adventurer in him was fully prepared for a daring break-in, involving grappling hooks, a hair-raising ascent up the crumbling towers and jemmying open a high window. The reality proved slightly different. Agent Devilmunchkin simply dressed him in a set of hooded robes then walked him up the the front gate, pulling on the bell-cord.

A spy-hole flipped open. "Yeeeesssss?"

"Morning, Boris. I've delivered the sacrifice. Sign this invoice for me, would you?"

Thirty seconds later, with a "Good luck, old man" and a cheeky slap on the arse, Rah was being escorted through the gateway. He was taken through several chambers where huge and ancient posters extolled the virtues of controlling access to spears, and suggested that the best way of tackling plagues of boils would be to set up an extensive governmental sub-committee with wide-ranging boil-investigating powers, to be funded by a small hike in taxation on mammoth steaks and psychotropic fungus. Beyond that, he first encountered the massed hordes of the Wombatters as they groaned and strained their oiled musculature in an immense gymnasium.

"This is all new, of course." said Boris the Gatekeeper. "It used to be the nave of the Infernal Cathedral of Rynkg-T'syinklcx, the risen Wombat, so there used to be far more in the way of impaled bodies on spikes and pickled babies- that sort of thing.". He raised his voice to be heard over the pounding beat of the Euro-disco classics belting out over the PA. "However it was decided that it was all a bit 1970's, and that we needed more gaiety around the place, so we knocked through to the Under-Chapel of the Leper Acolyte and put the gym in."

Rah was stupified. The concept of breaking into a sweat for anything that didn't culminate in some sort of sporting victory and a manly embrace in the showers, or the death of some species of quadruped, was utterly alien to him. "It's enormous!" he gasped.

"It certainly is." replied Boris. "The place is now so gay that it's achieved a mass capable of tearing through the time/sex continuum and it's caused a sexuality black hole. It's sucking all the gaiety out of the surrounding nations- already 80% of Apolytonia is incapable of dancing beyond a kind of arythmical jerking, and Interior Design Consultants have become extinct.". Taking a side door out of the gym, the pair proceeded down a corridor decorated in a really interesting array of linen drapes creating a pseudo-Moroccon feel enhanced by oh-so-tasteful concealed lighting. "Of course, the concentrated gayness is now producing strange and esoteric occurances in the Offe-Topyc. Last week Judy Garland spontaneously manifested in the library, and she's been wandering around looking confused ever since. That's probably down to the pills though, poor thing."

"So this is all part of your evil plot?" said Rah, who was hopelessly adrift by this point.

"Evil? Good Lord, no." replied Boris. "We're the good guys, after all. Admittedly, we're going to kill you, but it's in a really good cause and we're going to feel really sorry about it afterwards. We've got counselling sessions arranged and everything. Still, needs of the many, and all that, you see?".

Boris clicked his fingers, and two burly members of the Liberal Youth emerged silently from the shadows. With an ease born of long experience, they effortlessly overpowered Bulldog and shoved him into a cell. As the heavy door slammed shut, Boris said "Say hello to your cellmate. I believe you know each other."

Rah turned and found himself staring into the cold, grey eyes of Ernst Stefu Blofeld.

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Part 8

A starkly-lit glass-fronted cell. Bookcases on the wall containing works by Proust, Baudelaire, Joyce and Basho. On another wall, a watercolour sea-scape in the style of Turner, freshly-painted. Strapped upright on some sort of ninja restraining table- the weapons-grade uber-psycho that is Ernst Stefu Blofeld, resplendant in prison overalls (but in a shade of cornflower blue that was simply "to die for") and a seriously heavy-duty "nutter muzzle"- a leather and steel mask covering his face from the eyes downwards.

Rah broke the ice first. "So. Ernst Stefu Blofeld. We meet again."

"Your capacity for starting the bleeding obvious remains truly staggering, Bulldog. Are you going to follow up that blinding insight by informing me that we appear to be in a cell together?"

Rah moved behind the muzzled nutter. "Well let's see how observant you can be now, smartarse. Go on- dazzle me."

Blofeld's eyes narrowed. Then he sniffed the air long and hard, like a Bloodhound. "You sometimes wear Old Spice aftershave, but not today. You are wearing a linen suit and Egyptian cotton shirt from Saville Row, and you have slept in these clothes for at least two days. Your shoes are hand-made Italian brogues, and you have just farted."

"OK. I'm impressed" said Bulldog. "What's with the muzzle? Been chasing cats again?"

Blofeld reached up and removed his mask. "I'm trying to stop biting my nails". He reached down and started unbuckling himself from the table. "I picked up this table from IKEA- it's from their "Pervö" range. It's much more comfortable than it looks. Would you like me to explain what's going on?"

"I can hardly wait. You know, it seems like I'm constantly having things partially explained to me lately."

"Really?" asked Blofeld.

"Yes. It's almost as if I'm trapped in some sort of story in which the author is attempting to cram too much plot into too little story, and is attempting to glue together some semblance of structure through, frankly, rather unbelievable dialogue."

"Fascinating."said Blofeld. "Well, let me continue that". He sat down in a surprisingly comfy chair and adopted a "Thoughtful narrator" pose. "It's all about action and reaction, Bulldog. When there is too much conservatism, or liberalism in the world there will be an inevitable backlash. What the Wombatters are attempting to do is increase the "see-saw" effect- they are sucking all the gayness and liberalism out of Apolytonia and concentrating it here. Then they plan to trigger the backlash against all the straight conservatism in the world outside and ride the tidal wave of gayliberalism back into power."

"So where do I come into it?"

Blofeld smiled a tight and coldly smug little grin. "In order to trigger the backlash, the Wombatters will be using the Gayliberal Codices to summon the ultimate incarnation of the Gay Grooviness. A creature of immense power, impeccable taste, and really tasty dance moves too. They will attempt to summon the Starchild. You are the sacrifice intended to appease it."

"This all sounds a bit frou-frou for a super-villain of your tastes, Blofeld. What exactly are you doing here?"

"Well spotted, Bulldog. Naturally, I intended to warp their plans so that my ARSE organisation can profit from the ensuing chaos. The Wombatters believe the thwarted my mission, but in fact it's already done". He paused to pour himself a neat little cup of espresso. "I've re-written the codices. Rather than the Starchild, the Wombatters will be summoning something rather unexpected."

He stood and paced over to the glass front of the cell, looking out. "For every action there is a backlash, Bulldog. For every paragon of joy and whimsy, there is a summation of dour finger-pointing. Remember that, because it's that you'll be hacked to bits for....."

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Part 9

They came for him at noon the next day. He had spent the intervening time playing mournful music on his harmonica, until Blofeld had threatened to shove it up his arse. Now a host of elite Wombatters escorted him out of his cell and through the impeccably decorated ante-chambers (furnished with hideously uncomfortable yet murderously chic Phillipe Starck creations) into the colossal Great Temple of Ygnz-R'nasgf, The Wombat Transcendant. There, in front of the immense sculptures depicting scenes from "Spartacus" involving waaaaaaay too much in the way of scantily-kilted oiled musclemen, he was tied to the great black altar.

Slowly, the masses of the Transcendental Order of the Immortal Wombat filed into the great temple, chanting softly like the wind and waves on some strange and distant shore. In their cowled robes they stood in the haze of incense and chanted; a song half as old as time itself.

That song had been chanted before. Long before the Earth had cooled, it had rung through the galaxies as the old ones hung and froze in the pale glow of a distant supernova. How they had sung! Their gutteral crowing had swelled into a massed polyphony of a million great throats, and their song had crossed the heavens bringing a deep chill of a strange and terrible knowledge. At the most infinitesimal level, the skies still rang to the dying echoes of that first great song- felt only in the bones of those staring nemesis in the cold, cold eye.

Now the song rang out again. The Wombat cultists had no idea what it would bring but they knew it's power. As the song swelled and grew, a new counter-melody was introduced as the opening stanza of the Gayliberal Codices were chanted. It's shaping force was added to the great song, in the hoope that raw and elemental power could be shaped into an incarnation of true splendour- the Universal Starchild.

What the Wombatters could never have guessed is that Ernst Stefu Blofeld had done his infernal work well. A crucial middle eight was inverted, bringing a jarring and warped counter-melody into the great song.

The summoning power of the great song was undiminished. However some things should never be summoned. Deep in the heart of the Gayliberal Codices something monstrous lurked, and it's physical form was to be found imprisoned in a huge crystal deep in the rock below the Offe-Topyc. As the great song swelled, the crystal shattered like glass and something out of the universal nightmare ripped through the Earth's crust. The floor of the Great Temple swayed and buckled, while cultists were pitched screaming into freshly-opened seething pits of lava.

An immense clawed hand punched up through the floor. A second followed. Tentacles shot out of the opening pit, mauling and violating the cultists. Two huge and muscular shoulders bunched and strained, overshadowed by the vast and tattered black wings. Finally the great scarred and horned head lifted out of the pit and howled at the crumbling ceilings above.

"Oh ****!" commented a cultist. "It's Mr. Fun!"

************************************************

Part 10

It had been ten years earlier that Rah's brother, codenamed "Ming" ("Bob" to his friends) had brought back that strange amulet. Whilst he'd fought the Black Dragon Tong, he had swiped the twisted piece of black glass from their secret altar. The Tong had claimed that the amulet contained the concentrated essence of chaos, but to Ming it had simply been a makeshift (and typically late) birthday present for his brother. At the time Rah had been pissed off that it hadn't been the set of golf clubs he'd asked for, but he'd worn it anyway. Sometimes he'd played with it at night, wondering what would happen if he broke it open and released the smokey vapours just visible inside.

Now, as the colossal cthonic monster loomed over him, his hand found the amulet once more. There was a brief battle of conscience, depicted by the comic little angel and devil sat on opposing shoulders. However within seconds the little devil had the angel firmly by the balls and was beating it's head repeatedly against the wall. Bulldog attempted to come up with a suitably pithy and enigmatic set of last words, but was forced to settle for "Oh sod it. Come and have some then, you slag!". Then snapped open the amulet.

The faint wisp of smokey vapours sank down to the floor and disappeared between the crack in the stone. The dreadful chanting started to falter, and the distracted Mr Fun glanced around. Then a distant vibration started from far underground.

Mr Fun had come from the far deep, but some things are hidden far deeper. Some things are just too terrible to see the light of day, but they can still be brought forth. The vibration became a drumming, and the drumming became an avalanche of noise as the sound of millions upon millions of running footsteps surged upwards. Then the voices began...

"Hä Hä, we äre cömiiiiing to get yöu siiiiiiiilly peöple! We cömiiiiiiiiiiing!!!"

.....and the floor shattered and exploded upwards as the invaders swarmed out.

A blur of motion flashed by. It was Blofeld and he was running like a cat pursued by a rabid Rottweiler sporting a strap-on. "You bastard, Bulldog!" he yelled.

"What did I do?" asked Rah.

"The Finns! The Finns are coming!"

Then Rah's vision was cut off by the millions of rally drivers, lantern-jawed central defenders with stupid hair, and Linux geeks in crap shirts that were pouring through the great chasm. They swarmed all over Mr Fun who roared and flailed impotently before getting severely trampled underfoot and disappearing from sight. The Wombatters ran like hell in the face of a marauding horde of Laplanders wielding large axes. Rah was torn from the altar and found himself face-to-face with the manically grinning spiritual godking and messiah of the Finnish people.....

"is gööd, yes? is öffe-töpyc öttök höme? ok?"

......then, in accordance with yet another rule of bad fiction knocked out by the overworked for the benefit of the undermanding, the walls closed in and Rah blacked out. Like a girl.

************************************

The sky above was clear and bright. In fact, it was the sort of view not normally associated with the area around the Offe-Topyc. Rah pondered this view, then ran his post-regaining consciousness personal audit.

PHYSICAL
1- Absence of any immediate life-threatening situations (attack by bears, etc...)?- Check.
2- All relevant limbs and organs still in place?- Check.
3- Am I sharing a bed with anything particularly embarrassing that I may have to sneak away from to avoid having to make conversation with?- Nope.

MENTAL
1- Major neurological functions in place?- Check.
2- Absence of strange alien brain-leeches controlling my every thought?- Check.
3- Sensation of brief mortality and impending doom?- Check.
4- Mild and inexplicable fetish concerning cowboys in lederhosen?- Check.

Then he sat upright. The Offe-Topyc was still there, but it somehow looked less elementally weird than before. Agent Devilmunchkin was sat nearby, eating a pie.

"Ah. Welcome back, Rip Van Winkle"

Bulldog Rah stared around him in panic. "The Finns! What have I done!?"

"Yes, that was a bit weird. That ottok character popped out about half an hour ago. As far as I can make out, he was saying that they've decided to put their inevitable global domination and universal empire of evil on hold temporarily, because they've discovered the Offe-Topyc and none of them want to leave it. They've spent the rest of the day having some massive argument that would be meaningless to anyone without a Finnish translator and a gynaecology textbook."

Rah thought hard for a suitably heroic course of action. Then he gave up. "Fancy a pint?" he asked.

"Thought you'd never ask."

************************************

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Markos Gianonandonandonandonandon- abandoned his secret plans of Offe-Topyc domination and instead attempted to corner the world market in novelty steins. He married a Cypriot model and built a huge message (visible from outer space) that read "The Elgin Marbles are a load of old crap anyway".

Dr Strangelove- invented a revolutionary new cure for insomnia involving the ingestion of vast quantities of industrial wastes from the petrochimical industries and moved to Florida to spend more time with his money.

Old Scrotum- is believed to be just hanging around.

The 14th Earl of DinoDoc's gout became so severe that his foot swelled to mountainous proportions and caused climatic changes in Apolytonian weather. He now arranges skiing holidays on his own instep.

Buffy Siddiqui- entered himself for the Turner Prize and won. He will soon be launching a new range of wallpapers featuring his own bodily emissions.

Agent Devilmunchkin- made a rudimentary time machine and was last seen heading off to a grassy knoll in Dallas bearing a rocket-launcher and a determined expression.

Boris the Gatekeeper- made a huge collection of life-sized effigies of street beggars out of wax, putty and coat-hangers and placed one on every street corner in western Europe. He is now attempting to bring them to life in order to create an army to fight the middle classes.

Mr Fun- went back into the Stygian depths and took up pottery. He later published his memoirs in a limited edition bound in genuine byakhee-skin.

Ernst Stefu Blofeld- became too evil to be a criminal mastermind, and was forced to become a bus driver instead.

"Bulldog" Rah- is currently caught in a nasty sand-trap on the 17th at Gleneagles.

"The Gimp"- is knackered and storied out, and is going to take another extended break. Happy Halloween, my bunnies.

[Spec]

Too much time on your hands.....but me too cuz I had time to read it.

But good story anyway dude!...id it finished....?

Spec.

[Arrian]

- and I actually mean that. I'm at "work" you bastard!

-Arrian

[Bugs ****ing Bunny]

It's a reprint from last year, so it's long-finished.

[Japher]

An immense clawed hand punched up through the floor. A second followed. Tentacles shot out of the opening pit, mauling and violating the cultists. Two huge and muscular shoulders bunched and strained, overshadowed by the vast and tattered black wings. Finally the great scarred and horned head lifted out of the pit and howled at the crumbling ceilings above.

"Oh ****!" commented a cultist. "It's Mr. Fun!"

Scared the hell out of me...

[Hueij]

Heh, I remember the first time you posted this. It is still an awfull read

[Immortal Wombat]

I like this story cos I have a Transcendental Order

[Whaleboy]

Genius!!!

I feel all ignored now

[Bugs ****ing Bunny]

You're quite right. When writing this story 12 months ago, I should have predicted that a few months later somebody I'm still pretty much ignorant of would have registered, and worked them into the action.

[laurentius]

Thänk yöu, Lazarus and the Gimp. Thät wäs a very ämusing störy. Sädly it all just FÄNTÄSY. I tell you it's fäntäsy, and lies !

I hope you do realise that there are always intrested blue eyes looking at the offe-topyc, waiting for a good reason to let their masters blow the war horn. We are always ready. ST is just a place to swap the coded messages between us agents

[Stefu]

Except that there haven't been too many messages swapped lately if you catch my meaning, grumble grumble.

[Stefu]

THIS WASN'T A DOUBLE POST! ANYONE SAYING OTHERWISE WILL GET SHOT WITH MY SHOTGUN!