Posted by dull thud isn't getting political. on May 19, 2001 at 07:16:27:
the Master of the Plummeting Arts, in:
Going Underground
A bell tinkled as Troia, her arms full of clothes, pushed the door open with her hip. It shouldn’t fall to a noble Amazon warrior to do her own laundry, but if the choice is between going to Diane’s Coin-Op and using the Lair Mansion facilities, needs must when the odious butler is so eager to help you fold your undies. Those that you get back.
She dropped the bundle into a machine and followed the instructions. That done, she took in the notices pinned to the cork walls, offering rewards for lost cats, advertising long-defunct detective agencies, bicycles for sale, henchmen for hire. A pair of gossipy older ladies stood at the window complaining about always getting home with one sock less than they expected. In the back corner a pale kid in a Gun Club t-shirt had just finished loading a drier and was now leafing through a badly-printed rock fanzine. The ink came off on his fingers. If he looks distracted, don’t worry, it’s just his insides talking.
"~~Hey, thuddy,~~" said Cressida, "~~what about the Cramps shirt?~~"
"What about it?"
"~~Hang dry only, unless you want it to shrink…~~"
"Oh, right. Thanks." dull thud ambled over to the humming tumble drier. He stopped it and popped the door open. As he picked out the shirt he was dimly aware of movement at the back of the machine, but he thought nothing of it. He draped the shirt over a rail and sat down.
Time marched on, measured by a plastic clock above the detergent dispensers, and before he had got to the end of the small ads the drier whirred to a halt. He unloaded the contents into a bag. One sock, however, didn’t seem keen to leave. He reached in and pulled. It was stuck fast. After a few seconds pulling it tore, and thud sprawled back onto the linoleum. He blushed as conversations stopped and the customers turned to look at him.
"~~What’s wrong?~~"
"Nothing," he whispered. He stuck his head into the machine. The other half of the sock was trapped firmly between the back and side of the drum. He had another go at freeing it. Nope. He scowled briefly, then rose and approached the Amazon.
"Excuse me… but could borrow your spear for a moment?"
She didn’t look up from Impaler’s Digest. "Help yourself."
"Thanks." thud crouched in front of the machine and gave the back of the drum a couple of sharp taps with the blunt end. It swung open to reveal a narrow tunnel. The half-sock was released and fluttered down out of sight. He stepped back from the machine and looked around. Everyone was engrossed once more in their reading or conversations. This was worthy of further investigation. Seek and ye shall find.
He leant the spear against the machine and slid his bag under a chair. He knelt down and slithered into the machine and the tunnel beyond. It was carved straight into rock, and angled downward at about forty-five degrees. "Cressy, I’d like to see please."
"~~Alright. I take it you forgot to post that letter back home?~~"
"Yes. Again."
Cressida wasted no time in transmuting the stamp into a lamp. By its flickering light, thud could now see that the rough, damp walls had been cut with a pickaxe, and that about a hundred yards ahead the tunnel veered sharply to the right. He crawled on, softly singing the Jam. After what seemed like an age, the passage widened out and he could finally stand. He found himself at one end of a large cavern. Torches burned along the walls and the overall effect was of a medieval dungeon, except for the huge pile of unmatched socks and what seemed to be the last pages torn from a thousand library books. thud fell silent, and Cressida picked up with In The Hall Of The Mountain King.
A dozen passages radiated from this cavern, and again thud’s curiosity got the better of him. He crept up to the mouth of the widest tunnel and listened. It sounded like printing presses. He tiptoed a hundred yards along it, peered round a corner and was more than a little surprised to be confronted by a horde of goblins.
He retreated.
He looked again.
It was definitely a horde of goblins. Two feet tall, pointy ears, warty, greenish. No doubt about it. And from they way they were pointing at him, waving their cudgels and shrieking excitedly, it was a fair guess they’d seen him too. He ran away.
He made for the large cavern. Goblins were pouring out of all but one of the tunnels. He took it. The cackling creatures chased him past rolls of those price labels that DON’T QUITE peel off and a single garlanded portrait of Roni Y. Avis. As the ceiling came down and he was reduced again to crawling, thud felt nipping at his feet. He flung the lamp behind him and made for a narrow sliver of light some distance ahead.
If Sister Marie was surprised to see dull thud burst out of the library stationery cupboard, limbs flailing, she didn’t show it. Nor did she raise a nunly eyebrow at the hundred slavering beasts in hot pursuit. She just put a finger to her lips - shh! - and smiled serenely.
thud tore out of the Municipal Library, almost tumbling down the steps, and along the street. Despite the height advantage, the chittering was getting closer and closer, and the green tide was scattering chickens and knocking down fruit stalls in best car chase tradition. Bespectacled secretaries appeared from nowhere in order to be shouldered aside and fling large piles of paper heavenwards. Just as it seemed they would trample him down, a police car screeched to a halt and the driver leapt out.
"Hold it right there!" came a familiar voice from behind a gun. "Oh, you again..."
"Stochansky!" said thud with relief.
The goblins knew a gun when they saw one; they huddled together in the shadows, red eyes boggling. The detective folded his arms and leant against the car. "Would you like to explain what’s going on, boy, or do I have to arrest you this time?"
"Arrest ME?" spluttered thud. "On what charge?"
The passenger door of a black Mercedes swung open and a woman in her fifties climbed out. She was heavily made up and held a clipboard. "Thank you, officer," she said acidly, "but I’ll deal with this."
thud glanced behind him. The goblins were looking sheepishly at the ground.
"Young man," she said, "you are guilty of trespassing on Government property and of interfering in Government business." She produced a card marked FEDERAL DEPARTMENT OF PETTY IRRITATIONS.
"These... er, goblins work for you?"
She peered over her spectacles. "When they’re not chasing trespassers, skinning them and eating them, yes."
"They were going to eat me?"
The lead goblin looked apologetically up at thud. His ribs were clearly defined through his papery skin. "But we’re all so hungry," he gurgled weakly. "There are no rats any more."
The official bent down and leaned close to it. "And now you’re going to get back to work," she hissed, "or there won’t be any goblins left either."
thud didn’t know what to all this. He was sure of one thing though. "That’s no way to treat people," he said, and turned to the goblins. "Living on rats and trespassers? I think you should get your trade union onto this."
The lead goblin asked in a faltering voice "What’s a trade union?"
The city official looked aghast and frantically dialled a number on her mobile phone.
And thud explained.
* * *
The petty-irritation-goblin strike lasted for a week. They downed tools, campaigning for better wages, better hours and better working conditions. The junk mail presses were silent. Socks stayed paired and red ones stopped finding their way into bundles of white washing. Collectors took prized comics out of bags without fear of catching tape on the cover. William Hague died in a plane crash. Mobile telephones stopped working on public transport. The city water supply went unpolluted by the goblin chemicals that render girlfriends unable to put records back in the sleeve.
Of course, it couldn’t last. City Hall was as happy as everyone else for the first few days. The trouble was that before long, the citizens, deprived of other things to complain about, had a chance to look at exactly what went on in government. The dubious business deals, the expense fiddles, the little "arrangements", turning a blind eye to pollution and organised crime. That sort of thing. City Hall remembered why they’d created the Department of Petty Irritations in the first place, and realised how important it had become.
When their position became untenable, the authorities gave in to the strikers’ demands. The goblins went back to work on a two-shift structure, and the citizens went back to whining about trivialities. The politicians went back to lining their pockets, and the oil companies went back to culling caribou. And that’s why the good people of Parodopolis are only bad-tempered between the hours of 8 a.m. and midnight, and not at all on Sundays.