Posted by dull thud on July 08, 2001 at 05:46:22:
In Reply to: dull thud #3: You never bring me flowers any more. posted by dull thud is pleased to present on July 08, 2001 at 05:43:05:
dull thud #3
featuring Cressida, the Worm Wonder.
You never bring me flowers any more
dull thud took another swig of his chocolate milk and jabbed the
buzzer. After a few seconds, Olga’s voice came over, distorted by the entry
phone. “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
“Hi, come in.” The front door of Olga’s apartment block unlocked with a clunk.
thud pressed the buzzer again. “It’s not working,” he said, “you’ll have to throw your keys down.”
“Oh... okay”
He stepped back and looked up to the third floor. A window banged open and Olga leant out, waved and dropped a large bunch of keys. thud caught them and let himself in.
The mailboxes were to the left. He got the right key at the third attempt. Olga had two bills, a postcard from Berlin and a brown envelope marked Pervo Dogmaster Records. He shook it. It felt like a cassette inside. He looked over his shoulder and tore the envelope open.
Dear Ms Bonniwell (it said)
I must confess to having listened only to the first
twenty seconds of your “Møøse Factory IV” demo tape. However, it was such
unadulterated crap as to allow me to say with some confidence that we are
not interested in adding you to our roster of artists, and that I
consider you to be in urgent need of psychiatric help.
As a gesture of goodwill, I shall not charge you for the paint your
Yours sincerely, music recording caused to peel off my office walls. In addition, note
that I have gone against record company convention and taken the step of
returning your tape. This is because I suspect our garbage men of being
Communists and do not relish the thought of this hazardous material falling into
the wrong hands.
Stephen J Barber
Head of A&R, Pervo Dogmaster
Records
Woo. That was the best for a while.
p.s. If you ever write to me again, I shall call the
police.
p.p.s. I mean it.
To begin with, Cressida wasn’t quite sure it was right for thud, Howie and Dodgy Phil to intercept Olga’s rejection letters like this. After a while, though, she agreed that there was just enough of the potential-spree-killer about her to make it worthwhile. thud pocketed the letter and tape, inserted earplugs and climbed the stairs. Olga was delighted to see him.
“Come and listen to this”, he lipread, and she led him by the arm into the front room. He saw her press PLAY on a battered tape deck. He nodded approvingly, pretending not to notice her cats snarling and spitting at the speakers and the pot plants shrivelling up. He sniffed at his chocolate milk and found it had curdled. Eventually she pressed STOP and looked at him expectantly.
“It’s very interesting,” he said, “the, um, interplay between the tonal voices does raise some fascinating questions.”
Olga was entirely pleased with this incisive commentary. As she turned her back to clear a collection of bizarre Polynesian percussion instruments off the sofa, thud plucked out his earplugs and dropped them into his pocket.
“So shall I fix up some food and then we can start on the synth?” thud was itching to get to the other purpose of his visit; Olga had picked up a bargain-priced Mini-Moog at a garage sale. It looked like the bastard offspring of a pre-school piano and a Sixties air-conditioning system, the perfect balance between compact and clunky, futuristic and horribly, horribly dated. It refreshed the parts other instruments don’t reach (perfect for Doctor Who versus the Sea Devils noises). The only minor problem was that it didn’t actually work. But where there’s a screwdriver-toting roadie there’s always a way.
thud waited for a response. “Food?” he said again.
Olga looked back blankly for a few seconds. “Food? Food… oh, food. Um, right. I’m not sure what there is…”
There wasn’t much. “Well,” said Olga, “I kind of forgot to go shopping for a while. You know how it is when you get really involved in something.”
“I suppose. Look, I’m going to go and pick up some groceries. You clear some space on the table and, er, while I’m gone you might want to put some trousers on or something.”
Olga waved another cassette. “Wait! You have to hear this first… I finished this one at four o’clock this morning…”
thud left.
* * *
In a Dullards Corner florists, Walter Kew pushed his half-moon spectacles
further back on his nose. “Miss Wetherspoon, I think they’re ready,” he said,
standing to one side so she could see into the
propagator. A multi-coloured
host of delicate orchids swayed gently.
“Oh Walter,” she said, putting a hand to her chest, “they’re lovely. I don’t know how you do it.”
He looked away modestly. “It’s just a matter of humidity and the right feeding. Nothing special.”
“Nothing special? These are supposed to be near-impossible to grow under glass. You bring them to bloom in days. You’re a marvel. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Ah, your smile is thanks enough, my sweet.”
“...Yes.” This smile was more uncertain. She swept a lock of hair back from her eye, pointedly displaying her engagement ring. The bell rang as customers entered, and she turned to attend to them.
Walter swallowed, nervous. He had put this off for so long, but it was now or never. Retreating to the back room, he poured a packet of seeds into his hand. He bit his lip in concentration as they swelled in his cupped palm, green shoots forming and extending, leaves unfurling, flowerbuds ripening and opening. When the bell rang again as the customer left, Walter’s arms were filled with a huge and glorious bouquet.
He stepped into the main shop. “Darling,” he said, “for months now I have adored you from afar. Only now have I found the courage to act.” Miss Wetherspoon paled. He knelt before her and held out a ring. “My treasure,” he continued, “I beseech you, marry me!”
“Walter, I - I don’t know what to say...” She stepped back, knocking over a watering can.
“Say yes! Say yes and make my life complete!”
“I’m ...flattered, and you’re very nice, but ...I can’t. You know I’m engaged to Duncan.”
“That hairy fool? Pah!” He rose and flung the exotic blooms to the ground. “How can you even think of him when I have so much more to offer? I can show you the world!” Still she shook her head. “Ah, how ironic it is that I, whose very trade is in others’ love-tokens, should myself be spurned like this. Very well. If I can’t have you…”
Snarling, he grabbed at her. The whole shop erupted into thick jungle.
“Walter, no! You’re hurting me! …Aaagh!”
* * *
From the sidewalk, thud glanced back up to the apartment, and noticed that Olga’s neighbours above, below and on either side had FOR SALE signs in the window. The apartment was three streets back from the nearest block of shops, and after a few minutes’ walk he rounded the corner onto the pedestrianised area, which echoed with the familiar clatter of nine-year-old skaters with more enthusiasm than skill.
The block had a pharmacy, a 7-11, a cluster of rather tacky hairdressing salons and a florist at the far end. In addition, halfway down the street thud was surprised to find a small record shop, trading under the slightly tasteless name of Vinyl Solution. He checked his watch and walked in. He nodded to the two men who leant against the counter, arguing about Deep Purple pre- and post-Gillan. A fairly impressive stereo system was playing a Delta blues track he couldn’t immediately place.
Raking through a box of second-hand singles he turned up Schoolgirl Harassment Lawsuit Stomp by Flint Michigan and the Careerin’ Tatters. He was even more pleased to find one of the first releases on Pervo Dogmaster; a split 7”, with the Puff-ball Menace performing an insane doo-wop version of Ace Of Spades backed with the Kirby Dots’ classic I Willst Smite Thee, a punk-pop homage to the Lair Legion’s Hemigod of Thunder.
He was distracted by loud noises from outside. Slotting the records back into place, he stepped out of the shop. It wasn’t immediately obvious what the commotion was. Finally it occurred to him: at the far end of the block thick foliage spilled out of the crumbling florist and a small man in a pin-stripe suit was throwing oak trees at people.
No, he wasn’t. He was flinging handfuls of acorns into the air and they were turning into trees on the way down. thud flattened himself against the wall and edged up the street. “Cressida? Thoughts?”
“~~Well, it would appear that he has the ability to near-instantaneously grow seeds into the fully mature plant.~~”
“How?”
“~~Don’t know.~~”
“Right. And why’s he doing it?”
“~~Don’t know. Don’t need to. Just stop him.~~” A well-aimed volley of pumpkins crashed through shop windows.
“Can’t you turn the seeds into something harmless?”
“~~Not without getting much closer. So go on, challenge him!~~”
dull thud cleared his throat, cracked his knuckles and stepped out into the open. “Halt, evildoer!,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “Identify yourself!”
The evildoer assumed a stock Kirby-pose, one hand on the hip and menacingly brandishing some gladioli. “I am...” He seemed stuck for a name. “ …the Florist!”
“The what?”
“Florist, you imbecile, the Florist! And now you will feel my wrath!”
dull thud pulled a face. “Not in public, pal. And did you not think of calling yourself... the Germinator? Though I suppose for you it would have to be hosta la vista, baby...”
"~~thuddy dear,~~" said Cressida, "~~that's the most pathetic joke I have ever heard. Please don't.~~"
The Florist, meanwhile, looked a little crestfallen. “You're right, I didn’t think of that. Damn.” Then he brightened up. “Not that it matters, because now you’re going to DIE like everyone else!”
So saying, he flung a fistful of acorns in thud’s direction. A ton of
trees crashed to the ground where the hero had stood. Satisfied, the Florist
sauntered by, and turned his attention to amusedly
lobbing turnips at
fleeing locals. Our leather-jacketed protector of the innocent, however, had
ported up in the nick of time (naturally), and now found himself dangling by his
fingertips from a fourth-floor
window ledge.
Which might be a nasty situation for some people, but hardly a problem for the Master of the Plummeting Arts. He dropped to the ground and landed on his back. Now his blood was up; he reverted to his natural Lanarkshire state. “C’moan then!” he roared, baring his teeth and beckoning with both hands. “Think ye’re hard aye?” When the Florist just looked at him pityingly, thud charged directly at him, meaning to flatten him with a port-assisted leap. Instead, a light scattering of rapidly-growing maples rocketed thud back into the air.
“Shite,” he said, quite reasonably. He struck the ground with a crunch. He looked up blearily to find he was back outside Vinyl Solution. And in a flash he knew what to do. He dodged the flying greenery and scrambled inside. He ignored the staff cowering behind the counter and made for the stereo. He retrieved Olga's rejected Møøse Factory demo, miraculously undamaged, from his pocket. He crammed it into the tape deck and angled the speakers toward the smashed window. He put in his earplugs and turned the volume to ten. Then he shut his eyes tightly and pushed PLAY.
The cacophony was wilting plants as fast as the Florist could produce them. Within seconds the street was knee-deep in slimy, decaying plant matter. The Florist lay in the middle of the street, contorted, hands to his ears. thud, protected, had no problem raiding the pharmacy and restraining the villain with Cressida’s soap-turned-to-rope. He returned to the record shop, took out the tape and ground it firmly and deliberately under his heel.
* * *
Walter Kew, the Florist, was sentenced to eight years in the Safe. He only served a few weeks of this, after mistakenly being given an apple with his evening meal. The trees he grew from the apple seeds forced his cell walls apart and he escaped to the GothamMetropolis York underworld, where he picked up a lucrative position in the narcotics industry, growing crops to harvest overnight in rented wharfside warehouses.
The lovely Miss Wetherspoon is still listed as Missing, Presumed Compost. The
only other casualties were the record shop staff. Having absorbed the full
impact of Olga’s artistic vision, it took forty-seven hours just to coax them
out of the foetal position. They were admitted to hospital and put on a
rehabilitation program. When thud visited them three weeks later, they
looked thirty
years older and were sitting in wheelchairs dribbling,
quivering and being gently coached through Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on
toy xylophones.
But it’s an ill wind, et cetera, and Olga Bonniwell was soon celebrating her
first ever record deal. The US Military, still seeking a defoliant with fewer
adverse effects than Agent Orange, had made an in-depth study of the whole event
and one of their commercial fronts sent her a contract within the month. So the
point of this story is: if you’re the head of a heavily forested nation and you
value your ears, you’d better think twice before starting any wars.