Posted by predictably, dull thud on November 19, 2001 at 15:01:02:
dull thud #5.
featuring
Cressida, the Worm Wonder and... Nats!
All We Like Sheep
Nats stood as proud and broad-shouldered as his mood would allow. Light rain slicked his flame-red hair down around his ears. Prickling dampness pooled in all the least comfortable places of his Spandex suit. He was tired and hungry and a rabbit was energetically copulating with his left foot. So basically he wasn’t standing very proud or broad-shouldered at all.
Virkin’s Petting Farm was a miserable place; squat, prefabricated concrete buildings grimly decorated with chipped cartoony murals of cliched country scenes. The whole complex was surrounded by a twelve-foot high mesh fence. See, if you want to present a rustic image, it’s always going to be a mistake placing your petting farm on the edge of Hell’s Bathroom. The only paying visitors it ever got were school outings, and even these were tailing off as the locale got skezzier and the farm more dilapidated.
Nine sheep, a handful of bedraggled goats and a single sorry-looking cow do not an exciting educational experience make. Most of the chickens had long since escaped or been stolen for Satanic rituals, and that left only the rabbits. Lots of them. In the beginning there were just half a dozen, but the thing about rabbits is they breed like... like... anyway, there were lots of rabbits.
Which is where Yo came in. His/her one-being campaign - and given Yo’s unique accent perhaps SAVE THE VIRKIN RABBITS wasn’t the most family-friendly rallying cry - was just beginning to get some media attention, but actual community involvement in the farm was still sadly lacking. It was with heavy heart that Carla Virkin announced that without a hefty donation, the farm would close its gates within the week.
Yo was putting in regular appearances at the farm. S/he was supremely photogenic, and any press exposure was going to help. But there are many demands on a superperson’s time, and it was through no fault of Yo’s that on this particular afternoon s/he was currently trapped in a cave in the Dreary Dimension, with nine hundred slavering Brainless Ones intent on tearing her/him to pieces and with no hope of help from elsewhere. Yo didn’t expect to get home until about half-past seven, so someone else would have to take his/her place.
When Nats mentioned this to Donar and Troia over breakfast at the Lair Mansion, he couldn’t immediately work out why no-one jumped at the chance, and indeed why no-one would make eye contact with him. All he had heard above the snap, crackle and pop of his rice krispies were dark mutterings about how in Amazonia rabbits aren’t pets, they’re vermin, and how in Ausgard rabbits aren’t vermin, they’re garnish. Which explained why he was here in the rain and faking a smile, having his photograph taken while inches out of shot an increasingly frenzied furball tried to give him babies.
* * *
Meanwhile - and, by a convenient coincidence, nearby - dull thud trudged out of a small arthouse cinema looking smug. He’d just watched a film made by REO Speedwagon fans about the psychological horrors of the recent war on mullets. It was called Full Denim Jacket.
"~~Well,~~" beamed Cressida from his lower abdomen, "~~that was a barrel of laughs.~~"
"Aye. Did you see the expression on that guy’s face when - no, I suppose you didn’t, sorry. But it was really good."
"~~All I picked up from the audience was gut-wrenching terror. Which isn’t a very nice kind for a tapeworm.~~"
"S’pose. But you can hardly blame them, the hair was appalling. Come on, I’ll make it up to you. Let’s go and eat."
"~~Good, I’m starving. Things from plants, mind. None of that black pudding rubbish again.~~
"Rubbish? How can you not like black pudding? It’s the greatest. You want it in your life."
They bickered like siblings all the way to the grocers, where thud bought five bananas, a can of Mountain Dew and some outrageously lurid and offensive pornography for gluing across the windshields of inconsiderately-parked BMWs. He walked on down Parypa Street to the intersection with Richmond Avenue, at which point he was distracted by the clattering of wooden wheels and the baying of horses.
His first thought was not "ooh, how quaint". His first thought was "wow, I have to sample that". But he decided against it when he saw a battered seventeenth-century coach drawn by black chargers with eyes of flame, driven furiously by a hunched man in an enormous powdered wig. The driver took his eyes from the road only to lash out at teenage girls in tight tops and shout "gadzooks, what harlotry is this?"
"Uh-oh. Nutjob at ten, Cress."
"~~Nutjob? Quick, get after him.~~"
"What? Why?"
"~~Because he’s plainly on his way to commit some enormous crime.~~"
"Why jump to conclusions? He might just be a harmless eccentric."
As the coach thundered past, Cressida did whatever tapeworms do instead of narrowing their eyes. "~~thuddy, do you consider yourself to be a superhero?~~"
"I know you do. Er, Cress..."
"~~And he was a strangely-dressed man behaving in a highly unusual manner?~~"
"Sure, sure. Cress..."
"~~And in your admittedly limited experience of superheroing, what proportion of the strangely-dressed men behaving in a highly unusual manner that you encounter in a given week are rapidly revealed to be deranged criminals with a crappy gimmick hell-bent on causing mayhem in such a way that you and only you can conclusively defeat them in a spectacular battle while spitting out pithy one-liners?~~"
There was no reply. "~~Hello? thud?~~"
"Mm? Oh, sorry. Tuned out a bit there. I was distracted by the way he swerved off the road, crashed the coach through that fence, loaded it with sheep and drove off, leaving explosions in his wake and laughing like a maniac."
"~~DAMMIT!~~"
thud made an unforgivably weak joke about ram-raiding, finished his drink and loped across the street. A well-drilled team of rapid-response extras had appeared as if from nowhere to point at things, mime chattering excitedly and generally demonstrate their amazement. He ignored them. The mesh fence had been wrenched and twisted to the ground, and steamed gently in an unrealistic but pleasing way. Coach tracks and horseshoe prints led into and out of the now-sheepless enclosure. A sign hanging by one corner and placed by the Commission For Making This Obvious Even To The Acutely Weak Of Brain read "Virkin’s Petting Farm".
A couple of farm workers in comedy yokel dungarees wept openly. A gate at the other end of the pen opened to admit a handful of journalists and a muscular spandex-clad delivery boy. The photographers began snapping away and thud approached the man in orange. There was an unpleasant but mercifully brief crunch of gears as the writing style changed to better suit the moment.
thud: Uh, hi. You’re Nats, right?
Nats: Yup. And I’d recognise the protruding ribs, eyebags and deathly pallor anywhere. You’re Calista Flockhart.
thud: Close.
Nats: No, I’m kidding. You’re the new English guy.
thud: Again, close. What just happened here?
Nats: Nice job on the Backstreet Boys, by the way.
He’s talking about Captain Astounding: the Return, part 4. Prizes if
you remember it.
thud: I had nothing to do with that...
Nats: Suuuuure you didn’t. Collateral damage. Don’t worry, we’ve all been there. I mean, maybe we haven’t all dropped a mountain on -
thud: Yeah. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but could you just tell me what happened?
Nats: Oh, sorry. I was just going to say that you wouldn’t believe what we can get away with sometimes.
thud: *looking with distaste at Nats’s skin-tight bright orange bodysuit* I know what you mean.
Nats: *looking with equal distaste at thud’s t-shirt* What’s a Bagombo Fuckbox?
thud: They’re a Swedish garage band. The singer used to be in Colonic Pastry Violation.
Nats: *aghast* Oh, now I remember.
thud: So, as I was saying...
Nats: Right, yeah. Well, I was standing here getting my photograph taken, when there was this enormous crash from over there. I saw this huge stagecoach, and a guy dressed really old-fashioned got off and started cramming sheep into it. Then he drove away. And that was it.
thud: I’d managed to piece that much together. But you didn’t fly after him?
Nats: No, I couldn’t prise the bunnies off my legs.
thud: thinks: I’m never going to get the hang of these American euphemisms.
Nats: ...And by the time I did, he would have been far, far away. Ah, but he did leave this behind.
With another grinding gear change, Nats bent down and picked up a yellowing sheet of paper. He unfolded it, glanced at it, frowned and offered it to thud. In a flowing copperplate script too flamboyant for me to accurately reproduce here were written the following words:
To whomfoever it maye concerne
Goode daye to thee. Yefternight, upon mine late evenyng conftitutionale, I
chanced to be accofted bye ane mayden of difreputable trade. Ye wench afferted
thatte fhe woulde love me long time, ten dollar. Difgufted bye thif
difregard of fimple rulef of grammar, thif indefenfible abufe of oure noble
tongue, I had no choice butte to thrafh her fenfeleff with mine walkyng-ftaff.
I am ftrucke by the increafyng vulgaritie of our once-fayre citye. How fine
it woulde be were we to returnne to the traditionale valuef. I have taken upon
myfelfe the refponfibilitie of actyng af your moral fhepherd. To thif ende, I
have taken ye libertie of commandeeryng thefe woolly creaturef.
Untyl ye people of oure citye ceafe and defift from luftful behaviour,
dreffing immodeftly, committyng grieviouf fpelling errorf and other fuch
unfeemly practicef, thefe unfortunate ovinef fhall do my biddynge; fpecifically
to carry large quantitief of high explofive and acte in ye manner of kamikaze
pilotf. Ande do notte thinke I can’t, fo there.
figned thif twenty-fecond daye of Novemberre,
Little Bo Pepyf.
thud folded the letter carefully. "Bollockf," he said.
Next: all sorts of badness. Oh, and the
Lair Legion save the world, but that’s off-panel.