Sunday, 14 December 2014

CHAPTER 3 GQD summons TGM & KB


CHAPTER 3
GQD summons TGM & KB

Meanwhile, back on planet Maryland, the fallout from the malfunctioning of Octavius had started strange occurrences in West Gargantua and the Oneiverse.
King Bee and Tigermothy were napping in a carriage in the train poem man - it was kinda crazy but just beautiful out there. Fresh from their encounter with Fact Reeact and the marauding Octavius Dave, the Latterday Merry Pranksters, 14 years on since they left the Earth, fell to mooching about and kipping, in a hotel in South Wongon, since their aborted pilgrimage to Octavius Dave had been de-railed by a serious and too-dangerous-to-approach-at-this-stage malfunction on behalf of said Gargantuan Robot. And so to simple silly dreams for a while it was.
They dreamed and in the dreamscape, there as herself, Good Queen Dot, heraldic proud with Tiger, hovered magisterially on a very nice flying rug, and this is what she did say unto them: ‘Now you boys glisten right here: There is trouble on Earth big trouble – how we should ever have left it by itself, there should be great shame upon us – we must go back there!’
‘No way, not going back,’ said the Moth, awaking from his slumber in the carriage of the train poem. ‘I’d rather lie on this train and occupy my dreams, if you don’t mind, Good Queen, with your leave your majesty of course.
‘Look your majesty I can’t…’ Kingsley began his protest.
‘You must.’
‘I won’t
‘You must or all of your creativity credits will be frozen until you do!’ The queen flew at them in rage.
‘I’ll cancel your Fletnix,’ warned Mothy.
‘Silence!’ cried the Queen
‘The Earth is in danger, you must go back!’
‘Bloody hell, it’s not fair,’ whinged Kingsley.
They got off the dreamtrain at the next stop, fortunately Oak Town. Kingsley kissed the sign – ‘nothing like a little sweet taste of home.’
Referring was he to the new town his Latterday Merry Pranksters band had built, minecraft style, with Lexus Bexus at the helm. Oak Town, it was named, in honour of Acton, the town from which they had fled, some 14 years ago.
‘Start the Bus Mothman,’ barked Beat.
‘Flunk off Kingsley - you can do it yourself, retorted the stripy-hatted poet of purple plimsoll Euroball flex, flapping his wings moth-like and growling and snarling tiger-like.
Beat was an arrogant round version of himself these days, having given up singing songs to become a fulltime Euroballer. Boss the game he would with a little less flexibility than in the past – even in Paradise, age happens, cos you gotta enjoy the memories and the wisdom see – that’s why things get a little rickety – all that goodness you’re clinging quite-right-too on to. Collateral damage I believe is the phrase favoured by some.
Millennyway, conversations amongst the team at training were erring on the side of not going back to Earth for any reason, life was too sweet in Maryland, they loved their home planet but it was their right to be here – they had gone around being really nice to people, pranking people always in a good way, a funny way, they had practise their instruments, sung their songs and danced their dances, they deserved to be here. They had gathered all of the necessary magic insights, generated absolutely the right combinations of magic coincidences, splashed the world with colour and kindness, and through that great surge of magnificent good chi, they had defeated the Beast of Babylon, 14 year ago, in the year Twenty Zorro Zorro, smashed the light of Jah through Ultimate Glory in their magical lamppost game, escaping on a flying 207 bus from Acton, into space, beyond the spheres, then straight up the Z4 to Maryland. Why should they have to go back?
Whilst they had escaped the Beast of Babylon however, Babylon had prospered and poisonously flowered in their absence.
After training, Kingsley, Tigermothy and the team visited GQD in person at her grand palace. Sycamore trees emblem – sycamore seed scattered in d├ęcor across the pretty painted doors – this was Sycamore Keep, residential south pacific palace of Good queen Dot.
The Queen brought them ruefully up to date with the grim facts of Molch’s Viral Attack upon the Earth – and she managed to at least fashion a compromise with the stubborn Pranksters.
They agreed to visit Mustapha Kahn, the Great Wise Tiger, to seek his advice on the significance of the malfunctioning robot, as well as their moral dilemma as to whether or not they should return to their home planet, and risk their lives, jeopardise their spiritual careers even, to save the damn thing...
Captain Blaikie did a few press-ups, spoke in rhyme for a little bit, and then dressed up as a soldier and attacked Kingsley with a Frisbee. Kingsley, from underneath a bag of Frisbees that the lampooning Blaikie had just lobbed on top of him, managed to point out that the game their merry band had spread across large sections of multiple universes, Euroball, was on TV – the Intergalactic Cup (IGC) Qualifying Eliminators. Many of their illustrious cross-universe rivals would be in action, such as Delta Couriers of Zelta, the athletic Aringdillow Sprinters from a small world named Joll, in the South Western Gargantuan quadrant, which in itself actually spanned 12 galaxies or proportions that dwarfed any infinitesimal solar systems that hosted made-up spidermonkey planets such as Earth.
Blaikie’s team, Dortmund Superbus, formerly of Acton, Earth, now of Maryland, did not have to worry about qualifying for the IGC, since their home world, Maryland, was hosting it; a gift from FEEFA (Federation of Extragalactic Euroball Associations) for inventing the Magic Game in the first place.
The Pranksters were thus resolved to visit the Great Wise Tiger later that day. After playing (as themselves of course) a bit of FEEFA ZZ on their hexboxes, they settled down to some fat-free pink-wafers and waited with avid glee for kick off, watching it as they were, in the Dortmund Superbus clubhouse bar.
Fact Reeact lounged with his new-found friends; he enjoyed their company but he was running out of credits and needed to find Crabtree.

*         *         *         *         *         *         *         *         *         *         *

It was the revving of the engine of the birds. That authorised ornithologically approved automation sound of knowledge that colourful goodness would indeed abound – what an Insight to remember! Annotated Original Synopsis – there’s another one - got one – hand over it careful like a rare only fools and horses butterfly: a forgotten Insight. Put it in the Butterfly Net – a digital network of transmission signals – straight into the Heart Centre of Octavius Dave. That’s how it worked anyhow. So look at the one we got right now in our carefully hovering hands – a Forgotten Insight –load it up with butterfly-painted magnetic holograph paper clip – upload it to the Butterfly Net – from your own smaller Butterfly Net of course - and send it to Dave. Marylanders and East Gargantuans had naturally learned to use another 5% or so of their brains, making them often transmit a coloured stream of steam, like ethereal audio tape wafting off of them – and thus the Butterfly Catchers were a paid civic amenity – it was a well-credited job in fact. When you forgot inspirational or veracious things, they’d scoop it right up and send it to Octavius Dave, for sifting and sorting from there. You could use credit to access your Forgotten Insights anytime – and everybuddy had more than enough credit in the Western Realms of Gargantua and the Oneiverse. Alas, people had grown dependent on Dave – and the significance of remembering through Dave, that when he malfunctioned, they began to go about their daily business disoriented and with a little less purpose, at first… Things would only get worse, unless Octavius could be fixed.
This uprooted and marauding Bank of Forgotten Insights had been shut down thanks to a massive injection of buffering wheel fluid (BWL), by the Central Authorities of Wongon (CAW). How the gigantic beast had developed autonomy and slipped its chains, dragging its huge cable roots from deep within the mountain grounds, was still being investigated. Remarkably, no one had died, but many buildings had been properly Godzilla’d.
Fact scribbled away in his diary, whilst the Pranksters settled back to watch kick-off between CSKA Racists and the Zaylar Puritanical Stream – a huge techno lamppost of formidably high Ultimate Glory. No-one wanted the racists to win, obviously.


Sunday, 7 December 2014

CHAPTER 2 Molchian forces position themselves around the Earth


CHAPTER 2
Molchian forces position themselves around the Earth

Meanwhile, back in the universe the Pranksters had left behind, in that glorious game of Euroball, in the year Twenty Zorro Zorro, unconscionably evil forces were at work.14 years after the world had lost its Pranksters (without really noticing), things had crawled gradually further forward into chaos and despair. And yet it came to pass, ah rarrss, that a Social Revolution had occurred. One cheeky Prankster had got off the spacebus for a wee, and never came back. He waited until the age of 2.0 and bummed around in Stanmore for a bit until the Revolution had had its day, but somehow things had not changed in any way. Not in terms of general oppression, but some structures were now different. The Royal Family of England were no more – ushered into retirement with bloodless digital referendums – only to be replaced by a corporate monarchy of similarly greedy stance towards its subjects. Celebrities were the faces of companies – and companies were the royal courts – to please the populace, a Follower Competition had been launched, with the winner to be anointed as the Prince or Princess of the new state, Babylondon, or Babylon for short. Beating the eager beebers and footballers to the crown was the massive pop star, Byron Belle Sacha, the Prankster who forgot to get back on the bus, who squeezed out the beeber by 3,489 votes only mind you. The people had their prince X-Idol style – it was supposed to be the pinnacle of democracy, but it was all a bit seedy, weird, with a long hollow tail of horror wriggling in the shadows behind the thoughts and general day to day awareness of the humans of England – other countries followed suit, but it was England that stood once more at the forefront of global power, largely due to the music of Belle Sacha, the Premier League and Robin Crowe, the lotto lout from Middlesbrough who won enough to buy the big American computer giants, on a very very lucky dip on a rollover Euro millions. Europe became mere satellite states for England. Babylondon was where the world was controlled from now. And with the merger of the big companies, the Googlean iChip idea had been touted. Straight in the brain was the idea, less headaches than the glasses apparently, and all the apps your brain can eat. There was a big public reaction to it, and the new Prince had angered his masters by speaking out publicly against it. It was all set to go to another bloody digital vote.
Millennyway, what the people of Earth didn’t know, is that that lottery win was no fluke. In fact that lottery winner – Robin Crowe, was actually a hellish monster by the name of Molch, from a very lowly and wicked planet indeed, and he had been plotting the destruction of the Earth, as well as the enslavement or incineration of every soul on it, for quite a few years now. Anti-terror laws and propaganda had rendered it a virtual certainty that the digital referendum would see the mandatory insertion of the Googlean iChip into every living human. Most world leaders were now in some form of contract for information on national security with The Companies, and Robin Crowe had ensured that he would get what he wanted. To make absolutely sure he had also arranged for a massive virus to be unleashed. Partly for his general amusement, but also to ensure that the chip got a yes vote in every country. Subsequently, two nefarious Agents from planet Pandemonium (Molch’s world) were deployed by their leader to hover above the Earth and plant a virulent virus, whilst he continued his devilish work in the undercover human persona of Robin Crowe. All he would need to get the chip mandatory, was an unprecedented pandemic of Fear spreading throughout the globe, and the Prince of Babylon’s signature, of course.

Agent of Molch 1:
[Reciting] We’re just sitting here sitting here, living off each other’s fear.

Agent of Molch 2: Shut up and stick it in there.

Agent of Molch 1: You’ve got to say the words, otherwise it doesn’t work.

Agent of Molch 2: Bonnocks! You’ve should’ve upgraded your virus uploader by now.

Agent of Molch 1:
I did but it won’t come out of the free trial.

Agent of Molch 2: Look, let me do it, watch this.

He waved his gleaming red forefinger at a small cartridge resembling the topload insertion system of a sega mega drive, it clicked in. On the screen in their little media satellite red devil bug – a sort of space floating Herbie with horns - an image of the Earth rotated and a proliferating diagram of red and green dots did encircle the little digital globe.
‘There, it’s done now; the Fear Virus (FV) has spread across the Earth and is already panicking them into buying more things and hitting each other.
‘Good job Fred, agent of Molch 1.’
‘Cheers Barry, agent of Molch 2.’
‘Not Poodle? asked Barry.
‘Not half! enthused the evidently famished agent. Both agents were actually vegetarian and preferred Wolden Gunder’s Not Poodle range to the Pot Poodle range, which actually had poodle in it. Nevertheless, spreading despair across the galaxy was tiring business, so they ate their Not Poodles heartily, though not with relish because the relish had human rennet in it.
            PHASE ONE of OPERATION DESTROY THINGS was in operation. Soon the Fear Virus would spread across the Earth. ‘I will tell these miserable Earthlings that only the Googlean iChip can save them, plant it in their brains, then kill them all! Muwah-ha-haha. All of them! Except for the rich, I can use their vanity and their comfort electricity. Muwahahahahhee – cough – cough,’ said Molch.
‘Was there something I can get you Robin?” asked Miranda from her office next door in The Big Companies Building in London Wall – he had left the intercom on.
‘Er...er... no thank you Miranda; I was just clearing my throat.
‘Very good Robin; don’t forget you have a meeting with the Priminister at 10.’
In the press conference room, the Priminister (as part of the Social Revolution, government had allowed schoolkids to select the spelling of the leadership title) began:
‘Now is the time to take the moral high-ground,’ said he in a grave and powerful voice, albeit whimpering just a touch. He went on to assert how, in an act of great benevolence, the government was sponsoring a 22 billion pounds assault on the Fear Virus, in cooperation with The Companies, I-chips for all, gratis! Of course there was a little bit tucked on at the end about how, for Health and Safety reasons of course, to avoid the spread of the disease, there was, red-tape-only need for compulsoriness… but quantities of which the government was saving lives had never been seen before, the Prince was all set to give it is blessing as well as Divad Breekham, a hot shot Geordie England football captain of the recent past (not to mention Chobby Barlton; the all-time record goalscorer). Of course, in the right and proper spirit of democracy, and according to specifically laid down criteria of the New Constitutions of the Social Revolution, a digital vote was necessary – but, naturally, nobody in their right mind would want to perpetuate Intergalactic Terrorism – the crowd laughed.
It didn’t take long for the Fear Virus to take hold – rather than an airborne virus; it was targeted straight at satellite dishes and mobile phone telephone masts. The dose was proportionate to the target’s susceptibility; many went raging mad instantly, others did slightly crazy things. The death toll was never quantified because all the statisticians gathering the data all went raving bonkers with The Fear.
            Cornea advertising was horrendous: ‘Don’t Get the Fear! Upgrade your iLenses to the iChip now…’ that sort of thing.