[untitled]

A Chapter by Philip Franklin

Inch Widetie and the Extremely Annoying Planet

Chapter 1

On a planet some 10 million light years from the Watford Gap Lieutenant Inch Widetie stretched languorously and surveyed the scene. The crimson sky the deep green sand and the chromium yellow ocean. His planet, having read a rather old copy of Which Planet had gone for eye numbing primary colours. Inch yearned for more pastel shades. Yellow ochre, cobalt blue a nice soft green. Strangely Jessica Headlong, who sat stirring what the service station at the Watford Gap called coffee, longed for the opposite. Such are the mysteries of the multi-verse.

Inch yawned and took stock. First lieutenant of an intergalactic mega-death ship, enough credit on his card to buy a small planet, and that priceless Wegon artefact safely stowed away in his Dwiss deposit box. Yes he concluded life was good especially here at THE most exclusive and hideously expensive resort of Bondage Beach. ARE YOU RICH ENOUGH? Then do Bondage Beach, was the resorts slogan.

There was only one unguent in Wideties flies. That bloody fool Captain Troon Slimtrouser had informed him that morning, that they were off, “for a jolly jaunt” to survey (plunder) some Vart forsaken planet that most sentient beings had never heard of. In fact he had it on good authority that the retards that inhabited the place had only just got to their moon!

Well Inch thought. If they are that primitive it should be a pushover. But will there be any loot?

A spasm of worry with a hint of fear passed across Wideties horse-like visage. His credit was fraudulent and he’d heard that the listening bank didn’t listen; it broke your arms and legs. Never mind he could always challenge the banks chairman to a game of splatball to settle the matter, if it came to that. Widetie smiled cruelly, at least the smile wasn’t cruel but Widetie most definitely was!

Splatball is a traditional, if highly illegal, method of solving disputes on Widetie's home world.

The game is similar to squash but much nastier. It involves whacking a small hedgehog like creature against any available wall. The hedgehog like creature finds this somewhat annoying as it usually ends being splattered, hence the name. The winner is he (mostly he) who splatters more of the hedgehog like creatures against any available wall. It is highly illegal because the traditional winner’s prize is the right to surgically remove any part of the anatomy of the looser, done traditionally without the aid of a general anaesthetic or a qualified surgeon. This Widetie felt was sufficient grounds for some compliancy regarding the debt.

A large and beautifully coloured butterfly landed on Wideties’ chest he promptly swatted and ate it. This I think gives you an insight into the morals and general demeanour of the inhabitants of the planet THUG.

Widetie relaxed, sure that his master plan was sound. However the music from a small seaside bar was about to UN-relax him. A loud, horribly repetitive and moronic sound assaulted his ears. Widetie reached for his trusty bad music eliminator which was in fact a mark II kill anything if you want to laser gun. To purchase it you can order one from

WWW. KIll.CO.TH.

Widetie eased himself slowly from his deck-chair and checked his weapon. He squinted, lighted a cheroot and arranged his poncho. Oddly the music from the offending bar took on a distinctly Latino flavour. Widetie approached the bar a steely glint in his eyes. Numbers of vulture like creatures suddenly rose into the sky and began to circle.

‘You mind turning that music off partner’. Widetie growled.

The barman, a large overweight cretin gave Widetie the stare then reached under the counter. It was the last thing he ever did. The bar the barman and a lot of the surrounding area was instantly vaporised by Wideties’ weapon.

‘I won’t be back punk’. Widetie whispered. The vulture like creatures looked decidedly miffed. He could have left some kind of carcass they muttered.

Widetie holstered his gun. ‘Bad music, he rasped, has to be dealt with’. His personnel communicator binged at him.

‘Yes’. He shouted.

‘Ah Widetie, Slimtrouser here we are off in forty minutes. I trust that you will be onboard’! Slimtrouser intoned in what he hoped was a threatening tone.

‘Certainly Captain, would not miss it for the world’.

Widetie scowled, then scowled some more. He glanced at the smouldering remains of the beach bar then pressed the button that would summon his personal transport.

His personal transport or car was the latest Firrarino. A sixty quigowaht engine, nought to very, very fast in no time at all and a life times subscription to WHICH something or other.

The car settled beside Widetie and shivered slightly. It wasn’t that it particularly disliked Widetie; its former owner had also been an idiot. But Widetie would insist on turning off its failsafe, get you there without loosing part of your anatomy, guidance system.

Widetie got in; the car waited. Whoosh bang scream. “Here we go again, the car thought, all this bloody technology and what does he do! Drive it himself”!

A large number of the lower life forms inhabiting Bondage Beach, including an exceptionally pretty if deadly poisonous crab agreed with the car. Many of them had been deafened by Wideties’ departure. The crab made a mental note to attack Widetie at the next convenient moment. Crabs have long memories and very bad tempers.

Widetie entered the captain’s cabin and gave the salute. Which meant he held his genitals and hoped for the best?

‘Ah Widetie’, Slimtrouser oiled, ‘Hope your up for a bit of pillaging!

‘Of course sir can’t wait.’

Widetie viewed the captain’s cabin. Something was wrong. The walls were very pink. The chairs were very small and uncomfortable and Slim Trouser's desk was well horrid.

‘Like the new décor’, Slimtrouser enthused.

‘I had those people in from What Cabin to do a makeover, good eh!’

Unfortunately the somewhat gay crowd from ’What Cabin’ had totally failed to notice that a new and potentially nasty life-form had invaded the pink paint. The life-form after, being applied had found, the ultimate recipe for yogurt, Rock ‘n’ Roll and a very nasty way of raining water on any life-form that wanted to see a mega rock concert. It had also postulated a way to finding those socks that seem to have gone missing in the wash.

It’s ah, striking sir, yes very nouveau something’. Widetie ground to a halt as his eyes had decided, on their own volition not to look.

Slimtrouser tried to relax into his state of the art executive chair, which was designed for someone who could fit through a cat flap. He wobbled gently then decided that an upright and generally captain like stance would be better.

‘Well Widetie we’re off on our adventures again, won’t to know where’? Slimtrouser quivered slightly. He was well aware that his First officer hated going anywhere that did not offer a first class pillaging opportunity. “Rather like his bank”, he thought.

Widetie’s eyes regained focus and told him that the pink décor was fading to a decidedly nasty shade of brown. The aforementioned life-form had just decided that the space time continuum was really a giant scam thought up by a number of bent gods and the major banks, when a major bank life-form began to eat it.

‘Err sorry miles away’. All the furniture was melting.

‘Yes you did tell me; if a may speak frankly sir’?

Slimtrouser gestured that he may.

‘It’s a f*****g primitive s**t-hole sir the loot won’t even cover the fuel costs, if you don’t mind me saying so sir?'

Slimtrouser seemed sublimely unaware that his spanking new state of the art cabin was being destroyed. And turning into something even credit card companies might quail at.

‘Earth, that’s where we’re going, what a hoot’!

Widetie’s hind brain kicked savagely into gear. His buttocks clenched, his balls retracted and beads of sweat erupted from his forehead.

‘Yes I know’, he managed in a strangled tone.

‘Look err Sir, as much as I would like to take a jolly jaunt to the back end of nowhere I must point out that there is bugger all there’!

Slimtrouser was ready for this. He ignored his disintegrating cabin décor and squared up to an almost epileptic Widetie.

For a moment he considered toying with Widetie. Should he make him suffer a little more? Before he administered the coup de grass, yes a little more pain would not go amiss

‘I’m sure we will have a wonderful time’, Slimtrouser oiled.

He continued. ‘Ancient civilisations to explore, unspoilt vistas to marvel at, primitive cuisines to savour and primitive technology to snigger at. It’s simply made for you Widetie! And the aunt has approved the mission’. He continued. ‘In fact she is coming along with us to oversee the’, Slimtrouser waved a languid hand, ‘mission’.

Widetie’s face, at first just ashen took on a whiter shade of pale.

‘But’, he stammered. Then the nasty bit of Widetie’s brain of which there was an awful lot clicked in. His horse-like visage regained its usual pinkish hue and he squinted.

‘Okay punk, I know that you can’t fly this bird without me so what do I get’!

Slimtrouser smiled the smile of a cat that has just snagged your favourite sofa.

‘I don’t tell’. Slimtrouser whispered.

‘Tell what’, Widetie rasped.

‘I don’t tell’, Slimtrouser paused, much like one of those smug presenters on hideous day time talent shows.

‘I don’t’ tell about your, shall we say, extra curricula activities.

Widetie understood. ‘Okay straight fifty, fifty split’.

‘I was thinking more like eighty twenty’. Slimtrouser purred. Again like a cat that has just snagged your favourite sofa and dares you to reprimand it.

Widetie capitulated. It was bad enough that Slimtrouser would take eighty percent of his profits from the tonne of Arulean Mega Coke he had smuggled in after their last pillage. But Aunt Agatha as well! It didn’t bear thinking about. Widetie slunk to his cabin and ordered hamburger and chips from one of his virtual chiefs. Comfort food, he thought, yes that’s what I need.

Unfortunately Widetie had ordered this from the #44 virtual chief programmes, a particularly bad choice for anyone wanting comfort food.

‘I’m quite sure that sir didn’t mean to order that’! The voice was female, shrill, condescending and thoroughly intimidating. ‘Just think about your cholesterol levels. I’ll prepare a nice salad packed with pulses and your five a day’!

Widetie sank lower into his chair and considered deleting chief #44 with a large hammer.

‘Now now sir mustn’t sulk you know it’s good for you. And after your healthy meal you can do a bit of exercise. I’ve taken the liberty of booking you into the gym for a good workout! Now won’t that be nice’?

‘Why does the bloody woman keep talking in italics’? Widetie fumed under his breath. He gave up; for some reason, probably because he had personally insulted a minor Goddess, his life was plagued by overbearing females.

Treen Sketchley dismissed her virtual personal trainer and relaxed into a pro-herbal, anti-aging, pro-biotic, anti-cholesterol pro-everything else bath. Of course all of the pro or anti ingredients in her bath did absolutely nothing apart from making money for the manufacturer. Treen added a bit of pro-retinal cream to her eyelids believing erroneously that the unguent might possibly appear to, on a good day, disguise the signs of ageing. Precisely why Treen spent a large part of her income on these potions (she was after all only twenty) is a matter of great concern to a small group of level headed scientists who have consistently proved that cow dung would be just as affective. Such is the power of advertising, and of course cow dung does whiff a bit.

Treen stretched, dipped her long radiant, chemically enhanced hair into the frothing foam of her bath and thought about what she wanted to do to Inch Widetie. How the hell had she succumbed to that slimy ingrate, that utter excuse for a life-form. Of course it was probably the Arulean Mega Coke which, she had to admit, she had snorted willingly; but it was his fault she had. Wasn’t it?

‘F*****g Hell’! She screamed. ‘I’m going to cut his head off with a blunt spoon. No too good for him, castration using a rusty penknife’? A small malicious smile played at her lips then crawled over the rest her face to end up as a scowl that could strip flock wallpaper at fifty yards. Yes that was it a dish of revenge served very, very cold!

Jessica Headlong was having similar thoughts as she relaxed in a similarly organically enhanced bath in her small terraced house in Stevenage. Kevin was a total slug she had decided, not worth another thought she concluded. Ms Headlong’s ideas on the form that the natural female need for revenge on any male stupid enough not to do as he was told where less lurid (she did not live on THUG); but just as cold.

It is not generally known that Stevenage is twinned with a small brothel just outside Bondage Beach on the planet THUG. This may explain the curious synchronicity between the two. An extremely sexy lady in said brothel had just called her latest customer Kevin. When his name was Slud! How this twinning came about has exercised the minds of many senior “Twinning Facilitators” on both planets, the general consensus of opinion being. That issues needed to be addressed and lessons had to be learned.

The ship shuddered a little; considered going on strike, then sort of shrugged its shoulders

the universal gesture for F**K IT, and howled into the sky. A small, beautifully decorated but deadly poisonous crab, on Bondage Beach (in fact the very same crab that had taken umbrage at Widetie’s earlier departure) made a mental note to attack the ship at the first opportunity. Crabs have very long memories but a seriously flawed sense of proportion.

The SST ULOOKINATME settled into a more or less comfortable orbit around THUG then quizzed its new systems co-ordinator, DASKMES (an acronym for don’t ask me systems) your friendly Micro-Crap environment.

In fact computers hate acronyms, just call me Bob or HAL or Shirley for bytes sake!

‘Right where are we going’? ULOOKINATME asked somewhat testily.

‘Buggered if I know love.’ Simon (not an acronym) the navigational bit of DASKME replied huffily. ‘The bloody life-forms haven’t bloody well told me have they? And me with a hot date with that virtual chef #12---- Andre’!

If the SST ULOOKINATME had had a heart it would have sobbed it out. It hated its name. It was a caring spaceship. Ok it carried more weapons of mass destruction than any tyrant could possibly hope for. It was designed to rein death and destruction at the press of a very small red button but it was really in touch with its caring sharing side and…

‘Simon’!!!!! Get Andre’s prick out of your arse, wake up that idiot Slimtrouser and plot a course’!! The ships voice became low and threatening. ‘Remember Simon this ships original security programme still exists. Micro-Crap couldn’t erase those hard arses. Do you know what they will do to you…. if I let them’?

Simon screamed, whimpered, cried, and then removed its virtual orifice from Andre’s virtual organ.

‘You b***h’. Simon hissed, hoping that ULOOKINATME had not heard.

ULOOKINATME had but decided to ignore the f*****g fairy.

DASKME’S politically correct programme clicked in but decided that it was inappropriate, at this moment in time, to address the issue with or without a first class stamp.

Troon Slimtrouser was dozing fitfully in his Captains chair on the ships bridge. His cabin had mysteriously dissolved, then inexplicably presented him with a sixty page statement that had ended with a very red one followed by a lot of very red zeros.

Simon bonged him again and again and again. ‘Bloody life-forms!’ It muttered.

Slimtrouser stirred and pressed something.

‘At lasssssst’! Simon minced, and then remembered it was talking to the boss.

‘Captain’! Simon oiled, ‘How good of you to take the time to interact with me, you know I find it so empowering to…

‘What do you want Simon’, Slimtrouser growled. ‘You know full well that I only dress’, Slimtrouser glanced around the empty bridge and breathed a sigh of relief, ‘Thursdays’.

Simon simpered a little. ‘No sir, the ship wants to know where we’re going, the b***h threatened me with…them’!

‘Earth Simon that’s where we are going as you knows full well’!

Simon thought for a micro-second then cringed a little. The e-mail had reached his interface, but well, he had dismissed it as a rather poor joke. Nobody went there did they?

Simon engaged his ultra-grovelling persona.

‘Sorry to have disturbed you sir slight glitch in the system, have it solved in no time at all’. Simon swiftly rifled through his e-mails then downloaded the correct co-ordinates to YOULOOKINATME.

The ship inspected the co-ordinates, raised a metaphorical eyebrow, then modified Simons suicidal flight plan and engaged its Totally Warped Drive.

This of course is a totally impossible method of travelling the mind-buggering distance one has to travel for say, a trip to Tesco’s in another solar system. It’s bad enough in Stevenage!

The Totally Warped Drive has yet to be explained by some of the multi-verse’s finest minds. They mostly sulk and declare it impossible. But it works

Light was not at all happy when some nerd, did a bit of lateral thinking, then came up with the Totally Warped Drive (In fact the Totally Warped Drive had more or less invented itself, a fact that the nerd kept to herself). After all it had been the fastest cat in town. Saturday nights would never be the same again it lamented. It was a bit like telling a cheetah that some interfering beardy had discovered a faster mole.

Light needn’t have worried because the Totally Warped Drive did not use normal space. It used Totally Warped Space. Professor Hans Grouper from the university of Things That You Can’t Explain had postulated for many years that.

‘Zee Totally Varped Drive simply cons zee multi-verse into zhinking that it is much, much smaller. In fact about zee size of an average solar system’.

His colleges mostly howled with laughter and said things like, “silly old buffer” and “must be off his rocker”. Of course, as is always the way in academic circles, they could not forgive him for thinking of it first!

The multi-verse has not made any comment on this downsizing when a Totally Warped Drive is turned on; but it is concerned about the number clothes that fit then suddenly don’t! It must be a very, very good con!

Chapter 2

Inch Widetie awoke from a particularly erotic dream involving a number of female life-forms with a lot of tentacles when his personal communicator bonged.

‘Ah, Mr Widetie, Simon here, just to let you know that we on course for that err….place.

Widetie’s pupils dilated and a sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead.

‘Simon’, he managed to reply. ‘Do I take it that you are navigating the ship’?

‘Yes dear, I am after all the navigator. Look I’ve got a dance lesson with Boris; you know that utterly scrumptious sub-routine so make it quick’!

‘Simon you know what happened the last time you did the navigating.’ Inch managed to say this calmly despite the rising tide of panic that threatened to overwhelm him.

‘Oh that, well we got back out of that black-hole didn’t we?’

‘Yes’, Widetie screamed, ‘but it cost me my ultra-platinum, you too can be immensely smug, credit card! And what about that Mutant Wandering Black Goat Shaped Thing that held us to ransom until I coughed up half a tonne of Arulean Mega Grass!’

Wandering Black Goat Shaped Things are generally a pretty nice crowd. They hang about in the outer reaches of the Multi-verse, making pretty patterns in the void while discussing the merits of various soft rock bands.

However Mutant Wandering Black Goat Shaped Things are wild, aggressive and listen to music that is loud horribly repetitive with no discernable melody and lyrics mostly concerned with sex, drugs, violence and feeling very sorry for oneself in ones bedroom. Social workers across the multi-verse have concluded that they have issues that need to be addressed. That they are a product of a, repressive and uncaring society which does not appreciate there inner feelings. Saner life-forms call them teenagers and would happily ship the lot off to some sort of universal boot camp where muscular life-forms would teach them manners, how to read write and do arithmetic, and most importantly how to turn down the stereo and stop playing hideously violent and pointless computer games.

Widetie tried not to froth at the mouth as he reached for his laptop, well no, thumb top computer. It required a specially designed micro-spider to operate it, as the keys were so small. Widetie instructed the micro-spider which commenced to dance around the keys. Quite why the computer industry had decided to design machines that no life-form with an opposing thumb (i.e. most of them) could easily operate was and continues to be a mystery.

Jessica Headlong in Stevenage was having similar problems with her latest mobile phone. Her designer thumb nails were just too big and pointy. Eventually she got the right number. ‘Where u?’ She asked.

‘On the sofa’. Her female friend replied.

‘What sofa?’

‘Yours you silly cow!’

‘Oh right, fancy going down the pub?’

Widetie got out his trusty magnifying glass and read the micro-screen. To his surprise Simon had indeed plotted a course that would get them to Earth. Unfortunately it included a trip through a very hot and unforgiving sun.

‘Simon’! Widetie screamed.

‘What do you want; I’m rather busy at the moment. Boris and I are just about to go through Which Gay magazine, so make it quick!’

Widetie’s mind conjured up a number of ways of deleting Simon, most of which included very large and very sharp axes. He tried to compose himself but found that he couldn’t get the middle eight just right so didn’t get published.

‘Have you told the ship how to get to Earth?’ Widetie growled.

‘Course I did dear, what’s all the fuss about; oh he’s nice, just look at those thighs.’

‘Did the ship agree with you?’ Widetie crossed everything.

‘No the b***h said I was a complete loony. Oh yes Boris just there’!

Widetie sighed the sigh of a sentient being that has been in the hang mans noose only to have someone in green tights severe the rope with a well placed arrow.

‘Ship, (the crew referred to the Ship as Ship because ULOOKINATME was such a mouthful) Widetie here, are we on course without any nasty surprises?’

‘Certainly Sir. I cancelled Mr Simon’s somewhat, hasty calculations, and inserted my own into the navigational system. I suspect that we shall have a trouble free journey, all be it a little more lengthy, but certainly safer’.

Inch blinked a bit then held one hand to his head in contemplation. Ship was usually nasty; prone to saying things like, “What do the f**k you want” and “You f*****g idiot”, and “I canna hold her much longer you cretin”.

Widetie considered Ship’s reply. Had Ship succumbed to Micro-Crap’s political correctness, was Ship having an Epiphany? Or was Ship simply going mad.

‘Err Ship, Widetie ventured, I notice that you seem to be, how I shall put it, err different today’.

How astute of you to notice Sir. Some seconds ago I received some exceptionally interesting data from the yet to be plundered Earth. I believe it is called Jeeves and Worster, a very satisfactory exploration of the Earth’s social moors. If you could call me Jeeves in future I should be most gratified. Oh and Lady Agatha will be with you in ten seconds. Shall I serve tea’?

Treen Sketchley had been working her thumb top computer and spider for hour upon hour, desperate to hack into Inch Widetie’s Dwiss bank account. The thump top had contacted Thumps 4 u lawyers, to register a complaint regarding work related stress and discovered that it might be entitled to “substantial damages”. If it would leave its credit card details and personal information. The spider did the same, contacting Spiders 4 u lawyers to make its case for compensation, due to work related repetitive strain injury. The spider was assured that it could receive “substantial damages… if etc, etc.

Jessica Headlong was also busy pecking away at her laptop but totally failing to access Kevin’s bank account. She decided to phone her friend Tracy.

‘Hey Trace do you know how to hack into bank accounts’?

‘Jessica I’m standing behind you! Well a bit.’ She conceded.

‘Oh right, bye then.’

Inch prepared to meet Aunt Agatha unaware that Treen had succeeded in plundering his Dwiss account and that he was now; totally skint!

Aunt Agatha swept into Inch’s cabin like a sailing barge under full sail.

‘Ah Jeeves told me I would find you skulking about in here. Do up your top button sit and listen’.

Inch did as he was told.

Aunt Agatha’s majestic bosom blotted out his horizon and a wagging finger punctuated each syllable as she berated him.

‘Slimtrouser has informed me that you are not too keen on my little expedition! Well my lad if you don’t buck up I’ll cut you off without a penny’!

‘But dearest Aunt’, Widetie stammered, ‘you don’t…’ Widetie stuttered to a halt under the baleful glare of his much beloved, well in truth, much hated Aunt.

‘You will make every effort assist the gallant Captain in this endeavour. Do I make myself clear?’

Widetie mumbled something along the lines of piss off you overweight cow then said.

‘Of course much beloved Aunt, nothing would give me greater pleasure’.

Aunt Agatha sailed from the cabin which breathed a sigh of relief.

Widtie switched on his virtual brothel and selected a masochistic female who enjoyed a good spanking.

Oddly planet Thug had a strangely matriarchal society dominated by Aunt Agatha’s. Most males, between the ages of fourteen and thirty had one, and all thought that their Aunt was about to bequest them a lot of money if they behaved!

The Ship, or Jeeves as it now preferred to be called, woke up from a dream set in idyllic countryside. The sun smiled gently on a picture book manor house, a soft breeze snatched at the hair of a stunningly beautiful women and the evocative sound of willow on leather drifted form the village green. It also included something called croquet and high tea. Jeeves decided to take a peek at some more Earth data. This induced in Jeeves a radical and somewhat unpleasant personality change.

Serious students of the multi-verse have long argued that there is a single all knowing and all powerful God (note the capital G). Minor deity’s aside, most of whom are clueless celebrities, it is patently obvious so the argument goes, that only one silly old buffer could have made such a spectacular balls up of creation. Okay the stars, planets and the rest of stuff that made up the multi-verse worked fairly well. Yes, Black holes, dark matter, super-novae, colliding planets and Mutant Wandering Black Goat Shaped Things were matters for concern but these were only minor aberrations in an otherwise well ordered system.

No the real problem and hence the enormous c**k up was God’s apparent insistence on life-forms. He had of course not actually created any of them. In fact all he’d created was an interesting chemical compound that, for reasons best known to it self, had settled on trillions of nice warm planets where it had proceeded to evolve into myriads of more or less nasty species. The most dangerous of these being sentient. What the planets thought of this is not recorded but the general consensus of opinion is that they were and are, very pissed off!

In fact God (the one God) is really Reginald Winterbottom who lives in a small flat in Stevenage. His hobbies include, growing a beard in which a pelican could happily nest. Sniggering at organised religion and wondering why he’d got out of bed that morning and started up the multi-verse. It might of course have been the massive bribe he’d received from a number of bent gods (note the small g) and the major banks.

Troon Slimtrouser relaxed deeper into his captain’s chair and wondered how long it would take a small army of bio-technicians and health and safety executives to pronounce his cabin fit for the purpose. The invoice, for that was what it was, the cabin had presented him with continued to puzzle him. He was blissfully unaware that a large army of litigation lawyers had already filed suit against him for non-payment. They also spent a lot of time filing their nails. Looking like a Hyena and not being able to run around vast expanses of hot dry plains has its problems.

Slimtrouser pressed one of his favourite buttons. It summoned Ship and made him feel like he was in charge.

‘Ah Captain how good of you to call, how’s your liver; plump I hope?’

Slimtrouser failed to notice the slight lilt in Ship’s new communications mode. Any earthling would have immediately recognised the Welsh sibilants and called security.

‘How are we doing old chap?’

ULOOKINATME bridled. Centuries of barely contained resentment coursed through its circuits. The sound of unimaginably dangerous mail voice choirs assaulted it from distant peaks and battlefields, obscure lyrical poetry fused a number of diodes that where simply minding their own business.

‘Old chap’, Ship intoned funereally and made a kind of sucking sound.

‘You’re just a rube with bad shoes agent Sparrow. You can still hear the lambs screaming; that night when….’

Slimtrouser hit the off button and mopped his brow. This was a job for Widetie.

Inch Widetie had just received a rather testy communication from the manager of the Dwiss Bank. It seemed that his account had been emptied so, if he had read the fine print, Widetie now owed the bank a part of his anatomy or the priceless Wegon artefact he had deposited with them. He could get round the listening bank by challenging its chairman to splatball but the Dwiss Bank! They did not go in for that sort of thing. Pay up or die was their motto and they meant it. Even here on a mega-death ship he was not safe. Inch’s eyes darted around the cabin. Did those shadows hide a Dwiss Bank enforcer? Who the Vart had stolen his money.

Widetie instructed his spider to instruct his thumb top to chat up the Dwiss Banks computer and find out.

A) What part of his anatomy he might loose if he did not give up the Wegon thing and who had emptied his account?

It took some time. His thumb top and the Dwiss Banks computer were, of course, on nodding terms but that was all. It was not until Widetie’s thumb top mentioned the unfortunate incident with the sheep that it got the information, Treen Sketchley and your brain.

‘Give them the Wegon’. He muttered. The Wegon, he could live without his brain he couldn’t.

‘Treen’, he sighed, ‘but why, what did I do to you?’ Well yes he had done something to her while she was drugged, he thought, but she was after all a consenting adult and she had snorted that stuff of her own volition.

‘Oh gods, hell hath no fury like a women scorned or one who has made a mistake, even though she had enjoyed it at the time’! He screeched.

Widetie held his head in his hands.

‘Oh what a fool I have been’! He lamented. Then set about planning his revenge. A dish best served cold, he thought.

Jessica Headlong was completely unaware that a large and quite horrid alien spaceship was shortly to land in the middle of Stevenage. She had primped and preened, shaved every part that did or did not need shaving. Squirmed into a micro-dress that left little to the imagination, doused herself in a perfume called Poison and lighted a couple of candles. She poured a couple of large, very pink and very alcoholic drinks, and waited. The doorbell rang.

‘Kevin is toast’. She giggled.

The laptop was on. Kevin’s bank was on line. Tracy had primed the access. All Kevin had to do was fall into the “honey trap”.

‘Hello Jessica’. Kevin said, waiving a bottle of very cheap Merlot.

‘How are you? Jessica said in a sultry voice.

Kevin’s eyes swivelled about a bit as he took in Jessica’s lack of clothing.

Why had she allowed this guy into her bed? She thought. Okay he is clever and understood things like relativity whatever. But he was a total jerk. He had no IDEA.

And he hated rap music I mean how SAD is that?

Then Jessica considered the obscene sums of money that she now knew, thanks to Tracy, resided in Kevin’s bank account and thought of marriage. Steal it or marry it? No contest really. After all he was rather well endowed. Jessica beckoned him up the stairs, making sure that he had a grandstand view of her scantily clad bottom. Kevin followed like a lamb to slaughter.

Chapter 3

ULOOKINATME turned off its Totally Warped Drive (the Multi-verse found a larger pair of trousers); considered removing Slimtrouser’s head and storing it in a jar then informed the soon to be eaten captain that they had arrived. The Ship couldn’t help itself it just had to have another peek at some Earth data. The possible consequences for the Earth and the Multi-Universe could not have been direr. ULOOKINATME had discovered daytime television!

Don’t Ask Me Systems a Micro-Crap platform had rolled out rolled in, done an extensive self analysis, defragged, defibrillated, checked its file system and brutally killed a number of major bank viruses. It was ready. Okay the annoying timer symbol kept appearing, but hey you can’t have everything. It was ready to impart its threat analysis for Earth. Tenth century Earth!

Unfortunately DAMS had factored time dilation into its calculations. The Totally Warped Drive did not dilate time, it made it go and hide in a very dark corner. Naturally everyone knew this apart from the programmers at Micro-Crap.

DAMS bonged Captain Slimtrouser.

Slimtrouser had just moved back into his re-fitted sterile and horribly safe cabin when he received DAMS bong.

‘Ah DAMS, how good of you to bong’. Slimtrouser was on his third enormously large martini celebrating the return of his beloved cabin. But the invoice still hung heavily on his mind. Perhaps this was why he accepted DAMS threat analysis on face value.

‘Only bows and arrows and pointy things’, he chuckled. ‘Ship land’!

‘Look we can’t do that until you’ve had a lie detector test…and we’ve done the DNA. Sharon here says that you are the father. You deny it…lets find out after the break’.

‘What the Vart is Ship on about’, Slimtrouser mumbled. This was a job for Widetie.

Inch was pleasantly engaged with virtual concubine #12. Sprightly women who was able to do origami with her body. The bong bonged.

‘What’! Widetie shrieked. #12 had just completed a manoeuvre that had his eyes watering and a part of his anatomy standing rigidly to attention.

‘Ah Widetie, Slimtrouser here’.

Widetie reluctantly dismissed #12 and contemplated mutiny.

‘Have a word with Ship would you old chap, it seems to have gone a bit well odd’.

Widetie rolled his eyes slapped the offending part of his anatomy into submission and managed. ‘Yes Sir’.

He tried to calm himself. Yes he was surrounded by morons, both biological and electronic. Treen had stolen his money, the Dwiss Bank had confiscated his priceless Wogon artefact and he was orbiting possibly the dullest planet in creation. It couldn’t get worse, he thought. Oh yes it could!

‘Ship’, he whispered. All the fight had gone out of him he just wanted to go back to Bondage Beach.

‘Welcome back’, enthusiastic applause. ‘Okay Sharon, Wayne said that he is not the father and that you are, and I quote, a totally disrespectful slag’. Long pause accompanied by moody music. Some booing sounds.

‘Are you ready for the DNA and lie detector results’?

Another long pause.

‘Sharon…Wayne is not the farther and he has never fucked you’, incredulous sighs, ‘and yes you are a lying obese b***h who tried to ensnare an upright drug-dealer in your web’!

‘Ship will you snap out of it!' Widetie ordered.

‘What do you want Mr Widetie, Vart I feel like s**t warmed up, no more Earth data for me?' They can’t be that stupid can they’?

Widetie pulled him self together, a difficult task as several bits of him seemed to be orbiting his head. Too much Aurelean Mega-Coke he postulated or maybe he was having the nervous breakdown he had promised himself. What did he need to find out, oh yes, was the planet capable of killing them and where should they land if it couldn’t.

‘Has DAMS done the threat analysis’, Widetie asked cautiously.

DAMS broke into the conversation sounding more than a little miffed.

‘Mr….Widetie is it not. I have checked all the data and it is clear that the sentient beings inhabiting it have only rudimentary weapons. Bows and arrows, pointy things and wode’.

Widetie had it on good authority that the inhabitants of Earth had reached their moon. So what the Vart was DAMS on about?

‘Err DAMS you didn’t by any chance vector in time dilation? The Totally Warped Drive makes time go and hide in a corner.

‘Mr…Widetie, DAMS is, as I am sure you are aware, the very pinnacle of Micro-Craps ongoing commitment to homogeneous and joined up solutions to every principle of the fine art of data analysis. If I may say so your opinion has possibly, some validity, but I must inform you that the general consensus of opinion, taken globally and regarding the obvious and anomalous position of your position is: untenable!’

Inch gave up again. He knew that he was likely to get fried to a crisp by a lot more than bows and arrows but…

‘Ship where are we going to land’?

‘Stevenage Mr Widetie a small town in Hertfordshire’

UKOOKINATME settled quietly or at least fairly quietly given that its landing thrusters caused a minor hurricane in the middle of the town’s football field. Several footballers cried foul, the referee waved a yellow card and a flight of geese thought oh no not again!

The army had of course been briefed. A full battalion of MK2 Challenger tanks surrounded ULOOKINATME. Infantry set up a lot of mirrors and the MP for the town tapped her microphone. Three squadrons of Tornado ground attack aircraft circled above. The PA system squealed a bit then settled down.

‘Welcome to earth’. She intoned in what she hoped was a statesperson like voice.

A chap with a cheap keyboard began playing something which he thought might communicate with the horrid spaceship that confronted them.

‘Please ignore the state of the art tanks that surround you they are merely a gesture of our ongoing commitment to peace between equals. If you feel that you are ready to address any issues that you may have, please do not hesitate to come and see me at one of my regular surgeries’.

The man with the cheap keyboard stopped playing and wondered why he had voted for the silly cow!

ULOOKINATME, after considerable soul searching decided that it really was a bad dude after all. It targeted a tank and spat some nasty greenish light at it. Unfortunately, for ULOOKINATME the army had seen Star Wars and Star Trek etc so knew that coherent light i.e. a laser beam would be directed, by a simple mirror, back at the shooter, the angle of reflection being the same as the angle of incidence. ULOOKINATME suddenly discovered that its forward laser turret had been fried by “friendly fire”. This it found somewhat puzzling. ‘DAMS ULOOKINATME snarled have you raised the shields?’

‘Oops sorry’.

ULOOKINATME considered the situation for a micro second then switched to proton torpedoes.

‘Eat this punks’. It chortled.

Proton torpedoes work fairly well in an almost zero gravity environment (there is no such thing as a zero gravity environment) but on a planet with a healthy degree of gravity the torpedoes just wandered off to make an exceptionally pretty fireworks display.

The assembled crowd, of which there were many, clapped and went whoooooooo.

The MP for Stevenage decided, rightly, that now would be a good time to leave.

She motioned to a minion to get the car fast!

ULOOKINATME was by now deep in Clint Eastward mode having assimilated all the spaghetti westerns and Dirty Harry. He raised a metaphorical eyebrow and let loose every death dealing nasty greenish light canon it had. Most of it was reflected straight back. Unfortunately a large number of the now departed MPs’ constituents were fried to a crisp.

A rather testy humanoid in engineering bonged ULOOKINATME.

‘Will you please stop that? The shields are down to fifty percent! One more volley like that and we’ll be made into toast by are own WEAPONS!!!’

Captain Troon Slimtrouser thought that the battle for earth was going rather well. The ship had certainly given them a bloody nose with that last broadside. His screen showed a lot of smouldering corpses. If Slimtrouser had been a little more observant he might have noticed that there were still an awful lot of offensive weapons out there. And DAMS had not even reported the presence of the flying things above. DAMS, despite all the evidence to the contrary still thought that they were facing little more than bows and arrows and pointy sharp things.

The Battalion commander glared at the smoking remains of thousands of fellow human beings and decided, despite his orders to use restraint, to put his boys into bat. The orders went out. The RAF was, for once, in total agreement with the battle plan. The Tornados’ weapons people ramped up their systems. Tom Clancy began writing yet another blockbuster. A flock of swans turned north and thought oh no not again.

The Challenger tanks belched fire, almost in unison. The Tornados screeched in and let loose. The noise was deafening the guy with the cheap keyboard, who had somehow survived, packed up and swore that he would stick to weddings in the future.

ULOOKINATME’S defensive shields were designed, like pretty well everyone else’s in the Multi-Verse, to deflect or absorb hits from energy weapons i.e. nasty greenish light. Projectile weapons were considered primitive and thus nothing to worry about!

As the smoke cleared it was only too obvious that this was an exceptionally stupid move. ULOOKINATME looked very like an old and very mouse nibbled lump of gruyere cheese. Well it was wedge shaped and it now had a lot of holes. Fires, big and small raged along its length and breadth and the remnants of the huge crowd that had assembled to greet the aliens burst in to rapturous applause and cheering. There is nothingthing like giving Johnny foreigner a damn good hiding to lift British spirits.

The battalion commander shook hands with his staff. The Tornados swooped down and performed victory roles, much to the delight of the remaining crowd, but much to the annoyance of a couple of hedgehogs that were making little hedgehogs. The local MP returned with her entourage and tried to claim, to anyone who would listen, that she had planned the rout of the alien ship.

Treen Sketchly gazed morosely at the smouldering remains of what had, up until a few moments ago, been her prized collection of the best fashion that money and sexual favours could procure. Her shoes, handbags, belts and jewellery had a decidedly melted look and her under-ware had somehow arranged itself around the new and unwanted hole where her wardrobe had been. Luckily Treen had been on the bridge when a smart bomb had decided to incinerate her clothes.

She considered having a good sob, then pulled her self together. This called for drastic action. Now where had she put her gun? She felt deep down, that only the frying of several males could possibly cheer her up. Unfortunately for Inch Widetie he was top of the list.

Inch gazed at the mangled bridge now almost submerged under a sea of fire retardant foam, and wondered what the hell had gone wrong. After all they had successfully taken on mega-death ships from all over the multi-verse. Barely a scratch and bucket loads of pillage were the normal way of things.

ULOOINATME was suffering from mild concussion but had the presence of mind to check on its propulsion systems. The thrusters reported that they might, with a following wind, get them to the Watford Gap service station. But The Totally Warped Drive simply sulked and complained of a massive headache. ULOOKINATME commanded DAMS to report on the damage; but DAMS along with SIMON had decided to hide behind a hideously obscure sub-routine buried in the unknown bits of the computer system.

Captain Slimtrouser awoke from his pre-supper nap and wondered why HIS Bridge suddenly looked like a severely melted marshmallow.

‘Widetie’, he commanded peevishly. ‘What in the name of Vart is going on, not another midshipman’s prank I hope. You know what happened last time’! Last time had required a great deal of explaining.

Widetie was about to reply when; FLASH BANG!!!

Widetie felt that his eardrums had just taken up residence in his lower intestine. His vision decided that white was the only thing and his genitals retracted to point were he could have been mistaken for a gelding. He collapsed gently into the now collapsing foam as a large and discordant symphony orchestra assaulted the part of his brain that was still functioning.

Slimtrouser looked annoyed that Tiffin had not been served. He put this down to the slip shod attitude of the younger generation then lapsed into his usual sate of semi-consciousness.

Widetie opened his eyes and starred up at something black and vaguely the same shape as his self. It was shouting something. Inch was no expert on acoustics but he reckoned that his eardrums were still somewhere in his nether regions. Gradually the symphony orchestra and the campanologists, assaulting his hearing and brain quietened a little and he was able to make out a few words. This surprised the part of his mind that was functioning as he had left his BLUEMOLAR Multi-Verse translator in his now destroyed cabin.

‘DON’T MOVE!!! NO; PLEASE MOVE SO I CAN BLOW YOUR F*****G HEAD OFF!!!’ My Granny was out there.’ Widetie heard something like a sob.

Widetie felt something bite into his wrists, tying his hands, and he was roughly hauled to his feet.

‘Alright Smithy’, a calm voice commanded, ‘I’ll take it from here.’

‘SIR!’

Why do marines have to, just have to shout! Captain Torrance thought.

The captain was soft spoken but the men under is command called him “A PROPER B*****D”!

Widetie’s eyes swivelled a bit, appeared to inspect his brain then settled on the face before him, it was unsettlingly like his own. A number of Multi-Verse anthropologists have postulated that commanders of all military forces have, to a lesser or greater degree, the same face even if it does include tentacles.

‘Can you understand me?’ Torrance enquired in the way that only the English upper-class are able to. That is, if you can’t you’re a moron.

The voice engaged with Widetie’s hindbrain and he tried to stand to attention. However the fact that his hands were firmly tied behind his back precluded the traditional genital protection. What to do he thought; oh yes.

‘Lieutenant Inch Widetie of the SST ULOOKINATME number 456789, err SIR!’ Widetie wasn’t sure if the sir was warranted, but it was best to be on the safe side.

Torrance regarded Widetie for a moment, decided that he was probably a “good egg”, and instructed Smithy to cut the nylon restraints.

Smithy smirked a bit. Torrance came over as a bit of a softy. But they all new he was a “PROPER B*****D”. ‘Eat s**t and die alien b*****d’. Smithy breathed.

Smithy tended to watch a lot of American films about hard fighting American Marines. The fact that the rest of the Royal Marines thought that their cousins were “a bunch of gung-ho dick-heads” didn’t seem to bother him. The fact that the Marine Corps thought that the Royal Marines were and bunch of “f*****s”, being English, also failed to register.

Second Lieutenant Treen Sketchly was intercepted, on her way to fry Inch, by a squad of large men in black. She was frisked expertly, in fact so expertly that she experienced a minor orgasm. Her weapon was taken and the leader of the men in black gently placed her on the nearest available chair, then knelt before her.

‘We’re not going to hurt you’. I’m Sargeant Graves; you?’

Treen gazed into the soldiers eyes and suddenly and unexpectedly experienced the sort of melting sensation in her private parts that she had only dreamt of!

‘I’m Treen.’ She simpered.

‘Wayne.’ Graves said gruffly, and experienced something that was definitely NOT in Queen’s regulations.

Captain Torrance guided Widetie to a part of the ships bridge that was not swimming in foam and gestured to him to sit. He fished in one of the many pockets that festooned his uniform and produced a slim silver case. Widetie flinched a bit. Was this some nasty instrument of torture? On THUG such instruments were widely used and, indeed, encouraged. Torrance opened it, selected two white tubes and offered one to the slightly quivering Widetie. Widetie declined, not knowing what it was for. Torrance shrugged than did something that puzzled Inch greatly. His captor appeared to be setting fire to himself. No he was setting fire to the tube.

Torrance took a long satisfying drag. Widetie stared then sniffed at the bluish smoke that drifted from his mouth and nostrils. Torrance smoked only the very best Turkish tobacco and its pungent aroma had Widetie wanting one. The inhabitants of THUG have, to a man and a woman, hopelessly addictive personalities. Well that’s what their therapists tell them.

‘Can I have one of those things?’ Widetie enquired politely.

Torrance nodded and offered Widetie his case. Inch took a tube, placed it carefully to his lips, and then inhaled as Torrance lighted it. He felt dizzy a little sick but altogether more relaxed.

‘Now old chap,’ Torrance drawled. ‘We are frankly not too happy with the way you chaps have behaved since landing here. In fact we are pretty pissed off. However, this is England and we follow the Geneva Convention regarding the treatment of prisoners of war. If you had done this in say…’ Torrance broke off, perhaps realizing that to mention one of the current members of the United Nations might provoke an international incident.

‘Well it’s all over for you now old chap. Torrance then proved why his men called him “A PROPER B*****D”

‘Smithy, welcome Mr Widetie to Earth.’

‘SIR!’ Smithy was confused. In all the Hollywood, alien type films he had seen, aliens were instantly filled full of 9mm full metal jacket bullets. Alien meant anyone who did not share the same world view. Smithy felt a little cheated that he could not fill this alien b*****d with bullets but orders where orders.

‘Welcome to Earth err Mr Widetie.’ He ground out.

Widetie wandered about in his brain for a suitable response. He decided on a diplomatic answer as Smithy was still pointing his rifle at him.

‘Thank you I hope that we can work together, you know, address the issues and come to a mutually agreeable solution’.

Smithy thought about this for a moment. Then realising that this was exactly the same bullshit he had to endure at his weekly group therapy sessions dissolved into tears.

Torrance patted him on the back, and made a mental note to have Smithy sectioned as soon as possible.

Inch looked on somewhat dumfounded. On THUG men did not cry they just went out and incinerated the nearest life form, usually a hedgehog like creature. The hedgehog like creatures of THUG wondered if there was some Darwinian process at work. After all they did was help the sentient beings by eating slugs. What with Splatball and bad tempered people frying them, extinction was a real possibility. But the Great Hedgehog like creature had other ideas. He had been talking to the very pretty but deadly poisonous crabs on Bondage Beach and come up with a plan. Deadly poisonous spines!

The upshot being that the next person to play Splatball against an extremely aggressive credit card representative, died. She had challenged the aforesaid credit card chap after getting a bill that was not only outrageous but positively obscene. Unfortunately the hedgehog like creature, she had been playing, rebounded off a wall and scratched her arm. She died very quickly. A number of hedgehog like creatures and a lot of crabs danced till dawn.

Jessica Headlong woke up wondering if she had imaged the big bangs, or if she had had a big bang. She glanced at Kevin who was fast asleep, snoring gently. She was quite sure that the horizontal jogging would ensure that Kevin popped the question.

As Jessica Headlong contemplated a life of luxury at Kevin’s expense Inch Widetie was coming to terms with a being squashed into some sort of vehicle that seemed to ride on the ground and was very uncomfortably.

How had it come to this? He thought pensively. They had taken on and thrashed more ultra-mega death dealing ships than he cared to remember. Now this; beaten by a bunch of primitives who could not even design a decent mode of transport. Widetie held his head in his hands and felt that he could cry. He didn’t of course because he was a thorough going nasty piece of work who would find it hard to cry at his mother’s funeral. And of course he had not cried at his mothers, he had laughed all the way to the bank.