So this is the Kingdom-Under-The-Hill, thought the old elf, stepping out of the train station. It didn’t resemble a magic kingdom so much as a Sao Paulo slum.
Rows of tar-paper shacks sprawled across the interior of what he presumed had once been a munitions bunker for the IRA, on those days when they had a little too much to drink, and got lost.
A short, dark man in tattered clothes scurried up, and shoved his hands in Mr. Santa Claus’ face.
“Tenho algum dinheiro?”
“Erhm, I’m here to see the Octoborg,” Mr. Santa Claus sang. He hoped this was someone’s joke –and wondered if they were having a good laugh right now.
“Venha.” The little man replied, beckoning Mr. Santa Claus toward the larger of the shacks. He stopped outside, and held out his hands again. Mr. Santa Claus frowned, dug into his pocket, and pulled out a few pence.
“Here. I think.” He dropped the coins in the man’s hand, and walked inside to meet the cyborg mollusk that could save the world. And there it was, in the middle of the small, dirty room, half-submerged in a small tank of water, bubbling placidly away while watching a small, crusty television. Mr. Santa Claus stopped a few feet short of the Octoborg, and coughed politely.
“Who the hell are you?” The Octoborg asked, tearing itself away from the television.
“Pardon?”
“Sorry, I have a cold.” It splished fitfully. “Can I help you?”
Mr. Santa Claus looked around, to make sure there wasn’t anyone else there.
“I was sent here. The Roboshark is eatin’ the world, and a bear I met this morning told me I need to talk to you about destroying it.”
“Oh, right.” The Octoborg slapped lazily at the water in its tank. “There’s nothing I can do, eh. Can’t leave this damn tank for long, else I turn into beef jerky.
“Well, can you give me something to kill the Roboshark with?
“You don’t need t’do anything, mate.”
“Come again?” He began to feel someone was having a laugh at his expense.
“Look,” the Octoborg replied, hauling itself out of its tank, “The Roboshark will be eating Dublin tomorrow night. Before he gets there, his insides will leap up through his mouth to escape, to avoid the impending alcohol poisoning. All you need to do is wait.”
Mr. Santa Claus pondered this for a moment. This wasn’t in the brochure. Or any brochure.
“Still,” he said, “I think I oughta have something, just ‘cause it’s what I was told to do.”
“Bloody hell,” the Octoborg sighed. “Here.” It groped around in the tank and fished something out. “Here. Take the Fabled Harpoon Of Ahab. If you use it on the Roboshark, he’ll be blown to bits… Or something.” It brandished a large, blunt, rounded white object, which it proffered to the old man. Mr. Santa Claus studied it. “Have fun.”
“This is a bowling pin.” Nick turned it over. “With an arrow crayoned on it. And you scribbled ‘Ahab’ on one side with a ballpoint pen.”
“The Octoborg has spoken!” Octoborg waved his tentacles imperiously. Glitter and streamers burst from the ceiling to the tune of a thousand angry kazoos. Television resumed. Mr. Santa Claus turned to leave, when a thought blundered into him.
“Say wait. You’re the Octoborg.”
“Yes. Yes I am. …Maybe.”
“What part of you is machine, then?” Mr. Santa Claus approached the tank. The Octoborg hoisted itself upside down, and flailed a small mechanical arm affixed to a spot beside its beak.
“This was all I could afford,” the mollusk said, flipping itself right side up. “And the bloody thing doesn’t even work most times. Now go away. Britain’s Got Talent is on.” It twitched an irritable tentacle at him, and turned the channel.
With a whiff, a poof, and a zazzle, he was gone.
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