Sir Henry Snailman, Esq.

Where the hell did my coffee go?!

Some artworks

GOD HAS SPOKEN.

Your guess is as good as mine.

The Underpants Of Fury: Part 5 - THE FINAL CHAPTER WHERE SOMETHING HAPPENS!

“Now where the hell am I?” Mr. Santa Claus said, looking about. The Scottish Highlands, by the looks of things. Fabulous. Several yards away, the Roboshark stood on a low rise, looking out across the land. He was making words. Mr. Santa Claus strained to listen.

            “From the dawn of time we came. Moving silently, down through the centuries.” The Roboshark was quoting Highlander, for reasons only it knew. Mr. Santa Claus brandished the Fabled Harpoon Of Ahab.

            “How cliché can you be?” He shouted, flapping his arms. The Roboshark turned, and grinned as best a tin and plastic sea creature can.

            “I’m glad you’re here, lad,” It said. “At first I was going to snack on Dublin for a bit, but when the Octoborg joopileed me here to fight you, I thought, hell, why not make an appetizer of Mankind’s Last Hope?” Its left leg buzzed and shot up into its torso. Roboshark toppled over ungraciously into the heather, crushing some roving Lilliputians. “Bloody hell,” it seethed, “Sorry ‘bout that.” Roboshark said. ”One minute!”

            “Err,” Mr. Santa Claus said. He held out the Harpoon Of Ahab, and charged the Roboshark. “I hope you like seafood, cause I’m gonna ram this harpoon up your ass!”

            What the hell? He thought. That was the dumbest thing anyone’s ever said in the history of ever. He raised the Fabled Harpoon Of Ahab, and brought it down with all his might on the Roboshark. At that moment he realized the other implications of his failed one-liner. His heart sank.

            The harpoon bounced off the Roboshark’s impenetrable tin skin, and sent a jolt through Nick’s arm. He leaped back to gather his strength. Nobody moved.

            “Erhm, would you mind exploding now, please? This is s’posed to kill you.” Mr. Santa Claus raised the Fabled Harpoon Of Ahabagain and slammed it on the Roboshark’s nose. And again. And again.

            “Ey! Cut it out! That’s really annoying!” The robot snarled, sprouting a leg. “And no, I don’t really feel like exploding just now. I’m feeling rather peckish. I think you’ll do. For now.” The Roboshark tore off Mr. Santa Claus’ arm and devoured it, Fabled Harpoon Of Ahab and all.

            “Hey, wait a minute! I can’t die! I’m the goddamn protagonist!” Mr. Santa Claus dropped to his knees, clutching the squirting stump his arm had been friends with. The Roboshark laughed, and tore off his other arm.

            “Or are you?” It asked, gulping it down. Fighting off the Blackout Fairies, Mr. Santa Claus pondered this.

            “Yes.”

            “Oh.” The Roboshark frowned. “Well,” he clucked, “It doesn’t matter. If I don’t kill you, the hemorrhaging will. So I may as well finish the job, so you don’t lie about whining and having tediously long flashbacks of your family and your sandwiches and your first pair of shoes. I can’t abide that sentimental mooshmish.” It bent low. “Buhbye, Nick Santa Claus.” It opened wide.

            Suddenly the clouds parted, and the sky burst forth in a chorus of angelic song. The Roboshark looked up. Mr. Santa Claus looked up. Mr. Teddy, who happened to be hopping by, looked up.

            A great ghostly hand pointed down at them from the heavens. It wagged a finger, and began to descend. Before anyone could move, a great voice spake like thunder:

            “JUMANJI!” Everything fell very still.

There was a great frubbulous noise.

            When Mr. Santa Claus awoke, he found himself alone in the centre of a vast crater. What remained of the Roboshark lay squashed into a puddle beside him. His arms were back, and he felt refreshed, clean, new.

            “Aw’right, come with me.” Mr. Santa Claus looked up. It was a bobby.

            “Pardon?”

            “You ‘eard me Mary, on yer feet.” The bobby’s moustache quivered furiously. Captain Leroy McDougal didn’t care for inquisitive riffraff.

“Why, officer?” The bobby said nothing. He leveled his gaze at Mr. Santa Claus. A faint breeze picked up. A sudden chill came over him. Then he looked down. His clothes were gone.

            “Let’s go, bub.”

The Underpants Of Fury: Part 4

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.

The Underpants Of Fury: Part 3

“So, what’s next on this guided tour of hell?” Mr. Santa Claus felt himself up, checking to make sure he was all there. The bear pointed up. There was a sign. Maximus Bulkimus. It taunted them with its tawdry lettering, and its dirty colors, and its saucy lighting. “A gym?” Mr. Santa Claus asked uneasily. He felt his blood pressure rising. He was on a strict No Effort diet. “Why?”

            “Well Mistuh Santa Claus, ya’lls gotta go in dere, an’ defeat Glute Maximus, da head traina, ta get tha Magic Prahtein Powdah. Is tha second key ta tha Octabahg’s Kingdom-Unda-Tha-Mountain,” the bear said. It hoped next time he’d have a smarter hero to work with.

            “Anything you wanna warn me about this time? That last test made no sense at all.”

            “Mmm… tha head trainah’s kind of an ass. Tha’s all ya gotta know, sah.” The bear fell silent. Mr. Santa Claus hiked up his pants, and marched in.

            A baby-faced receptionist languished behind a desk, filing her nails. Nick approached her, and waited. She didn’t look up. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. He waited again. He almost moved to ring the silver bell on her desk, but decided it would be too forward of him. As the tension reached a screaming crescendo, her eyes flicked over to him, then back to her nails.

            “Yeah. So?”

            Nick fidgeted with the drawstrings on his pants. “Well, I’m here to see Mr. Maximus about Magic Protein Powder?”

            “’Kay.” The secretary jabbed a button on her blouse. “Mister Maximus, your five o’ clock is here to see ya. Mr. Maximus, five o’ clock, to see ya. Maximus, five o’clock, see ya. Maximus, five, ya.” She sat back, and picked up the nail file. “He’ll see ya now.” She didn’t look up.

            “Thanks, you’ve been most helpful,” Nick drolled. He trundled into the centre, and looked about. Acres of sweaty woodland creatures puffed and wheezed on exercise machines as far as the eye could see. Everything smelled of half-cooked meat and desperation.

            From off to the left, past a row of hippos on cycle machines, a heavyset man wearing orange spandex came lumbering Nick’s way. Though he didn’t look so much like a man, as an inverted traffic cone in trainers. Mr. Santa Claus shielded his eyes –the colour of his clothes was too intense to look directly at.

            “Can you turn down your shirt? I need earplugs to look at you.” Mr. Santa Claus said. The large man sneered.

            “Well, at least there’s no chance you’ll try an’ eat me.” He replied. “Now, what d’you want?”

            “I’m s’posed to defeat you to get Magic Protein Powder to help unlock the Octoborg’s Kingdom-Under-The-Mountain. Or something.” Mr. Santa Claus’ eyes began to burn.

            “Alright then, Tubbles, fight to the death it is. Let’s go.”

            “Wait, what?”

            “C’mon!” Glute dragged Mr. Santa Claus into a spacious office overlooking the street. The walls were covered in Krav Maga trophies. Shiny trophies. The ceiling was coated in animal feet. Mr. Santa Claus bit his lower lip. This didn’t bode well.

            Thirty-one seconds later, Mr. Santa Claus found himself face down on the sidewalk, covered in broken glass and the tears of a thousand angry orphans. Sir Reginald lumbered over, and helped him up.

            “Well, that didn’t go so well.” Nick dusted himself off, and burst into song. A heart-wrenching ballad about loss, about longing, and about wheatcakes.

            “Looks like tha wahld is doomed, Mistuh Santa Claus,” the bear sighed, heading down the street towards the train station that appears when Someone wants it to. “Ah’m headin’ home.”

            “Whuh?” Nick cried, jogging after the bear.

            “Gotta see Britahn’s Gaht Tahlent, afore Roboshahk et’s ‘em,” the bear replied. They snuck past the Great Kraken statue and waited on the platform for the train.

            “So, what now?” Mr. Santa Claus said, surveying the station uneasily. He felt the Roboshark would come up any moment to unleash a high five. No Roboshark. A few yards away, a Swedish man was embroiled in a heated argument with a vending machine.

            “Förbannade maskin!”

            “English, Margaret! Do I look like fuckin’ Abba?!” The machine taunted. Infuriated, the Swede took to kicking vending machine rather vigorously.

            “You fight like a French librarian!”

            “Ge mig min jakla dricka!”

            Mr. Santa Claus regarded this exchange, and strolled over. “If I may?” He brushed the Swede aside, turned his back to the vending machine, and slammed it with his fist.

            “Eeey! No bloody fair!” The machine cried. It coughed up a soda, and settled down, muttering colorful angerings under its breath. Mr. Santa Claus reached into the belly of the machine, and handed the drink to the Swede.

            “Bub bub?” The Swede regarded the drink for a moment.

            “I was Italian once,” Mr. Santa Claus said. He shrugged. “No problem.”

            The Swede smiled, and groped around in his pocket. Just as Mr. Santa Claus turned to leave, the Swede thrust a slip of paper into Mr. Santa Claus’ hand.

            “Huh?” Mr. Santa Claus uncrumpled the wad of paper.

             The Octoborg’s Magical Kingdom-Under-The-Mountain: 1-Day Pass, Train & Main Park Attractions. Admit One Adult.

            Mr. Santa Claus looked around for the Swede, but he had gone. He looked around for the bear, but Sir Reginald had gone. Mr. Santa Claus checked to make sure he hadn’t gone as well. A small yellow bird flitted through the station, alerting everyone that the train for Glasgow and the Kingdom-Under-The-Mountain would be leaving in five minutes. Considering it hadn’t even arrived yet, Mr. Santa Claus began to think he wasn’t doing at all well with this, whatever it was.

           

            With a chug, a chuff, and a zezzle, the train took off, with Mr. Santa Claus on it.