The Bloated One
Well-Known Member
Dear All,
I am in the 'orrible position of info dumping in the passage below. Any thoughts on if it works? I'd like to keep it contained within the passage, but not sure if it sits correctly - as always, your help is most welcome, and if you want to add comments about the style, grammar humour (or lack of it) feel free.
They headed upstairs to meet the Clurichaun.
Lounging against the bar with a leather bomber jacket slung over one shoulder surrounded by a fawning entourage of Flubian females was a slab of bronze, humanoid beefcake. His open shirt exploded with a rug of red hair, and on his head he wore a fur felt hat pushed back to reveal a mane of golden locks. He saw Georgia and flashed her a lustrous smile. Extricating himself from the roving hands of the Flubians, he downed his drink, inflated his barrel chest and sauntered over.
"’Ere comes Roger Rectu—"
"Shoosh! He’ll ‘ear yer," whispered Merv, digging Screwball in the ribs. The Clurichaun smiled reverentially, doffed their hats and parted like the Red Sea. As Kent walked past, Screwball released a loud rasping noise. Kent stopped, and with his face full of terror, goggled at the grinning Screwball wafting his hands theatrically behind his back. "Ah, tis better out tin in," said Screwball, leering at Kent.
Kerthump!
Screwball was unconscious before he hit the floor, pole axed with a karate kick. Shocked silence and seven goldfish impersonations followed.
"I see Abductions Anonymous is having a positive effect," said Georgia, stepping over the comatose Merv toward the outstretched arms of Kent.
"Hi Barbi,"
"Hi Ken." They embraced and kissed.
"Barbi and Ken, you’ve got to be kidding me?" whispered Tarquin to Jules.
"What’s wrong with Georgia's nickname Barberella? A popular sixties icon on earth if I recall, and Kent's his real name? said Jules, with a look of puzzlement. Tarquin just stared.
Kent drew a wisp of hair from Georgia’s face and broke from the embrace.
"Do you want to go for a ride?" he asked, just before his eyes rolled back and he slithered from her arms to the floor like a collapsing chimney-stack.
"Okay, which one of you is bleeding?" growled Georgia, standing with her hands on her hips glaring at the Cluricaun. They looked at each other and then at Merv whose nose was now awash with blood. Georgia shook her head and knelt down to attend to her bronze beefcake.
(info dump below)
The unconscious hunk being consoled by Georgia was her occasional inamorato, Kent Sondair. Medically discharged from the Confederation’s Air Corps, he became a freelance freighter captain specialising in transporting hazardous cargoes no one else would touch around the galaxies. He was a magnificent hunk. Humanoid women, especially Flubians would gladly rinse their eyes in wine vinegar—if it meant a better look. They found him reassuringly empathetic to the discomfort of time travel. They would Huddle exhausted by his side and run their fingers through his tousled rug of chest hair while dipping languidly in his blue, sparkling eyes, awe struck by stories of his empowering lifestyle and the many hair-raising adventures he narrowly survived.
Tarquin tugged at Archie’s arm. "What the hell just happened?" he said in a whisper.
Archie sighed and shook his head. "Long story. Kent’s convinced aliens abducted and experimented on him during a freight trip to the outer galaxies. He’s had phobias about flatulence and blood ever since."
"Yeh, his worst nightmare is being trapped with a nose bleeding Zargoth in an airvator," said a small, dapper man with an abnormally long nose, wearing a bowler hat, a paisley pattered waistcoat, ascot, and brown corduroys.
Tarquin recognised him, or rather his nose, as hovering by the bar earlier. He must have walked over and overheard their conversation.
"Let me introduce myself, I am Tratchett Prall, Mr Sondair’s confidant and official biographer." Tarquin couldn’t keep his eyes form the man’s proboscis—quivering and twitching as if possessed.
"I am at your service." The man took off his bowler hat, and revealed a mop of green, dyed hair. He stretched out a brown leather brogue, en-pointe and performed a theatrical windmill bow. When he had finished, two black calling cards hovered in front of Tarquin and Archie.
"Levitation. We gnomes of the scribes lodge have the gift," said the man, in a very matter of fact, ‘here is the evening news’ kind of voice, before placing his bowler back on his head and tapping it lightly.
"Please, take one, they won’t bite."
"Thank you," said Archie plucking a card carefully from the air, followed by Tarquin. They looked at the blank, black cards and nodded politely, hiding their bemusement.
TBO
I am in the 'orrible position of info dumping in the passage below. Any thoughts on if it works? I'd like to keep it contained within the passage, but not sure if it sits correctly - as always, your help is most welcome, and if you want to add comments about the style, grammar humour (or lack of it) feel free.
-------
They headed upstairs to meet the Clurichaun.
Lounging against the bar with a leather bomber jacket slung over one shoulder surrounded by a fawning entourage of Flubian females was a slab of bronze, humanoid beefcake. His open shirt exploded with a rug of red hair, and on his head he wore a fur felt hat pushed back to reveal a mane of golden locks. He saw Georgia and flashed her a lustrous smile. Extricating himself from the roving hands of the Flubians, he downed his drink, inflated his barrel chest and sauntered over.
"’Ere comes Roger Rectu—"
"Shoosh! He’ll ‘ear yer," whispered Merv, digging Screwball in the ribs. The Clurichaun smiled reverentially, doffed their hats and parted like the Red Sea. As Kent walked past, Screwball released a loud rasping noise. Kent stopped, and with his face full of terror, goggled at the grinning Screwball wafting his hands theatrically behind his back. "Ah, tis better out tin in," said Screwball, leering at Kent.
Kerthump!
Screwball was unconscious before he hit the floor, pole axed with a karate kick. Shocked silence and seven goldfish impersonations followed.
"I see Abductions Anonymous is having a positive effect," said Georgia, stepping over the comatose Merv toward the outstretched arms of Kent.
"Hi Barbi,"
"Hi Ken." They embraced and kissed.
"Barbi and Ken, you’ve got to be kidding me?" whispered Tarquin to Jules.
"What’s wrong with Georgia's nickname Barberella? A popular sixties icon on earth if I recall, and Kent's his real name? said Jules, with a look of puzzlement. Tarquin just stared.
Kent drew a wisp of hair from Georgia’s face and broke from the embrace.
"Do you want to go for a ride?" he asked, just before his eyes rolled back and he slithered from her arms to the floor like a collapsing chimney-stack.
"Okay, which one of you is bleeding?" growled Georgia, standing with her hands on her hips glaring at the Cluricaun. They looked at each other and then at Merv whose nose was now awash with blood. Georgia shook her head and knelt down to attend to her bronze beefcake.
(info dump below)
The unconscious hunk being consoled by Georgia was her occasional inamorato, Kent Sondair. Medically discharged from the Confederation’s Air Corps, he became a freelance freighter captain specialising in transporting hazardous cargoes no one else would touch around the galaxies. He was a magnificent hunk. Humanoid women, especially Flubians would gladly rinse their eyes in wine vinegar—if it meant a better look. They found him reassuringly empathetic to the discomfort of time travel. They would Huddle exhausted by his side and run their fingers through his tousled rug of chest hair while dipping languidly in his blue, sparkling eyes, awe struck by stories of his empowering lifestyle and the many hair-raising adventures he narrowly survived.
Tarquin tugged at Archie’s arm. "What the hell just happened?" he said in a whisper.
Archie sighed and shook his head. "Long story. Kent’s convinced aliens abducted and experimented on him during a freight trip to the outer galaxies. He’s had phobias about flatulence and blood ever since."
"Yeh, his worst nightmare is being trapped with a nose bleeding Zargoth in an airvator," said a small, dapper man with an abnormally long nose, wearing a bowler hat, a paisley pattered waistcoat, ascot, and brown corduroys.
Tarquin recognised him, or rather his nose, as hovering by the bar earlier. He must have walked over and overheard their conversation.
"Let me introduce myself, I am Tratchett Prall, Mr Sondair’s confidant and official biographer." Tarquin couldn’t keep his eyes form the man’s proboscis—quivering and twitching as if possessed.
"I am at your service." The man took off his bowler hat, and revealed a mop of green, dyed hair. He stretched out a brown leather brogue, en-pointe and performed a theatrical windmill bow. When he had finished, two black calling cards hovered in front of Tarquin and Archie.
"Levitation. We gnomes of the scribes lodge have the gift," said the man, in a very matter of fact, ‘here is the evening news’ kind of voice, before placing his bowler back on his head and tapping it lightly.
"Please, take one, they won’t bite."
"Thank you," said Archie plucking a card carefully from the air, followed by Tarquin. They looked at the blank, black cards and nodded politely, hiding their bemusement.
TBO
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