The Bloated One
Well-Known Member
All,
A bit of silliness to lay before you. I am undecided whether to use this character, Kent Sondaire, to ride to the rescue of my (somewhat sullied) princess, Georgia Blade, a supporting character in my Tarquin Jenkins story.
I just thought it fun to explore what would happen if another world farmed out work to time travelling freelance writers and didn't pay them enough.
Let me know if it has legs. . .
TBO
* * *
Kent Sondaire and Tratchett Sprall lounged with Francis Dashwood by the Medmenham Club bar, enjoying an evening of fine wine and the attentions of several women, when a red button on Kent’s wristcom flashed. He sat up, concern etched across his face. Making excuses, Kent drained his drink and with Tratchett following in his wake, he hurried from the crowded room.
“Georgia’s in danger,” he whispered, striding out of the building and running across the lawn. They reached the corner of an abandoned outhouse and Kent looked furtively around. Satisfied no one was watching, he went inside and decloaked his rented space ship, a pink Volkswagen campervan. The doors opened and they jumped into the front seats. Pulling the doors closed, Kent recloaked the ship and started the engines.
“Kent Sondaire has left the building. Our superhero is embarking on another crusade to save the omniverse against the forces of evil,” said Tratchett, presenting a running commentary into his throat recorder. Kent prepared the controls and downloaded Georgia’s distress beacon from his watchcom into the ship’s console and waited. Her last known position flashed onto the screen. Kent checked the planet, location, year and the time.
12:45:06, 3 August 1963, Cavern Club, Harrington Lane, Liverpool.
“To save his Barbie, our intrepid superhero and the much sought after biographer, Tratchett T. Sprall, are going back to the future!” roared Tratchett, pumping his stubby little arms in the air. He turned excitedly to kent.“This reminds me of the time me and ‘Winst’ wrote that famous speech. . .never, in the fields of—aaahhhhhh!” Tratchett’s shrill voice, like the agonizing squeal of a cat caught in a garburator rose painfully above the engines until it faded and disappeared. They were off.
Kent use to own a DeLorean DMC-12 space ship, but it was stolen and trashed by joy riders on a visit to Earth in 1985. The Galactic Insurance Company were playing hardball and wouldn’t pay up, so it had been in a Mytherian chop shop ever since. Kent had no choice but to rent, but being ‘between assignments’ he was forced to hire an economy model. A pink Volkswagon camper van.
* * *
“Craft materializing in Harrington Lane, Admiral.”
“Excellent,” said Gruilash, with a bone shattering snap of his jaws, “these humanoids are so predictable!” He lent forward and looked at the screen. A pink volkswagon camper van appeared from nowhere and came to a halt by the side of the Cavern Club.
“Roger Rect—“ a sudden burst of static covered Gruilash’s words. “Oh, this couldn’t be better,” he said, snapping his jaws again and lathering mucous across his lower jaw with his yellow tongue. “Put it on the big screen. I want to watch this!”
* * *
Onboard the ‘Pink Avenger,’ a name Tratchett gave the ship during one of his more creative moments, Kent was standing before the clothing generator and a full-length mirror.
Tratchett was looking up styles of the 1960’s in Trannies & Slushes Guide To Galactic Fashion.
Despite being regarded as the de rigueur intergalactic planetary bible of styles, the book still held many a fashion faux paux. Due in part to a large number of freelance writers who, fed up with the promise of riches on completion of the book and the vast number of planets and galaxies they had to research, simply made things up, or listed clothing as ‘non gender specific’.
One such freelancer, Reggy Wraggle, had spent one meagre earth afternoon in Carnaby Street, London, having a coffee and an odd tasting rolled up cigarette before producing a chapter the size of a book on 1960’s earth fashion.
“Well,” said Tranchett, after considerable deliberation of the book, “if you are to blend in, you need to wear wide lyra bell bottom trousers, a paisley dashiki and. . .” he paused, looking quizzically at the page, “something called go-go boots?”
“Go-go boots?”
Tratchett checked Wraggle’s text. “No question. If you are to blend into the 1960’s you need a pair of non gender specific go-go boots.” He showed Kent a picture. Kent shrugged his shoulders and waited as Tranchett finished feeding the information into the clothing generator. Pre-programmed with Kent’s measurements, it didn’t take long before Kent was clothed and parading before the mirror.
“Are you sure about the boots?” he asked, lifting each pink boot and examining it in the mirror. “they look awfully. . . girlie?”
“No question Mr Sondaire, Trannie notes that human males often went to clubs wearing go-go boots and danced with their friends around something called a head bag.”
Kent puffed out his chest and clicked his fingers.
“Get me a head bag!”
Tranchett obeyed and out popped a huge denim bag with a large gold chain for a strap.
Tratchett pressed his throat recorder. “Kent Sondaire, our super hero is dressed and ready to thrill—sorry I mean kill.” He gave Kent a sideways, pained look and pretended to re-arrange his top denture.
“I will get to veto what you are writing if I don’t like it, won’t I?” asked Kent, tucking the bottom of his blue paisley dashiki into his bell bottoms.
“Of course Mr Sondaire.” A engraciating smile spread across Tranchett’s weasel like face, “this is your autobiography, I am merely the vassal,” he said, whining. “I am just honoured to facilitate your greatness to the world.” His face contorted with a sneer and he cleared his throat. “While reading further into the chapter, I note that you will need a hat. Preferably covered in flowers.” Tratchett pointed at a picture on the screen of a skullcap all covered in colourful plastic flowers.
“Well, if you say so,” said Kent, pulling on the tight fitting cap, “if you say so.”
Dressed for whatever 1960’s Liverpool could throw at him, Kent admired himself before the mirror and waited for Tranchett to put on a paisley body suit and caftan.
Tratchett pressed his throat recorder. “The dynamic duo, Kent and his faithful scribe, Tratchett, prepare to save Barbie!”
A bit of silliness to lay before you. I am undecided whether to use this character, Kent Sondaire, to ride to the rescue of my (somewhat sullied) princess, Georgia Blade, a supporting character in my Tarquin Jenkins story.
I just thought it fun to explore what would happen if another world farmed out work to time travelling freelance writers and didn't pay them enough.
Let me know if it has legs. . .
TBO
* * *
Kent Sondaire and Tratchett Sprall lounged with Francis Dashwood by the Medmenham Club bar, enjoying an evening of fine wine and the attentions of several women, when a red button on Kent’s wristcom flashed. He sat up, concern etched across his face. Making excuses, Kent drained his drink and with Tratchett following in his wake, he hurried from the crowded room.
“Georgia’s in danger,” he whispered, striding out of the building and running across the lawn. They reached the corner of an abandoned outhouse and Kent looked furtively around. Satisfied no one was watching, he went inside and decloaked his rented space ship, a pink Volkswagen campervan. The doors opened and they jumped into the front seats. Pulling the doors closed, Kent recloaked the ship and started the engines.
“Kent Sondaire has left the building. Our superhero is embarking on another crusade to save the omniverse against the forces of evil,” said Tratchett, presenting a running commentary into his throat recorder. Kent prepared the controls and downloaded Georgia’s distress beacon from his watchcom into the ship’s console and waited. Her last known position flashed onto the screen. Kent checked the planet, location, year and the time.
12:45:06, 3 August 1963, Cavern Club, Harrington Lane, Liverpool.
“To save his Barbie, our intrepid superhero and the much sought after biographer, Tratchett T. Sprall, are going back to the future!” roared Tratchett, pumping his stubby little arms in the air. He turned excitedly to kent.“This reminds me of the time me and ‘Winst’ wrote that famous speech. . .never, in the fields of—aaahhhhhh!” Tratchett’s shrill voice, like the agonizing squeal of a cat caught in a garburator rose painfully above the engines until it faded and disappeared. They were off.
Kent use to own a DeLorean DMC-12 space ship, but it was stolen and trashed by joy riders on a visit to Earth in 1985. The Galactic Insurance Company were playing hardball and wouldn’t pay up, so it had been in a Mytherian chop shop ever since. Kent had no choice but to rent, but being ‘between assignments’ he was forced to hire an economy model. A pink Volkswagon camper van.
* * *
“Craft materializing in Harrington Lane, Admiral.”
“Excellent,” said Gruilash, with a bone shattering snap of his jaws, “these humanoids are so predictable!” He lent forward and looked at the screen. A pink volkswagon camper van appeared from nowhere and came to a halt by the side of the Cavern Club.
“Roger Rect—“ a sudden burst of static covered Gruilash’s words. “Oh, this couldn’t be better,” he said, snapping his jaws again and lathering mucous across his lower jaw with his yellow tongue. “Put it on the big screen. I want to watch this!”
* * *
Onboard the ‘Pink Avenger,’ a name Tratchett gave the ship during one of his more creative moments, Kent was standing before the clothing generator and a full-length mirror.
Tratchett was looking up styles of the 1960’s in Trannies & Slushes Guide To Galactic Fashion.
Despite being regarded as the de rigueur intergalactic planetary bible of styles, the book still held many a fashion faux paux. Due in part to a large number of freelance writers who, fed up with the promise of riches on completion of the book and the vast number of planets and galaxies they had to research, simply made things up, or listed clothing as ‘non gender specific’.
One such freelancer, Reggy Wraggle, had spent one meagre earth afternoon in Carnaby Street, London, having a coffee and an odd tasting rolled up cigarette before producing a chapter the size of a book on 1960’s earth fashion.
“Well,” said Tranchett, after considerable deliberation of the book, “if you are to blend in, you need to wear wide lyra bell bottom trousers, a paisley dashiki and. . .” he paused, looking quizzically at the page, “something called go-go boots?”
“Go-go boots?”
Tratchett checked Wraggle’s text. “No question. If you are to blend into the 1960’s you need a pair of non gender specific go-go boots.” He showed Kent a picture. Kent shrugged his shoulders and waited as Tranchett finished feeding the information into the clothing generator. Pre-programmed with Kent’s measurements, it didn’t take long before Kent was clothed and parading before the mirror.
“Are you sure about the boots?” he asked, lifting each pink boot and examining it in the mirror. “they look awfully. . . girlie?”
“No question Mr Sondaire, Trannie notes that human males often went to clubs wearing go-go boots and danced with their friends around something called a head bag.”
Kent puffed out his chest and clicked his fingers.
“Get me a head bag!”
Tranchett obeyed and out popped a huge denim bag with a large gold chain for a strap.
Tratchett pressed his throat recorder. “Kent Sondaire, our super hero is dressed and ready to thrill—sorry I mean kill.” He gave Kent a sideways, pained look and pretended to re-arrange his top denture.
“I will get to veto what you are writing if I don’t like it, won’t I?” asked Kent, tucking the bottom of his blue paisley dashiki into his bell bottoms.
“Of course Mr Sondaire.” A engraciating smile spread across Tranchett’s weasel like face, “this is your autobiography, I am merely the vassal,” he said, whining. “I am just honoured to facilitate your greatness to the world.” His face contorted with a sneer and he cleared his throat. “While reading further into the chapter, I note that you will need a hat. Preferably covered in flowers.” Tratchett pointed at a picture on the screen of a skullcap all covered in colourful plastic flowers.
“Well, if you say so,” said Kent, pulling on the tight fitting cap, “if you say so.”
Dressed for whatever 1960’s Liverpool could throw at him, Kent admired himself before the mirror and waited for Tranchett to put on a paisley body suit and caftan.
Tratchett pressed his throat recorder. “The dynamic duo, Kent and his faithful scribe, Tratchett, prepare to save Barbie!”
