The Bloated One
Well-Known Member
Dear All,
Thank you so much for your input and excellent suggestions. I've attempted a re-write using the points you made. I did decide to start at the same point, rather than later on though. Also, as was pointed out I'd not described Tratchett or Kent very well, so I've added description where I could.
Again, any thoughts and suggestions are very welcome.
Kent Sondaire - Space Gumshoe
Kent Sondaire lounged on a sofa with Francis Dashwood in the large Inner Temple cave of the Hellfire Club. Bathed in the amber light from torches lining the walls they talked, enjoying fine wine and classical music from an octet sitting on a dais by the door. Club members drank, danced and caroused with female company around the cave, their shadows cavorting grotesquely with the mythical paintings and phallic symbols on the walls. A heady mix of perfume, tobacco smoke and sweat hung in the cool, cave air.
Kent was pleased. As a time travelling private detective his latest mission to infiltrate Dashwood’s club and discover its members was going well. After guffawing and toasting some deity or other for the umpteenth time, he caught sight of his personal biographer Tratchett Sprall signalling to him from across the room. Despite being coddled by an overly affectionate courtesan, ‘Pudgy Sprall’ as Kent called him, broke free from his amorous suitor and, waddling like a penguin disappeared into a corner of the cave. Making his excuses, Kent left Dashwood and went to join him.
“I just got a message,” said Tratchett. “The Federation President, Cybele Rain is looking for you.” His face, sagged like a deflated and over kicked football as he dabbed sweat from his brow. “She has a very urgent assignment that can’t wait. You’ve been pulled.”
“Did she say why?” Asked Kent, his dark bushy eyebrows meshing into one.
“No, but it must be serious,” said Tratchett, with a wobble of his double chin. “She’s increased your retainer!” Kent’s brown watery eyes glinted. The thought of another adventure and more money made him very happy. Running a hand through his pompadour of chestnut hair, he smirked and rolled the greying tips of his English moustache.
After explaining to Dashwood that he had been called away on urgent Government business, and that his initiation into the club would have to wait until the next full moon, he joined Tratchett at the exit to the caves.
Removing their habits—all part of the initiation ceremony, they took their coats. They strode along the tunnels, occasionally checking they weren’t being followed. Exiting the cave system, they moved across a waterlogged lawn toward a row of outhouses, leaving a line of holes where their boots broke through the sod.
“How I detest the dawn,” said Tratchett, wheezing into his voice recorder, “the grass always looks like it’s been left out all night.”
In the distance they could see the brooding shape of the Dashwood Mausoleum. Arriving at the entrance, Kent stopped and looked warily around. Visibility was poor as the moon was hidden behind a bank of cloud, and the humid air held a fine mist of rain.
Satisfied no one was watching, he forced open the oak door and they slipped inside. Kent pushed a sequence of buttons on an old TV remote control and 20 metres away an orange Volkswagen camper van, circa 1970, materialized in a blaze of light, enough to illuminate the crypt. This was not his usual means of travel. His pride and joy, a converted DeLorean DMC-12 car, was stolen and crashed by joy riders on a visit to Earth in 1985. The Galactic Insurance Company were playing hardball and wouldn’t pay up, claiming the space ship’s demise was an act of some God or other. He’d managed to get it off Earth, but it had been in a Mytherian repair shop ever since. Kent was forced to borrow an old space ship from his cousin’s business, ‘The Orange Paint Company’.
The ‘Jaffa’ as he affectionally called it was parked amongst the marble burial chambers. Emblazoned with the words, ‘To Boldly Go Where No Ones Painted Before’ in gold, was his. For now.
“Kent Sondaire, space gum shoe, and righteous upholder of the galactic code has left the building,” said Tratchett, presenting a running commentary into his throat recorder as they moved toward the van. “Our super sleuth is embarking on another crusade to save the galaxies from the ever present rampaging forces of evil!”
Kent pushed another button on the remote and the van’s doors opened.
Reaching the van a dog, part husky, part sneaky neighbours mutt came rushing out and launched itself head long at Kent grabbing his leg, hugging and humping it with gleeful abandon the way dogs do.
“Laika, down girl!” Said Kent, walking stiff legged to the camper van with the grinning dog humping his shin.
Tratchett, shook his head and grinned. “What do you expect? Ever since we rescued the Muttnik from that Russian tin can orbiting earth, she’s been saying thank you!”
“I know, but it’s embarrassing. Who’d have thought girl dogs hump!” replied Kent, trying to shake the dog loose.
Tratchett jumped into the van as Kent carefully prized Laika off his leg, tucked her under his arm, and climbed inside.
“So much bigger on the inside,” said Tratchett into his recorder. He wasn’t kidding. Inside the camper van was a metallic, large circular room with four steel doors. In the centre of the room stood a raised platform with two leather swivel chairs, a dog basket, two consoles and two large monitor screens. Kent smiled as Laika raced across the floor and found her toy, an orange haired, fat humanoid doll. She grabbed it with her front paws and, with an inane grin, humped it mercilessly, as it shouted ‘bigly’ and ‘fake’.
Walking to a large sofa, Kent took off his coat and threw it on the seat.
“I hate everything about the eighteenth century,” he said, collapsing dramatically into the sofa.
Tratchett smiled. “Should I get them?”
Kent’s pained expression turned to a grin. “Yes, a new mission means only one thing.” Tratchett rushed through one of the doors and re-appeared carrying a fedora and a cigarette case. Taking them from Tractchett, Kent threw back his hair, pulled the fedora down across his left eye and puffed out his chest. Opening the case, he took out a plastic cigarette and rolled it across his lips before getting to his feet and cocking his head sideways.
"With my brains and your looks, we could go places,” he said, in a drawling New York accent.
Sprall nodded. “When in doubt, have two guys come through the door with guns,” he quipped, mimicking Kent’s drawl. Laughing they took their seats in front of the monitors. Tratchett took the left hand seat, and Kent sat down next to him before pushing a button on the console. A column of light fizzed, and a metre tall, officious looking holographic figure of a bald man in a dark suit appeared in front of them.
“Good morning Mr Sondaire. Your mission Kent, should you decide to accept it, is to locate…” The hologram spluttered and the man wheezed loudly, before continuing, “two missing historical Earth figures, Leonardo da Vinci and Michel de Nostradame. They are accused of stealing a sedan chair and an amulet that the Federation require. They have been located in Elizabethan England. Further information, including biographies and historical notes pertaining to the mission have been uploaded to your spacecraft. As always, should you or Mr Small be caught or killed, the President will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This hologram will erase itself in five seconds.”
“It’s Sprall, not Small!” shouted Tratchett at the hologram.
Chewing on the plastic, Kent opened the attached, mission-briefing file. A concise history of Elizabethan England, and several pictures appeared on their screens. Tratchett checked the planet, year, location and time, then searched for a wormhole. Rather dramatically, the holographic figure exploded in a slow motion dance across the console.
“Good riddance,” murmured Tratchett before turning on his throat recorder. “To save the world, our intrepid super sleuth and his much sought after biographer, Tratchett Thadious, Meryweather, Sprall, are going back to the future!” he roared, pumping his stubby little arms in the air. He turned excitedly to Kent. “This reminds me of the time me and ‘Winst’ wrote his famous speech…” Kent pulled the flight control wheel toward him, and pressed the button named ’Music To Fly By’ before flooring the accelerator.
“Never, in the fields of—aaahhhhhh!” Tratchett’s shrill voice was matched only by the roar of the engine and an earsplitting cacophony of trumpets and strings as they disappeared in a cloud of steam and rain from eighteenth century England.
Fifteen minutes into their journey, they reached the end of the wormhole. As the ship shuddered to an abrupt stop, Sprall’s chair tipped backward and sent him tumbling to the floor, shouting all manner of colourful curses. They had excited the wormhole somewhere over the Mediterranean.
As they floated, cloaked, above the sea Kent managed to help the ‘beached’ Sprall back to his chair.
“You realize we’re going into the past, not the future?”
“Semantics,” said Sprall, clearing his throat. “Past, future, it’s all the same,” he continued, before coughing and opening his voice recorder.
Thank you so much for your input and excellent suggestions. I've attempted a re-write using the points you made. I did decide to start at the same point, rather than later on though. Also, as was pointed out I'd not described Tratchett or Kent very well, so I've added description where I could.
Again, any thoughts and suggestions are very welcome.
Kent Sondaire - Space Gumshoe
Kent Sondaire lounged on a sofa with Francis Dashwood in the large Inner Temple cave of the Hellfire Club. Bathed in the amber light from torches lining the walls they talked, enjoying fine wine and classical music from an octet sitting on a dais by the door. Club members drank, danced and caroused with female company around the cave, their shadows cavorting grotesquely with the mythical paintings and phallic symbols on the walls. A heady mix of perfume, tobacco smoke and sweat hung in the cool, cave air.
Kent was pleased. As a time travelling private detective his latest mission to infiltrate Dashwood’s club and discover its members was going well. After guffawing and toasting some deity or other for the umpteenth time, he caught sight of his personal biographer Tratchett Sprall signalling to him from across the room. Despite being coddled by an overly affectionate courtesan, ‘Pudgy Sprall’ as Kent called him, broke free from his amorous suitor and, waddling like a penguin disappeared into a corner of the cave. Making his excuses, Kent left Dashwood and went to join him.
“I just got a message,” said Tratchett. “The Federation President, Cybele Rain is looking for you.” His face, sagged like a deflated and over kicked football as he dabbed sweat from his brow. “She has a very urgent assignment that can’t wait. You’ve been pulled.”
“Did she say why?” Asked Kent, his dark bushy eyebrows meshing into one.
“No, but it must be serious,” said Tratchett, with a wobble of his double chin. “She’s increased your retainer!” Kent’s brown watery eyes glinted. The thought of another adventure and more money made him very happy. Running a hand through his pompadour of chestnut hair, he smirked and rolled the greying tips of his English moustache.
After explaining to Dashwood that he had been called away on urgent Government business, and that his initiation into the club would have to wait until the next full moon, he joined Tratchett at the exit to the caves.
Removing their habits—all part of the initiation ceremony, they took their coats. They strode along the tunnels, occasionally checking they weren’t being followed. Exiting the cave system, they moved across a waterlogged lawn toward a row of outhouses, leaving a line of holes where their boots broke through the sod.
“How I detest the dawn,” said Tratchett, wheezing into his voice recorder, “the grass always looks like it’s been left out all night.”
In the distance they could see the brooding shape of the Dashwood Mausoleum. Arriving at the entrance, Kent stopped and looked warily around. Visibility was poor as the moon was hidden behind a bank of cloud, and the humid air held a fine mist of rain.
Satisfied no one was watching, he forced open the oak door and they slipped inside. Kent pushed a sequence of buttons on an old TV remote control and 20 metres away an orange Volkswagen camper van, circa 1970, materialized in a blaze of light, enough to illuminate the crypt. This was not his usual means of travel. His pride and joy, a converted DeLorean DMC-12 car, was stolen and crashed by joy riders on a visit to Earth in 1985. The Galactic Insurance Company were playing hardball and wouldn’t pay up, claiming the space ship’s demise was an act of some God or other. He’d managed to get it off Earth, but it had been in a Mytherian repair shop ever since. Kent was forced to borrow an old space ship from his cousin’s business, ‘The Orange Paint Company’.
The ‘Jaffa’ as he affectionally called it was parked amongst the marble burial chambers. Emblazoned with the words, ‘To Boldly Go Where No Ones Painted Before’ in gold, was his. For now.
“Kent Sondaire, space gum shoe, and righteous upholder of the galactic code has left the building,” said Tratchett, presenting a running commentary into his throat recorder as they moved toward the van. “Our super sleuth is embarking on another crusade to save the galaxies from the ever present rampaging forces of evil!”
Kent pushed another button on the remote and the van’s doors opened.
Reaching the van a dog, part husky, part sneaky neighbours mutt came rushing out and launched itself head long at Kent grabbing his leg, hugging and humping it with gleeful abandon the way dogs do.
“Laika, down girl!” Said Kent, walking stiff legged to the camper van with the grinning dog humping his shin.
Tratchett, shook his head and grinned. “What do you expect? Ever since we rescued the Muttnik from that Russian tin can orbiting earth, she’s been saying thank you!”
“I know, but it’s embarrassing. Who’d have thought girl dogs hump!” replied Kent, trying to shake the dog loose.
Tratchett jumped into the van as Kent carefully prized Laika off his leg, tucked her under his arm, and climbed inside.
“So much bigger on the inside,” said Tratchett into his recorder. He wasn’t kidding. Inside the camper van was a metallic, large circular room with four steel doors. In the centre of the room stood a raised platform with two leather swivel chairs, a dog basket, two consoles and two large monitor screens. Kent smiled as Laika raced across the floor and found her toy, an orange haired, fat humanoid doll. She grabbed it with her front paws and, with an inane grin, humped it mercilessly, as it shouted ‘bigly’ and ‘fake’.
Walking to a large sofa, Kent took off his coat and threw it on the seat.
“I hate everything about the eighteenth century,” he said, collapsing dramatically into the sofa.
Tratchett smiled. “Should I get them?”
Kent’s pained expression turned to a grin. “Yes, a new mission means only one thing.” Tratchett rushed through one of the doors and re-appeared carrying a fedora and a cigarette case. Taking them from Tractchett, Kent threw back his hair, pulled the fedora down across his left eye and puffed out his chest. Opening the case, he took out a plastic cigarette and rolled it across his lips before getting to his feet and cocking his head sideways.
"With my brains and your looks, we could go places,” he said, in a drawling New York accent.
Sprall nodded. “When in doubt, have two guys come through the door with guns,” he quipped, mimicking Kent’s drawl. Laughing they took their seats in front of the monitors. Tratchett took the left hand seat, and Kent sat down next to him before pushing a button on the console. A column of light fizzed, and a metre tall, officious looking holographic figure of a bald man in a dark suit appeared in front of them.
“Good morning Mr Sondaire. Your mission Kent, should you decide to accept it, is to locate…” The hologram spluttered and the man wheezed loudly, before continuing, “two missing historical Earth figures, Leonardo da Vinci and Michel de Nostradame. They are accused of stealing a sedan chair and an amulet that the Federation require. They have been located in Elizabethan England. Further information, including biographies and historical notes pertaining to the mission have been uploaded to your spacecraft. As always, should you or Mr Small be caught or killed, the President will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This hologram will erase itself in five seconds.”
“It’s Sprall, not Small!” shouted Tratchett at the hologram.
Chewing on the plastic, Kent opened the attached, mission-briefing file. A concise history of Elizabethan England, and several pictures appeared on their screens. Tratchett checked the planet, year, location and time, then searched for a wormhole. Rather dramatically, the holographic figure exploded in a slow motion dance across the console.
“Good riddance,” murmured Tratchett before turning on his throat recorder. “To save the world, our intrepid super sleuth and his much sought after biographer, Tratchett Thadious, Meryweather, Sprall, are going back to the future!” he roared, pumping his stubby little arms in the air. He turned excitedly to Kent. “This reminds me of the time me and ‘Winst’ wrote his famous speech…” Kent pulled the flight control wheel toward him, and pressed the button named ’Music To Fly By’ before flooring the accelerator.
“Never, in the fields of—aaahhhhhh!” Tratchett’s shrill voice was matched only by the roar of the engine and an earsplitting cacophony of trumpets and strings as they disappeared in a cloud of steam and rain from eighteenth century England.
Fifteen minutes into their journey, they reached the end of the wormhole. As the ship shuddered to an abrupt stop, Sprall’s chair tipped backward and sent him tumbling to the floor, shouting all manner of colourful curses. They had excited the wormhole somewhere over the Mediterranean.
As they floated, cloaked, above the sea Kent managed to help the ‘beached’ Sprall back to his chair.
“You realize we’re going into the past, not the future?”
“Semantics,” said Sprall, clearing his throat. “Past, future, it’s all the same,” he continued, before coughing and opening his voice recorder.
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