Cup and Sorcery

Cup and Sorcery-2

Also, being the generous soul that he was, he asked his colleagues, the bounty hunters, if they would like to join them. Sadly though, Mr Singh wouldn't shut the shop for anything less than the destruction of the entire planet (bet your life he would still open on Christmas morning, though) and Dr. Jekyll had gone into hiding after an unfortunate incident with a load of fruit, a farmer's daughter and a song by The Tractors, Eastern Europe's premier agricultural band.

So, what with Ronnie being away and Ethan not fancying it one bit ('well he does look dog tired' was Stitches' response. A response which had earned him a hearty smack to the head that had left him looking backwards for an hour or so) it was just the three of them. Stitches was actually looking forward to it, apart from the flying of course, and Flug had come along simply because he could not be left alone. Or to put it another way, he was too simple to be left alone. The last time that Ollie had allowed the giant reanimate to fend for himself had been about a month ago and chaos on a grand scale had, quite naturally, ensued. The resultant remodelling to the kitchen hadn't taken as long as he'd first thought though, but the remodelling of poor old Hector Lozenge was going to take rather a lot longer. He'd knocked on the office door in his usual drunken state, after forgetting where he lived for probably the ninth time that evening. When Flug opened it and saw the poor man standing in the rain and soaking from head to toe, he had picked him up and done the most natural thing that he could think of. Still, the new tumble dryer was a lot better than the old one, especially as it didn't have clumps of bright red but very dry skin stuck to the inside.

The only proviso for the trip though was that they had to go incognito. A half vampire, an eight foot monster and a slowly disintegrating zombie couldn't very well wander the streets of England's capital city, scaring every man, woman and child that they came across. Unless it was London fashion week of course, in which case they would have fit right in.

The first person they thought of to help them was Professor Crumble, but on reflection the idea was shelved because the chances were that they would be trying to conceal their identities by wearing market stall quality masks of comedy werewolves, and talking in very unconvincing foreign accents. That being the case they went to see Mrs. Ladle. The witch had been more than happy to help of course, and she'd gotten to work straight away preparing a transformation potion that they could take on the flight over. She concocted it in such a way that not only would it mask their true forms, but it also had the added benefit of allowing the taker, and any other undeads, to still see themselves as they truly are. Only those humans looking at them got the effect. The only thing she didn't mention was the fact that she had absolutely no idea what non-undead form they would take. Still, at least it'd be pleasant to drink. She'd added a bit of flavour because she was nice like that. Chocolate. Lovely. And it would nicely mask the taste of the ground troll shavings that was in it, which is always a bonus, because that tasted worse than anything else, ever. Even kebabs.

As they descended, the three of them had knocked back the liquid and it had worked straight away. Ollie took on the appearance of a rather well dressed city gent complete with briefcase, bowler hat, umbrella and smug, self-satisfied expression. Flug became the member of a death metal band sporting long greasy hair, demonic tattoos that covered most of his body, jeans so filthy that a Hell's Angel would have wanted to put them through the wash, and a t-shirt with the band name, OX STOMPER, emblazoned across the front.

Stitches, however, hadn't been so fortunate, and neither Ollie nor Flug had the heart to tell him what he'd become. It wasn't until they walked through the door of the hotel and the zombie bumped into someone only to hear 'Sorry love, my fault' that Ollie enlightened him.

“You know how the Stella girls dress?” he'd said, trying not to laugh.

“Oh my God, yes.”

“You make them look rather understated.”

“Oh no. So I've got to spend the next two days walking around looking like a high class call girl?”

Ollie shrugged and pursed his lips.

“Not so much high class. More like no class.”

“Great.”

“Oh, and do me a favour. Pull your top up, your boobs are falling out.”

After a highly articulate outburst and being asked to watch his/her language or risk getting thrown out, they'd gotten on with the conference.

They'd attended a very informative lecture on 'What not to wear to a summoning' that was presented by a rather flamboyant and extremely well groomed Satanist, who called himself 'The Cloven Poof', before enjoying a workshop on 'Business Relationships. How to end them and where to hide the body'. The only disappointment had been the cancellation of the performance and discussion forum from the GLC (the Goblin Light-theatre Company), after their coach had caught fire on the M4 and they'd all popped.

All in all though, it had been an interesting and productive trip. They'd even managed to get in a bit of sightseeing, but only after they'd convinced Flug that Big Ben was a large bell in a clock-tower, and not a giant monster with four faces and a pointy hat who shouted DONG at unsuspecting passers-by. Stitches, on the other hand, had had three dinner invitations, one proposal of marriage and an offer from a rather unsavoury Eastern European gentleman to 'take him up the back passage in Soho where I have a very interesting selection of bouncy, rubber things'.

The aircraft lurched slightly as it started to descend, causing the nervous zombie to hold onto the armrests even tighter. A light came on in the overhead display showing a buckle and a clip and a voice rattled over the ancient intercom, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are about to start our descent into the airport. Please extinguish your cigarettes, lanterns, joss sticks, fire imps and dragons and fasten your seatbelts.” (Airport was a bit wide of the mark to be honest, as no doubt the plane would be. It was more an old field, littered with bits and pieces of animals that hadn't gotten out of the way in time. If ever you see a news report where an aircraft has been downed by cow strike, you'll know where it happened).

“Fasten your seatbelts,” muttered Stitches disapprovingly. “What a waste of time that is. If this thing crashes at five hundred miles an hour, I don't think a four foot length of fabric is going to help much. There wouldn't be enough left of me to go in a sick bag.”

“If you don't stop moaning, I'll put you in a Hoover bag when we get home,” said Ollie.

Half an hour later they'd collected their luggage from the seemingly endless carousel, and were queuing up to go through Customs and Exorcise. Stitches followed Ollie and Flug through the barrier.

“Anything to declare?” asked the officious ghoul at the checkpoint.

“Well, those shoes don't go with that shirt for a start, and that tie, where did you, ooof.”

Two hours later and with not one part of his body unprobed, Stitches re-joined the other two.

“You'll never learn, will you?” commented Ollie knowingly, throwing his cases on top of the cab and eliciting help from his colleagues with his coffin. “Always have to be a smart arse.”

“Funny you should say that,” Stitches replied, struggling with the top end of the casket. “My arse is smarting a bit as it goes. Amazing where they think two hundred fags will fit.”

“Good job they didn't check in your mouth then, although I doubt they've got the manpower to search such a vast area, especially without helicopters and sea-going search vessels.”

“Why would you put a fag up your bottom, Stitches?” asked Flug, a look of confusion on his face usually seen on old people trying to understand how a Blu-ray player works and the younger person trying to explain it to them.

“To keep the tobacco dry.”

“Oh, okay.”

They got into the cab and settled in for the journey home, passing a large overhead sign that read 'Thank you for flying on the Astral Plane,' before hitting the dual dust track home.

* * *

“I don't understand it at all,” said the distinguished looking gentleman, shaking his head in puzzlement. “We're always so careful with our security arrangements. In the four hundred years that this museum has been in existence there has never been an incident such as this. Why it shakes me to the very core thinking that some ne'er-do-well has been wandering about the place unfettered and free to do as they please. It's a dreadful situation, not to mention potentially catastrophic.”

A second figure detached itself from the shadows at the back of the room and approached the first.

“What do you mean, Mr. Curator? I'm sorry but I don't see what all the fuss is about, and whilst I don't wish to denigrate what's occurred, I mean a burglary is a burglary after all, it is only a few pages from an old book that have been taken.”

“My apologies, Vortex, but I forgot that ancient mythological history isn't your field. I'll explain it all in good time, but for now I think we need to acquire some aid in determining who perpetrated this heinous act.”

“A fine suggestion, Mr. Curator.”

“Do you have any ideas, Vortex? I wouldn't have the foggiest notion where to begin, and I must say this has left me feeling rather disturbed.”

“Don't you worry. I think I know the very people to contact. Very reliable, so I'm told, and they come highly recommended by Count Jocular no less.”

Mr. Curator brightened somewhat.

“Really? Well, they must be excellent then. It's only the best for His Royal Darkness, don't you know. Can I leave you to make the necessary arrangements? I think I need a lie down.”

Vortex smiled and nodded his head in deference.

“Of course. Leave it to me, I shall contact them at once.”

* * *

When they arrived back at the office, they found that Ronnie had already returned from his sojourn and was now sitting in the kitchen, stirring a pot of tea.

“Ooh, pour us one of those, mate, will you please,” asked Ollie as they all piled in. “I'm gasping. The water in London is absolutely disgusting. It tastes like they've dissolved a used urinal cake in it.”

“Delightful,” said Ronnie. “So, how was the conference?”

“Don't ask,” said Stitches.

“That bad, huh?” said Ronnie, pouring out a cup of hot, steaming Earl Grey.

“Let's just say I'll never have a s*x change operation. I couldn't put up with all the male attention.”

“I don't think you'd have to worry too much about that” said Ollie, popping a sweetener into his drink and giving it a stir. “I mean let's face it. It would take a suspension of disbelief of gargantuan proportions, and a potion more powerful than anything that Mrs. Ladle could make, to convince anyone that you were female. Especially an attractive one.”

Stitches looked a bit indignant and more than a tad hurt.

“Tell that to Colonel Totherington Bagshot, VC DFC and Bar. He thought I was pretty hot stuff.”

“That senile old dinosaur thought that Queen Victoria was still on the throne,” said Ollie.

Stitches put his hands on his hips and shot Ollie a look that would have made a Chatham chav proud. “I would have made him very happy actually,” he said.