The Quest for the Bone Idol

The Quest for the Bone Idol-2

“Look, me laddie. At the bottom of that there large 'ole there be a lid.”

“Indeed there is, Cap'n. Although seeing as I'm standing on it that particular detail didn't really need pointing out.”

“Arr.”

“I guess it's…”

“Right ye are. Open 'er up, laddie.”

The youngster gave it a stamp.

“Doesn't sound hollow,” he said. “There must be something inside. Well, here goes nothing.”

Straddling the lid he reached down, took a firm hold of Jordan's Chest and gave it a wiggle. It loosened straight away and he had no problem opening it up. The contents glinted back at him, searingly white in the glaring sun.

“I think it's here, Cap'n. I'm sure this is it look… Cap'n?”

“Your Captain has taken a short break from which he will never return,” said a voice that definitely wasn't his captain's. Not unless he'd just this moment discovered a talent for ventriloquism anyway. “Hand that to me, boy.”

The young pirate looked up from the hole. He lifted his eyepatch just to be sure that what he was seeing was what he was really seeing.

“Orangebeard!” he exclaimed.

“The very same.”

“But I thought you were…”

“Dead?”

“And buried in a…”

“Cave?”

“On a remote…”

“Island?”

“With a load of…”

“Naughty lithographs?”

“Yes.”

“Well, as you can see nothing could be further from the truth. Apart from the lithographs that is. They're hilarious. Now, hand me the statue.”

The young lad did as he was told.

“So what now?” he asked, as if he didn't know. “Run me through and leave me for the crabs because that's the 'traditional pirate way so it is, arr?' ”

Orangebeard smiled at him. His teeth were dazzlingly white.

“Oh good lord no, lad. This isn't the 1700's. We're not all Blackbeard's these days. Some of my men are even learning to read. No, it's a pleasant life it has to be said, so if you want to join my crew and spend all your time plundering, pillaging, robbing, looting, and generally having a topping wheeze then you're very welcome. I'll even give you a good reference if you ever move on.”

“Mmm. Thanks for the offer and everything but I think I'll give it a miss,” said the lad, chucking his eyepatch into the hole. “It's not really the life for me I'm afraid.”

“Fair enough. We'll drop you off at the next port. Right, let's be off then. This sun plays havoc with my skin and I've got a mole I'm not too happy about. First-mate.”

“Yes, Sir, Cap'n Sir.”

“Get him out of there.”

“Right you are, Sir.”

Bone Idol safely secured, they left the island and returned to Orangebeard's ship.

* * *

“Now,” said Ronnie, “let's try again shall we? What's your name?”

“Flug,” said Flug.

“Perfectly correct. Okay, how do you spell it?”

“Um, Flug.”

“Yes and no. But more no if I'm being honest. You need to start with the beginning letter okay.”

“Kay.”

“Right. Go.”

“Uh, A, B, C…”

“No, no. That's the beginning of the alphabet isn't it. We've covered that already haven't we? But well done for remembering.”

Ronnie took out his tobacco pouch and rolled himself a cigarette that he could have used to flatten pastry. He lit it and took a long drag then expelled a column of smoke that, if he'd been outside, could have been seen from outer space.

“Start with the first letter of your name got it?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Off you go then.”

“F for frog.”

“Excellent.”

“L for elephant.”

“Not quite,” said Ronnie, taking in enough toxic, tar filled fumes to fill up King Kong's lungs and have enough left over to gas a small village in India and tarmac a reasonably sized drive. “Elephant begins with an E.”

“Do it?”

“It do. I mean it does.”

“Okay, um. L for Ladle.”

“Very good. Nice local reference there as well. Next.”

“Um, not sure,” said Flug, a bemused look on his face. It was the sort of expression a teenager would exhibit when told that LOL and CUL8R aren't real words and that life doesn't come to a complete standstill because your Samsung Galaxy 8 has run out of charge. Kids today. OMG!

“U,” said Ronnie.

“Me wot?” said Flug.

“No. U is next.”

“Me is next to wot, Ronnie?”

“You're not next to anything. The next letter is U.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Right. Again then.”

“F for frog, L for Ladle, U for me…”

“What?”

“You said next is me.”

“No I didn't. I said next is U.”

“Dat what I said.”

“No it isn't.”

“Tis, Ronnie. You say you is next so when it time for next letter me said me because you said me was next not you, didn't you?”

Ronnie stubbed out his cigarette rather more vigorously than usual, burning the tip of his index finger in the process.

“I don't know,” he said. “Right now I'm so confused that I can't even remember how to spell my own name.”

“F for frog…”

“Alright, mate. That's enough for one lifetime. We'll pick it up once I've recovered my sanity. I'm sure it's lying around here somewhere. Battered and bruised and barely alive.”

“Okay, Ronnie. Me gonna go see Mrs. Ladle. She help me. She good at spelling.”

Ronnie didn't even bother to explain. He gave Flug a few pence for some sweets and sent him on his way. Lord alone knew what that way would turn out to be but he'd get there at some point.

Ronnie rinsed his tea mug out and went to Ollie's office. It was about two in the morning so the half vampire should be up and about. He knocked on the door and let himself in.

“Hi, Ollie. How's…oh my goodness what on earth are you up to?”

Ollie was sat on the floor in front of his desk. His legs were folded knee poppingly tight so that he could look at the bottom of his feet if he so desired, and his arms were wrapped around his neck like a pair of boas (the snakes that is, not the feathered variety. He wasn't auditioning for Rupaul's Drag Race, even though he sometimes did apply foundation if the sun was really strong, and wear lacy accessories normally worn by a chap named Tiffany who was top of the bill in a club called Madam's Apple).

His face was a very peculiar shade indeed as well. It was reminiscent of the time that he'd eaten one of Mrs. Ladle's fruit surprises. (There was fruit in it, but the dessert itself had an eight legged, furry, and very mobile base that kept wandering off and catching flies. Still that's Mrs. Ladle for you, never afraid to try something new. It was mango).

“Yoga,” said Ollie, his voice sounding like it was coming from a very constricted set of vocal cords. “Dr. Zoltan said it would be good for my posture. Sleeping in a coffin all the time has been playing hell with my joints.”

“So how's it working out for you?”

“My back's killing me, I've got a stiff neck, and my hamstrings feel like they're are about to snap. Other than that, terrific. I think I'd be better off with one of those memory foam coffin liners I saw for sale on evilbay. Give us a hand will you, please.”

Ronnie helped his friend untangle himself and got him back into his chair.

“I'd give up on that if I were you,” Ronnie said. “A few more sessions and you'll as floppy in the joints as Stitches.”

“You're not wrong,” said Ollie, mopping his brow with a hanky (a lacy one of course). “And besides, I don't fancy being so flexible that I can put my head between my legs and see what I had for breakfast.”

He flicked on his computer to check for emails, which, as it turned out, were a load of old rubbish.

“Be nice to get a decent email for a change,” he said. “I don't know how many times I've been asked if I've been injured in an accident or informed that I've got a friend request on Faceofevilbook.”

“That's why I don't bother with computers,” said Ronnie, rolling himself a smoke. “They're the electronic equivalent of an annoying gossip. The way I see it, if anyone's got anything important to tell me, I'll wait till they do it the old fashioned way, in person.”

At that point Stitches burst into the office.

“Ah, speaking of annoying gossips,” said Ollie.

“Guys,” he said, “I've got something important to tell you.”

“It must be,” said Ollie. “I haven't seen you move that quick since you fell out of the first floor window.”

“I thought we weren't going to mention that again,” said the zombie, settling into the leather chair. His left elbow popped causing his thumb to spasm. Strangely it was the right one.

“Sorry. My mistake. Couldn't help it,” said Ollie, whilst Ronnie tried to stifle a guffaw.

About two weeks before, Stitches had been walking along the first floor landing after having just woken up from one of his 'naps' (twenty minutes in a semi conscious state during which he went floppy and stared at nothing whilst the rest of the world passed him by. Excuse me while I try to get High Court judges and ordering a burger from a flaccid faced cretin out of my head). Unfortunately he hadn't quite regained all of his faculties at that particular moment and was shuffling across said landing like a wilted mattress (here comes the judge again, only this time he's eating a burger and walking hand in hand with a flaccid faced cretin).

About halfway along the landing Stitches had stood on one of Flug's toys, a squishy, green, multi limbed monstrosity called Major Bummitch. Now, you wouldn't think that that was so bad because there wasn't a day that went by without one of them stepping on something of Flug's, including on more than one occasion, the big guy's feet which had a tendency to suddenly appear in various parts of the building like a pair of itinerant settees. This was because Flug didn't have much of a clue what any part of his body below the bolt was doing at any given time, so it was arbitrary at best asking him where he was now, or where he was likely to be next in an attempt to avoid tripping over him.

Above the bolt was a different matter of course. He didn't need to have a clue what was going on up there because there was more activity occurring in the Pope's bedroom.

The problem with Major Bummitch, (apart from his name of course. Still, it could've been worse. Flug had another toy called Tyrannosaurarse Hex), was that he wasn't as innocent as his fluffy and cuddly countenance suggested. When Stitches' weight landed on it, the toy had clung to his foot like a startled kitten and let out a screech that could still be heard rattling around the town square three hours later. Then, stumbling like a new born giraffe that'd been on the ale, the zombie, drawn towards the landing window like a magnetic moth to a metal flame, had crashed through the glass and down onto the street below.

As it turned out he wasn't too badly damaged. Dr. Zoltan, who by lucky hap had been enjoying a warm beverage at Mrs. Strudel's, had managed to extricate the zombies foot from his nether regions (not his. Stitches'), and put his head back on the right way round (again, not his), once he'd retrieved it from a passing canine who'd been making a concerted effort to swallow it whole because it thought the detached cranium was a tasty snack. Obviously he did all that after he'd finished laughing (the doctor that is. Not the dog). You can't be a man of medicine without having a sense of humour after all. I mean, have you seen those old fashioned headphones they all wear?