Legion World Forums LEGION OUTPOST Bits o' Legionnaire Business Numf & Sonnie Go To Hell On A Pushbike

Numf-El sits alone in the waiting room.

The wooden walls and window surrounds could do with a lick of paint. What was once white paint is now old, discoloured and flaky. The wood underneath is mildewed and slightly smelly. Smelling like tea tree oil. The posters on the walls are faded, peeling and cobwebbed, and appear to be offering holidays in swamps.

The air is heavy, the smell warm and rank. Not quite like a rotting corpse - more like pork chops that have been left to defrost for an hour or two too long.

The small buzzing insects don't annoy him as much as they should do.

It looks as if he's just missed the boat. The large steamboat paddles away, out across the lake. He can hear the slap slap slap slap of the paddles hitting the water. The slap slap slapping reminds him of something. Something else else sweaty, but he can't be bothered to chase it down at the moment.

He can't see the far side of the lake for the steam rising in the humid atmosphere, covering the far side like a curtain of mist. While he watches, the paddle steamer moves through the curtain.
The slap slap slapping disappears instantly, leaving the monotonous droning of the insects the only noise to accompany his loneliness.

He has got no idea where he is. Nor why. Nor how he came to be here. He doesn't even know how long he has been here, but judging by the fact that he has just watched the boat paddle across the lake he can't have been here too long.

Nor, indeed, does he know why he has got a large hole through his guts, out of which pisses, and occasionally spurts, a constant supply of blood.
It doesn't hurt, and it doesn't appear to be planning to stop any time soon.

That was perhaps the strangest thing out of this whole, very strange, picture.

----Interruption ------

This is the point where, if Harbinger were writing this story that she would offer the chance for a quick recap of what has gone before.

I'm not gonna do that.

This is a sequel to Dragons, which follows on from some Tag team plots before that.

It probably will made sod all difference if you haven't read them before - except that you've missed a whole pile of fun.
If you can't live with missing all that fun then go and search them out.
If you can, then fair enough.

Either which way - I hope you enjoy the ride to come.

K'N

--------- Back To The Story--------------

MORE, MORE, MORE!!!

Bored now.

That boat still hasn't returned.

I could do with a can of coke and a chocolate biscuit.
I'll go and see if there's a cafe somewhere around here.
Or at least a timetable.

Numf takes off his top and presses it to his stomach to try and staunch the flow of blood, but it quickly soaks through and the blood just drips incessantly from the makeshift bandage.

He investigates his wound - it appears to be an exit wound in his front. The bigger entrance wound is in his back, just missing his spinal column. Numf can make all of this out from the front.
Numf reckons, from his very limited medical background, that there must be a great deal of nerve damage, but everything seems to be working just fine and he still can't feel any pain.

Strange days indeed.
Most peculiar, mama.

Hell, don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
There are other places as well that you shouldn't go looking into in a horse, unless you're a qualified vet.

Come to think of it, is there anywhere that the unqualified layman CAN look into? Or in fact that your bog-standard horse will let you?

Maybe leave that for pondering at another time, Numf reckons.

Lets go see what there is to find.


------------------------


Numf fails to notice the battle of the flies as he leaves the waiting room.

One larger than normal fly appears to be taking on all-comers. And winning.
Not having any weapons as such, there's a lot of serious head-butting going on.
Shortly there's a small pile of dead and dizzy flies lying in the middle of the room, attracting a number of ground dwelling creatures to the feast of their lives.
Centipedes, beetles, woodlice and great big many legged millipedes join the fray.
The spiders leave it alone, knowing that the fattened insects will be much easier prey.

Eventually there's only one victor, buzzing about in the middle of the room by itself. Chuffed with itself.

Very quickly the pile of flies is consumed, as well as half of the smaller scavengers. The bigger scavengers that are left all seem to stand in a what appears to be the equivalent of a Mexican Stand-off , but without the sombreros and guns and ludicrous accents. The biggest, fattest millipede rises up on its rear 150 legs, towering over the others, who turn round and scamper back to their lairs, most of which are covered over with brand new spider silk.

The last millipede standing lowers itself to the floor, in a miniature version of a bull elephant seal flopping onto land.
Smiles to himself. He still has what it takes.
Lets out a deeply satisfying sigh. Belches and lets out a high squeaky fart. Sighs again.

And then dies when Numf comes back into the room, rather distractedly, and accidently stands on him.

Numf sits down, and puts his head in his hands.

Blood is still pissing out of him, making an awful bloody, slippy mess.

He stands up, and then sits down again. He's obviously very agitated about something.

"Nothing! Nowhere!" he says to himself. He's up and down, up and down. Faster than a whores knickers. And even stickier.

Very agitated.

As if by magic the shop keeper appears.

Except it's not a shop keeper.

Numf looks up from his confusion, and just about shits himself.

"Where the ....? What the ....??" he starts. His brain and mouth aren't talking to each other.

"Who the ...... ?" finishes off the non-shopkeeper in a deep southern accent. He is standing there in stripey red and white dungarees, peaked hat and blue neckerchief, looking like the bastard love child of Beetlejuice and Casey Jones.

"Well, I'm here to give you two a lift, and answer the usual glut of questions that your lot always have," he continues.

"Huh?" asks Numf.

"Oh, and before we go anywhere, I'm not having blood all over my new boat."
And so saying our stranger produces a small needle and thread set from the large pocket at the front of his stripey dungarees, which he throws expertly across to Numf. Numf flaps at it, misses, and it falls in a puddle of his blood.

"Tsk!" remarks Casey Juice. Or Beetle Jones, if you'd prefer. "And I'd recommend that you start at the back and work your way forward, so that you get all the main veins and arteries, or else you'll leak everywhere. I'll be back in five minutes, I'm just away for a smoke."

As promised, after five minutes the boat driver / pilot returned, having satisfied his desire for nicotine. He has also managed to have a complete change of clothing.
He is now dressed from head to toe in a red padded skin-tight outfit, and is carrying a motorbike helmet under one arm.
Both the outfit and the helmet are adorned with what appear to be adverts.

SMOKE OUR CIGARETTES!

DRINK OUR CARBONATED DRINKS!

DRIVE OUR CARS!

PLAY OUR VIDEO GAMES!

Numf does a double take. The driver now looks like the hybrid offspring of Beetlejuice and Michael Schumacher. Wearing generic adverts.

"Oh, for goodness sake, give me it here!" exclaims the driver in a put on Germanic accent, and snatches the needle and thread from Numfs hand.

Three seconds later the needle is handed back, threaded.

"I'll give you another five minutes - I'll have another smoke," he exclaims, thankfully losing the accent this time, taking out his generic lighter and generic cigarettes as he leaves the waiting room.

The best part of the opener is the refusal to tell what's gone before! I love it

Off to a great start Numf! And a Casey Jones/Beetle Juice hybrid...

from me too. The poor millipede - at least he got to enjoy his moment of glory.

Thanks gents.

-------------------

Although pretty much garbage at threading needles, Numfy isn't too bad at sewing, so when our driver re-appears the alloted five minutes later Numf is finishing off sewing the wound in his front. Tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth in concentration.

He finishes off and ties a triple knot. Looks up at the driver and says "Smoking's not good for you, you know."

"You haven't worked it out yet, have you?" comes the reply. "Try asking your brother. I'm sure he's got a fair idea what's going on here."

So saying the driver moves back and leans against the wall, arms crossed and legs crossed, looking at Numf. Waiting for the penny to drop.

Numf looks thoroughly confused.
Well, even more thoroughly confused than usual, if that's possible.

"What do you mean ' ask my brother'? There's no-one here but me and you," he states, looking quizzically at the driver. "Fuck off fly!" he adds, swatting at the buzzing around his head.

Driver opens his eyes meaningfully at Numf to get his attention, and moves his head slightly to indicate the fly, who's buzzing just out of Numfs reach.

"You're taking the wee-wee, you are," says Numf, slowly picking up on the drivers meaning, looking confused through half closed eyes.

"Have I lied to you yet?" the driver asks.

"Maybe not - but you've told me sod all. Listen, I'm gonna prove you wrong - I'm gonna kill that wee buzzin', tinnitus beastie," Numf says, getting off his backside and swatting at the fly.

Driver looks on, shaking his head and tutting slightly, as the fly easily out-manuevres Numf. When Numf stops, dizzy, the fly flies over to the grimy window and starts to dance all over it.

The pulsing in Numfs ears from running around sounds like tympani. His coarse breathing sounds like an angry buffalo.
After a few minutes of sitting quietly, giving his blood pressure a chance to calm down and catch his breath, he hears a buzzing at his ear.

Numf is angry and pissed off. Partly due to the confusion that he's feeling, and partly because of the exertion of a few minutes previous.

Sitting recovering, Numf uses one of his many powers to tune in to the flight pattern of the fly. This takes a lot of concentration, which is perhaps why he doesn't use it very often. His super brain powers extrapolate the flight using chaos theory and gravitational forces amongst other factors. He sits for a few minutes confirming his findings.

On the third cycle Numf strikes.

SWAT!

Bzz. Bzz.


Bzz.


The wings stall. Like a shot chopper in a Vietnam movie.


As if in slow motion the fly plummets round and round towards the ground. Bounces twice and comes to a dead stop.

In triumphant glee Numf lifts his foot to crush the life out of it ......

"Ahem!" coughs Driver (for that is what we will call him for now), still standing looking amused leaning against the wall.

The sudden attack on his concentration causes Numf to lose his balance, missing the fly by the length of a gnats pubic hair.

"What?" asks Numf, in the way that you'd expect a 13 year-old boy to ask.
Sort of in two halves.
The first half, the 'Whoh', is said in a high, squeaky, shrill pre-pubescent voice.
The second half, the 'ot', is said in a 'they've just dropped half way through saying this word' voice.
And the whole thing is filled with utter incredulation that anyone would dare to talk to them, because no-one is more important than them, and there is nothing in the world worth interupting them for. No matter what they're doing.

"Just clearing my tar filled throat," comes the reply, followed by a tarry, phlegmy gob. Lovely. "However, before you resume, I'd suggest you look over there," Driver says, nodding towards the window.

Numf turns his head slowly.

There, written in the grime are the simple words "Numfy, we're dead you gype*!"

Gulp.

After a few seconds, Numf lifts his jaw back into place.

He then bends down and picks up the barely conscious fly from the ground.

Numf turns to Driver and says, "What is this? Has Sonnie been brought back to life as a bug?"

"No," says Driver, shaking his head slowly. "Have a good look at him."

Numf peers down into his open palm at his brother.

"He looks like a piece of coal with wings!"

"That's about right," says Driver nodding in agreement. "That lump of carbon is the state that he was in when his soul left him. Can you imagine how difficult it was for him to pull the wings off a fly for his own use, since he doesn't have any arms or legs? Let alone opposable thumbs."

Numfs brain had stuck at the bit about his brothers soul leaving him.

Doing some hard sums in his head, Numf comes up with, "So, I'm guessing that this is the state that my body was in when I died then."

"Well, yes and no. If your soul leaves you at the moment you die then yes. However your soul can leave your body long before your body dies. But, no matter when your soul leaves, you only arrive here when your body dies - but in the state that it was in when the soul left. Gottit?"

After working things out with his fingers for a short time, Numf nods in agreement.
"So, guessing from the state that I'm in, my soul left me when I died."

"That seems a fair assumption," agrees Driver. "Anyway, it's time to get a move on. I'm on overtime already today, and I want home for my dinner. Any questons you want to ask? We'll do it on the way."


* gype - Scottish word for fool, idiot

Numf and Driver walk out through the waiting room door.
Numf has Sonnies black carbon body nestled protectively in his hands.
He is still confused, and there are questions upon questions tumbling through his head.
Prime amongst these questions are two of utmost importance.

"When's lunch?" he asks. "And is there beer?"

Driver ignores him.

Around the building is a timber walkway. It is in the same state of repair as the waiting room, and creaks as you walk along it. Numf has already walked all of the way around in his earlier reconn, and found that the only interesting thing is a short pier, doubtless where the steamboat was moored previously.

Numf is not particularly surprised to see a large red motorboat moored up to it at present. Shiny.

"Cool!" he says. "I take it this is yours."

"One of many vehicles at my disposal. I was piloting an old Southern American paddle steamboat not very long ago," says Driver.

"So, why a steamboat ten minutes ago and a Ferrari powered motor boat now?" asks Numf, making the connection between the steamboat, the pilot, Driver and the powerboat finally.

"Well, I needed a bigger vessel before because we had all these guys dressed in black. All shapes and sizes. Thousands of them. I had to make a few trips. But this time I knew that there was only you and Sonnie. And, like I said, I'm on my own time now, and I'd like home for my dinner," Driver answers. He is strolling along, whistling. Keys whirling around his finger, as if he is a '60s TV cowboy with his six-shooter.

Alarm bells are going off in the back of Numfs head. '...dressed in black...thousands...' Scary flashes.
Luckily for him, Driver isn't watching the horror crossing his face as vague memories leak back in.

"So, where did you take them all?" asks Numf after taking a few seconds to calm down a bit, and to return his demeanour to an apparently unflustered state.

"Same place I'm taking you - to see Minos," says Driver.

"And he is?" asks Numf.

"He's the person who decides where you end up. I guess that you can think of him more as Death," says Driver without looking round.
If this was a horror film there would be cracks of lightning and off screen manic laughter at this point......
Ah, please yourself.

As they walk under a wooden frame at the near end of the pier Numf asks, "What did that say?"

"What, the banner we've just walked under? It said 'Lasciate ognes speranza, voi ch'intrate', or 'Abandon hope all who enter', if you'd prefer."

Numfs brain works overtime....

"I haven't touched the stuff since Amsterdam. Honest! That was some lethal shit, that was. So I've got none to hand over," he remarks. Seeing Drivers confused look he expands, "Bob Hope - dope? Cockney rhyming slang? No?"

Driver sniggers. And sniggers some more.

This would be the time that Numf nicks his keys, shoves him in the water and steals his big shiny red boat - but he has absolutely no idea what to do after that. So he decides to let fate take them along for a while. He needs to find out a bit more before he tries making a break for it.

As they hurl across the calm water of the river, bouncing on the occasional very small wave, Numf tries to stop the dry retching that he's doing over the side. Hanging on for dear .... um.... life?......with one hand he holds delicately on to his carbonised brother with the other hand. Thoughts flit past various synapses, seldom stopping to do any damage.

How did he end up with a great hole through him?
How had Sonnie ended up like a small piece of coal?
Thankfully there is no sign of Harbi, Marvin or Stacey, so hopefully they're safe.
Would it be possible to get in touch with them, let them know that they were alright. Well, in one piece. Well, dead really, he supposes, when you get down to it.
They probably knew this anyway.

Numf wishes that he had managed to find something for lunch - at least then he'd have something in his stomach to th .........

bounce

Retch..retch....

Seldom had there been dogs quite as sick as Numf is now. And feeling very sorry for himself to boot.

It's not helped by the YEEEEEHAAA!!-ing and general good humour that's coming from the drivers seat. Like a kid on a rollercoaster.

Within seconds they find themselves within the fogbank that Numf had noticed earlier. In no way does this change Drivers driving style. Nor slow him down at all.

Well, at least the abject fear of hurtling speedily into the unknown takes Numfs mind off of the dry retching that he's been doing.

AAAAAGGGHHHHHHHHHH adds itself to the Yeehaaing, which itself quickly changes to laughter at Numfs pant-wetting fear.

Fighting to keep down the lining of his stomach, Numf decides it might be worth his time trying to find out somthing about what was happening, or about to happen. Try to take his mind off his severe discomfort.

"IS THIS THE STYX?" shouts Numf over the engine noise.

Driver ignores him.

Numf taps him on the shoulder and shouts his question again.

Driver glances round at Numf, but obviously can't make out what he's trying to say, partly due to the engine noise, and partly due to the great big full-head helmet that he's wearing.

Eventually Driver slows down. The engine noise decreases.

"You've gone all white - you look like you've seen a ....oh forget about it," Driver says with a snigger to himself. "Sorry, you were saying?"

"Where are we?" asks Numf.

"Cocytus," says Driver.

"Don't be silly - they're big white Australian parrots, named especially to give gay ornithologists a laugh," says Numf.

"HUH?"

"Cockatoos - oh, you know - 'I bet you've seen a Cockatoo' ....." says Numf with a pretend wicked grin on his face.

Somehow resisting the strong urge to slap Numf around the head - funny how many people seem to get that urge - he explained to Numf how Cocytus is the sister river to the Styx, which along with the Pyriphlegethon flows into the Acheron, the underworlds main river.

"Oh, so the Afterlife is all based on Greek Mythology?" Numf asks, showing that he's not such a dumb shit after all.

"If that's what you believe in," explains Driver.

"Are you saying that you get the Afterlife that you believe in? Well, I always thought that Valhalla sounded dead cool - no pun intended. Can I have that one?" asks Numf.

"No - it's about beliefs and faith, not wants," Driver tells him. Seeing Numf about to complain he adds, "I know you think that you're an atheist, but that just isn't so. Deep down inside you do have beliefs - you maybe just haven't realised that yet. Therefore your beliefs will shape the afterlife that you are part of. If you had been a 12th century Viking you could have gone and lived in Valhalla, with endless quaffing and busty wenches, because that's what you would have believed in. They might let you in for a few pints, but generally no more than that."

"So I can interact with other peoples belief systems?"

"That's half the fun down here."

Driver cuts the engine.
The powerboat slows down, still ploughing through the thick fog.

"What's happening?" asks Numf, glancing around nervously at the prospect of some nefarious trickery.

"Don't worry, we're just coming up to the landing," replies Driver, smirking slightly to himself at Numfs obvious discomfort.

As promised, out of the fog appears a jetty which the boat sidles nicely up alongside, stopping perfectly.
Driver gets out and moors the boat. He then offers his hand to Numf, who grabs ahold and gratefully hauls himself out.

"By the way, I've been meaning to ask, what's your name?" asks Numf.

"Charon," says Driver.

"Sharon? That's a girls name," sniggers Numf.

"Tsk! Now you see why I didn't offer it!" says Driver looking slightly dejected.

"I hope you don't mind, but I've come to think of you as Driver. Is it okay if I call you that?" Numf asks, realising that he doesn't really want to offend the only person that he can talk to in the Afterlife.

"That'll suit me. It's better than Sharon, anyway!" says Driver, brightening up a bit.

"Wait a minute," says Numf, more pennies dropping into place. Boat. River. A man called Sharon.
"You're the ferryman. Aren't you?"
Chris DeBurghs song swims round in his head. But he had reached the other side now, so he could pay him. Numf reaches into his pockets. Not a bean. Not even a snotty hankie.

He pulls his pockets inside out to show that he hasn't anything in them.
A grin spreads across his face.

"Have you ever seen an elephant?" he asks, pulling down the zip on his trousers and delving inside.

Thwap!

"I've never seen a baby elephant, no," says Driver trying to keep a straight face. And failing.

Both Driver and Numf break at the same time, and both start laughing.

"Listen, I know it's customary for you to pay me for transporting you to this side of the river, but in this case I'm not going to accept any money from you. But you're owe me a favour, okay?" Driver says eventually, when the guffawing calms down a bit.
"In fact you'll need this for chips," he adds, tossing a big, bright dual-coloured £2 coin across to Numf. This time, almost miraculously, Numf manages to catch it before it plunges into the Stygian depths of the river.

"What's the favour?" asks Numf, zipping himself up again.

"Can't tell you - that'd give the game away. But it's not anything that'll cause you any problems. Now, on you go - over that way," Driver says, pointing the way down the long jetty.

"I don't believe in fate and pre-destiny and all that shite you know," Numf says, as he starts to walk along the jetty.

"Ah, but I do. I'll see you again - and I don't say that to many people," Driver replies, just before he starts up the power boat again and quickly disappears into the fog, leaving silence behind.

Not to go all Harbi on ya or anything Numf, But...



MORE, MORE, MORE!

Thans Chuck - and here's some of that more, more, more just for ya!

--------------------------

The dark waters slop gently against the sides of the jetty as Numf walks along it towards land. He is rather sad at having had to part with his new found friend.

He blows gently into his hand in an attempt to revive his carbonized brother, and is rewarded after a number of seconds by a gentle stirring of 'life'. Slowly a sense of contentment washes out from Sonnie through Numfs hand, who smiles to himself. Sonnie seems to have fallen asleep. Numf puts him carefully in his shirts top pocket.

Numf is in a much happier frame of mind as he steps from the jetty onto a beach. He is positively bouyant as he heads up into the sandy dunes, climbing up through the surprisingly named dune grass to the peak. Expecting a great vista to open in front of him - herds of majestic wildebeast - snow capped mountains - certainly something worthy of the afterlife, Numf is quite disappointed when all that there is in front of him is a boring red brick wall, 12 feet high with barbed wire and broken glass along the top.

The spacing between bricks has been filled in smoothly with mortar so that there are no finger or toe holds to be had.
Numf checks his right ring finger to see a white patch where his Legion Flight Ring used to be. No flying then.
Jumping up and down doesn't work either.
Nor does running at the wall and trying to scrabble up it. Gives him a smack on the nose though.

Having quickly exhausts the endless .... ummmm .... 4 then..... possibilities, Numf decides he might as well head in one direction - right. Picked at random. The terrain ahead looks much the same as he is on at present, and the fog seems to have thinned out a bit, so he can at least see 20 or 30 yards ahead.

After a couple of hours traipsing through damp sand Numfs concentration wavers a bit, and since Sonnie seems to be contentedly asleep Numfs mind wanders, as if sometimes does, to pussy.

Or, more accurately, to his mothers pussy. His mother used to say that Misty (for that was the cats name) wasn't fat, she just had short legs. Whereas Sonnie and Numf knew the truth, and kept telling her to stop feeding the damned cat Mars Bars and whole chickens. Numf smiled to himself stupidly as the memory played in his head. And wonders, not for the first time, what happened to the sofa that had gone missing.

Bump! Trip!

Numf should be paying attention. Instead he walks into the back of a black clad warrior with no legs and trips over him, bringing down the five similarly bedecked people in front of him.

Still sprawled on the floor Numf looks up to see what appears to be a long line of hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of pseudo ninja warriors snaking towards a HUGE open gateway bearing the legend "Disneyland! - The New Name For Heaven!".

Numf can do little more than 'Gulp!' as he watches heads turn in his direction, in some kind of strange black hooded Mexican wave along the length of the line.

[ If you haven't been bothered going back and reading Dragons, then you'll have no idea who these guys are. And who can blame you. 300 posts of sheer comedic genius, including the worlds only Grease / Led Zeppelin bastardization hallucination, and you just can't be bothered reading it. Why, oh why do I bother? Oh well. What? Are you expecting me to explain it all? Nope. Not doing it. That's Harbis realm. Re-writing the last story so that readers have some kind of idea what's going on. And here's the condensed version ...... Nah! If I'd wanted to write a short story I would have done it first time around. Would have saved me a shit-load of time and creative energies. Let me tell you. And you just can't be bothered reading it. Please yourself.]

Yo Numf! Hey Buddy, I read every brilliantly funny word of your magnum opus, Dragons, and enjoyed all of them. (especially the ones that made a few folks blanche, but thats another story) so you better not be talkin' ta me here pal!

Oh and PS This ones great too...

But if you and Sonnie get thrown out of hell for selling ice cubes to the ninjas, I swear I'll...

Laugh my ass off!

Nah - I've seen the Duran Duran video for 'Girls On Film'.
I can think of MUCH more interesting things to do with ice cubes.

"You bastard! You cut my legs off!" says the leg deficient pseudo-ninja.

"No I never - I just tripped over you!" squeaks Numf from his prone position.

"Yes you did - back in your Dragons Onevision. Page 12," exclaims the short-arsed fellow. "Near the bottom. In the hotel stairwell."

"Yeah, me too!" says his compatriot standing next to him, with half a head missing and only one arm.

"And me!" says a third. This one had his left foot cut off, and was missing his nose.

Numf notices that most of the people in the immediate vicinity were missing various appendages.

"Yeah, you're the reason that we're at the back of the queue to get into heaven!" exclaims SGG ninja 1. "I can't walk very quickly with no legs. And I was first off the first boat as well!"

"I had wondered what the brown streak I'd been following was," Numf says quietly to himself.

The other ninja are starting to gather round to see what all the excitement is.

"And I can't walk very quickly with most of my neurological functions diminished," explains Mr. Halfhead.

"And I keep walking round in circles," says the third. General murmerings are picking up all around. The cacophony of voices is increasing as recognition strikes the rather stupid synapses of hundreds of brains - the chance for vengeance can be sensed. In fact smelled.

"You electrocuted me in the toilets!"
"You cut my head off!" shreiked a head held up at arms length to see over the crowd.

The murmers turn into shreiks and screams.

"I am sooooooo gonna get my ass kicked," Numf mutters to himself.

The attempt by Numf to stand up gels the thought processes of all of the screaming black clothed crap assassins into one single thought. They don't want Numf to stand up. In fact they want him to stay down. Permanently.

The resulting pile-up makes the Scorpion Pile-Ups from Ritzy's Thursday night mosh look like the thing of a bunch of rank amateurs.

Luckily there are some very long ladders at hand to enable the last members of the black bedecked fraternity to arrive to join in the fun and games.
Located as he is at the bottom there's very little that Numf can do.
Literally.
He can't move. He can't breathe. He can't speak.
Luckily for him he's dead, so there's no need for him to breathe. And why on earth would he want to speak to anyone here? Pseudo ninja psycho xenophobes, the lot of them.

However, he would like to get his face out of lil Mr Legless' crotch. Especially since Mr Legless seems to like it.

"Careful there boy - you'll have someones eye out with that!" Numf manages to snarl down his nose, rather unintelligibly.

Numf can't even his mouth so that he can bite his way out.

--------------


Sonnie comes to in a hot dark sweaty moment. It takes a few seconds to even realise that consciousness has taken over once more.
The pressure in Numfs pocket is immense, and Sonnie can feel strange things happening to him every time there is another 'thump!' on the pile above.

He realises that there's something very wrong. He can sense that Numf is still functioning, although immobile. He can get his own back on Numf later for the swatting business, but right now it would appear that it's up to him to get them out of here. He is the only one in the vicinity who can understand Numfs muttering - it was a skill that he learned when he used to sit on Numfs head to wake him up.

After what he assumes is a final thump, Sonnie steels himself and starts moving very slowly, pushing his way upwards.
He feels the material of Numfs shirt rip, and he gathers a miniscule amount of momentum. This momentum, however, adds itself to the collosal amount of pressure from above, and Sonnie feels himself almost 'sharpen' as he pushes.

The cutting gets noticably easier, and Sonnie slices slowly through more material, and then flesh, and bones, and organs and more bones and more material and ........

The further the journey progresses, the greater the speed, until, mere minutes after Sonnie has become conscious he bursts out through the back of the topmost ninja, slicing majestically through the back of his cranium.

Bursting from the darkness into the light, 300 feet high, looking down on a fog on one side, and a sanddune leading to an absolutely immense area filled with roller coasters, waltzers, and rides of every description on the other.

The golden orb of light in the sky provides a heat from afar which seems to clear Sonnies head, and bring joy to his heart after the cool dampness of the fog through which they had come.

Sonnie knows what he has to do to free Numf. Having no hands he would be unable to move the mountain of blackness which covers his brother, so he must get help.

Sonnie turns around and heads for the huge dazzling white fairytale castle in the centre of the park.

personally I prefer them in a nice malt whiskey or a pitcher of pyms.

Each to their own, my dear.


---------------


Sonnie is quite pleased with the turn of speed that he can produce, since he hasn't had the chance to test himself

before now.

Quicker than a Kwikfit fitter.

However, he's much less pleased with the ricocheting off the invisible, non-reflective dome which protects the

pleasure park below.

He comes back round again, slower this time, and stops when he feels the dome. There he rests for a moment.

He catches and holds his breath - not too shabby a trick for a lump of carbon. And then he slowly pushes.

Slowly he forces himself through the ultra dense air surrounding the park, the space closing itself up behind him.

After six inches or so Sonnie pops, gratefully, out the other side.

Sonnie had once heard that although bullet proof vests were good for stopping bullets they were absolutely no use

against knives. And the same principle had worked here. Thankfully, because that had been the only option he'd

come up with.

On tiny wings Sonnie hovers to get his bearings. Main control center is bound to be in the big white castle.

Down below he sees millions & millions of people, milling around in seemingly random patterns. Big scale

Brownian motion in action.
The sunshine covers the area within the boundary with bright light, casting sharp shadows.

Rides galore take up most of the spaces, queues miles long wait patiently to get on to the obviously more popular

ones.

From his vantage location Sonnie can hear the gleeful laughs, screams and shrieks of excitement floating up from

the obviously happy people below.

It seems very peaceful, the sort of thing that pleasant summer days are made for, and for a few seconds Sonnie is

distracted from the task at hand.

But quickly he remembers his brother stuck at the bottom of the pile, and accelerates as hard as he can towards

the castle.

The brakes work well.
Sonnie stops with the speed of thought.

He finds an open window in the top-most floor through which he sneaks with nary a buzz.

Up and down corridors he flies slowly, searching for the communications room.

No-one seems to notice him, as the slow hum of his wings is lost in the noise of the HVAC system.

Sonnie finds what he's after, an unmanned tannoy.

And that's where his plan falls down.

He can't talk! He'd tried unsuccessfully to talk to Numf prior to resorting to the window scraping. So how the bloody hell is he going to use the tannoy system?

Damn! Something else else is going to have to be done about this.

The only thing on Sonnies side is the fact that Numf isn't actually in mortal peril, since he's no longer mortal, so there's time to formulate a plan.

Morse Code! He could turn the tannoy on and bang himself off the microphone! Brilliant!

Umm, slight problem - Sonnie doesn't know any morse code other than dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot. And that probably wouldn't be consise enough to work. And the only words he'd be able to spell would be SO, OS, OOS & SOSS. And three of them make no sense at all.
Oh, and SOSO, which he thinks was one of the alternative titles for Led Zeppelins fourth album.

Ah, he says to himself, coming up with the most brilliant of plans.


Big Hairy Bollocks!

The big hairy bollocks that Sonnie had remembered was apparently the result of an experiment carried out in an Aberdeen City Council office once upon a time. By the friend of a friend. Allegedly.

In appears that it is possible, using a mixture of new-fangled technology and witchcraft, to send a mobile phone text message to a land line audible phone. And actually hear the words, rather than just a mixture of farts and squeaks.

Apparently, after much experimentation, it was found that the 'rude' expression that could be heard clearest with this was the phrase "Big hairy bollocks".

Try it yourself if you think I'm making it up.

So, now all he needed was a mobile phone, a land line phone, and to get close enough to the tannoy to make this whole plan work.. . . .

Not that he was planning on sending that particular message to anyone of course. It probably wouldn't help them any.
Though perhaps when they got out of this .......

It takes four long, mind numbing days for things to fall into place.

Mickey Rat is the only person up in the control room, making a personal call on his mobile, feet up on the counter, when there is a shout for all personnel to attend the morning circle jerk. Or morning prayer and team hug, depending on your viewpoint.

In the pre-orgasmic excitement of putting his big fat rat head back in place, Mickey accidently drops his mobile mid-call.

Sonnie is prepared, as he has timed these meetings over the past few days, hoping that an opportunity like this might arise.

He comes out of his hiding place in the HVAC system and buzzes his way over to check the corridor. He hears the alleged motivational antics taking place a few rooms away. He should have enough time.

Back into the control room he goes, knocking over the tannoy microphone so that it lands next to the phone which sits on the desk.

Next, he buzzes down to the mobile phone on the floor. He hears a voice coming from it and buzzes over closer to listen.

"....at's happening? Where are you? What's that buzzing noise? That's not you using that toy of yours at work again is it? Yuch! You're disgu..."

Sonnie terminates the call, and types in his own message.

X zom bees
numf needs ur help
go 2 perli gate.
now.

And sends it to the phone next to the microphone.
A few minutes pass before the call gets through - Sonnie knocks the receiver off as soon as the phone starts to ring. As planned it falls right next to the tannoy.

Sonnie listens to the distributors message 'This is your Angels Telecomms mobile phone service. You have received a ....', cranking the volume on the tannoy, ready to flick on the switch when it gets to the message.

Four bloody days of lying under many a ton of mortal enemy, not a single one of whom had remembered to wear incontinence pants.

And you know these cults - sorry, I have a cold, I'll spell it for you - c-u-L-t-s.
All they eat is cabbage soup and sugar puffs.


I'll just leave you with that thought.

ARGH!

MORE!!!!!

My pleasure.....


------------------


Sonnie, due to the pressure changes mentioned earlier, is no longer a piece of black coal.

You guessed it, probably at the time, he has been turned into that most perfect of carbon forms, diamond.

This being a story, we can't really just have him as something that looks like molten glass (a bit of a rough diamond, ha ha ha), but rather he is a cut diamond.

In fact, being as he is now in heaven, how can he be any less than the most utterly perfect cut diamond there has ever been? With wings.
Koh-I-Nor ? Phaah! Nothing compared to the perfection that is Sonnie.

Don't feel you have to answer that - it's my story, and he's my brother, and I can do just about anything I want. As long as Nighty allows it, at least.

However, although he had felt a bit funny, he hasn't yet realised just how much he has changed.

So, although he quite enjoys the warmth of the suns rays coming in the window of the control centre (sleeping in HVAC shafts can be quite chilly), he doesn't realise that it is those very rays that will give him away!

Like something from a Pink Floyd album sleeve, the ray of light which touches Sonnie flashes a kaleidoscopic rainbow effect through the open office door and on to the wall outside. Where Security notices it.

Luckily it takes a few seconds for the security to get past the "that's purty" stage and actually wonder where it's coming from.

Sonnie is concentrating on the phone message, and doesn't notice the guard at the door, turning towards the door to find out what's going on.

Sonnie flicks the switch by pushing hard against it.

Feedback ensues.

SCREEEEeeeeeeee!

"EX ZOMBIES! NUMF NEEDS YOUR HELP! GO TO PEARL-EYE GATE! NOW!"

The re-constructed voice echoes around the control centre. Sonnie, quite pleased with himself, turns to head out and marshall the 247 ex-zombies who should answer the call.

It would appear, however, that the 8 feet tall behorned demon, with four arms, swords and clubs, in his way might have something to say about that.

Well, if a diamond could shit itself ..........

Poor Sonnie!

Numf. you Bastich, now I'm gonna spend the next three or four hours wondering just what a Diamond would shit if it could shit...

“! WOTCHOODOOIN !” asks the guard in a very commanding voice, standing menacingly over Sonnie. Clubs and swords are quite obviously in view.

Sonnie quivers in fear. He isn’t naturally a fearful person, what with being a superhero and all that and ex-leader of the Hells Angels, but for some reason his subconscious is reminded of a poster that his elder brother used to have.
It was a Frank Frazetta poster of Conan the Barbarian fighting hoardes of four-armed big red behorned hell spawn. And it had held him in awe and fear during his pre-pubescent years.

And then the poster had been replaced by Charlies Angels, and that had held him in awe and fear during his formative pubescent years. That HAIR!

So, some primal, dormant fear was re-visiting him, and quiver he does, as memory forces his brain towards shutdown.

Quiver he does, shaking, shaking, shaking. He’d managed to hold himself together quite well he’d thought, up until now. Considering that he had entered such a strange domain. A domain of death. And considering the changes he had gone through.

And now, for the first time since his relocation to these realms he thinks of his great friend, Harbinger. He wishes she were here – she always knew how to look after his fears and take him through them. Not that he really wanted her to be dead, of course. He hasn’t realised until now just how much he misses her.

Inside, he breaks into tears.

“You’re so pretty! And what a pretty song you sing,” says the guard, melting at the haunting music that Sonnie is producing. “Poor little flying light, what’s the matter?”

Sonnie hovers, juddering, in the air in front of the guard, who eases himself forward gradually, talking softly and reassuringly in his bass tones, lulling Sonnie into a false sense of security.

When he gets within range the guard drops his weapons and pounces at Sonnie, hoping to capture rather than kill. He could do with a new pet to torture, and having a flying light may well test even his skills in that field.

His top pair of hands grabs at where Sonnie is, while the second pair grabs behind to stop any attempted retreat.

Sonnie, however, isn’t that stupid. (Feel free to disagree with that statement if you want to.) He has been able to read the guards thoughts in his eyes. He knows the old and new methods of torture that the guard knows already, and is concocting as he moves.

Instead of retreating, Sonnie charges. Accelerating at a fearsome rate. Nought to sixty in fuck-all of a second.

Straight through the guards right eye, ripping the back of his head off.

“AAAAAAARRRRRRRRHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!” screams the guard.
“I’LL GET YOU!!!!!!! SEE IF I DON’T!!!!”

Two of the guards hands are grabbing for weapons, one has grabbed his right eye socket while the other is digging at the back of his head to determine what’s going on there.

His other eye is merrily searching for Sonnie.

Okay, if you’re gonna be like that! thinks Sonnie to himself.

The guard sees Sonnie hovering in front of him, red this time rather than the blinding white of their encouter seconds ago. But he just doesn’t have the speed to react before Sonnie takes out his other eye.

He falls over backwards in a heap.

And then, just like the Undertaker, he sits bolt upright!
No-one had told Sonnie that hellspawn don’t die.

“NOW I’LL MAKE YOU PAY! WHERE ARE YOU, YOU LITTLE…… ” the guard rumbles, ominously.
<span style="font-size: 20px;">"GUARDS!!!!!!!"</span>

Sonnie turns to see the first half-dozen guards spill in through the control room door, and exits out through the plate glass window without opening it first.

Back under the pile of black clothed Saturday-night ninjas, Numf has had enough.

For a while now he's been planning to work out exactly what powers he has, and now that he's dead seems to be the perfect opportunity to find out.
Life had been all about getting pissed (mostly) and laid (not nearly as much as he wanted to), but there's not much of any of that going on around here at the moment.

He knows about a number of his parents, but not all. Some of them even had powers which may be of use. If the proper DNA molecules had been passed down in the mix.
The mixture concocted by Darkseid contained, but was not limited to :-

Legion worlds Security Officer Cobie,
Captain James T. Kirk - hence his desire to wear girdles (not common knowledge),
Attila The Hun - he has had to fight the urge to support Rangers all his life (as it is only right he do),
Alexander The Great - fabulous at undoing knots,
Genghis Khan - loves barbarian whores,
Adolf Hitler - hence the silly moustache and crap side parted hair when younger,
Jesse James - might explain the need to wear cowboy boots and eat Milky Bars,
Darth Vader (who in turn was the son of Darkseid himself) - has been known to wear black in his fat goth days, and wheeze the morning after a heavy smoking session..Oh, and bits of him had a habit of turning to rock.....
Mon-El - has been known to wear a gar land or two (boo hiss bad pun / spoonerism!).
And, lets not forget, one of the Banana Splits. Without whom he would never had ended up in this mess - he'd probably be fighting sloths in the Andes.

With his mother being a Supergirl clone, and one time Legionworlder Golden Girl.

There were a few things that he'd worked out how to do - his patented Wanker Detector worked a treat. It can also be turned to be used as a motion detector. It wouldn't be much use here - surrounded as he was by no motion but a whole buncha wankers.

Being part Mon-El led to a few possibilities, but
1. he couldn't fly without a Legion Ring (he'd tried previously, much to the amusement of most of the then Legionworlders),
2. he obviously wasn't invulnerable, or else he wouldn't be here in the first place,
3. all the air had been forced form his lungs, so he couldn't breathe out without having had the chance to breathe in first,
4. being stuck under such a large pile of blackness didn't really do much for vision, nor hearing for that matter,
5. he wasn't going to get the chance to build up any speed in the near future for similar reasons.

Which leaves super strength.

Even more interesting when the Supergirl DNA is taken into account along with the Darkseid DNA.

Might be worth trying to tap into.

The 247 ex-ex-zombies had been partying rather steadily for a number of months now.
They'd been enjoying the heady delights that heaven had to offer.
Waltzers, roller coasters, hotdogs, cotton candy etc.
Queueing. That was one of their favourites. Shuffling slowly.

They had tasted an extra five minutes humanity due in no small part to Numf. Mostly Space Tart, it has to be said, but they wouldn't have been in Shameless Hussies that evening if Numf hadn't invited them all for a drink.

And if there's one thing that zombies crave, even above warm brains, it's a return to humanity and the chance to have a cold brew. And Numf had delivered.
So they owed him any help that they could provide.

It takes a while for them to saunter to the nearest bus stop and catch the free bus back to the Pearly Gates. And then wait for the next five buses to drop off the rest of them. When they are all gathered they head out the gates, much to the confusion of St. Peter.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but where do you think you're going? No-one EVER goes back out that way!" St. Peter says rather loudly as they pass.

"wweee...... hellllp ..... fren," comes the gruff response. Followed by a green flesh covered bottom jaw dropping at his feet.

"But, but , but, you can't come back in," St. Peter says.

"Wanna .... fu ' n bet?" asks a passing seven foot tall zombie.

"Ummmmm......" splutters Petey-boy, fluttering his big white fluffy wings, tripping over his harp and landing on his fake mouse ears.

St. Peter picks himself up, brushes down his previously pristine white gown and preens a few feathers back into

their correct place. He is glad those bloody ears are broken though. What a TWAT!!!! he'd looked with them on.

The last few days had been a bit of a grind, to be honest. First that mysterious young girl with the pass. A PASS?

He'd never heard of such a thing, but Jesus had okayed it.

In fact, come to think of it, since the new management team had taken over a few years ago it had all been a bit

strange.

No more weighing of souls, good v evil, like in the "old" days. Just one question now, and on the answer to that

alone lay the opportunity to enter 'heaven'.
And even that, he had to admit, had turned into a bit of a playground.

He supposed that something had to be done. After all there had only been the three of them up here. For

thousands of bloody years.
Himself , God, and the boy with the holes in his hands.
He alone was only person who had proven himself pure enough to get in. No-one else had proven themselves good

enough. But then they had a high level to live up to. All that last minute praying for forgiveness crap never worked.

The only way to get in had been to cheat - and he should know!

Didn't mention his mysoginistic tendancies and hatred of Jesus' wife. Nor his mum for that matter!
He was sooooooo pissed off that those bloody monks had translated 'young' as 'virgin'!
Useless bastards! They'd deified the bloody woman, instead of crucifying her for under-age sex as he'd planned!
Well, at least they'd managed to paint Mary Magdalene as a whore.

And then of course he'd slipped in the hollowed out weights when their backs were turned..........
But then, he had probably paid the price by being made the doorman for eternity.

So, when Jesus took over the place he knew that he'd be here for a lot longer. So much for his plans for a holiday.

Jesus was on to him ......

When the big J had sneaked down to earth no-one was paying attenion. God had fallen asleep watching

Eastenders or something.
He had got a house in Wako, Texas for some r'n'r. Got down to a bit of hareem building after 2000 years celibacy -

and who can blame him?
But, while there he'd picked up a penchant for something called The Disney Channel.
So when the local government boys had burned his ass back up here he'd had a few funny ideas about what he'd

wanted.

His dad hadn't been too chuffed. Not at all chuffed, but sometimes you've just got to pass along the reins.
Jesus had turned around with the 'Look, it's boring around here, and we need more people. Sitting around playing

the bloody harp! I am you so I have as much right to run this place how I like it' nonsense.
'What makes you say that you are me?' had been the booming question.
'Father, son and Holy Ghost, one and the same - that's what they believe in, so that's what is,' came the stroppy

rejoinder.
'Utter pish and tosh! That crap with the knotted hanky - utter garbage. Father.... son.... there, you've got it right

there. Even with cloning there's no way that father and son can be the same person. But I'll give you the chance to

run it your way. Just don't come running to me when it all falls in around your head.' And he'd vanished. Just like

that.
No, not like that ..... just like that.

'A familiar face for everyone when they get to the gate..' indeed. Peter knows he's been screwed again. But what

choice did he have really? Jesus bringing in the outside consultants had really put the kybosh on his own ideas.

Anyway, enough about the ancient history - these black cloaked gits - it had taken a few of the security guards to

keep those buggers out, even though they passed the test question. Almost as if they'd been primed.
The first few had got past, but then they hadn't been dressed in black. There was something definitely not right

about them, and they weren't getting in - and Peter himself had the last word on the matter.

And that's when things started getting a bit stroppy and the guards were called. They'd just formed a barrier across

the gates and that was that.
Where Jesus had managed to get such good, cheap guards from he couldn't imagine. They sure knew what they

were doing.
It's strange, however, that if you catch them in your periferal vision they look like they're red with four arms. never

mind - he definitely needed that holiday.

Anyway - suddenly, after a couple of days of aggro and chip fights they'd all buggered off and jumped in a pile!

After shouting more abuse at St. Peter and the guards, swearing terrrrrrrible vengeance on them. They'd probably

been watching too much Pulp Fiction.

And now these bloody ex-zombies trying to escape! From heaven!

Peter shakes his head in disbelief.

And he thought he'd seen it all.

Sigh.

ooooooh good post Numf. Very risky subject matter treated with your usual considered irreverence! You are a star!

need I say more, more, more? I'm sure you already guessed

Harbi, can you tell me what's going on, 'cos I haven't got a bastard clue!



p.s. - where does the pushbike come in to things?

247 shambling ex-ex-zombies shamble out to help Numf.
They stumble to a halt - there's no sign of him. There's just that big black mountain. That never used to be there, did it?
It appears to be crawling like a mound of black maggots.

And if there was one thing that they know about, it's maggots!

They stumble shabbily forwards on stiff legs, arms outreached in front of them, just in case they should fall over. And a few of them do in the rough terrain.

As they line up they are surprised (or at least as surprised as zombies get) to see the vast mountain rise up slowly from the ground. There, underneath, holding it up at arms length is Numf!

YAY NUMF! they all cheer, except of course that it sounds more like "a' N ... F" said by people with no tongues. Which of course most of them didn't have anyway. Having had them eaten by the afore-mentioned maggots.
So, it sounded like not very much at all.

"Oh, hi there!" says the numfster, recognising a few of the zombies. "Any idea what I should do with this lot?"

"A'i n'ah!" mutter a few of the zombies.
Which Numf recognises, from having had teenage daughters, as "I don't know." At least the zombies don't mutter it with as much loathing and disrespect as the girls do. Sorry, did.

At that St. Peter comes flying out awkwardly (to be honest, the wings are more ornamental than functional), and lands fairly close to Numf, making sure that he's not actually standing under the mountain, in case it falls.

"Did I hear you say that you were looking for an idea of what to do with them?" St. Peter asks.

Numf nods, respectfully. Although he doesn't know who it is that's talking to him, anyone dressed in white with big gorgeous wings like that is bound to be a goody. Or a fucking seagull, but he doesn't look like one of them.

"Um, you see that tributary over there?" asks St. P. pointing behind Numf, who looks puzzled. "You CAN see through the ethereal mist, can't you?"

Numf turns 180 degrees and tries. He focuses on seeing through the fog. The fog appears to almost lighten and turn transluscent, allowing him to see further and further through it.

WHUMP!!

Suddenly he's lying on his back with some serious tonnage of pseudo-ninja on top of him again. Feeling a tad squished.

"Damn," he mutters incoherently to himself. "I didn't reckon to there being Ultra Boy DNA in me as well!"

Up they go again.

This times there's some shouting going on from the edge nearest Petey-babes, from the pseudo-ninja who have recognised him.

"Point me in the right direction," says Numf. "My super-vision doesn't work at the same time as the strength."

"Of course - that'll be the Ultra Boy DNA," sayd Petey-bunny. Out goes an arm, finger pointing. Numf turns to face in the right direction.

"What range?"

"Between 150 and 530 yards. After that it bends away to the right."

"Okay. That should be long enough for the spread that they'll have. Wind speed? Zero, right?"

Chuck.

With a mighty two handed throw, a number of tonnes of black covered flesh goes flying into the thick, thick fog.

5 Sssscrrrreeeeeeeee

4 eeeeeeeee

3 eee

2 eea

1 m

PPLAAAAASHHH!!

"Thank you. They'll be no bother now," says Peter, with a big smug look on his face. "To either of us."

"Why's that? Are there crocodiles in that tributary or something?" asks Numf, for some reason suddenly concerned that he'd cast all those dead gits to their death. Or something.

Peter laughs. "No, my dear boy. Are you by any chance a scholar of the classics?"

"Well, I've read Moby Dick and Black Beauty ...." says Numf hopefully.

"No," says St. P somewhere between laughter and disappointment. "I meant do you have a grounding in Greek and Latin. I'll take that as a no, then. That is, indeed, the river Lethe," St. P waits for a second in the hope that this might mean something, and then soldiers on with a sigh. "The one thing that classic scholars would generally know about it is the fact that it's waters make one forget their memories. Therefore, once they re-emerge from its waters, they will have forgotten everything. What they have against you, and what they have against me, too. So we needn't worry about them any more."

"Cool," says Numf, brushing himself off. Sorry, I mean brushing all of the dirt off his clothes. "So, now what?"

"Well, I suppose that I owe you my thanks for getting rid of those trouble makers. How about I tell you the answer to get in through the Pearly Gates?" asks Pete.

"What about my friends?" asks Numf waving his hands round to take in the zombies. "I could have sworn that I heard you saying that they wouldn't get back in. Let them back in - they only came out to help me after all - and I'll answer any question you like. Without cheating."

"But it's unheard of!"

"Yeah, but they'd already been admitted, hadn't they?"

"Yeah, I s'pose," says Peter, slightly annoyed with himself.

"SO, let them in!" says Numf, feeling slightly confrontational.

Having just seen Numf dispose of those ninja, and spotting in his eyes a look which reads "feather plucking mood", St. P relents. "Okay - but I can only grant one favour, so no asking anyone the answer. Promise?"

"I promise," agrees Numf.

Okay, let me get this straight. You lost track of what's happening in the story you're writing so you ask Harbi, who happens to write the most insanely convoluted stories this side of Mr. Dobson's favorite opium house, to straighten you out and after your next story segments you wind up palling around with St. Peter in Heaven?

UB's DNA as well??? Are you sure it's not that, like most blokes you can only do one thing at a time?

Great stuff Ken, now go sort out St P. as he's worthy of Herk treatment if anyone is (Loved the - "a look which reads "feather plucking mood" " line btw ). And now you have a host of ninjas with no memory to add to your fab cast too, damn - wish I'd thought of that! What a great idea!

Hope sun is shining at your end of the aether Ken!

And AQ, convoluted plots? I've no idea what you are referring to

Hey, you know how it goes - sometimes you've just got to follow the story, no matter where it takes you.
BTW - where's this opium den you were talking about ........

Well, B, you could be right about the first point - multi-tasking sure ain't in my genes, in fact sometimes single-tasking can be a strain.

As for St. P, just 'cos he's a misogynistic, gossip spreading uber-cheat doesn't make him a bad person

They stand at the Disneyland©®™ Pearly Gates. The zombies have all passed through, as agreed, and shuffle animatedly on the other side, waiting for their friend.

Numf waits patiently, sweaty palmed, as St. Peter sorts out his paperwork.

"Am I allowed to ask you a question?" asks Numfy of Petey-boy.

"Why, yes. Under the rules you're actually allowed to ask me one question that I'm obliged to answer truthfully. It just seems a pity that you've wasted your question at this early stage," says St. P distractedly. "Ah, here's your entrance form," he says, waving it in the air like Chamberlain returning from Berlin.

"Bugger," comes the inevitable reply.

"Righty-ho," says St. P looking through the form. He opens up a sheef of paper, and one single, folded up sheet un-concertinas out, revealing fifteen folds in it.

"Bloody hell, is that my family tree?" asks Numf.

"Sorry, I can't answer that," says St. Peter. "You've already had your question."

"Fuck. Hey, Mr. Zombie - go and you ask him for me," commands/pleads Numf.

Two minutes pass.

"Okay then - how about one of you with a tongue?"

"Zatiz famleetreeeee?" asks a close by zombie, complete with facial tics and strained rigor mortised muscles.

"Yes, but only going back one generation," comes the reply.

"You mean that you've got a list of everyone whose DNA is in my mix?" asks Numf incredulously.

Silence.

A bit more silence. And some definite 'trying-to-ignore'.

Yet more silence.

"Right - go on. Ask me the bloody question then. Maybe I can get a civil answer out of you after that."

"Okay then. It's a fairly simple question. All you have to do is answer yes or no. Understand?"

"Yes. Hey is that it then? That was bloody easy," says Numf, all pleased with himself. He starts to walk forward.

St. Peter lays a hand on his chest. "And now the question," he says, neatly not answering Numfs question at the same time. He's obviously a dab hand at this.

"Do you believe in dinosaurs?"

but.. but.. but..!

What a Question! If he says yes (due to scientifically conclusive proof) he'll lose won't he? The Earth being made 6003 years ago by mr JHWH (or whatever line of bollocks is being passed off as 'truth' these days) and St Pete ain't about to listen to reason is he?

Heh, good one Ken.

Ohmygod this story is so not sucky I can't believe it. No wonder Gramps says you make him crap his pants laughing.

Why, that's just about the nicest thing anyone's ever said about my stories.

Thank you.

"Of course I do!" exclaims Numf. Scientific fact that was. He'd seen the skeletons in The Natural History Museum - diplodocus, triceratops etc. Fossils of great sea beasts, archaeopterixes, trilobytes. He'd even seen a bunch of Chinese dinosaurs at one point, so he knows that they weren't just a localised event. Why on earth wouldn't he believe in dinosaurs for goodness sake.

They'd even found the oldest recorded fossil ever not 20 miles from his old family house.

"AAwwwwwww!" exclaim the zombies. Even St. Peter looks slightly crestfallen. Numfs entry form disappears in a puff of smoke, and with it the chance to find out his immediate ancestory.

Some of the zombies even start crying. The ones with working tear ducts anyway.

" ....but......" Numf starts, realising that he's maybe screwed things up somehow, and trying to think on his feet. But, as anyone who has met him knows, that ain't one of his strong suits.

"...........but........" he continues, playing for time.

St. Peter and the zombies look on, hoping that he's not just playing for time.

Lying soaked, cold and exhausted on the banks of the Leche -

Ninja 1 : I'll get that bastard!

Ninja 2 : What bastard?

Ninja 1 : Ummmm .............

Just when it looked like time had run out for Numfs rather crap procrastinating he finds himself attracted to a reflection of light ten feet behind St. Peter, and floating above the zombies.

The light is darting about, flashing on and off. But it seems to be doing so in a particular pattern.

Numf looks confused, and shakes his head.
St. Peter sighs.

The light speeds up. Back and fore, back and fore it goes. Speeding up, speeding up.
Until, suddenly, Numf can read a word hanging in the air. It says 'only'.

Numf tries this word on his tongue. It tastes good.

"Only...."

There is a gasp of indrawn breath from all around - maybe he won't be damned to eternal ...well.... damnation after all. Breaths are held. The tension can be felt, heavy in the air. Or is that just the fact that Numf is bloody hungry?

The light pattern changes.

"In....."

change

"As far....."

change

"As they ......."

change

"Are there ....."

change

"As testes ..... sorry, as tests ....."

change

"Stupid basta .........ooops..."

change

"Of faith."

Numf stops. St.Peter looks on quizzically. "You look like you've just read that off an auto-cue. Go on, explain what you mean then."

A thought pounds through Numfs head - HARBI HARBI HARBI HARBI.

What do you want now ?



Great stuff Ken, loving your work - as ever! More, more, more!

Please.

There was some connection running through Numfs brain between Harbi and Dinosaurs.

Magnificent breasts?

Nope, wasn't that. Heroic hair?

Nope - that neither.

Alan! That works, but wasn't what he was after.

Warm charming personality? Nope.

Magnificent breasts? Been there - might just have to come back to them again. But still nope.

Oh yes, something that Harbi had once said. Something else else about a belief held by Funda-fucking-mental-ist Christians (as she put it) and Jehovahs Witnesses.
A belief that if you went back to the Bible and added up all of the ages of those that begat someone else, all the way back to Adam, and then added on seven days (or was it six, 'cos God rested on the seventh?) you'd get to the day that the earth was created. As if God had to restrict his days to 24 hours. Being God he could quite easily slow time down and make it, say, a 26 hour day, because surely he'd be working late on a couple of nights .......
So, therefore the world is approximately 6003 years old. And maybe a few extra hours that they forgot to add.

Oh - minus a few for when God stopped the world in its tracks during a battle in the Old Testament. So maybe they were right after all.

So, having only six days to create the earth, every single physical law, create the building blocks of absolutely everything, work out a power supply to provide energy to last for ever, work out what could maintain life and what would just kill everything off in the wink of an eye (how many failed experiments were there out there? Numf often wondered), etc.etc etc. God then thought that he'd pull off the April fool joke OF ALL TIME (even though it was just the beginning of January) and fill the land up with the bones of pretend animals!

WHAT a joker!

But then he gave us all a clue as to his joker credentials when he created the duck-billed platypus. We now can't claim that we weren't warned.

Since the whole point of all world religions is Faith, this would surely be the main crux of the Christian faith. If dinosaurs had lived, then it disproved the Bible. So, if you believe in dinosaurs then you can't believe in the Bible!
In the very word of God!

QED.

Take that and party!

However, instead of the perversely reasoned account that has just gone on in his head, Numf hears himself say:

"Listen Bugger-lugs! Have I answered your question or not? You only asked for a one word answer, but I've even explained my answer for you!"

He feels himself tense up, ready for an argument.

In a perfectly calm and reasoned response St. Peter replies, "Yes you have answered - but I think that you've cheated. And anyway - your initial one word answer was wrong. You are the weakest link, goodbye!" Closer examination would note the tips of his ears turning pink.

And so saying, two besuited guards pick him up from behind and throw him out before he has the foggiest what has happened.
It felt like there were at least four of them though.
Strange.

Skiting along sand and gravel on your arse is not a recommended way to pass your time. Under just about any circumstances.

Numf picks himself up after a few seconds of pain comtemplation (and then realising that there isn't any) and readies himself to run at the gate. He sees, however, the zombies turning around and shuffling off. They seem to realise that the fight is over, even before it's properly begun.
And anyway, what kind of person would he be to start a fight at the Pearly Gates? The entrance to heaven.

Resignation permeates every cell of his body. The desire for revenge seeps away.
"Bollocks. I suppose I always knew that I'd never be good enough....." he mutters to himself, shoulders drooping.

And then he smells something that has been trying to get ahold of his consciousness for seemingly days now.
And he realises just how bloody hungry he is. His shoulders snap to attention, and he takes the deepest of breathes, in through his nose.
He breathes out, and then breathes in through his nose again, this time with his eyes closed. It's still there - he's not dreaming.

His stomach thinks his throat has been cut, but his brain knows it's actually the other way around.

The last thing he expected here.
Chips!

Do you smell a smell you recognise?



Loving it Ken, especially 'Skiting along sand and gravel on your arse is not a recommended way to pass your time. Under just about any circumstances.' - I agree!

Hope all is splendid with you and yours

xx

Ohmygod, Mr. Ghostly Numfie, That not sucky story is so funny I sprained my Toochis Laughing.

Ummm Oh and Hi Miz 'Binger!

Thanks EG - you're allowed to stay around and compliment me as much as you like.
Seriously though, I'm glad you're enjoying it.

Mmmmm, I might use that as my new by-line - "Official Toochi sprainer."

Numf follows his nose.

Sniff, sniff, sniff, not too dissimilar to a bloodhound tracking smells through the air.

Almost without thought Numf finds himself at the far side of the Pearly Gates, in front of a small golden two wheeled vehicle, upon which sits a vat of boiling golden fat. From which the most delicioius aroma that Numf has ever smelled in his, well, death, eminates.

Numf looks down at the sign hand painted on the side of the vehicle.


Judas's Chariot.

"So, they didn't let you in neither?" asks the swarthy chip-frier conversationally.

"Nope. 'Fraid not. How much are your chips?" asks Numf, drooling.

"A small shiny coin for one bag, or a big shiny coin for two," replies Judas, for that is who it is.

"How about this one - not only is it a big coin, but it's part gold and part silver," says Numf, holding the coin that Driver had given him out for inspection.

"Shiny, shiny! You can have two bags for that," comes the reply.

"Excellent - I'm bloody starving! I've been stuck under a pile of bodies for the last few days."

"Hey, was that you? Tell you what, you can have them for free! I made a killing these past few days, what with all the sightseers stopping to ogle for a while," says Judas, stirring the chips in the boiling fat.

Numfs mouth is by now producing enough saliva to drown a small dog.

"Nice, um, chariot you've got there. I like the paintwork," says Numf, nodding towards the sign.

"Why thanks. Believe it or not, this here is the actual chariot that Zeus used to pull the sun across the skies. Back in the days when he was in charge of course," says Judas.

Numf whistles, impressed. "Wow," he says."I'm impressed! I'll bet that cost you a pretty penny."

"Thirty..."

Numf joins in, ".....pieces of silver." Numfs nods his head in understanding.

"Did you get his horses as well?" Numf asks.

"Heck no - I couldn't afford them. And anyway, I know nothing about grooming horses. I'm used to walking everywhere. Open top sandals," replies Judas, shrugging.

"Fair enough, but you surely don't pull the chariot along behind you ...."

"No, I managed to save enough to buy myself a bicycle a few years back," Judas says, motioning over to his left. " But I hide it over there - you never know with all the bloody thieves roaming around out here!"


"So," Numf asks after a pause, "whatever happened to Zeus?"

"Well, that was the reason that I got the chariot so cheap. You see, with the belief structure heading away from Greek mythology to Christianity he had let himself go to seed a bit. He wasn't looking after himself. Beard was growing long and unkempt, and what a beer belly he'd managed to put on. Well, those drinking sessions with Dionysus were legendary around these parts! So he was selling up and shipping out. "Last I heard his plan was to go live at the North Pole under an assumed name and make toys for children. He somehow reckoned that would make him popular again."

A pleasant, contemplative silence follows, during which time Judas passes over the first bag of chips.

Five seconds later it's finished, and Numfs mouth is blistering nicely. And his oesophagus. And stomach. But, he's had worse.


"So, how come they wouldn't let you in?" asks Judas.

"Oh, you know! I answered their question correctly, but in a roundabout way. And St. Peter thought I was swicking," answers Numf.

"Well," chortles Judas, "If anyone knows about 'swicking' it's him!"

"Hey, but what about you? How come you're not in there?" asks the numfster.

"Oh, come off it! Surely you know my story? Betraying Christ? You remember?" Judas says.

"Yeah, that's as maybe. But don't forget, it was all pre-arranged, wasn't it?" replies Numf. "If it weren't for you there'd be no Christ on a cross, no Easter eggs, no ultimate sacrifice, no resurrection and therefore no hope of eternal salvation in Paradise for billions of followers for the last 2000 years. Without you there'd be no faith, no hope, and no Christian religion, basically. So, surely that's worth a trip past the gate? And anyway, God made you do it."

"What do you mean 'God made me do it'? Surely it was Satan that made me do it?" asks Judas.

"Don't be daft! First of all it was prophesised in GODs book - allegedly the book of HIS word. So he knew damn well it was going to happen. And did nothing to stop you - in a time well known for miracles taking place. So therefore it was your destiny, fate, whatever you want to call it. Not your fault.
"Secondly, God is omnipotent and created everything - including Satan. Therefore Satan must be here to do Gods work. Or he wouldn't have created him in the first place.
"Thirdly - don't forget that Peter denied Jesus not once, not twice, but three times. And HE's got in! He's well known as the man on the gate, weighing souls. Whereas your name has been absolutely vilified! So much so that traitors are known as Judases.
"And lastly for now, if Satan had talked to you, you would have resisted him, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would have!"

"Exactly - 'cos you were one of the Apostles! One of the better-than-good guys. Jesus wouldn't have picked you if you were that much of a push-over. So therefore it must have been God who told you what to do. Otherwise you would have fought it off," finished Numf.
"I mean, God is apparently omnipotent. Doctors can cure that with little blue pills these days.
"He's also omnipresent - I tried that once and they called me a bloody stalker!
"And what's the other one - omniscient? Means he knows bloody everything. Well, NOBODY likes a smart-arse!"

"You know something? You're right!" Judas says. "I'm going to go and kick up a stink about this! Two thousand years I've been out here, day in, day out. First begging, then selling chips. Haven't had a bloomin' holiday in I can't remember how long...."
The dummy has been well and truly spat out.

"Umm, before you go, can I get my second bag of chips?"

And that's how Numf acquires a pushbike.

I mean, who cares if he stole from someone like Judas?
The bastard betrayed Jesus, for goodness sake!
Deserves everything he bloody well gets!

Having said that, Numf at least has the good grace to leave his shiny two pound coin in exchange - and he regrets for a long time the fact that he doesn't wait around for change.

What a wreck!

No shiny BMX this. More like a UXB!
The only time that you ever see bikes like this is in adverts for 'Rrrrreal Brrrread like your mutha used to bake'. With dirty kids in flat caps careering down steep cobbled streets in English mining villages during the war.

This thing even has the small front wheel, and the basket for delivering rations!
Judas had obviously not purchased a pump at the same time as the bike, and although the chain is well oiled, it smells strangely of fish. And it is fairly obvious that the phrase 'suspension' had only applied to IKB's bridges in them days.

Having accepted his second bag of chips, Numf had wandered back towards the Pearly Disney Gates with Judas. This had been a two-fold mission. First of all, to see if he could find Sonnie - because he had worked out that it must have been him that had signalled the reply to him.
And of course to watch the fun and games.

Whilst Numf was scanning the immediate area with his newly found ultra-vison for signs of Sonnie, Judas was up close and in the face of St. Peter.

And it's Petey-honey-bunches that, rather surprisingly, throws the first punch, after a rather nasty jibe about his mother. Or more accurately, him AND his mother. Totally unfounded, of course, but it seemed to hit a raw nerve.

However, standing around for 2000 years doesn't make you much of a boxer. Whereas Judas has been stuck around outside with Heavens rejects for just about as long. He knows how to rabbit-punch a throat. And how to drive an elbow into a solar plexus. As Petey-of-the-kicked-arse soon becomes aware.

The security guards aren't quick enough to stop the flurry of fists, knees, elbows and teeth that ensues - or maybe they just think he deserves a good hiding too? We'll never know for sure.

But eventually the guards break their way through the zombies who are shuffling their way slowly back to the gate to see the fight (not something you see very often in heaven, you know). And pick up both Petey and Judas by the ears, turn round and march off with them, in the direction of the big white castle. After a half dozen steps the biggest of the guards turns around and points a remote control at the gate. He presses a big red button, and the gate swings quickly, but silently, shut.

A small sign appeared - 'No hawkers!'

A small whimper of excitement escaped Numfs lips as his super vision spotted a fly-sized black object on a rooftop 400 yards away. Until he zoomed in close and realised that it was a fly.

And climbing the gates hadn't helped matters, as there had been some kind of bloody forcefield. Which no amount of heat vision, superspeed pulverising, nor any amount of swearing at, could budge.

He had turned to go, having surveyed the area thoroughly. Twice.
And there, floating right in front of him was Sonnie.
Not the black fly-like Sonnie, but the new improved diamond Sonnie.
Bouncing happily to himself. Obviously glad to be back with his older brother.

Numf had been awe-stuck by the beauty. There was something about the joy that exuded from this beautiful little buzzing light reflecting display that had reminded Numf of ....... a little puppy dog.

Oh, or maybe Sonnie, when he had thought for a few seconds longer.

So, having found the bike, here they are now, 'speeding' along at only slightly more than walking pace away from the Pearly Gates, Numf cycling, Sonnie buzzing, with not the foggiest idea where they're going.

(Sounds familiar.)

Judas selling dodgy chips (and I hope hotdogs, burgers and watery looking fried onions?) at the side of the Pearly Gates! Oh Numf, you excel!



PS what do you want for your birthday?

Three days they spend riding along within spitting range of the wall surrounding Heaven, proving just how big the place is. There are times that Numf feels as if it is expanding to force them into the river, almost as if it is a living entity, but he is sure that it is just his imagination playing tricks on him.
When they come to the end of the wall, the view to their left confirms that it continues as far as the eye can see. And considering Numfs new Ultra-vision, that is a considerable distance indeed.

All along their trip up to this point they have heard the rides going on at the other side of the wall.
Screeching tyres, shuffling axles, splashing flumes.
Screeching kids, shuffling feet, splashing puke.

And that was when they find the road.

The one made of yellow bricks.

It's either a case of taking the road, or going cross country. The thought of building a boat and taking the river even crosses Numfs mind, but he decides against it, because he doesn't know how to build boats.
And since the bike's bad enough on the flat, smooth road there's no way that he's going to try riding it cross country. He doesn't think his testicular health would last very far if they take that route.

So, follow the yellow brick road it is.
With Numf as Dorothy and Sonnie as Toto. By the looks of things.

WTF am I getting us into? Gawd, I don't know if I'm ready for this.

Ohmygosh, Mr. Ghostly Numfie, are we gonna get guest appearances by the Saw-Horse and the Hungry Tiger and all the other not sucky characters in the OZ Books who got stiffed out of being in that movie?

Gram gave me a full set of the OZ books... They're Great! (Betcha didn't know that Tony the Tiger was based on the Hungry Tiger in the OZ Books.)

"Hey look. Over there in the field! " exclaimed Numf. "That's funny , I could have sworn ... I.... saw.....horse..... Oh well, maybe not. You know something Sonnie, I'm hungry. Tiger beer with rowies and cheese. Mmmmmmm. If only......."

(And, I'm afraid, that's as close as you're gonna get. And a lot, lot closer than I had planned.)

"THE RUBY CITY - LAND OF OOZ -->" reads the sign which points along the yellow brick road.

Suddenly a large, bumpy, slimy, amphibious frog-like creature jumps from the grassy verge onto the road in front of them and hops along in the direction that they are headed, oblivious to their presence.

Numf turns to Sonnie and says "Did you notice the size of his [male bird, especially of domestic fowl]! And the colour? It looks like he's been [seabird, a kind of cormorant known for its crest]ging a banana and forgotten to remove it afterwards!"

Sonnie nods, in what has been agreed as a 'yes'.

Numf breaks into song -

# Follow the yellow [to pierce lightly with a sharp point] toad, follow the yellow [to pierce lightly with a sharp point] toad,
Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow [to pierce lightly with a sharp point] toad.#

At which Sonnie pushes him off his bike.

Something else else tells me, Mr. Ghostly Numfie, that this isn't the OZ I grew up with...

We're certainly not in Kansas anymore

If you go back and read my previous Onevision, Dragons (I think you'll have to search back to about July or so) you'll see that I didn't re-write Aliens, I just borrowed a few bits and pieces.

Come to think of it, are you old enough to have seen Aliens?
Shit, are you old enough to have read that last joke about the toad?

Oh no, I'm perverting minors! Oh no, I'm going to have to go back and sanitise it. Bugger. You'll get me into trouble, you will!

That's okay - it's sanitised now.

Sooorrrrrrry!

(Your gramps is going to give me a row for writing this now - let alone what Nighty'll do!)

Honestly, Mr. Ghostly Numfie, I'm 17 not 12. I know all about that stuff. I just don't need to be as blunt in my humor as some people here. However I do have a finely honed sense of the absurd (I needed it to survive while growing up) and can appreciate and enjoy the bluntness of other people's humor.

So you may undo that edit, you silly prick.