Plob Goes South
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 3
Craig Zerf
Plob goes south
© 2013, Author
Small Dog Publishing Limited
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
PROLOGUE
Typhon the Dark lifted the weasel up by the scruff of its neck and dropped it into the large black cauldron, chanting the ritualistic words as he did so. Instantly it was covered in a slithering mass of snakes that seethed and churned together, striking at the small furry creature in a frenzy of fear and anger. The animal fought back valiantly but never stood a chance. With a grin on his demonic face Typhon gestured at two goblins, who stepped forward and filled the cauldron to the brim with boiling chicken fat. A pinch of salt, a small rub of pepper and it was complete - Blistered weasel with scalded serpent and chicken fat - just like Mama used to make.
‘Come and get it while it’s still hot,’ he roared, clapping his claws together and laughing in excitement.
It wasn’t every day that Typhon cooked a meal for anyone. He was more a give-me-your-meal-or-I’ll-suck-your-eyeballs-out kind of demon. But then this was no ordinary crowd of people. And this was no ordinary day.
Oh no, no, no - for this was the day that Typhon the Dark would finally achieve world domination. Complete ascendancy and dominion over us all. And I mean all - this world, that world and the next. And this time it was going to work.
No - really - it was.
Chapter 1
‘And it’s a nail biting finish this, at the high temple of sport - Lords cricket ground. Shane Shepherd starts his run up with Arthur Ashton facing. It’s the last ball of the over, and of the series. If Ashton can score a run off this one, then England will have finally won back the Ashes after almost twenty years in the wilderness. He bowls - Ashton strikes - it’s in the air - he’s been caught on the boundary! No, no - Bruce Boulder, the Australian captain, has fumbled, he’s dropped it - and we’ve won - I mean they’ve won - England has won. Oh bugger it - we’ve won. Won, won, won, won. Nyaah nyaah nyaah nar nar. We’ve won the Ashes. Yah yonkee yah yah…Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.’
It was the small things that bothered Plob. (Reetworthy Plob. Reetworthy Plob the Third). Little things. Childish really. When you think about it. But still - they irked him, left him feeling piqued, put-out, peeved and pissed off (which is still better than being pissed on I suppose). After all - he was a magician (well almost), and he was world famous (well - world famous in his neighbourhood), and he had saved the universe (with a little help - alright - a lot of help, from his friends). Anyhow, he was a grown man (Soon - in a couple more years), and he wanted to be treated as such.
He didn’t want to have to ask Smegly (the master magician to whom he was apprenticed), permission to leave the house whenever he wanted to go out. A bit of pocket money wouldn’t go amiss either. It was virtually impossible to impress any girls without some access to a little lucre and, although he might have impressed them with a bit of magic or conjuring, he was banned from using even the smallest of spells without permission. Sometimes being a teenager and a magicians apprentice sucked - big time.
What Plob didn’t realise is that Master Smegly was doing all of this for Plob’s own good. (That’s what they always say - isn’t it?) But seriously, although he was still only fifteen years of age, our teenage hero was accomplished in magiks way beyond the skills of magicians many times older, and wiser, than him. And this is what Smegly was worried about, for, although age does not always bring proficiency, it does bring with it a certain wisdom and a definite understanding of the need for caution. This caution is oft needed. Especially if you are a frustrated, testosterone driven, marginally attractive, well built, sandy haired teenager with the magical expertise of a mage perhaps ten times his age and the emotional maturity of - well - of a normal fifteen year old boy. (Look – no one is saying that Plob is immature or anything. All that is being said is that he’s not exactly One hundred and forty years old. Well – he isn’t. Is he?)
As a result Master Smegly was being, perhaps, a little overprotective and, as such, Plob was becoming more and more miffed. And narked. Vexed even.
So he decided to do something about it.
The chairman of the board strode across the oval, climbed the stairs to the podium and stepped up to the microphone-laden speaker’s altar. As he bent his head towards the forest of electronics an expectant hush descended upon the massed spectators. The noise of him clearing his throat was magnified across the grounds and beamed into over seven million households.
‘Ladies and gentlemen and Australians. It is with great grief and furious anger that I must inform you that the Ashes have been stolen. From under the very noses of our security guards the most venerated sporting trophy in the civilised world has been snaffled…’
The rest of his speech was drowned out by the total bedlam that followed. Never before in the history of Lords had such pandemonium ever been witnessed on those hallowed grounds. The crowds were baying, the umpires were screaming and the officials were wailing. Amongst the players there was such a gnashing of teeth and beating of breasts and rending of hair that it was almost too painful to watch.
But watch we did - as it was happening. And the anguish was shared by the televised audience of over forty million souls.
The bewhiskered and bespectacled man buried his face in his hands and groaned. As the British prime minister and the leader of the ‘New non-radical Tory-labour-Lib-dem-monster-raving-loony-attempt-to-please-everybody’ party, (they were thinking about shortening the name to the NorToLadMorapy Party or maybe even Not-Apy but some of the members were not happy about the abbreviation so for the present they were stuck with their current unwieldy moniker), he would be expected to do something about the calamitous chain of events that had occurred. Meanwhile, both his minister of defence and the Australian foreign minister sat opposite him and screamed insults at each other.
He watched for a while and then stretched his hands out in front of him, palms up, arms spread wide and donned the most placatory expression that he could muster up.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen.’ He looked directly at the Australian to ensure that he knew that he too was being included in the conversation. ‘Please stop this insane bickering. We are all adults here,’ another reassuring glance at the Aussie. ‘Surely there is a way to settle this amicably? Sir Godfrey,’
he turned to the MOD. ‘Enough talk of war - it really is not necessary, and anyway…’
‘But, prime minister,’ interrupted Sir Godfrey. ‘We can take them. After the Ashes win, the country’s morale is at an all time high. Of course there will be a huge loss of human life but I’m sure that will be acceptable. Australia can be truly English once more. Think of the publicity, Sir. Labour promised less taxes, the Tories promised less unemployment but only the NorToLadMorapy party have given you a new continent.’
The prime minister leant back in his chair with a thoughtful expression on his chubby face.
‘We’d rather die first, you cheating Pommie-pongo-poofter,’ shouted the Australian foreign minister as he rose up out of his chair.
‘That can be arranged!’ Screamed Sir Godfrey at the top of his voice as he jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process.
‘Enough!’ Screeched the prime minister as he too leapt up. ‘Shut up, the both of you. Shut up, shut up, shutupshutupshutupshutup. Shut. Up.’ (And to think that we voted for him. Well someone obviously did or how else did he get there?) ‘Sit down. All two of you.’
The Australian foreign minister returned his posterior to the padded leather wingback and the MOD followed suit, or tried to. Unfortunately, as his chair was still in the non-vertical position, all that he succeeded in doing was falling backwards over the prostrate piece of furniture, ripping his trousers and squealing in a decidedly un-macho way as he windmilled to the carpet. The Aussie erupted with a gigantic guffaw accompanied by much pointing and mimicking of Sir Godfrey’s undeniably feminine yelp. The MOD sprang up to screech a few choice insults, the Australian bellowed a rejoinder, the Prime minister screamed shut up and the whole merry farce began all over again.
Chapter 2
So - just what does a fifteen year old almost qualified, almost adult, almost world famous magician’s assistant do to earn a little extra cash so as to be able to impress the girls? (bearing in mind that he has been forbidden by his master to commit all and any acts of unsupervised magiks.) Well, it’s quite simple really, he disobeys.
All it would involve was a couple of simple incantations. A small addition of a few ‘air-spell’ magiks. Perhaps a teeny smidgeon of the odd, much more powerful, ‘earth- magic spells’ every now and then and Bob’s your uncle. (or should that be Plob’s your uncle?)
To cut a long story short, Plob was setting himself up as a long-distance-communicator. If one needed to ask a question of cousin Nonny who lived above the bakers over by the big mill on the other side of the river Splonge, then the usual way would be to pen her a missive, hand it to the postman, together with the mandatory penny for postage and, within a couple of days, cousin Nonny (who lived above the bakery over by the, etcetera.) would send back her poorly spelt reply for your perusal. However, with Plob’s new instant messaging service, one could now commune virtually instantaneously over great distances for the equivalent cost of the one-way postage.
Initially it was a bit difficult putting the word about without his master rumbling to the idea, but he had got around that by going into partnership with Blean, the blacksmith who lived and traded just around the corner and who had been a firm friend of Plob’s for over a year now. They agreed to split the profits sixty-forty, in Plob’s favour, and in return the teenager could use the small room next to the smithy and Blean would be a one-man advertising service to all of his regular customers. Dead brill, hey? Well Plob definitely thought so and, judging by the amount of interest he was already getting, so did a lot of other people.
Nice and uncomplicated. A couple of hours a week and soon he would have enough cash to impress the heck out of anyone that he wished to. The best thing about the whole plan, thought Plob to himself, was that it was too simple for anything to go wrong.
What the fifteen-year-old almost-magician didn’t realise is that when you think nothing can go wrong, it definitely will.
Especially when you’re dealing with magic.
And Evil awoke from his restless slumber, cast a languid eye in Plob’s direction and thought, ‘well this is interesting,’ before turning over and returning to the eternal foetid darkness of his dreams.
Chapter 3
The lantern jawed man in the hand-made white silk tuxedo placed the empty martini glass on the edge of the roulette table and grinned in that way that caused every female in the room to go floppy at the knees and then rush to the ladies room to freshen-up. He picked up one of the seventy-five thousand pound Sterling gambling chips that he had just won and gave it to the hovering cocktail waitress.
‘There you go, lass,’ he drawled in his steel edged Scottish accent. ‘Buy yourself a Ferrari.’
He swept the remaining pile of tokens into his pocket and, ignoring the now prostrate waitress, sauntered over to the cashier’s window to cash in.
The casino floor manager signed the nine hundred thousand pound cheque with a flourish (actually he signed it with a ball point pen, probably a Parker, or a Cross - something expensive I’m sure) and handed it over to the ruggedly handsome dinner jacket clad individual, bowing deeply as he did so. ‘Thank you very much for gracing our humble establishment, Mister…?’
The man cocked a devilish eyebrow at the obsequious supervisor and looked him straight in the eyes as he delivered the now so famous line that everybody knows.
‘The name’s Pond. Hubris Pond,’ and with that he pulled a fountain pen out of his inside jacket pocket (definitely a Parker or a Cross - very expensive I’m sure) and handed it over to the floor manager. ‘Do me a favour, my dear chap,’ he requested laconically, ‘the next time you sign a cheque for almost one million of Her Majesty’s Sterling, be so good as to do it with a decent quill,’
(O.K. so maybe the manager’s pen wasn’t a Parker or a Cross, maybe it was a leaky blue plastic freebee from Rusty’s burger bar - I can’t be expected to know everything, I’m just a story teller not some omnipotent being from another dimension. Give me a break.)
As Hubris Pond strode self assuredly from the premises, the manager studied his solid gold Parker pen and wondered why it had offended Mister Pond so. However, when he compared it to the work of art that had just been gifted him he suddenly felt remarkably callow and unsophisticated. What he didn’t know was that Hubris Pond had this effect on every man that he met, what with him being the most famous secret agent in the world, with a licence to kill, and more.
Pond shrugged on his three-quarter length Barbour, pulled the collar up against the swirling drizzle and hailed a passing black cab. The cab took him to Tower Bridge, dropping him on the slightly less fashionable south side.
He walked to the closest tower, vaulted over the railing and descended, via a grey painted aluminium ladder, to a small door concealed directly under the pedestrian walkway. (Don’t bother looking for it, you won’t find it, hence the use of the verb concealed as in hidden, obscured - a secret.) He removed his Barbour and hung it carefully on the door side coat hook.
‘Good evening, Hubris.’ Purred Miss Demeanour in an outrageous French accent.
‘Greetings, Miss Demeanour,’ answered Pond. ‘What’s with the outrageous French accent?’
The plump blonde receptionist giggled and batted her eyes coyly. ‘Oh, Hubris. You noticed.’
‘Well of course I did, Demeanour my girl. When my favourite cockney goes all Gallic on me it’s a little hard to overlook.’
‘I’m taking French accent lessons in case I ever get to go undercover with you,’ retorted Miss Demeanour with a smoulderingly meaningful look. ‘Oh by the way, Hubris. Sir Godfrey is looking for you. If I were in your shoes I’d hurry along, he’s in a foul mood.’
‘He’s always in a foul mood,’ quipped Pond with a wink as he steered his size ten hand stitched brogues down the corridor. ‘Probably due to his gout. It always plays up in the winter. Wish me luck, Demeanour.’
‘Luck,’ she trilled after him as he disappeared around the corner en route to Sir Godfrey’s office. r />
Pond knocked twice and let himself in. The long, thin, titled, minister of defence looked up from the morning’s copy of the Times that he was perusing and gestured towards the wingback chair in front of his desk.
‘Sit down, Pond. Once again your country needs you. We stand perched on the edge of an apocalypse and the only thing standing between us and possible world wide anarchy is you and the British secret service.’
The small canoe rocked violently from side to side almost dislodging the rangy, singlet clad man in the well-worn Akubbra hat. He laughed aloud to himself and tightened his grip on the lasso that he was holding. ‘Come on, matey,’ he yelled. ‘You’re gonna have to try a little harder than that.’
The twenty foot long crocodile on the end of the length of hempen rope reared out of the water, threshing its massive fang laden snout from side to side in a vain attempt to shake the noose free. The man grunted with effort as he yanked the rope up short, driving the crocodile back under the water and shortening the distance between them by another couple of feet.
The place was Queensland, Australia. The man was Bruce Dunny and the fight between him and the croc had been carrying on now for almost two hours. However, the most impressive thing about the whole episode is the fact that this was the third croc that Bruce had wrestled with that day.
After each bout he would drag the immense reptile up onto the bank, measure it, photograph it and then throw it back into the river. Why? Well - Bruce Dunny was an Australian. Not just any Australian mind you, he was the most Australian Australian in the whole of Australia and he was tougher than a barrel full of horseshoes.
He was also Australia’s top secret agent and, although he didn’t yet know it, he was soon to embark on the most dangerous mission of his career thus far. In fact it would make barehanded crocodile hunting look about as hazardous as a free lunch at the Woolabong-all-you-can-eat-shrimp-emporium-and-salad-bar.