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For Your Pies Only - 9


By Dr. B
May 26 2006

0007 stood beside his trusty partner in violence and surveyed the shattered remains of the reception room at Welford Road. Morr Phi, Dee Kon and Moo Di lay unconscious in varying positions of agony on the floor; broken glass littered all flat areas and there was an amazingly viscous pool of blood remaining on the floor where Andy Perry had had his face stamped in by Dee Kon. It was testament to the superlative clotting abilities of Perry’s blood that this blood was already starting to congeal rather than flow in rivers out through the door.

A slight noise of shoe sole on carpet made Micky and Perry wheel around to face a new danger. Bodies were tense, adrenaline was flowing and the flight or fight response was fully engaged. Flight was not an option. There wasn’t an airport within running distance of Welford Road. Fight it was then.

“Don’t kill me!” Alison screamed as she barrel rolled through the doors carrying three suit carriers. “I’ve come to clothe these two in something appropriate.”

“Ah’ve got to see what you do to them,” Micky chuckled, tears of mirth mingling with the sweat and blood on his face.

Alison knelt by Dee Kon, zipped open one of her suit carriers and withdrew a lovely gingham print dress with matching socks, brown sandals and bobbles for plaiting hair. In less than three minutes, Dee Kon had been stripped and reclothed in these abominable clothes.

“Ah don’t mean to be funny like, but why did yer have them clerthes with yer if you were here to dress me like?” asked Micky, feeling that something didn’t make sense here.

“Erm ….. in case we had to disguise you as a woman to get you into Welford Road ….” muttered Alison ruefully. She would have liked to have seen Micky in that dress, complete with the thong that got wrapped around Gross’ head all that time ago back in the Fat Cave.

“Mebbeez ah should’ve come dressed as a lass like,” wondered Micky.

“Wouldn’t have done you any good whatsoever,” grinned Perry, “they would still have gone for the violence option; these southern boys don’t know how to treat a lady.”

“Not like me eh Alison?” boasted Micky, launching a tremendous froggy belch towards the Falcons’ merchandise guru.

“Indeed ….” Alison tried to speak without having to inhale. Micky’s belches were infamous; they could make a Frenchman who’d eaten nothing but bulbs of garlic for a month feel inadequate in the halitosis department.

Whilst trying to avoid breathing, Alison clad Moo Di in his clothes of shame; a blue Samoan rugby shirt with ‘Setiti 7’ on the back, skin-tight pedal pushers on the lower portions of his body, showing him to bear a striking resemblance to a party plate of chipolatas and a pair of luminous green jelly flip flops bought from Saltburn Novelty Café in 1979.

“Oooooh, that’s horrid!” Even Micky’s sense of taste found that particular Moo Di combination abhorrent. “Reet, let’s torf ‘em oot an the streets and let ‘em dare to gan home lookin’ like that!”

Alison breathed in. The noxious fumes of 0007’s digestive tract seemed to have settled and were now doing their best to strip the carpet of all colour. Micky reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and took out the bag he’d walked out of the outdoor shop in Leicester town centre clutching. Inside the bag, he withdrew a stainless steel thermos flask which, according to Perry’s supernaturally good hearing, sounded to be three-quarters full of some sort of fluid – a fairly low-viscosity fluid at that.

“Alison, ye need to be gannin’ back to the tanker now like,” instructed Micky, anticipating the bitter battle that was about to begin when he and Perry encountered Oz Tin, the balding leader of the Pussycat Empire.

Alison gathered up the remainder of her things and left as she came in, with an ostentatious barrel roll though the doors.

Mick got up from behind the desk. He hadn’t moved an inch since giving Dee Kon a few sly digs in the ribs once Perry had knocked him out.

“Errr, I think I’ll be off too 0007, Perry can act as protocol and translation bloke now I think …”

With that, Mick, displaying admirable agility for a man of his proportions, leaped over the desk and ran through the door. A strange brown stain covered the back of his expensive suit.

“Righty ho Perry meeyat. Time to confront Oz Tin. You ready?”

“Definitely.”

“Be careful like, he’s a slippery customah this one. He’ll try to make you laugh, he’ll try to insult ya by saying things aboot ya mam and if all else fails, he’ll try to rub his Astroturf hair on ya to give ya a fearful friction born like.”

“I met his type in the Marines,” scorned Perry. “Types like him ended up buffing our shoes and polishing our crack …”

“Yer WHAT?” interrupted Micky.

“… SA80 rifles,” finished Perry, laughing at the expression that was planted on 0007’s disbelieving face.

“Okee dokee then, let’s go.”

Perry and 0007 took a step towards the doors that mere minutes before, Dee Kon and Moo Di had entered through. Pushing the impressively Henson-esque mahogany doors aside, Micky and Perry entered a darkened room. In stark contrast to the room they had just vacated, this room was dark. Very dark. It had no mirrors at all and instead of carpet, there was just very highly polished solid teak flooring. The room was kept very cool, cool enough to raise goose pimples on the arms of Perry. Micky was used to walking around the Bigg Market wearing little more than a smile so didn’t really feel the bitter chill.

A rough, rattling sound came from the back of the room. Micky was tempted to say it was in the shadows, but that would have summoned that terrible Finnish band The Rasmus. That sound was familiar. It reminded Micky of being out in the Toon with his mam, popping into the hair salon and playing with the magazines whilst she endured hours of perming, crimping and colouring.

Tiptoeing quietly through the room, the two intrepid heroes took in the self-help books stacked in shelves from floor to ceiling; titles such as “You’re The Man! – A Guide to Recovering Your Self Esteem” and “Hair Regrowth – The Facts”. Strange looking implements littered the floor, looking for all the world like pitchforks. This made sense, thought Perry, when the enormous boxes full of manure came into sight. But why would anyone need three hundredweight of manure? What possible reason could there be for this?

At the far end of the room, a cold green light shone down from the infinite heights of the ceiling and illuminated a small, dwarf-like creature sat on a chair, in full repose with its eyes closed. It looked peaceful. That’s a very familiar chair, thought Micky.

“Perry man, have yow seen one o’ them chairs before like?”

Perry studied it more closely. “I’ve seen one in a hairdressers before …” he murmured hesitantly.

“Aye! That’s it, a bloody hairdresser’s chair!” said Micky in excitement, thumping his palm with his immense fist.

Looking more closely, Micky could see that the dwarf creature had a fishbowl inverted and encasing its head. The inside of the fishbowl was bristling with electrodes and wires. Tubes came in and out of the bowl, making strange unearthly noises as they transported goodness knows what around the chair and bowl that the creature was attached to.

By now, Micky and Perry were less than five yards away from the creature and at this distance, identification was inevitable.

“It’s Oz Tin!” Micky sounded frightened. “He’s asleep, or deed, or somethin’”

A high, shrill, nasal voice cut through the air.

“Not asleep. Not dead. Just listening.” The voice came from Oz Tin. His eyes remained closed and there was nothing in his face to suggest that he was conscious.

“Who said that like?” Micky looked around the room, imagining there was some sort of microphone set up elsewhere in the rom.

“I did, you great buffoon!” This time Oz Tin’s eyes flicked open, revealing bright green eyes with a vertically slit pupil, like those of a cat. He remained in his chair, still with his head largely covered by the inverted fishbowl, still within contact of those electrodes and the tubes; the terrible tubes. Perry didn’t have the faintest idea what the tubes were for, but they filled him with dread. They looked like something that would appear in one of Dr Gillian McKeith’s fantasies, except in that case they’d be attached to the opposite end of the body without doubt.

“Why are you here?” asked Oz Tin in that piercing high-pitched voice. It sounded to Micky like nails down a blackboard and had the same effect as tinfoil on fillings.

“You mean you don’t know?” asked Perry.

“I’m not talking to you, dimwit,” replied Oz Tin. “I want to talk to the small monkey.”

“What did he say?” asked Micky,

“He wants to talk to the monkey,” answered Perry.

“Am ah not reqwired then like?”

“He means you!” said Parry angrily.

“Yer what? Bollox man. He means Mankey, the blerk with the poor sense o’ direction!”

“I doubt it, but I’ll ask him.” Perry approached the chair and bent low.

It was a deadly mistake. This brought him in range of Oz Tin’s Tyrannosaur-sized arms. Whilst Oz Tin might have trouble juggling and eating with a knife and fork, at close range those arms were deadly. A blow to the throat starved Perry’s brain of oxygen and he collapsed unconscious on the floor.

“How! That’s mar meeyat you small get!” shouted Micky, getting his temper up again. To add to his annoyance, this Seroxat headache was developing into a real stinker; a pain that could only be cleansed with pure out and out violence. In that instance, Micky had an epiphany: he understood why the Pussycat Empire was the way it was. It was founded on a disregard for all authority, for the usual rules, for convention. It was founded on a mutual love of meaningless physical confrontation and was propagated through the ages like the offcuts of a wallflower.

Micky shook his head. NO! This could not happen. He’d come here to destroy the Pussycat Empire, not empathise with it. WHAT WAS HAPPENING?

His hand made contact with the metal cylinder in his pocket and all became clear again.

“How, Oz Tin!”

“What do you want, cretin?”

“Ah’m gonna sing ya a song like:

Oz Tin Heeli,

Oz Tin Heeli,

Oz Tin Heeli’s got nae hair,

Oz Tin Heeeeealiiiiiiii’s got nae hair!”

That did it. If there was one thing Oz Tin wasn’t going to tolerate, it was someone dissing his hairdo. He’d had to contend with this last time he was up at Kingston Park. Those bloody oiks in the South Stand had been singing it for most of the second half as he stood under the posts. Damn their impudence.

“I …. HAVE …… HAIR!!!” he screamed and threw back the fishbowl from his head.

Lights came on; full arc lighting throwing the magnificent spectacle into full relief. Oz Tin tossed his head, and his thick luxuriant locks bobbed to and fro. It was like watching a small, malevolent David Ginola advertising L’Oreal.

“BECAUSE I’M WORTH IT!” howled Oz Tin and descended the two steps between himself and Ward.

Micky timed it to perfection.

He reached into his pocket and was unscrewing the cap on his thermos before Oz Tin reached the first step.

By the time Hee Li’s foot touched the second step, Micky’s right hand was leaving his pocket; his left hand held the cap to the flask and he flung the contents at Oz Tin’s head.

A foul-smelling yellow/orange liquid emanated from the flask and covered Oz Tin’s head and face. Immediately, Oz Tin fell to his knees and began screaming in anguish.

He writhed there on his knees, screaming and screaming whilst Micky stood by and watched.

“What have you DONE to me? I’m melting! I’m melting!” wailed Oz Tin, scrabbling at his head with his tiny arms.

Micky threw the empty thermos to the floor in front of Oz Tin, knelt down by his side and whispered a word into his ear.

Oz Tin’s eyes widened and a look of pure, abject horror passed over his face.

“No! NO! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Micky laughed.

“Ye’d bettah believe it sunshine!”

“DEFOLIANT? MERCY, MERCY, PRAISE GOD NOT MY HAIR!”

Indeed. Just before entering Welford Road, do you remember Micky had gone around the back of the tanker to do a small job? He’d filled the thermos with some of the industrial-strength defoliant that the tanker had been transporting. This was the stuff that had turned Vietnam’s lush tropical jungles into a phosphate-poisoned wilderness during the war in the 1960s and 1970s. It stripped vegetation bare in a matter of days. Imagine what that could do to a head of human hair.

Laid full length on the floor now, Oz Tin beat at the hard teak flooring with his fists, steam and smoke rising from his smouldering bonce. Light was beginning to reflect from the top of his head now and it was clear to Micky that the defoliant was immensely concentrated and was working incredibly quickly.

“Arrrgghh! SWEET MERCY, PLEASE GOD …. GIVE ME BACK MY HAIR!”

It was too late. Within seconds, the thick, lustrous mop of dark brown hair that had covered Oz Tin’s head had gone. His head was totally bald.

And to top it all, right at the top of his head, right in the middle was a strange device indeed.

A raised, circular area of skin, approximately the diameter of a tennis ball can protruded from Oz Tin’s skull. Not far, only about three centimetres, but it was also embossed with four letters that were very familiar indeed to our hero from Tyneside.

L

E

G

O


Micky laughed. The Pussycats were no more. Without their leader’s hair, his self esteem would plummet to zero and the Pussycats would pose no further threat to law and order in the Premiership.

Micky turned on his heels, picked up Perry and walked back through the wreckage of the reception room, noticing that Dee Kon, Moo Di and Morr Phi had vanished. No sign remained of the almighty tussle save some broken glass and an ache in his head that wouldn’t go away.

A movement caught his eye. He tensed, ready for action once more. A girl ran out into the open area between Ward and the exit gates of Welford Road.

“Janette?”

“Micky love?”

“The mind wipe?”

“Didn’t work! Hergan had been given it by a disgruntled sponsor and it was knackered when he was given it!”

Micky swept Janette into his substantial arms and kissed her.

“Tomorrow is gannin' to be a reet great day,” he said happily. “Everything will be different tomorrow, I can feel it.”

The black thunderheads over Welford Road were clearing. The lightning ceased and the only auditory accompaniment now was the sweet sweet sound of birdsong. The tanker pulled out of Welford Road and set off on the long journey back to Tyneside.

That was enough excitement for one day.


THE END.

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