"Yarrrgghh!" screamed a clearly startled Pshrynk from behind the bar, nearly spilling the Hoegaarden he was pouring.
You see, given the difficulty I'd been having entering Adrian's, I'd decided to skip the entering bit and just appear. Clearly, Pshyrnk hadn't been reading the notes that Marc had left him.
"I'll have a H—" and with that Pshrynk, attempting to regain the air of an international gentleman of intrigue, passed me the Hoegaarden.
"There are better wheat beers, you know," he said in what was, I assume, a knowing tone (let's face it, I wouldn't know a knowing tone even if it appeared in front of me complete with a diploma, a notarised family tree and an affidavit from entire universe moderation team, wearing the gowns of knowledge and singing the song of the all-knowing [whatever that is]).
"Well I like Hoegaarden. What happened to Marc?"
"He's out doing more Christmas Shopping for Adrian," said Pshrynk as he mixed what appeared to be the mythical anti-matter ZCD in a collection of magnetic jars. "He should be here about—"
And with that Marc strode in, carrying a large collection of shopping bags, including (worryingly) some from an "Agricultural Supplies Specialist" (the shop name was hidden). Marc grabbed the newly mixed anti-matter ZCD and downed it in one, gave a tiny burp, went cross-eyed while floating in mid-air for exactly
e seconds courtesy of his beanie. I guess Christmas shopping does that to you.
"He's cheating," said Pshrynk to Marc, somehow managing to pull a pout that would have done even an older toddler, deprived of its favour toy, proud.
"Don’t worry, it's under control. Anyway, I've wrapping to do. Let me know when the tree arrives." And with that Marc headed off towards his office.
"Oh, did Pshrynk give you that message," I said just before Marc disappeared.
"No, what message?"
"Oh, I'd forgotten about that. The Police popped by last week," answered Pshrynk, gesturing to them leaving the message with him at one of the other bars.
"What did they have to say?"
" De do do do de da da da was all they had to say…. to … you," said Pshrynk, glaring at me.
"Ouch" said Zelda.
"Hardly surprising," I added. "It was probably a Sting operation."
"Double groaning ouch," said Marc. "LazyScot, why don’t you open the advent calendar. After your last advice no-one seems to want to."
"Can you blame them?"
"Hey, you don't have to drink anything. It's just put in front of you. It's not like we force it down you."
And with that he disappeared into his office.
Oh well, I thought, and opened the advent calendar door. "Acronymitis? That sounds dangerously tame." And with that Pshrynk put the drink in front of me. "But don't think I'm that stupid," I added, leaving the drink alone.
At this point, Verencat wandered by, yet again wearing that mis-spelt tee-shirt that had been grating with me for some time.
"That teeshirt is spelt wrong. Robbie is spelt with two B's."
"No, it's not. It's spelt with one," replied Verencat, distractedly whilst heading over towards the Squid.
Zelda giggled. We both looked at her.
"Two B or not Two B's. That is the question," she said and giggled some more.
At that point a delivery man arrived, or more accurately the delivery suit of plate armour arrive. I guess we should have expected things to go down hill from here especially since it turned out to be electrified and was wheeling in a huge, riveted stainless metal box, that clearly had dents in. Dents that had come from the inside. Hmmm. Interesting. He seemed unaffected by the waterfowl who bounced harmlessly off the helm.
"Delivery for Marc?" shouted the suit of plate armour, with a strange reverberation that might have been avian induced.
"I'll take it," said Pshrynk.
"You sure? You don't look like you're kitted out," replied the armour, looking Pshrynk up and down.
"It's a tree, right?"
"Ummm. Sort of."
"Yeeeouch," shouted Pshrynk getting an electric shock from the armour has he took the clipboard, signed for it and tore off the delivery note.
"Right, I'm outta here. Damn tree," said the delivery suit, with a look that screamed thank ghod, and I don't ever, ever what to see
that again. At that point the armour exited both positively and definitively, and with the sense of purpose only attainable by someone who was going to go out and drink a reasonably large proportion of his danger money as soon as possible.
"What's a Saxfed Crystmex Tree? Lazy, Squid, why don't you open it?"
So whilst Pshrynk puzzled over the paper work (something he was professionally experienced in, I guess), the Squid and I approached the huge riveted container. Which looked like something out of a very dodgy horror movie (or a cheap television series).
"Yeeouch," I explained, getting a really nasty shock off the metal box as I tried to open it. Nursing a slight burn, I stepped back as the Squid approached. For some reason, some sort of vortex opened above the metal box, and a long piece of high-tensile tinsel slowly drifted through. Just as the Squid was about to touch one of the catches, the tinsel touched the container. There was a puff, a sound of cursing coming through the vortex, a bang from the container and the tinsel evaporated. Then the squid undid the clasps, and stepped back.
The top flipped back, and the sides started to fold down, and I threw myself to the side, just avoiding getting flattened by a very large, heavy, riveted metal sheet. As I picked myself up off the floor, I looked at the contents.
I beheld the most amazing, glorious Christmas tree I had ever seen. It was covered in beautiful white lights, subtle and tasteful baubles and tinsel. And the most amazing collection of beautiful shiny toys, glittering and dancing from the branches, begging to be picked of the branches. Entranced, I found myself stumbling towards it. (Though, somewhere in the dim depths of my hindbrain, something was gently composing a memo about Angler fish and that perhaps, a degree of caution and contemplation might be more conducive to a long and happy life. Or at least getting to see tomorrow from the other side.)
At this point several things happened simultaneously.
Firstly, there was a loud bang, and three squirrels, armed to the teeth, tail and almost every other part of their anatomy (try not too think too much about that one – it can lead to mental instabilities) appeared immediately between the squid and the tree.
"Simon, I told you to check the temporal aiming on the vortex. We're too early. Recalibrate it immediately," said the squirrel with the gold epaulettes.
"But Sigfried, we could take them out and capture everything ourselves we—"
"No sodding way. You know what happened to the last team that tried to take him," said the third squirrel, indicating the Squid.
"Simon, just do it. That's on order."
"Nuts," grumbled Simon, resetting the machinery and pressing a button.
Secondly, Pshrynk eventually made sense of the paperwork and wandered into the office. There was an animated discussion which ended in Pshrynk indicating that the container had probably just been opened. At which point, Marc shouted something that sounded like it should be repeated here, followed by "But the plants of Saxfed Crystmex are carnivorous."
Thirdly, the memo from my hindbrain eventually got forwarded to such limited higher cognitive faculties as I had left. This arrived just in time to slow my approach to a particularly attractive and shiny shiny toy, and make me look at the tree. Strangely, if you looked at the tree's needles in just the right light, they looked less like pine needles and more like needle sharp teeth.
Fourthly, the squid raised an eyebrow quizzically at the tree, as if to say "do you know who you are messing with". Which is really impressive as the squid doesn't have eyebrows.
Finally the tree decided that it would like a little Scotch as aperitif, a few kebabed squirrels as starters, and a squid as main course. It made various moves, and caught hold of the squirrels first (at exactly the moment Simon pressed the button), whilst various branches transformed into crosses between Venus Flytraps, John Wyndham's triffids and what Alicia Dupre (a six year old girl from High Wycombe) looks like if you happen to be a bar of pink chocolate.
As Marc burst out of his office, there was another large bang and the three squirrels, who were now attached to the Christmas Tree, disappeared together with the Christmas tree, which in turn, took my pride with it. Which was quite impressive since I was sure I'd lost that some time ago (not least thanks to Adrian's National costume day, an industrial scale wind machine and a selection of carnations).
The squid lowered its non-existent eyebrow at Marc as if to say "What are you worried about? What did you expect to happen?"
"Do you know where I could get a couple of those, delivered untraceably to a certain set of establishments?" Zelda asked Marc.
"I guess I'll have to order another tree tomorrow," said Marc, looking at the Saxfed Crystmex tree that wasn't there. And with that another delivery appeared. "I hate paying the extra for yesterday delivery," muttered Marc.
"It's not decorated," I observed, pointing at the newly arrive tree.
"You worry too much," replied Marc, tossing something in the air and in our general direction.
"Mine," shouted Slite, moving very lithely and catching it. "Montsnmags Enterprises Christmas High Speed Decorations Deployment Device, Mark Eleventy," he read off the side of the device (it was rather large). At which point he started waving it about dramatically (I'm a little worried about Slite's fondness for playing with Montsnmags Enterprises toys).
"Please don't point that in my—"
I must admit that I've never had much empathy with a Christmas Tree before. I've thought that they can look very pretty, and do like having them about during the festive season (which, for the record, really should not start more than two weeks before the actual day). Let me explain a few points as to why we should have some sympathy with these trees. First of all, there are the fairy lights. These things can get hot. It is not pleasant having little burns. That can really hurt in some places. Then there are baubles. They're not too bad, but someone thought many-pointed stars are cute. Stars have points. Points chafe, especially when covered in sandpaper like glitter. You can loose quite a lot of skin as you struggle, you know. I'll mention those cute little jiggle bells later. And then there is tinsel. This stuff works itself everywhere. And I mean everywhere. And it ties you up so you feel like a trussed turkey. Pretty, yes. Comfortable, no. (And if anyone knows why my better half giggled when I explained this, please keep it to yourselves.)
Anyhow, after a little while the decorations ran out. If you think I would be happy about this, I should point out that it would be more accurate to say that the decorations tried to run out. Fortunately, I managed to grab hold of the bar before they dragged me too far.
At this point Sam the Jukebox wandered by. He took one look at me, and decided to play Jingle Bells (Sam later told me he nearly played Oh Tannenbaum, so I suppose I should be grateful). Unfortunately the really cute jingle bells decided to play along. I now have a lot of empathy with Quasimodo. I could really have done without that whilst trying to hang onto the bar.
"What on earth is that rumpus?" said Marc coming back out from the office. He surveyed the scene, he wandered over to Slite and pressed a button on the Mark Eleventy, at which point the decorations returned from whence they've ever come. Ever been de-decorated by a Mark Eleventy, a disgruntled Australian and a disappointed Bernese? No? Trust me, you don't want to. Just don't ask about my walk, okay?
"Tree" said Marc, pointing at the newly arrived Christmas tree, to Slite, who proceeded to decorate it. (I must admit, he did a beautiful job; I never realised Slite had such good taste.)
"I need a drink," I said, getting back onto my stool by the bar, and adjusting my (somewhat damaged) clothing. In my defense, I will say that I was somewhat befuddled by having nearly been crushed by a falling metal sheet, eaten by a Christmas Tree, decorated and de-decorated. And so I did what comes naturally, and drank the drink in front of me.
"ODISHDT," I said, and blinked. I was sure that the message I sent down to my mouth said oh dear, I shouldn't have done that. Slowly, I began to put one and one together. The Acronymitis Cocktail. I glared at Marc, and quickly established a vetting committee to check what I was going to say to make sure I didn't utter any naughty words that would get me into trouble, given that I nearly said imbibed rather than done.
Marc giggled. That can be extremely discombobulating.
"INANE," I said (which had originally started out as I need an antidote, now, or else, before it was mugged by the cocktail on it is way to my mouth).
"Yes, you are rather," said Marc continuing to giggle. Which was starting to grate. Fortunately, Mrs Al Paca was trotting in my direction with some more of her Christmas mince pies.
My immediate response was something along the lines of Thank heavens Elspeth, you deserve unlimited Christmas karma for antidote supplies. Naturally, the committee took care in studying this and approved it as non-naughty, forwarded notes off to my memory and other departments, before letting the message travel down the highway to my mouth to get held up and deprived of most of its letters by the cocktail highwayman en-route. Now normally, my self-preservation department (on permanent over-time and a perpetual state of red alert, it seems) should have received a copy and taken appropriate action. However, the day's confusion had resulted in its copy being accidentally delivered to the catering division. Sadly, they ignored it until after lunch, after which they eventually sent it to the correct destination (suitably stained). This arrived in time to do no more than trigger a whole range of ultimately futile threads of consciousness for a few fractions of seconds which, in their fight for supremacy, totally paralysed me from taking any preventative actions. For the record, the threads included:
But I'm safe this close to the bar
- Damn Marc, I bet he had this planned all along
- Strange, Marc, Pshrynk, Zelda, mvisconte and everyone else seems to be, but I'm not. Should I be worried?
- I need to have words with the scriptwriter. Serious words. Delivered with menace aforethought.
- Is it too late to order a suit of plate armour?
- I wonder what the cocktail is doing with all the letters it is collecting.
- Throw yourself to the floor, quickly, you fool!
- Can I request a transfer out of this?
- Oh B—
"THEY DUCK FAS—" I said, and the predictable happened.
THWACK
Thump.
Apparently, in a couple of weeks someone will send me the following security video. Unlike previous one, this one will come with audio. So, assuming you were not present, imagine yourself watching this…
Marc leans over the bar and peers down at the prostrate form of LazyScot, and says, "He never learns."
"I thought they weren't allowed this close to the bar," comments Pshyrnk.
"Revised operating procedures. Been posted for several weeks," replies Marc, gesturing to a grain of sand stuck to the wall by the bar. "It's all in the small print."
Pshrynk wanders over and peers pointlessly at the grain of sand; "God, Marc, you make Machiavelli seem like a four year old."
Marc's gaze looses focus, giving the impression of a pleasant reminiscent. "Ah yes, I remember him," he says, "one of my better students." His eyes re-focus and he looks over at Pshrynk. "Almost as good as VivaldiRules."
"Wait…. What?" says a somewhat startled Pshrynk.
Marc's face slowly shifts into one his poly-syllabic enigmatic smiles.