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| Chronicles of the Cake Stop |
| Vol I No. 5 |
| A Plan Is Hatched |
Back in the Cake Stop the atmosphere changes. Across the
room, cyclists are staring at their drinks, gawping in dumbstruck confusion at
strange concentric patterns appearing in the surfaces of the liquid before them.
Zimzum is heard to ask whether anyone has seen Mel Gibson in the area while
Aeroflash starts to wonder whether he did something wrong in riding widdershins
around Avebury and Silbury Hill twenty-three times the last time Mercury was in
the ascendant. A can of Finish Line degreaser starts fizzing gently in the
corner and there is a suspicious smell of White Lightning. A heated argument
breaks out in one corner over the superiority of Campag Ergo levers compared to
Shimano STIs, and a rumour that the ABD have infiltrated this most hallowed of
grounds and are brainwashing people into accepting compulsory helmet legislation
sweeps the floor with the rapidity of a man stripping his jersey off to free a
trapped wasp.
The woman at the bar watches in concern as the half-eaten malt loaf in front of
her spontaneously forms the shape of a three-piece anatomical insert and then
melts. She can sense that Thanatos, still in Kwizatz Haderach mode, is falling
victim to the illusion of there being one-true-wayism in transmission choice.
There is a commotion at the door: Bek and Chris enter, faces white underneath
the red spots of exertion, dragging a Bob Yak. The dry sack within has turned
black along the creases and they are pointing towards the rear wheel. It is not
just that the flag pole is now growing offshoots and curling into a Celtic
spiral; there appears to be a foetal suspension post somehow growing in there.
"We didn't order an Ibex!" Bek says. "Bloody male chauvinists assuming I didn't
know what I was doing and needed an Ibex. They were even stupid enough not to
charge me for the dry sack, but it seems to be defective anyway."
"You went to the Cotswalds recently, didn't you?" Aeroflash asks, mental wheels
whirring in a big gear. "Did you go anywhere near any long barrows?"
Chris shrugs. "There were some strange stalls at the Big Green Gathering,
though."
Kathy stands up, abruptly, swaying slightly and looking unwell. She is
brandishing her glass, within which floats a sorry piece of lemon. One of the
ferrets steals a packet of pork scratchings from a befuddled FatBloke. "This was
Bombay Sapphire. Now it's Gordon's," she cries in horror. "And I suddenly have
this urgent need to find a way to ride side-saddle." Her knees fold and she
collapses gracefully at Tim's feet. The other ferret curls up on top of
her and goes to sleep.
The woman at the bar acknowledges a questioning glance from Claire while Kitzy
looks on in utter confusion. She turns, meets the knowing glances of Gunner,
Biff, TQM, Withers, Rigby, Derall, Nutty, Steelman, gordy and beverick. They
gather, repair to the far end of the bar, where Sheriff Strutt meets them.
"Gentlemen, you all have some idea of what this means," she says. "It is time to
set our differences aside. The question of who is the rightful heir to the
Beauteous Object must wait. The issue of ladies' night in The League of
Gentlemen Cyclists can be settled at a more appropriate juncture. This is not
the moment to dwell on issues of censorship or rights to free speech. We have no
time for ruminating on the qualities of Smart cars or plagiarism or even,
despite the current circumstance, whether or not it is possible for a cyclist to
be prosecuted for speeding. One of our number has taken it upon himself to
attempt to prove the adage that 'red is faster' and has downed 8 pints of
Minglemangler to give himself the requisite mental state to do it." She holds up
her hand as Sheriff Strutt makes a motion to interrupt. "I know we have
disagreed in the past whether or not we should even be offering that dread
beverage in this establishment, and I know that some of our members will now
say that the liberal approach is obviously flawed. Now is not the time for
recriminations."
She lowers her voice, eyes flashing black with mesmeric intensity. "Gentlemen,
we have tried organising rides before. There has been one success, so be of good
heart. Now we must gather together as many of our number as we can and find
EvilChuffy. He doesn't understand the forces that he has awakened. If he
succeeds in this insane experiment, he will enable the possession of every speed
camera in the world by the demonic forces of the Tour God Armstrong. With that
network of influence, global attitudes to cycling may change. We could lose all
races save Le Tour, but there will only ever be one winner - and that's if
Chuffy succeeds. If, however, he makes just one mistake, we could be consigned
to shared-use paths and stripes of paint forever, made to don helmets containing
mirrors and be legally obliged to wear enough Scotchlite to make full sails for
the Golden Hind. We could be limited to front lights of 3.2 watts and forbidden
to use flashing LEDs anywhere while riding. Gentlemen, we could even be forced
to pay vehicle excise duty."
There is a shocked intake of breath. Steelman raises his hand. The woman
inclines her head towards him. "If the world is about to end, would you agree to
one hour of passionate sex with me?"
The woman laughs. "Steelman, I am honoured, but we really don't have time. What
happens now is crucial, and I am afraid we may need to seek the advice of
someone many consider as hostile. Gentlemen, we need to find someone who can
help us divine where there are speed cameras forming the correct mystical
alignment, and we need to do it quickly."
Across the room Redshift, who had been listening, starts chanting:
Anál nathrach, orth' bháis's bethad, do chél dénmha
Anál nathrach, orth' bháis's bethad, do chél dénmha
Anál nathrach, orth' bháis's bethad, do chél dénmha
Anál nathrach, orth' bháis's bethad, do chél dénmha
and a cold mist starts to curl around people's feet.
As the mists thicken and writhe across the floor, the woman looks round, half-expecting to
see Biff, Zimzum or Flying Monkey brandishing a Camberwell Carrot. Instead she sees
Redshift standing with half-closed eyes, lips forming the sounds of the ancient magic. She
heaves an impatient sigh and utters a single word that rolls out with the weight of a post
office delivery trike. "Lowr!" The mists begin to dissipate.
"Stop that," she says. "It's silly. The Charm of Making is not going to help us now, is it? I
don't care how long you spent under Merlin's tutelage, we're not involved in siring any
bastard children right now so leave the dragon alone."
Redshift looks crestfallen.
"Oh b*gger... I only said it 4 times. I thought that'd be about right for a nice yoghurt-
topped flapjack and a decent cup of tea. I'll have to have a Mars Bar now.
"So what are we going to do?" asks gordy.
"This is no easy task, " the black-eyed woman replies with ominosity. "Nutty, we need you to make
friends with Ru88ell and obtain information about speed camera placement. We need to
send the Windcheetahs out now, in all directions, so we have at least one fast rider en route
when we discover Chuffy's location. Gunner, I would be grateful and honoured if you could
assist with the tactics of how to stop Chuffy and protect him from any unwanted demonic
consequences when we find him - you are a military man of fine stature, after all. Rigby,
Derall, Aeroflash can you good men start rounding up as many riders as you can? Terry,
can you keep FatBloke busy? We don't want any trouble from the Marine Mammals Defence
Fund, although I did try my best to explain last time. Good show."
A stench of burning rubber and ozone suddenly fills the room. The fellows of the Cake Stop
look at one another, faces grave and worried.
"Remember, we need to stop him. We cannot let him succeed and we cannot let him make
a mistake. Somehow we need to remove him and his machine from this disastrous course of
action. If his cadence drops below 93, it's all over. If he comes off, it's all over. If he
succeeds in setting off five cameras in a row, it's all over. He must come to a controlled
stop. There is a loophole, I think, that would end it safely should he get pulled over by
police - but if this happens after the fifth flash you are advised to start thinking about where
you are going to attach your tax disc." The woman shakes her closely shorn head. "We
don't have long. If you start tasting metal there are bare seconds left and at that point start
praying to the Road Goddess."
Redshift makes a face.
"Sorry... you want us to go where? In all directions? Um... I'm not all that good at your interdimensional whatsit-thingy, and the last time I looked there was only the two of us, and anyway I'm not actually all that fast......er... Look, I'll give it a go if you like, but you'd be much better off with my eviL twin. Hang on..."
She sidles out of the room. After a few moments the door opens and redshift walks in
looking, somehow, subtly the same.
"Can't find me I'm afraid, so you'll have to put up with me. Or am I her? Sorry it's working
in the dark all day that does it. We can always phone Bob at AVD and see if he'll loan us a
couple of the new model. They'd be much faster, and the higher carbon content would
probably alleviate some of the earthing problems we're going to have. The ceramic brakes
will help too."
Pausing only to pick up a reel of twisted pair and a baseball bat with a nail through the end,
she heads for the door...
Sheriff Strutt straightens, squares his shoulders, looking determined. "I am going to bring
in the Archaeologist and Yenrod," he says. "I can win the Archaeologist by letting him talk
about prehistoric farming."
"And Yenrod?" Steelman asks.
"I have no fear of him," the Sheriff replies. "I have witnessed the horror that is MBUK."
The assembly shudders, murmuring their acceptance of the Sheriff's evident experience and
suitability. The woman grimaces and nods, unable to contemplate the barren wasteland of
that place, but more than willing to agree to the Sheriff's assertion that he has the
werewithal to accomplish the miraculous.
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