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| Chronicles of the Cake Stop |
| Vol VII No. 1 |
| Soundtrack: Lemonjelly - Lemonjelly.ky |
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What ho! Here we are, boys and girls, ready and willing and able to set stout foot
upon the stony path of righteous endeavour and thrilling exploit that is our educational adventure
periodical for boys and girls of all ages with an eye for excitement.
In previous escapades we have fought the gods of the Aztecs, engaged in massed battles with the forces
of the Tour God Armstrong and his creatures of A-Time. We have fought zombies and flirted with
piracy, met Gods and Demons, ventured into the deepest, darkest depths of Hell itself, and saved the
world from the legions of the Humungous and the ABD.
What fare shall we find in this new volume of the ever-expanding and now quite infamous Chronicles of the Cake Stop?
Contains scenes of mild peril and extreme fantasy violence. At the Cake Stop, conversation has turned, once more, to the problem of chavscum. It is becoming almost as popular a topic for debate these days as whether helmets are any worth, whether climate change is anthropogenic or not, the interminable religious schism of the Campag vs Shimano debate and, of course, whether or not there is a need to pity the poor British motorist. Strangely enough, to this latter issue the answer is generally "Yes". There is a neat split, however, between those who feel the need to pity him for not being on a bicycle, and those who suggest he deserves pity for his persecution by the Government and Her Majesty's forces of police. Pingu has proudly opened a book on how long it will take Mrs Pingu to ascend Alpe D'Huez — while complaining bitterly about dog excrement on his shoes — and there is currently something of a question as to whether the torrential rain will clear in time for anyone to get a look at the Perseids that night. Shen has decided to wax lyrical about the otherwise-unsung and shamefully under- appreciated honeybee. AwfulQuiet has eaten too much pizza and is sitting on the very corner of the bar, next to the giant glass jar full of coppers that is the collection for the Cyclists Defence Fund, looking distinctly queasy. The doors swing open and Flying Monkey and Aeroflash tramp in, dripping. The next set of rainclouds, surging up on a ridge of low pressure from the continent, had swept over the cyclists as they headed back to the Cake Stop via the portal nearest and handy to West Kennet. This isn't the Avebury ring; not any more. It is now a circuitous route, had been since both Southern and South West Trains got antsy over carrying cyclists; and on this particular occasion had involved both Swindon bus station and Old Sarum for some reason. "Remind me to check with Colin for the short cut next time," Flying Monkey says to Aeroflash as they stroll right up to the bar and ask Clare for tea and cake and beer in whichever order is easiest. "I think we just hit that pothole wrong," Aeroflash replies, using a bar towel to wipe grey splatterings of road-grime polluted rainwater from his face. Gunner Rodgers is singing along to Chris Rea's "Road to Hell" on the jukebox, which might be a suitably melancholy tune to match the weather, but is a little morose for a lunchtime. FM gives Clare the bent eye and she goes to the other end of the bar to the jukebox remote controls in order to skip the rest of the track. "Oh, Aeroflash, we had a note in from Ravenbait," Charlotte says, sidling behind the bar, where she sneaks a piece of Victoria Sponge when Clare isn't looking and rummages through a pile of post, envelopes and dog-eared copies of Cycling Plus. There is no stamp on the folded piece of yellow legal paper, stapled together at the corners. Aeroflash's name is scribbled on one side in what looks like charcoal. "How do you know it's from Ravenbait?" Aeroflash asks. "Stinks of sulphur," Charlotte replies. "Anyway. I peeked." "But the Seventh Level of Hell isn't terribly sulphurous," Aeroflash frowns. He pulls open the paper and reads the smudged, blurry and indistinct text on the inside.  There is a stamp at the bottom that says: Mount Etna Telegraph Facility. By appointment to the Gods "Ah," Aeroflash nods. The Olympian idea of telegraph involves handing a piece of paper to a small mechanical pigeon and getting him to fly it to the recipient address. The pigeons are very good, but it would be nice if they could find something other than burnt wood with which to write. Charlotte has been peering over his shoulder and now she nudges him in the ribs. "What's that all about then, eh?" she demands. "A back order," Aeroflash murmurs, feeling the warm excitement of an impending addition to his family. "Well, I guessed that," Charlotte replies grumpily, hands on hips. "What's that about Nazis?" "I don't know, actually, "Aeroflash says, brow creasing. "I know RB isn't on the best of terms with the Greek pantheon. There was that nasty business with Apollo and she never really did get over that. Maybe she's eaten something odd and it gave her a funny turn." Charlotte is just staring at him, perplexed. "What are you wittering on about?" she asks. "There's a PC over there with access to Google," Aroflash tells her, shoving the note in his pocket. "But honestly, I don't know why she mentioned Nazis." "I do!" says Shane. "Duck!" A small flame war has broken out in the Campaign corner. Sparks are flying. Nutty, seeing the Sheriff is still in retirement from policing forum life, wades in to see if he can pour oil on troubled waters - or at least some nice, smothering foam on hot coals. "Nazis?" Aeroflash raises quizzical eyebrows. "Sort of," says AndyGates, retreating from the fight and looking a bit puffed. Somewhere in there Bad Company is slugging it out with someone no one recognises. "Safe Speed. SS. Can't see a single Hitler moustache though." "Quite right!" thunders Gunner. "A gentleman should have a decent and proper set of whiskers, or he should be clean shaven, with a manly, handsome jaw. A ruddy little piece of boot polished lip like Adolf's won't attract the birds! You won't even get close to their elbows! RUDDY NORAH! Do you understand nothing? Now! Has anyone seen Ethelfrith recently?!" There is generic shaking of heads and Gunner stomps off. "You know, if he keeps this up, we might have to see if Nutty wants to step in as Sheriff," Rjevans6 observes, watching the flame war sizzle from a safe distance. The door suddenly swings open and in swaggers Captain Jack Sparrow of the pirate ship The Black Pearl. "Good afternoon to yous, ladies an' gents. Where is the glorious and lovely Mrs Pike?" His eyes search the room until he finds the blushing heroine. "As charmin' as ever, I see," he says, grinning with twinkling eyes and kissing her hand gallantly, only wobbling a little. Kathy realises he has been drinking rum again. Probably about two or three bottles of the stuff by the smell. "I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon," Kathy says, hurriedly pulling a chair over as he plonks himself down in such a manner as to miss the one for which he was aiming. "Ah well, " he says, leaning forward on his elbows and sweeping the room with eyes. He frowns a little, realising that there are a few absentees, including Kitzy and the Priestess. Then he seems to shrug and shake himself internally. "I 'ave a proposition for you all." He grins toothily. |