Print Page | Close Window The Storyteller Printed from: Cycling Plus Topic URL: http://www.cyclingplus.co.uk/forum/topic.asp?TOPIC_ID=8350 Printed on: 27/04/2004 Topic: Topic author: Ravenbait Subject: The Storyteller Posted on: 19/08/2003 12:57:02 Message: So who wants to start me off? Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "The reason people get lost in thought is because it is, to many, rather unfamiliar territory." Replies: Reply author: mikehowells Replied on: 19/08/2003 13:02:51 Message: go on then. mikey two budgies on a perch. one asks, "can you smell fish?" Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 19/08/2003 13:09:23 Message: Go on then? I need a bit more than that. Think of the story as a cloud of creative thinking, formed by the humidity of inspiration (with a slight touch of pretention for good measure ). But that inspiration requires a seed, a nucleus. I need somewhere to start! Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "The reason people get lost in thought is because it is, to many, rather unfamiliar territory." Reply author: Aeroflash Replied on: 19/08/2003 13:12:22 Message: It is well known that a single man in possession of a few hundred quid and a need to get to work must be in want of a bicycle. Matt Reply author: Macleach Replied on: 19/08/2003 13:41:42 Message: To this end, he must embark upon a great and arduous quest to seek the steed of his choice. Not just any old bike though, one to fire the imagination and inspire great and worthy deeds. To do this he must set out along the Evilchuffy Way meeting fellow forummers who will guide him to the machine he seeks involving him in numerous adventures along the way........... "Sex, cycling, chocolate, beer, Sex, cycling, chocolate, beer....." Reply author: TimBooth Replied on: 19/08/2003 13:51:38 Message: ...each of which must require the use of Mavic Open Pro, for nothing, absolutely nothing, but Open Pro will traverse this challenging path. I know, I know, something on Mavic Open Pro!! Reply author: Kathy Pike Replied on: 19/08/2003 13:53:13 Message: Meanwhile, in a deserted field station, in the middle of a desolate research complex, an astounding discovery is being made... "Mwahahahaha! It is mine! The Secret is Mine!!! I know how to control the world's supply of Marmite!!!!! Ahahahaha!!!!!!" There is a maniacal gleam in the figure's eyes as she laughs madly, whilst her over-use of exclamation marks only confirms her lack of sanity... Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 19/08/2003 13:57:41 Message: This is hopeless. Imagine yourself picking up a book. The cover is fine filigree leather, adorned with gold leaf and vermillion illustrations. The heavy, embossed script reads "Chronicles of the Cake Stop". It smells of old leather and the touch of human hands, a warm smell that is reminscent of clay and woodland and old, clean socks. It feels warm to your fingers; as if it has been sitting in a patch of sunlight, basking, until just before you happened across it. The book beckons to you, you stroke it; it urges you to open it, to pull back that heavy cover and turn the leaves of paper within. You cannot help yourself. The desire is irresistable. You turn one page, then another, skipping the author information and the delicately inscribed dedication. You ignore the chapter headings; they are not important now. There. Page one. Chapter one. The page, at first glance is utterly blank. There is no writing there. But as you read on, the words begin to appear, and first words are..... Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "The reason people get lost in thought is because it is, to many, rather unfamiliar territory." Reply author: mahowlett Replied on: 19/08/2003 14:06:42 Message: I'd like three pounds of bananas and a quarter of your finest liqourice please Reply author: den Replied on: 19/08/2003 14:22:22 Message: followed by 2 ton of chips and a battered whale please xDx what the hell was that bang? mayor of hiroshima 1945 Reply author: Macleach Replied on: 19/08/2003 14:24:25 Message: The sunlight streamed in through the window of the Cakestop Cafe, bathing the wooden floored room in its warming caress. Claire, the keeper of the Cafe lined up jar upon jar of herbal infusions and teas and inspected a myriad of cakes and pastries. The selection was enviable, scones with raisins as big as prunes, moist flapjacks, bakewell tarts with icing as white as new fallen snow. As well as these delicious comestibles the cafe also stocked a wide selection of beers and spirits and after a rather noisy and recent protest by a certain Marmite topped sprinter- type, a shiny new Stella Tap took pride of place in the centre of the counter. It was near to lunchtime and soon the first visitors would be arriving. It was difficult to tell who would normally arrive first but on any given day one could be assured of bumping into a number of members of the League of Gentlemen Cyclists, Sheriff Ronstrutt, Giveatoss and Kitzy, FatBloke, Ravenbait, the Pikes and any other weary traveller in need of sustenance. A Giant OCR's tyres could be heard scrunching in the gravel outside alongside those of a racing machine of purest white. Gunner and Macleach unclipped and dismounted, then strode quickly inside. Removing helmets and shades Claire could see they were both far from their usual jocular moods. "You need to gather every visitor and send them over to our table, we need to speak to them on a matter of cycling-world changing importance......" "Sex, cycling, chocolate, beer, Sex, cycling, chocolate, beer....." Reply author: Aeroflash Replied on: 19/08/2003 14:25:46 Message: OK, while wanting desperately to take this seriously but not having time at this very moment, here is the opening of a short story what I wrote a month or two ago. Make of it what you will. In those days, life had an unreal quality. A sensation of something not being right, but you accept it anyway. The brain being split, some of it conscious, and a long way away. The rest experiences. Your consciousness, distant, comments; that’s strange, I don’t remember things being quite this way… Things were moving fast on the world stage and in my life too. I had moved to a new job, new flat, new area and I’ll admit, was struggling to adjust. A visit from my sister promised to alleviate some of the drab strangeness of it all though – or would of done if it wasn’t for the increasingly unconventional things she had been coming out with lately. Warnings, cynicism beyond her usual dry humour… It was a Saturday when she arrived and I was struggling to throw off both a cold and my usual torpor. ‘How much milk you want in this?’ Sophie leant back in the kitchen doorway raising a mug in one hand, raising the other arm to balance. ‘Er, just a splash,’ I answered. I don’t take milk in coffee, but I was thinking of something else. ‘Right…’ Sophie clattered back into the living room and slopped the mugs onto the small and evidently often slopped-on coffee table. There was a pause. Neither of us drunk. ‘You know it’s coming right?’ She avoided my gaze. ‘Quite soon Al says. Maybe days.’ ‘What?’ I said, avoiding too. ‘Look at this,’ she said, picking up the remote and stabbing the air in the direction of the television. Library footage of aircraft carriers. Warheads being winched into position. A heads-up display blinking a sodium square over a swerving delta that silently disintegrated in a grey puff of shards. The television snicked off. Matt Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 19/08/2003 15:23:04 Message: "I'd like three pounds of bananas and a quarter of your finest liquorice please." Claire looks up from the glass she is polishing. The Cake Stop bar and grill is empty, save for a gently snoring FatBloke getting a tan under the pool table lamp and the tortured, hunched figure of Sam Walker, née Scott Munn, wrestling with writer's block at the end of the bar under the hat stand, a glass of Rice Dream getting warm by his right hand. There is no sign of the person who has spoken. "Followed by two ton of chips and a battered whale please," comes the voice again. It wasn't endorphin overload: she had heard something. At least, she thinks she did. There is still no sign from either Sam or FatBloke that anything untoward is going on. "Excuse me?" she says, somewhat hesitantly. "Is someone there?" "I said I'd like three pounds of bananas, a quarter of liquorice, two tons of chips and a battered whale. Please." Claire steps forward so that her hips are pressed against the edge of the bar, and peers over the edge. A small face, framed by a spider's web tangle of fluffy hair the colour of a boiled lobster is looking up at her with twinkling blue eyes. The head sits atop a spindly body, which in turn is attached to what appear to be a satyr's legs. In USPS team kit. There is an empty packet of blackcurrant flavoured PowerBar carb gel on the floor between his - and the creature is most definite and unmistakably a he - Sidi-clad feet. "Um," says Claire, wondering how best to preserve the Cake Stop's reputation for exquisite customer service. "The death by chocolate is very nice. Or I can heat up some apple pie in the microwave for you. We haven't started the lunch service yet, so I can't do you chips, and we've run out of bananas. We only do liquorice by special order. If we get it in on spec then it just vanishes and we're not sure who eats it, although we all suspect it might be something to do with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern." "What about the battered whale?" Claire can't quite place the creature's accent. It sounds sort of Irish, but more Polish. Very strange. "We don't do battered whale. We may not be members of the IWC, but after that unfortunate incident with FatBloke and the Marine Mammals Defence League, we feel it's better to be safe than sorry." She nods towards the lumpen form making bandsaw noises on the pool table. The creature's eyebrows raise and he nods in understanding. "I see," he says. "Well, would it be possible, do you think, to lay me hands on some malt loaf and a pint of the black stuff?" "Don't be silly," mumbles FatBloke, without waking up. "You can't drink a pint of marmite." "You see if Oi can't," says the creature. Claire shrugs. It will be some time before Ravenbait appears, if indeed she turns up at all before tomorrow, so what little malt loaf is left can be replenished before she arrives. "Certainly. Which table will you be taking?" "That one over there." "Your name?" "Ach missy, there's just me, Lardy and the quiet one at the end there. I don't think you need my name." Claire ponders for a moment and then lets it slide. The creature clacks off across the sawdust-sprinkled floor to take a seat at his chosen table. When the others started appearing, then the goat-arsed little freak would find out how curious they could be. ..... Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "The reason people get lost in thought is because it is, to many, rather unfamiliar territory." Reply author: yenrod Replied on: 19/08/2003 15:43:56 Message: Whats going on here ? hmmmm...what jeah think ? Reply author: Macleach Replied on: 19/08/2003 15:57:14 Message: Don't know but myself and Aero's novels have now been shredded by the RB Publishing Co !! "Sex, cycling, chocolate, beer, Sex, cycling, chocolate, beer....." Reply author: Aeroflash Replied on: 19/08/2003 16:06:50 Message: Ah, my work here is done. Matt Reply author: Aeroflash Replied on: 19/08/2003 16:57:55 Message: Ravenbait and Fingal sweep around the final bend toward the Maltings in rural Mistley, Essex. As she and her silver and black charger carve through the deserted lanes in the final climb where the road curves around to open the horizon into a broad sweep across the Orwell, the usual odour of malt seems somehow altered. She drawns another waft of the warm morning air across her nostrils, searching for clues. It's slightly less strong than before. A little... burnt, perhaps. Out of the saddle now, and the beads of panic start to run down her tightening throat. It can't be that... The heavy tarred wooden gate of the maltings is displaced, making a Picasso-like slash across the regularity of the Georgian building. Malt workers lay strewn, unconscious across the concrete apron. A shattered artic sits smouldering, broken-backed before the ripped- open factory. Ravenbait dismounts, leans Fingal affectionately against a post and strides into the darkened doorway. Wooden pallettes stacked carefully on the floor have been splintered, the packing celophane shredded. And the familiar waxed paper packages...gone. Her mind is working at a cadence of 110rpm and thoughts rush into it like Laurent Jalabert on an Alpine descent. I'm too late...what will the League say. When they find that... the Malt Loaf has......GONE!' Matt Reply author: Kathy Pike Replied on: 19/08/2003 17:23:40 Message: Tuesday. The day that Garfield always referred to as "The armpit of the week". Too long after the last weekend to remember the fun you had, and not close enough to the coming weekend for anything to be anticipated. It's a Tuesday. It is twenty to five. It is too late to start anything new, but too early to leave. The figure sits at her desk, idly fiddling with some pieces of paper, all marked "URGENT", and all dated sometime mid-January. On the windowsill are three potted plants, all in the last stages of dying from dehydration, and several dead flies. Beyond that, the small square of sky she can see is a hazy, miserable grey. The rest of the airing cupboard sized office is taken up with an immense dusty bookshelf, where generations of previous occupants have left folders full of documents which they once deemed to be important. No- one has even touched the bookshelf for nearly two years now. Sitting in her uninspiring surroundings, her mind begins to wander… The sky is a glorious blue as she pounds along a dappled lane, the sunlight flashing through the leaves overhead. On the tandem, they reach the crest of a hill, and burst out into full sunshine for a few seconds, before starting the descent down the wooded hill. The road twists and winds, but the tandem is under perfect control, elegantly evading a pot-hole here, bracing for a bump there. "Nearly there" cries the stoker, looking at the map pinned to the captain's orange T-shirt. It had been a long journey, what with the misunderstanding about motorways and rivers ("Well how was I supposed to tell the difference? They're both blue aren't they?"), and the incomprehension over the fact that it is possible to go North without going uphill. But they were nearly there. The cake shop. It was a rough joint, there was no denying. Only last week, there had been a knifing over a matter of an abused apostrophe, and as for that matter of Chuffy nearly bringing about the end of the universe as we know it… Nevertheless, the place had a certain charm. It was hard to tell if it was the company, the malt loaf, the scrumpy, or simply the fact that the Cake Stop Shop was never in the same part of the country twice. (Ravenbait had a theory about this involving Ley Lines, but it was rather hard to understand without a couple of pints of scrumpy. Come to think of it, it was rather hard to understand after a couple of pints of scrumpy, but then it didn't seem to matter so much). A building comes into view, strangely looking much smaller from outside than it was inside. The tandem comes to an abrupt halt, and the riders dismount, grinning happily about the braking power of their steed, and holding a loving marital debate ("I still say, if you'd gone left when I said left, we could have saved-" "Left? You only said left after the crossroads, what did you expect me to do?"). However, on entering the Cake Shop, the happy smiles and thoughts of Death By Chocolate fade, as sitting in their favourite seat, they see a strange satyr-like figure. "Claire? Who's he? What's he doing here?" she hissed. "And why is he in our window seat!? We always have that seat, so that we can keep an eye on Her from it!" Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 19/08/2003 20:39:44 Message: quote: Originally posted by Macleach Don't know but myself and Aero's novels have now been shredded by the RB Publishing Co !! No they haven't, I just haven't worked them in yet. I had 2 months worth of time recording to do today (we're supposed to do it every day!) and I'm now off to ponder the disparate threads with which I have been presented. Watch this space (or one underneath). Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "The reason people get lost in thought is because it is, to many, rather unfamiliar territory." Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 20/08/2003 11:05:31 Message: Ravenbait surveys the damage with a Lara-like, knowing, wry smirk. Her gloved left hand reaches up and flicks a concealed switch in the arm of the Rudy Project Freons that had been specially customised for her by her old friend Wayland ("I don't just shoe horses, you know.") Invisible from the outside, a display flickers into life on the inside of the silver lenses. She scans the ruins, automatically taking in the lines of information and code flickering across her vision. "Dammit," she says. She steps carefully across the blackened floor, lifts aside a smouldering beam, retrieves two partially melted, squashed and sorry looking packets and stands there holding them with reverence. "I didn't think they would dare. I knew the speed camera thing would annoy, but this?" Resolutely, she turns and exits the torn and charred remains of the malt loaf factory. This time she notices the yellow tape of the police cordon, but they still don't notice her as she pulls enough of an A-Time shift to walk through the tape without disturbing it. She looks up, scanning the skies, makes a cross face, gets back on the bike. Fingal can tell that she is upset and angry, and remains subdued and quiet as they move off slowly down the road. She continues to scan the sky every so often until finally she pulls over into a lay-by. Two big, black birds appear as dots in the sky, tumbling and careening in the wind. She watches them impatiently as they take their time getting to her, her resting foot tapping on the tarmac. In a flurry of feathers and chatty squawking, the two ravens land; one on the aerobars, the other on the shoulder of the bars. "Braaak!" says Thought. He pokes the CatEye OS with the end of his beak. The computer display flickers and rearranges its pixels to read "Have a nice ride!" "Yes yes," the woman says. "I need you to get a message to Aeroflash. Tell him Sophie wasn't wrong." "B**ger that," says Memory, hopping to the very end of the aerobars. "I remember what happened when we told Appollo about his bint and that other fella." "And look what happened with Noah and his flood," Thought continued. "You'd think that the fact we found some nice carcasses to eat so didn't bother going back would have been clue enough. You'd think they'd have been able to work out that if there was nowhere to go we'd have been back sharpish." "Well, look, I'll give you a note and you can pretend to be a passenger pigeon. I'm pretty sure they're Red List." "They're bloody extinct, mate," says Thought. "Even better," says the woman, scribbling furiously. "Just go, will you? And try not to get distracted by Kentucky Fried Chicken on the way." She attaches the piece of paper to Memory's leg with a piece of micropore tape from her first aid kit. "And you, you need to go find Gunner," she says to Thought. "Oh very nice," the raven says sarcastically. "I get all the bird and elbows jokes, do I? Have you any idea what it's like being around him when you're a bird with feathers?" The woman rolls up another piece of paper and shoves it sideways in his beak as if she were feeding a sprat to a puffin. The raven croaks and hoots grumpily. "I'll get you some nice, fresh sheep's eyeballs later. I don't have time to do this myself, I have to get to the Temple and check the supplies." Both birds launch themselves into the air and heave themselves upwards. A few small feathers drift down, but by the time they hit the ground, the woman has already gone, leaving nothing but a faint scent of vetiver and opoponax. ...... Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "The reason people get lost in thought is because it is, to many, rather unfamiliar territory." Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 20/08/2003 11:57:55 Message: Some time later, at the Cake Stop, Gunner turns up with the bad news, having met Macleach on the way. His face is grave and stern and he is evidently preoccupied as he asks Claire to have the others come see him when they arrive. Not preoccupied enough, however, to miss observing Kathy's agitation at the interloper who has stolen her customary seat by the window. His time in the Special Forces was not wasted, and his eye is drawn to the empty packet of PowerBar energy gel the creature left on the floor. He picks it up, sniffs it, tastes it with the very tip of his tongue, wrinkles his nose in displeasure. "She will not be pleased," he mutters. "Not at all." It is approaching lunch time and the regulars are trickling in one by one, each arrival heralded by the sound of crunching gravel and the clicking of locks to confine eager steeds and prevent them making off on adventures of their own no matter how much they provoked and encouraged one another. As each cyclist gives his or her order to Claire, she directs them over to the table in the corner, where Gunner has taken a seat that affords him a grandstand view of the rest of the room, particularly the window seat, without his own actions being obvious to anyone else. The riders leave him with shocked, stunned expressions, some of them so horrified all appetite is gone. On the window seat, the lobster-haired half-man, half-goat in the USPS kit has a grin on his face that gets wider and wider every time one of the gang takes his seat with dismay written across his features. Lunchtime ticks by, and there is a heavy, weighty atmosphere in the Cake Stop. Aeroflash has arrived, his demeanour stoic and determined. Flying Monkey is distracting himself, having entered a state of meditative enlightenment that has resulted in him floating in the lotus position, about a foot above the jukebox. The jukebox is refusing to play anything other than "The Darkness", although it lapses into sullen silence when threatened with sudden and violent death by Yenrod and J.L.Seagull. There is a sudden chill and the light outside fades, only for the abrupt gloom to be pierced by the white beam of a 32W halogen bulb accompanied by tiny red flashes reminiscent of the jerking death-throes of faeries that have met a blood-soaked and gory end. The door swings open with a slam, causing some of the more depressed and contemplative cyclists present to jump, startled. The woman, silver Specialized removed to save the cleats, walks in with feet clad only in silver X-Socks, her shoes in one hand. In the crook of her right arm she is cradling the last two malt loaves in the country, both slightly the worse for wear but still edible. "Claire, what are our stocks like?" she asks, setting the comestibles down on the bar with the care of a mother putting her baby to sleep. "We have none here. The guy in the USPS kit ate the last early this morning." Ravenbait momentarily freezes. She removes the Rudy Projects, and Claire can see that her eyes are two orbs of polished obsidian, and if she looks long enough there appear to be things writhing in their depths. Claire shudders and turns her gaze down towards the bar. "Take care of these, Claire," the woman says, gently pushing the malt loaf packets across the brass-covered bar top. "Guard them with your life." Claire nods, almost faint with relief as the woman turns her attention towards the half-man, half-goat currently occupying Kathy and Tim's window seat. "He was here when I arrived, " Kathy says indignantly. "Cheeky wretch." "You!" says the woman. "You've got some nerve coming here. And in team kit, too. What was your mission? Finish off our supplies? Spread dissension in the ranks?" "I just wanted to see your face when you found out, to be sure," says the satyr. "The Man is not pleased with you. You and your Goddess," he almost spat the word, "need to be put in your place. Ullrich couldn't do it, Millar couldn't do it - what makes you think that you can succeed where they have failed?" "We already did, didn't we?" the woman says, voice low and ominous. "And we'll do it again, and again, and again until you either give up or go under. 'The Man', as you call him, may have won five now, but his sphere of influence is limited. Everyone knows that. Even him. This is an act of desperation and it doesn't frighten me. Or Her." "We'll see about that, so we will," says the creature enigmatically, getting to his feet. "I'd better be getting off. Tell your Goddess that this is just the start, so. There's a lot more where this came from." "And we're just supposed to let you walk out of here?" thunders Gunner. He stands there, arms folded, looking manly, powerful and menacing. He is joined by Steelman, Rigby, Derall, Aeroflash and Macleach, and finally even by EvilChuffy who appears both determined and wracked by guilt. "I should skin you alive and use your knackers as a seat pack." "You could stop me, to be sure," says the Satyr. He cocks his head to one side and grins. His teeth have become long, white and sharp, and there are far more of them, of far greater size, than could physically fit into that tiny head with its shock of orange hair. "But it would be messy." "Leave it," says Aeroflash. "We've got more important things to worry about than minions." "Good day to you, sorr!" the satyr cries, and skips gaily out of the door. ........ Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "The reason people get lost in thought is because it is, to many, rather unfamiliar territory." Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 20/08/2003 14:58:14 Message: What will happen now? Can the League of Gentlemen Cyclists and their sister organisation, the Intrepid Sorority, possibly counter the demonic forces of the Tour God Armstrong? Will the Triple Aspects of the Goddess of Cycling prove a match for the robotic determination of the Deity of the Race of France? Will Phil Liggett ever get to hear of what is going on, and to whom will his loyalties fall? Will the Fellowship of the Cake Stop ever get over that unfortunate incident with FatBloke and the Marine Mammals Defence League? Will Thanatos and Kitzy ever get it together or will Gunner's manly charms prove too much for the impressionable young slip of a girl? How long will it be before Steelman has another go at getting his leg over? Will our chums manage to survive on bananas and Cornish saffron loaf until the Soreen supply can be reinstated? Find out next time in Chronicles of the Cake Stop Sam Reply author: Aeroflash Replied on: 20/08/2003 14:58:48 Message: My God Green Man Goddess, you are too good! Matt Reply author: Macleach Replied on: 20/08/2003 15:30:33 Message: Agreed. Outstanding work in of the different storylines. "Sex, cycling, chocolate, beer, Sex, cycling, chocolate, beer....." Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 21/08/2003 10:43:58 Message: Chronicles of the Cake Stop Vol II. No. 3 As Hasufel makes to head after the pseudo-Irish vassal of Armstrong, Microphonie takes hold of him, aided by Gordy. "It's not worth it," he says. "It really isn't. The malt loaf left over from yesterday would have been stale by now anyway. Not food fit for a Goddess. He hasn't cost us anything." Ravenbait is glowering at door, through which the satyr vanished, only her absolute stillness and, should the observer dare to look, the intensity of the disturbing movement in her black eyes indicating that she is in any way affected. Kitzy looks to be on the verge of tears, and Kathy is hugging one of the ferrets for comfort, Tim's arm around her shoulders. Bek starts off on another rant about male chauvinists. The aim seems only slightly off- target this time and the others let her carry on. There is a sense of utter despair in the Cake Stop. Claire does what she can; scouring the shelves for cakes and breads that might help fill the gap until the calamity can be resolved. She refuses to think about the possibility that it cannot be resolved. The folks of the Cake Stop are an extraordinarily resourceful bunch, after all, the kind of readership any magazine would be proud to consider its own; if it could see how fortunate it was to have them, of course. She finds some saffron loaf, some eccles cakes and an inferior brand of malt loaf that was purchased because it was organic. There is some banana bread; some with sultanas, some with chocolate chips, some with both. She fetches the packets of garibaldis and fig rolls and retrieves a honey cake with caraway seeds that her Mum had made her. She knows, however, that although she may tempt the others with one of these perfectly pleasant delights, the woman still staring, statuesque, at the door will not touch them. It could be that the Priestess of the Temple could starve to death! "I will take the last two to the Temple," Ravenbait says. "The Temple Maidens have been well trained in the dread art of Dimac by the mighty Gunner, and have learned the Weirding Way. They know the killing words, and the ways of setting a man on fire by the Voice. If the worst happens, all can bring about the end of a man by subjecting him to more pleasure than a mortal can bear." "That's sexist," says Chuffy. "It applies to women as well. If they are that way inclined, the Temple Maidens will serve them. If not, we took some cell samples from Gunner and cloned a set of Temple Guards, all of whom have his irresistable Adonis features. Steelman and Sheriff Strutt have trained them well in the ways of pleasuring a woman," the onyx-eyed woman replies with an exasperated sigh. "Oh," says Chuffy, mollified. "That's alright then." "Ravenbait, "says Kathy, slowly, a metaphorical lightbulb popping into life above her head. "Did you say those were the only two malt loaves left in the factory?" The woman turns, sadly. "Yes, I'm sorry Kathy, I looked for more but there were none." She appears to feel she has disappointed everyone. "So what happened to them?" Kathy ponders. "If they had been destroyed, there would have been some trace, surely?" "By jove she's right!" exclaims Rigby. "The malt loaf hasn't been destroyed; those are not the only two left in the country. They have been kidnapped! Ladies and gentlemen, we are looking at the crime of malt loaf rustling!" "No," Kathy shakes her head. "This isn't rustling. This is piracy!" "Well there's only one answer to piracy," says Gunner. "Hoist the Jolly Roger. It's our malt loaf that we want, and our malt loaf we shall have!" A cheer erupts through the room. Within moments the Cake Stop flag has been taken down from the pole on the roof, Redshift nimbly climbing the ladder up through the skylight. A skull and crossbones is left flying in its place, snapping in the breeze. ..... Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "The reason people get lost in thought is because it is, to many, rather unfamiliar territory." Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 21/08/2003 12:05:04 Message: Is this thing still on? Can we really pull off a Mad Max scenario led by Captain Jack Sparrow? Sam Reply author: Macleach Replied on: 21/08/2003 12:13:56 Message: Absolutely. How about casting the Chairman of the ABD as the Humungous ! "Give us your Irn Bru or I'll snog you....." Reply author: microphonie Replied on: 21/08/2003 13:45:34 Message: "'ang on a minit m8, if His lot nikt the molt loaves, why r we flyin' the pyr8 flag?" whined Thyroid. EvilChuffy ambled across the room, stout wooden stick in hand, and gave the impudent yoof a damn good smiting. "Because", SMACK!, "Ve", THWACK!, "Vant", CRACK!, "To", SMITE!, quoth Steelman, joining in enthusiastically. "Aw, why do you always hit poor Thermic?" asked the lovely Kooky, momentarily distracted from re-reading her mention in C+ news. "It's tradition, an old charter, or something", explained Ravenbait. Thanatos fell to the ground and passed out. The horrible wailing from the jukebox came to a halt. "That explains a lot", said Redshift, deftly programming-in the code that would bring Shriekback's 'Oil and Gold' pumping out of the speakers. "If we find Him, how are we going to get the malt loaf from him and back here?" asked Kathy. "Well, there's that box load o' nasty yellow food bags in t' back", suggested Microphonie, "Y'know, them that clash horribly wi' t'red bikes" he continued in an over-exaggerated Yorkshire accent. "And we'll need some way of getting Him out in the open so we can give Him a good kicking. We need a decoy, someone who'll get His aggression going, get Him to attack for once" offered Gunner. Ravenbait's eyes scanned the room and fell upon the figure of Thanatos, who had decided to play dead for fear of a futher beating. "I have a plan", she said, "gather 'round..." "There's 70 billion people of Earth...where are they hiding?" Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 21/08/2003 14:49:06 Message: The Cake Stop has lost its normal, convivial atmosphere. It is no longer a place for erstwhile friends and companions to meet and chat companionably over a glass of Madeira or Tokay Essensi. This is now a War Room, a Bunker, for planning of the revenge campaign against the God Armstrong. Thermidore, his prescience demonstrating accuracy for once, realises that his grasp of the Voice is not enough to save him and attempts to belly-crawl to safety under the pool table. Steelman cheerfully inserts one foot into his rear jersey pocket and holds him in place by standing on him. "We do not want Him to attack here," says the woman. "I would rather He did not attack at all. If we can get in and retrieve the malt loaf, then get out, the resumption of supplies to the Temple will put us in a far stronger position for wreaking ungodly, holy revenge. No, that's not an oxymoron." She lets her eyes drift around the assembled group. "We need to find the source of His power, and take it from Him, just as He has tried to do to here. Fortunately for us, we are a far more adaptable bunch and the Cake Stop will survive this easily even if we cannot retrieve our malty ambrosia. It may be changed, it may be different, but it will survive." "So how do we find Him?" Kitzy asks, unable to stop herself frequently glancing at the downtrodden Thalweg. "Leave that to me," says Ravenbait, the undertones and inflections in her voice sending a chill through the companions. Many are the myth and legend about the Priestess of the Temple. There are such stories told about her that many even confuse her with the Goddess Herself. No Goddess is she, but not as many of the tales are fabrications as the outsider might think. "I will go alone." For this her friends are thankful. They do not fear the dark forces of Armstrong, but they do not want to see what she will do to them. It is far too early for that sort of thing, and, anyway, the aliens in Resurrection even managed to annoy Giger. "Oooh, oooh!" cries Kathy excitedly. "Can I go get Captain Jack Sparrow? CanIcanIcanIcanIcanIcanIcanIcanI?????? I want to be a pirate when I grow up, and he's ever so good." "Well, you'll have to ask Tim," Ravenbait replies. "Why?" Bek asks, frowning. "Women are emancipated in this day and age." "Because Tim drives the front half of the tandem," Ravenbait explains patiently with a mischievous gleam in her eye. "I do need someone to do something, though," she says. "I need someone to find out what the source of Armstrong's power is. What does He use as sustenance? What can He not live without? It should not be difficult. He is a vain creature. He has even written of Himself 'It's not about the bike'. It should not be difficult or dangerous to discover." "I can do that," says Derall, raising his hand. Microphonie and ZimZum raise their also, indicating a willingness to help. "I should go with you," says Gunner, expanding his handsome chest, chiselled features solemn. "The Giant OCR Team Replica should manage to match pace with Fingal. I can defend your honour, madam, and your elbows." "I have little honour left to save," says the woman with a smile all the more disturbing for its gentility. "And my elbows are quite safe by virtue of being attached to my arms. I need you here, Sir Gunner, to protect the Cake Stop and all who sail within her. The minions of Armstrong already know how to find us; I do not, for one moment, imagine that our friend from earlier found us by pure chance. They have evidently found a way to read the Ley Lines and determine our location. That is something we must also prevent." She turned. "Aeroflash, Flying Monkey, I think it may be time for you to go to Avebury." The two men nod, bravely, knowing what it is they must do. "As for the rest of you, I suggest you batten down the hatches, dog the portholes down, pull in the rigging and ride out the storm for a few hours. When we return we shall all have to work very hard teaching Thalamus a new song that he will be singing for us." From underneath Steelman's foot, on the floor, came a dreadful, eerie groan. "Pls noooooo. I 2 yng 2 die!" ....... Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "Optimists believe that this is the best of all possible worlds. Pessimists are afraid that it is." Reply author: Kathy Pike Replied on: 21/08/2003 15:32:40 Message: Hello everyone, sorry I'm a bit late - I spent all yesterday in a sunny orchard being force-fed cider by a very nice farmer (I love my job), and today that Damn Virus wiped out all our computing power until ten minutes ago. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. "Hooray!" Kathy hopscotched out of the Cake Shop, deftly avoiding the rigging that was being strung up around the windows. "We're off to find the Sparrow, the wonderful Sparrow of Jack!" "Oh no," groaned Tim. "Do you know what you've started?" And sure enough, as the fastest tandem ever to sail these waters (with the possible exception of the Black Pearl) slipped away from the harbour, a defiant voice could be heard, raised in a combination of a battle cry and a sea-shanty. "OOOOOHHhhhh, Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry..." Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 22/08/2003 11:16:19 Message: It gets tricky here. I've left openings for other people to come in and write their bits (or bits for other people!), but if you don't participate I will do it for you unless/until people get bored and stop reading/participating altogether. And I could make you do almost anything . Heh. So get those thinking caps on people.....(do you think this thread will help convince Future Publishing that we like a bit of the surreal in our cycling and they have to reinstate Scam?) Chronicles of the Cake Stop Vol II No. 4 Hours of careful research, poring through the dusty tomes on demonology at the back of the Temple, rifling through thick pages of vellum and illuminated manuscripts, some of which have been drawn onto tanned human skin. This is what it takes to find the source of a God's power. Well, that's what it used to be like in the old days, anyway, back when occultists were real men, not boys; when everyone knew that the word "glamour" came from the old Scots "grammarye" and therefore had the same root as "grammar". Those were the days when accuracy and precision were important in the dark magics, when an apostrophe, comma or politically correct impersonal pronoun could cause skin diseases, fatal flatulence and worse. These days, of course, the Temple not only has a collection of books the British Library would be shocked to discover still exist, it has a broadband internet connection; a fat pipe that enables instant access to Google for most things, and Cthuugle for those occasional tricky problems. Derall, Microphonie and ZimZum had a relatively easy task, then, especially given that the subject had come up in conversation only a few weeks previously. "Do you think He uses a Gaggia?" Microphonie asks as they examine the list they have compiled. "And where do you think He gets His beans?" "I'll bet He uses Starbuck's," Derall replies, with evident feeling. "Anyway. It doesn't matter what He uses. We have what we need. Espresso and PowerBar. And we can kidnap His soigneur and turbo trainer while we're at it. That will at least slow Him down." "I hope Kathy gets back soon with Captain Jack," ZimZum murmurs, scanning the computer print-out and wondering how they are possibly going to manage stripping the Dark Lord of His strength. "She will," Derall assures him, comforting his friend with an expression of confidence he isn't really feeling himself. Inside there is a voice screaming at him, demanding that he understands that Ravenbait has got them into something really dangerous and stupid this time, much worse than wearing headphones while riding. Luckily it is screaming in the ear that is partially deaf, so he can ignore it. "I'm more worried about Aeroflash and Flying Monkey. I'm not sure they are experienced enough to pull it off." The other two nod, sharing his concern. Aeroflash and Flying Monkey aren't trying to pull anything off. They are on their twentieth circuit of Avebury and doing their very best to concentrate past the temptation to stop in the Red Lion for a pint. They are keeping a close watch on the top of Silbury Hill in the distance, waiting for the shimmer to erupt from Swallowhead Springs -- an event that gives the impression of a moat and has erroneously been reported in literature as flooding -- and indicate that they have caught the attention of the goblins that operate this giant ley-line junction control box The circuits are getting harder and harder, a headwind developing that pushes against them no matter which part of the circuit they are riding. There are strong forces at work. It takes more than a whim, a call to Cousin Ivan and a plate of bread and milk to reach the junction control goblins at any ley-line crossing. Here at Avebury, where there is a great nexus, the effort required is great indeed. Flying Monkey and Aeroflash's legs are burning, the strain enormous; the sweat dripping from them in fat drops, trickling into eyes and mouth, stings sensitive membranes as though it consists of pure lactic acid, forced from their quads by the compression of the forces resisting their progress. "I...can't...keep...this...up," pants Flying Monkey. "I'm...out...of...practise." "Not...much...further...now," Aeroflash tells him, trying to see past the red spots dancing in his vision. "I...can...see...it...starting." Sure enough, in the distance, there is a silvery glow beginning to flow across the landscape around the base of the ancient monument. They only have half a circuit to go. As they swing past The Sanctuary for the final time, battling into what feels like a force 9 gale, the silver flood reaches the base of the mound and shoots up to the top, spiralling its way around the slopes of the hill. A silver column erupts from the hole at the top, beaming straight into the sky in the direction of Sirius. "Thank f**k for that!" says Aeroflash, as the headwind vanishes. They carry on spinning in a low gear, despite the cessation of resistance, legs too tired to shift to a smaller sprocket just yet. "Now we just have to make it to West Kennet. Bit of portage up the hill there, Monkey, but it's an easy trip. Just don't forget: this one's name is Colin. Don't call him Ivan, and for pity's sakes don't mention anything about that Channel 4 programme Desperately Seeking Something or invocations to the God Pan. You'll ruin everything." "I think I'll just keep my mouth shut," Flying Monkey comments as they head up the hill, past the sudden rash of crop circles, towards Fyfield Down and the petrified sheep. ...... Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "Optimists believe that this is the best of all possible worlds. Pessimists are afraid that it is." Reply author: Evilchuffy Replied on: 22/08/2003 11:24:43 Message: Amazing. All I have to do is think about looking for this thread and it pops up right in front of me. Spooky. Or maybe my mind is more powerful than I had ever dreamed of. Mwahah. Mwahaha. Mwahahhahahahahahahahahahah!!!!!!!!!! "Orang-utans are sceptical." www.catniphollow.com Reply author: Evilchuffy Replied on: 22/08/2003 11:28:31 Message: I'd chip in Sam but this has been one of those weeks and She Who Must be Placated is getting panicky about the housework I haven't had time to do yet. Hmmph. Do we really burn in hell with little devils poking our bottoms with pointy poky things because the kitchen hasn't been cleaned this week? I doubt it... "Orang-utans are sceptical." www.catniphollow.com Reply author: Aeroflash Replied on: 22/08/2003 12:11:24 Message: ...As Aeroflash and Monkey approach West Kennet, the long, low hump creeping over the ridge and the forecourt stones jutting in the skyline, they begin to hear a soft chanting, carried by the now-gentle breeze... 'Huffity Puffity Ringstone Round If you lose your hat it will never be found, So pull your breeches up under your chin, And fasten your cloak with a bright new pin, If your saddle is comfy then let us begin, Huffity Puffity PUFF!' 'If that's not a goblin, I don't know what is,' said Flying Monkey. 'Then it's a goblin that's been watching Quatermass' answered his compatriot. Matt Reply author: Kathy Pike Replied on: 22/08/2003 12:13:38 Message: Hmmm, story, pub, story, pub? PUB!!!! Reply author: microphonie Replied on: 22/08/2003 12:25:20 Message: Argh! I'm off work for a week - try to keep this going until I get back won't you? Byeeeee! "There's 70 billion people of Earth...where are they hiding?" Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 22/08/2003 13:56:04 Message: Aeroflash and Flying Monkey approach the massive uprights that frame the doorway of the mound. Inside the late Neolithic long barrow the air is moist and cool; it is as if the darkness within has a texture, and is leaking out through the narrow opening underneath the capstone to brush seductively against their faces. The two men rest their bikes against the fence, give each other apprehensive glances. "Helloooooo?" calls Aeroflash. The singing stops. "Colin? Have you got a minute?" There is a shuffling sound, of large bare feet on hard-packed dirt. The cyclists notice that the quality of the light has changed, become somehow unreal. From between the uprights emerges the grey-green, globular, somehow leathery figure of Colin the Chief Controller. His large, pointed ears are relaxed, his face registering curiosity. A large, round belly sporting an outwardly-pointing navel continues the spherical theme started by the round head with its wide, expressive mouth. Grey eyes carry the twinkle of ancient intelligence and the depth of even more ancient wisdom. Stumpy legs carry the whole along, every inch of observable skin smooth, hairless and shiny. Colin is carrying a plastic rubbish sack. He holds it open, beckoning for them to look inside. It is full of metal tea light holders, burnt out scraps of candles, cheap jewellery, dead and rotting flowers, sweet wrappers, scraps of tobacco, cigarette butts and feathers. "See this? I only cleared this place out last week." He sighs. "Good afternoon, gents, what can I do for you?" "Well, we've come to ask a favour," says Aeroflash. "There's a bit of a scrap going on between the Triple Goddess of Cycling and the Tour God Armstrong. There was this incident with some speed cameras just outside Salisbury...." "Aye, I heard about that," says Colin, shaking his head in the manner of a plumber inspecting a boiler. "I said to Sharon - that's the missus - at the time that there was bound to be trouble." "You weren't wrong, " says Flying Monkey. "Armstrong has stolen all the malt loaf and destroyed the Maltings," Aeroflash continues grimly. "He has also discovered how to locate the Cake Stop, and it can therefore only be a matter of time before He learns how to do the same with the Temple. Ravenbait has gone to seek Him out and the Temple Maidens are on full alert, but we need your help to warp the streams and render us safe again." Colin sets his bag down and sorts of sinks into a contemplative squat. "Did she ever tell you how much work it was in the first place getting the Cake Stop to be locatable only by those who had been there?" he asks. "Nearly killed her, that did, and that was before they invented segregated paths and started slapping green paint down everywhere. What Armstrong has done... it isn't as simple as me just sending the word out to the boys, you know. You'd have to redo the working, dislodge the signal again, separate the Cake Stop's identity from its location. It's not easy. I can help. I will help. But someone is going to have to set it in motion." "Tell me what I have to do," Aeroflash responds with steely determination. "Maybe we should go get Ravenbait," Flying Monkey suggests. "She's done this before..." "No!" Aeroflash exclaims. "I know what I'm doing. It would be a huge risk for her as well, and we need her here for the final battle. I am not willing to risk her life for this." "Come in then, if you're sure," says Colin. "I'll explain the procedure." They slide between the uprights and underneath the capstone and are lost to view. Hours later, back at the Cake Stop bar and grill, there is pandemonium. Kathy and Tim have returned with Captain Jack Sparrow to find they are under attack by the legions of Armstrong. Gunner is rampaging through platoons of satyrs, swinging with reckless abandon a gigantic chainset with rings the size of his head. There are several harpies tangled in the rigging, and signs that there has been a cavalry charge by a brigade of centaurs. There is the dread smell of petrol fumes and in the distance she can hear the sound of approaching engines, as if the M25 has detached itself from its mooring and is floating slowly and steadily towards them. "Lions and tigers and bears oh my!" she whispers to herself in horror, knowing that, should the troops of the ABD make it to the boundary of the Cake Stop, they will forever after be able to find their way there. "Right love, " says Captain Jack, then grabs a mainsail sheet that has come free from the mast, and swings off with sabre gleaming. "Take that you bounder!" cries Rigby as he clobbers a centaur over the head with a Topeak Master Blaster. FatBloke has cornered a sobbing satyr and is rendering him mentally feeble by jiggling his belly at him. Redshift has managed to get onto the back of one of the centaurs, and is holding on by firmly gripping his nipples while yelling "Hi ho Silver, awaaaaaay!" and kicking anything that gets too close. There are several satyrs with cleat imprints in their foreheads. TimBooth is seducing one of the harpies that hasn't been caught in the rigging, distracting it from the fact that Terry is busy bungeeing its tail to a Sheffield stand. There is a cracking noise followed by a loud rumble, a combination of thunder and earthquake. The ground begins to shake. The fighting tails off, the clash of metal and screams fading out as everyone stops, wondering what is happening now. There is a glow in the sky, dim and pale at first, slowly becoming brighter. The Fellows of the Cake Stop look up in wonder as a perfect image of Aeroflash materialises in the sky. "Farewell, my friends," he says. "Do not grieve for me. Be content knowing I am happy that I have completed my mission and earned my place at the side of the Goddess. Know that I will be forever at Her side, that I will be guiding Her to victory at the end of every sprint, revelling in the view of Her behind on every single-track, tending to Her every bruise when She misses a landing on the half-pipe. I have taken on the Magic Roundabout and, although it has cost me everything, I have won. Go your way in safety, my friends. May the roads be smooth, the wind be at your back and every cup of tea be one of those cups of tea." The vision smiles, an expression of utter contentment, enlightenment and wisdom, and then the image fades. The denizens of the Cake Stop look around, sad and bewildered. The forces of Armstrong have vanished, the stench of fumes and sound of engines naught but a distant memory. The skull and crossbones snaps and flutters, the rigging sways and creaks. Other than that there is silence. ..... Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "Optimists believe that this is the best of all possible worlds. Pessimists are afraid that it is." Reply author: Evilchuffy Replied on: 22/08/2003 14:55:37 Message: "Goodnight sweet Aeroflash, flights of angels sing thee to thy rest" "Orang-utans are sceptical." www.catniphollow.com Reply author: redshift Replied on: 23/08/2003 12:40:42 Message: Sam, Your heroic storytelling efforts are not wasted, it's just that some of us are a) awed by the stature of your imagination and b) busy working on 'an everyday story of life in a northern town,' and hence have to take a back seat and take a peek when we can. Oh, and some of us get the jokes, but admitting to being an Adam and the Ants fan? not necessarily cool... ...all good clean fun, whatever that means... L Windcheetah 176 http://www.redshift.uklinux.net/ ...handbuilt by daleks... Reply author: redshift Replied on: 23/08/2003 18:07:17 Message: The cake stop clientele find a last unvanished satyr hiding under a table and, realising that letting it go would once again reveal their location, hit it with a belaying pin and use their hojojutsu skills and some of Captain Jack's handy rigging to restrain it. "We could keep it as a pet" says Rigby, but the others disagree. "It must be chastised severely" says Gunner, "and if only it were female I'd know just what to do." Everyone looks expectantly to Mrs Pike. "Absolutely not. Not even a little bit," she says, "I wouldn't even talk to it civilly, let alone handle its elbows. Do you think I'm some kind of pervert?" A few surreptitious glances are exchanged. "I could sit on it." FatBloke is looking a little peckish by this stage. "Pie." Knowing that this will at least keep the beast subdued until the return of Ravenbait, they seat FatBloke just out of range. He positively leers at the thing. They all know they're going to have to kill it eventually but that's a big step and not all of them approve of turning to the dark side. By general consensus they know that only one person is qualified to judge, and she isn't here. "Hi ho Silver, away..." hums redshift sadly, knowing that the mighty Aeroflash has truly ridden into tomorrow, today. What would Tamatea (the man with the Big Knee) have done? redshift can't play the flute, so is at a loss: Perhaps one of the others will oblige with a lament to mark the passing. They return to their favourite seats for tea and contemplation, but it's not the same without the malt loaf and there's a gap in the seating arrangement which no one can bring themselves to fill. --- The door opens, and the tinkling of the bell startles them out of their reverie. Flying Monkey's face appears round the door. "Is it ok? I mean, it all went dark, and then he just..." his voice tails off to nothing. Gunner goes to the door and leads the stricken combatant towards Aeroflash's chair. "It's all right lad, you sit here. That's what he would've wanted. When you're ready you can tell us." "No, wait." The Flyer is insistent, "I have to give you this:" He dashes out and unties a long parcel from its place on his crossbar, brings it back inside. "He gave it to me, see. Said it was to help us. Colin, that is. He says it's special." The crowd gathers round as he places the package upon the table top. It is stained and dark, the waxy, oily cloth has beads of water on it, and it has a weight to it which is out of proportion to its size. "I didn't want to open it. At least, not until I got here." He undoes the cords which hold the wrappings closed, and unravels the cloth. There is a blinding gleam of metal, a ringing, clanging sound like an anvil falling down a lift shaft, and there on the tabletop lies a sword. The polished blade lights the room with an unearthly shine; the hilts' pierced and chased designs run on into the blade, writhing. The onlookers are disturbed to see that the designs seem to move of their own free will. They watch as the lines calm down, and eventually one word remains upon the blade: Caledfwlch "Wossat then?" asks Thermal. "It's the Hard Lightning," replies redshift, "the Steel-Cutter; the ancient sword of Wales. Everybody knew it was lost, but someone must have been looking after it. Wayland indeed does more than shoe horses." "Do you know how to use it?" asks Flying Monkey. "Not me," says redshift, "I'm more your Japanese single-edged, two-handed job. This one's got pre-Celtic, pre-Christian, pre-bloody-everything written all over it. Literally. I'm all for leaving it where it is and finding the right person. Don't you know what happens to people who try to wield this thing when they're not entitled? you'll be picking the bits out of next Wednesday - if you find any, that is. Me? Not bloody likely. It has to be one of you lot." There's a pause as each of them assesses their chances. Kathy is the only one to express it out loud: "But which one?" L Windcheetah 176 http://www.redshift.uklinux.net/ ...handbuilt by daleks... Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 24/08/2003 12:33:16 Message: What excitement! Having seen off the dark forces of Armstrong, our brave chums have now been gifted with a mighty weapon to aid and abet them in their adventures against the rot of the colonist scum! In our next gripping installment of this fine yarn for boys and girls of all ages, find out what will become of the courageous and plucky Kathy Pike and her charming husband! Hear more of the bravery and valour of the mighty Gunner! Discover the power of the great sword and find out who will wield its mighty haft! Unveil the grit and determination of the League of Gentlemen Cyclists, so sorely bereft of such fine a member! Reveal what has happened to the mysterious High Priestess, who is probably a good egg even if she does seem to do some very rum things! Remember, our adventure periodical for boys and girls is not only diverting for youngsters in need of wholesome entertainment, it is educational too! But I have to clean the kitchen floor first and Fingal wants to go out to play today . Sam Reply author: Gordon Replied on: 24/08/2003 14:22:35 Message: All exciting stuff; I can hardly wait for the next installment. Sam, your storytelling (and interludes) reminds me a lot of George M Fraser, particularly "The Pyrates" which has long been one of my favourites. Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 24/08/2003 18:40:38 Message: Chronicles of the Cake Stop Vol II No 5 The finding of Fortress Armstrong; Fingal runs home; the Goddess speaks. And what of Ravenbait? It is now many hours since she left her fellows to go in search of Armstrong's lair. Currently the Temple Priestess is standing on a grassy knoll next to a hawthorn bush, her eyes not seeing the psychedelic landscape of A-Time but caught in the mists of sorrow for a brave comrade now passed. His last complex manoeuvre around the mystical structure that is the Magic Roundabout in Swindon had been marked in A-Time, and she had known then that he had paid the ultimate price for success. She cursed the narrow-mindedness of the dread Guild of Transport Planners, whose continued attempts to limit the just and free movements of cyclists had made this once-difficult but not impossible working deadly and hence resulted in the untimely demise of her friend. She can feel weakness growing in her, inevitable with the loss of the malt loaf ambrosia that is her sustenance. Yet she mounts her noble steed once more and sets off, following the signs and spoor that are leading her to the fortress of her arch rival. It is not far now. She knows this, can scent in the air and see it in the oily colours now effervescing from the ground beneath Fingal's wheels. Before long it appears on the horizon; a vast, forbidding place with towers and spires reaching heavenwards, so tall that curls of cloud cling to the grey stone, flags and banners of the USPS and Shimano fluttering and dancing from their poles mounted to the buttresses. At the sides of the road leading to the portcullis before the immense, iron gate are the skeletons of vanquished foe; wheels bent, spokes missing, transmissions broken, frames rusting in their confinement in the dread wheel-benders. Fingal shudders beneath her and she tries not to let the horror of so many abandoned bicycles rotting from neglect distract her from her cause. Scattered on the slick surface of the road are broken cycle helmets and discarded cleats. Empty water bottles form drifts in hollows and the thorny bushes warped by the struggle to grow in this forsaken land are littered with empty PowerBar wrappers, caught on the sharp spikes jutting from their twigs and branches. There are no birds here, no butterflies; no comforting hum of bees. There is only the hummadruz caused by the concentration of power in the fortress yonder. She wants to leave this place, is tempted to turn now, head back, pretend that having found the fortress is enough: she cannot. It is not enough to have located this castle here in A-Time. She must reconnoitre, discover its weakness so that they can plan their next move. She rides on. Approaching the environs of the castle she falls under its shadow. A chill steals through her and she shivers, unable to resist the urge to look up and try to comprehend the vast scale of the edifice before her. Weakened by lack of food and grief at the recent and tragic loss of her friend, she does not see the guard unit emerge from a small door by the side of the main gate, does not sense the impending threat. The first she knows of the attack is a shooting, burning pain in her arm. She looks down, sees the wasp hanging from her flesh by its sting, barely manages to stop and unclip from her bicycle before falling to the ground. "Go," she says fiercely to Fingal, giving the machine a shove with all the strength she has left. "Get away, get help. Thought and Memory will assist you, you just need to get back to the bottom of the ridge, where Armstrong's influence is weaker." Breathing is becoming difficult, and she searches urgently in her jersey pocket for her epipen. Fingal hesitates, reluctant to leave his mistress to her fate, slows to a wobble and seems about to fall. "Go!" she orders him desperately, and hangs on to the last threads of consciousness just long enough to see him regain momentum and balance as he heads back to friendly territory. * * * At the Cake Stop everyone is still staring at the glittering, deadly blade resting on the table top. No one wishes to touch it, let alone pick it up with violent intent. "Were we not supposed to be teaching Theramin a song or something?" asks Gordon. "Does anyone know what song she meant?" "I think, " EvilChuffy responds with a sly twinkle, "that it would have been an adaptation of a Second World War classic regarding the defective anatomy of one of Hitler's chums." Gunner looks shocked. "That is most unsporting and most definitely not the sort of ditty sung by gentlefolk of any persuasion." "It dusn't matter," says Theodolite, his eyes glowing, blue in blue. "I told you not to let him have too much of that spice beer," Claire says crossly to Kitzy. "She has bin taken," the young would-be Kwizatz Haderach continues, prescience in full flow. "Armstrong has her in his dunjun. He is torturing her by telling bad pomes and he has a bag full of daddy long legs." "Don't be silly, boy!" Rigby scolds him. "Our Priestess would not allow herself to be captured." "He stung her with a wasp," Thallium intones. At that moment there is a cacophony of squawking and flapping outside. The friends rush to the door and peer out, fearful that they are somehow being attacked once more. Of Armstrong's legions there is no sign, save for the satyr still quivering in the corner. Instead they see Fingal, looking woefully sorry for himself, being brought to an inexpert stop by two ravens, one of which is perched on the saddle, the other on the bars. "Thundering wheelnuts!" Gunner cries. "Such a worthy steed would abandon his mistress in naught but the most dire of circumstance!" He takes three manly strides and relieves the corvids of their charge, resting the desolate bicycle with infinite care against the nearest sheffield. "Fetch me a cloth! He is filthy from the noxious emanations of the fiend. There there, lad. Don't you worry. We'll get her back." "I know where she is," says Thought, perching on the Sheffield stand and arranging his wing feathers. "We've been there before," Memory adds. "Well, we have now," says Thought, "seeing as how we had to go rescue this thing. We could take you." "And take us you shall," Gunner declaims. He is determined to make up for having allowed the woman to dissuade him from giving her the protection she had so obviously required. A capable and resourceful woman she may be, but a lady should always have the protection of a manly man when times become desperate, and he feels he was remiss in allowing her to go alone. "We must settle the matter of the sword then," says Redshift. "We will need it if we are to rescue her." "To the Temple then," says Kathy. "We must consult with the Goddess ourselves." * * * The Temple lies beyond the Cake Stop, through a magical wood, over a sparkling stream, and is set in its own gardens that are perfumed by jasmine, honeysuckle and rose. It is always still here; there is never any traffic noise; not even the slightest trace of petrol fumes. Fish swim in the crystal waters of the stream and peacocks strut upon the lawns, mewling their eerie cries. Badgers dig holes in the floor of the woodland for their setts, creating owls who then sit in the branches above the disturbed soil and hoot at those who pass by below. Passing beneath the great pillars of the Temple gate, the fellows of the Cake Stop enter the antechamber. There is a radio playing. "I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue" is on, and it is one of the old Willie Rushton episodes. Chain rings hang from the ceiling in decorative splendour on glistening threads. The spring-fed fountain chitters and gurgles. Two bronzed Temple Guards stand aside from the doorway into the inner chamber; their chiselled, Adonis-like features belying the cloned source of their handsome looks. Within the inner sanctum are the Temple Maidens, who coo with delight to see Steelman, causing this very epitome of gentlemanly behaviour to blush. "We must speak with the Goddess," says Flying Monkey, bowing his head in a gesture of due respect. "The Tour God Armstrong has taken the High Priestess prisoner and we must find a worthy hand to wield the great sword so that we may return her to her rightful place." There is a moment of shocked silence from the Temple Maidens, then one of them speaks. "This way," she says. "Three of you may enter the Sanctum and make your petition." She turns and walks away, not waiting for the Cake Stop chums to make their decision. Kathy steps forward; as does Gunner and Chuffy. The rest wait patiently as the self-chosen three vanish beyond the pillars into that most sacred of spaces. Within the Sanctum there is the scent of vetiver and opoponax. The light is somewhat dim here, the air cool. The three Goddess statues tower, each the height of four men. To the North is the statue of the Road Goddess, a vision of onyx, marble and titanium. To the West is the MTB Goddess, Her bronze figure bedecked in rubies and emeralds. To the East is the BMX Goddess, hair spun from gold, Her clothing rendered in turquoise, Her eyes faceted sapphires. Set into the polished stone floor is the five-armed chainset symbol of the Goddess. The Temple Maiden nods to the intrepid three and withdraws into shadow. "Goddess, we seek your help," says Gunner, voice booming loud and strong. "Your Priestess has been captured by the forces of Armstrong while on a mission to recover the precious ambrosia malt loaf which he did so heinously steal. The Chief Controller has bequeathed to us a sword of great power that we would use in our plot to bring her back to her rightful place at Your side. Tell us, my Lady, who should wield this mighty weapon, and may we count on Your blessing in this most perilous of endeavours?" The echoes fade and for long moments there is silence. The three begin to fear that the Goddess has not heard them, or, worse, that She is refusing to answer. Then there comes a high singing, as if angels were engaged in harmonious melody in the far distance. The hairs on their arms stand on end and the perfume of the Sanctum becomes ever more intense. The three statues take on life, the gems and precious metals developing a softness that is yet never any less than completely inhuman. "Gunner, my best and bravest of warriors, " says the Road Goddess, her black eyes as fathomless as the pits of Cthulhu. "Your weapon is mighty enough. You have no need of a sword." "Kathy, you're like better suited to other things, you know?" says the BMX Goddess, with a smile that dazzles like a thousand suns, tossing back her gleaming blonde hair. "You must take the sword, Chuffster," says the MTB Goddess, mouth twitching in a smirk. "You started this mess in the first place." The Goddess bends down, affording a delightful view of a muscled calf and a bosom of ample sufficiency, picks up the sword from where they had lain it in the centre of the Goddess' mark, and hands it to Chuffy. A jolt of electricity courses from Her touch, through the sword and into his body, leaving a feeling of ecstasy and joy. "Go get 'em." "Go with our blessing," says the Road Goddess. "Our strength will be in your legs, our breath in your lungs, our endurance in your hearts. Bring our Priestess back to us." With that the statues once again become metal, stone and precious gems, yet retain some sense of life force within. Gunner, Kathy and the dazed Chuffy turn to see the Temple Maiden, mysteriously reappeared, and follow her out of the Sanctum, there to find that all of the rest, spare a few necessary to protect the Temple itself, have geared up for war. ..... Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "Life may have no meaning. Or even worse, it may have a meaning of which I disapprove." -- Ashleigh Brilliant Reply author: scm Replied on: 24/08/2003 19:57:32 Message: > ... against the rot of the colonist scum! So I finally get a mention. Not sure it's complimentary, though. Steve Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 24/08/2003 20:08:20 Message: Steve, what are you wittering on about? Armstrong is the colonist scum, being a Yank and all, and this being Boy's Own stuff. You haven't had a mention because I heaven't read enough from you recently to work out what part you'd play. If you write a bit yourself, then you'll be included. Sam Reply author: yenrod Replied on: 25/08/2003 00:28:19 Message: He was with an OCR - Giant of origin...MTB too, although his true love twas the fair maiden named OCR ! Ride merrily though the dales and glens on fair maiden..did he ! Deft was any' to challenge said Gunner Joe on fair maiden...beaten to a pulp was thee... "He was with an OCR - Giant of origin...MTB too, although his true love twas the fair maiden named OCR ! Ride merrily though the dales and glens on fair maiden..did he ! Deft was any' to challenge said Gunner Joe on fair maiden...beaten to a pulp was thee" ! Reply author: Clare Replied on: 25/08/2003 14:53:58 Message: Meanwhile in the Cake Stop Clare sat drumming her fingers on the counter, "it's not bloody fair" she said to the whimpering satyr, which was the only being listening "they all get to go and hack and slay and I get stuck behind this damn counter, just because I'm a chef they think that's all I'm good for. AND what am I supposed to do with you? Larrouse doesn't have any recipes for satyr and they can't even spell my name correctly, i's everywhere for the godesses sake. Still, yesterday's rolls should make good ammunition, can you side mount a breech loader on a Hewitt?" Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 25/08/2003 15:42:09 Message: Wrong Claire. Claire behind the counter is, I think, the first name of our beloved moderator, who generally goes by the name of admin. Where anyone got the idea that admin is called Claire, I don't know. But there you go. I'll write you in if you really want, but you can't have someone else's character, I'm afraid. What ho, boys and girls! Our gripping yarn becomes ever more exciting! The dastardly Armstrong now has our courageous High Priestess in His evil grasp! What will become of her? Will her chums, led by the mighty Gunner, the remorseful EvilChuffy and the plucky Kathy Pike, ably aided and abetted by a cast of dozens, be able to win through and effect a daring rescue? Will the dread torture chambers of Fortress Armstrong, which hold horrors of such a lurid and despicable nature that your humble author can not in all conscience describe them in the presence of gentlefolk, prove too much for Ravenbait? Or will the Goddess' chosen prove to have endurance and valour that would not be out of place in the Race Across America? Tune in next time on Chronicles of the Cake Stop, an RB publishing production. Starring: Gunner - the Adonis of two wheels Ravenbait - the High Priestess of the Temple Kathy Pike - a plucky and courageous gentlewoman Tim Pike - the charming Mr Pike EvilChuffy - a scallywag with a heart of gold Claire - she who runs the Cake Stop Bar and Grill Flying Monkey - guru and all round good egg Redshift - another plucky heroine with an eye for a sword Rigby - a true gentleman Derall - another Founder of the League of Gentlemen Cyclists Steelman - the Teutonic master of pleasure FatBloke - wanted by the Marine Mammals Defence League Sheriff Ron Strutt - keeping order in time of peril The Archaeologist - master of holes and the Don's right hand man Yenrod - The Archaeologist's personal bodyguard Macleach - Keeper of the Sacred Irn Bru Thanatos - a rash and irrepressible youth Kitzy - an impressionable young maiden Estie - a wise woman of quiet demeanour Armstrong - the evil God of Le Tour The Triple Goddess of Cycling - an oasis of sanity in a world gone mad Colin the Chief Controller - a fat goblin Mrs Colin - a gentlewoman goblin married to Mr Colin Thought - a raven Memory - a raven Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Pike - a pair of rascally ferrets Additional members of the League of Gentlemen Cyclists and the Intrepid Sorority Temple Maidens Temple Guards Assorted satyrs, centaurs, harpies, and ineffable denizens of A-Time Sam Reply author: scm Replied on: 25/08/2003 21:22:49 Message: > Steve, what are you wittering on about? Well, you added a 'u', but apart from that it's my ID! I know I haven't posted much, but you lot are so imaginative, inventive and clever; I'm too much in awe of you. Keep up the excellent work! Steve Reply author: Clare Replied on: 26/08/2003 08:49:34 Message: I was just playing on the fact that there's two Cla(i)res on the forum and of course we both have different spellings, it's either that or you have psychic abilities 'cos I've never told the forum I cheffed for a living. I'll crawl back to my shed now. Reply author: Macleach Replied on: 26/08/2003 10:00:22 Message: quote: Originally posted by Ravenbait Wrong Claire. Claire behind the counter is, I think, the first name of our beloved moderator, who generally goes by the name of admin. Where anyone got the idea that admin is called Claire, I don't know. But there you go. I'll write you in if you really want, but you can't have someone else's character, I'm afraid. What ho, boys and girls! Our gripping yarn becomes ever more exciting! The dastardly Armstrong now has our courageous High Priestess in His evil grasp! What will become of her? Will her chums, led by the mighty Gunner, the remorseful EvilChuffy and the plucky Kathy Pike, ably aided and abetted by a cast of dozens, be able to win through and effect a daring rescue? Will the dread torture chambers of Fortress Armstrong, which hold horrors of such a lurid and despicable nature that your humble author can not in all conscience describe them in the presence of gentlefolk, prove too much for Ravenbait? Or will the Goddess' chosen prove to have endurance and valour that would not be out of place in the Race Across America? Tune in next time on Chronicles of the Cake Stop, an RB publishing production. Starring: Gunner - the Adonis of two wheels Ravenbait - the High Priestess of the Temple Kathy Pike - a plucky and courageous gentlewoman Tim Pike - the charming Mr Pike EvilChuffy - a scallywag with a heart of gold Claire - she who runs the Cake Stop Bar and Grill Flying Monkey - guru and all round good egg Redshift - another plucky heroine with an eye for a sword Rigby - a true gentleman Derall - another Founder of the League of Gentlemen Cyclists Steelman - the Teutonic master of pleasure FatBloke - wanted by the Marine Mammals Defence League Sheriff Ron Strutt - keeping order in time of peril The Archaeologist - master of holes and the Don's right hand man Yenrod - The Archaeologist's personal bodyguard Armstrong - the evil God of Le Tour The Triple Goddess of Cycling - an oasis of sanity in a world gone mad Colin the Chief Controller - a fat goblin Mrs Colin - a gentlewoman goblin married to Mr Colin Thought - a raven Memory - a raven Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Pike - a pair of rascally ferrets Additional members of the League of Gentlemen Cyclists and the Intrepid Sorority Temple Maidens Temple Guards Assorted satyrs, centaurs, harpies, and ineffable denizens of A-Time Sam Add MacLeach - Strong, silent type and professional extra. Bottom billing is OK. "Give us your Irn Bru or I'll snog you....." Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 26/08/2003 10:08:59 Message: Of course I have psychic abilities. Oh, Steve - scum is a word. It's not just scm with a 'u' in it, silly boy ! Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "Life may have no meaning. Or even worse, it may have a meaning of which I disapprove." -- Ashleigh Brilliant Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 26/08/2003 11:57:04 Message: Chronicles of the Cake Stop Vol II No 6 The Temple Maidens are miffed; the dungeons of Fortress Armstrong; the charge of the Gentlemen Cyclists. When last we left our daring chums, the Temple was preparing for war. Gone were the alluring shifts of translucent material generally worn by the Temple Maidens to demonstrate their fine womanly figures, achieved by many healthy and diverting hours spent upon their velocipedes. Dressed in kevlar body armour and full-face helmets, as sported by the MTB aspect of the Goddess on severe downhill tracks, they are lined up in disciplined ranks, encouraged by the military wiles of Gunner the Mighty. They carry weapons befitting their station and purpose: rusty chain rings now beyond recovery for use on any bicycle; chain whips with specially long sections of chain for lashing the enemy; frame pumps customised with spikes; sections of old tube; an assortment of implements constructed from ancient, discarded parts now found life with a new purpose. One of the Temple Maidens has an electromagneto device constructed from a 5 speed hub dynamo. It is mounted on a trailer, so that the wheel will drive the rotation of the dynamo, charging a wickedly sharp trident. She spins it manually to full speed in order to test it and arcs of current spark between the trident's points with a satisfying, tingling crack. The Temple Guards have also dressed for war, bearing a similar array of tools with which to deal out just and vengeful destruction to the Legions of Armstrong. They are lined in ranks behind the Temple Maidens, some of them armed with projectile weapons created using SKS Kompressor pumps and sections of old aluminium top tube, loaded with fragmentation grenades packed with nuts, bolts and pieces of especially sharp mudguard stay. These are mounted on the back of Trice Explorers and Greenspeeds, the crest of the Recumbent God bold on each. Gunner gives the word; a quiet "Let's go," and the entire assembly, save for the few left to guard the Temple and its environs, march out through the landscaped gardens. They pass over the sacred stream, pass through the mystical wood and reach the Cake Stop. The Archaeologist, having been talked round by Sheriff Strutt and representing the interests of the Don, is out at the front with Chuffy and Gunner, Yenrod straining at the leash with jaws chomping on anticipated enemy and foam gathering at his lips. They reassemble into formations in the bike park, gathering their steeds. Fingal meeps sorrowfully, lacking a rider to take him back to his mistress. Thought and Memory look at each other and then seem to shrug. "Give us a push, will you?" Thought asks, as they take up position on saddle and bars. "I'm sure we can remember how to do this," says Memory. Macleach takes up position on one side of the corvid-mounted cycle, Terry on the other. "We'll help," says Terry. "Well done you," says Thought. "Now, Chuffy, you're the one with the sword. You need to cut through into A-Time otherwise it will take forever to get where we're going." Kathy turns a little pale, still suffering occasional palpitations and ague as a result of the incident last time. Tim pats her comfortingly on the shoulder. "What do I do?" Chuffy asks, face turning a little pink with all the excitement. "How should I know?" Thoughts responds crossly. "We've never wielded a sword," says Memory. "Just swing it or something. Do sword things with it," Thought adds, not entirely helpfully. Chuffy takes a step forward, tries to imagine the multi-coloured, Dali-esque landscape of A- Time lying just beyond where he is standing, behind a veil of reality that is thin enough to be cut by what is basically a big knife. It is a magical knife, after all. "Heee-yah!" he cries, and swings the sword downwards. The sword comes to life in his hand, no longer a heavy lump of metal, but an organic, living flame of steel. It dances through the air and there is a rending, tearing sound. Before them, the fabric of reality parts like the legs on a Sheela-na-Gig. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?" Thought says, not entirely unkindly, and then points with one wing. "Through we go, then." Gunner raises his hand in signal to the rest of the field, and then points onward. Clipless pedals and freewheel ratchets fill the air with the clicking of sprung metal, and then the Allied Army of all that is Good, Right and Just pedal onwards as one. .... Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "Life may have no meaning. Or even worse, it may have a meaning of which I disapprove." -- Ashleigh Brilliant Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 26/08/2003 14:31:22 Message: Deep in the bowels of Fortress Armstrong, down where the air is dank and musty and certainly not in the sort of place one would expect to find a gentlewoman, Ravenbait has learned a terrible thing. She learned this in awakening from her swoon to find herself bound most cruelly by iron cuffs to the bars on the front of a Toyota Landcruiser. As the befuddlement left her she espied the missing malt loaf, a vast wall of it stacked high against the cold, damp stone of the dungeon. And this is not the only thing that she did espy. She stands there now, betraying no sign of any fear or dismay to the ruffians who have confined her, and examines that which lies before her. There: the malt loaf, the food of gods, stolen by the dark forces. There: the bloated, quivering, hairless mass of the Humungous; naked, pale flesh the colour of maggots bulging from the hover harness in which he is suspended, his ability to propel himself by his own power long having atrophied. His face is partially disfigured by the machinery and gadgets he uses to sense the world around him, and clearly visible are the attachments that allow him to connect to his vehicle when he must travel further than thrice times the length of his own body. This is the King of the ABD. There: finally, the God of Le Tour. Armstrong himself, sweat running from his scarlet face as he pumps and pedals and spins on his turbo trainer, yellow jersey so bright it almost hurts to look upon it, eyes staring ahead with machine-like focus. Is that a smile we see glimmering on the face of the High Priestess? Is that a knowing smirk, Lara-like in its wry twitch of the mouth? "I should not be surprised that you would join forces with the ABD," she says, strafing the sweating, crimson God with her scorn. "All you care about is winning. The consequences don't matter to you." "Le Tour is all that matters," the God replies. "You don't care what happens to cyclists, to the rest of us? It doesn't matter to you if we are no longer allowed to roam where'er we so desire? To be forced to wear helmets and pay vehicle excise duty? To be kept separated from the cars and lorries? To be banned from our roads?" "It's not about the bike," He says mechanically. "There issss no point," hisses the Humungous, voice sibilant through the machinery that helps his pollution-scarred lungs to breathe. "You are too late, young Priesssstessssss. Armsssstrong is mine now. We promissssed Him worssship and diverted Him to our causssse. He issss our god now." The woman shakes her closely-shorn head, black eyes gleaming fiercely. "I don't believe that. I know there's some good left in Him. It's not about the bike, not for Him, but He knows what it's like to ride." She directs her words to the God Himself. "I know you understand the freedom of the road, the glory of pushing yourself. You once were the favourite of the Goddess, til you thought to become more powerful than Her. Can you not see that the narrowness of your focus is limiting you? Will you not return to the fold? Lance," she said, a note of pleading in her voice, daring to address the God by the mortal name He had once had. "Lance, please, will you not look past the competition and just see the ride?" He puts His head down, dripping from exertion, and the Humungous laughs. "You cannot win him back, Priessstesssss," he mocks. "Do you think that He will ever use Hissss bike to go to the ssssupermarket? It'sssss not about the bike, foolissh woman." He flicks a switch somewhere on the gibbet of slender strapping that is all that adorns his damp, clammy, gelatinous flesh and the hover harness brings him closer. In one pudgy hand he is holding a remote control, his fat, dead-man's fingers clutching it as if he were a child with a sweet. Armstrong spins to a stop and opens the door to the cell. His personal soigneur bodyguard enters and picks up the turbo trainer, departs with it. He drapes a towel about His shoulders, and for an instant there seems to be a flicker of emotion in His eyes. The Humungous growls at him, an inarticulate sound, and the God leaves, the relationship between them now all too clear. "Let ussssss sssssee how your friendssssss manage without their High Priesssstessssssss," he says with a diabolical grin pasted across his marshmallow features. He presses a button on the remote control and the SUV fires into life, coughing and belching noxious fumes into the confined space. "And to think your kind have always said that modern cars are too clean to kill," the woman spits. "It may take a while," he says with the demeanour of someone admitting a confidence. "But we'll get there in the end." Cackling evilly, he spins round on his infernal hover harness and scoots out of the room. There is an almighty clang above the dreadful noise of the engine and the door is slammed shut. Ravenbait hangs her head for a few long seconds, dismayed that she was unable to perform the task set to her by the Goddess after the speed camera incident: to reach Armstrong and turn him away from this path of darkness. Then suddenly she realises that the fumes are rapidly becoming thicker and the room is quickly filling with their noxious stench. She must act swiftly or she will not get out of this place alive! ..... Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "Life may have no meaning. Or even worse, it may have a meaning of which I disapprove." -- Ashleigh Brilliant Reply author: Macleach Replied on: 26/08/2003 15:12:17 Message: Fantastic stuff Sam, keep up the good work. Knew you wouldn't let me down on the Humungous !!! "Jings, crivvens, help ma boab......" Reply author: Kathy Pike Replied on: 26/08/2003 16:21:24 Message: Brilliant! Can I point this page out to the ABD members? I'm now waiting for the Humungous to declare with his final breath "Lance... I am... your Father!" Well, this bit of story wot I wrote goes best here, so I'll squeeeeeze it in, if no-one minds. (With apologies to The Drowned Moon) The rescue team finally approached the edge of the salt marsh. Leaving an isotonic offering for Tiddy Mun, they continued deeper. A low mist swirled about their spokes, and the grey mud sucked hungrily at their tyres. "I haven't seen anything like this since I left Essex," said Kathy, as she trampled down some coarse dry grass to let the others through. There was a shudder from FatBloke at this. Who knew what other horrors could be lurking in there – York Road, maybe? "What was it that the wise old Crone told us to do when we got close?" he said. "That old baggage? My first thought was she lied with every word," said Chuffy, attempting to wield the glittering sword bravely, but instead decapitating a sickly- looking bulrush. "She advised us not to talk," Kathy replied. "She suggested that we all put a pebble or something into our mouths, to remind us to hold our tongues." "Where are we going to find a pebble in this swamp?" asked Nutty, looking less uncomfortable than the others, as the smells were reminding him of his homebrewing experiments. "It's all grey squishy mud here. Does anyone have anything in their panniers we could use?" "Um, I've got a couple of slightly old bananas," said Clare-without-an-i. "We could all take a mouthful each." Some black shrivelled objects were unearthed from the bottom of a pannier. One had managed to burst, spreading its contents over the spare pair of socks, but there was enough left for each member of the team to wodge a lump of banana paste in their mouths. "Mnwow worra we phdo?" asked FatBloke. "Fwowwow mwe, 'n' dwon' tworlk" replied Kathy. They continued on to the depths of Witchwater Country. A large black dog, the size of a lion, with glowing red eyes appeared, but he seemed intent on making his way to a distant church, and left the cyclists unmolested. Two children, a boy and a girl, with pale green skin could be seen, but when they realised they had been noticed, they fled. The mist was getting thicker now, but Huginn and Muninn guided the team, making sure no-one left the true path. Was it twigs, or fingers that kept snagging them like that? And were those voices, or just the birds and insects? And why hadn't the moon risen? In the murky darkness, lights began to appear. Marsh gas, or Will-o'-the-wisps, wondered Kathy. They soon found out. They had reached the centre of the swamp, and the path died. The cyclists found themselves looking at a deep, round, still pond in which stood an immense coffin-like stone. On the edge of the pond was a dead tree, twisted into the shape of a cross, and above the stone was a soft light. Kathy motioned to Gunner to use his Adonis-like muscles to shift the boulder, and as he waded into the pond, the sprite holding the aged CatEye fled. In the absence of the light, Chuffy noticed a faint glow coming from under the stone, and joined Gunner in his silent attempts to move the rock. Muscles strained, sinews creaked, until CRACK! The boulder shifted. A luminescence filled the air by the pool, and as the Moon rose from Her prison back into the sky, the landscape shifted, and the boulder changed its shape into an immense fortress. Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 27/08/2003 14:07:14 Message: Sorry about the delay. Work got in the way and we've got virus trouble here. Guided by Thought and Memory, the fellows of the Cake Stop and the platoons of Temple Maidens and Temple Guards have taken up position on the ridge overlooking Fortress Armstrong. There is little noise, save for the slight creaking of fidgeting steeds and the occasional quiet croak from the ravens. Even the ferrets, draped around Kathy's shoulders, are subdued. They stare across what will be the field of battle towards the towering structure of the castle, seeing the bleak plain cut by tarmac, tyre marks clear even at this distance, the dead and rotting bicycles chained at the verges a grim reminder of what could be. Gunner frowns, glances sideways at The Archaeologist and Sheriff Strutt. They look somewhat puzzled, as do Flying Monkey, Derall and Rigby. Chuffy is the first one to speak. "Those tyre marks. They're car tyres." "When I came back with Captain Jack I heard car noises," Kathy pipes up from her position on the back of the tandem. Captain Jack, lounging languidly on the back of a Kettwiesel tandem with a particularly robust Temple Maiden in front of him, nods in agreement. "That's right, love. I 'eard 'em too, mate." "Could it be that it is not merely the forces of Armstrong we face?" Gunner wonders out loud. At that point the portcullis on the Fortress slides upwards with a grating of metal that is loud even across the empty plain. The massive gate swings open. Suddenly the assembled cyclists are afforded a sense of scale, as engine noises drift across the landscape and a grey fog of fumes erupts from an apparently tiny mass at the very bottom of the gate. Rigby pulls an old brass telescope from his pack and focuses it on the movement. "I say, chaps and chapesses," he says with a note of concern. "There must be a couple of hundred of them down there, if not more. We're heavily outnumbered." "Aren't we always?" Chuffy says with a wicked gleam in his eye. He swings the sword a couple of times, the battle madness taking over as the ancient weapon's magic courses through him; a song of steel. "There are always more of them than there are of us. If we let that stop us we wouldn't be here. There would be no Cake Stop. There would be no Temple. There would be no C+. There would be no A to B. There would only be the comic. The Don would be out of a job. That lot down there would already have won." He turns the Cardinal round a bit so he can see his compatriots more clearly. "They haven't won. We're not going to let them. We're going to take the castle, we're going to get Ravenbait back, and we're gonna do some serious smiting!" Gunner grins. "You heard the man, you bunch of granny-gear using pootlers! Ready those weapons! Advance!" With one voice, one heart, one spirit, one purpose, the Cake Stop denizens take to the road on a collision course with the ABD. * * * Even deep in the dungeons of Fortress Armstrong, the High Priestess' sensitivity tells her that her friends have come to enjoin battle with the forces of the ABD and Armstrong. She is coughing, the emissions from the Toyota Landcruiser quite unbearable, despite the press releases claiming that today's cars are cleaner. Her eyes are watering, her throat burning and she is having trouble getting enough oxygen. The Humungous has thought to bind her with iron, that old remedy against magical forces. But this is A-Time. There is nothing here that is not magical, and the iron is thus brittle and weakened. So is the Priestess, but she has reserves. And she is the product of a Sapphic union between Tank Girl and Ellen Ripley from Alien:Resurrection. She digs deep within herself, prays to the Goddess and snaps the iron cuffs binding her. The door similarly falls prey to her Goddess-given and genetically engineered supernatural strength and power. Enduring the fumes for a few more precious seconds, she takes a few malt loaf packets from the stack. Once outside in the corridor she opens one. It is filthy with oil. They have been deliberately spoiled. All of them are ruined. She throws the packets back into the cell and demonstrates a command of the Voice that would have Thiamin weeping. The Toyota Landcruiser explodes with a satisfying crump and she walks away from the ensuing fireball, stalking her way along the corridor with the blackness in her eyes blazing a cold fury, following the sounds of the battle coming from above. * * * Engine sounds rend the air and exhausts belch out toxic gases, tyres ripping up the blue- green earth and leaving streaks of hot rubber on the tarmacadam road. Most of the decaying cycles that once lined this causeway are now crushed to the ground and broken by the impact of vehicles whose drivers care not because the vehicles are built with the driver's protection in mind. And yet the cyclists are gaining the upper hand. Their stamina, manoeuvrability and ability to think outside the tin box of car dependency give them an advantage the ABD troops could not hope to overcome. They cut swathes of destruction, V-formations taking out windows and windscreens, allowing those armed with projectiles to get at the drivers, the hearts and brains of the mechanical beasts. The noble steeds take brave risks to get their riders in the correct positions for effective assault. Several go down in the first few minutes, taken out by broken glass and caltrops. Temple Maidens pulling Yaks dart across the battlefield, collecting fallen bikes and allowing their masters and mistresses to retreat to safety without worrying what has become of their beloved. Back at main camp Estie takes charge of tending to the wounded. Driverless cars plough uncontrolled across the plain, crashing into one another and causing terminal damage to some of those cars that as yet have drivers. The forces of the ABD are beginning to fail. But then more forces begin to pour out of the Fortress. Here arrive the legions of Armstrong, come to support the troops of the ABD. Behind them is Armstrong himself, his turbo trainer set up in the back of the Humungous' battle platform: a converted Humvee flatbed with a 7l engine and twin turbo that manages almost 1 mpg. The Humungous sits in his special dome on top, sealed away from any hint of the fresh air and sunshine that he now finds intolerable, his bloated, quivering, almost-albino flesh now part of the machine. Surrounding them are the ABD bimbos; frightening, skeletal women with gaunt faces, kept that way by a diet of pure steamed chicken breast, tissue paper, laxatives and tapeworms, and excessive use of the step machine. The satyrs, centaurs and harpies gather ominously and the morale of the Cake Stop fellows plummets alarmingly. Chuffy pauses, his face caked in sweat and the strange blue-green dirt of A-Time and streaked by oil and grease from injured cars. The sword in his hand is oily from penetrating enemy and yet still it shines and glimmers. "Don't give up!" he cries. "We have the blessing of the Goddess to sustain us. They only have a few measly packets of PowerBar carb gel and an espresso machine!" Unseen, Fingal has left the place on the ridge where he was left, unlocked, in the care of two ravens who could not resist the temptation to find eyeballs to devour. He is accelerating towards the Fortress with single intent. "That's right lads!" Gunner roars. "Nil illegitemi carborundum and all that! Carpe jugulum! Smite them all!" The cheer does not ring out so loud or clear this time, but cheer there is, and the fight continues with renewed vigour. The light suddenly dims. The two ravens look up from pecking at the face of a fallen white van man. "Blimey!" says Thought. "Here we go again," says Memory. From the gate of the castle come the piercing white beams of a 32 watt and 12 watt lumicycle set-up, now well and truly battle-tested. Reflective sidewalls of Schwalbe Marathons glimmer in the gloom. Surrounded by a blue nimbus of righteous fury, the High Priestess of the Temple threads her way through the rampaging satyrs and centaurs, ignoring the screeching of the harpies, seemingly completely untouchable by the few ABD members still fighting on the battlefield. The Humungous, unable to believe that she is still alive, comes after her on his battle platform, but the Humvee is too big to navigate the detritus of battle with any speed. She comes to a sudden halt in the middle of the battlefield, halfway between the two main camps. She turns and addresses Armstrong, still spinning on his turbo trainer, up there next to the bubble-encased Humungous. "What do you want, Lance?" she calls, completely fearless, her anger and scorn only too clear. "Look at him. He can't walk. He can't breathe. Just being alive makes him break into a sweat. He is so immobile he is practically dead and he even smells that way. He thinks that wildlife is two-dimensional because he only ever sees it once it has been flattened. You can tell when he has passed by the stench and the noise, and you will never dare let your children out when he's around in case he kills them." She pauses for dramatic effect. "Now look at me and look at them." She gestures behind her to the cyclists of the Cake Stop, the fighting having tailed off in wide-eyed, open-mouthed astonishment. "I have a resting heart rate of 60bpm. I can ride 200 miles and still have the energy to spend hours making mad, passionate love under the stars. I know the sound of the vixen in heat; the feeling of a summer dawn. I can tell the change in seasons by the smell in the air. You will never know I have gone past unless I give you greeting. Parents do not hide their children from me. "What do you want, Lance? Do you want the people to become morbidly obese, to be suffering Type II diabetes before puberty, to think that video games are more real than the world outside, to be afraid to leave their homes lest they be crushed, to cover the land in tarmac in a vain attempt to find a freedom they throw away with every paving slab? Or do you want the world to be free to live? "Choose, Lance. Choose. Life or death?" The God has stopped spinning on His turbo trainer, His eyes fixed, mesmerised, on the black and silver-lycra clad Priestess standing fearless and Amazonian in the middle of the battelefield. He gets off the machine, wipes his face with a towel. Across the plain there is a painful, unbearable silence as all wait and watch to see what he will do. He picks up the bike from the turbo trainer and, for the first time, there is a glimmer of a smile on His face. "It's not about the bike," He says, as He smashes open the plastic shield surrounding the Humungous. The Humungous starts screaming and wailing, his flesh erupting into blisters and bubbles at the touch even of the unnatural sunlight of A-Time. Armstrong reaches into the bubble and rips out the devices attaching the bloated mass of flesh to his vehicle, then pushes the switch activating the hover harness. A high-pitched squeal is all the sound that the Humungous is capable of making as he vanishes into the now purple and red-streaked sky. From behind the ridge comes a massive whump whump and then something that looks rather similar to an orange pterodactyl the size of a small jet soars into view. Without breaking its stride, it snatches the spinning fat man from the sky and swallows him before disappearing towards the horizon. The plains are shocked by a sudden victory cheer of relief and exaltation. Gunner, Kathy, Chuffy, Rigby and the others rush forward to see their High Priestess, from whom they have been parted for too long. She smiles, somewhat wanly this time, replaces her Rudy Projects and turns off the lumicycles. "What of the malt loaf?" Derall asks her, after suitable hugs have been had. The woman shakes her head, sadly. "Ruined. It's all gone." The cyclists are suddenly worried once more. Their High Priestess is obviously sorely weakened, but without the malt loaf, what can they give her? "But you know?" she says thoughtfully. "I really fancy a toasted tea cake." ...... Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "Life may have no meaning. Or even worse, it may have a meaning of which I disapprove." -- Ashleigh Brilliant Reply author: rigby Replied on: 27/08/2003 14:15:33 Message: Mistress Raven. Didst thou not recieve my missive sent by pidgeon? My sword is at the blacksmiths being mended, and won't be ready til Thor's day. I remain incapacitated with only my trusty 'Roberts' bike for defence of all that is dark and deadly. Look where you're going … not where you've been! Reply author: Kathy Pike Replied on: 27/08/2003 14:25:14 Message: no, no, no, there can't be more installments here now! Our internet's been playing up, so I've been writing a lovely epidose about the journey through the swamp to come to your rescue, Sam. Looks like I'll have to change bits of it! Oh hang on, there may be hope. It'll fit in nicely in the post I made just before the storming of the castle. Though the Green Children won't have any part in the battle - oh well, I'll have to leave them behind. Reply author: Evilchuffy Replied on: 27/08/2003 14:59:30 Message: Nice one Sam, the Chuffster has always been a Berserker at heart, ta sweety (128 miles and an exhausted fumble under the duvet) "Did I thank you Carolina?." www.catniphollow.com Reply author: Macleach Replied on: 27/08/2003 15:43:54 Message: A braw story lassie. The Macleach was ready to fight to the death Clan MacLean style wi' yon impudent wee ABD mannie !!! "Jings, crivvens, help ma boab......" Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 27/08/2003 20:45:37 Message: Well gentle readers, we have reached the gripping conclusion of Vol. II of our fun-packed adventure periodical for gentle folk of an outgoing persuasion. Only one more issue left, in which we find out what happens to the denizens of the Cake Stop upon returning to their favourite place. Tune in next time and gain the opportunity to have a say in the next exciting adventure! Sam Reply author: scm Replied on: 27/08/2003 21:18:03 Message: quote: Originally posted by Kathy Pike ... so I've been writing a lovely epidose Oh come on, do we have to have a drugs reference? Steve Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 29/08/2003 12:07:30 Message: Chronicles of the Cake Stop Vol II No7 Home for tea; epilogue; appendices. Back at the Cake Stop again, bikes locked up outside with promises of degreaser treatment, paraffin for chain cleaning and perhaps even some teflon dry-lube after, the weary and tired cyclists have found their customary seats and are making best use of them while Claire, in unusual Mother Hen mode, rushes around making tea and offering bacon butties (with vegan substitutes for those who wish). Clare, the other one without the "i" is practising her soigneur skills on those who seem most desiring of her ministrations. The smell of liniment wafts across the room, mixing with the top notes of finest Guatamelan Elephant brewing in the coffee pot and the earthy undertones of the gigantic devil's food cake baking in the oven out back. Captain Jack is ensconced in a corner with the robust Temple Maiden, helping her develop a taste for rum and, quite possibly, pirates. Steelman and a trio of Temple Maidens have taken one of the long benches and a couple of chairs and are anointing one another's bruises with arnica. The Temple Priestess is sitting at the bar, resting her elbows on the wooden surface. Chuffy sits next to her. They are both staring into their mugs of tea, the sword resting between them. "Any word on the malt loaf?" Chuffy asks eventually. "I gave Colin a bell when I got in," the woman replies. "He says that the factory is being rebuilt and some more is being shipped in from the other factory in the Ridings. It'll be a few days before we can replenish the stocks." She takes a bite out of a well-buttered toasted tea cake. "I'm sure we'll manage." "I thought that, you know, you couldn't...." "Let's just say the Goddess doesn't like everyone to know everything all of the time," the woman smirked. "So it was all a ploy?" The woman nods. "All of that. The fighting...Aeroflash. All a trick?!" Chuffy isn't best pleased. "Aeroflash knew what he was doing," Ravenbait says. "He was well on his way to becoming one of the Chosen. Just as you are, Chuffy. Just as everyone here who took part in that campaign is. It wasn't just about Armstrong, you know. It wasn't even really about the ABD, although I have to say I'm glad to see the back of the Humungous." "So what was it about?" Chuffy asks, painfully confused and bewildered. "We were worried about you. I've got a bruised bum!" "I'm sure Mrs...er...I mean Ms Chuffy will put some ointment on it for you later," the woman replies, relief evident at almost causing offence to Chuffy's (as yet non-cycling) partner. "It was really all about you lot. Showing you could and would stand up to those who would repress us, who would force us to wear protective head gear or do anything else 'for our own good'. It was about making a stand against tyranny and oppression, of course. Isn't that what any good adventure story is about? Being a good egg and foiling the evil schemes of Johnny Furriner? Being a pesky, meddling kid?" "I s'pose," Chuffy replies grudgingly. "You owe me a beer, though. And you can tell me what to do with this bleeding sword an' all." "Take it to the Temple and shove it in the fountain head. You never know; we might need it again and then I'm sure the right person will come along and pull it out." She winks. "Now you'll have to excuse me a moment. I promised a couple of feathered friends that I'd supply them with some nice sheep's eyeballs and the butcher's shuts in half an hour." She gets up from her stool and vanishes from the bar, leaving Chuffy staring somewhat resignedly at the sword in front of him. * * * And thus, gentle reader, we can leave our friends, having defeated the dread forces of terror and tyranny and now enjoying a well-earned rest in the delightful company of their fellows. The malt loaf supply will soon be reinstated, and your humble narrator is reliably informed by a not-so-little bird that the sword is now to be found embedded in the black stone of the fountainhead in the Temple antechamber. Upon what adventures shall we next find them embarking? Who can say? Now following we have the appendices, where perhaps some of the denizens of the Cake Stop might tell a little of what happened to them in this grand adventure, or even give hints of what next tale might be told. Until then, gentle reader, fare thee well! Sam http://www.ravenfamily.org "Life may have no meaning. Or even worse, it may have a meaning of which I disapprove." -- Ashleigh Brilliant Reply author: Kathy Pike Replied on: 29/08/2003 12:14:33 Message: I'll hide the evidence I can't even remember the last time I went out on the tandem... Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 29/08/2003 15:31:52 Message: Thanks . But how do we get more suggestions for the next adventure? Or do you think everyone is bored now? Sam Reply author: Bek Replied on: 29/08/2003 15:38:41 Message: I was waiting for roadtrain to enter the story... Bek Oops, we seem to have acquired another bike... Reply author: FatBloke Replied on: 29/08/2003 15:40:26 Message: Or Ronstrutt to tell us to stop wasting his time! -.-- . -. .-. --- -.. / .. ... / .- / - .-- .- - Reply author: Ravenbait Replied on: 29/08/2003 15:51:34 Message: Roadtrain got a mention back in No 2, if I remember rightly. I expect he may have taken exception to the portryal of the ABD in the story. The Humungous wasn't terribly flattering..... Sam Reply author: Kathy Pike Replied on: 29/08/2003 17:04:49 Message: quote: Originally posted by Ravenbait But how do we get more suggestions for the next adventure? Or do you think everyone is bored now? I'm not bored - the stories brighten an otherwise dull day. Suggestions (inspired by a poke around on the FT website): We haven't had anything involving Werewolves, Vampires, Beasts of Bodmin or Conspiracy Theories yet... Nor have the Cake Stop team ever left these shores... I can't even remember the last time I went out on the tandem... Cycling Plus : http://www.cyclingplus.co.uk/forum/ © 2004 cyclingplus.co.uk Close Window