Abhorrent crowds of Purple OAPS gather in the streets, the atmosphere was much cooler than tepid. No laughter was to be had, inside the dungeon cell. In episode 11 of The Pint Files, things have taken a turn for the worse. Uprooted from their bum moulded bar stools, cool alcoholic beverages and crispy bar snack supplies, the pint files protagonists were bluntly un-amused.
“You fucking prick! You couldn’t just keep your mouth shut could you Daz?” Helen blasted, somewhat lacking in restraint.
“Well he was being a miserable git! Doing my head in, he was.” Daz replied. “Besides, you didn’t help matters did you? Neither of you did!”
Becky and Helen erupted with a mixed bag of curses and insults that the writer can’t be arsed to list here.
“I think you both made it worse, to be honest!” said Dave, once the verbal rumblings had subsided.
“I don’t know what you’re all moaning about anyway, at least they hung you the right way up! My emergency pork scratchings have fallen out of my pocket!” replied Daz with a pathetic sniffle.
“What is that noise?” asked Becky.
“It’s the Sleepless Knight, he’s supposed to be guarding us but he’s fast asleep.” said Helen.
“How the fuck did we end up here?” said Becky.
Daz was chained upside down to the dungeon wall, while Helen was chained the right way up. Dave was chained to the cell bars, and Becky was chained to a pipe, with a wooden plinth to sit on. The light was scarce, with the flicker of a solitary candle flame that danced with the shadows. A lonely beam of light shone from a small grilled window near the dungeon roof. Cruelly taunting Daz, the beam was perfectly aimed at the pork scratchings, as if they were bar snacks in the lime light, on a damp stony stage.
There was an eerie silence that was interrupted intermittently by a single drip of water, landing in an old sauce pan. Like a slow tick of a grandfather clock that had forgotten its tock, the drips persisted. Occasionally the sound of iron shackles, echoed through the room as the protagonists shuffled in their rusty restraints. The release of a fart or two wasn’t uncommon, often followed by a volley of insults and a rare snigger.
The situation was grim for the bar dwellers, it had all started earlier in the pub. It was all pretty calm, with the generic tap of walking sticks on the windows, and the jukebox playing its eclectic mix of musical delights. Helen, Becky, and Daz were sat at the bar contently conversing, discussing the events that had occurred recently. Dave was over sparkling the glassware as usual, whilst sucking whisky through a long plastic pipe, from a bottle on the wall. The Supervisor was having a well deserved tea break (more of a beer and peanuts break really). He’d been very busy since the Space Time IT man had been. Desperately, he was trying to fix the time machine before the Salient Council demoted him back to a Knight. Apparently, Knights were paid less and their pension plan wasn’t so good, the Supervisor shuddered to think.
As the bar dwellers perused some facts, a pertinent question began to manifest itself. The pretty calm of the bar was suddenly interrupted by confusion and miss, placed punctuation. So profound was the question, that it drove the three mildly drunk bar squatters to about turn, without leaving their stools. Sensing the beady, slightly glazed glare upon him; The Supervisor paused his salty peanut banquet to appraise the situation.
“What?” he said.
The bar dwellers, prompted by curiosity and a few pints of Dutch courage, delivered the mighty question. Why was The Supervisor here? Why were the Knights here? Benjamin had explained that the situation was current, because the bar dwellers wanted it to be. But the bar dwellers had never asked for a Supervisor, complete with mop obsessed Knights and various other creatures.
“OK, if I explain, will you leave me alone?” asked The Supervisor. With a unanimous nod of heads, The Supervisor took a drink and a deep breath.
He began to explain, that somewhere nearby, there was a white hole. It was probably responsible for the worm holes and portholes being on the piss. His explanation was cut short, when Daz rapidly suggested he was talking crap.
“White holes are massive, they’re the arse end of a black hole, it spews out time and matter, we’d all be dead!” he said. (Much to the surprise of the others, who didn’t know Daz had been furnishing himself with knowledge via the popular search engine ‘Poodle’.) With a threat of beer famine, should Daz interrupt again, the drunken know-it-all promptly shut up. Much facilitated by an angry glare from Helen and Becky.
“Daz you smelly git, was that you?” said Becky.
“Yeah, sorry! I’m hanging upside down, the gas is bubbling to the top!” replied Daz.
“And the top, is his bottom.” Dave added, with an accomplished smirk.
“So ya know that hole?” asked Helen.
“The hole in the top/bottom of Daz or the other one?” said Becky.
“No, the other one. I wonder what might come out of it next? Those critters could manifest as anything couldn’t they?” said Helen.
“Oh bloody hell! I hope they don’t manifest as a troop of topless glamour models! Eh, Dave!” said a gleeful, joking, but mildly hopeful Daz.
“It always boils down to that doesn’t it? You fucking sexist wanker!” Helen blasted.
“Yeah, set of tossers, why couldn’t it be a bare naked rugby team?” Becky asked.
“Oh yeah, that’d be nice.” Helen agreed with a slight smirk.
The Supervisor explained, that size was irrelevant. The white hole was in fact located somewhere in the town hall, next door to the pub. It was a small exit, indeed the arse end of a black hole, located somewhere in the building where it was spouting universal shit.
Apparently, the black hole was also being used as a conduit for some unruly beings called time critters, that could quite safely navigate the black hole without being torn to shreds. The time critters….
[Wait for it! You won’t believe this!]
The time critters could manifest themselves as anything, including
[Told you! Unbelievable isn’t it? If you saw that coming, give yourself a gold star, or a cold beverage.]
Every time the time critters appear, the Knights are largely successful in bludgeoning them to death. However, the time critters wised up to the Knights and decided to take advantage of their gentlemanly nature. They’ve manifested themselves as old age pensioners, knowing quite rightly that the Knights won’t attack the old dears, time critters or not. They were also taking advantage of the unstable nature of the time bubble that the pub was caught in.
The Supervisor continued to explain that the situation was in fact, a stalemate. The critters couldn’t get in, because they had overlooked a slight flaw in their master plan. The critters were old and frail, and therefore too weak to break into the pub. All they can do is tap inanely on the windows with their walking sticks and post false teeth through the letter box now and again. The knights were banjaxed and couldn’t risk battle, as they might burst the bubble and cause a rupture in the space time gamut. This would cause the pub and its inhabitants to be squashed to the size of a pork scratching.
“What’s a ‘Space Time Gamut’ anyway?” Dave asked, shuffling in his rusty chains.
A Mexican wave of shrug circulated the prisoners, who didn’t have a clue. Except for one prisoner, who was the leading expert on space time, since her recent indulgence back in Episode 10. Becky went on to explain about the Space Time Gamut, but again, the writer can’t be arsed to write it all down here. The reader should be aware, that the Space Time Gamut is very important and must be respected, so just be careful and read on!
PPPPAAAARP…the cell walls squinted with the release of trapped wind, as someone let rip again.
“Wasn’t me that time!” Daz announced innocently.
“No it was me!” said the Sleepless Knight, before shuffling a little and returning to his peaceful slumber. Suddenly Becky gasped, “erm guys, there’s a rat!” she said, pointing at the corner of the room.
Sure enough, a well groomed rat appeared from under the cell bars. Everyone watched, since there wasn’t much else they could do, as the rat went about its peculiar business. Moving towards the pork scratchings, the rat walked an arrogant walk, a real over rated swagger for a rat. He then perused the pile of pork rinds, licking his lips and tapping each piece, testing for consistency.
“Oi! Get off my scratchings ya little shit!” Daz growled.
While the others sniggered and chortled, the rat continued, knowing that the spoils were safely his. With some more careful browsing, the rat selected a rind and lifted it up in his mouth. After a strange nomadic dance, like some kind of ritual to the rat gods, he took his salty snack and scarpered back underneath the bars.
The cell dwellers looked at each other in disbelief, but the obscure moment was spoiled by a sudden sound. Somewhere in the deep void of the dungeon, was a horrific shriek. Everyone silenced, frozen still with fear as the distressed cry petered out along the stony passageway.
“What the hell is that?” said Becky, somewhat panic ridden.
“Fuck knows! Daz, you’re a prick!” said Helen, venting her fear via an articulate finely tuned insult.
“Why am I a prick? It was you lot that exacerbated the situation. My harmless jibe was just intended as a light hearted poke. You lot turned it into a full on punch in the face. It’s no wonder he chucked us in here. Why he hung me upside down though, I’ll never know!” said Daz.
“Insulting his traditional Scottish dress, was probably a bit too much, Daz, to be fair.” said Becky.
After The Supervisors explanation, he contently returned to the remainder of his tea break. The bar dwellers, mildly wishing they’d never asked, turned back to the bar for another pint. This is where they should have stayed, contently drinking, absolutely not thinking of another question. Foolishly, but not before a cautious refill, the bar dwellers turned to The Supervisor once more.
“Fuck off, I’m on my break!” The Supervisor promptly shouted.
The Supervisor was not impressed by the comments that followed about his dull disposition. Daz fired the first shot with a suggestion that The Supervisor’s jock strap might be too tight. With the threat of an empty beer pump, Daz was again, swiftly told to shut up by the others.
“He was in a bad mood though, wasn’t he? He called you two a pair of wenches!” Said Daz, rattling in his chains.
“Yeah, he was in a bad mood. That’s no excuse for calling us ‘your’ wenches though!” said Becky.
“Well you should all be ashamed, it’s all your fault. My glasses will be losing there sparkly sheen!” said Dave.
“Your glasses will be fine Dave, and don’t play innocent, you played your part in all of this!” said Helen.
After the reprimand Daz received from Becky and Helen, The Supervisor, unwittingly fired a potent canon shot at the girls. “Yeah, I’d listen to your wenches if I was you Daz!” he said. The resulting return fire was severe, with a volley of articulate insults force fed in his direction about his girlie kilt and how his breath was very much like a freshly departed dog shit. The Supervisor didn’t take kindly to the insolence emanating from the highly offended women folks. Standing up, he drew a small dagger from his belt. He was about to lurch forward, when Dave delivered his own fateful blunder.
“Right, get out, you’re barred!” Dave shouted at The Supervisor.
The final straw was had, The Supervisor was now very pissed off. His face was an unhealthy shade of red, steam was emanating from somewhere, and a murky growl began to brew. Sensing that the line may have been crossed a little, rubbed out, spat on and replaced with a line of piss in the snow, the bar dwellers began to panic.
Daz rammed his shirt pocket with pork scratchings. Helen dived under the Strangebow pump with her mouth wide open and turned the tap on. Becky downed her pint, then everyone else’s. Dave began to turn a slight shade of blue as he sucked harder on his whisky pipe whilst polishing the glasses a whole lot faster. Eventually, time was up, the growl was now rupturing from The Supervisors mouth. The bar dwellers knew that when the bar fittings stopped rattling and the windows stopped shaking, there would be consequences.
“Well done for trying Dave, but how the hell could you have barred him?” asked Becky.
“Dunno, I don’t usually have to do anything else. Once I’ve said ‘you’re barred’ people usually just leave,” Dave replied.
Suddenly, the chatter was interrupted by the shrieking sound of the distressed man again. The chains in the cell rattled a little as the prisoners tensed up with fright. Now there was another worrying sound, the sound of footsteps, heavy and slow.
“Hey! Sleepless Knight! Wake up you nob head!” Helen shouted.
“What ya trying to wake him up for?” asked Becky.
“Well he might get into trouble for being asleep on the job, if we wake him up he might help us escape!” replied Helen.
Everyone began shouting and hissing, trying to rouse the Sleepless Knight, regrettably their efforts were futile. The Supervisor was now stood over him, pausing a little before delivering a swift kick.
“Wake up you tosser!” shouted The Supervisor.
“Wah, snort, sniff, huh?” the Knight muffled before shooting upright to his feet.
“Ya could have woken me up!” the Knight blasted at the prisoners.
The prisoners didn’t feel the Knight deserved any dialogue, instead they just delivered a round of tuts.
“Look, I’m sorry Mr Supervisor, I was only joking about your jock strap. You were just a bit moody though weren’t you?” Daz said, in a vain attempt at an apology.
“Daz, shut the fuck up!” Helen said, through gritted teeth.
“No, he’s right. I was a bit grumpy, I admit.” said The Supervisor.
“See, told ya!” said Daz jovially.
“Daz, ‘STILL’ shut the fuck up!” said Helen, just as the man shrieked again in the distance. A look of fear did the rounds amongst the prisoners again, before Helen made a thoughtful suggestion.
“Kill him first, he started it all!” she said, pointing at Daz.
“Oh, don’t worry! That ‘scary distant sound’ is just one of the time machine repair men stapling his hand back on. That idiotic Knight Before Christmas, chopped it off,” said the Supervisor.
The collective relief was almost audible, then it was suddenly very audible with the release of another fart.
“Sorry, that was me!” said Becky chuckling innocently.
“Right, I’ve been told to free you all and return you to the bar. It seems you have friends in the Space Time Society. I’ve been warned to free you instantly, before I’m demoted to jukebox operator. That’s not worth thinking about, they don’t even get expenses!”
Back in the bar, Dave ran to his glass tray and began furiously polishing, before being summoned to his duty.
“Pint please, Dave!” the freed prisoners chorused.
“I was only going to keep you in there till the end of the day ya know?” The Supervisor explained.
“Yeah, whatever!” Daz replied, “Now I wanted to chat with you about some glamour models….”
“Sexist twat!” Helen blasted.
“Wrestlers……” Becky added.
And so the Inns was returned to some kind of normality, the jukebox played and the drinks flowed. The patrons were chain free and happy, sat back on their bar stools drinking heavily before the next bout of drama unfolded.
To be continued….one would hope.