Death in Stockdale (part one)

The election was drawing nearer and the good folks of Stockdale had crammed themselves inside the town hall for last of the candidates speeches.

There had been lots of talk about who would turn up to speak. Rumours had spread like peanut butter about how the three main parties had all pulled out over confusions and arguments about the TV rights, but it seemed that nobody had bothered to inform any of them that tonights event would not actually be on the tele.

As a result there was not one single representative from the Cuntservatives, Blabour, or the Miserbale Lemoncrates.

This meant left just two men left to battle it out. Lemiwell Jones and Dr Malevolent.

The latter had won the toss before the night started and was currently finishing off his opening speech as our story enters it’s fifth paragraph.

 “..and is how I – Dr Malevolent will ensure jobs for all with my henchmen scheme, Free anti-aging cream for all over 65’s and a complete ban of people eating dry Weetabix! Thankyou Stockdale. The future is MINE… I mean.. OURS!”

Cheers ran out through the damp hall as the feckless sheep collectively remembered only the bits they wanted to here.

Lemiwell Jones stepped from behind his podium and gave a little nervous cough as he took his place before the microphone. “This is it.” He thought to himself. Followed by “…dry Weetabix? Why didn’t I think of that? Filthy buggers.”

A dry swallow and quick tug at his collar and Lemiwell began his speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen… Friends… Uuurrghh!”

A loud BANG had shot through the ears of all in attendance caused at least one person to faint and another to loosen their bowels.

Everyone looked around a little confused. This wasn’t the kind of speech they were expecting.

Lemiwell Jones fell to the floor in a heavy heap.

One of the floor managers ran up to him and checked his pulse.

“He’s DEAD!”

Gasps echoed around the room and somebody else fainted.

At the back of the room Henry Hut (truth wizard) staggered back in disbelief. “I don’t believe it!” He said.

A strange figure in a grey hooded jacket ran past him and through the door. Henry immediately ran after him knowing that this must be the killer and Henry had to catch the murderer of his friend and mentor.

“STOP!” Henry screamed as he gave chase but the killer had disappeared into the shadows.

Security had gathered around Dr Malevolent and ushered him through the back door and back to his secret HQ at the top of the moors.

“My god!” he wheezed, out of breath. “What the hell was that?”

His number one henchman, Barnabus, said nothing and continued driving at high speed.

The net hour was a blur. Henry had run until he got a stitch (it didn’t take long as, like most conspiracy theorists, exercise only ever got in the way of searching for the truth) and found himself walking aimlessly through the dark and empty streets. He hadn’t even noticed it had started raining.

He soon found himself outside of Mrs Featheringays house for wandering gentleman of which Mr Jones have resided for the past year or so.

He knocked on the door and was greeted lovingly by the lady of the house herself.

“Come in love.” She whispered, putting her arm around the now sodden Henry. “The kettle’s on… I’ll fetch a towel.”

Henry walked into the common room and found the imposing figure of Professor Procto stood motionless, his hands held on his hips. “It’s about time you got here. We have work to do.”

Henry flew into a furious rage. “There must be something you can do Professor!” He pleaded. “Don’t you have some sort of machine that can bring Mr Jones back to life… or …or … a time machine or murderer finder-o-tron or something?!?!”

Henry had never gotten a fix on the Professor. He never understood how a man of SCIENCE could be so dismissive of Henry’s theories and thoughts about aliens and chem-trails and “big pharma”.

The Professor said nothing but ushered Henry up to his part time room on the first floor.

Professor Procto usually slept in his laboratory at the University and only used a room at Mrs Featheringays in order to perform some of his more “experimental” experiments. (it had something to do with the University’s insurance against high explosives and multi-dimensional creatures on the rampage).

“Funny you should mention a time machine Henry. I have at least one in here. I only finished building it last week and not had a chance to use it.” He said plainly.

“?” questioned Henry.

Through the door of the Profs room they both entered and the Professor pulled an old dust sheet off a large shapeless shape in the corner of the room.

“I’m going to send you back in time to find out who killed Lemiwell Jones.”

Sobriety hit Henry in the face like a wet sock.

Questions had to be answered.

“But.. won’t travelling through time cause y’know consequences?” He nervously asked.

Procto Shrugged. “Could do.” He said.

“There are three main possibilities. First of all, by travelling back in time you may cause something to happen that wasn’t going to have already happened in the past (you now future) and this will result in a time split, creating two parallel time at the same point in space/time may cause the universe to implode due to the weight of it’s own impossibility.”

Henry stared blankly as the words washed over him.

“Secondly, there is the grandfather paradox. You may end up doing something that will stop you wanting to travel back in time in your own future (the now/present or then/past depending on your point of view) and the total impossibility of this will cause the universe to implode.”

Henry still stared..

“Thirdly, there is the theory of predestination. You always will be/were going to travel back in time. You won’t/have not been able to stop the killer as it has/will be going to have already happened. Even if I send you back to before the murder, it will already have will be going to have happened. So there is that to consider as well.” He shrugged again.

Henry remembered to breathe.

“It’s why I don’t really bother with Time travel.” Concluded the Professor. “It just gives you a massive headache.”

The prof flicked a switch by the plug socket and the machine turned on with an ominous hum.

He machine itself looked just like a poorly made door frame but with some blue and red wires sticking out of the sides and some very futuristic neon lights flickering up and down the edges.

The Professor frowned. "That's odd. It's looks like somebody has already travelled back in time."

"How can that be?" said Henry. "You said you had only just made the machine."

The Prof tapped on the keyboard of the strange machine and concluded thusly:

"It looks like somebody from OUR future has already gone back in time to before the murder. We are locked out of that time frame."

It was now Henry's turn to frown. "But if they are in the future and have not travelled back in time yet, why can't we travel back there first?"

Procto mused on this logical retort and replied "Even though they are in our future, they actually travelled back into our shared past. This means that they are already there. If they are already there in the past they must have already time travelled in the future. This means that we are unable to travel between those two points."

"eh?" (that was Henry)

"It's quite simple. Time is locked out by the travelling of somebody from the future(point A) into the past (point B) any time between those two points is locked by that journey. Because we exist inside those two points we can only travel back to point B and no further... I suppose this cause a fourth time travel consequence. Extrodinary."

Henry was getting a bit fed up of being confused. "So what do we do then?"

“ Carry on as normal... But remember Henry, whatever happens don't…” and with that, the Professor pushed henry through the time machine ….

And BACK.

Henry awoke to find himself trapped in the past facing a mirror image that was not his own. Fearing that he may be infringing of the copyright of other time travellers opening credits, 

Henry quickly realised he was actually looking at a poster of Albert Einstein.

Grateful of not having to get a lawyer (just yet) Henry looked around the Professors empty room (Henry had travelled in time but not space) and decided to utter his famous catchphrase:

“I don’t believe it…..”

But Henry did not have the time to not believe anything. He had to save Lemiwell Jones from a fate worse than death… well from death anyway.

TBC…..

The Seven Sorrows of Stockdale (part one)

Towards the north of the town centre sits an architectural disaster known as the Seven Sorrows of Stockdale.

A series of cheap housing, built during the late seventies when everybody was smoking the drugs, these seven behemoths stoop over the landscape like omens of doom.

It is said that the labourers who worked on their construction never smiled or laughed once the job was completed. Their souls were bereft of any hope.

As for the residents of the Sorrows…. They know deep within in, that they are all cursed to spend eternity living within the shadows of each of the 24 storey high coups.

It is important to note that the day after the sorrows opened it doors to the citizens of Stockdale, the lifts broke. Each tower had one main elevator and each one stopped working at the exact same time.

A local engineer had been called to try and fix the problem. He walked up to the fourth floor, where the lifts had stopped and ventured with in the deep forbidding heart of the first tower.

A good 30 minutes had passed before he returned unsuccessful and declared that he “needed a special part” and “It had to be ordered by head office” before declaring that he “wont be able to come back until… oh, at least next Wednesday.”

The echo’s of that statement still ring through the stairs wells of each tower block 36 years later.

This disruption (for which the council are very sorry for the inconvenience caused) has resulted in the higher floors of each block becoming separated from the world below.

The thought of walking up and down 24 flights of stairs with heavy bags of shopping, furniture and appliances gave those who lived in the “lofts” cause to rethink their lives and how they lived.

It didn’t take long before these upper floors found new ways to live.

The roof spaces were turned into gardens, water was collected from the air and everybody learnt the important lessons of Mend and Make Do.

A rudimentary barter system was set up in the mid 1980’s when somebody had the idea of linking the uppers floors of each block.

A trained pigeon (well, one tied to a half brick with some rope on the end) was sent over to the next block. Instructions enclosed on how to link up with others and within weeks a whole network of communication and trade lines were set up.

The people prospered for a while and times were good.

New traditions were formed with friendships and trade and before the advent of the 90’s an unofficial religion had formed between the different peoples of the Sorrows.

One of those traditions was about to be performed today.

In Lenny Henry Towers (each tower was named after a successful TV personality including Jimmy Saville, Stuart Hall, Rolf Harris, Bernard Manning and Rod Hull) a small band of figures huddled around a door way on the roof.

The thick heavy cloud that always lived above Stockdale sat in silence, as if watching this coming of age ceremony, and a fat seagull burped for no reason.

“Now is the time…” boomed a robed elder to the congregation.

“Destiny must be fulfilled!” the elder raised a bony hand toward a sign on the door and everyone ‘ooh-ed’ and ‘aah-ed’.

“Come forward Chub” The elder demanded.

A tall, thin child pushed slowly through the group and stood in front of the elder and the door.

“This child has been chosen to journey out and down into the heathen world below. To mix amongst the rutting beasts below. Only when she has collected the items of lore shall she be allowed to return and NOT BEFORE!” the elder stared deeply into Chubs eyes and thrust a folded piece of paper into her hand.

Chub grasped the paper tightly and looked toward the door.

Deep and meaningful chants were chanted and gestures were gestured before Chub was allowed to step forward and into the green light of the sign of destiny and nothing says “Here is the start of your long and arduous trip into the unknown – I hope you brought spare underpants” than a large green box that reads FIRE EXIT.

Chub hid a nervous gulp. She waved goodbye to her mother, father, younger brother, elder sister, Aunties and Uncles and cousins and Grandparents all the way along her family tree to her great great great … well, there were lots of people and Chub had to go.

The thing about Dogmatic traditions and the like, is that they are always made with the powerful in mind. Be it prayer, posturing or just handing over your goods. Those in charge make the rules, and in Lenny Henry House, those that make the rules were fed up to the back teeth of Chub and her trouble making.

From a small child she always running around and asking questions. The sort of questions the elders didn’t know or dare not answer.

"Why are we here?” and “Why don’t we just go outside for a bit?” followed by “What do numbers taste like?” and “What DID happen at the orphanage?” and things of that nature.

There are some questions that should never be answered and so it was decided that Chub should venture out and find the answers she needs for herself.

“Off you pop then.” Chirped the elder, rather less officially and more like somebody who wanted to finish off that bit of cake, and Chub walked through the door.

It slammed with some force and from the other side – her home – Chub was sure she heard a muffled cheer.

Having never heard a cheer before she could not be sure. She shrugged and set off down the stair well toward the distant ground and wondered what adventures awaited her...

to be continued....

The Old Abandoned Fun Fair (part two)

Previously on The Old Abandoned Fun Fair….

Lemiwell Jones has bought the Old abandoned Fun Fair and was being shown its sights by local estate agent Mr Edwards who is currently slumped on the floor reciting song lyrics due to the concussion caused by a rock thrown by an unknown assailant.

We re-join the story as Lemiwell heads up the stairs of the haunted house where the rock was thrown from….

Each footfall caused an unnerving creak that echoed throughout the building.

Plastic skeletons, broken “jumping ghosts” and fake cobwebs mixed with real cobwebs and years of dust and vandalism put Lemiwell on edge. He was not sure if the creaking floor boards were part of the original “fear factor” or if it was down to the wood worm and neglect but what waited for him at the top made his heart race.

The upper floor, he soon found, was an open floor storage space. It was currently storing and group of squatters.

“Who are you people? You are trespassing on private property!” Lemiwell shouted with as much authority as he could muster.

The small rag tag gang turned as one and revealed themselves to our protagonist.

There were five of them altogether. The apparent leader spoke first.

“Like, We’re the Dooby Scoo Gang!” He croaked.

“The who-what now?” Asked a confused Lemiwell.

“Like, I’m Shabby. I’m in charge around here and THIS is my dog Dooby Scoo. Say hello boy.” The lanky hippy (for that is what he was) tugged on the metal chain that hung around the feral dogs large muscular neck.

“Grrrrr*” it growed (*Rr’et me art ‘im Shabby… RRR’Ill tear Rr’is throat Rrr’out <translated from dogese>)

The rest of the so called gang shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"We came to see what all the fuss was about this orphanage.. and like... steal stuff!" Said the terrible tramp.

The dog slipped its leash and leaped for Lemiwell.

In what seemed less than a second the beast was upon him. 

Lemiwell didn’t have time to think. Instinct took over.

As the giant paws of Dooby Scoo bore down on his chest, Lemiwell dropped to his knees. He allowed the weight of the dog to push him on his back. As he fell, Lemiwell he kicked out with both legs.

He made contact with the dogs belly and using momentum as his ally, managed to shove the dog over his body and away from danger.

Lemiwell jumped up expecting a return visit from those snarling, sharp teeth, however nothing was to found.

Dooby Scoo had disappeared throw the (conveniently) thin wall!

“DOOBY-SCOO!” Shrieked Shabby. “WHERE ARE YOU??”

Shabby pelted across the room and peered out of the dog shaped hole in the wall.

Lemiwell took that opportunity to kick the vandal as hard as he could on the bottom. Shabby fell through the hole and hit the ground like a brick. But not before bouncing off the side of the gangs vehicle. The so-called MISERY MACHINE.

Pumped full of adrenaline, Lemiwell turned to face the rest of his would be attackers.

They stood still in awe of what had just occurred.

One of them spoke.

“Hey dude….” It was the tall handsome yet under educated one known as Frankie. “We were just following orders. Don’t hit us.”

“Jinkies!” said the bespectacled one called Theresa who has nothing else to add to this tale and shall forever more be ignored (just like the rest of her life).

Lemiwell turned to the other female… the prettier one, if you will.

“Oh my gosh.” She exclaimed. “Thank goodness you killed that horrible guy. He made us do so many horrible things.” Her name was Denise or something just beyond the realms of copyright infringement.

“I…. I can’t believe he made us do all those …horrible things.” What Denise had in looks, she lacked in brains.

“Sure thing Denise.” Said Frankie tugging nervously at his neck tie. “All those old caretakers and lighthouse keepers we killed. It made me sick to think about all those faces Shabby cut off them and kept as trophies….”

Lemiwell composed himself. “What were you… freaks doing here?” he demanded.

“It was Shabby. He said the boss told him we had to hide out here.” Said Denise.

“Boss?”

“We never met him. He only spoke to Shabby. Told us where to be and who to kill….” Frankie explained.

Theresa popped back into existence and nodded in agreement before being forgotten again.

Lemiwell looked back out of the hole made by Shabby and his dog. The bodies were still there. Dead as dead dog and his strange murdering master.

“...kids today….” He muttered to himself.

It was then that Lemiwell saw the light of the police cars coming towards them. He quickly realised that Mr Edwards must have phoned the authorities as a precaution.

“MR EDWARDS!” Lemiwell had forgotten all about his injured friend.

“Wait right there you idiots!” he said and ran back down the stairs to his concussed  companion.

“Mr Edwards… are you okay?” he asked.

“Aaaalright now, Baby I’m aaalright noooo-ooow!.... hur….” Was his reply.

“That’ll be a no then. Don’t worry help is on the way.”

Moments later the police arrived and arrested what was left 

of the Dooby Scoo gang. The chief inspector spoke to Lemiwell.

“It was a very strange call.” He said. “At first we thought it was a prank, but I can’t resist a muscial medley.!” He chuckled.

Even though it was against protocol, the chief inspector had brought a copy of the call to listen to on the way to the Old Abandoned Fun Fair and allowed Lemiwell to listen to it.

“Hello. Police.”

“Help! I need somebody… Help! Not just anybody…”

“Are you injured. Do you need help?”

“Eeeeeverybody…huuuuuuurts…”

“Where are you?”

“Pleasure at the fairground….on the way. AAaan I love the thought of coming hom….”

“Is anyone in trouble sir?”

“Saturday night’s alright fo’ fightin’”

“So…. You are at the fun fair and there’s a fight? Is that correct?”

“Touch me…. How can it be….”

“I beg your pardon!?!?!?”

“…….The sun always shine’s on TV!”

“Oh. I get it. A-ha!”

The call went dead.

“I’ve edited it a bit.” Admitted the policeman. “Cut out all the swearing and stuff…. Really should have a word with the operator about that. She’s a bit temperamental at times.”

And everybody laughed.

Apart from Mr Edwards who was now throwing up due to his concussion and was been seen to by the ambulance people.

As the police escorted the gang away, nobody took notice of the large emblem on the wall.

In large black letters across one of the walls read the following undecipherable letters:

#T.W.W.B.M

It made no sense at that time… but soon…. It would bring fear and death to the innocent people of Stockdale. And no amount of re-establish Fun Fairs and candyfloss could hold back the TRUE horrors that were to come!

What plans does Lemiwell Jones have for the Fun Fair?
Who ordered the Dooby Scoo gang to come to Stockdale?

What does the strange graffiti mean?

What sort of police official makes tapes of emergency calls for his own amusement?

Will Mr Edwards ever be able to speak without infringing copyright of musical lyrics?

All (okay- some) of these questions will be answered in time!

Stay tuned Shippers for more adventures!!!!

The Old Abandoned Fair Ground (part one)

(as chosen by followers on G+ and twitter - so this is all your fault!! hahaha)

All around poets, artists and creators of anything wonderful stood in awe of the simply beautiful sunset that surrounded Stockdale.

It’s shear wonderment defied description and so no more shall be said of it apart from that fact the huge black cloud of despair that hung over the town itself blocked the view for most of citizens.

Which was a real shame.

The night was drawing near and the indescribable, Lemiwell Jones had arrived at the allotted time by the Old Abandoned Fun fair on the edge of town.

He was due to meet Mr Edwards, the estate agent who was due to show Lemiwell around the facility he had just bought.

As the final hues of yellow, red and purple dissipated behind the horizon, a figure entered view.

“You m..m..must be Lemi…well Jones.” Stuttered the estate agent.

“Yes I am and you, I assume are Mr Edwards?” Lemiwell asked the short rotund gentleman.

“Tha… That’s right.” Mr Edwards confirmed. “Ple… Plea….” Mr Edwards stopped and took out a pair of earphones and plugged them in.

Lemiwell studied the man with curiosity.

A quick fumble later in a pocket later and Mr Edwards was ready to continue.

“I have a small stutter.” He explained. “I saw that film the King’s speech and thought listening to music would help.” He spoke eloquently.

“The human brain is a marvellous thing isn’t!” Noted Lemiwell.

“Yes.” Agreed Mr Edwards. “Shall we go through?” He asked, gesturing his client through the rusted gates that once ushered thousands of customers in summers gone by. The tiny sound of tinny music escaped his ears.

The last of the evening light had now ventured to pastures new and both men were forced to power up their torches.

Two circles of LED light swung from side to side as they walked through what remained of the park.

As they passed the remains of a popcorn stand and the coconut shy Mr Edwards informed Lemiwell Jones of the history of the Fun Fair.

“It was first opened in 1924 by two brothers and billed as a freak show. One of the last in the country y’know.” He said unusually proudly. “Oh yes, it was all the rage until the 1960’s when it was discovered that the Siamese twins were just two potatoes nailed together with faces drawn on in felt tip. Nobody suspected a thing until the eldest brother started to sprout roots….”

His tale faded away and he noticed that Lemiwell had stopped in his tracks.

“What is it?” he asked.

Lemiwell pointed up toward the old haunted house.

“Up there.” Whispered Lemiwell. That light in that building? I didn’t think this place had power….”

Mr Edwards gulped loudly and whispered back. “I think we should leave Mr jones. I don’t think it’s safe.”

Lemiwell grabbed his arm and stopped the estate agent from leaving. “Hang on one second Mr Edwards. Is this place for sale or not?”

A silent nod was his only answer.

“Correct me if I’m wrong but I own this land and all the property within. Isn’t that so?” He asked, knowing full well the answer.

Another came his way.

“In that case, whoever is up there is trespassing and I’m going to let them know that fact right now.”

Mr Edwards did a little hop from foot to foot in mild panic.

Lemiwell Jones frowned. “What’s going on Mr Edwards? What are you not telling me?”

The estate agents lips moved but no sound came out. The man was obviously frightened and whoever was behind the mysterious light was probably the reason this abandoned old fun fair was available as such a cheap price.

“Come on!” Said lemiwell. “We’re going sort this out once and for all!” and together (well, Lemiwell dragging a reluctant estate agent behind him) they entered the haunted house.

The light had come from an upstairs window and the of them had to find a way upstairs in the dark.

The house creaked and moaned the way REAL old haunted houses do, but this house WAS very old anyway and probably not haunted – just being squatted in. which sounds a lot worse.

“Mr jones… I need to tell you something.” Said Mr Edwards. “The reason this place was so cheap….it was because of the …….ooof!”

“oof?” said Lemiwell Jones. But Mr Edwards could not reply as he had been hit on the head with a large rock that came from an unknown location.

“Mr Edwards? Are you okay?” Lemiwell crouched by his companion and shone his torch in the direction of the crumpled seller. “Don’t be scared….”

Mr Edwards stirred “no i wont - be afraid. No I-I-I  wont be afraid..”

Lemiwells eyes opened wide in shock as he listened to his agent sing at him…

“just as long as you stand... stand by me... so darlin' darlin...” Lemiwell threw his hand over Mr Edwards mouth.

“You appear to have concussion.” said Lemiwell “ It seems to be making you speak in songs lyrics based on your music tastes that you listen to in order to keep your stammer under control just like that film The Kings Speech” He concluded, rather quickly, for the purposes of keeping the narrative short as possible and allow the reader to get the really good fighting bit that’s coming up.

“I want you to stay here and keep quiet.” Lemiwell guided him to where a small point of moonlight peaked through a crack in the wall.

“Just pray to what God you believe in and I’ll be back soon.” Comforted Lemiwell.

Mr Edwards tried to get up, but his injury had made him dizzy and he slumped back on the floor.

As Lemiwell made his move he turned back and held his finger to his lips urging Mr Edwards to stay quiet.

As Lemiwell disappeared Mr Edwards Mumbled to himself….

“That's me in the corner. That’s me in the spot light, loosing my religion.

trying to keep up with you.

I Don’t know if I can do it..

Oh no I’ve said too much. I haven’t said enough.”*

Meanwhile, Lemiwell headed up the rickety stairs to find the hoodlums who had hid in his haunted house. (try saying THAT with a mouth full of Bubblegum!)

Who is up the stairs of the old haunted house?

What does Lemiwell have planned for the old abandoned fun fair?

What song is next on Mr Edwards playlist?

Find out next week!!!

*with apologies to REM


#TWWBM part five

Stockdale Council Announcement.

It looks like summer is upon the citizens of Stockdale. The sun is trying its best to break through the ever lingering dome of smog, dead cats litter the streets from heat exhaustion and ... is that BBQ smoke I spot in the distance?*

Yes folks, the heat has got too much and the good people of Stockdale need to vent.

And what better way than a good old lynch mob.

After the unfortunate events of last years "NOT-IN-MY-COUNTRY-PAL" which coincided with the school exchange students from France***, this year Stockdale council have voted for the theme of HUNT-A-PAEDOPHILE, which promises to be a crowd pleaser**


Stockdale council have written to all bearded men who live either alone or with their dear white haired mothers to vacate the town during the festivities for their own safety, unless they are a wrong-un, in which case they should make themselves known to one of the stewards on the day.

So get those pitch forks sharpened, dust off those flaming torches and prepare for some good old fashioned "taking the law into your hands" style fun.



































*The smoke is actually some burnt out cars from the sinkhole estate.

**Because the people of Stockdale are fear fuelled, ill informed, slightly illiterate vigilantes with nothing to lose. 

*** The one year memorial will be held next week at the remains of the Bus Station.