Winchester 73 Chatroom

Meanwhile in the Winchester 73 chat room:

Well, that’s the way I see it. LS can rot in hell.

LS was a good man. He provided jobs down in New Mexico.

Precisely my point. You give the spicks jobs, you’re asking for trouble… Still give me ruthless intelligence (LS) over brainless fool (Bush 43).

Bush 43 is no brainless fool. He’s got alien implants…In fact research has just come in, compiled by a certain Doc Savage. The Doc has done a composite of the Bush 43 brain, which can be expressed in the following percentages:

60% Cheney dependent empty vessel
15% acid flashbacks
11% Texan phoney
9% Coke yips
4.5% Cyborg (there you have it)
0.5% Unknown, maybe Bible prayer

Who is this Doc Savage?

Ex Mayo clinic, currently on assignment somewhere in the ethernet…

Devil Scene (2)

The Devil Monkhouse clicks his fingers. The computer comes to life with the seductive jingle of Windows Millennium.

DEVIL MONKHOUSE (Reading): Article 911. - Subsection B. Paragraph 2. The client hereby declares the words love, joy and spiritual pleasure will be expunged from any given materials.

(Turning to Writer Sheikh) - We made things very clear to you. We saved you a lot of trouble. We paid your mortgage - your last holiday in Vietnam. - That picture of the orchids by Robert Mapplethorpe.

As he speaks, the Devil Monkhouse takes a glass from the briefcase.

DEVIL MONKHOUSE (Addressing the Jihadis): I used to love my job. - 40 days and 40 nights, without respite. The historic fight between good and evil. – The challenge thrown down by his kind. – It was all so much more interesting. – And then I made the mistake of inventing the monetary system. Life became too easy.

The Devil Monkhouse slides the glass over to the Writer Sheikh, who is forlornly staring into the middle distance.

DEVIL MONKHOUSE (As he leaves): The infringement was automatically registered. – Call your sister to say goodbye.

Devil Scene

The Sheikh sits at a desk; in his hand a pen. The Sheikh scribbles away as if stricken by the Muse and the pearly gates of the Infidel Paradise are before him.

ENTER a modern devil i.e. blue Klein jacket over Tony shirt.

Animal-like, he climbs over what appears to be a railing. In his hand is a brief – not attaché - case.

Straightening up as he approaches the writer Sheikh and brushing down his jacket

DEVIL MONKHOUSE: Good evening. How are you, my old friend?

WRITER SHEIKH (Putting down pen): What do you want, old boy?

The Devil Monkhouse puts down the briefcase and opens it up. Inside is a computer.

He smiles and gestures.

WRITER SHEIKH: Old boy… I did what you asked.

Undeterred, the Devil Monkhouse picks up the writer’s paper.

DEVIL MONKHOUSE (Ironically): Love, Love, Love. –

(Beat) - Why you people always try, I’ll never know. – Let’s get down to business.

Blackout

The lights cut out.
The stage in blackness
Unsure what is going on, Butch shifts in his seat and glances across at Thierry, who shrugs. Somewhere, in the hidden crowd of Jihadis someone (second generation Beestonite?) chuckles over the delicate reverb of Warmington on Sea sirens.

Springer Suicide

News just in…

The Monkhouse begins to read slowly, thoughtfully and finally a little prophetically even though this is just the news:

On Tuesday, the family of L. Springer the Third claimed in a statement that the 72-year-old Springer was distraught over a heart condition. He bought a shotgun, took his beloved boat out on a sunny Saturday, tied the anchor around his feet, took his wallet out and left it inside the boat. Shot himself in the face with a shotgun, and managed to neatly fall out of the craft and float for 11 miles and 11 days, upstream, with the anchor of a 41-foot-long sailing vessel tied to his ankles and dozens of search-and-rescue teams scouring the bay for his body.

Mrs Springer is currently convalescing in a private clinic in Switzerland.

Joined up Thinking

“ Now for the hard of thinking, and the addled from drinking connect the following:

a) a card with a comedian and Halloween
b) a crime with crows and Istanbul to Calais
c) An Indian tribe and cushions
d) Dolphin Insurance and a multi-billionaire

(Answers at the top of the scroll)

The Mullah’s Cave

In the cave can also be found:

The Mullah’s cricket bag (includes his old Madrasah school tie and box); a collection of rare Captain America comics – a scrambler linked to the Caucasus, a chalk circle, a copy of Mother Courage. Plus a Christmas stocking filler with more of these terrible gags courtesy of yours truly.”

Man From Stockwell (2)

“Nothing is too hard for the man with a Mission Impossible. A croc on hand to bite into the chords of his – fretful guitar, he vaults the scaly back to reach the safety of the shore only to find the Reptilian hideout is not where he thinks it is but at the back of Inherently Mad Mullah Mustafa Anuf’s cave.

Man From Stockwell

“And now for those rarefied rumours, those rib-tickling lines of absurdist gossip doing the rounds of the J.B.C. -

The Man from Stockwell (R.Moore) in the process of infiltrating the Reptilian hide-out, finds himself in somethin’ of a jam. – Turns out those cunning Reptilians have dis-activated his Rolex just as he saw into the ropes. - ”

Top Tips from Assassins

The Monkhouse shooting from the hip, fast and furious:

“From the Scaramanga School of Assassination

In case of detection, always carry a fourth nipple.

From the Eco Friendly Assassins

In case of acid rain, carry a poison-tipped umbrella

From the Prince Hamlet School of Dithering Revenge

Don’t forget the poisoned chalice!

From The J. Bond School of Hits

In case of acid, throw the martini in the flowerbed

From Gardener’s Question Time

In case of bugs, stir in the martini.”

Cue Monkhouse

Finally he is on. The Monkhouse hop-skips on stage as if still in the Costello groove, freeze-framing under the follow spot… For tonight’s show he has on the false beard and the combat jacket modelled everywhere in the Middle East these days. In between gags one and two he pulls off the false beard and strips down to a John Major M & S pullover. Between gags three and four he is down to an open neck shirt. Tony style.

Sheikh Entrée

The big moment. The girls are on. – The music kicks in. Kind of Jah Wabbling guitars meets wailing mullahs. The Sheikh runs out behind Queen Jane Approximately. Girls, I fear my ticker cannot keep pace with your entrée! - To cheers he launches the balloon grotesques of GIs, Tommies and sundry enemies of the Jihad into the sky. Amid pot shots and wolf-whistles, the Delaneys hit their number – kind of Banarama meets the Banana Splits. – The veils unveil to reveal naked erse. - The one eyed Jihad squints from behind the curtain, muttering darkly -

Flipping Kipling

With the Sheikh clucking around his charges, the Monkhouse slipping into a Lou Costello routine, keeps pace with the wooden or is it gammy leg. - From time to time breaks in with a Hancock-esque monologue. - Would you flipping believe it? Stuck here in the middle of the flipping desert. – Surrounded by all these flipping camels and dunes. How am I supposed to catch the flipping number sixteen? - The only show I ever done in me life with four black sheep. I mean I ask you? Am I in the flipping Kipling show? Is this end the End of flipping Empire? - No, it’s just another flipping variety act.

Four Dancing Delaneys

A rare treat for the boys! - The Sheikh at great personal expense, and not inconsiderable personal sacrifice, has just flown in the Monkhouse along with the Four Dancing Delaneys.

Backstage everyone is frantic. Pussy and Sadie struggling with those all important boob tubes. An unveiled Hanoi Jane staring critically at her erse. Queen Jane Approximately pouts out of a black veil. - Sheikh! How on earth do you expect us to perform in this here clobber! –

Dear girl! Declares the Sheikh. I assure you, everyone is most fetching, especially around the eyes!

Orders from the front. Everything must be covered, even the boob tubes…Privately the Sheikh thinks this is most un-sporting, nevertheless – knowing that it is not to be televised - bows to the revolutionary directive.

One-Eyed Jihad (3)

None of them can quite believe when they see him the third time with the helium tank and a whole bunch of party balloons. Tasso who is only particularly good form even manages to make out the rim of a Stetson stretching out of purple rubber, as the one-eyed jihad pumps helium via his Captain into George W’s gibbon face.

One-Eyed Jihad (2)

Next time Dante catches him – muttering again – it is too indistinct to make out the lingo - as he unscrews what appears to be a hook attached to the stub of his right arm and starts fiddling with something Tasso thinks might be a transmitter

One-Eyed Jihad (1)

Everyone is curious, since they have been told by Intelligence to look for the one-eyed jack. Gregorius spots him first muttering at the back of his cave… The others pick up the trail one magic night. They follow him up and down secret – possibly sacred passages and out into the moon-spooked terrain only to lose him among the captive dunes.

Hotel at Innsmouth (16)

Hearing them before she saw them. - The clammy sound of their feet. – The heavy breathing so alien in its combination of gasping, hissing and panting, surging. The dull thud of their steps reminding her of wet meat slapping against smooth stone; the alien rhythm combined with the obscene smell – growing stronger more potent invading her lungs and mind; O stared into the hoodwinking void. - Expressionless eyes, mouths opening and closing… limbs a strange parody of the human.

Hotel At Innsmouth (15)

O went up to her room and lay down on the bed in her clothes. – She fell asleep with the light on.

She woke up suddenly; the room was in darkness. She did not feel like taking off her clothes or going back to sleep. Instead, she got up and went down in the lift. The light was on the foyer, but the receptionist had gone to bed.

Over the village was a moon - not yet full, but well on its way. She walked down to the little bay and stood on the threshold of the jetty where she’d seen the fisherman in the afternoon.

She stopped and took a deep breath. - She smelt it again, the strange odour – not un-sea like but somehow different.

Hotel at Innsmouth (14)

The man wanted her to stay for coffee and chocolates, but O was tired and needed her bed. She stood up to leave.

The man stood up with her and held out his hand:

We can have lunch tomorrow? - Don’t forget about that fishing trip.

He gave a little wink before turning to go back to his table.

Ma, she heard him, as she was walking out the dining room, hasn't eaten much this evening, have you, Pa?

Hotel at Innsmouth (13)

The waiter brought fruit, and two sorbet ice creams. The man did not touch the fruit, only the sorbet.

I prefer ice-cream - soft-scoop, he said. But sorbet is just fine after fish.

Hotel at Innsmouth (12)

I’ll have to take you fishing, the man was saying. We’ve got a great boat. All the mod cons. Why, it’s even got one of those long-range radios. Pa likes to keep in touch with his buddies… Ma, she just likes to watch. -

O did not fully follow what the man was talking about, but she realised he was referring to the old couple, sitting there like two stuffed dummies.

They’re your folks?

The man leaned over, and put his hand to his mouth:

Don’t speak too loud. You might wake them up.

The man laughed, but she didn’t. Something about his behaviour was beginning to annoy her.

Hotel at Innsmouth (11)

You should have tried the fish soup. They put in crabs. - Makes all the difference. - You know how you catch them?

The lone diner, who had somehow contrived to invite himself over - although she wasn’t in the mood for conversation - looked her straight in the eye as he spoke.

You wait for the crabs to come out their holes, he went on. Just as the sun sets, they come out to play and you can catch them like this. - He took up the wineglass between his thumb and forefinger. - You take them by their heads. You gotta watch yourself, mind, they don’t pinch you. – The hairy ones can get pretty mean.

The man picked up the bottle and was about to pour some wine into her glass.

Thank you, she said.

You are not eating the fish?

I’ve changed my mind, she said.

It was true she did not like the look of the Dover Soul that sat before her on the Innsmouth plate.

Hotel At Innsmouth (10)

The waiter came with soup. – Fish soup.

I didn’t order this, she said. I ordered Dover sole.

Of course, madam.

The waiter picked up the soup and took it away.

She looked across at the other diners. The old couple made no acknowledgement of her presence. - The lone diner smiled in her direction, and raised his glass. He was drinking white wine. On the table was a porcelain bowl with a silver ladle. It must be the soup, she thought. The soup I didn’t want.

She sat back to wait for her Dover Sole.

Hotel At Innsmouth (9)

The dinning room was rather grand – done in the Italian style with crisp, white tablecloths, nicely weighted silver and bone china with what she assumed was the Innsmouth coat of arms. Where were, she wondered, the reckless chandeliers? - Yet there was hardly a soul. - Just an old couple, and a man dining alone, like herself.

Hotel At Innsmouth (8)

O stood waiting reception until she heard the voice of the receptionist enjoining her to go in for dinner.

Should madam care for fish, he said, I particularly recommend the Dover sole.

That would be nice, she said, Dover sole is my favourite.

Hotel at Innsmouth (7)

Something in the picture had changed; O could not put her finger on it until she saw the fisherman’s feet.

The fisherman was no longer wearing rubber green boots; his feet were naked with webbed toes.

Alarmed by the webbed toes – the sudden change in the picture, O turned round and walked back along the jetty.

Only when she had reached the shore, did she dare herself look back. - Everything was almost – though not quite as before. - The fisherman mending his net. Legs stretched out in rubber green boots. The seagull sitting complacently on the post nearby.

Hotel at Innsmouth (6)

O looked up at the sky – a patchwork of clouds in a murky, somnolent blue. Her mind shifted through distant chords of memory; still nothing seemed to cohere. - There was, she noted, a strange smell, not un-sea like, but it did not give her any confidence – since she realised she had caught it, too, from those quaint country lanes.

Hotel at Innsmouth (5)

Down in the bay a fisherman was mending a net. - Rubber-green boots stretching up jagged legs.

She watched him while he worked. – Enjoying his apparent absorption. - He did not bother to look up, not even when a seagull landed on a post nearby.

Hotel At Innsmouth (4)

After the shower, O got dressed and went down to reception. The receptionist was nowhere to be seen, so she left the key on the desk, and went out for a walk in the village.

The village was just like in the brochure. Quaint was the word that came to mind as she looked up the lanes at the cottages – some with thatched roofs - and down at the little fishing boats in the bay.

Hotel at Innsmouth (3)

O sat down on the bed and stared at the brochure in her hand. She tried to think back, but everything was shadowy and oblique, except the suitcase. The suitcase was just how she remembered it, with the rim, on one side, half out the groove.

In a state of agitation, she got up, went over to her suitcase and opened it up. She rifled through the clothes until she found her wash bag.

Reassured, she went into the bathroom and switched on the light. – There was no bath, just a shower in the corner.

Although she did not feel dirty, she began to peel off her clothes. A shower, she thought, would do her a world of good.

Hotel at Innsmouth (2)

With some difficulty, on account of two overlapping Persian carpets, the bellboy wheeled the suitcase from the lift to her room at the end of corridor. He unlocked the door, and let her in.

The patchwork cover on the iron bed had been pulled back to reveal a lavender bag on the pillow. There was an old, wooden, standing cupboard and a wicker chair in the corner by window.

The bellboy coughed behind her.

O looked in her bag; she had nothing except a one-dollar bill.

Sorry, she said, handing over the bill, I don’t have anything else.

The bellboy smiled all the same as he went out.

Hotel at Innsmouth

She had arrived at the hotel in a state of confusion. - In her hand was a brochure, which she had the impression someone had put there, but she couldn’t be sure. - Then the receptionist had called the bellboy who’d picked up her suitcase, and she’d found herself following him, dumbly, to the lift.

Your first time in Innsmouth? The bellboy asked.

The question took her by surprise.

Yes, she said slowly, it’s my first time.

Well, said the bellboy. Innsmouth is a nice little place.

Yes, she said, deciding to play along. It looks nice in the brochure.

The bellboy smiled:

Rove’s done a good job with that. Really got the feel of the place.

Dead Man’s Wall

Voice One: What you see, Parkie!

Voice Two: You ain’t gonna believe dis. (Wheeze) I see a wo-man.

Voice One: A wo-man. Are you kidding?

Voice Two: Ain’t kidding… (Wheeze) She’s comin’ through the wall

Voice One (Over Heavy Breathing): The dead man’s wall.

Voice Two: Surely. She scoped her hand, den her limbs.

Voice One: Now ain’t that funny…

Delta Bluesmen

Voices like that of Delta Bluesmen

Wheezing just a little
With intermittent, heavy breathing

Voices

Voices in the dark
Voices in a nebulous park
Voices rise
And fall
In a diabolic levered
Call

Capsule (7)

O almost jumped when she saw her case – slumped against another. - The rim, on one side, half out of its groove.

She made a step towards it.
The ground gave way under her.
She collapsed on the floor.

Capsule (6)

As to be expected there was an interminable wait at the baggage reclaim. Passengers came and went with overweighed trolleys, but O could not see her suitcase.

Willing it to arrive, she folded her arms and imagined herself mentally pulling it off the carousel and walking out through customs. It was acting, she knew; once again she began to feel particularly unwell.

Capsule (5)

She came out of the toilet just as the stragglers from her (?) plane were going through passport control. - O strode up to the booth and handed over her passport.

The man in the blue blazer scarcely looked up from the photo as he gave it back to her.

Capsule (4)

O took out the small kit of toothbrush and toothpaste. - Rinsing in the basin before she washed her teeth. – Checking scrupulously in the mirror for trapped food.

Capsule (3)

In a way
She had always known
Stalked as she was
By this fear
And dread
A kind of twilight knowledge
She would always have recourse
To

Capsule (2)

Suddenly feeling sick, she leaned against the wall and threw up into the toilet bowl. Felt another twinge in her gut, as she drew herself up, and without looking, flushed the toilet.

Capsule (1)

Entering the toilet, she put the holder down beside the basin and took out the wash-bag.

She ran the water until it was piping hot. Then she took the capsule out of the plastic.

She told herself, you’re going to take this stuff. Maybe it’ll make you feel ill. But it is all for a reason. -

She swallowed the capsule, and waited for the hot flushes, cold sweats.

Flight for Innsbruck

An announcement came over the intercom – first in cosmopolitan French, then broken English. She didn’t quite catch the flight number but it was for Innsbruck.

Jacuzzi

Sez a chortling Butch to the non-plussed Jihadis:

Just think, Gentlemen, tonight you will be able to enjoy, like the princess, your own delicate jacuzzi!


Kola: Doc, that sure is sick.

Doc: What do you expect, Kola? The imagination of the revolutionary Butch leans towards sickness.

Kola: And what about that of the womanist poet?

Doc (Grinning foolishly as Kola slips a ring piece over the General): Ah, she must be pretty sick, too

The princess and the butcher

Once upon a time was a princess who lived, like Sleeping Beauty, at the top of an ominous looking tower. Her guardian, who was crazy and wildly jealous, kept her under lock and key. The princess had no suitors until, one day, the butcher thought of bringing her a sausage. But how was he to reach her room situated as it was at the top of that there ominous looking tower?

The butcher, however, was in Butch’s words a furbacchione (roughly translated means cunning rascal). With skills surpassing that of the most Yogic diddler or tall story teller Munchausen, the butcher made a step of his sausage between two vines and so was able to climb the ominous looking tower.

Several evenings he visited the princess who gladly partook of his sausage.

The princess’s guardian, however, was not just crazy and wildly jealous but also a furbacchione. Coming into the room one morning, he was apprised of the pungent smell.

Accordingly, the butcher was arrested and taken away to the dungeon deep in the castle. How the princess suffered for the chilli wind of her farts! –

Chillis

A chortling Butch forgot to mention all about those chillis, which reminds him… of a humorous story about a princess and her butcher. -

Doc Aside (2)

(to Kola) Either that, or Cheney’s gone in there with a shooter.

Doc Aside (1)

(to Kola) Must be a loose canon.

Red Faces

A few minutes later, round the campfire, several red-faced Jihadis are taking gulps from the suspect soup… Poor Khalid Seventeen is clutching his sides

Roba genuine

Eyeing the sausage suspiciously, the Jihadis whisper among themselves.

Though a translation is not available in the Java script, perhaps we can intuit the question concentrating all minds at that moment. However tempting may be Butch’s long sausage, next to their stringy soup, the Jihadis wish to be assured. Has it been cured in the prescribed manner i.e. by Halal butchers?

Gentlemen, declares the new recruit, have no fear. This is not a rogue sausage. This sausage is “roba genuine” (Roughly translated means the real Mackoy).

Long Sausage

And on that fare you need it. The fodder is truly appalling – bits of stringy vegetable floating in suspect microbe infested waters without even the consolation – as Thierry puts it – of a Southern Atlantic shark fin. - Or, for that matter, a long sausage. -

Butch chortles from behind his whiskers, as he produces from somewhere in the folds of his long cape what indeed appears to be a long sausage.

Enjoy Your Hunger

Initially, both Thierry (the old revolutionary hand) and the Jihadists are wary of the man sitting among them in the long cape and wide-rimmed hat over whiskers that make him look suspiciously like a recruiting sergeant for the First World War. The sweat pouring off his brow as he tucks into dinner, Butch exhorts them to break fast with what they soon learn is his customary “Buona Fame” (roughly translated means Enjoy your Hunger, though not in Transylvania!).

Comandante Butch

Meet Butch pronounced Batch.

On account of his heavy accent, it takes a while for everyone to get tongues round the name of the new recruit.

Butch or is it Batch to help them out suggests they call him the Comandante.

Butch is the only one to laugh, as he explains it has nothing to do with Fidel or, for that matter, rousing songs but was the name given to him by his old Revolutionary Action comrades…

Boot Camp Rumours (5)

Round the campfire, on the first night of Ramadan, sit 21 Jihadi. That’s nineteen Khalids, and two new recruits… one of whom just happens to be our old friend, Thierry del Fuego.

Boot Camp Rumours (4)

The Sufis haven't been seen for days... must be stuck in a time warp.

Boot Camp Rumours (3)

Besides the potion to strengthen resolve in the execution of vendetta, the Beatrix Kiddo chemistry set contains a magic formula for binary liquid bombs.

Boot Camp Rumours (2)

The old Egyptian cobbler who is busy fashioning shoes with false bottoms is having trouble with those laces that double as fuse.

Boot Camp Rumours (1)

The chess players take lessons from Kasparov who sends his moves via a scrambler in the Caucasus

Jihad Boot Camp (2)

Although it cannot be asserted with any degree of confidence, nor indeed certainty at the subatomic level, since the failure of the satellites/inspectors to locate the said camp, there appear to be no WMD in the JBC but

(1) 45 AK-47s abandoned by the Russkies in their Afghan war;
(2) several hundred boxes of ammo that don’t match the AK-47s;
(3) At the Sheikh’s request, a score of Harrods gift-packed Swiss penknives that include tooth-picks and tweezers as well as the traditional assortment of blades and wise saws;
(4) A Bowie knife shop-lifted from a Wal-Mart in Boston;
(5) A set of wire cutters and gardening gloves;
(6) An old VHS video recorder and cave backdrop;
(7) A Beatrix Kiddo chemistry set;
(8) Bootleg video of an Iron Maiden gig, the one where old Mr Three Six, the Devil glowers and sticks out his tongue at a crowd of Argentine Metal Heads;
(9) Surprisingly a rusty old anti-aircraft gun that was never captured during the Six Days War.

Yogis

Yogis exercising on nail beds
Yogis exercising on work-out bikes
Yogis walking over hot-coals
Yogis ingesting/digesting cyanide pills
Yogis bending spoons with Yuri Geller
Yogis conjuring the Saibaba
Yogis conjuring Armageddon
Yogis deflecting the above with a characteristic Mancunian jibe (Your music’s shite).

Jihad Boot Camp

The Monkhouse in hybrid disguise: sporting a Winchester bowter, Butlins blazer, and Josef Mengler moustache.

“At the Jihad Boot Camp there are:

Torturers to out-torture Chinese whisperers
Chess players to outsmart Bobby Fisher
Fire eaters ready to do battle with Smorg the Dragon
Riddlers to outdiddle Clarence Speakes
Jugglers prepared to juggle through an Israeli air-strike from a burned out bunker in downtown Beirut
Sufis who can out-fly UFOs
UFOs that can out-fly F16s
Snake charmers who can becalm a battalion of Rumsfeldian snakes
Ancient Egytpian mummies to outscare modern sugar daddies
Qat-chewing, bearded assassins preparing to take on embedded Tommies, X-men and 007s
And not forgetting those Yogis –