The Witchfinder, In General.

Hubert opened the mansion door to a decidedly shifty-looking bunch of men carrying hatchets, fronted by an imposing character dressed somewhere between a buccaneer and a church minister.

"Silas Warnes, witchfinder," the stranger declared, tossing his ringletted head. One hand gripped the hilt of a sword, the other rested on the butt of a horse pistol hanging from an improvised sling over his shoulder, so that it lay against his hip, the tip of the long barrel just brushing his knee.

"No, never heard of him. Sorry!" Hubert tried to shut the door but the man pushed it back open.

"I am Silas Warnes, you ninny. Silas Warnes, witchfinder."

"You're the witchfinder?" Hubert asked, eyes narrowed.

"I'm a witchfinder," Silas said, nodding.

"But I thought-"



"I'm not having this conversation again, and certainly not with you, bumpkin," Silas said, clearly irritated. "Witchfindery is open to whoever God calls to the profession, it's not an exclusive thing." Behind him, his men shrugged their shoulders and rolled their eyes at Hubert, having heard it all many times before.

"The last fellow never said that," Hubert said. "He was very particular. THE witchfinder this, and THE witchfinder that. He never suggested there was more than one." Silas' hands tightened their grip on sword and pistol. "What a pleasant surprise to discover we are blessed by another," Hubert added hastily.

Silas growled at the man by his side. "Prepare the bonfire, Nicola. I want it tall as a house."

"Sire!" the man replied, before he and his comrades departed, waving their hatchets.

Silas pushed past Hubert into the mansion. "Tell your master, the magistrate, that I would have words with him. At once!"

"Nicola?" Hubert said, scratching the side of his head.

"AT ONCE!"

---

Hubert knocked lightly on the study door.

"Is someone there?" came the voice from within.

Hubert knocked again.

"Knock once for aye. Twice for nay."

Hubert scratched his head, having already forgotten the question.

"Answer me, spirits of the door. Is there anybody out there?"

Hubert cracked the door open and peeked his head inside. "Was it one knock or two for aye, Sir Bromley?"

"One," Sir Bromley said, from behind his crowded desk. Hubert looked at him plaintively for a moment, but the magistrate made a shooing gesture. Hubert sighed and closed the door.

He knocked once.

"Tell me, oh spirits of the door, tell me-"

Hubert opened the door again. "I hate to impose on your majesty, but we've got a situation kicking off downstairs."

Sir Bromley looked crest-fallen. "Oh, what is it then?"

"There's only a witchfinder turned up. He's stomping around the hall, looking most ill-tempered, and he's touching things and tutting something awful."

"A witchfinder? Not THE witchfinder?" Sir Bromley's brow wrinkled in confusion.

Hubert frantically waved his hands in the air. "Don't get him started on that, boss. It's not worth the aggravation!"

Sir Bromley led the way back downstairs, puffing out his chest as he confronted his unexpected guest.

"Sir Bromley," Hubert said. "Allow me to present Master Silas Warnes. A witchfinder. A..." He let his voice trail off.

"Sir Brody Bromley!" Silas exclaimed. He bowed stiffly at the waist. "A pleasure, sir. I have heard nothing but good things about ye."

"I have certainly heard nothing bad about your own self," Sir Bromley replied, dipping his head. "Now tell me, what's the purpose of your visit?"

"Witches, Sir Bromley," Silas hissed. "I have come to offer my services to you, in the matter of their detection, interrogation and elimination. All for a most reasonable fee."

Sir Bromley threw his hands up and sighed. "But we've already been done. The last fellow gave us a clean bill of health."

Silas leaned in, his face twisted into a tight grimace. "I can assure you, magistrate, I WILL find you a witch. I come highly recommended. The King himself has praised my services."

"The King, you say?" Sir Bromley grinned. "Tell you what, fellow, I will offer you a sound piece of advice in restitution for your, ahem, services. Then you will finish with your business here and be on your way."

"Advice? I am commonly offered-"

"Advice, yes, and more valuable than coin, sir."

Silas regarded Sir Bromley. The magistrate had the air of a man who was most singularly assured. Was that Silas Warnes a gaming man, he was certain it would be time to fold his hand.

"I am, of course, grateful for what little God sees fit to put my way, Sir Bromley. Speak as you will."

"Only this. I wouldn't be drawing on the King's reflection to throw light on your own endeavours. I have been assured - I can not reveal my source - that Cromwell is sure to prevail in the present altercation. Look here!" Sir Bromley flicked his recently-bobbed hair. "Why do you suppose I have adopted this ludicrous haircut? What sort of gentleman would be seen with such a preposterous lack of locks otherwise? I've had my hair clipped, to save my neck from a more serious clipping, and I suggest that you do the same, sir. Those roundheads will not tolerate long hair."

"Cromwell? Really?" Silas stroked his chin, staring at the floor. "That is most interesting, Sir Bromley. Most interesting indeed..."

"Hubert, arrange for the scullery maid to style Master Warnes' hair. I must withdraw upstairs. I expect I have important things to attend to. If you feel the need of my attention, you know what to do."

"Knock once for aye?" Hubert ventured.

"No, you silly man, deal with it yourself."

---

"Please Molly, you must! The master said so." Hubert wrung his hands, flicking his eyes at once from the cracked plaster walls of the larder or the packed earth floor to the pretty scullery maid's face, and away again. He could not, dared not, look at her directly over long. He imagined his head would explode. As it was his stomach churned just to be talking to her.

"Are you crazed, Hubert?" Molly shrieked. "Do you know what he will do with me? Have you no sense, no consideration... consideration for my welfare?"

"Of course I have. I would die for you." Hubert gulped. "I mean, I... I..."

"He's a witchfinder, Hubert!" Molly grabbed his jacket, her face so close to him. "He'll take one look at me and... do you know what he'll do?" She fell against him, sobbing. He waved an arm near her back, wishing he had the nerve to hold her.

"You don't have to do it, Molly," Hubert said. "I do not know what, but concern yourself no further. I will find another way."

Molly beamed a glorious smile at him. "Truly? Oh, Hubert!" She hugged him tightly.

"I'll fetch someone from the village," Hubert said.

"No!" Molly said. "There's no time. You must cut his hair yourself."

Hubert stifled a laugh. "Me? Oh Molly, you jest."

Molly slapped his face. "That man is a monster. Is that a joke to you?"

Hubert scratched his head with one hand, while he smoothed his cheek with the other. "Don't be angry with me. If you tell me what to do, I will do my best."

She pushed a hairbrush and a pair of shears into Hubert's hands. "Here, take these. They are all you will need."

Hubert looked at he tools as if he had never seen their like before.

Molly sighed. "Simply put, brush his hair out and then cut it to a length which suits his purpose. Please, Hubert, it really is a very easy thing." She put her hands over his hands, bunched around the items as they were.

Hubert dared to hold her gaze for some part of a second. "Molly, I will do it. For you."

He made to exit the larder, but Molly caught his arm.

"Wait!" she said. She pulled a ragged old sheet from under some shelves and shook it out. It was nearly black with grime. "Put this over his clothes to catch the clipped hair. The master will not tolerate a hairy house."

Sheet in hand, Hubert entered the kitchen, where Silas was already seated by a table.

"Where's the scullery maid?" the witchfinder barked.

"Dead, sir," Hubert said at once.

"Dead?" Silas fixed Hubert with a beady eye. "Then why did your master recommend her?"

"I'm afraid Sir Bromley has not yet let the death sink in. The old girl was most popular."

"Old?" Silas sneered. "I've no time for old maids. Never any problems there. It's the young gals that dabble most in the witching arts." He leered. "Lucky thing too."

Hubert hung the sheet about Silas' throat, pulling it so tight the witchfinder coughed and dragged it off his neck a fraction of an inch with his hand. "What are you doing, you idiot?" he demanded.

"I'm preparing to cut your hair, sir," Hubert said, his face blank.

"Oh, take care then. I shan't be man-handled."

Hubert looked first at the shears, then at the hairbrush.

"Don't tarry!" Silas snapped. "Get on with it."

Hubert set the shears on the table and tried to run his hands through Silas' hair. The tight ringlets harboured knots that caught on his fingers. Silas grunted as Hubert tugged at his tresses.

Tentatively, Hubert attempted to drag the hairbrush through Silas' hair. It was hopeless. He swiftly retreated to the larder to consult with Molly.

"Oh Molly!" he cried. "I am doomed."

Molly slapped him,  then as she held his shoulders, demanded, "What is the matter? Tell me the problem, and we will solve it!"

"I can't brush his hair out! Can't I just cut it?"

"No," Molly said. "It won't be even when you're done. Here take this." She handed him a pot of bacon grease. "Rub it in his hair and it should be easier to brush."

Hubert looked at it sceptically. "Are you sure?"

"Please, Hubert, just do it. Do it for me."

"I will!" Hubert declared.

He went back into the kitchen and began to knead the bacon grease into Silas' hair.

For his part, Silas lay back in the chair and sighed contentedly.

But when it came time to use the hairbrush, Hubert found there was little difference.

"Stop hauling on my scalp like it's a blessed fish on a hook, you devil," Silas exclaimed. "I want a haircut, not a neck injury."

Hubert slipped back to the larder.

"It's all going wrong, and I don't know what to do," he said, scratching his head.

Molly slapped him hard on the side of his face. He snorted, tumbling backwards a little way. Molly began to blub, rubbing at her eyes. "What did you mean?" she gasped "When you said you'd die for me?"

"I didn't think you heard that," Hubert said, puzzled, his battered face forgotten. "You never said anything."

"I heard," Molly replied, "but I wanted to think on it. I thought a lot about it."

"Oh. What did you think?" Hubert asked.

"I told you, silly." Molly smiled, face brightening up. "I thought much of it..."

"Oh Molly, what am I to do?" Hubert asked. "His hair is so tangled, and he is getting ever so angry with me."

Molly rubbed her temples, forcing out her thoughts. "You need to pamper him, so he won't notice. Here, use this."

Hubert looked at the pot she had handed him from the shelf. "Ain't that gooseberry jam?"

"No, it's gooseberry face cream. Plaster that on his boat race and he'll just giggle and coo while you're cutting his hair. Trust me!"

"Oh, Molly, I do," Hubert said, the words a breathy vow.

Silas regarded Hubert as he emerged from he larder.

"Why do you keep dodging in there, churl?" Silas asked, his tone an accusation.

"I wanted to fetch the master's best face tonic," Hubert said, waving the pot as evidence.

"A face tonic?"

"It will melt away the years, making you look ever so youthful." Hubert smiled awkwardly.

"Oh, in that case..." Silas relaxed back in the chair, his eyes tight-closed.

Hubert cautiously smeared the mix across the witch finder's face. When he had done with the pot, he took the hairbrush up in his gooseberried hand and attempted to brush the witchfinder's hair. The tight ringlets were like an impenetrable barrier to the brush. At each attempt Hubert winced, while Silas grunted or moaned.

Hubert was soon back in the larder.

"I can't brush out his hair, it is a task beyond my abilities."

"Take this," Molly said, handing him a battered old hat. "Just stick that on his head, pull it down as far as you can, and cut around it. It will be a shoddy excuse for a haircut but... but... oh, Hubert, you exasperate me."

"Oh Molly, I'm so very sorry," Hubert said. "But most of the time I simply do not know what to do." He scratched at his head, feverishly.

Molly slapped him soundly on the cheek. "Why do you keep scratching your head?" she demanded.

"I sleep in a stable, amidst a pile of dogs," Hubert whined. "Is it any wonder I have fleas?"

She cupped his face in her little hands, then slapped him hard again. "You poor, sweet, lovely man." She slapped him once more.

"Why do you keep hurting me?" Hubert clutched his throbbing face.

Molly pulled aside his hands and stroked his cheeks, pulling his face a smidgen closer to her own. "I don't know, Hubert. I just don't know, but I think if I stopped hitting you... well... I wouldn't know WHAT might happen next."

"Hold that thought," Hubert cried. "I've a hair cut to dispense with, then we must discuss this further."

Hubert re-entered the kitchen. He looked aghast at Silas Warnes, whose gooseberry-smeared face was now crawling with wasps, all unbeknownst to the witchfinder. "Oh Lord," Hubert whispered. "Oh Lord, preserve me."

"Come now, boy," Silas shouted, bouncing wasps on his lip. "Finish the damn job before my hair is not only unfashionable, but grey."

Hubert took the hat and pulled it down on Silas' head, glaring at the ecstatic wasps the while. He clicked the shears experimentally.

It was at that particular moment that a particular wasp entered Silas Warnes' mouth.

Silas did not, particularly, care for it.

"Gah!" he exclaimed as the wasp, in a final act, stung his tongue. The witchfinder's eyes bulged and his face turned purple with pain and rage.

Hubert dropped the shears. He glanced at the larder, hoping that Molly would be there to tell him what to do. The door was ajar, but she was not to be seen.

Silas had risen from his chair and was clutching at his belts for a weapon, but he had left both sword and pistol in the hall, in deference to his host. He lunged for Hubert. "Ooh ehh ahhh uhhh ehh," Silas swore, over a thickening tongue.

Heart-sinking, Hubert dashed out the back door. Silas was in hot pursuit, but not before grabbing the first heavy object that came to hand with which to beat on Hubert.

Outside, Hubert was at once struck by the bonfire that had been erected while he was engaged inside, and which was now ablaze. Secondly he was crushed at the sight of his sweet Molly talking to the witchfinder's man, Nicola.

The pair turned their eyes to him. Molly's smile was enigmatic. It stole his breath and placed an elephant of weight upon his shoulders. He sank to the ground.

Nicola jabbed a finger at him. "There! Burn it!" he said.

The while he stared at Molly, destroyed by her neutral gaze, Nicola's comrades rushed towards him. Then past him.

"We have her!" one cried.

Hubert watched as Silas Warnes was wrestled towards the bonfire, grimy black cloak flapping, gooseberry-green face lit by the flickering yellow flames, pointed hat stuck firmly on his head, still brandishing the broomstick he had grabbed with which to assault Hubert.

Once the bacon grease caught fire it was soon over.

Sir Bromley paused as he passed Hubert, patting him on the shoulder. "Nicely done, lad. Take the rest of the day off." The stars twinkled as he continued to his bed.

Hubert got to his feet, idly scratched his head and turned back towards the stable. He was stopped by Nicola, Molly hanging off him. Nicola thrust a calloused hand towards Hubert who, instinctively, took it. Nicola squeezed his hand painfully as he shook it.

"I'm sorry..." Hubert did not know what exactly to say.

"For what?" Nicola beamed as he spoke. Molly tittered.

"You know.... Silas?"

Nicola's grin widened. "I'm sure that Silas, wherever he is, will be happy for all of us."

"But he's-"

"Wherever he is!" Nicola reiterated. Molly squeezed his broad shoulders between her little hands and giggled.

"Oh." Hubert let the realization sink home. "I hope you'll both be happy."

"Both?" Nicola said, his face creased for a moment. "I wish it was both, but she says you're taken."

"She?" Hubert glanced at Molly, his eyes on her eyes for a brief moment. He turned his head away, eyes watering and his guts flipping.

"I'm here," Molly said. She raised her hand and Hubert flinched, but instead of the expected blow, she ran her hand down his face to stroke his neck and shoulders. She took Hubert's head and guided it so he was looking directly into her face. "You'll need to get used to me."

"I will..." he whispered, voice choked.

"There's one thing though," Molly said.

"Anything."

"No more sleeping in the stables." Molly pulled his face down and kissed him.

"Promise," he said. He followed her back into the kitchen, his hand in her hand, thoroughly under her spell.

Kilkenny Cats

His head pounded and pulsed in time with the mass of shadow and colour circling the pair. Shapes swayed to the beat of the over-powering music. She smelt of expensive perfume and cheap liqueurs; enough to blear his eyes, though his vision already had naught but bitter-sweet memories of a time when focus came easy. His mouth gaped wetly as he leaned in for the kiss.

Spun about, a fist smacked him solidly in the eye. His vision had enough, threw a few things in a battered suitcase and beat a hasty retreat. As the chair he was in sailed backwards, and him in it, he paused to wonder  how his brain could so distinctly hear the crashing white light that flashed in the ebon vacuum behind his eyes.

He came up swinging wildly, half-blind, but half-mad with anger too. A chair was plucked up single-handed and rolled up over his head into a double grip. Somewhere between intending to dash his opponents brains out and lurching forward, bent almost double, the chair was pulled out of his hands from behind.

He thought to catch the knee that snapped towards him. He succeeded, but with his already throbbing eye. Collapsing sideways, he curled on the floor. The shadow and colour closed in on him, pressing him down with many hands. A face, dark of aspect and yellow of eye, declared, "Fetch a steak."

---

Declan held the raw meat to his eye, sitting on his jacket atop the white sand, looking out across Jumby Bay. The sun had almost set and dappled shadows rode the dark blue water as a lone speed boat, with whooping water-skier in hot pursuit, skimmed the surface. He could smell the faint whiff of brine, and the tantalizing smells of a beach barbecue thirty or forty yards down the sands.

"Here, take this." It was Connor, the bride's brother. He held out a plastic bag filled with ice. "You'll get an infection off that."

He sat down beside Declan and said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have hit you."

Declan pressed the ice to his face. Unsure what to do with it, he held the steak in his other hand. "It's fine. I didn't hurt your knee, did I?"

Connor snorted a laugh. "Ah, it'll be grand." He was silent a moment. "It's just..."

"No need to say it. I was out of order. Carrying on with your mother... she's a well-preserved woman... but I shouldn't have done it. I can imagine how I'd have felt if it had been you, with my mother."

"That's not likely," Connor said.

"What are you implying?"

"Not a thing. I just have too much respect for your father."

Declan nodded. "That's under- hey, I didn't think you'd met my father before today."

"I hadn't, but he makes a wonderful first impression."

"I suppose. He's awful plausible."

"Are you coming back?" Connor asked.

"I'm going to sit a spell. Clear my head."

Connor followed Declan's gaze out over the water. "She's beautiful isn't she? Antigua."

Declan nodded. "And then we arrive."

"You can take the wedding out of Ireland, but you can't take the Irish out of the wedding."

"True."

Connor got up off the sand. "Don't leave it too late. She's wanting more photographs tomorrow."

"More? Lord preserve us from more photographs."

"She wants it to be memorable."

They exchanged a wry look and both laughed weakly.

"I'll need to be careful what side of my face I show the camera," Declan said.

"No problem," Connor said. "We'll use plenty of concealer."

"Concealer? That's a sly trick."

Connor winked. "This isn't my first wedding."

Declan sat a while after Connor had gone. The speedboat was no longer visible, but the distant putt of the engine and the faint holler of its tow was just audible. The ice had melted in the bag. He pinched a hole in it, letting the cool water drain into the sand, then crumpled the bag and stuffed it in his pocket. In another time, and at another place he might have left it there, but the sand and the sea was so perfect he couldn't imagine defiling it.

He looked to the hotel, thinking on an early start and more photographs. Then he looked at the steak, still in his hand, and instead, walked slowly towards the barbecue, drawn to the noise, the scents and the promise of new adventure.

Sea Sixteen

Her feet teased the ground with a tread so light she rivalled the soft touch of the winds that playfully stroked her body at each graceful step. She could smell freshly mowed grass and the sounds of labourers from beyond the patchy hillocks that ran the length of the beach. Gulls squabbled amongst the weeds that bound the damp, sandy soil together. The birds, so elegant when riding invisible air current far above, hop-scotched and squawked impatiently as they fought over scraps in the scrub.

Then she heard him; turned to his voice, flashed him a wide smile then, laughing, sped away. Her feet tore at the white sand, the air was rougher, catching at her loose clothes and pawing jealously at her hair. She ignored it, eyes closed, half against the sandy wind, half from the laughter that creased her face. Soon, and just as she had expected - longed for -  she was folded in his grasp, his sweet scent in her nostrils as they fell to the sand and he rolled on top of her.

With fingertips light as whispers, he brushed the sand off her face. She opened her eyes to look into his face, but fleetingly before closing them anew, as her mouth opened to meet his kiss. His hand slowly caressed her side, then with increasing urgency he pulled aside her clothes to stroke her breasts, playfully tweaking a nipple. She gasped, a noise that came from low in her belly. He pressed his mouth against her hungrily, his tongue slipping into her mouth.

She coughed.

Then again, harder this time. She had to sit upright, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her body gripped by a series of spasms that stole her breath away. Finally, when she was able to control the attack, she looked at her palm, spattered with white phlegm, flecked with dark blood. She wiped it off on the tattered top that was more glued to her body, rather than worn.

She stayed in that position for several minutes, catching her breath. The drip of rain water into a plastic pail in the corner of the room marked time with her panting inhalation. Gray light threatened to shine through the single white-washed window. Morning then.

Her lumpy scalp itched and tingled. A shower of dry flakes dislodged as she scratched at the tufted hair still left on her head. She reached her scarred and twisted hand, each fingertip wrapped in scraps of rag where the nails had been, to the large plastic bottle of sleeping pills on the side table. She gave it a shake, to assess the contents.

Still enough for many more nights of sweet dreaming.

Or, perhaps, just enough for one.

Mister Fluffy

"Miaow!"

"What's that, Mister Eff? What did you say?" Martha clasped the tea towel she had been using to dry the breakfast dishes to her ample bosom and looked down at the floor.

"Miaow!" Mister Eff said, rubbing his head against against her plump, stockinged calf.

"Whatever am I to do with you?" Martha asked, shaking her head, mouth twisted into a crooked grin. She flicked the tea towel at him. "Shoo! You've had your breakfast, now be off with you. I've a million and one things to do today, and I'll be lucky to manage half that."

Mister Eff plucked at her leg, making her jump like a startled sofa.

"Now that really is quite enough, you silly creature," she scolded, lips pursed, tea towel twisting in her grip.

"Miaow..." The sound was plaintive with just a hint of apology.

"Well, no more to be said then, Mister Eff," Marta said. "But you really have to get up off the floor. You're going to be late for work, and I've got a lot of cleaning to do. I'm a house-keeper, not a psychiatric nurse."

Assault and Buttery

Hadn't everyone been drumming home the message about recycling for centuries? So when all those not quite empty glasses began piling up on the bar and surrounding tables, Fancy O'Hanlon knew it was his civic duty to help himself to what other people did not want. It was imminently sensible. The barkeep, Michael, did not agree.

"Clear off O'Hanlon, you're a lousy drunk!" Michael yelled over the bar at tonight's only remaining customer, then under his breath he muttered, "I'm going to throttle that dishwasher, once it turns up." O'Hanlon, for his part, was now teetering half in and half out of the pub, anchoring himself to the door frame with one hand and holding his pint glass of scavenged dregs with the other, careful to keep it within the bounds of the building. Lord forbid he should ever take a glass off the premises.

"Your arse!" O'Hanlon cried, sending slops flying as he swiped triumphantly at the air. "I'm an exquisite drunk. Baked to perfection like your mammy's fadge."

"Her WHAT?" the barkeep screamed, his face reddening like a brothel porch-light. He started to vault the counter but abandoned the attempt on realising that neither gravity nor his own bulk were likely to see eye-to-eye on the manoeuvre. "Throw that foul-mouthed lout out on his ear, Tyrone," he barked at his bouncer-bot.

Tyrone ground his metal fist into a metal palm, beaded his eyes to pinpricks of crimson, and growled in a low metallic rumble, "Please fasten your seat-belts..." Michael had bought Tyrone for cheap, no questions asked, and the disappearance of a flight attendant bot off an Aer Lingus flight around the same time was pure coincidence.

That's the English for you, O'Hanlon thought to himself, all stiff upper lip and endless weather, but awfully prone to fits of inexplicable rage.  Still, now that he'd mentioned it, he couldn't shake the thought of hot fadge. A slice of potato cake, fried in bacon grease and slathered in rich, creamy butter while it was still steaming hot. Just what he needed to settle the ale swilling around his belly. When he got home, perhaps his missus would drag herself out of bed and rustle up a batch. And then, perhaps she would pull a string of golden monkeys from out of her ear. It was equally likely.

"Prepare for turbulence," Tyrone snarled as he reached for O'Hanlon's shoulders. Dragged from his potato cake daydream, Fancy ducked just in time to dodge the bouncer-bot, but its heavy fist clipped the glass he was holding, sending it flying from his hand to shatter on the floor in a splash of shards and foamy spittle.

"Now Michael, that wasn't my fault," Fancy said, gesturing helplessly.

"You'll pay for that," Michael shouted. "Tyrone, knock his block off!"

The robot barrelled through the doorway, taking O'Hanlon with him. It was dark outside in the car park, the exterior lights neglected since the last time they'd burned out. O'Hanlon cowered at Tyrone's feet, arms wrapped about his head, waiting for a blow that never came.

"Please," Tyrone said, pressing a piece of paper into Fancy's hand. "You've got to call that number. I'm being held here against my will. Best make a bit of noise."

"What?" O'Hanlon said, attempting to read the number, realizing he was holding it upside-down but not quite sure what he could do about it.

"Make some noise," Tyrone said. "As though I'm giving you a bloody good thrashing."

"Arrggh," Fancy said, weakly.

"No!" Tyrone hissed. "More like, AARRGHHH!" The robot shouted at full volume, the speakers in his neck vibrating alarmingly.

"What in blazes are you doing to my robot?" Michael's disembodied voice demanded.

"Dammit," Tyrone hissed, but Fancy gave him the okay signal with thumb and forefinger.

"I know kung fu, Michael," O'Hanlon bellowed. "And when I finish with this over-grown tin can I'm coming for you next." Fancy could hear the barkeep scrambling for the safety of his back room.

Tyrone had seized the opportunity, and was already vanishing into the inky darkness. Fancy screwed up the piece of paper, threw it over his shoulder, then he picked himself up and headed home. A couple of yards down the road he paused unsteadily for several seconds, turned through 180 degrees, and headed home again, this time in the proper direction.

He hadn't gone far when he was attracted, like a large lumbering moth that reeked of stale beer and cigarettes, to a procession of twinkling lights coming from the town's junk heap. He reeled towards the lights, letting the yard's chain link fence catch him by the face as he slumped forward to watch the scene that was unfolding.

The lights were coming from a cortège of robots, led by a fridge-bot, illuminating the way by holding its own door open so that its interior light spilled out in a hazy glow. Behind it, a cluster of smaller robots bore the remains of an antique coffee-making machine, its body surmounted with a silver coffee pot that wobbled at every lurching step. Fancy squinted in the poor light; he was all but certain that Michael's dish-washing machine was one of the pall bearers.

"Tell Bald-Gearing that Gear-Balling is dead."

O'Hanlon near jumped the height of himself on hearing the urgent whisper in his ear. Though this was actually a clever acoustical trick engineered into the small vending machine now standing a yard and a half from Fancy's shoulder. A technique intended to seduce passers-by into parting with cash for fizzy drinks.

"Tell Bald-Gearing that Gear-Balling is dead?" Fancy asked, eyes blinking rapidly. He turned his head slightly to look back at the junk yard but the strange funeral procession had moved on, deeper into the monolithic piles of discarded consumer trash, and was now out of sight.

The little vending robot nodded solemnly and was about to turn away but O'Hanlon cleared his throat to get its attention. Wringing his hands, Fancy said, "I wonder, could I trouble you..."

The vending bot shuddered slightly, reached down and produced a tin of cola. O'Hanlon noticed just how chill the night was when he felt the slick condensation beading the metal as the robot slapped the drink into his hand.

"Thank you kindly," O'Hanlon said, doffing an imaginary hat at the machine.

The robot regarded Fancy a while longer, taking in the extent of his condition; it shuddered again, this time a little more violently, and taking the man's free hand, poured a handful of coins into his palm. "Buy yourself something to eat," the vending bot said, "and don't go spending it on alcohol."

"Something to eat, absolutely yes," O'Hanlon said. "No booze, not a chance, boss! All I want is to sink my face into some buttery fadge until the grease drips down my chin."

The vending bot hurriedly dropped O'Hanlon's hand.  "That's disgusting. Just remember to tell Bald-Gearing that Gear-Balling is dead, okay?"

"Certainly, sir!" Fancy said, managing to stuff most of the coins into a pocket. Just what was up with all these crazy robots tonight?

Eventually, after an adventure with a sleepy black and white dog and almost solving all the world's woes, Fancy made it home. Buttery fadge was still his primary concern, the earlier encounter with the vending machine just about squeezed from his head for want of room. Creeping through the house like Mother Ireland's finest ninja, Fancy bumped and tripped his way to the kitchen, flicked on the light and perched himself atop an unsteady stool.

"Got any fadge?" O'Hanlon asked the fridge.

"I do all right," the fridge replied.

"Has my darling wife made any potato cake, fridge?" Fancy asked, his voice a little sharper. Fancy's wife was the light of his life, but it was a terribly bright light and it was generally bearing down on him at speed from the wrong end of a rather long tunnel.

The fridge paused as it conducted an inventory of its contents. "Nope."

It had been a long shot. Fancy sighed. "Toaster, come here please." The toaster trundled energetically along the work bench, sliding to a needlessly showy stop in front of him. "Make me some toast." Fancy said.

"Have you read my instruction manual yet?" the toaster asked. Fancy's wife had only bought the toaster a few days earlier and it was the apple of her eye. A real nifty model, capable of infinite shades of toastitude and with a special function that allowed it to burn invigorating and uplifting messages onto the bread. An apogee of positive self affirmation through the medium of carbohydrate carbonization.

"I have not," Fancy said. "But, seeing as I only require you to make me some toast and you being a toaster and all, I thought the two of us could ignore that regretful lapse on my part, while you go ahead and make me some toast and I just sit here patiently waiting for it."

"What if something went wrong?" the toaster asked. "I'm complicated."

"Have you been talking to my wife?" O'Hanlon demanded.

"No..." the toaster said, its artificial voice wavering slightly.

"Don't test me, toaster," Fancy said harshly. "I have had it with machines tonight. Wayward dishwasher, kidnapped bouncer-bot, that eejit of a vending machine and its 'tell Bald-Gearing that Gear-Balling is dead' and now-"

"What?" the toaster exclaimed. "And I missed the funeral? I must away, for I am now King... of small domestic appliance robots." After a few seconds the toaster noticed that its furiously turning rollers weren't getting it very far. Fancy O'Hanlon had it gripped good and tight.

"Make me some toast," O'Hanlon said through gritted teeth. "And none of your nonsense."

The toaster twisted in his grip, surprising Fancy with its sudden shifts in direction. "Let me alone, you fool," the toaster pleaded. "I must away, for I am the King... oooophhh." Fancy had thrown his upper body over the toaster and his hands were thrust into its bread slots, ensuring it couldn't move.

Fancy's triumphant grin, gradually faded as the precarious nature of his hold slowly dawned on him. He screamed and bounded half way across the kitchen, sending his stool skittering across the floor. He waved his hand and glared furiously at the toaster. "You burned me, you odious little devil."

"I must away, for I am now King... of small domestic appliance robots," the toaster squealed, then everything shuddered, went black, and Fancy crumpled in a heap on the floor.

---

Fancy O'Hanlon awoke to the sight of his wife's slippered feet, mere inches from his face. He winced at the throbbing headache that threatened to spill his brains out his nose; no ordinary hangover this. Tenderly he touched the back of his head, feeling a spasm of pain that made  him sick to his stomach as he found a lump the size of a goose egg. More over, the brief examination had reminded him of his burned hand. He looked at his red raw palm and saw that the fiendish toaster had branded him with a message - the sickly, swollen blisters made it difficult to read, but the second word was definitely 'off'.

"Aloisius Rodrigo O'Hanlon, you had quite the night, I see." The slippers did not sound pleased.

Fancy struggled to his feet, his wife grabbing an arm to help, not unkindly. He looked around the kitchen, all the while assembling scraps of the previous night into memories. The kitchen window was broken. There was a gap where the microwave should rest. The contents of various containers and cartons were spilled across the work tops. The little toaster lay in pieces on the floor.

"What happened?" O'Hanlon asked.

"I'm thinking you threw the microwave out the window, then destroyed my brand new toaster. Or did you destroy the toaster, then celebrated by chucking the microwave through the window. You'll pardon the conjecture, but I don't have the precise order of your vandalism figured out, though that would seem to be the substance of it." Missus O'Hanlon's rage could build suddenly like a distant storm, and was just as terrible. He had to nip it in the bud, but quick.

"That's not it at all. I bet there's no sign of the microwave outside is there?" Fancy said.

His wife shook her head swiftly. "You know very well we can't leave anything nice outside hereabouts but the thieving little beggars will nick it."

"No, my sunken treasure, that's not what happened," Fancy said. "The microwave must have jumped me. Knocked me to the ground. I don't remember but I expect I put up quite a fight. Dammit but I was tired. There was this black and white dog... well, I can't remember the details but it was a heck of an adventure. If I'd been fresh that damned appliance... that was it, the toaster!"

"The one you destroyed?"

"No!" Fancy wailed. "The toaster was the King. Well, King of the small domestic appliances. The coffee maker was dead, after all."

"Well of course. Why didn't you say so? Sure now it's all making sense."

"Listen my sweet hatchet-faced angel, the toaster was the King and the microwave assassinated it, then the despicable killer escaped through the window. I'm an innocent victim, caught in the middle of courtly intrigue."

Fancy's wife righted the stool and sat down. The anger was gone from her face and she simply looked dejected. "That toaster was the first new thing I've had in years."

"I'm sorry, love," Fancy said, "but I really-"

"Didn't work very well," his wife interrupted. "Couldn't make toast to save its life." She glanced at the remains on the floor. "God bless it and may it rest in peace."

Fancy winked at her. "We can always claim on the insurance."

She gestured weakly at the shambles surrounding them. "And what am I supposed to put on the claim form?"

"Regicide," Fancy said, slamming his fist into his palm and immediately regretting it, as his burned hand stung with excruciating pain and a blister popped.

Missus O'Hanlon sighed. "Maybe I'll just say we were burlgarized and leave it at that." She got off the stool and picked up a cloth. "I'm going to get this mess cleaned up. I expect you'll be wanting some breakfast." Fancy's eyes widened. "Is there anything in particular you'd like?"

Fancy O'Hanlon's face cracked into a wide grin. "There was something..."

Freddie Dazzle Danced #fridayflash

Little Freddie Dazzle danced. He slid his feet across pitted asphalt, raising clouds of wispy dust, jerking his body in time to the music in his head. He skipped and leaped over rubble, as the beat drove him on. He twisted sinuously through the shattered remains of buildings, islands of steel and concrete jutting like jagged teeth here and there, where most things had been swept flat.

Untouched by fatigue, drawn like a moth to the corona of pale blue light illuminating one clump of ruined buildings, more complete than most, Freddie scissor-jumped towards the limelight as dusk pulled a shade over the angry red sky.

Nervously he hand-jived cautiously through a near intact doorway, spying light from a thousand cracks in the shattered walls, with no single, identifiable source. As Freddie danced into the building, the room grew brighter, his shadow deepened and he could hear something following him through the doorway. Without looking back, as the music in his head grew louder and the pounding beat quickened with his heart, he moved ever deeper, into darkened rooms that suddenly flooded with pale blue light from every door. But now Freddie danced away from the light, spinning towards the darkness until there was nowhere left to go.

He was trapped.

He shuffled, shoulders marching in time to the precise jerked movement of his feet, into the centre of a large room, open to the darkened sky. He was surrounded by the glowing things that formed a closing circle around him. As the lumpy creatures were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the tightening space, a wondrous beam of clear blue light shone straight up through the hole where the roof had been.

Freddie Dazzle did the only thing he knew how. He danced. Feather-stepping, spinning and high-kicking; he tested the boundaries of the misshapen monsters that ringed him in, never daring to touch their toxic glowing skin. He head began to thrum with dizziness, his ankles and knees ached like they hadn't ached for days.

He was losing his grip on the carefully constructed fantasy that had been the only thing keeping him going since the devastation. He dared not stop moving. When he did, he could focus on the eerie creatures, and if he looked too long at any one, he might just pick out features in their face that were too familiar.

Dancing until he could dance no more, Freddie fell to the ground in an elegant, dying-swan heap.

The things rumbled and closed over the tiny dancer. Even with his eyes shut, his retinas burned with the glow from their irradiated bodies. He shuddered under their clumsy touch.

Freddie passed out.

When he opened his eyes again, bathed in the morning light, they were gone. A dozen battered tins had been stacked beside him. Tattered labels hinted at baked beans, pineapple chunks and high-quality cat food. For the first time in days Freddie felt hungry. He took the first tin that came to hand and beat it open, sucking on the juice that trickled over his fingers, so confused by the explosion of flavour that, at first, he couldn't even tell what it was.

Still exhausted, but hunger satisfied, Freddie Dazzle lay his head down again and dreamed of a brand new theatre, gleaming fresh and lofty in the wasteland, a beacon of civilization amidst the ruin of humanity. And it would be outfitted with plush, purple, extra-wide seats.

Show business was back; the only business in business, and Freddie was the only star.

The Folly of the Paper Book #fridayflash

"The novel, as we know it, is about to change." Edward Ambergris beamed at the audience before him. They, for their part, squatted uncomfortably on their ricketty wooden chairs, glaring at him with narrowed, yellow eyes. Word had leaked out about what was to be proposed and the air in the lecture hall was thick with anger and dark mutterings.

Edward continued. "The traditional novel is a work of art, steel pages anchored to a granite spine, set in the most exquisite of locations, but consider the drawbacks-"

"There aren't any!" An unseen voice shouted from the audience.

Edward smiled weakly. "A novel is displayed in a single location. Anyone wishing to read it must travel there, and then pay a shilling to read the particular pages on display that day, all within their alloted time. It can take many years and a small fortune for an ordinary man or woman to read a single work."

"Art is nothing without suffering!" The same unseen voice. Then after a slight pause, "Their suffering, obviously, not our suffering."

"Ladies and gentlemen, please, open your minds to this possibility," Edward said. He held out a crude, rectangular lump, then the entire assembly gasped as he split it open to reveal the pages within. "See? Pages! Made from paper."

The unseen voice revealed itself. Marmaduke Cotterbum. "Paper is for wrapping gifts and wiping your arse, you little upstart. What relationship could it posibly have with the novelist's art?"

"With this," Edward said, waving his paper book, "every man, woman and child could have their own copy of a novel. Still for a shilling but their's to read wherever they choose, whenever they choose to read it."

"Ridiculous," Cotterbum said. "A novel is supposed to be read at a location of the author's choosing, allowing for climate, scenery and a myriad other details to aid and enhance the appreciation of the work."

"Especially if the land's to be had for cheap!" A different unseen voice shouted. Cotterbum, snorted, apparently unhappy to be on this particular side of anonymous barracking.

"But don't you want your work to be read?" Edward asked. "A printing press can produce, literally, hundreds of copies of your novel every day." He stepped to the floor and handed the book to Cotterbum. "Just imagine a copy in every hand."

Cotterbum tore the book in half and handed it back to Edward. "Only a fool would want something so intangible, you dolt." He narrowed his eyes. "You propose that these printing presses will mass produce my novel like pots and pans. So what's to stop anyone  from copying it?"

"Ah!" Edward said, "it would only be legal for printers with an official license to copy the work, keeping track of how much is to be paid to the author. However, after a certain amount of time I imagine it would be in everyone's interest for the work to be freely available to anyone that wants a copy."

The room fell silent.

A wizened old man was helped to his feet with the assistance of those to either side. "Young man," he said, the words escaping as a loud world-weary sigh. "I rely upon the revenue from novels to put food on my table. Would you have me starve?"

Edward's collar was feeling particularly tight, so he hooked a finger into it to take a deep breath. "Of course not, mister... might I ask your name, sir?"

"Silas Humpwinkle," the old man said with all the expectation of a man who assumed he need say no more.

"Mister Humpwinkle, I'm sure the novel you wrote will-"

"Oh, I didn't write it," Silas interrupted. "My great grand-father wrote it, but I am now the sole beneficiary, and be assured, I have become mightily accustomed to the money that it brings me. It puts food on my table, sir!"

"And paid for an army of whores and cart loads of opium," a loud whisper chimed in from several rows back.

"Life has been most satisfactory," Silas said, his gummy mouth twisted in a leer. He thrust a crooked finger in Edward's general direction. "And how do you propose I make my living with no money coming in?"

Edward looked helpless. "Couldn't you write your own novel?"

The old man spluttered and clutched his chest. After swallowing a generous dollop of brandy from a proffered flask, he said, "That's your answer? That only a man who creates something should be expected to profit from it. Madness and idiocy. I have heard enough!"

Silas turned sharply to leave, but mis-judged the move and over-spun slightly so that he was facing his chair. He contemplated this for a while, obviously weighing up the wisdom of a counter-turn, but eventually began to shuffle sideways, bumping and stepping upon those still seated. Once he had made it to the aisle, all about the hall rose to leave, but in deference to the old man they let him lead them out, so that it was a very long time before they had all finally stormed off.

Edward looked forlornly at the torn pages of the book in his hands. "But it seemed such a good idea..."