The Royble: The Greatest Story Ever Told Badly

  “It is fully automatic flight. You just enter the coordinates in the satnav in the cabin. I did it last night. It’s fairly reliable.”

  “What do you mean fairly reliable?”

  “Well sometimes the satnav gets confused. You know what they are like.”

  “I don’t even know what a satnav is,” said Alex.

  “Me either,” said Tim.

  “Of course not, sorry. It is something I have invented to make space flight less of a drudge. I’m trying to sell it, but there does not seem to be much of a market. Anyway look out of the window.”

  Tim and Alex turned and saw the moon, they could just make out a series of grey buildings on its surface.

  “That must be Colonel Tony’s base,” said Tim, “by the way you seem to have come with us Dave. Is that OK?”

  Quill began to panic, “No I have left my anorak behind!”

  “No you are wearing it.”

  “Oh yes. Then I'm happy to be here.”

  Sometime later the spaceship docked at the moon landing area like in Star Wars. After repressurization, or something its doors slid open, and the small group of twats stepped out into the moon battalion base. There was a lot of activity; a large number of Roy’s space soldiers were busy either performing routine tasks, or sitting in deckchairs, some with handkerchiefs on their heads. A small group of solders approached Tim and the disciples, “Tim?” asked one of the soldiers who was a sergeant. Not that it matters.

  “Yes that’s me.”

  “Come this way – Colonel Tony is expecting you.”

  Tim and the brave disciples followed the sergeant in single file. He lead them through Corridor 43, then Corridor 17, then Mezzanine 4, then hallway 8, then corridor 6, then passage 4b, then corridor 9, then subsection 4 and onto the nerve centre of the base. The lighting in each of the rooms was by strange space light bulbs. The wattages of these bulbs were something never seen on the earth: 62, and 107 watt bulbs!

  The nerve centre was a large room with a table in the middle, over which four figures were hunched. The largest person turned to the new arrivals.

  “Tim?” he said in a booming voice. Colonel Tony was over 6 feet tall with blond hair and blue eyes and a beaming smile that made everyone who saw it feel instantly at ease, until they saw his missing left eye. Colonel Tony was dressed in the uniform of Roy’s Seventh Army, all black with a large pink sash.

  “That’s me”

  “Welcome. I’m Colonel Tony. And welcome to you seven dwarves too.”

  “They are thirteen disciples actually.” Corrected Tim.

  “OK. Listen I know Roy wants us to help you fight Rastas’s army and that is what we are planning right now. You see this map.” He pointed to a large map on the table, “It’s a map of Aylesbury. We think Rastas is planning on attacking down the Oxford Road past Ken’s Cattle Factory. So, unfortunately we won’t be much help because we are Roy’s reserve battalion ON THE MOON.”

  “Well can’t you leave the moon?”

  “We could…but what if the moon was attacked?”

  “Well you could come back.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. It’s not.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “I see.”

  “But what we can do is help you with armaments. Captain Allen here will take you to our arsenal.” They followed the Captain to the arsenal by a route too boring to describe. On entering the arsenal all the disciples were dumbstruck by the vast array of weapons. There were space tanks, and superguns, and lazer cannons, and fighter planes, and space destroyers.

  “Wow” said Alex, “We could obliterate Rastas with this little lot.”

  “Here is your weapon,” the Captain handed Tim a knife.

  “Is this it? What about all this other stuff?”

  “That’s it. But that is not just any knife. That is Wayne, The Knife of Roy. Wayne is one of Roy’s blessed objects. Be careful with it – it has magical powers and a sharp blade. Oh and a corkscrew on the back. Now we must return to the Colonel.”

  Disheartened they trudged back to the nerve centre where Colonel Tony was studying a piece of paper. He looked up and greeted them with a smile, “Ah good men and women. I hope you are pleased with Wayne. He was recovered by Roy from the plains of France at the Great Battle of Leclerc from the body of the great French Knight, Monsieur Bricolage. Some say Roy himself keeps Wayne under his pillow, but obviously not at the moment. Wayne’s powers are mighty, but take great care when using Wayne. He must never spill the blood of a virgin.”

  “Virgin ‘er up,” cackled Mungo.

  “Nor must he be used on the 7th night of the 7th month.”

  “July 7th you mean?”

  “Yes. And you must never place him in a washer of dishes.”

  “Do you mean we mustn't use Wayne to stab someone who washes dishes for a living, or we must not put him in a dish-washing machine?”

  “Er…I’m not sure. Best to not do either. But I have been a poor host, let me take you and the 7 dwarves to our restaurant for a banquet, and tonight we will dine like Kings, for tomorrow your training begins.”

  “Training?”

  “Yes. Roy has asked me to turn you into killing machines. Is that not what you expected?”

  “Not really…”

  “Hang on,” Colonel Tony consulted a clipboard, “Yes, here we go: 15 killing machine training sessions, paid for by Roy himself.”

  ***

  That night they slept in the Accommodation Block which housed the quarters for all the moonbase staff, and a creche where Tim and Alex could leave the disciples during the day if needed.

  The next morning the disciples and Tim and Alex were woken at 6:30AM by Captain Allen, “Right! Everyone up!”

  Bleary eyed the group quickly dressed. Allen walked them to a moon transporter that was parked outside the Accommodation Block. The transporter was very much like a bus; the only difference being “moon transporter” painted on the side. A brief ride down a tunnel to the north side of the moonbase took them to the training ground which resembled a leisure centre sports hall, right down to the court markings on its parquet floor.

  The group disembarked from the transporter, “OK I’ll be training you today said Allen as he eyed the disciples before him, “First…” his gaze stopped on Honest John, “You are wearing your pyjamas.”

  “Go back and get changed John,” said Tim.

  “OK,” said John. He went and sat in the transporter.

  “Just walk back John.”

  “OK,” John walked back.

  “We’ll wait till he comes back,” said Allen. Twenty Five minutes later John arrived back, still in his pyjamas.

  “Sorry oi got lost. Oi went to Mars I think.”

  “Mars?”

  “Yes there were some spoons and plates and stuff.”

  “You mean the kitchen?”

  “Dat's roight.”

  “Right let’s get on. This training will be tough. You will go through hell and back. When i have finished with you you'll wish you were dead.”

  “Do we get a certificate at the end?”

  “What?”

  “Do we get a certificate like to show we've done the training?”

  “Yes, you'll get a certificate.”

  “Can I hang the certificate on me wall?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I get one too mate,” asked Graham?

  “Yes.”

  “Alright! And me?” asked Adrian.

  Through gritted teeth Allen replied “Yes you all get certificates that you can hang on your walls. OK. Right first I will show you how to strip a weapon. Take one each,” he pointed to a large khaki crate, full of assault rifles, “Be careful: they have live ammo.” The disciples headed for the crate and Honest John picked up a rifle and fired it. The bullet just missed Captain Allen.

  “Careful!” he shouted. Then Parsons picked up
a gun, and also fired at Allen.

  “Damn it. Here I’ll get the weapons,” he handed a weapon to each disciple. They stood in a line, facing Allen.

  “Right,.” as he spoke a fusilade of shots erupted around him.

  “Sorry,” said several disciples.

  “Right forget rifle training. You'd only kill each other.” He collected all the rifles, and placed them back in the crate.

  “Now we'll do grenades, but i will hold the grenade,” he said as he pulled a grenade from his tunic.

  “So this is a grenade. You pull the pin, count to 3, and throw it.”

  “Like a fish?” asked John.

  “No not like a fish. Have you got it, it's very easy? You,” he pointed at Todd, “How would you use this grenade?”

  “Huh...faak?” he looked blankly at the grenade.

  “No? What about you?” he pointed at Parsons.

  “Ah...bloody 'ell. Do you pull the pin?”

  “Good and then?”

  “Ah..right. Do you put the pin back in?”

  “I tink I know,” said John.

  “Go on,” said Allen.

  “Count ta tree, then throw it like a fish.”

  “Close enough. And what do you do if a grenade is heading towards you?”

  Bobby Lumm raised his hand, “I'd say to me mate I'll bet you 4 grand it misses us. I would, true as I'm standing here. Four grand: a day’s wages for me.”

  This sort of thing went on all day, but by the end of the training the disciples all got their certificates, which they could hang on their walls. They were now as ready as they would ever be to fight Rastas.

  After a gruelling day's training of stupid people Allen was glad to finish.

  “Right thanks for your participation. I'll give your certificates to your guardian. Can you all please fill in these assessment forms so we can get some feedback to help improve our course.” He handed out the forms. The Mulligans ate theirs, Parsons ran away from his, most of the others stared at theirs blankly. Allen did receive one response that suggested the training was a bit cliched.

  After the training the group returned to the accomodation block on the moon transporter. There they packed, and said goodbye to their new (imaginary) friends. In the short time they had been there, they had made the moonbase their home. John had drawn a picture of a house on his bunk bed, and written “mi moonbas” under it using a green crayon. But the paradise of Aylesbury beckoned, and so they headed home.

  As the plucky band made their way back to the spaceship many of them wondered how the forth-coming battle with Rastas would turn out. They knew the fight would be arduous and long, but to a man they believed in Roy’s dominion. They knew he would watch over them, and help them succeed. The course they had completed, and the certificates, which they could hang on their walls, showed Roy was looking after them. Knowing this, they left the moonbase in good spirits, joking and laughing.

  “Knock knock.”

  “Who is there?”

  “Hello mate.”

  “Helloo mate who?”

  “Haaaart?”

  They arrived back at the spaceship, got into it, and took up their stations ready for lift off. Suddenly a figure appeared from beneath a large sheet in the corner of the control room. It was Gareth, “I sentence you to death,” he droned pointing at Tim who was in the captain’s stool.

  “Why Gareth? What happened to you? You used to be a good metal policeman.”

  “Robocop,” mumbled Mungo.

  “Do not talk. I must execute you.” And Gareth 209’s retractable bazooka emerged from his holster, “Prepare to be scared….sorry die,” said Gareth clumsily. Then there was a screeching sound followed by a big clicking noise, and then nothing happened.

  “What happened?” cried Tim.

  “Brrr…nothing,” said Mungo.

  “I think it is his fan belt,” said Dave Quill, who was skulking in his anorak.

  “Can you fix him professor?”

  “But won’t he kill you if I repair him?”

  “Oh yes. Well… make him good first.”

  “Yes. I think I can repair him. Let me see..,” Quill peered closely at Gareth 209’s metal chest. He felt carefully along the line where his metal pullover met his metal trousers, “I thought so. This is a 209 model metal policeman created by the Americo Company of Detroit, Michigan, America. I’ve never worked with one before, but they are very similar to earlier models, and the ZX spectrum. I think there is a release catch here somewhere, “ he rummaged in Gareth’s metal pockets, “No. It must have been removed by whoever made him evil.”

  “Can’t you fix him then?” asked Tim.

  “Yis. I do like chutches!”

  “No: I said ‘Can’t you fix him?’”

  “Oh. Yes I can. It is quite a delicate machine, so I must ask for silence while I work,” then he extracted a large crowbar from his anorak, and wrenched open Gareth’s casing, “See. He is now open,” Quill fumbled in his anorak again, and pulled out a rabbit, or at least it appeared to be a rabbit, “This is my Metal Policeman Analysis Kit, which I have often used with Robomen, that is men that have been robotised. I pray it works with Gareth…Oh no sorry that’s my rabbit. Hang on,” he felt some more in his anorak, and this time pulled out what appeared to be a Metal Policeman Analysis Kit. Quill quickly analysed Gareth, “Ah, “ he said, as he read the dial on the Policeman Analysis Kit, “The analysis says he needs fixing. I will retire to the ship’s lab, and fix him while we return to Earth.”

  “Good. Here help me put him on the Mulligans, and we’ll roll him back to the spaceship.”

  The disciples rolled Gareth into the ship’s science lab, and placed him onto a table. Quill carefully restrained Gareth using a metal policeman harness, “OK you can leave me now.”

  Everyone left, and Quill took off his red anorak, “Yes you go too anorak.”

  The anorak hesitated, then reluctantly trudged out of the lab. Quill knew his faithful anorak would be hurt by this, but he thought it might get in the way of the delicate work that lay ahead of him. If his anorak’s feelings were hurt, so be it, there would be plenty of time to make things better later: he made a mental note to wear his anorak to a chutch after all this was over. He liked chutches!

  He began a thorough examination of Gareth 209. He had plenty of time: it was a long journey back, and the ship would pilot itself most of the way.

  The lab had more advanced software than the Metal Policeman Analysis Kit, so he booted the ship’s diagnostic computer and attached it to Gareth’s serial port. After 30 seconds the screen displayed “Metal Policeman – Broken: Error 6.”

  Quill consulted his copy of Metal Policemen Unleashed. It said Error Code 6 meant a metal policeman was broken. Just as Quill had thought: Gareth 209 was broken. He ran some further diagnostics: Gareth 209’s gyro motor was reading 104, and his evilness polarity had been reversed. Quill knew evilness polarities often reversed without user intervention: it was a serious bug that Americo had thus far ignored.14

  But Quill felt that rather than it being chance, Gareth’s evilness had been switched on deliberately. He switched Gareth back to good. Happy that this would stabilise Gareth's goodness, he was still concerned by the gyro motor’s reading of 104, as he had never seen a reading above 87 before. One hundred and four was far too high. Quill quickly removed the motor, carefully undoing the four screws that held its cover in place. He placed the motor in a Faraday bag to shield it from electromagnetic interference. He then very carefully hit it with a hammer, put it back into Gareth, and refastened 3 of the screws fixing the cover. He then hit the cover with the hammer , and replaced the fourth screw. He started Gareth up: nothing. Realizing he had put the motor in backwards, he unscrewed it, took it out. Hit with a hammer a few times for a laugh, and replaced it once more. He finished re-assembling Gareth and nervously switched him back on.

  Gareth’s metal eyes opened, “I detect a crime: you are wearing a red anorak. Prepare to die,” h
e raised his gun at Quill. Then Gareth spluttered, his eyes opened and closed, and he lowered his gun, “I am Gareth 209, metal policeman. Who are you?”

  “Professor Dave Quill.”

  “Hello. I am here to assist you and control crime. Would you like to report a crime?”

  “Not today thanks.”

  “OK. Right,” Gareth looked at his metal watch, “I’m off down the pub then.”

  Pleased with his work, Quill opened his Big Book of Chutches to relax with for the rest of the journey.

  At that moment Tim’s voice came over the intercom, “Metal Policemen and ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats, and put your seat belts on. We are about to land near a church!”

  “I like chutches!” thought Dave.

  Tim and Alex strapped themselves into their stools in the cockpit. Honest John walked into the cockpit, “Oi can't figure out this belt thing. Can you come help?” They quickly unbuckled themselves, and followed John back into the main cabin. None of the disciples were strapped in, Todd was holding both straps in his mouth, Parsons was hitting his with a pen, and the other disciples were wandering around the cabin. Tim and Alex rapidly herded the disciples back into their seats, buckled them in, and gave each a toy to keep them amused. They then raced back to their stools just before the spaceship touched down.

  Tim unbuckled himself and went to Welsh Bob’s seat, “Can I have the training certificate folder please?” Tim had asked Welsh Bob to look after the training certificates before they left the moonbase.

  Welsh Bob gave it to him, and he returned to his seat to open it. Inside was a stack of killing machine training certificates, each one providing proof of a particular disciple’s successful completion of Colonel Tony’s course. But scrawled across each were the words “Poof’s certificate”. Seeing this Tim quickly closed the folder, but not before Honest John had caught a glimpse of the defaced certificates.

  “Dat says ‘Poofs’ certificates’. Oi’m not a poof….Am I?” hearing this, many of the disciples started crying and wailing. And they also gnashed their teeth. “Oi’m so upset, oi’ve gnashed me teeth,” said John.

  “It’s just like the space ship graffiti all over again.”

  “Who could have done it?” asked Parsons.