Toby Ron looked at the retreating figures of Foxy Loxy, Turkey Lurkey and Weasel. “Well, that went all right.”
William looked at him, puzzled. “But we didn’t really tell them anything!”
“No,” Toby shrugged, “but they don’t seem to think you’re involved now.”
“But what if I am involved?” cried Billy.
“I think you should go and see Mystic Mog again. Hopefully, she’ll be able to tell you after last night.”
Billy did not look too pleased at this suggestion but began wandering towards the gate. Toby stopped him.
“But not until you’ve finished getting rid of those daisies,” he told the young goat.
“You’re joking!”
“S’alright, Billy.” William told him. “I’ll help.”
Mrs Goat smiled at one son while scowling at the other – something only mothers can really pull off. “Aren’t you a little angel? Billy, why can’t you be more like William?
“Goody goody,” muttered Billy as they wandered towards the floral region of the paddock.
“I heard that!” scolded their mum. “You should be nicer to your brother. Especially after he made sure you were OK last night.”
William stayed quiet. He was still feeling bad about losing Billy last night but not bad enough to own up to any failure in front of his mother. Particularly not when she was in this kind of mood. Biting his lip, William attacked the first patch of flowers. He just hoped that Toby Ron was right and Mystic Mog would have some answers.
Showing posts with label animals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label animals. Show all posts
Monday, 27 August 2012
Monday, 6 August 2012
Chapter 5.3
“Well, you made a right dog’s dinner out of that!” said Butch.
“Thank you,” smiled WPC Evans as she passed the second dinner bowl through the bars of the police dog pens.
“Lovely,” agreed Cassidy, his mouth full. “What’re we up to today, then?”
Kippie shook her head and wagged a finger at the pair. “Oh no! You guys are staying here. I’m going to St Mildred’s.”
“Decided to get some GCSE’s at last, huh?” asked Butch, tucking into delicious, nutritious marrowbone jelly.
“Ho ho,” she replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “No. Basically, I’ve got to check out some old caretaker chap.”
“Check out a handyman, huh?”
“Yes,” came the stern reply. “In a professional sense.” Cassidy swallowed his mouthful. “Why can’t we come? I love kids.”
“But you couldn’t eat a whole one, right?”
“A toddler, maybe…” said Butch.
Cassidy threw him a disapproving look. “No,” he said indignantly. “I mean it. And children love me too.”
“I know,” Kippie conceded. “But, basically, the Guv’nor doesn’t want another St Mary’s.”
Butch smirked into his dinner. Cassidy attempted to look surprised and abashed at the same time, managing only maniacal constipation.
“I was just responding to my training,” he protested. “If I smell drugs, I go for them!”
“And you smelt drugs in the priest’s pants?” WPC Evans asked, eyebrows raised.
“Maybe I did get a little carried away…”
Kippie smiled at the memory. “I seem to recall you carried away quite a lot!”
Cassidy hung his head.
“And it’s not going to happen again. Not today.” She jabbed a finger at him in good humour. “Because you’re both staying here.”
“Busted!” said a voice behind her.
Evans turned around. “Oh. Hello, Foxy. Who’s your friend?”
Foxy Loxy wandered up to her, Turkey Lurkey perched once more on his back and Weasel tailing along behind. “Kippie, I’d like you to meet Turkey Lurkey. He’s helping us with our enquiries. Turkey Lurkey, WPC Cerys Evans of the Police Animal Unit.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Turkey, with a slight bow.
“Don’t mind me,” muttered Weasel, morosely.
“Oh. Hi, Weasel,” said Kippie, giving Foxy a cheeky wink. “I figured that you’d figure that I was going to ignore you anyway.”
“Touché!” said Foxy, with a grin. “You’re surprisingly full of the joys of life for this time of day, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Not at all. I’ve a split shift today.” (As opposed to a lit spliff, Kippie’s usual reason for being calm in the morning.) She turned to the dogs. “Then it’s nights for the rest of the week. Get some real action, eh boys?”
“Too right!” said Butch.
Cassidy turned to his brother with a childish grin. “Speaking of action, what’s going down with Spandex, Foxy?” he asked. “Somebody lost a cat?”
Butch sniggered. “Goldfish flushed down the toilet?”
Foxy smiled back without humour. He and Weasel were officially “Special Animal Detectives” or, unofficially, “Spandex” for short. This was not a source of great joy for the pair – spandex shorts are never a good thing. The official abbreviation was SAD but this was not much better, particularly given Weasel’s morose disposition.
“Nothing so serious, fortunately,” Foxy replied with an air of disinterest. “I’m looking into claims made by a psychiatric patient in City Hospital that he contaminated eighteen thousand tins of Pedigree Chum with rat poison.” He peered through the bars at the dogs’ bowls. “Don’t believe it myself but let me know if you find yourselves bleeding to death, or anything. Chums.”
Kippie left the Alsatians staring suspiciously at their breakfast and followed Foxy and his companions out into the car park.
“Sorry about those guys,” she said. “Basically, they’re just sore about having to stay here.”
“That’s alright. We’re used to it. For us it’s all about the case, not the respect, eh Weasel?”
Weasel gave a surprisingly big shrug for an animal with such small shoulders.
Kippie brushed aside part of her fringe that was trying to blow in her eyes. “So what are you guys really up to?”
Foxy stood proud. He was generally given free reign to act independently but technically the SAD unit fell within jurisdiction of WPC Evans and the Police Animal Unit. (The irony of this was not lost on Detective Sergeant Thomas Jenkins, who had tried for many years to get WPC Evans into spandex; the view that spandex shorts were not a good thing was not universal.) “As a matter of fact, we’re following up a lead on that tortoiseshell thing.”
“The bomb?”
“Uh, huh. Reckon we might have ourselves an eye-witness. A goat. We’re heading over to Toby O’Bee’s to find out if he saw anything – the goat, that is.”
Kippie inclined her head with interest. “Really? I’m on that case too. I’m about to go to St Mildred’s. Toby Ron’s is on the way. Do you want a lift?”
“We’ll probably just end up leaving your car smelling of animals,” warned Weasel.
“That’s OK,” Kippie told him. “I’m taking the dog van.”
“In that case, my dear,” beamed Turkey Lurkey. “We’d be delighted.”
“Thank you,” smiled WPC Evans as she passed the second dinner bowl through the bars of the police dog pens.
“Lovely,” agreed Cassidy, his mouth full. “What’re we up to today, then?”
Kippie shook her head and wagged a finger at the pair. “Oh no! You guys are staying here. I’m going to St Mildred’s.”
“Decided to get some GCSE’s at last, huh?” asked Butch, tucking into delicious, nutritious marrowbone jelly.
“Ho ho,” she replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “No. Basically, I’ve got to check out some old caretaker chap.”
“Check out a handyman, huh?”
“Yes,” came the stern reply. “In a professional sense.” Cassidy swallowed his mouthful. “Why can’t we come? I love kids.”
“But you couldn’t eat a whole one, right?”
“A toddler, maybe…” said Butch.
Cassidy threw him a disapproving look. “No,” he said indignantly. “I mean it. And children love me too.”
“I know,” Kippie conceded. “But, basically, the Guv’nor doesn’t want another St Mary’s.”
Butch smirked into his dinner. Cassidy attempted to look surprised and abashed at the same time, managing only maniacal constipation.
“I was just responding to my training,” he protested. “If I smell drugs, I go for them!”
“And you smelt drugs in the priest’s pants?” WPC Evans asked, eyebrows raised.
“Maybe I did get a little carried away…”
Kippie smiled at the memory. “I seem to recall you carried away quite a lot!”
Cassidy hung his head.
“And it’s not going to happen again. Not today.” She jabbed a finger at him in good humour. “Because you’re both staying here.”
“Busted!” said a voice behind her.
Evans turned around. “Oh. Hello, Foxy. Who’s your friend?”
Foxy Loxy wandered up to her, Turkey Lurkey perched once more on his back and Weasel tailing along behind. “Kippie, I’d like you to meet Turkey Lurkey. He’s helping us with our enquiries. Turkey Lurkey, WPC Cerys Evans of the Police Animal Unit.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Turkey, with a slight bow.
“Don’t mind me,” muttered Weasel, morosely.
“Oh. Hi, Weasel,” said Kippie, giving Foxy a cheeky wink. “I figured that you’d figure that I was going to ignore you anyway.”
“Touché!” said Foxy, with a grin. “You’re surprisingly full of the joys of life for this time of day, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Not at all. I’ve a split shift today.” (As opposed to a lit spliff, Kippie’s usual reason for being calm in the morning.) She turned to the dogs. “Then it’s nights for the rest of the week. Get some real action, eh boys?”
“Too right!” said Butch.
Cassidy turned to his brother with a childish grin. “Speaking of action, what’s going down with Spandex, Foxy?” he asked. “Somebody lost a cat?”
Butch sniggered. “Goldfish flushed down the toilet?”
Foxy smiled back without humour. He and Weasel were officially “Special Animal Detectives” or, unofficially, “Spandex” for short. This was not a source of great joy for the pair – spandex shorts are never a good thing. The official abbreviation was SAD but this was not much better, particularly given Weasel’s morose disposition.
“Nothing so serious, fortunately,” Foxy replied with an air of disinterest. “I’m looking into claims made by a psychiatric patient in City Hospital that he contaminated eighteen thousand tins of Pedigree Chum with rat poison.” He peered through the bars at the dogs’ bowls. “Don’t believe it myself but let me know if you find yourselves bleeding to death, or anything. Chums.”
Kippie left the Alsatians staring suspiciously at their breakfast and followed Foxy and his companions out into the car park.
“Sorry about those guys,” she said. “Basically, they’re just sore about having to stay here.”
“That’s alright. We’re used to it. For us it’s all about the case, not the respect, eh Weasel?”
Weasel gave a surprisingly big shrug for an animal with such small shoulders.
Kippie brushed aside part of her fringe that was trying to blow in her eyes. “So what are you guys really up to?”
Foxy stood proud. He was generally given free reign to act independently but technically the SAD unit fell within jurisdiction of WPC Evans and the Police Animal Unit. (The irony of this was not lost on Detective Sergeant Thomas Jenkins, who had tried for many years to get WPC Evans into spandex; the view that spandex shorts were not a good thing was not universal.) “As a matter of fact, we’re following up a lead on that tortoiseshell thing.”
“The bomb?”
“Uh, huh. Reckon we might have ourselves an eye-witness. A goat. We’re heading over to Toby O’Bee’s to find out if he saw anything – the goat, that is.”
Kippie inclined her head with interest. “Really? I’m on that case too. I’m about to go to St Mildred’s. Toby Ron’s is on the way. Do you want a lift?”
“We’ll probably just end up leaving your car smelling of animals,” warned Weasel.
“That’s OK,” Kippie told him. “I’m taking the dog van.”
“In that case, my dear,” beamed Turkey Lurkey. “We’d be delighted.”
Wednesday, 1 August 2012
Chapter 4.3
Foxy Loxy looked forlornly at his standard-issue police notebook and the open page, devoid of marks of any kind. They had definitely drawn a blank.
The goat tracks had led into some nearby woods but then got lost in a stream. Weasel had been predictably pessimistically disinclined to cross.
“We probably won’t be able to find the track again on the other side,” he had complained. “The ground’s too stony.”
The ground was stony it was true, particularly along the bottom of the stream. Foxy was not prepared to admit defeat that easily, however.
“There’s only one way to find out,” he told his companion.
“I’ll probably get hypothermia and drown,” said Weasel.
“The water’s only two inches deep!”
“Hmph. I’m not convinced, but I guess that if I stay here I’ll probably get eaten by a bear or something anyway…”
Reluctantly, Weasel splashed after Foxy to the far bank.
“There are no bears in these woods.” Foxy told him when they had safely crossed.
“A dragon, then.”
“Dragons don’t exist.”
“Knowing my luck, I’d fall foul of the first ever carnivorous pheasant, then.”
The fox shook his head despairingly and looked around. This side of the stream, Weasel’s initial pessimism became reality. There was no sign of the goat track anywhere and Foxy was unable to pick up the animal’s scent.
Foxy kicked a stone into the stream in frustration. “We should have brought Cassidy along. He may have picked up the scent.”
“Hmph,” said Weasel. “More chance of finding a non-existent dragon that would want to help us.”
Grudgingly, Foxy was forced to accept defeat. The pair had trudged silently back to Police Headquarters, where Foxy had instructed Turkey Lurkey to make an official statement and wait for him.
“So you’ve got an eyewitness but can’t bally-well find him or her?” asked Turkey Lurkey after hearing the news.
“That’s about the size of it.”
“What rotten luck.”
“I figure they wouldn’t be able to tell us anything even if we did find them,” said Weasel.
“Not now, Weasel.” Foxy snapped. Sometimes his colleague could be a bit annoying.
“This certainly is a stinker,” said Turkey.
The three of them sat in silence for a moment before Foxy Loxy suddenly perked up.
“Of course!" he cried, face-palming himself with his front right paw. "A stinker!”
“What? What? What?” asked Turkey.
“Old Joe goat’s bunions! Toby Ron Ken O’Bee keeps goats and his place is west of the bomb site. That goat could have been one of his.” Foxy glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s too late now but tomorrow, I suggest we pay Mr O’Bee a visit.”
The goat tracks had led into some nearby woods but then got lost in a stream. Weasel had been predictably pessimistically disinclined to cross.
“We probably won’t be able to find the track again on the other side,” he had complained. “The ground’s too stony.”
The ground was stony it was true, particularly along the bottom of the stream. Foxy was not prepared to admit defeat that easily, however.
“There’s only one way to find out,” he told his companion.
“I’ll probably get hypothermia and drown,” said Weasel.
“The water’s only two inches deep!”
“Hmph. I’m not convinced, but I guess that if I stay here I’ll probably get eaten by a bear or something anyway…”
Reluctantly, Weasel splashed after Foxy to the far bank.
“There are no bears in these woods.” Foxy told him when they had safely crossed.
“A dragon, then.”
“Dragons don’t exist.”
“Knowing my luck, I’d fall foul of the first ever carnivorous pheasant, then.”
The fox shook his head despairingly and looked around. This side of the stream, Weasel’s initial pessimism became reality. There was no sign of the goat track anywhere and Foxy was unable to pick up the animal’s scent.
Foxy kicked a stone into the stream in frustration. “We should have brought Cassidy along. He may have picked up the scent.”
“Hmph,” said Weasel. “More chance of finding a non-existent dragon that would want to help us.”
Grudgingly, Foxy was forced to accept defeat. The pair had trudged silently back to Police Headquarters, where Foxy had instructed Turkey Lurkey to make an official statement and wait for him.
“So you’ve got an eyewitness but can’t bally-well find him or her?” asked Turkey Lurkey after hearing the news.
“That’s about the size of it.”
“What rotten luck.”
“I figure they wouldn’t be able to tell us anything even if we did find them,” said Weasel.
“Not now, Weasel.” Foxy snapped. Sometimes his colleague could be a bit annoying.
“This certainly is a stinker,” said Turkey.
The three of them sat in silence for a moment before Foxy Loxy suddenly perked up.
“Of course!" he cried, face-palming himself with his front right paw. "A stinker!”
“What? What? What?” asked Turkey.
“Old Joe goat’s bunions! Toby Ron Ken O’Bee keeps goats and his place is west of the bomb site. That goat could have been one of his.” Foxy glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s too late now but tomorrow, I suggest we pay Mr O’Bee a visit.”
Sunday, 29 July 2012
Chapter 3.6
Cassidy could smell Foxy Loxy approach before he could see him. This was in part due to his phenomenal sense of smell but also because he was blind in one eye after being glassed during a pub brawl. Cassidy looked down on the fox slightly and not just because of his size. Although he was a top class investigator, Foxy Loxy did not do enough ‘real police work’ as Cassidy called it, like sniffing out smuggled drugs, uncovering murder weapons or sinking your teeth into the buttocks of a fleeing suspect.
“Greetings, Cassidy,” Foxy Loxy greeted him.
“Hello Foxy. Good morning, Weasel.”
“There’s nothing good about it,” replied Weasel in customary fashion.
“What’s that lump on your back, Foxy?” asked Cassidy.
“That’s a mole.” Foxy Loxy answered.
“You should get that checked out.” Cassidy told him. “A new mole or unsightly growth could be an indication of skin cancer.”
“I say, old chap, who are you calling an unsightly growth?” asked Turkey Lurkey, for it was he.
“Me, probably.” Weasel chipped in.
Foxy ignored him. “This is Turkey Lurkey. He’s a mole. Mr Lurkey is helping us with our enquiries.”
Turkey Lurkey jumped down off Foxy’s back to shake Cassidy’s paw. Then he jumped back up and hung off the chain round the fox’s neck, for Turkey Lurkey was something of a pendant.
“Why do they call you Turkey Lurkey if you’re a mole?” asked Cassidy.
“My parents wanted a girl.”
“My parents wanted a polecat,” said Weasel.
Cassidy stared at the pair slack-jawed for a second before deciding that some conversations were simply not worth the effort. He turned back to Foxy Loxy. “So what ‘enquiries’ are you making then, Foxy? Someone permed Mrs Rafferty’s poodles again? He he he he he.”
“Ho ho,” Foxy replied dryly. “Something a bit more serious than that.”
Foxy looked around at the patch about which Cassidy had been sniffing. A whole area had been cordoned off by a barrier of police tape, staked into the ground on metal spikes. Within this zone were a number of chalk-lines marking the positions of disturbingly small pieces. At the centre of the taped-off region was a shallow crater.
“What happened here? Bomb blast?”
“Uh huh,” Cassidy nodded, “a Cult Mass Suicide Event.” He puffed out his chest proudly. “I’m looking for identifying remains.”
Foxy waved his head in the direction of WPC Evans, who was still spread-eagle on the grass. “Looks like you’ve missed an entire victim.”
“Ha ha. Actually, all the victims were naked.”
“How odd. I suppose that if you’re going to blow yourself up, there’s no point in wasting a good suit.” He looked back at the crater and nodded to himself. “A bomb would explain the strange objects falling out of the sky near here.”
“Like what?” Cassidy asked, suspiciously.
The police dog’s good eye lit up when he saw the tortoise shell that Foxy, Weasel and turkey had retrieved from the woods earlier that afternoon. (Of the sausage, there was no sign, presumably having been consumed by various denizens of the woods.)
“Can I have it?” Cassidy asked.
Foxy considered the request for a moment. “Sure, why not? I don’t think we can learn much more from it.”
“Cool. Cheers, Foxy.” Cassidy grabbed the shell in his mouth and bounded back over to WPC Evans.
Foxy turned to Weasel. “What d’you think, Weasel?”
“I figure he’ll probably pretend that he found it himself, thus hogging all the glory for himself and giving us none of the credit. But as I’m sure the leading investigator wouldn’t want to acknowledge our involvement anyway, it probably won’t make any difference.”
“I actually meant about the case.”
“Oh,” said Weasel. “Certainly seems to match a mass suicide. Bad luck for the poor old tortoise to get caught up in such things. Probably happen to us all, sooner or later. They do appear to have missed one thing, though. Probably not important.”
“All clues are important at this stage of an investigation.” Foxy reminded him. “What did they miss?”
Weasel pointed back away from the blast site to a set of small hoof-prints in the mud. “Goat tracks. Pretty fresh. Single animal. Judging by the size and spread, probably a youngster. Wandered over, stopped for a while, then wandered back the way it came.”
Foxy raised a bushy eyebrow. “Interesting. Let’s see where they go.”
“Greetings, Cassidy,” Foxy Loxy greeted him.
“Hello Foxy. Good morning, Weasel.”
“There’s nothing good about it,” replied Weasel in customary fashion.
“What’s that lump on your back, Foxy?” asked Cassidy.
“That’s a mole.” Foxy Loxy answered.
“You should get that checked out.” Cassidy told him. “A new mole or unsightly growth could be an indication of skin cancer.”
“I say, old chap, who are you calling an unsightly growth?” asked Turkey Lurkey, for it was he.
“Me, probably.” Weasel chipped in.
Foxy ignored him. “This is Turkey Lurkey. He’s a mole. Mr Lurkey is helping us with our enquiries.”
Turkey Lurkey jumped down off Foxy’s back to shake Cassidy’s paw. Then he jumped back up and hung off the chain round the fox’s neck, for Turkey Lurkey was something of a pendant.
“Why do they call you Turkey Lurkey if you’re a mole?” asked Cassidy.
“My parents wanted a girl.”
“My parents wanted a polecat,” said Weasel.
Cassidy stared at the pair slack-jawed for a second before deciding that some conversations were simply not worth the effort. He turned back to Foxy Loxy. “So what ‘enquiries’ are you making then, Foxy? Someone permed Mrs Rafferty’s poodles again? He he he he he.”
“Ho ho,” Foxy replied dryly. “Something a bit more serious than that.”
Foxy looked around at the patch about which Cassidy had been sniffing. A whole area had been cordoned off by a barrier of police tape, staked into the ground on metal spikes. Within this zone were a number of chalk-lines marking the positions of disturbingly small pieces. At the centre of the taped-off region was a shallow crater.
“What happened here? Bomb blast?”
“Uh huh,” Cassidy nodded, “a Cult Mass Suicide Event.” He puffed out his chest proudly. “I’m looking for identifying remains.”
Foxy waved his head in the direction of WPC Evans, who was still spread-eagle on the grass. “Looks like you’ve missed an entire victim.”
“Ha ha. Actually, all the victims were naked.”
“How odd. I suppose that if you’re going to blow yourself up, there’s no point in wasting a good suit.” He looked back at the crater and nodded to himself. “A bomb would explain the strange objects falling out of the sky near here.”
“Like what?” Cassidy asked, suspiciously.
The police dog’s good eye lit up when he saw the tortoise shell that Foxy, Weasel and turkey had retrieved from the woods earlier that afternoon. (Of the sausage, there was no sign, presumably having been consumed by various denizens of the woods.)
“Can I have it?” Cassidy asked.
Foxy considered the request for a moment. “Sure, why not? I don’t think we can learn much more from it.”
“Cool. Cheers, Foxy.” Cassidy grabbed the shell in his mouth and bounded back over to WPC Evans.
Foxy turned to Weasel. “What d’you think, Weasel?”
“I figure he’ll probably pretend that he found it himself, thus hogging all the glory for himself and giving us none of the credit. But as I’m sure the leading investigator wouldn’t want to acknowledge our involvement anyway, it probably won’t make any difference.”
“I actually meant about the case.”
“Oh,” said Weasel. “Certainly seems to match a mass suicide. Bad luck for the poor old tortoise to get caught up in such things. Probably happen to us all, sooner or later. They do appear to have missed one thing, though. Probably not important.”
“All clues are important at this stage of an investigation.” Foxy reminded him. “What did they miss?”
Weasel pointed back away from the blast site to a set of small hoof-prints in the mud. “Goat tracks. Pretty fresh. Single animal. Judging by the size and spread, probably a youngster. Wandered over, stopped for a while, then wandered back the way it came.”
Foxy raised a bushy eyebrow. “Interesting. Let’s see where they go.”
Thursday, 26 July 2012
Chapter 3.3
“That was lovely, Vicky.” Henny Penny told Foxy Loxy’s wife, Vicky the vixen, as they sat in the fox’s den enjoying coffee and after-dinner mints. “Thank you.”
“It certainly was most agreeable!” agreed Turkey Lurkey. “Why didn’t you have any, Weasel old boy?”
Weasel looked over from where he was sitting, near the door. “I figured that something would probably disagree with my digestion, so I though I’d save Vicks any embarrassment and abstain.”
“You could have had a cup of coffee.” Henny Penny suggested.
“Probably just scald myself,” came the morose reply.
“At least have an After Eight mint, dear chap.” Turkey Lurkey offered.
Weasel shook his head. “No thanks. Probably just drop it on the floor and leave a big chocolatey stain on the carpet.”
“But my dear fellow, there isn’t a carpet…”
“Just ignore him.” Foxy Loxy told his dinner guests. “Damned good copper but a miserable bugger, if ever there was one.”
“My Great Uncle Sid had a lovely copper roof.” Chicken Licken said. “But everyone said he was a jolly bugger.”
“Quite.” Foxy Loxy turned to Henny Penny. “I think we have all that we need in the way of a statement but it would be useful if you could show my colleague and me where these strange events occurred.”
“But we can’t go back there!” cried Chicken Licken. “Not where the sky’s falling in! We’ve got to go and tell the King.”
“Queen.” Corrected Turkey Lurkey the pedant.
“No. That was my Great Uncle Sid.”
“How about I contact the Queen and tell her about this?” asked Foxy gently. “Save you the trouble of going all the way to London.”
“No, please! Let the little guy go.” Goosey Loosy countered before Henny Penny elbowed him in the ribs.
Chicken Licken seemed to think it over. “OK. But I don’t want to go back there!”
“Why don’t you go and stay with your Great Aunt Sydney?” Henny Penny advised.
Foxy was confused. “I thought he said he had a Great Uncle Sid.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Golly,” said Turkey Lurkey.
Foxy Loxy stood up. “Well, that settles it. Turkey, you can show Weasel and me where all this, er, excitement began. Henny, you take young Chicken Licken here to his aunt stroke uncle’s. Come, Weasel! We have mysteries to solve and innocents to protect.”
Weasel let out a long sigh. “I’ll probably just end up having my gonads fried by a radioactive Eskimo again but OK.”
“It certainly was most agreeable!” agreed Turkey Lurkey. “Why didn’t you have any, Weasel old boy?”
Weasel looked over from where he was sitting, near the door. “I figured that something would probably disagree with my digestion, so I though I’d save Vicks any embarrassment and abstain.”
“You could have had a cup of coffee.” Henny Penny suggested.
“Probably just scald myself,” came the morose reply.
“At least have an After Eight mint, dear chap.” Turkey Lurkey offered.
Weasel shook his head. “No thanks. Probably just drop it on the floor and leave a big chocolatey stain on the carpet.”
“But my dear fellow, there isn’t a carpet…”
“Just ignore him.” Foxy Loxy told his dinner guests. “Damned good copper but a miserable bugger, if ever there was one.”
“My Great Uncle Sid had a lovely copper roof.” Chicken Licken said. “But everyone said he was a jolly bugger.”
“Quite.” Foxy Loxy turned to Henny Penny. “I think we have all that we need in the way of a statement but it would be useful if you could show my colleague and me where these strange events occurred.”
“But we can’t go back there!” cried Chicken Licken. “Not where the sky’s falling in! We’ve got to go and tell the King.”
“Queen.” Corrected Turkey Lurkey the pedant.
“No. That was my Great Uncle Sid.”
“How about I contact the Queen and tell her about this?” asked Foxy gently. “Save you the trouble of going all the way to London.”
“No, please! Let the little guy go.” Goosey Loosy countered before Henny Penny elbowed him in the ribs.
Chicken Licken seemed to think it over. “OK. But I don’t want to go back there!”
“Why don’t you go and stay with your Great Aunt Sydney?” Henny Penny advised.
Foxy was confused. “I thought he said he had a Great Uncle Sid.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Golly,” said Turkey Lurkey.
Foxy Loxy stood up. “Well, that settles it. Turkey, you can show Weasel and me where all this, er, excitement began. Henny, you take young Chicken Licken here to his aunt stroke uncle’s. Come, Weasel! We have mysteries to solve and innocents to protect.”
Weasel let out a long sigh. “I’ll probably just end up having my gonads fried by a radioactive Eskimo again but OK.”
Thursday, 19 July 2012
Chapter 2.3
Chicken Licken, Henny Penny, Goosey Loosey and Turkey Lurkey were making haste through the forest for a far away land when they chanced upon Foxy Loxy.
“Allo, allo, allo. What have we here then?” asked Foxy Loxy.
“What ho, Foxy Loxy!” returned Turkey Lurkey, who was something of a P.G. Wodehouse fan.
“The sky is falling in,” blurted Chicken Licken. “And we are off to tell the Queen!”
“Are you quite mad?” Foxy Loxy asked, staring aghast at the young bird while his compatriots stared awkwardly at their feet. “Prince Philip would shoot you before you got within a hundred yards of the palace.”
“The sky’s not really falling in.” Henny Penny told him, shaking her head sadly at Chicken Licken, who was hopping anxiously from foot to foot.
“But it is raining tortoiseshells and frankfurters.” Goosey Loosey added, enthusiastically.
Foxy Loxy raised one eyebrow. “Is this some colloquial way of saying that it’s raining cats and dogs?”
Goosey Loosey shook his head. “No.”
“Raining cats and dogs is a colloquialism in itself,” said Turkey Lurkey, who was something of a pedant.
“And we don’t mean tortoiseshells as in cats," clarified Goosey Loosey, "but rather as in shells belonging to tortoises.” He paused. “And frankfurters as in sausages.”
Foxy Loxy raised the other eyebrow. “Raining animal carapaces and processed foodstuffs? It sounds like something fishy is afoot, and I’m not just talking about old Joe Goat’s bunions." He drew himself to full height, head aloft. "I have a nose for these things.”
“You have a nose for fishy sounds?” asked Chicken Licken, who was still slightly concussed and more than a little confused.
“No," Foxy smiled. "But I do think that this is a matter for the police. You’d better come with me to the police station and make a statement.”
Henny Penny eyed him suspiciously. “Is this where you actually lead us to your den and we get eaten by you and your family for dinner?”
“No, no,” Foxy Loxy protested. “You are thinking of my evil twin brother, Foxy Woxy. He’s the black sheep of the family.”
“Your brother’s a sheep?!” Chicken Licken was totally lost by now.
Foxy Loxy flashed them a badge that he had on a chain round his neck. “I’m a bona fide police animal investigator now.”
“That’s disgusting!” Henny Penny cried. “Those poor police dogs. Does Mrs Loxy know?”
“Bona fid-ee.” Goosey Loosey whispered to her.
“Oh. Sorry.” Henny Penny returned to staring at her feet, embarrassed.
“It’s true, he does work for the police,” confirmed Turkey Lurkey, who had been watching the discourse with wry amusement. He turned to Foxy Loxy. “Where’s Weasel?”
“I’m here,” came a morose voice from a pile of leaves.
“What ho, Weasel!" hollered Turkey Lurkey. "What are you doing down there?”
Weasel sighed. “I figured everyone would just ignore me anyway, so I thought I’d save some embarrassment.”
Henny Penny had eyed up Foxy Loxy’s badge with one beady eye, while keeping the other on the fox himself. “Good enough for me,” she said. “Let’s go.”
So Foxy Loxy led Chicken Licken, Henny Penny, Goosey Loosey, Turkey Lurkey and Weasel to his den, where he and his family had them all (except Weasel) for dinner.
“Allo, allo, allo. What have we here then?” asked Foxy Loxy.
“What ho, Foxy Loxy!” returned Turkey Lurkey, who was something of a P.G. Wodehouse fan.
“The sky is falling in,” blurted Chicken Licken. “And we are off to tell the Queen!”
“Are you quite mad?” Foxy Loxy asked, staring aghast at the young bird while his compatriots stared awkwardly at their feet. “Prince Philip would shoot you before you got within a hundred yards of the palace.”
“The sky’s not really falling in.” Henny Penny told him, shaking her head sadly at Chicken Licken, who was hopping anxiously from foot to foot.
“But it is raining tortoiseshells and frankfurters.” Goosey Loosey added, enthusiastically.
Foxy Loxy raised one eyebrow. “Is this some colloquial way of saying that it’s raining cats and dogs?”
Goosey Loosey shook his head. “No.”
“Raining cats and dogs is a colloquialism in itself,” said Turkey Lurkey, who was something of a pedant.
“And we don’t mean tortoiseshells as in cats," clarified Goosey Loosey, "but rather as in shells belonging to tortoises.” He paused. “And frankfurters as in sausages.”
Foxy Loxy raised the other eyebrow. “Raining animal carapaces and processed foodstuffs? It sounds like something fishy is afoot, and I’m not just talking about old Joe Goat’s bunions." He drew himself to full height, head aloft. "I have a nose for these things.”
“You have a nose for fishy sounds?” asked Chicken Licken, who was still slightly concussed and more than a little confused.
“No," Foxy smiled. "But I do think that this is a matter for the police. You’d better come with me to the police station and make a statement.”
Henny Penny eyed him suspiciously. “Is this where you actually lead us to your den and we get eaten by you and your family for dinner?”
“No, no,” Foxy Loxy protested. “You are thinking of my evil twin brother, Foxy Woxy. He’s the black sheep of the family.”
“Your brother’s a sheep?!” Chicken Licken was totally lost by now.
Foxy Loxy flashed them a badge that he had on a chain round his neck. “I’m a bona fide police animal investigator now.”
“That’s disgusting!” Henny Penny cried. “Those poor police dogs. Does Mrs Loxy know?”
“Bona fid-ee.” Goosey Loosey whispered to her.
“Oh. Sorry.” Henny Penny returned to staring at her feet, embarrassed.
“It’s true, he does work for the police,” confirmed Turkey Lurkey, who had been watching the discourse with wry amusement. He turned to Foxy Loxy. “Where’s Weasel?”
“I’m here,” came a morose voice from a pile of leaves.
“What ho, Weasel!" hollered Turkey Lurkey. "What are you doing down there?”
Weasel sighed. “I figured everyone would just ignore me anyway, so I thought I’d save some embarrassment.”
Henny Penny had eyed up Foxy Loxy’s badge with one beady eye, while keeping the other on the fox himself. “Good enough for me,” she said. “Let’s go.”
So Foxy Loxy led Chicken Licken, Henny Penny, Goosey Loosey, Turkey Lurkey and Weasel to his den, where he and his family had them all (except Weasel) for dinner.
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
Chapter 2.1
Chicken Licken, Henny Penny and Goosey Loosey were off to skip the country, when they bumped into Turkey Lurkey.
"I say, where are you three hurrying off to?" asked Turkey Lurkey.
"The sky is falling in." Chicken Licken informed him. "And we are off to warn the King."
"But we do not have a king," said Turkey Lurkey, who was something of a pedant. "We have a queen."
"He's received a blow to the head." Henny Penny explained, patting her little friend sympathetically. "The sky isn't really falling in."
"But it is raining tortoise shells." Goosy Loosey told him.
"Damn and blast, not again!" moaned Turkey Lurkey, who was also somewhat insane. "I thought that reptile monsoon season wasn't till June."
"I say, where are you three hurrying off to?" asked Turkey Lurkey.
"The sky is falling in." Chicken Licken informed him. "And we are off to warn the King."
"But we do not have a king," said Turkey Lurkey, who was something of a pedant. "We have a queen."
"He's received a blow to the head." Henny Penny explained, patting her little friend sympathetically. "The sky isn't really falling in."
"But it is raining tortoise shells." Goosy Loosey told him.
"Damn and blast, not again!" moaned Turkey Lurkey, who was also somewhat insane. "I thought that reptile monsoon season wasn't till June."
Monday, 16 July 2012
Chapter 1.4
Chicken Licken, Henny Penny and Goosey Loosey were enjoying an early breakfast in the woods when a twig came loose from an overhead tree and fell to earth, striking Chicken Licken square on the noggin.
"Aaah!" cried Chicken Licken. "The sky is falling in. We must go and warn the King."
"Elvis is dead, son," Goosey Loosey told him. "Let it go."
Henny Penny frowned at the two of them. "Look, Chicken Licken, we've been through this before. The sky isn't really falling in."
In the distance there was a loud bang.
"See!" exclaimed Chicken Licken. "There it is! There it is!"
Henny Penny opened her beak to reassure the little one but was cut off as a smoking tortoiseshell crashed through the trees and embedded itself in her breakfast.
"Stuff telling the king," said Goosey Loosey as a decidedly charred sausage on a toasting fork dropped out of the sky and landed beside him. "I'm on the first ethereal plane out of here!"
"Aaah!" cried Chicken Licken. "The sky is falling in. We must go and warn the King."
"Elvis is dead, son," Goosey Loosey told him. "Let it go."
Henny Penny frowned at the two of them. "Look, Chicken Licken, we've been through this before. The sky isn't really falling in."
In the distance there was a loud bang.
"See!" exclaimed Chicken Licken. "There it is! There it is!"
Henny Penny opened her beak to reassure the little one but was cut off as a smoking tortoiseshell crashed through the trees and embedded itself in her breakfast.
"Stuff telling the king," said Goosey Loosey as a decidedly charred sausage on a toasting fork dropped out of the sky and landed beside him. "I'm on the first ethereal plane out of here!"
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