Christmas Special (part nine)

©2011 David Jasmin-Green

The entire building shook, and the doors lining the reception hall burst open one by one. A horde of Vikings rushed into the room via door eight, complete with the horned helmets that Ian's history teacher, a sadly informed Mr. Evans, claimed they had never worn, and a flotilla of midget Daleks came through one of the opposite doors to meet them. The two radically different armies checked each other out for a few seconds, and one of the Vikings shouted something unintelligible in a language that Ian assumed was archaic Norse.
“Don't-be-such-a-moron, you-unwashed-Norse-dolt, we-could-frazzle-you-in-an-instant,” the golden Dalek, who was obviously the leader, replied in a flat, distinct Dalek monotone. “That-long, swiftly-decomposing-streak-of-camel-piss-in-the-red-cassock-and-flashing-headgear-is-the-enemy, not-us. Exterminate! Exterminate! You-will-obey!
Mangle-the-Rev-with-your-primitive-weapons, you-hairy-bastards. Ravish-him. No, on-second-thoughts-he'll-probably-enjoy-that, so-make-him-have-it-in-some-other, non-sexual-way. Ensure-that-he-suffers-terribly, but-kindly-leave-the carcass-reasonably-intact, or-you're-going-back-into-the-history-books-where-you-bloody-well-belong. Silence-that-ridiculous-Jingle-Bells-hat-immediately, because-it's-seriously-getting-on-my-tits. In-honour-of-Spike-Milligan, God-rest-his-soul, put-the-Rev-in-the-curry!”
A vast flow of bunny rabbits poured in through door one and furiously bit the Rev's ankles and lower legs as the Daleks fired their sonic weapons into the air in a random show of force and the Vikings ran towards him with their swords and battle axes raised. A couple of dozen huge crabs burst through the walls from all directions, not bothering with the etiquette of using the doors, which were way too small for them, and they were followed by an army of even bigger mutant octopus that walked on four modified tentacles, waved their remaining limbs around ominously and did little else..... Just then a huge crack opened up in the middle of the floor; Ian managed to jump over it moments before a plague of blood red beetles poured out of the rumbling crevice and headed for the Rev, who was doing his best to fight off the rabbits with a large potted palm tree.
“I told you you were overdue for a serious tumble, Rev,” Ian shouted as he ducked under the carapace of a truck sized crab that completely disregarded him – he guessed the oversized crustacean was too focused on its real enemy to bother with small fry like him. “See ya later, alligator.”
“Aaaaaagh, mummy!” the Rev screamed. “BUSTED PISTON ENGINES, COLLANDERS MINUS THE LITTLE HOLES AND SEXUALLY CONFUSED POLAR BEARS ON CRYSTAL METH. HYDROGEN FILLED VENTRILOQUISTS' DUMMIES FLOATING IN A CALM, CLOUDLESS SKY, THEIR BLOATED FACES SMILING IDIOTICALLY AS THEY DRIFT SLOWLY BENEATH THE ANTIQUE DIRIGIBLE IN WHICH I INTEND TO MAKE MY ESCAPE. CUSTARD FILLED SAXOPHONES, CHEESY FORESKINS AND HIGHLY POLISHED ELM TABLES SPLATTERED WITH BRAINS! I repeat - Aaaaagh! Help me, you total QUACK arse, and I'll grant you anything you desire in the whole, wide world. JUSTIN TROUSERSNAKE TIMBERLAKE IS A MIDGET IN TOO TIGHT UNDERPANTS WHO'S TRYING TO FOOL THE WORLD INTO BELIEVING THAT HE'S BLACK! Save me, please..... COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO! I'll give you anything at all, Archbishop CLUCK CLUCK, BARK Tutu. If you choose not to intervene and these assorted horrors tear asunder the body I'm MOO currently inhabiting, don't for a moment think that that's the end of me. Oh no! I'll simply assemble another one in the nether regions of hell, and then I'll come looking for you. I'll find you, Glenda Jackson, you'd better believe it, and when I do I'll bum you slowly to death, boyo..... ” A particularly vicious looking Viking whacked the Rev on the head with a large battle axe and he fell into a no doubt unwelcome carpet of bunnies.
“Excuse me, Sirs,” Ian said to a phalanx of tightly packed Vikings, and thankfully they parted and let him through, which left him directly in the path of a forty strong group of Daleks.
“Who-the-fuck-are-you?” the golden Dalek said.
“I'm Ian James,” he replied. “And before you even think about it, you can't exterminate me - I've just won you your sodding freedom!”
“I'm-struggling-to-understand-you, human,” the golden Dalek said. “Please-speak-more-slowly-and-precisely, or-I'll-lose-patience-and-order-your-instant-extermination-without-worrying-about-the-piffling-issue-of-your-identity.”
“I-am-Ian-James,” Ian said as mechanically as he possibly could. “I'm-the-one-who-”
“Put-him-in-the-curry!” one of the other Daleks interrupted.
“Affirmative!” they all said in unison. “Exterminate-him. Kick-his-feeble-knackers-in. Pull-off-his-weak, spindly-limbs, suck-out-his-brains-through-a-straw-and-devour-them-raw. Mince-his-succulent-flesh-and-juicy-innards-and-grind-his-bones. Mix-the-resulting-paste-in-a-large-pan, add-onions, coriander, fenugreek, garlic, loads-of-hot-Chile-peppers-etcetera-etcetera. Oh, and-maybe-some-sage-and-onion-stuffing-seeing-as-it's-the-silly, time-wasting-human-celebration-referred-to-as-Christmas. Bring-to-the-boil-and-simmer-over-a-low-flame-for-approximately-ninety-minutes-and-serve-with-poppadums-and-a-fucking-massive-table-naan. Exterminate! Put-him-in-the-curry! Put-him-in-the-curry! Put-him-in-the-curry!”
“Hang-on,” Ian said. “I-am-Ian-James, you-tin-plated-dickheads. I'm-the-guy-responsible-for-freeing-you-from-your-bondage. I'm-the-one-who-figured-out-how-to-bring-down-the-Ice-Palace-and-topple-the-merciless, supposedly-all-powerful-tyrant-known-as-the-Rev.”
“Aah, I-recognise-you-all-of-a-sudden,” the golden Dalek said. “Oh-my-God! Hail-Tom-Selleck! You-are-our-hero. Squeal! We-are-eternally-grateful-for-your-assistance. Squeal! I-hope-you-will-accept-a-little-Christmas-present-from-us. Squeal! It's-nothing-much, buddy, just-a-t-shirt, a-commemorative-mug-and-a-certificate-stating-that-you-are-a-shit-hot-warrior-and-an-honourary-Dalek. I-really-loved-your-manly-moustache, Tom. Pity-you-shaved-the-fucker-off, but-I-understand-why, nudge-nudge, wink-wink, say-no-more. Your-secret-is-safe-with-us.”
“You-shouldn't-have, but-thanks-anyway,” Ian said. “I'm-sorry-to-dissapoint-you, but-I-am-not-Tom-Selleck. I-am-Ian-James. I-A-N J-A-M-E-S. Got-it? ”
“Hail-Magnum-PI! Squeeeeeal!” the Daleks all yelled at once.
“You'd-better-be-Tom-Selleck, laddie,” the golden Dalek said, “or-we-might-have-to-exterminate-you-for-impersonating-our-hero.....” Ian decided to leave it at that.
“Oh-holy-shit!” one of the Daleks said. “We're-too-late-to-exterminate-the-Rev, because-those-bunny-rabbits-and-arse-hole-Vikings-bet-us-to-it-while-we-were-distracted. They've-ripped-him-to-bloody-pieces, and-now-those-beetle-thingies-are-munching-down-his-meagre-remains, so-there'll-be-sod-all-left-to-put-in-the-curry. Bollocks, I'm-absolutely-fucking-starving.”
“Never-mind,” Ian said as the Ice Palace began to disintegrate and huge chunks of ice tumbled all around them. “There's-an-Indian-buffet-restaurant-on-Barrow-road-just-around-the-corner. You-can-all-eat-as-much-as-you-like-for-a-tenner, once-we-get-out-of-this-mess, that-is. I-don't-know-how-we're-going-to-achieve-that, though, because-all-hell-is-breaking-loose. The-ground-is-opening-up-into-a-series-of-deep, lava-filled-crevices, and-even-if-we're-not-devoured-by-the-Earth-we'll-probably-be-crushed-by-falling-debris.”
“Don't-be-a-Silly-Billy,” the golden Dalek said. “Haven't-you-seen-the-new-series-of-Doctor-Who, you-uneducated-imbecile? When-you-were-a-kid-Daleks-were-lumbering-creatures-who-were-flummoxed-by-stairs, but-times-have-changed. Our-technology-is-constantly-improving, and, hey-presto, now-we-have-debris-deflecting-force-fields-and-we-can-bloody-fly. Haar-haar-di-fucking-harr! Jump-on, Tom, I'll-give-you-a-lift.”
“Fuck-that, you're-a-midget-Dalek!” Ian grumbled. “You're-barely-two-feet-tall, and-I-doubt-very-much-if-you'll-be-able-to-carry-my-weight.”
“I'm-turbo-charged, you-complete-fanny,” the golden Dalek replied. “Get-on-and-hold-tight, because-Daleks-are-puddled-bastards-and-we-have-no-respect-for-your-backward-country's-maniac-deterring-speed-limits.”
“Oh-I-almost-forgot,” Ian said. “What-about-the Vikings? Aren't-they-good-guys? Do-they-get-to-hitch-a-ride-outta-here-with-us, or-what?”
“That's-a-very-difficult-question, Tom,” the golden Dalek said after a moment's thought. “They-aren't-really-good-guys, but-then, I-suppose, neither-are-we. I-think-it's-best-to-leave-them-here-and-let-them-find-their-own-Valhalla, if-Valhalla-exists, and-I-seriousl-doubt-that.”
“Fair-enough,” Ian said after his own period of reflection. “That's-an-extremely-thought-provoking-answer, you-shiny, golden-git.”

The convoy of Daleks took off and soared into the snow-filled air, huge chunks of debris harmlessly bouncing off them, and a short time later they dropped Ian off at the bottom of Hannaman road under the Scots pines. “Here's-your-t-shirt, commemorative-mug-and-certificate, Tom,” the golden Dalek said, handing Ian a surprisingly well-wrapped present. “Can-I-have-a-signed-photo-for-my-missus-and-not-for-me-at-all, please? The-lads-and-I-have-seen-every-single-episode-of-Magnum-P-I-over-and-over-and-over-again, and-we-never-ever-get-tired-of-it. We-admire-the-totally-unpredictable-plot-lines, your-flawless, unbelievably-professional-acting-and-your-improbably-vast, marvellously-bushy-moustache, you-loveable-if-somewhat-over-hirsute-swine. We're-well-fucking-jealous, you-complete-bastard, because-Daleks-are-incapable-of-growing-facial-hair. Bugger!”
“Let's get-this-clear,” Ian said. “I-am-not-Tom-Selleck, and-I'm-not-carrying-any-photographs-of-him-whatsoever. Not-even-one-for-emergencies. And-if-you-don't-like-that-inescapable-truth-I-guess-you'll-have-to-exterminate-me. Do-you-understand?”
“Oh-yes-you-are!” the golden Dalek said. “Can-I-have-a-lock-of-your-tight, curly-chest-hair-in-lieu-of-a-photo-to-keep-next-to-my-rapidly-beating-triple-hearts-and-console-me-during-the-long, lonely-winter-nights-in-hyperspace, you-incomparably-sexy-beast?”
“Oh-no-I'm-not,” Ian replied, “I-never-have-been-and-I-never-will-be. And-no, you-fucking-well-can't-have-a-lock-of-my-chest-hair, you-little-perv.”
“I-understand,” the golden Dalek said. “You're-sick-of-being-mobbed-by-hordes-of-adoring, cock-hungry-women, you-big, handsome-hunk, which-explains-why-you-shave-off-your-magnificent-stache-between-each-series. That's-all-it-is, isn't-it, you-bloody-spoilsport? I-suppose-a-peck-on-the-cheek-is-out-of-the-question, you-beautiful, beautiful-man.”
“Yes, it's-completely-out-of-the-question,” Ian sighed.
“All-right, you-complete-prick-teaser,” the golden Dalek said. “Where's-this-sodding-restaurant, then? We're-bloody-famished.” After Ian and the Daleks said their not particularly emotional goodbyes the Daleks trundled off in the direction of the Taj Mahal buffet restaurant and Ian began to make his way home through the snow feeling weary but thoroughly exhilarated. “P-S, Merry-Christmas, Tom,” the Daleks called, waving their ray gun thingies frantically.
“P-P-S, Merry-Christmas, Daleks,” he replied.