Toad Type Thing (Part Two)

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

Some three hours later Toad was following a ragtag band of fifty or so heavily armed Pixies through a primeval looking section of the forest that he had never visited before. They hacked their way through the dense undergrowth beneath a stand of enormous broadleaved Tree Type Things of a species that he didn't recognise. To his surprise the Tree Type Things had faces on their ancient, pitted trunks, and they all had their eyes closed. “I've never seen trees with faces before,” Toad said to the Pixie King, who was carrying a machete. “Are they sentient?”

“Oh yes,” the King said. “They're usually in a pretty foul mood, and generally speakin' they lie their tits off, but sometimes you find one a bit cheerier 'oo's willin' to tell you reasonably 'onestly what's going on in the forest.”

“Bugger off, it's siesta time and we're trying to sleep!” one of the trees grumbled, its lurid green cat-like eyes almost as big as saucers.

“Yes, bugger off,” another one said. “You're not welcome here, so kindly turn around and go back wherever you bloody well came from.”

“We're looking for the aliens that landed in a ginormous teapot,” the King said. “Would any of you 'appen to know where they are?”

“They're thataway,” one of the trees said, pointing north with one of his branches.

“No they're not,” another one replied. “Ignore Mr. Jenkins, he's a sodding liar. They went thataway,” and he pointed due south. All of a sudden the remainder of the trees woke up and started their contradictory banter.

“You lying get, Smithy,” another one said, pointing north-east.

“You lying get, Pilkington.”

“You lying get, Bannister.”

“You lying get!”

“You won't get any sense out of them,” a particularly pretty lady Tree Type Thing said calmly. “They're mostly rapscallions and ne'er do wells and, to be frank, utter wankers.”

“Who are you calling an utter wanker, you bean-flicking, pine cone licking lezzie?”

“You're a wanker.”

“No, you are, Roper. You've got a box of Kleenex hidden in your hollow trunk and a copy of Foxy Fir Trees Monthly and Titanically Titted Tulip Trees that you don't think we know about, you dirty bastard.”

“Oh, shut up!” Toad said. “We're trying to talk to this nice lady Tree Type Thing. What's your name, ma'am?”

“Lesley,” the tree replied. “Lesley Anne Butterworth. Before you ask the giant teapot came over a few weeks back, it was wandering erratically, spluttering and emitting great clouds of oily smoke, I reckon it had engine trouble. It went south-east, and the little dicky birds nesting in my upper branches told me that it landed in the clearing by the abandoned Mince pie factory.”

“That's right,” a tiny Robin Type Thing said from the branches above Toad's head. “Mrs. Robin and I both saw it, and the horrible Lupin Folk that crawled out of it. Nasty little creatures dressed as Pixie Type Things, they were, only with lupin heads with cheap plastic Pixie masks strapped to them. They've been up to no good ever since – they said they're going to burn the forest down when they leave. And they have a huge piece of equipment with them, I don't know what it is, but it looks like a big piano. One of them sits at it and plays it, and it makes an infernal, ear-splitting row.

“The Intrinsically Dangerous Interplanetary 'Arpsichord,” the King muttered. “Thank you, Lesley and Mr. Robin, you've both been most 'elpful. Onwards, troops!”

*************************

Some forty minutes later the group reached the edge of a clearing, where they hid in a dense stand of Hazel. There was a roofless a tumbledown building at the other side, and the faded sign above the main entrance said 'Piddles' Mince Pies'. In the middle of the clearing was a ginormous yellow teapot with pink polka dots, it stood on three stumpy legs and a steel ladder led up to the round hole in its underside. To the right was a large contraption that looked like a church organ, and a little being with a bunch of lupins instead of a head was sitting before it playing Bermuda Triangle unreasonably swiftly.

“God, what a damn-awful racket,” Toad whispered. “It sounds like some prat dragging their nails down a blackboard.”

“The Intrinsically Dangerous Interplanetary 'Arpsichord was forged in the bowels of 'Ell itself, I reckon,” the King said. “It's a killer, an' as soon as the nasty Lupin Folk realise we're 'ere their senior musician will start playin' the really nasty tunes on 'is list. Get ready guys, and don't forget to do what I told you to do before we move in.”

“How are we going to tackle this, then?” Toad said, following the King's instructions to the letter.

“We 'ave to rush in, we 'ave to take the bastards by surprise. Some of us will fall, no doubt, but that can't be 'elped, it's for the common good. You all ready, guys?”

“Yes,” the Pixie Type Things mumbled.

“Ready, Toad?”

“I am,” he said, pulling his trusty pistol from its holster.

“Charge!” the King roared. “Take no soddin' prisoners!”

*************************

The army rushed across the clearing, taking the enemy by surprise. “Postes de combat, mon troops!” the senior musician yelled, and seventy or eighty Lupin Folk rushed out of the belly of the teapot like furious ants. “Attaquer!” The musician said, and he started playing The Crystal Chandeliers.

The noise that emerged from the Intrinsically Dangerous Interplanetary Harpsichord was like a million pots and pans falling onto concrete from a great height all at once, but Toad and the Pixies had dripped candle wax into their ears before their onslaught, so they escaped the worst of it. “Oh the crystal chandeliers light up the paintings on your wall,” the musician warbled. “The marble statuettes are standing stately in the hall. But will the timely crowd that has you laughing loud help you dry your tears when the new wears off of your crystal chandeliers.”

The Pixies laid into their foes, chopping and hacking with machetes and battle-axes and stabbing with pitchforks. The few Lupin Folk that had remembered to arm themselves fired their ray guns, but only a few Pixies fell.

“You won't get away with zis, you silly Pixies!” the musician yelled. “Especially you, you nasty English toad. I hate toads – I hate their sticky-out froggy eyes and their horrible warty skin! I 'ave another foul song up my sleeve for your delight – cop a load of zis!” He started playing McArthur Park, cutting straight into the chorus, which is surely the most appalling part. “Someone left the cake out in the rain, I don't think that I can take it, 'cause it took so long to bake it, and I'll never have that recipe agaaain! Oh nooooo!”

Toad desperately wanted to shoot the musician, but he had too many Lupin soldiers to deal with. Now and then a Pixie would stop in his tracks and put his hands over his ears, at which point the enemy troops dragged him to the ground.

“Ow about zis, then!” the musician yelled, and he began to sing Zoom by Fat Larry's band, which had to be Toad's least favourite track of all time. “Zoom, just one look and then my heart went boom, suddenly and we were on the moon, flying high on the neon sky, ooh! Bang, just one touch and all the church bells rang, heaven called and all the angel sang, sunrise shining in the morning sky, oh. Zoooooom! You chase the day awa-aa-ay. High noo-oon, the moon and stars came out to play, ooh-wooh ooh.”

After a hard battle when nearly all of the Lupin folk had fallen Toad stood before the musician and aimed his pistol between his eyes. “You know what this is, punk?” he growled. “It's a Magnum forty five, and it could blow your head clean off – I always wanted to say that.”

“You don't 'ave any bullets left, you stupid toad, I 'ave been counting. I am about to play the theme tune from Neighbours, and then your head is the one zat will be exploding – my Intrinsically Dangerous Interplanetary Harpsichord will finish you off no problem.”

“You wanna take a chance on that, punk?” Toad said. “Go ahead, make my day.” The musician looked down at the Harpsichord's keyboard indecisively and then back at Toad, fat beads of sweat running down the stalks of his silly looking lupin head, and his hands were trembling. Suddenly he made his move and Toad fired, the blast showering the clearing in lupin stalks and bits of leaves as the musician tumbled twitching beside his machine.

“Job done,” the King said. “'Ow many men have we lost? Fifteen? It's a sad day for us Pixie Type Things, and I'm not lookin' forward to informin' their kin. Bury our dead, boys, and then gather wood to burn these machines an' French alien corpses. Good riddance, you nauseating froggy bastards! No offence, Toad.”

“None taken,” Toad replied, shaking the King's hand.