The Implausible Escapades of Captain Custard #1

  • By Edith Carter (aged 10) and Simon Carter (aged 46) – as serialised in The Village Gazette, Calverton, Nottingham, UK. In this episode! The village’s newest (and to be honest, only) costumed superhero makes his first crime-fighting appearance in Calvo’s mean streets.

JIMMY SPINKS couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d had a plan, and to this point the plan had been perfect. He’d followed old Mrs Mallow from the cashpoint outside the Co-Op, where she stopped every Friday night to fetch her bingo money before walking down to the Geordie Club, and then stealthily nipped ahead to lie in wait for her in the shadows of the twitchel off Collyer Road. Then, as Mrs Mallow shuffled past, he’d leapt out from cover to snatch her handbag.

Jimmy Spinks hadn’t reckoned on old Mrs Mallow putting up a struggle. She was a sprightly eighty-two for sure, but certainly no match for Jimmy’s lumbering teenage burliness. This would all be over very quickly. Pounce from behind, steal the bag, scurry back into the darkness before Mrs Mallow had a chance to realise what was happening.

Jimmy hadn’t reckoned on any witnesses being around. At this time of night in this part of the village you’d get the odd dog walker, but that was about it, and dog walkers usually avoided the twitchel because the twitchel was dark and potentially occupied by unsavoury types. Unsavoury types like Jimmy Spinks.

And Jimmy certainly hadn’t reckoned on his attempted mugging of old Mrs Mallow being interrupted by a superhero.

At first, Jimmy didn’t think the mysterious intruder was a superhero. He thought he was a lunatic. The ridiculous-looking individual who’d suddenly appeared in front of him, as if from nowhere, didn’t cut an especially imposing or dynamic figure. He looked completely unfit to be fair, like he could use more trips to the gym and fewer trips to Fresh and Tasty.

And that costume. For surely that’s what it was, a costume. Nobody in their right mind would walk around looking like that unless they were on their way to a fancy-dress party.

‘Fear not, Mrs M,’ said the man in the bright yellow lycra suit, tight yellow underpants and billowing yellow cape, taking a precautionary puff on his bright yellow inhaler.

His voice was muffled because of the mask, but Jimmy could sense unease and nervousness in the tone.

‘Ay up, mi duk,’ responded Mrs Mallow, by instinct more than anything. Her eyesight was rubbish and she couldn’t really make out who the speaker was in the murk, later describing him to police officers as ‘a very kind and well-spoken six-foot banana.’

‘I shall save you, Mrs M,’ continued the man in the yellow suit, raising both his hands towards Jimmy.

‘Don’t think so, buddy,’ said Jimmy, advancing towards him with menace. A moonbeam glinted off the blade of the knife he’d just pulled out of his jacket.

‘Mrs Mallow? Duck,’ demanded the man in the yellow suit.

The old woman did her best to get out of the way as the unseen thug behind her violently flung himself at the giant banana.

A powerful jet of something yellow, gooey and warm took hapless Jimmy Spinks full in the face, temporarily blinding him. Whatever it was, it tasted just like something his nana used to make, which Jimmy thought was strange, as was this new sensation of suddenly hurtling backwards at great speed. Was Jimmy Spinks flying?

The would-be petty larcenist crashed into a tree as the sloppy yellow jets kept on coming, and coming. Jimmy was saturated now. The gunk had soaked into his clothes, his trainers. Every time he tried to stand he spectacularly slipped and fell over, unable to get any purchase in the sweet-smelling liquid slurry. He couldn’t see a thing because it was all over his face, in his eyes. And now, as the slurry began to harden, he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t … move!

Realising at last that Jimmy had been trying to pinch her bingo money, old Mrs Mallow raised one arthritic knee upwards into her assailant’s soft parts, just to help the giant banana out and teach this lad not to mess with her again. Jimmy groaned, mainly in agony but with a generous sprinkle of utter humiliation, then passed out.

Mrs Mallow, grinning triumphantly, turned to thank her hero because it was only polite. But the man was already airborne, already up, up and away. There was a mighty streak of yellow in the night sky over St Wilfrid’s Square.

+++

‘Never seen anything like it,’ said Detective Sergeant Mick Quimby, shaking his head.

It was morning. Jimmy was fully conscious now but they were still trying to free him from what forensics had called ‘that weird giant chrysalis.’

As Quimby scribbled in his notebook, and uniformed officers attempted to extricate Jimmy with hammers and chisels from the bizarre thing which had stuck him fast to the tree trunk, Detective Inspector Geena Dobbs thanked Mrs Mallow for her statement.

‘I think our Jimmy may learn a lesson or two from this, Mrs Mallow,’ said Dobbs, smiling. ‘I don’t think Calverton needs to live in fear of this particular criminal mastermind anymore.’

Jimmy was bang to rights. But what of the ‘giant banana’ of which Mrs Mallow had spoken? Who, or what, was he? Why had he come to Calverton? And how had he managed to disable this numpty with … she reached down and dipped a finger into one of the several puddles of thick, congealing yellow liquid spattered all over the crime scene.

She sniffed suspiciously at the lump of it on her finger. Then, grimacing, she took a taste, just to be sure.

It couldn’t be.

Just like her nana used to make.

Custard.

Quimby yelped, skittering in a puddle and falling down, hard, on his bottom.

  • Next month! Safely back at HQ, Captain Custard checks in with his brave young sidekick and plans his next crime-fighting move. Meanwhile, an old enemy resurfaces, intent on chaos. DAN-DAN-DAAAAAN!

Twinkles [Short Story]

  • WARNING: NOT FOR THE FAINT-HEARTED. ‘Tinkerbell’ meets ‘Tales Of The Unexpected.’ I don’t think ‘Writing Magazine’ wants me to enter any more adult fairy story competitions.

IT WAS, indeed, a sign of the times that even the fairies had resorted to theft.

Jan had collapsed at the first sniff of the magic dust, but Twinkles had reckoned without him falling across the doorway. The big oak door wouldn’t budge with three hundred pounds of bodybuilding Dutchman lying unconscious in front of it.

Jan, despite his fluttering assailant’s best efforts, wasn’t moving. Brute strength was never going to work. Twinkles was just two inches tall and Jan was a mountain. Also, Twinkles didn’t really know any proper magic, certainly nothing she could use in a situation like this. Twinkles had skipped fairy school far too often to learn anything more than the basics.

In fairness, she made a spectacular blend of fairy dust which had won her prizes at the Great Summer Fete, an event organised in her home town every year. Very popular the Fete had been too, right up to its ill-fated final year when it had been tragically razed to the ground by an inebriated dragon.

Now, thoughts of the Fete took Twinkles back to a dark place, a place where a hopeful young fairy’s life had been destroyed forever. Twinkles’ mother had been cruelly taken from her whilst innocently exhibiting chutney. Twinkles remembered hovering there, wings beating uselessly in the breeze, watching as the marquee went up like a firework in the savage, all-consuming furnace of a dragon’s burp.

As well as the fairy dust Twinkles could also, by twitching her nostrils, turn almost any potato into a hamster.

Twinkles bitterly regretted her magical limitations now. Her friend Dingle Dangle could have made Jan disappear with a flick of her wand. Piff Paff could have levitated him. Geoff could have passed straight through the door like a ghost.

Geoff didn’t have a fairy-sounding name like the other fairies.

But her friends weren’t there to help Twinkles now, and weeks of meticulous planning had ended in failure. She wouldn’t be able to pay Lamulax the Demon King his rent when he came calling, and he’d unleash his hounds on her.

Jan, regaining consciousness, interrupted Twinkles’ train of thought with a sudden grunt. Jan saw Twinkles spinning before his eyes, recoiled in terror and confusion, and lashed out clumsily in self-defence. It was futile. She was too fast. Jan took a desperate swing at his tiny, shiny nemesis, missed her completely, and tripped over his own feet, falling headlong down a nearby staircase.

Indifferent to the fate of the once more poleaxed Jan, Twinkles turned the door handle and entered the study.

Moonlight from the window behind Twinkles flooded the room. The diamonds spread across the antique mahogany desk reflected the moonbeams back at her. The gems sparkled seductively. Twinkles knew that her victim had planned to work into the night. She had timed it so well.

Markus Grunhild was slumped across his desk, fingers still touching the tumbler of brandy poured from the decanter Twinkles had drugged that morning. Presuming Grunhild had passed out during his first drink, which he would have poured – creature of habit as he was – at eight pm, he would have swallowed enough tranquiliser to keep him out for maybe an hour. The grandfather clock in the study was striking nine. Twinkles didn’t have long.

Oh no. Grunhild had fallen, head down, over the diamonds. Twinkles saw his fingers twitch. He was waking up and she’d have to act quickly.

Twinkles had first noticed Grunhild on a sunny morning two months ago when he’d flashed a smile outside one of Amsterdam’s most exclusive banks. Twinkles had seen the words ‘M. Grunhild’ stencilled in golden calligraphy on the expensive attaché case, eavesdropped on Grunhild telling a giant companion called Jan about a ‘consignment from Dubai’ and plans for a ‘secure inspection.’

Grunhild had stepped into an armoured vehicle with a silver briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. It was easy for the tiny fairy to follow the vehicle unobserved to its destination, a mansion cum fortress in the suburbs. No expense had been spared in equipping the premises with the latest high-tech security features. For any intruder to break in unnoticed they would need to be invisible or extremely small.

Small.

Like Twinkles.

Twinkles had learned more online at one of Amsterdam’s internet cafes, hopping from key to key, googling Grunhild. The man was a world-renowned authority on diamonds. The bank regularly brought him in from his office in Bremen, Germany, to value gems. This latest set was from Nigeria with an estimated value of more than five hundred and seventy million Euros.

Back in the present, Grunhild woke to find his arms and legs bound tightly to a chair. As he moved his head and upper body from the desk, Twinkles tugged hard on the cord she’d secured around his shoulders, snapping Grunhild upright.

As ghastly a surprise as this was for Grunhild, it was little compared to the sight of a firefly of strangely human appearance dancing malevolently in front of him. It was time for Twinkles to claim her loot. The back-up anaesthetic she’d already deployed into Grunhild was doing its work.

‘What … what are you doing?’ he managed before all feeling was lost and speech became impossible.

Twinkles may, for half a second, have wondered to herself how everything had come to this, but there was little conscience left in her now. She had crossed a line and was on a path which would lead her, kicking and screaming, into Tinkerhell.

The diamonds meant nothing, for they were as worthless as apple pips in Fairyland. What did pay the bills, however, was teeth. Gold-capped ones in particular. It was Grunhild’s own set of these, shining in the sun when he’d smiled, which had caught Twinkles’ eye outside the bank.

The CCTV camera in the study whirred on, but no-one was watching. The guards in the control room had long since been fairy-dusted.

Twinkles rummaged in her sack for an appropriate tool. She knew that Lamulax wouldn’t care if the rent was in less than pristine condition.

And so, with there being no real need for finesse, Twinkles the tooth fairy swung down the claw hammer.

copyright (c) carterbloke 2019

Photo credits

The following photos (with formatting effects added) used under Creative Commons licence.

  • Mordred Fairy c/o *Death Essence* (flickr.com)

Eye On The Road [Short Story]

  • This short story was first published in Calverton’s ‘Village Gazette’ in February 2019. 
Trevor the Cyclops

TREVOR HAD known about the eyesight test but hadn’t prepared for the unicorn’s buttocks. Trevor had begged his unicorn, Keith, to stay still, but the horn-headed blighter, highly-strung at the best of times, was having none of it. The registration number, stencilled on Keith’s gluteus maximus, swayed elusively from side to side as the wretched creature munched contentedly on the patch of magic toadstools on the grass in front of him.

‘I can’t see the number. I’m sorry,’ muttered Trevor, feebly. He quietly prayed for the earth to open up and swallow him. Literally. This had happened to his friend Andy last week, a demon from a hell dimension.

‘Are you sure, Mr Chuckles?’ asked the werewolf in the high-vis jacket. ‘I’d have expected this from a vampire bat, ‘cos they’re short-sighted, but not from something like you.’

It’s not the unicorn, thought Trevor. It’s my eyesight. The first cyclops in two millennia to be clinically diagnosed with blurred vision and I’m too humiliated to disclose it when booking my driving test.

‘I need to pass this test,’ Trevor whimpered. ‘Please. It’s important. I start my new job tomorrow at Trent Barton.’

A hairy Driving Examiner

‘If the new job involves passenger transport, Mr Chuckles,’ said the driving examiner werewolf ruefully, ‘I think we have a problem.’

The werewolf, momentarily distracted, gazed upwards, wrinkling his long, hairy snout. The full moon hung there in the night sky but morning was coming quickly. In an hour or two it would be dawn and he’d likely wake up naked in a skip with memory loss again. He needed for this shift to be over, and for a savage bloodthirsty rampage in the forest, in that order. He’d need to hurry this test along. He dipped a claw in an ink pot and began to fill out the paperwork.

‘A paper-based form?’ enquired Trevor, surprised.

‘And use the mobile IT solution with these claws?’ retorted the werewolf, unhappily. His union was still arguing with Driving Standards because they’d not considered werewolf needs in the Equality Impact Assessment for examiner tech. The griffins and wookies had similar concerns and the banshees were out on strike over it.

‘The registration number! It’s … it’s … KV99 B47!’ shrieked Trevor triumphantly. He’d put on his monocle this time. Also, Keith had temporarily stopped jiggling his tush, which was nice.

The werewolf peered across the vehicle park. A careful check of Keith’s erratically undulating fundament confirmed that Trevor had read the number correctly. The werewolf flipped through the handbook to check next steps.

Keith, a unicorn

‘A paper-based procedures manual?’ enquired Trevor, surprised.

‘And look it up online with these claws?’ retorted the werewolf, scanning the page in front of him.

Standards of vision for driving …’ said the manual.

You must be able to read with glasses or contact lenses (or with a monocle in the case of a visually-impaired cyclops) a vehicle registration number from 20 metres.

You must also meet the minimum eyesight standard for driving using both eyes together or, if you have sight in one eye only, using that eye, or, if you are a cyclops, using the only eye you have.

You must also have an adequate field of vision – your optician can tell you about this.

‘Do you have an optician?’ asked the werewolf.

‘I ate him,’ replied Trevor.

Oh. Then we might as well proceed, Mr Chuckles. Now, your vehicle. Could I ask you about emissions?’

‘Keith never eats sprouts.’

‘A manual unicorn or an automatic?’

The werewolf needed to be sure. A manual unicorn came with a gear stick between its eyes, but an automatic unicorn (otherwise known as a ‘horse’) didn’t. There were different driving test rules for automatic unicorns as any total prat could tell you.

‘It’s a manual unicorn,’ replied Trevor. ‘But it’s not mine – it’s a friend’s.’

Steve, a dragon

The cyclops extended an enormous arm and pointed a gnarled finger at a feisty looking dual-controlled dragon, battling to the death with some beardy men with knobbly sticks, at the far end of the vehicle park. The beardy men weren’t wizards, they just did Plough Plays.

‘That’s my ride over there. Steve! Come here!’

Trevor whistled for Steve. The dragon pricked up its ears obediently and, as a parting shot, incinerated a warlock called Nigel with a perfunctory belch. Steve the dragon came over to Trevor at a trot, viciously butting Keith out of the way en route. The unicorn whinnied and scarpered, leaving a large deposit on the grass.

As Steve came fully into view, the werewolf trembled in horror. Oh surely not. Not now. Not today. He’d almost made it to the end of his shift and everything. With creeping dread, and in terrifying certainty of what would happen, the werewolf scanned the disc suspended from the chain round the dragon’s neck …

Epilogue

‘I can’t start tomorrow,’ said Trevor, tearfully, down the telephone.

His new boss wasn’t impressed. Trevor could sense it.

‘It isn’t that I failed my driving test, Marjorie,’ he mumbled, choking back the tears. ‘It’s more that my test … didn’t happen.’

Marjorie the Harpy

‘And why exactly is that, Mr Chuckles?’ scowled the harpy (she was quite literally one of those).

Trevor struggled to find the words. It had all become too much to bear. In utter despair and submission, he broke down. Enormous, fat tears poured from his eye.

‘My vehicle … my vehicle ate the examiner,’ sobbed Trevor. ‘Gobbled him down in two big mouthfuls. And he was such a lovely werewolf, too. It must have been like snacking on a loo brush.’

There was silence at the other end of the telephone.

‘But … but I’ve got rid of Steve now,’ Trevor continued. ‘I’ve promised Driving Standards he’ll never devour a member of frontline operational staff again. It’s hard enough recruiting new people as it is, apparently. I feel so guilty. Like it’s all my fault. I should have known Steve would take it personally.’

‘Take what personally?’ asked Marjorie.

‘Well,’ sniffed Trevor. ‘It started when the werewolf told Steve his MOT had expired and his gear stick was crooked.’

copyright (c) carterbloke 2019

Photo credits

The following photo used under Creative Commons licence.

All other photos c/o Wikimedia Commons.