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Mostly satirical short stories
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Kifffarces (3) - Kiff does the Lambeth Walk, part 1

Posted 08-26-18 at 04:35 AM by Luthien

One fine day, the infamously bloodcurdling rock act Kiff was strolling down Lambeth Road, doing the Lambeth Walk, or, as the case might be, to the degree their Scary Outfits allowed them to.

Passers-by reacted appropriately: elderly ladies shrieked and hid themselves, Japanese tourists took pictures, and someone from Inverness had jumped into the Thames. As might be expected, all this had attracted the attention of Police Constable 2nd class Q.D. Barrington, who happened to be on duty in that district.

"Blimey!" he thought by himself as he approached the Diabolical Foursome, who seemed to be engrossed in an introverted tripping-foxtrot, "the missus' never going to believe this!"

"Now then, now then now then!" he exclaimed in the most amiable tone of his professional repertoire, "What's all this then, lads? Going to a ball all dressed up, are we?"

The Dismaying Quartet clattered to a halt and leered at the policeman with eight eyes. The drummer started to giggle, and then spoke:

"Grunt rhârh *BRÂHPS* grunt... snorrrt, groinc."

The bass player raised his index finger: "What he's trying to say, Sergeant, is that we're doing some mighty fine sightseeing in your wonderful city!"

"Sight-seeing?" Q.D. Barrington repeated surprised, "Blimey! I've never seen such sight-seeing before and the missus knows I've seen some!" He turned towards the other two: "You there, gents, can you offer any explanation regarding the extraordinary circumstances of the remarkable proceedings, such as I'm observing at this very moment, being right now?"

The lead guitarist, definitely the most scary of the four, looked taken aback despite his make-up, and said in a contemptuous tone: "Glabl blahw hluhl izz ‘eah owtoh hwâ-ingg seehdr! Llôlb ohtôh blol.”

“I’m sorry, sir?” Q.D. Barrington inquired, raising his left eyebrow.

“He’s saying, ehm, that we have got every, ehm, flopping, eh, right to walk here on this, eh, wonderful street” the bass player translated helpfully. “You see sir, he’s got his tongue extended to about a foot long.”

Up went Q.D. Barrington’s other eyebrow as well: “A foot? My, what on earth is that good for?”

“Well”, the bass player answered, “don’t you Britons know that saying over here … ’whoever wants to be beautiful has suffer limiting their speech to postalveolar sibilants and labial consonants’ ?”

Q.D. Barrington nearly choked on that one, but he managed to hide that thanks to years of ruthless facial expression control training that was the pride of the Greater London police force.

“Well, well .... *cough* ... I'm sure you do” he said, “still, I say we all have a little chat at the office about the whole matter, sibilants notwithstanding. That way, gents, if you please?” He pointed west with his baton.

The Intimidating Foursome stood indecisive for a moment.

“All right then, come on, there's a good sport, chop chop!” Q.D. Barrington insisted, and the Terror-oozing Rock Giants dilly-dallied reluctantly down the street towards the Tower, with their spikes and chains rattling, softly cursing and grumbling to themselves.

* * *

One and a half hour later they found themselves locked up in the "Suspicious Aliens” block of the London Tower.

“Here’s another fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into”, the bass player grumbled. The three others said nothing, but sat defiantly on the wooden benches, arms akimbo, doing their best to project an intimidating kind of affronted dignity.

Suddenly, there was some consternation in the next cell: a large looming figure was shoo’d inside and the iron bar door was locked again.
“GASP!!”, the Fourfould Angst-projectors gasped in unison, as they discerned the hulking figure in the cell next to them.

Their new neighbour turned towards them and they heard a tinny voice that sounded:
“[BEEP] Houston, we DO have a problem [BEEP] I repeat: we DO have a problem *CHCHT* Report back, running full diagnosis on sub-systems, confirm roger alpha in fourteen hundred [BEEP] *CHCHT* [BEEP]”
“It’s the Spaceman!” the drummer exclaimed. "Again!"

And, as they eyes slowly adapted to the low light again, they could see that he was right: it was an astronaut, in EVA suit and all - but this time he carried a rusty plumber’s toolbox that looked strangely old-fashioned and inept contrasted with the bulky high-tech outfit of the Spaceman.
“[BEEP] Well, actually, I am a plumber [BEEP]”, the Spaceman replied, “[BEEP] although I’m specialised in Space-plumbing: zero-gravity toiletry, vacuum hot water tanks, you name it! Your request is our demand.[BEEP]”
His large silhouette sagged a little.
“[BEEP] Here’s another fine mess I’ve gotten myself into [BEEP]”, he added. “[BEEP] What are you guys in here for [BEEP]?”
“Well, nothing, actually”, the bass player replied. Just doing the Lambeth Walk, but that isn’t illegal, especially in London it ain’t, one would think.”
“[BEEP] I hear ya mate. The only thing I did [BEEP] *CHCHCHT* Houston? Roger! X-2 report due please![BEEP] *CHCHT* was to land my LM on the premises of Buckingham Palace to study the historically significant plumbing they reportedly have there.[BEEP]”

The space-man ambled up to the iron bars that separated their cells.
"[BEEP] Hey guys? Mind if I ask you a personal question [BEEP?]"
The bass player reluctantly turned towards his scary comrades, who looked as if they had been offered a plate full of stir-fried black liquorice in sugared mustard gravy.

So he answered: "Eh, as long as it's not too personal, you know. We're sort of bound with these ... eh ... non-disclosure things ... music business stuff, that sort of thing. You know."
He looked at his colleagues, hoping for some support. But the drummer only spat on the floor. "I'm sure you understand..." the bass player concluded hopefully, addressing the space-man.

He couldn't help wondering how someone in such a bulky outfit managed to look so eager.
"[BEEP] No worries mate [BEEP], no worries at all [BEEP] I's just that your unusual outfit had got me thinking [BEEP] so I had a couple of them white-shirted dudes in Houston [BEEP] - you must have seen 'm on tv ... they're all sitting [BEEP] behind those rows of computer monitors and button panels all the time [BEEP] ... anyway ... [BEEP] ... I asked them to look closely at my live helmet video feed [BEEP] and one of them said: 'hey' ... [BEEP] ... 'isn't that that pop group Alan's such a huge fan of?' [BEEP] 'Who signed his [BEEP] records?' ... ... ... [BEEP]"
The bass guitar player didn't quite know what to say.
"[BEEP] *CHCHCHT* Pullulating Pinkerton, Pullulating Pinkerton, over *CHCHT* [BEEP] Pullulating Pinkerton here, Houston *CHCHT* [BEEP] Roger! Any news yet on the ID of incarcerated act? *CHT* [BEEP] That's a Z-negative, Houston. I repeat, a Z-negative. [BEEP] *CHCHHT* Roger [BEEP] *CHT* They somehow don't seem to appreciate the question, Houston [BEEP] *CHHHT* Okidoki, over *CHHT* [BEEP] They seem to be ... sulking [BEEP] *CHT* *crackle* Pullulating Pinkerton, what was that? Over *CHCHT* [BEEP] *CHT* that's ... Sierra, Uniform, Lima, Kilo, India, November, Golf, Houston *CHHT* [BEEP]"
(Continued in part 2)
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