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 Post subject: New Chronicles - Vol 1
PostPosted: Sun Jul 27, 2008 1:27 pm 
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New Chronicles
Vol 1, Part 1


Soundtrack: The Campfire Headphase - Boards of Canada


In the lazy heat of midsummer bees bounce in languid but feverish productivity between the smiley-faced daises on the extensive, manicured lawn. The Koi in the Reflection Pool gather at the surface to gulp air in the hope that this might get them some attention. A peacock mewls plaintively somewhere out of sight. Dragonflies dart amongst the bullrushes around the Bottom Pond with all the predatory grace of Hind attack ships and, overhead, a few clouds as fluffy and threatening as spring lambs drift across a sapphire blue sky.

Round the back the stables take pride of place between the croquet lawn and the orchard. At one end of the stables, where a recently constructed extension joins them to the main building, is the sauna and plunge pool area. Beyond the stables is an outdoor swimming pool. Further out, past the immediate environs of this grand old stately home, are things not generally found on country estates: there are a velodrome and a BMX track, for starters. The house itself, if 'house' can be used to describe a building such as this, is an architectural anomaly. While the materials of its construction are ordinary enough, being primarily good, honest stone; it appears to have been designed by a bastard lovechild of Gaudi and Tresham conceived during ritual sex under the influence of DMT. It has a hazy, slightly warped appearance, as if it exists in more dimensions than can be seen with the naked eye. There are apparently inaccessible doors and a set of steps on the second-story roof that stops abruptly in mid-air. The whole edifice gives the impression of constant movement, lending a surreal semblance of animation to the carvings and grotesques residing on the corners and buttresses.

This lavish estate is the headquarters of that eminent bastion of cycling adventurers known to the illuminati and the intelligentsia as the League of Genetlemen Cyclists and the Intrepid Sorority — more often shorted to "the League". Born in the mists of time several universes and timelines ago, the League has survived cataclysm, betrayal, mutiny, disaster and the unwanted attention of the Legions of Spam.

They are a tough breed of genteel non-conformists: an iron fist in an velvet glove, or just an iron glove if the Chairman has been misreading instructions in the Laboratory again. Their reputation is a mix of myth and legend amongst those rare few who have heard it. While the gates to this velocipedist's paradise remain resolutely open for brethren lost and brethren new, there is no great crowd pressing to gain entry.

The first rule of the League is: ride.
The second rule of the League is: ride.
The third rule of the League is: don't mess with the malt loaf.
The fourth rule of the League is...
Oh, who can be arsed with stupid bloody rules anyway? And I thought it was flapjacks, not malt loaf. Anyway. Who's for a pint of the black stuff?
Don't start all that again! Lance isn't even riding the bloody Tour any more!


Ah. It has already begun.

Chuffy and Bags are lounging on comfy chairs in the small yard between the main dining hall and the stable block, watching Le Tour on the telly Jarvis has brought out on an extension cord. They are eating Mrs P's delectable Amaretti Cassata ice cream with om-nom-noms of pleasure. The om-nom-nomming is liberally interspersed with flavours of invective not normally found in ice cream*, aimed at the whining little Aussie dog-fondler. He might have been the favourite to win but the brothers Schleck seem to have him on a well-handled choke chain.

The reason that the television has been brought outside is because Jarvis has forbidden bicycle maintenance in the Lounge. Although the argument was made that the suspiciously greasy stains on the carpet were not necessarily the result of indoor fettling, he was quite firm on the matter.

Jarvis holds the key to the armoury.

RB and the Chairman are both engaged in bike-fiddling. In ordinary circumstances they could have got the spare telly and plugged it into one of the sockets in the Workshop, but the Chief Engineer is up to his neck in some sort of ultra-black, secret project and there's not enough room in there to swing a chainwhip.

Blackpuddinonnabike is also present and correct, even if he is, at this present time, sorting through his collection of chicken photographs so he can show the best ones to Helen when she comes round later. Heretic is busy making walnut cake for the Chief Engineer's birthday, even if he doesn't know that yet. Rev Will is wondering whether to make an appointment to see Spen about getting some sort of robust defence in place for the moment the rest of the Edinburgh mob realise it has been some time since anything was said about the overnighter to Lindisfarne that was supposed to happen at the end of July. Redshift is not here today, having much better toys elsewhere with which to enjoy the toughest stage of the world's most famous bicycle race, while Pagan and Software Sorceror are probably doing unspeakable things in the Dungeon to celebrate Pagan's recent return to two wheels. It's entirely possible that Zipperhead has gone down to offer encouragement and suggestions.

All in all it's a perfectly normal, untoward day at the League, devoid of any excitement or adventure and offering nothing in the way of extra-curricular activity. It is hardly surprising: this year's assault on the Dumb Run left a miasma of unfinished business in its wake. The pentagrammatic configuration produced by the swelling of the First Four by recently-joined Erron resulted in a ferocity of elemental opposition previously unheard-of in League history. The Chairman's successful completion of the Dunwich Dynamo on recently-acquired Brompton Hannibal notwithstanding, one would be forgiven for thinking that the League's historic successes in their fight against the Great Humungous had been noted by the Universe at large and that the Powers That Be had decided to take them down a peg or two, lest it go to their heads. Perhaps, one might imagine, that is why the League's numbers have dwindled to the point where a Giant Panda might feel a pang of sorrow at their potential imminent loss. One may even consider that the League remains safe in the comfort of its stronghold out of some sense of self-preservation, and that the members who no longer frequent the well-tended grounds and creature comforts of the bar stay away out of fear that they too will come to the attention of inhuman forces. For it could not possibly be that they are concerned about their capacity to make polite but witty conversation about things of no consequence, could it?

'Feck!' Ravenbait glares at her bicycle with unconcealed fury. 'That's the bearing gone on the front hub, and I just redid the bloody bar tape!'

'What what?' Andygates favours her with a quizzical expression. 'Pop them out and put in new ones and stop whining woman!'

'Jarvis!'

The butler appears as if from nowhere. He is, after all, related to the keeper of the costume shop frequented by Mr Ben, albeit distantly.

'Yes, madam?'

'I need bearings. And a drink. And a bottom bracket extractor. And a flapjack. And a flat head screwdriver. And a drink. And ice cream because it's too damned hot today. And get rid of this bloody chicken!'

Jarvis retrieves the hen perching on Shackleton's bars without batting an eye and tucks it under his arm. The bird makes noises expressing its discontent.

'Does madam have any particular preference for the order of delivery of her requirements?' He is utterly deadpan and yet his disapproval at RB's peremptory manner is plain. She remains oblivious, still frowning at her front wheel.

'Those birds are dinosaurs in disguise, I swear.'

'With all due respect,' Jarvis intones, 'I would recommend that madam partake of refreshment that does not include either caffeine or sugar as its main constituents. Would madam be satisfied with some German lager?'

'I haven't raced today, Jarvis!' RB replies irritably.

'In which case I shall fetch something more suitable. I shall return directly, after I have put Madam Liz's bird in its pen.'

Jarvis makes a polite bow and retreats. As he does so the chicken under his arms swivels its head to glare at the cyclists and makes a soft, low, contemplative 'werk'.

§ § §


One might be forgiven for thinking that the League's recent history, filled as it is with conflict and loss, has pulled the teeth of this most estimable of cycling fraternities. It would be entirely understandable to assume that the events of the past year or so, and the losses it has sustained, have rendered its members impotent and insular.

Or maybe, just maybe, they're waiting for the Universe to realise it needs people like them. Whether it likes it or not.

----

* cunt-faced whinge-bag ripple can be done to special order at M. Bovary's Parlour D'Ice in Lyons, but requires 6 months notice.


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PostPosted: Sun Jul 27, 2008 8:12 pm 
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:claps:

Speaking of knackered hubs. We had to stop after 15 miles today when Bob's rear hub seized. On his newly built up bike.
He later admitted to 'nipping up' after Pingu has rebuilt the wheel. :roll:
Fascinating fact: Belgian chickens neither cluck nor 'werk'. They 'bobobobob'.

I like the roomier premises, as well as the better weather :)

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PostPosted: Sun Jul 27, 2008 10:37 pm 
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As the late lamented Frankie Howerd did quoth:

Yay, yay, and thrice yay!

I always thought that chooks went "bork!", or was that just an amusingly inept Swedish chef? :mrgreen:

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PostPosted: Mon Jul 28, 2008 12:38 pm 
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Methinks there's something fishy about them chickens ...

... or a meringue?

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PostPosted: Mon Jul 28, 2008 2:40 pm 
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It'll be a fairly rough cake if I'm making it! :doh: and I think the Aussie Failure looks like the Crazy Frog. :whistle:
Nice one Sam. :claps:

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PostPosted: Mon Jul 28, 2008 4:19 pm 
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:mrgreen: :mrgreen: :mrgreen:

My chooks go 'bok'. What I did to get some South African chooks I don't know...

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PostPosted: Mon Aug 04, 2008 7:38 pm 
Pagan emerges from the dungeon to the soft glow of another summer sunset. The sorcerer is safely roped in place, taking a breather from exertions in the dungeon. There is a month of this, while we are, temporarily, a childless couple. He'll keep.

Passing the fettlers, she heads for the design library to inspect resources for companion trikes - still as far off a dream as the soundless, electrically driven Aston Martin - and from there drifts up the staircase to check through her wardrobe for a suitable corset for the evening's entertainment.

The bikes are sleeping, dreaming of the clatter of wheels across the tracks from the garage to the road, stirring only as they recall the last outing with the young master, before his departure to summer camp... the smallest of the bikes chuckling in its slumber as it dreams of the new saddle and changes to ride height planned before the boy returns.

Pagan passes BPOAB and brushes a hand through his hair, ruffling it, as he sorts his dinosaur photo collection. She has no truck with chooks of any description, other than for culinary purposes.

Passing the kitchen, she begs the newly baked tarte aux myrtilles, a jug of cream and the large pair of tongs... she slips back down the stairs to the dungeon, where Himself awaits...


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PostPosted: Wed Aug 06, 2008 7:44 pm 
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Although he’s been a member almost since the founding of the League, SteveC is not often to be seen on the premises. His other responsibilities preclude this. However, today is one of his rare visits. Unnoticed by the other members, he quietly slips into the grounds and heads for the stables. He seems to be having a conversation with his bike, Leo.
“I’m sure they’ll be friendly”.
“Just because Peregrine’s bottle cages cost more than you did, doesn’t mean he won’t speak to you”.
“Yes, I know we never go for miles and miles like some of these bikes, but at least we get out everyday. Some of them are stabled for months at a time. You wouldn’t like that!”
“Anyway, we have had adventures of our own. Ask how many of them have been swimming!”

This seems to pacify the bike enough to allow him to be stabled. SteveC then turns towards the main club house. As he does do, there is an unmistakable ‘chink’ of bells from his messenger bag. He grabs the bag to muffle the sound and continues towards the main building.

“I wonder what the guest ale is today?”


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PostPosted: Wed Aug 06, 2008 11:34 pm 
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Speedy, and redshift's tourer sidle up to Leo when nobody's watching.
"Swimming, mate? Not you as well...?"

Leo suddenly feels a bit more at home.

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PostPosted: Fri Aug 08, 2008 8:44 pm 
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Thanks for the input.

Can I just remind everyone that this is reader-generated fiction: if you post a suggestion I will do my best to incorporate it into the plot, and that's most of the fun for me...

Sam

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PostPosted: Fri Aug 08, 2008 11:12 pm 
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For the more demure cyclist: wicker basket on front with RPG-toting guerilla moggy ensconced within.

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PostPosted: Fri Aug 08, 2008 11:30 pm 
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In my case the 12" adjustable is backed up by Daisy the vampire rabbit. :taz:

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PostPosted: Wed Sep 24, 2008 4:26 pm 
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WoooHoooo!!!! :claps: :claps:

The Chronicles are back!!! :P

Yes, I know, I've just noticed. :oops:

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PostPosted: Wed Sep 24, 2008 7:52 pm 
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New Chronicles
Vol 1, Part 2


Soundtrack: The Contino Sessions - Death In Vegas


Glorious sunshine has given way, all too quickly, to the sudden sheeting downpours and anti-prevailing winds that have characterised this unseasonably gloomy summer. Climate change, says vox populi, at least as far as it is represented by the media. While Channel Dave repeats the Top Gear expedition to the North Pole, with Clarkson standing rampant (and probably erect, the filthy bugger) next to his Toyota and declaring that there's nothing to worry about because there is ice under his feet, the North Pole Web Cam sits in a pool of its own meltwater and the Chairman is planning a kayak expedition to go where Clarkson has gone before.

With the rain comes the inevitable surge in violence on the roads. Ravenbait is T-boned at a roundabout one morning and shows up bruised and fuming for morning coffee. Not much more than a week later Frood is doored at the top of Queensferry Road, suffering road rash and a nasty gash to the finger. Reports filter through the now somewhat-unreliable telegraph system of Emily having an argument with a lamppost that left her sore and bleeding and her noble steed much the worse for wear.

Added to this are the odd incidents of bad luck and chains of minor niggles. The Chairman is beset by lurgies, RB suffers a broken foot and is briefly blinded by an eye infection, Blackpuddinonnabike suffers the torment of One Of Those Weeks; and both Pagan and Zipperhead find themselves afflicted by that most heinous of plagues, idiots on bikes. The conflation of this series of unfortunate events is causing a certain degree of suspicion amongst the veterans of the League.

As if these omens and premonitions of some form of impending calamity were not enough, it has not escaped the notice of those most observant of these esteemed adventurers that they seem to be having occasional outbreaks of misidentification syndrome. Indeed, at this very moment, tucked up in the drawing room under a fleece blanket with a mug of steaming spiced cider, Ravenbait is pondering this most vexatious of phenomena while listening to the comforting sound of Spesh oiling his weapon. From somewhere far below the occasional muted cry of pleasurably tormented anguish suggests that someone is putting the Dungeon to use again. If this weather keeps up it'll be time to turn on the heating or else at least one party down there is going to be disappointed.

"He called her 'Liz'," Ravenbait mumbles, shaking her head.

"Sorry?" Spesh looks up from dull gleam of his Barrett REC7. Liz? He? In the Dungeon?

"I said... Well, I didn't say, but what I would have said had I known you were listening was that Jarvis called Helen 'Liz'."

"When?"

"Last episode."

The Wing Commander raises dubious eyebrows at this wonton lampshading of the fourth wall, but then frowns. "You're right. He did. I wonder why no one said anything."

"I could understand it if it were one of us. Especially late afternoon after someone's opened the Bombay Sapphire. Waffles, Liz... easy mistake to make. Probably to do with maple syrup or something." She chews her bottom lip furiously. "Jarvis doesn't make mistakes like that, though. He's so dependable."

"That is indeed most curious." Spesh puts the assault rifle carefully on the table, making sure not to scratch Jarvis's careful French polish. "Have you asked him?"

"What?"

"Have you asked him? Maybe he was feeling under the weather that day — metaphorically, I mean. Or maybe Liz has bought some chickens too and that was really one of her birds."

"Have you seen Liz recently?"

Spesh leaves the gun on the table and retrieves the visitor ledger from the lobby. He leafs backwards through the pages, running his finger down the blobby and fingerprint-smudged columns. "We should really persuade Jarvis to let us have a biro, you know. The fountain pen is all very distinguished but half the inmates seem to be trying to leave biometric evidence of their visits rather than simply printing their names. Ah. Here we are." He taps the page. "About a month ago."

"What about Helen?"

"Hmmm." It takes the Club Secretary far more page-flipping this time. "You know, we could get this system computerised..." He trails off at the look on RB's face. "That was a subversion! If you're going to go around lampshading, someone has to do some subverting, otherwise it's just doing that Changing Rooms thing when they build a conservatory and say they're bringing the garden into the house."

"I think you mean build a decking and having an outdoors room."

"June," Spesh says, ignoring her and stabbing the page with his finger. "She was last here in June."

"But that was months ago!" RB limps to the window and stares across the lawn clutching her mug of cider and leaving a trail of vapour wafting tendrils of apple, cinnamon, ginger and alcohol. Outside the grass has changed from verdant to a slightly more sullen green, wreathed in damp that reflects the penumbrous clouds. Leaves are already falling from the trees and the blackthorn is pregnant with tiny, hard berries that one day will find their way into gin. A small huddle of ducks is looking utterly miserable on the lawn, putting paid to the notion that this is nice weather for them.

"Something is going on," she declares.

The Wing Commander scratches his chin. "I doubt it. Nothing has gone on since, well... You know."

RB glowers out of the window. As if she needs reminding. Nothing has gone on since everything fell apart. She had been secretly hoping that the lack of activity or, indeed, action, meant that the less-than-perfect resolution of that particular problem had not resulted in any repercussions. Nothing serious anyway. At least, nothing serious except the complete collapse of the universe and the decimation of the League, and that was no more than a minor glitch, really. Wasn't it? It wasn't as if the whole world had come to grinding stop or anything. It had carried on, with people still doing what they did, just in different places. Sometimes with different names.

Different names... There is something there. Some minuscule itch in the back of her brain where she can't reach it to scratch, never mind identify it.

She sighs. Equinox is coming, and with it the annual offering of thanks to the Traffic Light Goblins: that network of Second Cousin Ivans over which King Elgar presides. Elgar, as it happens, has taken up residence in the bar and is refusing to leave. No one has so far been able to persuade him to give an explanation and Jarvis delicately refuses to evict the globular grey goblin on the basis that it would be unconscionably rude to behave that way with royalty, no matter his species.

"Maybe we should talk to Elgar," she says, apparently to no one in particular. "I need to ask him whether they want jelly babies this year anyway."

"If you say so," Spesh replies with a shrug. He can't see how that would help. The rotund Elgar doesn't generally have much to say for himself, even if he did speak in a language that didn't involve some tertiary-system morse code that no one has managed to figure out. The only one who ever got anywhere with him in anything other than rudimentary sign language was Beagle, and Beagle has long since gone. According to what he's heard from the Chairman the current Mars Lander sounds like an American cheerleader on amphetamines and seems to have a crush on his sister rover Oppy.

As RB heads for the door it opens and in bursts a rather aggravated-looking Wafflycat.

"Talk of the devil," Spesh says.

"Where?!" Waffles looks around furtively, as if expecting to find the Morningstar lounging on one of the comfy chairs reading the latest JK Rowling. To be fair, around this place almost anything's possible. "Oh! Listen, have you noticed how odd things have been lately? Sorry I haven't been around much but Mr W snapped his achilles tendon ― he's out of plaster now, thankyouverymuchforasking, although I'm having to be quite liberal with the moisturiser to stop him looking like he's got a spare part from Boris Karloff ― and I've had to drive for the past few weeks, which is simply not on, although Gino is off having a new paint job done anyway and... Oh. What happened to you?"

As fond as RB is of her customised Oakleys, it is not usual for her to wear them indoors.

"Acute conjunctivitis," she says. Her brow has creased into furrows fit to plant seed potatoes. "And a stress fracture in my right foot. You know that the Chairman had to duck out of his half Ironman because of a surprise lurgy?"

"And CityCycling was late this month!" Waffles exclaims, hands covering her mouth and eyes wide like a Manga princess.

"I'm definitely going to talk to Elgar. This is ridiculous."

She stomps towards the door and is intercepted by Jarvis.

"Ah, madam. I trust that the beverage was to your liking."

"Yes thanks, Jarvis, I'll have another one when you've got a minute."

"You have visitors, madam."

With a slight inclination of his head he indicates the two scruffy, wet, bedraggled ravens huddling behind his feet and looking sheepish.

"Er. Hi boss," kaarks Thought. Memory waggles a wing in greeting.

"I knew it! I knew something was going on!"

"Course you did, boss," Thought says ingratiatingly. "Lady of your discernment etcetera etcetera. Mind if we, you know, take a spot by the fire so we can tell you about it?"

"I shall fetch a towel so that your, ahem, friends do not drip on the carpet," Jarvis says, retreating.

The birds don't wait, half-hopping, half-waddling across to the rug in front of the fire, which isn't lit, what with it not even being October yet. Memory jumps into the hearth, honking sadly into the vacant chimney.

"Stop whinging," RB snaps. "Out with it. Who sent you?"

"Ah," says Thought. He preens some feathers into place and still looks like a shaggy ball of damp fluff. "See, thing is, Boss, I suspect you're not going to like it."

"You didn't exactly like it much last time," Memory says without turning his attention from the fireplace. He scratches at the hearth, as if expecting to find a spark in there.

"You're not Ray Mears!" RB tells him, exasperated. "You are not going to set fire to the grate by pointing your arse at it! Now tell me what's going on!"

"It's cold, Boss," Thought complains. "Can we have the fire?"

"Of course," RB smiles sweetly. "After you tell me who sent you."

"Well, strictly speaking that would be who always sends us, Boss," Thought says, shuffling his feet. "Just that he wasn't exactly the source of the chit, if you see what I mean."

RB growls.

"Hierophant!" squawks Memory, choking on some ash he has dislodged by pecking at the brickwork.

Ravenbait turns pale.

"What? What is it?" Wafflycat looks both fascinated and concerned, As far and she and Spesh are concerned, the birds have been making no more than a series of metallic croaks and squeaks and strange, crow-on-a-pingball-table noises.

"You've never been to the Hierophant's domain, have you Waffles?" RB asks quietly. Spesh winces.

"Oh! No! But it sounds like jolly good fun!"

"That's what they always say," RB murmurs.

"Then comes the running and the screaming," adds the Wing Commander. "I think I need a drink."


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PostPosted: Wed Sep 24, 2008 10:18 pm 
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"The running and the screaming..." I like it.
As I was visiting the stone circle known as Barbrook One around the time referred to I'm available for a jaunt across the dimensions. 8-[ :-k

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