That’s Us All Over

“A couple of dozen went in; some more willing than others.” Dark Flo pointed to two displaced pebbles, “There was a scuffle just here. How many people are missing?”

“Mother Superior and Mrs King, Master Dorje,” Zelda the Geek thought for a moment, “Generalissimo Starcluster of the Battailon Durruti, Kiki of course, and a couple more Kittens of Chaos. Kitty and…?”

“Consuella and the Kittens? Les Chats have bagged quite a catch. Well, we obviously can’t follow them in there,” said Boz. Le Brocq looked relieved. “There must be other entrances. I don’t know how common portals into the Atlantean Tunnel System are.” Boz turned to le Brocq. “Are there any other passage graves on the island?”

“Lots, but they were mostly destroyed or looted in the nineteenth century. There’s Dolmen du Monts Grantez near the west coast, that’s where the fighting is most fierce at the moment. Or there’s La Hougue Boëte. It’s a round mound that has a chamber at its heart. Archaeologists found the skeletons of a man and his horse inside and it’s supposed to be haunted. In the old days it was the site of a Seigneurial court.”

“Seigneurial court:” Boz had no idea what a Seigneurial court was, but it must be just the sort of place to hide a space/time portal. “Sounds promising. Where’s that one?”

“North of here. Not far from where Captain Midlands is operating.”

“Perfect,” said Boz, “I have a plan, but we’ll need Rotskagg Blenkinsopp and the Queen Anne’s Bounty.”

“Perfect? Haven’t you heard the rumours about Captain Midlands and his brigands, the cannibalism, diabolical nocturnal rituals, naturism?”

“Well, that’s us all over,” said Phoebles, “Stick our heads in the crocodile’s mouth and then improvise. Should we perhaps get the weird one into some dry clothes and have a mug of cocoa before we dash off to our inevitable doom?”

“And locate my spare pair of specs,” added Zelda.

 

Master Dorje cleared his mind and began to ‘Om’. He transcended into a trancelike meditative state. As his chakras aligned he seemed to compress and, with a little squirming, he managed to slip out of his oversized and firmly gaffer bound yak hide coat. Groping round their prison he located the others and freed them.

“Shshsh.” He gently loosened the tape from Kiki’s mouth; she was quivering with rage.

“$*† µ* å† †£øß* ∫$ØØÎ¥ ƒËç*Âß!!”

Master Dorje replaced the gag. “No dear. Behave, or leaving you tied up I will.”

“MM M’mm mm mmmm.” Kiki simulated a wide-eyed kittenish innocence which, in the total darkness, was lost on her companions.

“Good girl. Now, exploring our environment let us be.” The aging monk, clad only in a loincloth and his pointy hat, began to shiver. “Formulating a plan I would like. Before succumbing to hypothermia I am.”

“Here, borrow my combat jacket,” said Consuella.

Cautiously they felt their way round the walls, only bumping into each other occasionally. Their prison was small with a single, sturdy, locked door. They heard movement outside.

“Kiki, behind thee doorrr,” hissed Consuella, “Everrryone else back to thee meeddle of thee rroom. Trry to look as eef hyou arre steel tied up.”

A key turned in the lock. There was a clanking of chains and the rasping of bolts being drawn. The door opened. It opened outwards, not into the cell. And a shaft of light exposed Kiki, poised to attack.

“Bugger,” she said, as a Chat Suterrains warder glared at her.

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Taken

Dark Flo froze in the middle of the courtyard and listened intently as a lonely wind stirred up the dust. She looked around slowly, taking in the general scene. She squatted to observe more closely an area of ground that had attracted her attention. She began a microscopic examination of the open gate.

“What’s she doing now?” asked Phoebles as Flo spotted a small pile of poo beside the path.

“Your ninja has picked up a turd,” observed le Brocq.

Flo held the nugget between finger and thumb. She sniffed at it and then touched it to the tip of her tongue.

“Eeuugh!” The entire company, which had been watching with interest, turned away in disgust.

“That’s the last time I let you kiss me. Er…” Beryl blushed and suddenly discovered a need to study her left shoe.

“Les Chats Suterrains,” cried Flo triumphantly.

“Is anybody there?”

The voice was faint and echoey, as if it came from the bottom of a well. Boz sauntered over to the convent’s well and peered down. It was deep and dark.

“Are you friendly? I’m a bit stuck. Could you pull me up?”

“Where are you?” asked Boz.

“Down here, in a bucket.”

Boz tried to wind the wellhead winch, but it was too stiff. “A hand here one of you. Summat talkative’s stuck down the well.”

“It’ll be Little Timmy,” said Phoebles, “It’s always Little Timmy in the films.”

“Here,” said le Brocq, grabbing the handle. “Make sure the pawl’s on or the winch could run away from us.” Author’s note: this is important information if you are ever winching someone out of a well.

They wound and wound and wound, and the pawl clanked reassuringly. Eventually a strange creature, with Mohican hair and a grubby, wet, orange jumper, emerged sitting in a bucket.

“I’ve lost my specs.”

“We’d best get you wrung out,” said Beryl, “Who are you? And what happened here?”

“Zelda. And I don’t really know. There was a lot of shouting and Mother Superior told me to hide. Then she stuck me in this bucket and dropped me down the well.”

“You didn’t see who was attacking you?”

“It was all a bit of a blur without my spectacles. There’s not many of us here. The front has moved well to the west and most of the girls have gone off with the resistance. If only Captain Blenkinsopp had still been here.”

“You’ve seen Rotskagg?” asked Boz.

“Yes. He threw us a big party, but then he shipped out in his airship to track down Captain Midlands and the renegades.”

“Over here.” Flo was feeling neglected. She pointed to a significantly bent blade of grass. Boz was impressed.

“Grass,” he observed.

“They went this way.” Flo bounded down the hill. Her tracking skills took them directly to the Neolithic tunnel entrance and without hesitation Flo went in. No one followed. After a few minutes she re-emerged.

“It’s a low tunnel, leads to a chamber and then stops. Looks old. They definitely came in, but there’s no tracks coming out.

“It’s a stone age passage, but a space/time tunnel too,” said Zelda, “Les Chats must have turned it off.”

 

It was pitch black and they were bound tightly with gaffer tape. Kiki had twice as much gaffer tape as the others and her mouth was taped shut too. She was fuming!

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The Wheels On the Bus Go…

Ferdy clambered into the rear cockpit of his autogyro and Ginsbergbear waited for the Grand Jersey Hotel’s maître d’ to come out with a wooden crate of U’Luvka Vodka.

“It’s going to be a bit tight in here,” he said as he tried to squeeze his bulk and the angular crate together into the front cockpit.

Phoebles clambered into the cab of the Routmaster while Beryl and Flo rushed up stairs to the top deck. Mad Jack hung back near the hotel entrance.

“What should I do?”

“Stay here and answer the phone. If Fluffy rings tell him everything’s fine and he’s winning the war.” Boz turned from the crestfallen hussar to the Kronstadt sailors.

“Come aboard, comrades, we’ll give you a lift back to the docks.”

Phoebles indicated; there was a grinding of gears and then a pause as their passage was blocked by a squad of Gilnockie Reivers driving a small herd of dun coloured, gracile Jersey cows down the road.

“Haw you, thas coos nae choried. Sam Ned geez em.”

“Never doubted it,” replied Boz.

With a gnat like whine from the Genet Major, Ferdy took to the air. Moments later the Routmaster jerked onto the highway and headed towards the docks.

“Where do I go after that?” asked Pheobles. “How will we find The Kittens?”

“Just head northish. I expect the resistance will find us.”

Once clear of the town Jersey’s winding lanes were a delight and the view from the open top deck a panorama of tomato vines in regimented rows, terraced potato paddies and acres of shimmering polytunnels. Hedgerows bloomed, nature twittered and scampered. Only the occasional broken fence or slime filled shell hole despoiled the idyll with memories of conflict.

They wound up gentle hillsides, descended into wooded vales where arching branches threatened the occupants of the upper deck. And then they rounded a bend to find a fallen tree trunk blocking the road. Phoebles braked hard and upstairs everyone tumbled towards the front of the bus. A far from friendly figure stepped out into the road, black beret with three pointed red star badge, scarlet neckerchief, leather jerkin, several day’s growth of stubble and an angry Kalashnikov.

“Do you represent the resistance? I am Boz, we came over with the counter-counter-revolutionary armada.” Boz had come down to the rear platform of the bus, it seemed only polite.

“That’s as maybe. I am Le Brocq of La Résistance Crapaud. What is your business here?”

“We are attempting to meet up with the Kittens of Chaos. Have you any idea where they might be? Probably in the thick of something reckless.”

“Ah, Generalissimo Starcluster and her Battailon Durruti, a right band of nutters. Last we heard, some of them had joined up with The Lesbian Brides of Our Lady of Perpetual Self-Doubt, they’re warrior nuns. I could guide you to their lair, but they’re loose cannons the lot of them. You might be better off staying with us.”

“We need to find them,” said Boz.

“Your funeral.” Le Brocq put two fingers to his mouth and blew a sharp whistle. A dozen guerrillas emerged from the undergrowth and dragged the heavy log to the side of the road. Laughing he swung up onto the bus and pressed the bell.

‘Ding Ding’

Le Brocq guided Phoebles along a tortuous route. They passed a burned out Hummer and several sites devastated by fierce fighting. Eventually they arrived at the mound of La Houghue Bie. They parked up and began the climb to the nuns’ fortress convent.

“I’d best lead the way, said Le Brocq, “This lot can be aggressively defensive.” But no one challenged them. When they reached the walls the thick oak door was swinging on its hinges and inside was deserted.

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Queen Anne’s Bounty

“Not everyone embraced the revolution. The Jersey Potato Growers Association was deeply opposed to collectivisation and many tax exiles lost out when the banks were turned into building societies. Powerful interests here on the island support the counter-revolution.“

“Well stuff ‘em. We’re back,” growled Kike la Berserker.

Ripples across the surface of their soup were the first indication that something unusual was occurring. That and the plaster shaking free from the ceiling.

“Up top, quick,” ordered Mother Superior as she bolted for the door. Out in the open, tiles were sliding off roofs, several windows had shattered and nuns were doubled over, covering their ears or vomiting. A vast dark shape blotted out the sun. Captain Rotskagg Blenkinsopp’s gigantic black dirigible was drifting above the chimneystacks of the fortified nunnery. His papal death’s head insignia leered down from the bows, huge jolly roger ensigns cracked and boomed as they fluttered in the breeze and the combat speaker arrays of the Queen Anne’s Bounty blared out Leonard Coen’s Hallelujah at a destructive volume. Suddenly the music stopped and the silence was deafening. No bird sang, no sheep bleated, even the chundering nuns puked soundlessly. The leviathan’s motorjets roared short bursts as she manoeuvred into the wind and hung in the sky like a storm cloud, crackling with latent power. Then mooring lines were dropped. Pirates swarmed down the ropes and quickly began tying the free ends to anything that looked as if it could hold. Several ill chosen saplings were uprooted and a milk float dragged through a hedge before the airship was firmly tethered. Iron spikes like giant tent pegs were sledge hammered into the ground to supplement the moorings, bow and stern lines, fore and aft springs.

Captain Rotskagg Blenkinsopp appeared in the Queen Anne’s ventral hangar bay and strode over to one of the ropes. He grasped it in is gauntleted right hand, wrapped a leg round the line and began a rapid, elegantly executed and decidedly swashbuckling abseil.

“Bona dia compañeros! Madonna, how be your murderous chicklings? Signora Starcluster and The Kittens, what a company. And who be the dusky one-eyed temptress?” The captain always had a soft spot for a woman in an eye patch.

He landed nimbly, despite his bulk, and bounded over with arms spread wide in anticipation of an embrace.

“You’re looking well, captain,” said Mother Superior, “this is Mrs King; she has the ear of the Merovingian Lizard Lords and has offered to serve in our cause.”

“Kushti!” Rotskagg slapped Augusta on the back. She staggered, but did not fall. He beamed.

“Will you join us for lunch, captain?” the nun continued, “it is cabbage soup with rye cobs and a glass of skimmed goats milk.”

The pirate king, frowning, whipped out his iPhone. “A victory meal on me, I think.” He speed dialled his head chef. “Silver, dinner for a couple of dozen down here. ASAP, please. And rum, I be developing a thirst.”

Within a startlingly short space of time a heavy ornithopter shuttle was fluttering down from the dirigible. Corsairs erected trestle tables and laid out place settings. A conspicuously gay, peg-legged cook with a parrot perched on his shoulder bowed as steaming salvers were unloaded from the shuttle.

“For your delectation today we have Banker à l’Orange, Venture Capitalist en Croute & Bishops in Blankets all served with chips or mash, seasonal veg and grog gravy. Thar be whortleberry crumble with lumpy custard to follow, so leave a little room. Enjoy.”

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The Mysterious McGoogs

With the BMW burbling on the driveway and an incensed harpy, plus dog, glowering at them through her double glazed patio doors the Kronstadt Naval Comrade-Starshina Matyushenko was reporting to Boz.

“Three of The Lady’s four propulsion units are functional. She’s lost a lot of gas, but the main burners are intact and the Lascars reckon they can patch the hot-air chamber. We should just about be able to get airborne and limp to Guernsey for repairs.”

“Good man. Text me when the old girl’s back on form. Boz turned to Phoebles and Ginsbergbear, “pile into the Beemer lads. Beryl, head for the docks. That seems to be where the action is.”

 

“There’s a group of irregulars approaching from out the bush, miss. They’re making no attempt to conceal themselves.” A shaven headed young nun in lo-vis grey robes hefting a short barrel AK-74 burst into the refectory at La Houghue Bie.

“That’s nice dear,” said the Mother Superior, “I’ll pop up in a moment. Try not to shoot anyone till I get there.” She turned back to Zelda and Augusta. “Sounds like we have visitors, lets go onto the battlements and see who they are.”

Kiki and Consuella, Scarlet and Kitty strode up to the castellated nunnery trying their hardest not to look like an attacking army. And it worked. The famously trigger-happy nuns had allowed them to get close enough to be recognised.

“Kiki dear,” Mother Superior called down to them while the gates were being unbarred, “It would seem that you were right about Les Chats Souterrains. I don’t suppose any of you have heard of some chap called McGoogs?”

“Hwe weel deescuss such matters over lunch. Heye deed not come herre to shout overr hwalls.”

Once ensconced before wholesome bowls of steaming hot gluten free kale soup the resistance fighters began to respond to the nun’s questions. Augusta explained all that the morose Zelda had found out.

“Heye am amazed that hyourr orrderr could be so rremote that hyou have neverr hearrd of Slasherr McGoogs, especially herre on Jerrsey, wherre hees banking exploits have wrreaked such havoc.”

“Slasher’s something of a law unto himself,” explained Kitty Fisher, “not exactly on the side of the angels, but on balance he seems to be a force for good.”

“Unless you’re on the wrong end of one of his schemes,” chipped in Kiki. “Cod knows what he’s involved in with the Yanks.”

 

Had Kiki but known, Slasher McGoogs was at that very moment handing a Portuguese-Finish dictionary to Lieutenant Harrison Dewey Jr, making inexplicable gestures with his arms and requesting, “Heye hhave leetle Engleesh. Please trrranslate.”

As the Sixth Fleet pursued SMS Pinguin into the South Pacific the US Pacific Fleet joined in the chase and soon had the Hilfskreuzer surrounded. Yet, as they closed the net they found that somehow the privateer commerce raider had slipped away. Now they were aboard the Panamanian registered tramp steamer Kandelfels to enquire of its Dutch skipper Felix van Luckner and its small Filipino crew if they had sighted the Pinguin. It would appear that they had not and, as Lieutenant Dewey was discovering, the steamer’s sole passenger, a Brazilian coffee magnate travelling from Manaus to Salina Cruz in Mexico to be at the deathbed of his only daughter was equally unforthcoming. Some days just did not go well.

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A Neolithic Portal

Kiki spoke, “Mr Ferdy may be trustworthy, but right now I am your only chance of getting into the fortress of La Houghue Bie. I would advise against approaching the Résistance Crapaud with Les Chats in tow. They will shoot first and ask questions… Actually they’ll just shoot. Best explain yourself to the Lesbian Nuns. Leave your dubious allies here and follow me.” Kiki did not return to the sally port, she took them to the main gate and began to kick it hard whilst shouting, “hey, you lot!”

A pair of shaven heads peered down from the battlements and quickly vanished. More kicking and shouting. The sturdy axe proof oak door swung back just enough for the mother superior to step out, one finger curled resolutely round the trigger of her AK-47.

“Oh, it’s you. Stop kicking my door, you’ll scratch the paint.” The venerable nun eyed the monk, dodo and one-eyed aristocrat standing behind Kiki, “And what have we here, a travelling circus? Come inside quickly. Monsieur vendeur de oignon laissez votre vélo à la salle des gardes.” She turned back to Kiki, “I believe an explanation would be in order, my young kitten. Refectory, all of you. Now.”

Augusta King had been talking for some time when Kiki started to fidget.

“Kitty, Red, there’s too much chatter and not enough action in this chapter. We need to get back to the Resistance.”

The mother superior rose, begged Augusta’s pardon for the interruption and addressed the kittens.

“You are probably quite correct, young miss. Take some of my girls with you, they need an outlet for their wilder tendencies, and you will need a guide. Let them face peril.”

Obedient for once, the Kittens rounded up a contingent of enthusiastic volunteers, cleaned and greased their weapons; packed sandwiches, fresh knickers (with the exception of Kiki who despite the chafing of her combat chinos insisted on going commando) and a generous supply of ammunition. With a cheerful goodbye they set off into the night.

The mother superior resumed:

“Now Mrs King, perhaps if I ask questions we can obtain some clarity. Mr Desai here, who I perceive is neither French nor indeed an onion seller, tells me you immerged from our Neolithic passage earlier this evening.”

Augusta was not sure how much of her tale would be believed. She took a deep breath:

“Your chamber contains the concealed entrance to a trans dimensional portal into the Atlantean world tunnel system. Vast amounts of power and ingenuity are required to breach the veil between worlds except on a very limited number of auspicious occasions each year, like Halloween. The tunnels link to our home in Shambhala.”

The nun wrinkled her brow, but Ferdy recognised something in the description.

“I know about these portals. The boys and I discovered one in Derbyshire. Oh, you probably don’t know about Boz and Phoebles and Ginsbergbear and Slasher and me, but we do this sort of adventuring stuff all the time. We were sabotaging a secret underground flying saucer factory.”

His outburst did not reassure the mother superior. Yet she continued her interrogation.

“And you, young lady? Lets start with your history.”

“From the start?”

“Probably, if that’s not too tedious.”

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Mr Desai I Presume

Kiki froze for a moment and then began to rise. She had barely moved when she was stopped by the sound of cracking twigs. A few feet to her left an onion seller, pushing a rather rusty, antiquated bicycle stepped out into the clearing. The bike’s wheel-bearings squeaked as he approached the group standing at the passage entrance. He held out a stubby wing to the lady who had addressed him. She shook it enthusiastically.

“Mr Ferdinand Desai I presume.” The onion seller confirmed her presumption with a cautious nod. “My name is Augusta King. I believe we have a shared fascination for aviation.”

Ferdy liked nothing more than to talk planes with almost anyone. But whilst speaking to Augusta he was eyeing her feline escort.

“As I am sure you are aware I was proceeding on my lawful occasions, all be it in disguise, within a downtown opium emporium frequented by lesser clerks of the Occupational Administration when I was approached by your oriental companion. He requested that we meet here. Said it was of vital importance. He did not mention Les Chats Souterrains.”

“What is it you say, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’? I appreciate your scepticism, you and they have clashed before, but they are integral to my mission.” Her homely smile never faulted.

“I don’t think I have ever said that.”

“I could send them away.”

“As they are here, madam, and would seem to be associated with your purpose. I would just as soon have them within sight.” Ferdy was beginning to doubt the wisdom of having turned up at all. He was not about to trust some strange woman in league with Les Chats. On the other hand he had not failed to notice Kiki in the bushes and she famously packed a fearsome array of percussive hardware. At this very moment she could be drawing a bead on either one of these tunnel-wraiths. He was ready.

Augusta King smiled on.

No shot rang out.

One of Les Chats nervously fingered a tin ray gun that looked as if it might have come from a Woolworth’s toy counter back in the 50s. After the conversational hiatus had dragged out rather longer than was comfortable Augusta spoke again.

“Your young friend could come out into the open as well, if she wanted.”

Kiki didn’t move, just in case. But this time no one else emerged. She stood up and stalked out of the underbrush. Even when she appeared sheepish there was a sense of barely contained wrath in her demeanour.

“Oh, come on, the pair of you. We really are all on the same side, just this once.” Augusta was being almost too solicitous; she had all the big guns. In fact, for the moment, she had the only guns.

Kiki glared, “Why?”

“Because… Hmm… I expect you have surmised that I am tasked in some way by The Merovingian Lizard Kings. Master Dorje here and I myself do in fact hail from their mountain domain. They are less than happy with the current situation and do not wish to see a restoration of the conditions that were extant prior to what your Mr McGoogs chooses to call his Great Revelation, your little British coup. I have run numerous scenarios through my analytical engine and in every model you do not prevail. Your surreal confederacy constitutes a guttering beacon of hope in a blighted world and, for the time being, they do not wish it to be extinguished.

Kiki still glared, “What?”

Ferdy placed a wing on Kiki’s shoulder. “I fear we do not entirely grasp your intentions. Why us?”

“You, Mr Desai because I want to chat amiably of ornithopters and because you are trustworthy. As for the lioness,” Augusta King glanced towards Kiki, “she was not supposed to be here.”

“I am but a pilot and own an autogyro not an ornithopter. I’m afraid I know little of bird flight.” Ferdy flapped his wing stubs ineffectually to reinforce his point.

Master Dorje stepped forward:

“Extending our time out here in the open I do not want. A British Imperialist patrol might pass at any moment. But perhaps I may elucidate.

“In our mountain valley utopia, China and the orient at our backs we have, with their predilection for conformity and tradition. Society is all, the individual nothing. Confucius and Lenin for that I blame. Before us the seething shambolic legions of the subcontinent there is. The Dark Lords are drawn naturally to such chaos. Concluded they have that the near global Corporate Neoliberalism pertaining at this time curbed must be. Overt US Military intervention avoided at all cost however must also be. And your Temporary Acting Prime Minister Larry is our last, great, and woefully forlorn, hope. We are picking a side.”

The Nuns of La Hougue Bie (Part Two)

Adepts peered into the muzzle of Kiki’s light machine gun, black and cavernous as Cthulhu’s rectum, shimmering vaguely as hot air rose from the still scorching metal, and a hint of uncertainty rippled through the ranks of lesbian brides. The tension was palpable; a passing lumberjack could have cut the atmosphere with a chainsaw.

“Hold on there young pussy cat.” The mother superior was advancing at speed and holding up her right palm. “It would appear that we share a common cause.”

“Thank Crimbo for that,” said Kiki, throwing away her Bren in disgust. “Bloody thing’s useless. Overheated and jammed up solid just as I was down to my last two rounds.”

There was an uneasy silence before the venerable nun continued:

“You are Kittens of Chaos. Who has not heard of The Kittens of Chaos?”

“Well, we sure as hell haven’t heard of you.” Replied Kiki.

“We are a silent, and consequently somewhat secret order.”

The young brides nearby were babbling excitedly, picking up and dusting off Kitty and Scarlet and bombarding them with questions. The mother superior sighed.

“Our silence is, for the most part, conceptual. But our ‘out reach’ chapter is scrupulously clandestine. Please, accompany me to our humble stronghold. You can freshen up and we can talk some more.”

The monastery-fortress of La Hougue Bie perched on top of an ancient earth mound, 12.2 metres (45¾ feet) high, that had been constructed entirely by human hands. The mound covered an 18.6 metre long passage chamber situated directly beneath the chapels at the heart of the nunnery and its significance will be revealed later in the narrative. As yet our heroines were unaware of this tunnel.

The climb was steep, the entrance to the fortress small and heavily guarded. In the courtyard ranks of warrior nuns were practicing a form of martial art unique to the order.

“We are inspired by the teachings of Master Mao Tzu, combining ‘explosive energy’, or Fu Quo, with the aggressive cynicism of Nepalese Zen.”

“Well I’ll back the Zen of the .762 Rimless any day.” Kiki responded.

The mother superior smiled:

“But not today, dear. Your gun’s buggered.”

“Bugger me, that’s impressive!”

Dark Flo and Rotskagg Blenkinsopp watched the first trial run of the upgraded Destroyer of Worlds from a beach below the castle of Dunstanburgh. The mighty Ekranoplan MD-160 klasy Lun skimmed low over a churning North Sea. Gone were the paddle boxes and Bolinder diesel. Patching and riveting had restored the ravages wreaked by the Kittens’ thermal lance. Flame and choking black smoke belched from eight recklessly souped-up and scaled up HeS1 turbojets. The muzzles of six 18.1 inch Type 94 naval guns bristled along its spine.

“She be fast, and she be manoeuvrable. And she be scary. Should work a treat,” observed Rotskagg.

“Have you tested the artillery?” Dark Flo wrinkled her nose inquisitively, “Is recoil going to be a problem?”

“Can’t spare the ammunition. And there be a risk factor. Health and Safety be on my back as it is. ‘Have you completed an assessment? What’s the error margin on the power curves for the engines? Are there separate and clearly marked male and female toilets?’ What be the world coming to?”

“Do they know you’re taking it into a war zone?”

“Byt’ Virgin’s Armpits! Not bloody likely, they’d crap ‘emselves!”

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The Nuns of La Hougue Bie (Part One)

A bullet ripped into the tree trunk inches above Kitty Fisher’s head.

“I think they’re getting closer,” wheezed Scarlet.

“I know they are,” gasped Kitty, “We must keep running.”

“I’m not a tree.”

“What?”

“I’m not a tree,” replied the tree. The Kittens looked on in disbelief as the lower portion of the stunted conifer began to wriggle alarmingly. All of a sudden, out burst Kiki la Berserker. She was wearing a red and black paisley bandana round her forehead just below a bizarrely unfashionable parting where the bullet that opened this chapter had ploughed a furrow through her fur. There were black camo-paint stripes below her eyes and she had on an extremely grubby singlet, belts of ammo over her right shoulder and a Bren gun slung by a webbing strap from the left. She rushed past without another word and some yards down the forest path, screaming her bloodcurdling battle cry, opened up with the Bren. The barrel kicked and writhed, a stream of spent cartridges pirouetted from the breach, shattered branches and mortally terminated wood pigeons rained down from the canopy.

“Should we help?” asked Scarlet.

“You’re joking!” replied Kitty as a couple of stray rounds of .303 whined past, “I’m not going anywhere near her. Anyway, by the time she’s emptied her magazine into the undergrowth you won’t find a Corporatist Insurgent within a mile of here. They’re not suicidal.”

“OK, I suppose. Do you know where we are?”

“Nope, hopelessly lost. Looks like there’s a track up ahead though. If we can get clear of these woods perhaps we can find our bearings.”

And thus the two diminutive kittens, separated temporarily from their comrades fighting a guerrilla war behind the British front line, walked out of the wood into the fresh clear air of a sunny Jersey afternoon. Ahead was a large barrow shaped mound topped by a fortified chapel complex. Surrounding them was a circle of heavily armed Shaolin warrior nuns.

The mother superior waved the dangerous end of an AK-47 at Kitty.

“Drop your weapons. Face down on the ground, both of you. Paws behind your head.

“Now, who are you? And what are you doing at La Hougue Bie?”

“We’re lost,” sounded a bit pathetic coming from Kitty.

“Who are we? Who the hell are you?” mumbled Scarlet into the dust.

“We,” it was still the Mother Superior speaking, “are The Lesbian Brides of Our Lady of Perpetual Self-Doubt.”

“Actually, we’re not all lesbians,” chipped in one of the shaven headed acolytes, only to fall silent under the withering glance of her commander.

“Well, Corporal Fisher and I are soldiers of the Battailon Durruti, under the command of Generalissimo Starcluster and loosely affiliated to the Résistance Crapaud.” Scarlet risked raising her head a little and glared up at the nuns. “We demand to be treated with dignity, as prisoners of war.”

“Perhaps it is a little premature to assume who is the prisoner of who.”

“Whom.”

“Shut it!” Kiki la Berserker stepped from the woodland cover, aiming her Bren from the hip, fresh notches carved into its butt, dried blood smearing her face.

As one, the nuns turned to face Kiki. With a ringing “Hrraaah!” they adopted the aggressively defensive Fa Jin Pregnant Paws posture.

“Really?” Kiki spoke scornfully.

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