His lips move and his words move in a jumble. “Demonic paralysis. Feebles the brain, Mr Loveheart. It affects anything of our kind.”
“I have a feeble brain!” I announce, followed by, “May I have a bowl of trifle please?” I point to the wall behind him. I see a big butterfly in a frame. It is moving. “It is alive!” I shout.
“Yes, of course,” he smiles – oh so many teeth – and steps closer to me. He eliminates the space. I know what the butterfly is; it zaps into my brain.
“BOO BOO,” I shout, “BOO BOO NEEDS THAT BUTTERFLY.”
“She is a predator,” he speaks. “Isn’t she beautiful?” He taps the glass. “She is the only one in the world. It’s funny how you don’t appreciate something until it is gone. Until it is no more. Will someone miss you, Mr Loveheart, when you are eaten?”
“I believe my cat would miss me.” My head rolls backwards. On the ceiling is deep space. I see planets dangle, a shooting star whizzzzes past. Comets collide. Black sparkle and a whiff of sulphur.
“You have a very unusual ceiling!” I remark.
He put his hand on my shoulder. “You and I can cannot coexist, Mr Loveheart. That is the way of things, the way of survival of the species. You are the competition and you concern me and yet, you are insane. Your brain is a cauliflower. Why should you worry me? Mad little prince! Hell has dominion over this world. My queen, the Queen of Hell, is conquering the planet, her armies, her navies, claiming new territories. And she sits on the throne of England and rules already a quarter of the earth. We are eating you up little world. We are gobbling you up. Humans! You are a food source for us. That is all you are.”
“I have to stop you,” and my head is fizzzzzzing and I try to lift my sword but I can’t.
“Stop me? You are a fool. Your head is full of sponge,” and he laughs, rich treacle laughter. It soaks into the wallpaper, slips over me. He puts his mouth close to my ear, whispers, “I have eaten stardust. It tastes like sugar.”
We are inside a book of fairy tales and the pages are turning themselves. My head feels so heavy, my heart is the THUD THUD THUD.
“Red is the colour of my heart” I laugh “RED RED RED RED,” and my head sags and plops into the trifle dish.
Oh dear.
I am the melting blue of space. I AM AN ASTEROID.
CATCH ME!
Rufus Hazard to the rescue!
I have just left Miss Pussywillow’s House of Delight. What a splendid evening that was. I was whipped within an inch of my life by a spirited mistress of the cat o’nine tails called Big Gertrude. A most pleasant evening it was and an excellent roast peasant supper at my club beforehand with a marvellous plum pudding and custard. What more can a man ask for than a good flogging and a decent pudding?
Well Buggeration! That odd fellow, Mr Death, has materialised in front of me.
“Mr Hazard, I require your assistance. Mr Loveheart is in peril.”
“EGAD! PERIL IS MY MIDDLE NAME! What can I do to help the young whelp?”
“Really?”
“Of course, Rufus Peril Hazard at your service.”
“Do you have your machete with you?”
I smile, show my teeth and whip my old trusty machete from its sheath on my back. It glimmers under moonlight.
TWING!
“Excellent, the prime minister is about to eat him. Number 7, Flumpet Court. I need to find Boo Boo. Can you manage?”
“Flumpet Court, I know the place. Never fear, Mr Death, I’ll sort that cad Heap out and rescue Loveheart!”
I arrive under a bold moon and knock briskly on the rather smart red door. A suspicious looking butler wearing a pink turban and holding a blow pipe opens the door.
“I am Rufus Hazard and I believe your employer has FOUL intentions towards a very dear friend of mine, a Mr Loveheart. I understand he is being held against his will and … WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING WITH A BLOW PIPE?”
He shuts the door in my face. THE CAD!
I shout, “DOORS DO NOT STOP RUFUS HAZARD!” before I boot it with my foot. The door flies off its hinges and collapses. I step over the remains of door and glare at the whimpering butler who tries to blow pipe me! The dart hits the wall and I swipe my machete, slicing the legs off the snivelling coward. His torso glides past me, and out the door screaming.
“THAT IS FOR TRYING TO BLOW PIPE ME, YOU IMPERTINENT SCOUNDREL!”
I storm the corridor and boot in the dining room door, appreciating the excellent tapestries and stuffed badger on the mantelpiece. It is difficult to acquire experts in taxidermy in London.
Mr Loveheart is lying face down, head in a trifle dish. The prime minister looms over him with a curious shaped spoon.
“STEP AWAY FROM HIM OR YOU’LL FEEL MY BLADE, HEAP!” and I stick my leg up on the chair and swipe the blade; it glints under candle light.
The prime minister looks genuinely surprised. “Who the hell are you?”
“Rufus Hazard. Earl of Derbyshire, and that, I believe is a brain spoon.” I point my weaponry at the accursed object.