Duffy made a running leap across the roof with a reckless disregard for his own safety with all the agility of a hippo in coma. His legs whizzled randomly in every which direction as he sailed with a grace which rivalled that of a beached whale. This wasn't going to turn out well as I'm sure you could tell, and Duffy plummeted merrily to his death in a cloud of feathers and whisky bottles.

He had landed on his hobo bed on which he had been living for the past 8 months. The feathers would have broken his fall but for they unfortunate way in which he landed on his head, so he broke his neck instead. Duffy used to be a bank manager, but his tramp-like tendencies became an increasingly unignorable hindrance to his career. Playing his hobo flute wearing little more than a garbage bag and a huge Stetson hat (just because he was a tramp didn't mean he was devoid of any kind of style) and asking for change from customers was generally frowned upon and his smell scarred all but the most roughly-brought-up children, and eventually he just had to be let go. He was actually quite a pleasant fellow if you got to know him and took to wearing a clothes peg over your nose, but he's dead now so it's of little importance. Death, just like sheep, happens, so I'm afraid you must learn to deal with it.

Hearing this ruckus, (and it was indeed a ruckus, hobo-death is a well-known public disturbance as such an event may generate the same number of decibels as a space shuttle launch and the dust cloud emitted may be up two 3.8 times as impressive, according to a nationwide survey) neighbourhood toss-pots Dick and Woody made their way gaily down the street to investigate what had just transpired. They found the poor old tramp and poked him stiffly in the ribs with a long proddy-pokey stick that just happened to be lying around and concluded that yes, he was indeed dead (as this was the only valid death diagnosis known to these people). However, they poked him again, just for fun, the little shits.

Time passed, night had fallen, then for no apparent reason rose again for a short while before making everything, like, really dark in the way that night does so inimitably (except that is for a rare breed of darkness-producing cacti that use their unique talent to harass unsuspecting herbalists for a ready supply of Aloe Vera; many unfortunate victims may never walk again). Under cover of darkness, Dick and Woody took dead old Duffy's body and exchanged it with a mannequin from the local lingerie store for reasons known only to them.

It was at this point that Woody attacked Dick with a portable toaster that he happened to have on him, and burnt his vulnerable little arse with relish. That is not to say that he kegged the poor bastard and smothered chutney or some other random condiment over his buttocks, and then proceeded to brand a pretty little pattern into it with a toaster. This would of course have been very, very rude; especially without asking first. But Woody did not do this of course, no, he certainly did go about his arse-burning antics with enthusiasm, but definitely not with chutney. Needless to say, Dick was not pleased. He wanted chutney.

Following this random act of violence (for which Dick completely forgave Woody, because after all it was only the other day when he approached him with a boiling vat of fat which after a cunning diversion 'look over there! An escaped chimp on a unicycle reciting Shakespeare!" was used to de-trouser him and fry his winkle) the sentence contained so many brackets that it no longer made much sense. Woody's winkle may probably never be seen again after a wandering clown merchant 'acquired' it by devious means (he pushed into a queue at a bric-a-brac stall, upsetting numerous old ladies and causing them to collapse and spasm rhythmically in a symphony of silent convulsions. They have since enjoyed much success performing this routine around the country, before dying, which pretty much buggered it all up, reducing audiences by up to 35%).

Anyway, all conflicts aside, the devilish duo (as they liked to be called, because as you were warned they are the neighbourhood toss-pots and not actually from the underworld which had recently declared a ban on emigration as it was getting bad press from the media of late) decided that there had been enough drama for the night, what with the dead hobo and all. They began to make their way home, which consisted of a diminishing pigmy penguin holding a very large umbrella over a thermal vent. Quite why the penguin hung around there is a mystery, no one ever feeds him, Dick and Woody just found him there, placed an umbrella between his wing and body to hold it in place and then basked in thermal goodness. The penguins name was Chief Edmund.

They were just in the process of disposing the stolen lingerie mannequin after they'd finished, um, 'using' it (they had named her Plastic Patsy by the way, not because she was plastic or anything, but because she'�..in fact I really don't know why, and would rather not) when all of a sudden'�'�She came alive, swallowed them both with a single gulp and then ran away cackling into the night. No, that didn't really happen, I'm just having an eccentric moment, I mean seriously, mannequins coming to life and swallowing folk? That'd just be daft, and hardly even believable (which is important with this type of story). To be honest, you're more likely to meet a disgruntled penguin with talent for opera and a kitten-cannon welded to his arm than you are a gastronomic mannequin. In fact, that's a brilliant idea with the penguin, but I'll save it for later.

What did actually happen, was upon the disposal of plastic patsy, all of a sudden there was an ill feeling about the air and upon the horizon there could be seen and not jut heard a beautifully horrid noise just edging over the hilltops. The two lads were rather unsettled and worried by this, as it was only the other night that they heard in the 'special' news (a kind of news reserved for the street-dwelling population of the village that worked through a system of slave-driven sunflower people who sang the news sweetly to the ever-appreciative vagrant sector who danced along merrily) of a flying swarm of malevolent sea captains terrorising a city of modified milkmen, and milking them dry. They worried beyond caring that the same may happen to them, but, as with all of lie's problems it could be dealt with in the usual way. They punched each other in the face. Very hard. With menaces (as if there was any other way. Well there is, but merely punching someone in the face with tenderness simply does not cut the mustard. If you ever wanted to do such a thing).

They woke up to the sounds of screaming kittens, someone singing 'I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts'�, and, worryingly, illicit sex. The dazed pair could only hope that that the three were not at all connected. Before this could be contemplated any further, (thus temporarily putting the breaks on their inevitable plunge into insanity) Dick and Woody both felt a hand clamp painfully down on their shoulders. They would both recognise these hands anywhere, even whilst hanging upside-down performing Aladdin in Jamaican with a cast of pygmy hippos if ever such a situation happened to arise. They belonged to their boss, Rex The Porker (as he was affectionately known) who hauled them both single-handedly to their feet.

Dick and Woody turned around to face him, their faces frozen with fear as to what their fate might be. Quite why becoming so scarred at something caused such a dramatic temperature drop in their facial region remains unknown, but one thing's for sure, it looked bloody hilarious. Dick pulled an icicle from his eye as he looked up at the large man's big round face on top of his big, round body and suddenly he couldn't help but laugh.

He imagined his boss rolling delightedly down a steep hill, bouncing occasionally off a sharp rock (with accompanying BOOOOIIINNG!!! sound effect. Or would it be cooler if each time he bounced of a rock, a choir suddenly went 'aaaaaarrrrrrrrrr' in a way usually reserved for the occurrence of a miracle? I'm sure that it probably would) before sailing gracefully through the air, picking up yet more speed. His big, stupid round face permanently fixed throughout the ordeal with the kind of smirk usually reserved for having let out a very discreet, but nevertheless deadly, arse cloud. Arse cloud being the fetching euphemism for the spontaneous release of a cloud of gaseous arsenic from one's hindquarters. Known by some as an 'arseplume' because it sounds much prettier. (arseplumes are, by the way, incredibly toxic and may cause adverse symptoms such as death, zombification, and reincarnation, seemingly at random'�.be on you're guard and remember, if you smell it, dispel it If you're a wizard of course, otherwise you're screwed)

Author's note; aren't hats great!? So are mince pies! Why can't they be one and the same!? Why world, why?

Upon happening accidentally upon reality once more (always an irritating occurrence when immersed in deep, private, philosophical thought) Dick was aware that he was being frantically ranted at. ''�And quite what you were doing lying on the pavement, with not a single gallon of consciousness between you (not an entirely fair criticism, as such a commodity is rare and expensive affordable only to the well off, and to members of the infamous yoinker guild. (So called for the noise they are obliged to make upon committing a thievery) next to a discarded, alarmed and mentally scarred mannequin I simply cannot imagine! Rex The Porker saw Dick chuckling to himself and became enraged, like a big, angry, flatulent sea-cow, and flung the young spanner-monkey (an apt description, as the boy loved both spanners and monkeys in equal measure, delighting especially when the two combined to produce something truly special) headfirst into 'he who sings of the lovely coconut bunch'. This guy ended in a somewhat awkward situation, as he was knocked body-first (before his spirit was dragged along with it) into a meat separator. This, as it is probably needless to say, ended him. The last words he managed to gargle as his neck was beginning to be severed was 'big ones, small ones, some as big as yer 'ead!'�'�then his head imploderised with a cute little 'pop'.

Rex became hopelessly distracted by the spectacular display of separating meat, which closely resembled a fireworks show crossed with the riverdance, as tiny 'ickle workers wearing surgical ice skates dissected the poor man and beat on him with menacing little death hammers (the feline processing factory liked to keep things entertaining for it's workers). After this came to an end, a steady supply of cats on a conveyer belt entered the contraption, ready for the big sleep (also known as the big separation of your meat into a form suitable for inclusion into teacakes in such a way that the general public will never know). It was a term used surprisingly often in this village.

Why, you may ask may this be happening? Why would anyone have a contraption that separates the meat from cats 'n' kittens for them to be then added to a big vat of random stuff? Such as wood polish, hyper-saturated-whisked-by-a-badger animal fat (made from real animals, never fake ones'�.they are much too chewy), laaaaaaaarrrrrd (like lard but bigger), sugar, spice, a bit of all things nice (accurate to within 5-may contain nut traces) but absolutely no added salt (people want to eat healthily these days).

Well, the reasons for this are numerous, and here they are in full; a) people get hungry, b) people get bored, c) professional ingredients such as cattle are far too expensive (cows of course, are well accustomed to being slaughtered, they even line up neatly in the abattoir without having to be asked). Like I said, the reasons are numerous. Also, the local feline wild life (as well as the owls, but we won't be visiting them today, they're on a break) contain a secret ingredient which makes the whole thing illegally addictive, which I may share with you at some later time.

Meanwhile, the pair of lads buggered off in the most spectacular of fashions (they mounted a great mythical war piglet, who belonged to the workplace and was usually used for menial office tasks, just as beat-boxing and galloped the hell outta' there) and began pondering what heinous misdeed they could commit next (naked homicide perhaps, maybe with the inclusion of religious knock-a-door-run 'open up, it's Buddha!!'�). As they went, Dick plucked a helpless little kitten from a conveyer belt and gave it a cuddle. The kitten began to purr and licked his face whilst staring at him with big, kitten eyes. 'Awwwww, ain't he just the cutest?'� said Dick whilst putting it back on the conveyer belt for imminent fooderising. 'You'll make a great teacake'� he said. The lads made their way outside as a kitten shrieked, and a teacake was born. Wow, I really love cats.

As doors to the processing Factory swung shut, (quite why the doors were swinging around as opposed to being on hinges I really couldn't say, I guess health and safety are more light-hearted in the land of the random fiction village. Health and safety people are pigs by the way, absolute pigs. not goats as you may expect) a black blur kazoomied across the boy's line of vision. It was funny though, this wasn't your usual kazoomied black blur, hell no. Usually, such a blur is less musical, less evil-feeling, less'�..nun-shaped. Also, they almost never go 'wwwwwwwwwwweeeeeeeeeebollocks!!!'� Woody blinked and looked over at his friend, to check that he hadn't been metamorphed for any reason. Surprisingly, this had in fact occurred! (another blast of suitably dramatic music would be appropriate here methinks, maybe including maracas if yo' feelin' funky Mild jive talk not essential). Dick had seemingly transmogrified (or simply; changed) into a rotating polka dancing panda. The polka panda stopped, blinked a few times, hugged Woody and then wandered off in search of rodents to eat and plants to befriend (most pandas of course do this the other way round, but I've never been one for sticking to conventions. You may have noticed this).

Woody suddenly became aware of the strange little man holding a video camera, who had been following him around since he found that dead tramp yesterday. The man (who could only be identified as a pygmy George Lucas with a fez, because he who wears the fez, has the power, and he who has the power wears the fez, In other words the fez is God.) zoomed his equipment into Woody's face (which needless to stay felt pretty uncomfortable, well, uncomfortable but not pretty). On cue, he shed a tear, ignoring the equipment zoomed into his face (no easy task as it was making really strange whirring noises), and stared thoughtfully into the middle distance. 'From this day forward'�, he boomed, 'I shall be known as Stilton Stilts, and will avenge my polka panda friend from my lofty, cheesy, wholly irrelevant new gimmick!'� Said the boy, pointlessly, 'I'll get you, nun-shaped blur, I'll get you mightily!'�

It was then that a poorly-launched ferret scuttled across the floor towards him, climbed his leg, stole a coin from his jacket, then ran off, chortling with glee. Then, from back in the factory, there could be heard the disturbing, blood-curdling sound of a climaxing hokey-cokey; 'Ra! ra! ra!'�. For a moment, stilton stilts feared he would fail to remain continent. Then, from up above, he heard this; 'Weeeeeeeeeeeeebollocks!!'�. and that did it.

And so, on that final heroic note, it's time to return to the land of the real, where a) pandas don't polka, b) stilts aren't stilton, c) nuns don't fly, and d) teacakes contain fewer kittens. Of course, in the land of the real, a) they break dance, b) they're brie, c) they hover using a complex system of straws and fans, and d) you wouldn't like to know about it. Yet there is still so much to be done. Just where will Stilton Stilts actually get some stilts of stilton from? Will the events of the last chapter have any bearing on the rest of the plot at all? Just where will the polka panda go from here? will he save the day? raise a family? Pursue a glittering career in showbiz as a comedy magician? The mystery rages on! Also, where is the unexpected place that help was supposed to come from at the end of the last chapter, and will anybody care? And just why do round pizzas come ion square boxes?

So many questions, so few quizmasters, (most became spontaneously deceased (like, 'my word! I appear to be dead, How unexpected!'�) in the great game show massacre of '79 at the hands of bionic future versions of Chris Tarrant and Anne Robinson possessing cheese-graters that emitted instant death odours (remember aresplumes?) upon an incorrect answer to the question 'why?'�. Find out the answers to all of this and much, much more when I finally lay the randomest tale ever written to rest in the next, terminal instalment. Failure to review may result in death, or worse, an unexpected physics examination. The death my take a few a number of decades to arrive, but, believe me, it will find you some day. Peace out, people. Peace, the hell, out.

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