Tuesday, 16 February 2010

The Decoy

The sign they’d seen outside the medieval building (at least that’s what a newly fitted plaque declared its age to be) decreed it to be ‘The Holy Institute of the Knaic Decree’. Jane had gone into the library to look up information, and through a muddle of old documents, scrolls and rather nicely decorated bookmark that had being laying around had discerned that this was a religious group who’s principle belief was that the whole universe was actually the womb of god’s female counterpart, Sheila. They also believed that god’s first name was Bruce and he spoke in an accent that was crossed between Australian and a West Country farmer. However, there had been many disagreements down the years as to whether the couple’s surname was Smith or Smythe. The arguments had led to open war in some quarters of the institute, resulting in their leader being assassinated in a plot involving 3 tonnes of rotten kippers. Nevertheless, it was improbably here in this small town that this group with the emblem of the pink ribbon based themselves, and here they’d find out more.
Hans spent the day practising two new spells with Mervin in the Magic Moose Room. He’d just got over the portrait eyes following him around the room, when he noticed that the floor tiles were constantly moving, as if doing a Mexican wave. More magical fallout explained Mervin, but Hans was worried as to what freakish occurrence he’d notice next.
Now it was time to implement the first of these. Hans concentrated hard and said, “Blend”. He, Jane and Ted became transparent instantaneously. Disorientated, they began walking as if they were severely drunk, but soon got the hang of it.
“So, this was that new weight loss program you were on about, Jane,” joked Ted.
She, however, had decided to ignore pretty much anything Ted after the other night’s debacle, so a dull, empty silence settled in as they waited for the next part of the plan to spring into action, all should be well if Chloe carried out her plan properly.
A few more minutes of uncomfortable silence passed. Not that the silence itself was uncomfortable, just that a hail storm had suddenly whipped up and, invisible or not, hail is nothing but painful. A more religious person would see this as God attempting to protect his place of worship, but Hans saw it as just bad luck.
Finally, what they had been waiting for arrived. The man walked up to the door and knocked heavily on it. They moved around the back of him while he waited, to get to the other side of the door. Nothing happened. Then the man knocked again, and cries of “Alright, alright, I’m coming,” could be heard from inside.
A man, who could quite simply be described as a Scottish version of Mr. T, came lumbering to the door, heavily built with a small Mohawk and big heavy, fake gold chains dangling around his neck. “Evening, what do you want?”
“Got a pizza delivery here, for the Institute of the Knaic Decree, signor,” replied the weedy delivery man, attempting a rather bad Italian accent.