The Dastardly Unnecessary Adventures Of Sir Tarquin Lamb Pasanda And His Good Colleagues Sirs Fitzwellington Tikka Massala and Gregory Bacon Phaal!

THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE FLEECE - Part 1

Tarquin here - I was looking through some things in my journal and came across this folded and stuck in. I can remember those days, where the four of us would rush around the world. If my memory serves me correctly, I was in India at this point. If my memory serves me even better, Greg and Fitz sold a certain set of film rights in these parts...Anyway, enjoy!

 ***

 

 Our story begins mid travel. After news of Dr. Arsehole’s escape from his armoured police convoy en route to a high security prison, I travelled south-east as ordered, taking my good comrade Sir Fitzwellington with me. After taking us across Indonesia, our mission led us to New Zealand. Within hours of entering the country, Fitz and I had arrived at the outer limits of the small farming village in the heart of New Zealand in pursuit of Dr. Arsehole and his forces. We pulled up outside the local tavern, A Prayer & a Pint, and I dismounted our rented Motortrike clutching a padlock and chain. Fitzwellington waited impatiently, drawing a rather crude representation of male genitalia on a bus stop. As I approached Fitz, swinging my keys as I strode, I noticed a suspicious atmosphere in the town. Looking at my colleague’s face, I could easily tell he thought the same thing.

 “Is it just me, or is there a remarkable lack of.....well....sheep, in this village..?” I queried.

“You’re not wrong Greg, there’s a severe lack of woolly fiendishness in these parts.” He said, cocking an eyebrow as he spoke. “Also, I can’t quite ignore the fact that there seems to be a lot of hair bleach going around, if you catch my drift.”

I cottoned on instantly. Glancing around, I observed several tall, skinny, blonde, long eared and rather quiet men and woman strolling around the town, almost as if a fashion convention had just passed through town and everyone was embarrassed that they all picked the same hair dye. This, along with a severely worrying lack of activity on the Ewedar, my favourite sheep detecting gadget, I knew something was afoot. I decreed myself and Fitzwellington should split up, and search for clues, with promise of certain snacks as a treat. As I was already acquainted with the locals, I decided to visit an old farming friend, whilst I instructed Fitz to search at the best pool of new found knowledge known to man, a place of great wisdom and clairvoyance, where friends are made, and enemies met - the pub. I pointed him to the tavern, and he was gone. A few hours and a few riffs later, myself and my partner rendezvoused at the tavern to share our intelligence with beer in one hand and the aforementioned treaty snacks in the other.

Here is what we knew - the farmer had told me that several of the country’s sheep had been disappearing, with large black vans nearby at these times. Not just wild sheep, but those of the farmers also, which had been taken by a strange and unknown organisation that had only recently come to light. The company, EweRam, had greeted farmers with tales of a virus spreading throughout New Zealand, similar to rabies, causing sheep to become a tad nibbly (specifically the black ones). As you would imagine, many farmers willingly gave their sheep to the company in hope of receiving mass vaccination on their flock. I found this highly unbelievable, as no word had reached me of such an infection, and I - of all people - would be told. From Fitz’s endeavours, we learned that the pointy eared fellows we a so called “immigrant workforce” who had recently migrated to the town to take on large amounts of manual labour. However, anyone who had had the chance to speak with these people claimed their accents and attitudes were far too rural, as though they had been here for generations.

We stroked the proverbial chin. This was indeed a baffling conundrum, meaning the work of the Foe, or at least Dr. Arsehole, was behind this kerfuffle. A short, stout man approached us with tankards, armed with only rosy cheeks and magnificent curly hair. He joked with Fitzwellington, and I asked of their relationship.

“This here is Sam, the landlord. Got a stunning wife, two dazzling children and one die hard passion for horticulture, I tell you that!” slurred an ecstatic Nobleman, who drooled as the bartender smiled with humility.“Oh, I do love a bit a’ gardenin’ e’ery now an’ again” said the rosy faced man. I gazed down to see two, shoeless, sockless, filthy hairy feet. I didn’t ask. We drank into the night.

The next day, I connected my BT home hub with a fluorescent pink macbook I got for Christmas and began to search the net space whilst Fitz searched the small ads in men’s magazines. After an hour and a half of searching the blogosphere and other wells of information, I was empty handed. I turned to Fitz, “Well bugger me like a jam toasty, this is a harder than countdown in Taiwanese.” He grunted a response.

“How goes the analogue search?” I asked as I leaned back in my chair. He told me that he had found their address five minutes after he started looking and then began to read the contents of the magazines. I sighed. We grabbed our respective coats and headed out. We travelled many hours, deeper and deeper into middle ea- New Zealand, and at last we arrived.

In the middle of a huge concrete clearing, a small office block greeted us. Its walls were grey and clad with dirt, the only feature we saw was a huge sign reading EweRam Inc. Wondering who had thought of the name, we entered the building, utilizing our makeshift name tags that we had made using nothing but Fitz’s genius and potato prints. At the front desk of a very dull and boring reception area, we were greeted by a very beautiful young woman. She looked up, brushing her long black hair out of her hazel eyes, light bouncing off her perfect cheek bones. I realised that top notch suave and a silver tongue would be needed to flatter her. After a swig of the Smoke Earl Grey,I straightened my Armani wool suit jacket, flexed the lapel of my coat, rubbed my ring, slapped on my most lethal and charming smile - and got Fitz to do it because I was hopeless with women.

We were directed as follows: down the hall, take a left, head five doors down, take the lift to sub level 2. If the lift is out of order, take the stairs. She was under the impression we were heading to accounting. She was sorely misled. So, as we passed the fourth door, we took a sharp and inconspicuous turn down a very poorly lit hall, reaching a door with the words ‘AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY - DOCTORS ORDERS’. This was it. We would have taken longer to look, but I remembered something my old friend Sir Montgomery Tuna Mayo once said - “When the Doctor is at work, do not dabble with wit and hidden passages, just look for massive ego boosts...” I remember his advice to this day. Anyone under command of the Foe has an ego the size of a Dutch hooker. I drew two small lock picking tools from my breast pocket. One in each hand, I used them to line up the pins inside the lock on the door, ready to take the lock. Once aligned, I coughed into the lock and the door swung open. We were greeted by a lift. I ushered my partner in crime forward into the small steel case as I removed my heavy leather coat. There was only one button - ‘DOWN’. Naturally, loving buttons, I pushed it. As we descended, I sensed a growing fear tingling up my spine, as if something was approaching me. Something......woolly.

 

We came to a halt, and the lift doors slid open. My eyes adjusted to the change in depth of the room - then adjusted again. I rubbed my eyes, and looked out. A vast and dominating warehouse stretched as far the eye could see, as though we were inside a cave. The walls and ceiling were littered with flood lights, and the floors littered with cables and insane numbers of guard towers. On one side, thousands of huge vats stood, filled with identical foeti growing in a sickly green fluid. The vats surrounding a large tower, but a second was nowhere to be seen. As clear as day, this was a cloning operation. On the other side of the cave complex, gargantuan shearing machines chundered and cranked, cutting and snipping. I glanced closer - the sheep! The machines were ridding the sheep of their precious wool and using it to power the generators that kept the vats in check, explaining the gigantic armoured cables running the width of the cavern. I was horrified.

“We have to help them...” I turned to see my friend, whose face was in a contortion of pain of which words could not describe.

 

We looked at each other.

And we each said....

  

“Okay.”

*** 

 

I think the rest of this report is somewhere in this blasted journal - watch this spot. -Tarq.