A buzzing noise could be heard by the party lying around in different stages of coma, apart from Phil, who's having a nice little chat with a Palm tree not far off and is currently living the last couple of days backwards. The noise gets louder and it becomes clear that the noise is coming from a Doubledecker airplane cutting through the skies steered by none other than Biggles(tm) the daring pilot. And in the seat behind him we can see a middle aged Texan Ex-Governor who has been promoted a couple of years ago.
"Drop it Biggles, now, on that Ireland there. We declare War on Silliness!!!!"
"But isn't it going to get rather draughty then?" Biggles asked...
"No, not your pants, you idiot, da bomb!!! Do I have to do everything myself..." Saying this, the man climbs out of his seat and down to the wheels of the airplane and sitting on it releasing the holders.
"Here you go, you stupid people!!" he yells out as he makes his way downwards, shouting out Yeehas!!!.
All the way down towards the clueless Martini Brigade...
Maybe the only thing that could save them was a nude Welshman holding a Rice pudding? (Thanks Spike for that one...)
The TP gathering look up silmultaneously from different parts of the island to see the bomb falling, falling towards them, blocking out the sun.
"Is it...?" says evil twin #1.
"I think..." replies evil twin #2.
"Hold on, I've got a call," shouts Dr. Greg.
"Quick! The martinis!" cries Mr. Isa.
"And the petit fours!" chimes his wife.
"Baaaaa!" baaa's Dolly.
"Thhhpttt!" retorts the llama-whose-name-is-not-Tina.
"My hair!" says our Vixen, lustfully.
"Confuscious say run for cover," expostulates the Wocca.
"Full speed ahead!" orders Captain CupCake.
"What the hell...?" asks Nikki.
"Will somebody just rescue me and get this bloody thing over with!?" pouts Eve.
"Feck," says Gelli predictably.
"My precious!" cries Phil.
"The plot thickens!" adds the durain.
"What's my line again??" says Super Agent MattXIII.
And still the bomb falls, falls, falls - and our heros and villians duck for cover. But it's too late, too late, too late! First there's a terrible silence, then a terrible roar. And as the beast hits the island, at last...
"Oh, hell - yes!" cries Phil. "A Lemon Curry bomb! My favourite!"
But what they didn't know is that this was actually the One Bomb, forged in secret by the Dark Lord himself in a Bush behind 10 Downing Street while the PM was on holidays....
For a few seconds the world was covered in whiteness - the likes we see in 70s Disaster movies - and then it went dark...
The Island was gone and all that would suggest that there ever was an Island were some Martini Glasses, High heeled red boots and a pan of Rice pudding....
But suddenly a strange spikey object surfaces from the depth of the water like Jacques Costeau turned into a Blowfish....
Inside the green thing we can hear voices saying things like:
"FECK! ARSE! DRINK! GALS!"
"Another Martini, dear?"
"Keep the Martinis coming..."
"I smell wee, where's that coming from?"
and so on... And the floating Durian filled with TP nutters makes it slow way towards a yet unknown goal....
...Jude picks up the remote control and hits the pause button. Antonio stares at the screen in amazement. Both are gape-mouthed and wide-eyed as they turn to look at each other. "Whoa! I didn't see that coming, did you?" Antonio shakes his head violently from side to side, "No! Still want to rent Alfie again?" Shoving more popcorn into his open mouth, Jude mumbles something unintelligible and hits the resume buttom on the clicker...
When last we left the spaceship Swinepork, its crew were testing out their new presto-chango phaser on an unwitting band of travellers lost on an island below...
Miss Piggy: Dear me, what was that?
Link Hogthrob: Must have been my lunch! 'Scuse me!
Miss Piggy: No, no, that "kaboom". Didn't you hear it?
Dr. Julius Strangepork: It sounded like a nuclear explosion. I will check our outer-core protector for damage.
Miss Piggy: Wait!
Link Hogthrob: So it was my lunch!
Miss Piggy: No, you idiot - it's like we're carrying extra weight. And what's that gawd-awful smell?
Dr. Julius Strangepork: Why, that's the smell of durain! The worst smell ever to eminate from planet Earth.
Link Hogthrob: Smells like it could have been my lunch!
Miss Piggy: Shut up!
Dr. Julius Strangepork: I think we have stowaways! We must have picked them up with our presto-chango phaser. Look here, on the monitor - they're in the galley. And they've brought a sheep! And a Wocca-beast!
Miss Piggy: Oooh, look at him, he's cute. RRarrrr!
Link Hogthrob: Whatever do we do now?
Dr. Julius Strangepork: I don't know, but we'd better do it fast! They've somehow changed our ship into a giant, flying durain. We'll be rotten and decomposing in no time if we don't do something fast!
Miss Piggy: Oh, no!
This has been another episode of Durain in Space. Tune in next week when you'll hear Miss Piggy say: Wocca! Oh, Wocca! Get over here, you big hairy beast!
Durain in Spaaaaaaaaaaace!
The TP Novel Part 3 - The search for Part 2
Space, the final frontier. A solitary durian is floating through the dark like faeces in a bowl? The journey seems endless but then suddenly they enter the gravitational field of a planet nobody ever heard of.
Drawn to the surface the Durian descends further and further and then, quite ungracefully, it hits the ground with a soft thump, smashing the entire population of a small furry animals, which were destined to become the dominant species of that planet. Well, evolution has to change its plans now, they didn?t reckon with an Interstellar Durian filled with Nutcases.
From inside we can hear muffled voices:
?Where are we??
?What happened, why do I look like this now??
?I hate it when writers just use dialogue without describing the character?s looks. Hey, you, look at me, I am hot!!!!?
?Yeah, you look a bit flustered..?
?Hand me the Martini, please, dear??
?That?s a bit difficult now, it?s a bit crowded in here. Hey, watch where you mutating, you fool!?
?What happened to my sheep, it?s all deflated?.?
?Hey, look at my newly added body parts? Isn?t that cool??
?Brrr? that?s gross, that?s what that is??
?You?re just jealous that you have none like these.?
?Oy, my arm just fell off? Can somebody give me a hand sewing it back on??
?I had a very weird dream, something about Pigs??
?Hey guys, guess what we?re having for dinner!! Pork Chops?
?Okay, who was that?? No more beans for all of you!!! Oh, my god, that?s awful? Did anything crawl in here to die?? Please give me some air!?
?Let?s get out of here, quick??
?No wait, we have to check first, this could be a hostile planet??
?Where are the nameless ensigns when you need them??
Suddenly a small hatch popped open on the top of the Durian and through the escaping smoke we can see a hand coming out, holding an eyeball. The hand moved around slowly in a circle, getting an overview of the surrounding countryside.
Several moments later, Antonio looks over at Jude and screams…
“Oh my God, my little pale boy, chu are all purplely on your head, and chu haf leetle green polka dots on chur nose!!!!”
Jude, seemingly pleased that Antonio is hallucinating, climbs onto a large mushroom shaped footstool, pulls out a hookah and begins to slowly puff sweet smoke into the air.
“Whatever do you mean, my Latin Pansy-Boy?” Oh, I see…it must have been the popcorn. You see, I laced it with magic butter. You may feel a little different for a while, but it will wear off just as soon as Alfie is done playing. Then you may have your way with me. Besides, I’m tired of this silly island movie. We’ll never know what the Evil Twins are up to because the writers just can’t seem to get to the point. And the acting…oh my God, I haven’t seen anything that bad since Spy Kids. ”
As Jude blows blue smoke rings into the air, Antonio struggles to his feet, determined to finish the movie. With his tanned, masculine, and yet somewhat rubbery arms, he seizes Jude by the waist, drags him off to the bedroom and throws him onto the bed.
“There chu go, my caterpillar compatriot. Now I can fineesh the moofie in pees.”
Stumbling back out of the bedroom and locking the door behind him, Antonio begins to feel a bit nauseated. He falls to the floor, only vaguely hearing the muffled cries coming from the bedroom…..”What’s it all about, Alfie?……Crawling back to the couch using every ounce of his rapidly fading energy, he finds the DVD remote and clicks PLAY, thankful that the story that had so engrossed him had not, as previously suspected, turned into a nightmarish jumble of long-drops.
The sun begins to set as our slightly drunken band of seven……oh wait, we did that……..uhhmm…eerrrrr….right, plans yet to come.
The Evil Brothers, those Norwegian Siamese Twin Mad Scientists, conclude their re-planning.
“Evil Brother Pete”, said Sam, hopping up and down with a certain intense enthusiasm brought about by a few too many mocha double latte’s, “We need to finalize our very evil plans to steal all the Guinness in the world. We have only to stop the goodly Isa’s and their friends and various animals and the Stout will be ours, all ours mwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.”
“Sam, I’m a little worried about you”, said Pete, holding his little brother up (dangling from the pinkie finger) in front of his face, “ease up on the coffee, will you? But I agree, we must stop those traveler people. We’ll have the Wocca-Beast pound them into cake, then we can finish the pipeline that will divert all the Guinness made everywhere in the world right here to Evil Island. People will panic, governments will fall, economies will crumble, and we’ll never have to run to the store again. So, radio over to Mad Moderator Hien and tell him to fire up the volcano. A good eruption should blow that Martini Blimp out of the sky and cover Evil Island with several feet of lava. Everyone will think this is just a lava-encrusted wasteland, while we’re secreted away in the Secret Lair planning more secret evil plots. Onward my Evil Brother!!! To Arms!!!!”
By coincidence, the radio crackles to life. It’s Mad Moderator Hien. Of course.
“Masters, Mad Moderator Hien here. Over. Evil Dr. Greg and I have anticipated your decision to fire up the volcano and have begun the countdown. Over. We have signaled the Wocca-Beast to pound the interlopers into pudding, but he is not answering. Over. The Vixen keeps mumbling from inside the burlap bag about tag sales and pink fashion accessories. Over. What should we do? Over.
A rather robotic voice, sounding not unlike that fabulous star of stage and screen James Earl Jones, can be heard in the background, counting down the fateful seconds before the volcano erupts, viciously destroying all life within a 10 mile (286.34 km) radius.
“Ninety-nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine, ninety nine thousand nine hundred ninety-eight, ninety nine thousand nine hundred night-seven…………………”
Back at the inflatable patio, the sun has set, and come up again. Early morning dawns, soft velvety hues fill the slightly-darker-than-usual sky, and deep, visceral rumblings can be heard from somewhere just out of earshot.
“Oh God, I hope that’s not my stomach,” moans Nikki, thinking that 18 Lemon Twist martinis might just upset one’s stomach. Suddenly, in a flash of realization, she leaps to her feet and yells out “Uh, excuse me, everyone. Could you all gather around? I think we may be in some danger. If that sound is what I think it is, then we’re about to be covered in several feet of lava. Eve, honey, I know this wasn’t exactly the vacation that you had in mind, but I’m sure we’ll all get out of here. OK, who’s good at running around screaming and panicking? Anyone? How about flailing around? No one? The group looks down in unison. There, in a pathetic attempt to help, is Precious, rolling around in a neat little circle.
“OK, it looks like we’re all going to die. Does anybody have any last words?”
At that, another low rumbling is heard. Only this time, it is accompanied by a yawn and stretching sounds. The Wocca-Beast has arisen.
“Fee Fi Fo Fink, that martini one powerhouse drink. Why me talking like this?
Our intrepid traveler group, stunned by the sudden re-awakening of the behemoth, gather around him in a circle.
“I say, dear,” said Mr. Isa, “perhaps just a dash more on the knock out drug would have kept the beast at bay a while longer.” “Sorry honey-dew,” replied Mrs. Isa, “but I included a spritz of ‘anti-beast behavior vermouth’ in with the knock out drugs and the passion fruit vodka. I had hoped to cure the big boy of his nasty habits so he could become a productive member of society, or at the very least, get him to stop with the proverbs.”
“Smashing, my Love. Look, I think he’s coming ‘round to his senses.”
The Wocca-Beast begins to dust off the many dried leaves and insects that have made him their home since he last had a drink.
“Oh, piss. Just look at me, I’m a mess. Couldn’t anyone just have laid me on a blankie or something? Christ, this vest will never be the same. Does anyone know how to get dried durian juice off cotton chenille? God, I must smell a fright.”
The sound of jaws dropping could be heard right ‘round the island. The only other noise was the dragging sound Precious was making in the sand. No one had realized that the Wocca-Beast could be tamed, civilized, re-humanized. But he still needed a bath.
“Ninety nine thousand nine hundred ninety-six, ninety nine thousand nine hundred ninety-five……………………”
This may be very difficult to make into a movie format
We'll just do random filming - no one will know the difference! A volcano here, a martini there, throw in a sheep and llama for good measure. See, anything can work!