Slipperduke
The Camden Cad
Chapter Eight - The Reduced Hypertherpia of the Closed Mancharia
Osymandus pulled on a pair of heavy trousers and sucked the fetid air in through his teeth. Behind him, Rick Astley's body congealed silently on the floor, but of all the contributory factors to the awful smell in the room, he was arguably the least potent. Strange dark piles lurked in corners, there were ugly smearings across the walls and damp, yellowing patches across the ceiling. It wasn't the kind of place you'd even want to remember smelling.
"You're in a bit of a pickles, aren't you?" he said with a smile.
"Yes, I suppose you could say that," agreed Ricey. "I could probably use stronger words than 'pickles', but things aren't going well, no. After all, I woke up in a damp alleyway with a raging headache, Billy Ocean tried to murder me, I was dragged down the street to a weird knock-off version of The Spread Eagle, I've been shot at by Owen Paul, I've run through about three miles of alleyways, I almost got sucked into some kind of giant red porn-portal, I was driven here by a mad taxi-driver who basically told me that I was going to die and then, lo and behold, Rick Astley tried to prove him right. I'm lost in a strange world that appears to be based on the inside of my computer, people keep trying to kill me and, on top of everything, I've ****ed myself twice in one evening. So actually, if we give it a bit more thought, IT'S A BIT MORE THAN A ****ING PICKLES, OZZY, IT'S A ****ING NIGHTMARE AND I WANT TO ****ING WAKE UP!"
"Okays," grinned Ozzy, rooting about for a t-shirt in a pile of indescribable rags. "The grate news is that you already nose where you are."
"Do I?"
"Yes. You nose that you are lost in a strange world that appears to be based on the inside of your computer."
"How is that even possible?"
Ozzy pulled a frightningly-stained black t-shirt over his head and, rather bravely given the atmosphere, took a deep breath.
"Well. In 1977, their was an incident at a research facility in South Dakoto wear a technical support officer suffered an intense head trauma wile cleaning the abductor transit conduit on a PZ340, witch I'm sure you've heard of. He spent the next week wandering inside the coding panel of the National Guard's payroll, or at least inside a metaphorical representation of the coding panel of the National Guard's payroll, if you gets my meanings. Not niced. In 1983, a young Belgian enthusiast by the name of Hans Leiger suffered an electricity shock while adjusting the power route mainframe of his Commodore 64. He spent three years trapped in an enormous mansion collecting empty glass bottles wile evading the pre-ordained movements of series of malovalent pixlated demons!"
"You what?"
"He was in Jet Set Willy."
"I understand," said Ricey, doing nothing of the sort.
"In 1996, in Peru, three schoolchildren was co-erced into a gigantic treasure hunt, scampering around the forest looking for golden rings in facts, all at the beckoning of a large blue hedgehog. They were there for four months!"
"That can't happen."
"It can! It's a reaction between the electro-magnetic waves and the natural radiation of the frontal core synapse in the reduced hypertherpia of the closed mancharia!"
"What?"
"It happens when you hit your head hard too close to the computer."
"Riiiight," mumbled Ricey. "So I'm now stuck in my computer, am I?"
"Yeps."
"And how do you know this? Given that you are obviously one of the pixelated metaphorical representations of all of this."
"I reads," grinned Ozzy. "Lots."
"So how do I stop it all?" asked Ricey staring at the piles of books and papers across the room. "How do I get home?"
"You has to find the reset button. It's big and red. Pressed the reset button and your on your way home. There's always a reset button"
"Really?" beamed Ricey. "It's that easy?"
"Yes," said Ozzy. "And...erm...nose."
"Nose?"
"Nose. The reset button will be guarded. Sometimes only by obstacles, sometimes by challenges, but, in this cases, neither."
"What's it guarded by, Ozzy?" Ricey asked with a grimace, suspecting that he may already know the answer.
"The moderators. They rule the ShrimperZone. They has the power of life and deactivation. People try to fight them, but they always win. They our always one step ahead. They send their assassins to deactivate our accounts, they see and hear things, things that they should nots. They hunt us. They hunt you. They might not nose what you are, but they nose that you should nots be here. They want to deactivate you."
"Well, where is it then? Where is the reset button?"
"I don't nose," said Ozzy, staring at the floor. "I hasn't read that far."
Ricey reached across and grabbed Ozzy by his t-shirt, shaking him back to attention and then immediately wishing that he hadn't made full bodily contact.
"Who does know, Ozzy? Who knows where the reset button is?"
"One man," wailed Ozzy. "One man nose, but he won't tell anywon."
"WHO IS IT?" shouted Ricey, a vein the size of a shoe-lace standing out on his forehead.
Ozzy pursed his lips and whispered.
"Slapperduck."
Osymandus pulled on a pair of heavy trousers and sucked the fetid air in through his teeth. Behind him, Rick Astley's body congealed silently on the floor, but of all the contributory factors to the awful smell in the room, he was arguably the least potent. Strange dark piles lurked in corners, there were ugly smearings across the walls and damp, yellowing patches across the ceiling. It wasn't the kind of place you'd even want to remember smelling.
"You're in a bit of a pickles, aren't you?" he said with a smile.
"Yes, I suppose you could say that," agreed Ricey. "I could probably use stronger words than 'pickles', but things aren't going well, no. After all, I woke up in a damp alleyway with a raging headache, Billy Ocean tried to murder me, I was dragged down the street to a weird knock-off version of The Spread Eagle, I've been shot at by Owen Paul, I've run through about three miles of alleyways, I almost got sucked into some kind of giant red porn-portal, I was driven here by a mad taxi-driver who basically told me that I was going to die and then, lo and behold, Rick Astley tried to prove him right. I'm lost in a strange world that appears to be based on the inside of my computer, people keep trying to kill me and, on top of everything, I've ****ed myself twice in one evening. So actually, if we give it a bit more thought, IT'S A BIT MORE THAN A ****ING PICKLES, OZZY, IT'S A ****ING NIGHTMARE AND I WANT TO ****ING WAKE UP!"
"Okays," grinned Ozzy, rooting about for a t-shirt in a pile of indescribable rags. "The grate news is that you already nose where you are."
"Do I?"
"Yes. You nose that you are lost in a strange world that appears to be based on the inside of your computer."
"How is that even possible?"
Ozzy pulled a frightningly-stained black t-shirt over his head and, rather bravely given the atmosphere, took a deep breath.
"Well. In 1977, their was an incident at a research facility in South Dakoto wear a technical support officer suffered an intense head trauma wile cleaning the abductor transit conduit on a PZ340, witch I'm sure you've heard of. He spent the next week wandering inside the coding panel of the National Guard's payroll, or at least inside a metaphorical representation of the coding panel of the National Guard's payroll, if you gets my meanings. Not niced. In 1983, a young Belgian enthusiast by the name of Hans Leiger suffered an electricity shock while adjusting the power route mainframe of his Commodore 64. He spent three years trapped in an enormous mansion collecting empty glass bottles wile evading the pre-ordained movements of series of malovalent pixlated demons!"
"You what?"
"He was in Jet Set Willy."
"I understand," said Ricey, doing nothing of the sort.
"In 1996, in Peru, three schoolchildren was co-erced into a gigantic treasure hunt, scampering around the forest looking for golden rings in facts, all at the beckoning of a large blue hedgehog. They were there for four months!"
"That can't happen."
"It can! It's a reaction between the electro-magnetic waves and the natural radiation of the frontal core synapse in the reduced hypertherpia of the closed mancharia!"
"What?"
"It happens when you hit your head hard too close to the computer."
"Riiiight," mumbled Ricey. "So I'm now stuck in my computer, am I?"
"Yeps."
"And how do you know this? Given that you are obviously one of the pixelated metaphorical representations of all of this."
"I reads," grinned Ozzy. "Lots."
"So how do I stop it all?" asked Ricey staring at the piles of books and papers across the room. "How do I get home?"
"You has to find the reset button. It's big and red. Pressed the reset button and your on your way home. There's always a reset button"
"Really?" beamed Ricey. "It's that easy?"
"Yes," said Ozzy. "And...erm...nose."
"Nose?"
"Nose. The reset button will be guarded. Sometimes only by obstacles, sometimes by challenges, but, in this cases, neither."
"What's it guarded by, Ozzy?" Ricey asked with a grimace, suspecting that he may already know the answer.
"The moderators. They rule the ShrimperZone. They has the power of life and deactivation. People try to fight them, but they always win. They our always one step ahead. They send their assassins to deactivate our accounts, they see and hear things, things that they should nots. They hunt us. They hunt you. They might not nose what you are, but they nose that you should nots be here. They want to deactivate you."
"Well, where is it then? Where is the reset button?"
"I don't nose," said Ozzy, staring at the floor. "I hasn't read that far."
Ricey reached across and grabbed Ozzy by his t-shirt, shaking him back to attention and then immediately wishing that he hadn't made full bodily contact.
"Who does know, Ozzy? Who knows where the reset button is?"
"One man," wailed Ozzy. "One man nose, but he won't tell anywon."
"WHO IS IT?" shouted Ricey, a vein the size of a shoe-lace standing out on his forehead.
Ozzy pursed his lips and whispered.
"Slapperduck."
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