The Y Files: The Tinny Blabber Code

My little experiment in writing satirical fiction has been great fun. Whilst I am the first to admit my technical skills need plenty of honing, I am hoping to do more about that by going back to school. I recently wrote a couple of more political spoofs. I suppose a mixture of Spitting Image, Tom Sharpe and Dan Brown meet the X Files is the best description for it.

After two short stories, I got so ‘in’ to the whole thing that in the next session of brainstorming I produced a 6k word sequel with plenty of space to continue. The whole thing became so absurd that I decided that I would use the little anecdote ‘The Great Welsh Cockles Wars’ and the political sketch ‘Heroin addicts etc, ( both posted here,) to actually be part one and two of a novelette. With such vivid characters, I just had to keep some or even maybe all into a story of what is now becoming a lampoon on modern day life.

So for your reading pleasure I present:

The Y Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part 3.

Wolf Mildew cast a quick glimpse at his image in the tacky Chinese made wall mounted mirror. The glowing green frame sent a pulsating signal to his brain, ‘I believe’, and noticing that he hadn’t turned into a wide eyed spaced out Alien abductee in the last five minutes, he brushed the few specs of dandruff from his immaculate Gucci suit jacket and waited for his ex-partner to arrive.

In fact, he was dying to sit down as his feet were killing him. Special Secret agent Dilly Slapper, 38-32-36, was late again. The very thought of her ridiculing him for creases in his trousers kept him on his toes. Mildew sighed, took a wilted Remembrance Day poppy out of his epaulette and started plucking the paper petals as he chanted softly to himself,

“She will, she won’t, she will, she…”

“Won’t! And that’s definite, you daft bald-headed fat twat, this better be good as I had to rush from the hairdressers, just as he was telling me what Cherry Blabber uses to dye her roots.” That was the usual style of entrance for the most desired Secret Agent in British Intelligence. Sadly she had none, but looked good and was known to execute a good hand job quickly and cleanly in the cleaners’ cupboard if it got her kicked up the ladder.

In fact, Dilly Slapper was so good at it, she was now Head Of Paralytic Research. Her expense account was rumoured to be top secret, but she spent considerable time in ‘The Nags Give Head’ pub, gathering important facts.

Wolf collapsed his ample arse onto the only stool in the tiny, cold, grey office deep in the basement of MI 69 headquarters. The Gucci pants ripped apart loudly as the Chinese produced fake disintegrated under the pressure.

“Gawd.Your so pathetic! What you want anyway, that’s so important huh! You been seeing Aliens again? I told you to stop watching Prime Minister’s question time.” Dilly lifted her right arm up above her head, and sniffed her armpit, exposing a couple of day’s stubble of dark hair. Wrinkling her nose up, she dropped her arm after first running her long lacquered nails through her freshly dyed peroxide blonde hair.

“Gawd, I stink, took me nearly 20 minutes to fire the head off, of the Head of C.O.C.K, (Covert Operations and Clandestine Killings,) this morning. Dirty old git, but I got me the keys to a new Jag convertible. My bloody arm hurts though. Anyway, stupid Alien man…what’s up Doc?” She snickered loudly. She loved ripping into Dr. Professor Wolf Mildew, Alien specialist.

The fact that it was him who had got Dilly Slapper through the front door was the only reason she even bothered to talk to him still. Promotion came via using her back door she soon worked out. So Wolf stayed in the cellar whilst Dilly had her head in the clouds. Even Wolf knew that offering HIS back door to any of the hierarchy, would result in his head in a sewer drainage pipe. Less his body.

Wolf smiled stupidly and reached for the half full pint glass of ale on the table. She had turned him into what he was now. Instead of Aliens and the Paranormal, it was Ale and totally Paralytic by knocking off time. But this time he would finally get her respect for what he did professionally. He could give her something she most desired, to be on the biggest television reality show; ‘I’m a Celebrity. Get me out of here’.

“I can prove that our Prime Minister, Tinny Blabber, was abducted by Aliens!” He almost shouted in his suppressed excitement.

Dillies eyes opened wide and pulling her right index finger out of her left nostril she flicked some of London’s accumulated CO2 carbon emissions onto the ceiling. Counting rapidly at the other accumulated balls of snot that were still stuck there, she gave up at nine, and concluded she came down here far to often.

“Big fucking deal, dick head. We all know that. Is that why…”

“No No, there is more!” Wolf interrupted, slobbering over his only clean shirt that he had worn for the occasion,

“His brain was operated on and impregnated with SPIN. And it’s highly contagious. Most of his cabinet is showing signs of the disease. It’s a plot to take over the WORLD!”

Slapper poked another long bright red finger nail between two bottom molars, trying to ease out a piece of Château Brained she had had for lunch. Smiling as the piece came loose, she chewed it for a fraction to savoir the memory, and swallowing, looked at Wolf and said,

“How he do that then? Shag Gobby Browneye?” She giggled at her crude referral to the present Chancellor.

“Exactly, your brilliant!” Wolf couldn’t quite believe how she jumped to that conclusion so fast.

Dilly wasn’t sure, she thought it was a joke, but with her afternoon ruined she might as well stick around and hear the rest.

“Go on Mastermind, and then?” Finding a corner of Mildews cluttered desk free, she attempted to pull one of her bright blue leather knee-length boots off.

“Look,” Wolf waved to a computer monitor showing a huge expanse of complex mathematical formulas. “This is what I call, The Tinny Blabber Code, and I am close to finally cracking it. I have put in all the tax returns of Tinny and his wife for the last 10 years and asked the computer to match the figures against the letters of the alphabet. The results are amazing.”

“Give us a hand pulling this bloody boot off will you; I think I’ve got a hole in my stocking. Anyway I don’t understand a thing you’re talking about.”

Wolf stood up awkwardly, and grabbing the proffered heel in his podgy hands, pulled it off.

“You bloody idiot, how the hell am I suppose to walk to my new Jag with no heel on my boot? Gawd, you’re USELESS.” The enraged former lap dancer snatched the heel out of Wolf’s hand and stuffed into her large alligator skin handbag with the Luis Vuitton logo emblazoned all over it.
“Hurry up, I’m getting bored.”

Wolf licked his lips and threw Dilly a foxy look. “Listen, all the tax returns are exactly the same every year. The identical amount of 19,169 pounds and 14 pence. It’s impossible. They are taking in millions, but that’s all they declare, year after year, before;” Mildew entered some letters into the computer keyboard and the screen changed, “so called expenses.”

Slapper looked vaguely at the latest screen offering through drooping eyes. The lunch session with Lord Goffrey Strongbow, along with two bottles of some fancy incomprehensibly named red wine, was dulling what little concentration she could muster. “You got any Coke?”

Wolf rummaged amongst his stacks of cardboard boxes he used as a filing cabinet and presented Dilly with a silver tin of sugar free.

“You sad fuck!” Dilly snorted at him. “Not that shit, you moron. Something to shove up my nose to wake me up!” Before she could continue, the handbag she had placed on the floor started to vibrate and create sounds like a demented frog on heroin. Ignoring Wolf, who was busy punching more details into the keyboard, she rummaged briefly and pulled out the bright pink mobile phone encrusted with plastic diamonds. Flicking the lid, she pressed a few buttons and perused the small screen before cackling loudly with laughter.

Wolf recognised that cruel tone of humour she had. The first time he had heard it was when he had presented his awaiting private parts for grateful compensation in the men’s bogs at the The Nags Give Head pub after he had arranged employment for her with C.O.C.K.

“Hey Wolfie, listen to this,” her bright red surgically enhanced lips pouted in his direction for a second, before reading from the text she had just received, “A man of mixed race goes to the Doctor. He runs on the spot and he tells the Doc that he can’t stop jogging. The Doc pours out some white powder from an envelope, uses a scalpel to create two thin long lines on his desk and tells the patient to sniff it. The patient does and stops jogging on the spot. He says to the Doc, “WOW, is that cocaine?” Nah says the Doc, its Persil, guaranteed to stop colours from running!” With that she shrieked with laughter.

Mildew was appalled. “You can’t go around receiving and sending stuff like that in this country. You will have the law on top of you in no time at all!”

“That’s true,” Slapper acknowledged, “the Chief Justice has a date with me later tonight…hah hah hah. Anyway gotta dash, so be quick. What you want from me?”

“Look,” pointing to the screen, “the sum repeated over 10 years is equal in the alphabet to the word SPIN.” And that’s where you come in,” Wolf added.

“I do? How you figure that out? Anyway, what does this SPIN mean?” Slapper limped over to the screen for a better look. One thing she did know about Wolf Mildew, the man might be an overweight drunken sot at 48, but he wasn’t a fool.

“I am not sure, but the secret is somewhere in 10 Connning Street. I think it will be hidden behind a painting. I need you to get in and look.”

“And how exactly am I suppose to do that? I can’t exactly see Tinny’s wife welcoming me with open arms, do you?” But Slapper was excited with the idea. If anyone could pull a stunt to get her photographed entering the P.M.’s private quarters, then Wolf could.
“You are to make ‘friends’ with M.P. Divhead Bonkit, the new Minister for Druggies and Dossers. He is a close friend of the Blabbers. I don’t need to explain to an expert like you how to wangle a dinner invitation, do I?” Wolf smiled and handed her a slip of paper.

“What’s this?” Dilly looked at the small yellow note scrawled with Wolf’s clumsy writing.

“It’s the name of a pet shop near ‘Nutter’s Corner’ in Hyde Park. Buy yourself a bitch. Preferably an Afghan hound and let it run free next Sunday at exactly 11.00 a.m. at ‘Nutter’s Corner’. Divhead always does his ‘Don’t blame me’ speeches there at that time whilst his dog shits all over the place. Once Divhead’s dog starts doing the ‘humpies’ with yours, you can break the ice. After that…well, nature takes its course,” Wolf added with a knowing wink.

“Phone me at home as soon as you have been penetrated…er, I mean you got in there...” Wolf ended lamely. “You pull this off, I swear you will go to Australia to eat Ant and Dec’s little worms on T.V.”

“Done. I will let you know.” Scooping up her bag, she hobbled to the door. “And get some decent coke in for next time we meet asshole!”

***

The Y-Files: The Tinny Blabber Code. Part Four.

“Well, Egghead, what you think?” Dilly Slapper did a quick spin on the spot in Wolf Mildew’s office.

Wolf whistled a spluttering high pitched tone. “Well done Dilly, you look fantastic.” That she did. Gone was the cheap tart look of Pretty Women fame. Now she was attired and groomed like a large breasted version of Geena Davis playing the part of an American President. “So when is the night?”

Mildew’s plan had worked a treat. Divhead Bonkit M.P. and the head of C.O.C.K. s paralytic department were as far as the press is concerned, a pair. Dilly gloated over the mountain of newspapers piled on Mildews desk from the previous week. Her image, along with the Cabinet member for the Druggies and Dossers portfolio, were spread on every front page.

‘BONKIT’S LATEST DOG’, screamed the headlines of the Britain’s best selling daily, The Sun. Below this was a photograph of Dilly and Divhead collecting a new dog for the blind.

“Next Friday.” Dilly paused a fraction, “shame about that plain clothes copper shooting the dogs in the head in broad daylight. All I shouted out was, “Help, there is an Afghan holding Divhead Bonkit hostage!” Next thing you know, this idiot runs over, and pumps four bullets into both dogs head. All I meant was that his bleedin dog couldn’t get off the bitch cos they were locked and howling their heads off and he couldn’t get home without his mutt. Anyway, what exactly am I looking for behind the paintings?” Dilly tossed The Sun aside to expose the next paper, The Daily Creep, Britain’s most popular satirical daily. The report was again written by their crack reporter Urine Heep.

‘Afghan hounded to death. Taliban shot in head at ‘Nutters Corner’.’ Dilly snorted through her nose as she read the title. “That; was a bloody stupid name for a dog anyway. Plus the thing stank. Won’t miss it at all. Poor Divvie was gutted about his mutt though. So Mr Alien man, what this SPIN thing look like?

Mildew looked down at the picture accompanying the article, the two dead dogs still locked together, surrounded by a gawking circle of drunken teenagers, and scratched his hole absentmindedly through a pink Turkish plagiarism of an Addidas tracksuit, as he pondered his answer.

“I think it will be a document of some form.” Wolf looked over towards Dilly. “Can you handle Bonkit okay? I don’t want you hurt in anyway.”

Slapper ran her long finger nails through her perfectly coiffured short Rosemary’s Baby styled hair and let out a demonical cackle of laughter. “You piss artist! Divvie is like putty in my hands...hah hah hah.” It was true. The man was blindly in love with her. He just couldn’t see it was him being taken for the ride. “I’ll dump the fool as soon as I find the SPIN. He talks the most complete twaddle anyway. If he saw the look on my face he would have a heart attack.” Dilly crossed her eyeballs and putting a middle finger from each hand into her large mouth pulled the corners out in a death grimace.

“Please don’t pull stunts like that when you’re having dinner with the Blabbers for gawd sake!” Wolf exclaimed, “they don’t like the piss being taken out of them.”

“Hey, Area 51 man, what happens if he got shit loads of pictures hanging all over the place? I can’t spend the whole time looking behind pictures. They will think I’m nuts or something.” Dilly tossed The Daily Creep on the side and grinned almost as broadly without her fingers stuck in her mouth, at the picture adorning The News of the World.

Mildew had been fascinated with the picture when he first saw it. The professional in him admired the paparazzi photographer who had managed to get such a superb image of the Cabinet member being flagellated with a white cane by an almost naked Dilly Slapper in knee height bright red leather boots. They both studied the picture taken through the window of Dilly’s bedroom in silence for a moment.

“Look, you can even make out our Rodney in the background.” A finger touched the spot on the image where a cheap Chinese tacky picture frame sat on a Ikea draws cabinet beyond the bed; where a prone, manacled, naked Bonkit, received some corporal punishment in sexual ecstasy.
“He told me he might be out on parole soon,” Dilly added. Her twin brother was serving out a 14 year prison sentence for flying a micro light into a Chinese pagoda in Legoland.

Wolf looked at the accompanying headline, ‘Divhead Whips Up Support!’ Then said to Dilly,

“Tinny Blabber’s ego is massive. He would have hidden SPIN behind a picture of special significance. During dinner, try and coax out of him his favourite paintings. Then say you need the toilet and see if you can spot it. Watch out for his wife though,” his look made Dilly withdraw her wisecrack. The Prime Minister would be an easy touch, but Cherry, his wife was pure poison ivy. Slapper’s female intuition spotted a dangerous feline from ten miles away, plus her hairdresser at Vidal’s Samoosas says she was a real bitch, that didn’t tip the girls and moaned about the Elton John music being played in the background. Instead, she asked,

“Did you phone Ant and Dec as you promised?”

“Everything is under control Dilly. I’ll have the press ready and waiting on Friday evening. Just get me the answer to the Tinny Blabber Code. I’ll be finally out of here. Your such big news now, you don’t really need me. Just think of it as a reward for my hard work.” Wolf’s tone was now equal to a left wing politician begging for votes from East End crackheads.

Look, I have a reward for you. Flashing a gold Dunhill lighter at Mildew, she flicked its top and spinning the tiny wheel, created a tall flame. Bending sharply over, she proffered the burning lighter near her buttocks, tightly wrapped in a cold coffee grey Stella McCartney designed trouser and belted out a noisy tune of methanol gas. The blue flash as it ignited made Wolf jump back in alarm.

“That’s disgusting, where you learn that?”

Dilly straightened up and snapped the lighter closed. “From Viz magazine, Handy Tips. It said that methane is the second largest cause of global warming and we should burn it off to save the planet. I thought it was a good idea and great fun too,” Dilly added, as she gazed on Mildews face that had grown very pale.


Using her eyes to really convey a genuine smile, Dilly looked at the poor pathetic creature rotting away in the ‘dungeons’ of M.I.69.

“Listen, Wolfie,” exhaling smoke rings from a freshly lit personally monogrammed Dunhill menthol cigarette, Dilly nodded her head slightly towards Secret Agent Doctor Professor Wolf Mildew, Alien specialist for C.O.C.K., “you done me good, I wont forget that.”

As Dilly left the room she turned and glanced at the semi-drunk obese balding figure looking at her so trustingly with bloodshot eyes behind Clark Kent styled glasses.

“Do me a favour will ya. Stop wearing pink. It don’t suit ya.”

To be continued…