Yorrick, Chapter 11
By Caleb Newcastle



Whacka-choom!
    The big blue ball rolled away, revealing much wreckage and devastation, antlers and dry-wall everywhere.  A foolish man, dressed in dark grey zippers stumbled, nay fell, out of a hole in the side of it.  "Ho boy..."


"Beer stereo!"
    "What?"
    "It's a beer stereo!" exclaimed Detective Widget.
    "I see," replied Detective Yorrick, for he did.  "What are you going to do with it?"
    "Drown out the sound of all those pesky people who are having sex."
    "There are many?"
    "Many manys."
    "Then have my blessing."
    "Thank you."
    "You're welcome.  A quick question?"
    "Mm-hmm?"
    "How did I get here?"
    "Ah, well, therin lies a tale my son."
    "Pray tell?"
    "As you wish."


Frank stumbled around for a bit, looking dazed and confused and torn-shirted for a while, before hearing the telephone.
    "Ring-ring.  Ring-ring." it said.
    Buried under much rubble it appeared to be and so Frank dug furiously, afraid that whomever was trying to contact him would hang up before he was able to say hello.
    "Hello?"
    "Hi, is Frank there?" queried a silky smooth baritone.
    "Like a fox," replied Frank.
    "Supoirb.  I have a message for you."
    "Mm-hmm?"
    "It's always in the last place you look for it."
    "..."
    "Did you hear?"
    "Yes...  in the last place, eh?  Not in the first?"
    "Not usually, no."
    "How about the second?"
    "Nope, still the last."
    "I see.  Thanks.  Who am I talking to?"
    "A friend."
    "A detective friend?"
    "Mm-hmm."
    "A friend named after a ping-pong ball never meant to be seen by mortal eye?"
    "The very same."
    "Widgy?"
    "Franky!"
    "Come here good buddy, let me hug you!"
    "No can do Franky, we're on the phone."
    "Oh, yes.  So, how have you been?"
    "Same old, same old.  But I didn't call you just to catch up on old times."
    "You didn't?"
    "Not just, no.  You see, I've been waiting to make this call for thirty years."
    "But you've only known me for ten, Widgy."
    "Various cliched time-travel paradoxes, Franky."
    "Say no more, Widgy."
    "Okay."  And so, true to his word, Detective Widgy became mute.
    "Hello?  Franky?  Are you there?"
    Tap-tap.
    "Hello?"
    Tap-tap-tap!
    "Tap-tap-tap?"
    Tap-tap-tap-tap!  Tap-tap-tap!!!
    "Hoom.  You're not making much sense, Franky."
    "Well, I wouldn't on the phone, I'm fucking mute!"
    "Mutes are people too, Franky.  And what happened to your being true to your word?"
    "Tap you."
    "Well if that's the way you're going to be I'm going back to my can."
    "I said tap you."
    "Tap you too."


"That didn't explain a thing, Widgy," complained Yorrick.
    "Relax, guy... trust me!"
    "Okay..."


Yorrick coughed up some more dry-wall and shuffled himself out of the whacka-shoomed shack.  He was glad the obnoxious moose had been killed, but saddened that he had beencrushed.  He ached all over and longed for a huge leather armchair to sink down into.
    After getting a few yards from the shack Yorrick looked back to see what had happened.  It was then that he saw Franky staring at him in an unwholsome manner.  "Who are you?" he asked of the zippered man.
    "Frank, Franky, ex-crazy-soldier, time-traveller, wanker, shite actor."
    "Gee, that's great.  Quit staring at me in that unwholesome manner."
    "I'm...  I'm sorry.  It's just that you are the most beautiful vest I've ever seen."
    "Eh what?"
    "Please, could I wear you?"
    "What?!"
    "It's these zippered pyjamas they make me wear...  How will I ever be an action hero if all I wear is pyjamas?"
    "Um..."
    "It's just so unfair!  And that Russian chick?  She never remembers that we did indeed get together, marry, have dogs, a house, a life!  Why...  It's enough to drive a man insane!"  With a wild gleam in his eyes, Frank lunged for Yorrick.  Before the audience had a chance to press Record on their VCRs he had stripped down to his boxers and pulled the crusty undergarment over his chest.
    "Eh ee oh!" protested Yorrick, devolving to vowels in shock.
    "Not a chance, Bubba," drawled Franky, chomping down on a cigar.  "I'm a Man of Action now.  And as such, I needs me a crusty vest!"


What horror!  Our hero, the intrepid Yorrick, is imprisoned upon the sweaty, heaving chest of Little Franky, two rock-hard nipples poking him in the back.  How will he escape?  And how will Ripper react when he finds out Yorrick has been unfaithful?  And what's with the whole Detective thing anyway?  Moohoohaha...