rosyrockets.com

EPCOT

I have been a superstar DJ for fifty years now, and by the end of July my career will have supernovad from shite nightclub and hellbowel The Egg, to the Faberge egg of Spoilt It Island to the curate's egg of Kill Your Darlings to the dog egg which shall be EPCOT. What I'm trying to say is, come to Camden on the 30th July and listen to me play records in a wonderful pub. If enough folk turn up I shan't have to cough up any booking fee. For further information contact rosyrockets@gmail.com

The mystery of the spooky strange adventure

You're not getting any more Jemima Slimfast. Until I manage to find my Chuck Palahniuk belmfic, you're getting the Hardy Boys. I wrote this a very, very long time ago, for my friend Seanbaby (erstwhile leader of Oregon crimefighting team ATHENA).

One night, Frank and Joe Hardy stayed up till midnight in their secret tree-house to have a midnight feast. Unfortunately, his younger brother Joe, 17, blond haired and the more impetuous of the two, had rashly eaten all the sweets by nine thirty. They decided to go and have an adventure at midnight. Frank, dark-haired and a year older than his brother, decided that the best place to start looking would be outside.

The street at night was treacherous and foreboding. Weak sodium lamps lit the bleak streets, and an abandoned child's toy stared skyward from the gutter. Looking to their left as they reached the end of their street, the brothers saw an apron of shit-strewn grass, where tramps and cornholers lolled in the shadows. The burned out shell of a child's playhouse squatted in the centre. "Nice place for a picnic," quipped Joe. Just then, a figure moved out of the shadows ahead of them. The brothers froze, but realised they had not been seen. "Check out that spooky guy carrying the plastic bags," exclaimed Joe quietly. "My gosh," replied Frank, "one of his bags is moving... maybe he has hostages in there. Let's tail him."

The young detectives knew that silence was essential, and so with stealth they followed the man through the streets. (Frank knew that "stealth" meant being real quiet). They saw him walk into a house, and close the door behind him. As they approached the house, Joe stumbled on a paving stone. "Enjoy your trip?" quipped Frank. Joe struggled to contain his mirth as they reached the front door. His hot-headed nature compelled him to knock boldly. Nothing happened. Frank was obliged to summon up all his detective skills. "The lights are out," he observed. "Jeez, you're right!" spluttered Joe. "But what does it mean?" "I'm not sure, bro - " frowned Frank, an unruly lock of brown hair falling across his furrowed, eighteen year old brow. "Gosh, I bet they can't see a thing in there."

"Yeah," nodded blond-haired Joe. "I bet they're all walking around bumping into stuff, and getting knocked cold." Joe paused awhile, remembering The Mystery of the Chuckling Moose during which he had been knocked unconscious over seventeen times. Pop Hardy had told him that was why Joe sometimes had difficulty walking straight, and kept forgetting his name. "Am I Frank, or Joe?" he wondered aloud. "You're the one with blond hair, Joe. Now, shut up. I think I may have come up with something."

"Say it, don't spray it!" quipped Joe. Frank, deep in thought, ignored his 17 year old, headstrong brother.

"I've got it!" he ejaculated. "The back passage!"

"This is no time for arse banditry! We're on a case!" quipped Joe, but Frank had already dashed down an alley to look for the rear of the house. Joe dashed after him, and found his brother in the back yard, crouching near a flight of stone steps that led down to what seemed to be a cellar entrance.

"Listen, bro," he whispered, "voices!"

Joe went down a couple of the steps to check the window out, and leaned to peer through a chink in the curtains. "Frank!" hissed Joe. I think they're commies! They have funny clothes and they're drinking root beer through bendy straws."

"Do you recognise any of them, bro?" enquired Frank.

"They're sure not from our frat. One has a golden catsuit on and looks like a fag - and he's making lego spaceships faster than you could believe. One has metal arms, and one has hands for feet."

"They have space lego?"

"Yeah, and they're talking to these kittens who have jam jars stuck on their heads. Oh - I think they're space kittens. One has a cigar, he must be the leader. Oh, golly!"

"What?"

"The dude with metal arms saw us..."

At that moment the door opened.

"It's Obelix - my hero!" breathed Frank.

"Are you, like, spies or something?" enquired the red-haired behemoth. "We're the Avon Lady, Mister!" yelled Joe.

"Please excuse my brother. We're new in the neighborhood, and we were hoping to borrow a cup of sugar."

"Uh - okay. Come in." The two brothers tentatively followed him into the den of iniquity.

"Guys!" yelled their hosts. "These geeks have come looking for sugar." The boys looked around the room.

WHAT HAPPENED AT MIDNIGHT CHAPTER 2
The kooky game that was real weird

The brothers watched in awe as the majestic hand-footed four-eyes bent down at the feet of the chief space kitten, saying, "I'm sorry, Commander Marv - we were not expecting visitors." The grey-striped Commander waved a nonchalant paw, tapping cigar ash on the floor. "Not to worry, Aranae - I tire of battle plans. Perhaps these fine young gentlemen would like to play a game?" He looked at eighteen-year- old Frank expectantly.

"Sure, your highness," replied Frank.

"Twister! I wanna play twister!" screamed Joe, his blond hair standing on end, and his seventeen year old buttocks quivering with rage. "No, no, four times no, Joe!" replied Frank, grasping his younger (by a year) brother's arms firmly. A year older than his hot-headed brother, he often had to take charge of their adventures in this way.

"Why not Twister?" enquired the four-week-old paragon of felinity. Joe hung his head in shame.

"He plays dirty," explained Frank respectfully. "He nips, and pulls hair."

"How unpleasant," scowled Commander Marv.

"Then what shall we play, O great one?" one of the second kittens in command asked.

"Well, Patterson, let us play Gangland Monopoly. It rules - the mighty Ro made it up."

Aranae leaped up to a high shelf and brought down a Monopoly board.

"That looks just like regular monopoly to me," frowned Joe.

Commander Marv quelled him with a glance. Everybody sat around a big table, and sorted out the pieces. Commander Marv took the top hat, Big Red took the battleship and Glitter Boy chose the racing car. When Commander Marv turned to throw the dog figure on the fire, Joe grabbed for the shoe.

"Hey! Get off that shoe!" shrieked Frank, snatching at it.

"I don't want the iron! The iron's for fags!" wept Joe.

"Don't say 'fags', it's rude," reprimanded Frank. "Say 'perverts' if you really must talk about fags." But Joe wasn't listening - he was reading the Community Chest cards.

"They've written dumb stuff under the print! 'Go straight to Mayfair...or Knuckles will kick your teeth in'?! Hey - this IS regular Monopoly!" Big Red thumped the table with a mighty iron fist. The second in command kittens hid.

"Shut up. It's for real - look." He pointed at the centre of the board, where someone had pasted a picture of Bugsy Malone over the little moustache dude. Joe frowned at the board.

"Oh - okay..."

"Wait a second!" yelled Frank. "How come Glitter Boy has all the money and properties? I'm the banker - I never said anyone could make a withdrawal - "

"I got bored and started the game while you were arguing. I'm winning," replied Glitter Boy.

"That's not fair!" bellowed hot-headed Joe.

"Shut up, you're in jail. It's Big Red's turn." Nobody said anything. Aranae sighed and went to put the kettle on. Commander Marv hocked up a hairball, and spat onto the floor with a sneer.

"BANK HEIST!" yelled Big Red. Somehow Frank knew that "bank heist" meant that everyone was bored of Monopoly and wanted to kick his teeth in to alleviate the boredom. Frank screamed like a girl, and blacked out.