BARRAGIOFLASH AND THE BISCUIT

It is the night of Friday, 13th September, 2050. Deep in the bowels of Great Englandshire, shattered dominion of the New German Empire, lies a bombed out town named Basildon. Living in this particular bowel is a man named Jodphurs K. Bingo. He has just had to shoot his own doppelganger dead in the homecare section of BHS- a doppelganger created by such a complicated clerical error that it is hardly worth going into. Needless to say, it involved time travel, alternate realities, and some people living billions of light years away who thought it might be a good idea if they stopped the universe from folding up on itself and disappearing (an unfortunate side-effect of one of Jodphurs' decisions, who thought it might be a good idea to stop the Germans from winning the second world war). Jodphurs is now fleeing the authorities- authorities who are too confused about the whole thing to really care anyway (the paperwork is a nightmare). They would much rather just sit down with a digestive biscuit and a good magazine, but Jodphurs hasn't worked this one out yet. This may, or may not, be a good thing.

"The Edolphine Minister for commercial affairs, Brandon Tommy Lee MP, today announced the government's plan for the latest round of privatisation. 'Workforce' is to be launched on the stock exchange next month, and promises a rich dividend for investors. The company, previously known as the DHSS, has enjoyed continued growth throughout the last financial year. Since the government's switch in policy, allowing the company to trade overseas, over two million unemployed people have been sold abroad, boosting profits by a quarter. The majority of the remaining 'Workforce' produce has been consumed in the home market, through lucrative contracts with various research organisations, and a leading fast-food chain. Mr Lee has expressed regret, however, that in some cases a programme of controlled culling has remained neccesary 'due to EU quota regulations.'"

Jodphurs reached down and retuned the car radio to the light program. Over the sound of the noisy two-stroke engine, a medley of popular Eldolphine hymns filled the interior of the stolen government car.

"Wow", said Anthea, who was driving; "these things can really fly." She put her foot to the floor, and the needle on the dash board rose jerkily to 20 mph. Next to the dial, a clockwork mechanism was triggered- a bell chimed, and a little warning flag popped out:

WHEN TRAVELLING AT SPEEDS IN EXCESS OF 15 MPH,

ALWAYS USE THE FLASHING GREEN LIGHT.

Anthea flicked a switch, and the flashing green light on the roof flickered into life. The clockwork flashing mechanism wasn't wound up, however, and the green light simply sat where it was, blindingly bright. A moment later, the bulb burned out with a fizz. Anthea pushed the car to its limits, and another flag popped out:

WHEN TRAVELLING AT SPEEDS IN EXCESS OF 20 MPH,

ALWAYS CARRY A FUNCTIONING FIRE EXTINGUISHER.

"Do you think they'll know this is stolen?" asked Jodphurs, pointing to a platoon of the Eldolphine Guard standing under a streetlight to the left of them.

"No chance", Anthea replied. "These things have no identification plates, do they?"

The four patrolmen peered out at the big black car passing them in the night, but not suspiciously. Anthea was right- for all they knew, it was Edolph himself, popping by for a surprise inspection. In fact, they were hoping that it was their Commisioner's transport- he would sometimes stop, on these cold nights, and hand out digestive biscuits. They watched the car approach, its tinted windows obscuring any interior view, and shrugged to themselves as it carried on past them at speed. They turned away, muttering, and returned to the important work they had been engaged in before the distraction.

"Now then, sir. We've explained to you that it is two hours past curfew. If you don't tell us your name and address, or produce an identity card, we may be forced to attach more of these bulldog clips to your person." Their captive murmured something. As the sergeant and his three constables moved closer to hear, the crumpled figure on the ground snatched something from his satchel- which lay beside him, next to a bucket. The streetlight was underpowered, but they could quite clearly see that it was a rather mean looking pistol.

"Let's not be silly about this sir, if you'll just put that down I think we can all just..."

The Commisioner reclined in his plush office, a packet of McVities in one hand and the latest issue of 'Practical Brutality' in the other. On his desk, the intercom buzzed. He grabbed the talking instrument, wound the little handle, and spoke.

"Yes? Found my car yet?"

"No sir", came his second in command's reply, "but, well- we've just had a rather unusual radio report from the fifteenth platoon, sir, posted in the high street on curfew patrol. The code boys can't make any sense of it."

"Yes, go on, what is it?"

"I have it written down here, sir- Sergeant Goerring reported 'a low front coming in from the Atlantic, bringing just a touch of snow to the highlands', at which point one of his constables interrupted with 'So long darling- Mush!'', apparently in the style of an eskimo personage just recovering from a nasty cold. Seems most irregular, sir."

"Certainly does- snow this early in the year. My, my. Corporal?"

"Yes sir?"

"Bring in the hob-nobs and the vaseline."

The Rolls Royce-Messerschmitt 'Hindenburg' struggled noisily up the slight gradient, as Jodphurs' old house appeared on the horizon. Anthea gunned the engine, and it edged over the crest of the hill before cutting out completely with a long mechanical groan. Pointing the nose of the car towards Jodphurs' driveway, they coasted silently for a few seconds until the exhaust assembly dropped out beneath them and acted like grappling hook, dragging the car to a standstill two inches from the front door. This was quite handy, as most of the brake fluid had already leaked out and run down the hill behind them (also, Anthea had ripped the handbrake handle out of its socket earlier, whilst looking for a vanity mirror).

"We're here", said Jodphurs, shaking off the post-traumatic stress of the journey. He got out, and slammed his door shut behind him. The force of this caused the back door to drop off its hinges and fall to the ground with a tinny clank, to be joined a moment later by the Great Monk, who had been curled up in the back seat asleep with his weight against it. He lay on top of the door in front of the startled Jodphurs, still snoring lightly.

"Who's that!'" whispered Anthea from the driver's side, pointing behind Jodphurs and ducking quickly below the roofline of the car. Jodphurs span around, and saw, in the dim light, a short threatening figure creep around the corner from the back of the building.

"Oi!' Piss off, Mr Patriot", schreeched the three foot Hamster in a friendly greeting, "You said I could keep the house!'"

Corporal P. Barragioflash, second in command of the Eldophist Discipline Regiment, wiped the vaseline from his hands and surveyed the case reports scattered across his desk. He didn't enjoy his job. His superior, the Commisioner, was a digestive biscuit fiend whose interest in his own job extended no further than thinking of stranger and more time-consuming unnatural demands to make of his staff. Now Corporal P. Barragioflash enjoyed a good Homewheat as much as the next man (although, in private moments, he had to admit a slight preference for fig rolls), but he did feel that he wanted a little more out of his work. He hoped, one day, to make his name in the Guard. He dreamt of an Eldophian medal of honour, pinned upon his lapel by the fair hand of the President himself; and to achieve this, he was going to have to pull off something pretty damned spectacular. That meant solving a big case, or capturing someone important- a revolutionary, for example. Better still, a whole group of terrorist revolutionaries- a political group, with a dynamic leader and a cult following, something along those lines (Corporal P. Barragioflash emphatically shared his President's paranoia- as well as, interestingly, his President's choice of after shave, and his President's fondness for fig rolls). What he needed, he thought to himself, was a break- a break into something in the underground, some dark ominous splinter-group that he could expose and bring in single handed. He picked up one of the case reports, and shook off the crumbs. This was a strange one, he thought. Three shot dead in a department store, identification cards missing. One in drag, one covered in treacle, the other with a remarkably goat-shaped head- and carrying a foreign driving license which identified him as 'James Bingham'. The Corporal picked up an evidence bag and pulled out the contents- a rectangular plastic card, with a photo. The language was english, so it couldn't be that foreign, but he didn't recognise the format- it wasn't Imperial. He looked at it more closely, and suddenly shot out of his seat. It was incredible. He was holding something so ludricrously illegal that he could legitimately be shot, as he stood, by one of his own men. In the top right hand corner of the card, was a little flag. It was an ancient little flag, one which had been outlawed since years before the Corporal was born- being, as it was, an unspeakable symbol of rebellion and revolutionary naughtiness. It was the Union Jack.

The Hamster fretted nervously in his pile of sawdust in the corner of the living room. It just wasn't fair. He had told Jodphurs where to find the Great Monk and discover his secret recipe for worldwide destruction. In return, Jodphurs had given him his termite ridden, bullet scored house full of sawdust. It was a fair exchange, and Jodphurs had no right to barge back in, two days later, and sit down like he still owned the place.

"Calm down, rodent", muttered Jodphurs, "we just want somewhere to hide out for a while." Anthea struggled through the doorway, carrying the large trunk that they had picked up at his flat along the way. He stumbled slightly, and then fell over the Monk who had been brought in minutes earlier, still asleep. The trunk sprang open as it hit the floor, throwing the contents of the BHS ladies wear department across the room. Jodphurs removed a red brassiere from his chin, and watched Anthea get up and kick the sleeping friar, who murmurmed the word "fishcake" in drowsy response.

"How did he get to be a monk, anyway?", asked the Hamster.

"What I'd like to know", queried Anthea, "is just what makes him so bloody great?" Strangely, though, she sensed that neither of these questions would be answered. Not in this episode, anyway. At that point, another figure appeared in the doorway, and took them all so much by surprise that they failed to react at all (apart from anything, they were all getting quite used to this sort of thing). The figure came in, and strolled to the centre of the room. It was a fully grown man, wearing a boy scout uniform and carrying a bucket. He still had some bulldog clips loosely attached to his trousers, and he still had a satchel thrown over one shoulder containing- amongst other things- a rather mean looking pistol.

"Hello Deng", said Jodphurs. "Have you still got that mean little pistol?"

"Yes", replied Deng.

"Goodo. You didn't give me a go on it before."

"Jodphurs, aren't you going to ask me how I got here?" Deng was clearly unhappy about things. "I mean, I'm supposed to be on Synchro now, and instead I materialise in Basildon High street wearing a boy scout uniform and carrying a bucket." He waggled the bucket, and something slopped inside it. "That Plot Shortcut must have had really dud batteries."

"Tell us about it. We've just had to shoot our dual selves."

"Ooh, nasty. How'd that work then?"

"I believe that it was caused by such a complicated clerical error that it is hardly worth going into."

"Oh. I had a hell of a time trying to find you- I had to ask a kindly old lady down the street for directions, and she was very peculiar about it." Jodphurs frowned, for a second. There were lots of little old ladies living on this street, he argued to himself. Nothing to worry about there.

"Look what I found in one of my pockets." Deng held something out to Jodphurs, who looked it over. It was a Basildon Primary School library card, made out to 'Dougie'. Jodphurs reached out and grabbed the bucket, curious. He looked inside, and found a stodgy citrus yellow liquid that looked as if it might be quite nice in a sandwhich- except that it stank of creosote.

"What the hell is that?"

"Fucked if I know."

The Corporal juggled the case reports, looking for connections. A heinously anti-Edolphian 'driving license', issued to a name that he could find nowhere in the population records. Three dead bodies that no one had yet claimed- and which didn't match anyone on the missing persons list. A stolen government transport (belonging to the Commisioner, no less). A script for Coronation Street, submitted by the strangely intoxicated fifteenth platoon, two minutes ago. Scrawled at the bottom of the page, under "Deirdre exits with ghost of Samir, left", were the words "Big Boy Scout." It was hopeless. The intercom buzzed, and he picked up tetchily.

"Yes? Make it good."

"Oh well, sir", replied the third in command, "I probably shouldn't bother you. We've just had a report in from one of our Neighbourhood Watch battalion leaders, sir. Seems like we might have a lead on the Commisioner's car." Barragioflash's eyes lit up.

"Yes, go on."

"Well, apparently, a vandalised government car pulled up at a recently vacated house, about twenty minutes ago. Three people inside, one of whom can be identified."

"Name?"

"Jodphurs K. Bingo, apparently, sir. Easily identified, dark hair, goat shaped face." He looked over to the blasphemous photo card. No. It couldn't be. There couldn't be two of them, could there?

"There's something else, sir. According to the source, a man dressed as a big boy scout just asked directions to the address." Now that was odd. That was- one coincidence too many.

"Good work, number three. Tell me, who is this informer- we must reward the man."

"It's a woman, actually sir. She's already refused the reward, said the job was satisfaction enough. Funny thing, I think she's related."

"How do you mean?"

"Calls herself Irene, sir. Irene Bingo."

Jodphurs sat, slumped, on his Hamster chewed sofa. He looked around the room. The Great Monk was awake, and had produced a tin of treacle from his habit. He was busy replenishing ( a rare and unpleasant sight, never before seen in this series). Next to him sat Anthea, who was playing with the tassles on her ball gown. The Hamster stood next to her, cracking open a sunflower seed and looking distractedly off into the distance, his little hamster head full of thoughts of revolution- and retribution, for the invasion of his new home. Finally, next to him, sat Deng. He had changed out of the boy scout uniform, and slipped into something Anthea had picked out especially for him from the bottom of the trunk- a glittering silver jump-suit ("It never looked good on me, because of my thighs, but you're a real spaceman!'"). Now he had emptied out his satchel and was happily filling up his utility pockets with small, incredibly clever, but slightly dodgy items of Sychronian technology. Jodphurs looked back across the room, again. The gang's all here, he thought. All four of them. I'm going to scream.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaah." He screamed. The others were startled.

"Want a shot of Ren & Stimpy?", asked Deng, waving his pistol.

"What about a nice makeover?", suggested Anthea."How about some treacle?", offered the Monk.

"How about getting off my sofa so I can hibernate?", squealed the Hamster, who didn't seem to have gotten the hang of things really.

"What I want", said Jodphurs, "is a holiday. I need to get away."

"Great idea!'" The four of them grinned up at him, obviously sold on the concept. Jodphurs realised that he hadn't put his point across very well at all.

"I'll load up the car", said Deng, leaping up. "We can decide where we're going later. I feel the need for Adventure!'" He said this very dramatically, and his jumpsuit billowed.

That, thought Jodphurs, is exactly what I was trying to avoid.

Corporal P. Barragioflash examined the evidence one more time. It still made no sense, but it was the exact type of nonsensicalness which, he imagined, would be the hallmark of a really professional revolutionary army. No doubt it had a dynamic leader and a tight, military core of rebels that he could capture. What's more, there seemed little doubt who that leader was. James- Jodphurs. Bingham- Bingo. There had to be a connection. There was no doubt, now was the time- the time to make his move. The name 'Barragioflash' would not be forgotten. It was time to get out from under this desk and fight crime out on the streets, to hunt his prey, to break down its fiendishly clever defences and expose it to the world- or Essex, anyway. Now was the time, the time to... put down his biscuit and start the chase. There were a lot of loose ends to this story, he mused to himself as he got up and strode to the door- and he was just the man to tie them up.

Corporal P. Barragioflash stepped back into the office, moments later, to put down his biscuit.