And on the 21st of December, of the year 2012, the Lord did speak to us, all of his loved ones, and hence the world in recognition of his dedication did stop, to listen to and to revere those words of perseverance and hope. And thus, on the day the world ended and the world began, the Mighty Flame Topped Lord spake:
“I’m never going to give you up. I’m never going to let you down. I’m never going to run around, and desert you.”
The Roll of Cleansing was complete, and the world was made better.
My eyelids feel heavy; my vision, groggy and blurred. There’s a sharp pain in my left shoulder, as if it has been wrenched out of place. As my senses crawl reluctantly back into place, it’s apparent that it has. A shackle pulls my wrist, and with it, my whole arm, above my head. The rest of me is free to move, as big a consolation as that may be. Things look decidedly peaky, and are not improved when they walk in, their goateed faces grim death-masks, their open-necked shirts, slashed at the collar, loud to the point of deafness. One of them holds a clunky black box, with a wheel, holes at regular intervals around the circumference, fixed to one face. My history lessons nudge me in the direction of realising that is a ‘tellyfone’ of old. The speaky-listeny end, if ever such a thing were possible, is next to the ear of one of the men. He nods, and makes arbitrary remarks into the mouth piece.
“Ok. Yeah. Interesting. Yes, I’ll let him know.”
He puts the two parts of the tellyfone together, and turns to me.
“That was our great master, Ban’kah, on the line. He’d like to make you an offer.”
As one, the men swivel on the spot, and turn to face the indiscriminate middle-distance.
“5000 Points for the Book, Mr Blessed,” he walks over to me, and looks me in the eye. “That’s a lot of prizes, isn’t it, Mr Blessed. An awful lot of prizes indeed.”
I swallow. 5000 Points does mean a large amount of prizes. I remain, however, speechless.
The man gives me a big, toothy grin. “On the other hand, if you don’t co-operate, I’m sure we can extract the information from you in an altogether more... unpleasant manner. It’s not a hard decision, is it, Mr Blessed? Even a ten year-old could make it.”
His steely-blue eyes glint. “You are smarter than a ten year-old, aren’t you?”
I muster a tiny, almost indeterminable nod.
“Good...So, Ryan Blessed: 5000 Points for the Book? Do we have a deal, or not?”
I ponder my chances. My ancestor earned his name, so the legend goes, from his possession of an enormously loud and potent voice; such a gift must have been a blessing from the gods. I, too, could give quite a bawling when I wanted too; however, I doubted it was strong enough to relieve the quite clearly armed men of their weapons and take me to safety. So, fighting four grown men with a yell was probably out of the question.
It’s then, as all seem lost, that my brain starts throbbing, somewhere around the deus ex machina region, as discovered by the Professors of Convenient Plotology. The wall opposite me bursts open in a shower of rubble, dust and dubious looking doings. Two figures in hooded robes run through carrying weighty looking lacrosse sticks, and bludgeon my captors into submission. They tear through my chain, which on closer inspection appears to have been fashioned from paper and bits of gum. Feeling decidedly feeble, I thank my rescuers. Then, not wholly wishing to undergo another capture-torture sequence, however edgy and zeitgeisty it may be, I test them with the greeting of the Order of Astley, just to make sure.
“Never going to make you cry”
The person on the left pulls down his hood.
“Never going to say goodbye”
I’m satisfied that this person is either a loyal comrade, or at least someone who’d put the effort in and done some research. Either way was fine; further kidnap was okay, as long as the felons weren’t ignorant clodhoppers. That would just be dull.
The Order of Astley is fairly large, and information doesn’t always reach everyone easily. So, I run through my story, as they had asked me to. I, and a group of other Rickars, had been moving from a temple to one of the few functioning factories, carrying the fabled Book (or, to give it its full name, ‘The Dyson Ball Manual’) to try and fathom its mysteries. Along the way, we had been attacked by one of Ban’kah’s gangs. When I finish my tale (well, factoid), my other saviour begins quizzing me over my companions’ status. It’s bleak stuff, until we reach the last name. I frown.
“I’m fairly sure he escaped...” My memory wanders back into please. “Yeah, he’s definitely okay. Gordon’s alive.”
“Do you have the Book?”
I shake my head. “Hid it when things turned rough. Come on. I’ll lead you to it.”
Night was falling as we set off. There is mostly silence, punctuated by bone-chilling howls of “Scooby-dooby-doo!”. Meddlings Kids are on the prowl. Our pace quickens, and I ask my fellows about the Book, to see if they know much more than I do.
“We believe it is a holy text of old, dedicated to the god of destruction, Dyson. He made powerful weapons, ‘vakyooms’, I understand, which could obliterate anything in their path. It is our belief that the Book can help rebuild these. The Order of Astley will find great use for them.”
We reach the spot, littered with bodies, where I had hidden the Book. Rick be praised, it’s still there. I turn to my fellow Order members. I can’t help but feel uneasy over this weapon plan, and it’s times like these that my faith feels tested. But, desperate times...
I sigh. “May the Flame-Topped one speed your research.”
They nod. “Never going to tell a lie.”
I turn around, and walk slowly into the wreckage of civilisation, to whatever the next dawn will bring, muttering the holy words as I trudge.
“And hurt you.”
