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Mostly satirical short stories
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Kifffarces (2) - Kiff and the Plumber, part 2

Posted 08-25-18 at 07:14 AM by Luthien
Updated 08-25-18 at 07:27 AM by Luthien
"[BEEP] *CHCHT* Plodding Petunia to Houston, over? *CHCHT* [BEEP] reading you A-OK, Plodding Petunia [BEEP] Roger! Confirm Z-22 report status due in O-five hundred mark three .... repeat that, O five hundred Mark three ... *CHCHCHT* [BEEP]"
The sound died away as the spaceman carefully negotiated the staircase.

Meanwhile, the Emperors of Fear and the leopard-printed lady hadn't moved. Experience had learned the foursome that in these situations it was best to wait and see how the situation would develop, but this lady fan here showed no sign of emerging from her Catatonia Idolatrifica (temporary state of catatonic shock, found to occur in susceptible individuals when confronted unprepared with an overdose of the subject of their idolatry) any time soon.

Some minutes passed while the water puddles on the floor merged into one, accompanied by the splashing and dripping of flowing water and the gurgle of running taps. Then there sounded a fizzle, a bang! and all the lights went out.

"Damn and blast! The water must have short-circuited the gas", the bass player remarked approvingly.

"Grunt" "Snrtt-shplit"

"Lblobl blbl hwlee."


After another couple of minutes, they saw a flashlight beam playing through the open door.

"Hello? Anyone in there?"

A figure in a yellow rain-suit emerged. It was the hotel owner, and he played the beam of his flashlight over the scene. "Hey! You're all just standing there like that? In the dark? And Mrs. Young, what are you doing here?"
Then he noticed all the running taps. He cursed and ran from tap to tap, closing them.

Meanwhile, yet another figure appeared in the door opening, wearing an overall of indeterminable colour and carrying a traditional blue steel plumber's toolbox. This finally triggered the Fourfold Megalith of Doom Rock to move again. The bass player eagerly walked towards him, his hand extended.

"Ah, the plumber, I presume?"

"Why, no. I'm Fritz the Flippin' Music Video Producer, and I got tipped by NASA that there should be a once-in-a-lifetime chance here of filming a blast of a Hark Cloggo music video that could leave MTV gasping for credits in the gutters!"

"But..." the bass player pointed at the plumber's toolbox.

"Oh, that ... yeah, never mind that, I'm afraid I'm a bit of an overly fanatical amateur plumber ... I take my stuff everywhere. You never know where you might come across a clogged drain, especially in these parts, it seems."

He cast a critical glance at the soggy floor.

"Now you mention it, maybe I should have a peek later on. But, let's do business first, shall we?"

He put two fingers in his mouth and produced a deafening whistle. Immediately, there was stumbling in the hotel staircase and people carrying spotlights, camera equipment and guitar amplifiers burst into the room.

Alarmed by the sudden increase in activity, the hotelier emerged from the bathroom, ready to unleash his wrath. But Fritz the Producer, in a remarkable display of agile persuasiveness that could only have been forged in the hellish trench warfare of record contract brokerage, cornered him and after a brief hushed conversation a small bundle of banknotes was tucked in a limp hand and the man disappeared without comment.

Props boys carrying garden gnomes and gardening tools entered, and an improvised stage resembling a garden gazebo was erected with an intimidating drum kit in the center. Diesel generators were started, bright spotlights flashed on and were aimed at the stage. A fierce-looking lady with a clipboard and Buddy-Holly-glasses shoo'd the Angst-projecting Squad on stage like a troupe of seven-year -olds on a school play, and the Hypernova Of Nerve-Scorching Eldritch Terror Demi-Octet was offered black and purple guitars adorned with many non-functional but menacing-looking points, hooks and razor-sharp edges.

Camera's clicked on tripods, cables with overbearingly-professional-looking connectors were attached, microphones dangled from long sticks, connections were made and "one-two-three-testing-testing"-tested by crawling technicians.

Within five minutes, the setup was done. Fritz, now with a director's cap on his head and holding a megaphone, surveyed the scene. His eye fell on the leopard-legged lady, who was still frozen on the same spot, mouth ajar.

"Can somebody put her in front of the band?" he croaked in the megaphone. A girl with a trolley ran up to her.

"And where are those gardening tools? C'mon everybody!"

"Ah ...." he nodded approvingly while a spade was stuck in a pile of earth, and someone quickly unrolled a garden hose.

"Everyone ready?"

Sound technicians tweaked the overdrive controls on the guitar amps.

"You guys ready?"

The proceedings had taken the Savagely Wretched Underbelly-Addressing musicians by surprise and, for maybe the first time ever, they didn't quite know what to do.
The drummer hand-signalled something like "just a second" to Fritz, and the four clattered their heads together.

"Why don't we give it a try?"

"Lblobl hlawhlb lhhloblh!"

"Grunt" *grurr-ptooie*

"But you know what it says in da contract, don't ya? 'Rule three: Thou Shalt Grab Any Opportunity To Promote Thyself!'"


*ptooie* *splat*

Therefore, sitting under an arch created from tie-wrapped gardening tools decorated with lush hanging baskets, and flanked by two enormous garden gnomes looking as if they suffered from indigestion, the drummer signalled "OK" to Fritz.

"Hark Cloggo & the Clod Boys, take one!"

Fiery effects flashed, the drum and bass erupted like Mount St. Helens.
Deep guttural sibilants and sneering power-chords from the lead guitarist cut in, his tongue wriggling and wreathing like an angry rattlesnake, and they sang:
"Ah well-a-well-a-well (shrieeeek)

You can be diggin' holes *snort*

an' shovellin' earth *grunt*

But the rakin's dah best part of ah-hall ...


*flash* *boom* *hlbl!*

An' when da day is gone

Without da rakin'z done

It ah-ain't-ah half as sweet

For any-o-one

*boom* *crash*



So that's-a-whah-ah-we'll ...

rake rake rake yer booties off!

We'll rake ya all night lo-honggg ...*SNORTT*

We'll rake-rake-rake da countryside


'Till the walls come tumb-bah-lin doh-hown

*boom* *crash*





You have been watching

Hark Cloggo & the Clodboys


Cloggo Salutes Da Monsters Of Rock

Mrs Young As The Stunned Fan Lady

Thanks to:


Black Bear Motel
One Horse Drive
Nothing Gulch, WY

("Your Will Love Our Genuine Old Wild West Plumbing Experience!")

The End

(C) Fritz the Producer
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