Typical Biggles: the mission starts.
Two weeks later an amphibian aircraft droned over the far reaches of Back-of-beyond. The sky was like a huge aquamarine dome stretching from bleak horizon to bleak horizon. Ginger looked down at the endless waste below and listened to the note of the engine, as failure out here would end in certain death. Algy sat drinking a cup of tea and Bertie was manning the 1mb radio pc in the mini radio cabinet. Professor ‘Donald’ Duck had persuaded them to take him along although what he had to do with the latest mission was unclear, but as he only sat quacking quietly to himself in the rear seat no one worried too much.
It had been a busy two weeks since Raymond had come up with his latest pointless mission of peril. Biggles had chosen the matchstick-o-plane which he had glued together by hand from his endless supply of matchsticks used to light his endless supply of cigarettes. He had toyed with the idea of the fag-packet-o-plane but had turned it down as landing on water presented countless problems. He had decided on the single engine model as that was the most plot provoking unit.
The plane named by Bertie the “deth-trap-o-smoko” had been equipped to Biggles specification for such a pointless mission. The rear cabin was stocked to capacity with several thousand cigarette packets in order to keep Biggles in smokes for the rest of the flight, what he would do for more fags when they reached their objective he was yet to decide. Strapped to the underside of the wings was their meagre rations, which was just about less than would be needed. The only other equipment was the emergency cardboard Ginger, which as Biggles had said, could be relied upon should they have problems.
“I say, I don’t like the look of that, old chap, old bean, what!” said Bertie coming forward after having finally managed to get out of the mini-radio-cabinet, much to Biggles annoyance, who had specifically designed it to keep Bertie shut up until after the mission had ended.
“What have you seen?” murmured Biggles.
“Those jolly killer flowers growing out of your cigarette packets, what?”
“Oh no, Donald hasn’t been planting those killer flower seeds again has he?” exclaimed Ginger.
At that minute, the engine note changed. Biggles threw out his left leg and pulled the stick hard over into his thigh. Ginger somersaulted out if his seat right into Donald.
“Dashed foolish thing to do Biggles old chap,” shouted Bertie, over the wail of the engine as he gripped the mini-radio-cabinet to keep his balance as the plane wallowed. “Throwing your jolly left leg out of the window like that old bean.”
They arrive and get organised.
The Deth-trap-o-smoko touched down on the wide plateau top. When she ran to a stop with a cloud of dust behind her Bertie opened the mini radio cabinet door and poked his head out.
“I say are we there yet old bean?”
“No you should get back in the cabinet,” said Algy.
“I say, that wouldn’t be a jolly old fib would it, what?”
“What?” replied Algy.
Bertie looked confused: “What? What?”
Just then Biggles walked in and lit a cigarette saving Bertie from a fight with Algy.
“We are here then,” he said, lighting another just to be sure.
“Well I can’t wait to get out there,” remarked Ginger, like a dog with boundless energy.
“I will get your lead in a minute,” snorted Algy.
“What?” said Bertie.
“Quack,” said Dr Donald Duck as he managed to surface from the mound of cigarette packets.
“Well you fellows better get going,” remarked Algy. “I expect you will be leaving me here to guard the machine again.” He picked up his newspaper and placed a cup of tea on the table, relaxing back in his chair. “Turn the radio on as you go out… Radio 4 will do.”
Biggles grabbed several packets of cigarettes and they climbed out to leave Algy listening to Woman’s Hour.
The plan is made
Out on the plateau they gathered to make a plan. It was a large area with a rise to the north and a wooded area to the west. Above them, the sky stretched in an unbroken cloud layer which made the humidity almost too much to bare.
“Now the map says that the treasure is over there in the rise,” said Biggles while he lit a cigarette.
“Well I volunteer to go and get lost looking for orchids in the woods,” said Ginger.
“Splendid idea, quack,” said Dr Duck, “perhaps there will be some wild fauna that glow in the dark and like to eat human flesh, quack quack.”
“I say old bean, that sounds a bit bad for the health, what?”
“Yes but it will make for an exciting story,” added Ginger.
Biggles stubbed out his fag and lit another, “keeps the mosquitoes off,” he said and blew a cloud of smoke at the non-existent blood suckers. “Right well, Ginger and Donald can get lost in the jungle, Bertie and I will go to the hills.”
“Jolly good old boy, I’m not keen on the flesh eating worms. What old boy, by Jove old stick.”
They parted ways from the machine. Algy watched them go as he sipped on his tea and then turned back to his paper tutting.
Bertie speaks gibberish.
As Biggles and Bertie walked towards the low hills with a cloud of cigarette smoke behind them, they glanced occasionally at the other two waddling towards the jungle.
“I say that Donald Duck seems to be giving Ginger a lesson in fauna, what? By Jove.”
“What?” said Biggles, lighting another cigarette.
“I say, what? Old bean?”
“You know, old fruit, jolly good show, what?”
“What old fruit?”
“Top hole old chap,” replied Bertie, apparently happy with the way the conversation was going.
Biggles shook his head mystified; Bertie seemed oblivious to the fact that Biggles had no idea what he was talking about.
As the low hills came closer they could see more details. The deth-trap-o-smoko looked a long way from them and the other two has vanished into the jungle, though it was hard to make out details through the haze of cigarette smoke. At the foot of the hills, they could see a small gulley or opening. Biggles adjusted his course to it wondering if his cigarettes would last until they got there.
“I say, let’s have a gander at the old map. Old bean. What?”
“What?” replied Biggles.
Bertie just took the map to save anymore confusion, almost knocking the cigarettes out of Biggles hand. He looked at it was they walked.
“Looks to me old boy, old fruit, that we can get into the jolly old hills. What?” marked roughly in the middle was a big X. “The jolly treasure must be in there, old sport.”
“No I don’t think there will be sports… or fruit.”
“I say, what old bean?”
“No beans, unless you bought some with you?”
“Jolly good show,” he said handing the map back.
“I doubt there will be one of those. They don’t really have entertainment here.”
Bertie scratched his head, now more confused than Biggles. He decided not to say anymore until Biggles had got his RAF patter back.
The gap in the hills was now very close and the sun beat down from above. They could see that the gap looked almost man made with rough hewn bricks, though the whole thing looked very old indeed.
As they approached an apparition stepped from the opening. They both stopped and stared with wonder and Biggles nearly forgot to smoke another cigarette.
A strange meeting
“What on earth is that, what?” ejaculated Bertie.
“What, that?” returned Biggles pointing at the apparition.
The said sight came over to them.
“Well hi there! Welcome to Disney World. I’m Mickey Mouse.”
“Mickey Mouse,” echoed Biggles. “This isn’t Disney World and you are wearing a costume.”
Mickey took this badly: “I correct you sir, I am Mickey Mouse, just ask Mini Mouse and Pluto, you can come and talk to them.”
Biggles turned his eyes to Bertie and grimaced. Mickey walked back to the opening and they followed.
Ginger Takes it Rough
Meanwhile as Biggles and Bertie followed the strange Mickey, Ginger and Dr Duck were having troubles of their own. All had gone well as they waddled across the plateau. Ginger thought it best to humour Donald by adopting his style; he was even content to give the odd quack in reply. For someone who normally did gangster impressions nothing was too much.
Gradually the jungle came closer; there was no sign of life.
“I am all agog to see some unusual flesh eating fauna, quack!” enthused the Duck.
“Oh yes,” said Ginger, though he didn’t mean it. “That will be soo much fun… quack.”
They reached the edge of the trees and the vegetation embraced their feet, a little too lovingly for Ginger’s liking. There was a strange gripping quality to it. They pressed deeper in as the trees converged overhead and the world become a twilight of cool shade. Unusual noises came from around them.
“Amazing! Quack! Quack!” said Donald looking all around with excitement.
“This undergrowth is giving me the creeps,” said Ginger pulling some from his leg. He was sure it was able to climb up him and it didn’t want to let go of his hand.
It got darker and darker, the air cool with a dank smell of corruption. Presently they arrived at a clearing and ahead was a weird sight. In the dead centre grew the strangest plant they had ever seen. Dr Duck rushed over and examined it: the plant turned and examined him back. Ginger felt scared and held back several paces.
The plant was about three times as tall as he was and about the same around the base. It was hideously ugly, composed entirely of lit cigarettes. The stench was foul and smoke drifted from it. Worst of all, it was clearly consciously alive, turning to Dr Duck and surveying him carefully.
Donald was plainly oblivious to the fact, busying himself with inspecting it, quacking with delight. For sometime the Status Quo existed. Ginger a distance way fighting off undergrowth, listening to “Rocking all over the World” on his Walkman, and Donald fussing about. The end came when the Dr. decided to take a sample. He opened his leather case and took out a scalpel and a little glass jar. The plant watched him fixedly. He selected a point and swiped a small section clean off, dropping it still writhing into the jar.
The plant shuddered from head to foot and the stench of smoke became intolerable as it stared down on Donald. It was only then that he realised his peril. Quickly he dropped the things back in the back and retreated. Then the plant let out a massive wheeze and smoke bellowed from it. The huge plant began to advance on Dr Duck. It appeared to grow in size and ash started to fall from the lit ends. The ash burned into the ground and the undergrowth shrivelled, sizzling away, burning.
Donald took flight, enough was enough, but the plant came too. Ginger tore off his headphones and ran across the clearing after Donald with the big plant bearing down on them; burning ash flying everywhere and a great stinking cloud of smoke filling the air.
They were just reaching the edge of the clearing when another apparition stepped out before them. With the plant behind and the new arrival ahead they both stopped dead, expecting they were about to meet the great Squadron Leader in the sky.
Strange pagan rites.
Biggles and Bertie followed Mickey Mouse for someway into the opening. It narrowed steadily with the sheer rock faces drawing in close as they walked.
“I say old boy,” muttered Bertie, “This could be a jolly old trap, what?”
“You know, what, old boy, old chap, by jove!”
Biggles ignored him and lit a cigarette, and another, just in case. Presently they could hear strange sounds ahead: chanting and wailing with tribal drums. Mickey had increased his speed and they had trouble keeping up; he seemed very excited and his big head wobbled from side to side. He had to clutch at it with both three fingered hands to hold it steady, or to hold it on, it was hard to tell.
Then the way opened out and they could see the clearing ahead. Mickey rushed on but Biggles and Bertie stopped dead with astonishment.
“I say, what old bean. By jove, what.”
Biggles lit a few more cigarettes.
“What indeed,” he replied.
In the clearing, which was bordered by rock and decorated in a gaudy cartoon coloured manner, was a bizarre sight. Many Disney costumed characters were taking part in a big war dance. Mini Mouse was tied to an altar, presumably the ritual sacrifice. Before her stood Pluto, with a long knife in his hand. The others had worked into a frenzy as the tribal dance has reached its peak. Now Pluto raised his arm with the big knife for the coup de grace. Mini shrieked.
Right then Mickey Mouse flew across the altar with a ninja jump, delivering a karate chop to Pluto’s arm. The knife fell to the floor. Pluto yelled in rage and chased Mickey, biting at his bottom and barking. Mini Mouse shrieked from the altar and struggled with her bonds as the other Disney characters closed in on her with murderous looks on their dummy faces.
“I say we can’t let them knock her off, what?”
“No, silly costumes or not I will not see murder done,” said Biggles, lighting a cigarette and then walking over to the altar.
The crowd fell back with fear. Biggles was unsure what it was they were scared of at first but then he realised that they were afraid of his cigarettes.
“The Fags of Doom!” yelled Goofy.
Biggles held the glowing sticks aloft and the Disney characters shrunk back in fear of the burning ash. Bertie released Mini Mouse from her bonds.
“Run!” yelled Mickey, “this way!”
They took flight after the fast reseeding big mouse. Pluto lay on the floor where Mickey had nibbled him to death with his sharp mouse teeth.
“While the mouse is away the dogs will play, what?” said Bertie.
Quacktastic happenings of doom
The great cigarette plant towered over Ginger and Donald. Ash was falling from the burning lit ends and sizzling like acid into the overly friendly undergrowth. Clouds of evil smelling smoke filled the air as the great plant grew in size and wheezed mightily like so many nicotine tortured lungs. It gathered itself up for one more mighty inhale ready to pour so much burning ash onto their heads.
Ahead was the other apparition, more scary and evil looking than even the massive plant behind: Daffy Duck. He stood there, black and evil, his yellow eyes burning into them.
“What do we do Donald?”
“Quack, quack, quack,” gibbered Dr Duck in fear.
On the sound of Donald’s quacking Daffy Duck’s attitude changed and the look in his eyes softened.
“Quick folks, the… the.. the.. this way….”
He ran to the edge of the clearing as Ginger pulled the Dr. from his knees and along with him as fast as he could. The plant bellowed and wheezed, starting to follow with great crashing steps.
They ran fast over the last of the clearing and made the shelter of the trees as ash sizzled into the leafy cover. They quickly followed a path where they saw Daffy moving away at speed. Donald and Ginger stopped as the sounds of pursuit had gone.
“Strange,” said Ginger. “Hang on a mo. I’ll just have a look.”
He returned to the edge of the clearing. A short distance away was a big pile of ash, which was slowly vanishing.
“Well,” he said out loud. “They say smoking shortens your life.”
He returned to where he had left the Dr. to tell him about it. When he got there the place was empty, no ducks to be seen anywhere. He felt suddenly very alone in the darkening jungle and quacked a little to comfort himself.
Ginger quacks on.
Ginger was unsure what to do now and wondered where Dr Donald Duck had got too, not to mention the black mad duck Daffy. As it got darker his quacking got more and more hollow and he felt as if it were no longer a comfort against the strange sounds coming from the jungle. Worse still, the undergrowth had recovered from its singeing and was starting to make for his body again. Each time he pulled the gripping stuff off his legs it clung to his hands, refusing to let go.
He walked around a bit but found that there was no track off the path. Donald could only have gone one way. He decided it was better to move as now the loving undergrowth was joined by mosquitoes as big as bats. Their great wings whined like turbines as they came at him with their thick needles, probing for his skin, desiring to suck pints of blood from him.
The night was closing in fast and the great mozzies were joined by huge furry bats as big as cats. This was getting a bit much. As usual in a tropical place, the darkness was rapid and deep. He searched his pockets for a light but found only a novelty toy torch that Bertie had given him for a joke. It was self winding, but each time he operated the winder it said: “By Jove old chap!”
Bertie had originally tried to give it to Biggles but he had seen through Bertie’s little plan. The only one gullible enough to take it had been Ginger.
He followed the path into the darkness, fending of plants, mosquitoes and bats, now and then the sounds of the jungle were filled with Bertie’s voice and brief flashes of light.
Mouse in the house.
Biggles and Bertie followed the big mice someway along the gulley until they reached a large hole in the rock.
“I say, that looks like a mouse hole, what! By jove!”
“What? By who?”
“The hole,” Bertie pointed at it, “mouse like, old chap.”
“Like an old chap?”
“Exactly old bean.”
“What! I say, top hole.”
Biggles gave up and followed the two mice into their mouse hole.
“Make yourself at home,” said Mickey. “Help yourself to cheesy nibbles.”
Biggles and Bertie found themselves in a plush but gaudy little cave. Done out in the best cartoon styles. They sat on the big bouncy seats and ate the nibbles. Mini and Mickey sat across from them also nibbling.
“I am afraid that things have taken a turn for the worse here,” resumed Mickey Mouse. “The dogs have taken over; of course the ring leader is Goofy. With his right hand dog Pluto gone, he is going to be mad for revenge.”
“But I say,” said Bertie, “what is dashed going on here by jove! What?”
“What?” said Mickey.
“Oh don’t start all that again,” interrupted Biggles, “why are you here?”
“This is where we live,” said Mickey.
“Well what about Disney world?”
“Well you see, we are the real Disney world up here, separated from the rest of the world on our plateau. All was fine until one day a man came here. He stole the way we looked and took it to America. I heard he changed his name to Walt Disney.”
“But you are wearing costumes…”
“No we are not, we really look like this.” Mickey stood up and walked over to him. “Look at me closely.”
Biggles looked at the costume and slowly realised that it was true. The comical outfit was not covering a person inside; the body really was his body.
“My word,” muttered Biggles.
“It is true, Disney stole us for his own ends and it was too much for some of them like Goofy. It went to his head.”
“I have this map.” Biggles showed him the treasure map.
“Ah, the Fags of Doom, yes the mother load is hidden deep in the hills. More cigarettes than you could possibly imagine.”
Biggles sat with a blissful far away look on his face: “Heaven.”
“But it is protected by the Fag Plants, a mutant strain of the Fags of Doom.”
“Why are the Disney Characters so afraid of cigarettes?” asked Biggles.
“You know you should never get costumes near fire.”
It was now dark outside when suddenly there was a dreadful noise of shouting and banging.
Over this they heard Goofy yelling: “Come out and meet your doom!”
“If we could get to the mother load of the Fags of Doom we could stop Goofy in his tracks.” said Mickey.
“Yes but how?” asked Biggles.
“There is a secret tunnel from here where you can get outside without them seeing you. Mini and I will try to keep Goofy busy.”
They shook hands and parted from the mice.
Ginger is nearly loved to death.
For once Ginger made a sensible decision. This would not help him now as he was deep in a jungle in the pitch dark with Bertie yattering in his ear each time his self winding torch gave him a little light. The jungle was out for his body, the huge mosquitoes wanted blood and they were not going to let Ginger have anything to say about it. Each time, before he knew it, one would settle on him lightly and stick a great needle into him before he had chance to brush it away. The blighters just kept coming.
On top of the sounds of whining mosquito wings was the flapping of the huge bats. These also had designs on him and appeared to be vampire bats. Each time a great furry catlike thing would flap into the light of the torch and he would see great Dracula fangs below the sharp yellow eyes. They had a habit of dancing before him, as if trying to hypnotise him. It was quite hard to warn them off, being so big, flappy and insistent.
The undergrowth kept up its relentless desire for his body and soft wet stems would wind up his legs, groping under his clothes if they could. It was giving him the creeps. As another spline of vegetation got amorous he would tear it off and fling it to one side, only to have it still climbing his arm or up around his neck: all wet and soft and very creepy.
As he progressed things got worse and worse. It had happened a distance back, when he rounded a corner there were a gaggle of big pink birds. As soon as they saw him the big dozy things ran over with delight and started clamouring around him. They were like cats on heat, rubbing lovingly on his legs in piles of pink feathers. This was fine to a point and he consoled himself with the fact that they were not after blood, until one opened its beak to show razor teeth. Clearly the bird meant no harm but could not help but so want to nibble Ginger lovingly. Unfortunately the teeth were very sharp.
In the end he just had to kick the stupid Dodos away from his feet, avoiding the teeth. The Dodos loved him more for being spurned thus and doubled their efforts to be with him and love him.
Pretty soon with the mosquitoes, bats, plants and Dodos he was making the strangest progress. Ripping off plants, swatting mosquitoes, flapping at bats and kicking Dodos; his manner of walking was like a crazy lunatic war dance and all accompanied with a flashing light and Bertie saying: “By Jove old chap!”
It was at this point that he had come to his decision, which was this: he would never go off and get lost in a jungle ever again, never, ever, full stop and underlined.
The portal to the Fags of Doom.
Biggles and Bertie followed the small cave for some distance. Biggles kept several cigarettes on the go in order to light the way and ‘keep the mosquitoes off’.
“I say old fruit, what?”
“What fruit? I’ve got some chocolate.”
“Oh top hole old bean.”
“No it’s Turkish delight.”
The cave started to narrow and soon they could see the dark sky through a distant opening. Biggles was sad that the journey in the dark cave was coming to an end, as it would mean having fewer cigarettes. Still, there might be mosquitoes to keep off with the smoke, he consoled himself. Even more exciting, he may be able to find the Fags of Doom and have a really good smoke, in order to see off Goofy, of course: things were getting interesting.
They reached the mouth of the cave and looked out. There was no one in sight from here but they could hear the most fearful noises from the rampaging mob of pagan Disney characters. The sound of Goofy driving them on with a fanatical Adolph Hitler speech cut above the clamour of Disney style talking with piecing mouse shrieks cutting though everything.
“I hope we find the mother load soon,” said Biggles looking at the map.
“By jove, yes old chap, old bean, old fruit. What!”
“Them too,” agreed Biggles.
Bertie was finding it hard to rein in his RAF patter; the more he held it back the more it spewed from him.
They followed a small footpath down the hill until it arrived at a wider way leading deep into the mountains. Shortly Biggles pulled up as the map started to vibrate in his pocket. He took it out to look at it: the red X had started to glow in a pulsing light, just like a burning cigarette. Biggles was content to watch it as it looked inviting, then he realised it was trying to tell him something.
“These characters are reforming,” he said, showing the map to Bertie.
Before their eyes the pulsing red dot with a little arrow and an avatar of Biggles and Bertie in a rocky gulley looking at a map attached to it flashed up a banner: “Mother load: press enter.”
Biggles tapped the map with his cigarette end. The map reformed before their eyes, folding out: metal plates slid from its sides and down to the floor. Piece by piece it folded more and more like the most complex origami. Then finally it rose up into a perfectly formed replica of the Arc de Triomphe, only about six foot tall. Above the dark opening leading down into the rock, a neon sign flashed with an arrow: “Fags of Doom this way. Mind your head.”
Ginger nearly quacks up.
Ginger was at his wits end. The mosquitoes had managed to suck blood a few times and he was feeling faint. A bat had landed on his back and stuck fangs into him. He had brushed it away but the pain of the bites was intense, he also wondered if he would now turn into a vampire. The dodos loved him to death. He would trip over them and get a razor sharp bite. Furthermore, he was getting to the point where the plants were winning and dragging him down, twisting around his legs and body, and up on around his neck. The end came quickly as the torch started to fail. Its light became less with each press of the self winder and Bertie’s voice sounded like a slowing record.
He slumped on the path. A bat flew down and landed on him but the plants held his arms and he could not swat it away. Sharp teeth pieced his flesh and several mosquitoes landed on him. The dodos gathered around, rubbing up against him and sinking razor teeth into his flesh. He slumped lower, unable to flight anymore; he knew his end was nigh.
Then a ghostly vision entered the side of his field of view. White and bright it drifted before him.
It must be the angel of death, he thought.
The white light filled his eyes and soft feathers touched his face. Then he felt the bat pulled away and the mosquitoes were swatted. The Dodos were magically herded away. Then he felt strong hands pulling the undergrowth from him.
Finally, with no energy to raise himself, he felt hands under his armpits and was lifted to his feet.
His eyes focused on the ethereal being of bright white. He saw that the being was covered in white feathers and wore a white outfit with a white hat. Then he realised the outfit was like a sailor’s: with soft blue piping. He looked into the face: big blue eyes looked back. Below the eyes was a yellow duck beak.
“Hello,” it said. “My name is Donald Duck the White.”
The Fags of Doom
Bertie followed Biggles down the stone steps from the mini Arc de Triomphe. He wondered what horrors they would find with the Fags of Doom; or would Biggles simply sit down and smoke himself to death? The stone walls beside them came closer and closer together as they walked for what seemed like an age.
“I say, these steps have been going down so far we must be getting jolly close to the bottom of the plateau, what? Old.. fruit, by… Jove,” Bertie’s grip on his patter was loosening due to Biggles losing his own RAF patter comprehension.
“I think it is opening out down there.”
Biggles was right and soon the steps came to an end in a massive chamber. It was so big that the light from Biggles cigarettes could barely penetrate more than a few yards. They walked on, deeper into the vast dark cave. Great vast stalagmites rose from the floor to be lost from view in a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Then large shapes could be seen and shortly they pulled up in wonder.
“I say!” muttered Bertie.
“So do I.”
In the middle of the cave was a massive square shape which went as far as the eye could see into the distance and upwards. The square was entirely composed of cigarette packets and an eerie light came from them. Around the massive square structure at intervals were the Fag Plants, waiting, protecting, smoking.
Biggles felt the sudden desire to light a few more cigarettes and he stuck a box in his mouth and lit it, fairly pleased with the result.
He took a step forward to get closer to the mother load of the Fags of Doom.
“That is far enough Bigglesworth,” said a voice.
Biggles looked around with wonder and fear. Then from the swirling cigarette smoke a figure walked into view.
“Goofy, by Jove,” gasped Bertie.
“We thought we had left you with Mickey Mouse,” said Biggles.
“Oh my dear Bigglesworth,” said Goofy. “You disappoint me.”
“It’s nothing dear,” said Biggles.
“I say, Goofy has a marked German accent, what? Don’t you think?”
Goofy beckoned to the Fag Plants who started to close in with menacing wheezes. Then he lifted his arms and removed his head.
“Erich von Stalhein, I might have known you would be here,” muttered Biggles through his burning cigarette box.
Donald Duck the White
Ginger looked at Donald Duck the White. Donald Duck the White looked back with his big blue eyes.
“Donald? Is it you?”
“I am the Donald Duck the White,” he said. “I fear the others are in great danger. Goofy has control of the Disney Characters with the Fags of Doom. They fear the Great Red Glowing Fire Sticks.”
Ginger had no idea what Donald Duck the White was talking about, but it sounded very powerful, and who could argue with a magical white talking duck?
“But what happened to Daffy Duck?”
“You have seen Daffy Duck the Black?” asked D.D.T.W.
“Yes, didn’t you know? We saw him near the big Fag Plant.”
Now Donald Duck the White looked confused but thought it better to humour this Ginger human, as he knew of The Power of the Ginge. If the Ginger One were to turn his power of the American Drawl Impressions even Donald Duck the White would be defenceless.
“Now, oh Ginger One, we need to get to the Disney Characters and try to save your friends.”
Ginger liked being called the Ginger One. “Yes we need to go and save them, buddy.”
“Oh what power you have Ginger One. Come we must avoid the Fag Plants.”
They followed the path through the jungle, Donald Duck the White lighting the way with his ethereal glow. Now the biting, stinging, clinging jungle no longer troubled them. Donald Duck the White had produced a big staff from nowhere, which he walked along with, in a very impressive Powerful Wizard style.
They walked for someway but Ginger was in a dream. He was so excited he could rescue everyone and look Really Cool, that in what seemed like no time they were nearing the Citadel of the Disney Characters (as Donald Duck the White put it).
There was a terrible noise ahead of tribal drums, Disney voices, yelling and shouting with above it all the sound of Goofy inciting them with his Hitler speeches.
They arrived at the edge of the clearing and Ginger gasped.
A huge crowd of Disney Characters filled the area; fag plants stood all around and up at the front stood Goofy making his crazy speech.
But the thing that made Ginger gasp was that tied to the altar were Biggles, Bertie, Mickey Mouse and Mini Mouse.
As he watched Goofy picked up the huge knife and walked over to Biggles. He lifted it high into the air as the crowed yelled and cheered. Ginger shrieked in terror like a big girl.
The Citadel of the Disney Characters
“Goofy!” the great booming duck voice quacked across the heads of the Disney Characters.
Donald Duck the White stood tall and powerful. Impressively he held the great staff aloft. Goofy stopped and looked at the big white duck.
“Behold,” said Donald Duck the White, “The Staff of Nicotine Inhaler.”
The Disney Characters moaned and wailed in awe: “Oooo, The Staff of Nicotine Inhaler!” Goofy dropped his knife, did a comedy look of surprise, and picked up a great long cigarette holder. He took some Fags of Doom and inserted them, lighting up and putting the holder to his mouth.
The crowd parted with moans and wails in a very Disney style of high comedy. Goofy and Donald Duck the White advanced on one another.
The Staff of Nicotine Inhaler was like a powerful antidote to the burning power of the Fags of Doom. They fought back and forth. First the ethereal power of the staff, then the burning of the Fags of Doom. At first the Staff was strong but after a time Donald Duck the White was losing, the power of the Fags of Doom too great.
“If you strike me down I will become more powerful that you could ever imagine,” said Donald Duck the White to Goofy.
“You flatter yourself old Donald Duck. Your powers are weak compared to the Tar Side.”
“You do not scare me with your Black Lungs.”
“Donald!” yelled Ginger.
Donald Duck the White looked at the evil Goofy and to Ginger, all eager and dog like, and he knew it was The Way of the American Drawl that would save them from the Tar Side. He held the staff to his chest and resisted no more. Goofy stepped forward and struck down the big duck with the Great Cigarette Holder of Doom. The duck collapsed to the floor.
All went quiet and Goofy looked at the fallen white sailor’s outfit, which now seemed to be empty of a big duck. Then he turned to Ginger: holding the Cigarette Holder of Doom to his lips. He also commanded the Fag Plants to close in. Ginger quivered in fear; with Donald Duck the White gone they were all doomed!
Ginger is really cool
Ginger fell to his knees as the evil smoke filled the area and he coughed long and hard. Goofy advanced and the Fag Plants moved in, wheezing with great
clouds of smoke from the burning cigarette ends. Biggles was helpless, tied up, unable to reach his cigarettes; Bertie’s RAF patter had failed him and Mickey and Mini squeaked in mouse terror.
“Doomed! We are doomed!” wailed Ginger coughing harder as the Tar Side started to take him.
“You cannot resist the Tar Side,” said Goofy, “join us Ginger Hubblezwaithe.”
Then a strange voice filled the inside of Ginger’s head.
“Ginger One, trust in the Power of the American Drawl.”
“Donald? Is that you?”
Ginger let go of his terror of the Fags of Doom and stood, an ethereal white feathered hand briefly held The Staff of Nicotine Inhaler before him. He grabbed it and held it aloft as bright light burst from the deep magical depths of the staff.
“Donald the Duck has taught you well,” said Goofy trying to fend off the power of the staff with smoke from the Fags of Doom.
“Sure thing buddy,” said Ginger giving over to The Power of The American Drawl. Goofy took it hard and fell back. “I’m a goin’ to fix you good fella.”
“No! Ginger, join the Tar Side. Ginger, look at me.”
Ginger looked at Goofy.
“Ginger, stop, I am.. I am your Father.”
“Don’t trust him,” yelled Biggles.
“Daddy Hubblezwaithe?” questioned Ginger. “How can it be?”
“Join me, join the Tar Side, together we can rule Disney World.”
“Ginger,” yelled Biggles, “It’s not true, your father.. is.. was.. Dr Donald Duck.”
“Nooooo!!!” yelled Ginger and fell to his knees.
Goofy chuckled and raised the Cigarette Holder of Doom to strike him down.
“Ginger,” said the quacking voice in his head, “trust in the American Drawl.”
“Father? Yes I will,” he said, and the power surged through him. “I’m a gonna fix you good you darn’ tootin’ Disney goofy.”
“Noooo,” wailed Goofy as the combined power of the American Drawl and the Staff of the Nicotine Inhaler enveloped him. Then the ash from his Fags of Doom fell on him. “No, no, I’m melting!!” The Goofy costume slowly dripped to the floor with great clouds of smoke burning from it. Then it stopped moving in a melted pile on the floor.
Ginger moved the empty costume with his foot, underneath was an opening with steps leading down.
“It was von Stalhein, he has got away again,” called Biggles.
The Fag Plants had stopped where they stood, and became benign again. The Disney Characters had suddenly stopped being possessed and stood around looking confused.
Then from one side three figures walked up to Ginger.
“Donald!” said Ginger.
“Ginger, son! Quack!”
Dr Donald Duck ran over to Ginger followed by Daffy Duck and… Goofy.
“We found the real Goofy tied up in the jungle,” said Dr Duck.
Ginger looked beyond and thought he could see a ghost like large white duck smiling with his duck beak.
“I will be with you always,” said the quacking voice in his head. “Trust in the Drawl.”
Algy has a nice cup of tea
It was morning and the sky was bright blue overhead as Algy stood by the Deth-Trap-o-Smoko. He had spent a lovely evening of drinking tea and listening to the Archers. Then he had an equally nice kip in the cabin. Nothing had happened at all, and he had had the most enjoyable rest.
There had been no word from the others and he realised that he would have to go a rescue them. No doubt Ginger was lost in the jungle and the others were prisoners of von Stalhein, who had probably popped up from nowhere like he always did.
He sighed mightily at the thought he might actually have to go and do something. The idea of staying to listen to the next instalment of the Archers, and Woman’s Hour, on Radio 4, with a nice cup of tea, was so much more enticing.
Then in the distance towards the hills he saw a group of people coming, pulling a big trailer. It was a long way off and unclear.
After sometime the party arrived. Algy had managed to relax a little more, get in a cup of tea, and listen to the radio before they got there.
Biggles, Bertie, Ginger and Dr. Duck were pulling a huge trailer full of cigarette packets.
“What are you going to do with all those,” said Algy.
“Oh, we will get them into the machine, and carry most under the wings,” returned Biggles, smiling happily at the thought of all the smoking ahead.
“We have had an amazing time,” said Ginger.
“I bet you have,” sighed Algy.
Ginger told him the story omitting nothing. Algy listened with a look of disbelief on his face.
When Ginger finished he said: “It was such fun, what do you think Algy?”
“Ginger,” said Algy slowly, “are you taking the Mickey?”