It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. But in this particular hallway on a depressingly drizzle-soaked morning it was the 'Sunday Times'. The familiar arrival of the hefty weekend edition of the once great 'Thunderer' had been severely muted by the vagaries of the British climate and was now little more than a muffled 'pop'. The paperboy drew upon his poor knowledge of origami - basically the construction of unimpressive and limp winged cranes - and forced the wet paper compress expertly through the old brass letterbox of Number 30. The resoundingly dull flop as the damp wedge of newsprint hit the even damper doormat was all too familiar to Malik Ishtar. Over the centuries his ears had become finely attuned to the tintinnabulation of temple bells and the sadistic symphony of wildly screaming victims but now he responded to music of a different kind. Sadly it was a long way from the 'Music of the Spheres' or even the less familiar 'Dulcet Tones of the Dodecahedron'. His supple senses now snapped to the percussive fluttering of the early morning mail delivery and the irritating bleep of the automatic egg timer.
As he beat the eggy offerings into sickly yellow submission he knew all too well that the yolk was on him, for both his mind and his eggs had been well and truly scrambled. Although his breakfasts had acquired a not inconsiderable reputation in the nearby towns and villages, and the salacious succulence of his sausages had caused quite a stir at the local vicarage, it just wasn't enough. He could hear more moronic customers shuffling downstairs eager to plunge into his porridge and fiddle with his French toast. They ate and ate but deep down they could never appreciate his artistry. The fools. How could they choose rice crispies over freshly smoked kippers? Had they no soul? (Well they had upon arrival but lost them soon after).
Malik eagerly drew a poniard from his belt and slowly slit the top of the cereal box. The sugary innards spilled out into the waiting receptacle. He wasn't quite sure how an evil nemesis such like himself had ended up as the owner of Teetering-on-the-Brink's horribly twee 'Bide-a-Wee' Guesthouse but his dark soul was being slowly devoured by a burning desire to escape. At least he thought it was a burning desire – either that or the bloody toaster was on the blink again!
One thing was certain. The unremitting search for the Millennium Puzzle had to continue. It was his destiny and nothing could stop him - well nothing once he'd delivered a soft-boiled egg to Mr Karita in Room 3. Things had changed. Oh Isis, how they'd changed! In the past he'd derived delicious satisfaction from dishing out cruel punishments to deserving and - better still – undeserving enemies but now he was dishing out tea, doilies and digestive biscuits. His intimate knowledge of the exquisite suffering to be derived from the deft application of boiling oil had been perverted and was now confined to the murky depths of the deep fat fryer and the endless provision of perfectly cooked chips. For centuries countless adversaries had 'had their chips' at his hands and the only difference now was the addition of a solitary piece of greasily battered cod. He should never have come to England. In particular he should have stayed well away from Stonehenge. More specifically, he should never have been enticed by Airmiles. God the Airmiles! Why oh why was he never upgraded like that sodding Yugi Mutou?
At the back of the kitchen Bakura Ryou had a lot on his shoulders. Principally it was a 25lb sack of potatoes for that evening's 'Fish and Chip Special but he was also heavily encumbered by guilt. His mind drifted back to early summer. Malik had always preferred photogenic backgrounds to look evil in but excessive knife purchasing had left them painfully impoverished and on this occasion, photogenic glowering was absolutely out of the question, They'd managed to scrabble together a few Airmiles stolen from the souls of unfortunate fellow travellers but in their current impecunious position neither the Valley of the Kings nor the Temple of Angkor Wat were within easy reach. However, Ryou did have another mystical destination in mind. For some inexplicable reason he often found himself talking in a strange British accent and was passionately attracted to umbrellas, queues and feelings of vague disappointment. Now this beguiling quasi-Britishness bubbled to the surface. They would go to Stonehenge...and that is where their troubles began.
The flight to the UK had been comparatively trouble free - although the later discovery of 12 obese Americans neatly folded to fit into a single overhead locker had caused some consternation amongst the cabin staff. Unfortunately the confiscation of Malik Ishtar's knife collection by customs officials at Heathrow had not gone down well with our anti heroes and the imposition of a hefty fine had all but unleashed the full fury of Dark Malik who had, as a result, done unspeakable things in the airport departure lounge. The defenestration of a security guard was most uncalled for and the chaos caused in W H Smith was considerable. Their carefree juggling of the confectionery section had played havoc with the current 2 for 1 offers and the untangling of the Curly Wurly bars reduced a number of grown men to tears. Worse still, it had taken many hours to reshuffle all the daily newspapers to fit their correct colour supplements. Such wanton juggling of periodicals had seldom been seen in the UK and it was clearly a sign of much unpleasantness to come. This was evil pure and simple.
In the ensuing uproar Malik and Bakura had been forced to flee the concourse with few possessions and less money, which left them with little choice but to hitchhike their way towards Stonehenge. Getting a lift had not proved easy, as they did look somewhat...'er...strange. However eventually managed to persuade a short-sighted delivery driver that they were leading members of A.L.A.S. (the 'Asiatic Liberace Appreciation Society') and they were finally on their way. For the first 50 miles the hapless driver had tried to make small talk with the curious pair and although the one holding the umbrella had been just about bearable, that Malik bloke was very heavy going. When asked to name his favourite food, film and football team he had given the answer 'Knives' to each question. Perhaps the one with the odd accent was his carer? The driver didn't care to ask and turned on the radio.
Things had gone surprisingly well for most of the journey but it wasn't long before disaster struck. Careless knife juggling on the part of Malik had seen a particularly sharp dagger fly out of the van's nearside window and within seconds a resoundingly explosive bang had brought the Ford Transit to a halt. At first glance it was an ordinary flat tyre but on closer inspection an unusual one that bore a beautifully bejewelled dagger protruding from within its rubbery entrails. But where on earth were they? Ryou allowed himself some introspective musing time. There were many paths on the road to enlightenment but sadly the intersection of the A303 and A344 did not appear to be one of them. All-powerful beings though they were, the lack of fava bean sandwiches had left them sorely weakened and they would simply have to wait for a roadside recovery vehicle like the other motor driving mortals.
Two hours later and still nothing! Malik could feel the rage bubbling inside him and he knew he had to act. Unfortunately his insistence on fitting a Nightmare Wheel rather than the recommended Goodyear radial, led to the untimely deaths of three AA men and the illegal and painful use of a tyre jack. As a result the Ford Transit driver fled in terror forever haunted by his brush with the 'curious gentlemen' and the poor fellow was further blighted by the stubborn refusal of the Automobile Association to renew his breakdown cover.
And yet the Nightmare Wheel had come up trumps. For although an unfortunate number of overtaking motorists had fallen foul of it's rotating knife attachments - which led, by the way, to a meltdown of the regional ambulance service but a long-remembered field day for local scrap metal merchants - it had at least managed to carry the van towards the little village of Teetering-on-the-Brink where it came to an abrupt juddering halt. By this time Malik and Bakura were expecting the worst and it was in this little hamlet that they indeed found it. For peering into the darkness they could just make out the depressingly cheery outline of an irrepressibly chintzy establishment known as the 'Bide-a-Wee' Guesthouse. Could this, they wondered, be the ensuite from hell?
When Mrs Clutterbuck opened the heavy wooden door to her newly arrived guests she was expecting George and Dorothy Neatly and their boisterous child William. But what the dear lady actually got was very different indeed…