ALAN'S REVENGE.
Standard disclaimer: We all know I don't own the rights to Thunderbirds, just some of their memorabilia, but I still admire all those who created and worked on this unique show.
This is the follow on from Washday Blues and Culinary Delights? and has been reworked.
Alan is short on clothes and temper and someone's going to pay. How?
This isn't quite as innocuous as my other stories, but it is intended to amuse, all the same, in the same light-hearted vein. I hope it does.
- - - - - - - -
Wearing an aggrieved look Alan stomped into the empty lounge and flung himself down on one of the bespoke leather clad sofas. He sat there for several minutes, lips compressed and scowling heavily as a variety of emotions warred within him. Noting his latest copy of Extreme Sports magazine lying casually on the coffee table top he picked it up and began leafing forcefully through the pages, staring with unseeing eyes at it. In all the furore the question of his clothing had been forgotten. It wasn't now. His disgruntled look intensified and his nostrils flared as he thought about his brothers handling of his wardrobe. Next to John he prided himself on his clothes, an action not sported by his brothers, judging by some of the passion killers they wore. Take that olive shirt and brown suede waistcoat Virgil wore, that was so last century. Then there was the blue check jacket Scott seemed to have permanently glued to his back. No wonder they had trouble getting girls. This brought an image of Tin-Tin to mind and his boyish features softened momentarily. She adored that shirt, she wasn't the only one. Alan Tracy wanted to exact revenge. He was resolved to make his brothers pay, but how? As yet the method eluded him. He was still pondering over it some thirty minutes later when his brothers tentatively approached the lounge.
"How's it going champ?" the oldest spoke first, amiably, hovering in the doorway, hands deep in his pockets.
Silence.
"Do we need the white flag?" asked the second, in a conciliatory tone over Scott's shoulder, nudging him into the room.
Silence.
"Think he's still mad at us?" Virgil ventured, feet poised for a swift retreat.
"Dunno," John replied, "but judging by that face I'd hazard a guess we're not flavour of the month."
"No; haven't you heard the new flavour's an interesting blend of mash, carrots and onions." Gordon quipped, following them cautiously into the room.
This brought forth a chuckle from his older brothers and a baleful look from his younger one.
"Don't think that went down too well," Scott observed, on an intake of breath.
"How can you tell? It could be indigestion," John queried, airily.
"Long experience," Scott interjected knowledgably. "See the stubborn line of his mouth and the way his brows are knitted together in that constipated look? It's a dead giveaway."
Virgil shook his head, his lips twitching, "Nah; he always looks like that."
"Knock it off you guys," Alan glowered. "The way you handle washing machines you're in no position to rib me," he upbraided.
"Here speaks the expert with food mixers." Scott batted back.
Alan flushed. His chin jutted an aggressive fraction but he kept his eyes glued to the magazine, giving an Oscar winning pretence of reading, oblivious of the resigned looks his siblings cast him.
He heard Virgil sigh and address Scott. "I suppose we'd best get the rest of this laundry dealt with. Wanna shoot some pool when we're through?"
"Sure, but I'm gonna run TB1's turbines through some tests first."
Alan's ears pricked up. His hands gripped the magazine harder and his heart picked up a beat. He strove to remain nonchalant as his eldest brother came over and stood in front of him.
"Are you going to stay mad at me, champ?" Scott enquired, evenly.
Alan looked up slowly, schooling his features to remain impassive, and shrugged, "Nah; I guess not."
"What d'you want me to do with your shirts?"
Alan shrugged dismissively. "Give 'em to Grandma for her patchwork quilt," he said evenly enough.
"He's taking it better than I expected him to," he heard Virgil's velvet tones declare as they headed in the direction of the ill fated laundry room.
"I'm not so sure," the king prankster, interjected. (You can't kid a kidder.)
Whether Scott had anything to add he didn't hear, his mind was busy, furiously formulating a plan. He waited a couple more minutes to ensure no-one returned, tossed his magazine to one side then headed over to the console by his father's desk where he quickly activated the bio scanners that would reveal where each member of the family was located.
'Good they're all occupied and out of the way; that should give me just about enough time. Get moving Alan, every second counts.'
He didn't need to remind himself twice as he grabbed a huge utility bag and headed for the bedrooms. Dashing to each of the 'offender's' rooms, he came out laden, stuffing everything he'd gathered into the bag until it was overflowing. Checking the corridors were free he headed over to the maintenance door for TB1 and entered.
"Incinerate my clothes would you? Well see how you like this, guys."
He placed the well filled bag near the base of Thunderbird One and, sporting a broad grin, headed back for the main Tracy lounge where he rang through to his favourite designer and placed an order. He then resumed his seat, picked up his magazine and waited, his ears cocked. A little later he was rewarded by the deep rumbling turbo jets of Thunderbird One being tested. His father – who in the meanwhile had joined him – looked up from his desk, alerted by something. Jeff sat back and watched his son. Assuming that the impish grin, his youngest born seemed unable to contain and the silent paroxysms of laughter rocking his body had something to do with the magazine he was reading, Jeff shrugged benevolently and resumed his work.
The following day:
"What's up bro?" Scott asked, as Virgil strolled into the lounge sporting a puzzled frown.
"Dunno; can't seem to find my olive shirt. It wasn't in that pile of washing we did, was it?"
"Can't recall it." Scott shrugged.
"I couldn't find my beige trousers either, or my brown suede waistcoat. You haven't seen them have you?"
Scott shook his head. "Come to think of it my blue roll neck top's missing, so is my favourite check jacket and I'm pretty certain they weren't in the wash."
"Funny you should mention it, but now I think about it my cream jumper, checked shirt and a couple of pairs of my pants are missing too," Gordon chipped in.
Jeff, who'd been engrossed in some paperwork looked up from his desk favouring them with his full attention as John joined the conversation, "Well I know for certain none of my things ended up like yours, but I can't find those grey slacks of mine or the tan coloured top, in fact they weren't where they should have been in my wardrobe."
"Maybe you moved 'em," Gordon said.
"If my wardrobe resembled yours bro I'd put it down to a hormonally deranged teenager being on the loose inside, but that's not the case. My things are………….."
"Yeah; I know regimented like a picket fence." Gordon teased.
"Are we sure any of these things didn't end up incinerated after yesterday's fiasco?" Scott took charge.
"From my recollection, most of the clothes that were ruined belonged to Dad and Alan," John replied.
And at the mention of the youngest member of the family all eyes turned from their parent to him. The expression he wore instantly aroused suspicions.
"Alan?" they chorused.
"Hmm?"
"Couldn't help us out here could you?" John took the role of spokesperson.
"Depends what you're asking."
"Your brother's appear to have items of clothing missing," their parent interjected mildly.
"That's pretty careless of them," he muttered, indifferently, continuing to thumb through the magazine.
"Alan!"
"Dad?"
"Do you know anything that might shed some light on this?"
He looked up then and their suspicions were confirmed by his inability to conceal his glee.
"What have you done with them?"
"Where are they?"
"Give 'em back now!"
"Son?"
"Okay, okay," Alan shrugged, not even bothering to continue the pretence. "You'll find them in the hanger of TB1."
Scott stiffened, alarmed, then relaxed. As pranks went this one was tame. Now if it had been Gordon…………he breathed an inward sigh of relief. Gordon was on their side, this time.
"I'll go," he offered, and taking the mutual murmurs as consent, he headed for the maintenance entrance.
- - - - - - - -
Scott's gaze flicked around the dimly lit interior of Thunderbird One's cavernous silo, for signs of their clothing.
"Where the heck has he put them? If he's messing with me, he's in big trouble." Scott stood in the middle of the silo, hands on hips, and scanned the room. As he stepped forward he felt something crunch underfoot and took a pace backwards, noting a blackened piece of something on the ground. He bent down and retrieved it, watching how it disintegrated as he rolled it between his fingers. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was then he noticed another fragment and, as he scanned the room, he noticed more fragments dotted around the perimeter. In the corner of Thunderbird One's silo he saw a shrivelled mass of something and made his way over to it, picking up more charred and melted fragments on his way. He was soon laden with black sooty scraps and as he gazed down at them his eyes dilated in shock. A dark ominous look crossed his face as he finally recognised what the remnants had once been.
"That little ……." he growled, muttering something colourful as he marched briskly for the lift, retrieving the globulous mass on route.
- - - - - - - -
All conversation dissolved into silence the minute Scott strode forcefully back into the room. The silence stretched as they absorbed his appearance. His face and clothing were streaked black from the charred remnants. His hands were thickly coated. The silence became heavily ominous as each noted the blackened tattered remnants he held in one hand and the solidified remains he carried in the other. Marching straight over to the sofa the pilot of Thunderbird One thrust the solidified mass under the youngest born's nose. "What's this?" he demanded.
Unabashed, Alan surveyed the mutinous faces who had gathered round. "Your clothes."
"Want to run that by me again?" Scott invited with dangerous smoothness.
"Sure, if your hearing's playing you up."
"There's nothing wrong with my hearing, kid," Scott said, his jaw thrust at an aggressive angle.
It was pretty clear the mood was turning ugly and, from the combined body language of his brother's, he was in imminent danger. It was now time to 'come clean'.
"You like incinerating things; just thought I'd join in the fun……….reciprocate, a little. And, before you start throwing your teddies around; there'll be a parcel for each of you in the post to replace the lost gear, so take it easy and back off. Oh, and if you get any ideas of retaliating, I'll make sure I'm on kitchen duties permanently until Kyrano gets back." He paused, making sure he had their full attention before adding, "which includes cooking all the meals."
This had the desired effect as each stepped back a pace, their faces a collective mask of horror. Scott studied him carefully, prepared to call his bluff, but one look at Alan's mutinous expression told him all he needed to know. "Okay kid, you win….for now."
For the first time since Scott had towered menacingly over him, Alan permitted himself to mentally relax, knowing this was one victory he had won. He wisely kept his moment of sweetness carefully concealed. He'd savour that later……..on his own.
"I thought we had our hands full with this one," Scott continued, jerking his head in Gordon's direction, who feigned an injured look, "but you're shaping up to be worse. God help us," he muttered under his breath.
"I take it then that I'm relegated to the kitchen duties, again?" the good humoured resignation in their parent's voice defused the moment perfectly.
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