Sorry about this chapter. It's based on a really old version of Cinderella I've got.
Who knew running in boots was so tricky? Vince certainly hadn't and cried out as his ankle turned and he landed heavily on the stairs.
"Ow, ow, shit, shit, fuck!"
He pulled off the boots and ran on, holding them tightly in his hands. He really didn't want to lose those boots, not if they were going to be all he had to remind him of the most genius night of his life. The clock was still mumbling about whether eleven or nineteen came after ten (...because nineteen does come after ten but not in... eh, the order. The order of preference, for counting, and the linear flow of time...) but there was no denying that it was now at least a minute past midnight and Vince was running out of time. He could feel his outfit beginning to dissipate - the fabric was actually fizzing against his skin as the magic wore off and he really didn't want to be in a public place when it finally winked out of existence. Naboo had seemed like the sort of shaman who knew his stuff but Vince didn't want to take any chances. It would just be his luck that his jumpsuit would cease to exist and nothing would appear to replace it. And he did not want to have to walk home naked while dragging a heavy cauldron and herding a bunch of mice, a dog and a mad rooster. That would definitely be a less than satisfactory end to the evening.
He could see the carriage ahead - it was pretty hard to miss. It was pulsing brightly and Bollo, the dog-come-gorilla, was gesturing frantically for him to hurry up while the horses and footman started to glitter and spark.
He tried to run faster but the downside to taking off his boots was that his feet were taking a beating on the hard marble of the steps and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep up the pace much longer. Still, at least Howard wasn't following. It was better this way. He'd figure out something, sort things out, put together a genius outfit and track the guy down. It was all going to be-
And then a gong rang out from the palace behind him and Vince turned in horror.
Bainbridge stood on the upper balcony and shook with rage, his jowls wobbling as his head turned from pasty to crimson to a deep plum, his moustache bristling like a hedgehog. He'd been watching his son and his mysterious new girlfriend all evening, delighting over that fact that a creature existed who appeared to be dim enough, and short-sighted enough, to be genuinely enjoying Howard's company. He'd even begun planning the refurbishment of Howard's wing of the castle and what wise and important truth nuggets he would unleash in his speech at the wedding.
He'd been surprised when the lady-man actually kissed Howard, and even more surprised when Howard had kissed back, but had taken it as the best possible sign. The mission was complete, the night a success, and Bainbridge felt confident that this strange person his son had fallen for would not be the sort to shy away from the public eye. Everything was turning out perfectly.
Until that damned clock had struck midnight and the sequined sweetheart had run off.
But Dixon Bainbridge wasn't about to be beaten, no sir. He was a huntsman and he wasn't going to let this little deer out of his sight.
"Fossil! Send word to the guards! Tell them to close those gates and restrain that glittery minx before she escapes!"
Bob Fossil, who had been dozing on the floor by his king's feet, startled back to consciousness with a squawk and stumbled to his feet, bleary eyed. The strained buttons of his shirt had come free of their holes and Bainbridge grabbed the chest hair revealed by the wayward shirt and pulled Fossil in close, eliciting a yelp of surprise from his servant.
"Howard's floozy, whoever he or she is, is not to escape, do you hear me? I refuse to deal with a love-sick and depressed Howard! Now capture that creature!"
Fossil nodded rapidly and yelled across to the guards.
"Close the gates! Hey you, baboon's arse in a bearskin! Stop that silver love kitten from escaping or I'll come down on you like a tent full of flamingos!"
He turned back toward Bainbridge, grinning like a chipmunk on nut day, but Bainbridge snarled. It wasn't enough. The lady-man was almost at her carriage, and even if she appeared to be fizzing like a fire cracker, she looked like she was going to get away. He needed to slow her down now.
"The tar!" he bellowed, slapping his knee in a self-congratulatory manner. "Pour the emergency tar! That'll slow her down!"
"But ma' Bainbridge!" Fossil squealed. "You said that was only for emergencies! Like attacking hoards from the deep south! Or the zombie apocalypse!"
"This is an emergency, you custard cream! Now release the tar! It'll stop her in her tracks and we can pay for any damage done to her shoes. Now go!"
Fossil didn't argue a second time. He ran to the ornate rope in the throne room, the one marked "Tar Rope - Only to be used in the most dire emergencies (see Palace Policy on dealing with Zombie Apocalypse)" and pulled down hard. Far above him a deep gong sounded and the creaking of machinery signaled that the large vat of hot tar that lived above the palace was slowly tilting, soon to pour down the front steps and into the path of the mysterious runaway
As the wall of hot, bubbling, blackness poured down from the roof of the palace Vince shrieked in terror before trying to double his speed. He'd thought the king's mad emergency zombie plan was just a myth, just something Anthrax had liked to terrorize him with when he'd been younger and easier to scare, but it looked like it was true after all. And now that huge vat of tar was heading in his direction.
Vince looked down at his feet. They weren't great feet. They were knobbly from wearing shoes that were too tight and where toes had been broken, and they were a bit hairy, but they were his feet and they were important to him. He really didn't want them to get tarred. It would probably hurt. He tried to run faster but tripped and began to tumble down the last flight of stairs instead.
He hit the wheel of the carriage with a thunk and felt two large hairy arms lift him and deposit him inside.
"Rolling maybe quickest way," Bollo rumbled as he shut the door and climbed up to the reigns. "But not good for the lumbar. If Bollo retains fingers he give you massage. For now, we ride like the wind through mighty forest."
He flicked the reigns and spurred the nervous horses into action. Vince watched as they began to speed away from the palace and the tar with a feeling of deep relief until he noticed something glittery sticking out of the cooling, black sludge. He looked down at the single boot still clutched in his hand and then back at its pair, sticking forlornly out of the gunk, and sobbed. Things couldn't get worse.
At which point there was a sudden flash of light and Vince found himself sitting awkwardly inside a large cooking pot, wearing the ragged remains of his red jumpsuit which was barely staying stitched together.
"This is rubbish," he sighed, then yelped when he looked up into two brilliant blue eyes.
"Bollo carry pot if precious Vince carry mice," the gorilla said earnestly. "Then Bollo give you massage."
Vince grinned, he couldn't help it. "Genius. Thanks, Bollo."
He climbed out of the cauldron and gathered up Jones, Delia, Dolly and Sue, who squeakily told him of the strangeness of being horses before falling asleep in exhaustion, and began the trudge home.
"So... why are you still a gorilla then, Bollo?"
The ape shrugged. "Bollo not sure, but Bollo much happier as a gorilla. Much easier. Did Bollo ever tell you about Chinko?"
"No, don't believe you have, Bollo. Who's Chinko?"
"Chinko and Bollo, we grew up together in the jungle."
"Right..."
"One day, Chinko beg me to go to edge of forest..."
And together they wandered off into the night, oblivious to the fact that back at the castle an uproar had begun of epic proportions.