Disclaimer: Red Dwarf is not mine
Day 11, Part 1
Jim and Bexley were now chronologically two days old. Forty-eight hours. Some two thousand, eight-hundred and eighty minutes. Around one-hundred and seventy-two thousand, eight-hundred seconds. Physically, however, they were three billion, seven million, eight-hundred and forty-three thousand, two-hundred seconds old; they were six million, three-hundred and seven thousand, two-hundred minutes old, and they were one-hundred five thousand, one-hundred and twenty hours old. They were twelve years old.
Holly provided these calculations for Lister. By the time she was done saying them Lister knew her calculations were no longer accurate. Jim and Bexley's ages had doubled in the past twenty-four hours, as had their heights. They now came up to around Lister's shoulders. Lister was deeply saddened as he watched them lose some of their prominent characteristics of childhood. Their dramatic growth was only one change Lister had noticed. They didn't so much look like young boys anymore. Their shoulders had broadened, their arms and legs were thicker and their faces had matured as well. Lister had received quite the shock when he had asked them a question and they answered with voices several octaves lower than Lister had remembered them having ten minutes ago.
That's right. The boys were beginning to hit puberty, and the changes were even more rapid, dramatic, and confusing than any other human male had ever encountered. Lister wished more than ever during these moments that he could slow the ageing process down, not only to help Jim and Bexley to cope with the changes, but to help him out as well. It was all too much to take in. Lister knew for a fact that no parent should have to see their children through their birth and their adolescence in the same week.
This was his last day with his sons—twenty-four hours. His last one thousand, four-hundred and forty minutes. His last eighty-six thousand, four-hundred seconds. It was painful for Lister to watch his baby boys encounter the brutal force of nature that was stealing their childhood and forcing them to become men at speeds never before encountered, whether they liked it or not.
"Can't you do something about them?" asked Rimmer, irritated. "They've been standing there for nearly an hour. I think they've forgotten how to blink as well as how to close their jaws."
Lister glanced over at his sons, who were standing slack-jawed at his luggage locker, gawking at Lister's posters of Marilyn Monroe.
"They're not doing any harm. At least they have good taste," said Lister. "Besides, you know what they say—boys will be boys."
"Well, at least it gives my bedpost a breather," muttered Rimmer. "I've only ever seen that behavior in dogs before."
"They don't know how to deal with it all," said Lister. "They have no clue what's happening to their bodies. I'm sure it's all really confusing for them. I mean, it was only a few hours ago that they were watching Mugs Murphy in the cinema and playing Space Adventurers in the corridors. Now all they can think about is girls—and they've never even met one. They've only seen pictures. It's something we've all dealt with, but most of us get more warning than this, more time to adjust."
"Have you had the talk with them?" asked Rimmer, as he flipped through one of his hologramatic editions of Fascist Dictators Monthly. "You know—the talk."
"You mean the birds and the bees?" said Lister, glancing over at Rimmer's magazine to see a black and white photograph of Francisco Franco under the title, Mr. February. "Nah, I haven't."
'"You really should," Rimmer advised. "Look at them. They're more clueless than a Kamikaze pilot who plans on going out for Kare Raisu and sake to celebrate after the big mission."
"I just don't want to confuse them," said Lister, lowering his voice so Rimmer had to lean in closer to hear him. "I mean—things are different, you know, over there. I don't want to tell them one thing and have it be the opposite when they get there. That'd be one nasty shock, I know it was for me. I think I'll leave that part to Deb. Besides, I'm not to keen to find out how—how—things work over there."
"You can at least explain the basics," Rimmer suggested. "They deserve to have some idea of what's happening. For them right now, it's the equivalent of growing a second head and saying, 'Oh, hello, when did you get here?'"
"You're right," said Lister. "I've got to tell them the fundamentals, but it won't be guaranteed that they'll understand everything. I picked up some things from my friends, the telly, and my own personal experience when I was young. Or I could explain it to them like my gran did for me. All I would need is a pretty doll and any sort of action man."
"So," said Rimmer, finally putting down his magazine as Lister returned. "How'd it go?"
"I'm not sure, really," said Lister heavily, settling down at the table across from Rimmer with a tray of chicken vindaloo. "You see, I think that I should have used something better than a banana and a doughnut to explain it to them. It really confused them. But I think they get the basic concept of what's happening to them, but not why. I was able to basically explain sex to them, but I stayed as far away as possible from the topic of how sex leads to babies. I don't know how it works where they come from."
"That's probably wise," said Rimmer. "Unless you've changed your mind and want to know how it works now—"
"I still don't," said Lister hastily, stabbing a sizeable chunk of potato and chicken on his fork.
"I mean, you can't honestly believe that all the men in the parallel universe have c-sections," said Rimmer. "I mean, it's not exactly convenient, is it? It takes much longer to heal for a start and it leaves a scar. You must know that's not how it works over there, otherwise it would make more sense to just install zippers in all of their abdomens."
"I don't want to hear this," Lister groaned, putting his hands firmly over his ears and humming loudly.
"You mean to tell me that you're not at all curious of what would have happened with the birth if you had stayed in the parallel universe? It's your duty as their mother to inform them—"
"Sorry, I can't hear you, over the sound of me humming, Rimmer," Lister shouted.
"That's terribly immature of you," said Rimmer contemptuously.
"It can't be any more irritating than that black card thing you came up with," Lister retorted.
"Oh, so you can hear me?" said Rimmer, smiling in satisfaction. "In that case, I can tell you anyways and you'll have to listen…."
Lister hummed even louder over Rimmer's uncomfortable explanation that he had no desire to hear.
"So where are the boys now?" asked Rimmer.
Lister stopped singing and slowly lowered his hands an inch away from his ears, just in case Rimmer decided to pull a fast one on him. "Showers."
"Oh," said Rimmer. "As I was saying, once intercourse takes place—"
Lister leaped out of his chair, taking his vindaloo with him. "I'm going to go see what the Cat and Kryten are doing. Tell the boys where I am once they get out of the shower room. Oh, and a word of advice, watch what you say to them. They're really odd lately."
"Jump here—jump back, waaaah!" screeched the Cat, sliding down the corridor. "Hey—I haven't made anything mine in a long time! I'd better do some catching up!" he pulled out his favorite spray bottle of his own personal scent and squirted it onto a pipe running along the wall. "This is mine—that's mine…"
"Yo, Cat," said Lister, appearing around the corner. "There you are. Have you seen Kryten anywhere?"
"Sure, bud!" said the Cat. "I saw him in a room a few corridors back—he's trying to get the imprints of a club and two golf balls out of the back of his head."
"You guys did get him pretty good," said Lister.
"Hey, where are your clones?" asked the Cat. "They're always following you so close, I thought they might still be attached!"
"I just gave them the talk," said Lister. "They're in the locker room's showers."
Lister and Cat walked further down the corridor. They stopped when they saw two skutters gliding around in circles in front of a dispensing machine, each holding a picket sign in their three-clawed beaks.
"Come on now," sighed Lister. "You lot haven't dropped this stupid strike yet?"
The skutters waved their signs angrily in response.
"What's this, then?" asked Lister incredulously, bending over to read the signs. 'Skutter Power?' 'Down With Rimmer?' I totally agree with you guys, but don't you think this has gone on long enough? You're acting as if he'd brought Jimmy Hoffa and Woody Guthrie back from the great beyond!"
"Yeah," said the Cat. "What is it you guys want, anyway?"
One of the skutters flipped it's sign over for them to read.
"'Do Us All A Favor—Turn Rimmer Off Every Other Week?'" Lister read. "Okay, that sounds reasonable enough. Yeah, I think we can find a way to do that."
"I was thinking of doing the same thing myself!" exclaimed the Cat. "Only I would leave him off!"
"The only problem is—"
"COME BACK!"
Two semi-naked blurs suddenly streaked past them, pelting down the corridor and around the corner, screaming all the way, leaving squelching wet puddles in their wake.
"What the smeg was that about?"" exclaimed Lister, staring bewilderingly in the direction the twins had went.
"Was one of them—" said the Cat blankly, pointing in the direction they had gone.
"I think so," said Lister dazedly. "We've got to got after them. Come on."
"Later, Bob," said Lister over his shoulder as he and the Cat strode down the corridor. "See you, Madge. I'll see what I can do about the Rimmer situa—"
Lister and Cat's feet slid out from under them and they landed with a painful thump on their backs as they tried to run on the wet floor. Lister and Cat laid on the floor for several seconds, stunned, before scrambling to their feet and pelting after the two rowdy adolescents.
"Why's the floor wet?" cried the Cat as they jogged after the sounds of the two boys fighting.
"They just got out of the showers, remember?" Lister explained, rubbing his sore back as he limped just behind the Cat.
They rounded the corner and found Jim and Bexley. They had indeed just gotten out of the showers. Their hair was sopping wet and they were steadily dripping great drops of water onto the floor so that a great puddle was forming beneath their bare feet. They were having a furious fight—Bexley was jumping from foot to foot like a boxer, a white towel wrapped around his waist. He dangled another towel tauntingly in Jim's face. Jim was not wearing a towel, but was bollocks-naked. Jim was too dangling an object in his brother's face—a photograph.
"What the smeg is going on?" yelled Lister.
"Give it to me, Jim!" shouted Bexley, clawing at the photograph. "And then I'll give you your towel back!"
"No way, Bex!" Jim yelled back, grabbing for his towel. "You give me my towel and then I'll give you the picture!"
Bexley yanked the towel away from Jim, holding it above his head. "No smegging way!"
"You have to do what I say!" yelled Jim into Bexley's face. "I'm older than you!"
"Only by two minutes!" Bexley screamed back.
Jim swung at Bexley, his fist colliding with Bexley's jaw. Stunned, Bexley fell and crumpled back against the wall. Enraged, Bexley leapt to his feet and charged with his head down at Jim, forcing him up against the wall. Yelling, Jim pulled on Bexley's dreadlocks until he screamed in agony, and Bexley pulled on Jim's dreadlocks equally viciously.
"Do something!" cried the Cat. "Or we'll have a Jamie Bulger case on our hands!"
"Boys, boys!" cried Lister, forcing himself between the two of them. "Break it up, lads. Come on, now. Stop it!" He caught their fists in his own stronger hands as they each went to take another swing at each other. "STOP IT!"
Jim and Bexley stopped fighting momentarily and glared mutinously at each other.
"You're brothers," said Lister, keeping a precautionary hand on each of their chests to keep them away from each other. "You're not supposed to act like that. You're supposed to be friends. What's got into you two? What's this all about?"
Lister snatched the picture out of Jim's clamped fist and stared at it in disbelief. "All this over my picture of Marilyn Monroe? I have a whole bunch of these, if you had only asked. There's no need to fight over it."
"But I had it first," said Bexley angrily. "And he took it."
"Well, you got soap in my eyes," Jim retorted.
"You took my rubber duck!"
"You used all of the hot water!"
"You towel-flicked me!"
"But you stole my towel!" Jim shouted past Lister into Bexley's face.
"There!" said the Cat, pulling on Bexley's towel. "Now you're even!"
Lister buried his face in his hands, thinking. "Right. We're going to fix this. Bexley, give Jim back his towel."
Bexley grudgingly handed Jim his towel, and Jim gratefully wrapped the towel around his middle.
"And you, Cat."
Cat gave Bexley his towel back. "And no more indecent exposure. You seem do be doing it all the time—when you were born, and now this! What d'you think this is, a nudist colony? Well, you're wrong, bud. Only on Thursdays."
Bexley blushed, wrapping the towel securely around his waist.
"Now that we're all somewhat properly clothed," said Lister. "You boys need to set things straight. That behavior does not fly with me. You're brothers. Twins. And identical twins at that. That's just about the closest that you can be to someone. I hate seeing you boys treating each other like that and I don't ever see or hear you fighting like that again, especially over a girl. Especially if it's just a smegging picture of a girl who's been dead for over three million years. Never let a girl get in between you two. Always put each other first. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," Jim and Bexley mumbled.
"Good," said Lister, nodding his head. "Now I want you two to apologize to each other and never let this happen again."
"What's 'apologize' mean?" asked Bexley.
"Oh, right," said Lister. "It means to say you're sorry."
"Okay," said Jim. "Bex, I'm sorry I took your picture of that pretty blonde girl."
"It's all right, Jim," said Bexley. "And I'm sorry I stole your towel and then laughed at you."
The twins hugged briefly and quickly let go of each other, each looking away uneasily.
"There," said Lister contentedly. "Doesn't that feel better now? Now go get some clothes on."
"Well, that should do it," said Kryten pleasantly, emerging into the sleeping quarters. "I've just spent the last few hours panel-beating my head back into shape."
"Nice job, Kryten—it looks good," said Lister, impressed. "Sorry about all that, mate. Jim 'n Bexley didn't mean anything by it."
"It's quite alright Mr. Lister, sir, there was no serious, permanent damage done. You know what they say: kids will be kids, just as dogs will be, well…"
"Slobbering idiots?" Lister suggested.
"Your words, not mine, sir," said Kryten. "But wonderfully chosen if you don't mind me saying so. The only thing that really bothers me is that I spent the last nine hours repairing myself, and have consequently gotten terribly behind in today's laundry."
"Can't all that smeg wait?" said Lister. "Take a break. Enjoy yourself. Have a drink or something."
"Mechanoids can't take a rest or have a drink, sir," said Kryten, laughing humorlessly. "Not when there are humans to serve. Where are the young Mr. Lister's anyway?"
"Changing in the washroom," said Lister, indicating over his shoulder with his thumb. "They just had a bit of a tiff over a photograph of Marilyn Monroe."
"Could it be?" said Kryten. "They have already started their maturing process to go from being boys to men, and I wasn't there for it?"
"It's called puberty," said Lister solemnly. "And it only just started for them. They're really lost and confused. I tried to explain it to them but I think it only made things worse for them. It really tears me up inside, man. It's just so unfair for them. Their entire childhoods have been stolen from them. It's too much to take. They're taller and older-looking every time I see them. I don't even recognize their voices anymore. I just wish there was someway I could make everything up for them, give them back all of the time they've lost. I just can't believe that I'm on me last day with them."
"It is a tragedy, Mr. David, sir," said Kryten sympathetically, placing a caring hand on Lister's shoulder. "Being a mechanoid, I am incapable of feeling human emotions, so I can't honestly comfort you by saying that I know how you feel. I can't even say it out of that context because mechanoids are incapable of lying. But I can say this—I've grown very fond of their cheery little faces and I will certainly miss them, especially doing their extra laundry."
"I'm really trying not to think about it, man," said Lister. He hugged his knees to his chest in his bunk and rocking back and forth, wistfully chewing the end of one of his dreadlocks. "It breaks me heart whenever I do. I just can't imagine life without them now."
"DAD!" Jim yelled suddenly.
"Can you come here?" Bexley bellowed.
Lister rose from his bunk and headed for the washroom. "I've got to see what they need, Kryten—I'll be right back."
Lister tugged open the door to the washroom and let it close behind him. He stood with his hands on his hips. "What is it?"
Jim and Bexley were standing in front of the mirror, half-dressed in trousers Lister had lent them. They were examining their features critically, their fingers running around their faces.
"Me and Jim both have got the chicken pox again," Bexley explained.
"They hurt like smeg," said Jim, gingerly touching a spot on his chin. "They just showed up. Do we have to have that gross medicine from Kryten again and stay in bed?"
Lister sighed and moved closer to the mirror, feeling a strong sense of deja vu. It had only been around ten years ago that he went through this stage himself. "Let me see."
Lister looked at them each in turn, putting his hand gently under their jaw line and across their necks, turning their faces to examine the blemishes.
"Don't worry about it, lads," said Lister consolingly, releasing his hand from Bexley. "This isn't chicken pox this time. It's just another stage that everyone goes through—it'll pass before you know it.
"Even you?" said Jim uncertainly.
"Even me," said Lister, nodding.
"Isn't there anything we can do to make it go away?" asked Bexley hopefully.
"Yeah," Jim agreed. "I hate it."
"Nope, sorry, lads. You'll just have to wait it out," said Lister. "There is something you can do for acne, though—try washing your faces with some soap and water. That'll clean your skin and help you from getting more breakouts."
Jim nodded, and reached for the bottle of soap by the faucet.
"You probably shouldn't use hand soap on your faces," said Lister as dug around in his medicine cabinet for any sort of face wash. "I don't have any. I know for a fact the Cat does. I'll go ask him."
Lister had turned to go, when he twisted back around and held up a stern finger. "And stop touching your faces. Don't pick at them, or they won't heal as fast. And don't let Rimmer see you picking or he'll make you wear those mittens again or some of his nocturnal boxing gloves. Be good. I'll be right back."
"I got our lunches," said Lister, stepping into the sleeping quarters. He set the three trays of chicken tikka masala on the table. Thirteen-year-old Jim and Bexley, now fully clothed in Lister's London Jets shirts and spare ship-issued camos, were sitting in Lister's bunk, their eyes glued to the television monitor. The Cat was laying in the other bunk, looking equally mesmerized. "What're you watching?"
"Nothing," said Jim and Bexley together in their deepening voices, each crossing their legs in one swift motion.
Lister glanced at the screen and saw that they were watching one of his boxing videos—the female topless ones. "Totally disgusting," said Lister in disbelief. "I can't believe you lot are watching this trash—version 2.4 is much better!"
Lister joined Jim and Bexley in the bunk and handed them each a lunch tray. "Careful—they're hot, in more ways than one."
"They're not the only things that are hot in this room," said the Cat, licking his lips as he stared unblinkingly at the screen. "I'm rooting for the brunette, though the blonde has a very persuading game plan. Dodge left, spin right—up, down…"
Rimmer sauntered into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. "Well well, well, what do we have here?" he said, sitting down at the table and watching the screen. "Absolutely disgusting. Lister, you of all people should understand how hideously demeaning and just plain wrong these videos are."
"Oh really?" smirked Lister. "Then why are you watching it?"
"And look what it's doing to them!" exclaimed Rimmer, pointing at Jim and Bexley. "They're literally drooling! They're sex-obsessed, I tell you!"
"No they aren't," said Lister defensively. "They're just a bit curious. It's perfectly normal."
"Hey, Bex," said Jim suddenly. "Guess what I just thought of: what does your name rhyme with?"
"Oh, I know, I know, pick me!" cried the Cat, enthusiastically waving an arm in the air.
"Sex?" said Bexley hesitantly.
"Yeah," said Jim. "That's right."
"Damn!" exclaimed the Cat. "You shoulda called on me! I knew that one!"
"You see?" said Rimmer triumphantly. "What did I tell you? Completely obsessed."
"Dad," said fourteen year-old Jim concernedly, rubbing his bristled face. "What's this weird stuff on my face?"
"Yeah," said Bexley, feeling his face as well. "What is it?"
Lister glanced at their faces. "It's just facial hair, and boys usually start to get it around your age. I have some too, see?" said Lister, stroking his jaw line. "I was just thinking of shaving—come here, I'll show you how."
Lister strode over to the washroom and stood by the bathroom mirror. Jim and Bexley obediently followed.
Lister splashed tap water over his face and picked up his bottle of shaving cream from beside the faucet. He shook the bottle and squirted a generous amount into his left palm. "See? You get the foam like this, and spread it all over the parts of your face you want to shave."
Lister rubbed his hands together to get the foam on both palms, and then smeared the frothy white foam all over the lower half of his face and onto part of his neck.
"Your turn," Lister picked up the bottle of shaving cream again. "Hold out your hands, boys."
Jim and Bexley both held up their hands with their palms facing upwards and Lister squirted a blob of shaving foam into their hands. "Now do like I did."
Lister turned back towards the mirror, and watched his sons smear on the foam in the reflection over his shoulder. "I can't believe I'm already teaching them how to smegging shave," Lister whispered to his reflection. "It feels like just the other day I was teaching them to walk. Wait—it was."
"Now what?" asked Jim, forcing Lister to snap out of his reverie.
"Wait one smegging moment," exclaimed Lister, stepping back and staring at Jim and Bexley. "Is that shaving cream under your arms, too?"
"Yeah," said Jim, shrugging.
"Aren't you supposed to shave there, too?" asked Bexley, bewildered behind his beard of foam.
"No," said Lister, shaking his head vigorously and handing them each a bath towel to wipe the foam off. "Blokes don't do that. Not even French women do that."
"Now," said Lister, picking up his razor. "Then you use this a razor to shave off the hair. Watch out, it's sharp. You just hold it to your skin and make strokes like this to shave off the hair," said Lister, demonstrating by shaving his chin and moving outwards. "There's some tricky parts, so you've got to be careful or you'll cut yourselves. Now—let me see if I can find new razors for you two…"
Lister dug around in the medicine cabinet and found two new razors, handing one to each of the twins. "Be careful," he cautioned. "The new ones are always brutal."
Lister finished shaving and wiped the remnants of the shaving cream from his face with the hem of his shirt. Lister admitted to himself that he had kind of missed shaving, as he had been unable to grow any sort of beard once the effects of the hormone shots had kicked in. The stubble that he felt on his face that morning was a much welcomed sign to him that things were starting to return to normal in his body.
"There. That's how it's done. Now let's see you boys try," said Lister, folding his arms and standing with his back against the bathroom counter, moving aside so that his sons had full use of the mirror.
In one motion, Jim and Bexley each hesitantly raised the blades to their chins and gave them a smooth downward stroke. Lister nodded in approval. So far, so good. They each did as Lister had done, following his same routine that he had demonstrated. They now had one more place to shave. They both turned their head in the same direction to shave the difficult jaw line, where wispy hairs had sprouted not twenty minutes ago. As their blades moved in identical motions at the same time on their identical jaw lines, Jim and Bexley both winced and jumped as one as the razors nicked their skin.
"Smeg!" they both yelled in pain, hopping up and down, dropping the razors and clutching their hands over each of their own cuts, which were now bleeding profusely.
"It's all right, it's all right," said Lister quickly. "You almost had it—that happens to everyone at some point. It hurts though, doesn't it? I hate that feeling. Here—"
Lister grabbed a bog roll and unraveled two long strips, bundling them up and handing one each to the twins. "Hold them to the cut and press down hard. The pressure will stop the bleeding eventually."
Jim and Bexley did as they were told, wincing in pain, their faces stinging where the razors had taken a greedy bite out of their skin.
The toilet paper stuck to their faces quickly absorbed the blood pouring from the cuts and Lister unraveled more paper, bunched them up, and handed them to the boys.
"Thanks," they said gratefully, tossing the old bloodied toilet paper into the garbage bin and pressing the new paper to their faces.
"I know," said Lister sympathetically. "It's right up there on my list of the most painful things you can go though after giving birth, being kicked in the happy sacs, and listening to an album by Toad the Wet Sprocket. But women still have it the worse, I think. We only have to shave this small part of our bodies. They have to shave both their legs, armpits, and when bikini season comes around they have to go have half their thatch ripped out. We blokes really do have it easy. I never realized this before I had you too, but men don't know pain. Not in this universe, anyways."
"What're you looking at, boys?" asked Lister, striding up to wear Jim and Bexley were sitting side by side in his bunk, pouring over a volume.
"I dunno," said Jim. "But it's good."
"It makes everything you said make more sense," Bexley added.
Lister turned his head to see the book upside down. "Oh—that there is the Popup Kama Sutra. You shouldn't be looking at that! I didn't get my first copy until I was at least half a year older than you. It's useless to you two anyways. There's no women or cars around here. And besides, it's mine."
"I know," said Jim, turning the page. "It's still interesting."
"Very interesting," Bexley agreed, his eyes widening as he scanned the new page.
"I know," said Lister, taking the book from Jim and closing it. He set the book aside and climbed into his bunk between Jim and Bexley. He reached under his pillow and pulled out a comic book. "I think this is much more appropriate for now."
Rimmer strode into the room at that moment, sitting down at the table.
"I remember the first time I met your mum," said Rimmer reminiscently to the twins. "It was over three million years ago. We met when Red Dwarf stopped at Mimas to restock supplies and he came in as the newest recruit—as a lowly Third Technician, the lowest ranking crew member. Believe it or not, but he was even more pathetic then he is now. I was his superior officer, in charge of Z Shift. I knew he would be trouble and a pain in my side the moment I clapped eyes on him."
"That's not how it happened. Don't believe him for one minute, boys," said Lister, looking up from his comic book. "Everything he tells you is a pack of lies. We met way before Red Dwarf. He hired my hopper back on Mimas, pretending to be an Officer. He tried to go incognito, wearing a false moustache and everything. I could still see that he was a weaselly little smegger even with his petty disguise. He had me take him to an android brothel."
"W'as that?" asked Jim, as he and Bexley looked on the comic book with Lister. They couldn't read the text, but they liked looking at the pictures.
"A whore house," Lister explained, turning the page. "A place where scum-sucking slime balls like Rimmer go and pay a robot customized to their fancies to have sex with them because they're just that sad and pathetic."
Jim and Bexley grinned at Rimmer cynically.
"What a bunch of malicious slander," said Rimmer agitatedly, his face reddening. "I told you—that wasn't me, that was Todhunter!"
"Yeah," laughed Bexley. "Whatever you say, Uncle Arn."
"Enough of that adolescent sniggering!" said Rimmer testily.
"Hey!" said Jim, looking up from the comic book and pointing at the fish tank. "I never noticed that before! What are they?"
"Those are my robot goldfish," said Lister. "I named them Lennon and McCartney."
"Why?" asked Bexley, walking over to the goldfish and tapping the tank. Lennon and McCartney swam away from Bexley to the other side of the tank.
"After John Lennon and Paul McCartney," explained Lister. "They along with George Harrison and Ringo Starr made up a rock group called The Beatles in the twentieth century. They were all from the same place as me—they were actually called the Sons of Liverpool. There was even a museum back home dedicated to them. I watched this documentary on them not long before I left Earth. When Paul died in 2019, Ringo went a bit bonkers, had a few drinks, and went to see a hypnotist who convinced him to torch the Beatles Story Exhibition on Albert Dock in Liverpool. The hypnotist turned out to be phony."
"Really?" said Rimmer curiously. "I've never heard that before. Did they ever find out who the hypnotist was?"
"Yeah," said Lister. "It was Yoko Ono."
AN: So, so many changes in this chapter! It was sad when I wrote this, knowing Jim and Bexley weren't going to be cute little kids from this point on. Again in this chapter I used numbers. Numbers are my enemies along with the whole subject of math, as I have said before. So any mathematical errors from Holly can be blamed on her computer senility.
There's one line in this chapter I'd like to point out. One day I made the mistake of leaving the house and leaving this document open when I was writing it. My dad, being the joker he is, sat down and typed in the following line, "Jimmy Hoffa and Woody Guthrie back from the great beyond." I have no idea what this is or where it came from, but I left it in because my dad thought it was pretty funny, whatever it is. Maybe he should co-write with me more often. But then again, he also suggested that instead of writing Red Dwarf fanfiction I write a story about the adventures of a traveling red balloon. So maybe co-writing with my dad wouldn't be such a great idea after all.
kellyofsmeg