G'DAY FRIEND-OS
IT'S YOUR OLD PAL… KIM HERE
WITH ANOTHER HOT BATCH OF SPICY STORIES
LIKE, THEY'RE HOT VIA BOTH IT'S SPICINESS, AND IT'S TEMPERATURE, BECAUSE IT'S FRESH OUT THE OVEN
DOUBLE HOT
AND OH, WHAT A STORY WE'VE GOT FOR YOU TODAY
BECAUSE THIS IS A WHISKERS AND WHEELS CHAPTER… WITH A TWIST!
THE TWIST IS… USUALLY WITH THESE STORIES, THE AUDIENCE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN
BUT THIS TIME, WE DON'T KNOW EITHER
SO THIS CHAPTER WILL PROBABLY BE FUCKING ABYSMAL, BUT NO WORRIES
WE'RE WELL GOOD AT DOING ABYSMAL THINGS; THAT'S OUR SPECIALITY
GO READ THE HANDOVER FOR JUSTIFICATION
I MEAN TO BE HONEST WE'RE REALLY JUST STALLING HERE
BECAUSE YEAH, WE HAVE NOTHING
THIS STORY IS DEDICATED TO ME MATE READER, YET AGAIN, WHO WROTE TWO LINES OF THIS
ALSO I NEED TO INCREASE THE WORD COUNT HERE, SO I THOUGHT I'D THROW IN THIS HERE ADDITIONAL DEDICATION TO ASSIST WITH THAT THERE TASK
LET'S GOOOO
Chapter 9 - Fifteen Days with Charlie Joe
Space. The final frontier. Or in this case, the penultimate frontier, because we're not on chapter ten yet. In the dark void of space floated a colossal space manatee. Inside the space manatee, visible through it's rubbery translucent blubber skin, is lots of green. Because inside the space manatee, one heinous villain is cultivating some verdant meadows and lovely green forests. A villain… with green fingers and some geography at his disposal. Yeah it's Mr Geography.
The imposing figure stood there, looking out into space through the translucent blubber walls. All the green around him was getting rather tiresome, and for a literal personification of geography, that was a bad thing to have to admit. Occasionally Mr Geography contemplated his place in the universe. Aye, he had the powers of geography at his command, but what is geography compared to the vastness of space? And if he truly was a man to serve the forces of geography, why did he dress and generally look like a villain from Captain Planet? Surely his modus operandi should involve destroying geography, not assisting it! But alas, he drifted on through this world of plants and trees and shit, and he sighed to himself.
Suddenly, his wife and legal advisor Damir Redholt the Frog King bounded along the fields. I mean I say bounded, it was more like when you get like a water balloon full of custard and drop it on the floor, and it kind of like blobs its way along. Damir Redholt landed with a resounding sloshing noise to the side of Mr Geography.
'My fellow comrade, intel has discovered the location of those do-gooders Ser Pounce and his cripple accomplice,' burbled Damir Redholt. 'It would appear that they are at the house of their friend, the fisherman, for his birthday party.'
'Ah, the fisherman, eh? I know him. He wasn't intended to be a major character, but fan reactions made sure that he kept on reappearing. This tenacious son-of-a-bitch much be quashed!'
'And, my geography-based bro, all of Ser Pounce and Doran's friends will probably also be in the vicinity as well. On account of it being a party. And because Ser Pounce's whole thing is that be befriends everyone.'
'Ah! Killing friends is my speciality! But I shan't deprive you of some good ole ultra-violence! Because I need to tend to my mountains and whatnot. Here, you'll probably need a tommy gun.' Mr Geography handed Damir Redholt a tommy gun, who grasped it in his bulbous frog hands. Do frogs have hands? Or are they like feet?
'Alright, cheers you Geography Geezer. I'll be off, yeah? Catch you on the mountainside.' And with that, Damir Redholt bounded away - next stop, Westeros. Mr Geography looked out the blubber window, all pensive like.
Meanwhile, the party was finally winding down. It had been fifteen days since the party had first began, and shit had been fucking wild. Alcohol had been drunk, fish had been eaten, drunken fishing matches and unlicensed riddling competitions had been taken place, outlawed by local constables, and then proceeded with anyway, often with the constables joining in. This party was so immense that the law meant nothing within the confines of this party zone. All the friends were there; Rhydian was there, invited out of penance after Ser Pounce and Doran fucked up his car park, Francis the Facist and his husband Prince Loras were there, looking rather dashing in their nomad clothing and offensive propaganda. Jorah the Andal, now donning a leather jacket that failed to hide his hideous frog arm, and smoking a cigar, looking repulsed at himself for being the only frog-like entity in the room.
Ser Pounce and Doran were chilling on the couch, having long since resigned themselves to a life of alcoholism, and had been staying perpetually drunk the entire time. Hair of the dog is one thing, but the true experts never get sober enough where the hangover kicks in. Genius, really. Ser Pounce looked at Doran, and burbled something that, were he sober, could have probably been interpreted as, 'Shit dude, this was a fucking stellar party. It's a good thing the fisherman was accepting of our drunken escapades over the course of these fifteen days.'
'Yeah, I concur', garbled Doran. 'I guess it's true what they say about fishermen. They're pretty chill.'
There was a moment of contemplation. 'I'm confused,' gurgled Ser Pounce. 'Was that supposed to be like a well-known idiom, or like a pun, or what even was it?'
'Neither, it's just a thing that people say about fishermen.'
'Oh. Okay. I guess you're right, what with this party epitomising such a phrase.'
Suddenly, Damir Redholt bursts through the wall like the Kool-Aid Guy, even screaming 'Ooh yeah!' He went far with this reference, because he is committed to his cause and a great advocate of the Kool Aid mascot. I mean, who isn't? He's a really powerful and memorable figure, and he's committed to his duties of like smashing down walls and causing property damage. (I mean speaking as English people, we cannot speak of Kool Aid's overall quality. Like we tried it this one time, but we were really fucking confused because the packaging said 'two spoons of sugar', and we had no idea what that meant. Like, how much sugar is that? Do Americans only have like one type of spoon? It baffled us greatly, and when we put in what we assumed was the intended amount of sugar, it tasted like shit anyway, because evidently we didn't put enough sugar in. Basically fuck Kool Aid, the Kool-Aid Guy doesn't deserve to be linked to such a shoddy product).
Damir Redholt, tommy gun in hand, opens his mouth, and opens his big gaping frog maw ready to make a threatening croak noise or something, but he is interrupted prematurely when a sword chops his arm off. But who committed such a party foul, you may be asking. I mean it's kind of obvious. There's a frog, and a really fucking serious avid frog hater in the room, who happens to be wielding a fucking sword. Take a wild guess.
The fucking arm flies off with an arc of dark black frog blood, and Damir shrieks in his burbling way. Try and imagine like a shriek, but spoken in a burble. That's what Damir Redholt just did. I mean I can't really imagine what that sounds like, but I am lacking in such imagination. Like my imagination is reserved for like important things, like this: the dismembered frog arm of Damir Redholt flies away with the force of the upward sword slice, and no longer supported by the viscous frog juices that revitalise frog bodies (yeah I'm very knowledgable when it comes to frog biology), the arm almost instantaneously began to shrivel, curl inwards like an accelerated mummification process until the arm looked all wrinkled and repulsive, kind of like when you set fire to mercury(II) thiocyanate and it kind of like produces the Pharaoh's Serpent reaction, where it like spirals outwards and looks all rank and brown/white and twisting and shit, if that makes sense. But then, the problem of this is that the frog arm, no longer made all squishy with the excessive frog flesh, becomes rock-hard with instantaneous rigor mortis, and the hand joints locked down hard. Clenching hard on the tommy gun's trigger.
OH SHIT! The gun started firing! Immediately, the unsuspecting meat shield in the way of the barrage of bullets was Charlie Joe Connolly, who was just kind of standing around. He gets riddled with an entire cartridge-full of bullets from Damir Redholt's tommy gun, and flops on the floor like a fish. I mean perhaps I shouldn't kind of faff around this, beat around the bush, he's pretty much dead. He is fucked. He got like a firing squad's worth of death shot at his gormless face. Rest in fucking peace, dude.
Everyone looks in shocked silence, and then the tears and blubbering comes. Not only was Damir Redholt's gatecrashing a total party foul, but now everyone's beloved friend Charlie Joe Connolly had been brought to an end by frog-based treachery. Being rather violent sorts, everyone's instinctive first reaction was to prepare for a slam down on this bitch-arse frog, but then it clicked. Whilst Jorah the Andal had technically been responsible for his atrocity, he was also sorting it out, as Damir Redholt was quickly being fucking massacred with Jorah's precise sword swings. So they instead settled down to blubbering, and reminiscing about the good old days. A bit of a sad end to a party, but y'know, all good things should end on a poignant note that makes you think, that put things into perspective.
So the rest of this chapter will be quiet contemplation, as to everyone's cherished memories of the beloved character, Charlie Joe Connolly.
Remember that time Ser Pounce, Doran and the fisherman went to go and see their friend Car Crash Graham at the Monster Truck rally? They'd laughed together about Graham's questionable facial hair, wondered aloud and laughed about whether or not said facial hair assisted him with his car crash survivability, and then watched in awe as Car Crash Graham crushed many lesser evolved lifeforms under the wheels of his roaring monster truck. What a great and wondrous day out with friends. Oh and Charlie Joe Connolly was there.
Remember that time Ser Pounce and Doran teamed up with Knapsack Jack and the Whisper Shad to take down a powerful adversary? Jack had a magic technicoloured bag from which he could rapidly jettison animals from, basically just kind of circle-strafing firing flying elephants and bears at people, and the Shad used specialised swords with sodium crystals electroplated onto the blade so that the sword itself can be set alight with technicoloured flame, but since the sword is also made of sodium is is very brittle and pretty much explodes whenever you hit someone with it, so the Shad carries around a bag of fifty of them. Together, they brought down the nefarious Djent Djinn, a hovering entity black as sin with pearl-white eyes that swivelled mechanically in its sockets, who blasted the group with really fucking loud high-gain low pitch guitar playing, but with their powers combined the gang wrestled that supernatural shite back into the Marshall amp homicile from whence it came. What a victorious moment for man and cat kind. Also Charlie Joe Connolly was there.
Remember that time Ser Pounce and Doran were walking home that one night, and they saw a big flash of lightning on the over side of the road? All of a sudden, a magical phone box materialised right next to them, and out stepped George Carlin, dressed in a long grey coat and holding an electric guitar. And he said, 'Most people are not particularly good at anything.' Ser Pounce and Doran pointed at George Carlin and said, 'Excellent!', followed by electric guitar motions. Also Charlie Joe Connolly was there.
Remember that time Ser Pounce and Doran had to find Gaoler Nis (the giant caterpillar)'s precious copy of 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' by Samuel Taylor Coleridge? Doran himself thought that the poem was rather long and tedious for his liking, and Ser Pounce only knew of it's existence because of the Iron Maiden song of the same name. They eventually found the poem stuck behind the sofa. Gaoler Nis had moved it there whilst hoovering his lounge and had forgotten where he'd left it! The silly sod! Many a laugh was had at this light-hearted situation. Also Charlie Joe Connolly was there.
Remember that time Ser Pounce and Doran solved a bread-based murder mystery? Numerous bakers had been found impaled with French baguettes, or suffocated with dough, or bludgeoned with rolling pins, which hardly really fitted with the bread thing. They met a doughy demise, as it were. As it turned out, they lived next door to a paedophile who killed people with bread, so luckily they could lock this heinous criminal up and throw him in the slammer where he belongs. He wasn't bread-y for this kind of judgement, that's for sure! Also Charlie Joe Connolly was there.
Remember that time Ser Pounce decided to go visit his elderly grandfather, who was in a one-of-a-kind care home, that could, miraculously, stop death, a clever trick done by making time meaningless? And so in order to go see his grandfather, he had to navigate this fucked-up Escher nightmare realm where he just kind of goes through all these rooms of varying historical time periods, just kind of ambling through the French Revolution and seeing his grandad at different points of his grandad's life? Because Charlie Joe Connolly was there too.
And then, there was a time, where Ser Pounce, long before meeting Doran, long before meeting the fisherman, hell, long before meeting Prince Tommen, was walking the streets of a faraway land. He had just left a book shop/newsagents. Now Ser Pounce, the night before, had just been to an Iron Maiden concert, and so was still wearing his Book of Souls shirt. And Charlie Joe Connolly, spotting him from afar, wandered over across the road. He was also wearing an Iron Maiden t-shirt.
'Hey, I love Iron Maiden!' said Charlie Joe.
'Yeah, me too,' said Ser Pounce.
'Do you want to be my friend?' said Charlie Joe.
'Yeah alright,' said Ser Pounce.
And from that day forward, they were the closest of companions. Charlie Joe meant more to Ser Pounce than everyone else, because Ser Pounce and Charlie Joe were complete opposites of each other. Ser Pounce, the cool centre of attention, Charlie Joe, the greeb who people often forgot even existed. But Charlie Joe didn't need to say anything; his presence alone said enough, for he was content. And unlike most people in this story, actually happy. Only the sad man insists on being loud.
So when we think of Ser Pounce as the loudmouth that he is, now that Charlie Joe is gone, Ser Pounce may shout even louder.
Rest In Peace, Charlie Joe Connolly.
Ser Pounce is in tears. He's broken, at his weakest point. But suddenly, in the midst of all this sadness, there was a gunshot. Jorah, content to smash away at the now horribly broken and smooshy corpse of the Frog King, falls over, blood spilling from his brow. Through the hole in the wall emerges Mr Geography. Mountains are visible behind him. Leaves swirl. He's come to exact his ultimate plan! I.e. to turn the whole world into… geography? I mean most of the world is pretty geographical already.
'Now the only competent member amongst you is dead!' boomed Mr Geography. 'Prepare to get fucked up!'
DUN DUN DUNNN
AND THAT'S THAT
THIS IS IT, THE PENULTIMATE CHAPTER OF WHISKERS AND WHEELS, SEASON 1
THE STAKES ARE HIGHER THAN THEY'VE EVER BEEN
AND YOU'RE SURE TO GET AN INCREDIBLY SATISFYING CONCLUSION TO THIS STORY
HAVE THE USUAL LIST OF QUOTES:
- You may have ruined your life and will now live in eternal misery, but here, have a tenner
- I'm beginning to feel like a rap frog
- The Hero of a Thousand Spoons
- I like smart people things… oh my god, that dog has got such a huge cup in it's mouth!
- It's surprisingly easy to imagine Ben with like an inflatable frog neck sac thing - he could use it for throat singing in his milk cult sermons
- They call me the Poker De-Valuer
- Coming up with inane shit to write down here is too easy - we've got to stop being so funny
- His name is Quasimodo because he's got the Quasi-Mojo
- I'm just faxing out controversy
- I don't want you to annihilate my mother, stop that right now
- I like how there's serious shit going on in the world right now, and you're talking about how the Japanese box their action figures differently to the English, and I'm typing the death scene of an irrelevant greeb being shot by a frog
- Words fall from your mouth like shit falls from my arse
- As they say in the hood, 'nyan'
- I don't remember Nyan Cat, but I do remember my Nan's Dog
- Why does Nyan Cat sound like a Jedi Master, or just like a minor character in the Star Wars films
- Celts and Shoobies
- I wrote a song about a small man who lives in my shed
- His stomach is a tea cauldron
ALRIGHT, LOOK FORWARD TO NEXT TIME, WHEN WE'LL BE OF SOUND MIND AND NOT DRUNK, READY TO TYPE A SERIOUS ENDING
THE - THE - GOODBYE
