Intergalactic Terrorist (New Dimension Book 1) (32 page)

Chapter 52

Charlie Pinwright hugged his knees. He rocked slowly back and forwards, one step away from being completely insane. He sat in a small, dark cell, cold and miserable. He supposed that in a number of years time he would look back at these recent events from whatever afterlife he found himself in and laugh. Right now however, laughing was the last thing on his mind. Home was the only thing he could see. Earth.

    In the cell opposite stood Greebol, picking at his teeth. Greebol was also worried. True, he had been imprisoned many times before, but never by the Overseer on his judgement ship. At the present time he could see no way out of this one. He considered offering to become the Overseer’s love slave but was unsure if:

a)
     
The Overseer was in to same-sex relations

b)
     
If the Overseer was in to relations at all

c)
     
If Greebol could actually face doing the jiggy with a fellow man. One that was rumoured to be as well endowed as the Overseer.

   Light streamed into the room as the left-hand door opened and two guards entered, followed by Giblet, Lord Shagbag, High Delta Officer Lemor’all and an unnamed and unimportant Elf.

    “Make it quick,” muttered one of the guards.

    The group stepped over to Greebol and fought with one another to get the best spot next to the cell. Greebol eyed them suspiciously.

    “Can I help you?” he asked.

    Lord Shagbag smiled. “Firstly let me thank you for helping us win the penultimate round of the tournament. It means a great deal to us Dwarves. We shall forever be -”

    “Let’s get on with it shall we?” butted in Lemor’all scowling.

    “Please,” Greebol spurted, still reeling from having to give up that gold in the first place. He could have done a lot of things with that amount of money. Bought a yacht. Had a suit made of pure diamonds. Blown it all on the entire contents behind the bar at the Rancid Pickle.

    “As you helped us, you must decide the next stage of the tournament,” Shagbag continued.

    Greebol eyeballed the Dwarf. He then eyed the Elves with equal distrust. “What must I do?” he asked.

    “Simple,” said Lemor’all.” You must give us a challenge. Something worthy. Something great.”

    “Something dangerous,” put in Shagbag. “Exhilarating. Breath taking. Awe inspiring.”

    “Not like making me a cup of tea then?” Greebol asked with his bottom lip protruding.

    The Dwarves and the Elves stared at him with blank expressions.

    “What do you think Charlie?” Greebol shouted across to the sulking Human. “Quite an honour would you not say?”

    Charlie folded his arms and turned his back to them. He had not spoken a single word to Greebol since they were brought onto the judgement ship. He hoped that if he were to be executed, that he would not have the disgrace of being executed at the same time as Greebol. He at least hoped that he got to die second, therefore getting to watch that miserable Gumthar come to an end. He pictured horrific ways to kill Greebol over and over in his mind. Horrific things he would be more than willing to do. He didn’t seem to realise that the more he pondered on such thoughts, the more like the person he hated he was becoming.

    “Alright, alright,” Greebol said finally, scratching his chin and looking up into the air.

    Why looking up into the air helped people to think is a question that again can never really be answered. There is a belief that when the eyes are upturned it suppresses all feelings and emotions, thus clearing your mind. There is also the belief that looking towards the heavens is a spiritual experience and you can be helped out by whatever god it is you believe in. Another theory, perhaps not quite as popular, is that the answer to which you seek is written on the insides of your eyelids.

    Greebol lowered his eyes. As usual his eyelids were just grey.

    “So this task can be anything?” he asked, seriously this time. He was beginning to form an idea.

    “As long as it pits our two races against each other,” said Giblet. 

    The jailed Gumthar knew exactly what to do. “The next and final part of your great challenge is this…” said Greebol, pausing for effect, “free me from this jail and get me off this ship!”

    The Dwarves and the Elves stared at the prisoner.

    “Erm…” muttered Shagbag.

    “Are you sure this is what you want us to do?” asked Lemor’all concerned.

    Greebol nodded, his antennae bouncing. “Indeed,” he replied. “Whoever frees me from jail and gets me off this ship is declared the winner.”

    The two guards at the back of the room listened intently. They looked around the room nervously. One put a communicator to his mouth. “Overseer sir,” he whispered, “I think we might have a problem.”

    Greebol eyed the guard and shot him an evil glare.

    “When does the challenge begin?” asked Shagbag.

    Greebol smiled. “Now!”

    The Dwarves glanced at the Elves. The Elves glanced at the Dwarves. They all shrugged. Then suddenly, in one rapid movement, all four of them moved towards the bars. They collided and fell to the floor in a heap.

    Greebol sighed.

    The two guards sprang forwards, charging their weapons, ready to strike but Giblet and the unknown and totally unnecessary Elf were ready for them. They jumped to their feet, drawing axe and sword, and brought them crashing down onto the guards helmets like a gong being hit by a mallet, the vibrating ring sounding out across the ship. Inside the helmets the two guard’s eyes began to rattle like a child’s toy and they lost consciousness.

    Giblet and the Elf smiled at each other proudly before the Elf lashed out, punching the Dwarf square on the nose, which burst open spraying red around the room.

    Lord Shagbag and High Delta Officer Lemor’all collided by the bars of Greebol’s cell. Lemor’all grabbed the Dwarf by the horns on his helmet and began to smack his face into the bars over and over. But Shagbag was a resilient fellow and flicked out backwards with his heavily booted foot. The area the boot connected ensured that Lemor’all would never father a child.

    “
Ouch
!” he squealed in a pitch only heard by dogs. He crumpled in two.

    A group of guards arrived at the doorway and opened fire towards the fighters. Giblet raised up his shield, just managing to cover himself and Lord Shagbag as the laser blasts pounded into them! The shield took a battering, but it was made of strong stuff and did not break.

    Unfortunately, for him, the unnamed Elf (and let’s face it, we all knew it was going to happen) was hit by a blast in the forehead. His brain sizzled for a moment like frying sausages, before his life flicked off like a light switch.

    Lemor’all, popping his credentials back out, reached for the key to the cell from one of the unconscious guards. Gingerly he slotted it into the keyhole and turned it, opening the cell door.

    “Time to move,” he said to Greebol who was one step ahead of him, bounding through the door.

    He turned to Charlie. “Are you coming?” he asked. Charlie glared at Greebol and turned his back on him again. Greebol sighed. “Your loss my friend. It was nice knowing you.”

    Through the other door, blocking their path, stepped another three guards. “Halt!” one shouted. “Freeze,” called another. The third guard looked at his colleagues and fumbled for words.

    “Erm... try and move and we’ll blow your bloody brains into a million pieces!” he eventually screamed.

    “That was a little excessive mate,” said the first.

    “I know,” the third gasped, “I didn’t know I had it in me!”

    Lemor’all, desperate to win the tournament, took a running jump towards the guards. He flew through the air, over the guard’s heads, his leg's flicking out so fast that it seemed they were in twelve places at once, destroying all three of the guards in an instant!

    In his dark cell Charlie’s jaw dropped. So Elves
could
perform a high jumping lightning flash after all!

    “He’s getting away!” shouted Lord Shagbag as he saw the Elf perform his great stunt.

    “Not for long,” Giblet growled. He was ready for him! Rolling to the side of the room, Shagbag following him, laser fire following them both, he picked up his trusty shield and stroked it softly. Memories. He remembered the good times. Chopping down the tree… carving the shape… holding it with pride… smashing it into the bloodied faces of his enemies. Good times. Good times.

    He gave the shield one final kiss and, with great power, hurled it across the room towards the Elf.

    Lemor’all and Greebol had just reached the door when the shield hit the Elf on the back, shattering into pieces. Lemor’all dropped, writhing in pain.

    “Good shot Giblet!” Shagbag praised.

    “Thank you sir,” came the response. “I was the best pitcher in my school. I may be small but I’ve got one hell of a throwing arm!”

    Just as Greebol was about to abandon the squirming Elf and exit through the door, it opened. The Overseer stood in the doorway. Greebol squeaked and dashed back into the room, his eyes darted left and right desperately seeking a way out. Anything that could help. Then he saw it.

    “My belongings!” he shouted, pointing to a filing cabinet. “Quickly Giblet! Grab my belongings!”

    Giblet bounded to the cabinet and retrieved the items within. When Greebol had been arrested, everything he owned had been confiscated. As everything he owned was down his tight, tight shorts it had been the unfortunate task for one of the guards to reach in and take them. He wore a rubber glove and held his breath, going in for the dive. Greebol found that it tickled more than he thought it would.

    “
Stop them! Now!
” shouted the Overseer. The Overseer could never understand how his soldiers, the most trained in the galaxy, never actually managed to hit anything. It was too late now anyway.

    Giblet had thrown the item to Greebol who held up the small black box that Wextoal had stolen from the Elves. He pressed the little button on it and it instantly flashed out into all of the Overseer’s guards’ eyes. They blinked slowly before falling to the ground, their minds turned momentarily to mushy peas.

    The Overseer, unaffected by the black box (possibly due to the dark mask he wore, or maybe because he was far to self obsessed to be floored by a flashing box) growled and drew his weapon, sure to remember to send his incompetent men on the most dangerous and life threatening missions he could find. He aimed his weapon, a thick, deadly looking beast that seemed as though it could cut a man in two, whilst ripping a hole in the ozone layer and making a three course meal, and was about to fire.

    However Greebol was already on top of the situation. “Hold on!” he shouted. With the Dwarfs clinging tightly onto his side, Greebol hit the large red button on the
TITS
remote control and they vanished.

    The room was silent. The Overseer’s men were slowly getting back to their feet.

    The Overseer looked down at Lemor’all who was mumbling softly to himself like a baby.

    “
Get
him
back to his ship,
” he sneered.

    Charlie Pinwright stared into the Overseer's dark masked face. What lay beyond that disguise he may never know, but he could bet it was something gruesome and very unwelcoming.

    With a swift, overly flamboyant movement, the Overseer turned and strode from the room, annoyed that Greebol had escaped, but satisfied that there would still at least be one terrorist that faced his dreaded courtroom.

    Charlie Pinwright would pay for his crimes in one of the most anticipated trials the galaxy had ever seen!

Chapter 53

On the Dwarven ship it was party central! There were streamers and party poppers, tooters and silly hats. A spread of cocktail sausages, chicken legs and pineapple on sticks had been laid out on a large table and barrels of beer were flowing.

    A trio of Dwarves with silver costumes had struck up a small band in the corner, playing a variety of instruments from the skull of an enemy for a drum to a stretched troll’s intestine for a sort of guitar. The songs they sang told of glory and victory and how the Elves were a bunch of pansies who liked to stroke each other’s hair. Harsh, but probably true.

    In the centre of all this partying stood the champions Giblet and Greebol. The littler-than-little Dwarf received much praise and recognition for the magnificence of almost single handedly defeating the Elves in the tournament. The first time since it began! There was talk that a statue made of pure gold could to be erected on the Dwarven homeworld. Giblet had quietly asked if the statue's size did not have to be to scale.

    Giblet was a hero. He was a celebrity. He now had the power to do anything he wanted, which, right now was to rest a little in a hot mud bath with a cup of tea and a jammy dodger.

    The young Dwarf by the name of Chugwell nervously presented Giblet with a medal of honour and a bouquet of flowers. Giblet pocketed the medal and bit the heads off the flowers. It caused a great cheer throughout the ship. The smaller-than-average Dwarf’s whole world was about to change. He was a champion of champions. Giblet, son of Goblet, hero to all Dwarves everywhere. His little life was about to get a whole lot bigger!

    “And if you would do the honours our most welcomed guest,” beamed Lord Shagbag to Greebol, passing him a large black marker pen.

    Greebol took the pen happily and changed the final score on the scoreboard. It now read;

   
Opponents – 6

    Us – 7

    The cheers rang out once again. Greebol was also handed a medal of honour for his help in their victory. He put it down his pants.

    “Now Greebol our respected friend,” said Shagbag, “is there anything that we can do for you?”

    “Anything?” Greebol asked.

    “Anything at all.”

    “Well… I did leave my electrical on Intelligeous Prime. I could really do with getting it back.”

    “Chugwell,” said Lord Shagbag turning to the young Dwarf, “get a message down to the pilot. Tell him to plot a course to Intelligeous Prime!”