Pwf & The Goblins' Revenge pdf (14 page)

through charades again."

"I'll do it," said Sharkadder, suddenly stepping forward. "I'll do it for the sake of

Pongwiffy, because despite everything, she's my best friend."

Dead Eye Dudley spat disgustedly. "Well, I'm sorry, Duddles, but she is," insisted

Sharkadder. "And I'm sure you wouldn't
really
want anything awful to happen to Hugo."

"Yes I would," said Dudley.

"We've all forgotten something," remarked Greymatter. "Our Magic's still not

working. I don't suppose you can even remember the spell. Sharkadder. Can anyone

remember that language spell? The one with the side effects? I'm sure I can't."

Greymatter was right. No one could. Mind you, no one tried very hard.

"Oh, what a pity." said Sharkadder, trying not to sound too relieved. "That's that,

then."

"No more charades!" repeated Sourmuddle firmly. "Too boring. Takes too long. Look,

I've had enough excitement for one night. Personally, I'm for cancelling the State of

Emergency and going home. Whatever the important message is, it can probably wait until

tomorrow..."

"Wait! Look what I've found! This explains everything!"

Sludgegooey was urgently waving the poster which she had just discovered

entangled with Stumpy's bristles. Very sensibly. Stumpy had hung on to it. In fact, Stumpy

had been trying to draw her attention to it for some time, but Sludgegooey was a bit slow

on the uptake.

"Listen!" said Sludgegooey. And read it out.

TONIGHT! GRAND RAID ON RUBBISH DUMP! EVERYTHING MUST GO! FIVE QUID ONLY FOR

TEN MINUTES UNINTERRUPTED LOOTING. BRING YOUR FRIENDS. HAVE FUN! WALL OF

SMELL DISMANTLED COURTESY OF GENIE ENTERPRISES.

There was an instant's shocked silence, then a howl of rage went up! To think of it!

The Brooms, limp with relief, sagged against trees and fanned themselves. It took a while for

the Goblins’ slow brains to grasp the significance of the words on the poster — but when

they did, they started kicking themselves for missing the sale of the century. Just think. All

that effort wasted on a failed Broomnapping when they could have strolled along to the

Dump and helped themselves to as much rubbish as they could carry for a fiver.

"So that's it!" said Sourmuddle. "Genie Enterprises, eh? I should have guessed. Only

a Genie would have the cheek. In the words of my old mother, never trust a flashy dresser,

especially if he lives in a lamp. Mind you, I'm surprised a Genie would have the skill to

dismantle that Wall of Pongwiffy’s. I've never put much store by that gawdy oriental Magic

myself. Oh well. You live and learn."

At long last, all was clear. Except that nobody was very sure how the Goblins fitted

in. Or why the Brooms had gone off all by themselves. Or where Pongwiffy was. Or who was

the mastermind behind Genie Enterprises, and how was he able to work such an elaborate

fiddle unless he'd had inside help? Come to think of it, all wasn't clear by a long way.

"Well, one thing's certain," continued Sourmuddle. "This here Genie Enterprises isn't

getting away with it. We'll go and sort him out. RIGHT NOW."

"Whoopee!" bellowed Macabre, brightening up. Eagerly, she began stuffing stale

bread rolls into her sporran for ammunition.

"Witches, to your Broomsticks!" ordered Sourmuddle. "Last one on’s a goody

goody!"

The Witches didn't need telling twice (except for Bonidle, who had to be told several

times). They vaulted onto their Broomsticks. There was a drone of bagpipes, discordant

wails on violins, and the sound of knuckles cracking. Then, with a good selection of wild

cackling cries they rose into the sky.

"Tallyho!" shrieked Sourmuddle as her Broomstick plunged and reared, as

over-excited as a highly-strung race horse. "Follow me, girls! To the Dump!”

"To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, jump!" sang everybody, and

seconds later, they were gone. Plugugly, Stinkwart, Hog, Slopbucket, Lardo, Eyesore and

Sproggit were left behind, still tied up but not so tight that they couldn't shuffle over and eat

the remains of the sandwiches.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN – The Battle For the Dump

The Battle For The Dump has, of course, passed into Witch folklore. That's because the

Witches won. (Battles which the Witches lose tend not to pass into folklore. They pass into

oblivion.) The Battle For The Dump, being a victory, got talked about and mulled over and

relived for months afterwards. Tactics were discussed. Personal acts of heroism and bravery

were trotted out again and again by Witches, Familiars and Brooms alike. Everyone claimed

a stunning — no, let's be honest,
unbelievable —
personal success rate. To hear everyone

talk, you'd have thought that she, he or it had won the entire battle alone and unaided.

The Battle For The Dump began as Ali Pali was on the point of lighting up his fourth

cigar. He was also on his second cash register, having worn out the first by ringing up so

many five pound notes. What a night it had been! His carpet bag was bursting at the seams.

Most of the choice pieces of rubbish had been snapped up long ago — yet still the punters

came. Just as Ali Pali would think the crowds were thinning a little, and wonder whether he

ought to think of packing up and clearing out, more eager junk hunters would arrive waving

fistfuls of fivers, desperate to wade in amongst it all.

A whole crowd of Vampires (bonfire fangatics all) were bussed in. So rife was the

spirit of competition, some of the keener types went home to get another fiver and
had

more than the one go!
The tea hut was doing a roaring trade, and the badge seller had run

out. A steady stream of rubbish poured out of the Dump, which by now was beginning to

look sadly depleted.

"Rubbish Fever," thought Ali Pali with a superior little chuckle. "That's what they've

got. Junk on the brain. Bonfire crazy, the poor saps."

(Genies don't go in for Hallowe’en much. They feel they're much too sophisticated to

jump around bonfires on chilly hills. If they celebrate it at all, it's likely to be lying on some

silken couch eating grapes, or an intimate little supper party in some friend’s lamp.)

Ali Pali certainly had cause for celebration. Everything had gone so smoothly.

Dismantling the Wall of Smell had been simple, because Pongwiffy had given him the recipe

(and once you have the recipe, you can easily work out the antidote). Jamming the Witches’

magic signals just in case they tried to "ring home" as it were, had been a masterstroke. The

spell had come straight out of one of Pongwiffy’s own spell books. And as for the trans-

formation of the Dump – well, it was beyond question the best thing he had ever done.

"Rich!" crowed Ali to himself. "Rich beyond my wildest dreams! I think I'll skip the

lamp and go straight for the palace!"

His smug little chuckle turned into a great, triumphant cackle. No more of that Your

Wish Is My Command stuff. He could retire. Why, if he wanted, he could afford his
own

Genie! Then, as is often the way, something happened to spoil it all.

"Excuse me, Mr. Pali," said a voice. It was the Thing in the Moonmad tee shirt. "I

think you got company," it said. And pointed up. Ali Pali looked and gave a little whistle. The

night sky was suddenly full of screaming Witches. Even as he looked, they banked steeply,

grouped into battle formation and prepared to attack.

"Oh-oh. Closing time, I think," said Ali Pali, snapping his fingers at his carpet bag,

which immediately yawned open. Quickly and efficiently, he began to pack.

As he did so, the screaming Witches swooped down upon the Dump like angry

hornets, buzzing the unsuspecting punters and making them scatter in all directions. Some

dropped to the ground and hid their heads. Others took to their heels and ran into the trees

for cover, getting away with whatever they could. A few put up a token resistance, but the

Witches had the advantage of surprise, so t wasn't much point. By far the most sensible

course was to drop the loot and scarper. Fast.

Quite a few made it to safety. The Hell's Gnomes had their bikes, and made a clean

getaway. So did the Trolls, the Yeti, the fortune-telling gnome and Thing with the Moonmad

tee shirt. The Skeletons regretfully abandoned Pongwiffy's last kite chair, piled into their

hearse and drove off with an impressive screaming of brakes. Once out of the danger zone,

they broke open a bottle of champagne: I say, what a laugh eh? Pass the corkscrew, Nigel!

Others weren't so lucky. The Ghouls were terribly slow movers. Every time they

struggled to their knees they'd get buzzed again, and would slowly topple head first into the

Dump to yet another mouthful of something awful. And they weren't the only unlucky ones.

When it came to ham roll throwing, Macabre was mustard. Many a raider of the Lost Dump

staggered home with hot ears and black eyes that night. Others got pinched, scratched or

had their hair pulled. One of the Werewolves got flapped at most unpleasantly by a bunch

of Bats. The greediest Troll received a nasty peck from Barry. A She-Demon got clonked by a

Broomstick and needed a plaster.

Safe in his stripey tent, Ali Pali scooped up the last of the loot. His plan was to vanish

instantly and as discreetly as possible (no green smoke and no bang). He would make for

some quiet, oriental haven and go underground for a bit, until the heat died off. Then, as

soon as everyone had forgotten or ceased to care, he and his carpet bag would emerge,

head for the nearest estate agent and spend, spend, spend!

That was the plan, anyway. And it might have worked, too, if only he had been just

that little bit quicker. He had just snapped the bulging carpet bag shut, and was looking

around the tent to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, when he heard a noise behind

him. He whirled around and came face to face with...

Pongwiffy! Behind her, twiggy arms folded menacingly, stood her Broom, and on her

shoulder perched the most ferocious-looking Hamster Ali had ever seen in his life.

Ali Pali noticed several things. He noticed that Pongwiffy was holding an extremely