Mwynwen - Christmas Carl part 4 By Diana the Valkyrie My body, soul and other more intimate parts filled with the spirit of Christmas Mwynwen: The three of us dashed outside - it was good to get out into the fresh air again after the vile stench of Simon's feet, and at least the rain had stopped. Time to get a taxi! Taxi! Taxi! Taxi? You must be kidding. Don't you know it's coming up to Christmas? "So how are we going to get across London to CarCorp?" I asked, rhetorically. "I have ... a plan," said Fluff, oops, I mean, said The Duchess. "You don't have a car, Fluff, remember? What with traffic in London being such a nightmare, not to mention the impossibility of parking." "No, but I do have ... the Fluffmobile!" and from behind a holly bush, she pulled out an ancient rusty bicycle. "You go to work on that?" "Sure I do, it beats walking, and I don't have my wings yet." "Yeah, but what about us two?" said The Footman, "you expect me to go on foot?". "Er. Well, Footman ... you'd think ... no, OK, you sit on the handlebars," said Fluff to Simon. "And what about me?" I asked. "You're the motive power," she explained, "and the reason I don't crash into things, because I certainly can't see where I'm going with The Footman sitting in front of me." "But how will I tow you?" I asked. "It just so happens, I have several yards of old clothesline here," and she detached from her waist the thing I'd been assuming was either her Magic Lasso or a yellow whip. Simon demonstrated his boy scout expertise by attaching a round turn and two half hitches to the bike, and a bowline on a bight for my end. The two of them balanced precariously on the old rattletrap, and I started to tow them down the road, the Duchess and her Footman. At the first junction, I turned left. Fluff didn't. She had no particular reason to, since her view was totally blocked by The Footman and she didn't know I'd turned. She carried straight on, I pulled left, and the resulting disaster put the two of them on the gravel tarmac road, and I found myself dragging an unladen bicycle. I landed, picked up the boneshaker and wheeled it back to the casualties, who were just picking themselves up and sorting out which limbs were broken and which were merely cracked and bruised. "We need a System," I said, "so that Fluff can steer." "I have ... a plan," said Simon, who was not averse to stealing lines of dialogue from Fluff. Fortunately, it's all laid out in the Highway code. Stick out your right hand when you're going to turn right, left hand for left, right hand waved up and down to warn about slowing down or stopping. Simon saw my hand signals, and relayed the instructions to Fluff, who had control of the handlebars and brakes. Slowly, and with not more than half a dozen more spillages, we wobbled our way across London, until we reached CarTowers, International HQ of CarCorp. "OK, Carol Christmas," I said to the building in general, "it's showdown time." "Yeah," said Fluff, "you'll never get away with this, you're going down for the big one." "Why are we standing outside this building making futile threats at no-one in particular?" asked Simon. "It's the done thing," I explained, "it clues the readers in on what's going down." "Going down, Witch? Where on earth do you pick up these neologisms?" "I've got an internet connection now," I explained proudly, "courtest of Simon here." "The Footman," he reminded, "dum dum dum!" "Yeah. Anyway, where were we?" "In front of CarTowers making idle threats at thin air." "Oh yes." "So what now?" "I don't know, what's the plan?" "Plan? I thought you had a plan?" "Me? No, I thought you had the plan." "Plan, plan, who's got the plan," said Simon, I mean The Footman. I took charge. After all, I'm the one with the rank of Constable. "OK, here's the plan. We're going in." "Yes, and?" "Er. That's the plan." "That's not a plan," said Fluff, "that's just a statement about what needs doing next." "It is too a plan." "Isn't" "Is." "Isn't" "Is too." "Ladies, ladies," said The Footman. "Where?" I said. "Ain't no ladies here," said Fluff. "OK, that's it," said the Footman, "you girls couldn't plan your way out of a wet paper bag. This needs a man, and I'm he. Here's what you're gonna do ..." Fluff and I were paralysed at his masterful arrogation of command, but only for a second. Then we went into our old school routine; I knelt down behind him, and Fluff prodded him in front with her brolly. He stepped back, tripped over me, and went down like a ton of bricks, and while I sat on his face, Fluff slid her hand into his trousers and showed him exactly why struggling would not be wise. And as we were scuffling in this undignified way outside CarCorps HQ, I became aware of a pair of booted feet in high heels planted on the pavement by Simon's face. My eyes climbed upwards, past the knees, thighs, pulled themselves past the overhang of her chest by judicious use of crampons, and up to her head. I saw braids, and a horned helmet, and I knew that I was looking at the head of security of CarCorp. It was none other than ... The Valkyrie! Eek! She clapped her hands to attract our attention, and barked "Follow me". She turned on her heel, and entered the building. Well, that was what we'd actually come for, so I gestured to the others to follow, and we all trundled inside. Once inside, she marched us straight past reception, and into a high-speed lift that whizzed us up to the penthouse at the top of the tower. Wow! This is where Carol Christmas lived, and it made Fluff's hovel in Ruislip look like a hovel in Ruislip. I mean, out in Wales, we thought that getting an indoor flush toilet was pretty cool, but this place had all mod cons. We trooped after The Valkyrie, wading over a carpet with a nearly knee-high pile, until we reached a desk that was about the size of a cricket pitch. The chair was facing away from us, but as we stood there, it slowly swivelled around, revealing the occupant. "Good evening, ladies," said Mr Christmas, "I've been expecting you." Mr Christmas? Uh. But. Uh. Oh. "You're Mr Christmas?" I said, stupidly. "Yes, Ms Camel, that is I. Carl Christmas, at your service." He stood up, and bowed. Naturally, I curtsied in response, as did Fluff. We been brought up proper, you see, we learned that kind of stuff at school. You might scoff, but a young lady from St Trinians knows how to curtsy, and which knife you use to castrate a bull. "Carl?" said Fluff, "Oh. I thought Cameron said ... Oh. Carl. Not Carol. Ah. I see. Um." "And you must be The Duchess, judging from your absurd attire. But who is ... this?" he asked, pointing at The Footman. "I'll show you who I am," yelled Simon, and he started to pull off his shoes. "NO! Don't! Look out, his feet ..." I shouted, and started to move towards him to stop him, but The Valkyrie was fast, a lot faster than me. She scooped him up in her arms, and ran into a bathroom with him. She jammed his foul and foetid feet into the toilet bowl, and I heard the gurgles as she repeatedly flushed, thus cancelling Super Steaming Smelliness in a swirl of Saniflush and a drench of Dettol. The Valkyrie sauntered back into the main room, muttering "One down, two to go" as the autoflush continued to neutralise the Prince of Pong. Time to get back to the main matter, I thought. "So, your vile plot to deprive the world of Christmas chocolate is exposed; by the cold light of truth and justice ... " "... and the British Way of Life ..." added The Duchess, "... your wicked scheme is foiled!" I declaimed. "What are you talking about?" he said. "What wicked scheme?" "Don't you come the raw prawn with me," said The Duchess, "all is revealed. We know you have been amassing chocolate futures in order to corner the market, your evil plan for world domination is unmasked." and she brandished her umbrella, which unfurled itself as she waved it around. "Put that down," said the Valkyrie, "you'll have someone's eye out if you wave it about like that." "Oh, sorry," said The Duchess, re-furling the umbrella, "well anyway, as I was saying. Where was I? Oh yes, your dastardly scheme is umasked, surrender now or face the consequences." "What the Sam Hill are you talking about?" said Carl. "Sam Hill?" asked The Duchess. "It means 'fucking hell', but the Comics Code won't allow us to say 'fucking' or even 'hell', so we have to weasel. So, what the fucking hell are you gobbing on about, Duchess?" "I mean your blackmail scheme, cornering the world's supply of chocolate and holding the world to ransom unless we accede to your evil demands," she replied. There was a silence, broken only by a gurgling noise from the bathroom as the Footman's superpower continued to be neutralised in a swoosh of Saniflush. Carl looked at the Valkyrie. The Valkyrie looked at Carl. There was more silence. "Blackmail's an ugly word," said Carl. "You can call it fishpaste, but we're here to put a stop to it," replied the Duchess, "there is good and there is evil and it is not hard to tell the difference." There was more silence. I was beginning to get a uneasy feel about this. He wasn't acting like a villain. Surely by now he should be doing the "Bwa ha ha ha" thing, and "You cannot stop me now" and stuff like that? The silence stretched on. "I haven't done anything illegal," pointed out Carl. "Well, sure, OK, grant you that," said The Duchess, "but you're planning to." He shook his head. "No I'm not." "Oh yes you are." "Oh no I'm not." "Oh yes you are," said both of us together. "Oh no we're not," they replied, in unison. "Oh yes you are." we chorused. "It's behind you," said the Valkyrie. I turned. "What is?" I asked. "Nothing," she said, "but I thought I'd get that line out of the way." "That's the way to do it," said The Duchess. "So what is your evil scheme?" I asked. "Well," said Carl, "I'm not sure that you can strictly speaking call it an evil scheme. See, all this chocolate is usually fed to kids all over Europe and North America, rotting their teeth and causing obesity. But this Christmas, we've bought it all up, and it's going to children in poor countries, they're lucky if they have anything at all to eat at Christmas, but this Christmas, they'll all have chocolate, at least." "Oh." "Oh." "I thought ... no, maybe I didn't think. I assumed ... that is, we assumed ... I mean, the Prime Minister, no scrub that, he isn't involved at all, he said nothing to us about this, you didn't hear anything about that from me. Oh." "Er," I said, tentatively, "um, I think I owe someone an apology." "Me too," said the Duchess, "um. Er. Sorry." "Sorry? Is that it," said the Valkyrie. "You accuse Carl and I of fishpaste, without a shred of evidence, and all you can do is say sorry?" "Well, what else can I say," said the Duchess. "Never mind about 'say', what about 'do'?" replied the Valkyrie. "Do?" said the Duchess. "Yes, do. Come on, honey, you're Linda Daventry, world class fluffer, General Secretary of the Union of Sex Workers and Allied Trades, do I have to spell it out for you?" "Oh. You mean ...?" The Valkyrie nodded. "You want ...?" She nodded again, "uh huh." "But I'm wearing the flag, it wouldn't be, er, appropriate." "That's easily remedied," she answered, sauntering towards Fluff. "Oo," said Fluff, dropping her brolly and kicking off her Wellies. "Ooo." I watched as Fluff and the Valkyrie got tangled up together. They seemed to be having fun, and about to have seriously more fun. Then I noticed Carl watching me. I walked towards his office chair, took a pencil and paper from his desk-set, and wrote the word "Mistletoe". I held this over my head, and said, "well?" He didn't need asking twice; he rose to the occasion, by rising to the occasion, I could tell with just a glance at his trousers. And also he stood up. He wasn't as tall as me, but I bent my knees slightly so that he could reach me by standing on tiptoe, and I did my melt-into-his-arms thing, and as he kissed me, I met his tongue with mine. After a few minutes, I whispered, "Have you ever done it a thousand feet in the sky?" "A thousand? Ms Camel, I'm a member of the Five Mile High club." "Call me Min. But have you ever done that without an airplane?" I already knew the answer to that, of course. If you've had sex in mid-air without an airplane, then either you're a really courageous sky-diver, or else you're in my little black book. "Ah. I see. Hmm. I've heard rumours about you, is it really true?" I nodded. "True as a Maudsley lathe", I said. So we left Fluff and The Valkyrie to their tete-a-tete (well, it wasn't actually head to head, more the exact opposite, but you know what I mean), and we left Simon still struggling to extract his feet from around the S-bend and in grave danger of being cleaner than he's been for several years, and crept out onto the helipad on the penthouse roof. "So how does this work?" he asked. "You're Fred, I'm Ginger," I replied, and started to sing. He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake He knows if you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake So, you better watch out, you better not cry You better not pout, I'm telling you why Santa Claus is coming to town We danced around the helipad, and as we reached the second chorus, I leaned back, he leaned forward, I leaned back some more, he lost his balance and started to fall forward, but I took his weight on my body and turned it into a slow take-off from the helipad. The CarCorp Tower was 500 feet high to start with, so it wasn't long before we reached a thousand, and we were above the level of all the buildings in London, just above the International Telecom Tower. I'd headed for there because I knew I could pick up a thermal out of their air conditioning system, which took us up another couple of thousand feet without much effort on my part, and we broke through the cloud layer at angels four into a brilliant clear night sky. "Oh, Min, that's absolutely, I mean, I don't know what to say. Incredible." "Never mind about 'say', what about 'do'?" I suggested, loosening his belt suggestively. "Brr, it's cold up here. What's keeping us up?" he asked. "Well, I really can't imagine what's making that little thing stay up, but I know what's keeping me in mid-air, it's just a bit of a twist in the gravy." "The what?" "Don't ask," I said, sticking my tongue in his mouth and suggesting an alternative use for his tongue. I rubbed my body against his, which suggested other things to him, and before long we found a way to deal with the cold; my legs around his waist, my arms around his body and my body, soul and other more intimate parts filled with the spirit of Christmas. Carl Christmas. And a very happy Christmas it was, too.