Larry and Mick Decide to Become High Class Hookers But Get the Wrong End of the Stick...

full Title!: Larry and Mick Decide to Become High Class Hookers, But Get the Wrong End of the Stick and End Up Selling Trumpets to Passing Musketeers

'For once in your life,' said Larry to the small goblin-like creature who stood on his doorstep, 'bugger off and do something useful.'
The small goblin-like creature shuffled off, muttering something incoherent and probably unpleasant.
Larry then closed the door, tutted, turned back into the room and said, 'Honestly, what is the world coming to?'
'Who was that?' said Mick, who was sitting on the sofa, sticking a small screwdriver into the exposed innards of a calculator.
'Oh, just some goblin,' said Larry.
'Oh,' said Mick.
Larry went over and sat next to Mick. He sighed a couple of times, tapped out the chorus of a Steppenwolf song on his knee, then looked at the calculator. He looked up at Mick, then back down at the calculator. Eventually curiosity got the better of him.
'What you doing?' said Larry.
'Oh just converting a vintage 1983 Texas Instruments pocket calculator into a trans-dimensional wormhole activation device,' said Mick.
'Fair enough,' said Larry.
'Well at least that's what it said on the website,' said Mick. 'So far all I've got it to do is make random beeping noises.'
'Technology eh?' said Larry.
Mick poked about some more, tongue firmly wedged in one corner of his mouth, as Larry commenced further sighage and tappage, this time working his way through a medley of Joe Dolce and Crazy Frog.
'Oh Balzac and Benthamism!' said Mick, as something pinged and the screwdriver went flying out of his hand.
'Problem?' said Larry.
'Damned refribulation circuit won't defenestrate the discombobulation coil!' said Mick.
'I hate it when that happens,' said Larry, standing up. 'Fancy a cuppa?'
'May I please partake of a herbal infusion?'
'You may.'
And Larry set about the preparation of such.

* * *

When Larry returned with two steaming mugs of Camomile'n'Wolfsbane, Mick was sitting cross-legged on the floor, all manner of circuitry and bits and pieces splayed out on the carpet around him. He looked on the verge of tears.
'Got your Camomile'n'Wolfsbane,' Larry proferred.
'Camomile'n'Wolfsbane?' - Mick looked up at Larry - 'how's that going to assuage my existential angst?'
'You said you wanted a herbal infusion,' said Larry.
'So I did,' said Mick and snatched the drink off him.
'Is there anything I can do to help?' said Larry, as he sat down and watched Mick fiddle with his bits (so to speak).
'Not unless you know the stultification ratio of a persiminious stimple-crank.'
'Not really,' said Larry, sipping his drink; 'but I can guess.'
'Can't harm, I suppose,' said Mick. 'Go on then.'
Larry had a think for about half a second, then said, 'Forty-two.'
Mick tapped '42' into the disconnected calculator keypad. 'Nope,' said he.
'Ninety-six?' suggested Larry.
tap-tap... 'Nope.'
'Five thousand, three hundred and seventy-seven,' Larry offered.
tappety-tappety-tap... 'N--' Mick stopped, as a low rumbling emanated from below.
'Manners of a goblin,' said Larry.
'It wasn't me, said Mick; 'it was the--'
'Then there was a blinding flash of light. Then a metallic blue sphere materialised a few inches above the calculator wreckage. Actually, it was more the shape of a rugby ball. And size. Until it started to grow. And the rumbling increased.
'Roland Rivron and his Roomful of Rioting Romans!' said Larry.
'Sponges and Spode!' said Mick.
The metallic blue rugby ball grew and grew and grew. Mick leapt to his feet, then fell back onto the sofa. 'Ow!' - went the sofa, as Mick realised that the bony, sticky-out cushions were actually Larry's knees.
'Sorry, my old chum,' said Mick.
'S'arright, matey,' said Larry.
Then, when it had reached the size of a Volkswagen Beetle (that had been tailor-made for dwarves), the metallic blue rugby ball exploded and splatted all over them like so much Noel's House Party gunge.
Larry and Mick just sat there for a few seconds, agog with shock, looked at each other, then fell simultaneously into unconsciousness.

* * *

They woke in a field. Like you do when you've had a 'good night.' Except they hadn't had a 'good night.' Well not in a while, anyway. Not since the seventy two hour sponsored Burt Reynolds'n'Hungry Hippos session. After which, as it happens, they didn't wake in a field, but in a skip full of Barbara Cartland novels. Don't ask.
So they woke in a field. It was cold and damp and they ached all over. The obligatory lone bull was standing a mere ten or so metres away from them, staring them down. They wore only their underpants. Actually, it wasn't a bull, but a minotaur. Which was a relief, of sorts.
'Being a minotaur,' said Mick, in a state of dazed semi-consciousness, 'the creature should possess a modicum of intelligence; and thus,' he continued, 'be unlikely to resort to threatening behaviour unless provoked.'
'You forget one thing,' said Larry.
'And what might that be?' said Mick.
'It's a big, scary monster with horns,' said Larry. 'Run!'
Larry and Mick stood, pulled up their underpants (because there's nothing more embarrassing than being chased across a field by a minotaur, with baggy white Y-fronts around your ankles) and legged it as fast as their pale and quite frankly scary-looking legs could carry them.
The minotaur didn't move. It tutted, adjusted its cravat and continued on its way.
'Humans,' it mumbled, under its breath. 'Bloody lunatics, the lot of 'em.'
They stopped running after a while, not because they had come to the edge of the field (which was an uncommonly big field), nor because they had realised that the minotaur (the cravat-wearing minotaur, who, as it turned out, was on its way to a Scalextric Club meeting) was no longer chasing them; but more because they suddenly found themselves confronted with a group of very tall men and women in robes. These men and women also carried staffs, their robes were of various earthy tones and they wore large, pointy hats, which extended their heights to ridiculous proportions. There were about twelve of them. Larry and Mick fell at their feet.
'Rise, my children,' said the tallest of the bunch; a bearded fellow, who looked and sounded like Gandalf's understudy.
Larry and Mick stood, and suddenly felt very self-conscious, re their inadequately covered undercarriages.
The very tall, bearded one pointed his staff at them. 'You are strangers here,' he declared; 'as is evidenced by your attire and the curious hue of your skin.'
'(I knew I should've booked that extra session at the tanning booth),' whispered Larry to Mick.
'Quiet!' bellowed Gandalf's twin. 'Well as you're here, I suppose you'd better make yourselves useful,' he then continued. 'Snurgle!' he called; 'bring me the Stick of Fate!'
A goblin emerged from behind a nearby tree. It was the same goblin Larry had turned away earlier ('bugger,' said Larry). It wore a bit of a smirk and brandished a stick which, quite frankly, looked like something it had just picked up off the ground. It handed Mr. Tall the stick, whilst giving Larry a look that made his elbows dither.
'Stand forth, strangers,' said the-bastard-son-of-the-main-wizard-blokey-from-The-Lord-of-the-Rings.
Larry and Mick stood forth (that is to say, they stayed exactly where they were, because they couldn't think what 'stand forth' meant).
'As I am a nice person,' said the bearded one, 'I am going to give you two choices, regarding your conversion from useless no-marks into worthwhile members of society.'
'Seems reasonable,' said Larry.
'Before you do that,' said Mick, 'would you mind telling us where we are?'
'You are in the ancient and mystical land of Gerbilspermia, seven miles east of the fabled city of Hamstercon.'
'As I thought,' said Mick. 'Carry on.'
The befriender of hobbits turned to his colleagues, a puzzled look on his face, then one of them indicated the stick, which seemed to jog his memory, and he turned back to the interlopers.
'The Stick of Fate!' said the aforementioned, waving said item before him.
'(It just looks like an old twig),' whispered Larry to Mick.
'Not just and old twig!' said the Santa-alike; 'but the decider of men's... erm... yes, that's it... fates! For thousands of generations!'
'(Well maybe hundreds),' whispered a female personage in the boss(apparently)-man's ear.
'Well, whatever...' said that man. 'It is what it is! And what it is... is... The Stick of Fate!'
'(You mentioned that),' said the female.
'(Did I?)'
'(Yes)'
'(Oh)'
'(Maybe they didn't notice)'
'(Good point)... The Stick of Fate! (oh bugger)' - he waved it - 'You have two choices! (as previously mentioned)... If, when I hand you the stick, you take this end' - he waved one end at them - 'you will be destined to become high class hookers!'
Larry and Mick exchanged a look.
'But if,' continued the stick-waver, 'when I hand you the stick, you take this end' - he proferred the other end - 'you will stand at a street corner, near the Musketeer's Guild of Hamstercon, selling trumpets to all who pass!'
'What if they don't want one?' said Mick.
'Mr. Sticky looked hurt. 'They will!' said he. 'They are very fine trumpets!'
'(Sounds dodgy),' whispered Larry to Mick. '(Let's go for the high class hookers thing)'
'(Rightey-ho)' whispered Mick.
And so they did.

* * *

On a street corner, near the Musketeer's Guild of Hamstercon...
'I told you that was the wrong end of the stick,' said Larry to Mick.
'Well if you hadn't kept changing your mind,' said Mick to Larry.
'Only because I detected a reticence regarding the whole high class hookers thing!'
'Oh well, we're here now, let's make the most of it...'
'Come and get your fine quality trumpets!' said Larry and Mick in unison.
'How much for three?' said a passing musketeer.
Larry and Mick sold a few trumpets, then got a lift off a passing time lord and went home.

[ FIN ]