I apologise in advance for the litany of vileness you are about to scroll through, before hurling your computer out the window and battering yourself into blissful unconsciousness with the nearest onyx figurine.
Last we saw, diabolical
Mister Man mastermind Mr If had knocked Detective Inspector Turner insensible with a cruel hammer, while Howie, the human exhibit at Edinburgh Zoo, received an unexpected missive… now read on…
INT. WAREHOUSE – DAY
Turner is awoken by a stream of urine on his face. He splutters. He’s flat on his back with a ten foot plank across his pelvis. If stands on the plank and micturates.
Det Insp Shinty. We meet again.
I’m – glub – not Shinty –
But this time, I think it is I who have the avantage.
He pronounces this last word with an absurd French accent.
Scrotal sac. Can there be two lovelier words in any tongue? Your scrotal sac, my friend, has been nailed to a ten foot plank.
Indeed, two bloody nails protrude from the wood, bent round to fasten Turner’s privates securely.
This barn was full of facts. But I showed them. Births, deaths and marriages, the lies that pin us to our lives. Without the records, we can be born as often as we like, die continuously, and marry ourselves! Hoorah!
He throws some confetti in the air.
Meanwhile my grandmother clock will blow this building to crumbs in two minutes. Make good your escape and you shall have the ecstasy of seeing me unmake the puniverse just as easily.
If dismounts the plank and bounces through the door on his Space Hopper.
Turner groggily sits up. The plank slides and he has to support it by hand.
He gets up with difficulty.
INT. INFORMATION BUREAU CORRIDOR – DAY
We hear only the ticking of the grandmother clock.
Turner exits the big room and immediately encounters problems turning a corner. The beam nailed to his nutsack is too wide. Turning it diagonally with some discomfort he is able to manoeuvre it through.
Now he comes to an elevator. No good. He makes for the stairs.
INT. PUBLIC RECORDS STAIRWELL – DAY
There’s enough height to allow him to point the plank down the steps in front of him, but progress is slow and halted frequently by agonizing bangs to either end of the plank.
INT. LOBBY, PUBLIC INFORMATION BUREAU – DAY
Tick tock, tick tock.
Daring to hope, Turner hauls his encumbered scrotum into the main entrance hall.
Shit. The revolving doors.
It is immediately clear that no amount of manoeuvring can fit a ten foot plank through a set of revolving doors.
We very clearly see Turner mouth the words “For God’s sake – no!” Aiming the plank like a battering ram, Turner charges.
A colossal SMASHING of glass.
INT. WAREHOUSE – DAY
The grandmother clock’s big hand touches the little hand.
EXT. PROF. WAZZOO’S OFFICE, ZOO – DAY
The yellow envelope, torn, blows away. Howie is reading the letter it contained.
What does it say?
Howie shakes his head, perplexed. He hands the note to Professor Wazzoo.
Howie feels a tap on the shoulder and turns to see Sheena, alive and well.
Wazzoo looks at the note. Just one word is written on it:
And there is a distant explosion.
EXT. PUBLIC INFORMATION BUREAU – DAY
True Crime watches as Turner’s coat, torn and smouldering, flutters to the ground at his feet. The bureau is no more. He shakes his head sadly and walks off.
True Crime staggers through the smoke, bumping into the big crucifix. One arm is broken off and the upper part is ablaze, Klan-style.
Banana-crat lies at the foot of the cross, his banana costume smoke-blackened, one bit of wood still attached to his wrist.
Oh, I’m gonna be sore later.
The Iffies emerge from the smoke.
Truly this banana is the son of God.
They fall on the Banana-crat and begin kicking the shit out of him. True Crime leaves them to it.
Turner, charred and lacerated, emerges from the smoke. One end of his groin plank is broken off, the other is on fire. He is covered with broken glass. He blinks at True Crime.
Turner’s POV: two True Crimes. One of them is played by the Sheena actress, one by a not-too-convincing look-alike.
Areare youyou alrightright?
AUDIO BOOK ACTRESS (O.S.)
“His eyes burned, twin meteors of desire.”
Miss Hing is listening to am audio book in front of the fire.
AUDIO BOOK ACTRESS (O.S.)
“No, sir!” I protested, slapping away his reptilian paw. His loins surged like an exotic fruit. “Yield to me, you little fool!” he snarled, his nostrils flowering in an animal’s triumph. “No, sir,” I cried, pummelling his manly thorax with my tiny fists. A rib cracked but he bellowed with mirth like some mighty mountain cat. “I want you!” he roared, “and you shall be mine tonight!” I gasped, “No, sir!” and slapped his moustache. It came off on my hand.
There is a knock at the door. Miss Hing turns off her audio book and hobbles off to the hall. A cry of alarm.
MR. IF (OS)
Greetings, Miss Hing! I am Rex Runcie, matinee idol!
If strides into the living room, carrying Miss Hing in his arms. He wears a Valentino Sheik outfit with top hat.
After sixty years of indolence, love has come your way, my sweet. Prepare your torso for ecstasy.
Hooking open a cupboard door with his foot, he hangs Miss Hing from a coat hook, shoves an apple in her mouth and slams the door again.
Removing the audio book cassette from the stereo he inserts a tape marked “Partee Hitz.” Effete English jazz crackles out.
If’s Ballerinas enter and methodically ransack the room as If sits by the fire and lights a pipe.
INT. CUPBOARD, MISS HING’S FLAT – NIGHT
Miss Hing struggles to free herself from the coat hook she is suspended from, and to get the apple out of her gob. Prising at her jaws with both hands, she finally expels the fruit. It falls to the floor, upper and lower dentures embedded in it.
Help, poleesh, murder!
INT. MISS HING’S LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
The Ballerinas, having mostly exhausted their search, are now simply trashing the place. One spray-paints a big nob above the fireplace while another does a shit on the rug.
MISS HING (OS)
Help, ho! Poleesh, ambulansh, help!
Belatedly If springs to his feet, pipe clenched.
What’s that? A lady of the night in peril stroke distress? Have at you!
He fires a revolver at the cupboard.
MISS HING (OS)
Oh! I am shlain!
A ballerina holds aloft the If file, discovered behind a ripped-up skirting board.
Well done, Tonto. Success! A dirty horse crashing backwards through the frosted windows of the possible.Missionaccomplished – back to the shadows!
EXT. SHEENA’S FLAT – DAY
Miss Hing is stretchered from the premises, PC Thrower in attendance.
…and then he shot me right in the cupboard.
The hound. Rest easy, Miss…
Miss Hing. I shall not rest until this miscreant is brought to heel.
Miss Hing is ambulanced away.
The curtain is falling on the second act. I must be about my business.
To Be Continued…