The Spark Plug Odessey

Hip hip horray hits Christmas

As it is Christmas I have decided to gift you a free story from my yet-to-be-published second anthology, “Sitting Comfortable.” I hope you enjoy it so much that you will write to me shouting…

‘When will that anthology be published? I want more!”

The Spark Plug Odyssey

“Women took care of the books until men were overthrown. Then the women did all the things men did and forgot about the books.”—The Spark Plug Odyssey.

Hilda threw the hood of her cape over her head and entered the market. She, incognito, was in hot pursuit of something more than her usual harassment.

The market was like an Earth’s Middle Eastern Bazaar, with canopy-covered stalls full of women bartering, laughing, and sizzling tofu over open fires. There was even a tribal band in the corner drumming raw rhythms on boxes, kitchen pots, and pans, rhythms Hilda found as irritating as an itch in the middle of her back that could not be reached.

The stall owners too poor to have dreams, recycled everything. They used old carts pulled by out-of-date creaky robots to transport their wares, traveling on cobbled and dusty paths that those who ruled would never dirty their boots on. They made jewelry from broken “whatever” and clothes from cheap itchy hemp sacks, inspired by Earth’s TV such as “Star Trek,” “Merlin" or for a laugh “Men in Black”.

Hilda passed the stalls of substandard tofu, hemp, chunky pottery, and beads, absorbing the rumble of earthy bartering and gossip, jostling and daring those to jostle her back until she realized it might blow her cover.

She listened desperate for information, anything that would give her a clue, cursing the drumming for making it just that bit harder…

Books and the like were banned from those who got their hands dirty with work, and Hilda was obsessed. The first time she discovered the stall owner’s read was by accident, there she was uncovering a drawer of first-class hemp brownies with an “Aha!” And a leaflet fluttered from underneath…taking her weekly harassment to a new level, pulling more Aha!” than a children’s magician. But it didn’t take them long to find better places to hide reading matter.

She paused at a tea stall. “You heard about Beryl?”

“Who?”

“The Esteemed Leader.”

“Esteemed that’s a joke. There nothing esteemed about her, if she esteemed then I have a foot-long male appendage.”

“I heard she’s incognito.” Hilda smiled to herself; confusion keeps the masses manageable.

“As if?”

“True, heard it on the radio.”

“If it is on the radio then she is hardly incognito.”

‘Recons he’s alive too .’

‘Who?’

‘Legless.”

“Now there’s a male with an appendage…”

Hilda waited for more and was about to mention The Book when the stall owner slapped her hand with a ‘no touching’ hiss.

Hilda rubbing her hand moved on, stopping to eyeball stalls with lumpy-looking vegetables, or second-hand shoes she wouldn’t be seen dead in. She paused at an earth Sci-fi stall, inspired by a Star Wars lover who had no idea that cheap hemp shrank.

Hilda eyed the owner, the owner looked away.

She ran her fingers along the Darth Vader mask flapping in the wind and was about to ask "how much"— for a laugh when a bystander with a “here let me” pulled the hood from Hilda’s head.

A hush fell over the market as her short toilet brush hair spiked upright.

The women stared, quickly hiding their wares except for any past-their-sell-by-date offerings.

Bugger, thought Hilda, I’ll never find it now.

“Carry on,” she said tossing her itchy cloak to the side. “Don’t mind me,”

They stared in silence as a luxurious silken cloak unfolded without a crease. “I said carry on” she bellowed with a dismissive wave then marched through the dusty market, her cloak flowing behind her like a Star Wars Jedi.

The women continued to stare.

The staring didn’t bother Hilda, she had been stared at by worse. From the moment she burst from her egg, wet and gooey, scowling as her slick wet hair bounced into a spike The women in white coats jumped. She was the first test tube baby to emerge with a toilet brush hairdo, which not only set the ladies in white coats into a frenzy of jokes but also into a frenzy of gene removal. It was a hairdo no hairdresser could cut, except an ancient gardener with a passion for hedging and a set of solar clippers.

At least now she was stared at because of who she was, rather than her stupid hair.

“I said carry on” Hilda bellowed, sparking a half-hearted beat from the band as the rumble of bartering slowly returned, their dialogue now as censored as a politician. She stopped at a stall, picked up a bag of poor-quality tofu, turned it in her hand, and flashed the stall holder a look.

“It’s yours” muttered The stall holder begrudgingly.

Hilda made to take then stopped. “It’s not necessary.”

“What?” The stall owner looked at her comrades.

Hilda moved on to another stall and lifted a hemp sock darned within an inch of its’ life. The stall owner looked at her comrades confused, touching anything secondhand was beneath the likes of Hilda.

“Errr for you….nothing.”

“Not necessary” muttered Hilda “although the stitching is admirable.”

The band stopped, and the women gasped, Hilda had as much interest in stitching as she did the sewage system of an Earth village.

Hilda moved on to the "Tofu that tastes like a sausage" stall - although no one could remember what a real sausage tasted like. She eyed the almost empty stall, “Busy day I take it?”

The stall owner nodded, her eyes everted, she was a terrible liar.

Hilda’s mouth watered, she could smell the wraps, almost taste them. “Open your drawers,” she said.

“What drawers?” Stuttered the stall owner.

Hilda slid behind the stall.

“That drawer.” She pulled it open and glanced at the selection of juicy wraps, oozing with earthy flavors. She reached for one, then stopped herself, eyed her audience…and with a meek “Oh I thought it was something else”, shut it again.

Normally Hilda would have shouted, “I knew it!” Helped herself, while insulting the stall owner, calling her wraps dried-up-testicle or some such male genital thing- following with her trademark maniac laugh. Not this time, Hilda with a flick of her cloak and a weird smile said “I was once like you brazen, sneaky, I had to be.”

The stallholders stared at Hilda, was she sick? High on too much hemp?

Hilda smiled, “don’t you have something else?”

They looked at each other.

“Something to read, a pamphlet?” Said Hilda.

The stall owners shook their heads.

“A leaflet?”

“No never” they muttered in unison.

“A book then?’

“No…books either.” shuffled the stall holders. They waited for her face to darken, for her to pace around the backs of stalls and open the covers with a dramatic “Aha!”

Nothing, Hilda merely stood at the stall and said “Good that’s what I like to hear our esteemed leader will be pleased.”

~

That night the stall owners packed up in silence, too confused to speak.

Hilda the ‘esteemed leaders’ right-hand woman never smiled let alone said “good”. She threw tantrums as legendary as her laugh and as predictable as the rising of taxes. And she never called the leader “esteemed”. She always called her Beryl, usually through gritted teeth.

They wheeled their carts into the marketplace and circled the Sci-Fi stall. They helped the Sci-fi stall owner pack away her stall, then stood back as she lifted a trap door.

The women gathered about…

They had in the past, passed around dog-eared copies of “Hy Man’s Geographic”, written by the leader Manifesto the Great. They had studied “The Green House Guide, and read all of Legless’s books from his “A Shag Too Many” to “The Apparatus of a Woman”. But tonight it was different, they had a new book, “The Spark Plug Odyssey”. How they got hold of it nobody was sure…but then they were never really sure how any of their books appeared…

Hilda watched in the dark, as they slid The Spark Plug Odyssey onto their wagons. She had read the book like she had all the books, and this time she didn’t have to change anything. Legless had done all her work for her, his book painted a dark picture of Beryl, The Esteemed leader, a picture of betrayal and lies that could inspire an uprising and Hilda couldn't wait to pass it on.

She turned to her informer, bought with the promise of silk and a step up the later.

“Here,” she said, handing her her prized cape “you’ve earned it”.

The informer ran the cloak through her fingers, even scrunched up in a rucksack it would never crease.

“And what about the better job?”

“That comes later,” said Hilda.

“Oh,” said the informer.

“Yes, when I am a leader.”

The informer clutched her cape and stopped, Hilda, a leader? Why did she not see that coming?

And now enjoy a reading from a few years ago when my hair was not see-through…

Beryl the Esteemed Leader’s take on propaganda with no idea of the havoc Hilda will create.

Next month I will be back with another excerpt of Pete’s diary but until then have a great festive season and loads of happy reading.