It must have been a bad dream.
Scotty was coming to. Pulsating lights and an internet dial up jingle still echoing though his senses. That feeling, that odd tingle when the separation of all your atoms occurs. That sensation of being streamed all over the place like a pirated football game. That’s the feeling… the one which is still dimly present.
The whole surreal event still felt very much like reality. His physicality somewhat distorted, like his body wasn’t his own. And yet somehow, Scotty had the feeling of being well-rested. The kind of well-rested only known to a snoozing middle aged parent on a sofa, on a Sunday, when the kids are away all weekend. It was almost like he was waking up with super powers. Scotty felt strong, supple and, despite being a Professional National League North Footballer, even more athletic then his normal self.
Time was passing, Scotty was still stirring. He wanted to wake but found himself struggling to open his eyes. A pressure was building around him, like a python was wrapping him up for dinner. The contractions deliberate, each harder than the ones before, shaping him, priming him almost, but for what. It was all getting a bit much for Scotty who sang out in his not so dulcet tones.
“Ahhhh, here man, what’s gannin on?!”
“Shhhhh, be calm now Scotty, you are coming into this world,” said that voice.
“Is that ye Twiggy?!” Roared Scotty.
It was indeed Twiggy, in her computerised monotoned Cockney accent. Not the spoke’s person and fashion model Twiggy, just the outward projection of herself. The image burned into Scotty’s genes by his father’s obsessive masturbation. She was actually a powerful A.I. created to navigate leapers through their journey. Scotty roared at her again for an explanation but she was silent.
Scotty was now moving, forward as far as he could tell. The contractions manhandling his pliable form towards an end point he was powerless to resist. The end point in question was, sadly for Scotty, tighter than the contractions. His head was squeezed with the kind of pressure that could probably out Trump from Office.
A pop. At last, Scotty could open his eyes. The light blinded him, reflected from the bright white walls. Rasping gufts of air whooshed past him, he could feel the pressure being released as his was ejected slowly, body part by body part from the darkness.
“Is that water? It fucking is water,” said Scotty out loud.
He wasn’t wrong. Beneath him lay water, and like with bungee jumper without a cord, Scotty went into free fall for what felt like an age before crashing into the water. He slammed against a solid surface beneath before bobbing up to the surface with a splutter.
Peering up at his hairy birthing hole, it dawned on Scotty that he was indeed, a turd. This was further confirmed when he was showered with streaky paper and then flushed around the u-bend. The big gush of water which, from his perspective, was like Niagara Falls crashing down on him.
Finally coming to a stop in the sewage system, Scotty lay motionless in shock. Twiggy appeared in front of him and he looked over at her with a mixed expression of confusion, wonder and rage.
“It could be worse,” said Twiggy, sensing he maybe about to get a little upset by this.
“WORSE?! I was just shat out of some lads Gary.”
“Yes, it quite the sight to behold.”
Scotty began to move and take in his new body, it felt unnatural but strong. Almost primed from action, like it had been made with purpose. He could feel himself growing inch by inch every minute. Had it not been made out of radioactive poo, he might have actually enjoyed it the feeling.
“RADIOACTIVE POO?!” Screamed Scotty after twiggy explained what exactly he was made of.
Hauling himself off the ground, he marched off, away down the sewer toward the what appeared to be daylight and popped out in a long-grassed field. Twiggy hurried after him but Scotty promptly told her where to go. Twiggy took this request as literal as a computer does, leaving Scotty all alone in in the long grass.
Scotty was chuntering away to himself, very upset by these recent events as one can imagine. “I’m the fucking Bog Monster… A giant shite of a person.”
Trudging through the field, he spotted two shifty looking characters speaking in a foreign tongue, cutting a hole in a fence.
“Is that Russian? Where the fuck am I?”
Not wanting to draw attention to his ever growing lumpy brown self, he continued to march on though the field in the opposite direction, jumping every now and then to try and get his bearings. He decided he’d had enough and shouted for Twiggy but she did not appear. He shouted again,
“Twiggy! Where are ya?… Aaaaaaahh here man, you’re taking the piss now pet. I’m done, send me back… Game over! Here, Twiggy… ye listening to me?”
“I’m a waking chod,” raged Scotty at her.
“I’m stuck here aren’t I.”
She nodded again.
“FUCK!” screamed Scotty and fired his fists at an impressive looking Oak Tree. His hands literally flew off at the wrist like some hypersonic missiles and exploded with the kind of messy squish you’d expect from high velocity excrement. But to both his and Twiggy’s amazement, he swiftly grew new fists. He sat then sat down as it all got a bit too much. And what followed was a crying fit. He bubbled like a baby for a solid 30 minutes, a big teary limbed turd. It was quite embarrassing, but by the end of it, Scotty had grown a foot taller.
When he finely calmed down, he asked twiggy what he should do.
“Well, stay out the sun, in case you dry out,” was all she could come up with.
“Ah right, brilliant. Cheers pet!”
“You’re welcome,” replied Twiggy, in monotone cheerfulness.
Scotty had landed in Calder Hall, Cumberland, England, in what is now know as Sellafield Nuclear Power station in Cumbria. It was the spring of 1958 and there had recently been a series of nuclear accidents here, the worst of which being the Windscale fire in the October of 1957. This energy producing marvel had showered the delightful surrounds with the kind radioactive material which made the locals grow lumps and made inanimate come to life and grow limbs, such as the creature Scotty now found himself in. These incidents were of course concealed from the general public. The British Government actually feared how the Americans would react to them mismanaging big boy’s toys, so covered the whole thing up.
“You gonna have to talk me through this Twigs,” said Scotty, giving himself a good looking over in an old cracked wing mirror he found by the side of the road.
“You ever see Quantum leap?” Asked Twiggy
“Aye, vaguely remember it. I preferred Quantum Deep. It was a porno about the scientist Peter North who shagged his way through history.”
“Well this is exactly like that,” replied Twiggy, “only probably less of the shagging as at the moment, you’re a walking talking excrement, and… if you don’t figure out why, you’ll be stuck like this forever.”
“Forever?!” Scotty was now raging. “So, let me get this right, I was shat out some lad’s Gary and got flushed down a porcelain nettie. I then had to find my own way out a sewage system only to find myself stuck in this field, in the arse end of nowhere, all because some lad, who was exposed to some radioactive guff, probably ate a meaty curry and birthed me. And I have to find out why?!”
Twiggy was at the nodding again.
Unbeknown to both Scotty and Twiggy, they had been followed. Sharp eyes pealed out of a long sleeked head, stalking the pair with its abnormally muscular frame. The creature listened, it’s nature inquisitive but it’s desire sinister. It could only see and hear Scotty, so it’s sensed strained each and every way to work out who else was there. Who was he talking to? It was straining so hard it lost itself and wandered right into sight.
“Here, is that a fuckin’ Rat?”
Twiggy looked around, the creature looked straight through her, it’s greedy eyes now fixed on Scotty like he’d just been delivered by Dominos.
“Who you talking to little friend?” said the mutated rat.
Twiggy was calculating, he eyes went white and her A.I. processed more information, scenarios and theories than the Russian Glavset.
“Here, this lad speaks English,” said Scotty to a vacant Twiggy. He was at this moment unaware that only he could see Twiggy, not the rat.
Twiggy, having finished her processing, decided with all her vast intelligent that the best thing to do was run. She promptly told Scotty to do just that.
“From him… Why? He’s a bit ugly, granted like, but then I’m a talking turd. At least he speaks English, not like them Russian’s back there.”
This Russian comment set off twiggy again, processing away, her eyes white like the face of a fainting father to be during child birth. The rat was inching slowly closer, looking out for this Twiggy the turd was talking of.
“Because he wants to eat you,” said Twiggy rather casually, returning to the fold.
Scotty took a moment to process this, wondering why anything would want to eat a turd. Movement is his peripheral caught his attention and snapped him back to reality. The rat had lunge at him. Pouncing through the air, it’s dirty jagged teeth protruded hungrily out of an open jaw, ready to take a lump right out of Scotty. The rat however, not realising Scotty was a footballer in the mighty National League North, was caught on the volley. Scotty connected with the kind of power commonly associated with ‘Ave it!’ And sent the rat, along with his foot, about 5 miles south, landing in the Village of Drigg. Drigg of course is known for having one of the top 40 beaches in the UK and has Britain’s loudest amphibian, the Natterjack Toad.
“That was a great kick,” said twiggy, somewhat impressed. Scotty didn’t tell her he was aiming to splat the rat against the Oak Tree right next to him but completely missed kicked it. He watched silently as his foot grew back.
Flexing his new foot, two things puzzled Scotty. Why was a giant shit eating rat stalking him and why, if they are indeed in Cumbria, are there a couple of Russian lads kicking about. He was quite surprised by his train of thought and asked Twiggy for the answers. Twiggy explained that they needed to find these Russians as, give that this was the Cold War, they really shouldn’t be here. The rat, she went on, was a bit like Scotty’s current form in that it was probably mutated as a result of a nuclear whoopsie. So, with Scotty non-the-wiser, off they both went, back across the field they had come. Back towards the Power plant, in search of the Russians. As Scotty was now about 3 foot tall, there was no need to jump, his lumpy chod head clearly visible above the long grass.
Walking through a fence like a faecal Terminator T-1000, Scotty entered the ground of Calder Hall, the Nuclear Power Plant. He didn’t of course need to walk through it, the Russians had clearly come this way earlier and cut neat little hole in which to crawl through. Scotty just wanted to know if he could, he was starting to see some advantages of being the Bog Monster. The flies descending on him like Benefit-Britain on a Black Friday sale at ASDA however, are not one of them though. They were really starting to piss him off.
Creeping along the roads watching out for shifty looking Russians, Scotty’s senses were alive. If he had hairs on his poopy skin, they’d be standing up. He could feel the tingle of nuclear power from the reactors, almost like it was alive and calling out to him. The colossal grey cooling towers seemed to have invisible eyes, starting down at him like overbearing parents. He really didn’t like this place at all.
“There,” said Twiggy, pointing out the two shift looking characters. The two in question were laying blocks around the foot of a massive chimney.
“They explosives?” Asked Scotty.
Twiggy confirmed they were, a type of explosive mixture known as Composition B. The Chimney being decorated in explosives was a Cooling Tower. The reactor’s cooling system was one of convection, designed to use air rather than water, with the 400 foot chimney pulling in vast sums of air to cool the reactor. Collapse the chimney, stop the airflow and the reactor would overheat and explode within minutes. The fallout would cause widespread panic and anger, effectively ending Britain’s Nuclear Program. This was their plan.
Walking straight at the Russians, Scotty had no real plan other than to shower the pair in shite and stick them to the tower. He’d work out what to do with them and their explosives afterwards. He was thinking he could just call the police. Sure they’d be some puzzled faced when the police turned up and found them shit-welded to a chimney but hey, jobs a good’un. The last thing Scotty expected however, was the return of a hungry rodent who stepped between him and the Russians.
“Hello Dinner”, snarled the now much larger Rat. It was overjoyed that Scotty was now nearly 6 foot tall, thus there was more of him to eat. He’d have left-overs to make sandwiches; see him through the week.
“Wheyyy, if isn’t old master splinter. Where the turtles you bucked toothed twat?”
This reference was of course lost on our hungry friend who, not learning, once again leapt at Scotty.
The rat, being a radioactive wonder himself, survived the landing and promptly ate Scotty’s detached foot; the foot Scotty had lost when he had volley’d the rat down to Drigg. The foot went down a treat. As the rat lay on the beach, post alfresco buffet, it watched itself double his already massive size. He was now a giant among the vermin community. Wanting more, the rat ran back to Calder Hall, putting in the kind of minutes per mile that would get you kicked off strava. All the way wondering what he could become if he ate all of Scotty. He sadly wasn’t going to get the chance.
The short but delightful exchange between Scotty and the rat was all the time the Russian’s needed to light the fuse which of course, Twiggy had pointed out to Scotty in her computerised monotone cockney accent.
Thinking fast, Scotty summed all his strength and with a move copied from Street Fighter’s Ryu and Ken, preformed a Hadouken, of sorts. A lightening ball of excrement left Scotty’s palms, slamming the rat against the two Russians, pinning them all to the chimney. The Russians had been completely oblivious to Scotty, the giant walking turd, and the mutated wannabe turd eating rat. So this came as quite a shock when they were stuck down by the bottom juice’d hadouken.
“You need to stop the charge before it ignites the blasting cap,” said twiggy with a little urgency.
“How?” Asked Scotty
“Blow out the fuse.” replied Twiggy.
Scotty had a better idea.
With the speed of shit off a greasy stick, he wizzed around, collecting all the explosive devices. Scotty dumped all the explosives on-top of two now very bewildered Russians and a very annoyed mutant rat, all of whom had been unable to free themselves from the Chimney. Taking a few steps back and, once again, summoning all his strength, he shat-hadoukened them repeatedly until everything was covered, submerged in the chod. Scotty had covered them in so much shite, he was only a foot tall by the time he finished.
“I’m not sure that will prevent the the collapse of the Chimney Scotty,” said Twiggy.
Scotty wasn’t listening to her now though, he was communicating with the body of this mutated chod. They had finally synched, Scotty now knew what this body was capable of and more importantly, what it wanted; Transcendence. With that, Scotty walked over to the mountain of poo and stuck his hand in the middle as the explosive charges went off. The Russians and the rat were vaporised but the blast was absorbed by Scotty. Sucking in the energy, he grew twenty feet before popping, evaporating into thin, smelly air.
The chimney remained sound. To anyone walking past, it would look like a group of scruffy buggers had team sharted at base of the Chimney, but they would never know that this was the closest the UK had come to full blown nuclear disaster.
Scotty heard the familiar internet dial up tone and knew he was about to be streamed away.
“Am a gannin’ yem yet Twiggy?”
“No Scotty, you’re not going home.”
“But it’s the match on Satuda.”
“Time stands still where you left your body Scotty, and that’s where you will return… unless you die, in which case you’ll die at back at the Lab too.”
Twiggy explained that Scotty was to move into another body. The faces he had inhabited dissolved on the breeze and is carried around the UK countryside on the wind. It lingers around farmlands up and down the country, never seen but always smelt. Mistaken by many for the odour for manure, but really it’s the smell of that which give up a form, so we may keep ours.
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