Quantum Deep – Part Three: Sugar Tits

“Relax Scotty, you’re still transitioning. Focus on the task in hand”.

Twiggy’s monotone voice was trying hard to sooth a raging Scotty. He was running. Running harder and faster than he’s ever ran before, and he was a top National Division North footballer. The reason for all this running is that he’s being chased. He is being chased by what he would later describe as several, massive as fuck, metal bastards. He hadn’t been alone with the running. Behind him were two formerly good looking girls, both of which had been moving a bit slower than he. I say formerly good looking as they had just been splatted by big metal fists, thus no longer qualified as good looking… nor as living people.

The massive as fuck, metal bastards doing the splatting are more commonly knows as Gardrols. There were indeed massive, at 15 foot tall these charcoal coloured machines were build to kill. An elite solider of mechanical nature, they possessed artificially grown, organically free range, telepathic mind. Every Gardrol was aware of the other, seeing and hearing what every other was experiencing. It was a computerised hive mind collective but each was capability of free thought. Essentially it’s cheating, but on the battlefield it’s unbeatable. Enemy numbers and positions could be marked, counted and did away with with ease. Coordinated movements and strikes were done with such amazing precision and calculated accuracy, that they could not be beaten. Many other alien races had tried and failed. They would have taken Earth and mankind with it, had it not been for the crafty nature of the British Government and a super trio of women.

None of this was help to Scotty who was pegging it for dear life. Unarmed, out sized and out numbered, he found himself running down a tunnel, seemingly crafted out of pure ice. The floor made from several raised metal platforms like you’d find around an oil rig, but the walls and ceiling though were made from within the ice. Almost like it had been shot out with laser beams. The sound of metal on metal as the Gardrols made yard after yard on Scotty, was deafening. Thudding echos reverberated off the cylindrical ice with nowhere to go but down your lugs.

Desperately looking over his shoulder at the perusing Gardrols, Scotty became aware of his long and beautifully conditioned, TV ad ready hair, flapping in the wind. He looked down, still sprinting as fast as his short, toned, shaved legs would take him.

“Twiggy! I’ve got fucking tits,” he screamed.

He was not happy, although given he was a walking turd in his last body, you’d think he’d be over the moon. Some part of his brain did tell himself to give them titties a squeeze, but it’s hard to enjoy such moments when your about to have your head thumped through your own arsehole by a pack of massive as fuck, metal bastards.

Twiggy who was running alongside Scotty, in hologramatic fashion, was computing. Her eyes were white and in the back of her head, like some seasoned smack head who’d just gone under. She was trying working out what was actually going on.

“Ahead of you Scotty is a vent,” twiggy eventually said. “I don’t know where it goes but I think it’s a safer alternative than being caught,”

Scotty spotted the vent, it was cut into the ice, steam poring out of it like a caravan kettle. He veered to the right and leap at it, hoping he wasn’t about to meet the same ending as steam cooked broccoli floret. With surprising accuracy, in he went. Not even touching the sides like a wee todgered fat lad, balls deep in a £10 prossie.

That was all Scotty didn’t touch though. Popping out at the bottom having clattered into every possible inch of the inside, Scotty Found himself a bit concussed in a docking bay. Looking about, it was full of large alien looking space ships. Not those nasa or Elon musk looking Falcon lads, these were short, sleek, bubble looking things with strange reflective paintwork. Stocky propulsion cannons jutted out from every angle to give the ships unparalleled manoeuvrability. Scotty didn’t know this fo course, to him it just looked like someone had superglued giant pots and pans sporadically around it. It reminded him of the art work you’d see from that one kid in class who’d been dropped on his head a few times by his alcoholic parents.

“Here, I must of knocked me heed pretty hard like twigs?” said Scotty, gorping at all the ship. “I can see space ships.”

“That ship there,” said Twiggy pointing, “the one that’s open. Get in”.

“Why do I feel like I can fly one of them?” Scotty asked.

Running across the the metal platforms and up a set of stairs, Scotty boarded the ship Twiggy pointed at. On the inside Scotty noticed a Union Jack stamp with a serial number, like a VIN you’d find on a car.

Walking though the ship, Scotty couldn’t help but notice it was indeed very British. There was an umbrella bucket at the entrance, pictures of the royal family and even a tea room. Signs on the wall requested you to walk on the left to avoid congestion in he corridors. He though to question it with Twiggy but, for the sake of self preservation, he though he’d better focus on getting the chuff out of here first.

Sitting in the captains chair, he noticed the controls were very simple, much like that of a video game controller. Picking it up and pressing the Start Button, the ship fired into life with an electric humming and a good flashing light display. Something within told Scotty to press the A button, so he did and with that, off they went, straight out the dock, screeching across this moon’s surface. Problems arose later when Scotty realised the last twat to pilot this ship clearly played with inverted controls.

“The daft cunt,” muttered scotty as he clatter of bottom of this ship of the ice trying to pull up.

Wizzing across space at a race of nots, Scotty took the time to check himself out. He was a she. Not just any she, she was beautiful. I’d totally shag myself was the less crude version of what he was thinking.

“You must have a few questions Scotty,” Twiggy said, watching him admire himself. “I have some answers”.

“Aye, i do” said Scotty. “How do I piss?”

This was not the question Twiggy had computed the answer to.

“And is it front to back or back to front when wiping? I’ve heard ye get a scabby fanny if you do it the wrong way,” Scotty continued.

If one had wanted to know how to disgust an advanced A.I., Scotty had the answer. Twiggy promptly turned herself off. Leaving Scotty to experimentally fumble his way around the problem.

Wandering back into the ship’s bridge post lavatory success, developing UTI a serious probability, Scotty took the time to take in the navigational display. Twiggy had interacted with the ship’s computer and he was heading back to Earth. He had no idea he wasn’t on Earth as they blasted off Europa, the ice moon off Saturn and former British outpost. He did look out the window but they were travelling at such speed, everything outside was blurred and this made him nauseous. Scotty sat down and took a moment to reflect, wondering who those two women were he’d just seen crushed by those massive as fuck metal bastards.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” said twiggy, who had been away erasing that last conversation from her memory.

The year was 2030, Earth’s population was down to a solitary billion. The other billions had been wiped out when Earth was invaded by a vast army of Gardrols. Unprepared and outgunned, the world’s armies fell quicker than Humpty Dumpty in a storm. It had seemed that no one could put them back together again. That was until a trio of women stepped forward, uniting the world with their song lyrics into a singular purpose; Fight back and Survive. Resources were shared, weapons forged, the fight back united. People began to believe that humanity would not just survive, it could win.

There were some who objected to this collective effort. Politicians and some big business leaders lost out. The less smart objecting publicity and were swiftly outed from office or watched as their business folded under the weight of a united public. Left to protest on the streets with those weird lads and lasses who described themselves as Woke and who use words like Truther. They’d be spouting all sorts of weird conspiracy theories about Government cover ups, whilst the outed politicians and business leaders stood in the crowd, questioning their life choices. The smart objectors however, played along, supporting the cause, waiting for their time to come when they could divide and conquer once more. It was this lust for power that nearly cost Scotty his life on Europa.

Ironically though, for once, the woke were kinda a right about one thing. They’d have no way of knowing this though, nor would they in their life time. But right in front of their very eyes, in London, there was a rather unremarkable building which housed a specific type of celebrity. One who was cursed to live a precarious double life which would inevitably bring about their death.

Way back at the beginning of 1997, there was movement in the outer stretches of the Atmosphere, something mysterious and large just appeared one day. Spotted by the uber secretive section of what is now as the United Kingdom Space Agency (UKSA). The UKSA launched a probe from their secret N-tISS (Not the International Space Station), which was hidden on the dark side of the moon. The probe was sent with a few simple instructions: To ask whoever it was out there what they were doing, and if their intention wasn’t wholesome, a second instruction was to be delivered. That instruction being, Bugger Off.

This wasn’t the first time the UKSA had encounter aliens and told them to bugger off. The uber secret space agency had come about shortly after WW2 when Royal Marines discovered a downed UFO frozen in the ice, way up on the tip of Norway. This was quickly expedited back to the UK and stashed under a new reservoir, in the Welsh Valleys. They evicted a village full of locals under the ruse it was to provide water to the English. It worked a treat, they’re still talking about it now but no one ever went back to take look.

Buried in the secret facility under the reservoir, it took the top brass of the UK secretive scientific community 25 years to get into the bloody thing. What they discovered led to significant advance in military technology. Plasma weapons, light speed engine drives and teleportation were just some of the goodies cracked as a result of this technology. This gave the UKSA some clout in our solar system. Less evolved and/or less aggressive alien’s had been sent away with a flea in their ear after trying to pass through.

On this occasion however, the probe wasn’t able to send them away. What met it was unadulterated, brutal violence. Not so much as a hello, just utter obliteration. It was just as well this probe was unmanned because any poor sod inside would have found themselves being disintegrated into space dust. What had appeared on the outskirts of the solar system was the Forboddins, an aggressive but lazy Alien race looking to pillage the galaxy of all it’s resources, purely for an easy life.

The UKSA though it best to approach the UK government, fearing war was coming to Earth. The government was outraged and naturally ignored the Alien problem, hoping they would just pass us by. Besides, it would be bad for the local elections. So, in typical government fashion, they ordered a reshuffle of the UKSA. This largely involved putting their own people in charge, then exclusively sold off anything valuable, at massively discounted rates, to their various millionaire chums. Thankfully though, most of spacefaring assets and technology were subverted away and kept hidden.

The UKSA had thought about going public with the news but Earth wasn’t ready for Aliens and their technology. People still freaked out and protested about mobile 5G networks and being asked to wear a face-mask in public. The top brass had worried that such news would prompt civil war and general disobedience, and with good reasoning. When Specially selected RAF pilots were recruited to test fly these new spaceships, all and been going well. That was until they decided it would be fun to terrorise remote American farmers. The stories of alien abductions, crop circles and anal probes which subsequently rampaged through America give an insight to what might happen if people realised Alien’s actually exist. A full and thorough investigation cleared the Pilots of any actual anal probing, but it was concluded that a large amounts of the world’s population are fucking nuts.

Being quick learners, the former gaffas of the UKSA left and formed their own private limited company, with a view of helping themselves to the taxpayers purse, like many limited companies do. It is after all the UK’s way of doing things. However, the Labour Government had just rode the Country into recession and opened the floodgates for a Tory Government to pile in, which was just the start of the bad news.

The first of these to come was David “the Pig Whisper” Cameron who then, with the help of Rupert Murdock and many Russian social media accounts, set Brexit in motion and thus began the complete demise of the UK economy. The government purse had well and truly been closed to anything other than outright corruption and theft. Of course, this was all hidden under the ruse of blaming immigrants.

This left the former employees of the UKSA in a pickle as they didn’t want a bit of any of these politicians in their new company. With much though and deliberation, they decided to change tactics and become self sufficient from the outset of the coming war. Their board decided on a two fold income stream. One would be to slowly sell of patents for low tech Alien gadgets. The second would be to reap the rewards of the ample disposable income via the medium of pop music. So, as well as creating these genetically enhanced solider to fight the war, they armed them with good look and distinct pop music vocal chords. When they weren’t off world fighting the Foboddins, they were turning out catchy pop tunes with contentious contemporary R&B undertones.

You and I know of them as the Sugar Babes. And in one of these pop princesses is where Scotty found himself.

“You fucking what?” The news came as a surprise to Scotty. “Ye tellin’ me those pop tarts on the telly, with their round round, push the button bollocks are actually genetically enhanced super birds?”

Twiggy nodded

“And like… hard as nails and that?

*nodding

“And like fly space ships and knack aliens and that?”

*more nodding

“Well fuck me…” said Scotty. “They did a cracking job making these tits”. Scotty was have a good perv down his top.

Twiggy continued to nod, her circuitry not really knowing what was an appropriate response.

“Can I gan and finger blast me-self?”

Twiggy turned herself off again.

Cursing through Space on route to Earth, Scotty randomly started jabbing at controls but thankfully the steering was locked on autopilot, which was just as well otherwise he’d have veered off course, ploughed into an asteroid and died. Scotty did however, find the Sugar Babes personal vlogs, so parked his arse in the Captain’s chair and set about having a watch.

Her name was Roxie, a twenty something singer, born in St. Lucia but raised in South London. Recruited at an early age via means of a scholarship, she was already well on the way to be a super solider. Fearlessly competitive, as smart as they come and a great voice to boot, she was the perfect candidate. She was trained to replace which ever Sugar babe died next. Trained to slip into the trio, raise the funds for the cause and fight the galactic bad guys. Those before her had done it; replaced those fallen warriors, who’s bodies were buried in secret. Their physical presence played ever so redundantly by look alike actors, designed to throw the press off their passing scent.

Roxie never got her chance to preform as a traditional Sugar babe though. War in outer space has intensified. The Sugar babes had barely been trending water in terms of keeping the threat at bay. After a 15 year hiatus from mainstream pop culture, the trio were beaten, K.I.A., and the Gardrols soon landed on Earth. It was 2025. The fact this war had been going on for many years and no one other than the UKSA and the British government had known, left the Earth underprepared and overwhelmed. The British government hadn’t want to share this information with anyone because they were still pissed off about the crap trade deals they received after leaving the EU. They also had their own contingency plan.

Roxie was but 17 when they landed in 2025 and by 2028 the Gardrols had made ground in every country, bringing down Army after Navy after Airforce. Earth needed a hero, and up stepped the new incarnation of the Sugar Babes. Crafting a song named Ultima Stand, their split mix poptasic and R&B vocal pipes delivered their pop dribble in such a catchy and encompassing way, that the world united under their flag of hope. This proved to be the pivotal moment the people of Earth needed to come together and fight as one.

By 2030, victory looked set. The Gardrols has been pushed back on all fronts. Their ever diminishing numbers unable to cope with the rapid advances in technology derived from the Sugar Babe initiative. It was now that those crafty politicians spotted their opportunity.

Bypassing the waves of Gardrol reinforcements on route to Earth, the Sugar Babes had blasted through space and taken the back door entrance into the the giant ship of the Foboddins. The ship looked more like an Asteroid than a ship because that’s what it was. The Asteroid had been hollowed out, propulsion engines had been drilled into it and it had, from within, an fully automated assembly line creating Gardrol after Gardrol.

Landing on the back on the asteroid, the Sugar babes crept inside and shut down the command centre by hacking the their mainframe with a modified USB stick, retrofitted to fit the Foboddins’ system. The UBS shut down the Farboddin’s electronic systems which in turn, turned off all the Gardrols, meaning it was just the Sugar Babes vs the Forboddins.

The Farboddins were a sloth like race, who partook in no physical exercise, no self maintained and pretty much had the Gardrols do everything for them. As well as being ferocious killing machines, the Gardrols were a dab hand at silver service and were experts with a bath sponge. These Farboddins were so obsessed with doing as little as possible, they invaded planets purely to steal their resources, so they could keep making more Gardrols to serve them. This all meant it was easy picking for the Sugar Babes who went through deck after deck, shooting them like fish in a pond.

Scotty was watching all these vlogs with great interest, he loved the inclusion of real time action footage; being a young lad he enjoyed a god bit of passive violence. However, the last video was more disturbing. The Gardrols rebooted and, in a bizarre twist, the Gardrols killed all the remaining Forboddins before turning on the Sugar Babes. Out numbered, the Sugar Babes turned and fled into a teleportation box which landed them on Europa. That was the last automatic vlog upload and the moment Scotty had become Roxie.

“Interesting.” Twiggy had appeared, clearly always present even if not in visible form. She was processing away, her eye as white as a nocturnal teenage hermit. “It appears that MI-16, under the orders of the British Prime Minister was responsible for providing that USB. The Gardrols were never off line, just being reprogrammed remotely to follow the commands of a new master. It looks like the new master then tried to have you all killed so that no one would know they are in control. You escaped Scotty. I doubt they are too happy about that”.

Twiggy was doing some remote programming of her own and, using the computer on this British Bubble shaped spaceship, hacked into the the Prime Ministers hotmail account.

“They’ll never learn” mused Twiggy.

Twiggy brought up a picture of the Prime Minister

“Oi, hold up thats’s Dominic Cumpot or Cumtwatings… or something like that,” Scotty protested. “How’d he become prime minister?”

“In 2021,” started Twiggy, “he assumed control of the crumbling Tory party with the simple slogan, ‘Britain deserves better than them foreigners’. It was all it took, the British Nationalists loved it and voted him in as Dictator. Those on the left tried to protest but they couldn’t get their act together. They were still to annoyed over Corbyn’s removal and Starmmer’s appointment. So most didn’t vote… there was no opposition. By then there was only 20 people remaining in the country who remained centre. He’s been in power ever since.”

“I’m moving to Benedorm when I get back if this is the future like,” muttered Scotty.

“Times are changing though Scotty,” said Twiggy. “He’s not a popular man. He needs to be taken out and I think this is your purpose. I’ve sent these emails through to Sugar Babe Command. Let’s see if you have back up and if so, what you are to do.”

“I diven’t need back up man,” shouted Scotty. “Look at me, I’m super sexy and hard as bollocks… I’ll knack him on my own!”

A beeping come through on the screen. It was a video message from Ron and Sarah, founder of the Sugar Babe initiative. On Screen they both appeared but only one spoke.

“The Prime Minister has taken control of the Gardrols and is going to finish what they started. Right now, thousands more Gardrols are on their way to Earth, reprogrammed to eradicate everything that’s not quite British. We made all the information public but no one believes us. We’ve been getting trolled none stop with the hash tag woke twats. I doubt the world wouldn’t believe it even if Cumtwatings wore a big T-shirt saying, ‘I’m going to destroy the world as it isn’t British enough’. So it is up to you now Roxie. You are the last of our products. The rest of the Sugar Babes are dead. We’ve no time to manufacture more. We’ve loaded your Sugar Babe Debit Card. Roxie, take down the Prime Minister… and God Speed, last sugar babe.”

The transmission ended.

“Any questions Scotty?” Asked Twiggy

“Can I call my next dog Ron?”

“About your mission?”

“Ah, right,” said Scotty, seemingly confused about the current situation. “Errrr, Sugar Babe debit card?”

The sugar babe credit card had come about during the Sugar Babe hiatus period, when the Sugar Babes need access to vast sums of money in a convenient way, to purchase weaponry and the likes. Forming Mondo Bank in the early 2005, this exclusive bank handled all transactions, profits and savings from the Sugar babe fund, online. The bank went public in 2015 and changed it’s name to Monzo, providing an online mobile banking service to the world that makes life easier, not harder. All proceeds from their songs, Pr appearances and merchandise go into this account for the war campaign.

“So with this account,” Twiggy was saying, “you can buy anything you want from the Sugar Babes’ exclusive tech store, or from any arms dealer around the world.

“Mint, Gonna tool myself up like Arnie from Commando and kick 10 Downing Streets back doors in.”

“It would seem Scotty, that this is exactly what you are supposed to do,” Twiggy replied.

Twiggy had hacked into the No. 10’s schedule and saw that Cumtwatings was due to leave at 3pm, after a cabinet meeting. From decoding the messages it looked like he and the cabinet were actually planning on buggering off into an old underground Churchill bunker. From there, they’d watch the rest of humanity being wiped out on a 4K telly.

In a matter of hours Scotty approached Earth. The familiar blue and green planet seen far off in the distance evoked feelings Scotty could not express due to his stunted and limited vocabulary. They call it the overview effect, seeing the earth as the tiny speckle host of all precious life, in a infinitely vast and hostile emptiness. The wee dot which had given us everything we’d ever needed and yet, that which we abused so much, over so long to the point of near collapse in search of capitalist greed. Scotty was in tears. He wasn’t sure if it was just this new perspective and his sudden reflective awareness, or if he was just on his period or something.

One thing that was not an emotional outpouring was the fleet of ships leaving Earth’s orbit on route to the Forboddins’ Asteroid. It was the final push from Earth to end their reign of terror. The attack however, was to doomed to end in failure as lingering towards the back of the convoy, was a fleet of British ships. Their orders, be in cahoots with Prime Minister’s Cumtwatings recently acquired Gardrols. Pincer the Earth fleet somewhere and effectively end any military resistance. The PM, Cumtwattings, could then get on with the ‘not quite British enough’ ethnic cleanse.

Promptly giving these ships a wide birth, Twiggy guiding the ship down just outside Cardiff, in Wales. This had been one the first landing sites of the Gardrol invasion force and as such, there wasn’t much of the city left. The South Wales to London railway line was still fully functional though, being in part to it being so old and shite that the Gardrols mistook it as being derelict.

Scotty turned up at Cardiff train station and booked a first class direct train to London Paddington. A replacement coach service later he arrived at London 6 hours later, leaving him with 1 hour to get to No. 10 and stop the PM.

“You’ll need to arm yourself Scotty,” said Twiggy as Scotty clambered off the bus, trying to get the circulation back to his legs. “There’s a local Arms dealer down the road.”

Nauseous from the smell of that one blocked toilet you find all all replacement coach services, scotty ran in the direction of the local arms dealer. His strong feminine body, capably of so much more than his own National League North footballing vessel, carried him at great speed. Within 10 minutes he had arrived at his destination, The National Gallery. Walking inside Scotty’s eyes instantly became attracted to the wording at the bottom of a nondescript painting. One Touch. Twiggy quickly pointed out it was the name of the Sugar Babes debut album from the year 2000, which peaked at no. 26 in the UK Album chart. Armed with this clear and obvious sign, Scotty approached the security guard who instantly recognised Roxie from the a sugar babe academy. 10 minutes later, Scotty walked out of the National Gallery armed with a 3 chambered bazooka, a high calibre assault rife and bagful of plasma grenades.

A black-cab ride later, Scotty turned up at the gates to Downing Street. Not waiting to waste time, promptly blasted 2 rounds from his 3 round bazooks and took the gates clean off their hinges.

“Subtle as a sledge hammer,” remarked Twiggy.

Th building surrounding no.10 had always been a mystery to all, even those who lived and worked in London. I mean, most people hadn’t even taken note of the rest of the street. The vast majority of the people in Britain had only seen No.10 on the telly. So Scotty was a bit taken back when one of the buildings, No.12 if you’re wondering, lost it’s facade. The whole building front just flopped over like someone had just cut it open to rescue a morbidly obese person who hadn’t been outside in 7 years.

Two Gardrols, those massive as fuck metal bastards from earlier, piled out. The presence of a Sugar Babe had clearly set off some ‘holy shit’ alarm somewhere within No.10, and this was response. Like two stacked Rottweilers about to savage a chihuahua, the pair split and each took a side, ready to flounce at Scotty with life ending consequences. The Sugar Babe within instinctively launched the bag of grenades right between them. The move was so instinctive Scotty asked himself what he was doing. The Sugar Babe had already raised the assault rifles, Scotty was looking right down the sights at the grenades before he twigged and pulled the trigger. The blast instantly knacked both Gardrols, scattering their remains into adjacent buildings. The blast also sent Scotty 10 meters back up the street, almost killing himself in the process.

Getting up and hobbling his way through the devastation, the doors of number 10 opened and out walked that token copper you normally see on the telly. Bravely drawing his taser, the Copper ordered Scotty to stop and disarm as he was under arrest. Scotty had not been a fan of the police since he was pulled over and given a driving ban for doing a ton in a 20mph limit, outside a school. ‘A total overreaction’ he told the judge at his hearing. ‘There was no kids about and I was desperate from a crap… I’ve that IBS shitting disorder man.’ Scotty had heard from a mate that this was how Sir Alex Ferguson famously got away with Driving offences. So armed with no Solicitor and no legal experience, Scotty had walked into court a confident man. He walked out a pedestrian with a large fine.

“You need to move quickly Scotty,” said twiggy, reminding him that at any moment the order could be given to destroy the fleet. Taking this onboard, Scotty fired the last round from his bazooka at the Copper, popping him like a spot on a greasy teenagers face.

Knocking out few civil servants and the odd domestic whilst searching through the 100 or so rooms that 10 Downing Street contains, Scotty found who he was looking for. In the PM’s office, PM Cumtwattings was sat with all the members of his FRG, the Forboddins Research Group; the shady group responsible for the power grab.

“I know why you’re here, but you’re too late Sugar Tits,” said Cumtwattings. “The decision has been made and we are going to execute the will of the British people. We are going to get this war done. Years of planning went into this. Britain will be free from all outside interference, able to make our own laws and govern our own people. All I have to do is say the word and the world is mine”.

Not giving Cumtwating the chance to say ‘the word,’ Scotty opened up his high powered assault rife in what was such an orgy of beautiful violence, it could have been scripted by Quinten Tarentino. Blood splattered across 17th century masterpieces hanging from the picture rails. Guts adorned statues stolen from civilisations long ago pillaged. The contents of a bowl, perforated by high caliber rounds, smeared the shattered windows looking down onto Downing Street.

When Scotty took his finger off the trigger, all was quiet. The gun was red and smouldering with the heat. The smell of gunpowder lingered over the smell of exposed bowl. Remains of bones and internal organs dripped from the ceiling like melting icicles.

Scotty looked over at twiggy and after a moment of reflective silence said, “Piece of piss that like Twiggy.”

“I’m not sure if that’s how it was supposed to be done,” Twiggy replied. “Nonetheless, it appears you have completed your task.”

With that, Scotty could feel himself leaving the body and transiting to somewhere new, into something different. The world had been saved. Earth would remain united and could flourish without threat, never knowing that it had been saved by a simple National Division North Geordie footballer inside…

The last Sugar Babe.

Authors note. The last Sugar Babe was promptly arrested and sentenced to life in prison for the murder of the entire British Government. Thankfully though, she got out after 18 months for what was deemed good behaviour, but in reality was to prevent overcrowding. She promptly moved to Australia where, much like Britain, you can gain entry regardless of convictions so long as you’re not a refugee. She now stars in Home and Away and lives in Bondi, Sydney, with every other British person in Australia.