Nico (vilakins) wrote,

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Ficlet: The Dreaded Batter-Pudding Hurler

I see I'm a bit behind posting my b7friday stories here. This one was for the Goon Show title challenge: far too many words (some of them very silly) set in season 1.

The Dreaded Batter-Pudding Hurler

It was a quiet evening on the Liberator flight deck. Blake stood commandingly, legs apart, on the bridge (why didn’t anyone call it a bridge?) and lifted his chin to let the soft breeze from the air vents ruffle his curls. "Lovely evening."

"We are in space, Blake. It's the dead of night all day."

Blake shrugged. He chewed a finger experimentally and was disappointed to find that it tasted just like the one next to it. "Gravy, bananas, and old socks."

"Hardly surprising considering your last meal."

"But socks?"

"What do you think Vila strained the red wine with?"

"Hey," said Vila from his position (horizontal on the couch). "Adds body, that does."

Blake sniffed. "Anyone else smell that?"

"It wasn't me!" said Vila.

"Nor me," said Avon icily.

"Not that, more like--"



"Never heard of it," said Vila. "What's it smell like?"

"That, obviously." Avon leaned over with interest. "Blake has been struck down from behind."

"I'm not surprised, what with him suggesting you'd let one--"

"Vila! He was hit with... this."

"Eh?" Vila got up to have a look. "Looks like..." He put out a probing finger. "Batter pudding! And it's still warm."

"Just as well," said Blake into the floor "I hate cold batter pud."

"I dunno," said Vila, licking his finger. "I'd have given it ten minutes longer at gas mark 4."

Avon narrowed his eyes. "I suspect whoever did this was going for adhesion."


"Ying tong tiddle i po," Vila sang as he strolled down the corridor. "I'm walking backwards to the flight deck," he continued in falsetto, fitting his actions to his words. "Ying tong--ow!" as he hit a T-junction. "--tiddle i--" he turned to continue his reverse course and WOOOSH--SPLOSH! He staggered, knuckling pudding out of his eyes.

"Weren't you looking where you were going?" Avon asked as he stumbled onto the flight deck (face first).

"Not really, but if I had been, I wouldn't have got it in front, would I?" Vila broke off a piece and ate it. "Someone's been using the ripe bananas in that. Not bad." He held another bit out to Avon.

"No, thank you. I know where it's been."


"Nice thought, Vila, but I prefer a pudding with some flavour. A nice rich plum one perhaps."

"Suit yourself." Vila sat down at his station and removed the rest in one Vila-mask piece. "This should tide me over till supper."


"How the hell," snarled Jenna, "am I going to get this out?"

"You could eat it out, but don't look at me," said Vila. "I mean it's got a hair in it. Several thousand in fact."

"Zen can fly this ship. I'm off for a hot shower."

"Not too hot, I hope. You might cook it on."


Gan stood up. "Anyone for cocoa?"

"Thanks, Gan me old mate," said Vila.

"Trim milk in mine please," said Jenna.

"Stirred, not frothed," said Avon.

Gan went out, followed shortly by a WOOSH--SPLOSH.

"You know," said Avon, "the net is drawing closer. I may be next. I feel it is time to turn the gas off in the galley."

Vila said nothing. He wanted to see what would happen next.


Avon went still as his first leg went into his best trousers and encountered a cold and clammy substance. He stood there for a moment, then decided for once to throw dignity to the winds. "Aaaaaaaaaugh! Ewwww!"

"Are those your trousers?" asked Cally as Avon (dressed in another pair) held them up on the flight deck.

"Can't you tell?" said Vila. "See, e'en now, how he walks the battlements? Waits for laughter--not a sausage. Assumes hurt expression."

Cally ignored him. "They appear to be dripping."

"They're full of uncooked batter pudding. And a peanut butter sandwich." Avon turned to Blake. "I want you to line the crew up with their hands out."


"I'm looking for a criminal."

"Find your own. I had enough trouble getting these ones."

Avon glared and stalked out, followed by a trail of batter.


"It's you, isn't it?" Vila asked Cally in the galley.

"Of course it is. I've always been me."

"I mean, you're the batter-pudding hurler."

"How did you guess?"

"Process of elimination."

"Oh, of course." Cally shook her head. "I should have plugged that hole."

"And yourself, in the face." Vila leaned on the bench top. "But why?"

"I couldn't give people brain-itch as I can with Auronar. Humans are immune."

"Yeah, but why?"

"Blake does not listen to anyone. What is the point of rebellion if we just exchange one dictator for another?"

"And me?"

"You thought it was undercooked."


"I've resented that remark about bringing aliens on board for months."

"And Gan?"

"He prefers plum pudding. He lacks taste."

"Don't suppose I need to ask about Avon. He's annoyed everyone on board."

"And he turned off the gas."

"I've put it back on again. Look, I can tell you a much easier way to sock people you want to get back at. Old prison trick."


"Fill a sock with cold spaghetti, whirl it round your head, and let it go. No cooking needed except for the first big batch."

Cally smiled. "Thank you Vila. That's an excellent idea. In return, how about a nice peach batter pudding just for us?"

"As long as it's not airborne, I wouldn't say no."



"Ahhhh!" yelled Blake. "Get those wet worms off my neck!"

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