Botchi

Lounge 9 was functionally furnished, foregoing comfort for a more authoritarian sheen. Cosatch and the Admiral looked straight ahead as the doors slid open, a small hiss of steam accompanying their entrance. Both were contemplating the Bohmer madness that had enveloped their souls; the Admiral now especially affected by the mental trauma. The motorized walkway halted at the large brass table, situated centrally in the lounge, and the pair sat. Faint clicks could be heard as the giant screen lowered itself down on to two pneumatic cylinders, spinning 270 degrees as the process completed. As the interface on the screen waned, Chief V and Boron Jetwell appeared shoulder to shoulder.
“Let’s forget the whole sorry episode in 668 shall we?’” communicated the Chief. The Admiral saluted earnestly, kneeing Cosatch in the groin to remind him of the strict hierarchy within Three-Mile Ford.

“Watch”, Boron Jetwell commanded as the screen crackled to reveal grainy, monochrome footage of a complex game of douche.
“Eight pin?!” Cosatch exclaimed, having never seen a douche encounter of this intricacy.
“Hush boy” retorted the Admiral, eyeing up the best countermove for the reverse-rapido presented by player 2. “The deftness of thought instructs me to offer an ultimatum: bamboozle with an overpass or face the consequences…”

Tactical nouse gave way to mild shock as the camera swung upwards to reveal the face of the mathematical genius responsible for the most exhibitionist of manouevres. Cosatch dropped his packet of biros on to the table as the faintest wisps of realization came home. Quickly flicking to page 36 of his book, Cosatch studied the features closely. The flowing brown hair partly covered the downward looking face, full of concentration (what could be established) on the game that was nearing completion.
“Douchefron!!” the mysterious face exclaimed, executing the perfect rapido follow-up in the form of an aggressive catalan. The victor stood and the rounded shape of her breasts passed the screen.

The camera flicked back to the faces of Jetwell and V, Cosatch and the Admiral still salivating slightly at the perfect female form.
“Enough!” cried V, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS?”
“Perfectly”, replied Cosatch, who really craved to scream the word ‘Douchefron’ after tossing a triple crunched linebacked reverse. Cosatch had watched the game late at night on Channel 9 and although he had struggled to equate with its complex machinations, the technical jargon had etched itself on the deepest regions of his hippocampus.
“Rapido four counters the bantam line” yelled Cosatch, hopping frenetically just like the Dutch wunderkind Frenchy Jankins did when he had delivered the aforementioned defensive reverse.
“Off the backfoot, linear stroke kelping theen nornes” countered the Admiral, slipping in to the old douche speak of Prussia.
“Reading that with an overlap channelling the triangulation away from 2-pin danger” Cosatch screamed with an intense mania, his face looking like it was about to explode with glee.
“Klicketh di dromna allavooz…”
“CEASE THIS AT ONCE” screamed Boron. The Admiral and Cosatch both stopped and rested their hands on their knees gulping in deep draughts of air which included traces of argon.
“Thank you Boron” stated the Chief who was struggling not to laugh at the ridiculous shots played by the Admiral during the imaginary game of douche. “What this current information suggests gentlemen is that Mar is unaware of the impending danger. I cannot have her disposed of until she has revealed the location of Base 1. Only then can we locate the bounty and destroy K. I have decided to reinitiate contact with our satellite outpost in Algiers. Dr Oppz and Indigo will be very interested to hear of these developments and may decide to deploy sulphur as the tracing element.”
“I thought that Indigo had perished at the struggle for the Ford ten years ago?” questioned the Admiral, unaware of the unimportance of his rank within the walls of Three-mile ford.
“Admiral” continued Chief V, “do you really think we would risk the inevitable by disclosing the whereabouts of our finest personnel? Why, I have only just been told by The Formula upstairs of the plan. Please gather your wits.”
Admiral Lozike whimpered slightly, not unlike a pathetic example of a puppy apologizing for its inability to steady its bowels on Nana’s best sheepskins. Cosatch stood silently, desperate for another mental duel with the Admiral.

“Indigo and Oppz must be alerted to the possible catastrophe at once. Mar will discover the disappearance of Sizz soon enough, and then she will retreat to the labs in haste. We must intercept her before that labia Kluzens does; the Duffield completion would result in untold discomfort for us from all angles… fetch my car!”
Admiral Lozike was aware that he was the only one not permitted to leave the Ford and resigned himself to the fact that a great abundance of salad would await him in his quarters as a cushion to the blow.
“Lounge 9 meeting adjourned”, came a voice over the intercom. Chief V had spoken and all were reunited with purpose. Cosatch wandered who The Formula was. ‘Twas a name redundant before now and his excited intellect wished to know more. He would ask the Chief on the way to the square, no doubt.

As the floor descended through the Ford at massive rate, Cosatch turned to the Admiral and challenged his defensive sagacity with a triple-layered nine-pin problem – the five cornered plethora ranch. The Admiral retired to his quarters (level sub-9) to study the problem, taking only a wholemeal chew bar with him. The Admiral sighed a bottomless sigh in contemplation of the vicarious joy with which like in the Ford furnished him. He recognized, not for the first time, that it was walls that gave a man freedom.
“I’ll see you in hell Cosatch…” the Admiral muttered fondly whilst tapping in the co-ordinates to his quarters.

Next chapter…