Snippet Ch. 15

Snippet from Chapter 15 Cosmogonic Marbles

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            Philip Philips had never travelled through time, space and realities before and if ever asked to do so again he would flatly refuse with an unexaggerated statement like ‘I’d rather cut off my left testicle’.

He felt like (and in fact he was) being torn down to his basic atoms, those atoms being torn down to sub-atomic particles and those particles being torn down to what felt like minuscule nerve endings on which tiny dwarves were performing a version on River-Dance shod in hobnail boots. 

The sensation only lasted a moment but it was long enough to turn a lock of his jet black thinning hair a dirty-snow grey.  If he had been a handsomer man it would have made him distinguished, but as it was the lock of grey made him look like a new sports car owner having a particularly heavy mid-life crisis. 

            Philip landed, or more crashed, onto the soil of a parsnip field.  He lay there for a while, half-hoping that when he came round he would be lying on his bathroom floor in a pool of purple Guinness puke (as had happened to him on more than one occasion), but to his bitter disappointment he felt a cold natural breeze wafting across his hair and face, as well as a slightly hot dampness on his check from the ploughed ground. 

He opened his eyes and sighed heavily.  It was real. Darn! He sat up, brushed the loose soil from his face and pushed his hair back off his brow, not noticing his new unfashionable lock of grey.  He was sat in a field of vegetables, looking down into the distance at what appeared to be a ruined town or castle surrounded by thousands of ant-like people and hundreds of bright tents.  Philip was a perceptive man and so ran through a series of mental checks to be sure that he followed the events of the day; the upshot of which was the question, was he really in a medieval version of the Earth?  He looked around for telephone poles … none, he looked up for the long white scars in the sky left by airplanes … none, he even pulled out his mobile phone and tried to ring 999 … no signal at all. 

            “Neil Armstrong eat your heart out,” he said loudly to no one in particular.

“What do I do now?” he added equally as loudly.

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” said Fred-the-Other-Idiot who was sitting on a low wall just behind him chewing on a raw parsnip.

Philip looked around at the poorly dressed peasant, got to his feet and in a vain attempt to look menacing puffed out his chest and put his fists up.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asked.

“Don’t think so. Me’s a bit tired on account of coming across the channel last night and hav’n to walk to the boat from the hovel, which took three days I mightn’t add.  But he might,” said Fred-the-Other-Idiot.

Philip’s head darted around looking for dangers, his fists still held comically in front of him. There were none apparent, which made him even more nervous.

“Who?” he asked the parsnip chewing dirtbag.

“’Im,” came the reply.

Philip’s head did a neck jerking dance for dangers once again. 

“Who are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Denis,” said the peasant.

“Denis who?”

“I don’t think he has a second name, not one’s I’d dare mention in ‘is company,” spoke Fred, “You’s see he has a rather unfriendly disposition.”

“My disposition is going to get very fucking unfriendly if you don’t tell me who you’re talking about!” half-screamed Philip, his dukes still up.