Prologue and Day 1
No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.
Some weeks ago a colossal puff of flame suddenly and violently squirted out of the Mars, "as flaming gases rushed out of a gun." observed keen astronomer Meghan. She wasn't quite sure what to make of it, but felt assured that the chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one.
And yet, on this first day of Queen Victoria's Battle Royale, a star fell from the sky and into the common. The common where a demented nautical-looking negro lived on a bench with his only friend, a golden beetle that only sometimes bites.
The crash of the star awake Lily, and he went to investigate the crater. In the centre of the crater there lay a metal cylinder. Recklessly, heedlessly, Lily ran and unscrewed the lid of the cylinder barely noticing the intense heat since she was used to it, being from the Afro-caribbean tropical savanna. The mighty strength bred into her race by generations of slavery meant that unscrewing the lid took barely any time at all.
From within the cylinder stared out two luminous blue disk-like eyes, and forbiddingly they advanced. However, Lily was having none of that and punched the Martian directly in the head numerous times until it was quite evidently dead. With the Martian goodwill ambassador killed, Lily proceeded to search the metal cylinder much as he would search a bin...
Iain Keers lay on his back and observed his brown arched abdomen divided up into rigid bow-like sections. The blanket slid off of him to reveal numerous puny legs flailing about. Keers gazed about his adequately human room complete with tasteless pornographic images hung upon the walls.
Unsure what to do, Iain Keers resolved to sleep until things returned to normal, however he was used to sleeping upon his right side, a position he couldn't now attain. Therefore Keers had little choice but to get out of bed, a task far more challenging than it had a right to be...
Life is an ocean of pain. At least it was for The Abominable Croc, who's life was thrust upon him by his mother Meghan. He was entirely alone in this world, hated and reviled by all who set eyes upon him for reasons he barely understood. Acroc was persecuted wherever he went, driven out and attacked like some kind of vermin. This was all Meghan's fault, Acroc never asked to be born, it was forced by that ghastly bitch who stuck a crocodiles head and tail on his human body and brought it to life!
He smashed on the door of Meghan's laboratory-cum-observatory, however Meghan must have seen him coming, for she burst out another door riding a bicycle that was far too small.
Acroc rawred and fired his Enfield inaccurately, his shots smashing windows all over the place. Unsure how to reload, he spun the musket around and wielded it like a club as he feebly charged after the far swifter bicycle.
Stian didn't like life at the orphanage, he never got second helpings of gruel and that was his favourite meal in the whole world, except for hot sausage, mustard, hot jelly, custard, pease pudding, saveloy, steak...
So without further ado he sung to himself as he left the orphanage for a brave new life as a street urchin and rapscallion.
The Emperor—it is said—sent to Anaxima, his single most contemptible subject, the tiny shadow that fled far, far from the imperial sun, precisely to Anaxima he sent a message from his deathbed. He bade the messenger kneel by his bed, and whispered the message in his ear. So greatly did he cherish it that he had him repeat it into his ear. With a nod of his head he confirmed the accuracy of the messenger’s words. And before the entire spectatorship of his death—all obstructing walls have been torn down and the great figures of the empire stand in a ring upon the broad, soaring exterior stairways—before all these he dispatched the messenger.
But that's not important right now, for Anaxima had found a strange device and was curious as to its function. It looked something akin to four-poster bed, but with many many needles suspended from it, and straps. If only there were someone present to describe its workings to her.
Snugz watched the hapless Anaxima looking at his elaborate torture device, and edged forward taking care to be quiet. Just as she bent over for a closer look he – resisted an urge – for he was at this moment naked so that he could not be seen. Should he risk it and have a little fun before he killed her? A question that has no doubt puzzled all the greatest minds of Britain at some point or another. He put thoughts of giving into his throbbing member aside and pushed anaxima onto the bed of the torture device, and acting quickly he fastened the straps onto Anaxima's arms and ankles. Then just as he – resisted another urge – for she was enticingly helpless and now there was no real risk of her escape, and with her gagged surely no-one would come and disturb him?
Snugz gave in, and began to rip off some choice articles of Anaxima's clothing, God but Victorian women wore so much!
Talon flying overhead spotted a black cat sitting atop what looked like an abandoned bed, it turned its head to look at him and he saw it had one eye!
“That damn cat, why must it haunt my every step!”
Flying in his Cavorite craft, he banked in and opened fire with his maxim gun, the cat must be purged, purged, PURGED!!!
Snugz panicked when he heard gunfire, and quite lost his vim. Talon's bullets were slamming into Anaxima as Snugz dismounted. Cursing, he left Anaxima with what clothing he had failed to strip away and activated the torture device as he made his escape – if I can't have her, no-one can, he thought.
Anaxima wished she was dead, but as she lay mangled and full of bullet holes, with ripped and bloody clothing, she lived. The machine had flayed her and tattooed the word “Harlot” all over her body, but the wounds were apparently not fatal. How, she did not know, but she wished they were. The pain eased and her body healed, though the tattoos remained and her situation was still lacking in promise. Even though the torture device was wrecked, she was still strapped into it and gagged, helpless against any enterprising man with a lack of morals.