Spontaneous Combustion

It’s been quiet at Farthington Manor of late.

Eerily quiet.

Too quiet.

Once, the Manor served as a sort of spa and retreat for all members of the Glueminati, whether they be active in the sport of grappling, or were merely in a management or administration role. Hanks and FLAMBERGEs could enjoy all the Manor had to offer as equals. A true example of the egalitarian society that most good and kind hearted people would say they were seeking in life.

Hell, they even let Dirk Dickwood out in the sun every so often, but that mostly led to him yelling “seaward” at a nearby red robin. No one knew that Dirk was so knowledgeable about the migration patterns of the birds of the British Isles up until that point. When celebrated for his depth of knowledge, he looked at his Glue compatriots, smiled, wrapping an arm around Cecilworth and Hank, began to look mildly menacing, and uttered “yeah, that’s exactly what I fucking meant.”

So, a bird man, unmysterious and knowledgeable.

Since the Culture Shock period though, the air had shifted in the manner, and it had very little to do with the warm late spring sun shining upon the Grand Farthington Septic Tank, although it certainly didn’t help matters. No, a series of unfortunate events (and one good event, maybe two actually) had befall upon those who would walk the marble floors of the jizzcursed big boy building.

First, in a fit on mania, Cecilworth Farthington decided to helpful remodel the Drippin’ Room of the Manor into the Healing High Pressure Steam Room, a location that he insisted multiple times had skin blasted the negative thoughts and feelings right off of his face, and therefore his brain. Many of the manor staff had long since learned to just go with whatever the Universal Champion used to justify his awry decision making process. In this case, most knew the real reason of the renovation was due to Farthington taking a perceived slight by FLAMBERGE at Joe Fontaine’s very successful birthday party, and in classic British passive aggressive style, rather than confront the issue, had instead smashed up the room that he knew FLAMBERGE appreciated the most in the manor.

The room that gave him ideas.

Terrifying ideas.

Ideas you don’t even want to see.

Because you can’t see them because first of all you’d be more likely to hear someone speak this kind of idea, and secondly, FLAMBERGE daren’t even speak them lest the world knew how deeply his fucked up special brain was.

Then during the actual Culture Shock, Cecilworth may have had a hand in both snapping a limb and scrambling the eggs of Phil Atken’s hand chosen protege, which was a “big oops” moment for everyone involved. They really shouldn’t let those boys fights, it’s vicious and possibly may lead to civil suits due to emotional trauma inflicted upon the viewing audience should such a thing happen again.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, some podcaster got tape of Hayes Hanlon fuckin’ and now Hayes Hanlon is very upset that people know he fucks. Or at least that was Cecilworth’s understanding of the events. He wasn’t paying much attention during the emergency briefing that was called in the Manor. After all, he had a Big Bangable Bash to report on, Cecilworth knew it was his moral duty to inform the wider viewing populace of the Most Tepid Event of The Spring (™)

Also, Joe was busy building a wrestling golem and building a new spider-sprung jolf club, which was just Joe throwing spiders in someone’s face, or at least Cecilworth was pretty sure that was part of Joe’s most recent pitch deck for investment.

It was feared, despite Glue being more disparate than ever, Cecilworth wasn’t taking it as seriously as the rest of the Manor-based team.

Particularly around the point he decided it would be amusing to name a fuckability (or wrestlebility!) contest in Dirk Dickwood’s name.

So there he sat, watching the spittle fly out the mouth of Phil Atken in the Manor’s War Room, as he tried to detail every way Cecilworth had “fucked it” recently, apart from managing to keep the Universal Championship in the family.

But the Universal Champion had some different FUCK! or fuck on the mind.

—

“Alright pal, bud, I need you to explain this whole tournament you are running online to me.”

If the red hue of Dirk Dickwood’s face wasn’t enough of an indicator of the level of pissed off one of the two Angry Scots of the Manor had reached an alert level of chartreuse (one of the highest! Green can be a dangerous colour to the Scots you see), the fact he had started a sentence with two slang words for “friend” was really getting the level of panic stations moving up to “burgundy” at rapid speed, after all burgundy was an alert colour for all nationalities.

“Sure, so, Red Bull called me up and…”

Cecilworth, in his best “schoolboy trying to talk himself of a suspension” form, didn’t get much in the way of whatever yarn he was about to spin.

“No they fucking didn’t.”

At this moment, Cecilworth ponders whether he should continue to stress that the fine people of Red Bull simply ask him to create a tournament to help their SEO in a battle against another unnamed energy drink. Looking at the now puce face of Dirkwood, he didn’t think that one was much of a go-er.

Take two it was.

“Phil rang me up…”

Even less chance to get into that attempt before a vein began to hatch on the forehead of Dickwood.

“No he fucking didnt.”

Sure, he was cut off earlier, but he was the longest reigning champion in the long history of PRIME Wrestling, you don’t get to that spot by giving up so easily. He knew he would hit on the right answer available.

“Your legendary career…”

Dirk’s vein was a quick proud parent of four more veins birthed out just below his ever thinning hairline. I’m not exaggerating, in that very moment, you could see clumps of hair falling out in real time.

“No it fucking wasn’t.”

Arms crossed, Cecilworth applauded Dickwood, and chuckled “I see you’ve played”. Excuse Gauntlet” before. I have clearly underestimated a master”. Now you may wonder how he applauded Dirk with his arms crossed.

Very carefully.

“I’ve been with you for eighteen years, I thought that would buy a bit more respect that slapping my name on whatever the B3 even is.”

Farthington, noticing that both Dirk’s face and the status of alert in the room had mellowed to a reasonable amber, decided not to immediately retort with “the most tepid event of the spring”, after all he was still waiting for the trademark to come through in that moment.

“You know what I think?” questioned Dirk, very much in the tone of any Scottish father who was now going to lecture you on emotions he had buried for several weeks until there became a moment where the spark was lit. “I think you’ve leaned into this BANG! or bang nonsense, one, to try and get Coral’s attention again by mentioning his Japanese home eighty times on television. Secondly, ever since you, and yes he may not blame you but I certainly, after YOU injured FLAMBERGE, you have used this nonsense, IN MY NAME, as a retreat from the real world. A retreat from consequences. You always tell others you are their consequence and yet you cannot be your own.”

A mirthful expression is immediate on the Universal Champion’s face. “Well duhdoy Dirk, consequences rules make it very clear you can’t be your own consequences agent. That would be absurd! That’s not how consequences work.” Delighted at his point scoring in what was very much not a debate, Farthington kicked his feet up on his desk and began to scribble on the clipboard.

He had a clipboard in his left hand the whole time, and had turned away from Dirk as if he had just won the day as he observed his notes, he shouted out in horror “NO! NO! DOUBLE JILES? THIS SIMPLY WON’T DO.”

Dirk Dickwood decided that in this moment the appropriate thing to do was walk over to his sometimes friend and former charge, quickly grab the clipboard out of Cecilworth’s hands and smack him all up the back of the skull.

“That was for putting my name on this nonsense.”

A second solid thwack.

“And that was very being a petulant shite to me right there.”

Farthington didn’t respond in kind, he began to rub the back of his skull. After all, he knew that Dirk was right in what he was saying, he was being a petulant little shite. Or shit. Whatever way the posher English people would recognise it in their voice.

“Now follow me, we’re getting you to face what you’ve been putting off.”

Dirk extended a hand to gesture to the door out of the War Room. His head hung low, the Universal Champion, still rubbing the back of his skull, dutifully skulked out the exact door Dickwood pointed to.

—

As Farthington and Dickwood walked out the Manor’s main gate, it was a beautiful May day. The skies were blue, the birds were chirping, the pigeons were scatting and coast to coast of the British Isles, seagulls were stealing peoples chips but not their fish, because the frying was a bit too heavy and every seagull had seen how much grease the fish man was in his frying oil, so they were on fish strike, as agreed to in a 65% successful ballot of the Seagull Union.

However, the moment that Dickwood and Farthington started to make their way down the pathway to whatever location it was that Dickwood decided he needed to take Farthington to heal him of his sins, the scene shifted. Like a lighthouse that had just dimmed the sky dimmed like an LED slider set to zero. The darkness was joined by lightning bolts that lit up the grass mere meters from the duo. The thunder rumbled as if it had just ordered a Taco Bell burrito and was now regretting its life choices.

That’s where Dickwood found what he was looking for. Two tombstones, one with an arm engraved upon it, the other with a brain. The angry Scot shoved the Universal Champion in front of both of them, allowing Farthington to get a better look at the two plots he now found itself in the middle of. He scrunched up his face in a quizzical manner, looking back towards his once guiding light in all things wrestling. “Did Farthington Manor always have this cemetery?”

A few blinks of confusion delayed Dirk’s response “you didn’t know? Haven’t you lived here as a child?”.

“Well, yes, but a lot of that was locked inside so as not to bring shame upon the family so I didn’t get out on the grounds much. Also my father said the groundsman was a surly Scot and we should never communicate with the vile filthy Scots.”

The heaviness in the air with the implications of Cecilworth’s ramblings hangs around like it was a Bobby Dean trip to the gallows. Both men elect a mutual understanding that it is probably best to forget that little slip up rather than absorb the thought too deeply. A rainy gravesite felt like it had much space for exploring the tough concepts of xenophobia at this exact moment in time. Plus the rain was still being a bastard by refusing to go either vertical or horizontal. Horizontal rain is the best kind because you can pretend you are the main character of a first person shooter with your umbrella batting off all the moist bullets firing in your direction.

Before Cecilworth can overshare any other classical family tales, Dirk chopblocks the Universal Champion, causing him to kneel in front of both of the freshly dug ground holes of death. This is quickly followed by the terse instruction of “Pay. Your. Respects.”, said through enraged and gritted teeth, at a grit level tense enough to crush a diamond.

That’s when Cecilworth, his hamstrings now actually quite sore now, actually noticed who he was paying respects towards. Or more specifically what.

Here Lies FLAMBERGE’s Arm.

Snapped In Twain.

Article 51

Severing It From His Body. 

A tear forms in the Universal Champion’s eye, just the one mind, as he finally absorbs some of the mental consequences of his recent actions. His chest heaving in and out, his breath getting heavier, his head getting lighter, he looks to the other headstone. 

FLAMBERGE’s Brain

Scrambled Like Egg

No Tossed Salad

That’s when the blues really started acallin’ to Cecilworth. Now there was a tear in the other eye. Both eyes contain a magnitude of wetosity. Looking up to the heavens, Farthington screamed the loudest scream, one that would allow the deaf to hear, only to destroy that and take away the seconds of bliss they had, making the scream much more traumatic to anyone within earshot.

Not Dirk Dickwood, he already had ear defenders on.

“It should have been me! IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!”

A third eye also developed a tear, I’m not saying where it was.

Farthington began to roll left and right across both graves, shaking his fists towards the heavens.

—

“Back to being yelled at by Phil Atken”, Farthington thought. He’d dwelled enough on his bizarre adventure with Dirk Dickwood earlier that day and that had bought him some space in the “not paying attention to the spittle ridden man with jagged teeth (non-metallic division) continued to bang the table in front of him and make looks of angry sounding noises.

Farthington knew it was probably important to listen to Phil, normally that helped him win matches and make friends and lose enemies. Yet, all he could think about was poor FLAMBERGE’s arm and brain. They hadn’t even invited his family over to see the limb and muscle one more time.

Every time Farthington zoned back into the conversation, he noticed something quite odd. Something that left the other two men in the room, Dickwood and Hank, unperturbed. Since everyone else was cool with it, he just assumed that it was a normal thing when an elderly man’s chest continued to inflate. He didn’t really spend much time with his father before his death, so he took it for granted that balloon chest was a normal ailment of men of a certain vintage.

Yet, despite no one else noticing, he grew more and more concerned as no one else reacted to the fact that Atken was inflating in a manner as if someone had put an airbed pump right in his belly button.

The scene was made all the more surprising because Cecilworth remembered Phil Atken’s PRIME press shot. The man’s chest was caving in on itself, so for it to now be expanded so large means the internal inflation had started from an even lower internal baseline.

Every time Farthington’s eyes darted back to Dirk and Hank, he couldn’t understand why they did not find the whole scene just a little bit odd. He wasn’t able to consider the medical anomaly for much longer as Atken could tell that Farthington wasn’t paying much attention.

“Oi! Fucko! Remember you’ve got Tsonda. I’ve got the strategy that will explain everything.”

It was at this point, something rather unexpected happened.

Phil Atken’s chest exploded.

Now, the chest flesh of the founder of Glue splattering in oozing thuds against the walls of the War Room would typically be the most distracting thing that you would expect at this moment. Yet, this was not the most surprising thing.

The most surprising thing was the fifty small fully formed babies were now crawling out of the chest cavity of the flesh vessel that was once a former Universal Champion.

Well that would certainty be a bit of a shocker alone.

Yet they all had thick luxurious grey heads of hair, and concave chests. Hank and Dickwood both immediately leaped out of their chairs and began to applaud. They applauded an applause so fierce it sounded like the encore applause of a theatre of thousands. There were even whistling noises, even though no one had whistled.

The Universal Champion stood still as baby after baby crawled freshly out of the Atken cavity. You wouldn’t have expected that so many could fit in there but nope.

Fifty.

Fifty babies.

Right out the chest.

/~/~/~/~/ 

Tay Tsonday, it was the most horrific thing that I’ve ever witnessed in my life. I would not recommend it. 

Like a chocolate rain spurting forth from Phil’s chest, baby after baby came forth. 

The only worse sensation would be losing the Universal Championship.

Dirk and Hank said they were my babies, that I had to become a better father than you could ever be an uncle. 

I tried to lift one and my heart sank. It was like bankruptcy and murder was a combined thing that I would experience at the same time so I knew I died poor. 

When they told me that they would be mostly stored in vats in case FLAMBERGE needed new brains or arms, I wished I was anywhere else. Perhaps swimming in a vault full of money, but soft money so it wouldn’t hurt me. Like those chocolate pirate coins, they’d probably be pretty okay to swim in. 

When I looked at all fifty of them, shitting on the floor, demanding whisky and the murder of every wrestler over forty, I realised that I needed to escape back to the business and away from the hell world that had just been hatched before me. 

I swore to myself that I would rather die in the ring and let the curtain fall upon me than come back home every day to the squawking of these deranged Atken Tots. 

I’m not even that fond of the limelight, I just don’t want to be dealing with fifty fucking babies that came out of a man’s chest. That’s just not right. 

Please let me win, I don’t want to live in a new hell. I promise I will aim not to injure a single limb or muscle. I can’t promise about pride, people get stuck up about that.

Just let me keep dancing.

I must keep dancing.

Dancing until I am dead.

/~/~/~/~/ 

All of the Phil Nippers had broken free from the chest of the master. They all sat on the ground on the War Room, wailing in unison. At the point of this massive wall of sound, there was no longer a window left unshattered in the entirety of Farthington Manor, a testament to the power of all the little Phils working together in unison.

The Universal Champion was knocked over by the power of the collective, yet Dirk Dickwood and Hank continued to stand, applauding their new masters and vowing that they will be put to use, building a better FLAMBERGE. A FLAMBERGE society could not yet comprehend.

They apologised to the bairns, saying that some would need to be sacrificed due to the actions of “HIM!”, with their thumbs jutting in the direction of Farthington.

It was at this moment, something snapped inside the Universal Champion, as he howled into the night air that “NONE OF THIS WAS MY FUCKING FAULT.”

Now, here’s the exciting bit. After this night screech, one of two things happened and thanks to the advantage of story telling technology I can now present to you “An Adventure That You Can Choose (™)

So you can either imagine:

A) An old gramophone began to play the theme song to “The Benny Hill Show”. As this music blared through the War Room of the manor, each individual of the fifty babies exploded one by one, until the final one gave a cheeky salute before its own turn for spontaneous combustion. Hank then smashed the gramophone, outraged by the exploding baby situation.

Or

B) Through means of no musical device at all, “Also sprach Zarathustra” began to envelope the entire War Room with its sound. All babies immediately ceased crying and shitting and began to crawl back inside Phil Atken’s chest. At the big “BA BA” bit of the song, Phil Atken stood back up off the ground, wiped his hands down his chest and was as back to normal as Phil Atken can be. It was like witnessing a miracle.

In either scenario, turn to the page where it states that Cecilworth defiantly states “see, that’s proof none of this was my fault!”

I think it was either p. 67 or p. 69 but I lost my own copy.

Bit of fun isn’t it? I have the trademark, so it’s my fun alone.

—

The Diary of Cecilworth Farthington, Aged 39 Years, 11 Months, 12 Days.

I had the weirdest fucking dream.

Almost being forty years old and a melatonin are a wild ride.