On this day five years ago, TG set up this blog. I dunno about anyone else, but I’m amazed this place has lasted for half a decade now. Shall we go for five more?

The segment opens with a swooping view from the ceiling, past the opening of the Mucky Dip, with its spirals of pink and purple, and down to Sian and the two guards, who are standing by the chair.

Sian: You’re watching Comeuppance with me, Sian Welby. If you haven’t voted yet, you’ve missed your chance, because voting is now closed. Don’t try to phone in; your vote won’t count and you may still be charged.

Sian strolls over to the cages with the guards in tow.

Sian: Hello again, Ladies! You all look worried, and so you should be. You especially, Lizzie.

Lizzie tries to look defiant, but can be seen to gulp.

Lizzie: W-why me?

Sian: Oh sorry, I said your name, but I was thinking of Victoria!

Victoria simply giggles nervously.

Sian: Though surely you should be the most worried, Meera.

Meera fidgets like a cat on an anthill.

Sian: [taps her earpiece] Ah-ha! We have the final result!

The dramatic ambient music plays and the lights dim except for a spotlight on each cage.

Sian: The people have spoken, and their verdict—

An annoying ringtone plays.

Sian: Oh, that’s mine. Excuse me a mo.

Sian pulls out her phone. The music cuts and the lights go up.

Sian: Hi Keith! How you doing? ‘Fraid I can’t chat now; I’m doing an episode of Comeuppance! Yeah, you got me at the really tense bit! Hope all goes well on Celebrity Juice, byyyyee! [Puts phone away] Sorry about that. My mate Keith Lemon there.

Sian looks around at the cages, where the contestants look ready to pass out from the suspense.

Sian: What’s up ladies? Waiting for something? Oh, of course!

The edgy music restarts and the lights go back down.

Sian: The people have spoken, and their verdict is as follows:

Relief radiates from Victoria and Lizzie, while Meera lets out a dread-laden cry. Her knees buckle and she sinks to the floor of her cage.

Sian: Oh yes! Meera knows what this means! Gents, take her away to face her comeuppance!

The burly guards swing open the door of Meera’s cage, yank her to her feet, and half march, half carry her to the waiting chair.

In a more genial manner, Sian unlocks the door to Victoria’s cage.

Sian: Victoria, I was looking forward to making a quip rhyming Vicky with sticky, but alas you and your suave black suit won’t be getting the slightest bit sticky, slimy or smelly. How does it feel to be as safe as houses?

Victoria: Sian, it feels absolutely wonderful!

Sian: I think for once no translation is needed! Well here’s something else that’s wonderful: a Jammy Dodger trophy to put in your estate agent’s window and let everyone know you got away with it! Thanks for being with us these past two episodes.

Victoria: Thanks Sian. By the way, if you ever plan to move to Guildford, do let me know.

Sian: You’ll help me find a property?

Victoria: No, I want to be the first to move out!

There is a sharp exclamation from the audience.

Sian: Ouch! You’re very lucky it’s too late for a re-vote. Ladies and gents, an insincere round of applause for Victoria please.

Victoria waves her trophy aloft as she exits the stage to a slow handclap. Sian goes over to Lizzie’s cage.

Lizzie: You gonna let me out then?

Sian: Fraid not Lizzie! You really should’ve read up on the rules, being a lawyer! As tonight’s runner-up, you are duly summonsed to face retrial next week, so you may get your comeuppance yet!

Lizzie rolls her eyes as Sian walks away and over to the white plinth.

Sian: Phew! What a tense and exciting episode! And it’s all been building up to this moment: Meera the dentist is in position and the Mucky Dip is open wide for her! [Looks up] Meera, how d’you like being the one in the chair for a change?

The foreboding music begins. The scene switches to a close up shot across the bumpy, glinting bands of pink and purple. The camera glides upwards. A good metre above the slop, Meera’s bare feet kick frantically. The camera continues up her legs, clad in sleek black trousers, and reaches the ends of her long white coat. Meera’s kicking causes the chair to swing back and forth slightly. Onwards the camera rises, up her turquoise-clad torso, coming to a stop at her face. Meera has her eyes closed and is flashing her own pearly whites in a tortured grimace.

The music fades out.

Sian: Oh wow, can we get a close-up on that face? This, ladies and gents, is the dentist who loves to terrify her patients, but look who’s terrified now! Say “ARRRRRGGGGHHHH!!” Meera! Ha ha ha!

Sian puts her hand on the red button. A couple of bleats issue from Meera.

Sian: Meera, on behalf of everyone who has suffered in the dentist’s chair…

Sian and audience: HERE IS YOUR COMEUPPANCE!!!

Sian whacks the button, setting off triumphant showers of sparks across the studio. Meera’s grimace remains frozen as she plummets; only her hair moves as the air whooshes through it. She plops into the vat, splashing up a halo of pink and purple slop. A wave sloshes over the rim, lumps sliding down the walls of the vat.

The gunk further splashes and thrashes, accompanied by a sound effect like a primaeval belch. The jiggling cables then pull taut, and a gunky, humanoid blob emerges from the vat, greeted by rapturous cheering and the usual mocking fanfare. In some places, the colours remain well-separated – a grimy, murky purple, designed to evoke disgust; and a dazzling, garish pink, designed to attract ridicule. Elsewhere, the two have been churned together, forming new lurid combinations.

Meera’s formerly white coat has slipped off her shoulders, and dangles soggily from the chair. Though thick and sticky, the gunge is also extremely wet, and has plastered Meera’s shirt to her body. Despite the lumpiness, the shape of her delicate bust can be made out, glinting in the studio lights. Meera’s trousers are likewise soaked through, and her feet are encased in the goo.

Glistening and misshapen, Meera’s head twists and jerks about, spluttering, gagging for fresh air. It is only when her hands begin to peel away gunk-coated layers that it becomes evident her hair has whipped round and stuck to her face. Once her face is cleared, Meera’s mouth prizes itself open in a wide gasp. Globs of the muck dangle from her lips. The audience loves it. Meera lets out a strange cry – halfway between a scream of shock and groan of revulsion.

Meera: Yeeeeeeeeuuughhhhh!!

Sian: Oh my word!! That was amazing! She got our very special dental treatment there! Flossed… rinsed…

A huge load of creamy white gunk drops onto a squealing Meera, blanketing her.

Sian: …and crowned! That was a thoroughly deserved comeuppance and it would please us all greatly to see it again in super slow-mo.

The scene shifts to a slow-mo replay of the dentist dropping to her doom. Meera gurns to the max, and her legs deliver one final kick before she meets her fate.

Sian: And from above!

The replay from the bird’s eye camera shows the elegant bands of pink and purple contort and break up as Meera’s legs penetrate the muck. A huge wave rushes outwards as her bottom splashes down. After Meera’s torso and head have been consumed, her jet black hair remains momentarily draped over the surface, clinging on like an explorer sprawled out on quicksand. Then the waves of gunge rush back in and it’s all over.

Sian: And finally, the poolside view!

There follows a replay from the camera at the rim of the Mucky Dip. Meera’s wriggling feet and trouser-clad legs pierce into the goo. Her white coat briefly billows before too being sucked under. Meera’s grimacing face comes into view just before the shot turns pink.

Back in the present, the pink, purple and white gunks are making a marbled effect as Meera tries to wipe herself. She has cleared the worst from her face, but the stuff is so painty that her skin remains tinged. Her hair is still MIA under layers of sludge. Meera’s mouth is pursed in disgust, although she is partly playing up to the camera now. She sticks her tongue out and waves a hand in front of her nose.

Sian: Smells good, eh Meera? Tell you what, you can squelch your way back to your surgery like that; the patients will be even more petrified than usual!

Meera: [feigning a menacing glare] Sian, if you ever end up in my chair, you’ll learn the true meaning of pain!

Sian: Meera, if you were the last dentist on Earth, I’d take my chances with a pair of pliars! But seriously, you’ve been a great sport and a very fun contestant, so we appreciate you signing up for this.

Meera raises her hands in an expansive shrug, and grins with a self-deprecating nod. A batch of lemon-coloured slop drops from above, causing her to shriek and grimace again.

Sian: [facing forwards] That’s all the “mindless populism” we have time for tonight. Thanks for watching, and remember: if a profession cheeses you off, don’t get mad, get them mucky! Good night!

The funky outro music plays and Sian waves from the edge of the stage, as the camera zooms out and sweeps over the raucous audience. The camera shows Lizzie in her cage, trying to look contemptuous and dismissive of the messy spectacle she has witnessed, although a anxious hand through the hair betrays her true thoughts. The scene then goes back to Meera up in the chair, trying to reclaim her hair from the gunky morass. Her mouth still curls in disgust and she is hunched up, feeling the cold. She jerks and screams as a last-minute downpour of light blue catches her unaware. The closing scene of the programme is a slow-mo replay of her ascending from the Mucky dip, plastered in the purple and pink.

So it looks like I’m running the shop again. I’d like to reiterate my thanks to VanillaXSlime for his services as blog admin, and to wish him well for the future. I’d also like to give my continuing thanks to Byron McSteele, who quietly does a lot of work, in capacity as editor, fixing and updating pages on the site.

A few announcements:

The finds page

The informal nature of the finds page has proven very popular. Even registered authors seem to prefer using it to posting on the front page. The downside, as pointed out in discussion a few months ago, is that it is very hard to find (ironically) anything posted more than a couple of weeks ago.

I’m not really sure what can be done about this; it’s perhaps a fundamental limitation of the blog format. But to improve the level of organisation, I have forked the finds page into two: TV finds and civilian finds. There may well be the odd find that fits into both or neither of the classifications, in which case just choose one; it doesn’t matter. The old finds page is now archived and closed to new comments.

Submit your own banners

Following the idea of Lily et al, you are duly encouraged to submit your own banners to appear at the top of the site! Simply download the banner template and use a graphics manipulation program (such as the wonderful GIMP) to fill the green area (652 by 198 pixels) with your chosen image(s).

Then you can either email your banner to me (address at the bottom-left of the blog) or upload to an image-sharing site and link in a comment. If possible please include info and a link to the picture or video featured, to be used in the banner index. You will of course be credited for making the banner.

The Wammies vote

…will up soon!

Thanks,
TG

Polls close at 10 pm GMT on Thursday 28^th. If I’ve missed out a nomination or there are any other problems, let me know ASAP.

Best Celebrity Wamming
Best WAM Show
Best Civilian WAM
The Holy Grail Award
The Goolitzer Prize
The Showercap of Shame

To the readers of this story, apologies for the hiatus. I kept meaning to return to writing this, but one project after another got in the way. I’m now pleased to release the next part at long last (and I promise I’m not trying to influence the Goolitzer vote in my favour!)

Since you’ve probably forgotten what the hell has happened so far in this story, here are the previous parts:

Prologue
Laura’s Penance
Imogen’s Penance

Slime dripped from Maria’s extended hand, landing near the larger pool that was accumulating at her feet. Her smile faded, the corners of her mouth drooping as if melted in the seething glare of the suit-clad Asian before her. Her hand likewise fell by her side.

“What is the meaning of this?” growled Chung. “Was the fencing around the press area not obvious enough? And you!” Her eyes flashed across to Laura. “What did I say about keeping out of trouble?” Chung glowered further at the sight of the video camera in Laura’s hands. “You’ve been recording in here!? Have you broadcast any of that?”

“Not yet,” said Maria. “De rock’s too tick to transmit a signal. But when I get back above ground I’m going to unveil dis miracle to de world!” She beamed.

“No you’re not!” Chung snatched the camera from Laura. She yanked out the memory card, dropped it on the floor, and crushed it under her high heel. She twisted her foot until only a small pile of mangled silicon remained. For good measure she tossed the camera towards one of the gunge pools. It bounced on the pool’s edge with a winceworthy crunch before sinking beneath the lumpy surface.

“HEY!!” shouted Maria. “You can’t do dat!”

“Photography of Wam-Pie-Goo is a grave profanity,” Chung bristled.

“And destroying a journalist’s footage is violation of United Nations Charter!” Maria lunged at Chung, but the nimble Asian sidestepped. Slipping and skidding, Maria tumbled flat on her front.

Chung was about to put a stiletto print in the impertinent Pole’s backside, but a better idea came to her. “Ms Jaczinski,” she said in a more genial tone, “if you wanted to find out more about our faith, you only needed to ask. We have specially-sanctioned chambers for liason with the press. I’d be very happy to provide the interview you desire.”

“Oh, I see.” Maria staggered to her feet. “Den please accept my apologies for de misunderstanding.”

“No problem. You can join us too, Laura.” Chung looked over her shoulder. “I’m sure you’re dying to find out how…”

But Laura hadn’t hung around to find anything out. Footsteps echoed from the stairway.

“OI! COME BACK!!” bellowed Chung. She contemplated giving chase, but then turned back to face Maria, resuming her polite demeanour. “Oh well, she doesn’t know what she’s missing. Now if you’ll excuse me for just one minute.” She knelt in the hexagon before the statue.

“Er, mind if I do de Wam-pie-goo ting to get clean?” ventured Maria. The look over Chung’s shoulder gave her her answer. But Maria didn’t care about being slimy; her eyes glazed over as the allure of jounalistic nirvana beckoned once more.

“Listen, Miss Chung,” she said, after the Asian had completed her chanting. “Nowhere News is willing to pay a generous sum for a candid exclusive. Just name your price. We want all de juicy details.”

“Worry not, you’ll get plenty of extremely juicy details,” said Chung smarmily. “And you don’t have to pay me a penny; the pleasure will be all mine.”

Still sopping with foam and blue and orange gunge, Imogen squelched her way around the temple, her robes clinging uncomfortably to the delicate curves of her petite form. She didn’t fancy stepping out into the driving rain to rinse off, but there didn’t appear to be any washing facilities in the temple.

Laura came running towards her, an urgent look on her face. Imogen raised a soapy hand to wave, but then did a double take.

“How did ye get yerself clean so fast?”

“It was the Wam-Pie-Goo thing!” Laura exclaimed breathlessly as she ran up.

“Ye wha?” frowned Imogen.

“It’s this statue, it stops you getting messy if you say ‘Wam-Pie-Goo’, I don’t know how it works but it does, and I think Maria’s in trou—”

“Ey, steady on lass,” chuckled Imogen. “Ah think you’re a wee bit delirious from all those pies!”

“I’m serious!” Laura implored. “I met Maria Jaczinski – you know, from Nowhere News – and I think she might be in trouble!”

Imogen smirked. “And wha makes ye think tha?”

“The last I saw of her, she was with Ann Chung!”

Imogen’s jaw dropped. “Tha bitch!? We better help her!”

“Quick, this way!” Laura grabbed Imogen’s wrist and pulled her in the direction of the staircase. “Actually no, that’ll be the way she comes back. We need to go another way.” She scanned the rows of doorway and openings. “According to my calculations, that door over there should do.”

Maria grew dizzy with twists and turns as she scurried after Chung through a maze of corridors, caverns and catacombs. But she was certain of one thing: their general direction was a downward one. Deeper and deeper into the mountain they corkscrewed, until Chung came to a halt outside an archway. Maria squinted at the markings engraved above it, which appeared to be numerals of some alien system.

“Chamber 17,” explained Chung. “Ms Jaczinski, as a non-adherent to our faith, you are required to remove all of your clothing except your underwear before entering. Part of the purification process.”

“Ok, sure.” Maria pulled off her shoes and socks. She was relieved to get out of these sopping clothes, and in any case, she was never shy about exhibiting her body. Unbuttoning her saturated jeans and letting them slide down her legs, she was reminded of the bikini shoot she had done for Bloke magazine a few months earlier.

The chamber was cubic, the ceiling supported by four great pillars of the ubiquitous green rock. In the centre of these was an inner enclosure, raised on a platform and shrouded by a bulky canopy. And in the centre of this was a great stone chair, with a tall back and stately arms.

“Take a seat, Ms Jaczinski,” Chung gestured.

“Ahh, de interviewer’s chair?” Maria clambered onto the platform.

“I guess so,” said Chung, “though we call it the Hot Seat.”

Braving the kiss of the cold stone against her slimy skin, Maria sat down. She stretched out and posed, admiring herself in the throne-like seat.

“But where are you going to sit?” asked Maria.

“I’m not,” smiled Chung. Maria heard a click and looked down to find her wrists shackled to the arms of the chair.

“Hey what?!” Another click and her ankles were similarly clamped. “What is dis? I tought we were doing an interview!”

“You thought wrong!” chuckled Chung as she tapped the wall. A stone slab slid away to reveal a complex array of levers and buttons. “But don’t worry, you will learn something: a lesson on not to intrude and meddle where you don’t belong!”

Chung hit a switch. Demented fairground music played through an arrangement of whistles and pipes. In front of Maria two streams of blue gunge surged forth. The goo arced through the air, landing at the base of the throne and covering Maria’s squriming feet. Swishing from side to side, the streams slowly ascended, sloshing over Maria’s shins. The gunge was much thicker than the pool slime she was already soaked with – a bright, opaque blue.

“Stop dis at once!!” snarled Maria. “Wrongful imprisonment of a journalist is…ARRGHHH!!!”

Similar blue gunge started to drizzle from the canopy, raining onto Maria’s hair and shoulders. She wriggled furiously in her restraints as the slime ran down her front and back. Meanwhile the swishing jets reached her lap, coating her thighs. Due to the shackles on her ankles she was unable to close her legs, and she moaned as the forceful jets sloshed against her panties, massaging her clotch. Mercilessly the gunge continued upwards, making Maria scream at its cold, taunting touch across her belly. Next it reached her breasts, making them jiggle inside her skimpy black bra.

Chung stood by watching with a calm but satisfied smirk.

“YOU WON’T GET AWAY WITH DIS!!” screamed a thoroughly blue Maria. “I WILL BRING YOU TO JUSTICE! I WILL TAKE YOU TO DE HIGHEST COURT IN DE LAND! I WILL—glub!!”

Maria was silenced as the jets of gunge swept against her face and blasted back her hair. She closed her eyes and grimaced. When at long last the jets abated, she panted with relief. The drizzle from above lightened, and the innane music seemed to be fading (though perhaps that was just the goo in her ears). Could her ordeal be over? Spluttering, Maria cautiously prized open an eye.

SWOSH!! A horizontal sheet of yellow gunge, extending from Maria’s knees to her back, dropped from the canopy. Maria let out a screech as it engulfed her.

“OOOOHHHHH!!” Maria’s near-naked body shook with the coldness and sheer gunkiness of her fresh coating. She was a complete mess of yellow and blue, her skin, hair and even the initial green slime barely visible.

“Ahh, I do like to put the old Hot Seat through its paces,” simpered Chung, strolling towards her victim. “But that was just a warm-up.”

As Maria blinked her eyes free of gunge, she saw that Chung was carrying a cream pie. Overwhelmed by her gunging, Maria no longer had the energy to shout, curse or struggle, and her eyes meekly rose to meet Chung’s.

Chung held the pie in front of Maria and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Once I’m done with those student brats, I’ll be back here to finish dealing with you. It’s going to be a very long session.”

She slammed the pie into Maria’s face and screwed the tin.

Lionel Fairfax might not have been the most sparkling Bollinger in the clubhouse, but he hadn’t failed to notice Chung’s recurring absences, nor the flustered air with which his usually unflappable assistant had made her most recent flight. He was therefore relieved to see both her and her confident strut return. “Is everything ok, Ann?”

“Couldn’t be better,” smiled Chung. “I just need to know the whereabouts of Miss Johnson.”

“Last I saw of Laura she was with Imogen,” Sarah piped up. “They went into one of those doorways.”

Chung’s smile dropped. “Damn it! I need to find them immediately. This is a place of worship, not a playground!” She turned to storm off.

“Uh, Ann,” said Fairfax. “What about the next penance?”

“Of course,” scowled Chung. “Let’s get on with it then.”

The head priest unfolded his sheet of paper with gnarled hands. “Sar-ah Stead-man,” he intoned, spitting out the English syllables like pieces of gristle.

“Thank God for that!” sighed Tessa. “Still time for Daddy to get here and sort this out. Have fun, Steadperson!”

Sarah scowled at Tessa and stepped forward. The stormy breeze rustled her robe as she stood isolated in the centre of the square. All day she had been playing one of those agonising games of Left Wing Top Trumps with herself. In this instance, the clashing cards were “respect foreign cultures” and “oppose patriarchal religions”. However, as the judgemental glare of the bearded priests bore down on her, the quandary resolved itself in her mind. She had no doubt which card won.

With a single motion, Sarah let her robe drop to her feet. A gasp went up from the spectators, and shutters went into a clicking frenzy. Sarah stood there in her dark blue bra and knickers, which were unfailingly plain and practical in their design.

“You know what these are?” Sarah pointed at her bust. “They’re mammary glands. Fifty percent of human beings have them. Why don’t you take a look?”

Sarah unclipped her bra and tossed it into the lap of the scandalised head priest. She placed her hands on her hips, unabashed at revealing her small but very perky breasts. Hardening in the cool air, her nipples pointed at an upward angle, with the priests directly in their defiant line of sight.

“Man, you gotta hand it to these femmos,” remarked the reporter from Bloke magazine.

“Where on Earth is Maria?” fretted the Nowhere News cameraman. “She’s missing it all!”

“See? They’re just body parts!” Sarah shouted. “Nothing sordid, nothing sinful. You won’t turn to stone from seeing them.” She hooked her thumbs into her knickers. “Do you want to see something else that women have?”

Fairfax sprinted across the square. “In the name of Her Most Gracious Majesty, HALT!” He grabbed Sarah’s robe and tried to lift it over her body. In the ensuing struggle the pair tumbled to the floor, Fairfax looking most awkward as he found himself face to face with one anatomical feature after another. After a lot of unpleasantness he managed to bundle the robe over Sarah.

“Just what has got into you, Miss Steadman?” hissed Fairfax, blushing profusely as he straightened his moustache.

“Ms!!” snarled Sarah from somewhere under the robe.

Eventually, a re-robed Sarah stood once again before the priests, with Fairfax and Chung keeping a firm grip on her. It was with a wobbling voice that the head priest handed down her penance.

“Sarah,” Chung translated, “you have shown a grave lack of respect for Wam-Pie-Goo. You must learn the ways of our religion… by taking a trip around the great temple!”

“But I already have,” Sarah protested as Chung marched her away.

“Not like this!” Chung brought Sarah to the end of a railway track. Parked there was a tub-shaped vehicle, like a fairground waltzer but hewn of stone like everything else. As Sarah got closer she saw there was a small, bench-like seat inside, and before she knew it Chung had hoisted her over the rim of the waltzer and into the seat.

“Enjoy your trip!” Chung pulled down a lever, setting off a complex arrangement of weights, pulleys and flywheels. The waltzer glided forwards, while some local people began to play upbeat music on traditional instruments. Soon the assembled press were clapping along. Sarah snorted and folded her arms.

Sarah jumped as something hissed and sprayed at her, but it was only some sticky, coloured twine, not unlike silly string. “Is that the best you can do?” she shouted, picking the string off her shoulder. An anonymous hand reached out of a hole in the wall and dropped Sarah’s bra into her lap. Sarah rolled her eyes and tossed the undergarment away.

The waltzer paused its horizontal motion and descended, together with a piece of the floor, as confetti fluttered down from above. Sarah found herself inside a corridor, dimly lit by high-set windows. The train track spanned the length of the passageway, which was flanked by gargoyles on either side. Once lowered into position, the waltzer recommenced its forward journey.

“UURRGHHH!!!” Sarah squawked, as something wet and cold blasted her from the left. The first gargoyle had spewed out a jet of green slime, which clung lumpily to Sarah’s arm and the side of her neat, shoulder-length hairstyle. In quick succession, a gargoyle on the right spat a load of purple goo, which coated her other side.

The waltzer proceeded through the gauntlet of gargoyles, each issuing its own colourful contribution. Sarah screamed and squirmed one way then the other as the reds, yellows and blues pelted her. Soon the brunette hue of her hair could no longer be seen, and the white of her robe was fast disappearing too. The cold slime plastered the thin garment to her body, and Sarah wished she had not been so hasty to throw out her bra.

Finally, the waltzer left behind the last of the wretched gargoyles, and Sarah felt the breeze against her saturated figure as she exited the corridor and back into the open air. She slicked her slimy hair behind her ears and peeled the robe away from her skin, frowning in the glare of the clapping and cheering spectators.

“Sarah!” chirped Chung’s voice. “Hello Sarah!”

Sarah whipped her head around, but the infuriating Asian was nowhere to be seen.

“Sarah, up here!” called Chung.

Sarah looked up to discover she was passing beneath an overhanging platform. There was a hatchway above her and she looked just in time to see Chung empty a bucket. Horrified, Sarah tried to duck away but was too slow. Beige slop of a most unpleasant consistency hit her square in the face.

“PLLEUUUGHHH!!” Sarah spat. She raised her hands and wiped her eyes in a pair of synchronised side-swipes. The nasty goo still around her mouth, she looked back up to glare at Chung, but this proved to be a huge mistake, as another load of slop, this time a darker brown, rained onto her face.

“Oh Sarah dear, you’re so predictable,” crooned Chung, as she reached for another bucket. Sarah was not about to repeat her folly, and hunched over in the waltzer. She squealed as something cold and slimy plopped onto the back of her head and slapped against her back. Chung had one more bucket left and aimed this a bit further forward. It landed heavily over Sarah’s kicking legs, weighing her robe down between her thighs.

It was somewhat to Sarah’s relief when the waltzer resumed it’s journey, but this relief promptly dissipated as she entered an archway and found herself in a dim, cavernous chamber. The track followed a bridge over a pool of greenish-brown slime. Sarah pressed herself against the inner wall of the waltzer, wary of what might await her.

Then she saw it.

At first it looked like a bigger-than-average lump in the slime, but it soon became clear that the rising mound was something solid. Boggling eyes snapped open, and Sarah screamed as they fixed her with a luminescent greenness. The swamp creature continued to rise, revealing curving shoulders, maladroit arms and a dumpy belly. It was humanoid in basic form, but clearly not of Homo sapiens. Hideously misshapen and bloated, it wobbled about on trunklike legs. It appeared to have severely impaired coordination.

Sarah shrunk into the waltzer, whimpering, her messy state almost forgotten. The creature met her with a ghastly grin, as the eyes continued to boggle. The slime slipped away in lumps, revealing the being’s flesh. It was pink, but a much brighter pink than human skin, and it was marked all over with big, yellow pustules.

Then the creature spoke.

“BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY!!” the creature roared in a primitive tongue. It stooped and with both hands splashed the slime over the waltzer. Sarah screamed at the stringy, gelatinous slime sloshing over her. She cowered in the car as the hulk approached, her eyes boggling almost as much as the beast’s. She was frozen, unable to react, as it upturned a bucket over her head.

“BLOBBY BLOBBY BLOBBY!”

“Euugghhh!!” Sarah moaned as the gronky glop oozed over her hair and down the back of her neck. “You bastard!” Her fear replaced with indignation, she punched the oafish creature on its small red nose.

“AWWW BLOBBY-BLOB!” The eyelashes fluttered, and then the brute keeled over with a splash, sinking into the rancid muck.

To her great relief, Sarah didn’t have to wait to see if the thing would resurface. The waltzer restarted and transported her from the dingy chamber and into a winding passageway. Smirking with satisfaction at the way she had seen off her adversary, Sarah was caught completely off-guard when foam sprayed from the wall on both sides, engulfing her head and upper body.

“Plaaahhh!” By the time Sarah wiped her eyes, she was greeted by daylight and a sea of flashbulbs. The waltzer had come to a final stop, inside a little alcove set in one of the temple’s great stone walls.

“Well, hello there Sarah! Did you enjoy your trip?” The suit-clad Asian stood beside the alcove, smarmy and smug as ever. Sarah rippled with fury as she fidgeted in the seat, feeling the cold, sticky goo squelch around her bum.

“Yeah, very funny Chung,” muttered the foamy girl. “Now how do I get out of here?”

“Oh, you’re not going anywhere yet,” simpered Chung. “I still have to pull the final lever!”

“Final lever!? NO!!” yelled Sarah, but her protestations were drowned out by a wailing siren. A downpour of pink gunge erupted from above, with a surging central deluge accompanied by smaller peripheral jetlets. Sarah hated pink – the colour of traditional feminine stereotypes. She had never worn pink in her life, but now she was set to wear it all over – the girliest shade of pink imaginable – from her ruined bob hairstyle down to her bare, squirming feet.

Sarah’s head shook under the torrent. She cursed and moaned as the coursing gunge finished her off. When the deluge finally abated, the head priest approached to deliver his pardon.

“Sarah, you have served your penance,” confirmed Chung, “and are duly absolved of your wrongdoing.” She looked down at her shoes and tights, seeing globs of the pink slime clinging to them. “Not again!” she hissed. “I’m going to sort this out once and for all!” She turned on her gunge-splattered heels.

“Ann, where are you off to this time?” enquired a bemused Fairfax.

“I need to find Johnson and Fraser.”

“What concern are they of yours?” shrugged Fairfax. “They’re free women now – none of our business. Maybe they’ve already left the temple.”

“They haven’t left,” said Chung impatiently. “They’re here, causing trouble!”

Fairfax smirked, his moustache wagging. “And how could you know that?”

For this Chung had no answer – at least, none that she wanted to divulge to her buffoon of a boss.

Fairfax took out his pipe. “Listen Ann, we only have Miss Montague-Fawkes’ penance still to go. Why don’t we get this wretched business done and dusted, then we can go back to the consulate for G&Ts, eh?”

“Fine” snapped Chung. “Where is she then?”

“Oh er, I’m not too sure.” Fairfax looked around. “Miss Montague-Fawkes?” he called.

Tessa did not materialise.

“Miss Montague-Fawkes?” Fairfax repeated, louder.

The crowd of reporters were hushed now. There was no sound except the beating of rain.

“MISS MONTAGUE-FAWKES!!” bellowed Fairfax. His clipped upper-class accent echoed around the temple.

The reporter from Bloke magazine stepped under the press barrier and approached Fairfax.

“You looking for the tall blonde bird? Huge knockers?”

Fairfax looked at the man disdainfully. “Uh, yes, well, I suppose that’s one way you could describe…”

“She’s gone mate,” said the reporter. “Off down the mountainside. She promised to do a photo shoot in return for me not grassing her. Oh, and she said you’ll be hearing from her daddy.”

“Golly gosh!” exclaimed Fairfax. “Ann, get onto the consular staff! We must find her before the local pol—Ann?”

Fairfax turned to address his assistant, but she too had scarpered.

cc0

Best Celebrity Wamming
☆ Christina Tosi ☆
Masterchef Junior
 

Best WAM Show
☆Chega Mais☆
(aka Belas X Feras)
 

Best Civilian WAM
☆ I’d Do Anything For Joe ☆

The Holy Grail Award
☆ Myleene Comic Relief gunging ☆
with full build-up

The Goolitzer Prize
☆ Tank Talk ☆
by TripleWAM
 
Episode 1: Cara Delevingne
Episode 2: Charli XCX
Episode 3: USWNT
Episode 4: Rita Ora
Episode 5: Emily Blunt
Episode 6: Kate Upton
Episode 7: Amy Schumer

The Showercap of Shame
☹ Jake Hammond ☹
for harassing celebs and no doubt putting them off getting gunged

The show opens with a high-heeled Sian strutting out onto the stage, smiling and waving as the audience clap and whistle.

Sian: Hello! Thank you very much! I’m Sian Welby, and it’s my pleasure to welcome you to another episode of Comeuppance, the show where the downtrodden take power and the wicked get mucky!

More cheering from the audience.

Sian: I’m sure most of you know how the show works by now, but for those unlucky enough to miss the first three episodes, here’s a quick run-through. We meet three contestants representing disliked professions, you the public vote on which makes your blood pressure surge the highest, and that person gets their just desserts in our yucky, Mucky Dip!

The camera sweeps over the rim of the tall, cylindrical vat, above which the chair is parked. Presently there’s too much dry ice mist to see what’s inside.

Sian: Oh yes, in that vat lurks the slopiest, slimiest, stinkiest punishment on all of television! It makes “I’m a Celeb” look like a weekend in a luxury spa. There’s been plenty of speculation on social media as to what exactly goes into our muck, but from the guesses I’ve read so far, you’re not even close! But whatever it is, one of our three contestants will be getting well acquainted with it! Let’s meet them.

The personal injury lawyer
Sian: Reappearing in the Comeuppance Court is last week’s runner-up Lizzie, a 27-year-old personal injury lawyer from Dundee.

The two men in guard uniforms wheel on a cage containing Lizzie, while the audience boos and hisses.

Sian: Lizzie, did you hear about the personal injury lawyer who was in a traffic accident himself?

Lizzie: No.

Sian: The ambulance braked suddenly!

There follows a muted snare drum sound effect and a smattering of groans.

Lizzie: [with arms folded] Ha ha. You know, I’m not at all pleased to be dragged back here again. Time is money and you’re wasting it. You’re lucky I’m not charging you to answer these questions, because my rate’s fifty pounds a question.

Sian: You charge fifty quid just for answering a question?

Lizzie: Yes. That’s a hundred you’d owe me by now.

Sian: Ok, let me try a more probing question. Last week the public showed their strong disapproval and voted you within a whisper of a comeuppance. Did this give you cause to examine your conscience?

Lizzie: Sorry, my what? I’ve heard of cross-examining a witness, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. By the way, that brings you up to £150.

Sian: [incredulous] Huh? How can you charge me when you didn’t even answer the question?!

Lizzie: Because I can. That’s two hundred and fifty.

Sian: Why two hundred and fifty?

Lizzie: That “huh?” was definitely a question. Three hundred!

Sian: I think we better leave it there. I’ll ask the audience a question instead: would you like to see Lizzie dunked in our foul muck?

Audience: YESSSS!!! [cheering wildly]

Lizzie snorts loudly, but there’s a quiver of her lip that she can’t quite hide.

Sian: [smiling as she turns to the camera] I’d say that’s a unanimous verdict, and no doubt you folks at home have a similar answer. But before you dial in, let’s meet the other contestants; they may be even more deserving of a comeuppance!

The TV licensing enforcement officer
Sian: Our second contestant is Stacy. She’s 26, from Bath, and she’s been a TV licensing enforcement officer for three years.

Stacy is wheeled on to the standard boos and jeers.

Sian: Full disclosure, Stacy: we’re a commercial broadcaster and the BBC is one of our rivals, but there’s no denying that the TV licence has come under fire in recent years. Some call it an archaic tax that feeds a bloated organisation and makes no sense in the internet era.

Stacy: [shrugs] I don’t care about the pros and cons, Sian. It’s the law to have a TV licence if you watch TV, and my job is to enforce the law. You can’t say “I think that law is silly so I’m not going to obey it”; it doesn’t work like that.

Sian: But do you have to be so heavy-handed? We’re getting tweets from viewers saying they are continually hounded by you people, even though they’ve told you a hundred times they don’t watch TV.

Stacy: Viewers, eh? Who don’t watch TV? That’s a good one! I’m going to make a note of those tweets and investigate every single one. [Looks directly into the camera] Now listen up! if you’re watching without a licence, you’d better get one before I catch you. Because believe me, catch you I will! [Jabs a finger at the camera] Yes, I’m talking to YOU!!

The audience boos.

Sian: Ooooo, scary! Well Stacy, as much we don’t condone breaking the law, there may be more temptation if you find yourself above our Mucky Dip. It’ll be compulsive viewing!

Stacy responds with a pouting smirk and a small shake of the head.

Sian: [faces forwards] But before you phone in to condemn Stacy, or indeed Lizzie, it’s only fair you meet our final contestant. Let’s bring her on!

The payday lender
Sian: The last of tonight’s contemptible contenders is Deborah. She’s 25, from North London, and she’s run a payday loans business for the last five years.

There is much booing and hissing as Deborah’s cage is wheeled on.

Sian: Deborah, I’ll get straight to the point. According to your website, the interest rate you charge on your loans is more than 6,000%. Six thousand percent!

Deborah: [yawns and waves a hand dismissively] That’s just an illustrative annual rate that the law forces us to publish. It doesn’t really mean anything because most of our loan periods are much shorter than a year… if the customer pays on time, of course.

Sian: But even if it were for only one day, that’s a scandalous interest rate!

Deborah: Boo hoo. If it makes you unhappy, you can always undercut me. Why don’t you lend your money to these individuals at a nice low rate? Eh? Not keen? [Looks out to the audience] What about you hypocrites? Any takers?

The audience boos back at her.

Deborah: Yeah, I hear a lot of noise, but there’s no money where those mouths are! Fact is, Sian, I lend to individuals no-one else will lend to. It’s only thanks to me, putting my dosh on the line, that they can borrow at all!

Sian: But some people really shouldn’t be racking up debt.

Deborah: [shrugs] They’re adults. I’m not their nanny. They’re responsible for their own decisions and the consequences.

Sian: I’m glad you believe that Deborah, because the consequences of losing this show are very severe, and attract more interest than one of your loans!

Deborah sticks out her tongue and waggles her head in a contemptuous fashion. Sian walks forward to address the camera.

Sian: Well you heard it all there. Three very unrepentant sinners. In an ideal world they would all get their comeuppance, but sadly there’s only space for one on that seat up there. You, the British public, must decide who fills it. Should it be Lizzie, the personal injury lawyer whose middle name is fee? Should it be Stacy, the TV licensing officer who pesters you with letters and house-calls? Or should it be Deborah, the payday lender whose interest rates are nothing short of shocking? The numbers are up on your screen. Get voting!

Poll closes at 10 pm on Saturday 6^th February. You may vote once every 12 hours if you so wish.

The Benton Academy VS Manchester Academy Football Game.
By
Sunflower
A Sequel to ‘The Pie Pod’

Lana took a deep breath as he peered toward the wooden four posted tank that had been rolled into the middle of the field. The first breath of autumn was blowing across the field and the faint noise of people booming or cheering from a thousand or so voices filled the air. The longer she peered toward the tank, the longer her cheeks started to flush with color. It was a deep blush that was quickly starting to match the color of her hair.

“So, you must scared.” A voice beyond Lana said. The voice belonged to a young women, around the age of eighteen or nineteen. The women had long blonde hair that reached down to the small of back, she wore a simple cotton dress that was pastel pink in color. Plastic matching pink, plastic sandals completed her outfit.

“Not really.” Lana said shifting her eyes toward the source of voice, the voice belonged to a classmate, her name was Sarah and she was a grade or so above her. Among the folks at Benton Academy she was considered by all the queen. Her request, where often treated as royal degrees and her suggestions where treated with the same relevance as the ten comments.

“Good, because right now there bringing our hostage over now.” Sarah said peering toward a young women with raven colored hair. She was flanked by the whole twelve women squad of the Benton Academy cheerleading squad. The cheerleaders dressed in there white an’ scarlet uniforms all wore grins upon there face as the smirked toward the women at there center.

“She looks scared.” Lana stated as she peered toward the women. She was dressed in a simple outfit, a light cotton blouse, daisy yellow in color. A simple white skirt that reached down to her knees, cotton stocking and Mary-Janes with a big brass buckle completed the outfit.

“She does, I’m sure she some kind of poor freshman that been drafted or forced to take part. She too simple really, not the type that would attend these sporting events. Poor girl, I’m sure she knows at the end of the night, she going to be totally covered in are school colors.” Sarah said taking a deep breath as she grinned softy. “And I was hoping to slime one of those stuck up cheerleaders.”

Lana did not say a word as she watched the cheerleaders guide the girl over to there side. Smiling a little she took a seat down at one of the plastic chairs. Lana then raised her eyes to catch sight of a honor guard of cadets dressed in there ‘Class A’ uniforms. There must have been eighteen or so of them. All marching in step.

“There quite a sight.” Sarah said peering toward them. “Look at them, they must have taken all day to polish there drill rifles to make them shine like that. And look at those swords, I know those swords have no blade, but they make quite the sight.” She added as she peered toward the cadets who wore swords, strapped at there waist. Most of them had small silver disk pinned to the shoulder boards of there coats. Marking them as commissioned officers in academies JROTC program.

“Right..” Lana said taking a deep breath as watched a captain, she guessed he was a captain because he had three round disk pinned to his shoulders. Quickly she drew her eyes toward the cadet. Slowly he strolled toward the front of the bandstands.

“As agreed upon by both the homecoming courts of Benton Academy and Manchester Academy, are hostage has been delivered. One Heather Elizabeth Upton. We now require you to hand over your hostage, Lana Taylor Edwards.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Both of whom, have given there constant to slimed in the winning schools colors.” He speech was formal and stiff.

Lana took a deep breath as she stepped forward. The captain of the guard took a deep breath as he motioned for three of the men under in his command to go and take Lana by the hand. The jester was understood by those who it was aimed at, for soon, three cadets wearing swords stepped out. Two of them took Lana by the hand. Smiling a little they wrapped there glove covered fingers around her shoulders as they guided her toward the platoon of waiting cadets.

It took only two minutes for the armed squads to make there way across the field. Without saying a word, the two cadets that held Lana tight in there hold, quickly dropped her into a wooden chair that had been set up among cheerleaders. A post of six cadets armed with old M1 rifles then took there position. It a clear sign to all, the tour de force had been mention to inspire fear and loathing in the other team. The display screamed, ‘Look Raiders, we have one of your own students under arm guard. And there nothing you can do to save her.’

Lana for the most part could only look on, as the opening kick was made and the football game got underway. The minutes seem to drag by as Benton Academy made one bad play after the next and one touch down after another was scored by the hated rival of Manchester Academy. The cheerleaders on the other side had taken to chanting “Go team go! Free Heather! And slime the hostage!”

Lana could only blush at these chants and shifted her weight from on part of her bottom to the other. Right now the prospects of getting out of her clean where slipping through her fingers. Each touch down scored and each yard given up inched her a little closer to a very slimey fate.

But on the other side of the field, Heather was cheering the battered and bruised players on, promising each one a kiss on the cheeks of they delivered her from the hands of enemy. Her pleads seemed to embolden the players and like Wildman they guarded the leather football. Beating back with all there strength the greedy hands of there attackers.

The score at halftime foreshadowed a victory by the home team. Manchester Academy was leading with a score of thirty four to a score of fourteen. The brief paused in the action, allowed for Lana to collected her thoughts before the second half of the game resumed. Taking a deep breath she reached into her pocket and pulled out a long string of glass beads.

By her very nature, Lana was something of a carefree person, the last time she had attended Mass was some weeks ago, when her mother had dragged her and her sister from there nice warm beds. Indeed she could still remember being dragged from her nice warm collection of blankets and pillows, being forced into the shower, having ice cold water poured upon her body. Squeezing herself into a nice proper dress and being hauled into the awaiting car.

Then enduring the twenty minute trip from there little cottage in the sticks to downtown Yazoo City, and then worst of all having to sit in the musty, incense filled church and listen to the Proper Latin Rite being read by one Fr. O’keen, one of the last of the classic Irish Priest. She recalled nothing of the service, only recoiling in confusion as Fr. O’keen had offered her the host. She still pondered when Erin switched from exporting priest to pork. As most of pork products brought into the house had the label ‘Proud product of Ireland’ as if the merchant was proud to sell pork from the stepchild of the Islas.

Not that any of this mattered. But it did help her pass the time and endure the horrible halftime show the brass marching band put on for the entertainment for those who had turned out to support the players. Despite the intense rivalry between the two, both sides applauded. The slaughter resumed again.

And what a slaughter it was, control of the ball never left Manchester’s hands, as a result they scored one touch down after another after another. By this time, the defeat was a real possibility for Benton Academy along with seeing there hostage being slimed in twenty gallons of green, pastel colored slime. The slime was a classic mixture of cake batter and eggs and cooking oil.

“Hey.” A voice behind Lana said. The voice belonged to a young girl with chestnut brown hair, “No hard feeling right.” She said offering her hand to Lana, her pale blue eyes seem to almost twinkle in the light cast by bright floodlights.

Lana blinked and blinked again as she peered toward the young girl. Quickly her baby blue eyes locked with the hers. Without saying a word she reached down and took the offered hand and forced herself to smile, what else could she do. “Nan.” She said grinning a lopsided grin. Still smiling she squeezed the offered hand and then allowed her arms to drop at her side.

“Good,” The girl paused as she peered toward the odd looking tank that was being loaded now with forest green slime. Bucket by bucket was being passed to one, solo student who was filling the reservoir above the tank. “Man.. It must be like, like having your foot stuck between two railroad ties, and peering toward the headlamp of a oncoming train.” She said signing, she then rolled her shoulders a little. “Glad its not me.” She quickly added before going off to the sidelines.

“Something like that..” Lana said taking a deep breath as she stood up. Quickly she started to smooth out the wrinkles that had formed in her clothing. In the course of her conversation with girl, the game had ended and home team had won a stunning victory. The tank was also now fully loaded and was in the process of being wheeled into the center of the field.

“And what a game that was, ladies and gentleman.” A loud voice proclaimed over the sound system. “The final score, Manchester forty one to Benton Academy twenty one. Now, before we close for the evening, I would like to call your attention to center of the field. Before the game, both sides gave up one of there students as a hostage.” There was a pause. “ The hostage from the losing school would, covered in what the young folks are calling slime.”

“Guess that my cue.” Lana said taking a deep breath as she stood up and pushed the plastic chair back, releasing her breath she allowed herself to taken by shoulder as two cadets.

“Sorry about this.” Whispered the one on Lana’s right.

“Just following orders..” Quickly added the one on Lana’s

“No hard feelings.” Lana said sweat dropping a little as she was lead onto the field. Taking a deep breath she watched the one of the two, the one on her right leave her side to open the clear plastic door. Once the door was open, she stepped inside and eased her bottom down upon the heavy wooden stool, that had been placed just above the dripping tank. Once she was seated, she folded her hand in her lap and closed her eyes as she heard the heavy plastic door being closed.

Once Lana was sealed inside her plastic tomb, a loud count down started. Lana felt her cheeks turn a bright red as she peered toward the tank sitting above her head, a soft whimper escaped her lips as the seconds slowed down and time itself seemed to stop almost. Her eyes grew wide as a heavy rain of forest green slime fell down upon her head.

Being heavy, the slime rolled down her head, and down her back, it clung to her hair and her skin. A sudden shutter ran down Lana’s back as she felt some of the slop running down her back, her blouse was totally covered and the thick mixture clung to her hourglass like figure. As the last few drops dripped down on her, Lana felt a sudden rage building inside of her. Just like that night at the county club. She though as she felt the green sludge pool around her ankles.

It took a solid minute for the shower of slime to slowly stop. Once the vault above her head was empty the plastic door open and a sudden blast of early autumn hair smacked Lana in the face, signing she forced herself to rise up from the hard wooden seat and gently she made her way onto the grassy field.

Once she felt herself touch the cold, damp earth, a feeling of safety washed over her, the worst of it was over for now at least. She’ll spend the part the weekend cleaning herself up, and then come Monday she sink back into the hollow halls of academia. Then she’ll do her best to keep a low profile and her nose clean, and maybe, just maybe when the fall carnival came around, she’ll not be drafted into playing a part.

The End.

The segment starts with a close up of Sian’s face. It is screwed up in disgust and her neck is awkwardly twisted, as if she is trying not to face something. The camera zooms out, showing that Sian is up a ladder against the mucky dip. A wooden plank in her hands, she stirs the contents like a cauldron.

Sian: Euugh, hi there folks. This is far closer to the Mucky Dip then I’d like to be, but the crew warned me it was getting over-congealed in here.

She inches her face towards the vat and peers in with her lips pursed.

Sian: I think that’ll do it. Pwwwfff! The smell gets really bad when you churn up all these dregs!

Sian pulls out of the plank, feigning a struggle against the muck, complimented by a sucking sound effect. When she finally retrieves the plank, the goo covering it is predominantly greyish blue, with pinkish and straw-coloured streaks. Lumps deform downwards like stalactites before plopping off, and an object dangles from the end.

Sian: What on Earth is that?! Looks like an old sock!

The audience laughs. Sian descends the ladder and hands the plank to one of the guards.

Sian: Is that one of yours, Charlie? Take it away and destroy it in a safe manner! Dear me, the things I do for this show! [Approaches the cages] But of course, it will be far, far worse for one of our contestants, and deservedly so! Ladies, voting has been brisk as always, and I have here the midway scores, which may offer you a glimmer of hope or pang of despair accordingly. But before I reveal them, I think you should see what I’ve just seen. So without further ado…

Audience: …LET’S PREVIEW THE GOO!!

Sian: Indeed! Let’s preview that goo!

The bird’s-eye camera makes its usual spiraling zoom into the Mucky Dip. The gunge is made up of patches of a dirty greyish blue, a stale straw colour, and an unappealing reddish-pink. The colours have been swirled into intermingling streaks where Sian has stirred the goo. The scene then switches to the rim-side camera. The surface has a toe-curling lumpy texture and a dull finish, looking slightly crusted. Furrows are still visible where Sian has stirred. While all this is shown, an inset box cycles through the chastened faces of the three women.

Sian: Oh yes, let me tell you, a most unpalatable waft comes up when you break the skin on the top! Hold that image in mind, ladies, while we take a look at the midway polling:

Stacy stands stunned, her mouth slightly open. Her eyes keep flicking away from the screen and then back again. She clearly wasn’t expecting this result at all. In the adjacent cage, Lizzie too looks perturbed. She gazes upwards and whispers something that probably isn’t family-friendly. Deborah, by contrast, clenches her fists and hisses “yes!”

Sian: It’s another close one and that’s how we like them! Stacy with a nudging lead, but Lizzie very close behind. And Deborah… really Deborah I wouldn’t look too pleased, because you’re not that far behind. Stacy, are you alright there? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!

Stacy: I, erm… I…

Sian: [Turns to the camera] Stacy’s right to worry. But though we may be harsh on this show, we always strive to be fair. That’s why I’m going to give each of our contestants 15 seconds to address you the public directly, to explain why you shouldn’t condemn them to the Mucky Dip. [Turns back to the cages] Deborah, the nation has lent you its ears; let’s hope it doesn’t charge too much interest.

Deborah: [in animated fashion, waving her arms] I came on this show cos I’m sick of hand-wringing nanny-staters giving us lenders grief! My clients are grown-ups and if they wanna be mathematically-challenged schmucks then they got every right to be math…

The klaxon blasts and the audience boos. Deborah makes an obscene gesture at them.

Sian: No need for that, if you don’t mind! Now Lizzie, if you would please make the case for your defence.

Lizzie: [sternly] There’s a wee thing called double jeopardy which means I shouldn’t be here facing retrial. A vote for me is a wasted vote, because I will find a loophole that lets me wriggle out of this – just you see!

The Klaxon blares and the audience boos loudly.

Sian: [scoffs] Well good luck with that Lizzie, because we have some excellent lawyers too!

Lizzie tries to look dismissive but her blinking shows she’s rattled.

Sian: Now Stacy, it’s your moment to plead with all those viewers you extract licence fees from.

Stacy: [shaken but defiant] Now look here! I don’t know why anyone should vote for me! If you’ve already bought your TV licence, you have nothing to fear from me. And if you haven’t, then you shouldn’t be watching! SWITCH OFF!!

The klaxon snarls and the audience boos profusely.

Sian: Stacy, has it ever occurred to you that your paid-up customers might be just as fed up with the TV licence?

Stacy’s frown indicates it hasn’t occurred to her.

Sian: [turns to the camera] And that’s all there is to say folks. The Mucky Dip is ready and waiting, but only you can decide who goes in it. Keep those votes coming in and don’t miss the concluding part of the show, when one of these women behind me will get her comeuppance! Ooo yeah!

The segment opens with Sian and the two guards standing next to the chair in front of the Mucky Dip.

Sian: Welcome back to Comeuppance, with me, Sian Welby. Voting has continued apace in this tight contest, and we’re very grateful to all who have done their democratic duty. Without your participation, we couldn’t have a show, so thank you. However, polling is now closed, so please don’t try to call in. If you do, your vote won’t count and you may still be charged.

Sian and the guards approach the cages.

Sian: Ladies, we’re just doing a final verification of the scores. It’s important to get this right, after all. We wouldn’t want to persecute the innocent, would we Stacy?

Stacy: [looking worried] W..why you asking me?

Sian: Cos that’s what you TV licence people do! [Strolls on to the right-hand cage] How you doing Deborah?

Deborah: [trying to look cool] Not too bad Sian.

Sian: [dawdles across to the left-hand cage] You feeling good about this, Lizzie?

Lizzie: [twitching] Can we just get on with it!?

Sian: Wow, first time I’ve seen a lawyer not want to drag out proceedings! Ok, here goes.

The lights go down, except for three beams illuminating the cages. The dramatic background music plays.

Sian: The public have delivered their verdict, and it is as follows:

The lights go up.

Deborah: [dancing] Oh yeah! Oh yeah!

Stacy: [exhaling] Oh, thank goodness!

Lizzie: [turning very pale] I want to refer this to a judge!

Sian: And the lead has switched! Guys, take Lizzie away to serve her sentence!

The guards unlock the door of Lizzie’s cage.

Lizzie: Wait! I have right of appeal! You can’t…

The guards yank Lizzie out of the cage and frogmarch her over to the chair while she struggles with every fibre of her being.

Lizzie: Let go of me! This is kidnap and false imprisonment! Cruel and unusual punishment! ASSAULT! ASSAULT!!

While Lizzie’s protestations continue in the background, Sian unlocks Deborah’s cage.

Sian: Deborah, I hate to say it, but you’re going back to North London as clean as you came, without your curly hair full of our nasty muck. How do you feel?

Deborah: Vindicated, Sian. We payday lenders have taken a lot of [moo!] from a vocal minority, but now the people have spoken and the hand-wringers can shut the [moo!] up!

Sian: Do you mind?! We haven’t had to use the naughty word bleeper for a couple of episodes now, and that includes the contestants getting gunged! Here, have a Jammy Dodger trophy to put in your window next to your ludicrous interest rates. Thanks for coming on the show.

Deborah: Mmm not a bad bit of bling this. Do you fancy parting with that bracelet or that necklace? I’m also in the business of buying gold and jewellery.

Sian: [instinctively covers her jewellery] No thank you! You’re like a magpie! Ladies and gents, a grubby little round of applause for Deborah please.

The audience slow-claps as Deborah walks off the stage, inspecting the trophy to see how much she can make from it. Sian moves on to the still-caged Stacy.

Sian: Stacy, the voters have spared you the Mucky Dip this time round, but you’ll be back here next week, and you may get your comeuppance yet!

Stacy: [looking sanguine after her escape] I expect every single viewer to have a TV licence by then!

Sian: [walking over to the plinth] Actually folks, it is possible to watch Comeuppance legally without a licence – through our catch-up service. Simply visit comeuppance.tv, where you can watch the comeuppances over and over again! [Arrives at the plinth] And speaking of comeuppances, it’s that time of the show again! Izzy wizzy, let’s get Lizzie in the muck!

The fateful music plays as the scene switches to the edge of the Mucky Dip. The camera takes in the lumpy morass of grey-blue, red-pink and straw-coloured goo before ascending. A metre up, it meets Lizzie’s small bare feet, her toenails painted the same rouge shade as her fingernails. The camera proceeds up her dark trousers and past her lap. Lizzie sits with her hands on her hips. Onwards, the camera pans up her jacket and white shirt. Lizzie’s flame hair is tousled after her struggle with the guards. Her thin lips pout and her eyes roll upwards – perhaps to express her displeasure at the situation, or maybe to avoid looking at the muck.

Sian: Dear me, she looks like a teenager who’s just been grounded!

Lizzie: [through gritted teeth] You are one button-press away from a very expensive lawsuit.

Sian: [holds up a piece of paper] Sorry Liz, but we have a contract here with your signature, agreeing to everything that’s about to happen to you! [Places hand on button] On behalf of everyone who’s been preyed upon by personal injury lawyers…

Sian and audience: HERE IS YOUR COMEUPPANCE!!!

Sian pounds the button, setting off the usual pyrotechnic spectacular. Hands still on hips, Lizzie drops to her demise. A huge cheer reverberates around the studio as gunge splashes skywards. A tsunami of the sickly colours surges over the rim, the lumpy mixture crawling down the side of the vat. An unsavoury squelching sound effect plays while the cables jiggle about. Then the cables tighten and winch their victim upwards, while the Fanfare of Humiliation plays.

To everyone’s amusement, Lizzie still has her hands on her hips, but that’s the only thing that is unchanged. The smart, smarmy, suit-sporting solicitor is now a manky muck-mangled mess, wearing the three unappealing colours in generous and roughly equal measure. One foot and leg is a coated in the fleshy pink-red, the other slathered in the dirty grey-blue, and there is a great pile of straw-coloured slop in her lap. Lizzie’s jacket looks like a Jackson Pollock painting, with overlaying stripes and splodges of the various colours. Her slimy, saturated shirt brings out the shape of what is a relatively ample bust for a petite woman, her boobs further emphasised by a coating of pink-red gunge in contrast to the surrounding blue. At her unbuttoned neck, lumps can be seen to run down inside her shirt.

A great mound of malodorous blue goo is piled atop Lizzie’s head. As for her face, this is coated with some particularly sicky beige gunk, with a little spot of off-pink on her nose. On one side, her basic facial features can be seen embossed in the gunk, albeit distorted by lumps, and a single eye blinks in shook. The other side of her face is completely misshapen, and it is only Lizzie’s gaping mouth that reveals her hair is plastered over this side.

Lizzie’s hands finally detach from her hips. They rise in front of her, claw-like as she spasms in the seat, then move in to rescue her face. She peels back the gunky curtain that is her hair, gagging at the taste in her mouth.

Lizzie: Greeeughhh-hhugghh-hhugghh! [Moo! Moo! Mooooo!!]

Sian: Oh dear, Daisy the cow is getting quite a workout tonight! Talk about a sus—OOHHHH!!

Sian reacts as four cream cannons erupt at the rim of the Mucky Dip – one in front of Lizzie, one behind, one at each side. The cheering of the audience crescendos to new heights as copious amounts of stale cream blast upwards at Lizzie. Within two seconds she is completely white.

Sian: My oh my! I didn’t know about that feature! Talk about a suspended sentence! An extremely popular comeuppance, judging by the reaction, and one that’s worth enjoying again in slow motion.

First up is the slow version of Lizzie’s comical hands-on-hips descent. Although her bodily stance is largely unmoved, her face can be seen to transform from defiance to dismay, as she realises that her legal threats have failed to save her and her gunging is a reality.

Sian: And the bird’s-eye shot!

The replay shows the mucky morass shimmer and shake as Lizzie’s feet penetrate, followed by a huge splash as her thighs and backside go in. Her ginger hair drapes on the surface for a moment, whirling in the vortex, before it too succumbs to the slop.

Sian: And finally the poolside view!

The rimside camera shows that Lizzie’s red-painted toenails are the first thing to enter the muck, followed by her feet and then trousers. Her pelvis and arms make a massive splash and there is just time to see her face in a grimace before sludge coats the camera.

The scene returns to present, Lizzie has wiped the worst from her face, but is otherwise throughly coated in the white cream and her gungy undercoat. The red of her hair is nowhere to bee seen. She shakes from a mixture of the slop’s cold embrace, sheer disbelief and immense humiliation.

Sian: So justice has been served, juris horribilis. Liz, you can slither back to Scotland and pursue your next compensation claim in your present state. With a smell like that, you’ll surely be in contempt of court! Ha ha ha!

Lizzie: [snaps, throwing her arms up] My next court case will be a claim against you, Welby!

Sian: Waste your time if you want. Anyway Liz, you were a good sport to sign up for this, even if you were less sporting at taking your punishment, so we’re grateful to you for that.

Lizzie: We’ll see who’s [moo!] sporting in court! This ain’t over! I’ll—glub!

The cream cannons let rip again, straight into Lizzie’s open mouth.

Sian: She’s right about one thing; it ain’t over! [Moves to the front of stage] And that brings us to the end of another very satisfying episode of Comeuppance! Don’t forget, this show is for you the people, so tell us what you think of the show and which professions you’d like to see face the Mucky Dip! Thank you for watching and good night!

The funky outro music commences and the camera zooms out from the stage, away from a waving Sian and over a jubilant audience. The scene then switches to Stacy, biting her nails as she looks up at the messy carnage through the bars of her cage. Then the camera is back on Lizzie, scowling as she tries to wring the muck out of her hair. The crew keep switching the cream jets on and off to tease her. The parting scene is a slow-mo of Lizzie’s head, shoulders and torso emerging from the muck, slathered in the nasty gunge.

Introduction

Hello Telly Gunge. It’s playtime. Sorry I couldn’t resist. As you might have already gathered this is the first part of the sequel to my pancake day series which I published last Halloween. You don’t necessarily need to have read the original series, but it will help your enjoyment if you know some of the characters and background, and it’s not that long a series either, so I’d recommend it.

For those not familiar it’s a series based around a horror film franchise. That means I’ve written in what I call script format, where I refer to camera cuts, and the characters dialogue is written with their names followed by the text. I also skip a lot of scenes that don’t have any gunging happening, although in a slight change to the format there will be a couple of non gunging scenes published alongside gunging ones this time to help develop the story a little.

This is a first for me in it’s a spin of or follow up to a previous series which fingers crossed will be successful. I’ve not finished it completely yet, normally I like to wait until I finish a series before I start publishing, but in this case I’m confident I won’t need to make any major revisions, and I couldn’t resist the opportunity to on pancake day itself.
I have tried to do follow ups before, but have never been successful with them. I think the problem has been that I struggled to find anywhere new to go, having already seen my characters complete their story and development arch. Here though it’s a bit different. It helps that it’s not as plot heavy as some of my past projects, so I can do a lot of it just by writing gunging scenes without having to work as hard to set them up. The other help is last time this was a side project to keep me in the habit of writing when taking a break from a more serious project. This means there is still a lot to left to explore with the main character of the series; Princess Porcelain. I will be looking a little more into what motivates her and her followers, who get more than a quick name-check this time. We also get to know a little more about her past, and what drove her to do what she does.

So does this mean I’ll be continuing as a series. It is a possibility. I’ve got the seeds planted in my mind for the plot of a Pancake day 3, including what traps I’d use, and even some ideas for a plot for a 4th one. Right now though those are just ideas, and I know from experience that ideas don’t always automatically translate into me being able to write something useuable, so it’s a case of waiting and see how it goes when the time comes. For now I’m going to be concentrating on getting Pancake Day 2 finished, the first and second scenes of which you can read now:

Scene 1:

The camera starts with a shot of another camera. Some sort of security camera to be exact. It’s clumsily bolted onto an old brick wall in a dark room. We here a familiar voice call out.

Porcelain: Hello Gretel. It’s playtime!

The camera cuts to a shot where it’s looking down on Gretel, who is lying on the floor, gradually becoming aware of her surroundings. She’s an attractive red haired lady in her late thirties, currently wearing a black and white maids uniform. The camera slowly zooms out to show more of the room. It appears to be an old cellar of a grand house, the walls being made of old unpainted bricks. Gretel is on a large circular platform about eight foot across. The outer ring appears to be a foot wide ring of black plastic, the inner section which Gretel is lying on is made out of chain link. This lets us see below the platform, where there’s a six foot drop down into a deep looking pool of white pancake batter. As the camera zooms out further we see the platform is suspended in the air by four chains around the edge, hanging down from the ceiling. We also see six clear plastic cylinders hanging above the platform. The camera cuts to one of them. It’s a three foot vertical plastic cylinder, just narrow enough for someone to squeeze up. We see at the top is a six inch pool of red paint, held in place at the top by some sort of plastic film.

Gretel: Helen Mathews!
Porcelain: I think you’ll find I go by another name now.

The camera cuts to the doorway at the edge of the room. It’s barricaded by a door consisting of vertical and horizontal steel bars. Through them we see Porcelain. She’s wearing a red PVC corset style top, with a black panel and several red straps with buckles decorating the front. Below that she wears a pleated black leather miniskirt and a familiar pair of red tights and knee high, lace up, 7 inch, stiletto platform boots. Her face has been painted with a white mask across her face, with delicate rosy cheeks, blue eye shadow and now ruby red lips to give her a signature doll like appearance. Her hair has been done in an eye-catching funky style, the right side is it’s natural black and hangs down the side of her head freely. The left side has been dyed bright red and given a lot of volume sticking out a couple of inches from her face before draping down.

Gretel: Oh I heard all about your exploits Princess Porcelain. No doubt funded by all that money you stole from our big fundraiser before you disappeared.
Porcelain: Well you’ve got to admit I put it to better use than it would have been put to here. All you ever seemed to ever teach at this College is distain to those who weren’t born with a silver spoon in their mouth.
Gretel: Oh that’s typical of you Helen. You were given the opportunity of a lifetime with a free degree scholarship after it was decided you couldn’t continue to be schooled in your home town. You responded by spending all your time in conflict, and refusing to conform and fit in.
Porcelain: Well that’s better than selling out just to try to be cool like you did. You were always more concerned with how the kids saw you, rather than being the authority figure you should have been. Pandering to the most popular, rather than offering help to the more vulnerable, who might have actually appreciated it. Your attempts to be cool didn’t work by the way. All those popular kids only laughed at you behind your back. They joked that you’d drink paint thinner to get high, just to be cool, which could be a useful skill to have right about now.

The camera cuts to another one of the cylinders, this time filled with green paint at the top, before cutting back to Gretel.

Gretel: Is this supposed to scare me? Hah! I’ve worked here through four rag weeks. Your going to threaten to do more than mess me up to scare me.
Porcelain: Oh Gretel. Not for the first time you’ve severely overestimated your importance in the eyes of others. I don’t deny punishing you for your neglect is a bonus, but what I really want is you out of the way. We’ve got some big plans for this place, and we don’t want you getting in our way in your job as housekeeper.
Gretel: What’s all this crap in aid of then?
Porcelain: Be a bit more appreciative. A lot of efforts been put in to our little play session.

The camera cuts to Gretel as she stares on, angrily but silently.

Porcelain: I didn’t think it would be fare to just lock you up, even having provided food and water and a few other creature comforts next to the pool below. So I came up with this game to play. You’ll notice this door has three padlocks on it. That’s all that’s keeping it shut, at least until the electronic lock on my side activates and seals you in. All you’ve got to do is find the keys before your time runs out.

Gretel glares at Porcelain, but then dashes strait for one of the tubes. Porcelain is caught slightly off guard, but quickly recovers and steps to one side to reveal a small stand behind her with an hour glass on it which she turns over. As she does this the camera cuts to an overhead shot of Gretel’s room. There’s a loud clunk as the platform suddenly drops down six inches, causing Gretel to stumble slightly. The camera cuts to one of the tubes, with a layer of yellow paint at the top. Gretel comes into shot as she squeezes into the tube, reaching up with her hands. She tears the plastic film apart with her hands, causing the paint to fall down on to her head. The camera zooms out as Gretel crouches back down, with a look of annoyance on her face as she wipes some of the paint off. The camera cuts to the pool of paint on the rings that has 5 different keys glistening in it. We see Gretel’s hand quickly grab them. The camera quickly cuts to the hour glass and see about twenty percent of the sand has gone. The camera cuts back to Gretel as she tries the keys on the padlocks. Three are obviously too big or small, but two appear to be the right size. One doesn’t work on any of the padlocks, but one of them causes the middle of the three padlocks to snap open.
As Gretel discards the padlock the platform jolts again, dropping another four inches downwards. Gretel squeezes up into another cylinder, but this time instead of tearing the film apart completely she pierces a smaller whole in the centre, causing a trickle of paint to pour down on her, and then the floor. She then goes around the remaining four cylinders, piercing a hole in the film of each one, causing the paint to drain out. The camera cuts back to the hourglass showing half the sand gone, then back to Gretel, now with several colourful streaks of paint on her head as she crawls round on her hands and knees, looking for keys of the right size for the padlocks. With about a dozen keys in hand she heads back to the door and frantically starts to try all the keys. The fifth one she tries causes one of the padlocks to snap open, causing another loud jolt as the platform falls by another four inches. Gretel frantically tries the remaining keys on the last padlock. None of them fit. Gretel lets out a loud grunt of annoyance, and hits the door before she tries the keys a second time. As she does this the camera cuts to a close up of one of the plastic cylinders, showing a key still caught in the plastic film as a result of Gretel not tearing it apart completely. The camera then cuts to the hour glass as the sand runs out completely. The camera cuts again to the electronic lock on the door, there’s a loud buzz as the light on it changes from green to red.
The camera cuts to a side shot of Gretel, and pans down at speed with Gretel as the platform freefalls down and splashes down into the pool of pancake batter bellow. Gretel looses her footing and quickly submerges along with the platform. Seconds later she sits up in the batter, completely covered in a thick white layer. She lets out a loud grunt of annoyance as she smashes her fist down in frustration.

Roll opening titles:

Scene 2:

We fade into a dimly lit cellar. Judging by the architecture it’s the same building we saw Gretel and Porcelain in, but judging by the decor it’s in a much nicer area. It’s a large room with lots of rectangular wooden tables, arranged in a deliberate fashion, like you’d expect in a restaurant, or more likely a canteen. As the camera pans around it moves in closer on the rooms only two diners. A man and woman, who judging by the way they act towards one another are more than a couple of friends. Both are wearing stylish but practical looking black jumpsuits and are finishing off a pizza between them, and helping themselves to more wine. As we see more detail it’s apparent that these are people we know. The female is Sandy, Porcelain’s old best friend, who escaped from a trap in the previous film. Since we last saw her though she’s dyed her hair a dark purple, and now has a number of facial piercings. The male of the couple is Porcelain’s old ally Dwayne. On his feet are a pair of mid heeled black boots you’d normally expect a female to wear. As the camera shows his face we see he’s grown his blonde hair out long, and is wearing red lipstick and pink eye shadow. Before we get to learn a little more about this odd couple they’re interrupted.

Porcelain: Woo Hoo!
Sandy: Hi Porcelain. I take it things went well.

The camera cuts to Porcelain as she enters. She has her eyes closed and her arms around her body, like she’s hugging herself in ecstasy. After a few seconds she stops to reply.

Porcelain: I was a little worried towards the end, when it looked like Gretel might actually escape. Luckily though it seemed fate wasn’t on her side, it was on ours.
Sandy: Come sit down and have some wine with us.
Porcelain: That’s O.K. I’m more of a (insert product placement here) and soda girl myself.

Porcelain strides over to a nearby counter to make herself a drink, and takes a large mouthful, before joining Dwayne and Sandy, sitting on the edge of the table next to them.

Sandy: So this is where you were sent after that awful prank back in Southbrook.
Dwayne: It seems like quite a nice place.
Porcelain: Don’t be fooled by the luxury. When your surrounded by a bunch of vile people, who won’t play with you, unless it’s to bully and torment you it just becomes a gilded nightmare.
Dwayne: We all know what it’s like to be spurned and mocked by society, and are ready to teach people a proper lesson. Just like we did back in Southbrook.
Sandy: Try not to get caught by the police this time. They now know I’ve aligned with you, so I won’t be able to keep them occupied while Porcelain busts you out of jail.
Porcelain: I know one thing about the lessons we’re going to teach. It will be a better lesson than anything the glorified babysitters here have ever taught. I’m so excited now everything’s falling into place. Gretel’s out of the way, we’re on schedule with the construction of the other playrooms in the cellar, and Gary hacked into the computers to ensure certain individuals will be returning from home a few days early.
Sandy: Where is Gary at the moment?
Porcelain: He’s out laying down a few explosive charges along the banks of the nearby river. When the time is right we can flood the access road to cut everyone off.
Sandy: Is he going to be alright out there on his own?
Porcelain: He should be. He’s always happier working on his own during situations like this.
Sandy: That’s true enough.
Porcelain: Speaking of time on your own I’ll make my move now. I don’t want to disturb your time together too much.

With that Porcelain downs the last half of her drink and exits up the stairs.

Dwayne: Is it me or has she been showing a lot of interest in us these last few days?
Sandy: I think I know why. Didn’t you see the list of people we’ve invited? You must have spotted a boys name on there.
Dwayne: I did. I noticed actually as I thought it was mainly the other girls here who gave her such a hard time.
Sandy: I don’t think that’s why he’s invited. Did Porcelain ever mention she had a boyfriend while she was here. From what I gather he was a bit of an outcast like us.
Dwayne: She never mentioned it to me or Gary. I guess she’d be less willing to talk about that with us boys, or at least those who were born male.
Sandy: To be honest she’s been a little vague on the subject with me, but I think she’s got something in mind. Maybe she’s going to set up a special play session, like she did with me.
Dwayne: Well it worked then. It’s what got you out of that bad place you were in.

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By the same Author
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Best quality version of this scene I’ve seen. Check out the channel for lots of recently uploaded pie slide, pie wash and pie pod scenes.

Dog

Fans of the series might have noticed a couple of things. Firstly no new cute tagline for this scene. I was tempted to keep up the splash puns (bangers and splash, splashes to splashes, super splash brothers, box office splash) but felt they were going to be a bit too tedious, plus if I do manage to keep this going as a series I’m going to run out of taglines pretty soon anyway, so it makes more sense to switch to one tagline per film, sooner rather than later.
The other difference you might notice is I’m writing an intro for each part now. Partly because I’m uploading at a slower rate, so have the time, but mainly because the traps are more elaborate this time, so there is a bit more to write about in terms of where the ideas came from.

There are a few things from scene 1 I didn’t mention in my last intro as I was concentrating on re-introducing the series as a whole. One thing I’d like to mention is Porcelain’s new outfit, which is actually based on one of my own favourite outfits. For those who haven’t read it elsewhere last year I came out as transgender, and it was around the time I was writing the first pancake day stories. It would be true to say that there was a link there, with the Porcelain character reflecting some of my previously repressed feminine traits, including my some of my preferred dress sense in her look, so now I’ve kind of brought things round full circle by basing her new outfit on one of my own favorites.
The trap from scene 1 doesn’t come from one specific source. I’ve seen a number of places use variations of the overhead mess in containers that falls on people idea, which was the starting point. The idea for the suspended platform was what I came up with when I was trying to think of a more dramatic way of dumping someone in a pool of batter, rather than the standard slide or freefall, and was quite pleased with the image it created.

So now on to this scene. It will probably come as no surprise that I’m a fan of the Saw films. There’s the whole kidnapping someone and putting them to the test format, plus Jigsaw’s “It’s time to play a game” catchphrase is one of the main inspirations for Porcelain’s “It’s playtime” catchphrase. Well a while back I was discussing ideas for what trap we’d design if we were making a Saw film, yeah, sometimes I do have some strange conversations. Anyway, I came up with an idea for one, based around the time I’d tried running up a downwards escalator, while messing around after closing time, at a shop I used to work at. I had to make a few changes to incorporate it into this series, most notably substituting the flaming oil and fire pit with a material more appropriate to this series, but once I done that I was good to go.

Scene 9:

The camera cuts to an overhead shot of a room in a familiar looking dark cellar. This room has another steel bared door at the top, leading down from which is a rusty old looking escalator, consisting of about twenty steps. It’s currently not moving, which is just as well for girl currently lying in a not comfortable looking way across a number of the steps as she would go off the bottom of the escalator, where there’s a five foot drop down into a large bowl. The camera zooms in so we can see the bowl that’s about eight foot across, and is filled with a light brown chocolate moose, topped with a sprinkling of icing sugar.
The camera cuts to a closer and as the girl wakes up. She’s wearing a pastel orange dress with a skirt that reaches about a third of the way down her thigh, where her legs and feet are bare. Her hair is a vivid blonde, although a little darkening around the roots hints that this isn’t her natural hair colour. Her face is heavily made up, covered in a layer of foundation with eyebrows plucked into shape, heavily massacred eyelashes and dark red lipstick.

Porcelain: Hello Jasmine. It’s playtime.

The camera cuts to a shot of a doorway. Behind which stands Porcelain, looking down at Jasmine with a gleeful grin on her face. It cuts back to Jasmine as she wakes up, looking around in surprise.

Jasmine: What is this? Some sort of joke?
Porcelain: Hmmmm. That depends on your perception of humour? For instance you always seemed to find tormenting and humiliating me funny. Personally, I thought it was just cruel.
Jasmine: Who are you?
Porcelain: My name is Princess Porcelain, or just Porcelain to my friends. You can call me Princess.
Jasmine: Oh nm God! You! You’re the one who went all crazy.
Porcelain: I see you’ve heard of me. Good. That means sure must you know I like to play.
Jasmine: Oh my God!

Jasmine gets up in a panic, and climbs up towards the door as she continues to talk.

Jasmine: Come on Porcelain. You don’t have to do this. We can be friends. Please.
Porcelain: Ha! You think that’s going to work. You never wanted to be friends when I didn’t have you at my mercy.
Jasmine: Please! I’ve learnt my lesson. We can be real good friends now. Come on.

As she says this she reaches through the bars, putting her hands on Porcelain’s shoulders.

Porcelain: You know Jasmine, I always wondered what you could achieve if only you focused your energies in the right direction. Those efforts you focused tormenting those you felt were below you. What if you put them into doing something useful? What if you put the effort you put in to always getting other people to do most of your work for you into actually working yourself? What if you put all that effort you put into dieting and calorie counting into a bit of physical excursion, instead of desperately trying to be let off every games class. Well today we’re going to find out how much effort your willing to make to keep your freedom.

As Porcelain says this the sound of a motor is heard. The escalator Jasmine is standing on starts up, moving in a downwards direction. Jasmine is forced to climb upwards at speed just to remain in the same place, and avoid dropping off the end into the chocolate moose. As she struggles to keep moving she pants her next sentence.

Jasmine: Come … on…. Por…cel…lain. …..This … isn’t …. …. fair.
Porcelain: Oh, I’m more than fair Jasmine. That’s why I didn’t give you a game that involved any mental dexterity. In a couple of minutes you’ll here a short buzz. During that time the electronic lock on this door will release, before locking itself again. All you need to do is open the door in that time and you‘ll have your freedom. Of course if you choose not to make an effort there may be some negative consequences for you. Have fun.

With that we see Porcelain walk away, pausing only to turn over an hourglass on a small pedestal before going. The camera cuts to a shot looking down at Jasmine, as she desperately climbs up closer to the door. As nears the top a bucket load of purple coloured syrup suddenly drops on her from above, leaving a sticky purple layer coating her hair and face. She descends several feet down the stairs as she wipes her eyes, and gasps in shock. The camera cuts to the hour glass, we see eighty percent of the sand is left. The camera cuts back to Jasmine, gasping loudly as she climbs up to the door. As she gets close she’s hit by a high spray of red syrup coming from a nozzle next to the door, that coats much of her body. Visibly exhausted she grabs the bars of the door, leaning much of weight on the bars as she struggles to keep moving her legs. The camera briefly cuts to the hourglass, showing around forty percent of the sand left. We cut back to a shot viewing Jasmine through the door, as another bucket load of purple syrup drops down on her. This causes her to stumble, and her feet are taken away from under her. She desperately tries to hold on to the door, but after a few seconds looses her grip and falls down. The camera cuts to an overhead shot as Jasmine desperately tries to stand up. Barely two step lengths from the bottom of the escalator she gets to her feet, and lets out a cry of desperation as she starts to run up the steps again. She lets out a final cry as she desperately calls on what little reserves she has left. The camera cuts back to the hourglass, only a small amount of sand is left. We cut back to Jasmine, who thanks to a burst of adrenalin has sprinted halfway up the escalator. We then hear a loud buzz, and cut to the doors lock where a light turns from red to green, then a few seconds later back to red a few seconds later as the lock activates again. The camera cuts back to Jasmine as a barrage of different coloured syrups drop down from the ceiling. She grabs onto the handrail as she has gone completely spaghetti legged, unable to climb any more. She descends down the escalator, and with a look of panic drops off the edge, falling down into the large bowl of chocolate moose below.
She drops in with a loud splat, descending under the surface of the moose. A few seconds later she sits up, taking numerous deep breaths, chocolate moose clinging to her body in various random splodges. The camera slowly zooms out as an exhausted Jasmine looks around what for now is her new home.

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By the same Author
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Martina Slade wonders where the time has gone.

The eighteen-year-old pats the red and white polyester blend of her uniform, glad of her industrial strength antiperspirant, for the marquee’s shade offers little respite from the oppressive heat. Throughout the past week, the mercury has flirted with triple figures farenheit, unheard of in this temperate town, even in July. The sun bears down from a sapphire sky, baking the earth, softening tarmac, making hotplates of car hoods. The store can’t freeze ice fast enough to meet demand. At Shireboro High, teachers have surrendered their sweltering classrooms, ending the school year early. The sea of faces stretching before Martina are sunburned and jubilant. And yet, a heaviness hangs in the air. Electricity piques the tongue. A storm is brewing.

Martina runs a hand through her wavy blond hair. She was too proud to tie it in a bun, but now wishes she had. Such lush, voluminous locks don’t deserve to be trashed. Her smooth thighs, buoyant C-cups and insistent butt all twitch with indignation. The bronzed skin of her mid-rift, exposed between her top and skirt, tingles with squeamish anticipation. Her white, knee-high boots squeak as she fidgets on the spot. Martina’s wide smile gleams beneath azure eyes and arresting cheekbones, though more strained than usual.

She thinks back to her coronation. How distant and inconsequential this moment then seemed – an irksome coda to the greatest honor any schoolgirl could receive. You don’t turn down head cheerleader – certainly not over a silly thing like this. It’s ages away, she told herself, and besides, they’ll vote for him to get it. But fall turned to winter, then spring to summer, until Martina was marking the days with dread. Every chant, every tumble, ever stunt in her repertoire, time stalked her from the sidelines.

And now, in these few remaining minutes, time is again being discourteous, neither expediting Martina through the tension nor granting her a reprieve by stopping altogether.

Relax, she reiterates to herself, they’ll vote for him to get it.

It is almost lex non scripta that the football captain will get it. The head cheerleader has only got it once during Martina’s school career, and the girl in question had stolen the boyfriends of half her squad. Martina has one or two enemies, but she’s not that unpopular.

And look at the competition. Martina glances sideways at Brad “the Ox” Fox, kitted out minus his helmet. Broad shouldered and lantern jawed, he ticks all the boxes on masculinity, though Martina thinks he’s overrated for handsomeness. His eyes sit too close together, his nose bent up by too many collisions, his brown hair already thinning from excess testosterone. When not charging the field he swaggers about the corridors, permanently smirking at his own perceived greatness. He’s used to having his way with the ladies, and refuses to give up hitting on Martina.

Brad turns his head and catches Martina’s gaze. He winks, sensing her unease and enjoying it. Martina wishes harder than ever that the impending announcement will wipe the smirk off that boorish face. How she’ll enjoy raising that king-size bucket above Mr Cocky’s head! She’ll make quite a show of it, with some choice taunts and theatrical flourishes.

Oh yes, she resolves, I’ll take my time over it.

“Four twenty-nine!” rasps Principal Friedmann over the decrepit PA system. “One minute left; get that cash in!” Refusing to yield his suit jacket to the heat, the principal stalks the stage with his bald head glistening and gray mustache dripping. A man usually so listless and insipid that spiders can spin cobwebs on him during his assembly speeches, Friedmann acquires a rare vigor whenever the slime vote rolls around. His piggy eyes glint with a meanness unbecoming of a charity event, relishing revenge on youth that has long deserted him.

There comes a last-minute surge to the pair of boxes in front of the stage. Amid the throng, Martina spots her best friend Helen Wells, a bundle of bills in hand. She’s heartened and surprised, knowing Helen doesn’t much care for bawdy events like this. Indeed, these past few weeks, she’s barely seen Helen, who has holed herself away to work on some summer science project. Martina smiles down warmly, but Helen doesn’t look up at her, appearing preoccupied as she makes her donation. From her angle, Martina can’t see into which box Helen places her cash, but doesn’t doubt the deposit is in her favor.

“Four thirty! Time’s up!” announces Friedmann. “Ladies and Gentleman, gather round and ready your cameras for the 2016 Shireboro sliming! It’s Bradley Fox versus Martina Slade – two very deserving targets, but who will get the slime?” Friedmann surveys the pair. “I can tell you one thing: Martina sure doesn’t want it! When I saw her earlier, she tried to trick me into thinking the slime vote had already happened, in the hope I wouldn’t turn up!”

“Liar!” Martina seethes under her breath. She did no such thing.

“As if I’d not remember such a grand occasion,” Friedmann chortles. “Sorry Miss Slade, but there’s no escaping the judgment of your peers. Now, let’s count that cash!”

Two teachers empty the boxes onto tables, first stacking the bills, then attacking the heaps of quarters, dimes and nickels, until every last cent is accounted for. Martina bites her lip.

“Mrs Thorne,” asks Friedmann. “How much sayeth young Bradley gets slimed?”

“Six hundred and sixteen dollars and sixty-two cents,” reveals Mrs Thorne. The spectators cheer, and Martina watches Brad’s smirk curl up slightly. It’s a big sum – bigger than the winning amount from last year – and he knows it. But Martina isn’t celebrating yet. She feels fit to pass out from the suspense.

“And Mr Mallett,” enquires Friedmann. “How much sayeth the lovely Martina gets the slime?”

Mr Mallett clears his throat. “Six hundred and seventy…”

The roar of the crowd drowns out the teacher’s declaration, but the cents are irrelevant. Martina hopes she’s misheard – please let it be five hundred and seventy – but no, the reaction around the marquee confirms her fate. Brad whoops and cheers, going to the edge of the stage to high-five his football buddies. He can barely believe his luck. Martina groans aloud as her stomach turns to lead. How has this happened?

“Martina, Martina, it’s time to get greener!” The principal has clearly waited all day to get that quip out. “Please take your seat, young lady!”

The “seat” is a tiny kiddie stool in the middle of a paddling pool. Blood flushes into Martina’s cheeks as she steps over to it. She wants to protest, to stamp her foot, to say this isn’t on, but she knows it’ll be harder to live the sliming down if she doesn’t play the “good sport”. Her knees bunch awkwardly in front of her as she sits down. Her cheerleader’s skirt, skimpy to begin with, offers no protection in this posture. Press as she might her legs together, she’s sure the whole school can see her panties. Friedmann, that wicked mastermind, has overlooked no aspect in making the sliming as humiliating as possible.

“Don’t pout like that Martina; it’s for charity!” says Friedmann. “Bradley, I know you’ll take no pleasure in pouring slime all over this pretty cheerleader, but if you would please do the honors.”

Brad needs no invitation; already he clutches the king-size Gatorade bucket in his trunk-like arms. He parades up and down the stage in a tribal stomp, working up the crowd into a chant of “SLIME!! SLIME!! SLIME!!” Then he stands in front of Martina, and taking a mock bow, presents the slime for her perusal. It’s very thick and very, very green. The smell of applesauce and oatmeal wafts out, matured by the summer heat. Martina’s skin crawls all over. She’s ready to burst with resentment. Then Brad stands behind her and she senses the enormity of the bucket above her head. She hunches her shoulders.

The shouts of “SLIME!! SLIME!! SLIME!!” give way to a frenzied cacophony, and Martina knows the pour has begun. At first she feels nothing, then a heaviness heralds the ruination of her hair. She gasps as the stickiness crawls down her back. Globs of green drip down onto her uniform. She bends her head to shield herself, but Brad strolls forward, coating her thighs with the nasty goop. He swings the bucket with quarterback precision, sending a wave into Martina’s skirt. She shrieks as the slime splashes her panties, squirms as it wraps itself around her buttocks. It’s a very public violation, Martina’s every spasm and squeal captured on dozens of camera-phones for analysis on social media.

“You bastard!” she snarls.

Her cursing only fuels Brad’s grin. He makes sure plenty of goo goes into her boots, then sweeps back the bucket to give her head and torso a second helping. Martina’s hair is now lank, flattened and saturated. The goo flows over her shoulders, past her collarbone and into her top, where it pools wet and clammy around her breasts. Her arms and back fare no better. Martina wriggles in disgust, the pungent smell overpowering her.

Thinking it’s over, she flicks back her hair, her expression as sour as the applesauce. Brad is waiting and sloshes the dregs into her face, completing her green coating. “Finally I got to give you a facial,” he sniggers, while Martina splutters, tasting the gunk on her lips. She wipes her face, burning with humiliation and frustration.

“Oh my word, what a sliming!” Friedmann’s flabby neck wobbles as he guffaws. “Martina, green really suits you! You should do your next performance wearing it!”

Martina struggles to her feet, only narrowly avoiding the indignity of slipping over on the base of the paddling pool. A glut of slime slides off her lap and down her legs. Her sodden hair threatens to whip round into her face. Her trashed top and skirt slap against her skin as she makes the walk of shame off the stage.

“Oh dear, I don’t think she’s too happy!” chuckles Friedmann. “You’ve been a good sport, Martina; give her a round of applause, everyone!”

Martina raises a hand and forces a wan smile under the layers of green, but it evaporates as soon she’s out of the marquee. Squelch, squelch, squelch – the slime squishes between her toes as she trudges across the field towards the gym block.

Inside the locker room, Martina flings her slimy costume into a corner, not caring about the mess it makes, followed by her saturated underwear. She’s brought a change of clothes, but curses when she realizes she’s forgotten her toiletries. A grimy bar of soap, half-dissolved in a puddle on the shower floor, is the only weapon she has to scrub herself.

To her relief, the slime doesn’t prove that hard to wash off, at least in terms of its visual presence, though the applesauce smell continues to cloak her, and her hair feels matted and greasy as she pats it with a towel. Opting to clean herself more thoroughly at home, Martina pulls on sweatpants and sweatshirt bearing the Shireboro logo and a pair of sneakers.

It’s five o’clock when she emerges into the balmy air. Clouds have rolled in and thunder rumbles in the distance; the promised storm has arrived. Shouts of “SLIME!! SLIME!! SLIME!!” float across the field from the marquee. They must have decided to stick with tradition and give Brad the slime after all. Martina hopes the oaf is finding it thoroughly humiliating, but has no appetite to wander over. She’s had her fill of slime for the foreseeable future.

There’ll be big celebrations tonight to mark School’s Out. Noel, one of the footballers, is hosting a house party, with unbridled access to his folks’ liquor cabinet. Martina’s attendance would normally be a non-brainer, but she’s in no mood for the gibes and sniggers and what-did-it-feel-likes that will surely plague her, so instead an evening of comfort cocoa beckons. As the first spots of rain fall, Martina stops at an ATM. Her day turns worse still when she discovers her balance is short. She phones the bank.

“$80 was withdrawn at 16:22 from the Shireboro ATM,” the operator vapidly informs her. “Your card and PIN were used.”

“It wasn’t me!” insists Martina. “Someone must have cloned my card!”

“Ok, we’ll freeze your account and launch an investigation,” says the woman apathetically. “Have a nice day.”

Cursing, Martina trudges on through the campus. The rain strengthens by the second and lightning splits the horizon. In the science block, a solitary light burns on the upper floor. Helen must be there, toiling on that mysterious project of hers. Martina decides to coax Helen away from the lab for a girly night in.

“Martina! Martina!” calls a voice from behind. With the rain turning torrential, Martina pretends not to hear and keeps jogging towards the science block door. It’s probably someone wanting to ask about the sliming.

“MARTINA!!” The voice is female, and strangely familiar, though Martina can’t place it. With her hand on the door handle, she looks over her shoulder. Across the darkening field, two figures roll about in the mud, continuing to shout. I haven’t got time for this, thinks Martina, not minded to get wet and muddy with the pair. She lets the door close behind her.

A whiff of smoke greets Martina as she climbs the stairs. Frowning, she cautiously pushes open the lab door. Helen’s project has certainly progressed since her last visit. Wires and tubes criss-cross the room in a veritable spiders web. Against one wall, a row of pumps gurgle and hum. Along another, a bank of computer screens spew out data. On a third, a blackboard teems with Greek letters and unworldly diagrams, the original white chalking overlaid by sideways scribbles in blue. But dominating the room is a disc-shaped platform at its centre. Eight transparent pillars ascend from the disc’s rim to the ceiling, each pulsing with fluid and shimmering with a violet glow. In the centre of the disc kneels Helen Wells, sorting through a bundle of wires. She fails to notice, or at least acknowledge, Martina gingerly stepping through the web towards her.

“One of these days you’re gonna burn the school down.”

Helen looks up. “Oh hey Martina. How did the slime vote go?”

“There’s no need to rub it in,” Martina huffs.

“I’m only asking,” says Helen defensively. “But from your grouchy mood and that speck of green behind your ear, I deduce that you got slimed.”

Martina scowls and rubs behind her ear.

“Other side.”

Martina crossly rubs her other ear. “You know perfectly well I got slimed; you were there.”

“No, I didn’t go,” says Helen. “These slime votes aren’t my thing, sorry.”

“But I saw you! You even put some cash in the box.” Martina’s eyes narrow. “You better not have voted to slime me. You did, didn’t you!?”

Helen gets to her feet. Even with a boost from the platform, she comes up short against the leggy cheerleader. A black t-shirt, two sizes too big and emblazoned with an esoteric joke in binary code, hangs over what is actually a very tight little figure. Grungy jeans and battered sneakers do a similar disservice to her lower half. Owlish spectacles throw off-kilter her cute, small-featured face, which is framed by a shoulder-length mop of frizzy brown hair. Helen could surely shine – perhaps even stun – if she gave some care and attention to her appearance, but Helen directs her care and attention elsewhere, and Martina has given up dragging her to the mall or salon.

It’s an improbable best friendship – the head cheerleader and the prize geek – but the pair have stuck together since kindergarten, and Martina doesn’t let lunch-line sneers dictate her social circle.

“Martina, I wasn’t there,” maintains Helen, fixing her accuser with chestnut eyes. “I’ve been here since quarter past four.”

Martina lets it go, knowing Helen has too much respect for logic to lie. She’s so absent-minded she probably wandered over to the marquee without realizing. “You’re overworking yourself with this science stuff,” Martina smiles. “The cure is a night of pizza and cheesy flicks at my place. Hey, why not sleep over?”

“No can do,” says Helen. “Something happened to my equipment while I was away. I think someone’s been in here and tampered with it. I need to find out what they’ve done.”

“Made toast by the smell of it,” remarks Martina. She wraps a hand around one of the shimmering pillars. “Brad Fox! They voted to slime me over Brad Fox!” She tightens her grip in anger. “Can you believe that?”

“Don’t do that!” cries Helen. “If you misalign the lasers I’ll have to recalibrate everything!”

“Sorry.” Martina sheepishly withdraws her hand. “Uh, Helen… what is this project about?”

Helen avoids eye contact. “I’m attempting to create an asynchronous Einstein-Rosen bridge.”

“English is a very underrated language,” smirks Martina.

Helen looks at Martina guardedly. “Do you promise not to laugh?”

“Cross my heart.”

Helen swallows. “I’m building a time machine.”

Martina’s lips explode in a snort. She can’t help herself. “A t-time machine!?”

“You promised!” glares Helen.

“I expected something vaguely sensible!” chortles Martina. “I may be a cheerleader, but I’m not that gullible! A time machine!”

Helen scowls and turns away. She goes over to the bank of computer screens and pretends to absorb herself in the reams of figures.

Martina shrugs to herself. If Helen is serious, then she’s definitely suffering from overwork. “Do the school know you’re building a, erm, time machine?”

“Nope,” mutters Helen, keeping her back to Martina. “They’d laugh too.”

“Well, if you figure it out, I’d like to skip the next couple of months,” Martina says wryly. “Enough time for folk to stop talking about my sliming.”

“Oh, time travel into the future is trivial,” remarks Helen. “All you need is a fast enough spaceship.”

“That all? It was hard enough getting my folks to buy me a second-hand Kia.”

Helen turns round and walks back towards Martina, her glasses twinkling in the dancing violet light. “You know, you gain a few billionths of a second every time you take a flight – time dilation, it’s called. We know how to speed up and slow down time, in principle at least, but making it go backwards – now that’s a more difficult matter. It’s almost as if the laws of nature conspire to prevent travel into the past. Stephen Hawking calls it the chronology protection conjecture.” Helen smiles. “But I think rules exist to be broken.”

Though still not believing, Martina is struck by her friend’s earnestness. “And you’ve found a way to do it?”

“I’ve found a solution to the equations that suggests it’s possible,” says Helen carefully, gesturing to the blackboard as if that will instantly clarify everything for Martina. “By using intense laser pulses, I hope to concentrate enough vacuum energy to create an Einstein-Rosen bridge, or a wormhole, as it’s called.”

“Helen, you have to remember I got a D in physics,” says Martina.

“Simply put, I hope to curve space and time enough that time bends back on itself,” Helen explains.

Martina frowns. “How can you curve space? There’s nothing there; it’s just… space. And bending time – that makes even less sense.”

Helen picks up a sheet of paper and balances it on her clawed hand. “Here’s a two-dimensional space.” She brings her fingers together, bending the paper. “And now it’s curved. The same thing can happen with four-dimensional spacetime.”

Helen continues to bend the paper until it touches against itself between thumb and fingers. “And now two parts of the page – initially separated – have been brought together, connected by a shortcut. This is our wormhole – a kind of tunnel leading from a later time back to an earlier time.”

Martina shakes her head. “But this is surely science fiction!”

“It’s science theory,” insists Helen, gesturing once again the blackboard. “The equations allow for it; whether it can be achieved in practice remains to be seen.”

“So how far will you be able to go back?”

Helen looks a little sheepish. “With this machine I hope to send a few subatomic particles back a few seconds. It may not be the stuff of action thrillers, but it’ll be a huge breakthrough nonetheless.”

A flash of lightning floods the room, throwing Helen’s features into stark relief. Less than a second later, thunder hammers the building, rattling the window in its frame.

“That was close! Better disconnect the equipment.” Helen kneels on the platform. “Damn! I can’t unplug the master cable. Whatever happened earlier has melted it in the socket!” She tugs without avail. “You’ll have to help me.”

Martina stands by hesitantly, unsure where to put her feet in the jumble of wires.

“Martina! Please!”

Martina steps inside the ring of glowing pillars. She bends down to aid her friend…

SMMAASSH!!!

Brilliant, burning white fills Martina’s vision. Heat rushes past and the air explodes around her skull. She tumbles through the dazzling sea of white, landing on Helen.

The white flash subsides, but a violet glare replaces it. The pillars are ablaze with light, painful to look at directly. Sparks flash up them. Helen’s face mirrors Martina’s own terror, and the pair clutch at each other. Bathed in the eerie light, the lab ripples and warps. Equations drip down the blackground. The platform begins to sink, the floor bowing until the girls are in the neck of a great trumpet. A shrill whistling splits the air.

“THE BUILDING’S COLLAPSING!!” yells Martina. Amid the ghostly glow, she watches her childhood dog go under the wheels of a truck. She’s back in second grade, crying as a teacher sends her to the principal’s office. Whizzing down a dirt track, she applies the wrong brake and pitches over the handlebars. She’s behind the gym block, putting her hand down a boy’s pants for the first time. She regrets storming out the house this morning after a petty row with her mother. She rues that in her classmates’ parting memories, she will be covered in slime forever.

Martina closes her eyes and waits.

Everything goes quiet. Through Martina’s eyelids, the violet fades to black. Around her there’s a fizzling sound and a fresh smell of smoke. It seems the pastor was right about Hell. But then the pumps on the wall splutter with indignation, and resume their soothing whirring. It’s Helen’s nails digging into her arm that convince Martina she’s still alive. She inches open her eyes.

“A direct strike!” gasps Helen, her glasses crooked and her hair slightly frizzier than usual, but otherwise unscathed.

Shakily, Martina gets up. The lab is intact, the floor returned to its normal shape. She goes over to an aluminum plate to check her reflection. “My poor hair,” she whines. “First the slime, now this!”

“My project!” echoes Helen. “I need to check the circuitry! I need to make sure the cryogenic fluid hasn’t leaked! I need…”

“I need some fresh air.” Martina staggers to the door.

“I’ll join you.”

The two girls emerge from the building into searing sunshine. Carefree students amble about campus. It’s as if the tempest never struck.

“Wow. The storm sure passed over quick,” remarks Martina.

“Yes.” Helen looks around uneasily. “It’s very bright.”

Martina sighs. “And here comes the person I least want to see.”

Principal Friedmann strolls up, the slime-inspired spring in his step. “Afternoon, Miss Wells, Miss Slade!” He halts at the sight of the latter’s sweats. “Hey Martina, you need to get your cheerleader gear on.”

Martina snorts. Does the asshat really expect her to spend the rest of the day in her slimy uniform? “That’s not going to happen,” she says curtly. “Sir.”

“Oh yes it is!” insists Friedmann. “It’s a Shireboro tradition, the summer slime vote. And you agreed to it when you accepted the role of head cheerleader. Now, I expect to see you at the marquee in your cheerleader outfit. Understand?”

Martina’s patience is close to breaking point. “I’ve done everything that was expected of me,” she hisses. “I turned up, I took the slime, now kindly leave me alone.”

The wrinkles deepen in Friedmann’s glistening brow; he’s more confused than offended. Then his frown turns to a smirk. “Oh, I get it! Nice try, Martina, but you can’t trick your way out of this! See you at four thirty!” He continues his spirited stroll, chuckling to himself.

“What a freak!” Martina screws her finger at her temple. “Slime gone to his head, I reckon.” She turns to Helen, but her friend isn’t paying attention.

“The sun,” murmurs Helen, swallowing heavily. “It’s too high in the sky.” She calls after Friedmann. “Sir, what time is it?”

The principal looks over his shoulder. “Four oh five,” he replies. His eyes catch Martina’s. “Twenty-five minutes to slime time!”

“I don’t believe it,” gulps Helen. “We’ve actually done it. We’ve traversed an Einstein-Rosen bridge!”

“Huh?”

“We’ve gone through a wormhole.”

“A what?”

“Did you not listen to anything I said?!” snaps Helen. “WE’VE TRAVELED BACK IN TIME, GODDAMMIT!!”

Martina looks at Helen like she’s gone mad. “Nah, can’t have! Friedmann’s watch is wrong, that’s all. You’ll see.”

The pair trawl the campus, asking anyone they meet for the time. All concur with the principal’s timekeeping. It’s when they consult the school clock-tower that Martina’s head really starts to spin.

“I th-thought your machine could only transport s-small particles,” she stutters.

“So did I,” says Helen. “The lightning must have given it a turbo boost.”

Martina stops and thinks. “So the sliming hasn’t happened yet?”

“I guess not.”

A satisfied smile spreads across Martina’s face. “Well I’m not staying around here! I’m in my car and outta here! My deputy can take the sliming on my behalf; I don’t care if they call me a bad sport.”

“What are you talking about?” asks Helen.

“I can walk away and avoid getting slimed!” grins Martina.

“No no, it doesn’t work like that,” says Helen. “You see, at this moment there are two yous in existence. There’s the ‘old’ you, who’s going to get slimed, and then there’s the you who’s… well, you. There are two of me too; the ‘old’ me will arrive at the lab round about now and find the smoldering equipment.”

“There are two of me!?” Martina is aghast. “Have you any idea how much this’ll cost in makeup?”

Helen chuckles. “It’ll only be for the next eighty minutes or so. Then the ‘old’ you will disappear into the wormhole.”

Martina ponders a minute longer. “But all the same, the sliming hasn’t happened yet, so it’s possible to save the other me from getting slimed, right?”

Helen shakes her head. “You can’t change the course of history like that.”

“Ah, but it’s not history, is it?” Martina wags a finger, feeling smart. “It’s the future!”

“True, but…” For the first time, Helen is unsure of herself. “But the Novikov self-consistency principle! Einstein’s equations!”

“Listen pal, Einstein didn’t have to suffer a humiliating sliming in front of his peers! Folks will snigger about this til kingdom come if I don’t stop it happening. My dignity is on the line, and I’m gonna save it!” Martina marches off, making a beeline for the ATM. Helen reluctantly scuttles after her.

“It’s simple,” asserts Martina. “All we need to do is put in enough money to tip the balance in my favor and against that asshole Brad.” She inserts her card. “Now, there was about sixty bucks in it if I remember right. Let’s put in eighty to be safe.”

“Wow, you really do want to avoid this sliming,” says Helen, as she watches the bills slide into her friend’s palm. “But seriously, Martina, I’d be careful about unintended conseq…”

“What can possibly go wrong?” Martina pockets the cash. “Come on, we’ve gotta get to the marquee before four thirty. There’s no time to lose!”

cc0

“You’re wasting your time!” Helen puffs as she jogs to keep abreast of Martina. “No matter what you try, you will fail.”

“Cheers for your optimism,” replies Martina, striding towards the main entrance of the marquee.

“Think about it: if you were to succeed, you wouldn’t have experienced getting slimed in the first place. You’re up against the immutability of reality, Martina!”

“I thought you said rules were there to be brok…” Martina’s throat turns hoarse as she enters the marquee and stares ahead of her. There on the stage, above the sea of heads at a distance of thirty yards, next to a smirking Brad Fox, stands Martina Slade.

Of course, Martina has seen plenty of photos and videos of herself. She’s spent hours reviewing her routines in widescreen. But such media pale as imitations compared to the view that now greets her. Even at this distance, the honeyed radiance of her hair, the firm splendor of her figure, the feigned effortlessness of her gleaming smile takes Martina’s breath away.

I look damn good, she thinks, if I do say so myself.

More students enter the marquee, bustling Martina and Helen into the crowd. Martina drapes her hair well forward against her face; it would be more than a little awkward if she were spotted by someone. Up on the stage, Brad taunts her other self. Behind the pair, the bucket and paddling pool lie waiting. Principal Friedmann paces back and forth, a malevolent glint in his beady eye. Martina resolves that she simply must stop her exquisite beauty being wrecked.

She takes the wad of eighty dollars from her pocket and thrusts it into Helen’s hand. “Right, here’s the cash. Boxes are at the front, beneath the stage.”

“You want me to do it?!” Helen protests, uncomfortable enough just coping with the crowds.

“Well I can’t go up there, can I? I’m already on the stage!”

“Four twenty-nine!” Friedmann rasps over the PA. “One minute left; get that cash in!”

“Go! Go!” Martina jabs her hand into Helen’s back. Sighing, the short girl fights her way forward and disappears into the surging throng. Martina crosses her fingers as she observes herself smiling down towards the cash boxes. Soon after, her friend returns.

“You did it?” asks Martina. “You put the money in?”

Helen nods wearily. “Yep, into the box with your name on it. I was very careful to check that.”

Martina smiles smugly. “Piece of cake. So much for Einstein and his—whaddya mean, MY name!?”

“Cos that’s how it works, right? The person who raises the most money for charity avoids getting slimed.”

“No Helen!!” hisses Martina, struggling to keep her voice down as her stomach jolts. “The person with the most money gets slimed!”

“Oh,” says Helen. “Oops.”

“Christ! We’re gonna need more cas—”

“Four thirty!” Friedmann’s voice booms around the marquee. “Time’s up!”

Martina puts her hands to her temples. “No no no no…”

“Ladies and Gentleman, gather round and ready your cameras for the 2016 Shireboro sliming! It’s Bradley Fox versus Martina Slade – two very deserving targets, but who will get the slime?” The principal grins as he looks the boy and girl over. “I can tell you one thing: Martina sure doesn’t want it! When I saw her earlier, she tried to trick me into thinking the slime vote had already happened, in the hope I wouldn’t turn up!”

The crowd laughs while Martina flushes.

“As if I’d not remember such a grand occasion. Sorry Miss Slade, but there’s no escaping the judgment of your peers. Now, let’s count that cash!”

Martina glares at Helen. “What’s wrong with you? You understand bendy time but you don’t know how the Shireboro slime vote works?!”

“I never go to the slime vote,” shrugs Helen. “Not my thing.”

“Mrs Thorne,” Friedmann enquires. “How much sayeth young Bradley gets slimed?”

“Six hundred and sixteen dollars and sixty-two cents,” says Mrs Thorne.

Brad curls up his lip as the crowd cheers.

“And Mr Mallett, how much sayeth the lovely Martina gets the slime?”

Martina facepalms as she awaits the announcement.

“Six hundred and seventy…” The end of Mallett’s announcement is lost in the resounding cheer. Martina winces as she watches herself react to the news. The cheerleader’s face sinks into a groan, and with it her entire body goes simultaneously limp with despair and taut with apprehension.

“Martina, Martina, it’s time to get greener!” Friedmann quips, while Brad hoots and high-fives his teammates. “Please take your seat, young lady!”

“But wait,” frowns Martina. “Six seventy – it’s the same amount as last time. How can that be?”

“How can it not be?” counters Helen. “Events have to be self-consistent.” The boffin’s dainty mouth rises into a savvy smirk. “Interesting thing is, without that eighty bucks, you’d have only got five hundred and ninety odd. Which means…”

“…I would have avoided it!” groans Martina. “Helen, you have caused me to get slimed!”

“Don’t blame me!” says Helen with supreme smugness. “It was you who wanted to interfere with the course of history. Well congrats Martina, you succeeded in influencing it – just not how you intended!”

“I’ve had enough of your smart alecry,” Martina mutters, turning her attention back to the stage. “Oh my god! I knew it!”

“What?”

“The whole school can see my panties!”

Up on the stage, Martina’s former self squats miserably on the kiddie stool in the middle of the paddling pool, while Brad gleefully picks up the gigantic slime bucket.

“Don’t pout like that, Martina!” chortles Friedmann. “It’s for charity! Bradley, I know you’ll take no pleasure in pouring slime all over this pretty cheerleader, but if you would please do the honors.”

Brad larks about with the slime bucket, milking his good fortune for all it’s worth. Soon a chant of “SLIME!! SLIME!! SLIME!!” fills the marquee. The infuriating jock makes a mock bow as he presents his victim with the contents of the bucket. Half of Martina can’t bear to watch, wanting to run screaming from the marquee. But the other half compels her to stay – perhaps out of solidarity with her former self, perhaps to convince herself the sliming isn’t as bad as it felt. Whatever the reason, Martina stands rooted to the spot as the pour begins.

The lurid slop hits the crown of Martina’s head and spreads outwards in all directions, a thick, shiny carpet of green consuming all in its path. It flows down the sides of Martina’s hair, destroying the silky bounce and flattening her elegant waves. The cheerleader’s mouth expands in an “O” as the first lumps splatter onto her smart uniform and sensitive abdomen. She cowers forward but Brad shows no mercy; there’s a manic grin on his face as he lavishes the slop all over her thighs. Then he flashes a knowing smirk to the audience and aims the bucket in a low swing.

Standing helpless amid the crowd, Martina’s knees go weak as she sees the slime sloosh into her former self’s crotch, reliving the sensation of that horrid gunk around her private areas. It’s painful to witness her own spasming reaction, even more so in contrast to Brad’s perverted glee. She burns with fury as the brute returns his attention to the upper half. The poor cheerleader squirms as the slime surges over her head. It looks even worse than it felt; the sloppy goo goes everywhere, turning that exquisite beauty into a gunky green blob. It’s utter ruination, and the crowd love it.

Brad stands smiling as he inspects the bottom of the bucket. Don’t let him get your face, Martina wants to shout, but of course the other Martina falls for his trap. Brad launches the remnants of slime, turning those killer cheekbones into a sticky green mask.

“Oh my word, what a sliming!” Friedmann enthuses, his flabby features wobbling grotesquely. “Martina, green really suits you! You should do your next performance wearing it!”

There’s nothing left for Martina to do but observe herself get shakily to her feet and slouch dejected towards the side entrance of the marquee.

“Oh dear, I don’t think she’s too happy!” chuckles Friedmann. “You’ve been a good sport, Martina; give her a round of applause, everyone!”

Applause duly erupts. Martina glances sideways to see Helen – her best friend – clapping along with the rest. The girl’s chestnut eyes twinkle with amusement. It’s the final straw.

“You did that on purpose!” snarls Martina. “You couldn’t bear to be proven wrong, so you deliberately put the cash in the wrong box!”

“Martina, it was an honest mistake. I swear it on my life.” Helen tries to repress a giggle. “But I have to agree with Friedmann – you do look great in green!”

“WHY YOU!!” Martina lunges. Squeaking, the impish girl hops aside and Martina barges into a gargantuan male chest. She finds herself face to face with Bryan “Bludgeon” Bates, linebacker on the football team.

“Hey!” the great hulk barks. “Watch what you…” He stops and stares, his jaw hanging lower than it usually does. Not the smartest cookie, even among his fellow footballers, the cogs clank in Bryan’s brian as he processes the incongruent sight before him.

“Close your mouth, bozo, or the fairies’ll steal your teeth,” Martina snaps.

The cogs lock into place. “Martina’s here!” Bryan shouts. “Hey everyone! Martina’s right here!”

Martina gulps as heads turn towards her one by one. Murmurs of intrigue ripple around the marquee. She eyes the exit, but there are too many people blocking her escape. And now Friedmann’s spotted her.

“Martina? Is that you down there? Come up here at once!”

Martina duly complies, partly of her own volition, mostly propelled by the baying crowd. Friedmann fixes her with a steely glare as she approaches the stage. Brad goes to the side entrance, just in time to see the green-coated figure enter the gym block. His eyes flit back to Martina, then out across the field again, then back to Martina. He scratches his head in utter bewilderment.

“Fear not, Bradley, I think I understand what’s gone on here,” says Friedmann grimly.

Martina somehow doubts that, as she climbs onto the stage.

“So Martina, you didn’t change into your cheerleader outfit like I instructed you.” Friedmann sternly looks her up and down. “But of course you never intended to, because you hired a double to take the sliming for you. Am I right?”

“Some double!” Brad chips in. “Could’ve sworn that was Martina. You got a twin or something?”

Martina’s face lights up. “Uh, yes, that’s exactly it. In fact, I am Martina’s twin. My name’s, er, Melanie. Hi everyone, nice to meet you!”

“Nonsense!” barks Friedmann. “I know your family. I’ve played golf with Jeff Slade for years. You ain’t got no twin.”

“I’m estranged!” says Martina desperately.

“There’s a sure way to tell who she is,” announces Brad with a grin. “Martina has a scar on her left asscheek!”

Martina is incensed. “How do you know that!?”

Brad advances with sweaty palms outstretched. “Do you wanna pull ’em down, or shall I?” he asks, to a lustful cheer.

“Ok, ok, alright!” Martina holds up her hands. “I’m the real Martina.”

“Well, I’m glad we got to the bottom of that,” sniggers the principal. “Martina, you are busted! Good thing we have plenty of spare slime to hand.”

“Spare slime? You can’t mean…” Martina’s blood runs cold as the spectators respond approvingly. “No! No way!”

“Yes way! The people voted to slime you, not some paid double.” Friedmann jabs a finger at the slime-covered kiddie stool. “Sit, Miss Slade. Now!”

“But this isn’t fair!” Martina wails. “I’ve already been slimed! That was me! I’m very quick in the shower, that’s all.”

“There’s being quick and then there’s being in two places at once!” argues Brad.

“Y-yes, well… You see, I am in two places at once,” ventures Martina. Desperate times require desperate revelations. “You see I… er, well, I traveled back in time.” Her voice trails to a near whisper.

“What’s that? You say you traveled back in time?!” the principal guffaws. “In my thirty-seven years as an educator, I’ve heard some creative excuses, but this really takes the cake!”

“It’s true!” cries Martina. “I went over an Einstein-whatsit bridge! Down a rabbit hole!”

Everyone howls with laughter. “And Elvis picked you up in his UFO!” Friedmann blinks away tears of mirth. “Sorry Martina, but playing the mad card won’t get you off the hook either.”

“Ask Helen!” Martina points. “She went back in time too. It’s all part of her project!”

“Ah yes, Miss Wells – I’d almost forgotten,” smiles Friedmann. “The pair of you looked very shifty when I saw you earlier. Up you come, Helen, let’s hear from you!”

Heads turn and the crowd parts to let Helen through. She glowers at Martina as she climbs onto the stage.

“Now Helen, is it true what your friend says?” asks Friedmann. “Did you and Martina do a little, ahem, time traveling?”

The bookish girl squirms on the spot, blushing under attention she is little accustomed to. She knows what the easy answer would be, but unfortunately for her, it’s not in her nature to lie.

“Yes,” she mutters.

“Aww, cute. I admire your loyalty.” Friedmann regards Helen with mock sympathy. “Seeing as you’re so loyal, you can join your pal in the slime pool!”

Helen’s eyes boggle behind her glasses. The crowd erupts into another chorus of “SLIME!! SLIME!! SLIME!!” An extra stool is brought in, along with two fresh buckets of slime. Desolate, Martina perches on the stool for the second time, feeling the wetness soak through to her butt. She can’t believe this is happening to her – not again! Helen squats next to her.

“Bradley, it’s your lucky day!” grins Friedmann, as the pair stand behind the pool with buckets raised.

“SLIME!! SLIME!! SLIME!! YYYAAAAAYYYYY!!!!!” The two men upend their buckets – Brad once more over Martina, Friedmann over Helen – releasing all the slime in one swift dump. Martina screams as green envelops her, surging through her hair and over her face, glooping in great rivers over her front, back and legs. Once again, applesauce and oatmeal fills her nostrils. Her sweats offer no more protection than her cheerleader uniform, instantly saturating and admitting the wet goo against her skin. The slime fills her ears, drips from her cheeks and brow, and sits on her head like a great sticky mat. It oozes down her back and sloshes around her bra. The sheer weight in her lap clings heavily against her panties.

At Martina’s side, Helen has got it just as bad, her black t-shirt turned totally green. Wet and shiny, the baggy garment clings to Helen’s torso, giving the school a rare impression of the geeky girl’s pert and petite curves. Her frizzy hair is soaked full of slime, hanging askew like a bright green sponge. Her facial features are coated, and her glasses too.

Helen squeals, but not in shock or disgust. She actually seems to be laughing. Looking closer, Martina makes out a grin under the goo.

“You can’t seriously be enjoying this?” Martina whispers.

“I never realized slime was so much fun!” giggles Helen, her shyness evaporated. “Oh come on Martina – lighten up!” She reaches over and rubs a handful of slime into Martina’s face.

“Grrreeeuughh!! Get off me!” snarls Martina, shoving her attacker away. Helen totters off her stool, landing on her side in the pool. Continuing to laugh, she gets up and yanks a mortified Martina of her own stool. The pair roll about, struggling in the slime. The crowd go berserk. Brad has to pinch himself at the slime-wrestling match unfolding in front of him. He tries to hide the growing bulge in his shorts.

“Get off! Get off! You’re crazy!” Martina breaks free from Helen’s grip. The two girls kneel panting in the goo, completely green. Helen retrieves her glasses, which have come off, and puts them in her pocket.

“Well well well, what a year this has been for the slime vote!” Friedmann steps over. In each hand he carries a foil tin, heaped high with whipped cream. “And we’re not done yet. There’s an extra forfeit for trying to cheat!”

“May I make a request?” asks Helen sweetly. She reaches up and takes one of the pies from Friedmann. “I think I should get to pie Martina. This situation is all her fault!”

“Oh you think so, do you?!” Martina snatches the other pie. “Well I think otherwise.”

“Who am I to argue?” shrugs the principal. “On the count of three: ONE! TWO! THREE! PIE!!”

Martina thrusts forward her creamy weapon, watching it explode in Helen’s face split-seconds before her own vision – not for the first time – turns white.

With everything done, the sticky, slimy girls leave the marquee to raucous applause. Outside, rain falls heavily, mixing with the slime and cream. Lightning flashes in the darkening sky.

“Well that was a monumental screw-up,” Martina grumbles as they squelch across the field. “Two slimings, a pie in the face, untold ridicule… and I paid eighty bucks for the privilege.”

“Worth every cent,” chuckles Helen. “I just wish I’d gone to the slime vote in previous years.”

“Perhaps you still can, if you make another Einstein-whatsit bridge,” suggests Martina.

“Ah, that remains to be seen,” says Helen. “It might be that the lightning strike brought about a unique set of conditions that will be impossible to recreate. I guess it all depends on the voltage sensitivity of the synchrotron radiation…”

Martina isn’t listening. She’s spotted a gray-clad figure walking away from the ATM, speaking on her phone in an animated fashion. As she watches, the figure hangs up and heads towards the science block, quickening her pace in the intensifying downpour.

“Hey, that’s me!” Martina exclaims. “I just thought of something. If I can stop myself visiting your lab, then I won’t go back in time. Then none of this will happen, and I’ll escape the slime after all!” She breaks into a run. “Martina! Martina!”

“Have you learned nothing?” sighs Helen, giving pursuit.

The figure doesn’t respond, continuing her jog towards the science block door. “MARTINA!!” Martina roars, feeling her legs lose traction. The rain has turned the baked earth into a thin slick of mud, which together with the slime, causes Martina’s feet to slip from under her. She lands on her backside in the damp soil.

“Waaagghhh!!” Helen, likewise slipping, pitches over Martina’s shoulders and splashes on her front in the dirt.

At the doorway of the science block, Martina’s former self turns her head, squinting impatiently across the field. “MARTINA!” screams Martina. “DON’T GO IN THERE!” But her shout is buried by a clap of thunder. Martina tries to get to her feet, but Helen grabs onto her.

“Forget it!” Helen urges. “You can’t change history!”

Martina tumbles over. “Just because you want to get slimed, you weirdo!” The pair again grapple, this time in the mud. By the time Martina has shaken off Helen, the science block door is shut.

“There’s still time!” pants Martina. “We can go up to the lab and tell both of us to get out!”

Helen puts a hand on her friend’s saturated shoulder. “Let it go,” she says softly. “If we enter that building we might get killed.”

“How come?”

“It’s going to be struck by lightning,” smiles Helen. “Now Martina, didn’t you mention a movie night at your place?”

The pair trudge on to Martina’s car. On the passenger seat sits a small cloth bag. “Ah, my toiletries! So that’s where I left them.” Martina tosses a bottle of shampoo to Helen. The two girls strip to their undies and lather up in the moonsoonesque downpour. As they rinse off, a fork of lightning descends, blasting the upper corner of the science block and precipitating a shower of sparks and masonry. The window briefly blazes with a vivid violet glow.

“And there we go!” announces Helen. “I’ll come back tomorrow and check on the equipment. I’m too tired now. It really has been one of those days.”

“Don’t you mean two of those days?” says Martina with a wry smile. The friends laugh as they get into the car.

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Although this story mentions real persons, corporations, TV shows and places, it is purely a work of fiction for personal enjoyment. The story does NOT describe real events and should NOT be taken to accurately portray any real entity mentioned. In keeping with its fictional nature, the events and activities described in the story may not be legal, ethical or safe. This site does NOT endorse or recommend their enactment.

The Bunker is a kid’s show on CBBC about a man named Jamie who lives in an underground bunker and has decided to reject “the upstairs world” in favour of living under the ground with very little communication with anyone. Every week in a segment of the show a celebrity guest will come down to the bunker and speak to Jamie in an attempt to convince him that the “upstairs world” really isn’t so bad and he’s missing out by hiding under the ground, however the only way you can even try to convince Jamie is my sitting in an unfortunate place with plenty of jeopardy.

The segment begins with Jamie who is an archetypal looking 27 year old children’s television presenter. Jamie is wearing blue and red stripy pyjamas and a navy blue dressing gown over the top of it and is wearing big comical pink rabbit slippers.

The Bunker’s set uses dark shades of black and grey with big industrial and factory-like pipes surrounding the set.

Jamie addresses the TV audience in a very faux sombre manner.

“Oh hi there, you from the upstairs world. How are you? Hmm I’m okay, but I have to admit as much as I love it here down the bunker it can get incredibly lonely.”

A phone-like ring is heard and Jamie’s back goes straight with excitement.

“Oh someone from the upstairs world is coming down! Oh, I wonder who it could be.”

The celebrity guests tended to range from soap stars to reality stars to bottom flight pop stars to others that had appeared on CBBC shows. Finding guests however isn’t always an easy task for the program makers, as they were forced to find guests that fell under the category of “Celebrity” that would be recognisable to its audience in some capacity and was content with the potentially (or almost definite) humiliating nature of the show. The show got some early publicity as the unpleasant and delusional “reality star” Gemma Collins appeared on a recording as a guest, but then point-blank refused to accept the humiliating consequence that all the guests that appear on the show face despite the fact that the show’s producers had explained it to her many times prior to the recording, however this was not going to be one of those guests.

Jamie then makes his way over to the large automatic doors that were made to look heavy and like they were made of metal. The doors then open in a machine like manner sliding outwards. We are then introduced to the beautiful comedian Cariad Lloyd who smiles with excitement. Cariad is quite a petite lady and her long brunette hair is quite flat at the top, but gets progressively curly towards her shoulders which is sits wonderfully on top of. She had quite dark eyebrows and an ever so slightly up-turned nose. Cariad is wearing a rather tight black crew-neck jumper that complements her healthy slim figure and a pair of pale blue skinny jeans. Her clothes were not as expensive in cost as the fashionable attire that she usually sports on shows such as QI and Have I Got News for You?, but that’s only because she is aware of exactly what this TV appearance requires her to do.

Jamie addresses Cariad in a military-like fashion.

“Please state your name and occupation?”

“My name is Cariad Lloyd and I am an actress slash comedian”

Cariad replies in a rather endearingly awkward fashion and then giggles and smiles in a way in which hides her top lip and only shows her top set of teeth.

“Cariad? Are you Welsh or something? You don’t sound it”

Despite having a name like Cariad Lloyd, Cariad speaks in a very gentle, quiet and rather sexy posh English accent.

“Well I’m actually half welsh and not fully Welsh, which is why I don’t have a welsh accent”

“What brings you down here woman?”

Jamie replies in an irritating kids presenter fashion.

“Well…I’m here to try and convince you to move out of this pit and live with us in the upstairs world”

“Oh great! Another one of you coming down here wasting my time and trying to convince me to come up to your world, well I tell you something – it isn’t gonna happen little missy!”

“Oh no come on. You have to come. We have cakes and chocolate and biscuits. I mean what have you been eating down here?” Asks Cariad.

“Well I’ve mostly been eating slop. It’s the only thing that doesn’t seem to go off”.

Jamie then picks up a plain white bowl and sticks a spoon in it and reveals a load of lumpy, lentil-y grey sludge which resembles the sort of grim result you get if you try to make a stew with qoarn meat. It then drops from the spoon back into the bowl with a heavy plop sound.

“Ewww”

Cariad looks on in hammy disgust showing of the shape of that lovely little nose.

“Well if you come to the upstairs world you can see me in “Licence to Till” on CBBC on Wednesdays.”

Cariad was effectively promoting a CBBC show that she is a part of during this appearance that she is making and this is why she is a relevant guest and why she is recognisable to an audience otherwise too young to have seen her on late night panel shows and adult sitcoms. Licence to Till is an after school sitcom set around a local corner shop where Cariad, a woman in her woman in her thirties plays a mouthy nineteen year old girl named Lauren who is grossly incompetent and is unhelpful and rude to customers in the show. When she plays this character she adopts a faux-working class accent that sounds like a cross between Lily Allen’s “mockney” singing voice and an impression of a young Pat Butcher.

“What is that? Some kind of telly show? Will is be available on VHS at some point? I have a video player.

Jamie says that despite only appearing to be about 27 so therefor pretty much being too young to have never heard of DVD or other media forms that aren’t as heavily obsolete as VHS.

“Well probably not Jamie, but If you come up with me to the upstairs world then you can watch it” replies Cariad like she’s reading it directly from a script.

“Tell me about this show then” Says Jamie like he knows that this is the awkward promotional part of the show.

“Well it’s a sitcom on CBBC at 5 o’clock on Wednesdays about a corner shop. I’m in it and I play Lauren”

Cariad then puts on the aforementioned faux working-class voice.

“Yeah I’m Lauren. I like make-up and want to work in fashion. I totes love One Direction! Harry Styles is my Bae!”

Cariad then resumes to speaking in her normal sexy posh voice.

“So…yeah it’s a fun show and you should come to the upstairs world with me so you can watch it”

Cariad then gives that amazing little giggle and smile.

“Okay, well how do I go about watching this show then, if I do go upstairs with you?”

“Well, you have to have a TV licence and a TV…Do you have any money?”

Jamie pulls out a wallet of his dressing gown and opens up a wallet and speculatively opens it to look inside only to be disappointed that it’s empty.

“Well it looks like I spent all of my money on this bunker”

Jamie looks at Cariad in that awkward manner that customers look at shop assistants when they have had all their items scanned only to find out that they left their wallet at home or their card has for some reason been declined and stopped working and they can’t pay up.

“Drat! I don’t seem to have anything. Hmmmm”

Jamie says in a sombre fashion.

Cariad replies rather optimistically and excitedly

“Well, you can find a job. I’ve heard that the retirement home down the road needs someone to clean the toilets”

It’s strangely acceptable to somehow mock the elderly and those with menial jobs even on kids TV.

“Well I can see that you want me to come up to the above world with you and I might…but…”

Jamie teases in a prolonged and snidely fashion.

There is one condition before I make any concrete decisions.

Cariad then laughs nervously placing her hands over her mouth knowing full well what’s coming.

I have one rule that is you have to convince me above the B.G.D: The Bunker Gunker Dunker!

Cariad audibly giggles with a mixture of nerves and excitement.

The camera the zooms in to Jamie menacing laughing face.

A graphic then covers the screen with a grey background and “Bunker Gunker Dunker over the top of it in a dark green splat font. The graphic then melts off the screen with a drip effect and we see the BGD in all of it’s glory.

The BGD itself is very much the same as the Get Your Own Back Gunk Dunk but it’s made to look like it has wooden panels on the outside perhaps to give the impression that Jamie had made it himself. Much like the GYOB Gunk Dunk there is a ramp and at the very bottom of that ramp is a now nervous looking Cariad Lloyd whose gorgeous ocean blue eyes are staring at the gunge unpleasant gunk beneath her.  The gunge is a very dark sort of dark greyish blue with swirls of bright green and red and “Feed Me” written ominously in the gunge like it’s some kind of monster that feeds on the remaining dignity of those who find themselves floundering inside of it. Cariad is also wearing no shoes and her dainty feet are fully exposed. You can also notice her clenching her toes with a mix of nervousness and excitement.

Jamie then explains the premise to Cariad and the audience.

“So here we are at my gunker and as you can see we have the lovely Cariad Lloyd resting above it”

Cariad gives that little giggle and smile again and looks nervous, but excited, like she is aware of the humiliation that awaits her and is perhaps looking forward to it, scared but excited much like the anticipation that you get when you first take your seat on a scary theme park ride and you realize just what you’ve got yourself into.

“So I’m going to give you one whole minute to tell me about yourself without using this word”

The word “Improv” is shown on the screen in a generic white font.

As the word is shown on the corner of the screen we are treated to Cariad speculatively peering down at the gunge almost as if she was counting the atoms in the vat.

“Now Cariad my dear, you have no idea what this word is do you?”

“No, unfortunately I do not”

Cariad replies in a shaky way in which you can detect the nerves in her voice.

“But Mrs Lloyd, if you say that word then a siren is going to go off and that means you have failed my challenge and you will be plopped into my slop. Okay?”

With Jamie’s “okay” being inexplicably patronizing. Cariad then scrunches her beautiful and cherubic little face up and begins to giggle.

“But first I think you look a bit too confident sitting all the way down there. Now if you’re going in then I’m gonna make sure you go in from a height”

Jamie pushes a red button.

“Up you go love”

Cariad very slowly rises up the ramp and away from the gunge and again her lovely eyes are staring into the thick ominous liquid below as this happens. She ten tucks the some of her hair behind her left ear. Cariad is more aware then ever on what is about to happen to her. She knows that she is just moments away from being dropped in to the huge vat below her and every inch of her body is about to be enveloped with that dark thick gunge. She is very active on the UK improv scene and has perfomed 48 hour improv shows. She has done foolish things in the shows that she has appeared in. She is a comedian after all. She is okay with being made to look silly, but she knows full well that the most humiliating moment of her life is just a moment away, however Cariad, as a British woman in her thirties – she grew up watching gunge programs like Get You Own Back and Noel’s House Party so despite being nervous she has secretly wanted to be gunged for some time now.

Are you ready Cariad?

“Oh come on lets get this over with” she says as she as she plays with her soft long brown hair.

“Your time starts now!”

“Okay umm…so I’m Cariad. I’m half Welsh. I’m on Licence to Till on CBBC on Wednesday at five…”

Cariad laughs again and stops for a second.

“I’m a comedian and an actress. I like cake…uhhh I like biscuits…ummm…I’ve acted in theatre and on television I do a lot of Improv comedy and I teach…”

The siren then blares in an unsoundly manner and Cariad’s mouth opens wide with shock and puts her tiny delicate hands over her mouth.

“Oh you failed! The word was Improv! You might be a star of stage and screen, but that’s not going to save you now”

Cariad becomes alarmed all of a sudden aware of what about to happen to her.

“Ready…?”

Cariad closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and puts her clenched fists in front of her face. This is the last few seconds in her life that she can say that she never been gunged for.

“3!…2!”

Cariad squeals nervously and with anticipation.

“1! Gunge time!”

The chair then gives way and Cariad rushes down the ramp with her arms out and she can clearly be heard screaming comically as she rushes towards the gloop with her hair flowing wildly. The chair then catapults at the end of the ramp and Cariad is airborne above the gunge for less than a second. Her bare feet land in the gunge first, followed by her skinny jean clad legs and then she goes straight under disappearing beneath the gunge causing an almighty splash which is surprising and unexpected for a lady with such a slim and diminutive frame. For about five whole seconds she in nowhere to be seen – then all of a sudden her head which has now been reduced to a unrecognizable dark blue blob and the only features recognizable on her face under the layer of gunge that dresses her is the bump of her cute little nose. Her hands then appear and her body pulls it self up. She’s covered! She’s a complete mess. Her jumper is so heavy and clings to her sexy body now that it filled with slime. She can’t wait till the cameras are off so that she can whip it off.  She then opens her mouth in shock gasping for air and is disbelief of how cold the gunge it. “Oh my god! Its absolutely freezing” she can be heard gasping is disbelief. Her once previously wavey hair is now stuck to her and the ends swing in front of her gunge plastered face. She then slicks her hair back and then what must be buckets of red gunge descend from above and splash all over her lovely frame completing the dark blue already covering her as she places her arms atop of her head and screams. The camera then focuses on her face in which thick blobs of this now blue and red mixture of gunge drip from her nose and jaw line. She then slowly and gently wipes her eyes with her fingers leaving finger shaped marks of skin colour round her face. She is just above her waist in gunge and the goo filled jumper that hugs her so tightly shows off the curve of her modest and natural-sized breasts. All of a sudden another large amount of white gunge falls from the rafters and splashes all over her before she can place her hands over her head the gunk and  she squeals again as it splashes ferociously all over her and goes everywhere and once again covers the top of her and drips down to her face and covers her. Now everything from the top of her head reaching down to that awesome little nose, her shoulders and her arms are coated with the thick white gunk. Cariad looks down at her hands and then looks up with baffled amusement on her face and laughs. She then wipes her eyes and slicks her hair tightly this time like a pony tail behind her desperately and hopelessly trying to squeeze the gunge out of her ruined hair.

“Well Cariad, you tried and you failed. You failed miserably. I won’t be going to the upstairs world with you after all, but how has your experience down the bunker been for you?”

“Oh my god. Yeah, It’s been great. I’ll never bother you again”

Cariad replies quite submissively and shyly before giggling again.

Cariad has managed to remove most of the gunge from her face, however there’s still a blob of slime on the end of her little nose and slimy hair rests tightly behind her head.

“Well I’m glad to hear that because my shower is broken and It’s really hard to get someone down her to fix it so you can sit in there until then.”

Cariad laughs in a very cute fashion. This was an odd experience for Cariad as though she will willingly make a fool of herself for her comedy – she has never quite experienced anything like this before. She found the experience fun and apart from her wet and sticky clinging jumper – she liked the way that the cold gunge felt on her elegant peach skin, as she always wondered what it would be like to be gunged like they did on Get Your Own Back, yet she did feel humiliated by it and she knows full well that this clip of her being dropped into gunge will be immortalized by the internet and all of her family and friends will be able to see this extravagant display of televised humiliation.

“Well Cariad you’ve been a great sport, but you just couldn’t convince me to give up my life in the bunker. Join us next week to see it I can be persuaded or will another celeb perish in the gunge? Until then bye.”

The camera then does an over head shot and we can see Jamie and Cariad who is now just is a dark blue and white blob wallowing in the gunge from a distance. Jamie waves at the audience and we are the treated to a slow motion replay of Cariad’s dunking and then the credits roll.

Cariad Lloyd gunged: an artist’s impression. All credit to custardpiegirls.tumblr.com for this image. Obviously in the story her clothes are different and the gunge is a different colour, but I think this picture makes a cool addition to the story.