Well! It’s like One Hundred and One Dalmations all over
again only with ducklings and the villainous Fridinator rather than puppies and
Cruella De Ville. Kenneth the Phantomime, in full investigative mode, takes it
upon himself to go to the village and check out the new fried food shop. He
returns within the hour.
‘Just as I thought,’ he says, slapping his investigative
notebook on the table. ‘There’s a notice in the window offering a specialty
delicacy to celebrate tomorrow’s opening of the shop.’
Whilst he has been gone, the hens and Mrs Hare have been
girding their loins, gathering their arms and battening their hatches. They
have gone from a state of despair and upset to being bloody well angry. And Hell
hath no fury like an angry hen. It’s the dinosaur genetics, you see.
Mrs Poo is already dressing in her ex-army combat outfit.
‘What exactly IS a duckling canard?’ she says, as she tightens the notch of her
belt on her commando trousers to ‘Extreme.’
‘Well,’ says Mrs Slocombe, ‘if you really want to know,
it’s…’
And she leans in towards Mrs Poo and whispers in her ear.
Despite being brown of feather, Mrs Poo’s face turns a
distinct and very unattractive shade of bile green. ‘Eeeuuuwwwww…’ she says.
‘Really? That’s disgusting.’
‘Really,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘You won’t catch me using a
recipe like that anywhere near MY kitchen.’
‘We need a plan,’ says Kenneth. ‘It is my belief that the
ducklings are being kept in an outbuilding behind the shop.’
‘What makes you think that?’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘All the peeping and quacking I could hear,’ says Kenneth. ‘And
the big sack of duck food standing next to the door.’
‘At least they are being fed,’ says Mrs Hare, her bottom lip
trembling.
‘Of course they are,’ says Kenneth. ‘He wants to fatten them
up. You don’t get much canard off a skinny duckling.’
‘Kenneth!’ hisses Mrs Pumphrey. ‘A little more tact, if you
please?’
‘Soz,’ says Kenneth. ‘But it needs telling like it is. We
don’t have a moment to lose.’
‘I agree,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘What’s the plan?’
Kenneth looks slightly taken aback. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Well, I
suppose we creep in under cover of night and rescue them?’
‘Or we march down there in broad daylight, bang on this Fridinator's door
and shame him into giving them back now,’ says Mrs Poo, who has been giving
this problem some serious thought of a combative nature.
Mrs Slocombe nods. ‘What, like a public shaming exercise?’
she says.
‘I like that idea,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Show him up in front
of the whole village, and run him out of town, that’s what I say. We don’t want
a fish and chip shop run by a villain like him, do we?’
‘The Easter Parade!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Tomorrow morning is
the Easter Parade. The whole village will be out watching the procession of
floats. We could make a float of our own and stop it right outside his shop,
and make him answer for his crimes!’
Mrs Slocombe looks a bit worried. ‘Won’t that be too late,
though. I know when I’m preparing food for a lot of people, I start the day
before. Will the ducklings be safe until tomorrow morning?’
The Phantomime nods. ‘Yes. The fish and chip shop doesn’t
open until 2 p.m. he won’t start….er…preparing anything for frying until
mid-day. You have to be careful with duckling canards. They need to be fresh
from source, if you get my drift?’ He looks anxiously at Mrs Hare who, luckily,
is preoccupied with popping out another egg.
‘Right!’ says Mrs Miggins, clapping her wings together. ‘We
need to get our parade float built and ready to go. This Fridinator chap isn’t
going to know what’s hit him.’
Meanwhile, in the fried food shop, Mr Judas S. Carriot is
having problems of his own. Not the paternal type, he is finding the ducklings
over-needy in their demands.
‘Look,’ he says, as they clamber over and around him in a
most endearing way, ‘just eat your kibble, will you? And keep quiet. For such
little things, you make a heck of a lot of noise. But not for long, eh? Tomorrow
it will be bye-bye ducklings, hello enormous profits! Mwahahahahahahaha!’
‘Aaah, profit,’ says a voice behind him. ‘The new idol of
worship for all religious festivals in this modern and greedy world.’
The Fridinator spins around. There, in the middle of the
courtyard behind the shop, stands a tall woman, with piercing green eyes and long
wavy hair, the colour of catkins. She is wearing a long flowing dress in yellows
and greens, and there is an ethereal aura surrounding her.
‘Excuse me, Mrs…er…..’ says Mr Carriot.
‘Ostara,’ says the strange and enigmatic lady.
‘Mrs Ostara,’ says Mr Carriot. ‘We aren’t open until
tomorrow. Two o’clock, after the Easter Parade. Ten percent discount on your
first order…’ His voice trails away as Mrs Ostara stares at him, unblinking and
with a distinct air of reproach.
‘It’s a lovely time of year, isn’t it, Mr Carriot?’ she
says. ‘Full of hope and new growth after the cold, dark days of Winter. New
hope, new growth…new life.’ And she nods towards the shed where the
ducklings can be heard chatting away amongst themselves.
‘It would be a pity, wouldn’t it, Mr Carriot,’ she
continues, ‘if new life wasn’t given a chance to experience the world properly?
If it was cut off in its first flush of youth? If the spark of newly born
energy was deprived of making an impact on this Earth?’
Mr Carriot looks uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’
he says.
‘Oh, I think you do,’ says the lady goddess. ‘Think
carefully on your actions, Mr Judas S. Carriot. Think on how your deceit will impact
this world…’
Mr Carriot glances uneasily at the shed door. And when he
turns back, the lady has vanished…
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