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Discussion Starter · #1 ·
A lot of people wanted to know about 'Hippy' Dipply. He was an unassuming sort of presence at West Hamley right from the early days. He'd waft in on race nights, his kaftan and beard flowing in the breeze, and plug in. His home-made VW Camper van was beautifully painted in rainbow colours and CND symbols, and would consistently trundle round near the back of the pack, consistently emitting a sweet-smelling smoke. You couldn't help but like him. He was always smiling in a goofy, unconcerned sort of way- although his sitar practice got a bit trying sometimes. Always last in the point standings, he would merely shrug and say 'It's my karma, man', to which the traditional response was 'Well why don't you get a faster one then?'
There was nothing not to like about the guy. He always had these little chocolate cakes in his hessian shoulder bag which he passed around freely. A bit funny tasting, but they always seemed to get the club in a good mood when the competition got a bit too serious. He could roll a cigarette faster and thinner than any man I have ever known, and even while racing would happily 'skin one up', as he put it in his inimitably languid tones, in his left hand while his right forefinger kept his Parma controller busy. And then generously pass the smoke to whoever was standing nearby.
He became such an institution that people came from miles away just to watch him and listen out for his gnomic utterances. 'You have to be kind to your wheels' 'Armatures have feelings, too' 'If I wasn't last, someone else would be'- all ending with a pause and the inevitable slow, drawn out 'maaaan', which we would all join in with.
I guess one of us should have taken him in hand before things got too weird. When he started parking his VW under a perspex pyramid orientated toward Orion between heats, we smiled indulgently. Funny thing was, it did seem to go faster afterwards. So we all built little perspex pyramids to store our cars in. When nothing noticeable changed, he merely shrugged. 'you gotta know your car's starsign.... maaan. Like your Lotus, Clint. That's a typical Sagittarius. Orion's the wrong vibe completely.... maan.'
We gave up after that. Dippy didn't care. He just drew more and more into himself, nibbling quietly on an alfalfaromeo sprout in his more active moments.
Lil Cooper-Archer pointed out that he was getting thinner, and getting even more wafty in his movements. He got into the habit of crouching on the floor, cross legged, his hands resting palm upward on his thighs. Nobody minded that too much, especially since his kaftan kind of squelched up some of the stickier elements off the clubroom lino. But when he insisted on driving from that position, it seemed to be a problem. He'd never get his head above track level.
'It's OK.... maaan, I'm into levitation.'
We couldn't see any means of suppport. Lil furtively ran her hands under his robe as he bobbed about on the Driver's podium.
'There's definitely nothing between his legs' she reported with some disappointment.
 

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'Don't you mean BENEATH his legs, Lil dearest?' asked Coxie plaintively. Lil ducked down beneath the track for a few moments, and reappeared with an equally disappointed look.
'No, nothing there either.'
Hippy glanced through the only bit of his face not obscured by beard and uttered another of his immortal phrases;
'Self-raising flower power, maaan.'

Hippy Dipply's finest moment- the only time in the records of West Hamley Slot Club that he raised himself from the bottom of the point tables rather than off the ground- was when the Loose Chippings team came round for one of their irregular but unavoidable club challenges. The most ruthless, intimidating, cheating neanderthals in the whole district, the very name of Loose Chippings is enough to send a wrecking ball through the bowels of any club secretary. The last racer to defy them, they claimed, had woken up to find his arms and legs at opposite ends of the M25. The fact that the M25 is circular and has no ends that can be defined as 'opposite', and that therefore the guy in question had regained his senses corporeally intact did not diminish the impact of the story. That he had had to regain consciousness was beyond dispute, and the truth was that the threat proved that Loose Chippings were capable of rising above the mere physical and into the realm of psychological abuse.
Anyway. Hippy Dipply's command of yogic techniques, meditation and stoicism made him immune to the unsubtle threats of Loose Chippings. When they turned up as usual with their fleet of lead weighted battleship-grey Cunningham LeMonstres- this time equipped with spoilers and aerofoils made from single-edged Gillettes, most of the West Hamley team went down without a fight. Except Hippy. His VW kept circulating doggedly, somehow avoiding the sideswipes and razors of the Chipping's Cunninghams. And when the drivers tried their 'squeeze'
tatics on the driver's podium, Hippy was found to be so insubstantial that the Chipping's drivers found themselves bruising each other's elbows. Hippy just raised his elevation, and floated about above the fracas. Tired, baffled, and bruised, Loose Chippings finally packed their pit-boxes and dragged their knuckles homeward, leaving Hippy Dipply's VW still circulating victoriously on Purple Haze lane.

Inspector Thumb, who had all this time been a regular competitor at the club, noticed nothing suspicious about Hippy's demeanour or diet. He was no expert on mind-altering substances himself, and as long as they didn't appear to provide an unfair advantage on the track, saw no need to take any action. The only laws Thumb was concerned with were the laws of Slot-racing.
But one day he brought his pal Wankel 'Sniffer' Ickx with him. Wankel Ickx of the Drugs Squad. As soon as Sniffer entered the clubroom his nostrils started to wax and wane at an alarming rate.
'There's something going on here, Thumb' he said.
'Yes. It's race night. Group C cars, no magnets. Oh... and VW Camper vans.'
'No- something in the air. My God. It's a Hippy.'
'Yes- he does that. He has this knack of floating. I don't know how he does it. Is it illegal, then?'
'No- I mean the smell. It's skunk!'
'Lil- have you been grooming the skunks for the parade?'
'No.... not that kind of skunk. Stand back, Thumb- this is MY department.'

Ickx strode forward, his hands reaching for his cuffs. 'You there. Put your sandals on. You're coming with me!'
He lunged forward, the stainless steel handcuffs gleaming under the flourescents. But he couldn't make contact. His arms passed clean through Hippy's hovering body. He turned and tried again. Now Hipppy even began to look transparent. His whole body was becoming smoky and shimmering. Wankel tried to grapple him, but ended up sprawled full-length on the greasy lino. There was nothing there.
Hippy Dipply had disappeared before our eyes, leaving his VW camper van circulating on it's own, turning a regular 12.07.
 

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Discussion Starter · #3 ·
'Well, Sniffer, you'll have to fill out a report on that' said Thumb, with a definite hint of smugness.
After he'd been peeled off the floor, leaving behing him a relatively clean Sniffer shaped patch on the lino, the Drugs squad man furrowed his eyes.
'Is there really any necessity for that? I mean- I'd look pretty damn...'
'Stupid?' suggested Thumb. 'Trying to arrest hovering hippies that disappear in a puff of smoke?'
'Well, I wasn't going to say that, but it will look pretty odd on my record.'
'Sorry, Sniffer my old mucker, but it was witnessed by myself and the entire club here. And you did get the bracelets out, which means you have to submit a report in any case.'
'Can't you forget...'
'Oh no Sniffer- you can't be asking me to compromise my official position here can you? Look- what you do is submit your report to the X-Files. You know- the strange, irrational and supernatural department. It'll get buried there with all the nude UFO sightings and stuff.'
'Aaaah! Right you are Thumb. Thanks for the tip. I owe you one.'

Thumb returned to his office at Slot Car Division with a warm feeling of satisfaction. He'd got one over on his old friend and rival Sniffer Ickx, and started off a train of events that he was sure would lead to a satisfactory conclusion. He jabbed at the intercom.
'Argent. Drop everything and come right away.'
His sergeant's camp tones crackled back at him from the speaker.
'Isn't that a bit of a contradiction, sir?'
 

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Allan Wakefield
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TOP STUFF!

You are right up there with the likes of Robert Rankin and his 'Sprouts of Wrath'

keep it up! (If you can with that amount of 'whatever you are using' undoubtably in your system)
 

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Jan Groosmuller
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Brilliant stuff as always, looking forward to the next episode...
 

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'Argent- I want a full 24-hour surveillance of West Hamley Slot Club. Take P.C.World and P.C. Nandrilone with you, and take off that stupid tutu.'
'But sir- I thought I was going undercover at the Ballet School.'
'That's over. This is much more important.'
'What do you want me to look out for, Sir?'
'Any strange faces- anyone hanging about, and anyone sitting for long periods in an unmarked car with a pair of binoculars and a camera.'
'But that would be us, sir'
'Argent- if you really want that Ballet School job, you'll take this seriously. I'm busy with this overscale Ferrari scam, otherwise I'd do it myself.'
'What's that, sir?'
'Hmm- well you were bound to find out eventually. Been doing a bit of undercover myself. I've traced the source of these criminally oversized P4s back to the dealer. But he seems to have got wind of things and is planning to make a break for the border. If he makes it to John O'Groats we've lost him.'
'I see sir. So you want me to hang around the streets of West Hamley with World and Nandrilone. I'll see if I can make the best of the opportunity.'
'Exactly. Don't let anything slip past you, Argent.'
'I've never let anything slip past...'
'And make yourself inconspicuous. Put something over that pink hairdo. And the false breasts will have to go, too.'

Some days later, Thumb had tracked his quarry to a chocolate factory in the northern isles, and was about to pounce when his mobile went off.
'Hellooo sir, it's little me sir!'
'Argent? What the devil? I'm up to my neck in hazelnut fondue here. I hope this is important.'
'Oooh yes yes yes. I think we've found your strangers. Sitting in a black Chevrolet outside the club, sir. Binoculars, camera, everything, just like you said. And he's really hunky. Can I go introduce myself?'
'NO! Keep away! Is there anyone else in the car.'
'Only a woman sir. Not my type.'
'Excellent. Keep an eye on them. I'm on my way!'
Inspector Thumb wiped the fondue from his ear and pocketed his mobile. The overscale Ferrari dealer could wait. At last, Thumb had bigger fish to fry. Fox and Cheetah- the X-iles themselves- were within his grasp.
 

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QUOTE (Race-Jan @ 24 Sep 2004, 05:55)Brilliant stuff as always, looking forward to the "next episode..."

"Smoke - Smoke - Smoke weed Every day - la la la la "

Great Story

CoolS
 

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An editorial intervention-

For those of you not familiar with earlier episodes of the West Hamley story, the X-iles might require some explanation. And since Howmet is not slick enough to interpolate a whole load of background information into his pacey narrative, it falls to me to enlighten newcomers...

In the old days when President Bartlett led the free world in liberal, enlightened and humane governance, the FBI was commissioned to set up a special department to investigate the strange, the inexplicable and the downright fantastic. The initial aim was to provied a rational explanation to reassure the confused and anxious public. But the X- Files were given to Agent Fox, a strange and earnest young man, whose dogged investigations led to increasingly bizarre conclusions. When it was revealed by means of grainy, black and white flashback interludes that when only a young child, his Christmas Scalextric set had been abducted, as he believed, by Aliens, the whole project was thrown into doubt. To balance Fox's extreme behaviour, Agent Cheetah was called in. A renowned technical expert, famous as much for her cool assessments, engineering ability and cold bloodedness as much as her prominent bosoms, unblinking blue eyes and cascading glossy red hair, it was hoped that Cheetah would be able to rein Fox in, and bring these bizarre investigations to a conclusion.

At that point, however, the world changed, and a new and reactionary government took over. The new president believed that all the complexities of modern life were answered by an unreadably large and self-contradictory volume of camp-fire stories thrown together by a motley crew of stoned-out desert-dwellers several millenia ago. There was nothing in there about Aliens or Slot-racing, so the X-files were closed down. Slot Car abductions and disappearing hippies were placed in the same category as miracle cures, inexplicably rich TV evangelists and spontanoeus combustion- acts of god.

But Fox remained convinced of his own theories- and Cheetah too was coming round to his point of view. There was something in this, she realised. Despite her rational academic background, a pattern was emerging from the observations she and Fox were building up. The ex-X-Files became the X-iles, wandering the planet and following up all reports of paranormal slot racing behaviour, armed only with their FBI issue 1/32nd scale black armoured Lincoln Continental with linear induction motor and a small arsenal of hand-guns. A theory gradually coalesced in their minds-

The truth was out there. From somewhere in a far distant galaxy, an alien life force was visiting Earth. Ever since the late 50s- the evidence was too strong to dispute- the visits had been becoming more frequent. Their purpose was obvious. Slot racing.
Just a warning. Next time you plug in, count the number of arms on the driver next to you. Our shape-shifting guests from another galaxy don't always get it right.

So now you know. Back to Howmet with the story.

Inspector Thumb walked silently round to the passenger window of the sleek back car, and rapped smartly on the window.
'AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGGGHHH! It's them! Fox! Hel... Oh. It's you, Inspector Thumb.'
'Yes, my dear Cheetah. We meet again.'
 

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Discussion Starter · #13 ·
'Do you mind if I come in, Cheetah?'
''It's only a two seater in front- wouldn't it be easier if I came out?'
'No, no no, my dear. it's race night. There are too many prying eyes and ears about. I have important and confidential things to discuss.'
'OK, ok. I'll budge up. Excuse me, Fox.'
Fox barely grunted. His eyes were fixed to a pair of humungous infra-red night vision binoculars, aimed upward through the sunroof.
Thumb eased himself into the car and awkwardly pulled the door closed behind him. Immediately he fell into a reverie- the recurring dream he'd been nursing all these years- the heady smell of Cheetah's exotic perfume, the crisp rustle of her stiffly starched blouse, that hard tip of cold steel in her breast pocket- it was a hand-gun, wasn't it?- and mostly the liquid fall of her russet hair over her creamy white cheek. Thumb was in love.
'Well, Inspector, what is it?'
'Uhhnnn?'
'What did you want to tell me?'
'Couldn't we just sit here for a moment- consider the stars and what they hold for us?'
'Get on with it Thumb. Fox's mass spectrometer is digging into my hip.'
'Right. Yes. get on with it. What was it I wanted to say? Damn me- it's gone! I must be getting old. Just a minute ago I had it. Did you ever go upstairs and forget what you went up for and have to go all the way down again to remember?'
'Thumb! Thumb! Get a grip on yourself- or I will have to! Fox! Put those glasses down- I think they may have got to Inspector thumb!'
Fox turned slowly and fixed his cool gaze on the Inspector, carefully noting the position and number of his hands.
'You think he's suffering an alien memory wipe, Cheetah?'
'Yes, yes, That's it. I remember. I've had an alien memory wipe. That's what I was going to say! Gosh- it's like getting downstairs...'
'Odd, Inspector- victims are generally completely unaware of an alien memory wipe. It leaves them absolutely....'
'Yes- that is odd, isn't it? Perhaps you had better examine me. I could lie down on the back seat if that's easier for you.'
'Hmmm. Maybe you're right. Fox- take over. Thumb needs an immediate internal investigation.'
'GAAAAAHHH! No!- I, uh, I meant Argent- Yes! Argent has had an alien memory wipe! He knows nothing about it at all. Silly man. He'd forget his head if it wasn't screwed on. Ha. Ha. Ha-ha.'
'OK, Cheetah. I'll take Argent. You get a grip on the Inspector here. I want you to get right to the bottom of whatever is happening here in West Hamley.'
'Yes. Exactly. I think that would be entirely satisfactory, Agent Fox. Should I loosen my trousers, Agent Cheetah?'
 

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Agent Cheetah sat back and peeled off her rubber gloves.
'Good news, Inspector. Everything seems to be in order. No signs of any alien implants or intrusions whatsoever. Mind you- I've never seen anything quite like that before. You can get up now. I said you can get up.'
'Uhn. Glaccchh. Hfffnargh. Have you got a glass of water or a cigarette? Yes. It's a peculiarity of the male line of Thumbs. Usually thought to be advantageous. Are you sure you've checked everywhere? It's best to be absolutely thorough. Perhaps I could return the favour? Have you been checked for aliens lately yourself? I wouldn't even need the gloves...'
'That's quite alright Inspector, although I must say it's very thoughtful of you. You're an interesting man. And not just because of that strange appendage you have. An X-ile gets lonely, you know- wandering from one slot club to another, never a soul to talk to apart from Fox. And he's weird. God he's weird! You know he had his Scalextric set abducted by aliens when he was a boy. Gosh it's hot in this car. Do you mind if I wind the windows down?'
'No- don't- I wouldn't want anyone to see or overhear our discussions. Perhaps if you just loosened your blouse? I'm much more comfortable without my kecks, you know.'
'Good idea, Inspector.'

'I wonder what's taking Fox so long? A whole-body alien scan doesn't usually take this long. Light me up again will you baby? Fffffffffhhhhhrrrr. Thanks. You were great, by the way. But I'm anxious about Fox and Argent. Perhaps we should go look see. You and I could always take up where we left off here- tomorrow night, eh, honeybutt?'
'Ahhhhhmmhhhnn. Sure, baby. Whatever.'
'And it is about time you gave me the true low-down on what's been happening here at West Hamley. This hippy- Dipply, he was called? You really think it's an abduction?'
'Frankly no, my dear. Come with me, and I'll show you what I mean.'
 

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Discussion Starter · #16 ·
'Has anyone seen Argent tonight?' Thumb asked as he strolled into the club, an unfamiliar smoke dangling from his lower lip and his shirt wrongly buttoned. Cheetah had regained her poise and grace immediately on leaving the back seat of the surveillance car, and followed the Inspector in, her sheer charisma and glossily stockinged legs bringing proceedings to an immediate halt. 'Yes. And my colleague, Agent Fox. Anyone seen him?'
'They went up on the roof. Something about wanting to see Uranus, I think.' said Coxie. 'They've been there some time. Should I go up...?'
'No no nno- they'll be ok I think. Fox is very interested in the night sky' Thumb interjected hastily.
'Now, Cheetah- perhaps we'd better get down to business. The reason I brought you here.'
'You brought me here? We were following up an X-File report- It didn't have your name on it. A Detective Inspector Wankler?'
'Wankel- Wankel Ickx. Drugs Squad. Yes, it was his report, but it was me that suggested he file it. You see- you see it was the only way I could think of to bring you here again. I knew the report would fall into your hands eventually. And I was right. Cheetah, I did all this for you. Cheetah, I think... I think I lov...'
'But Inspector! An innocent man has disappeared! A classic alien abduction scenario- this man was snatched from the middle of a club, during a race- just what the Aliens are interested in! They are desparate for new chassis designs, new ideas- there must have been something radical about his car. Do you still have it, Inspector? I must examine it. There's a time for work... and a time for play, my strangely articulated Scotland Yard stallion.. '

Just then, a red faced Argent appeared at the foot of the fire escape. 'Coxie- have you got any more of that axle lube? Oh! Inspector, sir! Good to see you! And Miss Cheetah! Aw my Gahhd darling! Where DO you get that lippy?'
'Shut up and pull yourself together, Argent. And straighten those tights. You're a disgrace to the force. It's AGENT Cheetah to you. Now fetch Hippy Dipply's VW for us. Agent Cheetah is going to perform one of her legendary Slot Car Postmortems. We have much to learn.'
 

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Discussion Starter · #17 ·
The lights were dimmed in the club room. A single anglepoise lamp was positioned over the pitbench, and a band of slot racers quickly formed a close ring around the pool of light. At the centre stood Hippy Dipply's VW camper van, the garish psychedelic colours screaming under the 40 watt bulb. Agent Cheetah took off her jacket, rolled up the sleeves of her fitted silk blouse, and clicked open the heavy duty clasps on her large, customised attache case. Inside, arrayed in velvet lined compartments, were bright chromed instruments, dials, probes, all manner of hand-tools and microscopes. Within the lid of the case was a flat screen computer, which buzzed into life with a sinister FBI logo screensaver.
'Now lets see what those aliens were so interested in, shall we?' said Cheetah, attending to the body mountings with a silent automatic electric toothpick sized screwdriver.
The separate parts of the camper van dropped to the bench. Cheetah aligned them professionally, and started to take snapshots with a powerful digital camera the size of a cornflake. Her long deft fingers worked swiftly, tracing the lines of the chassis, finding the hinges and bearings, just as she had earlier been working on Thumb's most sensitive nerve clusters. Thumb drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow.
'Interesting' said Cheetah.
The ring of racers pressed forward to see what she was doing, but no further words left her lips. Concentration was written deep in her flawless brow. Thumb reached forward to brush a stray lock of red hair from her eye and wipe a bead of sweat from her forehead.
'Appreciate that, Inspector.' she said, briskly.
She pulled the motor apart in less time than it took Thumb to withdraw his hand and sniff his fingers.
Quickly the armature, case, endbell and brushgear were laid tidily beside the chassis. Cheetah examined the windings closely with yet another strangely fashioned implement, finished in smooth brushed matt black. Then she returned to the can, and probed at a small soldered cradle mounted on its upper surface. With tweezers she removed a tiny, charred particle, placed it under a microphone like object wired to the case, and fluttered her immaculately manicured fingers rapidly over a smoothly responsive keyboard. The screen in the case lid flickered, and a series of graphs appeared, jagged peaks and plunging troughs shifting, sliding into alignment.
'Ahem. What's up Cheetah?'
It was Agent Fox, looking strangely glazed and standing in an oddly bow-legged stance, supporting himself against the track.
'I've just been up on the roof, checking for UFOs with Argent here. Saw plenty stars, didn't we, pal?' Argent barely concealed a smug grin, and flicked the tip of his tongue over his lips.
'I think I have it, Fox. The computer shows... Yes. Just as I thought.'
'What? What does it show?' pleaded Thumb. West Hamley slot car club craned its collective neck closer round the computer screen. It was no use. It made no sense at all.
'This VW camper van' continued Cheetah, tonelessly, 'is a reverse plumbered iso-fulcrum hinged-pan double 26 gauge rewind lead weighted bong.'
 

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Discussion Starter · #18 ·
Nobody noticed the club doors open and close, nor sensed the presence of another person in the melee around the pit bench. They did when he spoke, though.
'My wheels, maaaaan! What are you doing to my wheeeels?'
'Dipply! Dipply- Good to have you back! Don't worry about your car, we'll take good care of that- but where have you been? Did they treat you well?' Coxie spoke for all with his effusive welcome. Agent Fox stiffened, with a passing wince, and produced a long, pulsating object from his trouser pocket. Passing it all around Hippy Dipply's kaftan-clad body, Fox consulted readings on a small meter clasped in his left hand. He looked up and shook his head at Cheetah. 'Nothing. No gamma-positrons whatsoever.'
'Where have I been? Maaaan- didn't you know? Cropredy Festival! I've been digging Fairport Convention all week, maaaaan! Special occasion- they got all the bands from the original Island records Bumpers double album sampler together- Spooky Tooth, John Martyn, Quintessence, Mott the Hoople, Jimmy Cliff. Wow, maaan. Swarbrick was on fire! We even got through to Nick Drake and Dick Morrissey on the spiritual plane. 'Meet on the Ledge' lasted three days. Maaaan. I got some souvenir Quintessence finger cymbals too- listen!' Hippy Dipply twirled slowly on the spot, shaking his beard and making charming, yet faintly annoying tinkling sounds with his hands.
'Not on a strange planet in some distant part of the galaxy, then?' asked Coxie.
'Well, I guess I can't say I wasn't, maaaan.'
Fox looked forlorn, and Argent gave him a brief neck massage.
'Just as I suspected' said Thumb.
'But how do you explain the levitation, the unsubstantiation?' pleaded Fox, desperate to get his Slot Aliens back into the plot. 'You guys all saw it- I read the reports!'

'This VW explains everything' interjected Cheetah. Thumb nodded sagely. 'Precisely' he said.
'Perhaps you'd like to explain, then?'
'Oh, no no no, Cheetah. Please go ahead. I'll, um, add my comments where appropriate. God you look gorgeous. Excuse me.' Thumb sat down with a thud and sniffed his handkerchief.
'Well, as I said, this VW explains everything. According to my analysis, this is potentially a very fast car. The laser cut steel chassis has just about perfect weight distribution, and a very effective flex/stiffness co-ordinate. The motor is an extremely high-revving and powerful custom rewind. The body shell, while not to everyone's taste, is effectively mounted. But very heavy. This is the first of the many contradictions which struck me about the vehicle. This is a hot car. But my reading of the club race history shows that it ran consistently slow, almost invariably at the back of the pack, and has recorded a best lap some three seconds below the club average. Then I noticed the extra lead weights added to all parts of the chassis. Then my analysis showed no signs of any lubricant having been applied to any part of the car for no less than five years. In addittion, the 60:1 gearing, excessive in itself, was binding very tightly. Furthermore, there are
small rubber blocks fixed to each corner of the body pans and rubbing against the tyres. This car has been designed to run very slow, but very, very hot.'
We all turned to look at Hippy. He raised his eyebrows and nodded, with his usual amiable smile. 'But you didn't need to pull my wheels apart, maaaan. You only had to ask' he said.
Cheetah lowered her head and continued. 'Then we come to this anomalous cradle soldered onto the motor can...'
'Yeah. Neato, eh, maaaaan?'
'Thank you. From it I extracted some burnt organic material which my computer analysis shows to be very high grade narcotic.'
'Yeah- that was cool stuff I got last time, maaaan.'
'In short,' Cheetah carried on, 'the purpose of this machine is to circulate the track at slow speed, burning intoxicating substances and spewing the smoke around the club and its members. Whenever this car hits the track, the entire club membership will succumb to the effects of strong mind-altering drugs within two or three laps, by my best estimate. So there we have it.'
'Yeah. Grooooovy, isn't it, maaaan? I've got some good stuff with me now. Shall we give it a run?'
'So what it means is............' said Thumb, slowly assembling the correct sequence of hectic and random events together in his mind, 'none of the witness statements are reliable. We didn't actually see Hippy fly, or disappear in a puff of smoke. We just thought we did!'
'Exactly' said Cheetah 'You've been wasting our time. If you knew just how many of these so-called alien encounters spring from the wasted minds of burnt out hippies, you'd know just how frustrated and angry I am right now, Inspector Thumb. I'm not saying we havn't had fun, but there are more important things for the X-iles to attend to! Come on Fox. We have REAL work to do.'
Cheetah and Fox abruptly turned and left. Thumb and Argent stood, stunned and wide eyed, clawing the air. But it was no use. West Hamley Slot Car Club was about more than lost love and personal relations.

Coxie was ready as always with the right sentiment at the right time. 'Hey, Hippy! Cheer us all up! Get that mobile bong fired up quick! We've got work to do too!'
 

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Brian Ferguson
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Once again...


...hmmm... I wonder if Fate would notice a small cradle soldered to the top of the motor in my F1.... hmmm...
 

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Allan Wakefield
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Top Stuff!

Can I comission one please? I will supply the flower power decals from Pattos for you. Shipping should not be too bad if you combine it with a Xylon Order and stick the xylon inside me bong - err I mean VDub.
 
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