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Twelfth Night in the Bingo Hall

Calliaphone can be heard, back out by reception, trying to get into the Bingo Hall. There is a lot of thumping, rattling and cursing, and a goodly amount of remonstration from Julia and Lillith.

Calliaphone finally makes it up the stairs and through the door, tugging a little makeshift crate-cart behind her. It is stuffed with her belongings. She pauses, puffing, and wiping her forehead.

Calliaphone sits down on the cart to mop her brow some more, and considers the PR question. She's no experience at all in such matters, but she'll do whatever she can to help.

Calliaphone reckons that the kindly/portly combo outclasses lean/mean/green machines by miles, any day of the year. She munches some chocolate in an affirmatory manner, and purloins some Festive Whiskey.

Calliaphone turns round. She's still got Stuff to track down in the jungle (a missing power-drill, dungarees, flat-cap and coat, to be precise). She does some calculations, and then pushes her cart to stairs.

Calliaphone positions the cart at the top of the stairs, and climbs aboard, balancing on all the untidily stowed Stuff packed inside it. Grasping the t-bar handle like a steering bar, she pushes off.

Calliaphone flies down those stairs, atop her bouncing, rattling cart. Her plaits stream out behind her, and she clutches her bakerboy cap with on hand, steering with the other.

Calliaphone ricochets off the wall, at the corner, and continues her downhill flight at a new angle. Lillith and Julia leap in opposite directions, and Callia rattles between them, out of the door into CC404.

Logistic Elf 1st Class SinkOrSwim double takes as Callia rattles past. “I'm not sure that's very safe young lady. . ..”


* * * some time later * * *


Calliaphone drags her cart into halls, after signing several forms at reception promising never to ride it down the stairs again, on pain of confiscation.

Calliaphone parks her cart in a corner, and eyes the pile of cigarettes, resisting the urge to nick one. Instead, she chomps down on gum determinedly, and swigs some Festive Whiskey.

Calliaphone digs in her cart, pulling out a mini steam G-Bot, a large plastic wombat, and a patchwork Mouse-Thing. Sitting on the floor, she arranges the toys around her, and leans back against the cart.

Calliaphone puts her hands to the accordion keys, and starts playing, the gentle strains of Autumngirlsoup lulling her to sleep.

Santa Bernard eyes Calli's festive whisky. There's a pining sound coming, sub-vocally, from Santa's throat. . .

Improbable SteamBot g_rock hears a keening, and points SB to the full wooden cask next to the liquor cabinet with a whistle and a tip of his santa cap

Santa Bernard makes a rather - shall-we-say- theatrical fall to the floor, right next to the liquor cabinet, “Ooh Vic, I've fallen,” he manages to ejaculate whilst on the floor, “I may need medicatin. . .”

Calliaphone is wakened by Cordy playing Reveille at full volume. Jolting upright, she smacks her head on her cart. “Owww.”

Improbable SteamBot g_rock pauses to watch the last vestiges of his naivete and youthful innocence scream in hooror and wither at the spectacle in the red suit.

Calliaphone gasps at the sight of Santa Bernard, all collapsed! Whipping out a flask of festive whiskey from her pocket, she rushes to his side. “Here, drink this.” she advises, tipping it down hi

Calliaphone blinks at the absence of her last few actions. obviously, she tips it down his gullet. what else would you do?

Improbable SteamBot g_rock places a hand on callia's shoulder, pointing to the full cask of laphroaig G bartered for and brought in, the shrine upon which SB now worships. He taps it with a wooden mallet.

Calliaphone boggles. “Laphroig? You think his condition is serious enough to warrant it?”

Improbable SteamBot g_rock creaknods. Might as well use the cause as the solution to the problem. He turns the tap, pouring four glasses. He hands one to Callia, One to SB, and leaves one out for Fergus

Santa Bernard mutters, “Give me Islay malts or give me death. . .”

Calliaphone takes the glass with due reverence, nursing it carefully between her palms. Dipping her nose, she inhales deeply, sighs, then takes a sip.

Santa Bernard tries to shuffle his body across to his Laphroaig, the peaty loveliness assaulting his nostrils. . .

Calliaphone thinks Santa ought to talk to someone about his suicidal thoughts. At least he should consider adding Campbelltown and Orkney to the list. Life is a rich and varied thing.

Improbable SteamBot g_rock raises his glass and whistles a few bars of 'Ding Dong, The witch is Dead'. He taps the glass against the lower half of his face without thinking. He sighs and leaves it on the table

Santa Bernard laps at his tumbler, lap lap lap. . .

Calliaphone grins. looks like the jolly old chap will live to fight another day. gathering her toys, she scrambles up to perch on her cart, and sips some more whisky.

Improbable SteamBot g_rock reaches down and tenderly smooths the ratty white beard, straightening the elastic holding it up.


* * * some time later still * * *


Logistic Elf 1st Class SinkOrSwim places a 'Prohibition' notice on the malt cask, padlocks the doors to the liquor cabinet, and stands in front of it, sternly. “No more of that until we're finished. . .”

Logistic Elf 1st Class SinkOrSwim “. . .cleaning up the christmas debris, you bunch of HOOLIGANS! The workshop looks dreadful, the shed's full of reindeer shit, and there's still a turkey carcass rotting. . .”

Logistic Elf 1st Class SinkOrSwim “. . .in the kitchen. There'll be no booze and no blowing anything up until this hall is SPOTLESS!” Sink pins up a new rota. A CLEANING one. . .

Logistic Elf 1st Class SinkOrSwim steps over the prone Santa, removing his tumbler and striding away to the office to watch the newly installed CCTV monitors.

Improbable SteamBot g_rock eyes Sink up and down. He treads into the kitchen, grabbing said carcass. He stands right in front of Sink and stuffs it into his boiler fire matter of factly

Improbable SteamBot g_rock whistles, the steam forming CHECK mark

Improbable SteamBot g_rock would tend to give the impression that, had he a mouth, he'd be sticking a tongue out at the nearest CCTV camera

Calliaphone tugs her cart back into halls, giggling at the look on g_rock's face. she'd stop to help, but she's actually supposed to be out in the jungle, tracking down her singing toasters to recruit as spies.

Calliaphone is, however, going to put in some zzzzs before doing Anything Else At All. a good resistance militia marches on its pillows, as napoleon clearly did not know.

Calliaphone pauses only to promise Sink that she really will fix those loos, soon as she's got time. Mountjoy's already mentioned it several times, and she's nicked a plunger from Joe's Diner, specially.

Calliaphone tugs her cart wearily out into the corridor and up the stairs towards her room.

Logistic Elf 1st Class SinkOrSwim stomps out, nodding in approval at G's removal of the turkey. He wanders into CC404 to collect a 'custom' item. It's triangular, yellow, and evil. . .

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