“Voodoo stuff,” the King mutters while the Monkeys cling to the top of their cages.

“Their latest mutations: beautiful, mesmerising and useless” a prisoner says.

“Inspired by the Rum River song: Good River Gone Wild, this planet’s anthem,” another ads.

“Colonel Loga’s hedonist tendencies, can’t resist visual and sensual perfection, some obsession.  Can never get it to work though.”


“The flying, never quite there.”

“What’s the point?” the King asks, “we’re never going to get—“

“—they’re the latest models, the new generation,” one prisoner continues, this is the monthly parade before the real entertainment begins, there’s always—“

One baton well targeted stops this prisoner’s babbling.  From the central stage’s main podium, a policeman, larger and taller than most and with a bird perched on one shoulder, steps onto his box and flies around the arena, inspecting and greeting.  He too wears goggles.

There is something unmistakably familiar about him, the Captain thinks.

“Colonel Loga!” he calls out finally, as an extended snaky tongue pokes out of his guard’s mouth with speed and cuts a hair strand protruding from the Captain’s head.  A pearl of sweat ominously drips from the Captain’s forehead down onto the strand of hair.

The Colonel reaches the prisoners, glances at the Captain and passes him by and the King.

“Colonel!” the King yells.  But the policeman ignores them and continues his tour, not realising Labaguette, a slight mechanical buzz emanating from his new set of wings, has taken back to his natural habitat, that of the Captain’s Traumatic shoulder.

“Is this really you Captain?” Labaguette asks, pecking at his shoulder to get a feel of reality.

To be continued…



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