“Gimme this magnet!” the Captain says grabbing it from Chloroph’s grip and throwing it overboard.

“What have you done?” Chloroph asks, now a prey to some unspeakable terror, “What have you DONE?”

“JUMP!” Birdseye insists, as he attempts to get all of them to follow him by diving head first into the hook, but all remain standing looking at the garbage hook, undecided.

“He can’t fly!” Labaguette remarks, “he won’t—”

“—JUUUUMMMP FOR FFFFFFFFFFFF…” they can hear Birdseye shout from the bottom of the bag.

“He didn’t….  Did he—”

But Labaguette’s last words fizzle as, sensing inescapable danger if not death, the three monkeys decide it is time to take the matter into their own hands, or paws some might say: they snatch the hook from Chloroph’s hands, pull it open in three directions and wrap at faster than the speed of light, the King, Labaguette, Chloroph, CollectOrus, Captain Traumatic, and include themselves, while the garbage floating about the ship and the Insatiable Princess begin their descent towards the falling magnet, its gravity transformed into that of a black hole of biblical proportions.

Then, as if reading everyone’s thoughts, Birdseye turns his third eye’s light on.

“Am I dreaming?” Labaguette asks.

“Are we dead?” the King asks.

“Where is my beloved?” the Captain asks.

“It worked!” Chloroph exclaims, looking at the monkeys carrying on excitedly.

“Crap!” CollectOrus adds, “something’s wrong.”

“We’re in the midst of it,” Chloroph continues, “we’re floating in it, can’t you see?”

“A bloody nightmare!” the Captain exclaims finally picking up on the situation, “Edgar couldn’t have dreamt of such emptiness and darkness.  There’s really nothing.  Garbage makes you feel alive… is that the message?”

To be continued…



“There’s nowhere to hide,” Labaguette continues, “this time and for the last, I repeat: we’re doomed.  THIS IS THE END.  Mark my word.”

This is when, with fear deep set into his eyes and a knowing within his soul that this is the best time to get even his worst enemy to trust him once and for all, Chloroph unzips the garbage hook once more and with a sign of the hand, invites them all in.

“This would be the equivalent of latrines in the century I was born in!” Labaguette exclaims, “I will not throw myself into this stink hole, nor should you,” he advises.

“This is another of your plots, Chloroph!” the Captain guesses.

“This is your last chance,” Chloroph insists, “look behind you!”

All turn their head and it seems it has taken little time for an entire planet to emerge out of its mist which is now lagging behind on the horizon, a planet pulled by an unstoppable magnet.

“For fuck’s sake, throw the magnet away!” the Captain insists,

“The objects that have arrived won’t let it out of their reach.  It’s about the law of attraction, it—”

“—Throw the bloody thing inside your bloody stink hole of a hook!”

“It isn’t a stink hole nor a latrine.  You’ve never experienced it,” Chloroph says, a rare tear floating on the edge of his eyelid, “you’ll never admit that—”

“—This isn’t about pride!  What are you?  Think for heaven’s sake!  Why is it that each time you’re around we end up in impossible situations?” the Captain yells.

“We must jump,” Birdseye says, ominously.

To be continued…


In no time, metallic objects of all kinds advance ominously towards the ship and threaten to pile up in front of Chloroph’s hook aperture as they become stuck to the magnet and to each other, such is the strength of the pull.

“Some trick!” CollectOrus exclaims, “nothing new, what do you—”

But this rubbish collector’s last words are smothered by the sudden dim arising from the gathering of boxes that have appeared drawn from behind the now remote orange mist hiding RythmaRymosthesis.

“We could have used this before,” the Captain says, “why didn’t you—”

The Captain’s words disappear too, stopped in their track this time as Labaguette has re-emerged:

“ATTENTION, J’ARRIIIIIIIIIVE,” he warns as best as he can, crash landing against an ancient yellow toaster.”

“I’ll be—”

Chloroph’s words, in turn, are silenced:

“You’ve given me another bloody headache, you lot!” the King exclaims, “couldn’t you have waited until you were certain the crown was off my head?”


“What have you done?” the Captain asks, “is the entire planet being pulled here?”

“If its chore is made of metal, it could be that—”

“Shut your gob!” Labaguette orders, “there’s not time, Spinostress, the Policeman and the remainder of RythmaRymosthesis will follow soon.”

“How do you know?” Chloroph asks.

“He knows,” Birdseye says, “we must hide or death will be upon us.”

“It’s only Spinostress and her lot,” the Captain mutters, “we’ll come to no harm, I know how to handle them and that type of situation.”

“There’s an entire planet in their tow.  Hiding is our only escape,” Birdseye insists.

To be continued…


“Oh crap!  Why would you want to retrieve garbage?  What do you take me for?”

“Regrets, Revenge, Redemption.”


“What would you like me to try and get back for you?”

CollectOrus isn’t impressed nor satisfied.

“You’re a show off.  I’m the only garbage collector here and you must go.  I’ve no patience with wannabes.  You’re treading on my territory. You’ve done enough damage as it is.”

“Nah.  My model is the latest there is, like it or not.  There is nothing so advanced and no one anywhere is prepared for its sheer strength and applicability.  Any rubbish that it gobbles up is volatilised as if it’s never existed.  It isn’t condensed into balls of mulch nor thrown into any other extra universal dimension.  It disintegrates into thoughts particles which can’t be put at the back of anyone’s mind so that it can be retrieved at a later stage if necessary, provided the zip’s function is known by its owner.”

“You’re having me on.”

“Some call it denial but that’s the deal.”

“What deal?”

“Control, Master of Rubbish, control.  If the zip’s function isn’t fully understood by its owner, broken, or put more simply, the owner reminisces over what was discarded, the loads of rubbish that was dispensed of could try and break free and behave in unexpected ways.  You can control anyone, any creature with such Hook.”

Now Chloroph retrieves and pulls out of his Hook a metallic object the shape of a horse shoe.

“You can even select the type of rubbish you want to throw first,” he says, directing the magnet towards the surrounding, floating garbage.

To be continued…


“It’s a little constricted around here but who’s to say it’s barbaric?” the Captain asks, recuperating, “there’s a treasure to be had if—”

“—It isn’t for you to take.”

“Too dusty, dirty and I’m not gonna let demented junk knock me off my ship.  Order your junk to make room for my ship!  We need to keep steady on the road.  We’ve wasted enough time.”

“Not so easy, Captain.  This junk as you call it isn’t going anywhere without proper storage facilities.”


“A bin bag,” Chloroph explains.

“You destroyed the only bin bag of its kind that ever existed.  What am I going to do now?  So long as you can’t help me, I can’t help you.”

“I took it out and your bag died out,” Chloroph continues.

“Took what out?”

“The golden liquid.”

“You couldn’t have had enough of it to destroy my entire bag.”

“Oh but I did.”


This is when Chloroph pulls out his rubbish collecting hook out of his pants, stretches it, positions it, before summoning its opening through some magic mumbling only he knows and there: a zip appears for Chloroph to unzip.  In it, all that one can see are more portions of the sky and more stars, as if the zip opened to a state of transparency.

“Some trick, huh?  There’s nothing behind this magic zip you pulled.”

“This is the ultimate rubbish collection bag.  I invented it, designed it and it is at the forefront of all technologies.  All rubbish thrown inside it can be retrieved through wishful thinking, putting your hand in it and retrieving whatever it is you wish to retrieve with one single swipe of the hand.”

To be continued…


So it goes that Captain Traumatic opens the Rum flask he holds attached to his belt and empties it inside the bag, encouraging Birdseye to do the same.  But the Rum is subjected to a particular form of gravity only found within the Collector’s bag.  The Rum disintegrates into small bubbles that float about and add holes to the bag as soon as they touch it and then disappear into the skies.

“One hole, two holes or three won’t make any difference, Captain, you won’t—”

At that very second, the bag explodes in a flash of light, releasing its prisoners, the bag in turn disintegrating into nothingness.  CollectOrus falls to his knees and puts his face into his long knotty hands.

“No, no, no.  What have you done?”

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” the Captain repeats, holding CollectOrus by his hair, threatening to cut his throat.

CollectOrus, astounded, looks into the Captain’s eyes with a mixed look of horror and disdain.

“If you take my life—”

“Captain,” Birdseye musters, “let him go.”

“Let me go!”

“Gimme a single reason I should, you roaming dirtbag?”

And, without any warnings, except perhaps that of Birdseye a quarter of a second earlier, a giant metronome’s handle knocks the Captain unconscious and what looked like empty starry skies before is now strewn with rubbish of all kinds, floating around the Insatiable Princess, a looming menace.

“See?” CollectOrus says, “What did I tell you?  Who perpetrated this horrific act of barbaric proportions?”

And while Birdseye nurses the Captain back to his feet by means of a little more Rum, Chloroph says:

To be continued…


“I’m no key master nor related to your white sheep,” the creature reiterates.

“We’ve no rubbish bags here,” Birdseye says.

“We’re on our way back to earth,” the Captain adds.

“My bag here has captured particles of a self-regenerating liquid which has damaged it.  It’s leaking.  You fix it.”

“What makes you think we have such liquid aboard this ship?”

“I was passing by underneath your ship when one of you threw it overboard.”

“You’re from around here?”

“It is my duty to investigate any unknown and unidentified objects flying through these skies.”

“What for?”

“In case of junk.”

“You own these skies?”

“I protect them.”

“Are there limits?”


“How far do you travel?”

“As far as my bag takes me.”

“Within these skies.”

“And those skies beyond skies.”


“Sure thing.”

“Look, CollectOrus, we don’t have bags here.  We’re pirates, we pillage, we drink and we pillage some more.  Pass your way.”

“This bird ain’t no pirate and this plant man may be adequately mad but he’s no drinker.”

“SWORDS OUT!” Captain Traumatic attempts.  Upon which, CollectOrus throws his rubbish bag into the air attached to a string he holds in his hand.  The bag deploys and with a single pull from the Collector falls onto the Captain, Birdseye and Chloroph, entrapping them under the curious eye of the Monkeys.

“Try shredding my bag with your sword now, Captain!” the Collector says, “and—”

“HOLLY SHIT!” they can all hear the Captain yell, “YOU DIRTY FINGERED TWIRP!”

“You were warned,” CollectOrus says.

To be continued…