Midday and a loud resounding knock at the entrance of the Bide-a-Wee Guest House shook Major Uproar from his gin-soaked slumbers and did disconcerting things to the cuckoo inhabiting the clock on the dining room wall. The insistent rapping was hardly an unusual occurrence given the large number of visitors who crossed the threshold daily in search of fried bread full English breakfasts and traditional Roast Beef Sunday lunches but this was different. For as she swung open the heavy oak door Mrs Clutterbuck's gaze alighted upon the pair of knockers before her and her face dropped. Not a literal drop you understand, for although many of the female inhabitants of Teetering had become Botox laden, Mrs C. only had to look presentable for Sebastian her pet bulldog. That frankly did not take much effort and as a result she was still happily in full control of all her facial muscles. The reason her face dropped was simple. Shock, horror and grave grave disappointment. For there on the threshold stood a group of people she'd been hoping never to see again - and amazingly she wasn't thinking of Malik and Ryo. There, inelegantly bandaged and looking considerably the worse for wear was George, Dorothy and little Willy Neatly. The fearsome family had returned!

The Neatly's arrival at the guesthouse had - if you remember dear reader - been somewhat delayed by the unexpected entry of Malik's Nightmare Wheel into the side of their Honda Civic. Mr Neatly had often been perturbed by the scattering of bird droppings on his reliable little car so imagine his surprise when a flurry of whirring, rotating knives started to gut the old girl from boot to bumper. Within seconds his Honda had become little more than an éclair with a steering wheel and the resultant shrapnel was enough to hospitalize the entire family and ruin a bagful of egg and cress sandwiches that had been specially prepared for the journey. A stay in hospital had however worked miracles and although Mr Neatly now contained more stitches than his wife's woollen tights, he had come to Bide-a-Wee glowering with barely suppressed anger and in fighting spirit.

It soon became clear that the family was in no mood for niceties – in fact, they never were. Like living breathing aspartame they initially appeared pleasant but this artificial sweetness but soon melted away to reveal something distinctly unpleasant. The family roughly pushed their way past the old lady and flowed like a destructive lava stream into the kitchen beyond where they quickly lay waste to an assortment of cakes, biscuits and feeble looking chicken legs. Sebastian tried to rally some sort of defence on his mistress's behalf but his wheezy bluster-filled barking was soon silenced and the swift application of George's boot saw the bulldog sprawling through the air towards the rose bushes. Mrs Clutterbuck could scarce contain her horror. The Neatly's could scarce contain their delight. In fact their gloating left them quite unaware that Malik, Bakura and their limping and non-limping animal followers had stalled whilst descending the staircase and were rooted to the spot carefully eavesdropping on every word.

"You and I have some talking to do Florence. Or rather I shall be doing the talking and you shall do the listening. Do I make myself clear?"

Mrs Clutterbuck nodded mournfully. George Neatly spoke with the cold demeanour of someone who was used to having no friends. He worked for a living evaluating the assets of old companies, buying them for a pittance and then stripping them of their assets often leaving their faithful workforce mouldering on the scrapheap. He knew the value of everything but the worth of nothing and his callous nature had enabled him to become rich but never, it would seem, rich enough.

"Aunty, Aunty, Aunty. You know that you're far too old to be running a ramshackle establishment like this. Sign a few documents passing the property over to me and I can guarantee you a quick sale and a place in the Teetering Home for Crumblies will be yours for the asking. For gods sake, who in their right mind would give their patrons a never-ending supply of custard sodding creams?"

Bakura glared with displeasure and contemplated the sudden withdrawal of his much-loved biscuit fetish. Nobody was going to touch his sweetmeats without suffering the consequences! They continued to listen…

"You're offering what nobody wants…well nobody apart from your sad bunch of resident eccentrics; and they're in a worse state of repair than the bloody guesthouse! (Cue much gnashing of teeth and beaks from the stairwell) Hotel and motel chains are the way ahead. Identical quality controlled products for the masses. Portion control with no wastage and the bleeding-heart personal touch replaced by efficient service. I mean, what sort of personal service can an eighty year old offer?"

At this point George paused to insert a theatrically wicked sneer and quite failed to hear Malik's snort of indignation as he cast his mind back to a special supper of sushi on toast that had been served to him by Mrs Cluterbuck. It was of course disgusting but he had appreciated the effort. What he didn't appreciate was this upstart's attempts to manipulate defenceless women. That was his job.

"To be quite brutal dear Aunt – and here he reinforced his words by roughly manhandling an adjacent sausage – I could do with a bit of additional investment cash and the dear old Bide-a-Wee would allow me to set up my new money-making scheme. Pyramid selling!"

He did go on to elaborate further but the juxtaposition of the words 'pyramid' and 'selling' were quite enough for our two 'heroes' whose misunderstanding of this rather dodgy concept now erupted into fury and quite blotted out the conversation in the kitchen. Dark Malik was seething.

"By the Right Leg of the Forbidden One, nobody is going to sell our beloved pyramids to the infidels! Our cultural heritage shall not be cashed in because of reckless greed!! This George Neatly shall not mire our monuments in moulah!! May the curse of a thousand…"

The next section rambled on for a considerable amount of time taking in large amounts of brain insects, mind crushes and premature burials along the way. Should you wish to include your own curses please do so, for Malik undoubtedly covered most of them in his rant as the poodles, parrot and two friends became increasing agitated and dangerously animated. Suffice to say our small group of eavesdroppers were far from happy and had their lust for revenge not propelled them over the banisters and into a sprawling heap on the floor below George would never have known of their existence. All three Neatly's stuck out their heads from behind the kitchen door to see what was causing all the commotion. Eyeing the hapless crew a supercilious snort of 'Foreigners!' was enough to quieten their suspicions and they went back inside as the 'foreigners' dusted themselves off. To a man, dog and parrot the response from inside the dust cloud was unanimous…

"The Neatly's shall die! "

--)()()()()(--

The Teetering-on-the-Brink Village Fête was an institution. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that those who took part deserved to be locked up in one. For well over 100 years it had been the high point of the village calendar; a motley assemblage of cut flowers and cakes, high teas and even higher drama. Envisaged as a mildly competitive gathering together of the whole community, this annual bun fight had degenerated over the years and now led to more division, divorces, feuds and common assaults than all other local customs put together. Except perhaps for Juddering-on-the Edge's highly dubious 'Virgin Queen Festival' in which, to considerable embarrassment, no local girl had triumphed since 1923 and where all the winners of recent years had credentials as insubstantial as their indecorous undergarments.

Make no bones about it; the reputation of the Fête was so fearsome that even the inmates of the nearby open prison would lock themselves in their cells for fear of stumbling into the event by mistake. In fact in Victorian times the gathering had been mentioned by Charles Darwin to illustrate his theory that the survival of the fittest was a process favoured not simply by the blood crazed Tyrannosaurus Rex but also by crazed vicars and middle-aged spinsters. Darwin personally attended the event back in 1887 but he'd been so shaken by what happened to him in the judging tent of the 'Largest Cactus' contest that he could never admire a succulent again without bursting into tears and immersing himself in a warm bath of camomile tea.

Back then this rural romp had been originally organised by the charmingly named Teetering Women's Invitational Guild - otherwise known somewhat inappropriately as the TWIGs. This was a contradiction in terms if ever there was one as brittle and delicate they were most certainly not, but having such a delightfully fey nickname did the members no harm whatsoever. For over a century the local men folk had simpered and smiled asininely whilst acquiescing to absolutely everything the women demanded of them, only realizing later that they had delivered frightening amounts of influence and authority to what was basically the cake-baking equivalent of the Waffen SS. Indeed had Nazi stormtroopers been able to cook deliciously light puff pastry sausage rolls then the TWIGs would probably have welcomed them with open arms and spiked rolling pins. The only man allowed near the organising committee was the Reverend Golightly Chairman of the Judges and all round good egg. He had been given this honorary position in the light of his profound ineffectuality and willingness to be browbeaten into submission whenever the circumstances required it. His presence thus allowed the men of the village to imagine they were still in control when they were anything but. The previous incumbent Canon Touchéfeely had been an entirely different kettle of fish and had to be 'dealt with'. He had caused considerable controversy amongst the women by trying to exert real influence on their affairs. It wasn't long before the Twigs decided that a little pruning was called for, and soon afterwards it was conveniently discovered that this saintly founder of the local Foundation for Fallen Women had been responsible for tripping most of them up in the first place. His departure from the village was swift indeed and the serried ranks of curtain twitchers were happy to revel in his fall from Grace. Grace being the rather comely and enthusiastic temptress who gave evidence against him…

With all these dirty dealings in mind, it can come of no surprise to discover that the erstwhile Obergruppenführer of the TWIGs was none other than Ms Cynthia Strokekindly, mistress of the Teetering-on-the-Brink Tea Rooms and leather-clad exponent of the most highly whipped cream in the county. She was the one who eagerly cracked the whip when it came to organising the annual junket and as Malik's spurned lover, this year she had an axe to grind too…well that and a rather impressive collection of other sharp and pointy objects. Yes, this year's fête looked as if it was going to break new records; and in particular the one regarding personal injury insurance claims.

It was impossible to live in Teetering and not play a part in the village fête. Avoidance was not yet punishable by death but had the Parish Council been able to get away with it regular stake burnings in the village square would have been worryingly well attended. Whether organising, participating or donating everyone was expected to 'get stuck in' and the oldest get-stuck-inner of them all was dear Mrs Clutterbuck. However this year she had other things on her mind. George Neatly had just forced her to sign a number of dubious but legally binding documents and she was tortured by the realization that 'Bide-a-Wee' would soon be 'Gone-for-Good'. Such was her sorrow that her promise to enter, as per usual, in at least three competition categories at the fête looked well nigh impossible. She knew the Neatly's would be there gloating and if she could just win a final flurry of champion rosettes it would be a final futile gesture they would never forget. Well, not for a few hours anyway…

Malik's unexpected entry into the kitchen could not have come at a better time.

"Dear lady, I believe you are under duress? Something I absolutely abhor seeing unless I happen to be the one doing the duressing! I believe I have seen this George Neatly before for it was his horrible Honda Civic that blunted revolving knife 23A on my Nightmare Wheel. No, you must not forgive him and neither shall I. He shall be thwarted in his attempt to sell off my Motherland's pyramids and the Right Leg of the Forbidden One will be forcefully inserted into an area of his anatomy which I blush to mention!"

There was no question about it. Mrs C knew he was raving mad but she needed help and he and his friends could be the ones to help her enjoy a modicum of revenge.

"Mr Malik. I am unsure what precise talents window dressers such as yourself can draw upon but I believe anyone who has the courage to wear trousers like that has a steely resolve and pain threshold to match anyone's. If you and your associates can enter the Teetering-on-the-Brink Village Fête on my behalf and win at least three rosettes then I can rest in peace… or at least have a nice lie down on the settee. It's eighty years since I first entered the competition and I have a tradition to uphold. Before Bide-a-Wee closes it must have it's walls graced by new awards! Can you do this for me?"

But before Malik could murmur his reply the Dark Parrot now gracing his shoulder answered for him.

"Just try stopping us."

And with that, supper was served…