The Magical Wonky Universe

By Montgomery Plum

The Universe can be a curious place, often confounding to ordinary minds. But not to Silicent Fogg’s brilliant mathematical brain. As a magical mathematician, he thrives on the Universe’s befuddlements, claiming he can calculate everything out with his own special brand of magical math.

So when Mr. P wakes convinced the whole Universe is out of whack, Silicent jumps at the chance to take the case and raise money to buy his granddaughter a new dress. Now he just needs to factor every possible outcome in a lopsided battle where success is, at best, improbable.

Cue a silly vengeance scheme, the Universe’s most ruthless assassins, giant killer butterflies, a train heist, a rabbit costume, and a storyline too absurd to be anything but real. Well, real in the sense that it’s likely implausible, if you catch my drift.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781035841899

Montgomery Plum

Montgomery Plum is the author of ‘The Official and Authorised Biography of Mr P’ series of books. He chooses to spend his time on this mortal coil writing stories about alien dwarves, mysterious murders, undead spirits, and time travel. But unlike the characters in his stories, Montgomery is scared of heights, terrified of confined spaces, and petrified of anything that is slightly dangerous. In truth, he would never be the hero in his own stories. And so he writes…

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About the Author

Montgomery Plum is the author of ‘The Official and Authorised Biography of Mr P’ series of books. He chooses to spend his time on this mortal coil writing stories about alien dwarves, mysterious murders, undead spirits, and time travel. But unlike the characters in his stories, Montgomery is scared of heights, terrified of confined spaces, and petrified of anything that is slightly dangerous. In truth, he would never be the hero in his own stories. And so he writes…

Dedication

To everyone that knows!

Copyright Information ©

Montgomery Plum 2024

The right of Montgomery Plum to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035841882 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035841899 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thank you to my loving family.

Part One: The Sacred Gold

Chapter One

There are only two things that are really important in life.

Being rich and being immortal.

And if you can have both…well, that would be the dream ticket.

Take the Dust Wibbler, for example, the happiest known creature in all the entire universe.

As far as we know, the Dust Wibbler is immortal.

And, also, as far as we know, it’s the happiest creature in all of the entire universe purely because it’s immortal.

So there you go…Evidence!

Evidence that living forever makes you happy.

And as for being rich, well, we all know that vast wealth brings happiness.

In most cases, anyway.

And for the most part, the wealthier you are, the happier you are.

Just ask anyone that owns a vast fortune and they’ll tell you.

But getting back to the Dust Wibbler.

There it is, just sitting there. Casually wibbling away in the dust underneath the refrigerator.

Happy.

Eternally happy.

Not looked upon with any emotion whatsoever by the Dinglewits currently occupying planet Earth.

Just minding its own business while carrying out its wibbling.

Occasionally, and if a gust of wind blows true, they may meet another Dust Wibbler and fall in love.

And be together forever.

For all eternity.

Happy.

But then, a vacuum cleaner may come between that love, and the two Dust Wibblers are doomed to spend the rest of eternity apart.

But they’ll still be happy.

And eternally happy at that.

For the Dust Wibbler doesn’t care that in its never-ending lifetime it’s been rich and powerful many times over.

And the Dust Wibbler doesn’t care that, once upon a time it was once a great ruler of an empire, but now it sits on the lowest rung of the food scale. It accepts poverty and destitution in the same way it accepts reverence and worship.

And happily accepts it.

If one took the time to ask the Dust Wibbler, it would surely speak of the ambitions of once again owning a planet at some point. Or maybe even a galaxy this time.

And who’s to say it won’t achieve this desire?

After all, it can live forever.

And happily live forever.

Happily living forever just waiting for its time to come…again.

As it surely will.

But until then, the Dust Wibbler will sit in its own little pile of dust.

Under the refrigerator.

Happy.

The happiest known creature in the entire universe.

Keeping itself to itself.

And all the while, wibbling away as nature had intended.

Or at least it would have done, had it not just been eaten by a giant blue butterfly.

Chapter Two

The story begins on a wild and murderous night in the valleys of the Restless Mountains. It’s always wild and murderous in the valleys this time of year. In fact, it’s wild and murderous in the valleys most times of the year, hence the name.

And as most of those who have spent time in its windy vales will testify, it’s also bloody cold.

There is an ancient myth that accompanies the mountain that states the wind is so wild and murderous because it’s made entirely from the angered souls of all the innocent lifeforms slain by the universe. And that the only way they can get their story out is to howl and swish until the end of days within the valleys of the Restless Mountains.

Others, of course, will say that that’s complete bollocks and argue that it’s all just a geographical anomaly and the wind only sounds like howls to those who are gullible and easily led, because they want it to do so.

But even those unimaginative mugwumps still have a small inkling in the back of their minds that there is some monocle of truth in the myth.

But aside from legendary stories and wild campfire tales, all we can say for sure is that tonight, the wind and rain were wild and murderous in the valleys of the Restless Mountains.

Yet, deep beneath the overhanging crags and the frost-tipped peaks, where the groans of lost souls echo and suffer, and the voices of the un-dead seek to tell their story to anything that will listen, exists a small thatched-roof cottage called Hunters Lodge.

All on its lonesome in the middle of nowhere.

And accepting of the groans and the howls of the dead souls that blow through the valleys.

The current occupiers of Hunters Lodge are Mr P and Gertie who, along with their pet Marsh Boomer, enjoy the solitude that the mountain range affords. This, as you would expect, can get quite boring at times, but Mr P fills this boredom with many death-defying and spine-tingling adventures that would have seen most Dinglewits succumb to the universe’s design of prematurely limiting the lives of those that voluntarily exhibit such reckless and foolhardy behaviour.

But not Mr P, he’s made of different stuff. Stuff that survives the universe’s attempts at premature death.

Gertie, on the other hand, likes to knit.

Now, although thankful for the many woollen mittens and bobble hats that come his way, Mr P thinks knitting doesn’t quite cut the mustard when it comes to excitement. Not since he came into possession of his magic coin. The very same magic coin that contains magical power from the age of the fundamental gods. The most powerful of all magics. And the type of magic that allows him the privilege of summoning the fundamental god’s powers to his armoury whenever he finds himself in a spot of bother, as often seems to be the case these days.

It’s not a particularly handsome-looking thing (the coin, that is, not Mr P, who is devilishly handsome), but as there are only seven in existence, it’s very sought-after.

Very sought-after indeed.

And the whereabouts of the other six coins still remain a mystery, although Mr P knows that one of them is buried in the chest of Lord Barrington Ticklebottom IV, because he rammed it in there himself when he killed him while taking part in this year’s Honky Tonk. But the rumour is that if anyone acquires all seven, then they will have power equal to that of the universe itself.

And that’s something the universe is acutely aware of and is keeping tabs on.

But having just one, well, that seems to be OK.

For now.

There’s always been a hunting lodge in the valleys of the Restless Mountains in some shape or form for as long as history remembers.

The present lodge is an old white stone structure with a long, sociable porch littered with swinging bottles containing candles and an overhanging thatched roof to shelter the current occupiers from the bitter weather.

If one had to describe the old place, one would say it looks like a homestead, a happy place. With sprouts of flowers all around the wooden borders. Bouncing light bulbs of all different colours. The odd statue gathered from some farway flea market and randomly placed to look quaint. And a Marsh Boomer, running around and barking away at every passing bird or muntjac.

And tonight, sitting motionless on the long, sociable porch of Hunters Lodge, are two friends, both of whom are of unsound mind and ridiculous fashion sense, and both with a particularly nasty habit of drinking way too much extra-strength home-brew mixed with exotic herbs.

And, as most of those who have engaged in such practices will testify, when one finds themselves in this state, the conversation can get somewhat bizarre.

I think I’ve drank too much teeth grinder, said Cleese, one of the Dinglewits in question with a particularly nasty habit, his eyes bulging like an overblown balloon that should’ve gone pop three breaths ago. ‘Yep, I’ve definitely overdone it this time.’

‘Teeth grinder? What’s teeth grinder?’ responded Mr P, the other Dinglewit sat on the porch and had also overindulged in the very dubious, mind-bending liquid.

‘It’s what I’m calling this cocktail. I’m trying to name my inventions after their effects. So, this is the teeth grinder.’

And that is true; it does make you grind your teeth. And Mr P was only relieved that Cleese had only just begun this system of naming his concoctions after their effects; otherwise, the last one would’ve been called the Bottom Squirter.

‘Well, call it what you want, old cheddar, but I’d say you’ve excelled yourself with this latest batch of…Well, whatever this is. It hits you right at the back of your throat. I think your old chemistry master will definitely be enjoying this consignment.’

He took another mouthful of the drink that needed as much chewing as it needed drinking.

‘Oh no, not this batch, this batch it, it, it’s not for sale. This batch is bad. It’s very, very bad.’

‘What makes you say that, old boy? I think it’s rather splendid. Definitely one of your better ones. And certainly much better than that last thing you concocted up. That was rotten. It tasted of peaches. It kept you otherwise occupied for days after consumption. My kidneys have only just recovered.’

‘I say that it’s bad because it makes you hallucinate. It makes you see things differently. And not good things either.’

‘Hallucinate, old dog. How are you hallucinating?’

‘You look like a bunny rabbit! That’s how.’

Mr P smiled. He smiled because he knew Cleese had lost it. And when Cleese loses it, the fun begins.

‘I look like a bunny rabbit?’

‘Yes. You look like a bunny rabbit. A weird, bald, bunny rabbit…with a ginger beard. Not as scary or intimidating as the usual bunny rabbits, but a bunny rabbit none the less.’

‘Err. A weird bald-headed bunny rabbit with a ginger beard?’

‘Yep. A big, long ginger beard and a white fluffy tail.’

Mr P paused for a second.

He felt like they’d hit a vital part of the conversation that would probably require a second, or two, of deeper thought to comprehend the significance. The entire universe may depend upon his answer, as was often the case when they were drinking Cleese’s new liquid formula.

Or that’s how it felt in their minds, anyway.

But he had nothing of any intellect to say, so he opted for jocularity.

‘Oh, that’s good then, because I like bunny rabbits with white fluffy tails and long ginger beards. It’s sort of like a mixture between the handsome and the sublime.’

Cleese, on the other hand, had never paused to say anything, even remotely, jocular in his whole life. Least of all, thought of anything jocular. And he wasn’t about to start now.

Thinking, as far as he was concerned, wasted valuable speaking time, his favourite thing.

Plus, he’d always maintained that if you think about it, then it must be how you’re feeling, so therefore say it. As feelings are vastly superior to mere thoughts and words.

So he always said it. And invariably, this got him into a lot of trouble. But that’s a story for another day.

‘Me too,’ Cleese answered, ‘I like bunny rabbits with white fluffy tails and long ginger beards too. But you’re clearly not a bunny rabbit with a fluffy white tail and a long ginger beard, are you? So why am I seeing you like that?’

Then he took another sip of teeth grinder.

Mr P sat in silence and waited.

It was a little game he liked to play with Cleese from time to time when he was all brain-mashed from drinking mind-boggling solutions.

He’d discovered it a few years ago when he didn’t have an answer to another one of Cleese’s ridiculous questions and realised that, if left long enough, Cleese would just answer his own questions.

And the answer would always provide no small amount of first rate entertainment.

‘No!’ Cleese answered, fulfilling Mr P’s prophecy, ‘You’re definitely not a bunny rabbit. Because if you were, then that would mean that I’m a bunny rabbit too. Because we’re the same species, aren’t we? And I know that I’m not a bunny rabbit…or am I? I really can’t be sure anymore. Oh god, I think I’m losing it…I’m not a bunny rabbit, am I, P? I’m real, just like you. Right? Because if you’re not real, then I’m not real. And, and, and if you’re just a figment of my imagination, then so am I. And how can someone be a figment of their own imagination? Oh jeez.’

Mr P laughed at the perversion of his little game. Then took another sip of teeth grinder.

‘So, you’re not sure what is real anymore? Is that what you’re saying, old custard?’ he asked.

‘No. No. I can’t seem to tell the difference. Oh god…I, I can’t tell the difference between what is real and what is…illusionary. It, it’s like this whole universe is just one massive brain-fuck. Damn this drink,’ he stuttered.

Mr P had him on the ropes. He liked having Cleese on the ropes. It was great fun.

In fact, having Cleese on the ropes is probably the most fun a Dinglewit can have within the confines of the law.

And perhaps even outside of it.

And as Gertie, Mr P’s better half, walked onto the porch, she too realised that Cleese was on the ropes. And just like Mr P, she too was never one to miss an opportunity.

So she ploughed on with the mind games.

‘Well, in that case then,’ she chipped in, ‘is he a Dinglewit that looks like a bunny rabbit? Or is he actually a bunny rabbit that looks like a Dinglewit?’

‘Eh, what?’

‘Well, what makes you think we aren’t all bunny rabbits?’ She continued, with a brutality rarely seen in polite society, ‘And it’s just our eyes and brains that are making up the image of a Dinglewit. But really, deep down, we’re all just fluffy little bunny rabbits running around the universe pretending to be something else.’

‘But, but,’ Stumbled Cleese as he slowly moved his head to look at Mr P. And then slowly back at Gertie. He had to move it slowly as he feared it would explode if he moved it too fast. He always thought his head would explode if he moved it too fast. It never had, of course. No one’s head had ever exploded because of fast movement. But that didn’t stop Cleese from thinking it.

‘But, but, because we’re Dinglewits,’ he answered.

‘Or are we?’ Mr P interrupted, now really enjoying his little game of brain-fucking his friend. ‘Perhaps it’s like what Gertie said, we are all just fluffy little bunny rabbits, after all. Fluffy little bunny rabbits with white fluffy tails and long ginger beards. And maybe there’s something in the air that messes with our brains and makes us think we’re Dinglewits. You know, like an illusionary gas that makes us perceive things differently. An illusionary gas created by the universe itself to make us think whatever it wants us to think. Y’know, it makes us all believe that we’re all Dinglewits when we’re all actually fluffy bunny rabbits with white fluffy tails and long ginger beards. Who knows?’

Cleese grabbed Mr P by the arm. His eyes beaming like a newly formed star.

‘You mean, I might be seeing the universe for how it really is? How it really exists. And not some illusionary perception channelled through an illusionary lens of an illusionary gas? And really…it’s all full of…bunny rabbits.’

‘There was a lot of use of the word illusions in that sentence, Cleese,’ Gertie responded, and now joining in the hilarity. ‘A real grammatical nightmare. But yep, we might all be bunny rabbits with white fluffy tails.’

‘Is that possible?’

‘Oh yeah, it’s possible, Cleese it’s certainly possible. But…it’s also possible you’ve drunk too many hallucinogens, you stoner. Honestly, what possesses you to put them in your home-made punches like this. I’m sure, they’d be potent enough without all that guff getting stirred into the cauldron. They’ll be the death of you one day. And anyway, where did you get this lot of herbs from?’

Now, when it comes to the pleasures of dubious plants, no one knows more than Cleese does.

He has a very extensive collection of clippings that he splices, nurtures, re-splices, re-nurtures, then smokes or mixes with ethanol. It’s his hobby and crutch to get through his cold inadequate life. And if they provide a unique and very pleasing sensation that he thinks is worth something, he sells them. And at a good profit too.

The profits then go into financing his hobby of making more of the stuff. So everyone wins. It’s a positive feedback loop that Cleese is very fond of preserving.

Of course, they are mostly hallucinogenic, and sometimes Cleese gets confused between this make-believe world where everyone is a bunny rabbit, and the real world, where they’re not. And when he does, then Mr P will always be on hand to help him out of the pickle that he finds himself in and steer him towards the entrance door of reality.

He was a good friend like that.

Except when they’re both out of it on mind-bending hallucinogens.

Like tonight.

‘Oh, I grew it myself,’ Cleese answered, ‘it’s a new species that I spliced together using five particularly potent clades grown in the inner rim. It’s totally unique. It contains the experiences of twenty-two ice ages, three extinction events, and two loops of evolution. One of the plants hadn’t interacted with anything for over a million years. The neglect tastes of lemons.’

Mr P smirked.

‘Well, that doesn’t sound very healthy to me, I must say. Here, have a drink of gooseberry juice. Maybe that’ll dilute the toxins a bit and allow your brain to fire a few electrical signals in the right direction.’

And he passed Cleese a jug of homemade gooseberry juice that Gertie always had in stock for such moments. Which Cleese duly accepted, albeit with a shaky hand and an incongruent mind.

But Mr P had a notion of his own.

‘Well, you may not know what is real anymore, Cleese, but I do. And I’ll tell you one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The universe is all out of kilter.’

‘That’s for sure,’ agreed Cleese, although he didn’t know why he agreed. Or why he thought the universe was all out of kilter.

‘I’m serious, old boy. The whole thing is out of balance, tipping towards the edge, sliding into the great unknown, out…of…kilter.’

‘Out of kilter?’

‘Yep, all skew-whiff and on the wonk. And I can feel it too. Can’t you?’

But by this time Cleese had already been distracted. He’d unwittingly looked down at some ants that were crawling through the wooden beams of the porch, and it got him thinking about the meaning of life.

‘Are they also real?’ he whispered to himself. ‘Are they aware of the fact they’re just a minnow crawling through the earth with no real purpose but to provide a meal for something else further up the food chain? Or do they live their lives in ignorant bliss, following orders, and happily carrying out tasks? And if they are ignorant of the world they live in, do they ever stop and think about it?’

He then face-planted the porch and spilled his gooseberry cordial.

Mr P took a picture before helping him back onto his chair and drying him off with a towel.

‘Cleese, you mess; you’re losing the plot. You were whispering something about ants and…carrying out orders…or something. Get yourself back together, man. This simply won’t do.’

Cleese paid no attention to his friend’s remonstrations and continued his deliberation on the fate of ants.

Which took some considerable time. But he eventually concluded that they don’t possess the central nervous system to be able to compute such an extravagant array of thought processes. And it must be nice to live like that, and maybe he would be more content in his own life if he could release his own inner ant.

But eventually the toxins did wear off, and soon Cleese was back in the room.

‘P, what happened?’ he asked. ‘I think I might have blacked out.’

‘Blacked out! You were zonked, old splodger. The lights were barely flickering, but no one was home. Gertie had given up on you and gone off to bed. Boomer’s been staring intently at you, hoping you might be her next meal. And me, well I just stuck around for the entertainment.’

Cleese rubbed Boomer