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Rated: · Book · Comedy · #787671
A fantasy based on the inhabitants of Manx Net. Conspircy, Rock, Trolls and Perversion.
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#268926 added December 9, 2003 at 4:21pm
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Inside The Gang of Four
Inside the Gang of Four.

By Our Special Investigative Reporter Ritchie.

The notion of a secret cabal within Manx Net has long been alleged by courageous free-thinking posters. The existence of this secret organisation was first muted by Vader, who coined the term the Gang of Four, to illustrate the sinister and divisive nature of this band of plotters.

Vader’s ideas were taken up and expanded upon by some of the forums greatest minds. Notable, amongst these was the redoubtable Nessa, who postulated the theory that the Gang of Four effectively, controlled an army of sheepies and trollies to do their bidding and silence anyone who stood in their way. Vader and Nessa have felt a backlash from the cult themselves, whilst tragic Ninja succumbed to the pressure and left for places unknown. At the time of writing poor Steven has been driven to the point of distraction by the conspirators attentions; where once his posts were a by-word for coherent and logical arguments, he has been reduced to posting illogical and ill-considered rants.

Others have even claimed that the cabal is the de facto government of the forums, leaving Sarah and Gary as the increasingly marginalized and ineffective figureheads.

Many names have been put forward as being prime movers in the Gang of Four (Roxanne, Ans, Monkey_Magic, former US President George Bush snr., Phildo, and Pete Burns from Dead or Alive’s names are regularly mentioned), but until now no-one has been able to penetrate the inner-sanctum and report on the hazy figures that make up this organisation and are dedicated to the systematic suppression of freedom of speech and thought throughout the Manx Net empire.

Until now.

I, Ritchie, have been able to break through the wall of obfuscation and lies that surrounds the internal workings of this sect. I have met its members and I have attended the bizarre quasi-religious ceremonies where they plot the downfall of the cult’s enemies.

In this exclusive story I will reveal the existence of the Gang of Four’s high-tech secret headquarters. I will identify the individuals behind many of the group’s destructive schemes and describe the sickening ceremonies of sexual deviancy and human sacrifice that they indulge in.

And I will name the Messianic figure at the head of the organisation, who holds his devoted acolytes in his hypnotic thrall.


I had established my credentials over the previous year, through a series of satirical pieces in which I depicted the gang’s enemies in an unflattering light. Using these articles to assert the illusion of a common ground existing between my own and the sect’s values.

Though my contacts in the Manx music scene I was able to befriend one of the gang’s underlings, an amiable drunk, who went by the name of Declan. With Declan’s support I received word that I was invited to attend the next gathering of the Gang of Four at a secret location.


I met Declan, as had been agreed, at the disused Strix factory at the back of Shoprite in Port Erin. Since he had been assigned to transport me to the meeting place, I was more than a little perturbed to see him arrive, alone, clutching a half drunk bottle of Buckfast.

“Place we going secret,” he slurred, “put this on.” He threw me a pillow case which I put over head and he secured with Duct Tape. Singing A Damned song to himself began to roughly guide me to the awaiting vehicle. I could hear the sounds of vehicles and the chatter of other people, whist we made our uneasy progress to our transportation.

I was greatly relieved when I realised that Declan would not be driving me to the location. I heard him talk to the driver what I can only presume to be a secret code used by the sect’s members when out in the general populace. “ingle and rtern to sjoins”. Whatever that meant I was soon bundled to the rear of the vehicle which must have been a large tank or armoured personal carrier because several other Gang of Four acolytes joined us on our journey.

Obviously, I had not yet been accepted into the group’s midst, because they continued to talk in their bizarre language. I caught a few fragments but they made no sense to me…”ourels is under the knife on Saturday”…”by Christ fella was I ****ed laaaaaassssst night”…


It appeared that my escort and I arrived at the venue through a different entrance to the other passengers. We disembarked and Declan began to push and cajole me in the right direction.

Soon we reached our destination and Declan removed my shoes and grunted “Mistress Roxy very house proud. Now climb.”

I put my foot forward and found a grassy step, which I climbed. All in all there were four steps which we ascended. Then I was forced into a great wooden chair. Declan placed himself with great force on my knee and banging with great force, intoned an ancient enchantment – “awerehere letusin”.

Suddenly the seat began to shudder and there was the rumble of a great mechanical device spluttering into life. Then to my bewildered amazement the great oak seat, which had felt so secure a few moments before, began to jolt and gradually descend into the very Earth itself.

I was entering the fiendish cult’s most hallowed inner core.


The throne came to an abrupt stop, and Declan jumped from my knee. He began to hack at the duct tape that was keeping the pillowcase in place. When he finally completed his task and I could view my surroundings, I paused for a moment with my eyes firmly closed; I did not wish to see the horrific scene I imagined would greet me.

When I eventually opened my eyes, I was pleasantly surprised by the convivial surroundings in front of me. The room was laid out in the manner of a small country tea-room, and a matronly lady was bustling about dispensing cream teas and kebabs to the patrons.

“Mrs Savros, two pints of Bushmills please,” Declan asked, as he indicated a table at which a woman dressed in a tight scarlet dress, was chatting with a hirsute gentleman.

“Ah Declan, this must be Ritchie,” the Scarlet Lady said extending a neatly manicured hand, “My name is Roxanne and this is Monkey_Magic.”

Monkey_Magic appeared to be an excitable type, because in the act of reaching out to shake my hand he literally leapt from his seat, and began vigorously pumping my extremity as if he was preparing a Martini. All the while he was chattering away in high-pitched nervous babble “We are so thrilled to meet you. We are all great admirers of your work. I loved it when you forced Vader to live in the chicken coop on Big Brother…”

He was a peculiar chap but amiable enough. I keep half an ear on his prattle whilst I scanned the room for information. If this was the extent of the Gang of Four’s kingdom, it appeared I had not infiltrated the meetings of a sinister cult out to manipulate free speech to its own dastardly ends, but rather had stumbled upon a committee meeting of an eccentric provincial conservation society.

The air of domestic normality was highlighted by a prepubescent boy who was scampering amongst the tables, engrossed in an elaborate game of his own devising. I could not make head nor tale of the object or rules of his sport, but all the time he played he was mumbling a radio commentary to himself.

So absorbed was the child that he had ceased to pay any attention to the world around him and in a particularly complicated period of play he tripped and came hurtling towards me at a considerable velocity. The collision left both of us on the floor. The young rascal glowering petulantly in my direction.

Roxanne stood up and lifted the child to his feet and casting an indulgent smile in my direction said, “You must forgive Ean, Ritchie, he always get a little over-exuberant before the ceremony begins.”


Declan had kept the whiskey to himself, so I made do with a cup of tea and one of Mrs Stavros’ cucumber kebabs. Roxanne’s words about “The Ceremony” continued to play on my mind. I had to be careful, and remember the vital import of my attendance at this place. I was after all, not about to sit in on a Parochial Council Meeting.

Suddenly, there was a commotion from the elevator, that my escort. A portly middle-aged gentleman was descending into our midst. He was dressed in a peculiar costume of skin-tight stone-washed denim jeans and a white t-shirt on which he had hand painted a large red number 1. Competing his curious garb was a makeshift cape and incongruously an ancient pair of driving goggles.

When the chair had reached about half-way, the strange gentleman leapt from the chair, shouting “I’m F_1_Man, and your evil plot is at an end.”

Although he had landed heavily on his side he as quickly on his feet. This uproar woke Declan who had been dozing in an alcoholic stupor under a table. Bounding to his feet, Declan, rushed towards the intruder, overturning several tables in the process. The gatecrasher may or may not have had any superpowers but even a mortal as unfit as F_1_Man was, easily overcame the intoxicated and accident prone Declan, with a deft bodyswerve, that left the ill-favoured defender, careering into the kitchen. The poor chap, could only halt his momentum by grabbing hold of the roasting donner meat.

“Must we go through this everytime?” Roxanne asked a slowly rotating and roasting Declan, “It’s not that it isn’t entertaining it’s just you make such a mess.”

“Gang members cease your despicable plotting. Or I will use my superpowers to defeat you like I did your impetuous friend. F_1_Man cannot be beaten.”

Roxanne gave a sardonic smile and said, “You are not F_1_Man you are Phoneman, you have no special powers and now if you would kindly, go through that door, you maybe able to get out of this situation with a modicum of dignity intact.”

“Fiddlesticks! I will smite you with my laser vision.”

“I’d be in more danger from one of Paddington Bear’s hard stares.” Roxanne said dismissively, she gave a sharp, single hand clap. “Ans, remove this idiot.”

From behind a curtain stepped a giant of a man well of 7 and a half feet tall. A man so tall, that Arther Caley would have looked up to him. I recoiled in horror at this hideous apparition, but was reassured when I noticed that my companions did not seem in the slightest bit perturbed.

He picked Phoneman up by the scruff of the neck and carried him away, saying as he left “someone take Declan off the heat, I think he’s done.”


The room my Simian chum escorted me into was a psychedelic multi-coloured contrivance that seemed to be the product of a Sixties interior designer’s cheese dream.

The carpet wall decoration and furnishings were a kaleidoscopic cornucopia of clashing and colliding oranges, reds and yellows. Around the room were stood stock still, a tribe of creatures, “The Trolls” Monkey_Magic breathlessly whispered. They were about three feet high with complexions the sickly daytime TV presenter shade of orange. They could have been mistaken for Oompa Lumpas but for their shocks of unruly bouffanted hair, which were coloured in various garish hues – mauve, sky blue, shocking pink.

The Trolls began to move to greet us, chanting as they did, “Hello, Hello, welcome to our word, Hello, Hello”. Each Troll singled out a visitor and began gave them special attention. Mine had custard yellow hair and began stroking my hair and clothing, as if I was a treasured pet.

From out of nowhere he produced a garland, which he festooned around my neck. Attached to the garland like a lucky charm was a collection of pens and other writing implements. Puzzled, I looked round the room, each of the sect members had been given a necklace decorated with an item appropriate to their forum persona, Monkey_Magic’s contained candy pick-and-mix banana’s, Stavros’ delicate strips of kebab meat, Mrs Trellis’ Tampons and support tights, and Dave the Cardboard Box’s had miniature bottles of Buckfast.

These pleasantries continued for some time. But gradually our eyes were all drawn towards a giant golden dais in the centre of the room. Upon this a single forlorn Troll was sat, not joining in the celebrations.
Eventually, with everybody’s attention upon him and silence reigning he leapt to his feet and began to stomp on the plinth and chanting “Where’s Mine! Where’s Mine! Where’s Mine!”

The other Trolls disengaged themselves for the forum members and began to solemnly congregate around their distressed colleague. Joining hands around the plinth they began to chant “Bring on the Virgin! Bring on the Virgin! Bring on the Virgin!”

Suddenly, the lone Troll leapt 20 feet into the air and pulling open a concealed parachute gently descended toward the ground, where he joined his tribe encircling the golden alter. This was a diversionary tactic, because his place in the centre of things had been assumed by a new figure.

A sickly, runty, palid young man stood naked in the centre of the attention. He was shaking and his deathly pallor, an almost translucent green, was made worse by dark bags under his eyes.

He stared out at us, and I was uncomfortable with the look in his eyes of horror at revealing his feeble carcass to a group of strangers, and terror at the indignities he was about to endure.

The Trolls began to chant, in a sing-song style again “The Virgin! The Virgin! The Virgin!”

Soon the chant changed subtly to “Oil the Virgin, Oil the Virgin, Oil the Virgin, Oil the Virgin.” And the Trolls began dancing around the altar with a choreographed routine that appeared to hold deep significance, leaving me to believe that I was present at a religious ceremony, that ran to the very core of the creature’s society. Were the Gang of Four also followers of this pagan absurdity?

Four of the Trolls detached themselves from the group and jumped onto the stage, where they pinned the weakling virgin down and began rubbing a glutinous balm all over their hapless victim. The boy was so terrified that he began to convulse with fright, performing a horizontal St. Vitas’ dance that caused great mirth amongst the Trolls.
The chant changed again “Bind the Virgin, Bind the Virgin, Bind the Virgin” and in an instant four brutal medieval shackles shot from the altar and bound them to the ankles and wrists of the unfortunate wretch.

The four Trolls leapt from the stage and not a moment too soon. As the terror became too much for the young victim and he lost control of his bladder. “A gusher!!! We’ve got a gusher!!” yelled Monkey_Magic. Shackled as he was he had no way to direct the flow, and a golden jet of urine flew into the air, sparkling as it caught the light from the many flaming torches that had mysteriously appeared in the hands of the Trolls and cult members. The spray returned to Earth covering its forlorn instigator from head to toe and splashing the less fleet footed of the Trolls.

The room returned to all encompassing silence before the chant sounded again, but this time it had changed “Phildo, Phildo Phildo, Phildo, Phildo, Phildo!” It went in ever increasing volume and ferocity, until it was joined by the members of the Gang of Four. Monkey_Magic was jumping up and down in time with the rhythm, like the ******* offspring of a deranged pogo dancer and a holy-rolling evangelist. Despite the blood curdling horror of what I had just witnessed, I found myself, to my eternal shame, caught up in the frenzy of the moment and I too was chanting along, with all the conviction of a convert. “Phildo, Phildo, Phildo, Phildo, Phildo!”

As suddenly, as this outpouring had begun it stopped. A abrupt echo of the final syllable resounding around the walls, as a figure emerged from the shadows. By human standards the mysterious entrant was not tall. But compared to his Troll kinfolk we was a veritable giant, standing four foot high, with a shock of golden hair, which illuminated his face and added a further foot to his height. Precariously, perched amongst his thatch was a tiny crown, emblazed with the legend ROTT, in various dazzlingly coloured jewels.

With the rapt attention of everyone present he moved regally towards the altar. When he reached his destination, a detachment of the peculiar creatures formed a guard behind him, so that when he allowed himself to fall backwards, they caught him, and forming a living elevator gently raised him to the dias.

Standing above the pitiful young man chained beneath him, he held his arms above his head and bellowed “I am Phildo – Ruler of the Trolls!”

These words prompted all the Troll creatures to fall to their knees and genuflect to their Ruler, who appeared to have a mesmeric hold over his subjects. Even some of the cult members appeared awed in his presence, bowing their heads or deferentially averting eye contact.
Gesturing to the prisoner, Phildo, surveyed the room with a long lingering, sweeping stare, and said “Who is to speak on behalf of this puking and mewling virgin.”

On being described in such unflattering terms the young man let out a plaintive groan. There was shuffling amongst the audience but no one stepped forward.

“Speak now or leave him to face the consequences.”

I believed the pathetic wretch’s time had come, and offered a silent prayer to whichever God was at work here to show a modicum of mercy towards this most unfortunate of his creations. But then a nervous and timorous man, that I had seen cowering on the edges of the day’s events stepped forward.

“D-D-D-D-DRAM’s my f-f-f-f-f-friend,” he eventually stammered in a barely audible whisper, “I-I-I-I-I d-d-d-don’t w-w-w-w-want him d-d-d-dead.”


Phildo gave him a pitying look. “Well it will take a better argument than “D-d-d-d-d-don’t k-k-k-k-kill my f-f-f-f-riend. H-h-h-h-h-he’s ever so n-n-n-nice” to save poor DRAM. Who are you anyway?”

“R-r-r-r-r-r-rhumsaa f-f-f-f-from R-R-R-R-R-Ramsey” the would-be saviour spluttered, turning puce in the process.

“So the life of DRAM the Incontinent is in the hands of Rhumsaa the Incoherent. No wonder he ****ed himself” Phildo jeered, giving DRAM a sly kick to the ribs in the process.

“D-d-d-d-d-don’t do that.”

“Aah, R-r-r-r-r-rhumsaa – slow of tongue but swift of keystroke”, Phildo stepped back took a run up and took a ferocious swing at Dram’s scrawny thigh. “Every time you stutter and stumble, your little chum gets a kick. So speak up your mumbling is beginning to irritate me.” Dram let out a whimper and closed his eyes.

Phildo continued, “I remember you, joined the Gang six months ago, didn’t you. We never see you at meetings, though. Why’s that?”

Rhumsaa took such an age in composing himself enough to make a reply that the Troll King moved round the recumbent DRAM and was readying himself to take a punt at the ill-fated boys meagre genitals. Recognising his friend’s plight Rhumsaa, blurted out, “It’s a long way from Ramsey.”

Stepping back from the recumbent DRAM, Phildo roared with laughter and beckoning the timid Rhumsaa to speak, he sat crossed legged on the ashen prisoners chest, and said, “Ok lets hear the eloquent one’s case for the defence.”

The Northerner stepped forward, and timorously began his speech. Throughout his soliloquy his now familiar stutter appeared on the verge of emerging, but mindful of the Troll King’s threats he manfully maintained control over it.

“Please don’t kill DRAM. He is ever so nice and sweet.

“His niceness will really help our cause. We want to extend our membership, DRAM can help. His appeal as a chronic melancholic will attract the gothic kids into our fold.

And he is from the fabulous town of Ramsey. Ramsey is underrepresented. If you kill DRAM it will be racist discrimination against this Northern Diamond. For the sake of the poor, poor repressed people of Ramsey don’t kill DRAM!!”

Phildo sardonically smiled, “So the sum of DRAM’s qualities are that he is from Ramsey and a bit miserable. But, tell us why do you speak for him? What’s special to you?”

A shocked Rhumsaa feeling that he was losing the argument blurted out, “H-H-He’s my f-f-f-friend.”

Phildo, was on his feet and hoofing DRAM’s bo11ocks in a moment. Rhumsaa let out a gasp that was as plaintively moving as DRAM’s screech was piercing.

“Friend has many meanings. Is he a “special” friend?”

Rhumsaa was now a mass of twitches and tics a lone tear rolled done his cheek. I felt great sympathy for the lad, it was clear that Phildo was taking the utmost pleasure in drawing the truth from him. I began to suspect that his torture was greater than DRAM’s – there was a struggle taking place inside the young Northerner that became physically manifest in every nervous slip of the lip and every involuntary twitch.


“How special?” The sadistic Troll asked, “You had better come clean. You lie now and I’ll know. You lie know and DRAM dies. HOW FU*KING SPECIAL?”


“I love him!” Rhumsaa blurted out, falling onto his knees and banging his fists upon the ground. “I love the little sleep deprivation bags under his vacant eyes, I adore his wizened frame. I worship his deadpan sense of humour. DRAM!!!! I Love You!!!”

Phildo stepped back, a satisfied look on his face. “At Last!” Phildo dived face forward, putting his hands out to catch himself, so that it looked like he was doing press-ups. He turned his head, so that his lips ere almost brushing the prisoners ear and whispered, “And how does DRAM feel about that?”

DRAM, always has a sickly shade of green, and the events he’d endured at the hand’s of the Trolls leader had turned him deathly white. But Rhumsaa’s revelation made him physically sick. Choking on his own puke, DRAM began to gag. Rhumsaa rushed to help his friend, but was restrained by a pack of Trolls. A pink haired member of the clan cleared the prisoner’s airway.

Then Phildo stood up and powerfully bellowed, “The Sword”. His tribe picked up this request and the chant went up louder than any of the previous incantations “The Sword! The Sword! The Sword! The Sword!”

Slowly, all the eyes were drawn towards the ceiling and an enormous sabre began to descend on invisible wires. It stopped it’s downwards progress a heartbeat from Dram’s heaving chest. “So DRAM, now is the moment. Do you wish to join us?”


“Will you abide by the code of the Gang of Four?”


“Keep our secrets till your death?”


“You’re not lying to us are you?”


“Well the sword will decide. See it climb to the ceiling. It’s going to fall. If you are to pass and join the Gang it will stop and you will live. If not, Rhumsaa’s heart will be broken. But not as irreparably as yours.”
The sword was at the ceiling now and the chant went up again “Fall! Fall! Fall! Fall!”

Then it fell.


With a carnival air the Gang members and the Trolls began to congregate at the far end of the room. I was surprised at the levity in the congregation – laughing and joking and mucking about amongst themselves.
His ceremonial duties over, Phildo now mingled easily with everybody else. Roxanne now reassumed centre stage. She signalled to Monkey_Magic to go and look after Rhumsaa who was lying in the foetal position where he had fallen when the sword’s descent marked the climax of DRAM’s ordeal. I got the impression that Rhumsaa’s travails may just be beginning. He was sobbing uncontrollably – at the relief at DRAM’s survival and with horror at facing a future now that his deepest secret was public knowledge.

Roxanne then took me by the hand and led me to a young bookish lady and an unkempt, dishevelled gent whose long hair and beard were matted and contained the remnants of one of Stavros’ kebabs. As we walked over the girl turned to me and gave me the most beautiful smile. It was the sort of smile that lights up a room and banishes all evil and nastiness for a fleeting second. I was incredulous that someone so beautiful could, be party to such dark intrigue and sadistic torture.

“Padme, Wilddog, this is Ritchie who is joining our crusade, will you look after him.”

From behind a concealed door, a liveried footman appeared. “Ladies, Gentleman and Trolls, would you please walk this way.”

The room we entered was could not have differed more dramatically from the psychedelic freek-out of the Phildo’s dominion. The oak panel walls, suits of armour, and heraldic imagery recalled the dinning room of an Oxbridge University or an ancient public school.

Rows of solid mahogany benches were laid out opulently for a lavish feast. Each place setting had a discreet name badge upon it, and as the divine Padme and the deranged Wilddog lead the search for our own places I entertained myself by reading the placenames.

I must admit I hadn’t realised that the Gang of Four domination of the forums was so complete. As surprised as I was by Padme being party to the shenanigans, I found other names that were equally incredible – Manx Trev, Sugar Bee, Sunny Days, Cream Horn.

When Padme found our place I was delighted to see that she was to sit on my right, with Wilddog sitting opposite. The position to my left remained vacant. Its place holder reserving it for “Mercutio”.


I noticed Rhumsaa, being escorted by Monkey_Magic to his allocated space. He was more composed now but there was a hollow detached look in his eyes.

He sat at his assigned position, for a few moments, staring blankly at the place setting before him. Then suddenly, as if recalling an imperative mission, he sprang to life, seizing hold of the neighbouring name tag, he glanced at it, and jumped up.

Distractedly, but with a vital internal purpose, we went from unoccupied seat to unoccupied seat glancing at the name of its intended occupant. He criss-crossed the dining hall until he found the name he sought. Then exchanging the place-name from his neighbour’s seat with the one he had uncovered and he resumed his seat, looking more at ease with himself.


I’d been in the company of this motley band of plotters long enough to know that every step in their heinous ritual began with a histrionic flourish, so I was not startled when a startling display of pyrotechnics erupted from the stage at the front of the hall.

With the smell of sulphur and cordite stinging our nostrils, all eyes were fixed ahead as the smoke cleared and a figure began to emerge.

“That’s Mercutio, head of our Youth Academy” the excitable Wilddog barked.

Nonplussed at the idea of a secret organisation hiding underground, having a Youth Academy like Premiership football club, I was even more intrigued by the gentleman, who was now standing centre-stage. He wore a scholar’s cloak, but instead of a mortarboard his had was adorned with a long pointed hat, from beneath which a disorderly crop of ginger hair fell. His clothing was a luscious deep blue and was decorated with jewelled motifs, depicting the objects of the firmament.

I could not estimate his age it could have been anywhere between thirty and eighty, but whatever it was he had retained a mischievous youthful twinkle in his eyes (which he emphasised by having pale blue tinted lens in his half-moon spectacles), that gave him the air of the eternal intelligent schoolboy.

“Thank you for your attention, dinner will not be too long, but while we are awaiting those members who have been detained by earlier events, I am pleased that some of my very finest Academy students will provide some entertainment.

“First, it is my very great honour to introduce our youngest Academician, Discarded Angel who is going to read us one of his poems.”

With the briefest of hand flourishes Mercutio disappeared, and from stage left an unprepossessing lad slowly took his position at the forefront.

“Black, he’s very. Black” growled Wilddog, this was an unnecessary statement of the obvious because the boy wore no other shade and his long curly tresses had been died a shiny ebony. His fingernails had been painted to match and he had applied black eye shadow all over his lids, making him look like a melancholy panda. I felt that if he could tattoo his face and arms the darkest conceivable shade, he would.

When he began to recite I was surprised by his self possessed confidence.

“It is all

Everything is horrible and black
I am a chicken waiting for the egg to crack
Like one half of a double yolk
I’m a frog waiting to croak

It is all

Everything is painful and black
I am a duck that’s forgotten how to quack
Like a swan floating upstream
I’m a forgotten kettle letting off steam.

It is all


And with that he undemonstratively walked off stage. For what felt like an eternity there was silence, punctuated only by the gentle sound of that sensitive soul Padme discreetly sobbing. I wanted to put a protective arm around her and protect her from this despicable crew. I feared for Discarded Angel and Padme now that they had been sucked into this den of vipers.

Mercutio appeared again and encouraged the audience into a subdued round of applause for the young poet.

“And now it is my great pleasure to introduce Tweedle and the Dums…”


From either side of the stage two implausibly tall boys bounded. They could have been brothers except the taller one was ginger and his smaller colleague dark-haired. Both were wearing sky blue and crimson quartered school caps, shirts with collars that on a windy day could be used for hang-gliding enormous turquoise bow ties – the likes of which are only seen on UK Gold re-runs of The Comedians.

The build of both lads was implausible, puny and skinny, and this characteristic was emphasised by the over-sized pink three-quarter length shorts. These garments were far too big for the boys and their waist bands finished just underneath the lad’s armpits. The shorts were held up by elasticised rainbow stripped braces.

An electronic rhythm started up, through an ear-splittingly loud but tinny P.A. and the youngsters began cavorting around the stage in an exaggerated approximation of Run DMC. Each held a radio mike and the ginger lad began to rap…

“Hello every1 my name is Sir Dick
Rappin’ for u on this here mike
Of straight gurls I have my pick
But I wanna lesbian to ride my bike.”

(Then his co-conspirator took the mic)

“My name is Oogie
And if U R a dead chick
Hop on love; let’s Boogie
Oh no I’m gonna be sick”

(Then both lads together)

It’s Oogie and Dick
Showin’ u the way
Oogie and Dick
We’ll rap all day
Oogie and Dick
Like it or not
Oogie and Dick
The only future u got
Is Oogie and Dick

(Sir Dick on his own again)

So give me some Bushmills
And give me some cheese
And I’ll provide the thrills
Cos I’ll ave everything I need

(then just Oogie Boogie)

All joking aside, but seriously tho
And I realise it is not right
But can u tell me if you know
Where I can hire a corpse for the night.

(and then both lads for the courus)

“It’s Oogie and Dick
Showin’ u the way
Oogie and Dick
We’ll rap all day
Oogie and Dick
Like it or not
Oogie and Dick
The only future u got
Is Oogie and Dick”

After seeing this performance, if this pair are the future of the Gang of Four, its plans for domination of the forums are seriously flawed.


The boys finished their choon with a spectacular display of acrobatic dancing, which culminated with a pair of synchronised splits. A manoeuvre, which proved to be too athletic for Master Boogie’s delicate constitution. The unfortunate lad let out an enormous fart.

Mortified by this indiscretion Oogie ran from the stage clutching the seat of his pants, from which the acrid fart follow-through dripped.

Sir Dick stood alone on the stage ineffectually wafting a hand in front of his nostrils.


When the stench had cleared, Sir Dick spoke, “Mwhahahaha!!! And now I’d like to play some songs with my band, Suspicious Parcel. Buy the CD!!! Ask Declan for one!!! Heheheheheheheh!!!!

“Please welcome on stage our drummer – Mystical Monkey….”

Half-hearted applause greeted the arrival, of a youngster dressed like a refugee from a Roy Wood revival night. On catching sight of him Wilddog exclaimed “Sparkle”. This involuntary outburst, was perfectly understand, because everything about Mystical Monkey sparkled. From his glittery eye make-up to his sequined fingerless gloves, he wore a long scarlet A-line frock, bejewelled with diamante shiny flecks of many hues, (an outfit, which so outshone Roxanne’s attire that he turned green with envy and began to stamp a stilettoed heel against the parquet flooring); the drummer’s attire was a pure glamorous glittering twinkle.

Sitting behind a golden drumkit, Mystical Monkey produced a pair of emerald studded drumsticks and began to lay down a steady beat.

“And on bass guitar – Dr. Watson…

A confident young girl strode on stage, she was incongruously dressed, wearing a tweed deerstalker hat, an elegant dressing gown and blowing bubbles through a large meerschaum pipe.

She took her position and began to lay down a funky bass line.

The rhythm section in place Sir Dick strapped on a battered guitar, with remnants of broken strings dangling from the neck and introduced “our lead guitarist – Vexred”.

A cheerful chap bounded on stage like a puppy dog, he was smiling and waving to the crowd and began laughing like a idiot, as he took up his instrument and the band played a surf rock instrumental.


Sir Dick then lead Suspicious Parcel through a series of Post-Emo-Hardcore-Punk tunes. The songs were played at a bewildering pace, and seemed to be exclusively about lesbians, prostitutes and cheese.

The set was good natured and entertaining. Most noticeable of all was their visual presence they cut, Mystical Monkey’s attire was reflecting every photon of light in the room, at haphazard angles; casting bizarre, patches of extreme illumination (and creating corresponding areas of shade) on his colleagues.

Sir Dick, now playing guitar, was forced to use a mic stand, which had been set just a little to short for him. He compensated for this inconvenience by placing his front foot next to the stand and the other about a yard further back. This arrangement coupled with his extreme skinniness, mad him look like a lower-case letter “h”.

In the grand tradition of static bass-players Dr. Watson regarded the antics of her colleagues with an analytically studied aloofness. Whilst the congenitally happy Vexred, was laughing and joking and grinning inanely to himself throughout.

Such was the intensity and speed of Suspicious Parcel’s performance, that Sir Dick had to take a break to temporarily rest his auburn head. During the interval we were “entertained” by Sulbylad who after a bout of freestyle gurning and performance vomiting.

As unappetising as Sulbylad’s performance was, it was as nothing when compared to what occurred when an unconventionally endowed interloper (later identified as Gay2Cocks) stormed the stage and began to perform a procedure, which Wilddog later identified as a “Dirty Sanchez”.

After they had wrestled Gay2Cocks from the stage Suspicious Parcel resumed their performance. The second act was more of the same fast Punk-Pop tunes like “What is Cunnilingus?”, “All I Want For Christmas Is A Lesbian Hooker and Some Camembert” and “Fisting Like Fury”.

The highlight for me was the final tune for which the carefree Vexred skipped to the mic and began singing…

“Die, Die, Die,
You’re all gonna die,
I’m gonna kill you
and eat your liver

Fry, Fry, Fry,
I’m gonna cook your brains
In Olive Oil
With Diced Lung

Hate, Hate, Hate
I’ll roast your mothers
And I’ll eat your young
Turn down the heat…


With his vocal duties performed Vexred performed a gleeful cartwheel, and exited the stage with his colleagues.


Mercutio appeared centre-stage. His miraculous arrivals and departures, which had at first seemed thrillingly magical, were becoming mundane, even tedious. On this occasion he held a large scroll held together by a black ribbon.

Relishing his role as the Youth Academies Headmaster, he began to speak…

“I’m sure you will join me in a well deserved round of applause for our young people who have entertained us so splendidly this evening.” He said leading the audience through a half-hearted and desultory round of applause.

“Many of our students have made remarkable progress in the time since my last report. Sir Dick and Oogie Boogie are now established forum members and it will not be long before they are presented to the Trolls for to undertake the initiation ceremony.

“Others have been taking their first steps on Manx Net whilst continuing to hone the skills required of all good sheepies and trollies on our nursery forums www.manxbands.co.uk. With great progress being made in the key core curriculum areas of deviation from topic; random insults; bullying; impersonation; the misuse of others passwords; pedantry; and gratuitous sexual innuendos. The last subject being an area in which, I know our esteemed Roxanne has taken a keen interest in the student’s progress.

“The goal however, of all our Academicians is to graduate and receive induction into our hallowed Gang. This is why we are all so proud that one of our students has today survived the initiation process and is here, to join his good friend Rhumsaa in being our second student to complete his training and graduate into full Gang of Four membership.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please give our newest full member a warm welcome, DRAM please step forward and receive your diploma.”

From the back of the room, to the sound of rapturous applause, strode DRAM. He had been hosed down, and was wearing a black graduation gown, with matching mortarboard. There was an unmistakable look of pride on his face.

I was greatly moved, by his appearance – the youngster who had seemed so frail and frightened earlier, now that he had attained his, albeit dubious, goal of full membership of the Gang of Four was so pleased and at ease with himself.

Mercutio, looking like a mother duck watching her fledgling first enter the water, enthusiastically pumped the graduate’s hand and delivered the diploma reverently.

Dram turned, ready to take his seat amongst the audience. Rhumsaa beckoned his erstwhile friend, urging him to sit at the place that the lovelorn Northerner had reserved for him. This invitation was callously spurned as DRAM made a beeline for a spare seat next to Shazz1664, who greeted him with a tender kiss.

Before returning my attention to the stage, I glanced across at the pitiful Rhumsaa who was repeatedly banging his head against the bench, whilst Monkey_Magic valiantly attempted to cheer him up by pretending to be an increasing incredible cast of unbelievable characters.


Once the tumult of applause had died down Mercutio spoke again. “And now our head boy, Sir Dick will lead his fellow students in a rendition of the Gang of Four’s anthem.”

Between twenty and thirty youngsters, dressed in white robes with hems of various primary colours (each with there user name embroidered over their breast) danced on stage and began swaying impatiently, until Sir Dick, the spotlight illuminating his bright orange hair, spread his arms out like a crucifix and sang the opening line.

“We’re gonna hit you like a case of Ans-thrax”

With this his class mates began to cavort and prance about around the stage in prolonged ecstasy. Many of the adult members of the Gang of Four joined in. Predictably, Declan got so carried away that he careered into a suit of medieval armour, sending it clanging to the floor. For the next line all the students took up the singing duties in a harmonious cacophony.

“Woke up this morning, Steven’s still on,
What he’s been saying he’ll say it again,
His head’s all empty not full with a brain
The thought’s he’s thinking
Like piss down a drain”

The boys and girls were creating a remarkable sound he fervour and pleasure they demonstrated, never overflowing and infringing on the their leader, Sir Dick’s, territory.

With one unfortunate exception, a plain girl whose name tag revealed her to be Ankhassa seemed determined to push herself to the centre of attention, she kept positioning bussumless frame next to the head boy and performing a grotesque parody of an errotic dance, all the time yelling banshee, “Look at me! Look at me! I’m ace!!! Look at me!!!”.

Eventually, after she wrestled the mic from Sir Dick and began piercingly bellowing “I Will Survive”, her antics became too much for the normally mild mannered Mercutio and he silently ordered the formidably built Harmony Dischord and Ric Storm to remove her.

The anthem continued…

“Vader’s like a beetle on his back
Without his leg there, he cannot get up
We will hit him like a case of Ans-thrax
Carter-itus is something I don’t wanna catch

Nessa wants to lose control of her mind
Nothing in there but sunshades for the blind
Only yesterday she said to herself
The sheepies and trollies aren’t good for my health.”

Looking at these charming and energetic young people as they danced from the stage, I knew I must destroy the Gang of Four before any them befell the same fate as poor DRAM.


Once the tumultuous applause died down, the room became filled with the hubbub of general conversation. An army of Trolls was clearing the debris from the stage, and carrying in tables and chairs, and laying place settings, presumably for the top table dignitaries.

I was keen to learn more about the Gang’s structure and was determined to question my companions, Padme and Wilddog on the matter. This proved more difficult than I expected, because although both were more than forthcoming, I was distracted by the deliriously captivating presence of Padme.
However, being a professional investigative reporter, and in over my head, I had to find out what would become of the youngsters I’d just seen.

“So the Academy students are going to eventually become members of the Gang of Four, proper?”

“Well hopefully most of them will,” I turned to see that unnoticed Mercutio had assumed his seat. “We provide them with lessons on the basic skills needed for membership and they then practice these talents amongst themselves on our training forum Manx Bands, which is run by myself and Matron Smiler. Once they have shown enough promise there we allow them to begin posting on the forums proper.

“And once we feel they are ready to abide by the forums rules, we’ll present them to the Trolls for the initiation ceremony. But of course many drop out or are rejected long before that. Amber, for example, couldn’t match up to the intellectual demands made of a Gang of Four member, so we got rid of her.”

“But if they want to join your band full time they need to endure the same indignities as DRAM did?” I asked.

“Well each ceremony is different, but basically the same. They all have to face the Sword.”

“You mean they have to risk their lives to join?”

“No they only believe that they risk death. The sword is rigged to stop just short.”

“So the humiliation and terror is a ruse to determine whether they are truly loyal. But if everybody who undergoes it survives then the students must realise that they aren’t facing any real danger.”

“Well we’ve made some expulsions look like graduations gone wrong. All the students see is the candidate leaving the Academy for the faux-ceremony and never appearing on the forums again.”

The headmaster continued, “And then, there’s the accident. You remember Wisps? It was a terrible mess, the sword didn’t stop. We showed the pictures to the students to concentrate their minds”

“You mean Wisps stopped posting because he died in a botched initiation ceremony?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, the breaking mechanism was slightly misaligned, but Declan swore he’d checked it properly.”


“So everybody here, has been through the initiation ceremony?” I asked.

“No that’s just for the youngsters. Most of us were in at the beginning and became members automatically. And for newcomers there are basically three ways to join.” Mercutio began to explain before Wilddog interrupted him.

“Look there’s no point starting in the middle, begin with them.” He growled, pointing a filthy unmanicured finger in the direction of the stage, where the army of Trolls had finished and the dignitaries were assuming their seats.

Now dominating the stage was a long ornate bench, laid out like our own for a lavish dinner. Behind the bench (resembling a wedding party) were a row of chairs most of which were occupied.

In prime position was a golden throne (reserved for “the Leader” Mercutio informed me), which throughout the meal remained unoccupied. Either side of this were four silver thrones, three of which held Roxanne, Monkey_Magic and Stavros, the fourth was empty, but was embossed with the legend THI.

To the left of the throne, resplendent in psychedelic armchairs-come-thrones were the Ruler of The Trolls and his queen (“Lucy” I was informed.) And to the right sat a man and a woman, both of whom wore ceremonial chains of office from obscure organisations.


Between them – Padme, Mercutio, and Wilddog began to reveal the beginnings of the Gang of Four.

When the forums had first begun, they were a cosy place, with nice, friendly, and inconsequential chit-chat dominating. When a serious debate broke out informal coalitions would form for the life of the thread and then collapse. It was through this loose arrangement that Manx net users were able to repulse the repeated attacks from the rogue forum Beemanx.

When the wars with Beemanx were finally over, many Beemanxers (including Monkey_Magic, Declan, and Roxanne) defected to Manx Net. Unfortunately they brought with them a megalomaniacal buffoon called Richie, who had an evil scheme to destroy the English Language by reforming it beyond the point of readability.

To make matters worse the forums were soon blighted by the arrival of two new users. One was an itinerant shape-shifting taxi-driver who went under a variety of guises. The other was a malevolent son of the dark named Vader (although he has been known to occasion attempt to alter assume human form as Sam and Anekin).

This trio of malcontents launched into the forums with a vengeance, launching viscous unprovoked attacks on other forum users, and disrupting the friendly banter of the forums with their disjointed, and mischievous vitriol.

A consensus was formed that something needed to be done about them, but the loose, ad hoc coalitions of the past would not succeed. So the glorious Leader (a mysterious figure whose name is never mentioned), formulated the idea of formalizing the forces opposed to this disruptive evil triumvirate of dark whisperers, into a concerted professional organisation.

When Vader rashly referred to a “Gang of Four” ranged against him, (naming in the process Monkey_Magic, Roxanne, THI, and Stavros as the members, and ensuring their position on the silver thrones), the organisation had a name, and a public persona which protected the leader from closer study.


Gradually, the Gang of Four took shape around the Leader and the quartet originally named by Vader (other prominent members at the beginning including Declan, Mercutio, BSE, TPFKANOYN and of course Vader’s personal nemesis Ans). THI did not remain long within the organisation preferring to confine his activities to his own personal Den of Iniquity, although as an original member of the silver quartet, his seat at the top table of the banqueting hall remained symbolically vacant.

THI did perform one great service for the cult before his departure – he brokered alliance between the organisation and Phildo and Lucy, which brought the Trolls unique blend of abuse and hatred into play in the Gang’s cause.

During these early skirmishes, the alliance claimed two notable scalps. Firstly, the scatological Manxman was banished and silver surfer Cushy retired from the fray when she found that her goose was cooked.


In the years since its formation, the Gang has continued to grow, and due to its size, many of the principal players have assumed specific responsibilities from what I have piece together from the information gleaned from Padme and the others these include :-

Monkey Magic : Impersonation and Parody
Ans : Discipline and Punctuation
Stavros : Research and Catering
Mercutio : Training and Recruitment
Declan : Pedantry and Richie Baiting
BSE : Nessa Worrying

Whilst Roxanne assumed the role of being the public face of the sect, taking most of the paranoid flack from the Gang’s foes.

Throughout the time that Mercutio, Padme, and Wilddog were narrating the history of the Gang of Four, the meal proceeded around us. Beginning with duck’s nest soup, we munched our way through an endless parade of courses, including roast Castletown swan and in Vader’s honour, Cat’s Kidney Pie (I passed on this one). All around me a psychotic babble of conversation bubbled. During the narrative, Wilddog would become very animated spitting fragments of food all over us.

At the far end of our table sat a small, dishevelled and distracted young man, he was constantly mumbling to himself a series of disjointed words, “Dream … Perchance … Buy … Sell … Amoeba … Plankton,”

Padme, leaned close into me and whispered “That’s Kumquat,” the caress of her hot, sweet, rose-scented breath against my ear sent a frisson of static electricity down my spine. We both reached for a bread roll at the same time, and for a delicious moment our hands touched and remained together for a delirious instant longer than was necessary.


I should perhaps now pause and relate an incident, which interrupted my history lesson.

The waiters, in their gilded livery, were scurrying around serving the opening course, when the amiable atmosphere in the dinning hall was shattered by a loud crash. At the far end of the room a large door had swung open, and looming on the threshold was the considerable presence of Ans.

Purposefully he entered pushing a gurney, on which firmly attached by duct tape and industrial-size staples was a muzzled Phoneman.

When they reached the foot of the stage, Roxanne stood up and spoke firmly, “Ans!”

“Pans … Meringues … Lemons … Bells…” the poor delusional Kumquat shouted back.

Roxanne, a furious terrier-like look on her face, barked, at him “Silence!”

Kumquat blanched and paused, as if suddenly remembering himself he appeared to halt his incessant litany, then uncontrollably like a virgin’s first tug, he blurted out “Is Golden … Showers … Baths … Tubs … Gentlemen …”

“Kumquat!” bellowed Roxanne.

The benighted obsessive clearly couldn’t prevent himself, “Kiwi … Fruit … Nut …” Wilddog leapt on the delusional fool and rugby tackled him to the floor. Although enfeebled by the effort of maintaining his manic compulsion Kumquat continued with his eternal list making, blurting out, “Steve…” before Wilddog silenced him jamming a bread roll down his throat.


When Kumquat was trussed up in a corner convalescing and grunting as if continuing his never-ending word-play, Roxanne spoke again.

“Ans, how is the reprogramming going?”

“Slowly,” grunted the hulking brute, “Not ready to join. Yet.”

Roxanne, who at the start of the dinner had changed into an all in one pink PVC catsuit, decorously climbed from the stage. She strode over to where Phoneman was trussed and removed a silver tipped stiletto. Punctuating each word with a sickening blow with the heel to the failed superheroes’ forehead, she spoke clearly and deliberately, “Phoneman Listen To Ans, You Will Join Us Eventually.” Her blows created a bloody welt above the interloper’s bushy eyebrows, like an Indian’s caste symbol.

Padme, gave a discreet yelp of empathetic displeasure with every jab, eventually grabbing my hand and squeezing tightly. I could not believe that such a beautiful sensitive soul supported this brutality. I resolved to manipulate the situation so that I could broach the subject with her. In the meantime, my heart was somersaulting as she leant in subtlety closer against my body. (For emotional support?)

When she eventually removed her hand from mine I found that Padme had pressed, a message of rebellion in my clammy palm. (Or was it a love poem?) It read

“Shall I compare you to a coffee cup?
Warm and sweet and full of scrummy stuff,
Aah! But when will we two meet again, there’s the rub,
This is the winter of the internet -
Shall we sit upon the floor,
And talk of sad things;
Or fly into the breech once more,
Against the arrows and slings,
Of the outrageous posters.”

While I read Roxanne indicated that Phoneman should be placed in a gap between the tables, in the centre of the dining hall. And there he stood for the remainder of the feast, acting as a target for any unwanted food, that the cult members felt like throwing in his direction. From time to time Ans would go over and apply an electronic cattle prod to his genitals.

“And that is the second way of joining our merry band,” Mercutio chuckled, “Ans’ Psychological Reprogramming Programme can be very persuasive.”

He went on to detail the procedure, which seemed to involve sensory deprivation, extreme violence, the “music” of Metallica, and a torrent of verbal abuse; but I wasn’t really listening, I was more concerned with formulating my own programme to rescue the delectable Padme from this horror.


Although over the years the Gang of Four’s membership had increased dramatically, so had the forces opposed to it. Whilst, the ever-transforming taxi driver had not been spotted for a while (although some did suspect that his latest incarnation may be the derisible USA NO WAY), Vader and Richie (now ludicrously renamed Riki) were still present, as ridiculous as ever, and they had been joined by three new villains.

Firstly, there was the tenacious, egotistical and ridiculous, Steven. He displayed every trait that was guaranteed to annoy the Gang – appalling spelling; idiosyncratic punctuation; pomposity; and self-obsession.

But his crowning glory has been his tenacity at holding a seemingly untenable position. On one memorable occasion Steven proclaimed that the dustbin men (or Dusty Bun Men as he called them) were a con and their weekly collections were “Jyst a WAY TO RIP YOU OFF!!!!!!!” When challenged that his home would become an unsanitary health hazard if the rubbish was not collected, he became all indignant and bellowed that if he wanted to live in a “Piggy Stie” it was his choice, and that he was “HELPIN YOU ALL SOO MUCH!!!!”

When Stavros countered that if he refuse to tidy his house the council would do it forcibly, the redoubtable Steven was unbowed. “I WILL FORBIDE THEM” he proclaimed, in fact the authorities would respect him for his stance. And then he threatened to set his pet wolf “TIDDELS” on them.

Tiddels, was quite a cause-celebre on the forums, many doubted the beast’s existence, whilst many more posters were appalled that Steven had been allowed to import a wild carnivore, into the Island (on a fishing boat, straight from “alkaseltzer”, allegedly), but most feared for the safety of Steven’s twin toddlers – Humfree and Bengamin.

Steven would retaliate by creating a multitude of threads about how everybody hates him and would unleash a plethora of grotesque clones onto the forums to create mayhem. It appeared that far from being a harmless imbecile Steven actually had a degrea in Genetic Engineering and a secret laboratory hidden under a mountain of uncollected disposable nappies in his living room.

Whilst Steven offended many people, I must admit I had a sneaking admiration for the chap, his indefatigability was a wonder to behold and his creative use of the English language (especially such classic neologisms as “lapsy daisical”) was breathtaking for any lover of words.


Secondly, there was Nessa. She was an enigma, her gnomic postings could have made her fortune if she set her mind to setting cryptic crosswords, but as contributions on an internet forum she was a nightmare.

She was a master of word trickery, her posts, written in an English dialect of her own devising, and which were crammed with jargon terms that she may or may not have understood. It was very difficult to destroy her arguments because no one could be certain what they were or if indeed she had any. This example of an exchange with the cult member detailed to torment her is illustrative of the problem she posed.

BSE: Nessa you are a looney who talks shit.

Nessa : I totally agree BSE, words can mean different things to different people in my POV. That is the difficulty with these cyber discussion scenarios.

BSE : That’s bollox.

Nessa: I couldn’t agree more BSE. But first we need to define what bollox means BSE, IMHO and that of my certain of my personal support network. That is the problem,BSE. It is a social-typing convention situation.

BSE: A what?

Nessa: BSE is right. What do words mean? BSE should they mean anything…I muse… Perhaps if we all remembered, IMHO BSE in my POV, we all come from different, social background cultures we would, BSE take more cognitive recognition of the realities as I see them.

BSE: My head hurts?

Nessa: In my POV it is a brain tumor scenario, BSE. My personal network situation scenario suggests as does my POV and IMHO BSE that you take an Aspirin type construction and lie down in a darkened room scenario. BSE, IMHO.

Naturally, she had formed a strong alliance with Vader, and they would band together in a “mutual point avoidance support network”.


The third new ally that Vader had recruited to the anti-Gang of Four was really more of a liability. He was a pompous windbag, by the name of Carter.

As the only priest ever to be excommunicated for boring his congregations to death, he was the acknowledged master of the banal. The crushing tedium of his efforts could suck the life out of any thread.

Additionally, although not in Steven’s league, he too was self-obsessed, doing the old forum favourite of leaving the forums and posting a bile filled diatribe as his parting gift, then returning when it became obvious that whilst he couldn’t live without the forums the forums could live without Carter.

From time to time Carter would climb back into the pulpit to pontificate about the latest evil (clones; picking on Steven; people not reading Carter’s posts - were favourites) to infect the forums.

The main problem with Carter, though was his all-encompassing hero worship of the quicker witted posters, particularly Monkey_Magic and Rhumsaa, who he followed around the forums like a lost kitten follows Vader. It was almost painful to watch the pitiful way he attempted to emulate the simian one. Carter’s had been blessed with the lumbering intellect of a brontosaurus, and even his best efforts fell flatter than one of Sugar Bee’s Digestives

Soon the Gang grow tired of the sound of tumbleweed drifting around the forums following one of his side swipes at humour and they added him to the list of its enemies.

But, that’s enough about Carter, I’ve spent too long thinking about this non-entity and it is putting me to sleeeeeeeppppppp……….


© Copyright 2003 Declan Ritchie (UN: declan at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Declan Ritchie has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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