See the first part of this story here.
Sir Drink-A-Lot swivelled slowly on his bar stool to face the fallen glass that now lay in a thousand tiny pieces on the floor.
“What the…?” he asked, as though the shattered glass could answer him. He held an empty glass in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other. Poor Sir Drink-A-Lot didn’t manage to fill it before all the craziness began though, for the fallen glass was merely the beginning. With a low grumble, the floor began to rumble and the glasses on the shelves began to tinkle amongst themselves. Sir Drink-A-Lot stared, open-mouthed, as Evry Pub shook around him.
“Good God,” he declared, holding his own (and his whisky) as the world moved beneath his feet. He was remarkably stable, given the state of the Earth at that very moment in time.
“John?” a woman’s voice called from the doorway, also remarkably calm given the circumstances. Sir Drink-A-Lot turned to face Mrs. Spectre from Evry Post Office. She looked small and frail against the towering, tumbling doorway that surrounded her but Sir Drink-A-Lot knew that she was anything but. She was one of the best gatekeepers they had at Evry after all, a real tough cookie.
“Mary!” he cried over the din of more glasses shaking themselves off their shelves. “What the devil’s going on? I haven’t experienced a floor this unstable since I was captaining the HMS Boozer through the Underling sea!”
“An earthquake? Good lord, we don’t have earthquakes in Evry!” He pulled the cork out of his whisky bottle with his teeth, spat it at the ground, and took a long, deep glug. “Aaah, that’s better,” he said.
“Come quick,” Mary cried. “Mayor Major has prepared a bunker in his basement of Evry Town Hall, just for this sort of thing.”
“Oh good lad. I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, Mary,” he answered, although she had already turned and disappeared with a remarkable speed for one so old. Sir Drink-A-Lot staggered across the topsy-turvy land and reached up to the highest, most protected shelf – a shelf that the earthquake hadn’t quite destroyed yet.
“I’ll take you,” he said as he grabbed another bottle of whisky from the shelf and tucked it under his arm, “and you, and you.” Cradling his three babies, he gazed down at them lovingly before ambling his way to Evry Town Hall.
“Nice place you’ve got here, Fred,” Sir Drink-A-Lot said once everyone had settled into they mayor’s bunker. It was a long, thin, and rather grey room, with long benches on either side, upon which sat the clambered together Evry Village Council. There were two doors at the end of the room, one leading to the mayor’s sumptuous bedroom (for it’s only fitting that the mayor have a room of his own), and the other to a small but well-stocked kitchen, full to the brim with tins and tins of baked beans, mackerel in brine, and tomato soup.
“Yep,” Sir Drink-A-Lot continued. “Nice place, but let’s be honest, it could do with a bit more booze. A nicely matured whisky or the like.”
“It’s Mayor Major to you, Sir Drink-A-Lot,” the mayor said with a sigh, “and I think you’ve got more than enough whisky for all of us! Was it really necessary to bring three bottles to an emergency village meeting?”
“Hey! Careful now, you may be the mayor, but these are my friends and no-one gets-“
“Anyway,” interrupted PC Bob, rolling his eyes as Sir Drink-A-Lot weeble wobbled in the corner. “What’s all this about? I mean, an earthquake? In Evry? We’ve never had an earthquake before. I’ve always thought we were protected from natural disasters like that, on account of us being the gatekeepers of Evry Village and saving the world from evil and all.” There was a general murmur of agreement from the council – they were all there: Mayor Major, Sir Drink-A-Lot, PC Bob, Mrs. Spectre, and Miss Scholar too.
“Well,” the mayor began before rising out of his seat and pacing the length of the room. He turned to the others and took a deep breath.
“Thing is,” he said. “I don’t think it was an earthquake. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an earthquake.”
“Not an earthquake?” Miss Scholar squealed in surprise.
“Sure felt like an earthquake,” Sir Drink-A-Lot said, “Or perhaps a storm at sea.”
“Perhaps I can help clear this up,” Mrs. Spectre said, much to the surprise of the others.
“Please do, Mary,” the mayor smiled down at the wraith-like yet boot-tough post-mistress.
“I’ve heard word from Paris,” she said. She receives all the news through Evry Post Office, you see. “London. New York too. And a little tiny village in India – they’ve got one post office for just 34 people, can you imagine?”
“And the earthquake, Mary?” PC Bob encouraged. “What of the earthquake?”
“Oh that. Word is, it wasn’t an earthquake after all.” They all sat quiet for a moment, waiting for her to tell them what it was then, when Miss Scholar finally asked:
“What was it then, Mary?”
“Yes, yes,” she snapped. “I’m getting to that!” Tough as old boots she may be, but she was definitely going a little batty, just as old women should (for what fun is an old lady if she’s not even a little bit crazy?). “It’s a giant.”
“A giant.” PC Bob said.
“A giant what?” Sir Drink-A-Lot asked.
“A giant giant,” the mayor said before walking back to his seat and plonking himself down again. He sighed. “He was merely walking and yet causing the very core of the Earth to shake.”
“My guy in Istanbul told me that he’s angry,” Mrs. Spectre jumped in. “The giant, that is, and that he’s going around jumping on anything that gets in his way.”
Miss Scholar gasped. “What a menace! What’s he angry about?”
“That’s just it, we don’t know,” the mayor answered glumly. “But whatever it is, it’s causing no end of trouble in the world.
“Well we’ve got to stop it,” PC Bob declared. “We’ve got to put an end to it. Put the giant to bed as it were.”
“But how?” Sir Drink-A-Lot asked before taking another swig of his precious whisky and then hiccoughing.
“By cheering him up, that’s how,” Miss Scholar said, a grin on her face as she suddenly found the solution. “The world’s a much better place when everyone’s happy.”
To be continued…