Lombardus: The Trident Clown

Chapter 22

PLAN BETA WAS VERY SIMPLE and definitely an energy-saver unlike Plan Alpha which required me to yell, wave, run and hurl objects. 

Plan Beta was so easy that I was just going to kneel, bow for the beetle the way ancient Egyptians worshipped scarabs in honor of Ra, their sun god, and Beetlebrain will go away. Voilà. In lesser usage of words, I urgently needed to beg for mercy.

I appeared before the beetle. It paused, tilting its head quizzically, as if to discern how stupidly brave or bravely stupid the puny human under it was.

"Are you crazy?!" I heard Rupert say, trying to save me from embarrassment as I knelt down. "What are you doing?"

In the near distance, Lucy said, "As you can see, he's trying to get himself killed, buy us some time to escape, save us. Heroic, I know right."

I ignored her. I bowed, raised and bowed. The creature kept watching for a while. Then it hissed impatiently, showering its worshipper with a vile blessing of burning liquid. 

From my kneeling position, I would like to boast that I performed a graceful backflip — worthy of the standards of Simone Biles — evading the corrosive without any casualty.

Luke would tell you otherwise; that I clumsily tried to run and a drizzle of acid singed my outstretched worshipper arms and holed my pants and I ended up running away like a wounded canid — with its tail tucked down in shame. Oh Luke. 

Moreover, it seemed like Plan Beta wasn't going a long way. 

I bounded for the home-grown shed that was erected behind the Wood's cottage.

Here, the area smelled musty and rays of light cut through the thick, dusty air as knife does butter. It also housed a collection of objects that'll leave you wondering what they were doing there in the first place.

I picked the first tools I believed would torture a dinosaur-sized beetle to the extreme: a rust-brown saxophone, a small, fading red paint bucket and a rustier claw hammer. At the last moment, I attached a chrome-vanadium hook wrench to my belt loop — just in the case of contingencies. 

Then, I sighted a fire extinguisher and a bundle of synthetic ropes in one corner. Wondering how they might be of help, I decided to ignore them.

I wore the paint container as helmet and armed both hands with my weapons. Disregarding my holey pants and recognizing my hammer instead, I believed I looked intimidating like a vicious Norse god.

"Comrades," I looked around the shed under my oversized helmet. I figured there's not much to grab but I said it anyways. "Grab your gridirons. Raise your rakes. Pick your piccolos. Arm your arms. Prepare for glory."

Luke jogged to my side, a Spartan warrior of valor. He picked a cymbal and tested it as shield. Stuck halfway through a plank, he found the rustiest saw in Valsbury. Under a termite-ridden table that might crumple to dust in a minute — and it crumpled to dust — he found a green dented toolbox. He attempted opening the lid but it wouldn't budge. Great!

Lucy also followed. She sighted a broom leaning by one corner of the shed. Her fingers curled around the long broomstick. It felt alien in her hands. She found solace in a nearby electric guitar.

She had this look, like she wished Ms Tamarind would  let her, just let her handle their vacuum cleaner for once. Maybe, she'd understand the concept of using home cleaning tools, especially for defeating an eighteen-foot bombardier/scarab mutant beetle.

We stood side by side unsmiling — I, at the centre — hefting our weapons and testing their efficiency. We looked, warrior extraordinaire, like the bloodthirsty berserkers or the vile vikings ready to conquer the whole of mediaeval England.