DPASW: The Foundation of Power

Cleithrophobia and Planning a Heist

Goblins. Why did it always have to be goblins?

Stan Shunpike, currently on secondment from the bus division of Knight Logistics, drove his knight wagon along the Scottish coastline, occasionally shooting glances at his much shorter driving companion. The huge purple lorry zoomed up the mostly deserted road, occasionally bending past a car or motorcycle, or even jumping straight over, if two blocked the road at once.

The goblin sitting next to him hadn't said much, despite Stan's best cheerful efforts to make conversation.

"So, you reckon his lordship gonna be puttin' on all kinds of fancy parties and whatnot, when you lot are all done with it all?"

The goblin grunted and continued to stare out the lorry's side window.

"I just reckon I could fit in well at one o' those dos, don'tcha think?" He fiddled with his bowtie and swerved to avoid a man riding on horse back, causing his green companion to clutch at the side door and curse in his harsh tongue. "My ma always said I had a touch of the nobby in me, she did."

The goblin glared at him. "Just keep your eyes on the road, human."

Stan shrugged and turned forward again. Could never get a good word out of a goblin. Wouldn't it do the vicious little buggers just to lighten up a bit?

They continued to zip across the country, keeping up with the knight wagon in front and making sure not to get too far ahead of the knight wagon behind them. The whole convoy eventually made it to a small strip of land jutting out onto the water in the middle of a sleepy village. The deep purple lorries clashed against everything around them, from the white washed stone walls of the houses, to the brown woods of the jetty, and the faint blue of the water and sky — and yet, not one of the hundred or so residents of the village looked askance at the colour mad insanity that had just invaded their home, or even noticed it.

Stan tapped the side of his wagon, waiting for the boat they were to unload the cargo onto, and trying to ignore the goblin, who had taken what looked to be a cooked rat out of a paper bag and was now messily devouring it.

The wait continued. Stan frowned. Shouldn't be taking this long, should it? He turned off the engine, opened the door, and stepped down onto the worn tarmac road. Some posh bloke was talking to his mate, Richie, over at the leading Knight Wagon. An argument looked in the offing. He wandered over. "Oi, Richie, what's going on?"

Richie scowled and nodded towards the other man who, in Stan's mind, screamed, 'Ministry'.

"Mister Shunpike?" The man said in a snooty voice. "I am Geoffrey Perkins, an inspector with the department of magical trade — and I've been assigned the task of overseeing all materials and artefacts used in the construction of Slytherin Manor."

"Oi. You can't do that, can he, Rich?"

"I assure you, Mister Shunpike, that the ministry has authorised it."

"This is Goblin business, human." Stan's goblin companion appeared from nowhere to stand beside him. "The cargo is our responsibility and you have no right to inspect a goblin cargo under treaty."

The ministry inspector's lip curled up. "Thankfully, that will not be an issue, as I will not be inspecting any goblin cargos."

"What?"

Suddenly, another goblin appeared, standing next to Perkins and grinning evilly.

"YOU!" Stan's goblin shouted.

"Me." Perkins' goblin replied.

"What business does the Goldtooth Clan have with the House of Slytherin?"