Ready To Tell The Tale

Well, it seems it's time for the next episode of The Cephalopocalypse.

If you've been off having fun without me, the Prologue to the story is here, and Part One is here. Both are definitely worth a click before you get going.

You might argue that this tale is a re-run. But actually, you'd be wrong; it's not. This is the unedited version, a Director's Cut if you will. I was still coming to terms with the events at the time, but here's the full truth of the day after almost a year.

Intrigued? Good. Read on...

---

The Cephalopocalypse - Part Two

Spring is almost here.

The weather has seemed somewhat confused on the point lately, but as I sit in the park with my best friend, change is definitely in the air.

It's February 2012, a beautiful Sunday morning, bright and crisp. Our bench isn’t the most comfortable, but it offers the best vantage point of this morning's proceedings; a small-but-enthusiastic group are running laps round the lake.

Mind you, in their position, I’d be enthusiastic too…

Dr. Max Tunguska de-rails my thought as he offers me a cup of tea from his flask. He cuts a striking figure, with short-cropped hair and a dark, white-streaked beard that makes him look like he's constantly trying to swallow a badger.

You know Max, I reflect as I accept the cup with a nod, It’s been a funny few weeks since you changed your name.

The tea is strong, hot, sweet and milky. Perfect.

Since you say I changed my name, the arch-genius-formerly-known-as-iDifficult corrects me quietly, as he picks up the binoculars. But yes, it’s been weirder than usual since the cuttlefish formed their network.

He’s not kidding. Elliot, our dimension-hopping trouble-shooter, was beside himself; I was aware that my friend iDifficult had somehow become Max, and that the cuttlefish were doing something funky and colourful as a group, but the elephant agent seemed genuinely scared. He hurried off to report back to The Unity Agency.

And CephNet (click for pic), as the seven cuttlefish collectively dubbed themselves, immediately applied their exponentially-superior intellect to making changes around Max’s house.

Improvements, if you will.

They imposed zero gravity inside the house, for one thing. This puzzled and nauseated us in equal measure, but it made it easier for them to get about the place from the basement, and the rest of us got used to it. In fact, the zero-G lounge and bedrooms were winners. The zero-G toilet took a little more getting used to. But at least it meant I got to try the zero-G shower.

The doctor coughs, interpreting my reflective silence as agreement. They're coming round again.

I raise the stopwatch and click as the group thunders past fifty yards away in a flash of black, white and gold. Wow, that's fast! I flash the stopwatch display toward my friend, who nods appreciatively. How far round the lake is it?

Half a mile, grunts Max, looking every bit the guy I've known since we attended Saint Mungo's Boarding School back in the Seventies. Which he is, in a way. Apart from the beard. Good week? He glances my way as he dunks a biscuit.

Had my annual medical, I sniff, trying to sound casual as I fish in a pocket, and retrieve an envelope. I hand it over as I sip at my tea, the very picture of nonchalance. Max finesses the papers from the manilla, and flips through the pages of results.

Not bad, not bad, he muses. All looks pretty normal. He checks the summary page. Though clearly this guy was a quack. Yes, very unprofessional! he concludes darkly.

How do you mean? I say, a tiny spike of panic in my voice.

Well, you’d think he'd make you put your heavy shopping down before he weighed you. His poe-face cracks into a grin.

I chuckle and pat my stomach affectionately. Yeah, apparently this fella needs to go. Diet and exercise. It's a good time of year to start though, I wave expansively, when all this change is in the air.

Silence joins us as we mull that thought over. We ignore him happily.

Though something is nagging at me, and I give it voice.

Have you seen Abbey since all this started? My neighbour, a regular presence in my daily routine, has been absent. I wonder if I've forgotten a holiday she might have mentioned?

Max shakes his head as he sips at his tea.

No, but didn't Elliot say something about her before he rushed off? He frowns, perhaps half-remembering something that doesn’t feel right. I forget what, sorry; I was a bit muddle-headed that day.

Hmmm.

The runners dash past again, a black-and-white crowd followed by a single golden pursuer. I click the stopwatch. Still damned quick.

Well, wouldn’t you be? Dr. Tunguska tips the dregs of his tea into the grass. Hey look, I think the pacemaker is pulling out.

A lone figure separates from the action and slows to an amble. He heads our way across the dew-flecked grass, sweat glistening on his face and staining the armpits of his black-and-white-striped all-in-one. He removes the horsehead from his costume as he approaches.

Morning! he gasps cheerily, still looking for breath.

That's quite a pace you set! my friend beams, to the runner's delight.

Thank you! That's the way Mr. King likes it! he inhales hugely another couple of times and adds, He's looking to find the fittest runner this morning. I must say it's rather exhilarating being chased by him!

You'll get no arguments from us! With a shiver, I remember the time we went to that fancy dress party at the embassy, dressed as a gazelle.

I'm aware of the approaching thundering of hooves. We all look round.

They’re really throwing up some dust now! It’s the final lap!

I pick up the binoculars and take in the details.

Three panicked zebras, sweating and spittling, are each trying to put themselves into the lead. Sleek muscular flanks gyrate and jostle, and a dozen legs pound the ground in a frenzy of adrenaline. The black-and-white collage finally fills my view, and I shift focus just as a familiar golden-maned figure emerges triumphantly from the dust cloud.

It's King. The house's resident lion, the lodger from the spare room. A magnificent male from the Savannah, and an ambassador of his homeland. His four legs are a blur of muscle and sinew, his mighty paws pounding the ground, his tail twitching playfully. Clearly he's not at full tilt, but is putting these stripey lads through their paces.

Unexpectedly, the lion roars and swings left, overtaking his two slowest quarry, and then suddenly swings right to barrel into the lead zebra in a blur of teeth and claws.

I lower the binoculars. Nature is wonderful, but I don’t always want to watch it.

Why did he take the leader? Lions usually pick off the slowest and weakest. puzzles Max, scratching his cranial stubble. Maybe it's like pursuit cycling? I never did understand pursuit cycling.

Our faux-zebra companion laughs.

No! Mr. King was only interested in the fastest! The leanest!

I nod, wondering if King had attended his own medical evaluation this week; I'll be looking for a few leans cuts myself in the months to come. Though after I inevitably discover a half-eaten zebra in the bathroom in the morning, I'll probably be off red meat for a month.

Rising from the bench, Max and I turn our back on the carnage and head home, treading carefully between the early spring flowers.

The cuttlefish say they’re close to working out how to achieve world peace.

My mind is on Abbey still, and perhaps I don’t think the ominous implications of that statement through. It sounds quite hopeful, on the face of it.

Well, that would make a nice change. It’ll be good for us.

I'm not thrilled by the idea of diet and exercise, but that'll be good for me too.

It's the season of change, and change I must.

But some things never change.

And some things may change more than any of us realise.

TO BE CONTINUED


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

Definitely Inside The Lines

Okay, are you ready? Here's the first part proper of The Cephalopocalypse.

If you've been off having fun without me, the Prologue to the story is here, and definitely worth a click before you get going.

It may even make sense. Stranger things have happened.

For example, read on...

---

The Cephalopocalypse - Part One

Real or imagined, there is always something lurking in the basement.

And today, it’s us.

Outside of my best friend iDifficult’s house, it’s a gloriously sunny suburban day in August 2011.

Inside the house, it’s the same date, but mercifully cooler. And down in the basement, in the arch-genius’ dimly-lit workshop, it’s cooler still. That might be something to do with the industrial air conditioning for his army of terracotta snowmen * at the other end of his football-pitch-sized complex.

[ * That’s another story.]

I’m slumped on a crush-velvet sofa, sporting shorts, a non-matching shirt and a cup of tea. I'm getting my slack on while 'Difficult, carrying off 1970s disco wear with considerable aplomb, flips through computer simulations on a computer tablet embedded in a nearby tabletop. In fact, the tablet is the tabletop. I notice my amigo is nibbling on occasional shards of this morning's pizza crust scattered across the touchscreen; I love a hot breakfast.

Roth, did I ever tell you how I came by those terracotta snowmen? ‘Difficult asks conversationally. ** It’s not an attempt to fill a conversational void; we’ve known each other far too long to be uncomfortable with silence.

[ ** It seems I’m mistaken - it is in this story. He never was a conformist. ]

Yep, I say, curtailing an interesting-but-lengthy exposition from our story. I helped you get them back from Antarctica, remember?

The man once voted Boy Most Likely To Fill A Swimming Pool With Custard looks up to frown momentarily, and then chuckles and shakes his head. That really was a very big coolbag.

That said, he returns to tapping, twisting and dragging at the touchscreen. I notice an enthusiasm, an excitement about the man; he’s close to something. It reminds me of the first time he found a Higgs Boson, back in 1996. ***

I sit up straight and pay closer attention. My Pizza Sense Is Tingling (TM).

[ *** He couldn’t tell anyone about it – he had no planning permission for his underground particle accelerator – but to his credit he ‘gently’ nudged the CERN folks towards their own ‘discovery’. He later said of the experience, It was like herding caffeinated fish! ]

So, what are you working on? I wave an arm at the large fishtanks around the perimeter of the dingy room. And what are all these for?

I’m glad you asked, he beams, come take a look at this.

I rise from the comfort of the sofa with complaining knees, and head over to the desk. I stand beside my friend in the half light, our faces illuminated in what is probably a ghoulish fashion by the screen beneath us.

Onscreen, there's a sophisticated underwater simulation involving a jolly marine cephalopod. Is it squid? No, I shiver, squid are sleeker, meaner. I remembering our last tangle with ‘Difficult’s squid/squirrel hybrid, the Squiddrel; I had to prise its sullen, slavering mouth open with a crowbar, fighting off its determined facial tentacles, to drag my undigested best friend from its gullet. He was gloopy.

But I do recognise the squid’s cousin on the screen. The delicate, undulating single fin surrounding the mantled head, the faceful of rope-like tentacles, the weird goat eyes. And above all, the serene, imperious intelligence of the thing.

Is that a cuttlefish?

Well spotted, grins ‘Difficult, most mistake them for squid.

I snort derisively, clearly relegating those schmucks to the slow-reading group.

Did you realise that these fellas have an enormous percentage of their body mass devoted to their central nervous system? He flicks a schematic into view. It’s complicated view of the cephalopod, and there’s a lot of glowing organs and nerve paths on it.

Really? I didn’t. So, they’re smart for their size? Cool. A random thought particle hits me. Their colour changes are pretty, too.

My friend glances at me sideways, ignoring my comment. Their brain/body ratio is well above us and dolphins, in fact. Some of them get pretty darned big, too.

Oh, right. Sensing that listening noises might serve me better right now, I add an encouraging, Okay.

My friend tugs at my shirted elbow and leads me away from the digital table. Anyway, they're pretty solitary in the wild, and I wanted to see how they'd interact, so I popped a couple of them in the tank over here. He indicates a clear-sided water-filled cube beyond an archway, in a brighter area of the basement. We stroll over, passing through several slanting shafts of light from the narrow, horizontal windows high in the walls.

A pair of sullen-looking cuttlefish, their headfins undulating gently, sit close to the bottom of the tank. Their chameleon colours shift, seemingly at random. I notice that the two are entangled somehow.

Well, I’ll be damned. I struggle for words. Are they… holding hands??!

No, corrects ‘Difficult in an enthralled tone, they’re networking.

And as he says it, I see it. The duo sit facing one another, their outermost tentacles on each side outstretched and held by their companion opposite. It looks an expression of affection, or the start of a dance, but a small voice tells me they're forming a closed loop. A circuit. Their spare arms wave gently between them, but some of these grasp chunky wax crayons. Unbelievably, the pair are slowly colouring a simple picture on a white board on the floor of the tank.

What do you think? whispers 'Difficult from behind my shoulder. I consider this, examining the picture.

Well, their colour choices are unusual, I muse, but they're definitely colouring inside the lines. Very neat.

Oooh, they’re doing it again! breathes the arch genius. Watch this!

One of the cuttlefish has shifted to a fixed shade of blue-green. The other cephalopod pauses in its colouring and starts to feel about on its side of the tank. Locating an aquamarine-coloured crayon, it retrieves and examines it, before handing it over. There's the merest hint of a nodded acknowledgement, and the pair's colour display returns to normal.

Damn! My mind is saying something stronger than that.

Exactly! They seems smarter when they're linked. He lets this settle in for a moment. And this set me thinking. I reflect that this is a worrying phrase from 'Difficult on any day of the week, but he tugs at my arm again. Now, come check this out.

In the next tank, there are not two, but three cuttlefish. Again, their outermost tentacles are linked, forming a wider ring than the duo. Bless them, but it looks like they're playing ring-a-rosie. The trio look up as my friend gently plops a scrambled Rubik's Cube into their tank. As it sinks slowly towards the bottom of their enclosure, three coordinated sets of tentacles snake out to hold it in place at the focus of their circle.

A few seconds pass. There's a shifting colour display between them, each hue passing around the circle in a counter-clockwise direction. Their display slowly spins, with occasional surges. It reminds me the motion of early disk drives. It's pretty but unsettling.

This bit is so cool! squeaks my friend.

With thirteen slow, deliberate manipulations, the cuttlefish cooperate to grasp, twist and slide the cube back to its perfect, completed state. A moment later, a wet tentacle holds the cube above the surface of the water. I take it gently.

That's incredible! This seems inadequate. I give them a wave. Thank you. There's a salutary flick of a tentacle tip in my direction.

You don't know the half of it, says 'Difficult soberly. My best algorithms could only do it in fifteen moves. They beat that by two. Collectively. 

I raise an eyebrow, knowing that the pursuit of so-called God Moves is a serious research endeavour. But my curiosity gets the better of me, and I shuffle over to the next tank. And what about these four? The quartet of cuttlefish in the next tank are going through a similar friendly-tentacled ritual. There's a tension in their body language, if I'm any judge.

Well, they wrote some passable poetry while they were waiting for me earlier, says the arch-genius dismissively, and they knocked off a workable solution to five-dimensional travel while I was making coffee.

I try not to think about either of those too closely. And now?

Oh, they're working out a solution to ensure World Peace. I now raise both eyebrows, and he looks shifty. Hey, I was only kidding with them: What's next? World Peace? kinda thing, but they seemed keen. Their colour shifts are faster, more urgent, than the previous trio. My friend sighs, They're processing huge amounts of information, but they don't seem to be making progress on the problem.

It is a tricky one, I chuckle. Have you tried a higher number of cuttlefish?

'Difficult shakes his head. Not yet. I was going to later this morning, actually. I was thinking of adding the two and the three together to make a group of five. He gestures to the duo's tank. Once the pair had finished their colouring, I mean. it seems rude to interrupt them. 

Well, I muse, why not just add the groups of three and four together?

To make seven? His mental arithmetic rarely fails him. Well, it's a bit of a leap, but it might make sense to do that. He scratches his nose absently. Seven is supposed to be the optimal number for group decision making.

We fall silent as he considers this.

And upstairs, there's a knock at the front door.

I'm about to offer to go and see who it is, when it comes again, more urgently. A heavy, rapid thumping that suggests the door may not hold up for long.

Good grief, those pizza guys can be panicky when they’re being chased by the squiddrel. I sniff. We really should put a sign up: Caveat Squiddrem.

We've already had pizza today, says 'Difficult distantly, as he rolls up his sleeves. Would you mind getting that matey?

Sure. I stroll across to the stairwell in the far corner and head upstairs into the light.

iDifficult's house is an attractive two-storey affair presented and decorated an ironic Regency style, set in pleasantly-compact half-acre of land. The buildings - which include a half-dozen sheds - and the surrounding gardens are immaculately maintained, and the whole affair is well placed in a quiet and very respectable neighbourhood.

I wander through the kitchen and into the gloomy hallway as a final splintering crash heralds the demise of the wooden front door; I'm showering with sunlight and a fortune in toothpick futures. In the shattered remains of a doorframe, a huge figure stands erect. Tall, broad, heavy, his trilby hat held in a prehensile trunk, his toed fists balled heroically.

Elliot Nesh, Special Elephant for The Unity Agency.

We've crossed paths on many occasions, most notably during the tale I've come to think of as The Long Road Home. His usual laconic, Bogart-esque demeanour is gone, though. He looks about with agitation, his ears flapping, taking in the scene. Agents never panic, but he's clearly highly motivated.

Where is he? Where is iDifficult?! bellows Elliot, bounding into the hall without grace, intent on passing me, We have to stop him!

I step forward, uttering a heartfelt and more-than-a-little-nervous Hey Elliot! Whoa! Easy, big fella! What on earth is...

As our paths collide, we bump into one another, and I grab onto the elephant to keep my balance. There's a strong smell of sawdust and bourbon.

A moment later, as I cling to Elliot, something changes in the world.

It's hard to describe what. But we both freeze in our tracks, clearly feeling it arrive. There's a splintered second in which I sense every fractal detail of reality unwind and rebuild itself. I'm not a user of mind-expanding drugs, but I can only imagine this is what those who do describe as trippy.

The moment passes. In fact, it was so brief as to barely constitute an instant.

I look about; everything seems the same: the same sunny day outside; the same décor in the hallway; the same elephant holding me up. So what is different?

Dammit, too late, rumbles Elliot, Quick! Take me to Max!

I frown. Who?

The elephantine eyes fix on me. Max Tunguska! I shrug and Elliot's agitation increases. He lives here!

My frown continues. No Elliot, 'Difficult does. You know he does! We exchange queer looks and Elliot looks down in wonder at my grip on him.

Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT! he curses, pushing me aside. He thunderously hurries towards the basement stairs. I hustle along behind him, noting some washing up that needs doing; I really must learn to focus.

As we reach the top of the stairs, a shout comes up. I know the voice.

Roth! Get a move on! We're going to be late!

I follow the bulk of the agent down the creaking wooden stairs, and into a basement that's slightly better lit than I remember; this is what's different, then?

Roth! There you are! Step lively man, we’ve got to get to the Nobel Prize ceremony!

My friend stands in a sharp tuxedo, adjusting his bowtie. He looks leaner than he did a few minutes ago, and his beard is neatly trimmed. Wow, he's full of surprises. I also note that he's wearing a name badge, as someone might who was going to a conference. Or a Nobel Prize ceremony. It reads:

Doctor Max Tunguska

And behind him, filling the room with a shifting spectrum of light, there is a tall, broad glass tank. And inside, in a glittering circle of light, I see the following:

Three and four totals seven, undeniably.

But seven is so much more than the sum of three and four.

Dammit. sighs Elliot one final time, his tone defeated.

As anyone who watches horror films knows, there's always something lurking in the basement.

Earlier it was just me and my best friend.

But we're no longer the men we were, and we're no longer alone down there.

And may never be again.

TO BE CONTINUED

Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012

Early Whispers Of Christmas

Someone said to me the other day,

Hey Roth, you slacker! When are you going to finish writing your epic tale THE CEPHALOPOCALYPSE, you steamin' great numpty?

This incisive, colloquial inquiry was timely.

So here's the good news; I am poised to deliver both parts three and four of this (probably) eight-part tale this week.

That said, the good news is that I'm going to re-run the first two parts (the prologue below, and the first part proper), because it's been so damned long, you probably have no idea what I'm talking about. Besides, nobody read the second part, and the picture at the end of it didn't get anywhere near enough love.

What's that you say?

Did I just give you two pieces of good news and no bad news?

I did indeed. You're welcome.

---

The Cephalopocalypse - Prologue

Some questions are inevitable.

Daddy, what did you do during The War?

I smile and tousle the youngster’s hair as we relax together on the sofa. He giggles and looks up at me with those big dark eyes; it’s past his bedtime, but he’s hard to resist, and he knows it.

Oh, kiddo, I sigh, what makes you think I did anything during The War?

We’re in my front room, lit only by the November fire in the grate. It’s cold out, tea and cake fill the low table in front of us, and there are early whispers of Christmas in the nut-filled bowl on the sideboard.

Well, our name is Roth, Daddy, says young Fido patiently, and a Roth will always fight for what’s right.

Kids have such a wonderfully simplistic view of the world.

But the lad does so love me to tell him of my adventures.

They’re just stories; where’s the harm?

Well, yes. Maybe I can tell you a little about the Roths and The War.

The War Of The Cuttlefish! booms Fido delightedly, and I instinctively hug him closer. But then I shake my head and chuckle, my gaze turning slowly inwards as I marvel at the ephemeral shapes in the fire.

Or as it was also known, I almost whisper, THE CEPHALOPOCALYPSE!


TO BE CONTINUED


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 201/2013

Just A Shameless Excuse

Sometimes I'm ashamed of myself.

But it's not always so.

Sometimes, I write funny stories, which are occasionally short.

Sometimes I draw pictures, and put them on t-shirts.

Sometimes I hack around with photographs, and make myself laugh.

All of these things make me proud in some small way.

But sometimes?

Sometimes I take a nice photo of a cat and publish it.

Shameless, I know.

This is Jess. She's awesome.

Thank you to Alistair and The Lovely G for inviting me to stay.

Frae Bonnie Scotland!


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2012