Episode 5 - I See You, You See Me

The “You have been warned.” becomes distorted oe echos and then the Arthur the headless boy starts with no intro form the narrator

Welcome to the show, available on every reputable platform and a few less so. Just so you know, this episode contains mature themes and upsetting scenes. You have been warned.

The Esoteric Adventures of Arthur Headless Boy

Arthur stood defiant, “Just cos I got no head, don’t make me no different from you!” He said boldly and somewhat miraculously, considering he had no mouth or vocal cords. “My dad don’t have no head, and neither did grandad! I’m from a long, proud line of men with no heads!”
The amorphous blob whose name is bully had formed a ripe crescent of angst and vinegar around Arthur, pinning him against the back wall. “Crumbs”, thought Arthur, he had nowhere to run this time. A smear of bully in front of him, and behind him, a brick wall with an incongruous map of Denmark mounted upon it.
Normally mathematics class would have been a haven for Arthur; he found comfort in all those numbers and in Miss Holdenbrook’s calm, unwavering dedication to perfectly sharpened pencils—but not today. Miss Holdenbrok was off sick today due to a nasty case of sepsis from self-inflicted pencil wounds.
The bully surged and undulated, tapping on its multiple mobile phones and picking it’s many noses. Arthur struggled to figure where one bully started and another finished; he even struggled to remember any of their names. Of course, there were taller ones and shorter ones, fatter ones and thinner ones, but they blurred into one clammy merge of poorly tied half Windsor knots and Lynx Africa.
To be fair, Arthur did not make it easy for Arthur. He was far from typical.
If it wasn’t his missing head, it was his jaunty Edwardian fashion sense. His burgundy day cravat matched with a tailored herringbone morning coat that cascaded down to his knees, where his shorts lived. His footwear, which his mother swore he would grow into eventually, were a pair of Oxfords two sizes too big and a set of matching Argyle socks. This, topped off with a brass ringed monocle hung around his neck, that he swore he would get the hang of one day. There was absolutely no doubt that he looked a right Herbert!
“Ham-neck!” gargled one of the heads.
“Oi! No-hat” Sneered another of its pseudopods.
The names came thick and fast

background voices name calling “Stump-face!” “Never-Helmet!”

They were not great insults considering the outlandish visage that was his missing head, but they hurt nonetheless.
A point of order was raised briefly amongst the seething mass about setting up a writer’s room for the sole purpose of crafting insults for Arthur but it never came to pass. The writer’s union were having none of it!
Thoughts of escape clouded Arthurs mind—Which was a trick unto itself considering his apparent lack of any grey matter. Yes! Of course! The innocuous map of Denmark! He imagined that if he hit Copenhagen just right, it would create an Arthur-sized breach big enough for him to escape. But would the people of Denmark ever forgive him? Unlikely. He could not afford to provoke another nation before his eighth birthday—not after the diplomatic disaster that was Burundi. Oh, Burundi (sigh). Escaping that mess had required contacting the Coptic pope… yet again! No, no not this time! He would have to face the acne-ridden horde without theological support.
Arthur decided his next move would be a tactic borrowed from his beloved game of croquet: deflection! He also made a mental note not to mention croquet to any of the children in school. What with his obsession with taxidermy, his incessant playing of the cor anglais, and his smell reminiscent of a rancid custard cream– adding croquet into the mix would be enough ammunition to arm a small partisan force.
Arthur’s arm shot up and pointed across the classroom, “What about Steve?! He… er… has odd socks on!”

The background sound of the bully undulating pauses

Multiple heads revolved, as the gUHstalt flange of bullies stared back and forth between Arthur and Steve.
“Seriously?” Scoffed one head,
“Odd socks?” Said another bamboozled.
Steve, who had just arrived though the classroom door saw through Arthur’s slowly collapsing ruse… and froze. He was wearing mismatched socks—one bright pink and the other a faded green with tiny dinosaurs. His eyes widened upon realising he was now the focus of the bullies’ attention, he stammered, “I-I didn’t want to be part of this! I just came for numbers!” and stealthily backed out the room, hands raised in supplication, chanting the Lord’s Prayer.
“Drat!” cursed Arthur as he glanced about the mathematics class, desperately looking for an option that did not involve diving out of the 4th floor window.
“Er… Why don’t you ever pick on… Samantha, she ain’t got no torso!” Arthur blurted out during the mockery interval, hoping to direct attention to some other poor bastard.
Samantha lifted her head from her book, and hugged her crumpled coat close to her absent body. She did look a right shambles, though she was convinced she was totally styling it out.
“Get bent, Arthur!” She shouted, despite her distinct lack of a ribcage, diaphragm and any of the other organ stuff you normally need for talking.
“Double drat!” Arthur muttered between gritted teeth
“OK, hand it over!” said one of the larger masses.
“Yeah, let’s see that moola!” Said another growth
Arthur reached for his purse, yes, purse. As I said earlier, Arthur did not make it easy for Arthur.
Suddenly the supply teacher Mr Chambers burst into the room in a puff of chalk dust, pipe smoke and serendipity.

Opening door and Chambers mutters

He had Steve by the scruff of the neck and carried him some six inches off the ground. “You there, chiiiiild or children?” Ejaculated Mr Chambers quizzically taking in the bully’s grotesque form, trying to decide whether it was singular or plural.
“Stop picking on no-head… I… I mean Arthur! It’s not his fault he is sans bonce! Just look at… at… Steve, he’s wearing odd socks!” He said, holding Steve out at arm’s length.
“I’m just here for the numbers” Said Steve hovering hopelessly
Arthur piped up “Sir, I don’t think it’s right like, to bully Steve to prove a point”
“Well I… I…!” He continues to mutter as the narrator continues Waffled Mr Chambers, “Oh, oh, get bent no-head!” Mr Chambers slumped into the chair at the front of the class, pulled out his copy of the Telegraph and started to read. Oh fiddlesticks thought Arthur, he almost had an out, but his pedantry had scuppered him yet again.

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In a flash the bully grabbed for Arthur with his 1d4 flabby claw, pinned him to the wall and squeezed

squeezing sounds and Arthur “You got quite the grip strength mate”

And squeezed

(squeezing sounds and Arthur straining “Cor Blimy ”)

And squeezed Arthur so hard a bit of poo came out. Then the quivering puddle of twisted forms attempted a multiple headbutt on Arthur. Big mistake. “Ha Ha, missed” Proclaimed Arthur as the bullies head struck Denmark. “The Danish never forgive!” Squawked Arthur as he slid out of his morning coat and hit the floor like an agile sack of oats. He part scrambled, part belly crawled through the bullies legs towards the front of the classroom, tucking into an unnecessary combat roll he had learned in Scouts, and popped to his feet. (Ha ah!)

He glanced at the doorway to the classroom, escape, sweet freedom… but no, he knew what he must do. His father had taught him many things, how to dance the Argentinian tango, how to tie a cravat so it’s not so obvious that you don’t have a head, and never, ever let a bully get the better of you.

The squelching gelatinous wall of sneers threw Arthur’s coat aside, let forth a bowel loosening screech, and charged.

“You’re dead!” claimed the mocking chorus and surged towards Arthur.
Arthur, quick as a shot, grabbed Miss Holdenbrook’s stationery cup from her desk and began to throw the deadly sharpened pencils at the charging shit.
One pencil (Sound of a pencil flying and striking home, squelch) such precision!
Two More (Sound of 2 pencils flying and striking home) That’s got to hurt
And then three! (Sound of a 3 pencils flying and striking home)
The bully laughed as the fusillade of sharpened wood stuck it’s puffed out chests to no avail.

Bully:
“I’ll kick your head in”

Arthur:
“I would like to see you try”
(Sound effects fighting, stabbing and demonic screaming)

Arthur:
Ha ha, missed me! And again!”

Bully:
“Get him in the body!”

Arthur:
“No, not my body, that’s my only weakness!”

Bully:
What’s in this case?

Arthur:
No not my cor anglais!!
(Sound effects of a cor anglais being broken)
(Sound effects of stabbing chanting, and demonic screaming)

Narrator:
So the bully hit him… (sound for punches and groans and “Ouch that smarts”)

And hit him… (sound for punches and groans and “My Precious limbs” and “Cripes, I’ve broken a nail!”)

And to be perfectly honest, (sound break for punches and groans and “It’s lucky I’m fictional”)

Arthur was having a rotten time. Luckily, he had no active neurons or pain receptors to speak of due to his distinct lack of head, so he didn’t, feel, a thing…

Arthur:
“No, I can feel this, cos I still got a central nervous system.”

Narrator:
“Oh, shut up no-head… Next week on The Esoteric Adventures of Arthur Headless Boy, episode 27 - The Wheat threshing incident!”

Arthur:
“Oh, come on!”

Sound fades to Arthur getting a drubbing

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THe Narrator:
mic fumble Hello again dear, dear listeners, I bet you thought you’d got rid of me! Well sorry to disappoint but here I am, like a stain that won’t wash out. Now how about that story?! It was borderline nonsensical, I don’t mind a bit of whimsy but that was almost too much, almost like something’s hiding behind it. And everyone was laughing at Arthur, that poor, sweet boy. Are you laughing listener, laughing at the folly of a child? I can almost hear you pause Now let’s move onto something else, something more fun..yes fun! How about…er…um… sports! Yes! Sport! All those strapping men playing kick ball and whiff whaff laughing heartily away, oh glory be, yes I do so love sports….

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Half Time

Coach:
You see it’s all about strategy, strategy! Long, short, tall, thin, wide, fat, spiked, smooth, ridged, ballooned - it’s strategy. Strategy, Strategy, Strategy! That’s all it is. Simple really, I can’t believe you need another run through all this. We’re winning! What’s the problem?

The room filled with stony silence. Eight rows of dour faces stared at the front of the room, the presenter and his presentation. He was grotesque. Fat, bloated rolls spilled out from a torn t-shirt, the word COACH barely legible under the stains; layered memories of whisky and barbecue sauce broken up by a scattershot of charred edged pits, left by hot rocks from the pipe clamped between his teeth. The exposed skin bristled in the air conditioned room, each hair beaded with sweat.

His legs were mostly bare, broken veins lumping a bulbous tube map across them, capped by faded jean cutoffs that cut a ravine across his arse, twisting a tattooed kiss into a grimace. His ensemble was bottomed out by ashy socks stuffed into piss stained tennis shoes, the laces done up in an incongruous tidy bow.

He looked out at his team, taking in their wooden faces, and noticed the pipe pointing out at the room. His bloodshot eyes crossed with surprise as the butane torch in his right hand lit and lifted while his left hand tilted the bowl. His chest expanded inevitably as his lungs inhaled and the ruby red cherry glowed like Santa’s cracked out reindeer finally falling from the sky.

Strraaaaaatuuuhh…oh that’s good, he exhaled, standing there drooling as the smoke cleared revealing glassy eyes under his tattered cap toppling away, as he fell backwards through the chalkboard and into the wall behind.

A moment passed. Then another, and another, before the room exploded with panicked shouting and scraping chairs crashing against each other and onto the floor.

Ted: FUCK! Was anyone listening to any of that shite?

Tel: He’s smashed the fucking board! Oh christ we’re fucked! The fucking board’s in pieces.

Ted: Help me with him, quick, quicker! I said quicker you staggering streak of piss, grab his legs you two..the same fucking side you gormless pair of slapping ball bags. There we go, alright lads, we’re set, here we go lads, ah-one, and TWO and HEAAAAAVE.

There was a collective groan as the team rolled their coach onto his side. Their distended Moriarty belched contentedly, the sound rippling across the floor and shaking the ceiling’s fluorescent bulbs in their cheap plastic sheathes. A piece of plaster, around the size of a hubcap, vibrated, cracked, swung out, held, then fell, smashing over the side of his head, scattering plaster dust like fingerprint powder across the ruin of his face. A sliver stood proud in his ear, poking out beyond the cartilage like a yard long log left in baby’s first portapotty. It slipped out, tumbling down his face and into the blood pooling around his satisfied lips.

Ted:
How’s the board looking, HOW’S IT FUCKING LOOKING??

Tel:
It’s fucked Ted, oh christ it’s completely fucked! None of this makes any sense, the chalk’s smeared from when he went through it, there’s nothing but splinters!

Ted:
Check his back, did it rub off?

Tel:
There’s nothing. Nothing at all, just sweat and grime, what are we gonna do Ted, what are gonna do??

Ted:
Keep it together, I SAID KEEP IT TOGETHER, he shouted over the sound of weeping, We’re ahead, way ahead, we can do this, we just need to pull together and do it as a team.

All:
BUT HOW DO WE DO THAAAAT?

The plaintive wail broke into hopeless sobs, 8 foot tall players laid in heaps, jumbled together like cordwood, desperately holding on, their arms full, bereft. Ted saw it was time for extreme measures. There were five minutes left on the clock before they were due back pitch side, no time to lose. He bent over the coach’s prone and leaking form, listened for a moment, then straightened in sudden disgust as a violent belch left his lips, leaving them vibrating like a washing machine without its concrete counterweight.

Ted:
Right he’s still alive then. Alright lads help me put him against the wall, Dave get a sharpie and stick it in his hand, Gary you still got your spike?

Gary:
Yeah course, Ted - got 2 - primo adrenochrome

Ted:
Grab one quick, if this doesn’t work we’re fucked anyway

Working together the team pushed, slipped, sweated and swore to prop their coach on his knees facing the wall. A marker pen was jammed in his left hand as the clock opposite counted down to kick off.

Ted:
Okay lads, hold him steady!

Shining needle in hand, brow glistening with sweat, Ted reached out to steady himself, staring down at the corded vessels in his coach’s neck. Every eye in the room watched the point as it rose, then fell. A spray of scarlet celebrated the hit and the coach erupted to his feet, screaming incoherently, scattering players left and right. The pen, gripped in his meaty paw, began scrawling oblique runes and esoteric diagrams across what was left of the plasterboard. The air crackled with energy. Static electricity jumped from shoulder to shoulder, danced between clenched teeth, left hair in porcupine spikes, standing on end.

STRAAAAATEGEEEEEEUUUUHhhhhhhhhh - the fat man sang as eldritch horrors burst from the ceiling and the wall collapsed behind his giant fist. The players opened their mouths and cracked back their heads to welcome their supernatural pilots. Screaming as one they ran through the rubble into the corridor and up the ramp toward the pitch where the crowd’s frenzied shouts echoed and reinforced their own.

Barry:
AAAAAAAND FIIIIINAAALLLY COMING TO THE FIELD WE HAVE THE CHAAAAALLENGERS, THEY’RE LEADING BY TEN AND MY GOD DO THEY LOOK ANGRY

Tom:
That’s right Barry I’m not sure what the hold up in the pit was, they were seconds from forfeiting the game but ttttthhhHHHHEY’RE HERE NOW AND GAHDDAMN DO WE HAVE A GAME ON OUR HANDS

The second half was shorter than the first. The challengers raced up the steps onto the field, their passengers swelling their bodies. Their shouts blended into one cacophonous roar, a grinding shout, the sound of landslides and freak waves. Ted threw a fat finger at the other team, bent his head back and SCREAMED. The pitch leapt beyond the audible in a glissando that slit the air. The opposing captain, his hand out waiting for a shake, mewled in response. Blood poured from his nose before his head fell apart in a confetti of splintered brain and bone that spattered across his teammates’ strips.

Ted’s team burst through the spray, taking their captain’s keening for the starting whistle, closing swiftly with their stunned opposition. They moved like a threshing machine, irresistible. Innards and limbs were tossed to the sky as they chewed through the opposition’s defensive line then scattered out to take care of the nimbler players. Once the champion’s final player was left torsoless on the halfway line the referees blew their whistles for the first time that half. There wasn’t much point continuing considering the state of both sides. Shellshocked, they stood shaking every hand Ted’s team thrust at them, accepting every shoulder shake, before nervelessly dropping their whistles and walking off the pitch.

The truth of what they’d witnessed percolated through the crowd. Now their blood lust was slaked, the heady euphoria of victory curdled. A man who’d windmilled a rope of guts around his head let it slither to the ground, his hands going to his mouth as a whimper fell unnoticed from his lips.

Down on the pitch Ted and his team were throwing their coach in the air, laughing with wild abandon, oblivious to the faint sound of sirens and helicopter blades getting louder, closing in.

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The Narrator:
Ahhh, well that got a little spicy, I’ll have to have a word with our writers, get them to focus on some more ahh worthy themes pulls away form mic Danial! Richard! What the bloody hell was that reply - you need to push to mute the mic Oh fuck, oh reality writes its bloody self

getting further away from the mic NOW LOOK HERE YOU SNIVELLING PRICKS ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE A FOOL OF ME, WHAT KIND OF WARMED OVER BULLSHIT WAS THAT?!?!

slamming doors, breaking china, muffled argument, music swells and close