System Overload

Hi there. It’s Imogen again, and I can’t believe we’re nearly at the end of our story. There’s lots more still to happen, plenty more acts of bravery, and perhaps even a showdown between enemies.

When we last left our heroes – which is a phrase I’ve been dying to say! – they’d reunited after Patchee’s kidnapping by the dogs who’ve been putting the hamsters to work on a machine to generate power. The mind behind the machine belongs to a fox called Professor Fritz, whose assistant, Sam the slow loris, is now working with Molly, Patchee, and the police detectives Roscoe and Bailey, to put an end to the fox’s fiendish plot.

Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?

We’ve no time to lose, so let’s get back to the action.

“I reckon we’ve got a few hours before the debate”, whispers Molly, as they creep their quiet way around the workshop, staying low and close to the walls. “What do we know about the machine so far?”

“We know it’s hamster driven”, says Patchee, “and that it powers these light bulb things, and that Fritz wants to show the people at the debate what the machine can do.”

“But he needs the hamsters to run in order to power the light bulbs, so how is he going to get the lights to turn on in the town hall?”

“I think it has something to do with that big bowl full of green stuff”, says Patchee, pointing, helpfully enough, to the big bowl full of green stuff in the far end of the workshop.

“It’s some kind of a..acid”, whispers the loris. “It stores the energy somehow, so all he ha-as to do is take it w-with him and plug it i-in there.”

“Then we need to find some way to empty that bowl”, hisses Molly.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you”, yaps a small, grey terrier, who has been watching them almost since they entered the building. “You wouldn’t want your hamster friends covered in that stuff. Acid does tend to burn the skin rather.

“Guards! Seize them!” And then, much quieter, “Ooh that’s given me tingles, that has. Always wanted to say that.”

Bounding over to the little band are a bloodhound and a rottweiler, their gums pulled all the way back to show their considerable, and rather dirty, teeth.

“I think this lot would like to meet the Professor, don’t you?”

“Sir!” bark the pair, as they advance on the rabbits, the cats, and the slow loris.

“Privates, I am arresting you on suspicion of kidnapping and —”. Roscoe’s words are cut off by a swift blow to the head.

“Oh do shut up, there’s a good wee boy”, says the bloodhound, patiently.

Reluctantly, the gang of would-be rescuers form a line, with the bloodhound at the front, and the rottweiler bringing up the rear.

Molly looks to her left and right as they trudge through the workshop, taking in every pipe, every tube, every scrap of metal, thinking of something, anything, she might be able to use to fashion an escape.

The guard dogs stop abruptly in front of a tall fox and a dangerously overfed pug, who are having a discussion.

“Well of course, when I’m mayor, you’ll have free rein over the city”, purrs the fox. “The time for cats solving crimes is over. Things have been far too soft for far too long, so I think it’s about time we let the dogs out.”

The pair chuckle at this, seeming to share an unspoken joke. Then, turning to the guard dogs, the fox adds “Oh look, you found them. And you brought me some more presents! Ooh, today is exciting, isn’t it? How are you getting on, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t answer. This appears to irk the fox just a little, so in a sharper tone he issues a command to the guard dogs. “Tie them up.” And then, pointing towards Molly, adds “Be careful with this one. She’s a tricky bunny.”

It’s very common at this point in a story for a character to say something along the lines of “You’ll never get away with this!”, perhaps while shaking a menacing fist.

But that’s the problem with stories: we always know that, deep down, everything’s going to be fine, because there’s always a point where the heroes mount a daring last-minute rescue.

But this isn’t that point in the story. We passed that point a few episodes ago.

Two tense hours and thirty fraught minutes have gone by, and everyone is getting ready for the final presentation. The debate is set to happen in less than forty-five minutes, but if Fritz the fox is feeling the pressure, he’s not showing it.

Fritz has always been cool under pressure, and was blessed with an easy charm, good looks and likability that all served to get him more or less what he wanted. He was known as a clever inventor, but the doors his looks and charm opened would perhaps not have opened so easily with his mind alone.

Anyone with access to the Fogsworth Library would be able to tell you that Fritz’s real name is in fact Roger Handsome, and that he is the son of the famous inventor Roderick Handsome, who built the very workshop the young fox was now commanding.

Whenever Fritz throws the switch on a big scientific presentation, he thinks about his father, and how proud he would have been to see his son do so well.

“This is it, ladies and gentlemen” says the fox in awe, “the big one. Now, General, would you be so kind as to press the button?”

Flattered, the General waddles over to the fox, takes the small black box, and mashes a podgy fist onto the circular red button.

Jets of steam prime the pedals inside the glass balls, and their inhabitants begin to run.

“Just five more minutes, OK, Mr B?” Mr Nibbs struggles to be heard over the peddling, the bubbling of the liquid in its massive bowl, and the crackling of electricity.

“I’ll not let you down, son”, is Old Binky’s reply. “You just keep an eye on the defence.”

Mr Nibbs turns his attention to the front of the line, and the raised platform. “How are you doing up there, Mrs Toggle?”

“I’m having… a blast”, pants Hamsters United’s goalkeeper. “Never… better.”

They’d agreed on a signal beforehand, so as long as everyone held out, and Ms Pickles’ calculations were correct, the team might just make it to their next match.

“Remember, it’s hamsters v gerbils on Saturday”, Mr Nibbs calls out cheerily, “so make sure you do your stretches after this; we don’t want any injuries.”

“Stop your yappin’ and get those pedals flappin’” moans Old Binky, to cautious laughter from the rest of the squad.

As a kitten, Molly once saw a famous magician who did a style of magic called escapology. Being a clever and curious rabbit even then, Molly never seriously believed in magic, and so always wanted to know exactly how a trick was pulled off. She enjoyed magic because of the mystery, not in spite of it.

So, after the performance was over, she ran straight to the Library, and checked out a book on the magic arts. Reading up on famous escape artists, she came across a useful tip that these performers would use whenever they were being tied up.

The trick, the book said, was to make yourself as big as possible while you were being tied up. Flex your muscles, breathe in all the way and puff out your chest, stretch every limb as far as you can, without looking suspicious. Once you’re tied up, you can relax your muscles, and you’ll find the rope slackens just enough to give you a bit of wiggle room.

And sometimes, that’s all you need.

Letting her body go limp, she frees first one arm, and then the other from the rope encircling her, and once she wriggles out, she’s able quickly and silently to untie Patchee, who helps her free the rest. They do this while everyone’s gaze is fixed on the hamsters.

Casting his eyes around for something to use, Patchee spies a familiar, rectangular, metallic object, sitting on a table. It has a dial which goes from “Rare” to “Well done”, a button in the centre, and two nasty little antennae coming out of one end.

Darting quickly across to the wall on her left, Molly finds something she can finally make use of, and heads back to crouch behind Fritz.

“This… I mean, this really is sensational”, beams the fox, clapping his hands in appreciation. “I hope you lot are enjoying this —”. With that, he turns, finds no-one beside him, and then his head feels like it wants to come off.

What the fox hasn’t noticed, is Molly skitter around under Fritz’s eye-line, jump onto a table while his back was turned, turn on the megaphone, position it directly behind his left ear and scream “Hiiiiii theeeeeeeeeere!”

The sound bounces around endlessly inside the fox’s brain, before knocking him on his feet. Quickly the two rabbits set to work, tying his hands and feet with rope, and dragging him off to a corner.

Meanwhile, hearing the commotion, the two guard dogs whip round to see two cats bearing down on them.

“One minute left!” shouts Ms Pickles. “Nearly there!”

“But… can’t you see what’s... happening?” pants Mrs Toggle, hope dancing in her eyes at the sight of the fox falling over backwards.

“It doesn’t matter”, cautions Ms Pickles. “If we stop before we’ve charged the machine enough, we’ll break the circuit and it’ll fry us all. We have to keep going! Just a few more seconds!”

“Here boy!” calls Bailey, in her best sing-song voice. “It’s time for walkies!” And with that, the tabby turns, drops to all fours, sticks her tail in the air and pelts it across the floor of the workshop, as fast as her legs will carry her. The rottweiler is fast, but he can’t climb like Bailey can, and she quickly scales pipes and pneumatic tubes, running rings around him. With a single bound she jumps onto a high shelf, kicks off a cabinet filled with complicated-looking bits of metal, and lands directly behind the dumbfounded dog.

She puts two fingers between her lips, gives a sharp whistle, and as the dog turns, plants a sharp uppercut directly under his chin, knocking him flat on his back. With a foot on his chest, she reaches for her handcuffs, and resumes the arrest Roscoe had started earlier.

Meanwhile Roscoe is trying to box the bloodhound, but the old cat isn’t as quick as he once was, and he takes a good few heavy knocks to the temple. He quickly recovers, but it’s proving a tough fight; this bloodhound boxes mean, and he boxes smart.

“Officer!” shouts Patchee from somewhere behind him. When Roscoe turns to look, he sees a small metal object fly through the air. “Just point it and press the button!” yells the rabbit, so Roscoe does, and watches as two blue tentacles writhe between the two antennae on the object, before combining into one single, sparking line that arcs its way towards the chest of the bloodhound.

In less than a second, the dog is on the floor. Roscoe feels the device heating up in his hand, and drops it before the metal can scorch his hair.

Reaching down, he cuffs the bloodhound, before dragging him to where the rabbits have laid the fox, and Bailey has brought the rottweiler.

“A nice little collection”, says Patchee. He and Molly exchange a brief smile, as do the cats.

“Hang on,” says Patchee, suddenly concerned, “where’s Sam?”

“Three, two one, now you stop pedalling, Mrs T.” Mrs Toggle dutifully does as Ms Pickles commands. “Now, everybody else, full speed ahead!”

As sixteen tiny feet pedal furiously, the charge builds up and up, and blue tentacles again begin to snake around thick cables at the base of each of the glass balls. In a flash, they make their way to the raised platform at the centre, hit the base of the platform, and then the lights go out.

The last thing Mrs Toggle hears is Ms Pickles panting “Everybody, stop. That’s enough.”

Then, nothing.

Slap.

“No Daddy, I don’t want to go to science. All the numbers are mean” whines a voice.

“Again”, says Molly.

Slap.

“I’m a hypotenuse not a hippopotamoose. Ooh, you’ve got acute right-angle.”

“Again”, says Molly.

Slap.

“Why is slapping? Who is slapping? I’m a triangle, stoppiiit.” Slowly the fox’s eyes begin to focus, and he shakes his head to clear his thoughts.

“One more time?” says Roscoe, although his paw is starting to smart, just a little.

“I think he’s had enough”, says Molly, coolly. “So, what’s the final plan then, Fritz? Or should I say, Roger?”

She’d hoped for some dramatic gasps to arise from the people around her, but this didn’t happen. All she got was a smile from the fox.

“Oh, so you figured it out, did you? Clever girl”, says the fox, now fully awake. “You see, I always had an interest in electricity, so I started playing around with the wiring of Daddy’s telephone system and found I could make these little blue tentacle things appear if I touched two of the wires together. That’s where I got my nickname from. Fritz. It’s sort of the sound the tentacles make when they kiss.” The fox chuckles to himself at the thought.

“But that’s about the only thing you’ve ever discovered, isn’t it, Roger?” asks the rabbit, sternly. “Once you realised what you’d found, you were terrified, but it wasn’t until your father died and you inherited all his books and all his research, that you saw how to tame the tentacles. But you’ve never had a single original idea of your own, have you, you fraud?” With this word, she jabs a finger in the fox’s face.

“How like a woman to be so emotional”, purrs the fox, gently batting away the paw.

There is one of those silences that we talked about.

“Now that”, says Bailey, turning to Molly “is a bully.”

“He’s more than a bully”, says Molly, fixing the fox with a gaze so icy and sharp you could cut yourself on it. “He’s ignoble.“

“Ig-what-ble?” asks Roscoe, after a suitable pause for effect.

“It means ‘dishonourable’”, answers Bailey.

“Shameful”, adds Molly.

“Despicable”, suggests Patchee.

“And lacking in moral character”, finishes his boss.

“Oh”, says Roscoe, “so a git, then?”

Bailey shrugs as if to say “you have your word, I have mine”.

“Well, this has been a fun word game” the fox cuts in, “but I’m afraid I have a debate to win.” As he attempts to scramble to his feet, he’s very quickly put back in place by a firm paw.

“I don’t think so, Roger”, says Roscoe. “Now, let the rabbit talk.”

“So, let me guess”, continues Molly, “you’ve charged up that… thing up there”. As she points to the large glass bowl with its glowing green liquid, the fox rolls his eyes.

“It’s called a bat-ter-ry.” He says this as slowly and carefully as possible, as though speaking to a small child.

“So your plan is to take this ’battery’, hook it up to the lights you’ve installed in the town hall, and then what? Everyone will marvel at the fox with the magic lights?”

“Yes, pretty much”, says the fox, a little too satisfied for Molly’s liking.

“Makes sense”, she sniffs, casually, “but let me ask you this. What were the average corn yields last spring? How many firefighters does the town currently employ? And what’s your position on the proposed plan to vote Sir Philip Overture out of office and instate a new Head of the Dawn Chorus?”

“What on earth are you on about?” asks the fox, thinking the rabbit’s head has popped out of its socket.

“These are all things a politician needs to know, Mr Handsome”, Molly continues. “It’s boring and it’s stuff no-one else really knows or cares about, but it matters when you’re running a town. It’s not just about flashy gimmicks and clever speeches; when you get to office you actually have to do things and help people.”

“Ah, but you said it yourself”, counters the fox, beginning to feel more confident. “No-one knows, and no-one cares. All people want is flashy gimmicks and clever speeches. They want things they can read about in tomorrow’s paper or argue about over a beer in the tavern. I’m giving the people of Fogsworth exactly what they want: a show.

“And what’s more, I’m going to get up now, collect my battery, take a carriage to the debate and wipe the floor with that piddling little mayor, and none of you is going to stop me.”

“And why’s that?” asks Molly.

“Because I have this.”

All eyes turn to the tall, black labrador, holding a slow loris upside down, by one foot.