The short-arsed little thoroughgoing swine.

And please don’t get me wrong here. I have nothing against and no axe to grind regarding the shorter in stature. I’m not that tall myself and although I’d like to say that some of my very best friends are positively dwarf-like, I regret that I can’t. But only because I have no very best friends. Which is rather sad.

And I stood before the desk of Mr Papa Keith Crossbar, vile twentieth-century Homunculus and would-be bringer of death to all Mankind. And I hated him. With every smidgen of my body and my soul. I utterly, utterly hated him. And I cast my mystic eyes all around and about this room that was his headquarters and his sinister lair. And both he and his room were also rather sad. And I knew instantly, instinctively, why both he and his room were rather sad. And it was because both lacked for love. This man was absolutely loveless. The very concept of love was totally alien to him. And I could feel this, as I stood invisibly before his desk in my spirit body. There was no love in this room and there could never be.

The room itself was cold and bleak. The walls were of a dull grey cast, the floor unpolished slate. But for the desk and chair there was no other furniture. No pictures hung upon the walls, the windows uncurtained. The views that lay beyond these windows were without doubt panoramic – all the world that was New York spread beyond and below. And it all looked far more wonderful at night.

But the loveless fellow at the desk didn’t look upon the city beyond and below. For he’d had frosted glass installed and so the views were blanked.

And then I realised that yes, this room was exactly as it should be. It was the perfect office for such a cold and loveless foul monster as Papa Keith Crossbar. As The Flange had sought to create the perfect lounge room that would facilitate the Second Coming of Jesus, and the native followers of Jon Frum had done years before that, when they built their imitation airstrips to lure down the God from the sky. This was the perfect office for such a creature as this. And he simply had to be in it.

And curiously that gave me an idea. It was a long shot, of course, But it was an idea. And what I really needed at this time was an idea.

I drifted around to the rear of the desk and had a peep over his shoulder. He had before him on the desk what looked like an ancient tome. And a really ancient one, like one of those really ancient and gem-encrusted golden Bibles that they have so many of in St Katherine’s Monastery on the slopes of Mount Sinai.

And I recalled that Captain Lynch had told me about how St Katherine’s Monastery had and still has the largest and most valuable collection of Christian holy books in the world. They have handwritten pages from the original gospels there and more gem-encrusted Bibles than the Vatican’s vaults. Apparently it was the fashion (a fashion that I suspect was started by the monks themselves, as St Katherine’s also boasts some of the fattest and best-dressed monks in the world) for Kings to pilgrimage to St Katherine’s (which also has the original burning bush in its courtyard, although it no longer burns, of course) and bring the monks a really expensive present to show how sincere and devout they were.

And Kings, who, without advisors, never had a lot of imagination, would go, ‘Now what would be a really nice present to give a bunch of monks? I know, a Bible. I’ll get a big gem-encrusted golden one knocked up. And in case they’ve already got one, I’ll make sure that the one I give them is even bigger and more gem-encrusted.’

And boy, do they have some great big gem-encrusted golden Bibles.

And the big ancient book open on the desk of Papa Keith Crossbar looked like one of those.

So what did this loveless body have? This hateful horrible man?

And I peered over his shoulder to have a good old look. And I had a good old look. And then I wished I hadn’t.

The words on the pages were penned in Latin and I knew not their meaning. But these were no holy words, no words of inspiration. Nor indeed were they the pidgin-tongued lyrics of old George Formby songs. No, these words were those of ancient magic and although I could not understand their meaning, it was as if, as I looked, they tried to raise themselves from the page and force themselves into my head. For surely these were the words of a magic dark and dire and dreadful. And doom-laden. And dirty-doggish.

And I drew hastily back. But Papa Keith Crossbar did not; his eyes were tethered to the pages by invisible bonds. And the words arose to him and entered his brain. And I knew then what these words must be: the words of the most terrible spell that had ever been brought into reality by Man – the spell to create the Homunculus.

And then another revelation came upon me.

That this was the year 2007.

And that we were now in the 21st century.

And so the twentieth-century Homunculus was preparing to use that terrible spell to raise his own magical son. And that had to be super bad because, as far as I knew, that had never been tried before. In all the long history of horrible Homunculus-raising, an actual Homunculus had never done the raising of his next in line. I didn’t know just then exactly what the consequences of this would be. But, instinctively once more, I reasoned that they would be dire.

And outside thunder rolled across the sky. And lightning flashed beyond the frosted windows. And I knew deep down in my Look Back in Anger heart that tonight was going to be the night that he did this evil deed.

And if he succeeded, then it meant-

The End of the World.

Oh dear.

I did hoverings all about and wondered what to do next for the best. Get back into my body at the hurry-up, escape from the floatation tank, make my way up here and crush the life from this monster’s throat before he could invoke the terrible magic and bring his awful horror into this world seemed favourite. No – and I gave this matter some thought – I could not think of anything better than that. Although the Devil, as they say, is in the detail.

But now a door opened and in walked an evil cat’s paw.

I reasoned that he had to be an evil cat’s paw because he was, after all, an employee of the Evil One himself and apparently had permission to enter without knocking.

And the Evil One looked up from his evil book and gazed evilly at the evil cat’s paw who had entered his evil room, evilly.

‘Did you knock?’ he asked.

The cat’s paw shook his head.

‘Did I call “enter”?’

The cat’s paw shook his head once more. I noted that the cat’s paw had a rather nifty haircut, rather retro nineteen-fifties. A bit early-Elvis. And a suit, of course. A black suit. And a black suit is a classic. Unless it’s made out of polyester.

‘Well, can you think of any reason at all why I should not kill you for your insolence?’

‘But for the fact that I’m already dead, sir, no.’

‘I’m trying to learn a spell here. It might look easy, but it’s not.’

‘I never suggested that it was, sir.’

‘No, but you were thinking it. I can hear you thinking it. And don’t think that if you sing a song in your head as you are now doing that I won’t be able to hear what you’re thinking.’

‘Sorry,’ said the evil cat’s paw. ‘Naturally, sir, my only wish is to serve you absolutely.’

‘And have sex with the woman in charge of the Filling Room.’

‘And that too, sir. But everyone in my department wants that. At least, all the men do. And some of the women, too.’

‘She’s a bit of a looker, eh?’

‘I should say so, sir.’

‘Then I wonder, perhaps-’

And I could hear him thinking. And he was thinking about the woman that he wanted to become the mother of the twenty-first-century Homunculus this very night. At midnight. Which seemed about right. As this sort of stuff generally comes to pass during the witching hour. And he was considering the woman who ran the Filling Room because he had extracted a mental image of what she looked like from the mind of the evil cat’s paw. But he was now thinking that no, he wouldn’t do that, he would use the golden girlie that his minions (the ninja fellows I’d seen practising) had kept alive. Having killed off all the rest of the golden Begremites. Whose bodies he had then had incinerated.