chap with a BEST BOTTLER badge on his overalls jammed on a third with a flick of his nose.
As the hours went by Casper got into a rhythm and the BZZT s came less often. In fact, the process had become so automatic that he could let his thoughts wander to magical worlds of dragons and vampires and vagons and drampires, until WAANG, WAANG, WAANG.
The conveyor stopped. An alarm sounded from a klaxon above a large brushed-steel vat one station up from Casper. Until now, little frothy drops had been dripping from this vat, topping up each bottle as it passed.
A door swung open across the warehouse and three pointy-nosed figures in black suits, flanked by burly bodyguards, strode through. They’d come back! Casper steeled himself to confront Briar.
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” roared Briar, BZZT ing nearby workers with his remote as he strode through the factory.
Casper’s heart beat faster. Anemonie and Chrys were with him, but there was no sign of Lamp.
A little woman stuck up her hand. “Please, sir,” she squeaked.
The remote swung towards her and hovered there. “Yes?” snapped Briar.
The poor lady shivered like a shaved duck. “Umm, it’s the spit vat.” All eyes followed her quivering finger as she pointed upwards. “We need your… donations, sir.”
“Ah,” Briar said. “Good work.” He turned on his heels, leading Chrys and Anemonie up a flight of metal stairs that led to the top of the vat, pointing over his shoulder to BZZT the little woman anyway.
The whole factory waited as the three Blights leant over the rails and got spitting. And my, oh my, what a lot of spit they had. Perhaps they’d been drinking milk, or maybe the upper classes just own super-productive salivary glands, but within five minutes they’d rained down pints of the stuff. Once or twice Anemonie ‘missed’, flobbing great gobs of goop over the side to land on the head of a worker.
Slowly, Casper melted away from his station and walked towards the bottom of the stairs. It’d be madness to confront the Blights up there. What with his Tickle Tag and the low metal rails he’d probably end up in the spit vat, and cleaning that stuff off his clothes would be less pleasant than camel burps. No, he’d wait for them to come down and then, calmly, sort something out.Casper still held a glimmer of an iota of a slice of hope that this was all a bad joke. Or maybe it was some big mistake. Perhaps one lucky worker had been given Casper’s room by mistake, and woken up this morning in a golden bed with velvet sheets surrounded by performing monkeys and hand-peeled grapes. But most likely, one cruel word from Anemonie in Briar’s ear had sentenced Casper to a lifetime of slavery in a factory in the future, producing bottles of watered-down spit. Yes, that sounded much more likely.
BZZT.
“YAHAHA!” Casper tumbled to the floor in a pile of giggles.
Briar put down his remote, took the stairs in twos and stepped over Casper like he was a mangy dog. “Outta my way, slave.”
“Yeah, slave,” giggled Anemonie, who’d saved up one mouthful of spit for the back of Casper’s head.
The three Blights strode away and the BZZT ing stopped, but Casper felt no less humiliated, lying there on the floor with the active ingredient in Essence of Nobility soaking into his hair.
Chrys shuffled behind the other two, snarling back at Casper, but at the click of Briar’s fingers she was trotting to catch up again.
And then the conveyor whirred back into life and Casper found himself scrabbling to get back to his station before he could be given another BZZT .
That night, Lamp returned to his cell at what must have been close to midnight, collapsed on to his bed and fell asleep straight away. He was gone again before the round of BZZT s that woke Casper and the rest of his corridor .
Another day in the factory, then. Soon Casper settled into the routine: countless hours of bottle-topping with a ten-minute ‘activities’ break, where the
As the hours went by Casper got into a rhythm and the BZZT s came less often. In fact, the process had become so automatic that he could let his thoughts wander to magical worlds of dragons and vampires and vagons and drampires, until WAANG, WAANG, WAANG.
The conveyor stopped. An alarm sounded from a klaxon above a large brushed-steel vat one station up from Casper. Until now, little frothy drops had been dripping from this vat, topping up each bottle as it passed.
A door swung open across the warehouse and three pointy-nosed figures in black suits, flanked by burly bodyguards, strode through. They’d come back! Casper steeled himself to confront Briar.
“WHAT’S GOING ON?” roared Briar, BZZT ing nearby workers with his remote as he strode through the factory.
Casper’s heart beat faster. Anemonie and Chrys were with him, but there was no sign of Lamp.
A little woman stuck up her hand. “Please, sir,” she squeaked.
The remote swung towards her and hovered there. “Yes?” snapped Briar.
The poor lady shivered like a shaved duck. “Umm, it’s the spit vat.” All eyes followed her quivering finger as she pointed upwards. “We need your… donations, sir.”
“Ah,” Briar said. “Good work.” He turned on his heels, leading Chrys and Anemonie up a flight of metal stairs that led to the top of the vat, pointing over his shoulder to BZZT the little woman anyway.
The whole factory waited as the three Blights leant over the rails and got spitting. And my, oh my, what a lot of spit they had. Perhaps they’d been drinking milk, or maybe the upper classes just own super-productive salivary glands, but within five minutes they’d rained down pints of the stuff. Once or twice Anemonie ‘missed’, flobbing great gobs of goop over the side to land on the head of a worker.
Slowly, Casper melted away from his station and walked towards the bottom of the stairs. It’d be madness to confront the Blights up there. What with his Tickle Tag and the low metal rails he’d probably end up in the spit vat, and cleaning that stuff off his clothes would be less pleasant than camel burps. No, he’d wait for them to come down and then, calmly, sort something out.Casper still held a glimmer of an iota of a slice of hope that this was all a bad joke. Or maybe it was some big mistake. Perhaps one lucky worker had been given Casper’s room by mistake, and woken up this morning in a golden bed with velvet sheets surrounded by performing monkeys and hand-peeled grapes. But most likely, one cruel word from Anemonie in Briar’s ear had sentenced Casper to a lifetime of slavery in a factory in the future, producing bottles of watered-down spit. Yes, that sounded much more likely.
BZZT.
“YAHAHA!” Casper tumbled to the floor in a pile of giggles.
Briar put down his remote, took the stairs in twos and stepped over Casper like he was a mangy dog. “Outta my way, slave.”
“Yeah, slave,” giggled Anemonie, who’d saved up one mouthful of spit for the back of Casper’s head.
The three Blights strode away and the BZZT ing stopped, but Casper felt no less humiliated, lying there on the floor with the active ingredient in Essence of Nobility soaking into his hair.
Chrys shuffled behind the other two, snarling back at Casper, but at the click of Briar’s fingers she was trotting to catch up again.
And then the conveyor whirred back into life and Casper found himself scrabbling to get back to his station before he could be given another BZZT .
That night, Lamp returned to his cell at what must have been close to midnight, collapsed on to his bed and fell asleep straight away. He was gone again before the round of BZZT s that woke Casper and the rest of his corridor .
Another day in the factory, then. Soon Casper settled into the routine: countless hours of bottle-topping with a ten-minute ‘activities’ break, where the
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