We save baby Orca from a terrible fate

"But I've not got fingers!"
"Yes, we know that. It's not really your fingers he's interested in."
"What then?"
"It's your..."
"Your general bulk," put in Geoffrey, helpfully, as we sculled carefully around baby Orca.
Yes, we finally made it out into the middle of the choppy waters of the Bay, and mightily close to the snapping jaws of my former nemesis. So far, so good.
"My general bulk? are you saying I'm fat?"
"NO! not at all - row back a bit, Geoffrey, for pity's sake - but let's face it. You ARE a killer whale. And that's a lot of meat for someone who's inclined that way."
"Meat? what do you mean, meat?"
I glanced at Geoffrey. The wind was picking up and I didn't like the look of a massive navy blue rain cloud heading relentlessly towards us...I wanted to get back to the Outcrop for a hot mug of madeira and some sort of meat-based sandwich.
"There's no nice way of putting this, B.O.. It's Tuppence. He wants to put you through a meat grinder and process your meat into fish fingers."
"Yes," added Geoffrey eagerly, "He wants to make his fortune and he doesn't care who gets hurt in the "process"."
Baby Orca frowned anxiously. "First off, I'm NOT a fish. I'm a warm-blooded mammal. If anything, I'd be a burger, not a fish finger. Second off - how's he going to do it? harpoon me?"
And he tittered in a nervous kind of way.
Geoffrey groaned quietly.
"Well, er...yes.." I gulped.
"Bb-b-ut that's.."
"Barbaric. Revolting. Cruel. Yes, we know. And THAT'S why - even though you've threatened to wreak revenge upon my mortal soul for blowing a hole in your mother's belly (see previous posts about my sojourn in the belly of the beast) we've come to WARN YOU..."
I clapped my feet over my ears as a deafening foghorn blasted across the Bay, and a familiar voice barked commands through a loudhailer from the deck of a rusting old ship.
"Move away from the fish. Move away from the fish."
It was Tuppence, of course. Somehow, he'd equipped himself with a horrible old vessel complete with harpoon. He was standing on the bridge, wearing a yellow sou'wester, a life preserver and a brace of pistols - the same pistols he stole ages ago from the T-G's vitrine (old posts again, I'm afraid).
"Just look at him, Geoffrey," I muttered. "I can't believe we're actually related."
"I think I'd better make tracks if you don't mind," said baby Orca. "I should be safe enough in deeper waters. That minging old vessel looks like it might sink at any moment. Thanks guys - laters!"
And with that, he dived.
Unfortunately, the suction caused by the dive created an enormous whirlpool-type effect, and it took all our skill to keep the coracle afloat. And as readers will know, coracles are naturally exceedingly buoyant anyway. Tuppence, however, was not so fortunate.
"I'll get you, uncle Tuppy!" he gurgled as the rusty old vessel sank beneath the heaving swell. "Mark my words!"
"Oh dear. Better get back to the Outcrop and batten down the hatches. Again."

Sausages

"Sausages," groaned a small voice from the corner (mine).
"For pity's sake, fetch him some sausages. Look at the state of him. Sweating all over the place. He can't go cold turkey like this. His system won't take it."
"The best I can do is a Ginster. Or a bacon sandwich."
"Okay, okay. Make it the Ginster. Rip the pastry off it - I'll eat that - and feed him the filling, and for goodness sake be quick about it. He's fading fast."
"Oh for f..."
"That's no earthly use. There's hardly anything there once you remove the pastry. He needs something a lot more powerful. He needs..."
"A Matteson's!"
Do -Do -DOOOOOH! (dramatic music)

Yes, I went on a diet and look at what happened. My whole body went into shock and they had to feed me neat Matteson's through a tube till I came round again. I was feverish, hallucinating - I imagined I was back in the belly of the whale, being serenaded by Spockfingers, the Highland cow with the voice of a hobgoblin...(see previous posts re. "anal emissions")
But why was I on a diet? It's completely out of character, as any reader will know. Well, we've got this fresh fish finger crisis on the go - Tuppence is out in the Bay as I speak, in a whaler with a harpoon, and we've GOT to stop him.
I know that baby Orca and I have had our differences, but I'm reaching for the higher moral ground here. I need to be in peak physical condition in order to maintain that - healthy body, healthy mind and all that.
"You don't really believe that rubbish, do you?" said Geoffrey incredulously.
"No. Well, it's not that I don't believe it, exactly- it's just really boring and I've no self-discipline. Fire that bacon under the grill, and put plenty butter on the rolls."
"It's Stork. We're out of butter."
"Whatever. I'll mix up a purple peril while you're at it. Might as well have a heart starter."
(recipe for purple peril - forty three parts methylated spirits, one part absinthe, twenty five parts B&Q "value" paint stripper. Pour through crushed ice with a splash of grenadine. Sprig of fresh mint to garnish. Stand clear) (N.B THIS IS NOT A REAL RECIPE - PLEASE DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME - OR ANYWHERE ELSE)

Breaking news - fish finger battle over

Well, it's over.
The Tupfinder General found some old grenades in his vitrine in the upper room - the one in the ivy-covered tower, where I found Scott's last biscuit (and ate it - oops! - see old posts if you want the full, shameful account). We sent a warning message to St John via the heliograph, and were all set to launch them from the catapult on the roof, when a reply flashed across from the Hillock.
"OKAY OKAY," it read. "NO KEECH ON FINGERS. BBQ SAUCE. PLEEZE NO FIRE GRENADES."
Well it LOOKED like keech, and it sure smelled like it. But, apparently, it's been Barbeque sauce all along. We don't know which brand as yet (not planning on getting any in the foreseeable).
So that's plan one out of the way. Now all we have to do, is work on plan two - how to prevent Tuppence murdering Baby Orca and turning him into "fish" fingers. I think I'll start by pointing out that a killer whale isn't a fish. But, I don't think that will stop him...
Large snifters all round.

The Fish-finger battle, contnd...

"This is ridiculous," said Razor Bill, ducking. "I'm only trying to deliver the post, and I'm being pelted with frozen fish fingers, covered mark you, in a noxious substance. It's hardly fair. I've got dogs and all sorts to contend with. I can do without THIS, as well."
He was quite right, of course. Steps needed to be taken. So, last night, Geoffrey and I headed round to Tupfinder Towers for a top level meeting with the Tupfinder General. After all, due to the pong, we were going to become persona non grata (even more so than normal) before too long.
"Here," said the T-G as we arrived. "Take this, for pity's sake." And he handed us a can of Febreze before quickly rushing indoors.
Obediently, we sprayed ourselves with Febreze "Caribbean Sunset" and waited for it to work.
"That's worse!" said the T-G through the letterbox. "Oh, never mind. Come in anyway. I'll just put a peg on my nose. The old ways are usually best. Mrs T-G can give the place a mop down with Zoflora once you're gone."
Once indoors, we sat round a blazing log fire, sipping glasses of brandy, mulling over the fish finger situation.
"Why bother?" said Geoffrey. "Surely the whole thing is self-limiting. After all, he's bound to run out of fingers before long."
"That's not the point," snapped the T-G. "You can't let St John get away with this. He's a newcomer to the area, and already he's throwing his weight about like he owns the place. It's completely unacceptable."
"It's not his weight I'm worried about," I said.
"I'm not surprised," said the T-G, getting up from his chair and pacing around the room. "Because let's face it - he MIGHT run out of fingers. But he's hardly going to run out of the other."
He crossed over to an oak door next to the ivy-framed leaded window. (Ivy which I shinned up, last summer - but that's another story...)
"Let's have a look in the Tower," he said, unbolting the door. "I MIGHT have something helpful in the vitrine..."

Two words St. John - Lady frigging Grange - that's all I'm saying

St John (that's Aloysius St John von Pierce Bladder to you) has upped the ante. He's rigged up a crossbow on a hillock "over yonder" and started firing frozen fish fingers at us. That would be fine - save us obtaining our own - but, they seem to be smeared with a noxious substance, which we can't quite...

"It's keech," smirked Tuppence.

"It might be brown sauce," said Geoffrey hopefully.

"Keech." repeated Tuppence smugly. "I can smell it."

"All right!" I snapped. "But you don't have to look so pleased about it. Fetch the tarpaulin Geoffrey, and shut all the windows. If they come down the chimney, we'll just have to hope they burn up fast. Get some pegs as well. For our noses."

You see? St John has been behaving outrageously. Way beyond what is acceptable Hereabouts - even after a Friday lock-in.

So we're moving quickly vis a vis our Plan.

Two words St John - St. Kilda, and Lady frigging Grange. And WE'VE got a coracle. Okay that's more than two but -

Think on.

I sense the return of my mental powers

"Geoffrey."
"Yes?"
"I've calmed down a bit now."
"Good. Did the raw opium help?"
"Yes. And the brandy, the madeira, the absinthe pastilles, the Piriton and the extra strength junior aspirin. Thanks Geoffrey. I sense the return of my mental powers."
"And?"
"Well - "
Just then, a familiar voice trilled,"Hiya uncle Tuppy! any chance of a cup of tea?"
And in strolled Tuppence, muskets stuck in belt as per usual.
"I've got a munny-making scheme that just might interest you..."
"Well? spit it out," I snapped. "Though I can assure you that munny doesn't interst US in the least."
"So you say, uncle Tuppy. But it interests ME - and besides, I think ALL our interests just might coincide on this occasion. IF I may be so bold."
"Oh, no doubt you will," I muttered sourly. "Get on with it."
"Listen up then."
Turns out Tuppence and the rats hatched a plan to kill baby Orca, and process his meat "for sale"!!
"How utterly ghastly!"said Geoffrey.
I had to agree. Nobody is more scared of baby Orca and his terrible mood swings than I am. But to commit cold-blooded murder? Never.
"Think of all the fish fingers we could make out of him!" beamed Tuppence, leaning forward eagerly in his seat. "We could flog them to Speedispend! We'd make a frigging fortune!"
Geoffrey and I exchanged glances. This was going MUCH too far. But how could we stop him?
We'd have to think of ANOTHER plan. That's TWO now. Blimey.
"Medical chest, Goeffrey! Quick!"