The Cave of Dreams pt.2


“OOK!” screamed Kawanga.
The three little monkeys raced as fast as their hairy little monkey paws could carry them, into the thick jungle and up to the top of the nearest tree.
They didn’t stop until they got to the very top, and there was nothing above them but the sun and the sky.

Sarikin Bakka, way below on the jungle floor, yawned and closed his eyes.  Three little monkeys were nothing to him.
”Ook,” Nimbala said, crossing his arms.  “Ook ook.”
”Ook?” asked Samala, peering down to the jungle floor.
”Ook,” confirmed Kawanga, stretching and leaning back against the tree.

They stayed there for most of the afternoon, basking in the glorious sunshine and occasionally swatting at an errant fly or, more often than not, one another.


When they felt safe, they slowly made their way across the trees, being careful to make as little noise as possible in case the great tiger should hear them.
It didn’t take them long to become tired and, what with the sun going down, they thought that perhaps it was time for bed.

“Ook?” asked Samala, hoping one of this friends would tell him a story.

“Ook,” Kawanga said firmly, and Samala turned away.  He would get no story on this night.

“Ook,” said Nimbala quietly, as Kawanga himself turned away. “Ook.”

“Ook?” said Samala hopefully, one eye looking at Kawanga. “Ook?”

“OOK!” Kawanga yelled, not turning his head.  “Ook.”
It was time for bed, and the three little monkeys knew had become tired after their busy day.

The Hopeless Waterful, and the legendary Cave of Dreams, would have to wait until morning.

To be continued…


Posted by Norton

The Cave of Dreams pt.1 (A Three Little Monkeys adventure)

One bright, sunny jungle day, three little monkeys were chatting away in a tree.
“Ook,” said the first, who was called Nimbala.
“Ook?” asked the second, who was called Kawanga.
“Ook!” the third, named Samala, said excitedly.

They excitedly jumped around, chasing one another, as they decided what to do about the scheme Kawanga had suggested.

“Ook ook?” Samala asked, pointing towards the Cave of Dreams.
The Cave of Dreams was situated on the far side of the jungle, past the tiger’s lair, and towards the Hopeless Waterfall.
“Ook?” Nimbala wondered, scratching his bottom. “Ook!”
“Ook.” Samala confirmed and, with a nod from Kawanga, they galloped off into the dense foliage.

An hour or two later (with several stops for banana eating and butterfly chasing) the three little monkeys cautiously approached the tiger’s lair.
The tiger, Sarikin Bakka, was sleeping outside his cave.
The sun was bright and causing patterns to dance through the leaves as the wind blew, making the ground seem as if it were moving.
The three little monkeys were nervous.

“Ack?” whispered Kawanga, trembling.
With all three monkeys agreed, they began to quietly crawl across the clearing and past the sleeping tiger.
They were almost past, and were preparing to charge off into the thick jungle once more, when Sarikin Bakka suddenly opened his eyes…

To be continued.

Posted by Norton

Walter’s Diary: Pt.5 – Mary

Mary, it turns out, didn’t want to be found.

“Fuck off, you weirdo!” were, if memory serves, her exact words when I approached her in a bar. “I’m a lesbian.”

I’d tracked her down to Greenwich Village on Saturday night, and Deadfast and I spent alot of dollars and most of our energy trawling bars until I recognised her.
Deadfast, of course, wouldn’t recognise himself in a mirror unless prompted, so these things are always left to me.
I pointed her out, and he sent me over;
“Walter, lad, we don’t want to spook her. She’ll recognise me,of course… so you go. I’ll just sit here and have a drink. Could I borrow some money?”

I had got within five feet of her, and was about to ask if I knew her (well, I wasn’t stupid enough to actually tell her why we were there), when she’d spun around, made eye contact, and growled her above response. Then, with a flourish, she’d grabbed the nearest young lady to herself and proceeded to give her a long and lengthy kiss.

I was enjoying the moment, actually, but it was ruined by the crashing of a table behind me and Deadfast approaching at speed, and with a big dopey grin on his face.

“Ladies,” he annoucned, but I managed to wheel him away before Mary decided to kick either of us in the unmentionables. “Don’t go anywhere!” he yelled over his shoulder at them.

“I think it’s best if we…”
“Oh, tish and pish, Walter… I know what to do!”
“Have a drink?”
And, with that, he wandered off to the bar.

I figured it would be best if we followed her as she left, and approached her in a less-public place.

So, for the next two hours, we sat about and drank (water for me, with a slice of lemon, and alochol for Deadfast… he isn’t fussy which type).
I was keeping a close eye on Mary and her friends (most of whom, as far as I could work out, were friendly with one another, if you know what I mean… they exchanged saliva an awful lot, and I’m sure that kind of thing isn’t sanitary), but, as is his way, Deadfast got bored of not having my attention and so declared he was going to dance.
He then proceeded to try to start a conga-line.
This didn’t work, of course, but provided enough of a distraction for me to lose sight of the young Miss Hellthwaite for a moment and, when I looked back, she and her entourage were nowhere to be seen.

The evening ended with me running out of there with Deadfast over my shoulder, and an irrate bar patron and his friends giving chase after his wife had been the unwilling victim of Deadfast and his rising libido.

He is still asleep, now, and I’m trying to figure out what to do next.

I’ve a friend who works in a video store (believe it or not, some still exist) down the road who says Mary is a frequent customer.
I’m thinking of sitting in one of the booths there all day on the off-chance that she comes in.

It’s going to be a long, hard day…

Posted by Walter

Walter’s Diary: Pt.4 – A Bet Is Made

“Walter, pack your things, we are going to the Americas!”This was the phrase that Deadfast greeted me with this morning as he stumbled into the kitchen.
I handed him his dressing gown (even though we were an “open” house, I didn’t want the maid seeing him in all his morning glory…) and a bowl of cereal, and sat him down at the table.”Why is this?”

“A-ha, lad!” he exclaimed, toppling backwards off of his chair and flinging cornflakes everywhere. “Lord Hellthwaite has set us a challenge!”

“A challenge?”

“Yes, in the shape of a bet!”

“Wonderful.” The last bet that these two had made had ended with Hellthwaite riding upon one of the stone lions at Trafalgar Square, naked except for a bowler hat. “I’ll get the bribe money out now, shall I?”

“Oh no,” he grinned, plonking himself on a chair. “This is a good one… we’re on a search to find his daughter!”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh yes!”

“Oh, great.”
Lord Hellthwaite was a man born into money, but he had doubled his family fortunes with a shrewd property deal in the early 60s.
His daughter, Mary, was born at the end of the 70s (for a while, Lord and Lady Hellthwaite had dabbled with punk fashion… a disaster that ended up with safety-pin sin their condom drawer. Don’t ask!), and had, for want of a better word, wasted her life.
She was, I guess, what you’d call an “IT” girl… you know the type; always attending parties, getting drunk and doing very little else except spending the family fortune.
Well, I’d heard recently that she’d hooked-up with some musician wannabe, and this hadn’t gone down too well with her father.
“What the hell do you think you are doing, woman?!” was, I think, the phrase he most used when the two conversed.
Anyway, after one-too-many arguments, young Mary had stuck two-fingers up at her father and the establishment, and had fled the family home.
This was, of course, an embarrassment to the Hellthwaite name, and so… we were roped in to find her thanks to Deadfast and a bottle of Tequilla.

“Get your things, lad, we’ve work to do!” he yelled, and leapt out of his seat and ran off to his room. I heard him shout over his shoulder; “Get on the phone and find her for me!”

So, I spent the most part of last night making frantic phonecalls to the few contacts I have.
It turns out, according to the editor of a top-shelf magazine, that she was seen boarding a plane to New York.
A few minutes later, I had booked us a flight and a hotel.

That’s why I’m sitting here typing this in the departures lounge of Heathrow airport.
Deadfast, for his part, is downstairs in the hotel bar, playing the piano and trying to get some rich socialite to buy him a drink. I don’t think it’s working; I’ve recieved two text messages already, both of which said “Walter, it’s your round”.
For the record, I’ve never seen him buy a drink, and I’ve known him for ten years.

I’m off downstairs now; I’ve arranged a meeting with a friend of Mary. Hopefully, he’ll push us in the right direction.
I’ll fill you all in later on.


“How is this a bet?” you ask?
Well, it turns out that Deadfast somehow managed to persuade Lord Hellthwaite to give him a holiday home in Hawaii if we find his daughter.
The Lord has more property than he knows what to do with, so I don’t think he’ll miss one.
And, for his part, if he loses, Deadfast must walk naked down New Oxford Street in nothing but a bow tie.
I think it’s a private school thing.
I find it best not to ask.


Walter’s Diary: Pt.2

Today, I’m writing to you from a small room in Deadfast’s family mansion somewhere in the north of London.

I can’t reveal the exact location… last time I gave someone our address, she passed it on to one of our many enemies and… well, let’s just say it didn’t go well for the rose bushes.
That wasn’t my fault!
I had been drinking in a secret drinking hole in South of the Thames, and a beautiful young lady had been allowing me to buy her drinks all night, and she seemed willing enough to come home with me for the night (purely for conversation, you understand).
I went to the cloakroom before leaving, and when I returned, she was nowhere to be seen. Neither was my wallet, as I later discovered.
It turns out that she was working for Russian Boris, a nemesis of Deadfast (trust me, they are myriad in number), and had passed on everything I had been telling her. The wicked harlot!

Deadfast wasn’t pleased.
It was our first night home to the U.K in three months, and he had expected me to polish his shoes.
I had slipped out in the morning to fetch some boot polish, and had somehow (ahem) wandered into a bar and let slip some of the family secrets and… well… these things happen.

Anyhoo… here I am typing to you, and just as I’m about to tell you about our LAST adventure, I can hear Deadfast marching up the driveway, so I have to go!

Be back soon, I hope!

Posted by Walter

Walter’s Diary: Pt.1 -The Adventures of Deadfast

Hello, world.

My name is Walter and for the past few years I’ve been the “mate” of a somewhat mad adventurer whom, for legal reasons, I shall refer to only as Deadfast.

He plucked me out of an orphanage in London, and whisked me away on a wild thrill-ride of adventure, feats of derring-do, and moments of sheer terror.

I hope I can tell you about some of them in this “blog”; although I am still in his service, so I may not be able to post daily or even weekly, depending on where in the world we are at any given time.

So, as this is the very first post here, I’ll say a little about myself.

I’m British, and have never known my parents.
I’m male, caucasian, six foot tall, with brown hair and brown eyes, and have what you’d call an “average” build, in that I’m not fat and I’m not skinny.
Infact, I’m just right (as Goldilocks would say!).
This helps me blend in to situations, crowds and so on and is probably why Deadfast keeps me around.

This blog will be filled with many things that may seem false, but I promise you that they are all true.

I’ll reveal more in time with each post… so keep reading!

Posted by Walter