(aka “the Velocibleed”)

With an ironic tip of the spiked helmet to the old “penny farthing” bicycles of yore, the outlaw biker gang “Die Totungirrtotungen” (literally “kill madman, kill!”) harken back to days of a better class of criminal.

Scrupulously polite, well-educated, witty and utterly deadly, it was a matter of utmost honour to this gang to maximise robbery, violence and death whilst “keeping it classy”. Bank heists were often accompanied by a small chamber orchestra. Gang slayings took the form of a traditional pheasant shoot, with beaters flushing out rival gang members from hiding, where they would run across the path of the gang’s myriad projectile weapons. Tea would then be served.

Indeed, victims could expire happily, secure in the knowledge that this was the truly urbane death experience: from the tip of the pearl-handled AK-47’s spitting out bespoke hand-engraved “bullettes” all the way up to the highly-polished depleted uranium spike of the Pickelhauben.

Here, Fuhrertotungirrtotung Fred, the gang leader, can be seen in classic pose aboard his Hi-Wheel. Note the complex control mechanisms whereby the vehicle is actually controlled by synaptic couplings in the rider’s helmet, using direct psi-transmission to the small Quidnac Motorrad-class vehicle controller (with safety override overridden). The handlebars are purely vestigial, in place mainly for cosmetic or traditional reasons.

Clearly irritated, or possibly bored, by the inhabitants of the crushed vehicle in his wake, Fred has simply accelerated over the entire car. Closer inspection of his front tyre explains all: it appears that the Velocibleed’s enormous wheel has, horrifically, squeezed the driver out through the windshield. Using one’s cell-phone whilst driving is both bad-mannered and dangerous to others. Actions guaranteed to offend a paid-up member of the Totungirrtotungen.

With Sprungtopf trapped in his Orb at the bottom of the moat (see reference at end) it was left to the castle’s Mobile Engineering & Science Section (MESS) to try and develop a solution to the problem before he ran out of oxygen and died.

Unfortunately it was over three weeks even before the design stage for the lifter was complete, and a further six months before the lifter itself was produced; but certainly no-one was able to say that the MESS team did not do a thorough job and see it through to completion.

Experiments have revealed that spider silk is superior to high-grade steel in terms of tensile and ductile strength, and therefore an obvious choice for a lifting operation of this kind. Specially enhanced tarantulas known as Bio-Operated Robotically Improved Spiders (or BORIS) were developed, largely thanks to the king’s own research over the years. These enhanced arachnids produced thread capable of lifting several tonnes if fed on a diet of flies with a side order of depleted uranium.

The illustration here shows the completed Tarantulifter in deployment position. The tarantula can be seen in a semi-clasp position, and observant viewers will have spotted the neural implant to allow the operator to control the spider’s silk production and basic movement. In this case the implant is encased in a lead weight to allow the spider to sink through the waters of the moat.

Levers at the operator’s station allow control of silk generation, grasp and lift as well as basic forward/reverse control of the twin engines powering the drive wheels of the platform itself. Note that the platform is transported on caterpillar tracks – closer inspection reveals that these tracks are indeed made from real caterpillars, bred for flexibility and load-bearing properties.

Impressively, Sprungtopf’s Orb (by now his tomb) was indeed lifted from the moat via the Tarantulifter, and the whole operation was hailed as a complete success. The fact that the king was long dead by this time was merely an annoying detail to the Engineers of MESS.

Related Post:
Sprungtopf’s Orb Royale

(aka the Court Circular).

The final chapter in the chronicles of King Sprungtopf reveals the story of his Orb Royale – a giant riveted platinum-clad windowless sphere, into which he would often retreat during his ever-more-frequent bouts of madness. Fitted-out comfortably with a small gyroscopic travelling throne, toilet facilities and mini-bar, the king was able to spend hours on end safely ensconced in the darkness.

Solitude and sensory deprivation gave his Majesty a unique insight into the mind of his lowest, most deprived, insect subjects (or so he assumed). How better to learn the ways of the worm and the maggot than be blind and limbless. Indeed, the King had genuine empathy for the insects he ruled over – he simply saw no reason to extend this sentiment to humans.

Locomotion was provided by a specially trained beetle (Coleoptera Regillus Pilaperigitus – literally “pusher of the King’s balls”) bred for strength and stamina, and able to move the considerable weight of the Orb Royale with surprising aplomb. Note the elegantly dressed Scarabasseur whose principal role was to guide the beetle from place to place according to the king’s shouted instructions. Fear of horrific punishment ensured that the Scarabasseur never left his post for a moment, and it was actually this that led to a series of tragic events.

Secure in his orb, the king finally crossed the line into complete dementia. Hours inside the ball turned into days as his sanity unravelled, and outside the poor Scarabasseur degenerated correspondingly: unfed, unkempt and filthy, the beetle’s handler eventually collapsed and starved to death, leaving the King trapped within the orb as the determined little beetle, without direction, rolled him slowly toward, and finally into, the moat.

Thaddeus Braxton decreed that the ball remain in place under the water, where it can still be seen to this day – a final testament to King Sprungtopf’s mad times as ruler in the Court of Mystery, on the island of Saint Eustatius.

aka Auriga’s Single Flea Hopsicle

Not all of King Sprungtopf’s strange pursuits were banned by Thaddeus Braxton of the MoA (see reference at end). Indeed, there were a number of pastimes that were positively embraced by the Man from the Ministry, if only to help keep the locals distracted and let him get on with the business of governing the place in peace.

One such sport was Flea-Charioteering (aka Capriolet Racing, due to the way that the chariots jumped forward slightly each time the flea hopped). Attending these races (or “going to the hop”) became de rigueur amongst the social elite, bookmakers moved onto the scene and it soon grew into a national pastime.

Flea races were typically held over a 3 yard racecourse. Very few rules were in place and high-stake events could quickly turn into a chaotic bloodbath as the chariots vied for position at speeds of up to 0.0003 mph.

Trackside medics were in attendance, as were veterinarians. Usually it was simpler to kill the flea rather than to treat its injuries. A flea with a broken leg would be dealt a swift retirement – the “pop” from the microscopic shotgun was a frequent sound at race meetings.

Prestigious events as Ascoat (visitors took it upon themselves to outdo each other with the outrageous splendour of their outer clothing), Saratoga (same but with togas) and of course the most famous of all, the Bland National, the notorious and gruelling 5 yard race which has been known to last over 17 hours, ensured a permanent place in the nation’s culture.

A whole economy is built around the sport, with top breeders competing to see whose fleas are the talent to watch, and trading in the “fleapit” at local flea markets is always brisk as racing teams search for new steeds.

Top flea racers are effectively able to write their own pay checks, with huge endorsement deals, luxury trailers at the race course and the ubiquitous groupies (many of whom soon tire of the constant itching welts from the charioteers’ favourite fleas since all the best racers naturally sleep with – and feed – their best steeds).

Related post:
Superiore Scrutineer and Baby Behemoth

With the world so topsy-turvy during the fragile ceasefire immediately after the Great War, it took a bold nation to make the first steps towards some sort of world stability. One of the few countries to retain its previous level of development was Britannia: ironically, by having suffered an earlier collapse of civilisation and being forced into recovery before war broke out.

As we all know by now, the success of the recovery was due to a few stoic individuals who were able to lead the country back to its fundamental principles, those that made Britannia “Great” once more. Government was overturned, unions abolished, afternoon tea became mandatory and reality TV banned.

And so it was that once again Britannia was able to look beyond its own borders to help those less fortunate than itself. The Ministry of Amelioration soon became established as a leading light in this field, bringing ruined countries back from the brink with its combination of strict but fair intervention, firm but just government, and local inhabitants’ terror of mutant giant babies.

Here we see Sir Thaddeus Braxton, Superiore Scrutineer, in familiar pose with his pipe, brown gabardine raincoat and case.

At ease aboard Baby Behemoth, he is pondering the solution to the problem of what to do with the mad king Sprungtopf – one of the thorniest problems to plague Britannia’s foreign policy for many years. Note the shackles worn by Baby during this visit. These were deemed necessary for several reasons: first, Baby’s natural curiosity would lead him to touch the King’s “subjects”, many of which were delicate and/or poisonous insects. Secondly, the sight of such strong restraints implied to the suggestible locals that Baby’s strength must indeed be prodigious, and had a usefully detrimental effect on their morale.

The history behind Baby Behemoth is currently subject to the Official Secrets Act. All that is known for sure is that DNA research had been confiscated from the warring nation of Gekke Vreemdeling, which had culminated in a generation of gigantic humanoids. Originally intended as a warrior super-race, the children were in fact loving, gentle and peaceful. The research was immediately terminated, but euthanasia was out of the question, so typical British eccentricity provided an alternative: Ministerial Transportation for Foreign Diplomats.

Once again, “the man from the ministry” rules supreme.

(aka The Caliph’s Calliphora)

Over time, the insane king Slappe-Hersenen Sprungtopf’s court came to some prominence in the East. As his hold over the islands of his realm began to spread, he attracted the attentions of many other tin-pot kingdoms, anxious to solidify their own tenuous right to power (and avoid outright invasion) via a slightly nervous detente.

As his reputation for outrageous and lavish parties spread, a steady stream of diplomats began to flow into his palace. Unfortunately for many of the visiting dignitaries, his penchant for whimsy, and his love of puncturing puffed-up egos, would often result in rather cruel practical jokes at their expense.

A classic example of this is the Dipteron of Dishonour. Upon hearing about a visit from an especially egotistical and self-important Caliph from a small Arabian kingdom, Sprungtopf had his artisans create a very special transport, designed to bring the boorish Caliph down a peg or two.

Upon his arrival, Caliph Parvopomposo was greeted at the palace gates with all due deference, and informed that he would be transported at once to the king’s court. Unfortunately for Parvopomposo, once seated on his splendid-looking “transport”, he discovered the nature of the jest: he would be dragged by a single lowly Bluebottle (a blow-fly, insultingly of the genus Calliphora vomitoria) trained only to fly when the Caliph tugged on the lever dangling in front of his face. Worse, the luxurious-looking chair itself was sprung and upholstered in such a way it was impossible to sit comfortably.

To his further horror, although the chair utilised a set of sophisticated levitation rods (carefully balanced to allow the fly’s wings to generate enough upward thrust to carry the full weight of chair and occupant) he discovered that the creature moved only a few inches at a time, and he sat there distraught in the knowledge that to stand up and thus reject Sprungtopf’s gift would result in certain and hideously unpleasant death. Heavily-armed guards ensured his complete cooperation.

So it was that over three weeks later did a starving, filthy and half mad Caliph finally arrive before the king’s throne, having been forced to remain in his demeaning and tortuous transport the entire time as it inched painfully across the palace grounds.