Free The well of lost plots by Jasper Fforde

lips.
    “Dinner,” said one, looking us both up and down. “Shall we eat them together or one by one?”
    “One by one,” said the second cat, who was slightly bigger and a good deal more fearsome, “but we better wait until Big Martin gets here.”
    “Oh, yeah,” said the first cat, retracting his claws quickly, “so we’d better.”
    Snell had ignored the two cats completely; he glanced at his watch and said, “We’re going to the Slaughtered Lamb to visit a contact of mine. Someone has been cobbling together plot devices from half-damaged units that should have been condemned. It’s not only illegal — it’s dangerous. The last thing anyone needs is a ‘Do we cut the red wire or the blue wire?’ plot device going off an hour too early and ruining the suspense — how many stories have you read where the bomb is defused with an hour to go?”
    “Not many, I suppose.”
    “You suppose right. We’re here.”
    The gloomy interior was shabby and smelt of beer. Three ceiling fans stirred the smoke-filled atmosphere, and a band was playing a melancholy tune in one corner. The dark walls were spaced with individual booths where somberness was an abundant commodity; the bar in the center seemed to be the lightest place in the room and gathered there, like moths to a light, were an odd collection of people and creatures, all chatting and talking in low voices. The atmosphere in the room was so thick with dramatic clichés you could have cut it with a knife.
    “See over there?” said Snell, indicating two men who were deep in conversation.
    “Yes?”
    “Mr. Hyde talking to Blofeld. In the next booth are Von Stalhein and Wackford Squeers. The tall guy in the cloak is Emperor Zhark, tyrannical ruler of the known galaxy and star of the Zharkian Empire series of SF books. The one with the spines is Mrs. Tiggy-winkle — they’ll be on a training assignment, just like us.”
    “Mrs. Tiggy-winkle is an apprentice?” I asked incredulously, staring at the large hedgehog who was holding a basket of laundry and sipping delicately at a sherry.
    “No; Zhark is the apprentice — Tiggy’s a full agent. She deals with children’s fiction, runs the Hedgepigs Society — and does our washing.”
    “Hedgepigs Society?” I echoed. “What does
that
do?”
    “They advance hedgehogs in all branches of literature. Mrs. Tiggy-winkle was the first to get star billing and she’s used her position to further the lot of her species; she’s got references into Kipling, Carroll, Aesop and four mentions in Shakespeare. She’s also good with really stubborn stains — and never singes the cuffs.”
    “
Tempest
,
Midsummer Night’s Dream
,
Macbeth
,” I muttered, counting them off on my fingers. “Where’s the fourth?”
    “
Henry VI
, part one, act four, scene one: ‘Hedge-born Swaine.’ ”
    “I always thought that was an insult, not a hedgehog.
Swaine
can be a
country lad
just as easily as a
pig —
perhaps more so.”
    “Well,” sighed Snell, “we’ve given her the benefit of the doubt — it helps with the indignity of being used as a croquet ball in
Alice
. Don’t mention Tolstoy or Berlin when she’s about, either — conversation with Tiggy is easier when you avoid talk of theoretical sociological divisions and stick to the question of washing temperatures for woolens.”
    “I’ll remember that,” I murmured. “The bar doesn’t look so bad with all those pot plants scattered around, does it?”
    Snell sighed audibly. “They’re Triffids, Thursday. The big blobby thing practicing golf swings with the Jabberwock is a Krell, and that rhino over there is Rataxis. Arrest anyone who tries to sell you soma tablets, don’t buy any Bottle Imps no matter how good the bargain and above all
don’t look at Medusa
. If Big Martin or the Questing Beast turn up, run like hell. Get me a drink and I’ll see you back here in five minutes.”
    “Right.”
    He departed into the gloom and I was left feeling a bit ill