The Ducks of Doom

An Internet Serial

Home

Copyright 2004, © Robert Arthur Smith, All rights reserved.

A mad scientist seeks to control the most dangerous force in the universe--the Power of Durable Evil.

Only a few good ducks, some humans, a tribe of camels, a crow, a stork, a clutch of aliens and a heron can stop him.

But time is running out, and there might not be enough haggis....

I was so scared, I had to read it with my eyes closed."
--a reader from Tewksbury

"The part about
the haggis is funny."
--A Scotsman

"Why don't you write something about Doris Day for a change?"
--Matthew Arnold

"An albatross ate my copy ."
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

"You're wrong about dynamic brakes on Canadian Pacific Railway GP9's. And camels were not used as switch engines until 1000 BCE."
--a concerned reader.

All episodes of the Ducks are Doom are available in a format suitable for Palm Pilots and other
devices at this site:
Memoware.com

Chapter 1

Femme Fatale

Some people think ducks spend all of their time floating around in ponds, quacking at the neighbors and drinking lime fizzers.

This might be true on other planets, but not on Tockworld.

Things are different on Tockworld, a world that sprang into existence when an alien opened the wrong door in the Grand Imperial Chinese restaurant.

Anyway, ducks, being extremely clever at disguise and subterfuge, have invented decoys.

Decoys look just like ducks, but they aren't. They're bits of painted wood. They were designed to float around in ponds all day, fooling humans, while the real ducks took over the world and began running large corporations.

People in the know can always tell the difference between a duck and a decoy. Real ducks have feet.

If you don't believe the part about ducks running large corporations, take a look at your own workplace. Unless, of course, you work at home; then you should examine other members of your family to make sure they don't have any feathers.

If you find out one or more of your family members is really a duck, be grateful. Ducks will look after you when the aliens invade.

But that's another story; we'll talk about it some other time.

Anyway, there's no shame in working for a duck. You have to remember, it was a duck who saved the world from a fate worse than death.

This is how it happened.

A long time ago, a mild-mannered duck by the name of Macklin Macklino was sneaking a peek at the centerfold of MODEL RAILROADER magazine and thinking about a session with his train layout, when there was a knock on the door of his condo.

Who can that be? Macklin wondered. He hated interruptions when he was thinking about his trains. He had a really neat model of the Southern Pacific, down around Indio, California, with several fruit-packing plants, dozens of refrigerator cars, and a lot of golf courses.

Anyway, you're probably wondering what Macklin was doing at home at night, instead of toiling away in a stuffy cubicle like everyone else, forced to work overtime just to keep his job.  

And where did he get the loot for this nice condo overlooking a park near Mount Pleasant, a block away from George's Trains, a hobby shop known in every corner of the civilized world?

Also, where was his mother?   Why wasn't she calling him up, telling him how all of her friends were busy with their GRANDCHILDREN?

Why wasn't he hearing her voice sweetly rasping: "You aren't getting any younger, you know, Macklin. You can still find a good woman if you hurry, but if you wait too long, she won't even look at you; she'll look at your wallet. You'll be divorced two weeks after the wedding, and I'll have to get a court order to see my grandchildren, assuming she took enough time out from shopping to make any. And you know how much court orders and lawyers cost! I'll be a pauper after the lawyers get through with me! Instead of a nice old age surrounded by friends and GRANDCHILDREN, relaxing in my comfy apartment, I'll be stuck in a poorhouse with drug addicts and psychotics. It'll be all your fault if I'm found dead one day, clutching a picture of my son, who never even came to my funeral...."

Anyway, the reason Macklin was at home was this: he was a professional model railroader. He made model railroads for business people who had no time to make their own. You'd be surprised how many busy professionals hired Macklin to build and enjoy little railroad empires for them.

Macklin had just finished a tiny model of the Great Northern, including everything from Seattle to Chicago, when he heard a knock at the door.

Who can that be, he thought, quickly thrusting his copy of Model Railroader under his mattress, in case it was his mom.

Who else would bother calling on   him?

She was in Miami, of course, visiting relatives, but, as we all know, certain mothers can be in two places at the same time, so you can never be too careful.

Anyway, it was quite late. Thirteen minutes and thirteen seconds after midnight, if you want to be precise about it, and Macklin was always precise. "It's a feature," he would tell people, when they complained about this aspect of his character.

Be neat, be precise, and you'll never be sorry. That was Macklin's philosophy.

Who could be knocking after midnight? he wondered. Especially since it's Scary Pumpkin Eve, a time when all good little children are supposed to be in bed, so the Scary Pumpkin can come down the chimney and leave bundles of Durum wheat tied in ribbons.

He peered through the peephole, but all he saw was Bartholomew Augustus Hoopenthrasher's door across the hall.

Hoopenthrasher was not the sort of person who knocked on doors, and then hid himself from view. Hoopenthrasher LIKED to be seen; he was a philosophy professor, and as you know, philosophy professors have doubts about their own existence. This is because nobody ever calls them up to fix broken philosophies. It's a little like the Maytag man....

We'll talk about that some other time.

Macklin wasn't the sort of duck who opened his door after midnight for unseen strangers. You never knew; it could be someone dangerous, like an armadillo or a freelance telemarketer.

But something changed his mind that night; some mysterious force penetrated the bright, orderly regions of his brain and spread a little darkness.

He composed his face into a special 'Hi, mom; nice to see you!' smile, in case it really was his mom. Then he opened the door, and the smile froze on his face.

A femme fatale stepped out of the shadows.

Now that's a simple thing to say; A femme fatale stepped out of the shadows. 'So what!' you might be saying to yourself. Femme fatales are always stepping out of the shadows; it's what they do best.

Well, one of the things they do best.

This femme fatale, however, was different.

She wiped a bit of Black Magic chocolate from her beak and cocked a hip at Macklin, blowing every fuse in his brain.

Macklin never had a chance. He gazed at her in a stupor, taking in her slinky red dress, her ruby earrings, and her red high heels.

"Hello Macklin," she said in a throaty voice. "My name is Allura. I've come to invite you to a little party."

Macklin was stupefied. "Quack," he said.

Allura moved a little closer. Her red dress made slinky noises all over her ducky form. Her beak opened slightly and an exotic odor of wild rice and chocolate issued forth.

It wasn't particularly warm in Macklin's condo that night, but he felt a sudden hot flash as he watched Allura's flame-colored hair stir gently in the updraft from her internal convection oven.

A small voice in the back of his mind warned him to be careful--Don't go there! She's dangerous. Your mom wouldn't like her. Stay home and play with your trains!

But Macklin was beyond help now. He was a duck possessed; the only thing that mattered to him was the seductive Allura, a vision of slinkiness luring him down a forbidden track into a mysterious tunnel.

She put an arm through his. He tried desperately to think of something charming and witty to say, but all he could manage was, "Do you like broccoli?"

Allura gave him a little peck on the cheek as if to say, 'I'd do anything for a cup of broccoli," and Macklin's brain exploded.

He was hers now; he would follow her anywhere.

At least until his mom called.