h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

It was not the kind of Christmas Jason had been expecting.

Quite apart from both the cat and the dog going missing, Grandad seemed to be having rather too much fun in the cellar; his occasional whoops and whistles accompanying the increasingly frequent browning out of the house lights.

It was time to investigate, and possibly join in if it looked fun.

Jason and Grandad had been living by themselves since Mummy and Daddy left for their adventure holiday in Africa. But that was how Jason liked it, because Grandad was much more fun. One never new quite what to expect with Grandad.

Jason's Grandad was much more interesting than the Grandads of the other boys in the village. He was certainly more interesting than Stinky's Grandad, who was...

the town vicar. Much too much on the straight and narrow for Jason. As Jason descended the cellar stairwell, he detected the slightest aroma of burning aluminum and... what was that?... gingerbread? "What in the world could Grandad be up to down there?" Jason wondered.

As he rounded the last loop, he could see Grandad in his old tattered overalls... back to him... bending over something on his worktable.

Jason ventured another step forward and stumbled as his foot caught on a ruck in the carpet. His Grandad turned round abruptly.
'Oh it's you. Come and have a taste of this, I think it's just about ready.'
He held out a blackened baking tray bearing assorted lumps of a cake like substance. Jason, not being one to turn down anything remotely edible, stuffed the largest piece in his mouth. As he chewed vigorously he heard his Grandad saying 'I've been working on this for a long time. If we're lucky it will turn you into....'

Santa Claus," said Grandad.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about, Grandad?!" exclaimed Jason. "Everyone knows that Santa is a myth... a yuletide story to get the kiddies to bed early so's mum and dad can hit the mulled cider and have a bit in the hay!"

"Ah, but I've discovered a formula with the purest essence of holiday spirit..." replied Grandad. "I believe I can make the myth a reality... with your help!"

"But.."

a silver breasted dragon, with a 200 feet wing span! You will be able to soar into the great blue yonder! Fly all the way to Africa and back in an afternoon! Image the look on your parents faces? Paahh! That would be worth all the money in the world to see their faces, with you as a dragon!"

The look of horror on Jason's face quckly told Grandpa that he needed to say something to reassure his grandson. "Don't worry boy, I'll just pop a piece of cookie/cake, or whatever it is in my mouth...(chewing)... and let the transformations begin..." Grandpa whispered.

Jason stared at his Grandfather wide eyed. Then......

He said...

"Hang on a sec, Grandad, you seem a bit confused here... which is it to be.. Santa, or this silver breasted dragon thingy? I mean, I don't want to be pushy or anything, but the Bond film is on in a minute and I want to get to eat the last of the orange chocolates.."

At this his Grandad looked at Jason square in the face- his serene authority only slightly diminished by the cake dribbling down his chin. He pointed a trembling finger and said..

"Oh dear, I think I may need to alter the recipe somewhat "

In the confusion young Jason had in fact taken on characteristics of both Santa and a silver breasted dragon. "I think you'd better have a look in this mirror my boy" Grandad said turning his beloved Grandson around to look in the full length mirror that he kept in the basement for just such occasions.

"GRANDAD!!" screeched Jason "What have you done to me?"

Jason turned this way and that examining himself, touching and squeezing bits that previously didn't exist.

The first thing he noticed were the silver breasts...

... 6 days later, he was hungry, so...

There being nothing left to eat in the cellar (Grandad had been but a mere snack), Jason felt it was time to break out. Tossing the long white beard over his shoulder and belting the red suit firmly over the silver breasts he took a deep breath and let out out a stream of fire and smoke. This had little effect on the cellar walls, but did create a smouldering hole in the floorboards above. 'Now to try out the wings' thought Jason and experimentally flexed his shoulders.

...and his wings fell off
"Oh, foop," said Jason, who felt suddenly gassious and belched fire high into the...
...upper parts of the house, instantly incinerting them.
When he looked into the mirror again, he saw he had now transformed into...

his Grandad!

'Oh @£$%#& !' cursed Jason. He turned to the work bench, wincing at a sudden pain in his hip. He stopped and gave himself a mental going over. 'Boy is this some clapped out body' he thought.
On the workbench were an assortment of jars, bottles and tins containing assorted unidentified substances.
As Jason let his mind drift, pondering whether or not he could concoct a suitable transformation potion, an alien thought seeped into his consciousness.
'What are you doing in my body?'

As this thought began to take hold of the poor schizophrenic creature, there was a knock at the cellar door.
"Jason?" called a voice from the other side. "Jason? You in there, mate?"
Jason recognised the voice as that of Steve Thyroid, his friend from the village whist club.
"Don't answer him..." said his grandad's voice from within his head.
"Sod that for a game of soldiers," replied Jason, "I'm not listening to you. I ate you for God's sake - that's the end of the matter. Go away."
And with that he reached out to open the door, only noticing his feeble, elderly hand too late...

to repair the damage done to the metallic flake mauve nail polish that his Grandad had applied so lovingly with a small molehair brush.
Clenching his fists, he opened the door to Steve, taking in in one glance the radiant beauty of the black eye in the middle of Steve's forehead and the sibilant grace of the filter wrench in his left hand.
"Hallo," said Steve. "I'm looking for Jason. Do you know where he is?"
Jason was a seething pot of mixed emotions. He stepped back, whistling Mahler. His dog,Mahler, ran out from under the chicken coop and skidded to a stop, goggling at the visage before him. Mahler was an Alsatian Garbage Scow dog and he had the second sight. He could smell Jason's spirit in the old man and he could sense the old man in the body, too. "Oh, boy,"thought Mahler. "This means...."

"... that I was wrong about the old man. All along, I had thought that my old rival, the Buryat shaman Kherkhirkhe, would use the boy... I'd better act fast!" And with that, Mahler began to shake, as if he had just emergerd from water. The shaking started at the tip of his scarred nose and gathered momentum as it rolled in convulsive waves along the length of his body. Bright sparks began to fly from the tip of his tail. waves of lights shot out from his flanks; and... and the very air in the crowded cellar began to howl. The competing spirits inhabiting the silver-breasted Santa dragon rolled and seethed in the glow like your favourite disco clothes being ruined in the clothes dryer by the world's most evil and domestically incompetent mum. The boy, Steven gasped in horror, and shrank against the wall. Too late! Mahler's eyes glowed gold and swam with an oil slick mixture of colours that no one would want in their crayon set. He screamed his very last scream, as dog hairs sharper than needles flew in every direction, and died too soon to see the Inuit shaman, Angakkoq, leap to his feet, where the dog, Mahler, had been a moment before.

"Now, Kherkhirkhe, our time has come!" Angakkoq roared, as the tiny tudor house rocked and groaned above the two old enemies. "For the last time, I command you to..."

"Clean that filthy kitchen! We've company coming and there's not a clean beaker or dish in the house! I've been at floor level to that mess for weeks. Granted, the scraps were nice, but not the fuzzy green and yellow ones!"
Kherkhirkhe spun three times widdershins, did a small time step, emitted a small brown cloud with a *foomp* and stepped out, a brazen
fifty-two year old Arts Council Chairperson with a gold lame bikini, silver Doc Martens with neon green laces and a prominent but not unattractive hysterectomy scar, holding a combination cattle-prod and hair curling wand. "The washing! You want the washing done? You care about those measley cheap jelly glasses and second hand Royal Doulton plates! Join with me in my master plan and we will take over the..."

"... entire frozen dinner market of the East midlands... except for Mansfield (which nobody is going to crack), because the evil force controlling the freezer sections of the supermarkets there is of a realm too dark to be penetrated by creatures of the earth, even such as our selves"

Angakkoq thought for a moment, and then began to chant, slowly at first, but then faster and louder... and faster... and louder... until the smoking cellar began to shake. Suddenly, with a deafening crack,...

...all the second-hand Royal Dalton dishes shattered, including the seven gallon soup turine and the matching salt and pepper shakers. Jason, in a moment of great stress and tension, broke tremendous wind and transformed into a 20 m clone Steve Thyroid.
"Ah, ," said Jason. "At least I don't have to worry about...

...dawn broke...

suddenly Jason realised that that deafening crack was a timeslip...