We were bundled into the police station and left to rot in a cell for a few minutes.

“Another fine mess you’ve gotten us into” said Wicks in a voice which was, apparently, meant to approximate Oliver Hardy of the popular comedy duo ‘Stanley Laurel and Oliver Hardy’.

“This is hardly my fault – you were the ones intent on having a fascinating technical discussion about Blake’s 7” I snapped. “If we don’t get out of here, Elkie is going to be turned into meat and I’m not going to sit here and let that happen.” I felt brave and noble and heroic and a really good person at that moment. I stood before my seated comrades and gave them a very self satisfied look.

“I’m not surprised you don’t want to sit down” said Felicity, “your anus must be causing you a lot of discomfort.”

“Can we leave my a-n-u-s out of this?” I told her. “We need a plan.”

“I could pretend to have stomach ache and you could clobber the guard when he comes in” suggested Iain Devine.

“We might find a convenient air vent and crawl through” offered Grantham.

“We might all suddenly find we can transform into fairy dust and blow ourselves through the open window and reform on the other side” added Felicity Bobbins.

“The next guard who comes through the door may turn out to be an ally of ours in disguise” tendered Wicks.

“What a lot of piffle” I yelled. “We are trapped in a prison cell and all you can think about are clichés from fascinating television programmes. Air vents, guards, stomach aches – none of these things ever actually happen.” I banged the wall for good measure. Unfortunately this dislodged a shelf when caused an old book to fall onto the bed, its fall only broken by Grantham who was taking a lie down.

“Owwww” he cried as the book hit him square on the abdomen.

“Is someone in pain in there?” said the guard, rushing into the cell and leaving the door open. Wicks bashed him with an umbrella and the five of us ran for the open door.

“Hoy” said the voice of a guard, his head emerging from a newly opened air vent on the wall. “Are you escaping?”

“Um, no?” I lied.

“Only I’ve come here to rescue you.”

“Hurrah!” we chorused and we helped the guard into the cell. He used his special passes to get us all the way out of the prison and into a secure location somewhere on the notorious Bendaton-Shagford border.

“Why did you rescue us?” asked Wicks.

“Who are you?” asked Grantham.

“What is going on?” asked Dennis Brent.

“Is that vodka?” asked Felicity Bobbins.

“I could murder a pantry” said Iain Devine.

“We’ve heard that you were planning to liberate some friends of ours from the new Bendaton exotic meat factory.”

“We might have been – who are your friends?” I demanded.

“I represent a group which seeks to improve the lives of fellow creatures not harm them – we are the result of the merger between ‘Saving Learned Animals’ and ‘Peaceful Naturalists Understanding Troubled Sea-creatures’ and we are known collectively as SLAPNUTS.”

“And you oppose the exotic meat factory?”

“Passionately.”

“Well we are Brent’s 7 – freedom fighters and general all round heroes” I told him truthfully.

“We must tread carefully – Mayor Penistone has spies everywhere. He runs Bendaton like a finely oiled dictatorship. All he cares about is money – the tourists, the meat factory, the annual mole show – it’s all just pounds in the coffers. Mainly his coffers. He’s been fleecing this town for the last fifteen years and SLAPNUTS is the only group with the will to stop him.”

“We’ll help if we can” I offered. Wicks, Grantham and Iain Devine nodded their approval while Felicity Bobbins occupied herself playing with a ball of wool.

“It won’t be easy” warned the masked SLAPNUTS agent. “Mayor Penistone has the people of Bendaton in the palm of his hand and he isn’t afraid to squeeze or jerk them around. He is a dangerous man and I doubt even Adam Adamant could stop him.”

“Adam Adamant of Adam Adamant Lives?” I said, sensing a fascinating technical discussion.

“We haven’t got time to talk about fascinating technical matters” said the Man from SLAPNUTS. “I suggest the following plan – (1) We get one of our best agents inside the exotic meat factory. He can then let us in and (2) We slip in through the opened door, free the animals and make the complex’s nuclear reactor go critical. Then we could…”

“Hang on a cotton picking minute” I said with unaccustomed slanginess in my voice. “Make the reactor go critical? And what is a processed meat factory doing with a nuclear reactor anyway?”

“Good point Dennis Brent” said Iain Devine, nuclear reactors being a phobia of his.

“Every factory has a nuclear reactor – it’s the energy of the future” said the Man from SLAPNUTS. “Wait – did you say Dennis Brent?”

“Yes – I am Dennis Brent – an alternative universe’s leading telehistorian.”

“This isn’t possible. This cannot be possible. You have to get away from here” said our comrade in revolution.

“Why?” I asked, “What is wrong?”

“You are” he replied. Wicks and Grantham sniggered and muttered something to the effect that they had known this for some time but it was too late to do anything about me now.

“I am?” I said, genuinely fogged.

“I never told you my name” he said gravely. He took off his mask and announced himself. “I am Clarence D. Brent.”