Hi TBO,
The action still comes thick and fast, but I like this piece much better this time around. Chris has dealt with spelling and grammar, so I thought I'd take the style and info-dump. Feel free to ignore the lot!
The humour definitely works - as you know, I think it's one of your strongest cards.
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They headed upstairs to meet the Clurichaun.
Lounging against the bar with a leather bomber jacket slung over one shoulder surrounded by a fawning entourage of Flubian females was a slab of bronze, humanoid beefcake. His open shirt exploded with a rug of red hair, and on his head he wore a fur felt hat pushed back to reveal a mane of golden locks. He saw Georgia and flashed her a lustrous smile. Extricating himself from the roving hands of the Flubians, he downed his drink, inflated his barrel chest and sauntered over.
"’Ere comes Roger Rectu—"
"Shoosh! He’ll ‘ear yer," whispered Merv, digging Screwball in the ribs. The Clurichaun smiled reverentially, doffed their hats and parted like the Red Sea. As Kent walked past, Screwball released a loud rasping noise. Kent stopped, and with his face full of terror, goggled at the grinning Screwball wafting his hands theatrically behind his back. "Ah, tis better out tin in," said Screwball, leering at Kent.
Kerthump!
Screwball was unconscious before he hit the floor, pole axed with a karate kick. Shocked silence and seven goldfish impersonations followed.
"I see Abductions Anonymous is having a positive effect," said Georgia, stepping over the comatose Merv toward the outstretched arms of Kent.
"Hi Barbi,"
"Hi Ken." They embraced and kissed.
"Barbi and Ken, you’ve got to be kidding me?" whispered Tarquin to Jules.
"What’s wrong with Georgia's nickname Barberella?
(This is a bit unconvincing as dialogue - too info-dumpy!)A popular sixties icon on earth if I recall, and Kent's his real name? said Jules, with a look of puzzlement. Tarquin just stared.
Kent drew a wisp of hair from Georgia’s face and broke from the embrace.
"Do you want to go for a ride?" he asked, just before his eyes rolled back and he slithered from her arms to the floor like a collapsing chimney-stack.
You need something here to link the collapse to the next line. It jars a bit at present and it isn't quite clear enough that the two lines follow on, at least until the reader realises that Georgia knows exactly what has happened.
"Okay, which one of you is bleeding?" growled Georgia, standing with her hands on her hips glaring at the Cluricaun. They looked at each other and then at Merv whose nose was now awash with blood. Georgia shook her head and knelt down to attend to her bronze beefcake.
(info dump below) (Info dump removed and reinstated below!)
Tarquin tugged at Archie’s arm. "What the hell just happened?" he said in a whisper.
Archie sighed and shook his head. "Long story. Kent’s convinced aliens abducted and experimented on him during a freight trip to the outer galaxies. He’s had phobias about flatulence and blood ever since."
(Introduce Boswell first - how about this:-) Before Tarquin could reply, both he and Archie heard a gentle cough. The sort of cough coughed by people who wish to interrupt a private conversation but who are too polite ever to say so. They looked round to see a small, dapper man with an abnormally long nose, wearing a bowler hat, a paisley pattered waistcoat, ascot, and brown corduroys.
"
It is true. Mr. Sondair's worst nightmare is being trapped with a nose bleeding Zargoth in an airvator,"
said the little man.
Tarquin recognised him, or rather his nose,
which had been hovering by the bar earlier. He must have walked over and overheard their conversation.
The little man continued.
"Let me introduce myself, I am Tratchett Prall, Mr Sondair’s confidant and official biographer."
Tarquin couldn’t keep his eyes form the man’s proboscis—quivering and twitching as if possessed.
"I am at your service." The man took off his bowler hat, and revealed a mop of green, dyed hair. He stretched out a brown leather brogue, en-pointe and performed a theatrical windmill bow. When he had finished, two black calling cards hovered in front of Tarquin and Archie.
"Levitation. We gnomes of the scribes lodge have the gift," said the man, in a very matter of fact, ‘here is the evening news’ kind of voice, before placing his bowler back on his head and tapping it lightly.
"Please, take one, they won’t bite."
"Thank you," said Archie plucking a card carefully from the air, followed by Tarquin. They looked at the blank, black cards and nodded politely, hiding their bemusement.
The cards read (whatever) "So why does Mr Great Teeth need an official biographer?" asked Tarquin. "To record his life story for posterity. For the elucidation and inspiration of the coming generations who will never have the joy of meeting Mr. Sondair first hand, of course!" "Is his life worth recording?" asked Archie. (Here we go.......) "But yes! This is Kent Sondair.
A hero - the hero - of the Confederation’s Air Corps
! "Why isn't he wearing a uniform, then?" "Because, unfortunately for the Corps, Mr Sondair was medically discharged. But he never ceased his toil or turned his back on his duty. He became a
popular and renowned freelance freighter captain specialising in transporting hazardous cargoes no one else would touch around the galaxies.
Such is his way! He always puts others first! Small wonder that he is loved by all - especially the fairer sex. It is not going too far to say that humanoid women - and especially Flubians
- would gladly rinse their eyes in wine vinegar if it meant a better look. They
find him reassuringly empathetic to the discomfort of time travel. They
huddle exhausted by his side and run their fingers through his tousled rug of chest hair while dipping languidly in his blue, sparkling eyes, awe struck by
Mr Sondair's stories of his empowering lifestyle and the many hair-raising adventures he narrowly survived.
"
Regards,
Peter