No Refunds

The following takes place following: Lockdown

Master Devlin walks through the ivy-covered halls of the Council’s science annex — an old administrative building now retrofitted with humming machines, makeshift lab benches, and flickering fluorescent lights. He pushes open the door to the main laboratory.

Master Devlin: Josiah.

Master Trelawny looks up from a tangle of glass tubing and scrawled notes.

Master Trelawny: Steven! Very well! How are you, dear boy?

Master Devlin: Fine, fine, thank you. Listen— I take it you’ve been monitoring this Super Flu?

Master Trelawny: Yes, terrible stuff. I’ve been working on a prototype vaccine, but… there’s something missing.

Master Devlin: I might be able to help with that. Remember that vaccine you had to make for that plague Widdle Frunkut cooked up?

Master Trelawny: Oh, yes. The Black Death variant, wasn’t it? Nasty business. He put some strange ingredient in that one…

Master Devlin: Goblin slime.

Master Trelawny: That’s it! Caused all sorts of complications.

Master Devlin: He’s behind this one too. Think you can develop a new vaccine based on what you learned?

Master Trelawny: I believe so. It’s not going to be easy — but give me a few days and I'll see what I can do...

Devlin nods and heads back down the corridor, slipping out the side door into the pale morning light.

Walking across the campus, the Master sees a commotion out in the street outside the council grounds.

Widdle Frunkut has set up an old wagon and stage, with a faded sign reading:

GOBLIN BRAND ELIXIRS & TONICS

An eager crowd has formed. Waldo, wearing a top hat and carrying a cane, is putting on a show, peddling his wares with theatrical flair.

wF: ...I can tell you, sir, with no uncertainty, you won't find such effective miracle cures anywhere else—not in all of Waldonia! And at only £7 per bottle, we are practically giving it away! And really, what price can you put on your family's health? So how many crates can I put you down for, sir?

The Master slowly moves into the crowd.

wF: Ah! Excellent choice, sir—thank you very much! Goodbye! Now, who's next? That's it, folks. Step right up! A crate of miracle tonic for each and every one of you! Ladies! Gentlemen! This right here is the result of years of medical research! Do not be timid! This tonic will supercharge your immune system, allowing you to bid farewell to the scourge of Super Flu and many other such ailments!

Come along now. No need to be shy! Perhaps a demonstration will cure ye of such reticence?

Waldo, spotting the Master towering over the locals, singles him out.

wF: How about you, young man? Yes, you with the high blood pressure, the pointy hat, and the vaguely Eastern, triangular features! Step this way!

The Master steps forward, furious. He leans down to speak to Waldo.

Master Devlin: Widdle Frunkut, what the hell are you doing?

wF: I say! You must have me confused with someone else, sir... Nigel Wald Wickens, at your service. And you look like a man who’s suffering from heartburn!

Waldo turns to the crowd, raising his voice.

wF: Now, ladies and gentlemen—observe! This poor soul suffers from dreadful heartburn. But fear not! One bottle of Goblin Brand Miracle Elixir, and watch as the flames are purged straight from his very throat! Step right up, my purple friend—no need to be shy. This one’s on the house!

The Master eyes the vial. He hesitates, then raises it. He sniffs, recoils, then reluctantly knocks back the contents. His face turns green. He disappears behind the wagon and retches violently.

Spectator: Umm… is he alright?

wF: Yes, yes! Quite alright! That means it’s working! Clearly this unfortunate chap has deeper imbalances that must be purged. It’s a wide-ranging elixir! Finds all sorts of problems you didn’t even know you had. Any second now...

The Master reappears, wiping his face. He clears his throat and suddenly lets out a huge, fiery burp—flames literally shooting from his mouth.

wF: Haha! Success!

The crowd gasps—then applauds. People start waving money in the air. Crates are snapped up. Moments later, the townsfolk disperse with their purchases, leaving the Master alone with Waldo.

wF: Thank you kindly for your assistance, Masta. Though I must say—the vomiting was hardly necessary.

Master Devlin: I don’t feel very good...

wF: You’ll be fine. The toxins are well within tolerable limits... for dragons.

Master Devlin: Never let an opportunity to scam people go to waste, eh?

wF: I'm quite sure I have no idea what you mean, Sassy.

Suddenly, from the north, an angry mob appears.

Mob Leader: Oi! You—Wald Wiggans!

wF: Oh dear... Masta, perhaps it’s time to leave. Wiffuhuh is suddenly needed back home. Mayuri will be anxious.

Master Devlin: Previous customers, I assume?

wF: Can we fly? Now, please? Sorry folks! Store’s closed for the day—come back tomorrow!

Angry Customer: You told me this elixir would give me robust vigour! Instead it’s given me erectile dysfunction, you son of a bitch!

wF: Why are you trying to get an erection in the middle of the street? What’s the matter with you?

Another man: Your elixir gave me chronic diarrhoea!

wF: Customers not completely satisfied are entitled to a full refund... tomorrow.

Angry woman: My prawns were off and when I told him, there was an argument!

wF: Oh, bog off, you old cow! You didn’t even buy anything from Wiffuhuh! And your prawns are always off—just like your face!

The crowd erupts in rage and charges. The Master shakes his head, grabs Waldo, throws him on his back, and unfurls his wings.

As they launch into the sky, the Master accidentally lets out a small, fiery fart that ignites a portion of the mob below.

wF: TTFN, people! Thank you, Sidney! Just like old times, eh?

****

The Master flies high into the sky and lands atop a tall tower of the Council HQ building. From there, they look down on Waldobury, noticing the angry mob still flailing about, struggling to extinguish the fire.

wF: So... how goes being the mayor’s stooge? Cleaning up his mess, no doubt. Politics—bah. Messy business.

Master Devlin: Indeed. And now we’re dealing with yet another plague you started, which I wish to discuss...

wF: Wiffuhuh doesn’t recall starting any plagues! Not recently, anyway...

Master Devlin: I told you to produce a non-contagious swine flu. Yet what you've created is a super-spreader strain. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?? Hundreds infected. Dozens dead!

wF: Ah, the swine flu, eh? Wait—you didn’t give it to someone with super AIDS, did you?

Master Devlin: Well... David Platt. He had AIDS. Not sure about the "super" part.

wF: Ah, well, there’s your problem! We told you to be careful with that stuff...

Master Devlin: How was I supposed to know??

wF: It was clearly marked on the bottle. The fine print. You mean you didn’t read it? Well, too bad. WaldoCorp Pharmaceuticals is not liable if the instructions aren’t properly followed...

Master Devlin: There wasn’t any fine print! If there was, it wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

wF: Oh saso... Everyone knows you always have your eyes closed. We have many illustrations of this. Even Mr Travers would tear your argument apart in court. But if you wish to testify that you deliberately infected David Platt with street-modified swine flu and caused an outbreak... well, by all means.

Master Devlin: No, Waldo. This is just pure recklessness on your part. You knew this would happen. You knew David Platt had Super AIDS. And don’t pretend you didn’t—you make it your business to know. I told you who it was for, and I strictly specified non-contagious... Of course, my mistake was that I once again put my faith in a completely untrustworthy and treacherous goblin! I could ask you to make a vaccine, but you’d just invent something even worse.

wF: Such rubbish! Not to mention rude! And to think, we were going to offer you a business partnership... Wald Wickens & Son! Ah well. Wiffuhuh knows the Masta will never admit his many crimes. But we forgive the Masta anyway.

Master Devlin: Waldo never admits any of his crimes. You’ve been a wanted fugitive in several countries for hundreds of years.

wF: Details. Did the Masta really fly all the way up here just to insult Wiffuhuh?

Master Devlin: No… I was at the Council grounds. Then I saw the circus you were putting on outside the gates and once again, I had to rescue you. And what is that elixir you’re peddling anyway? My body violently rejected it, and the crowd clearly hated it too.

wF: Oh. That. Just a new recipe. Mostly harmless. Mostly just water, in fact! Except for trace amounts of rattlesnake venom. And, of course, the plutonium waste—gives it that lovely colour.

Master Devlin: Plutonium? Venom?? I mean, these things barely affect me… but those people? You’ve given them a slow, painful death.

wF: Not to worry. Goblin Brand™ has a wide range of products that can speed up that particular inevitability. For a reasonable price, of course.

Master Devlin: Of course. You truly are evil, Widdle Frunkut. Now... what exactly was in the virus? The “swine flu.”

wF: Don’t recall. It was made ages ago. Just sitting on a shelf, really.

Master Devlin: You don’t know? Was it even a virus? Or did you just give everyone radiation poisoning?

Waldo shrugs, completely unbothered.

Master Devlin: Oh for fuck’s sake, Waldo...

wF: The bottle was labelled swine flu, and you chose to take it. Beyond that... who knows?

Master Devlin: So really you didn’t even make what I asked for. You just grabbed something at random from your deranged collection. You probably found the label in a skip and slapped it on.

wF: No refunds!

Master Devlin: You still owe me for the busted office, you motherfucker!

wF: No way, man. We had a deal. You called off the debt in exchange for the flu.

Master Devlin: You swindled me. That’s not a fair trade. You know what? Let’s fly you back to the mob—they can decide how to handle you.

wF: No no... let’s not be too hasty! Wiffuhuh promises to be good from now on. A noble goblin!

The Master sighs, thinking.

Master Devlin: ...Perhaps the Super Flu has nothing to do with either of us?

wF: Sure. Maybe... "us." 😒

Master Devlin: Still, we’ll proceed under the assumption you synthesized it.

wF: So, where we going now, Stan?

Master Devlin: We’re not going anywhere. This is where you get off.

The Master kicks Waldo off the ledge. Waldo plummets, bouncing off flagpoles and ledges on the way down, before crashing through a tree and thudding to the ground with a wet splat. A moment later, the goo reforms into a puddle with blinking, furious eyes, which scurries off into the bushes.

The Master turns without comment, takes flight, and glides over to the dormitory building. Landing lightly on the roof terrace, he enters through the upper hall and makes his way to his quarters to freshen up.

****

Later that evening, the Master returns to Town Hall and heads to the Mayor’s office. He finds Travers bruised and battered, slouched in his chair. A splintered tree branch is inexplicably stuck to his upper lip, where his moustache used to be.

Master Devlin: Goodness. What happened to you?

Travers: I don’t know… I must’ve fallen asleep and tumbled down some stairs—then sleepwalked back up again. It’s a demanding job, being mayor. How goes the vaccine effort?

Master Devlin: You should really get someone to look at those wounds. You look like a wreck, Travers. Anyway—the Council's working on it. We stopped a plague Waldo brewed years ago, so we’ve likely dealt with a similar kind of virus before. That said, there’s a chance he’s included radioactive material this time… We should issue iodine pills as a precaution.

Travers: And how much is that going to cost? This lockdown’s already going to bankrupt the city…

Mr Konrad: Excuse me, Mr Mayor—sorry to interrupt—but I thought you’d want to know right away…

Master Devlin: Oh no. What is it now?

Mr Konrad: The GTA VI trailer just dropped. It’s online now.

Travers: What?? Holy Hannah. I thought it wasn’t due till tomorrow?

Mr Konrad: Got leaked, sir. They released it early.

Travers: Oh my God...Well, Kyle, what are you waiting for? Put it on the TV!

Mr Konrad fires up YouTube and clicks the link.

Master Devlin: Umm, Travers, the epidemic—

Travers: Not now, Master Devlin! We have more important things to—

The trailer starts. Travers’ wide goblin eyes light up, and his mouth stretches into a huge, unfiltered grin as the camera pans across Vice Beach.

The three sit in silence, eyes locked on the screen. Travers begins gently bobbing in his chair, mouthing the Tom Petty lyrics with reverence.

It would be the first of dozens of viewings that night.

Season 6 continues in Unfit for Office