Ulysses O'Mooney

The Rathmore Rambler

It was back again. Must be a stray.

"Help yourself" he coaxed.

He heard it purr deeply as if in thanks. He watched as it moved to the edge of the wall and prepared to jump down. He was puzzled when it suddenly pulled back and paused teetering on the top of the stone wall. It edged backwards. He was rather alarmed to see the hackles on its back rise up sharply.

Just then the light around him dimmed considerably as if something had blotted out the sun. The suddenly startled cows stampeded off. He gulped as his Personal Defence Mechanism started to shriek its maximum alarm signal - warning him that in this instance it couldn't protect him. He was in trouble. He turned to look.

Towering above him was the worst sort of parasitical, slavering, blood-sucking space-vermin imaginable. He recognised what it was immediately. The three prominent fangs in its mouth were a dead give away. A large central one pointing down and two smaller ones on either side pointing up. A Zworg. Known throughout the civilized galaxy - on Xxlypxylxxz it was an ancient legend. On Earth - in the few Central American countries where it had previously been encountered - it was known as the Chupacabra.

It moved towards him, growling and drooling at the prospect of easy prey. Ulysses toppled backwards off the milking stool in fright. Its dark shadow enveloped him completely. It unsheathed its razor sharp talons ready for the kill.

At that moment, Daisy and Buttercup who had somewhat recovered their lady-like deportment stopped galloping away and turned. They looked at each other shamefacedly. How could they leave their dear new friend to such a horrible fate. Besides, who would they have to gossip with in future?

They mooed their mightiest moo and charged.

The Zworg looked around but was only briefly distracted. The charging cows were still a long way off. He would easily have time to kill the child and carry it off for convenient later consumption. At least that was the plan.

As it turned away from its cowering prey, Big Tom - who was moved by Ulysses's kindness - and wasn't adverse to playing rough-house with anybody or in this case anything - took advantage of the moment, bounded down off the wall, ran up, and launching himself off the top of the upturned milk pale lept at the monster.

As the Zworg turned back to deal with Ulysses it was met by a flying, flaying bolt of feline fury which attached itself limpet-like to the monsters face and dug in its own, not inconsiderable claws.

The monster screeched in pain and flung its head from side to side in an attempt to unseat its adversary.

Away in the distance there was a continuous sound like thunder - a slowly rising rumble.

The Zworg finally managed to pull Tom off its punctured, bleeding face and tossed him angrily against the stone wall. Tom hit the wall with a sickening shlap and was instantly concussed. He slid down the wall and into unconsciousness like some caricature cartoon cat.

The Zworg turned towards the charging cows, and with a flick of its powerful tail jumped quickly aside, expecting to be able to reach out and slash one of them as they flew inexorably past.

It was suprised when at the very last moment they stopped charging head-on and simply peeled off safely on either side. He was even more puzzled when as the cows slowed to a stop - the rumble that he had thought was caused by their hoofs - continued to increase.

The Zworg suddenly realized that something was very, very wrong.

It turned slowly.

By then the strange sound had built up to a crescendo and wasn't so much a rumble as a Ramble, as the business end of two tons of prime Hereford Bull connected with the monsters midriff at high velocity. Ulysses watched in amazement as the Zworg was tossed high up into the air. It landed with an almighty thump nearly twenty yards away.