Fan fiction. Loved by those who are keen on it and almost universally ridiculed by everyone else. For me, it depends. I find slash fiction gross – the idea that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter, or the Doctor and a Dalek, for example, would even WANT to get it on, let alone actually do it, boggles the mind. However, I don’t mind the odd bit of well-written pastiche – hell, that’s what every Doctor Who novel ever published is.

I say all this because about 18 months ago, I decided to try my hand at writing some Thunderbirds fan fiction. I came across it in a notebook the other day. I always thought I got a little further than I did, but in any case, I reckon it was going places. Tempted though I was to edit it, this is exactly as I wrote it. Basically, the story was to follow the events in the life of a journalist investigating the secrets of International Rescue, after he encounters the Hood (arch enemy of that most secret organisation) in a bar. See what you think.

THE CAST OF PLAYERS

Our hero (left): someone along the lines of intrepid and fan favourite NTBS TV reporter, Ned Cook.
Our hero (left): someone along the lines of intrepid and fan favourite NTBS TV reporter, Ned Cook.
The dastardly villain: The diabolical Hood, master of disguise and trans-Pacific mind-hacking.
The dastardly villain: The diabolical Hood, master of disguise and trans-Pacific mind-hacking.
Our setting: somewhere like the cheesy French cafe that appears to be a favourite of Lady Penelope's.
Our setting: somewhere like the cheesy French cafe that appears to be a favourite of Lady Penelope’s.

It was with some apprehension I met with him.

I’d always been interested to find out how he managed it. I mean, you don’t just vanish with your five sons into anonymity. I have to say, though, it all makes perfect sense. And the swimmer from WASP – that had to be a stunt. This guy’s a billionaire, he can buy all the silence he wants. Pay off the right people. Geez, those people at the other guy’s funeral though…money can’t buy tears that real.

I thought back to the letter I’d received a week ago. I’d run into this bald guy in a dive bar, and he recognised me from my byline. Pulling me towards him with inhumanly large hands, he asked, “Do you want to know International Rescue’s secrets?” I had time on my hands, so I humoured him.
“Yeah, sure, tell me all.” I couldn’t help but let a tone of sarcasm slip through.
He chuckled menacingly. “Two words. Jeff. Tracy.”
“Jeff Tracy?” I guffawed. “Yeah right. No way that guy’s gonna risk his premiums on an outfit like that! Go have a cold shower, you drunk!”
He grabbed me by the shirtfront. “Fool!” he bellowed. The bald man put me down and stumbled out of the bar. It was bizarre, but his eyes looked yellow and glowing, reflected in the glass of the door.

The following day

And that’s as far as I got.

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