Author's Note

WARNING: This chapter will contain a lot of drivel about vehicles. I am almost anally retentive when it comes to describing motorised transport. Nothing winds me up more than people pulling a 'custom' car or bike out of their arse that defies all levels of logic and physics. I remember reading a fiction that described some 'twin-engined Ducati' that somehow still fit in similar dimensions and weight of a regular sports bike. NO!! IT DOES NOT WORK!! FUCKING STOP IT!

Also, they call each other 'boy' a lot.

I have reworked the Land Rover spec after much research for my own personal 4-wheeled project. If you are inclined, you only need to re-read that bit. Power figures for a few of the bikes have been adjusted also. Again, more research and tinkering with my own.

Let us skip a few years.

Chapter 2: A not-so-brief introduction.

After all the palaver of the dawn of time, the Universe carried on as if nothing had happened, and eventually we end up in the mess we put up with today. Things evolved, died out, planets collided, wormholes opened and closed, empires rose and fell, wars were fought, millions died. I won't bore you with the story of Equus, you should all know it from watching it on the boob tube.

Aaaanyway, on Earth, in a moderately-sized seaside town on the South Coast of the green and pleasant land of England, there lived a man and his dog. Sorry, Hetero Life Partner and lodger. Although the amount of time they'd lived together, he was more part of the insurance policy than lodger. May I introduce you all to Gonzo and Skeletoid. Say hello chaps. "Bollocks." They both reply.

Gonzo was a fairly level-headed sort-
"Is he fuck!" Skeletoid butts in. "He's a barely-functioning bearded headcase whose sole purpose in life seems to be making every vehicle he owns into the wheeled embodiment of Thor's hammer! Oh, and consuming far too much beer." He rants. "He also smokes like Bob Marley and can Hoover up more disco glitter than Charlie Sheene."

"Oi! I resemble that remark! Anyway, I'm a novice with the ol' jazz talc compared to someone I know. With a sniffer like yours, boy, it's a wonder you don't inhale the bloody mirror!" Gonzo challenges.

Err, excuse me, gentlemen, may I continue?

"Do what ya bloody like," offers Gonzo nonchalantly.

My, you are so kind. Ahem! As I was saying, Gonzo, 28, was the slightly bulkier of the pair, standing a shade over 6 foot, fairly well-built, save for the gimpy arm (motorcycle accident, severe nerve damage, loss of some feeling and function) and the creaky knee (again, more biking antics gone wrong) with a short Mohawk atop his bonce and a chin sporting a great big bushy beard. Aside from this, fairly average-looking facially. Brown eyes, brown hair, auburn beard. Both arms covered in ink, left having a Led Zeppelin theme, Stairway to Heaven, right sporting AC/DC's Highway to Hell. He also sported a labret piercing, septum ring, 2 small rings about 15mm apart on the end of his tongue and some 10mm flesh tunnels in his lug'oles. His wardrobe primarily consisted of MX boots, army camo trousers in various stages of degradation, high-quality Cyberdog underwear, abusive t-shirts with the sleeves ripped off and a few armoured leather jackets with varying degrees of road rash. And always a different mad-as-fuck hat. Usually something from Couch Clothing or Cyberdog.

Skeletoid, 25, was a fairly lithe, wiry chap, hence the name. Slightly taller at 6'2", walked with a limp (yet more motorcycle-related maladies. Both tibia and fibula had ended up fused together around the break site, with some muscle and tendon damage thrown in for good measure) and sported a rather large hooter. Aside from being covered head-to-toe in tattoos - War of the Worlds on the left arm, a rather morbid floral and skeletal piece on the right, Zeppelin symbols on the ribs, Orbis Non Sufficit across the chest, Jethro Tull's Stand Up album cover on his back, left leg was an homage to the Evil Dead and the Necronomicon and the right a rather odd Egyptian-themed collection - he was always the smarter-dressed of the pair. Converse or well-polished army boots, expensive jeans, band t-shirts, button up lumberjack shirts over that, or an armoured Brando-style leather jacket. His hair was styled like the Greasers of old and his beard kept neat and tidy at about an inch long. A pair of 20mm flesh tunnels were his only piercings. Green eyes and a friendly face- "Save for the Jewish conk!" Thank-you, Gonzo- completed the picture.

They both resided in a 4-bed 2-storey detached house with a large garage built on the side, drive for 3 cars and a massive garden out the back. He inherited the place from his grandparents on his father's side, being their only living descendant and having lived with them as their carer since the incident. More on that in a while. "YOU BREATHE A FUCKIN' WORD AN' I'LL RIP YOUR TONGUE OUT THROUGH YOUR ARSE!" Eheh... Maybe not then...

The house had a large lounge running from front to rear along the right of the building, a conservatory off that, and the dining room (which had been converted into more of an office/library many moons ago. The two walls containing books housed a varying array of topics. History, geography, the sciences, various survival/self-sufficiency books, blah blah blah. There was also a fairly modern computer with a hard drive stuffed full of various bike manuals, how-to guides, schematics and god knows what other useless information) and kitchen along the other side. The garage, which was fully kitted out with an abhorrent amount of tools, including a lathe and mill, was accessed through the kitchen via a 'utility room' with separate crapper that ran along the back of it. In the kitchen, it was all fairly standard stuff, massive wood-fired Aga and a very ornate wood burner with back boiler being the main focal points. Oh, along with the massive copper hot water urn and frankly obsessive collection of speciality teas. Upstairs, there was a bedroom on every corner around a central hallway/landing with a decent-sized bathroom at the top of the stairs. Oh, and bike parts absolutely everywhere. The whole place was decorated in a fairly cottage-y feel, varnished wood everywhere, hideous patterned carpets, some bare brick around the fireplaces, overstuffed chairs, bit like an old pub in the middle of nowhere. Gonzo refused to do a thing with the decor as the whole place held more sentimental value than he'd ever let on. "An' I'd leave it there if you wanna keep yer teeth!"

MOVING SWIFTLY ON!

Both him and Skeletiod had worked rather diligently in an attempt to make the place as self-sufficient as possible, backup generator, bio-diesel refinery with three 8-foot-square bowsers full of it, and another three full of used cooking oil ready for refining, electric boiler, the Aga, wood burner plumbed in to the heat bank, solar panels etc. etc. so the only thing they really had to pay for was the water. Idyllic, no?

Vehicle-wise, for this was their... Passion? No, too tame. Obsession? No. Yet again, not quite cutting it. Basically, these two petrolheads had a small amount of blood in their alcohol-petrol stream, may as well have literally eaten and drunk motorcycles for breakfast, lunch and dinner and generally lived the motorcycling dream that even the most hardcore biker could only fantasize about.

Where was I? Oh yes! My apologies, I was rambling. Vehicles. Yes. Between them both, they owned... 10 bikes and 1... 4-wheeled machine.

Let us start with the 4-wheeler, aptly named the Thunderbus. It started out life as a humble ex-military series 2 Land Rover 109 ragtop. Then the gruesome twosome got their hands on it. The original asthmatic diesel engine, gearbox and axles were promptly stripped out and sold to the highest bidder. In their place was wedged a highly tuned (head porting with big valves, full bottom end lighten and balance, titanium rods, forged pistons, lairy cam, custom manifolds, tuned P7100 injection pump, gargantuan injectors, Holset HX35 and 55 compound tarbos and intercooler, etc. etc.) Cummins 6BT diesel and associated gearbox from a DAF 45 mated to a strengthened Defender transfer box. Salisbury heavy-duty axles complete with limited slip diffs, bolted to Parabolic springs and top of the range shocks kept the wheels where they should be. Brakes had, obviously, been upgraded to disks all round, 4-pot stoppers up front, twins at the rear. In true Gonzo fashion, the exhaust was simply a length of pipe that poked out the side of the wing, allowing the smog and noise to be transported out of the vehicle completely unhindered.

Needless to say, it sounded like Judgement Day had arrived, and the veritable pyroclastic flow of thick, black smoke that spewed from the pipe could obscure the sun if one planted the loud pedal. Oh, and there was a sound system in there that could deafen from half a mile away. Externally, there was a full roll cage with a hardtop section above the cab, a bull bar that looked like it could take on a fully loaded artic' and win, a row of spotlights along the top of the windscreen and a set of Insa Turbo Special Track tyres to finish things off. Nobody knows what the Bhp is, every Dyno it's been hooked up to, breaks.

Gonzo's bikes were all constructed in a similar fashion. Tuned to within an inch of going bang while still retaining a semblance of reliability. For the sake of keeping things simple, we'll leave out the in-depth description and go for a list. His bikes are as follows:

Kawasaki AR125 survival ratbike - Gibson Allspeed exhaust, Keihin PE28 carb, K&N filter, serious porting work, Wiseco piston. Pushing 30bhp.
Gas Gas (Gasser) X250S '02 model Supermotard - FMF Fatty expansion chamber, home-brew baffle, moderate porting, Wiseco piston, Talon/Excel SuMo wheels. Making upwards of 55bhp, PtW ratio of 550+Bhp per ton.
CCM 604E Supermotard - Ron Wood Racing 676cc big-bore kit, Mez Porting big valve head (rare as hen's teeth as the bloke died a good while ago), Ignitech programmable CDI, Mikuni HSR48 carb with accelerator pump, home-brew equal length down pipe with FMF PowerBomb ripoff 2 1/4" straight through exhaust, black and yellow bodywork. Touching 80bhp.
Kawasaki GPz900R rat, aka 'the Black Slag' - 1000RX top end, resulting in 946cc, Falicon knife-edged crank, Carillo titanium rods, Wiseco pistons, Kent Cams fast road spec jobbies with adjustable sprockets, head skim and gas flowed, Akrapovic 4-1 exhaust, Dyna coils, Taylor leads, ignition advancer, Keihin FCR39 carbs, K&N filters (standard), ZZR1100 rear shock, 1000RX rear wheel, sprocket carrier etc, Storz riser, Renthal bars. Nudging the 200bhp mark.
Kawasaki Z1000H 1980 Fuel Injection - GPz1100 throttle bodies, bored out and polished, bigger injectors, K&N's again, massively ported and skimmed head with oversized valves, the lairiest of lairy Megacycle cams with adjustable sprockets, Orient Express 1300 barrels with Wiseco's again, Falicon's knife edged crank, Ignitech ECU (different from a CDI, it controls the spark and FI, not just spark), Dyna coils, Taylor leads, modified Harris 4-1 exhaust, billet clutch basket, uber heavy duty springs, hydraulic actuator conversion. The frame and running gear are where things get serious: extra-heavy-duty frame bracing, Ohlins shocks, Metmachex swingarm, WP forks, billet slab yokes, KTM SuperDuke wheels, Brembo gold line brakes, bog standard bodywork, save the front mudguard which was off the SuperDuke the wheels came from. 227bhp at the wheel. Whack the throttle open and the rear wheel lights up like crimbo all the way up to 3rd gear.

Needless to say, rear tyres and chains don't last too long.

Skeletoid's collection is somewhat more presentable:

Suzuki TS125R - MIkuni 32mm carb off an RGV250, carbon fibre reeds, RG125Fun barrel and head, ported and polished, 1-piece powervalves, custom exhaust by Gibson, another Ignitech CDI, aluminium swingarm of unknown origin, CR125 adjustable shock, CCM R30 forks, NSR125 wheels, standard bodywork in a mishmash of colours, number plate bracket and rack removed, polished to a mirror finish. Sporting a none-too-shabby 35bhp.
Kawasaki KR1S - black and green bodywork, TZR250 USD forks, Brembo brakes, bored-out carbs, opened up disc valves, Graham File race tune, Gibson exhausts, larger custom radiator. This thing was pretty fucking mental as standard. It now chucks out between 75-80bhp.
Suzuki DR-Z400e - open airbox, derestricted ECU, Keihin FCR41, ported head, lairy cams, Falicon 450cc big bore kit, FMF PowerBomb exhaust with titanium can, all black bodywork, RM-Z450 forks, Talon/Excel SuMo rims, Braking 320mm wavy disc. A healthy 60-odd Bhp.
Suzuki GSX750F Rat, aka The Sodomizer - no bodywork, chopped subframe, GSX-R750 USD forks, shock, wheels and swinger, GSX-R1100 engine, Kent cams, 1270cc kit, Mikuni RS40 flatslides, Akrapovic down pipes, Battered Yoshimura stubby can, lashings of Matt black paint, electric pink seat cover. 180bhp.
Yamaha YZR500 ex-Eddie Lawson GP bike - mental enough as standard. Any more tuning would be tantamount to signing your own death certificate. He did fit some lights, a kickstart and a keyed ignition though. As to how he acquired it, let's just say someone had owed him a very, very big favour and leave it at that.

Now, on with the hows and wheres and whys and all that important shit. You know, boring stuff.

On the list of inherited things Gonzo had acquired, there was really only the house. He was the only living relative on his father's side, and one of the more unpopular on his mother's. He didn't care really. Most of his mum's family walked around like their shit didn't stink. As such, the only thing he got left when his grandpa died was some, as he put it, "worthless, broken, cheap piece of tin covered in WWII blood and shit."

His grandpa found said trinket in a field in France during the Second World War. He had been a half-track driver and was the only one of his platoon that survived after being ordered to drive into a machine-gun entrenchment. The oddity had been thrown up into the cab after the German gun jammed and the barrel breached, setting off the whole ammo store and blowing the entrenchment to fuck. Unfortunately, only after they'd completely decimated his band of brothers. Bunch of nazi cunts.

He kept it, hoping it may have been worth something and that he could sell it when he returned to England. Unfortunately, every jeweller and antique dealer he went to couldn't identify it or even offer a vague value. Even the local scrap dealer didn't have a clue what metal it was and wouldn't take it off his hands. As such, it sat collecting dust in a forgotten drawer of a cabinet in the bedroom that rarely saw visitors.

As I'm sure you've figured out by now, this value-free trinket is one half of the broken Terra-Former. I suck at mystery. Bite me.

Gonzo himself hadn't done much with it either. It currently sat on his garage workbench propping up a spare Rotax engine in the middle of being rebuilt. It had previously been used as an ashtray, door stop, hammer, side stand prop, wheel chock, balance weight, book end and god only knows what else. If only he had half a clue what it actually was, he may have looked after it... Actually, he still would have treated it like the useless lump of metal it was.

We now join them in the real world, one Saturday morning in March...

"Come along, boy, it's not like you've got anything better to do. The courier's not gonna be here 'til this afternoon with your barrel." Skeletoid reasoned, attempting to herd his hairy friend out to the garage.

"That's all well and good, boy, but I still don't see why I've gotta join you on this little venture to buy tat in a vain attempt to woo some bit of fluff you'll get bored with inside 3 months." Gonzo replied, doing his best to go back to refining some more biodiesel.

Skeletoid sighed. "Why are you always so bloody stubborn, boy?"

Gonzo simply raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes boy, fine, I fully understand that you hate shopping unless it's for bike parts, but for some inexplicable reason, you always seem to find the best gifts to tempt the ladies! I mean, look at what you got your last mrs for her birthday!" He exclaimed.

"Boy, it's called listening. You, too, could be as awesome as me at buying crap for women if you actually used your ears and paid half an ounce of attention to what they say. You might actually find your relationships last longer as well, boy. How long were you going out with Helen before she fucked you off? Three weeks?" Gonzo asked.

Skeletoid looked murderous for a moment. "We agreed never to speak of her again." He stated in an overly calm, level tone.

Gonzo held up his hands in surrender. "I'm merely making a point, boy."

Skeletoid folded his arms and stared at his bearded compatriot with something akin to disgust. "Yes, you've made your point, boy. Now gear up before I fart in your lid."

Gonzo paled. "You wouldn't fucking dare!"

Skeletoid smirked a wicked little smirk. "Try me." He challenged.

"No fucking way! You were on the Bonfire Boy last night, and you've been fucking vicious all morning!" Gonzo exclaimed, immediately heading to the garage and grabbing his jacket and lid, a Simpson Outlaw with a thick crust of dead insects covering most of the front of it. Skeletoid followed him out, laughing like a drain the whole way. "Where we goin' anyway, boy?" Gonzo inquired, grabbing the keys for the Gasser.

"There's a little junk shop in Wannock I stumbled across when I stopped for a fag the other day, boy. Had a quick shufti through the window. Looks like some old chinky owns it." Skeletoid replied, flicking through his own keys for the ones to the YZR.

"It's always the fuckin' orientals.." Gonzo griped, manoeuvring his bike out of the conglomerate and opening the garage door. "Anyway boy, when was the last time you rode the Lawson? I haven't seen you take it out in months! All you've done recently is run it up once a week. Special occasion?" He jibed.

"Nah, just thought it's about time I took the old girl out for a run. Fuel's starting to go stale." Skeletoid informed him, hoiking the bike out of the mass and following Gonzo out of the garage. Both bikes were set on the stands while Gonzo locked up and Skeletoid pulled on his gear. He sported a Simpson DiamondBack, again thick with dead bugs. It was the only lid he'd found that fit his odd-shaped head and oversized beak without flopping about or squashing his schnoz. "Shall we?" He inquired.

"Indeed, boy. Start the bikes!" He exclaimed, a ridiculous grin found lurking behind the black visor. They both mounted their steeds, flicked the ignition and gave a hefty prod on the kick starts, both bikes immediately exploding into life with the high-pitched bolts-in-an-empty-tin ring-ding-ding of high-strung strokers. Both gents tickled the throttles for a few minutes, getting some warmth through the engines and creating quite the blue haze around themselves.

Skeletoid inhaled deeply, sucking in a huge lungful of the fumes. "I WILL NEVER GET ENOUGH OF THAT SMELL!" He yelled across at his partner in smoke.

"FEELS GOOD MAN!" Gonzo yelled back, having been breathing deeply himself.

Shortly they both pulled off the drive and pottered up the road, allowing the bikes a better chance to warm up, blipping the throttles as they went. Sitting at the junction waiting for a gap, they let the revs climb slowly. A gap appeared, the throttles were pinned and they both shot up the road in a cloud of blue smoke. Immediately they were on the offensive, treating the road as their personal race track. Every vehicle they encountered was overtaken with great contempt, squeezing through gaps barely wider than the bars and even using the pavement to get past the other road users. The scream of abused 2-strokes could be heard for miles.

TL;DR, they rode like complete cunts.

The trip to the shop took a little over 10 minutes. It should have taken at least 20. They pulled up outside in a flurry of hard braking, blipped throttles and terrified pedestrians. The ting-ting of cooling exhausts was the only thing heard after the pair had killed the engines and dismounted, nonchalantly striding into the shop as if they owned the ground they walked on and sparing nary a glance for the scared and enraged people who were staring at them completely agog.

Neither of them spoke as they rifled through the stacks of trinkets and knick-knacks piled on ageing tables and stuffed in cabinets. Skeletoid began humming Bedknobs and Broomsticks' Portobello Road as he perused the goods, and soon Gonzo was doing the same, much to the amusement of the hunched Japanese shop owner. He hadn't been fazed in the slightest by the lunatic duo pulling up.

What did surprise him, however, (not that you'd know it) was Gonzo suddenly moving as if in fast-forward. He was practically destroying the particular section of shop he was occupying before grabbing something and stalking over to him like a man possessed. He practically shoved the item in his face in excitement.

"WHERE DID YOU FIND THIS?!" The beard demanded.

Skeletoid had also been dragged unceremoniously from his browsing stupor and was also making his way to the counter. "What you found, boy?"

"Ah, I find dat on horriday in Flance, went visiting sites flom last word war!" The shopkeeper answered in his thick Japanese accent. "I find it in rittle clater where someone tell me machine gun pracement was." He explained.

Gonzo was nearly beside himself for reasons he couldn't quite put his finger on. "How much?!" He asked.

"Boy, what the fuck have you fou-oh my!" He exclaimed as he caught a glimpse of what it was. "Boy, is that the other half-"

"Yes, boy, it is!" Gonzo whispered excitedly. "So, how much?!" He asked again.

"Ah, I dunno. £44.50?" The old man replied.

"Come on, you can do better'n that!" The hairy one started the haggle. "I'll give ya 30 notes for it."

"£42!"

"£33."

"£40 an' dis blaceret!" He declared, pulling out a fairly unimpressive oriental wrist decoration.

"SOLD!" Skeletoid yelled, slamming his hand on the counter.

Gonzo just looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face. "Are you fucking serious boy?" He asked, completely deadpan.

"Of course, boy. You get the wossname, I get an exotic gift for Charli. Win-win, I say." Skeletoid explains in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Pray-tell, how much are you contributing to this little transaction, boy?" Gonzo inquired, turning to his friend and folding his arms.

"I'll let you ride home on the YZR boy."

The money veritably flew out of Gonzo's wallet and into the shopkeeper's outstretched palm. It was a very rare occasion Gonzo was allowed out on the road-legal racer. It was no secret he coveted the bike on an almost unhealthy level. When his compadre had turned up with it on the back of the Thunderbus, the hairy one had almost literally turned green with jealousy, demanding to know how he'd got it, who from, how much, all the while crawling over it like a fly on a hot turd.

When he'd heard the name Ian Jones, all inquiry ceased. He looked over at Skeletoid with understanding and a simple nod. The fucktard had finally delivered.

The items were quickly wrapped up and stuffed in their owners' jackets and they departed, bidding the shopkeeper a wonderful day. For Gonzo, it was like crimbo had come early. He was almost vibrating in place as Skeletoid exchanged keys with him.

For his part, Skeletoid was more than a shade enthusiastic. The Gasser was his favourite of all his bro's machines. Basic. Uncomfortable. Focused. Much like the YZR but for a completely different reason. SuMos were, by their very design, hooligan tools. MX bikes with road wheels and lights. It was like riding a BMX with an engine. Topping out at a rather unimpressive 110mph or thereabouts was nothing to write home about, but it was the way they got there. Usually on the back wheel.

He was also mildly interested in what Gonzo had purchased. For as long as they'd known each other, his partner in crime had owned that random lump of up identifiable metal. Now with the other half, it might either be worth something, or it's purpose may become more obvious.

Both gents walked up to their steeds and climbed on. A short donning of lids etc. later, a swift kick in the guts each and the bikes were once again crackling with barely-contained fury. A certain member of the pair was wearing a shit-eating grin so wide it threatened to split his head. In short order, the pair were on their way. If anything, they rode home in an even more aggressive manner than the trip there, if such a thing is possible. Cars actively pulled out of their way, pedestrians shrank back from the roadside in fear, even a police car decided to ignore the pair as they tore through town like men on a mission.

On turning into their road, they saw a DPD van pulled up outside, the driver waiting patiently with a box at his feet. Pulling up in short order, the pair walked over while pulling off their bash hats. "Morning, boys!" The driver greeted them jovially. "Heard you were on yer way, so I hung about for ya."

"Alright Mick. And what ever do you mean? We are the embodiment of courteous, law-abiding road users and our bikes are nothing if not whisper quiet." Skeletoid replied with no small amount of feigned innocence.

Mick simply laughed as they shook hands. "Of course, matey. Please accept my apologies for being so rude." He shot back, a sarcastic smirk on his face. "Gonzo, another box for you, my good man. I assume it's that barrel you've been hassling us about."

"Mornin' buddy, much obliged, I must say! I imagine so, looks like it's another Ron Wood box. How ya been keepin' anyway?" He asked.

"Not bad, not bad. Overworked, underpaid, usual shite." Mick replied.

"Aye, I know how that goes." Gonzo nodded sagely. "Anyway, gimme me parcel!" He laughed. The frequency at which boxes of bike bits turned up at the bikers' residence meant that they both soon became friends with a good many of the courier drivers and could always have a laugh and a joke with them.

"Yas'm boss!" The driver replied, passing over the handheld computer for his signature. As soon as the formalities were out the way, the box was passed over, Mick bid the pair adieu and headed off to his next drop. The pair made their way inside after stowing the bikes and having a quick nose at the contents of the box. As assumed, it was the new barrel and piston.

Both, however, were more interested in what was propping up the engine. It was swiftly removed from it's position, a bit of wood put in it's place before the pair retired to the overly spacious kitchen. Gonzo seated himself at the table while Skeletoid headed to the beer fridge to grab a couple of bottles of Hobgoblin. "So come on, boy, get 'em out, then! Hurr hurr." He quipped. Obviously, he was referring to the two halves of the ancient device, not his friend's meat and two veg.

"Uhuuuuh. Of course, boy. Gimme a minute." He replied, reaching into his jacket for the other half and setting both on the table next to each other.

Why were both halves now on Earth, I hear you ask?

Let me explain.

Both halves had been in roughly the same place on both planets, previous to being found or disturbed. Obviously, Earth's half had been dislodged when the machine gun emplacement had blown itself to fuck, which had also uncovered the one place where both planets had access to the other. A portal, by any other name.

On Equus, the other half had been buried... Roughly a mile and a half or so North and about a quarter of a mile West of a cottage owned by a certain butter-yellow Pegasus. The site was, obviously, within the borders of the feared Everfree Forest. Probably go some way to explaining why the area was so untamed compared to the rest of the planet.

As to how it ended up falling through the portal, blame a pair of particularly unfriendly Ursa Majors having a massive Barney, tearing the area up, uprooting trees, the whole nine yards, and dislodging the unit half, sending it through the portal into the machine gun placement crater.

Skeletoid was over shortly after having opened both bottles. He set them on the table, parked himself and made himself busy getting a smoke together. "So what you reckon it is then, boy? The other half give any clues as to it's purpose?" He inquired before licking the gummed edge of the paper and sticking it down, sparking up and taking a long pull.

"Haven't the foggiest, boy." Gonzo replied, taking a swig of his beer. "It's got what looks like a foreign warning label on this half, although I've never seen the language before in my life."

"Gissit 'ere, 's'ave a look." Skeletoid offered, holding out the blunt for swaps. On receiving the other half of the TF unit, he looked the shit out of it as Gonzo helped himself to a few lungfuls of finest Manali. "I concur with your sentiment, boy. I've never seen lingo like this either. Looks even more wanky than the fuckin' bamboo niggers' alphabet!" He exclaimed, also taking a hefty mouthful of his alcoholic beverage. "You gonna stick the two halves together, see if we get any life-changing revelations?"

"Yes boy, I will do. Gonna smoke this, finish me beer and wash it first." Gonzo replied.

"Oi, don't bogart that joint, boy."

"Of course not, boy. 'Ere, swap ya."

The pair continued philosophising over what could happen when the two halves were joined as they got absolutely munted over the next few hours. Everything from simply selling it for a vast fortune to superpowers and world domination was discussed as they both giggled more and more as the blunts were smoked, the ale was supped and the suggestions got more and more absurd.

"What if it opened a portal to another dimension?!" Gonzo practically yelled. The pair practically hyperventilated from laughing so hard.

"Boy, that's just fucking retarded. I think you need to sort a line out and straighten out a bit." Skeletoid replied after recovering from the hilarity of the idea.

"I just might at that, boy. You indulging?" Gonzo asked, standing up and stretching. He wobbled, listing slightly to one side before steadying himself with a hand on the windowsill.

"Don't mind if I do, boy. Much obliged." He with the hooter mused. "You gonna wash those bits while you're up?"

"Aye, I will. Lemme sort the Chang first, get me head on straight...er." The beard replied, picking the two halves up and dropping them in the sink. He leisurely squirted some washing up liquid over them and ran the hot water until they were covered before heading over to a different work surface and pulling out the paraphernalia which one uses for the preparing of Colombia's finest marching powder.

A few lines later (for it would be rude to simply have the one each, god!) they were mildly more compus-mentus, although they both felt the urge to DO EVERYTHING ALL AT ONCE AT THE SPEED OF FUCK! And were both sitting there talking each others' ears off.

"So, boy, you washed 'em yet?" Skeletoid inquired.

"Yes, boy. They've been sitting on the table for the past hour or so, but you've been busy rabbiting about Charli and how you reckon she's the one for you, but she's got a bit of a big arse compared to the rest of her, blah blah blah, you'd still let her shit on your chest if she asked." Gonzo replied.

Skeletoid shrugged. "Well I would. You only live once, eh? So come on boy, get to it! Shove that bad boy back together and let's see if the world implodes." He urged. "Also, turn the fuckin' lights on, it's getting a bit dark in 'ere."

Time had, indeed, progressed to the stage where the sun was touching the horizon and the room was getting dark. "Get off yer arse and turn it on yerself you lazy fucktard!" Gonzo shot back, picking up the two halves of the TF unit and looking them over, starting to line them up.

Skeletoid harrumphed and got up, striding over to the light switch and flicking it on. As he sat down, Gonzo had lined the two halves up and was slowly sliding them together. "Attempting to add a little suspense there, boy?" He asked.

"Nah, boy. It's almost like they don't wanna go together. Like they're a pair of magnets and they're repelling each other." He explained. "I'm gettin' there though. Bastard thing's not gonna get the best of me!" He grunted, putting all his strength into forcing the halves together.

Skeletoid watched intently as the two halves slowly slid together, a sense of excitement pervaded the room. Both men, although knowing nothing was going to happen as essentially, this was just a lump of weird metal that got split in half somehow, wished for something mind-blowing.

KRRRRRCHUNK - POP "JESUS FUCK!"

"Fer fuck's sake! I only changed that bulb Thursday! Cheap Tesco shit!" Gonzo complained, plonking the now-whole TF unit on the table with some irritation. He also felt somewhat... Strange. Like he'd... Shifted sideways, but hadn't moved.

The bulb blowing had caused Skeletoid to near soil himself. He sat there clutching his chest and breathing heavily. "Boy! What the fuck just happened? I came over all strange all of a sudden..."

"Boy, you're already strange." Gonzo smirked.

Skeletoid gave him a deadpan look. "Har har. I mean more so than usual, you arsehammer. It felt like I'd moved, but not moved, if that makes sense. Like I'd been pulled sideways by nothing." He attempted to explain.

Gonzo looked at him seriously. "You got that an' all, boy? I thought it was just me."

Skeletoid stared back at him, incredulous. "Man, that must be some fuckin' good gear!"

"Pfffffffhahahahahahahahaha!" The hairy one replied, causing his compadre to break down into fits of laughter with him. "Fuck it, boy, let's hit the sack." Gonzo suggested, hauling himself out of his chair and heading for the stairs. He tried flicking the hallway light on. "Huh. No lights here either."

"Power cut, methinks. Streetlights are out too. Be sorted by morning I'm sure." Skeletoid surmised, having followed him out and not seen any dim orange glow from the aforementioned roadside lighting shining through the curtains. "Anyway boy, I'm off to bed. See ya bright and squirly. Beach Cafe for a number 8 tomorrow, don't forget." He reminded his friend.

"Of course, boy. How could I forget?" The beard retorted. "See ya in the morn, boy."

And with that, the pair hit the hay, blissfully unaware of what had occurred outside their little bubble of petrol fumes.