Wicklow Daleks

The Dalek fleet, in a navigational error of cosmic proportions, found itself not in the ruins of a conquered planet, but on a muddy trail somewhere near Glendalough. “EX-TER-MIN-ATE… this bog!” declared Dalek Sec, its plunger arm waving indignantly at a puddle. “OUR TERRAIN IS NOT ADEQUATE FOR ADVANCED CRAWLING TECHNOLOGY! I AM SLIGHTLY DAMP.”

The other Daleks, equally befuddled, began to grumble in their metallic monotones. “DO NOT COMPREHEND… THE LACK OF CONCRETE!” buzzed Dalek Caan. “WHERE IS THE CONQUERED POPULACE? I REQUIRE A SUBSTANTIAL LUNCH OF THEIR GENERIC-FOOD-LIKE SUBSTANCE!”

Their plight worsened when a flock of sheep, a swirling avalanche of wool and bleating, descended from the hillside. The Daleks, accustomed to orderly invasions, were unprepared for the chaotic flank attack. “IN-FERIOR LIFE FORMS! THEY ARE SWARMING!” Dalek Sec shrieked, its laser beam bouncing harmlessly off a large ram’s head. The sheep, mistaking the laser for a game, began to chase the Daleks, butting their shiny metal casings.

A tourist with a fancy camera approached, snapping a picture. The distinct click of the camera’s shutter sent a new wave of panic through the Dalek ranks. “SOUND ANALYSIS: ENERGY PULSE DETECTED! AN ATTACK! THEY ARE FIRING UNSEEN WEAPONS!” Dalek Caan screamed, spinning around in confused circles. A nearby Dalek, in a moment of utter tactical genius, tried to “exterminate” the photographer’s snack bag, only to find its plunger stuck to a foil packet of Tayto crisps. “DOES NOT COMPUTE! THE SUBSTANCE IS STICKY AND INEDIBLE!”

Just as they were coming to terms with the absurdity, the sky turned a familiar shade of grey, but instead of the acid rain of a conquered world, it began to pour in fat, cold drops. The rain fell with a vengeance, soaking the earth and pooling around their armored bases. “WATER… IT IS FALLING FROM THE SKY!” Dalek Sec’s voice began to warp and crackle. “IN-VASION OF THE WATER DROPS! MY VISOR IS FOGGING! MY… MY PLUNGER IS SLIGHTLY LESS PLUNGER-Y!”

As the water soaked into their systems, their voices became a garbled mess of static and nonsensical phrases. “I-N-V-A-S-I-O-N OF THE…. OOF! DO NOT STUMBLE!” one Dalek sputtered, its light flickering erratically as it slipped in a puddle. Another’s head began to spin around uncontrollably, a pathetic, whirring sound replacing its usual “EX-TER-MIN-ATE!”

A park ranger, a stoic woman with a kind smile, appeared with a large umbrella. She looked at the pathetic, sputtering Daleks with an expression of deep sympathy. “You fellas look a bit worse for wear,” she said, holding the umbrella over a dripping Dalek. “That’s some awful weather. Did you leave your rain slickers at home?”

The concept of a “rain slicker” for a war machine was the final straw. Their tactical databases had no entry for such an item. It was a weapon of mass confusion. The Daleks stared at each other, their lights blinking weakly in a pattern that meant one thing: complete and utter defeat.

With a final, soggy, and utterly undignified “RE-T-R-EAT!”, they trundled awkwardly down the path, one Dalek’s head still spinning, another trailing a piece of a Tayto bag, leaving behind a series of small, perfectly round mud craters, and a park ranger who was now late for her tea.

The defeated, rain-soaked Daleks trundled awkwardly down the hillside, their metal casings sloshing with every movement. One Dalek, still trailing a sticky crisp packet, let out a mournful, gurgling sound. “I-N-T-E-L-L-I-G-E-N-C-E… M-A-L-F-U-N-C-T-I-O-N,” it rattled, its eyestalk drooping. “C-A-P-A-B-I-L-I-T-Y FOR W-O-R-L-D D-O-M-I-N-A-T-I-O-N… IS AT… Z-E-R-O.”

As if guided by some cosmic prankster, they veered off the trail and stumbled into the warm, inviting glow of a small country pub called “The Lame Duck.” The sound of a fiddle and lively chatter spilled out into the damp air.

Dalek Sec, attempting to regain its composure, puffed up its dome. “NEW LIFE FORMS DETECTED! INFILTRATION REQUIRED!” it declared, before sliding on a patch of wet moss and crashing into the pub door with a pathetic metallic thud.

The door swung open, and the pub went silent. A burly man with a red beard, polishing a pint glass, looked at them. “Well, what have we here? A new walking club?” he boomed, a hearty laugh shaking his belly.

The Daleks, their sensors overwhelmed by the smell of turf smoke and beer, rolled inside. The patrons, far from screaming in terror, merely watched with casual amusement. A group of old men playing cards barely looked up.

“IDENTIFY YOURSELVES!” shouted Dalek Sec, its voice still a little staticky.

“I’m Seamus,” the barman said, wiping his hands on his apron. “And this is my pub. Are you here for the quiz night?”

The Daleks’ logic cores went into a catastrophic meltdown. A pub? A quiz? These were not terms from any known tactical manual. “EX-PLAIN… THE FUNCTION OF THE LIQUID CONTAINER!” Dalek Caan demanded, pointing its plunger at Seamus’s pint.

“It’s a pint,” Seamus replied simply. “Now, are you having one or not? I’ve got Guinness on tap.”

A small child, no older than five, wandered over and tugged on one of the Dalek’s eye-stalks. “Can I have some sweets, please, Mr. Robot?” she asked, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity. The Dalek, its internal systems short-circuiting, emitted a series of confused beeps.

Dalek Sec, wanting to assert its authority, pointed its laser at the child’s teddy bear. “I-N-F-E-R-I-O-R… O-B-J-E-C-T! YOU WILL BE EX-TER-MIN-A-TED!” It pulled the trigger. But instead of a beam of death, a small, multi-coloured puff of smoke erupted, followed by a shower of small, wrapped chocolates.

The child clapped her hands with delight. “He gave me sweets!” she squealed, grabbing a chocolate.

The pub erupted in laughter. The Daleks, their supreme weapon now a pathetic sweet dispenser, were utterly humiliated. This world, with its confusing social rituals and unpredictable weather, was far too illogical to conquer. With the clink of chocolate wrappers and the sound of uproarious human laughter ringing in their ears, they reversed out of the pub and sped back into the dark, rainy night. They never returned.