Thomas the Tank Engine Stanley and Spamcan

**Stanley and Spamcan**

**Author's note: This story was originally written between January and February 2012. Additionally, much of Spamcan's dialogue is based on that of Professor Henry Higgins, a character in George Bernard Shaw's play, ****_Pygmalion_****, and its musical adaptation, ****_My Fair Lady._**** Enjoy! I do not own or endorse Thomas.**

Winter had come to the Island of Sodor, and with it, a blanket of sparkling white snow. The atmosphere might have been ice-cold, but this hardly mattered to the engines of the North Western, Skarloey, Arlesdale and Culdee Fell Railways: they had plenty of work to do no matter what the weather. Besides, a nice warm fire or a fill of fuel was enough to last them through the day.

One especially chilly day, however, a pipe in Daisy's radiator burst thanks to some frozen fluid, and she had to be taken to the Dieselworks. That evening, the Fat Controller came to see the engines at Ffarquhar. "I've sent for a spare diesel from the Other Railway to take Daisy's place until she's mended-don't worry, he's just light enough to travel on this branch. You might not...remember him too fondly," he added, turning to Thomas, Percy and Toby, "but I had no alternative. So please do your very best to make him welcome and avoid any-err-disturbances." With that, he strode quickly away.

"What was _that_ all about?" inquired Stanley. Rosie and Charlie were puzzled as well.

"You three might not know this, since you haven't lived here as long as Thomas, Percy and I have," Toby explained, "but we've had 'disturbances', as the Fat Controller puts it, with nearly every visiting diesel from the Other Railway. Prejudice against us steam engines must be in their oil or something."

"Well, to be fair to them," Rosie piped up, "many of them _are_ more energy efficient, _and_ more powerful, _and_ more..."

"We get the point, Rosie," interrupted Thomas, slightly annoyed. "The problem is, _these_ diesels never fail to let those facts go to their radiators. They seem to think it's their duty to look down on us just because we're of a past era. So just be wary of _this_ one, whoever he may be, or things won't be pretty."

The following morning, Percy brought the mail from Ffarquhar to Knapford, where he met Bear with his morning passenger train. The two engines chatted good-naturedly, until a sharp horn suddenly blasted in the distance. Bear pulled a face of deep disgust. "I know that horn," he muttered grimly. Sure enough, a few seconds later, a Class 44 "Peak", numbered D199, scuttled into view. "So, we meet again at last, you traitor," he sneered at Bear.

"A Fat Controller's engine could beat the likes of you _any_ day, 'Old Reliable'," Bear growled. "Or should I refer to you as the 'Spamcan' you _really_ are?"

"Ha! Ahem!" Percy coughed abruptly, trying to stifle his laughter. Unfortunately for him, 199 wasn't fooled. "Find that amusing, do you, boy?" he snarled. "Well I'd rather be a 'Spamcan' than a green caterpillar with red stripes! I still can't believe I'm being forced to work on a _branch _with you lowlifes! Now get out of my way!" The "Peak" slunk past and accelerated noisily up the line.

"Take no notice," advised Bear. "Old Spamcan may be self-absorbed and prejudiced, but deep down inside, he's incredibly pathetic. Whenever he breaks down, he'd rather moan for his fitter than worry about his train."

"He must not be too popular with passengers, let alone other engines," remarked Percy.

"Not even with his own driver," Bear replied. "He bullies him too, just to compensate for his pitifulness. Believe me, Percy, he's the worst apple you could ever pick out of the barrel."

Later on, 199 had reached Ffarquhar. "Alright, Sir; I'm here," he said in a bored tone to the Fat Controller. "Now where the devil are my coaches?"

"Stanley will have them shunted within minutes; just have a little patience."

When the diesel saw Stanley, he let out an obnoxious guffaw. "A lowly _hybrid_?! That's the _worst_ type of steam engine! And as if that Avonside/Holcroft hybrid wasn't revolting enough! I can't imagine why your controller even _bothers_ to scavenge around for you kettles anyway!"

"What's the big deal about being a hybrid?" protested Stanley. "I'm just as good as any thoroughbred, steam or diesel!"

"You're deluding yourself, you presumptuous little idiot," replied Spamcan scornfully. "And being painted silver all over doesn't bolster your status, so don't even _think_ about putting _that_ idea into your thick smokebox either. Hybrids are the scum of all railways, and it's complete lunacy to think otherwise. So next time, my dear engine, you'll know better than to brainwash yourself into believing you're of _any_ importance." And without even bothering to thank Stanley for arranging his coaches, the diesel backed down on them with a rude bump, waited impatiently for the guard's whistle, then set off with a cough and a roar, leaving Stanley in an enormous cloud of smelly black clag.

As the day wore on, no matter how hard Stanley tried, he couldn't get 199's insults out of his mind. "Is being hybrid _really _a detriment to my status as an engine?" he wondered. "Did I _really _fool myself by thinking otherwise?" That afternoon, as he bustled around Knapford Harbour, these thoughts became so distracting that he forgot to watch where he was going. "Whoa there, lad!" his driver shouted suddenly. Stanley snapped out of his daydream and saw, to his horror, that the stone trucks he was shunting were just a few yards from falling off the edge of the quay. Using the brakes skillfully, his driver stopped him just before the trucks could encounter the buffers. "Fizzling fireboxes!" Stanley gasped. "_That _was a near miss!"

"_Too_ near," said a stern voice from behind him. "You could cause a nasty accident with that sort of carelessness, Stanley. I thought better of you than to let your mind wander on the job."

"Sorry, Sir," said Stanley sadly. "I've just got something on my mind. Is it true, Sir, what that spare diesel said?"

"You mean 199? What did he say?" asked the Fat Controller.

"That hybrid engines like me are scum. That I'm inferior just because of my hodgepodge design. I'm _not_ though, Sir, am I?"

"Of course not, Stanley. As long as you're useful, it doesn't matter _what _you're made of. Besides, you're not alone: Percy's another hybrid, Gordon's an experimental prototype of his class, and a number of the other engines are modified. Not only that, Henry was _originally_ a hybrid before his rebuild at Crewe, and Flynn is modified _and _hybrid. So you see? Your design is _nothing _to be ashamed of. Now then, back to work. I'd be happy to talk to 199 if you'd like."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." Stanley felt somewhat reassured, but deep down, he was still stung by Spamcan's prejudice.

Just as he had promised Stanley, the Fat Controller spoke to the diesel. "This kind of discrimination is not tolerated whatsoever on my railway, 199. I expect you to treat my engines the same way you'd want _them _to treat _you_." But Spamcan only rolled his eyes. "_Respect_ that worthless piece of filth?!" he spat. "_Honestly_, my good man! He's merely a wretched _hybrid_! He's got no feelings _I _need bother about, nor have _any_ of your clapped-out puffballs and oil-guzzling traitors to the blessed era of dieselisation!"

The Fat Controller could see there was nothing that would change Spamcan's mind, and therefore it wasn't worth arguing further. All the same, he hoped the situation could resolve itself sooner or later.

All throughout his stay, Spamcan treated the branch line engines horribly. They tried to shrug it off as best as they possibly could, but the bad-mannered diesel was beginning to try their patience. One evening, they all held an indignation meeting at Ffarquhar. "He doesn't only think hybrids are dirt," fumed Emily. "He's talked down to Mavis, Rosie and me, just because we're female!"

"And he told _me_ to 'get pensioned off'!" huffed Toby indignantly. "The _nerve_ of some engines!"

"Bottom line: that snob needs to be taught a lesson, and _fast_!" declared Mavis.

"But," Thomas interjected, "who or what _will _trim his wheels?" No one knew. But a few days later, much to their surprise and delight, things _did _take a turn for the better...

A heavy fall of snow came overnight, followed by a hard frost, and by morning the island was completely covered. The Fat Controller came early to Tidmouth Sheds, and sent Thomas and Emily to clear the tracks from Knapford to Ffarquhar; other engines would handle the main line and other branch lines. Thomas didn't mind being woken up early _half_ as much as he minded wearing his snowplough, but he knew it was for the sake of keeping his beloved branch open. He and Emily, with a van full of workmen coupled between them, charged the hard-packed snow fiercely. Some drifts put up a better fight than others, and the men first had to dig through the blankets of frost before the engines could sweep the snow aside.

An hour later, Stanley, Rosie and Charlie were being topped up with water at Ffarquhar Sheds: by now the temperature had risen high enough to sufficiently thaw out the tower. "Let's get enough while we've got the chance," shivered Stanley's fireman. "There's no telling where or when we'll find more."

Following Daisy's mishap, the Fat Controller had made it a requirement for all diesels to have their radiators filled with antifreeze when the temperature reached the freezing point. Spamcan's driver thought it best that he took some now, in case the temperature dropped again. But the diesel rudely declined. "I can't waste time with that sludge!" he growled. "I've got a train to take in ten minutes, you paranoid simpleton!"

Stanley was shocked that Spamcan would deny even his driver any respect. "He's got a point, 199," he cautioned. "Weather _can_ be unpredictable at times."

"Mind your own business, you impudent dolt!" the diesel shot back viciously. "The last thing I need is advice from my fool of a driver; never mind a heap of hybrid scrap like you!" He then throbbed his engine and headed for the platform. Stanley sighed in defeat and chuffed off to collect his morning stone train.

Spamcan was soon clattering noisily down the line, snickering arrogantly to himself. "That filthy, hodgepodge imbecile!" he scoffed. "He wouldn't know meteorology if it bit him on the nose! How dare he try to advise _me_?! His _superior_, hang it all...oh I say!" he gasped, as an icy blast of air struck him like a blow: the temperature _was_ beginning to drop. Just a few minutes later, the diesel felt a sort of swelling and blistering in his engine, and his exhaust began to darken. Then, suddenly, there came a nasty crack. Spamcan bellowed in pain and shuddered to a stop, a few yards short of the platform at Maithwaite. "What's happened?!" he groaned. "Where the devil's my fitter when I need him most?!"

His driver and second man inspected the damage, then stood up, looking furious. "You stupid engine!" the driver scolded. "Thanks to your negligence, a pipe in your radiator's frozen, expanded and cracked! I _told_ you we should've filled up with antifreeze ahead of time!"

"How was _I_ supposed to know the weather would change?!" Spamcan spluttered pathetically. "I'm no meteorologist for Stephenson's sake!"

"You said the same thing about Stanley," retorted his second man, "and he was right to warn you just the same."

"Don't implore me to accept a hybrid's guidance!" the diesel snapped indignantly. "Get me a fitter this instant!" The second man only sighed exasperatedly, and trudged to the station to phone for help.

The Fat Controller was enjoying a cup of coffee in his office at Knapford Station when he got the call. "Same thing that happened to Daisy, eh?" he said grimly. "Well, don't fret. I'll send the nearest engine on the branch."

Spamcan sulked in the cold for what seemed ages, until he heard a whistle in the distance. "Finally," he sighed with relief. But his face fell as a certain silver saddletank drew alongside. "Well, well, well!" Stanley teased. "Who knew you'd need help from a 'lowly hybrid'?" The diesel seethed in silence, as Stanley manoeuvred his train in front of him and his guard fastened the coupling. "Are you sure you can manage all this?" asked Spamcan's driver. "Pulling a failed diesel, three coaches, six trucks and a brakevan is no joke for a tank engine."

"Of _course_ we can manage!" Stanley's driver replied confidently. "Stanley's one of Sodor's _strongest _tank engines. Besides, we can't keep your passengers waiting any longer. You just watch and be amazed!" He opened the regulator, and slowly but surely, the odd cavalcade set off.

People waved, dogs barked, and cars, buses and lorries tooted as Stanley trundled by. To say it was difficult work would be putting it mildly, but he wouldn't give up. "I'll show old Spamcan who _really_ deserves bragging rights!" he hooshed. And snorting, slipping, puffing and panting, Stanley gradually picked up speed, blasting his whistle with determination. At long last, he pulled into Knapford, exhausted but triumphant, to a chorus of cheers from passengers, staff and engines alike. He wasn't finished though: he still had to get his stone to the harbour. Fortunately for him, the station's water tower had a special thawing device, and he was able to enjoy a nice long drink before he continued his journey.

Stanley soon arranged his trucks, left them on the quay, and headed back to the station, where the Fat Controller congratulated him warmly. "Well done, Stanley!" he boomed. "Don't worry about the passengers: they say they don't mind the delay. They also say there's no doubt at all that you're an enterprising engine; and quite frankly, I'm inclined to agree with them! You've put in a splendid effort to save an awkward situation, and as a reward, I'm sending you to the Steamworks for your regular tune-up, _and_ a new coat of paint."

Although he was tired, Stanley just _had_ to beam proudly. "Oh, thank you, Sir!" he wheeshed. "I think I could _use_ a tune-up after lugging old Spam-I mean, err, 199-all the way over here!"

"Ah, yes; that reminds me," the Fat Controller said, turning to Spamcan with a very stern look on his face. "Your prejudice toward my engines and blatant disregard for my regulations have gotten you nowhere fast. You can just consider yourself lucky that Daisy is on her way back from the Dieselworks, and can take over your next run. _You_, on the other hand, will be returned to the Other Railway as soon as I can arrange it."

"The sooner it gets me my fitter, the better," the diesel groaned pathetically. Stanley couldn't help but chuckle at his expense. "I may be a hybrid, but I'm as good as any thoroughbred, steam or diesel!"

"Hear, hear!" agreed the Fat Controller, and everyone raised another cheer for Stanley, one really useful, really enterprising, hybrid engine.


End file.

Thomas the Tank Engine, Adventure